- - мy aяcнιvεs

[- - la nuit blanche]

Before Bond had even given permission for her to call up some expensive dinners to the room, Camille was reaching back over the obstacle of a man to grab the hotel phone. She’d already decided what she wanted from the menu and once the receiver was at her ear, she began to eagerly disperse her complicated order – a juicy filet, more rare than they wanted to make it, garnished with veggies in place of a baked potato, with a side salad instead of that night’s soup, and a basket of sourdough bread only. By the time she was finished with all her specifications and substitutes, the waiter at the other end sounded exasperated and none too happy. “Is that all, Ma’am?” he grumbled back at her, to which she curtly responded, “No.” She’d always been a difficult woman to please, and she knew it well. But as she fended off James’ groping paws with swats and giggles, finally threatening to choke him with the telephone cord if he didn’t stop, she realized that she was shockingly content. She still had to thrust an elbow into the man’s sore rib just to finish her order, but after that – and after she’d ordered a larger steak for James, along with a bottle of good wine, and a slice of chocolate cake for dessert – she settled down again, snugging up against the handsy male with a pleased sigh. There were no thoughts of bloody deeds in her head, no premonitions of killings or the echoes of automatic weapons. Just an eager anticipation for a delicious dinner, and James’ lips pressing at her collarbone.

“So you’re tired of being treated as a little princess, eh?” the man had inquired with a sly grin. Camille paused a moment to consider her response, then finally beamed a similarly playful smile. “You wouldn’t understand…” she commented with a rueful sigh, setting a hand upon his abdomen to lightly trace that injured rib with her fingertips. “You’re a beast.” With this plain conclusion, she prodded her fingers down into the bruised ribcage but not enough to hurt him – too much.

However, she should’ve known better than to provoke the English brute; she was promptly held fast in response to receive a little bite to her shoulder. With a helpless squeak of surprise, she tried to struggle away only to be maneuvered into a kiss she simply couldn’t refuse. The gesture turned out to be a little more brief than she could’ve wished for, but when James insisted on inspecting her forehead, she straightened up and allowed him to play doctor. He seemed rather surprisingly worried about her, and as soon as Camille had the opportunity, she was sure to make him aware of it.

“Well…” she murmured woozily. “I am dizzy…” As her words trailed feebly off, she lifted a hand to the bump on her head, looking suddenly quite pained and ill. But just when Bond’s expression grew as worried as it could be, and Camille suddenly thought he might pick her up right then and there to be rushed to the nearest ER, her lips pulled into a grin and she laughed. “Just kidding.” Offering a consoling kiss to the man’s cheek, she watched the relief flood into his eyes and found herself feeling a little warm and fuzzy inside. It was nice to see him scared for her, even if it had only been the product of a joke.

Once he’d stashed up on ointment and bandages, Camille scooted back to his side and turned out to be a good little patient as Bond dressed the oh-so-attractive black and blue splotch over her brow. With her eyes trustfully closed, she set a hand lightly upon his knee – mostly so she’d have something to claw into in case that antiseptic stung – and simply waited quietly for him to finish. Some time ago she may have questioned his medical expertise, but not so much anymore. He knew what he was doing. But when Camille heard that expected knock at the door, she began to wish he could do it all a little faster. “Finished?” she asked eagerly, and yet her eyes squeezed closed a little more. As though expecting to be awarded a surprise gift, she was determined not to open them until he said so.

[- - la nuit blanche]

Before Bond had even given permission for her to call up some expensive dinners to the room, Camille was reaching back over the obstacle of a man to grab the hotel phone. She’d already decided what she wanted from the menu and once the receiver was at her ear, she began to eagerly disperse her complicated order – a juicy filet, more rare than they wanted to make it, garnished with veggies in place of a baked potato, with a side salad instead of that night’s soup, and a basket of sourdough bread only. By the time she was finished with all her specifications and substitutes, the waiter at the other end sounded exasperated and none too happy. “Is that all, Ma’am?” he grumbled back at her, to which she curtly responded, “No.” She’d always been a difficult woman to please, and she knew it well. But as she fended off James’ groping paws with swats and giggles, finally threatening to choke him with the telephone cord if he didn’t stop, she realized that she was shockingly content. She still had to thrust an elbow into the man’s sore rib just to finish her order, but after that – and after she’d ordered a larger steak for James, along with a bottle of good wine, and a slice of chocolate cake for dessert – she settled down again, snugging up against the handsy male with a pleased sigh. There were no thoughts of bloody deeds in her head, no premonitions of killings or the echoes of automatic weapons. Just an eager anticipation for a delicious dinner, and James’ lips pressing at her collarbone.

“So you’re tired of being treated as a little princess, eh?” the man had inquired with a sly grin. Camille paused a moment to consider her response, then finally beamed a similarly playful smile. “You wouldn’t understand…” she commented with a rueful sigh, setting a hand upon his abdomen to lightly trace that injured rib with her fingertips. “You’re a beast.” With this plain conclusion, she prodded her fingers down into the bruised ribcage but not enough to hurt him – too much.

However, she should’ve known better than to provoke the English brute; she was promptly held fast in response to receive a little bite to her shoulder. With a helpless squeak of surprise, she tried to struggle away only to be maneuvered into a kiss she simply couldn’t refuse. The gesture turned out to be a little more brief than she could’ve wished for, but when James insisted on inspecting her forehead, she straightened up and allowed him to play doctor. He seemed rather surprisingly worried about her, and as soon as Camille had the opportunity, she was sure to make him aware of it.

“Well…” she murmured woozily. “I am dizzy…” As her words trailed feebly off, she lifted a hand to the bump on her head, looking suddenly quite pained and ill. But just when Bond’s expression grew as worried as it could be, and Camille suddenly thought he might pick her up right then and there to be rushed to the nearest ER, her lips pulled into a grin and she laughed. “Just kidding.” Offering a consoling kiss to the man’s cheek, she watched the relief flood into his eyes and found herself feeling a little warm and fuzzy inside. It was nice to see him scared for her, even if it had only been the product of a joke.

Once he’d stashed up on ointment and bandages, Camille scooted back to his side and turned out to be a good little patient as Bond dressed the oh-so-attractive black and blue splotch over her brow. With her eyes trustfully closed, she set a hand lightly upon his knee – mostly so she’d have something to claw into in case that antiseptic stung – and simply waited quietly for him to finish. Some time ago she may have questioned his medical expertise, but not so much anymore. He knew what he was doing. But when Camille heard that expected knock at the door, she began to wish he could do it all a little faster. “Finished?” she asked eagerly, and yet her eyes squeezed closed a little more. As though expecting to be awarded a surprise gift, she was determined not to open them until he said so.

However, once he murmured a hushed “No,” her brow knit curiously together, again wondering what was taking him so long, until she felt his lips press to her own. No longer at all irritated by this medical procedure, or even the least bit interested in the food waiting outside, she smiled wistfully into the kiss and let it continue. She hugged herself into him, arms fastening about his torso, until that busboy’s knocks grew a little more impatient. With a tiny grumble she nudged James away from her and hurried off to the door. Upon opening it, the waiter stepped in to set down the silver plattered trays of food. He glanced warily from Camille’s bruised head to the animal of a man prowling nearby, then hurry away again, as though he'd just stumbled upon a scene of domestic violence. Camille turned a teasing glare towards Bond, an eye that clearly said, “Look, even he can tell that you beat me.”

And yet that bump on her head, as well as the less than tender side of Bond, was all forgotten as James innocently swiped up a bit of frosting from the slab of chocolate cake, and greedily stuffed it in his mouth. The brunette grinned as she hovered nearby, close enough to kiss away a bit of sugary paste that lingered at the corner of his mouth. She then tugged him by the arm to the table of food and sat down to cut hungrily into her steak. She was quiet for most of the meal, half due to her appetite for the dinner, and half because she seemed to be lost in thought. Not that she was entirely antisocial; she chatted idly with James as she ate and guzzled down small swigs of her wine, and her legs rested comfortably atop one of his knees beneath the table. He didn’t seem to mind and she’d smile whenever he reached down for his napkin and happened to stroke her ankle. She seemed simply to be settling again, remembering what time with James was like after all those nights out with Cristian. It really wasn’t so bad. The roguish blonde poured her wine for her when it needed topping off, he appeared to admire her over the candlelight just as Christian always did – to her surprise, Camille remembered that he was almost a gentleman himself. And yet he never stifled her like the Frenchman, never choked her with fine jewelry or flaunted her as a status symbol. Camille spent most of dinner quietly comparing the two men. Christian was always the safer bet, but James was always the one she preferred.

When the meal was over, Camille found herself yawning and her head was aching more than ever. She felt utterly miserable as she washed up and searched around for some clean pajamas. When she couldn’t find anything – it seemed housekeeping had taken most of her things to be laundered – she tugged on one of James’ shirts and hastily made for the bed. But before she could try to sleep her headache away, she felt Bond give a subtle tug at her arm, enough to remind her about what he’d said before about not falling asleep too soon. With a little whine the woman asked for some Advil or something, but James didn’t think it’d be such a good idea. He was being awfully careful, Camille thought. She was surprised he’d even let her drink at dinner. Nevertheless, she talked him into letting her rest in bed a while as long as he was kept close by. Curled up upon the mattress, she waited for him to lounge down by her side then tossed a pillow into his lap and rested her head upon it. Grumbling a bitter “Why’d you have to push me?” Camille turned her face into the cool pillow and snuggled into it and the man beneath it. It was getting difficult to keep conscious but every now and then she felt his fingers run through her hair or lightly massage her back, reminding her not to let her eyes close for very long.

And luckily soon that heaviness and ache began to clear. She began to fumble childishly with the side seam of one of his pantlegs and soon it was growing difficult for her to keep quiet and rest any longer. “I wonder what you’d do…” she began considerately. “…if I said I’d marry Christian.” As she thought aloud, she sat up to look back into James’ face, smiling curiously. But she didn’t expect him to give her a real answer. With a light, thoughtful laugh, she shook her head a little and straightened. “You make things so complicated,” she added beneath her breath, sliding off the bed.

“I feel better now… I think I’ll call him.” Him, obviously being Christian. With a little stretch, she started back to the phone. “After all, he’ll want to know that you fed me. And didn’t push me around anymore.” She looked back to James with a small glare and a smile, then began to dial to Christian's room.

[- - la nuit blanche]

He wasn’t listening to her… But Sophia hid her irritation well. She wanted him to get rid of those extra guns, but it was clear that just because it was her whim, he would not be persuaded. She was puzzled, annoyed, and in her mind, rightly pissed off. Quite honestly she wasn’t used to not getting what she asked for, especially from men. And the way she was toying with Bond – needily, suggestively – she would have expected him to bend to her every request, especially one so trivial as to dismiss the other hired hands. But then, Sophia had to remind herself, this was no trivial matter, not to him at any rate. He was there to protect her, and she doubted he’d want to fail her again. It was almost sweet, his being so cautious, but in a completely irritating way. He wasn’t making things easy.

While quietly contemplating how to rearrange her tact, the brunette settled down beside the man upon the sofa, lounging across her end and resting her head up on the armrest. She smiled a little impishly when he explained M’s apparent disapproval of his so-called business practices, nodding with some knowing amount of recognition when he commented that his disregard for politics must’ve had something to do with his boss’s unrest. She’d kept his noted employer in close contact ever since her presumed “escape” and had quietly kept up-to-date with all of Bond’s misdemeanors. Not too long ago she heard he’d shot up an embassy somewhere, and then there was that nasty habit of his killing first and asking questions later. And yet there were more interesting details concerning the bombshell assassin’s recent past. A woman, Sophia recalled, whom he’d loved and, ultimately, allowed to die. It was an intriguing story, not the sort of thing Sophia expected to hear of her former Casanova friend. She wondered if and how that episode still affected him. With some amount of vexation, she guessed that it could only make things more difficult for her. While he’d likely be absolutely bent on her protection, doubly determined not to let another woman die, he’d be more cautious, perhaps, wary of Sophia’s advances. She couldn’t count on just taking him to bed and calling it love. She’d have to make him trust her.

Not to say that sex was out of the question. Even without meaning to, he managed to drop a suggestive pun, and Sophia was no longer naïve enough to let it go over her head. A tiny, almost blushing smile came to her lips with his words but, understanding that it had been unintentional, she gave it no more reply. Instead she allowed him to take her glass for a refill and straightened to traverse the room towards a handsome piano. She sat herself upon the bench, languidly slipping off her heels as she turned towards the keys.

“I’ve been squashing my own spiders for some time now…” she informed him, peeking over her shoulder to send him a beaming smile. “…evidently unbeknownst to you.” Her tone was playfully accusing, as if to suggest that he’d remained absent, and therefore unaware of her capabilities, far too long for her liking. But that good-natured smile soon turned back to the piano as she wistfully set her fingers along the keys. With her bare feet gingerly pressing at the pedals, she began a simple, classical melody – a tune she’d been made to practice constantly before a paid-for piano instructor all throughout her adolescence. It was a pretty song and she played it well, but halfway through, the chords seemed to wither, and when Sophia glanced back to James, her grin looked to have done likewise. There was a fretful sort of unease written across her expression and she turned about on the bench to face the man and look somberly into his eyes.

“Do you really think he’ll come after me again…?” she asked softly. Her voice was feeble now, perhaps even frightened, all good humor vanished. Even while she was merely playing a part, it wasn’t difficult to bring a genuine, sorrowful look of terror into her eyes. A current alliance with Auric Kristatos didn’t make her former memories of him any sweeter.

“M made it all sound so serious, but I suppose I didn’t really believe her… I didn’t want to have to be frightened again.” Nervously she reached for her recently refilled glass of champagne, but when she saw how much it shook between her trembling fingers, she set it down again and looked anxiously away.

xxx xxx xxx

[- - la nuit blanche]

He couldn’t just keep reading her poetry, could he?

Camille would’ve been perfectly happy to doze off in his arms, relishing the touch of that one palm pressed atop her knee. She’d have liked him to simply cuddle her close, kiss the top of her head, and hold her until that nightmare from last night, and all the other bad memories surrounding her, finally melted away. Anyway, he seemed tired too. Maybe he’d escort her back to his room and let her nap with him in his hospital bed. That was all Camille wanted. That was the best medicine she could imagine. But it wasn’t enough for James.

“What did they do to you?” he asked, still holding on as she straightened a little to look into his face. Her expression was not difficult to read: sad, injured, afraid, enraged. All at once. And then she hastily looked away and gave a small shake of her head. She figured the man was just curious perhaps, eager to understand just how wounded she’d been. But if it became clear that she didn’t want to talk on that subject, she figured he’d drop it, leave her to her pain and constant brooding. But he clearly hadn’t asked just out of concern and curiosity; he pressed her further. “What… did they tell you?” His voice had become low and cold, and when Camille tried to jerk away, he held on tighter. When his hand stroked up to that purple stain on her thigh, she felt her stomach churn and she struggled again, but with no hope of getting away. Her eyes had grown faraway by then, blank except for the rapidly forming tears that glossed those stormy topaz seas. “Stop…” she whimpered helplessly, choking down a sob. But Bond was determined; he’d hear none of her pleas. “Fight it…” he answered, seeming to beg and scold her at the same time.

Why couldn’t he just kiss her, help her clean her wounds? Why was he doing this to her? “Let me go, James,” she snarled through clenched teeth. But she was still pleading with him, still refusing to fight no matter how much resentment flooded her eyes when she looked at him. The memories were taking over, weakening her. She was flushed, soundlessly crying, and by the time he wrestled her onto her back, she felt faint with utter horror and disgust. Why was he doing this?

And then something inside her broke, snapped cleanly in two. She wasn’t afraid anymore. As James stroked his fingers over her, mimicking the patterns of the villains’ hands, she could feel only seething fury, hatred, and an overpowering will to lash out. She was still crying, hardly able to breathe properly as each intake of air shuddered and raced, but finally she’d had enough. She wasn’t a victim anymore. She squirmed herself loose and wasted no time in aiming for James’ weak point. Whether she kicked, punched, or jabbed, she didn’t know; blindly she struck out, and hit at his wounded abdomen with unrelenting rage. She didn’t care how much it hurt. She wanted it to hurt. She wanted him to die of the pain for making her remember. Then she pinned herself on top of him and lashed for his face with her fists, but he managed to defend himself against each blow. Undeterred, she dug her knuckles back down into his bandaged ribs and felt the dizzying pain make him go tense beneath her.

But he wasn’t trying to fight her anymore, and finally he spoke: “How do you think it made me feel, Camille?” he growled, and suddenly she realized how selfish she’d been in her self-hatred. She paused and looked down at her hand, trembling as it still laid absently over the gauze bandage at Bond’s abdomen. She felt injured and pathetic all over again, but now for a different reason. “What do you think it would do to me, if I lost you?”

She couldn’t seem to answer, or even look him in the eye. She was shivering, panting, and the tears had yet to cease pouring down her flushed cheeks. A part of her would’ve liked to collapse right there, fall by her opponent’s side, beg him to forgive her, and just catch her breath. But the bad memories were still too near. They hadn’t quite finished their retreat, hadn’t completely given up their surrender. So when James reached to comfort his sore abdomen and touched her hand, she wrenched away and proceeded to look at him as if he were a stranger to her. Then she shakily drew herself to her feet, wiped at her damp cheeks, and turned away, running as fast as her bruised legs would take her.

She went straight towards her room but stopped at one of the nurses’ stations to ask for her evening sleeping pills. Or rather, to demand them. A whole bottle of them. Needless to say, given the battered brunette’s bloodshot eyes, tear-streaked face, and clearly unstable demeanor, the nurse was less than inclined to oblige. When she tentatively refused and suggested the girl go see her doctor for some other kind of sedative, Camille was just about ready to throw herself over the counter and strangle the woman. She was forced to pause, though, as someone down the hall called her name. It was her therapist, whose name she’d never bothered to remember. He quickened his pace and was by her side in an instant, eager to grab her before she became violent. Suddenly horribly nervous, Camille tried anxiously to excuse herself back to her bedroom, but the cautious doctor wouldn’t have any of it. He took her by the arm, then held down on her tighter, grabbing her with both hands and desperately trying to subdue her as she thrashed. “Camille, it’s okay,” he spoke to her, in a voice that was trying hard to remain calm. “There’s nothing to be afraid of—”

At this, the brunette’s temper seemed to reach a new height, “I’m not afraid!” she snarled venomously, sharply sending an elbow back into the doctor’s stomach, hard enough to make him double over and gasp to catch his breath. Then like an escaped convict, Camille ran and closed herself up in her room. Fortunately for her, the door locked on the inside and she shut herself in to retreat to her bed, where she laid down, emotionally exhausted, and watched as her vision grew dark. At what point she lost consciousness entirely, she didn’t know, but sometime later she stirred as her bedroom door was kicked in. A trio of doctors filed inside and stood around her, but before her eyes could clear enough to look at them properly, she felt the slight prod of a needle and was sedated back to sleep again.

The next time she came to, it was dark outside. She glanced around as she gingerly sat up and saw someone’s shadow pacing back and forth outside her door. Another doctor, she was sure of it. Waiting to see when she woke up, so she could be dragged away to more therapy, or otherwise be reprimanded for punching a staff doctor. Either way, she wasn’t going to have it. Dressed now in a plain white nightgown, she tiptoed to her window, soundlessly opened the pane of glass, and slipped off the ledge maybe ten feet down to the dewy wet grass below. Looking back up at the building, she counted the bedroom windows until she found the one where James ought to be, and she climbed the ivy and stones up to it, scraping up one knee just once when she stumbled near the top. But at last she reached the windowpane, and tentatively eased it open – it was just good luck that it happened to be unlocked.

Either James had woken up when he heard her slip through the window, or he just hadn’t been sleeping all night. Whichever it was, Camille found him sitting up in bed, alert, if not slightly intoxicated. She could smell his usual expensive liquor as soon as she inhaled, but she disregarded it for now. She wasn’t in the mood to argue. Swallowing hard, she quietly approached the bed then wet her lips, “Let me in,” she requested softly, already tugging back the sheets before he could answer, and nestling in beside him before he could object. She was still shaky, still trembling and a little unsure, but she wasn’t scared, not anymore.

“Hold me,” she whispered imploringly. But for whatever reason, James didn’t seem to react right away. He seemed to hesitate. Holding back new tears, Camille arched up a little to kiss across the man’s cheek, desperate to reach his lips before the sobs started coming again. Suddenly she wasn’t crying because she was scared of the bad men who meant to rape her. She could face them now. But she couldn’t bring herself to face the thought of losing him, or driving him any further away with her selfishness and fear. “For God’s sake, I love you, James… Please hold me.”

[- - la nuit blanche]

xxxxxxxxx

Most little girls born to upper-class families learned to dance, to play piano, to curl their hair and embroider patterns into down pillows. Cecile did not. By the age of eleven, all hope of growing up a normal girl was swiftly dashed away. Had her parents lived through the fire that killed them, perhaps she’d have stood a chance. Perhaps then she’d have had friends, met kind young men, taken an honest job as a governess or a maid. But after that wretched fire, everything changed. She was moved from her family’s French estate to England, to live with her unfamiliar uncle. He was a cold man, not at all suited to raising an adolescent girl, but he was a brilliant professor and a genius mathematician, and Cecile suspected his home was far better than an orphanage.

But the orphanage might’ve been where she ended up had she not grown to show the promise of a keen intellect and a mind for numbers – attributes that her uncle was certain she’d somehow gained from him. Professor Moriarty suddenly found his niece endearing, or at the very least, potentially useful, and he cultivated that clever little mind almost constantly. And yet, a professor though he was, Cecile’s education was somewhat less than conventional. Not only did he teach her the latest mathematical equations and theorems, the newest advancements of the sciences; he taught her how to count cards for him in the casino, dressed her in boy’s clothes and sent her to pick the weighty pockets of rich men in the streets. And then he taught her to lie. To deceive, and to pretend as well as an actress upon the stage. As she grew older, and inevitably more lovely, he rewarded her for flirting with young bachelors, tempting them until they were emptying their wallets for her left and right. The poor boys could do nothing against the sweet words that fell from her soft pink lips or the glance of her expressive sea blue eyes. They gave her pearl necklaces and jewels, expensive gowns and other rich trinkets – all goods that became profit for her brilliant, villainous tutor. Soon honesty became something Cecile hardly remembered, and she grew to love the thrill of crime.

And yet, sometimes she had second thoughts. Sometimes she yearned for a quiet, pleasant life, far away from the dirty city, the stench of corruption and treachery. Just before her nineteenth birthday, she ran away with one of the wealthy bachelors her uncle set her to seduce. She was hardly in love with the man, but he offered to bring her to the country and marry her, and for once, she was not inclined to run away. But as soon as it became clear that she had no mind to return with her usual earnings, Moriarty followed her. The poor husband-to-be was found dead a week later, and Cecile was dragged back to London to resume her usual practice.

“I have a new task for you,” her uncle had explained. “Miss Adler has hardly been useful… In fact it has come to my attention that she has betrayed my name to Holmes. I suspect he’ll be looking for me, and I cannot trouble myself to elude him any longer.” Cecile knew what he wanted before he even bothered to say it. He wanted her to take Miss Adler’s place, to twist and confound poor Sherlock Holmes, seduce him if she could, whilst her uncle tended to greater plans. And by the cruel glint in his shadowy grey eyes, Cecile knew that declining would not be an option.

Dressed in a velvet forest green gown, she was driven towards the neighborhood of Baker Street, but she did not step out of the unidentifiable black carriage. Instead she commanded that the driver halt some distance from the rising quarters of 221B, and from the quiet darkness of her seat within the coach, she drew a pair of brass binoculars to her perceptive blue eyes, and peered through to one of the upper windows. And there was Holmes, slouched by the glass, looking down into the dreary street and completely unaware that he was being watched. Immediately Cecile’s mind began to work. While he was never the most orderly of men, he appeared in particular disarray and most obviously bored. Clearly he hadn’t had an engaging case in weeks. And yet there was something else the young woman detected in his downtrodden expression. A sort of yearning, a wistfulness, and Cecile wondered if he wasn’t thinking of his dear Irene just then. Or perhaps it was his good friend Watson that had crossed his mind and made his eyes seem so gloomy. Whatever the situation really was, the man was obviously unoccupied, and after having been left so long to his own unhappy thoughts, Cecile wagered he’d probably jump out of his skin at the prospect of a new mystery.

“Follow that man,” Cecile called softly to the cabby. By now Holmes was trudging down the street, getting away. “The one in the black hat.” But the driver wasn’t quick enough, not for Cecile’s taste. As he paused, perhaps trying to jog himself out of a nap, the impatient young woman gave another hard knock against the ceiling of the carriage, and curtly snapped, “Now, please.”

When at last the coach caught up near enough to the wandering Holmes, Cecile stepped out and weaved her way through the crowds until she came near enough to reach him. Her gloved hand touched his arm, gentle but persuasive, and she addressed him over the pitter patter of the rain that had just begun to fall. “Mr. Holmes?” she inquired. There was a worried edge to the warmth of her voice -- a voice that still retained the slightest, pleasurable slur of a refined Parisian accent -- and her eyes were suddenly pressing, anxious. “Sherlock Holmes? Of 221 Baker Street? Please, I must speak with you.”

xx xx

[- - la nuit blanche]

When Edward had gently pressed a kiss into her hair, Evey found herself smiling delicately, eager to hear him tell her that no, it wasn’t difficult for him to be around her, to resist hurting her. He’d say those words and Evelyn would feel all better, no longer consumed by a penetrating feeling of guilt, and even a little bit of fear. She would feel safe and comfortable once again, as soon as he said no.

But he didn’t say no. He said yes, and Evey felt rigid and nervous and remorseful all at once. She hated this, being a constant temptation, endlessly forcing Edward to hold himself back. If she was one of his kind, things would be so much easier for them both. He couldn’t hurt her then, and he wouldn’t have to constantly guard her like some fragile little doll, a doll that less friendly hands wanted to play with. She could defend herself, she wouldn’t be a target, and Edward wouldn’t have to fight his instincts just to be near her. Evey’s heart felt terribly heavy as Edward peeled his arms away from her and stood. Somehow she felt cold without him, colder even than with his heatless body pressed close. And as she watched him look through the window, his face stern, his jaw tensely set, the petite brunette felt for an instant almost as though she wanted to cry. She wished to see him smile at her again, to kiss her without reserve, and hold her so needily that he tore a few more holes in her clothes. But somehow, looking at him now, she could hardly believe that he was that same man from the night before. He looked so harsh, so conflicted, and it was all because of her. Because he had to keep the girl who loved him from being harmed by their enemies, and by himself.

With her head propped up by one hand, Evey watched him quietly, somberly, until finally he spoke to her again. That elusive “…you know” needed no more explanation; Evelyn nodded understandingly and gave a small, forgiving smile. “I know,” she murmured back, pushing herself up from the bed. She wanted to go to him, to nestle into his arms and kiss him before he left, even if he wouldn’t be gone for long. But the way his eyes glinted cold and black… They looked somehow blank, as though they barely saw her, and the absence of that friendly amber hue turned his face into something unfamiliar, something menacing… Somehow she knew better than to get too close, to tempt him any further. Of course she trusted him explicitly and maintained that he’d never hurt her, but it’d be cruel of her to test him by coming too near, when he was hungry. “Go ahead,” she urged, although her voice was somewhat small, a little wary. As she stepped to her bedroom door, she gave him as wide a berth as she could manage. “I should get cleaned up and check on my father,” she explained. “But I won’t leave the house,” Evey added soberly. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

Again she felt that cruel pain of wanting to hold him, to be close to him, when she knew that at least for now, she couldn’t. So, with a faint but genuine smile, she did the only thing she thought would take the place of a goodbye kiss or embrace – spoke two simple words, shyly, but honestly from behind that delicate smile. “Love you.”

Her smile grew just a fraction before she turned and slipped out of the door to her bedroom, stepping lightly down the hall to her bathroom for her morning shower. She expected that Edward could exit well enough through her window, and perhaps he’d be back by the time she got dressed. But, he wasn’t. Evey had quickly cleaned herself off, donned a towel and slipped back into her bedroom to find her clothes, only to find that the room was vacant. The window remained slightly ajar and a light breeze played in the curtains, billowing out the light fabric then letting it flutter softly back into place again. Evey’s eyes lowered somewhat sadly but she scolded herself for feeling so disappointed. It was important that Edward take care of himself, have a fraction of time alone before returning to his post as her constant bodyguard. Besides, they lived in the middle of a city. She expected that he’d have to travel quite far from London to find anything substantial to hunt, lest he could satisfy himself with stray pets and polluted fish from the Thames.

Deciding not to monitor how much time had passed since Edward left, if only to keep herself less worried than she ought to be, Evey slipped into a pair of jeans and a stylish blouse, then went to check in on her father. He was beginning to wake and, given the hangover she knew he was about to feel, she greeted him with a few painkillers and a tall glass of water. But as she fixed him a bit of breakfast in the kitchen downstairs, she looked out the windows onto the streets, and knew that something dangerous was out there. Something she certainly couldn’t allow her father to get mixed up in. So once he’d eaten his eggs and toast, she fibbed and explained that she’d received a call from their old family doctor, a kindly man who lived in the country, where Evey’s family’s summer home was located. He still treated Evelyn and her father on occasion, but most often these visits were vastly casual, just excuses for the doctor and Mr. Ashcroft to catch up – they’d always been very good friends. At any rate, Evey said, the doctor had called and asked the pair of them to come down for a week-long visit. Immediately her father smiled gleefully. Until Evey explained that she had to go to school and couldn’t join him. He objected to his daughter staying home alone for a whole week and argued that he’d not be going anywhere without her, but Evey promised that she’d stay at a friend’s house and would be entirely safe there. “You should go, Papa,” she coaxed. “I think it’ll do you good to get away…” It didn’t need to be said, but Evey and her father both knew that a little vacation, especially in the company of their doctor friend, would keep Mr. Ashcroft from his regular drinking. He’d be distracted, and that was a good thing. So at last, her father relented and they hastily packed his things and called a taxi. As Evey walked her father out of their townhouse to his cab, she exhaled a hushed sigh of relief. She knew her father would be safe once he was out of the city, and she and Edward would have one less thing to worry about when it came to Jason and his malevolent mentor.

Evey waved as the car took off and once it was finally out of sight, she looked warily down the street then stepped cautiously back inside, locking the door behind her. By now, she thought, Edward must have returned. Stepping lightly up the stairs, she hurried back to her bedroom.

[- - la nuit blanche]

As Sophia stepped gracefully down the stairs, she looked towards James as he sat in the living room, only to find him looking directly back at her. Watching her. Admiring her? It seemed so, and the slim brunette struggled to hide a delighted smile as she reached the bottom of the stairway. He liked looking at her, there was no doubt about it. And she wouldn’t deny that she liked to be watched. But she had to remember, this was business. The pleasure of some innocent flirtation would have to come later. So, after murmuring a polite “thank you” in response to his compliment, she took the man’s arm and followed him out to his car. As they pulled through the front gate of the estate, Sophia looked vaguely towards her chief of security, the supposed policeman sitting at his station by the gate. He was a grim looking man, pale, with hard eyes, but he smiled casually at the car as it passed through, waving a brief greeting. Although James wouldn’t have known it, he was not really a cop at all, but one of Auric’s men, right beneath his nose.

The drive was peaceful enough, if not a little tense. But Sophia gave the appearance that the silence was not uncomfortable for her, and she looked quietly out the window at the passing scenery as they drove on. Honestly silence was the easiest thing for her at this point. It meant she didn’t have to tell any lies, or pretend that she wanted to be near to him, or act pleased whenever he touched her. It was as content as she’d feel while James remained with her. And it gave her some time to gather her thoughts as they approached this party. Bond supposed that she’d recognize the people there from photographs in top secret folders, know their names only from hearing them spoken by other MI6 agents. But unbeknownst to him, she was probably personal acquaintances with them all. Whether they’d made some appearance during her kidnapping or not, she’d likely seen them during meetings with Auric. The man James intended to get a better look at would have been Kristatos’ second-in-command, a man Sophia had therefore met on more than one occasion. Which meant that her acting had to be at its best. She had to do all she could to appear as if she didn’t really know any of the villains they were about to meet, and to look as though she weren’t one of them.

Even the house was familiar as they drove up to it and parked. She was sure Auric had taken her there before. But as James helped her out of the car, she held his arm and looked vaguely around, as if it was all new to her. Tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, she nodded in answer to Bond’s directions, and smiled back as he gave her a wink. She held close to him as they made it to the door, seeming a little nervous, but wholly in control as well. Under false names and the pretense that they’d come as a newly married couple, they entered the large chateau and headed towards the ballroom. Hundreds of party guests gathered in clusters of well-dressed men and women, drinks in their hands and, no doubt, guns hidden beneath their clothes. Sophia spotted the party’s host – the man Bond was looking for – as did James, and she followed him towards the man. He played his part well, seeming not to recognize Sophia until she’d been introduced to him, as Auric likely had told him.

Sophia did as James suggested, easily meandering through the crowds upon his arm, engaging in light discussion with whoever they might meet, trying to move the conversation in the direction of Auric Kristatos.

[- - la nuit blanche]

As Evey walked back into her home after seeing her father off, she felt a nagging suspicion that she was being watched. It was that unnerving feeling accompanied by an abrupt shortage of breath, a nervous sensitivity to the tiniest sound or sign of movement, and a shaky, overpowering twinge of worry. She ascended the stairs to her room feeling that at any moment, she might be grabbed up and taken away, or else that she might feel the venom of sharp fangs sear through her veins like fire. Or worse, that she’d find that Edward hadn’t returned, that he’d been taken by Jason and Moreau, killed. Evey felt herself trembling on her way to her bedroom, but she paused halfway down the hall, at the door to her bathroom. The handle was dented, almost crushed on one side, as if some powerful paw had held it too tightly, with more force than any human could muster. Evelyn practically sprinted the last few steps to her room and held her breath as she pushed it open.

She felt cold and pale and she expected with every bit of herself that she’d see Jason standing there by her window. Tall and bulky and powerful, with a half charming, half cruel smirk across his mouth. Otherwise there would be Moreau, gentlemanly and menacing, with his fearful red eyes and roguishly elegant features. But all that worry was for nothing. There was only Edward, smiling at her and exhibiting the solid contentment that Evey could no longer find within her own self. If he weren’t a vampire, surely she’d have been able to beat him to a kiss, but as it was, he managed to close the space between them first and was taking her into his arms before Evelyn could even step forward to meet him. And soon his lips were upon hers, his cool, familiar hands framing her face, and she felt safe and happy once again. But she had yet to stop trembling and tears were in her eyes when those depthless blues opened to look up at him.

She was restless and overwrought with emotion, with fear and rage at the dark-eyed beasts stalking her, and love and pleasure as she turned to press her lips contently to Edward’s gentle palm. Her feelings were conflicted at the very best and left her in a state of horrible agitation. With an anxious sigh, she buried herself in against Edward’s chest and drew the hand she’d kissed down from her face to be clutched just below her left collarbone, over her heart and the place she’d reserved for this man alone. She knew he could likely hear the uneven thuds of her heart without even being so near, sense the blood that pumped through, but she took immense comfort in his actual feeling her there, his touch. The cool press of his palm quieted her frantic heart to a calmer, more regular pace almost instantly, but the tears continued to gather in her eyes.

“I hate this,” she muttered bitterly, resting her head into his shoulder. “I hate feeling so scared. Feeling that I’ll lose you, and that I can’t do anything to prevent it, to fight them away.” Being helpless was perhaps the feeling Evey had always detested most. She’d been able to do nothing to prevent her mother’s death, nothing to prevent the worsening vices of her father, and now, she could do nothing to defend herself or threaten those who wished to part her from the man who loved her. It was maddening, and Evey felt guilty for forcing such a responsibility upon Edward. She could only count herself lucky that for whatever reason, he did indeed love her, and was willing to sacrifice so much merely to keep her from harm. But it wasn’t fair, not to anyone.

The way her mind was working, he’d probably know what she wanted to ask of him before her thoughts actually got to it. Now more than ever, she wanted him to change her, to make her as he was. She peered somberly up into his face, begging, imploring him to do it. She didn’t care how much it hurt, what the consequences might be. She only wanted to no longer be such a burden to the man she loved. But for some reason, she couldn’t voice her plea. She felt somehow that it was not her endowment to request, no matter how strongly she reasoned for it. She had told him before that she trusted him, trusted his judgment when it came to her mortality, and she did. He would offer her the alternative when he thought the time was right, and until then, Evey would just have to be patient and remind herself that Edward would never allow them to be separated.

Swallowing hard, the petite brunette stood up upon her tip toes and lured her beau into another meaningful kiss. Her arms settled up about his neck and she held desperately onto his smooth, perfect lips until she felt flushed and yearning for much further consolation than merely a chaste, fleeting kiss. But now was not the time. Edward had said that they had things to discuss, and Evey knew it’d be best to let him speak. A little breathless, she drew her lips away but left him with a soft nuzzle, forehead to forehead and nose to nose, until finally she drew fully away. “Tell me everything,” she murmured soberly, moving to perch upon the arm of a nearby chair. Her expression was grave, sad, and she hadn’t even been able to smile since he returned. It was too difficult now, somehow. The gravity of their dilemma had hit her hard when she realized she needed to send her father away, to keep him safe. And then as she helped him into the taxi, she heard a brief report on the radio: more people were going missing. There was no doubt that a horrible storm was on its way, and finally Evey’s light and playful wit had been quenched by the clouds. Her eyes lowered briefly from Edward and she bit her lip for a moment before glancing back up at him. “You could start by telling me where you were…” she offered gently. There was the slightest tone of hesitant accusation in that statement, but it was overcome merely by worry. Her Edward didn’t look as if he’d just returned from a hunting spree. His clothing was no more worn than when he’d left, except for a few scuffs of dust from brick or cement, housing material that she doubted he’d have come in contact with if he’d sprinted away from the city to stalk a deer or any other appropriate nourishment for a vegetarian vampire. Of course, her suspicions could have been misplaced. She certainly didn’t know everything about a vampire’s hunting habits, but she was a perceptive girl. She couldn’t help but feel that Edward had lied to her, and that wasn’t something she wanted, not even if he thought it was for her own good. “You didn’t go for food, did you.” She wasn’t really asking a question, but again, her tone was not altogether reproachful. Only nervous, a little frightened. Her eyes peered up to his face and she wet her lips. “Edward, what happened?” she asked softly. “What’s wrong?”

[- - la nuit blanche]

Camille Auclair had arrived at the college, unprecedented, at the very end of the previous spring semester. She’d gone mostly unnoticed by her peers. All anyone really knew of her was that she’d moved to America from France, though her accent was only barely evident, and that she liked to keep to herself. She had no friends and, as a few select males had learned via curt rejection, she did not date. She was a sort of stray cat on campus, with precisely that same air of feline pride. From the moment she arrived, she walked the campus as surely as though she owned the place, always alone, and always a little superior. Though a difficult summer had lapsed into her life since her arrival, this semester was no different.

That summer in question had almost forced the proud little brunette to return home, to the quaint French countryside where her family lived and caged her. Her wealthy father had been forced to close the family vineyard and it no longer pleased him to fund his restless daughter’s stay overseas. She never wanted to remain in one place for long and with the family’s fortunes running short, it simply wasn’t feasible for her to hop on last-minute flights to unknown destinations ever y three months. But Camille was a stubborn one and there was no leash long enough to pull her back to the hand of any would-be master. Any and all remaining ties to her rich, overbearing parents were cut with a brief and indignant e-mail – something to the effect of “[******** you both, I’m staying here.” – and Camille found herself free as ever. Of course she was more poor than ever as well, but that could be fixed.

Not as easily as she’d hoped, however. A decent job in the big city, one suited to a little immigrant with no degree or previous work experience, turned out to be hard to come by. So, she’d simply been forced to discover the field of indecent occupations instead. As a pretty, clever young woman who need money and fast, she found herself perfectly marketable. Not that she was selling herself to just anyone. She’d been fortunate enough to find a fellow Frenchwoman at one of the more upscale clubs – the Rogue Gentleman’s Club, it was called – who ushered her in as a dancer and sometime call-girl. The latter was where Camille remained somewhat less enthused, but she was grateful to have income other than just the tips tucked into her garters.

At any rate, she was able to enroll for another semester at the university after her busy summer, and vowed to make an admirable effort to stick to her studies as well as her job. She was taking mainly art classes – she’d taken up painting under a great artist during an impromptu visit to Spain, and she was getting quite good – but she’d always enjoyed literature as well. She’d been hoping to enroll in an English literature course, to test her command of the language, but unfortunately – so she thought – the only decent class left was Russian literature.

Camille couldn’t tell Tolstoy from Dostoyevsky if she tried – nor did she think she really wanted to – but she struggled to prepare herself nonetheless. An hour before her first course began, she picked a sunny spot on the lawn right outside the classroom and sprawled out with Nabokov’s Lolita. She’d looked into reading Anna Karenina, but that seemed a little too ambitious. Lolita was far shorter and the cover looked enticing enough. So she lounged across the grass on her stomach, idly crossing her ankles bent up in the air, smoking a cigarette as she watched Mr. Humbert’s fall in love with little Dolores Haze from behind a pair of aviator sunglasses.

Had Camille not been working until the wee hours of the night, she might’ve been more intrigued by the tale of forbidden infatuation. But as it was, fifteen minutes before she ought to have been seated in class, she dozed off with Lolita still clutched in one hand. A chilly breeze made her stir some twenty minutes later and when she glanced at the cheap black watch around her wrist, she cursed beneath her breath and shoved herself to her feet. She brushed bits of grass from her black leggings and v-neck tee-shirt as she hurried towards her classroom, struggling to tug on a short black jacket as she went. By the time she wrenched the door open and slipped inside she was almost ten minutes late – “So no surprises…” she’d heard the professor say ust as she entered – and she could feel at least two dozen pairs of eyes on her as she moved to the last empty seat. Fortunately it was the one nearest to the door, though somewhat regrettably, in the front row.

Once she’d sat, Camille took off her sunglasses, revealing just the faintest traces of embarrassed red on her cheeks. But the look in her eyes was anything but ashamed when the girl behind her prodded her in the back with a clipboard, which she was evidently supposed to sign as proof of attendance. Camille found her name, scrawled a messy signature, then walked the paper up to be returned to the teacher’s desk. That was the first time she’d really bothered to look at the man. And once she saw him, she found it almost irritatingly difficult to look away.

Not necessarily because he was handsome, although she’d agree that he was, in a sort of roguish, dangerous way. He just looked so… so different. He was obviously a foreigner, like herself. She knew it before he even spoke, and she paused for the briefest moment to look up and over him once more before returning quietly to her seat. She noticed the fainted hint of a tattoo across his collarbone beneath his shirt, and there looked to be about a dozen more across the top of each of his hands. Her expression was more intrigued than shocked and as the professor inquired if there were any questions, her gaze moved gracefully from his inked fingers and well-dressed body to the notebooks and novel sitting atop her desk.

Whether the other students were still sizing the man up as their teacher, were too shocked by his less than collegiate appearance, or simply had nothing intelligent to say, no one bothered to raise their hand. Camille glanced about as the professor waited, while his pupils said nothing, and finally spoke up, if only because she was through with the awkward lapse of silence. “What do you think of this one?” she inquired, not bothering to raise her hand as she lifted Lolita from the desk, indicating the cover. She was partially interested in his answer, but mainly she was testing him. She wanted to see how intelligent he was, and whether or not his class might be worth going to bed a little earlier for.

[- - la nuit blanche]

Camille had certainly been confused, started by the man’s unexpected breakfast, but as she returned back to the table with milk and sugar, she found herself feeling more relaxed. It had been easy the night before to appear so bold and confident – it had been dark, and sex was something she was accustomed to. But now he could see her, now they were talking, and maybe she’d been right to be terrified at first. However, when she’d stood to retrieve condiments for the tea, something changed. She’d bent to sweetly kiss his neck, as naturally as if she did so all the time, and now she was comfortable again, politely offering him the milk and sugar until he’d answered with his “No, thank you,” at which point Camille poured a little of each into her own cup before setting them aside. The only action that made her seem a little less than completely relaxed was the way she continually fidgeted in the sheet she’d robed herself in. She was determined to look vaguely modest and seemed sort of self-conscious, blushing a little even when the sheet slipped open along her side. But with that blush, she simply smiled bashfully and held the sheet more tightly with one hand as she ate with the other.

When Lev inquisitively inquired if she were discontent with her country, the girl frowned a little and shook her head quickly before taking a dainty sip of her tea. “No,” she answered, softly. “I love France, Paris, the vineyards, the Mediterranean...” It was an honest reply, but Camille seemed faintly hesitant to elaborate any further. But, after a brief pause and another pensive bite of toast, she finally continued. “It’s just that my parents… They can be sort of… stifling. I like to go off on my own, to travel, meet new people, and they’d prefer that I remain at home, mind my manners, date a friendly, rich boy and get married.” The girl prodded at her food with a fork, scowling lightly. “Honestly, I miss my country, but I don’t want to go back to them. I’d rather work, whatever job I can get, and stay here. I’ll do whatever I have to so long as I can keep my freedom.” She shrugged a little and as she peered down at the remaining bits of food on her plate, her expression appeared sort of profound, thoughtful and dark. She was plainly determined to do whatever was necessary to keep away from her family and their expectations for her, but the sadness in her eyes suggested that she wasn’t exactly content with her situation. Working as a prostitute was hardly the ideal station for a young woman who secretly preferred to be taken care of, to feel secure and safe.

But as soon as her eyes lifted, returning back to Lev’s face, her expression softened and she smiled, shrugging as though to retract any significance her words, as though none of them were supposed to have meant anything. She felt suddenly as though maybe she’d said to much, maybe she’d bored him with her rambling explanation, and she hastily quieted herself with a large, final bite of her food and a long gulp of her tea – a sip that she almost choked on when she laughed softly in response to the man’s comment that most women he knew also took little issue with being spoiled. When she lowered her cup, Camille was grinning and looking back up at him once more. She’d never heard him make a joke before, though of course they’d known each other only a very short time. But still, it seemed delightfully uncharacteristic, and despite his dry quip, Camille felt that he silently had no problem indulging her a little. Maybe he even enjoyed it.

The slim brunette finished off her tea in thoughtful silence, but it was clear that her mind was working, mulling over something she wasn’t sure enough to speak just yet. But at last she drew in a bit of courage, looked up towards Lev, and softly asked, “Are you discontent with your country, Monsieur Rotistlav…?” It was a shy sort of inquiry, one that Camille definitely wasn’t sure she had any right to ask, but the boldness within her forced it out, and forced her to keep staring intently at him, expectantly awaiting a reply. She doubted his answer would at all resemble her own; it couldn’t be merely an overbearing family that kept him away from his native Russia. He had the look of a man who had gotten into some trouble, who had an interesting history, and she couldn’t help but wonder about it, just as she wondered about the meaning of each of his tattoos. But she was afraid of upsetting him, of asking too many questions and making him angry with her – which was rather unusual, considering the indifference with which she usually regarded most men. But still she couldn’t help her own curiosity or keep it from occasionally getting the best of her.

ooc; my goodness, how i missed be able to write to you! i hope you're still up to continue this story. i know i've taken horribly long to reply. the internet at my school is very shoddy and i've only had the time to write this afternoon because i came home for labor day weekend. i hope to write as often as i can while i'm here, if, of course, you're still willing to continue.

[- - la nuit blanche]

As clammy and pale as Evey had been when she’d reentered her bedroom, she now held a subtle air of strength, defiance. Edward was near again, he was safe, and she no longer felt so much as if all was lost. A storm was still gathering on the horizon, black and ominous, moving ever closer to London, to Edward and herself, but with the man’s presence, she remembered why she couldn’t merely resign herself to fear and grief. She couldn’t surrender, not while she had their love to fight for. For an instant, she might’ve wondered if she regretted their meeting. Her life had obviously changed immensely since his wondrous appearance in her quaint little existence. The whole world had changed, really. Suddenly beautiful demons walked the earth, mingling quietly with so many normal people, people like herself, like her father, like every one of her friends at school. And while one of these fantastic creatures had fallen in love with her, more deeply than any human man every could, there were others who wanted toexploit and hurt her. She’d never felt so anxious, so endangered. And yet, until she’d been wrapped in Edward’s arms, she’d never felt so safe either, so secure and so content to exist. No, she didn’t regret their acquaintance. No matter how great the risk, how perilous the danger, it would be worth it simply to be near him for a time.

So, she forced herself to be brave, to come to terms with the chaos around her. After taking the liberty of that final kiss, Evey balanced herself delicately upon an armchair near the window and crossed her arms about her torso, letting her breathing even again before gently asking Edward for further explanation. Though almost as soon as he began to speak his reply, Evey regretted a little being so inquisitive. His family was leaving, he explained. He ought to be leaving. Evey bowed her head a little, looking down into her lap. More than a storm was advancing in the distance; it was a war. A serious conflict that evidently sent all of the other Cullens fleeing, and Edward should be going with them. He stayed only because of her.

Evelyn had never felt so guilty in her life. He was putting himself in danger for her, and now separating himself from his family as well. Evey considered objecting, ordering him to get away with his siblings and parents, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. As wretched as she felt already, she felt even more despicable because of her own selfishness. She didn’t want Edward to leave, didn’t want him to go where she couldn’t follow. It went beyond a concern for her own safety, the thought that she inevitably needed protection. She simply didn’t want them to be parted, and somehow before she could even consider parting her lips to argue that he must rejoin his family, Evey knew, which a flush of affection, that he wouldn’t be likely to leave her, even if she demanded it.

But now was perhaps not the time to dwell on guilt. Jason was evidently on the move; the mention of his name caused Evey instantly to scowl a little. She’d detested him before of course, but the idea that the brutish boy thought he could make a “mate” out of her was particularly revolting. Evey held her arms around herself a bit tighter, chewing at the inside of her cheek as she uneasily considered what lengths Brewer would go to in order to steal her from Edward and claim her for himself. She suspected he had much more in his arsenal now than alcohol and persuasion; he wouldn’t need to get her intoxicated to make her acquiesce. And yet, the trouble didn’t end there. With the mention of a third vampire, Evey’s eyes lifted back up to Edward’s face. A vampire that was a danger to him? Immediately the brunette suspected some enormous oaf of a monster, a beast so strong that even another immortal had to fear him, but unfortunately this new curse was nothing so simple.

The disgusting thought of Jason’s ever touching her again was swiftly eclipsed by Edward’s explanation of this other vampire’s unique power. The ability to manipulate another’s feelings, to share and enhance emotions, even her beloved’s own feelings of longing for her. Evey’s skin felt as if it could crawl and her eyes grew dark. She could afford no modest blush when Edward commented how this vampire’s power affected him when he wanted her; she was furious. To think that this woman could control Evey’s love in their moments of intimacy, gain pleasure from it herself like a voyeur peeking through a keyhole… It was horrifying, nauseating, and Evelyn felt suddenly very vulnerable, though her rage still pushed to the forefront of her emotions. For the first time, she wished she shared Edward’s immortality not only so she could live with him forever, but so she could have the strength and speed to match this new enemy. Plainly put, she wanted to destroy the b***h herself. Edward was hers, and this other vampire was forcing him away from her, urging him to worry when they were near. Evey thought back to the crushed doorknob at her bathroom. Clearly he didn’t worry needlessly, but the young woman still detested that this caution was a necessity. Their moments together should not only be private, but unhindered, and for ruining her and Edward’s chaste times of closeness – the only tiny delights Evey saw that they had left – she wanted this despicable creature to pay.

After swallowing dryly, Evey forced herself to relax. “I understand,” she replied a little hoarsely, agreeing, if with obvious reluctance, that they must be cautious around one another in case Edward was urged to relinquish control. Even as the exquisite man stepped nearer to her chair, Evey wondered if that succubus was again trying to inch her way into his mind. But that couldn’t deter Evey too much. As soon as Edward had knelt down and taken her hand, the petite girl laced her fingers anxiously with his and leaned to kiss his cheek. “I’ll want you forever,” she swore quietly, speaking hardly above a whisper. Though as dearly as she loved Edward, and as much as she wished they could simply isolate themselves somewhere away from all this strife, she wondered how wholly comforted she was by his plan. He suggested that they would simply wait for the war to begin, then use it as a distraction to help aid in their escape. Would they do nothing to fight against Moreau in this battle? Would they leave London and all of her innocent inhabitants to be left in the crossfire? Evey wet her lips, her expression uncertain, although she said nothing. She wasn’t sure she was qualified to have an opinion in this matter. After all, if it were not for Edward, she would be one of those unfortunate citizens, powerless but to be crushed by this war. If they were simply to wait by the sidelines, Evey would merely trust in Edward’s judgment and do as he asked her.

After a moment of anxiously, silently kneading her fingers through his, the young woman slid off the chair and straightened. “I only wish I could do something,” she muttered softly, somewhat irritably. Letting go of Edward’s hand, she walked to her window and drew the curtain a little aside to peer out over the pleasant London neighborhood. “I feel so useless. I’ve taken you from your family, stranded you here, all because I’m unable to take care of myself.” Letting go of the fabric, the curtain fell back into place over the glass and Evey turned back to face the golden-eyed man. Her own eyes were sad, her expression defeated, and she drew in a feeble, shaky breath before softly continuing, “I want us to be together… But this isn’t what I want for you. I’d do anything to make this easier…” Despite the fact that her eyes were beginning to glaze with rueful, frustrated tears, Evey struggled to keep her voice determined and even. Already she was trying to think of an alternative, a course of action that only she could take in order to keep Edward out of danger.

What if... What if she went to Jason? Willingly, peacefully, in order to let him take and change her. Obviously it was not ideal. She sincerely wanted never to look upon his rust red eyes again, and anyway, if she were to be made into an immortal, she wanted Edward to be the one to do it, to bestow that fatal bite. But he could not, not while that woman could still manipulate him, threaten to heighten his appetite at the very moment he sought to make her his. Though Jason could. Edward had said he wanted a mate, not just a midnight snack. If she let him do it, she would no longer be a pathetic little human, a helpless doll that would forever need Edward's constant protection. And she would be able to know their enemies, Moreau and the second of his fledglings. All she'd have to do then would be to pretend she was their ally, until the time came when she could escape them to be reunited with Edward.

It was by no means a perfect scheme, but alas, Edward evidently hadn't had the good fortune to fall in love with a particularly brilliant human; it was the best she could come up with. But would he let her go through with it? Had he already read her mind, glimpsed a peek at this undoubtedly flawed plot? Would he already advise her against it? Evey tried to brush all thoughts of this potential strategy out of her mind and her eyes lowered guiltily to the floor. "I don't want you to ruin your life just to preserve mine," she commented quietly. "Especially not when I'm too useless to do anything to help."

[- - la nuit blanche]

Once again, Evey found herself drawing her arms around her own middle, hugging tight, as though trying to keep the half shattered pieces of her composure held together somehow. She felt panicky, restless, and her thoughts still remained dark, guilty, and considerably self-loathing. But when Edward spoke so reassuringly, drawing her out of a morose sort of daze with that achingly sweet “baby,” Evelyn felt somehow mended. She couldn’t help but smile in response to the petname; despite the fact that it sounded slightly unusual coming from the mouth of a man likely to be a century older than her great-grandfather, it wasn’t wholly bizarre. She even blushed a little, as a normal girl might when her darling beau first tested a new term of endearment. And for that instant, she felt human again, actually connected to the world around her once more. It was perhaps at that moment that she knew they would make it through this. No matter what hardships and horrors lay ahead, they would be able to escape. Because there was no way she would let anything keep her from being called Baby by her Edward for eons to come.

But still, when he commented that he could never live with himself if he left her, Evey gave a tiny, disbelieving shake of her head, trying to hide an accompanying smile. It wasn’t that she thought he was lying. She just couldn’t understand how a thing like her could mean so much to a man like him. How had she gotten so lucky?

Without bothering to voice her happy disbelief, Evey listened quietly as the man suggested their next course of action. She agreed that Jason would likely return to her home to find her and she knew that they shouldn’t stay there much longer. Her father was safely sent away and once they were gone, Jason could tear down the townhouse brick by brick; he’d never find anything, or be able to hurt anyone in the process. By the time he came, they would be long gone, sprinting about the city until he grew tired of chasing. Already, as Edward explained that he would find them a car, Evey went to her closet and drew out an old duffle bag. The shapeless sack was tossed on her bed to be filled with a few haphazard armfuls of rumpled clothes. And yet, halfway through her frantic packing, the young woman paused briefly. Edward had suggested that she gather enough supplies for only a few days, but suddenly Evelyn had a feeling that she may not return here for some time. She glanced briefly about her room, the room she’d grown up in. She could still remember where her crib had been, the rocking chair where her mother had once sang her to sleep, her first tiny bed. That teddy bear amidst the pillows on her bed had been clutched beneath one arm while she slept every night of her childhood. Perhaps nostalgia wouldn’t mean much to one who had lived for centuries, inhabited innumerable homes, known thousands of people. Edward must think her a bit silly, willing to delay her own safety just to take another look around a meaningless bedchamber.

And yet, as much as she’d like to cling to the memories attached to that room and this house, when Evey looked back to Edward, she felt much more comfortable letting them go. He’d began a new chapter in her life, unexpected but not regretted. He would give her new memories, good ones, she was sure. With a smile, she left the duffle bag to sidle up behind him, slipping her arms about his torso and nestling her cheek into the back of his shoulder. “You’re so much more than I deserve,” she murmured softly, smiling wistfully when she felt the cool of his skin reach her face even through his shirt. It made her shiver a little but she didn’t mind. That refreshing chill had become so indicative of him. It was the unique reward for her, a mortal, being brave enough to reach out and touch a creature she likened to a god, and as she nestled in closer, she savored it.

“You’ve already given me a new life,” she added softly. With him in her existence, with his love, she saw everything with new eyes. Suddenly there was such exciting opportunity in the world. Something more awaited her than the mediocrity of school, an unfulfilling job, a marriage she may regret. She had love in her life now, love that would put fairytales to shame, that made Shakespeare seem clumsy and unpoetic. She only hoped Edward understood. Immortality would only be an unexpected perk of their affair; she’d have been satisfied with only a day of this love if that was all she was given. After breathing a tiny sigh, she pressed a gentle kiss to the back of his neck. The scent of his bare skin was mouth-watering, fresh and sweet as rain, warm and rich as autumn, and with a feel perfect and smooth as marble. If David could see her Edward, he’d curse Michelangelo and call himself flawed.

However, now was not the time to dwell on the fact that her beloved could give a nude sculpture an inferiority complex. They surely had to get going. With one last nuzzle of her lips into his golden-brown hair, Evey let her arms unwind from his torso and she stepped back, lest she fall prey to his charms once again. “Go find us a car,” she suggested, trying not to look as flushed and tempted as she once again felt as she managed a small grin. “I’ll finish packing and meet you down in the parlor.” Stepping deftly in front of him, she stood up onto her tip toes to leave a restrained but no less loving peck upon his lips. When she withdrew, she was smiling a little more. She didn’t know how, but he’d lifted her spirits. As long as they were together, she could find nothing else to worry about now. “Hurry,” she added with a competitive grin. “I’ll race you.”

[- - la nuit blanche]

Back before she could miss him, he’d said. Well, Evey was certain that no matter how fast he was, that would be impossible. The second he’d slipped from her room, she missed him. She longed for him to be back in her arms, to feel his cool, ripe lips take hers again. But by the time he’d likely made it down the stairs and out of the house, Evelyn had convinced herself not to waste time thinking about his absence. Even if she already wanted him back, she knew he’d return soon. It really wasn’t even a fair race to begin with; she knew how fast he was, how clever and how strong. By the time she was able to retrieve her toothbrush and gather up what spare cash she had stashed away, Edward would be down in the parlor, grinning victoriously, a fast car waiting for them on the street.

Evey smiled a little to herself at this prediction and continued to rush a few more clothes into her bag. She was certain that was just how it would be. And yet, as she rushed to her bathroom to pick up a few toiletries, a dark feeling of vulnerability came over her. It hit her just as it had when she’d hurried her father from the house and ascended back up to her bedroom, not knowing if it would be Edward or Jason waiting for her there. She felt cold and clammy, her palms had grown moist, and she didn’t need the heightened senses of an immortal to hear her heart beating faster and faster, laboring hard to fight of an imminent panic attack. She was alone now, and more than that, she felt something terrible was coming. It was just a feeling, of course, arisen surely out of instinctive fear. Taking deep, quivering breaths, Evey continued back to her room and knelt down to pry loose a piece of the base board that ran along each wall of her room. Behind the displaced bit of wood was a small cubby where Evey kept a tin of her treasures. Childhood relics and emergency cigarettes, mostly, along with a thick wad of cash and a locket that her mother used to wear. Evey withdrew the money and stuffed it into the bottom of her bag, then returned to put away the tin box once more. However, before she closed the lid of the tiny treasure chest, Evelyn considered her mother’s locket for a moment, then hastily pulled it from the box, untangled the thin silver chain, and fastened it about her neck. Then at last she stuffed the tin away, replaced the base board, and straightened. Dropping the locket beneath her shirt, she pulled on a jacket, slipped her feet into a pair of worn sneakers, and slung her bag over one shoulder as she hurried out of her room.

“Edward?” she called softly as she trotted down the stairs, struggling not to let a twinge of anxiety enter her voice. She was confident there would be an answer. It had been at least five or ten minutes since Edward had left. That was plenty of time, wasn’t it? As she stumbled a little faster down the stairway, she held her breath, nervously anticipating his voice calling back to her. But there was nothing. Evey hurried into the parlor; it was vacant except for herself, eerily flooded in the hazy light of the setting, overcast sun outside. Evelyn dropped her bag to the floor and breathed a nervous sigh. Any other day, she’d have been elated to have won a little race against her beau, but somehow she wasn’t so ecstatic just now. Immediately she worried that something must’ve happened to him. Had Jacques been waiting for him? But how could he have known where to find him? No, surely Edward was too cunning to let himself be anticipated or followed. The petite brunette stuffed her clammy hands into her pockets and tried hard to convince herself that Edward was just fine. Perhaps there was some minor accident on the road that hindered him from racing his car back to her. It could only be just a small delay. He’d be there soon, and then she’d feel very silly for having made herself so nervous and concerned over nothing.

Suddenly she jumped, gasping a little as a thick arm slipped firmly about her torso. However, when the surprise lapsed, she was overcome by a warm wave of relief. It was only Edward, she thought, reaching to embrace her. She lifted a hand to hold over his as it grasped her side, and yet that paw didn’t feel quite so familiar as she expected it to. Those were not the deft, slender fingers that had once played the piano for her, that touched her face with the utmost care. They were thick, forceful and clumsy. And it was certainly not Edward’s voice that addressed her half lewdly from behind. It was Jason. He’d used the same petname as her Edward, the same cooed “baby,” although Evey wasn’t half so tickled by it as she’d been with Edward. Instantly her hand dropped from his and she scrambled to twist herself out of his arms, but to little avail. It was like struggling against a vice. Each bend of her body away from him made her ache and when his hold on her tightened against her writhing, she grimaced in pain and found it difficult to breathe. “No,” she whimpered softly, still trying to fight and kick despite the pain. “No, Jason, let me go!” Those words tasted far too familiar, although they were said with far more conviction this time around. “Edward!”

Though she risked yelling for her beau, somehow she knew he wouldn’t be able to rescue her. Jason wouldn’t have come back to take her on his own. He’d already lost to Edward once; he wouldn’t let himself be beaten again. He must’ve brought company, and Evey suspected Edward would have his own problems. She could hear Jason breathing soft hushes into her ear as he persisted in his encouraging kisses and strokes of his tongue, now lowering to her neck. Evelyn twisted her head away with a warning snarl. “I didn’t want you when you were human. Why would I want you now that you’re this monster?” she growled, craning her neck to look up into his face. If it weren’t for his dark red eyes, the malicious smile upon his lips, he’d have almost rivaled Edward in his beauty. His complexion was impeccable and she knew that equally perfect muscles rippled beneath every inch of his pale, exquisite flesh. And yet Evey wasn’t exactly stunned into submission. “What has this change given you, huh? Clearly no better manners than you had before… What then? More strength, more power to bully the innocent and make your football fans drool? And I’m supposed to swoon?” The squirming brunette jabbed an elbow back into the man’s abdomen, but she might as well have been trying to make a brick wall double over. Her whole arm seared with a throbbing pain and she choked back the tears that immediately followed. She was sure her elbow would be bruised for weeks after that, and insulting the boy clearly wasn’t going to get her anywhere anyway. But perhaps somewhere beneath all of muscle the old Jason remained. A school bully and meathead athlete, sure, but he’d still been just a kid like anyone else.

With a quiet sigh, Evey fought only to turn herself in Jason’s arms and look up into his eyes. She tried to remember what color they were before they’d turned that horrible red. “What have you let him do to you, Jason?” she implored softly. “You were never an angel, but you’ve let him turn you into a murderer. This isn’t you… And it doesn’t have to be this way.”

[- - la nuit blanche]

While Jason led her home, wherever that may be, Evey felt positively intoxicated by her own grief. Her vision was blurred, her body ached, and she hardly felt in control of her own legs as they walked alongside Brewer, who hadn’t taken his arms from around her since they stepped out of her house. Those arms felt heavy as metal pipes as they draped themselves around her, one circled around her waist, the other weighing down across her shoulders, and she could practically feel his gaze peeking unabashedly down her shirt. And yet, she continued to walk with him, for there seemed nothing else to do. If she struggled, Jason would hold her tighter (and probably glean some pleasure from her rubbing against him in the process). If she ran, he’d run faster. Meanwhile, Edward had been taken away, and he evidently wasn’t able to come rescue her this time. There was nothing for it but to just walk on in quiet compliance, while Jason’s red eyes tried to undress her further, his lips occasionally dipping in to nuzzle or lick at her ear.

She had no idea how far they’d walked, or if at some point Jason had carried her to quicken their pace, but beneath the rising moon, a huge warehouse came into view. The air smelled polluted and muggy and the night was unnervingly quiet, except for the sounds of shuffling footsteps. Another group of people was headed towards the entrance of the warehouse as well, and as Jason pushed her on with a little more insistence, she noticed that for each vampire in that group, there was a victim tied up with a bag over their head, stumbling along before them. Evey felt immediately nauseated and as they followed the group of hunters with their kill inside the storehouse, Jason snickered softly. “Oh, this’ll be good,” he murmured beneath another dark chuckle.

Once within the warehouse, Jason nudged her off to a dim corner as the vampires with their mortal prizes gathered in a haphazard line, as if for inspection, each one of them pushing their trembling human down to their knees. Evey shuddered a little and drew her arms around herself. “How can you let them do this?” she snarled up at Jason, gripping her shirt together before her could attempt to remove any more buttons. “Those are people, Jason,” she growled. “People like you used to be—” But Jason wasn’t giving much consideration to her chiding and he merely cut her off with a soft laugh, hugging both arms about her waist as he pulled her in front of him, her back to his chest. “You’ve got to loosen up, baby. Besides, you’ll want to see this. Even I like getting a chance to see Moreau’s…talents, in action.”

Jacques Moreau, Evey knew that name. He was the man who had found herself and Edward in the park that day. He was the leader. Evelyn glanced to another corner of the expansive warehouse to see the devil himself, casually putting away a book before gliding swiftly over to the line of waiting vampires. Evey’s breath caught as he tore the bag deftly up from the first mortal’s head. The poor man looked absolutely beside himself with fear as Moreau bored down on him with his crimson eyes, and Evey wondered quietly what the vampire was doing. What was this “talent” that seemed to impress even pompous Jason? And then Evelyn knew. He could detect somehow what a mortal’s power would be if he or she became a vampire, or at least something to that effect. Evey was momentarily intrigued, but not for long. As the first man was taken away, she watched Moreau remove the bag from the head of a pretty blonde woman, but it seemed she didn’t make the cut. As the one called Malone dragged the poor girl away, Evey instinctively lunged forward, stammering a helpless “No!” as she fought weakly against Jason’s arms. To do what? To run after the woman, into the midst of half a dozen fearful monsters? Evelyn wasn’t sure if such bravado excused such stupidity, but of course it didn’t matter anyway. Jason held onto her and drew her back even closer against his front, chuckling softly into her ear. “Don’t worry, Evey, you won’t have to keep that sympathy for long. Once you’re like us, those “people” as you call them, won’t look like anything more than cattle to you. Besides, Malone’ll show her a good time.”

As the final victims were examined, the torture continued. Evelyn longed to scream out but what good would it do anyway? Instead she merely bowed her head into her hands and cried, hiding her eyes like a child during the worst bit of a too-scary horror film. And then she realized it. The myths and legends were true. When she’d met Edward, she’d thought that Mr. Stoker and everyone else had got the vampire story quite wrong. Edward was so human to her, so humane. He felt emotions just like anyone else, and he never hurt anyone. He didn’t have to kill to survive. But these… beasts, they proved those myths correct. And now Evey was living in her own personal horror story.

Swallowing hard, she lowered her hands from her face but kept her eyes upon the floor. The last mortal had been herded away, and Moreau had finally noticed his blonde prodigy. He praised the boy with casual indifference, but suddenly his words stopped. Evey didn’t know why until she glanced up, to see the pale man standing right before her, staring down into her eyes. Those blue eyes narrowed as though she’d been offended, and she even shrank a little back into Brewer’s chest. Moreau’s crimson gaze made her feel terribly vulnerable, undressed and cold. She could scarcely explain it, and yet it was agonizingly different to look away from his gaze now that their eyes had met. Only when he spoke, distracting himself with words, did Evey seem able to let her eyes skitter aside. She said nothing as the man complimented her, what she could become, but considered those words briefly. What did those flatteries mean? She was to become powerful? How, Evey wondered. Would she be able to read minds, like Edward? But this was only mere curiosity. Evelyn did not wish to be a goddess of any kind, and certainly not one in league with these beasts. Only when Moreau addressed her again, leaving her with a question to which he seemed rather desperate to hear her answer, did Evey glance back up and put a bit of strength into her voice once more.

“Maybe you forget, Monsieur Moreau,” Evelyn answered, her voice notably bitter, resolute, though hopelessly quivering with sorrow. “But I’m still human, as you once were. Human, like all of your new recruits and helpless victims.” Tears were still in her eyes, dampening her cheeks, and as she wrenched her face away from the creature’s cold hand, she glanced away from his eyes to that high heel left overturned and discarded upon the floor by the thrashing mortal woman, whose fate Evey could not help but contemplate. It made her stomach churn, and she knew that no fellow human would ever be met with any more kindness than that poor woman if these pale, glaring wretches came into power. “And you ask me,” she continued, her voice now wavering more with searing fury than grief. She suddenly struggled fiercely in Jason’s arms, trying desperately to throw herself violently at Moreau. “if I am prepared to join you?! You leave me to be a slave to this… Neanderthal, and want to know if I’ll become your ally? I would have expected a man so elegant and wise as yourself, with all your shelves of books, to be a bit more perceptive.” She was almost to the point of yelling now and her heart beat frantically within her chest. She half hoped that she could provoke the vampire with these insults, with her fierce, insolent tone. She wanted to anger him so much that he’d take her away from Jason, cancel this “Siring” business, and just kill her in his outrage. Evey wasn’t usually a fan of melodrama, but she’d never longed for death so badly, considering the alternative. These brutes had taken everything from her. They threatened her father, made her sick with fear, and finally stole away the only comfort she had. Edward. Whether or not he could really love her, whether or not she deserved him, she’d loved him. It had felt the most important, the most uncontrollably significant emotion she’d ever experienced. And they’d taken that away too. She was hollow now, with only fear and hatred and grief to fill her aching heart. This was no way to live, and certainly not for eternity.

Evey’s breaths came in shallow gasps as she held back sobs and she looked almost as pale as the vampires around her. “I would rather die,” she murmured feebly, “than possess the power you tell me I will have if I become one of you.” Not that she really thought she had much choice. Jacques and Brewer would do just as they liked with her. Perhaps, if she had a little more control over her temper, she would not have responded with such outrage. She could simply let them change her, and when she was powerful, she could work against them all. She would be strong enough to escape, to find Edward and those who wanted to conquer Moreau’s new army. She could aid in their defeat. And yet, if Jacques knew that she was to wield such power, Evey was certain he had no mind simply to let her use it as she wanted. He would seek to exploit it to his own ends, find a way to control it and her. Whatever this “Siring” was, Evey had a sinking feeling that it could mean nothing good for her. She could only hope it could be delayed.