(second half) by Sarah T.

           "This is Gustav." The familiar cheerful sing-song startled him. He had not heard it in years, but it used to infuriate him beyond all reason, and he felt his fingers curling up reflexively in annoyance as it came over the phone now. He hoped he would not have to hear much of it this time.
           "...Father?"
           "Klaus? Is that you?"
           "Yes, father, it's me."
           A moment's pause, and then the raw emotion and surprise in the voice had been transformed into a dogged wariness. "Where are you?"
           "New York. I—"
           "Is Dracula with you?"
           "Yes. You see—"
           "Where are you staying?"
           "I didn't call to talk to you about that, father," Klaus said irritably. Leave it to the old man to make everything so difficult. Always thinking about Dracula, never about him. "I called because Dracula is going to...to take another victim, and you have to stop it."
           "What are you talking about?"
           Klaus felt his annoyance grow. "Just like me, father. Have you forgotten? He's going to make her into a vampire. She's in love with him; she doesn't know any better. You have to tell her—warn her—make her understand." He looked anxiously out of the glass of the phone booth. He needed to be back before Lucard was. "Otherwise, terrible things will happen."
           Gustav sounded full of suspicion. "Why are you telling me this, Klaus? You serve Dracula now."
           "Oh—" Klaus yanked impatiently at the cord. He hadn't thought Helsing would react like this. "—Does it matter? He's going to kill her, don't you get it? You have to stop him! Or would you rather lose another one to him because you couldn't be bothered to pay attention?"
           There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Klaus rattled his fingertips nervously against the side of the phone, wondering if he should say something more. He looked uneasily at his watch as the seconds ticked by. Damn it, it was as if the old man practiced making things harder for him! Finally, Gustav's voice came again, wearily. "All right, Klaus, I'll do it."
           "Good. You have to come right away. He might take her at any time."
           "What's her name?"
           "Margo Brooke. She lives..." He quickly gave him the information he needed. "And father, you can't say anything about me. If Alexander found out—"
           "Alexander?"
           "Dracula. Don't you know anything? Anyway, if he found out, he'd..." What would he do? Klaus's mind lurched back from the possibilities that suddenly arose before it. He hadn't really considered that part too carefully before. "Well, he'd do something awful to me."
           "He's already done that, Klaus. I can't think of anything he could do that would be worse than..."
           "Will you stop being so boring?" Klaus snapped. "When will you accept that I want to be a vampire? It's certainly much better than being a ridiculous Helsing! I love this side of life. I've never been more happy!"
           "If that's the case, Klaus," said Gustav, very quietly, "why are you betraying Dracula?"
           Klaus slammed his fist against the phone, denting it. "That's none of your business! Just do as I say, and don't ask me so many questions!" He hung up violently, then put his fingers to his temples, closing his eyes, breathing hard.
           "Come here, Klaus." Alexander stooped over him, stroking his hair. "Shhh, liebchen. Shhh..." he said soothingly. "It's all right. You're angry and frightened, I know, and it feels so strange, doesn't it? That's because you feel things differently now that you're a vampire. All your emotions are stronger. But so is your self-control, if you'll only cultivate it."
           "Right," he muttered. "Right. Self-control." He smothered another nervous laugh. "Discipline." He had to be calm when he went back, or Alexander would suspect. If only Helsing wasn't so, so... He shook his head. He couldn't think about that. He had to go back to the apartment and read financial reports. Financial reports!
           Imagining that, he had to giggle as he headed back. But only a few times, so it didn't really count.

           He felt cold and sick and faint. Black shapes seemed to flutter at the edges of his vision. Even though he'd just bathed and submitted to being dressed in clean, soft pajamas, he thought he could still taste the dirt of the grave in his mouth. There was a fire burning in the fireplace, but its warmth eluded him no matter how close he got, which almost made him cry with frustration. The room was furnished sumptuously in dark, rich colors, promising comfort everywhere he looked, but he found that, even though he desperately wanted to, he could rest nowhere. Whether he tried to lie down on the great four-poster bed with its heavy hangings, to dispose himself across the peculiar backless couch of red velvet, or to lean back in one of the wooden chairs padded with cushions worked in curious patterns, he could not keep still. The dizziness would fade, but the sickness only intensify, prodding him to get to his feet again, to prowl restlessly and irregularly around the room, looking for...something. He didn't think he could wait much longer. But what was he waiting for?
           The massive oaken door swung open, and Lucard came in, leading a blank-faced girl by the hand. Klaus was just barely able to notice she was pretty before his eyes were drawn irresistibly to her throat. She was wearing a blouse, but the collar had been unbuttoned and pulled away, and there were already two little wounds on the neck. He heard Lucard shutting the door, but all his attention was riveted on those marks. He could see...he could smell...
           "Go to him, Susanna," Lucard said coaxingly, pushing her forward. "Go on, that's a good girl."
           She came to Klaus, almost as unsteady on her feet as he was, and looked up at him dully, saying nothing. He felt himself trembling on the brink of some great change; his head swam, his jaw ached, his eyes burned, his hands tensed and tingled.
           "All right, Klaus," came the voice of his master.
           Ah, yes, I was waiting for this.
           He returned to his senses some time later, finding himself lying face upwards on the bed where they'd fallen. He was floating in a pool of sheer content. He felt warm, drowsy, comfortable—no, more, satisfied, to the depths of his self, as if he would never want anything ever again. After several minutes, he let his eyes flutter open. The girl was gone. Lucard was next to him on the bed, leaning on one elbow, his expression remote. As Klaus stirred, he looked down, and a playful approval came over his face. "An impressive first effort, Klaus. More enthusiasm than style, but you'll learn."
           Klaus scarcely registered the words. Meeting those pleased grey eyes, he felt a rush of clear gratitude and love. Then he began to weep.
           Lucard cocked his head, raising his eyebrows. "What's this, Klaus? Tears? Was it so terrible, then?" he asked, brushing the hair out of Klaus's face gently.
           "I'm sorry," he whispered, stricken. "I didn't—I didn't know..." Oh, he had been such a fool to fight this. And Helsing, even worse.
           "Of course not," Lucard said, smiling with his own satisfaction. "You couldn't have."
           "But I—Oh, thank you, Alexander."
           "You're welcome. We can discuss how you can demonstrate your gratitude later, though; right now, I want you to get some sleep. You've had quite a day. " He reached down and touched Klaus's eyelids closed with feather-light strokes of his fingers, lingering for just a moment on the tears gathered in the hollows beneath his eyes.
           Had those same fingers, slender and strong, been pressed against the back of his neck as he fed? Had Alexander somehow shared the pleasure with him? Though the memory teased at him, he couldn't hold it. He was already drifting back off into his enveloping comfort. But, he realized as he slipped back into those depths, he did want something more. "Stay, please," he murmured sleepily, reaching blindly for the other.
           "If you like," Lucard said, letting Klaus wind an arm around his neck and bury his face in his shoulder. Ah, yes, this was what he had been waiting for.

           "Klaus?" There was a hand on his shoulder—Alexander's hand—and he drowsily reached back and grasped it. Where was he? he wondered distantly. And why did he feel so very desolate? "Klaus, wake up."
           The voice, and the mind behind it, pushed him further towards wakefulness. Then he realized where he was, and why he felt the way he did, and sat up abruptly. Alexander had not been back when he had returned, so he had started working at the dining room table on the files he was supposed to look at. He had thought at first that he would be too excited to sit still and concentrate, but he found that when the first thrill of carrying out his plan had passed, he was left immensely tired. Still, it wasn't like him to fall asleep without meaning to.
           Lucard said from behind him, voice sparkling with amusement, "I admire your diligence, Klaus, but, sadly, it is not possible to absorb information through your skin."
           "Yes, I know. I...I fell asleep." Klaus rubbed his eyes and turned to look at his master. At the sight, his heart contracted painfully, and the thought passed through the ensuing silence, No one would ever think he was pale who had not seen him like this, radiant with the kill... Lucard's eyes were brilliant, and his cheeks burned with a high color that the humans he'd passed on the street had probably mistaken for fever. "If you had come back," he said quietly, "I would have gone with you."
           "I decided at the last minute—a little indulgence after having to manage that oaf Frederickson." Lucard moved into the kitchen. Klaus got up and went after him.
           "Did you succeed?"
           "Indeed. He finds that he was mistaken in his understanding of our contract, and apologizes profusely," Lucard said, opening the decanter of port with a flourish. "In fact, he was so mortified by his error that he could not be clear in his conscience until he offered me further concessions." Alexander was usually in an expansive good humor after feeding, Klaus knew, and this occasion was apparently no exception. He poured out two glasses and handed one to Klaus, then headed into the living room and sat down on the couch. Klaus followed him and stood uncertainly near the fire, which had burned low. "Come, sit down, Klaus," he said, stretching out his legs, taking a sip from the glass, then leaning his head back on his arm.
           Klaus complied, a little uneasily, choosing the far end of the couch for his seat. He was so used to thinking that Lucard knew everything that he found it hard to dispel the idea that his master knew about the phone call and might leap on him at any moment. He wasn't sure what it would be natural for him to do, especially after the conversation they'd had earlier. "Alexander—"
           "You saw Miss Brooke home safely?" he interrupted.
           "Yes."
           "Good. Lately she's been very curious about you, you know. What did you talk about on the way?"
           "The Met."
           "Of course."
           "...And you."
           "Nothing bad, I trust!"
           "She asked me what you were like when you were a child. I didn't know what to tell her."
           "She did?" He laughed. "She's a devious woman."
           "She seems nice," Klaus said carefully.
           "Nice?" Lucard laughed again. "Klaus, I must protest. What an utterly inadequate way to describe her. If I had met her when I was your age, I would have written her a sonnet daily. I know"—and suddenly he was looking at Klaus, his eyes gleaming wickedly—"I know I have taught you how to admire better than that."
           "Well," Klaus said softly, "perhaps I had a finer object of admiration."
           "Indeed!" Lucard raised his eyebrows, looking very amused, and took another sip of port.
           "Alexander..." Klaus ran his finger along the lip of his glass. "I'm sorry about what happened earlier."
           "Ah, yes. And well you should be. But, you know, that was actually rather flattering, if excessive. It's charming of you, my poor dear Klaus, to be so jealous. It's been so long since anyone thought he had the right to be."
           Klaus got up and moved around the room restlessly, finally stopping behind Lucard. "I wish you took me more seriously, Alexander," he said wistfully, staring at the delicate neck, the slender shoulders.
           Lucard dropped his head back on the couch again, and looked up at him, suddenly heavy-eyed. "Should I?"
           Klaus's head began to pound. He reached down to take Lucard's glass from his hand; without breaking the gaze, the older vampire let his fingers slip down to the stem of the glass, so that Klaus could lift it a few inches but not take it away. They held the glass between them for a long moment. "I think..." Klaus began, then stopped. He didn't dare—
           "Yes...?" Lucard's voice had dropped, grown huskier.
           He abruptly let go of the glass, nearly spilling the port on Alexander, and turned away, leaning on a nearby table. "I think someday you might."
           There was a brief silence, and then Lucard laughed again. "Perhaps."
           "I...I should be getting some sleep."
           There was an amused, weary snort. "Just as you please, Klaus."
           Though he wrapped himself up tightly in his comforter, Klaus did not find it easy to rest that night.

           Normally, Klaus did not enjoy the racquetball matches he occasionally had on Saturday afternoons with his master. Even in daylight, with their vampire powers diminished, Lucard was stronger, nimbler, and faster than he was, and he played with a cool, cheerful ruthlessness that left his opponent dizzy, helplessly chasing balls that were already long gone. The games would go on for endless, spiraling hours, too, until Klaus was on the verge of begging Lucard to stop. Then he would have to sit through a searching and pointed criticism of his technique on the way home. Although he had found some consolation in thinking that at least they cut a dashing figure in white on the court—they often attracted an audience—racquetball was one thing he did not miss once Alexander had met Miss Brooke and started spending so little time with him. He was appalled that, that day of all days, the older vampire had decided he wanted to play "a little." "Did you sleep well?" he'd inquired archly that morning, coming into Klaus's bedroom and throwing open the curtains. As Klaus had blinked at him from the bed—his golden hair was dazzling in the flood of sunlight—Lucard yanked away the covers and tossed him his racquet, filling him with dismay. Sluggish from lack of sleep and the bright sun, he had protested as much as he'd dared, but Lucard had pretended not to hear and dragged him down to their gym in the sporty BMW he used whenever he drove himself around town.
           Consumed with anxiety over his scheme, Klaus would rather have done anything than spend the day with Alexander, who had an uncanny gift for divining his thoughts that might well mean disaster for his plans. But once he had shaken off his instinctive morning drowsiness, he was glad of the opportunity. He gave himself up completely to the game, emptying himself of thought, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing in his mind except the ball caroming off the walls. He poured all the nervous energy of his body, the energy that was always betraying him in other situations, into the chase and the blow. There was simply no time, no need, to use his mind. Darting about the court, striking the ball with all the force he could muster, he did not have to think about his father's uncooperative voice—thwack!—or Miss Brooke bending over her cup of coffee in that turn-of-the-century brownstone—thwack!—or Alexander, his face touched with firelight and shadow, regarding him with sleepy eyes from the back of the couch—thwack!
           The ball bounced off the wall and flew past Alexander, who, to his surprise, straightened up and went for a towel. He realized with astonishment that he had won—that game, at least. Then he looked at the clock, and stopped short. Was it five o'clock already?
           "Well done, Klaus," Lucard commented, tossing him a towel, "but what in the world are you sublimating today?"
           On the ride back home, he sank gratefully into his exhaustion, seeing by the setting sun that it would not last long. For once, Lucard seemed inclined not to criticize his play. Back at the apartment, they dressed for dinner and ate a quiet meal, and feeling his strength—and his nervousness—revive with the onset of night, Klaus concentrated on the ritual of the table, trying to move gracefully, to be attentively courteous to his companion, to taste everything fully. As he stared down at the elegantly curlicued pattern edging the knife and fork with which he was cutting up his squab, he began to understand why Lucard never abandoned such formalities, even in the face of disaster.
           "Are you going out tonight?" he asked, laying down his knife to spoon up salt from the cellar.
           "I don't know. Miss Brooke was going to leave a message, but she hasn't. I presume she'll call soon. Why?"
           "I was just wondering." How in the world was he going to get through the entire evening, wondering? It was worse than it had been when he was a little boy on the day before Christmas, anxiously asking himself if Saint Nicholas was going to leave candy or coal in his shoes. He desperately hoped she would call. Didn't she always?
           But the phone obstinately refused to ring. They took their coffee in the living room, and though Lucard looked at his watch several times as they drank it, there was no word from Miss Brooke. It had begun to rain, and soon they heard thunder and saw flashes of lightning. The wind drove torrents of water against the high living-room windows and keened around the building.
           "I would not care to go out in this, not with Miss Brooke, at least," Lucard said after a while, "but it is not like her not to call."
           Klaus drank his coffee—much better than Miss Brooke's—and said nothing.
           After another ten minutes, Lucard went into his own room. Klaus could just catch the conversation: "Out? When, please? Did she leave a message for me? Well, did she say where she was going? —No, thank you, Madeline." He came back into the room with a faintly worried expression on his face, but picked up the latest Sotheby's catalogue and determinedly began to look it over.
           When the knock on the door finally came, Lucard looked up with definite relief. "Ah, that must be her," he said. "Try to be civil, Klaus, now that she's taken an interest in you."
           So Klaus got to his feet as Lucard opened the door and Miss Brooke came in. One glance at her, however, told him that he wasn't likely to have to try to be polite. Although her manner was still very quiet, perhaps even more quiet than before, she was flushed, and there was a deep distress in her eyes.
           "Do sit down, my dear," Lucard invited, turning to shut the door. "When you didn't call, and your maid told me you were out, I feared you'd come to some sort of grief—"
           "Is it true?" she interrupted.
           "Is what true, Margo?" Klaus could see, though he doubted Miss Brooke could, the almost imperceptible signs which meant Lucard had suddenly become alert underneath his welcoming demeanor.
           She clasped her hands before her, looked down, and said steadily, "I didn't call you this afternoon because a man came to see me. An old man, and very kind. His name was Gustav Helsing. He wanted to talk to me about you—"
           "Klaus," Lucard said without turning around, "perhaps you would like to go to see that movie now."
           "No," she said, looking up abruptly, "I think he should stay. Mr. Helsing wanted to talk to me about him, too. He showed me pictures. He showed me..." She reached into the pocket of her overcoat and retrieved a piece of paper. "He showed me this." She held it out to Lucard, carefully.
           Klaus did not need to get closer to see what it was. He had a copy of it himself, tucked into his desk drawer. It was his obituary: just his name, a brief article, and a picture. That, however, was enough. Lucard glanced down, clearly recognizing it and its implications. But he waited for Margo to put it away and finish.
           "He...he tried to persuade me that I must never see you again. But I couldn't do that, not without knowing for certain. I had to come here. To ask you myself, face to face. Is it true? Are you a vampire?"
           Lucard looked at her steadily. "Yes."
           "Oh." A great sadness came over her face, though she did not lose her composure, and she nodded almost involuntarily. "Then it's true. You never cared for me. You only wanted to, to—"
           "No," he said firmly, moving towards her. "That is not true, Margo."
           She backed up. "Stay away."
           "But Margo," he said more gently, pausing for a moment, then continuing his advance more slowly, "my darling Margo, I would never let anything hurt you. I love you, and so there is nothing that has the power to harm you now."
           "Don't say that." Her voice was becoming shaky. She had backed against the wall, and put out a hand to steady herself.
           "But why not? It's true. And you know it to be true. I've never lied to you about the most important things. I love you, as I have not loved anyone in so many long years..." Margo's eyes went shut. Lucard reached down and took her hand tenderly. "I want you to stay with me always. I want you to marry me."
           Klaus made a small noise, deep in his throat. He had forgotten to breathe altogether. He knew that his master expected him to leave, but he could not move. Dimly, he tried to remember how he wanted this to end.
           "Margo," Lucard said, lifting her hand to kiss it, "my darling Margo, won't you at least let me explain?"
           "Oh, Alexander," she whispered. "I don't—"
           "Let her go, Lucard!" came an all-too-familiar voice as the door crashed open and Gustav Helsing strode into the apartment, bearing a large cross. Lucard recoiled several feet, hissing involuntarily, his eyes going yellow, fangs extending. Margo's eyes flew open and she took in the sight. As she stared at the inhuman creature who only a minute earlier had been about to kiss her, she went pale, pressing her handkerchief to her mouth.
           "You wanted to know what he is really like, Miss Brooke," Gustav said coldly. "Well, here it is. He is a monster."
           Too late, Lucard realized what was going on and turned to her. "Margo—no!"
           But she had already fled.
           Lucard moved convulsively to follow her, but Helsing blocked his path with the cross. "She's free of you now," he said determinedly. "You're not going to possess her, 'Monsieur Lucard.'"
           "Helsing..." Lucard snarled, his face contorted with rage.
           "I'll say the goodbyes for both of us, then." Gustav backed towards the door, watching Lucard tense for a spring, and at the last moment produced a bottle of holy water from his jacket, sloshing the vampire with it liberally. As Lucard gasped and struggled to brush off the liquid, clouds of smoke rising from his arms and chest, the old man made his escape. Just before he left, though, he glanced back, looking for the first—and only—time at Klaus. There was no triumph in his face.
           "Helsing!" The instant he could move again, Lucard rushed to the window and, with a powerful sweep of his arm, shattered it, then swung himself up into the frame, heedless of the fragments of glass, about to launch himself into the rainy night. The noise startled Klaus out of his daze, and he dashed across the room, throwing his arms around Lucard to restrain him.
           "Alexander, don't! People will see!" he said frantically. Although he had both height and weight on his master, he knew he had no hope of holding him for more than a moment. Lucard simply growled and knocked him away. He flew across the room as if he weighed no more than a child and hit his head hard on the marble inlaid around the fireplace. He saw stars, but, more importantly, as he held desperately onto consciousness, he did not hear the whoosh of a vampire departure.
           Instead, he heard a terrible cry in a language he did not recognize—a strange, harsh language...and just before he passed out, a whisper. "Margo..."

           When Klaus awoke, he was sprawled unceremoniously on Lucard's bed. Alexander himself was slumped in a nearby armchair, collar loosened, hair damp and disheveled, staring at the fire. Klaus sat up, winced, and looked at the clock. Three hours had passed. He must have hit his head hard indeed—hard enough to have killed a human. He ached all over. But that didn't matter now.
           "Alexander?" he said tentatively. There was no response. He got up and touched Lucard's shoulder. "Alexander?"
           The older vampire gave no sign of having heard him. Klaus looked at him helplessly for a moment, then moved around the chair and knelt down in front of him, taking one of Lucard's hands into his. It felt strange. He looked down, saw why, and bit his lip. He'd so often admired and envied Alexander's smooth, beautiful hands, with their long, slender fingers. Although the gashes had stopped bleeding, he could see it would be quite some time before he felt that way again. The glass. Of course. He bent his head over the hand and stroked it as gently as he could. "Alexander?"
           Lucard shook himself a little and turned his eyes to him unseeingly. "You're awake."
           "Yes, I am. What do you need me to do?"
           "Nothing." Lucard breathed in as though it hurt him. "There's nothing to be done." He closed his eyes, speaking dully. "The manager has already come to see about the window. He has been satisfied. The maintenance crew has visited and cleaned up the glass. The glazier has been called and will be here tomorrow."
           "Are you all right? Should I call Varney?"
           "No." He opened his eyes again. "Go to bed, Klaus."
           "Are you going, too?"
           "No. I think I'll...just sit here for a while and think." He pulled his hand away. "Go on."
           Klaus reluctantly got to his feet. "You know my flight leaves at one tomorrow."
           "Oh, yes." Wearily, he shaded his eyes. "You're not going."
           "I'm not?"
           "No, I believe...I believe we'll be going to Europe very soon now."
           "To start up Lucard Industries?"
           "Yes. But not right away." He looked up at Klaus. "First we're going to Vienna for a little while. You'd like to go back to Vienna, wouldn't you?"
           Vienna. A rush of memories arose in his mind, like a flock of startled birds exploding into flight at the approach of a stranger, soaring for a moment, then gone. A great Baroque house, blue and white and gold, almost three centuries old, in the Innere Stadt, and Alexander leaning out of one of its fantastically ornamented windows, head tilted, listening to strains of music from the street. The scent of roses blown to him as he fed in the Belvedere garden palace, Alexander waiting composedly by the fountain in the moonlight. The sweet melancholy of the great Central Cemetery, and Alexander murmuring to him, so softly that, even though they were surrounded by a crowd, he alone could hear, "You will never again lie in a place like this. Death has no more power over you." Alexander's beloved city, and the city of his own earliest days as a vampire, when he had thought his new life could bring him nothing but happiness. Klaus's heart ached suddenly. "Yes, of course."
           "Only for a little while." Lucard was already staring at the fire again, paying no further attention to Klaus. The younger vampire stood there for a moment longer, looking at the other's slumped shoulders, his blank grey eyes, the deathlike pallor in his face. Then he fled into his own room.
           Well, this is your triumph. "Shut up!" he whispered, and threw himself onto the bed, still dressed, hoping for an instant return to oblivion.
           But, doubtless due to the head injury, he slept little and fitfully, and when he opened his eyes again with a feeling of finality, he saw that the clock read only four-thirty. He listened hard for a minute, but could hear no sound from Alexander's room. He sighed, got up, and crept back across the apartment.
           The fire in Lucard's room had burned down to almost nothing. Lucard was still in the chair, but his head had dropped onto his shoulder and his eyes were closed. He was apparently asleep. Klaus stared down at him as he waited to see if he'd stir, taking in the delicate lines of the face. They were beautiful as ever, but now subtly awry, no longer held in perfect balance by a powerful will. He had always thought of Alexander as delicate, but never as fragile. Never had he believed he could be hurt.
           "Alexander...?"
           There was no response. Klaus stooped down and gathered up the other vampire into his arms, watching in disbelief as his head fell back over his arm. His master was like a broken doll smashed by some thoughtless child. He carried him to the bed, putting him down carefully and brushing a few shards of glass away from his clothes. Lying there, Alexander did, truly, look dead, Klaus thought, and something caught in his throat. He pulled the comforter over him, and, after a moment's hesitation, lay down on the bed next to him. As he put an arm over the chest which rose and fell in a faint, unalterable rhythm, he thought, From now on, I'll be perfect. I promise...

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