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London, 1874

Chapter One

Skilled, delicate hands soaked in a large, porcelain bowl of water. The water slowly took on a deep ruby hue as blood rinsed clean, scrubbed away by soap and a stiff-bristled brush. Meticulous attention was paid to the fingernails. The ritual concluded with a liberal dousing of carbolic acid.

Dr. Willow Rosenberg dried her hands on a clean, linen towel and crossed to the table where she'd left her notes. She dipped her fountain pen in the ink well and recorded the conclusions of her autopsy.

Patient died, age 37, pulmonary lesions consistent with tuberculosis. Criminal inquest not required.

She glanced once more at the dissecting table, draped in a heavy canvas sheet, and reflected on the sad fate of the anonymous man upon whose body she'd performed an autopsy. He'd been found down near the docks, yet none of the sailors or dockworkers could identify him. Most likely a vagabond, his corpse had been conveyed to the hospital by the police with instructions to determine whether death had resulted from a criminal act. He'd died unknown. His passing would be marked not by a funeral attended by family and friends, but only in a few cursory remarks in the police records -- or, even worse, the mystery of his death would be distorted beyond all recognition in one of those lurid, Newgate Calendars.

Fetching her cloak, she wrapped it around her shoulders and made her way out through the wards and to the street. As on so many other days, she had worked from dawn until dusk. She'd missed the sun's rays yet again.

Willow sometimes wondered if she would end up looking as pale as her cadavers.

Her cadavers. She sighed in weary bemusement. Originally, it hadn't been by choice that she'd developed a career around autopsies. But establishing a practice hadn't been easy. The days weren't long past that male medical students had resorted to flinging mud at the women who dared trespass in the hallowed Royal Infirmary, in the hopes of barring women from the arena of learned medicine. Willow herself had faced an uphill battle to earn her medical degree, had encountered further headaches when she'd applied to be listed on the Medical Register, and had finally lost heart when confronted with patient prejudices.

Few clients were willing to retain the services of a female physician.

Oh, she saw the occasional respectable woman who was fearful of having contracted a "shameful" disease and couldn't bring herself to consult her regular family physician. But in the end, it always came down to the same thing.

In the discriminating eyes of society, her sex disqualified her.

So she found work where she could: attending to the medical needs of the poor, who were grateful that she charged far less than most physicians, and performing autopsies at the hospital whenever her skills were needed.

Which was to say, whenever the male residents and interns were too busy to handle it.

Gazing wistfully at the fading, pale indigo of daylight's end, Willow quickened her pace toward home. If she were lucky, she might make it to the butcher shop before it closed. Otherwise, it would be bread and cheese for supper again.

It was at times like this that she wished she could dine at the pub as the men did, without worrying that she would be mistaken for a prostitute.

*****

Skilled, lethal hands soaked in a large, porcelain bowl of water. The water slowly took on a deep ruby hue as blood rinsed clean, however traces remained on pale skin as the hands were withdrawn.

William Royce shook droplets from his hands, then raised his right hand to his mouth and licked a stray smear of blood from his knuckles. As he savored the taste, an appreciative smile flickered briefly on his face, only to be replaced by a concerned frown.

He glanced down at the unconscious man on the bed, whose blood continued to soak through the rags that had been wrapped around his leg.

"It's no use," William observed. He turned to one of his minions, elegantly attired as a gentleman's valet, and instructed, "Bring me a human surgeon, Charles. It appears Mr. Bancroft was more delicate than I'd anticipated."

Charles bowed and moved to carry out his master's orders but halted when William spoke again. "Be discreet. I need someone who won't speak of this to his colleagues. The fewer connections, the better. Someone...vulnerable...to persuasion, should it be necessary."

"Yes, Sire," Charles acknowledged.

William removed the stopper from the crystal decanter of blood wine on a nearby table and poured himself a glass. Sipping it, he sank down onto a richly upholstered armchair from which he could monitor the injured human. Ordinarily, he wouldn't play nursemaid himself. Menial tasks were for minions. Besides, if it were any ordinary human, he would simply have killed the wretch.

However, this human was useful -- too useful to discard, although if he ever disobeyed again, William would kill him, no matter how skillfully he managed the legal affairs.

A sly grin tugged at William's lips. He doubted that Mr. Bancroft would need any further reminders of his place or his obligations. If the man survived, he should have vivid, painful reminders of the reason that one did not trifle with a vampire.

*****

Willow followed the severe, dark-haired servant up a grand staircase, wondering briefly what the interior of this mansion looked like in the daylight. She guessed it must be magnificent, although it really was difficult to tell since she could see little in the shadows beyond the oil lamp that the taciturn valet who preceded her had lit. Unconsciously, she clutched her black, leather satchel a little more tightly.

The odd thought occurred to her that this gloomy atmosphere seemed to suit him.

They continued down a hallway in silence, their footsteps muffled by a plush, burgundy carpet that spanned the length of the floor, until they reached a set of massive oak doors.

A deferential rap at the door met with a muted answer from within. "Enter."

The servant stepped inside and announced, "The surgeon, sir."

Right on his heels, Willow entered what looked like a spacious bedroom, but the details of the room and its furnishings were lost on her as she came face-to-face with a gentleman of almost unearthly beauty.

Her breath hitched as she gazed into stunningly blue eyes, framed by lashes that many women would envy.

However, the man's handsome features held her bewitched for only a moment. She was here to attend to a patient. Willow opened her mouth to introduce herself and inquire about the injured man, when suddenly the blue-eyed gentleman pivoted toward his servant and snapped tersely, "I sent you to fetch a surgeon, not a nurse."

And with that, the enchantment was indeed broken.

Willow set her jaw and squared her shoulders, preparing to defend herself against the same prejudices she always faced. For all his beauty, this man was just like everyone else.

"If you will permit me to introduce myself," Willow began, relying on polite formalities to help keep her temper in check. "I am Dr. Rosenberg. I assure you, sir, that I am a qualified surgeon. If you wish, you may confirm this by consulting the Medical Register tomorrow. However, I believe you have a patient who requires attention now."

Blue eyes narrowed as the fair-haired gentleman scrutinized her. He arched an eyebrow. "A woman surgeon?"

"A qualified surgeon," Willow answered evenly. "If, however, my services are not desired, I will not trouble you with my presence any further."

She tried not to feel her heart sinking. It was more than a question of losing a fee -- and quite a handsome fee, no doubt, if the gentleman's rich furnishings were indicative of his fortune. Even worse would be the humiliation of being sent away without so much as a chance to demonstrate her skill. To think that she'd interrupted her supper for this.

Willow saw something flare in those blue eyes. Surprise, perhaps, at her outspoken remark. Maybe irritation. Fortunately, approval swiftly followed. She was aware of being reappraised, and while she was glad that the gentleman seemed to be more favorably disposed toward her as a surgeon, she was uncomfortable with the hint of masculine interest also present in his gaze.

"Your patient is on the bed," the gentleman said at last, his demeanor suddenly civil. He gestured toward a huge, four-poster bed and explained as he led her toward it. "It was a terrible accident. He was run down in the street by a hansom cab."

"And the police removed him here rather than to a clinic?" Willow asked. She examined the unconscious man stretched out on the bed. There were numerous contusions on his face and upper body that would be consistent with having been trampled by horses. Her gaze traveled down to his leg, which was wrapped in bloodied rags. Silently, she thought, why hadn't it been the police to summon her? And why her, when she knew of at least four other surgeons who resided closer to this neighborhood than she?

"At my request," the gentleman explained. "Mr. Bancroft is my solicitor. I take care of my own."

Willow nodded and set down her satchel. She loosened the rags around Mr. Bancroft's leg and examined it as closely as she could manage, given the fact that the flow of blood hadn't been stopped completely. There was a hideous wound at mid-thigh. Willow's eyes narrowed in realization.

"This was produced by a compound fracture," she murmured, frowning. "What manner of surgeon would set the bone without stitching the wound?"

"Mr. Bancroft's services are valuable to me because above all else, he appreciates the importance of discretion where my private affairs are concerned," the gentleman answered, the terse edge having returned to his voice. His stern manner startled Willow and she raised her eyes to his. Although she couldn't place it exactly, something in his expression frightened her. Icy blue depths seemed to promise violence worse than any Willow had seen through her experience in the morgue. "Can you help him or no?"

Mutely, Willow nodded and decided that her wisest course of action would be to treat the patient and leave as quickly as possible.

She opened her satchel and went to work.

*****

William leaned against the bedpost, enjoying the rapid thrum of Dr. Rosenberg's pulse as he watched her clean Mr. Bancroft's wound and proceed to stitch it closed. He'd had no patience for her questions, and certainly wasn't about to disclose that he'd been the one to snap the bone back in place. Any experienced vampire could map the layout of veins and arteries just beneath the skin and possessed the strength to realign a broken limb. But as alluring as her curiosity made her, William didn't want the young lady asking too many questions.

Alluring. Yes, she certainly was that, wasn't she?

Although he didn't care for the scent of disinfectant that lingered on her.

Still, now that he had a chance to observe her, he found her quite fetching. Red hair framed her face, radiant and warm like a candle's flame. And those eyes. They'd flashed with spirit before he'd put some fear into her. She'd gone quiet now, but when she'd first spoken, her voice and her bearing had alluded to a strength and a willfulness that he found...entertaining. Quite different from the society ladies he encountered at London's soirees and balls, and who had begun to bore him enough that it was becoming harder and harder to feign interest in their prattle before whisking them away and draining them.

When the pretty surgeon finished tending to Mr. Bancroft and asked for a basin in which to wash the blood from her hands, William had to fight the temptation to lick her fingers clean. Instead, he instructed Charles to fetch her some water.

She made a lovely picture as she stood beside the bed, blood glistening on her hands, her eyes darting to the ceiling, the windows, the floor -- everywhere but at him. Outwardly, she gave the appearance of clinical detachment, but William had sensed the increase in her heart rate the minute Charles had left them alone together in the room.

He couldn't resist. He wanted to see that deceptively serene face rosy and flushed. He moved behind her with a predator's silent stealth.

"Quite admirable work," he commented softly in her ear.

As expected, she jumped and let out an audible gasp, not having perceived his movement. Her heart thundered in her chest, calling out to his demon to give chase, and her cheeks were indeed flushed.

"I owe you an apology for having doubted you. Forgive me. I was sorely lacking in courtesy when you arrived. Come to think of it, I didn't even introduce myself," William continued smoothly as Dr. Rosenberg turned to face him. "Please permit me. I am William Royce, and I am in your debt."

Dr. Rosenberg remained deliciously unsettled for a moment, glancing awkwardly at her blood-reddened hands, then regained her composure and offered him a gracious smile.

"The circumstances of our meeting were quite trying, as is always the case where suffering is involved. I assure you, Mr. Royce, no apologies are necessary. And there is no question of debt whatsoever, sir, aside from the customary fees for such an operation."

Charles returned with soap and water. Dr. Rosenberg moved to the table where he set the basin and pitcher and began washing her hands. William followed her, dismissing his minion with a single glance.

"A fee would hardly seem adequate compensation, given the inconvenient hour. I imagine that my summons interrupted your supper," William insisted, deliberately drawing closer to her than was proper for client and surgeon. He relished the feeling of power when she tensed.

"Delayed meals are an occupational hazard, Mr. Royce," Dr. Rosenberg countered a little too lightly. Her eyes focused on her hands, which she rubbed dry with a towel. "The choice of profession was mine."

As she discarded the towel, William caught her free hand and raised it to his lips. He held her gaze, savoring the rapt confusion and fleeting desire he glimpsed in her eyes as he placed a lingering kiss on the back of her hand. Her pulse beat against his fingertips where they brushed against her bare wrist.

A heartbeat later, her eyes narrowed in indignation. It was all William could do not to burst out laughing at her obvious frustration at his gesture, which might be a proper greeting for a *lady* but wasn't really proper between physician and client.

Oh, she was a rare treat.

Without allowing her the chance to protest, William said, "Now that we have had a proper introduction, there is the matter to consider of Mr. Bancroft's future care. You will be able to return and administer any treatment he needs until he is fully recovered?"

It was less a question than a command, but one that was within the norm of medical practice.

Dr. Rosenberg, however, took a moment to answer. She fixed him with a stubborn, critical eye and pressed her lips together tightly. To William's delight, it looked like she was just barely restraining the urge to hit him.

Finally, she demurred, "Naturally, Mr. Royce. I shall return tomorrow to examine Mr. Bancroft and make sure that no infection has set in. Now, if you have no further need of my services..."

William bowed his head and said, "I'll have Charles summon my carriage for you."

"Thank you, sir."

After Dr. Rosenberg had gathered up her satchel and donned her cloak, William observed admiringly as she followed Charles down the stairs. Concealed in shadow, William smiled when he caught her furtive glance to the top of the stairwell.

Tomorrow was already looking interesting.

But for the moment, he still needed to feed.

He called for one of his other minions to bring his cloak. As he draped it over his shoulders, he said, "Don't let anyone eat Bancroft while I'm out," then strode out of the mansion in search of his evening meal.

Chapter Two

Willow set the bread and cheese she'd fetched from her pantry on the table, then put some water to boil for tea on her small, coal stove. While she waited for the water to heat, she sliced an apple and thought about the evening's strange events.

Something wasn't quite right.

A wealthy gentleman residing at Regent Street could have had any of London's most prominent surgeons at his disposal, yet he'd sent his servant to find her, all the way over near London Bridge. No, that wasn't exactly right either. Mr. Royce had obviously been surprised when she'd arrived. He hadn't requested her, specifically. For some reason, he'd left the choice of surgeon up to his valet when he could easily have had his choice of the most renowned men in the profession.

And then there was the patient.

It was certainly plausible that his injuries had resulted from an accident such as Mr. Royce had described. Yet something seemed off. That Mr. Bancroft's bone had been set without the wound being properly tended suggested amateur, albeit skilled, intervention. If so, why had Mr. Royce discouraged her questions? It left Willow with the disconcerting impression that something was being concealed.

Which brought Willow to Mr. Royce himself.

Willow hated to admit it, but he had a certain magnetism about him. It was more than the fact that he was handsome. Although he was. Very handsome, indeed. But there was his comportment. He seemed to be a man of strong moods. Despite his ill-mannered greeting, he had accepted her services and made none of the pompous, blustering comments she usually had to deal with when she embarrassed men of his station by proving herself more competent than they had assumed. Apparently, it was enough that she had gotten the job done.

She liked that. It was a refreshing change from what she was used to.

Moreover, when it had finally pleased him to be civil toward her, he'd actually been quite charming, and completely lacking in the usual condescension she encountered. Although perhaps a bit...predatory...

In spite of the warm flush that flooded her, Willow shivered. How did he move so quickly? He'd slipped up behind her like a ghost. And the way he watched her...

Willow felt the heat spread from her cheeks all along her scalp and down her neck. She couldn't believe that she was blushing, alone in her flat, simply from thinking about him, about his expressive eyes as they'd studied her. True, she'd been admired by men before, but there was something different about the way he'd regarded her. It was almost as if...as if...his very presence lingered on her.

Lost in thought about the enigmatic Mr. Royce, Willow's hand slipped and she cut herself with the knife she'd been using to slice her apple. She hissed sharply at the pain but saw that the cut wasn't deep. Rising from the table, she retrieved her satchel and began tending to the slight wound.

As she cleaned away the drops of blood that welled up on her thumb, she silently chided herself. She'd done quite enough fretting for one evening. This was simply another sign that she'd been spending too much time on autopsies lately. Here she was, dissecting a client's character as readily as she would a corpse. Perhaps it was a good thing that Guy's had no need of her tomorrow. A reprieve from the morgue would do her well.

She was perhaps becoming a little too comfortable among the dead.

*****

William reclined on the richly upholstered settee in his spacious drawing room, comfortably full from the pickpocket he'd drained an hour ago. Firelight illumined the dark, walnut paneling of the walls and reflected in his glass of scotch. He may have earned a formidable reputation as William the Bloody, but that didn't mean he hadn't acquired a taste for some of the finer comforts.

It was for the sake of those comforts that he'd invested so much time and energy in grooming Bancroft as his human agent in the world. Rotten luck that Bancroft had bungled that last transaction, but he'd either learn to follow orders or he'd die.

Pity. It would be a nuisance to have to train another solicitor all over again. For a human, Bancroft at least had half a brain.

And speaking of potentially useful, intelligent humans...

He rose from the settee, crossed to the doorway and shouted for Charles. An instant later, his minion appeared. William settled himself back down and while Charles stood before him, waiting expectantly.

"Tell me what you know about Dr. Rosenberg," William commanded.

"She lives on Cannon Street, not far from London Bridge. Her circumstances are less comfortable than usual for a physician. No sign of any servants: she answered the door herself when I called," Charles answered smoothly. The dark-haired minion had been turned nearly a decade ago, and in that time he'd learned to observe details. He'd achieved a solid position for himself in William the Bloody's lair and had learned very early on that his sire and Master maintained his powerful status by knowing as much as possible about everything that went on in London.

William's lips pursed thoughtfully. "So, financially vulnerable. Most likely can't get enough clients who can afford to pay her."

Charles nodded. "I'd heard of her from some of the other minions who hunt down on the docks. She's known among the sailors: treats the poor, works at Guy's Hospital."

"And lives alone," William deduced. His eyes narrowed as a slow, calculating smile stretched across his face. "No servants, so chances are no husband...or family, for that matter. Or, if she has family, they're not in London." He caught his minion's knowing smirk and snapped, "What? Speak up before I stake you."

"Well, she is rather more beautiful than most physicians, isn't she?" Charles observed.

"Noticed that, did you?" William chuckled and took another sip of scotch.

"Master, you've always held me to be as observant as possible of any details that you might find...of interest," Charles answered, grinning in response to his sire's obvious appreciation for the red-haired surgeon.

"Too bloody right!" William agreed. His brow furrowed slightly after a thoughtful pause and he remarked, "No servants...You didn't catch any supperly smells when you collected her, did you?"

Charles shook his head. "Not from her flat. Elsewhere in the building, yes."

William leaned an elbow on the arm of the settee, rested his chin on his knuckles and stared into the fire, a diversion forming in his mind. He smiled as he warmed to the idea. He certainly wasn't opposed to mixing business with pleasure. Looking to Charles, he instructed, "Make arrangements for a human meal here tomorrow night. Nothing too elaborate; a bachelor's supper. Simple, but appetizing."

A conspiratorial gleam danced in Charles' eyes as he inclined his head deferentially and replied, "Yes, sire."

With that, William dismissed him and returned to his scotch. This tiresome business with Bancroft might prove entertaining after all.

*****

Willow bustled in through her front door, relieved to have the chance to return home for tea after an unusually busy morning. When she had awakened at dawn, she had been looking forward to an opportunity to read one or two of the letters she had received in the past few days, but which she'd been obliged to set aside because of the hospital's demands on her time. However, no sooner had she cleaned up after breakfast than a girl, no more than eight and in frayed clothing she'd obviously outgrown, had rapped urgently at her door and begged her to come help her mother who was doing very poorly.

Upon arrival at a cramped, attic room, Willow had found the mother in bed, sweating with fever and very clearly in pain. A little boy, no more than an infant, sat crying on the floor. The girl had explained that they'd had nothing to eat in over a day because their mother had been too sick to work. While she'd quieted her brother, Willow had examined the mother.

She'd had to fight to keep her breakfast down.

A foul-smelling, fetid pus slowly drained from abscesses in the woman's jaw, which was horribly deformed. Willow had recognized the poor mother's symptoms and was not surprised when she'd asked the girl about her mother's occupation and had learned that, yes, mama worked at the match factory.

Willow had done what she could to relieve the woman's pain, chiefly by administering a sizeable dose of opium, but it had been with a heavy heart that she'd told the little girl that her mother would need to go to the hospital. She'd hated to place such a burden on such a young child, but there was little she herself could do for the woman, who was most likely suffering from white-phosphorous poisoning, a common hazard among London's matchgirls.

And that little girl had looked at her with such age and sadness and fear in her eyes, knowing that Willow had as much as told her that her mother was going to die.

Now back home, Willow sat quietly for several moments in a chair by the window, fully able to appreciate her modest comforts after the misery she'd seen that morning.

Sighing, she reached out to the lace-covered table beside her chair and picked up one of her unopened letters. A brief examination revealed that it was an invitation. Willow broke the wax seal and withdrew an elegant, embossed card announcing a banquet at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Wimsey.

Willow slumped in her seat and let out an exasperated sigh.

Oh no.

What grave sin had she committed to deserve an invitation to dine in the company of Mrs. Wimsey, whom Willow had known at boarding school as the insufferable Miss Cordelia Chase?

Sighing again, Willow set the invitation aside, already composing her reply ("Regrets, unable to attend") in her mind. She opened the next letter.

It was from her aunt.

As she read, her face fell.

There was her answer about what had possessed Mrs. Wimsey to invite her to a banquet.

"Oooh!" Willow exclaimed in barely restrained fury. "That...meddlesome...harpy!"

Her aunt was renewing her schemes to see that Willow was married off, whether Willow liked it or not.

*****

William observed Dr. Rosenberg as she examined Mr. Bancroft. Although she wasn't negligent -- certainly, she took great care in scrutinizing the stitches for any sign of infection -- it was clear that she was preoccupied. There was a stiffness to her jaw, a slight knit to her brow that a typically unobservant human would likely miss, but which told him much about her mood.

And when she raised her eyes to speak to him...

"I'm pleased to give you good news, Mr. Royce. Mr. Bancroft appears to be on the mend. With rest, he should be healed within several weeks."

...her tone was so subdued.

Granted, William didn't mind seeing a woman enshrouded in the aura of quiet suffering. But he liked it better when he'd been the cause of suffering. Besides, he enjoyed the pretty doctor when she was strong-willed.

"Thank you. That is good news indeed," said William. He frowned in annoyance when Dr. Rosenberg averted her gaze and set about packing her satchel, as if she couldn't leave quickly enough. That wouldn't do, not when he had plans for her. "Surely it is due to your exemplary care. To think that this is the second evening that you have sacrificed your nightly repast for Mr. Bancroft's sake."

A flicker of emotion crossed Dr. Rosenberg's face, hinting at barely suppressed frustration. Then it was gone, artfully masked by a polite but noncommittal smile.

"Please be at ease, Mr. Royce. Foregoing the opportunity to dine is not always a hardship," she assured him. As she turned to don her cloak, William heard her mutter under her breath, "In some cases, it's the commutation of a prison sentence."

William arched an eyebrow in mild amusement. Well, well...apparently, there was something worth coaxing out of her.

And he'd never been one to pass up a challenge.

"You are the spirit of charity to say so," William countered, easing toward her. He deftly whisked the cloak away from her, and at her questioning expression he said, "Would you consent to dine with me this evening?" Her eyes widened and a blush crept across her cheeks, but he forestalled any protest. "Please, I insist. I would be grateful for the opportunity to return some small measure of the benefit that your surgical skills have bestowed on my household."

"Really, I couldn't--" Dr. Rosenberg insisted, but William merely strode to the doorway of the sickroom and called for Charles. His minion appeared promptly and the games began.

"Mr. Royce, while I appreciate the kindness of your offer--" the flustered Dr. Rosenberg made another attempt to decline.

"Charles, what has the cook prepared for supper tonight?" William asked, amiably ignoring his lovely, albeit increasingly vexed, intended dinner companion.

"--it really isn't necessary--"

"Cornish hens, sir, with a currant stuffing and vegetables," Charles announced smoothly, his eyes twinkling as he played along.

"Excellent!" William declared, gracing Dr. Rosenberg with a solicitous smile.

"--nor would it be proper for me--"

"Proper?" William interrupted her. He fixed her with a bemused, challenging stare. "Surely, doctor, you won't allow propriety to dissuade you?"

It was all William could do not to laugh at the perplexed grimace on Dr. Rosenberg's face. Apparently, his subtle gibe had hit the mark. His lovely surgeon was evidently having trouble using propriety as an excuse to decline his invitation when standards of proper female conduct certainly hadn't kept her out of medical school.

"Well...but I'm really not that hungry," came a final, feeble protest.

William's demon growled inwardly in triumph.

"But I insist." He drew near, smiling at how trapped she looked when she consented to place her hand on his proffered arm. "Where a good meal is concerned, it goes against my principles to let someone walk away."

He escorted Dr. Rosenberg out into the hallway. As they followed behind Charles, William noted the almost imperceptible twitch in his cheek and knew that it was taking every ounce of the minion's discipline not to laugh at his Master's dark humor.

Chapter Three

Willow found herself reluctantly seated at a table across from Mr. Royce in his stately dining hall. Their place settings -- gilt-edged china, crystal goblets, and delicate silverware -- had been arrayed at one end of a long table. Thus, despite the fact that the table could easily have seated twenty people for a lavish banquet, the mood was exceedingly intimate.

Right down to the slender candles in silver candlesticks, which cast a soft, golden glow over the table but veiled the surrounding room in shadow.

Inwardly, Willow wondered whether it was an unwritten rule or some cruel twist of fate that twice today she'd found herself coerced into dinner engagements.

She had long realized that maneuvering and being maneuvered through society's rules of etiquette gave her a headache. It was suffocating.

Her moody introspection dissipated as a savory aroma flooded her senses. All thoughts about unwanted supper invitations vanished when Willow inhaled the enticing scent of game hens. She felt her mouth watering as a servant approached the table and proceeded to set an appetizing meal before her. For all her reservations about the propriety of dining with Mr. Royce while she was engaged to treat a patient in his household, Willow had to admit that this supper was in fact very much wanted.

William studied Dr. Rosenberg with interest as she took in her surroundings while trying not to appear too indiscreet in her assessment. He smirked at her curiosity. He found it rather fetching. Her eyes were quick and discerning. They also glinted like emeralds in the candlelight.

Although he had detected a slight increase in her pulse rate when she had been seated across from him, William noted with admiration that she was able to give the outward impression of being completely at ease. It was a level of self-control worthy of a vampire, and piqued his interest in learning what sort of past experiences had led her to develop it.

As the servant withdrew, Willow was conscious of Mr. Royce's gaze lingering on her the way her own gaze devoured the sumptuous food on the table. Not one to shrink away from anything, Willow raised her eyes to his.

It took considerable resolve not to blush and glance away at the intensity of his stare. However, she'd been in far more uncomfortable situations before, and she wasn't going to let the scrutiny of a man, no matter how handsome and charming he was, jeopardize a very valuable professional opportunity. After all, if she brought her patient to a satisfactory recovery, Mr. Royce might recommend her favorably to his acquaintances.

Nonetheless, she couldn't help admiring the symmetry of his features, marred only by a mysterious scar on one eyebrow. Willow wondered if he had acquired it in a duel, but tried not to let her curiosity get the better of her. After all, it would be impolite to ask.

When he smiled at her, the effect was breathtaking. The play of candlelight and shadow across his face left his cheekbones even more pronounced, his lips more sculpted than when she'd first seen him. He looked truly ethereal.

"The menu is to your satisfaction, I hope?" he asked.

"It looks wonderful. I trust it shall taste so as well," Willow concurred graciously.

She offered him a polite smile, although inwardly her stomach was clenching in mild dread. Social occasions had always been awkward for her, at least outside the company of her own family. Her fascination with the more morbid conditions of human existence had given her a tendency to make odd remarks which were often received with curious stares and awkward silences in fashionable circles. And with men...well, when she'd been younger, it was all she could do to manage a few vowel sounds, let alone anything coherent! Eventually, Willow had learned how to practice the conventional art of conversation, but this resulted in her being bored to tears at most social gatherings.

And so she avoided them like the plague.

However, she was now a guest at dinner and she resolved to make the best of it.

To Willow's surprise, it was easier than she expected. In spite of herself, she warmed to Mr. Royce's sly wit and forthright opinions. He expressed genuine interest in her career choice and she soon eased into an amiable conversation with him.

"So it was your father who first taught you the art of dissection?"

"Yes, although my mother nearly had a fit when she found us in the kitchen, bent over a hedgehog with scalpels at the ready," Willow recalled fondly. "She was very upset indeed. It took quite some time for my father to persuade her that a daughter could amuse herself with something other than dolls."

William pursed his lips in bemusement at the mischievous twinkle in Dr. Rosenberg's enchanting eyes as she described her early experiments with cutting things up. Now that was a childhood worth hearing about -- a far sight better than the tedious details that most humans droned on about when they were trying to impress each other at dinner parties.

A perfectly guileless, endearing wrinkle formed on her brow and she commented, "Forgive me, Mr. Royce. It occurs to me that dissection is a rather unseemly topic of conversation at the dinner table."

For a moment, as she fidgeted and grimaced self-consciously, William could almost imagine what she'd looked like as a shy, inquisitive little girl.

"On the contrary, I find it fascinating. You might say I have an affinity for the subject," William countered with a devilish smile, chuckling inwardly at how surprised she would be if she knew how much experience he had with cutting people open. "But please, call me William."

To his delight, his suggestion of a more familiar form of address caused a lovely blush to redden Dr. Rosenberg's cheeks.

Clearing her throat softly, she said, "Your admission doesn't surprise me, Mr. Royce. I must confess, I've noticed how you eat." She gestured toward him with her fork. "You slice gracefully, but you seem more inclined to dissect your food than eat it. Not unlike some of the surgeons I've known."

William let his knife and fork clatter to his plate as he threw back his head and laughed.

Oh, she was a sharp one, and too bloody observant. He'd have to be careful around her. As a doctor, she was bound to notice he was missing quite a few of the standard vital signs. No matter, that made the game all the more enticing.

"You've discovered my secret," William chuckled, narrowing his eyes at her. "I have a penchant for playing with my food. I suppose it could sully my reputation."

Or make me one of the most feared demons in Europe, he thought with a wry grin.

"Your secret is safe with me, Mr. Royce," came her relaxed, amused assurance. William found himself drinking in the playful twinkle in her eyes, and resolved to end her stubborn insistence on formal address.

"William," he chided, his voice soft yet stern.

Willow's throat tightened and she hesitated in her response. She didn't want to be rude, but at the same time, she had spent years fighting to be respected for her abilities rather than just admired as a woman. And she suspected that Mr. Royce wouldn't have been so insistent that they address each other by their given names if, like the majority of her colleagues, her name were Thomas, Richard, or James. She had more than earned the title of doctor.

Absently wetting her lips and inclining her head, Willow said, "Mr. Royce, please do not think me ungrateful or ill-mannered if I prefer not to adopt a more familiar address. It is merely..." she paused, then fixed him with an unwavering gaze. "I shall be honest with you. It has been no easy matter for me to move freely, out in the world. Though it vexes me, my status rests precariously on an ability to maintain certain appearances. Society is still reluctant to accept a woman as both a woman and a physician. She can be one or the other, but not both. So...William...Mr. Royce...please understand that my reluctance stems only from a desire to preserve what I have worked so hard to attain."

She swallowed and, feeling how dry her throat was, reached for her glass of wine. The smooth, red wine easily slipped down her throat and soothed her unlike any wine ever had. Willow guessed that Mr. Royce's cellar was stocked with only the most superb vintages. That would explain the exquisitely pleasant response she was feeling.

"Rest assured, doctor, I hold you in higher esteem than I do most people," Mr. Royce answered, a curious gleam in his eyes. Willow acknowledged his assurance with a slight smile as he continued. "It might surprise you to know how well I appreciate your situation. Even I am obliged to maintain certain outward appearances if I wish to enjoy the existence to which I have become accustomed. I had only meant to..."

He trailed off and sighed in frustration. At the sight of his troubled expression, Willow's curiosity overtook her and she prompted, "Meant to...?"

Piercing, resolute blue eyes snapped back to hers as Mr. Royce declared, "Dr. Rosenberg, you have had the generosity to speak candidly with me, so I will do you the same courtesy. You are not alone in feeling estranged from your peers. Most of the people I have occasion to meet in society bore me to death."

Willow had just taken a bite of chicken and nearly choked at his forthright confession. Tears of surprised amusement came to her eyes as she coughed. A grin twitched at Mr. Royce's lips as he poured her more wine.

"There are few whom I deign to call friend," he continued while Willow silenced her coughing with several sips of wine. "Yet in you I have felt...or at least I thought I have felt...a kindred spirit. It was not my intention to offend you by suggesting that you were anything other than a skilled physician. My suggestion of more cordial terms of address was meant as a sign of my esteem, not a lack thereof, Dr. Rosenberg."

Something about his words resonated with Willow in the deepest level of her being. Although she had been acquainted with Mr. Royce for no more than a day, she could not help but feel that he was speaking to her with a rare candor and honesty that he did not usually share with others. Perhaps it was this, or perhaps it was merely the wine that spurred her to murmur, "Willow."

And with that, with her softly voiced name, she granted her consent to more familiar, cordial relations between them.

Her decision was rewarded with a gentle smile. "Willow," her name rolled off Mr. Royce's -- William's -- tongue like a sigh. "So, have you ever sat sighing by a sycamore tree, Willow, Willow, Willow?"

Willow closed her eyes, shook her head, and chuckled, "No, but I have had that particular reference from Othello quoted to me more times than I can count."

William shared an amused chuckle with her, "Forgive me, Willow. I may be able to quote verse like any other educated person, but at heart I make a bloody awful poet."

They both laughed and fell back into easy, relaxed conversation. They spoke of literature and art, of life in London, and even of Willow's work at Guy's Hospital. When the subject turned to family, both confessed that their parents were dead -- although Willow was somewhat more truthful in explaining that her mother and father had died in Calcutta during a cholera epidemic after her father had accepted a medical post in the colonial administration. William, on the other hand, elected not to tell Willow that he had slaughtered his entire family not long after his sire, Angelus, had turned him.

"Have you no family at all?" William asked her, his tone carefully sympathetic.

Willow's expression darkened in annoyance. "I have an aunt. My mother's sister."

With visible distaste, Willow set down her knife and fork, as though the mere mention of her aunt had spoiled her appetite. Almost instinctively, she reached for the comforting, enticing wine.

His curiosity piqued, William arched an eyebrow and remarked, "Relations a bit strained, are they?"

Willow let out an impatient snort and once again found herself confessing things that she normally wouldn't have dreamed telling any but her most intimate confidant. The problem was, however, she didn't really have any friends whom she considered intimate confidants.

"My aunt is decidedly conventional in her thinking. She has always disapproved of the way my father raised me, and takes every opportunity to..." Willow paused, searching for the right word, "...to direct me toward the kind of life she deems proper for a young lady."

William smirked. "Ahh, let me guess. Marriage?"

Willow rolled her eyes and chirped in glib mimicry of her aunt's voice, "The only respectable occupation for a woman."

With a sympathetic shake of his head, William asked, "And what subtle form does your aunt's direction take?"

"Most recently, an unwanted invitation to a dinner party, which will no doubt be attended by several eligible bachelors." By now, Willow was scowling openly.

William found it utterly endearing.

"And a refusal to attend would undoubtedly sour your relations with her further still," he deduced. However, the playful, conspiratorial twinkle faded from his eyes as he witnessed Willow's abrupt withdrawal into somber introspection.

A tense silence descended over the table for a few moments as Willow's expression grew pained and distant. William studied her intently. Her abrupt change in mood hinted at a very private rage.

"Unfortunately, refusal is not an option. It's...complicated," Willow murmured, so softly that, if he'd been human, William might never have heard her. Then, shaking herself out of her momentary gloom, Willow smiled apologetically and said, "I shan't burden you with such mundane concerns. It is simply that I am much like you, William. Society affairs bore me to no end. Given the choice, I would much rather spend time with a corpse than with most of the dinner guests who are usually invited to such banquets."

As Willow spoke, she was taken aback by the intensity that burned in William's eyes. He stared at her, lips parted but unspeaking, until finally he said in an oddly strained voice, "Willow, I believe you have your answer there."

She regarded him quizzically. "What, dine with a corpse?"

He continued to look at her with the oddest expression, as if she'd said something amusing. "Stranger things have happened," he murmured. "However, you yourself have said it. You and I are much alike. Might I be so bold as to offer to accompany you to dinner?"

Willow was speechless. She knew she was blushing furiously.

After several moments, she found her voice, although she was unable to manage more than a few, shaky words. "I...I don't know..."

"Just dinner, Willow, nothing more," William assured her, his tone low and comforting. All of a sudden, Willow felt her eyes drooping and she regretted having drunk so much wine with her meal.

"I need to think..." Willow began, but trailed off as her mind grew cloudy and unfocused.

Seeing Willow begin to drift, William rose from his seat and circled around the table to kneel beside her. The bloodwine, infused with his blood, had begun to take effect. As she swayed, her muscles so relaxed that she was unable to hold herself up any longer, William supported her against his chest and nuzzled her warm neck. Her breath was steady and even, signaling that she had slipped into a deep sleep.

"Sleep on your decision, Willow," he whispered in her ear. "I'll persuade you when next we meet."

Brushing a few stray wisps of hair away from her neck, William let his demon come to the fore. Then, he bent his head and sank his fangs ever so slightly into her flesh, piercing the skin just enough to swallow a few mouthfuls of her blood. By morning, the mark would be almost imperceptible, easily dismissed as harmless insect bites. But it would serve, temporarily at least, to announce his claim to other vampires.

As would his next action.

Cradling her in his right arm, he bit into his left wrist, pressed the wound against her lips, and let his blood drip into her mouth for several seconds. As he'd done when he'd groomed his first human servant, Bancroft, he fed Willow a minute quantity of his blood to flood her with his scent. Not enough to exert any real control over her mind; no, he'd decided that he wanted her alert and able to draw on that sharp mind she'd so amply demonstrated. She'd be more use to him that way. Besides, he liked her with her wits about her.

Settling her back against the chair, William crossed toward the dining room's closed doors, opened one and summoned Charles. The minion appeared a moment later.

"Prepare the carriage. When I've written a note to clear up any doubts Dr. Rosenberg will have tomorrow about what transpired here, you'll take her home," William instructed. "Has she invited you in?"

"Yes, sire," Charles answered. His gaze flicked briefly to Willow's neck and, seeing the claim there, he squared his shoulders and added, "I will see that no harm comes to her."

"Not tonight, nor any night hereafter, unless it is by my hand," William nodded, acknowledging that his minion had judged the claim correctly.

A scarce quarter of an hour later, William had tucked his note in Willow's surgical satchel and told Charles to put it in the carriage. As for Willow herself, William lifted her into his arms, carried her out to the darkened street, and tucked her into the seat. He paused for a moment, then climbed in and settled himself beside her.

"Show me where she lives, Charles," he commanded his minion.

With a deep nod, Charles closed the carriage door, then climbed up top and flicked his whip at the horses, urging them forward.

Chapter Four

The following morning, Willow awoke to the pale rays of dawn streaming through the white lace curtains in her bedroom window. She squinted in discomfort and turned away. For some reason, although the light that dappled her cheeks through the lace was faint, it hurt her eyes.

After a few moments more cocooned in her bed, Willow brushed aside the warm blankets and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Blinking, she looked down at her nightgown. She had vague memories of William's valet, Charles, nudging her awake in the carriage and seeing her to her door; and even dimmer memories of changing her clothes for bed. However, she was appalled that she seemed to have no memory of the end of dinner or her departure from the Royce mansion.

Willow groaned and dropped her head in her hands. Surely she hadn't drunk that much?

Her fears were alleviated somewhat when she found a note in her satchel right before leaving for Guy's Hospital. A mild queasiness in her stomach prompted Willow to search for some sodium bicarbonate, and as she did, she came across a pristine, cream-colored envelope sealed with red wax. Willow noted the insignia pressed into the wax -- what looked like two crossed swords, although they were short enough that almost would have mistaken them for railroad ties -- before she broke the seal and withdrew the letter inside.

The handwriting was simple and direct, with clean strokes rather than excessive flourishes. The message was much like the writing. Forgoing elaborate pleasantries, it went straight to the point. As Willow read, she felt herself relax.

'Dear Willow,

My sincerest thanks for the pleasure of your company at dinner, as well as for your admirable care of Mr. Bancroft. I regret that in my thoughtlessness, I may have kept you out far too late for a surgeon with a schedule as strenuous as your own. Please accept my apologies.

If it is convenient, I shall be grateful if you would return to examine Mr. Bancroft three days hence. Until then, I am

Very sincerely yours,
William Royce'

It was a tremendous relief and allowed Willow to go about her work relatively untroubled for the rest of the day. Well, at least with respect to her fears about having fallen asleep at dinner.

However, as the day wore on, certain peculiar physical symptoms began to give her pause. At first, she had attributed her sensitivity to light and queasiness to the after-effects of too much wine and rich food. By now, her stomach was unaccustomed to more extravagant fare, so used was she to dining on bread, cheese, and occasionally some vegetable stew or fruit.

However, Willow grew curious when she checked her thumb to see if the small cut she'd accidentally given herself needed any attention. To her surprise, it was completely healed. Indeed, more than just healed. Her flesh was astonishingly smooth and whole, without so much as a thin, white scar to suggest that she'd ever cut herself.

She sat on a wooden bench just outside the morgue, staring at her hand in fascination, when suddenly a powerful smell assaulted her senses. Frowning and flaring her nostrils, Willow glanced up and down the corridor, trying to discern the source of the smell. A moment later, two of the hospital's brawny orderlies rounded the corner, bearing the body of a young man on a stretcher. The disturbing scent grew stronger as they approached.

"Mother of mercy," Willow breathed in horror when they were close enough for her to see the state of the corpse.

The unfortunate man's throat had been horribly abused. Dark bruises suggested strangulation, yet even more alarming were the deep puncture wounds covered in congealed blood.

Willow followed the orderlies into the morgue, prepared to begin her examination of the body, but was surprised when the men deposited it on one of the tables used for anatomy lectures rather than autopsies.

"John," she said to one of the men, "is there to be no inquest?"

The older of the two men answered, "Nay, miss. Inspector said weren't no need fer it, it bein' most likely a mad dog what got 'im. Poor lad."

Willow's brow furrowed deeply as she went over for a closer look at the corpse. What manner of dog could leave bruises that resembled a human grip on a dead man's neck?

Highly skeptical that the man had been killed by a dog, even a mad one, Willow resolved to do an autopsy anyway. As she peered down at the vicious gashes on the corpse's neck, though, a peculiar sensation washed over her. The strong smell that had overwhelmed her earlier was now strangely appealing. Her earlier queasiness had vanished and all her senses were riveted to red, fatal wounds. Almost in a daze, Willow found herself brushing a fingertip against the bite marks, smearing the blood on her fingers and raising it toward her face.

With a sudden, horrified jolt, Willow froze in the realization that she'd been about to taste the blood.

Appalled, she fell back two steps, then rushed to the sink area to clean the blood and whatever microbes or bacteria it may have contained off of her fingers. Then she splashed some water on her face. After a few moments, Willow decided that she needed some fresh air. She retrieved her cloak, having resolved to take a therapeutic promenade along the Thames.

As she passed through the wards, Willow was troubled to realize how sensitive she was to the myriad of smells emanating from the sick and dying.

Was she ill? Deep in thought, Willow proceeded out to the street, hoping that a little exercise would quell her strange symptoms.

*****

"Good. You're awake. About bloody time."

Seated in a chair at the bedside, William stared coldly at Bancroft as the man stirred and blinked in the dim light. He knew the instant that his solicitor became fully aware of his situation by the sudden thundering of his heart and sharp, painful intake of breath.

Capitalizing on Bancroft's fear, William remarked, "You're lucky to be alive. If you weren't still useful to me, I might have consigned you to the cellar with the other provisions."

With a preternatural, menacing stillness he sat, hands steepled before him, and watched as the blood drained from Bancroft's panicked face.

"Learn from your mistake, because next time you won't be disciplined, you'll be dead."

Wide-eyed, Bancroft managed a weak nod.

Satisfied that he'd sufficiently terrorized his human servant, William rose from his seat and started toward the door. Halfway there, he paused and turned back toward Bancroft, who shrank back against the pillows.

"When the surgeon returns, you will speak as little as possible," William instructed sternly. "She thinks you were run down by a hansom cab." A low chuckle. "Might've been better for you if you had. But if she asks you, that's what happened. Do I make myself clear?"

Once again, the battered solicitor could do no more than nod weakly.

"Good. Tomorrow, I expect you to be recovered enough to manage some transactions for me. I'll summon one of your notaries."

With that, William left him and returned to his own chambers to sleep through the remains of the day. As he drew the heavy curtains around his four-poster bed and sank into welcome darkness, he wondered briefly how Willow's system was responding to her first dose of his blood.

*****

Two days later, Mr. Clive Bancroft, Esquire, found himself staring in silent desperation at an enchanting, red-haired woman, who was apparently the surgeon retained by his diabolical employer. He had to bite his tongue to suppress the urge to scream at her to run for her life, to flee this accursed mansion and even London itself. A single glance at Mr. Royce told him that this young beauty was in grave danger.

The fiend watched her with lethal interest. And Bancroft knew all too well that once William the Bloody took an interest in you, your life became a prison.

He couldn't prevent himself from shaking with barely suppressed anguish. However, the lovely doctor merely interpreted it as pain.

"Your leg is definitely on the mend, but you must be in considerable pain. I'll administer a dose of opium," she said.

Bancroft roused himself to decline but held his tongue at the cold, warning glare he received from his employer. Trapped, the poor man could only watch helplessly as the needle pierced a vein in his arm.

Soon, he was swooning in blissful oblivion.

*****

Willow re-packed her surgical satchel as her patient slowly sank beneath the effects of the opium.

"That should ease his distress for a while," she explained to William, who stood at the foot of the bed.

"Your skills are admirable," he acknowledged with a slight smile. "Yet once again, I fear that I have inconvenience you by summoning you at the dinner hour. May I persuade you to join me for another meal?"

Grimacing self-consciously, Willow hesitated. Now was the perfect moment to broach the subject of her invitation to Mr. and Mrs. Wimsey's banquet, but she felt painfully awkward at doing something so forward. Her shyness vexed her to no end. She had weathered the hostility of all the male students in medical school, and there wasn't any part of the male body she hadn't seen in the course of her practice. She had always been proud of the fact that she didn't bow to social niceties.

So why was she so nervous at the prospect of accepting what William had already offered?

"Is anything wrong?" William inquired, approaching her with concern etched across his features.

Willow took a deep breath and forced herself to smile at him. "No. Please be at ease. It is only that I haven't found food very appetizing for the past few days."

William had to fight back the satisfied grin that threatened to burst forth at her admission. Well, well...she was more susceptible to his blood than he'd anticipated. Schooling his features to project sympathy, he asked, "Are you ill?"

Willow sighed and offered an apologetic smile. "I must confess, at first I worried that I had indulged in too rich a meal the other night. But I'm sure now that it wasn't the food," she hastened to add, fearful of offending him by insinuating that his hospitality had been responsible for her symptoms. "For a few days I have experienced a peculiar sensitivity to light and certain potent smells. Undoubtedly I have simply been overtaxing myself."

"Indeed? Then I must insist that you stay for dinner," said William. Before Willow could protest, he stepped closer and, to her shock, cupped her face in his hands and gently stroked her cheeks with his thumbs. "I can easily believe that your demanding schedule prevents you from eating properly, and you should know very well, doctor, that a poor diet is one of the greatest enemies of health. And you do look a little pale."

An instant later, the overly intimate caress had ceased and William stood a more respectable distance away from her, his hand proffered in invitation. Before she realized what she was doing, Willow felt her hand slipping into his. As he clasped his fingers over her palm, Willow was struck by how comforting it felt, despite his unusually cool skin. For some reason, the gentle pressure of his hand restored to her a sense of well-being that she hadn't felt since the onset of her strange symptoms.

Willingly, she let him conduct her out of the sick room and toward his grand dining hall.

Strangely, when she found herself seated once again at the candlelit table, she had less difficulty in seeing the surrounding room. Her eyes seemed better accustomed to the low light and in the shadows she could discern a polished, marble floor, tastefully framed landscapes on the wall, and French doors that opened onto a balcony.

In no time, Charles appeared with a sizzling, aromatic roast. He set it before them on the table and as he sliced it, Willow saw how rare the meat was. She found herself mesmerized by the red, bloody juices that seeped out as he carved. As soon as he withdrew, she finally mustered her resolve to mention the Wimseys's dinner.

"William, do you...remember what I mentioned about the banquet that I'm obliged to attend?"

A pleased smile teased at the vampire's lips. *Finally.* Fixing Willow with a warm gaze that hinted at slightly more than friendly regard, William answered, "If I recall, you were looking forward to that particular soiree with all the enthusiasm one might reserve for a bout of dysentery." He knew he'd gauged his reply correctly when Willow was unable to contain her mirth and laughed openly. "Is there any way I might be of service?"

Green eyes shining with merriment, Willow nodded and asked, "Would you...that is, are you still willing to accompany me? Might I...accept the gracious offer you made earlier in the week?"

Inclining his head in a slight bow, William acknowledged, "Willow, it would be an honor and a distinct pleasure to deliver you from unbearable tedium."

They smiled warmly at each other. For one, timeless moment, their eyes remained locked in a penetrating gaze as they were slowly drawn into each other. Then Willow glanced away, reached for her glass of wine, and the moment was broken.

The remainder of the meal was passed in pleasant, easy conversation, until finally, not too late at night, William escorted Willow out to his carriage with instructions to Charles to conduct her home.

Before heading out in search of his *real* meal for the evening, William went to his room, sat down at the spacious, mahogany writing desk, and withdrew a black, velvet case from the center drawer. He raised the lid and admired the exquisite choker nestled within. An ornate, silver garland was intricately woven with rubies that cascaded down like tendrils from a vine. At the center was suspended a teardrop medallion imprinted with his insignia: two crossed spikes. The tools that had made him a legend among vampires and the few humans who knew of his kind.

Soon.

Soon his sigil would encircle Willow's lovely neck. Only four more days until the night of the banquet.

Chapter Five

Willow surveyed the posh sitting room, furnished to suit the most discriminating taste, and yearned inwardly to be anywhere else. The docks, the slums of the Borough, even the morgue would be preferable.

But she had no choice. Willow could easily imagine the chain of events that had led to this meeting: Cordelia had received her reply indicating that she would be bringing a guest, and had promptly conveyed the news to Willow's aunt. And so here Willow sat, in her aunt's parlour, drawing upon every ounce of patience she possessed in order to withstand Aunt Jane's inquisition.

For Mrs. Jane Ashton was a woman who took great pride in her ability to *arrange* things and was easily displeased when someone meddled with her arrangements. And Willow knew that as much as her overbearing aunt wanted to see her married off, the formidable matriarch had no doubt intended to introduce Willow to men *she* had selected and did not take kindly to the news that Willow had so grievously inconvenienced her by selecting a dinner companion of her own.

"My dear, how is it that you became acquainted with a man like Mr. Royce?" Mrs. Ashton inquired, maintaining a haughty, imperious pose in her seat.

Mustering the mildest expression she could manage, Willow replied, "He has engaged my services as a surgeon for a patient in his household."

For the span of several heartbeats, Mrs. Ashton merely blinked at her. A slight parting of her lips was the only sign that Willow's frank explanation had shocked and disappointed her.

"Do you mean to tell me that you were not properly introduced?" Mrs. Ashton finally demanded, her voice icy with disapproval.

"I fail to see why the manner of our introduction is of any consequence. Mr. Royce has always conducted himself as a perfect gentleman," Willow countered stubbornly.

Already, her patience with her aunt was wearing thin.

Mrs. Ashton folded her hands primly in her lap, straightened herself almost to the point of rigor mortis, and pursed her lips in obvious contempt. "You mind your impudence, my niece," came her stern rebuke. "It is precisely because of your poor judgment in matters of social propriety that your dear parents left your future in my care."

Bitter memories of the drama that had unfolded after the reading of her father's will sent a rush of heat to Willow's cheeks. Before she could contain her emotions, Willow snapped, "My parents never intended to give you control over my trust fund. That was granted to you by the courts because our society's laws still refuse to acknowledge that a single woman is competent to manage her own finances!"

"And you have grown far too used to taking liberties with your behavior and your speech," Mrs. Ashton fired back coldly. The elder woman glared at Willow for a moment longer, then regained her composure. "Your ingratitude is particularly blameworthy given that I have only your best interests at heart. There will be several respectable young gentlemen at the Wimseys' banquet, gentlemen who would make a fortunate match. In your foolish desire to defy me, you are spoiling your opportunity with them by bringing a wholly unsuitable person as your guest."

The sharp, steady sting of her fingernails digging into her clenched palms helped Willow temper her desire to lash out at her insufferably domineering aunt. Keeping her voice steady, Willow asked, "On what grounds do you deem Mr. Royce unsuitable?"

Condescendingly, Mrs. Ashton looked down the bridge of her nose and replied, "My dear, that question shows how little you understand society. Mr. Royce is an oddity, a highly eccentric individual. He has never been known to call on anyone. He is not received in any circles. Yet he manages to know all too much about other people. Most of the men in Mr. Ashton's club have remarked that he is a disturbingly secretive person; he actually makes them uncomfortable. That alone makes him unsuitable."

Willow could stand it no longer.

She rose to her feet and offered a half-hearted, dismissive curtsey to her aunt.

"I'm afraid I must be going, Aunt Jane. My responsibilities at the hospital oblige me to forego the *pleasure* of your company for the moment," Willow excused herself, her voice laden with sarcasm. "But please, do not concern yourself any further about Mr. Royce. After all, you have always told me that *I* am an oddity. Perhaps he and I are suited."

As she stalked angrily from the parlour, not waiting for the servant to help her with her cloak, Willow heard her aunt exclaim, "The audacity!"

With an exasperated frown, Willow thought to herself, "Audacity? Indeed! To hear Aunt Jane tell it, one would think I had invoked the Dark Prince himself."

How much misery was produced in the world not by the black, naughty evil of unseen forces, but because of ignorant prejudices held by people exactly like her aunt, Willow wondered.

*****

Early evening at the London docks, and the air creaked and groaned with the buoyant rocking of ships. Gay music and sounds of drunken carousing filtered out from nearby pubs. Silently, two dark figures emerged from one of the ships and made their way down the gangplank. They seemed to blend effortlessly into the cloying fog.

Their path took them along the river, further from the lively pubs and brothels. As they continued down a seemingly deserted street, a man leaped out at them from an alley.

The coarse, unkempt ruffian seized one of the travelers -- a pale, dark-haired beauty of a woman -- and pressed his knife to her throat.

"Yer purse, an' be quick about it," the thief snarled, his threat laced with the stale onion perfume of his breath.

Too late, the thief noticed the wild, distracted gleam in the woman's eyes.

"Haven't got a purse," she mused laughingly, bobbing her head at him as if she were speaking to a small child.

Swift as a viper she struck. The astonished thief found himself not only disarmed but choking desperately as the deceptively fragile "waif" held him aloft, her delicate hand gripping his throat as forcefully as might the strongest, brawniest farm hand or dock worker.

Her companion, a tall, powerfully built man, peered at the thief in disdain and said, "Don't play with your food, Drusilla. We must be getting to William's place before long."

"Yes, Angelus," the lady replied, although to his horror, the thief discovered that this was no 'lady'. Feminine, doe-like eyes transformed into the stuff of nightmares, burning bright as the flames of hell. Soft facial features contorted in a grotesque, beast-like mask.

The last thing the thief ever saw were deadly fangs as his ill-chosen target for the evening instead made him into her victim.

*****

William lounged by the fire, his feet propped lazily on the arm of his settee despite the tingle that ran along his spine, summoning an instinctive desire to seek out his approaching sire. He hardly needed Charles to herald his family's arrival.

"Master Angelus and Mistress Drusilla, sire," the minion announced as he stepped inside the salon and ushered the two, powerful vampires past him.

William cocked his head to the side and smirked at his sire. "About bloody time! What kept you? Stop to eat at every orphanage along the way?"

Angelus arched a disapproving eyebrow at his insolent tone of voice but was unable to mask the smoldering anticipation in his eyes as he appraised his favored childe. "Is that any way to greet your elder, boy?"

Swinging his legs off the settee, William rose to his feet and sauntered toward Angelus. He drew close, until his lithe form was pressed against the darker vampire's body. They held each other's gaze for several long moments. Then, William sank slowly to his knees, bringing his mouth directly over his sire's groin.

"Of course, you're right, Angelus," William teased, murmuring so that his lips brushed against the rapidly stiffening flesh in the elder vampire's trousers. "A childe should greet his sire on his knees. Is this..." he brushed his nose teasingly against the straining bulge for effect "...an improvement?"

With a deep growl of pleasure, Angelus seized William and drew him up for a fierce, claiming kiss. Sire and childe devoured each other's mouths, relishing the contact after several months' absence.

Drusilla, who had paused to watch the firelight dance in the many diamond panels of the leaded-glass windows, swayed to herself and crooned, "What a happy reunion...and daddy has brought such lovely presents..."

Long experience had taught William how to distinguish when his mad sister was merely prattling nonsense and when she had something interesting to say. Reluctantly breaking the ardent kiss with Angelus, he peered into crafty, sable eyes and prompted, "Presents? Are you trying to seduce me?"

"Always," the low growl rumbled in Angelus's throat. He and William grinned wickedly and exchanged another fleeting kiss. Then, the elder vampire said, "First, show me to that miserable manservant of yours. A present I have, but 'tis for his eyes. For you, sweet William, I have the gift of his pain."

*****

There really was nothing quite so satisfying as seeing a grown man cry.

Well, all right, there was sex. And blood. And a good, dirty brawl, all fists and fangs. But William did so love watching a stoic human male crumble under just the right torture and break down in tears.

How freely they ran down Bancroft's cheeks as the sorry sod stared in horror at the 'present' that Angelus had brought.

A grotesque, severed hand.

More precisely, the bloody, partially decomposed hand of one Miss Gwendolyn Honeychurch, who, until her untimely demise, had been the object of Bancroft's affections, and might one day have become his fiancée.

William smirked. His sire did indeed have a flair for showmanship. The younger vampire relaxed in a chair, languidly stroking his hands over Drusilla as she sat on his lap. Both of them watched raptly as Angelus paced along Bancroft's bedside and continued his mental torment of the human.

"You'll recognize that, I expect," Angelus observed, his casual tone belied by the sinister threat inherent in the dead woman's hand. "Oh, not the fact that the hand is your lady love's...or at least, it used to be. No, a smart man like you should recognize what a kind gesture it is. You see, if you were completely useless, that'd be your hand there, and it'd be piled atop the other parts I'd ripped off your body. But you still serve a purpose, so I've given you the gift of a lesson. Now, man, listen close--" Angelus leaned directly in Bancroft's face, smiling politely even as his cold eyes warned of unspeakable horrors. "You, and all that you hold dear, belong to us. Question your master's judgment or depart from his instructions again, and the consequences will be even worse than this."

Throughout the menacing soliloquy, Bancroft merely sobbed quietly, his eyes downcast, looking away from the gruesome trophy in his lap.

Angelus straightened up, towering above the broken man, and asked, "Do you understand now, or do you need another lesson? William has told me that you have a sister in Hastings..."

Trembling, Bancroft raised sorrow-reddened eyes to his tormentor, offered a weak shake of the head, and whispered hoarsely, "N-no."

Smiling broadly in cruel triumph, Angelus boomed, "Good!" He turned to William and said, "Now that this has been settled, have your minion break out the blood wine and you can tell me what new mischief ye've been up to."

*****

/*Like as not he was up to no good; probably met a thief more wicked than he who cut his throat. More's the better then!*/

The words haunted Willow. Each time they echoed in her mind, her throat tightened.

In her profession, she had to develop a certain clinical detachment, lest the constant exposure to suffering and misery drive her mad. However, that didn't mean that she cut herself from all human compassion, and it galled her to hear such callous disregard for a life, even that of a thief.

/* Like as not he was up to no good; probably met a thief more wicked than he who cut his throat. More's the better then!*/

The chief of the hospital had responded with a peevishness that Willow had found disgraceful when she'd requested permission to perform an autopsy on this man's corpse. With an administrator's stubbornness, he'd pointed out that she was depriving the medical students of a specimen for their anatomy lesson. As if this were the only cadaver available in the entire hospital!

And as if this man's life meant so little that he didn't merit the posthumous courtesy of an inquiry into certain, visible injuries on his person that Willow found highly suspicious.

/* Like as not he was up to no good; probably met a thief more wicked than he who cut his throat. More's the better then!*/

However, Willow had held firm to her resolve -- her stubborn, fierce resolve that had been legendary among the medical students at Edinburgh. The hospital's director had finally relented, so now she stood over the unfortunate, once and former thief, gazing down at the wounds that had caught her attention in the first place.

Two, deep puncture wounds in his neck, positioned directly over the carotid artery. They were strikingly similar to the odd bite marks she had noticed on a cadaver a few days ago, when she'd succumbed to that peculiar sensitivity to light and smell. Willow could hardly believe this was coincidence. If it *was* nothing more than a mad dog, as the police had suggested in the previous case, the beast obviously still posed a threat to the public welfare.

However, Willow's critical eye soon confirmed her uneasy suspicion: this was not the work of any ordinary animal.

Bruises, spaced in a pattern consonant with what would be made by a human hand, mottled the dead man's throat. Upon closer scrutiny, Willow noted the extreme pallor of the skin, which was far whiter than normal, even for a corpse.

Frowning in concentration, Willow gripped her scalpel and made an incision to the chest cavity. As she peeled away the skin and began to explore, her findings grew more and more disturbing. Everything pointed to a thorough exsanguination, yet she knew of no animal common to London that so utterly drained its kill of blood. Not even a mad dog.

Willow set down her scalpel and went to sit at the writing desk near the entrance to the morgue. She stared blankly at the floor as her mind turned inward to ponder this disturbing case.

What should she do?

There was no doubt in her mind that this man had been killed by something more closely resembling another man than an animal. The bruises were a clue, but even more sobering for Willow was the fact that man was the one creature who willfully drained his fellow beings of blood without also consuming the flesh. Even today, she knew of physicians and surgeons who clung to old theories and bled their patients as a cure for everything from fevers to mania.

But how willingly would anyone believe her, especially given that she had no plausible theory as to what *had* killed this man? Worse still, would anyone even care?

/* Like as not he was up to no good; probably met a thief more wicked than he who cut his throat. More's the better then!*/

She sighed.

Sadly, she feared that the hospital director's indifference was the norm. Far too many people found it easier to dismiss some lives as worthless -- the lives of thieves, for example -- rather than question why some were so poor or desperate that they were driven to thievery in the first place.

A bitter lump rose in her throat as she recalled her aunt's opinion of William Royce, who was certainly no common thief. Yes, there were those like her aunt who were quite comfortable dismissing the lives of others.

And so Willow resigned herself to the painful truth, that she would need more tangible evidence before alerting the authorities.

Besides, she had an altogether different trial to face.

Tomorrow night was the banquet.

Chapter Six

To another's eyes, it might look plain, and certainly out of fashion. But to Willow, it was one of the few elegant things she possessed, made more beautiful in her eyes because it was one of her only remaining connections to her mother.

Lustrous, violet silk fanned out in a graceful, ample skirt, although it lacked the bustle that was au courant among society ladies. The bodice was neatly fitted, but not so restrictive as to require a corset. It had been the subject of a prolonged argument with her mother, but knowing what she did about human anatomy, Willow had refused to subject herself to the deforming influence of a corset.

Yet, despite all that, the selection and fitting of this dress had been one of the few occasions on which Willow and her mother had spent time together as two, adult women. Her mother had still harbored reservations about her only child -- her only daughter -- embarking on such an unconventional career for a woman, but it was almost as if their one afternoon spent at the seamstress's shop, choosing Willow's first evening gown had been a rite of passage. Whether it was that, or simply that Willow had somehow placated her mother with this one concession to femininity, she wasn't sure. But afterwards, her mother had treated her as capable of making her own judgments. From that moment, Willow had been able to imagine that she and her mother could become friends.

Willow had only had the chance to wear the dress once before her parents' death, and had made no effort to wear it since then.

Until tonight.

Thankfully, it still fit. Indeed, Willow realized that it clung to her form in a most flattering way. The rich violet hue of the silk made her eyes seem even greener and highlighted the warmth of her auburn tresses. If there were any flaw at all, it was that the neckline seemed a little bare, but Willow had never had the means to purchase any jewelry.

She sighed and perused her appearance in the mirror for a few moments more before quitting her bedroom and going to her small sitting room to await William's arrival. Sure enough, not long after she had settled into her chair there was a light rapping at the door.

Willow's eyes widened in blatant admiration at the sight that greeted her when she opened the door.

William Royce was, quite simply, the handsomest man she had ever seen.

From head to toe, he was garbed in elegant, formal attire. His suit and his cloak were of finely tailored black wool, in stark contrast to the brilliant white of his shirt and waistcoat. One hand, gloved in black leather, rested gracefully atop a gold-tipped cane.

Their eyes met. William offered her a slightly bemused smile, removed his hat and inclined his head in formal greeting.

"Good evening, Willow. I trust I'm not too early?"

Willow blinked. She found herself tongue-tied for a second or two, then stepped aside and gestured for William to enter her apartment. "Your timing is beyond reproach. Please, do come in."

William's smile broadened. His eyes never left hers as he crossed the threshold.

Blushing under his bold appraisal, Willow turned away and said, "Let me just fetch my cloak."

However, William's low, baritone rumble stayed her before she'd taken so much as a step.

"Please, Willow, take pity on me."

Glancing over her shoulder, Willow was surprised to see an expression of rapt appreciation on his face.

"Permit me the pleasure of admiring your beauty for just a while longer. I am prepared to act the perfect gentlemen while in the company of others at dinner this evening, but at this moment, you have reduced me to an adoring slave," he continued, taking a step toward her. His eyes swept over her and he whispered, "Willow, you are a vision."

William strained to keep his demon in check as Willow flushed prettily at his compliments. A rush of heat rolled out from her body in intoxicating waves and her heart beat just a little faster. Every exquisite, self-conscious response made him want to forego this tiresome, human banquet and whisk her back to his mansion. However, he reined in his impulses: his plans for Willow required finesse.

"You embarass me with your largesse," Willow countered, raising her chin assertively. William relished her delicious attempt to pretend that she was unaffected by his attentions. It certainly gave him a nice view of her lovely neck. "I had prevailed upon you only to accompany me to dinner, yet you go above and beyond the call of duty by flattering me. Truly, you needn't. I am already grateful to you for rescuing me from an evening of tedium."

"I don't flatter," William responded swiftly. "Flattery is for weak fools, and I am neither."

At the panicked, apologetic expression on Willow's face, William congratulated himself on having shaken her poise yet again. Before she could protest, he took another step toward her and continued, "However, since you speak of duty, perhaps now is the time for us to discuss what my duty is to you this evening?"

Willow furrowed her brow, thoroughly perplexed.

"Duty? I don't understand," she stammered. Another step brought William directly before her, so close that the warmth of her skin caressed his own.

"As you have said, I am to be your companion for the evening. But how should you like me to appear?" William explained, letting his voice drop to a soft murmur. "Shall I be a friendly acquaintance? Or do you wish to discourage whatever potential suitors your aunt has arranged?"

Gazing into Willow's eyes, he reached for her left hand. Slowly, he raised it to his lips, at the same time bending forward to bring his face inches away from hers. "Shall I play the suitor? Show them that a rival has preceded them?" he whispered right before he placed a lingering kiss on her hand.

"Mr. Royce--" Willow objected with a shaky gasp.

"William," he cut her off.

Without warning, William closed his lips over Willow's in a daring kiss. He knew it was a risk, but she was too tempting to resist. However, he kept it brief, not wanting her keen observation to discover anything curious about his physiology.

Her heart was pounding in her chest as he drew back.

A frenzy of emotions clamored in Willow's mind, leaving her momentarily dizzy. Shock at such a bold, unsolicited gesture. Yearning for more. Indignation at being treated like a...a common whore, there to gratify any impulse. Disappointment at the thought that William was no better than any other man who saw her first and foremost as a woman to seduce. Shame at the realization that some part of her was excited that he wanted her. But overwhelming all else was pure, primitive desire, so powerful she was almost drunk with it.

When she finally found her voice, Willow was startled by her first words.

"I trust you..." she breathed, gazing at William, whose surprised pleasure registered in his eyes. However, as the fog cleared from her mind, her expression saddened. "...not to take advantage of the fact that I am in your debt for agreeing to accompany me this evening. If I gave you the impression that--"

Shaking his head, William silenced her by placing a finger on her lips. "You have done nothing other than charm me with your wit, your candor, and beauty that I would be so bold as to describe as *immortal*."

Willow's brow furrowed as she gazed at him, the inner turmoil evident in her earnest expression. This was uncharted territory for her. Not the attention: she had learned well enough over the years how to evade unwelcome attention from gentlemen and cads alike. No, what shook Willow to her core was the fact that she wasn't quite sure she *wanted* to evade William's attention. She had become so accustomed to holding men at arm's length, and to defending herself from their ridicule. But what was she to do when the person she couldn't trust was herself? For although it was true that William had violated customary propriety with his kiss, the dictates of propriety mattered little to her. She took pride in living by her own standards.

If Willow's pulse was racing, if her breath caught in her throat, it was because just one fleeting kiss from William Royce had her rethinking her standards.

"William, I...I..." she began hesitantly, her eyes darting nervously from his to the floor and back again. "Tonight, all I wish is to withstand several hours of what I expect to be frivolous conversation and scheming on the part of my aunt. I confess, I did not consider what I was hoping for from you, except that I have felt at ease with you and enjoyed your company. Is this...do you...do you understand?"

Her last words were uttered almost as a plea. William smiled at her.

"I understand. Truly, you are a woman without artifice, Willow, so I will be candid. If you were to ask me to play the suitor this evening, it would be no act, no mere performance for the benefit of others. Although you have earned my admiration for your skills as a surgeon, it will be difficult to pretend that I am no more than a grateful client when the truth is that I desire your affection," he admitted.

Willow blushed deeply. "I do not know how to answer."

William, however, had already savored the heady, fragrant answers that her body was betraying. Her desire was so alluringly raw; it was her will that made her hesitate.

"Answer for yourself," he murmured, letting just a touch of hunger into his voice. "I will not compromise you with my wishes."

Her parted lips quivered for a moment. Softly, she said, "Then tonight let them think you a suitor." Raising her voice slightly, she clarified, "Tonight. Please...I'm not ready to think beyond tonight."

Triumph surged through William and his demon yearned to howl its delight. However, he maintained his courteous facade and merely acknowledged with a nod, "Tonight, then."

He had to redouble his iron restraint of the demon when Willow rewarded him with an enchantingly innocent, throughly giddy grin. For a moment, he imagined that this was exactly what she had looked like when she'd performed her first dissection under her father's guidance: all curious wonder and delight. The urge to take her then and there was powerful, but he stayed it and instead reached into his breast pocket.

Withdrawing a black, velvet case, he lifted the lid under Willow's astonished gaze. The silver-and-ruby necklace that bore his crest gleamed up at her.

"As a proper suitor, I've brought you a gift," William explained. He lifted the delicate, jewelled strand out of the case, set the case aside and asked, "May I?"

Without waiting for Willow's answer, he swept behind her and reached around to drape his sigil around her neck. Cool knuckles brushed against her shoulders as William allowed himself a few, illicit touches.

"William...I can't...this is too fine," Willow breathed. Everything was happening so fast, and a gift of this magnitude...it spoke of something far more lasting than the simple *tonight* that she had convinced herself would be safe.

"No, not at all too fine," William countered, circling around to face her once more. "It suits you perfectly."

And it did. Her eyes shone more beautifully than the rubies at her throat, and the only thing William could imagine looking better on that pale column of flesh would be his wounds, deep and claiming.

He extended his elbow to her and said with a playful quirk of the eyebrows, "Lady, our carriage awaits."

Chapter Seven

What a sorry lot of toffs!

William surveyed the assembled guests with quiet disdain as he escorted Willow into the parlor of her friend's unremarkably respectable home. Everything about the spacious house was so obviously intended to impress, to proclaim the self-satisfied importance of the owners, that it exposed the true mediocrity of its human residents.

The entry hall had been a tyranny of pastels.

No doubt the mistress of the household had thought to create an impression of comfort and gentility. Pink roses everywhere, a powder blue, faux-oriental carpet on the floor, cameo portraits of angelic-looking children, every square inch of every horizontal surface covered with frilly lace and hand-crocheted runners...utterly dreary.

It was so nauseatingly *cozy* it made him want to heave.

Instead, he allowed the aging butler to take their cloaks and then conduct them to the parlor.

To William's satisfaction, Willow's hand remained latched onto his elbow as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He suspected that her reaction to the house and its owners was much the same as his.

"Mr. William Royce and Miss Willow Rosenberg," the butler announced to just over a dozen assembled humans.

"What a pleasure to see you after such a long time, Willow," a fashionably attired brunette said in greeting as she approached them. William appraised her at a glance: a fine beauty, to be sure, but with a prideful air.

And just as nauseatingly decked out as the entry hall. William deduced that this was their hostess.

"Good evening, Cordelia," Willow managed to sound cordial, although William felt her hand tense on his arm ever so slightly. "May I introduce you to Mr. William Royce?"

"Ah, yes...I've heard so much about you, Mr. Royce. How nice to have the honor of your presence in our home this evening," Cordelia observed with feigned warmth that did little to mask the haughty tilt of her chin. "It is a rare pleasure. You're not known for attending social functions."

Although he caught Willow's irritated scowl out of the corner of his eye, William couldn't help smirking. Well, well, the little socialite thought she had teeth. Fine. If she wanted to play that way, she'd learn soon enough whose bite was more fearsome.

"It's been rare that I've received invitations worth accepting until now, Mrs. Wimsey," William acknowledged with a gracious nod of his head. He paused just long enough to let her think he was complimenting her. When he saw the self-satisfied, elitist gleam in her eye, he continued, "But Dr. Rosenberg is a rare treasure among ladies, and I would accompany her anywhere."

William punctuated his remark with a brief yet smoldering glance at Willow and brought his free hand up to cover hers where it rested on the crook of his arm. Sure enough, Cordelia's lips tightened in displeasure at his preference for praising Willow instead of flattering the hostess.

However, she swiftly recovered and said with cool politeness, "Yes, Willow has always been so...unique. And these days, so sought after." She smiled with false charm at Willow, turning just enough to snub William, and gushed, "Please, let me introduce you to some of the other guests who have been very much looking forward to meeting you, Willow."

As Cordelia sashayed ahead of them, all William could think was that her dress sense was as hopelessly bourgeois as her taste in interior decor. Her elaborate bustle made her look like a peacock with a satin tail.

"William Royce, you have a wicked nature," Willow whispered in his ear as they followed the mistress of the household over to a gathering of three men. "I do believe you took pleasure in slighting our hostess."

To his delight, William spied a mischievous sparkle in Willow's eyes. Her feigned rebuke concealed a conspiratorial pleasure in the subtle insult he'd delivered at Cordelia's expense.

"My dear lady, I haven't even begun to show you wicked," William whispered back at her.

They drew up before three wholly mediocre men, none of whom William considered serious competition, although he fully intended to make it clear to them that *he* was the dominant suitor and had already laid his claim. Before this night was through, no amount of feminine meddling on the part of Willow's aunt would persuade them to so much as think of pursuing Willow.

One was a large, portly fellow with bushy sideburns. The second, a slim, sickly-looking chap with slender hands and hollow cheeks. The third was as ordinary as they come. As William appraised them, he felt like he was in one of the children's tales he recalled from his human childhood...something about bears and gruel...

"Gentlemen, please permit me to introduce you to Miss Rosenberg and Mr. Royce," said Cordelia. Gesturing graciously toward the portly man on the left, she continued, "This is Major Fullerton, who is recently returned from the Punjab." The stout officer puffed out his chest and bowed somewhat stiffly. Cordelia proceeded to the frail, slender man in the middle, who stifled a cough as she said, "Mr. Marlowe here is a curator at the British Museum, and Mr. Featherby," she nodded toward the bland, unremarkable man on the right, "is with Lloyd's."

"Er...it's Weatherby, actually," the latter corrected with a mildly frustrated grimace that suggested he was used to people getting his name wrong.

"Of course," Cordelia agreed amiably, breezing airily over her mistake. "I imagine you may have had occasion to meet Mr. Royce at Lloyd's. I understand from my husband that you have quite an extensive range of investments, Mr. Royce."

"Ah...no, I've not had the pleasure..." Mr. Weatherby stammered, although his expression was one of subdued awe. Apparently, the name Royce was familiar to the Lloyd's employee.

"I have an agent who handles all my transactions," William declared smoothly. "In fact, it was my agent who facilitated my introduction to *Doctor* Rosenberg."

It hadn't escaped William's notice that Cordelia had ignored Willow's title during the introductions.

"Doctor?" Major Fullerton echoed, clearly surprised.

"Yes, her skills as a surgeon are unparalleled," William continued, fully aware of Willow's soft yet delighted smile. "My agent suffered some severe injuries following a careless misstep, but thanks to Dr. Rosenberg's superb treatment, he is swiftly recovering."

"Indeed, sir?" The major's bushy eyebrows rose in astonishment. "Most remarkable."

"Surely we shall not do our kind hostess the disservice of diminishing our appetites with talk of surgery before we sit down at her gracious table."

William turned toward the imperious voice that had spoken behind him. He saw a formidable, matronly woman, gray hair piled atop her head and an unpleasant, pinched expression that hinted at frequent scowling. She stood beside a balding man with a bulbous, pink nose and floppy jowls. A beleaguered sigh, so soft he only caught it because of his preternatural hearing, fell from Willow's lips. Ah. So this was Willow's infamous aunt, William realized.

He couldn't wait to eat her.

*****

Willow's shoulders sagged. There was something physically taxing about the mere presence of her aunt. Aunt Jane had an uncanny ability to dampen even the briefest moments of contentment Willow managed to steal at dreary social gatherings. And what a moment Willow had just enjoyed! She'd come close to blushing at William's praise. It had touched her deeply that he had stepped forward to rectify Cordelia's intentional disregard for her professional status. He truly seemed to understand how much the acknowledgment meant to her.

Yet it terrified and elated her all at once. Never had Willow been so moved by a man's attentions, never had she felt such an overwhelming urge to reciprocate them, as she did with William. A heady, primal feeling deep within her uncoiled when he looked at her a certain way or said something that revealed his uncanny insight into her soul.

For a moment, William had had her soaring with quiet joy when he'd spoken so highly of her skills.

And Aunt Jane had chosen that precise moment to announce her presence.

The horrible old hag.

"Good evening, Aunt Jane, Uncle Rowan," Willow sighed, greeting them with a resigned, neutral expression.

"Good evening, my dear," Aunt Jane replied, casting a perfunctory glance at William. "Are we to be introduced to the gentleman who has accompanied you?"

Later, Willow would wonder what had possessed her. Perhaps it was the obvious disapproval in Aunt Jane's eyes, or the dismissive tone of her voice.

Or maybe Willow had finally tired of forcing herself to conform to her aunt's narrow-minded world when it felt so good to be free.

But Willow wasn't thinking of any of that, and merely acted on impulse when she pressed herself just a little closer to William's side, slightly more intimate than was proper, and said, "William, may I present Mr. and Mrs. Ashton, my mother's sister and her husband. Aunt Jane, Uncle Rowan, this is William Royce."

Willow's use of his given name had the desired effect.

"Mr. Royce," Aunt Jane all but snapped, sparing Willow a brief but stern glare before turning her attention to William. "We meet at last. I must say, I look forward to our conversation over dinner. My niece has told me regrettably little about you."

"I tend to be a very private man," William replied evenly. Willow was thankful to note how relaxed he seemed in the face of Aunt Jane's thinly veiled hostility. He even shifted to press his hip closer to hers. "However, Willow makes me forget that. I can deny her nothing."

Willow's breath hitched softly as William smiled at her, his expression unmistakably intimate in its tenderness. There was more than mere performance for her aunt's benefit in that look. His gaze was a caress and a pledge all at once. Something told her that she and William had just crossed a threshold of sorts.

Before the exchange could continue, Cordelia ushered everyone toward the dining room. As he helped Willow into her seat, William brushed an illicit kiss across the back of her hand -- a gesture which, Willow realized, went unseen by everyone except Aunt Jane, who pressed her lips tightly together in disapproval.

Willow permitted herself a small, enigmatic smile.

The meal itself was elaborate, a lavish display of the finest that London's markets had to offer: a robust roast, savory chestnuts, hearty breads. Servants moved silently about the table, clearing and filling as needed. Every detail cultivated the image of wealth.

Inwardly, Willow found herself wryly amused that Cordelia hadn't changed a bit since boarding school. She was still as obsessed with status and appearances as ever.

The realization left Willow feeling slightly melancholy. Although she had no desire to be as shallow and superficial as Cordelia, at least Cordelia had a life that suited her. Willow had almost forgotten what it felt like to feel welcome, to relax and be herself, considering that she had never truly been accepted within the medical community.

Or...wait, that wasn't quite true. She could remember vividly a very recent moment when she'd felt welcome and free to be just as she was.

At William's table, in the subdued candlelight of his majestic dining hall, as they'd shared a meal alone, unattended by servants. Cordelia's opulent feast paled in comparison to the charm of the simple table William had often prepared for her out of consideration for the late hour at which she was obliged to attend to her patient, Mr. Bancroft.

The pleasant reverie made Willow raise her eyes to William's, and for some reason, she wasn't surprised to see him gazing back at her.

As trivial conversations droned on around them, Willow managed to half-listen, nod, and offer appropriate replies, even as she sought escape in the silent, secret world that she and William were creating for themselves in lingering glances and carefully concealed gestures.

In one particularly daring gesture, when the attention of all other guests was on Cordelia as she prattled on about her opinion of Paris fashions, William stretched his fork across the table and fed Willow a morsel of roast from his own plate. Willow's cheeks flushed at the intoxicating, heady flavor of the deep, red sauce that coated it. William's eyes flared in response, and the evidence that he knew how profoundly he affected her simply magnified her fever.

At the end of the meal, Cordelia and her husband invited all the guests to relax in the parlor or stroll in the garden, the better to digest before enjoying some music. Mr. Marlowe had been droning on about his cataloguing of Minoan antiquities at the British Museum and occasionally making rather snide remarks about the inability of his physicians to cure him of his many indispositions, so Willow was relieved when William rescued her by suggesting a turn through the garden.

With a smile of amused exasperation, Willow laid her hand in William's and let him draw her out into the night.

*****

William's demon was clawing to kill someone. Preferably Willow's aunt, but the Marlowe chap would do in a pinch. Pathetic, whining bore, that one. It had been all William could do not to reach across the table and rip out the man's tongue as he'd gone on and on about his aches and fainting spells and coughing fits. More like the walking dead than William himself, that one.

It was probably the restless agitation his demon felt after being forced to endure the mind-numbing conversation of so many self-absorbed humans that undid him and led him to lose control. And it *was* a loss of control, a sudden, fearsome snap of the restraint that raised him, a Master, above the level of the most impulsive fledgling.

They were standing out on the terrace, alone in the moonlight, quietly chuckling and commiserating about how tedious they each felt the dinner conversation had been. William had no warning other than the sensation of another heartbeat approaching them from the house and the brief flare of recognition and mischief in Willow's eyes. In the next instant, he found himself growling beneath the assault of an enchantingly strong and self-possessed woman.

His demon responded before he could assess the situation rationally. At first, all it perceived was an attack, and his fangs dropped to the ready. Locked in the passionate kiss that Willow had initiated, his sharp canines sliced her tongue, instantly triggering powerful reactions in each of them. Willow flinched at the pain and started to recoil. However, at the taste of her blood, the demon's instinct shifted immediately from self-defense to an irresistible urge to claim and possess. Without breaking the kiss, William pierced his own tongue and thrust it deep into Willow's mouth, feeding her his blood as he trapped her in a fierce, unyielding embrace.

Only later would William regain the clarity of mind to berate himself for nearly betraying his nature over something so simple as a kiss.

But what a kiss...

William forgot himself in the heady sweetness of Willow's lips as she relaxed under the soothing thrall of his blood and molded her body against his. He could sense her pulse slowly calming as all that she was attuned itself to him and to the lure of the demon's power that saturated his veins. Their lips grew red and wet with their combined blood, until a stray drop trickled down Willow's chin, leaving a scarlet trail on her pale skin.

When he was certain that Willow's mind was sufficiently clouded, William broke the kiss and gazed at her momentarily before shifting his features and licking the traces of spilled blood from her chin. Then, he held her close and teased her soft lips with gentle kisses, waiting for her to regain her senses.

It took considerable self-discipline not to whisk her off into the darker shadows and bend his mouth to her lovely neck.

Gradually, Willow stirred in his arms. When William felt the fluttering of her eyelashes and the faint pressure of her hands on his chest, he eased her back ever so slightly, yet kept her cradled in a loose embrace.

"What happened?" Willow murmured, still mildly disoriented.

"You kissed me," William's answer whispered softly in the night air.

Although Willow's lips parted in mute astonishment, it did nothing to diminish the sleepy, thoroughly seduced expression on her face. William watched the play of emotions across her face as her mind reconstructed events...albeit remembering only the pleasurable sensation of her mouth slowly being devoured.

"I did..." she remembered with a slight frown, trying to retreat from his embrace as her sense of propriety returned, "William, please forgive me--"

He silenced her with a finger to her lips, then gripped her chin lightly with his thumb and forefinger and raised her eyes to meet his.

"No, Willow. There is no call for forgiveness here. This is the first pleasurable moment I've had since we arrived this evening. Although I remain mystified as to the inspiration behind the impulse, believe me when I say that it was a very *welcome* impulse," William assured her.

For a moment, Willow merely gazed at him with a kind of sleepy, hesitant delight that made him wonder if she was falling back under the thrall. Then, shaking herself, she said, "It was Aunt Jane. I saw her coming toward us and...I guess I'd just had enough of her already tonight and wanted to scare her away. Not that she frightens very easily."

William's eyes danced as he chuckled, "And you accused *me* of having a wicked nature earlier tonight." Releasing her chin, he stroked his knuckles lightly over her cheek. "What a pair we are."

Willow grinned wryly at him. "Wicked, and trapped at an utterly tiresome dinner party." After a pause, she sighed heavily, "I suppose we should return to the other guests for the musical entertainment. More torture."

William's expression darkened with lust. "My dear, you cannot know how much an evening of torture would fill me with delight, simply because of your presence."

Satisfied that Willow had retained no memory of his demon's sudden emergence and that no outward sign betrayed their passionate exchange, William placed her hand on the crook of his elbow and escorted her back inside.

Chapter Eight

Willow squinted defensively against the bright light of the interior as she and William returned from the garden. It was odd. She didn't remember the lighting being so harsh, yet her eyes felt so much more comfortable in the dark outdoors. Perhaps it was a simple matter of re-adjusting.

Yet despite her painful sensitivity to the light, Willow had no trouble seeing the severe disapproval etched in harsh, unforgiving lines all across Aunt Jane's face. Her aunt literally looked like she was ready to pounce on them as she waited by a marble stand topped by a bust of one of Reginald Wimsey's ancestors.

Ordinarily, Willow greeted her aunt with resignation when Jane was in the mood to deliver a sound scolding. For some strange reason, however, her nerves tingled with the urge to fight. It wasn't rage so much as an almost animal instinct. Willow wondered if perhaps her tolerance for social gatherings was slipping.

She was spared from a potentially embarrassing confrontation when William smoothly steered her away from Aunt Jane and called out to Cordelia and her husband Reginald, "Mr. and Mrs. Wimsey, I couldn't help but notice the handsome pianoforte in your parlor earlier."

It was a trivial remark, but with just enough flattery to lure their hosts into a bout of self-congratulatory boasting which effectively prevented Aunt Jane from drawing Willow and William aside and chastising them. As a subtle strategy for disarming the exceedingly critical matron, it was pure genius. Willow wanted to kiss William.

...again.

However, she suppressed the smug grin that threatened to burst forth as she spied Aunt Jane, fuming indignantly at having been thwarted, and projected a polite, neutral expression as Cordelia and Reginald Wimsey approached.

"Why, thank you," Cordelia enthused, beaming proudly. "It was made by Ajello & Sons. Their craftsmanship is the finest. I'm sure you'll appreciate the quality in a few moments when we enjoy a little music."

"Mr. Royce is an investor, my dear," Mr. Wimsey observed rather pompously. "He can appreciate a sound investment, and this was a particularly good one. The rents on our properties in Berkshire were quite profitable the year we acquired our piano."

"People with a true appreciation of culture never settle for anything less than an Ajello..."

"Of course, it might have been more profitable to invest in another estate. I'd considered acquiring some Irish properties for a while, but that would mean dealing with *Irish* tenants, wouldn't it? Quite troublesome, they are, quite troublesome indeed..."

"Lady Kettering -- surely you know of her patronage of the arts -- won't even consider instruments made by anyone other than Ajello..."

A thought struck Willow as she listened to Cordelia and her husband, Reginald: there seemed to be no affection between them at all. They spoke without listening to each other, each completely self-absorbed and focused on impressing those around them. But Willow wasn't impressed at all.

This was what Aunt Jane wanted to force on her? All the conventions of marriage, the material comforts of a respectable household -- yet empty and devoid of love or even the slightest companionship? Why should that be the sum total of a woman's aspirations?

Willow became acutely aware of William's hand over hers. Such a contrast from the hollow, empty display she saw in Cordelia and Reginald. As Willow rested her hand in the crook of William's elbow, his fingers lightly stroked hers. The gesture was subtle enough not to attract attention. It was purely intimate, intended for Willow's benefit alone, a reassuring touch to let her know that he was with her.

And that was the odd thing: she could *feel* him throughout her. True, his presence was strongest where his cool skin touched hers, yet -- impossibly -- it was also as if every beat of her heart sent waves of *certainty* coursing through her, as if his very essence had diffused through her, affirming that she was not alone. Willow knew it was a silly illusion, though, a physiological response provoked by the wine, by the stress of her situation...or...

She wondered.

Was this what it felt like to be in love?

Certainly, she had heard it said that love produced any manner of fanciful feelings and powerful physiological responses. However, Willow had no basis for comparison. She had been shy around men before when she was much younger, she had even quietly fancied a few, but had never been in love.

They reached the parlor, Cordelia's and Reginald's inane prattle having served as an excellent shield against any confrontation with Aunt Jane, yet inwardly Willow was at war with her emotions. As she eased into an elegantly upholstered chair, she cast a furtive glance at William. Although she was unsurprised to find his compelling, blue eyes riveted to hers, the intensity of his gaze nonetheless sent a jolt through her that left her cheeks flushed. Quickly, she looked away.

Willow struggled to keep her breathing even and maintain her composure as she watched the other guests settle into the seats that were arrayed around the Wimseys' prized piano.

This couldn't be happening.

It was too fast...and...and she still hardly knew anything about him...and she was still treating a patient in his household...

Desperate to steady her emotions, Willow resorted to a mental exercise that had never failed her in the past. She concentrated on the patients she had treated in the past few weeks, recalling her diagnoses and treatments, and calculating the likely progression of their conditions.

Perhaps she was sick. That could be it.

Physical symptoms were something she could treat.

But...if this heart-racing, out-of-control feeling really was *love*, what was she to do?

She didn't know how to treat that.

*****

William wished he could dispense with outward appearances and gaze openly at Willow's flushed face all evening. Satisfaction surged through him at the knowledge that it was *his* blood that gave her cheeks that lovely, pink hue, both literally and figuratively. He could tell that she was affected by his blood and by their kiss. Amid a room filled with the steady thrum of heartbeats, hers was the strongest, and not simply because she was nearest to him or because he'd chosen to tune out all others but hers.

He knew she was affected because he could *feel* her heartbeat.

It was one of the most disorienting effects of the blood bond, especially for one so used to the lifeless state of his body. William's own heart hadn't beat in decades. Yet through the bond, renewed by their fleeting, passionate exchange of blood out in the garden, Willow's pulse left a ghostly echo in his veins. William could feel her agitation. Scenting the faint hint of her desire, he was fairly certain that their encounter still preoccupied her thoughts. That she was able to maintain her outer poise when inwardly her heart was pounding so relentlessly merely served to increase his esteem for her.

Her control was formidable, which made her all the more enticing and difficult to resist.

Yet resist he must, at least for another hour or so. William expected his endurance to be doubly tested, for not only would he have to withstand the temptation to whisk Willow away and seduce her, but he also had to brace himself for the imminent torture of amateur, middle-class entertainment.

It was bad enough that the songs and sonatas most often selected for such sociable gatherings reflected the tedious lack of flair so characteristic of humans of this social milieu. Add to that the grating quality so typical of amateur voices and it was pure hell on sensitive, preternatural hearing.

First up to the piano was a brunette with a shrill, warbling voice. William had largely ignored her at dinner and couldn't recall if he'd even learned her name. However, her atrocious attempt at singing would now forever mark her in his mind as "Miss Cuckoo".

Next came the hostess herself, and she was no better. Indeed, William became painfully aware of Cordelia's tendency to go flat. Her voice rose and fell in a cadence that had remarkably little to do with the notes that accompanied her on the piano. The resulting dissonance sorely tried his nerves and he consoled himself with very bloody fantasies of ripping out her tongue.

The music continued like that for an hour or so. William's eyes wandered over the faces of the other guests as he endeavored to distract himself from the lackluster musical performances. To his amusement, he saw Willow's Uncle Rowan nodding off beside Aunt Jane, who was doing her best to appear as though nothing was remiss. Major Fullerton squirmed restlessly in his seat and looked completely bored. The other guests had successfully plastered politely attentive expressions on their faces, although William glimpsed more than a few vacant stares.

Mercifully, one of the ladies who took her turn at the piano elected simply to play a few Nocturnes by Chopin, rather than sing. Her talent was at least passable.

However, William's restraint was put to the test when Cordelia invited Willow to take her turn at the piano. He felt Willow tense beside him and caught a brief flicker of hurt in her eyes. Worse still, the speed and grace with which she raised her mask suggested that this was an old, longstanding hurt -- one she was all too familiar dealing with.

"Thank you, Cordelia, but as you know, I did not study music in school," Willow replied graciously enough, although William caught the tell-tale strain in her inflection.

"Why, of course, Cordelia. You shouldn't embarrass Miss Rosenberg so by drawing attention to the fact that she never learned the feminine arts," cooed a cherubic blonde seated across the room.

Cold rage seethed within William as he spied the indiscreet smirks that flitted across faces throughout the entire room in response to the insincere expression of concern which, he had no doubt, was a wholly calculated slight against Willow.

That did it.

He'd planned to kill Willow's Aunt Jane, and quite possibly her Uncle Rowan and Cordelia as well. But this high-class tart just moved herself to the top of the list. William set his jaw to keep from glaring too obviously as he appraised the precious little blonde, committing her features to memory.

"Ah, but Mrs. Gordon, where some have acquired an affinity for ivory keys, Dr. Rosenberg occupies herself with an entirely different sort of bones, what?" Major Fullerton countered in a rather inept attempt at witty diplomacy.

Yes...Mrs. Gordon...Beatrice Gordon, it was. William filed this away as well, the better to track her later.

"Oh, but surely one cannot compare bones to piano keys!" exclaimed Cordelia, exchanging a scandalized look with her friend Beatrice.

Major Fullerton, who was apparently oblivious to the social graces of polite conversation, insisted, "Why, indeed they *are* alike, Mrs. Wimsey. What is ivory, after all, but a protuberance of bone? When I was in India, I once saw the most magnificent bull elephant felled, and the tusks on that creature--"

"What a fascinating story," Cordelia interrupted tersely, clearly *not* fascinated by the idea of a lengthy account of the Major's adventures in India. "However, I would not wish to cut short our entertainment and prevent anyone who so wishes from taking a turn at the piano."

Amid the awkward, silent pause that followed Cordelia's rather heavy-handed attempt to steer everyone back toward more conventional, light-hearted after-dinner amusement, William rose to his feet. With the command of a Master vampire, he surveyed the assembled guests, wordlessly riveting their attention to him.

Acknowledging Cordelia with a genteel nod of his head, William announced, "I am no musician, but if our hostess will permit a slight diversion, it would be my pleasure to share a poem penned by one of England's finer poets."

An approving murmur circled the room. Cordelia herself looked relieved at the return to a properly cultured divertissement and nodded her assent. William strode to the center of the room, then pivoted to face Willow. He held her gaze, studying the play of curiosity and apprehension in her eyes as he began to recite a poem by Shelley that, in life, had been one of his favorites.

"I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
when the winds are breathing low,
and the stars are shining bright
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me -- who knows how? --
To thy chamber-window, sweet!
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream, --
The champak odors fall
Like sweet thoughts in a dream,
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine,
O, beloved as thou art!
O, lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fall!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale,
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My Heart beats loud and fast
Oh! press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last!"

As his voice died out, the entire room lingered in breathless suspense for a few moments.

William was unsurprised by the sea of enraptured stares and flushed cheeks that greeted him. He had intentionally used the inflections of a Master's voice, subtly manipulating his listeners with the same techniques he might use to entrance his prey. At certain key points in the poem, he had shaded his words with a sub-sonic purr, undetectable to human ears on a conscious level but highly effective in inducing a subconscious sensation of contentment.

While he still held them in his thrall, William returned to his seat, his movements fluid and purposeful. When he stood before Willow, who looked up at him with shining eyes, he held out his hand. Hesitantly, she responded to his unspoken prompt and laid her hand in his, whereupon he raised it to his lips and bestowed a soft kiss.

It was a lesson to all others in the room.

He was a Master vampire. Regardless of whether or not the humans were aware of that, he expected nothing less than full respect. Even if Willow were the lowliest barmaid, because she was *his* companion for the evening, he would not abide any mistreatment of her, not even the slightest, pettiest humiliation.

With the words he'd recited and with his reverent treatment of her, William raised Willow up above the 'ladies' who had insinuated that she was somehow beneath them because she couldn't be bothered to warble a useless tune to the piano as they did. He took wicked delight at the thought of the quiet anguish he caused by lavishing Willow with the very adoration that Cordelia and her coterie thought to win with their displays of mediocre talent. Oh, there were indeed more ways than one to drive a spike into someone's heart. Jealousy, envy -- those were velvet-lined spikes, just as fatal for false-hearted elites who craved esteem above all else. And whether with a velvet-lined spike or solid iron, he knew how to administer a killing blow.

When the music began again, there was a noticeable shift toward more introspective sonatas.

William only half-listened, preferring to focus on Willow. Her serene expression stood out in marked contrast to the frustrated yearning so evident in the other ladies. From time to time, his unwavering attention was rewarded with a fleeting, sideward glance, a blush and a slight smile.

He was more than ready to leave.

He had a doctor to seduce.

*****

They had almost escaped.

Willow drank in the cool night air, finding it soothing after the stuffy atmosphere of Cordelia's parlor, as William escorted her to their carriage. The evening had passed like a dream. She had arrived dreading the usual scorn and petty behavior that had been her lot at social affairs ever since she'd chosen her unconventional career. Yet at every turn, William had easily deflected jibes and veiled taunts and made her feel comfortable. More than that: he'd thoroughly romanced her. Willow couldn't remember the last time she'd enjoyed a dinner party so much.

So, naturally, it was inevitable that Aunt Jane would swoop down when the opportunity presented itself and do her utmost to end the evening on an unpleasant note.

"My niece," Aunt Jane's voice echoed icily from the steps behind them, "I expect you to call on me this week. It seems a conversation is in order about indiscretion."

Willow's eyes narrowed and her jaw set as the unfamiliar but compelling urge to fight rose in her. In the past, she'd suffered her aunt's chastisements with quiet resolve, but something had gotten into her this evening. Willow actually felt her nerves tingling in anticipation as she halted, then pivoted beside William to face Aunt Jane with a resolute, slightly devilish gleam in her eyes.

"Indiscretion?" Willow arched an eyebrow, staring calmly at her aunt.

Was that her voice?

Willow could have sworn that she'd almost...purred.

At the startled widening of her aunt's eyes, Willow realized that Jane had heard it, too. However, Aunt Jane was not easily intimidated, and the disapproving scowl quickly resettled itself on her face.

"Your conduct this evening has been most unseemly," came the elder woman's stern pronouncement. "You are fortunate that no one but I witnessed your scandalous display in the garden. As it was, your behavior in the parlor was most unbefitting a lady. Tread very carefully, my niece. You cannot afford to sully your reputation."

A wild, uninhibited confidence uncoiled within Willow's breast, like an untamed beast bursting from a cage. Something drove her to speak the thoughts that she'd kept to herself for so long.

"My reputation is my own, to make of it what I will," she countered smoothly. "And since my ladylike status has long been subject to doubt because of my chosen profession, nothing that transpired this evening should be of any consequence."

"Mind. Your. Tongue!" Aunt Jane retorted venomously, gripping her skirt and taking a step toward Willow. "Or the consequences may be very severe indeed."

Willow nearly lunged at her aunt, but the gentle pressure of William's hand on her waist held her in check. "Isn't it rather vulgar to make threats, my aunt?"

"I am merely cautioning you as to the outcome of your own, ill-advised actions," came the cold, formal declaration. "As the executors of the trust fund set up by your parents, your uncle and I have a responsibility to--"

William's steady, commanding voice cut her off.

"Willow is no longer your concern."

He hadn't needed to shout, despite the fact that Aunt Jane's speech had grown increasingly shrill. His statement had been calm, but effective. For a moment, a breathless silence stretched between the three of them.

Circling his arm around Willow's waist, openly laying his claim, William continued, "Willow is her own -- a skilled surgeon and a lady who need answer to no one. However, if she *were* anyone's concern, she would be mine. Understand this: the best lawyers in London are at my service. there isn't a compact or document that I cannot see altered or even nullified if I so wish. Do not presume to threaten Willow with your power over her trust fund ever again," he lowered his voice in a menacing echo of Aunt Jane's own words, "or the consequences may be very severe indeed."

Willow was stunned at his declaration; so stunned, that she scarcely managed to appreciate the rare, almost-never-seen expression of open shock on Aunt Jane's face. For perhaps the first time in her life, Willow's formidable aunt had been reduced to gaping like an imbecile.

As her emotions warred within, Willow could only follow in a daze as William steered her toward his carriage and helped her inside.

With a quick rap on the side of the carriage, William ordered the driver to start them home. The horses trotted at a leisurely pace, but for Willow, the world was rushing past.

Things were all happening too fast.

Chapter Nine

The carriage jostled along London's streets, rocking and swaying to the staccato clip-clop of the horse's hooves. The easy motion caused Willow to brush against William as they sat side by side. The contact made her shiver, yet Willow was still torn about what William had said to her aunt and found herself reluctant to meet his gaze. The evening was drawing to a close and reality was beginning to set in. She had let herself get too carried away. She was not Cinderella; she was a physician. Tomorrow, she would have patients to tend.

"Are you cold?" William asked when she shivered yet again. Willow could almost feel his piercing stare on her cheeks.

"No...no, I'm fine," she murmured, even as a blush crept into her cheeks.

"Then what is it? You're shivering," William pressed, although Willow could tell from the soft, throaty rumble in his voice that he already knew how deeply he affected her.

Her heart beat a little faster at the gentle nudge of his fingers beneath her chin. Hesitantly, she raised her eyes to his.

"I am a little..." Willow stammered softly as William's face bent toward hers, "overwhelmed by all that happened this evening."

"Mmm? Overwhelmed?" William's lips teased her mouth. Willow felt her lips part in response.

"And..." Willow began, losing herself in the butterfly kisses that William showered on her soft mouth.

"And?" he prompted, nibbling gently on her rose-petal lips. Growing bolder, he insinuated his tongue between them and languidly explored the velvet heat of her mouth. Odd that his lips and tongue always seemed a little cool...

Yet they made her feel so wonderful. Willow moaned briefly before pulling back.

"And irked," she finished somewhat sternly, although her gaze was more fevered than stern.

"Irked?" A sculpted eyebrow arched above amused, blue eyes. William leaned in to reclaim Willow's mouth but she somehow found the strength to draw back, holding herself out of reach.

She even made a valiant attempt to summon her "resolve" face, although it was rather weak.

"I am no one's property," Willow insisted, her brow furrowing slightly. "Not my aunt's, not a husband's -- no one's. Please do not think me ungrateful. I appreciated your support in dealing with my aunt. You make a very gallant champion, William. It is merely that I am uncomfortable playing the damsel in distress."

William gave her a long, appraising stare. Pure, masculine heat simmered in his eyes as he murmured, "That, you could never be. I've told you that we are alike. You've something fierce in you. It's enchanting to behold. You didn't need me to defend you this evening, Willow. Quite the contrary: it was your aunt's undeservedly good fortune that I was there to restrain you from unleashing the full force of your wrath."

Willow couldn't help but chuckle softly and blush at his praise. She also found it a little unsettling that he could guess at the depth of resentment and frustration she'd kept bottled up from years of placating her aunt.

However, rather than laugh with her, William sobered and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. "That was not idle flattery, Willow. You have fire in you, so much that when you unleash it, I've no doubt it will be devastating."

It was Willow's turn to arch her eyebrow skeptically at William. "And you aspire to be there to witness the flames?" she surmised with an ironic half-smile.

"I'm doing everything in my power to spark them."

The rich, sinful rumble of William's voice made her shiver again.

A look of understanding flashed between them. Both recognized that the evening had been merely a prelude to something greater. However, Willow's sense of self was still firmly rooted in her career and her independence. She was not ready to abandon that for a torrid romance, for that would be to embrace the unknown, the terrifying unknown.

"Well, it will have to wait." Willow's answer was shaky when at last she managed to speak. "I would not wish to jeopardize Mr. Bancroft's recovery through my own distraction."

An unknown emotion, darker and more intense than anything Willow had ever seen, flared briefly in William's eyes. Willow had to blink; for a moment, it had almost seemed as though his eyes were glowing. However, within the span of a heartbeat, his usual reserve had returned and a sly grin stretched across his face.

"Time is in my favor," he answered evenly. "I can wait to drive you to distraction." When Willow's cheeks flushed self-consciously at his remark, his eyes narrowed in knowing pleasure. "Know this, Willow: I desire our acquaintance to continue beyond your treatment of my solicitor. You are a highly skilled surgeon, this I do not deny; but you are also a woman of beauty and character. This, *you* have denied, all because society will not allow you to be both. But with me, you can be -- without apology, without reservation."

Willow half expected him to kiss her again after such a declaration, but he merely rested his brow against hers for a moment, gently stroking her neck with his thumb, before leaning back in his seat and leaving her to herself. The remainder of the journey to her apartment was spent in an almost chaste, companionable silence, save for the clatter of carriage wheels. And yet, to Willow the carriage felt considerably...warmer.

When William escorted her to her door, Willow permitted herself the indulgence of one, final, longing kiss for the evening. She closed her eyes and let the delicious sensations wash over her as he deepened the kiss, drawing it out as the minutes passed, then slowly began nibbling his way along her jaw line to the soft, smooth flesh of her neck. Her mind grew clouded as every fiber of her being started to float in a haze of pleasure.

Completely rapt from William's attentions, Willow barely noticed the brief sting of fangs in her neck. She sank further into bliss as he drew her rich, vital blood into his mouth. By the time he pressed his bleeding wrist to her lips, she was oblivious to her situation. Willow suckled instinctively and without awareness of what she was doing -- without knowing how subtly, how inexorably she was being lured toward her fate.

*****

After leaving Willow at her doorstep -- an act which demanded a heroic level of restraint -- William dismissed the minion driving his carriage, opting to return to his lair on foot. The demon needed blood, but even more, it needed violence. A good, vicious kill -- something to quench the lust that Willow inevitably stirred in him.

Four people lay dead by the time he returned to the mansion.

Two had been ample to satisfy his blood craving. The others had been sheer slaughter for slaughter's sake. He'd picked a fight with two swaggering ruffians and beaten them to death. True, it also served to cover his tracks. It wouldn't do to leave four bloodless corpses with wounds in their necks for the police to find. But mostly, it just felt bloody good.

When he sauntered into the mansion a scant hour before dawn, his face was bruised, his knuckles were red and raw, and his mood was still a little edgy.

"Must've been a good night, from the look of ye," a rich, amber voice greeted him from the stairwell.

William looked up to see Angelus watching him with calm bemusement. His sire. Instantly, the demon was restless again, as if the night's bloodshed had done nothing to sate it. There was no sight quite as magnificent as his sire.

"Not as good as I'd have liked," William admitted. He made his way up the stairs, his pace deliberate yet silent on the velvet-covered steps. He gazed intently at the dark being who'd made him. "A certain lovely surgeon has turned out to be maddeningly strong-willed."

Although the irritation was evident in William's voice, he nonetheless made his interest clear to Angelus in his posture and his manner. It was the way of sire and childe: there was no room for shyness when it came to the wants they satisfied in each other.

At last, William stood on the step immediately below Angelus. The two vampires regarded each other steadily, an intimate ritual that was both a seduction and a battle of wills.

"Losin' yer touch, are ye then?" Angelus taunted, his voice rough and deep.

William was unable to prevent a low growl from rumbling in his throat, although he rapidly quelled it at the stern flash of gold in his sire's dark eyes.

"The blood bond is strong and deep," William countered with no small amount of pride. "She's already confessed to an odd sensitivity to light. I barely have to coax her at all to drink my blood. And tonight...bloody hell! You should have seen her. She all but attacked her bitch of an aunt. Would have done, too, if I hadn't held her back. So she's definitely attuned to the demon; my hold is strong. Trouble is, she's bloody strong herself."

Angelus rumbled his approval and inclined his head toward William's, ghosting his brow over the younger vampire's face in a primitive, erotic, proprietary gesture. William trembled in heady anticipation.

"Seems to me it's high time I meet this doctor of yers," Angelus purred as his lips began to nip at the silky flesh just over William's jugular. "She must be worthy indeed if she's got the mettle to resist you."

Firm, powerful hands suddenly pulled William flush against his sire's body.

Just before crushing his mouth hungrily against William's, Angelus whispered fiercely, "After all, even I have a devil of a time resisting you."

Inwardly, William's demon howled with glee as he met his sire's ardor with equal fire.

*****

It was late into the morning after the banquet before William at last fell asleep in his sire's embrace, his passion satisfied. Willow, meanwhile, was just stirring from her slumber.

Once again, she was puzzled and somewhat concerned to discover that she was painfully sensitive to the light. The brightness hurt her eyes and her skin rapidly flushed pink where the unusually warm sunbeams hit it. Briefly, Willow wondered if she had contracted a fever. When she got up to wash her face and glanced in the mirror, she spied two miniscule, red, nearly closed wounds on her neck that made her suspect she'd been bitten by fleas or some other insect. It was certainly an occupational hazard, given the poverty of her clientele, and would explain her sickness.

When Willow brushed her fingertips over the bites, a sudden warmth flooded her. She felt mildly agitated, as if she were missing something. Without warning, images flashed in her mind so rapidly that she couldn't quite distinguish them, save that they left her with an ominous impression of darkness and violence. The sensation left her shaking. Willow steadied herself against the wall, panting in rapid, shallow breaths, before easing her way back to her bed.

There was no question in her mind now. If she was hallucinating, she was definitely ill. Rest was in order. However, to be on the safe side, she opened the drawer of her bedside table, withdrew a small phial of quinine and gave herself a dose. Then, in a journal she kept for just such purposes, she made a brief notation of the date, her symptoms, and the medication she'd administered.

As a last resort, she would have a neighbor summon one of her colleagues to treat her.

Like all physicians, Willow was a very reluctant patient.

*****

It had taken three nights of patient observation.

Fortunately for William, a "mysterious illness" had befallen Willow and prevented her from coming to check on Bancroft's recovery. William was thus free to spend his evenings haunting the garden and courtyard of the elegant townhouse where Beatrice Gordon and her husband lived. With his connections, he'd had no difficulty in tracking her. Then, it had been a simple matter of watching...and waiting.

At last, the perfect opportunity presented itself.

Mr. Gordon left in their carriage early in the evening, perhaps on business or to pass a few hours at a gentleman's club; it mattered little. Shortly thereafter, William presented himself at the door. As he could claim acquaintance with the Gordon's from the dinner party, the servant readily admitted him.

A fatal mistake.

William rapidly drained the man the instant he turned to announce William's arrival to the mistress of the household. Just before his victim died, William bit into his own wrist and pressed it to the dying man's mouth.

Letting the body fall to the floor, William followed the steady thrum of the only other heartbeat in the house to find Beatrice ensconced with a novel on a plush setee in her bedroom. She gaped in astonishment at his unexpected appearance, but William was in no mood for a messy confrontation, even though it would have been eminently satisfying to terrorize her for a while. Too swiftly for mortal perception, he pounced and sank his fangs into her neck. When he'd taken enough blood to render her unconscious, he stopped and finished the job by strangling her, as might any common thief. She still had enough blood in her that her corpse would display glaring, vicious bruises over her entire neck.

Slinging her body over his shoulder, he carried her downstairs and dumped her unceremoniously at the threshold between the entry hall and the salon. Returning to her bedroom, he found a linen sheet and emptied her jewelry onto it. After descending to the dining room and adding the Gordons' silver cutlery to the stash, he stepped into the courtyard behind the house, signaled to the minion who had accompanied him, and handed over the entire bundle with instructions to abandon it somewhere in the thieves' quarter.

William returned to the two corpses strewn on the floor of the entry hall and gazed with pride at his handiwork. The stage was set. Only one final detail to take care of.

He hauled the servant, soon to be a fledgling vampire, into his arms and carried him out through the shadowed courtyard and gardens, leaping the wall to slip unnoticed into the streets. Traveling under the cover of darkness, he made his way down to the docks and dumped the body atop a pile of crates.

The fledge was unlikely to rise before dawn. By then, the sun would do its work and erase the only remaining evidence of William's nocturnal visit to the Gordon household.

With a fiendish grin, William headed back to his mansion.

Chapter Ten

Willow recovered from her strange symptoms within two days, however, her relief was short-lived when she heard the news.

Beatrice Gordon was dead.

London society was shocked. Apparently, she had been killed by a burglar, or possibly an entire gang of thieves, right in her very own home. Everywhere, fashionable tongues were wagging: such a thing didn't happen in *their* milieu. The Gordons lived in one of the more respectable neighborhoods. Such uncivilized brutality might be understandable in a seedier district, but in the heart of London's upper crust? Unthinkable!

Yet there were also hushed rumors that the Gordons' household servant had been involved, for he vanished the night of the dastardly crime and had not been seen nor heard from since. To many of London's elites, the truth was clear:

The butler did it.

In a panic, they took it out on their own servants. Instructions grew more terse, long-trusted valets and maids were regarded with suspicion, and those who had been recently hired or had merely managed to irritate their employers were suddenly released from their service and turned out into the street.

Willow attended the funeral and offered her condolences to Mr. Gordon, doing her utmost to think of nice things she could say about someone who, in truth, she had never liked. However, Willow felt horribly guilty thinking ill of the dead, and she found it more than a little unnerving that she had seen Beatrice alive and well only a few nights earlier.

As Willow was stammering niceties to a very somber Mr. Gordon about "how well-liked" Beatrice had been, Aunt Jane and Uncle Rowan approached.

The formidable Mrs. Ashton merely regarded her niece with cold disapproval and remarked, "Your Mr. Royce did not accompany you to pay his respects, I see. Perhaps you do have some *small* sense of decorum. A funeral is a far more solemn occasion than a dinner party, after all."

With that, Aunt Jane turned to offer the proper sympathies to Mr. Gordon, leaving Willow to fume silently over the obvious snub.

Willow barely stopped herself from growling, then blinked in stupefied alarm at the feral reaction that her aunt's cool hostility had stirred. It was so unlike her! Yet at the same time, she felt a deep, primitive satisfaction at the evidence that Aunt Jane was still smarting over what had happened at Cordelia's dinner party. William had bested Aunt Jane at her own game. Worse yet, he'd humiliated her in front of Willow.

Somewhere in the dark, still reaches of her mind, there glowed proudly a single thought: *Mine*.

However, her rational side realized that her aunt's brusque comment was merely the sign of worse yet to come.

No doubt Aunt Jane intended to withhold Willow's stipend for a month or so.

Fortunately, William had been paying her handsomely for her ongoing care of Mr. Bancroft. Since the strange occasion of their first meeting, he'd had a sum equivalent to the fees charged by the leading physicians in London transferred to her bank account.

True to his promise, William treated her as he would any respected physician, even though he had made his romantic interest clear. To Willow's frustration, nothing further had been said about their...well, she supposed it was a courtship...since the soiree at Cordelia's. Between Willow's illness and the funeral, there hadn't been time.

It was with equal measures of anticipation and trepidation, then, that Willow greeted her next opportunity to dine with William at his mansion. She had, for lack of a better word, *craved* his company...almost like a physical need. When his invitation was delivered the evening before her regular visit to check on Mr. Bancroft's recovery, Willow had practically beamed with delight.

However, her nerves jittered at the final line of his note, which indicated that one of William's close friends would be joining them, and what was more, that this friend had expressed a particular desire to meet Willow.

Willow's curiosity was piqued.

That, and overwhelmed at the thought that this might mean something quite serious...something she wasn't sure she was ready for, yet that excited her all the same.

Lastly, William asked that she wear the necklace he'd given her.

Curioser and curioser...

Still, the following evening, she decided to forego the usual, practical attire she wore for house calls and donned the formal, black dress she'd worn to Beatrice Gordon's funeral. It was nowhere near as fine or elegant as her violet, silk gown, but when paired with the exquisite, ruby necklace, Willow was surprised to discover how striking it looked.

When she arrived at William's mansion and was escorted into a sumptuous sitting room, her heart surged at the sight of him. His blue eyes regarded her intensely; there was no shyness in them at all. The impulse to draw nearer to him, to touch him, hummed through her. It was so compelling that she began to do just that. However, she had taken only a single stop when she halted abruptly.

William was not alone.

Beside him stood a tall, forbidding man with a mane of dark hair and a calm, secretive smile on his face.

It was clear that he was studying her.

Something about him made Willow shiver....and yet, in the furthest depths of her mind, Willow experienced an odd sense of familiarity. It troubled her that she couldn't quite place her finger on it.

If anything, he reminded her vaguely of William.

Which made no sense at all.

They didn't look anything like each other.

Although...

It suddenly struck her. They didn't "look" like each other as in resembling one another...but they "looked" at others, they watched, in very much the same manner. They shared the same alertness that suggested a sense of superiority.

Willow experienced a momentary bout of insecurity, wondering if she could handle two such formidable personalities for an entire evening, until she reminded herself that she had been holding her own amid people who were convinced they were superior to her for most of her adult life. This would be no different.

Besides, William had managed to develop an affection for her, despite her headstrong nature; since this gentleman was a friend of William's, perhaps he would be equally sympathetic.

After all...a friend of William's certainly couldn't be a monster.

*****

William was right. The blood bond was strong...and so was his pretty doctor.

Angelus had seen it as soon as she'd entered the room.

Her first instinct had been to walk straight toward William -- that much was clear from the way she held herself. She'd even tilted her chin to the side, baring her neck slightly although Angelus was sure she didn't even realize what she'd done. Yet she was no enthralled slave; she retained enough of her own will -- not to mention that pesky, human sense of propriety -- to restrain herself when she realized that she and William had company.

Too bad.

It would have been interesting to see her greet his childe *wholeheartedly*. She was indeed a fetching lass, and Angelus didn't doubt that she was positively ravishing when a touch of passion flushed her cheeks.

No matter. There would be time for that later.

Meanwhile, William approached her, raised her hand to his lips with a very telling reverence, kissed it and murmured, "Good evening, Willow."

Angelus suppressed a smirk at the emotion in William's voice. That was more than simple manipulation. William was just as affected as his little pet. Yes...this was definitely going to be interesting.

"Please allow me to introduce you to my friend, Angelus," William continued, subtly drawing Willow forward a step with a gentle tug of his hand.

On cue, Angelus moved toward Willow with a predator's grace, fixing his gaze on her so steadily that she flinched. However, he was pleased to detect only a slight increase in her heart rate. Good...she had spine, for a human, but there was still a part of her that was sensible enough to recognize a threat. He could see why William was so taken.

It didn't hurt that she had the eyes of a fae, either. Angelus couldn't remember when he'd seen such true green in a woman's eyes. Or such depth of expression; he could almost see her rallying herself when he peered at those lively, emerald pools.

"It is a pleasure to meet a friend of William's," she said with an easy, comfortable lilt to her voice. "He has been so fond of telling me how few friends he has, that I am delighted to discover that he is not entirely alone in the world."

Accepting her proferred hand, Angelus bent slightly and pressed a kiss to it. His eyes held hers as he straightened and countered, "The pleasure is mine, Dr. Rosenberg. William has told me much about you, and as impressed as I was by his descriptions, they pale in comparison to meeting you in person."

Although he enjoyed the brief flush that his praise brought to her cheeks, Angelus was even more amused at the exasperated wrinkle that formed between Willow's brow. She turned toward William and chided in good humor, "How is it that you do not stoop to flattery, but your friend does?"

Both vampires laughed heartily at this and exchanged a knowing look in which Angelus let his childe see his approval.

William rested his hand against the small of Willow's back and began to steer her toward the grand dining hall. "Trust me, Willow, Angelus is even less of a one for flattery than I am. He doesn't impress easily, either."

"Aye, that's certain," Angelus agreed, following as William escorted Willow out into the hall. "Last time someone impressed me, it was you, William. Ahh...now there's a memory..."

Angelus smiled inwardly at the discreet, sidelong glance his childe flashed at him. Yes...even as a human, William had impressed him with his quick wits and his determination to fight tooth and claw to come out on top of a situation. It was one of the reasons Angelus had turned him. And the dark vampire could see similar qualities in the lovely young doctor William favored.

Before dinner, she insisted on checking on her patient first, which made Angelus curious about her work. He was further intrigued to learn that she spent a good portion of her time in the morgue performing autopsies.

The things these humans did for a living. Cutting up dead bodies and studying their insides?

Now *that* was a subject worth discussing over dinner.

*****

William observed with sly satisfaction as his sire engaged Willow in a conversation that would have turned most average mortals a sickly, pale green and had them reaching for their stomach elixirs. And Willow happily answered Angelus's questions over a dinner of extremely rare, bloody roast beef, no less!

"...and you can tell all that simply from cutting a body open and extracting the lungs?" Angelus asked as he sipped his bloodwine.

Willow deftly sliced through the helping of roast beef on her plate, the slight pressure of her knife and fork expressing a small pool of red juices. "Oh, yes. Pathology has made great progress as a science since Morgagni's treatise appeared in the 1760s. By first studying the tissue of healthy organs, one can learn to distinguish the effects of different diseases in the lesions they leave."

"But suppose it wasn't a disease," continued Angelus with a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Suppose a man were killed through treachery. How would you distinguish between someone who'd been poisoned and someone who died of the pox or cholera?"

"Well, the first clue would be the victim's state of health immediately before death," Willow answered without missing a beat, chewing delicately on a small morsel of tender, bloody beef. "Although some diseases, it is true, present with a sudden, catastrophic onset..."

The conversation continued in its macabre vein through the entire meal and William relished it to no end. His sire was clearly enjoying Willow's company, and had already signaled his approval earlier. As for Willow, not only was she unperturbed by Angelus's graphic questions about wounds and other evidence of damage that could be read on a corpse, she practically came alive when she talked about her work. Her words rushed out in an exuberant stream and her face almost glowed.

Thus, it made him all the angrier when her mood abruptly dimmed at the mention of that Beatrice chit's funeral, and he learned that Willow's withered old sow of an aunt was the cause.

The subject had come up naturally enough, what with Angelus asking about autopsies Willow had performed in cases where murder was suspected. At Willow's sudden retreat into quiet stoicism, William reached across the table and gently covered her hand with his own.

"Willow, love, what is it? What's wrong?" he asked, brushing his thumb in soothing circles over the back of her hand.

It pleased him when she did not pull away, and even turned her hand palm up the better to clasp his, unconsciously accepting his claim.

"I...I spoke briefly with Aunt Jane at the funeral," Willow began hesitantly, her cheeks beginning to flush as she glanced uncomfortably at Angelus. "It was the first time I'd seen her since..."

William guessed that she was nervous about alluding to their passionate interludes at the banquet. Thankfully, before he even had to ask his sire to give them a little privacy, Angelus rose to his feet and said, "It's always about this time in a meal when I like a good cigar. I noticed you had some in the study, William. Think I'll step out onto the terrace and sample what you have to offer."

With a curt nod, William acknowledged his sire's departure before turning his full attention back to Willow. When they were alone, he moved his chair closer to hers, wrapped one arm loosely around her waist, raised her hand to his lips and kissed it before pressing it against his cheek. "Tell me what she said, Willow. Did she threaten you?"

"No...well, not in so many words," Willow explained, her expression troubled.

Eyes narrowing, William countered, "The most effective threats don't involve words. Trust me, Willow. I know threats."

Inclining her head in agreement, Willow acknowledged, "It was less what she said than the fact that she barely spoke to me at all. I've seen this before. Aunt Jane is very upset."

"What *did* she say?" William asked again.

For a long moment, Willow gazed at him as if she were making up her mind about something. Then, glancing away, she murmured, "It was petty. She commented on the fact that *my* Mr. Royce hadn't accompanied me to the funeral, and said it was just as well since funerals call for decorum." Hastily, Willow added, "It was a very uncharitable insinuation--"

William stopped her with a single finger pressed to her lips. When Willow raised troubled eyes to his, he assured her, "Willow, I *am* yours. And you are mine."

Her heart pounded so fiercely he might have felt it even without the bond. He ran his finger lightly over her bottom lip, eliciting a sigh from her.

"I'm not ready for this," Willow whispered, closing her eyes.

"Not ready for what?" William prompted softly, gliding his hand down to her neck where he circled his thumb over his mark.

"Please don't make me--" Willow entreated as she opened her eyes again and gazed at him.

"Say it," William insisted firmly, finishing her thought.

"I'm not ready to feel what I feel for you," Willow confessed quietly, regarding him with a steadiness that was belied by her rapid heartbeat. "To love you."

"Yes..." William's sibilant reply ghosted across Willow's lips as his mouth closed over hers, "...you are."

William savored the warmth of her mouth, the way she yielded to him, adapting to the pressure of his lips, the subtle allure of his tongue, the unhurried pace he set for their mutual exploration. His demon stirred in respose to her demands, made more boldy and bodily than ever before as she finally shed her inhibitions and embraced her desire to take, to claim.

However, when Willow's hand slid up his neck to rest over what would have been his pulse-point, William decided that the risk of discovery was too great, that it was still too soon. He gently seized her wrists and drew away from her. Before the slightest anxiety could mar her brow, he kissed it, held her gaze for a moment, then asked, "Are you concerned that your aunt may express her displeasure in a more serious fashion?"

"She has been known to withhold the monthly allowance from the trust fund established for me by my parents," Willow sighed.

"Are you willing to trust me to deal with her?" William prompted bluntly.

Perhaps a little too bluntly. At Willow's uneasy silence, William wondered if the cryptic phrase "deal with her" had not also been too ominous. When Willow replied, it was not what he expected.

"I dislike having to rely on you to resolve a dispute with my aunt. It gives me no end of frustration that she holds more power over me than should rightly be hers."

Relieved that Willow had not objected to the underlying threat in his suggestion, William offered her a sympathetic smile and countered, "I didn't establish society's rules, luv. But if you let me, I *will* help you break them."

An impish grin erupted on Willow's face. She regarded him wondrously for several moments, as if searching for something, then lowered her gaze shyly and murmured, "What does this mean for us, William? I do not lightly consent to have someone manage my affairs."

In a move wholly uncharacteristic for a Master vampire, William slowly eased down to his knees before Willow, feeling just a little drunk as her rapid heartbeat resonated through him.

"Do you need a ring?" he asked. "If so, know that the necklace I gave you represents a stronger pledge than any ring as it bears my crest. I am not the sort for a church wedding. However, I have already decided that I want you by my side, as my companion in all things, for the remainder of your days. Will you accept?"

Willow's shaky breathing filled the long, tense pause as William awaited her reply. Slowly, her lips curled into a wry smile. "That is a decidedly unconventional proposal," she remarked. "But I have never been one to stand for convention."

It was all that William could do not to whisk her away to his room then and there to claim her as he wanted to. His demon was impatient to take possession of this innocent treasure before the opportunity was lost. She had agreed! Why wait?! However, William wanted to do it properly. This was for eternity, and as such he wanted it to surpass his wildest fantasies. He would not sacrifice that to a rash, hasty impulse.

But he had no qualms about giving Willow a taste of what lay in store.

With a passion spurred by the demon's lust, he seized Willow around the waist, heaved her out of the chair and bore her down to the floor, crushing his lips against hers. He kissed her with a relentless hunger, swallowing her soft cry of surprise. A low, satisfied growl rumbled up from his chest when he felt her initial, startled tension drain away. She melted into him and they moved as one, tongues entwined, mouths locked together, hands roaming over each other in eager, possessive discovery.

Reluctantly, William finally broke their kiss. Willow lay beneath him, flushed and gasping for breath.

"Mine," William whispered against her neck. "Body and soul."

"Yes," she agreed in low, sibilant tones, her eyes shining.

They shared one more kiss, so gentle it was almost chaste, before William rose up, helped Willow to her feet, and suggested they join Angelus outside and let him know that a celebration was in order.

Chapter Eleven

Willow walked with William as if in a daze, yet oddly alert and alive to every sight and sound and sensation around her, down to the smallest detail. The world seemed new again, as it had been in her childhood. She felt giddy and nervous all at once.

What she had just agreed to, she still wasn't sure. William had not asked her to marry him and, oddly, Willow felt a small measure of relief at that. Deep down, some part of her realized she wasn't one for a church wedding -- yet another thing she and William had in common. But then, what? She had no doubt that she could trust his word when he said he desired her companionship for the rest of her life. More than any other person she had ever encountered, William Royce struck her as a man who did not make frivolous statements.

His candor was simply one of many things that had prompted her to accept his proposal, strange though it was.

Of course, the way he could make her heart leap and soar also influenced her decision.

And for the first time ever, when she imagined her future stretching out before her, she was unable to think of it without William. Medicine had once been enough, and it was still her calling. However, she realized how much she'd come to look forward to her periodic checks on Mr. Bancroft's recovery, for the simple reason that it gave her the opportunity to spend an evening with William. With Mr. Bancroft's leg nearly healed, she would have had no further reason to visit the mansion. It was the deep, heartfelt dismay that this prospect evoked, in the end, that had spurred Willow to accept whatever it was that William was offering.

She had never experienced such strong feelings, feelings that ran so deeply through her that she knew they might cloud her judgment. Yet, she was unwilling to chase them away, and instead reveled in the way they shaded the world around her with enchantment.

As she and William stepped out onto the terrace behind his mansion, Willow noted that the night air was chilly. Yet to her, each breath was fresh and invigorating. She inhaled deeply, fascinated by the sting of cold air on her throat and the sharp, tangy smell of Angelus's cigar. When she exhaled, she watched the small cloud formed by her warm breath hover for a moment before dissipating in the cool atmosphere.

Angelus regarded both of them with a leisurely smile, cigar in hand, as if he somehow knew already.

"Willow has accepted my proposal," William announced simply, further leading Willow to suspect that the two friends had already discussed William's intentions before her arrival.

She resonated to Angelus's infectious good humor when he congratulated them, suddenly appreciating how alluring yet controlled his voice was.

"I think you need to send for another doctor, my boy," Angelus declared with a devilish twinkle in his eyes. "If this fine lady has agreed to have you, it can only be that she's sorely touched in the head."

Willow stifled a chuckle at the playfully indignant scowl that crossed William's handsome face.

"On the contrary," he countered. "The fact that Willow has held out for a worthy fellow like me is a sign of superior intelligence, not to mention damned good taste."

Willow's lips were quivering.

"Oh, she'll be damned, all right," Angelus retorted smoothly, his expression taunting.

"You're just jealous," William huffed.

Against her best efforts, a giggle bubbled forth from Willow's mouth.

A propos of nothing, Willow found herself curiously taken by William's demeanor. He seemed oddly out of place in the calm night air, which was everywhere still and untroubled around him even as he grumped animatedly at his friend, his nostrils flaring in mock petulance.

Indeed...something nagged at the back of Willow's mind that William's appearance was rather...odd...

With great astonishment, she suddenly realized what it was.

Incredulously, she watched his chest rise and fall...and her eyes fixed intently on his mouth as the air remained clear in front of his face.

How very curious...

"Aye, William, how could I not be jealous?" Angelus's voice boomed abruptly in Willow's ear. She jumped. He seemed to have moved faster than the blink of an eye and now stood just behind her right shoulder. Startled, Willow's gaze snapped to the imposing, dark-haired man whose eyes had lost their laughing, light-hearted gleam and now scrutinized her with an unnerving intensity.

Resting one powerful hand on Willow's shoulder, Angelus extended his other toward William, offering his cigar. His gestures gave Willow the uneasy sensation of being trapped.

"Your good fortune calls for celebration. Join me in a smoke...and then perhaps a little *drink*," Angelus insisted so forcefully that it sounded to Willow less like an invitation than a command.

However, she had no time to puzzle over Angelus's odd behavior. In the very next instant, everything went dark.

*****

The cigar lay smoldering on the ground.

William's demon did far more than smolder; it erupted with white-hot rage at the sight of his sire's fangs buried in Willow's neck.

Willow was *his*!

Instantly, his face shifted, angry demon to the fore.

However, just as he was poised to lunge at Angelus, the elder vampire raised his head, shoved an unconscious Willow toward him and growled, "Open your vein and feed her unless you want to see your plan go to the devil!"

Confused and agitated, William clutched Willow possessively, sparing his sire a brief glare before he tore open his wrist and held it to her lips. When she latched on and started to drink, his demon slowly calmed down.

"What the hell was that about?" William demanded at last, when Willow had ceased drinking from him and lay breathing softly against his chest.

"You almost gave yourself away," Angelus answered, glancing pointedly from William's face to Willow's and back again. Instinctively, William's eyes followed the path of his sire's gaze and fell upon Willow's blood-stained, parted lips.

A faint cloud escaped them, hanging just for a moment in the cold air before dissipating.

With sudden clarity, William recognized his blind oversight -- one that might have proven very costly.

"Bugger!" he exclaimed softly. Gratitude shone in his eyes even as he grumbled at Angelus, "Still...did you have to bite her?"

An eyebrow arched over stern, sable eyes. "Right of sire, William."

William stiffened at Angelus's invocation of his right to Willow's blood. However, with a sire's consummate skill, Angelus tamed his childe's fury, explaining calmly, "You're right, childe, your doctor is something special. More than you realize. The claim should be done well, and even though it'd be my right to take her, take that innocence I know you haven't touched yet, I won't. If you make her well, our line'll be the stronger for it."

"How d'you mean?" William asked, cocking his head to the side.

When Angelus gestured for them to move indoors, William easily swung Willow into his arms and followed.

Angelus walked at a leisurely pace, his hands clasped behind his back. "Do you consider yerself strong, William? A demon to be feared?" he asked evenly.

"I'm called William the Bloody for a reason," William drawled proudly, his eyes narrowing impatiently at his sire's question. "I've left a trail of destruction behind me second only to yours."

As they had reached the sitting room, William eased into a wing-backed, leather chair, nestling Willow on his lap with a tenderness wholly incongruous with his words. Cradling her against him, he looked steadily at his sire and added with a challenging smirk, "There's only one demon in all creation I fear, and I'm looking right at him...and even so, I might be willing to take my chances, on a good night."

Angelus flashed him a warning smile, his eyes flecked with gold. "Mind you don't, boy. You're a rare beauty among demons, but one pile of dust is just as plain as the next."

William's smirk morphed into feigned innocence, which in turn evoked a warm chuckle from his sire. Angelus stood by the fireplace, resting his elbow on the mantle and surveying him thoughtfully.

"It's true, you're *almost* as strong as I, and as such you've been a credit to Aurelius. As your power has grown, so has ours. I made you *well*," the dark vampire stressed pointedly. "Yet even so, you fought me, tooth and nail, and if you remember your living self, you were hardly innocent. Few lines among our kind can claim to have brought into their number a willing innocent. But it's said that such a one would be strong indeed, having embraced the change and not being at war with itself."

William brushed his hand across Willow's cheek, savoring the feel of her heartbeat coursing through him as his sire's words sank in. He realized it was exactly what he wanted, even though he hadn't known about the effects that Angelus described. William had simply envisioned his Willow, his childe, as she was to him now: strong, undaunted, and determined when it came to following her heart.

Raising his eyes to Angelus's, he remarked guardedly, "You're not tempted to turn her yourself?"

"You'll have need of me well enough, and Drusilla no doubt. Remember the night you were turned," Angelus replied with an easy confidence. Then, sparing William a brief, tender expression, one rarely seen on the face of the Scourge of Europe, he added, "Besides, she loves *you*. It's you she's willingly come to. And I have my own prize."

"What, Drusilla and her visions?" William surmised, remembering the fiendish glee with which Angelus had crowed over his magnificent coup when he'd succeeded in making a demon out of a Seer, a true servant of the light.

Shaking his head, Angelus laughed and approached William with lithe, seductive grace. When he stood before the younger vampire's chair, he cupped his hand behind William's head and met his gaze with eyes that revealed the full depths of his desire.

"Are you so blind, my childe?" Angelus murmured against his lips, drawing him into a slow, claiming kiss. William welcomed his sire's seduction and sank with willing abandon into the embrace.

Sire and childe devoured each other's mouths for what seemed like a blissful eternity. Even when they sensed the approach of another, familiar vampire, they refused to break off their passionate exploration.

A melodic, feminine voice finally prompted the two lovers to draw away from each other, albeit very slowly and reluctantly.

"William and daddy are being naughty. Very bad boys, playing so close to the baby while she sleeps. May I hold my little niece, William?"

"No, Dru," William sighed wearily. "Besides, she isn't quite your niece yet."

"Oh, but she will be. And then we girls will have our secrets and our own parties and games when the boys go off to play," Drusilla mused happily as she sidled up to Willow and ran a finger down the sleeping woman's cheek.

Instinctively, William tensed and let out a soft growl. Angelus interceded and pulled Drusilla away, gathering her into his arms. "Now Dru, don't be touching William's prize. So, where have you been this evening, my princess?"

"Feeding down by all the pretty ships on the river," Drusilla answered, insinuating her body along Angelus's. However, she refused to be deflected and asked, "When will I have a new niece? Oh please, say it can be tonight!"

For a long moment, William was sorely tempted to do just as Drusilla entreated. But, as he had a few loose ends to tie up first, he murmured, "Afraid not, Dru. But soon."

*****

Clive Bancroft sat beside the window in his room, a blanket wrapped across his lap and over his legs, the very picture of a convalescent.

However, his were the eyes of a prisoner longing for escape as he stared out into the night.

Yet it seemed hopeless.

There was a stately, sturdy tree near enough the window, and his leg was as good as mended. Even so, his injury and long period of recovery had left him weaker than a man in full health.

And if he did manage to scale down the tree, what then?

If he escaped, he knew the life of his sister, and anyone else dear to him, would be forfeit. And where in all of England could he hide where the fiend would not find him?

Hopeless, indeed.

"It's a long drop. For your sake, I hope you're not thinking of risking it. Be a shame to waste all that care the good doctor has given you."

Bitterly, Bancroft closed his eyes and bowed his head. Good doctor? Next victim was more like it. The poor woman.

He turned to face his employer and, not surprisingly, found that the monster had managed to draw very near without having made the slightest sound.

"I was merely enjoying a change of scenery after so many weeks in a sick bed," Bancroft lied, even though he was painfully aware of the fact that Mr. Royce had an unnatural ability to detect falsehoods. With quiet resignation, he continued, "Was there something you wished, sir?"

"When your clerk comes tomorrow evening, instruct him to set aside all current business and begin work on breaking the terms of a trust fund established for one Dr. Willow Rosenberg by her late parents and administered by her aunt, Mrs. Jane Ashcroft," Mr. Royce instructed without missing a beat.

Bancroft experienced a sudden chill at his employer's demand. Such a project could only mean that the kind doctor was in graver danger than he had first imagined. Indeed, if the fiend was after her fortune, her very life was most likely in jeopardy.

He knew he had revealed his fears when Mr. Royce's eyes narrowed coldly. "Is there a problem, Bancroft?"

Mercilessly suppressing his emotions, Bancroft replied numbly, "No, sir. Which bank manages the account?"

Several minutes passed as Bancroft garnered the necessary details from his employer, including the names of the lawyers retained by the Ashcroft household and any possible weaknesses or past indiscretions or improprieties that might be exploited. Clive Bancroft did indeed know how to be ruthless in his dealings; looking back, he realized that what he had once considered his greatest asset was in fact the fatal quality that had brought him to Mr. Royce's attention and trapped him in this hellish existence.

At last, Mr. Royce left him, and Bancroft was alone again.

He turned back to the window, his thoughts dark and pensive.

He didn't know how much longer he could continue like this.

Outside lay freedom.

With a profound shudder, Bancroft recalled the horrifying image of his beloved Gwendolyn's hand, severed and bloody, a macabre testament to his failure. He had no doubt that an even worse fate would befall his dear sister if he were to flee.

Bancroft clenched his jaw in quiet, desperate sorrow. Freedom...but at what price?

And would he ever truly be free of these fiends?

Grimly, he realized that the prospect was highly unlikely.

*****

In the morgue of Guy's Hospital, Willow paced, deeply agitated.

Once again, she had awakened suffering from the strange symptoms that had plagued her periodically for weeks.

However, a dim memory from her evening with William and his friend had prompted her to rouse herself from bed and make her way down past the docks and across the river to the hospital. The morgue had often been her refuge, a place to think in quiet, familiar surroundings when she had a problem that needed the full measure of her analytical abilities. Yet to Willow's consternation, the hospital was no longer her refuge. Indeed, her distress had worsened since she'd arrived.

She could *smell* them!

All of the patients who lay groaning or quietly moribund in the ward -- she could smell them dying. It was different from the usual odor of sickness present in any hospital and to which she had long been accustomed. Willow couldn't explain it (a fact which perturbed her to no end), but she was acutely aware of strange, new scents that clung to many of the patients like shrouds...and some unknown instinct that had suddenly emerged in her associated the scent with death.

But that was hardly the worst of it.

She had suffered another one of her mysterious fainting spells last night, and there were lapses in her recollection of the evening's events, but one image had been so startling, so impossible that it remained burned in her brain.

In the brisk, cool night air, William's breath had produced no cloud.

Outwardly, his body seemed to perform all the actions of breathing: his chest expanded, his nostrils flared, his lips parted from time to time. Yet, for his breath to leave no trace of a cloud, it would have to be the same temperature as the external environment.

And Willow knew of only one sort of body that did not maintain an internal temperature superior to that of the surrounding atmosphere on a cool, autumn night.

Her eyes fell upon a cadaver that lay, awaiting examination, on a table by the far wall.

No, it was impossible...absolutely impossible.

It must be her imagination. After all, she *had* lost consciousness.

Although...

Clapping her hands over her ears and shaking her head as if she could physicially banish her doubts, Willow resolved not to consider any of this any further until she could think more clearly. Taking a deep breath, she crossed the room to the body of a sailor that had been brought in earlier in the morning.

It took only a cursory glance for her to make an initial determination of the cause of death. From the wounds on his neck, it appeared that the elusive, mad dog was still loose on the docks. However, when Willow peered closer, she saw the same, puzzling yet undeniable bruises that suggested a very powerful human hand had gripped the poor man by the neck. And the spacing of the wounds was so oddly precise...so regular...

...familiar...

Willow's eyes widened in dreadful suspicion.

Hastily, she rummaged through the cabinet in the morgue where they kept a mirror for detecting very faint breath in order to avoid prematurely declaring dead any of their patients. Holding it up and angling it at her neck, Willow craned her head to see the two, lingering insect bites that had plagued her for several weeks.

They were mere pinpricks in comparison to the deep, bloody wounds on the dead sailor's neck, but otherwise the similarities were chilling.

The location...at precisely the same position on her neck as on the sailor's, just over the carotid artery.

The spacing...the small, reddish dots she had dismissed as insect bites were precisely the same distance apart as the alleged "dog bites" that had proven fatal for the sailor.

Glass shards scattered across the floor when Willow, stunned, let the mirror slip from her fingers and fall to its destruction. Numbly, she sank into a chair by the cabinet, unable to banish the fantastic, horrifying revelation.

Dear God...*what* was William?

*****

Charles dozed at the "butler's" station in the mansion.

He hated it when it was his turn to take day watch. Noon. The sun was high in the sky. Hardly a decent hour to be awake. But he hadn't survived longer than most other minions in his Master's household by disregarding orders. Half-asleep, he chuckled. No, that level of stupidity was reserved for the Master's human servants.

As if the universe had a poetic sense of irony, at that very instant, Charles was jolted to attention by the dim sensation of a human heartbeat just outside the mansion. He was in the midst of rousing himself when the front door swung open decisively and...oh, bloody hell! the Master's favored pet walked in.

Bugger.

This one had more nerve than any human had any business having.

Clenching his jaw to keep from scowling, Charles hastened to greet her.

"Good afternoon, doctor. Forgive me, I didn't hear you ring. Is there something urgent?"

The doctor didn't reply at first, merely looked at him oddly, as if she were appraising him.

That didn't bode well at all. The shrewd minion sensed that something was very wrong.

"Please inform Mr. Royce that I am here. I need to speak with him," she said at last.

Charles opened his mouth in an attempt to dissuade her, knowing that the Master would be in a foul mood if awakened at this hour, but before he could speak, the doctor cut him off.

"Do it. *Now*," she ordered in a low, commanding tone that would have been the envy of any vampire.

Resigned, Charles turned and headed toward the Master's suite. At this point, he wasn't sure which would be worse: facing the Master's wrath or the doctor's.

He decided he would make himself as quietly absent as possible when the two of them were finally in the same room.

*****

Bancroft listened intently to the completely unexpected sounds of activity in the mansion. Terse, raised voices. Doors being slammed. At this time of day, silence usually reigned throughout the house. The hairs on the back of his neck rose and his stomach churned with an uncertain anticipation. It was as if this unforeseen turn of events had turned his world upside-down. He experienced the giddy, agonizing indecision of one who had thought his fate was set, yet was presented with a terrifying, tantalizing opportunity to tempt that fate, to change his future.

He began to sweat.

With hesitant steps, he approached the door to his room -- his prison. Listening at the door, he could tell that something had greatly disturbed the calm of the mansion's inhabitants.

It wasn't chaos, but it was the closest thing to a diversion he could ever have hoped for.

Bancroft cast a longing glance over his shoulder at the window. Daylight streamed in. He could see the tree beckoning to him.

Heart thumping in his chest, he made his decision.

He stalked resolutely toward the window, feeling deep in his bones that he would forever regret it if he didn't take this chance which had come to him as if by divine intercession. Though he feared greatly for his sister, he had to try.

As he opened the window and prepared to climb out, an odd calm descended upon him.

"It is better this way," Bancroft thought to himself, smiling at the first, welcome touch of sunlight on his cheeks. "I will not let him rule me through fear. If I die, so be it. From here on out, let it be war!"

Chapter Twelve

Willow clasped her hands tightly in front of herself to keep from fidgeting nervously. Where she had once felt completely at home in William's mansion, she now felt a bewildering array of emotions, chief among which were betrayal and dread. She was also plagued with doubt: her suspicions about William tore asunder everything she had ever learned, as a physician and scientist, about the nature of life and death.

However, she had to know. She did not like mysteries.

She only hoped that she wouldn't suffer Pandora's fate.

Still, when William strode purposefully into the sitting room, his gaze riveted intently to her, Willow felt her resolve falter. Deep within, she felt compelled to go to him, as if the safest, most natural place for her to be was near him.

Resisting the impulse, she stood firmly in place and studied him closely, trying to discern if there were any other clues she had failed to notice before. William, in turn, halted several paces away and regarded her with very careful concern.

"Willow...beloved...Not that I'm not delighted to see you, but this is not your customary hour for visiting. Has something happened? Is anything wrong?" he asked.

Willow steeled herself against the rapid thudding of her heart. "How is it that you do not maintain the temperature of a living body?"

William's eyebrows arched at her outrageous question. However, before he could protest his surprise, Willow continued, "I have always been struck by how unusually cool you are to the touch, but thought nothing of it. Until I perceived that your breath generates no cloud in the cold, night air. How do you explain that, William?"

Fixing her with a cool, calculating stare, William answered, "You're the physician, not I. You tell me. Are you saying you fear for my health?"

Although his tone was deceptively light and his posture non-threatening, Willow could practically taste the menace in the air. She realized that she had very likely been tremendously foolhardy in confronting him.

But she would neither commit herself to him, nor flee in fear, without understanding completely what she had gotten herself into.

"No, I fear for my own," Willow murmured softly, noting how William's eyes flashed with comprehension at her admission. Tilting her chin and brushing her fingers over the marks she had once believed to be insect bites, she asked, "Would you know anything about these, William?"

A childish, sing-song voice emerged from the doorway, startling Willow amid her confrontation with William.

"They're sweet kisses, little niece. They say pretty William loves you and wants to make you his own."

"Bloody hell, Drusilla, this isn't the time!" William swore, visibly agitated at the newcomer's arrival. She was a beautiful, dark-haired woman, although Willow detected a hint of mania in her eyes.

"Oh, but it is!" the woman called Drusilla pouted, almost infantile in her mannerisms. "She already knows, yet still she's come to you, sweet little William."

Seizing the opportunity, Willow gave Drusilla her full attention and prompted, "What do I know?"

"Oh, you're very clever," the dark-haired beauty crooned. "You see William as he is, sweet, bad boy. He's death alive, like me -- and like you."

Even as Willow sensed the truth in Drusilla's strange words, some part of her still refused to accept them. "You're truly mad," she breathed, shaking her head.

However, in response Drusilla smiled delightedly and agreed, "Yes, very much, thank you."

William threw up his hands and growled in frustration.

"It's all right, William."

Willow's gaze snapped toward the doorway. Yet again, she had been startled, not realizing that they had been joined by another. She recognized Angelus, who exuded an air of calm bemusement and control. He stretched his hand toward Drusilla.

"Come along, Dru. Leave the two love-birds alone," Angelus instructed. Willow watched in fascination as the dark-haired woman complied without question and took his proffered hand. As Angelus guided her out of the room, he said over his shoulder, "Just show her, William."

The doors to the sitting room closed, and Willow found herself alone with a silent, almost pensive William.

Their eyes met. They shared a long, ominous gaze.

Finally, in a shaky voice, Willow asked, "Show me what?"

Her heart nearly stopped and her breath caught in her throat when the handsome face of her lover was transformed into a grotesque, nightmarish mask reminiscent of the fantastic, folklorish legends about goblins, demons, and devils that she had always dismissed.

*****

Charles closed the doors to the sitting room behind the two senior vampires and would have been happy to get as far away to the opposite end of the mansion as possible. However, his Master's sire stopped him.

"Organize the other minions," Angelus commanded. "As soon as it's dark, send all but a handful of them out to round up humans: about a dozen should do, the stronger and healthier, the better."

Charles nodded in acquiescence and turned to go. Again, Angelus stopped him.

"Oh, and send someone after that solicitor of William's," the legendary Master vampire added. "The only heartbeat I sense anymore in the mansion is the doctor's. Bancroft probably thought he could slip away unnoticed in all the commotion. Make sure he stays alive until William can decide how he wants to kill him."

Sagely, the minion nodded but resolved to go up to the human's sick chamber to confirm for himself.

*****

William waited stoically as Willow's wide, atonished eyes roamed over him. He hated this! It was all wrong. He wanted Willow to look at him with affection, as she had before, not like he was some species of germ under a microscope.

"You're not human," Willow murmured absently. Then, her gaze at last focusing clearly on his, she added, "Drusilla...she said death alive. What does that mean?"

"We're vampires, Angelus, Dru, and I," William explained flatly. His demon longed to seize her, claim her, and worry about explanations later. However, William made no move to approach Willow.

"Vampires?" she repeated incredulously, folding her arms across her chest.

Rolling his eyes impatiently, William muttered, "Demons in human bodies. We eye someone up, drink their blood, make them drink ours, and the demon moves in."

To his surprise, Willow took a step toward him.

"Then, that is what this is?" She gestured toward his face.

Irked at her clinical detachment after he'd had a momentary hope that perhaps she accepted him after all, William sneered, "Sorry, luv, *this* is me. I am the demon."

A satisfied growl rumbled in his chest when he saw the hurt flicker in her eyes.

"Then...why...what do you wish of me?" she asked haltingly, her voice grown small and forlorn.

Arching an eyebrow, William tsked her. "Already told you, luv. You're mine, body and soul."

Wide-eyed, she shook her head and began to back away from him, toward one of the heavily-draped windows.

"How could you think I would want that?" Willow demanded. "You do kill, don't you?"

William followed her, stalking closer with each step she took toward the window. "And maim, and torture," he acknowledged. "Without regret, and without apology."

Just as she reached for the thick, velvet curtain, as if she thought to flee via the window, William pounced. Not surprisingly, his attack only served to heighten her panic and she struggled violently, if ineffectively, against his powerful embrace. Whether it was due to sheer bad luck or her determination to survive, however, she managed to yank aside the curtain.

William hissed and shot away from the lethal, burning sunlight as it streamed in and scorched his hands where they had been gripping Willow.

His demon howled in despairing outrage. She was about to get away!

But...wait...

Inexplicably, Willow had suddenly gone very still. William watched as her head turned toward him from the window and her gaze came to rest on his smoking hands. An unknown, painful epiphany twisted her expression so sorrowfully, it might have broken his heart.

Determined not to let her slip through his fingers, when Willow's gaze started back toward the sunlit window, he murmured urgently, "That isn't your world any more."

Willow raised glistening eyes to his. After a moment's hesitation, she let the curtain drop closed and whispered hoarsely, "In many ways, it never was."

Surprising him yet again, Willow slowly walked toward him. When she stood immediately in front of him, she took his injured hands in hers and stared, fascinated, as the scorch marks rapidly faded due to his preternatural healing abilities.

Gazing back up at him, she asked, "What now, William?"

"My intentions haven't changed," he answered firmly, studying her intently yet hardly daring to hope that he would find acceptance.

However, miraculously, that was precisely what he found.

"I know," she acknowledged with a tremulous, tearful smile. Her breath hitched, then she continued, "Though it is my undoing, I love you, William, and I don't know how to stop. It is so powerful, it is almost painful, and I cannot will it away. So...how is it done?"

As if she instinctively knew the answer, Willow raised a hand to his mouth and idly traced a finger around one of his fangs, sending a shudder of ecstasy through William's entire body.

He let his face shift back to its human guise before claiming her lips in a fervent kiss.

When he drew away to let her gasp some of the last breaths she would ever take, William took her by the hand to lead her out of the room.

"Not here," he said.

His childe would be made properly.

*****

It had been the smoke that had stopped her.

Even though every sensible impulse had urged Willow to save herself, she had been at war with her own heart. Despite the devastating revelation about what William was, Willow still loved him. She could feel her heart breaking.

But when his skin had been scorched, like a wooden match being consumed by flames, a sudden clarity had descened over her. The memory of an unfortunate patient she had been helpless to treat had flooded back and Willow found herself thinking how many lives were burned up, how many poor bodies were consumed and wasted away so that some, like her aunt, could live extravagantly while others had next to nothing.

The fairy tales of her childhood had conjured up images of monsters and evil that matched what William was, all the while veiling the truly monstrous realities of poverty and human injustice in charming bedtime stories about Little Matchgirls.

And at last it occurred to Willow that for all her efforts to alleviate suffering and to combat disease, she was fighting a battle she couldn't win.

The pain and loss she felt from that blow to her ideals was too great. In many ways, Willow had always maintained a certain naivete, and she found herself ill-equipped to recover from disappointment. It was her downfall.

Now, she lay in the arms of Darkness personified, willingly seeking the solace of love though it might damn her.

William rolled her beneath him, passionately devouring her mouth with his. Willow answered his ardor with her own, entwining her tongue around his and nipping greedily at his lips. Their clothing had been shed from the moment they crossed into his chamber.

She paused when she noticed a powerful, intoxicating taste flooding her mouth. William raised himself up slightly and looked down at her with feral, amber eyes, his mouth filled with jagged teeth and coated with blood. After a momentary gaze, Willow cupped her hands around his head and drew his mouth back to hers. Growling, William plundered her mouth with renewed zeal.

He shifted his weight slightly, and Willow had the dim sensation of something prodding her maiden entrance. And then, abrupt, blinding pain. William swallowed her sharp cry and rested above her, soothingly running his hand up and down her side. Slowly, the pain subsided and William gently began to rock his hips. He moved with painstaking care yet in relentless pursuit of...Willow wasn't sure what. When an achingly good pleasure unexpectedly rippled through her, William redoubled his efforts, and Willow began to understand.

Soon, she was groaning.

William's pleased growls rumbled back.

Steadily, the heat blossoming within Willow grew stronger and stronger, to the point that she wondered how she would be able to bear it. Bearing down forcefully on her, William bit into her neck.

Willow's head swam. She felt a blissful dizziness, as though she were floating, and released a long, breathy sigh. William shook violently and her body trembled along with his.

At this point, her mind became jumbled with strange, dreamlike images. She was aware of suckling at William's neck as he held her close and stroked her back. She understood, finally, that the rich, heady taste in her mouth was his blood, and that she had tasted it before.

But she found herself falling out of time, like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole. William made love to her, drank from her, and fed her his blood, countless times it seemed. Shockingly, from time to time, Angelus or Drusilla or even both at once appeared in the shadows and joined them on the bed. Yet for some reason, Willow felt no urge to protest. Quite the contrary: it seemed natural. Although they caressed her affectionately, neither of the other vampires made any attempt to bite her. However, both Angelus and Drusilla frequently fed William their blood, sustaining him.

And, although Willow couldn't know it, channeling their strength into him, and through him into her.

It was nearly dawn, two days later, when Willow felt a heaviness and a chill spreading through her limbs and realized that she could barely keep her eyes open. In that moment, just as death was settling over her, so too were William's veins humming with the vitality he had drained from her, awakening in him the irresistible impulse to give life. Eyes riveted to her face in wondrous awe, William tore open his wrist, pressed it to her lips and held it there until Willow's form went entirely still.

*****

His first childe.

William couldn't take his eyes off her, although he was bloody exhausted and famished.

Two whole nights.

She'd lasted two whole nights before slipping away at last.

It had been all he could do to maintain his stamina, and this even with the blood from his sire and Drusilla. But it was done. Willow was his, and what was more, she was bound tightly to the family.

He chuckled softly.

What a terror she was going to be!

At last, when his hunger was too strong, William reluctantly extracted himself from his dormant childe, staggered somewhat drunkenly toward his chamber door and made his way down to the cellar where he found Angelus and Drusilla ravenously draining some of the humans who'd been rounded up as provisions for the turning. It had indeed been a hungry process.

Angelus raised his head from the unconscious human he'd been feeding from and greeted William with a smile. "It's done, then?" At William's proud, somewhat dozy nod, Angelus's smile broadened and he said, "Good. You've done well. And I brought back something for the celebration."

William scanned the half-dozen or so humans who quivered, bound and gagged, on the cellar floor. He threw back his head and laughed heartily when he recognized a familiar face.

Crouching down, he remarked conversationally, "You know, you're more trouble than you're worth. I can't wait to let Willow eat you, you insufferable pain. Although I do suppose I have you to thank. After all, if it weren't for you, Willow might not be mine."

Willow's Aunt Jane stared up at him in fear and horror.

"To think, you made your niece's life so intolerable that you sent her into the arms of a monster like me."

With that, William shifted to his demon face, seized a youth who lay beside Aunt Jane, and began to feed, delighting in her horrified reaction.

He couldn't think of a better gift for his new childe.

*****

A lone man and woman stood on the deck of an ocean liner, far out to sea.

Clive Bancroft rested a hand on his sister's shoulder as they watched the endless shifting of blue waves. He would never cease thanking whatever powers existed in the universe for the fact that she had been willing to flee with him, without explanation, and without any prior warning.

If Fortune continued to smile on him, they would be able to make a new life in Kingston, Jamaica.

A very, very sunny climate.

*****

EPILOGUE -- TWENTY YEARS LATER (BECAUSE I COULDN'T RESIST)

Willow sat beside her sire and mate at a dinner table in an Italian pensione in Florence, listening with sly bemusement as their chosen prey for the evening whined in petulant dissatisfaction.

"But I wanted a room with a view," the young, cherubic brunette girl sulked at a prim, spinsterish aunt.

"Now Lucy, the senora has already apologized for the misunderstanding. It won't do any good to complain about it," the elderly woman reasoned mildly.

Scowling, the young woman turned to Willow and insisted crossly, "Don't you think one ought to have a room with a view on one's first visit to Florence?"

Willow merely smiled cryptically at her, clasped William's hand and answered, "We have a view."

Later, when Willow and William had sated themselves on the blood of that young woman and her aunt, they sat in their suite, in the magnificent window overlooking the Arno. William showered her face and neck with kisses.

"Happy anniversary, darling," he murmured in between kisses.

Willow closed her eyes and smiled.

"Happy aniversary, sire," Willow answered.

The trip to Italy had been a lovely gift.

And after all, although some of the tourists left a bad taste in her mouth, it wasn't as if William could mark every anniversary of her turning with a treat as good as he'd had waiting the first night that she rose.

Aunt Jane had been delicious.

THE END

A/N: 'The Willow Song', quoted by William at dinner, is from The Tragedy of Othello, Moor of Venice (Act IV, Scene 3) by William Shakespeare. In chapter eight, the poem William recites is 'The Indian Serenade' by Percy Bysshe Shelley.

*****

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