My Fair Vampire

My Fair Vampire S.L. Danielson Julie Lynn Hayes Published by Silver Publishing Publisher of Erotic Romance ABOUT THE...

Author: Danielson S L | Hayes Julie Lynn

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My Fair Vampire S.L. Danielson Julie Lynn Hayes

Published by Silver Publishing Publisher of Erotic Romance

ABOUT THE E-BOOK YOU HAVE PURCHASED: Your non-refundable purchase of this e-book allows you to only ONE LEGAL copy for your own personal reading on your own personal computer or device. You do not have resell or distribution rights without the prior written permission of both the publisher and the copyright owner of this book. This book cannot be copied in any format, sold, or otherwise transferred from your computer to another through upload to a file sharing peer to peer program, for free or for a fee, or as a prize in any contest. Such action is illegal and in violation of the South African Copyright Law. Distribution of this e-book, in whole or in part, online, offline, in print or in any way or any other method currently known or yet to be invented, is forbidden. If you do not want this book anymore, you must delete it from your computer. WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated and is punishable by imprisonment and a fine." Cover Artist: Reese Dante Editor: Nicki J Markus My Fair Vampire © 2011 S.L. Danielson and Julie Lynn Hayes ISBN # 9781920501204 Attention Readers: This book uses US English. All rights reserved. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental. The Licensed Art Material is being used for illustrative purposes only; any person depicted in the Licensed Art Material, is a model.

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NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER Dear Reader, Thank you for your purchase of this title. The authors and staff of Silver Publishing hope you enjoy this read and that we will have a long and happy association together. Please remember that the only money authors make from writing comes from the sales of their books. If you like their work, spread the word and tell others about the books, but please refrain from sharing this book in any form. Authors depend on sales and sales only to support their families. If you see "free shares" offered or cut-rate sales on pirate sites of this title, you can report the offending entry to [email protected] Thank you for not pirating our titles. Lodewyk Deysel Publisher Silver Publishing http://www.spsilverpublishing.com

DEDICATION To the city of St. Louis and the marvelous memories of the World‟s Fair, which inspired this tale. S.L. Danielson: to my husband, parents, and friends for believing in me Julie L. Hayes: to Judy Garland and Meet Me in St. Louis And to Sue for your friendship, your encouragement, support and common sense suggestions—you keep me going and remind me to have faith in myself

My Fair Vampire

S.L. Danielson & Julie Lynn Hayes

PROLOGUE April 23, 1904 William unfurled the crisp Utah Gazette in his hands. The periodical smelled of fresh ink, and the paper was still warm. 'Hot off the press', as the saying went. He took care not to hold the page too long; his fingers would smudge the fresh print. 1904 World's Fair to be held in St. Louis, Missouri. William's

heart

skipped

a

beat.

Such

an

opportunity! To meet and see amazing sights from around the globe, truly a marvelous undertaking. I must be certain to become the reporter Mr. Andrews chooses to send. He licked his lips in anticipation and felt his woolen pants rise. Travel always had that effect on him. Of course, so did the delicious possibility that there might be an exotic visitor that didn't speak English, but only spoke the language of sex. It'd been far too long for him, at least in his opinion. He slipped into the washroom instead of passing by, as had been his original intention, and checked himself in the mirror. His blond hair was darkened by the liberal amount of oil he put in it to tame its unruly cowlick. His

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thin, pale face had hollow cheeks and a pointed chin. His large, blue eyes were his favorite feature; after that, he was most fond of his tame nose. He was quite thankful his family's history of large noses had not carried over to him. He adjusted his round Benjamin Franklin-like spectacles. He'd worn them since he was but ten years old and couldn't see the blackboards in school. At first they were a noose around his neck, giving all eight of his older siblings free rein to call him "four eyes" and other teasing monikers, which he greatly resented. Over time, though, he'd adjusted to the glasses, and as his grades surpassed most everyone else's in the family, he felt as smart as they made him look. He smoothed down his large tie and flattened out his vest. His brown, woolen suit was still somewhat new—a present from his parents for Christmas. He still had to have it tailored a bit, however, as he'd lost some weight since moving from the mountains to take up his position at the Gazette, located in the urban Salt Lake City. The work kept him busy, often with little time to eat.

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CHAPTER ONE April 30, 1904 The crowds began arriving even before the sun, making their way from streetcars, from shuttles, and on foot—some having parked their vehicles at great distances in order to attend this historic event. They milled patiently about the main entrance gate on Lindell Boulevard until eight o'clock, mingling with the three hundred some odd St. Louis police officers who‟d been assigned there. At that time they were allowed to slog their way through the turnstiles and onto the fairgrounds themselves. This grand event had actually been delayed for a year. Originally meant to begin on April 30, 1903, which would have been the centennial of the day on which Thomas Jefferson completed the Louisiana Purchase, it had been postponed to allow time for it to be done properly. Even President Roosevelt—who‟d traveled to St. Louis on the original day just for the occasion—had to admit that while progress was remarkable, and everything was just "bully" (as he put it in his own inimitable way), it did need more time in order to be the vision they wanted it to be. The weather in St. Louis had decided to cooperate, which in and of itself was something of an accomplishment

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as the natives of that fair city would attest. Balmy temperatures were an added incentive to attend the Fair; the day was filled with gentle breezes, and sunny skies, and spirits were running high. Shortly after nine o'clock, the opening ceremony speeches began, the first speaker being none other than David R. Francis, whom many considered to be the architect and chief mover of the World's Fair. Former mayor of St. Louis and former governor of Missouri, now a respected member of the business community once more, he‟d begun drumming up support for the Fair back in 1896. Having attained five million dollars from the U.S. Congress, he went on to acquire ten million more in state, city and private funding, forming the Louisiana Purchase Exposition Company. He was named its president, and people referred to him thereafter, with affection, as President Francis. After Francis's speech, in which he referred to the 1904 World's Fair as a "distinct step forward", a marching band began to play, to everyone's delight. It was led by John Philip Sousa, the strains of "Stars and Stripes Forever" reverberating throughout the area by the Grand Basin where all were congregated. After some two hours of speeches, the crowd parted to admit a carriage escorted by cavalry from Jefferson Barracks. The vehicle contained none other than Secretary of War William Howard Taft, 4

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who spoke on behalf of Theodore Roosevelt. The president was waiting back in Washington in the East Room of the White House. Taft spoke of harmony and world peace, of nations working together for the good of all, of hopes for the future. Once Taft concluded his speech, it was time. An expectant hush fell over the crowd, which was estimated somewhere in the two hundred thousand range. President Francis pressed a gold telegraph key, which sent a signal to the waiting President Roosevelt back in Washington. In turn, T.R. pressed his own key, sending the signal back to St. Louis. Thousands of flags in a multitude of hues were raised on high, while water flowed into the fountains and the waterfall known as the Cascades, which traversed the hill from Festival Hall down to the Grand Basin (now known as Art Hill), to the cheers of the excited throng. The 1904 World's Fair had begun!

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CHAPTER TWO May 6, 1904 The influx of new boarders was all due to the Louisiana Purchase Exposition, as St. Louisans opened their homes not only to friends and family who wished to visit the extravaganza, but to veritable strangers as well. Most had shortened it to the World's Fair for the sake of brevity and lazy tongues. It was all anyone had spoken about for months, and Misha was sick to death of it already. He didn't find it wonderful at all. For him, it was a disruption in the quiet tenor of his life, and it was playing havoc with his nerves, especially considering how close they lived to the hub of it all, to Forest Park itself—a mere short stroll away. The park had always been his haven, his place of quiet contemplation—and secret assignation. But for far too long now it had been the scene of noisy construction and strange buildings with stranger purposes. He would not admit, even to himself, to possessing a certain curiosity toward the whole thing. He tended to hold himself aloof from the people around him, and only associated with them on his own terms. "Misha? Misha!" He started, so lost in his own reverie he had failed

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to hear the voice of Mrs. Sims. He turned away from the window, the curtain falling back into place, obscuring the evening view and the strange glow of the unaccustomed electric lights that disrupted the night sky. "I'm sorry," he murmured, although he had no real reason to apologize, the words falling automatically from his lips. His English was still flavored with his native Russian accent. Some of that had sloughed off as he‟d struggled to master this foreign tongue, but it remained thick. He would never be mistaken for a native, that much he knew. The older woman gave him an astute look from behind her spectacles. Misha knew Mrs. Sims was fond of him; it was apparent in the protectiveness she evidenced toward him. She‟d told him he had a beautiful voice and had persuaded him to read to her on those evenings when he did not flit out the door, feeling the need to spread his wings. He told no one where he went, and thankfully Mrs. Sims never pried. On those evenings when he stayed home, she enjoyed hearing him read, and he knew the practice was good for his language skills as well. "Would you like tea?" he asked her politely, although he already knew the answer. They‟d fallen into a proscribed routine. He‟d prepare the tea for the two of them—the black Russian tea of his homeland, sweetened 7

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with lemon or sugar or jam—and they would sit together in the parlor, sipping the warm brew. Sometimes he would serve little biscuits with the tea, but he never indulged in these himself. He would read, and she would listen. His attentiveness to the older woman was pleasing to his aunt, who was kept busy with the boarding house during the day when Misha could not help her. She understood why that was, the necessity of his absence, and she appreciated that he did what he could, when he could. At first Misha had expressed surprise that someone of Mrs. Sims's years should be such a night owl. She‟d laughed at him, her eyes twinkling with good humor. "It's not over 'til you‟re done," she told him. "When I'm dead, I'll have plenty of time to sleep. I want to live now, while I can." Misha knowingly smiled at her for he understood only too well that the borders between life and death were not as clearly defined as one might think. Not that he would ever tell her that, and not that he wished for her to learn. That was something he‟d wish on no one. As for himself, it simply was. When he returned with the tea, Mrs. Sims was already seated upon the red sofa waiting for him, the volume that he‟d left there in her hands. "Ah, Whitman," she said. "I love Leaves of Grass. You have good taste, 8

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Misha." He nodded, pleased at her compliment. "Where did you acquire this taste for Walt Whitman?" She raised her teacup with its delicate Delft pattern of blue and white, sipped at the warm, fortifying liquid contained therein, and eyed him over the rim. "Do they teach him where you come from?" "No, not in Russia." Misha shook his head, his long dark hair swaying with the movement. "Was left by other boarder, he said I could have. Was…" He searched for just the right word, fumbling for a moment before finding it. "Presen-tashun he called it. For me." "A very nice gift indeed. But let's not read it in order. Let's be more random, shall we?" She gave him a mischievous smile. "Open the book and read whatever you see. Doesn't that sound like fun?" Obeying her wishes, Misha opened the book without looking, letting the pages fall open where they may. His eyes fell upon the bottom of the page. This poem was short, only five lines. He began to read. He sounded out the first word in the title, glancing up at her as if to question his pronunciation. “Pen-sive.” She nodded at him, and he went on. "And faltering." He unwittingly butchered the last word, giving it a short a sound, the last syllables sliding into one another helplessly, 9

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so it came out sounding more like “faltring”. "Fall-ter-ing," she said, correcting his enunciation. "I know, English is a very difficult language to understand. We can't even follow our own rules. Pretend there's two l's there, dear. Do you know what those words mean?" He shook his head, studying her with interest. "Pensive is like when you're holding your breath, waiting for something to happen," she explained, "and faltering is when you're about to fall apart or break down. Do you know what I mean?" "I think so," he replied. His eyes returned to the page, repeating the words in the first line of the poem, before moving on. "The words the Dead I write, for living are the Dead…" He paused, glancing up at her inquisitively, his finger marking his place. "Do I read next part? Is closed off." He held the book up for her inspection. "Yes, those are parentheses, read what's between them." "Hap-ly the only living, only real, and I the…" He faltered again. "Appa… appa…" He studied the word, willing his brain to make sense of the syllables rather than automatically turning the book over to her, although he knew she‟d help. But he was a stubborn young man. "Appa-rition," he finally sounded out, repeating the line now that he had the word. "And I the apparition, I the spec-tre." 10

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He glanced up at her, and she nodded her approval. "Do you know what an apparition is?" she asked, answering her own question without waiting for a response. "It's like a ghost. If you want to know what the poet is saying, that's something else. I like to listen to them, but I'm not good at analyzing them." She finished the tea in her cup, then set the delicate piece of china upon the end table, careful to place it on the protective white crocheted doily that lay there. For a few minutes, nothing more was said. Misha stared at the words, thinking about death. And ghosts. And life. He felt a restless sorrow that he could not explain expanding within his chest. "Go on," Mrs. Sims said softly. She laid a gentle hand upon his arm, and at first he thought she meant for him to go on with the reading. "Go out into the night, sweet soul, and find yourself." He raised his eyes to hers—hazel and penetrative, gazing at him as if she could see deep into the darkness of his own. He felt the darkness pulling on him. It called to something deep within him. Closing the book once more, Misha fled into the night‟s embrace, without a backward glance.

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CHAPTER THREE The parlor of the boarding house had been beautifully arranged by its owner, and the décor was as comfortable as it was functional. A large fireplace covered most of the exterior wall; it provided the heat and ambience needed. Thick, blue velvet drapes covered the floor-toceiling windows. They muted most of the sounds in the room, but absorbed the sweet smell of the crackling fire. Persian rugs adorned the wooden floors, no doubt handmade. Their intricate patterns were covered by the furniture, but the fringe showed the wear and tear that was inevitable due to the high volume of traffic it saw. Two large couches sat opposite each other, one in a rich red, the other in the darkest navy blue. William was curious as to why the owner chose those particular shades, but they complemented each other so well there was no real reason to ask. On one of the sofas sat a mysterious man. There'd been so many visitors during the Fair, according to one of the other boarders, the parlor had become a virtual transient village. This man was different, however. He sat in the darkness, well away from the glowing embers of the dying fire. Day had progressed into evening; at this late hour,

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most of the other patrons had gone to their rooms, weary from the day's activities. This man looked surprisingly well-rested. William found him to be a curiosity, and he struggled to observe him from afar without being detected.

Misha generally waited until he knew that the parlor was empty, or almost so, before making his appearance of an evening. He had nothing against the boarders whose presence was so very necessary to the survival of the boarding house. He understood their necessity, and did not begrudge his aunt from doing what she must. It wasn't as if most of St. Louis weren't doing the same thing in order to accommodate the huge numbers of visitors to the city, numbers far beyond the capacity of the hotels to house. It was not even a fear of discovery, for he knew that none suspected his true nature, and that, in and of itself, had a tendency to induce a sort of euphoria within him. He knew that he was different from them, and he reveled in the difference, holding himself deliberately aloof. The fire felt good to Misha. Being what he was, his circulation was not the best, and he chilled easily. And yet he sat away from its light, preferring the shadows of his own existence. His pallor was in stark contrast to his lips, 13

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which had been a natural terra cotta in life and retained their hue even in death. When he got excited, they filled with a lovely crimson color, which only served to betray his feelings. In fact, his skin at times took on an unnatural glow that could almost pass for a blush, as what blood he did possess redistributed itself throughout his body, whether the cause for excitation was the thought of easing his almost constant hunger or desire for some pretty boy. It was a delicious ache, one that tormented him, yet one which he found difficult to assuage, for in this time and place, it would be more dangerous to be seen as a shirtlifter than a bloodsucker. Such was the morality of the Midwest. And yet on occasion, he did satisfy both predilections, happily for him. He held a book within his lap, a well-thumbed copy of Leaves of Grass. He rested one palm lightly upon the tome, pausing before turning back the familiar cover. He sensed something. Or was it someone? He raised his head, although his dark eyes remained fixed on the volume that he held, his other senses reaching out. He felt a new presence. Aunt Ekaterina had told him they‟d received a new boarder today. This must be him. He shrank back into the sofa a little more in an attempt to draw attention away from himself. Don't look at me, don't think of me, I am nothing. Despite his best 14

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intentions, he found himself looking at the newcomer anyway. He was sure that the man had just been looking at him. A crooked smile graced his delicate face, almost a smirk. The man approached slowly, almost gracefully. He warmed his slim hands at the fireplace before he turned to Misha, who remained enveloped in darkness on the crimson sofa. He watched Misha for a moment, observing him closely. Misha barely budged. Something about the eyes of his admirer was compelling; yes, that was it. But it was more than that. The hauntingly light blue eyes, the slim build, the fair hair that was so expertly oiled down into place—the combination of these features drew Misha's attention, piquing his curiosity. Finally, the man shut his eyes and whispered something unintelligible to himself before he turned around to face the object of his fascination—Misha. He took a step forward and stretched out his hand.

The other man looked at him curiously, as if William were some strange new specimen presenting itself for his edification. The reporter felt impelled to break the silence. "I'm William Deming, of the Utah Gazette. Pleased 15

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to make your acquaintance, sir. Might I ask your name?" The man stirred unexpectedly, stretching his legs, which overturned the book. It fell onto the cushion beside him, momentarily unheeded. He stood, meeting William‟s height. William retracted his hand and stood back a bit as the man rose up in front of him. He felt an immediate sexual charge, almost an energy that emanated from every pore. He had to catch his breath. Was it his incredibly handsome, pale face? The luminous eyes? Perhaps the strong, firm body that graced his tailored suit so well and bulged in all the right places? A

hand

presented

itself.

"Misha.

Misha

Rumiantseva." William took hold of the hand and shook it firmly, but not tightly. "Pleased to meet you. Are you a visitor here only for the Fair?" William cleared his throat in an attempt to keep his voice from cracking, a phenomenon that had long since been relegated to his pubescent years. Still, there was something about Misha that made his hormones rage similar to the wildfire he'd fought his way through fifteen years ago. "No. I live here, is home." The accent was distinctively non-Missourian, but William couldn't quite place it. He'd met people from all different lands and 16

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dialects, but this particular accent eluded him. He felt his hand sweat a bit, and he retracted it before Misha noticed. "It's a fine building, lovely décor. Did you hire an expert decorator?" "No, my aunt was only designer. Is nice, no?" William nodded like an idiot. "Yes, is nice," he answered. Misha paused for the space of a heartbeat, looking at him as if unsure if the young man was making fun of his accent, or merely parroting his words. "I live here, you do not, so you are visitor, yes?" "Yes," William repeated, conceding the point. As a reporter, his job required him to be careful with his words, not at a loss for them. There was just something… unnerving… about this Misha, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. That thought alone caused him to suppress a moan, which he quickly covered. "I'm sure you're excited to be so close to it, aren't you? The Fair, I mean. It's almost in your backyard. Just a short walk away." Its proximity to Forest Park was one reason why he had chosen this particular boarding house among so many with rooms to let. The prices were good, he had to admit, and the room he'd been given more than comfortable. Suddenly he found himself adding one more reason to that list he had going on. Not that he'd ever let on. They were in the Bible 17

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Belt, after all, and he did know better than to reveal his attraction to another man. At least he thought he did.

Misha shrugged his slender shoulders in a noncommittal gesture. "As you say, is very close." Close enough that he could hear with no effort the squeals of delight of the fairgoers, although he could not be sure of the immediate cause of their pleasure, for he did not actually know what there was to see or do at the Fair. He had not cared to know. Until this moment. And he wasn't even sure why he cared now. Or why his feet seemed to be instructing him to go there when he'd avoided it so assiduously before. Perversely, ignoring his own instinct, he resumed his seat upon the sofa. With an elegant gesture, he waved to William to take the place beside him, first removing Whitman from harm‟s way. His gaze moved toward the window, but his words were all for William, a quote that he recalled from his readings with Mrs. Sims. "The earth recedes from me into the night," he recited softly. "I saw that it was beautiful… and I see that what is not the earth is beautiful." His quote, although accented, was flawless, the words proceeding both from his soul and his lips. Misha felt the desire that emanated from the other 18

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man. He understood desires and needs of many kinds. So they were kindred spirits, at least in one regard. Would he act upon such knowledge, here in the place where he lived? That had never happened before; he‟d have to think about it. He knew that such a thing would not sit well with his aunt, so he‟d have to weigh displeasuring Ekaterina against possible pleasure with this man. Of course, there was always the Fair. So close and so convenient. Perhaps it would serve a useful purpose, after all. William was still standing, Misha noticed, as the reporter glanced at him as if undecided on what he wanted to do. "Please. Sit. With. Me." He accented each word carefully, leaving no doubt as to what was being requested, offering a seductive smile as the sweetener to the deal. He knew that William would. He could sense the fire in his veins, a flame that matched his own. The only question between them now remained where and when? Until then, they could at least speak together.

The young journalist cleared his throat and suppressed a moan of desire that successfully held itself there. He began to sit, but ceased mid-way, thinking he might be too close to—or was it too far from?—this 19

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mysterious man who'd beguiled him from the moment they met? He finally let out a nervous laugh and sat, settling at a respectable distance, yet still close enough to lean in to listen to the tantalizing accent of his companion. Straightening his posture, William crossed his legs, not like a woman as he usually did, but in the way that a man would. He could picture his father now, lecturing him on the proper way to be a man. His older brothers had done their fair share of ragging on him as well. He‟d been their favorite toy as a child; he'd been beaten and bruised on numerous occasions. There were times when the local law enforcement had to be summoned at a neighbor's request. He could still hear his father's raucous laughter as he egged his older sons on to make the boy a “man”. The elder Deming stood in the corner and watched. His pot belly strained the buttons on his woven shirt, and sometimes they popped open, overflowing the belt that failed to contain the hairy flesh. His mother was powerless to control the situation, so she‟d sit with her daughters and tend to the housework and pretend that the abuse didn't exist. The young man pushed the ugly thoughts of his flawed childhood from his mind and focused instead on his current situation—or was it a dilemma? This man seemed very interesting, yet William's reporter's instincts kept trying to override his social skills. He didn't want to grill 20

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the man with questions, merely have a conversation. Finally, he parted his lips, adjusted his spectacles and looked directly into Misha's eyes. "So, how long have you owned this stupendous house?"

"Is not mine." Misha watched the roiling emotions which played across the blond's pretty face. He wondered what was going through William's head, what he was thinking. Alas, he was a vampire, not a mind reader. He wished that he possessed the skill of his mentor and often wondered how things were going for him back in Mother Russia. But Rasputin was not here, Misha was. He would have to deal with this situation on his own. "House belongs to aunt. She allows me live here." His gaze flicked over the long crossed legs of his companion. He wondered how they might feel draped across his shoulders while he buried himself in the depths of the owner‟s body? Was William a screamer? If Misha tried, could he get him to cry out his name—and beg for more? The thought intrigued him, and he leaned closer to William, drawn to seek a deeper intimacy. He drew his own legs upon the couch, curling them beneath him in a decidedly feline manner. 21

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William felt his lips go immediately dry, as if every ounce of moisture in his body had deserted him all at once. The nearness of the dark-haired beauty was most disconcerting, albeit in a pleasant way. He found himself running his tongue over his lower lip, disregarding how forward the gesture might appear. He felt a tightness in his groin, and suddenly this manly position he'd put himself into seemed decidedly uncomfortable, although for the life of him he could not see a graceful way of extracting himself from it without simply looking stupid. His reporter's agile mind leapt at facts. Take note of the facts. Concentrate on the facts and not on kissing those sensual lips. "Right," he replied, wishing he could pull out his notebook, but memory would have to serve for now. "What was her name again?" He felt stupid for having to ask as he was sure he'd known before he ever arrived, when the arrangements had been made. But for the moment, rational thought was not his friend.

Misha sensed his confusion. Rather than waste breath in meaningless words and non-essential answers, he leaned in so close that his lips were mere micrometers from 22

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the other's, his dark eyes boring intently into those confused blue eyes. He wanted to kiss him, so very much, wanted to see what he tasted like. But this was not the time or the place. "We should go out," Misha said in a throaty voice. William swallowed hard, and his eyes hadn't left the haunting face once. "Yes… we should." Misha's pupils dilated with the firelight. He could barely tame the excitement within himself. Their breathing had synced and William's lips quivered as he struggled to decide whether he wanted to keep them open or closed.

The clock broke their silence. Eleven chimes. At the sound, William nearly choked, startled. He coughed, putting his hand to his throat. He coughed again, trying to clear his passages so that he could breathe more easily. Misha patted his back sharply. "You okay?" At this display of concern, William's attack faded. He licked his lips to rid them of the fluid that had collected and trickled from his mouth. He glanced at the clock. The practical, logical side of his brain kicked in, and despite his best attempts to make it go away, it dominated. "It's very late. I think the Fair is closed down for the 23

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night." I hope we were just going to the fairgrounds, weren't we? He cleared his throat and saw the man was mere inches from him, his pale, strong hand nearly on his knee. "Unless you want to show me more of this magnificent house?" Misha smiled. He had such perfect teeth, more perfect than anyone he‟d ever seen. William wondered if perhaps they weren't real. They were such a bright white they almost seemed to glow. "You like, I show you house. It has quiet, dark cellar. Many stories." William's

heartbeat

jumped,

his

imagination

conjuring all sorts of images of him and the mysterious Misha alone together in the cellar. His voice was lost to his panting and anticipation; all he could muster was a nod. Misha laughed softly, amused either by William's desires or his idiocy; he hoped not the latter. "Come, I will show you." "I—" A squeak escaped the journalist's throat. His eyes bugged slightly and he covered his mouth in embarrassment. He shook his head and rolled his shoulders. "I think I'll call it a night. Perhaps tomorrow?" Misha looked a little disappointed, but he managed a knowing grin. "I understand. You are tired. Is long trip from where you travel from?" 24

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"Yes, a very long trip. Far too long for my liking. It was difficult to sleep on the train with so many mothers and children aboard." He yawned, unable to control himself. Much as he hated to appear tired before this beauty, it couldn't be helped. Misha rose in one fluid motion. William scanned every inch and curve that he could, although he tried not to be too obvious about his observation of the other man. The dark man stowed his book under his arm and held out his other hand for his companion to take. William took it without hesitation. The hand was oddly chilly, yet strong. It had a sweet scent to it, perhaps from the book he'd been holding. He rose from the sofa. They stared at one other for a long moment and let their bodies fill in the voids of any missing conversation. Finally William literally pushed himself away, taking a step backward. "I will retire then for the evening. Shall I see you at first light?" Misha took a corresponding step to the side, away from that word, and its implications, almost hissing. Instantly he dropped a wall between them, blocking himself off from the other man. He dropped his eyes to the ornate rugs upon the floor. "No, no." He shook his head adamantly. "I… will find… you." 25

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William was confused. He'd felt something from Misha; he knew he had. So why this sudden change? His reporter's instincts, and his own desires, told him there was something more here than what met the eye. But he wouldn't push, at least not yet. Best to retire for the night and start over tomorrow. Whenever Misha was ready. "Please do," he said, and he meant those words most sincerely. There‟d been a spark between them, one that was undeniable, and by all that was holy, he intended to see it flame, one way or another. Even if it took him until the end of his time in St. Louis to do it. "Good night, Misha, sleep well." He was baffled by the tortured look he received for his efforts. In the blink of an eye, the other man deftly turned on the balls of his feet, his movements as fluid as that of any ballet dancer, and disappeared toward the back of the house. "Well, damn," William muttered to himself, scratching his jaw lightly in perplexity as he made his own way toward the stairs that led to his room.

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CHAPTER FOUR William slowly plodded up the stairwell to his room, pummeled in both mind and body. His body from the assault of the extensive train ride and his mind with the unstoppable, beautiful, erotic images of Misha. He gripped the handrail and literally hoisted himself up onto the top step, not wanting to ascend to his room. Alone. Barren. No Misha to join him and keep the night as wonderful as their first meeting had been. Finally,

after

considerable

effort

had

been

expended, William arrived at his door and let out a breath. He looked around the hallway to see if any of the other boarders had heard him; he didn't wish to disturb them or draw undue attention to himself. He wished only to be alone—alone with Misha. His fingers felt along the edges of the number that was sturdily attached to the hard, hickory door. It was a number three. It was large, roughly the size of his hand. Its burnished gold finish looked slightly worn but was still quite readable. His eyes traveled south to the door hardware, which was in the same golden hue, but much more worn down and slightly tarnished from hundreds of hands and the oily secretions that had touched it. He bowed 27

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his head and unearthed his key from his trouser pocket. Inserting the large, brass key into the lock, he turned it. Upon entry, his first sensation was that of a rush of cold air, one that sent his pulse rate strangely higher. At first he thought perhaps it was merely the door, but no. It was something else. He stepped farther into his quarters, closed the door behind him, and quickly locked it. His steps led him toward the open window and the billowing curtains that had been constantly pluming out the colorful fabric all evening long. William‟s heart calmed, its too rapid pace slowing as he stepped forward to close the window and return the drapery to its restful state. He took a moment and looked outside the large, plate glass window onto the street below. The gas lanterns hummed their serenade, a distant car backfired, and a carriage clopped its way down the hard-packed dirt road. William took a deep breath and adjusted his glasses. He noticed they had fogged up since he'd shut the window. He removed them, huffed his warm breath onto them and wiped them clear with his jacket edge. He held the spectacles for a moment, marveling at the item that had allowed him to see for most of his life. Thoughts of Misha entered his mind again; most notably his eyes. The Russian had the most extraordinary eyes he'd ever seen. They appeared to be so cold, almost like obsidian, yet they held 28

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an inner warmth he'd have a most difficult time dismissing, especially as he readied for slumber. Misha‟s nationality had struck him only after they‟d parted; he should have realized it sooner. Russian, like the far-off exotic steppes, a mysterious land of snow and ice—and Misha. Determined to shake off sleep even longer, he reached for his map of the fairgrounds and plotted out his coming day. He sat at the medium-sized square table under the apron of the window. He quickly laid out the papers, using a magnifying glass to scrutinize every detail. His boss would certainly want a very thorough report in return for his generous allowance of a two-week assignment. Two weeks. Two weeks that could be spent with either his maps and his notebooks, talking to exotic strangers and locals or two weeks that could be spent with the mysterious Misha. It was not a difficult choice. **** He is pretty, like sun, but pale, like me. Cool, like Russian sun. I wonder if I touch him, will he feel cool? I wish that I could. If only things were different. For little while tonight I forget. I think maybe life is good, maybe I can be happy. Stupid me. I am so stupid to think that way. Why has he come here? To remind me that 29

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my life is over? That there is nothing for me, nothing but darkness? Damn him, damn him, damn. I can never walk in his light, no matter how much I try. Is not possible. Why does it hurt so much? William, I have nothing to give you. You are different from me. I am different from you. Soon you will leave. You will leave me behind and take away the only sun that I can ever have. You will forget I ever was. Is best for you. Sometimes I think maybe I should die. Would be easier for everyone. What if I stop? No more blood? How long before I die? Maybe I find out.

Mikhail Rumiantseva had begun his journal when his life had been forever changed four years before in his native Russia under the skillful hands of Grigori Rasputin. At that time he had not only discovered his proclivity for the same sex—an inclination that, by itself, was bound to be problematic for the eighteen-year-old in that time and place—but the wandering holy man had taken him from the only world he knew and immersed him in another from which there was no going back, into a lifetime filled with nothing but shadows, never to walk in the sun again. His parents had sent him away, sent him to America 30

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beyond the tsar's reach and beyond the demands of the military. There was no way their son could serve as a soldier without his secret being learned, which would have been fatal for them all. They sent him away even knowing that they probably would never see their son again, their sweet Misha. But it was for the best. He kept this journal locked in his room, the only key being in his possession at all times. Sometimes he was fatalistic about what had happened to him, accepting it for what it was and relishing the nighttime life he now enjoyed. He had one-night stands, casual encounters of both the sexual and the sanguine kind. Pretty boys and older men whose names and faces were forgotten, relegated to the pages of his private thoughts. He charmed them completely, he used them, and then he let them go. Misha closed the journal with an ill-suppressed sigh. There were times when he was every inch the hormonal young man who had been arrested far too soon in his emotional development by the hunger of the hedonistic monk. The boarding house lay silent, its occupants long gone in slumber. Except for him, of course. Dawn was soon to arrive, and before the first rosy tendrils split the dark horizon, Misha would be safe in his eternal darkness in his room in the basement. This room was kept carefully locked by himself, and no one else had rights of entry, not even his 31

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aunt, not without his permission. It possessed no windows and only one apparent method of ingress. The secret door, which in actuality led directly to the outside, was concealed from the view of the casual gazer by Misha's skills. There, upon his single bed with its white crocheted bedspread, he waited out the daylight hours in a state that was neither sleep nor awareness, but somewhere in between. A semiconsciousness, during which he recouped his strength, gathering it for the night ahead. Normally, he felt no loss at the day's arrival, taking each day in stride as a necessary evil that preceded the night. But today was different. Today he yearned to be able to go out—with William—to actually live for once. Misha checked to make sure he'd locked his door then secreted his journal beneath his bed, taking his place upon it. He folded his hands sedately across his chest and closed his eyes. He dreamt of William.

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CHAPTER FIVE The following morning, William awoke from his slumber with a start. He sat up in bed and felt around on the mattress next to him. Nope, still empty. Damn, it had been just a dream. His nightshirt was soaked with sweat, as well as other bodily fluids, some of which had stained the bedding. Feeling a bit embarrassed, he took his head into his hands, attempting to control his breathing. He threw back the sheets and brought his legs first to his chest, then twisted his body in order to sit on the edge of the mattress. After running a hand through his mussed hair, William glanced over at the clock on his night table. He strained to see the time and ended up picking up the item for closer inspection. It was seven o‟clock. He moaned; the night before had hardly been a blissful slumber. It'd been full of dreams of travel, doing his job and getting a good report, and, of course, Misha. The latter was the reason for the soiled sheets. He struggled to hoist himself out of bed; with the aid of one of the bed posters, he managed to do so. He shuffled over to the dressing table and mirror. The mirror was freestanding, a swivel-type. His entire person appeared in the reflection, making it easy for him to scrutinize every

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detail of his chosen ensemble. He walked to his suitcase and unearthed a fresh set of clothing, gathering it into his hands. His next stops would be to freshen up, dress, eat, and finally head out to do his work. After a filling breakfast of eggs, juice, and toast, William looked around for Misha. No sign of him. Pushing himself away from the table with a satisfied sigh, he stood. Spying the owner of the establishment, he stopped her in the hallway. "Excuse me, ma'am?" "Yes, sir? Can I help you with something?" A few of the boarders passed by and gave him a curious stare, almost as if they knew what he was going to ask. He disliked the notion of people knowing his business. He shuffled the woman aside to a quiet corner. "I was wondering if Misha was up yet?" "Oh, no sir. He sleeps in very late. He always has. It must be a habit he picked up in Russia," she said with a slight air of disapproval. Her accent contained even less of the homeland than her nephew's, with an odd mixture of flat Missouri vowels and Russian consonants. He realized that she must have been in this country far longer than Misha had. "We always woke at the crack of dawn to work our farm." William's interest in hearing more of her story made 34

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him want to linger for a moment, but duty called. "Well, when he wakes, tell him I'll see him when I come back for dinner this evening." She smiled at him. "I certainly will, sir. You enjoy your time in this great city and this marvelous affair!" He smiled back; her enthusiasm was infectious. "I will, ma'am. Thank you." He ran upstairs to retrieve his notebook, pencil, and maps and stuffed them all into the pockets in his jacket. With a last look around the room, he locked the door, went back down the steps, and out the door. William marveled at the size and scope of the fair as soon as his steps brought him to the main entrance. This is what his writing career needed! It would not be a difficult task to be impressed by all of the sights, sounds, flavors, and pleasures this marvelous exposition had to offer. Since he'd managed to take his mind off food for the moment, the vendors he passed, their stands filled with a plethora of taste treats such as funnel cakes, ice cream and sundry other items, did nothing to tempt his palate. He could focus on his work for the most part, save for the once-a-minute thoughts of Misha. He found a large directory map and studied it carefully. He decided to pace himself and cover only a couple of places per day, perhaps three. In the distance, the 35

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towering Ferris Wheel spun slowly, carrying what appeared to be hundreds of people, all contained in the large cages attached to the massive wheel. What a true marvel of engineering! William thought to himself. He stared at it for a moment and noticed he was not alone in his admiration. The ride had garnered a rather sizeable crowd that stood and watched the revolutions of the monstrous machine. William had a flash of himself and Misha trapped inside one of the cages together, but he had to nix that image because he doubted very much they'd be the only two people in such a large cage. He sighed and had to mentally place himself back into his current situation— work. His reason for being there was to work, not to date, or to fantasize about good-looking men. His boss, Mr. Mayes, would have a fit if he knew how much one of his most promising reporters daydreamed. Mayes was all about work and production. William wondered if sometimes his rush to attain a front page headline made the remainder of the stories suffer in quality. That didn't matter right now. Right now he needed to focus on the Fair and his story. He turned his head and began the hike to his first destination: the Palace of Manufactures. Afterward, he jotted some notes of the impressions he had garnered there into his notebook. Palace of Manufactures–Models walked about 36

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wearing dresses from France and Italy. There was an exhibit of Mexican shoes. There were many tailors and seamstresses from different countries. Visitors could watch the process of clothing being created: from raw material to finished products. There were also old and new stoves, furnaces, carpets and fabrics, as well as in-home heating and ventilation systems for the homes of the future. William scribbled page after page of notes about the different countries that were represented and about their particular ensembles. He found the European clothing to be the most attractive; he made a mental note to pursue it further and perhaps ask Misha who did his tailoring. William found it fascinating to watch the process of how clothing was created step-by-step. As a boy, he‟d watched his mother spin wool into yarn and sew fabric into the clothing he wore. Of course, in such a large brood and being the youngest, he had perhaps two outfits that were his very own. The rest were hand-me-downs. He cherished the nearly endless hours he'd spent watching his mother handsew her creations. There was such a precise art to it, never a dropped stitch, never a loose hem or seam. Perfect. Her outfits far outweighed the mass-manufactured items he'd seen in the cities. He missed everything about her. Five years now she'd been gone, and it still felt like yesterday. William had to pack away memories of his mother 37

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and write down his impressions instead. He did find the future home items interesting, though he‟d noticed the boarding house was ahead of its time in some ways. It had heavy drapes and a large rug, and even some carpeting. He noted that it'd be interesting to witness how homes would metamorphosize in the future. Next, the young reporter made his way to one of the most popular attractions, the Palace of Electricity and Machinery. Just by seeing the hour-long line of people that waited to get through the door, he could tell right away that this would be an excellent exhibit. Finally, he too made his way inside and quickly began jotting everything down. Palace of Electricity and Machinery–This was one of the most popular exhibits. It had lights everywhere! Visitors were able to talk to one another from one end of the building to the other—on a telephone! The telephone was invented by Alexander Graham Bell in 1876. At this time, it has only recently begun to be used across the U.S. Outside of the palace, a wireless telegraph tower rose two hundred and fifty feet high (as high as the Ferris Wheel). William enjoyed talking on the telephone. A young woman picked up on the other end. He laughed and said, "My dog has fleas." The woman giggled, her laughter sounding odd and almost disjointed, and she hung up without uttering an actual word. 38

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Another marvelous Edison invention illuminated the hall with an extraordinary brightness—namely, the incandescent bulb. William's mind spun back in time to the oil lamps his family had used for lighting and the fireplace that had provided their heat. That was all they'd ever had. Now, in the boarding house, he could smell the gas lamps that lit the hallways and the outdoors. He almost missed the simple lantern that sat on the table during suppertime as everyone recounted their day, the conversation rotating among the various members of his family. Occasionally they'd get to him and he could finally tell everyone of the daydreams he'd had, and of course, sometimes there would be a chat or two about schoolwork. The distant clock chimed. It was well past one o‟clock. William hadn't noticed his stomach growling; in all the excitement and wonderment, he hadn't paid it much mind. He trekked to a food vendor and selected a hot dog and some iced tea. He pushed his way through the crowds and thankfully found an empty spot at a small table at the other end of the eating area. After finishing his lunch, it was nearly two o‟clock. He could choose another spot to visit or he could go back to the house and scout out where Misha might be hiding himself. Where could he be all day long? Did he have a 39

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job? What did he do? William found much about Misha to be a mystery—an insatiable, highly-desirable mystery, one he couldn't wait to crack open and explore with extreme thoroughness and ferocity. William licked his lips at the mere thought and smiled. He looked around, hoping he'd not made a spectacle of himself. Speaking of spectacles, he glanced down his nose at his own and noticed they were a bit dirty. He removed them and grabbed the corner of his handkerchief, wiping them down quickly. Well, now what? It seemed his fatigue had caught up with him as he opened his mouth wide with a considerable yawn. He had made his decision. Back to the house it was. As he lumbered up the steps to his room, he noticed the house seemed a bit too quiet for the hour of nearly three o‟clock. He shrugged and unlocked his room. Inside, he washed his hands, removed his glasses, and folded back the sheets on the bed. It'd been freshly made for him; something he appreciated. He shut the drapes to darken the room enough for sleep. He made certain the main door was locked, as well as the shared door on the newly-installed indoor bathroom. It had just been converted the year prior, much to the delight of the owners. He turned his nightshirt right-sideout and tossed it to the side to wear after he finished 40

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undressing. William's mind sprang to life as did other physical attributes as he stripped off each item of clothing. He pictured Misha doing this for him; button by button, folds of fabric falling away, the sweet aroma of cologned skin being exposed and enjoyed. William stripped off everything except for his union suit. He stood quietly and closed his eyes. He envisioned the handsome Russian in front of him, fingers fixed on the buttons of the only item that separated him from total nakedness. As he flicked the fasteners open, his excitement made itself known, spreading to the tent in his suit. He peeled back the shoulders, pushed the cotton fabric down his slim body, and finally away from between his legs, having left a noticeable wet spot. He stood still for a moment and ran his hands over his exposed skin, hoping, praying, dreaming of feeling Misha's touch there someday. He opened his eyes and glanced at the nightshirt. He began to put it over his head, but decided not to at the last moment. The fabric seemed like an intruder in this moment of bliss in his mind, so he decided to forgo it. He slipped his naked body beneath the cool sheets, feeling a chill snake up his spine for a moment, but it was a brief moment. His mind was on fire, as was his body. Fatigue and desire were not complementary, and as he attempted to nap, William's dreams lit up his synapses. He did manage to 41

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sleep, or was it all a waking dream? He tossed and turned, his hand moving between his legs, cupping himself as he moaned Misha's name. His fretful gymnastics were interrupted by an unexpected knock at the door. **** Misha's fathomless eyes snapped open as the last of sol's rays dropped below the horizon, his senses fully alert, his body taut with expectancy. Even his cock was hard, which was unusual for him on first rising. He wondered briefly what that portended. He leapt lightly from his resting place with practiced grace. He poured water from a ceramic pitcher into a matching basin, both pieces a delicate blue shade. Somehow in the firing process, a slight error had been made, which had resulted in an incongruity, an unevenness in the tone. But Misha did not mind the resultant dark spot. It served to remind him that all things were flawed, not just him. Having performed his evening's ablutions, he donned clean clothing in the style he preferred, having developed a liking for a semi-Edwardian look—a doublebreasted pearl grey waistcoat beneath a black, pinstriped morning coat, which he wore open. He eschewed the cravat, which should by rights have accompanied this 42

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ensemble, as well as the silk top hat, preferring his long dark hair to be unencumbered. He wore it loose and wild— like himself. It would never grow any longer than it was now, and he would never cut it. His trousers were of a matching pinstripe, baggy at the knees, as was the fashion, and his shoes were black, fitting snugly over his aristocratically small feet. He told himself that he was going to such pains because he intended to go out tonight, so he needed to look his best. It had nothing to do with the presence of the reporter in the boarding house, or the dreams that had starred that same reporter in all of his imagined glory. No, that couldn't be the reason why he found himself so hard upon awakening. Simply a coincidence, it must be. Unlocking his door, he tripped lightly up the steps leading from his cellar retreat, making his way into the boarding house proper. Affecting a nonchalance he was far from feeling, he walked from the kitchen through the dining room and into the parlor, greeting the boarders whom he passed. To his frustration, there was one particular boarder that was not visible. Of course, what was he thinking? He must be at that obnoxious Fair that had stolen away Misha's quiet times in the park. Misha wandered back into the kitchen like a restless soul without a tether. The room held no interest for him in 43

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that he had ceased to have nutritional needs for such things on the night he'd been turned. Aunt Ekaterina was cooking supper for everyone. She gave her nephew a sharp glance. "Misha, why so gloomy?" she asked, turning from the Magic Hub woodstove that was her pride and joy, spoon in hand, tasting the soup that simmered there. "Am not gloomy," he protested, turning away from her scrutiny. "Is something I can help with?" "You can tell your new friend that dinner is almost ready. I believe I heard him go up to his room a while ago, and the last time I walked by, I think I heard him snore." "I have no new friend," Misha felt compelled to reply, even as he breezed by his aunt on his way from the room. He could feel her smile without looking; it radiated from her. Damn her for being too perceptive. Although even she would not be so happy if she understood his true thoughts concerning William Deming, where friendship was only the tip of the iceberg. Society had a name for people such as Misha, and it was not a pretty one. Controlling the impulse to race up the stairs, he put one foot carefully before the other. Mrs. Sims was just descending the staircase, and he had no wish to inadvertently knock her over. "Good evening." He greeted her with a polite nod and a smile, before passing by, intent upon reaching the second floor, where he made his way to 44

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William's room. Standing outside the room, he thought he heard his name. He paused for a moment, but was met with only silence. His hand reached out of its own volition, turning the knob. To his disappointment, it was locked. Knocking automatically, in order to satisfy the prurient curiosity of anyone who might be listening, he gently turned the knob once more, exerting a little pressure upon it in just the right way. He knew how to get into every room in this house, of any house, another useful gift he had acquired from the talented Rasputin. Some required more skill than others, but he had practiced on these doors, at night when the inhabitants were lost in slumber, doing it for his own amusement. Gently, he eased the door open and slid inside, his eyes fixed upon the figure in the bed. He saw that William's eyes were closed. As Aunt Ekaterina had said, he was napping. Misha wondered how he had spent his day, what thoughts were his when the first light of day brought no sign of Misha, as of course he had known it would not. Or did he even think about Misha when they were apart? That thought was hard to bear, so he cast it aside, almost angrily. He advanced into the room, his eyes growing wider as he became aware of William's state of undress. The reporter lay upon the sheets, having obviously kicked the comforter and top sheet aside, revealed in all his pristine 45

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beauty. Misha drank in the sight, his gaze devouring everything there was to see. He silently damned the hand that cupped the other man‟s privates, wishing to see those most of all. His own bulge ached in sympathy, straining to be free. He laid his palm against it with the intention of taming it, but found himself stroking his cloth-covered flesh instead. He was torn between keeping his distance and gaining a better view. Proximity won out as he moved toward the bed, being careful to make no sound. William seemed so peaceful. What would he be like as a lover? Would he be calm or would he be wild when he was aroused? The thought sent shivers through his frame that were mirrored in the stroking of his cock, hidden though it was by his trousers. Would William want to touch him? Would he wish to caress Misha's flesh, touch it gently with those long fingers, maybe lay soft kisses upon it, his lips sliding down in order for his mouth to encompass Misha's hardness? The very thought elicited a soft moan. Would he allow Misha to touch him? Perhaps to lick that creamy flesh, to taste every facet of him, to inhale the human scent of William from his most private places? Would he perhaps consent to allow Misha to fuck him there, to fill him, to unite with him in the way that only 46

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men can be united, even though it was forbidden? Misha didn't care if others considered him to be unnatural; he wanted William, and that seemed right to him. He wanted to feel his heat, to press into his tightness with all of his strength, claiming him, making him his. And he wanted his blood. Wanted to taste the sweetness that was undoubtedly his. His hand had unbuttoned the top of his trousers without thought, and he reached inside until it met his hard flesh, pumping it now while thoughts of William fueled his fantasies, imagining he was kissing the pale lips before him, covering his body with passionate kisses. Every sense heightened, he took a step closer to the bed and its occupant. William inhaled deeply, as if he were awakening. Misha froze, uncertain of what the next move would be. After what seemed to be an indeterminate amount of time, the nude man finally calmed down and moved his hand away from the center of his body. Misha smiled as he was finally able to drink in all of the man's fine attributes. His resting cock appeared to be longer than average, supported by a very pale pink ball sac beneath. Misha was extremely pleased that his night vision was so excellent. His hand slipped farther down his own pants, and he moaned slightly and „inadvertently‟ whispered William's name. 47

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The bed's occupant shifted, even as Misha watched, and with eyes still shut, William quietly uttered Misha's name. The vampire gasped, smiling to himself. Just the mere knowledge that William thought of him sent a shock of life coursing to his dead cells. His imagination began to take wing for the first time since he‟d been changed, seeing William as more than someone to draw blood-life from. This young reporter from the faraway land of Utah could possibly be his first real lover in a very long time, more real than the eager and willing men he allowed to toy with him at his discretion. The fact that the feelings were mutual almost made his heart begin to beat again, how very much he wished that it could. He surprised himself with just how much he wanted to be with William—as a companion, as a lover—how much he wanted to be by his side forever; although for Misha, forever bore different connotations. But of course, doubts would insist upon creeping in. Was William merely dreaming? Or was it a bad scenario that played itself out in the journalist's mind, and was it for safety's sake that he gave the call that would bring Misha to his aid? Misha couldn't stand the not knowing anymore, or the doubts that assailed him. He removed his hand from his pants and sat down upon the bed, which awoke William. 48

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The blue-eyed blond opened his eyes quickly. "Hello? Who is it? What do you want?" he cried out in a very panicked tone, his waking mind still sleep-encrusted. Misha gently laid his palm upon the man's leg, his only motive being to calm him. "William, shhh. Is okay. Is Misha." The reporter felt around for his spectacles, finding them on the dresser. Misha watched as he fumbled them on, blinking."Misha? How did you… how did you get into my room? I thought I locked the door." Stung a bit by the possibility that William did not welcome his unannounced visit, Misha stood up and backed away from the bed toward the door. "I'm sorry, I was told you were here. Did not want you to miss dinner. I leave you alone now." He turned to leave, his hand stretched toward the knob. "Wait!" William called out. "Please don't go. You startled me, that's all. It's quite a way to be awoken with such a handsome man sitting on my bed. Especially in my state of undress. Come back, please, sit down." He offered Misha an inviting smile; that, combined with the warmth of his tone and his obvious sincerity, made Misha smile in spite of himself. "Are you sure?" William picked up the comforter from the floor, 49

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placing it over his lower half. He scooted over a bit and patted the sheets. "Please, come join me." The invitation itself was exciting. Misha turned back, his dark hair swaying freely. He'd always loved the length of his hair. It made him happy to know that his long tresses would stay as they were for the rest of his unending life. He sat on the edge of the bed, making certain to be close, but not too close. "Is this okay?" William cocked his head, regarding him. "A bit nearer would be preferable," he replied daringly. He perused Misha‟s attire with his eyes. "Your ensemble is very fetching, where did you get that?" Misha plucked at the sleeve of his coat. "Thank you… is nice suit, no? I like to dress for dinner." Even though he never ate. The blond snuck a peek at the clock. "It's not ready yet, is it?" His eyes met his companion's, almost conspiratorially. "No, is not time yet. We have maybe hour, maybe longer." He scooted nearer to the bed's occupant and plucked his fingers through his vest, opening it. William„s mouth dropped open, a moan escaping his throat. "Misha…." "When I come in, you say my name. Was it good 50

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dream?" Misha asked apprehensively. The pale man reached for his hand, and they clamped them together. "Yes. A very good dream. If I'd known you were coming up to my room, I'd have prepared a far more inviting welcome for you." Misha's mouth gaped slightly, speech momentarily a thing of the past, unsure of what rejoinder to make after such an open admission. It was more than obvious to him now that William was interested in him and very much wanted him. As much as he wanted William. "Will—" The reporter leaned forward and, in a completely daring move on his part, kissed Misha directly on the lips, encompassing them completely. The comforter slid down and away from his body, unneeded. While William's arms were wrapped around Misha's neck, Misha held the other man gently about the waist. He resisted the temptation to slide his fingers down below that point, desirous of knowing how far William would allow him to go. The kiss ended at last, yet all too soon. "I'm sorry, was that too forward of me?" Misha shook his head and playfully pushed William back down on the bed. Throwing himself over him, he initiated a passionate kiss of his own. He reached between them boldly and cupped William's hardening cock. It felt as good as he'd hoped it would. 51

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"You… like… boys?" he asked between nips of those delightful lips. His dark eyes locked onto William's pale blue ones, although the answer to that question should have been more than evident, lying there within his grasp. "I… like… you," William managed to get out. William's skin was so pale, so translucent, that Misha could see the delicate veins beneath the surface, and he longed for a taste of the blood they contained with a hunger he had never known before. It rattled his usual selfcontrol. He could feel his canines already elongating in preparation, and he hastily pulled back from William. He hadn't prepared him for that—it was too much, too soon. Thinking quickly, he moved away from the source of the problem, which was William's neck, deciding that the safest course of action was to move in a more southerly direction before his baser desires completely overrode his common sense. As he kissed his way down William's pale chest, he glanced back and forth between the skin he licked and William's eyes. "I must taste you," he tried to explain as truthfully as he could without revealing too much, keeping his head down as much as possible. Deciding that the safest way to keep his mouth quiet was to occupy it, he slid down William's pale body until he reached his lovely, hard cock. He inhaled, taking in the scent that he was coming to 52

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recognize as William, almost devouring the man‟s cock in his urgent desire to keep his secret, at least for now. He moaned into William's flesh, for the reality outstripped even the fantasy, and his entire body tingled as electric impulses shot through his nerves.

William moaned as he held Misha's head close to him. He'd not felt such unbounded pleasure in what seemed to be eons. He opened his legs a bit more, hoping, almost pleading for the tall, dark man to take him any way that he desired. The more seductive, involved, and erotic the better. He whispered his new lover's name as he ran his pale fingers through the raven strands of hair. He gripped the mane in his fists, and the locks appeared to fall across his hands in cascading waterfalls of liquid black. "I… like… you," Misha said, parroting William's own words. He removed his mouth from William, at least for the moment, turning away, as if waging an internal struggle. "W-Why'd you do that?" William stammered as he fought for breath. "Don't pull away, please?" He almost begged the man not to stop; his body, mind, and libido were all there, waiting, dripping, dying for attention. "I… must tell you something first," Misha said 53

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quickly. They kissed again. Misha moaned into William's mouth. William felt the need to breathe, even if Misha didn't, and they pulled back from each other. "Tell me quickly. I… doubt my ability to make it to dinner on time more and more every moment," William said, his voice rasping. He wanted something other than conversation, and his needs were overriding his accustomed unassuming manner. Misha cupped William‟s face and licked his cheek, a move that both surprised and delighted him. "William… I—" A knock at the door interrupted the two. Who could possibly have such wretched timing? "Mr. Deming? Dinner is ready, sir!" his landlady bellowed. William caught his breath in frustration. He leaned forward, pitching his voice toward the door. "Thank you, ma'am! I'll be down shortly. As soon as I… dress." "Have you seen my nephew, Misha? He was looking for you." The two men looked at each other in an almost amused fashion. "What should I tell her?" William whispered to the Russian. "Tell her I go out to get dinner." At William's obviously confused expression, he added, "Please," in a 54

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low voice, his heart in his eyes as he looked at William. William didn't understand, but he felt compelled to do as he was requested. "He said something about going out to dinner," he called to the closed door.

Misha heard his aunt's intake of breath, a sharp hiss of displeasure which she quickly quelled. "Very well," was all she said, before she moved away from the door, and they could hear her footsteps heading down the stairs. "You must go, quickly," Misha said, frantic that his aunt had misunderstood—or understood only too well. "Let her see that you are well. I meet you downstairs. Soon. Then we leave here. Go out. Yes?" He looked anxiously into William's eyes, unwilling to let him out of his sight, yet desirous of averting his aunt's inquiries. She understood what he was, and what he was forced to do for his survival. But she had always made it clear that it could not take place here, in her home. He had almost broken her cardinal rule.

William could read the confusion in Misha's mien, whether he understood it or not, and he only wished to allay it, so he grasped at straws, putting together an explanation that his mind could handle. Namely, that Misha was trying 55

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to keep them from being seen together, in flagrante. He kissed Misha tenderly, before rolling out of the bed, hastily assembling his clothes. As a reporter, he was sometimes required to get somewhere in a hurry, and he'd learned how to dress quickly. "I'll go down first, you follow as soon as you can," he murmured into Misha's mouth. "It'll be okay; you'll see." He gave Misha a last lingering kiss before opening his door, glancing up and down the hallway. No one in sight. He turned long enough to blow Misha a kiss before disappearing from view.

Misha lay down upon the spot William had just vacated, taking in his scent, appalled at what had almost just happened. What had he been thinking? How could he tell William his most carefully guarded secret, one he had sworn to never tell? And how could he come so close to drinking William's blood? He needed to get out of the house, needed to feed. But he wanted William; that was the problem. Only William. What the hell was he going to do now? He would spend time with William, but not alone. Not until he could get some blood into him. Then he would not act so crazy. That was it, that was what he had to do. He would go down 56

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to dinner, act as if everything were normal, and then he and William would either spend time in the boarding house with someone else present, perhaps Mrs. Sims, or they could walk to the World's Fair, where they would be in the company of thousands of other people. Other people with blood to drink. That seemed like a very good idea to him.

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CHAPTER SIX Misha's plan worked—up to a point. William had taken his place at the dining table, along with the other boarders, while Misha‟s aunt served the soup. She made no mention of Misha, and no one asked about him, oddly enough, not even Mrs. Sims. William wasn't sure how Misha was going to explain his presence upstairs when he did come down for dinner, not when William had already informed his aunt that he had gone out. His confusion only grew when he heard the bang of the front door; the noise sounded overly loud to his jangled nerves. Moments later, Misha himself appeared in the doorway. William looked toward him, but the other man didn't look his way or meet his eyes. "Misha?" The older woman nodded toward her guests expectantly. Misha bowed to them, almost stiffly. William couldn't read his expression, or even begin to guess what he might be thinking or feeling. He was starting to believe he'd imagined the whole episode in his room, that it was merely wishful thinking on his part. But the ache in his groin told him otherwise. "Excuse interruption," Misha apologized to the

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diners. "I am sorry, Aunt Ekaterina, will help serve." He disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, returning shortly thereafter with dishes of food, which he placed upon the table for his aunt. William pushed the soup away. He'd suddenly lost his appetite, as he watched the young man work, coming so close to him that he could reach out and touch him. But he refrained, balling his hands into fists in his lap. Once everything had been done to his aunt's satisfaction, Misha disappeared once more. William heard the front door slam again, disappointment coursing through his veins. He forced himself to don a mask of imperviousness, to act as if Misha's actions were of no consequence to him. He tried to pay attention to the disjointed conversation of the others, but his efforts were futile. He retained nothing that was said. After a few minutes, he excused himself on the pretext that he was going to cover the Fair at night. No one suspected that his smile was all a sham. He ran back up to his room for just a moment, grabbing a light coat, trying not to remember what had almost happened. How he wished it had. Then maybe, just maybe, Misha wouldn't have been so quick to ignore him. He pushed the futile thought away, swallowing the pain as he walked through the house, following in Misha's 59

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footsteps out the front door. Once he gained the porch, he paused. The lights of the Fair were bright, the sounds of the fairgoers clearly audible, even from here. The last thing he expected was to hear a soft sound from the direction of the porch swing. He started, casting a nervous glance about him. What he saw was the long form of Misha stretched out across the swing, rocking gently back and forth. "You… you're here," William stammered, feeling awkward. Misha unfolded his slender frame, rising from the swing. "Where else?" he asked. "Come, we go to Fair now." He moved past William, so close that their legs brushed together. William swallowed. Hard. Misha never stopped, and William hastened to join him, their steps obviously directed toward the Fair. He held his questions for the moment, determined to wait—and to observe. The evening crowd had swelled to an almost indeterminable quantity, the newness of the World's Fair having lost none of its shine in the short time it had been open. Every day brought something new and exciting. It wasn't just the exhibits, but the people—those who were putting on the exposition and those who came to observe it. If this was not a shining example of the true brotherhood of all men, William honestly didn't know what was. 60

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The food vendors were swamped with patrons wanting to sample everything the Fair had to offer: from hamburgers to hot dogs to the new sweet treat that was sweeping the Pike—ice cream in the newly-created “waffle cone”. William and Misha walked side by side. They tried not to walk too close together, lest someone get the wrong idea, but through sheer necessity by dint of the crowds through which they moved, they were forced into closer contact than perhaps propriety might demand. No one noticed, and no one cared. The passing throng only had eyes for the Fair, not the two self-conscious young men who were trying to fight Nature, each battling in his own way. William glanced at his companion, straining to see his beautiful features in the harsh gas lighting. They‟d spoken little, and yet the few glances they‟d exchanged spoke volumes. William felt more at peace, especially knowing that Misha had not deserted him as he'd feared. So much better that his stomach began to grumble that he had not fed it properly. "Are you hungry?" he asked Misha, whom he knew had not even had the little he'd had for dinner. "We can get something to eat. How does a hamburger sound?" He smelled the aroma of cooking beef and onions. He felt 61

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himself begin to salivate. "Am not hungry now," Misha demurred, "but you should eat." William hesitated, afraid that if he got into one of the food vendor lines in order to do just that, Misha might disappear on him again. He chided himself for being such a woman. What was wrong with him? "Come with me?" he asked hopefully. He felt a surge of relief when Misha nodded, following him to the line for the hamburger man. Old Dave's Hamburger Stand, the sign read. The man obviously did good business. The long line snaked down the Pike as other fairgoers paused long enough in their perambulations to replenish their energies in order to see more of the Fair's wondrous sights.

Misha found the scent of blood surrounding them both tempting and frustrating. It called to him, attempting to seduce him into forgetting where he was and among whom; to lose control and consume the precious fluid to his heart's content. But this he did not dare to do. Especially with William right there. William noticed nothing of this internal debate. He licked his lips in anticipation, leaning in closer to chat with his companion. "I've never had one of these before, have 62

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you?" "No… never," Misha stammered, trying not to focus on a most sensuous vein that ran down William's neck. He forced himself to look away, up into the night sky, out toward the crowd, anywhere but at William. William's blue eyes narrowed slightly. "I guess not many people have, it's a pretty new invention. It's exciting to be one of the first to try something, don't you think? Maybe you can try one tomorrow?" Misha shuffled his feet and mumbled something, leaving William to interpret what he'd said in any way that pleased him. He was beginning to wonder if coming here had been such a good idea after all. There were so many of them, all around him. He could feel the coursing of their blood through their veins, smell the alluringly sweet scent of the divine fluid. So many of them, and only one of him. And yet he could not touch a one of them, could not let William have an inkling as to his true nature. Frustrated, he stepped closer to William.

William shot him a sideways grin, bursting with pride at being seen with such a beautiful man, even if no one realized how together they were. How together were they? Did he even really know? He wanted to kiss Misha 63

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right here and now. He wanted to boast of his conquest to the entire world, even though he knew that not only would they not be impressed, they'd be horrified. He didn't really care about what anyone else thought at the moment. He was too filled with feelings for Misha and too full of his own youth and natural propensity to believe that love conquers all to consider that not everyone would understand. He blushed at the audacity of his own thoughts, even as his stomach growled again. "I hope this line moves quickly," he joked. "I'm rather famished after all. I'm afraid I might just pass out on you." Misha raised a concerned brow. "You look pale," he fretted. "If you feel ill, I take you back to house. Aunt Ekaterina take care of you." He stepped closer to William, as if afraid he might actually faint. William shifted another position forward in the line and was grateful to realize he was only two patrons back from placing his order. "Thank you, Misha. But I think I'd like another nurse instead, if you know what I mean." His eyes searched the dark pools of his companion's, leaning in to him. Misha swayed toward William for a moment before the two broke apart, trembling. Finally, after more than fifteen minutes of agonizing waiting, William placed his order. When he received his 64

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food, the two men scouted around the small designated dining area and didn't see a solitary place to sit, filled to the brim as it was with excited fairgoers. "Well, we'll just have to improvise." William spotted a high retaining wall with new shrubbery planted just above it. It was flat, solid, and would make an excellent dining table in a pinch. "Over there. Perfect! Come on." He yanked on Misha's jacket, and the two walked over to the newfound area. William devoured his dinner in less than ten minutes, trying not to spill any of the meat fat on himself or embarrass himself in any other way, although he couldn't help but lick his fingers, they tasted so good. He glanced up at Misha. "Sorry; told you I was starving. This was a great quick dinner, but I hope your aunt saves some pie for us. She's a great cook."

"Great cook," Misha parroted. Not that he would know. He had stopped eating long before he reached America and the boarding house. Food, that is. He felt a prickling at the nape of his neck, and a slow shudder shook his frame. Suddenly he became aware that he was being watched, but by whom? He narrowed his eyes as he glanced about them, defensively. 65

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There. Out of the corner of his eye a face appeared and then disappeared, but he'd caught just enough of a glimpse to remember the face, and he knew who it belonged to. One of his one-night stands. Someone he'd encountered a few weeks ago, here in the park, before the fair was open to the public. He had been one of the electricians that had been putting some of the finishing touches on the power for the Pike. Misha had fucked him beneath the Ferris Wheel. When he looked again, hardly daring to breathe, the man was gone. For a moment, Misha felt that he might faint. He clutched William's arm to steady himself. "Here, what's wrong?" William asked in alarm, misinterpreting Misha's sudden weakness. "Maybe it is I who should get you back to the boarding house? Did you eat something that disagreed with you?" "Maybe," Misha murmured weakly, before he pulled himself together, admonishing himself for his behavior. He was being ridiculous. So what if that man was here? So were a lot of other people. It meant nothing. He straightened up and squeezed William's arm with more confidence. "No, is fine. I'm fine. Let us see what is to see, da?" He was afraid if he allowed William to take him back home he might not be able to resist the siren call of 66

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the other man's blood, at least not at the moment. Better to spend more time here, together, among other people, and then perhaps he could find a chance to sneak away, if only for a few minutes, in order to feed. If he had to “lose” William temporarily in order to do so, that was better than putting him into peril by revealing too much of himself. "Where we go first?" he asked, his usual charming smile back in place. William pulled out his map and looked studiously at the sights. There were so many things to see and do, he seemed unsure which to choose. He repositioned his spectacles onto the end of his nose. "Do you like my new look?" William mused. "Just call me the Professor." Misha laughed aloud. That proved to be a mistake. He felt that his fangs had begun to descend again in his inadvertent excitation. He quickly shut his mouth to avoid detection by William. "You pretend be teacher, da?" "Yes. Mr. Ambrose." William chuckled. "My, what a live-wire he was. I remember how he made all of us stay late after class one time and write out the 'code of honor' for journalists." He let out a breath and shook his right hand as if the muscles still pained him in remembrance of the tortuous longhand exercise. "I thought my hand would never stop cramping. Took me over two hours! I usually never write for that length of time, but faced with having 67

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him hang about us with that hideous pipe-stenched mustard-colored suit and that huge face looking over our shoulders, well, we didn't have much choice.” "No, does not sound like much choice. Speak of choice, where you like to go next?" William carefully scrutinized the map one last time before putting it away. "I know where I'd truly like to go. Somewhere dark, quiet, and very secluded so we can finish what we began back at the house." He licked his lips, the action making his thin, rosy mouth appear seductive and serving to whet Misha's appetite for blood even more. William ran his hand down Misha‟s jacket and pulled himself close. "If that's to your satisfaction, of course." His lips were so close to Misha's that they nearly met, but they were still too much in public to truly let their feelings show. Misha knew that they were safe only as long as they were not alone, but he had no problem with playing the coquette. He took William's hand, kissing his wrist in a stealthily covert manner. "Would be good, but is not possible. Aunt Ekaterina. She told me when I come, not in her house." He shrugged eloquently, as if to say what could he do? He wasn't sure which would upset his aunt more—if Misha took a lover inside her house or if he fed there. Both were forbidden. "Oh. Well, that makes it a bit more difficult, doesn't 68

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it? Perhaps we should attempt to find our own hideaway here, maybe in some less traveled area? I bet I can find somewhere around here where throngs of people aren't milling around." He snapped the map stiff once more and looked at the area around the border. "See? That's what I mean. Back over here, where it says Station 4?" He jabbed at the map with his index finger. "I bet that's a maintenance building of some sort. No one should be there at this time of night. At least long enough for us to…" He left his sentence unfinished. They both understood what he meant. Misha felt a surge of both playfulness and fear. What if they were caught? What if his one-night stand electrician came upon them while they were in the middle of something? His libido was telling him never mind all of that; his body was chiming in with the reminder that he needed to feed, and he needed to do it soon. A conflict raged inside his breast—between his desire for William and his survival instinct. He didn't want to cross the two into one fell purpose. His mind cast desperately about for the answer to his dilemma. Both dilemmas. His throbbing cock was becoming a hindrance to logical thought, though, as a shudder ran through his body. He was beginning to think he would have to tell William everything and let the chips fall where they may. 69

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"William," he said breathily. He took the other man's hand into his own, softly stroking the palm as he did so. "I have idea. I meet you there, you go first. No one sees us, no one knows, da?" His desire for William permeated every part of his body. This was the obvious solution. He would separate from William long enough to find someone to drink from. Maybe even that annoying electrician. If he was so curious about Misha, let him learn firsthand what he was about. Of course, he'd never remember the encounter afterward. Misha had a way of dealing with that.

"That sounds like an excellent idea," William had to admit, his own excitement growing as he realized how much Misha wanted him too. "Here, let me show you just where it is." He removed his hand from Misha's reluctantly, in order to point at the map once more. He wanted there to be no doubt where they were to meet. "I'll be waiting there for you." He resisted the urge to kiss Misha right then and there, reasoning with himself that it wouldn't be much longer. Then he'd be able to kiss him—and much more. "I find it," Misha promised solemnly. "I find you. Now go." He locked his dark eyes upon William's light ones, and for a moment, the two stood there immobile, mesmerized. Misha placed a gentle hand upon William's 70

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chest then gave him a slight push in the right direction. "I meet you," he repeated, confidently. William understood. He snapped himself out of his reverie then turned and made a hasty beeline for the rendezvous point, while attempting to maintain a modicum of decorum. He didn't wish to appear out of place to those around him or suspicious in any way. He wondered how they couldn't guess, though, from the thumping of his heart alone, grateful for the darkness that hid his erection from detection.

Misha watched until William was out of sight, his hunting instincts taking hold of him. This part would be easy for him. Not like he'd not done it before, many times. Now he just needed to find someone, the perfect someone, for what he needed. A hand fell upon his arm. For a moment, he thought irrationally that William had returned for some reason. Frowning slightly, he turned, only to realize it was not William. It was the nobody, the electrician. Perhaps his appearance was fortuitous after all. "I've been looking for you," the man admitted. "After that last time. I mean… I wanted to see you again." He made a move toward Misha, as if he intended to kiss 71

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him right then and there. Misha pulled back with a slight hiss before recovering his equanimity. "Not here," he warned the other, holding up one slim finger. The electrician nodded. For Misha's purpose, he needed privacy, yes, but that was easier to attain than he'd let on to William. He had ways of making himself not seen when he chose. But he was also astute enough to realize that, if he'd done that with William before he'd fed, the reporter would have become his meal, and that would not do at all. He smiled at the innocent lamb who'd just volunteered to be his dinner. "Follow me," he murmured as he made his way into the shadows. The man followed right behind him.

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CHAPTER SEVEN Half an hour passed before William checked his watch. At first he shrugged it off. Maybe he got lost. I thought I showed him well enough, but it is a huge site. Hmm. Give him a bit more time. An hour went by, and still no Misha. William paced back and forth before their rendezvous site like a nervous tiger, watching for him. Few people walked in this direction, and those who passed by paid him no heed. He was having an almost bitter conversation with himself, even as his eyes searched every passing visage for a sign of the missing Russian. Fine, I guess this is it. How can he just abandon me like this? I thought we were getting on so well! Perhaps that was it— too much, too soon, too fast. I pushed, dammit! I always push, don't I? Push too hard to get who and what I want. I guess it's over, then, isn't it? No! He balled up his fists, fighting back the tears. It's not over! I want you, Misha, and I know you want me too! I'm going to get an answer from you, whether you like it or not! It was obvious to him that tonight was not going to happen. At least not here and now. He let out a hot breath, running an aggravated hand through his now tousled locks.

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Walking back up the path toward the main entrance, he barely saw the other fairgoers, his thoughts focused on Misha. Briskly, he walked back to the boarding house, determination in every step. But to his dismay, he found that Misha was not there, so he retreated to his room. He undressed quickly, setting his clothes aside to be laundered. He debated putting on his nightshirt again. For a moment, he considered leaving it off in order to remind himself of the sweet, wonderful memory of Misha being in his room while he lay in bed, naked, having a lively dream of the Russian. William felt his body try to spring to life. He actually cursed at it. "Do you mind, please? There's no one here to appease what you want except for yourself! I'd hoped… there would've been. Tonight! Dammit, tonight. Things were going so well. Maybe too well." He shook his head and removed his spectacles. Finally, he tossed the nightshirt aside, muttering, "Dammit all anyway," and crawled into bed, nude. Taking hold of his burgeoning mass, he stroked himself to completion, ridding himself of his unrequited lust. When he finished, he whispered Misha's name quietly into the dark, wiped his eyes, and fell asleep. **** 74

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The following morning William rose as usual and had participated in the normal daily routine of bathing and grooming before he became aware of some sort of a ruckus downstairs. He hurried down the stairwell. All of the guests were gathered together for once; he found it to be an odd sight. They all spoke so loudly and incoherently that he had a difficult time sorting the voices out. His keen journalistic ear took charge, trying to glean the most important information. He leaned his head forward slightly, listening intently. He recognized the accent of the loudest voice; it belonged to Misha's Aunt Ekaterina, who appeared to be defiantly defending her nephew! Hastily, William rushed to her side. "Madam, what is going on?" The woman looked frazzled, almost beside herself, he thought. "Mr. Deming, I am surprised you do not know, as reporter? Have you not heard about the murder?" His

skin

tingled

with

excitement,

and

he

instinctively reached for his notebook. He never went anywhere without it. "No, no, I haven't, madam. Where did it take place? When? Who was murdered? How?" The questions couldn't tumble from his mouth fast enough. One of the other houseguests stepped up beside him. A tall man, he was dressed within an inch of his life, 75

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considering the earliness of the hour, in a dark grey suit, top hat, and monocle. He wore his silver-grey hair short, and he bore a matching handlebar mustache across his thin lips. The rest of his body was rail thin and barely supported the weighty outfit he'd rested upon it. "It was last night, at the Fair! You were there, weren't you? You and her nephew?" William felt his face flush for a moment. Did they figure it out already? Have we been found out as lovers? Did his aunt say something? How much does she know? He swallowed hard, his heart pounding too loudly in his chest as he looked back into the man's cold, brown eyes. "Yes, sir, I was at the Fair and I did have company. I left there rather late, but I didn't hear or see anything unusual." Nothing unusual unless one counted Misha disappearing! William was disappointed to note that he was not here either. "Hmph, well. Her nephew seems to be the prime suspect in all of this." He flouted his knowledge of the allegations almost happily. He put a self-important hand around his lapel and sniffed the air almost snobbishly. Aunt Ekaterina scowled at him. She pointed a finger at the patron. "You accuse my Misha of murder? How dare you say such things? You lie about him! What do you know about him? Nothing!" Her voice was thick with tears. 76

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William laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, attempting to calm her. "Madam, please, if I may? Who was killed?" The man replied first. "I heard his name was Raymond Briggs, and he was an electrician, one of the men who worked at the fairgrounds. They found him behind a maintenance shed last night. Sometime around midnight, I heard." William's mouth gaped open. He tried to mask it, in the face of all the attention that was being directed toward him. "I must contact my editor, right away. May I use your telephone?" He knew when he'd arranged for a room in this particular boarding house that having a telephone there would be a great advantage. "Da," she answered curtly. "Thank you!" He knew right where it was, having been proudly shown the very modern instrument upon his arrival. He excused himself, a fire growing inside, his journalistic instincts kicking into high gear. He would relay the news to his boss then begin to figure out just what the hell was going on here and how Misha was involved. He opened the door to the hall closet. The phone sat inside upon a shelf, as it was not frequently used and was kept out of sight so it would not present a jarring note in the home's decor. He picked up the earpiece, pressing down on 77

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the cradle. "Hello, hello? Operator, operator?" He was still amazed at how close the voice on the other end of the line seemed to be. "Hello? Oh yes, how are you? I need to send a telegram, if you could connect me, please?" Once he was connected, he reeled off his wire, addressing it to his editor. He sent it collect—one of the perks of being a reporter. He hoped his editor would not balk about accepting the charges. Hanging up, he looked hopefully into the parlor. Still no sign of Misha. It occurred to him that he‟d never seen Misha's room. Maybe that was the place to start. "Ma'am," he said, addressing Aunt Ekaterina again. She‟d managed to disperse the boarders to their breakfast, which she was serving. She looked at him, asking if he wanted to eat. "Yes. No. I don't know," he managed to get out, flustered. "First, I need to talk to Misha. Where is he? Is he still in bed?" The older woman's expression became blank. She paused in the act of pouring coffee into Mrs. Sims cup, almost spilling the hot liquid in the process. She lowered her eyes to the table, pulling back the enamel coffee pot at the last moment. "Misha is innocent," she said softly. William thought he detected a hesitation in her voice. None of this was making any sense to him. His first impulse was to search the house, from top to bottom, 78

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looking for Misha. But maybe his best plan would be to find out just what happened, and why Misha was considered to be a suspect. Yes, that made more sense. Clear his lover's name. That would be proof of his devotion. "I'll eat later," he said, pausing just long enough to take a drink of the coffee she'd already poured him before scrambling from the boarding house. He hastened to the fairgrounds and arrived at the murder scene, breathless from his jog. As much as possible, the fairgoers were being kept away and were being steered toward far more pleasant sights. There were a dozen or so reporters, local and otherwise, all trying to muscle in on the scene so their particular gazette or newsletter could get the exclusive scoop. The main police officer in charge, Sergeant O'Malley, displayed his growing Irish ire with every new journalist that showed up. "All right, laddies, stand back, stand back. Give the man some peace, will ya now?" he barked. He was the quintessential Irish cop—large, tall, fat, with a voice that could be heard over the din of any crowded pub. He and his men worked to take the body away and check the area over for clues. William strained to see through the crowd of hats, desperate to learn the dead man's identity and to discover 79

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just how he had been killed. "Officer! Officer! How did he die?" "Aye, saints preserve us… another one. Did you all come together?" He shook his head, turning his attention back to the victim. "I'll tell ya what I told these other vultures—the coroner hasn't done his job yet, so we don't know. Off the record, I'd say the man was electrocuted. Looks like he had a wee nip of the firewater, touched a live one, and it killed him, poor soul." Electrocuted? Interesting. "Sir, who was he? What did he do?" William persisted, his pencil racing across his notebook. "Aye, lad.‟Twas the strangest of fates. He was an electrician, one of them that was working here at the Fair. Guess he'd had a wee bit much of things and that was that. Horrible way to go if you ask me, but at least it was quick. My opinion is it looks to be a suicide. But don‟t you go and be quoting me now on that." As William processed this info, another reporter interrupted. "Will this affect the Fair at all, officer?" "No, lad. It won't. Sad as his death was, the Fair will go on." He tipped his hat at the body. William checked his notes. "What was his name?" The other reporter turned to him. "Raymond 80

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Briggs." "Thank you." William nodded at his colleague, grateful for honor among professionals. Officer O'Malley put his whistle to his lips and let out a mighty blow, which made quite the shrill sound. "Clear the way, boys! We're coming through." The other officers carried the body to their wagon and closed the doors. They all climbed aboard, and the four black horses clip-clopped their way down the street. William watched them leave and felt an uneasy twinge in his gut. It can't have been Misha, it was a suicide. It had to be! But then where was he last night? Why didn't he meet me like he promised? And how did an electrician get electrocuted? He shook his head and tried to focus. He didn't want to believe that Misha had abandoned him so callously. There was something between them; he knew there was. So where was Misha? Was he all right? After carefully considering his next move, he walked back to the boarding house and went straight to the telephone to send another message. While waiting for his message to be taken, Misha‟s Aunt Ekaterina approached him. "Mr. Deming? You no eat this morning. You must be very hungry now." He checked his watch; he saw that it was nearly ten o‟clock. Where had the time gone? His stomach rumbled in 81

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agreement with the woman. "Yes ma'am. I am famished. Is there anything left from breakfast?" She patted his arm lightly. "You good boy, but too busy. Come, you sit here in the parlor, and I will make you something. I will be very quick." "Thank you. Oh, is Misha still asleep? I found out some news about the murder." "He still asleep, yes. Misha heavy sleeper. You no wake him. I will tell him." William felt stung by her words, and yet, they piqued his curiosity. Why was she the only one who could speak to Misha? He understood the relative aspect of things, but surely even she must've guessed by now that he was more than just a friend to her nephew. Unless maybe she didn't realize the true nature of her nephew? He'd have to give that one some thought. "I understand." He sat down on the sofa where he'd originally met the handsome Russian. He smoothed his fingers over the velvet and dreamt of hopefully sometime soon being able to do the same thing to the man of his desires. Why did he run off like that? What could've possibly frightened him? And where is he? "Mr. Deming, food is ready!" Aunt Ekaterina belted out. He rose quickly and headed for the dining room. 82

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She'd warmed up biscuits with gravy and fried eggs, swimming in grease. He sniffed the warm food and smiled. "This looks wonderful, thank you!" "Is no trouble at all." The musical notes of the front doorbell reached them. "Excuse me, I must see who comes." William nodded as he stuffed half a biscuit into his mouth, mumbling through the food as well as he could. "I understand, please go tend your business." He swallowed the biscuit and cleared his throat. "Thank you very much for going to so much trouble for me," he called after her retreating back. After finishing his meal, William checked on his telegram again; his wire had finally gone through. Thinking over what he'd sent, he composed another one with more detailed information and sent that. Finally, his business was done. He went back to the parlor and sat on the sofa again, hoping that his mere presence would beckon to his Misha. How long did the man sleep? It'd been hours! He shook off his doubts and yawned himself. It'd been a long, unexpectedly lonely night for him as well. He walked up the steps to his bedroom. He reached for the knob without thinking to unlock it; to his surprise it turned in his hand. Had he actually been so sleepy as to leave his door unlocked? Or had his 83

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landlady come in for some reason? Maybe she had to change the linens or something. That must be it, of course. He laughed at himself for thinking anything sinister of the woman. She was akin to his own grandmother, who had died when he was but ten years old. He missed his Nana very much; she was the only one who had ever listened to him and his stories; the only one who'd ever believed in him, or saw him as a person. William walked inside and locked the door behind him. He shed his spectacles, tossed them on the dresser, and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. Looking in the mirror, he saw that the blue orbs were adrift in a sea of red, either from lack of sleep, from his crying the night before, or just stress in general. He'd begun to regret taking this assignment, just a tad. He began to disrobe to take a nap. When he turned around, he saw an object in the middle of the bed. From where he stood, it appeared to be a book. What the…? He walked over and picked the volume up. "Bram Stoker's Dracula?" Who could've left it here? Ekaterina? No, that's not her type of reading, or is it? How much do I really know about her? Or Misha for that matter? Hmm. He flipped through the pages, and he decided to pursue it, as he'd not read it yet. Perhaps it was a gift of the house, maybe some sort of a loan, something to enjoy during his 84

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stay? He shrugged the matter off as unimportant. It didn't really matter, not at the moment. William set it down long enough to finish disrobing and climb into bed, and then he began to read. He found himself drawn into the mysterious world of the strange Transylvanian count, and before he knew it, his own world darkened as he fell asleep. A softly-accented voice spoke from the darkness, piercing his sleep. “William?” William's eyes flew open. He realized that not only was it after sunset, but Misha stood right beside him once more. "Misha! My goodness, where have you been?" He sat up and embraced the man warmly, kissing him almost frenziedly, rattling off questions in quick succession. "I've been ever so worried about you! Did you hear about the murder last night? What happened to you? What's going on?"

Misha put his fingers to his lover's lips, attempting to stem the vocal landslide. "Shhh, I answer all your questions.” "I missed you. I thought last night… we were going to be together. At the Fair. But then you never showed up," 85

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William said slowly; his eyes glinted a bit with unshed tears. "Is it something I did or said?" Misha shook his head, kissing the man deeply, even as he slid into the bed, wrapping himself around him. "No, no… was not you, William." Misha slid his hands along William's chest, his fingers lightly grazing his skin. He burrowed his face into the hollow of William's neck, not in order to feed, but simply to feel him, to escape into him. His hunger had been sated last night. Misha knew he might be in trouble. He knew there were people looking for him in regard to the events of the previous evening. He also knew that he was innocent. He'd never touched the man, much less killed him. Right now, though, all that mattered was this man, this William, this here and now. How could he explain his need to feed, reveal to this trusting man the horrible truth of what he was? He'd never minded before, accepting his preternatural condition for what it was, but suddenly he wished that his being turned had never happened, that he was free to be with William, to be together, even if they had to flee this place to do so. Even if they had to search for a place where two men could be allowed to love one another without fear of reprisal. Surely that was allowed, somewhere? But not for Misha, not being what he was. 86

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He pressed closer to William, one hand sliding between them, moving to cup William's manhood. Soft and warm and inviting it was. He enveloped it lovingly, feeling the immediate response as it began to harden. "I want this," he whispered into William's flesh, "want to taste you. Please," he begged into his neck, his need for the other man growing to an almost fevered urgency, afraid that their time together was coming to an end. Why he felt that way, he couldn't say.

William had so many questions that demanded answers. He was a reporter, after all; that was how his mind worked. But his thoughts were all melting away beneath the heat of Misha's touch, to the point where he wasn't sure if he could remember a single one. And he wasn't sure he cared. Misha's hand on his cock was doing things to him, blurring his mental processes, honing his appetite. He wanted Misha to do this, to do more; he wanted anything and everything he could get, to be with him in the worst possible way, as well as the best. "I want you too," he managed to moan in reply, pressing his need against Misha's cool palm. "Oh, Misha, yes…." Misha's thumb brushed over the top of his erection, sending shivers of pure pleasure cascading through his 87

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body. When Misha kissed him, he stopped analyzing the situation, and simply went with it.

Misha stopped all conversation with his lips—it was safer that way. He was falling in love with William; he knew it, and he was afraid of that love, afraid that by giving himself to him too deeply, he would find himself compromised. He had never been in this position before. He had taken lovers, but they were lovers only in the physical sense—easily taken and easily cast away. But William was different, Misha knew. William had burrowed straight into Misha's heart, and he wasn't sure that he could remove him from that position, or that he wanted to. But he was afraid to be seen for what he really was; afraid to find that love turn to hate, as he was sure it inevitably would. He forced himself to stop kissing those sweet lips, his hand having accomplished what he had meant for it to—William was very, very hard, and his desire for William was such that he could not wait. Impatiently, he tossed back the blanket and sheet that covered them, revealing his lover's pale beauty by the flickering gas light upon the wall. Misha moaned at the sight, a moan wrenched from deep within him. He slid down William's body, still fully dressed 88

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himself until his mouth was where he wished it to be, his tongue hungrily lapping at William's cock, sliding along its underside as if measuring its length before taking the flesh inside his mouth. He felt William tremble as he did so, William‟s fingers finding purchase in Misha's long dark hair. Misha focused upon his lover, intent upon his pleasure, sucking at him needily, for he found that he needed him so very badly, and the knowledge that he might lose him was causing him great pain. If this were their one and only time, at least let William have enjoyment from it. He used all the knowledge he had acquired from the others he'd been with, every last trick he'd learned, utilizing his tongue, his lips, his fingers. His only concern was William. He knew he had done a good job when William tightened inside his grasp, his fingers clutching at Misha's locks almost desperately, his body arching before he released inside of his mouth. Misha made sure he swallowed every last bit, wishing it were possible to drown in his lover's fluids. But alas, he knew he could not die, not in the real sense of the word. He kissed the top of William's cock and licked it tenderly of stray bits of ejaculate as it began to soften in his grasp. Why could they not stay like this forever, just the two of them? Why did life always have to intrude? 89

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His head snapped up suddenly. His more than excellent hearing had detected voices downstairs, strangers‟ voices. Dear God no, the police. They had come for him. He pulled back, hissing, his head swiveling toward the closed door. How long before they began to search the rooms, asking the boarders if they'd seen him? Not long, he knew, before they'd come to William's room, even if his aunt should make an effort to misdirect them, as he hoped she would. But he couldn't be sure. And he couldn't be found here. Not now. Not like this. "Meet me at the Fair," he whispered urgently into William's ear. Where, where? His frantic mind seeking for a place, knowing they could not go to their original rendezvous point, not now. "Go to the Pike," he said at last, the first thing that came to mind. "I find you. Promise." He rose from the bed, but before he left, he reached down for William, pulling his head to him, grinding their lips together in passionate desperation as he murmured, "Love you."

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CHAPTER EIGHT William watched as Misha ran to the window and threw it open. He‟d eased himself out and disappeared into the shadows before William had a chance to think, much less respond. He lay still, cocooned in the afterglow of his orgasm, wondering what to do, when a sharp rap came upon his door. "Just a moment," he called out, coughing to clear his throat as he quickly reached for his pants. William hastily tossed on his clothing and smoothed down his hair as best he could, He picked up his book—it had managed to tumble to the floor—and set it upon the night table. Wearing only his shirt and trousers, he ran to answer the door, peering out with feigned innocence. "Yes? May I help you, officer?" "Aye, lad, that you can. We're looking for a Mr. Misha Rumiantseva. By any chance, is he here?" His precise journalist‟s mind wanted to correct the policeman‟s complete butchering of Misha‟s name, but William forced himself to focus on what was important. He cast a perplexed look at Aunt Ekaterina. She huffed indignantly, appearing flustered. He could tell she'd tried to prevent the officers from coming up to his room, but they

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had simply ignored her protests. "I'm sorry, I haven't seen him. I've actually been napping the entire afternoon." He yawned to punctuate his words. The officer nodded slightly; it was impossible to tell how much of William's story he believed. "Well, lad, you won‟t be minding then if we search your room a bit, will you? Just in case he snuck in while you were asleep?" "No, sir, I don't mind at all. Please." He waved them in with a graceful motion of his hand. Under his watchful eye, they looked inside the closet, under the bed, in the bathroom—everywhere a person could conceivably hide. Did they really need this many people to search for one man? One of the men tramped to the window. William's eyes bulged a little, although he attempted to conceal his reaction, feeling the air leave his body. Not there! Please not over there! "O'Malley, over here." The officer used his night stick to pull back the drapes, revealing the window, still open. He rubbed his large, pale chin. "You wouldn't be lying to us, now would you, lad?" "No, sir! I like to sleep with the window open. It helps me to relax." The sergeant eyed William suspiciously, mulling over his words, before he asked, "Say, weren't you one of 92

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those reporters at the Fair?" "Yes, sir, I'm a member of the press," William admitted. "I was covering the story of the dead man for my paper. But basically I'm here to report on the World's Fair and all its wonders." "I thought I remembered you. I never forget a face." The Irishman puffed with pride. “Sir, I confess to being confused as to why you consider Misha a suspect in this death? Wasn‟t it a suicide?” “It seems not,” O‟Malley replied, “Other evidence has since been revealed that indicates otherwise.” “What sort of other evidence?” William fretted. “All I know is that there was a lack of blood in the body.” The policeman turned back to Aunt Ekaterina. "Well, thank you for your time, sir." His words were for William, but his eyes were focused on the older woman. "We'll be sure to contact you if we have any more questions." Aunt Ekaterina stamped her foot in growing irritation. "I tell you he is not here! He is not in house at all. My nephew is innocent!" The policeman tipped his hat to her politely, plainly unconvinced. "We'll be checking with the other guests now, ma'am. Excuse us." They filed past her and on to the next 93

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room. Waiting until they were out of sight, the worried woman approached William, taking his hand into her anxious grasp. "Have you seen my Misha? I know he came up here to see you," she whispered. "Yes, he was here, but I‟m afraid he went out the window only a moment ago." William found himself half apologizing for her nephew's disappearance. "Uh, I'm curious also, do you know anything about where this book came from?" He indicated the hardback book on his bedside table. "Did you happen to leave it for me?" She picked the volume up, squinting at the title. "No, I've never seen it. Come, it is time for dinner. You must be hungry, up here all afternoon, no food. Come now." That seemed like a good idea. Maybe he could garner some gossip from the other boarders over dinner, learn something that might be helpful to clearing Misha's name. "Yes, ma'am, yes, ma'am, I will. Just let me finish dressing and I'll be right down. I promise I'll have something to eat." "Good boy," she praised him. "You too thin. I gonna fatten you up. For Misha." She turned and he heard her waddling down the stairwell, clucking under her breath. William let out a sigh of relief that turned into a 94

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laugh at the woman's worrying. So much like Grandma. He turned to the window and closed it, wondering how Misha managed to slip away without being seen, grateful that he had. He pulled the drapes reluctantly, after gazing off into the distance, thinking about Misha. He wanted to see Misha so badly, wanted to know that he was right there looking for him, but he knew it would be safer for them both if he stayed out of sight until they could meet at the fairgrounds. He wished he didn't have to keep his lover waiting though. A quick dinner, then he'd run off again. He smoothed his shirt and pants down, remembering the beautiful time he'd just spent with Misha. He loves me? I love him too… I didn't think it possible after this brief a time, but everything about him just feels right. For just a moment, William let his heart fill with the glorious warmth that was Misha, thrilling at the idea of loving and being loved, feeling as giddy as any schoolboy with a first crush. But then reality set in. A man was dead in the middle of the Louisiana Purchase Exposition, and Misha was being blamed for his death. He had to talk to him, had to figure out what was going on, why he was suspected—and get his name cleared. No one and nothing was going to stop him from doing so. Setting his lips into a line of sheer determination, he freshened up in the bathroom, before heading downstairs 95

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for a quick dinner. Maybe he could entice Misha into an ice cream cone once they met, already imagining what Misha's tongue could do to the sweet treat. **** Misha prowled the Pike, scanning the face of every person he passed, searching for one in particular. His emotions were a roiling vortex that alternated between the desire to be reunited with William, to taste his lips, hold him in his arms and feel secure in his embrace and the confusion and anxiety over being the object of an apparent witch hunt by the St. Louis police. For something he had certainly not done. Why did that silly electrician have to go and get himself killed and leave Misha the blame? He was innocent, and he knew he was. Yet he also knew that innocence alone meant nothing when it came to government officials such as the police department. He‟d walked the mile length of the Pike twice before he saw him. Misha found it hard to control the impulse to simply pull William into his arms there, in front of everyone, and kiss him, but the last thing they needed was to draw attention to themselves. He contented himself, for the moment, with laying his hand on William's arm and gazing into his beautiful blue eyes. 96

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William jumped at his touch. "Misha!" he exclaimed. He appeared to be dazed, confused, excited and alarmed all at once, but his tongued seemed frozen in his mouth. Misha put a finger against his lips in the universal motion for silence. He glanced around them, at the people who were streaming by oblivious to their presence, intent on the wonders of the Fair. He saw a stand of trees, not far away, where they could position themselves in the shadows unnoticed. He pulled William with him into the protective darkness, using his own ability to conceal before he took those sweet lips into his own, kissing him as if he were drowning and William was his lifeline. They held onto one another, communicating through their mouths alone, until William was forced to come up for air, gasping. Misha, of course, having no such need, was nonetheless shaking from the intensity of his emotions. "Misha," William said, "what… how… I mean why—?" Misha stilled his words with his lips again, his fingers running through William's blond hair, wanting their time to stretch into forever, although he knew it wouldn't and couldn't. He himself had all the time in the world ahead of him, but he knew that William did not. He also realized 97

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that he could not stem William's questions forever. At some point the inquisitive reporter would require answers. It was a shame that Misha didn't have them.

William wanted nothing better than to keep kissing Misha, but he had to know things, and dammit these were important things to know. He had to finally push his lover back, gathering his wits. He laid one hand against Misha's chest, momentarily keeping him close but not too close, so that he could frame his words. "Misha, do you know this man, this Briggs guy that was killed? I mean, did you?" Past tense. The man was dead, after all. That seemed the most logical place to start, though, while he was trying to sort out why Misha was being considered as a suspect in his death, which, to his inquisitive reporter's mind, was a good indication that it wasn't a matter of suicide. "Da. I know." Misha's reply was clipped. He tried to pull William back into his arms, but the reporter kept his hand in place between them. "You do? I mean did? Very well?" The jealous William frowned. From Misha's evasive tone, he sensed something, something he might not be prepared to hear. He forced himself to take a deep breath, steeling himself 98

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internally. What if Misha did know him? And what if their relationship

had

been

closer

than

that

of

mere

acquaintances? Did he expect Misha to be a virgin? That would be a silly assumption to make. Misha didn't reply right away, frown lines creasing his forehead. He gave up on trying to hold William closer. Instead, he turned away, looking in the direction of the excited throng passing just a few feet away. "Misha, please," William importuned him, laying his hand upon Misha's shoulder as he attempted to turn him about. Misha resisted at first, before reluctantly turning to face him once more. "Please don't. I just need to know so I can help you. I'm not trying to judge you, I promise." Finally, he said, "I no love him." As if that answered everything. William let out a sigh of relief. That was one less item to worry about, or was it? Just how many lovers had Misha had in his lifetime? For that matter how old was he anyway? They'd yet to cover even the most basic questions, caught in the throes of passion and lust and finally love in the smattering of days they'd had together. "Misha… where were you when he died?" William asked in a calm, steady tone. He'd tamed the nerves that jumped in his throat and trained his eyes to burn steadily on the man's handsome face. 99

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Finally, the Russian turned around and smoothed his hand over William‟s face. "I was on way to meet you when electric man see me. He and I, we talk, but no more. I leave, to see you. Then I see other man." William's curiosity was piqued. "Who? Who was it?" "He was bad man." Misha frowned. "He stalk me ever since I leave him. He no understand good-bye." Okay, two lovers at least. William kept a silent tally. "What happened?" Misha kissed William's hand. "I run from him, into darkness. I no want him to see me. He knows too much." William's eyes grew large. He opened his lips apprehensively. "Misha, I barely know you… but yet I love you. Tell me more, tell me about him, tell me about the electrician, and tell me about you, like how old are you?" "William, you are smart man, you are reporter. Very curious you are. What do you notice? About me?" Misha insinuated, as if he wanted to see what conclusions William was able to draw on his own, without his having to spell it out. William scratched his head. "Uh, well, that you sleep a lot during the day, you don't eat that I've seen. Maybe your aunt feeds you alone in the kitchen? I dunno. Tell me what all these things add up to." He was trying to 100

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be logical, but his damn emotions were getting in the way. Misha grinned, exposing his teeth. "Look close, my love." William peered into Misha‟s mouth, curiously. He saw the canines that protruded from Misha‟s gum line. They seemed to possess very sharp points. He gasped and stepped back, his hand over his mouth to stem the words that wanted to burst out. "Will—" "No! What are you? How could you possibly…?" His words were lost in a fit of fear and remnants of folklore he'd read as a child, not to mention the novel that had been left on his bed. How can this be? How could something like this actually exist? A vampire? No! How could it be true? It’s too fantastic to be real. Vampires are the stuff of legend, with no basis in reality. He tried to calm himself, swallowing to wet his very dry throat. Instinctively, he brought his hand up to guard his neck. "Were… were you going to feed on me? Was that it?" Misha shook his head. "No, never! I fight every instinct I have not to feed on you. You I only want to love, not to hurt." William felt dizzy and sat down suddenly on a nearby half-wall. "So you're really… really… You're a vampire?" 101

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"Da. I am. My love, I am twenty-two in your years, but I am also still eighteen. Will always be eighteen." He held out his hand for the other man to take. William studied the man‟s skin for a moment. He felt stupid for not realizing the truth in the first place. Misha's complexion was more than deathly pale—he was dead. His skin fairly glowed in the pale, gas lighting. His eyes had small, fixed pupils that never dilated. His hair never changed, not that he'd known how long or short it'd ever been, but it was never out of place at all. He grabbed the hand and saw the blue veins that ran through the man's skin. The nails were long and sharp, perfect for capturing his night's feeding. "You are a vampire!" Misha nodded. "Da, I am. Please… this no change us? You are first one I love, ever!" William forced himself to stay focused. "You are? I mean, I am? I-I am special to you somehow, so special that you won't kill me?" Suddenly, he paled, remembering what he‟d heard from the police. …there was a lack of blood in the body. "Never kill you. Never kill anyone, but you most of all…" “Misha… the electrician…” He could not voice his doubt, it was too painful. 102

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Misha vigorously shook his head. “No, not me,” he asserted. “Someone else.” A vision of the book that had been left up in his room popped into his head. "That book… the one that was in my room. Did you put it there?" Misha scowled. "No. Do not know what book you talk about." William felt his pulse race. "It was a book about Dracula. A vampire. I wonder if someone was trying to warn me about your true nature." Misha shrugged. "I do not know. No one knows but Aunt Ekaterina. I no have answer for you." "We'll find the answer, together." He held the man close and kissed him passionately. "I love you, Misha. I don't care if you are a vampire." The Russian grinned; his canines gleamed faintly in the light. William recoiled a bit at seeing them in their full glory and then reached out to touch them, fascinated despite himself. "Sharp… I suppose they would need to be." "Da. Very sharp. Do not worry, I never bite you with sharp teeth, my love." William laughed suddenly. "I was going to ask you if you'd like an ice cream, but I guess you don't eat anything that isn't blood, do you?" 103

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Misha smiled. "No. Not for long time." "I'm jealous already. I'm starving. Come, let's go eat, or I'll eat, rather, and we'll hide away again in a bit." He tugged at his lover's arm to follow, but Misha resisted his pull, shaking his head. "I stay in shadows until you return. Police, they look for me." "You're innocent! I know it and now they'll know it too. I'll get this all fixed and you'll be clear, and we can get on with our lives." He kissed the man quickly and smoothed his long, dark hair. "So beautiful you are. I'll be back as soon as I can." Misha kissed him one last time. "Hurry back."

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CHAPTER NINE William bought himself a sweet treat, one that was the rage of the Fair. Although it was not new, in this current incarnation, a clever person had devised a better, less messy way of enjoying the popular confection, by wrapping a waffle into a cone shape and adding the ice cream. It was easy to carry, and the waffle was also good to eat. He hastened back to Misha, his heart thumping, excited on so very many levels. Playfully, he offered his lover a bite of his repast. Misha licked at the contents of the cone, not for the taste, but for the sensation, to see how the frozen ice cream felt against his tongue. "Is cold," he pronounced, drawing William's heartfelt laughter. They held one another in the shadows, watching the roiling tide of humanity pass them by, oblivious to their presence, intent on the pleasure to be obtained from the Fair. Neither wanted this time to end, to let reality intrude, but it was inevitable. If they didn't solve the mystery, they would never be free to enjoy one another's company. And maybe even worse. "I think our first course of action is to find out who gave me that book," William said thoughtfully, licking at

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the corners of his mouth for telltale ice cream drippings. "So we need to go back to the boarding house." Misha frowned. "Might be dangerous," he muttered. "You go first, William, then I come. No one see me, no one see us together. I get in house. I find you." William was unsatisfied with that solution, but as he could think of nothing better, he reluctantly agreed to Misha's idea. He pulled the vampire into his arms and kissed him, heatedly. "Find me," he echoed as Misha pulled away, his eyes locked upon William. "I will," Misha solemnly promised before melting into the darkness around them. William stood there for a moment before shaking himself from his torpor, hastening from the fairgrounds. The traffic on Lindell was all directed toward the Fair. The dirt road softly thudded beneath his feet as he turned his urgent steps toward the boarding house—and Misha, his heart aching for him already. He almost leapt up the steps of the three-story home, but refrained from throwing open the front door. He didn't wish to alarm the inhabitants in any way, or appear unduly upset. Stay focused, he admonished himself, Misha's life is at stake. Although his logical mind tried to remind him that Misha was not alive, not in the usual sense of the word. But he pushed such thoughts into the back of 106

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his mind to be dealt with at a later date. The boarding house was quiet. William suspected most of the boarders were at the Fair. That was why they were here, after all. He found Mrs. Sims in the parlor when he entered, sitting in her usual spot upon the sofa, a book open in her lap. She looked up at his entrance. Across from her, on the blue sofa, sat a newcomer. William had been aware that someone else had rented a room there, but this was the first time he'd seen the gentleman in question. He was an older man. William placed him in perhaps the forty to forty-five year range. He was not a small man, in fact, he was built somewhat like a large grizzly bear, but there the resemblance ended. He had thick brown hair and dark brown eyes. Those eyes turned to William as soon as he walked in. William shivered, in spite of himself. "Good evening, William." Mrs. Sims smiled at him, and he returned her friendly greeting, trying to hide his distraction. She looked from him to the other man, as if weighing something, before adding, "Have you met Henry yet?" "Henry?" William repeated, his eyes unable to tear themselves away from the stranger. "Yes, he's become one of us now, at least for a while." 107

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"How do you do?" William said automatically. "William Deming, sir, of the Utah Gazette." He held his hand out to the newcomer, for it was in his nature to be outgoing—it came in handy in his line of work. "Henry Clarke." The response was low and well modulated, and the hand that accepted William's was strong, if slightly sweaty. William hid the distaste he felt, shaking it once, twice, then releasing it, trying not to be too obvious. "William, have you seen Misha?" Mrs. Sims asked ingenuously. Two heads swiveled toward her in unison. "I miss the boy. I miss reading with him." William didn't know what she knew about Misha, and he wasn't about to be the one to enlighten her. He found the newcomer's seeming interest in Misha odd—and almost disturbing. "If I see him, I'll pass on your regards," he promised. His attention was caught by a figure in the hallway, gesturing to him—Misha's Aunt Ekaterina. "Excuse me, please." He bowed to the older lady and hurried toward the boarding house owner. She pulled him out of earshot of the others. "I save dinner for you, Mr. Deming," but once they reached the kitchen, she whispered to him, "He waits for you. In his room. Is safe, no one else knows." "Um, which one is his?" William had never actually 108

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been inside of Misha's room. Whenever he'd tried, he'd always been held back on one pretext or another. "Down the stairs, then go left, down hall. Is only room on that side," she directed him, pointing toward the basement door. William thanked her profusely, matching the subdued level of her voice. She patted his arm maternally before he rushed off, opening the basement door as quietly as he could, making his way down the stairs to Misha's room. The door was closed, but he opened it without bothering to knock. There were no lights in this room, and he could see nothing at first, standing framed in the doorway. Then he heard Misha's voice. “Come in.” William quickly shut the door, closing the rest of the world behind him. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could make out the silhouette of his lover upon the bed, and he joined him there. They sat together on the edge of the bed, Misha leaning against William, William's strong arm about his shoulder. Nothing was said at first. "We have a new boarder, did you know?" William asked. "New boarder?" He heard rather than saw the frown. It was evident in Misha's voice. "No, did not know. Who?" 109

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"Some guy named Henry. Clarke I think he said his last name was." The intake of breath came from Misha. "No, no—" He shook his head. "—not him. Can't be. Why he come here?" "You know this man?" William's jealous side asserted itself again as he prepared to add another hash mark to the tally of Misha's lovers. "I know. He is one I see at Fair. He is one that I run from. He bad man. Very bad." The last words were spat out with a venomous quality that took William by surprise. William was trying to make sense of what he was hearing. "This man, this Henry Clarke, was he… I mean, he was your… your lover, yes?" "Da." "He saw you at the Fair? With Briggs? And then Briggs turned up dead?" His voice rose with the level of his excitement, becoming almost high-pitched in intensity. He coughed to clear his throat. "That is just… I mean that's just too coincidental to be accidental, know what I mean?" "What do you mean?" "Can we turn on a light, please?" William asked, almost apologetically. A moment later, a small lamp by the side of Misha's bed had been lit, allowing William to look into the Russian‟s beautiful face. "I mean that I have to 110

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wonder about that. Your ex-lover, the one you say didn't want to let you go, sees you at the Fair with another man, and then this other man turns up dead. Too fantastic not to be connected. And now he's here." In the dim light, Misha's dark eyes seemed to smoulder as he locked them onto William's. "You think he kill electric man? Why he do that?" "Because he was jealous. Because he wanted you himself, and he couldn't have you," William expounded. "Did he know—? I mean was he aware… of what you are?" Misha nodded. "Da, he know." "Then that explains the manner of Briggs's death. He was deliberately trying to make it look like you did it!" "Why?" "I think because he decided that if he couldn't have you, no one could." That explanation made sense to William. He knew how jealous it made him feel just to think of Misha being with another man because he loved him so much. At least he knew that he wasn't a homicidal maniac. But apparently Clarke was. His eyes lit with another realization. "My God, the book!" "Book?" Misha echoed in confusion. "Yes, the book that was left in my room. Dracula. I think it was meant as a warning to me about you, so that I 111

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would think you'd done this. Yes, that's what it must have been." He had leapt up in his excitement, pounding one fist into his palm as an exclamation. "What we do?" Misha asked. William stopped pacing, falling to his knees before the other man. He laid his head upon Misha's thigh, feeling the material of the trousers against his cheek. "You and I— together we'll prove it," he said in an unequivocal manner. "We'll prove that Clarke's the killer and that you're completely innocent." Misha ran his fingers through the soft strands of William's hair. It looked darker in this light, almost brown in hue. He raised his lover's chin and looked into his eyes. "You can prove me innocent?" William nodded and felt his mouth run dry. He realized he was panting—panting with desire for this man whose lap cradled his head. He kissed the inside of Misha's leg and ran his long fingers over the fabric, wishing it weren't there at all. "Yes. I'd do anything for you. I love you, Misha. I'll do everything in my power to clear your name." The vampire leaned forward and kissed William passionately, their lips completely engulfed within each other's mouths. William found himself wondering about the teeth. He felt about his lover's mouth with his tongue but 112

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was relieved to find that they were safely tucked away. William stood up and seated himself on the bed again, all the while keeping his kiss locked in place. Misha leaned back, holding William securely as they rotated their relative positions. They slid together sideby-side, not once relenting in their affections. Their hands smoothed themselves along the intrusive clothing that still covered them both; it was an increasing impediment to what they truly desired. Pulling back from the kiss for a moment, Misha removed his jacket and began to unbutton his vest. William whimpered a bit. "Let me do that. I want to undress you." They smiled at each other, and the Russian held out his arms to allow the reporter to feed his fantasy. He quickly unfastened all of the buttons on his lover's vest and slipped it from his shoulders. He repeated the same with the shirt, and between each button, he replaced the fabric with a soft kiss. Misha moaned as bit by bit his pale, white skin appeared. It was a bit cooler to the touch than William's, naturally so. Still, that did not deter William from his goal, his desire to uncover his lover. After the shirt was shed, they paused for a moment. Misha fingered his lover's clothing. 113

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"Now I undress you." "Da," William whispered in his imitative Russian accent. He dropped his hands to his sides and let the man release him from his clothing, all the way down to his pants.

They kissed again, their naked chests joined at the heart level. Misha felt William's pounding through his skin, and he couldn't help but wish that his own heart possessed the capacity to beat as his lover's did. He held the man tightly in his arms and kissed every visible inch of delectable William, savoring the pale flesh beneath him, as William did the same. "Misha… won't we get into trouble if your aunt finds us?" "Da, but is too late. We make love here already. She no be much surprised, I am thinking." William laughed, and Misha licked his lover's open lips. They melted into another long kiss. They both stood in order to shed themselves of the rest of their clothing. William smiled widely as he gazed at Misha in the nude. "So beautiful you are," he said. "My sweet William," Misha whispered. 114

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They ran their hands over each other's legs and cupped one another's members, engaging in a mutual massage. Returning to the sanctity of the bed, they threw the cover over themselves. William kissed Misha's legs and then ran his lips along his soft inner thighs, kissing him with a growing urgency. When he reached his true destination, he took Misha's hardening cock firmly into his mouth and suckled it, softly at first, but with an increasing intensity. Misha's head lolled back, and he panted from William's ministrations. Reaching for the pillow behind him, he felt his body tightening as William drove him toward his climax. He arched his back when the feeling struck him, his release arriving at last, after a long two minutes of intense waiting. William ran his tongue along Misha‟s chest and kissed his lips. "Your turn now?" "Da." They lay on their sides, bare flesh pressed against bare flesh, before Misha began to pleasure William. He repeated what he'd done before, sweet and soft at first, but quickly escalating into intense suckling. He heard William cry out as his moment arrived. Misha swallowed what he could—it was a refreshing change from blood, possessed of a totally 115

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different texture and taste. He lay down next to William and took him into a lover's embrace. They trailed their hands over each other's backsides and held on securely. "Was good, yes?" William nodded enthusiastically. "Yes… very good." He melted into his lover's arms, and after a final kiss, he fell asleep. Misha covered them both to ensure that William didn't catch a chill. It was quite dark and cool in the basement—a feature of all the buildings with stone cellars. He kissed his lover's head and shut his eyes as well. They slept peacefully. **** Not two hours later, a loud knock shattered their slumber. "Misha! I know you're in there! Come out this instant, you monster!" Misha's eyes snapped open. He recognized the voice instantly. Henry Clarke. A low growl simmered in his throat as he tensed. He wasn't sure what the man wanted, but it couldn't possibly be good. When William stirred beside him, Misha laid a finger across his lips so that he would not speak. The two 116

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of them lay there, silently, as the pounding continued. "Misha? Misha?" the man continued, relentlessly. "Let me in. I know you're there. I need to see you. So badly. I need—" His words halted abruptly as if he'd been interrupted. Misha heard his aunt, her words as clear to him as if he were there. "Mr. Clarke, I'm sorry, but guests are not allowed here. Please, respect privacy of house, or I will have to ask you to leave."

Misha and William exchanged glances. William's heart beat so hard he thought it might burst. More than mere jealousy, he was concerned: concerned at what this Clarke knew, and what potential damage he might do to Misha with his knowledge. If he told anyone—the consequences could be deadly to his lover. He clung to him tightly, silently, not knowing what was happening, feeling helpless to do anything about it. There was an agonizingly long silence for William, during which he could only make out the murmur of voices on the other side of the door. Then footsteps that pounded up the stairs, and the slam of the cellar door. Just when he began to breathe a sigh of relief, a sharp knock echoed on 117

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the door, and he jumped.

Misha leaned toward his jittery lover, kissed him softly. "Is okay. Is Aunt. Wait just moment." He slid off the bed, hastily drawing on his trousers, followed by his shirt, which he tucked in but did not button, pausing just beside the door. "Yes?" he cautiously murmured. "Misha, open door, let me in," his aunt insisted. Misha turned toward William, motioning to him to dress as well as he could, and the reporter hastily began to do so. Misha drummed his fingers against the door.

Somehow he knew nothing less than entrance into his room would appease his aunt. Once she gained entry, he wasn't sure what reaction to expect from her. But, he was a grown man, after all, not a child. She could not expect him to live like a monk. At the same time, he also didn't want to upset her. She'd been very good to him, taking him in the way she had. Finally,

once

William

had

made

himself

presentable, Misha opened the door. "Misha," his aunt began as soon as she walked into 118

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the room, "why is that man looking for you? You know him?" She averted her eyes from William, as if by not acknowledging his presence she could pretend that she knew nothing of their relations. "I know him," Misha admitted. "Why he here, I not know." He frowned. "He is not good, is bad." "Bad? How do you mean bad?" "We think that he killed the man that Misha is accused of killing," William interjected excitedly. "We think he's trying to frame Misha for the murder." He looked at Misha then at Aunt Ekaterina, as if debating within himself. Finally, he closed the gap between himself and Misha, standing beside him, taking his hand in a gesture that was unmistakably possessive. Aunt Ekaterina sighed at the sight, but said nothing about it, asking instead, "Why he do that?" "Jealousy," William promptly replied. "He wants Misha and doesn't want anyone else to have him. So he'd rather see him found out for what he is than see him with another man." "What can we do?" "Aunt Ekaterina, do not worry." Misha's voice was low as he tried to soothe his aunt. He squeezed the hand that held his, wishing to reassure his lover as well. "I can't help my worry," she replied. "This is not 119

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good, not good at all. I don't want you get hurt, Misha. How I protect you?" William spoke up. "I'll take care of him. Don't worry, ma'am. I won't let anyone hurt Misha, or take him away from us. I promise you that." The Russian woman seemed skeptical, looking between the two young men. "You do not know," she muttered, "what you say. This is bad thing, very bad." "I do know, I assure you. But Misha is innocent, and I intend to prove that he is. No matter what it takes. I happen to be in love with your nephew, and there isn't anything I wouldn't do for him." Bold words indeed, not lightly spoken.

Ekaterina looked between the two young men—so obviously smitten, so convinced that nothing could hurt them as long as they stayed together. Somehow in the face of Misha being taken away for a murder that he did not commit, the fact that these two men loved one another didn't seem so wrong. Impulsively, she threw her arms around both of them, and murmured, "Stay safe," before she turned and went back up the stairs.

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CHAPTER TEN William went upstairs in order to take a visual tally of all the houseguests. The hour was late enough that those who had gone to the Fair should be back. Being a student of human nature and prone to observation of their habits, he‟d noticed most of them did not keep late nights. He discovered that there was one missing, the new one. Henry. The murderer. His jealousy flared at the knowledge that this man had been with his Misha, but he quickly pushed the thought aside. There were more important issues at hand. Where can he be? Probably hiding in his room. But he's human. He'll have to eat sometime. He spent some time in the parlor, conversing with the boarders that had congregated there. As a half apology to Mrs. Sims for taking away her time with Misha, he read poetry to her. She seemed appreciative of his act of kindness. He got the impression that she understood about him and Misha, and approved, which only endeared her to him all the more. As the older woman rose from the couch to retire, she patted William's cheek softly and murmured, "Be good to him" before heading toward the stairs and her room. He was so touched that he almost cried.

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He couldn't take their separation any longer. He had to see Misha again. He'd done what he could up here, which wasn't all that much, since Clarke had made no appearance. God knew what that man was up to. No good, no doubt. When he knew no one was looking, William snuck back down to Misha's room. He knocked at the door quietly in their pre-arranged signal—one rap, followed by a pause, then four, another pause and three. It signified I love you, although no one else would realize what the irregular knocks meant. "Da, William. Come in." Misha's voice was low and measured, stirring William's heart to the point of being painful. William walked into the room. The first sight that met his gaze was his lover dressed in a dark grey, threepiece Victorian era suit. The clothes were slightly out of date, but on him, they appeared fashionable. He looked incredibly handsome. His nearly waist-length black hair was perfectly arranged over his shoulders, and his eyes glowed in the dimness of the room. William felt his libido rise. "You look incredible, my love." He walked over and brushed his hands over the wool suit. "Of course, I prefer you with none of these accoutrements." He smiled and kissed the vampire. 122

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Misha returned his kiss gently. "My aunt and I, we have long talk about you. She very happy you love me and want to protect me. I think all this goes on, it is almost too much for her. She is no young anymore." He sighed and bowed his head. "I think I must leave here for her sake, find place where no one knows me so I no be trouble for anyone." William's breath came in short gasps, panicking both at the words and the sentiment. "No! Don't leave yet. I need to know where you'll be. I need to be with you! And I need to tell my paper something. My boss. I was only supposed to be here for two weeks, then this murder happened, and we happened. My life has changed so much because of you!" Misha's lips curled up in a weary smile. "You make my life good, William, my love. I never meet anyone like you before." "I'm one of a kind. I've been forced to be, in order to stand out in the large family I have." He laughed, fighting his rising hysteria, before drawing in a calming breath. "Oh, hell! My family! I wonder what they'd think of all this—William falling for a vampire? I'll be a headline in my own paper!" "You no tell your family about us?" Misha's voice reflected his lack of surprise, as if he expected no more 123

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from anyone, not even William. "What would I tell them besides I met someone who I think is the love of my life? They've never understood me anyway. That's why I've stayed away from them. I've had to find my own path." He ran his fingers over Misha's pale face. "And I did. You are my path, Misha." Their lips came together once more, only to be interrupted by the sound of Aunt Ekaterina's frantic voice. "Misha! Bad man looking for you again. You must go!" The couple separated, and the vampire bolted out through a small, previously concealed door. William admitted Aunt Ekaterina, and the two of them stood there, motionless. "I will deal with that man upstairs, ma'am. He's the murderer, I'm going to prove that he is," William said confidently. She caught his arm. "Be careful, William. My nephew love you. He worry about you. I worry too." He smiled at her, patted her hand, and leaned in to kiss her cheek. "I love you too, Auntie. You remind me of my grandmother." She kissed his cheek in return. "You are good boy, William. Come, let's stop the bad man." William ascended the stairs behind Aunt Ekaterina, 124

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curbing his impatience with the old woman's slow steps. He was anxious to be reunited with his skittish lover, but he was also anxious to clear his name. His pulse was racing, and his heart felt ready to explode. Once they'd gained the top of the stairs, he asked, "Is there any way to lock that door?" She thought for a moment, then shook her head. "Key lost," she said, "long time ago. No one ever bother before." "Well, someone's bothering now," he retorted. "We might just have to think about getting a locksmith in to do that." He'd do whatever it took to keep Misha safe from this menace that threatened to engulf them. William could barely breathe in his agitation. "I'm going outside for a minute, then I'll see what I can do," he promised before heading toward the front door. Emerging onto the porch, he took great shuddering breaths of air, filling his lungs, willing himself to calmness. It took a moment for him to realize that he was not alone. And that he did not have to seek for Henry Clarke. The bastard was already there. Quelling his first impulse to grind his fist into the other man's face, William decided to play it cool instead. Clarke probably had no clue what William was to Misha. "Good evening, sir," he said politely, holding out his hand 125

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to the rather burly man, "I believe we met earlier, William Deming, Utah Gazette at your service. And your name again…?" Clarke looked at William's hand pointedly before glancing away. "I would be someone you would do best not to anger," he said harshly. It took all of William's self-control to remain calm, but he managed to do so. He took a step toward the man. Clarke held up one hand as if to ward him off. "I'm sorry. Have I said something to offend you?" William asked, resisting the urge to growl. A grin spread across Clarke's face. He took a menacing step toward William, narrowing the gap between them. "Don't act as stupid as you look." He leaned in toward William, lowering his voice. "He is mine. Never forget that. No one else will ever have him." So saying, he pushed past William and re-entered the house, leaving William gaping in his wake. Misha is mine, and you will loosen your grip upon him now! William fought to maintain his calm demeanor. He thrust his fist against the front porch rail, injuring his hand against the redwood construction. He gritted his teeth, a snarl escaping his lips. Never! You will never have him again! Furious, William marched into the house to find his 126

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new adversary. He glanced over at Aunt Ekaterina, who simply pointed at the stairwell. He thanked her with a nod and bolted to the upper floor, catching him just outside his room with one hand upon the doorknob. "Mr. Clarke!" William bellowed. The large man stopped in his tracks and turned around. He fixed his dark eyes on William. His smug grin made William want to grab his hefty neck and strangle him. "What do you want, boy?" Boy! That was one term that William could not tolerate. His father had called him boy all the time, most likely because, with all the children he'd had, he'd usually forgotten their names. They were merely boys and girls to him. Nameless faces. William's ire grew like a raging inferno inside his blood. "I don't believe we were finished with the discussion we began downstairs." Henry chortled, "Oh, I think we were, Mr. Deming. I made myself quite clear. Stay away from what is mine." William clenched his fists. "Misha is not yours anymore. If he wanted you, he would've sought you out by now, don't you think? You were only a one-night stand to him, nothing more." The large man let out another laugh. William never thought of himself as a comedian, but this character 127

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certainly must. Clarke cupped William's chin sharply. "You foolish, young boy. Misha might have an interest in you for one reason—a reason I could fathom myself. But his heart is with me alone." William pushed himself from the man's grip. He wanted to spit in his face right there. Just the fact that this ogre found him at all attractive made him ill. He straightened his glasses. "I don't believe that is the case anymore. His heart is with me now." Henry's eyes grew large, as if he'd just identified his favorite target for shooting practice. He grabbed William's neck, opened the door, and pushed him inside his room, shutting the door behind them. "You are nothing, boy. You are a passing fucker in the middle of the night—a fairy for the Fair. Go home to your paper and your mother, child. Misha is mine. Don't be like that electrician. He certainly didn't understand boundaries. Too bad. He was quite good at what he did know." He let go of William's neck, and William gasped for air. "You… you were the one, weren't you? You killed him!" In response, Henry grabbed William. He stuck out his tongue and forced a kiss from William's lips, one that was quickly cut off and spat back onto his face. "You catch on quickly, lad." He ran his hands over William's suit, 128

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using his considerable strength to hold him there while he tried to remove William‟s clothing. William struggled and tried to pull away, but the man possessed a formidable strength. "You… must be a tradesman… or a bodybuilder!" William tried to look away, tried to focus his attention on anything but himself, but Henry kept pushing at his face, forcing him to look into the evil eyes before him. Henry cupped William's crotch, making him squirm with discomfort. He tried to wriggle away, but the man was simply too much for him to handle. "I'm an Irishman, laddy. You won't escape me. I'm an ironworker by trade. I can lift two boys like you at one time!" William's blue eyes grew wide in fear as the beefy man quickly stripped off his own clothing, down to his fuzzy red union suit. "Onto the bed, boy. Now! I'll buy your silence with the only currency boys like you understand. Lie down!" William fought him with every ounce of strength he had. He realized he couldn't match the other's strength, so he had to make up for it with speed and wiriness. He tried to run to the door, his intention being to unlock it and escape to get some help, but Henry pulled him back and slapped him in the face for his disobedience. "You won't do that again, will ya, lad?" 129

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"Like hell I won't! Ekaterina! Ekaterina!" he cried out, hoping that someone would hear. The chances would've been fair if the other residents weren't either dead to the world asleep or mostly deaf, while Auntie herself was probably doing something in the kitchen, unaware of his desperate struggles. Could Misha hear his cries? He was torn between desire for his lover to come to his aid and desire to keep him far from the grasp of this awful man who felt he possessed a claim to him. His lips moved as he said a silent prayer that someone would answer his calls for help. Henry reared back and slapped his victim again. "Be a good boy and make it easy on yourself. Oh! I meant to ask, did you enjoy the book I gave you? Surely you must've guessed that Misha was a vampire before that?" he asked in a very condescending tone. "Of course I knew it," William lied. "It was obvious. I didn't need a book to clue me in." His words angered Henry even more. The man raised his hand as if intending to strike him again but instead used quick motions to strip William of the rest of his clothing. Now nude, William fought to keep himself covered and untouched both, but with the man's agile hands, that was impossible. He struck William on his bare ass. "Lay down, now!" he commanded. 130

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William backed away and looked over toward the bed. He could give in, he could fight, or he could feign illness, which wouldn't be very make-believe at this point. He said another prayer. "Time to buy your silence, boy." Henry stripped off his union suit, revealing his hairy flesh. William looked away and squeezed his eyes shut so as not to see any portion of him. Henry grabbed his victim and forced a kiss from him then pushed their bodies together and rubbed his thick, erect cock against William's legs. William felt as if he‟d just descended into the seventh level of hell, one where surrender seemed to be the only viable option that would allow him to survive this hellish experience. He grew limp in Clarke's grasp. As if in answer to his silent prayers, the door flew open with such force it flew off its hinges, hanging askew. "William!" William peered over Henry's shoulder. Misha stood in the doorway. William smiled in relief, pushing at his attacker. "Misha! Misha, thank God, you came!" Was it a trick of the light or had Misha's eyes turned red? The vampire seethed with anger. He shot an evil look at Henry. "You attack my lover?" he growled. Henry shoved William away violently, sending him reeling onto the floor. William reached for his clothes and 131

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quickly redressed while keeping an eye on the fight between his lover and his would-be rapist. "Why you do this to me?" Misha asked, advancing on the other man, who stood his ground, showing no evidence of fear. "What you want from me? I have nothing for you. What?" "What do I want?" Henry echoed. "You know what I want Misha, what I've always wanted. It's you. It's always been you. Ever since we first made love. You're all I want. You're all I need." He reached toward Misha's long dark hair. The vampire knocked his hand aside with a snarl. "No! I told you no long time ago. I do not belong to you. Never belong. Now I belong to William." He stepped toward Henry, not threateningly, but with a deceptive docility that belied his angry words. "Misha, please." The older man began to melt at the nearness of his one-time lover. He reached for him again, laying his hand on Misha's arm. William made a move in protest, but a hand gesture from Misha silenced him. Misha's eyes were completely focused on Clarke, glowing an intense red. He smiled, and in that smile, William saw his elongated canines. Whiter than white, they glistened eerily in Misha's mouth. "Henry," he said softly. "You touch what is mine. Should not have done that." He grabbed Clarke's wrist tightly. The man foolishly leaned in 132

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toward the vampire, whimpering in mistaken ecstasy. William alone realized the peril that the larger man was in. He could see that Misha was not playing with him in any way. He meant to do him harm, the sort of harm that only a vampire could. And while a part of him was eager to see that happen, eager to see Clarke pay for what he had tried to do, the more rational part of him said no, that Misha would only get in more trouble. Justice had to be served in order for Misha to be cleared. So they could be free to be together. Well, as free as society would allow. "Misha!" he said, hoping to divert his lover's attention. Misha paid no heed, baring more of his fangs. Clarke seemed to have no desire to move away from him, mesmerized by the power in Misha's eyes, a power that was drawing him closer. He licked his lips in anticipation, failing to realize the danger he was in. "Misha!" William repeated, more sharply. This time he gained his lover's attention. Misha cocked his head, listening, his eyes still focused on Clarke. "Misha, don't! You can't! We have to keep him alive so that he can pay for his crime. If he doesn't, my love, then you'll never be free. Please, don't hurt him. I want to be with you. I can't lose you." "Shut up!" Henry snarled. "Don't interfere with 133

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what you don't understand. He wouldn't kill me, would you, Misha? He wants to make me like him so that we can be together always, isn't that right, sweetheart?" William winced at the endearment, fighting the image of this horrible man naked and intimate with his beautiful Misha. He forced himself instead to center his attention on Misha. Misha drew closer to the fascinated Clarke, and William was very afraid of what he might do. Darting to the doorway, William pushed past the askew door and into the hallway, screaming, "Ekaterina, call the police, the murderer is here!" He stumbled back toward the two men who seemed to be positioning themselves to perform a most unusual dance—unusual and deadly. He took Misha's other arm, pleading with him. "Let go, love, let go. Let the police deal with him. Please, I beg of you. I can't lose you now that I've found you." He wasn't sure how aware Misha was of him at this moment, his hatred and abhorrence for Henry Clarke so powerful and consuming it was almost palpable. "Misha, the police will come and take care of him," William repeated, caressing Misha's cheek now, gently. "Maybe you should leave before they get here? Just in case? Give us time to get this straightened out. Please, 134

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love?" Misha swayed toward Clarke. William caught his breath in dismay. At the last moment, he turned back, and William saw the red in his eyes beginning to fade and control returning to the vampire. At the same time, loud voices were heard from below, followed by Ekaterina bellowing, "William, police here!" He knew that was meant as a warning for Misha. It seemed like an eternity until Misha released Clarke, throwing him backward onto the bed with an angry hiss, before turning to his lover. He caught William's face in his hands and kissed him with a passionate urgency. "I must go," he whispered, "meet me at Fair." With a last lingering look, he ran to the window and leapt out, just before the law burst through the doorway. William turned to greet them with a sigh of relief as well as regret for his lover's absence.

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CHAPTER ELEVEN The police stormed into the room, the familiar figure of Officer O'Malley leading the way. Clarke leapt to his feet, grabbing a blanket and covering himself with it. "All right, lad, what's the story?" O‟Malley asked in his thick Irish accent. Aunt Ekaterina followed behind them. She quickly averted her eyes from the sight of the naked William. Thinking quickly, he snatched the sheet from the bed and covered himself. Ekaterina scowled at Henry and pointed a quivering finger at him. "That him! That the bad man!" The officer looked between the woman and the accused. "What proof do you have of this, ma'am?" William felt his heart jump into his throat, and he sidestepped away from Henry quickly. "He confessed everything to me, Officer! He admitted killing that electrician. Just ask him!" He pointed an accusing finger at Clarke. "Oh? Is that so now?" the officer stated. He walked over to Henry, looking him up and down suspiciously. "Is what the lad's saying true? Did you kill Raymond Briggs?" Henry let out an amused laugh. "Preposterous! Utter rubbish! I'm a respectable citizen. What is he that you'll

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believe this boy before you believe me?" Ekaterina stepped forward. "You bad man! You accuse my Misha of something he not do! You accuse him of what you do!" William took a deep breath."Officer, one other thing I know for certain—he can be charged with attempted rape." All heads swiveled toward William. Ekaterina took his hand and held it tightly within her own. She whispered to him. "William? This man hurt you?" William nodded and tried to keep his decorum in check, and the sheet in place. The curious stares of the police did not help. The idea of a rape involving two men was probably alien to them, though he had to wonder what they made of the sight of the two of them naked as they were. William took a deep breath and held it for few moments before he was able to continue. "Yes. Officer, this man tried to rape me minutes ago. In this very room!" The cop was clearly torn between disgust for the act itself, and the idea of its having been being forcibly inflicted. He shot Henry a dirty look. "Are you wanting to deny that one too, sir?" The large man glared at William. "How dare you soil my reputation, boy! Hurling these groundless accusations at me to cover your own pederasty? For 137

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shame!" “You‟ll be keepin‟ a civil tongue in your head!” O‟Malley chastised the prisoner, who was held fast on either side by policemen. “Considering what we saw when we arrived, I‟d say you have some explaining to do.” "How dare you!" An incensed William tore himself from Ekaterina's caring grasp. "You liar! You don't remember hitting me over and over and then stripping me and trying to do—to do what you did?" Hot tears ran down his cheeks. "Officer, look at this, look at my face." He pointed to the telltale remnants of the assault he'd been dealt. "He hit me at least four times. Maybe more." O'Malley examined the young man's face carefully then looked back at Henry. "What do you have to say for yourself, sir?" "He's a damn liar!" William looked at the officer once more. "Officer, I swear on my life that I am not lying." He blinked back tears, and his heart was still racing. After a tense moment, the cop beckoned to two patrolmen, signaling to them to handcuff Henry. They grabbed him at the same time from either side. "What? Unhand me! I've done nothing!" "Silence, lad! Don't make it any harder on ya than it needs to be. I believe the young one over there. I've not 138

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known him long, but from what I've seen of him, I believe he's not a liar. Regardless of what I think, though, it's a matter for the judge to consider, not me. You, sir, are coming with us, while we sort this matter out." Henry struggled as they tried to put the cuffs on him, cursing the officers a blue streak. In frustration, one officer reached for the nightstick on his belt and clubbed the thickheaded Clarke, effectively slowing him down. Finally, they wrestled the cuffs into place. The two patrolmen continued to struggle with the large man as they manhandled him and shoved him toward the door. "You damn child!" Clarke yelled back at William. "You're just fooling yourself. He's using you for sex! Nothing else! He loves me, not you! Only me!" "Move along would ya, lad? Move along! Save your story for the judge," O'Malley ordered him. With considerable effort, they finally pushed Henry out the door and down the stairwell. William could hear the policemen warning Clarke that they would use their nightsticks again if he didn't cooperate. Ekaterina took William's hand once more as they watched from the window while the man was thrown into the back of the paddy wagon. William let out a sigh of relief. "It's over! That disgusting man is out of our lives!" 139

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O'Malley came back upstairs. "Mr. Deming?" "Yes, officer?" "We'll be needing ya down at the station for questioning as a witness to the crimes against your person. Assuming of course ya want to press charges and all." Ekaterina nodded. "You make him pay! He hurt my Misha, and he hurt you!" William caught his breath before replying. "I'll be there in the morning, officer. I want to see him locked away for many years." "Aye, he should be, lad, I'm sure. Murder and attempted rape? He'll be seeing striped sunlight for a good many years. Well, I'm off." He put his fingers to his forehead in a quick salute. "Try to have a good evening, sir. Ma'am." "Come, I show you to door, officer," Ekaterina offered. She rushed before him, anxious to display her hospitality on behalf of her household. William rubbed his arms, trying to calm down. How he wished to feel Misha holding him right now. The Fair!! He's waiting there for me now. Gotta run. He gathered his clothes from the floor, and hastily dressed. No time to lose, he had to hurry. He adjusted his glasses and his clothing and raced down the front steps. He burst through the front door just in time to see the paddy wagon drive off. Henry's 140

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face was pressed against the bars, leering at him, before being pushed from William's sight. William felt a shudder go through him. Go to hell, you bastard! I hope they lock you away forever! The Fair crowd had swelled to greater numbers since the dinner hour had come and gone. William's desire for dessert was not as great as his desire to see Misha again and tell him he was safe. He pushed his way through the throngs of people and spotted the vampire standing in the shadows near the retaining wall. "William!" the Russian called out happily, his arms spread wide to welcome him back into his embrace. "My love!" William nearly ran into the arms of his beloved and held on as tight as he could. After a long moment he leaned back and planted a very passionate kiss on Misha's lips. "It's over, my love! They arrested him! He was hauled away right in front of our eyes!" "Is wonderful news!" He picked William up easily, encouraging the other man to wind his legs about his waist, and he held him there tightly. They kissed again, not caring who might see them or how anyone might react to their displays of open affection. "Are you hungry?" William's stomach growled at the reminder. "Dammit, yes. Sometimes, I wish I didn't have to eat." Misha laughed. "Come, you are human. Must eat. 141

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Come." They walked over to the vendors, and William bought a large hot dog. He started to wolf the juicy meat down, but then he forced himself to go slow, remembering to chew rather than inhale so that he could actually savor the moment and taste what he was eating. "Don't want to get sick. I want to ride that Ferris Wheel." Misha glanced up at the imposing structure. "You want go up in that?" William nodded. "Hey, what good reporter could write a story on the famous St. Louis World's Fair if he didn't take a ride in it at least once?" He tugged at his lover's arm. "Come on. I'm not afraid of heights." Misha grinned. "I love you, William." "I love you too, my vampire," he said in a hushed tone. They kissed quickly and wandered out to join the substantial line to ride the monstrous wheel. **** Henry thought the paddy wagon had almost reached its destination, possibly only about a mile away. The bars on the back door shook from side to side, rattling as the vehicle made its way down the slow streets, the horse that powered it plodding along. Henry Clarke kept a close eye 142

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on the officers who sat in the front of the wagon, as well as the one who stood in the footman's position behind it. Surreptitiously, he played with the handcuffs. They had no way of knowing that he'd been a locksmith in his youth. It was their misfortune that they hadn't bothered to search him before throwing him into the wagon. He pulled out a loose piece of wire, one he kept secreted about his person for just such emergencies, and worked it into the complex mechanism. It was but the work of a few minutes to free his hands. Henry heard the driver cluck to the horse and felt the wagon slow as it neared another vehicle stopped in the road ahead, the horse's hooves clopping on the dirt road. That was when Henry made his move. He pushed the door as hard as he could, taking the policeman by surprise. The officer flew off, and Henry took advantage of that to simply jump out the back. He ran as fast as he could and sped up when he heard one of the officers blow his whistle, the other two quickly following suit—the universal sign for escape.

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CHAPTER TWELVE Luck was with the lovers. That is if you considered Misha's ability to compel lucky. He “persuaded” the operator of the Ferris Wheel to allow them a car to themselves. It was late, the line had thinned out considerably as the evening wore on, and no one else even seemed to notice that one of the cars, which were designed to hold up to sixty people, held but two. William paid the man his one dollar for their two fares, and they entered the car. It lurched up slowly as the rest of the cars filled, leaving the two time to continue to hug and kiss, although William seemed torn by the desire to actually see the view. He tore himself away from Misha and dragged him to the right side, looking below them excitedly. "Look!" he said, pointing, "that's the Lincoln exhibit. It has the real log cabin he lived in as a boy. I went in it!" His eyes reflected his excitement as he gawked. "And the Japanese gardens. They're so beautiful. Do ya see them, Misha?" Misha stood behind him, encompassing William's waist with one arm, while his other hand boldly cupped William's groin, producing a groan and a blush from his

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lover. But the reporter made no move to stop him from either. Encouraged, Misha rubbed against William, gratified to feel the effect he was having on him. "Look at all the boats in the Grand Basin," William continued as the car rode higher. "From up here they look like toys, don't they? We should rent one someday and go around the Basin. I mean some night, of course." They were almost at the top now, and they could see beyond the fairgrounds themselves, towards the heart of downtown St. Louis. Misha swept his lips along William's neck. He paid no heed to the sights, too intent upon his lover to notice or care about the scenery below. He pushed the flat of his hand harder against William's growing cock. The car lurched, and William fell back against the hardness of Misha's chest. Misha knew his own desire was more than evident. "Oh God," William moaned. "I want you so badly I'm tempted to tell you to take me here, and now, but dammit no, not like that. Let's finish the ride and go home, Misha. I want to feel you in a bed, not standing up like an animal. I want you to…" He paused for a moment "I want you to fuck me," he finished, his voice a hoarse whisper as Misha curled his fingers tighter about his cock. "We go home," Misha whispered in reply. "We 145

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fuck." He grazed William's neck lightly with his fangs, turned on by the feel of them against the reporter's pale skin.

The Ferris Wheel was on the downside now. He felt as if the ride could not move fast enough. William had intended to move from one side of the car to the other, to see what there was to be seen on the descent, but he didn't want to move. He wanted to stand like this, in Misha's grasp, for as long as he could. He was half afraid that, if he did move, it would only be to remove his trousers and beg Misha to take him then and there, despite his protestations to the contrary. When they finally did reach the bottom, he was breathing very heavily, and on an impulse, he pressed a bill into the operator's hand as they exited the car on their turn. "Thank you," he said hoarsely as they left the ride, heading toward the Lindell exit.

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN The house was still well lit by the time they arrived, undoubtedly due to the previous uproar caused by the presence of an attempted rapist/murderer in their midst. William didn't want to face anyone. He just wanted to be alone with Misha, enjoy his company, and forget about the horrific events of this night. They entered Misha's room quietly, without fanfare, through the outside door. The room lay in darkness. Misha quickly lit a lamp for William. They fell together upon the bed. No words were necessary. In the glow of the flickering gas lamp, Misha undressed his lover, and William let him. All of the clothing was strewn to haphazard chance, flung about with wild abandon and great enthusiasm. And when William was nude, Misha did a slow, deliberate strip tease for William's benefit. In the exuberance of their love, they assumed many positions. William was eager to learn, and Misha eager to teach. He instructed William to drop to all fours, and he entered him from behind, thrusting inside of him as he swooped down over his back, gently nicking William's neck with his canines in a sort of vampiric foreplay, as if he meant to drink from him. And yet he did not.

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Misha stood beside the bed and William lay at the edge, his legs flung over Misha's shoulders as his lover pounded his flesh, producing ecstatic moans from William. Misha took him spread-eagled against the wall, William's hands tight against the coolness of the bare cement, pushing his hips back to meet Misha's energetic thrusts. And he took him in the missionary position, their eyes locked together in their mutual need. Sweat threatened to blind William to his lover, but he hastily wiped at his eyes before fastening his fingers into Misha's long, dark tresses, which fell across him like a veil. Misha loved him hard, and he loved him gentle, and in his savage strength was a sweetness that belied it all. Their mutual cries as they came, one after the other, was vocal testimony to the joining of their souls. Misha fell lightly atop his lover, careful not to lay the brunt of his weight upon him, but William did not care. He welcomed the feel of the other man, wound his arms around him, and held him closely. Nothing was said for a while. William fell into a light doze but wakened himself with a start. At first he was disoriented, but once he realized where he was, and with whom, he calmed himself. He realized that morning must be drawing close, and much as he wanted to stay, he 148

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couldn't. He had things to take care of on the morrow, important things. Or rather today. "Sweet Misha," he whispered. Misha was not asleep. His dark eyes regarded William intently. "I know, is almost time," he said regretfully, caressing William‟s cheek. "I'll be here at sunset," William promised, "without fail. And I'll tell you of my day and everything that happened." He reached for Misha, drew him close, and kissed him with a growing agitation. "I'd stay if I could. You know that." "I know. Someday." Misha's voice was calm as William gathered himself and his clothes, drawing them on with reluctance. He leaned over the bed once more, unable to resist the pull of those lips. "Someday," he echoed, thinking, And maybe someday you'll make me the same as you, so we need never part. Aloud, he said simply, "Until tonight, my love. Remember how much I love you. And need you. Always. Farewell." With a last kiss, William forced himself up the stairs and into the house, leaving Misha to his daytime rest.

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN William bounded down the stairwell to breakfast to the sight of Aunt Ekaterina standing at the dining table doling out eggs and ham. When she saw William, she smiled at him. "William! You come and eat, young man. You look so tired." He had to admit the last few days had been rather grueling, and he hadn't eaten very much. His stomach growled to remind him of that fact as he eyed the fare. "Okay, I'll feed you something good this time." He couldn't help but grin as he patted his disgruntled stomach and sat down to dine with the rest of the houseguests. The older man with the monocle was seated there, his own plate heaped with a generous portion of the morning repast. "Mr. Deming, what was all the excitement about last night? I heard the police thunder through here like a herd of water buffalo. I must say, it was rather disturbing." William cleared his throat as he reached for a slice of toast and slathered it with grape jam. He didn't really wish to say anything about it, but he wanted to be polite and make conversation.

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"Well, I'm afraid that there was a wanted man in our midst. He was actually staying here." All of the ladies at the table gasped and held their napkins to their faces to hide their fear. "Did you see anything that happened?" the man asked, no doubt assuming that as a member of the fourth estate, William was privy to information that not all of them were. For his part, William didn't wish to discuss or even remember the attack at all. It was horrifying to be nearly raped by anyone, but especially by the disgusting Henry Clarke. Just the thought of it made his stomach want to turn. He adjusted his glasses, took a bite of eggs, and took his time in answering. "Yes, but only in passing. I heard the police." Aunt Ekaterina surfaced from the kitchen. "I'm glad that bad man gone! Such nuisance he was! And he leave without paying for his room!" William's

eyes

widened

at

that,

and

he

automatically reached for his wallet. He wanted to offer the woman Henry's payment just to atone for his sins, but on further consideration, he decided that it would look a little too obvious if he did it right there and then. He tucked it away in his mind for later. "That's awful!" William commented. 151

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One of the women spoke up. "What happened to that large man who was here yesterday? What was his name, Harry?" William nearly choked. "Henry. It was Henry." “Was it Henry that was arrested?” Mrs. Sims astutely asked. Ekaterina

and

William

exchanged

a

look.

Apparently the other guests hadn't made the connection between the arrest and the disappearance of Henry. Maybe it would be best to maintain silence on that point. "No, another guest, you not know. Henry go back home," Ekaterina spoke up. "Go back to wife." A wife? That guy? I feel sorry for her if he has one, William thought, trying not to shudder. He glanced back at the clock and noted the time— eight o‟clock. The police station never closed, naturally, as protectors of the people, but he wished to avoid the rush of workers heading into the city to begin their day. He'd wait a short while and then walk to the station. He spent the next hour relaxing in his room and writing up notes for his article about the Ferris Wheel ride. He kept becoming sidetracked with thoughts of last night's sensual encounter with Misha. Finally, his article written and ready to be wired, William headed toward to the station house. 152

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There was a brisk feeling to the morning that matched William's mood. Already the crowds were headed to the fairgrounds. He'd think of them fondly for the most part, as he would this entire experience. Meeting Misha and Ekaterina were high on his list, while the low points so far consisted of being stood up by the man he loved and nearly raped. But there was no sense in dwelling on those. What was past was past, and he had a future to consider. He wondered what to tell his boss about his return. Would Misha come with him back to Utah? Or was this just a temporary romance? No… it had become too serious to become anything short of true love. As William arrived at the station house, he saw some of the cops scurrying around almost frantically. His newsman's nose wondered if there was something going on, if maybe they had received an urgent call. Surely this sort of activity wasn't the norm, even in a city the size of St. Louis? Curious to know, he hastened his pace. The station house itself was of red brick construction, with a large area for all of the wagons and a growing inventory of automobiles parked in front. There were only a few steps up to the front doors, which William appreciated. He walked inside, and after waiting in a short line, he approached the front bench. It was manned by two officers, one short, one very tall. They presented a definite 153

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contrast in appearance. Before he could utter a word, the short policeman barked, "Name?" "Uh… William Deming." "Are you reporting a crime?" "Yes, sir, last night there was an assault on my person." The cop scribbled down notes on a thick pad of white paper. He wrote a number on one of the sheets and handed it to him. "Go to desk four, sir. He'll take your statement." William scowled. He didn't particularly like the way this was going so far. "Excuse me, but Officer O'Malley said he was going to question me." The tall cop spoke up. "Oh? Was he expecting you at this hour?" William felt his throat run dry. "Well, he told me to drop by in the morning. This is the morning, is it not?" The cops shared a look and whipped the paper with the number on it from his hand. "Stand over there. We'll get him for you." Wow, thanks ever so much. You're too kind. "Thank you, officers." William scooted to the side and cursed under his breath at the taxpayer dollars going to fund this level of 154

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rudeness. It was to be expected though, he supposed. Look at the scummy people they had to deal with day and night. After a short wait, Officer O'Malley surfaced. William caught him by the arm. "Sir! William Deming, from last night? I'm here to make my statement." "Aye, yes, lad. I remember ye. I wish I could take your statement right now, but we've got a bit of a situation here. It seems that Mr. Clarke has escaped!" William felt the bile rise in his throat. "Wha-what? How is that possible? When? When did he escape?" "Last night, lad. Seems that when the wagon stopped, he picked the lock and made a run for it. I'd be extra careful in your travels, lad, if I were you." All the color drained from William's face. "I will, officer. Thank you! Are you close to catching him?" "It's hard to say, lad. He's a crafty fella for sure. But we'll get him, don‟t you be worryin‟ none!" He clapped William on the back before he excused himself, hurrying off through the front doors. William cupped his mouth and tried to remember how to breathe normally. Should be simple—in and out, right? All of the nightmarish images from the previous evening flooded into his mind, and as much as he tried to stifle them, they kept reappearing. He wondered about what to do next. Should he stay 155

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there and wait? Should he go home and warn Ekaterina? No, that wouldn't do. He was clearly after William himself, for daring to take what he thought was his—namely Misha. He had to find a good hiding place, at least during the daylight hours. After dark, he knew Misha would be his protection. After tossing the possibilities about in his mind for a moment, William finally decided to get an escort back to the house. He knew he wasn't safe, and he wanted protection. He didn't even fear the possible teasing or whispers he might encounter. Safety was foremost on his mind. He walked back up to the front desk and addressed the officers again. "Excuse me, sirs? Might I request some protection for my trip home, which is only a few miles away from here? I was attacked last night and now the man is on the loose! If it's not too much trouble, that is?" The officers shared a look and nodded. The tall one spoke up. "All right, sir. I think we can do that. Come with me." William glanced at his badge. Callahan, it read. "Thank you, Officer Callahan." "Understood, lad. This way." He waved his arm in front of William, and the two walked to the carriage lot. It was filled with half-broken carriages, but Officer Callahan 156

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found a decent one. He hitched up a horse, and the two were on their way. **** Lurking in the shadows between the houses along Lindell, Henry Clarke awaited his turn at retribution. He'd been on the run all night long. His hunger pangs tortured his stomach while his patience was worn thinner than the soles of his shoes. He waited in silence, a cat waiting to pounce on its prey. He intended to make the reporter pay: for taking his Misha away and for escaping the retribution of the attempted rape, as well as for turning him in. Yes, now was the time. The clip-clop of horse hooves in the distance echoed along the quiet street. An eerie silence prevailed, despite the spectacle going on such a short distance away at the Fair. The sounds of the horse grew closer to Clarke's hiding place. He peered out from between the houses, not daring to move a muscle. He hid in the shadows of a thick copse of trees, deep in the back part of a lot on Lindell. He was perhaps six houses away from the boarding house. So close, and yet so far. He knew the old woman would never let him pass, not even to reclaim what few possessions he'd 157

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left there, and he was already being hunted by the police. He was afraid this would not end well for him unless he concentrated everything he had upon outwitting the police and regaining his former lover—not to mention wreaking his revenge on William Deming. That above all. Henry took a deep breath. He darted out from the cover of the bushes and into the alley between the homes. He moved swiftly, hoping no one would take any notice. Perhaps they'd dismiss his presence as that of a large dog, and that would be the end of it. People were stupid, after all. That was a long-held conviction of his. The wagon grew closer and closer until it finally crossed into sight, between where he was hiding and the street. Henry held himself back. He had no intention of attacking the wagon; his purpose was to wait for his chance at the passenger. He knew it had to be William. Who else would be heading back this way at this hour and with a police escort? Henry wrung his hands, a nervous habit. Not that he was frightened; far from it. The possibilities excited him. He would jump William, strip him bare, rape him, and show him who was the master of this situation. Then he would kill him, drag his body into the shrubbery, and bury him in a shallow grave. He'd take Misha for his own once more. No one else would have him. His thoughts alone 158

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were enough to cause him to salivate—such a delight they were to his very malicious mind. The wagon stopped, and Henry felt his heart do the same for what seemed a very long moment. It fairly pounded out of his chest with anticipation. He bolted from the alleyway, the better to see his intended victim. Yes, it was William. The firm young man that he would take aside and have his way with. The man that stood between him and his beloved vampire. Henry pounded between the yards with heavy footfalls, reaching the neighbor's yard and pausing there. He heard William thank the police officer for the ride home and bid him a fond farewell. For a heart-stopping instant, Henry thought that the officer was about to climb down from his perch and escort William to the door, but to Henry's great relief, the reporter shooed him away, obviously thinking he was safe. You'll never be safe with me around, young one. Never. The wagon rumbled away. William made his ascent up the steps to the front door. Henry crouched in readiness, like a rabid wolf. He wanted nothing more than to pounce and attack the reporter. But every move would have to be calculated precisely and carefully executed if he were to have any chance of winning Misha completely, to claim him as his own once again. 159

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William reached the door and stopped. He glanced around him. Something felt wrong, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what. Shrugging, he decided it was just an aftereffect of a horrible day, his nerves reacting to everything. Which was when Henry made his move. In a burst of speed unusual for a man his size, Henry rushed to the door and, in one motion, put his hand over William's mouth and dragged him off the porch. Managing to make not a sound, he hauled the young man into the bushes behind the neighbor's house, where he removed his hand. William's eyes were wide with fear when he saw Henry‟s face "They told me you'd escaped…" "Of course I did, young one. You and I have unfinished business." Not liking the sound of that at all, William struggled to break himself free of the man's grip, but to no avail. Henry balled up his fist, striking William. The first blows broke his glasses, then hit his nose, and finally his mouth, where he felt a tooth crack. Henry shook his hand in obvious pain. "Damn you, sir, but you have a hard head!" William struggled for words through the blood 160

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filling his mouth. "Do what you will with me, but leave Misha alone! He doesn't love you; he never did!" The ill-spoken words angered Henry all the more, and he gripped William's neck, applying pressure to it. "You're the only thing that stands between me and my destiny, boy. Misha will love me again." Certain that the man was insane, William attempted a new brand of reasoning. "He'll never love you if you kill me. Never!" Henry laughed and tightened his grip around William‟s neck. "He will if you're dead. Besides, you owe me for last night. I'd like nothing more than to fuck you and watch you die a slow, horrible death when I kill you." William's heart pounded so fast he could feel it through his clothes. Blood dripped down his face. His nose was one giant pain. He felt both nauseous and light-headed. The scenery was beginning to spin. Henry pulled a knife from his pocket. Unable to find the strength to stop him, William felt his clothing being cut away from his body, the air blowing obscenely across his bare flesh. Henry unbuckled his pants with fervor, pushing them out of his way as he settled between William‟s legs. So this is how it ends for me? Killed while naked and with this hideous beast atop me? No! Not for William 161

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Deming! Misha? Misha, where are you? Asleep was his unwelcome realization. Awful thoughts raced through William's mind. No one was expecting him. No one was looking for him. He was alone, completely. Was this how it had been for Raymond Briggs? Was he killed like this with no one to hear his cries, no one to come to his assistance? The light began to darken, and he felt himself losing consciousness. William was grateful for a brief reprieve when Henry released his neck, turning his attention to other parts of his anatomy, struggling back from the darkness that sought to engulf him. Henry sank his lips around William‟s cock and suckled him like a newborn child. William tried to cry out, tried to fight back, but he found he couldn't, frozen into immobility in his terror. He felt himself being flipped over, forced onto his hands and knees. "Now, young one. Now you shall pay." With no regard for William, Clarke callously forced his cheeks apart and rammed his cock inside of William, completely dry. William screamed as pain exploded through his unprepared body. Henry quickly tried to stifle the sound by covering his mouth, suffocating him. He slapped his victim roughly on the back of his head. "Don't you dare!" he warned him. He continued his assault, pounding inside of William in quick jackhammer thrusts until he finished what 162

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he'd begun, withdrawing himself at last with a grunt of satisfaction. He flipped an unresisting William over once more. William felt streams of tears running down his face, mixing with the blood on his face. Clarke's visage was receding before him. "He'll…

never

love

you.

Never,"

William

whispered. Henry drew back the knife and plunged it directly into William's chest. The young man cried out as the blade sank into him. After carving him like a human jack-o‟lantern, Henry pulled it out and tossed it aside, smiling at his deed. William gasped for air. Blood gushed over him in agonizing jets in time with his breathing. He felt himself falling backward and struggled to stay conscious. Henry rose, brushing at the grass stains that marred his trousers. "If I were you, I'd die quickly, boy. It'll be easier that way." He sat back on his haunches, regarding William almost dispassionately, a speculative look in his eye, his head cocked as if listening for something or someone. "Perhaps I won't wait for the death rattle this time. I've heard it before," he murmured callously. "Maybe I'll just bury you now and go clean up. For Misha." He offered William a malicious grin. "I have to look my best 163

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for my baby. You know how that goes, don't you?" "Misha… Misha, please help… Misha?" William whispered, knowing his voice was inaudible to anyone but himself. It was a futile hope, and well he knew it, for darkness was not close enough yet, and Misha was still in his daytime slumbers. So close and yet so far. As he plunged into the final blackness of his life, he was vaguely aware of a woman's screams, then oblivion.

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN Misha opened his eyes to the soft darkness of his room, instinctively knowing when it was time for him to awaken. He rose, dressing for the night. He chose a dark grey suit with a matching waistcoat, smiling at his own reflection, anticipating the look of approval he would garner from his William. Feeling almost giddy, he blew a kiss at himself, laughing, before he left his room, quietly entering the house proper. His aunt accosted him immediately, and as she told him what had transpired, he left the house immediately, no longer smiling. William had had a guardian angel—in the form of Mrs. Sims. She‟d happened to glance out of the house in time to spy a suspicious-looking Henry Clarke, which led her to the gruesome discovery of the nearly dead William. Clarke had fled the scene, his parting words a message for Misha that he would return for him. An ambulance had been sent for, and William was taken to the St. Louis City Hospital, where he lay hovering between life and death. Misha sped there as quickly as he could. The only way he could gain admission to William's room was through compulsion. The doctor he compelled also admitted that he did not think that William would live until morning.

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Misha stood by his lover's bedside, aghast. William was heavily bandaged and heavily sedated. They had tied him down to the bed, lest he hurt himself. Apparently he'd been thrashing about too much for his own good. One of the nurses told Misha that he had been attempting to rise from the bed, and that he was mumbling someone's name in his delirium. What name it was she didn't know. Misha knew, however, with an ache that went straight to his heart. He took William's too pale hand in his own, feeling for his pulse. It was far too faint for his liking. William was dying, and there was nothing anyone could do to save him. Anyone but himself, that was. Misha possessed the knowledge. He knew what he alone could do to prevent William from crossing to the other side far too early. And he damned Henry Clarke for forcing him to make a decision that should have, by rights, been one that he and William made together. It wasn't as if Misha hadn't considered taking this step; he had. But the time had never been right to bring it up. Besides, what hurry was there? They were having too much fun. There would be time for such serious matters later. Except that now later was here, and there was no time, and if he did not hurry, time would expire for William. It seemed that the decision was obvious, but still 166

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Misha hesitated, thinking of William. Is this what his lover would want? He thought back to their relationship, the instant attraction between them, the heated desire, and the intense need to be close to one another as often as possible. His decision seemed to make itself. His ruminations were interrupted by a nurse. She tried to tell him that visiting hours would end at nine. He only half-listened, thanking her, and hastening her exit from the room. Locking the door behind her, he returned to William's bedside, regarding his lover with agonized eyes, before bending to his task. "I love you, William," he whispered into his unhearing ear before he bit him, carefully, gently, drawing his lover's life essence into his mouth, drinking of it. When he was satisfied that he'd drawn enough, he tore open a wound on his wrist and held it to William's mouth. Even in his sleep, William seized on it, suckled at it, and took it in. Just in time, as death claimed the young reporter for its own. Or would have, if Misha had not just cheated the grim reaper of its victim. **** William opened his eyes to darkness and the 167

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confusion of his own mind. He attempted to make sense of things, but his memory wasn't cooperating. It was dark; that much he knew. But when had the sun gone down? Why was it night already? The last memory he had was of returning from the police station, driven to the boarding house in a police wagon. The driver had been polite. He'd gone up the steps to the house, thinking of Misha, but then he was always thinking of Misha. And then… It all came roaring back to him, and he sat up with a start. He'd been raped, viciously and cruelly, and then Clarke had stuck a knife in him, but what then? And where was he now? His eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness. At least he assumed they did, as he found that he could see quite well. He wasn't on the grass between the houses any more. He was in Misha's room, lying on Misha's bed, with Misha lying next to him. William's hands flew to his body, trembling, searching for the wounds inflicted by the horrible blade. He felt nothing. How could that be? He felt no pain at all, but he should have. He must have lost a lot of blood. And yet he felt strangely invigorated. He sat up, continuing his investigation of his personage. Nothing. No wounds anywhere. And he seemed to be wearing different clothes than he had been this morning. "Misha?" he whispered tentatively, expecting his 168

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voice to be thin and weak. But it wasn't. Misha enveloped William in his arms and held him close, pulling him against him, stroking him, kissing him. William appreciated the sentiment, but his questing mind had to know the answers to this strange riddle, had to know what had happened, what was happening, and why he felt like he could participate in a marathon and not break a sweat. "Misha?" he said again. "What happened?" "I had to," the vampire replied, nuzzling William's neck, sighing softly into the flesh of William‟s neck. No sign of the wounds he had inflicted were visible, the skin unblemished. "I not let you die. I love you." "I love you too," William replied automatically, even as Misha's words began to sink in. "Couldn't let me die?" So that part was true—Clarke had indeed injured him, and badly. Very badly, he suspected. But what could Misha have done to keep him from dying? William knew he hadn't been there to call for a doctor. Had someone done that, scaring away his attacker? Or had the sadistic Clarke left of his own accord? And then the truth began to filter into his consciousness as he became more aware of himself, his body, his surroundings—of everything—as if he were seeing everything for the first time, with new eyes. 169

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Vampire's eyes. Misha had turned him, to save him. He was a vampire. He, William Deming, reporter from Utah. Now vampire, formerly from Utah. The thought was mind boggling. And exhilarating. "Misha," he began slowly, "you turned me, didn't you?" He put his hands on either side of Misha's face, forcing his lover to look straight into his eyes. Misha nodded, wordlessly. "You saved me, didn't you, my love? My dearest, dearest love. You saved me." William kissed him, softly at first, then more passionately, feeling his arousal growing quickly. Misha returned the kiss gladly, but when the new vampire tried to initiate something more, he gently rebuffed him. "Not now," he said. "We must go. Away from here." "Away? Why? I don't understand, Misha, please explain." "We can't stay," Misha said simply. "Now you vampire too. Is dangerous. And…" "And what?" William prompted. "While you sleep, I find Clarke and I kill him for hurting you." William found that he could not shed any tears for his attacker, his only regret being that he had not been able to witness his demise. "Did you make him suffer, my love?" he asked, grimly. 170

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"He suffer much." Misha nodded. "But we must go. They know he hurt you. They know he hurt me. They will come." "You're right, my darling, you're very right," William conceded. Without thinking, he reached toward the bedside table for his glasses, ‟til he suddenly realized he didn‟t have them; they‟d been broken in the attack. But he no longer needed them. First advantage of being a vampire, he thought. He suspected there were more. His desire for Misha was growing exponentially, and he felt hornier than he‟d ever felt in his life. He liked the feeling. But yes, Misha was right, first things first. "We must go, of course. Together, though, only together?" He had no desire to be separated from his lover, and he hoped that Misha felt the same way. Misha nodded. "Together," he echoed. "We be together always now. You and me, William." Their lips melted together in a gentle kiss, their arms wound about one another, and for several minutes, nothing more was said. At last they drew apart. "We need to pack," the practical William said. "We'll have to travel at night, of course. What will we do during the day? How will we manage? I mean, we'll be vulnerable when we're asleep." "We manage," Misha said. "We find person, make 171

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him help. I always do." William shivered, realizing in what way Misha must acquire such help, a spark of jealousy flaring within him. "All right," he conceded, "we'll get help. But no… I mean you can't… that is…" Misha smiled for the first time since he had found William in the hospital, and saved him. "No sex," he promised. "No one else. Just make love with you, my William." William was mollified by his lover's promise. Being a practical man, now a practical vampire, he began to organize. Finding Misha's valise, he began to strip his chifforobe of its contents, packing them neatly. Misha watched him with bemusement. "Where will we go, my love?" William asked. He closed the lid of the large valise and secured its latches, his mind going to his own packing that needed to be done before they could go anywhere. "Do you have any ideas? I have some money saved. I can wire for the rest when we get somewhere."

Misha thought for a moment, testing his sensibilities internally as he attempted to think what felt right, what their next move should be. They needed someplace where 172

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he could properly train William in being a vampire, someplace sparsely populated, a place with a lot of darkness and a lot of privacy. He smiled to himself. Yes, he knew the place, and it would be perfect. "Home," he said. "We go home, my William." "Home?" William repeated, looking confused. "You mean Utah? Surely not, especially not with my family there… Holy cow, I forgot about my article! I must send that in to my editor. I'll message it off in a few minutes, along with a letter of resignation." He paused for a moment. "But what about my family? Maybe they'll think I just moved here and disappeared? Or should we say I died? That'd be far worse on them." And then he appeared to understand. "Oh, you mean Russia, don't you? Your home." Misha nodded. "That sounds wonderful, darling." William kissed Misha once more. "We should tell your aunt where we're going, don't you think? Tell her we'll stay in touch with her?" "Da," Misha agreed. "We say good-bye to her, and we go." "Tonight?" "Now." A moment of silence lay between them as they contemplated the future that was opening up before them. 173

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William smiled. "Let them send another reporter to the Fair. I've got more important things to do." They smiled at one another, and Misha saw William‟s new canines were now visible. "Are you sure?" Misha asked. William put his arms around Misha‟s neck. "Very." Misha pulled William backward with him onto the bed, already reaching for his buttons. They could wait a few more minutes to leave. The night was young, Clarke was dead, and their undead lives lay before them. Together. What more could two men ask for? The End

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ABOUT S.L. DANIELSON S.L. Danielson has been an avid reader since she was a small child. Her first loves were science fiction as well as general fiction books. Later, she began writing her own stories with a romantic flavor to them. With influences running the gamut from romance, sci-fi, and drama, her muse was found. In 2007 she was first published with Love Resurrected and has since released four other books, all in the contemporary gay romance genre. She plans on delving into historical romance next, and possibly sci-fi. When not working on a new book, attending graduate school, or working her evil day job, she can be found shooting pool and darts, hanging out with my husband, parents, and cats, or spending way too much time playing computer games. Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1173654489 Blog: http://ladyauthorsld.blogspot.com Email: [email protected]

ABOUT JULIE LYNN HAYES Julie Lynn Hayes was reading at the age of two and writing by the age of nine and always wanted to be a writer when she grew up. Two marriages, five children, and more than forty years later, that is still her dream. She blames her younger daughters for introducing her to yaoi and the world of M/M love, a world that has captured her imagination and her heart and fueled her writing in ways she'd never dreamed of before. She especially loves stories of two men finding true love and happiness in one another's arms and is a great believer in the happily ever after. She lives in St. Louis with her daughter Sarah and two cats, loves books and movies, and hopes to be a world traveler someday. Currently unemployed, she continues to write her books and stories and reviews that she posts in various places on the internet. Her family thinks she is a bit off, but she doesn't mind. Marching to the beat of one's own drummer is a good thing, after all. Her published works can be found at, Dreamspinner Press and Silver Publishing. Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=527332074 Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/ShelleyRunyon Blog: http://julielynnhayes.blogspot.com Email: [email protected]

ALSO BY S.L. DANIELSON:

Available from Silver Publishing: For the Heart of Phillip Lust in London LOVE BY THE NUMBERS Life After Math Love by the Numbers RANCH HANDS Ranch Hands Available from All Romance ebooks: Bernard: Diary of a 46-yr-old Bellhop FOR THE HEART OF PHILLIP Refugees Broken Promises

ALSO BY JULIE LYNN HAYES:

Available from Silver Publishing: For Love of Max Leonardo di Caprio is a Vampire A Special Christmas Writing as Reinette Dark Love Available from Dreamspinner Press: The Prince Wore Pink Stilettos Sweet Dreams, My Love To the Max

S.L. DANIELSON'S SILVER PUB TITLE REVIEWS:

For The Heart of Phillip "This novel spans sixteen years in the life of Phillip Marnier, and it has all of the drama of a soap opera. Phillip isn‟t your typical hero—he has problems up the yin yang, and yet he has two supposedly hot guys fighting over him like two dogs over a bone. Frankly, I don‟t know why, but that is immaterial. They do. This fight goes back and forth for years, as Phillip vacillates between them, although in the end, he invariably follows his heart. … So, pull out a box of Kleenex, settle yourself in your easy chair, have a drink handy, and enjoy the story for what it is—a story of love, exploration and discovery. And fighting for the heart of Phillip." —Julie Hayes, Silver Publishing Lust in London "Stephanie Danielson captures the innocence of a young man's first crush, first boyfriend, and first love in this sweet story." —4 Kisses, Top 2 Bottom Reviews Ranch Hands "Ranch Hands is a love story, but it‟s also a story about survival, and doing what you have to do to get by. Nothing comes easy, and everything has a price. S.L. Danielson draws her characters in broad strokes. She isn‟t one for details, more of a cut-to-the-chase kind of writer. So if you‟re looking for finesse, or subtlety, don‟t look here. But if you like a story that gets to the heart of the matter, and doesn‟t waste time with getting there, you‟ll like her style. Sid and Roger could be any other two people in love. Love stories are universal, and it doesn‟t matter what gender the couple involved is, whether two men, two women, or a man and a woman. It‟s what‟s in the heart that counts. S.L.

shows us what is in the hearts and minds of Sid and Roger; by the end of the book we feel as if we‟ve come to know and like them, and you‟ll find yourself cheering them on through all the difficult times and difficult people." —Julie Hayes, Silver Publishing

JULIE LYNN HAYES 'S SILVER PUB TITLE REVIEWS:

For Love of Max "I loved this story. This is a story of relationships. The fact that Max is a wolf is almost incidental and just another issue for poor Max to deal with as he comes to grips with all the changes and upheavals in his life. Max is witty and intelligently written, I laughed and cried. A don't miss story!" —Suzanne, Silver Publishing

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