WARNING--THIS STORY IS DISTURBING!!!  (I'm not
kidding.  It contains scenes of sexual and physical violence
and other really nasty stuff.  I wasn't going to post it at all,
but a few of my beta-readers convinced me otherwise.)
 
If you find such fiction at all disturbing, please delete this
and the subsequent four parts without reading.
 
This story is about Janette's interview, as referenced in
"False Heart" and "Kind Soul."  The story doesn't fit in any
of the novels and I kind of wrote it down just to get stuff
clear in my own head.  It IS very disturbing.
 
SusanG2522@aol.com
 
*********************************************
In One's Own Coin
 
By Susan M. Garrett
 
     Dorian caught the briefest glimpse of the bruise on
Janette's cheek before he busied himself with the removal
of his gloves.  Careful not to stretch the grain of the leather
as he pulled them from his hands, he stared down at the
table and bided his time.
     Her annoyance was a presence in the room almost
strong enough to mask her fear.  That thought made him
smile, as he tossed first one, then the other glove to the
surface of the heavy wooden table.  It was only as he
removed his black cloak and tossed that over the back of
one of the chairs that he looked at her again.
     She hadn't changed.  Not even the bruise--fading
from her pale skin even now--could mar her beauty.  Her
cloak, a warm and earthy brown, might be covered with
leaves and refuse and . . . was that a bit of dried blood?
Her hair was disheveled from her struggle, the dark tresses
half pulled from the tight braid that had bound it closely
over either of her delicate ears.  The overdress might be
askew--she twisted the line of it back in place over her
breast as he watched her--and the sleeve of the shift torn.
But she was still one of the most beautiful creatures he'd
ever seen.
     Reminding himself that her beauty hid the heart of a
serpent, he forced his gaze away from her and glanced
around the room.  A frown flickered across his lips at the
meanness of the place.  But then, LaCroix had run in a
direction he'd not expected.  It was only luck that had
enabled him to find this stout, stone tower, abandoned and
fallen into ruin, but still intact enough for his purposes.  It
was just less than an hour's flight from the hovel in which
he'd left LaCroix and the newest viper that serpent had
engendered.
     Dorian smiled again at the thought of having
restrained LaCroix in such mean surroundings--a peasant's
hovel!  It would torment him, the low character of the
surroundings, the ease with which he could break the walls
and be free . . . if not for the Enforcers that had been left to
guard him and the knowledge that such an action would
endanger not only himself and his newest recruit, but the
subject of the interview as well, Janette.
     The <Lady> Janette.
     She started as he mentally corrected himself, as if
she'd heard his thoughts.  Dorian hesitated and raised a
finger to his lips.  He would have to be careful with her.
Yes, LaCroix was safe from him, well beyond his reach for
having remained silent for ten sunrises.  LaCroix had beaten
him . . . with the help of this witch.
     Now, she was in his power.  Now she would be
interviewed and would have to deliver her secrets--and the
secrets of her master--with perfect honesty, or risk being
destroyed.  And she wouldn't risk destruction--not this one.
He'd spent enough time with her during their last encounter
to know that.  He would know all that was in her mind and
her heart and her memory.  He would then use that
knowledge to destroy LaCroix, before LaCroix could
destroy him.
     It was as he took a step toward her and her blue
eyes finally raised to meet his that Dorian found himself
pausing, a breath taken and held as a whisper reminded him
of his duty.  He was the Archivist.  He was here to
interview her, to do his duty to their history by recording
her memories, taking what she was and holding it so that it
would not be lost.
     Those blue eyes were old, and yet not ancient.
She'd barely passed three centuries in darkness--what was
within her that could not be lost?  Surely, this was not the
time to interview her.  Surely this was not the place.
Janette should be interviewed for all that she was within
herself and only that, not for the sake of her maker and
master.
     But she was the spawn of LaCroix, or so he
reminded himself.  If he did not interview her, conquer her
and take all that LaCroix had given her, he might not last
into the next century.  Then what would happen to the
history he had gathered so far?  Who could find again the
memories that had been lost with the destruction or final
death of so many that he had interviewed?  He owed it to
them, he owed it to all of their kind to do this thing, to
vanquish LaCroix, to survive.
     Her eyes grew cold as he approached.  She turned
up her nose and looked away from him, her hands clasped
tightly in her lap.  "Your courtesy is lacking.  This place is
filthy."
     "Complain to your master, not to me.  I didn't
choose to lead you here--<he> did.  I would have chosen
accommodations better suited to your . . . lineage."  His
hand raised to touch the bruise on her cheek, but he
stopped himself as she flinched and drew back.  Dorian
turned away from her and crossed the stone floor, kicking
the remains of the still-damp and hastily gathered straw
from his path.  "You should not have fought them."
     "The brute manhandled me."
     "You bit him."
     "He took liberties."
     Dorian turned and fixed her with a steady gaze,
daring her to continue.  The blue eyes met his for seconds
only before she turned her face away from him.  "He
knows you're under my care, answerable only to me during
your interview.  He knows he would be punished for such
an act.  He knows better.  As should you."
     "I know only that I have been forced here, against
my will."  Although she did not look at him, her voice was
steady and strung with cords of steel--he found himself
admiring her self-possession.
     "You know more than that.  You know why you're
here. "  He walked toward her--she sat so primly and
arrogantly, straight and stiff-backed on the uncomfortable
wooden chair.  "You've endured your master's trial.  You
know that you may ignore the call to the interview and be
tested.  Or that you may refuse the call and challenge me."
     She sniffed haughtily at the last suggestion, but the
slight motion of her chin let him know that she was well
aware that she couldn't win against him--not in a purely
physical contest.
     Dorian waited a moment, before adding, "Or you
may stand for the interview.  If so, then you must answer
every question I ask, fully, completely, and truthfully.  Or
you will pay forfeit."
     "To be determined by you."
      It was less a statement than an accusation.  "Yes,"
admitted Dorian, as she met his gaze, the remnants of a
familiar sneer lingering on her lips.  "I determine the forfeit
by the nature of the offense, the severity of it.  Just as I
may decide to concede the forfeit."
     "And prove how merciful you can be?"
     "I decided to spare your master's newest toy, that . .
. Nicholas.  Would you rather I had taken his life?"
     Janette looked away again, the slightest flicker of
alarm flitting through her eyes before her chin tilted down
and she averted her gaze.  "Why?" she asked, after a pause.
"Why . . . did you spare him?"
     Dorian hesitated, then shrugged and turned his back
to her, at least part of his attention on the rough stone walls
that surrounded them.  He knew the words he gave her
would travel back to her master, but he cared little.  "Why
not?  There was nothing to be gained from his destruction.
And, perhaps, because LaCroix asked.  He doesn't ask for
such considerations.  It amused me to consent, this once."
     "I thought you might . . . that you might have done
it for me."
     Her soft words surprised him, as did the emotion
held in them.  Dorian whirled, careful to reign in his
astonishment, to set his features in a neutral mask.
Something within him was moved to remember what he'd
seen in her that last time they'd been thrown together by her
master's whim, the softness in her eyes and in her soul, the
creature that did not know enough to yearn for a freedom it
had never known.
     By the time he'd turned, there was no sign of that in
her expression.  She was only Janette, a creature of
LaCroix, sitting cold, and still, and unreachable upon that
stark, wooden chair.
     There was some part of him that sorrowed at not
seeing more in her than that.  And yet another part that
breathed a heavy sigh of relief, knowing what he must do in
the course of his duties, in his role as Archivist.  It would be
so much easier if he thought of her only in those terms--the
property of LaCroix, which was now under his dominion.
     "I call for the interview of Janette," he said
ruthlessly.  "In the past and in the present, Janette
DuCharm.  How say you?  Will you stand?"
     Her eyes were blue, as his memory told him the
sunlit sky had once been and was still, but they were also
more icy than the blast of the northern winds through the
mountain passes.  "Yes," she answered, her voice the barest
whisper.  "Yes.  I'll stand."
     It was no more than he'd expected.  But as he held
out his arm to her, helping her to rise to her feet, then
escorted her to another chair by the table, Dorian heard
LaCroix's voice behind the echo of her words and,
unaccountably, shivered.
 
***
 
     There was a pitcher of blood on the table, as he'd
instructed--and two earthenware goblets.  The service was
crude, neither as fine as he would have liked or was used to
using, but good enough for their purpose.  Seeing the barest
hint of distaste on Janette's lips as she accepted the filled
goblet from his hand, he felt embarrassed that he had no
better with which to serve her.  But then, she deserved
nothing finer than the course clay the Enforcers had found
for him in that hovel.  She was a creature of LaCroix, after
all.
     "Tell me of your people," he said, deciding to start
slowly, for he knew that her hesitation would come soon
enough, once he began to pry LaCroix's secrets from her.
     "My . . . people."  Again, the look of distaste, which
had less to do with the goblets, or the drink than with her
own thoughts.  When she spoke, it wasn't at length or in
heat, but with a studied dispassion, as if the history she
related had occurred to another and not herself.
     Nodding, Dorian drank from his goblet, some part
of his mind holding closely to every word and phrase, while
another noted that her story was told in a tone not so
different from any of the others he had heard.  It seemed
that way for so many, that once they entered the darkness,
their mortal lives became nothing more than a dream to
them, like some strange fancy or morality play they'd
glimpsed on a fairground or on a merry street during some
religious feast.  His own past was no too far from that, so
long ago that he'd not thought on it for a time and less
compelling a story than many he'd heard in the exercise of
his duties as Archivist.
     To recall it now disturbed him; he was irritated that
her careful, impassive words could lead him to such
indulgent reverie.  Thinking to startle her, he asked, "And
what occupied your time?" knowing full well what her
answer must be.  Even knowing as much about Janette as
he did, for after his failure with her master he'd studied that
vampire and his creations so closely as to know all outward
signs of their lives and travels as anyone <could> know,
there were details that he'd only encountered recently,
which had led him to this folly of interviewing this young--
not more than three centuries?--vampire.
     It <was> folly, or self-indulgence at the very least.
Again he began to berate himself for taking advantage of
his office, when he realized that her answer was less than
he'd expected.  Or demanded.
     "The occupations of any lady," she'd said, without
the mortal ability to blush gracefully or genteely in the face
of such a question.
     It was an evasion, nothing more.  Not quite a lie.
At least, not yet.
     "Specifically," he pressed her, placing his goblet
upon the table, his hands resting palms flat against the
uneven wooden surface.  "How were your hours
occupied?"
     He knew the answer.  Knew what it <should> be.
Knew the truth.
     Janette's hands reached across to his own.  She
lifted his right hand and held it, palm upward, as if studying
it, her fingers rubbing lightly against his skin, tracing the
lines in his flesh down the ball of his thumb.  "As any
woman would occupy her hours," she replied, seemingly
intent upon nothing but his hand.
     He was too aware of her presence, too knowing that
the curve of her leg had somehow wound around his own
beneath the table, and that the light touch against his hose
was the soft sole of her foot.  Dorian stared down at the
fingers that toyed with his hand, his thoughts traveling to
his testing of LaCroix, when he'd found the softness of this
then-fledgling temptation enough almost to forget himself
and his duty.
     Almost, but not quite.  Then, as now, there was still
his office to perform.  And Truth to be upheld.
     He pushed back from the table and rose to his feet,
needing to place some space between them, but made the
mistake of moving past her.  Her hand reached out to snag
his sleeve, holding him in place for longer than the slow
measure of a mortal heartbeat that was felt when the last of
the blood ran from the body and life fled.
     Janette had scented herself, as did many ladies--and
men, for that matter--with the oils of flowers, to mask the
unpleasant odors of travel and sweat.  The perfume might
prove to disguise her to mortals, but not to his enhanced
senses.  She must know that he knew her for what she was,
in all things.  She <must> know that he knew the truth.
Why pursue so unwise a course as to challenge him so early
in the interview?  He'd have given her credit for more
sense.
     Unless . . . had LaCroix instructed her in this, as he
had in so many other matters?  Was he still using this
creature as a lure, her prey no longer the blood of mortals
or the souls of other fledglings, but the integrity of the
Archivist?  Was he meant to fall to this temptation now,
when he had not fallen before?  Was this how LaCroix
intended to destroy him?
     Her lashes were long and dark, flitting almost
innocently against the blue of her eyes, which were no
longer cold, but inviting.  One of her hands rubbed the
sleeve of his shirt, brushing back the edge of the cotehardie,
the fingers paler than ivory against the brilliant reds and
blues of the costly fabric.  Her other hand rested on his
waist, fingertips looped around the jewel-encrusted girdle . .
. too close to his dagger for his liking.
     Dorian held still, his lack of motion fostered both by
his disbelief that she could be so foolish and the suspicion
that LaCroix wouldn't throw away this prize so easily.  He
decided to give her another chance, to make the matter as
clear as it could and should be.
     "You were a whore."
     He'd called her such in LaCroix's hearing no more
than an hour before, half in jest, but knowing that it was the
truth in fact and deed.  His research had confirmed that
she'd been sold to a brothel and had plied her trade
successfully enough.  The confused accounts of the death
of the brothel-keeper, the procurer, had long since been
translated into common thought as a cautionary tale--even
the devil had been so disgusted by the debauchery of the
brothel that he'd entered the dwelling as a man of flesh,
seized the wickedest of the wantons for his bride, then
stolen the life and soul of the keeper.
     Since then, what was she if <not> her master's
whore?  She'd brought LaCroix prey, using her flesh as
lure, her beauty and willing smile as the honey that had
drawn many an unlucky mortal soul to an untimely end.  A
whore was what she had been.  What she was still.  In
Truth.
     He'd spoken as plainly as he might, with no
accusation is his tone, refusing even to look at her.  The
words hung in the air between them, echoing in a moment
of silence before her answer finally came.
     "No."
     Dorian heard her swallow, heard the slightest sound
as she wet her lips, her mouth open to utter more words, to
compound the lie--but it was that one word that condemned
her, the one lie whose untrue nature ran through his soul,
sickening him, causing him to shudder.  It had always been
that way for him since he'd fallen into darkness, although it
had taken him some small amount of time to acknowledge
the cause of his discomfort and learn to hide it.  The lies of
other vampires were palpable things, some as subtle as the
mere whiff of an unpleasant odor and others as remarkable
as a knife twisted in his once-vital organs.  He could
recognize it in a glance, in a movement or a gesture, knew
when one of his kind betrayed the Truth, as he or she knew
it or believed it to be, even without words.  But the actual
utterance of a falsehood was an act of profanity, an attack
against him, and his office, and against the very fabric of
what should be.
     Thunder sounded in his ears, deafening him to the
words that followed.  Fury coursed through him, but he
restrained himself.  Somehow, through tight lips, he
managed to give her yet another chance to redeem herself,
in case Janette had mistaken his meaning, although he could
not make his words any plainer.
     "You were a whore."
 
     Distantly, he made a note that her hands had fallen
from him--one now rested on the back of the chair, while
the other hovered at the neckline of her gown nervously;
she'd not mistaken the warning or anger in his voice.  But a
glance at her lowered gaze advised him that Janette wasn't
fully aware of the danger in which she'd placed herself, that
she was still intent on answering as she'd been instructed, or
to save her petty pride, or for whatever misbegotten reason
she had for continuing on this foolish path.  Again, she
breathed a reply, the words spoken since the first denial all
but forgotten--
     "No."
     Her voice was softer, more hesitant and filled with
doubt.  Had he not been in control of himself, not been
prepared for that answer, Dorian knew that small, quiet
word would have left him doubled in pain.  But he'd steeled
himself for such an eventuality, let the tide of it crest, wash
over and through him, until only the raw echoes remained.
With a roar, he wrenched the chair from beneath her,
knocking her to the floor, then lifted a handful of her
unbound hair and dragged her to her feet.
     There was no chance for Janette to get her footing--
he'd given her chances enough to redeem herself.  Dorian
flung her against the wall, then stalked toward her, his hand
pressing against her throat, pinning her against the cold and
mold-covered stone.  He viewed her through a red haze of
righteous anger and saw the sudden terror in her eyes give
way to solid will.  Janette snarled back at him, eyes gold,
then green, then red as fire.
     He'd not been mistaken.  He'd felt the lie twist his
innards, as strong as any other lie had ever been--stronger,
perhaps, in its content, in its denial of what she knew so
clearly to be true.  And yet he still felt bidden to give her
one more chance, some memory of that softness hidden
within her cautioning him, taking the slightest of edges from
his anger.
     "You were a whore!"
     His roar echoed in the small, stone room, his breath
and the spittle from his pronouncement struck against her
cheeks.  But she screamed, "No!" in answer, her tone and
volume no less than his own.
     To have been rent with a knife from throat to groin
could have yielded no less pain.  His free hand leaned
heavily on the wall as he fought back the flow of it, then
realized that Janette was trying to loosen his grip around her
throat.
     His voice was mostly gone, taken by the fire of the
pain, the air sucked from his lungs in that instant.  But
Dorian pressed his body against hers, holding her against
the stone, refusing to give her an inch of leverage or any
hope of escape.  "It's the Truth," he whispered, lips pressed
against her ear, each word clear and succinct and carefully
formed because that sudden pain had taken so much from
him in its passing.  "You lie.  You deny what <is>.  You
deny your memory.  Or, should I remind you--?  You
<were> a whore."
     She snarled again as he drew his head back, his eyes
meeting her own.  The flash of fear remained longer this
time, but was drowned quickly by the red fire of anger.
"No," she spat, with more vehemence than volume.
     The pain was less this time--he felt the weakness of
the lie.  He would not need to push her further to wrench
the Truth from her.
     But the time for subtlety and caution had passed,
seared from him by her lies.  Still holding tightly to her
neck with one hand, he raked the other along the length of
her gown and skirt.  The echoing sound of the material
tearing easily had no chance to dissipate before he swiped
again at her chemise and shift, baring patches of pale,
unblemished skin.  Even as Janette snarled and howled and
gnashed her teeth at him, he reached beneath her dress and
grasped her breast roughly, making a mockery of passion.
Her hands flailed at him, tore rents in his cotehardie,
scratched his face and his neck, but she was pinned--she
couldn't dislodge him and her strength was no match for his
own.
     He told himself that it was not enough, that he
would have to push her to her limits, force her to submit to
the Truth, to submit to him . . . although some small,
honest voice within him warned him that he couldn't have
stopped if he'd tried.  The fastenings on his codpiece were
freed and he took her,      without preface and in the
heat of anger.
     The snarling ceased, and she turned her head,
releasing a low and anguished moan of dismay.  Her fingers
dug into his shoulders, the nails tearing through the cloth
and leather of his cotehardie and blouse, drawing blood
from the skin beneath, still futilely trying to push him away.
With each thrust, he whispered the words to her, his voice
ragged and fired by fury--"You--were--a--whore--"
     Her answer was little more than a breath, the tone
resigned, weary, battered beyond endurance--"Yes."
     It was the Truth.
     Dorian sank his teeth into the softness of her neck,
grasping her shoulder tightly with his right hand and raising
the left to the line of her jaw and to her mouth, holding her
teeth away from him.  He dared not share his blood and the
memories it contained with anyone, least of all LaCroix's
whore.  It was enough to drink her submission, to revel in
the fire of her--what did it matter that Janette's passion was
left wanting and unfulfilled?  He was the Archivist, after all.
It was his right, by forfeit.  She'd lied to him.
     She'd <lied.>
     Only after he'd drained her as much as even he
dared did he step back and release her.  She slid down the
wall to the floor, gaze still averted, the marks of his hold
dark and bloody on her face and neck.  Dorian staggered a
few steps away from her, leaning his hand against the cold
stone wall for support, wiping the remnants of her blood
from his lips with the back of his other hand.  Behind him,
he heard her moan softly, a low and anguished sound that
rose from the depths of her soul.
     Janette had admitted the Truth.  He'd won, yet
some part of him was cold at the thought of what he'd
done; the memory of the softness beneath his fingers, how
he'd dared to steal a sweet kiss from her, how much he'd
been tempted during LaCroix's trial to break the oaths he'd
taken, all of it contrasting with the brutality with which he'd
abused her breast and her body.  There was the interview
yet to get through.  And, beyond that--
     She'd lied to him.  She owed him forfeit.  She owed
him her life.
     Dorian closed his eyes and leaned his hands and
forehead against the wall of the chamber, glad for the
coolness of the stone, however filthy it might be.  He could
feel his cuts and bruises healing, his skin repairing itself.
Janette's blood was strong.  It ran through him, healed him,
soothed him.  And it brought with it a burden for which he
was not prepared.
     He never drank from other vampires during an
interview.  Painful as the occasional lie might be, it was
compounded by even a taste of the vampire's blood,
magnified a thousand-fold.  Punishment for the offense was
always swift and brutal enough to prevent another repetition
of falsehood, but he'd feared what might happen if he took
blood in retribution and one of them--any one of them--
might lie to him again during the interview.  As the
Archivist, he couldn'tt be seen lacking.  Writhing on the
floor in agony might just be misconstrued . . . .
     Janette lied.  Not once, but <four> times--fool that
he'd been to have given her so many chances!  He knew
that he should take her life, now that her had a part of her
in his blood.  The memories in her blood would never be as
clear as her words, as the Truth he'd hear from her lips.
He'd be hard-pressed to extract anything of worth from
them, anything that he might use against LaCroix.  But if he
let her live and continued the interview, if she lied again . . .
what would it mean?
     LaCroix would be angered at the loss of his lure--
but had he intended that all along?  Was this entanglement
merely happy coincidence for LaCroix, or a well-executed
trap, to snare him in his own rules?  Janette had lied.  He'd
warned her to tell the truth, warned her that she'd pay
forfeit for falsehoods, that he'd determine a price--
     That <he'd> determine a price.
     Dorian raised his head, a glimmer of hope arriving
with the thought.  He turned and leaned against the wall,
contenting himself for the moment with watching Janette.
She'd not moved since she'd fallen, moaning weakly,
hungrily, still lying on the dirty straw.
     After retrieving his codpiece and fastening it in
place, he crossed the room to the table and filled the goblet
with blood from the pitcher.  Dorian paused, goblet in
hand, searching his plan for some hole, some error that
might be used against him, but he found none.  Only then
did he return to Janette's side.
     Kneeling beside her, he lifted her in his arms and
rested her against his chest, easily subduing her feeble
attempts to push him away.  He raised the cup to her lips
and, when she resisted, forced her to taste the blood,
splashing it against her mouth, clacking the edge of the
earthenware goblet against the perfect white shine of her
teeth.
     Her weak growls of defiance stopped.  Her eyes,
which had been half-lidded and sleepily angry, opened wide
at the taste.  She placed her hands around his and lifted the
cup, drinking greedily, her eyes closing as she gulped the
blood.
     It was gone too quickly, but it had made the
difference.  Dorian pulled her fingers away from his and set
the goblet aside, although her eyes followed the movement.
     "In a moment," he warned her.  "There's more--all
that you wish.  But you <must> listen to me.  Do you
understand?"
     Her eyes still on the goblet, she nodded.  One hand
moved to the wounds at her throat, which were already
healing.
     "You lied to me."  Her body shuddered against him
and she tried to pull away, but Dorian held her tightly.
"You lied to me four times, Janette.  You must pay forfeit,
those are the rules."
     Her eyes widened and her tongue flicked nervously
against her lips.  Although she didn't look at him, he knew
her mind, saw the fear in her as she realized what that
forfeit might mean.
     "I <should> take your life," he explained, only to
see her fear blossom forth as she turned her gaze toward
him.  "But, as I said, <I> determine the forfeit.  I've decided
to give you a choice."
     Dorian gently set her aside and rose to his feet.
Grabbing the goblet as an after thought, he walked to the
table and set it down, then moved to the chair over which
his cloak was hanging, his purse dangling from the
fastening where he'd left it.  Opening the purse, he
deliberately counted out four gold coins, letting each coin
fall to the table top with a ringing sound, so that it could not
be mistaken.
     "I may take you life," he told Janette, meeting her
gaze across the room, "or I will take my forfeit from you in
trade--<your> trade--once for each lie, one coin for each
falsehood."  Picking up one of the coins, he weighed it in
his hand and frowned.  "Debased and clipped," he
announced.  "Not worth what it should be.  But then . . .
neither are you."
     The coin he tossed landed no less than a hand's
breadth from her foot.  Janette glared at it, then at him, her
lips drawing back from her fangs as she snarled softly,
"Never."
     "Then I take your life."  The gold fled from her
eyes at that pronouncement and she looked away.  Dorian
seated himself at the table and touched each coin in turn.
"I'll credit you the first.  There are only three more--in
trade, at my choosing.  Or your life."  He looked up and
found her staring at him.  "It's your choice."
     It was out of his hands--or so he told himself as he
watched her gaze move to the coin that rested by her foot.
He'd expected her to leap at the chance for salvation.  Her
hesitation surprised him.
     Not that he dared show it.  Dorian waited patiently,
even though he knew the sun would rise in less than three
hours--damn LaCroix for leading him on a chase and
wasting so much of his time!  He'd have to take the next
night as well, if he were going to retrieve from Janette any
of the secrets he sought.
     That, of course, presumed that she'd take his offer,
instead of condemning herself to destruction.
     Janette moved slowly, her fingers reaching for the
coin, her features set in an impassive mask.  Her gaze
rested on the tarnished glitter of the money.  It was as if her
universe began and ended there.  When her fingers touched
it, forced it into her palm, her eyes closed tightly--he saw
weariness etch lines in her features where none had been
before.
     And then, as her eyes opened, the lines were gone.
As was any light or life in her.  They weren't warm or cold,
but simply <there>, her gaze empty and dead, her sight
fixed on the stone wall behind him, or beyond that.  She
rose from the floor, placing her hand against the wall for
support, waiting until she was steady on her feet before
attempting to cross the room.
     Dorian met her well before she reached the table.
He reached out his hand to take her arm, but she flinched,
avoiding contact with him as she passed.  Her pace was
slow, but steady.  Even when she sank into the chair, there
was no sigh of relief or accomplishment.  Janette merely sat
there, fingers curling around the base of the empty goblet.
     Courtesy and protocol indicated that he pour the
blood in the glass, which he did, knowing that she'd need to
replenish what he'd taken.  Without a word or token of
thanks, Janette raised the goblet to her lips and closed her
eyes, downing the contents quickly, efficiently.  The goblet
thumped back onto the table top, empty.
     He was surprised enough at the ferocity of her
hunger to pause, forgetting his duty.  But as her eyes raised
to his in mute reproach, he hurriedly poured her a second
goblet.  Although she took her time with it, that too was
gone in so short a period that he found himself astounded,
noting that the supplies he'd brought with him might well be
depleted and he'd have to send one of the Enforcers out in
search of more victims.  <Large> victims, from what he'd
seen of her hunger.
     "He lied," she whispered, eyes downcast again.  "He
lied . . . ."
     Dorian seated himself across from her, awkwardly
pouring yet a third cup of blood from the pitcher, emptying
the last of it into her goblet.  "<Who> lied?" he pressed,
sensing some advantage.
     "LaCroix."  Her fingers curled around the stem of
the goblet and she raised it to her lips absently, her gaze still
directed elsewhere.  There was a distance in her manner
and her words, as if she were not quite herself but was lost
in reverie or memory.
     "What was the lie?"
     "He said--he said that without my permission, no
man would ever touch me again."  She shook her head
slightly, her eyes closing as in disbelief.  "<Mon Dieu,> of
all the things he said, I thought that at least, would be no lie.
I had hoped--"
     No words followed, as she sipped the blood, eyes
closed, slow in her movements and in her manner.  Dorian
remained attentive, fixing her with his gaze, willing her to
look at him.  "LaCroix is the father of lies."
     Her eyes opened finally, as she lowered the goblet
from her lips--there was some life in them.  "No.  He tells
the truth, more often than not.  He said truth is a weapon
that can be used to wound and heal and wound again, it is
always sharp, always--"  Again, her words faltered, but this
time she met his gaze, her features composed.  "No--he did
<not> lie."
     "If he said that no man--?"
     "That no <mortal> would take me without my
consent," Janette countered, some ring of triumph in her
words, as if she'd excused herself for her failing, for her
submission to him.  "You are <no> mortal."
     Her defiance gave her color, her spark made her
eyes shine all the more brightly, despite the disdainful curl
of her lip.  Dorian nodded at her accusation.  "You're right-
-I'm a vampire."
     "Vampire you may be, but you are no <man,>" she
hissed, half-rising from her seat.  "To take by force what --"
     He rose far more quickly than she, stood over her,
his hands pinning hers to the table so that she couldn't
move.  Her words had stirred that quiet voice inside him,
bolstered the argument that he had abused his position, had
taken too much upon his authority, had left the
requirements of his office far behind and sought only to
quell his anger, to fulfill his needs.
     But he had spoken no lie.  The Truth remained
inviolate.
     His movement had silenced her, his pressure on her
wrists caused her to bite her lip in pain, but her eyes shone
with golden hatred for him.
     "Will you change your mind?" he hissed, nodding
down at the three coins that sat before him on the table.  "It
would be the work of an instant, to snap your neck and rip
your head from your shoulders.  If that what you wish?  Is
that what your master desires, that you die at my hands?"
     The fear returned--the sudden flash as Janette
realized that she faced her own end, then a longer, stronger,
deeper terror when he mentioned her master.  It took him
aback, that even the thought of final death could still her
heart less than the thought of LaCroix's anger.  What kind
of monster must he be, that the very thought of his
displeasure could cause such dread in his own creation?
 
     "No," she muttered, her voice small, her eyes blue
and fearful.  "No--"
     When she leaned back as if to seat herself, he
released her.  Janette turned sideways in the chair, leaning
against the tall wooden back, rubbing her wrists.  "No," she
said again.  "I--I agree to your terms."
     "Then let's continue, <Lady>."  Dorian fell back
into his own chair and placed his palms flat on the table
before him, forcing himself to move slowly, deliberately,
without showing intent of threat or harm.  "LaCroix . . .
rescued you from your mortal life?"
     "Yes."
     "You followed him into the darkness willingly?"
      Her voice was weary.  Janette rested one arm on
the back of the chair and leaned her head against it.
"Would it have mattered?" she asked softly.  "Willing or
not?"
     In point of fact, it was not an answer . . . but he had
pushed her so far beyond herself that Dorian was willing to
make concessions.  He simply nodded, accepting her
response as complete and true.  "And did he teach you all
that you needed to know?  Did he teach you how to survive
in the darkness?"
     "LaCroix taught me . . . many things."
     Her voice caught once, just at the beginning, but
when she began to talk about the days and months and
years following, the interview began in truth.  Dorian had
found that was so often the way--that left to their own
devices and forbidden any escape, his subjects would
submit themselves wholly, deliver their memories to him
without further threat or warning.  If anything, it was his
job to mold their memories, to bring form out of the parade
of images and events, separating the wheat from the chaff
with guiding questions, directing the subject away from a
fruitless thread of inquiry or probing an interesting aspect
further with a pointed word or query.
     For those three hours he let her speak, interrupting
her only twice, and then it was to call for more blood from
the Enforcers so that she might ease her throat and speak
more clearly.  He found her voice pleasant, even soothing.
At times she even forgot herself, her eyes shining, her lips
twisting into a smile, even laughing upon occasion when
she remembered some humorous event, or a gift that
pleased her, or an unexpected kindness.  But then she'd
meet his eyes, remember where she was, who he was, and
her circumstances . . . and that distanced look of hatred
would return until such time as she lost herself again in her
words.
     Dorian was content to let her mind wander where it
would among those early days, taking notice of what
lessons LaCroix had chosen to teach and in what order . . .
and those he'd chosen to omit.  He told himself that such
minutiae would help him to win against LaCroix, to escape
the fate that his enemy had foretold for him.  But there was
truth enough in him to admit to himself that he enjoyed
listening to her.  The detail of it, the discourse of events
about their later travels and LaCroix's amusements--where
he hoped to find some error in judgment or transgression of
the Code that he might use against LaCroix--he would be
willing to leave to the next night, after the sun set.
     Janette had only reached the time of LaCroix's
interview when Dorian held up his hand and rose from his
seat, his movement again causing her to fall silent.  "It's
near dawn," he told her, watching her eyes move around
the windowless walls, as if in search of confirmation of his
words.  But she'd know in her heart, with the instinct that
kept them alive, that he was right.  "There's no need to talk
through the day--we have another night.  For now, we
should think of rest.  And . . . other things."
     Leaning forward, he placed his finger on one of the
coins, which had remained on the table through those hours
of her history.  Dorian looked up at her, meeting her eyes
as he slid the coin across the table until it touched the tips
of her fingers.
     Her eyes lowered, the lashes flickering as she stared
at the coin; a slight tremble of her chin quickly banished.
Janette's hand snatched at the coin, her fingers closing
around the metal with such pressure that he knew no matter
how well-worn the imprint on the currency, the impression
would remain in her flesh for at least an hour afterward.
"Here?" she asked, in a voice that was both weary and
devoid of any emotion.
     A sudden wave of shame swept over him and
Dorian looked away, glancing to the fresh straw bed that
had been prepared for her.  The one word tore at him, her
tone causing wounds in places inside him that her lies had
never touched.  It was too mean a place, too humble a
surrounding in which to honor their agreement.
     "Not here," he said.  "Not now."  He offered his
arm to her, a courteous and proper overture to a lady of
noble birth.
     She rose to her feet, after a moment's pause.
Gathering the torn edges of her dress together in a show of
modesty, Janette placed her arm lightly over his own, her
palpable hatred giving way to an air of disdain.
     He opened the door and led her from the room.
The Enforcer beyond the door, guarding the hallway
outside, gave no outward appearance of surprise--although
Dorian had spent enough time with that one to see the
barest flicker of interest cross the set features.  He paused
long enough to say, "Have the room prepared for tonight.
Relieve the others before the sunrise and hunt for what we
need the moment the sun sets."
     The Enforcer nodded his understanding and stepped
aside.  Dorian led Janette to the stone steps just beyond the
chamber they'd exited.
     "They don't speak?"
     Her question caught him off-guard.  He started,
then smiled, nodding slightly as if admitting that she'd
scored a point against him.  "Not often.  And seldom
among themselves.  They've no need.  The threads that
connect them are stronger than any among the blood.
They've little use for words.  Their silence sets them apart."
     It was more than he should have said, but Dorian
little cared.  It was enough to have her interest on some
neutral subject, to converse on something alien to each of
them.
     Janette considered his words, taking each step in its
turn.  "How terrible for them," she announced, as they
reached the upper landing.
     Dorian stopped beside her, puzzled.  "Terrible?"
     "To have lost the value of words."  When he
continued to stare at her, she managed a bitter smile.  "You
should know better than any the power of a word."
     He froze, afraid that she might have discovered his
secret, that she knew how deeply her lies could wound him,
incapacitate him.  "I should?"
     "The curse of an enemy?  The soft caress of a
lover's endearment?"  Her smile disappeared and she raised
her hand to her mouth, eyes guarded.  "Perhaps not.  You
seem to have more experience with the former, than the
latter."
     Her comment was meant to wound him and yet
how could it, being nothing less than the truth?
     Dorian brushed past her, opening the door to the
upper chamber, the only other one in the building which
was still intact . . . and windowless.  "This way."
     He entered the room before her, no longer having
the stomach for the pretense of courtesy.  There were
candles lit and set in depressions in the stone walls, held
steady by old iron sconces.  He noted that the floor had
been swept and strewn with straw cleaner than that he'd
seen downstairs--authority had its privileges, after all.
There was his traveling chest, filled with his clothing and
the requirements of his office, anything that he felt he might
need to perform his duties.  The slats that formed the
framework to carry his chest and luggage had been
reassembled into a bed frame, and that had been further
fitted with a straw mattress and such bedclothes as he
required.
     Again, Dorian marveled at the efficiency of the
Enforcers--how they handled their tasks with such
precision, or found mortals to do the more menial work for
them.  He didn't doubt that there were at least a handful of
mortals in the vicinity, held captive as a work force, then to
be fed upon when the interview was over and they moved
onward.  If he listened intently he could hear the faintest of
heartbeats from somewhere in the ruined building.  The
Enforcers had arranged this.  The Enforcers had arranged
everything.
     He wondered what he might happen to him without
their support and service.
     A whisper of cloth caught his attention and he
turned, only to see that Janette had removed her outer
dress.  Her bruises had long since healed, but the chemise
she wore beneath the gown was still torn and bloodied in
places.  Through the ragged slit in the cloth, he saw the
perfect white of her skin, the soft curve of one breast and
the shadow of another.
     She seated herself on the bed and reached up to
remove the rest of the bindings from her hair.  Fascinated,
Dorian backed away until he reached the trunk, then sat
down upon it.
     Her movements were smooth and practiced, as she
drew her fingers through the snarls, set free the strands that
danced black and shiny in the candlelight.  He found
himself imagining her seated before a mirror, humming to
herself as she braided the hair, pinned  or fastened it, before
hiding it from prying eyes behind a veil or wimple.  He
imagined her smiling, remembered the laughter in her eyes
not so long before, as she told him of the glories of this
court or that, and how she'd danced and been admired by
so many of the young and foolish courtiers, envied equally
by their forsaken ladies.
     But there was no laughter in her eyes and no smile
on her lips for him.  She unbraided her hair as a matter of
course, with the practice of long experience, the weary air
of a professional.  Which she was.  She had been a whore.
     LaCroix had rescued her from that mortal folly,
only to deliver her into his hands.  Janette would have no
smile or laughter for him.  All that he could earn from her
was her hatred.  No good could come of them.
     And why should any?  He straightened,
remembering that she was paying her forfeit with her body,
rather than her life.  She should be grateful that he'd given
her the choice, offered her this chance to redeem herself for
so small a price.
     How small a price could it be, when she'd hesitated
so long over the decision, the coin glittering in the dirty
straw just beyond her reach, mocking her?
     She didn't look at him, staring straight ahead at the
candlelight as she ran her fingers through her hair.  Dorian
wanted to call her name, to say something to her, but his
voice was curiously absent.  The words stuck in his throat,
being less than sounds with no sense.
     He'd taken her by force, broken the Truth from her.
If he wished, he could end the forfeit there, say that the
price had been paid and leave Janette, allow her to prepare
herself for the rest of the interview.
     Her fingers made one final sweep through the
strands of her hair as she heard him rise from the chest.
Dorian walked toward her, watched as she tossed the
weight of her hair behind her, the line of her neck shining
pale and fine against the dark silk of her hair.  He lifted her
other hand and found the fingers still clenched around the
coin.  Carefully, he pried back her nails, letting the coin
clatter to the floor, ignoring it as it slipped into the straw
that covered the cold stone.  He'd been right--the image of
the coin's face was imprinted on her palm, haloed by small
dots of red where the sharp pressure of her fingernails had
torn through the skin.  Dorian lifted her palm to his lips and
tasted the salt of her blood and the metal-tinted sweat from
the coin she'd held so tightly in her hand.
     He could concede the forfeit. He could free her.
     And he wouldn't.  Because he didn't want to.
 
***********************
 
     The sun had set.
     Dorian knew that fact as certainly as his knew his
own name, or his father's name, or the number of fingers
on either of his hands.  It was an instinct that had become a
part of him when he'd first entered the darkness.  The dawn
seldom found him asleep or even still abed, used as he was
to diurnal prowling of his most recent quarters or lost in
thought and poring over the papers and artifacts for
upcoming interviews.  He did not sleep often or well.
Especially during an interview.
     Forcing his eyes open, he stared down into the
crook of his arm, his senses and wakefulness returning to
him with unaccustomed sluggishness.  It wasn't that he was
comfortable --even the heavy cotton spreads that he'd
purchased in Egypt were unable to keep the dry straw from
sticking into his flesh whenever he moved on the lumpy
mattress.  The rough woolen blanket scratched his bare skin
and the pillow on which he rested his head was still flat and
worn from travel.  No, he wasn't at all comfortable.
     His limbs felt heavy, his eyelids weighted and
closing of their own volition.  Dorian succumbed to the
lethargy that drenched his soul with weariness, barely
managing to shift his arm and free it from the pricks and
scratches of the straw mattress.  As he did so, he found the
mattress oddly depressed beside him, a scent still lingering
on the cotton, in the air--
     Janette.
     His eyes opened at the thought of her and he sat
upright, peering into the darkness, watching for the white
shimmer of her shift, listening for the sound of her bare feet
on the straw covered floor.
     She wasn't there.  He was alone.
     He felt a chill go through him at the realization, then
lay back against the mattress with a sigh, his arm slipping
beneath his head to support it as he stared upward at the
fire-blackened beams of the ceiling.  A smile lingered at the
memory of her, soft flesh beneath his hands, cold lips
against his own.  He closed his eyes and sighed, the salt
taste of her blood still lingering in his mouth, on his tongue.
For that short period of time, he'd been warm.  He'd been
content.
     But it hadn't lasted.  For a moment only did she let
him rest against her chest, her fingers tangled in his hair,
smoothing back the strands.  He'd heard her heart beat once
before she'd slipped out from beneath him and off the
mattress.
     A few of the candles had gone out by then, but he'd
needed no light to see her.  Her beauty shone more brightly
by the fewer flames; he fancied they'd extinguished
themselves in shame, their gross light unable to compare
with the glow of her skin, the perfection of form and shape
of her limbs.  Janette had moved slowly, delicately,
carefully--or so he'd thought.  But then he'd half-risen from
the bed himself when he'd realized that her care was due
less to art than survival--he'd drained so much of her blood,
twice in so short a span, that she was light-headed and apt
to fall.
     He knew he must have made some sound of
concern or caution because she'd turned, after lifting her
shift from the floor where it had fallen and clutching it to
her breasts as if in modesty.  Her eyes had shone with her
hatred of him, angry red, hungry red--
     Dorian had been stunned by the sight, by the fury
of her gaze.  But she'd turned away, slipping the dress over
her head to cover her nakedness. Janette had clutched the
wall for support, a palm to her forehead, as if to drive the
dizziness away.
     He'd risen from the bed, lifting the blanket and
knotting it around his waist as he walked toward her.
Janette started just as he reached her, glaring at him over
her shoulder, then away, as if unable to look at him.  When
he'd touched the skin of her shoulder, she'd hissed and
pulled back from him, pressed herself against the wall and
hastily snatched the collar of the shift to her neck, as if to
hide her flesh from him.
     "Janette--stay," he'd said softly.  When her head had
moved slightly--she still wouldn't look at him--he'd gestured
back toward the mattress.  "Please, come back to bed."
     "Why?  Haven't you finished with me?  Or do you
expect more for your coin?"  She'd whirled, her back
against the wall.  He'd heard the slap of her palms against
the cold stone, had seen her fingernails digging into the
cracks in the mortar as if searching for purchase.
     He couldn't meet her eyes.  Dorian spotted her
gown where it lay discarded on the floor.  He hurried over
to it and picked it up, then carried it back to her.  "You
were all I expected . . . and more," he said, handing her the
gown.
     "Then let me be," she'd hissed, snatching the dress
from his hands.  Janette had slipped the neck opening of
the gown over her head, but fumbled with the large, blood-
stained tear in the fabric.  When Dorian had reached out a
hand to adjust the gown for her, she'd slapped at him--he'd
barely drawn back in time to avoid the blow.
     "Let me be!" she'd repeated, eyes shining with fury.
And then she'd fallen back against the wall and leaned her
cheek against it, her eyes closing wearily.  "Let me be . . . ."
  
     He'd raised his hand and touched the backs of his
fingers to her cheek--she was too weary now even to flinch.
Her skin was colder than ice and the pale glow of it now
seemed almost gray.  He'd taken too much of her blood--
too much, too soon.  "You need to rest.  Here," as her eyes
opened, ice blue and angry, he nodded toward the bed.
But before her mouth could form the words of protest, he
added, "Alone."
     Janette had stared at him, as if not quite believing
his words, then her gaze moved to the bed again.  "No,"
she'd said softly.  "Not there.  I couldn't rest . . . there."
Her anger had turned to resignation by the time her eyes
met his again.  "This is your place, Archivist.  Not mine.
Let me rest in my own place."
     Archivist.
     The title had steadied him somewhat.  He'd
straightened, then moved to the door and opened it.  It had
taken no more than a tilt of his hand to beckon the Enforcer
who guarded his door.  "Take her below," he'd said.  "See
that she's fed.  Give her . . . give her whatever she wants.
Within reason."
     There'd been no recriminations or curiosity from the
Enforcer, just a nod of acceptance.  Dorian had been able
to turn away then, had been able to turn his back to the
door.  He didn't watch her leave, didn't help her, didn't say
a word--
     And why should he?  He was the Archivist.  She'd
lied.  It had been her forfeit, the choice had been made by
her, not by him.
     Lying alone, in the darkness, he found the
justification hollow.  The scent of her still lingered, as did
the memories of her touch, her kisses, the salt-taste of her
blood, each chiding him in its own way for hiding behind
the authority of his position, excusing his desires and his
actions by veiling them with the propriety of his office.
The contentment into which he'd awakened had been
dispelled completely.
     Yes, the argument was hollow.  As hollow and cold
as the memories.  But he knew that was all he would ever
have--the memory, and not the thing itself.  Because he was
the collector of memories.  He was the Archivist.
     It was the best he could do.
 
***
 
     Dorian took his time in rising, uncommon as that
might be.  And if the Enforcer who delivered the pitcher of
water for his toilette noticed that something was amiss, or
the Enforcer who handed him his first goblet of blood and
brushed the wrinkles from his cotehardie thought him tardy,
neither made any comment.
     Nor would they.  That was both their charm and
their curse--one could never know exactly what they were
thinking.  Although he'd often been thankful for their
silence, there'd been times when Dorian would have
cheerfully staked one to have heard any sound from him,
be it a blessing or final death agony.
     As always, they seemed to sense his mood, for the
Enforcers were careful, meeting his exacting standards of
manner and dress without flaw.  They gave him no reason
to be short or churlish, but he indulged himself and gave
way to baser instincts, finding fault where there was none to
be found.  The hose that was given to him was the wrong
color, another was of poor fabric, the third had an
imperfection in the weave that was invisible to any eyes but
his . . . and so it went.
     For an hour or more Dorian plagued them, but the
Enforcers remained silent and acquiescent in the face of his
temper, feeding his whims and addressing his complaints in
their efficient fashion.  It was only after he had passed back
the goblet of blood for the fifth time--still complaining that
it wasn't the proper temperature--that he saw any sign of
defiance.  The Enforcer's eyes narrowed.  The goblet was
placed in Dorian's hand again, his fingers wrapped around
the stem.
     Never before had any of the Enforcers stood against
him in such a manner.  At any other place and time he
might have defied the gesture, just to see what would
happen.
     But not now.  He didn't dare.  This was an
interview after all.  The Enforcer was only reminding him
of his duty, giving him the subtlest--or what passed for
subtle among the Enforcers--of reminders of what was
expected, no <demanded> of him.  His follies were to be
tolerated, but only because of who he was and only until it
interfered with what he was meant to do.
     Dorian wrenched the goblet away and drained it,
then tossed it against the stone wall.  He paid no attention
to the sound of it shattering, but merely rose and adjusted
his cotehardie, smoothing it downward--the Enforcers
would clean up the mess.  They always did.  It was their
job.  <His> job was to interview Janette, as they'd so
unsubtley reminded him.
     He strode through the door and out into the hall
without so much as a backward glance, one of the
Enforcers hurrying to keep pace with him.  Their footsteps
echoed on the stone steps and in the silence of the place--
funny, but he'd never realized before just how much silence
he endured from day-to-day, or that it had even disturbed
him.
     The thought kept him occupied, even as the
Enforcer opened the chamber door and stepped aside so
that he could enter.  Dorian did so, then found himself
frozen to the spot--
     Janette was seated at the table, eyes downcast, her
hands clasped around the base of a goblet of blood.  If
she'd slept at all he would have been surprised--there were
dark circles beneath her eyes and her skin still held a
grayish cast.  He almost hoped to see the spark of anger in
her eyes she looked up at him, but they were cloudy and
distant and resigned.  If she had any will, it was only to get
the thing done, to be free from him . . . and from the two
coins that still sat on his side of the table and at which he
suddenly realized she'd been staring.
     "My apologies for having kept you waiting."
Dorian slipped into the chair across from her, then reached
for the pitcher and raised it, pouring blood into the goblet
that had been left for him.  He raised the pitcher as if to
pour more for her, but she drew back, her cup still clasped
in her hands, as if even the slight increase of distance
between them should matter to her.
      "Shall we continue where we left off?" he asked,
steepling his fingers.  "Which was--?"
     The subject had been LaCroix's interview and he
well knew it, but he let the matter rest between them for a
moment, giving her a chance to prepare herself.
     "When we first met."
     Her words were soft and cold, devoid of emotion or
content.  And yet Dorian found himself shaken by them.
She was correct, of course, for they'd not met before that--
in fact, he'd not known the specifics of her existence until
an Enforcer had informed him that LaCroix had fled,
accompanied by his newest acquisition, a woman.  But of
all the things to have happened at that time, in those hours,
for her to have begun with that--
     He cleared his throat and lifted his goblet to his lips.
"Yes," he said, after a pause.  "Yes, that was when we met.
There are things I must know, about LaCroix . . . and the
interview--"  He paused and looked down at his hand,
which rested too near one of the pock-marked gold coins,
astounded at the apologetic tone in his voice.  He was
apologizing!  For what?  For having to ask the questions it
was his right to ask, to learn what it was his duty to know?
Had he gone mad?
     "Give me your questions."
     Again, Dorian lifted the goblet to his lips and drank,
more than aware of her eyes on him--Janette had sensed
the hesitancy in him and, like a wolf finding weakness in
the prey, was the stronger for it.  He placed the goblet
firmly on the table and met her gaze, straightening in his
chair.  "Why did LaCroix bring you to Sicilia?"
     "We were together, traveling.  If he had some other
reason," she shrugged and looked away, "I wouldn't know.
Ask him yourself."
     It was neither lie nor evasion--it was the Truth that
LaCroix had not told her, he could sense that.  "Did he tell
you that he was running from the Call to be interviewed?"
     "No."
     "Did he tell you where he was taking you?  And
why?"
     "No."
     "And still you followed him?"
     "He was my master.  He was . . . LaCroix."
     He fired the questions at her, asking another
question even as she answered the first.  Was LaCroix in
contact with her during his test?  At first, and sometimes
later, but not always.  Had LaCroix brought her there to use
her against him?  She didn't know, but thought so.  Did
LaCroix--?  Had LaCroix--?  Was LaCroix--?
     Always, she answered just as quickly, usually not
knowing--it seemed that LaCroix didn't share his thoughts
or plans with even his dear Janette.  And she <was> dear to
him, Dorian had determined that during the interview when
that Enforcer was tempted beyond himself into attacking
her and LaCroix had all but broken his silence in an attempt
to save her.  All <but>--he had <not> broken, even to save
Janette.
     Even while he questioned her, Dorian thought of
that Enforcer, who'd been punished for his indiscretion but
allowed to continue his duties.  For how could he demand
the Enforcer resist what he himself was unable to resist?
How could he judge fairly when he had also been drawn
into the snare of this witch, this temptress that LaCroix had
created?
     There were questions he needed to ask, but dared
not--did you know how close I came to doing as you asked,
destroying your master so that you might be free?  Did you
know how near a thing it was, that I might have renounced
my position for you?  Did you know how much I wanted
you to be something other than what you were, what you
<are>, a creature of LaCroix's making?
     Dorian asked only the questions he was meant to
ask and no more than that.  It was enough to think on these
things, as he stared into her eyes, his memory catching and
holding the look of her face, the substance of her words,
the tone of her voice, the way her fingers played with the
torn edges of her gown . . . .  He had hoped to do more
than catch her master at some fault by interviewing the
charming Janette.  He had hoped to exorcise her from him,
from his thoughts.  He had hoped to prove to himself that
his near willingness to abandon his office and his duties was
no more than an aberration, a sign of the stress he'd
endured at that hideous trial, another sin to be laid at the
feet of his nemesis, LaCroix.  He had hoped--
     When he himself did not believe in hope.  For hope
<lied>.
     He heard Janette speak of the days and weeks after
the interview, of the bodies that were stacked one upon
another while LaCroix fed, gorged himself with the blood
of the peasants to make himself whole again.  Her voice
never waved, was almost devoid of emotion as she
recounted the abuse that met her every attempt to please
him, to console him, to aid him.  She told him of the day
when LaCroix was well enough to travel, when she thought
she had taken all that she could bear . . . and then how their
lives had gone on much as before, if not the same.  For
they could never be the same.
     They was so empty, the words she gave him.  There
was always another city, another villa, some music, some
decoration, walks in the moonlight, blood on the lips, or on
the neck, or on the sheets.  How LaCroix must have
realized how much of her he might have lost beyond
redemption.  How he had tried to win her back with soft
words and attention, with gifts, with jests . . . and when that
didn't work how LaCroix had changed his tactics to threats
and taunts and more abuse.  But he never begged.  Nor did
he ask.  He was not one to ask.  Until--
     Her voice was hoarse by then.  Small blood-red
tears had spilled down her cheeks as she'd spoken, but
Janette had taken no notice of them and Dorian made note
only of the size and the color and what words brought them
and what caused them to stop.  She told him more of what
was in her heart than the interview demanded or that either
of them would have wished, if they'd had any control over
what words were said and what were left unspoken.  She
lifted her glass automatically as she spoke, wetting her lips
with the blood, soothing her throat with the pause of the
moment, which Dorian would fill with another question.
For hours, there had been little silence between them.
     It came only with the end of that era, with that one
word--until.
     He filled her glass again--and his, too, for listening
was thirsty work--and gave her the question she needed to
continue.  "Until--?"
     It was something in her eyes, a light that shone there
suddenly, blinding him from the darkness through which
she had led him.  Dorian was surprised by the presence of
it, could find no reason for it in her words to that point, his
question still hanging between them.
     Janette looked away then, quickly, and he knew that
the end had come to the torrent of words, that she would
no longer so easily share those things that had been in her
heart.  It was as if . . . as if what was to come was too
precious for him, that she'd made a decision not to give him
this part of her.
     "Until--?" pressed Dorian, letting the annoyance
seep into his voice.  He was intrigued by her sudden
reticence, angered by the loss of her confidence, of
knowing her feelings as well as her thoughts as well as he
had known her body the night before.  He wanted all of her
for himself.  And he would have as much of her as he
could take in the time that he was permitted.
     When she did not speak immediately, he let her
blood speak for her--for he'd taken enough of it.  In the
dreams and memories he'd captured from her, in that
moment of fervent passion when he'd shared something of
her heart and mind, he'd seen things, known things that
only she should know.  And there had been a bright spot,
an instant of brilliance that had almost blinded him with its
intensity.
     "Nicholas."
     As he said the name aloud, peeling it from the mist
of the blood memories he'd taken from her, Janette started,
alarmed.  He leaned forward across the table and caught
her hand as she made to pull back again.  "What did
LaCroix ask?" he pressed her, seeing her fear just before
she allowed that diffident composure to mask her emotions
again.  "LaCroix asked nothing of you until . . . Nicholas?"
     "Yes."  The admission was tight-lipped.  Shaking
off his grip on her hand, she held it to her chest, catching
both ends of the torn gown together between her fingers as
if in modesty.  "LaCroix had seen him.  He said that--he
said that there should be another, that we were not
sufficient as two and should be three."
     "And he'd chosen Nicholas?"
     She nodded hesitantly, looking away again, as if in
distant memory.  "There were a number of young men.  All
strong.  All brave.  This one was a bore, that one too pious,
that one a glutton and too dull.  He was . . . he was our first
choice, but still we looked.  And we found none that
pleased us more."
     "LaCroix's choice?  Or . . . your own?"
     "Both," she said, with certitude, then glared as if
daring him to deny that she spoke the truth.  After drawing
in a breath, she added, "LaCroix, at first.  But he asked--he
<asked> if Nicholas had my favor.  If I thought that he
would please me.  And that if I said no, we would choose
another."  Janette seemed almost startled as she met his
gaze.  "He asked <me> to choose."
     It was important that so momentous a decision had
been left to her . . . and yet Dorian felt cheated, having only
the words and not the feelings behind it, as she'd given him
in recounting her previous time.  "He asked you to bring
Nicholas to him?"
     "Yes."
     "LaCroix asked you to seduce Nicholas?"
     She straightened in her chair and drew the
fragments of her robe more tightly together in indignation.
"To see if he was what I wished.  To see if he pleased me."
     "He used you to snare Nicholas."  Dorian licked his
lips, still angry at what she was denying him, at this thing
that she'd chosen to keep to herself, and angry enough not
to question but merely comment!  He <would> have the
Truth of it.  "Was he a peasant?  The son of a noble?  A
priest?"
     "A knight," she answered evenly.  "A crusader,
returned from the wars."
     "LaCroix had you whore for him, then?"
     Janette's eyes shone blue-fire and she sat straighter
still.  "He was <mine>."
     "And you were paid by his blood?  You brought
him across?"
     "LaCroix . . . LaCroix bid me wait."  Some of the
self-assurance left her and she looked away.  "I didn't know
yet . . . it had to be done right, to be done well.  LaCroix
would do that.  What did it matter, he would <still> be
mine--"
     She was caught in that moment in time, speaking
her thoughts aloud.  Dorian smiled, knowing that he was on
his way to regaining some of what he'd lost from her, some
of her passion.  "So you were cheated?  You whored for
LaCroix and he pimped for you--he took what you
earned?"

     "No!  I did not <whore> for him!"  Janette rose to
her feet, the chair falling to the floor as she pushed it back
angrily.  Her glare could have set the straw afire, it was so
sharp and fierce and steady.  "It wasn't like that.  I needed
to test him, to know that he was what I wanted.  I needed to
have his measure, to <know> him.  You don't know--you
can't understand--"
     "Then <make> me understand," said Dorian softly.
Still seated at the table, he steepled his fingers again and
rested his chin atop them.  "Tell me, Janette.  Tell me what
you did to snare him.  Or, better yet," he reached down a
finger and rested it lightly atop one of the two remaining
coins.  With a flick of the nail, he sent the coin spinning
across the table.  It flew toward the edge, past that, and out
into the air, where it seemed to hang for a mortal breath
before clattering to the stone floor.  "Show me."
     She stared down at the coin, but made no move to
pick it up.  "No."
     "Would it mean that much to you?" he asked,
annoyed even further by her immediate refusal.  "Is it worth
your life?"
     He counted at least two of his heartbeats in the
silence, but was willing to give her the time she needed to
make the right decision.  Which she did, bending slowly to
pick up the coin.  Her fist tightened around it and she
turned her back to him, walking away.  But as she walked,
she straightened, some of the weariness falling from her
shoulders, the sluggishness of defeat disappearing from her
stride as she swayed when she moved.  When she turned
back to him, there was something different about her, some
sensuality lost to time and memory that she replaced with
the ease of adding a veil to her hair or a new ribbon to her
apparel.
     "How badly do you want me?"
     Her lips had barely moved, the puff of sound
escaping from her lips in a whisper, if that.  But he'd heard
every word across the distance.  Her voice at once caressed
and enticed him, breaking the silence and filling it with the
perfume of seduction.  Janette raised a finger to her mouth,
touched it to her lips, then turned her back to him with the
air of a woman who knew that she would be followed, that
her call could not be mistaken for anything other than what
it was.
     Had it really begun as simply as that?  A few words
and a glance?
     But what words!  And a look that would melt the
resolve of the most ascetic, the most celibate of men.
     Her words reverberated in the memories he'd taken
from her blood.  Dorian knew what to do, knew what his
answer should be, but still he paused, uncertain as to the
events he'd set in motion.  In the course of other interviews
he'd had actions replayed before him, to get events clear in
his mind, but never before had he been a participant.  He'd
always been an observer of the thing and never a part of the
thing itself.  Between her forfeit and the blood memories
he'd taken from her, he couldn't help but be a partner in
this, a slave to what had been done and what he would have
her do again.  She, for the moment, was in complete
control.
     But her blood whispered in his ears and told him
that this was right, that this was how it should be.  So when
she slinked away, he rose from the chair and followed her,
meeting her at the center of the room.  Janette caught his
arm, her hand sliding up the sleeve of his shirt as she
walked with him.  "Brave knight.  Brave crusader."  She
shook her head and her hair flowed down around her,
behind her.  He moved his hand to her waist and tried to
draw her close, but she pushed him back, her palm flat
against his chest.  One hand ran around the inside of the
golden girdle at his waist, pressing against him, while the
other lifted long enough to tug at the ties of his cotehardie,
freeing them.
     "Conqueror," she challenged.  "Are you ready to be
conquered?"
     Dorian knew his part in this--her blood showed him
the way, caused his muscles to move without thought.  And
what other way could he have chosen to move or act?  He
quickly caught the clasp of the belt in his hands and freed it,
tossing it to the floor behind him as he answered, "Yes!"
     The belt free, he tried to pull her close again and
kiss her, but she swayed beyond his reach each time,
escaping the touch of his lips easily.  "But can you truly
surrender all you've won?"
     Her voice was low, from deep within her throat, hot
and yearning.  "Surrender to the darkness of the soul, the
richness of the night, the weakness of desire?"
     Her hands seemed to be everywhere at once,
undoing stays and ties, removing fastenings, caressing and
inflaming, but still he could not kiss her, as closely as their
bodies were drawn together.  She was demanding
submission, asserting dominion over him in all things with
each halting breath, each touch, each whisper.
     Above all else, he was the Archivist and some part
of him remained free from her spell, coolly quantifying,
measuring, recording her words and her countenance, the
placement of her hands and the fires she ignited within him.
But the rest of him hungered for her touch and her taste
and submission was so small a price to pay.  He felt the
sensible, the cool, reasonable part of him begin to slip, to
slide down that steep and slippery slope, heading for the
fire.
     "How badly do you want me?" she demanded.
"Just how strong is your weakness?"
     Grasping her shoulder, he drew her toward him,
covered her mouth with his own--knowing all the while that
it happened only because she willed it.  He should have
been able to overpower her, to force her to her knees, to
break her in half . . . but he had surrendered too fully to her
wishes, to her memories.  They held sway over him,
restrained him as she removed his cotehardie, caressing and
kissing, whispering against his skin.
     It was maddening.  It was madness.  He was himself
and yet he was another in her memory, in her present
thoughts.  Dorian backed away, found the straw mattress
against the back of his knees and all but fell down upon it.
Instantly, he raised his hand to her arm, to bring her down
to him, but she resisted him with her strength, letting his
hand remain on her arm as she pulled off his boots, undid
his codpiece and tossed it aside, then slid her fingers down
his legs to remove his hose.  Fire trailed in the wake of her
touch upon his skin and he fell back against the mattress
clad only in his shirt, his sight swimming with the golden
glow of candle flames that were present in both fact and
memory.  It was too much too bear--he'd burn to a cinder
in this fire, with the scent of her perfume in his nostrils, the
taste of her flesh and blood upon his lips.
     The straw mattress sank lower as she pushed him
aside and settled herself against him.  "Brave Crusader,"
she whispered.
     Dorian pulled himself upright, needed to be near
her, to have her in his arms.  Her hands moved beneath the
parting of his shirt, against the skin of his chest, massaging
and kneading his muscles.
     "Strong," she laughed, her breath hot and dark and
passionate.  "Good."
     Dorian was spellbound by her eyes, his senses filled
entirely with her presence.  Blindly, he reached for the
shoulders of her gown, which hes slipped down over each
arm.
     "Defender of the Cross," she whispered, the tear in
the gown tearing even further as the gown slid over her
arms and hands and fell away from her.  Janette shifted her
weight up, leaning over him, as he dragged the gown aside,
tossed it away.
     "Who are you, really?" she accused.
     He no longer knew.  Nor cared.  It had gone too far
and would go farther still.  He was powerless against her.
The straps of her shift fell aside, baring her shoulders.
Through the tear in it he could feel her flesh, the cool
softness of it against the fevered heat of his hands and his
body.  She covered his body with the length of her own; he
felt her muscles tense beneath her skin as the hunger
washed over her, as well.
     "Can you feel my darkness?" she whispered.  "Feel
it absorbing your light?"
     It was as if she was sifting his soul, tearing away his
reason and discarding it, in favor of dark passion and chaos.
Dorian ran his hands down her shoulders, along her breasts,
down the length of her body, finding her flesh supple, yet
firm and unyielding.
     "Can you feel the power and danger of my
darkness?"
     Again he tried to kiss her, to capture any part of her
mouth or her cheek with his lips, but could no more than
brush flesh before she turned her head beyond his reach,
moving to kiss his forehead.
     "The beautiful risk?"
     She moved her body against him, flesh separated
from flesh by the sheerest fabric of her shift in some places,
his shirt in others.  But there was no less friction, no less
heat ignited despite the intervention.  Dorian moaned as she
leaned close, whispering in his ear, but her words were lost
in his awareness of the moment, the sensations that made
him captive.  The will that held was not his, but hers--the
restraint was all agony and the sweeter for it.
     Janette rose slightly and shifted her position, seated
astride him and taking him inside her.  Her movements
were slow, infinitely patient, as she leaned forward.  "Say
good-bye to the light," she told him, her hoarse tones
suffused with triumph.  "Now you know it will never satisfy
you."
     His hands slid over the soft skin of her thighs and
grasped at her waist, trying to urge her onward, to speed
her toward the release he so desperately sought.  But she
laughed low in her throat and moved steadily, slowly,
rocking against him.
     "Only darkness can satisfy you," she gloated.  "Only
darkness.  No matter how shining, good a knight you were,
the darkness was always there."
     He could barely hear her words beyond the thunder
in his ears, but heard the glory in them, heard the catch in
her voice, heard the fire that burned through her, too, and
scorched the sound from her throat and the air from her
lungs.  Yet some part of his mind was still aware, still
watching for that which he'd sought, for a reasoning behind
her reticence, for the thought that had instigated this
teasing, this wearing seduction.
     "The darkness was always there--always stronger
than anything else in your heart or mind--"
     There was no word that told him that he was free--
no 'now,' or 'yes,' or 'if you please.'  The hunger ruled and
the hunger felt the way, so that he raised his hands to
Janette's shoulders with a grip fiercer than she could break
and he dragged her down to himself.  He fastened his teeth
in her neck and bit deeply before she could so much as cry
out, having realized too late that she'd lost her control over
him.
     Her blood was bright and dark and filled with
sweetness such as he'd never tasted before.  Even as Janette
mewled like a kitten, teeth gnashing helplessly against his
chest, as he shuddered within her, Dorian drowned in the
suddenness of her memories and her passion.  He ignored
the fires and fancies of the surface and dove deep, seeking
the Truth of the moment, seeking the heart of it . . . and the
finding astounded him.
     It was love.
     She loved this Nicholas with more than her flesh,
loved him for more than his strength or his passion or his
blood.  It was his nature that drew her to him, some
brightness in him that remained even after he had passed
into darkness.  She had tested him and found in him
something that made her more than what she was.  She had
loved him enough to give him the gift of darkness, loved
him too much not to see him given the gift properly, even
to handing his soul to the master who had bound her own.
     Her blood turned bitter.  Dorian freed himself from
her and pushed her away.  He rose from the mattress,
pausing only to spit the sour taste from his mouth, then
gathered his clothing as he staggered to the table.  One
goblet of blood, then two, and yet another half were not
enough to wash the rancid taste of her betrayal from him.
Palms flat against the table-top, he bowed his head and
closed his eyes, trying to regain his senses, to free himself
from her spell.
     Janette <loved>.
     He would not have thought it possible, having
known the cold anger of her, having seen the depths to
which she had gone to please her master and the lengths to
which she would have pushed herself, and him, to free
herself from her master's hold.  The potential had been
there, once, but he would have thought it dead by now.
She was LaCroix's creature and nothing LaCroix could
create could ever love.
     But she was also Janette.  That part of her had
managed to survive, had managed to find love.
     And then delivered it into her master's hands, fixing
the bonds of servitude more firmly around her own neck
even as LaCroix enslaved the prey she brought to him--this
Nicholas.
     Dorian dressed as quickly as he could, slipping on
his hose, fixing his codpiece, replacing his cotehardie.  He
seated himself on one of the chairs as he put on his boots,
his thoughts drifting to the one whose part he'd taken in this
masque of memory.  He could not quite understand the
wet-haired brute he'd seen in the peasant's hovel as the
object of Janette's affection.  He was large and sullen at
first glance, rough in manner . . . a thug, fit for little other
than heavy labor, hardly schooled or skilled enough to be
anything, never mind to aspire to be an Enforcer.  And yet,
the fear in that one's eyes had been less for his own
survival, than for Janette.  This Nicholas seemed to hold
her in some regard, if he did not return the affection . . .
which was possible.
     And yet how could he, in that Janette was the one
who'd given him into the hands of LaCroix?
     A groan from the mattress brought Janette's
presence to mind--he'd almost forgotten her.  Yet, how
could he, when the taste of her blood and sweat filled his
mouth, her scent still lingered on his skin and hands?
     Grabbing the top of a chair rail as he rose, Dorian
carried it over to the bed, then seated himself upon it,
wrong way round.  He leaned his arms and chin on the
back of the rail and watched her, waited for her.
     She lay face down on the mattress, her shift askew,
hands over her head and tucked in upon herself, her back
toward him.  Her skin was sickly gray, her breaths few and
shallow.  It took him a moment to realize that she was
sobbing silently.
     "That was the whole of it?" he demanded, unmoved
by her tears.  How could he feel pity for this witch, who
could so easily betray that which she loved?  "That was the
whole of your seduction of Nicholas?"
     There was no answer at first, save that her sobbing
ceased.  Janette didn't move, but remained where she was.
     "Answer me!"  Dorian rose to his feet--she
shuddered as the chair he tossed aside crashed into the wall
and splintered into pieces.  He stalked down the length of
the mattress and back again.  "You <must> answer me.
Was that the whole of it?"  He sat down beside her and
grasped her arm, pulling her upright against him.
     Janette's eyes burned gold for an instant, but she
was too weak even for anger.  The blue returned, filled with
despair and impotent hatred.
     Dorian shook her.  "Was that the whole of it?"
     Just a pause, a breath, as she wet her pale lips with
her dry tongue.  Then, she nodded.
     "You delivered him to LaCroix?"
     "It was--I--"  Her words were hoarse and ragged,
barely audible.
     "And then you delivered him to LaCroix?" pressed
Dorian, pulling her even closer, so that they were less than
a hand's breadth from eye-to-eye.  "Yes or no?"
     "I--"  She stared at him, stunned, as in disbelief that
even he could be so cruel. Then she turned her head, her
hair falling to cover her eyes.  "Yes," she admitted weakly.
"Yes . . . ."
     "As I thought."  Dorian tossed her roughly to the
bed again and stalked to the center of the room.  She was
her master's pawn, far more of her master's pawn than even
he had thought.  He'd had hope that there was some
strength within her--she'd survived LaCroix's testing and
more--but she was only LaCroix's creature.  He wouldn't
have trusted any of his secrets to her, nor been foolish
enough to let her glimpse any of the schemes and mischief
that might endanger himself.  Janette was nothing, less than
nothing.  She couldn't be used against LaCroix.  She
couldn't save him.
     But . . . this Nicholas?
     LaCroix asked for nothing, yet he'd <asked> for
Nicholas to be spared.  Was <he> the key?  Was this brute
Nicholas, prized by LaCroix and beloved by Janette, an
answer to his dilemma, to the curse that LaCroix had placed
on him?
     Dorian hissed through his teeth--he'd spent only a
few minutes with this most recent of LaCroix's get and
hated him already.
     A rustle of cloth made him turn.  Janette had risen
and was slipping her arms through the sleeves of her outer
gown.  Even that brief movement seemed to sap her
strength--she sat heavily down upon the mattress and stared
at the floor, her dark hair obscuring her features.
 
     Walking over to her, Dorian stood before her.
"Janette?"
     She turned her head at the sound of his voice, but
made no other response.  Leaning toward her, he grasped
her chin between the thumb and forefinger of his hand and
turned her face toward him.  "Janette DuCharm, I have
asked you of your life, as is my right.  Do you have
anything to say before I close your interview?"
     She glared at him even as he released her chin, then
straightened where she sat, remaining silent.
     "Very well."  Dorian stepped back from her and
took a breath.  "I have found you most truthful in your
answers and for your untruths you have paid forfeit.  There
is nothing more between us--I owe you nothing, nor are
you beholden to me.  I find you righteous in all terms of the
Code.  I declare this interview at an end.  You'll be returned
to your master."
     He walked to the door, but it opened before he
reached it.  The Enforcer paused on the threshold.  Dorian
gestured across the room at Janette, then walked back to
the table and lifted her brown cloak from the chair.  By the
time he'd turned, the Enforcer was leading Janette toward
the door, holding her upright by grasping each of her upper
arms.
     Hissing beneath his breath, Dorian stopped the
Enforcer, who released Janette.  She stood unsteadily on
her feet, wavered slightly.  With sudden care, Dorian
draped the brown cloak around her shoulders, fastening the
clasp at her throat.  She stood dumbly, staring at the floor
and in no condition to protest his attentions.  "The wind will
be cold," he said, sweeping her hair beneath the hood of the
cloak.  "LaCroix will feed you upon your return.  And--"
     Dorian paused as a sudden thought struck him.  He
turned toward the table and saw the last coin, untouched.
Walking back to the table, he picked it up between his
fingers and flipped it back and forth, watching the glint of
the gold in the waning light of the candles.  The last of her
forfeit.  And there were many hours before dawn . . . .
     He turned toward her and found her eyes were
fixed on him . . . and the coin he held aloft for her
attention.  The set of her mouth suddenly became hard and
firm and a resolve fixed her features into a cold and empty
mask.  She glanced over her shoulder at the Enforcer, then
turned back to Dorian.  Staring straight ahead, her hands
reached up to unfasten the catch of her cloak, which he'd
set only a moment before.
     "No."  The word escaped his lips before he had the
sense to know what he'd said.  On impulse, Dorian stepped
toward her and brushed her hands away from the cloak's
fastening.  After fixing it the clasp, he caught her palm and
pressed the coin into her hand, then folded her fingers over
it.
     Janette stared at him with cold eyes.  She looked
down at her hand, enfolded in his, than up at his face.
     It made no sense to her.  Nor to him.  She was his
by right of forfeit.  She'd lied to him.  It was his right, his
<duty>--
     Dorian cleared his throat.  "I concede the last of
your forfeit."  He released her hand and she stared at him,
her chin tilted slightly in caution--she didn't believe him.
He stepped back from her, watching her, seeing that even
in her weakness her eyes were still bluer than any sun-lit
sky of his mortal memory, her skin still unmarked and paler
than snowfall.
     He swallowed, fixed and drowning in those blue
eyes.  "For what you've given me," he explained.  "It's only
a kindness."
     He hoped for a smile, in her eyes if not on her lips.
Janette stared down at her hand and opened her fingers.
She took a breath, her chest moving quickly, a sharp sound
catching in the back of her throat, but going no further.
She lifted her eyes to him.
     And then she threw the coin at him, as hard as she
could.  It smacked Dorian squarely in the chest.  He could
have caught it, but let it fall to the floor instead, his eyes
fastening again on hers and finding such hatred and anger
in those depths that had her glance more power he would
have been destroyed instantly.
     It was he who smiled, however bitterly, as he
gestured the Enforcer toward the door.  "Take her to her
master.  I'll be along presently."  Then, as the Enforcer
escorted Janette away, Dorian knelt down to pick up the
coin.  He held it in his hand, surprised that so small a thing
could carry such weight.  For a moment, he debated tossing
it aside, a windfall for some lone, weary traveler who might
seek shelter in this ruin . . . .
     Dorian shook his head and tucked the coin in the
edge of his sleeve, deciding that this was a coin not so easily
discarded, or spent.  Grabbing his cloak and purse from the
chair by the table, he glanced quickly around the room--his
gaze lingering a moment longer than it might on the stricken
mattress and blankets--then headed toward the door.  He
had no worry about leaving the candles burning, for the
Enforcers would take care of those.  The Enforcers took
care of everything for him, because he was the Archivist.
     And that was all, in truth, he could ever be, no
matter how much he might wish otherwise.
 
The End