The windshield wipers were lulling her to sleep; swishing back and forth, creating blurry shapes in the rain that were streamed full of colors by the assorted buildings, passing cars and street lights. The soft 'whir' of the motor and grinding gears was actually soothing. Car rides often put her to sleep: when she was young, her father used to take her and her brother out for a drive when they were acting up at night. The three of them were loaded into the SUV, soft jazz would play on the radio, and in just a few short blocks they would start drifting asleep. Funny, how habits could follow you after so many years: even with the passing of everyone else who had been in that car. But these were the memories that made you feel safe, though often enough a little sad, longing for the world that once held the innocent and the lost.

With a gradual ease, Sean applied the breaks, coming to a stop light. Silence filled the car, the motor ran, the windshield wipers thumped back and forth, and Sam's eyes began to droop close once again. It didn't help any that the cabin was so warm, and the windshield cool against her cheek, making the woman perfectly content with the notion of sleep. Being on her feet for over twenty hours wasn't a personal goal, she's gone longer, but these last few hours had been cruel, as well as mentally and physically draining. She knew it was wise to get what little sleep she could. You never knew when the radio would squawk for you again.

"Sam?" Her eyes fluttered open, the color of icebergs peaking through the heavy black lace curtains of her eyelashes, a little bloodshot from the long hours, but they cleared quickly at the sound of her name. Sam sat upright, turning to look at Sean with a sheepish smile before easing back against the seat. "Sorry." She watched Sean shrug out from the edge of her eye, blinking a few times to clear his own eyes. Instantly she felt guilty; they started the shift at the same time, they were both tired. The least she could do is continue to stay awake with him, until they got back to the station. She sat a little straighter, shifting in her seat to lean forward, as if the new position would help clear the fog out of her mind.

"I hear your moms coming to the city..." Normally, Samantha didn't like to talk about her mother. The woman certainly got enough attention from the media. ‘America's Sweetheart', they called her. Isabella Adams, actress, mother, widow and attention seeker. Always, she had to be in the spotlight. Always, she had to have a camera man following her around, recording everything she did from chewing gum to talking on the cell phone, to taking her youngest daughter, Heather, to school. Sam couldn't understand the addiction to the spotlight; she preferred to stay under the radar; though her mother made certain to interfere with even that simple wish.

With a slight wince, Sam passed a palm over her face and shifted in her seat. The last time she had been in the city was just short of a year ago. No call, no warning; just a knock on her door one afternoon; a time when Sam slept, since she worked nights. It took a moment for her to recognize her mother, to notice the small film crew behind her, and the 'surprise!' of being on a reality TV show. There were millions of twenty three year old women who would have died to have been on MTV, she tried to reason. Sam wanted to crawl in a dark hole and die. She fought tooth and claw to escape the crew; including hiding from them in the fire and police stations; but it took Sean and his skills of intimidation to scare them away. There were only two episodes made, but it was enough of a hit, apparently, to warrant reruns.

Sam turned to look at Sean, and offered a meek smile. "Yeah...with my sister. Mom is shooting a movie with George Clooney and Meg Ryan, another one of those romantic comedies, I believe." She shrugged her shoulders. All the movies seemed the same to Sam; and part of her thought her mother only played those roles of women because she was still grieving for her father; his passing was only a few years ago. Sam moved out of New York to the furthest city she could think of; settling down in Seattle where the city seemed to spark with an energy much more relaxed than New York. She loved it here; felt more at home than anywhere else she had been. It was heart breaking to see it all falling down around them now. No one knew what was going on. She had begged her mother not to come at first; she knew it was a lost cause. But when she heard that Heather was coming as well... Sam felt anxious. Samantha loved her mother, but she knew the woman didn’t have that strong of a grasp on reality. She didn’t think anything of danger; who would want to hurt her?

"Hm." Sean grunted. "Sounds as if she's doin' rather well." He knew she was: Sam introduced Sean to her mother almost four years ago, when she first started working with him. Her mother thought it was a joke: the older man looked an awful lot alike Bruce Willis, and then assumed that the two were ‘together’. Partners meant something else entirely to her. Even if the man was twenty years her senior. Sean took it all in stride, laughing, Sam wanted to find something to crawl under and hide. He always was a big fan of her mother; it had been by accident he found out that they were related. Though, it was easy to tell, they looked as if they could be sisters. "Mm, yeah. I suppose so." Sam answered, sighing as she pressed her cheek against the glass window once more. "She's only going to get bigger... I'm not sure how that's going to work with her already bloated ego."

She watched Sean's brow quirk from the corner of her eye, easing through the traffic that started to build along Center. "Bigger how?" Sam grunted, as if that would be answer enough. After a few seconds pause, she settled on a sigh before her explanation. "Have you heard the buzz about that Oprah book? The one about the woman who gets blast through time and finders herself in the same Era as Robin Hood?" There was a pause before a twitch hit Sean's lips, which made Sam groan in disgust. "You own it?" She asked incredibly. The ex-Marine only smiled, turning down into a side road that looped them around to Oak. "Sarah told me it was a good read..." Sarah, his fiance, who also had the man taking ballroom dancing. She loved the nurse, she was a wonderful woman. And she loved that she was able to get the gruff man to do something new, to make him smile so much. But she couldn't believe he read a historical romance novel. Grumbling, she continued. "Yeah, well... they're making it into a movie. She's just been cast to play the part of Joanna, the main character."

"Really!" He actually sounded excited, which made Sam scoff and roll her eyes. "She'd be perfect for that part; I can see her playing Joanna." She felt sick, and thumped her head against the glass. He was right: Samantha never read the book herself, but she was stuck listening to her mother for nearly an hour talking about it. Filming was to start in the spring of next year in England, and the press was in a great hype to see who would play the leading roles. "That's not the best part." She couldn't hide the sarcasm. "Guess who she asked to play Emma..." Another role in the story; smaller, of course, but a character loved by all. Sean flicked his eyes away from the road briefly to glance at Sam, before returning them, and making the turn into the lot at Pine. "No..."

"Yup. Mom wants to make it a family affair." She used to act; in high school, when she was attending a private school, and she did it because that's what her mother wanted her to do. Sam always had a passion for people; she wanted to make them smile and feel good; but acting never satisfied that need. Strange, how wading through blood, did. She got that bit from her father, and as much as her mother saw him in her…she always wanted her to do and be something different. “You have talent, baby girl,” she always said. “You can do so much more! Just once, you’ll never look back!”

What angered Samantha the most was the flippant disregard. Not to her, after all ‘mother wants best’, but to others in her field as well. She knew what a doctor was, that’s what her late husband was, and a fine one too. Best practitioner in the East Coast. But a paramedic sounded like ‘servant’ to her mother. If you didn’t have a title she knew, then obviously you didn’t mater. “Can we change the subject?” Sean’s attempt to keep them awake and chatting worked, but Sam found herself growing in a foul mood. It wasn’t his fault; she would have been able to take it better if she had time to ease from other frustrations. But, Sean gave an apologetic smile, before their ambulance began to pull into the garage of Station 18. The lights were bright, burning some of the tired away from their eyes, but did nothing to ease the ache behind them. “Don’t worry.”

Don’t worry he says… people were dying; not an aspect unseen to her or any of the others. But this… whatever was going on had whispers of the impossible. Dark shadows slipping from the alleys and killing people; women raped by the same sighting, halfway across the city. Glowing gold eyes, a malicious laugh, impossible speed and strength… The press has taken to calling this ‘man’ behind these crimes “Shadow”. It was a horrible name, in her opinion, but it was becoming a landmark. The people would turn on their news and hear about the latest strike. And it didn’t just happen at night. It was obvious that there were more than one involved with this, some possible cult or gang, but there definitely seemed to be a leader. That was the one who did all these impossible feats. Her favorite was a claim to ‘flying’. She scoffed, unbuckling her seatbelt, and sliding out of the cab.

Sam stood at the impressive height of five foot six. She was short, shorter than anyone else at the station, small of bone but with long, lean muscles that suggested the woman wasn’t as fragile as she may appear. Her skin was smooth ivory; more blanche now, from the stresses she, and everyone were forced to go through. But it was her eyes that were stunning, a shade of palest blue like icebergs or that of a husky. These were the eyes of someone who was forced to grow up fast, ‘born at age 32,’ as he father used to say. Her smile was rare and few between, but there was always a bit of humor on her face that made up for the lack of that particular expression. People went to Sam to relax, feel better, and she made sure that they could continue to do so even now. But when she was alone with Sean in their ambulance, Sam would allow herself to crumble a little around the edges to relieve some of the pressure. All of the worry for her mother was gone the moment her boots hit the pavement in the garage, she became that calm presence that the others needed. Sean took the cue, and dropped the issue, stuffing his hands in his pocket as they walked towards the door that would take them inside where there was food and beds; a place they would happily stay until their turn came up for the next call. “Hey…” Sam felt the corners of her cheeks twitch, a hint of a smile. “I’ve got another one.”

“Christ Sam… not another joke.”

“How do you cure webbed feet?” Sean looked pained, his eyes searching for anyone in the hall who might save him from yet another bad popsicle joke. She didn’t wait for the ‘what’ that she knew wasn’t coming. “Tip the spiders out of you boots.”

"everyone has within him, from the first moment of his life, the cause of his death."
--Voltaire from a letter to M. Bagieu

l'ombre, la ombra, la sombra, the shadow. He watched the blood, boosted with anticoagulant, run down the clear plastic tube and into water cooler. The tube was connected at the top to the upside down jugular of a young man, one-He glanced at the wallet in his hand-Jonathan Vaca. He allowed his lips to twist up at the name. He'd found one of the moo-ing herd. The cow had passed out a few moments before, and the blood flow was slowing.

He picked up a remote control and casually pressed the power button. The low pitched, intense voice of the Taryn Miller carried across the room. Behind her was a photograph of the latest two victims: twin girls killed exactly the same way moments apart, across the city from each other. They had been on the phone with each other, and in rigor mortise the cell phones were still clamped to their ears. The first girl, Melanie had been injected with adrenaline intravenously, though it was clear her levels were high to begin with. Her heart rate and blood pressure spiked, just to pre-lethal levels, at which point she was raped. Held down by two hands on her upper arms that left massive subcutaneous tissue damage. Her hips were shattered in the process. During the rape her heart rate hit lethal levels and she died. The look on her face had been a horrific frozen scrunch of pain and fear. Her sister, Anne, had died fifteen minutes later, same mo, to the letter. Shot of adrenaline, intravenous. Rape, subcutaneous tissue damage on the upper arms, broken hips. Also dead from the lethal cardiac rhythms. Pinned to Melanie's left breast on a square of silk were written the words "Look, their sweet lips are trembling, look, women, their little mouths" on Anne's right breast "I frightened them with those wild words" and in a different sharp dark hand "Have I frightened you?"

Taryn Miller, with her perfectly bleached hair nip/tucked nose and power suit, continued to impress upon her viewers the horror of the deaths. "Medea. Lines spoken about her children, just before she kills them within the house, were pinned to the victim's chests. What we are dealing with, is a serial killer. A sick psychopath who is incredibly strong, incredibly cruel. A brutal mastermind. According to the police, the sisters were killed in their homes, no signs of forced entry, and the only mess appears to be the mess they made trying to defend themselves. The Padma twins are the twenty and twenty-first deaths by the Shadow."

der Schatten, he thought, watching the blood now slowed to a drip in the tube.

Taryn turned to question a guest psychologist who offered some banal thoughts on the Shadow's mind, while he stood and walked to the corpse hanging from the ceiling in a straight jacket. With deft long fingers and strength born of more than human condition, he unhooked the rope around the man's ankles from the meat hook above it and lowered him to the ground. He adjusted the straight jacket and moved his focus to the corpse's neck. He removed the draining tube from the left jugular and, taking a needle, sewed the small incision up in neat little cross-stitches with red thread.

"He's a narcissist, Taryn. He wants us to know who he is," the guest pressed her open palm into the table.

"Then why haven't the police found him?" Taryn demanded. She leaned forward, pressing the psychologist.

"He's very intelligent, Taryn, right now we're playing his game."

He smiled at his work and stood, emptying the tube into the water cooler. He placed the lid on the water cooler and slipped it in a fridge then rinsed the tube in a bare workroom sink.

"Thank you so much for your time, Dr. Greer. Next, decrees from Capitol Hill, will the president raise taxes again? And later, Kosher beef, is it really better for you? Taylor and Marie will be let you know the scoop on the food industries hottest products."

Advertisements flickered across the screen. The smell of blood hung heavy in the air and death sunk on the concrete floor.

"Roland," the Shadow spoke quietly.

"Yes, sir," A second vampire bowed from the corner of the room with a jerky motion. His pupils were dilated and his pail flesh twitched with suppressed thirst. He had been watching the blood flow without blinking these past several moments.

"Take the book you have. I want 'Titus Andronicus', act five, scene two. Start with Lucius' line 'Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds?' Aaron's monologue if you please."

"Yes, sir," Hands quivering, the vampire took his volume of the complete works of William Shakespeare and searched for the spot. The Shadow waited patiently, Roland was still young and had to learn to control himself to exact specifications. The young vampire's eyes glowed gold in the light, and as he flipped pages he sucked saliva back into his mouth, off his teeth and lips. "I've found it, sir."

"Excellent, you may." As Roland read, the Shadow whetted a blade on a stone and walked to the corpse. He opened the straight jacket and waited, judging the shape and breadth of the man's chest.

"Ay, that I had not done a thousand more. Even now I curse the day, --and yet, I think, Few come within the compass of my curse,--wherein I did not some notorious ill: As kill a man, or else devise his death; Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it; Accuse some innocent, and forswear myself; Set deadly enmity between two friends; Make poor men's cattle stray and break their necks; Set fire on barns and haystacks and bid the owners quench them with the tears. Oft have I digg;d up dead men from their graves, And set them upright at their dear friends' doors, Even when their sorrows almost were forgot; And on their skins, as on the bark of trees, Have with my knife carved in Roman letters, Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead."

The Shadow reared back and with a snarl plunged his knife into the corpses chest and with sawing motions letters exhumed from the dying flesh. 'Let not your sorrow die. Though I am dead, I am here.' The shadow leaned back upon completion in the silent room and let out a low hurried chuckle. "Continue," the word wheezed out as the chuckle died in reverberations around the room.

"Tut, I have done a thousand dreadful things as willingly as one would kill a fly; And nothing grieves me heartily indeed but that I cannot do ten thousand more."

Silence.

The Shadow stood and walked to Roland. He took the book from him. "Go, take some blood from the stores. You've done, well. You are learning."

Roland ghosted out the door and up the stairs. The shadow turned back to the television screen, flashing an add for some kind of natural male enhancement.

"So can I give no reason, nor I will not, More than a lodge'd hate and a certain loathing I bear [you], that I follow thus A losing suit against [you]." The Shadow dropped the book--it slapped the concrete--and stood still, tv lights flashing against the darkened room. His eyes, gold, taking in the body at his feet. He felt his muscles constrict. the shadow, l'ombre, la sombra . . .

With any certainty he knew his existence would end. everyone has within him, from the first moment of his life, the cause of his death. he repeated allowed, "everyone". and sank to his knees. everyone. His dark linen pants crinkled against his knees. His bare chest was a pale tan, betraying his Mediterranean ancestry. He lifted a hand to his chest and pressed his fist into the spot above his useless heart.

"But some also carry the cause of the death of others." The twenty-second corpse was beginning to cool. Its wounds darkening. Time to have Dominique take the dead cow to Melanie's doorstep. Then a young girl, perhaps fourteen. Tomorrow to find her. Find the next death that he carried.

Viktoriya sighed, leaning against the tubular security bars fastened to the decrepit shop door behind her. She was no closer to neutralizing the Shadow than she had been when she was first sent to Seattle. An ambulance passed by, splashing water over her black boots before stopping at the nearest light. Grumbling to herself, she pulled her hood up, cursing her luck at having to switch camping locations during the middle of such a rainstorm. Russia had never been this wet, though she had to admit she would rather not go back to the glow-baby capital of the world.

Walking out from beneath the barely legible sign reading 'Ye Olde Antique Shoppe', the vampire pulled the water-proofed trench coat she wore closer around herself, her flowing black hair immediately plastering itself to her skull. Her ears gurgled slightly, itching, as water wormed its way inside them.

She could always take a taxi. She had the money, though the stash was slowly but surely dwindling. It would not be replenished unless she put forwards an appeal to her 'employers', the penny-pinching cutthroat morons. She could count the number of times they had parted with any ammount of meaningful money after the initial allowance on one hand. Besides - there was always that possibility lurking in the recesses of her mind that she could be mistaken for the very person she was hunting. She would be released - if she wasn't she could easily disappear - but there was one thing a vampire was supposed to have that they never did.

Time.

She was on the move - waiting patiently for the traffic to cease long enough in the insane weather to cross streets, taking every shortcut possible, keeping a look out for anyone following her. Every once in a while she would duck underneath an available overhang, checking to make sure she was still on course. It would take her a little longer to fully understand the complicated twists and turns of this city, but she would soon, though she hoped that it would not be much longer. She had more . . . personal cases to tend to, after all.

The stench of over-full dumpsters, homeless getting their shower in the rain, and miscellaneous trash rotting in the gutters steadily became overlayed with cologne and perfume slightly dimmed by the heavy rain and heavy traffic. Despite the weather and time, people were still out an about, when sane humans would be shut up in their homes, basking in a false sense of security. Finally, her eyes alighted on a much-awaited street sign, the white capital letters standing out to her despite the pounding rain and muted lights. Her pace picked up slightly - she had somehow managed to get the pennypinchers to splurge on a half-decent hotel, which meant a nice shower, meal, and warm bed awaited her.

It was the work of minutes to get into her room. She was registered under one of her many aliases, Elizabeth Anderson. Settling into room 309, she tossed her sopping wet coat in the stand-up shower, dropping her slightly dryer bag beside her bed. Time to do some media searching. Turning the colour TV located to the right of her bed on a slightly battered dresser on, she kicked off her boots before choosing a local news station. Resting against the white, pink, and green flower bedspread, she sighed.

Another day of eternity down, she thought glibly, hugging one of the flat pillows to her chest. From the smell of the bed, the sheets hadn't been changed since the last occupants - a rather . . . eager couple - had occupied it. Wrinkling her nose, she reached to the beside table, yanking the cream rotary phone's receiver off of its rusty bed. The phone's line remained silent for a few moments before a mechanical voice sounded.

"If you wish to place a call outside of the hotel, please press one. If you wish to place a call to another room, please press two. If you wish to place a call to room service, please press three." Viktoriya complied, rolling her eyes at the blatantly obvious fact that it was impossible to press any numbers on the rotary phone. The chipper female voice which sounded on the other end caused the vampire to wince, pressing a hand to her pale face. "Room service - Cindy speaking!"

"Hello, Cindy. This is room 309 calli - "

"Oh, 309! Wow, you must have a great vi - "

"I need a maid to change my sheets. There are stains all over them. Also, I advise said maid to bring up a bottle of wine and a steak dinner - on the house - or this hotel will face very, very bad reviews all over the media." Leaving it at that, she promptly hung up the phone, shedding her blue T-shirt to reveal a white undershirt. She would have to wash her clothing later - the ambulance had been only the first incident in which she had been splashed with water and other things formerly in the street - but, for now, she would merely loaf around, listening to the news as it continued to spurt new developements on the serial killings performed by none other than her prey.

(Is it okay if I join? Whether or not, here's meh post if ur interested in letting me join.)

Blake Henderson tossed and turned in his bed, not wanting to acknowledge the buzzing alarm sitting on the nightstand next to him. He let out a groan and swatted at it, missing. His hand moved around, trying to find the noisey device. Finally, touching it, he gave it a hard wack and shut it up. His quiet peace restored, Blake's body stopped moving so much as he fell back into restful slumber.

Just as he was entering deep sleep, the sound of his phone woke him. Blake cursed, sitting up in bed. His shortcut raven black hair was an absolute mess, going in all directions. His eyes were puffy from being woken up and he did not look in the least bit happy.

Blake reached over to the phone that was sitting next to his abused alarm clock and picked up the reciever. He put it to his ear, stifling a yawn. "This is Blake," he said, a bit groggily.

He was greated by his commander, David Pateku's, voice. Blake was being reminded that there was going to be a meeting concerning their case this afternoon and he was required to be there. He said he'd be there and hung up. Blake flopped back down on the bed, letting his eyes drift closed again, but found it was useless. He was totally awake now and there was nothing he could do about it.

The young man looked over at his clock, seeing it was only nine o'clock in the morning. Blake decided he might as well get up and ready to go, if the meeting was at noon. Blake kicked the covers away and got up off the bed, heading for his bathroom. All he was wearing was a huge t-shirt and some black, cotton boxers. As he went into his bathroom, he gave the door a slight push, closing it halfway, then reached into the tub and twisted the knobs.

He pulled a lever, and the shower started up. Blake felt it with his hand and adjusted the knobs until the water was at a good temperature.

Pulling his shirt off, Blake exposed his chisled body to the cool air surrounding him. He tossed the shirt into a hamper and then pulled his boxers down, tossing them in as well. Now he was totally naked, his well-sized bosom and short patch of black pubic hair exposed to the world.

Blake pulled the shower curtain back and stepped into the tub, letting the warm water rush over his body. His nipples had already started to harden because of the cool air, and the warm water made them tighten even more. He dipped her head under the water, letting it run through his hair and over his face. For a few minutes, he just let the water soak into him before finally grabbing a bar of soap and starting to lather himself.

Areas of his smooth, silky skin started to get covered in bubbles and almost as quickly, the bubbles were washed away. Blake poured some more shampoo into his hand and went about thoroughly washing his hair. After he finished rinsing his locks out, he shut the water off and stepped out of the tub.

Blake picked up a towel and started to dry himself. He rubbed the beads off water off of his body and dried his hair. Hee put some deoderant on then walked back into his bedroom and over to his dresser, opening the drawers and grabbing all the pieces to his uniform. A white, form-fitting t-shirt, some baggy khaki pants, a pair of silk boxers, the same color as his t-shirt. He sat down on his bed and slid the boxers up his legs, raising to pull them all the way up. Then he pulled the shirt over his head, and then the pants.

He tucked his shirt into his pants and did them up, grabbing a belt and pulling it through the loops on his pants. He grabbed a pair of socks and pulled them onto his feet, followed by his black combat boots.

That's when he left his bedroom and went out into the kitchen, fixing himself a pot of coffee. As he was sitting down to drink his coffee, there was a knock at the door. He set the mug down and went to the door. Waiting on the other side of the door was Billy West, the neighborhood paper boy. Billy was sixteen-years-old and had shaggy brown hair.

Blake gave Billy a smile. "Hey, Billy. Got my paper?"

Billy nodded. "Sure do, Blake," he said, handing the rolled up newspaper to him. "Later"

"Shit..."Blake whispered as he looked at his watch. "Im late".

Blake ran to the garage where his car was at and hopped into the car and started it up. Blake looked down at the clock and sighed. Pateku was going to be pissed.

He backed out of the driveway and then started down the street. As he drove down the street, Blake looked out the window to his left and saw that the leaves had begun to fall from the trees of the Davis' giant oak wood that they had planted out front last spring. It was only the middle of september and it looked like winter would be coming in on them roughly.

Thats just great, he thought. ...all we need now is a deadly cold to run rampant in the city.

Blake turned south on Westlyn avenue and then drove up two blocks, turning left onto Wilkins boulevard.

Twilight had settled across the tree line, painting the jagged horizon in shades of purple dusk. The winding blacktop snaked through the gathering darkness surrounded by shadowed hills that towered into the cloudless sky, stretching towards the first faint glimmerings of starlight. Blake might've appreciated the majestic view a bit more, if he wasnt in such a damn hurry.

10 am.

"Hey..."

Samantha's eyes snapped open in an instant. Everything was blurry, objects were unclear in the dimmly lit room, and every time she blinked it felt as if sand had dug under her eye lids, and scraped across the cornea. It was a sensation she was rather used to; and she knew her eyes would be bloodshot, her fair skin blanched, and, if she was lucky, that those dark circles under her eyes, wouldn't be so deep to appear as if they were bruising. She was exhausted, even with the few hours worth of sleep she gathered.

With a crack in her joints, Sam breathed in deep and pushed up off the bed with her arms. Sean messed her hair with a large hand, jutting a cup of coffee to her already outstretched hand, then helped pull her upright when the other dropped from her tossled locks. "You look like shit." She managed a sleepy smirk. "Mmm, you sweet talker." She prefered tea, over coffee, but the mug in her hand was warm, and that seemed to help relieve some of the stress on her body. "Go on." Sean instructed. "Your mom lands in a few hours. Thought that you might want a shower first."

Sam walked barefoot, out of the Bunkhouse used for sleeping; a small room with a bunk bed, and three regular beds to sleep those who were alloted the time. Neither of the linnins matched, all hand-me-downs or scraps collected at sales. There was one other in the bed; a large man by the name of Tim Robbins, a senior fire fighter who was built like an ox, and seemed to have the never ending stamina as on. She made sure to stay quiet, passing a hand over her face as she closed the door part way behind her. "What time is it?"

"Just past ten am." Sean looked better, having gathered a few hours of sleep himself. She didn't understand how he did it; the old Marine must have been like a whale; shutting down half his brain at a time to rest, before switching sides. And what few moments of true rest he had, the man was recharged and ready to go. Training, perhaps. Or bad habit, it certainly wasnt easy on your body. Sam was twenty three, and she felt twice that old at times. "Quieting down at all?" It was a hopeless question... but one she had to ask.

"Jamie and Colby went out shortly after we came back... found another body that needed transport. A few crimes, but the calls have been dwindling down since about six." Shortly after she went to sleep. That meant they had just pulled a twenty eight hour shift. What happened to when she was a child? Or in college? Staying up for days on caffeine and the simple will not to fall asleep? Her father was right, it goes away the older you get. Unlucky for her, perhaps, that she was "born at 35", she was straining on the twentieth hour. "Get in the shower," Sean went on. "We've got to make ourselves look respectable infront of your mother."

Christ....

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

12:20 pm

There was certainly a bonus to her mother's fame. She had her own private jet, which landed in a secluded terminal at the Sea-Tac airport. Sean's security clearance helped get them in, but really, Sam's name was on the 'list' and as soon as the woman checking them through realised that she was Isabella's daughter, she beamed and made the process far easier. It was annoying, though Sam only sighed through a soft smile, and passed through, messenger bag on her shoulder, with Sean beaming at her side. He was excited, like a little kid getting ice cream, only dressed in jeans and a black polo t-shirt, that was stain free. "Are you... wearing cologne?"

Sean shrugged, and for a moment, she thought there was red to his cheeks. "Oh god... you are, aren't you?" He looked even more like Bruce Willis with that smirk. "Sarah isn't opposed, if that's what you're thinking. Isabella is on my list."

"Sean!"

He arched a brow, before winking. "I'm just kidding, Sam." She didn't find as much amusement in it as he did. "That's my mother... you put my mother on your laminated list?"

"And who do you have, hm?" That tweaked a smile out of her in an instant. "Hugh Jackman, Christian Bale, and Jason Statham." There was a pause, before Sean lifted his other brow and glanced at her. "That's three... where are the other two?" Sam slid the strap of her bag a little more securely over her shoulder. "God Sean, quality over quantity. Who needs more than that?" This time, he rolled his eyes, shaking his head side to side in feigned disgust before they reached the wall of glass. Her mother's get was already on the runway; they made perfect timing.

"How long is your mother going to be in town?"

"Two weeks, I think. However long it takes to film. They're staying at the Hotel Andra, in their Monarch room." Sean whistled. "Yeah... I guess there was a bit of a complaint... mom wouldn't stay in the Edgewater with the others. She doesn't like the western themed. She's more... 'trendy'." She didn't try to sound bitter, but truely her insides were turning sour as the plane began to connect to the bay. She was dreading these moments. Maybe if she ran... Sean's hand dropped on her shoulder as if he knew what she was thinking. "You're stayin' put, Sam. Your mom loves you and you know it. She just... has a hard time understanding personal boundaries."

"Personal boundaries! She hounded me for a week with a camera crew, Sean! I had to hide at your place for two days and threaten them with the police to leave me the hell alone!" Sean was grinning, slinking his thick arm over her shoulders, and pulled her in, mussing her hair in a brotherly way that had her scrambling to try and break free. A nookie, apparently, was the trademark of the male species that meant, 'aw, we like you' or, 'you just did something cute'. "You started a new trend with hair style." She gave him a quick jab in the kidneys, which made the older man grunt and lean forwad, freeing Sam of his hold to back away and push her fingers through her hair. "Creeping shits, man, if I told my mom what really happened she'd try to start some sort of patition against hair-burning. I was lucky she arrived after the burns went away." With her hair fixed, the first of the passengers stepped out of the chamber door, a man in a suite on his phone, giving the two a head nod before stepping to the side. Chris Wakins, Isabella's agent. Sam sighed, knowing there was no way out now, and felt the sour churn of her stomach increase.

"Sam!" It was a younger voice that called out, one that took the unease away and replaced it with an excited skip in her heart. Dropping her messenger bag, she quickly stepped forward with that rare, infectious grin spreading across her face. Heather bolted out of the chamber door, brown hair trailing behind her like ribbons before she jumped and lunged into her sisters arms. It would have sent the both of them tumbling backwards if she hadn't braced her toes into the ground, but she did slide back a few inches. Heather stood nearly as tall as Sam; getting her height from their mother. Her dark brown hair was the same shade, with a bit of a curl that most would spend hundreds of dollars on to perfect in a beauty salon. Her eyes were brown; like her mothers, with a fair skin due to their Irish blood, and a beautiful face that was open and smiling. They were obviously sisters, and with the sharp intelligence in their eyes, it was just as obvious that they weren't 'just another pretty face'.

"Heather, you've got to stop growin' already. Look at you! You're nearly as tall as I am."

She jut her tongue out at her sister, beaming. "Not difficult, sis. Next year you'll have to call me you big sister." Isabella stepped from the chamber door next, wearing designer jeans and a swoop necked sweater that hinted at a well endowed chest. Isabella got her boobs done for her fourtieth birthday, and for some reason, Sam couldn't get used to it. She straightened, smiling little less lossely at her. "Hey mom."

"Samantha Jane, just look at you!" The white, wide framed sunglasses were pulled off as Isabella stopped infront of Sam, musing over her like any mother might. She fixed her hair, brushed the wrinkle out of her shirt on her shoulder, then took her chin in her hand to lilt her head up a little. "You look aweful." Sam frowned, ducking away to grab Sean's arm and pull him forward, using him as a human shield. "Mom, you remember my partner Sean, right?" Like a bird with a shinny object, her mother was distracted by the older man, who began to trade pleasantries with her, and picked up her bag. Sam released a sigh, hooking her arm over Heather's shoulder. "You know... she's only going to redouble her efforts once you're alone," Heather said, "Then you won't have your partner to save you."

"But I've got you, don't I?" Heather scoffed, rolling her eyes and pulled at Sam's hand. "Right. I have to live with her. You're on your own."

Once the maid had come and gone, Viktoriya started to settle in with earnest. Deadbolting the front door, she padded daintily to the balcony's glass sliding door next, opening it with ease to allow a fresh, rain-cleansed breeze in. The bribes she had demanded lay, temporarily forgotten, on the round mahogany table located in front of the balcony doors, a white tablecloth made sheer from repeated washings draped upon it. The curtains, purchased recently enough that they still blocked out most of the light, snapped in a sudden burst of wind, the gray-white carpet immediately by the glass door darkening as rain soaked into it. Treading lightly, she entered the bathroom, wincing as the harsh lights magnified on the peach and white tiles, hurting her eyes. In silence, she shed her clothing, curtains of flowing black hair contrasting sharply with her pale skin. Transferring her drenched coat to the sink and hanging up the rest of her clothing on a makeshift clothesline, she took a quick shower, allowing the searing-hot water to absorb some of the cold from her bones. Five minutes later, she was out, a towel wrapped snuggly around her body.

Crossing the room, she dragged the table closer to the bed, putting the free food she had received within arm's reach when she climbed into the middle of the slightly lumpy bed.

She settled on the bed just in time for the news flash to appear on the screen - another body had been found. Turning the volume up slightly, Viktoriya emptied the contents of her bag in front of her, sorting through the miscellaneous electronic devices, spare clothing, and bills as she listened to the broadcast.

" . . . twenty-second victim was found here just moments ago," said a stern-faced reporter, her movie-pale skin perfect as she attempted to contort her heavily botoxed face into a look of concern.

Viktoria extracted the thin laptop from its waterproof case carefully, taking mind not to get any water left on the bag on it. Placing it to the side, she turned it on, already opening her mobile phone. "Police have not released any information as to the victim's name or the condition he was found in, but witnesses say that he was a young man, drained entirely of blood, with words carved into his chest. Police have not denied or . . . "

A whole lot of nothing, that's what the news was saying. The same facts over and over again, a rumour mixed in here, different wording there. Viktoriya blew a slowly drying piece of midnight black hair out of her eyes as she typed up her report, tempted sorely to merely put 'A big fat lot of nothing' but instead detailing her every move. Every menial and momentous minute that had gone by since she last sent a report three days ago. She merely had to fill in what had happened since she taken a break from investigating several hours earlier. Her phone rang just as she hit 'Send' - glancing at the number, she sighed. It was one of her contacts; he wanted her to meet him on the opposite side of town tomorrow, just before five, at an ambulance station.

Always working, always moving, always spending eternity in an endless cycle. It would not end until she completed her personal mission, but until then she would continue on the road of nothingness. Until then, she could at least drink some wine and sleep after turning the blasted television off. Her benefactors would drop off whatever they deemed necessary for her at a location which would be unknown to her until tomorrow.

When she finally slept, it was fitful, memories colliding with her exhausted mind, the things which plagued her even when wide awake coming in vivid recollection. Waking up at seven the next morning as if it had been programmed in her, she gazed up at the bare ceiling, gears turning in her head. The last one . . . the last one before forever is nearly at its end, she decided, sitting up in bed. She had slept with no clothes on, and she now slipped quietly into the bathroom, were her freshly dried cloths awaited her. Pulling them on, she repacked her bag - it went everywhere with her, just in case - and left out the door just as the maid was walking by with her trolley. Viktoriya wrinkled her nose. To humans, the disgusting smell of chemicals and molded rags was unpleasant. To a vampire, it was downright nauseating. Holding her breath, Viktoriya headed for the stairs, and outside to head to the nearest hotspot for information. Time for work.

When he got to the station, Blake stopped at his locker for a moment. Opening it, he placed his equipment inside and took out his shoulder holster that went inside of his jacket and put it on. Although, it was still just around the beginning of fall, it was very cold.

So, Blake compensated for the elements by wearing his black leather jacket. It was slightly big on him beings that he was only twenty-seven, but hey, no one was going to go out and buy him another jacket, were they?

His raven black hair swayed slightly as he closed the door, a slight breeze was blowing in from the window right above his locker. It was evident that winter was on its way early and all he wanted to do was make it to the meeting without catching a cold.

Just my luck too and with what happened in july just coming to an end, hell I'll be lucky to survive the flu, He thought blantly as he continued with what he was doing.

Tugging his jacket around him tightly, he walked down the hallway. His boots clicked softly against the marble tile flooring of the building and echoed off the walls, it was kind of scary too. Pushing the front door to the hallway open, he walked down the walkway and then hooked a left, up the stairs to were the office was.

Captain Pateku had called a meeting for today to discuss the recent killing spree's.

He resigned himself to getting a thorough reaming as he stepped off the elevator and into the hall. Blake made his way to the division office that he worked in and opened the door, going in.

"Blake, you're late!" called David Pateku from his office.

Blake sighed and made his way to his office. "I know, sir... sorry," he said. "It won't happen again."

". . . twenty-second victim was found here just moments ago," said a stern-faced reporter, her movie-pale skin perfect as she attempted to contort her heavily botoxed face into a look of concern.

"Can you believe that shit?" The Captain said fiercely. "She's making us look bad"

Blake smirked. "Only you guys, im undercover"

Captain Pateku turned to him. "Well then get your ass out there and find the killer"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

12:20 p.m.

Walking down the sidewalk, Blake looked around at the omnious people passing by. Looking forward, Blake passed by a few street hobo's, asking him for money and even his jacket, after declining what they had asked of him, Blake kept on walking until he got to the next street. Usually, Blake could see all the lights coming from the center of town. Neon commercials, streetlights, light coming from houses and other appartements... Nothing of the sort. Compared to the usual night in Seattle, it was completely dark in the area he was in.

Shrugging, Blake continued down the sidewalk until he came to a bar that he usually went to at night. Walking into the bar, Blake sat down on one of the stools as the baretender walked up to him and took his order.

Blake sat quietly at the small table in the corner of the bar eating a cheeseburger and drinking some Loco Cola, minding his own business for the most part. He was famished after the long drive and was beginning to feel a little more relaxed now with some food in his stomach. Looking around the bar he was in, he almost felt tempted to order a beer, but knew he had to remain sober while on a mission. No matter how simple it was, he still had to be on top of his game at all times.

There was a fairly lively atmosphere in the small bar, contrasting the rest of what he had seen in Seattle so far. Everybody seemed to be happy and healthy, aside from destroying their inhibitions (and livers) with all that alcohol, and it seemed to be a pleasant environment for the most part with energetic rock music playing on the jukebox.

He let out a slight grunt as he observed the other people in the room with him, something he always did whenever he was in a small establishment with enough people to keep track of.

Several men sat at the counter to his right. Closest to him sat a middle-aged man with short neatly combed dark brown hair and dressed in an expensive charcoal gray suit. The man had his gaze locked on the television set hanging overhead, watching a news report regarding a riot at tonight’s Seattle game in which several people were injured.

“Probably a doctor or a lawyer,” the man thought, “he must be having some serious issues to be frequenting a place like this.”
He moved on to observe the next man at the bar and when he noticed the grubby beige jumpsuit and tool belt, he recognized the man right away. It was the same plumber from the Apple Inn. Not seeming to take notice of the man’s presence, the plumber let out a barely audible sigh as he drank from his glass and watched the same news report.

“Just as quiet as he was during our ‘introduction,’ if you wish to call it that.” He thought sourly.

A couple stools down from the plumber sat a young man with semi-long shaggy brown hair and dressed in what looked like a riot officer’s uniform, ordering yet another drink as quickly as he had finished his last drink.

Emerging from the men’s restroom and walking over to take a seat next to the officer was another man, this one looking to be around the officer’s age with short ginger-colored hair cropped close to his head and wearing a puffy gray jacket and blue jeans. The two men resumed a conversation as the other sat down, one that involved the bartender interjecting and giving a stern warning regarding a past incident. A tidbit about him being let go from the S.P.D. was thrown in, seemingly affirming the man’s theory about problems with the cops in this town themselves.

Sitting on the other end of the bar were two more individuals. The first was a large, robust looking African-American man dressed in a security guard’s uniform, who was in the middle of eating a large steak. Next to him sat a much smaller white man dressed in the same attire that at the moment appeared to be passed out on the counter in front of him.

Looking beyond the bar counter, he spotted another man playing what appeared to be a video poker machine. This individual appeared to be in his mid-fifties with rapidly graying hair and a burly physique that matched up perfectly with his great height. He wore a filthy tan colored jacket and reached into his front pocket pulling out what Blake observed to be the man’s third cigarette he had smoked while he was there, lighting it up with a finely crafted gold lighter.

The bar itself was tended by a young, well-groomed gentleman who worked diligently to ensure that the bar maintained its presentable appearance and was currently in the middle of cleaning plates and shot glasses.

Blake then looked in front of him to see two more individuals seated near the large windows at the front of the bar. The first was a younger African-American man seated nearest to the main entrance wearing what looked like a subway transit worker’s uniform and was in the middle of filling out a crossword puzzle. The second person closest to him was a young woman in an elegant scarlet suit typing away furiously at a laptop computer.

The slamming of a payphone receiver across from him suddenly reminded of another man’s presence. Storming away from the payphone located between the restrooms was a blond-haired man in a green sanitation worker’s uniform who brushed past the hitman without a second look and plopped down into the chair at the table ahead of him, attempting to immerse himself in the daily paper to no avail.

“Quite the motley crew we’ve got here tonight,” he observed as the bell above the front door rang out.

A lone young woman walked in, wearing a green jacket, yellow turtleneck sweater, black skirt and fashionable eyeglasses, a backpack hanging from one strap over her shoulder. She said nothing and walked towards the women’s restroom, seemingly invisible to everybody except Blake, who still sat silently taking the final swig of his soda.

Passing the woman was another, younger woman, this one an attractive blonde wearing a waitress uniform and carrying a tray with two small glasses on it. Cindy her name was.

She walked towards the bar counter until a rat scurried past her, prompting her to let out a small scream and drop the tray to the floor, temporarily distracting everybody else from their current activities. The waitress shot an embarrassed glance at the older black man and then knelt down to sweep up the small glass shards.

Returning his attention to his friend, the larger security guard attempted to rouse him. “Aren’t you eating anything? Hey Bob, where’s your mind at?” he asked grabbing his friend by the shoulder and nudging him gently.

Bob slowly raised his head and looked towards the larger man with a pale, sickly face, much like that the man had noticed from those people on the street that had been following him earlier.

“What?” was all he could weakly mutter.

"And art to know/ to move when the idea strikes. Idea?/ A butterfly idea? What could be smaller/and more frantic--yet correct. The beauties survives." -- "The Monarchs" Allison Hawthorne Deming

He stood in the shade and slid a finger down the bridge of his nose, adjusting his sunglasses. The clouds scudded against each other, letting little beams of light flash through now and again. He stood outside the airport. Normally he chose natives, but when he looked in the mirror this morning, he decided a little change would do some good. He sent Roland with two of the others to gather information on twenty four and twenty five. But for twenty-three. It was going to be a spontaneous kill and the airport had seemed like a fit.

Leaning casually against a black Camry in the short term parking lot, he watched people filter by. Laughing usually, sometimes speaking seriously into a phone, stamping down the concrete, kissing--his lips twinged as a particularly happy couple in their late twenties walked by trying to hold each other around their raincoats. Too bad, that might have been a fun grab. He was not here for couples today. Today was for a girl. Too young, a preschooler went by with a pink roller backpack, lunging off her mother's hand and asking where the car was. the girl's eyes fell on him and he looked away, still waiting. He felt her little heartbeat speed up as she stared at him and passed. A small smile turned his lips.

the Number of people trickling through the parking lot dwindled--in between flights. With a sigh he pulled a cell phone from his pocket. Putting the earpiece into his ear, he held it in gloved hands--kid gloves, dark tan, soft--and tuned it slowly dialed. "How is the she?" He asked, golden eyes still scanning the lot. As he watched he saw a limo, pulled through a security gate, heading out to the secluded terminal used for important guests.

Roland's voice crackled along the connection, "Sir, she will be ready as scheduled."

"Good, Make sure her evening goes as planned. Don't let anyone pick her up from the bar tonight." He pushed off the Camry and began walking in the direction the limo had gone.

"Very good, sir." The phone clicked as Roland signed off. What an interesting development. There wasn't any real rhyme or reason for him to wander off after the limo. Then again there really wasn't much reason behind any of his choices about who to murder. It was instinct that nudged him to follow the luxury vehicle. Probably there would be no young women with the party, but perhaps on the way . . . he wouldn't be sure until he saw her.

The limo reached its pick up location and slid to the curb, idling while the driver, checked out a gaggle of college girls loading into a van, their sweatshirts said University of Washington Husky's. Too bad, the girls were far to old. Not today, he thought, They weren't the ones. The airport doors slid open and a security detail exited the building. The limo driver hopped out of the car and went for the trunk to load the absurd amount of bags accompanying Ms. Isabella Adams. America's Sweetheart. But his eyes weren't caught by the lovely movie-star. Hanging on the arm of another woman with Ms Adams was a young woman, tall for her age, but still young. The girl had beautiful dark hair with curls that reminded him of coffee steam and a creamy pale face. --Good enough to eat, He thought, reaching up and sliding his glasses down his nose to watch without the darkened view. The pupils in his golden eyes dilated as he watched the girl laugh. Her face was open and emotions flitted over it like reflections on a lake. Her limbs were slim and long, carrying a grace that was unusual in one so young, especially for such a tall girl. He felt a smile lift the corners of his mouth. Yes, he thought as a breeze ruffled his hair, this was the death he'd been waiting for. He could almost feel it in his fingertips. The sensation of brushing a perfect curl off of her forehead and seeing the fear run across that open face. As he watched, however, he caught a twist of her head and a look in her eyes that gave him pause. She wasn't a fool. Not a naive child as he'd first supposed. He propped the sunglasses back on as she rolled her eyes and began to climb into the limo. Perhaps she would not use that open face to display her fear. His smile turned to a thin line. He gauged the other members of the group. The woman that his little fawn had been clinging too was alert, though appeared exhausted. From her face he determined they were related, and related to Ms Adams as well. The other was an older man, dressed up, though not comfortably enough to be Hollywood society. Perhaps a family friend. He wondered where Ms. Adams assistant would be, perhaps already at the hotel making sure everything was to Ms. Adams taste and pleasure.

He felt a bar of sunshine sneak through the clouds and drift across his coat. His back itched under the ultraviolet scrutiny. He turned away from the group at the limo and pulling his cell phone from his pocket, dialed again.

"Cal," He murmured. "I need all the information on Isabella Adams and family staying in Seattle this weekend. Immediately, I need their location."

"Sir, she's not a resident," The female vampire's voice was careful. He smiled.

"No, but perhaps it's time we made this a nationally covered problem. Have you finished turning the last two."

"Yes, our numbers are three hundred now."

"Good, after the next three are finished tonight, we'll start the second stage."

"I'll get the first three teams ready."

"Thank you, Cal. Don't give them their assignments yet. I would like to do that."

"Yes, sir. I'll alert them to ready themselves, that's all."

He hung up and watched the limo pull away from the curb. His cell phone vibrated against his leg and he answered, speaking into the headset. "Speak."

"Hotel Andra, the Monarch suite."

The Shadow smiled, hung up, time to go. Perhaps a death with butterflies.

"And art to know/ to move when the idea strikes. Idea?/ A butterfly idea? What could be smaller/and more frantic--yet correct. The beauties survives." He said, his voice quiet. He turned to a man walking towards him with a roller bag.

"Excuse me, do you know where the bus to the Hilton--" The man fell silent as the Shadow took off his sunglasses to wipe the first drops of rain on his coat. He caught the man's brown eyes with his golden ones.

"You're lucky," he said, "Those buses stop here every hour. The next one should be here in very soon." The Shadow walked by the man, leaving him staring after him as the bus for the Hilton pulled up.

He increased his speed as he reached the motorway. The Andra hotel, Monarch suite and a little fawn of a girl with his name on her.

The bell rang again and the door came flying open. A dark-haired man in a red t-shirt and blue jeans suddenly walked into the room, quickly lowering his head as most of the patrons seemed to take notice of his hasty entrance. Without saying a word to anyone he rushed over to the men’s restroom.

His gaze following the man the entire way, the large security guard frowned, “Who is this guy?” As he asked, his friend fell to the floor from his barstool.

“Bob!” he cried out and ran to his fallen friend’s side and checked him over for any injuries. “Damn it, he’s unconscious!” he said aloud as everyone else in the room suddenly turned their attention to him.

The man in the suit stood up and ran over to the unconscious man. “I’m a doctor, let me look at him!” he said gently brushing the man’s friend aside. Pulling out a penlight he looked over his shoulder to the larger man, “There is a medical kit in my briefcase where I was sitting at. Get it and bring it to me quickly!”

“Sure thing!” the larger man replied doing as he was told.

As everybody was distracted by the older man falling unconscious, the front door again flew open before the bell could even ring as four men and two women came dashing in, all looking frightened and out of breath. By now many of the patrons were beginning to exchange worried stares with one another.

Blake too, would stop everything he was doing and observed the group until he noticed something that caught his eye.

“What the hell?” he asked aloud. On the floor next to him he noticed a large blood stain and then remembered that man who had hurried in and walked past him. He then looked back up to the group and looked closely at one of the members, a man with short brown hair and wearing green pants and a blood-stained yellow shirt, leaving a tell-tale trail of blood behind him.

“Huh, what’s going on?” the police officer asked as he put down his drink and walked over to the small group.

“Oh god, it was horrible!” one of the women cried out and sunk down to her knees, only to be comforted by a younger man in a red and black plaid shirt. Upon getting a closer look at the crying woman he was able to take note of her purple hoodie and shoulder-length auburn hair.

“The girl from the streets!” his mind shouted, the woman who had directed him to the Apple Inn, here in the same room with him.

“Officer, we’re here to report a double homicide,” one of the men finally said, “We found a couple in a back alley and they looked like they’d been ripped apart.”

The speaker then turned his attention to the bleeding man, “My friend here also got bitten by some nut job on the way here and he’s bleeding pretty badly. Call an ambulance quick, please!” he finished as he composed himself and then went to treat his friend, helping him onto a barstool.

The officer gave a quick nod and pulled out his radio calling the incident in, “Don’t worry, an ambulance is on the way!” he said moving over to further question the members of the group. By now the downed security guard named Bob had been helped back to his feet and the doctor now focused on the bleeding man, shouting at the bartender to get him some fresh towels.

"Can I ride with you guys?" Sam turned to glance at Heather, gripping the handle inside Sean's lifted red dodge to help heft herself inside the beast. She's never have a chance in climbing inside if it wasn't for that bar; unless he had some sort of ladder. At times, it really annoyed Sam for being so short. "Fine by me, but you're askin' the wrong person." Sean closed his car door shut behind him, starting the engine before leaning across the seat to grin at Heather. "If its good with your mom, we've got room." Heather beamed, the smile put their mother's to shame, flashing perfect white teeth and a large, expansive grin that reminded Sam of a younge Julia Roberts. She had always been jealous of that grin; not with how beautiful it was, rather how easy it seemed to see it. She pivoted on the toe of her shoes and jogged the short distance to the limo, where Isabella was talking to a man in a dark suit; one of the body guards that followed along. Thankfully. Seeing them made Sam feel better.

They couldn't hear the conversation, but they knew the answer. That smile turned down several notches in an instant, their mother waving Heather's requests off with a flick of her hand and directed her towards the limo. Sam sighed, her grip tightening on the leather handle she had used to hoist herself inside. "She's saying no..." Why was she surprised? Why was she so annoyed? "Maybe she had a good reason?" Sean tried to ease the tensions away, which only made Sam frown again. "I should have slid over and closed the door. Or told mom myself... Heather's fourteen, she's a smart girl, and mom still won't let her leave her sight."

"She's... got her reasons." That released a painful wince from Sam, muscles in her shoulders bunched, but she didn't take it as an insult. He was right. Sean was always right, but A.J's death had nothing to do with allowing her sister to ride along with him. She felt sorry for the girl... who certainly looked as if she could use a break from the woman. "Ah... hell. Come on Sean." She slammed the door closed and buckled her seat belt. For a moment the two froze as the radio squawked to life, speaking of an apartment fire along Cenicut, then eased back when they heard Thomson and Weiss were responding. It was only a matter of time... before the chaos broke out in the streets, the pair were fairly relaxed, at ease. But these calls recently were hard. They gave Sam nightmares; something she's never experienced before. And she was dreading the calls, seeing what was cooked up next by the Shadow. She passed a hand over her face, sighing as Sean pulled up behind the limo, following them out towards I-5. "How much longer is this going to continue on, Sean?"

The man shrugged his thick shoulders, something she heard, since her hands were covering her face. "Best we can do is continue doing what we do... keep your chin above the water." A metaphore... Sam could easily counter it with telling him that she was a weak swimmer; which was true. And, after a pause, he remembered this, and offered a sheepish grin as an appology. She waved her hand in the air to dismiss it, and offered a shrug. "Lets just hope he makes a slip... give something more for the cops to work with."

* * *

It didn't take long to check in, and with Isabella's repuation and body guards, the bags and things were loaded into the room with ease. Sam and Sean parked and followed the rush of people up towards the room, catching the private elevator in the back, and raised to the top floor in relative silence; only the occational crackle over the radio, which always sent a jolt of adrenaline pouring into Sam's veins. It was draining.

With a ding the doors opened, a short hall in beige carpet and wood panneled walls greeted them, as well as the open door to the suite; the only room on this floor. The body guards, all familiar with Sam and Sean by now, nodded before stepping to the side for the pair, revealing the fine room done in neutral, earthy tones, with splashes of blue and orange here and there with the lighting, tiles and art. Sam stayed in the entry way. These fine places always made her feel uncomfortable, out of placed, reminding her just how much of her father's daughter she truely was; and how alien and foreign she felt around her mother. She would have left, if it hadn't been for Sean's hand gripping her forearm, easily enclosed into his fist. Annoyed, finally, she rolled her shoulder to push away his hand, and stepped out of reach.

"Heather..!" Her sister peaked her head out of her room, flashing that stunning smile once again before waving a hand for her sister, and disapearing. She hesitated, but followed, keeping the small bundle of navy blue close to her side. She tried to relax, and yet again, failed. "I read about these beds." Heather said, bouncing on a queen decorated in beige, blue and black. She ploped down with her legs stretched forward, curly hair dishevled, acting as a curtain around that grin. "They're made by the Swiss... aparently they're some of the best in the world."

Sam cracked a grin. "So you're jumping on them?" Her sister shrugged, plopping back with her arms spred. "Why not? I'm betting I'm not the first to have done so." Sam's grin spread wider, before she slid into the room and took the few steps up onto the platform that the bed rested on. With a plop, she fell back with her sister; heads touching, looking up at the skylights that began to splatter with more rain. The bed was fine... intoxicating, and almost instantly her eyes felt heavy and began to droop. Her breathing slowed, deepened, her eyes slid fully shut, and it wasn't until she heard Heather's voice did they open again. "You must be tired..."

With a grunt, Sam shifted to try and find a spot on the bed that wasn't nearly as comfortable as before; and failed. "Exhausted..."

"When was the last time you got some sleep?"

"Are we talking a full rest? Or a nap?"

"Sam..."

She shrugged, slipping an arm under her head, and tossed the bundle to Heather, changing the subject. "Here... you said you wanted one." Heather sat up, unfolding the bundle, and once again beamed. It wasn't anything special, just a navy sweater with SFD on the front with their department's badge, and "Seattle Fire and Rescue" printed in bold on the back. Sam had the same in Sean's car, waiting for her to change into should a call come in. "This is excellent! Than-" A sharp whistle pierced the mood, causing the paramedic to wince before bolting upright, and kissing her sister on the cheek. "Make me a promise, Heather. Don't be by yourself; call me if you need anything and be damn careful. Mom isn't listening to a word I say, but it's not... safe here right now."

"What about you?" Sam stopped at the door, stunned at the rush of concern leaving her sister's mouth, and for a moment, didn't know how to react. What about her? She settled with a wink, "Nothing I can't handle," and bolted out of the room.

((Appologies for the extended absence: but I'm back now. A second appology for the state of the post; I didn't put much time or heart into it, it's been a crazy week.))

Watching as the ambulence drove up, Blake carried the elder man while supporting him outside. As members of the EMT unit began to check the elder man's reflexes and such various things as that, Blake walked over to the people who had come running inside the bar just five minutes ago. They had mentioned something about a couple being in the near by alley slaughtered to pieces and it was his job to find out what was going on.

"Can I get your names?" He asked the six civilans, the man whose arm was bleeding was being looked at by an EMT.

"My name is John McRobas" The man wearing the plaid shirt said as he pointed to the other three guys. "This is Ricky, Adam and Mike. The two women with us are Tiffany and Alexia. The other guy, his name is Lance. He got attacked and bitten on the forearm by whatever attacked our friends outside."

As he got their statements about what they had seen and witnessed, Blake told them that they could leave but to stay in the city for incase they were needed for questioning later.

Walking over to where a patrol car had just pulled up, Blake began to talk with one of the regular beat cops that he had trained with to get on the western division. Artemis Evanlistear was his name, he was just five inches shorter than Blake, tanned skin, black messy hair and was actually a nice guy if you were one of the few who got to know him.

"So, whats up?" Artie asked.

Blake shook his head as he tugged his jacket across him tightly. "I dunno' those people I just interviewed said this person attacked their two friends in the alley and killed them, one of them got bit on the arm and the other six were able to get away"

Artie just gave him a look that told him WTF??!?!?!

Sighing, Blake just shook his head once more and shrugged. "People are dropping like flies around the city, theres no explaination for it and yet...I have this feeling somethings not right."

"What are you talking about, Blake?" Artie asked as he just gave him the shocked look again. "You think theres more too it then what the Brass is telling us?"

Leaning against the squad car, Blake let out a soft sigh. He was really starting to hate this undercover business, it made him want to throw up. Rubbing his aching temples, Blake sighed as a headache began to find its way to him. He just put up with it though, he had never been the type to complain about anything and he wasn't about to right now.

"Look...I'll see you later Artie, I need some time alone"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Fifteen Minutes Later~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Looking out the open window of his Black Nissan Xterra, Blake Henderson sighed as he drove on towards his destination. But for now, he just wanted to drive and listen to the radio.

Turning up the radio, Blake tuned his radio to 93.3 FM radio. He was using a Sirius satelite radio to listen to a station that he frequently listened to while he had stayed for his short visit in NC. It was one of the local radio stations that he loved to listen to, they played all kinds of music: Rock, Country, Rap, R&B and occasionally Blue Grass.

As he messed with the knobs, he finally decided to just leave it on 93.3 as it began to play Back in Black, by AC/DC.

"...im back in black..back in Black" A smirk forming on Blake's face, he turned the volume up on it even more as he began to jam out to it. The people in the Ford Sedan beside him looking at him like he was crazy. " Yes im, let loose, from the nuse and im coming back!...We interupted this broadcast to bring you this special Bulletin report..."

Turning the volume off, Blake decided to just drive the rest of the way in silence.

"It will not always be like this . . . pause a minute, Let the mind take its photograph Of the bright scene, something to wear Against the heart in the long cold." --R.S. Thomas "A Day in Autumn"

The Shadow looked up as the elevator opened, a flood of bellhops and security were hurrying around the flat. He slipped passed them all and saw who he now knew--thanks to Cal's updates--to be the eldest daughter of Isabella Adams heading for the back of the flat where the service elevator was. The older girl hadn't caught his attention at the airport but as he watched her walk now, she did. He even stopped for a moment, watching her short dark hair shift as she shook her head, trying to clear the exhaustion from her eyes. He could only see her from the back, but he was spellbound. He noticed the easy slope of her shoulders, tensed now to keep her awake, and the way that the squawk of the radio made her jump. She listened to the radio and he saw her kick herself into readiness and push the elevator button again. He noticed the lines of her body beneath her clothing and the steady rhythm of her heart accelerating. Where was she going? The filtered blue rain light sliding through the window touched her hair and the reflection off the locks sent an answering flash across his dilated pupils. As she ran a hand through her hair, he caught the blue streaks in her bangs and frowned--why was he noticing? Pulling himself back from the elder girl--what had her name been? He would have to call Cal. In that moment of thought, he recognized himself and the room he was in. A bellhop pushed against his shoulder.

"Sorry, sir." The bellhop muttered, managing to not drop the suitcase he'd been lifting through the door. The young man was just the age of an awkward step from high school to college. Probably around 18 and a half. The Shadow dropped his golden eyes to the young man and scowled.

"Ms Adams has not got time for mistakes, pick that up and don't come near to dropping it again or I will have words with your superior." His voice was quiet but firm and quick paced, leaving no room for misunderstandings. The boy responded with a pump of adrenalin that shot him off with a nodded apology into the next room.

The Shadow turned, refusing to look again after the elder sister and instead headed for the younger's room. Heather. He smiled, back on task, as he approached the door behind which he could hear her young heart beating. As he reached the door, he slid a palm down the wood grain before fitting the door knob into his large palm. He could almost taste her hot blood. Then he pulled his hand from the door knob, adjusted his suit jacket and pulled a pair of glasses from one of his pockets. He put the glasses on and suddenly his appearance had shifted, there was a bookish disarming quality to him now. He knocked on the door hesitantly and looked around. As he listened to the girl inside move toward the door, the Shadow pulled a paper and pen from another pocket and wrote the number 15 on the paper with a 0 that looked suspiciously like a D on the end of it. The Monarch suite was floor 15, the room he was looking for was 15D, actually floor 1 room 50. The door in front of him opened, revealing Heather.

The girl's silky waves were tousled from recently pulling a sweatshirt over her head. The sweatshirt was navy blue and suggested the supple limbs and body beneath it. He heard the blood pulsing beneath her skin and felt his pupils dilate and swallowed his saliva. She wrinkled her brow as she looked up at him, not recognizing.

"Buon Giorno," he said copying the look of confusion, his voice betraying a nervousness appropriate for a young foreigner. "Parla Italiano?" He hurried on when he saw her surprise, her frown was straying toward a smile. "I'm sorry," He said, accented with Italy, "I am lost, I am looking for room 15 D?" He held the paper out toward her.

The girl laughed and shook her head. "You're way lost." But she took the paper any way and looked at it, "Oh, this is floor one, room fifty."

"One hundred fifty," he leaned over, careful to go just far enough into her personal bubble to hear her breath catch and looked at the paper. "Merda. Mi dispiace. You are very kind. I cannot believe I misunderstood."

She grinned at him again, "Where you from? Italy?"

"Yes," He smiled, "You have a good ear. But I'm afraid I am intruding in your flat."

"Not at all." The girl grinned and pushed her hair casually over her shoulder, sending the wavey mass swinging hypnotically. Shadow smiled back. There was a momentary pause where they looked at each other and he felt a skitter of triumph, then, choosing his words carefully, he asked.

"You wouldn't mind helping me find my room?"

"No, I would love to!" Heather's open face lit up, and she ran back toward her bed, "Just let me grab my shoes." She slipped them on and was back in a moment. She slipped passed him and he snagged one of her key cards off the table next to the door to her room. "Sorry, if we can just get by the security guards we'll be fine."

"Why are they here?" He asked as she directed him to the service elevator and they slipped through the doors that had just opened for Sam flights below. The doors closed and Heather smiled at him, with a slightly apologetic though intelligent tone.

"For my mom, she's kind of a movie star."

"A movie star? You mean Hollywood? Major Motion pictures?"

Heather turned and put her hands on her hips tilted her head coyly. "Don't tell me you've never heard of Hollywood."

He grinned and through up his hands in mock helplessness. "I'm an art student, I know Venizia, Milano, Firenze, Boticelli, Da Vinci . . . Pizza." She laughed at him. He glanced up at the count down to floor one, six floors to go.

"You're an art student. What are you doing in Seattle? It's definitely not an art center. Is it?" She let her eyes drift down him as he brought his gaze back to her face. "Where's your luggage by the way?"

His lips quirked up. "My luggage was lost by the airlines in my transfer between airplanes in New York City."

"Oh. Suck! I'm sorry." Her face slid into a sympathetic look, eyebrows drawn in across her smooth forehead.

"Suck?" he laughed, playing confusion to such an apt colloquialism.

"It means, that's bad." She explained delightedly.

"Yes." He let their eyes catch for a moment, noticing her heart rate change again. He registered her harmless flirting as girlish fun, and smiled again. So easy. "I didn't come to study art. I came to Seattle to paint the landscape. The Pudget Sound and the mountain forests are beautiful."

"Totally. I wish my mom would let me come visit my sister more often. She lives up here, you know. But my mom, the movie star. Parents are crazy enough without being famous."

"I imagine." He said as the doors spilled them onto floor one. They meandered down the hall looking for room one fifty. But not looking overly hard, until finally he said, in response to a question. "I haven't painted many portraits. Though I haven't seen many people that I wanted to paint. But," he stopped opposite her in the hall, "I would love to paint you."

"Me?" She smiled and he felt her heart rate jump a little as he lifted a hand.

"May I?" He asked. She nodded and he touched her hair, smoothing it behind one ear and allowing his finger to trail down her jaw. "You have such a beautiful face. Faccia bella we say in Italian. It would be an honor to paint."

Her lips were twitching up at the corners, and a flattered hush glided over her cheeks. "You'll need your supplies. Besides, it's getting dark out and raining."

"I have been here, to paint in Seattle before and there is a studio I know, that would allow us to rent a room--" he saw the shift in her intelligent eyes and he backpedaled. "No, no, no," He walked off a little "Stupido!" He whispered seemly chastising himself. "that is not what I meant. Per favore. I only meant that it is a place with painting supplies and a space in which to paint out of the rain and away from your mother, if you like. I am--" he turned away again, with frustration and back to her, "I did not mean to sound . . . to sound . . . come si dice?"

"Like an ass." The girl ventured.

He allowed himself a sheepish grin. "Yes. Like that. Like a pig."

"Well, I don't even know your name."

"I am Demitrio Mancini."

"Heather Adams." They shook hands. And neither pulled away. "I have to warn you," she said, with a girlish grin, "Since my mom is famous, there's a good chance you'll get some publicity out of this."

"Do you think I cannot handle that?"

"I'm only warning you, Demitrio."

He smiled as she used the name he'd given her. "If you are comfortable, I am."

"I'm annoyed with it. Does that make you annoyed too?"

"Heather," he noticed her heart beat change again, "I'm not concerned with the little things that get in the way. Rain can be an inconvenience, but it can also be beautiful. Perhaps people knowing where you are is not such a bad thing."

"You're crazy." She laughed.

"Would you like to go now?"

"But I just got off a plane, I'm a mess."

"Heather, are you familiar with any country music?"

"You listen to country." She sounded disbelieving, but like she just might believe if he gave her a good enough reason. Little sparkles danced in her eyes as she folded her slim arms across her chest. Her hair slid in those big curls, framing her face as she lifted an eyebrow waiting.

"There's a song by Diamond Rio called Beautiful Mess... this, mia cara, is what you are in this moment. A beautiful, beautiful mess."

"Ok, ok, ok!" She laughed, "you win, let's go paint a picture."

As they reached the second elevator on the floor, and stepped inside Heather slipped her hand through his. The Shadow smiled at their reflection in the door. And drew Heather's attention to it, "It will not always be like this," he said, "Let [your] mind take [this] photograph . . . something to wear against [your] heart in the long cold."

She looked up at him and smiled her open smile. "Did you just make that up?"

He laughed. Tonight would be deliciously fun.

The protest got out of hand, and Samantha was fairly certain that the people realised that it was their own fault. Panic did that. A crowd was a dangerous thing, and when that one individual took it too far, the effects were like locuss. They changed, they turned violent and single minded, destroying everything in their path, following the absent leader while attacking the very men and women they blamed for their own lack of protection. Hearing it on the radio...angered Sam. It wasn't an emotion she was well familiar with. Annoyance, pain, sorrow, those were all common, as well as a soothing absense of all else. But anger... she felt as if a thousand bees were in her chest, buzzing as one, creating a hot flow to take the course of her veins with the urge to do... something. Shout. Make them realise how foolish they were. Demand for action. She wasn't a violent person, but there were times when Sam didn't know what to do or feel that would be appropriate otherwise.

But maybe her mother would finally see that the city wasn't safe. Maybe she and the other sunglass wearing bunch would leave until this was all over with? It was doubtful.

Their ambulance pulled up to the Seattle Art Museum, ridding the curb until they were on the sidewalk besides SAM; the giant sillhouette of a man with a hammer. The police closed the streets down, red and blue lights flashing as they blocked the intersections and formed a barrior around the cobbled street entrance of Pike Place. Protesters were sitting on the curb, some with zip tie handcuffs behind their backs, others in the vehicles that couldn't show any restraint or prooved to be hazardous to others. But Sam's attention shifted those sitting furthest away from everyone else, lying prone on the ground with one ambulance already in the process of delivering first aid.

Sam hit the curb the moment Sean stopped the ambulance, leaving the passenger door wide open for a timely exit when the need arose; stopping only a moment to open the side compartment that held their medical bag. Two cops were waving at their direction to get their attention, and with a surprising amount of speed for being as exhausted as she was, Sam quickly closed the distance her patient. "Who do we have here?"

"His name is Jim Waynes. 34 Male. Was sitting in his car durring the riot and was mistaken for an officer." His shirt was dirty and torn, ripped away at the shoulder as if someone had grabbed a handful of it while he tried to run; hints or bruising around the neck suggested that he instead tried to pull away from whomever responsible. Bruises blossomed over his body, blood soaked through his clothes, and black blood pooled from his stomach. Sam did a quick check for spinal injuries, before motioning to Sean who quickly the male officer out of the way to kneel at Jim's feet, while speaking to the patient. "Do you remember your name sir?" The knees were angled up as the man simply blinked, mouth working with little attempt to make a sound. Sam pulled out a pair of scissors from her belt, cutting away the shirt to expost his stomach and sighed through her nose to settle his nerves. He had been sliced across the stomach with a knife; apparently these protesters had much more violent whims then they were trying to play off. Who opposes violence with violence?

Sam cut away the clothing, exposing the stomach and the prodruding organs. The smell that hit her nose was coppery, hot, but clean from any immediant infection. She tore open a bandage, withdrawing a saline solution from her bag to coat the sterile dressing before applying it over the rip in his stomach. Sean was already pulling out the occlusive dressing to help retain the moisture and warmth of the wound, something that looked a little like aluminum foil, or like a sheet of a space blanket. Oxygen was provided, a second dressing applied over the first, and then taped down on the body to keep it all in place. With a grunt Sean was back on his feet, racing towards the ambulance to retrieve the gurny while Sam gave one of the officers instructions. "He's going into shock, get that gurney over here." The man stumbled to his feet, before racing towards the ambulance, opening up the back doors just as Sean was pushing one of the twin gurneys out the back. His partner, the woman, slid up to Sam without being asked. "Hold your hands here." She didn't flinch from the blood that transfered from Sam's gloves onto her own. "Don't press, just keep in place. Jim?"

The man blinked, shifting sketchy eyes towards Sam as she offered him a reassuring smile that made her pale blue eyes almost glitter with encouragement. "My names Samantha. Do you know what happened?" There came another grunt that she took for acceptance. "Were you with anyone else?" A slight shake of his head, while Sam began to withdraw a needle and hooked it up to an IV, before taking the man's hand, and offering another comforting squeeze. "You'll be just fine; I know it hurts but we'll get you to a hospital very soon. I just want you to speak with me until then alright?" A clearer sound escaped, like gravel was lodged in his throat. She pressed the needle into his wrist, a quick hot sensation that would have been easily ignored through the rest of the pain he was suffering. The iv, now connected to the man's arm, began to drip saline into his body; a cogulant and salt mixture that would help replace the blood loss until he got to the hospital. The woman officer took the bag as Sam shifted it over, keeping it elevated so that the flow stayed constant.

The gurny reached them in that same moment, the siren from the first aid car began to wail and chitter as they pulled off the street with another car rushing to replace the first. Sam shifted, watching Sean's eyes as he possitioned himself at Jim's feet, and nodded when he was ready. With years of practise they lifted as one, shuffling a few inches to their left to settle the man on the gurny as the female cop moved with them and continued to hold the saline bag. Sam and Sean raised the stretcher, the legs locking before she reached back to take the saline from the cop, keeping it elivated as they rushed the man to the aid car. She reached it first, climbing in the back and hooked the bag onto a "s" hook at the ceiling, where she locked it in place as Sean pushed the gurney into the back; legs collapsing at the half-bend, and then locked in place.

She took his pulse, she and Sean speaking numbers and percentages that made the male cop blink, but they both nodded as they recieved the news from the other, punching this information in a screen clipboard, before sending it to the hospital. Another shout, which turned their heads, and woman cop was waving at them again. "I got it." She jerked her head at the male cop, who jumped into the back of the ambulance, to move up towards the passage that allowed him to take the driver's seat; starting the engine to life. "Go Sean; you're a faster driver than I. Hurry back quick." He grunted, hardly taking his eyes off of the patient before she jumped out, closed the doors, and locked them in place. With a jog towards the passenger door, she shouted to the cop over the wail of the siren. "Take Fourth to Senica! Don't yield!" The door closed, and she pounded the side before it moved forward, wailing off in the distance. The hospital was only a few miles away, in less than ten minutes the man would be on a table in the opperating room, and, if they had reacted quickly enough, would survive his ordeal.

"What a beautiful mess, what a beautiful mess I've made/ spending all my time with you /There is nothing else I'd rather do. /What a sweet addiction that I'm caught up in,/ cause I cant get enough/ Can't stop the hunger for your love. /What a beautiful, what a beautiful mess I've made" -Diamond Rio

He put on his sunglasses before they left the Hotel Andra. Outside, photographers snapped photos from their faces and rattled questions against their jackets like children.

"Hey Heather! Heather Adams!" "What're you doing?" "Who are you?" "Who's this guy?" "What's the story, Heather?" "Hot!" "What's his name?" "Where're you from?" "Where are you going?" "Hey, Heather, don't drive away!" "C'mon throw us a bone, Heather!"

"Shut up, guys," she laughed, "give us a break. He's a family friend." She climbed into the cab door that the Shadow held open for her. He turned back to the reporters, pulled down his glasses and felt the flashbulbs full in his golden eyes with a snide smile hovering on his face. Then he pushed the glasses back up, the press wheels would be turning now. He saw a couple of the photographers snatch their cellphones and begin hasty calls as he dropped into the seat of the cab next to Heather. She was giggling and watching the paparazzi out the back of the cab as he gave directions. For her benefit, the shadow added an "I think" to the end of the address.

The rain outside faded into a drizzle as the day slowly edged toward evening. Before actually going up to the studio, the Shadow took Heather for coffee at an out of the way shop while they waited for the ferry to take them to Port Townsend. He watched her face on the ferry ride as she pressed it into the wind at the front of the ship, drizzle drops pushing on the soft skin of her cheeks. Her smile wide open as she watched the gorgeous coast lines in the Sound slide by. And un-drunk cup of coffee steamed and finally grew cold in his hands. He didn't want any flavors to spoil his fun.

At Port Townsend, he steered them to the Akamai art and glass supply shop and let her help him pick supplies while explaining what was what to her. They got an easel, a canvas, a sketch book, acrylic paint, brushes, and pencils And she helped him cart the equipment just down the street and upstairs to the art studio he'd mentioned.

He paused at the door as she went in first. He needed an invitation if he was going to kill her. It wasn't technically her house, but he liked the feel that the invitation created in him.

"What are you doing?"

"Waiting to be invited."

"Invited?" She laughed at the look on his face. "All right then, Demitrio Mancini, please come in and paint me."

"With deepest pleasure."

While he set up the easel, canvas and paints, she begged off to send a quick text message to her sister to let her know where she was. <Sam! Met dreamy italian art stdnt. He's painting me! In Port Townsend, 2328 W Sims Way. Luv u!>

He asked what she was sending and when she told him, he smiled. "It's good to let someone you love and trust know where you are." She giggled and shoved him playfully.

"Right, like a babysitter? You're crazy, Demitrio." She dropped her phone onto a stool and sank down where there were some pillows on the floor. The Shadow had set the easel up so he could see this side of the room. She sighed and turned to look at him. "I'm worried about her. Sam is being even more over protective than usual. Plus she's exhausted, you should have seen her face. And when she was in my room on my bed? I thought she would pass out! Right there!"

"What is your sister," he pretended to struggle for the word, "her job? Is she a movie star like your mother?"

"Sam?" Heather laughed, "She would poke out her eyes before she was in a movie. No, she's paramedic."

"That is why you want to be a nurse? To be like her?"

"Partly," She smiled and sprawled out the way a fourteen-year-old ought to, her hair dipping over one shoulder as she tilted her head and leaned back on her hands. There were still drops of drizzle hanging on strands of her hair like on the fine silk of a pretty, new spiderweb. Delicate he thought as he tapped a brush in rhythm to her heartbeat. "My father was a Doctor," She continued, "He saved so many people. He could have done anything with his degree, but he helped people who couldn't pay him back. He had a private practice that was open to the poor and all kinds of other things. He was always helping people." Her tone had turned somber.

"He was." The Shadow probed.

"He died two years ago. They never found his killer."

"So you want to be a nurse to continue his work?"

"Yeah, kind of," She smiled again, "I want to help people! But I think I want to do it in the army, that way I can see the world."

"Do you know of the peace core?" He asked as he began to sketch her. They were preliminary drawings for his masterpiece. Two deeply contrasting pieces.

"The peace core?"

He smiled up at her and began to tell her about the future she would never have.

He spent a good fifteen minutes sketching her out. Before moving to the canvas. She protested her clothes being sweatshirt and jeans, she protested her hair being scraggly from rain. She protested, being with so little makeup. But he would look at her over the top of the easel, send her a classic smile and tell her she was beautiful. She ate it up and continued to tell him about her life and what she wanted to be. Pouring out her soul before he took her life. The painting didn't take more than an hour to create. Maybe an hour and a half. It was perfect. Finally he took a pen knife from his jacket pocket and scratched across the top of the image. "What a beautiful mess I've made" and in the bottom right hand corner, signed "The Shadow".

"La ombra," he said out loud and stood back from the painting.

"Are you done?" Heather's voice took an excited leap.

"Half Finished." His golden eyes found her over the top of the painting. "Do you want to see it?"

Her face lit up. "Yes!"

"It is a mixed media work. So the rest of this will not be in paint, but other medium within the room." He feigned embarrassment and she tittered with girlish flirtation. His insides were beginning to boil. Her heart rate was quickening and he had been inhaling her pheromones for hours. He finally allowed the thought of her blood to range in his mind. His pupils dilated and he watched the skin on her neck flutter just over her jugular vein. He dragged his tongue over the points of his canines. --A beautiful night for this-- he thought, listening to the rain begin to pound on the roof--what a sweet addiction, I can't get enough, can stop the hunger for your blood . . . --

"I don't care, I want to see!" She smiled and looked at him as he prepared to turn the board. Her intelligent eyes caught the change his thinking and sensory awareness was causing in him. He sensed her heart rate jump again as her body sent her a shot of adrenalin that she didn't fully understand. He saw the confusion warring with the fear across her open face. Her eyes flickered back to the easel that was turning. She understood that the change had to do with the picture. He forced his undead body to turn it largo, painfully slowly. And he watched her body go completely still with the exception of her pounding heart and shocked open face.

A fawn in the headlights. She stared at the image, unable to look away. Her face, open but still with unseeing eyes, stared back from the top of the canvas, below the face was the rest of her body mangled, ripped, raw but bloodless. Her skull sat at the bottom of the stack. The pillows beneath the mess were stained and the wall, but only cursory and her face was completely clean.

Her eyes slowly filtered back to the Shadow's face. "Where's my blood?" He said nothing. "Where is it? The limbs are grey, the walls are only spattered, barely. Where's my blood?" A smile twitched the corner of his lips, her intelligence was . . . blissfully tantalizing. "Where is it?" Nothing. She screamed, "Where the FUCK is it, you sick . . ." He smiled and his fangs plunged down. The silence stretched taut. He could see her brain turning. Her eyes flicked to her phone, a foot away. He looked too and frowned, to make her believe he didn't want her to call and broadcast her death moments before it happened. His stillness became supernatural as he waited for her to move. Her chest rose and fell and her heartbeat seemed to ring aloud; the only heartbeat in the room.

She streaked up and snatched the phone, running for the window. She hit speed dial as she ran and held the phone as it rang. she pushed the window. "Open, open, open!"

The Shadow went for the lights. Inky blackness slammed the space. Street lights lit up Heather's face. The room was dark. The phone rang three times. Voice mail. Heather's breath caught. Her eyes filled with frightened tears. She banged the window. Screamed, "Somebody!! Help!! HELP!" The street was empty. "SAM!!!" She screamed at the phone. "SAM!!! Help me! please, please!" she sobbed on the phone. Pressed its battery heat on her cheek. It slid on her wet skin. Her hair caught on her face. "He's a vampire." the words were crazy, she knew she was crazy. "He's going to kill me, SAM!!!!" The name ended in a scream as he snatched the phone from her hands. His own hands trembling with anticipation. Her blood smell was getting to get to him.

"I'm going to kill you." He said and closed the phone.

She scrambled to her feet and ran for the door. He followed her deliberately, slow around the room. Getting closer and closer, herding her until he could no longer take the torture he was putting himself through. He needed her blood. So he backed her against the wall, just where she had started. The painting was behind him. She was in front of him. She was just reaching peak fear and his senses were going off. He was losing control. But she hit exhaustion and her expression, the slope of her shoulders changed. It reminded him of something. He could not think what, but the fun was not seeping away. Her exhausted expression, determined to not give in--what was it?--

At his hesitation, she reached up and pulled her hair away from her neck, heart still pounding. His eyes locked onto her jugular and he slid his hand up under her chin, tilting her head away from her neck. His right hand smoothed down her neck over her shoulder, exposing the expanse of pale flesh. He dropped his mouth to her neck.

She kneed him in the groin: HARD. His mouth opened in a silent scream and he let go of her, cursing that still very human aspect of his state.

And she bolted for the door. It was locked. She dragged it back and forth, realizing that they were swinging doors that were not attached to ceiling and floor. She pushed them far far out, straining against the lock and hinges. Heather grunted and pushed, banging on the metal. "C'mon!" There was a space between the doors, but not big enough for her. She kept pushing and wedged her leg in the hole trying to force it open.

After several seconds ticked by. He pulled himself back up to a standing position and watched her while he let his throbbing pals settle down. She was stuck in the door. He walked to her. and seized her by the upper arm. She stared him in the eyes, with her own firm, accusing, gaze. Her anger and exhaustion stamping her fear. He ripped her from the door, breaking her leg. She screamed and big her lip. Her breath hiccuping, but she didn't cry. He dragged her in front of the portrait and threw her down. Bending over her, he sank his fangs into her neck, without ceremony, his plans forgotten, and began suck her blood.

By the time Sean returned, Samantha felt the exhaustion from before, nearly tripple. She sat on the curb, her elbows resting on her knees, head bowed as she watched the police finish their work and a clean up crew began to wash the blood away from the curbs and where ever it splattered. She had some on her uniform, smeared acrossed her left bicept, across her chest and bits dried on her cheek where she had smudged it on accident. An empty styrofoam cup that once had coffee sat on the curb beside her, the lip torn where she had busied her hands with tearing off pieces and steadied it with a rock to keep it from blowing away. Her apartment was four blocks North off of Virginia, over looking the Market. She contimplated walking... but didn't budge.

Her ambulance pulled up just a little before where she sat, and slowly Sam climbed to her feet, using the bumper for help. She offered Sean a meek smile as she moved to the passenger's seat and opened the door, climbing onto the lip before pulling herself in by the leather strap that hung down by the door frame. "You made it, Kid. We've got relief from Lynnwood, Edmonds and Tacoma. Looks like we can enjoy three nights off to remember was sleep is." The words were heaven, and Sam groaned as if to savor the words and closed the door before buckling and leaning her head against the cool glass. "God, those are words I love to hear."

The drive to the firestation was uneventful. They pulled up to the garage and got out, chatting with some of the new faces and the more familiar, reassuring the nervous, before drifting off to the showers to clean up and change. It was when Sam was removing her uniform that she noticed Heather's IM, and found herself slightly puzzled. An art student? Of course the first thing that came to mind was another highschooler, someone a little older, and why it didn't really worry her, it didn't settle as well as she would have liked either. And Port Townsend? Why the hell was she going there? A relief fluttered through her stomach. It was out of Seattle... but something didn't feel right.

Sam ignored it, but Sean knew how to read her, and it was impossible for her to lie; even if her life depended on it. "You alright?" They were both walking to their cars now, a sweater hanging across Sam's arm, and her messenger bag over her right shoulder. "Yeah... she's a smart girl..." A brow shot up as her lips pulled in another frown, and Sean stopped walking. "Who?"

Sam glanced over her shoulder, stopping, before slowly turning around and sighed. "Heather. She met some boy and... I don't know. She's in Port Townsend... I don't understand why the hell she decided to go all the way over there... it's just.... but she left me an address." And she was worried, because with everything that was going on, her sister was now doing something crazy that normally she might have simply sighed and shaken her head about. It was gnawing at her guts, and unable to help herself, she lifted her phone to read the message again. "I think something's wrong."

((Enter Character #2))

Conan Henley: Male. 29 years old. 6'3''. 200lbs. Blue-grey eyes. Black hair. Avid Seahawks and Thunderbirds fan. Attended naval academy. Drives a green '95 Jeep Cherokee. In his jeep radio: Queen. On his PC: hotmail, porn, itunes, encyclopedia brittanica--open to seventeenth century Turks. Not married. Plays well with other children . . . usually. Tattoos: two, prayer hands over one shoulder blade and a tribal dream catcher on the back of his right hand. Half Skagit Indian and half English. Native to Seattle. SPD. Homicide Detective. High solve percentage on his cases, 89%. Moderate Complaints. Reports read: Intelligence, creativity, mistrust of authority--but surprisingly acquiescent to authority, friendly, good team player, mostly liked and respected, hard-worker, hard-player. Wounded three times in the line of duty: Two gun-shot wounds on two occasions (two taps to left shoulder, one to right torso, broken ribs and collar bone), hit by a get away car, broken femur, bruised ribs.

"Let's pull him," The Captain muttered and tossed Henley's file on top of a pile of pull files.

Detective Conan Henley: pulled from Homicide to Major Crimes since the Shadow's "reign of terror" has forced the local government to take emergency measures.

"That's the final list?" Susan Reiswig picked up the stack to process the personnel switches.

"Final list, Susan. Take them down and transfer them over. I want these guys working around the clock. The mayor is putting pressure on the commissioner who's putting pressure on me. Therefore: pressure on you. Get it done. Yesterday."

"Yes, sir." her eyes caught the name on the top file. --Detective Henley. She imagined the grin stretching across his face as he read the reassignment memo.

"What are you standing around for? Go!"

She did.

"Jesus Christ."

The door slammed behind Susan as she clomped around the corner to her office in her boots. Boots her mother convinced her to buy: "they'll keep out the cold and be classy". She'd bought the ones with the wider heel, afraid she'd fall over in anything skinnier. Result? They clunked. She typed Henley's memo first and slipped the paper into his box.

Two hours later, Henley came out of interrogation with a scowl on his face. No dice it seemed. Henley streamed by the the boxes and threw himself into his desk chair. Once there he grabbed the stress ball that floated around the top of his desk from its current spot under some papers. The ball, squeezed, squished pink and purple out between his fingers. He stopped and just held the ball, it strained in his grip as his brain worked. He stopped; his brain hurt; and tossed the ball back onto his desk.

"What a waste."

"Yea, that girl just threw her life away." His partner, Jake Kidd, sat down across from him and grabbed the case notes to begin typing up his report.

"No, what a waste of us."

"What?"

"Did you see how fast we closed that case?" Jake shrugged his shoulders, driving Henley to his feet. He hushed his voice so it wouldn't carry. "It's not just one more solved case, Jake. How many have we put away this week alone, this month? We could be doing something really worth while, something, hard. Something that needs guys of our intellect. Right?"

"What, like the Shadow cases?"

"Sure, what the hell ever."

"Bored."

"Damn straight, I am." He sat back down. "Damn straight."

Jake shook his head and turned his eyes back to the screen. Susan shook her head too, watching from her office. Henley could be single-minded, and he never got his own mail. She got up and grabbed the memo. Clomping across the room to his desk, she dropped it onto the mess spreading like an infectious disease across his deskspace.

"Hey, Sue." Jake said, giving her a wide-open smile. She smiled back.

"Hey, Jake. Henley, you've got a memo."

"Just put it on the desk, Sue, thanks." Henley grabbed his stress ball again.

"Bad case?" She asked, looking from Jake to Henley and back.

"Nah, it's closed," Jake said. "Henley's just a sore winner, can't seem to get his head out of his ass."

Henley grinned and chucked the ball lightly at Jake's head.

"Well, maybe you should take a look at the memo then. It's not a bad one."

"If it's from HQ and it's not a transfer, it's a bad one." Henley looked up at her and grinned. "Every time."

Susan stuck her tongue out and clomped back to her office.

"Hey, it wouldn't kill you to be nice to her."

"Wouldn't kill you to ask her out."

"You gonna read it?" Jake started typing again, but stopped when Henley didn't answer. He looked up. Henley was reading it, silent. Eyes open, mouth open, hell he might have been drooling too. "What?"

"It's a transfer."

"What?!" Jake snatched the paper. "They're pulling you off homicide and putting you on Major Crimes . . . Shadow cases. Shit." The form was official, everything in order, not a joke. Jake felt a little sick. Happy but sick, he didn't want a new partner. Mercifully at the bottom: Temporary, pending close of Shadow Investigations. "It's only temporary."

"Who cares?" Henley leaned back stretching. Then sat up, straight and dug his cell phone off its belt case. He dialed Tom Cavanaugh, head of Major Crimes. "Hey, Tom! It's Henley, yea, did you get the memo? I just got transferred to your command to help you boys out. Maybe bump up your solved case percentage." He grinned for a minute listening. "Yea, yea. Anyway, I'm just finished with a case, sittin' around twiddling my thumbs. You got anything I can work on? -- Hey who needs a personal life. I'll party this weekend, actually some of the girls from Vice are throwing a good one looks like: yea, Linda and Katie. I know right?" He winked at Jake. Jake got back to work. "Yea. Great! A lead, huh? Port Townsend, 2328 West Sims . . ." he snatched a pen and scribbled the address. "I'll check it out. Are there any uniforms down there? Ok, Francis. perfect, he's a good guy. Alright, I'll give you a call once I get the situation under control. ---I'm always careful."

He hung up. "I like Tom."

"Anyone you don't like?"

"The commissioner, the mayor, molesters, murderers, your mom--"

"Shut up."

Henley grinned, and then the grin turned grim. "See you later, pal."

"See you later," Jake replied--it was their standard, just in case something happened. They said it every time. This was no exception. Jake watched Henley walk out the door, jacket in hand. His phone buzzed. "Kidd, yea.---- Where?" Another Homicide.

Red and blue streamed in past the windows from the approaching cops, their sirens off in an attempt to sneak up on their prey, a man who stood before her like some great shadow. The occational passing flair highlighted his face, blood red, ghastly blue, then nothing, and even durring the moments of light she couldn't register what he looked like. Did he have a nose? All she could consintrate on where his eyes and mouth. What color were they? Was there any scarring? Wasn't she supposed to be paying attention to any of this? Adrenaline was rushing through her veins, adding a turbo fuel to her heart which was hammering in her chest in an alarming rate, as if it might break away from her arteries and break through the ribs of her chest. She should be scared... but she wasn't.

She was angry, heartbroken, and found that she wasn't able to breathe past the bile that was rising in her throat. She was too late, and it wasn't she that was paying for it. Heather was a heap on the ground, pale even in the absence of light that began to fill the room like a chill. "You... you killed her..." Samantha was surprised to hear the voice; it trembled in her ears, but began to grow in volume with a strength she didn't truely feel. She was suddenly startled to realise that it had been her own voice, and for a moment the world swam as she felt faint, stumbling back before catching herself on a rail.

She had to be dreaming. What was she doing? What could she remember last? The ferry... she had been on the ferry with Sean. Her partner taught her long ago to listen to her gut rather than her mind, and so the both of them caught a ferry the first chance they had. Sean brought her coffee... and then she recieved the message. "No..." She shook her head, lifting a hand to press her palm against her temple as she narrowed her eyes in consintration. The message... she had her phone in her pocket the whole time. The aviator's jacket she had borrowed from Sean was huge on her, and with the pockets it was easy to loose the phone. She hadn't even heard it ring; intuition simply told her to look... so she did. Again that panic for her sister raced through her as she remembered the terror in her sister's voice, and unable to help herself, Sam's eyes were tracking across the carpet to where the vampire had attacked her.

"She's a child..." Sam looked up, pale blue eyes started at what he had done before cold anger began to burn through her again. It ate at her heart, burning as she felt hate for the first time in her life, feeling the wave consume her until she was panting, struggling to breathe, turning her hands into tight fists that dug her nails into her palms until they bled. Vampire... Heather had said. Did she believe it? She didn't know. The adrenaline, the shock, the vertigo and trepidation... She took a step forward, and then closed the space in a blur, her fist pulling back before it raced forward, striking like a rattler as it bite into the Shadow's jaw in a sharp right hook. She was small, but she packed a good wallop.

"When faced with some unusual behavior, some unexpected event, some anomaly that doesn't make sense, how do we go about trying to understand it? The traditional approach has been to identify inherent personal qualities that lead to the action: genetic makeup, personality traits, character, free will, and other dispositions. Given violent behavior, one searches for sadistic personality traits. Given heroic deeds, the search is on for genes that predispose toward altruism" --Philip Zimbardo, The Lucifer Effect

The world might have stopped, but all he knew was the sweet heat of the girl's blood flooding down his throat, soaking his tissue, bathing him with the metallic tang of life. Intoxicated he continued to suck, like a babe pulling the life from her veins. Her struggle slowly dimmed and she lost consciousness, pulled to the swirling realms of--whatever afterlife existed--like bath water down the drain.

After what felt like both a blissful eternity and a moment acutely painful in it's shortness, Shadow pulled away from the body. It was still warm, but no life fluttered beneath those pretty dark lashes. He stood to better survey the body, his form making a true dark shadow, straight against the space. Ambient light from the window picked out his shape but no details. On the floor, her curls splashed away from her face and her limbs, still far from rigor, seemed to float in space. Drowned, he smiled, she looked drowned in air.

Blue light suddenly flashed across his face, red followed with clocked, circular regularity. Blue, red, blue, red, blue, red, blue. No sirens, the sound of rain, the smell of death, the taste of blood, the sound of tires, running, speaking, silence, the intake of breath before the break of the storm.

"You . . . you killed her . . ." Shadow heard the voice, rising in volume and intensity, and turned his head to the sound. There was neither a snap, nor a slow turn: one moment he looked out the window, the next at her. The move might have been made during the dark space between colored lights. His whole paradigm lurched. Unexpected, so very unexpected: There in the studio (he must have ripped the door open when he broke Heather's leg), with red and blue lights circling across her face, was Heather's sister. He could not recall her name, but her he recalled. The blue streak in her hair, the adrenaline pumped heart beat, racing in the darkened room. The exhausted tension that seemed to hold her body together like self-inflicted super glue. The determination. Her dark hair the same color as Heather's. The roomy jacket was new, and it didn't smell like her, but her comportment--Just before Heather had kicked him and run for the door her demeanor had been so very like her sister. He recalled it with amazement. It had affected him then, without even realizing why, from where, or what. And simply her presence affected him now, along with the memories of the other times.

The sister's voice trembled with rage, but suddenly she seemed to realize that it had been her voice echoing in the studio. He heard the blood rush back to her head as she stumbled against the rail that hugged the walls. Without looking at Heather's body, Shadow knew the inability to cope that was forcing her body to betray her. In this moment, exhaustion, fear, rage, knowledge of the death at his feet were in turmoil around her mind. His brow crinkled with concern, then further in surprise at his concern.

"She's a child . . ." Her pale blue eyes caught his, he was sure as the red light passed again across her face. In them he saw the rage taking over, and he heard her heart accelerate further. Her fists clenched and she began to move.

He didn't. As her fist connected with his jaw, enough to have seriously bruised live flesh, he didn't fight the force of the blow. He didn't. He let his body absorb the attack, twisting in reaction to the impact and catching himself shakily knees bent, above Heather's body. He felt . . . human. Utterly, human. His hair shaken loose over his forehead, his jaw aching, his head rattled. He glanced back up at her raging blue eyes in wonder at the anomaly. Why? Why did he feel so . . .

"Again." He said with vulnerable simplicity. "Hit me again."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"The night was a failure/ but why not-?" -D.H. Lawrence "First Morning"

Henley climbed out of his Jeep. Lights flashed against the rain-washed walls of the building. Windows set high caught the light and scattered it back into the street. He approached the nearest officer and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Henley, Cavanaugh called ahead for me. What's the situation?" He dug his hands back in the pockets of his coat, hood pulled up over his head, gun tucked into his shoulder holster, eyes sliding over the doors, the perimeter of cops, the windows.

"Two possible hostages and unknown number of perps. We think it might be one." The cop wasn't old, but he wasn't young either, and obviously not the one in charge. But he knew enough.

"Who're the hostages? Why only one? How long have they been there? Have we made any contact?" He fired the questions. The officer blinked.

"No contact, uh, only one because the original hostage claimed to be with one. And the original report from the paparazzi reported only. Original hostage, Heather Adams, has been here we believe for several hours. The second hostage, her sister, ran in just before we arrived."

"She ran in? Just like that?" Henley looked up at the building again, the drizzle created a fine curtain between them. "If it's him, she hasn't got a prayer." His eyes flicked back to the cop. "Who's in charge around here?"

"Well, before you, Grant." The cop nodded to another windbreaker clad figure gesticulating wildly twenty feet away.

"Thanks." Henley took himself over to Grant, legs sweeping like the second hand of a clock. "Grant, Henley."

"Yea, yea, one minute, pal." Grant was a woman, and plainly not in the mood for anything but business. "We've got to wait. If we go barging in there just now we could trip the whole situation down hill."

"Grant!" Henley leaned between her and the poor kid she was yelling at. "Grant, Cavanaugh called ahead of me, I'll take it from here."

Grant looked at him, considered and replied, "With all undue respect at this moment, you are a detective, Henley. Let me do my job."

"Grant." He demanded, "If you get up there right now, I may not have to do my job. If you wait, I can guarantee you, I will still be on this case working my ass off with the rest of Major Crimes. And as interesting as it is, no one, I repeat, no one wants it to continue."

"You don't know what's up there and until we do, we have eyes on all exits, he's not going anywhere. SWAT is coming, and we'll all sit tight until they do. I'm not blowing innocent lives, on your trigger happy need to complete a case."

"God, woman!" Tonight would be a failure, an utter failure, and why not?

Grant turned her back on him, a quick easy gesture and continued to look at building plans with her second.

Henley looked back at the building and flexed his left hand, seconds were going by and if they didn't get up there soon--the Shadow would be gone. He knew. He'd been following the cases files for weeks (he'd dated the girl doing the filing on the Shadow investigation, goddamn if that didn't come in handy). This guy was good, and if it was actually him up there. But there was just as much possibility that it wasn't him. It was almost a certainty that he was using flunkies. Henley blew out a frustrated sigh, Grant was right. Barging in there might be suicidal. But waiting could be just as lethal.

Blue and red lights rotated around the block. Henley's eyes followed the path of one blue pulse until it reached an ambulance on the corner. He'd seen it coming in but hadn't paid much attention. Now he noticed the driver pacing in front of it, sans jacket.

He wandered over and offered his right, tattooed, hand. "Detective Henley, SPD."

It was nausiating. The mix of adrenaline, fear, hatred and denial made her head swim, and knowing that she had hit the man responsible wasn't nearly as satisfying as all the movies and stories made it out to be. Hitting the Shadow didn't jump start Heather's heart. It didn't lessen the pain of loss or make her wake up from the macabre nightmare reality had drowned her in. But there was pain; and Sam was a familiar friend to pain. It raced through her fist, up her forearm and into her bicept, a strong ripple that clearly stated the lithe woman was stronger than she appeared. The punch hurt, it ached, but it didn't feel 'good' like she had hoped it would.

She felt as if an infection had found her heart, caused the soft tissue to swell and tighten until every natural pulse caused it to ache with sorrow. This was the sort of wound a knife could cure; cutting along the organ would hurt, but the pain would feel better compared to the infection, and the slice was all that she needed to release the foul fluids inside. Icore, black blood, the nasty and corrupt hatred that she's never felt before. It sickened her, and the man only asked for more.

And that voice... it tugged at things she didn't understand. Confusion washed acrossed Sam so quickly it made her dizzy. Was there remorse? He looked like an addict who knew what the end of the road was like, but couldn't find the will power to stop his obsession. It hit that nerve that wanted to give the man help. She couldn't take his addiction away, but she could give him the resources to get him on the right path again. Sam couldn't hate, not completely, and seeing the flaw in the man made her realise that he was just another human. Humans weren't perfect.

There wasn't forgiveness, however, and seeing him crouching over Heather like that made her want to protect her sister even more. You were too late, Sam... Tears stung her eyes, collecting in her lashes where they made the world a blurry mess before they grew too fat and rolled down her cheeks. She had been too slow. Her father, her brother, and now her sister, everywhere there was death, and her heart began to swell close to bursting with grief. Hit him again... it hurts, but it hurts less than everything else right now... He's asking for it. He deserves it. She couldn't. Sam was as still as stone, until the tremble found her knees and sent her crashing to the ground, closer to the man than she had liked, and while she knew this was a crime scene, that she shouldn't be touching the body or contaminating the scene... She couldn't stop herself.

It was an out of body experience. Sam's hand reached down to pass along her sister's cooling cheek and it was as if she were watching herself, somewhere three feet off to the side and looking down. Firm, soft, but dead. Never to flash a smile again, or to twist her lips in annoyance at Sam's aweful jokes. And that laugh... she was... Sam sobbed, the sound was soft and short before it stuck in her throat and melted away. Her hand pressed against Heather's cheek again, before passing through her curly hair and the thick tears continued to run, tangling in the dark lace of Sam's lashes, slidding down her cheeks to splatter on her shirt. Those pale blue eyes were nearly white with the grief, and shifted to find the dark man again. "Why...?" She croaked. "It's always them... never me."

* * *

Sean was pacing. His hands were folded behind his back, and the cement beneath his booted feet were becoming threatened with his path as if he were able to create a hole just with his irritation and worry. Sam ran a head; there was no way he could have stopped her, and he was wishing now that he had ran along with her. She was a sprinter; the woman was short but she had long legs that was able to cover distances quickly. She had been in track through school and college, making and beating records, which helped in emergency situations. He hoped it had helped now; that she and Heather were both up there, safe, and that the man responsible for this mess was suffering.

He wanted him dead.

His time in the war lead the man to dark paths that he didn't want to follow; but decisions had to be made. Promises, had to be kept... and his promise to keep Sam safe was ringing in his head. She didn't agree to violence. She did everything in her power to stop fights, putting herself in the line of fire to save lives. She had the scars on her body from two gunshot wounds, and several from knives; just to save a cop or pedestrian who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And now she had ran and placed herself in another dangerous situation, to save what family she had left; and Sean was at the front door, pacing like an impatient father.

It was one of the reasons he hadn't decided to be a cop when he got out of the Marine's. He had enough with 'hurry up and wait'. But here, he was forced to do it again, and the older man was very tempted to storm in himself and simply end this fight.

He didn't. An irritated face lifted to meet Detective Henley, the young man offering his hand out to Sean. His Red F-150 was parked illegally off on the side, an ambulance with it's engine humming at his back, and it was taking all of Sean's consintration not to hop in the cab and inspect the contents of the vehicles to make sure everything was where it should be. He was looking for someone to snap at, and get answers from. He hoped that this "Henley was going to offer some ease to his growing agrivation. He remembered enough patients to shake the man's hand, the grip stron, firm, but not challening. "Sean Pride. That's my partner who ran in there... what the fuck is going on?"