Sam opened her eyes to a world of haze. Exhaustion did that to you; when it burned so deep your body ached and your eyes blurred your vision. But with a soft groan she nodded her head, pushing herself up to a sitting position on the couch. She hadn’t even made it to the bunk room, choosing instead to pass out in the common room where her partner Sean woke her now. She didn’t dare look at a clock, what difference would knowing the time make? Her last shift was well over twenty four hours, and she was certain that it would be dark out. Morning or night, it didn’t matter. Sam ached for sleep, and the few winks she collected were simply a wicked tease.


Just like all the others, the calm of the early evening was broken by blue and red lights. They swirled across the coldisack, highlighting the shadows that gave way to perfect lawns and children’s play sets. One yard had a bike leaned against the steps that led to the front door. Another showed a hose that was set up for the sprinkler; and the summers approaching heat. This was where the neighbors were all friendly, invited each other over for barbeques and birthday parties. Where the mother and father had good jobs, good kids, went on family vacations and drove nice reliable cars. It wasn’t the place for police cars, for the crime scene tape stretched around one white house and its perfect picket fence. Where tired men and women sipped from cups of bad coffee and muttered quietly to themselves.
It wasn’t new for them. The body was just like all the others. The woman was pretty, with long hair the color of honey and a flawless complexion. Her brown eyes were closed, her lips smiling, and her skin was bare on the matrices, body relaxed. Already the CSI team had taken samples, it was obvious she had died in the throws of passion, but Sam had the feeling that she hadn’t been aware of it. The woman was smiling… as if she was pleased. As if it felt so good, that utterly coming to a stop was okay. It left a sickening twist in her stomach, but she kept it in check, and flickered her pale blue eyes the color of icebergs, over to her partner Sean.
Sean was old enough to be her father, a Marine who retired and really never felt done. She knew he became a medic for unspoken reasons, ones that he wouldn’t openly discuss, but she predicted they had something to do with the war. He wasn’t a stranger to blood and violence, even before he became a paramedic. Now, face stoic, working with him the last three years helped her see that he was thinking the same as she. There were tight lines forming around his eyes, that military ‘blank’ stare that meant he was tucking himself in tight to stay alert and sharp. Mustn’t let the naked dead woman bother him. She was dead anyways. What harm could she do?
But it was that smile… it made Sam shiver.
“We’re done here.” John Culbertson was also ex-military; a tall thin man who had once been in the Army as an officer. Dark circles were clear under his eyes; it didn’t need the room full of detectives to figure that out. John Culbertson was head of this case at MCU, and with the amount of bodies he had under his belt, it was no wonder he wasn’t getting any sleep. It was the fifth this week: or was that sixth? With the weekend still in the distance, Sam was at a loss on how to feel.
Other then, of course, disgusted.
The gurney they had rolled into the house was sitting with it’s black body bag on top, off to the side of the bed. At John’s cue, they moved past the detectives and positioned themselves by the bed. Sean took the shoulders, the heavier end, while Sam slid her hands around the woman’s ankles and nodded her head. In unison, they hefted the body off the bed, and into the bag. That meant the smile was directed at Sam again. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep that shiver at bay, and distracted herself by carefully zipping the bag closed, and latching the body to the gurney for transport.


It was roughly three in the morning when Sam sighed, tilting her head back and looked up at the early morning sky. She couldn’t see the stars, obstructed by the city lights, but if she squinted her eyes and pretended the blurs were the small lights, it was enough to take some of the festering ache from her. “See you tomorrow?”
She turned her head, giving Sean a small smirk before nodding. The NYFD cap she was wearing lifted as she ran her fingers through her hair, before straightening it. “Wouldn’t miss it. Stay out of trouble, Boyo.” Sean grunted, before turning to the driver’s side door of his lifted red pickup. The engine roared to life as she sauntered down the street, away from the parking lot for the rest of the firemen and EMTs. She lived only a few blocks away: driving would be a waste. And with the shift she had just pulled, Sam wanted a drink.
Hal’s was the small hole-in-the-wall bar that most of the station and precinct visited. The man was built like an ox but as harmless as a lamb, and stayed open late hours for those who didn’t have the average nine to five. Sam settled herself into one of the barstools, stretching her tired legs out before hooking them on the rail of her seat. Normally she played a couple rounds of pool, or when Sean joined her, chatted it up with Hal and the usual clienteles of the place. Tonight was unusually empty, but she often enjoyed the silence.

Desmond was exhausted. For over a week he had been rushing through the streets of New York, at a pace faster than most humans could see. The rouges he had been sent to track had been running him ragged. Every night a new murder, every night a new trail of clues that all added up to nothing. Empty buildings, laughing voices, and echoing footsteps were all that greeted him when he even got close, which was rarely.

It was frustrating. As the main Enforcer Agent in New York for The Immortal Alliance it was his job to keep scum like this down. But this case was like nothing he’d ever seen before. Most vampires, especially the violent and unstable kind who would do something like this, were uncooperative, not wanting the company of humans, let alone other vampires. But this time they were working as a team, systematically plotting their next move with no regard to law or custom. It made no sense and the pressure from his superiors was mounting every day he did not find and kill the culprits. He knew that if he continued to chase shadows there would be repercussions for his failure.

When he walked past a large glass window of a department store, bright with frozen manikins modeling the latest fashions, he caught a glimpse of himself and had to stop. His face was bloodless, white and harrowed. His eyes, a deep brown were sunken slightly, but not bloodshot since most of his blood was consumed to fuel his body. His light brown hair had a windswept look like he had just driven from Chicago in a convertible and mach 5. His clothes, a professional black shirt, and fairly tight black slacks, were also in a similar state of disarray. He smiled viciously, sharp fangs momentarily visible. If he said so himself, he looked like death warmed over. He adjusted his clothes and tried to make his hair at least passable. No use walking around looking like a crazy.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had fed. It must have been almost a week, since the case began then. The dark hunger was rising like a snarling beast in his mind. But he clamped it down. Now was not the time. He was cold, even for a vampire, and discouraged from a week of wild goose chases. He had to go somewhere, somewhere he could remind himself of what he was protecting. Somewhere where everything wasn’t monsters and demons who killed for little more than for their own desire to watch everything fall.

But at this time of the morning (for it could hardly be called night anymore) there were very few places open where he might unwind a little. Convenience stores and abandoned grocers would not suffice. He walked at least six blocks before he found a bar that was still open. It was a small place, with a red neon sign that read “Hals”. It was probably his best bet. Entering he sat at the bar, imbibing the familiar scents of humanity, greasy food, booze, wood polish and… vampire? The familiar scent, what he had been tracking all week, came from somewhere in the bar. He ordered a drink from the hulking bartender, not particularly caring what it was, before he tried to trace its source further.

A woman with pale eyes sat on a barstool a few seats down. That was his culprit. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. Maybe this could be his big break. If she already had the scent of the rebels on her, maybe she was their next victim. Or, if she had been at one of the crime scenes she might know something. Either way, he decided to approach her. Even if she had nothing to do with the case, she might be good for a quick snack to curb his hunger.

He shifted a few seats down. In his best smooth voice he asked, “So what are you here for? If I’m lucky, it might be the same thing I’m here for.”

Sam slumped more than sat on the stool; her chin being held up by the palm of one hand, while the other played with the watermarks her glass left behind. She wasn't a heavy drinker, and the beer she had ordered was more from impulse then want. It proved to be entertainment for now. Probably, it would have been wise to simply head home; to fall into bed and close her heavy eyes. But, her life was work, and Sam was struggling to provide some sort of social life in between there. So far it still existed of those from work: policemen, firemen, detectives, even a coulple feds. Good people, but they were still part of work.

Moving to New York hadn't been easy. Then again, most things weren't.
Stiffling a yawn with the back of her hand, Sam turned to regard the male voice. She tried to smile; just a brief tug in either corner of her lips, but it didn't last long. He looked tired himself, but far more alert at this hour then she was. She didn't recognize him from the station or by passing in the hospitals: that in itself was a relief. A break from her reality was a welcome. "Just got off work." She started Monday, and if she remembered right, it was now Wednesday morning. No sleep in between, she thought she might have had food somewhere in between, but the first handful of hours were nothing but a blur.

Sam pulled her cap off, letting it drop on the bar besides her beer. Her hair was short; she had worn it long most of her life, but due to a fire at one of the crime scenes two weeks ago, she had lost several inches. One of the houses at the crime scenes ended up catching fire. While everyone was still in it. She and Sean had helped people out of the building; and the pony tail that was sticking out the back of her hat met flames. The cap had melted, as well as her hair, which was only a few inches long. It worked for her, though. And, on a whim, always trying to be optimistic, Sam dyed her bangs blue. She ran fingers through her hair again, still not quite used to the length. It was habit now, one she really wasn't fully aware she was even doing.

Her clothes consisted of jeans and a dark gray tshirt with the rolling stones tongue on it. It happened to be her favorite. She carried no purse; rather a messenger bag that was well used and army green, proudly sponcering the Bat symbol on the front in faded gray. This was down by her feet, resting against the stool, holding a few personal belongings. "Early? Or is it late for you?"

((If you're interested. Here's Sam's picture http://theminttu.deviantart.com/art/I-W ... n-40707283 ))

Desmond shifted on his bar stool, now one elbow rested on the counter while his body was mostly turned toward the woman. He swirled the dark contents of his drink idly inside the clear glass. Besides smelling of vampire and her own personal scent, she had a light hint of chemicals, ash, sweat and a hint of blood. It made sense; the cap next to her had the fire department logo on it. He thought a moment before answering her question.

“Late I’m afraid. I also come from work. So much work to do… It’s almost lethal. You yourself look as tired as I feel. What kind of job has brought this upon you? It must be simply brutal.”

He sipped his drink lightly, the burning substance slipping down his throat. He couldn’t afford to drink too much of it. Most liquid substances could be metabolized by blood, but too much would prove toxic just like for a human. He fixed his intense brown gaze on the slumped woman, waiting for a reply.

Brutal? That brought a true smile to her face; not the fleeting glimmer of something long lost. It was rare, infectious, and caused her pale eyes to shimmer. It took a few years out of her them, but slowly it melted away as she turned her attention to the beer, and then back to the stranger. "Paramedic. I work for the firehouse, just a few blocks from here." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, indicating which direction it rested. Really, it wasn't far away. If you were to stand in the door way, glance to the left facing the street, the caution light was just a stone's throw away. To the right, with a harder toss, you could possibly hit her apartment.
Bed was a seductive thought.
She passed her hand across her face shifting in her stool as if she could shake sleep out of her limbs, push it down into her toes to settle there. It sort of worked, list dust settling, moving helped disturb the peace, but slowly it settled in again. "It's been a long shift." Too many bodies. Too much blood and gore. I'm getting worn out, but there's far too much left to do... She didn't want to think how long it's been since she took a vacation; probably when she was still in highschool. Now, at twenty four and eyes that looked far more aged with an ancient soul, she was pushing at the fraying threads. Sleep... it would be wise.
"What about you? What do you do for a living that keeps you out so late?"

In his head he lightly cursed when he heard she was only a paramedic. A detective, or something along those lines, might have been a little bit more helpful. But that didn’t mean the company wasn’t appreciated. She worked hard to help other people, even though she was exposed to the worst of what the world had to throw at her. Like the murder just a few blocks away. He winced as he thought of the scene she had apparently just left. It had been a grisly murder and the chase after that even worse. Over half the city the chase had run, through back alleys, over roof tops and even below the streets for a bit. He had almost cornered the rat that did it, but the vampire responsible had managed to slip through his fingers like so much smoke. What irked him the most was that he didn’t even have a face to track down, no name, and only a sketchy physical description. His expression became distant for a second, mulling over the night’s events in his mind’s eye, suddenly snapping back into reality when she asked him what his job was.
The question amused him. He couldn’t possibly tell her the truth, so he resorted to his usual vague response.

“I find things. But lately things are becoming much harder to find. In fact, it has become nearly impossible. And my employers are getting impatient,” He was forced to laugh at the truth of that statement. “You do a tough job. Any memorable cases tonight?” He kept his tone one of polite interest, as if one was simply inquiring the time or the weather.

Here, Sam actually winced. Were there any memorable cases? She was going to see that smile in her nightmares, and once more it made her shiver. She didn't bother with the usual, 'do you watch the news', bit. Everyone has heard of the Bloodless Murders. At first they were assuming black market; maybe there was some new drug out there? A high want for blood? But the victem's blood types were at random, there was no steady pattern that would hint at a reason behind all of the madness. Just death. Just people, who lived everyday lives: From the most normal, such as the woman tonight; to the punks and goths who filled themselves with drugs and dark feelings. Surely it was a message. I can get anyone. Anytime. Anywhere. So far it was working.

"Bloodless Murders," She mumbled it against the lip of her beer, settling the bottle down after the slightest taste. She really wasn't that interested in the drink for the fluids; so much as something to distract her hands with. To occupy some part of her mind so that she wouldn't see that damn smile again. "I've worked the last twelve, actually..." He may have been calm and at ease, but her voice hinted at the exhaustion, the wish to regret. But maybe talking about it will help? Maybe, speaking them aloud, would keep the nightmares away?

It was a nice thought, but Sam found herself closing her eyes, hoping it might be true. It's been far too long since she's slept without nightmares.

His suspicion was confirmed. She had been working on the same cases that he himself had been frustrated with. But one thing he was shocked by was the number of murders. He had only found nine in his sweeps of the city. The rats had managed to pull not just one, but three other murders over on him. “Those…bastards…” He hissed, wrath rising. His rage caused his grip to tighten suddenly on the glass. With a sudden CRACK the fragile glass splintered in his hand before he realized what he was doing. Cursing as booze ran down the bar and shards of glass imbedded themselves in his hand, he searched in vain for a towel of some sort. The barman, seeing the spill, came over provided it a few seconds later. He mopped up the mess, discreetly removing some of the glass shards from his hand. It didn’t matter. The injury would heal in less than half a minute.

Sam jumped, not only because of the harsh words spoken in such a feral maner, but because the man had just crushed a glass in his hands. You only saw that sort of thing in the movies; yet glass sharps skittered through the air before tinkering to the ground. She blinked, long enough to sigh inwardly, curse, and wonder how the hell he did that. Or, more importantly, what encouraged him? She wasn't feeling anywhere as comfortable around the stranger now, and had to fight the urge to simple scoot to a stand and walk out. But he was bleeding, and she was a medic. There was an oath she made that Sam was, by law, bound to.
Instead of fleeing when she stood, Sam snatched the stranger's hand with grace. Her hands were small but strong, she looked like it would be easy to push her over but there was an inner strength that begged to differ. And weekly workouts at the dojo that taught the woman self defense. In her line of work, violence was often. She's been shot twice, stabbed a number of times, punched from people in all shapes and sizes. So getting close to a man who broke a glass in one hand was just something else to add to her list. She turned the palm to face her, lifting it so that it rested higher then his heart to slow the bleeding. She wanted a closer look at the wounds, to determined if it would need stitches or not. Wasn't she off the clock?

Desmond had been preoccupied with cleaning the bar that he had forgotten to watch the woman next to him, who he had observed out of the corner of his eye standing up, probably to leave. Who wouldn't after such a display? But just after he dislodged a rather sizable chunk of glass from his hand that fell to the floor with a barely audible clink, he found his hand being grabbed and raised by the woman. Pausing in his efforts with the stained towel, he turned his surprised gaze to the woman.

“What are you doing?” There was only innocuous question in his voice. Most of the superficial cuts on the surface of his skin had healed, leaving only the laceration in the center of the palm that still leaked blood. It had been deep, deep enough to require stitches for a human, but his flesh was quickly reducing it to nothing. It would take longer to heal, but not by much. He figured he had about a minute and a half before the woman saw something amiss. He intended to amiably extract himself from the bar by that if he could.

Sam blinked at him as if he were a simpleton. What was she doing? The man had just cut himself, and he was asking the medic what she was doing? "Don't be daft." She didn't even wince at seeing the slice in the palm. This was nothing. Stitches would be needed; but stitching a palm was rather difficult. The skin flexed and moved too much, making healing rather bothersome. She knew. When she had been shot the first time, the bullet shattered her clavical. It took nearly a full year to properly heal the wound; it still ached at times. When Sam was overly tired, when she was cold, the scar that rested there seemed remember the wound as if it were fresh. There was blood, not a lot but enough to smell the coper in the air. When you worked with it as often as she, the smell was very familiar, easily traced.
She snatched a napkin from the wicker basket that held them, curling them into a folded wad and placed them into the wound gently. She put pressure against it' not enough to force the wound wider from her makeshift patch, but at least to staunch the flow. "You'll need stitches -ah...sir." Her voice was calm, almost bland. While the current situation didn't bother her, it was clear how much she was immuned to it. "Come on, I'll stitch you up at the station. It's not far." She really want sleep.

For a second he looked at the woman like she was the crazy one. He had not required human aid for over a century, and certainly not for something as puny as these pinpricks. He was initially going to refuse her, in fact his mouth had already opened to say he was fine, the wound would heal on its own. But then it clicked. If he went to the station, perhaps the humans could have discovered something he missed. He had not seen one fourth of the crime scenes, perhaps the missing link was there. There was also the advance criminology techniques developed that might yield information. DNA and forensics was a field that had attracted Desmond. If he had even a scrap of hair, anything he could narrow down his search, and perhaps catch them. Besides, the woman looked like she was going to colapse so he doubted he would be chaparoned for long after his hand was taken care of. After surveying his hand thoughtfully for a second he nodded.

“That is a generous offer. I am thankful miss...?” He trailed off when he realized he did not know her name. He attempted to free his hand from her grip.

Sam had to think a moment before she was able to respond. She was a little slow; her body was low on fuel, and she was consintrating on if there was any red peaking from the napkins. "Sam Adams. You know... kinda like the beer." Horrid comparrison, but there it was all the same. Snatching her messenger bag off of the groumd, Sam shouldered the strap and instructed the stranger to keep his hand elevated above his heart. Wouldn't do to bleed over everything until they got there. She nodded to Hal, who winked back at her and shouted that she should take better care of herself; and doesn't she ever get a night off? Her responce was a scoff, as if the thought was foolish.
When they hit the fresh air outside, Sam sighed once more. It was better out here. Still, no stars, but three in the morning was a sacrid time of the night. It was quieter, the world seemed to buzz and breathe in stillness. She enjoyed it, even now, walking a few blocks down the street with an utter stranger, who was bleeding, and seemed rather strong. "So... what did the glass ever do to you?" A nice way of asking, 'what did you do that for?'

He nodded at the name. “Nice to meet you Miss Adams, I’m Desmond.” As she gathered her things he concentrated on following the woman’s instructions, keeping his hand above his heart and following her silently out of the bar into the inky gloom of the pre-morning darkness.

The night was peaceful here. The darkness was only punctuated occasionally by the orange glow of street lamps that twisted the colors of Desmond’s vision. The immediate area was silent, but in the distance he could hear all the little conflicts of the city, like the distant rumblings from the belly of some great beast. It was never at peace here. He should really get to the country after this nasty business was over. If it didn’t blow up in his face first. He followed her in silence for several yards, until the silence was broken by a question.

“The glass made disparaging remarks about my mother and called me a damned fool, which is true, sadly,” This comment was made in a totally deadpan voice. He glanced at his palm, which was mostly healed.

He should consider himself lucky; Desmond was able to drag two smiles off of her in one night. That was impressive, especially since she couldn't really remember the last time she truelly smiled. Work was rewarding, and she loved her job; but the woman was simply on the cusp of being burnt out, and with a certain approaching anniversary, she hadn't felt chipper and optimistic as per her usual. She felt goomy, weighted down, as if every morning it hurt just to get up.

But she smiled, even if it didn't last long, it still felt damn good. "Next time; try throwin' it against the wall. Saves yourself several stitches. I think the count is glass: two. Desmond: one." At least her sense of humor wasn't depleated.

From a patchy sidewalk, to a smooth paved driveway, she led the man towards the rear door that was brightfully lighted. She stopped suddenly, her hand outstretching to press against Desmond's chest, and pushed to instruct him to take a few steps back as she did. Just then the wailing of the sirens could be heard, and several ambulanced left the garage; followed by a fire truck close behind. The parade was quick; the new shift was starting off fresh, and with the responce she expected a fatality accident. Perhaps some appartment fire? They headed West; lights and sirens singing in the night. The moment they were passed Sam glanced over her shoulder to Desmond and started once again for the door.

Only Alex was left behind; the new 'black cloud', a young man of roughtly Sam's age, just begining his EMT training. The moment Sam opened the rear door she could hear him shuffling about in the kitchen, working on the meal for when the others returned. "Oy, Alex." She called out to give him a heads up.

After a moment, a tall, dark haired, bright eyes man peaked his head around a corner, flashing a grin an instant later before pulling himself back into the cubby. "Who's the guest?"
"Got in an argument with the glass who he didn't see eye to eye with. Going to stitch him up." His laugh could be heard, all in good humor, as well as the smell of spaghetti cooking. Sam's stomach cramped though she couldn't tell if she was hungry, or if she was far from it.

To Desmond, she led him to the common room; a large open space tucked away in the far corner, down a few twisting halls. There were a couple old pool tables set up, couches, like the one Sam had managed to catch some sleep on earlier that evening. A tv and radio nestled against the wall with a large display of used DVDs. Everything was hand-me-down, but well cared for and appreciated by everyone here. There was no trash laying around, no soda cans or signs of disrespect and abuse. It was on the couch Sam had slept on that she instructed Desmond to sit. There was a coffee table next to it; a wooden plank creation that could hold several rear-ends should seating become limited. Sam chose to perch here, while settling a medical pack she had grabbed in passing besides her. She'd be able to clean up the wound, stitch it close, and patch him up with everything inside the bag. Nodding once more, she offered her hand out to take his, so that she may begin.

Rowanoak sighed as he walked through the station aimlessly. He had been avoiding people the whole time. He was because he was bored and needed something to do and slipping around unoticed was a bad habit of his.

He walked down a hall and passed a metal cart used to carry blankets around in. The metal was shiny, he looked into, trying to find a reflection. Nothing was there. He sighed. Rowanoak wanted to see what he looked like. He wanted to know if his hair was tidy.

He pulled out a small digital camera and snapped a picture of himself. He checked it quickly. His golden blonde hair was nice, there wasn't any dirt on his tight fitted blue jeans. He reached down and brushed some hair from his shirt. It was black and had a large blue across his chest. No sleep in his blue eyes, a annoying trait he retained from his human life. He smiled, content with his appearance.

He quickly got around a man cooking some italian food. He hated italian food. He walked till he got to a room he figured to be a break room for the firemen. He walked across the room and turned on the radio, going through the channels till the room was filled with clasical piano. He stood there humming along. He didn't notice as a man and woman walked into the room.

Desmond chuckled as he followed Sam into the building. As they navigated the hallways he noted that all except the cooking person had left. Good. It would make his investigation much easier. He followed her dutifully through the stillness of the hallways and into what was obviously the break room he made sure that the wound would remain open at least a little bit by disturbing the new growth with his nail. No need freaking the woman out more than necessary. Instead of offering his own hand, Desmond looked around the worn room for a second. It had a homey feeling. He relaxed, the soothing strains classical of a piano playing in the background. Until he noticed a figure in the background that he recognized. “Well well... Back to old habits? I thought the last five times I had to bail you out were enough. Or have you suddenly decided to become a fireman?”

Row gasped caught. "Desmond?" He turned around and smiled at the man he knew for quite some time. He saw that he was with and woman and shifted his eyebrows in silent question. "No, I'd be a horrible firemen. I'm more likely the one to start the fires anyway." He bent over in a bow toward the girl. "I got bored again, so I broke in. What brings you here on this horrible day, Desmond?"

Then sun should have soon been painting the sky pink and orange and purple --but rain seemed more plausible. Sleepy looking gray clouds had began blotting the early morning sky, their edges seemed tinged with a reddish color as if they'd been drinking blood.

Blinda shivered though the air was warm. The cold was in her bones. She had remained all night at the grave, keeping a vigil as was tradition. Candle stubs flickered meekly at either side of the headstone--when she had started this vigil they had been as long as her forearm and as white as clean snow. Now, the stubs were barely the size of her index finger and looked like marshmallows that had been stuck over a fire; lopsided and charred black at the edges. A potted lilac bush stood in the center of the grave—her aunt’s favorite, and around it was a circle of salt for protection. But what good was protection now? What was she protecting here? Blinda sighed and looked skyward again, as if for an answer. The red tint to the clouds was gone now, and she wondered if perhaps her exhausted mind had imagined it. It wouldn’t have surprised her. Nothing would surprise her anymore.

They had started as stories when she was a kid. Just stories. Her Aunt would sit her down and tell her all sorts of them. Stories of how her mother had been forced to give her up to her Aunt. Of the powers her family possessed, and the duty that power granted them. Of the darkness of the world that they must keep silent. Of those who they must protect from this wordless darkness. She hadn’t realized until she was older—that this was her Aunt’s way of introducing the truth of the world to her. The truth of their world. Until her Aunt’s death, she had thought the darkness had all but faded. But that was just the ruse. The silence that darkness keeps as company kept it silent to even her family. Even to her Aunt.

Blinda knelt in front of the grave, muttering the words to protect, to keep safe, to ward off darkness. This was all she could do now. Why hadn’t she heard the whispers of darkness about that—that—thing? It no longer deserved a gender. It was just a thing. She resolved that she would not let it take someone else.

What her family was—had never been aptly named. Yet, throughout centuries when those of their kind were found they were hunted, hated, feared…they were often mistaken for witches or in modern times people might just label them as Wiccans or just plain strange. Blinda’s family allowed people to think what they would—so long as what they really were was kept quiet. And now she was the last of The Listeners. She was unsure if the name came from long ago—or if it was just how her own family had understood it. But now her ears were open for the songs that only a Listener could hear—the songs of the darkness.

Blinda rose stiffly, unsure of how long she had been kneeling, muttering prayers and encantations. She recited one more for good measure--one of revenge. She would avenge her Aunt. That much at least she could do. Blinda bowed to the headstone, "Good morning Auntie. I'll come back and visit again soon." she said and was slightly thrown off by how creaky and dead her voice sounded in her own ears. She blew out the candles, tucking her dark short hair behind her ears. She could feel it starting to become wavy from staying outside in the dewy air all night.Then, scattering salt from the pockets of her faded well worn jeans as she went she left the cemetary. She passed the groundskeeper on her way out the black iron gate, and he gaped at her with aged blue gray eyes. Blinda was sure she looked a fright from staying up all night. But she was too worn out to care much. She crossed the street with ease, glad for the early morning lull this area had at this early hour, and slowly began to pick her way back to the tiny apartment she and her Aunt used to share.

Desmond smiled lazily at Rowanoke. Nonchalantly he held up his hand which was still bleeding slightly. “I lost a fight with a glass, and Sam was kind enough to volunteer to bring me here and to patch me up. If you’re so bored that you have to go back to your old ways, why don’t you help me? Someone with talents such as yours would be helpful. Two sets of eyes are always better than one. And my eyes are becoming tired.” Not taking his eyes off Rowanoke he finally offered his hand to Sam.