SILENT ALL THESE YEARS by Valerie Meachum Sometimes I hear my voice And it's been here Silent all these years --Tori Amos Toronto, 1992: "Well, I'd better get to the airport," Nick said. "Thanks again for the news." "Of course," Janette answered with a slight smile, "I wondered why you seemed so distracted; Natalie is coming home from her vacation." When he nodded, a little sheepishly, she went on, "You worry too much. And I think you underestimate her, Nicolas. She will never forget, but she will heal." Nick gave her a quizzical look. "Why are you interested?" "Perhaps because you are. Perhaps because I understand." With a shrug, she continued, "Does it matter? Take my word for it, she will be fine." "Yeah." He didn't sound convinced. "But I think she needs to stay away from men she meets on her birthday." "Even you?" "Especially me. But I guess it's a little late to decide that now." "I'm afraid you're stuck with her," Janette agreed. "It's quite a talent with you." Studying her a moment, Nick finally replied, "I guess so. And Nat has a talent for hiding hurt--but you're the genius at that." "Ah, but do you worry about me like this?" "Always have," he answered. "Take care, Janette." "Always have, cheri." She nodded toward the door. "Go fetch Natalie." She took a long drag on her cigarette as he vanished through the door, reflecting briefly that she really had landed herself in a most peculiar position, one she would occupy forever. Anyone else, she supposed, would be jealous of the coroner's place in Nick's life, but Janette saw no point. Natalie was everything she was not: honest, generous, oddly innocent--and mortal. Someday Nick's time with her would run out; it nearly had a week ago, when she had fallen prey to the charming madman who had already strangled four women, so Janette could hardly begrudge it. But Janette was also all that Natalie was not, and for that reason had no fear that she would ever truly be replaced. She could always wait, and frequently had. And she always got her chance to remind him that he was quite stuck with her, and that it wasn't such a bad thing. After all, he needed never fear harming her, and she would always be around. Always and forever... Los Angeles, 1962: "Want to go get a cup of coffee or something?" asked the young woman as she locked the gallery door. "Not tonight, thank you, Marcia." "Or any other night," she returned, a smile taking the sting from her words. "Honestly, Nick, there are places in this city other than here and wherever you live and the route in between. You might want to explore them sometime." "Maybe sometime," he agreed noncommittally. "Good night, Marcia." "G'night." Nick watched to be certain the girl reached her car safely, then turned and headed for his own new toy. "Bonsoir, Nicholas." Janette knew perfectly well what sort of picture she must make, curled into the passenger seat of the new Cadillac convertible. She had just bought a crumpled-looking off- the-shoulder dress of the sort popularized by that ubiquitous photograph of Marilyn Monroe, but in her trademark black; and she found that her features were well suited by current fashion in the short, full hairstyle and the feline sweep of eye makeup. Casting Nick one of her most dazzling smiles, she shifted slightly to better show off her silk-stockinged legs. Short skirts were one twentieth-century development she had found very useful indeed. Predictably, none of this had any visible impact on its target; but that was part of the game. Instead he asked irritably, "What are you doing here?" "What do you think?" Janette purred. "And I suppose he's right behind you," Nick grumped, settling in the driver's seat and slamming the door. "Might as well get it over with. Where is he?" "Dublin," she answered airily. "It's just you and me, cher." He stared at her in surprise. "Are you serious? Janette, please tell me you're serious!" A hopeful, childlike smile lit his face, and he grasped her hand. "Have you really left LaCroix, finally taken charge of your life?" Laying her other hand over his, she looked away, her smile slipping slightly. "He had...business to attend to. I took the opportunity to look you up." "Oh." He squeezed her hand before releasing it, his smile fading, and slid the car into the midnight traffic. "So who's your pretty friend?" she asked, her voice holding more than a passing interest. "Just someone I work with at the gallery." "I think she hopes otherwise." "Not because I've encouraged her," Nick returned wearily. "Better to disappoint Marcia than to hurt her, wouldn't you say?" Janette shrugged. "I suppose. Poor, lonely Nicolas. Whatever would you do without me?" "That is *not* a pleasant question," he admitted. "Hmm. But I like the answer." She edged closer to him, glancing around the Caddy's interior. "You know, the young people have found a perfectly delightful use for back seats." Chuckling in spite of himself at her typical lack of subtlety, Nick replied, "Well, we're not exactly young, are we?" "You're only as old as you feel, Nicolas." "I feel pretty damned old." "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." Resting her head on his shoulder, Janette added, "We'll just have to try and solve that little problem." He glanced at her before turning her attention back to his driving, trying hard to banish the smile invading his face. "Kids in back seats tend to have police peer in at them with flashlights," he pointed out. "Do they? That could be amusing." "It could also be dangerous." "Oh, I suppose you're right," she sniffed, letting the dress slip further down one shoulder. "So what do you propose instead?" she added half an octave lower, punctuating the question with a little nibble at his earlobe. At this point Nick lost the war with the smile. "Seems to me you have the monopoly on propositions." "Playing hard to get, Nicolas?" she teased. "Beverly Wilshire Hotel." Janette thought she restrained herself quite well until they reached her suite, only raising an amused eyebrow or two in the lobby by the way she clung to his arm. It was not vanity, merely fact, to note that a few of the gentlemen they passed looked as if they would like to be in Nicolas' place. The instant the door was shut behind them, though, with the "Do Not Disturb" sign carefully placed on the outside knob, she draped herself around him, sliding her fingers through his hair. "Have you missed me?" And now the game was over; he was hers and he knew it. "Oh, yes." * * * She wasn't sure what time it was or why she was suddenly awake. But in the last century her opportunities to be with Nicolas had grown increasingly rare, so she leant on her elbow to drink in the sleeping face beside her. For all she knew with the heavy drapes drawn, it was high noon, but there was a better purpose for this moment than sleeping. Even after seven and a half centuries, her handsome knight remained half a little boy, and that side of him was never more evident than when he slept. Then, too, she could study him at her leisure, without having to catch him off his guard between the bouts of bitterness and guilt that hardened his chameleon features. LaCroix was wrong after all, though it had been centuries since whe was fool enough to say so: Nicolas would never be completely lost to the darkness. He shone as brightly now as that first night she had seen him and been drawn irresistibly to that brightness. With a fingertip she traced his cheekbone up to ruffle his short- cropped hair. His eyes flew open and found Janette's face very near his own, prompting a crooked little smile. "Bonjour, cheri," she whispered. "I didn't mean to wake you." "'Salright. What time is it?" "I don't know. Still day, though." Looking about the hotel suite, a touch disoriented, Nick commented, "We made a mess." "Yes, I suppose we did. The wonderful thing about hotels: I simply pay my bill and leave it behind." Snuggling closer, she murmured, "Want to make it worse?" "Hmm." Kissing the top of her raven head, he turned her in his arms and tucked his face beside hers over her shoulder. "Maybe later. Don't you believe in sleep, Janette?" "If we must." She burrowed further under the covers, fitting her body against his with the ease of very long familiarity, and in no time at all both were fast asleep. Paris, 1228: "Have you made a choice?" As always, LaCroix dispensed with the sort of formalities that customarily opened a conversation, such as making his presence known to the person he was addressing before suddenly speaking in her ear. "I don't know," Janette replied. "Right now I'm rather enjoying watching them." LaCroix nodded. "And some are watching you, a few in rather less than courtly fashion." She smiled perfunctorily in response to the amusement in his voice; time and again he had told her that drawing out the shadows in men's souls was a pleasure second only to the kill itself, but she had yet to learn to take the great delight in it that LaCroix did. No matter--she could pretend well enough. "So we will not starve tonight." "Oh, I have far more interesting plans than that," LaCroix informed her. "Which of them would you like for your very own-- forever?" "What?" She had been about to go back to the rowdy feast hall in search of her own supper, but now she closed the door again and turned back to LaCroix in disbelief. "You mean bring over one of them? LaCroix, you cannot be serious! What lure could our life have for men who marched halfway across the world to fight for their God?" "And who now celebrate that conquest by eating and drinking themselves into oblivion," LaCroix scoffed. "So much for the legendary shining goodness of the Crusader." "One night's well-earned pleasure can hardly compare with choosing the darkness for eternity." Taking slow, deliberate steps, LaCroix approached her with an unmistakeable hint of menace. "But that's where you come in, Janette. Do you doubt your power to make that one night into that eternity?" "Of course not, but..." "But what?" By now he stood right in front of her, forcing her to look up in order to face him, and she resisted the instinct to back away from the look in his ice-blue eyes. "You take issue with my plans, Janette?" he whispered ominously. "But knights of the Cross?" she insisted. "What would they want with me?" "A man is a man, Janette, no matter what armor he wears. You know that as well as I do." Her gaze dropped at this, and he took hold of her face, forcing her to look at him. "You have no doubt that you *can* do this; what you are saying is that you *won't*." His grip on her chin tightened to emphasize the last word. "I saw how you looked at the blond one, the *hero*." On his lips, the word meant something else entirely. "And I saw how he looked at you." Releasing her face, he circled slowly around her. "Have you ever imagined how Adam eyed the forbidden fruit, Janette? That is how Nicholas was watching you. Yes, that is his name," he informed her when she looked up in surprise. "And you did want to know that, didn't you?" "He holds no interest for me," she lied. "I think he holds too much," LaCroix corrected, reversing the direction of his stalking circle. "I think you seek to protect him. I think you wish to see his...knightly purity preserved." She could not meet his gaze, but somehow she found her voice. "I don't know what you're talking about." "Oh, yes, you do. But don't you know why his light fascinates you so? Can you even begin to imagine the triumph of blotting it out forever? I gave you that power, Janette, and you will use it as it was meant. You will bring Nicholas to me." "No!" The sharp whisper exploded from her before she could prevent it, and she knew it was a terrible mistake. "No?" he repeated very quietly. An instant later, Janette was slammed violently into the wall, her head striking the stone with a resounding *crack*. She slid to the floor, stars dancing behind her eyes, instinctively curling into a ball to protect her head from further injury--though of course the present fracture was already mending. "Who is the master, Janette?" asked LaCroix's voice, somewhere far above her. When she could not gather her wits to reply immediately, he seized her by the hair and yanked her to her feet. "Who is the master?" Still dazed, she fought to focus on his face. "You are," she managed, her own voice distorted by the ringing in her head. "You do remember." He nodded. "I am your master, and soon I will be master to Nicholas as well." Brushing his fingertips along her cheek, he added with a smile, "And then I can give him to you. Isn't that what you really want?" Reluctantly she nodded. "But what will be left of him?" Uttering a disgusted snarl, he grasped her by the throat and flung her to the floor. "Collect yourself and go claim your knight. I will be waiting." Hauling herself into a sitting position, Janette nodded. "Yes, of course. Just a moment." "You are pathetic," LaCroix told her, as if commenting on the weather. He strode to the door, turning to Janette once more before slamming it behind him. "I should have left you where I found you." Lutetia Parisiorum, A.D. 84: "So how did you fare last night, Gwennet?" Her heart skipped a beat at the unexpected voice; she had thought she would be the first back to the women's quarters. "Luciana! Ye gods, you frightened the life out of me! Did you steal Mercury's sandals?" The other girl laughed shortly. "If I had, maybe I wouldn't have been stuck with a pickled old man who couldn't get it up and blamed it on me. He flew into a very comical rage and chased me out before midnight." "Oh, Luciana, I'm sorry." Gwennet sank down on the bench beside her friend. "Perhaps you'll have better luck when the domina's brothers arrive tomorrow, hm?" Luciana almost smiled. "Perhaps. But you won't come away empty- handed; you never do." She gestured to Gwennet's tightly-clenched hand. "So what have you got? I notice you managed to land in the richest lap again." Gwennet could not contain her excitement, a broad grin lighting her face as she opened her hand to reveal her token of the patrician guest's appreciation. "I'm not sure what its value must be," she said, holding up the flawless egg of amber that could not quite be enclosed in her small hand. "Can you imagine, Luciana, having so much wealth that this is a bauble to give a slave?" "The luckiest slave in Gaul, most of the time," Luciana clarified. "But the bones fall as they will, and it isn't as if you don't deserve the attention." "No more than you." Gwennet protested. "Really, you're just as pretty as any of the rest of us. Prettier than most. And you don't exactly cling to the walls. I'll never understand why you don't get better than you do." Luciana shrugged. "If they venture all the way to Gaul, why should they want a girl born and reared in Rome when they can have the exotic barbarian princess and fancy it a great conquest?" Before Gwennet could reply, she rose from the bench, adding, "But that's Fortuna's business; we mere mortals simply take what we are given, then go to find a bit of rest." "Sleep well, Luciana." Gwennet watched the Roman girl make her weary way toward the sleeping quarters, her high spirits dimmed slightly by her friend's misfortune. It really was not fair; why were her delicate Gallic features and peculiar name of so much more value than Luciana's perfectly balanced beauty, like the sculptor's ideal Galatea become flesh? But asking such questions was a waste of time, for no one would answer them. Things were as they were, and only as a foolish child had she believed she would ever have the power to change them. She could not blame her mother for choosing to believe until the day she died the pretty fiction woven by her own mother, Gwennet's grandmother, whose father Vercingetorix had led the ill-fated rebellion against the occupying Romans. Edanna had accepted only pretty things, lacking the strength to face anything else, and her favorite pretty thing was her daughter. In retrospect Gwennet had to wonder if her mother had ever realized than she was anything more than a magical doll; a perfect miniature of herself but for the spun-shadow hair inherited from some Roman or other, a dramatic contrast to Edanna's coppery gold. Certainly she had never dreamed that the little girl's mind greedily absorbed everything she saw and heard, building each detail into her growing perception of her world and the way it worked. By her seventh year she had been quite aware that the dominus spoiled her with sweets and smiles because her mother was a favored possession. He had a wife. When Gwennet, with the naive frankness of childhood, had made note of that fact, Edanna had turned very pale and struck her for the first and only time in her life. Seconds later she had burst into tears, telling the child over and over that she hadn't meant it. Later, calmer, she had explained that Gwennet must never think of herself as a slave, no matter what she might be told. She was a princess, her blood more royal than any of these Roman "patricians" who thought them beaten. And someday she would choose a chieftain to do what Vercingetorix could not, to take back their land and their gods and their identity and drive the Romans out forever. For a while Gwennet let herself be caught up in the illusion, reminding herself whenever the domina gave her a disdainful look or another child called her "mongrel" that she knew something they did not, that she was not what they thought she was. Then, in her thirteenth summer, an honored guest had remarked on the unusual beauty of the girl who had brought the wine; and from that terrifying night on she knew exactly what she was. And by knowing that she knew just what she could and could not do. She had learned very quickly how to make the best of what she could do, learned to tell at a glance which of her master's guests were interested in her and might reward her well-honed charm and attentiveness. Most importantly, with enough gold she could buy her freedom; and after ten years of saving her various trinkets in a sack hidden beneath a loose tile in the corner of this anteroom, she had very nearly enough. Checking to be certain she was not observed, she pried up the tile and pulled out the sack--to find it empty. It was several moments before the truth of this penetrated; Gwennet stared in disbelief at the worthless rag that had held her little fortune, looking from it to the amber in her hand and back again. She had been so certain no one knew of her hoard's existence, let alone its location; certain they assumed she squandered whatever she might earn as slaves generally did. Now that overconfidence had cost her everything, and there was nothing at all she could do about it. Had she known or even suspected the thief's identity, she could have taken the matter to the housekeeper, or to the domina if she was in a generous mood, and have justice. But she had no idea; it was all simply gone, even her mother's silver torque, the tangible symbol of her "royalty". Gwennet cursed herself for her sentimental refusal to sell the thing, meaningless as she knew it to be in a world shaped by Roman hands. She could have been free by now; and though she would always be a barbarian and therefore inferior in that world, her lineage and looks might have won her a marriage into the puppet Gallic nobility. Instead she had nothing all over again. Numbly she slipped her bit of amber into the sack, carrying it to the sleeping quarters since her hiding place was no longer a secret. Tucking it under the straw tick of her bed, she stared at the ceiling and willed herself not to weep for the loss. Finally, as the sun climbed above the horizon and the others began to straggle in, she fell asleep and stored the tears away unshed. * * * Gwennet was hard-pressed to exercise her fabled charm that evening; after ten years of fawning and flirting and flattering a parade of dirty old men, her goal had been yanked further away than ever. But it was still her goal, and this was still the only way she could achieve it. With that reminder to herself, she squared her shoulders and filed in with the other girls chosen to entertain the domina's three brothers and their companions. It was some time into the evening when she noticed Luciana's self- satisfied smile--and the silver torque around the Roman girl's neck. Lead weights settled in the pit of Gwennet's stomach, and she turned to her current patron with a brilliant smile. "I will be back before you can blink, patrician," she promised, touching the tip of her finger to his nose. "I must make certain you have the very best of the grapes." Without preamble she seized Luciana by the arm and pulled her into an alcove. "Where did you get that?" she demanded in a sharp whisper. Luciana's expression only grew more smug. "The dominus is generous with those who serve him well." "And where did he get it? That's mine, Luciana, and well you know it!" "Not any more. Perhaps it will make me a princess now, eh, Gwennet the favored one?" The words struck her like a slap to the face, momentarily stunning her out of her anger. "I thought you were my friend!" "That's your misfortune," Luciana shot back. "Perhaps if you hadn't spent so much time playing princess, you'd have learned that slaves can't afford friends." "You stole it, didn't you?" Gwennet couldn't keep her voice from rising. "Luciana, how could you?" "I did nothing." "You did! That was everything I had, all I have earned in ten years!" "I don't know what you're talking about." "You know exactly what I'm talking about, you little thief!" "Prove it." "What is the commotion here?" Gwennet nearly jumped out of her skin at the dominus' voice. Gaius Marcellus Draxo was an imposing man with very little patience for squabbles among his slaves, particularly when guests were present. "Your pardon, dominus," Gwennet said, quickly swallowing her anger. "That torque is mine. It was given to me by my mother before she died, and yesterday it and all my savings were stolen." "Really?" He took a step forward, forcing her back into the corner. "That's very strange, Gwennet, since I made a gift of that piece to Luciana this morning. It is part of a captured treasure." "But..." "Will you call me thief next, girl?" "Of course not, dominus, but there must be some mistake." Gaius Marcellus glared down at her. "There is no mistake. Take care; there are penalties for false accusations." "It is not false!" Gwennet insisted, her hopes of justice rapidly slipping away. "The torque is mine, and only she could have known where it was hidden!" "Then you call me a liar, and this innocent girl a thief?" Too late she saw the trap she had fallen into. "No! I mean, you are not--" "I have had enough of this," the dominus interrupted. "You will come with me, Gwennet, now. Luciana, return to the feast and inform the guests that I will return when I have attended to a small matter." "Yes, dominus." Luciana's triumphant smile made Gwennet wish desperately to rip her face off, but she held her peace and meekly followed Gaius Marcellus to his private chambers. "Leave us," he commanded the valet curtly. The man obeyed instantly, sparing Gwennet a sympathetic glance that did nothing for her nerves. "I don't believe we understand each other, *princess*," the dominus told her ominously. "You are my property, and you would be wise to remember that. There will be no chosen chieftain, no barbarian uprising, no matter what nonsense the old ones in the kitchen may spin to fill your pretty head." "I don't care what the old ones believe of me," Gwennet replied truthfully. "I wish only to save my earnings and buy my freedom, as is the right of any slave. And those earnings have been stolen from me." "But you are not *any* slave, Gwennet," he pointed out, taking hold of her chin. "Were you to go free, there would be no controlling the Gallic rabble in this household or any neighboring one. They would be certain you were claiming your `birthright'." Her eyes widened at the implications of his words. "You had Luciana steal my things! You would deny me the rights of every slave in the Empire, in defiance of the law!" "We are a long way from Rome, little raven," he told her, with a savage cuff that sent her sprawling across the bed. "And in this house, I *am* the law." Head pounding, she could only keep still and endure as he climbed atop her and brutally reminded her of her function in his household. When it was over, Gaius Marcellus straightened his clothing and jerked her from the bed. "Get out," he ordered. "You are confined to the women's quarters until I say otherwise. And remember, Gwennet: this was a warning." A warning? She nearly laughed at that. So this was what her "rights" under the law were worth. The floor would not keep still as she made her way through the house, and at some point she made a wrong turn and found herself at the side entrance. She was about to turn and head toward the correct destination, but she hesitated. Her boundaries had changed; the world did not work as she had believed. They would not allow her to buy her freedom, and her feet had led her here to tell her she must take it. Bruised and bleeding, with only her flimsy linen dress tunic to protect her from the chill spring rain that was beginning to fall, Gwennet stepped out into the night and never looked back. * * * How long had she walked? She wasn't certain, though she suspected she had not travelled nearly so far as it seemed. It was raining harder now, icy needles piercing her inadequate clothing. Her left eye had swollen shut from one of the blows her master had struck her when she failed to hold back her screams during the rape, and her good eye could make out nothing through the rain and darkness. Quite suddenly there was a human figure in her path, where she was certain there had been no one a moment before, and before the information could reach her feet she bumped into him. "Your pardon, patrician," she spoke up quickly, noting the man's rich red mantle as he turned on her the coldest, palest blue eyes she had ever seen. "I did not see you." "I'm not surprised," he answered, lifting her chin to study her battered face. His voice was not unfriendly, but it held a quality that chilled her more deeply than the rain. "You've chosen a poor time to run away from your master." "I'm not running away, patrician," she answered, too quickly. "I have to--" "Don't lie to me," he interrupted softly. "You are in no condition to convince anyone. What is your name?" "Gwennet, patrician," she replied. "Please, I must--" "You must get indoors before this treacherous weather finishes you off. Though it looks as if your master very nearly did that already." Gwennet shook her head, trying to walk past him. "I am all right, patrician, I assure you. Now I really must..." The ground took a sudden, disagreeable lurch, and the stranger caught her before she fell. "No more arguments," he told her, wrapping his warm mantle around her and supporting her shoulders. "You are coming with me." Quite beyond argument, Gwennet doubled over at a stab of unbearable pain in her abdomen. The stranger scooped her up as if she weighed no more than her clothing, the last thing she was aware of before another spasm hit and she retreated into oblivion. * * * She had no idea how much later she wandered into a hazy sort of consciousness, listening to a pair of voices saying such strange things that she must be dreaming. "...a pretty enough trinket under the bruises, but hardly worth the price Draxo demanded." "That's my business, Father." The second voice belonged to her mysterious benefactor. "The gold I paid for her was mine." "Watch your step, Crassus," the unfamiliar voice warned, in a tone too like the one her dominus had used when she had last seen him. "Beware that little word, 'mine'. It could lead you to ruin." "The money was mine, and so is the girl." "As you wish--for now. But what do you mean to do with her? Why go to the trouble of paying the fool at all?" "I told you, that's my business. If I choose to pay the mortal his ridiculous price, and then have to bend his mind to make him keep the bargain--well, no one can argue that the girl belongs to me. Not even you." "We are not like them. We *take* what we want. Do you know what you want?" "Perfectly, Father." "What game are you playing with this slave girl? Why go to this bother? If it is her blood you want, there is little point in letting her heal." "Perhaps I don't want her blood." "Then what do you want?" Gwennet was rather interested in the answer to that herself, but the disturbing conversation faded away and she slid again into unconsciousness. When she woke again, the bizarre debate receded to the realm of remembered dreams, where it certainly must belong. "Easy now, pretty," crooned an old woman's voice as she moved to sit up, and a gnarled hand pushed her back onto the cushions of the bed. Gwennet blinked at the face beside her, a face from her childhood. She had not seen the midwife-healer since the wasting sickness had taken her mother, but she would know that wizened face anywhere. "Morag?" "Your memory is in fine health, I see." The crone's toothless smile was that of an indulgent grandmother. "I'm glad. For a time I feared we would lose you as well as the baby." "Baby?" The midwife's face fell. "You were with child, little raven. Didn't you know?" So that was what the stabbing pains had been. "No, I didn't really pay attention. It doesn't matter; how could I even know whose child it was?" Against the old woman's protests, she sat up, shaking her head. "And I am no one's `little' anything, Morag. Not any more." "Very well, Lady." Morag nodded in deference. "Not that, either," Gwennet corrected. "I am a slave like any other; the Romans have ruled throughout my life and my mother's. Can we please stop pretending that I will put things back as they were?" She sighed. "Perhaps they aren't meant to be, have you thought of that?" "You mustn't think that, Lady Gwennet," the wise-woman chided her. "You must not lose courage. When the time comes--" "What good does it do me to believe that?" Gwennet demanded impatiently. "Morag, please. You would help me far more if you would tell me where I am and what has happened." "You are a guest in the house of Darius Aquila," said a man's voice. Gwennet turned round, swinging her feet to the floor, to face the strange pale man she had met in the rain. "I am his son, Crassus. I trust you are feeling better since our last conversation?" She nodded, wary at his too-perfect friendliness. "Yes, patrician. Thank you." "Good." He turned his attention briefly to Morag, giving the midwife a curt nod. "You've done well, old woman." Morag needed no further dismissal. "Take care, little Morrigan," she said to Gwennet as she left. Her host turned back to her with a questioning look. "You said your name was Gwennet." "It is," she replied. "She was referring to a childhood nickname. The Morrigan is an aspect of the Goddess of my mother's people, the raven who carries shades to the next world. I was called 'little raven' for my black hair, and because I was so serious as a child." "I see." He paused a second. "You say your mother's people, not yours." Gwennet shrugged. "It seems to me you get further by understanding the world as it is than by choosing to believe you can change it." Studying Crassus intently, she added, "Which brings me to the question of why I am here. What do you gain by showing me kindness?" "What do I gain?" he repeated curiously, favoring her with a reassuring smile. "Why must that be the reason? I brought you here because I wished to, and paid Gaius Marcellus to let you go." This was a surprise. "You did? Then I didn't dream that I heard that?" Crassus' smile vanished. "When? What did you hear?" "I heard you tell your father that you had paid gold for me," she replied. "I wasn't quite awake, I don't think. Some of it was so strange, it must have been part dream." "What was strange?" Gwennet shook her head. "You'll think me mad, and send me back where I came from." Leaning close to her face, he held her eyes and repeated, "What was strange, Gwennet?" This time she answered promptly, uncertain why she had been reluctant to do so. "I heard talk of blood, and of bending minds. It made little sense, but it was frightening." "You have nothing to fear," Crassus told her quietly, and she believed him without question. "You were not awake, Gwennet. You will forget that conversation. You heard nothing." "Nothing," she agreed tonelessly; then blinked, a bit disoriented, as he stood up straight and released her gaze. "You must be hungry. I will be back with food for you; the wise- woman tells me you should not move around too much yet." "You should not be serving me, patrician," Gwennet objected. Crassus shook his head. "I told you, you are a guest in this house. My father and I do not keep slaves." "Oh." She watched him leave, his parting smile remaining in her mind as she wrestled with the notion of being a free woman, a guest in a house without slaves. Most anyone she knew would be overjoyed at that prospect, but Gwennet found herself unable to enjoy it. There were too many pieces missing; she could not be comfortable until she knew her boundaries. What did Crassus expect of her? There had to be something. It would be easy to assume that he wanted the same thing as every other man she had met since her sudden departure from childhood; but she had too recently been reminded that she could not afford to make assumptions. Still, what else had she to offer? Lacking answers for all her questions, she instead took her first real look around the room where she had been placed. The appointments were as rich as anything to be found in her former master's villa. She pulled back a heavy drapery on one wall to find a dark window; it was night, then, but how many nights after her mad flight? No more than a day or two, she decided; Crassus was right that she was hungry, but not painfully so. Near the bed she found an ivory comb and a highly-polished bronze mirror. The sharp memory of the blows Gaius Marcellus had struck to her face prepared her for the state of her reflection. A huge dark bruise encircled her left eye; another marred her right cheekbone. She had to acknowledge the deep blue eyes looking back at her as her own, her mother's eyes; but she did not care to claim the rest. But the marks would fade. What bothered her as she pulled the comb through her tangled dark hair was that her beauty would return, but never the child she had not even known she carried. She had told Morag it didn't matter, and now she repeated the statement to herself, wondering if the midwife had believed it any more that Gwennet herself. Probably not. Why should it matter, though? She had always felt a mixture of pity and contempt for the slave women who were burdened with little ones, yet still expected to maintain the beauty and skill that earned their keep--her own mother included. Why did she feel so sharp a pang of loss that she had been spared such a nuisance? Certainly she had never wished to be a mother. Unexpectedly a stranger's voice intruded on her reverie, and she whirled to find a brown-haired man standing just behind her. "What is so special about you, girl?" he demanded without preamble. "I beg your pardon." Gwennet backed up several steps, uncertain what to make of the rude question. "You must be the dominus, Crassus' father. I thank you for your hospitality; I wish to know how I can repay--" "What makes you different?" he interrupted harshly, ignoring Gwennet's polite talk. "I'm sorry, dominus, I don't understand." Darius grasped her wrists, pulling her roughly toward him. "What does my son want with you?" Fighting to keep calm, Gwennet answered, "I don't know, dominus. He hasn't told me." She attempted to pull her hands free, but his grip only tightened. "Please, dominus, you're hurting me." "Of course you don't know," he mused, an unpleasant smile crossing his face. "He would hardly have told you what place you have in whatever game he's playing, would he?" "Dominus..." Whatever Gwennet had been about to say vanished into a maelstrom of sheer panic, for suddenly Darius Aquila was not human. His eyes, brown a second before, had turned a green-tinged yellow, and as he opened his mouth to speak she saw that his eyeteeth were the long, sharp fangs of a predatory animal. "He must learn to play his games by my rules," the man-thing concluded, wrenching Gwennet's head back by the hair to expose her throat. "No!" In one dizzying instant, she was jerked from Darius' grasp and found herself halfway across the room. Crassus, who had not been there a moment before, held her by the shoulders and hissed at his father, "She does not belong to you!" "Everything in this house belongs to me," Darius retorted. "What I want, I take. That is the master's privilege." "Not this time." Crassus' voice was deadly calm, a world away from the shouting of seconds before. "The time has come to be my own master, Father. This is long overdue." Darius' smile returned, made a mockery by those wicked teeth. "And every master must have servants of his own, mustn't he?" he guessed, nodding toward Gwennet, who shrank closer to her protector and held her tongue. She could not pretend to understand what was happening here, but she could observe that for his own reasons Crassus shared her interest in keeping her neck away from Darius' teeth. The rest could wait. "And what if I forbid this?" Darius continued, taking a few deliberate steps toward them. Crassus' grasp on her shoulders tightened, but he stood his ground. "If everything in this house belongs to you, so be it," he told his father calmly. "We will not remain in this house." Darius laughed, the nastiest sound Gwennet could remember ever hearing, and slowly advanced on them again. "And where will you go, Crassus? Dawn is breaking." The narrowing distance between them finally prompted Crassus to back toward the window, drawing Gwennet with him. "I know how long I can dare the sun, Father. Will you dare to follow?" With that he grabbed Gwennet's hand and pulled her after him, through the window and out into the very beginnings of the dawn. "But what if he follows us?" She glanced fearfully over her shoulder as they ran into a stretch of forest. "He won't," he answered flatly, pulling her faster. "Watch where we're going!" "But how can you be certain--" Her voice and her feet stopped dead as she realized that smoke was rising from Crassus as if his clothing were on fire--but it was not. "What--?" "Come *on*, girl!" he snapped, a note of panic creeping into his voice. His grip on her hand became painful, but she dared not speak or impede their progress again. They ran on, clinging to the shadows of the trees, until they arrived at a fairly large clearing. Crassus paused at the edge of the trees, still burning, and peered at the small stone house at the center of the clearing as if gauging the distance. "What is happening to you?" Gwennet whispered anxiously. "What do we do?" "Later," he managed, his voice strained, then cried out in obvious pain as they plunged into the bright daylight. He stumbled several times as they ran toward the cottage, and Gwennet did her best to aid him, guiding him toward what she presumed was their destination as he protected his face with his arms. "Cellar," Crassus gasped as they reached the shade of the granite walls. "Don't stand there gawping, girl! It's just around the corner there. Wooden door." Shoving her roughly away from the wall, he hissed, "Hurry! I can't withstand much more!" Orders were something she understood, and she leapt to obey. A few moments later they were safely hidden in the cool darkness of a dirt root cellar. "Watch your step," Crassus admonished her as she tripped on something, his voice strong again. "What do you mean, watch my step? I can't see a thing!" She heard laughter in the dark. "Of course you can't. What a fool I am. Wait here." A number of little noises came out of the dark, mysterious until he struck flint to a small oil lamp. Gwennet looked around enough to ascertain that they were in a perfectly ordinary root cellar, then at last gave voice to her questions. "What does all this madness mean?" she demanded. "Why did the sun make you burn like that? What is your father?" "I will explain these things," he promised, "but not now. Explanations must wait; you are too tired now." "But I'm not--" "Oh, but you are," he insisted, holding eye contact as he had earlier. Gwennet tried to pull her gaze away, but found herself unable even to blink. "Much too tired." And she was, her mind filling with fog, penetrated only by Crassus' soft voice. "You are not yet well, Gwennet. You must rest now. You will sleep until I wake you." * * * When he did, she emerged from the secure darkness of sleep into another unfamiliar room, this time a poor one with a thatched roof that must be the interior of the forest cottage. "Feeling better, Gwennet?" She leapt from the straw pallet, pressing her back against the wall. "What did you do to me? Are you a sorceror?" "Not exactly." He smiled. "It's a simple power. I could give it to you--that and so much more. Now sit down and we will talk." She obeyed, watching him warily while trying to avoid meeting the icicle eyes. "Where are we?" she asked more calmly. "The home of the wise-woman, Morag. She was quite concerned about her princess. I arranged for her to shelter us." "You said you would explain, about your father and the sun and all the rest." Before he could reply, Morag entered the little house, carrying a basket filled with freshly-picked herbs and mushrooms. "You're awake, Lady," she observed brightly. "You were sleeping so soundly, I thought it best to let you rest." Setting her basket on the floor, the old woman bent over to examine Gwennet's battered face. "You're healing well, little raven. Now you must eat something." Gwennet accepted the wooden bowl of soup gratefully. "Thank you, I *am* hungry." She hadn't really noticed until food was mentioned, but now she realized her stomach was tight and achey, and she was a bit lightheaded. "I've had nothing to eat in..." "Nearly three days," Crassus supplied. "You've been very ill, after all." "Yes, she has, poor pretty," Morag agreed, picking up her basket again. "But soon you'll be well again, Lady Gwennet, and the Roman bastard's marks on you will fade away." "Thank you," Gwennet repeated, gingerly touching the bruise on her cheek. "I must go to the village now; three more little ones have taken the fever. You rest up, little raven." With that, she was gone again. Gwennet set the empty soup bowl on the floor, keeping her eyes averted from Crassus sitting beside her. "An illness among the children," he mused. "You need never be ill again, Gwennet. Never fear the sort of injuries you have suffered at your former master's hands." "Don't be silly," she chided him. "A freedwoman is just as vulnerable to such things as a slave, or anyone else." "You are free, Gwennet, but that is not what I meant." Something in his voice made her shiver, and she rose from the pallet and walked several steps away to stand with her back to him, rubbing her arms as if with a chill. "Then what did you mean?" "I can give you power, Gwennet, beyond your dreams." He spoke just beside her, though she had not heard the slightest rustle of his approach. "Your father is a monster," she reminded him nervously, still not looking at him. "What does that make you? What sort of nightmare is this?" "No nightmare," he assured her, his voice approaching the lulling tone he had used when she had fallen under that strange spell. Still she feared to look at his face; he leaned very close to her ear as he went on, "I can make you what I am, Gwennet, make it so you need never fear Gaius Marcellus and fools like him. If you wish, you can make them fear you." At this, she looked sharply at him, forgetting for a second her determination not to meet his eyes again. A second was enough; she found her gaze locked to his as she asked uneasily, "Why would I want them to fear me?" "You'd be surprised," he answered, "what a thrill it can be. Think of what I offer you, Gwennet!" "You haven't told me," she pointed out, determined to keep her thoughts clear as the fog crept in around the edges of her mind. "Just what do you 'offer' me?" "All your life you have served men," he nearly whispered, brushing his fingertips over her bruised cheek. "Now you can make men serve you. You will be the princess you were born to be." He slid a hand up her neck to hold the back of her head, and involuntarily she took a step toward him. "You will live forever, like the raven of your mother's Goddess. You will see the Romans fall and crumble into dust." He pulled her another step closer, still holding her gaze though she had to tilt her head far back. "You need only do exactly as I say." "And if I refuse?" Her voice seemed to come from a source other than herself, and the mist was filling her thoughts despite her efforts to fight it back. "You will not." As he spoke, the clouds in her mind grew thicker until she was unable to form any more questions. "Think of it, little raven...what an appropriate name. To be immortal, to have such power--try to imagine that. Close your eyes and picture it." Gwennet obeyed, but she could see only darkness. "Now keep very still," he instructed, behind her now and to one side. "Be still and have no fear." Her knees buckled then and he caught her in one arm, placing the palm of his hand against her neck. Eyes still closed, she let her head fall back, trusting Crassus to support her as her own muscles no longer would. She was barely aware of the sharp pain stabbing into her neck; then she was aware of nothing at all. * * * Hunger drove Gwennet to wakefulness, hunger such as she had never imagined. Opening her eyes, she saw the root cellar of Morag's cottage, every detail as clear as day, clearer than it had been by the flickering light of the oil lamp. "Welcome back, little raven." Crassus' voice seemed very loud, though he was not shouting. Slowly she got to her feet, surprised at her steadiness though she could not recall why it should be a problem. She ought to say something, she realized, but only one thought would form coherently. "I'm thirsty," she told Crassus. She had meant to say "hungry," but somehow that seemed wrong. The distinction between hunger and thirst was blurred, but both were tearing at her insides, demanding to be satisfied. "I'm sure you are," he said. "We will take care of that soon, Gwennet. Come with me now." She took his outstretched hand, following him out of the cellar. "I'm hungry," she tried again. "I know," Crassus assured her. "It's time to feed," he explained, leading her in the door of the cottage. Leaning close to her ear, he murmured, "It's time to kill." The significance of his words could not get through to her; only the twisting hunger-thirst mattered as Morag turned from her fireplace and rose to greet them. "Where have you been, Lady?" the healer asked in concern. "You should have been resting, not..." Morag trailed off, reaching up to touch Gwennet's face, her expression one of disbelief. "How-- ?" "She *was* resting," Crassus said, standing behind the midwife and clamping his hands on her shoulders. "Your little raven is hungry, Morag," he whispered, looking at Gwennet with a knowing smile. "Care for your princess, old woman. Feed her." Morag looked confused, again reaching out to touch Gwennet's face. "The bruises..." Instinctively Gwennet seized the old woman's wrist, hearing the brittle bones crunch in her grip. Another sound had been worming its way into her consciousness, a dull pound-POUND that was growing faster and more insistent, and now she became aware that its rhythm matched the pulse beneath her fingers. She was hearing the crone's heartbeat as if it were a drum! "Take her, Gwennet," Crassus whispered. "Her life to feed yours. To help you into this world as she did into the one you have left behind." She found herself fascinated by the stark terror on Morag's face, drained of all color. "What has happened to you, little raven?" the wise-woman whispered harshly. "Where is the child I knew?" "She's dead." Crassus' finger traced the artery up Morag's neck, drawing Gwennet's attention to the pulsepoint. The heartbeat filling her ears was racing now, and the strange thirst-hunger wrenched at her as she thought of the blood running beneath the wrinkled skin. Twining his fingers in the wispy grey hair, Crassus pulled her head back, pinning her motionless with his eyes as she looked up at him. "Gwennet, take her!" he repeated. "Drink, little raven. Feed your hunger." The heartbeat pounded in her head and she could think of nothing but thirst, her mind swirling with a strange, rich scent. Something inside her knew what to do, and she buried her face in the woman's neck, piercing the skin with teeth too long to be hers and greedily filling the hungry space inside her with the rush of warmth. The dizzy moment was all too brief, fading as the midwife's heart fell silent. Her desperate hunger was stilled, but she could feel it coiled within her like a serpent ready to strike; and she could feel the last traces of the intoxication of satisfying it. She wanted to do it again. "It isn't finished, Gwennet." Crassus' voice startled her; she had forgotten he was there. "There is more?" she asked, her voice betraying her eagerness. "There will always be more," he answered, lowering Morag's limp body to the floor and motioning for Gwennet to kneel with him. "Always and forever. We can kill again tonight--but first you must finish this one." He took hold of her hands, placing them on either side of the old woman's head. "Twist," he ordered simply. She did so, effortlessly producing a loud *snap* as the neck broke. She had never possessed such strength! "To make certain she does not return to be one of us," he explained. "We choose our converts very carefully, Gwennet." He stood up, holding out his hand to her. "Are you still afraid?" "No," she lied. Crassus merely smiled. "You cannot hide the truth from me. Come- -I know how to drown your fears, and your doubts. I know what you need." He pulled her toward the door, but she hesitated, nodding at the corpse. "What about--?" "It's not our concern. We will never return here." He led her out of the cottage. "Come, you have much to learn." * * * "No," Gwennet said flatly, staring apprehensively at Draxo's villa. "Why have you brought us here? I swore I'd never set foot in that bastard's house again!" "Trust me," Crassus returned. "I think you will find great...satisfaction in this visit." Gwennet frowned. "What do you mean?" "Follow my lead; you will see." She did so, seeing no other choice. She feared to leave him; he had said she had much to learn, and no doubt many important lessons remained. The power he had given her must be controlled, he said; and after using it to travel here on the wings of the wind she had no doubt of it. The image of Morag's crumpled body on the floor of the cottage sprang unbidden to her mind and she banished it, shuddering slightly. She was no longer one of them, she reminded herself, and that would never change. So far, though, they were just words. She could barely comprehend flying, or her sudden great strength; she could not begin to internalize the notion that she would never die, or the fact that she had taken Morag's life like some vicious animal. On reflection, maybe it would be better if she never did. * * * "Gaius Marcellus Draxo." Crassus did not raise his voice, or at least Gwennet did not think so; it was difficult to tell when she was not yet accustomed to this new sharpness of her senses. Certainly he made no effort to shout over Draxo's excessive grunting and gasping, but the quiet words served to jolt him off an equally startled Luciana and make both of them forget for the moment the activity they were enthusiastically pursuing. Gaius Marcellus found his voice first, managing to strip it of most of the fear that stared out of both pairs of eyes. "What is this, Aquila? You made your bargain, the slut's yours. Now get her and yourself out of my house and I might not have you arrested!" "My bargain is sealed," Crassus agreed in the same calm voice. "But she still has a score to settle. Haven't you, Gwennet?" The look he shot her spoke as clearly as words: *Show no weakness*. She must not let Draxo see her uncertainty of Crassus' plans. "Two scores," she amended, glaring meaningfully at the terrified Luciana before turning her attention back to Draxo. "But there is no way to count pain, to know the tally that I owe you." She looked to Crassus for approval, and he nodded with a smile that had no hope of reaching his eyes. "No doubt your best guess will be sufficient. I think you should repay his favors first, don't you?" He turned the smile on Luciana. "And you may watch." Uttering a strangled cry that by rights should not have emerged from a human being, Luciana bolted across the room, paying little heed to her rumpled clothing. Gwennet was not surprised to see that she did not get far. Crassus gripped the girl tightly by the shoulders, turning her to face her master and whispering in her ear, "Keep still and watch, and I will not break your neck." Wild-eyed, Luciana obeyed, and Crassus nodded toward Draxo. "He's yours, Gwennet. Forget the law; you have the power to do as you wish. Let him taste the suffering he has caused." His voice dropped to an intense whisper. "Let him bathe in it." She hesitated for a long moment, and Gaius Marcellus took it as an opportunity to try to regain control of the situation. He started to get up from the bed, and decisively Gwennet pinned his gaze with her own. "Stay where you are," she ordered, his heartbeat sounding through her skull as she savored this new power. He froze, and Gwennet started forward very deliberately. "You are the slave now, Roman. You belong to me." She had dreamed a dozen ways to destroy him, and the knowledge that she could now fulfill any of them was more inebriating than the dizzy heat of the old woman's blood. When she reached the end of the bed, she began to crawl across the cushions toward her former master, keeping the same leisurely pace. Draxo continued to stare at her, unable to look away or to move though his eyes clearly saw his death coming toward him. They held something else, too, and Gwennet laughed as she recognized it. "So you still lust for me, Gaius Marcellus?" she purred, a vicious parody of the tone she had used on scores of his stupid, sweaty houseguests. "Still want me as a thing to use and control and hurt. Use me up and throw me away as you did my mother..." A thought struck her as she wound her finger in a curl of his hair--touched with silver, but still mostly finespun shadow that matched her own--and a low, mocking laugh bubbled in the back of her throat. "I wonder why I never thought of that before. She was your favorite, wasn't she, wound up in your bed more often than any other. Was I born of your seed, Gaius Marcellus, planted in this very bed? Now there's a pretty picture." He made an answer of sorts, a thin whine like a starving child, and she laughed again. The whites showed all around his eyes, and he took gasping, hitching breaths; and his heartbeat was so loud she was certain there was nothing else to hear. "The circle is closing, *dominus*," she whispered, making the title a curse. Running a hand up his chest, she gave him a brilliant smile, continuing, "I learned the harlot's wiles under your roof, all the power I was allowed to have. Do you think I learned them well?" Gaius Marcellus responded with an uneasy moan, closing his eyes as her hand slid up his throat and twined into his hair. He offered no resistance as she tipped his head back, the pulse in his throat dancing visibly, drawing her attention. The promise of the blood called to her, and she had to have it *now*-- It was ten times what it had been with the old woman, the blood of a man in his prime, seasoned by a depth of hatred that had surprised her and the euphoria of revenge. But it was over just as quickly, leaving her with only a slight drunken glow, nothing to the great glorious rush of Draxo's death. And this time she could look on it coldly and know that she had brought death. She ought to feel remorse, perhaps; but this was after all what she *was*. It had driven her without thought, even to snapping his neck in the swirl of everything else, not a thing she could stand against. Did it really matter whether or not she wanted to stand against it? Gradually she became aware of Luciana's uneven babbling, and that Crassus was not silencing her. She turned to see her treacherous former friend holding out the stolen torque, blubbering, "I'm sorry, Gwennet, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, I know this is yours, but he--but he, I couldn't refuse him, I know I was jealous but--" "Quiet," Crassus murmured in Luciana's ear. "None of that matters now. Keep still." She obeyed, and he plucked the torque from her hand as it dropped back to her side. Tossing it to Gwennet with a smile, he turned back to the wretched girl and dispatched her so swiftly that even Gwennet's new perceptions could scarcely follow it. "No!" She owed Luciana, and suddenly Luciana was beyond her reach. "Why did you do that?" she demanded, striding across the room to Crassus. "Don't be greedy, Gwennet," he responded mildly. "We have been too long here already, and after all I must feed as well." "But she was mine!" "And I took her." His steady gaze clearly challenged her to make an issue of it, a chill note of anger creeping into his voice. "You're being childish. Surely you know that nothing comes without a price." "You said I was free," Gwennet accused. Crassus smiled; she was beginning to despise it. "And so you are. Free forever, of the stupid base desires of Draxo and those like him. But I am the master now." "You lied to me!" "Get used to it." Before she could recover from her shock enough to respond to that, he went on, "You are a child, Gwennet. You wouldn't last two nights without me. Now come, before they discover us. I am not in the mood for a scene." Choking back her anger, knowing he was right--what did she really know of what she had become, or how to continue?--she answered quietly, "Just a moment." Kneeling beside Luciana's body, she placed the torque back around the other's neck. "You lose, Luciana," she hissed. "This is a thing, nothing more, and gives me no pleasure. Maybe it will make you a princess in the underworld. May you have joy of it." As she stood, she could feel the new laws of her life settling on her. She would learn. She would survive. Her storehouse of tears would never fall. Toronto, 1992: The unexpected, unwanted tumble of memory had long since played itself out, leaving a bitter taste in her mind as she watched the club's lights spin their dizzy dance in the glass before her. "Hey, gorgeous, didn't Mom ever tell you not to drink alone?" Janette's smile lit up automatically for the young man who had boldly occupied the chair across from her at the tiny table. "I don't believe she ever did," she answered truthfully. "But I'm not alone, am I?" She's been everybody else's girl Maybe one day she'll be her own --Tori Amos, "Girl"