Alaskan Territories, 1897 - January 2nd

A sharp crosswind caught the edge of the house, tossing the south window open and sending a blast of cold air through the room. The lantern near the stove flickered, nearly plunging the kitchen into darkness. Outside, the sound of an approaching train cut through the wail of the wind.

Hurrying across the room, Meg grabbed the flapping halves of the window and struggled to push them closed. She swore under the breath. Paul hadn't fixed the latch completely the last time he closed the damned thing. At least it wasn't snowing this time.

"Mrs. Glass?" a voice called from the doorway. "Is everything all right?"

Meg fastened the latch and pulled the curtains closed. "It's fine, Libby," she sighed. "The wind caught the window is all."

The small woman took several steps into the spacious kitchen. "It's dark in here. You should have more lanterns."

"More lanterns will burn more oil," Meg commented, turning to face the serving girl. "You know Paul's philosophy on that."

Libby giggled at her sarcastic tone. "The train has arrived. We should be getting a few more guests."

"Did you build up the fire in the front room?"

When Libby nodded, Meg took a final glance around the kitchen. "Watch things in here while I check on the empty rooms?"

Upstairs, she hurried through their four available rooms. She and Libby had cleaned them just that morning, but she wanted to be sure there were no wayward items left behind by previous guests. As she straightened the towels on the rack near the water basin, she happened to glance up and catch sight of her reflection.

What she saw was a bedraggled young woman, red hair falling from pins that desperately tried to keep it in place, and a thin face with heavily shadowed eyes. She saw an eighteen-year-old girl who had no business running a large boarding house with just one staff member. A few more years of this and she'd be a doddering old woman.

She heard Libby calling from downstairs a moment later. Reaching up, she tried to smooth her hair back from her face. She ran her fingers down the front of her threadbare dress, willing the wrinkles to straighten themselves out. Sighing, she took one last look at the drawn face gazing back at her from the mirror before turning to head back downstairs.

As she approached the drawing room, she heard the clipped tones of a British accent, followed by Libby's chastened murmur. Meg frowned at the idea of some ruthless prospector browbeating her friend. Libby was a gentle soul, and far too vulnerable to the attacks of others.

The British woman continued to speak as Meg entered the room, her back to the door. "I'm sure you understand that Miss Arceneaux is accustomed to far grander facilities," the woman sniffed as Libby gazed up at her fearfully.

"And I'm sure you'll find that we run the finest establishment in Silver Springs," Meg said coolly. "Miss Arceneaux is welcome to stay in one of Bo Garrison's tents if she feels otherwise."

The Englishwoman whirled in surprise. Her waspish tongue was hardly complemented by her bland features. Meg swallowed back the words before speaking them aloud.

"I beg your pardon?" the woman demanded.

"Tsk, tsk," a voice spoke from the hall. "I see you have already endeared us to our hosts, dear Martha."

Turning to face their newest arrival, Meg found herself grasping the door jam for support. The woman standing before her was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. This was a lady, not a mere woman, she reminded herself. There hadn't been such a refined presence here in all of Silver Springs's history.

The woman's pink dress was silk, and cut to the highest fashion, Meg would wager. Her blonde hair was swept up under a wide-brimmed hat, which was clasped firmly against her head with a silk ribbon tied into a bow under her chin. She took a step forward, and Meg heard a pleasant rustle of cloth accompany the movement. The scent of rosewater filled the air around her.

"I must apologize for my chaperone," she said to Meg. Her accent was far more musical than her companion's, though she seemed to be consciously masking it. Meg assumed it was French.

"She has more of an affinity with books than she does with people," Miss Arceneaux continued. "I am sure that your accommodations are more than sufficient for our needs."

"My lady has been traveling for a fortnight," Martha interjected. "She would very much like a bath, and some rest."

"Of course," Meg nodded. "Libby will be happy to show you to your rooms as soon as we've settled your bill."

The woman clucked at her as though to say, "What else do I expect from an American?" Reaching into the small bag dangling from her wrist, she fished out a few coins. Her expression suggested she wanted to throw them at Meg's feet. Instead, she walked forward and placed them gently in Meg's outstretched palm.

"Supper is at six sharp," Meg called after them as Martha and Libby turned to leave the drawing room.

Miss Arceneaux glanced toward the hall window, where the inky blackness of perpetual night pressed seductively against the glass. "What time is it now?" she asked.

"Shortly after two o'clock in the afternoon," Meg responded. At the woman's shocked expression, she added, "We finally lost daylight last week. But we'll gain a few hours back soon enough."

"It must be maddening," Miss Arceneaux said, her eyes widening.

Meg shrugged. "One is forced to adapt. Now, if you'll just follow Libby up to your rooms, I'll prepare your bath water."

She watched the women climb the stairs, confused by her reaction to the lady. Meg seemed unable to take her eyes off her. She appeared to be so delicate, so fine...Meg felt like a bumbling oaf in her presence. Glancing down at her hands, she cringed at how rough and swollen they appeared. Miss Arceneaux's hands were protected by clean white gloves. Meg guessed she didn't have a mark on that creamy white skin.

She shook her head and hurried back to the kitchen. What was she doing pondering the appearance of a perfect stranger's modest parts? Her behavior was becoming most peculiar. She'd have to watch herself when Paul returned. Clasping the coins in her fist, Meg sneered. If he returned from Tilly's, the brothel on the other side of town. If the whores hadn't bled him dry and left him with something more to spend. She'd hide this money beneath the floorboards before her husband came home.

Nearly an hour later, Libby returned from her tenth trip upstairs to the lady's room. She'd dragged two buckets of water each time, and was clearly showing fatigue. "Miss Reginald says her charge is ready for the rinsing water."

Meg stopped her as she approached the stove. "Let me take the last two up. You get off your feet a few minutes."

Libby sighed. "Oh, I thank you." She sat at the table in relief.

Meg managed to get upstairs without sloshing too much water on the floor. At the closed door on the right-hand side of the hall, she lowered one bucket to free her hand and knocked.

"Enter," a musical voice called from inside.

Expecting the chaperone to answer, Meg froze. For a moment, she found herself strangely unable to turn the doorknob and open the door. When her pause became too extended, the voice inside grew irritable.

"Please come inside, I am unable to answer myself."

Meg knew at that point that Miss Reginald was no longer in the room. Hands shaking, she opened the door, picked up the second bucket, and slowly slunk into the room. Thankfully, Miss Arceneaux was hidden from view behind a wooden screen. The tub had been placed in the corner of the room, which was lit by a lantern resting on a chair beside it. Meg thought it interesting that the woman had chosen the smallest of the two rooms offered, and even more interesting that Miss Reginald, who seemed so adamant about her charge's comfort, had obligingly taken the larger.

Clearing her throat, Meg murmured, "I have your rinsing water here."

"Oh, thank you Mrs. Glass," Miss Arceneaux called. "Could I impose upon you to bring it here? My chaperone seems to have other affairs to attend to at the moment."

Meg frowned. Go behind that screen? She didn't think she was able, not without alerting the woman to her nervousness. But refusing would appear even more suspicious. She was a married woman, after all. Meg sighed inaudibly.

"Of course, I'd be happy to," she said, forcing a bright note into her voice.

Although Paul was known for scrimping on the strangest of comforts, he'd actually done well by his guests with their tub. The copper tub was so massive it took both she and Libby to haul it around. According to Libby, however, Miss Arceneaux had helped her with it herself. Libby said it had never felt so light. So when Meg circled the screen, all she could see of Miss Arceneaux was her head and upper shoulders.

Her guest had arrived with her own fragrances and soaps, for no bathwater at the boarding house had ever before smelled so fine. Meg was accustomed to bathing with lye soap that tended to burn if accidentally rubbed into the eyes. When Miss Arceneaux heard Meg approach, she tilted her head back and waited.

It was obvious what she wanted. Heaving another silent sigh, Meg stepped closer and rested one bucket on the floor. Slowly turning the first bucket above the bathing woman's head, she ran warm water over the sudsy bubbles encapsulating her golden hair. When the woman reached up to rub to soap out, her back arched further out of the water.

Meg's eyes strayed toward the soft curves just barely visible around the line of Miss Arceneaux's back. She was saved from further torment by the odd marks marring the woman's skin just above the water. Four thick slashes ran from the center of her back to her right side. Meg gasped in spite of herself.

Miss Arceneaux straightened in response, immediately glancing around as though looking for something. "What is it?" she asked.

"My apologies, Miss Arceneaux," Meg stammered. "I should not remark upon it, but your injury..."

The woman relaxed. Craning her neck, she looked behind herself to meet Meg's gaze. Her soft smile made Meg's heart skip a beat. "It is an old one," she said. "And please, call me Giselle. I am not such a fine lady that you should pay me this respect. You may be surprised by the situations in which I have found myself in times past."

Meg knew she was hinting at a criminal history. "Those are not lash marks," she commented, growing bolder. "They almost look animal."

Giselle's smile faded a bit before returning with full force. "You should not fret over such things," she said. Her accent was suddenly a bit stronger. "It is but a remnant of a past life. Now if you please...the other bucket?"

Meg reached for the second bucket of water and continued to rinse Giselle's hair. Handing the woman a towel, she fled the area before Giselle stood from her bath. "I must return to the kitchen," she murmured apologetically. "Our supper won't cook itself."

Downstairs, Meg took a moment in the hallway to compose herself. Thankfully none of the other guests had passed her as she left Giselle's room. Her face seemed permanently flushed red.

"I must be ill," she muttered. The warmth grew whenever her mind strayed toward thoughts of Miss Arceneaux.

Libby didn't seem to suspect anything strange as they worked together to cook the evening meal. By six o'clock, the dining room was filled with the sounds of chatter and raucous laughter. The majority of their guests were male, normally the better off prospectors before they went off to find their fortunes in the wilds. Meg demanded payment before each guest was allowed to spend the night. It made for far fewer unpaid bills.

The room grew quiet suddenly just before Meg prepared to bring out the first course. Curious, she peeked through the swinging door in the kitchen and into the dining area. Miss Arceneaux had made an appearance, and it had struck the men dumb. Chuckling to herself, she hauled the first dish into the room.

"Where's Paul tonight, Meg?" Mr. Weeks called.

She smiled at his impetuousness. Weeks never meant any harm, but he had a way of asking the most inappropriate questions. Living among dozens of men each month, Meg was hardly fazed. She responded tartly, "I should ask Tilly the same question."

The men roared with laughter, until they realized the female presence in the room. Glancing towards Miss Arceneaux, they quieted almost shamefully. The blonde woman hardly noticed the gaffe. Meg remembered that she'd only just arrived in town and had no way of knowing who ran the town's most visible whorehouse.

Meg smiled before easing out of the room to finish collecting that evening's fare. She had a feeling Miss Arceneaux would not have found offense even if she did understand the joke.

When they all were finally seated to eat, the men each found their own way to question Miss Arceneaux about her business in Silver Springs. Without Miss Reginald present to waylay any inappropriate questioning, the men grew even bolder in their curiosity.

"I will arrive in Birming sometime next week to meet my intended," Miss Arceneaux explained to Mr. Weeks at one point during the meal. "He is the newly appointed mayor of that city."

"Birming's doing fine business," Mr. Weeks nodded sagely. "Your man should do well there."

"As long as the vein doesn't dry up," Mr. Harrison interjected. "I've seen a busy town dry up like sagebrush and fly away just months after the gold disappeared."

"Such a thing to say," Meg chastised him. "Don't make her overly fearful before she's even made her home there."

"I'm only speaking the truth, Meg," he defended.

Miss Arceneaux shook her head. "Do not worry for my feelings on the matter, Mrs. Glass," she said. "My fiancé and myself both are very comfortable."

Meg was quiet for the remainder of the meal. Her mind spun so that she hardly heard the rest of what Giselle had to say. The woman was on her way to be married to some fat old man, more than likely. Meg could only imagine what would happen to her after a few years of that arrangement. She quietly mourned the death of this girl's spirit, which would surely not survive the winter in this climate.

Meg was finally allowed to retire much later that evening. She normally waited for the last guest to leave the public areas of the house before climbing the stairs to the third floor and their apartments. That evening she was already asleep by the time Paul stumbled into the bedroom. Her eyes flew open when he lit the lantern and began removing his clothing. He smelled of smoke and whiskey.

"We have two new guests today," she told him. He merely grunted in reply.

She gazed at the large belly poking out through the buttons of his long johns. It had only grown during their two year marriage. She hadn't thought much upon it in the past, but now she found herself disgusted by his body. At least it was a rare moment that he demanded his husbandly rights.

Paul fell into bed and immediately pulled the majority of the blankets his way. Meg bit her tongue rather than argue this sore point yet again, and leaned back against her pillows. When her husband started snoring a few minutes later, she found her mind filled with thoughts of Giselle. Next to the hairy, smelly body of the only man she'd ever been intimate with in her life, their newest guest seemed almost heavenly. Meg found herself wondering at the texture of her hair, and how her skin might feel.

An hour later, she flipped the blankets away from herself and rose from bed, unable to sleep. The water pitcher on a nearby table was empty, and her throat impossibly parched. Meg threw on her robe and grabbed the pitcher, heading downstairs to the kitchen.

After leisurely filling the pitcher and taking a drink of water, Meg was ready to return to bed. Normally Libby was highly aware of her movements, and would have joined her at the kitchen table. Her activity that day must have overly tired her. She was likely sleeping soundly in her small room on the third floor.

Meg placed her hand on the door that lead to the back hallway, about to push it open, when she heard the sound of someone coming down the stairs. Her first instinct was to continue opening the door and greet Libby, thinking the woman had risen after all. But the movement didn't sound at all like her friend. It was far too cautious. Whoever it was didn't want anyone to hear him moving about. Meg opened the door a crack and peered through into the dark hallway.

She saw a small figure reach the bottom of the staircase and continue forward toward the back door. At first she assumed the person was a man, for he wore brown trousers and vest under a heavy jacket. His head was covered by a knit cap. But a slant of moonlight caught the person's face as he approached the window near the back door. The features exposed were not male in the slightest.

Meg almost gasped to recognize Giselle. What was she doing going outside in the middle of the night? Each room had a perfectly serviceable chamber pot beneath the bed; she had no reason to visit the outhouses in the dead of night. And certainly not dressed as a man. Suspicious, Meg watched the woman leave the house, then rushed back upstairs to her bedroom.

She was careful not to wake her husband, but she needed to hurry. Meg couldn't afford to lose Giselle, not if she wanted to know what she was up to. Taking the lead from her guest, she grabbed an old pair of Paul's pants, ones that were now too small for his frame. She threw a sweater over her this and took his jacket as well. After slipping her feet into a pair of boots, she was ready.

Outside, a pair of footprints lead away from the tracks heading out toward the outhouses. Meg followed them across the yard and through an alleyway until she reached Harbor Street. There the trail went cold when heavy traffic masked the woman's footprints in the snow. The street was nearly empty tonight. The only people she could see was a small cluster of men at the lower end of the street, toward the lake. There wasn't an actual harbor at the end of Harbor Street, but the lake was large enough to afford a few docks for fishing boats and the like.

She realized the group of men were actually in the midst of a struggle, and took several steps toward them. She stayed near the buildings on the opposite side of the street as she approached, trying to stay out of sight. It wasn't the first brawl she'd seen, but one never wanted to get in the middle of a fight.

Meg heard the growl of an animal ring through the winter air and paused to duck behind some wooden crates piled in front of Henry Drinker's general store. Curious, she peeked around and saw that she was at the perfect vantage point to see that activity ahead. There were four men involved in the melee...with a fifth figure standing at the center of the group. Meg frowned. The fifth man was much smaller than the others.

Gasping, Meg realized it was Giselle. How on earth had the woman managed to pick a fight not ten minutes after leaving the house? She watched fearfully, knowing she might have to jump in and assist at any moment.

"I really don't have time for this," Giselle was saying. "If you simply answer my question, this will be far less painful."

The men laughed at her statement. One of them leaned in close, towering over her in an extremely predatory posture. Meg jerked forward in response, accidentally striking one of the crates. The sound was like a shot in the quiet night. Two of the men whipped around when they heard it, their features bathed by moonlight.

Meg caught her breath at the sight of them. Their faces were deformed, twisted with strange ridges that protruded from their brows. She thought she saw a yellow glow in their eyes. When the first drew back his lips, she saw two elongated canine teeth emerging from his mouth. She was frozen with shock. What were they?

"Please pay attention when someone is speaking to you," Giselle said, poking the first man. Her light shove somehow managed to throw him several feet away from her. The man nearly lost his balance and went sprawling across the snow in the street.

One of the men behind her darted forward, trying to take her by surprise. Giselle ducked and crouched in the snow just before his arms circled her shoulders. From this position, she kicked back, slamming her foot into his kneecap. The man cried out in pain. Back on her feet again, Giselle threw a quick jab into his face. Meg noticed she was carrying something in her other hand just as she thrust it against the man's chest. At first she thought it was a knife, and her stomach dropped when Giselle actually stabbed the man with her weapon. A moment later the man was gone, seemingly vanishing in a sudden cloud of dust.

Giselle turned away from the mess an instant later and faced the remainder of her adversaries. The three remaining men stared at her a moment before simultaneously whirling and running off into the night. Meg grasped the crate in front of her tightly, afraid to move for fear the woman would see her. She'd never seen someone murdered before, not even here where a man could be shot for flashing a bit too much gold in front of the wrong people. And she'd never seen anyone just vanish into thin air like that.

Meg nearly fainted when Giselle turned to look straight at her hiding place. "You can come out now," she called with her light accent. "I know you're back there."

When she took a step out from behind the crates, Giselle shook her head. "You shouldn't have seen that," she warned, moving closer.

Meg clenched her hands into fists, positive that Giselle was about to kill her for witnessing her crime. The knife in her hand...was a piece of wood, sharpened at the tip. Meg frowned when she realized that Giselle was not holding a weapon after all.

"What will you do?" Meg whispered fearfully.

Giselle paused, an expression of shock crossing her features. "What do you mean...?" she started, then burst out laughing. "You think I mean to harm you? Silly girl," she exclaimed.

"But you just killed that man..." Meg stammered.

Giselle shook her head. "I see I have a few things to explain now," she said. "But first, we need to get in out of the cold. Will you trust me long enough to walk you home?"

Meg stared at Giselle's outstretched hand for several moments before finally taking it and turning back toward the boarding house. An explanation was indeed required.

* * *

Meg stoked the fire warming the cast iron stove in the corner of the kitchen then put on a kettle of water to boil. Their coffee tended to brew into a bitter tasting sludge, but it always managed to warm the blood after the deeply felt cold of the Alaskan wind. She returned to the narrow kitchen table while she waited for the kettle's whistle. A lantern dimly lit the room and sent shadows dancing across Giselle's face. The Frenchwoman sat watching as Meg bustled around the kitchen before seating herself across the table. Her brief explanation of what had just happened outside had quickly turned into an extended description of her childhood in the south of France. As interesting as this was to Meg, she found herself wanting to jump back into the present so that she might learn more about Giselle's nightly activities.

"You were never really imprisoned, were you?" Meg asked, interrupting Giselle's recollections of her father's vineyards.

The Frenchwoman looked startled. Sighing, Meg elaborated, "Earlier this afternoon you suggested those marks on your back were because of some criminal dealings in your past. But that wasn't the truth. It has something to do with those strange men, doesn't it?"

Giselle smiled sadly. "Usually my shameful admission of past guilt is enough to settle any inquiring minds," she said. "I should have known it wouldn't fool you for a moment."

Meg leaned back, pleased by the backhanded compliment. But then she shook her head, realizing that it wasn't the time to be distracted by Giselle's delicate fairness. "Those men are involved in some nefarious dealings, is that it?" she asked. "Are they claim jumpers?"

A charming laugh bubbled up from the Frenchwoman's throat. She stilled herself when she caught Meg's wounded expression. "After what you saw tonight, you still try to rationalize the situation. Tell me, how long have you lived in Silver Springs?"

Meg thought a moment. "Paul bought this house from crazy old Peabody Miles back in '94," she said. "That was when this place was a silver mining town. Old Peabody started raving about gold and throwing his money into this monstrosity before he fully lost his marbles. Paul started renovations and added on a third floor just before we were wed. I'm thankful to have missed that nonsense. This house was a mess. I guess I'd say I've lived here just under two years."

"Then you would be in a position to notice certain things," Giselle said. "Such as strange disappearances, or suspicious travelers coming into town suddenly..."

Meg cut her off with a laugh. "Except for Harbor Street and a few of our neighbors here, most of this town is still living and working in canvas tents," she explained. "We have thousands of hopeful miners passing through each week, thinking they're going to strike it rich. Except for a few of our regulars, we never host the same guest more than two nights in a row. This town has been built by travelers, Miss Arceneaux. No one notices anyone in particular, and if a fellow was to wander off by himself and freeze to death out in the wilds, it could be months before he was found."

The Frenchwoman nodded gravely. "This is exactly why I've come here, Meg," she said. Startled by the use of her Christian name, Meg could only nod in confusion. Giselle continued, "The population of the Alaskan territory has exploded in recent months, and we are now in the midst of the darkest point of the year. For a few weeks at least, there will be no sun to dissuade them from the hunt, and overabundance of prey to consume."

"Them?" Meg echoed, feeling the hairs on her arms stand upright. Her mind flashed back to the sight of those two men who'd faced her in the moonlight, their animal features leering through the darkness.

Giselle nodded in satisfaction, seeing that she was starting to understand. "The vampires," she replied.

"What?" Meg sputtered, taken by surprise.

"The creatures feed on human blood," Giselle explained. "They live in darkness, and may exist for centuries. Only the destruction of the heart or the removal of the head can kill them. They find injury in sunlight and when faced with holy objects. This land has become a veritable feast of pleasures for their kind."

Meg stared at her a moment, trying to decide if she was serious. When she realized that Giselle meant every word she said, she felt an embarrassed flush of anger rise to warm her cheeks. The Frenchwoman's strange behavior was suddenly explained. She was daft. Meg felt foolish for harboring any sort of emotions for someone she'd only just met.

"Where is your chaperone?" Meg asked sharply. "Does she know you've been traipsing about at all hours of the night?"

Giselle frowned at her. "What is the matter?"

The kettle chose that moment to shrilly announce itself. Meg jumped at the sound, then hurried to the stove to move the kettle. She wasn't really in the mood for coffee anymore. The heat from the metal handle quickly leeched through the rag she'd grabbed near the sink and nearly burned her hand. She dropped the kettle back onto the stovetop with a hiss. Furious, she whirled to take out her anger on Giselle.

"Miss Reginald was sorely negligent when she did not warn us about your condition," she said bitterly. "And she should keep closer watch on someone who is certainly not capable of caring for herself."

Giselle slowly stood from the table. "I see I've misjudged you," she said, her voice sad.

Meg felt a twinge of guilt, but was unable to shrug off the logical part of her brain that continued to deny the possibility of what Giselle had just described. She felt even more manipulated recalling how quickly she'd fallen under the woman's spell. Meg was simply too angry to listen any further.

"I've certainly misjudged your sanity," Meg retorted. "How on earth do you intend to justify...shoving a stick into a man's chest does not prove your twisted ideas. I shall expect both you and Miss Reginald to continue on your way as soon as possible. If she requires me to return a portion of her payment I shall be more than happy to oblige."

Giselle shook her head. "Stay safe," she whispered before turning and leaving the room.

Meg collapsed into a nearby chair when she was finally alone. She realized she was shaking and hugged herself tightly. For some reason, a memory of her husband passed through her recollection, momentarily eclipsing all thought of the Frenchwoman. Her teeth chattered with a sudden chill. The image of blood dripping against the back of her hand filled her head.

She'd been married only two months the first time she'd realized that Paul Glass was not the man who had so carefully courted her after seeing her working in her mother's shop in Fairfax. His generosity, his humor, and his gentle nature had slowly vanished as they put their home together. Away from the watchful eye of her father, who had never trusted the broad-faced entrepreneur his daughter had consented to marry, Paul changed into a completely different person. At some level, Meg knew she would never forgive herself for ignoring her father's wisdom and remaining blind to her husband's true personality.

"Mrs. Glass?" a quiet voice murmured from the doorway.

Startled, Meg jerked her head up to see Libby standing in the hall. The woman bit her lip apologetically. "I woke up and looked for you but you weren't in your room," she explained.

Meg smiled wanly. Libby only dared to come into their bedroom if she had nightmares and couldn't get back to sleep. Otherwise she avoided Paul like the plague. Rubbing her right eye with one hand, Meg was slightly surprised to find the edge of her cheek slick with tears.

"Oh," Libby murmured when she realized Meg was crying. "Did Mr. Glass- -?"

"No, no," Meg assured her. "I'm just tired."

Libby hurried into the room. "You've left the water on," she chastised, grabbing the kettle and moving it to the counter. "Did you want some coffee this early?"

Meg shook her head. "I think I just want to go back to sleep," she said.

* * *

Miss Arceneaux did not make an appearance at breakfast that morning, which was fine by Meg. Strangely enough, her odd chaperone was not to be seen either. Meg wondered if they'd gone off somewhere together. There was not much to entertain two unattached women in Silver Springs. Having observed the Frenchwoman's little hobby the evening before, Meg wondered if she should worry about their business among the unkempt miners shuffling through town.

Paul was present at the breakfast table for a change. He put on a grand show in front of the guests, as usual. One could hardly guess that he'd spent the majority of the day before drinking and whoring himself into a blind stupor. He even genially grabbed Meg around the waist as she passed his chair with a bowl of fried potatoes, attempting to pull her into his lap as though she were a child. Everyone present laughed uproariously with the exception of Libby and Mr. Weeks, who'd borne witness to more than a few of Paul's baser moments.

Meg laughed off the inappropriate manhandling and continued to place food on the table. Inwardly, she seethed at Paul's rudeness. It was bad enough he normally left the full running of the boarding house in her hands, but to demean her in front of their guests was unforgivable. She felt a sharp ache pulsing at her temples and spreading outward across her forehead. After breakfast she and Libby would have to start working on the available rooms. Hopefully she'd get a chance to take a nap just after the noon meal.

As Paul headed back to their quarters after spending a few hours chatting with the guests in the drawing room, Meg stopped him in the hallway outside of the kitchen. "Could you take Libby to pick up some supplies this afternoon?" she asked. "I'm feeling a bit ill, and I'd like someone to be here in case there are any new arrivals."

"Train's not coming back until tomorrow," Paul pointed out. He sighed when he saw the expression on her face. "I will," he allowed before mounting the stairs.

Satisfied that Libby wouldn't be out on her own in the dark, Meg continued straightening up the kitchen in preparation for dinner. It was the same for her day in and day out...awake in time to cook the morning meal, clean the rooms, then hurry in order to have dinner on the table by noon. There was normally a few hours of downtime in the afternoons, until it was time to prepare supper. By the time she fell into bed late each evening she ached from head to foot. And the following morning the cycle began yet again. Meg felt herself begin to fray. She wasn't sure she'd be able to continue this livelihood much longer and keep her sanity.

That afternoon there was still no sign of Miss Arceneaux or her chaperone. Libby mentioned she'd seen the two of them leaving the house early that morning. Meg couldn't help but wonder what had occupied their attention for so long. While cleaning their rooms, she surreptitiously looked about for something out of the ordinary. Besides several dusty books and handwritten journals in Miss Reginald's room, she spotted nothing odd.

Meg was able to read a bit, but never had much opportunity to flex her skills up here in the wilds. While Mr. Weeks had a steady supply of aging newspapers sent his way, there was hardly time in the day for her to sit down at read them herself. She was desperately curious to know what Miss Reginald was writing, but felt too shameful at the very idea of actually paging through her personal thoughts and feelings. She left the journals where they lay on the bedside table.

After the noon meal, Meg retired to her bedroom for a few hours for some much needed rest. Libby took control of the kitchen before it was time for her and Paul to head out and collect the weekly necessities. Meg found it difficult to actually sleep, and settled for a quick nap with a wet towel placed across her eyes. She finally drifted off, only waking when Paul burst into the room and started tearing through the wardrobe.

"I put my knife in my pocket somewheres," he said by way of explanation when she sat up and looked at him quizzically. "You know, the one Miles bought off those Injuns back when?"

Meg frowned. "Have you and Libby returned already, then?" she asked.

At the blank look on his face, she threw the wet towel at him angrily. "You were supposed to take her!" she cried. "Did she go alone?"

Paul shrugged. "Hell if I know," he said evenly. "What does it matter?"

"It's as dark as midnight out there," Meg snapped, pointing out the window. "A woman has no business on the streets alone."

She jumped off the bed and crossed the room towards him, poking him in the shoulder. "You promised me you would go with her," she said. "Can't you ever think of anyone but yourself for a moment?"

His eyes turned thunderous at the assault. "You watch your tongue," he warned. "You just remember who puts food in that belly of yours."

Meg laughed harshly, startling him. "You feed me?" she challenged. She almost never raised her voice, and certainly not to Paul, but something deep inside was egging her on today. She found herself unable to stop until she finally told him exactly what she thought. "When I'm the one who keeps this place clean, cooks every meal, and takes care of the guests? You don't do a damned thing around this house except piss away whatever money we earn with your drinking and rutting."

When she paused to take a breath, he hauled off and slapped her across the face. The blow wasn't quite enough for him, for he grabbed her by one shoulder and shoved her as hard as he could. Paul had sixty pounds on her at least. The move sent her flying across the room, stopping only when met the wall by the bedroom door. The entire room seemed to shake with the force of her body striking the wall. Meg slid down to the floor, dazed.

"You don't speak to me that way," Paul muttered, turning back toward the wardrobe. After rummaging through their clothing for another few moments, he pocketed something he'd found in another shirt, turned and stalked out of the room.

Meg sat where she landed for several minutes, trying to catch her breath. Her heart pounded thickly in her ears, and her headache bloomed in full force once more. She clutched her chest with one hand, feeling the tender organ beat fiercely inside her ribcage. Suddenly she could imagine how her mother felt as she died—-sitting alone in her kitchen, her heart seizing in her chest. Meg closed her eyes and fought for control over her body and her emotions. She would not allow herself to cry.

Finally, she regained her composure. Opening her eyes, her gaze fell immediately on the wedding gift given to them by Paul's mother. It listed crookedly on the wall above their bed, nearly dislodged when he'd thrown Meg across the room. She frowned, considering it for many quiet moments. Resolved, Meg rose to her feet. Standing on her tiptoes, she was able to reach the object with her fingertips. Maybe Paul had supplied something useful to their marriage after all, she mused.

* * *

"She came and left over an hour ago, Mrs. Glass," Buddy Drinker told Meg twenty minutes later. Henry Drinker's son began listing the items that Libby had collected, but Meg shook her head and cut him off.

"Had she already gone to the Yarbough's for the fish I requested?" she asked him.

Buddy shook his head. "I surely don't know, Mrs. Glass," he responded. "Like I said, I gave her two bags of flour, some brown sugar, coffee beans—-"

"She carried all of this on her own?" Meg asked, confused.

"Oh, no," Buddy answered. "Pa said he'd be happy to deliver the items right over there. She did take a few things on her own. Said she still had another stop before heading back to your place. Then she left."

Meg shook her head, amazed at the boy's stupidity. "To the Yarbough's," she commented evenly.

His face cleared. "Oh, that makes sense," he said, nodding sagely. "Are you sure you're okay, Mrs. Glass?" he asked again. They were the first words out of his mouth when Meg arrived disheveled and out of breath. She hadn't the time to look before she left the house, but she would guess she had a bruise already forming under her left eye.

"I'm perfectly fine," she assured him. "I'll just be heading out then. Tell your father to please have those items delivered by late afternoon, if you will."

"Sure," Buddy said, nodding affirmatively. "I sure will."

Heart thudding in her chest, Meg left the store. In the darkness outside, she paused to stare out across the open landscape just yards away. The town sprung up immediately out of the wilderness, a stark bit of civilization amidst the savage Alaskan wilds, and it ended just as abruptly. In the distance she could make out the twinkling lights of lanterns hanging from tent posts. Before Silver Springs vanished into the landscape, it devolved into a series of tents and temporary housing. This is where the Yarbough's lived and worked, selling some of the finest seafood in town.

Heading out there meant crossing some rough territory. Meg was terrified at the idea, even more so after witnessing the events of the evening before. But the idea of Libby out there on her own sent chills into her very bones. The woman was too childlike to care for herself if something happened to her. Slipping her hands into the folds of her skirt, she felt the hard surface of the only weapon she had available to her in the face of the evils polluting their town. But she hoped it would not come to that.

Pressing forward, Meg left the shelter of the general store and headed out toward the array of tents lining the horizon.

The drunk's slurred speech was almost as offensive as his breath. Meg leaned fearfully away from the miner as he pressed even closer. "I ast if you was workin' fer Tilly," he repeated, then belched in her face.

"I..." Meg hedged, disgusted. As her eyes searched for a way to escape, her gaze landed on several brown paper packages strewn across the ground. The thought of Libby out here on her own put the steel back into her spine.

"No," she said. Meg gingerly shoved him back, afraid to actually touch his filthy coat. Thankfully he was so inebriated that it was enough to send him stumbling in the opposite direction. She ignored his stuttered protests and hurried toward the remains of Libby's purchases.

It soon became painfully clear that someone had ripped his way through the packages, eager to see what was inside. The bland eye of a good-sized bass gleamed innocuously up at her from the earth. Libby had managed to see the Yarbough's before she'd been stopped. Whoever robbed her must have been rather angry to find only fish and a few disparate dried goods.

Staring down at the ground, Meg sighed. The moist earth was pretty trampled in this part of town, and it was difficult to judge what kind of a struggle had gone on. A sour twist of guilt flared in her belly. If anything happened to Libby, it was her responsibility. Meg should have known better than to trust Paul with something so important.

Glancing around at the sea of tents surrounding her, Meg was amazed at how quiet it was this late afternoon. It was as dark as midnight, but that shouldn't stop the thrust of commerce glutting the streets. There was a pall across Silver Springs. She couldn't help but think of Giselle and her explanation for the strangeness.

She heard a small sound behind her and felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand at the ready. Meg shivered as gooseflesh rose along her arms. Her hand slid into the folds of her skirt to grasp the solid object tucked away inside. As she prepared to whirl and face whoever approached, a choked sob sounded from between two nearby tents.

Meg relaxed as she recognized the gasping breath that followed. "Libby," she whispered. She pressed her way between the heavy canvas and found her friend cowering in the cramped darkness.

Libby's sobs increased when she recognized her employer. "Mrs. Glass," she murmured, her breath hitching in her chest. "I ruined the meat."

Crouching before the girl, Meg placed a hand on her shoulder and asked, "What happened?"

"They said it were a toll, for passing through the shanty. They took it all," Libby cried. "Mrs. Glass, it's all my fault."

Meg shook her head firmly. "It is not. Paul was supposed to come with you. Didn't you ask him?"

Libby's eyes gleamed with tears in the darkness as they opened wide in horror. "He said to go on. He said I should be able to watch for myself after all you done for me. I'm sorry, Mrs. Glass."

Meg felt her rage flare with renewed vigor at the memory of her husband's smug face. "You did nothing wrong, Libby. Do you hear me? No one should be out on her own at a time like this."

She wiped the tears away from Libby's broad cheeks. The girl clutched Meg by the arms then before throwing herself into them. "You're such a good woman," she sobbed. "I know I been a trial for you and Mr. Glass. I'm too dumb to work for my keep, and you let me stay with you anyway."

"Don't you ever say that again, Libby," Meg reproached. "You are a loyal friend and you have never disappointed me. You are not dumb."

Libby sighed heavily. "I've always been slow, since the scarlet fever," she said. "But I work hard for you and Mr. Glass. To make you proud."

"You make me very proud," Meg avowed. Standing, she pulled Libby to her feet. "Let's hurry back home now. We don't belong out here."

They remained arm in arm as they hurried through the tents toward the other side of town. The drunk who'd accosted Meg earlier was gone, and they didn't see another soul on the streets. Meg began to have a terrible feeling about the silence to hit their small mining settlement. People were disappearing, there was no doubt of that. And while she once was able to rationalize it away as a byproduct of the dangerous lifestyle out here on the frontier, it was getting more and more difficult to ignore.

She almost didn't see the tall figure step out as they rounded a large tent, but in the next moment his eyes were unmistakable. Burning through the darkness like twin candle flames, they immediately lit on the two women in their path.

"Well, hello," the man spoke gallantly. "And how are you ladies on this fine Thursday afternoon?"

Meg skittered to a halt and forced Libby behind her. When the smaller woman squeaked an instant later, Meg glanced over her shoulder to see another man creeping toward them.

"You..." Meg started, then floundered as her breath vanished. "You stay away from us," she finally warned.

The man laughed. "We mean no offense," he said. "My friend and I have been traveling hard this past fortnight, and I have to say, it's been a long time since I've laid eyes on a woman."

Meg understood that the lust in his voice wasn't sexual. He was the Wolf in all the fairytales she'd ever heard as a child--the Wolf come to life. She saw a flash of white when he yawned widely to reveal his fangs.

She grabbed Libby by the arm and shoved her toward the boarding house. They could see the roof of the general store where they stood, and if they managed to reach it in time they would be safe. "Run," she urged the woman, shoving her again.

Libby took only two timid steps before Meg fell to the ground. The vampire had pounced the moment she forced her friend toward safety. Her forehead slammed into the semi-frozen ground, dazing her. The scent of death enveloped her as the man pressed his body against hers. Meg dug her fingers into the earth beneath her and tried to push herself up. The creature flung his weight against her and forced her flat across the ground once more. Grasping her by the hair, he twisted her head back and to the right, exposing her neck.

Frantically, Meg groped the folds of her dress. Her weapon was trapped beneath her leg. Choking back a terrified sob, Meg jabbed her elbow as hard as she could into the vampire's gut. In the instant his weight released as he shifted back to avoid another blow, she rolled onto her back and yanked the large wooden crucifix out of her skirt. When she held it out toward him, the vampire threw his hands before his face and hissed angrily.

He retreated several feet away and watched her warily. Visibly trembling, Meg pushed herself to her feet. She continued to hold the cross aloft, and the vampire did not attempt to follow her movement.

"Libby?" Meg asked. When the woman didn't answer, she risked a glance over her shoulder.

The second vampire nearly had her bent in half, leaning her backwards in his attempts to feed. With a start, Meg realized exactly what the creatures wanted. She'd heard the men discuss the book written by that raving Irishman, and like everyone else she thought it was nothing more than horrific fantasy. But Stoker had spoken the truth. These were animals that survived solely on the blood of others.

Barely considering the consequences, Meg rushed the second vampire. Wielding the heavy cross like a hammer, she smashed it across the back of his head. The vampire screeched in surprise and pain. In the instant the holy object touched him it burned into his flesh.

He whirled on her angrily, then paused and smiled. Meg recalled the first creature a moment too late. He grabbed her from behind and pinned her arms against her sides. The cross was suddenly useless as it pressed against her thigh. She squirmed in his grasp, but he was far too strong. He barely grunted in response when she lifted her foot to kick him in the shin.

Pressing his lips close to her right ear, he whispered, "Keep struggling. It makes the blood sweeter."

The sound of a clucking tongue made the quartet pause in confusion. "You never learn, Bartlett," a lightly accented voice slid through the darkness like a caress. "The more halfwit minions you create, the more entertainment you give me."

The second vampire gasped and lurched forward. Meg couldn't see what had struck him, but when he burst into a flurry of dust an instant later, she spotted a familiar pale face and blonde hair appear behind him. She barely had a chance to digest this information before the first vampire flung her away from him.

"Slayer," Bartlett sneered. "Why are you slumming around here? Did Renato escape that quickly?"

Giselle stepped forward, frowning. "I would have hoped you'd assume that I've killed him," she pouted.

Grinning, Bartlett shook his head. "A little thing like you? After five hundred years and seven fallen Slayers, it will take more than a Frenchwoman to finish that old goat."

"Meg, Libby," Giselle began. "Please stand behind me."

Still clutching her cross, Meg obeyed. When she reached Libby's side, the other woman grabbed her tightly around the waist and refused to let go.

"You hold Renato in such esteem," Giselle told Bartlett. "Yet you continue with this charade? What makes you think you'll be able to master any number of comrades? I've killed your last four companions."

Bartlett scowled at her. "Take your girls home," he said. To Meg's surprise, he gave her a lascivious look before adding, "Redhead this time, huh? Much better choice-younger than that gristly old hag. I've still got that nasty taste in the back of my throat."

He reached up to pick at his teeth with his dirty fingernails. Giselle nearly snarled at him. When she took another step toward him, Meg called her name. The Frenchwoman seemed to realize her place just then. Bartlett tipped an imaginary hat as she hurried toward Meg and Libby.

"It doesn't mean you've beaten her," Meg defended, startling herself more than anyone. "You're just delaying the inevitable."

Bartlett shook his head and snickered at her. She glanced at Giselle, who barely met her eyes. The blonde woman grasped Libby by the arm and urged her to start walking. When Meg returned her gaze to the vampire standing several yards away, she saw that he'd disappeared into the darkness.

* * *

Libby slept peacefully in the room directly above their heads as Meg and Giselle locked themselves into the blonde woman's room. They'd managed to avoid notice as they crept up the back stairs. Meg didn't really want to explain her dirty dress and bloodied forehead to any of the boarders. Supper would likely be late that evening, but she didn't quite have the heart to use her injury as an excuse for it. She would much rather simply pretend it had never occurred in the first place.

Meg sat primly on the edge of Giselle's bed as the Frenchwoman poured water into the washbasin and collected several clean rags. "You should not have been outside," Giselle chastised.

"Someone has to buy the supplies to keep this place running," Meg snapped. When Giselle raised her brows in surprise, Meg sighed. "Paul was supposed to take Libby to the general store. He let her go out alone. I couldn't just leave her out there."

Giselle stared at her for a long moment before nodding. "No, I expect you couldn't," she agreed. Somehow Meg thought it was meant as a compliment. "I see that you brought a cross with you," Giselle added. A small glint of amusement leapt into her hazel eyes.

Meg stared down at her hands. "You're not crazy," she blurted. "Is that what you want to hear?"

"That will do for now," Giselle allowed. "But you have to promise me that you won't wander around by yourself. Bartlett and his gang aren't the only vampires in town."

"You know him," Meg said. "You know him personally."

"He killed my best friend," Giselle said quietly. Lifting the washbasin from its perch, she carefully carried it toward the bed. She did not meet Meg's eyes as she sat beside her. "I'd been following a master vampire for several months, and foolishly allowed her to travel with myself and Martha. Bartlett was a high ranking member of this vampire's group."

"Renato?" Meg asked. "Is that the master vampire's name?"

Giselle nodded. "He's one of the oldest vampires left in the world," she explained. "There are a few others, but none so highly ambitious. His favorite thing to do is settle in a small town or village and see how quickly he is able to destroy every living creature living there. I think his record is twelve hours, though normally he enjoys drawing it out over several days or weeks."

Meg swallowed heavily. "He is coming to Silver Springs?" she asked.

"No," Giselle said. "He despises the New World. The people here are far too unsophisticated for his palate. No, Bartlett has struck out on his own, and I have come to follow."

"Why didn't you kill him tonight?"

Giselle sighed. "He reminded me that I have other responsibilities. My calling is to protect and defend. Vengeance is not a part of the Slayer's sacred duties."

"Slayer..." Meg whispered. She winced when Giselle pressed a damp rag against her forehead.

"One girl in all the world," Giselle said. "Called to fight evil, and given the strength to do so."

"But you're so...small," Meg said.

Giselle smiled. "Looks can be deceiving," she countered.

"Is Miss Reginald a Slayer, too?"

Giselle shook her head. "There is only one Slayer at a time," she explained. "Martha is my Watcher. She belongs to a group of people who train, observe, and gather information for the cause. They've been around for centuries."

"That must be why she's so unpleasant," Meg guessed. "Forced to stand off to one side and only watch as you fight all the battles."

"Martha is British, so that temperament is part of her nature," Giselle said by way of explanation. When Meg laughed appropriately, she continued, "But she has been rather short-tempered lately. I think Victoria's death weighs heavily on both of us."

Giselle continued to clean out the wound on Meg's forehead, every so often pausing and turning toward the washbasin to rinse blood out of the rag. She reached up and smoothed back the hair that had fallen into Meg's face. Her gentle fingers found the knot rising up along Meg's cheekbone.

"Bartlett didn't do this," she said.

Meg was astonished. "How did you--?" she asked.

Giselle shrugged. "I guessed," she responded. "Your husband is a horrible man."

As the matter of fact tone of the Frenchwoman's voice, Meg broke down in tears. Horrified by her emotional outburst, Meg waved her hands weakly and sputtered, "I'm sorry."

Leaning over to place the washbasin on the floor beside the bed, Giselle then sat upright again and slid an arm across Meg's shoulders. When she began to protest, the blonde woman whispered softly in French. Gently pressing Meg's head against her shoulder, she continued to croon unintelligibly as the other woman finally allowed herself to be folded into the embrace.

"You deserve so much better than this," Giselle said, reverting back to English. "A sharp mind like yours-it's a wonder you haven't been driven mad all alone up here."

"I have Libby," Meg whispered. "I'd be lost without her."

"She is your relation...or Paul's?"

"Neither," Meg responded. "Her husband was killed last summer. When she was a child, her entire family died of scarlet fever. She only just survived, but she hasn't been the same since. She isn't capable of caring for herself."

"You are so strong," Giselle murmured against her hair. The sensation of her breath against Meg's scalp sent shivers down her spine. "Why won't you believe that yourself?"

Uncomfortable, Meg pulled out of the embrace. Her hand remained tucked into Giselle's lap, and she stared down at it in confusion. She'd been so comfortable with the intimate position she hadn't even realized how inappropriate their contact had become. When she glanced up again, she met Giselle's kindly gaze. The Frenchwoman smiled and leaned closer.

When she first felt the brush of Giselle's soft lips against the corner of her mouth, Meg was too surprised by the sensation to react. The woman smelled of soap and powder-so much cleaner than Paul, whose heavily whiskered mouth tasted of sour tobacco and gin. In that instant, she felt no hesitancy or doubt. For the first time in her young life, her connection to another person felt right.

Pulling away slightly, Giselle took her silent acquiescence as permission to go further. She kissed Meg fully then. Meg allowed it for a few moments, curious at the novelty. Giselle didn't kiss like Paul, who was fierce and commanding when he did deign to bring attention to Meg's mouth. But where Paul's touch elicited nothing but loathing, Meg felt herself begin to respond as Giselle's kiss continued.

When she felt Giselle's tongue trace the line of her lips before bolding pressing against her own, Meg jerked away with a gasp. "Don't!" she demanded, quaking. "That is not...that's not proper."

Meg jumped to her feet and crossed halfway to the door before pausing. She didn't turn to face the woman sitting behind her, but for some reason she couldn't quite bring herself to stalk out of the room just yet.

"I'm sorry," Giselle apologized. "I shouldn't have taken such liberties."

"Victoria was your lover?" Meg asked. The question was bold and entirely improper, but considering what they'd just shared she figured she had the right to ask.

"Yes," Giselle whispered, her voice pained.

"When was she...?"

"Just over a year ago."

Meg closed her eyes. "And why me?"

She opened her eyes when the Frenchwoman chuckled. "There is fire between us. Do you not feel it?"

Frowning, Meg turned to face her. "You speak and act like a man," she said. "Everything is passion and ambition with you."

Giselle shrugged nonchalantly. "I am French," she explained. "As a people we are in love with love."

"In love with the idea of what you might possess," Meg spat. "But once you have it, then what will you think of it?"

Giselle frowned. "I am not your husband, Meg," she rebuked. "When I pursue someone, it is not because I desire to own her or to destroy her."

"Then why?"

"Because I want her," Giselle explained simply. Her forthrightness astonished Meg yet again.

"I am a married woman," Meg said, jutting her chin out defiantly. "And you will be as well. If there actually is a man waiting for you in Birming."

"You've realized by now that there is not," Giselle told her. "I do not need a husband. I am wed with Destiny."

Her accompanying laugh sounded bitter to Meg's ears. She realized with a jolt that with all of her finery and worldliness, Giselle was lonely. For a moment Meg wanted to go back to her, to comfort her. But that would only cause both of them more pain. When Giselle left Silver Springs, it would be without her. If Meg allowed herself to feel any closer to this spirited creature, she would be crushed when they were forced to separate.

"We cannot be alone together again," Meg said. Giselle seemed so disappointed she knew she'd taken the proper course. "Please understand. Neither of us is in a position to make any promises to one another. There is little point in taking this further."

To her surprise, Giselle nodded. "I will do as you ask," she promised.

"Good. Now I have to get changed before I start preparing supper. If you would like a bath this evening, please consult Libby."

"I will let Libby get her rest," Giselle countered. "But I shall join the rest of you for supper."

Meg shook her head at the gleam in the woman's eyes. "Exactly like a man," she muttered to herself before turning and hurrying out of the room.

Over the next several days, Giselle remained true to her word. While Meg often spotted her in the dining room or visiting with other guests in the spacious drawing room, they were never alone together. Although this was exactly what Meg had requested, she knew that it wasn't what she wanted. The distance only made her feelings toward Giselle more apparent. Even forgetting Paul for the moment, as long as the blonde Frenchwoman was tied to her duties as a Slayer, there wasn't much hope for the two of them.

When the first week came and went, Giselle's presence at the boarding house was painfully clear to the other regulars. As Meg served Mr. Week's daily cup of tea one afternoon, she overheard him questioning Miss Arceneaux as to her plans for the future.

"The weather is remarkably severe, even for this time of year," Giselle was saying.

As Meg passed, their eyes met briefly. She felt a strange fluttering in her belly, and quickly glanced down at the floor to avoid embarrassing herself in front of the other guests.

"My fiancé thinks it best if I remain here until further travel is advisable. The accommodations are so much better than anything between here and Birming," Giselle added.

"Meg will be glad to hear that," Mr. Weeks commented. "She won't admit it, but I think she lacks for proper female companionship among so many rough and rugged men."

At his words, Meg lost her grip on the cup and saucer she offered him. The scalding hot liquid spilled across his legs as the china clattered to the floor. Mr. Weeks jumped out of his seat in surprise and pain.

"Oh my dear, I'm so sorry," Meg cried, humiliated. "Please let me help you."

Mr. Weeks waved her away as she attempted to dab the mess with a handkerchief. "It was an accident, Meg," he assured her. "But I think I should hurry along upstairs."

When Libby hurried out from the kitchen, Meg asked her, "Please take some salve up to Mr. Weeks's room. I think he may have been burned."

Indeed, the man was limping as he made his way to the stairs. Flushed with embarrassment, Meg watched him go. She sighed as she glanced toward Giselle, who watched her alertly. Shaking her head, she moved toward the hallway to head back toward the kitchen. Libby was already marching up the stairs, salve in hand. Just as she pushed through the kitchen door, Meg was stopped by a strong hand on her arm. She turned to see that Giselle had followed her out of the drawing room.

Meg quickly surveyed their surroundings and saw that they were alone. "I told you..." she started.

"And I don't think that's going to work very well, is it?" Giselle asked. She sighed. "I can't tell you how upsetting it is, knowing that you are perfectly comfortable avoiding me when you're married to the most revolting man in this hemisphere."

Meg frowned. "What did Paul do?" she asked.

Giselle shook her head. "A little proposition," she explained. "I expected no less from him. There was no harm," she assured Meg when the other woman's expression reflected her shock. "I can take care of myself."

"It isn't a matter of choosing Paul over you," Meg said.

When she realized their voices were echoing up the back stairwell, she quickly stepped into the kitchen and motioned Giselle to follow. For the moment they were alone as Libby delivered the medicine to Mr. Weeks upstairs.

"Paul seems to be the only option I have."

"You would stay here with him?" Giselle asked.

"You would allow me to accompany you on your travels?" Meg questioned pointedly. When Giselle's smile slipped from her face, Meg nodded. "I cannot be with you when you are 'wed with Destiny.' There would be no place for me in your world. That is why I've attempted to sever our relationship before it is too late."

Giselle closed her eyes and leaned against the kitchen table. Meg thought she'd finally accepted the barrier between them until she realized that the Frenchwoman's face had grown markedly pale. As Giselle lowered herself into a chair, breathing shallowly, Meg frowned in worry.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

Giselle shook her head. "I've been feeling poorly these past two days," she said. "It's nothing."

"That's why you haven't gone out hunting?" Meg wondered.

Opening her eyes, Giselle offered her a wan smile. "You've been watching me," she accused gently.

Meg returned the grin. "I can't help myself," she admitted. She put a hand to her mouth in amazement.

"Fire between us," Giselle murmured, closing her eyes again. "It is not easily extinguished. I think it best if I retire to my room for the remainder of the afternoon."

"Yes, of course," Meg said.

Libby re-entered the kitchen just then. Her wide eyes wandered to the Frenchwoman seated at the table before darting curiously toward Meg. "Libby, could you assist Miss Arceneaux to her room? She is ill."

Libby nodded. "Of course, Mrs. Glass."

After they left, Meg dropped into the seat Giselle had just vacated. It was still warm to the touch, and she blushed slightly as she recalled the heat of the blonde woman's lips on her own. It was perfectly immoral, the thoughts she was having about another woman. But no matter what her spiritual teachings told her, they were not strong enough to invalidate her emotions, or the way her heart stirred at the very sight of her love.

Meg gasped in surprise. She did love Giselle. How was that possible, when they'd only met the week before? She'd read about such romance in her mother's newspapers, but those were always between a man and a woman. Her own father claimed to have fallen for the auburn haired beauty the moment he laid eyes on her. Love at first sight was a topic that was widely written about in both story and song. Until she'd met Giselle, Meg hadn't believed it was real.

"Mrs. Glass, are you well?" a clipped voice asked behind her.

Twisting in her seat, Meg saw Miss Reginald standing in the kitchen doorway. "Oh," she said, rising and smoothing her dress with nervous hands. Martha always looked at her as though she were terribly unclean. "My apologies, Miss Reginald. I didn't hear you come in."

"Miss Arceneaux is feeling a bit melancholy," Martha explained. "I thought perhaps a spot of tea might put color back into her cheeks."

"Of course," Meg said. "I've just boiled a kettle of water. I'll prepare a cup right away."

"Thank you," Martha replied. Her flinty gaze never left Meg's face, nor did she move from the kitchen doorway.

Pouring hot water over a pinch of tea leaves, Meg allowed them to steep a minute as she placed sugar and linen on a small tray. "We were able to get a few lemons out of California," she said conversationally. "The train was here just yesterday. Would Gis-- would Miss Arceneaux like some?"

Miss Reginald raised her brows at the gaffe, but said nothing of it. "A lemon would be marvelous," she commented instead.

"Here you are," Meg said as she passed the tray to the Englishwoman. "Please let me know if Miss Arceneaux will be requiring anything else."

"I will," Martha replied.

She made sure to close the kitchen door as she left, which struck Meg as odd. Of course, there wasn't much about Martha that was entirely normal, as far as she'd seen. Giselle was the mystical creature, but it was Martha who worried Meg the most. On a hunch, she crept toward the closed door and opened it just a crack.

Martha stood in the hallway, gazing toward the front of the house. The tray rested on the side table before her. As Meg watched, Martha reached into the folds of her dress and pulled out a glass vial filled with a clear liquid. Removing the stopper, Martha carefully poured several drops of the mysterious liquid into Giselle's tea. As she finished, she twisted around to glance toward the kitchen door. Meg darted away from the narrow opening and hoped the woman hadn't seen her shadow. The Watcher continued on to the back staircase, tray in hand.

Meg stood near the kitchen door, breathing heavily. Why would Martha poison her own ward? That couldn't be what she'd just seen. But Giselle was sick...perhaps it had something to do with her powers, and only Martha knew the correct medicines to heal her. Meg shook her head. There was something very suspicious about that woman; she'd sensed it from the beginning. Meg knew she had to get to the bottom of this.

* * *

After Paul fell into unconsciousness, Meg eased out of their bed and grabbed her robe. The guests had all retired to their rooms hours before. It was only a few hours before what should have been dawn, if the sun was to rise. She knew it to be the quietest time of night, with the least risk for discovery.

Sneaking down to the second floor, Meg tiptoed down the hallway to the door of Giselle's room. She wasn't sure the woman would even hear her timid knock. After several long moments of silence, Meg heard the sounds of padding footsteps inside the room. The door opened, and Giselle peered sleepily out into the hallway.

"I'm sorry," Meg whispered. "I shouldn't have awakened you."

Giselle's eyes opened wide the moment she recognized her. Grabbing Meg's arm, she hauled her into the room before she even finished speaking. Meg frowned. Giselle's grip felt different now-weaker somehow. Perhaps it was a side effect of her illness.

"I was wondering how you're feeling," Meg explained.

She realized they both wore their dressing gowns and flushed uncomfortably. Unhindered by pins or braids, Giselle's blonde hair fell past her shoulders, nearly reaching her waist. Meg would have guessed it to be curly, but it was impossibly straight. In the dim light of the corner lantern, it gleamed like spun gold.

"You waited until this hour to come visit me?" Giselle teased her.

"Well..." Meg sputtered. She was unable to come up with a believable excuse. "You're right," she said. "I should have waited until morning."

"Nonsense," Giselle told her. Taking her by the arm once more, she led her toward two chairs near the shuttered window. "I haven't been able to sleep, either. I'm glad for the company."

"You're still unwell?" Meg asked.

Sitting down, Giselle shook her head. "It isn't so much that I feel ill," she explained. "Merely different. Like I've been drained of my strength."

Meg frowned, recalling the strange liquid that Martha had placed in her tea. She wondered if she should mention it to Giselle, to warn her perhaps. For the moment she kept her silence. Giselle might not want to believe that her Watcher sought to harm her in some way.

"Do you know that just two days ago I was nearly overtaken by a young vampire?" the Frenchwoman marveled. "A fledgling that was not even a month old! I don't understand it."

"What does Miss Reginald say?" Meg asked. She made sure to keep her tone casual.

Giselle waved her hand. "That I'm simply ill, and it's affecting my abilities. I suppose she is right...but I've been sick in the past. I've never felt this weak. Not since being called."

"Tomorrow you shall have to breakfast with us," Meg decided. "I'll make you a wonderful meal-you've never tasted food so good. And then you can give Martha a rest."

"She has been doting on me these past few days," Giselle agreed. "Truth be told, I'd relish some time apart. She's been so terribly strict with my training and education. Sometimes a girl just wants to be on her own."

"You're the only girl I've ever met who wants to be alone," Meg told her.

Smiling, Giselle leaned forward in her chair. "Not alone," she amended. She reached across the distance between them to slide her hand over Meg's knee.

At Meg's sharp intake of breath, Giselle captured her hand and pulled her to her feet. "I-I think you must be exhausted," Meg began.

"I think you must be nervous," Giselle replied as she stood.

She stepped close to Meg, who realized for the first time that they were very nearly the same height. The Frenchwoman's body was firm but yielding as it pressed against hers. Giselle raised one hand to caress her cheek, and Meg instantly tilted her head to lean into the gentle touch.

"I would not risk frightening you," Giselle promised. "We will not take this too far tonight."

Amazingly, Meg felt disappointment at her words. Catching her breath, she darted forward to press her lips against Giselle's. The Frenchwoman's surprised chuckle was quickly muffled when Meg opened her mouth to intensify the kiss. Wrapping her arms around Giselle's small waist, Meg pulled her body even closer. Her soft curves were clearly evident through the thin fabric of her nightdress. Unable to restrain herself, Meg lowered her hands to cup Giselle's taut buttocks.

Moaning deep in her throat, Giselle slowly ground her hips against Meg's body. Then suddenly, as quickly as the delicious friction had increased, it was diminished as Giselle pulled away from her. Opening her eyes, Meg stared at her in confusion.

Giselle breathed heavily, and Meg's eyes were immediately drawn to the outline of her breasts beneath the white nightdress. "That was much faster than I'd intended," she panted. She held up her hand when Meg took a step toward her. "As much as I want you, I don't think you should rush into this so lightly."

Meg shook her head. "Not lightly," she breathed. "I don't feel at all light right now."

In fact, she fell oddly heavy, as though she was full to bursting with energy that desperately needed to be released. With a start, she realized she was feeling the effects of desire for the first time.

"I want you," Meg whispered.

Giselle grinned at her. She murmured something in her own language, then said, "Now you are behaving as a man. Do not force your way through this...we are building something formidable, you and I."

She held out her hand. "Please, may we just be together on this night?"

Recalling that Giselle was sick, Meg felt a pang of guilt. "Of course," she stammered. "For a moment I forgot your condition."

"For a moment, I forgot as well," Giselle admitted.

Meg took her hand, and Giselle lead her toward the bed. As they climbed into it, nestling deep beneath the covers, Giselle curled her body into Meg's embrace.

"A man considers just one possibility when it comes to making love," Giselle explained. Then she laughed. "A Frenchman may begin to understand this infinite realm, but even he is limited by his anatomy. A woman knows that there are many ways to be intimate with her lover."

"We are lovers?" Meg asked.

"Oui," Giselle responded, clearly growing sleepy.

She continued her conversation in her own language, speaking for several more minutes before she finally fell asleep. Meg realized she'd have to learn French. Nuzzling against her lover's neck, Meg breathed in Giselle's dusky scent. Pressing a kiss against her soft skin, Meg allowed herself to fade off into slumber.

* * *

The next morning, Meg waited until Miss Reginald left the boarding house before she started cleaning the rooms. She sent Libby ahead to work on the other end of the hallway before letting herself into the Englishwoman's quarters. Unsurprisingly, Miss Reginald kept her room in impeccable order. It made Meg's work that much more difficult. She had to surreptitiously look for the concoction Martha was dropping into Giselle's food but not stir things so dramatically that the woman knew what she'd been up to.

A quick search through the bureau drawers revealed nothing out of order. Miss Reginald's underthings were as bland and impossibly starched as the woman herself. Though the room was the largest available to their guests, it took Meg only a few minutes to go through every nook and cranny. She knew the house more intimately than Paul himself, who'd helped to build it. He didn't spend every single morning cleaning from floorboard to ceiling.

Meg finally stamped her foot in irritation when she was forced to admit that she wouldn't find what she was looking for. Perhaps she'd have to go to Giselle after all. But she doubted the Frenchwoman would believe that her Watcher was lying to her. No, she needed proof.

Her eyes fell on the tidy pile of books on the bedside table. Along with her journals, Miss Reginald had apparently carried a veritable library across the world. Meg hurried toward the woman's trunk. Crouching to the floor, she quickly paged through several books. Besides a few disturbing illustrations of creatures Meg knew she never wanted to see with her own eyes, there was nothing out of order. Sighing, Meg sat back in despair.

When she noticed a copy of the Bible poking out of the pile, Meg leaned forward again. Although both women wore crosses, neither had seemed particularly religious. And while most families kept a well- used edition in order to keep track of family lines, births, and deaths, this Bible was so crisp and new it barely appeared to have been read.

Meg fished the book out of the trunk and flipped it open. The pages were carefully glued together. At the center of the Bible a slender hole had been cut out, just the right size to cradle a small glass vial. When she saw the object lying inside, Meg caught her breath.

"I found it," she whispered.

Meg quickly removed the vial from the book and pulled out the stopper. A dry cleaning rag easily absorbed the liquid inside. Her hands shaking, Meg hurried across the room to the washbasin. After thoroughly rinsing the vial, she filled it with water, replaced the stopper, and set it neatly back into the Bible. She somehow managed to put the book in the exact position she'd found it. Martha would never suspect anyone had even been into the trunk.

As she prepared the leave the room, she saw Miss Reginald's journal once again. Meg wondered if the Watcher had written anything about her plot against Giselle. Would she dare admit to her treachery in writing only to leave it behind where someone else might discover it? She wasn't sure how much time she had left, but Meg's curiosity got the better of her. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she grabbed the journal and began reading the latest entries.

Not ten minutes had passed before the tick of footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. Meg glanced up from her reading just in time to see the Englishwoman walk into the room. Martha stared at her first in shock, and then anger. Not able to hide her activities, Meg remained as she was, the journal propped open across her knees.

"How dare you?" Martha snapped.

Frowning, Meg slowly rose to her feet. Closing the book, she waved it at the Englishwoman and demanded, "So what is this test?"

Miss Reginald glared at Meg angrily. "Give me that," she hissed. Striding across the room, she snatched the journal out of Meg's hands. "This is my property. How dare you look through my personal belongings?"

Her gaze drifted over Meg's shoulder toward the closed trunk on the other side of the bed. Meg forced herself to maintain her bland expression and not reveal her knowledge of the situation.

"What test?" Meg repeated. "What monstrous task will you force Giselle to perform?"

Martha stared at her as though she were crazed. "I'm sure I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," she said.

Rolling her eyes, Meg retorted, "Please. I know all about Giselle being the Slayer. My girl Libby and I were set upon just the other afternoon."

"And Giselle simply volunteered this information to you?" Martha wondered.

"She has no idea what's going on," Meg continued. "You've kept your plan a secret from her. Is this your way of getting revenge?"

She made sure not to mention the fact that she'd witnessed Martha doctoring Giselle's tea. If the Englishwoman knew she'd replaced the concoction with water, she might find her way to a fresh batch. Meg guessed that the effects of this liquid would wear off eventually, just as it had slowly increased in potency over the course of two days.

"Revenge?" Martha scoffed. "Whatever for?"

"Giselle was chosen. You merely watch from the sidelines."

To her surprise, Martha started laughing. "You think I am jealous of Giselle's abilities?" she wondered. Amused, she added, "I take my duties as Watcher very seriously, young lady. My father's family has been a part of the Watcher's Council for the past two centuries. I never anticipated any other vocation."

"So you don't want to be a Slayer," Meg mused.

"I cannot be a Slayer," Martha corrected. "I have not even the potential of one day being called."

"What is the test?" Meg asked.

Giving her a stern look, Miss Reginald carefully placed her journal in a dresser drawer before turning to face Meg once more. "A Slayer is called by the age of sixteen," she explained. "The duty is both sacred and dangerous. If she is able to survive her first two years, she must pass one final test of her abilities. She must face a single opponent without the benefits of her strength or her skills. She must defeat this opponent alone. If she survives, she has proven her abilities beyond a shadow of a doubt."

"If she survives?" Meg sputtered. "What sort of barbaric test is that?"

Martha frowned. "If you cared to read the earlier portions of my journal, you would have realized that Giselle has faced for more dangerous creatures than a single vampire. When she was chosen, the particular perils of her duty were made very clear to her. Giselle understands that she will likely not reach the age of twenty. This is a burden she must bear. She has no other choice.

"Now if you please, Mrs. Glass. This is truly none of your business. I have attempted to make the importance of these circumstances very clear to you only so that you will allow me to perform my duty as Giselle's Watcher. You must not tell Miss Arceneaux about the test. It will invalidate the proceedings and may jeopardize her relationship with the Council."

"That was a pretty speech," Meg commented. "But it doesn't change the fact that you are sending your friend to her death. I hope you can live with that."

Meg stalked out of the room before Martha had an opportunity to reply. She felt a responsibility to tell Giselle what she'd discovered, but couldn't help but wonder what that might do to her future. Giselle had to face these people-she had to be able to interact with them. At some level, Meg already understood that even though she wasn't entirely clear what a Watcher's Council actually was. If she told Giselle about the test, and invalidated the proceedings as Martha said, what if Giselle would lose her powers? Would the Frenchwoman forgive her for that betrayal?

Shaking her head, Meg hurried toward the opposite end of the hallway. Libby was still busy cleaning Mr. Weeks's room. Quickly entering his quarters, Meg closed the door behind her. Libby glanced up from her chores. Expertly smoothing the corners of the bed-sheet, she sent Meg a quizzical look.

"I have to tell you something," Meg said, her voice hushed. "You can't tell anyone else. But I need help, and you're the only one that I trust."

Standing straight, Libby's brow cleared as she smiled broadly and nodded.

* * *

For the next two days, Meg kept herself busy. She was never a good liar, and she knew that if she spent any time alone with Giselle she'd have no choice but to reveal the secret to her. It was her hope that Martha intended to drag out her preparations for several more days. That should give Giselle the time to begin recovering from whatever drug she'd ingested. Perhaps her strength would be back before the test was to commence.

In the meantime, she had Libby listening to everything that Martha said. As she assumed, the Englishwoman barely gave the serving girl any mind. Servants were invisible-not worth an iota of attention or concern. She would be much freer with her words than she would have been if Meg were in the room.

After dinner one quiet afternoon, Meg was busy washing dishes when Libby hurried into the kitchen. Out of breath, the small woman only shook her head when Meg turned to hear what she had to say. When she finally calmed down, Libby said, "Miss Reginald is taking her to see the ice floes this evening."

"The ice floes," Meg repeated.

Although January was the darkest month of the year, the large lake would not entirely freeze over until February at the earliest. And as that winter had been relatively mild, the lake had yet to form a solid layer of ice at all. In consequence, it was a very dangerous time of year to venture out onto the water. When the floes were more stable a person could traverse the lake on foot, jumping from piece to piece without much fear of the ice suddenly falling out beneath him. But at this time of year, Meg wouldn't recommend anyone go out there, let alone someone without any experience.

"That's the test," she whispered to herself. Libby cocked her head in confusion. "Survive the vampire, and the ice. Or use the ice against the vampire." Meg shook her head. "Either way, I fear the environment is as important a part of this challenge as the enemy himself."

"What should we do?" Libby asked.

"We won't do anything," Meg said sternly. "I, however, will follow them out to the lake tonight. We'll have to send our provisions on ahead. There's a boathouse near the docks on the eastern shore- that's as good a place as any."

Libby was crestfallen. Sighing, Meg explained, "I won't put you in danger. You've already helped me so much. I couldn't have done this without you."

Her flattery managed to appease the other woman. "Mr. Weeks might accompany me to the boathouse this afternoon," she offered.

"Why don't you ask Charles Wright?" Meg asked. "He'd planned on taking a few men out to ground the boats. I'd feel much safer if you had more than one chaperone."

"You are very brave, to try and help a new friend," Libby said.

Meg snorted. "I'm stupid," she argued. "For once, I think Paul is right. But it's true. Giselle is my friend, and I'm not about to let her go into a dangerous situation on her own. You should go on ahead, now. I want you safe in this house by five o'clock."

Nodding, Libby bustled out of the room. Meg returned her attention to the dishes. It was difficult, maintaining this monotonous routine while there was so much to be done. But there was little else for her to do until tonight.

"There you are," a familiar voice chirped behind her.

Meg dropped a plate into the water and twisted around in surprise. "Giselle," she said.

The blonde woman leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed before her chest. "I think you are avoiding me," she said.

Meg smiled. "You're stronger now," she said.

Shrugging, Giselle dropped her arms and took several steps into the room. "A little," she agreed. "I'm not back to my full capabilities, but I'm finally mending."

"Good," Meg responded. "I thought you needed a rest."

"Is that why I haven't seen you for two days?" Giselle smiled. "I thought perhaps you didn't like me anymore."

She was joking, but Meg spotted a glint of uncertainty in her eyes. Drying her hands on her apron, Meg shook her head. "No," she said. "That will never happen."

"Good," Giselle echoed. "I'll have to work this evening, but I was thinking we should have a late supper tomorrow night. After the guests have retired?"

"I think that would be wonderful," Meg agreed. Standing before Giselle, she was suddenly struck with guilt over the secret she'd been keeping. She opened her mouth to say something more when Miss Reginald breezed into the kitchen.

"Miss Arceneaux," she said sharply. "You were supposed to be napping."

"Oh, Martha," Giselle sighed. "I am merely expressing my gratitude for the lovely dinner today."

"I'm sure Mrs. Glass is very happy to know you've appreciated the meal," Martha spoke. Her stern gaze fell upon Meg before sweeping appraisingly across her charge's face. "Now shall I accompany you upstairs?"

Nodding, Giselle cast one more smile in Meg's direction before allowing herself to be taken by the elbow and lead out of the room. Meg sighed after they were gone. She could have ended the charade in an instant. Now she'd have to fulfill her responsibilities in a much more dangerous way. She clenched her hands into fists. Giselle wasn't the only one who'd be tested that evening.

* * *

Meg was just creeping down the back stairs when she was stopped by her husband's drunken shouts. He staggered out of the kitchen, his dark hair flaring around his head like an unkempt halo.

"Where is that wench?" he demanded.

Staying in the shadows, Meg responded, "Whom do you mean?"

She feared he would notice that she was wearing his clothing. Thankfully he was far too gone to even pay attention.

"Libby!" he snapped. "I'm hungry."

"Isn't she upstairs in her room?" Meg asked. The faint stirrings of alarm lazily circled her belly. She hadn't seen the woman since early afternoon.

"I came down here looking for her," he muttered. "Fat cow isn't anywhere to be found. I want something to eat."

"I'll make you something," Meg assured. "As soon as I come back."

"Where are you going?" he asked suspiciously.

Meg waved toward the back door, in the direction of the outhouses. He merely grunted in response and stumbled into the kitchen once more. Breathing deeply, Meg clutched the wooden cross in her hand. She wanted to run upstairs and make sure Libby had returned, but she was afraid she'd lose Giselle and Martha. Sending a quick prayer to her friend's safety, she continued down the stairs and hurried outside.

She was met by no one as she raced toward the lake. Reaching the boathouse, Meg quickly gazed across the quiet water. She couldn't see anyone on the ice, but did note a pair of footprints heading west along the shore. They'd be easy enough to follow. She ducked inside the boathouse in order to prepare.

Though there was one small window in the rear of the small building, the darkness inside was nearly complete. Meg cast about for the items Libby had left behind. When her hands fell upon the metal pail, she jerked them back as though they'd been burned. It wouldn't do to spill the contents before they needed them. Finally, she found the lantern she'd been looking for.

Well accustomed to darkness, Meg easily lit the lantern with the matches she'd stashed in her pocket. On the floor before her lay their battered gray milk-pail, a length of rope, and several sharpened pieces of wood. As she knelt to retrieve the objects, she heard a faint flutter of movement to her right.

Meg automatically raised the cross as she flung herself back against the wall. The creature standing in the shadows hissed ineffectually at her, his yellow eyes gleaming.

"What are you doing here?" Meg demanded.

Bartlett shrugged. "Saw your girl here earlier," he said. "I figured someone would be along again shortly."

"What did you do to Libby?" Meg asked.

Bartlett smiled and shook his head. "Didn't do a thing," he assured her. "Didn't have to. Deed's already been done."

Meg frowned. "What are you babbling about?"

"This is a big night for the Slayer," he said. "And her Watcher. Every hunter knows...in order to lure your prey, you've got to have bait."

As his meaning dawned on her, Meg's eyes widened in horror. "Martha took her. But why are you here instead of chasing after Giselle?"

He laughed. "You think I'm the one they wanted?" he asked. "Honey, I'm just a little fish in a big pond. The Watchers have their sights on a much bigger prize."

"Oh, God," Meg gasped. "You were just pretending, weren't you? Renato's been here the whole time. And Martha knew it."

"The redhead's smart," Bartlett said to no one in particular.

When he took a step toward her, Meg raised the cross even higher. "You stay right where you are," she ordered. "I'm going after them. I suggest you stay out of the way."

He shook his head at her. "You're not the Slayer," he said. "You don't stand a chance. That doesn't mean I won't enjoy watching."

Meg knew he'd let her go. The biggest show was further along the lake. To take her now wouldn't be any fun for him. Leaning forward to grab her provisions, she raced out of the boathouse. Using the lantern to light her way, she followed the footprints the women had left behind and silently cursed Martha.

* * *

The Watcher woman was the first person Meg saw as she hurried along the shoreline. The lantern bounced against her legs on her right side and the contents of the pail sloshed dangerously on her left. She was careful not to spill the precious liquid as she ran.

When Martha turned to face her, Meg quickly lowered her burden to the ground and continued her approach. The older woman raised her hands to ward her off. But Meg was fueled by rage at that point, and as she pounced, Martha lost her balance to go sprawling back into the snow.

"You bitch," Meg snarled. She managed to throw one punch. Her fist crashed into the Watcher woman's jaw just as Martha grabbed her by the wrists and threw her off.

The Watcher was much stronger than she thought. Meg could feel it in her sturdy grip. Not many women were able to toss other people around without any leverage. Sitting back in the snow, Meg fought to catch her breath.

"Where is Libby?" she demanded.

"Mrs. Glass?" a quiet voice murmured in the darkness.

Meg lurched to her feet. She hadn't even noticed the other figure huddled against the snow. Libby had a blanket thrown across her shoulders to ward off the chill. She didn't appear to be any worse for wear. After quickly ascertaining that her friend was uninjured, Meg returned her attention to the Watcher. Martha stood nearby, watching them warily.

"You left Libby out here on her own, and then had Bartlett lure his master here," Meg accused. "The Watcher's Council is so honorable to make deals with vampires."

Martha shook her head. "You should not have gotten involved in this," she hissed. "It's almost over now."

Meg followed her gaze across the ice. She took a deep breath when she realized that Giselle was out amongst the sheets of floating ice that barely covered the frigid water. As she watched, a large figure leapt from one ice floe to another. He landed near Giselle and nearly dislodged her from her perch as the ice wavered dangerously under his weight.

"Renato," Meg breathed. It was difficult to see so far in the distance, but she'd wondered what a centuries old vampire looked like.

The two figures struggled for several moments before the larger suddenly flew backwards. He just barely caught himself before sliding into the water.

"She is doing very well," Martha said, her voice bright with pride.

"Much better since the drugs are nearly out of her system," Meg spat.

Martha turned on her in surprise. "What have you done?"

Meg clenched her hands into fists. "You are the most evil person I have ever met," she avowed. "Not even Paul could match your duplicity."

"These are the standards of the test," Martha snarled. "It has been so for a thousand years. How dare you meddle in something that is none of your concern?"

"Giselle is my concern," Meg returned. "You are supposed to be her friend."

"Friend?" Martha laughed. "It is not my place to be her friend. My duty is to prepare her for the struggles ahead. And that is what I'm doing."

"Meg!" Libby cried.

The girl's use of her Christian name made Meg stop in surprise. Staring out across the ice, she saw the large vampire standing very still at the edge of an ice floe. In the darkness he suddenly seemed less corporeal, less solid. Meg realized that Giselle had managed to kill him. Her heart rose gratefully in her chest.

But before the master vampire vanished forever, he managed to turn toward Giselle, who still stood nearby. Meg couldn't see exactly what happened, but suddenly the Slayer lurched backwards sharply. The shove was powerful enough to send her spinning across the ice. Giselle teetered on the edge of the ice floe for one eternal instant before plunging over the side and disappearing into the water.

* * *

Stunned, Meg fell to her knees. Staring at the spot where Giselle had fallen, she silently willed her lover to break the surface. But so much time had passed. There was no way she'd survive this long. Martha continued to make her way across the ice floes, trying to reach her Slayer. Meg didn't much care whether the woman made it or not. In her eyes, this was all Martha's fault.

Libby gasped at her side, and Meg became aware of masculine laughter sounding behind them. Slowly turning, she saw Bartlett standing nearby.

"I couldn't have planned this any better," he crowed. "Two birds, one stone."

As he turned his attention to them, his face shifted into its vampiric form. "And now for dessert."

"Libby," Meg murmured. "The pail."

The woman hesitated in confusion until Meg gestured beside them. Finally understanding, Libby grasped the handle and lifted the pail out of the snow. Bartlett stared at her in amusement.

"What will you do, little bird-" he started, then halted when she threw the pail's contents on him. He froze in place a moment, fearful, until he realized that nothing was happening. "That's not holy water," he scoffed.

Meg rose to her feet, her lantern in hand. She watched as his brain finally caught up with his nose and he recognized the scent of the liquid covering him.

"I know," she replied, then threw the lantern against his body.

The glass shattered and he was engulfed in a matter of moments. Screaming, Bartlett frantically batted at the flames. But the kerosene did its job. He didn't have the opportunity to extinguish the fire. A moment later, he burst into a fiery dust cloud.

Libby stared at the dying embers in amazement. "It worked," she said.

"Yes," Meg replied mournfully. "But too late."

Libby turned to watch Martha continue her bitter path across the ice. She suddenly gasped and pointed. "Look," she urged, pulling Meg's arm.

Following her gaze, Meg saw something pale floating in the water near the shoreline. "My God," she whispered. "Call Martha back."

"Mrs. Glass?" Libby asked in confusion.

"Call Martha back and tell her to run for help," Meg elaborated. She squeezed Libby's arm. "Do not tell her anything else."

Understanding at last, Libby nodded and hurried out onto the ice. As Meg stared at the body of her lover beneath the water, she resisted the urge to jump in after her. Long before her mother met her father and journeyed with him to the Alaskan frontier, she'd worked alongside her own mother as a midwife in New England. Far from merely delivering babies, local midwives served as medical practitioners for rural villages.

She'd told Meg once of the man they dragged out of a frozen river. How Meg's grandmother had massaged the water from his lungs and urged his heart to beat again. How he'd been dead for nearly an hour when he'd been revived. The water had protected him, she'd explained to young Meg. It was so cold that his body was protected from damage. As long as the victim wasn't exposed for too long, there was a chance to bring him back. Meg could only pray that she had her mother's strength tonight.

* * *

March 15, 1897

The fog finally lifted as they approached the shoreline. Leaning over the balustrade, Meg gasped when she saw the gray clouds part to reveal the San Francisco shoreline. The city was far more massive than she'd ever imagine. And so modern-she'd never seen such a sophisticated community.

"It's wonderful," Meg shouted over the wind.

Beside her, a blonde woman clutched her hat to her head. "I told you," she replied. "Just wait until we land. Then you'll really see what this city is all about."

Meg quickly threw her arms around her lover's waist. Her giddiness was shared by the other passengers, who also gaped at the metropolis ahead of them. Several of those standing nearby smiled at them, clearly assuming the two women to be related somehow.

"You're free," Meg told her.

"Free," Giselle agreed.

Meg reached into the folds of her skirt to retrieve her most recent correspondence with Mr. Weeks. According to him, Martha Reginald had returned to England, claiming to have pressing business there. Giselle assumed this meant that another Slayer had been called--that her death, no matter how brief, had been enough to pass the duties on to the next girl.

"I wonder where she is," Meg had wondered at the time. "The new Slayer."

Giselle had utilized her all-purpose casual shrug. "It is no longer my concern," she'd replied.

The Frenchwoman pretended to be unscathed by her Watcher's betrayal, but Meg knew that her silence on the subject spoke volumes. Even if the Council had performed this test for a thousand years as Martha claimed, it didn't change the fact that it was barbaric, and rather inhuman. But Giselle refused to speak about it further. To her mind, Martha Reginald was no longer an appropriate topic of discussion.

Now, as the ship began to dock, Giselle turned to Meg and commented, "You never mentioned what Mr. Weeks had to say about Paul."

It was Meg's turn to shrug. "He wasn't able to keep up with maintenance and the other chores. He had to sell the house."

Giselle chuckled. "He likely had several debts to repay," she mused. "Now that he no longer has your piggybank beneath the floorboards to cover his drinking habits."

Meg stared across the water. This was just the first of many future destinations, according to Giselle. The Frenchwoman promised to show her the world. Although her official duties had ended, Giselle still maintained the strength and purpose she'd once had. While Meg knew Giselle truly wanted her to see the great cities of the world, she understood that the blonde woman was still driven by the same desires. Giselle hunted nearly every night, and was as adept at killing vampires as she'd ever been. There would never be a time when she was comfortable leaving the fight in the hands of other Slayers.

"Mrs. Glass?" a timid voice asked at Meg's elbow.

Glancing to her left, Meg smiled when she saw that Libby had finally ventured out of their cabin. "Come to see the view at last?" she asked.

"This is San Francisco?" Libby wondered. When they both nodded, she sniffed dismissively. "I thought it would be bigger."

Meg took her friend's hand in her left, and draped her right arm about Giselle's waist. "It's just the beginning," she promised them.

The End