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Black Orchids and Wildflowers by Armond 1. Friday, 5:00 PM Sam was all about helping people. But for Samuel Albert, Esq., this week of endless legal counseling needed to end. Friday had stretched into three forevers, crawling by like a turtle, appointment after appointment. Or was that sliding by like a snail? Tricky things, metaphors. His last of the day, appointment, not metaphor, was Last Will and Testament drafting time with sweet Mrs. Beasley and her son Frank. Ninety years young, the saying goes, and she was all that - Mrs. Beasley was spry and so excited to be meeting with Sam that she'd even had her hair done. No, it wasn't blue. Her memory was sharp, too sharp, maybe, Sam thought. At one point, she started reciting each Duke Ellington, Count Basie and Glenn Miller single 45 she owned, and which child, grandchild or great grandchild was to receive it. When Sam stopped her to suggest they only deal with real and personal property of significant value, she looked crushed. 'You'd thought I'd kicked a puppy.' Sam thought, half-scowling. 'Great, now I'm abusing little old ladies.' At the end of that long hour, after Sam summarized what bits of property went where and to whom at her death, she turned to the empty red leather chair beside her and asked, 'You've been awfully quiet Harold, dear, tell the nice man if I got it right.' Sam knew 'Harold' to be her deceased husband, and was, apparently to her eyes, seated in the chair. Sam's heart sank; so much for her competency. Resisting the urge to offer invisible Mr. Beasley some coffee, Sam stopped the meeting, and took Frank aside to tell him for a will to be valid, the testator must be of sound mind. 'Dammit,' Sam thought, 'I gotta fix this so she doesn't spend a pile of cash on doctors and competency hearings. So she's loopy; she's still this wonderful woman who's lived this amazing life. All she wants is peace of mind that she's taken care of her loved ones.' When Mrs. Beasley, Frank, and presumably Harold finally shuffled out the door, Sam closed the window blinds, locking the front door to the office behind them. Then he flopped his six-foot frame onto the worn brown leather coach, not caring that he still wore his gray suit coat. He exhaled a long sigh. "Signs of a bizarre week." Sam held up an index finger. "Late Monday, strange man, NBA power forward material, wearing a hooded cloak - a CLOAK for God's sake! - walks in my office and whips out some blinkie light device that must have been stolen from the set of Ghostbusters. It starts whirring and flashing like it was going to explode, and hooded guy says 'You have an 'astonishing aura.' He takes a business card from my stack at the reception desk and leaves. Astonishing aura... " Sam shook his head. It would have been funny, except the creepy manner of the guy scared the bejesus out of him. "Two," He held up a middle finger, "local woman-of-mystery Philippa Ch?ron, calls Wednesday night to arrange an emergency dinner meeting at her country estate for dinner Friday." All Sam knew of 'Mademoiselle Ch?ron' was she had taken over an impressive art dealer business from Valentin Loisel, when he had passed away suddenly several years ago. She ran the business from her huge wooded country estate somewhere to the west of the city. Sam fantasized she was a hot female Bruce Wayne, collecting Van Goghs by day and fighting crime from her bat cave by night. Sam had wondered what legal advice a general practitioner could give an art dealer and so had asked Philippa. "Une question m?taphysique - all will be made clear on Friday, but it is imperative you attend," she had answered in a delicate French accent. A question m?taphysique? Sam had no idea what that was, but it sounded sexy as hell. Sam was a bit of an amateur art lover, and so accepted the invitation, if just for a chance to see her art collection. She'd been selling amazing Impressionist pieces lately, and if they were a sample of Ch?ron's collection, he wanted a private viewing. 'Who knows, maybe she'll even collect me?' "Three," Sam said, holding up his ring finger, "new ghost client Harold Beasley. Wonder how I bill him?" "Auras, ghosts and metaphysical art dealers ...oh," Sam held up his little finger, "Four, I'm talking to myself ...fabulous week." Sam checked his watch; quarter past six. He was due at Philippa's mansion by 7:30. Because of Friday night traffic, he'd have to leave now, skipping his normal yoga time. Sam sighed - he had come to cherish this time over the years; his ritual at day's end. "What to do, have pretzel time and be late, or hop in the car and be an on time grouchy person?" Sam had practiced yoga for years; it was part of his daily ritual. "What would you do, Beasley?" Sam imagined the deceased Harold Beasley sitting next to him on the coach, eager to share his wisdom. "Well, sir, didn't you make a promise to always take this time fer yer lonesome? Heh heh." For some reason, Sam imagined Harold talking like an old trail cook from a cowboy western. "Guilty, Harold, I did make that promise ...so your vote is for a bit of calm and meditation first?" "By crackee!" Sam smiled ? he wasn't exactly sure what that meant. Probably the same thing as 'by gum' or 'by gar.' "Hmm. That'll make me late, Harry, and it's the kind of thing that makes my friends give me nicknames like 'the Dalai Lama Barrister,' or 'Mother Theresa-at-Law.'" Sam's lawyer friends thought him eccentric. They loved his easy way and wit; what they could never get their minds around was how he would choose a yoga class or volunteering at a homeless shelter, over schmoozing new clients. "They'd be yer friends that look like they haven't slept in months and could flop over dead at the drop of a hat?" Fellow law school pals Julie and Tom kept vampire hours prepping for trial. Which would have been okay, if it wasn't the fourth in a string of cases. His chum Eddie was an M & A lawyer that spent more time away than in town. Sam wondered why he even bothered having a condo here. "Can't argue with you there, Harry." "I think you know what to do, Sonny." "Christ, Harry, you know me better than I know myself," he said, kicking off his wingtips and throwing his suit coat on the couch. He sat on the floor, folded his legs into half-lotus position, and closed his eyes. Before he started, he briefly thought of his aura-seeking visitor at the beginning of the week and smiled. "Hey, Harry, I know what ...why don't I banish Friday night traffic with the mystical power of my aura? That way I could still be on time." "...keep an open mind ...don't be afraid to take chances." "W-what?" Sam didn't remember projecting that last thought. He opened an eye and looked around his waiting room. No one. "Five. Hearing voices. Weird week," he said, closing his eye again. Then he let out a deep grounding breath and sank into the moment. 2. Friday 7:45 PM When you're dealing with the unknown, there is a moment of enigmatic sweetness when anything is possible. The lawyer in Sam guessed the mysterious dinner request would turn out to be mundane; someone in Philippa's household with a DUI arrest maybe, or perhaps Philippa had a confidential contract she wanted written or some such. Until Sam knew, the dense oaks crowding his drive to the mansion became sinister, foreboding. Until he knew, the dreamer in him believed it could be anything ? intrigue, betrayal, dark magic. Yeah, right. Philippa's old Napoleonic manor stood by a still dark lake, surrounded by the thickest forest Sam had seen. A late September sun would have just set, had it not been drizzling. A fragrance of wet decaying leaves filled the air, and a northern breeze told of more rain to come. Sam hesitated at the massive oak front door to the mansion, staring at the black wrought iron doorknocker. It was either a gargoyle or a demon; he couldn't decide which, pretty high on the scary meter though. Sam wondered if it helped keep away Jehovah's Witnesses. He banged it twice against the door. The door opened, and a man stepped from the dark shadows of the arched door. A butler, tall, six foot six, maybe more, bald headed and dressed in a black waistcoat. When Sam looked into his eyes, he swore, for an instant, they were utterly black. "Good evening, Monsieur Albert, you were expected precisely twenty minutes ago; time is of the essence this evening." His was a deep bass voice, and he pronounced Sam's name 'Al-bear.' "Sorry, I guess my mystical aura failed to repel Friday night traffic." Sam said, hoping the man had a sense of humor. "Ah, most unfortunate. Let us hope that failure is temporary," the man answered in a monotone. "If you will follow me, Mademoiselle Ch?ron has already risen. She wishes to meet you in the Drawing Room. May I take your umbrella?" Sam shook and closed his black umbrella before handing it to him. "Thank you, um..." "Barnaby, Monsieur." Sam started to shiver. 'It's not that chilly,' he thought, 'what's happening?' Barnaby noted his discomfort. "You are chilled, sir. Please come in so we may find something to warm you. This place has that effect on sensitives such as you." 'Sensitives such as me?' Sam let that drop, preoccupied with a bitter cold that had swallowed him ? it felt like hypothermia. He knew he had to get his body energy circulating, and thought running through a sun salutation yoga series would have been great to do that. 'Except that Philippa Ch?ron's hallway maybe wasn't the place to bust out those moves,' he thought. 'Not sure it makes a good first impression ? 'shake your hand in a minute, Philippa, dear, right after I amp my heat up with some ancient Hindu body movements.' Sam did the next best thing; he closed his eyes, and visualized the movements, 'seeing' his body doing the forms in his mind's eye. Warmth flowed to his arms and legs. "Ah, excellent, Monsieur, I see your powers have returned. Please follow me and fear not - you are assured safe passage here tonight." 'Powers returned? Safe passage? Odd things to say,' Sam thought, as he tried to work out what sort of code Barnaby was using. An ocean of candles distracted Sam: soft yellow light flickered everywhere, from the enormous crystal chandelier hanging off the vaulted ceiling, sparkling from dozens of candles, to the countless wrought iron wall sconces that hung from the mansion corridors. A large pedestal stood in the center of the hallway, made of a dark wood, cypress or cherry or something, Sam guessed. A floral scent, vaguely of cloves and cinnamon, caught Sam's attention and he found the source: a vase stood on the pedestal, filled with an enormous arrangement of orchids. There must have been, what, forty or fifty of them? Sam had never seen orchids that looked like this: velvet black, delicate, poignant and somehow ...foreboding? He asked Barnaby about them. "They are black orchids, Monsieur. It has been said that true black orchids are myth, but as you can see, they are quite real." Sam could see smaller crystal vases scattered about the mansion, on stands in the hallways. The flicker of yellow candlelight and the smell of black orchids. Sam knew he should think something like 'how romantic' or how Gothic', but all that popped into his head was 'who changed the water in the vases? Who lit these candles? How did they get the high ones? How much did it save on the monthly energy bill?' A half-smile spread across his face as he chided himself, 'Christ, am I really this boring? I've got to get a life!' Barnaby led him into the Drawing Room, another vaulted room, with Gothic arches flowing into center columns. A massive oil painting hung from the east wall, showing a cloaked noblewoman, dark-hair spilling from the hood. She stood before a gloomy forest, with black orchids blooming at her feet. The yellow full moon glowed above her. To the back and left of the woman, a group of skeletons danced in a circle. Eyes peered from the blackness between the trees. The style seemed odd to Sam; it had the free graceful movement of the late Baroque Rococo, but the subject was morose, not the typical Rococo idyllic. 'Kinda hoped for Manet or Monet, not la danse macabre, Sam thought, as he walked by. Ignoring the tempting red cushioned chairs and sofas that were sprinkled about, Sam headed straight to the fire that crackled in the large north side hearth. "Would Monsieur care for something to drink while he waits? Wine perhaps?" Sam loved wine, especially big bold Cabs. "A red, if you don't mind, um, Barnaby." Sam was a little nervous ? he'd never had a butler wait on him. "I exist to serve sir, nothing would please me more. Red is the favorite color at this humble r?sidence. I shall fetch one." Sam heard Barnaby's footsteps as he vanished into a hallway, and turned in the direction of lighter approaching footstep echoes. A woman walked into the room that, clich? aside, made Sam's jaw drop open. She wore black high-heeled pumps, a short black skirt, and a body hugging black suit coat ? with apparently nothing on underneath it. The curls of her pitch-black hair were oiled and flowed down her back; her white skin glowed with an alabaster sheen. More arresting was her presence, the power she projected. Easily six feet tall, she was broad shouldered, had toned legs, and moved with a feline grace. "Bonsoir, Monsieur Albert," she said, in a languid French accent. She held her hand to Sam. "Good to meet you, I am Philippa Ch?ron." Sam wanted to say 'but of course you are,' but only managed to blurt: "Good to meet you too, uh ...um Ms. Ch?ron." Sam took her hand, then didn't know what to do. On impulse, he kissed it. And instantly felt stupid for doing so. She smiled at him again, and Sam gave his head a quick shake to stop his gaping. She must have sensed something of what was going in Sam's head, or maybe she was used to the effect she had on men, because she laughed as she pulled her hand away. "I'm flattered Samuel, you're sweet, but not my type. Perhaps if you were a different flavor, we could play." Everyone has moments when they feel particularly dense; it was Sam's moment now. He rolled what she said around in his head for the longest moment. Dim light flickered at last in the dark cavern sitting on his neck. "You mean you ...like women, not men?" That was not what Philippa meant, but she chose not correct him, and he stammered on: "None of my business ...I'm so sorry." 'God, can I sound more stupid?' he thought, feeling his face flush red hot in embarrassment. Luckily, Barnaby arrived then with his drink. "Your wine, sir ? ah, excellent, it neatly matches the color of your face." Philippa burst out laughing. 'Great! Just great.' Sam locked on to the wine glass and took a long draw. "A bonny stratagem, Mr. Albert. You play the fool to break the ice. Bravo." "Christ!" Sam nearly jumped. He hadn't heard him coming, this giant red-haired man who suddenly stood by his side. "Conall Gadfaol, glad to meet you, lad. I'm a guest tonight too, although I hail from a bit further away," the man said, extending his hand. Sam tried to give a firm handshake, but didn't know how to get leverage on such a massive paw. He smiled, though, at being called 'lad' and at the sight of someone who looked the exact stereotype of a Scottish highlander ? bright red hair pulled to a ponytail behind his head, green eyes, freckled face. The man stood even taller than Barnaby, but was much broader across his chest. 'The only thing missing's the kilt,' Sam decided. Sam had the uneasy feeling the evening was spinning out of control ?who were these people? Why was he in this creepy place? He needed to marshal his thoughts. He briefly closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, then exhaled, 'seeing' it sinking into the ground. He calmed. When he opened his eyes, he saw Philippa and Barnaby trading glances. Sam reached in his suit pocket, then handed something to Philippa. "As you know, I am a lawyer. My business card. You've asked for this emergency meeting. So, how can I help you, Ms. Ch?ron?" "Merci," she said, surprised, but still taking it graciously and reading it. "Mr. Samuel Albert..." (she pronounced it 'Al-bear' too, just as Barnaby.) "Your card proclaims you to be a general practitioner. Do you have experience with customs or import export regulations?" "A little, I do a little of everything. But look," he stared straight into her dark eyes, "I'm sensing you didn't call me here for legal advice, did you? Why don't you tell me why I'm here." She touched Sam's arm. "Direct. I like that. And your mastery of energy ...impressive! Barnaby told me of how you generated heat by a thought, and I saw you calm your energies. It is my hope that Conall, you and I, can do some interesting business this evening. Business that even ...what was it? ...une practioner g?n?ral ...has not seen. Let us take Samuel directly to Marji, hmm?" "Yes, time is short," Barnaby said. "All must be done before the Seethe rises. There is much yet to prepare before the feast. The herd must be fed, bathed, and clothed." Philippa nodded but Sam crossed his arms. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what is going on." "Please," she said, softly. She touched her hand to his neck, pressing it on his carotid artery, feeling the pulse of blood. When he looked questioningly into her eyes, a spark flashed between them "Please ...if you will follow me, Sam, I will solve this mystery." Sam's control dissolved; molasses lethargy spread through his body and to his mind. Thinking became hard, and following her wherever she said seemed a capital idea. "Yet is it not always so that with the passing of one mystery, ten thousand spring to take its place?" Philippa said, taking his hand. When she gave it a squeeze, the stupor reasserted, stronger than before and where she led, he followed like a lamb. 3. Friday 8:15 PM Sam stood in a cavernous room that should have been the basement room of the mansion ? they were below ground ? but when they reached this level, he had seen stairs going deeper, to God knew what. It was cold, too, probably because of the gray rock floors and walls. Torches lined the walls, giving dim smoky light. In the center of the room was black granite slab table. On it lay a petite young woman, face up, unconscious. Sam would have called her beautiful, but the word was utterly inept at conveying what he saw. It didn't tell how striking she was, with wavy golden hair bunched around her head on the table, her full red lips slightly open, mouthing a silent "O" as she breathed. "Beautiful" failed miserably in telling how Sam's blood started rising at the sight of her, dressed in a black spandex pants that showed every centimeter of her lean smooth legs. Or the effect of watching her well-endowed chest, constricted by a black spandex halter top, rise and fall with each soft breath. No, 'beautiful' pretty much sucked as an effective adjective to describe Marji. For a moment, Sam entertained the thought they were going to ask him to give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Never mind the high nutso factor of being in this bizarre room that looked designed for human sacrifice. Or that he was here against his will. Nope, the only thought was in Sam's brain: 'Hmmm, I know CPR, so... ' "Monsieur, Marji is ...une voyant ..." Philippa's voice drew Sam from his ogling. "A what?" "Pardonnez-moi," Philippa said. "I struggle with the English equivalent. 'Une voyant' is a French expression." "I figured. Do you mean ...um ... a conduit ...like a ...clairvoyant?" Philippa turned to Barnaby, her dark eyes twinkling. "Could it be that fortune favors our endeavor? Has he the power and the ability to understand la langue de l'amour?" "I know some French, un petite peu. But let's not get distracted, here. What's wrong with her? Why is she lying here? Does she need a doctor? Do I need to call the police? You must give some answers." "To the point. Ready? Conall and I are beings that possess unique qualities, one might even call us magic, though he and I are different. Many who possess my qualities, live in this place, and I am their leader. One named Dragos Bellec has challenged my leadership, challenged me to Rite of Duel, which will occur this very night. He may be stronger than I." Phillipa walked next to the stone table where Marji lay; gently stroked her golden hair. "Our little one, Marji, is a voyant. Her body possesses a capacity to connect to people on a psychic level. Marji is weak, though. If her ...essence ...were stronger, she could connect to Conall and me, and we could share our powers. With Conall's qualities combined to mine, I could prevail against Dragos. This is where you come in..." Sometimes, when you listen to someone from another country speak, they will pronounce a word slightly different than you are used to, and it throws your mental processing out of sync. Example - someone from the UK might say 'Regarding the global warming controversy, do you support your government's position?' As an American, you are used to the word 'controversy' being pronounced CON- troversy. So, when they pronounce it con -TRA ?versy, your brain locks for a moment while you work out the word they've just used, comparing it to the one you are familiar with. By then, you've missed the rest of the sentence and you have to ask them to repeat it. That's kind of what happened to Sam when Philippa used words like 'Rite of Duel', 'magic' and 'psychic level'. Though the words coming from her mouth were spoken in English and pronounced clearly enough, Sam's mind momentarily froze as it tried to process meaning. His brain identified them as words, but was unfamiliar with them in sentences spoken seriously. His brain locked ended with a singular conclusion: these people were bat-shit-crazy. He pulled another business card and a pen from his suit coat pocket. He wrote something on the back of it. "Client of mine, Norman Saddler," He handed Philippa the card. "Excellent psychiatrist. This is Norm's cell number: his rates are reasonable ... you should call him." Sam turned to leave ? he planned to sprint when he reached the stairs ? "No need to show me out, I remember the way." Two giant hands grabbed him. Sam tried to pull away, but was helpless in Conall's iron grip. "Do na move lad, you'll only get yourself hurt." Conall said. "I am sorry to have involved you in this matter against your will, Samuel Albert, and I understand you don't believe a word I've spoken. We have not the time available to convince you to believe us. Know this: I will remove your memory so you are not troubled, and you will be well paid," Philippa said, and turned to Barnaby. "Proceed." The stoic butler withdrew two necklaces from his waistcoat pocket. Each had a polished stone, one snow white, the other midnight black. He placed the white one around Sam's neck, and the other around Marji's. "W-what are you doing?" Sam had given up trying break free of Conall's grip. "Be at peace, monsieur," Barnaby answered. "I am going to siphon your energy to Marji. This will not cause permanent damage; your 'aura' should recharge in several days. It will feel like a massive hangover, as you would say." Reaching again into his pocket, he took out a blood red stone that pulsed light. He touched it, first to the stone on Marji's necklace, then the other to Sam's. Starbursts popped before his eyes, and a vertigo wrenched him, causing him to blackout. When he opened his eyes, everything was out of place. Sam was staring at the stone ceiling of the chamber. A scream caught Sam's attention; a man yelling at the top of his lungs, in a Scandinavian sounding language. 4. Friday 8:41 PM Barnaby could make no sense of it: Monsieur Albert was thrashing about uncontrollably in Conall's grip, and screaming - in Finnish. To prevent injury, Barnaby touched an index finger to the man's forehead. He slumped unconscious into Conall's arms. Barnaby readied to do the same with Mademoiselle Eneberg, but found her in a state of shock. She sat blinking, cupping a breast with a hand. It was more disbelief than shock, for Sam was in Marji's body, and she -for she was a she now- could not process what her senses were telling her. The sight sense triggered the confusion, for she saw her old body, the image she identified her 'ego self' with, across the room, limp in the arms of Conall. This was impossible, for she was here, not there. Another sense ?touch- added more bewilderment by sending data to her mind incompatible with a 'self' image of a mid-thirty male. She held something in her hand that could not be what it obviously was ? a female breast. Yet her hand told her mind it was heavy, floppy, and undeniably... "...Holy Jesus, this is real!" 'Hearing' jumped next into the mix to add to the chaos. Her mind told her mouth to speak, but the squeaky voice executing the command could not have come from a man, unless he'd been sucking helium. "Is it ...you that occupies the body of Marji Eneberg, Mademoiselle ...Albert?" Of all his talents, Barnaby had been a butler the longest, nearly five hundred years. So even the sudden gender change of a guest would not make him misstep in properly addressing him/her. Although Sam managed only a feeble 'yes' nod, her internal confusion vanished with a poof. Sometimes all it takes is one more piece of information to turn utter confusion into crystal clarity. Of course! She had no idea how it was possible, but it was the only explanation that reconciled facts to what her senses screamed: she was in Marji's body. "This was most unexpected indeed!" Barnaby said, clasping his hands behind his back. He started to pace back and forth. "You have a gift for understatement, man!" Conall said. "Now what just happened?" "Oui, Barnaby, our plans are thrown into disarray. Explain! " Philippa said. Sam grabbed a handful of golden wavy hair, held it up toward Philippa. "What in God's name have you done to me?" Her voice was shrill and loud; she was pissed. Philippa reckoned she had enough problems on hand and did not need ?whoever sat before her- exploding or imploding, while they sorted out this latest setback. Deciding to spellbind her into complacency, she grabbed Sam's face, and turned it so the petite woman stared into her eyes. Philippa moved too quickly for Sam to react, and suddenly found herself locked into Philippa's dark magnetic eyes. Her anger drained, and the lethargy of the Drawing Room returned. She wanted to resist, but wasn't sure where to start. A presence invaded her mind, willing her to obey, to submit. Sam's eyes dulled. She should obey, shouldn't she? It would be ...sooo ...easy to obey those eyes... Angry clarity blazed back into Sam: * GET- OUT - OF - MY - HEAD * Philippa jerked her hands away as if shocked. "Incroyable! She speaks mind to mind, Barnaby!" Barnaby had stopped pacing; he and Conall stared at Sam. "I heard her in my mind also, Mistress." "I canna believe it, but I heard her in my brain too." The tall long-faced butler moved beside Philippa. He leaned over and peered into Sam's eyes. His eyes narrowed. "This one ? Sam - is far stronger than Marji was. She accesses our thoughts even now." It was so - pictures were flashing in Sam's head; images she pulled from their minds. Point of view scenes from their past ? in one, a deer is run to ground, its throat ripped apart in a spray of blood. In another, a glassy eyed woman pulled her flaxen hair from her neck and tilted her head. She shuddered as she was bitten, and Sam tasted metallic warmth - a memory of blood - on her tongue. Scores of others visual memories played as a film montage, the central motif being blood and death. Her eyes grew wide as she reasoned it out. She knew, she'd seen it in their minds! Holy mother of God, Philippa and Barnaby were vampires, and Conall was a wolf. ...and she was food and prey to these creatures. A million year of hardwired DNA survival instinct kicked in: Sam vaulted from the table and ran wildly toward the door. Her center of gravity was off, and she stumbled forward in a fall. Philippa, moving in a swift blur, caught the young woman before she hit the stone floor. She grabbed Sam's wrists and held them in one hand, high over Sam's head, so that the girl was helpless before her. "Please ...let me go..." Philippa smiled, placing her finger on Sam's carotid artery. She felt the blood rushing underneath and licked her lips. A shiver ?of pleasure - ran through Sam's body, making her close her eyes from an instant. When Sam opened them, she saw Philippa's mouth showed two sharp fangs protruding from red lips. She lowered them until they pressed against the soft nape of Sam's neck. "God ... no...please..." Sam half whispered, half moaned; the touch of Philippa on her neck left her flush and ...damp. "Keep your teeth to yourself, woman," the redheaded giant bellowed in a deep growling voice, still cradling Sam's old body in his arms. "Bein turned from lad to lass is enough to deal with; she doesn't need to be thinking she's someone's bait as well. Let's stick to our business and sort out why it's soured!" Philippa's black eyes narrowed a moment as she stared first at Sam, then back at Conall. She was just having fun with Sam; something about her made Philippa want to play. Interesting. Conall was right, though, this was not the time. "I do not plan to eat you at the moment, my pet, I was merely dispelling your lingering doubts about who we are," she said with a too-cheerful smile. She dragged Sam back to the stone table and hoisted her on it as if the girl weighed nothing. "I truly intended no harm when I invited you here - we simply needed to borrow your aura power. Something has gone ...badly awry." Philippa released Sam's wrists. Sam exhaled a long breath she'd been holding and rubbed her wrists. "Badly ...awry ...?" Sam looked down again at two breasts that seemed grapefruit-sized to her. "I mean ... Jesus..." Sam took a deep calming breath to try to gather her thoughts (yet again!) "Hokay, fine, this is all impossible, but I'm in a woman's body, you drink blood and Conall's the Wolfman. Night is day and pigs can fly. Wheee! So, if you'll ...um ...have your vampire-sorcerer Jeeves there get those rock necklace thingies out again and whoosh me back in my body, I'll be on my way. Mum's the word, swear to God." She tried to put her hand on her heart then, but had difficulty deciding where it was under the extra padding of her chest. Sam gave a quick 'I give up' shake of her head, and continued, "Attorney-client privilege covers this, I think ...not sure ...have to check the Canon of Ethics on the whole vampire-as-client issue..." Philippa rolled her eyes and laughed, "Ma ch?rie! You are too dr?le." On impulse, she stroked Sam's face again ? Sam felt very good to touch, for some reason. "N ?no, I'm serious," Sam said softly. She gingerly moved Philippa's hand off her face. Its touch was having an odd ? but not bad ? effect, and Sam needed to concentrate. "Put me back in my body, please." Who'd of thought Sam would ever have to make that request? "Mademoiselle Albert-" Barnaby said, "I'm not a mademoiselle!" "I beg to differ. At the moment, you are no monsieur." He clasped his hands behind his back again. "I wonder...if you would attempt something for me. Monsieur Gadfaol, would you stand next to Madmoiselle Ch?ron?" The red giant gently laid Sam's old body on the stone floor and moved next to Sam and Philippa. "Fine, what did you have in mind?" "To assist me in returning Sam to her body, I need to know the extent of her power in Marji's body." Philippa raised an eyebrow. Barnaby's voice was flat as always, but she knew he had just lied. "Uh, okay ...whatever helps undo this." Sam said, in an uncertain tone; she'd do anything to get this reversed, but how could she possibly help? "Excellent. A moment ago, you unknowingly touched our minds. I want you to try to repeat this, and connect to Conall and Philippa." "And this helps me get back to my body ...how?" "I want to know if it is something you can do. Your ability in Marji's body to connect strongly to others could inhibit the retransfer. I may have to ask Conall and Philippa to leave the room when we ...switch you back." 'Yet another lie,' Philippa thought. 'What is Barnaby doing?' "Okay ...so ...what do I do?" Sam said; again, she had no clue how one would go about such a thing. "As a start, it would be appreciated if you would sit in a comfortable position and begin breathing deeply," Barnaby said. "Like meditating?" Sam asked, happy to understand something at last. By habit, she crossed her legs into half-lotus; it was so easy with these short flexible legs. Feeling especially limber, she moved into full lotus, something she had never been able to do in her old body. She couldn't believe how tiny her feet were; she'd been a size twelve, and she guessed she was something like, what, a five? Weren't women's sizes different? She shrugged, closed her eyes and started to breathe. It struck her this should be odd to do with people watching. She let the thought pass; it had to be the least odd thing about the whole day. Philippa started to ask Barnaby what he was trying to accomplish, but he held a finger to his lips. He observed Sam had slipped into a trance. After a few moments, he spoke in a gentle voice. "Sam, what are you feeling? "I ..." her lips barely moved "God ...I'm surrounded by ...gold ...golden shimmers...it's beautiful..." Barnaby nodded; an excellent sign. "Bon, let the thought go, focus on your breath ...inhalation ...exhalation." When he saw she relaxed further, he spoke to Philippa and Conall in a whisper: "Get ready. I'm going to have her connect to you and see if she can channel Conall's power." To Sam, he said, "I want you to reach into the golden energy and ...see ...a stream of it rising up. Can you do that?" After a moment, he saw Sam smile. "What do you see?" "Oh wow," she said softly, "a golden fountain...." "Bon ...stay relaxed ...keep breathing deeply ...see the fountain extending up and splitting into two, one to your right to touch Philippa, the other to touch Conall to your left....don't open your eyes, you know where they are..." "'kay" she whispered dreamily; her breathing was the only sound they heard for some moments. Then Philippa exclaimed "Oh!" Conall, "I feel her!" Each felt a touch of golden brightness. When Barnaby was certain the connection was firm, he spoke gently to Sam. "Follow the stream of gold that touches Conall, Sam, and tell me what to you feel." He saw the blonde-headed woman shudder. "...the smell of trees ...dark loam ...running ...hunting prey... full moon...the ...wild..." 'Now the delicate part,' Barnaby thought. "Take ...the wild ...into you and let it flow into the stream that touches Philippa." He saw Sam's eyebrow twitch, as she puzzled over this. "Don't think, do it!" She released Conall's wildness into and through her; it flowed, like a river, to Philippa. Power rushed into Philippa, filled her, Conall's werewolf strength adding to her own. Her senses bloomed. She felt first the beings before her, then the dozens that walked the hallways of her mansion, living and undead. Finally, she sensed others approaching from far away; her guests, her enemies, soon to arrive. With Sam connected to her and with Conall's power, she found she could talk to them, mind to mind. *Welcome, Master Dragos, may your visit be a memorable one.* *I am certain it will be, Mistress Philippa,* came his reply. She smiled; he could not shield his surprise that she could touch him, by thought, from a distance. She broke the contact; she did not want to reveal too much, only to plant seeds of doubt. Next, she spread her arms wide and ...floated into air. Levitation could only be performed by the strongest of the vampires; she reveled in the thrill of surging power. She wished she were outside so she could drift into the clouds and feel their wetness on her face. Barnaby's voice called to her. "Phillipa, enough, the voyant grows weary." Philippa reluctantly came back to ground. She looked at Sam; the girl was slumping forward. "Let go, Sam." Barnaby said. "Let go and let the gold return to the deep part of you." Conall and Philippa felt the contact break. They opened their eyes to see Barnaby gently laying Sam down on the table. "Is the lass injured?" Conall ask, rubbing his bleary eyes and temples. "Between a body exchange and connecting you and Philippa, I think she is a little spent. Physically she is fine; she needs some rest. Her powers are astonishing." "All the same, I'll feel better when we get Sam and Marji back into their own bodies. Better nivvor begun than nivvor ended, I say." Philippa stared at Conall; she'd known him for two and a half centuries and liked him dearly, but to this day she sometimes couldn't make heads or tails of the way he spoke. She shrugged and looked at Barnaby. "Will Marji be able to do as Sam did, once we switch them back?" Barnaby knew Philippa had guessed his mind. "No. What we saw was amazing, more so, when you consider Sam is untrained. Marji, even with borrowed power, could not come close to what Sam did." Conall saw where this was going too. "No, no, no! You canna consider not switching um back. Tis unfair to the both of um!" He said, his voice descending to a growl. "Monsieur Gadfaol, forgive me for being blunt, but you must understand. You have no idea the measures we've taken to put Philippa on equal footing with Dragos for the duel." Barnaby was pacing, making lengthy strides back and forth with his long skinny legs. "First, we searched the world looking for a voyant, in the Amazon, New Zealand, other places, finally finding Mademoiselle Eneberg in Finland." "I don't care if ya had to fly to the bloomin moon, it's not right to leave em switched." "My apologies, but I have not finished. As you know, Mademoiselle Eneberg proved weak, so, after research, I determined we could strengthen her by using two opposite lapis lazuli -Pharaoh Stones- to draw energy from one with a highly charged aura. Philippa sold a large portion of her collection to pay for those stones and the Blood Stone to activate them." Barnaby had stopped pacing and stood in front of Conall, the tall men looking eye to eye. Conall struggled to contain his rising frustration and hear Barnaby out. What they had done was wrong, and the wolf in him needed to maul someone for it; he just didn't know who it should be. At the moment, Barnaby was the prime candidate. Barnaby continued. "So we searched again for one with a powerful aura. We found her in Mexico, an old Bruja, and arranged to bring her here so Mademoiselle Eneberg could borrow energy. She was to come a week ago. Word came to us hours before she was to fly that the Bruja had 'ascended into the higher realms.' In haste, I scoured the nearby city to find the human with the strongest aura. Voil? Samuel Albert." "A lovely fable, with Pharaoh Stones and Finnish voyants and an old Bruja thrown in to boot; tis like a fairy tale of old. But it's one thing to pinch a bit o' energy, quite another to steal someone's body," Conall said. "I won't have it. It's wrong and ...daft, man! You donna even know why it happened!" "Maybe Sam's essence was drawn to Marji's body because like was drawn to like, power to power. Who knows? It is irrelevant why it happened. You saw, you felt what Sam can do. Incroyable." Barnaby's voice rose infinitesimally above a monotone, which was to say, passionate, for him. "By accident, we may have created one of the strongest voyants ever known. Fortune drops this powerful tool into our laps; we would be fools not to use Sam. You saw Philippa when she was filled with your power ? she may be able to survive her duel with Dragos; surely you would agree that would be a good outcome." Philippa held her hand up. "Monsieurs! Let us ...leave matters as they are until after the duel. Then we shall switch them. Conall, do not oppose me on this ...you owe me." "Fine!" Conall glared at them. "I do owe you, I'll abide, but after this we're square. Mark my words, Philippa, naught but sorrow will come of this." Philippa had mixed feelings; she too was troubled they were not switching Sam and Marji back. Yet a part of her was not unhappy at all, because there was something about Sam in Marji's body... Throughout their discussion, Philippa had absent-mindedly been stroking one of Sam's breasts. When Sam moaned softly in pleasure, Philippa leaned forward and kissed her on her still open lips. Sleepily, Sam kissed back. Philippa gently put her index finger to Sam's full soft lips. She stroked them. "What a night of new experiences you have ahead of you ...rest, my pet, you'll need it." 5. Friday 10:40 PM Sam woke to satin. Soft darkness surrounded her body; her mind wrapped in satiny black. She knew not where she was, or even at that moment, that she was a 'she'. A slide of her naked body on smooth fabric reminded her how much had changed. "Jesus-" "You invoke the son of the Christian God often, Samuel Albert. Are you a devout practitioner? That would complicate matters." Her voice came from the darkness. A lamp switched on ? Sam was in a four-poster bed, Philippa beside her. The rest of the room was cast in shadows. Sam propped up on her elbows, her wavy blonde hair spilling in front of her face. "I'd hoped it had all been a dream, or at least when I woke up the nightmare would be over and I'd be back in my body." Sam noticed her nipples were hard from rubbing against the satin sheets. "...um, where are my clothes?" Philippa's smile turned practically evil as her hand moved to pinch Sam's nipples. "-ooo- ...stop ...it ..." Sam's eyes fluttered closed; Philippa's touch was electric, sooo nice. "You don't sound like you want me to stop, little cat. Let's go exploring, hmm?" Her hand slithered little by little down the black satin to between Sam's crotch. There, she made rubbed in a slow circular pattern. Sam let out a long soft pleasure moan. "My kitten purrs, hmm? She likes to be petted..." Philippa said, grinning wickedly. Then she sighed. "Tant pis... if we didn't have obligations, what fun we would have." The pleasure buzzing through Sam's body dissipated enough to allow her to speak. "Ob...obligations? What are you talking about, aren't you going to switch me back?" "Apologies, little kitty-cat, but I cannot, I need you as my voyant at tonight's festivities. It is vampire politics; ceremonial, formal and to the final death. Tr?s tr?s compliqu?." Sam sprang up in the bed, oblivious to her nakedness. She grabbed Philippa's wrist. "You MUST change me back. To keep me like this is not fair ...it's evil ..." Philippa slapped Sam's hand away. "Fairness? Good and evil? Human thoughts; what mean these to me?" Her dark eyes flashed. "Where was my justice the night my soon to be master, Valentin, turned me because my beauty 'pleased him'? Killing Mama and Papa and my little Julian before my eyes... " She shook her head at the memory. "No, this was not 'fair', yet it happened anyway. We are fresh out of fairness, my pet. If you wish to possess your body again, you will do as I say for tonight. If I survive my duel with Dragos, then shall you be returned. If I do not, then you will discover a harder ...unfairness ...at his hands." "Why should I believe a syllable you speak? All lies. Maybe I should help this Dragos instead. Maybe he could help me get my..." It was so fast Sam didn't feel it happening: one moment she was in bed, the next she was gagging; Philippa held her high in the air with a hand at Sam's throat, her legs dangling. "It amuses me to think what will happen to you if I die my pet - the fun they will have with a pretty little prostitu?e du sang. They drink from you as they fuck you, until you die. If properly done, the feeding can take days, and by the end you will beg them to fill your chatte, your pussy, even as they suck your last drop of life." She tossed Sam back on the bed. Sam struggled for breath for a moment, rubbing her neck. "So, will you help me, little kitty?" Philippa asked with honey sweetness. "What choice do I have?" Sam croaked, still rubbing her neck. "Either this Dragos wins and he kills me, or you win, and ...kill me. Even if I could escape, I'd be stuck in this body. No matter what happens, I'm screwed, right?" She paused, looking down at her naked body. "I suppose there's even a remote chance you'd keep your word... so ... yeah, I guess I have to." Sam said, and then looked directly into Philippa's eyes. "You know what's interesting? I have never hated anyone in my life. Ever. Until now." Philippa stiffened. Normally, she found such words from a human laughable. Coming from Sam, it bothered her. "Your eyes are open to my world at last, then ? no fair or unfair, bad or good, just screw or be screwed. Your hate is my gift to you. Cherish it, for over the long march of years, even that fades, and you are left with nothing but time." Philippa rose. "I will send servants to help you bathe and dress for the dinner." She saw there would be hand marks where she had gripped Sam's neck. "Oh, pooh; bad kitty! See what you have made me do? I must find a way to hide the bruises so your delicate beauty is not tarnished." She thought a moment. "Ah! I have just the accessory! I will bring it when I come to collect you. Until then, sweet thoughts." 6. Friday 11:30 PM Sam sat, at a white marble-topped antique vanity, staring into the mirror. How odd, to be excited by the image in the mirror that was supposed to be her. Is this what narcissists felt all the time? Her mind swirled at what she saw - a golden blonde haired girl with bright blue eyes, wearing a black silk bell sleeve cocktail dress. At least that's how Philippa's human servants described it. Sam hadn't known what to call it other than a very (very) short thing. As it was cut in a low 'V' and as Philippa had ordered her to wear no bra or underwear, Sam was left with the feeling of little on at all. Silver hoop earrings dangled from her ears, and silver bracelets locked onto her wrists. A trinity knot was woven on the face of each. The red-headed servant, Chloe, called them Celtic slave bracelets. Slave bracelets. Peachy. Sam wore one more piece of jewelry, but this she discovered when she also learned how women piss. Then, she'd found a silver ring with a small pendant that hung from her ...clit...clitoris? or the part of the...vagina that covered the clit up? Jesus, she was stupid about female genitals; she wished she'd paid more attention to the vocabulary part of sex education. Who'd of figured she'd ever have to know a female body so intimately? What was she going to need next that she hadn't paid attention to, Algebra? Carol, the blonde servant, practically swooned over the fact that Sam was to sit with 'Mistress' at the dinner tonight. "Why," Sam asked her, "why is that so good?" "To serve in the Blood Herd is an honor, to serve the Mistress..." Carol sighed suddenly, before she continued, "she is a goddess." 'Herd? Goddess? Uh-oh', Sam thought, 'serious brainwash shit happening here.' Sam turned back to Chloe. She was a beauty; standing around five three, maybe an inch taller than the body Sam was in. Bright green eyes, fresh face with just enough freckles to be so sexy. Her hair had the color and shine of copper, its natural curls falling far down her back. Ringlets fell across her face. Sam wondered why, or how someone who looked like that had come to this place. She asked Chloe. "I want them to turn me. I hope if I serve long enough, Mistress will," The redhead answered. "Turn you?" It dawned on Sam. Turn her into a vampire. "Why in God's name would you want that!?" "To be unique. To live a life beyond the ordinary." Chloe answered, in a matter-of-fact voice. "I know this will sound vain or something, but I feel like I have a destiny waiting for me here." 'Holy crap! Surely there were other paths to fulfillment than being turned into a vampire,' Sam thought. She wished she could send these two directly to Norm Saddler. Norm was going to have to open up a psychiatric ER for vampire victims before this was all over. "Why do you ask these odd questions, Marji?" Chloe said. "Yes," Carol said, "you act so strangely tonight, and your English is suddenly better. What's up with you?" Sam shrugged and mumbled something about how she didn't feel like herself. The conversation stopped then, as the young women left her to prepare themselves to be ...eaten as food, presumably. Brainwashed slaves to vampires. Yet another reason to hate Philippa. At that moment, she wondered where her old body was, and if it was safe. How was she going to get these wackos to switch her back? If she had a gun maybe? Or a tactical nuclear warhead? The thought was funny, but it was a valid question. She could pretend to be brave only so long: the truth was, she couldn't see her way out of this nightmare. Her shoulders slumped forward, and her false bravado drained away. She had no idea how to function in this body, she was surrounded by creatures of darkness who would just as easily eat her as talk to her, and none of it made sense. She wanted to crawl back in bed and curl into a ball. Everything was foreign and Sam needed familiar. Something to grab onto to tell her she was still the old Sam she'd always been. Meditation should be the same in any body, right? So she pulled a satin pillow from the bed to the floor and sat on it in full lotus position. She started a breath meditation and soon, she bathed in the peace of a golden energy she felt earlier. If anything, the energy was stronger than before. "Christ, that's amazing! What am I, some kind of energizer battery?" It was so strong, she felt she could even make the energy physically appear. Slowly, she held up a palm that rested on a knee and imagined energy gathering there. Gold sparkles shimmered into a ball over her palm. "God! How cool..." She threw the energy ball against a wall where it exploded into bright glitters. "Well how about that! Bet I'll be popular at parties." A knock at her bedroom door. Philippa's voice. "Kitten? Time for dinner and your debut." Willing the energy back in, she stood and slipped black pumps on that she'd been stumbling around in earlier when she practiced walking. Strangely, she had no trouble in the high heels as she walked to the door. "Um, the door is locked from the outside..." Sam had checked it; she probably wouldn't made a run for it if it had been unlocked; there was still the tiny detail of being in the wrong body. The door clicked open and Philippa stood before her. Scanning from floor up, she saw her vampire mistress wore black high-heeled sling back shoes and a black satin strapless evening gown that accentuated her full breasts. Silver lace encircled her neck and upper arms, and a silver circlet rested her head. Her rich black hair fell in ringlets down her back. Last, she looked at Philippa's red red lips. Sam gulped. Sensing desire, Philippa raised Sam's chin with a hand, leaned forward and planted a long, open-mouthed kiss. Sam's knees went weak; she might have fallen, had not Philippa's arm moved to catch her. Sam would have been troubled at how easily Philippa had enspelled her had she been clear-headed. She was anything but; her pulse raced, her nipples hardened and she felt moistness in her crotch. She hated this woman, this thing, didn't she? So how could one kiss capture her so? A vampire trick? Philippa pulled her lips away, smiling at Sam's closed eyes and rapid breathing. "Sam, I wanted to say I was sorry..." "So say it." Sam said, said in a still breathy voice, but standing on her own. Philippa chuckled. "Sam, I am sorry for how I treated you. I thrust you into a strange body and world, and I should have treated you with understanding." "Nice words, more lies?" Philippa thought a moment and shrugged. 'Connect to my mind as you did earlier. Look and see for yourself." Look into her mind? Okay, fine. So how to do it? She closed her eyes and remembered what Barnaby had said. See a stream of energy, direct it to Philippa. She felt her mind touch Philippa's. This was getting easier. As with Conall, Sam sensed Philippa's other-than-human energies, but hers were different: dark but warm, soft but strong, sensuous but deadly, cold intellect but with ...passion? Feelings that seemed contradictory, but as Sam absorbed them, she knew they were complimentary in Philippa. Sam was dazzled. When she started to sort through Philippa's memories, seeing images of a peasant woman with dark hair and grey-bearded man (mother and father?), she heard Philippa's thought: *those are private, my pet* *sorry* Sam withdrew. Somehow, she knew, Philippa was sincere in her apology. She learned more, something perhaps that Philippa had not wanted her to see, that Philippa was attracted to Sam. "Okay, apology accepted." Sam gazed into Philippa's eyes, this time knowing what she felt was not a mind trick. She frowned; was it possible to desire and hate someone? "Talk to me. Tell me why I should help you. Tell me you don't enslave and kill humans to feed. Tell me something to make me like you." "Little kitten. How can you understand me? You are, what, thirty something? I am over three hundred years old. You are human, I am vampire. We have no common frame of reference." "Try anyway. Give it your best shot." She sighed. Samuel was so American. "I will try. Since I became ruler of this Seethe after overthrowing Valentin, I have forbidden any from feeding on humans who are unwilling donors. I have further forbidden my vampires from turning humans without my blessing." "That's all you got? I'm supposed to sign up for your side for that? What about this business keeping of people in a 'herd' like livestock?" "The act of giving blood to one of my kind is highly pleasurable ...a high ...sexual ...addictive. Most of my humans wish to serve in the Blood Herd, of their own free will. Those that don't, deserve to be there for other reasons. All are well treated and well paid for their time here. I rotate them regularly to avoid danger of depleting them." "Sounds like a cross between a cattle ranch and a drug addicted brothel. Got nothin' else?" Philippa's eyes flared. "I do not have to justify myself to you-" Sam gingerly touched Philippa's hand. "I'm ...sorry, I'll stop being flip, it ...masks how scared shitless I am. I'm so lost, Philippa." Philippa's anger dissolved into perplexity. She wanted to touch Sam, not from lust or blood lust, but to comfort her. She thought a moment. "Ah! Here is something. Do you recall the concert hall fire in Atlanta last year?" "Yeah, horrible; fire started, exit doors were blocked, sixty people burned to death-" "But it was not a fire at all. Dragos trapped those people to let his Seethe feed on them. After the slaughter, they burned it to the ground to hide the evidence. The human authorities begin to suspect the existence of his Seethe. It was starting to become 'too hot' in Atlanta, so-" "So he comes here to take over yours. And if you lose the duel, people here start dying." "Oui. It is certain." "He is an evil old vampire, I presume?" "Evil, oui, older, non. Dragos is much younger than I, barely one hundred years old. He should not be so strong. Yet he has delivered final death to two master vampires. C'est un myst?re. The High Council has taken notice of Monsieur Dragos and will be watching the outcome of this duel." That was more vampire politics information than Sam needed. She stuck to the simple. "Okay. Preventing mass murder. Fighting evil. That works." "Bon. If this is concluded, we must go. We have the dinner and a duel to attend." "Wait. I really like ... as a lawyer, I find I work harder when I like something about the person I'm helping. I don't have to love my clients, or anything, but I do try to find one human thing about them that ...uh , how do I say this? Could you tell me something that will make me want to help you?" "I just did-" "No ...I mean ...something about you, Phillipa Ch?ron." Philippa cross her arms under her chest. "What is the expression I hear so often these days? You are high maintenance." "Please? It ...it would help me..." Sam's eyes were clear blue, innocent. Marji's never had looked so. What did Sam want of her? Philippa started to twirl a ringlet of her shiny dark hair. A thought came to her. "Galettes. I miss galettes." "What? Galettes? Those are ...uh, buckwheat crepes from the Bretagne area of France, right?" Sam truly did have some French experience. "What do galettes have to do-" "Mama and I used to wake in the dark of morning, before Papa started his chores. I helped her cook galettes. We would feed them to each other as we watched the sun rise from our kitchen window. Philippa's voice grew soft. "I especially remember hugging Mama one time when the dew of the wildflowers in front of our farm cottage sparkled in the rose of dawn." "I ...well couldn't you just have your cook make you some for breakfast?" "Sam, Vampires don't eat food. And we cannot see the light of day, or we die..." "Oh, I didn't know-" Philippa's warm dark eyes stared beyond Sam, into memories she had buried when she was turned. She whispered, "I miss galettes ...and sunrises and wildflowers...and Mama..." In that instant, Sam glimpsed Philippa's loneliness, centuries of it. So alone. She clasped Philippa tightly around her waist. It startled Philippa. When she raised Sam's face, she saw her eyes were wet. "Sam?" "I'll help...I want to help you." Philippa's heart warmed, something she'd not felt in... who was this human who touched her so? So sweet and alive. How had Sam drawn those feelings from her? It frightened her; she pushed the feelings down down. She'd survived by burying her emotions when she was first turned; she could not afford this weakness. Philippa unclasped Sam's hug and stepped away. "Pet, as delicious as you look, I need your mind focused. We have much to discuss. I am sure you have questions, and we haven't much time before the dinner." Sam blinked away the wetness, and the questions started popping into her mind: "Okay ...I understand why you need me to connect you to Conall in your duel, I guess, for the extra power...but why do you need me at the dinner...why am I dressed this way ...I'm not a woman and don't know how to act like one, so how am I going to pull this off...what will I do if..." Philippa put a finger to Sam's mouth. "Ssshhh. Your job is simple, kitten, to be seen with me. I will explain as we walk to the dining hall. But first: A metallic 'click' startled Sam. Philippa had locked a wide silver collar around Sam's neck. Next, she fastened a silver chain leash to an "O" ring that hung from collar's front. Sam put her hand to the cold collar. "Why-" Philippa started to walk down the hall, tugging on the chain to make Sam follow. "Dragos' people must see you at dinner first, so that they will not be suspicious when you are with me at the duel. To them, you will appear to be my plaything, harmless." "But I'm not a woman! I'll do something stupid ?" Philippa suddenly pushed Sam against a hallway wall, grinding against her body, kissing her hard. Philippa's touch was instant pleasure. Sam's head fuzzed. "You feel like a woman to me. Will you play my pet, my pet?" "mmm ?hmmm" "Excellent. I like the way you throw yourself into the part." Philippa was amused at how quickly she could make craving and fire spread across Sam's soft face; it would be so fun to explore. Philippa sighed again, no time. She tugged on the leash and started walking. Sam stumbled in her heels as her head cleared. They turned right at a hallway intersection and started walking down another candlelit hallway. Far ahead, Sam saw two men standing in front of a doorway. They had the look of guards. "Silvain and Lejeune are mine, but play your part with them, too. Anyone could be a spy. Some quick ground rules..." Philippa rattled off instructions as they walked the long hallway. Sam struggled to keep pace with the taller woman's stride. "...keep your eyes down always; to all, you are a human pet. Do not speak unless someone speaks to you. You will sit on a cushion at my feet. I hope you used the toilet recently. Food. You will have food, but you only eat when I feed you hand to mouth." Philippa stopped to stress a point. "Above all, show no one your power. They must not suspect you are anything except a pretty bauble." They started walking again and soon neared the guards; tall, dark eyed, Sam somehow sensed they were non-human. "So, I am truly to be your little slave," she whispered, mortified, but some part of her shivered with excitement. "Yes, I expect it troubles you. I do not think of you so ...I know you saw that I ... that we..." Philippa stopped. "I do not know what is between us, and I cannot afford to..." A coldness entered Philippa's voice "Yes. From here, you are my slave." Sam nodded and lowered her eyes. She felt a sharp tug at her neck; she followed into the dining hall, and felt the stare of dozens and dozens of eyes on her. None of which were human. 6. Saturday 12:00 AM Philippa led her into a long candle-lit hall. Red cushioned chairs lined the north and south walls, leaving the center space open. Sam wondered at the lack of dining table, with its place settings and glasses. The thought popped into her head that food at a vampire dinner might not be served on plates. When she'd entered the hall she glimpsed people standing in groups; heard the murmur of many conversations. 'Just like any dinner party, with the small exception that I might be an appetizer.' She tried hard to recall what Barnaby had said earlier about safe passage. It made more sense now. She hoped it was still true. As she was led through by each clump of people, conversation would stop and she felt eyes scanning her body, sensed hunger coming from them. Since she kept her eyes down, she was not able see who was present, but by looking at trousers, legs and high heels, she saw the crowd was roughly half male, half female. 'Great! An undead mixer!' Sam wondered what the pick up lines would be - Bite you a drink? I've always been a sucker for a pretty face? Her mind stomped down hard on these thoughts ? she could not afford to have some goofy grin on her face. Philippa stopped leading her, and she saw she stood before a platform with a dark wooded throne chair, and a second large chair beside it. Barnaby stood to one side. In front of the throne chair lay a long red cushion. "We are here, lovely kitten." Philippa gave a tug on the leash pulling Sam toward onto the platform. Sam connected to Philippa's mind. *How am I doing? I feel so dumb, like any minute,