All Souls Night.

Disclaimers in Chapter One. Warning: it gets a little bloody here. STRONG stomach required.

Whether it was the night air, Gabrielle's presence, or simply getting out of that damned crowded restaurant, Xena immediately lost all urge to so much as shout, never mind actually scream. This was not necessarily a good thing, as Gabrielle herself looked ready to have words. Xena could only mentally steel herself, knowing the smaller woman's temper formidable...though she'd only once actually heard her raise her voice, and that was a sincere sounding "Damn!" when a cup of coffee had been spilled into Xena1/4s lap.

She was unaware her stance had taken on that of a whipped child: head held low, one shoulder up, the other down, feet planted firmly. It stopped whatever Gabrielle might have said cold.

If her rage at the child proved fleeting, it was stoked to a full bonfire against the trials and wounds inflicted upon her by the years before they met. She dearly wished the similarities between her lost love and her living one didn't run so deep that learning of her didn't involve prying odd details out of casual conversation, or arriving at her own conclusions by observing the girl run hither and yon throughout their home, restoring it almost single-handedly to more than simply four walls. (Okay, at least twenty dozen walls, but you get the idea; theirs was a BIG house)

Angry as she might have been, Xena's words still echoed in Gabrielle's mind. "We're being followed." Indeed they were. This left her awash in a cold fear that was actually twofold: first, that Xena's life was at risk, and second, that her own secret might be revealed. The first she was certain she could defend, and the second she'd long feared and kept every bit as hidden as Xena guarded herself. It was actually a bit of selfishness on Gabrielle's part, rather than concern for her new love's peace of mind, that she guarded her...parentage so closely.

She'd only barely survived the century following Callisto's visitation of them, and knew she simply would not survive a single day if she lost her raven-haired love again.

Rather than let her private turmoil likewise show on her face, Gabrielle moved to practicalities. It was a cold one that night, with Demeter's tears making a light carpet on the land. Xena was encased in an Armani pants suit which, while its rich blue set off her sapphire eyes, did little to combat the night's chill. The fact she wasn1/4t shivering didn't fool Gabrielle in the slightest; she herself was half-Olympian, and she was freezing.

"Here, you," she said through the cloud of her own breath, handing Xena her overcoat. "Get this on before you catch your death." The child did as bade, still refusing to meet eyes, though her posture screamed her expectation of being screeched at in a moment. . .if not worse. It very nearly undid Gabrielle. Merciful Artemis, if she were more fragile. . .

"Let's head home." It was all Gabrielle could trust her voice with just then. Xena trusted her own not at all, and wisely offered no argument.

The Olympiad, known these days as Dante, waited until the pairs limo pulled away from the curb to let himself out of the car. His partner, Margareeth D'Arcy, took this without surprise though not without anger.

"And where the fuck are you off to?" Margareeth reveled in the profanity so common to the modern day. Before yielding to the call of the dark, she'd been ever attentive to the mores placed on her by society. A good girl, her father's pride in every way. God, how she hated that creature she'd once been. Though right then she hated her thick-skulled companion far more, as much because she knew the answer to her own question as because the idiot refused to answer.

"Fuck you then!" Marg pulled the door shut after him, not sparing him another glance as he half stumbled towards the closest alleyway. She lit the engine and carefully pulled away. Dante was an idiot and easily replaced...though she wasn't looking forward to petitioning the Crypt elders for a new second.

She wasn't concerned for that evenings duties. She'd done without the idiot almost from the start. So, without another thought of him, Marg looked towards another several hours crouching in that damned wood behind the Ancient's house. Damned but the place gave her the willies, the feeling of a thousand eyes upon her back...

He wandered all about the streets, looking for something suitable. Theirs was a hardy breed, but not one immune to the ravages of nature. The smallest virus could prove as deadly to him as a thousand Driad bones, though his sharpened senses were enough to warn him of any such danger. And...Damn it all!...the danger was all around him then.

It took hours, but ultimately there was one. Not a pretty thing, mind, but one free of any disease. The rest of the streetwalkers went their own way, some with envy in their eyes. Dante spared them no time, nor did he waste any in bargaining the woman's price. "Five hundred for the night." His tone was flat, which for him meant the hunger was nearly all-consuming. It also communicated a very clear message to the woman, advising her not to refuse the offer. She wouldn't have anyway, though she didn't think much of a john taking her by the arm so forcefully. It hurt.

They made their way quickly to the nearest hotel. More accurately, Dante made his way there and essentially dragged his catch after him. Hunger made his grip tighter. The manager likewise took note of his demands and made no comment. The room was paid for in moments and Dante was even quicker to get there. The woman was starting to protest such rough treatment, though he was deaf to it. His only thought was to reach the room and enjoy this night as he never had.

The room was on the third floor and the elevator wasn't working. The stairs creaked underfoot and grated on his nerves worse than the woman's harping. He still refused to offer her so much as glance, which was actually a small mercy. To have looked at her, however momentarily, would have led to the hunger taking control and drinking of her right then and there.

This didn't stop him from practically tearing the door off its hinges, nor from practically throwing the woman into the darkened room and tearing at his clothes all in the same move. The Thirst was consuming him whole. It robbed him of all thought save to feed.

He hadn't turned on a lamp, preferring the darkness.

Which made it particularly appropriate for the door to slam behind him...entirely by itself.

The Thirst deserted him instantly.

Dante began to sweat, hard, his exposed skin taking on a clear sheen in the dimness.

There was movement in that corner. Smoke could be seen drifting away from it. Circles and other shapes, ones not normally possible with tobacco smoke, drifted past the single window, the room1/4s only source of illumination.

The streetwalker got to her feet, instinctively backing way. She didn't realize until her should brushed against slick skin that she'd been backing into her intended client. This made her jerk in the opposite direction with a start.

A calm, low voice emanated from the form which moved from that corner, to stand stock still beside the window. No feature or detail could be seen.

"There's money on the bed, girl." It was a woman's voice to be sure, though the flatness to it belayed any emotion attached to, inspiring pure dread. "Take it and leave." The woman quickly snatched up the thick envelope which lay on the musty bedspread. She was out the door without even checking the envelope's contents. Anything, anything, was better than staying with that lunatic john for another second.

She didn't even notice the door shut itself, again, the instant she was across the threshold.

The glowing tip of the cigarette was the only company he knew.

Such a declaration was not lost on Dante, who was prompted out of his immobilityä though all her could manage was a bare swallow of saliva and squeak "Howä?"

"In the woods outside of Thrace." She revealed in his terror, hating herself for it all he while. "One Spring Solstice festival." She made a show of remembering the distant moment. "There hadn't been any rain since winter's thaw, and the woods were dry underfoot."

She moved into the light. Dante saw nothing his long memory could grasp. A tall creature was she, with eyes of dark hazel and rich brown hair. Her tanned features, clearly illuminated by the lamplight from outside, were nothing exceptional or prominent. He wouldn't spare her a glance on the street normally. She looked neither old nor young, and her heritage, save that she was European, was a mystery to his eyes.

A small smile graced her lips, as though he could hear his confusion spoke aloud. "You and your pack thought me another. The Amazon bard, who traveled with the warrior princess."

A dim memory, one of pain and panic, took light in his eyes.

"I was merciful then." Actually, she reminded herself, I was half-dead and barely conscious. Damned if I tell *him * that. "I might be so again." The sweat was now very clear on his skin. Who would have thought a Bacchae could sweat so?

She approached his still form with grace and calm. Her voice was low, almost sensuous. "Tell me of your interest in the Ancient one and her companion." There was no demand in the request, no hint of authority or steel to the voice. It was spoken playfully, as though in bed in the afterglow of passion.

It terrified Dante as nothing else. Even the elder Gaunt was a mild thought compared to this.

Terror can tighten or loosen the tongue. Dante was caught between the two just then. Muscles frozen, mind shuffling back and forth between today and yesterday, thoughts a jumble of emotions boiling beneath a locked lid, boiling to an explosive mix.

"Tell me," she said in the same non-tone.

A single tear escaping, Dante told all he knew.

There was only heat in her hazel eyes as they met those of the Bacchae cowering before her. He took it for passion, assuming this to be her mercy. She moved with a slow deliberateness he himself had used on many a seduction in the wood. Neither boy nor girl in the old days could resist coming to his spring to bathe.

The smile she gave him undid his paralysis, only to have it reasserted by the gentle hands which drew across his bare shoulders and cupped his jaw.

He returned the smile. . .

. . .and felt his neck wrenched as she used her grip to throw him, body and all, towards the opposite wall, with such strength as to rival all the elders known!

Dante twisted, desperate to bring his natural abilities to bear. Through exercise of will a Bacchae can soar on the wind, and so he tried. The best he managed was to avoid plunging through the wall and instead shattering the closed window. His impact against the glass and wood was still sufficient to jar his concentration, causing him to plummet to the asphalt below. Still he twisted, trying to keep from landing head-first, and managed to land at a sharp angle.

Despite this the impact shattered his neck and shoulder, leaving his head twisted at a most unnatural angle. The side of it was split open by the force, one eye crushed and the other nearly popped out of its socket. Blood pouring out of every orifice, whether his mouth, eyes or ears, and staining the dark concrete into something darker still.

This left him to the darkness of the healing coma that overtook him almost instantly. He didn't fear this, and was not a little grateful for it.

He was beyond *her* reach now.

She shook her head and collected her coat. She'd become too cautious of late, wasting her time guarding the flanks while the enemy, who didn't have much more in brains than the meat she'd just tossed, attacked from the front.

Damn it all. Damn "Michael" for leading her to this. Damn her mother's blood-kin for their madness. Damn that meat for being such an ignoramus. Damn Bacchus for spreading his poisoned blood so wide she'd never be done with them all. Damn herself for her caution.

Morgan-Hope damned it all. . .except for her mum and her dark-tressed love. She'd watched them together for nearly a month now, having to avoid them only over Samhain, when Gabrielle went hunting. Her mum's senses were at their peak at such times, and she had no wish to disturb the woman's peace right then. Thank the Almighty these fools hadn't tried something as obvious as hiring out assassins!

Now she had at least some notion of what these self-styled lords-of-the-undead, a misnomer if ever there was as Bacchae were not actually dead, planned against Gabrielle. The meat knew only that All Souls Night was the moment they planned to be, quote, "rid of the Lord's spoiled seed," unquote, or something equally and pointlessly dramatic. Obviously he meant Gabrielle, who carried Bacchus' blood but none of the corruption. This left Morgan-Hope with very little time. It was the first of November: All Saints Day. All Souls was tomorrow, which was less than an hour from then.

A new wave of curse erupted in her thoughts, loud enough to simply drown out the wail of sirens outside. . .and the pounding of approaching feet in the hall outside. Morgan-Hope was deaf to it all as she moved back into the shadows from whence she'd come.

The room was otherwise empty as any crypt.