*Warning*
This vampire fiction contains scenes of violence and sexual abuse.  
Consider this NC-17.  If you are 17 or under, go away.

Nick/Janette 
Explicit Sex, violence 

+ + + + + + + + + + + + 
================= 
THE BEST REVENGE
 
By Ophelia5@aol.com
 

        There was shouting, followed quickly by the slamming of a 
door.  Janette remained still, just beyond the arch into the main hall 
of the London townhouse.  She knew better than to intrude upon 
such a scene.
        When she'd entered only the doorman had heard her knock 
and she'd held her finger to her lips to prevent him from speaking.  
She'd indicated through a quick gesture that her trunk was to be 
taken into the hall, then had settled behind the curtain to watch.
        The arguments between Nicholas and LaCroix had varied in 
content, volume, and violence over the centuries.  Now she was 
certain that she heard a bit more venom in Nicholas' voice.  And she 
wondered, however idly, what corrective action LaCroix must have 
taken to curb another of Nicholas' odd fancies.
        The slight whispering swish of her skirts betrayed her 
presence.  "Come in, Janette," said LaCroix, from the room beyond.
        A light brush of her hand set her skirt in order, then Janette 
sailed into the room still wearing her traveling cape.  Dropping the 
hood as she approached him, Janette gave LaCroix a broad smile 
and paused only to curtsey before him--the barest dip of the knee.  
But he took her hand and raised her quickly to her feet, bending 
forward to lightly brush her cheek with a kiss.
        When he pulled back, she saw his glance fall upon the door 
through which she was certain Nicholas had fled.  But LaCroix 
looked back to her almost immediately.  "Cold lips against colder 
skin," he commented, unfastening the broach that held her traveling 
cloak closed.  "It's a bitter night."
        Janette allowed him to remove her cloak, then tried not to 
flinch as he tossed the costly garment aside--LaCroix could afford 
to be profligate with fine things.  He never settled for anything but 
the best that the moment offered.  She caught his hands in hers and 
walked with him toward the fire, her eyes keeping constant watch 
on her skirts and the lace of her sleeves.  "You called--I'm here.  
Did you expect the weather to keep me away?"
        A demure glance from her and he smiled, a very possessive 
smile.  LaCroix took her hand in his and raised it to his lips.  "No.  
Not you.  Never you."
        "But <him>?"  She gestured toward the door with a nod and 
saw LaCroix's smile vanish.  He turned away, contemplating the 
flames of the fireplace as she asked, "And what has Nicholas done 
now?"
        "What he most finds delight in--flaunting my authority."
        "Not unexpected.  It's his way.  Part of his charm."  She 
moved closer to LaCroix and stood behind him--close, but not 
<too> close.  If her attentions and sympathy were wanted, she'd 
know.  But all she read from the threads that connected them was 
bitter resolve.  "Would you have him any other way?"
        She did not expect an answer to her question and so was not 
disappointed when LaCroix did not respond.  He straightened after 
a moment and turned back to her.  With the back of his hand he 
caressed her cheek and smiled again, but this time with more 
warmth.  Or, at least, as much warmth as she could hope to have 
from him.
        "It is good to have you back.  It's been . . . four decades?"
        "More.  Just."  She placed her hand over his, wrapping her 
fingers around LaCroix's and squeezing lightly.  He <had> missed 
her.
        "And you are content, now?"
        "To stay here?  Yes.  For as long as you should wish it."
        She knew how to please him.  Her lessons at his hands had 
been well taken and well kept.  LaCroix placed a light kiss on her 
forehead, then placed his arm around her.  "I should wish it always.  
But for now . . . I need your help."
        "With Nicholas."  She drew back from him and turned toward 
her cloak, which he'd so haphazardly thrown over the back of a 
chair.  Janette took it into her hands and smoothed the fine cloth, 
then folded it more carefully.  Closing her eyes, she could feel 
Nicholas not too far away, seething with anger, resentment and 
frustration.
        LaCroix's voice whispered in her ear, "Yes.  He needs 
something to lighten his mood."
        His presence was more overwhelming than Nicholas', both 
sets of emotions running strong and deep.  Even with her eyes 
closed she wasn't surprised at LaCroix's approach when he spoke, 
or the fact that he moved as quickly from her.
        "I've done all that I can," he admitted, when she opened her 
eyes to look at him, "but he's obstinate now.  There's a melancholy 
about him that I cannot shake.  He's at loose ends."
        "And you wish me to . . . tie him up?"
        She caught the shadow of a smile on his face as LaCroix 
turned back to the fire.  "Your presence always manages to cheer 
him."
        "His presence cheers me.  But you forget--we did not part on 
the best of terms.  Nicholas may not wish to see . . . ."
        Her words trailed off when she heard the door behind her 
open.  Janette froze like a statue, feeling his eyes upon her.  Even 
when they were so much flesh and blood that they were all but 
inseparable, Nicholas would have difficulty sensing her.  Now, she 
felt his surprise and the joy that strummed the threads that 
connected them warmed something within her.
        Just as the cold following close upon its heels extinguished 
that bright light.
        "Janette."
        He spoke her name with a finality, a sharp edge that wounded 
her.  But she placed a smile on her lips for him.  And when she 
turned and he took her hand, raising it to his lips to kiss, she felt her 
slow heart give an extra 'thump' at the brief contact.
        Did the slight raise of his eyebrow mean that he'd noticed?  
Not that it mattered all that much.  Just the sight of him warmed 
her.  There was something bright and light about him--she'd never 
questioned what LaCroix had seen in him.  Even though she could 
see the shadow of melancholia over it, there was still that shining 
from within, that remnant of sunlight that shown in his spirit.  Her 
teeth ached at the thought of tasting it in his blood.
        His smile was bitter and twisted.  Nicholas released her hand 
and walked to the far side of the room.  "Did LaCroix call to you?  
Tell you to come because I would not behave?"
        "I thought I would return.  I have missed your company--
<both> of you," she added, seeing Nicholas raise his head slightly at 
her admission.  Gathering her skirts in her hands, she turned toward 
the door with as much indignation as she could feign, announcing, 
"But if I am <not> welcome--"
        Nicholas moved like the wind, at her side in less than an 
instant's glance, fingers lightly holding her arm.  "You <are> 
welcome," he said softly.  His eyes searched her own as if to find 
some truth from her.  And then a kinder, gentler smile appeared on 
his lips when he added.  "You are <very> welcome."
        He had not changed in fifty years.  Oh, his clothing, perhaps, 
as had her own, but fashion was fashion and moved in fits and starts 
of silks and wools and lace.  What they had, what they <were> 
could not be so easily changed.  She saw such promise in that smile 
as she remembered seeing one hundred years before, when they had 
been so consumed with one another.
        She realized, after a moment, that their mouths had drawn 
closer.  Their lips met for the briefest, most tantalizing of kisses.  
Which was quickly followed by another.
        Distantly, she realized that LaCroix had absented himself.  
Odd, as he enjoyed being the voyeur upon occasion, but his retreat 
meant that he had confidence in her ability to handle Nicholas, to 
bring him to something of his old nature.  To bring him some odd 
sort of peace.
        Nicholas drew her close, lips brushing her ear lightly as he 
kissed her hair.  She rested her hands at the join between his neck 
and shoulders, then reached around to link them behind his neck.  
The lace at his collar and cravat tickled her nose and she giggled 
softly.
        He drew back, pushing her gently away to arms length, his 
hands resting at her hips, where her overskirts bowed out from her 
body.  "I amuse you?"
        There was no hurt in his tone.  Janette smiled and lifted a 
finger to his lip, brushing it gently, but pulling away before he could 
nip at it.  "Your clothing does.  So much lace!  You look the proper 
gallant."
        He bowed from the waist.  "At your service, milady.  I hope 
you approve."
        "Most certainly."  Janette walked to one side and ran her 
glance up and down his form, then nodded.  "It shows your legs to 
proper advantage."
        "Do you still have them--legs?"  He advanced toward her, 
caught her arm and drew her close.  One of his thighs pressed 
firmly into her dress, between her legs.  "Ah, there they are," said 
Nicholas, glancing down, then back up at her face.  His free hand 
caressed the line of her neck, her shoulders down to the top of her 
breast left naked in the current fashion.  "Now this I like," he 
whispered, before pressing his lips to the flesh at her collarbone.
        It was as if the intervening years had never happened, as if she 
had never left him.  Sighing, Janette closed her eyes and held tightly 
to him, content with the feel of his body against her, his breath at 
her neck.  Her flesh tingled beneath his gentle kisses and she longed 
for the touch of his fangs against her flesh, the sharp tear and then 
the drawing of all that she was, all that she'd been during the time 
they'd been apart.
        She opened her eyes as she felt his lips touch her own.  His 
hand dug into the small of her waist, the other settling on her back 
as her own hands traveled the length of his sleeves, getting caught 
in the cloth ties and bows of the current fashion.  She was 
distracted from the play of tongues and Nicholas pulled back to see 
what was the matter, then laughed as he found that her fingers were 
trapped in the bows and ribbon ties.
        "<Merde,>" announced Janette softly.  
        She was tempted to snap the ties entirely, but Nicholas' hands 
crossed his chest and folded over her fingers, holding her there.  
"Now I have you," he announced, with a victorious smile.  "And 
you shall never get away."
        Janette pulled back quickly, but his hands were clasped over 
her own.  She met his eyes, acknowledging his strength--whatever 
his melancholy, he'd been feeding well for some time--and then 
bowed her head.  "What if I don't <want> to get away?" she asked, 
looking up at him coyly, through lowered lashes.
        There was a sudden edge to his smile that disturbed her, as 
well as a darker tone to the inner threads that connected them.  
"Perhaps you <should> want to," he said, in a low tone that made 
her shiver.  Then he pulled her toward him while he backed away, 
leading her to the door behind which he'd disappeared before.
        If it were only the strings, she would have broken those easily 
and ran, but there were his fingers clutched tightly around her own, 
cold flesh and muscle and bone that held her with a will that made 
iron as soft and malleable as velvet.  Janette carefully composed her 
features into an indifferent mask.  If he thought she was bored, he 
might tire of this charade and free her.  And so she expelled short 
breaths, to let him know her annoyance.
        If anything, her reaction seemed only to please him.  She had a 
chance, a second when Nicholas had to release her one hand long 
enough to turn the knob on the door--but he was just an instant 
faster, snapping the ties that held her hands together, taking her two 
wrists and binding them firmly with one of the strings, then holding 
that string in place as he opened the door.
        Given a few minutes, she could have undone these bindings as 
well, with her teeth if need be.  But he wasn't giving her a minute's 
grace, let alone more than one.  Nicholas pulled her through the 
door after him, then spun her around and slammed the door closed 
with his foot.  His eyes on her own, he drew the bolt across the 
door, setting it into place.
        A shiver ran through Janette at this.  She glanced at the door, 
then back at him, frowning.  It had become a custom among them, 
long ago, that when door locks might so easily be mistaken as stuck 
rather than locked due to their strength, they might all agree that a 
bolted door meant that one wanted privacy.  In times of peril or in 
the face of LaCroix's anger only had that understanding among 
them been breached.
        "Nicholas, I don't like this game."  Janette shook her bound 
hands from side to side in an attempt to wrest the tie from his 
grasp, and failed.
        In answer, he pulled her closer, his free hand tearing the ties 
from her hair and the stays and pins from her ringlets without 
warning, pulling hairs along with fixtures.  She shut her eyes against 
the sudden, small pains and turned her head, so that he wouldn't see 
her cry, but then the hand that had ravaged her hair fixed beneath 
her chin, forcing her to face him.  "This is no game," he whispered, 
his breath against her cheek, then his lips against hers, a hard and 
forceful kiss.
        She wouldn't yield, would not allow him entry to her mouth.  
When his hand slipped from her chin to her waist, to hold her, 
Janette opened her eyes, turned her head, and moved toward him, 
throwing him off balance.  She dove for the bed, but the tie around 
her wrists, still held by him, drew her up short and she fell against 
the wooden end of the four-posted bedstand, knocking her head on 
the edge of the plank.
        For an instant she smelled blood and realized that she had cut 
herself above one eye.  Still dazed, she stared at the floor beneath 
her, until Nicholas hands were around her waist, lifting her.  For a 
moment she had hope--surely when he saw that she was wounded 
he would cease this rough play and let her be?
        But his eyes were not  caring, as she'd hoped.  They seemed 
darker, as if he'd been possessed by some inner shadow.  His 
sleeves had been discarded on the floor, the ties broken, as was a 
good portion of his torn short.  Holding her upright, he pinned her 
against the post, one leg brutally thrusting beneath her own to keep 
her there.  Her head was tilted to one side and her dress torn down 
the front--pointlessly because her neck was well-exposed by the 
natural line of the dress.  But Janette let herself go limp and turned 
her eyes away.  She was resigned to letting him take his fill from 
her, to drink her dry, if that's what was needed.  Later, she would 
make him pay, but for now it would be enough to give him this, if it 
would please LaCroix.
        His fangs scratched against the skin of her neck and she 
couldn't help but moan as she felt a spark shoot through her at the 
touch.  But he didn't bite--not yet.  She felt his lips mashing the skin 
of her shoulder, his hand sliding down her chest, further tearing her 
dress to expose her breast.  There was a brutality in his touch that 
frightened her, made her fear him in ways that she never had before.
        And then he looked at her.  His eyes were gold, blazing so 
darkly they might already have been red.  There was no love in him, 
only a combination of savage lust and anger.
        When she had first seen him, so few centuries before, it was 
the light within him that had drawn her just as it had drawn LaCroix 
. . . and the dark potential, equally matched.  She knew LaCroix 
had tried to foster the dark within Nicholas, to make it take root 
and grow, but even rampant plunder and rapine wasn't powerful 
enough to remove the grace and gentleness of the light within him.  
Always, he had stopped himself before reaching such a state.  
Always, the light had won back its own.
        Until now.
        Her breaths were shallow, tinged with pain as his nails dug 
cruelly into the flesh on her breast.  She opened her mouth to cry 
for LaCroix, then stopped herself.  Through the ties that bound 
them, LaCroix would be aware of her fear, of her predicament.  He 
would take down the door, bolt be damned, if he wanted to save 
her.
        But she knew, with some cold certitude that dampened that 
small flame of hope in her heart, that LaCroix would not save her.  
She had been duped.  LaCroix had won, in some small measure, 
having awakened Nicholas' darker passions and latent anger, but he 
could not control him.  It was Nicholas' anger at her for having left 
him that LaCroix had used to bring Nicholas to this state.  It was 
that which had fed the small, glowing embers, been allowed to build 
into this barely restrained bonfire.
        And she had been called home to bring the flame into fire, 
strike the spark into an inferno in which she might be immolated.
        In her mind's eye, Janette could see LaCroix nodding as she 
worked out his plan.  Yes, that's how it had happened.  But she'd 
discovered the difference in Nicholas too late, had accepted all she 
had seen and been told at face value.  Nicholas himself was so 
consumed by his own anger toward her, in avenging his wounded 
pride and broken heart, that he had no real thought to what he was 
doing or that he'd allied himself with LaCroix in this matter, for 
once.
        All that came to her in the flash of his eyes, in the moment of 
insight.  Janette growled back at him, raised her bound hands to 
strike his fingers from her breast and to knock him aside.  She 
managed to gain herself an inch or two as he stumbled on her skirt 
and she moved around the bedpost--
        Only to be caught as Nicholas slammed the heel of his shoe 
down on the torn edge of her overskirt.  Before she could move 
away he was on her, palms of his hands pressing her shoulders into 
the bed.  "You're mine," he told her, straddling her body.  "You're 
mine."
        He'd said those words to her--those <exact> words--at least a 
hundred times before.  They'd been delivered with softness, with 
kindness, with gentle caresses and love, and naked disbelief at his 
own luck.  But now the words disgusted her, possessive and 
clawing like his nails scraping at her flesh.  "Nicholas--no!"
        "Yes."
        There was no fighting him.  She'd ridden in haste when she'd 
received LaCroix's summons and not stopped to feed.  Even if she'd 
indulged her blood-hunger to the fullest, she could never have 
overpowered Nicholas at the height of his strength.  His laughter at 
her protests and her attempts at fighting chilled her.  
        "You're mine," he repeated.  Nicholas shifted, leaning his 
weight on his right hand on the center of her chest, between her 
breasts, to hold her.  With his left he shed his petticoat breeches, 
then fumbled with his full underbreeches, freeing himself from the 
confines of his clothing. 
 
Janette fell still beneath him, took a breath, then swiped at the hand 
with which he'd supported himself.  Rolling away toward the 
headboard, Janette ignored the sound of ripping cloth as her 
overskirt tore away.  She held her bound hands close together, then 
snapped them apart quickly.  The tightly strung ribbons and twine 
which had bound her left red welts and cuts in her flesh as she freed 
herself.
        But too late.  The wind was knocked out of her as she felt 
Nicholas land on top of her.  Her arm was grabbed and twisted 
behind her back and a hand at the back of her neck forced her head 
into the mattress.  Snarling into the coverlet, Janette screamed 
curses as him as she felt him tear away her underskirt and fought 
him, kicking up with her legs as they were uncovered.  His laughter 
reached her just as she felt the final layers covering her being torn 
away.
        There was an instant of silence, of the cool air upon her naked 
flesh.  He thrust inside her without warning, a cold, unwelcome 
presence.  Solid and unyielding, Nicholas withdrew and plunged in 
again, and again, gasping and groaning.
        Janette clenched the coverlet of the bed in her free hand and 
screamed her agony and her anger into the mattress; she would not 
give him the pleasure of knowing her pain.  This was meant to hurt 
her--let him know that it did, but not how much.  It could not last 
long, even at his most caring, Nicholas could barely control himself.
        When he withdrew and did not thrust again, she thought that it 
might be over, despite the fact that she felt no sign of his 
completion nor had he yet bitten her.  It was only when she felt his 
member against her other opening that she started, not having 
believed that even in the state that consumed him, Nicholas could 
so humiliate her.
        But he did and without hesitation.  The immediate pain only 
fueled her anger.  Her nails shredded the coverlet beneath her and 
the sheets were torn as well with each invasive thrust.  Her pain-
filled howls of fury could not longer be withheld and she bellowed 
at him between sobs, knowing that LaCroix would hear and 
knowing, too, that he would well remember this.
        Because he would not save her, not from his beloved 
Nicholas.  And she <would> have her revenge on the pair of them.  
She'd been party to their war of wills since shortly after Nicholas 
had been brought across, but they had always treated her with 
respect.  <This> however, was an abomination.
        Her right arm was released, but before she could do anything 
more than shift it beneath her, her shoulder was caught by 
Nicholas's hand.  He drew her back toward him, arching her 
painfully, so that he could sink his fangs into her neck.
        As he did, Janette shuddered.  Grasping the bedclothes to 
either side of herself in an attempt to ease the strain of her spine 
from the way he bowed her body, she closed her eyes, barely 
breathing.  The slap of flesh against flesh echoed in the room as he 
continued to slam into her, added to the eager slurping at her neck, 
her quiet sobs, and her occasional groans.  He drank deeply; she 
could feel the trickle of blood spill from his lips and trail in rivulets 
down her skin as he wasting what he could not in his haste 
consume.  
        It seemed an eternity before he grabbed her to him, his arms 
slipping down over her own, pinning hers to her body, and his 
hands clasping together around her breast.  She felt him shudder 
inside her, heard him gasp in ecstasy into the open flesh of her neck 
and shoulder . . . and then he fell down upon her, his weight 
carrying her to the bed.
        For a moment, she was simply too drained and too ill to do 
anything but continue sobbing.  But then Janette scrambled out 
from beneath Nick, leaving most of her clothing behind.  Grabbing 
the remains of a sheet to wrap around her, she wiped her face with 
it and limped to the far side of the room, where a wooden chair sat 
in a corner.  It took one blow from her forearm to break the small 
chair into pieces.  She hefted the longest and sharpest in her hands, 
then turned quickly.
        Nicholas was standing before here, a width of handspans 
separating them.  His hair was a disordered and the remainders of 
his clothing hung from him like rags, stained with blood.  His eyes 
were blue, wide . . . and sorrowful.  "Janette--"
        "Stay back!" she hissed, brandishing the stake toward him.  
        He did take at least one step back, but she didn't lower the 
stake.  For an instant, his eyes and features hardened and his stance 
straightened as if he were the one who was in the right, as if he had 
been the victim.  But then the facade fell and he appeared lost and 
frightened again, his shoulders bowing in toward his body.
        "Go--tell him what you've done."  Nodding toward the door, 
she added contemptuously, "Go receive the praise of your master."
        He flinched at her words and actually turned his head away, 
glancing over at the door.  When he turned back, Nicholas had 
tears in the corners of his eyes.  "He was wrong.  I was wrong--I 
never should have listened--"  He fell to his knees before her, then 
bowed his head.  "It was in your blood.  I was wrong.  You loved 
me.  You <still> love me . . . ."
        "No longer."  He looked up, shocked suddenly at her tone.  
Letting the stake fall back to her side, Janette stared down at him 
regally, fighting the impulse to thrust the piece of wood through his 
heart before he could blink.  "I hate you now.  I will hate you 
always."
        Nicholas turned his head and swayed as if her words had 
struck him physically.  "I can't undo what I've done.  I can't ask you 
to forgive me--"
        "I won't."
        He looked back to her and swallowed.  Then his hands parted 
the remains of his shirt, baring the skin over his heart.  "All I can 
offer you is my life.  It's all I have.  It could never repay what I've 
done to you, but it's yours."
        Still holding his gaze, she raised the jagged end of the 
makeshift stake and rested it against the skin on Nicholas's chest.  
He didn't flinch or shift at the touch, but he did swallow.  Which he 
certainly had a right to do, if he understood that she might very well 
kill him.
        At that moment, Janette wasn't quite certain.  Her fingers 
flexed and then clenched around the barrel of the chair shaft that 
formed the stake.  Leaning on it slightly, she caused an indentation 
in Nicholas' skin.  In answer, he raised himself higher, then 
positioned the stake with his own hand, steadying it and taking 
some of the weight from her.
        Janette was tempted.  The wounds at her neck still dripped 
gore--she hadn't fed enough earlier and had been drained too far 
too heal--and her body was bruised, sore, and torn.  Even shifting 
her weight was a study in agony.  One thrust of the stake and she'd 
be avenged.  She'd agreed to be brought across because she thought 
it would free her, but it had led to only a different form of captivity.  
That, in turn, had led to being taken and abused by one whom she'd 
loved with all of her heart at one time . . . and had thought, 
perhaps, to love that way again.
        She couldn't kill him.  Much as she wanted to at that moment, 
she knew that it would cost her more later.  And LaCroix would 
<not> be happy if she destroyed Nicholas.  Not that she owed 
LaCroix anything but enmity at the moment, but he was very old 
and very powerful and she preferred to spend eternity in one piece.  
Not to mention facing eternity without Nicholas, without the 
Nicholas she'd once loved . . . .
        Janette pressed on the stake once more, arched an eyebrow as 
she met his gaze . . . then released her hold on the stake and 
allowed it to clatter to the floor.  She stalked past Nicholas and 
seated herself carefully into a chair, then covered her face with her 
hands.  Her body shuddered when she felt his fingers rest lightly on 
her shoulders and she glared up at him, "<Don't> touch me."
        He held up his hands as if in surrender and moved around to 
the front of the chair.  Sitting on the floor at her feet, he rested his 
chin on his knees and stared down at the floor.  "I'm a fool."
        "Yes," agreed Janette quickly, with as much venom as she 
could put into the comment.  "You are."  Sighing, she leaned back 
in the chair   "I told you that all I wanted from you was my 
freedom.  You complain that LaCroix chains your will and yet you 
would do the same to me?"
        He looked up to meet her eyes.  "Tell me what to do."
        "I don't believe there is anything that you can do."  Shaking 
her head, she looked away from him.  "I must rest.  Have the 
servants--you <do> have servants here?"
        "Oh yes," said Nicholas eagerly.
        "Have the servants draw me a bath.  I shall need two to serve 
as ladies maids.  And . . . I'm famished."  Wearily, she rested her 
head on the arm of the chair.  "Have them bring me someone 
pretty."
        "You'll have the best London has to offer."  When she looked 
up, she found Nicholas was kneeling beside the arm of the chair.  
He met her gaze, then lowered his eyes.  "It was pride.  I wanted to 
punish you.  I'd convinced myself that you used me, that you never 
loved me as you should have--"
        "You should have known better from my blood."  She reached 
down and cupped his chin with her hand, turning his face toward 
her and caressing his cheek with her fingers.  "And from the times 
we had.  Nicholas, how could I <not> have loved you and remained 
with you as long as I had?"
        His eyes were filled with sorrow.  "<Will> you ever forgive 
me?"
        She wanted to say 'yes,' but knew it would be a lie.  "I don't 
know," she admitted, after a pause.  "You hurt me.  You 
deliberately humiliated me."  She drew back her hand from him as if 
the touch of him disgusted her.  "I think that after tonight I shall 
leave again.  Perhaps for France--"
        "No, stay!  You'd like the court in London--it goes well into 
the night.  They love display of all kinds, intrigues, masques . . . ."  
He hesitated.  "And I won't leave this between us.  Ask anything of 
me.  Anything."
        "Anything."  She looked out over the ruins of the room, her 
gaze resting on the bed.  And what could she ask of him that he 
<could> give her?  She wouldn't take his life and material goods--
though she loved her jewelry and stones and gowns--would be 
petty payment for the indignities she'd suffered, indignities she 
wanted to revisit upon Nicholas in kind.  
        "I shall have your service for two of the court seasons in all 
things,"  Janette decided.  "You will attend me at the court as my 
personal servant.  You will bring me whomever I wish, whenever I 
wish.  You may feed only when, and if, I give you permission.  You 
will spend your days on the floor beside my bed."
        "Is that <all>?' asked Nicholas softly.
        Janette leaned back in the chair again and hid her smile with 
her hand--his eyes were quite large with horror.  She knew how 
greatly he prized even the illusions of freedom that LaCroix allowed 
him.  To take those away might appease her wounded pride . . . and 
couldn't help but meet with LaCroix's approval.  "For the moment.  
There will be more, later.  My intent is to subject you to such 
humiliation that you will not contemplate anything like this <ever> 
again."
        "I told you, I'll never--"
        "And you'll speak only when spoken to.  Those are my terms.  
If not--"  Shrugging, Janette stifled a groan as she rose to her feet.  
"I shall have my bath, feed, rest, and be gone at the first of twilight 
tomorrow."
        "No . . . please."  Nicholas was on his feet.  He took her hand, 
brought it to his lips, then knelt before her again, still holding her 
hand.  "If that's what you want, you may have it.  For two seasons."
        "All right."  Carefully sitting down on the chair again, Janette 
removed her hand from his grasp.  "Then I want you to draw a bath 
for me and make certain my room has clean linens.  I'll still want my 
maids, of course--you're terrible with fastenings and heaven knows 
what you'd do to my Spanish lace."  Then, before he could move, 
she hooked one of her semi-nude legs over his shoulder, drawing 
him closer.  "But before you begin--"
        "Yes?" he asked hesitantly.  
        Inwardly, she smiled, then turned her foot, which rested on his 
shoulder.  "You should finish undressing me . . . carefully."
        In answer, Nicholas leaned back on his heels and carefully 
drew her leg down, her toes resting on his thigh.  As he reached up 
her thigh to remove the clasps that held her hose in place, Janette 
casually shifted to position of her foot slightly, so that her toes 
brushed his groin.  He froze at that and looked up to meet her eyes, 
which she kept stern and forbidding, then he swallowed and 
centered his attention on the removal of her stocking.
        That took a moment more and during the removal of her other 
stocking, her toes firmly massaged him through the cloth of the 
underbreeches.  By the time he'd removed the waistbands and belt 
of what remained from her over and under skirts, his breathing was 
labored and the barest brush of her knee against him as tossed away 
the ruined clothes proved that he had a raging erection.
        About which she planned to allow him to do absolutely 
nothing.
        Janette rose to allow him to unfasten the bodice of her dress 
from the rear--which he did.  She heard him draw in a deep breath 
as he walked around her and his touch, which had become unsteady 
during his arousal, suddenly became very tender and careful.  The 
thought of what she must look like from the rear only made her 
stand taller.  It would be good to remind him of what he'd done to 
her.  Revenge was always the best revenge and this would cost 
Nicholas dearly.
        Finally bereft of all clothing, she waved a hand toward his 
dressing screen, saying, "Your gown?"
        Nicholas ran for the gown and returned with it, draping it 
carefully over her arms.  It was too large for her, of course, but she 
liked the extra room in it.  Kicking her torn clothing out of the way, 
she returned to her chair and ordered, "Burn that.  And the bed 
linens.  And your own clothing as well--I want no reminders of this 
night."
        He glanced down at the tattered remnants of his own clothing 
and grimaced.  "I'll attend to it during your bath."
        "Excellent.  Now, come here."
        Nicholas walked toward her, his steps again hesitant . . . or 
perhaps just a bit off-balance, due to the slightly less prominent 
bulge in his trousers.  Janette waved him closer, then placed a hand 
on his shoulder to push him to his knees before her.  "You accused 
me of using you?" she reminded him and saw him lower his eyes 
guiltily.  "Now, I will.  I want you to return to me the pleasure that 
you took from me by force."  He looked up, a slight smile on his 
lips.  "Don't think I'll allow you to please yourself," she 
reprimanded, wiping the smile from his face.  "And if I find this--" 
she rubbed along his groin with the toes of her bare foot, "--
situation has been 'handled' when I'm finished with my bath, I'll ask 
LaCroix to think up a suitable punishment for you.  You know how 
inventive <he> can be."
        Nicholas had groaned when she'd touched him, but at the 
mention of LaCroix she'd felt him positively shrivel away.  Satisfied 
that he'd now gotten a proper view of the way things were, she 
arranged the pillows in the chair at the small of her back and shifted 
herself forward.  The gown hung down to either side of her legs 
and, when she parted them, the weight of the lower flaps drew 
down the upper, so that it revealed a portion of her breasts and 
stomach as well.
        Her lower extremities ached from the beating they'd taken 
earlier from him, but Janette decided, quite stoically, that she was 
owed this.  The sooner she collected, the better.  And the easier it 
would be for Nicholas to accept his new lot in life for the next six 
months, as her personal servant.  Closing her eyes, she leaned back 
against the pillows, her arms lying on the padded rests in the chair, 
and waited for him to begin.
        He started with her knee, kissing it gently, then trailing his 
kisses down the length of her thigh inward, which he repeated with 
the other leg.  His fingers began to stroke the exterior of  the lips of 
her mound, curling gently in her hair, never pulling, but teasing.  
Finally, his fingers parted her lips and she felt his tongue rasp along 
the length of her.
        For almost a century they had spent most of their daylight 
hours in one another's arms.  She had been afraid, when she'd left 
him, that he'd known her too well.  But there was something about 
the familiarity, the ease with which he approached her, which was in 
itself exciting.  There was no fumbling or missed opportunities.  
Nicholas knew the plateaus and thresholds of her pleasure, knew 
what thrilled her and what could send her screaming over the edge.  
She realized, after a series of warm, tingling sensations, that he was 
countering his previous brutality by providing her with a slow, 
gentle passion that she'd never known him able to achieve before.  
Many times he'd sworn to think only of her pleasure and at the end 
he'd lose himself, become a rutting beast blinded by his own lust.  It 
would be thrust and thrust and thrust again and all would be done 
where he was concerned, save for a few lingering kisses if she were 
lucky.
        She steeled herself with the memory, promising herself that 
should his attention waver she would take his blood, then her bath, 
and then leave.  If he could not serve her in this, he would never 
serve her as he'd promised.  Without that payment for the fear and 
pain and humiliation he'd given her, she would do well to avoid him 
and would find another companion for eternity, who would not 
defile either of them by allowing wounded pride to fester into such 
abuse.
        His tongue slipped inside her and she bit back a moan, 
wondering that his concentration was lasting this long and yet 
trying to still herself, not wanting to reward him with the 
knowledge of what his careful ministrations were accomplishing.  
Her body, of course, could not be as easy stayed as her mind.  Her 
fingers clenched and unclenched, nails chipping at the wood and 
slitting the padding on the chair arms.  The muscles of her thighs 
felt drawn taut as bow-strings, her legs desperately wanting to close 
around him, to hold him to her so that she would continue to feel 
the luxurious warmth radiate throughout her body as he touched, or 
licked, or rubbed.  She could feel the warmth of her wetness 
running down the sides and backs of her legs, cooling in the night 
air, when it wasn't absorbed by his dressing gown.  And she'd make 
him wear it, too, stained like this, so that he might well remember 
what he had done.  
        Curious, Janette opened her eyes and watched him.  His 
movements with fingers and tongue and mouth were deliberate but 
tender and his eyes, when they were opened, were half-slitted in 
intense concentration.  The pulses were building, emanating from 
her center and riding out the crest of the wave to her fingertips and 
toes and the light blood-sweat that had risen on the flesh of her 
shoulders.  There would be nothing soft and silent and peaceful 
about the climax to which her body was building.  She decided to 
savor all of it that she could.
        She shuddered as first one of his fingers, then a second, 
slipped inside her and remained there, stroking and caressing her.  
Only the cat-like smile of victory on his face marred her anticipation 
and she found a thread of anger forming amidst the pleasurable 
glow she was experiencing.  Nicholas was playing her like a puppet, 
soothing her like a troubled and spoiled child, when it was she 
who'd been wronged and hurt and wounded.
        Hunger flared within her, red and angry.  She snarled and 
Nicholas looked up at her, his neck arching slightly in surprise, eyes 
wide and uncomprehending.
        The sight of his bared neck was too much temptation.  Seizing 
a handful of his hair, Janette pulled him closer and pushed his head 
to one side even as he yelped in confusion.  She felt his fingernails 
dig within her as she bit into the flesh of his neck, down deep.
        His cry of pain was distant, for the blood flooded through her 
like a fire and waves of bliss rolled through her.  There wasn't 
enough--there was never enough--and she gulped greedily, sucking 
at the wound and at the bile of his most recent memories.  The 
images were fragments, never complete or entirely sensible, but she 
saw what he had done with his anger against her, how so many 
dark-haired mortals had been taunted, teased, seduced . . . and then 
humiliated and drained in her stead.  He had taken his pleasure from 
their pain and LaCroix had approved--encouraged.  The 
anticipation when LaCroix had finally sent for her--
        Janette almost pulled away, but raised her mouth and bit 
again, even deeper, through muscle.  This time Nicholas' moan was 
audible to her ears and she felt his hand against her shoulder, feebly 
trying to push her away.
        Now he was no match for her.  She fed on his memories of the 
attack, let the hate and pain feed back into her.  And then . . . there 
was a sudden numbness.  She tasted his regret and his sorrow, 
tasted the knowledge of the wrong he had done her and his 
desperation to find some way to set things aright, even at the cost 
of his own life.  He was piteous, saddened . . . sorry.
        Withdrawing her fangs from his neck, Janette held him close, 
rocking him in her arms as he cried--there was so much blood 
covering the pair of them now it little mattered what belonged to 
whom.  His head was tucked into her shoulder, his arms around 
her, and she kissed and licked and smoothed the savage tears she'd 
left in his flesh of his neck.  She hadn't drained him, much as she'd 
have liked to, or drained him as far as he'd drained her, so that his 
wounds began to heal while she watched.
        "Why must you do these things, Nicholas?" she whispered, 
pausing to brush away the tears that lingered at the corner of her 
eyes.  "I can't care much about them for they're only mortals, but to 
have killed them so many times in my stead, you hated me so 
much?"
        "It was LaCroix," said Nick, his words muffled and distorted 
against her skin.  "What he said--I wasn't thinking."  He raised his 
head to look up at her and said earnestly, "I'll do anything you ask."
        "Serve me for a season, then."
        He grasped her hand, drew it to his chest, and kissed her 
fingers.  "I will.  Gladly."
        "You may change your mind about that," said Janette softly.  
Her smile was sharp as she gestured toward the door.  "Draw my 
bath.  I'm chilled."
        He rose to his feet, her Nicholas, he who was used to being 
served now serving her.  "At once."
        There was something hesitant in his manner as he crossed the 
room to the door, and that had less to do with the large amount of 
blood she had taken from him in so short a time than his unease.  
Gathering the dressing gown around her, Janette leaned back in the 
chair, then winced.  Her injuries were healing, but the pain would 
linger for a bit.  And the memory of what he had done . . .  that 
could never be erased from her heart.
        A door opened to the left of her chair.  Janette sat quietly in 
the seat, waiting, until LaCroix drew abreast of her.  His dressing 
gown was black silk from the orient, woven with green and gold 
threads to form designs of great monsters that breathed fire.  "Pity, 
Janette?  One season instead of two?" he asked.  Turning his back 
to her, he leaned on the arm of the chair, as if surveying the 
wreckage in the room.  "You were far too easy on him."
        "He's penitent.  And I'd like for him to keep his word.  Two 
seasons would make him bitter, but he'll survive one season.  We'll 
have to move on after, of course."  She smiled and stretched again, 
allowing the robe to fall open at her breasts.  "It will be interesting 
to see how long his eagerness may last."
        "And what shall his 'service' entail?"
        "I shall make a fool of him.  His friends at court will be 
amused at first, that he would go to such lengths to please me, but 
they'll grow to despise him.  There will be no task too loathsome 
for him, or too small."  Leaning her head to one side, Janette met 
his eyes.  "He has favorites at court?"
        "And in the streets--you know his ways."  LaCroix shook his 
head as if discouraged, then met her gaze again.  "I'll point them out 
to you."
        "Thank you."  Sighing, she rose from the chair, gown still 
swinging free, then stopped and turned toward him.  "Could you 
find no better way to occupy your time than setting him against 
me?"
        A small shrug was her response.  LaCroix rose from the chair, 
arms folded, and walked toward her.  "It was . . . amusing."
        LaCroix's fingers reached out to grasp the edges of her gown, 
at first, she thought, to draw it closed.  But he flung each panel 
aside and took a step back, admiring her.  Janette looked beyond 
him, past his shoulder and to the far wall, ignoring him as he 
stepped closer.  His finger drifted lightly along the line of her chin 
and paused at her neck, his palm caressing her shoulder, then 
dropping to her left breast.  He cupped it in his palm, catching the 
nipple between his fingers and she closed her teeth against a gasp.
        "How foolish Nicholas is, to think that he could own one such 
as you," said LaCroix, his voice infused with pride.  "When you 
belong only to me."
        He pressed his lips lightly against her own, a chaste kiss.  
Janette closed her eyes and rested her forehead on his shoulder, as 
his arms moved around her, drawing her to him.  "If you should 
ever stir Nicholas to such a state again," she whispered, against the 
green and gold of a dragon, " . . . I <will> kill you."
        "I'll keep that in mind."  The cool breath of his chuckle drifted 
across her cheek.  When he drew back, she opened her eyes.  
LaCroix carefully closed her dressing gown and fastened the sash.  
"I believe your bath awaits.  And if you don't mind some company, 
I'd like to discuss some ideas I have for the coming season . . . ?"
        With LaCroix's arm around her waist, Janette allowed herself 
to be escorted to her bath.  Revenge was, indeed, the best revenge.  
And once she heard several of LaCroix's 'ideas,' she began to regret 
having been touched enough by Nicholas' penitence to have limited 
her revenge to only one season, instead of two.

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the end

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