Day 1: 2,756 words; 2,756 total

Prologue, or why going down dark alleys is a bad idea

It was time to make a mental note: dear self - the next time you have the brilliant idea to do a deal with a street-rat that requires you to walk down a dark alley at three in the morning on a Monday before you've had a chance to examine the goods, just go and jump off a five-story building. It'd be quicker and less painful, that's for sure.

It really hadn't started out that badly. I needed a Hand of Fatima - a real one, mind you, not one of those thirteenth-century knock-offs - and Olson said he had one. He might not smell too good, but it wasn't like he was asking me to go into any enclosed spaces. He left a message with one of the bouncers at Charlie's bar, we met on St. Germain Avenue, and since he wasn't asking more than I was willing to spend, off we went to get the artifact.

Come to think of it, hiding it behind a dumpster in the warehouse district was a pretty smart idea for a small fry like Olson. He didn't have enough magic juice to do more than save on cigarette lighters, but he was smart enough to know that the stench would hide the perfume that surrounded the hand. That was also the reason he didn't bring it with him; all those perfumes of Arabia would clash with his Eau de Cat Piss something awful.

They were waiting for us behind the dumpster, too. Five big guys, three of the redneck kind that lives on beer and football IVs, and two Africans trying to be so ghetto it hurt. About six hundred extra pounds between them, too, and I don't think it's fair that the black dudes carried it while still being threatening. The white guys, they just looked like porky pigs. Oink.

Olson was a step in front of me. He gulped loudly, and then his head disappeared in a cloud of pink. Meat and brains and bones pureed and mixed, all in the blink of an eye.

Shit. A Gatling pistol.

Sure enough, Redneck Number One was holding one of those exquisitely nasty things. The victims of a miniaturizing attempt about a hundred years too advanced for its age, the bastards worked smooth as anything with magical charges. I never looked much into them, since those kind of spells not only needed human blood, but particular kinds. Deformed newborn, I think.

And they could be fired three times before reloading. I kept my hands where they could see them. I've been called a reckless bitch, but Rachel Malory would prefer to go in a way that did not involve the contents of her head splattered against an alley wall.

Talking about myself in third person is never a good sign, but I had no time to consider it before one of the black guys walked forward and casually tapped me on the side of the head.

Everything went black.

I couldn't have been out of it for more than a few minutes, because when I came to, the spatters of Olsen's brain and bodily fluids on my jacket still hadn't dried. A quick look-see let me know that I was probably in one of the empty warehouses in this end of the warehouse district, something that hadn't been used since meatpacking folded up in the fifties, and the vises holding my wrists as far apart as they would go were rather improbably not metal, but rather the beringed and cold hands of both Africans. So much for trusting my feelings, because they sure as hell felt like steel. Uneven concrete under my knees, snagging on the fabric of my jeans when I shifted my weight. Everything else was kind of swimmy.

This was the moment where Captain Redneck chose to get my attention by poking me in the chest with that Gatling. I transferred my muddy gaze to his meaty torso, which was trying to burst out of the Dallas Cowboys t-shirt. What, the New Granada Crusaders not good enough for you?

"You're in deep shit," he offered, showing yellowed and chipped teeth, and I took back my uncharitable thoughts about local patriotism. Texan accent so wide you could roll it up.

"Aren't you the brilliant one." I sounded tired, but I wasn't slurring. Not that it'd do me much good with my hands immobilized. I'm a hermetic magician, mostly, and even the Kaballarians usually have to write their shit down before doing serious damage. Not to mention hedge witchery, which is all about the body language.

Right on cue, I felt the power stirring in the back of my head, like a snake lifting its head to follow the sudden movement. Ice-cold, and I hoped I wouldn't have to let it loose. Most situations, I can talk my way out of. Connections count for a lot this side of the night-

"Shut your face, you vamp slut!"

He backhanded me so hard, I just about went under again. There went that ace in the hole. Though really, that implied I was a vamp myself, instead of just working for one.

He grabbed my breast to get my attention this time, and for the first time I was aware of the other two rednecks, taut with anticipation, about two meters away. Dream on, dudes, wouldn't do you if they gave me the Crown of Sheba for it...

"You talk when I ask," Captain Redneck snarled at me. Eww, tobacco juice. "But I think you needin' a little softenin' up 'fore we talk."

His fist drove into my stomach, and while he didn't have the train-stopping power of the African who floored me out in the alley, it wasn't pleasant. Excruciating pain was closer.

See Rachel Malory trying to curl on the floor, see another punch bruising her ribs, know that they'll be broken by the next punch. Poor little puppet held up by the strings.

And when Rachel starts thinking about herself in third-person, that's the snake talking. The snake is also Rachel, but a Rachel with yes, a twist.

Yet Rachel hasn't been feeding the snake well, and now there's just enough juice for one big thing. Choice: crush Captain Redneck's head, Gatling pistol without the Gatling part, and hope the others are impressed enough to let me go.

Or face it, take that last punch, and when his guard's down for a moment, and so's the muzzle of that thrice-damned gun, and then a jack move.

The black hands around my wrists made a satisfying crunch as every bone in them shattered at the same time, just after the fist sank into my side again and miraculously my ribs held on. Then all one move: up and forward, right into Captain Redneck's face, my elbow in his thorax and my hand on his gun.

He made a nice stepping-stone for a jump that took me past both other rednecks and just about to the warehouse door. The rest of the snake's power made sure it was open when I came through, and then a moment to turn and empty the gun. One, two, very satisfying blood clouds, thank you very much.

The third pull of the trigger and just an empty click. Bastard forgot to reload!

I hightailed it down another alley, the remaining heavies running after me; bastard was also apparently invulnerable to crushed throats. I managed to lose them from sight after a few turns, but with the whole place deserted and quiet

Situation run-down: three bad-guys after me, and I didn't think one shattered hand each was enough to stop the Africans, not with the bad mojo I got from them. Me, bruised internal organs, bruised wrists, ribs on the verge of breaking and a cut on the side of my head where a ring must have caught me when that African knocked me out. Snake down and sleeping again. Adrenaline about to run out, and when it does, I'd be about ready to curl up and want to die. Streets empty and no fucking wonder. Four a.m. after all.

Upside: warehouse district. A labyrinth of alleys, and I knew how to work labyrinths. Courtesy of the cut on my head, I even had the blood.

I knew the gestures by heart. Touch blood to my forehead, my eyes, my tongue. And on top of that, not stopping running was part of the game.

I've danced with bulls and spilled wine to your name, Lady of Labyrinths, hear my call...

The walls on my sides blurred, and I took a few turns at random. Lost the pursuit, now to make my way where I wanted to go. I dropped the useless gun; the less of those nasties in the waking world, the better.

There's an art into walking - or running - the labyrinths. You can go from anywhere to anywhere, as long as there's something labyrinth-like to connect, but so can others. And a mind is its own labyrinth, nice and cozy and full of blood.

When you're walking the labyrinth, don't let the labyrinth walk you.

That gets harder the further you walk, so I slowed down as soon as the locale started to get familiar. Some tentacles in the shadows, but nothing worse, and they faded three steps into the real world. A guy once told me that if you run the paths long enough, you might even get to meet the Minotaur himself, but that was the same guy who insisted he'd had brunch with Judas Iscariote in a village near Irkutsk.

I wondered when New Granada became earthquake country, and then realized those were just my legs, shaking. I leaned against a handy wall that whispered, safe, and was surprised to hear a thud when I miscalculated the distance and hit my head on a window sill.

And here I was, coasting down into an adrenaline crash that was taking the last of my natural anesthesia with it. There had to be easier ways to get all bruised and battered than following street-rats down dark alleys. Jumping off buildings was starting to look more appealing by the minute.

Where was I, anyway? Nice streets, empty like they should be an hour before dawn. Trees, even. Red brick townhouses. A small grocer's at the corner, the non-chain kind where you can get homemade ice cream in the summer and home-baked cookies all year round, and great slabs of Parma ham because the locals can afford it.

Which all added up to Radclyffe Lane, and no wonder it felt safe. My boss, Kirill Yevgenyevich Rossov, has a house here, and while the office was in the warehouse district - the good bit, mind you, right up at St G's - over the past few years I've been spending enough time here that the lady at that grocer's packs up my favorite cookies when she sees me. Come to think of it, wasn't Kirill's house right about-

If the door hadn't creaked just a moment earlier, he'd have given me a heart attack.

"Rachel Efraimovna?" he asked. Cool as you please, as if bleeding and battered witches turned up on his doorstep every other week. Must be a vampire thing.

I tried to say something flippant about admiring the weather, but what came out was a racking cough that sent spasms of pain through my battered ribs. Blood in my mouth, too, and I hoped my teeth had just cut something when Captain Redneck had backhanded me. I couldn't tell, because I hurt all over anyway.

Kirill didn't waste words either. He just kind of scooped me up and carried me inside the house, not caring that I was dirty and blood-splattered, staining that white ruffly shirt of his. He might dress modern while doing business, but when he's home he wears shirts that are so period, it hurts...

By the time he'd stripped me from the waist up and decided I had no major structural damage except a hell of a lot of bruising, I was coherent enough to wish I'd worn nicer lingerie. Okay, not the sanest thought in the situation, but a tall, dark and handsome vampire had his hands all over me, and I knew what the smell of blood - hopefully mine, since Olsen's brain-bits were mostly on the jacket, and Kirill had thrown that into a corner first - was doing to him. "I lost the bad guys in a labyrinth," I muttered into his shoulder.

His fingers didn't pause in examining my head wound. "I'm surprised there were any left to lose."

Kirill has a lovely voice, kind of gritty, especially when we're speaking Russian, but that didn't stop me from pouting at him. "'m not that destructive."

"I know some werewolves who'd beg to differ." He took hold of my chin and looked deep into my eyes, though I didn't feel that warm fog that comes when a vampire dazzles a human. "You're definitely hard-headed enough not to have a concussion."

"Silver lining," I grumbled in English. "Will I need stitches?"

"Your beauty will not be marred, I promise." He smiled at me, and when I tried to thwap him, he just smiled wider.

If he wasn't my employer in addition to being my friend or whatever it was, I swear I'd look into vampire-binding rituals. I know they exist, that's the only reason the bloodsuckers aren't running the show yet.

But at the moment I was weak as a kitten, and I let myself be propelled into the downstairs bathroom, where Kirill washed my scalp wound - scratch, really, it wasn't even bleeding still - then helped me out of the rest of my clothes and left me to fumble my way around a shower while he fetched some kind of pain draught for my aching ribs and the rest. He didn't steal any glances at my assets either. Kirill's too chivalrous for his own good sometimes.

I got my own back when I stumbled out of the shower and asked him for help in toweling off once I downed the potion and could mostly move without wincing. I saw his eyes straying in equal parts to my throat and further down before he managed to get me in a bathrobe, and that served to take my mind off the whole kidnapping and beating thing. It's a gut reaction, after a reminder of your own mortality. Reconnecting with life.

Or, in Kirill's case, death.

He carried me up the stairs to the master bedroom, and I wondered when exactly he'd stopped asking me whether I would prefer sleeping in a guestroom. More than a year now, I thought. And since it had been a ritual for at least two years, how long since we crossed the line from pure business into this?

I didn't let go of his neck when he laid me down on the bed. His skin was pleasantly cool, and I knew he hadn't fed yet. My mind was pleasantly hazy with whatever had been in the potion, and between that and Kirill's presence I felt safe.

"You can, you know," I told him, arching my neck. "I owe you at least that much."

Kirill half-sat on the bed, his hand reaching involuntarily towards my throat. I saw him swallow. "You've been hurt," he said. "And it's not a question of debts."

I wasn't nearly coherent enough to argue the legal aspects of the situation, so I settled for dragging him closer. He went willingly, and his hands slipped under my bathrobe as his teeth touched my neck. I barely felt the bite, lost in the fog of the vampire-dazzle. If you've never been bitten, you can't know what it feels like: heat and fear and the heart-breaking awareness of how brief and beautiful human life is. It could drive you mad, if you didn't trust the vampire to stop before he takes all of you.

The fog gradually receded, and I felt Kirill lick the side of my neck. By the time I woke, there would be no mark of the wounds, I knew. I still had my arms wrapped around his neck, and I slid them down to his waist with the vague idea of taking it further, but the events of the night, the pain potion and the blood loss conspired to draw me into unconsciousness before I did so. I fell into a dreamless sleep, dark and warm and safe.

Outside, the sun was rising.