We Don't Die

Chapter name: Something Wicked This Way Comes

Chapter rating: R

Musical inspiration: We Don't Die by Twiztid







Flashback, late 1984



As time went on, Mac began to prove himself more and more valuable to the NYPD. His night vision was certainly something to be proud of, as was his strength, his speed, his hearing, and his sense of smell. One mark of a good detective was the number of sources he had on the street, and Mac was again unique in that nearly every one of his sources was also a vampire. He knew how to tell them apart from the humans, knew how they thought and where they liked to congregate, and he was the only cop in New York unafraid of walking into a blood bar and flashing a badge. Though it made Donald nervous as hell, the detective rarely let Mac walk in there alone. Part of it was establishing his own presence, and part of it was Donald letting Mac know how much he trusted the vampire.



It was good that Mac had a badge now, and that he was officially allowed to process crime scenes. It had been awkward for his previous ‘results’ to be brought up in court because the evidence had been ‘collected’ by not only someone that wasn’t a licensed professional, but he had no credentials and they didn’t even know his name and he was a vampire. Yes his ‘findings’ had been re-processed by what passed for a Crime Lab in the late seventies and his results had been double-checked and found accurate, but still. Chain of evidence.



They hadn’t tried to stop him, though. If he wanted to process crime scenes in his spare time, fine. He was a vampire, after all, and vampires did what vampires wanted because no human in his or her right mind was going to walk up to a vampire and tell him to stop that, please, because he didn’t have a license for it. It reminded Mac of that old joke: ‘Where does an eight-hundred-pound gorilla sleep?’ ‘Anywhere it wants to.’



Donald wasn’t really sure how it had happened, but he decided that he was actually starting to like the situation. He liked it even more once he got transferred officially and completely to Graveyard. And he liked it the best now that Mac was working in the Crime Lab and was rising through the ranks like a rocket (“Told you you’d be better at this than me!” Donald crowed). Donald worked at night with Mac and he slept while the boys were at school and daycare, coming awake in the afternoons and evenings. Mac worked from two hours after sundown until as close to sunup as he dared, and he often came over to the Flack apartment on his nights off.



At first the heads of the NYPD were hesitant to give rank to a vampire, but Mac doggedly kept doing what he always did, which was The Right Thing. And Mac was good, too. He was smart, he was resourceful, he was an excellent tactician, and he both knew and respected the science. He was frighteningly good at reading people, but even he admitted that he was rather poor at actually dealing with them.



Particularly emotional people. Emotions were messy and got in the way of good, exact, impersonal science. Mac had thought himself divorced of his emotions long ago, being the hated and feared and quite misunderstood and really very lonely incubus that he was, but Donald and his family were slowly starting to change that.



And Mac loved the boys. Three-year-old Ricky was calling him Uncle Macky—in the tradition that Donnie had started—and it was something that never failed to bring a smile to Mac’s face. Inexplicably enough, Mac seemed to enjoy babysitting and changing diapers and just being a doting… well, not really an uncle. Maggie had christened the vampire as the Flack family’s unofficial godparent, and Mac had been nothing less than delighted.



Maggie was still a little uneasy around him, but she had at least accepted the idea that her sons absolutely adored their Uncle Macky, and Mac adored them right back.



It was almost embarrassing, really. Flack and Maggie would sometimes ask Mac to watch the kids while they went out and had an evening to themselves, and when they came home they’d find the kitchen clean, the living room spotless, and Mac on the couch with both boys draped over him like a pile of puppies, washed and fed and sound asleep. Depending on what time it was when the parents got home, Mac would either be asleep underneath his charges or still awake and watching TV with the sound almost too low for human ears to pick up.



Maggie had initially been mortified that Mac had been cleaning her apartment, until Donald nudged Mac into inviting the Flacks back to his own place. They’d had to bring their own food, of course, and they came a few hours before sundown, but what immediately struck Maggie was how clean Mac’s apartment was. It was a small little place, cozy, and very tidily crammed full of stuff. Mac had been embarrassed and said that the rich gentleman living in the penthouse of his building would be moving out soon, and Mac was planning to make a bid for the space. Not because it was a penthouse, of course, but because it would have plenty of space for his stuff.



Donald had given his very pregnant wife a careful and corrective poke. “Vampire, neat freak, pack rat, and know-it-all, and his hobbies include music and babysitting. Go figure.”



Mac cleared his throat and flicked a glance at the wall behind the couch, where the Flacks were sitting, and then looked calmly back at Donald. The man twisted on the couch and cocked his head at the display plaques on the wall. “And he collects coins. Huh.” He hadn’t noticed earlier because he’d been too busy trying to keep Ricky and Donnie from running all over the apartment and poking their hands into every tidy nook and cranny they could find. Mac, as it turned out, was very fussy with his possessions. He had a place for everything and everything in its place, and also had a tendency to hover intently nearby whenever somebody got too close to a box or shelf.



Mac eventually pacified the kids by pulling out an acoustic guitar and playing a few easy songs for them. It worked… for a little while. The kids discovered a new side to their Uncle Macky when they tried to touch the guitar; he gave such a quick and firm “no” that both boys immediately got watery blue eyes and twitchy lower lips. It was the stern response more than anything that hurt, because Uncle Macky had never, ever snapped at them. They’d never seen him be anything other than kind and gentle and fussy about them eating or sleeping and tolerantly amused at their childish antics.



Donnie had looked up at Mac, eyes wide with hurt. “We just wanna see where it comes out,” he sniffled.



Still irritated, Mac lifted an eyebrow. “Where what comes out?”



“The pretty sounds,” Donnie mumbled.



Mac sighed and instantly felt like some sort of controlling tyrant, even more so when he saw the Flack parents looking at him with identical expressions of ‘what the hell just crawled up your ass and died?’ Donald in particular had his brows furrowed. “When was the last time you had company over, Mac?”



“Besides you?” Mac actually went quiet, thinking. He was silent for a good ten seconds and then shook his head. “I don’t remember. Not in this lifetime, anyway. When I was a child, I usually went to my schoolmates’ houses rather than them coming to mine.”



Donald noticed that: not ‘friends,’ but ‘schoolmates.’ He guessed that Mac must’ve been one of the quiet and unpopular kids, probably even a nerd… all the way back in the freakin’ 1920s. “Crabby old geezer,” he muttered under his breath, and he saw Mac’s ageless face twitch across the living room and sent a pacifying grin. “Hey, music man, why don’t ya see about puttin’ the kids to sleep since it’s gettin’ close to their bedtime.”



Mac quirked an eyebrow. “What should I play?”



Donald shrugged helplessly and looked at Maggie, who looked puzzled. “Nursery rhymes? Maybe Rock-a-bye Baby?”



Mac looked unexpectedly horrified at that. “You want me to play a song about a cradle up in a tree that will fall to the ground if the branch it’s tied to breaks?”



Donald just sighed and shook his head. “Mac, you take things way too literally.”



Mac grudgingly admitted that he did sometimes. He sat thoughtfully for a moment and then started picking at the strings again, in some quirky, upbeat, peppy tune. Donald didn’t recognize the song but Maggie did, and to the surprise of the men she actually started singing softly along with him:



“If it seems like I've been lost in ‘let's remember’

If you think I'm feeling older and missing my younger days

Oh, then you should have known me much better

‘Cause my past is something that never got in my way



Still I would not be here now if I never had the hunger

And I'm not ashamed to say the wild boys were my friends

Oh, ‘cause I never felt the desire ‘til their music set me on fire

And then I was saved, yeah

That's why I'm keeping the faith

Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, keeping the faith”



There was more to the song, but Maggie trailed off when her husband wouldn’t quit staring at her with a quiet grin on his face. Mac let the music trail off comfortably and smiled at the man. “I left a cassette tape over at your apartment last time I was over there, and I guess at least one of you has been listening to it. It’s Billy Joel, by the way. It was just released a couple of weeks ago.”



Donald snorted; he’d have to listen to the rest of the song some other time. “And it fits ya, too.”



Mac ducked his head. “Yeah, I guess it does.”



Maggie couldn’t keep down a rather girlish giggle. “Does the next verse fit, too? ‘Matador boots, only Flagg Brothers had them with the Cuban heel, iridescent socks with the same color shirt and a tight pair of chinos?’”



Mac cleared his throat and studied the floor, voice bland with slight embarrassment. “Yes, and the sharkskin jacket with the velvet collar and ‘ditty-bop’ shades.”



Donald cracked up at that one. “I don’t think the word ‘ditty-bop’ has ever sounded so damn funny as it did comin’ outta your mouth right there. And I’d kill to see you dressed like that.”



Mac looked pained. “I blended in with the era. You can’t blame me for that.”



“Oh, hell yes I can,” Donald countered. He would’ve laughed harder but Maggie brought it sternly to his attention that the kids had fallen asleep anyway. Donald lowered his voice but still asked “didja wear big wide floral ties in the fifties?”



“And bell-bottoms in the sixties. And it’s time for you to take the boys home and put them in bed,” Mac said flatly, and he stood to put the guitar in its case. That done, he turned an idle stare at his friend. “And get a haircut before people think you’ve got a fan-boy crush on Mark Hamill.”



Donald ran fingers through his thick black hair and looked at his pregnant wife, who was biting her lip and trying desperately to contain laughter. So Donald was a bit of a sci-fi nut, and so what if it was only a year after the third Star Wars movie came out and Luke Skywalker was still the greatest thing since sliced bread?



Donald shifted a bit from where he’d been getting a little too comfortable on Mac’s couch, and also because Donnie’s bony little butt was digging into his thigh. Donald was convinced it was one of Murphy’s Laws, that the uglier a couch was, the more comfortable it was. “So you’re kickin’ us out? In this case, take Sir Sleeps-Like-Rocks here so I can get the feeling back in my legs.”



Mac chuckled but stepped over to take the boy, and with practice ease he settled Donnie on his hip with the child’s arms and head draped over his shoulder. Donnie stirred, small hands encircling Mac’s neck for a better grip, and he gave a sleepy sigh. “Hi, Uncle Macky,” he mumbled.



Mac smiled and hugged him. “Hey there, Quackers.” He then looked pensively at Maggie’s full lap, crowded as it was by her very pregnant belly and made all the more squashed by a sleeping Ricky. He didn’t say anything, but Maggie noted a somewhat wistful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth before Mac turned his attention back to his current passenger.



“Must be nice,” Donald grunted, stretching out his long legs. He finally pulled himself to a standing position and stretched again. “I wish I could still fall asleep like that.” He paused. “Ya know, he looks happy, and my spot on the couch is still warm. Maybe I could—“



“It’s their bedtime, Don, and you need to get them home,” Mac repeated calmly, and then a rare mischievous smile crept across his face and he deepened his voice. “I am their godfather,” he intoned in a deep bass rasp. “Search your feelings, you know it to be true.”



Donald grinned and held up an invisible lightsaber and let out a quiet yet still agonized “nooooooo!!!”



Donnie looked sleepily at his pale godparent. “You’re silly,” he mumbled. Mac just chuckled and kissed the top of his head, and before his uncharacteristic mood could wear off he ruffled the boy’s dark hair, and Donnie whined.



“All right, all right,” Donald muttered, and he held out his arms for Mac to reluctantly hand back his warm little burden. “Yeah, let’s get ‘em home before we get ‘em all worked up.”



Mac bent and scooped up Ricky, holding him on his hip as he had Donnie earlier and reaching down with his other hand to help Maggie up off the couch. She gripped his hand with both of her own and managed not to yelp as Mac slowly but easily lifted her to a standing position. She waited until she got her balance before releasing him. “Thank you,” she said quietly, still not quite used to just how strong and still incredibly gentle he was around her and the boys. She had a feeling that she’d never be able to completely get over what he was, but at the same time she felt bad for the way she used to treat him.



Carefully Mac transferred Ricky to his father so that the man had a drowsing child on each side, and when they were settled in a secure grip Mac picked up Maggie’s purse and handed it to her. She’d barely taken a step toward the door when she paused and gave a little gasp, and Mac was instantly concerned. “Everything all right?”



Maggie put her hands to her rounded belly. “He kicked.”



Mac went completely quiet, eyes locked onto her stomach, but there was a look in his eyes she’d never seen before and it made her give a sad smile. “Mac? Do you want to…?”



There was a flash of heartbreaking sorrow across the vampire’s face before he moved very carefully forward, one large hand barely touching her stretched shirt. Never once had Maggie invited Mac into her personal space, and she’d waited until Ricky had been a few months old before allowing Mac to hold the boy. Maggie smiled again; he was so afraid he was going to do something wrong or accidentally hurt someone, and she pressed his hand more firmly to her belly.



He gave his own quiet intake of breath, feeling the tiny feet kicking the flesh against his palm, and then his face split into a wondrous smile. “That’s amazing,” he whispered.



“Know what’d be even more amazing?” Donald began, his own proud smile marring the mock-grumpiness of his tone. “A, if the kid would finally decide to show himself instead of makin’ my wife sleep at the hospital almost a week past her due date, and B, if I could get these two lugs home before my arms fall off.” Starting that night, Maggie was going to be staying at the hospital until the baby was born because the doctors were fretting about her blood pressure and because she was staunchly opposed to a C-section.



Mac chuckled and reluctantly removed his large palm from Maggie’s stomach, leaving her with the brief disconcerting feeling of how warm and gentle that hand had been and how it was suddenly gone, and then Mac was stepping to the door to hold it open. “You have a babysitter lined up?”



Donald nodded. “Lizzie, their favorite. I swear, that kid’s got the easiest sitting job in the world. She just stays sacked out on the couch while the kids sleep and I’m at work.”



“Well, you don’t want the boys to sleep alone in the apartment,” Mac said with a slight frown. “I’m glad she’s there in case they need someone in the middle of the night, especially since Maggie, ah… lost some maneuverability.”



“A diplomat, you’re not,” Donald grumped, but he grinned cheerfully all the same. “See ya in a couple of hours, Mac.”



“See you there,” Mac agreed. “You’ve got a cab scheduled to pick you up, right?”



Donald rolled his eyes and stepped into the hallway. “Mac, you are the biggest worry-wart I’ve ever seen. Yes, the cab’s gonna be pullin’ up any minute and it’s gonna take me and the boys home and then take Maggie to the hospital. We’re good. It’s okay. Stop worryin’ about it.”



Mac ducked his head, chagrined. “Sorry.”



To his shock, Maggie gently touched his shoulder before heading into the hall behind her husband. “Thanks for the evening,” she said softly.



Mac smiled almost shyly at her. “You’re more than welcome, Maggie. Sleep well.”



Donald ended the discussion with a quick “later” and started moving slowly toward the elevator, his long legs taking very small steps to compensate for his wife’s unfortunate waddle. “You know,” Don began softly, the quick glance over his shoulder indicating that he knew Mac could still hear him, “all you gotta do is just say the word and Mac would carry ya downstairs.”



“I can still walk, Don!” Maggie protested, mortified.



“Yeah, well so can he, and no offense to you, babe, but he can walk a lot faster and I’m havin’ trouble feelin’ my shoulders.” Donald shifted his two sleeping burdens for emphasis.



Mac chuckled, deliberately loud enough for the sound to carry to the humans’ ears before stepping back into his apartment and closing the door.







When Donald got to work, a surprising figure was waiting in one of the chairs across from his desk. “Dad, hey,” Donald greeted. “What are you still doin’ here? You’re on Swing shift.”



Donald’s father stood, his gaze heavy. Detective Carson Flack was also a native New Yorker that had passed his face and voice on to his son, though the older Flack’s was lined with the stress and tiredness and his dark hair liberally streaked with the gray that came from having been on the job going on thirty years. “How’s Maggie?” he asked by way of greeting.



“Already settled in her hospital room, and she’s not the only one that’s gonna be glad when she can finally sleep in her own bed again. I hate not bein’ there with her.” Donald sighed and pulled off his jacket to drape it over the back of his chair. “But that’s not why you’re here, is it?”



Carson shook his head. “I need your help, son. I’ve been trackin’ a serial killer but I’m having more problems than I’m comfortable with. Swing and Days have been findin’ the victims but I think we’re lookin’ for a vampire.”



“Which would mean you need somebody on Graveyard,” Donald finished. His eyes noticed the file already waiting on his desk. “Well, I’ve got some experience with vampires. Fill me in.”



The two men sat, Donald at his desk and his father again across from him, and Donald browsed through the file as the older Flack gave him the details. When they were finished Donald was frowning thoughtfully, and Carson sighed and absently smoothed the thinning hair over the top of his head. “Got any ideas?”



Donald hesitated, and then an idea popped into his head and he nodded. “I don’t, no, but I think I might know a guy that can help out.”



“Really. Who?”



“You don’t know him,” Don said quickly, “but he’s a friend of mine.” He lapsed into thoughtful quiet for a moment. “All right, you know that spot out by the docks that nobody ever goes to?” Despite the incredibly vague description his father nodded, knowing that it was frequently used by cops as a spot to meet their sources. Donald continued. “Show up at about ten tomorrow night. I’ll get in touch with my guy, give him some time to get his ear to the ground.”



Carson furrowed his brows before tossing it over his shoulder. Sometimes a detective’s source got defensive around other cops, so he sighed good-naturedly. “Don’t be late, son.”



“I won’t, and neither will he.”







At ten after ten the next night, Carson was waiting, leaning against a dingy guardrail with his back to the Hudson River. “So?” he asked calmly.



Donald put his hands in his pockets. “He’ll be here. Said he’d meet us just as soon as he’d fed.” And then he winced automatically; stupid, stupid, stupid mistake.



“’Fed?’” Carson echoed, suspicious.



“Eaten,” Donald corrected hastily, but the damage was done.



Carson was instantly angry. “Fed? He’s a vampire? Your friend is a vampire??”



“Dad, he—“



“Shit, son, you didn’t tell me you were bringin’ me to meet a goddamn leech!” Carson’s face was a cross of pure rage and pure loathing.



Donald held up his hands. “Dad, easy! He’s a badge too! He’s a good guy, I swear! You know about the vamp with the badge that everybody keeps talkin’ about, right? Yeah, that’s the guy you’re gonna meet. Please, just… just give him a chance.”



Carson seethed a moment. While he hated vampires, he also knew that his son was a good judge of character. He’d also heard stories of the vampire-cop, and as impossible as they’d sounded—a vampire that thought like a human and tried to do the right thing, never in a million years—they’d been prevalent enough to be slightly reassuring. “Well, is he safe?”



“Safe?” Donald snorted. “We’re gonna ask him to help us take down a really bad vamp, Dad. Of course he ain’t safe. But he’s good.” He decided to leave out the part where Mac occasionally babysat Donnie and Ricky and was eagerly anticipating the arrival of Donald and Maggie’s third child. There was a moment of quiet and the younger Flack checked his watch. “He should be here by now.” He glanced around the still-deserted lot.



Carson growled and shoved his hands in his pockets. “How can you be sure he’s even gonna show, Don? He is a bloodsucker after all.”



“He’ll show, Dad.” Donald stood next to his father and they both gazed across the Hudson. “He promised he’d show.”



“And I keep my promises.”



The men whirled to see Mac standing in the dark gap between two streetlights, barely ten feet away. Donald growled and put his hand to his chest. “Jesus, Mac, would you stop doing that?!”



“Sorry.” Mac moved, and it took the men a moment of squinting to realize that he’d pulled a handkerchief out of a coat pocket and was casually wiping his face. “I’m sorry I’m late, Don. My date didn’t want to end the evening. She was, ah… rather enthusiastic.”



Donald really wished Mac hadn’t mentioned that. He glanced at his father and saw the look of pure disgust cross the man’s face as well as his hand on the butt of his gun, and he sighed. “Mac, I’d like you to meet my dad, Detective Carson Flack. Dad, this is Mac. This is the vamp with the badge.”



His face clean, Mac stepped into the light and held out his hand. “Detective Mac Taylor. Don’s told me about you and I’ve heard a lot of good things about you and your career.” He put slight emphasis on his title and pulled his coat open just a little with his free hand to show his badge on his left hip. They were on the same team, dammit, and he could smell the older Flack’s dislike of him.



Carson ignored the badge and eyed the hand like it was dripping with filth. Donald gave him a nudge, sighed, and shot an apologetic glance at the vampire. “Sorry, Mac.”



“It’s fine.” Mac put his hand down. “I’m used to it. I’m just glad that you agreed to meet with me at all.” He flicked his gaze between the two Flacks and gave a small smile. “You know, the resemblance is uncanny.”



Donald rubbed the back of his neck, and Carson finally spoke. “So how is your date feeling, Mr. Taylor?”



The smile disappeared, to be replaced by a frown. What, just because he was a vampire, that meant that his badge didn’t count? “She was asleep when I left. I bought a soda and an apple and some jerky and left them on the nightstand for her. She’ll need the sugar and protein when she wakes up.”



A bit of the harshness left Carson’s features. “So you didn’t kill her.”



Mac’s gaze darkened. “No, Detective. I’ve never killed during a feeding, and I never plan to. I take only what I need to survive.” His spine stiffened subconsciously. “I’m a cop, and I’m also a war veteran. After living through everything I have, I’ll tell you that I don’t kill unless I have a damn good reason to.”



Now Carson was getting a little impressed, though his tone was quiet sarcasm. “War vet, huh? Which one, Vietnam?”



Mac’s gaze softened and he squared his shoulders; how many times would he have to explain this? How many times would Mac be forced to dredge up those years? “I would’ve been, had I not Turned. As a human, though, I wore a Marines uniform back in the forties.”



Carson’s eyes grew wide. “You were in World War II? You don’t look a day over thirty-five!”



Donald rolled his eyes. “Hello? He’s a vampire?”



Carson shot a Look at his son and then stuck out his hand. “Sorry, Detective. I apologize for my rudeness earlier. I gotta admit, I’m not used to vampires that are, well…”



“Conscientious?” Mac shook the hand firmly. “Just because I became a vampire doesn’t mean that I also became a sociopath.”



“Fair enough.” Carson put his hand back in his pocket and looked at Mac with something that was a little closer to respect. “So Don tells me that you think you know a way to take down the Hallings killer without turnin’ it into a scene.”



Mac nodded. “The Hallings were killed by a psychic vampire who calls himself Trelkin; God knows why. I keep contact with some of the low-levels in various clans, just to keep my ear to the ground, and he was overheard bragging about it in a blood bar in Irish territory.”



“That explains the crosses cut into the chests of the victims,” Donald offered.



Mac nodded again, and his face became tight. “I think I can take him down. I don’t know if I could bring him in without taking him straight to a maximum-security facility, though. He’s strong, and he has age, and he’s out of the tactile-psychic strain; he’s the type where all he has to do is put his hand on you to start draining your life. They’re more aggressive than the passive-psychics because all a passive has to do is walk through a crowd and they absorb small amounts of ambient life force. Passives require a lot more than tactiles to stay fed, but… well, it’s complicated, but you get my point.”



Carson blanched. “Well, is there anything we can do to help you out? Silver dagger, somethin’ like that?”



Mac frowned. “Not silver, iron. With what I know about psychic vampires, coming in contact with iron interferes somehow with the way they convert stolen life into their own. You build a cage with it and they will never touch the walls, because it puts bruises on them like silver puts burns on me.”



Carson cocked his head at that and looked at his left palm and Mac could see the silver wedding ring. The man looked back at Mac, and the vampire gave a tolerant frown. “Please don’t. Unless I’m allowed to drop some acid on you to see what the burn looks like.”



Donald cleared his throat uncomfortably and looked at Mac. “So what’s the plan?”



Back to business, Mac nodded and reached into his coat pocket to pull out what looked like a set of brass knuckles that looked like they’d been sitting out rusting for at least a decade, and he handed the weapon to Donald. “Just in case,” Mac said by way of explanation, and also brought out a small and rather old-looking dagger in a worn leather sheath. “I bought it from an antiques shop,” the vampire went on, pulling the blade out to reveal the muted dark-gray cast of the metal. “I just hope it’ll be enough. Now, as far as strategy goes, I told my sources to pass Trelkin a message, one which they could come up with but would hopefully provoke him into meeting me in a lot not far from here sometime within the next two hours. I will be waiting for him. Don, stay out of sight but keep an eye out. Carson, I’m leaving you to mobilize the troops. It’s been quite a while since I’ve tangled with a vampire as old as this one and I can’t say for certain how it’s going to turn out.”



Carson regarded him neutrally. “So you’re sayin’ you’re not sure you’ll win.”



“I am.” Mac’s shoulders straightened again. “I’m also saying that just because he could kill me doesn’t mean that I have the right to stand idly back. I know I’m the best chance the NYPD has of taking him down, and at the very least I should be able to injure him enough for SWAT to finish the job.”



It surprised and disturbed Carson when Donald reached over and gripped the bloodsucker’s shoulder. “Don’t you dare talk like that, Mac. When it comes down to it you can be the most vicious son of a bitch I’ve ever met, but you’re on my side and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let my partner set himself up to get his ass kicked.” When Mac didn’t respond, only ducked his head, Donald squeezed the shoulder hard. “You hear me, Mac? I do not give you permission to get yourself killed.”



Mac studied the dagger in his hands. “Thanks, Don. I understand,” he said softly.



Carson cleared his throat and took a neutral step back. “I’ll get to a phone booth and call in the cavalry. Good luck, Detective.”



“Thank you,” Mac said honestly, and when Carson had moved away Mac and Donald began walking as one toward the younger Flack’s car. They were silent on the short drive to a spot two blocks from the vacant lot and on the brisk walk after that, and just before they would enter the alley separating them from the open space Mac halted. “Don, I know you want to help me, and believe me when I say that I do appreciate the moral and material support, but I was serious. I want you to hang back.”



Donald understandably cocked his head; and here he’d been working himself up to go and do battle beside his partner. “Why?”



“Because you’re a human and the last place you want to be is in the middle of a vampire fight. Because you’ve got three boys and I don’t want Maggie to be a single mother. Well, almost three boys.”



Donald’s look could only be described as sheepish pride. His wife was beautiful, and Donald considered it his primary mission in life to populate New York with as many little Flacks as Maggie would tolerate. She told her husband firmly that three was her limit, but Mac had heard Donald grumble about wanting to sire a fourth sometime. Already a fourth, and the third one was still in utero. Donald loved his boys, no doubt about that, but he also couldn’t help wishing for a little girl to pamper and spoil and guard fiercely. Mac had agreed completely.



“Besides,” Mac continued, “Donnie’s turning seven in a few months and I want you to be there. I want you to be there for all his birthdays, understand?”



Donald grunted and grumbled but finally sighed and nodded. “Fine, I’ll stay out of the way, but don’t expect me to just stand there with my thumbs up my ass if this goes south.”



“Never crossed my mind,” Mac said honestly, and he reached up to grip his partner’s shoulder and Donald returned the gesture. “May I live to protect and serve another night.”



Donald nodded solemnly. “May you live to change the new kid’s diapers.”



Mac gave a quick and rather fond smile before squeezing the shoulder and letting his hand drop. Donald released him, and Mac took a deep breath and looked toward his battleground. Donald saw it then, saw the change in his partner as Mac’s spine stiffened, his shoulders went back, his neck muscles clenched and a hard look descended over his brow. The softest of growls emerged from his throat and he stalked silently down the alley.



Donald watched him go. “You’d better not get your ass kicked, Mac,” he whispered when he knew Mac was far enough away to not hear as well as concentrating on the upcoming fight hard enough to not be paying any attention. “I don’t care what anybody says, you are my family and I am not buryin’ the guy that’s gonna be lookin’ out for my great-great-grandkids.”



Under Donald’s gaze Mac stepped to the middle of the lot and bowed his head, listening and waiting. Donald took the opportunity to find a small dark spot that would afford him a decent view of the proceedings.



Donald’s legs were starting to cramp when Mac’s head whipped up and turned to the side, and a few moments later came what looked like a street punk. He wore unusually baggy pants even though modern style tended toward tight clothing. His sleeveless shirt was tight, though, displaying tattoos that Mac knew denoted membership and rank in one of the vampire clans. Surprisingly he had on black combat boots, and his hair was an equally surprising buzz cut despite popular trends. He looked like he had just hit twenty-one but Mac was well aware that with vampires, appearances were very deceiving.



Trelkin swaggered deeper into open space. “So you’re the sorry leech that’s tryin’ to claim my kills, huh?”



Mac blinked; he was surprised at the slur coming from another vampire, but then again, psychic vampires didn’t drink blood. “I’m not here to claim anything of yours, except your freedom.”



Trelkin furrowed his brows. “Do what? I was told that you were tryin’ to take credit for my shit, like you were tryin’ to buy your way into my clan.”



Mac gave a humorless chuckle. “Well, I’m not sure what your messengers told you but it worked, and here is the real message: Trelkin, you are under arrest for the murders of Alex, Patricia, Evan and Lindsay Halling.” His brows came together as he reached for his iron dagger. “You didn’t just feed, you slaughtered an entire family just for the hell of it.”



Trelkin was standing there with one eyebrow lifted and his jaw slightly slack, like he was wondering if this was some sort of stupid practical joke.



Mac held the sheathed blade in his left hand and began stalking purposefully toward his prey. “Get on the ground and put your hands on your head.”



It finally dawned on the psy-vamp that Mac was actually serious, and he gave a dark laugh and reached behind himself to the small of his back, coming out with an unsheathed knife that reflected the light of the scattered streetlamps with a definite silver hue. “You want to put me in a cage, human lover, just try,” Trelkin snarled. “I can smell how young you are.”



Mac shoved his fear down and drew his iron dagger, tossing the scabbard aside and assuming the military stance that had been drilled into his head so many years ago. “I feel the need to warn you,” Mac sneered with more bravado than he felt. “Hand-to-hand combat is my specialty.”



Trelkin gave a pretentious sniff and started moving slowly to his right and Mac copied him. He decided to play defensive at first, until he could see what he was getting himself into. Trelkin was definitely locked on to Mac’s eyes but he seemed a little distracted nonetheless, and then it was like a light bulb flashed in the psy-vamp’s mind.



“I’ve heard of you, fledgling. Oh yes, you’re the one,” Trelkin hissed. “You’re the sex-demon that serves the humans; the bloodsucking pig.” He accompanied the words with a lightning-fast jab that took all of Mac’s inhuman speed to dodge, and the murderer sneered again. “You just made my night, leech. I get to whack the human-loving coward that kills his own kind.”



Mac bared his fangs and at the same time tried to control his temper at the insult to his badge. Trelkin was obviously baiting him, and Mac had had enough combat experience to know better. He started to protest the comment anyway, and then stopped. “I’m an incubus, and you know what? I do. I do serve them. I serve and I protect, and I do not tolerate your behavior toward them.”



Trelkin jabbed out again, cutting the tiniest nick on Mac’s shoulder; Mac was able to counter with a similar scratch to the psy-vamp’s arm before they were again circling each other like wolves. Mac could feel the blood running down his arm, could feel the burn of the wound, but he ignored it. Trelkin snarled. “What do you get out of it? They’re using you.”



“Let them use me,” Mac growled. “I have friends. I have a productive place in society. I have humans that actually watch my back instead of trying to stick a knife in it. Hell, I even have a paycheck.” He could see the disgust practically oozing from Trelkin’s face. “Don’t you get it? I belong with them.”



Trelkin let out a snarl that was closer to a shriek and dove forward again. “Where is your pride?” he roared, and they grappled in identical stances, each with knife-hands uplifted and off-hands blocking the other’s blade.



“Right here.” Mac suddenly twisted and yanked toward his right-rear and then down to send Trelkin rolling forward, giving the psy-vamp a nice long gash on his arm while he was at it. It immediately disturbed him that the wound didn’t bleed, and the skin seemed to boil back together rather than just regrow. It distracted him.



Trelkin halted his forward roll on one knee and, before Mac could react, flipped his silver knife blade-down and jabbed it backward. Mac wasn’t fast enough and he screamed as the silver plunged deep into his midsection. He staggered backward—Jesus, it was like somebody had shoved a live electrical wire into his guts, and he wrapped a hand around the handle to yank it out. Shit, silver trim on the hilt! He gritted his teeth and flung the blade out of the wound, simultaneously howling as it felt like he’d just plunged his hand into a jar of acid.



Mac was bleeding at an alarming rate, and he knew damn good and well that those wounds wouldn’t close until the tainted flesh had been forcibly cut from his body. The pain was incredible… and then he heard a faraway shout and looked up just in time to see Trelkin charging for him. Belatedly the incubus raised the iron dagger but God he was in so much pain, and surprisingly Trelkin halted at the last moment and spun in a roundhouse kick that let a steel-toed boot knock the dagger out of Mac’s hand.



I’m in over my head. That was the thought that flashed through Mac’s head as he watched Trelkin’s fist come barreling for his face. He’s too old, too fast, and I was nowhere near ready for this fight. He tried to duck out of the way but wasn’t entirely successful, and Trelkin’s fist clipped the top of his head. Mac tried to turn the duck into a tackle but Trelkin’s left knee was there to slam into the incubus’ kidney. Mac’s kidneys still functioned albeit on a different level than humans. Either way, getting nailed in one still hurt like a bitch. Better my kidneys than my skull!



With Mac bent over in pain, Trelkin lifted his right arm and then slammed his elbow down; Mac managed to move so that he’d catch the blow on his spine rather than the vulnerable place at the base of his skull. It hurt so much and he dropped to the ground, and then Trelkin kicked him until he rolled onto his back. Mac was allowed to gasp for a split second before the psy-vamp was down and on him and punching him in the face again.



That faraway shout again; it was Donald’s voice in the closest thing to panic that Mac had ever heard from him. “Mac!”



Mac gritted his teeth, fangs fully extended. Trelkin was on top of him and now had one hand on Mac’s throat, and Mac was very glad that he didn’t have to breathe anymore. The psy-vamp was cutting off circulation, though, and Mac could feel his backbrain starting to tingle. Dammit, he needed that blood flow, needed all he could get because he was still leaking like a sieve! Trelkin’s other hand hovered above Mac’s face and Mac could see the slit on the palm open and start to descend to his cheek. He didn’t know what would happen if Trelkin started to feed on him but he was sure it wouldn’t be pleasant. Desperately he clawed at the hand around his throat but it was like trying to claw through stone. He’d lost so much blood… God, he was so weak… I’m not going to make it out of this.



And then Trelkin jerked and snarled as a bullet exploded into his shoulder. The psy-vamp turned and rumbled in the direction of the shot and caught another one in the face. He roared, and the distraction was enough for Mac to trap one ankle with his own leg and buck his hips up and roll to the side and roll the psy-vamp with him. Mac was on top again and he was snarling as he managed to grab one wrist in each hand and he started squeezing hard. Mac’s weak point was his brain, and his brain stem in particular. Trelkin’s was also in his brain but it would cause him massive problems if Mac damaged the area responsible for Trelkin’s ability to feed.



Mac dug his thumbs into the tendons in Trelkin’s wrists and the psy-vamp began to cough, to make choking noises. He was struggling desperately but Mac had him, and the incubus sat on his captive’s chest to be sure. “Don!” he roared.



Donald was there beside him and pulled out the brass knuckles that Mac had coated with a thick layer of rust, and Trelkin gave a strangled howl as Donald knelt and drew his hand back and sent a rusty fist straight into the psy-vamp’s cheekbone, right on top of the bullet hole he’d made. Trelkin shrieked and cringed, his hands shaking. Squeezing the wrists, Mac was essentially doing to Trelkin what the psy-vamp had been doing to him by trying to strangle him.



Donald punched the murderer again and Trelkin went limp, and Mac stood and flipped him over and put the sturdy steel shackles on his wrists and ankles. The outside of the shackles had another coating of rust, and if Trelkin tried to touch it, it wouldn’t feel very good.



“You got ‘im?” Donald grunted.



“I got him,” Mac growled, hauling the unconscious psy-vamp to his feet and then slinging him over one shoulder. He groaned as the movement jostled the silver-made cut on his abdomen, and his knees almost buckled.



“You might wanna get that looked at, Mac,” Donald insisted worriedly, hopping forward to place steadying hands on Mac’s free shoulder when the incubus stumbled.



“I’ll be fine,” Mac grumbled, his free hand clutching his stomach wound closed. “I’m going to bleed all over the car, though.”



Sirens chirped in the distance, and Mac could see a police van come around the corner. He sighed in relief; it was the department’s ‘mobile supernatural containment unit.’ “On second thought, your upholstery might stay clean after all.”



The van pulled to a stop and four burly cops got out, each one armed to the teeth and heavily armored so that not a bit of bare skin showed. Donald waved at them. “Over here, guys, we got ‘im!”



“We?” Mac grunted good-naturedly.



“Hey, I shot the guy so you could get ‘im off ya, and I punched him out.”



“True. Thanks for your help.” Mac handed the unconscious psy-vamp to the cops and then took a step back and looked down at his abdomen. It was a deep, nasty silver-burned cut and it was, of course, still bleeding. He had more cuts, but this one was the worst. God, he was starving… I’ll bet I look like hell, he thought wryly, and he lifted his voice. “Anybody got a knife that doesn’t have any silver?”



To his surprise, Carson Flack was there and he extended a pocketknife. Mac nodded thanks and sat down on the curb and started sawing at the burnt flesh. Carson and Donald almost look sick as Mac gritted his teeth and snarled but kept cutting, and whenever he’d cleared a patch of flesh it almost immediately started to close. “Ah, God… shit, this hurts,” Mac hissed, and he finally trimmed the wound enough that it closed completely.



“Got another one on your shoulder,” Donald said quietly. “Can you reach it?”



Mac tried, grimaced, and sighed. “No.”



Donald swiped the knife out of his hand and knelt behind his partner, and Carson stepped forward to protest. “Don, wait, what if—“



“He won’t Turn if he touches my blood,” Mac interrupted painfully, “or if he accidentally gets any in his mouth. My kind doesn’t Turn that way.”



Donald accepted that as good enough and began sawing at the wound as gently as he could. Mac clenched his knees and gritted his teeth and snarled long and low and hard the entire time, but every time Donald stopped Mac told him to keep going, that he would keep bleeding until the wound was cleared.



One of the guys riding in the police van was the team paramedic, and he joined Donald in removing the scorched flesh. “This is so weird,” the man muttered. “I’m helping a vampire.”



Carson, to Mac’s surprise, waited until the guy had his hands clear and then cuffed the paramedic lightly on the shoulder. “You’re helpin’ a cop,” he clarified. Donald and Mac stared at him, clearly wondering what had brought about this sudden change in attitude. Carson shrugged a shoulder almost gruffly. “I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. Anybody that takes a beating like this just to catch a killer… well…” Carson looked every bit like his son as he gave a small smile. “That’s good work, Detective.”



Mac gave a tight smile, wincing when Donald poked his charred palm. “That one’s gonna suck,” the younger Flack said worriedly.



“Oh, believe me, it already does,” Mac grunted. Carson was still standing there, and Mac looked at him. “I hate to ask you this, but would you… oh, no, not that,” he amended when he saw the look of disgust start to creep across Carson’s face. “I wasn’t going to ask if I could feed from you. I was wondering if there were any blood bags in the van. I’m starving, and the less blood I have in me, the weaker I’ll be and the more I’ll hurt and the longer it’ll take my wounds to heal.”



“I can save you the trip,” the paramedic put in. “Normally we keep a few in the back to pacify some of our nastier prisoners but we ran out on our last call and we didn’t stop to get more because psy-vamps don’t drink blood.”



Mac let out a disappointed mutter as he took the knife back from Donald. He steeled himself and began scraping the burnt flesh off his palm in much the same way that he’d peel a potato, and Donald couldn’t bring himself to watch. He honestly looked like he was fighting to put his fingers in his ears so he wouldn’t hear the agonized growl rolling up Mac’s throat.



Finally it was done, and Mac gritted his teeth and watched as his trembling hand slowly began to re-flesh itself. It took a lot longer than he’d like it to, and if his stomach still growled the noise would almost be deafening.



“That’s all I can stand for now,” Mac finally hissed, face tight with pain. “I’ll finish up after I find something to eat.”



Donald lifted his head again, and his face fell even further. “Mac, you look like you’ve lost thirty pounds,” he said worriedly, eyes wide at how his eyes and cheeks looked so hollow and how his cheekbones suddenly stuck out so prominently, and how the backs of Mac’s hands suddenly looked so gnarled and bony.



Mac gave a small nod. “It happens,” he offered lamely, and he started to hand the knife back to Carson when the detective held his hands up in a definite ‘oh, no, you keep it’ gesture. Mac sighed uncomfortably but did his best to wipe the blade on his jacket before folding it and sticking it in his pocket. He started to stand but stumbled, and Donald was there to help him to his feet. “Thanks. I lost so much blood, it’s hard to believe that I fed just a few hours ago. Now, let’s get Trelkin processed.”



Carson nodded assent, and he climbed into the cramped cab of the van between the driver and the paramedic while the armored troops took positions around their still-unconscious prisoner in the back, and Donald helped Mac into the passenger seat of his car and then climbed into the driver’s side.



“That was good work, Mac,” Donald said softly.



Mac gave a painful nod and wrapped his arms tighter around himself, trying to make his aching body comfortable. “Thanks for the backup.”



“Hey, that’s what partners are for,” Donald said lightly, and he smiled to himself as the faint appreciation passed over Mac’s face. They didn’t speak for the rest of the trip.



Upon arriving at the station, Carson cleared the way while the troops both hauled and escorted the groggy-but-awake murderer into Booking, Mac and Donald trailing behind until they reached their destination. “I know you probably wanna shower,” Donald said in an aside to Mac. “Go ahead and grab one while I finish up the paperwork. You got a spare change of clothes in your locker, right?” Mac nodded that he did, and Donald shooed him off while he and his father got to work on processing their newest prisoner.



Mac emerged ten minutes later, his hair wet but neatly combed, wearing a clean tie and shirt and jacket and jeans but still unfortunately in the blood-spattered shoes. He still looked pretty damn hungry but he didn’t say a word, just stayed warily at Donald’s side until Trelkin was processed and safely locked in the cell that Mac had modified and then pronounced fit to hold the psy-vamp.



When the cell door was locked, Carson shook Mac’s hand. “While you were in the shower, the Captain asked me to pass along that you and Don could take the rest of the night off if you wanted. I’m sure you especially need to, uh, go recover.”



“Normally I would argue with you, but tonight that sounds like a fantastic idea,” Mac said drolly.



Carson turned to his son and pulled the younger man into a one-armed hug. “Thanks for your help, Don.”



“Anytime, Dad, and don’t be a stranger. Donnie’s been complainin’ that he doesn’t get to see Grandpa enough.”



Carson pulled back with the most lighthearted expression Donald had seen all night. “Fair. My caseload is pretty full right now but I’ll stop by next chance I get.”



They finished saying their goodbyes, and Mac was once again in the passenger seat of Donald’s car while the human drove. They’d barely gone a few blocks when Donald paused at a stoplight. “So, you need to go out and, uh, get somethin’ to eat?” Donald asked hesitantly.



Mac thought for a moment. “I will before the evening’s out. Right now I just need to sit quietly until my wounds finish healing up.” A wry smile crossed his face. “It’ll be a little hard to get a date if I still look like I just got back from a knife fight.”



Donald snorted. “Wanna come back to my place? Donnie and Ricky should be asleep, but at least I can let the babysitter go home early.”



“Aw, you don’t have to do that, Don,” Mac protested. “Go to the hospital, sit with Maggie for a while.”



“I would, but…” Donald sighed. “I’m bushed. Watchin’ you get your ass kicked can really take it out of a guy. And she’s had a hard enough time lately just fallin’ asleep without wonderin’ why I’m off work early.” Mac just stared at him, and finally the man growled, “All right, all right, I’ll make a call.” A few streets later, he pulled the car over and hopped out and stepped into a phone booth. Mac chose not to listen to what he could hear through the car door and the closed booth and instead flicked his eyes around the general area, watching the rather sleepy signs of life. It was two AM, after all.



A few moments later, Donald was back in the car. “It took her a while to get to sleep tonight, and the nurse said I’d be better off at home. I hope this kid decides to pop out soon. I don’t wanna rush nature any more than you do, and Maggie said she doesn’t want a C-section unless she just can’t avoid it, but it’s startin’ to get more than a little rough.”



Mac nodded. “All right, your apartment it is.”



They finished the drive and rode up the elevator in weary silence. They were walking down the hall toward the apartment, Mac still stepping a little painfully from his brawl with Trelkin, when suddenly the vampire halted with his hand across Donald’s chest. “Wait.”



Donald furrowed his brows. “Wait? What for?”



“Just wait.” Mac’s face was tight and he lifted his nose slightly, casting about. Had it been just his imagination, or had he smelled…? “Don. Get your gun out. Now. Silver bullets.”



Donald went pale but he went for his backup gun, the one loaded with the silver-tipped bullets with full metal jackets. Mac was carefully doing the same, switching the guns between the holster on his hip and the one on his ankle. Donald leaned closer to his partner. “What is it?”



“Just stay calm,” Mac rumbled, his brows coming together in anger. “I think I smell another vampire in your apartment. And I smell fear, and blood.”



Donald’s knees trembled. “Mac, Donnie and Ricky are in there with the babysitter!” he hissed urgently. Thank God Maggie was still at the hospital with their stubborn unborn third child.



“I know,” Mac growled. “But I don’t think the intruder knows we’re here yet. And if he doesn’t, he will soon. I still have blood all over my clothes.” He paused for a moment, thinking hard. “Keep your gun in hand but out of sight. I’ll hang back while you unlock the door. Just act like you’re just coming home. We don’t want to startle him or the boys into doing something dangerous. I’ll be right behind you.”



Donald nodded slowly and pulled his keys out of his pocket, switching his gun to his left hand and fiddling with the keys with his right. He unlocked the door, took a deep breath to calm his nerves, put his left hand behind his back, and opened the door.



The apartment was dark and way too fucking quiet. Donald wanted to do a quick sweep of the place but he trusted Mac, so he dropped his keys on the table. He hung his coat on the peg and tucked his silver-loaded gun in the back of his pants, removing the holster with his regular gun and hanging it on the hook high up on the wall where the boys couldn’t reach it. He loosened his tie and tilted his head from side to side, popping his neck. He heard the barest whisper of noise and felt Mac brush fingertips over his arm as the incubus stepped quickly and silently deeper into the room, sticking to the shadows.



Donald started fiddling with the buttons on his sleeves, peering around puzzled. “Lizzie?” he called. “Lizzie, you still up?”



A quiet noise came from Donnie’s room. Donald quirked an eyebrow and ambled as casually as he could toward that location, and he could almost feel Mac’s comforting presence behind him.



Donald halted in the doorway, suddenly horrified. Lizzie the babysitter was on the floor, her upper half limp in the arms of a rather tall and scrawny male figure. Upon Donald’s approach the figure looked up, and the man could see the fangs, see the mouth covered in blood, see the twin bleeding holes in the babysitter’s neck. Donald flicked his eyes to Donnie’s bed; the boy was covered completely by the blankets and didn’t seem to be moving, and Donald hoped to God his son was just asleep.



The vampire gave a quiet snarl, and Donald reached behind him for his gun. Too fast Lizzie flopped to the floor and the vampire made a beeline for the bed but Mac was faster, putting himself between the intruder and the child, grabbing the strange vampire’s cold wrists.



The vampire’s eyes were glowing red and his skin was chill and clammy; a Dracula-type and judging by the strength it was a fairly young one, and had probably lost himself to instinct. The fledgling craned his neck and then snapped out, trying to bite Mac’s face, his throat, squirming and growling in the stronger grip.



Mac’s own fangs were out and he was snarling. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he rumbled.



“Feed,” the fledgling hissed. “Feed, must feed… so young, so sweet…” He struggled in Mac’s grip and suddenly roared “Feed me the child!”



Mac gave a roar of his own, bellowing “You stay away from him!” as he shoved forward, slamming the other vampire against the wall and shifting his weight to bury his knee in the fledgling’s gut. The fledgling shrieked and snapped his jaws forward again, this time managing to tear a long gash in Mac’s throat. Mac jerked and made choking noises, suddenly robbed of much precious blood flow to his brain; dammit, after the fight with Trelkin Mac was too low on blood as it was! His hands weakened enough for the vampire to squirm out of his grip and then the crazed fledgling once again dove for Donnie’s bed.



Donald was there this time and he brought his gun to bear and fired two shots, the silver tips easily punching holes into the vampire skull. The creature howled and dropped to the floor, twitching and jerking. It wasn’t dead yet as the weak point of a Dracula-type was the heart, but Mac helped speed up the process by dropping down onto the straining vampire and rearing his hand back and slamming his fist down into the gasping face with everything he had.



The fledgling was clawing at Mac, trying to fend off the enraged incubus, but in Donald’s eyes Mac had gone berserk. The older vampire was still bleeding from his throat even as he pummeled the fledgling’s head, punching him over and over and over again. Donald’s eyes widened and he stepped as close as he dared. “Mac! Mac, stop! He’s down!”



Mac didn’t appear to have heard him; his eyes were wide and his fangs were out and he kept beating the dying vampire almost frantically. “Mac!” Donald shouted. “Mac, don’t do this! Don’t do this in front of Donnie!”



That seemed to break through, and Mac’s fist froze in midair. The incubus’ chest was heaving, raspy bubbling noises coming from the jagged hole in his trachea. And then Mac slid off the intruder and dragged himself across the floor to slump against the corner of the room with both hands to his throat.



Donald watched him for a moment and then stepped toward the still-living intruder. He leveled his gun and fired one last shot into the fledgling’s heart so Mac would not be listed as the cause of death, and also to put the sorry bastard out of his misery since his face was a battered and almost pulpy mess. And then he looked up. “Mac, you—“



“Kids,” Mac rasped, holding the torn flesh of his windpipe closed so he could speak. “Check everyone.”



Donald did his best to ignore the blood all over Mac’s hands and face. His own hands were shaking as he safetied his gun and shoved it back into his belt, instantly whirling to yank the covers down on Donnie’s bed.



“Daddy?” Donnie whimpered. The six-year-old was curled around his Cookie Monster, shaking, his face stained with tears. Thank God he’d been burrowed underneath the covers. He hadn’t seen a thing. Donald bent to scoop the boy into his arms and hold him close, stroking his hair and murmuring soothing things, his relief making his legs weak. “Daddy, I’m scared!”



“I know, Donnie,” Donald told his boy reassuringly. “It’s over. It’s okay. You’re safe.”



Donnie peered over his father’s shoulder and managed to make out Mac sitting wounded in his corner. “Uncle Macky!” he wailed. Donald hissed a curse and jerked his son down, pressing the small forehead into his neck. Donnie squirmed against the grip. “Daddy! Uncle Macky’s hurt!”



“Don,” Mac grunted. “Take him to Ricky’s room.” He was talking a bit more clearly but his voice was still raspy. “I’ll take care of Lizzie.”



Donald nodded and carried his son to the other bedroom despite the boy’s howls of worry and protest, finding Ricky sitting up in bed wide-eyed and scared. Donald lay down on the bed and held his sons close, reassuring himself and them.



Donald wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Mac finally appeared in the doorway. He looked like hell, his face gaunt and his shoulders slumped with pain and hunger. He’d taken off his coat and tie and overshirt, and was unfortunately still wearing a blood-spattered undershirt; he’d ask Donald if the detective had a shirt Mac could borrow. His throat was mostly healed and there wasn’t any blood on his face, at least. Donnie gripped his father tightly, his eyes wide. He’d never seen Mac look so thin before. “Uncle Macky? Daddy, what’s wrong with Uncle Macky?”



Mac stepped into the room, his stride a little unsteady but still trying to put on a brave front. He had his hands behind his back and now he brought them forward, holding Donnie’s Cookie Monster. “Uncle Macky’s fine,” he said soothingly. “Everything’s okay.”



Donnie crawled to the edge of the bed and grabbed his toy, surprisingly tossing it in Donald’s lap and then grabbing Mac’s hand. “Are you hurt, Uncle Macky?”



Mac’s face changed, and he sank down onto the bed and scooped the boy into his arms, holding him as closely as Donald had done, pressing his lips to the tousled black hair. “I’ll be fine,” he whispered. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”



Blood was trickling down Mac’s face, and it took Donald a moment to realize that Mac was shedding silent tears. “How’s Lizzie?” Donald asked quietly.



Mac closed his eyes tighter and gave the smallest shake of his head. “She lost too much,” he murmured. “I’m starving but I couldn’t bring myself to take any from her. She was a good kid.”



Donald’s shoulders slumped. “So she’s—“



“You need a new babysitter,” Mac interrupted quietly, his eyes flicking pointedly to the boys. He held Donnie for a while longer before he gave a heavy sigh. “I’ll go call it in.”



Mac started to let go of Donnie and stand but the boy tightened his grip. “Don’t go ‘way, Uncle Macky,” he whimpered. “The scary-tooth man might get you. He’s a bad scary-tooth man.” And then Donnie did something completely unexpected: he leaned up and kissed Mac on the cheek, seemingly not caring about the blood-tears. “You’re a good toothy man, Uncle Macky.”



Mac found himself unable to speak, and instead he embraced the child as hard as he dared. He didn’t know when Donnie had ever seen his fangs but the boy knew that his Uncle Macky was a vampire. He also was of the firm belief that Mac was different from the others. Donald was just as stunned.



Ricky was still too young to understand what was going on; the loud noises had scared him but he had calmed down considerably. He was staring wide-eyed at Mac’s face. “Hey Mac,” Donald murmured. “Bring Donnie into my bedroom. There’s a phone in there.” And Donald stood and scooped Ricky into his arms. After a moment Mac copied him with Donnie, reaching down as an afterthought to grab the Cookie Monster.



Twenty minutes later, Mac, Donald, Ricky, and Donnie were in the living room while other cops and CSIs did their thing, and Carson was standing over Mac slumped into a recliner. “This is gettin’ to be a nasty habit, meeting like this,” the old detective said simply. He’d been picking through the paperwork on Trelkin when the call came in. Mac just gave a miserable nod, and Carson stepped over to where Donald was occupying the boys in the recliner opposite the coffee table. They traded places so that Carson was with the boys while Donald made his way to his partner, a wary look marring his weary concern.



“Mac,” Donald started softly. “You wanna tell me what happened back there?”



Mac sank deeper into the chair, his gaze fixed on Carson and the boys. Carson was trying to convince them to ask their daddy if they could stay with him and Grandma for a while. Donald noted that Mac seemed to stiffen whenever the oldest Flack so much as touched Donnie or Ricky. “Mac?” Donald prompted.



Mac didn’t take his eyes off the boys but he still seemed to know what Donald was talking about. “I… I don’t know, Don. I just saw him going for Donnie, and I had to stop him.”



“That part I understand, and I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you did. But what about the fact that he had two silvers in his head and you were sittin’ on him and beatin’ the shit out of him? I would’ve thought you’d had enough whup-ass for one night.” Donald was trying not to put his hands on his hips.



“I…” Mac swallowed. “I lost control of myself. I let the instinct take over. I was enraged that that little punk had the nerve to go for Donnie. I just… I had to protect him. That’s all there is to it. I had to protect Donnie.”



Donald was quiet for a long moment. “You really love my kids, don’t you?”



Mac finally closed his eyes and tilted his head back. “Don, you said that I was family. I never told you that I was an only child. Back in the twenties and thirties, parents and especially fathers didn’t show much affection for their children. My father died when I was a teenager, and my mother and I just… just never reconnected.”



Donald processed that and then sat on the couch next to Mac’s chair. “Keep goin’.”



Mac sighed. “I’ve always been a loner. Never really good with people. I made friends in the Marines, yes, but I let those friendships drift apart when the war was over.”



Donald tried to keep the incredulity out of his voice. “Don’t tell me that I’m…”



“You’re the first real friend I’ve had in roughly forty years, Don. Pretty much the first real friend I’ve had ever.” Mac cleared his throat quietly. “When Donnie started calling me Uncle Macky, I just… I don’t know. I feel like they’re really my nephews. The thought of anything happening to them… scares me.”



Anything Donald might have had to say was interrupted when a CSI stepped up to him. “Detective Taylor? Mind if I process you?” The man was one of the Dayshift CSI3s and Mac suspected that he probably wasn’t happy to have been called out in the middle of the night. Then again, it wasn’t like anyone on Graveyard would be allowed to process the crime scene involving a fellow CSI and a homicide detective.



Mac nodded and flicked a glance at the boys. “Mind if we do this in the kitchen?” he asked in a conversational tone.



The CSI caught the reference and nodded back, and Mac stood and started to head for the kitchen when Donnie noticed his apparent departure. The boy gave a loud howl of “Uncle Macky!” and darted for the vampire, wrapping his arms around Mac’s thigh and glaring at the CSI. “Don’t you put away my Uncle Macky!” Donnie snapped.



Everyone with a pulse was staring wide-eyed at the tableau, some amused at the childish outburst and some looking disturbed at the boy defending the bloodsucker, and Mac looked around with a sheepish smile. He gently pried Donnie’s hands off his leg and knelt down eye-to-eye with him. “I’m not leaving right now, Donnie. I’m just going to the kitchen to talk to this man, okay?”



Donnie’s wide blue eyes glittered with unshed tears. “You hurt the bad toothy-man so they’re gonna put you away. Daddy says that people who hurt other people should get put away.” His lower lip quivered.



Mac looked on the verge of panic; not the sad face, please not the sad face. “Please don’t cry, Donnie,” he murmured as soothingly as he knew how. If Donnie started crying, Mac would never be able to put him down. “Look, just go with Daddy, okay? He’s gonna take you and Ricky and tuck you in the big-people bed since the bad-tooth man is in your room. Okay?”



Donnie sniffled and nodded and then flung his arms around Mac’s neck. “Don’t get put away, Uncle Macky,” the boy begged.



And what could Mac say to that? He gave the little boy a hug and a quick kiss on the head and then gently peeled the arms off his neck so he could stand up again. Patiently he led Donnie back over to his father, and Mac gave the whimpering child a reassuring look before resuming the walk to the kitchen. The CSI’s kit was already there as was a tall redheaded detective in his mid-thirties with startling deep blue eyes. “Detective Taylor,” the redhead murmured by way of greeting. “I’m Detective Caine.”



Mac nodded cordially at him and then stood still on the linoleum and let the CSI take pictures of his bloody clothing. “Before you ask, I rinsed my face and my hands,” Mac said calmly. “I know it violates procedure and I know it’s evidence and I know it means that one of your people is going to have to remove some pipes from the bathroom sink.”



The dark-headed CSI frowned. “So why did you do it?” He gestured for Mac to hold his hands out for photos.



Mac sighed. “I didn’t want the boys to see me like that.”



To Mac’s surprise, Caine gave an approving nod at this. “The older one seems to be quite attached to you,” he said in a nonchalant almost-growl, the faintest hints of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Still, you know what it’s going to look like in court, right?”



“I know,” Mac sighed.



The CSI took all the requisite pictures and then hesitated. “Can I see your teeth?” Mac opened his mouth and allowed him to take a few shots, and then the CSI’s brows furrowed. “I thought you were a vampire too.”



“I am. Incubus.” Mac slid his fangs out; the CSI blinked hard at that but took a few more shots. “You don’t process many vampires, do you?” Mac asked calmly after the fangs retreated back into his upper jaw, the points even with the rest of his teeth. He had two much smaller fangs on his lower jaw but they weren’t nearly as sharp and didn’t move and didn’t produce any serum. Basically, they were just there for a little extra grip.



The man looked levelly at him and then sighed. “No. Honestly it’s my first time.”



Mac nodded understandingly. “I know I’m a suspect in the death of Lizzie Wade, but I’m also a CSI level 2 and I process a lot of vampire-related crime scenes. Make sure your ME takes what teeth impressions of the dead vampire that he can, as well as a plaster cast of the bite mark on Lizzie. I’ll submit to another casting of my teeth right here and now if it’ll help this case move faster.”



The dark-haired man cocked his head. “I’ll be honest and say that I don’t think you killed Wade, but you know we have to verify everything.”



“Trust but verify,” Caine seconded.



“I’d be insulted if you didn’t,” Mac told them truthfully and then pulled off his bloody shirt for the large paper bag the CSI held out. Neither human said anything about the large and long-healed scar on his left pectoral. It was a shrapnel wound from the war. “And sorry you didn’t get shots of the scratches on me or the throat wound, but I can only restrain the healing so much… and I was kinda low on blood to begin with.” Ironically enough, his body was still scattered with almost-closed nicks and cuts from Trelkin’s damn silver knife, but the throat wound had healed to something very much like a ragged scar; it would be fine by sunrise. If I can ever get a chance to go feed, he grumbled silently. He felt his subconscious give a dark whisper of agreement and he toned his thoughts down. The last thing he needed was to get all worked up and lose control of himself while surrounded by armed and jumpy coworkers.



The redhead nodded. “I heard about your brawl with Trelkin. God, you’ve had quite a night, haven’t you?”



Mac nodded. He sat down in the nearby chair and scrubbed at his face with one palm while holding the other hand out so the CSI could scrape under his nails. Dead vampires couldn’t heal wounds and if Mac had lots of blood and skin under his nails, then he was probably the guy that had scratched the vampire all to shreds; once again Mac wished some of the science labs he was funding would hurry up with that promised DNA-reading machine. Mac had washed a lot of the blood and skin cells away when he’d rinsed his hands, but still. They were going to need to make plaster casts of his fists, too. Mac nodded to himself. “You know, why don’t we just do all the impressions at the lab? The materials are there, and it’ll take time for the corpses to show all the bruising anyway.”



The CSI was flat-out staring at him now. “Are you admitting to beating that vampire to death?”



Mac’s face tightened. “I’m admitting to putting myself between an instinct-driven fledgling vampire and a frightened six-year-old boy. I’m admitting to wrestling with him for a few moments. I’m admitting to being a little angry when he ripped my throat open with his teeth and then he tried to go for Donnie again. And I’ll admit to being less than civil when I gathered that he preferred to feed from children. But I am not admitting to killing him, because I didn’t. I’m fairly sure that I would have if Don hadn’t intervened, and since when do humans care when one vampire kills another, anyway?” He was gritting his teeth as he spoke, eyebrows clouded together as he stared at nothing.



Caine tilted his head and blinked thoughtfully, his deliberately calm tone bringing them back to business. “And the babysitter, Miss Wade?”



Mac lost much of his hard-eyed glare. “I couldn’t save her. That fledgling trash drank too much, too fast, and he didn’t close the wounds. Fighting him took too much time and when I was finally able to get to her, it was too late.”



“Incubi can close wounds as well, can they not?” the redhead put in.



Mac cocked his head, impressed. This guy did his research. “I could already tell that she had lost far too much blood. Even if I had closed the wound there wouldn’t be enough time to get her some help. I could’ve carried her to the hospital if I hadn’t been so weak.” He sighed, some of the hardness returning, and almost absently he switched hands for the CSI. “I lost too much blood in the fight with Trelkin, and that was the only reason that this little punk got a good hit on me. God… I’m a Marine, I’ve been alive for sixty years, I should’ve been able to restrain him, to cuff him, to…”



“Easy,” the detective soothed, and to Mac’s surprise the pale man put his hand on the vampire’s shoulder. “You said you lost yourself to instinct… and what instinct is stronger than the drive to protect a child?”



Mac hadn’t thought of it that way, and a slow smile spread across his face. “I wish you worked more nighttime cases, Detective Caine. You’re one of the most tolerant humans I’ve met in a long time.”



The redhead smiled. “I’ve been thinking about getting CSI training, actually.” He withdrew his hand from Mac’s shoulder. “In case we ever do work together, my first name is Horatio.”



Mac nodded thoughtfully. “It’s a good name.”



Horatio tilted his head again; a habit, Mac realized, and the vampire explained. “Horatio was the outside observer to Hamlet’s madness. Without him seeing and confronting the ghost, Hamlet could soliloquize all day and the audience would’ve just labeled him as insane. But Horatio believed Hamlet and Horatio saw the ghost, and that gave the audience permission to believe. And during the entire play he is calm, resolute, rational, and it’s his conversations with Hamlet that give us more insight into the main character.”



Horatio chuckled. “This is new. I never would’ve figured you as one for the classics, Detective.”



“I like a little bit of everything.” Mac smiled and leaned back in his chair. “I thought it was funny: Horatio is considered a minor character, but he’s such a strong and steadfast one that Hamlet wanted to be just like him, and Hamlet even admitted it more than once.”



The CSI had been listening. “And what about Horatio’s willingness to gut himself while Hamlet lays dying?”



Mac was up to the challenge. “He wasn’t insane or irrational. He was prepared to act out of devotion so he wouldn’t have to live without his friend. It was honor and duty, not some spur-of-the-moment survivor guilt.”



Horatio was smiling broadly now. “While I’m certainly enjoying this rather favorable analysis of my name, you should know that my mother named me for Horatio Alger. He’s an author that wrote a good number of rags-to-riches stories aimed at young boys.”



Mac had heard of the author. “’Strive and succeed’; I’ve read a couple of his books.” The vampire then cleared his throat. “It’s also been strongly suggested that he was a pedophile.”



Horatio made a face. “I know. I like the Shakespearean interpretation better. I’d rather not be associated with pederasty.”



Mac gave the man a sympathetic look, and then he blinked. “Oh, by the way, my name’s Mac.”



Carson chose that moment to come into the kitchen and give Mac an expressionless look before stepping over to Horatio. The two detectives put their heads together and muttered in each other’s ears; Mac could still hear them just fine but he pretended not to, and he bent his head so the CSI could run a comb through his hair and catch the trace evidence on a sheet of white paper.



Despite Mac’s trying to be polite and not eavesdrop, he still felt vindicated that the coroner’s on-the-scene measurements of Lizzie’s bite marks didn’t match with Mac’s fangs. The measurements of the Dracula’s fangs would have to wait until the medical examiner could get the body on a slab and reconstruct the decimated fragments of teeth shattered by Mac’s fists. Mac didn’t think he would get into any trouble for killing another vampire—it wasn’t said aloud but it was the main reason Mac had been hired in the first place. Mac figured that it was the display of violence that was making the humans nervous. Four years on the job, and while Mac had displayed his supernatural strength and aggression on more than one occasion, this was the first time that Mac had come that close to really losing it. The humans had barely started to get used to their vampiric brother-in-uniform and now they were second-guessing themselves. Was Mac safe? Was it a good idea to have such a volatile non-human representing the NYPD to other supernaturals?



It was a tricky situation. For the most part, people treated vampires like monsters, or at least as not people. Nobody had stopped Mac from voting in an election but some had voiced opinions on whether he should be allowed to. Like just because he didn’t breathe, didn’t go out and have a beer and eat hot dogs, because he shunned the sunlight and didn’t settle down and have kids, that somehow happened to make him not only inhuman but a political alien. He was an American by birth, dammit, and had served in the Marines, putting men into the ground on foreign soil just so these people could sleep easy at night. Sure he looked thirty even though he’d been born in the Roaring Twenties, but still.



What it boiled down to was how they were going to treat it. A dead vampire was No Great Loss in the eyes of the general public, particularly one that had been killed while attacking innocent people. So he’d been killed by another vampire, so what? The fact that Lizzie Wade, a human, had died did change things, but it gave Mac a sour feeling to wonder how. Question: if a vampire killed a human during a feeding, was it murder or manslaughter?



The surviving vampire, however, was a cop. So did they treat him like just another vampire and brush it off their collective sleeve, maybe sweep it under the rug if nobody raised a fuss? Normally people would just see a dead vampire and not even bother with processing the scene or doing an autopsy… but if they did that, that was automatically derogatory to Mac (or rather, derogatory to Mac’s badge). And if they gave Mac the rights of a human, they had to be fair and extend those rights to the dead one. And if they did that, they’d have to go further and extend those rights to all the vampires.



So, what, Mac wasn’t going to be treated like a human unless he was a productive member of society? That he had to earn the respect of the people? If they treated Mac like a viable human suspect and gave him the right to an attorney and all that jazz, they’d have to go the extra mile and do an autopsy on the dead vampire alongside Lizzie Wade and discover the fledgling’s identity, and that would turn him from No Great Loss into someone with a name.



Mac had actually been approached by some other vampires, good and intelligent and instinct-suppressing vampires like himself, and they had thanked him for doing what he was doing. When he asked what they meant, they’d looked surprised and said that he was becoming a sort of underground figurehead in a new sort of civil rights movement. That gave Mac pause before he politely informed them that he was just doing his job, just trying to have a place in society again, and the vampires had seized on that. Yes, they wanted to be treated like human beings, too.



It wasn’t a blanket situation by any means. There were two different vampire mentalities: the minority like Mac that still cared about being human and doing the right thing and just being another person, and the stereotypical monster that ran around slaying humans and showing as much apathy—if not loathing—for the humans as a Mafia boss might show to a guy that wouldn’t pay back the money he owed. If Mac was treated like a human, that meant that the marauder-vampires got rights, too. And those marauders that had blended their personalities with their instincts were beings that even Mac would love to pump full of silver bullets and breathe a sigh of relief.



Violence without purpose was just stupidity. It was pointless, made them like some sort of wild animal on the loose, and that was bad for society. But there were good vampires, too, vampires like Mac. Vampires that held jobs at all-night convenience stores and diners. Vampires that had friends, occasionally had real family that tolerated them. Vampires with drivers’ licenses and social security numbers and mailboxes and that gritted their teeth while they dodged the sunlight long enough to go vote in an election.



And if the world wasn’t slowly being turned on its collective head enough by a vampire with a badge, there were now politics to go along with it. Politics. Christ in a sidecar. Mac was floored by the thought of one day having a vampire as a politician. Governor, Senator… President? How would that work? Blackout curtains in the Oval Office? Loyal constituents being invited over for ‘dinner’ and getting patted down by the Secret Service and subjected to all sorts of blood tests before ‘dining’ with the President? Holding press conferences in the Rose Garden at midnight?



He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Carson. “Mac?” the oldest Flack began quietly, “you look like hell.”



Not ‘leech,’ not ‘vampire,’ not ‘Taylor’ or even ‘Detective,’ but ‘Mac.’ Guess he likes me now, Mac thought wryly. “Thanks.”



Carson paused and steeled himself to ask, “you hungry?”



For once, Mac allowed himself to show his weakness. He slumped back in his chair and sent a pleading look at the human. “Carson, I’ll be honest, I don’t think I’ve been this hungry since I first Turned. There’s a very large part of me that wants nothing more than to just bend the nearest person over and take from them,” and to his credit, Carson flinched but didn’t pull away, “but if I did that, I’d be just as bad as Trelkin and that dead Dracula in there. I don’t feed without consent.”



Carson took a deep breath and managed to stutter out, “take some from me.”



Mac had actually seen that coming but shook his head anyway. “No, not from another cop. I’ll be fine until I can find someone else to feed from.”



The refusal only seemed to solidify Carson’s resolve. “Mac, you look like hell warmed over, and I don’t think there’s a hooker in New York that would take you on lookin’ like that.”



Mac managed a wry smile. “You’ve been talking to Don, haven’t you?”



Mac asked Donald early in his career if the more experienced cop wanted to bust him for soliciting prostitution since Mac was paying for a meal rather than for pleasure. Sure, he was getting off while he was feeding but it wasn’t the same. Mac would walk up to a man or woman on a street corner—Don still wasn’t into the bisexual thing, but he let it slide—and get a cheap motel room, and the vampire would take only what he needed to keep him fed for the evening. While his ‘victim’ was unconscious with bliss and non-life-threatening blood loss, Mac would pay for the room for a full 24 hours and leave snacks behind, as well as a note apologizing for his deception. He’d also leave behind enough money to hopefully make it worth their while, considering it had been the best sex they’d ever had.



It was a lot less convenient than just entering while they were asleep and going for it, but he could understand why Donald was edgy about that, especially since Mac had a badge now, too. Donald wasn’t big on the whole ‘breaking and entering and fucking in their sleep’ thing but he could live with Mac ‘buying dinner.’



Carson nodded. “I asked him what you usually do.”



“Well, I only take advantage of such… working peoples… if I’m in a hurry or if I just can’t find anyone up for a one-night stand,” Mac allowed. Discomfort reigned, and Mac sat up and gave the human all his focus. “Do you really want to do this? Are you really willing to let me bite you on the neck and drink your blood?”



Carson did go a little pale, but he gave a tight-lipped nod. “Just a little,” he said quietly. “Just enough for, uh, until you can… find somebody else. To be honest, it’s hard to even look at you. You’re skin and bones.”



“It looks worse than it feels,” Mac demurred.



Horatio, who had been silent until now, snorted. “You look like you could be knocked over by a stiff breeze, and I’m sure you know that we humans tend to feel both pain and incredible irritability when we’re hungry. I’m sure you feel it a thousand times over.”



Mac sighed. “All right, it looks exactly like it feels,” he admitted grudgingly. He looked at Carson again. “You’re absolutely sure that you want to do this.”



Carson swallowed but nodded. “Yeah, I do.”



“In that case,” Horatio put in, “I shall make sure that you gentlemen have some privacy for a few moments. Oh, and Carson, you may want to sit down first. An incubus’ bite can be… overwhelming.”



Mac regarded Horatio with new interest. “How would you know?”



Horatio gave a lofty shrug. “Unlike many of my fellow police officers, I do not pass judgment on what I have not tried.” And he said nothing else but walked out of the room as though whatever Carson and Mac and the CSI3 thought about that statement didn’t bother him in the least. The CSI blinked and followed the redhead.



Alone with the bloodsucker, Carson swallowed again but sat stiffly in the chair next to Mac. “What does it feel like?” he asked warily.



Mac leaned forward the slightest bit, eyes already locked onto the nervously throbbing vein in Carson’s lean neck. “It doesn’t hurt,” Mac reassured him. “I will not harm you and I won’t take too much, I swear.” He leaned forward even closer, nostrils unintentionally flaring with the scent of fear that was quickly eclipsed by the scent of warm flesh and hot blood. “Last chance,” Mac whispered.



Carson gripped the edge of the kitchen table with both hands, tilted his head away, and closed his eyes. “Just do it,” he growled.



“Very well.” And Mac turned in his chair and put one hand to the back of Carson’s head and pulled him forward just the slightest bit, fangs fully extended before he realized he’d even opened his mouth. It would take considerable willpower to restrain himself but Mac was determined not to break Carson’s trust. He decided to take pity on the man and suddenly pressed his lips to Carson’s neck. The human grunted in nervous surprise, jumped a little as he felt the two needle-sharp fangs puncture the vein, and then he sagged with a soft sigh.



Mac gave a satisfied growl as the blood started trickling into his mouth. He decided to go easy on his host and kept the output of feeder serum to the barest minimum in order to spare the vampire-hater any emotional discomfort. He also decided to forgo any attempts to glean sexual pleasure and kept his hands right where they were. Blood came first. He’d find another host for the other half of his need.



It was far, far too soon and Mac felt that he’d barely started, but he forced himself to pull his fangs out and gently lick the wound closed. Christ, he was still starving, but the painful edge to his hunger had been mostly abated.



When he made himself pull away, Carson was pale and sweating and most of his fear had been replaced by shame at the fact that it hadn’t been a horrible experience and that it had actually felt kinda good. Mac wasn’t feeling very diplomatic and couldn’t think of any way to spare him further mortification, so he simply gave a soft, “thank you.”



Carson took a minute to compose himself. “It, uh, it wasn’t that bad,” he mumbled under his breath.



Mac gave him a wan smile. “I haven’t heard any complaints yet,” he said lightly, but he squeezed the human’s shoulder in sincere appreciation. “I barely took any, but at least I don’t think I’m in any danger of going off the deep end any more. Thank you, Carson.”



One of Carson’s hands gave a feeble wave, and Mac let his hand drop. He heard footsteps and turned. “Oh, wonderful,” Mac muttered as he spied the man coming into the room and he climbed to his feet, standing almost at attention. “Chief Hilbourne,” he said softly.



“It’s all right, Detective Taylor, sit back down,” he said gruffly. Chief Dwight Hilbourne was a thin, aging African-American man and the current head of Internal Affairs. He tended to pick politics over morals more often than Mac liked, but since when did the vampire’s opinion matter?



Hilbourne took in the sight of the pale, thin, shirtless and scarred vampire in the blood-dotted pants and shoes that was once again sitting attentively at Donald Flack’s kitchen table. Carson still sat next to him but had an elbow on the table and was leaning his forehead in his hand, looking a little pale. Hilbourne nodded in the human’s direction. “What happened with him?”



Mac cleared his throat. “He, ah, was kind enough to… part with some blood. Hopefully enough to tide me over until I can find a willing donor.” It was as tactful as he could manage while still being honest. Mac didn’t like candy-coating the harsh necessities of his existence but he did try to make it easier for his fellow cops to deal with.



Hilbourne looked almost sternly at Carson. “Detective Flack, did you give him permission?”



Carson nodded weakly but still emphatically. “I made the offer myself. He’s been through hell tonight and he saved my grandsons. It was the least I could do. And besides, I don’t think it’s fair to make him sit there and be hungry just because he can’t eat a quick sandwich.” He rubbed his forehead, and Mac stood with a brisk respectful nod and moved to the refrigerator, coming out with a soda. He moved to the living room doorway and held the can aloft and pointed a thumb over his shoulder, and Donald nodded that it was okay. Mac nodded back and sat the can in front of Carson and sat back down. “Thanks.”



Mac noticed Hilbourne’s eyebrows lifted. “Sorry, sir. I tend to be a bit fussy with my hosts. They’re kind enough to give me something to eat so I do my best to pay them back for it.”



Carson snorted and popped the top on the soda and took a long chug of it. “That’s not all he does. I know that nobody wants to really hear much about his personal life, Chief, but Don says that he always buys food for his hosts and makes sure they eat it and get home safely. He doesn’t hurt ‘em. Doesn’t believe in hurting ‘em.”



Hilbourne just studied Carson, and Mac began to get a sinking feeling. He’d heard Donald talk about his dad enough times to know that the man was almost legendary for his hatred of vampires. And here Mac was, within hours of meeting him, and the vampire-hater was actually coming across as more of a vampire apologist. Mac knew what the Chief Inspector must be thinking, that Mac had done something evil and beyond human capabilities, something that had brainwashed Donnie’s grandfather. It’s called gentle exposure to the truth through the hands of the one that thinks outside the box.



Carson, surprisingly, seemed to realize the exact same thing. “Don’t worry, Chief, I still hate all the damn leeches in this city… but Mac doesn’t count. He’s not a leech, he’s a badge.”



Mac was touched by that statement, and then he heard businesslike footsteps in the hallway and listened for them to make their way into the apartment, through the living room, and take a detour to the crime scene before heading toward the kitchen. Upon spying the new face, Mac almost groaned. “Inspector Markoni.”



Mac wasn’t the only one who suddenly looked sour at the entrance of Internal Affairs’ newest pain in the ass. The man had only been IA for less than a year and he already had a reputation for taking a morbid glee in his investigations and takedowns. Naturally he wasn’t fond of the fact that a vampire was handling evidence. He’d even asked Mac one time—with a serpent’s sickly-sweet smile—if Mac ever got hungry enough to snack on bloodstained murder weapons.



Mac was grateful to see that both Donald and Horatio had followed the inspector in, and Horatio resumed his post leaning against the sink while Donald sat next to his father after pausing to hand Mac a t-shirt that he’d dug out of his dresser. Bill Markoni looked less than pleased at that, probably having preferred the slightly dehumanizing prospect of questioning a half-clothed vampire, and Mac’s suspicions as to his intentions were confirmed. I drink blood. This man probably bathes in it. He slid his tall lanky friend’s rather snug-fitting NYPD t-shirt over his head and decided to strike before Markoni could. “Two IAB inspectors at once; I feel special. What brings you to this neighborhood in the middle of the night, Inspector Markoni? I thought you stuck to the daylight.”



Markoni sneered at the veiled barb; he could’ve easily reversed the comment and used it on Mac the next time Mac had to dodge the sun and testify in court. “I was in the neighborhood,” he said vaguely, “and heard that there had been an officer-involved homicide.” He paused to rather officiously pull off his coat and drape it over the back of the chair across from Mac and sat uninvited at Donald’s kitchen table. He made a casual show of adjusting the tie around his neck and gave a sickening smile. “So, Detective, how’s the night life?”



Mac held his tongue; even if the IAB snake was unaware, he probably would’ve picked that chair deliberately had he known that he was sitting in the spot that Donnie normally occupied. Mac briefly wondered who was watching the boys and listened, and heard their young voices chatting with the CSI3 that was showing them some of the cool stuff in his crime kit. Mac just tilted his head with a self-satisfied smile. “Same as it’s always been, Inspector, never a dull moment. Nice tan, by the way.”



Markoni frowned and Mac’s sensitive ears picked up the barest of snorts from his surrounding allies. Markoni hadn’t been quiet about plans to take a cruise with his latest female fling earlier that week, and upon his return it looked like the man had gotten into a fight with a tanning booth… and lost. His unfortunate temporary skin tone was made all the more glaring by the pale flesh of Mac, the redhead Horatio, and the Swing and Graveyard shift Flacks.



Markoni recovered gracefully. “My girlfriend thought so. You should try it sometime.”



Mac shook his head almost cheerfully. “I’m fine, thanks.” He leaned forward as though something had occurred to him. “I did take a charming lady out for drinks the other night and she was rather proud of her own tan, though not as proud as you are, obviously. She’s a consultant to a fashion designer and she let me in on this fascinating prediction that earth tones were going to be all the rage in this fall’s lineup. So, I guess you’re all set.”



Out of the corners of his eyes he saw Horatio and Donald both duck their heads, and Carson seemed incredibly fascinated with his soda. Even Chief Hilbourne took a glance at the back of his own dark hand and then put a severe restraint on a smile. Sad when your own boss enjoys watching you get filleted by a bloodsucker, Mac thought with amusement. At least Hilbourne was capable of working civilly beside Mac, and that was because the older IA man knew to make sure he had at least a sliver of evidence before opening his mouth.



In fact, if such a thing even existed, out of all the IAB inspectors Hilbourne was probably Mac’s favorite, not that that was saying much. He was glad that the IA section chief had been the first of his department on the scene. Self-righteous asshole that he could be sometimes, he was just doing his job and trying to keep the NYPD’s collective nose clean, and Mac could appreciate that.



Thus, Mac turned in his chair to ignore the younger snake completely in favor of the more competent man. “So, Chief,” he began in a much more polite tone, “did you have any questions for me?”



It was at that point that Donnie wandered into the kitchen, dragging the massive Cookie Monster plush behind him with one hand. Donnie rubbed sleepily at his eyes with his other hand and started to make his way over to Mac when he noticed Markoni, and Donnie pushed out his lip.



Mac saw the outburst coming and half-stood, holding out his arms. “Hey, Donnie, over here.”



Donnie’s gaze flicked from the over-baked snake in his chair to his beloved uncle, and decided to totter over to Mac, and the vampire scooped his godson into his lap and left the giant fuzzy companion on the floor propped against his chair. “Uncle Macky, I’m sleepy,” Donnie mumbled, eyes already at half-mast by the time he was comfortably settled in the strong pale arms.



Mac flicked his gaze to the room full of adult human men that were all watching him quietly, and he looked back down at this wonderful open-minded six-year-old. “Why don’t you go back to sleep in Daddy’s bed with Ricky?” Mac asked gently.



“’Cuz the bad scary-tooth man might come back.” Donnie snuggled up to his godfather and curled up into a little ball against his chest. “He hurt my Uncle Macky so I’m gonna…” he trailed off to yawn and his head drooped. “Don’t let ‘em… put… ‘way…”



Mac smiled tenderly down at him and kissed the top of Donnie’s head and then busied himself with smoothing the tousled hair back. It wasn’t until he was sure Donnie was good and out that he looked up.



Horatio was smiling softly, as was Donald. Carson looked torn between pleased and surprised. Hilbourne practically radiated stiff discomfort while Markoni just looked sick. Mac smiled a little sheepishly. “He does that,” he explained softly. “Falls asleep like nothing I’ve ever seen.”



“Only when you hold him,” Donald put in. “Sometimes he does it with me, but it kinda makes me jealous. He crawls up in your lap and bam, he’s out.”



Mac’s smile deepened. “I don’t get it either, but he trusts me so much… it’s amazing sometimes. Just feels like this huge responsibility to have that kind of effect on someone.” And then Mac’s head suddenly tilted. “Don, Ricky’s about to wake up,” he informed his friend quietly, “and he’s going to need you when he does. Sounds like a bad one.”



Donald nodded and hopped to his feet, headed out of the kitchen for his bedroom. Markoni started to sputter indignantly but Mac put a stern finger to his own lips, eyes hard, and Markoni swallowed despite himself and spoke in a whisper. “How do you know?” he hissed.



“Because I can hear him thrashing around in his sleep,” Mac said simply. “Ricky is already pretty bad about loud noises, and hearing that ruckus in his brother’s room can’t have helped any.”



All of the humans seemed to tilt their heads as one, probably unintentionally, but only the young Markoni loved his own voice so much that he ventured an indignant “Well, I don’t hear anything.”



“Because you’re not a vampire,” Horatio said drolly. A faint smile played across his lips. “Mac, how good is your hearing?”



Mac leaned back, carefully cradling his precious bundle, and smiled. “Ricky’s awake now and he’s crying but Don’s calming him down, that CSI that processed me earlier just cracked his head on the bathroom sink, the gurney’s waiting on the elevator, and the guy on the floor below us is bitching in this general direction because all the police presence spooked his date into a no-show.” He cocked his head and listened. “Oh, now that was uncalled for,” he muttered.



Carson chuckled, and Mac looked up expectantly until Donald appeared again a few seconds later, a still-whimpering Ricky in his arms. Ricky seemed to relax the minute he saw Mac, and by the time Donald sat back down his younger son had draped himself over his father’s chest as though to fall back asleep.



Carson lifted an eyebrow and reached over to stroke his grandson’s hair while he looked at Mac. “You know, I think them seeing you looking that bad-off scared them more than anything.”



Mac was embarrassed at that, and then he noticed a change in Markoni’s scent. He flicked a hard glare at the man but it was too late; the younger IAB man stood abruptly and stalked around the kitchen. “We should’ve done this at the precinct,” he growled.



Hilbourne’s voice was quiet but still sharp. “Inspector Markoni, keep your voice down.”



Markoni sighed explosively and wheeled on his section chief with an angry hiss. “What in the hell are we doing, Chief? Since when does IA question its suspects across the kitchen table! With kids in the room!”



“So what,” Carson growled, “you’re pissed because you can’t sit Mac in a bunker under a spotlight and try to deafen him with that big pretty voice of yours? Or are you pissed because the kids actually like him and make him not look like a monster?”



Mac held up a calming hand. “Carson, please,” he said quietly, giving the man a still-grateful nod before looking hard at Markoni. “So what am I a suspect of? Coroner’s preliminary exam says that my fangs sit too far apart to have made those holes in Lizzie, and I may have beaten that Dracula but I didn’t kill him, and since when do you care if someone killed a vampire anyway?”



Despite his young age and being the cocky son of a bitch that he was, Markoni did have a brain. “Because a vampire attacked the family of a cop.”



“No,” Mac corrected, “a vampire attacked the young female babysitter. She made an easy target because she was moving around a dark apartment alone except for two sleeping children, and she was a very noticeable target because she left the window open, and…” he paused and cleared his throat. “And… she was already bleeding. In a… feminine way. I could smell it all the way from the elevator.”



There were frowns all over the room at that one. Nobody said it so Mac bit the bullet and voiced the unspoken consensus. “Yes, that can be compared to chumming the waters for sharks, particularly in regards to very young ones that haven’t learned how to control themselves yet. If it wasn’t Lizzie it would’ve been someone else tonight. That fledgling was out of his mind, possibly Turned as recently as a couple of days ago, and he was so hungry he just went for the target that smelled the most appetizing.”



Silence descended.



It was Horatio that spoke first. “And that, gentlemen, is why the NYPD has employed a vampire: because he thinks like a human but understands the mentality of those that are not.”



Chief Hilbourne was nodding thoughtfully. “It does make sense. I don’t think I would have thought of that.” He looked at Mac. “Unless something turns up later that contradicts all this, I see no reason to drag this out. Detective Taylor, Detective Flack… I’m ruling it a good shoot. Justifiable self-defense.”



Mac’s human allies gave quiet sighs, but Markoni wasn’t done yet. The man deliberately swaggered over to Mac. “So, Detective Taylor, smelling blood send you into a feeding frenzy too?”



Mac’s gazed darkened but he didn’t move, instead concentrating on the sleeping child in his lap. He could smell the anger rising from his allies and did his best to tune it out, tune out everything but the innocent boy in his arms.



Markoni refused to be ignored and he leaned down, almost right in Mac’s face. “You ever lose it, Taylor? Huh? You ever flip out like that?”



Mac went stiff, and something in his eyes changed to give Markoni the sudden feeling that it would be a good idea to take a step back. Mac was perfectly still but he curled up his lip to speak gruffly and gave the IAB men an unintentionally good look at his fangs. “I have,” he grunted. “Once. A very long time ago. And I swore that it would never happen again, or so help me I’d walk into the very next sunrise.” Faster than a blink Mac’s hand snapped out and grabbed Markoni by the collar, hard eyes glaring the man to silence even as he kept talking in that clipped, irritated, almost businesslike tone. “I don’t choose to talk about this very often, so when I do feel like talking about it, you should feel like listening. My Sire was a serial rapist and murderer whose favorite pastime was running around the country and finding men he deemed attractive, kidnapping them, and holding them captive for his food. He was a violent sexual sadist that had no qualms about breaking an arm just because one of his human captives talked back to him, and then punishing that captive for being unable to perform properly. I was able to survive because I refused to let him break me mentally. In fact, I pissed him off so much that he Turned me against my will and then locked me in a small room with the rest of his humans. Yes, I lost control of myself, but it was with their help that I got myself back under control and didn’t kill a single one of them. It was at that point that my Sire became very, very upset with me. When he finished working off his bad mood… he was gone and I was the only one that was still moving. It took about three months for me to physically recover. And he’s still out there.” And just like that, he released Markoni’s eyes and shirt and went back to rocking Donnie in his lap as though he’d never been interrupted.



Exactly five seconds of silence passed.



“My God,” Carson breathed.



“Je-sus,” Donald almost moaned.



Horatio was emitting a very low growl from his place next to the sink.



Markoni looked like was about to wet himself, and Hilbourne grabbed his subordinate’s arm in a very unprofessional way. “We’re done here,” he grunted. He pulled Markoni along and all but shoved the man out of the kitchen. He paused in the doorway before turning back to Mac, face and voice physically shaken. “Detective Taylor,” he started. Mac didn’t look up but tilted his head just the slightest bit. The man opened his mouth and closed it several times, and finally stuttered out “good shoot.” He waited almost desperately, and finally Mac acknowledged him with the slightest of nods. Hilbourne looked visibly relieved and hurried away.



The silence was heavy enough to be clutched in handfuls, and just as Donald was about to speak Mac cut him off. “I didn’t tell anyone,” he said simply, “because I don’t like talking about it and because I refuse to be a victim. I appreciate your concern but I want none of you to treat me any differently than you have.” He paused and his head drooped a little, and his voice hitched as he gritted his teeth. “And I will say this only once: don’t ever feel sorry for me, because of my past or because I’m a vampire. Don’t you dare.”



“Uncle Macky?”



It was Donnie, eyes blinking sleepily up at his godfather, and carelessly the boy poked Mac’s abdomen. “You feel like th’floor,” he mumbled. “You’re not squishy anymore.”



Mac closed his eyes and released a tense, controlled breath and relaxed the muscles in his arms and chest that he hadn’t realized he’d been clenching. “Sorry, Quackers,” he murmured. “That better?”



The boy nodded drowsily and snuggled up again. “Nighty-night.”



A tender smile crossed Mac’s face as it always did. “Good night, Donnie,” he whispered.



More silence, and then Horatio finally pulled himself to a standing position. “I don’t believe the Graveyard shift will be hearing from Markoni any time in the near future, so I suppose you should count your blessings for that,” he said quietly.



“The man is a true bloodsucker,” Carson grunted.



“You know, I take offense to that,” Mac muttered drolly. “I share neither diet nor species with that man, and I never plan to.”



Donald couldn’t restrain a wince. “And that coming from a vampire… ouch.”



Horatio gave a somewhat forced chuckle and moved to stand next to Mac. “So, what next? Carson, I suppose you’ll be taking on a few guests for the next few nights?”



Carson nodded and turned to his son. “Don, hand Ricky to me and pack a few bags, would you?”



Donald just nodded and handed the sleeping boy over and then stood, pausing and looking sadly at Mac before heading out of the room.



“And you, Mac?” Horatio continued. “Will you be going to your home as well?”



Mac nodded. “I will after I find myself a quick date.”



“Not many spur-of-the-moment pickups at this time of night, or at least none that would take two looks at a skeletal man in an NYPD shirt,” Horatio mused, and gently he squeezed the vampire’s shoulder and got no response. “May I give you a ride home?” he asked gently.



Mac was quiet and then tilted his head. “Why not? I’m still too hungry to go it on foot.”



“Then I shall help you find someone to bed down with,” Horatio said simply, “because I believe that it’s an officer’s duty to take care of his fellow brothers-in-uniform.”



Mac gave a single nod. “Appreciate it.”



The CSI3 popped into the room, one hand holding papers and the other absently rubbing the back of his head. Funny thing about bathroom sinks, the space underneath them was always smaller than it looked. “Detectives? Mind if I get a few autographs before we clear the scene?” There were nods all around, and the CSI passed out the papers so that each detective could put their signatures to their statements.



Mac accepted a pen from Horatio and filled in the necessary blanks, and at one point he paused and shook his head, took a careful glance at Donnie still in his lap before shaking his head and giving a quiet growl, and he scribbled out something and corrected it off to the side. Carson lifted an eyebrow. “Problem?”



“I’m hungrier than I thought,” Mac grunted. “Do you have any idea how annoying that is?”



“How annoying what is?” Horatio wondered. “Hunger?”



Mac shook his head and sighed. “Dates.” He noticed the human’s puzzlement and explained. “Say I go out and feed, then go home and sleep, then go to work tonight. It’s Tuesday. Within a few hours of my getting there, I suddenly have to realize to use Wednesday’s date instead. Sometimes midway through filling out something.”



The CSI checked his watch. “It’s actually been Wednesday for about four and a half hours now.”



Carson had his brows furrowed in a surprising display of concern. “Mac, you and I met six and a half hours ago, on Tuesday.”



“Like I said,” Mac sighed, “I’m hungrier than I thought. You humans have it easy, or at least the ones that sleep at night do. Every waking hour is the same date for you.”



“You bitching about that again?” Donald growled good-naturedly as he came back into the kitchen with suitcases in both hands and travel bags slung over his shoulder.



“Of course,” Mac said grumpily, “because that’s the safest thing for me to complain about at the moment.”



Horatio waited until Mac was done with his papers before snatching his pen back. Mac lifted an eyebrow at him but stood, holding Donnie until Donald transferred a couple of bags to Carson’s shoulder. Carson continued to hold Ricky and Mac carefully handed over Donnie. That done, Horatio squeezed Mac’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you home and fed.”



Something in Horatio’s words caught Mac’s attention, and he leaned forward so that the redhead would be the only one to hear him. “Don’t you mean ‘fed and then home?’”



Horatio just looked at him, and Mac caught on. He was going to protest again but instead just sighed. “I thought being the mother-hen was my job,” he growled.



Donald just chuckled and shook his head. “Go ahead and get outta here, Mac, before I gotta chase you off.”



Mac couldn’t help a chuckle. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow night. And Carson? Thank you again.”



Carson just gave a subdued nod. “Yeah. You’re welcome. Good to meet ya, by the way.”



And then Horatio was tugging on Mac’s shoulder, and Mac didn’t have the energy to protest the human that bustled him out of the apartment, down the hall, into the elevator, and into Horatio’s car. Horatio cut him off every time Mac tried to speak unless it was to give directions, and the redhead turned a deaf ear as he helped Mac out of the car and accompanied the vampire into Mac’s home.



As Mac showed the human inside and locked the door behind them, all he could do was shake his head and sigh. “Humans. Go figure.”