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 Michelle slid down easily onto Alex's cock, and squeezed.  He caught his
breath reflexively, and concentrated.  His cock thickened slightly, not by
much but expanding to meet the contraction Michelle was enforcing.  Then
his back arched convulsively, and fell back.  And arched again, launching
Michelle almost into the air.  Thank God she had a strong grip, Alex
thought.  If she had flown off, it would have utterly ruined the
atmosphere. He brought his hands up and traced the outlines of her breasts,
prompting caught breath in return from his servant.  They continued, linked
in physical rapport that almost extended into the mental and indeed might
have had they both been of the breed, until Michelle came.  As he felt the
first inklings of Michelle's orgasm Alex released his determination on the
muscle holding him in check, and so master and servant released at the same
time.  Michelle let herself drop forward onto his chest and caught his
mouth in a euphoric kiss.  For a while they lay there, Alex half-in and
half-out of his servant.  As they parted for air, he reached out to his
jacket, hanging over the swivel chair in his study, and extracted his
precious hip-flask.  Another swig of the warm liquid coursed down his
throat and he closed his eyes in rapture that, as always, was almost, but
not quite, the equal of what he had just experienced. He screwed the cap
back on and tossed it onto the chair itself, leaving it carelessly. Philip
Smythe's chemical concoction of the sixties was almost certainly not
harmful, and it wasn't addictive physically, but by God it gave you one
hell of a buzz.  Just the thing to counter the post-coital tristesse Alex
and other males sometimes experienced, and just the thing for the
occasional nip to calm the old nerves.  It wouldn't do for a member of the
breed to show weakness, but by common agreement taking a drink of the Bane
was not the same thing as showing weakness.  It tasted too damn good for
that; could be other reasons for taking it.  As now. He looked down at
Michelle and stroked her hair.  She almost purred in pleasure.  "Not quite
what you expected when you agreed to meet me, this, is it?" he asked. "No,
master," she said, in the most sultry tones she could generate.  "It's
good, though." He thought about asking her to decide between what she'd
expected and some sort of outside relationship, even with the problems
inherent in a relationship during a live-in job, and what she'd got.  But
it was hardly fair.  And a Whyte was always scrupulously fair. *** Peter
and Debbie were walking back to the college Halls at about half-one in the
morning when three thugs tried to rob them.  They stepped out in front of
the young couple, so confident were they in their ability.  At sight ofthe
baseball bat, Peter immediately stepped forward and in front of Debbie -
the Whyte code of honour surfacing.  However outdated the rules of chivalry
might be, a Whyte did not allow a woman to come to injury if he could
prevent it. "Well, what we got 'ere then?" the closest thug snarled, thus
presenting himself in Peter's mind as both Head Thug and Student of Action
Movie Dialogue, Cliche, honours, and bar.  "Giss yer money." Peter drew his
wallet out of his pocket, his eyes never leaving the thug's, raised it to
his lips, and kissed it slowly and deliberately.  And put it back in his
pocket. "What you doin'?" the thug demanded indignantly.  "I said, giss yer
money." "And I did," Peter said, selecting his City stockbroker voice.  "Or
at the very least, I did what you asked insofar as I could deduce your
intention.  Frankly, my man, your diction is appalling." He took his hand
out of his pocket, letting it hang by his side.  Fingers started to
lengthen, to taper, sharpening, calcifying... The thug snarled
incomprehensibly and lunged forward.  Peter brought his hand up
astonishingly fast and his hand slapped open-handed against the baseball
bat.  And kept going, right through it. His hand completed the flattened
circle and returned to it's previous position as the first slivers of
baseball bat hit the floor.  He readied himself for the kick in the balls
and follow-up uppercut that would probably end the fight on their own, when
suddenly Debbie's foot flicked out past him, travelling faster if anything
than his own open-handed - open-clawed - swipe, and caught the thug in the
bollocks with a meatily satisfying squelchy thud. He grunted once and
doubled over, receiving Peter's still-human left hand in his face and
twisting away, falling unconscious to the floor.  And then Peter was
conscious of a bright flicker passing by him and then Debbie had flattened
the second thug with a single left hook.  The third thug turned to flee,
but Peter was ready for that.  A leap cleared more distance than it had any
right to and Peter landed heavily on the thug's back, both feet up,
carrying him forwards and over onto his face.  He gripped the thug's hair
and raised his head off the ground, before smashing it forward with just
slightly too little force to smash his skull. He looked up at Debbie, who
stood over her man, not even breathing heavily.  She asked, "Why didn't you
use your mind power on them?" He stood.  "No chance of hitting all three
with what I used on you," he said, counting his points off on his fingers,
now returned to normal, "the charisma area-effect thing doesn't work
sufficiently well on people disposed to resist, and they had just spoiled a
perfect night out.  I was pissed." She looked at the baseball bat shards.
"I can tell.  How did you do that?" He shrugged.  "Tell you later.  C'mon,
let's go to bed." "But-" "Don't press the point, Debbie.  I'm sorry for
stressing this, but I have a lot to do before I can even think of
explaining." "Bu-" The force of the order overwhelmed Debbie's attempts to
ignore it.  "Of course, master.  Very well." He took her arm, and they
continued to walk back to Trinity Hall.  The skies were beautiful, the
night clear and almost silent; as Peter had said, it had been a perfect
night out. But that didn't matter.  Peter had to inform others of his
suspicions.  Duty came first; after that burden was lifted he'd be able to
explain what was going on to Debbie.  But not before.  And, perhaps, not
even then. *** "Do we have even the remotest idea what the whole thing is
with this Bureau?" "They wouldn't like us if they knew about us," Alex told
Jonathan.  "They now know about us, and are therefore likely to attempt to
take us out.  We intend to do the same to them.  First." "And...  how
exactly do you plan to do that?" "When we know what we face with some more
precision, we will formulate the plan.  Until then, mere superior
intelligence will have to suffice." "Confident, aren't you?" "Yes, but only
deservedly so.  We've beaten everything so far.  This is the only
organisation we haven't put down right at the start, and I'm not sure
why... clearly democracy failed.  This must have been organised in closed
session and not put through the House of Lords; we would have caught it
there.  I didn't actually think this country had the guts to do that, even
in those days.  They must have just tucked the funding away somewhere in
the Budget under something completely different.  And through sheerest
luck, there weren't any breed left who weren't going into Lords rather than
Commons by the time it happened.  We never caught it." "So how did you find
out now?" "Well, it's this abolition of the seats for hereditary peers. 
Duncan, for example, and one or two of the others, are actually interested
in politics.  Duncan stood for Commons in a by-election and got in.  And he
was looking through some old record - very old records - and this turned
up. Naturally, he told us and we began the investigation." "And you haven't
found much yet?" "No, just what we've told you.  That's why we're trying
this ploy; we're out of other avenues to explore.  Whoever set this up had
a nose for secrecy.  And no one ever put them on a social-security list. 
We had no other option, so we took this one." *** Carver scratched his head
and stared blankly at Trinity Hall from the Backs. This was bloody
ridiculous.  They had nothing to go on; nothing but a scratchy feeling on
the back of Kirk's neck about Whyte.  And that meant, by some leap of
reasoning that utterly escaped Carver, that his son needed keeping an eye
on. As far as Carver was concerned, Peter Whyte was pretty good evidence of
Whyte senior's uninvolvement.  Last time he'd checked, vampires had
problems with the old reproduction thing.  And so did pretty much
everything else 15 had dealt with in the past. OK, Whyte could be a more
recent addition to their ranks.  But generally they made slips very
quickly, and minor slips.  He hadn't.  If he'd made a slip - the debate
still raged - it was a pretty phenomenal one.  And no other slip they'd
been able to pick up on. So he was watching Peter while Cokey kept tabs on
Whyte.  Which was bloody stupid because Cokey had been working on something
else, not this at all.  If she needed to be pulled onto this she should be
watching Peter.  Peter was so unlikely to have anything to do with this it
wasn't even funny.  It was just an insult. And to make matters worse, there
was only something else he should be looking at round here that he
couldn't. Some kind of super-fighter; the people assaulted claimed it was a
man and his woman, which roughly translated down into one assailant. 
People always had to bolster their pride.  But he'd seen what the guy had
done to the baseball bat.  Four slices at the same angle with uneven,
probable claw marks all the way through the bat.  Meaning four blades, or
claws, all striking at once with roughly evenly balanced force.  And
cutting all the way through the baseball bat.  Should not be possible.
Absolutely should not be possible. *** Peter and Debbie had ended up
sitting up all night and up until gone lunchtime the next day.  Peter took
the view that he simply couldn't afford to let her out of his sight until
he got some sort of reply.  He just didn't have the expertise necessary to
make a judgement on his suspicions.  And the final lowdown would have one
hell of an impact on both of them.  Or it wouldn't impact at all, which,
given the alternative, was still a hell of an impact, if only to him. The
sound of Richard Burton's voice filtered through from the next room; the
old War Of The Worlds album was a favourite of Peter's neighbour.  As a
result, it was slowly becoming a favourite of everyone else on the floor;
liking it was the only way to stay sane.  Peter waited, and it was quickly
replaced by Jeff Wayne amid a barrage of electronic music. He put a
Morricone CD on in reply, and Wells duelled with Leone; Once Upon A Time In
The West against the War Of The Worlds. He sat back and resumed watching
Debbie.  The prickle on the back of his neck had only intensified since ten
o'clock this morning; he was definitely being watched.  A Whyte was never
wrong about such matters.  But the observer could wait.  If his suspicions
were correct... If his suspicions were correct, then the breed would all be
interested.  A matter of paramount importance. The phone rang.  He turned
the Morricone CD off quuckly and banged on the wall. Jeff Wayne got louder.
"This is your business too, Greene!" he roared.  Jeff Wayne cut off
immediately. Peter snatched the phone up, not even allowing himself a smile
at the cessation of the music.  The duty was too imminent for that. "Whyte
here." "And here.  We've been checking.  She's actually on the list, but
low down.  Even for this day and age.  Nevertheless permission is yours."
"Understood," Peter said crisply.  None of the elation he felt at this
confirmation was present in his voice. "Good work, son.  I'll leave you to
it." "Thanks, dad." Peter cut the connection and put his mobile back down.
He turned back to Debbie and smiled ruefully.  Debbie wondered, as she
always did, how genuine he was being. "I'm sorry to have to do this," he
said.  Debbie shivered as she saw the overlarge fangs become merely another
pair in a jawline like New York, all his teeth seeming to run with saliva,
which somehow didn't affect his speech. "But it is what must be done.  I
have been permitted." He took a step forward and reached out, one hand
caressing her neck.  His jaw opened wide. She tried to scream. She tried.
STILL IN PROGRESS