**RRINGG..!**

**RRINGG!!!**

Shrill, mechanical trilling pierced heavy layers of unconsciousness and  Napoleon Solo's eyes snapped open. "Damned phone..." he muttered sourly, sluggishly pushing himself off his rumpled bed and hobbling over to the stubbornly sounding device. Solo lifted the receiver, but before he could speak- "About bloody time you picked up, mate!"

Napoleon shook off the remaining wooziness, recognition filtering in at the sound of the familiar, broad Nottinghamshire accent of Mark Slate. "Mark? What do you want now?"

The young garou ("werewolf", he proudly preferred to be called) laughed aloud. "What d'you think, guv'ner? *I* listen to me mates -*you* pay if you want to hear what they had to say."

"Right..." Napoleon ran a hand through disheveled hair, noting with vague surprise the bandage that someone (Illya?) had placed on the tiny bruised wound there. "What do you have for me this time?"

"Nuh-uh! *You* meet me at the usual place in half an hour-"

"Mark! I don't have time for this."

"*Make* the time, guv'ner. I think you'll find that it's as important t' your poncey new mate as you...and bring the usual amount." At that, the connection was broken.

"Damn..." Napoleon sank back onto the edge of his bed, head still heavy...nothing new about that. He had given and lost large quantities of blood before, and the result was usually the same. The wooziness... The transitory weakness... But the *reason* -that was different. A knight of his order could and would fight to keep the peace, and could aid the Kindred in any way *except* to provide them with human blood...but he had done that. No, he had done more -he had given Illya *his* blood. In error, true, but he had done it, thinking that Illya Kuryakin -a vampire- would die if he had not...

...and, God help him, despite the warnings and the fear, if the need -the *real* need- ever presented itself with no other alternative, he knew that he
would do it again...down to the last ruddy drops.

Napoleon's hand brushed his nightstand, fingers touching a neatly folded sheaf of paper -he picked it up, immediately recognizing as the sheet fell open, Illya's elegant, flowing script. "'We will meet ere the stroke of midnight. Forgive me. I need to think -Illya.'"

Yes, Napoleon agreed  -*he* needed to think also. Despite the long line of lovely ladies he had been known to have squired, despite his oaths as a knight, despite his *beliefs*, he was drawn to the beautiful creature that was Illya Kuryakin...and he had no idea if the vampire could possibly feel the same even if it *was* safe for them to do so.

As he often did when troubled, Napoleon reached to twine the gold chain around his neck between his fingers -and stopped.

The crucifix was gone.

A silent form sat and watched from the shadows, as the last of UNCLE New York's ordinary daytime staff filed out for the day. He sat, and watched, unnoticed. Not even the most acute seeps by mechanical security sensors created to detect anything out of the ordinary -be it by sound, heat, or movement- could pick him up unless he wished it...and as long as he used the shadows as his shroud, neither could he be seen.

Illya Kuryakin waited...

...waited, twisting the chain of the crucifix he had borrowed around a finger, until he could be certain that he was alone...

...and pondered the reasons for his actions.

The vampire could not stop thinking about the human whose blood warmed him now -about Napoleon- and how he had come to take that precious life-giving fluid. He laid no blame on his human partner for the awkward position in which he had been found for he knew that Napoleon had only done what he had thought right -and for that, Illya was grateful ...but even the ancient Valentine could not know that his favorite descendant *had* been hungry when he had taken the human's blood.

Just not the way that anyone else might have thought.

An ancient one might have been able to resist...

A dhampyre born of human and Kindred might not even have had to acknowledge the urge...

But in the semi-awareness of daytime torpor, Illya had finally been unable to resist the *need* to possess his partner completely...a longing that was more
profound than mere lust or desire that had burned within him the moment they had first met...and had gone spiraling out of control at the first taste of Napoleon's blood. For *that* he could only hope that Napoleon could one day forgive him.

But the fact still was that Napoleon should have known about the daytime torpor...and he hadn't.

Anyone in Section One would have known, but they hadn't told the C.E.A. of UNCLE New York a hidden truth he *should* have known. If  Illya understood
the hierarchy of UNCLE as he believed he did, the Number One of Section One -Sir Alexander Waverly- would have made his orders and the secrets needed to
follow them known to the Number Two of Section One -Sir John Raleigh- who would have seen them carried out, but Sir John had *not* told Napoleon that
one thing ...a dangerous thing not to know.

What else had Napoleon not been told -and why?

It was therefore to Sir John Raleigh that Illya wished to speak.

Illya made his way along the long corridors of UNCLE, flowing from one shadow to another like a wraith -an action that would drain him terribly in the
long run, he knew. Only the ancients like Valentine could travel the shadows with ease, but this way was faster and made Illya harder to detect. He had not
forgotten that a child of the Kindred was not expected to enter the domain of the knighthood without permission. Finally, he was there. The vampire was uneasy -he knew that John Raleigh was reputed to work late and had yet to leave the building- but he did not know how he would be received...but they would talk, he and the Number Two of Section One. That much he had decided.

Tall oak doors opened at Illya's touch.

The first thing that struck the young vampire was the darkness of the grand office, all lamps turned to their lowest register, the second was that beneath the curiously strong scent of sandalwood pot pourri, there was something else...something familiar...the same odor he had scented when accosted by the Lilim -the smell of old death. Decay. The third curiosity was that the figure that sat behind the grand oaken desk did not react to his now open presence. Somehow, Illya was not all that surprised by what he finally found.

Sir John Raleigh was dead -he had been for the better part of a week- days before Illya had arrived. A stake had been driven into the man's heart, pinning the corpse to its chair, but beyond that, there was no further mutilation. The man had died a human. But who then did he meet when Napoleon had introduced him to Section One's Number Two? The words escaped Illya's mouth as a whisper: "Who did I meet?"

"Perhaps, Kindred, you should ask *what*."

The vampire turned, rubine eyes taking in the horrific grin of Sir John Raleigh.