Chapter 1

It was a rare woman who could elude Henry Fitzroy, but somehow, she had managed.

Of course, she was a rare woman.

Hard as a rock, yet not made of stone.

She was not pretty in the way he usually preferred his lovers. Her eyes were too sharp, her jaw too strong. But still, she was beautiful in her very own, very special way.

Captivating.

She had him hook, line, and sinker, as they say.

But he did not have her.

He'd been obsessed with her from nearly the first. What moment? Was it after carrying her in his arms, after their first meeting? Watching her resting form, hoping to god he hadn't injured her in his reflexive strike?

Or perhaps it was after waking to the sight of her bare back, hourglass waist, all the toned muscle of a woman who trained for that moment when she just might have to run for her life, or someone else's.

The memory of that black lace brassiere had occupied his mind, his imagination, his darkest most delicious thoughts, for months after.

Yes, she was hard as a rock, but not made of stone. She loved, she loved people deeply. Why else would she fight so bravely, give up so much of herself to protect her fellow humans, people she did not even know, but somehow claimed responsibility for? Despite her cynical nature, deep down she held a strong faith in the goodness of people, the sanctity of life, in every man and woman's right to live a safe life.

Perhaps more specifically, she loved Mike, without a doubt. She would die for him.

And she loved him too. Of this he was certain, though she could never quite let down her shields enough to let him in. she would make a deal with the devil to save him from an Incan priest's black magic, but she could not reconcile why, or allow herself to reap the rewards of her loyalty to him.

Of his love for her.

He could not win her, nor coerce her. He never could get past her shields.

And so he was leaving instead. Running away. He'd told her the reason was the demon Astaroth. He'd begged her to come with him, to run away to a new life together.

He told himself he wanted to go because he was afraid of what would happen if he stayed in that city, but in the end Henry FitzRoy could only lie to himself so much.

He was leaving because of her. Because he couldn't stand to be near her but not have her any longer.

He thought of their adventure with the incubus. How the demon cum gardener had sensed her longing, had visited her in her sleep to touch her. And how she'd gone to him soon after, and uncertain look in her eye as she asked if he'd just been with her. If it was his hands running all over her body. How he'd envied the demon, resented him for taking privileges he himself had yet to win.

And he would find out, over the next year, they were intimate privileges that would never become his, no matter what he tried. No matter how he tried to woo her, no matter how many passes or poems or paintings of her as the star in his own personal comic book fantasies. No matter how many cases they solved, or how many times he saved her life. Saved her from her own bull-headedness.

Henry would be gone in a month, and that was that.

End of story.

She would be the one who got away, a lover longed for but never tasted.

Hello, heart break, old friend.

His gut clenched at the thought, that old familiar ache.

Why? How was this possible? How could two people possible care for each other so much, and never be together?

It was absurd.

Henry looked to the clock. Three Am. He felt the strongest desire to speak to her, to argue with her, anything. But probably she was asleep. His heart called out, it would have no logic that night, nor take any guff from pride either. He thought on the way she had cried, as Mike walked out on her, and then he himself.

It was the most vulnerable he'd ever witnessed her. For all her love and sacrifice, in the end, it seemed she would end up alone. Where was the justice in that? But she was too proud. She would not go to her other lover, she would not beg. And neither would she come knocking on his door again.

Pride--the coddling of the ego, of self image--it all boiled down to cowardice in the end. So if she was a coward -- well -- he was too, wasn't he?

They were both running from something that could hurt them, physically or emotionally. He wrestled with his thoughts, his imagination, perhaps overactive at that.

He thought of that boy he'd met briefly, the reincarnated star-crossed lover. The boy had plotted to do something drastic to win his wife back, and perhaps at his most level-headed, channeling Victoria herself, he had advised that though once one could steal a horse or storm a castle, those days were done for. That when a woman told you to go, that was what you did.

Yet had he not also complained that true romance had died, that men had no idea how to treat a woman anymore? The death knells of poetry and courting fell upon deaf ears -- they went with hardly a scream, slipping away like love itself, if not given half the chance it deserves.

Henry growled, pacing the floor. He was in a mood to storm a castle that night. Who better to scale the trellis, than a prince in the flesh? Who better to breath life back into the lost art of loving a woman, than a resurrected romantic? Was he not failing himself in his flight, doing them both a disservice by leaving her alone to her fears of exposing her heart?

The vampire sighed, knowing what he must attempt to do, even if he already knew he was destined to fail. What was one more chance to make a fool of himself with her? One more opportunity for rejection?

He prayed that their foolish bravado hadn't ruined it all, that it wasn't too late to change their ending. Uncross their stars. Tear out the last page, and write a new one. Whole new chapters, with illustrations to make good Christians blush. Floating on the wings of a new hope, Henry snatched up his coat, and rushed from the apartment. He had a sleeping P.I. to rouse.