And Time Again

My eternal appreciation and gratitude to NorthmanMaille, without whom I would be lost. Her beta work and research assistance were invaluable in the writing of this story.

Chapter 1

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Eric and Pam sat, as was their custom, barely acknowledging the presence of anyone else, human or vampire. Over the centuries that passed since her making, their relationship had woven its way through many phases. From the intense flames of sexual passion to the glistening embers of the realization hot sex wasn't enough to sustain an enduring relationship. Through years of separation and now the comfort and stability of a business partnership between two creatures so familiar they know one another as well as they know themselves.

Much as any other night, Fangtasia was a roiling ocean of sameness. Behind the darkly made-up eyes and fake fangs the humans were indistinguishable. Beneath the shadow colored attire they felt gave them an air of mystery and intrigue, they were all soaked in too much sweat from drinking and dancing; drenched in too much cologne from overzealous reapplications designed to garner the notice of the vampires keen sense of smell.

Despite their naïve beliefs in their ability to become experts in all things vampire by way of a simple Google search, they knew nothing. They only needed one thing to attract a vampire and the monotonous truth was, they all had it … a heartbeat. Everything above and beyond their pulse amounted to little more than an advertisement of the stupidity of them being here, hardly a ringing endorsement.

The Great Revelation was supposed to be freeing for vampires, but he didn't feel free. He'd spent a millennium keeping his true nature hidden; moving on when suspicions were aroused or even hinted at, but now he felt more caged than ever.

Eric glanced around the room with open contempt.

"These are the ones you read about in that newspaper you're so fond of. The ones who visit the zoo, lean too far into the lion's den and end up being mauled."

"Oh, I love those stories!" Pam exclaimed, her smile backing up her words. "I especially like the ones on TV, where they live to tell about it. The surprise on their faces when they say how shocked they were to discover the lions weren't tamed is always priceless."

"Priceless," Eric repeated dismally. He had no real interest in discussing lion maulings.

Something at the bar caught his eye. A woman. Not really the woman herself, more the way she moved. The motion of her arm as she reached to take something from her handbag. Deep in his mind, a memory stirred. It came bubbling up close to the surface, but couldn't quite break through.

Her back was to him, so he couldn't see her face but he could see she was standing with Bill Compton. Compton was guarding her closely, following her every move; keeping watch over everyone within striking distance of her. Whatever it was she took from her bag she showed to the bartender, Longshadow.

Eric focused more intently on the human woman with Compton. She was showing Longshadow pictures. She must be looking for someone. Well, it certainly wasn't the first time a human had come into Fangtasia armed with photos of missing relatives. No doubt Longshadow was giving the usual useless answers and he didn't let them get away without getting a drink order. Good man, Longshadow. He always had the bottom line in mind.

Compton led the woman to a nearby table and seated her, positioning her in such a way Eric's view of her remained partially obstructed. Bill knew they'd been noticed.

Eric felt a pulse of anger flash through him. If Bill Compton thought he could come into Fangtasia and openly insult the Area Sheriff by flaunting his new toy without so much as the courtesy of an introduction, he was badly mistaken. Eric was on the verge of sending Pam to escort them over when Bill realized his error. He looked up and met Eric's eye.

Eric raised his hand and beckoned by nonchalantly crooking his finger.

Bill took the woman by the arm and nudged her from her chair so he could guide her to the table where Eric and Pam were seated. Confrontation averted.

Eric calmed instantly and was almost fully relaxed again when the woman looked nervously in his direction. Their eyes met for only a moment, and she casually tossed her hair. It was then he recognized her. It was her, wasn't it? It couldn't be. Was it? It had to be. It was as if the fabric of time folded back on its self, plucking her from an obscure recess in his memory to deliver her to him … again.

XXXXXXX

Having bored of the constant economic turmoil and political conflict with Denmark plaguing his homeland, he had once again traversed the North Sea. Landing in London only six months ago, he quickly found himself easily accepted and quite at home among those on the outskirts of the British aristocracy.

After years of war and uncertainty, King Henry VII only recently secured the future of his royal house with the marriage of his eldest son, HRH Arthur, Prince of Wales, to the daughter of the King of Spain, Catalina (now to be called Catherine) of Aragon. The country was breathing a collective sigh of relief and riding a wave of welcome peace.

These last two months Eric had been finding both amusement and pleasure on the arm and in the bed of Lady Francesca Whitcomb, the socially in demand young wife of an often-abroad diplomat in the service of the King. Owing to Francesca's popularity and highborn connections, Eric found himself on his present course: traveling to Ludlow Castle as a member of a large party visiting Prince Arthur and his new Spanish bride.

Despite being 30 years her junior, Francesca had endeared herself to the Baroness Joan Strange, friend to Lady Margaret Beaufort, who was in turn, mother of the King. As it happened, Baroness Strange and Lady Beaufort were also married to brothers, which strengthened their social connection and positions.

Lady Beaufort was traveling to visit her grandson the Prince. Her sister-in-law Baroness Strange accompanied her. For her amusement, the Baroness brought with her the delightful Lady Whitcomb, and of course Lady Whitcomb could not bear to be parted from her current lover, Eric Norseman. Into this spring of promise and celebration he rode, a stunning picture of perfection upon his grey stallion, like the proverbial calm before the storm.

So it was, on this cool March evening, Eric rode alongside Lady Whitcomb's carriage. Having passed through the town of Ludlow, they were within sight of the castle and Francesca was busying herself with her mirror. As a member of Lady Beaufort's extended party, making a good presentation of ones self was of paramount importance. One must appear refreshed and as agreeably attractive as possible at all times; even if one has been traveling quite uncomfortably for hours without rest.

With her maid maintaining a single candle as steadily as possible, Francesca, holding her mirror in one hand and a powder puff in the other, smiled out at Eric. Her delighted laughter rang sweetly through the carriage window when he returned her gesture with a smile and slight nod. Human women were so easily pleased, particularly in the upper classes. So much of their lives were filled with frivolity, providing them with small diversions required little if any effort.

He was so distracted by watching Francesca flirt with him; he paid no attention to the girl walking alone on the road just ahead. He was as surprised as everyone else when the carriage hit a mud-filled hole causing it to bounce. The girl walking beside the road screamed as she was splashed with water and mud. Inside the carriage the maid dropped the candleholder, resulting in a panicked scramble to douse the small flame before it could ignite Lady Whitcomb's lace underskirts.

Eric was off his horse in an instant, flinging the carriage door open to see to Francesca's well being; or at least to give her the impression he was concerned for her. "Close the door before I catch a chill!" Francesca shouted, perhaps a bit more harshly than she intended.

He felt his expression harden and he recoiled from her, quickly closing the door lest she notice the change in his demeanor. He stood in the road and watched as the carriage moved on its way without his accompaniment.

As he reached to gather his horse's reins, he caught the soft sounds of a female weeping. Francesca's words echoed I his ears. "… before I catch a chill." Though it was not raining now, it had rained most of the afternoon today. He recalled Francesca's maid prattling on about it earlier. Everything was quite wet and the temperature was cool. With the light breeze it would have to be terribly uncomfortable for humans to be outdoors. Yet there was that girl, alone beside the road in the damp spring twilight, soaked through with mud and crying.

How unfortunate for her, that the last evening prior to her death should be so dreary, he thought without emotion … and then it happened. She moved. It was a perfectly ordinary movement. It required no particular exertion or skill. There was no justifiable reason for him to have noticed it … and yet.

She simply reached into the deep pocket of her threadbare cloak to draw out a handkerchief. It was enough to save her life. Something about the way her arm moved held him in his place, transfixed by the manner her fingers curled gently around the scrap of cloth in her hand.

She was about to raise the handkerchief to wipe her face when she noticed him standing there, staring at her. Her apprehension was immediately evident in the way she darted her eyes. With the carriage getting further away by the second, they were quite alone on the road. She dutifully lowered her gaze, but she did not back away.

"My apologies for the mud, Miss." He continued his approach until he was within a few feet of her, stopping when he noticed how she had stiffened. Clearly she was expecting no good to come of their meeting.

She voiced no response, only pulled her cloak tighter around herself.

He could feel her pulse pounding, its volume increasing by leaps and bounds with each passing second. He could almost taste her blood without even having touched her. In any other circumstance he would have already taken the opportunity to strike, yet he did not. He merely stared, as if he was waiting for her to suddenly turn and fly away.

Without benefit of the body heat generated by walking, she began to shiver and the movement was quickly accompanied by what sounded oddly like someone playing castanets. Her teeth were chattering, he realised.

"You are cold," Eric stated, grabbing the clasp holding the cape he had slung carelessly over his right shoulder. He closed the remaining distance between them in a single, long stride and draped the garment around her neck before retreating to his previously held position.

"Thank you, milord," she replied.

Her voice was barely above a whisper and she still did not make eye contact, though the thunderous beating of her heart began to slow as her initial panic receded.

"I am pleased to hear you are not mute. Are you injured?"

"No, milord."

"You mistake me. I am no lord."

"Sorry, mi-, umm." Frustrated by uncertainty over how to address him properly she looked up, only to see him returning to his horse. She drew in a breath in preparation to speak, but decided against it. Lord or no, it was not her place to delay him leaving.

But he didn't leave. He gathered the reins and retraced his steps back to her, leading the massive animal at his side. "You were saying?"

"You're not wearing livery and I don't see any badges on you. That's a fine horse you're riding. Fit for a lord. I didn't know what to call you."

"You have a lot to say when you find your tongue," Eric said.

There was mirth in his tone, but it didn't reach his eyes; the light of the clear night sky showed the woman only aloof bemusement in their icy blue depths. Gazing up at him, a sudden sense of foreboding sent a shiver through her. Or was it the wind? As she forced herself to look away, she wondered why she was still standing here.

"With your leave, I'll be on my way again," she said hurriedly as she fumbled to unwrap his cape from around her.

He reached down and readjusted it on her shoulders. "The night has not lost its chill," he said. "Where is your destination?"

"There." A hand flitted out from under the cape and pointed in the direction of Ludlow Castle. "The kitchens." Even in this light, she saw the distaste register on his face.

"As a rule, kitchens hold little attraction for me. I find my proclivities tend to be better indulged in other rooms."

She looked away and again reached for the cloak clasp.

"Must I bind your hands to prevent you from further exposing yourself to the wind and rain? We're off to the kitchens of Ludlow Castle, where I will doubtless be drawn to visit again during my stay."

She wondered if he could see the change as she felt herself flush and an involuntary smile planted itself on her downturned face.

"Up you go," he ordered. Allowing her no chance to protest, he slipped his hands around her waist and lifted her onto the horse. He performed the task with amazing speed and precision, and no more exertion placing her gently in the saddle than if he'd merely tossed the reins across the pommelet.

She opened her mouth, but couldn't decide if she did so in order to thank him again or to scream and try to resist his actions. She found herself unable to do either, thus rendering her temporarily slack jawed and at a loss, not only for words, but coherent thought as well.

Eric wasted no time in joining her atop the destrier, his ease of movement demonstrating an effortless grace she'd never witnessed outside stolen peeks at dancing castle guests.

The feel of the reins being gathered into Eric's confident grasp was all the command his mount required. Holding his head proudly aloft, without the necessity of a check rein, the horse set off at a slow trot; his master's current pace of choice.

Eric puzzled the mystery of why he'd taken on a travel companion rather than a meal. She was pretty to be sure, but certainly nothing to compare to the pampered beauty or aristocratic social standing of his current lover, Lady Francesca Whitcomb.

She fit well in front of him. In fact, she was so perfectly ensconced Eric caught himself actually looking down to verify she remained. She occupied the space between his torso and his hands as if his tailor had measured her for precisely this purpose. His arms encircled her easily, allowing him ample room to offer guidance to the horse without having to squeeze her or make contact that could be perceived as unwelcomed advances from a stranger.

He wasn't sure why her perception of him should be of any note or consequence, but it was.

Still gazing down at the top of her head, he noticed how even from this angle, she had the appearance of a well-balanced portrait, her small shoulders leaning ever so slightly against the broad frame of his chest. For the briefest of moments he was tempted to touch her face and ease her head back until it rested upon his shoulder. He resisted, but the thought of it brought an unexpected smile to his lips.

"I am called Eric Norseman," he said with no fanfare or attempt to make the name sound of any import. "I hold no titles, but among my own, my rank would be on par with your knights. I am therefore commonly afforded such addresses as befit a knight. You may refer to me as Sir Eric, if you find Eric alone to be unsuitably familiar.

"Or Master Norseman," she offered in a soft voice.

"Never," he snapped, more severely than was his intention.

The swift fervour of his response frightened her, causing her to flinch with such violence she might have been unhorsed had she not been so snugly situated. She recovered almost immediately, her body tensing as if girding herself in preparation of being struck. She lowered her chin until she was facing the pommelet of the saddle.

She was clearly accustomed to brutal treatment at the hands of the men of her acquaintance. Had he followed his original intentions, his actions would not have surprised her. He would have merely been the last.

A long dormant sensation surged to the forefront of his thoughts, rushing in torrents through his entire body, growing in intensity as it went.

His failure to recognise the feeling was startling, but not nearly so much as the eventual realisation of what it was. Something he thought he'd left behind with all the other trappings of his human life hadn't been left at all. It had gone fallow, only to reawaken now, well rested and eager to be unleashed. He wanted to protect her.

"I meant no offence, mi-, uh, Sir Eric." She was trying to hide it, but a slight quaver had crept into her voice.

The very thing she was trying to disguise fell on Eric's ears most pleasantly, like a harp well played. "You have not offended," he replied. His tone took on a gentleness he almost didn't recognise as his own. In five hundred plus years, he had been accused of being many things; gentle was rarely among them. "And what shall I call you? What is your name?"

With her head still bowed she said, "Oh, you won't have to bother about calling me anything, Sir Eric. I don't expect you'll ever see me again. We don't get visitors in the sculleries."

"I can't imagine the young Prince refusing an accommodation to a guest by denying access to his scullery," Eric said with a hearty chuckle. "His new bride doesn't make her bedchamber there, surely?"

"No, Sir!" she gasped, her shock at his remark momentarily overriding her fear. Her body twisted, allowing her to finally be face to face with him. "Do they keep future Queens among the pots and servants where you come from?"

"Certainly not," he answered into eyes so blue he could register naught but their color for several seconds. "Of course, neither are we in the habit of keeping faces such as yours among our platters and parsnips."

As her cheeks flushed pink in the moonlight he heard a quickening of her heart. He smiled and she turned away from him again.

"Your name," he insisted.

"Susannah." After a short silence between them, she added, "They call me Sue."

"Sue," he echoed, as if he was curious to see if it sounded different being spoken by his lips.

It sounded different to her. Somehow that one simple syllable she'd heard dozens of times a day, every day since her birth, took on a noble, almost regal air when he said it. She closed her eyes and secretly hoped he would say it again, but he didn't.

"No," he said after an apparent inner debate. "Your name is Susannah. I shall address you thus."

The main gate of Ludlow Castle loomed before them. They had arrived.

She was surprised when Eric directed his horse past the stable and to the rear of the castle. It was a simple task to follow the smells to their destination. When they reached the wide kitchen doors, he quickly dismounted and before she knew it, his hands were around her waist.

He lifted her from the saddle and placed her gently on the ground in a single fluid movement.

"Thank you, Sir Eric," she said softly, without looking upward to make eye contact.

"I shall see you again, my Lady Susannah of the scullery."

She felt heat rising to her cheeks again. She gave a quick shallow curtsey and cast his cape across the saddle before scurrying around the horse and through the partially open kitchen door.

XXXXXXX

It was the early spring of 1502, but winter's chill had not yet fully loosened its grip. Eric had tarried in Britain longer than he deemed wise. A fact he could only account for by attributing it to the diverting social escapades of his human lover.

Lady Francesca maintained a wide circle of acquaintances and she was easily bored, so she flitted among them like a butterfly drinking from a flower, then rather than simply moving on to the next flower, she moved on to an entirely different field. With the exception of her personal maid, the only constant in her immediate surroundings for the last two months had been Eric.

A well-connected and popular beauty, she made for a more than pleasant affair, affording him an ever changing and extensive selection of prey. The added convenience of his lover's husband being occupied by lengthy times abroad in service of the king made Lady Francesca an ideal mistress.

As had become her habit, upon arrival Francesca arranged with the servants for her paramour to be installed in a room adjoining hers by way of a concealed door. Such discreet arrangements were always made with staff rather than her host or hostess. 'Servants gossip,' she pointed out to him, 'but only amongst themselves.'

Of course her logic was tenuous, if not outright foolhardy, but rather than noting the flaws in her reasoning; not the least of which was the fact her own maid was her most reliable and prolific source of gossip, he merely smiled and complimented her cleverness.

In much the same manner as his destrier was handed over to a groom, Eric himself was taken to the grand entrance of the castle proper, where he was transferred into the care of a footman. Subsequently, he was shown to a comfortable room appropriately appointed for a guest of His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales.

Eric instructed the servant he was not to be roused upon the morrow. He also told the man he would not require the services of a dresser for the duration of his stay. He preferred to see to his own personal needs.

"As you say, Sir," the man said with a quick nod before taking a backward step toward the door.

Eric gave a dismissive wave and the man didn't wait for any further encouragement. He turned and disappeared into the hallway, pushing the door closed behind him with a heavy thud.

Once alone, Eric had a look around to familiarise himself with his new, and temporary, surroundings. An enormous carved, four-poster bed draped in red and gold brocade was centered on one wall. Opposite was the dressing area, complete with a table for a washbasin and toiletries, various hooks on the wall for hanging garments and a tall modesty screen for occasions when one had guests in the room whilst dressing. In the wall behind the screen was a niche large enough for a single occupant. On the floor of the niche sat a chamber pot.

The sight of the pot made Eric chuckle to himself. For a moment he wondered if he should glamour someone into using it so the maids would not think it odd when it went unused. He decided against it. The pot wouldn't be the only thing in the room the maids wouldn't need to bother with during his stay.

His lone trunk was sitting against the wall beneath the series of hooks. No doubt Francesca personally supervised its placement, so by morning no member of the household staff would be surprised to learn his bed remained unrumpled. Efficiently done. Francesca prided herself on her efficiency. No wasted effort. Every movement, every word was backed by purpose.

She would be a spectacularly lethal vampire, Eric thought. Though he felt no temptation to make her so. Increases in the number of his kind were often difficult to conceal from the human populace. Even one additional hunter becomes evident when they stalk a common, sparse herd of prey. Perhaps if his intentions were to dally in a more crowded area, maybe London or Saint Petersburg, he might consider it, but not here. This was no place to nurse and nourish a newly made vampire. She would be more obvious than a lioness set free among the chickens.

As ever, thoughts of freedom drew his eyes to the window. The room boasted an oversized western facing window; again courtesy of a specific request from Francesca. Her attentiveness to detail, coupled with her desire for excessive personal comfort, resulted in the last two months being among the most pampered of Eric's long life, either living or undead.

He regarded the ornately carved, heavy wooden shutters. Mounted inside with thick steel hinges and banding for added fortification and constructed from a richly decorated dark wood to make it easier on the eye, it was entirely possible these shutters would keep even the caustic rays of the sun at bay, but that was a gamble he was not prepared to take. He would go to ground somewhere nearby, shortly before dawn.

With nothing more than a flick of his wrist the shutters swung open, revealing a balcony too small to accommodate more than one. He stepped out to examine his view. His room was situated on the second floor. Directly across the courtyard from where he stood was the stable where he left his horse.

Though the walls were thick, he knew Francesca was in the room to his left. He could hear her happy chatter as she gave her maid directions for completing the unpacking after she was properly dressed and gone to be presented to Prince Albert and Princess Catherine.

He looked off to his right and for just an instant he felt what could only be described as a pang of disappointment at not finding Susannah standing in the castle shadows staring back at him.

Around the far corner of this wall was the kitchen door where he'd delivered her, still cold and wet. Beyond or perhaps below the kitchen would be the sculleries where she toiled scrubbing pots or preparing vegetables for the cooks.

Annoyed by the unbidden thoughts of this inconsequential girl intruding upon his time, Eric stepped back into the room, which would serve as nothing more than a place to house his clothes for the length of his stay here.

On either side of the bed centered on the southern wall, hung large tapestries depicting hunting scenes. As expected, the one furthest from the main entry concealed a door, which on its opposite side was behind a similar tapestry in Francesca's room.

Eric pulled the tapestry aside and swept through the doorway, banishing all thoughts of unfortunate soggy servant girls as he went.