Disclaimer business: So, I don't own the Night World, NW characters, places, ideas, yada yada yada; BUT. And I mean BUT, I do own the non-NW characters, places, ideas, etc. in this story. All right….Read on…!

Chapter 1

Winn threw a furtive glance over her shoulder, an old habit from her humanlife, her sable gaze sweeping swiftly, unobtrusively across the dimly lit brick-walled room, traveling over fearfully lovely faces, all young and feral and aloof.

Frigid blue eyes met hers, and with a flinch she froze. Suppressing a shudder, she turned her gaze to the pale, delicate-boned hands folded tightly in her lap. That one was frightening. A bad one; she fancied she could smell the bad blood rushing through him. She must remember to stay away from that one; that bad-blooded one. Warily, Winn lifted her sharp-boned face to peer at the middle of the room, to Lif, the tall, lean young man standing there. She studied, cautiously, the expressive mouth, the angular facial structure the dim lighting accented so nicely, the glittering greeny-grey eyes. His eyes were gorgeous; gently slanted upwards at the corners, lavishly-lashed, the color distinct and vivid. Winn studied them covertly. Stunning, certainly. But they aren't clear, she wondered. Shaking the thought away, she fixed her eyes in the vicinity of his left cheekbone. Lovely boy, that, she thought, and forgot about the bad one there, behind her, in the murk. What was he saying? She should concentrate. She must remember that.

            "…and tonight we have reason to rejoice, for tonight we have several fresh additions to our brethren, to our unique little organization…" Lif continued in his deep, husky-smooth voice, "…to the Marquéd. I shall introduce them to you, my lovelies, so that we may welcome them," Lif's eyes glinted, "and begin with our plans." Lif gestured, a graceful, almost limpid, movement, beckoning a slight young man to the middle of the room, the middle of a circle of perhaps fifty stony faces. Winn shivered.

            Jon was the delicate man's name, and he, like most of the Marquéd in the room, was devastatingly handsome, a perfectly featured face set with deep, bistre-coloured eyes. Winn decided she didn't like him. Too perfect. Lif called three others up to stand around him, two young women and another young man, and they were invariably, ridiculously, beautiful.

            Winn sucked in her breath sharply, quietly—she was next. Indeed, Lif was already turning and beckoning to her. In response, she rose from her seat and joined the others. "And finally, my dears, this is Winnen Fallou, a frightened young," his lips caressed the word, "mite two of our scouts found wandering…but we shall make her welcome, shall we not? We shall make all of them welcome to the Marquéd." With this last, Lif gestured for the younglings to take their seats. Alone amongst the younglings, who were in the process of affecting a willowy gait, Winn hunched her narrow shoulders and hid her sharp little face behind a  fall of opaque, inky curls. They must not look at her, those beautiful and frightening creatures. They must not! Winn slid into her seat and felt the hooded glances of fifty of the Marquéd settle across her shoulders; the thread-like hairs spidered across her skinny, coat-encased arms, pricked up, whisker-like. Her senses flew open and were promptly assaulted by the augmented hum of rustling clothes, the spicy odor of clean skin, the deafening hush of fifty unbeating hearts.

            But she must not be surprised. She must not be overwhelmed; they were dead, after all, and she knew it; she was dead herself.

Please (times a thousand) give me comments…I savor and—get this—relish them…I will erect shrines for comments…! : )