"Sounds poetic." And what a relief. Most of V's visions were scary as hell. "But meaningless."

"None of what I see is meaningless, and you know it."

"Allegorical then. How can anyone wrap up a well?" Phury frowned. "And why tell me now?"

V's black brows came down over his mirrorlike eyes. "I… God, I have no idea. I just had to say it." With a nasty curse, he headed for the kitchen. "Is Bella still in there?"

"How did you know she was-"

"You always look ruined after you see her."

Half an hour and a turkey sandwich later, V materialized to the terrace of his private downtown penthouse. The night was a bitch, all March cold and April wet, the bitter wind weaving around like a drunk with a nasty attitude. As he stood before the panorama of Caldwell's twin bridges, the postcard view of the twinkling city bored him.

And so did his prospects for the evening's fun and games.

He supposed he was similar to a long-standing coke addict. The high had once been intense, but now he serviced the monkey on his back with no particular enthusiasm. He was all need, no ease.

Planting his palms on the terrace ledge, he leaned way over and got sandblasted in the face with a rush of icy air, his hair blowing back all fashion-model and shit. Or maybe… more like in superhero comics. Yeah, that was a better metaphor.

Except he would be a villain, wouldn't he?

He realized his hands were stroking the flat stone they rested on, caressing it. The ledge was four feet high and ran around the building like the lip of a serving tray. The top of it was a three-foot-wide shelf just begging to be leaped off of, with the thirty feet of thin air on the other side the perfect breezy prelude to death's hard fuck.

Now, this was a view that interested him.

He knew firsthand how sweet that free fall was. How the force of the wind pushed at your chest, making it hard to breathe. How your eyes watered and the tears streaked up your temples, not down your cheeks. How the ground rushed up to greet you, a host ready to welcome you to the party.

He wasn't sure he'd made the right decision to save himself that time he'd jumped. At the last moment, though, he dematerialized back up to the terrace. Back into… Butch's arms.

Fucking Butch. Always came back to that son of a bitch, didn't it.

V turned away from the urge to pull another flier and unlocked one of the sliders with his mind. The penthouse's three walls of glass were bulletproof, but they didn't filter sunlight. Not that he would have stayed here during the day even if they did.

This was not a home.

As he stepped inside, the place and what he used it for pressed into him as if the force of gravity were different here. The walls and the ceiling and the marble floors of the sprawling one-room spread were black. So were the hundreds of candles that he could light at his will. The only thing that could be classified as furniture was a king-size bed that he'd never used. The rest was equipment: The table with the restraints. The chains mounted into the wall. The masks and the ball gags and the whips and the canes and the chains. The cabinet full of nipple weights and steel clips and stainless-steel tools.

All for the females.

He took off his leather jacket and tossed it onto the bed, then ditched his shirt. He always kept his leathers on during the sessions. The subs never saw him completely naked. No one did except for his brothers during ceremonies in the Tomb, and that was only because the rituals demanded it.

What he looked like down below was no else's fucking biz.

Candles flared at his command, the liquid light rebounding off the glossy floor before being sucked up by the black dome of the ceiling. There was nothing romantic in the air. The place was a cave where the profane was performed on the willing, and the light was only to ensure proper placement of leather and metal, hands and fangs.

Plus, candles could be used for a purpose other than illumination.

He went to the wet bar, poured himself a couple of inches of Grey Goose, and leaned back against the short stretch of counter. There were those among the species who thought coming here and withstanding intercourse with him was a rite of passage. Then there were others who could find their satisfaction only with him. And still more who wanted to explore how pain and sex could mix.

The Lewis-and-Clark types were the ones who interested him least. Usually they couldn't handle it and had to use the safe word or safe hand signal he gave them in the middle. He always let them go readily, though any tears were theirs to soothe, not his. Nine out of ten times they wanted to try again, but that was a no-go. If they broke too easily once, they'd probably do it again, and he wasn't interested in coaching lightweights into the lifestyle.

The ones who could take it called him lheage and worshiped him, not that he gave a shit about their reverence. The edge in him had to get dulled, and their bodies were the stone he used to grind himself down on. End of story.

He walked over to the wall, picked up one of the lengths of steel chain, and let it slid through his palm, link by link. Although he was a sadist by nature, he didn't get off hurting his subs. His sadistic side was fed by his lesser kills.

For him, the control over their minds and their bodies was what he was after. The things he did to them sexually or otherwise, the things he said, what he made them wear… it was all carefully calibrated for effect. Sure, there was pain involved, and yeah, maybe they cried from the vulnerability and the fear. But they begged him for more.

Which he gave to them, if he felt like it.

He glanced at the masks. He always put them in masks, and they were never to touch him unless he told them where and how and with what. If he had orgasms during the course of a session, it was unusual and regarded by the subs with great pride. And if he fed, it was only because he had to.

He never degraded those who came here, never made them do some of the nasty things he knew damn well some Doms favored. But he did not comfort them in the beginning, the middle, or the end, and the sessions were on his terms only. He told the people where and when, and if they pulled any jealous entitlement horseshit, they were out. For good.

He checked his watch and lifted the mhis that surrounded the penthouse. The female who was coming tonight could track him because he'd taken her vein a couple months ago. When he was through with her, he would fix it so she would leave with no memory of the location where she'd been.

She would know what happened, though. The marks of the sex would be all over her.

As the female materialized on the terrace, he turned around. Through the sliders she was an anonymous shadow of curves in a black leather bustier and a long, loose black skirt. Her dark hair was coiled up high on her head, as he'd required.

She knew to wait. Knew not to knock.

He opened the door with his mind, but she also knew better than to come in without being summoned.

He looked her over and caught her scent. She was totally aroused.

His fangs elongated, but not because he was particularly interested in the wet sex between her legs. He needed to feed, and she was female and she had all kinds of veins to tap into. It was biology, not bewitchment.

V extended his arm and crooked his finger at her. She came forward, trembling, as well she should. He was in a particularly sharp mood tonight.

"Lose that skirt," he said. "I'm not feeling it."

She immediately unzipped the thing and let it fall to the floor in a rush of satin. Underneath, she wore a black garter and black lace-topped hose. No panties.