Chris Larabee pushed open the heavy, wooden door and walked into the suite, almost stopping dead on. Before him spread a large room, tastefully held and decorated in warm, rich, earthen colors. Heavy drapes hung in front of the floor to ceiling windows, shutting out the sun. He was thankful for the foresight of the personnel. The midday sun had been bad enough on him already as he had left the protected space of the private jet plane and walked the few paces to the limousine. A vampire really shouldn't stroll around in the middle of the day, especially in Las Vegas. But it couldn't have been helped. Their flight had arrived at that time.
Ezra walked past him and dumped his bag next to the couch, turning to look at his lover.
"Are you going to stand there all day or do you want to come in?" he teased.
Chris closed the door and gave the suite a closer inspection, impressed by the attention to detail. the Shaman was one of the five hotels that had been added to the Strip in the last six years and it had been quite a success. Themes along the tribal lore and culture were heavy in each room, and each room had a different theme.
"Nice," was all he finally said.
Ezra grinned. "I thought you'd like it."
Chris threw his bag next to Ezra's and inspected the bedroom. It was half as big as the living room, with a king sized bed. A hand-woven, Indian throw had been placed over the blankets, as well as cushions. The walls were painted with motives of the American Indians. In here, the blinds had been closed, too.
Ezra joined him in his contemplation, standing next to the taller man. "You like?" he murmured.
"Yep. Gives me ideas."
"Oh?" Green eyes looked at him, a mischievous smile dancing over his lips.
"Very definite ideas."
Chris wrapped strong arms around the smaller man, weaving them under the shirt and meeting warm skin. Ezra melted immediately against him. When Chris's mouth latched onto his neck, he shivered.
"Chris," he hissed, but he didn't try to pull away.
Chris's hands seemed to develop a life of their own as they pulled the shirt out completely, then brushed over his back down to his butt, squeezing. Ezra groaned and pressed against the leg that was now pushed between his legs.
"Chris...." he gasped against the dark-clad chest.
Something seemed to wash over him, a wave of pure lust and need. It curled around him, invaded his senses, and he felt the vampire inside him respond. It rose to the surface, ready to embrace the feeling, feeding off the lust.
Somehow he lost his shirt.
Chris's followed just as swiftly.
There was a low growl, dangerous and sensual in one, highly erotic and stimulating nerves that hadn't felt any thrill like this for a while.
The vampire rumbled in response, muscles flexing, pulling his lover closer. Eyes glowed, flaring with power and need, and he answered it. Skin rubbed against skin, then his wrists were suddenly caught and held tight against the mattress.
When had they made it to the bed?
He didn't care. All he cared about was the other vampire poised above him. Time was no longer essential, as the primal side in him took a firm hold and sent him spiralling into pleasure. Teeth scraped against his neck and he was bitten again. Harder this time.
It was the last straw.
He lost himself in the wave of pure lust.
 

Marissa De Corro walked past the penthouse suite, carrying several cleaning utensils. Suddenly she stopped and tilted her head. A slow smile spread over her lips as her ears picked up sounds that were meant to be private, and she quickly left the two men in the penthouse suite alone.
Mr. Standish wouldn't need any cleaning done right now. She would get a chance for that later, she mused with a smile. A lot later, if the tall, blond he had arrived with today was anything to go by.

* * *

The insistent ringing of the phone jolted Ezra out of his sleep. For a moment he felt like ignoring it, but then he decided that if someone was using the penthouse phone, which was for emergencies only, it had to be urgent. He grabbed the receiver and answered.
"Standish."
He was alert instantly and sat up, dislodging the warm presence next to him -- a presence that had woken with him as the phone had announced the call. Chris blinked sleepily, but became more and more awake as Ezra listened to the caller and gave a few brisk orders before he hung up.
"Something wrong?" he asked.
Ezra slipped out of bed and, completely in the nude, went over to the bathroom. "That was Ron from security. A body was found in the Mayan Suite."
Chris felt the last wisps of sleep vanish. "A body?" He hurried after Ezra, who had already switched on the shower.
"One of the cleaning ladies found it and called security. Ron told me that he has locked the suite and I told him to call the police now."
Chris felt his mind reeling. "They called you first?"
"Of course. I own the place."
As if that explained it. Usually the police came first, then whoever else was in charge of the hotel.
Chris decided to hold back until he could get a look at the scene for himself. Because that was exactly what he as planning to do.
 

The Mayan suite was one of the more expensive ones, just a floor below the penthouse, and one of the five on this level. All had a South American theme and the Mayan looked like someone had carved it out of stone. Plants decorated the fake temple and the round bed was raised on a platform. Unlike the penthouse and some other suites, this one had only one large room, but woven and hand-dyed drapes gave the impression of individual spaces, and there was a door to the bathroom.
From the entrance, Chris was perfectly able to see the still figure of the hotel customer, completely naked, on his back, as well as the blood everywhere. Not a lot, but enough. He could smell it, too.
Ronald Mannson, head of the Shaman's security staff, was talking to Ezra, his broad face grim. He was a man in his early forties, built like a boxer, with short cropped hair and a clean shaven face. He was towering over the smaller vampire, but there was no doubt as to who held more power.
A woman was next to them, dressed in a business suite. She was an African-American, with long hair, moderate make-up and an air of authority around her. Chris guessed she belonged to the hotel staff, someone in charge.
The cleaning woman who had found the body, one Marissa De Corro, stood to one side, looking calm and collected. A lot calmer than Chris had actually expected. Usually they were close to hysterics about finding a dead person in a hotel room, especially one with blood everywhere. Not this one.
Chris joined his lover and listened to what the security guard told him. When Ezra looked at him, he read the question immediately.
"They'll need the tapes from the security cameras on this floor," the CSI supervisor told Mannson, talking about the CSIs that were sure to arrive soon. "The victim's registration from the hotel, all records of the phone calls he made, what he ordered, as well as possible past visits to this place."
Ron nodded. "We can have that ready in no time. It's all in the computers and if Mr. Standish agrees to handing it over to the police, there won't be a problem."
"We'll cooperate fully, Ron," Ezra told him.
"Okay, Mr. Standish."
With that the burly man walked away, pulling out his walkie talkie to get in contact with security to get the evidence necessary.
"I'll inform the staff," the woman next to Ezra said calmly, her voice a deep, dark, soothing tone.
"Thank you, Nandi." Ezra smiled briefly at Chris. "Chris, Nandi Kidja Kunene, manager of the Shaman."
"Nice to meet you." Larabee stuck out his hand and received a firm shake.
"My pleasure, Mr. Larabee."
There was a sparkle in those dark brown eyes, a smile playing over the smooth features, then she nodded at Ezra and walked away.
"Any ideas?" Chris asked, turning back to his lover, completely in CSI mode by now.
"None. No one heard or saw a thing, according to Ron. Marissa discovered the body and before that, no one had been looking for the guest."
"What's his name?"
"Jack Shore. Businessman. Came here last night. That's all Ron could tell me." At Chris's inquisitive look, Ezra smiled slightly. "All guests on this level are known to the hotel staff and security. The rooms cost a lot of money and are booked in advance. Way in advance. We probably won't even need the records to get a good impression as to where Mr. Shore went and who he made calls to. The front desk is fielding all incoming and outgoing calls, and room service on this level is always something personal. The waiters know their clients."
"Ah. Well, even better. More people to talk to and who might remember something odd."
Chris, leave it to the local police, please?"
Chris raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't thinking about interfering."
"Of course."
Larabee shot him a glare.
Ezra's reply was an innocent grin.
"What?" the blond demanded.
"Nothing," was the amused reply.
Chris grumbled something under his breath. He knew he was out of his jurisdiction here and while the police officer in him demanded he take a closer look at things, there was nothing he could achieve if the local police shut him out.
They had every right to do so.

* * *

The black Chevy Tahoe pulled up in front of the Shaman hotel and casino building, right next to a non-descript brown Ford. Nick Stokes climbed out of the driver's seat and pulled his black suitcase containing his field kit, then the second silver one that held the camera to take photographic evidence.
A stocky man in a suit greeted him and his passenger, Gil Grissom, supervisor of the CSI Las Vegas graveyard shift. Jim Brass, Homicide captain, gave them a brief nod as a greeting.
"Nick, Grissom. Got a DB, male, in one of the top suites. Name's Jack Shore, businessman, first night in Vegas. Was booked till tomorrow night. No one saw anything, no one heard anything. Knowing this place, it's no wonder. There's hardly any guest traffic on those levels. Whoever books into the suites, they certainly want their privacy. Paid good money for it."
"And ended up dead," Nick remarked, lugging his case into the elevator.
It was one of those nights again. What had Grissom called it once? Oh yes, 'fight night'. The night when everything seemed to collide and the five men and women of the Las Vegas CSI graveyard shift weren't enough. Sara Sidle had a case on her own, investigating a theft with two bodies left behind on the crime scene. Catherine Willows and Warrick Brown were busy with a dead hooker and a male customer who had no memory of what had occurred, and Nick had tagged along with Grissom to the dead body at the Shaman.
Not that he minded. Despite his frequent requests to get a solo job, he had to confess that working with Gil Grissom was always an experience. The older man was a fountain of knowledge. Not just the book stuff, but little tidbits that sometimes seemed out of context, but made sense in the bigger picture. Where he knew it from, Nick had really no idea. Getting to know Grissom was hard work and whenever he thought he had figured him out, the night shift supervisor stumped with something or other.
Gil was a multi-layered man who appeared so unassuming, so non-threatening in his ways, that it hid the sharp eyes for details, the even sharper mind, and a brain that played connect-the-dots in a fashion Nick had never witnessed before. Grissom was an eccentric; his passion and field of expertise proved that to Stokes. Insects. He was a top forensic entomologist, one of only fifteen in the country who could work linear regression. It was the not so simple ability to pinpoint the time of death on the type and age of the insects found on the corpse.
It was fascinating watching him work.
But he was also human, and while his people skills were sometimes lacking, there was something very fascinating about the man.
They arrived on the top floor. There was only one more level above them and that was the penthouse, accessible by a separate elevator only.
The elevator dinged and opened, and Grissom stepped out, eyes roaming through the corridor, then up to where small security cameras kept a discrete eye on matters. Nick followed him.
The Mayan suite had been blocked by yellow police tape and an officer was keeping guard. Nick snapped on his latex gloves
"Has anyone been here since you arrived?" Grissom asked.
Brass shot him an annoyed look. "I had your job once, Grissom, give me some credit."
Nick grinned, but refrained from commenting. Grissom just looked expectantly at the captain.
"Officer Rogers was the first on the scene and he didn't enter the suite, just had a look and then sealed the crime scene."
Grissom nodded, satisfied by the procedure. They walked into the room.
The suite was one of the expensive ones, the kind he only saw from the inside when working his job. The money people spent to stay for a night was far more than he earned a month.
The victim was on the large, king sized bed. It was a man in his early forties, dark-haired, completely naked. The sheets were rumpled, the blanket on the floor, and everything hinted at a wild night. Probably with someone of the female persuasion, he mused with a faint smile.
What didn't match the picture of an innocent roll in the hay was the fact that the man was dead. There were deep slash marks on both wrists, blood spattered all over the sheets, and the expression of pain on his now frozen features.
"Who found him?" Nick asked.
"Cleaning lady," was the reply. "She apparently wanted to get the room done, saw the body, and called security. They in turn called us. No witnesses so far."
Grissom looked around the room, taking in the heavy drapes, the Mayan theme all over the place. "A fitting sacrifice," he commented.
Nick grimaced. "You think that's what it is? Looks more like a suicide. Slashed wrists and all."
Grissom walked over to the bed and studied their dead man. "Slash marks on both wrists, some blood spatter from the spray, but the pattern is above the vic's head. A man who wants to kill himself by severing the arteries won't do it in bed. He'll use the tub. And even if he doesn't, he wouldn't hold the wrist above his head, Nick."
"So it's a murder."
"Apparently," was the only comment. He turned to Brass. "Someone else was in this room. There are cameras in these hotel corridors. I want the tapes."
"Already done, including the guy's hotel credentials, phone records, etc."
Grissom raised an eyebrow.
"There's a guy called Larabee out there. Looks like he knows a thing or two about crime scene investigations," was the wry reply.
"Then I'd like to meet him. Nick, get processing."
"I'm on it."
Stokes set to work, not even looking up as his boss went with Brass to talk to Larabee. He had a crime scene and he would process it thoroughly.
 

"Chris Larabee," Brass said and pointed at a tall, lean blond in black clothes, standing next to the security guard Grissom had passed when he had come here, and a smaller, chestnut haired man.
"Mr. Larabee?" Gil addressed the man as he approached them.
Dark eyes met his, quickly sizing him up. "That's me. And you are?"
"My name is Grissom, Crime Lab Las Vegas PD. I heard you are responsible for collecting the evidence I was requesting. The tapes and records."
Larabee nodded. "I knew you'd need them, so I asked hotel security to have them ready."
Grissom studied the man in front of him. "How did you know?"
The man smiled briefly. "I work for the CSI myself. Salt Lake City."
Well, he hadn't expected that. Maybe seeing too many movies or watching crime shows on TV, but finding a colleague on the site was a very rare occasion.
"You are on vacation?"
"Yep. Arrived this morning."
"You're staying at the Shaman?"
A nod.
"Which room, if I may ask?"
"Penthouse," was the answer.
Grissom raised an eyebrow. "A treat."
Chris chuckled. "Let's put it this way: I'm not paying for it. I know the owner of the hotel." He shot the other man next to him a brief look.
Grissom latched onto that little gesture like a bloodhound. "And you are, sir?"
"Ezra Standish," was the calm answer. "The owner."
A few things clicked into place, but Grissom refused to fall for the immediate conclusion.
"I take it security called you, Mr. Standish, which accounts for your presence here."
"Yes. Mr. Larabee and I were together at the time of the call. He told Ron, my head of security, what might be expected from the investigators coming here."
More clicks happened, but again, Gil refused to rise to the bait.
"It was very thoughtful of you," he simply said, taking the diplomatic way out.
Larabee shrugged. "You can't simply forget your training. So, any idea what happened in there?"
Grissom smiled politely. "Being a criminalist yourself, you know I can't tell from a first look. Now, if you'll excuse me, Mr. Larabee, Mr. Standish, I have a crime scene to process."
With that he left the two men alone, thoughts already processing another kind of evidence.
 

Walking back into the suite, he found Nick in the bathroom, inspecting a towel and bagging it for further analysis. As Grissom entered, the younger man looked up.
"Not much in here so far. Blood drops on a towel, but it could be a bad nose bleed." He shrugged. "Looks like someone took a shower, too." He zipped the bag closed and put it with the other evidence. "As to the vic, I found no other open wounds than the slash marks. There are bruises, but I guess an autopsy will tell us more."
"Trash?"
"That's next on the list when I'm done with the bathroom."
"I'll take it. Coroner's on the way. After he has removed the body, I want the sheet taken with us."
"'kay."
The two men worked silently, only interrupted when the coroner arrived to move the body. Since Nick had taken all the necessary photos, it was safe to do so. Grissom pulled off the sheet and bagged and tagged it afterwards. The cell phone on the night table was bagged, too.
"Gris?"
The call came from the bathroom and he went back inside, finding his colleague swabbing the cold and hot water tabs. Nick held up the swab, which had developed a lavender color.
"Blood."
"Not only on the handles, but the sliding doors as well."
"Luminol?" Grissom simply asked.
A wide grin dimpled Nick's face. "Already on it."
He liberally sprayed the shower, the sink and the floor. Large patches of pinkish lavender glowed at them.
"Blood," Stokes repeated. "The vic's?"
"How? He can't have been attacked in here and then collapsed outside on the bed."
"So....? The killer was in here and what? Took a shower?" Disbelief was coloring Nick's voice.
Grissom tilted his head slightly. "Cold blooded."
"Iceberg. Kill the guy, then calmly take a shower and wipe everything down. Professional hit?"
"Unlikely. A bullet is a professional hit, not slashed wrists."
"Crime of passion?"
"A woman, you mean? Possible. He was in bed, naked. It implies close physical contact."
"Found no condom." Nick shrugged, looking thoughtful. "Either he was into the thrill or she took it with her."
Grissom didn't comment. He walked back into the bedroom, looking at the bed again, then his eyes wandered to the closed door to the corridor.
Security cameras.
Recording every move.
"How about a movie night, Nicky?" he asked.

* * *

Chris had watched the local criminalists process the crime scene and something inside of him was twitching to go out and help. He was an officer of the law and wherever he was, it was almost instinct to be part of the investigations. Not this time, though. Not his turf.
And if he kept repeating it, he might just ignore the itch.
Ezra approached him, smiling slightly. "Anyone home?" he asked softly.
Chris sighed. "Just thinking."
"About getting a foot into the door?"
He smiled ruefully. "Kinda. You know me too well."
An arm snaked around his waist and the other vampire pressed closer. "I know you very well, Chris Larabee, and I know it's not going to let you sleep at night if you don't get your fingers on some evidence to process."
"I don't sleep nights as a rule," was the teasing reply.
Ezra planted a little kiss against the clean-shave jaw. "Something keeping you awake?"
Chris caught the familiar face and their lips met. "Insomnia has many faces."
Standish chuckled. "So, how about we pay security a visit?" he asked slyly.
"We talked to Ron already."
"I know, but there's something we haven't done yet."
"And that is?" Chris gave his lover a curious look.
"Have a look at the security tapes."

* * *

The control room was a large square box, crammed full of monitors and electronic surveillance equipment. Cameras fed the images into the system around the clock and about two dozen recorders taped each second in the hotel. Chris let his eyes swivel over the room, impressed.
Four guards were keeping an eye on things in the room, eyes flicking from screen to screen. Any less and someone would get tired fast. The main attention was focused on the gambling halls and floors. It was were trouble mostly started.
"Good evening, gentlemen," Ezra greeted the four men, who barely acknowledged their presence. They wouldn't let their attention waver.
Only one man turned and smiled a greeting. "Mr. Standish. What can I do for you?"
Ezra returned the smile. "I want to have a look at the tapes from tonight, Oliver."
"Sure thing, Mr. Standish. I already stacked them in the viewing room." He gestured to the right where a closed door led to another room. "Do you need some help?"
"Ron is on his way here," Ezra replied. "Thank you."
As if on cue, the large man entered, nodding at his men, then proceeded over to the viewing room. Ezra and Chris followed.
There was a frown on Chris's face. "I thought we had given the tapes to the CSI..."
Ezra just shot his lover a short glance. "Who do you think you're talking to? Ron made a copy of everything before handing it over."
A copy.
Of course.
Chris shook his head inwardly. That was what he would have done; never give away evidence completely. Even if it wasn't actually according to procedure. Then again, as a hotel, the Shaman might need just those tapes they had given away, so Ezra would have the right to make copies.
The viewing room was smaller than the control room outside, with a table and chairs, as well as a large screen mounted on the wall. Ron went through the tapes and selected the one that had the camera feed from outside the Mayan suite.
The monitor flickered and the gray and white security feed started. Chris folded his hands over his chest, leaning back, watching the corridor where the victim had had his room being displayed. In the right upper corner some numbers indicated the time frame. Ezra fast-forwarded it to the moment Shore came out of the elevator, his suitcase and bags on a trolley that was pushed by a bell boy.
"That's when he arrived," he commented, checking the time and date. It fit.
Another fast forwarding, but never too fast so they could keep track of the comings and goings.
"He made one call for room service, got it delivered half an hour later," Ron told them.
Nothing much happened for the next two hours. A couple left the suite at the far end of the corridor, the one just left of the elevator. An hour after that, the elevator arrived again and Chris sat up.
"All right. There she is."
He leaned forward, frowning deeply at the grayish image of the figure walking slowly down the corridor to Shore's room, knocking briefly at the door. All he could see from this angle was a slender female figure with possibly blond hair ...
"Do you have another camera? Another angle?" he asked.
Ron nodded and made some adjustments. This time the figure was seen more clearly and ...
"Oh my god!" Ezra exhaled explosively, and Chris could only second that  wholeheartedly.
It wasn't a woman, not even close. Her eyes were huge, her face looked haggard and too thin. No wonder.
It was a girl.
And she was hardly older than thirteen.
"Son of a bitch."
Chris watched in a shock as the girl left the suite about one and a half hour later, pulling a long coat around her figure. Her face didn't look as ragged and tired as it had before, but her whole demeanor showed fear.
"We have to find out the approximate time of death,"  Chris uttered, willing back his anger with a great effort, returning to full investigator mode.
Ezra nodded grimly. Nothing would stand in his way of getting the information needed.
They still watched the entire tape. Nobody came even close to Shore's suite until the maid arrived.
Looking at each other, the three men traded grim looks.
"Thanks, Ron," Ezra finally said as he rose.
"Sure thing, Mr. Standish."
The two vampires left the control room, both deep in thought.
"We'll need the coroner's report," Chris said softly. "I want to know how he died."
Ezra nodded. "You think they'll give it to you?"
A dark smile appeared on the other's face. "Either they give it to me, or I'll get it another way."

* * *

Dr. Al Robbins, the night shift's pathologist, looked at the body on his table, half of it hidden under the plain blanket pathology used to cover the corpses. Gil Grissom stood on the opposite side of the gurney, studying the pale-skinned man. The body had been the second on his list for today's night shift and much more interesting than the overdose victim.
"Slash marks to both wrists, two on the left one, three on the right. The cuts went deep enough to sever the arteries. Right wrist slashes are peri-mortem, left post-mortem."
Grissom, arms crossed in front of his chest, shot him a quizzical look. "Someone cut his left wrist after he had died?"
"Yes. Probably to fake a suicide. There are bruises on each wrist, speaking of this someone holding him down with great strength."
Robbins raised one wrist from the metal table and showed the discoloration to his observer.
"Small hands," Gil commented.
"Small and slender, but very strong. The x-rays showed hairline fractures. Then there are the cracked ribs, as well as more bruises around his lower torso. Looks like whoever held him down, sat on him. There was a struggle, but Shore never had a chance."
Grissom frowned, studying the bruises. They were large and dark, speaking of great force. Someone strong, but small and slender. His face creased with curiosity. Nothing better than a riddle to keep the man occupied.
So, add to the mystery, Robbins thought with amusement as he told Grissom, "On top of that, your man lost about three liters of blood, Grissom."
"Are you sure?"
"Very. There's not much left in him."
"We didn't find more than a bit of spatter on the bed. The mattress would have to be soaked in his blood."
Robbins shrugged. "I can only tell you the facts. I sent swabs from the wounds, as well as the hickey on his throat, down to the lab."
"Thanks, Doc."
"So, any luck?"
Grissom shook his head. "Fingerprints didn't come up with any registered print on AFIS and the blood was only the victim's. Nick's currently going through the security videos."
"Well, good luck then."
Grissom nodded, turned and walked out of the autopsy room, deep in thought.

* * *

Nick sat in the A/V lab next to Archie, their resident video analysis specialist, both of them going over the security tapes from the Shaman. He had been at it for an hour, watching black and white images dance over the large, flat screen monitor. He had made notes about the arrival of Jack Shore, and had compared it to the registration from the front desk. Room service had been next. Another note was scribbled down. Then there was a long time of nothing at all. Still, he had watched diligently.
Until the elevator opened and a female figure stepped out. Both men were suddenly more alert. The woman walked up to their victim's door and knocked. The door was opened and she entered.
"Okay, back it up again, Archie," Nick said. "Give me a different angle."
The lab tech nodded and did so. Again, the woman left the elevator and approached the door, but this time, Archie split the screen and the second camera feed was shown parallely, giving them a good image of a girl in her early teens.
"Ah hell," Nick murmured and Archie froze the image.
Large eyes, blonde hair.... a child.
"Go forward. Let's see when she leaves again."
They watched the girl leave the suite, hurry to the elevator and leave. Nick took note of the time, then searched through the other tapes, trying to find the ones from the front hall.
"I want to know where she went to," he explained to Archie.
Two hours and multiple tapes later, the two men leaned back in defeat. The girl hadn't reappeared anywhere. At least not anywhere cameras had been keeping an eye on things.
Nick let Archie print out several stills from the security camera and steeled himself for his talk with Grissom. There was little that could upset his boss; he processed even the most gruesome murder with his usual collected calm, But there were three things he had a problem with. Guys who hit their wives, sexual assault on children, and the scum that deals death to kids. This case would hit one of those sore spots.
Pretty hard.

* * *

Greg Sanders was pleased with himself. He had done the swab testing in record time, had finished two other case loads, and was just about to close off the third when Nick Stokes entered his little kingdom.
"Hey, Greg," the dark-haired Texan greeted him, smiling. "Just on my way to Grissom. Got anything?"
"You're just in time!" Sanders announced with a flourish.
"So?"
"Nothing."
Stokes frowned. "What do you mean, nothing?"
"Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Niente. Clean slate. And I mean clean."
Nick snatched the print from the machine from him and read over the results. "Disinfectant?"
"Yep, the swabs from the slashed wrists are soaked in it. And if you let your eyes meander down to the bottom of this wonderful page of Sanders wisdom, you'll see that it is a cleaning detergent mostly used in industrial cleaning. Like..."
"Hotels," Nick finished.
"Yep."
"Damn. But why? Why clean the wounds?"
"Fear of catching something?" Greg joked.
At the dark look, he pulled out the second test sheet. "Second swab. From the hickeys. Saliva. Which means DNA. Not the vic's."
"Whose?" Stokes demanded.
"I'm good, but not that good. Give me something to compare it to," Greg answered.
Nick sighed. "What else?"
"Penal swab? No little critters, but some of the squishy fun stuff. Lube. Strawberry. The chemical analysis said it's a match with 'Mr. Lube Condoms'. Very common brand. Comes in two variations: lube on the outside or both the inside and outside."
Stokes gave him a raised brow. "And you know that how...?"
"Hey, unlike local lore and myth suggests, I do so not spend my life and times in these environs," Greg told him with indignation. "I go out, I have fun..."
"You get laid?"
"Yep."
"Dream on, Greggo."
The younger man glared at him.
"So, we have a guy, completely naked, lube on him, no seminal fluid, no condom... Where does that leave us?"
"With a guy who bought it before he got it off?" the lab technician hazarded a guess.
"Yep. And the girl left with the condom."
"Souvenir?"
Nick shrugged. "Weird souvenir. Okay, thanks, man."
"Anytime."
With that he was alone in his lab again. Greg swivelled in his chair and hit the 'play' button on his stereo. Loud rock music filled the glass cubicle. Body twitching in rhythm to the beats, he set onto his next test tubes.

* * *

Nick stopped in front of Grissom's office, steeling himself for the encounter. Gil wouldn't really show a reaction, he was sure of that. His expression would change, his eyes would narrow, a muscle would jump in his cheek. Nothing else. No cursing, no violence against helpless office material. Or fellow CSIs.
"Gris?" he called and stuck his head in.
Grissom looked up from a report he had been reading, glancing at him over the rim of his glasses. "Anything?"
"Something," he said. "Greg found lube, but no DNA. The cuts on the DB's wrist… disinfected."
That got him a look of curious surprise. "Disinfected?"
"Yes. Common industrial detergent. Probably from the hotel."
"Interesting. Who would clean wounds inflicted on a body? What was he trying to hide?"
Nick shifted uncomfortably. "Not a he."
"Oh?"
"I went through all the tapes we were given. There was only one visitor to the suite after the room service guy, and from the autopsy report, as well as the time on the videos, we know Shore was very much alive after he got his steak."
"Nick? Spit it out, please?" Grissom asked, slightly exasperated.
Stokes's lips became a thin line and he took the stills from the folder he had carried along. He wordlessly put them onto Grissom's desk.
"Only visitor at the time. She was in the suite for some time, and left later on. No trace of her anywhere on the tapes after that."
Gil's face was a mask, but the eyes told Nick more than he wanted to know. It had hit home. Hard.
"Call Brass. I want him to ask around at the hotel. Someone must have seen her," the older man ordered, voice as hard as steel.
"Got it."
But Nick remained, standing there, watching the man he thought of as a friend. He wanted to do something, wanted to assure Grissom they would find the guy who had sent the girl to this hotel, this suite, this man. A girl who was now their prime suspect, even if it boggled the mind how she could have overpowered a guy like Shore and killed him.
He couldn't find the right words.
Grissom looked up. "Anything else?"
"Uh, no. Nothing."
Nick held the dark blue eyes for a heartbeat, then turned and left, closing the door after him.
Shit.

* * *

It hadn't been too hard to get a visitor's pass for the police department, Chris thought as he walked through the maze-like corridors of glass-walled offices, labs and conference rooms. He had been checked and approved, and no one had doubted he was here on official business.
In a way he was.
Official private business.
Ezra hadn't really argued against this visit. The moment a child had been involved, his lover had made this his business, too. Child prostitution was one of the most heinous crimes Chris could think of, exploiting the young and innocent who couldn't simply walk away. The girl had been sent here by her pimp, pleasuring a well-paying customer, and somewhere along the road, the man had ended up dead.
Chris had no idea what the cause of death had been, but he intended to find out. Gil Grissom held all the answers. If he chose not to reveal them, Chris would find alternative ways.
He walked into the semi-dark office of the night shift supervisor, sharp eyes taking in the collection of strange trophies crammed everywhere on the shelves. There were butterflies in glass cases, various embalmed animals and human organs, even a pickled piglet in a glass. On one shelf, live spiders and a scorpion shared the creepy collection. In the middle of the methodically cluttered office was a large desk, canted at an angle of forty-five degrees, two chairs in front of it.
Gil Grissom looked up from his work and glanced over the rim of his glasses at his visitor. Chris guessed he was in his mid-forties, the hair a silvery gray, the boyishly handsome face showing the first lines. He was a bit on the chubby side. Sharp eyes looked at the world around him, soaking it in, analyzing it, and Chris had no doubt that this man, though appearing harmless, was a rather dangerous opponent. He didn't have his supervisor position for nothing.
"Mr. Larabee," he greeted the other CSI, not at all surprised by his appearance as it seemed.
"Mr. Grissom," Chris returned the pleasantries. "Nice office."
"I doubt you came by to discuss interior art with me."
Chris smiled. "No. Actually I wanted to know if I passed."
Grissom raised his eyebrows.
"You pulled my file and you called my boss."
At the inquisitive expression, Chris added, "It's what I would have done, Mr. Grissom. So.... did I pass?"
Grissom gave the visitor's pass a pointed look. "It looks like you did, Mr. Larabee," not really answering the question. "What can I do for you?"
"I was wondering how far your investigations have come."
Eyebrows twitched slightly, but the roundish face remained rather expressionless. "We are investigating."
"Cause of death?"
This time the eyebrows rose and a quizzical expression settled on Grissom's face. "You know I can't divulge any information on an open case, Mr. Larabee."
"I think I have a vested interest in the proceedings."
"Because you happen to know the owner of the hotel.... more closely?"
Chris felt something inside of him tingle, drawn between amusement about the cautiously worded description of what Grissom was seeing, and annoyance.
"Because I happen to be a criminalist as well and I'm interested."
"But you're also involved, Mr. Larabee. Too close to the case to be objective. You also happen to be on vacation, off duty, and from a different State."
Chris shrugged, but his eyes narrowed a fraction. "My vacation was interrupted and it'll stay interrupted until I know who did it."
Something flickered over Grissom's face. Bingo. They had seen the tapes and the girl. And Grissom didn't like it any more than Chris had.
"I'm afraid I can't answer any of your questions, Mr. Larabee."
"I'm not asking to tag along, Grissom. I only want to be kept informed."
"And I can't grant you access to any more information. Good night."
"I'm not some reporter," Chris growled.
"No, you are a civilian."
The vampire took a deep breath and calmed himself. All right. He had tried. There were other ways.
"Good night, Mr. Grissom," was all he said, then turned and left the office.
 

Grissom watched the dark-clad man go and a frown settled on his features. He had checked up on the man, requesting his file to get an idea who he was dealing with. He appreciated Larabee's quick thinking to get them all the necessary evidence, but if their position had been reversed, he would have done the same. The other man was a criminalist as well, a professional, and he had acted as one. The only nagging sore spot was the fact that he knew the owner of the hotel. Closely. Intimately.
Grissom was far from prejudiced. To each his own. As an observer of humanity he had seen many kinds of bonds and relationships. Good and bad, lasting and short. He wouldn't judge Chris Larabee on this fact alone.
But now he wanted in on the investigation. While Grissom could understand the motivation, he wouldn't be tempted by the offer. Larabee was an outsider and too close to the case.
And something just didn't sit right with him. Something about the man tickled his senses.
He was pulled out of his musings as Nick knocked and walked into his office.
"Got the cell phone records from our Mr. Shore," he explained. "His last call? Anna's Massage Parlour."
Grissom raised an eyebrow. "Well, then it's time we see to our bodily health."

* * *

Ezra watched in fond exasperation as his lover absent-mindedly reached for the M&Ms in the bowl next to him on a low table, while his eyes were riveted to the autopsy report he had printed from his laptop just five minutes ago. It wasn't just the final report but every single test done on the DNA samples, the blood spatter, the sheets and the room so far. It made up for some heavy reading, but Chris was used to it. For him, it wasn't any worse than reading a murder mystery. And in a way, it was.
Chris had come back rather frustrated somewhere around three a.m., had immediately called JD, throwing him out of bed so to speak, and demanded that the hacker get into the CSI data files and retrieve the case files. JD had done so, quickly and efficiently, without asking why his boss, who was supposedly on vacation, needed them. At seven in the morning, the laptop had beeped, announcing an incoming mail. Ever since, Chris had been busy printing and reading.
Suddenly Larabee sat up straighter, the chocolate falling from his fingers to bounce onto the ground.
"Chris?"
"Damn it all to hell!"
Ezra approached the other vampire, feeling the tension radiating off him. Hazel eyes flashed amber as the temper broke through once.
"Chris!"
"Vampire!" Larabee just spat and thrust the report into Ezra's hands.
"What?"
"Slashed wrists, missing blood, saliva on the neck. The wounds were cleaned, and one wrist was cut open post-mortem to let it look like a suicide, but it was sloppy work. Look at the saliva sample."
Ezra frowned as he read over the report. He wasn't exactly good in tech terms, but since getting to know Chris and his team, as well as occasionally working with Nathan, he had learned a few more things about his 'condition'. The vampirism.
"There was an unknown component in the saliva," Chris went on. "The same 'unknown' you and I have in our DNA. The same every vampire gets after his turning."
"A vampire killed him," Ezra said softly, mind reeling.
Vampires didn't kill humans that openly as a rule. It was against community law. It would draw unwanted attention to the vampires. Killing was outlawed anyway, except in self-defense, and even then it was a rarity. Feeding on humans didn't necessarily have to end with the human donor being dead.
"And we saw who it was," Chris added, voice a low rumble.
"It couldn't be a child!" Ezra immediately vetoed.
"Why?"
"Because we do not turn children!" Ezra declared hotly. "It's against the first laws of the community. Children are too young, in body and mind. If a vampire turns a child, the child will stay that way until it grows up. Do you know how long that takes?"
"Decades," Chris murmured, understanding.
Vampires aged very slowly. So slowly, it seemed they were immortal. Ezra himself had survived for over a century and hadn't change from what he had looked like at the day of his turning. A child would grow in mind, but the body would stay the same.
"It's more than outlawed to turn a child," Ezra went on, pacing the floor, eyes flashing. "The penalty is death for anyone who sires one. They don't understand what they will become or what awaits them." He shook his head. "If someone sires a child, the community would know. They would be aware of this outrage..."
"Apparently they aren't. Or they are and keep their silence."
Ezra snarled. "They wouldn't dare!"
As the leader of the Salt Lake community, Ezra knew everything going on around him. Who came into the city, who left, who was new, who had returned. A child vampire would be brought to his attention immediately.
"Someone made her and used her as a prostitute," Chris said softly, disgust heavy in his voice.
Another rumble. The vampire was pushing to the forefront and Ezra felt the anger and rage swamp him. How could someone even think of turning a child? They were innocents!
"If it was her," Larabee went on, interrupting his thoughts, "and there are no other suspects at the moment and you know it, where is she now? She isn't seen leaving on any of the tapes of the lobby or the casinos."
Ezra reined in his vampire instincts, calming his thoughts. It wouldn't do anyone any good if he lost it.
Of course the girl was the only suspect. No one had been in the suite before Shore had arrived, no one had entered it in his absence, or before the arrival of the girl. The time of death stated in the autopsy report told them it was about half an hour before she had left.
"We have to find her," he murmured. "And talk to the community."
Chris nodded. "And I want to find out why the 'unknown' element in the saliva didn't make it into the final DNA report.
Ezra shot him a quizzical look.
"Some removed that little tidbit when the report was turned over to the lead investigator, namely Grissom," Chris explained. "And I want to talk to that someone. Greg Sanders, it says on the sheet." He looked at his watch. "It's around four now. That gives me some time before he goes on duty with the night shift. They start at eight."
"Just try to keep out of the sun," Ezra advised, a faint smile on his lips.
"The limo's protected."
The older vampire rolled his eyes. "You can hardly park it in Greg Sanders's living room."
"Now there's a new idea."
Ezra chuckled. "Just be careful."
"Always am."

* * *

Grissom looked around the rather tacky massage salon, taking in the brightly orange walls, the pink and yellow chairs lined up in the waiting area, and the bright neon sign above the registration desk proclaiming 'sensual massages'. It was open 24/7 and despite the early morning hours, there were already customers present.
A young woman in a very revealing tank top and thin blouse greeted them with a smile that threatened to crack the thick layer of lipstick she had smeared on. She was apparently just past legal age and her platinum blonde hair and pale skin spoke of long nights and barely any daylight. Artificial fingernails, three times the normal length, all painted in bright neon orange except for one pinky, which was black, played with a pen.
"Can I help you?" she asked, chewing on a piece of gum.
"Nick Stokes, Gil Grissom, Crime Lab Las Vegas," Nick introduced them, flashing his badge.
Grissom had told his younger colleague to go off shift, get some sleep, but Stokes had been adamant about going along. Gil knew he was pushing himself, and he knew why. A child as involved, a suspect and a victim in one, and he wouldn't rest until he found her -- and the man who had forced her into this. Nick's loyalty touched him, but he refused to see it as anything but a colleague pulling overtime.
Jim Brass, their ever-present shadow when it came to on-site investigations and interviews, showed his own badge. "LVPD."
She frowned, transferring the gum from one cheek to the other. "Yeah?" Heavily mascaraed eyes checked them out.
Nick smiled. "We're investigating a murder. Apparently the victim called you to make an appointment."
"So?"
"Could you please tell us if a Jack Shore made a reservation here yesterday?" Nick put all his considerable charm into the request.
"We don't give out information about our customers," the girl replied.
"We only want to know if he called here yesterday, Miss...?" Grissom entered the conversation.
"Grayson. Dana Grayson," she replied.
"Ms. Grayson. We don't want to know what he booked, only if he called."
She sighed and shrugged. "Okay, so he called."
"You know without checking?"
Dana flashed Grissom a wide grin. "Hey, Jack's one of our best customers. A regular. Every month. Business trip."
"I see. Thank you, Ms. Grayson."
The two criminalists left and Nick shot his superior a look. "So what next?"
"We know that Mr. Shore made only one call after he arrived at the Shaman. It was to this place. He made an appointment for a massage."
"No other calls means..." Nick's voice slowed down and he frowned, "he ordered the girl with this call?"
"Exactly. We need to get a warrant to search the place and investigate the employees."
"I'm on it," Brass declared.
"What about the girl?" Grissom wanted to know. "Did someone recognize her?"
"I sent O'Riley over to the Shaman. Haven't heard back from him yet."
"I want to know the moment he gets back."
"Sure thing, Grissom."
Brass watched the other man walk away and exchanged a knowing look with Nick. Like everyone else, he knew just how hard this was getting to Grissom.
"See ya," Nick only said and followed his boss. "Hey, Gris?"
The dark dressed man stopped at the Tahoe, looking at him from behind the dark sunglasses that made it impossible to read his eyes.
"How about some coffee?" Nick tried. "Warrant will take a while and we're actually way past our shift."
The unreadable expression stayed. No twitch. "Coffee," he finally agreed.
Nick smiled, pleased.
Five minutes later, the Tahoe pulled away and headed for one of the many coffee shops.

* * *

Frustration was eating away at Ezra and he knew he was close to doing something foolish. It had been two days since the murder now. He had spent the day, as well as a good part of the early evening trying to talk to someone from the local community, but they were quite openly stone-walling him. The Las Vegas leader, a Marcus Steen, wouldn't see him right away, and when he was finally granted an 'audience', it was only to be told that urgent business had called the other vampire away. So now he was back at the hotel, pacing the floor, flexing his hurting and quite bruised hand. A moment of rage had made him smash it against the wall, leaving quite an indention.
Ezra knew he had to pull himself together. He wouldn't do himself or anyone else any good like this. He hadn't lost his temper and cool like this in a long time, but the simple thought of someone turning a child and using it in this despicable way was enough to make him want to kill this person. The local community saw him as an intruder into their territory, someone who was allowed to stay only because Ezra was behaving himself. He was an outsider, a powerful one at that, and one wrong move would see him evicted from Vegas. Permanently.
Okay, so calm down, he told himself. Use logic. Emotions won't get you anywhere. And the locals won't help you.
So where did that leave him?
Rather fending on his own.
Ezra stopped in front of the open windows, looking over the city. It was three hours more till sunrise, but the lights were just as bright as before. This city never actually slept. People could gamble 24/7. And somewhere out there was a young girl, a vampire, who had killed someone.
Why?
She had fed off him. The autopsy report was quite clear on that, at least to someone who knew what he was looking for. Afterwards she had sterilized the wounds.
Why?
If she worked as a whore, killing the customers wouldn't really be good for business. Her pimp would have to feed her.
Ezra felt sickened to the core. He knew that if there was one child out there, there would be others. It was painful to imagine what these young ones had to go through because some twisted mind had turned them, but to sell their bodies?
He pushed those thoughts away and calmed the vampire inside him down. Taking the suite apart wouldn't help.
He had to find the child.
A thought struck him and he groaned.
Stupid! Why hadn't he thought of it before? He picked up the phone and dialled Ron's number.
"Ron? Ezra. I have a job for you...."

* * *

It hadn't taken long for a search warrant to be issued and the massage parlour to be searched by the police. Nick hadn't been there personally; he had caught up on some sleep. Grissom had. The man lived off a minimum of sleep, but the case was by now showing traces on him. The little time he had slept, he had slept badly.
Nothing had been found, except for a few disgruntled women and their male customers. They had found Jack Shore on a lot of appointment lists and he had wanted only one masseuse every time he came here.
Caroline Jefferson sat in one of the plastic chairs of the little change room all women shared, smoking a cigarette. She was a leggy blonde, possibly just a year over the legal age, with blue eyes and a child-like face. Grissom studied the young woman, mentally comparing her to the child on the security tape. While they weren't the same, Shore showed a rather clear taste in women: young, teenagers if possible, and blonde. The picture of innocence.
"Yeah, so he came here and always asked for me. Big tipper, too," Caroline answered Brass's question.
"How far did your massages go?" the captain asked.
She glared at him. "I don't sell my body, Mister. I work as a massage therapist, that's all."
Brass smirked. "Sure."
"He got his kicks otherwise."
"In what way?" Grissom wanted to know.
"Don't ask me. He did somehow. Came here afterwards and bragged. I think he liked them young." She smiled humorlessly. "Younger than me, if you get my drift."
Oh yes, he got it.
Revulsion rushed through Grissom A muscle in his cheek twitched and for a moment the anger washed through him. On the outside he was as calm and collected as always, but on the inside he was seething with rage.
The interview really didn't get them any further and in the end, Caroline Jefferson wenthome.
Grissom walked back into his office, reviewed the case reports from the other teams and solo workers, and checked out what else had come up that needed a CSI. He assigned his people and finally got some of the paperwork off his desk.
When Brass called to report that one of the employees had come up missing a few hours later, Grissom and Nick drove to the address of the missing person, finding Brass already there.
"Isaac Mahmoudhie," he told the two criminalists. "Long-time employee of Anna's Massage Parlour. Forty, no wife, no kids. Fancy apartment, very expensive car... at least for  'physical therapist'. No other employment records. Always did the night shift and special customers. Hasn't been seen since the night of the murder."
"Suspicious," Grissom agreed and approached the apartment.
It had been opened and secured by the police. As they stepped inside, Nick gave a little whistle.
"Neat freak," he commented.
Gil simply let his eyes wander over the living room. It was barren, despite the fact that it was fully furnished. Art prints were on the walls, the carpet was neat, expensive and very clean. The kitchen had all the necessary utensils, as well as plates and cups to serve a large family. As he walked from room to room, he saw nothing that indicated life of any kind happening within these walls.
He snapped on his gloves and shot Nick a look. The younger man shrugged and set to work -- even if there was hardly any hope of finding something.
An hour into dusting the place, Nick straightened and shook his head. "No prints, no hair, no fibres. The stuff in here is so new, it creaks!"
Grissom thoughtfully looked around, then turned his head as he heard some commotion from the front. He walked over to where the two officers on the scene were talking to a Hispanic woman in her early fifties.
"Excuse me?" he said politely.
She looked at him, sizing him up.
"My name is Gil Grissom. And you are?"
"Peja Hernandez," she replied with a faint Spanish accent. "I'm here to clean Mr. Mahmoudhie's apartment, as I do every Wednesday evening."
"You know Mr. Mahmoudhie?" the investigator asked, voice calm and giving nothing away.
"Not personally, no."
"But you clean his apartment? You have a key?"
Peja nodded. "Of course I have a key. How else would I get in?"
"I apologize, Mrs. Hernandez. How long have you worked for Mr. Mahmoudhie?"
"Three years."
"And you never saw him once?"
"No, never."
"And you don't find that strange?"
The woman chuckled and shrugged. "Mr. Grissom, I clean. Usually the people who hire me and my colleagues don't want to see us work."
"And Mr. Mahmoudhie, has he ever left a mess behind?"
She frowned. "No. He is a very neat person. I hardly have to touch a thing. Just dust the surfaces, vacuum, go over the kitchen with a wet rag, and then the bathroom."
"I noticed the apartment is very clean," he prompted.
"Oh yes, it is. Mr. Mahmoudhie doesn't seem to be home very often." Another shrug. "Makes my life easier. I have several apartments on this block. He is by far the cleanest and quickest."
Grissom smiled. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Hernandez."
"So... when can work tonight?" she wanted to know.
"I'm afraid we can't let you in. We are investigating in a police matter."
"Has Mr. Mahmoudhie done something wrong?" she asked, sounding worried.
"Why would you assume he would?" Why not think he was a victim? was the unspoken addition.
"Well, all the police...."
Grissom just smiled politely again. "I can't tell you anything, Mrs. Hernandez. Thank you for your co-operation." With that he walked back into the apartment where Nick was waiting.
"Anything?" the younger man asked.
"Cleaning lady. Never saw our guy, doesn't know him."
"That doesn't help. And neither does this place. Total wipe-down of all surfaces. Some viable prints, but I guess they are our cleaning lady's."
"We'll get her prints for comparison."
Two hours later they left the apartment with their meagre findings and went back to the lab.

* * *

Jack Shore had been a regular guest at the Shaman. He had always booked one of the South American theme suits, he had always ordered the same meals, and he had tipped well. It was nothing new to Ezra. They had heard that before. What he hadn't thought of before was asking his personnel about the girl. If Shore was a regular and if he came here on his business trips, and if he had a sick twisted sexual fantasy that involved girls, maybe she was a regular, too.
So he had sent Ron and his men out and about the hotel, interviewing and showing pictures. That had led to several sickening new clues. The girl had been here before. One of the waitresses working the front casino had seen her once, but she had thought it was a child waiting for her parents. The bell boys knew her, too. She had never talked, only traded a shy smile with one of them. Then she had disappeared.
The night of the murder she had walked straight through the lobby and toward the elevators, ignoring everyone. They had ignored her as well.
Ezra leaned back and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He felt a headache sneaking up on him. When was the last time he had had that problem? This whole case was working itself under his skin, eating at him. It was one thing if a guest had a roll in the sheets with a prostitute, but with a child? And someone had turned that child, making her a vampire. For how long?
That question had insinuated itself a long time ago. How old was she?
Standish felt a growl rise inside him and forced himself to calm down once more. He was too much on edge to think rationally, but who could when it involved innocent souls? Ezra knew he had a weak spot for children and he would protect them fiercely. Someone using them in this way was making the human sick, but someone turning a child made the vampire mad with rage.
He wished Chris was here.

* * *

It hadn't taken much to find out the address he needed and while JD had bitched about bosses on vacation not knowing what the word 'vacation' actually meant, he had delivered the requested data. Sanders lived in a relatively new apartment complex of maybe ten or twelve units, each with a balcony, and in a rather nice area.
The sun was still in the sky, but it was early evening, about two hours away from when Sanders's shift would start.
Knocking, Chris stood back and waited. He was aware of the burn of sunlight on his skin, but he had come prepared. Two shakes prior to getting out and two more after getting back into the waiting car would take care of any problems.
"Mr. Sanders? Greg Sanders?"
The young man who had opened the door watched him closely and a little confused. He was maybe in his mid-twenties with something Josiah would call 'experimental hair', a rather interesting style of controlled chaos. Or he had just woken from sleep and not found his brush, Chris mused. Dressed in an eccentric shirt, black with some wild silvery lines, and old jeans, he reminded Larabee a lot of JD.
"And you'd be ...?"
"Chris Larabee, CSI Salt Lake." He flashed his badge. "May I come in, please? I would like to discuss a certain topic with you."
"Yeah, sure." Greg stepped aside and let Chris pass.  "Something I can help you with?"
"It's about the murder at the Shaman hotel. I understand you worked with the evidence, extricated DNA from the samples found on the victim?"
"Yeah? So?"
Chris flipped two folders on the coffee table. "Then please explain to me why there is something essential missing in your report. Your official report, I may add."
"Missing?" Sanders looked at a total loss, frowning at the folders. "And where the hell did you get those reports from? They're not... "
"None of your business. I'm asking about the missing information."
"Which information?"
Chris pointed at one of the folders. "The details about the unknown component in the saliva found on the victim. It's not in your report. Why?"
"Hey, man, things like that happen. If it's not in the report it might because of the computer glitch. Thing frizzed three times when I was at this."
"Computer glitch?"
"Yeah. You know these thingies, right? They really have a mind of their own sometimes, and right when you're at something important - wham, and there you go, the whole thing ... "
Chris listened to the man babble, and his voice was scraping over his nerves like fingernails on a board. He was lying.
Stress and frustration about the whole damn affair, about the fact that what should have been a nice and quiet vacation with his lover had turned out to be a murder investigation big time, were taking their toll on the him. He snapped.
"Will you cut that crap!" Chris exploded, ready to slam the kid against the next best wall, fist clenching at his side, his eyes shooting daggers at the either entirely incompetent or deliberately deceitful lab rat.
Greg paled as he stared at the other man and he back-pedalled automatically.
"Ah shit!" he exclaimed. "No, no, no!"
Chris felt something inside of him cringe. One second. Just one second of loss of control.
"You're one of them," Sanders breathed, eyes wide. "Shit!"
The sentiment echoed through Chris's brain.
"You're a vampire!"
"Excuse me?"
"Don't shit me, Larabee! I know a vampire when he glowers at me!" Greg shot back, some color returning to his face. There wasn't any real fear in his voice, just annoyance and surprise.
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
But the younger man wasn't deterred. "You're a vampire. That's why you knew. Damnit! And here I thought they'd tell me!"
"Who?" Okay, he was slightly losing track of things. "Who should tell you what?"
"The community, man! They expect me to tell them things, help them out, but when it comes down to returning the favor, what do I get? Nothing!"
"You know the community exists?"
Sanders shot him a scathing glare. "Why don't you stop playing dumb, Mr. Larabee? I know about the vampire community of Las Vegas and you are not one of them. You're from Salt Lake. And you know enough about chemistry to recognize the vampire component in a DNA sample."
Larabee knew he had to take control of this conversation and get it back to where it wasn't this kid asking questions about him.
"You're an ally?"
"Yep."
"So that's why the unknown component was edited out."
"Exactly. If someone went back and checked the reports, hell, I could claim a glitch happened. It's not like it's a mutated gene or something. It's an oddity." Greg shrugged.
"An oddity that tells us that the killer was indeed a vampire."
"Precisely. How do you people work in Salt Lake, huh? I mean, even you guys die eventually. You need someone to cover the traces, get rid of the bodies."
Chris smile wryly, reminded of the case that had introduced Ezra Standish to him. Back then he hadn't known a thing about vampires or the paranormal. That had quickly changed.
"You - have an eye on things?" he asked.
"In a way. I've know that the paranormal exists for a long time, actually since I was a kid. My parents worked as allies. So when I landed my job here, I was in. Sometimes it's a vampire landing on the coroner's table, or evidence in a case points at you. I - let them disappear, if I can."
"Just like this time."
"Uh-huh. Mostly the community is taking care of things on its own, though."
"Sanders, a man was killed, the murderer a vampire. You can alter the DNA findings, even erase something or muddle it up a bit. You can't wipe out the fact that this time the blood was missing. And that we have a tape."

* * *

Chris came back to the hotel just half an hour after sunset. As he entered the suite, the first he became aware of was that someone had pulled the blinds shut despite the fact that it was now safe to open them, and no lights had been turned on.
Ezra?
He called his lover's name and heard a snarl in return. It came from the couch area and a pair of green eyes glowed in the darkness of the room.
Ah hell. Vampire mood. He had been waiting for Ezra to snap ever since the truth about the victim's erotic fantasies had walked into the Mayan suite. Ezra loved children and he would do everything to protect them. This whole case set something free inside his older lover that would become harder and harder to control if they didn't find the person or persons responsible soon.
Case?
Larabee grimaced. Okay, he was viewing it as a case now. No doubt about it. He was working a case. While on vacation.
"Ez?" he called again and went over to the couch.
"She was a regular!" Standish spat. "She came here as often as Shore! For three years!"
Chris felt something twist inside of him.
"And no one seems to know who she is! No one!"
"The community won't talk to you?" Chris asked softly, sitting down next to the fuming man.
"Stone-walled. I couldn't even get to the local leader. None of the vampires talks. Not even Marissa."
"The cleaning lady?" Chris hadn't known about her being a vampire. Well, it explained why she had been so calm and composed after finding a body.
"Yes. She belongs to the local community, not mine. She just works here." Teeth grated and muscles coiled.
Chris touched one tense arm. "Well, I did have a bit more luck with my side of the investigation. Apparently Mr. Greg Sanders not only works for the CSI but is also an ally to the community."
Ezra stared at him, the eyes still glowing faintly.
"He wiped any traces of vampire involvement from the reports," Chris went on, "but no one told him who we were."
"The community knows about our presence here. It's custom to inform the locals about the arrival of a high ranking vampire."
Chris leaned forward and ran a hand through his hair. "Okay, where does that leave us? We have a dead man who liked children for his fantasies. We have a child vampire, who knew our victim. The girl comes out of her John's room - after she has just killed the guy, and showered the evidence off - and what? Does the vanishing act. She hasn't been seen ever since, not on the tapes, not by the staff. Where did she disappear to? Did the earth swallow her or what? I mean IF she's a vampire ... "
 

Ezra had listened to his lover with only half an ear, but suddenly he sat up ramrod straight. Eyes flashed. The anger and frustration was bottled and stored, pushed away as the words registered.
"What did you just say? Repeat that."
Chris looked up, confusion written in his features. "If she's a vampire she will have to feed and hide from the sun?"
"That, too. But I meant before."
"Uh ... the earth swallowed her?"
"Yes! Of course ... "
Ezra could have slapped his forehead because of his ignorance. Damn, he should have known. He jumped to his feet and  headed toward the door.
"Ezra? What is it?"
"I'm so stupid, Chris, that's what's going on."
"Huh?"
"I designed this hotel, in the middle of the Nevada desert."
"So?"
"I'm a vampire, Chris. The earth DID swallow her."
With that he was out and pacing down the corridor.
"The earth ... ? DAMN!! EZRA! Where you're going?"
The older vampire shot his lover a short look over his shoulder as he stepped into the elevator, holding up the door for him.
"Office. To get the blueprints."

*

"That's one hell of a basement you have here, Ezra." Chris muttered as he slowly walked through the maze-like corridors and passages of the Shaman Hotel. Underground.
"Yes, one never knows when a diplomatic retreat is in order."
"Let me guess: you have a bunker somewhere, too, with a fridge and dried blood rations?"
Ezra shot him a look.
"Okay, okay, just guessing. So you don't."
"Didn't say that."
"So you do?"
"Didn't say that."
Before Chris could reply something caught his attention, something he had almost stepped on. Chris crouched down, closely inspecting said something without touching it. Furry, gray... and dead. His nostrils twitched slightly at the faint scent.
"She's here. Feeding off rats."
"She must be scared to death. Poor little thing."
Ezra's voice was full of sympathy - and something else Chris hadn't heard in long time; a fact he was entirely grateful for. Hearing it again, here and now, told him how much this case brought some of his lover's old memories to the surface. Being alone and helpless, not understanding what was going on and feeling the vampire's hunger deep inside...
He stood and reached for the other man's arm, squeezing slightly in a reassuring gesture. This was hard on both of them. Cases involving children were always ugly. Chris was a father and his parental feelings clashed with his training to keep himself detached. But for Ezra, it was much more. It was older and sat deeper.
"Ezra, we will find her. And then we will help her."
Ezra's eyes glowed in the semi-darkness of the corridor. "And whoever is responsible for this will pay."
Chris shuddered at the gravely tone of the other vampire's voice, at the power it was holding. That hadn't been his gentle lover speaking. That had been the head of their community  - and his sire.
"Let's find a lost child, Ezra."
Standish nodded.
They walked on, vampire instincts hunting for a scent, a sound, anything that would lead them to the lost girl. Chris ignored the stench of mould and dead rats. From the amount of rodents, it was clear she had been hungry, even after feeding on a grown man. How starved must she have been? And how desperate?
Enough to risk exposure and the wrath of the community. She had committed a crime.
Chris suddenly stopped and tilted his head. Ezra did the same. Eyes glowed in the twilight and the vampires tensed.
 The hissing and spitting wildcat that suddenly attacked him out of the dark, jumping at him in a desperate fury, clawing at his eyes, kicking and biting, couldn't surely be a child. Chris wrapped his arms around the fragile form, pinning her arms to her side, immobilizing her. One look in the child's features told him, in addition to a physical strength a girl her physiognomy shouldn't possess, that she indeed was a vampire. She fought against his grip, trying to free her arms, trying to free herself. She twisted and wriggled, but he was stronger than her, and pressed against his chest, she had no chance.
Chris heard Ezra talk to her, try to soothe the frightened soul, but his words wouldn't penetrate the child's terrorized mind. After another minute of frantic struggles she simply collapsed, and Chris heard her ragged breathing as she started to sob and tremble. He sank down the cold wall, cradling her protectively in his arms. She no longer tried to get free. Her hands were clenched into his shirt, holding on instead of trying to push him away.
"Ssshh, it's okay, little one, you're safe. Don't be frightened, we're here to help. Shhhh... " Chris carefully stroked the girls hair, pulling her head against his shoulder. Then he heard her.
"...no more ... please?"
"What no more, sweety?"
"I'll be good, I promise ... no more sun... please... I'll be good..."
A tremor ran through her, stopping her heartbreaking pleas, as she sobbed even harder. Chris heard the sharp intake of breath from his lover and swallowed, exchanging glances with the other man.
Sun?

* * *

Dead end.
Nick shook his head and put down the reports from the labs on Mahmoudhie's apartment. There had only been prints from the cleaning lady. They were a week old and there was no reason not to believe the woman's story.
"Hey, Nick."
He looked up and smiled at Sara as she stuck her head into the office. "Hey yourself."
"How are you and Grissom doing on that murder?"
"Dead ends one after another. You?"
"Got our perp. Me and Catherine have just been given a new case."
He sighed. "Well, good luck."
"Same to you." Sidle was just about to leave as Brass arrived, carrying a folder.
"Got something for you," the captain announced.
Nick perked up. "Yes?"
"Accident out on the I-15. Crash and burn. License plates tell us the car was registered to an Isaac Mahmoudhie."
Stokes shot up. "Hot damn!"
"Thought you'd like that. Grissom is already on the way to the scene. Told me to get you and follow."
Typically his boss. "Okay, lead on, man!"

*

The accident site wasn't different from the many Nick had seen in his life. The car had come off the road, crashed down a long incline and collided with rocks and trees. Somewhere along the lines it had apparently caught fire. Whether by accident or if someone had helped him, that was for them to find out.
The coroners were waiting to one side for the CSIs to release the burned body still slumped in the driver's seat. Grissom was already shining his flashlight into nooks and crannies, every corner of he car and along the crispy stiff.
"Went off the road, no brake lines, crashed down here and burned," Brass recited what they had gathered so far.
"The question is, was it an accident or did someone try to get rid of him?" Grissom asked, straightening from his position.
Brass smiled. "That's what you guys are for."
"Exactly."
And they sat to work.

* * *

Ezra looked down at the sleeping girl. After feeding her a decent shake, exhaustion had simply taken over and she had fallen asleep on the couch, curled up in a fetal position. Ezra pulled a blanket over the child, tugging her in gently before joining his lover in the bedroom.
"She's asleep now," he stated more calmly than he really felt.
From what they had been able to make of her pleas between sobs, she had been 'punished' for a misbehavior by exposing her body to the sun and letting her go hungry. The hunger had been too much for the starved body and she had simply lost it when she was sent to her client nevertheless. Apparently she had tried her best to hide her presence by cleaning herself and the customer as well as she could. Being frightened of the punishment that deed would inflict upon her by her pimp she had done what every terrorized child would do: run and hide.
"Who's doing something like this to a child?"
Ezra knew this question was a rather rhetorical one. Chris had seen his share of ugly due to his line of work. As had he himself due to his life span.
"Someone who's really sick. Someone who doesn't give a damn, Chris. You've seen sickos like this before."
Chris sighed deeply. "Doesn't make it easier."
"No. And that's good. Tells me you're still alive - in a matter of speaking. You still have a living and caring soul, Chris."
"As do you. As this little one in there does. She looks like a twelve year old, Ezra, but ... "
Chris's voice trailed off, but Ezra knew nevertheless what his lover was implying, what he was asking himself. She looked like a teenager - but since when? For how many years? Three at least, Ezra mused with a sickening feeling in his stomach, because Shore had ordered her for the last three years. He and how many more? For how long? And were there others like her?
"Chris?" he whispered, voice breaking.
Strong arms wrapped around him as he started to tremble, simply holding him, telling him silently that he was no longer alone, and he listened to the steady beat of his lover's heart as Chris pulled his head against his shoulder like he had done with the little one, encouraging him to let go. Which he did.

* * *

Nick felt tired and beaten. He didn't know how long he had been up, but he was sure that it was two shifts by now. Since the discovery of Mr. Isaac Mahmoudhie burned to a crisp in his car, he and Grissom had tried to follow a trail of false IDs and numbers, ending up with nothing over and over again. The Doc had confirmed that the dead body was indeed Mr. Mahmoudhie and that he had burned. No sign of any foul play.
That didn't help.
The lab had started to process the car and Nick had spent some hours going over it with a fine tooth comb, but no foul play here either. It was Mahmoudhie's, had a perfect service record, but it looked like the gas tank had ruptured and it had gone up in flames. The source of the fire had come from beneath where the gas had soaked the ground. There must have been a spark from the engine to set it off.
It had happened before.
So it had been back to the man himself. That was when another dead end hit him right in the face. Brass had found that Isaac Mahmoudhie, while he existed on paper, had died over thirty years ago, at the age of eighteen months. Fake ID, fake social security number, fake birth certificate.
Great.
The possible pimp, running his operation through the massage parlour, was dead. The girl was missing. No one had seen hide nor hair of her, and the usual police snitches had nothing.
Just great.
Running a hand through his short-cropped hair, the Texan headed over to Grissom's office. It was close to ten a.m. and he had a sneaking suspicion that the man was still here. The case was hitting a raw nerve in the man. It involved children and Gil wouldn't rest until he caught the perps, but with so many cold trails, it was hard to see any hope.
Knocking, Nick stuck his head in. Grissom was in his chair, turned away from the door, apparently staring off into space.
"Hey, Gris," he called.
No reaction.
Okay, so he was far off into space. Nick grinned and slipped inside, closing the door.
"You in there somewhere, man?"
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
Stokes frowned. "Grissom?" He raised his voice.
Nothing again.
Something niggled at his memories and the frown deepened. It wasn't the first time he had noticed this strange kind of 'absence', the way Gil suddenly didn't listen anymore or ignored someone, only to react even stranger later on. The first time he had simply ascribed it to Grissom being the eccentric everyone thought he was. The second time had been in court. He had witnessed Grissom asking the defence lawyer to repeat a question three times, and the way he had looked at her... head slightly tilted, concentrating on... what? What the woman had said? And then on the roof where they had investigated a possible jumper. Grissom had looked at him, and later Nick could have sworn there had been first slight panic, then confusion, followed by a fierce concentration on... him? His voice?
Things clicked into place and he remembered how surprised everyone had been that Grissom knew sign language. Fluently, it appeared. He had never told where from.
Now...
Nick inhaled deeply.
Okay, Stokes, go for it. Try what you've learned.
He reached for the light switch and flicked the lights off and on again.
Grissom suddenly turned, looking a bit confused, then the expression vanished behind the polite but dismissive face Nick had seen so often before.
"Y'musta been real deep'n thought," he drawled, his Texan accent thickening, slurring his speech as well as his lip movement.
Nick felt a brief rush of shame at what he was doing, but there was only one way to get to the bottom of this and that was to confront Gil Grissom head on with the facts.
No reply. Just the barely perceptible tilt of the head.
"You got no idea at all what I just said," Nick murmured.
[Thinking?] he signed, hands moving slowly but fluently. [You didn't hear me yell?]
Shock was the only word Nick could ascribe to the expression on Grissom's face and part of him was satisfied, while another was saddened deeply.
[You can sign?]
[Obviously], Nick answered, using his hands as well as his voice.
[How?]
[I had good teachers] Nick came closer, face serious.
[You learned because you needed it?]
A smile flitted over his features. [Kind of. I learned because of a friend]
Grissom studied him, searching for something. [How long?]
[About a year]
 Stunned silence. Nick could almost see the wheels turning, making connections. [Your friend -- you talk often?]
[We only just started]
Realization settled in the suddenly so expressive eyes.
Nick hadn't known what he would do if one day he and Gil would talk like this. Somehow, everything had led to this, this moment. All his patient collection of facts, his pain-staking research into the mystery that was Gil Grissom. He had unobtrusively gathered the evidence that pointed at something going on with the man, something on a personal level that disturbed the normally so unshakeable man. It had changed him subtly, but to Nick the changes had been profound. Because he was looking, he was watching, he wanted to know.
In time, he had discovered that his boss was fluent in sign language, baffling Sara and Warrick who had been on the case of a hit-and-run, the victim being a deaf teenager. Then the little hand signal in the court room, when he had talked to his old mentor. A simple sign. Today Nick knew it meant 'hello'.
With all his 'evidence' and clues, Stokes had one day found himself on the steps of the Gilbert College of the Deaf. The same college the hit-and-run victim had belonged to. The place was where he might get answers to his questions. Not a clinic, but somewhere deaf people went to learn.

//"Mr. Stokes?"
He turned and looked at a slender woman in her thirties, shoulder-length, dark blonde hair framing a pretty face. She was wearing a hearing aide.
"Dr. Gilbert. Uh, thank you for your time."
When he had asked at the reception who to talk to, Dr. Gilbert's name had been dropped and he had made an appointment. Now he looked at the woman closely studying him. She was deaf, like all her students, but from Warrick and Sara, who had had to work with her throughout the case, he knew she read lips.
"I'm here because I have questions... because I have a friend and... well, I think he's suffering from hearing loss."
Gilbert looked at him, face calm but open. "Why do you think that, Mr. Stokes?"
And he presented her with the facts, leaving out Gil's name, though. She listened, she asked question, and listened again.
"It does sound like your friend's hearing is deteriorating, but he knows and is prepared for the inevitable."
He sighed. "But no one knows."
"Except you. Tell me, Mr. Stokes, how good a friend is he?"
"I consider him a very good friend," he answered honestly. "He might not tell me what's happening, but I think it's wrong. He should open up to someone."
She smiled. "You care about him."
He nodded. "Very much."
"Then learn his language."
"You mean sign?"
"Yes. Are you willing to do that, Mr. Stokes?"
"I don't want to lose him," he said softly. "And I will when his hearing is gone."//

So he had taken classes, with those who had just lost their hearing, learning to sign. It had been hard at first, but he had persisted, he had doggedly practiced again and again. His free time was spent at the college as often as possible. Dr. Gilbert had talked to him often, challenging him since she refused to use any other form of communication than sign language, and he had improved. The students in turn had been encouraged by a grown up struggling alongside with them, showing them that nobody was perfect. It had been a learning experience for both sides.
He still went to the school.
Pulling himself from his memories, Nick signed, [How did you learn?]
[Necessity]
[A friend?]
[Family]
Nick thought quickly. He knew next to nothing about Grissom's family. And his friend didn't elaborate.
[Gil... I'm your friend. At least I hoped I was. Talk to me?]
Grissom looked at him for a long time, sharp eyes mapping him, then he pointed at the chair. [Sit, please]
"Gris?" he asked out loud, lips forming the nick name slowly.
"I have never told this to anyone before," the night shift supervisor said slowly, softly, hands adding only a few signs to it.
He sounded tired, almost exhausted, and Nick felt drawn between calling this off to give Gil the necessary time to pull his obviously frayed emotions back together, and simply letting it happen. His boss and friend was in a rare, open mood. It was really a now or never situation.
"My mother is deaf," Grissom went on, still signing as he spoke. "It is genetic."
Genetic. As in... no accident. Something that was in the DNA.
"She lost her hearing over time."
So she hadn't been deaf right from birth. Another tidbit of information.
The expressive eyes lowered and Nick leaned unconsciously forward, almost feeling the pain and inner struggle.
"So you learned to sign because of your mother." It wasn't a question -- and since Grissom wasn't looking at him, he hadn't heard it.
Nick slammed his hand on the table three times, the vibrations alerting the other man. Gil looked up and Nick repeated the questions, using sign language as well.
Grissom gave him a wry grin. "You seem to have done some research, Nicky."
"Kinda. Told you, I had good teachers. Not just in the language."
"To answer your question, yes, I learned because of my mother."
"And it's genetic."
"Yes."
Little wheels started spinning.
"So at the moment, you can't hear anything then?"
"Normally, it is like having cotton wool in your ears."
Nick raised an eyebrow. Grissom wasn't really pouring his heart out, but he was giving little pieces of information that would lead to the right conclusion... if Nick followed the right trail.
"Not today."
Gil shook his head. "No. For the last two hours, I haven't heard anything."
"You had it before." Again, no questions. It was like a case and Grissom was supervising. Nick handled it like one. The evidence was there and the evidence didn't lie.
A nod.
Nick leaned back in his chair, feeling something heavy settle in his stomach at what his boss had just revealed to him, what the implications were. Grissom was losing his hearing due to genetic heritage. Apparently he had known for a while now, at least had known that it might be him some day. And while such spells of deafness hadn't been total in the past, this one had lasted for two hours and had cut him off from the world. Not even a muffled sound.
"Is it gradual?"
"My mother lost her hearing progressively over time. I believe it is."
"Did you consult anyone?"
"A doctor, yes. I went to tests."
"And? What is it?"
"It's called otosclerosis."
Nick shot him an inquisitive look. "Which is...?"
"A slow degeneration of the inner ear bones."
"Inoperable?"
"No, they want me to consider surgery."
"Would it help?"
Grissom was silent and it was answer enough. He didn't know. And he was scared. Nick saw it. His boss was scared of the possible outcomes. If it failed, he would be deaf. If he didn't try it, he would end up deaf. But there was also the hope that it worked....
Still, what if this was how it was final now? What if Gil's hearing was forever gone? From today on? Nick's mind was reeling with the possibilities.
"Where did you learn?" Grissom suddenly asked.
Nick grinned. "I went to a school for the deaf and took classes."
He watched as Grissom suddenly tilted his head. "Say that again."
"I took classes?" Nick repeated with a slight question in his voice.
A slow smile started over the full lips.
"It's coming back?" Nick wanted to know, suddenly at the edge of his seat.
"Yes. I can hear more now. Still muffled, but clearer than before."
Stokes flashed a smile of relief. He hadn't been aware of just how tense he had been since the revelation.
Their eyes met and something passed between them. It was private, none of this would leave the room. If the others found out one day, it wouldn't be from Nick.
Grissom's stance shifted. Nick recognized the change from the open, accessible man who had just confessed his deepest fear and secret to him, to the supervisor of the night shift. Distance. He needed distance and Nick would give it to him.
"So, anything new about the case?"
He smiled, accepting the change in topic and started to give Grissom his report on his less-than-pleasing findings. Gil listened, fingers steepled in front of his face.
"Dead ends. Someone is leading us away from the real victim: the child."
Nick nodded. "Mahmoudhie was a waste of time. Now what?"
Intelligent dark blue eyes sparkled all of a sudden. "How does breakfast sound to you?"
He laughed, delighted to see the smile on Gil's lips. "You know, that sounds real good."

* * *

"What are we going to do know?" Chris asked.
This case was no longer a simple one, it was a community issue, that much he knew.
"We will have to take her to the community, Chris. I don't like this any more than you do, but ... they will have to take care of her, maybe find the others."
Ah yes, the others. After she had woken up they had been able to assure her that they didn't mean any harm, and they had been able to get something from her. It didn't do anything to calm them down, not a single bit, and both men had to fight desperately for their composure at the girl's story, not wanting to frighten her any more. Her name was Halley, and she was indeed twelve years old - as a child. Her total life span summed up to thirty seven - she and her brother had been turned twenty five years ago!
Chris had thought he could hear the teeth in Ezra's jaw crack with the effort to keep silent, while the fury was raging through his lover. But his eyes hadn't so much as flashed, and Chris was deeply proud of his lover, knowing what it cost him. Her brother Darren was fifteen, and the others in her group were between ten and fourteen. And there were seven of them, both boys and girls. She had never met another vampire other than her 'siblings', not even knowing that she WAS a vampire. She only knew that she and her 'siblings' had been very very bad kids and therefore were punished, and that the only way to end the punishment would be to do what their 'father' told them.
No, she didn't know his name. He was father.
Yes, once in a while one of her siblings had done something wrong, causing father to get very sad because he had to add to the punishment, sometimes by leaving them into the sun, sometimes by not giving them food. She must have been a very very bad kid, because only bad kids couldn't stand the sunlight, right? Sun was for good kids, and the last time it had burned her good, but she had deserved it, and could she go home now, please?
"She wants to go back to this 'father' who hurts and abuses her and the others, can you believe that?" Ezra asked, outrage in his voice.
"It's the only home she knows, Ezra. It's the only family she has, the only familiar ground. Familiar is good for it's predictable, as cruel and ugly as it may be," Chris explained calmly. Those were facts he had been confronted with before in his line of work.
"I know. The unpredictable causes fear. At least with the familiar you know what you have, but you don't know what you might get."
"Exactly."
Ezra closed his eyes for a second. "I don't want to turn her over," he whispered.
"I know what you're thinking of, love. We can't keep her. Do you have the slightest idea what would happen when she'd think she has done something wrong? She'd try to make it right."
Ezra looked at his lover, confused.
"She'd try to make it right the only way she knows, Ezra," Chris said softly. "Would you want her to do that?"
"I don't ... "
"She would try to please us, Ezra, in the only way she knows. Child prostitutes tend to do that, even when removed from their environment. They often return to the scene."
"You mean ... ? " Ezra's eyes widened with shock.
"She'd climb into your bed. Or mine. She'd climb into Vin's bed or Buck's. She wouldn't care, as long as we'd be no longer mad with her. She will go through that nevertheless. She will have to learn what she is, what she can do, that she's not a bad person, after ... "
"Twenty-five years of indoctrination. She's been trained like a dog, Chris."
"They mostly are."
"Twenty-five years?"
"No. You don't need that much time for a kid."
Ezra didn't say anything, and that troubled Chris more than if the other vampire would have sworn, or displayed one of his rarely outbursts. Ezra had become the silent fury - and Chris almost feared for the sicko, should Ezra ever get the opportunity to lay a hand on him.
Almost.
"I'll go and try to talk with the community. I'll have to convince them it wasn't her fault," Standish finally said, body radiating tension he needed to work off.
"Isn't that obvious?"
Ezra just looked at him. "A hearing is in order. She will have to get the opportunity to tell her story in front of a tribunal."
"Ezra, she's a kid!"
"So? Look at her. She's a victim, yes, but with this community I'm not so sure how they'd react. These people are highly paranoid, yet they didn't know about the existence of not one but seven child vampires, used as prostitutes on the streets of their town? Something just smells bad here, Chris, and I won't take her over unless I can be certain she will be treated right, not returned to her pimp or facing the death penalty because of killing in plain sight and risking the discovery of the community's existence."
Chris gently placed his hands on his lover's face, pulling the other man close into a long and tender kiss. They hadn't really felt like tenderness and affection during this whole incident, and Chris was in dire need of some closeness and love.
"Take care, love. I'll wait for you."
Ezra brushed his hand over the side of his face, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "I will. Thanks you."
Then he was gone, and Chris closed his eyes for a second. He didn't notice the presence behind him, until he heard the shy voice.
"Are you like me?
Chris inhaled, carefully reining in his emotions, hoping he had understood her question wrong.
"What do you mean, sweety?"
"He ... touched you. Are you like me?"
Chris swallowed. He hadn't.

* * *

In his DNA lab, Greg Sander ran a hand through his already spiky and tousled hair.
'You're really giving me a run for my non-existent money,' he thought darkly.
The current case hadn't been the first he had been forced to alter evidence for. Never enough to let the perp get away, just to hide the more unexplainable and weird little facts. Like an unknown addition to the blood or something about the body that had been found. Well, this time, it had been saliva and blood. First the saliva found on the body of the dead business guy in the Mayan Suite of the Shaman, now a dead crispy stiff who just happened to be a vampire.
Swell.
Robbins had done his usual autopsy, not finding anything amiss. Vampires were humans after all, just with the little difference that they had died to become what they were now and lived of blood. Thank goodness the stiff hadn't eaten anything just before dying or Robbins would have found some undigested blood in his stomach.
Sometimes Greg wished vampires would follow legend and turn into dust when they died. But no such luck. This one had been very much non-dust. And he had been connected to the murder from the hotel. Greg just hoped that there wouldn't be any more dead vampires turning up. He didn't like faking things, but as an ally he had to protect the community.
Glancing at the wall clock, Greg decided that today, overtime was out of the question. He had done his good deed for today and it was time to get some breakfast and a good, long sleep.

* * *

Chris leaned back in the seat of the car, closely observing both his lover and the child. Halley had closed down on them shortly after she had seen Ezra kiss and touch him. He felt the wave of anger rush toward the surface again, remembering the huge, blue questioning eyes, staring at him in utter disbelief when he had tried to explain to her that he and Ezra were a couple, and yes, though Ezra had touched him he hadn't intended to either punish or hurt him, but loved him. She hadn't understood the simple statement that love didn't necessarily mean to discipline the other one by inflicting pain. She simply didn't grasp the very idea. Chris clenched his jaw when he thought about what people were capable of doing to their own young ones.
He sensed being watched and looked up, directly into his lover's green eyes. This wasn't easy on both of them. Ezra had gotten the opportunity to talk to the head of community, and Steen had scheduled the hearing. It would be a meeting of the highest ranking members of the Las Vegas community, to give them the chance to listen to Halley's story and decide what to do with the child, whether she was the victim she appeared to be or - not. But Halley had clamped shut like the proverbial oyster, and nothing Chris or Ezra had done had coaxed her into telling them anything more.
And now she was about to face the hearing. Chris wrapped an arm around the fragile shoulders and squeezed reassuringly, receiving no response whatsoever. Not good. Not good at all.

*

The hearing chamber was a large room, resembling a court room with chairs and desks, on the first floor of the community's headquarter. Curtains were down to keep any possible sunlight out, even now at ten in the night. Chris and Ezra were sitting at Halley's side, watching the jury, waiting.
"Mr. Standish? This is the girl?" Marcus Steen asked.
Chris noticed Halley flinch at the man's deep voice, her gaze glued to the floor. She was swallowing hard, and her face had drained of color. The girl was utterly afraid.
"Yes, Mr. Steen." Ezra stood. "Her name is Halley, and as you can see she's not capable of cold blooded murder. It is illegal to turn a child for apparent reasons, and here these reasons are displayed in all of their seriousness right in front of our eyes."
Ezra pointed toward her, and she risked a shy glance at his face before staring back to the floor. Chris frowned.
"I ... see what you mean, Mr. Standish. Has Halley told you her story? Are there others?"
"Yes, she has. There are six other children like her, age ranging from ten to fifteen. She hasn't told us about their whereabouts or who sired them, but if they were treated like she was, there are other clients' lives at stake. She killed her john because she was starved and couldn't control the craving. She will have to learn about her nature, and fast."
"I agree. We will retreat to discuss the matter, but I don't think the girl will be held responsible for her actions."
"Thank you."
 

About ten minutes later, the group of vampires returned from their discussion, and Chris felt his heartbeat increase in apprehension of the result.
"Mr. Standish, Mr. Larabee, this tribunal has come to the conclusion that the vampire Halley cannot be held responsible for the chain of events that led to the death of one of her customer," Steen announced. "She indeed is to be considered a victim herself, forced into vampire existence without proper schooling. The fact that the child not even knows what she is must not be overlooked. Therefore she will have to be placed into a family where she can be taken care of, given the right training, and where she will be... loved. This tribunal thanks you both for having assisted the community in this dreadful matter. Halley," he approached the girl. Chris saw her wince at the voice again. "You will accompany me."
At first she didn't react, but then Steen softened his voice, holding out his left hand. "Halley, precious. Come to me."
This time she did react, but Chris grabbed her shoulder, wanting to hold her back. This wasn't right!
"Now wait a sec, Mr. ... " a soft tugging at his finger made his head whirl around, huge blue eyes catching his.
"I have to," Halley whispered. "He called me."  With that she shrugged out of his grip and stepped over to the waiting vampire, eyes locked to the floor again.
"Thank you, gentlemen. We will take care of the child now."
With that he turned her by her shoulders, guiding her away. A short glance over her shoulder, an incredibly sad look - and a silently mouthed 'bye' was the last thing Chris saw of the girl before they disappeared into the other room. A sharp squeeze on his shoulder brought Chris back to the here and now, and he reached up, squeezing the hand of his lover in utter frustration and pain.
"You'll have to let her go, Chris."
Ezra looked at him intensely.
"Something's not right, Ezra. Something's absolutely, totally wrong here ... don't you sense it?"
"Yes. Now let's go. We are no longer welcome here."

* * *

"Something is wrong!"
Chris Larabee paced the length of the penthouse suite, clearly agitated, radiating it from every pore. He had been doing that for the last half hour and showed no sign of tiring.
"Did you see how Halley behaved? The way she reacted? She was close to cowering in front of that guy!"
"That 'guy' is the leader of this community, Chris. He is a powerful man. And don't forget how Halley was conditioned. She is submissive and reacted to his presence."
"She didn't try to crawl under a rug when she was with us!" Chris snapped.
"True."
"Something is rubbing me wrong, Ezra. Something is terribly, terribly wrong."
He looked at his lover as if he expected him to have a magical solution. Ezra didn't have one.
"I can't do anything, Chris."
"You're in charge of your own community! That has got to pull some weight!"
"You know it doesn't," was the calm reply.
Larabee snarled, pacing more. "Then I'll go over there and demand to see Halley. I want to know they're treating her right! She's traumatized, for crying out loud!"
Ezra sighed deeply. "Chris..."
"You want to stop me?"
"Actually, I was thinking about going over there instead. In your state, you'll rip off a head or two instead of asking politely."
Chris glowered at him, but he was slightly appeased by the offer. Standish just sighed mentally, preparing himself for the polite refusal he was sure he'd receive.
He left the hotel twenty minutes later.

* * *

Ezra stared at the younger vampire in disbelief and rising rage. "What?" he demanded.
"Mr. Steen has left with the children," the man repeated, shifting slightly under the intense, green stare.
"Children?"
"He found the others."
That was fast, a voice inside him growled. Too fast. Way too fast! The niggling voice reminded him of the many inconsistencies he had noticed over the course of this investigation. Not only had someone sired a child vampire and used her as a whore, he had hidden her for years right under the noses of the whole community. Ezra couldn't and wouldn't believe that it was possible. Maybe a few weeks, a month maximum, but not years. And Halley had worked this town for three years, if not longer! She had been a vampire longer than that anyway.
And no one had noticed.
Impossible.
So it if was impossible, someone was covering up the sickening truth; someone within the community knew. Someone high up because it needed influence and power to do so.
And this young one was telling him that Marcus Steen had suddenly found the other children and was doing what now?
"Where is he?" he growled.
"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm not at liberty to disclose that."
Anger raced through him. How dare this young punk talk to him like that? The rage doubled and Ezra was hard pressed to keep in control of the vampire inside him.
"Can I help you?" he was interrupted.
The voice belonged to a tall, dark-haired woman in leisurely but expensive clothes. She radiated power, but was far from any position that would threaten a man like Ezra.
"Mr. Standish was inquiring about Mr. Steen," the young vampire stumbled to explain, clearly nervous in the presence of the close-to-seething older one.
Ezra recognized the woman as Danielle McPherson. She had been introduced to him the first time he had been refused a talk with the community leader.
"Marcus is currently taking care of urgent business," Danielle explained politely.
"The children."
She didn't show any emotion.
"And you don't find it in any way surprising?" Ezra taunted.
"Pardon?"
"That he suddenly found the other children, who were supposedly somewhere no one could find them? All those years no one had a clue about child vampires in Las Vegas, selling their services, but suddenly your leader rescues them within a few hours of the girl being found?"
Ezra was pleased to notice the flinch in Danielle as he mentioned what the children had been forced to do. At least someone here showed a reaction to the child's abuse.
"The girl told him."
"That girl has been a vampire and in the service of her sire for over two decades!" Ezra snapped. "She was conditioned! She was told never to reveal who her 'father' was. Halley didn't even know what she was. So why would she open up to a complete stranger in such a short time? She is terrified of what happened, what she has done, and she no longer understands the world she lives in, because it is a strange world to her. So explain to me how Marcus made her reveal such long and well kept secrets?"
The vampire was silent, dark eyes studying the powerful man in front of her. "You know what you are implying? The accusations?"
"I'm perfectly aware of it." Green eyes steadily regarded her. "But as it seems, you are too blind to see the truth. Good night."
With that Ezra turned and left, stalking out of the hotel casino owned by Steen. He would find the man, no matter what.

* * *

Danielle McPherson stood in the penthouse suit, facing the smaller but a lot more powerful vampire with as much calmness as she could muster. Within the last thirty minutes, her whole image of the world, the community, and Marcus Steen had suddenly cracked and started to tilt. Ezra Standish had been right. A vampire from another community, a leader in his own right and a very renowned one, had seen more wrong and darkness in the community she had lived in so many years than Danielle herself.
"You found evidence?" Standish asked, voice level. "That was fast."
"There have been…. suspicions in the past, Mr. Standish. But Marcus is our leader and the suspicions were too insubstantial." She pressed her lips into a thin line. "Now… things have changed. I went through Marcus's office after you were gone."
The other vampire raised an eyebrow at that breach of privacy, but he didn't comment.
"I found this." She held up a brown bottle. "Hawthorn."
Chris Larabee, who was keeping back, letting his partner handle matters, tensed.
"I took the liberty of calling the airport," Danielle went on. "Marcus wanted to take the children to a safer place, somewhere away from temptation, somewhere more rural."
Larabee sneered, but he was silent.
"He never arrived," Standish simply stated.
"Yes. He took the mini-van and it has GPS. We've tracked him and he drove into the desert."
Ezra gazed at her, eyes hard, face unreadable. "And you're telling me why?"
"You asked where Marcus was."
A cold smile cracked the facade and it frightened her down to her fifty year old vampire soul. This was an old vampire, not ancient, but old and with experience. And someone who took all of this personally, even though it wasn't his community. She didn't know why, but on the way over to the Shaman she had decided not to stand in Ezra Standish's way.
"The co-ordinates?" he demanded.
Danielle reacted out of the deep-set instinct of a beta to an alpha. She handed over the printed out version of the location map.
"Mr. Standish?" she asked as he stalked past her with Larabee in tow.
"Yes?"
"I would like to accompany you. This is a community matter and it would make for a trial case if you had witnesses of this community. I have talked to three vampires I trust, who have the same suspicions and had them even longer than me. Inconsequential things suddenly make sense. If you will accept our company, we will be your observers."
Cold eyes considered her, then he nodded.

* * *

The place was in the middle of the desert, an hours drive by car -- if the driver adhered to the speed limit. Chris Larabee wasn't exactly in the mood for it. He had put the pedal to the metal, so to speak, and the car was shooting down the highway at high speed. They got off the main road only five miles out of town and ride got bumpy as the sandy side road hit the tires. Chris didn't care. Neither did he care whether or not the second car was actually able to follow them. The two men and two women from the Vegas community knew where they were headed.
As they neared the coordinates, Chris shut off the headlights, still able to see well enough to drive safely at the high speed. He came to a sudden stop and the dust settled around them. Sharp eyes took in the deserted mini-van.
Ezra was already out of the car and running toward the vehicle. Chris wasn't far behind. Part of him registered the arrival of the second one with the four community members, but then he heard the snarl of outrage from his lover.
The scene that greeted him as he came around the car would be burned into his mind for a long time. Just behind the car, the ground sloped toward a dried-out lake. Seven small bodies of varying size lay together, as if they were asleep and cuddling. A man stood over them, a canister in hand. Wood had been strewn around the bodies or between them. Dry twigs and grass had been placed on the children. The man, Marcus Steen, was liberally dousing the young ones in what smelled like gas.
Ezra gave an inarticulate roar and launched himself at the community leader, tackling him around the waist. The canister went flying, bouncing onto the ground and leaking gasoline into the sand.
For now ignoring the two fighting vampires, Chris hurried over to the children, throwing away the wood that was in the way, brushing kindling from the still forms. He checked the child closest to him, a boy no older than maybe ten, and was relieved when he felt a slow but steady heartbeat.
A shrill scream from behind him alerted him to his lover's ongoing fight, and he felt a strange kind of pleasure at the sight of Marcus Steen, cradling a broken arm, snarling in pain. Blood ran from the split lip, the skin over his cheek bones broken from relentless beatings. Blood dripped down his face, staining the formerly pristine shirt. The way he held his ribs, Chris had no doubt about their condition either. His lover might be small, but he was fast, strong, and he was raging mad.
Ezra was circling the wounded man like a predator his prey, eyes aglow in bright green, a low rumble coming steadily from his chest. He was taunting Steen, playing with him.
The arrival of Danielle and three other vampires made Marcus turn. Shock and fear crossed his bloody features. Danielle just looked at the children, then at her former leader.
"Are they alive?" she asked, glancing at Chris.
He nodded.
"Good. Marcus Steen will stand trial for his crimes. Killing him now would be the easy way out."
She met Ezra's brightly glowing eyes, apparently reading what she needed to know in them. She turned to the others.
"Take him."
No one questioned her orders, but the three vampires were careful as they approached their former boss. Not because of Steen but because of the softly growling vampire watching them. One wrong move and Ezra would tear the nearest throat out.
Steen limped willingly with them, each move filled with pain. Chris felt no pity. If anything, he wanted a piece of the man for himself. Danielle came over to him and checked the young ones, worry and relief on her features.
"We will take care of them," she vowed softy, mostly addressing Ezra, who was still vibrating with slowly dissolving rage.
"You better do," the older vampire hissed, then knelt down next to Halley, gently touching the blond head.
He lifted her gently and carried her over to the mini-van. Danielle and Chris followed him with more children, silently placing them into the car to get them back to Vegas.

* * *

The trial was quick and to the point. There was no doubt about Steen's crime and the community's elected members listened to every sickening detail. Ezra and Chris were excluded from the trial since they weren't of this city, but they didn't have to be a part of it to get updates. Danielle voluntarily told them of the proceedings. The children, after waking up and being fed to regain their strength, had been called to give witness reports. Not a single member of the tribunal had been untouched by the horror of their young lives.
The sentence of 'guilty' and the appropriate penalty -- death -- had come as no surprise. The way Steen had left this plane of existence had not been told in detail, but Chris knew it had been slow and painful.
The children would be brought to a safe place, away from Vegas, away from the world they knew. They would have to relearn, discover what they were, what it meant to be a vampire, what the community was. It could only be done somewhere outside a large city with the temptation to fall back into an ancient routine. They had to understand that offering their bodies to appease someone was not the way of the world.
"We will keep you informed," Danielle had solemnly promised.
Chris was thankful, Ezra had expected no less.
Now he watched his lover, quietly talking to Darren. The boy looked a lot like his little sister, with huge, blue eyes and blond hair. He wasn't as young as his sister when they had been turned, but the brain washing had had its effects. The young man would have to go a long way as well, to get away from the almost paranoid behavior he was showing now to learn how to trust anybody. He was talking to Ezra, all right, but his body language spoke of tension. One wrong move and the boy would flee.
Chris looked at the bench where the other children were sitting, waiting. They all  showed the same submissive, cautious behavior, and Chris had to sigh. It broke his heart to simply look at them, knowing they would need much more time than a human child in the same situation would need, simply because they had been used for a longer amount of time, in a much more cruel way, too. He just prayed they would be able to live with it some time in the future.
Some of them never managed.
Something tugged at his sleeve.
When he looked down, blue eyes regarded him shyly, and he crouched down in front of the girl, slowly as not to frighten her. .
"Halley? What is it, sweetie?"
"Chris?"
"Yes, sweetie? What's wrong?"
"He loves you?"
"Yes. He does."
"And you love him?"
Chris glanced over at Ezra and smiled.
"Oh yes. Yes, I do."
"And that's a good thing?"
"A very good thing, sweetie."
"No pain?"
"No. In fact, it helps to make the pain go away."
She watched him closely, contemplating his words. "Then maybe it's not such a bad thing after all."
And with that she reached wrapped her arms around the stunned man's neck for a brief second, before she hurried back to her 'siblings'. Chris blinked at the sudden burning in his eyes.
"No, sweetie. Not bad at all." he whispered.

* * *

He felt Ezra snuggle closer into his embrace. They had come back to the suite after the trial, and his lover had simply started to undress him, hands roaming over his skin slowly, as if it were the first time. And in a way, Chris mused, it was. He was looking with different eyes at the man at his side now, slowly starting to understand what being head of a vampire community really meant. It was power, much of it, but what came along with that was one hell of a responsibility. Ezra was watching over Salt Lake literally, not only who was coming and going, but what everybody was doing the entire time. It was one load to carry, and from now on, Chris swore silently to himself, Ezra would never ever be carrying it alone.
Strong hands slowly stroke over his bare chest, a pair of lips met his as Ezra rolled over to kiss him, long, deep and with a need that wasn't exactly sexual. Chris closed his arms around his lover's compact form, fully understanding the longing for closeness. He felt it himself. Ezra kept caressing his lips, hands wandering over his chest to his stomach, a knee parting his legs. Chris gave in to his lover, needing to feel him as well, needing to feel something warm and loving. Ezra gave a soft sigh when he slipped between his thighs, and Chris cupped his face with his hands, looking into wide green eyes seriously.
"I love you, Ezra."
"Chris ... "
And then there were only the two of them and their love that mattered for the rest of the day.

* * *

Case unsolved.
The words were a glaring insult to every criminalist, Nick Stokes included. He felt beaten, emotionally and physically wrung out. And if he felt like this, what was it for Grissom? The man had pushed himself through this case, sleeping as little as Nick, trying to find a man who sold the service of children. The girl who was their main suspect in Jack Shore's murder had disappeared, the possible pimp dead, and all they had were dead ends. It looked like Mahmoudhie had died because of an accident, but somehow Nick didn't believe it one minute, even if all the evidence said it hadn't been foul play.
And somewhere out there was the lost little girl, and possibly more who sold their bodies each night, and they couldn't find them.
Nick got to his feet and automatically headed over to Grissom's office. He nodded a greeting at Greg, who just grinned back, then almost ran into Catherine.
"Oh, hey, Cath." He dredged up a smile.
"I heard about your case," Willows said softly. "You okay?"
Nick shrugged. "As okay as you can be with an unsolved case."
"Grissom?"
Another shrug.
"You heading over to him?"
He nodded.
Catherine smiled. "Good."
It was all she said, giving him a gentle pat on the arm, then she walked into the meeting room. Nick ran a hand over his face, bracing himself for the rejection he would probably get. Talking to Grissom when he was in a post-unsolved-case mood was always hard.
The door was open and Stokes looked at the figure turned halfway from the entrance, gazing thoughtfully at the floor. It was that slightly preoccupied expression Grissom wore so often, the one where no one knew whether he was really thinking or totally lost in thought and ignoring them – just to come up with a strange idea.
"Gris?"
No reaction.
Ah hell! Not again!
Nick closed the door, not wanting anyone to witness this.
"Gil?"
He approached the unmoving man. Grissom was dressed all in black, a visual indicator of his mood. Eyes were riveted to the floor.
Nick knew he had three options now. Grissom was apparently unable to hear anything once more, so it was either the light switch or vibrations, which would mean stamping his feet -- or touching him without startling him. Line of sight approach.
It was what he did.
Nick walked around the desk and crouched down in front of the older man. Grissom had seen the movement and his eyes rose fractionally. Nick placed his hands on the knees, a light, unconsciously quizzical touch. Stokes came from a big family; five sisters, one brother, and he was the seventh, youngest child. Touching had been a way of communication in his life and he had never had any problems with it. He didn't think about it, he just did it.
Gil Grissom was the complete opposite. Human contact was an alien subject to him. Hugs, pats, touches... everything.
So Nick was currently in quite foreign waters here. But Grissom made no move to dislodge the contact.
[Hello] Nick signed with one hand, the other a warm pressure on Gil's knee.
[I hear] came the reply. [Just thinking]
Nick's response was a smile of relief, but his hands never lost contact with the older man's legs. Gil straightened a bit, his right hand resting on his thigh, just a fraction away from Nick's.
I'm suicidal, I know it, Stokes thought. Or desperate. Out of my mind. Crazy. Take a pick.
Because he slipped his hand over Grissom's, curling the fingers around the unresisting counterparts, then squeezing lightly.
Then his boss shocked him. He turned his hand, neatly fitting it into the loose grip, closing the fingers around Nick's. He squeezed back lightly. Their eyes met and held, Nick crouching down in front of his boss and friend, offering silent comfort and understanding.
And Grissom accepted.

* * *

Chris put the receiver back in the cradle and smiled wryly. "I told JD that we won't be back the day they expected us. He took it rather stoically."
Ezra mirrored the smile. "Might be because he knows you."
"And why is it only me?"
Arms wrapped around his waist and Chris was pulled close to his lover. "Because you keep attracting trouble, love."
"I do so not," he objected half-heartedly.
It was good to banter again, Larabee thought. While the case was closed and the children were now finally safe, it had left its wounds. Not the ones to easily hide, but those that would take years and years to heal, leaving ugly scars in their wake. The Vegas community had suffered from the failures of their leader, was struggling to overcome the wrongs, put them right, but it would take a while.
Ezra, as a community leader, knew how much it would take out of the future leader to calm raw nerves. He or she would be under close scrutiny and for a while, things would be very volatile here. Other communities might shy away from contact with the troubled 'family', distancing themselves from those who had discovered the desolate state their formerly so protected and safe haven was in.
So he had made an offer. Ezra Standish, head of the Salt Lake community, had openly offered the Vegas community whatever help they required. They didn't have to ask for it today or tomorrow, they might never ask, but if they did, he would help. It was a sign, one to be seen by many in other communities, and Ezra knew that news of what had happened here in Las Vegas would soon be known across the country.
All of this had shown Chris for the first time just who the man he loved was. Yes, he had know Ezra was in charge of Salt Lake. He was a powerful and respected man, but so far, there had never been anything remotely dangerous and volatile in their city. He had only seen the manager at work, never the trouble-shooter. Or the leader rising to a challenge, ready to fight to the teeth. And he had seen how fragile the position really was. If the community rose against him....
Chris swallowed. He knew what had happened to Steen and it had turned his stomach. It still was.
Ezra himself appeared calm and collected on the outside, but the events of the last few days sat deep. Getting away from here was a first step. A few days in San Francisco would be the distance both men needed, and since it wasn't that far from Vegas, Chris had managed to convince Ezra to go there with him, even if it meant entering another community, one where no other than a man named Franklin lived. Ezra's Sire. The man who had accidentally made him a vampire in the little frontier town of Four Corners so many decades ago.
"Are you sure?" Chris had simply asked.
"I am," had been the soft reply. "I want to talk to him, Chris."
Something had changed in Ezra, brought on over the years they had been together. Something that was changing his hostile view of the vampire who had turned him. Chris saw it as a good sign, though he would keep an eye on things.
Buck and Vin were already on their way home to Salt Lake, so there was no danger of running into those two. The vampires wanted to be on their own, unwind, soothe frazzled nerves. With two adventuresome werewolves around, that wasn't easy.
"Flight's waiting," Chris murmured, carding his hands through the short, chestnut hair.
He smiled, liking the playful expression on his lover's face as they stood together, simply enjoying their closeness. They would hopefully have a lot of time to live out that playfulness in the next few days. Heaven knew, they needed it.

*

It was two hours after sundown when the rental car stopped at the other side of the bay, just in front of a large house surrounded by a lot of trees and overlooking the Bay.
Chris got out from behind the wheel and walked up to the door, smiling to himself. It had been a smooth drive from the airport and he was actually looking forward to meeting their friend.
He knocked.
A minute later Nick Reed opened the door, not the least bit surprised at finding two vampires on his doorstep. He probably had spells protecting his property and had known about them.
"Oh well, better late than never, hm?"
Chris blinked, confused by the strange greeting from the warlock.
"The cavalry is no longer needed. We took care of things," Reed added as if that explained it all.
All it did was add to the confusion.
"Excuse me?"
The Brit looked from one to the other. "Bloody hell, you didn't come because of Vin and Buck...?"
Alarm bells set off inside Chris. "What about Vin and Buck?"
"Shit."
Chris pushed the door open with gentle force. "What about Vin and Buck?" he inquired, voice laced with a first layer of steel.
Nick looked at his watch, then shrugged. "This will be a long night. I'll go make coffee."
He turned and walked off into the house, leaving the door open for them to enter.
"I told you it was a bad idea to let them go off alone," Ezra piped up, amusement in his voice.
Chris glared at him. "Remind me never to let them go off on their own again."
"I'll remind you that I reminded you."
Another glare, then the black-clad vampire walked into the house, following Nick and the smell of coffee. Ezra chuckled and closed the door.

* * *

Four hours later, the phone in the office of Nandi Kidja Kunene rang. She picked it up, smiling as she recognized her boss's voice.
"Ezra. I thought you were in San Francisco. What can I do for you?" she wanted to know.
"I still am in Frisco, Nandi. How about telling me something about yourself?" the vampire replied, voice pleasant, calm, but still making it an order. "About what it actually means to be a shaman. About watching me, Chris… and his team…?"
Nandi was silent for a moment, then sighed deeply. She had never hidden her profession, her calling, her heritage. She was a shaman; it was one reason why she ran this hotel. The Shaman was more than just a fancy tribal themed hotel. Some of the shops sold the real stuff to the paranormal clientele staying here. But her boss had never inquired as to what practicing shamanism meant. Ezra Standish didn't delve into one's personal history unless it concerned him privately.
Well, he had apparently found out about the shaman's keeping an eye on him and his friends in the last years. For Nandi, it meant keeping her word to Ezra Standish: she would be honest with him if he ever asked.
He had.
And she was.