Abyss

At the end of Part 1 Georges Belleveau has discovered that he is madly in love with Diane, and as a vampire there is no more dangerous position to be in.

He also found out that one of his students, Mandy Richardson, seems to have some hold on the Dean of the university. Ms. Richardson used that hold to pressure George into behaving the way Mandy wants. Vampires don't pressure well.

Here's Part 2 where Georges and Diane go even deeper into the abyss.

* * * *

I'm five minutes into my class when the door opens. Ms. Richardson parades into the room followed by her entourage. A slightly different entourage but a set of courtiers all the same. The blonde butch sneers at me as she goes past. The expression contains both triumph and contempt. Mandy finds my attempt to stand against her repugnant.

I turn away from her and take a moment to rein myself in. Being what I am being sneered at brings up very dark emotions and drives. Ripping her head off and drinking her blood would not be a good idea.

A snort from behind me tells me that Ms. Richardson is misinterpreting my actions. She has no idea that it was for her safety that I didn't continue to face her.

Back in control of myself I return my attention to my students, and others. "It's at this time the guillotines started to do a heavy business. There wasn't a minute of the day in France where someone wasn't losing their life to it. All it took was the barest hint to The Committee for Public Safety and your days on this Earth were very few indeed."

"You disapprove of this, teach?" Ms. Richardson's tone is scornful.

"Indeed I do." It's difficult, but I manage to keep my facade as a human being. "People should be judged on what they do, not what they are. Nor should accusations alone be enough. Your Founding Fathers understood this and put into position a justice system that at least tried for this ideal. My nation didn't succeed in doing that for almost another century after The Revolution."

"They had the power," Mandy continues. "Power is meant to be used."

"Surely you can come up with a better endorsement that that ancient one, Ms. Richardson."

"What do you mean?" She frowns at me, but there is enough uncertainty on her face to show that she doesn't know where this dialog is going, and she dislikes that.

"The Melian Dialog."

She blinks at me with incomprehension.

"Thucydides recorded it at the siege of Melos. This line is most important, when an Athenian emissary said to the Melians, '...the strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must...' Considering that the war Athens was starting with Sparta weakened both states beyond redemption it would have been wiser if the Athenians had not used their power, and considering where The Terror ended up leading, it would have been wiser if the revolutionaries had been restrained and careful with their power." I shrugged. "History is replete with examples of the misuse of power leading to the end of a nation or empire. You would think humanity would have learned better by now."

Although after watching over two centuries of power madness I'm not hopeful.

"Teach," spits Mandy. "You are such a fucking wimp." She slams her laptop computer closed, stands and starts to leave the room.

"Ms. Richardson, you are going to find that your actions are going to adversely affect your mark."

She turns to me to give a confident, wicked smile. "Teach, you're going to find that your opinion doesn't matter at all." With that warning Mandy continues out of the class.

Ms. Coburn glances at me as she passes. Her face is full of pity.

Any anger I feel vanishes at her expression, replaced by curious wariness.

What is Ms. Richardson capable of?

* * * *

My finger pauses a few millimeters short of the button. I'm just a bit frightened.

I'm wondering how Diane will react seeing me again. I'd left so abruptly two nights ago, and I hadn't talked to her since. I wasn't sure if I'd come back. I wasn't sure if I

should

come back. Like all vampires I've lead a solitary existence until now. It might not be wise to introduce some one, and a human at that, into my situation.

Almost without my willing it I press the button. It seems an age, and I nearly run while I'm waiting, before the speaker crackles and Diane asks, "Is that you, Georges?"

The sound of her voice pulls my mouth into a smile. "

Bon soir, cher.

May I come up?" The door clicks open in answer.

It takes only one knock on Diane's door before it flies open and she, as Americans put it, 'jumps my bones.' She kisses me hard. I wrap my arms around her and carry her inside, kicking the door closed as we go.

An hour later we're snuggled in her bed. Diane wriggles against me while sounding a throaty purr. "That wasn't quite as intense as the first time, Georges, but you can eat crackers here anytime." She stills for a moment. "Sorry."

"

Pas de quoi, cher

. I feel I owe you an apology."

"What for?"

"I left. I didn't even say

bon nuit.

"

"How did you say that?

Pas de quoi, chere?

I barely remember. I was kind of out of it. The overload you put me through was a little overwhelming, and don't you dare apologize for that!"

"For that, never." I pull her on top of me to kiss her.

When we're done that we snuggle again. Again I feel surprised at how...good...it feels, having a woman I care for close to me. Skin to skin.

Once again, I carefully don't look at the thought that follows:

I can't stay. It will only end in pain.

* * * *

I take a moment's pause outside the building where I teach to put my mask on. Sometimes I leave it off until absolutely necessary. Hiding is on occasion a burden.

But I wouldn't want to frighten my students.

That done, I step out of the cool night air and into the hall of the place where I hold my classes. Down the hall I go, up a flight of stairs, then back toward the front of the building. I arrive at Room 203 and enter it. As always, I'm right on time.

Most of the twenty odd people that make up this class are already here. Also attending are various members of The Court, with Ms. Coburn at the center.

But, as always, Ms. Richardson is not here. She is challenging me again. Since the Dean forced my hand Mandy has been pushing against my authority harder and harder every class.

And in my briefcase is her latest challenge.

I place that briefcase on my desk, lean against the old piece of furniture and clear my throat. The idle buzz that fills the air dies away.

"Good evening, class. I have your latest assignments marked." I turn to open my case and pull out the papers in question.

I walk down the rows of desks, stopping where there is actually a student, hand them their essays and comment on it. Most are disappointed. I'm a taskmaster when it comes to learning. I save Ms. Coburn's and Richardson's papers until last. Their efforts need special attention.

As I place Christy's paper in her hands, she goes a little white in shock. "C minus?"

"I'm afraid so,

Mademoiselle

Coburn," I tell her. "Actually the essay was quite good, but there are extenuating circumstances that keep me from giving you a better mark."

The door to the classroom opens and I know immediately who it is. The way Christy's eyes light up are a give away. I turn towards the entrance and the extenuating circumstances are walking towards me.

Mandy Richardson strides towards me, certain that nothing will ever stand in her way. Her brown eyes stare into my blue with contempt and her lip is curled with distaste.

As she plops into the desk next to her servant I remark, "So glad you deigned to join us,

Mademoiselle

Richardson."

She shrugs uncaringly. "Hey, I had places to go and people to do." There's a subtle scent about her, too faint for a human to detect, two separate odors of feminine arousal. Apparently Ms. Richardson has been doing more than going.

My gaze goes to Christy at Mandy's remark. Dejection flashes through her eyes and chagrin reddens her cheeks. Then her mouth turns downward in a grimace of resignation. She knows what her mistress has been doing, can't stop it and has unhappily accepted the fact. I wonder why she puts up with it.

My attention returns to my surly student and I say, "Your timing is perfect. Here's your paper." I hold it out to her.

She takes it from my hand, looks at the mark scribbled on it...and turns bright red with fury. "F!?" She raises her eyes to me and gives a glare that would intimidate any human being. But I'm not human so I don't flinch at all.

"If you had written it, I would have given you a very good mark. But you didn't write it." I glance back at Christy. "Your, um, compatriot did." I had almost let their secret out. What they do outside my class is none of my business. What happens inside it is.

Christy pales, her eyes grow wide and her mouth slits in an unmistakable admission of guilt.

I face Ms. Richardson once more and continue my criticism. "So an F is all you get."

Mandy's gaze flares at me and her face gets very hard. "Professor Belleveau, you had better change that mark."

I blink at that statement. What I really am stirs inside me. Instead I shove my instinct down to snicker instead. "

Mademoiselle

Richardson, you don't give me orders. I might take requests, from the Dean or the board, but not orders from you." Still chuckling, I start for the front of the room.

A snarled "Come on," from Mandy follows me up the aisle. As I face the class, I see The Court trailing out in her wake. Christy is looking at me and her face is blank with fear.

But once again she's not scared of me. She's scared

for

me.

* * * *

The sun goes down and I rise from the earth. Literally. I can sink into the ground as if it were a thick soup. The small cottage where I currently have my haven has an old fashioned root cellar that is perfect for this ability. The coffins and such that others of my kind use are too exposing in my opinion. Resting surrounded by Mother Earth is much safer, and comforting.

I go to my bathroom to shower. After that I brush and floss my teeth. I don't need to worry about rot, but with my eating habits halitosis can be a problem.

As I clean, I ponder the previous night. I can't say I'm worried, but there was something about Ms. Richardson and her actions that disturb me. Still, I don't have much more than a feeling and stop wondering once my toilette is finished.

I dress and check my messages. Surprisingly there is one. I haven't given out this number to many people so I rarely get calls. This single missive is from the Dean. "I need to see you," is all she says.

The fact that she doesn't mention a time makes me chuckle. The reputation I've been building as a bit of a prima donna is working. Everybody knows I work all day and only show at night. They think I'm writing my next book. I've worked hard to create my notoriety as a rather odd, somewhat snobby Eurotrash genius.

I have no class tonight so I can see Dr. Metaxas right now. Leaving my haven, I start walking. I like using my own feet. It's relaxing and lets me think.

A half hour later, I arrive at the Dean's residence. She answers the doorbell and invites me in. It's then I receive my first intimation of trouble. Her normal mien towards me friendly and charmed by my eccentricity is not there. This time her face is disturbed. I sense that she is torn on the horns of a dilemma.

And unlike other times, she leads me to her home office rather than the living room. After closing the door when we enter, she seats herself behind the desk and motions me to the chair across from her. The formality of the gesture deepens my unease.

As I sit my slim frame down I look her over again. Another thing seems out of place.

It's her clothes,

I decide after a second's thought. Helen is wearing a skirt, and a rather tight blouse. Her garments would make an observer focus on her beauty. This is quite at odds with her usual garb, meant to do much the opposite.

She breaks into my pondering with, "I need to talk to you about one of your students."

Let me guess,

flashes into my mind.

"Mandy Richardson," confirms my supposition.

"There's a problem?" I ask.

The Dean grows flustered. To my wonder she chews on her bottom lip, frowns with her eyes, flushes slightly with embarrassment. I've never seen her more uncertain. Abruptly, she takes a deep breath and shivers.

"Well," she goes on after that short pause, "I think you're being unfair to her. Ms. Richardson needs a better mark."

Two odors now waft across the desk and tickle my nose. One I'm very familiar with, a sharp tang of fear.

The other, after a moment's thought, is also known to me. I've encountered it barely twenty four hours ago. It's the smell of a particular woman's arousal and it was accompanying Ms. Richardson. I nearly let my surprise show on my features.

"She's not passing my class, Dean Metaxas," I tell her. "She's always late, isn't getting her assignments done and her latest was a forgery. I don't see how I can pass her."

Helen's face pales, her mouth pulls back in fear. "You don't understand. There's, pressure, being bought to bear. I, the school, want that pressure lifted. It could mean a lot of trouble. Please, please reconsider." Her eyes shine as tears fill them.

An odd surge of sorrow and rage rises in me. I feel pity for her. It would appear that Ms. Richardson has bought 'stress' of a particular type to bear. I'm surprised Helen would fall for such a ploy. And I wonder what her husband would do if he found out.

Some of my anger is at the Dean. I don't pressure very well. Most though, is directed at Mandy. What she has done is rather cruel, and despite what I am, I loathe cruelty.

I sit still for a few moments, considering my response. Finally I say, "I'll see what I can do."

Helen's relief is palpable, and the smell of her excitement grows a bit thicker. "Thank you," she gasps. "I didn't want to do this, but it needed to be done."

I nod as if I understand and come to my feet. She doesn't stand. Perhaps her legs are too weak. I bid her goodnight and show myself out. Before I close the front door of the house the sound of her weeping comes faintly to me.

As I walk down the street I think to myself,

I don't have a class tonight. I'll head for the library and see what I can find out about Ms. Richardson.

She's raised the stakes and I need information if I want to continue playing in the game she's started.

* * * *

An hour later I'm sitting at a computer monitor. As a member of the faculty I have access to students' records. I have pulled up Mandy's file and read it. Then, using the Web, I get in touch with another of my kind. He was a computer nerd when alive. In exchange for a future favor, he puts together a précis of Ms. Richardson's life and sent it to me.

I'll confess I still feel awe at the technology humans have created. I'm still not entirely comfortable or skilled with it. As Diane noted.

I snap back from the fond memories that my sweet lady evokes and return to my investigation of Ms. Richardson. There seems to be nothing remarkable about her. In high school she did well, except for a stretch at the end of her junior and start of her final years. Her marks climbed back to better than normal after that.

Her first year in university was the same, weak start but strong finish. And the same this year. Except for my class, she seems to be doing fine now.

The précis I've received fills me in on her family. Nothing stands out. Quite middle class they are. Her father, as it turns out, is a professor here. I haven't met him.

Perhaps that is where the pressure the Dean is feeling originates?

goes through my mind. On reflection that's doubtful. Mandy's father doesn't seemed to be placed to exert the influence that can affect a woman like Helen.

So my first hypothesis still seems the most likely.

Paging back to Mandy's records, I check her address. This raises my eyebrows slightly. It's the house I had been offered when I first arrived. It's a domicile for visiting dignitaries such as myself. That Mandy, and Ms. Coburn as another check reveals, are accommodated there seems another example of Ms. Richardson's 'influence'.

I erase the history I've created as well as the précis and then shut the computer down.

It's time for a personal reconnoissance,

I decide.

* * * *

The place I want to check out isn't far. So I walk there. I'm one street away when a feminine voice catches my attention. "Excuse me?"

I turn to the woman who spoke and survey her quickly. She is in her mid-thirties I estimate, of medium height and almost heavy set. Hazel eyes look at me from under a mane of black hair. She is busty and the plum colored blouse she wears displays that fact. Her nipples are poking visibly at the material of her garment. A short, night hued skirt is wrapped around her wide hips. Dark stockings with a green vine pattern running up the inseam encase her shapely legs. Her shoes match the hosiery in shade and have five inch stiletto heels. The third finger of her left hand shows depressions where rings have been.

There's a dichotomy to her. The woman strikes me as being dressed for an assignation, but there is an air of discomfort surrounding her. Somehow she reminds me of Helen. She seems torn by an internal struggle.

I reply with a heavy German accent, "

Jah

, can I help you?" It's habit when speaking to a stranger. I always misdirect. It's safer that way.

The woman takes a deep breath and then asks, "Do you know where 75 Elm Street is?"

A piece snaps into place. That is where Ms. Richardson currently resides. A woman visiting her is not likely to be going for tea. It seems Mandy has quite a string of lovers.

"

Jah

," I tell her then. "It is the next street up. I am going that way. You will accompany me." My tone is almost commanding. The woman falls into step beside me without hesitation. This give me yet more insight to Mandy's victims.

"I am Heinz Guderian," I tell my companion, "I teach physics here. And you?"

"Cyn...Cynthia Moran. I'm visiting a, a friend," she answers back. I can catch what is becoming a common scent coming from her. Cynthia is getting aroused.

We come to Elm Street and I check the number on the street sign. "Four houses that way, on this side." I point in the direction she needs to go.

"Thank you, Mr. Guderian," she tells me and heads where I've directed.

"

Bittë, Fraü

Moran," I echo to her. She doesn't pick up on the fact that I know part of her secret.

I cross the road, continuing past Elm Street, then double back. Keeping to the opposite side of the avenue I stay about ten meters behind Mrs. Moran and follow her, using the trees that line this urban boulevard for cover. She soon heads up the walk to the rather large house Ms. Richardson and her chief bed warmer reside in. I stay in the lee of a trunk to watch.

Mandy answers the door. "Hey, teach," I hear from her, "right on time. And you walked here, just as you were told. I bet my neighbors liked the show."

Another morsel of knowledge floats to the surface. Mrs. Moran had been Mandy's English teacher in her final year of high school. It would appear my opponent has been at this game for some time.

Cynthia enters the house and the front door closes behind her. I slip from my cover, cross 75 Elm Street's lawn and place myself against the wall of the house, away from the streetlights. With a small power expenditure I wrap a veil of shadows around myself.

I can hear people moving inside, going up the stairs. Slipping from window to window of the ground floor, I check rooms, just glancing over each sill. All are dark and empty. The furniture in each is very good, both tasteful and comfortable. The university treats its guests well.