And fuck all, but Deacon loved the hunt. For years, he'd been drawing Blade to him, snaring him in an ever-intricate web, a slow dance of seduction that would lead to Blade's downfall, and Deacon's reign. Every step perfectly choreographed, every movement calculated, for this one shining moment. The moment when La Magra would finally rise and claim what was rightfully his, the moment when all humans would finally understand their place in the food chain. The moment when the pure-bloods would tremble and kneel before him, a mere turned vampire, and worship him like a God. But, as much as Deacon savored victory, something was still missing. And it was that something that propelled him into the tightly guarded room where Blade was being held, after his rather spectacular capture (and Christ, what an ordeal that had turned into -- over twenty of his best familiars and slaves dead, and it had still taken six men to stun Blade into a stupor). Deacon stepped across the threshold, pleased to see that Blade was lying, still weak and unconscious, on a pristine white bed that contrasted nicely with the burnt umber of his skin. Guards were positioned along the balcony above, weapons at the ready, waiting for the slightest wrong move. It would have been overkill for anyone else. Deacon should have felt triumph. Here was the mighty Daywalker, vulnerable, helpless to Deacon's power, a stepping-stone to Deacon's plans. But the victory was hollow. It shouldn't be like this, he thought, staring down at the proud line of Blade's jaw, the flex of muscle as Blade slumbered on, oblivious to Deacon's perusal. It should be you and me. And what would you do if you had him? A small, slithery voice whispered inside his head. What would you do if you had the Daywalker on your side, at your back? Would you truly share your throne with him? Would La Magra truly share power like some pussy-whipped bitch? Deacon gracefully sat next to Blade's unmoving body, studying hard lines, won in too many battles to name, dark skin stretched tight over sinuous ropes of muscle. He tilted his head, gaze roaming dispassionately over regal features. "It would have been an epic battle, wouldn't it?" he remarked, even though he knew Blade could not hear him. "You and me, mano a mano, to the death. That would have been something to tell the grandkids, eh?" The absurd thought made him chuckle. But he couldn't stop thinking how different it might have been, how it should have been... The room is the same -- immaculate and white, the bed still in the center, waiting silently, but now -- now -- Blade's awake, gold eyes blazing and aware, superbly trained body coiled and tight, waiting to spring, as Deacon strolls into the room. "What do you want?" Blade asks, his voice a contemptuous growl. "Just looking over the merchandise," Deacon grins, long strides taking him further into the room, closer to Blade's tense body. "Merchandise?" "Like everything else in this room," Deacon replies, and runs his tongue over the tips of pointed fangs. "Can I get you anything? A drink, a smoke, a fuck?" Muscle flexes in an impressive display as Blade crosses his arms. "You have nothing I want." His eyes are hard and flat. "Nothing?" Deacon raises an elegant eyebrow. "Are you sure about that? Are you sure that there's nothing about us that tempts you?" he murmurs, slowly circling around Blade, heat crackling, hissing between them like a live wire. "Nothing at all that you want...no hidden desires, nothing forbidden... " One hand suddenly wraps around Deacon's throat -- even weak and partially dazed, Blade's still wicked fast, almost as fast as Deacon himself. And Deacon thrills to it, to the surge of power throbbing over, across Blade's palm. "Explain," Blade barks, boring a hole into Deacon's eyes with his stare. "I can see into your mind, Blade," Deacon answers, licking his lips. Blade's eyes flicker downward. "I know what it is you want. I know what it is you crave." "You --" The word is an epithet "-- don't know anything about me." "Oh, I know all about you, Daywalker." Deacon surges into Blade's hand, turning the threat into a caress as he inches closer, then closer still. "After all, what kind of father would I be if I didn't know my own son?" "You are not my father," Blade snarls, dragging Deacon so close that a whisper wouldn't fit between them. Deacon shifts, meeting Blade's muscled body with his own. "You're right," he drawls, brushing his lips to Blade's. The triumph coursing through him is almost as heady as the feel of Blade's body pressed tight to his. "I'm not." He's crushed against Blade the next instant, an unrelenting, warring tongue tangling with his in need, but not surrender... Deacon watched Blade for a long time, watched the shallow rise and fall of Blade's bare chest, the fluttering of long eyelashes as Blade dreamed. Did he have the same dream? Deacon wondered. Did he yearn, in his heart of hearts, for the same connection? "We could have been so good together," he whispered in Blade's unresponsive ear, vestiges of the daydream coloring his words with faint tinges of regret. "We could have been a force for the ages. The Daywalker and La Magra." He leaned in, tasted Blade's blood in the air between them, sweet and thick, like honey, and pressed a lingering kiss to the pulse beating at Blade's neck. "Ah, Blade..." When he got up to leave, his step wasn't as light. The problem with winning was that victory wasn't always sweet.
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