Summary: This is a ST: Voyager (J/7) uber story. You'll see it proves that some things never change...
Note: For your reading pleasure, please remember that you'll come across an unusual word: "CEMb". It's the Russian word for "Seven" and is pronounced "Sem".
Thanks:to Sezwan for encouraging me to try my hand. Cheers, matie!

---

What the hell was I thinking?

Bringing her here? Setting her loose among my clueless friends - my family?

The familiar party spins on around me, the one I was looking forward to - always look forward to. My welcome home party. Every time I return from some distant corner of the globe - the "god-forsaken places" my Mother calls them - my friends throw a huge party that eventually takes over the block. They're always looking for a reason to throw a big party, and always find one in my reappearance back home.

I've seen this scene a dozen times. Depending on what little hell I sometimes find myself in, I dream of it, too. The Victrola cranked up, with some coronet player on the vinyl. People silly and loud on the worst bath-tub gin in town. Dancing the latest fad dances. Telling bad jokes. Enjoying each other. Yet here I stand feeling more distance from them now than before I crossed that ocean and left that damn ship and train to arrive back here in Chicago. My charming, dear friends seem...full of forced frivolity. Absurd. Foolish. Naive despite their showy cynicism.

What's wrong with me? Am I seeing things through her eyes now? Do I regard them with her disdain? So much has happened, things I can't begin to explain to them, yet I resent that they haven't changed, too - that they're acting like nothing's wrong, nothing's different.

I knock back some of the most caustic homemade brew I've ever had, but I'm happy for the burn. Something to take the edge off my anxiety. Something that will help keep this stupid smile plastered on my face.

I haven't looked at her in over an hour, but I know exactly where she is and what she's doing. I know that she's sitting stoically in the corner, pretending to nurse her own drink. That she hasn't removed her red velvet coat with the golden brocade - claiming a "chill" she can't shake. That she says little. Just smiles slightly and nods her elegant blonde head, a few loose, soft curls touching her pale face. The very picture of an enigmatic woman of mystery.

I also know she's watching me.

"Your souvenirs have gotten bigger!" I turn into the face of my friend, Joe. Drunk, of course, and grinning, conspiring. I lift my eyebrows in mock confusion and smile broader. "Your Russian doll", he adds, poking a conspicuous finger in her direction.

"I assure you, she's not made of china". I take another swig. "And she's not mine", I add, pointedly.

"Oh?" His bald head swivels to reassess our topic. "Why not?"

I pat his shoulder. "I've missed you, Doc." He's not a real medical man. He was a medic in the War. As he's always quick to remind you. "I've missed your tact. Your subtle ways." I say it lightly, teasing, but I can feel my pulse quicken. I don't want to talk about her. I don't want to have to lie.

"Well," he says, turning back to me. "Now that you've cleaned up, maybe you'll have a better chance." He's talking about the state I'm usually in when I've returned from assignment. Dirty aviator jacket and dark hair grown out and tangled. Cutting my hair back to a manageable bob is always a ritual when I return. The current fashion doesn't enter into it. "I've never understood," he continues, "How taking photographs requires one to get so..." He waves his hands in the air, looking for a suitable word. I don't wait.

"It's never a priority where I go." I put my empty glass in front of his face and wiggle it. "Could you?"

Joe straightens his back and beams - always happy to be needed. "Of course. Wouldn't want a lady to have to enter that den of sin." He play-bows and struts off with my glass, heading for the spare room where the gin-laden tin tub sits. The ones who are just here to get soused are collapsed around the tub by now, and its always a chore to step over them. He knows I've been in worse places, but I go along with it. Mostly, I just want to end the conversation.

I take a deep breath, releasing some of the tightness in my chest. I feel desperate for us to leave. But an hour ago when I first suggested it, she flatly refused, suggesting I go on ahead if I liked. I was so furious, I stomped off, and I've pretended to ignore her since.

I decide it's time to try again, and look up to her corner of the room. She's holding court with Charlton now. Boy, he's trying hard. Leaning in, dimples working, a nice sheen to his tanned skin. Probably regaling her with tales from the revolution in Russia; his involvement in the peasant's revolt. He fancies himself a rebel for the people, a socialist warrior, even if the whole thing has gone straight to hell since. We were friends, maybe something else, but I've found him more and more insufferable lately, and have tried to avoid him when I can. His back-stabbing on one of my last assignments hasn't helped his standing with me.

"Problem?" Tyler is standing in front of me, holding out my refilled glass. "I was told to give this to you."

I gratefully take it and decide to ignore his question. I realize I was down-right scowling when he appeared. "I'm surprised to see you here. This is not really your kind of thing, is it?" A table crashes in the next room, to make my point. Raucous laughter quickly follows.

"No, it is not." he agrees soberly. Truly soberly, as he doesn't drink.

This dear friend, of many years, is a devoted intellectual, accomplished. Amazing achievements. Especially given the barriers the world puts up for people with dark skin. He even studied with Freud in Europe. Much to his chagrin, people now insist on sharing their most deviant sexual dreams with him at parties - which is one of the many reasons he usually avoids them.

He adds, "But I wanted to welcome you home. I had hoped to talk about your travels with you." He glances around the chaotic room. "But perhaps we should meet another time for that purpose."

I nod. I love his formal way. It's always struck me as chivalrous. Some of my other friends have called it "affected" and a "sham". They don't know him.

I glance over Tyler's shoulder to see Charlton holding one of her hands. Her head inclining back somewhat, regarding him. He's too busy stroking her palm to see the brittle glint in her eye.

"Damn it all to hell", I mutter.

"Pardon?" Tyler asks mildly.

My eyes tear away from the scene. "I'm so sorry," I say sincerely, grasping his elbow. "I'd love to talk about it. But, you're right, this isn't a good time. We can meet next week at the Palmer House and have a coffee, okay? Will you call me?"

Tyler inclines his head. "Of course". His furrowed brow telegraphs some concern. I shake his arm a little, hoping I look reassuring, and start marching to the corner of the room. But they're gone.

I feel a warning chill in the depths of my belly, and I will myself not to panic.

Joe taps me on the shoulder, swaying a bit more than when I last saw him. "She retired to the washroom", he says knowingly.

"Oh...?"

"And," he leans in dramatically, challenging his balance further, "She had company."

I feel my face freeze. I try mightily for a neutral tone. "Thanks. It's just time we left. Getting late."

Joe's head bounces, and he lays a finger along side his nose. "Our lil' secret," he slurs happily, and weaves away.

God, what was I thinking?

I try not to run to the bathroom.

******************************

When I open the door, the lights are out. I just get a sense of white tile and dingy wallpaper. The light from the hallway is the only illumination. But I know they're here.



As my eyes adjust, I can see them. Her coat discarded, a simple white silk shift revealed. I see that first. Her hair is out of the loose bun, blonde curls now spilling over her face. Charlton is on the floor and she is straddling him. I slam the door behind me, locking it.

Her head whips up. Her eyes don't look blue now, nearly black, and larger. She gasps, as if for air, and I see the shine of sharp teeth in the near pitch black. I can't see it, but I know there is blood on her mouth. In her mouth.

I grope behind me for the light switch. Just as the bulb turns on I feel her hand on my throat, and I'm shoved against the wall. Her nails dig in slightly. I don't move. I'm waiting for some recognition to float back into her eyes. Things always slow down for me in moments of danger, and now my life grinds to a complete halt. I can see Charlton still on the floor behind her, unmoving.

"CEMb," I wheeze, "What have you done?"

I can see her returning from her feral state, and the corners of her ample mouth lifts, but she doesn't let me go. Instead she leans in and rubs her cheek against my neck. I can feel her warm breath. The myths, the superstitions are all wrong. Her kind - they're not really dead. I can feel the heat radiating from her.

She then rubs her lips against my flesh, mouth closed, but I can feel her teeth sheathed beneath. Despite myself, I feel my flesh draw towards her. All the little wounds all over my body - the ones she has already made - are being called to her, siren-like. They tingle and burn. I grit my teeth, trying to shut the sensations out.

"Is he dead?" I whisper.

She lifts her head to meet my eyes. She's no longer smiling. "I thought you trusted me."

"What then? What have you done?"

She opens her hand, releasing me. I stay plastered against the tile wall. She steps back, calmly regarding me. Her eyes once again that mesmerizing blue.

"He provoked me."

"Damn it!!" I rage and take an angry step towards her. An impotent move, and she knows it. "You promised! You can't draw attention to yourself!"

Her jaw sets stubbornly. "And I have not." Wheeling, she smoothly palms a half full bottle of alcohol someone left on the sink and marches over to Charlton's prone body. She tips the bottle's contents over him, and carefully places the empty glass in the crook of his arm.

"That's your solution??" I'm incredulous.

"It is...adequate." She often searches for words, as if English is a new language. Which it is, but nearly any language is. She only recalls a little of her native Russian. "Most of your 'friends' are unconscious already. They will think nothing of it. He will recover by tomorrow. He will recall nothing."

I could see the small puncture holes already crusting and drying up. I knew they would be gone in a just a few hours. But I shake my head, unhappily. "It's an unacceptable risk," my voice low, measured. "Any word gets out, any rumor, and She'll find you." I know my eyes look frightened. I am.

She inclines her head slightly. "My thoughts are hers. She made me what I am. If the Vourdulak wishes to find me, She can."

"No." Finality. "I won't let that happen."

Amusement touches CEMb's eyes. I feel foolish in my bravado - we both know its not that simple. I guiltily look back at Charlton. "No matter how much you feel justified," hoping I sound stern, "You can't attack my friends!"

"He is no friend of yours," she says darkly. She bends to pick up her coat from the floor - the intricate Russian cape I know to be over 100 years old - and drapes it back round her shoulders. She always keeps her arms covered to hide the old, ugly scars.

Someone suddenly hammers from the other side of the door and both our eyes flick towards it, nervously. Urgent shouts for access. A last glance at Charlton. I can't help but chuckle. It's pretty absurd. I feel my grip on what we're told is reality slipping just a bit further away.

My quiet laughter fades as she clasps my hand and pulls me closer to her, looking intently into my face. "I am Uppyr. You know that. That cannot change." Her jaw works, chewing on words unsaid, then, "But you found me."

I can't speak, I only nod. She thinks I'm ashamed of her, sometimes frightened of her. I can't convince her otherwise. That I'm only frightened for her.

Then she whispers the words that seal my fate.

"LyubOv' vashlA v moyO sErtse". Love came into my heart.



The End