He cupped his chin in the gloved palm of his right hand, while the fingers of his left traced the edge of his cup.  The faint traces of tea gave the white fabric a pale, amber hue, but he couldn't feel the moisture, so he wasn't put out in the least.  Tea was easier to wash out than blood, after all.

The object...rather, objects of his fascination were simply that, far too fascinating for him to care about a little stain on his gloves.

Reverend Lowthwaite and Father Drake were fighting.  Again.

The fight hadn't come to physical blows (yet, no, not just yet), but it was becoming rather spirited.  Northolt quite imagined that fisticuffs were soon to follow the shouted words.

“YOU,” Drake snarled, pointing a finger in Lowthwaite’s face, “ARE TOO BLOODY STUBBORN."

“Don't wave your finger in my face like that,” she snapped back.

“Wot?  Like this?”  Drake proceeded to waggle his rather long index finger before her nose.

“Keep up your infernal and tiresome cheek and I might bite your finger clean off!”

“Now that would be a marked improvement!  I might feel a swell of pride, not to mention the swell of a certain something else, should you finally decide to make a proper Kithred out of yourself and BITE SOMETHING!”

Northolt immediately knew that Drake had gone too far.  Chin still firmly in his palm, he slipped off of the stool and gingerly stepped and slid his way down the bar to take up position at the other end, the safer end.  He tilted his head so that the light reflected off of his glasses and tried his best not to appear as though he was watching the proceedings, which, of course, he was.  As was every other off-duty paladin in the lounge.  They all wore the same look on their faces: Crikey, he’s done it now.

It was plainly evident to Northolt that perhaps Drake was thinking the very same thing, as Drake visibly and audibly swallowed when Lowthwaite took a step toward him.

Her eyes had changed colour, into the eerie milky blue that was typical of the third generation, and when she spoke, Northolt could see that her canines had descended.  “You want me to bite something, do you?”  She fairly growled the question at Drake.

The priest took a step back, which she immediately matched with a step forward, and he held his hands up before him in a gesture of submission.  “Listen, now, Reverend… you’re never threatening me, are you?”

She smirked at him.  Northolt swallowed with some difficulty and noted that, as Lowthwaite had once told Drake that his fangs ruined any cute pout, Lowthwaite’s fangs made her smirk into something bloody sinister.  She was a bit scary when she was in her first-level combat mode; Northolt was certain he didn’t want to see her second or third.

“I’m not threatening you, Father,” she hissed.  “I’m only trying to follow through on your training.”

“Bugger that.  You’re not supposed to bite your instructor, I’ll have you know.”

“I thought I was supposed to feed on the blood of other vampires?”

“Of course you are.  That’s why you were created.”

“And I’m not supposed to feed on Kith, correct?”

“Well, yes, that’s the general idea.”

Lowthwaite had backed Drake up against the bar.  Drake was nearly lying on the counter in order to stay away from her leer.

“Aren’t you an original?  One of the first generation?”

“Yes, I –”  Realisation dawned on both Drake and Northolt and the latter’s eyes widened behind his glasses.  He was sure that Drake had a similar expression on his features.  “You’d never.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“You shouldn’t.”  Drake’s voice had dropped in volume.  Northolt would almost swear to the man being frightened.  He smoothly stepped away from the bar and began to walk a wide arc around the lounge.  He wanted to place himself into a position to help Drake if need be.

“Why shouldn’t I?” Lowthwaite asked, her voice nearly a whisper.  She leaned in close to Drake, him against the counter, she almost on top of him, and she placed her mouth uncomfortably close to Drake’s neck.  “Father,” she added, in a tone of voice that sent a shudder down Northolt’s spine.

It had the same effect on Drake.  Northolt was now close enough to see that much.  Neither of his partners seemed to notice his approach, much to Northolt’s relief.  The more focussed they were, the better.  He didn’t want to spook either Drake or Lowthwaite.

“It's different.  I'm different.  I'm a paladin.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that you're still a Kithred.”

“That's not the point.  I'm not like them.  I'm a priest.  I'm your partner.”

She snorted at that.  “If you’ll pardon me, that’s rather a point of exquisite dullness, Father.  A Kithred is a Kithred is a Kithred, first generation, never mind the fancy dress.”

“It’s not like… Macha… please, listen to me… stand down,” Drake said to her in a still voice.

“No.  I don’t think that I shall.  Not this time.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It’s a bit beyond that now, don’t you think?”

Drake took his hands and placed them on Lowthwaite’s shoulders.  He moved in towards her, placing his face very close to hers, almost intimately close.  He tilted his head to one side and smiled.  “If that’s what you really think…”  Then he easily picked her up and spun her around, slamming her back against the stools and the bar, setting the glasses hanging overhead to rattling.

It took great effort on Northolt’s part to keep from drawing his sidearm.  He was standing close to them now, next to one of the support pillars that were spread throughout the lounge.

“That’s what I really think,” she responded, through clenched teeth.  Drake smiled again.  Northolt thought the combined display of their bared fangs and oddly coloured eyes made for a gruesome show.

“I’m going to love proving you wrong…”  Drake’s statement was punctuated by a choked, “Fuck…” from him as Lowthwaite’s knee soundly connected with his groin.

The other paladin in the lounge groaned in sympathy and began to exit, a little too quickly, Northolt thought.

The reverend laughed and allowed Drake’s form to crumple toward the floor.  She walked away from him as he doubled over and glared at her, murderous intent in his red eyes.  She leaned over, her hands clasped behind her back.  “You won’t be doing any of that too soon,” she said to him with a smile.

Drake snarled and made to strike at her, but Lowthwaite dodged his attempt without difficulty.  “You weren’t really going to bite me, were you?” he demanded, still hunched over.

The smile faded from Lowthwaite’s face.  “Of course I was.  That’s what you’ve been driving at all of this time, that’s what you’ve been hounding me into doing,” she shouted.

With the speed that only a paladin or a Kithred possessed, Drake straightened himself, darted forward, and took Lowthwaite by the wrists.  “You’re not going to have me,” he yelled back at her.

“You put me into CM-1.”  She spun and nearly pulled away from Drake, but he followed her motion and caught her wrists again.

“Stand down.”  He blocked a series of kicks from her with kicks of his own.

“I can’t.  It’s too late now.”  There was more pushing and shoving.  Northolt took the opportunity to move close enough to step in, literally.  It had gone on for long enough and he wasn’t going to let Lowthwaite and Drake tear each other apart.

“You’re not biting me!”  He twisted and bent his body away while maintaining his hold on her.

“I have to bite something!”  She pulled one arm free and tried to punch him.  Drake blocked that attempt as well.

“Then what are you going to bite?”

“HIM!”  She turned to look at Northolt.

“Shit!” he cursed with a yelp, stumbling back and away from the twosome.  He found himself on his rear end, arms and legs akimbo.  It took Northolt a moment to realise that Drake and Lowthwaite were laughing at him.

“Told you I could make him swear,” grinned Lowthwaite, giving Drake a nudge in the ribs.  He draped an arm across her shoulders and shook his head.

“Yeah, yeah, I guess I owe you a tenner.”

“You owe me two.”

“Damn, I was hoping you forgot that detail.”

“Never, Drake.”  She walked over to the still prone Northolt and extended a hand down to him.  “You all right?” she asked as she took hold of his left hand.  Drake took hold of his right and they both hoisted him to his feet.

“No.  Maybe.  I don’t know!” Northolt exclaimed.  He straightened his glasses and looked from her to Drake in confusion.  “What in the hell just happened?”

Drake shrugged and nodded over at Lowthwaite.  “A little bet is all.”

Northolt blinked and then stared at the floor in disbelief.  “You…  That…  It was all…?”

“Yeah,” answered Drake.

“Bloody hell,” Northolt sighed.  His shoulders slumped and he drew his mouth into a moue.  He decided that he was going to settle into a good sulk.

Lowthwaite smiled and then laughed again, and threw her arms around him in a warm embrace.  Northolt was surprised by the show of affection and slowly reacted.  He cautiously put his arms around her waist and returned the hug.  He could scarcely believe that she was touching him.

She withdrew and regarded him carefully.  “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked again.

Northolt smiled at her, albeit awkwardly, and nodded.  “I’ll be fine, in a little while.  It’s just – I believed it, that’s all.  I was scared, actually.  I thought you both might get hurt.”

“I’m sorry,” Lowthwaite said to him in a quiet voice, giving him a squeeze.

Northolt found that he liked the feeling very much.

“That’s a ringing endorsement of our acting abilities, then.”  Drake gave him a pat on the back and motioned to the bar.  “I believe some tea will have you right as rain again.  Fix you a cuppa, mate?”

Northolt grinned and nodded.  His arm was still around Lowthwaite’s waist.  “Oh, yes, please.  With plenty of sugar, if you don’t mind,” he added, deciding that he would abandon any plans he had for sulking over their prank.  They had gotten him, after all, and he had received a hug and a cup of tea for the pain to his pride and to his rear.

Northolt reckoned that a bruised rump and ego were a fair trade for his partners not to be fighting again.


†