Good Evening. No introduction tonight; let the story recommence uninterrupted.

When I arrived back in my chambers, I had half an hour left until my hostess came to fetch me. I spent six of those minutes exploring my unexpected new wardrobe, twenty minutes frantically trying on clothing, and three minutes wandering around my bedchamber, looking for possible clues that would help me piece together the events of my recent murder and kidnapping.

The last sixty seconds were spent hastily running my fingers through my ruffled hair; trying to get the beastly locks tamed before the king of all beasts himself arrived.

Speak of the devil—there was curt rapping at the door, and without waiting for my assent, the door was opened and Bakura stepped inside.

He stopped just over the threshold and remained silent, hand still grasping the outside door knob. Wine-red eyes roved over my attire, and I could immediately see the glint of disapproval within them. Vaguely registering annoyance and defensiveness, I crossed my arms over my chest. I was about to snap something distasteful at him, but he found his words before I did.

"I only gave you two instructions, Malik, and it is very disappointing to see that you did not follow either," he stated softly, and there was a lurking danger in his eyes that sent me into a panic. I thought back to what had been said in the hall over two hours ago; to see if I could find out what the hell I missed.

At my obvious blanking out, Bakura heaved a sigh and took a few lazy steps away from the door, elaborating. "I do recall telling you that I was to meet you outside your bedroom and not within it," he drawled. "And then I do believe I told you to wear something decent." His nose increased altitude at the clothes I had chosen to wear, and his eyes are judging again.

I resisted the urge to squirm like an insecure girl under his scrutiny. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" My offended lilac gaze turned down to look at the stylish black cargos and the soft cotton turtleneck I had donned for the evening. "I'm comfortable."

He straightened a little, and seemed to put aside his annoyance—at least for now. Instead, a playful spark ignited in his bloodied eyes, and a smirk tugged at his lips. He put a hand on his hip and cocked his head slightly, saying, "There isn't nearly enough of your skin revealed for you to be decent." He dropped his arm to his stomach and threw back his head in loud laughter.

My cheeks instantly turned numb, and I knew that, were I not dead, I would be blushing. "You pervert! That's the exact opposite of what the word 'decent' means!"

Bakura sobered rather quickly, the sounds of his laughter dying away. He turned to look at the clock hanging over the mantelpiece and his features fell into a nonchalant scowl. "Well, regardless of dictionary definitions, it will have to do for tonight. We are late as it is," he stated, and turned for the door. "Come, Malachi."

This time, as I was led down the spiral stone staircase and through the cold, empty halls, I paid very close attention to my surroundings. In light of recent revelations, I figured that the faster I learned my way around this castle, the faster I could search the appropriate places for answers. Speaking of revelations …

I began to trail slowly behind my white-haired murderer, glaring vacantly at the back of his head as I thought about my suspicions. Was my murder really premeditated? Had he been stalking me before that night in the bar? I tried to sift through vague memories of the nights leading up to the 31st, to see if I suddenly remembered his face from somewhere else. But nothing was surfacing …

But, among those memories, something disconcerting did surface … after he'd bitten me in the alley, I had woken up at home, in my own bed. Since he was the only one who could have taken me there (Isis had known nothing about it when I'd woken her up shortly after waking myself), that meant he'd known where I lived. He'd known not only my street, but also my apartment building. The floor. The number on the door. He'd known that the spare key was buried shallowly in the mulch of the potted eucalyptus plant outside the door, and he'd known which room was mine.

As revelation after revelation came to me, I fell further and further behind Bakura's quick stride. I couldn't stop staring at the back of his head. The light emanating from the wall sconces harshly exaggerated all his sharp angles—his spiked hair and thin face and bony fingers—and he looked more like the frightening, dangerous wraiths of nightmares than an annoying, sadistic pervert. Now, in the illumination of the candles and my musing thoughts, he was monstrous.

"Malachi, you're lagging. If you are done insulting me, please do catch up," Bakura suddenly drawled, from halfway down the hallway. He pierced me with a bladed stare from over his shoulder, tossing back the heavy hang of his cloak. "There are only a few more hallways to go before we arrive."

I felt vaguely embarrassed as I was reminded that he could read my thoughts. Feeling defensive, I snapped, "Didn't you mother ever tell you it was rude to eavesdrop? Get the hell out of my head."

Bakura halted abruptly, but didn't turn around. I was immediately put on guard, remembering his earlier outburst and the mention of the power he held over me. I stopped walking as well, and positioned myself to flee, if I needed to.

"Malachi, Malachi …" Bakura turned around, an unusual spark of something unknown firing his usually deadened eyes. "I have been over this before, don't you remember?" He took a step forward. I tried to resist taking a step back, and failed. "We are bonded, connected in a way that can never be duplicated by mortal man. Such a connection could never be broken, even if I wished it so."

He took another step. "I will never be out of your head. Your mind, your thoughts—" he gestured to all of me. "It's all mine; do you hear me?"

And then he was silent. But he wasn't done with me yet; oh, no. He kept my gaze hostage with his molten eyes, and the fire within them seemed to engulf my entire body in flames. Pale fingers extended towards my neck, and though we were close the distance was enough so that, even fully extended, the digits did not reach me.

And then he slowly clenched his fist, centimeters from my throat, sending me a silent message. 'You died once because of me. I am fully capable of killing you again.' Control. Pain. All of these were within his jurisdiction, should I choose to disobey him again. His mouth corner twitched ever-so-slightly, and suddenly it was as if he was egging me on, wanting nothing more than to inflict these tortures upon me. I couldn't even function under the weight of the atmosphere and his heavy gaze.

And then he simply lowered his arm and turned back around. "Come along; walk at my side. It is where you belong from now on," he ordered—and like a violent thunderstorm turning into a soft shower, there was gentility in his voice, soothing and tranquil. 'Yes, I can kill you, but I will not,' he seemed to say. He caught hold of my forearm and dragged me to his side, moving us forward as one unit.

Forgetting all about observing the castle halls as I had intended to do, I kept my eyes plastered to the floor, humiliated and defeated. I didn't attempt to loosen Bakura's hold on me; I figured that even if I had any nerve left to try, he wouldn't let me go.

And so I was led like a reprimanded puppy to the study—a magnificent circular stone room dressed in burgundy and trimmed with warm gold; his signature colors, as I'd gathered. I couldn't help but be awed by the luxuriousness around me; and though I had certainly gotten a taste of it before in my room, this seemed to take "comfort" to the next level. He pushed me into a high-backed upholstered chair, embroidered with gold fleur-de-lis, and took a seat opposite me in a matching set piece. All the while, he was watching my expression carefully, grinning in a pleased manner and lifting his nose in obstinate pride.

"Impressed? This castle appears ramshackle on the outside, but in truth I have spared little … 'expense' to ensure complete comfort," he drawled, as if pleasing me had been his only intention in bringing me here. I found myself wishing, as my head spun, that he would pick one personality and fucking stick with it for more that two goddamn minutes.

Not quite finding my tongue (it had run off during the incident in the hallway) I simply eyed the crazy bastard warily, waiting to see what new explosion of anger would strike next and where.

He waited, and I realized blearily that his question had not been rhetorical. I forced my mouth to move. "I-It's beautiful," I told him honestly, sparing the richness around me a few inspired glances. But then I was trained onto his face once again, back to watching him.

He noticed the attention, and seemed to preen in it. I wanted to scoff and take my eyes away—but, damn it all, I couldn't! I couldn't because every single second Bakura was doing something else, changing personalities, switching moods—and I felt that if I watched carefully enough, focused on his body language with more concentration than I've ever had in my life, I could learn to read him and avoid the worst of his temper tantrums.

Plus, a secret little voice adds, far away (hopefully) from this mystical "bond" thing Bakura had been talking about; anything he says or does could be clues to a possible premeditated murder and kidnapping! I couldn't afford to miss a syllable.

Completely contradicting this resolution, Bakura had been talking as I had lost myself in thought and I missed most of it. I yanked my attention back down to earth and caught the tail end of his words, as well as his gleeful grin. "—until you see the Great Hall or the North Tower!" He looked into my eyes excitedly and expectantly, but all I could do was nod uneasily, having not paid his previous dialogue any heed. Oh, man, this was just begging for another outburst.

Bakura's smile dimmed, and then fell into the normal scowl—except this time, there seemed to be a hint of disappointment in it. He took his eyes away from mine and lowered them to the mahogany coffee table between us, where a large decanter and two smaller wineglasses rested facedown on lace doily coasters.

He reached down to the vial, and removed the crystal stopper carefully. Though the decanter was made of frosted glass, I didn't need to see the contents within to identify the liquid—a coppery scent seeped into the air, invading my nose and unsettling my stomach. Blood … I really hope that other wineglass is for someone else …

He righted both glasses and carefully poured the thick red substance into each one. Setting the decanter aside, he picked up a flute and held it before me in a pallid hand, offering it to me.

Damn!

"Tonight we will celebrate your new life, and drink to eternal health—both yours and mine," Bakura suggested regally, raising his glass into the air as if an offering to ancient gods—and in that moment, he had a such a monarchial look about him that I couldn't help but liken him to a great Medieval King, like one of those who's portraits rest in a famous museum or landmark. Awed, I unconsciously took the glass.

Lifting the glass to his lips, he declared "Sláinte! To health!" and drank deeply. But I just twirled my glass in my hands idly, trying not to look at the contents. I failed, began to feel nauseous, and then I had to set the glass down, away from me.

Bakura noticed, drawing his mouth away from his flute and into a frown. "Why don't you drink?" He picked up my glass again and tried to press it into my slackened hands. "Drink! You must! Sláinte!"

Though I certainly wanted to avoid talking about the drinking that I didn't plan on doing, I did have genuine doubt about the validity of his toast. "Health seems a pointless aspiration, doesn't it? We're dead."

Bakura let out an aggravated snarl and put the glass down. "You know absolutely nothing! We may be dead, you and I, but that does not mean we cannot be susceptible to certain dangers!" He obstinately slid my glass over to me. "Now you will ruin the whole toast and cause bad luck if you do not drink! Take it, take it! Drink!"

I proved just as stubborn. "Wait wait … what dangers are you talking about? I distinctly remember you saying something about being a perfect race!"

Bakura stared, and I could see him grinding his teeth behind his clamped jaw. Then, as if in resignation, he let go of the flute and settled back into his chair. "Fine. Fine. You want a little pre-dinner chat, then so be it. Ask away. Let's fucking talk."

He was angry, I knew it, but at the same time, he was offering free information and I wasn't going to let the opportunity pass. "What dangers?" I repeated.

He didn't miss a beat. "Sickness will indeed never touch you; that much is true. But we are corpses; animated cadavers that will mold and rot unless kept immaculate and free of decay." He smirked, but it was ironical. "Cleanliness is godliness, as they say … and for us, it means the difference between eternal life and eternal hell."

I tried to process this information. "So if I don't bathe every day, I'll basically disintegrate into a living pile of rot?"

Bakura nodded. "Especially your mouth. Be sure to brush your fangs, boy-o," he sneered humorlessly.

I unconsciously licked said pointy teeth, having uncomfortable visions of moldy, rotten old-man teeth. Ugh.

There was relative silence for a few moments, while Bakura remained stock-still in his chair. Then he asked, "What else? Perhaps you are curious about this place … after all, few castles of the old world are still inhabited now. The modern world has less and less use for ancient strongholds."

I admit I was very intrigued, more than curious about numerous things from the castle to the vampire race itself—and most importantly, about Bakura. But something told me that Bakura wouldn't say a word about himself, at least not so early in our life together.

"Yes, I am actually. How long have you been here? Not you personally, but … vampires?"

Bakura leaned back in his chair and rested his head on his arm, acting for all the world like a bored student forced to attend a lecture on a subject he had no interest in; like telling me some information about my new home was tedious and a waste of his time. "Hm. This castle has been in vampire's hands for over 600 years. Passed from Sire to FirstChild within bloodlines, changing bloodlines every so often in territory wars between clans. This castle has been in my hands for 65 years."

Over sixty years? Longer than the collective lives of my siblings and I combined. This next question was only logical. "How exactly old are you?"

I jumped about three feet off the chair when Bakura slammed his fist suddenly on the arm of his chair, shouting, "Enough! I grow weary of your chattering!" He presented me with the wineglass again. "Drink," he presses.

I looked at it warily. As I feared, it is still filled with a thick, dark liquid—blood. Not that I really believed it could turn into anything else … but I really couldn't believe I was dead and the property of some unstable vampire either, so there you have it.

Feeling a shadow of the sensation one usually gets before vomiting, I politely refused it. "Err … No thanks. I'm not hungry."

Wrong answer. Bakura slammed the glass on the table, cracking the neck and spilling blood over the sides and onto the wood. He stared at me furiously and snarled, "You're not hungry, Malik? You expect to pass that lie to me, your Sire, and expect to get away with it?"

Oh, shit. So much for avoiding the worst of his temper tantrums. I opened my mouth, ready to sputter out some worthless apology, but before I could even get out the first syllable, he had leapt over the table and seized my throat, knocking everything over. I choked on my words.

"SHUT UP! Do you know how I know you're lying, Malachi?" His grip tightened. "Because I know that no matter how much blood a vampire consumes; whether it is the blood of a beast or a man, a bastard or a king, it will never be enough—you, Malik Ishtar, will never be not hungry!"

I was terrified, lightly clutching at his hand around my neck and staring into his red eyes, but not moving a muscle. I didn't feel pain from his grip, but I was afraid that if I made a sound, that might change.

"I know your type! You think you are too good to drink it! You think that drinking blood is disgusting, don't you? You're so pure, so righteous—bullshit! You're a vampire now, Malik, a murderer! A bloodthirs …ty … b-beast …"

He suddenly grew quieter and more unsure, his words fading into nothingness as his arm began to shake. His eyes lost focus and darted about the spaces over my shoulders, following something that remained unseen.

"What …?" I was still rigid, but I could tell that his attention was no longer on me—it was as if he were in an entirely different place, witnessing events and seeing people from another time. I was concerned and more than a little bit confused, but mostly I hoped that whatever he was watching was a full-length feature.

He let go of me and stood up straight, engaged with whatever specters haunted him; eyes angry but mouth trembling. "Bakura?" I whispered as softly as I could, because I didn't really want to catch his attention. I simply watched as he zoned out, waiting for it to pass.

After a few minutes, whatever vision he was having dissipated, and it was if a fog had lifted from his eyes—they were back to that sharp, cold burgundy once again. Only glancing passively at me, he soon turned his back to me and took several steps towards the outer circular wall, where the door to the rotunda was located.

"I know you think I'm disgusting," he stated softly.

Wait, what? After all that, that's what he says to me?

I sprang up, shouting, "Wait just a minute! What the hell was that? What are you going on about!"

Bakura finished his journey to the rotunda doors, and grabbed the handle. "Get out," he whispered.

"Wait! Bakura, what about—"

"GET OUT!"

His scream was so loud and piercing that it nearly knocked me off my feet, and I was reminded whom I was dealing with. Terrified, I scurried towards the other side of the room. Just as I was yanking the door open, I suddenly looked back—and what I saw would remain in my head for the remainder of the evening, and for many nights to come.

Bakura had thrown open his own set of doors, but had not yet moved out of them. Instead, his gaze had found the moon, and his eyes were once again foggy and lost. His white hair breezed about his face from the outside wind, and the moonlight played off his skin, making it almost translucent in the dark. He looked so majestic, so ethereal …

He looked so sad.

And then he vanished in a black shadow, and the doors swung shut with a bang behind him. Left alone, mind reeling with conflicting emotions, I quietly left the study and began the long, confusing journey back to my chambers.

Would I ever get any answers, or would my life with Bakura remain one giant mystery?

That is enough, for tonight. Baku-chan is indeed a complicated man ... and certainly he never made it easy for me to figure him out! I should like very much to tell you more about his side of the story, but I couldn't really do it properly.

Of course, who better to tell you about my Sire than the man himself? That's right, dear audience-though he usually avoids us when we gather, I have convinced (blackmailed) him to pay us a visit and bring us the next instillment of the story! So for those of you brave enough to return, please enjoy the story from Baku-chan's point of view!