Disclaimer: I do not own Vampire Hunter D or the Frontier or any items therein; he's the sole creation of two people, Hideyuki Kikuchi and that Amano guy, really cool guys who I'd like to meet.. someday.

Author's Note: Be brutal; be kind; be whatever you wish. Read and review, or just read.

---

When it rains
do you sleep through it?
Do you face the day?
Do I make you feel like you're in the way?
And when it's sunny, do you stick around
when it shines
and I come by your house to close the blinds

And you, you change, 'cause I hardly ever see you when it rains
could you please call me
please and make my day.

When it rains we get worried dear,
think that we don't want you here
And under the blue sky your no longer safe,
you're no longer mine
and you said you would come rain or shine.

Maria Mena, "When It Rains" lyrics

---

A soft moan broke the monotony of falling rain. Encased in a layer of slightly damp dirt, his limbs were stiff as if actually sealed by granite. There was a taste in the back of his throat until he swallowed, and that quickly went away as he began to breathe more easily. He could smell dirt, ash, blood, and cedar. He could feel the wetness of leather sticking to his skin, and the grit of dirt between his fingers. A dhampir's first instinct is to dig away at the dirt around his body, but surprisingly D simply refused to move. He kept his eyes shut, refused reality, denied his existence, and wished as hard as he could for sleep.

However, fate allied with nature against him and he was forced to awaken, birthed out of the dirt, filthy in mud and dirt and dried, old blood. Except the blood on his clothing was not his own. He remembered, and the searing memory interrupted his breathing, sapped the strength out of his legs. Her eyes. Bright with pain and betrayal and then, somehow, release.

He left the barn and stepped out into the rain, quickly crossing the yard to the front porch. His hat covered his eyes, the pupils enlarged against the darkness. He knew where he was the moment he fixed his eyes on the looming farmhouse some several yards ahead in the rain. He knew the sound he was hearing, subvolume to the rain pattering on the drenched earth. It haunted his sleep, his every waking moment, when his blood ran thin and weak. He stepped quietly back into the barn, and lit a lantern with his flint. At least it was dry inside.

By that feeble light, he filled a small cup he carried with him with rain water, letting the rain collect before he set it aside. Two pills. His last for awhile. He dropped them into the water, watched the clear liquid thicken and darken to black, then red. He downed it all in three effortless gulps.

He was just rinsing the cup with more rain water when he heard footsteps. Once again Mouka had failed to sneak up on him, but he knew the man had stopped trying.

The younger man's fiery gaze softened a bit. "It's good that you're awake. I was beginning to think you were in it for the long sleep."

"What do you know about the long sleep?" D questioned, his voice failing to express any emotion whatsoever. He was shocked a little to hear it. Even on a bad day, he had some sense of feeling. Some.

"N-Nothing," Mouka replied. "I just thought, y'know, after all you've been through--" He cleared his throat, and answered the unspoken question. "You've been snoozing for a couple of days. That farmer John character's resting in the house, too, but... I kind of hit him pretty hard with a shovel and I probably shouldn't have done that." There was a marked wince of regret. "He was trying to kill me, though. How are you feeling?"

D said nothing. He was staring out through the tiny window, into the rain. He found himself quietly wishing for his own oblivion, that ceaseless dark rest where even his spirit didn't continue. But that would never come. Oblivion waited for those at the sharp end of his blade; it was not for him, not so soon. He heard his dark, velvet voice murmur, "Where is she?"

"She's sleeping, too. Not awake yet. She's over in the house. Don't worry, my falcon's watching over her." Mouka shook the rain out of his eyes, and stared at D. The dhampir seemed all but made of stone at that moment. "Did you think you had killed her?"

"I was almost hoping that I had."

"What!" Mouka's jaw dropped. "Why?!"

D refrained from answering. His eyes were black with his own private memories. Between one blink and the next, he disappeared. Mouka spun around, managing to spot him as he took one bound up the steps and disappeared into the house. Mouka clumsily stumbled after him, his feet sticking in the mud, terror filling him with the realization of what D meant - and was born - to do.

"No, D! Don't!"

---

The grass was green and fragrant in the sunlight. Tulips, petunias, and crysanthemums sprinkled the hillside, capable of taking anyone's breath away. In the distance, the mountains ranged high, topped with snow, like mounds of frozen, delicious ice cream. The lake was a shining gem, blinking sunlight as the clouds gently passed over. It was all too perfect, as if godly hands made a godly landscape.

Miranda found herself hating it.

She tore up the flowers, the grass, spat in the lake, her heart pounding with such abominable hatred. Of anything, she was sure: this was not meant for her. It was meant for some other woman. It was a dream that young girls should have, of becoming princesses to rule such a landscape, of princes and white horses. This was not for her, a wretched monster, a metal creature whose heart still beat at the expense of her sanity and her self-esteem. She sank down to the grass and wept. It was so beautiful to look at that it hurt her eyes.

She had no idea how long she had been laying there, tucked in between two trees, until she looked up and realized the sun was setting. As she looked, the western horizon darkened ever more quickly. She directed her attention away from the mountains, down to the valley. The shadows lengthened, turning the grass midnight blue, the flowers gray and unattractive shapes. There, cresting a hill, a man on horseback was approaching her. His sword was drawn, and his black hair streamed behind him, like the banners of a tall and dark ship.

She stood to face him. He seemed to veritably fly over the grasses to her. He raised his sword, as the distance closed. Her heart leapt, not for fear, but for sadness. There would be no night for her either. Because he would come, to claim his right as a Hunter. The dream was shattered. The mountains, the lake, and the quiet unobtrusive flowers swaying in the breeze.

No. This was not her dream.

It was his.

With that thought, she opened her eyes, waking from the sleep that had taken her away. There was a painful hole in her chest, as if someone had thrust their hand through it and ripped out her spine. The candle light dimmed, and the air chilled even as she drew her next breath. The room grew tighter, and the presence that had disturbed her out of her sleep was suddenly there at the foot of the bed, the wide, black brim of a hat casting a demonic shadow on the comforter.

He drew closer. Cold, judgmental steel shined in her eyes. "I won't miss this time."

"D." Miranda reached toward her throat. Her voice felt so raw, and she was thirsty beyond compare. The sadness from the dream came away like the layers she slept under. Her fingers touched the marks of the torque, but more than that, a little closer to her jugular. Two tiny little bumps.

The eyes under the hat turned red. As if her discovery prompted action, the Hunter jerked toward her, the sword thrusting. There was no way in Hell she would be able to stop that blade from severing her life from her body. And yet she reached out with the same speed, with one idea in mind alone, and that was simply to live. The candles blew out; the falcon called out shrilly as it dove for D, but it compacted swiftly into his left hand, which he used to effortlessly knock the bird of prey aside. With his right, the sword had stopped just inches above the skin of her chest, above her heart.

Beads of sweat and effort dripped down her forehead. Blood dripped from the sword, spotting her comforter, while her two hands clapped tightly on the blade. One easy twist would take off her fingers or her entire hands.

Her eyes shone like gems. "D, stop."

"I must kill you," he replied calmly. A remarkable contrast to his calm voice was the way the sword and the way his arm shook. He was pushing with all of his strength; she was holding him back.

What kind of creature had Miranda become, even at half the strength of a vampire? To begin with, how had she even becom one in the first place? Not a lot of people knew whether dhampirs could turn others for sure. But D had always proven to be capable of resisting such a temptation.

The unnatural figure of the hunter finally moved. It was with a backwards step that he relieved the pressure on the sword and held it at his side. A tremor of terror raced through the woman's body. Still that slight sadness in her eyes, changed so dramatically and deeply from the sores that time had left. Dhampir and almost-vampire gazed across eternity in that tiny farmhouse bedroom, neither of them understanding just what was expected of them in such a situation...

What if D, who killed his own kind for interminable decades, loved his prey so much that he could not plunge his blood-stained sword into that beloved heart? And that mystery still: how did she become the loathsome monster that others so despised?

"How did you know?" she whispered, gazing sideways.

It was at that moment that Mouka tumbled up the stairs, cradling his falcon in his hands. His eyes were huge. "Whoa, just in time! Damn it! You could have killed Sasera, you know that?!" He held the bird of prey close, whispering to her quietly. Dazed but not injured, the creature offered a small noise to acknowledge his words.

D offered no apology.

Mouka felt the tension in the room, and took a breath for strength. "Now what? You're...not going to slay her, are you?" The firemancer gave a little nervous chuckle. He saw there was no blood on the walls, sheets or floor, and sighed with some relief.

Hidden from sight beneath that shadowed hat, D's mind was racing and working. He stood completely still, as if a basilisk had struck him with its stone breath and made him solid forever. Miranda slid out of bed, wearing one of Hena's slips, and wrapped the top blanket around her shoulders. Her skin was pale and utterly perfect, although she was now on the slightly gaunt side. Thunder rattled the windows as lightning burst open the heavens.

Mouka advanced three steps to the bed, and nestled the falcon in the grey sheets. Then he picked up the falcon, sheets and all, and took her downstairs.

"We'll probably be down in a-a few minutes," Miranda called after him, her voice dropping to a whisper as she heard the door close. Then there was a blanket of silence, except for the rumbles in the distance, as if the storm were suddenly very far away.

"D," she whispered. "How did you know?"

The statue moved his eyes, for all the good the shadows did to hide it. "You don't remember." Blank as a sheet of paper. Blank as white, blinding death.

Miranda approached his left side. The sword was clenched in his right hand. She reached up, very slowly, to close her hand around his wrist to encourage him to speak, silently urging him to lie to her, to tell her what wasn't about to leave his lips. Miranda felt suddenly tired, and found herself not caring to hear anything else at all. She clung to the hope that gave her strength to strive forward. Her mind started telling her, So what, so what if I'm one of the Nobility? It's not the worst thing that ever happened to me and it probably won't be the last. After all, D tried to kill me and then he didn't want to anymore; there's got to be something inside him that isn't made of pure, cold steel.

"Then I guess I have no choice but to explain to you how it happened," D suddenly said. Miranda nearly jumped out of her skin. He put his hand on her shoulder, if only to push her back. Then with a squeak of metal, he sheathed the terrifying blade. Miranda sat down on the very edge of the bed, leaning forward as if to hear him better. She wished he would take off his hat, so that she could at least try to read whatever emotions captured in that stony face. The impartial blankness of his voice froze the blood in her marrow. And what kind of blood is it now? she reminded herself. What kind is it?

She listened as he began: "Do you remember, as we lay down together, where I'd placed the small chest with the torque inside of it? I had put crosses inside with it, and garlic cloves, and every manner of charm to seal the vampire spirit's power. Then I had hidden it far from you, understanding fully well that he would try to influence you. What I had not foreseen was how poorly weakened the minds of everyone who lived here. They are all just human. It seemed the spirit could move, even if a limited distance at will, a ghost with a bloodthirst. As I understand it, he waited for us to return that night--"

Miranda fidgeted, anger edging her voice with impatience. "Just tell me if you turned me, D! Tell me if it's even possible!"

"It is," D replied calmly, and continued without fail, "--when we returned that night, you spoke words to me, Miranda. And I believed them. I must have believed them because we shared the same bed, without any regrets, and I thought I had never known such... such happiness. It felt so right that it hurt. I never thought I'd get a chance to tell you... thank you."

Miranda's anger melted away effortlessly beneath his carefully chosen words. She physically inched backward, making herself comfortable, eyes shining. Her tongue felt numb as she mumbled, "That's okay, no need to thank me, I... I was happy to make you happy."

His eyes seemed to shine softly. He stepped closer to her, caressing her hair with his left hand, slowly, as if to memorize each strand. What wonder that filled his heart! How tragic that this news should come between them, so soon after their loving. "The vampiric ghost of the House Delaclaire came into our room after you fell asleep, having enough strength to possess one of the maids. He turned you with the last ounce of his strength, and you left the bed shortly afterward. Despite the great pain it caused you, you unlocked the chest and reached inside, the crosses burning, raising the smell of burning flesh, and plucked the torque free. You put it on... the spirit possessed you. I saw it all. The worst of it was... I could think of nothing I could do to stop it."

At this injecture, his hand that had been lovingly caressing her hair stopped, and fell away. He clenched his left hand. "I don't know what happened to it after that. In this weather... it must have disappeared forever in the mud, never to be seen again."

Miranda gave a slight shudder. She seemed to remember the feel of a young girl's teeth in her throat, touching her fingertips to the marks. Her eyes shut tightly. "But D... you see, it wasn't you. And it wasn't your fault. So you've nothing to blame yourself for. What's done is done. I don't know what to do but at the moment, I don't really care. It's not as if we've got anything to worry about now."

"Except," said a voice, "the little tiny problem of you being a Noble!"

Miranda jumped off the bed and hissed, "What the devil was that?"

D relaxed, and he seemed slightly mortified. "...I apologize." He reluctantly lifted his right hand, and turned the palm upwards. A grotesque little face was nestled there within the folds of pale, immortal flesh, scowling away as if the whole world could sink to Hell and burn forever.

"It was ME, and I'm only just a little pissed that he never introduced me to you. See, he never liked me much, and has this habit of keeping me a secret. Oh, don't worry! I won't eat you... and no, before you even think that I was there when you two had your little love party--"

D frowned. "That's enough. Miranda... this is a ... parasite. We stumbled across one another ages ago. He's been stuck in my left hand ever since... and I do apologize. He's actually proven quite useful in the past."

"I'm sure," the parasite spat, "that you'll remember the times I've saved your ass from killing us both, you moron!"

Miranda covered her mouth to hide what might have been a laugh or a gasp of offense. Either way, she dropped her hand with a smirk pasted firmly on her lips. "Pleasure to meet you. I'm gonna take a wild guess and say you already know who I am so I'm not gonna bother with an introduction. Wow. I...This is really weird, D; why didn't you say something before?"

D looked down with a sigh. "I didn't think you'd be all that excited."

"Well, I'm a little shocked but I'm not excited."

"Can we talk about what we're going to do, please?" the parasite complained. "The rain is getting on my nerves. I say we rest just enough to hightail it out of this hole and get ourselves as far away from this storm as possible."

"I kind of agree," Miranda sighed. "But... are we only traveling at night now?"

"I suppose we have to," D confirmed softly, hinting at some slight unhappiness. "Which means all of us will be working around your schedule."

"Oh. Oh, that sounds just peachy. Mouka's going to love this, assuming he wants to come with us." Miranda sat down. Her eyes had a redness in them, and she rubbed her jaw agitatedly. "A dhampir and his freaky hand, a vampire, and a firemancer and his bird. What the hell kind of crew is this?"

The atmosphere had lightened, but the taint of truth still blackened one heart. It hung over his head like a swaying guillotine, waiting to plunge downward and forever sever the heart from the rest of his body. The pair walked down the stairs, Miranda leading them ahead, and spotted Mouka in the kitchen, bustling clumsily as if he were unaccustomed to the domestic role of dinner-cooker.