Non-canon, but fun to write and hopefully a bit of fun to read. Imagine if Michael hadn't been resurrected, but rather Selene had been forced to kill everything in the castle on her own, after which she passes out. Directly after Evolution. I might write more chapters, but it all depends on the inspiration.


He stands above the body on the steel table, his hands shoved firmly into his trench coat's pockets. This is an enigma, and he finds himself thoroughly flummoxed. The body of a gorgeous woman, lying on the street – unconscious but far from dead – dropped in his lap. Nobody really knows whose jurisdiction to put this in, and it is Budapest. Not much happens under good legal jurisdiction in Budapest.

There are several "problems" with the body, each of which he examines carefully. Lists drive his mind – they have since he was a child. First thing: elongated eye teeth. Drawing her well-formed lips away from small, white teeth, he studies the canine teeth that extend beyond the regular line of her teeth. He tugs them gently – they're not glue-on. Picking up a dentist's mirror from a nearby table, he studies the gum around those teeth, deciding soon that they aren't implants. That's not even possible, is it? He considers that she could have had braces, bringing her eye teeth down to a level as this. For the moment, he'll leave that as his main theory.

The outfit will comprise problem two, he decides. She's dressed in a skin-tight black leather bodysuit, slashed through in many places. Current pseudo-vampire trends have swung towards the Anne Rice vampires – either with satin and velvet Orleans-style old-time finery, or the 80's rock flashy leather. From an entirely technical standpoint, this woman could fit the latter. Black leather, he supposes, would be the key link. But realistically, she fits neither well. He thinks of the odd stories he hears now and then – groups of non-people scavenging in the night for blood. Budapest is a shady side of town, that's certain. He'll let this problem slide for the moment.

The problem that really drives him crazy is that, when she was brought to him, angry red slash marks riddled her body. Her sides, her back – she would certainly have scars from that, he thought. But seconds later, as he turns to look at her, the marks were gone. Rents in her bodysuit remained; terrible, deep slashes, but her skin was white and smooth. This is not natural. He attempts to run through possible causes, but comes up with nothing.

He begins to wonder about what he had called urban legends. A coven of vampires, some of them vampire warriors. Almost instant regenerative powers. The eye teeth. He shakes his head sharply. Not possible. It's late at night, he's low on sleep, and his imagination is wandering.

He checks her vital signs once again, pulling her eyelid back to reveal supernaturally blue eyes. They're twitching and flashing radically, but staring generally straight up at the ceiling. He wonders if she can see something, but shakes the thought off as his imagination once again. Letting her eyes close again, he lowers his cheek to inches away from her lips, and waits to feel the breathing that will give him an indication of her status. Normal; a good, slow tempo.

Suddenly, he feels her eyes snap open. He leaps away, but realizes immediately that she's not awake. He leans in again, fascinated, and stares into her now wide-open blue eyes. Images flash in front of him like a television screen – rapid and chaotic, stream of consciousness. He knows this isn't possible. The eye can only reflect on the surface – it can't project pictures like this. But he draws in closer, mesmerized.

A helicopter falling out of the sky, landing sideways in what looks like a castle. Snow everywhere, frosting the woman's hair as she blasts a gun. Men hanging from latticework, their bodies convulsing and changing . . . snouts, claws. Werewolves. And the woman pushing a blue, winged monster into the helicopter's blades. Half his body falls off a broken platform.

Icy fingers tighten around the back of his neck. He leaps backwards, upsetting the steel counter, but she uses his momentum to sit up on the table. Her fingers stay behind his neck, controlling him. Her breathing quickens and he feels her heartbeat racing.

"Who are you and what's been done to the elder?" she says, her voice harsh from strain and unconsciousness.

"Alyn! What elder?" His pulse is racing, and adrenaline races through his body. Her dark eyebrows draw together slowly, her eyes stare in the distance, and her fingers loosen their grip slightly. He pulls away from her cautiously, feels her arm give.

He guesses she is reliving whatever event he had seen in her eyes. She snaps suddenly back to the present, stares at him. A low, moaning sigh escapes her lips briefly, and he feels her mood swing from anger to resignation. She allows him this knowledge, opening her mind just slightly so he can feel her rawest emotion.

"Michael," she whispers softly. He sees tears shine on her pupils – they make her eyes even more luminescent. Her hand drops away from him, and he relaxes slightly. He studies her again for a moment; despite the danger, he finds her alluring. She is lean, built like a hunter, an athlete. Black hair, wet from the general dampness and the rain above them. Dark eyebrows that give her a level-headed look, now drawn down to create small, uneven furrows in her forehead, and those eyes – supernaturally blue.

"My eyes are still blue?" she questions, her heading turning a little to look at him.

"Yes." He thinks for a moment, then, "you heard my thoughts, didn't you?"

"I've been changed more than I thought." Questions race through his mind, but he knows it would take hours to unravel her mystery. He lets the thick silence pool around them again.

"I saw something . . . in your eyes," he ventures slowly. "Werewolves, and a bat-like monster, and a castle. Am I prying if I ask what that all meant?"

She doesn't answer for a moment, running slender fingers through her hair. Her eyebrows are still drawn down and anxious, but she seems to accept that he is not a threat. He guesses that she is scanning his thoughts and searches for signs of it in her eyes.

"Where am I?" she asks suddenly, finding something odd in his thought pattern.

"Budapest," he ventures. He's seen her pupils – she doesn't have a concussion. Not knowing even what part of the world she's in seems abnormal. He sees her eyes widen suddenly, and wonders what the problem could be. Her face changes slowly from confusion, to vague excitement, to disbelief, and finally uneasy acceptance. "What's wrong?"

She turns to him finally. "I am a Death Dealer – you would think easiest of me as a vampire. I was . . . somewhere else before this. I can't tell you where. But last I remember, I stood in the sun – the sun! – and then felt myself pass out. And I wake up here. My powers . . . they're changing. I don't know what I could do now. I must have brought myself here while unconscious."

Alyn feels his doubts melt away. How could he not believe her? He's seen all the proof that was really necessary. "You're not going to . . . drink my blood, are you?" He asks, suddenly uneasy.

She shakes her head negatively. "The thirst is relatively gone. Corvinus's blood has given me power that I never knew could exist."

He accepts all this easily, and doesn't try to understand what she's saying. More important questions come to his head. "What's your name?" he asks.