*God, what kind of monsters could have reduced him to this?*

Tara was at a loss, having no idea how to react to the vampire's pitifully submissive behavior. Huddled at her feet with his face to the floor, his hands almost touching her bare feet, he was trembling uncontrollably, his entire body shaking with what might have been sobs - or perhaps just sheer exhaustion.

Tara winced at the sight of his battered back, covered in torn, bloodied lash marks, old, but not healing, and painfully stretched by his bowing posture. The entire area was nearly black with recent bruising, and older bruises layered underneath, indicating that the wreckage she was seeing was not the result of a single act of brutality, but of many beatings over an extended period of time.

His barely whispered words of gratitude had touched her heart, but she couldn't stand the idea that he thought he had to bow to her, that he thought of mere sustenance as some unaccountable privilege which she could grant or deny him at her whim. And yet, she did not want to frighten him or cause him any further confusion by reprimanding him for this, his first attempt at initiating communication since he had awakened.

Slowly, she lowered herself onto the sides of her legs, reaching out a cautious hand to touch the back of his head in a very gentle, barely there caress, ghosting over the surface of his filthy, matted blond hair, noting the darker roots that had begun to grow in beneath the shock of white that had initially caught her attention.  He flinched just slightly, but did not pull away from the light, soothing touch.

"It's okay," she whispered, not trusting her own voice to speak any louder. "You don't have to...to do this, Sweetie...it's all right..."

As she spoke, Tara gently took his hands, lifting them carefully from the floor, guiding him back up to a half-sitting position. He struggled to rise, though it seemed he was only doing it because he thought it was what she wanted him to do.  She was alarmed at the amount of his weight he was putting on her, not because he was any great burden for her to lift, but because of the exhaustion that was evident in his slumped posture, his trembling arms and hands in hers.

"I know, you're so tired," she observed with compassion in her voice. "I know. Do you want to sleep? You can rest; we can finish the rest in the morning. Okay? Does that sound good?"

He made a slight forward motion of his head that might have been a nod, but he was simply too exhausted even to finish the gesture. His head lolled forward as he drew in a soft, shaky breath, struggling to remain upright as she had silently asked, though he was clearly fading fast.

Tara glanced around the room, anxiously considering her options. She was reluctant to move him, as badly injured as he was, aware that she could not lift him without at best, encountering numerous wounds and aggravating them, and at worst, sending him into a fresh panic and causing him even greater pain in the process.

Finally, she carefully leaned him back against the wall again, and he offered no resistance or cooperation at this point, simply pliable and shifting in the direction she moved him. Once she was sure he would not fall as soon as she let go, Tara moved the few feet to the sofa and picked up the cushions, carrying them to where he was propped against the wall and laying them out on the floor in a makeshift pallet.

Then she put a gentle arm behind his shoulders, her other hand reaching down to reassuringly take his hand, anticipating the tensing of his body, the sharp intake of breath at the unexpected touch that stirred him from the beginnings of sleep.

"Shh, it's okay," she whispered. "Just want you to lie down, here, okay? Just rest; you're safe...it's okay..."

He was too tired to question her motives or hesitate at this point, simply allowing her to awkwardly maneuver his body onto the cushions and cover him with the soft blanket she had given him earlier. In spite of his submission, however, he was trembling violently, and Tara just crouched beside him for a few minutes, holding his hand and murmuring reassuringly to him.

Gradually, his trembling began to ease, and his tense hand in hers relaxed, letting her know that he was slipping into sleep. Standing up, she stared down at him for a long moment, taking in the pitifully slight form, made even smaller by his huddled position on on the cushions, before heading into the kitchen.  She returned a few minutes later with a hot water bottle, which she wrapped in a second small blanket and placed carefully under the edge of the blanket covering him.

*He doesn't have any heat of his own; it might help him rest...*

Drained and exhausted herself from the emotional experience of the evening, Tara sighed as she glanced at the clock on the wall, and her eyes widened in disbelief. It was already four o'clock in the morning.  She knew there was still much to do to tend to the vampire's injuries, not to mention getting him some kind of clothing to wear - but he was fast asleep already, and she decided that it could wait until the morning.

*Well...later...in the...morning...* she mentally amended with a yawn.

She could use a few hours of sleep, herself.

She glanced around the living room, convincing herself that the mess could wait until she woke up as well...and her gaze fell on the discarded collar on the floor. Unsure of the reasons why, she crossed the room to pick up the cruel instrument of torture, fighting back the sick feeling in the back of her throat as she looked at it.

Her first impulse was to throw it away - burn it, even - just to get rid of the horrible thing. However, a moment later she reconsidered with a reluctant sigh. As disturbing as it was to her to think of keeping the collar, she knew that it was very likely the only piece of evidence she would have as to where the vampire had been, what had happened to him. She had no idea when he would be capable of telling her himself, or if he ever would be, for that matter.

Best to hold onto it, she decided. Maybe I can use it somehow, to find the people who did this to him.

Tara went into the kitchen, where Mac was now lying directly on top of the heating vent. As she entered the room, he raised his head and yawned, looking at her expectantly. Her heart softened with fondness for the dog, as she realized that she had ignored him most of the evening.

"Sorry, Mac," she murmured as she made her way to the sink. "But this guy really needs somebody to help him. And I...I've gotta try."

She fought against her gag reflex as she scrubbed the collar clean in the kitchen sink, washing the dried blood and filth that stained it down the drain and rinsing the collar under the faucet until the metal gleamed in the kitchen light.

Tara shuddered as her finger traced over the metal touchpad, then the tiny button beside it, and the cruel metal prongs shot out from the inside of the collar. Her trembling fingertips brushed against one, noting with fresh horror how very sharp they were, and her anger was rekindled at the thought of the deliberate brutality that might have resulted in such a vicious design.

She frowned, peering more closely at the collar as she noticed engraving on the flat metal plate at its front. It looked like letters or numbers, but they were so small that she could barely make them out at first. She examined it closely, and finally determined that it was the number "17", carved into the metal.

She wondered for a moment about the meaning of the number; perhaps it had none. Perhaps it was nothing more than a serial number. At any rate, she was too exhausted to think about it anymore right then. She opened the drawer next to the sink, affectionately known to her as her "junk drawer", and placed the collar inside, closing it tight with a little shudder, glad to have it out of her sight.

"Come on, Mac," she softly invited, patting her leg, and he eagerly crossed the room to her within moments. "Let's go to bed."

Mac walked uncertainly toward the door to the living room, sniffing under it and looking up at her again, his tail flattened slightly in apprehension. He knew that the strange something, the something that didn't smell right, whatever it was, was still there. But Tara knew better than to let him anywhere near the damaged vampire anytime soon.

"No, Mac," she said firmly. "Come on." She headed toward the hallway leading to the staircase, patting her leg again, and this time the dog followed, easily passing her with a few eager, bounding steps on her way up the stairs and to her bedroom. Tara took a moment to set her alarm, wanting to check on the vampire first thing in the morning, and within minutes, they were settled down on the bed for a few hours much-needed sleep.

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

Morning came all too soon.

The insistent buzzing of her alarm clock drew Tara from a troubled sleep filled with vivid, disturbing dreams, though they did not hold the ultra-realistic, almost prophetic feeling of the others she had had about the vampire, now in her living room.

She sat straight up in the bed, her eyes going wide as she remembered the events of the day before.

"The vampire...in my living room..." Tara tried the words aloud, her mind struggling to come to terms with the fact that it had all actually happened.

*Nope...just as weird out loud. Maybe weirder.*

Mac raised his head, and Tara reached to stroke behind his ears, frowning pensively as she thought about her unexpected house guest downstairs. She didn't know his name, or where he had been, what had happened to him. She didn't know if she was even capable of giving him the help he needed to recover.

All she knew was that he needed whatever help he could get...and no one else seemed to be offering.

In his broken, shaking, terrified state, it was hard to think of the vampire as the dangerous creature he was by nature; and Tara's dreams had led her to believe that she was supposed to help him. After all, she had dreamed of his existence, and found that the dream was reality. If so, then the dreams she had had about the good deeds he had done were likely true as well...right?

He was a *good* vampire.  

She let out a slow, heavy breath as she remembered the cringing, pitiful creature from the night before, and decided that good or bad, it didn't matter. He was helpless, and only she could help him.

Steeling herself for whatever the day might bring, Tara rose from the bed. Mac immediately followed her, leaping off the bed and pacing the room on heavy paws, eager for his breakfast. Tara tried to calm him, gripping his collar as she started down the steps; she did not want to frighten the vampire.

But Mac tried to pull away from her, his big paws thumping on the staircase, while Tara cringed with every sound. Firmly she led the dog past the living room by his collar, and the moment she took down his food dish, the interesting mystery in the living room seemed to be forgotten. Mac sat at her feet, his long tail wagging slowly as he watched her expectantly, waiting.

Tara took her time with the food, finally setting it out and opening the back door to allow Mac to run out when he was finished. She then took a bag of blood from the refrigerator  and warmed it in the microwave. She had learned something the night before, from the vampire's frantic panics every time she had walked into the room - the fewer entrances and exits she could manage, the better.

When she could put it off no longer, she steeled her nerves for another tense, harrowing encounter with the traumatized vampire, and opened the living room door.

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

He heard the sound of pounding footsteps, and huddled tighter into his corner, trembling in terrified anticipation of the day's round of torment for the sadistic pleasure of his captors. He flinched as he heard them enter his cell, but there was no escape, no hope of mercy but to fall at their feet in silent, broken supplication that this time, maybe, *maybe* he would be spared.

It was not to be.

Cruel hands, hot on his icy cold arms, yanked his hands behind his back and held them there, crossing them roughly. His wrists were thin by now, small and easily restrained by a single hand...freeing his tormentor's other hand for other pursuits. The vampire flinched as that harsh hand ran over his body in invasive, humiliating ways, and the owner of those hands leaned in close to whisper in his ear.

"Hungry, Seventeen?"

He hesitated only a moment, so desperate was his starvation by that point. He could not keep himself from nodding eagerly, despite the fact that he knew what they would give him for food - and what they would require of him in order to receive it.

Humiliation, degradation and abuse to which he had become accustomed, and he tried to make himself numb to it all as he was brutally violated, his mouth, his body, used for the gratification of his enemies, and then kicked mercilessly back down to his face on the floor.

"Good boy," one of them sneered. "Now get up on your knees."

He struggled to rise, but was too weak from hunger and the dizzying blows they had dealt him, not to mention the savage violation that had just been inflicted upon him. His head was snatched violently back by the hair, and a cold packet was held to his lips as his arms were yanked behind his back again.

At the first taste of the rancid, bitter fluid, he tried to struggle, rejecting the clotted, congealed substance that once might have been nourishing to him...but not anymore. Cold pig's blood, long since gone off, and he found that despite his starvation he could not bring himself to swallow it.

But his captors could.

They forced his mouth open, their stronger arms holding him down and pouring the vile mixture down his throat. He gagged at the horrid taste of the rancid fluid, trying to expel it, but it was done before he had time to resist...not that he had the strength to resist, anyway. Bitter and spoiled, he could feel the disgusting, congealed mass roiling in his stomach, and his body immediately attempted to reject it - but they had been ready for just such an occurrence.

They left him gagged, his mouth and throat packed with rough fabric and bound tightly, his wrists bound as well, lying on the floor racked with agony as his body struggled to expel the putrid blood they had fed him. Again and again his stomach clenched in agony as he gagged and retched, uselessly struggling to expel the poison, but his esophagus and airways were both thoroughly blocked by the gag, and he had no way to be rid of the rancid mess.

Eventually, his body absorbed it, bit by bit, taking what little nourishment it could from the blood...which, however spoiled, was still blood, after all. But in the agonizing hours the process took, he lay there, shivering with cold and aching with sickness, alone and helpless in his suffering.

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

Even while the sound of the pounding footsteps on the stairs was absorbed into his dream, it drew the vampire abruptly to wakefulness. Panic seized him, at what sounded to him like many footsteps, and he struggled to sit up, his body aching with the stiffness sleep had brought to his injuries.

Bewildered and disoriented, he tried to remember where he was. He was...*warm*, covered with soft blankets, resting on comfortable cushions. In dismay he struggled to pull away from the precious comforts, far too lavish and undeserved to be enjoyed by him.

If they caught him...

Panicked, he tried to pull himself up on shaking arms, tried to drag his useless legs away, but he could not see anything around him, and had no idea which way to go, or where he was supposed to be. To his despair, he found that he was also too weak, in too much pain, to move far; and besides...it was too late.

They were already there.