Before

Kosta glanced at him sideways as Kit pushed bullets into an empty clip, counting silently. The huge, blond man sighed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"The young man you treated - he is alive. And he is my sister's son. She asked me to look out for him, and I answered that it would be impossible. But you saved his life."

He paused, lost in thought. "How long have you studied Russian?"

"Just a couple 'o weeks."

Kit did not tell him that he had picked up a little bit of Russian as a child in New Orleans. The immigrant community there provided plenty of opportunities for a child gifted in languages - he had also learnt Spanish and Louisiana French, even though his mother only spoke English.

"Then you are a natural. But you will not learn Fenya that way."

"Fenya?"

"Prison slang. Mr Novák uses it a lot. I know some...you can ask me, if you want."

Kit pushed the full clip into place and stretched his arms straight out, locking his elbows. He knew that Kosta did not make the offer lightly.

Taking aim, he lowered the handgun slowly until the target was centred and squeezed the trigger without missing a beat. It jerked in his hand but he held it steady against the recoil, firing again. His ears rang. The shots were dead centre.

"Thanks, Kosta."

In the months that followed Kit often followed Devlin and his bodyguards. He acted as paramedic, translator, and assistant. Devlin made him learn advanced mixology and dealing cards, honing him into a discreet and capable servant.

Kosta had warmed up to him. He turned on the radio in the car and showed Kit pictures of two blond, chubby toddlers. Several times per week he showed up to bring him to a shooting range.

According to the rumours Kosta had heard, the Vor v zakone or Thieves in Law had sent Devlin Novák away from Russia because he had killed too many people. He was mysterious and feared and so they sent him to the west coast where their influence, though old, was not as strong as on the east coast.

In Los Angeles he had picked up Ilya and Kosta and now they were strengthening operations here, feeling out the Chinese Mafia and Latin American gangs.

"You are like him, aren't you?" he asked, not seeming to expect an answer.

The large bodyguard even gave Kit a few lessons in hand-to-hand combat once he had gotten a hang of shooting, showing him how to defend against someone armed with a knife or handgun.

"Kick them in the groin and run away. If they have a gun, knock it aside and take it from them."

"Easy peasy."

"Don't fight even if they're unarmed. You've got good instincts and you're a fast learner. But too small and light - so you would probably lose."

"Gee, thanks."

"Run away if you can."

"Great advice."

"And if you can't - then you have about two seconds to damage your opponent as much as possible before they use their weight and range against you. That's assuming you've caught them by surprise."

"Catch 'em by surprise."

"Yes, and stay low. Keep your point of balance below theirs, strike fast, and play dirty. Be ruthless - if you're willing to hurt them more than they are willing to hurt you then you've got an advantage.

"If you're willing to kill them... then you might win. Maybe."

"Right. Thanks, Kosta."

Ilya had not warmed up to him.

"Disgusting fuckboy," he muttered, shouldering past him in the hallway of Devlin's flat.

Kit's eyes narrowed. He considered letting it go. Grabbing Ilya by the back of his leather collar, he hauled himself up to whisper in his ear.

"Is that why your eyes follow me whenever you come over? Because you think I'm disgusting? Is that why you lick your lips when I bend over? You think I didn't notice, Ilya?"

Then he shoved him away, jumping back just as Ilya spun, fist raised. Kit didn't flinch.

"Do it. Hit me. See what your boss does about it."

Ilya didn't hit him.

Suddenly, one day, Devlin tossed him a sleek black uniform.

"I have a task for you. I need someone inside this establishment - keep your eyes and ears open, and be ready. Here are your new papers."

He tossed him a driver's licence, credit card, and passport. They had his picture and looked worn. Kit had never seen them before.

"I'm supposed to be Mexican?" he asked, flipping through the passport.

"Is that a problem? You have the appearance and the Spanish for it."

"More or less. But my accent won't match."

"So change it. Are you saying you cannot?"

"No. I can."

That was how Kit found himself serving drinks and dealing cards in and underground gambling den.

It was two months later that Kit saw Devlin come in with a party. He served them drinks, glancing over each of the men.

One of them, red in the face already and with a sizeable pot belly, grabbed his ass and Kit side-stepped him as if he had done it a million times - which in the last couple of months, he had.

He looked up and met Devlin's dark eyes. His Master wasn't smiling.

Later that night, when they had played countless games and most of the table had dropped off or become absolutely plastered, he crooked one long, pale finger at Kit.

The small werewolf approached him, trying to hide his reluctance. Devlin smiled as if he could sense it anyway, beckoning him until he was so close he could feel the vampire's cool breath on his skin as he leaned forward to murmur into his ear.

"Remember the man from the tables? The one with his hands all over you?" he said, smiling into Kit's soft neck.

"I have told him I will send you to his room... So go. Show him a good time. Take some pictures."

Kit felt him slip something into his hands - a thin, coiled steel wire between two stops...

A garrotte.

Devlin smiled wide enough to let the tips of his white fangs slip out over his bottom lip, all burgundy eyes and shining silver hair. The werewolf wondered how anyone could mistake him for human. He felt nauseous.

"Then kill him."

Six months passed in a blur. Afterwards, Kit would remember them in flashes, disconnected scenes out of a movie - loud, sharp memories surrounded by blackness.

Devlin's dark eyes sparkling as he held out a steel knife, handle first, to Kit.

"Fight me, Kitty."

He beat him every time, bruising and battering his body, but never breaking his skin or bones. As Kit got better the scuffles went on for longer, always spilling over into fierce, rough passion.

As Devlin set him more challenges, Kit rose to every one. Sometimes the rush of adrenaline, the shots fired, the blood and screeching tires and tense meetings left him feeling exhilarated and alive.

But every time the adrenaline lift his bloodstream he felt a little more worn and exhausted. He was weary - the type of weary that sinks into your bones like a chill and never lets up.

"So you're up."

Kit startled, spinning around, then wincing. He had not heard Devlin approach. Blue-tinged tattoos coveted his chest, arms, and hands. Kit could spot the Virgin Mary with Child, Russian letters, and saw that the portrait with devil's horns on his chest depicted Lenin.

His silver hair snaked about his pale face, wet and dripping, steam coming off his toned chest and shoulders, drawing Kit's eyes as if by a magnetic force.

Devlin smirked, and held up a silky black playsuit in front of him.

"Put this on," he ordered. "Tonight you're not going as my servant or subordinate...you are going as my escort."

"Not scared, are you, Kitty?" Devlin asked. His pale, tattooed fingers stroked Kit's hand where it rested on the leather seat between them.

"Well, you know what they say about these sort of situations," Kit said, careful to keep his knees together as he got out of the black sedan.

"What?"

"They say, 'I think I just peed myself a little'."

Devlin snorted, holding out his arm for Kit to take. They started heading toward the sleek, packed nightclub along an empty red carpet, bypassing the long line of people outside.

Kit had dressed carefully. Tight, tight boxers that held everything in. Sheer shapewear stockings that cinched his waist and padded his hips and butt, giving an illusion of curves to his slim body. He had narrow shoulders for a boy, and wore a tiny, padded AA-cup bra.

The playsuit was thin black silk with a high neckline and plunging back that ended at the thin belt at his waist, bell-shaped sleeves and a very short, loose hem, that drew attention to his long slim legs.

He wore huge golden earrings (his earlobes still red and smarting from when he pierced them with a quickly sterilised needle in the bathroom two hours before, but no longer bleeding) and golden gladiator sandals that strapped up his calves to his knees. A wide velvet choker covered his Adam's apple.

With his eyes lined with mascara and black kohl - making them look even huger and more cat-like - his lips, nails, and toenails glossy and pink, and his curls loose about his face softening the already androgynous features, anyone would be hard pressed to mark him for a boy.

Kit certainly hoped so, anyway, because if anyone did he would probably be dead.

"So... If we were caught, what would they do to us?"

"The punishment for homosexual acts is instant execution," Devlin replied nonchalantly. "The same for crossdressing, I can only presume."

"But as a vampire..."

"Even I would die if my head was severed or my heart pierced...and bullets might slow or weaken me." He smiled sardonically at Kit. "You are frightened."

"Whatever would I have to be frightened about?"

"Oh, I don't know."

He swept Kit in through the doors into a loud inferno of flashing coloured lights and thumping base, steering them towards a VIP-section where Kit recognized several gang leaders with beautiful, scantly-clad women draped over them.

"The night is just getting started."