Disclaimer: [H]ouse is not mine and never will be.

Beta: The ever awesome hwshipper.

A/N: Welcome to the Blood Brothers 'Verse. Thank you for returning or trying it out for the first time. This is a pivotal story that took me a couple of years and a half-dozen revisions before it could be told. Hope you find it worth the wait.

For those of you who never read the BB before or need a refresher, here's a brief summary to get you up to speed.

Previously on Blood Brothers:

Wilson is a vampire. He was turned against his will while in med school. Contrary to vampire lore, he can walk in daylight as long as he wears sunblock.

House stumbled upon Wilson's secret when Wilson fell ill after Amber's death and lost his main source of food. House unwittingly gave Wilson a "transfusion" of his own blood. This caused a connection between them that eventually led to a satisfying relationship.

Fang Fun:

* Wilson has a tattoo over his heart that only House can see. It is the insignia of Wilson's clan, "La Famiglia Della Rosa." A vampire line that Caesar Borgia began during the Renaissance. Caesar still leads the "La Famiglia" and is commonly called the Borgia, Borgia Prince, or the Godfather.

* Wilson's sire is Zehava. She receives direct instruction for Wilson's education from the Godfather. Wilson was an experiment. He was given a soul and minimal vampire training to test how much of a vampire's behavior can be attributed to nature or nurture. Eventually, he was provided with a spell book to get him up to speed, but was of little use to him because of a curse. After the curse was removed, Wilson was able to read it.

* Vampire love is virtual but phenomenal. It happens when a vampire drinks from his/her minion/victim. House and Wilson eagerly indulge. A positive side effect: House does not suffer leg pain as long as he has virtual sex on a regular basis. He uses a cane outside of the apartment to keep up appearances.

* House discovers he is a vampire hunter and that the Borgia approves of his relationship with Wilson. The Godfather believes the rare coupling of vampire and vampire hunter can be powerful and put to good use in the future.

* The Borgia is the possessor of a magical ring. The gold from it is highly prized.

* House wants to be a vampire, but Wilson is hesitant. He constantly cites how excruciatingly painful embracing can be, and there's a good chance that a vampire's territorial instinct will tear their relationship apart.

* Every vampire fears becoming a Nosferatu and serving time in the Hell Pit.

Now, on to the good stuff...

Chapter 1:

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There are only two things I regret, loving Gregory House and killing him…

—from James Wilson's Journal, A Vampire's Life

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Composing himself for transport, Zehava's shrill voice shattered his concentration. "Are you meshugah? The hearing is about to begin. You don't have time."

"I'll make the time. This might be my last chance to—"

"Give it up, James. If only you could suck the life out of humans the way you worry, your head wouldn't be on the chopping block. He refused to see you the last time you went to his apartment, and the time before. Gregory House can out-stubborn a mule." She clicked her tongue and scoffed. "A fine pair you make. Drop it."

Wilson rolled his fingers into fists, closed his eyes, and called upon his reserves of strength and patience. "I'll only be a minute. I'll meet you outside the tribunal chamber."

"James…!" Zehava's shout faded into the distance.

When he opened his eyes, he was standing outside House's bedroom, not inside as he had planned. Swaying, he clutched the doorframe while fighting off a cloud of dizziness threatening to engulf him.

As his head cleared, a fetid odor like burning tar tingled his nose. He reflexively stepped backward. With that one movement he was undone. A hulking Nosferatu materialized, hot coals of menace glowing from his eyes.

With all the bravado he could muster, Wilson commanded, "Fuzzy, stand aside."

"No way, Wilson," Fuzzy replied in his chesty baritone. "It's the Doc's orders."

Normally he would let the comment slide, but the hearing had him on edge. "What? You're taking sides? I'm not a doctor? Wasn't I just as much a friend to you as House was when you begged us for asylum?"

"I remember, Doctor Wilson, sir." Fuzzy growled, carefully enunciating Wilson's medical title, and bobbed his head in deference.

Wilson could almost make out his reflection on the shiny, pale pink scalp.

"But House gave me specific instructions first, Doctor, sir."

"I didn't know I needed to take a number." Spotting trouble lurking in the red embers, Wilson changed tactics. "Come on Fuzz, for old times?"

He almost groaned in frustration when Fuzzy's brow rippled with furrows. "Is two years, seven months, eight days, four hours, forty-two minutes, and 12 seconds, 13 seconds, 14 secon—"

"Stop." Wilson held up his hands. "'Old times.' It's an expression."

"Oh." Fuzzy's face became more inscrutable than his usual—a sign that he was processing the information. Finally, he spoke. "There's nothing I can do."

The eyes still contained fire, the drool dripping from the fangs were as venomous as ever, but Wilson detected genuine regret. There was no way he would get to see or talk to House. As for their connection, House had severed it, effectively becoming deaf and mute to Wilson's entreaties.

"At least tell me how he is?"

The hairless head shook sadly. "Not good, Wilson. He's weak and running a fever. He can't get out of bed by himself."

"Did you test his blood circulation?"

"Turned to sludge. In the extremities there are signs that the smallest arteries are encrusted with powdered blood and threatening to collapse. Before sunrise he'll be playing for the other team unless the Godfather chooses you to take charge of him. Until then, I can't permit you to go inside."

"The Godfather won't let him turn into a zombie," Wilson said, wielding his reassuring bedside manner. "The hearing is only a formality."

"Seriously? You promise?"

"I promise," Wilson answered, feeling a twinge of guilt for his empty pledge. "I gotta go, Fuzz. Can't be late for the hearing. Tell House I was here?"

As Fuzzy vigorously nodded, Wilson closed his eyes and willed himself to the Godfather's headquarters.

Before the massive, polished steel doors of the tribunal chamber glided open on well-oiled hinges, Wilson successfully managed to avoid Zehava and her sharp gaze and tongue.

"Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't make eye contact," she admonished as they entered, never moving her lips.

Wilson studied the windowless room. Centuries-old portraits of men and women hung on the age-darkened paneling. Responding without speech or telepathic connection, he kept his thoughts to himself and let his body language speak for him.

"Smart ass," she hissed, in sotto voce. The sibilant syllables bounced off the walls. Insults were acceptable lingua franca among his kind. Besides, the epithet barely pricked after years of practice ignoring House's well-crafted barbs.

He followed his sire as she headed toward the front row of the gallery and concentrated on the soothing quiet, thick and cottony as an airless bank vault. The gnawing headache and queasiness ebbed under his concentration. Good. The next hours were crucial. He needed to keep his wits about him and show no signs of weakness.

Behind him he heard scuffling feet and murmuring. The rows were filling up fast. In front of him stretched a long tribunal table where the Godfather and his lieutenants would sit.

In the center of the room, a lectern rose like a broken pillar from Atlantis. For his sake, House had stood there, fighting off writhing pain inflicted by a young sadistic vampire. Shortly, it would be Wilson's turn. But in his case, he believed he deserved punishment. He was partially to blame for what had transpired.

At least, Zehava had agreed to stand by his side. She was a meddling know-it-all, worse than Cuddy's mother, but he needed any edge he could get. She was a loyal member of the La Famiglia and the Borgia trusted her. She would lend credibility to his cause just by being there.

A prickling sensation thrummed the back of his neck. He attempted to rub it away, but his self-control took a nosedive and he turned around. A chill went up his spine as he zeroed in on one face. "The Count is here," he communicated telepathically.

"Of course he is. He wants House as much as you do. He probably masterminded the zombie incident."

As Wilson absorbed her information his stone heart heaved in his chest.

"Cut the unseemly dramatics, imbecile. Don't remind anyone that you have a soul. Behave like a vampire."

He dropped his chin to his chest in a contrite gesture. A desire to go over his plan in his head nagged at him, but he nudged the thought away. The room was full of mind readers. It was too dangerous. When Zehava's finger jabbed him in the thigh, alerting him that the hearing was about to begin, he was almost grateful. There was no more time to wrestle with his thoughts.

On the left side of the room a velvet curtain drew open and a black clad Nosferatu bailiff walked toward the center, staring at the assembly until not a click of an incisor could be heard. He could be Fuzzy's double except his coloring exhibited the rosy hue from a recent visit to the Hell Pit. "All rise," he snarled.

An identical curtain parted on the opposite side, and the Godfather, as most referred him, (or sometimes in hushed, respectful tones, the Borgia), stepped briskly into the chamber. Wilson expected to see the silver-haired head of his clan with a cadre of handpicked officials. Instead two very different looking vamps in flowing black robes flanked him. The sight of Caesar Borgia was enough to liquefy the knees of any vampire, but just looking upon these creatures was ten times worse.

They were escapees from a nightmare. Faces aged until they were practically mummified. Bright onyx eyes bulged from their faces. Their skin, or what passed for it, looked translucent as Russian amber. Without having any evidence, Wilson knew these vamps were old—older than the Godfather. Perhaps as old as civilization.

A tremor of fear shivered through his body. He was not alone. He sensed an identical reaction around him. Since vampires were at the top of the food chain, this was a highly unusual response. They were lions with no natural predators, their hackles rising as hunters trespassed onto their territory.

After the Godfather and his companions were ensconced in their chairs, the Nosferatu nodded solemnly, signaling all to sit. He then took his place in front of the bench. Bending his head and tucking his hands into the loose sleeves of his tunic, he looked like a humble monk at prayer. This was his preparation for his next duty—the eyes and ears for the hearing. Every word and action would be recorded in his memory.

In a calm, clear voice, the Godfather said, "Today is an auspicious occasion. We have two Ancients among us, Lord Electors, Pahuack and Urckon. Please pay your respects."

Along with everyone, Wilson bowed his head. The Ancients. He had read about them. They were second-generation vamps. Not a drop of human blood in them. The Godfather, in his quest for eternal life, was one of a privileged few who brokered private deals and created the third generation of the undead. An innovator, he flourished among his newly minted competition by creating the first clan.

Wilson's hopes plummeted. He had counted on the Godfather's patronage. He and House were the Borgia's darling duo, an ensouled vamp with a natural-born vampire hunter as his minion. No matter how powerful the Borgia was, he had to bow to the wishes of the Ancients. And there were rumors that they disdained all products from the first dilution. Vampires with souls would be viewed as an abomination.

He looked up when he heard the sound of lizards skittering across dry leaves. The Ancients were speaking. "Thank you, Caesar."

Not good. No one dared to call the Godfather by his first name and survived… except House.

"Our esteemed guests decided to visit our humble clan today. News of the unusual filing had spread throughout my domain and beyond. First we will render a decision on Gregory House's request for emancipation from his master, James Wilson. Immediately following, we will reassign his custody in order to precipitate his turning."

Emancipation. Reassign custody. Wilson rubbed his forehead with the tip of his fingers. The words clawed at his worthless heart. He desperately prayed he could turn the situation around. Keep a level head. But he was weak from not feeding, and it was taking its toll. Concentrating on how he would present his side of the case, the Godfather's words barely broke into his thoughts.

"Emancipation is granted, our decision is final."

"What? So fast? You're not serious." Wilson pushed back his chair, but Zehava grabbed his shoulder in a vise-like grip and prevented him from standing.

"You can't question the Godfather. Apologize! Apologize now or—"

But it was too late. He heard rather than saw the singing of a blade removed from its scabbard. The bailiff leapt to his feet, brandishing his weapon over his head, bright blue flames licking at the sword's edge. Whirling with the fury of a funnel cloud, he rushed toward Wilson. With no weapon, supernatural defenses, or energy to physically defend himself, Wilson closed his eyes and prepared to feel a burning slash to his throat and a fall into nothingness.