Thankless Child (18D/29)
Copyright 1997
By Bonnie Rutledge

     Ivy coughed as the numbness left her arms and legs. He must have caught 
sight of the twitch of her fingers or sensed the renewed strength in her legs, 
because all at once, he stopped supporting her weight. Ivy crashed forward into 
a loaded shelf attached to the back closet wall. She grabbed its metal edge, 
holding onto it with all of her weight to keep herself standing. The wall 
anchors were not strong enough to carry the added poundage, and the right side sprung 
free of its sheetrock housing as though it were a weed lifted from moist earth. 
A torrent of linens toppled over Ivy's head as the metal platform fell to hang 
bare and vertical from the remaining anchor. He pushed her up against the wall so 
that her wide eyes were met by nothing but the murky gray of that shelf in front 
of her face.

     Her hands still free, they flailed instinctively. One fist landed on 
another rack projecting from the left wall, dislodging it entirely with a crash. 
Cleaning supplies now littered the floor. He took her arms by each wrist then, forcing 
her hands flat against the glossy paint finish of the wall.

     "You don't want to do that," he instructed. "You don't want to move. You 
don't want to flinch. If someone comes to investigate the noises you make, I 
will kill them and cover you in their blood. Do you understand?"

     Ivy forced her head to tilt slightly in the semblance of a nod. She could 
swear that she shivered. Her nerves pulsed beneath her skin, yet staring at her palm 
pressed against the wall, Ivy couldn't detect the faintest movement.

     "What do I want, Ivy?" he said softly into her ear. "Why do I have you 
here? You're wondering that, aren't you?" When she made no response, he pressed a 
fist into her upper back until she was met by the sound of cracking ribs. 
"Aren't you?"

     Ivy cringed, fighting back a grunt of pain, and hissed, "Yes! I said so 
*before* you slammed me in here!" As soon as the words left her mouth, she bit 
her lip, thinking, 

     She waited for another blow, counting the seconds until the pain ripped 
through her again. None came. Instead, he began to laugh. It was a mocking, 
possessed sound, and she wished he had given into anger instead. This laugh 
was meant to say, "I own you. You exist because I let you." 

   "There is life in you, sweetheart," he said, the tone of his voice echoing 
the hateful chuckles. "Life I gave to you." Suddenly, he wasn't holding Ivy in place 
anymore. "I want it back now."

    Now it was Ivy's turned to laugh. It bubbled hysterically from her churning 
stomach.  she chanted to herself, 
trying to believe it. "What are you going to do? Un-vamp me?" The words were 
supposed to sound cocky, confident and unthreatened.  she repeated as she fought down her panic. Ivy didn't believe 
any of her attempts at bravado. Neither did her sire. He began to speak softly, 
firmly into her ear, his words wrapping around her inextricably like a python's 
hold on its prey.

     "There's more than one way to die. Physically...mentally...When I found 
you twitching in that alley, you wanted to die. You had nothing but a hunger in your 
veins and a wish to crush the faint ember your world had become to escape the 
need. I set you free. I fanned the fire. Your will to live burns in you because 
of me. Your pride, your indignation, your love: these things radiate from you now 
like a shield. You think I can't hurt you because you are a vampire...immortal 
and immutable. I break your neck. Within minutes, it mends. 'What can I do to 
you?' you exclaim. 'You're a vampire!' Well, I promise you, my sweet child, 
vampirism doesn't make your will to live eternal, sweetheart. Won't it be 
fascinating to see just what it takes to crush your will into nothing again? Let 
your mind wander over the possibilities...your death will be here soon enough." 

     Fingers appeared in front of her chin. She stared at them blankly for a 
second, then fought back an urge to gag as one slipped inside her mouth. Ivy 
realized she was bleeding where she'd bitten her lip to keep it still. She saw 
the reddened fingertip move away, then heard... him taste it. His 
head leaned closer to hers, and Ivy felt his lips brush against her right cheek. 
"My sweet." If she turned her head a centimeter to the side, she could see his 
face, but she didn't. Ivy knew that he would be ugly, if only because of 
something twisted and vile shining through his eyes from within. She didn't 
want anything concrete to connect to the voice, the threats, or the hate. They 
didn't seem so real when they couldn't be linked to something solid. "I've 
frightened you," he said then, almost sounding as though fear hadn't been his 
intention. "I must confess, Ivy." His manner became gallant, as though he 
offered her a compliment. "It was never my intention to make a vampire on that 
night when we met. I had been of the opinion for quite some time that bringing 
another, shall we say...lamb into the fold held no practical amusement for me." His 
hand slid down her right arm, his fingers pulling at her own until she could no longer 
use the wall for support. Ivy stepped back, her foot slipping on one of the bottles 
that now littered the floor, then found herself leaning back against her sire as 
he trailed a thumb along her inner wrist. "But you were the perfect choice. You 
were nothing but a servant to your hunger. Your veins dictated what you said, 
what you thought, and what you would do to feed them. I thought, 'Who could 
make a better vampire?' Veins are our stock in trade; what flows through them is 
our currency. You were already a vampire, my dear. You would hunt, you 
would steal, you would break the rules of whatever god or law society threw at 
you to feed, because you had to have another taste of that ecstasy that can only 
be found flowing in veins." Ivy felt him shuffle behind her. "I gave you the
ability to survive what you were." Suddenly, her sire spun her around. Caught 
off guard, Ivy met his gaze. She wanted to run, to cower, to turn away, but his 
eyes held her frozen. "What you are," he whispered. Ivy watched as he bent his 
head closer, gliding his lips over her own. It was as though she was paralyzed, 
unable to do anything as his mouth traveled over hers, as she felt his hands 
work over her right arm again. 

     She recognized his face. She'd seen him before she'd ever even come to 
Toronto. He was a face in a crowd. A body in the background. Ivy had thought 
he'd abandoned her, left her alone, but he'd been watching her all of this time 
from a distance. Any fear of loneliness was swept away by a terror of never 
being alone. She had no privacy. No secrets. He owned her.

      Ivy felt him let go of her then and realized that his attention was 
elsewhere. Her sire had pulled back from the kiss, and, in her whirlwind of thoughts, 
it hadn't registered. Again he spoke, his voice sweetly sickening. "Do you 
remember dying? How it felt as you faded away? Your body jerking in spasms, 
and your thoughts reduced to nothing but the primal absence or presence of pain. 
Do you remember?"

     She let out a gasp as a sharp pain seared through her. She finally broke 
her stare and looked down at the arm that carried the sensation. While she had been 
lost in a daze, her sire had lanced her with a hypodermic, leaving the needle in 
her arm. She ripped it free of her vein, then glanced up at him again in blank 
incomprehension. "What was in this?"

     He smiled. She felt the burning travel up to her shoulder and into her 
chest, then dropped to the floor in a huddle, skidding cans and bottles of cleaner 
across the tiles. "Bleach. If you were still a mortal, you would be dying - almost 
like the night we met. As a sweet young vampire, though, you'll only feel like you're 
dying.' He crouched over her form and carefully brushed her hair back from her 
forehead. "Call me sentimental, but I want to engrave myself in your memory. 
You won't forget where you came from, will you, my child?"

     Ivy couldn't answer. She was doubled over, clutching her abdomen as the 
agony seared through her body. She wanted to rip off her skin so she could reach 
the razor blades that seemed to dance underneath, slicing in an unending cascade 
of torture through her flesh. Ivy gradually lost focus. Her eyes dimmed, and her 
brain had become a muddled swamp when his presence once more broke into 
her head with a series of taunting thoughts. 

     

     

     

     Then Ivy melted into the darkness.

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

     As she gradually regained consciousness, Ivy was thankful for the dim light 
of her surroundings. The palette of black and charcoal gray was soothing to her 
senses. She pulled herself into a seated position, holding her knees tightly 
into her chest. 

    Her sire was gone. Ivy corrected that thought with a new awareness. He 
wasn't necessarily gone; he simply wasn't in this room, and she couldn't feel 
him. This did not mean that he wasn't watching her. 

    Ivy felt hungry. She licked her lips with numb attention, then climbed to 
her feet. She could hear people on the other side of the door as they passed down 
the hallway, their heartbeats singing for her to come closer. She couldn't stay in 
the hospital. She had to get out, go somewhere safe, and feed.

    Stepping from the supply closet, Ivy closed her eyes and ducked her head at 
the sudden glare of the hallway's fluorescent lighting. She raced through the 
corridor in the direction from which she'd come.  she repeated monotonously in her mind.

     Suddenly, she crashed into a body. A stack of charts went flying through 
the air at the collision, then clattered to the floor. Ivy clasped the other 
person's arms, drinking in the warmth of their body heat, hearing the reassuring 
thunder of a mortal heart.  she ordered herself.

     She flashed a tepid smile up at the older man. It was a harmless doctor. 
"Sorry. I wasn't paying attention to where I was going." She crouched down and 
began to collect the fallen charts into a pile. She had just finished stacking 
them into an orderly group when he finally spoke.

     "Ivy?"

     She hadn't spared a thought for his face, but the man's voice ripped 
through her.  The charts began to slide to the floor again as 
Ivy's grip faded from the shock. She pulled the pieces back into alignment, collecting 
herself, then looked up at him.  her thoughts whirled as her face 
assumed a friendly, but non-committal, expression while every fiber of her 
being cried out to feed, to take him. <*Think* Ivy,> she shouted to herself.  There really wasn't a choice.

     "Excuse me?" Ivy managed with outward calm.

     He shook his head briefly, running a hand through his dark hair. "God, I 
really need to take fewer shifts. For a second there..." He grinned in 
embarrassment, and Ivy felt a kick in her soul. His hair hung over his forehead, 
and she yearned to brush it back just like old times. Now that she'd made the 
connection, now that she'd recognized Mark, his features became a familiar 
landscape. There were lines added around his eyes and smile, and he had filled 
out in his face and chest, but she knew him. Had known him.  she thought.  She desperately fought the hunger 
down. She didn't want a goodbye; she just wanted to walk away.

     "I thought you were someone I once knew," Mark confessed.

     "There are over five billion people in the world. I'm not surprised that I 
resemble anyone," she replied casually as she presented him with the pile of 
charts. "I believe these are yours, Doctor..." She made a show of looking at his
identification tag to learn his name, "Marcus Brevard."

    "Thanks." Their fingers glanced against each other in momentary contact as 
the patient files exchanged hands. Mark hesitated, and Ivy saw him staring at 
the unblemished skin of her inner arm. No collapsed veins, no needle tracks, no 
physical signs of the torment she'd just endured.  Suddenly he looked up, self-
conscious about being caught zoning out, and blurted, "No. There's no way you 
could be her." He turned away.

     Ivy was free to leave. She'd survived staring her past in the face. All she 
had to do was walk away, as though this encounter was just another handful of 
wasted moments.  She watched his back, instead, soft words springing unbidden 
from her throat. "I'm sorry." 

     Mark caught the apology and stopped. He turned back around as he said 
earnestly, "It's not your fault." 

     But no one was there to hear.

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


     Vachon put his hands on his hips and glanced about the waiting area in 
irritation. There was still no sign of Ivy. He'd actually covered every floor 
and searched outside the hospital trying to find her. It had been way too much 
effort to give, considering he hadn't gotten the girl for his trouble.

     Now Vachon was stuck waiting for Clare to return Carmen. He picked a 
fallen magazine off the floor and scanned the title. Cosmopolitan. Vachon 
shrugged to himself, settled down on the waiting bench, then proceeded to learn 
'Ten Easy Ways To Strengthen Your Hair.'  he thought. 
Javier started looking at the pictures instead.

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

     Someone sneezed.

     "They're back," Clare commented a split-second before Myra and Schanke 
walked into the hospital room.

     "Is Jen asleep?" Myra asked, looking freshly coifed and more rested.

     Nick nodded. "She dozed off about half an hour ago."

     Schanke opened his mouth to speak, but sneezed again instead.

     Clare stood, then gingerly lifted the feline curled up at Jen's side off of 
the bed. "I think that's Carmen's cue to say goodbye." Schanke honk-shooed twice 
more as she passed him on the way out of the room. "I'll be right back."

     Recovering some once the allergy irritant was out of his immediate 
vicinity, Schanke inquired, "Have you seen Mark?"

     "He stopped by briefly to check Jen over, and everything was fine," Nick 
reported. "He still wants to talk with you about scheduling her tests, though." 

     "Why don't you go track him down, Donnie?" Myra suggested.

     "It'll take all my detective skills to do it," Schanke said jokingly. "You 
think catching a homicidal maniac is tough, Nick, just try finding a surgeon on his 
coffee break."

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

     'Cosmopolitan' didn't hold Vachon's attention for very long. After a while, 
he wandered over to the nurses' station. When they weren't looking, he swiped all 
but one of their pens, rubberbands and paperclips (there was no need to be 
greedy), then used them to build something resembling a spherical Eiffel Tower. 
Eventually, one of the nurses caught him. 

     She stalked over to the construction site while chastising in a surly tone, 
"Those aren't toys!"

    Vachon gestured to his creation with open palms. "Does this look like a 
plaything to you?"

     "Well, it's round like a ball," the nurse sniffed.

     Vachon pushed one side of the globe. "But it doesn't roll." The nurse 
wasn't impressed. She reached out to grab the plaything-that-wasn't-a-plaything. 
Javier stopped her with a look. "No. You still have one pen. Share." The nurse 
wandered off in a daze.

     "Vachon! What are you doing with that poor woman's office supplies?" Clare 
had caught the tail end of the exchange.

     "I'm building." He held it up proudly. "Pretty cool model, huh?"

     "For a geodesic dome made out of paperclips, yes," Clare allowed. An 
expression of horror passed over her features. "Tell me that's not what my place 
is going to look like. You're not planning to build me a Buckyball house, are 
you?"

     "No, I'm not planning to build you a Buckyball house," Vachon assured her. 
"I dropped the blueprints off at the hotel over a day ago. Haven't you looked at 
them, yet?"

     "I haven't been to the hotel. I don't like it there, anymore. That's why I 
want you to build me a house."

     "You're building a house?" Schanke appeared at Clare's side. "That's great 
news! Where?"

     Clare dropped the cat in Javier's lap, then turned around, purposefully 
blocking Vachon from Schanke's view. "Outside the city. Just outside Maple."

     Schanke sneezed. "Yeah...*sniff-choo!*...It's beautiful around there."

     Clare nodded. "I know. There's space."

     Meanwhile, Vachon stood and stepped around his grand-sire. "I'm outta here. 
In case you didn't notice, Ivy ditched me," he said, giving Clare a glare. 
Carmen began to swat at the model that Javier held with his other hand, caught a 
rubberband with her claws, pulled it to her mouth, then chewed it through with a 
*snap!* "Maybe she went back to the church."

     Schanke's eyes widened incredulously in recognition. "Hey! I know you!" he 
exclaimed. "You're the guy who smacked me with that guitar case on the plane! 
If you hadn't knocked me unconscious, they wouldn't have carried me off the 
plane before take-off!" He moved to give Vachon an enormous hug. "You saved 
my life!" Arms outstretched, Schanke sneezed all over the Spaniard.

     Vachon looked down to survey the damage. "I guess you're even with me 
now for hitting you with the guitar," he murmured.

     Schanke whirled around, oblivious with excitement. "You've gotta meet the 
wife! And Nick! You've gotta meet my partner! Hey! How'd you get off the 
plane?" He turned to look curiously at his savior again, but Vachon was gone, 
cat, geodesic dome and all.

     "He's shy," Clare explained.

     Schanke's face fell. "Oh." He watched as Clare began to walk back toward 
Jen's room. "But you'll give us his name and address for a thank-you card, 
right? Right?"

     She spotted a good distraction. "Ooo, Schanke. Isn't that Dr. Brevard 
stepping in to see Jen?"

    It worked. "Hey! I need to talk to him!" Schanke started to head briskly for 
the room. "We'll talk about the plane guy later!" he called over his shoulder.

    Clare watched the mortal dash through the doorway, then heard Schanke greet 
the doctor enthusiastically. "No, we won't," she said confidently, then strolled 
casually to join them.

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

     Nick watched as Doctor Brevard flipped through a calendar with the Schankes.

     "Let's see," Mark said. "I want Jen back in here two weeks from her release 
date. That's the fifth, so five plus fourteen days equals October 19th." He 
glanced up from his date book. "Is that good for you?"

     An arrested look came over Nick's face. "Can I see that for a second?" he 
asked the doctor, gesturing toward the calendar.

     Mark shrugged and handed it over. "Sure, why not?"

     Nick trailed his index finger over the pages as he repeated to himself. 
"The fifth plus fourteen days equals the nineteenth..."

     Clare wandered into the room as everyone observed Nick mutter over the 
datebook. She nudged Schanke with an elbow. "What's he doing?"

      "Proving he can add."

      "Oh," Clare said in mock amazement.

     "Yeah," Schanke agreed. "If that vamp puppet ever retires from Sesame 
Street, Nick's their man."

    "In more ways than one," Clare said under her voice.

    "Look at this!" Nick motioned them over, pointing to a date. "August 18th, 
the date of the first murder." He thumbed through several pages, pointing again. 
"September 7th, the second. That's twenty days later."

    Schanke didn't see any significance. "Yeah, so?"

    Nick turned through the calendar some more. "The third murder was on the 
Twenty-sixth, nineteen days later."

    Clare grinned as his meaning became clear. "And the fourth murder happens 
eighteen days after that," she murmured.

    "But there hasn't been a fourth murder," Schanke protested.

    "Not yet," Nick said, "But it's not October 14th yet, either."

     "October 14th?" Myra said unhappily. "You're not going to have to work 
Thanksgiving again, are you, Donnie?"

     Schanke also understood Nick's theory now. "So you think the killer's 
extending the number theme to the date he takes his victims?" he said 
speculatively.

     "Just think, Schank," Nick said. "If he is following a pattern, we can use 
this information to predict when he plans to kill next. We can identify the possible 
victims by checking all the Missing Persons files for that date."

     "Well, let's do it, partners!" Schanke looked to Myra for her approval.

     "Go ahead," his wife said. 

     The three detectives said their goodbyes, then headed out of the room. 
"I'll have to join you later at the station," Clare announced as they walked toward 
the elevator. "I have another case to follow up on first."

     "We can go with you," Schanke offered.

     Clare shook her head. "No. I can take care of it by myself." She caught 
sight of Nick's concerned expression and exclaimed, "Oops! I think I left my keys 
back in the room. I'll just see you two back at the precinct."

     As Schanke continued to move down the corridor, Nick called after him. "I'm 
right behind you, Schank." He eyed Clare suspiciously. "You didn't drive."

    "No, but you're unhappy. What's the problem?"

    "Your errand. If it concerns Louis Secour, I've already decided to visit him 
tomorrow night."

    Clare grinned in satisfaction. "That's interesting to know. I'll hold you to 
it, but, no, my errand involves someone else entirely," she promised. "By the way, 
do you really think Thomas is counting  down the number of days between 
victims?"

    Nick grinned. "Contrary to Schanke's opinion, I wasn't just proving I could 
count with the calendar in there. I was checking the dates of the other two 
series of murders. In Egypt, the dates between killings descended from eighteen to 
one. In Ohio, nineteen to one. That's why the dates of each murder varied after 
August 18th."

    "Well done," Clare congratulated, then pouted. "I should have thought of it 
first."

****************************************************************
End Of Part Eighteen


     It was a square stretch of asphalt between four run down buildings. Various 
members of the homeless, unsavory and undesirable hung out here. That's why 
Ivy had come.  

     She had thought she'd been wandering randomly through the streets of 
Toronto after fleeing the hospital. After a while, Ivy realized with a 
fatalistic familiarity where she was headed. This quad was one of her old stomping 
grounds.   

    It had been this time of year, Ivy recalled. In those final wasted months,  
she had come to this square often, looking to buy a trip to heaven, or at least a 
staying order to keep the hellish demons in her veins away. 

      Is that all she was? Something to feed, something to take from. At 
the moment, the hunger roared inside her, screaming, 

     But Ivy desisted and lingered about a cracked concrete support that 
belonged to a building that had seen better days. She watched as ragged men and women 
huddled against a brick wall across the courtyard, gradually drifting into sleep 
as the night grew later. Some were drunk, some were strung out, and some were 
merely unlucky. They didn't hold her interest long.

     This was also a meeting place. One body would meet another, money would 
change hands, then merchandise. Sometimes it was a weapon, sometimes stolen 
goods, but most often it was drugs. That's why most people came here, and why 
every few months a vice cop would slip in amongst the junkies and bums to lay 
down a little law. That was why Ivy waited now. She really didn't want to pull 
down a police officer by mistake. Her lips twisted grimly. 

     Ivy had been lucky as a mortal. She'd only gotten picked up once for 
buying, and her parents, being like they were, got her off if she vowed to do a detox 
program. She'd immediately bolted, then laid low for almost a month. By the 
time she'd contacted her mother and father again for money, they had been so 
relieved that she wasn't dead, they were ready to give her anything, no 
questions asked. Of course, questions weren't important to Ivy then. She'd lied to 
suit the occasion and to get what she wanted.

     Ivy cursed under her breath and moved impatiently to the other side of the 
support.  Maybe loneliness was better. No 
one to lie to, no one to disappoint, and, most importantly, no one to feel 
guilty about because of your failures or deceit. There was something to be said for a 
free, empty heart.

     Ivy's heart weighed heavily with thoughts of what to do and where to go. 
Her sire could be watching her at any time - didn't that make her a threat to 
everyone she came into contact with? By the same argument, no doubt he'd noticed every 
movement she'd made between the studio, the Raven, Janette's and Vachon's 
since she'd arrived in town. How would he interpret her actions if she suddenly 
ignored these people? Would he think it was simply out of fear, or recognize the 
change in her routine as the weak attempt to protect her friends that it was?

     The man she'd chosen as her potential victim moved, and Ivy pushed her 
worries aside so she could observe him better. Soon after arriving, he'd 
strolled in Ivy's direction, aiming to sell. He'd spoken only a handful of words 
before her acrimonious look had the sounds dying in his throat. He stayed a safe (his 
idea of safe) distance away after that.

     Ivy spent this waiting time noting the figures he met, and what was 
exchanged between their clapping hands. She watched as her target slipped into 
the shadows to take a hit of his own. He shot up from a different stash than 
what he was selling; Ivy doubted any of his customers would give a damn at the 
significance.

     As soon as she confirmed that he was a user, her waiting acquired a sense 
of aspiration. Ivy was hungry, but if she held out a little longer, maybe she would 
catch the dealer meeting the person that supplied his habit. Ivy figured that it 
would be a treat to move up the food chain, and maybe more satisfying.

     She tried to ignore the possibility that her plan to kill one of these 
dealers came from any wish to escape the bonds of her own habit. Oh, yes, she wanted 
to feed, but that was more easily done with a stop at the Raven than lurking 
around here, classifying outcasts as good, bad, or dinner. It wasn't the blood 
that bothered her, it was the thought that she was the prisoner of another addiction 
as her sire claimed. There was more to her than just veins. So what if she killed 
out of a desire to attack her past? So what if stalking this quad, waiting for a 
supplier, was all some wild Freudian symbol of a wish to harm her sire? Ivy 
laughed aloud at that idea.  

     After everything that had happened tonight, she was too tired emotionally 
to give a damn what made up her motive. Let the moral masochists drown in their 
sea of ethics. Ivy was going to eat.

     A new figure had entered the quad, and Ivy's pigeon approached him 
casually. She ducked along the shadows, moving closer to a spot where she 
could see, hear, and feel what transpired between the two men.

   Ivy realized almost immediately that the newcomer wasn't a man, but a 
teenager. Just a few years older than Patrick, this boy was smart and aware 
enough to be afraid of where he was. His voice cracked nervously as he made 
his purchase. It was too bad the youth wasn't bright enough to walk away and 
never come back. 
  
      Drugs in hand, the boy quickly ran out of sight. Ivy was ready to strike 
then. Her meal would be the dealer. She started to slink up to him so she could lure 
him to a nice, quiet and dark spot where she could kill him in private, but 
something stopped her. She looked curiously in the direction the boy had fled. 
 Ivy knew she intended to play guardian angel first, despite common 
sense telling her to let it go. 

     She stalked after the youth, finding him about half a block away, where 
he'd climbed a short rise of steps in the alley between two stores. He'd prepared the 
injection and simply sat staring at it. She flashed to the foot of the steps, 
making the boy gasp as she swiped the hypodermic out of his hand.

     "The question is, young grasshopper," Ivy mused serenely, "does your 
problem lie within here," she said, flicking the vial with her thumb and index 
finger, "or within yourself?" She'd always wanted to play someone's know-it-all 
Shaolin monk, even more than their guardian angel. 

     "What the hell?!" The boy exclaimed. Ivy easily dodged his attempt to lunge 
for the vial. "Give it back!"

     Ivy shook her head. "Uh-uh, not 'til you answer the question. Trust me, I 
can wait...a long, long time."

     "I guess if I leave, you'll follow me?" Ivy gave a beaming nod. "Damn!" he 
complained, then kicked the steps in frustration. "What the hell do you care?" 
His voice broke again. Maybe he wasn't nervous, just young.

     "What the hell does it matter?" she countered. She shrugged, then relented. 
"Maybe I've been where you are, and I know it's not the right choice."

     "You can stop already," he protested. "I've heard it all before through my 
parents and their *charity.*" He spat the last word as though it was a piece of 
filth clinging to his tongue. "Day in, day out. Drugs are evil, and everyone who 
avoids them winds up CEO of Log & Oaks Brewery."

     "Wait - didn't he get arrested for smuggling drugs past the border?" Ivy 
asked curiously.

     The boy gave a satisfied grin. "Damn straight. Murder, too."

     Ivy smiled in appreciation of the irony. "I guess that kind of wrecked your 
parents' favorite speech."

     The boy shrugged. "They still have plenty to talk about." He looked at her 
suspiciously. "Are you saying that's not what you're about?" His eyes seemed to 
say, 'Prove it.'

     Ivy waved her hand in the air out of frustration. "I don't know what I'm 
about," she said, then shook her head. "I think the only people who say that 
they know what they're about have either spent way too much time in therapy, or 
they're hiding something. The facts are that I used to be a heroin addict, and 
now I don't shoot the stuff anymore. Is my life great, glamorous and suitable for 
framing?" She glanced sarcastically around the alley. "Well, I'm *here,*  which 
pretty much answers that question. I can't help but wonder how my world might 
have changed had I never taken that first hit, if someone had stepped in and 
stopped me," she said, then nodded in his direction. "Like you. Tell me, 
grasshopper - what's your name?"

     "What is it with all this calling me 'grasshopper' crap?" the boy complained.

     "I want something to call you. If you don't like 'grasshopper,' the only 
alternative that jumps to my mind right now is 'dumbass-kid-who-bitches-
instead-of-answering-simple-questions.' It's a mouthful, I know, but it seems 
pretty appropriate. That is, unless you want to tell me your name."

     "It's Gordon."

     Ivy grinned. "Funny. That was my dad's name," she commented. "You see, 
Gordon, I think you're here because you're pissed at your parents. They spout 
off a load about drugs rotting your teeth and soul - what better way is there to get 
back at them than rubbing what they hate in their faces?"

    "Yeah?"

     "Yeah," Ivy repeated. "My first time was because of my parents. They gave 
me everything, my heart's every desire, but there came a point where I thought I 
was insignificant. I never had to work for anything. They got me into college, 
clothed me, fed me, fixed my nose and my teeth; I never did anything to earn 
admiration or love, but it kept falling in my lap. When the day was over, I felt 
empty and poor. I took the heroin because I thought it would fill me up, giving 
me something that I didn't have. I believed that I was nothing, but it was the 
heroin that made it come true. I was always capable of taking care of myself, I 
just never tried. I let the world take care of me instead. And, boy, did it ever 
take care of me..."

     "Well, I'm not like you," Gordon asserted. "My parents might as well not 
have had me. I think the only reason they did was because of my sister. She 
died, and I was supposed to be the replacement. All they ever think about is her 
and their anti-drug campaign. Nobody takes care of me. I make the hockey team, 
they don't notice.  I break my arm and have to sit out the season, they don't 
notice. They don't give a damn, why should I?"

     "And you think when you're dead, they'll notice you? That's kind of a 
severe solution, don't you think?"

     "I don't care."

     "What I think you should do," Ivy said slowly, "is tell your parents how 
you feel. Tell them why you came here tonight, and why you left. I think it will get 
their attention, and nobody has to die in the process."

     "Are you out of your freakin' mind?" Gordon exclaimed. "If I tell Mum and 
Dad that I came here to score some heroin, they'll kill me!"

     Ivy shook her head. "No they won't. I think your folks are well aware that 
if you start this," she said, holding up the needle, "they've lost you. It's more 
likely that they'll be scared stiff. Go home. Talk to them."  She climbed off the 
steps. He followed, and they made their way back to the street. "Don't be disappointed 
and run back here when they don't transform overnight.  These are parents we're 
talking about, not beanstalks. If they mess up, remind them. They'll catch on 
eventually."  The moon-like rays of a street lamp brought her features into  
plain view for the first time as the pair exited the alley. Ivy turned to Gordon with 
a smile, and he stepped back abruptly.

     "I'll do it," he promised urgently. "Just stay away from me."

     "Huh?" Ivy frowned at the boy's panicked expression. "We've just exchanged 
screwed-up life stories, and *now* you're scared of me?"

     He began to stumble backward down the street, saying, "I listened to what 
you had to say, and you got through to me, okay? I just want to go now." 
Gordon turned and ran down the sidewalk.

     Ivy stared after him in confusion.  She flew to the 
roof of the building and watched the boy until he reached the access to a subway 
terminal. Ivy glanced down at the hypodermic still in her hand, then headed 
back for the quad. 

     Seeing that the dealer was still in residence, Ivy leaned against one 
shadowed wall, caught his eye, and beckoned him closer with a smile. When he was 
within arm's reach, her smile instantly faded, and she slammed him face-first into the 
brick surface behind her. He yelled out a protest, and Ivy held the unused 
needle up to his face. "Don't you know it's not nice to give little kids bad candy?" 
He began to stutter out a pathetic explanation. Rather than listen, Ivy punched 
him in the jaw. She dropped the hypodermic, crushing the vial beneath her heel as 
she wiped her hands off with satisfaction, and grinned as the dealer's body 
collapsed in an unconscious heap on the pavement. Ivy bent down and hefted 
him over one shoulder, intending to take him someplace where she could dine in 
privacy. 

     A finger tapped the back of her shoulder.

     Plans changed.

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

     "I can't say I haven't shared the idea," Clare said, "but I'm afraid this 
man's future does not involve either one of us draining him tonight."

     Ivy turned around slowly, saw the older vampire watching her expectantly, 
and dropped the body. "Sorry. I didn't mean to crash your territory," she said 
half-heartedly, then immediately started brainstorming plans to get away from 
Clare.

     The other woman laughed. "I'm not angry. If you'd killed him already, then 
I would have been angry. When he dies, I'd really love to be responsible, but 
first," Clare said, winking at Ivy as she produced a pair of handcuffs, "I have 
to arrest him." 

     Ivy observed solemnly as Clare shackled the man. "What for?"

     "Two counts of attempted murder, assaulting a police officer, and bad 
personal hygiene."

     "I've seen him selling heroin all night, too," Ivy offered casually.

     Clare's eyes lit with interest. "Nice, but I don't think it would be a good 
idea to use you as a material witness. Everyone else around here split as soon as 
they saw me pull out the handcuffs."

    "You have a point," Ivy agreed. "His coat is full of the stuff, though. You 
can get him for possession."

     Clare patted him down, and grinned. "Thank you for sharing, Ivy."  She 
began to empty his pockets into evidence bags, saying nonchalantly, "I can't 
help but wonder, of course, why you are here, instead of hanging on Vachon's 
arm." Clare looked up, staring intently into the younger vampire's eyes. "Why 
did you leave the hospital?"

     Ivy struggled to create a quick lie, but she couldn't manage enough effort. 
She tried a selective version of the truth. "I've only been away from Toronto 
for sixteen years. I ran into someone at the hospital who recognized me - the only 
doctor in town that I really needed to avoid. He didn't actually believe it was 
me, because I'm supposed to be dead, but still..."  Ivy appeared uncomfortable at 
the thought.

     "You wouldn't want to hang around in case he developed second thoughts," 
Clare concluded.

     Ivy nodded. "Right. I came here because I was hungry."

     "Why didn't you go to the Raven or the church? You could have eaten there."

     Ivy had the disconcerting feeling that she was the suspect in a cross-
examination, and she shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. "Until I came to 
town, I'd gotten accustomed to fending for myself. I guess I'm not used to any 
conveniences yet," she explained.

   "Ah," Clare murmured. "That's nice to know. I think Vachon was of the 
opinion your absence had something to do with me." She made a face, as if to 
say, 'Isn't he silly?'

    Ivy jumped on this opportunity to escape. "Now that you mention it, maybe I 
ought to go catch up with Vachon."

     "Maybe you should."

     Ivy began to walk away with relief, until she heard Clare say in a firm 
voice, "No."

     Ivy turned back to the elder vampire with a wary expression. "Pardon?"

     "You're headed the wrong way," Clare explained. "The church is in the 
opposite direction."

     "Oh. My mistake," Ivy said, then headed out of the quad again, this time 
with no interruptions.

     Clare watched her depart with narrowed eyes. She still didn't trust Ivy - 
who knew if any of her explanation was true? "Mistake? Sure it was," she whispered 
under her breath.

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

    
     Freddie Ghazi groaned and rolled over. His jaw ached fiercely, and the 
whole right side of his face pounded. He moved to rub it with a hand, but found his 
arms were trapped. "Wha...?"

     "You've woken up!" A delighted voice floated to Freddie from above. He 
cracked his eyes open and discovered a woman standing before him, arms 
crossed, one hand dangling a badge. "You're under arrest."

    "The hell I am! Did you see that bitch? She hit me! Arrest her!"

     A small wrinkle furrowed the woman's brow. "She did? Oh, dear. I'm afraid 
she got away."

     Freddie squinted up at the officer. There was something familiar about her, 
something he couldn't quite place. His mind exploded with sudden recognition. 
"Oh sh -"

     "I see that you remember me. I was getting worried. You see," she 
confessed, "I usually make a strong impression on people."

     "He never said you were a cop - I didn't know! I swear! I wasn't even 
supposed to hit you!"

     "And you believe that makes a difference?" The woman laughed at Freddie, 
then trailed off into a sound that resembled a snarl. "He probably didn't 
mention the girl was a cop's daughter, either."

     "Girl?" Freddie echoed.

     The cop crouched beside him and sneered. "Why the confusion? Did you 
think she was just a really *short* adult? You aren't that stupid, are you?"

     Freddie clenched his teeth. "I don't have anything to say until you get my 
lawyer."

     The woman shook her head. "No, you're going to tell me everything you 
recall about the man who hired you."

    "You can't make me. I can say you're the one who hit me - police brutality. 
How'd you like that?" Freddie threatened smugly.

     "Why, I'd love it!" she exclaimed, pulling him into a seated position. "Do 
you want to know why?" She slung an arm across his shoulders as though they were 
best chums and confided, "You see, if you complain in any way about how 
you're treated by the police while you're in custody, that increases the 
possibility that any charges will be dropped. Then you'll be out on the street again!"

     Freddie frowned. This cop didn't make sense. He shot her, and she wanted 
him to escape scot free? "I don't get it."

     "But you will," she said, smiling serenely. "I've made a promise to myself 
- a sacred thing, you understand - that I'll spare you my personal retribution until 
Canadian justice has finished with your punishment. The moment you're free, 
you're mine."  All at once, she was kneeling in front of him, face-to-face. "I 
plan to kill you, Frederic Ghazi. No one will hear you scream, because I will rip 
your throat out. One time or another, it will happen. You can either die next week, 
or you can spend two or three quiet decades in prison before I strike. It's your 
choice. Now, do you have anything you would like to share with me before I call for a 
squad car?"

     Freddie swallowed convulsively. Her eyes seemed to burn into him. She 
meant what she threatened, and Freddie believed she could do it. He cleared his 
throat, briefly choking back a sob. "What do you want to know?"

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

     Nick began to flip through the newest stack of folders that Schanke dumped 
onto the desk, skimming through each to isolate possible victims. He paused 
after looking at one of the missing person's photos, checked to see if his 
partner had walked away, then made a few notations on the final page. When Schanke 
returned half an hour later, Nick held this folder up, as well as one other. 

     "These were both misfiled, Schank. One contains an autopsy file, the other 
has the number of a coroner's report," he said as handed them back.

     "Oh, great," Schanke said less-than-enthusiastically. "I thought we were 
going to share this filing duty, Nick - how come you're still at your desk, 
while I'm in danger of exsanguination by paper cuts?"

     Nick pushed back his chair. "I'm joining you. I just wanted to sort out the 
next few possibilities," he said as he stood. "See, Schank? I'm following you to 
the files."

     Captain Reese stepped into the bullpen as they left. "Just the men I wanted 
to see. I want you two to come into my office for a minute."

     Nick and Schanke exchanged a look, then complied. They'd briefed the 
Captain on Nick's theory that there was a pattern to the murder dates as soon as 
they had arrived at the precinct. Reese approved following up on the idea. 
Neither detective understood the reason for the Captain's current concerned 
expression.

     Schanke shut the office door after them and took a seat. "What is it, Captain?"

     "I just got a call from Clare. She says she's collared the guy who shot her 
and your daughter."

     "You don't sound very happy about the news," Nick observed.

     "That's because I would have preferred your partner dropping a word in my 
ear about what she's up to before making such an important arrest. Did either of 
you know about this?" 

     "Clare didn't say a word to me," Schanke said, a stunned expression on his face. 

     "She mentioned the possibility," Nick admitted, trying to remain truthful.

     "What?!" Schanke shouted. "We should have been there when she caught up 
with the bastard, Nick! *I* should have been there!"

     "No, you shouldn't have," Reese countered. "If this man shot your daughter, 
we don't need any emotional confrontations jeopardizing a sentence. When 
Clare arrives with the suspect, Schanke, I want you in this office and out of 
sight. While the man is under this precinct roof, I don't want you going down to 
lockup to have any visits, either. I don't want you to see him. I don't want you 
to smell him. Understood? If this is our guy, let's keep it clean. I don't want to 
risk blowing this case on a technicality. Assuming we have a case..." Reese nodded 
at Nick. "Do you know if Clare has anything solid on this guy?"

    "I think if Clare bothered to bring someone in, she has plenty of evidence 
ready to back up the charges," Nick said with certainty. 

     There was a knock on the door, then Officer Miller's head poked inside. 
"Detective Douglas just arrived with the suspect." She looked from the Captain 
to Nick, then to Schanke. "He's asking to sign a confession, sir. The guy says 
he wants the maximum jail term the court will give him."

     Schanke scoffed. "Yeah, right."

     Nick attempted to hold back a grin.

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

     Clare was curled up on the sofa, reading, when LaCroix retired to his 
private quarters. She glanced up at his approach, then set the volume aside.

     "Anything interesting?" LaCroix inquired softly.

     "Poetry." Clare bobbed one shoulder. "Rossetti."

     "Dante?"

     "Of course. I grabbed the volume off of your shelves," she confessed with a 
teasing grin. "It was either this or Sun-Tzu's 'Art Of War.' Oh, and that lovely 
copy of 'The Killing Mind.' I can't believe you've read that pulp."

     LaCroix lifted her legs off the couch, taking a seat before letting them 
rest across his lap. "The author obviously had delusions of grandeur, but I found it 
amusing, nonetheless." He brought one of her hands to his lips, pausing as he 
caught a lingering scent. "You went to the hospital again."

     Clare nodded. "Mea culpa."

     "Why?"

     "I wanted to," she stated simply as she ran a finger across LaCroix's lower 
lip. "I'm beginning to realize I have no talent for resisting temptation."

     "Really?"

     "Really." She casually dropped her hand to the top button of his black 
silk shirt and began to toy with the fastening. "Besides, if I hadn't gone to the 
hospital, I might have missed a diverting piece of news."

     "I gather from your expression that this news is of interest to me," he 
mused as he pulled Clare closer by her waist.

     "Well, that's a given - it concerns Nicholas." She chuckled as she 
witnessed LaCroix raise a curious eyebrow. "Umm-hmmm." The top button of his shirt 
sprung free, so Clare trailed her fingers down to the next one. "Nicholas was 
careless a few months ago and allowed a mortal to see his true nature. While the 
man isn't a resister, he was high on LSD at the time of the encounter. As a 
result, each time we've cleared his memory of the incident, the man apparently recalls 
it later in a flashback."

     "A dangerous problem. Am I correct in assuming it has become necessary to silence 
this man permanently?" LaCroix asked as he slipped Clare's jacket off of her 
shoulders. She straightened her arms and the coat fell to the floor.

     "You are correct," Clare nodded. "I was prepared to pay the man a visit, 
but Nicholas promised me that he intended to deal with the situation tomorrow night."

     LaCroix's hands stilled at her belt buckle. "Do you think Nicholas plans to kill 
him?"

     Another button open, Clare ducked her head to nuzzle at his neck. "Maybe," 
she murmured. "Maybe not." She leaned back, watching LaCroix with a gleam in 
her eyes. "Either way, I thought you'd want to be available in case he needs 
some...guidance."

     "You were right, my dear," LaCroix said smoothly as he whipped her belt 
free and let it drop. "That *was* diverting news." He pulled at the hem of her blouse 
and let his fingers roam across the bare skin of her lower back. "But not nearly 
as diverting as your inability to resist temptation."

     Clare kissed him softly. "Do you think you can help me with that imperfection?" 
she whispered.

     "I think, as with any talent," LaCroix reasoned in a logical tone, "you 
will have to practice if you expect to improve." He gently urged her to lay back so 
that her head was propped against the armrest, then lowered his head to place 
kisses along her stomach. "As a service to you," he said as his lips moved 
higher. "I'll tempt." And higher. "And you can try to resist."

     "You're too kind," Clare said huskily. A minute passed, then she 
moan/growled his name in pleasure.

     LaCroix looked up with glowing eyes and a wicked smile. "You're not trying 
very hard."

     "But you are. Now quiet. Help me practice," she ordered, and soon moaned 
his name again.

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

October 4, 1996

     Natalie adjusted her hair barrette one more time as she came down the loft 
stairs. "Who was on the phone?"

     Nick stood at the window by the fireplace. Sidney was there, too, balanced 
precariously on the brick ledge so he could imagine the predatory feats the 
darkness held. "It was VanCoogan's secretary. I told her that you'd already left 
for the morgue."

     "Thank you," Natalie said, then grimaced. "That is one conversation I do 
*not* want to have." The phone rang, and she gave Nick an entreating look.

     He answered it while Nat watched him from his former spot at the window. 
"Nick Knight." He listened for a moment, then mouthed the words 
'Commissioner Vetter.' Natalie rolled her eyes and bean to scratch Sidney 
behind the ears. "I'm afraid you just missed her. You should try to reach Doctor 
Lambert at the Coroner's Office... I understand your concerns...Good luck." He 
broke the connection, then turned to Natalie with a worried stare. "Both your 
boss' boss and the police commissioner in one morning - that doesn't sound good."

     "It's not good at all," Natalie sighed. "I've been playing phone hockey 
with those two ever since the papers picked up on the latest body disappearing from 
the morgue. They want to hold me responsible for it. I understand their 
reasoning. I mean, if I was doing my job properly, no one could just come in and 
steal a handful of corpses, now could they?"

     "This isn't your fault," Nick insisted as he came to stand behind her at 
the window. "This isn't exactly an everyday problem, and with the last theft, it was 
the security *they* installed that fell down on the job. You have nothing to 
apologize for."    

     "I know," Nat assured him, "but the depressing aspect of running the office 
is I have to take responsibility, even when the problem isn't my fault. It's not 
just my career, it's Grace's, even Barney's, that are tarnished by this fiasco."

      Nick brushed his cheek up against her temple, occupied with thoughts of 
Louis Secour and his own responsibilities. "So you have to meet with Vetter and 
VanCoogan, whether you like it or not, to protect the people you care about."

     "Well, the jury's still out on Barney," Natalie teased. "He's been 
wonderful at taking extra shifts from Grace while she's been down with the broken leg, 
though."

     "When does she get the cast off, anyway?"

     "Monday," Natalie said happily.

     Nick grinned. "I'll kind of miss that clump-clumping sound she made when 
she walked."

     "I'll miss tripping over her cast during autopsies," Nat countered.

     "When do you plan to toss in the gauntlet and meet with the higher-ups?" 
Nick asked absently.

     "Monday or Tuesday. I have too much to catch-up on today, and you know 
both Vetter and VanCoogan will be playing golf all weekend. That will give me 
a couple days to steel myself for the unpleasantness."

     Nick dropped a kiss on her brow. "I'll keep it in mind." He held her 
tightly, silently, for a minute, then whispered, "Whatever happens, I love you."

     Natalie turned around with a smile. "Nick! Stop worrying!" She brushed a 
hand over his forehead, as if to wipe his frown-wrinkles away. "This isn't the 
first job crisis I've experienced. I'll be fine."

     Nick pulled her into a comforting hug anyway. "I know. You'll be fine."

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

     The outside of Louis Secour's house held an otherworldly familiarity. The 
grass of the front yard was still tall and unkempt. The same weeds lined the 
drive, giving an unwelcoming appearance. Nick thought back to that night in 
June, how he and Clare had come to this house to ask Secour a few simple 
questions, how the man had run, forcing them to chase him down. Nick had 
reached him first. He recalled how every shred of anger, doubt and fear he'd 
carried inside at the time  had burst forth, exposed with glowing eyes and 
fangs. Clare said he'd been out of control. It had been his mistake, and now Nick had 
to pay for it.

     Louis Secour had to pay for it.

     Nick wandered around the garage to the backyard, jumping over the locked 
chain-link fence to revisit the scene. He noted the straggling shrubbery, the 
unmown grass pressed flat from frequent treading. Empty beer bottles littered 
the back patio, still sporting the Log & Oaks Brewery label.

     The back door opened with a jerk, its hinges creaking like a sick goose. 
Nick glanced up as the sound pulled him out of his memories. Secour stood in the 
doorway.

    "Somebody back there?" he bellowed before he looked, really looked, at the 
figure standing at the fringes of his patio. Secour released a strangled cry as 
he recognized Nick and stumbled back indoors.

     Nick caught the door before the mortal could slam it shut, then followed as 
he ran through the kitchen. "Mr. Secour! Please! I have to talk with you!" The 
man rushed through swinging saloon-type doors that Nick remembered led to 
the den. He pushed through them as he called earnestly, "Your life is at stake!"

     Before the doors had a chance to swing closed behind him, Nick staggered back.

     "No," Secour cried. "Your life!"

     The outside of the house had not changed over the past four months, but 
this room had transformed. Secour had taken every late night horror flick he'd ever 
seen to heart and had hung leis of garlic and posted crosses along the walls. It 
worked. Nick felt the horror, the fear, at the pain these objects could cause him 
well up in an instant. He'd wanted to talk calmly with this man, reassuringly, 
fairly. Instead, he felt his fangs descend out of defensive instinct. 

      "You're making a mistake," Nick said, unable to keep the growl of frustration 
from his voice. "I'm here to help you."

     "The hell you are! You're going to kill me!" Secour stood frenziedly in the 
middle of a folded-out sofa bed, brandishing a large wooden cross before him. 
Apparently, he'd taken to sleeping in this room for protection in recent months.

     "I don't want to kill you," Nick countered. "I came here to be honest with 
you about what I am, and to reach a solution without any harm coming to you."

     "I don't need honesty about what you are - I know that you're a vampire. 
Isn't that the problem?" Secour sneered.

    Nick nodded, pacing uncomfortably near the doorway. "One that you can't be 
made to forget. Do you realize how easy this would be if you could just forget? 
You didn't even have to forget. You could have just stayed away from the 
precinct. No one had to find out that you remembered anything. You could have 
kept your home, your job, and your friends. You would have been safe."

     "Safe?" Secour laughed harshly in disbelief. "I wake up in the middle of 
the night, screaming, because I remember your face. You haunt me with your fangs 
bared and the bloodlust in your eyes. You broke my arm," he said accusingly, 
"and I'm supposed to feel *safe*? You just admitted you'll kill me if I don't 
play by your rules, and I'm supposed be *safe*?"

     "If I hadn't lost my temper, if I hadn't lost control, no one would feel 
threatened right now. I'm willing to take responsibility for that and make every 
effort to keep you alive, but you have to work with me."

     Secour's stance in the middle of the bed subdued somewhat. "Tell me more," 
he said, intrigued.

     "You'll have to relocate. Change your identity."

     "Why? Secour said quickly. "There are others, aren't there? Other vampires 
like you." He nodded knowingly. "I bet there are, like maybe your partner. She 
was trying to cover up for you." Secour tapped his temple with his index finger. 
"She was trying to convince me of things I knew weren't true."

     "Just accept that I'm not the only person of danger to you. Stay here, keep 
your identity, and you'll be dead in a few days."

     Secour stepped off of the sofa bed. He walked behind it, using the piece of 
furniture as a barrier though he let the cross he held hang loose in his grip. 
"So how can you help me?"

     Nick stopped pacing and took a position in front of the kitchen doors. He 
crossed his arms in front of his chest and observed Secour critically. "I can 
buy you a new name, home, and identity. You'll be financially secure. You won't 
have to work unless you choose to do so. All I want in return is your silence. 
Not a word about me, or anyone connected with me to anyone."

     "And if I say anything?" Secour asked hypothetically.

     "I'll find out, and you'll be dead," Nick replied coldly.

     "It seems to me that I have no assurance that you aren't going to just get 
tired of worrying about me and kill me anyhow."

     "If I wanted you dead, Secour," Nick argued, "we wouldn't be talking. Out 
on the patio, I could have snapped your neck before you'd finished taking your 
first breath of night air. This," Nick said, gesturing at the objects hanging on the 
room walls, "can't protect you. Not if your death was my goal."

     Secour's expression became resigned. "It looks like I have no choice but to 
cooperate," he said as he extended his left palm in Nick's direction. "Care to 
shake on the deal?"

     Nick considered the offer. Something wasn't right. He suspected that Secour 
was still holding back, and Nick felt something pull inside himself.  He'd meant 
what he told the mortal: the garlic and the crosses couldn't stop him 
completely. Hanging on the walls as they were, these objects simply brought the 
vampire forward, making it more difficult to control his urges to strike out and be 
done with this situation. Nick hoped he was mistaken about Secour's sincerity. This 
was the man's last chance. If Secour didn't do everything he asked, he would 
have to die, and if Nick didn't do the job, Clare would. "All right," Nick said. 
He clenched his right fist once then stepped forward as he fought back his 
revulsion to the room's decoration.  Nick thought 
urgently.  Nick let these thoughts and the emotions they inspired shine from 
his eyes in fair warning. 

     Standing before Secour, he steadily raised his right arm to encompass the 
other man's hand in a firm grip. "A handshake," Nick said just before they made 
contact. "It's the honorable thing to do."

     Secour blinked then and glanced away for a split-second. Nick had his 
answer, but he still held back.

     As soon as he believed Nick was distracted by the handshake, Secour raised 
his right hand, still clutching the wooden cross, to attack. He swiped at Nick's 
face, his eyes widening in triumph as the skin smoked at the first touch of the wood.

     Nick savored the pain of the burn. It was like a signal, a sign for the 
release of the beast, and he gave it full reign, hissing, "That was the wrong choice."

     He caught Secour's right wrist, pressing the joint until the cross fell 
harmlessly to the floor. Nick sank into the man's throat with a snarl, the sound 
of Secour's pulse throbbing in his head. It throbbed, then slowly dampened into a 
warm humming in Nick's veins. The feeling was a melody formed from pure, 
wicked everything that sped through him in a rush. The thrill gradually 
evaporated, fading into an emptiness that urged him to feed again. 

     The pleasure disappeared, but so did Nick's need for release. Secour's 
death erased the threat and panic. The man's knowledge couldn't touch Natalie or 
Schanke anymore. He couldn't touch -

     A woman screamed. Nick's head snapped up in time to see Amy Martin 
staring in horror at him from the front door. She took in the sight of the blood 
that trickled down Nick's scorched chin and the lifeless body that hung in his 
arms, then stepped back.

     Into LaCroix's waiting arms.

    Nick watched blankly as his sire bared the woman's neck and fed. He should 
be trying to intervene.  Nick looked again at the corpse in his arms, then crouched 
to the floor, letting the body come to a rest on the carpet.  Nick 
shook his head blindly as the threads of self-doubt began to creep in from his 
conscience.  Nick recalled the woman's meek behavior during the case at 
the brewery, then her cooperation in providing testimony afterwards. She was 
kind. She was innocent. Nick felt like a traitor. 

     He glanced up with dismay to witness LaCroix finishing with Amy Martin. 
Soon her body joined Secour's, sprawled across the floor.

     "You made the *right* choice, Nicholas," LaCroix commended, wiping his 
lower lip clean with the back of a hand. "You were a fool to even consider 
allowing the man to live."

     "It was an ending." He stared sadly at Amy Martin's still face. "She didn't 
have to die. She might have been different."

     "Might? Maybe? Why question yourself, Nicholas, when the dilemma is in 
the past?" As Nick stood once more, LaCroix moved to stand before him. "It is 
over."

     Nick spared each victim a lingering glance, repeating distantly, "It's over."

     "I can't express how pleased I am that you've learned there exists 
something more important than your guilt or lost illusions of morality..." LaCroix 
placed a possessive hand on his shoulder, then said, "Family."

*****************************************************************
End Of Part Nineteen

October 5, 1996

     Nick shook LaCroix's hand away. "I don't want this 'family.' I want 
something new - something uncontaminated by my urges to be a killer!"

     "You never change, Nicholas," LaCroix snarled. "For a brief, shining 
second, you accepted the thrill, the power of what you are. Now look at you, drowning 
again in your incessant guilt. Did you learn nothing from your near-destruction? 
How many times do I have to explain to you - it doesn't *have* to be this way. 
Let...your remorse...go."

      "You're right," Nick said argumentatively. "It didn't have to be this way. 
You didn't have to kill Amy Martin."

    "So you've said - repeatedly." LaCroix did not appear impressed. "It puzzles 
me how you justify your own actions in this tangled web of morality you've 
devised for yourself. What made the man so worthy of death by your hand? By 
your typical misguided reasoning, *you* didn't have to kill him."

     Nick gave an abrupt nod. "You or Clare would have killed Secour..." His 
words trailed off to the conclusion. "He was already a marked man."

    LaCroix wasn't satisfied with that response and probed further. "Yes, but, 
in the end, you chose to kill him yourself. Why?"

    "I was responsible. I am the one who gave Secour the opportunity to see me 
as a vampire. It was my debt to pay."

     "I see, now..." LaCroix drawled as he stared disdainfully at his offspring. 
"You didn't kill because you absolved yourself of any guilt, but to feed the 
misery of your conscience. Your self-loathing is so much more poignant now 
that you carry the memory of feeding from him, draining him, destroying him, 
forever in your damned, weighted heart." LaCroix indulged in a bitter laugh. 
"You are such a fool, Nicholas. What does it matter if a man or woman dies? 
*We* survive." 

     "A matter of survival," Nick echoed in a faint voice. "I thought about 
that, just before I struck. There was a part of me that killed him, not from the Code, 
not to hide the Community, but to protect myself..."

     "Good. I'm pleased to hear *that.*"

     "But more than myself," Nick continued, "there was Natalie to consider. And 
Schanke. What if Secour had gotten the chance to broadcast what I was? How 
would that have affected them?"

     "Them. All of this tribulation was to benefit them, yet what will you do 
now that the deed is done? What are you going to do when you see *them* again?" 
his sire drawled mercilessly. "I find that curious, to say the least."

     Nick turned away and began to stare miserably in the direction of the front 
door. "I can't bear to face them, to look at them. How can I begin to explain to 
Natalie why I -"

     "Just go," LaCroix interrupted harshly. "I'm sick of this pathetic carnival 
of remorse you endure, Nicholas. That's what each scene is all about, isn't it? Not 
Natalie or Schanke. Not these deaths tonight. You have such an overwhelming 
collection of fodder to torture yourself with, don't you? When did it begin? 
When you met me? Was it when you first drained a body of its life essence, 
reveling in its very soul? Was it when the first wave of emptiness set in, and 
you realized there was nothing remaining to cling to in the aftermath but a corpse 
and an endless hunger?" LaCroix watched Nick's slumped shoulders with 
disgust. "Could you have been one of the damned before you ever laid eyes on 
Janette that night so long ago? I had nothing to do with your first killing - 
and you slaughtered many as a Crusader. Vampirism had nothing to do with that. 
Vampires were nothing in your world the first time you failed to protect 
someone, and they ended up dead as a result. Gwenyth was her name, was it not? You 
don't need the vampire, and you don't need me to enslave you. Your guilt does that job 
impeccably."

    "That isn't true," Nick protested. "You made me a monster. You gave me this 
craving to destroy. You encourage it."

     "I encourage you to *release* your self-flagellation," LaCroix hissed. 
"I've lost patience, Nicholas. It's always disappointment after disappointment with 
you, and I refuse to indulge it any longer. Go on - hate yourself. Loathe me and 
everything I stand for. I don't care anymore. I won't seek you out anymore, 
Nicholas. You come to me - it's your choice from now on. I wash my hands of 
you. Get out of here - I will deal with the bodies."

    Nick stalked to the front door, but turned to give his sire a bewildered, 
lost glance over his shoulder. "LaCroix, I -"

    "GET OUT!" the elder vampire growled, his eyes burning with revulsion.

     Nick did, stumbling to the Cadillac, his desires torn into what seemed to 
be a thousand directions. He sped away from Secour's house.  his thoughts tormented.  Nick shuddered briefly, then pushed the gas pedal down 
harder. LaCroix's behavior was unprecedented, though. Sending him away? 
Commanding Nick out of his sight? Nick felt an overwhelming wave of sadness 
coupled with intense confusion. Was this some kind of trick to instill a new 
guilt in him? Was it a warped tactic of manipulating LaCroix into appearing the 
wronged party?

     Nick had been ignoring road signs and traffic signals as he roared along 
the residential roads. He disregarded a stop sign, noting at the last second that a 
mini-van had entered the intersection.

     He braked, swerved, jerking the Caddy in a path that narrowly avoided the 
other automobile, but his car careened headlong into a telephone pole. The 
sound of collapsing metal and shattering glass enveloped him. Shards of the 
windshield sliced into Nick's forehead as his body slammed forward, and the 
steering wheel flattened against his chest, crushing his ribcage. He could smell 
gasoline. Suddenly, Nick felt as though his arms and legs were non-functional, 
and he fought the paralysis, struggling to fly free of the steel cage, thinking 
of nothing but his life and survival should the car burst into flames. 

     Then his world went black.

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

    Clare was sitting with Schanke at the bar of the Raven. Clare, for one, was 
anxious for Nick to arrive. That would actually silence Don for a second, 
without anyone resorting to bodily harm or mesmerism. Maybe.

     Schanke slammed his fist down upon a bird-scarred coaster for the dozenth 
time in half an hour. "I still can't believe you did that. You tracked down and 
collared the bastard who shot *my* kid without even hinting at what you were 
doing. What kind of partner - what kind of friend does that?" 

     Schanke had hounded her the night before, and he'd started this evening off 
on the same foot. They had long passed the point of reasonable debate about the 
issue, and Don's continuing outbursts were just a method of venting his 
frustration. Schanke wasn't really upset that Clare had made the arrest without 
whispering a word first. At least, not very upset. It was Captain Reese, every 
damn uniform guarding lockup, who prevented him from tackling Freddie Ghazi 
and beating the living crap out of that piece of slime for shooting his kid that 
really made Schanke want to rant and howl.

     Clare knew this, and, being of a common frame of mind, chose to ignore 
Schanke's recriminations rather than lose her temper. As the hours wore on, her 
patience slowly became an endangered species.  "Didn't Myra and Captain 
Reese want you to take the night off?" she said casually, attempting to keep the 
'you-are-really-annoying-me' snarl out of her tone. "Jen came home from the 
hospital less than twelve hours ago. Shouldn't you be...hovering over her, or 
something?"

    "Call me crazy," Schanke argued, "but for a short time last night I bought 
into the idea that you, me and Nick were working as a team on this Numbers thing - 
the Three Musketeers - one for all and all for one." He gave a dismissive grunt. 
"The Three Stooges is more like it, and I'm the boob with the pie in his face." 
Clare stared at him, deadpan, then suddenly broke out in a giggle. Schanke's 
mouth fell open, partly because he missed what was so funny, otherwise simply 
bewildered by the mystical whims of the opposite sex. "Huh? What'd I say?"

    Clare tried to hide her snickers by shielding the lower half of her face 
with her hands - she *did* have a reputation to uphold. "Oh, Schanke, I never imagined 
hearing you incorporate the word 'boob' into a sentence without referring to the 
female anatomy." She clapped him on the shoulder, and he only winced a tiny 
bit. "I'm honored to witness such a milestone. Have a beer on me."

    "We're on duty." It was a protest, but Schanke's expression said, 'Twist my arm.'

     Clare did. "Really, Schank, it's after two. We've spent most of the night 
hunting through old files and paperwork, and, yet again, my bad judgment has 
prevailed, letting you drag me here looking for Nick to share the results. He 
has the night off, so he's *off doing something*. Have a drink, take a taxi, and 
grab some shut-eye. You've earned it. Show- and-Tell can wait until dusk."

     Schanke raised his hand, gesturing for the bartender to approach for his 
order. "Anyone ever tell you you're bossy, Clare? You're almost as bad as 
Myra's aunts."

    "Trust me, Schanke, I can be worse. Much worse."

     Clare chose to drink nothing as Schanke downed his lager. Instead, she 
found herself pumping the mortal for information concerning his daughter's first day 
home from the hospital. As each question escaped her lips, Clare silently cursed 
herself.  Yet the inquiries continued to fall 
freely, transformed from her thoughts into speech, and Clare disarmingly 
recognized a thrill within her at good news of the girl's recovery.

     As Schanke finally headed home, Clare waved his taxi off, moving as though 
she intended to leave in her Ferrari parked a block down the street. When the 
cab was out of sight, Clare turned back toward the club.

     "Still having trouble resisting temptation?"

     Clare's smile almost dazzled in the streetlight, and she announced as if 
speaking to the cool, night air, "Until recently, I never noticed what a voyeur 
you are - or would this merely be classified as eavesdropping?"

     LaCroix seemed to materialize out of the shadows, his features forming a 
grim mask. "You're the detective, Clare. Why would I bother with the petty details of 
mortal law?"

    She shrugged nonchalantly as she strolled past his tall, dark form to the 
Raven's entrance. "You're still disapproving because it amuses me to play 'cops 
and robbers'?" She flattened her back against the door, a languorous, 
affectionate expression forming on her features. "Really, Lucius, it's nothing."

     "You were not amused with this *play* a few days ago," he reminded stiffly 
as he moved to stand in front of her.

     Clare toyed with his shirtfront as she glanced at LaCroix through slitted 
eyes. "I've changed."

     "I have noticed," LaCroix's response was stilted, though his eyes flared 
with a fervent urgency, "and it concerns me."

     She paused, frowning as she laid her palms flat against his chest, looking 
candidly into his eyes. "Are you truly worried about *me*? There's no need to 
be." Clare groaned at a sudden thought. "Ah - something went wrong with 
Nicholas tonight, didn't it?"

     LaCroix settled his hands on her hips murmuring with an air of discontent. 
"His meeting with Secour was a...fatal encounter."

     "So Nicholas chose to kill him," Clare concluded in satisfaction, but 
continued to watch LaCroix curiously. "I expected you to be more enthusiastic 
with that conclusion. That was your wish, was it not - that he would choose to 
give into his vampire nature and make the necessary kill?"

      "Yes. The evening, however, did not entirely proceed as expected," LaCroix 
said, seeming unwilling to elaborate further as he left one arm wrapped about 
Clare's waist and opened the club's door. "I believe you will now find Nicholas 
drowning his sorrows somewhere as we speak."

      As they moved along the fringes of the dance floor, Clare was surprised to 
not find Nicholas hunched over a glass at the bar. "The situation must *not* 
have gone as we expected," she repeated. "Then again, Nicholas can be 
irritatingly moody." She curled one hand about LaCroix's jaw, her eyes 
communicating her support. "Bothersome or not, wherever he is, I'm surprised 
you are not with him."

      "That is because I am becoming increasingly disillusioned with the 
constant frustrating, illogical, and *human* behavior of the people under my care," 
LaCroix said, his words wrapped in antipathy as he headed for the door to his 
private quarters.

      "People?" Clare's mouth dropped open, indignant. "People? You're including 
me in that disillusionment, aren't you?" She scowled, and when they were on the 
other side of the door, she smoothed her hands over his coat lapels as though 
some irritating, yet invisible, lint resided there. "Again your displeasure over 
my detective work! Need I remind you that I've already resigned from the position? 
I'm practically uninvolved!" she excused, earning an extremely doubtful look 
from her vampire counterpart. Clare chose to ignore it, and draw attention away 
from herself. "Besides, you have your own dalliances with mortal occupations - 
this club and 'Nightwatch with the Nightcrawler.' Should I be thrown into a 
panic every time one of the callers amuses you, terrified that you might want to 
become a mortal again?" Clare dissolved into a soft giggle, momentarily 
ducking her forehead against his shoulder. "It's not going to happen."  She 
glanced up at him again, this time with a mock-severe expression. "Another thing 
- surely you aren't implying that I am 'under your care,' Lucius?"

     "I wouldn't dare suggest that I believe I have any control over your 
comings and goings," LaCroix assured her in a stately tone. "On the other hand, you 
have shared my home, my days, for almost a month now - for us, that is a record."

     Clare laughed gamely and walked toward the sofa. "That is not true, Lucius. 
We traveled together for years in the beginning - in the third century."

     LaCroix had been selecting a bottle from the vast selection along the right 
wall, and he closed its gate as he shook his head. "That was completely 
different. I wasn't your lover - I was a guest, your companion," LaCroix said 
the last word with a sneer. "You were with Conchobhar then, and, as much as I 
loathe discussing emotions of the heart, you loved him, devotedly." LaCroix 
uncorked the vintage and poured, offering Clare the first glass. "Even I could 
see that, though I frequently mock the emotion." He brushed a thumb wonderingly 
over Clare's cheekbone, appearing lost in some dilemma, examining her features 
as though it was their first meeting all over again.

      Her forehead wrinkled, perplexed at LaCroix's expression. She set her 
glass aside without taking a sip, then covered his hand with her own. "What is it?"
    
     LaCroix shook his head slightly, as if he was fighting a stupor. "I was 
simply wondering if either of us have really changed since that time," he said to 
excuse his distraction.

     "I have. I know that I changed when Conchobhar was destroyed. It was 
painful, yet it was freeing at the same time."

     "Freeing?" LaCroix frowned as he took a seat beside her. "What do you mean by 
that?"

     "Didn't you jest once that we were joined at the hip? Suddenly I was alone: 
every tie to my mortal life was gone. Sometimes I feel as though that was the 
moment that I truly became immortal. I had outlasted them all - my children, my 
family, my husband...my sire."

     LaCroix nodded faintly. "Yes. But what if they came back? What would that 
do to your 'freedom'? Would the change remain?"

    Clare traced the back of one of his hands with her fingers. "I don't know. I 
never had that happen."

     LaCroix snared her fingers in a firm grasp, squeezing them with a desperate 
pressure as he said, "Lately, it seems that I've had it happen over and again. 
There was a moment after I staked Nicholas when I believed that I was truly 
alone. Divia had been reduced to ashes, Janette, dead, or so I believed. It was 
a heavy feeling - the chain of my immortality strung about my neck, tightening as 
if I were a condemned man to be hung." The air stirred in the softest of puffs 
as Clare caught her breath. For the first time, she'd seen in LaCroix's expression 
the hint of a man who believed that he was damned. Not to an infernal afterlife, the 
plaything of a greater deity, but for him, a more insidious torture: eternal 
emptiness. No one to care for, and no one to care about him. "I accepted it, of 
course," LaCroix continued, trying to keep his tone business-like, though his 
hold on her hand may have tightened. "I knew when I raised the stake it would 
come. A sense of stale blackness enveloping me. A hint of helplessness..." 
His voice trailed into silence, and Clare's eyes fell shut, staggered, 
because she knew how much these admissions cost the barrier that LaCroix built 
around his private self. There were some torments of which he never spoke, yet 
he was sharing pieces of this pain with her now. "I'd looked into the abyss 
before, but I never actually felt that loneliness." Clare opened her eyes when 
he released her hand, a tiny, bereft cry escaping her throat. He gently ran his 
fingers from her jawline to cheekbones in a circular path, whispering, "Then I felt 
you. It had been decades, and I believed you were dead, but I felt your presence as 
surely as you are sitting here beside me now. There was a buzz - someone was at 
the outside door. I turned to the security screen, and there was your face, 
glaring up into the camera as though you knew someone was ignoring your call." 
LaCroix suddenly smiled, eclipsing the depth of his description with a wry 
comment. "For someone who has all the time in the world, Clare, you tend to 
be remarkably impatient." 

      She laughed. "I know. I hate the dull parts. That's why I'm always late 
for parties and concerts. I don't like waiting for the excitement to begin."

     "No," LaCroix corrected. "You like to cause excitement, whether you start a 
full-blown riot or stir an unsuspecting heart with one glance." His fingers left 
her face and he picked up his glass, sipping from it casually before setting it 
aside again. "That is when I removed the stake from Nicholas. There was still a faint 
echo of life to Natalie, Nicholas would survive, and you were there. The 
blackness was gone. I left, slipping down the stairs before I heard you crashing 
in through the skylight. A most dramatic entrance, I might add. A pity no one 
was there to see it." 

     "But why?" Clare asked curiously. "Why didn't *you* stay to see it? Why 
leave their fates up to me?"

     "Because it took one moment for me to feel...thankful that you were 
there...another immortal to banish the solitude. It took me two moments to 
resent you for being alive and perhaps an hour to begin hating you. I discovered that 
Feliks, *the gardener,* had known of your survival all along, but you never 
breathed a word to me. What makes you think I could have borne the sight of you at the 
thought of that?" LaCroix demanded, a note of betrayal carried in his voice.

     "Honestly?" Clare inquired quietly with one eyebrow arched. LaCroix 
nodded. "I really didn't believe it made a difference to you, Lucien."

     His eyes scorched into hers as he simply stated, "You were wrong."

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

London, Early December 1941

    Clare stood on a balcony overlooking the street from the second story of the 
townhouse. There was a breeze that twisted tendrils of her hair away from her 
face in a gyrating dance. She felt LaCroix from across the room, still 
reverberating through her senses from their shared feeding earlier in the 
evening. She carried a faint consciousness of him now. The impression of a connection 
between the two of them had been so much stronger as the blood flowed from 
one of them to the other, intermingling, intertwining, becoming indistinguishable. 

     For only a short time, however - not nearly long enough. To experience 
another person through their blood, to intimately become what they are in that 
moment, or, for some vampires, what they let another know of their very 
essence...It was beguiling. The sensations could also be deceptive - they gave 
an illusion of closeness. For a mortal, sharing blood was a bond - a children's vow 
of lasting friendship or something more stringent. For vampires, sharing blood 
often happened simply for the thrill. The intimacy didn't last but a few hours 
at the most. When it faded, what was really left between the two bodies?

     Clare wondered about the answer to that riddle even now. After existing 
over two thousand years, she still had too few answers to match her questions. It was 
frustrating, irritating to someone who prized her control over the situations 
about her. It was when she lost that control that the failures occurred - a little 
mass slaughter here, an offspring walking into the sunrise without permission there - 
loss of control was vastly aggravating.

      Clare asked herself.  
LaCroix was watching her, she could tell. He must know every square centimeter 
of her back by now, yet he continued to stare. She slowly turned around, then 
leaned against the iron railing, her demeanor risking no sign of her turmoil 
inside.

     "What has your interest so captivated?" LaCroix asked, stepping onto the 
balcony.

      Clare thought ruefully, then 
shrugged. "Just London. Noting if it's changed, or if it's stayed the same since I was 
here last."

     "And your conclusion is?" He came to stand before her, lightly resting a 
palm on the railing to either side of her. His simple queries seemed heavy with 
meaning, but her nerves were drawn tight, and, for a while, she abandoned any 
attempt to interpret any innuendoes.

     "There's not much difference," Clare dismissed, turning around in the 
circle of his arms so she could further pretend to study the lack of change in the 
view. She felt the urge to lean against his chest, but wouldn't the action signify 
some sort of dependence?  she wondered, her thoughts slightly 
frantic.

     LaCroix frowned as she turned her back on him again.  'What are you looking at?' He'd meant the 
question for himself as much as for Clare. As she gazed out into the dark 
landscape, LaCroix had been watching her. Exactly what did she matter to him? 
Had he encouraged the situation with Daniel to reach a crisis point more 
expediently on purpose? LaCroix knew all along how Janette would react to the 
boy's destruction, and how Nicholas would feel drawn into consoling her. Had 
he taken responsibility for killing Janette's plaything, he would have drawn out 
the lesson a bit longer, pointing out the child's unsuitability for vampire 
life. Clare had ended his experiment at the first opportunity, and he'd let her, 
knowing the kill would no doubt force Janette and Nicholas away for a time. A 
word is all it would have taken to hold off the inevitable. LaCroix could have 
stopped Clare from staking Daniel. He could have told her, or, since this was 
Clare, perhaps requested that she wait longer to dispose of the boy.

     But he hadn't. Could it be possible that he wanted his Nicholas and Janette 
out of the way so he could have more time alone with Clare? A grimace passed 
over LaCroix's features. He was alone with Clare...and Seiji. What did the other 
man's presence degrade him into? Part of her personal retinue? Why should he 
dance attendance on Clare when she showed so little favoritism? She was a flirt, 
pure and simple, collecting people like trophies if the mood struck. Hadn't he 
learned that from the beginning? She'd drawn him under her spell, then Maeven 
and countless others like Figaro and Feliks. In the end, what truly mattered to 
Clare? What made her feel? What made her tremble? What possessed her?

     a voice in his head snarled.  LaCroix's frown 
deepened. 

      Clare cursed silently.  A taxicab and a black sedan honked at each other in the street below, 
each car certain they had the right-of-way. Clare looked down at LaCroix's 
fingers, at the way they gracefully curved around the railing while radiating an 
undeniable strength. She lifted her palms, laying them to rest on the metal 
balustrade beside his own.  She started slightly when LaCroix moved, taking one 
of his hands away from the ironwork.

     LaCroix caught himself slipping his fingers into the pocket of his robe. 
He'd placed a gift for Clare there, ensconced inside a velvet box, earlier in the 
evening. He'd yet to decide whether he would give it to her tonight, because he 
was plagued by a fiendish uncertainty.  The set of his jaw became frozen like chiseled marble. It was 
better to forget the gift. It had been an inane and sentimental gesture to have 
the bracelet made, completely unworthy of him. 

     The night after Clare's arrival LaCroix had caught himself pausing by a 
jeweler's window, and, noting the craftsman had yet to retire for the evening, 
he ventured inside. LaCroix had commissioned a bracelet crafted from black pearls 
set in silver to match the ring Clare had been wearing the night before. The 
metal had been woven to resemble a vine of ivy leaves that spiraled around the 
dark stones in what appeared to be an interminable band. He'd chosen ivy on 
purpose, thinking Clare would appreciate the significance with her background - 
didn't ivy represent life after death to the Druids? At the jeweler's, it had 
seemed a perfect and symbolic tribute to her.  Yet now, the offering felt like too much of a 
risk.  LaCroix reminded himself.

      he decided, 
refusing to acknowledge his emotional cowardice for what it was.

     Clare was no different.  she wondered.  Clare's 
knuckles whitened as she clutched fiercely at the iron railing.  She pursed her lower lip unhappily as she mused with 
increasing disquietude.  Her 
mouth formed the semblance of a silent snarl.  She experienced an anxious shiver, as if an 
icy mantle enveloped her nerves, causing her to shake against her will. 

     LaCroix spoke then, his voice sending a ripple of awareness down her spine. 
"I have enjoyed your unexpected company these past few weeks, Clare. I haven't 
forgotten that I am still in your debt for the friendly assistance you provided 
in dealing with Daniel for me." 

      Clare experienced a sinking sensation, closing her eyes in 
momentary despair.  she concluded harshly,  His arm brushed against her as Clare felt LaCroix start to 
pull something from his pocket. 

     Her attention was again drawn briefly to the street below. A familiar 
figure stalked angrily down the sidewalk. Seiji no longer wore his western-styled 
clothing, choosing to flaunt his nationality instead. He held the evening 
edition of a newspaper in his hands, and its contents apparently failed to humor him. 
The vampire stormed up the townhouse steps and slammed the front door behind 
him. Clare seized upon her vampire son's entrance like a lifeline. 

     "I've decided that Seiji and I will return to Hiroshima," Clare announced.

     Her words burnt through LaCroix's giving intentions. The hand enclosing the 
bracelet's velvet container stilled, then sank back into his robe pocket. "Do 
you feel that is absolutely necessary?" he asked, his tone surprisingly temperate.

      Clare insisted silently.  she resolved.  She turned around to face LaCroix, an earnest smile plastered on her 
face, and said aloud, "I've found this trip to be a pleasant interlude as well, 
but I dislike seeing Seiji so unhappy."

      LaCroix thought, his mind full of selfish 
demands. 

     Clare searched LaCroix's expression, aching to find some clue as to what he 
was truly thinking about her announcement.  she 
wondered bitterly.  

     Some facet of LaCroix's features gave her pause. There was a force of will 
to them that commanded a response from her. Clare leaned toward him slightly, 
knowing that an imploring cast had appeared in her eyes. 

     He thought about asking her to remain, but LaCroix had never begged for 
anything.  he charged silently.  LaCroix saw the question in her gaze then, a 
fathomless green that pulled him closer, praying for one simple word to pass his 
lips.

     "Sta -" he began.

     "Lucius, I -"

     Their mild tones were overpowered by Seiji's bellow from the stairs. 
"CLARE! Where are you?"

     The vampires stepped apart. Clare suddenly appeared rushed, while LaCroix 
frowned, quietly furious at some personal outrage.

     "I suppose I should go," she whispered as she scuttled past him, the hem of 
her robe trailing behind her as an afterthought.

     LaCroix watched her exit without making a sound. After a minute, he walked 
slowly indoors, then over to one of the bedside tables. He slid open a drawer, 
pulling the velvet box from his pocket and slamming it inside, mentally vowing 
to be rid of the bracelet at the earliest opportunity, even if he had to consign 
the jewelry to a fire to do it.

********************************************************************
Paris, August 6th, 1945

     France had been celebrating the victory of the Allied powers in Europe for 
three months now. LaCroix had ventured out into the streets of Paris this 
evening with Janette and Nicholas at his side, each claiming a portion of that thrill 
for their own. Nicholas' enjoyment was of a more philosophical, puritan nature, 
while Janette and he opted for a taste of victory the old-fashioned way - they 
took it.

     The trio had separated for a short while, each seeking the delights that 
the Paris night offered in an overflowing feast, when the sound of young voice 
hawking the news journal struck him the blow. 

     

     LaCroix had purchased a copy, then experienced a creeping numbness 
seeping into his flesh as he read about the United States employing a weapon 
that was capable of ending more lives in a minute than he had in the past three 
centuries.

      LaCroix growled as the image passed through his 
thoughts.  He could recognize something unholy when he saw it. 

     LaCroix then made his way back to their quarters, unmindful of his rendezvous 
with Nicholas or Janette as planned. He glided along the dark streets, paper folded 
sideways and tucked neatly under one arm, passing from the glare of one streetlight to 
another as a stately shadow in transit.

     Reaching their apartments, LaCroix sank calmly into his preferred chair, 
re-read the news report, then had fallen into thought. 

     
     
     LaCroix sat in the leather-backed chair, his face empty of passion, a storm 
raging inside. The newspaper sat abandoned in his lap. He stood, walked over to 
the fireplace, and lit a match. He let the pages meet the flames, watching in 
fascination as they were consumed in moments, shrinking into black wisps of 
ash before his gaze.

     Then he began to pack.

     He was closing one medium-sized case as Nicholas rushed expectantly into 
the room. Janette followed, but lacked her partner's urgency. Nicholas glanced 
from LaCroix's steely expression to the luggage as his sire secured its latches, 
then stated, "You've heard about the bombing."

     LaCroix gave a brief nod. 

     "And you're going to Japan?" Nicholas asked with an air of protest and 
dismay. "Surely you realize, LaCroix, that this may not be the end."

     "I take it that you are referring to the possibility of more atomic bombs?" 
LaCroix countered smoothly. "I am well aware that, if there is more than one of 
these weapons, the United States may use another to crush any further fight out 
of their enemy." He paused, allowing a self-mocking sneer. "I would."

     Janette, silently fuming up until this point, broke out in tones of furious 
rage. "Why? Why risk your life, LaCroix? Because of Clare?" She let out a sharp 
shout of laughter. "If she lives - let her come to you. If the fires consumed 
her - good riddance."

     LaCroix slapped her. Janette clutched at her face as her body slammed into 
Nick's arms, and she refused to look up at her sire. Nicholas stood, his 
expression filled with horror. He looked between the woman cradled in his arms 
and LaCroix. Nick wanted to strike back at his sire, yet something stilled his 
anger. "Why?" he repeated, his eyes a maze of emotions.

     LaCroix looked at him deeply, and Nicholas saw a tableau of loss and grief 
such that he had never seen before, much less expected to discover in the 
expression of this man. 

     LaCroix picked up the case then and said with a sense of finality, "I have 
to know for certain." He nodded abruptly, then departed, Janette's final 
declaration reaching his ears even after he'd left the room:

     "I hope that she burned in Hiroshima. I hate Clare. She is vile, foul, and 
I hope she paid for it with all the pain I felt when she took Daniel from me!" 

     The sound of Janette's sobs rang in LaCroix's ears as he flew through the 
night. The cries of mourning seemed to haunt him as he traveled east. A second 
bomb had devastated Nagasaki before LaCroix had passed through India. He was 
in Beijing when word of Japan's unconditional surrender became known.

    The bomb had cleared a circular area roughly five kilometers in diameter of 
destruction, centered near Hiroshima's T-shaped Aioi Bridge. The land appeared 
gutted, each tree stretched from the scorched earth as though it was a streak of 
black paint on an empty gray canvas. The landscape was spotted with concrete 
structures here and there, their windows shattered, their rooms gutted and their 
ceramic tiles heated into bubbled plates. This portrait of a bleak void had once 
held the home of Clare and Seiji. Now, there was nothing but rubble.

     The house had been just northeast of Hiroshima Castle, less than one-and-a-
half meters from the center of the atomic blast. LaCroix walked in the vicinity 
of where their home would have stood before impact. Now there was nothing 
remaining but a handful of skeleton trunks hollowed by fire. 

     LaCroix had never come to Hiroshima before. He'd learned this address years 
ago from Figaro. He'd thought several times of going to see Clare, maybe 
uncovering what exactly drew her to this part of the world so many times over 
the centuries. What about this place had stolen her away?

     A familiar presence grew closer. LaCroix turned to see Figaro standing a 
few dozen meters away. The other vampire's suit matched the night as did his 
expression. At this vision, LaCroix lost hope of Clare's survival. Figaro was 
rarely solemn and never wore black, yet here he stood, death draping his shoulders and 
countenance. LaCroix knew this sign of mourning wasn't simply for Seiji, a lost 
brother. He understood Figaro better than that.

     "I loved her." Figaro's words traveled oddly through the heavy air. This 
wasn't the scene for such declarations of affection, for words of devotion from 
the heart. The awkwardness must have struck Figaro then, for he covered his 
face with his hands, unable to bear the sight of his surroundings.

     LaCroix fought off the mantra of his thoughts.  "I heard talk of some citizens experiencing afterburns in the days 
following the blast. It may be unwise for us to linger," he said aloud, his 
stony exterior perfectly in place.

     "I heard," Figaro mumbled as his hands dropped haggardly to his sides, "and 
I didn't care." He then examined LaCroix carefully, his eyes widening with a 
sudden realization. "You didn't worry over the threat of a little radiation, 
either, did you?" 

     Figaro didn't wait for a response. His lips stretched into a wide smile, 
his white teeth gleaming with startling brilliance compared to the scorched 
background and the night sky. "Pity the fool who suffers so blindly. She may be 
gone, but you'll never forget this incessant longing for her. The illusion of 
what might have been will rip you apart. The thought of her will chip away at you, 
until you're nothing but a hollow husk, like one of these gutted yews. Oh, yes - 
pity the fool."

     "I never loved *her.*" LaCroix bit out sharply.

     Figaro cackled. "Liar."

     LaCroix roared, tackling the smaller man, then heaved him through the ashen 
air. Figaro landed on one of the blackened trunks, and it crumpled into 
carboniferous fragments beneath his weight. The younger vampire laughed more 
loudly as he climbed to his feet. "Go ahead. Thrash the hell out of me. Prove 
how little her destruction means to you."

    LaCroix did, tearing into the other man with a fury that shocked him. Figaro 
didn't take the beating lightly, either. He fought back with every dirty trick 
that Clare had taught to her offspring, and she had taught Figaro a good many. 
Finally, LaCroix collared the other vampire in a choke hold, shook him to try 
and still his laughing, but Figaro wouldn't cease. LaCroix released him, flinging 
the other man's body aside. Figaro spoke to him as he wiped the ashes from his face.

     "You care. You may hate yourself for it, but you care," Figaro taunted 
mercilessly. "It's too bad you can't hate love away. It creeps in despite your 
pride and will. Even the sheer pointlessness of it can't stop the feeling. Believe me 
- I know, and I've tried to fight it. Love begins and ends regardless of what we 
choose - mortal or immortal, willing or unwilling - it makes no difference." 
Figaro gave a fatalistic shrug. "Love makes you a slave, and only love shears 
the ties and sets you free." He extended a hand to the elder vampire. "Grieve with 
me now. Tomorrow, I'll go back to the colors and the shallow lifestyle, I'll 
cower when you glare, LaCroix, and I will not speak her name again in your presence, 
but tonight, just admit that the thought of her existence seared into a black 
nothing in the blink of an eye frightens you like nothing you've experienced 
before. Just confess that you loved Clare as much as I did."

     LaCroix took Figaro's hand and shook it firmly, then let it go. With a 
proud tilt to his head, the elder vampire spoke in words that seemed to smolder with a 
limitless heat. "I cannot."

     Figaro shook his head slowly as he backed away. "Pity the fool," he 
whispered, then disappeared, a rush of wind stirring the dead night, leaving 
LaCroix alone.

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

October 5, 1996

     "I was wrong," Clare repeated, a hint of a challenge in the set of her 
chin. "That's so easy for you to say, but how was I supposed to believe differently?" 
She paused with a frown. "No, you have a point - I should have informed you 
and Figaro that I was alive. I had Feliks mediating the incidentals of my 
property and what-not from the time I left London - that's the only reason he 
knew that I did not perish at Hiroshima. At the time, I thought that I wanted to 
be alone. I wanted to grieve by myself." Clare let her gaze wander thoughtfully 
over LaCroix's features before commenting, "It has just occurred to me that 
you've overcome your revulsion at the sight of me, and fairly quickly 
considering you could hold a grudge for eternity."

      "Perhaps I've learned how to turn a blind eye to some of your faults," he 
said smoothly.

      Clare shook her head in wonderment. "You're the only man I've ever met 
who could say such a thing and make it sound like a compliment."

     LaCroix shrugged smugly, taking another sip from his glass. "I only spoke 
the truth."

     "Which truth?" she spoke with a wicked grin. "We've already established 
tonight that you have yet to adapt to my 'working as a homicide detective' 
fault." LaCroix gave Clare a stern glare, as if to communicate, 'You know there is 
more to the issue than meager employment.' She ignored him, asking piquantly 
instead, "So which of my *many* imperfections have you gallantly overlooked?"

      "Actually," LaCroix said as he set his glass aside, "it's not an 
imperfection, exactly. I've discovered over the centuries that you have been capable 
of bestowing devout loyalty and your unwavering love to a few, privileged 
individuals."

     "Haven't you? Your children," Clare hesitated, not eager to mention the 
next subject, "Fleur, even. If you were not capable of caring, it would not pain you 
to lose any of them. The sacrifice when you staked Nicholas, the blackness 
creeping in afterward - you are no different from me on that score."

     "Maybe," he allowed generously, "but when you lose someone, I've noticed 
that your first instinct is to run away, to seclude yourself. I refuse to run 
away."

    "But seclusion..." Clare countered. "It is a form of retreat, and you, 
Lucien LaCroix, defiantly seclude your emotions. You don't want to care, because 
caring is a weakness. You don't want to love anyone, but the problem is, even forced 
indifference is an emotion - that's what I've learned over the centuries. You 
may ignore it, you may hate it, but two thousand years of death still cannot kill 
your heart. No matter how often you may curse it, as far as I'm concerned, it is a 
fact."

     LaCroix seemed frozen for several achingly long moments, then his mouth 
curved into a sultry smile. "You're the only woman I've ever met who could call 
me a coward and make me want to kiss her."

    Clare leaned forward, then grazed his lips lightly with her thumb. 
"*Another* woman called you a coward?"

    "Petty semantics." LaCroix took her hand and lingeringly massaged Clare's 
inner wrist as he spoke. "You make me consider the question, however - what 
path would I have chosen if I hadn't felt your presence that night at the loft? 
What if the emptiness had lasted, not simply a few seconds, but lifetime after 
lifetime?"

    "You know the answer. You said it yourself: you expected the sense of 
desolation as you raised the stake, and you were prepared to accept it. What 
you're truly questioning now is the aftermath of your reprieve. You let go of 
Nicholas, of everything. That choice was a turning point in your existence."

    LaCroix gave the suggestion sincere examination. "I sacrificed Nicholas, but 
I did not lose him. Whatever difference my actions made to me personally, it 
doesn't touch him. Nothing ever changes with Nicholas. Just before I raised the 
stake, he called me his closest friend. At our next encounter, his first words 
were, 'I haven't come to stay.' He never really thanked me for letting him go, 
but said, 'You have my gratitude for helping me test my faith.' He didn't look me in 
the eye. It was a begrudging tribute, and, as always, it was about Nicholas' 
quest for mortality."

     Clare glanced down to where LaCroix's hand wound around her wrist. He no 
longer rubbed the skin gently, but clasped her arm, his fingers tense with his 
frustration. "You're resenting his dichotomy more than ever."

    LaCroix nodded. "There have been instances over the past months when I 
believed our camaraderie had blossomed, harkening back to the times of our 
closest brotherhood in the past. There is always some *mortal* concern that 
intervenes with his loyalty," he said, his words punctuated by tension. 
"Tonight, as we satisfied our lust for blood, the pattern felt so familiar: Nicholas 
gave into his vampire nature, then he felt guilty. He blames himself for what he 
interprets as a moral weakness, and he blames me for making him what he is. He 
despises me for wanting him to accept the vampire and reach some level of contentment 
with his unlife - for trying to free him from that weakness!" LaCroix's voice had 
raised to a frustrated shout. He paused, shuttered his anger, then continued 
speaking in a softer, yet resolute, tone. "Tonight, I had no interest in yet 
another skirmish in this endless battle of wills with Nicholas. I've lost the desire 
to argue in circles with him. I have come to realize that I released Nicholas from my 
charge when I pierced his heart, Clare, and I do not want him back,"  he concluded 
fatally.

     Clare wrapped her fingers around his tight grip about her wrist and subtly 
began to pry away the pressure. The movement caught LaCroix off-guard; he'd 
been unaware how violent his hold had become. He immediately loosened his 
grasp and bent his head, covering the finger marks with a soft, reverential 
dusting of kisses.

     Clare felt her heart, such that it was, twist in yearning, and she reached 
out with her free hand to brush through his hair, encouraging the contact of his 
lips with her flesh. "You may resent Nicholas now, but it won't last. I know."

     LaCroix glanced up from his occupation with her skin, obviously displeased. 
"I am not so fluctuating as he. I am true to my nature and to myself. The 
decision has been made. I want no more of Nicholas' torment." 

      "You *never* wanted Nicholas' torment," Clare said. "You've always 
wanted his  respect and his love, and I believe that he feels that for you. You 
also want his gratitude. It is Nicholas' failure to appreciate everything that 
you have given him that makes you choose to reject him now." She let her free hand 
fall to LaCroix's shoulder, trailing her index finger absently along his collar 
and up the side of his neck as she spoke. "I do understand your anger. You never met 
Leila - like Nicholas, she refused to accept the darkness of what we are. I 
brought her across on a whim, rather than killing her - there was an almost 
angelic purity to her, a glorious zeal that intrigued me. I wanted to harness 
her fanaticism, but she was never content around me. Leila thought her vampire 
abilities were better dedicated to noble missions for the good of humanity. She 
considered me a hindrance to her quest. She thought I was evil, and that I would 
manipulate her from her goal." Clare shrugged, admitting, "She was right. I tried. Her 
solution was to bring Vachon and some Incan soldier across, order 
them to fulfill her crusade, then walk into the next sunrise. Her plan worked in 
the sense that she escaped me. I was overwhelmed with hatred and grief for her 
when I discovered what she had done. I abandoned Vachon and the Inca after I 
encountered them, wanting to sever myself from anything and anyone that 
reminded me of their angelic sire, just as she had wished."

     LaCroix had turned his attention completely from Clare's wrist as she 
spoke. He watched her, his fingers entwining with those of her captured hand, his 
expression becoming doubtful with her last statement. "That severance certainly 
wasn't perpetual. You purposefully rescued Vachon when you came here, and 
you certainly don't distance yourself from him now."

      "Exactly. My anger toward Leila was not eternal - neither is your rage 
against Nicholas. In time, you will make peace with him," Clare insisted with a 
confident smile.

     "You sound so certain of that, Cliodhna," he responded, his laugh carrying 
a tinge of mocking. "You're speaking with your own emotions, not my 'secluded' 
ones."

      "No, Lucien," Clare said, shaking her head. "You forgave me for letting 
you believe I was destroyed. You said that you couldn't bear the sight of me at my 
return, yet we are here together, you are looking at me, and you are bearing 
it." Clare's self-assured smile faltered slightly, and she closed her eyes heavily 
for a fraction longer than a blink. "How important to you am I in comparison to 
Nicholas?" She laughed hollowly. "In time, you will forgive him his ingratitude, 
just as you overlooked my selfishness." Clare pulled away, pretended a need for 
a drink, and shielded her face behind the rim of her glass.

     "There, my dear, you *do* have a valid point." His tone sounded indulgent, 
and he reached out to intercept Clare's drink and pry the makeshift barrier from 
her grip. "Look at me, Clare." She did, meeting his eyes with a proud gaze, and 
LaCroix searched her features, hunting once more for a sign of the secrets she 
buried beneath the surface. 

     He kissed her as though he cherished the taste of her lips. His long 
fingers cupped her face, and Clare encouragingly wrapped her digits around his as she 
returned the languorous contact. LaCroix broke away slightly, but remained 
close enough that she could feel his cool breath tingle her moistened lips as he 
whispered to her passionately. "I look at you, and I see my past, present and 
future. You are with me, even when we are apart. You consume my thoughts, 
my fantasies, and what remains of this paltry heart that you insist still 
exists," he confessed. LaCroix's eyes narrowed cautiously as he studied the elements 
of her reaction, searching for signs of rejection. "I've fought these shackles for 
centuries, and yet it seems to make no difference how I rail against this 
tyrannical emotion. I want you. I need you. I feel... destined to crave the 
sensation of your soul flowing through me throughout eternity. I ache to own 
part of you - to be part of you. How important to me do you think you are, Clare?" 

     "Perhaps as important as you have become to me," she said wonderingly. 
"You said that when I lose someone I love, my first instinct is to run away. The 
last time we were together in London, I felt that you saw me as nothing more 
than a pleasant diversion. I wanted more, some sign that I wasn't there in vain. 
Love...unlike you, I find nothing abhorrent in the experience when it is shared. 
But if love goes unrequited - that is torture. To forsake my freedom, my 
control, and my identity for the sake of a person who thinks no more of me than a 
convenient friend?" Clare grimaced and shook her head determinedly. "I 
couldn't risk that."

     An expression of triumph and desire transformed LaCroix's mouth from a 
stern line into a seductive curve. "When you left London so abruptly, you were 
running away from me." He released a throaty chuckle. 

     "I don't know what you find so amusing. We were fools to let that moment 
pass unexplored," Clare protested. 

     "Then, by all means, let us explore this moment to its fullest," LaCroix 
said huskily, then tenderly kissed either corner of her mouth before meeting her lips 
in a ravaging caress. "What was my greatest failure in London that made you so 
determined to leave?"

     Clare closed her eyes, rubbing her cheek longingly against LaCroix's as she 
whispered in his ear. "I wanted you to tell me not to go."

     He pulled her into his arms, enveloping her in a fierce, yet gentle, 
embrace. One of LaCroix's hands curled around her neck, his thumb lightly stroking 
Clare's jaw. His other hand buried itself in her hair where it brushed against 
her upper back. "Stay with me," he said simply.  "Please."

     Clare searched his gaze, and the emotions she found there seemed to reach 
out, swarm and consume her. For the first time in thousands of years, her 
deathly cold skin felt bathed in warmth. She tightened her arms about him, as 
though the sensation was so powerful  that she could transfer it by physical 
contact alone. Her voice leapt out of her throat in a fervent promise. "Oh, yes. 
I love you."

     How could she resist?

****************************************************************
End of Part Twenty

October 5, 1996

     There was an unholy light that pained Nick's eyes as he cracked them open. 
Heat suffused his face, and he heard panicked shouts coming from a distance. 
There was pain.   It was everywhere, covering the entire 
surface of his skin, clawing at him from the inside out in splinters of sharp 
sensation. With dawning horror, Nick realized that he was on fire.

     his mind tripped over the thought as he experienced 
an explosive fever throughout his whole being. Death closed about him, sucking 
at his spirit, his own fire that cried instinctively for escape. For an instant, 
Nick let the thought tantalize him. 

    Then that moment passed in a rush of cool, fresh air, blowing from 
somewhere outside his fiery prison. The urge to survive overcame him all at 
once.  he thought as 
the image of Natalie flashed through his head.  
Nick pictured LaCroix as he'd seen him last, cursing Nick from his sight. 
 

     Nick tried to ease his hands in front of his chest where the steering wheel 
to the Cadillac crushed him into the driver's seat.  
He wedged his hands before him, screaming at the agony that ensued. His hands 
seemed to ignite in flames, but he continued to press onward. Nick pushed 
forward with all the passion and desperation for liberation from his flaming 
coffin he could scrape from the depths of his soul. As the metal binding him 
eased away with groaning sluggishness, Nick found he had enough leverage to 
move. 

     He felt distant, abstract, as his body soared in a rush of movement. His 
surroundings felt foreign, but the burning endured even as his body fell to the 
ground. The dew of early morning that beaded on each blade of grass met and 
embraced the heat of his flesh, and the pain faded for a brief respite. Then the 
moisture was consumed, and Nicholas writhed frantically as his flesh continued 
to scorch uncontrollably.

     There were shouts other than his own, closer now. The noise seemed to come 
from above him in a chorus of startled exclamations. Suddenly there was 
darkness. A shroud covered his body, muffling his cries to live, blocking out 
the light of the fire. Nick felt a weight upon him, hands pressing his body against 
the ground, rolling him against the surface.
 
     Nick struggled at the repeated sensation of entrapment and tried to jerk 
free, but he found himself too weak to prevail. The feeling of being caught afire 
deadened in his nerves, but he was too drained to care. He was exhausted, 
reduced to the coordination of a rag doll, and submitted to the forces working 
over him. They pushed him from one side, then to the other in a battle for 
direction. 

    The image of being cradled and rocked to sleep flitted through Nick's mind, 
soothing him. There was safety in the motion, a sense of well-being. Though his 
flesh felt raw, Nick pictured himself floating. He felt his consciousness 
fading. He released a sigh of aching contentment, then he gave in to the lullaby.

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

     Natalie hunched over her desk in the morgue, sighed, then raised her head 
in frustration. She squinted, then shook her head as though to clear her vision, 
then laughed at the old habit. There was nothing wrong with her eyes - they didn't 
get tired from endless focusing over stage after stage of microscope slides, 
searching for the tiniest of details that might make or break an investigation 
anymore. Her eyes weren't tired now. Her thoughts were simply baffled by what 
she was seeing.

     They were new electron micrographs of a blood sample from one of the two 
rodents that had survived the vampire rat incident several weeks earlier. She'd 
done a round of images the night Jennifer Schanke had been shot, and the results 
had been intriguing and informative. The images from this one rat had been 
unusual, though. They hadn't conformed with the others, and Natalie assumed 
she'd made a mistake labeling her samples. 

     She made a return visit to the lab as an excuse to be out of the office in 
the early hours of the evening, just in case Vetter or VanCoogan tried to corner her 
into an impromptu meeting. Natalie couldn't imagine handling an 'evaluation' of  
the Coroner's Office's recent bad publicity or hearing veiled threats about how 
the continued thefts of bodies from the morgue had placed her department in the 
hot seat. Not tonight. She couldn't picture having a conversation with either 
man at this point where she could stay in control.  Natalie promised 
herself, 

     To Natalie's surprise, the new sample from the rat displayed the same 
peculiar results. The blood from the rodent evidenced signs of the vampire 
effect. That wouldn't be so strange considering the nature of her experiments; 
Natalie would have expected this exact result had it been another test animal. 
The blood had come from the breeding doe, however. Natalie had only set aside 
control rats for breeding, so the blood sample should show nothing out of the 
ordinary.

     To the contrary, the doe's blood showed an immune response to the vampire 
element. Somehow, the rat had been contaminated during the period she was out 
of her cage - but how?

      Five animals had been on the loose altogether: this rat, another control 
doe, two males receiving injections of Natalie's vampire blood, and the undead 
rodent. The male and female who had come in contact with the vampire rat had 
been swiftly killed, and Natalie had destroyed the bodies immediately. It was 
doubtful that her control doe showing signs of the vampire element  acquired it 
directly from the vampire rodent. Natalie hadn't observed any physical damage 
the doe at the time of the incident. She suspected the surviving female rat had 
most likely obtained the vampire moiety  from the surviving male, who had been 
receiving injections of Natalie's blood.

    Here again, Natalie had noted a lack of bite marks or injuries on both 
creatures - how had it traveled from one animal to another? Natalie tapped her 
pen against the desk in a rough staccato. She felt edgy and restless; she'd been 
this way all day. 

     Nick had said that the original copies of Maeven's experiments at NeoGen 
Corporation in creating vampire-like creatures from mortals indicated that she 
had incorporated a mutant strain of Haemophilus bacteria, so Natalie had 
directed her experiment along the lines of bacterial infections. 
 Natalie wondered. She stood abruptly, walking over to a stack of 
reference books she had stored away for hunting down pieces of medical and forensic 
trivia.

     Flipping open a tome devoted to medical microbiology, Natalie turned to the 
chapter devoted to pathogens of this particular genus:

     "Haemophilus spp. capable of causing disease in humans do so through a 
variety of methods, including aspiration of respiratory droplets, penetration of 
the epithelial tissue of the nose and mouth, contamination of open wounds, and 
sexual transmission."


     Natalie paused in her reading, a bell ringing in her head at the above 
sentence.  She began to intently 
scribble ideas into her lab notebook for later reference. She probably wouldn't 
be able to stop by the apartment tonight, but tomorrow...

     The morgue doors burst open, revealing Barney and two forensic technicians 
briskly wheeling a gurney into the morgue bearing the familiar black bag of one 
of her 'patients.' 

      "Careful!" Barney cautioned as the techs lifted the bag to an examination 
table. "Watch the tear!" He turned to Natalie, explaining, "We caught it on the 
side of the van door on the way out - ripped the hell out of it, and this is a 
messy case, too."

     Natalie knew this already. She became aware of the blood the second they 
rolled through the doors. It smelled fresh and sweet. Her nostrils flared, and 
Natalie rushed forward, drawn in by the aroma. A sense of expectation prickled 
at her skin, and she realized she was hungry.

     No, not hungry - on fire. She was on fire for the blood. She wanted it so 
badly she could taste -

     "Doctor Lambert?" one of the technicians asked in a worried voice. "Are you 
okay?"

      Natalie clutched fiercely at the exam table, using such force she could 
swear she'd left indentations of her fingers. 

      Her voice slightly weak and shaking, she replied, "I'm fine. I just 
realized I'd 
skipped dinner."

     Barney shook his head ruefully. "Well, this'll kill your appetite, not to 
worry."

      Natalie's thoughts countered wickedly, and she licked her 
upper lip in a swift, nervous gesture.

      "It was a drive-by," Barney continued his description. "Multiple gunshot 
wounds - head, chest, legs - I don't think there was a major artery left un-
severed."

     The sight of the techs lifting the black plastic package, transferring it 
to the stainless trough-rimmed table, arrested Natalie. She watched intently as a 
chain of drops dribbled across the floor, leaving a path that she found fascinating 
and precious, as though the workers had dropped a ruby necklace.

     "We wrapped the body up as soon as we were on scene," Barney concluded 
while the techs gestured their farewells and left the room. "The sky broke open 
in a downpour even as we closed the van. There was hardly a chance to scour 
the scene before the rain damaged the area."

     Natalie nodded distantly as her hands gravitated to the body bag's zipper. 
"I just remembered that Pharmacology should have some tests results ready for me, 
Barney. Why don't you go pick them up while I start working on this?"

     Barney shrugged. "Sure. Whatever you say, Doctor Lambert."

     She didn't watch the assistant leave, choosing to sense his departure 
instead. Natalie parted the sides of the bags with a sense of pulsing excitement. It 
was just as Barney had depicted - major arteries severed by bullets, leaving the 
blood to rush in a massive exodus from the artificial orifices and paint the body red.

     Natalie swallowed reflexively, watching the swirls of red collected in the 
bottom of the plastic enclosure. A steady rivulet of blood drained from the tear 
in the side of the bag, gradually filling the moat along the edge of the table. 
 her mind screamed. 

       She released a small sob as she felt something slightly warm and wet 
encounter her fingertips where they clutched the table rim. Natalie looked down, 
blinking in shock as she observed the victim's blood bathing her nails. She 
snatched her soiled hands back, staring at the stains in horror and a growing 
sense of uninhibited desire. Her eyes began to glitter as one scarlet-tipped 
hand drifted closer, closer, to her face, enraptured. 

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

     It was time for Eddie Shaker to have a bath. He had one every day, always 
administered by the precise hands of his caretaker, to ensure his cleanliness. 
His caretaker wanted Eddie to learn the value of the absence of dirt and grime. He 
had, reluctantly at first, resented the forced treatments and lectures on filth, 
but now he was proud to be untainted.

     Eddie thought back over the years, the time almost two decades before when 
he would live in the streets, sleeping by sewer drains and trash receptacles, 
wallowing in unspeakable squalor. The memory could make Eddie cry; he was 
ashamed of what he had been. How had his caretaker described him? - a pig, a 
slug - he had been an animal good for nothing but rolling in dirt and slime.

     Eddie was a changed man. He welcomed his baths excitedly, always eager to 
submerse himself in water that scalded his flesh and feel the scratch of the 
wire brushes against his skin. Then the disinfectants - they varied over time - there 
were gritty cleansers, alcohol, and different forms of soap - all alike in the 
manner that they burned his skin. The pain, Eddie's caretaker taught him, came 
because it was working. The cleaner he was, the more Eddie hurt. 

     It had taken years for him to understand the logic, the reason, of his 
daily ritual, but with acceptance, Eddie's needs transformed. His home was a square 
room, three meters by three meters, and the walls, floor and ceiling were 
paneled seamlessly in white. At first, the unchanging color had felt oppressive and 
stark. Eddie loved his white room now. It was pure and wholesome, just like his body. 

     Most of the time.

     The filth seemed to follow him. Dust would appear suddenly, driving Eddie 
to despair. He would discover stains blemishing his spotless surroundings, then 
he would plead with his caretaker for the opportunity to eradicate the dirt. 
Sometimes his caretaker would acquiesce, giving Eddie a brush or cloth so he 
could earnestly scrub at the marks for hours. Once, his caretaker had given 
Eddie a rag with which to rub the soiled areas, but the stains appeared to 
enlarge, explode, as he worked. 

     When his caretaker saw the defamation, he had turned the full force of his 
outrage upon Eddie. The disgrace had been overwhelming. He wanted so badly 
to be unpolluted, to please his caretaker and earn his approval, yet Eddie 
continued to act as if he was no better than a foul worm that crawled through 
the earth, failing again and again. He begged for forgiveness, asking desperately 
for his caretaker's help.

     That bath, his caretaker had doused him in lye. 

     Eddie's raw skin seared and screamed at the pain. It was debilitating - so 
torturous he couldn't stand - but as he fell to his knees, Eddie smiled. He saw 
his caretaker smile back, then felt a caress on his head, and Eddie knew he was 
getting better.


     He was clean.

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

     Nick became aware of strained voices as his senses began to gradually focus 
from black to Technicolor. 

     "Dammit, Beth! The car phone's not working! I keep getting a message about 
interference!"

     "Why don't you keep trying, Steve? I'll take the kids, and look for a pay 
phone so we can ring for an ambulance."

      There was a sigh of relief. "Yeah, get the kids out of here," Steve 
agreed, watching sadly as their six year-old daughter wept into his wife's chest. He 
glanced to the side towards his son, the elder child by three years.  Steve thought as he shook his head. Steve had removed the 
wool blanket from the body in order to check if the flames were completely 
doused, and the first words out the boy's mouth had been, "Gross! Is he dead? 
Cool! Wait 'til I tell the guys at school Monday!" 

     Steve had sent his son a stern look, indicating that such irreverence was 
unappreciated, and his son hadn't uttered another word since. Now, Steve 
observed that while the faulty cell phone had occupied Beth and his attention, 
the boy had inched forward and was prodding the still, scorched form on the 
ground with a sneakered foot.  Steve grimaced, visions of therapy bills dancing in 
his head. 

     The adrenaline continued to course through his veins from the near-
collision with the fallen man's car. Steve recalled the sensation of the world 
becoming a stop-motion camera sequence as the green Cadillac hurled out of the 
darkness toward their van. Steve had given a throaty shout as Beth screamed, then 
slammed on his brakes. The Cadillac had done the rest, narrowly swerving to fly 
past their vehicle and careen head on into a telephone post. The crash had 
created a sickening cacophony of twisting steel and shattering glass.

     Steve sat numbly behind the steering wheel of his mini-van for a few 
seconds, then became aware of Beth calling to the kids, demanding to know if 
they were injured. Once his mind computed that his family was okay, Steve then 
examined his surroundings. That's when the Cadillac fell into his scope of 
vision again, and Steve saw it catch fire. 

     He cursed and unfastened his seatbelt, climbed urgently past his children's 
seats and burrowed through their camping gear. Pulling a large, thick wool 
blanket free of one pack, Steve ignored his wife's questions and his kids' 
exclamations as he bailed out the mini-van's back door and sprinted for the 
burning car.

     When Steve had run about twenty meters, the other vehicle started to creak 
and moan as the flames consumed it. He realized his family had followed him, 
and they were too close should the Cadillac explode. 

     He whirled around and yelled, "Stay back!" Seeing his wife and children 
slow, then stop, Steve turned his attention back to the fiery crash, picking out 
the sagging blond head of the driver.  he worried, feeling the panic creep over him.  

     Steve debated for a second, then clapped his hands together. "Beth! There 
should be a crowbar under the van's floorboard with the spare tire and jack. Get 
it!"

     Beth shouted her agreement, and Steve moved closer to the Cadillac, judging 
his chances of prying one of the doors open. A gust of the cool night air swept 
over him, then a wave of heat from the car took its place.  his 
thoughts whirled, 

     Steve's curse was blocked out by the sound of the Cadillac's roof splitting 
open. A blazing figure hurled from the wreckage in a wide arch. The body 
appeared to soar, hanging in the air a second longer than seemed humanly 
possible, even if you were Michael Jordan, then tumbled to meet the ground 
with a dampened thud some distance away.

    They all hustled toward him - Steve, Beth, Samantha and Tim - each one 
compelled despite fear or revulsion, maybe even because of them, to race to the 
man's side.

      The car's driver rolled on the grass, his clothes, hands, perhaps his 
whole body on fire. Steve threw the wool blanket over him to help kill the flames. The 
night was still windy and carried the threat of a rainstorm coming fast, so he 
dropped on top of the blanket and the flailing driver, using his weight to keep 
the strong bursts of wind from reaching underneath the heavy material and 
feeding the fire.

     "Did you see that?" he heard Tim exclaim.

     Samantha didn't answer. The man underneath the blanket began to scream, 
and she dissolved into tears. She wanted her mother, but Mum had joined Dad in 
pushing the screaming man from side to side over the ground. Samantha turned 
next to her brother out of instinct. Even though she was only six, she knew he 
was a jerk and would probably just make fun of her.

     Tim looked down at his sister in excitement. He couldn't believe what was 
happening. It was like something on TV, only their Dad and Mum were the 
heroes! He wanted to share his pride with someone, and his sister, crybaby that 
she was, was the only available listener. Tim was ready to let loose an 
impressed whoop at their parents' heroics, but Samantha's expression gave him pause.

     She looked so upset and lost, with parallel lines of tears marking her 
cheeks and her lips pressed together stubbornly so she wouldn't cry out loud, that Tim 
felt bad for his sister. She was a kid, after all, and she was trying to be 
brave. He felt a small glow of respect for Samantha at that, and reached out to put an 
arm around her shoulders. It was practically a hug. Though Tim would later deny 
experiencing any sympathy for his sibling, for that moment, he loved her. The 
second Mum was free, however, Tim jumped away as though Samantha was 
contagious.

     Steve and Beth were amazed: the driver seemed so strong, so difficult to 
control, that it almost looked easier to let him go and deal with the flames 
alone rather than be hurt themselves. They still persevered, until, finally, the man 
stopped struggling and let them help.

     They pushed and pulled at the blanketed form as they fought down the heat. 
Minutes passed, and Beth and Steve let go simultaneously, somehow knowing 
the job was done. They exchanged a look, then Beth turned toward the children. 
She caught Tim moving away from comforting his sister and made a mental 
note to remember the sight the next time her son drove her crazy. Beth gave the 
boy a knowing smile, then enveloped Samantha in her own embrace.

     Steve partially unwrapped the blanket from the injured man. His eyebrows 
were scorched away, and the flesh of his face was blistered and blackened. It 
appeared the fire had consumed the man's clothing for the most part, leaving 
fragments of material embedded between rippled tissue that was beginning to 
ooze a reddish fluid.

     Steve swallowed the bile as it rose in his throat and turned away. The guy 
looked dead - how could he be alive? The thought of searching for a pulse and 
finding otherwise made Steve shudder, but he bent down anyway, laying three 
fingers along the man's throat. He waited for several minutes, trying to block 
out the texture of the charred skin beneath his fingertips. He felt no pulse of 
blood, and considered how, if the man was remotely conscious, Steve's touch ought to 
have him screaming bloody murder. 

     So Steve walked briskly back to the minivan and grabbed the car phone 
they'd invested in for just this sort of emergency, only to find that it was on 
the fritz. He told Beth, she suggested taking the kids and looking for another phone 
to call the authorities, and Steve caught Tim messing with the burnt body.

     "Tim! Get away from him! Show some respect!"

     "But, Dad! I thought I saw him move! He may need our help!"

     "I couldn't find any sign of life, son, I'm sorry. Your mother and I are 
going to call for emergency services. If there's anything that can be done for him, 
it's their job to handle it. Just leave the poor man alone," Steve commanded his son 
firmly.

     "O-kay," Tim said hesitantly. He took a step back, scuffing his sneaker toe 
in the grass nearby then began to turn to comply with Mum's call to join her and 
Samantha in the van.

      The dead man's eyes flew open, his pupils shining like greenish-yellow 
beacons, and one blistered hand seized the boy's ankle, tripping him so that he 
fell face first into the ground. Tim screamed, terrified out of his mind, then 
let out a pitiful wail of fear.

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

     Steve rushed forward defiantly, striking out at this unnatural man who 
frightened his son. He tore at the burnt man's arm without restraint. The man 
grunted in pain, releasing his hold on Tim. The boy ran to the mini-van to hide 
without looking back.

     Steve glared angrily at the injured man, his sympathy for his pain rapidly 
evaporating. 

     The man then croaked careful words through cracked lips. "No ambulance. 
Please. I'll be fine."

     "Oh, for crying out loud!" Steve said dismissively. "What? Are you drunk? 
Fella, you were, for all intents and purposes, dead for a minute there - I'm not 
taking your word for it that you're gonna be 'fine'!"

     Beth joined Steve again with a worried frown. "What happened? Tim is in 
the back of the van, shaking like a leaf. He's talking as if that other driver 
rose from the dead." She looked down and let out a startled gasp as she saw the topic 
of the conversation staring up at her with a calm, sentient gaze. "Oh, my God!"

     "He doesn't want us to get him any medical attention, Beth," Steve said 
derisively.

      She frowned at that information, then examined the injured driver 
carefully. "I hate to say it, Steve, but his burns don't look nearly as severe as I 
thought before."

     Nick pulled the blanket tightly around his torso, then he tentatively 
stood. "It could have been the heat of the moment," he commented wryly.

     Steve was thinking the same thing  - the man's injuries seemed to be 
melting away as they spoke, making him feel foolish for pronouncing the driver dead a 
few minutes before. That embarrassment changed into resentment for the threat 
this man had posed to his family in the first place. "You may not want an 
ambulance, but I want the police! That was reckless driving - you could have 
gotten us all killed!"

     "Your family," the man asked urgently, his voice stronger than before, 
"they're all unharmed?"

     "Yes," Beth allowed softly. "The kids don't have a scratch, and neither 
does our van. We're simply upset and concerned." She sent a warning look her 
husband's way to watch his temper. When she turned to look at the injured man 
once more, the change was unmistakable. The redness had vanished by half, and 
the blistered flesh appeared to be literally melting away! Mesmerized, Beth 
stretched out an arm to touch a section where the driver's skin looked newly 
unblemished, but he moved away before she made contact.

     Nick saw the suspicion in their eyes and experienced a now-familiar pang of 
worry. His escape from the Caddy (Nick felt a sharp sense of loss at what must 
have been the total ruin of his favorite car) and his rapid healing - this 
family had seen too much. The boy had even witnessed a trace of the vampire when 
Nick had first opened his eyes.

     Everything had to be fixed.

     The vision of Amy Martin as LaCroix drained her life away flashed through 
Nick's head. She'd been a quiet, unassuming woman, meek and easily led. 
Controlling her thoughts, blanking out everything that she'd seen concerning 
Louis Secour's death should have been a snap of the fingers. Nick felt justified 
in his anger at her death, for he honestly believed her only crime was to be in 
the wrong place at the wrong time.

     This family was no different. All it would have taken was a second's 
difference, and their lives would have never intersected. Nick wouldn't be 
confronted with this 'What are you?' dilemma again. The thought made him feel 
weak from the inside out.  he cursed himself. 

     The thought of hunger brought the inevitable demand for satisfaction. He 
was starving. His recent trauma had tripled the typical hunger, transforming his 
bloodlust into a palpable ache throughout his entire being. He refused the 
woman's concerned touch  because he was so desperate for a drink, any drink, 
that the vision of her wrist a centimeter closer had Nick sinking his fangs into 
her flesh and gorging. It was better to move away from the couple.  

     Nick clung to the names as though they were lifelines - Steve and Beth's 
lifelines. Think of them as people, as portraits of humanity rather than 
nameless objects, and it became that much harder to succumb to the temptation to kill 
them. Think of them as a family. Think of them as the people who saved you 
temporarily from damnation, but never, never think of them as an acceptable 
sacrifice. Never risk considering their deaths to be a necessary evil. Nick had 
fallen into that trap before. There had to be another way. 

     He glanced inside the mini-van windows and observed two small figures 
huddled on the floor against a collection of equipment. Nick noted tents and 
kerosene lamps and commented when Beth and Steve caught up to him, "I want 
to thank you for rescuing me. You have my eternal gratitude - I mean that," Nick 
said, then added nonchalantly, "I see you've been camping."

     Steve, impressed by the man's expression of appreciation, was bewildered by 
the sudden subject change. "Yes. We were giving it a try as a family thing."

     Nick nodded slowly, giving both the husband and wife a hypnotic smile. "I 
gather that you called it quits because of the impending rain?"

     "No, it was really a matter of the woods at night frightening our daughter 
too much," Beth said slowly. "She thought there were monsters in the dark."

     "She was right," Nick said methodically. "It would be better if you forgot 
everything having to do with creatures of the night. You'd rather not remember 
the trip home. There were no accidents; nothing unusual happened. You stopped 
to help me with a flat tire. You now simply have the desire to escape the rain 
before it comes."

     "Are you sure that spare is going to work for you?" Steve asked in a dazed 
tone, no longer registering how he conversed with a man clad only in his 
family's blanket of the smoking automobile in the distance.

     "I'm certain," Nick assured him, then gestured at the side door of the van. 
"Would you mind if I said goodbye to the children?"

     "Go right ahead," Beth said with a smile as she slid the side door to the 
mini-van ajar.

     There was a sharp twist within Nick's chest as he looked down at the wide-
eyed and frightened faces.  he thought sadly, 
resolving to wipe the fear from their expressions as best he could. "Hi," He 
said softly as a beginning. 

     The girl didn't answer, but the boy mumbled a barely perceptible "Hi," in 
return.

     Nick grinned at them, keeping his expression friendly. The beast raged 
within him, hungry, tormenting him with the desire to appease his thirst, but Nick 
employed every ounce of his will to control the vampire. He forced his features 
into a non-threatening mask, so that even the little girl chose to peek at him 
curiously. 

     "I was just thanking your parents for helping me. Thank you both for being 
so patient."

     "Patient?" Samantha questioned in a small voice.

     "Yes," Nick said gently. "All of this waiting for your parents to help a 
stranger when it's the middle of the night - you both must be very sleepy."

     Tim fought back a sudden urge to yawn, and Samantha began to blink 
drowsily.

     "You look like you're ready to fall asleep," Nick finished in a cajoling 
tone. "I bet you won't remember anything about the trip home when you wake up."

     Samantha nodded through slitted eyes, while Tim muttered, "G'night," as he 
stretched out on the van floor.

     Nick smiled as he rolled the van's side door shut once more. Steve and Beth 
had already climbed into their respective front seats, and they wished him 
farewell before they drove off into the night.

     He felt a good measure of tension ease away once the mini-van was out of 
sight. Nick ran his hands over his arms, face and chest, finding the skin 
scalded and still painful to the touch, though his condition had improved tenfold. 

     Suddenly the urge to see Natalie was overpowering. He felt shame over this 
night's events and bewilderment at LaCroix's rejection, yet there was a sense of 
pride and thankfulness in Nick because of the near-fatal collision with that 
family. His triumph came partly from his ability to control his hunger despite 
the heavy temptation, the *need,* to feed. With Natalie and Secour, his control had 
failed him. That failure had almost cost Natalie her life and had cost Secour 
everything.

     The proof that he could control his dark side, that he could maintain a 
measure of balance even through trials, gave Nick a feeling of hope. If he was 
going to cope with this existence, live as a vampire - live with Natalie as a 
vampire - Nick desperately needed that control.

     Another factor in his feelings of victory came from the realization that, 
yes, he did want to live. The world still had sights and challenges to offer, and he 
wanted to experience them to their fullest. He wanted to tell Natalie everything 
- he'd been wrong to not tell her about his growing problem with Secour. They 
loved each other - there was no need for secrets between them, no need for 
shame.

    Once he saw Natalie, held her in his arms and shared how he trusted her more 
than any other person in existence, maybe then Nick could discover some way to 
make peace with LaCroix.

     Nick turned around, his eager smile faltering as he absorbed the condition 
of his Caddy. The whole front end had crumpled to resemble a used Kleenex, no 
doubt meaning the suspension and frame was mangled beyond repair. The fire 
had scorched the paint job into a coat of black up to the side mirrors, and the 
convertible top had cooked down to the skeleton of its metal frame. The stench 
of burnt oil and rubber polluted the air, but fortunately, the flames had died 
into nothingness before they reached the gas tank. The rear end of the Cadillac - the 
predatory fins and the precious trunk space - remained pristine.

     There was grief in Nick's expression as he surveyed the damage. 

     Then it started to rain.

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

     Clare flew up to the roof of the Raven, savoring the sensation of the heavy 
raindrops splashing against her skin. She loved the rain. When it rained like 
tonight, only light clouds covering the night sky, when she could experience the wet 
kisses on her face even as she gazed at the moon and stars, Clare adored nature - 
every simplistic and complex, comforting and dangerous facet of it. 

     Had she still been in the Serengeti, Clare would have eschewed clothes 
altogether and been in the 'altogether.' Since she was in the city, she'd 
slipped into Lucien's shirt before venturing outside and upward. Clare's lips quirked 
happily. After all, he wasn't using it at the moment.

     The rain began to pour in heavy streams, plastering the black silk to her 
body and making her hair cling down her back in long ringlets. She spun around 
childishly, her feet sloshing the water of the rapidly forming puddles in 
careless glee.

      Clare thought happily.  She remembered the blueprints Vachon had mentioned leaving at 
her hotel. Clare still hadn't looked them over, but she needed to as soon as 
possible so that building could commence. She pictured her own private corner 
of wilderness for retreat, her haven in metropolis here with LaCroix, and Clare 
smiled in satisfaction. Eternity was good. 

     The frisson of revulsion and frenzy caught her by surprise.  Clare 
immediately became alert.  Just as suddenly as it came, the 
sensation passed. Clare's brow wrinkled in concern. It appeared that she was going to 
have to pay some close attention to her youngest vampire child very soon, unless 
Natalie chose to come to her for guidance first. 

     That was what Clare had been waiting for - she had learned a few lessons 
from her trials with Leila - but if the need existed, she would take matters 
into her own hands. That need seemed likely considering what she had gleaned from 
LaCroix tonight. Nick was experiencing some great torment, and Lucien was 
ignoring the urge to seek out his errant son with all his willpower. For Clare, 
whatever the nature of Nick's problem, it might affect Natalie. She would wait 
and see. In the meantime, there was a certain ancient vampire Clare intended to 
distract from his troubles.

     She felt LaCroix join her and turned around expectantly. At the sight of 
his expression at being forced to stand in the rain to find her, the way he radiated 
tension like a cat getting a bath, Clare laughed with pure joy. She walked 
toward him, then wound her arms about his neck, feeling the silk material of his gray 
robe already succumbing to the downpour. "It's a beautiful night," she 
announced.

     LaCroix didn't relent. "It's water, nothing more. If you wanted to get 
drenched, you could've stood in the shower and spared me the tribulation."

    Clare gestured to the richly starred sky, the moon the merest sliver of a 
crescent. "This is a tribulation? It's a glorious view! And the rain gives the 
air an earthy, sweet scent, even here amidst the concrete." A strong breeze twisted 
the soaked length of her hair, plastering a few strands against the damp skin of her 
cheek. "I love rain under a clear sky - it's magic!" She slipped her hands down 
over his shoulders, parting the sides of his robe in order to taste a path of 
raindrops down his chest before she glanced up at him with a sultry promise. 
"But if you really hate the rain, I could think of a few ways to help keep you dry."

     LaCroix's eyes flashed with tumultuous energy, as though lightning charged 
his hungry gaze. Clare stepped back and unbuttoned her borrowed silk shirt, 
tantalizingly peeling the fabric away from her body, then she attacked the knot 
of his belt. She slid her hands around the bare skin at his waist, pressing her 
naked form into his as she pressed her mouth to his chest once more.

     LaCroix closed his eyes momentarily as Clare worked her way lower. He 
shrugged his robe off his arms, then tangled his fingers in her wet hair, 
murmuring, "I see where appreciation for rainstorms is...growing on me."

*******************************************************************
    
     Nick ran a hand through his damp hair as he entered the loft. A quick 
survey revealed no sign of Natalie, but it was too early for her to be home from work, 
anyway. He still had another hour or so before she'd arrive. 

     Sidney approached, rubbing against Nick's wet leg, then sniffed in distaste 
at his mussed fur. A rapid bout of cat sneezes ensued, causing Nick to frown.  he mused as he moved into the kitchen to 
grab a bottle from the fridge. He gulped half its contents in rapid succession, 
then paused to add some cat food to Sidney's bowl. He took the bottle along 
with him as he headed upstairs for some clothes, pausing briefly to start the 
answering machine's playback.
     
     "Hey, Nick!" Schanke called from the recording. "Where are you? Clare and 
I've been working our tails off for some new leads in the Number murders. I 
wanna share the goods - *call me!* Hasta la bye bye!" 

     Nick grinned as he listened, dumping the sodden wool blanket and grabbing a 
dry towel. He didn't doubt that Schanke had something interesting to share, but 
talking with Nat was going to come first.

     The next message came from Commissioner Vetter, expressing his concern 
that he'd failed to catch Natalie during his visit to the Coroner's Office. Nick 
gave a wry grin as he pulled on a white cable-knit sweater and a pair of black 
jeans. 

     The answering machine beeped, and a third male voice leapt out from the 
recording as Nick padded barefoot downstairs.

     "Hello, this is Arthur Comstock with Townland Properties, and I'm trying to 
reach Doctor Natalie Lambert. There was a burst pipe in your apartment this 
morning, and maintenance was required to use a passkey to deal with the 
problem. Management was most alarmed to learn that you are keeping *rats* on 
the premises, Doctor Lambert. Their presence violates the terms of your lease, 
and we expect the rodents evacuated within the week. If you wish to discuss the 
matter further, my number is 555-6374."

     Nick rewound the tape and listened to the last message again as he took 
thoughtful sips from his bottle. He'd been under the impression that Natalie had 
ended the lease on her apartment just after she'd moved into the loft. It was 
unsettling to find out he'd been wrong and that Natalie hadn't said a word to 
him about holding on to the property.

     He erased the messages, then picked up the phone to make a very important 
call.

     "Hello? Aristotle? It's Nicholas." He paused, waiting through the man's 
response. "I have a delicate situation. I've wrecked my car, and I don't want 
the police involved. Do you have any connections who could pick it up 
immediately, then manage the reconstruction?" Nick listened to Aristotle's 
reply, then listed a location. "I owe you for this one. It's important. Oh, and 
Aristotle? Just in case any reports of the car come over police wires before your guys 
get to it, could you see that they get buried? I don't want anyone to know about this, 
and I don't want any trail that could lead back to me. Thanks." 

     His expression was still contemplative as he made his goodbyes and hung up 
the phone. Nick climbed the stairs again to put on some shoes. 

     His curiosity irresistible, Nick ventured out into the rainy night once 
more. He still had a key to her place and felt no qualms about letting himself inside. 
The odor struck his sensitive nostrils immediately. When the building manager 
said there were rats in Natalie's apartment, he hadn't exaggerated. There were 
dozens of cages stacked against one wall, each animal sporting an ear tag.

      Nick thought 
as his dismay fermented. He approached Natalie's desk, and his vision zeroed in 
on a stack of micrographs. Many had fragments circled in wax pencil, the backs 
of the images labeled with a date and reference number. At the bottom of the 
stack, Nick found micrographs marked with Natalie's name, then his own.

     Nick flipped back through the earlier, numbered photos, then whirled 
accusingly to stare at the cages. He examined a few of the rodents' ear tags, 
finding images that matched each identification number.

     He tossed the micrographs on the coffee table as he stalked to the kitchen. 
Nick grimaced to discover a biohazard container in prominent display on the 
counter. When he opened the refrigerator, Nick stood in stunned amazement as 
he took in the sight of several racks of blood samples on the lower shelves, 
some labeled with Nat's name and others with numbers. The top shelf carried bottles 
of blood, but somehow, Nick knew they didn't contain steer. He grabbed one, 
jerking the cork out with his teeth and spitting it to the floor.

     Nick drank. With each swallow of the human vintage, Nick's feelings of 
betrayal increased. 

     "Why?" he asked plaintively aloud, the chattering of the caged rats his 
only response. He trusted Natalie. He believed that she trusted him, yet everything 
in this apartment contradicted that faith. Nick needed to trust in her, more than 
anything. He needed her to believe in him unconditionally. 

     He took in a large gulp of blood, his expression warping bitterly. Now he 
didn't know what to think, or who to trust. His only remaining need that could 
be fulfilled easily was his thirst. He drank long and deeply, then stumbled back to 
the kitchen for another helping from Natalie's private stock.
 
    Nick needed to forget. To remember. To escape.

    He sprawled on the couch once more, lifting the bottle toward the photos 
littering the coffee table in a mock toast. Nick took in a chain of swallows, 
but still felt empty.

**********************************************************************
October 9, 1996

     "Nick? Are you home?" Natalie called as she entered the loft. Sidney let 
out a mewling sound, sneezed, and wrapped around her ankles. "No, of course he's 
not home, Lambert," she muttered aloud. "You don't feel him, do you? Wake 
up! You're not stumbling around blindly anymore! You're a *vampire,* and you 
feel..." Nat turned her head in the direction of Nick's desk. There, smiling up 
from a stack of paperwork, was Clare.

     "Grab a glass, and join me," her sire commanded. "You look stressed."

     Nat complied, dumping her briefcase and coat off at the kitchen table, then 
filled a goblet to the rim with the human vintage Clare had obviously toted 
along for the visit. "What on earth do I have to feel stressed about?" Natalie said 
sarcastically as she pulled up a chair. "My career is falling into ruins about 
my feet, I haven't heard a word from Nick in days - he might as well have fallen 
off the face of the earth. To top it all off, Sid has a cold."

     Clare smiled as the feline pranced forward at the sound of his name and 
brought the cat to sit on her lap. "Is that true? Poor kitty." Sidney made a 
noise of commiseration.

     Natalie tilted back her head, drawing in deep swallows of the blood. She 
closed her eyes for a tense moment, then released a shuddering sigh.

     "Slow down," Clare cautioned, then wiped at a small trickle of red that 
escaped the corner of her offspring's mouth. "It's not going anywhere."

     Nat jerked away from the contact. "I'm not a child!" she snarled. Clare 
stared at her steadily, making no reply. Natalie jumped to her feet and paced the 
floor for a few moments, her movements agitated. "I'm sorry. I don't know what my 
problem is. I just feel so..."

     Clare solemnly lifted Nat's abandoned glass into her reach. "Hungry?" she 
suggested softly. Natalie took the goblet and began drinking once more, yet 
continued to pace urgently about the floor. "You said that you haven't heard 
from Nick in days - that he might as well have fallen from the face of the 
earth," Clare commented casually. "How well have you looked?"

     Natalie scowled. "Okay, so I haven't done more than ask Schanke if he's 
heard anything," she admitted sourly, "but I'm not about to go crawling after 
LaCroix or Janette like some miserable orphan wanting porridge and beg for 
news. I have my pride."

      Clare thought ruefully, then focused on a name of interest. 
"What makes you think he went to Janette?" LaCroix had, of course, mentioned 
the circumstances of his former-daughter's return some time ago, but Clare 
hadn't given the woman much thought. Out of sight, out of mind.

     Natalie swigged back her glass' last swallow, then returned to the desk for 
a refill. "I don't," she said, but Nat's wandering eyes and doubtful body language 
betrayed her words. "He's with LaCroix." When Clare didn't agree with her 
statement immediately, Natalie's voice obtained a shrill, pleading note. "Nick 
*is* with LaCroix, isn't he?"

     "No," Clare stated, then noted the frown that marred the other woman's 
features. "That worries you, doesn't it?" 

     "Worry? I don't know. One night Nick's here - I'm unaware of any problem - 
then he disappears for three days.  Do you think I should I be worried?" Natalie 
countered sarcastically, then, deflating, she slumped into her seat again. 
Natalie's shoulders curled forward as though she carried a grave weight, and her face 
seemed weary from the rigors of emotional overload. "I don't know what to 
think, or what to feel...Lately, most of the time I can't seem to keep track of 
what I am, or who I am. It's like I'm on the edge of some steep cliff, and the ground 
is collapsing beneath my feet..." Natalie's eyes were glowing brightly. They 
shuttered closed, and she took a deep, steadying breath.

      Clare reached out to touch the other woman's elbow in concern. "I've 
allowed you a generous measure of independence during this adjustment period, 
only offering my advice and care when you came to me, because I thought that 
would be for the best. I think, perhaps, I have made a mistake in being too 
lenient. You are not a child, and I don't particularly want to treat you as 
such. In our relationship, I believe that we've respected each other so far, so please 
- don't be offended when I say you are not handling this situation well. You need 
help."

     Natalie stiffened. "What?"

     "You are struggling to control the vampire," Clare concluded. "I thought 
you were strong enough to deal with continuing the facade of your mortal lifestyle 
while accepting the darker ramifications of this existence. Obviously, I was 
mistaken."

     "No," Natalie said as she stubbornly shook her head.

     Her sire ignored the protest and continued speaking.  "I also thought 
Nicholas would help you with the transition, but apparently his idea of help involves 
motivational speeches rather than practical advice, and now he has placed his 
problems first." Clare paused, frowning at her offspring suspiciously. "He *is* 
aware that you're having difficulties, isn't he?"

    "I mentioned it," Natalie answered softly.

    "And what was his response? 'Don't fret, Nat, everything will be alright?' A 
peck on the check, and love conquers all obstacles?" Clare scoffed in disgust. 

    "Stop it. This isn't like you."

    "Because I'm not smiling sweetly and patting your hand? Think, Natalie. You 
say you're on the edge of a cliff, and you are scared to death of falling. The 
point has escaped you that you are a *vampire* now. You are supposed to fall, then 
rise again."

    "You want me to give in," Natalie stated in sudden realization, then 
protested with a note of violent panic and fear in her voice. "You think I should just 
let go and run wild. What? Rip out the throats of a few homeless people so I'll 
*sleep* better during the day?! No! I can't! I won't!"

     "You will," Clare corrected calmly, "because that is the nature of your 
existence now. I have coddled you, and I have let you have free reign because 
you are an intelligent woman, Natalie. You know the truth, even if you've let 
mortal morality and Nicholas' own peccadilloes cloud your reason. Why do you 
shake uncontrollably every time you attend a crime scene? Why do you catch 
yourself giving lingering glances to the victim's wounds over your examination 
table? Why is that desperate look in your eyes now? Because you hunger. You 
need. The beast is struggling in you for release, and you have no idea how to 
use it to your advantage."

     "I don't *want* to use it. I want to smother it. I want to stop giving in 
to the temptation," Natalie insisted coldly. "I thought you understood, accepted that, 
even."

     Clare sighed, then cradled Nat's face in her hands while staring honestly 
into her eyes. "You don't have a choice. You're going to snap, Natalie. You can't run 
away from this interminably. The night is going to come when you give in to 
what you are, irregardless of what you want, unless someone intervenes. What 
if it happens in the middle of the precinct? Who will your victim be? Who will 
see you?"

     Natalie lowered her eyes, saying softly, insistently, "I think you should 
go before the sun rises."

    "Let me help you, Natalie," Clare argued. "This doesn't have to be a 
question of good or evil, if that is what troubles you. This is a matter of survival. 
Protect yourself."

    "Please!" Nat pleaded sharply. "I'll consider what you've said, Clare. I 
just want to be alone right now."

     "Fine." Clare stood, relenting, though she carried an air of frank 
disapproval. "I don't think you will have company problems in your immediate future. 
The files and the paperwork are for Nick, when and if he eventually decides to 
return." 

    Natalie shifted uneasily at her sire's suggestion, then made a large 
production out of pouring another glassful of blood as Clare walked toward the door. 

    The elder vampire paused at the stair exit as though struck by a last-second 
thought. "When you finish the bottle, Natalie...Recycle."

     Nat gazed numbly at her glass, already half-drained in a matter of seconds. 
Clare had gone, but they both knew good and well that Natalie couldn't resist 
the lure of human blood as long as it was there, in the open and waiting. What did 
that say for her willpower? 

     She suddenly felt chilled, though Natalie knew it was just her imagination. 
Vampires didn't experience cold. Her thoughts swam in a daze, darting around 
her sire's words and predictions.  Natalie wondered.  She took another drag from the goblet, 
rendering it empty, then impatiently tossed it aside. As the crack of shattering 
glass danced in her ears, Natalie began to drink straight from the bottle. 
More...More...She kept swallowing, even after the container was dry. 

     Nat realized this with a sense of shock, then let the bottle fall over on 
the desk. It rolled across the surface, coming to rest with the neck suspended over 
the stack of police files. A lone, ruby drop stretched, then plunged off the rim 
of the container, and Natalie jutted out a finger to catch the fluid before it hit 
the paper surface. She let the blood pool on her finger, watching hypnotically as 
the scarlet bead seemed to feel alive against her skin. The scent pulsed in her 
nostril. It was so small, but overpowering, tangible, everything.

     Natalie finally brought her finger to her mouth in swift urgency. She 
brushed the liquid over her lips and slowly licked them clean, then simply sat there, 
sucking on her index finger in remembrance of the taste. Time passed, and the 
phone rang. She let the answering machine pick up. It wasn't Nick.

     She continued to sit while the first rays of morning filtered through the 
cracked window blinds. Sidney curled up at her feet, arranging his tail far away 
from the sharp pieces of glass littering the floor. Natalie still tasted her 
finger, but the blood was gone, long gone...and she was empty.

*******************************************************************
End of Part Twenty-One

October 9, 1996

     Clare found herself heading in the direction of the church after she left 
Natalie alone in the loft. There was no sign of Vachon, so she made herself at 
home. Carmen was enthroned upon the couch and began purring at her 
approach. Clare greeted her cat with cooing sounds, kicked off her shoes, then 
curled up next to the feline with a sigh.

     It had been a hell of a night.

      Clare thought furiously. 
She held Nick accountable for the majority of her tribulation. He'd disappeared 
since driving off from Secour's. LaCroix had seen Nicholas last, but refused to act 
curious about where his offspring was now or what he might be doing. 

     Clare had difficulty imagining why Nicholas had suddenly fallen prey to his 
guilt again after killing Secour. He'd had months to grow accustomed to the idea 
of the man's death. She'd actually believed Nick had become resigned to the 
necessity, but Natalie had given the impression that she was unaware of the 
threat from Louis Secour. Perhaps Nicholas had been holding back.

     LaCroix hadn't provided further illumination about what had happened at 
Secour's or what exactly had been said. He would not discuss that night, and 
Lucien could be very stubborn. The only item of interest that Clare had 
unearthed involved Amy Martin's unexpected arrival and subsequent death at 
LaCroix's hands.

     Clare hadn't been thrilled to hear that the woman had been killed. Amy 
Martin had been a key witness for Clare's very first case, and was scheduled to 
testify the next month in Victor Barger's double murder and attempted homicide 
trial. To have the victim of the attempted homicide dead now made for a pesky 
irritation.  Clare mused as she scratched the fur beneath Carmen's 
chin.  She laughed softly to 
herself. 

    Her thoughts moved on to the Number murders. Nicholas' disappearance had 
caused the most irritation on that score. Captain Reese wanted to know where he 
was. Schanke wanted to know where he was, and Clare, cursing herself for 
bothering, covered for Nicholas. Everyone at the precinct believed Nick was in 
Ohio, investigating the similar string of murders from the Fifties for a copycat 
link. She'd 'convinced' Reese and Schanke that the trip had been necessary. Each 
man 'believed' they'd spoken with Nicholas recently, but Clare was reaching the 
limits of her patience. She wasn't known for that trait, and if Nick did not 
return soon, his police career could rot as far as Clare was concerned.

     Carmen blinked hypnotically up at Clare, walked in a semi-circle, then 
rolled over on her back to display her voluminous belly fur. Clare tickled the soft 
down on the cat's stomach, snatching her hand back just in time to avoid Carmen's 
claws and fangs as she frenzied in feline pleasure. Clare eyed the animal's 
tummy critically, thinking Carmen was beginning to resemble a very fat cat.

     "Vachon has spoiled you, hasn't he?" she murmured aloud purposefully.

     "You weren't around to do it," the Spaniard's voice countered from the 
doorway, just as Clare had expected. She glanced up with a welcoming smile, as 
if this was *her* home, not his, causing Vachon to prop one hand on his hip, 
roll his eyes to the opposite side, then look at Clare defiantly. "Have you come to 
take Carmen back?"

     "Do you want me to?"

     "Right. As if I want to be chained to a cat." Vachon shrugged as though he 
didn't care what happened, but his gaze wandered back to where Carmen 
groomed her forepaws in a stately manner.

     "Right," Clare said knowingly.

     "She doesn't take up much space, though," he added suddenly, "and Carmen's 
laid back. She's not much hassle. It's not as if you saddled me with a 
Pomeranian. Actually, I don't mind having her around."

     "Good, because I believe she would like living here better than the Raven."

     Vachon made a choking sound. "You'd take Carmen to the Raven?" Clare 
nodded innocently. "To shed fur all over LaCroix?" She gave another innocent 
nod. Vachon grimaced. "Why don't you just toss the cat in the middle of an 
expressway? - she might actually survive *that* exposure."

     Clare acted oblivious. "Really, Javier. Carmen would only have to stay out 
of LaCroix's way until you build my house - I approve of your blueprints, by the 
way - how hard could that be?"

     "I think she's headed for trouble," the dark-haired vampire assured her.

     "You don't think LaCroix will like her?" Clare made a production out of 
appearing bewildered by his concern. "I'm sure after the first few hairballs, 
he'll grow completely accustomed -"

     "She's staying with me," Vachon said emphatically. "I insist."

     "Well...if you *insist.*"

      Vachon let out a mental groan, realizing that Clare had just plucked him 
like Jimi Hendrix's teeth on a six-string. She had never intended to drag Carmen to 
the Raven - she had manipulated him into volunteering.  
Vachon sighed, picking Carmen up as she began to scratch the upholstery. "So 
you want to break ground on the house as soon as possible?"

     Clare nodded. "If that doesn't interfere with your busy social schedule."

     Vachon gave her a full-fledged glare at that comment. "You never give it a 
rest, do you?"

      With the cat hooked over his shoulder and peering expectantly at the room 
as he turned his back, Javier opened one of his crates and popped out a bottle. 
He waggled the white label in Clare's direction, and she called, "Yes, I'd like 
some. Thank you."

     He pulled another bottle free before he turned around, saying in a 
chastising tone, "You know, I'd have more of a social schedule if you hadn't scared my 
date away." Vachon tossed the container in the direction of the sofa with an 
irritated swing. 

     Clare caught it deftly then popped the cork in one smooth movement. "I did 
no such thing." Vachon set Carmen down on an altar-like table as he sent his 
grand-sire a doubtful stare, then he took a swig from his own bottle. "I know 
this because I saw Ivy after I left the hospital. I specifically asked if she left 
the hospital because of me."

     Javier's swallow felt stuck in his throat. He grunted, then cleared it 
methodically. "You would. Did it ever occur to you, Clare, that Ivy isn't stupid 
enough to answer 'Because I don't like you' or 'You freak me out' to your face?"

     "Oh," Clare retorted regally, giving a disdainful sniff as she pulled at a 
loose thread on one sofa arm. "I gather you don't want to know what Ivy's excuse was, 
since you're so sure her departure was my fault."

     Vachon crossed his arms in front of his chest, responding with a wry twist 
of his lips. "I didn't say that."

     "Mmm-hmm..." Clare lingered over taking another drink, making the 
Spaniard wait impatiently. When she finally began talking, it was with a self-
satisfied grin. "Ivy indicated that she met a doctor who recognized her from 
before."

     "Before she became a vampire?" 

     Clare nodded. "Apparently, she convinced him she was a complete stranger, 
but the incident made her eager to leave the hospital," Clare pronounced, her 
expression reading, 'See? I told you that I was innocent.'

     "Fine," he said, raising an eyebrow. "That explains why she bailed on me at 
the hospital, but why haven't I seen her since? Where did you run into her, 
Clare?"

     "Such an accusatory tone, Javier," she reprimanded lightly. "It was just a 
little dark corner of the city where homeless individuals, junked hoods and 
heroin dealers play at having a life."

     "Junkies..." Vachon echoed absently. That information held some 
significance to him, so Clare made a note of it.

     "I was there to apprehend the man responsible for shooting Carmen's little 
girlfriend. Remember the child at the hospital?"

      He nodded. "Yeah - and at the hotel - not Goldilocks, but sleeping in your 
bed."

     "Correct. Ivy planned to 'eliminate' him, I believe. I had to stop her, 
unfortunately, but she was most helpful when I did. Not the slightest bit 
difficult, unlike some people." Clare looked pointedly at the Spaniard.

     He ignored her. "Where did Ivy go then?"

     Clare shrugged. "She said that she was coming here."

     "But she didn't," Vachon countered. "Why?"

     Clare sarcastically assumed a surprised expression. "That is a very good 
question!"

     He didn't appreciate how she joked at his expense. "Do you have any 
*helpful* observations, Clare?"

     The elder vampire immediately sobered. "Maybe I do intimidate your little 
friend, and perhaps she did encounter an old mortal buddy at the hospital, but I 
fail to see why that would cause Ivy to forget your address. You agree with me 
on that score, I see," Clare observed. "Do you also agree that there must be 
something more perfidious to the girl of which you are unaware?"

     Vachon scowled. "Okay, so she's kind of a mystery - kind of - but 
treacherous? Come on!"

     "How much do you really know about her? I learned from Domino that she 
hasn't lived at the studio for a while - has she been staying here? If not, 
where does Ivy go when the sun comes up?" Clare let the question trail off ominously.

     Vachon gave an exasperated sigh as he took over the other half of the 
couch. "You want to hear what I know about Ivy?" He tilted back his bottle, taking a 
rough swallow then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as the container 
became vertical again. "Okay. She was brought across almost sixteen years ago, 
here in Toronto, on Halloween. She was dying from shooting up a bad batch of 
heroin when her sire approached her. Ivy only remembers a voice - she thinks a 
male vampire brought her over, but he abandoned her right after," Javier said, 
then gave Clare a look that meant, 'Sound familiar?' before continuing. "She's 
never seen the guy. The first time Ivy even *talked* to other vampires was when 
she came back to Toronto. Carouche, vampire families - it's all new to her," he 
explained, causing Clare to elicit a thoughtful sound. "As for where she spends 
her days..." Vachon paused indecisively, clamping down on his upper lip and 
effectively ending his speech.

     Clare assumed her most commanding tone. "If you know something, tell me."

     He spoke frankly, but with obvious reluctance. "She's been living with 
Janette."

     His grand-sire's mouth dropped open. "Well, that *is* something."

     "They're good friends, according to Ivy," Vachon frowned, not completely 
convinced the description was true, at least on Janette's part. "Ivy's loyalties 
lie with her, and since Janette holds some enormous grudge where you're 
concerned..." he trailed off with a shrug.

     Clare looked askance at the implication. "What? You're part of the House of 
Montague? Oh, please!"

     "Janette *ordered* Ivy to have nothing to with me because of my 
relationship with you," Vachon argued.

     "Really? What about her work at the studio? What about Ivy coming to the 
hospital with you? That's *very* loyal." Clare obviously wasn't impressed.

     "From what I've seen, Ivy has done most of her work from Janette's 
townhouse," he reasoned, "and you have to admit there's no love lost between 
you and Cecilia."
          
     Clare's eyes narrowed into steely points. "That is an understatement. I 
gather Janette felt my relationship with Domino was no better."

     "It hasn't been, until recently," Vachon pointed out. "As for the hospital 
- I didn't tell Ivy you were going to be there until it was too late, and, yes," He 
steadily cut off Clare's next question, "it did bother her that she was seeing 
me against Janette's wishes."

     Clare downed a mouthful of blood, then pursed her lips together. "But Ivy 
couldn't resist your company," she teased.

     Vachon gestured about the room. "She's not here, Clare. I'm resistible." 

     "So you think she's forsaken you completely for Janette?"

     The Spaniard shook his head. "I don't know." Clare stared at him 
expectantly, waiting for elaboration. "I watched the townhouse a couple nights with no 
sign of her, okay?" Clare grinned, making Vachon demand defensively, "What?"

     "All that effort, Javier," she said in a light tone, then released a bubbly 
laugh. "I think it's sweet."

     Vachon got up from the couch as he let out a snort of aggravation. "Wow. 
Look at the time," he said flatly. "If you leave now, you can still make it to 
the Raven by sunrise."

      Clare's laughter froze at his tone. She calmly set her near-empty bottle 
on the floor beside the couch, slipped on her shoes, then stood. "Am I such a trial to 
you?"   

      The aura of bleakness that suddenly surrounded her caught Vachon by 
surprise. Her expression reminded him of their first meeting, and that wasn't 
good. "I don't understand what you mean," he said truthfully.

     "Do I truly annoy you, Vachon? Do I manipulate you to the point where you 
feel as though you are a marionette dancing to my tune?" The words flowed 
harshly, each phrase ending on a biting note. "Do I trample your will? Do you 
feel as though you have no freedom?"

     Vachon shook his head earnestly. "I've never felt that way. Where did this 
come from? It was just a crack, Clare." He studied the fierce set of her 
features for a careful moment. "Was there some reason you came here other than to talk 
about the cat, the house or Ivy?"

     She leaned her back against the door, her features lightly marred by sad 
shadows. "One question."

     "Anything."

     When Clare spoke, she sounded distant. "When your Angel brought you 
across, could you sense that she couldn't bear being a vampire? Was that why 
Leila gave herself up to the sun, or was it because she simply loathed me?"

     "I'm sorry. I don't have an answer for you," Vachon said softly, his voice 
flickering like one of the candles in the background. "If I felt anything then, 
I honestly can't remember it."

     Clare nodded slowly. Carmen had pranced to the door, winding her body 
sleekly around the elder vampire's feet. Clare bent down momentarily to rub the 
cat between the ears. "That's too bad," she commented absently before 
straightening. She gazed sincerely into his eyes before she made a swift exit. 
"I was hoping to learn from my mistakes."

     Vachon felt bereft as he stared at the closed door. He glanced down at the 
cat, who stared back with a steady patience. "That wasn't about me, was it?" he 
wondered aloud. Carmen produced a confident chirp, then moved to rub her 
cheeks methodically against one of his legs. Vachon picked the cat up and began 
to pet her, much to the animal's purring appreciation. "I didn't think so."

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

October 9, 1996

     Ivy shut the door to the office quietly behind her. She'd arrived at the 
House of Figaro just before sunrise, then spent an hour rummaging about downstairs 
and through the studio, looking for a spare bottle or two of blood. There 
weren't any to be found, probably because this was a place of business, hence the 
majority of the staff and clientele were mortal. Besides, stray blood stains 
played hell on the peau de soie. Ivy had the impression that only the late 
owner/designer had ever been allowed to indulge on the job. She imagined that 
Domino still had a notion of his sire's ghost leaping out disapprovingly from 
the drapes to catch the first sign of any infraction, so kept the cupboards bare. 
Ivy shrugged carelessly to herself. 

     She had a real, live, honest-to-goodness bogeyman of a sire ready to scare 
the hell out of her at the drop of a pin. The threat of a little spilt blood and a 
late fashion guru didn't even begin to phase her. Ivy was short one damn to give. 

     The downstairs rooms and upstairs work area proved bare of anything to 
satisfy her cravings, and Ivy was famished. She'd stayed away from Vachon's, 
still too uptight from her encounters at the hospital with her sire, then Mark. 
Having Clare claim Ivy's evening meal for police business hadn't exactly made 
her bouncy, either. Going to the church would have called for an explanation  
(Sure, Vachon was easygoing, but he didn't live in a hole - he would have 
wanted to hear *something*). Ivy was only in the mood for two things - lying or 
freaking out entirely. Neither seemed exactly fair to dump on Vachon at the 
moment. 

     Then there was her sire. He had to be watching her - why else would he 
shoot bleach up her veins and deliver threats, if he didn't intend to observe how she 
reacted? Who was really safe to see? Was it fair to lead her sire's watching 
eyes to anyone's doorstep?

     Ivy decided to not risk going to Janette and Robert's yet for that very 
reason. She had made a vague phone call to them the night before, telling Janette how 
she had encountered Mark (editing out the hospital location and that she'd gone 
there with Vachon). Janette had urged her to come home. 'Home.' That was the 
actual word Janette had used, as though Ivy actually belonged to their family. 
She'd smothered her urge to agree and run back to the townhouse, insisting that 
she needed to lay low and be alone for awhile. 'Needed,' Ivy had explained, not 
sharing how she felt any threat to them, especially Patrick. Maybe Janette liked 
her, was even fond of her, but would that affection hold up against any risk to 
Patrick's safety? Unlikely. Ivy was chained to her amended version of the truth, 
and she was getting pretty skilled at delivering it. 

      She kept a low profile for a couple days, sticking to the shadowed 
streets, scrounging for food like she'd done in her old, not-so-long-ago years as a 
loner. She spoke to no one, looked no one in the eye, and remained pretty much bored 
to tears. A small measure of confidence returned over this period, so Ivy risked 
returning to the studio. Since it appeared deserted, she estimated she could 
score a meal, get some work done, plus have a comfy spot to rest the day away. So far, 
the big plan hadn't met with total success.

     Ivy cursed softly as she bumped into a mannequin from behind, knocking it 
over with a crash. "Damn!"

     A light flickered on, bathing the room in a yellow glow. It was Domino, 
sacked out on the office couch, staring curiously at Ivy as his fingers caressed 
the lamp switch.

     "You're still in town?" he asked drowsily. 

     "Physically, yeah. Mentally, I'm in Fiji, sipping blood cocktails from a 
coconut shell, the warm, moist night air licking my skin..."

     "Oh, shut up," Domino groaned. "You're making me yearn for the smell of 
natives in grass skirts. You are a cruel girl, Ivy."

     Ivy couldn't resist a grin. "Feeling the urge to run away, too? It's not 
like you to use the words 'shut' and 'up' in the same sentence."

    Dom pulled himself to a seated position against the far arm of the leather 
sofa while motioning for Ivy to take the other side. "I can always be lured by the 
smell of cocoa butter. Promise me you'll remember to suggest Fiji again six 
months from now when I start screaming for location ideas to shoot the 
fall/winter print ads."

    Ivy offered him a mock salute. "Yes, sir, Domino, sir! So you're really 
claiming responsibility for the House of Newton's marketing campaign?" Dom 
had talked about creating an ad concept for the new accessories they were 
releasing this season instead of a full collection, but she thought it might 
have been wishful thinking on his part, like Cecilia's attempts at clothes design. 
She thought wrong.

    "Take a look at the proofs," Dom said as he gestured to the lightboard. "I 
was a good boy and spent last night developing film instead of dancing my heart out 
at the Raven. Those are my winning picks."

     Ivy looked at the slides with blossoming appreciation. "Wow. You *were* a 
good boy. I hate to admit I was an idiot, but I thought you just took pictures 
as a hobby."

     "Not quite. Figaro let me do shoots for his last three collections, and 
usually he was impressed." Domino moved to stand at her side, appearing proud to 
make the confession. "Since Cecilia has disappeared, thereby losing the 
opportunity to interfere, I figured I would keep on doing the same job. It helps 
that you're actually providing new designs to work with."

    "I guess it would," Ivy agreed with a cheeky grin, then pointed to a 
specific photo. "What's this?"

     For a second, Dom appeared embarrassed. "It was just a passing thought..."

     "Go on."

     "Since the House of Newton is only releasing some cabanawear, jewelry and 
other accessories instead of a full Spring line, we're hoping to break even 
financially and keep the name active until next season, right?"

     Ivy nodded. "Right."

     "Well," Dom said as he approached the desk, picking up a glossy file, "I 
remembered an idea Figaro was toying with before we came to Toronto."

     Ivy flipped through the papers and sketches with interest. "A perfume?"

    "Figaro had it developed, tested and was two months away from launching the 
scent full scale when he changed his mind."

     "Why?"

     "Figaro was one of those smells good/stinks kind of people. He never paid 
much attention to things like notes and undertones in a fragrance - all the ooh 
la la details, you know?" Ivy nodded encouragingly. "One night, he happened to 
glance at a description of the perfume. He caught the phrase 'echoes of fig 
leaves' and blew his top. The boss was great at mocking other people, but he 
loathed being the butt of a joke."

     "And he thought someone was making fun of his name," Ivy concluded.

     "Exactly. No one got to make fun of Figaro, except Figaro himself. The pity 
is 'Ich Bin Figaro' would have made a mint. Here - take a whiff." Domino picked 
up a melon-colored bottle fashioned out of frosted glass from the tabletop.

     Ivy sprayed some into the air and let the fumes waft under her nose. 
"Hmm...Yummy. It kind of smells familiar...like gardenias. I guess I smell the figs, 
too, and...something like...like..." Ivy gasped. "No! Stop the insanity!"

     Domino burst out laughing. "You guessed it. The chemist was a vampire. It 
was his way of giving something back to the Community."

    "But there's not actually blood in the perfume, is there? I know that little 
tidbit *cannot* be in the marketing description."

    Domino shook his head. "No, it's a synthetic compound created to *smell* 
like blood. You're right - including the real thing could have been a publicity 
nightmare. This way, the list of fragrance ingredients looks perfectly 
innocent."

    "And the consumers smell good enough to eat," Ivy teased. "I gather your 
idea is to release the perfume now."

   "I contacted the suppliers we were going to use before," Dom said. "We could 
have this in production and launched by early December."

    "Just in time for Christmas."

    "Just in time for Chanukah," Domino amended.

    "Just in time for dinner," Ivy concluded with a grin. "Do it! Why have you waited, 
Dom? You're in charge now. You hired me, remember?"

    "No...Cecilia okayed having you work here. It's just since she's been absent 
that I've taken some initiative."

    "So take some more!" Ivy declared. "Who cares if Cecilia is here or not?"

    Domino stood thoughtfully for a moment, then agreed. "No Cecilia - I think 
I'd drink to that idea."

     Ivy let out a shaky, hunger-laden breath. "Since you brought the subject 
up, you wouldn't have anything tasty lying around, would you? I am starved."

     "Lying around - no. That's what I have photo proofs for - to litter every 
nook and cranny of this office. Drinks, however, go in a specific, private place." 
Dom walked across the office with dramatic flourish. There was a faux fireplace 
against one wall with a Japanese sword displayed over the mantelpiece. "Figaro 
hated actual fires and would growl whenever someone suggested cozying up by 
one," Dom confided good-naturedly. "He reasoned that his clothing was highly 
flammable, so was he, so why tempt scorches?"

     "Pretty quick, your sire was," Ivy said as she settled down on the sofa for 
the demonstration.

    Domino smiled thoughtfully as he reminisced. "Like lightning, when it suited 
him. Few people could ever keep up. Figaro just went his own merry way rather 
that pick them up when they fell behind."

    "Sounds like he didn't keep friends long," Ivy commented.

     Dom shrugged, then leaned against the mantle ledge. "It varied. I kept up 
with him for almost two centuries, remember. It was a challenge, but he could 
be fun...and he was never alone, I might add. People came and went, but there 
were always people. Back to the point," he said gesturing anew to the fireplace. 
"Figaro loved this place on first sight. He declared it was perfect for a new 
salon, except the fireplaces must go. Well, sometimes the man could be 
astonishingly practical. He transformed them into cabinets." Domino pressed 
some kind of latch on the right side of the fireplace, then swung the mantel 
aside as though it was a door. Inside the former grate stood racks upon racks of 
bottles. "The whole secret door aspect played into Fig's sense of drama.'

     "So that's where the goods have been hiding! Downstairs, too?"

     "Downstairs, too." Domino nodded. "Any particular vintage preference?"

     Ivy snorted with a lack of grace or flair. "Oh, yeah. As if I've ever had 
the chance to form preferences. Your pick. Impress me."

     Domino's dark eyebrows drew together as he pretended to weigh his choices. 
Finally, he slipped a bottle free of its slot, then grabbed two blue crystal 
tumblers from the top shelf. "You know, it's not easy to impress the depressed," 
he said casually, handing Ivy a glass, "but this ought to do it."

     Ivy took a hesitant sample. Her eyes widened with surprise. "Get back! When 
did Figaro get a bottle's worth of blood from *him*?"

     "During his unfortunate incarceration," Dom confided. "Feeling good?"

     "Feeling funky...like I've got soul power." Ivy trailed her index finger 
thoughtfully around the rim of her glass. "Did you like your sire, Dom?"

     "Why do you ask?"

     "You said you followed Figaro for almost two hundred years - why? Was it 
just the bond, or something else?"

     "Oh, it was definitely more than just the bond," Domino declared with 
certainty as he reclaimed his side of the leather sofa. "Figaro didn't force 
people to stay, either. They could come or go, but they had to accept him as he was. 
Cecilia had the hardest time coping with that. She's the sort who craved his 
undivided attention, and when she didn't get what she wanted," Dom shrugged 
ruefully, "it wasn't pretty."

     "I can imagine," Ivy murmured into her tumbler. "Cecilia was brought across 
before you, right?"

   Domino nodded. "Only by a few years. She wasn't happy about that at 
all. Cecilia was meant to be an only child. When she was forced to share, there 
were... problems."

    Ivy noted the haunted cast to Dom's expression with curiosity. "She took her 
unhappiness out on you. I've seen some of her problems, you know. Didn't 
Figaro do anything about it?"

     "When he was paying attention, but like I intimated before," Domino said, 
giving her a sweet, careless grin, "Figaro didn't always 'pay attention.' "

     Ivy frowned, struggling to understand how Domino could be so accepting. 
"Didn't you resent that? Why didn't you just go your own way?" 

     "Because I loved him. I didn't want to leave. It may be difficult for you 
to believe, but I also love Cecilia," he admitted with a hint of sadness. "They 
both became part of who I am when I became a vampire."

    "You're right," Ivy said stiffly as she took another drink. She continued to 
speak, her voice starting low and confident, then gradually rising in tone and 
panic as her words burst forth in a rush. "I can't believe you. I don't want to 
believe that a sire affects what you are when they bring you across. I don't 
want part of that man in me. That darkness. His hate, his filth - it seems to slither 
over my skin, blinding me, choking me until I see nothing, feel nothing but his 
presence smothering me. I don't want to sense him. I don't want to know him. I 
wish the sound of his voice would crack in my head just once and dissolve into 
static. Into nothing." Ivy's calm and confidence that she'd nurtured over the 
past two days crumbled all at once, and she started to shake uncontrollably.

     Domino took the tumbler from her fingers and set it aside, his face full of 
surprise and concern. He eased her into his arms, letting her sob against his 
shoulder. "Hey, hey there...it's okay - vent, sniffle, talk, scream - whatever 
you need to do."

     After a few minutes, her tears abated somewhat, and Ivy began to blink at 
her blurry vision. She pulled back slightly and studied the streaks her crying had 
stained Domino's shirt. "I shouldn't talk about him. I shouldn't even be seeing 
you. It can only put you in danger."

    Dom's brow furrowed, and he played eye tag with Ivy for a few seconds 
before she finally met his gaze. "Danger from whom? Your sire?" he asked 
gently. Ivy nodded slowly, causing his curiosity to rise. "What kind of danger?" 
When she just stared at him bleakly instead of answering, Domino encouraged 
her to speak by saying, "I'm already a guy under the gun, you know - in danger 
aplenty when Cecilia shows up here again. You know she exists to make me 
miserable. Tell me what's wrong with your sire. It won't do me any harm," he 
promised, holding up his left hand as though he belonged to the vampire scouts.

    "The problem is, Dom, I have no idea if you're right." Ivy pulled back more, 
so she could sit with her knees tucked up against her chest, her arms wrapped 
around her legs, almost in an upright fetal position. Domino just watched her 
and waited, like it didn't matter if she breathed another word about the 
subject, though he must have questions about her past and her sire. 

     She'd steadfastly avoided both subjects since they'd met. Suddenly, it 
occurred to Ivy that she'd come to the studio hoping to find Domino because he 
didn't want anything from her, he didn't expect anything from her - he would 
just act as a sounding board. She wanted to confide everything to someone and fight 
off the feelings of lonely helplessness that seemed to be overwhelming her at 
the moment. Would Domino feel obligated to try and help her? Ivy doubted it. As 
he'd argued, the guy had family troubles of his own that he wasn't exactly 
racing to overcome. Quiet tolerance was Domino's style, and Ivy simply wanted 
someone to talk to.  she cursed 
herself. 

     "It's okay," Domino's voice broke in on her thoughts. "You don't have to 
talk about your sire. Do what you want to do."

      The phrase dangled like candy before her. The 
words were temptation itself, a selfish urging to take, and to hell with the 
consequences of your choice. Ivy wanted to talk.

    And she did. Tentatively at first, she shared everything: the end of her 
mortality outside the O'Keefe, the first years of her unlife, her relationship 
with Janette, how that friendship affected any contact with Vachon and Clare, and 
finally, in a distanced tone as though she spoke of events happening to a 
stranger, she began to speak of her sire. She described the whispered, 
inescapable taunts that rang in her head when she was alone and painted the 
hospital attack in minute detail.

     Domino listened. He didn't speak, and hardly moved. He only bothered to 
refill her glass once Ivy retrieved her drink from the coffee table in order to 
soothe her nerves.

    "He was always watching me before, and he's doing that now. Watching. 
Waiting." Ivy rubbed her face thoroughly with her hands, as if the action could 
wipe away a fraction of her worry. "Waiting to 'crush my will,' to destroy me, 
and I don't even understand what he wants, other than to scare me."

    "Which he's done successfully," Domino concluded. 

    Ivy nodded. "I don't want to risk seeing Janette or Vachon, because I 
envision my sire harming them somehow as a method of hurting me."

    "So you came here? Thanks." Domino shook his head and held up a hand. 
"Forget I said that. I can guess how you feel about them. Your sire isn't going 
to care about me." He dramatically swept his arms out perpendicularly to his torso 
with a wry grin. "What am I in his grand scheme of torment?"

     Ivy captured one of his hands in her own and answered earnestly, "I'm 
afraid that you're my friend, Dom." She jumped up from the sofa, releasing his 
fingers. "I made a mistake. I shouldn't have come here."

    "Hey!" he called after her, but Ivy was already out the office door. The 
studio had no skylights, forcing her to exit by foot. Domino caught up with her at the 
top of the stairs, seizing one arm in a firm grip. "If I'm your friend, then, by 
coming here, the damage has already been done. It's too late to go back." He 
shook her gently for emphasis. "Am I right?"

    Ivy looked up abruptly, looked him in the eyes, and a wave of shame engulfed 
her.  "Ye-es," she stammered, sinking 
defeatedly to a seat on the top stair and clinging to the balustrade, her 
forehead pressed against the cool marble columns. "I just came here, knowing the 
threat I carried with me, and I used you as a shoulder to cry on... now he'll be 
watching you, too..." 

    Domino sat beside her, pulling her back into his chest. "Shhhh. It's over 
and done, and I forgive you. I've been a vampire ten times longer than you, and I'm 
a big boy. I may have problems standing up to *my* relatives, but, then, I care 
about them. I'll hold my own against your scary sire, okay? Remember: I'm not 
your only friend. You shouldn't keep this from Vachon and Janette - they could 
help you."

    Ivy frantically shook her head. "No! Not until I know what he's capable of."

    "Well, it might be a little too late by then," Dom countered frankly. "I 
know this may seem an 'out-there' suggestion, especially considering the bad blood 
between her and Janette, but maybe you should consider speaking with Clare."

    "Oh, come on, Domino! *Clare*?"

    "Think! She's LaCroix's peer, and every vamp I've come across either 
respects her, or she scares them to death. Those who are holding a grudge, like 
Janette, aren't willing to risk acting on it. What makes you think your sire would be 
any different?"

     "And what makes you think she'd want to help me, Dom? My friendship with 
you? Vachon? I don't think so. I've met her enough times that I have the 
distinct feeling she wouldn't give a damn if I disappeared. She doesn't trust me, she 
shouldn't trust me, so why on earth would she protect me? Let's just forget 
about Clare, okay?"

     "It was just a suggestion, Ivy."

     "Some suggestion. 'Out-there' was right. Since when do you mention Clare's 
name by choice? I thought you blamed her for Figaro's death."

     "Cecilia blamed her for Figaro's death. I tagged along. There's a 
difference. I've recently observed that, while Clare can be impulsive and dangerous, 
she can also be very protective of people she cares about."

      Ivy took one of Domino's hands and gave it a hearty squeeze. "Then I hope 
she cares about you. As for me, I still think I should lay low for a while."

     "You can hide here as long as you need," Domino offered, helping Ivy to her 
feet as he wrapped an arm companionably around her waist. "I could use your 
help work-wise if we go ahead and launch the perfume."

     "You have a deal," Ivy said, then wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Damn, but 
I feel pathetic. 'Hide here as long as you need.' How much time is that going to 
take? Eternity's a tad long to spend cowering in the corner," Ivy said in 
disgust. 

    They casually walked back through the studio to the office, then proceeded 
to finish off the half-full bottle of blood they'd left on the coffee table. 
"Here's a toast," Domino suggested as he raised his tumbler. "To not cowering in the 
corner. To fighting back."

    "I'll drink to that," Ivy said honestly, clinked her glass against Dom's, 
then took a thoughtful sip. "So when Cecilia returns and raises a fuss, you're 
determined to tell her to go to hell."

    "That about covers it," Domino agreed as he brushed back the black hair that 
had fallen over his forehead. "I'm fighting back."

    "What could I do to fight back?" Ivy wondered aloud, quickly adding, "Other 
than pester your relatives, of course."

    "Well, that brings something interesting to mind," Domino began. "Clare 
always brings the vampires she personally makes under her wing. She'll tutor 
them in all sorts of ancient tricks that aren't exactly casual conversation at 
the Community's parties, then she lets them go their own way. I've heard there were 
a few exceptions over the centuries, but that's the way it was with my sire. He 
clung to her side, hung on her every word, move and thought, soaking up 
everything she would teach him, until, finally, Clare said, 'Fly. Be your own 
vampire. See you and the family at the feast of Samhain,' or one of those Druid 
things."

    "Wait, what exactly are you getting at? What kind of tricks?"

    "The things that a vampire doesn't just pick up on instinct. You can fly, 
right?"

    "Right."

    "Flying is instinctual with a new vampire - almost as natural as sinking 
your fangs into anything with blood. There are other tricks you pick up with time: 
mind control, feeling the presence of others, how to store a hell of a lot of 
antiques dirt cheap..."

     Ivy threw a decorative pillow at him. "Be serious."

     "I am. Just wait until a century or two passes and you realize you have 
five dining room sets you *really* like."

    Ivy wiggled her eyebrows. "Another Figaro anecdote?" 

    Domino shrugged. "What can I say? My sire was traumatized when we 
moved here because he'd misplaced his original sketches by Inigo Jones."

    Ivy peered over the rim of her tumbler with a puzzled expression. "Is he 
anyone like Indiana Jones?"

   "Uhhmm...In a stretch - Inigo was a Classical architect. Indiana's a 
Classical *archaeologist.*"

   Ivy nodded. "Gotcha. Classical arches," she said breezily, then demanded 
curiously, "So what kind of whang-bang bits did Figaro let you in on?" 

     "How to shield your presence from other vamps, your thoughts from relatives 
- even your sire." Ivy perked up as Dom shared that description. "You can 
control blood knowledge, too - there are *scads* of skeletons hidden in vampire 
closets that no one ever intends to share. My thinking is," he said 
contemplatively, "your sire will assume you don't know any of these skills, and 
it could work to your advantage. They're really useful if you have the chance to 
practice. Fig trusted me enough to share some of these techniques, but he never 
mentioned them to Cecilia at all. I became pretty adept at sneaking out without 
her - she hates that," Domino confided.

     "Perfect," Ivy announced as she grasped Domino's hand eagerly. "Teach me. 
Teach me everything that you can."

****************************************************************
End of Part Twenty-Two

October 10, 1996

     Nick caught himself staring again. He sat across the study from Robert, who 
was occupied helping his son with homework.  he 
thought for the dozenth time. Nick shifted awkwardly in his chair, then realized 
that Robert was speaking to him.

     "I'm sorry - what was that?" he asked.

     "Janette is home," Robert repeated. The sound of the front door opening 
reached them from the hall. "Just in time, I'd say - you look anxious."

     Nick blinked blankly as the other man gazed at him in a friendly, open 
manner.  A pang of loss struck at him. Until now, the simple amazement that she 
had survived had dominated Nick's thoughts of Janette. Change lashed out at 
him with abrupt clarity. She was no longer part of him or LaCroix. They weren't 
a family anymore.

     He watched the other man and the boy as they leaned over a textbook. 


     Her face was radiant as she entered the room, her eyes immediately seeking 
out Patrick, then Robert. Only when she had looked her fill did Janette turn 
Nick's way. Her expression was patient, but her gaze held a slight rebuke. 
"Nicola - an unexpected visit. It must be an urgent matter for you to just 
appear on our doorstep without calling."

     Nick felt foolish.  What could he say to her to explain his sense of loss?

     "Can we talk?" Nick nodded toward the hallway, indicating that he wanted 
some privacy.

     "Of course," Janette replied graciously.

     Patrick called out in a curious voice before they were out the doorway. 
"Mom? Did you get to talk to Ivy?"

     She glanced at Robert first, and he shook his head slightly. Nick wondered 
at the content of this private message that made worry indent Janette's brow as she 
responded. "Non, cher. Not this time. Maybe tomorrow, ah?"

     Nick was thoughtful as they stepped into the hall. "This Ivy wouldn't 
happen to be a vampire who knows Domino, would she?"

    "Yes," Janette said urgently. "Have you seen her?"

     "I ran into her, literally, months ago at the Raven," Nick explained. As he 
observed Janette's hopeful expression sink, he wished he could offer her more. 
"I've also seen her Missing Persons file from 1980," Nick added. "I had to bury 
it for a case I'm working on."

     "Merci," Janette offered. "I think the last thing Ivy wants right now is to 
be found."

     Nick frowned, intrigued. "What is she to you, Janette?"

     She tilted her chin to the side, pursing her lower lip in consideration. "I 
see in Ivy an orphaned child. She needs someone to take care of her."

     "And that someone is you?"

     "Of course." Janette nodded firmly as she led him into the kitchen. She 
walked over to the pantry, pulling it open, then gestured to a rack of bottles 
inside. "Now it is time for my questions, Nicola - why did you come here? Was 
it 'police business'? Ivy's case file?"

     Nick shook his head, turning down the offer of refreshment. "No." He looked 
away momentarily to hide the pain clouding his features before saying, "I've 
lost something, and I thought I might find it with you. I was wrong."

      "Ahhh," Janette drawled as she closed the cabinet door once more, the 
bottles undisturbed. "And what could this 'something' be? A shoulder to cry on, 
perhaps? Someone to listen to you weep over your lost humanity?"

     "Not so long ago, you shunned your cold, vampire heart," Nick countered.

      Her eyes flashed. "A vampire heart does not have to be cold, Nicola. I 
would have thought you had realized that by now. You have family, friends, lovers..." 
She watched with interest as Nick's expression shuttered. "But I see everything 
is not happily-ever-after for you. What is it? Is Natalie not as dreamy-eyed 
over the crusading knight now that she is among the unliving?"

     Nick turned with a heavy scowl. "That isn't the problem."

     "But, obviously, there is a problem, cheri." Janette shrugged frankly. "No 
matter. You always have LaCroix."

      He shook his head with certainty. "Not anymore. He sent me away. He wants 
nothing more to do with me. I have scorned LaCroix one too many times, and I 
have alienated him for good."

     "That is impossible," Janette argued. "LaCroix believes family is forever, 
even when the ties are severed."

     "As in your case," Nick said stiffly.

     "Oui." Janette nodded. "As in mine. For you, dear Nicola, for whom the bond 
is as strong as ever, he would demand no less."

     He considered that statement momentarily, then shook his head again. "No. I 
think LaCroix has changed. I don't think he needs us anymore."

      "You've been replaced?" she said doubtfully. "Think, Nicola. Who else does 
LaCroix have?"

     "I don't know." Nick leaned against the ledge of the kitchen counter, 
temporarily giving Janette his back. "He has himself," he said, turning to face 
her again. "He has Clare."

     "He doesn't have Clare - she has him!" Janette seethed. "LaCroix's 
fascination with her blinds him to her true nature. She is controlling and malicious. 
If LaCroix is under her spell, in the end, Clare will do him harm."

     "You are speaking of LaCroix as a victim, Janette," Nick protested. "He is 
just as powerful as she is, maybe even more so."

     "Which is why he should be cautious. Her strength is what makes her 
dangerous. It is the only thing keeping Clare from being destroyed by one of the 
many unfortunates she has run afoul of over the centuries."

      "Including yourself."

       "Of course, Nicola. If I had the opportunity to see her dead, destroyed 
and discarded just as Daniel was, I would take it without a moment's thought."

     Nick's sense of fairness pushed to the forefront, causing him to reply 
defensively, "You don't know the whole story about Clare and Daniel. 
Appearances can be deceiving."

     "Appearances?" Janette railed. "I don't *need* appearances. I was there. I 
saw how Clare acted toward him. I heard her voice eagerly announcing that 
Daniel was dead. She *said* she killed him, Nicola - where is the deceit, la 
fausse interpretation, in that?"

    Nick's response to that challenge was frank. "She could have lied."

     Janette's eyes flashed as she laughed harshly. "That's an absurdity. Why 
would Clare do that? 'Children do not belong in the vampire world.' She 
repeated it often enough that even you recite the words to me like a trained 
monkey." Janette shook her head dismissively. "Clare is a threat to any child 
associated with our kind. She is a threat to *my* son. You cannot convince me it 
is not the truth." 

     Nick glanced away, unsure of her conclusion. "Daniel couldn't handle being 
a vampire, Janette. The death, the blood - it is too much for children to control 
sanely. It's too much for many adults to control sanely," he said in a self-
mocking tone.

     "You're saying that I didn't take care of him." Her voice was bitter and 
sharp. "You're saying that Daniel hated what he was and that I was his mother!"

     Her expression was wracked with pain and denial, and Nick felt compelled to 
soothe her. He reached out a hand, touching her on the shoulder. "Janette -"

    She brushed him away violently as recriminations poured from her mouth. 
"That's what you're saying, isn't it? Isn't it?!"

    Janette wanted him to deny the words; Nick knew this, but what she wanted 
and what he accepted were two different things. He could lie. He could drape 
what he believed with what she wanted to hear and let the past hang undisturbed 
a while longer. Nick would have done this in the past, but,  in the past few 
days, he had experienced his limit of falsehood. Now, he was only interested in the 
truth, no matter what its painful consequences. "I think Daniel's death may have 
been a greater kindness than his survival."

     "Get out."

     Nick could see Janette closing herself off from him, every ember of warmth 
and friendship smothered in gray ash. He felt loneliness and grief in that 
moment, yet Nick stood firm, unshaken, as she hissed her demand. "You know 
that it's true, Janette. Why would you be angry, why would you feel pain if you 
didn't acknowledge in some hidden depth of your heart that Daniel wasn't meant 
to be brought across? We should have never brought him into our world."

     Janette's voice started out low and harsh, elevating as she continued to 
speak in shouts of outraged fury. "I told LaCroix that the time has passed for our 
family, but I was wrong in my reasoning. I thought that I was the one moving on 
to new loyalties and lovers. I see now that both you and LaCroix are the ones 
who have changed. You champion Clare and throw it in my face. Your faith no 
longer lies with me, but a cruel, calculating slaughterer of the innocents!"

     "None of our kind are innocent," Nick stated. "From the first kill, the 
blinders are off."

     "ENOUGH!!" Her irises flared into golden-green silos of rancor as Janette 
let out a roar. "You will leave my house, and you will forget that you know me, 
Nicola."

     Each continued word seemed to be laced with a fire that caused Nick to 
shudder internally against his will.  he 
thought. He chose to leave the kitchen, walking back down the hallway and past the 
stairs as he murmured, "You can't forget part of what you are. You can only avoid it, 
shut it out for a time. It comes back, eventually. You remember what you are 
and you cannot deny that for eternity."  Nick 
wondered dazedly, 

     She moved ahead of him, jerking the front door open in order to quickly 
usher him out. "But denial can last a day short of eternity, non?" Janette 
countered. "I'd say that will be long enough for me."

     The study door opened, and Robert stepped into the hallway. Frowning, he 
closed the room entrance behind him as he demanded protectively, "What is the 
problem? Patrick can hear your shouting, and I don't like it." 

     "There is no more problem. Nicola is leaving, and all will be quiet," 
Janette said with determination.

     Nick looked from Janette's fierce expression to Robert's grave one, then 
left without a word. He'd already said it all.

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

     "We need to talk," Robert said plainly as he shut the front door once more.

     "I am fine, cher," Janette insisted. "Give me a moment, and I will be 
completely under control. I can go with you and reassure Patrick that that 
little argument was nothing to worry about. Nicola is simply infuriating," she excused 
carelessly.

     "I meant that you and I need to talk - not Patrick," Robert corrected 
firmly, making Janette look up at him with a start. "If Patrick could hear your 
shouting, don't you think I could hear so much more?" Janette's features acquired a 
worried cast as he continued to speak insistently. "Tell me about Daniel. Tell 
me about Clare, and tell me what they have to do with Patrick."

     She tried to brush off the subject. "I don't think now would be -" 

     "Now," Robert broke in. "*I* think that I deserve to know about 
'slaughterers of innocents' and any threats to our son - don't you, Janette?"

     She swallowed back a protest, then reached out a hand to grasp one of his 
tenderly. "Very well. I will tell you...everything."

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

October 11, 1996

     Clare locked the door to her Ferrari, then glanced about the precinct 
parking lot before heading inside. Her eyes narrowed into predatory slits, then she 
swung around to find Nick standing solemnly by her car.  "It's about time you made an 
appearance."

     "We need to talk," he said.

     Clare's eyes widened, her brows forming sarcastic arches at the bossy 
nature of his tone. "You have a gift for understatement, Nicholas." She began to walk, 
moving in the opposite direction of the precinct entrance. Nick calmly fell into 
step beside her. "Shall we chat about what you've been doing the past five 
nights? Please tell me you weren't having a guilt-fest."

     His voice was flat. "I wasn't having a guilt-fest."

     She paused mid-step. "Then I'm boggled for alternatives. What have you 
been doing? Why?"

     Nick, who had continued strolling through the dimly lit parking lot without 
her, paused at Clare's questions. He made a half-turn, looking fully over his 
shoulder, as he said, "I've been lurking," then started walking once more.

    Interest piqued, she watched him slowly move away before she murmured, 
"Indeed," then proceeded to catch up with the other vampire. "I'm sure you 
realize how infuriating this kind of behavior is to *those of us,* - translate 
as 'me' - who are left to handle *your* mortal responsibilities. I've had to cover 
your absence with Schanke and the Captain." Clare stalked angrily at his side, 
openly demonstrating just how irritated she was with Nick with each resounding 
step. "That tangle of loose ends, combined with how you just *abandoned* 
Natalie in her hour of need marred what would have otherwise been a perfectly 
delightful week for me."

     "Natalie's hour of need?" His expression soured as he bit out the words. "I 
don't think she needs *my* help. Obviously, she's been getting plenty already 
from you."

     "What is that supposed to mean?" Clare glared ferociously at Nick. "I have 
practically ignored Natalie since I brought her across, despite my natural 
instincts, allowing *you* to pollute her with your silly quests and disrespect 
for what you are.  I have only acted as a friend to Natalie - a confidante, perhaps 
- but I haven't *begun* to help her. Neither, apparently, have you."

     "A confidante?" Nick asked coldly. "If you've been sharing secrets, I 
suppose you know about Nat's experiments - the 'research' that I had to find out about 
by accident." 

     Clare waved a dismissive hand. "Her rat project? Of course, I know 
about..." Realization bloomed over her features. "Oh, Nicholas - that's the cause of 
your outrage? Your disappearance? What a poor little bruised ego you must have."

     "It isn't a question of ego, Clare. Natalie completely hid this from me. I 
trusted her!"

     "And you haven't kept secrets of your own?" she challenged. "I've gotten 
the impression that Natalie knew nothing of your...conflict...over Louis Secour." 
Nick glanced away briefly, unable to offer a denial. "You had your reasons for 
not telling her the story. Don't be so quick to judge Natalie for the same 
choice."

     "How can you be so casual? Have you actually seen what she's doing, 
Clare?"

     "Something having to do with Maeven's research and rats. I read all of 
Maeven's notes before they were destroyed, remember? Her work was pointless 
in terms of your fabled cure. It's simply a genetic toy. Natalie can't find 
anything that could restore your mortality based on it," Clare insisted confidently.

     "I disagree. I spent the day at her apartment after I discovered her 
'work,' studying most of her lab records. She's injecting rats with her own vampire 
blood. One actually became a vampire - Natalie has come up with some theories 
to explain our transformation, and parts of them make sense to me."

     Clare remained unimpressed. "Only parts? She'll have to do better than 
that." She watched his expression carefully. "If you believe that Natalie is on the 
correct path in her studies, why are you so belligerent about her efforts?"

     "Before, the only lab animal involved was me."

     "You think playing sire to a nest of rodents is unethical?" Clare sniffed. 
"Unappetizing, I would agree, but they are only rats, Nicholas."

     "And if Natalie doesn't plan to stop with rats?" Nick said with an air of 
worry. "What if she follows the path of Maeven's research and moves on to 
humans?"

     "Why don't you ask *Natalie* about her intentions if they concern you so 
greatly? If you want her to leave this path, tell her." 

     Nick turned to face Clare instead of walking further down the sidewalk. 
"What I want is for her to confide in me."

     The elder vampire released an unladylike snort. "Oh, she has an excellent 
chance of doing that while you're making your presence so unavailable. How 
can she confess anything to you when *you* are not around? That's idiotic, 
Nicholas." 
  
     Clare began to move away, chuckling at the thought, when Nick stayed her 
with a hand on her arm. "I went back to the loft after killing Secour with full 
intention of risking the truth with Natalie. I was going to tell her every 
sordid detail, because I trusted her. I believed in her." A wave of pain passed over 
his expression, giving Clare pause. "I immediately find out that she has 
deliberately concealed something just as important from me. Alright, so I betrayed 
Natalie by keeping the threat of Louis Secour under wraps. I should have told her from 
the beginning. My fault doesn't mean that she didn't break my faith just as 
severely with this experiment. I can't trust her again until she is willing to 
share that knowledge with me of her own accord."

     Clare nodded brusquely. "So you've stayed away because you needed the 
time to be able to hide your feelings on this matter when you see Natalie next? 
You intend to give her the chance to win your faith back. I guess that's noble 
of you." There was a begrudging sneer to her last words.

     "No. It isn't noble," Nick protested. "It's selfish. I love her, and  I 
don't want to lose her because of this. I'll wait for her to believe in me enough to 
share everything."

     "Will you?" The sigh that ensued from Clare sounded almost tired. "You 
could waste a great deal of time that way. Decades...centuries...and for what? 
Your pride? That's what it is in the end, Nicholas, because if you loved her 
unconditionally, it wouldn't matter what she did. You wouldn't care, and you'd 
keep coming back to her without words like 'faith' and 'trust' involved."

     "I said I love her. My trust, or lack thereof, has no effect on how I feel 
- is that unconditional enough for you?"

     "Not quite," Clare said strategically. "The urge to kill has been 
overwhelming to her over the past couple of weeks. Help her control it before she 
makes a mistake."

     Nick's eyes narrowed. "You want me to take her hunting," he concluded. "I 
won't do that. Contrary to your opinion, I know it would cause her more harm 
than help."

     "Oh, really? Perhaps that is only your opinion. Natalie has been drinking 
bottled human for several months now, and it isn't working to control her 
hunger. What else do you think could make a difference, Nicholas?" Clare's 
stare dared him to answer. She smiled smugly when he didn't have one. "What 
are you going to say when you return to the loft? 'Hi, Honey! I'm home!' Natalie 
isn't going to be satisfied with that non-explanation."

     He did an about-face and started to stroll back to the precinct parking 
lot. "I still plan to tell her about Secour's death, Amy Martin's - everything that 
happened before I returned home and learned about her experiment."

     "Well, that will distract her from being angry at your desertion, if 
nothing else," Clare offered. "You realize, of course, that, by omission, you are 
simply lying to her about your reasons for staying away."

     "I never said Secour, Amy Martin, or any of the events that happened 
afterward didn't affect me." Nick gave Clare a meaningful look. 

     She sensed that he was thinking about LaCroix, trying to decide if his sire 
truly meant to never see him again. Clare knew, no matter what Nicholas might 
say, this rift troubled him. Just like Lucius, he wasn't going to discuss the 
issue. That silence told Clare more than a few haphazardly chosen words ever could. 

     "You mentioned that you covered up for me with Schanke and the Captain?" 
Nick asked, appearing ready and determined to focus on police business.

     She nodded, detailing his supposed trip to Ohio. "I managed to intercept 
the actual case records from the Dayton killings when they appeared over the fax. I 
stowed them in my trunk for the interim."

    "The Ferrari's trunk? You had room?" Nick quipped, earning an 
unappreciative glare from Clare.

     As they re-entered the precinct parking lot, she glanced over the amassed 
cars and frowned, commenting, "Speaking of trunk space - I don't see the Caddy."

     "I didn't drive," Nick replied firmly.

     "Hmm..." Clare said casually as she unlocked the rear hatch to the F550 
Maranello and pulled out a stack of folders. "I put out an APB on your car 
several days ago. No one has seen it. Why is that, I wonder?"

     Nick grinned mischievously as she handed over the copies of paperwork. 
"You're the one who wanted to play detective, Clare - you figure it out."

     As he climbed the station steps, smirking, Clare's call came from behind. 
"You had a head-on collision with a telephone pole."

     Nick froze and turned slowly to see the other vampire watching him with 
serene confidence. "Aristotle isn't as discreet as he used to be."

     "Aristotle still owes me four centuries' worth of favors," she replied.

     Nick pulled open one of the doors to the precinct entrance, and Clare 
breezed through ahead of him. "I'll have to remember that," Nick muttered.

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

October 11, 1996

     "Quick! Somebody take a picture - it's the missing link!"

     "That's funny, Schank. I'm dying with laughter," Nick promised insincerely.

     With an ironic twist to her mouth, Clare went one step further. "I'm dead 
already."

     "No, you're extinct!" Schanke announced, very pleased with the joke, then 
frowned as his partners stared at him blankly. "Oh, come on! The missing link, 
extinct...Get it?" He shook his head forlornly. "Geez, you people have no sense 
of humor."

     "Make me giggle like a schoolboy, Detective," Captain Reese inserted as he 
approached. "Now that Knight is present and accounted for, brief me on what 
you've got for the Number murders."

     "Three of our Missing Persons reports list people disappearing on October 
14, 1979. According to Nick's theory that there is a numerical pattern to these 
killings," Clare began, "they should be prime victim candidates for number 17."

     "The tricky part is," Schanke continued, "what good does this info do us? 
We can stake out all three locations for any sign of the killer, but the victims 
aren't buying a ticket on the hasta la vista train at their point last seen. They're 
being brought to the spot of their kidnapping after our looney cuts them up."

     "So you're saying that even if we catch our killer on the fourteenth, 
somebody else has to die to make the collar," Reese said unhappily.

     "That's the unsavory brunt of it," Clare confirmed as she wandered over to 
the watercooler, slammed the top of the container, and dispensed a full glass' 
worth. She handed the cup to the Captain, who murmured a harried 'thank you' 
before pulling a bottle of buffered aspirin from his pocket and downing a pair. 
"We've been trying to tactfully contact the families and friends of the 
potential victims and discern some motive, some connection that makes one stand out 
above the others."

     "We've had no luck," Schanke concluded. "A big nada. We've got less than 
three days, and no ideas about where to find the victim before they become a 
dead victim."

     "Nick? What about you?" Reese inquired. "Did anything helpful come from 
your trip to Ohio?"

      Nick had been perusing the faxes from the older chain of murders while the 
others talked. He hadn't had much of a chance to look over them before 
Schanke's interruption, but something about a map showing the locations where 
the bodies were found in Dayton caught his interest. "There are definite 
similarities between the crimes," Nick said aloud as he continued to stare at 
the Dayton map. "There's the numbers for one, the mutilated victims for another, 
and the period of time between their initial disappearance and the dates their 
bodies were found for a third. There was a pattern to the dates, as well - a 
countdown from nineteen to one."

     "Nineteen?" Reese echoed thoughtfully. "So our copycat has gone the 
original one better."

     "Maybe if we tracked people in the Metro area who were living in Dayton in 
the Fifties," Schanke suggested, "we might get a lead on our perp."

     "Good idea, Detective," the Captain said after he took a final swallow of 
water. "You can get on that right away."

     Schanke frowned while visions of paperwork polka-ed in his head. "By 
myself?"

     "Nah, you can all do it - unless you have something else to share, Nick?"

     "I do." He held up the Dayton map, each crime scene designated with a red 
mark. "These are the sites where they found each Ohio victim." Nick snatched 
one of the recycled pencils littering the desktop and drew an almost perfect 
circle connecting the points by freehand.

     Observing his actions carefully, Clare commented sarcastically, "Gee...all 
of those years of art lessons finally paid off."

       Nick held up the map again. "It looks like there was a pattern in where 
the killer took his victims, also."

     Clare walked over to the Toronto Map on the wall and inserted pins to 
indicate the locations of the first three murders. "I suppose these points could 
make up an arc belonging to a future circle of crimes. The sites appear to 
gravitate in a south easterly direction. That would mean the next victim should 
appear in," She gestured to a section of city blocks, "this area."

     Schanke looked between the wall and his stack of Missing Persons files.  
"We've got one candidate who was last seen near Bloor and Yonge, one at the 
University of Toronto campus, and the third near Bathurst and King."

     "The last one fits best as a point on a circle," Nick said. "I think we 
should concentrate our energies on that person."

     "Well, get to it," Reese ordered as he headed back to his office. "I'll 
authorize a stakeout and added patrols of the surrounding blocks. Inform me the moment 
you find anything." The office door closed, blocking a view of the Captain as he 
settled behind his desk once more.

     Clare spotted Natalie entering the precinct. She watched how the coroner's 
eyes zeroed in on Nick in a mortal heartbeat. Nick felt her and looked up, a 
small, but perfectly normal-looking, smile on his features. Nat's gaze wavered, 
and she glanced at her sire for reassurance. Clare pasted on the small, 
perfectly normal-looking smile, as well, while thinking, 

     Schanke separated one file from the others, calling his attention back to 
the case. "Meet your most likely victim, Nick. Last seen leaving a hotel from the 
corner, walking on foot toward the Sky Dome...her name is Carol Grainger."

    Of course, they were wrong.

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

     October 14, 1996

     Eddie was waiting. His caretaker had promised him freedom from the mud 
and grime that surrounded him. His freedom would start tonight.

     Eddie rubbed at the floor with a rubbery finger, trying to scrape away an 
infinitesimal speck blemishing the shining white floor. Dirt came from 
everywhere. Tiny cracks and crevices in the walls, hollow pockets in his 
mattress - they all hid the dirt, constantly spewing forth particles and 
droplets to add to Eddie's torment. 

     His skin. His skin was the worst of all. He was sweaty and smelly, a foul 
beast to behold. Eddie longed for an escape.

      he thought happily.

     The door to Eddie's room swung open. A woman entered, and he sighed in 
admiration. She was unspoiled: crisp, white dress; pale, spotless skin; and hair 
so silvery-blonde as to be almost white. She was perfect and beautiful and 
stretching out a hand to him!

     She gestured to the door, her body close to his, but never quite making 
contact. Eddie could see a slight tinge of revulsion in her eyes and the turn of 
her mouth as she looked at him. He understood. Eddie was filthy, and she was 
clean. If he touched her, he would contaminate her perfection. He smiled eagerly 
and walked behind her, thankful enough that she was leading him to his 
freedom.

     The passage they were traveling down gradually became darker. White 
linoleum became rough, dun-colored stone. They passed several numbered 
rooms, their entrances dusty, their contents exuding a faint stench that made 
Eddie's nose twitch in distaste. His steps became quicker, as though the contact 
of his feet with the floor would harm him irrevocably.

     His escort stopped moving. They stood before another door, this one just as 
dark and disgusting as the previous ones. Uneasiness crept into Eddie's belly as 
the woman in white turned the knob, and the shabby rectangle creaked open 
with a poorly-cared-for sigh. 

     

     As his vision accustomed to the dim lighting, Eddie saw his caretaker 
manipulating a piece of metal as he stood beside a star-shaped platform. With 
growing horror, he noticed red-brown shadows cluttering the battered floor in a 
patchwork of stains. A door slammed, and Eddie gasped. He looked over his 
shoulder, then turned in alarm. His pristine escort had vanished, leaving him 
alone in this dark hovel. 

     Eddie felt a ray of hope. He was alone, except for ... He turned expectant 
eyes toward the dark-haired man, willing his caretaker to offer him some form 
of comfort.

     His caretaker smiled, but the expression did nothing to calm the roar of 
panic in Eddie's heart. The man stepped forward, then struck, slamming Eddie's body 
mercilessly into the dirty-damp muck on the floor.

     Centimeters from his face, Eddie saw the surface was littered with stray 
hairs and tiny, dried pieces of what looked like meat. His stomach turned over as he 
realized these were torn and sliced pieces of flesh littering the floor. His 
diaphragm clenched, expectorating his last meal to join the other filth.

     Laughter came from overhead, then a hand came to rest on the back of his 
neck, pushing Eddie firmly toward the wet stone surface. He struggled, letting 
out a sob the instant before his lips touched the warm, slick pool of his own 
vomit.

     His caretaker whispered in his ear, the cruel words ripping through the 
sound of his own crying. "I lied, Eddie. There is no escape."

     The hand on his neck jerked Eddie upward again, whirling him around so 
that he looked straight at his caretaker. There was an unholy gleam to the man's 
eyes that matched the flash of the coil of barbed wire he swung in his other 
hand. 

     "No...escape..." his caretaker repeated.

     Eddie believed him.

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

     "Two a.m. roll call," Schanke's voice broadcast over the walkie-talkie. 
"Anybody see anything? I see an all-night deli/bakery calling my name."

     Nick grinned as he answered back. "Nothing on this end, Schank. Just 
remember you've got Thanksgiving leftovers at home."

     "I'm remembering - why do you think I'm so hungry?"

     "Gentlemen, listen to your police bands," Clare's voice interjected from 
Nick's handset. "Officers just found a body in Coronation Park."

     "Does it look like Carol Grainger?" Nick asked urgently.

     "No," Clare replied over a buzz of static. "Wrong race, wrong sex even. The 
body does have a '17' hacked in its chest. Any doubts?"

      Nick grimaced. "I'm on my way," he said. Schanke echoed the sentiment.

     Squad cars were already collecting in Coronation Park like flies on a 
carcass when Nick arrived minutes later. Clare was examining the body as he 
approached, and she looked up from the figure with a challenged set to her chin.

     "It's different, but it's the same," she said softly. 

     Nick raised one of the victim's arms with a gloved hand. The dead man's 
fingerprints were missing. His skin was bald, not just dusted with a light down, 
but hairless. His head, legs, arms and brows were strangely pebbled and rubbery. 
Only his lashes, blonde and long, remained.

     "He's not scarred as the first three victims were," Nick observed.

     Clare barely raised and lowered her chin in the semblance of a nod. "That's 
what I meant by 'different,' " she said as she straightened. "He's still scarred 
- you can see a line of demarcation around his eyes. Whatever was done to him 
wasn't piecemeal, one injury at a time like the others. It was done uniformly to 
his entire body."

     "Why the change?" Nick wondered aloud as he stared darkly at the red 
fringes of the numeral cut into the man's torso.

     "Why have they been killed this way at all?" Clare echoed.

     "We said it before," Nick answered. "He wants to torture them, to break 
them. It's all about making the victims what they are not."

     "So what made Number Seventeen stand out? What did he take away?" she 
mused, stepping back from the body as the first forensic technicians began their 
duties. She motioned for Nick to come closer, and he complied. "You've told me 
everything you know about Thomas, haven't you?"

     "Yes. Everything."

     She measured her next words carefully. "What about LaCroix? He knows 
Thomas well enough to enter a wager with him, to be invited to 'Carmina 
Burana.' Did you share your theory of culpability with him?"

     "The memory still bothers me, Clare. Thomas manipulated my emotions and 
my desires, and LaCroix encouraged him. An innocent friend and scholar died 
because of it. The subject is still too raw on my part to discuss with LaCroix," 
Nick stated plainly.

    "In other words," Clare followed with a quirk to her lips, "you couldn't ask 
nicely, so you didn't ask at all."

    "That about covers it."

    "Then I'll find out what he thinks myself." Clare's brow wrinkled as she 
watched a pair of uniformed officers forcibly escort a press photographer out of 
the taped-off scene. "If Thomas is the killer, we need some way to find him, to 
profile what he's doing. Perhaps LaCroix knows something."

    "Thomas is like any ancient vampire," Nick said distantly. "He's a predator, 
and he's a survivor. He hasn't existed for almost seventeen centuries by being 
easy to track."

    "That's right, Nicholas...dwell on the positive," she retorted wryly.

     Schanke finally joined them, carrying a paper sack and eating a pastry. 
"Hey, Nick! Want one?" He dug a hand into the bag, then smirked at Clare as Nick 
obviously prepared to make a polite refusal. "Yeah, right. You know when the 
last time I saw this guy eat? Almost two years ago - it was a hot dog."

     She made a face. "Ugh. A waste of a perfectly good mealtime."

     "Exactly." Schanke pulled his hand from the sack triumphantly, producing a 
shiny red object. "I remembered your special diet, though."

     Nick grinned with undisguised glee as Schanke handed her an apple. "Look, 
Clare - it's fruit!"

     Her expression fluctuated somewhere between pleasure and pain. Telling 
Schanke that she was a frutarian to avoid his mealtime invitations had proved to 
be a very unsuccessful lie. Myra kept sending her baskets of oranges and kiwis, 
believing if Clare ate nothing but fruit, she must need a good supplier. 
Unfortunately, two of Myra's aunts had retired in Florida. "Yum. Thank you, 
Schanke." Her voice held the enthusiasm of a goose in a pillow factory.

     Nick was trying (unsuccessfully) not to enjoy the sight of Clare staring at 
the apple with a 'What do I do with *this*?' look on her face. Then he noticed 
Barney had joined the forensic team in examining the fourth victim. He touched 
the assistant coroner on the arm, inquiring, "Where's Doctor Lambert?"

     "She'd was in the middle of working on an autopsy when the call came in. 
She asked me to take this scene for her," Barney explained.

     Clare pulled Nick aside as the assistant started to appear hounded by the 
Detective's frown. "There's nothing unusual in her sending Barney instead. You 
heard him - she was involved with another body."

     "Yeah, that's not unusual, pardner," Schanke agreed over a mouthful of 
bearclaw. "Except for the part where the substitute in question is the same guy 
who screwed up our first victim's autopsy, and Natalie's still catching heat 
from the higher-ups about it."

     Nick's frown doubled in intensity, making Clare release a drawn-out sigh. 
"Why don't I go ahead and investigate that 'lead' we were discussing earlier, 
and, afterward, I'll stop by the morgue to check on Natalie. Happy?"

     "Ecstatic," Nick stated.

     "While I'm gone," Clare suggested as she began to walk away while tossing 
the apple in the air and catching it effortlessly behind her back, "why don't 
you boys figure out why Number Seventeen wasn't among our Missing Persons 
candidates?"

     "Boys?" Nick repeated indignantly.

     Schanke took another huge bite of his donut, then asked, "What lead? *We* 
have a lead?"

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

     "I'm ready for you to repay me threefold for the service I did you."

     Cecilia attempted to hide her scowl, knowing now that Thomas would only 
laugh at her displeasure. "I could argue that the deed wasn't done to my 
satisfaction. The girl survived, therefore Clare's suffering was paltry, at 
best."

     "You could argue," Thomas allowed, then took a languorous sip of blood 
through smug lips. "I don't believe you would risk disappointing me, however. 
Would you care to wager on that, Cecilia?"

     She pursed her rosy lips together and swallowed reflexively. Thomas didn't 
wager unless he planned to win. Cecilia had learned that lesson, too.

     "Don't look so distraught, pretty one," Thomas continued, amusement gilding 
his words. "It doesn't become you. Besides, the jobs I have selected for you 
will be to your liking. I promise." He lifted one of her lily-white hands, caressing 
the back of her palm. "Such a slender grip. Such hate that flows inside. You resent 
Clare, but she isn't the only one. Who else has caused you irritation?"

    "Domino," was Cecilia's immediate, spiteful answer. Figaro had always 
favored the slightly younger vampire, and she detested Domino for stealing the 
slightest crescent of her spotlight. Her thoughts turned to the newcomer then, 
that whelp who had dared to attack Cecilia at the Raven. She deserved some 
trouble, as well. "That new girl - Ivy. I don't like her, either."

     "Good," Thomas said, "I wager you'll adore what I have in store for 'le 
petit lierre,' then." His lips spread sideways in a red slash before Thomas lowered 
his head to drop a kiss on the back of her hand. 

     It was a passionless, automatic gesture. The lack of feeling behind it - 
not hate, not pleasure - made Cecilia's skin crawl. Tantalizing thoughts of 
vengeance lured her into his thrall, though. She had visions of people in pain, broken 
beyond repair. Thomas could do that, and she could help him.

     And Thomas never wagered to lose.

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

    "No-ho," Vachon said, hooking his fingers around Clare's upper arm as she 
wandered past the Raven's bar. "You don't want to go in there just yet."

     She gave the Spaniard a full-bodied glare. "Aren't you supposed to be 
building my house?"

     "I am." Vachon grinned as he took a drink, letting out a sound of 
appreciation. "But I get a couple nights off a week - it's in my contract." He 
paused before taking another swallow. "You didn't read the contract before you 
signed it, did you?"

     Clare shrugged, lifted a finger, and took a chair as the bartender brought 
her a drink of her own. "I trust you. You aren't exactly going to cheat me, now, are 
you, Vachon?" She patted his hand chummily. "Not when we're such good pals." 
She took a sip, judged the vintage as acceptable, then took a larger swallow. 
Setting the glass back on the counter, she inspected the dark-haired vampire 
critically. "Alright, why would I not want to disturb LaCroix in the sound 
booth?"

      "Pay attention to the broadcast." He gestured to the loudspeaker over the 
bar with his glass. "He's doing the love poetry thing. Desires are being fulfilled 
club-wide. Go in there, and you might break up the party."

      "Fulfilled desires, eh? And poor little Javier, stuck at the bar, playing 
safety monitor." Clare picked up a discarded cocktail umbrella and began twirling it 
between two fingers. "I take it you haven't located Ivy yet."

     Vachon took a casual sip. "I'm not looking anymore."

     "Have you checked the studio, lately?"

     "I told you, I'm not looking," he repeated.

     "Because when I talked to Domino on the phone yesterday..."

     "Not looking."

     "He said he didn't know where she was, BUT..."

     "I'm not..."

     "He was very shady about the whole thing, like he wanted to tell me she was 
there, but she was in the same room , making exposure difficult. Your little 
friend *must* be at Figaro's." 

    "Look - " Vachon broke off mid-word, subtly intrigued at the news. "Ivy's at 
Figaro's."

     Clare beaned him in the head with the cocktail umbrella. "I just said 
that."

   He frowned as the projectile bounced back onto the counter. "Careful. You 
could poke someone's eye out."

    She laughed, picking up her glass for another drink. "So what kind of love 
poetry has LaCroix used to inflame the masses? Anyone I've known?"

    "Oh, a little Keats," Vachon listed.

    "Knew him."

    "Some Spenser."

    "Knew him, too."

    "Shakespeare, of course," Vachon continued.

    "Who *didn't* know Shakespeare?"
  
    "A speck of Byron."

    Clare shuddered. "Irritating man. I wish that I hadn't known him."

    "Then the selection from 'Song of Solomon' was a real winner with this 
crowd," the younger vampire commented.

     "Waaay before my time. I did not know him."

     "Just before you came in, LaCroix tried on some Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
That was pretty unusual."

     "What?" Clare frowned. "He didn't start talking about an albatross hanging 
about his neck, did he?"

     Vachon frowned. "No."

     "Good," Clare said smugly.

     "I thought 'Kubla Khan' was kind of a weird choice..."

     Her skin seemed to flush in pleasure, despite her personal lack of rapid 
blood 
flow. "Oh...He read 'Kubla Khan'?"

     Vachon stared frankly at Clare's dreamy smile and gave a 'What do I know?' 
shrug. "...But apparently he had his reasons." He stood, pulling his leather 
jacket off the chair back and sliding it on. "I'll leave you to the love fest."

     Clare waved him off with a casual flick of a hand. "If you see Dom at the 
studio, tell him I said 'thanks' for the perfume."

     Javier grimaced as she guessed his destination. "Am I that transparent?"

    Clare smile up at him sweetly. "You're cellophane."

    He released an irritated sigh. "Great. Just *great.*"

    She laughed as she watched Vachon stalk up the club stairs and out into the 
night. Turning back to the bar, she finally devoted her attention to the 
Nightcrawler broadcast.

     "Love follows us like a shadow. We may blot out its boundaries in the dark, 
creating the illusion that love no longer exists, but, in reality, it is only 
camouflaged. Disguise it as disdain or lust, love still waits, hovering... until 
it is brought into the light once more. Love, like a shadow, is inseparable from what 
we are, and it follows us, enchained, for eternity..."

      Clare thought, 

     She drew a recycled pencil from a jacket pocket, then asked the bartender 
for some paper. Her note was short, and to the point:

               I'm here on business - 
               Pause the temptation for a spell?

                       - Clare

     She recruited a young vampire to be her delivery boy.  "Give this to 
LaCroix for me, please." The fellow held the folded paper as though it was a flaming 
coal, clearly worried over its contents. "Don't look so worried," Clare drawled. 
"We stopped staking the messenger centuries ago. Hurry along."

     The young vampire scampered quickly out of sight, and she began to listen 
to the broadcast anew.

     "...And, like a shadow, love bends its direction about us - one moment 
delicately tender, the next, demanding and passionate, then it transforms again 
into something silently sensual. The difference lies in the setting. This is a 
trick of the light, not time. Souls cry over the loss of love, mourning the absence of 
passion in their hearts, failing to see that what they color as lost, only 
masquerades in a different form. Respect, friendship, affection ... each tromp 
d'oeil may seem to be a different entity, but, in the end, they are still love. 
It merely takes the proper fuel to boil love into a fiery potion again..."

      Clare pondered 
lasciviously. 

     The messenger was back, shifting nervously from foot to foot as he offered 
her the slip of paper carrying LaCroix's reply.  she thought absently as she unfolded the paper. He 
had printed an answer just below her own note in bold, precise letters:

               NO

     Her spine stiffened.  Clare wondered with a bedeviled twist of 
her lips.  She considered the possibility that LaCroix wanted nothing 
to do with her police business. The theory had merit. On the other 
hand... A wicked grin 
spread across her lips as Clare drained the last of her drink. 

     She pushed back from the bar and sauntered to the sound booth, while 
planning how she would 'handle' LaCroix's contrariness. Slipping quietly through 
the doorway, she carefully closed the barrier behind her with a barely audible 
click, effectively banishing the noise of the club. All that remained was the 
reverberation of his voice, interspersed with bursts of silence.

     Clare leaned against the jamb, momentarily mesmerized with the luxury of 
looking at him. His concentration was still focused on the microphone; a good 
measure of his attention directed to the thousands of listeners huddled by their 
radios, clinging to his every word. She wasn't immune by any stretch - Clare 
felt a delicious prickling of awareness whisper across her skin as she assimilated 
the subtle movements of his lips as they linked each syllable. 

     He was reciting another poem: this time his selection was John Donne. 

     "Our two souls therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet a 
breach, but an expansion, like gold to airy thinness beat. If they be two, they 
are two so as stiff twin compasses are two, thy soul the fixed foot, makes no show 
to move, but doth, if th'other do. And though it in the center sit, yet when the 
other far doth roam, it leans, and hearkens after it, and grows erect, as that comes 
home."

     Clare remembered LaCroix's words from over a week before.  She stared at him in intense devotion as she moved closer. His ringed 
hand rested nonchalantly on the control board. Clare lay the piece of stationery 
that contained their messages on the desk nearby. The red and blue auras that 
seemed to light the room in alternating incandescence projected a silhouette of 
LaCroix's fingers onto the pale paper. She rested her own palm against the desk 
surface. Centimeters separated their touch, but on the paper, their shadowy 
hands appeared to intertwine.

     LaCroix witnessed the merger of their dark fingers into one form and paused 
momentarily in his recital. He glanced up at her appreciatively, capturing the 
focus of her green eyes within his blue gaze as he completed the final stanza.

     "Such wilt thou be to me, who must like th'other foot, obliquely run; thy 
firmness draws my circle just, and makes me end where I begun." He leisurely 
turned off the microphone while she walked around him.

     From behind, she curled her hands over his shoulders, then down his chest. 
Clare murmured one word in a seductive challenge. "No?"

     LaCroix pulled her into his lap, answering sternly, "I'm not in the mood 
for business."

     "Mmm," she said as she sampled his lips in a lingering kiss. "I can 
tell...but this is *important* business."

     He scowled. "My intention is to make love to you - no mortal is important 
enough to interfere with *that.*"

     Clare let out a small laugh, teased his teeth with the tip of her tongue, 
then sat back. "True...but I'm afraid my questions concern an immortal." She saw 
LaCroix's interest was caught, so she continued. "Thomas Monroe - how well do 
you know him?"

     He pushed her off his lap, cued up a musical selection, then stood. 
Apparently poetry time had been officially placed on hiatus. "Not very well, 
but, perhaps, too well. Why the sudden interest in Thomas?"

    "The final homicide investigation that I'm working on - they're calling them 
the Number Murders - a vampire is involved. I don't recognize who it is, but I 
discovered that Cecilia has become acquainted with the killer. Nicholas, 
however, has felt faint stirrings of recognition at each crime scene. He's 
certain that he has met the vampire responsible."

     "And because Nicholas knows Thomas is in town, that Cecilia accompanied 
us to 'Carmina Burana,' and he has a personal grudge against the man, Thomas 
becomes a prime suspect," LaCroix concluded. He opened the sound booth door 
and ushered Clare in the direction of the Raven's private rooms.

     Once they were secluded again, Clare settled on the sofa and absently began 
to trail her fingers along the red and black upholstery. "You don't believe that 
he is involved?"

     LaCroix turned from where he inspected the racks of bottles along the right 
wall. "I didn't say that." He chose one flask out of his collection and 
proceeded to work on the cork. "The newspapers have only mentioned the numerals 
...chopped...into the bodies of the victims. There were descriptions of 
mutilations, scarring, as well. I'm assuming they didn't have all the details."

     "You are correct. What we've managed to keep quiet so far is that each 
victim was held captive before their death for over a dozen years and 
systematically tortured until they no longer resembled their former selves. The 
first death was a man named William Hyatt. He was sliced open with the 
number 20 on the twentieth anniversary of his disappearance. By personal 
accounts, the man was considered overly proud and self-important. During the 
time of his imprisonment, there is physical evidence that he was habitually 
whipped, had broken bones and contusions, and there were calluses on his hands 
and knees, possibly from repeated crawling. The evidence shows that, by the 
time Hyatt was killed, he was no longer a proud man, but a supplicant."

     LaCroix had set out two glasses, filled them with blood, and silently 
offered one to Clare as he listened thoughtfully to her description. "His host 
effected a complete transformation," he observed.

     "Exactly," Clare agreed. "The second victim was a model named Evelyn 
Prescott. From photographs of her before her disappearance, she was physically 
perfect. Over nineteen years of captivity, every symbol of her femininity was 
gouged away. What was once flawless skin became a maze of scars."

     "And was Ms. Prescott considered...vain by those who knew her before her 
kidnapping?" LaCroix asked curiously.

     "Yes, she was," Clare answered, the corners of her mouth turning upward as 
her excitement grew. "You know something, don't you?"

     "Thomas is an old vampire, almost as ancient as ourselves. He's boasted 
that his sire feasted on the flesh of Sodom and Gomorrah." LaCroix's lips twisted 
wryly. "Is it true? Does it really matter? What would interest you, I believe, 
is that Thomas has a sincere belief in employing creativity to derive the ultimate 
pleasure from a kill. Sadomasochism, role-playing...these are his tools, and the 
mortals are his canvas. I must admit, there have been instances when I myself 
have used his method to my great satisfaction."

     Clare's thoughts flashed to an image of a temple, dark heads bent before 
her in worship, a rich flow of blood soaking into the stone floor when she could not 
gorge any longer. "Haven't we all from time to time? What role is Thomas 
playing now? A god? Pygmalion?"

     "Why can't he simply be a killer?" LaCroix challenged. "I agree that his 
methods have become too overt for comfort - his activities are obviously gaining 
unwanted notoriety in the press. But he is a vampire, I would say that 
indiscretion is Thomas' only crime."

     "As a vampire, he's crossed too many fine lines."

     "Many have argued the same of you, my dear."

     "He assisted Cecilia in arranging the shooting of Detective Schanke's 
daughter, therefore he attacked me," Clare insisted indignantly. "That was a 
severe mistake on his part."

     "Ah." LaCroix put aside his glass as his eyes lit in comprehension. "Your 
interest isn't about mortal law or righteousness, but to satisfy your craving 
for retribution."

     "There is that," Clare admitted as she grinned innocently. "How can I just 
*allow* Cecilia and Thomas to vex me and escape unscathed?" She abandoned 
her drink beside his own, then leaned closer to whisper, "Lucien, if I hadn't 
destroyed so many of my enemies over the centuries, I might not be here 
tonight."

    "So cry vengeance," LaCroix murmured in return, "but don't lose control, not 
around Thomas."

     Clare considered his warning, then nodded as she toyed with the buttons of 
his shirt. "Very well...You wouldn't know where Thomas is now, by any 
chance?"

     "Where would you be?"

     "Here. Everywhere. Watching my next victim," Clare listed.

     "Well, unless he's hiding under the bed," LaCroix drawled, "I'd say that 
Thomas isn't here. 'Everywhere' is a bit too indefinite a location, so I suggest 
you find his next victim if you want to gain your measure of revenge."

     "Hmm..." Clare had already come to the same conclusion. Deciding she had 
had her fill of the subject of Thomas Monroe for one evening, she turned her 
attention to pulling off her jacket as she nuzzled LaCroix's neck. "Do you 
realize that I've resisted temptation for at least fifteen minutes? I'm improving."

     He eased his fingers along the cleavage of her blouse, watching as her eyes 
began to alter in color. "I thought you said you were here on business." 

     "I am," Clare replied. "But I haven't taken a coffee break for three months 
- surely that qualifies me for an hour or two of personal gratification?"

     "Indeed." LaCroix's lips followed his hands along her neckline. When he 
reached a closed fastening, LaCroix effortlessly snapped through the threads 
securing the button with his fangs.

     Clare squirmed happily at the sensation of air, lips, and teeth against her 
naked skin. "I heard that I missed your Coleridge recital earlier," she said, 
her voice fading into a throaty growl.

     "How could I forget your almost aphrodisiacal penchant for 'Kubla Khan'?"

     She chuckled as he licked a path around her bare navel. "Then tempt me. 
Speak."

     LaCroix did, breathing words against her skin as his mouth traveled over 
her body. Clare wound her arms and legs about him in bliss, savoring each word and 
feeling, her expectation rising as he approached the final lines. Feeling his 
fangs brushing her neck, she closed her eyes, overwhelmed with passion during those 
last, pendulous seconds before experiencing his bite. Her existence became the 
sound of his voice, each word a caress to her ears, her flesh, her soul.
     
     "For he on honey-dew hath fed, and drunk the milk of Paradise."

     LaCroix reared back his head slightly, then let his fangs sink into her 
waiting throat. Her blood flowed heavy and sweet into him, and they were one.
     
****************************************************************


     Natalie's hands were soaking in blood. There was a layer of thin latex 
between her skin and the various fluids, tissue layers, and other miscellaneous 
substances a corpse could carry, but she felt as though she could sense each 
cell pulsing directly beneath her fingers.

      she warned herself silently. 

     When Barney had said she was in the middle of a body when the call to 
Coronation Park had come in, he'd meant it - literally. One of the victim's arms 
sat to the left of the table, and its disembodied feet were stacked to the 
right. The bag containing the head still rested in the scale pan, and Nat had the 
torso open for an intimate perusal of organs and incidentals.

     She'd been expecting a call about the fourth victim - after all, that was 
why Nick, Clare, Schanke, and a nicely-sized contingent of the Metro Police force 
had staked out (she cringed at her choice of words) a five block radius around 
Bathurst and King. Natalie supposed that she ought to have been prepared to 
leap out the morgue doors on command and rush to the scene. Soon after she'd 
come to work this evening, however, any inclination Nat had to jump at 
anyone's beck or call had shriveled like a prune.

      Commissioner Vetter had taken time out of his busy Thanksgiving Day 
schedule to personally inform Natalie that her department's incompetence, her 
failure to keep any corpses from being stolen or even spot the culprit had been 
duly noted by 'those who mattered.' Apparently, Nat's career had a good way to 
go before it got out of the red.

     She caught herself giggling over the spread out remains of her 'guest's' 
intestinal tract during the thought.  Nat wrinkled her nose at the twisted direction her 
sense of humor seemed to be turning lately. There appeared to be side effects of her 
vampire state: she had a growing lack of respect for authority figures, a 
dwindling appreciation for Disney movies, and her dry cleaning bill had doubled 
overnight. 

     Natalie pulled out a pair of calipers to measure the wall thickness of the 
corpse's heart, chamber by chamber, her laughter trailing off into a mild, 
amused snort.  she mused pettishly. 

     Suddenly, her amusement melted away. A combination of hunger and self-
revulsion twisted at Natalie's stomach as she let herself remember the missing 
corpses. "Tell you?" she said shakily. "Uh-uh. I don't even like telling 
myself."

     Clare had been right to worry about her ability to control the vampire. 
 her sire had 
asked. 

     Natalie shook her head. 

     She hunched over the exam table, feeling like a dry, brittle stalk just 
waiting to snap at the softest touch. Nick had disappeared for days before returning 
with deep, dark secrets to share. He'd killed a resister to protect himself and the 
Vampire Community, and he hadn't let her know what he was going through. He 
was sorry.

     Sorry.

     Natalie blinked blankly for a few seconds. She supposed that her reaction 
to Nick's confession had been somewhat subdued, but at the time, his 
straightforward honesty had struck her as a slap in the soul. Sure, she could 
confide what she had found out about the vampire element through her research 
and risk raising his hopes again. She could have traded a moment of trust with 
Nick and gambled on another possible letdown, like the Lidoveuterine-B 
injections. Nat could have told Nick about the rats, but what were the rats in 
comparison to the confession, "By the way, Nick...I've been feeding off the 
dead"?

     The fumes of formaldehyde mixed with the inescapable aroma of stale 
plasma danced in her nostrils, and Nat experienced the faint stirrings of 
bloodlust. 

     A sob caught in Natalie's throat. She fought it down, smothering the sound 
into silence, then looked up with determined eyes. With or without her control, 
with or without her honesty, and with or without her sanity, something would 
have to change. Natalie was running out of dark corners in which her secrets 
could hide. 

     The morgue doors swung open, and technicians escorted a caravan of three 
gurneys her way. A drug deal gone bad...all head wounds...the sound of zippers 
parting rang in her ears, raising her anticipation as if it was a chorus of 
champagne corks serenading her senses. The scent of blood slammed into her, 
and Natalie welcomed her newest tenants with open arms.

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

     Ivy stepped lightly through the studio. 

    Domino had been tutoring her in shielding her presence and thoughts for 
days. For complete efficacy, she needed a nice relative around to practice 
avoiding, but since staying away from her sire was the whole intent of this 
exercise, Ivy wasn't going for perfection. She just wanted a survival skill.

      Ivy stopped creeping, thinking she heard a door hinge 
squeak. When she found herself shivering, Ivy grimaced and propped her back 
against a shadowed wall. She was in one of the fitting rooms of the House of 
Figaro, and she was way too excitable at the moment to play this game.  she sighed. 

     She began to steadily edge away from the direction of the sound, ordering 
herself to remain cool and collected. She experienced a sudden urge of 
awareness: it was a combination of surprise, dismay, and pain. Ivy whirled about 
in the dark, brushing against a rack of clothing, and let one of her hands trail 
along the different fabrics. Synthetic fur and satins, silk and batiste, then 
something resembling wet terrycloth...

     Ivy froze. 

     She glanced to where here fingertips encountered the damp material. 
Someone had taken a towel, soaked it in blood, then plunged a dozen 
hypodermic needles into its surface. Someone?  thought Ivy, 

     Her sire had been here, tonight. He could have just left; he could be 
watching her even now...

     Ivy jerked away from the clothing, from the needles and the blood. 
 She tried to use her mind alone, sticking to the 
rules of the game and sensing where he might be inside the studio. She couldn't 
find him.

     Maybe this was just a test - a sick and twisted one for Dom to dream up - 
but, if it was, it was pretty effective. Ivy definitely felt as though her composure 
was being thoroughly examined and found lacking. Her patience quickly 
evaporating, she broke the hush and called out, "Domino? I want to stop this 
round - okay?" 

    Receiving no answer to her query, Ivy walked slowly toward the main 
showroom. "Domino? Come out. I need to talk to you...*now.*"

    All was quiet. Ivy's speed of movement began to increase. She stepped 
briskly into the studio's foyer. "Domino?" She rushed through the downstairs, finding 
no sign of him. "Domino!" Running up the staircase, Ivy slammed in and out of 
the bedrooms, then the design and cutting areas. Finding only bleak, empty 
rooms, her expression began to project the depth of her anxiety. "Where are you?!"

     She clapped a hand on her forehead in realization.  Shaking her head, she stalked to the 
double doors and threw them open. "Dammit! You had me worried there, Dom -"

    The rest of his name withered in her throat as the condition of the room 
sunk through her muddled awareness. Domino wasn't here. There had been a small 
struggle. Torn clothing and a shattered mirror cluttered the floor. The sword 
over the fireplace mantel was missing, and the wall above was stained.

     It wasn't simply a random stain. Her sire had used blood to paint the pale-
colored walls. It was a message of stark, dripping letters, all for her: 

               COME TO ME
                              -oxox


      she thought hysterically. 

     And Domino was missing.

     Ivy rotated slowly in a semi-circle. There was someone else at the studio, 
though. She could dimly sense their presence, but she couldn't pinpoint the 
direction of the source.

     Ivy started to count slowly to ten, determined to react with the proper 
amount of calm. 

     "I need a drink with a Valium chaser - that's what I need," she muttered 
shakily, then let her eyes drift back over her shoulder to the words on the 
wall.

     

     "I need to run," Ivy concluded, then flashed out of the room at the speed 
of flight. She swept downstairs in a second, unlocked the front door, and threw it 
open.

     Then Ivy screamed.

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

     It wasn't that Barney didn't want to do a good job. He tried, he really 
did. People just never seemed to like him, and he was always screwing up. He let 
work intimidate him; he let people intimidate him, and he was too mild-
mannered to change.

     Barney knew that he would probably be forced to change soon enough. He 
had a sneaking, sinking suspicion that his days and nights working for the 
Provincial Coroner's Office were numbered.

     He gulped at the thought.  
The wagon's driver glanced over at Barney curiously, and he panicked, certain 
that he'd made some sound of distress as he thought about the body in the back. 
It wasn't as though he had any respect to lose, but Barney still didn't intend 
to start crying in front of the other staff.

     These serial murders made Barney realize how ineffectual and unhappy he 
was in his chosen career. He couldn't bring himself to study the first victim - 
he'd let things slide, and gotten caught at it. He'd screwed up the paperwork, 
as well, so they couldn't disinter the corpse immediately for a complete 
examination. He certainly didn't feel like Mr. Popularity for making that error.

     Of course, no one was overtly rude or demeaning. Everyone seemed to 
maintain their professional courtesy, but behind his back and buried in their 
eyes, he knew the others believed he was incompetent. Doctor Lambert was 
probably the best at hiding how she felt about him. She had even stood up for 
him earlier tonight when Commissioner Vetter visited. Barney had been the 
examiner in charge of the morgue when three of the corpses had disappeared, 
but Natalie had steadfastly insisted that he should not be held accountable. 
That had been nice of her, but too many times Barney had experienced the subtle 
impression that Doctor Lambert had little use for him to feel comforted.

     He had forced himself to be thorough and exact this evening, because he 
knew everyone was watching. The forensics techs, the detectives - each of them 
was sure that he was headed for a mistake. Barney did his best to surprise them. 
Inside, though, his horror over such mutilation, having to witness, study and 
dissect it, was making him scream silently.

      This life he was living, it was vile and unrewarding. He needed to pick up 
and find a new career, actually try to make some friends for a change, but 
Barney was too scared. He found it hard to get along with people. He wasn't 
very funny, and he wasn't overly smart. Barney definitely wasn't good-looking 
by any stretch of the imagination. He was just a bland, average nobody.

     That was why he'd taken up forensic medicine. It was the lure of hours 
alone in the lab and morgue with no one to speak to and no one to impress. Dead 
bodies didn't talk. Once upon a time, he'd actually had a girlfriend for a few 
months, but she'd called it quits, saying that he liked being alone with the 
dead more than the living. She'd gotten angry and called him a necrophile.  he'd thought, but he never had the nerve to argue with anyone out loud.

     Sure, the calm quietude of the morgue is what attracted him to this job. 
The longer Barney worked, however, the more he came to believe that the dead 
weren't silent. They didn't speak from their mouths, but from lacerations and 
bruises, signs of cruelty and violence, and, more often than not, the dead 
rarely had anything pleasant to say.

     The wagon pulled up to the Coroner's building, and Barney forced his 
distressing thoughts aside. He worked with the technician to unfold the gurney 
from the back and move the body bag, then sent him on his way.

     "I'll take it from here." Barney was going to do the whole job this time, 
and he was going to do it right. Alone, he wheeled his way steadily inside, down the 
industrial-tiled hallway. He noticed the security guards weren't at their posts, 
evidently both taking a break at once.

       Barney thought, 

     He turned, choosing to push the morgue door open with his back and pull the 
gurney in after him. A snarling hiss caused him to spin around in alarm. A 
myriad of emotions flooded over him: astonishment, disgust, and, most 
coherently, fear.

     He'd disturbed Doctor Lambert. Her eyes were fevered, glowing with an 
abnormal green light. Her canines were extended into fangs which glinted with a 
reddish hue under the fluorescent lighting. Barney's gaze traveled shakily from 
the thread of blood that trickled from the coroner's chin to the corpse spread 
out on the table before her. The head was pocked with a gun wound.  Barney noted out of habit. The throat and wrists, however, 
appeared to have been sliced open with a scalpel, allowing blood to drain into 
the trough ringing the table perimeter.

      Barney thought his mind would explode from the realization. 


     Natalie wiped at her chin with the latex-covered back of a hand, smearing 
the scarlet path more than cleaning it. "You're earlier than I expected, Barney." 
Suddenly, she began to climb onto the exam table, staring at him predatorily as 
she moved closer.

     Barney whirled around, planning to run for the door, but the gurney he'd 
dragged in after him blocked his escape. Natalie leapt from the exam table and 
landed at his side. He gave a desperate shout as the coroner enclosed him in a 
firm vise, rendering him helpless.

     "Shhhh, Barney," Natalie whispered. "There is no reason to scream. I've 
sent everyone for coffee, and they won't be back for a good half-hour. Doctor's 
orders." She let out a light chuckle that rumbled with growling undertones. 
"Unless...you want to wake the dead?"

     Barney shuddered as she slowly turned him around in her arms until they 
were face to face. Doctor Lambert's eyes still burned, her teeth continued to 
project fiercely, but, in her eyes, there was regret. "I'm sorry this is 
happening. I'm sure that you don't believe me, but it's true. I don't want to kill," 
she said urgently, shaking her head. Natalie placed a hand shrouded in a bloody glove 
over his lips as Barney began to whimper. "Shhh...there, there." She ran her 
fingers from his mouth to his jaw, then down his throat, watching the pulse 
throb there with an almost-hypnotized intensity. "I can't seem to help myself..." 
Natalie bent her head to meet his heartbeat. "I just need a taste..." Her fangs 
sunk home.

     Barney felt dizzy, spinning lost somewhere between eroticism and sheer 
terror. The idea came to him that he actually *wanted* her to drink his life 
away, to take every drop and make it her own. His hands clutched at her back as 
she consumed him. His awareness began to fade, gradually at first, then in a 
torrid downfall. She was sorry - Barney knew that - she'd said the words. He 
sensed that they were true, but when the blackness swept him away, Barney still 
believed that the dead had nothing pleasant to say.

*******************************************************************
End of Part Twenty-Three


     It was Vachon.

     "What are you doing here?! Go!" Ivy shrieked. She was no longer even trying 
to be calm. She wasn't going for rationality either. Directly after telling him 
to leave, she flung her arms about Vachon in a bear hug.

     Javier appeared confused for a second, murmured a bewildered, "O-kay..." 
then embraced Ivy in return.

     It didn't last. After a moment of comfort, she was pushing him away. "No! 
You have to leave - it's not safe." She retained a hold on one of Vachon's hands 
and proceeded to pull him behind her as she rushed down the studio's front steps 
and onto the sidewalk. "God, he's probably watching us now. Just get on your 
bike and go!" she ordered.

     "Who's he? Domino?" Vachon asked.

     "No," Ivy answered abruptly, then glanced back toward the brownstone. "I 
think he took Domino...I don't know..." Fierce resolution flooded her eyes as 
she turned her stare back to Javier. "Please. You *have* to get out of here."

     He kept her one hand trapped in his grip when she tried to shake him off 
completely. Vachon studied her thoughtfully as he balanced his other hand 
casually on his hip. "Where are you planning to go?"

     Her response was quick and earnest. "The opposite direction."

     Vachon shook his head at that. "I don't think so." He slung an arm around 
Ivy's waist and started to escort her back to the studio. "Come on."

     Ivy didn't intend to go along peacefully. "What the hell are you doing?!" 
she protested as she endeavored to slip out of his reach.

     "I'm taking you inside, where we will sit down, and you will tell me who 
took Domino, why I am not safe, the reason you're running away, and make it as 
clear and concise as possible."

     The set of Ivy's chin was stubborn. "No."

      "Good start," Vachon quipped as he dragged her through the entrance. "That 
was concise, but not nearly clear enough."

      "You don't get it." Vachon finally let Ivy out of his grip after he had
shut the door, and she promptly put several steps between them. "I know you want an 
explanation - you *deserve* an explanation, Javier," Ivy sighed, her voice 
pleading for him to understand, "but all I can think of right now is that I 
confided in Domino, I stayed here, knowing that it put him in jeopardy, and now 
he's gone." She glanced away abruptly, wrapping her arms about her waist as 
she tried to give herself a measure of solace. When she turned her gaze on 
Vachon again, she met his brown eyes squarely. "I don't want to endanger 
anyone else. Please...go."

     He shook his head. "No." Ivy let out a frustrated wail, but he stood firm, 
brushing maple-brown curls away from her right cheek. "Hey - I know a thing or 
two about running away. It doesn't end, Ives. If you bail, whatever the problem, 
it will follow you."

     "But I'm not just running - I'm hiding. He's going to kill me." Ivy pulled 
away again, then moved to the foot of the marble staircase, looking upstairs with 
haunted eyes. "He could have killed Domino - I don't know. I don't know what 
to expect, I don't know what he's capable of, but there's one thing I'm certain 
of: he plans to destroy me. He said so."

    "Who?"

     Ivy appeared lost in a daze as she climbed the first few steps. She paused 
temporarily, long enough to glance over her shoulder and state, "My sire." With 
a heavy tread, she slowly continued her climb, her feet dragging over the pile 
of the bronze and navy runner that blanketed the stairs.

     Vachon dogged her movements. "I thought you didn't know your sire. I 
thought it was a case of making you a vampire, muchas gracias and adios."

     Ivy nodded slightly. "I thought so, too, until recently. It turns out that 
he's been watching me. All these years, he's been waiting for..."

     "For what?" 

     Ivy stopped momentarily at the landing, her expression puzzled and forlorn. 
"I don't know." She headed for the main workroom, then veered to the right 
toward Figaro's office. "He cornered me at the hospital. That's why I left. 
That's why I haven't seen you or Janette since that night." The ivory double doors to 
the office were open, just as she'd left them. Lights were on, just as they'd 
been when Ivy had first stormed over the threshold. She stopped talking and 
deliberately looked down as she approached the fireplace. Ivy stepped over the 
largest shards of broken glass, and painstakingly avoided looking at the message 
scrawled on the wall. She tripped the latch, pulling the mantel open, then 
grabbed the first pair of bottles her fingers encountered.

     Vachon stared silently at the view until Ivy passed one of the carafes his 
way. "What happened at the hospital, Ivy?"

     She leaned against the desk, rummaging over the surface for cigarette and 
lighter. The clove tobacco was stale, but Ivy lit the tip and began puffing away 
irregardless of its condition. "He caught me by surprise. He snapped my neck. 
That's really an odd feeling," she breathed between her bouts of smoke 
inhalation. "Have you ever had that happen?" Vachon shook his head negatively. 
"You hear the vertebrae crack - that part wasn't so unusual; I've broken necks 
before - but the odd part is experiencing how your body seems to disappear. 
Your legs, your arms...in a split-second, they're non-functional. Then you die." 
Vachon had already unplugged his bottle and drank absently while he 
concentrated on her words. "That's strange, too. It's death and blackness, but 
in the back of your head you know that you're going to survive. You may have a 
temporary sensation of helplessness. There might even be some pain, but it isn't 
permanent. The vampire is permanent."

     "Even vampires can get desperate." Vachon's voice was low as he 
commented, his lips lingering over the mouth of the container. "There were 
times while I was buried that I prayed that I wouldn't survive. I didn't want to 
linger between life and death. When you're trapped like that, survival becomes 
torture."

     Ivy looked at him bleakly as she stubbed out her cigarette. "That's right - 
you may not have had your neck snapped, but you understand how it feels to die 
again and again." She twisted the cork out of her own bottle of blood, then 
casually swirled the contents of the bottle in a whirlpool as she spoke. "When I 
came out of the blackness, I found that my sire had taken me to one of the 
hospital supply rooms.  At first, it was like he just wanted to speak with me. 
He wanted to threaten and bully. He wanted to frighten me, and it worked. He 
talked on and on, and not much of it was pleasant. My sire ended the encounter 
by reminiscing about my mortal death. He wanted me to intimately recall the 
feeling of my veins on fire and my heart tying into knots as I took my last 
breath, so he decided to give me an injection of bleach as a reminder."  

     "Ivy..."

     She held up a hand when Vachon set his bottle aside and looked as though he 
might reach out to comfort her. "I just want you to understand that my sire 
isn't playing this bloodsport on a level field. He's making the rules, and he is 
drafting the players. First me, and now, apparently, Domino. I don't think I can be 
helped. Domino tried, and where is he now? Think before you even consider 
remaining a moment longer. You've been out of the ground for less than six 
months," she said frankly, setting her container of blood aside, untouched, on 
the desk. "Can you risk the possibility of going back?"

     There was a contemplative pause before he answered. "I've felt evil. I've 
had it course through my body to the point of madness. I survived that," he said 
with an air of bravado. "I can last through anything."

     Ivy gave a weak smile and offered an irritated sigh. "You're stubbornly 
devil-may-care when you want to be, aren't you, Javier?"

     "Some people find that attractive," he said as the right side of his mouth 
quirked up in a grin.

     She grabbed a handful of his leather jacket and pulled his body closer. 
"Oh, yeah?" Her expression was a combination of sandpaper and whipped cream: Ivy 
had a rough-and-tough set to her chin and words, but her eyes and voice added 
an endearing amount of soft warmth and sweetness. "I find it stupid. You're an 
idiot, Vachon." She savored the sound of creaking leather as she ran her hands 
up his chest then clasped them behind his neck. "You're also wonderful. Oh - I 
better not forget sexy."

    "Better not."

    "It's too bad," Ivy said as though it was an off-hand observation, "that 
you're a stupid, wonderful, sexy idiot who's willing to get himself turned into Hoover 
bait for lil' ol' me." Her face took on a serious and candid cast. "I'm not 
worth it."

     Vachon clasped her more tightly around her waist. "I've lost too many 
people over the past year, Ives, and I was powerless to protect any of them when they 
needed me. Some were friends, some were family, and I loved them all, one way 
or another. I'm not interested in letting go of anyone else," he said 
emphatically. "That means you are stuck with me, come good, bad or indifferent." 

     "Even if I'm nothing but trouble?" Ivy challenged.

     The Spaniard broke out in a wicked smile. "Trouble? You're just my type."

     "Well," Ivy said in a resigned tone as she reached with one hand for her 
unsampled bottle behind her back, "I guess that's worth drinking to." She winked 
at Vachon, then tilted her head back for a handful of rapid swallows.

      Suddenly, she jerked in a spasm, her face knotting in a mask of revulsion, 
shock and fear. Ivy held the container of blood away as if it contained holy 
water, then quickly set it down on the desk with a clumsy thump.

     Vachon examined her with alarm. "Ivy - what is it?"
     
      Her arms fell to her sides, then she slowly sank to the floor. She sat 
with her knees curled and hugged them tightly to her chest. "My sire left the blood 
here." She looked away, trying to fight off the visions that came to her from the 
amount she'd consumed. "It's from someone he killed." She began to rock back 
and forth, her eyes clouding in pain. "His name is William. He is my sire's 
prisoner. For decades, he would come to William and beat him until he believed 
there was nothing left to break." Ivy shuddered, then seemed to try to sink into 
the side of the desk in an attempt to cower from the memories. Vachon crouched 
beside her, pulled Ivy into his arms, then let her rock some more. "The last 
day...the last day my sire promises him freedom, and William is ecstatic." She 
shook her head frantically. "But it doesn't make sense - he's supposed to be 
free, but my sire is tying William to a table. I can feel the barbed wire he used to 
hold him cutting into his skin. The bonds are tight - they pinch and make him bleed, 
but he doesn't care. It a small wound in comparison to what he's 
had for the past twenty years... what he's going to -" Ivy released a harsh 
gasping sound. Her lips were open, her throat straining, as if she was desperate to 
speak and suddenly struck mute.

     Vachon watched her struggle, experiencing the return of a hated sense of 
helplessness. He wanted to understand what Ivy was fighting.  Cursing himself as he did it, Javier reached up 
to the desktop. He seized the tainted bottle, then took a tiny sip before he 
could change his mind. 

     He expected a sharp burst of foul sensations, but he hadn't been prepared 
for the degree of torture and misery that struck at him from the minute amount of 
plasma. Vachon threw the bottle at the fireplace out of reflex, instinctively 
wanting the vile concoction far away from him. The glass struck stone boarding 
up what used to be a fire grate and shattered, leaving a slash of red in its 
wake as bottle fragments clattered to the floor. 

     Two images blazed through Vachon's brain with horrific clarity as he 
clutched at the shivering Ivy: Guillotine blades slashing down from above and 
sinking though his chest as though it was made from rice paper, and the pain 
that followed - an agony so devastating that he could bite through his tongue and 
feel no different.

     After a couple minutes, Vachon's torment faded to a dull pang. Ivy wasn't 
as fortunate; she'd consumed ten times the blood he had - much too much. Ivy 
continued to experience William's life and death, the events winding around into 
a chain without beginning or end. The punishment, the debasement, and the 
abuse, all linked together by never-ending pain, raged within her, until Ivy 
believed she was shackled by sharp wires, decimated by unforgiving blades, and 
left unable to scream for escape.

     Vachon collapsed to the floor from his crouching position. He leaned 
against the wall of the desk, then pulled Ivy into his embrace. He squeezed her 
tightly, trying to soothe her body's convulsions as she gave into noiseless, wrenching 
sobs. Vachon and Ivy remained entwined long past when the shaking stopped. 
They sat in the desecrated room, dazed and unmoving, the same numb sensation 
of violation making them wonder at what could be her sire's encore.

****************************************************************
End of Part Twenty-Four A
Continued in Part Twenty-Four B

     Clare was hunting.

     Hunting for the lost buttons from her blouse, that is. One fastening was 
sequestered  beneath a side table. She located another by rummaging through the 
sofa cushion. That left three more unaccounted for. Clare finished searching 
behind the sofa and pouted as she discovered LaCroix watching her with 
undisguised amusement. "This is your fault, Lucius. Biting my clothes undone is 
all fine and dandy, but now I have to find the buttons. It's not funny!" she 
said indignantly, then lifted a small cushion from the sofa to shake at him 
menacingly. "Stop laughing at me. There's a reason they call them 'throw 
pillows,' you know."

     Her threat did not make LaCroix sober in the slightest bit. "Clare, it's 
only a shirt. Clothes are replaceable. You can get a new one."

     She pursed her lips together in a firm line. "I don't want a new one. I 
like *that* one." Clare climbed off the sofa, holding her two prizes up by their 
shanks. "Very well. I admit the blouse itself is perfectly replaceable. The 
buttons, however, are unique. Don't you recognize them?"

     "Why would *I* pay any attention to your buttons beyond their undoing?"

     Clare gave an exasperated sigh. "Because I've had these for almost two 
centuries, that's why! Figaro used them in the first gown he ever designed...it 
was for me, of course. I always thought it strange that so many decades passed 
before he started creating clothes for profit. Fig swore the buttons were carved 
from the bones of a French Revolutionary." 

     LaCroix took one of the proffered fastenings for closer inspection. "For 
someone who wasn't anywhere close to being royalty, Figaro certainly was their 
champion," he commented snidely.

     "He was *practically* royalty - he was a valet. You can't get closer to 
blue blood than that without biting ...which he started doing as soon as I brought 
him across," Clare commented ruefully. "My, but the debutantes dropped quickly 
that season...and the debutantes' beaux, and their parents...Vienna was almost 
quarantined before I got Fig under control."

     LaCroix caught one of Clare's hands and returned the borrowed button to her 
upturned palm. "I am certain Figaro did whatever was necessary to please you."

     She arched an eyebrow at his remark, then strutted over to her abandoned 
blouse, swiping it from where it puddled on the floor. She happily found another 
button underneath the pile of fabric, then slipped her arms into the sleeves, 
securing the material by tying the ends in a knot at her waist with a huff. She 
retrieved her jacket next, glaring at a crease running along the material from 
the rear placket to the right front. "I suppose I should stop off at the hotel for 
another supply of clothes while I'm out." She eyed LaCroix knowingly. "It's 
funny how everything I bring over here ends up either torn, wrinkled or missing 
parts."

     "Very strange, indeed." LaCroix nodded slightly in agreement as he spoke, 
his voice filled with mocking astonishment. "My clothes, for the most part, remain 
unscathed."

     Clare pressed against him, then raised her chin and lightly brushed the tip 
of her nose against his own. "I'll have to see what I can do about that," she 
murmured silkily. "But first, I have to stop by the morgue, then maybe the 
studio."

     "More business?" LaCroix inquired.

     Clare took on a mysterious air. "Not quite. I've perceived several members 
of my family are having...emotional...evenings." All at once, her stance became 
alert. "Hmm," she said as she turned to stare at the door. "Then again,  I might 
not be going to the morgue, after all." 

      There was a light tapping at the chamber door. LaCroix pulled it open 
almost immediately, intrigued by the identity of the visitor. She stood in the 
doorway, glancing between him and her sire with an air of resignation. She wore an 
overcoat, secured all the way up to her throat, as though she didn't want to 
reveal her clothes underneath. The scent of blood, stale and fresh, storm-clouded 
about her. He anticipated witnessing the downpour. "Good evening, Natalie," he said 
smoothly, spider-to-fly.

      She delivered a cursory greeting in return. "LaCroix." Clare was standing 
by his side, luring Natalie's attention. Her sire's expression included a welcoming 
smile and a faint tinge of curiosity. Nat burrowed her hands into her coat 
pockets as deeply as they would go. The heavy fabric was like a shield 
blanketing her, and she struggled with the last dregs of her instinct to use the 
garment as protection. "Clare," she began, her voice carrying a hint of 
hesitation, "I need you."

     Her sire's smile broadened at this announcement. Clare took a step closer, 
meeting LaCroix's gaze with a passing glance filled with delighted interest. 
"Certainly," she answered, holding her arms out slightly from her sides in a 
welcoming gesture. "What can I do?"

     Natalie took a deep breath before speaking. "It's rather ironic, actually - 
my being a provincial coroner and all..." she said, reaching up to her throat and 
methodically unfastening the toggles of her coat. The sides of the material 
slowly parted, revealing the scrubs she wore underneath. Natalie had been 
wearing an apron when the blood spilled, so her upper clothing was only marked 
in seeping red patches about the neck.  There were stains delineating her knees 
and shins on her white pants, remnants of how she'd crawled over the body on 
the morgue's exam table to corner Barney. "I need your help in taking care of a 
body."

     Nat gestured for Clare to precede her through the door and back into the 
club. The women moved without another word among the throng of the Raven's 
patrons, then outside into the night. LaCroix chose to follow them - what did it 
matter that Natalie no doubt considered him uninvited? - dismissing the threat 
of silence over the radio airwaves. 

     Doctor Lambert wanted assistance in disposing of a corpse.

     *This* LaCroix had to see.

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


     Ivy stirred in Vachon's arms. She was still dazed from the effects of 
William Hyatt's blood. At the same time, she experienced a desperate urge to escape, 
to run from the studio and flee the memories of the room.

     The Spaniard either sensed, understood, or shared what she was feeling. As 
she jerked, attempting to leap to her feet, his embrace tightened to keep her 
held close against his chest. "No running."

     She let out a grunt of protest at his order. "What the hell else am I 
supposed to do? The man is certifiable." Ivy had no qualms about making her opinion 
concrete and pure. "His harassment is beginning to get to me. I'm becoming 
paranoid; I feel hunted, and I'm honestly scared. What happened to Domino?" 
she wondered in a mournful almost-wail. "Can you sense him? I sensed a 
moment of pain from him, but it didn't last very long, and now I can't feel 
anything."

     "You mean, did your sire destroy him?" Ivy nodded, prompting Vachon to 
shake his head ruefully. "I can't tell for sure - our relationship is pretty 
distant."

     She wasn't content with giving up on the possibility that Vachon had felt 
something concrete. "But you described to me how you experienced Figaro's 
death."

     "I did," he admitted. "It was a sharp outflow of his pain and anguish, and 
I was less than a block away. He was a closer relation to me blood-wise, though. I 
know you want some kind of absolute answer, Ives, but I don't have it. I felt 
violent emotions from Domino - that's why I thought you were running from 
him at first - but they could have come from whatever fight trashed this place," 
he pointed out, gesturing around the wrecked office, "not necessarily from his 
destruction. Come to me - that's what your sire wants - maybe he took Dom as 
some sort of bait. He could think you'll come for your friend."

     "If I tried to find him," Ivy reasoned slowly, "if I tracked my sire by 
whatever blood bond we have - how can I help Domino, if I can't even begin to help 
myself?"

     "That's why you aren't going to do that," Vachon stated firmly. "Bring in 
the big guns."

     Ivy's brow furrowed. "Big guns?"

     "The barracuda," Vachon explained with a glint in his eye. "If someone's 
hurt Dom, Clare will make it her personal business to teach your sire a lesson."

     Ivy rubbed her face with her hands in an exhausted gesture. "Somehow, 
everything comes back to depending on Clare's help. You know, that's what 
Dom said I should do when I first came here - ask for Clare's help. I turned him 
down because I didn't want to betray my loyalties to Janette by owing her arch-
enemy a favor" She shrugged. "Besides, I figured she wouldn't bother - I mean, 
who am I to trouble her for help?"

     "Now that Domino is a factor," Vachon said with certainty, "she's going to 
want to deal with this, and she's not going to care that you are involved. It's 
out of your control."

     Worry was evident on Ivy's countenance. "And she's not going to care at all 
that it was Dom's friendship with me that caused him harm? Yeah, right, Javier. 
Instead of one scary vampire hounding me, why not make it two?"

     Vachon rubbed the back of his neck for a thoughtful minute before he 
released an irritated sigh. "Okay, you have a point there. Clare might not be 
thrilled with you. She's not entirely predictable."  He rose from the floor and 
offered Ivy a hand to help her to her feet. "We can't leave Domino hanging, 
though."

    "No, we can't," Ivy agreed wholeheartedly. "So what do we do?"

     Vachon picked up the phone. "It's a lot more likely that she felt something 
from Domino than I did - she could be wondering about him already. I'll just 
call her, tell her what I've found at the studio, and let Clare take it from there." 
He avoided mentioning that Clare was the one who informed him that Ivy was 
hiding here in the first place.  Vachon 
thought. 

     As Vachon reached for the desk phone, Ivy examined the blood slashes on 
the office wall, fireplace, and the clutter on the floor. "There are mortal 
employees due here around nine - I suppose I should at least attempt to clean 
some of this up so they don't call the police."

     Javier's first thought as he listened to the Raven's phone line ringing was 
 His second thought was,  His third thought he spoke aloud:

     "Clare *is* the police."

     Ivy spun around from where she was dumping shards of glass and ruined 
material into a wastebasket and asked dumbfoundedly, "What? Clare? 
Responsible for law and order? You're kidding, right?"

     Vachon grinned at her reaction, shaking his head. "No. It's true. She's a 
*homicide* detective." 

     Apparently someone finally picked up the phone at the Raven, because 
Vachon turned his attention to speaking into the receiver, leaving Ivy to muse 
privately over that interesting revelation. 

     "She's not there?" Vachon gave a disbelieving grunt. "Do you have a clue 
where she went?...No, no message." He hung up, then dialed another number. At 
Ivy's curious glance, Vachon explained, "Clare just left the Raven - I'm trying 
her cell phone."

     "Ah." Ivy went back to collecting rabble from the floor.

     Vachon heard the phone line click, indicating a pick-up on the other end, 
so he began to speak. "Clare? It's Vachon. Something's up with Domino - I think he 
might be in danger. Have you -?"

     There was another click, a second of silence, then a solid dial tone. 
Vachon frowned in irritation, then dialed Clare's number again. This time, the phone 
rang on with no answer.

     "No luck?" Ivy asked.

     "No luck. I'm out of numbers to call. We'll have to stop by the precinct or 
Clare's hotel on our way out of town."

     "Out of town? What happened to the 'no running' rule?"

     "This isn't running; this is a minor excursion. I'm in the mood for a good 
motorcycle ride, and there's a spot in Maple where we can crash. Are you 
game?"

     "I'm game, set and match," Ivy promised, then frowned as she gazed at the 
desecrated wall. "The problem is, the bloodstains aren't going to come off. 
They'll have to be covered." She pondered the red slashes for a minute, then 
snapped her fingers as a solution came to mind. 

     Vachon watched as Ivy walked from the office into the main adjacent 
workroom. There were several small rooms branching from this one. Ducking 
into one alcove by a makeshift camera set that Dom used for quickie photo 
shoots, Ivy popped back into sight carrying a battered paint bucket and some 
rollers. "I swear they paint that backdrop a different color every week. Lucky, 
lucky."

     "So you want to just coat the wall and fireplace with a new layer?" Vachon 
asked, his voice lacking enthusiasm. Ivy nodded. "What color is it going to be?"

     Ivy hefted the bucket on top of the office desk and pried it open. "It 
looks like kind of a melon shade."

     "That figures." 

****************************************************************
    
     Natalie mechanically propped open the trunk to her sedan as Clare and 
LaCroix observed with interest. She reached out with a thumb and forefinger, 
then there was the sound of a sliding zipper. 

     Clare watched expectantly as the victim's face and upper torso was 
unveiled, recognizing the man with a noise of wry appreciation. "That's one way to 
terminate an employee."

     "I know," Nat said ruefully. "That's why I can't just slap a 'John Doe' tag 
on him, type 'death by exsanguination,' and bury this like all the other vampire-
related corpses I've covered up over the years. If any of the staff see Barney's 
body, they'll know better, and they won't keep quiet."

     "Which begs the question," LaCroix inserted evenly, "why did the *good* 
doctor choose to kill this man?"

     "Yes, Natalie," Clare echoed. "Why Barney? I can only think of 
monosyllables to describe him. He was so...dull."

     "Why?" Natalie looked down at the figure shrouded in a black plastic 
wrapper in her trunk, her eyes filled with speculation. There was silence, then 
she whispered in soft acceptance. "I was hungry."

     LaCroix appeared delighted. "And you fed...Good answer."

     Clare moved on to the bonus question. "How do you feel now?"

    Natalie continued to stare at Barney's body, her eyes focused on the 
punctures marking the dead man's throat. Her face lit with wonderment as she accepted 
her own conclusion. "I'm still hungry."

     "Good." Clare smiled in satisfaction, then took Natalie's left hand in her 
own as she wrapped her right arm about her offspring's shoulders. "Then helping you 
will be no trouble at all."

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

     Ivy was seated behind him on the Triumph, her arms wrapped tightly around 
his waist, one cheek pressed into the leather covering his shoulder blades 
firmly enough to leave an imprint.  Vachon 
thought as the bike roared over a bump in the road, and her grip tensed even 
more.

     Pulling into the parking lot of Metro Police's 96th Precinct for a pit 
stop, Vachon cursed softly when he didn't spot Clare's Ferrari parked anywhere. 
There were no Cadillacs to be found, either. He thought of Nick.  He thought of Clare.  His boots 
touched the pavement as he silenced the bike's motor.  

     Vachon glanced slightly to the side and eyed the top of Ivy's tousled head 
as it snuggled against his back. Even though they'd stopped, she continued to cinch 
his waist in a vise. He cleared his throat and said, "This'll only take a 
minute," hoping she'd take the hint. He didn't want to out and out order her to come 
along, but Ives had this pesky habit of disappearing the moment he let her out 
of sight. He didn't want to experience that phenomenon again.

     To Vachon's relief, Ivy hopped to her feet with determination and hardly a 
moment's pause. "I'm going in with you." Seeing a faint sign of surprise pass 
over his features at her announcement, Ivy's lips twitched in a grin. "I know 
what you're thinking - if Clare's here, why the hell would I want to say 'hi'? 
Well, I don't. I just don't want to hang out here alone, where my sire could 
drop in from any direction, more. Somehow, lurking in the background of a police 
station, ducking a barracuda, seems like a safe haven to me right now."

     He nodded, then slid an arm around her waist as they began to walk toward 
the precinct entrance. "Good idea," he said succinctly, not bothering to mention 
that he'd been thinking along those lines already. 

      As they drew closer to the building, Vachon's desire to talk faded. 
Whenever he'd come here to see Tracy, he'd always hung around outside until she put in 
an appearance.  he thought wryly,   There had been the hassle of Nick's glowering to consider, too. 
 he 
concluded. 

     Still, as Vachon climbed the steps, he experienced a poignant wave of 
bittersweet longing at crossing this threshold. Subconsciously, he'd always 
pictured it as 'Tracy's Domain.' Off-limits. The one time that he'd entered this 
lobby, Tracy had already been rendered to the past. Dead, but not buried. Gone.

     Vachon dimly registered Ivy pulling away from his grasp as he continued 
inside. He reached out reflexively to catch her wrist, refusing on instinct to 
let her go. They had turned to the left and now stood on the fringes of the bullpen, 
cubicles to their left, windows shuttered by blinds to the right. Ivy attempted 
tugging away again with no success. "Hey," she protested lightly. "Leggo. I 
want to dawdle inconspicuously. It'll be pretty tough for me to stay out of 
sight prancing through the middle of that throng of Toronto's finest, don't you think? 
Then there's the little matter of Clare seeing me and deciding to sic the 
guppy."

     Vachon drank in her teasing smile for a second, then set her free. "Yeah, 
right."

     Ivy's eyes narrowed. "Jav - you okay? You looked kind of ...haunted there 
for a sec."

     "Nah," he said, shrugging her concern away. "It's just the oppressive smell 
of rules and bureaucracy swimming in the air...the endless sea of suits and 
ties...the paperwork accumulating, reproducing in a swarm like locusts..."

     "Aaah! Cut it out!" Ivy squirmed in mock terror. "I know that government 
jobs are scary, but you don't have wallow in it!"

     "Just stay put," Vachon instructed, his voice just overly firm to sound 
casual.

     He walked around the bullpen's perimeter, past the sea of desks toward one 
in particular. The last time he'd seen it, the surface had been pristine - no 
forms, no folders, just a brand-new blotter pad covering the surface. Now the desk was 
a war zone. Scribbled notes graffiti-ed the portion of the pad that was exposed. 
Case files were stacked precariously on the verge of an avalanche. Loose papers 
sprawled everywhere, scattered with paperclips and recycled pencils. The 
pencils had to be Clare's. Everything else seemed doubtful.

     Nick's desk looked the same as before: orderly, but an underlying note of 
havoc. A file askew here, a post-it note wrinkled there, and his 'In' box was 
just a bit too full for comfort.

     Vachon settled into Tracy's...Clare's... he thought as he studied 
the collection of framed photographs that barricaded the rear half of the desktop, 
recognizing a face or two.   He picked up one picture to study it 
closer. It was a photo of the Anti-Goldilocks, blowing out ten candles on a cake.  he wondered. 

     He returned the frame to its original position, then leaned back slightly 
in the chair, a recycled pencil twirling between his fingers. There wasn't a sign of 
Tracy here, not even the empty desk to signify that she was missing. He 
remembered the aftermath of learning Trace was gone, shot in the head and 
consigned to history. He'd stormed out of here and checked the newspapers first 
thing for an announcement of the funeral. It took place during the day, of 
course, but the day after Vachon had heard that Tracy was dead. 

     Vachon went to the cemetery that night, not thinking about what he was 
doing or what he'd find.  It was just a grave. 
An empty hole garnished with a tent. There were half a dozen markers etched 
with the name 'Vetter' stationed nearby, family at the end of their span of duty. 

     Mortals lived and mortals died - that was just the way of it. Vachon didn't 
want to think about those buried early, their souls screaming to come back and 
finish what was rightfully theirs. He'd spent too long in that dark void, 
mentally howling himself into unconsciousness as he lay paralyzed in the ground, his 
resting place a sea of dirt. 

     Prison. Vachon had trouble thinking of graves in any other way now. When 
he revisited Tracy's burial site, he couldn't bear to look at the marker. The 
sight of the recently turned earth ripped through him as though a stake was gouging 
his heart all over again. He had glanced at the slightly mounded earth and heard 
the cries of unfulfilled life. 

     Javier Vachon had run from Tracy Vetter's grave, and he hadn't looked back.

     He'd gone to the waterfront instead. It was the place of his torment and 
the sight of his deliverance. Here, broken ground meant escape.

     Vachon had turned up the volume of the stereo in Clare's Ferrari, blasting 
out punk tunes loud enough to make the dead dance. He'd halfway believed in one 
crazy moment that Screed would crawl out of the dirt if The Clash rocked the 
night good and hard. The only thing that had moved, though, was the water 
creeping up on shore, wearing away at the banks of earth. For another mad 
moment, Vachon imagined digging Screed free, just like Clare had done for 
him. The ground surface was still a wreck from the combination of the rainstorm 
and her excavation. Vachon couldn't tell from the crumpled furrows and bumps 
in the earth exactly where he and Screed had rested anymore. 

     Then Clare had arrived, distracting him from the darkness of death and lost 
friends. The past was over, and the future beckoned. 

     A shadow fell over Knight's desk. Vachon's head snapped up from his daze to 
see Ivy leaning on her hands, perplexity in her eyes. "Mind-trip anywhere fun?"

     Vachon tossed the recycled pencil back on the desk. The chair squeaked from 
friction as he shoved it backward and sprang to his feet. "No," he answered 
plainly, then added, "Clare's not here."

     Ivy smirked. "I figured that out as soon as I saw you dream-weaving. Do you 
want to wait?"

     Vachon thought about that, but glancing down at Detective Schanke's family 
pictures once more, he decided against it. "Nah. I just remembered that I need 
to avoid one of her police buddies. Let's make one more try at Clare's hotel."

     Ivy nodded. "Okay, then."

     They reached the Four Seasons quickly.  Ivy showed no hesitation in 
joining Vachon in a little breaking-and-entering. The longer they were away 
from the House of Figaro, the safer Ivy felt, and her confidence seemed to 
increase logarithmically. This time, the prospect of running into Clare didn't 
appear to fill her with dread.

     They rose from the ground, hovering along the side of the hotel as Vachon 
pried open the French windows to the second bedroom. They slipped efficiently 
into the darkened quarters without a sound. Ivy's gaze immediately centered on 
Carmen's tree house. She released an impressed whistle, resting a hand on one of 
the structure's pediments. "Wow. That kitty does not suffer."

     Vachon grunted as he headed for the sitting room. "That reminds me. I 
should take that thing back until I finish Clare's house. I think Carmen misses 
it."

     "Take it *back?* You are so into that cat!" Upon second thought, Ivy scowled. 
"Wait a minute - you're building Clare a house? Why?"

      "I can." Vachon shrugged, then stuck his head in the master bedroom to 
double-check that no one was there. "She asked. That's where we're headed next 
- the construction site." He leaned against the doorway, watching Ivy as she 
trailed a hand along the back of the couch. "Clare's not here, either."

     "So...we leave her a note?"

     "You're laughing, but that's what I'm going to do," Vachon announced as he 
walked over to the entrance of the hotel suite. There was a small secretary to 
the left of the door blessed with a pad of hotel stationery and a fresh arrangement 
of gardenias. Ivy sniffed the bouquet, then read over Javier's shoulder as he 
scrawled out a brief message:

     Dom's in trouble - find him.
     Find me if you want details.

                          J.

     He finished off the note with a squiggly symbol. Ivy squinted and peered 
closer. She still couldn't figure out what it was. 

     Vachon scanned the suite looking for a place where Clare would definitely 
notice the message. He checked out the fridge under the mini-bar - no blood. 
That wouldn't be a good spot. He strolled back into the master bedroom and 
flicked on the light.  Vachon's eyebrows wrinkled. He doubted that 
she came here to sleep.   Vachon's 
gaze drifted toward the closet. This had potential. Clare would return here for 
clothes. 

     It was a walk-in closet, so Ivy walked. "My, oh, my, my, mymymymy, 
my...Figaro *did* like her." Flipping from garment to garment, Ivy noticed a 
pattern. "You know, none of these dresses have backs. I wonder who was 
responsible for that - Clare or Figaro?"

     "That's like asking the chicken/egg thing," Vachon responded, then looked 
about blankly. "Got any tape?"

     Ivy gestured to her form-fitting sweater and jeans. "Where would I have 
tape?"

     He grunted his disappointment, then started hunting through Clare's 
dresser. "Screed always had tape," he grumbled.

     Ivy moved to stand beside him. She nudged him with her hip as she began 
noseying around the items stacked on the dresser surface. "I'm not Screed."

     Vachon gave her a twice-over, his eyes roaming down her body then back up 
again. "No, m'lady, you are not."

     She chuckled, turning her attention to a book about Greek myths resting by 
one of Clare's jewelry boxes. Ivy flipped the book open. There was a light 
crackling in the spine; the volume wasn't brand-new, but slightly used. Just 
inside the cover, there was a folded map of the night sky. Moving it aside, Ivy 
saw the book was marked with the year and an inscription:

          "He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star."

                   --William Blake

          For Jen, who shines brightly.

                                            Love,

                                            Clare

     Ivy gingerly pulled the map free and unhinged it into one, flat layer. 
Someone,  had highlighted various constellations in yellow, then 
provided names and pages numbers. One collection of stars was outlined in 
orange, however, but Ivy didn't see a name identifying it, just numerals and the 
words, 'Who needs him?' coupled with a happy face.  She 
turned curiously through the pages, landing on a segment labeled 'Perseus.' 

      Ivy was startled by a loud *thump!* She whirled around to find Vachon had 
removed a piece of the dresser's hardware, then hammered his note into he closet 
door with a pilfered screw and one of Clare's slingbacks. "Isn't that overkill?"

     Javier flicked the bottom edge of the paper proudly with the toe of the 
shoe. "It's not going anywhere - mission accomplished."

     Ivy looked from the drawer with no handle to the vandalized door in 
amusement. Ivy began to carefully close the star map along the proper 
creases, then placed it inside the book of myths once more. "Jav - who's this 'Jen' 
person Clare is friends with?"

      Vachon paused thoughtfully. "She's the daughter of a mortal Clare's been 
working with on the police force. She was in the hospital recently - when we 
took Carmen."   Vachon thought smugly, 

     Only it wasn't the end. When Vachon referred to someone's daughter, Ivy 
didn't automatically picture a ten year-old. She hadn't seen the pictures 
crowding Schanke's desk at the precinct. She'd been facing the other direction. No, 
Ivy pictured Jen as someone substantially older - seventeen, maybe eighteen.  It would be weeks before she learned differently.

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

     "We could manipulate Barney's death to look like a suicide - all the 
pressure from the job pushed him too far," Clare suggested while LaCroix simply 
watched, apparently fascinated with the conversation. 

     "He *was* unhappy," Natalie remarked absently as she slammed the trunk 
shut, "but what about the neck wounds? People don't kill themselves by slitting 
their own throats."

     "So we find another criminal to take the blame."

      Natalie seemed to be lost in thought. "Necrophilia..." she whispered.

      Clare frowned. "What did you say?"

     "It was something I picked up form Barney's blood. An ex-lover accused him 
of necrophilia. She said he liked being around the dead too much. Barney could 
take the blame for the morgue's missing corpses," Natalie explained in a matter-
of-fact tone.

     Clare weighed the idea carefully. "I suppose he could. That would be a 
damning charge, and the old girlfriend would provide collaboration." She 
paused, examining Natalie's expression for any subtle illumination. "You don't 
think Barney was guilty of the body thefts," she realized. "Why is that, 
Natalie?" Clare searched her offspring's gaze, then stiffened. "Why don't you go 
inside and get a drink?" she ordered. "I have to plan a few things. I will come and 
get you when I'm ready to go." Natalie acknowledged her sire's command with a brief 
nod, sending a lingering glance over her shoulder as she entered the Raven.

     "What do you intend to do?" LaCroix inquired in a low voice.

      Clare jerked her head around to glare ferociously at the trunk of the 
sedan. "I'm taking Natalie hunting." 

     "She seems somewhat clinical about her first meal," he commented.

     "Detachment is an excellent quality in a vampire."

     "Apathy toward mortals is a bonus, yes," LaCroix cautioned, "but vampires 
who do not care about themselves are quickly lost."

      A vision of Leila flashed though Clare's thought. She imagined Vachon's 
last sight of his sire welcoming the sun, and her mouth drew into a fine, stern line. 
"I know that. I'm not happy, however, with Natalie's choice in prey. I want her to 
choose a victim, to want to kill them, and enjoy doing so." Clare clenched her 
fists determinedly as she swept inside the club to summon her child while 
LaCroix looked on with a secretive smile. "Then we will see how apathetic she is."

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

     Ivy sat under a maple tree, twirling the first of the dead leaves to fall 
between her fingers. She'd pulled off her shoes just after they arrived so she could 
experience the cool, moist sensation of early morning grass beneath her toes. 
About a hundred meters away, Vachon was inspecting the future site of Clare's 
house.

     He'd said he'd been working on it for about five days - alone - yet he'd 
already completed the foundation. Along with some raw materials and a post 
displaying all the necessary building permits, surveying equipment still stood 
to one side. Vachon had described pouring the footings, then using a transit to 
sight the proper elevation of limestone on each side to end up with a level foundation 
wall. In modern times, the typical foundation of a house was eight inches thick 
of stone and blocks. Vachon decided to be old-fashioned and doubled the one 
for Clare's house to sixteen. Vampires built to last.

     It struck Vachon as they wandered  between the markers bounding the 
growing structure that Ivy hadn't acted surprised or doubtful that he knew what 
he was doing. Clare had, and no doubt Tracy would've. Ivy made comments and asked 
questions as though she expected him to have lifetimes of experience. Well, he did.

     "What's your favorite part about building?" she wondered aloud.

     "Putting in the roof. That usually means I've gotten far enough along for 
the project to actually look like something, and it's finally safe to crash there 
during the day."

     "Is that why there's a trailer?" Ivy pointed to a white camper parked 
across the lot.

     Vachon nodded. "Yeah - shelter from the sun. I like doing the foundation 
and supports, too. It's like the skeleton of the entire construction. Everything 
else hangs on it, and if you have a house, bridge - whatever - without proper 
supports, what you really have is a countdown to disaster."

     Ivy beamed at Vachon's obvious enthusiasm on the subject. "So what's your 
least favorite part?"

     Vachon grimaced. "Wiring. Why do you think I use so many candles at the 
church? As long as I can plug in an amp, I don't even want to think about fixing 
the rest of it. I'm using a contractor for that part of Clare's house."

     Now Ivy was relaxing while Vachon made some minor adjustments to the 
project blueprints. 

     "I'm glad you brought me here," she called across the yard. "It's quiet."

     Javier smirked at the house plans as he shouted his reply. "Is that a nice 
way of saying it's boring?"

     Ivy tossed a dead leaf aside and climbed to her feet. "No-o!" she 
protested, padding barefoot over the grass toward him. "It's peaceful in a way the 
city can't catch. The air smells sweeter, the sky is clearer - everything just feels 
more pure."

     Vachon put his hands on his hips and looked up at the stars. "I remember 
when you didn't have to go so far to be in the middle of nowhere."

     "And I don't." Ivy knew that vampire-wise, she was an infant. For a mortal, 
she wasn't old either. She wasn't even middle-aged. "What's it like?"

      Vachon took one of her hands and pulled Ivy along as he headed for the 
trailer. "What's what like?"

       "Seeing the world change." She brushed a hand through her hair and gave 
him a quirky smile. "The feeling when you realize one night that everyone who 
ever lived as a mortal in your time is long buried."

      Vachon made a doubtful grunting sound as he paused at the foot of the 
trailer steps. "You think I'm an anachronism?"

       Ivy shook her head. "No, not that. But you *are* unique. How many guys 
cruise around Toronto on a Triumph who first crossed the Atlantic with Pizarro?"

       "O-kay, you have a point." He propped open the camper door and ushered 
Ivy inside before him. Tossing the blueprints onto the built-in table, Vachon 
stood behind her, using his newly-freed hand to encircle her waist. "But how 
many women cruise around Toronto on a Triumph with a guy who first crossed 
the Atlantic with Pizarro?"

     Ivy wasn't buying. "More than one, I bet." Her eyes grew contemplative 
after a moment of grinning. "Do you ever feel alone?"

     Vachon didn't answer immediately. Instead, he ducked his chin, brushing it 
against the top of her head as Ivy leaned into him. "Not anymore."
 
********************************************************************

     The two women walked down a shadowed section of sidewalk. The alternate 
clicking of their heels against the pavement replaced any conversation.

     It wasn't a bad part of town. 

     One veered out of the darkness, clearly intending to cross the boulevard. 
She paused long enough for a passing bus, then proceeded to jaywalk. It was hardly 
the worst of her crimes.

     The other woman easily caught up with her, drawing parallel within a 
handful of steps. They reached the opposite curb, then began to stroll 
companionably down the street, the lamps gracing their heads with blurred halos 
of light every few meters.

     The silence broke. "How did you dispose of the other corpses, Natalie?"

     "I flew them a good distance over the lake and let them drop." Nat touched 
her upper lip with the tip of her tongue, then continued to speak candidly. "The 
bodies  should be good and chewed before they reach shore again. What's a few 
fang marks and  scalpel incisions in comparison?"

     "I think Barney should join them. We can rent a boat in his name and make 
the owner recognize his picture, forgetting us. All we have to do is take the 
boat out, shoot Barney in the head, making the wound look self-inflicted, then let 
his body fall overboard. We leave the boat for the lake authorities to find later 
while we leave your former employee to the nibbling of the crustaceans."

     "That sounds like a plan," Natalie stated. 

     A tall, lanky man brushed past them, working on his early morning jog. He 
was handsome, with closely cropped brown hair, muscular legs, and a lean 
stomach outlined by his snug T-shirt. He left a sweaty, but clean smell in his 
wake, paired with the echo of his rapidly beating heart. Natalie licked her lips 
again, tempted by the smell.

     Clare noticed, and pointedly nodded at the man's retreating back. "First, 
though, you dine."

      Natalie's eyes began to glow faintly as she observed the runner turn the 
corner, then she glanced questioningly in Clare's direction.

      "If you want him," her sire stated plainly, "help yourself."

      "And if I don't want to kill him?" Natalie whispered fiercely.

     "Then learn to control your hunger," Clare explained. "You cannot learn if 
you do not practice, Natalie." There was a temporary silence. "This is what you 
wanted from me, isn't it? To learn about your hunger, to feed, but to control 
the beast rather than it controlling you?"

       Natalie nodded, then began to move stealthily down the walkway. Clare 
took to the air with the intention of watching from above. She observed as 
Natalie skimmed between the shaded corners of the street, swiftly gaining on the 
jogger as he moved along his route.

     Suddenly, Natalie stood before him, leaning against a doorway with the 
night air tangling the curls of her hair in a seductive dance. The look in her eyes 
caused the runner to stop in his tracks. He was breathing heavily - Clare could 
see the rise and fall of his chest from above. Natalie circled him slowly, 
giving him the chance to catch it - not too much, mind you - as she grew accustomed to 
the pounding of his heartbeat as the sound seemed to throb through her body. 

     Her hunger doubled with each pulse, until, finally, Natalie gave into her 
desire. She ran trembling hands over the man's pectorals, then traced the sides 
of his throat and his jawline with her fingers. He stared at her, mouth open and 
mesmerized, and as Natalie pulled him toward the shelter of darkness, he made 
no struggle to pull away.

     Dipping her head to his chest, Natalie licked a trail starting where the 
jogger's shirt ended and warm skin began. She let her mouth wander upward, gradually 
tasting the surface of his flesh until she could feel the bold cadence of 
movement in his carotid artery press against her tongue. Her victim released a groan 
of desire, then she struck, her fangs slicing into him, bringing on a gush of warm 
crimson to quench her palate.

     Natalie felt her entire being pulse now as she filled herself with the rich 
flavor of his essence. Deeper and deeper she drank, until his body slumped 
languorously against hers.

     There was an interruption.

     Clare was there, pulling her back slightly as she cautioned, "Careful. 
Drink anymore, and he will die. It is your choice, Natalie."

     She licked her lips, catching the few renegade drops of blood that had 
escaped her earlier attention. They were thick and sweet. They were fulfilling.

     So Natalie bent to the well once more in order to drain it dry.

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

     October 16, 1996

     The French windows in the second bedroom of Clare's hotel suite were very 
popular. It was hardly after midnight when Cecilia broke inside. She wasn't 
alone, but carried a man, bound and gagged, over her shoulder. 

     Cecilia walked casually through the doorways, aiming methodically for the 
master bedroom. She flicked on the overhead light with a hand holding a dark 
glass bottle. "Better to see you with, my dear," she trilled, then dumped the 
man casually on the king-sized bed. She set the bottle on the dresser top, then 
wandered over to the walk-in closet, noticing a note branded to the door by a 
screw. Cecilia read the contents, let out a haughty sniff, then snatched the 
paper away. She hunted about the room for a writing instrument, but didn't find one. 

     She left the bedroom momentarily, borrowing a recycled pencil from the 
desk by the suite's main door, and added another message to the bottom of the 
page. Crumpling it into a dense ball, Cecilia turned her attention back to the 
man in the master bedroom. 

     Though his hands and feet were tied, he had still made the effort to roll 
off the mattress and struggled to crawl over the carpeted floor. Cecilia released a 
coo of displeasure. "Uh-uh-uh." She was crouching over him in a second, 
caressing his cheek as she delivered a blinding smile. "We haven't even begun to 
play." She patted his face lightly once, then gave him a resounding slap. As the 
sound echoed through the empty room, Cecilia slid her fingers down to his left ear. 

     Grasping the cartilage between her thumb and three fingers, Cecilia 
straightened, then began to pull her guest back toward the bed by his ear. 
Within a few steps, the man released a series of gag-muffled, agonized screams as the 
fragile flesh tore apart.

     Cecilia paused in pulling when she detected no resistance from the weight 
of his body. Covering her mouth in false surprise as she stared at the bloody 
fragment in her hand, she drawled, "Oh, did that hurt?" 

     Cecilia effortlessly picked him up, throwing his body back on top of the 
bed. "Maybe you shouldn't try moving unless I tell you to. There aren't that many 
more things I can pull off." 

     Watching the man writhe in pain on the mattress, Cecilia informed him 
bloodlessly, "No one will hear you scream, Doctor. This is the Four Seasons. 
People pay a lot of money so that they *don't* hear what happens from room to 
room." She leaned over him, his eyes wide with terror, and hissed at him in a 
voice soaked with malice. "So... shut...up."

     With that, Cecilia gave him another blinding smile, then dropped a kiss on 
his forehead. "You know, you're really kind of cute. It's a pity about your 
ear," she commented as she loosened his gag, then brandished the ball of paper she'd 
made from Vachon's note. "Say 'Aah.' " 

     He cooperated, opening his mouth fully, and Cecilia popped the wad inside. 
"Now swallow - no chewing," she ordered. He coughed repeatedly, but 
complied, making Cecilia offer congratulations. "Good boy. You're the first 
lucky delivery man in the D.O.A. mail service. It's my own little twist to the 
concept of 'dead letter office.'"

     Cecilia wandered back to the closet, flinging the door wide and inspecting 
the contents. She began to pull off her clothes and drop them to the floor, 
including a Japanese sword that she had hilted at her side. "That's right - if you 
hadn't made the prognosis already - I'm going to kill you. It won't be especially 
pretty; that's part of the deal." She clapped her hands together gleefully, then began 
sorting through Clare's wardrobe. "Just because your death is going to be very 
grisly, that doesn't mean I can't look fantastic. I'll be pretty enough for both 
of us." She pulled out a forest green sheath with a matching jacket for inspection. 
"Be honest - is it me?" She paused, then tossed the garment aside. "No, I'd have 
to have grotesque red hair to go with that awful color. Who wants it?" Cecilia 
released a happy sigh as she pulled another gown into view. This one was 
constructed out of silk the shade of black cherries. "We have a winner." She 
slipped the long dress on, then danced about the room, modeling it for her 
company.

     Cecilia retrieved the sword from the floor, pulling the tanto blade free of 
its scabbard, then waving it in the air a few times for drama. She looked at the man 
on the bed, giving him a leisurely examination as she pendulum-ed the sword 
before his gaze. "Thomas tells me you were the surgeon responsible for saving 
Jennifer Schanke's life." She released a foul chuckle. "I really, really wanted 
her to die. Shall we start with your hands?"

*******************************************************************
End Of Part Twenty-Four     


     "Ugh! I *must* stop by the hotel and pick up some clothes!" Clare exclaimed 
as she slammed her police locker. "It's either that, or go shopping. The trouble 
is that I keep being distracted."

      Natalie appeared from around the corner and inspected her sire's ensemble. 
"You talk about jeans and a T-shirt as if they were garlic."

     Her sire glowered as she tucked in her shirt. "I'm aesthetically 
displeased."

     Nat laughed. "Come on - you wore the same thing running around town with Jen!"

      "She bossed me into it."

      "Right. As if you can be bossed around," Natalie said doubtfully. "On 
second thought, I guess that Jen falls into the category of a special case."

      "And we can leave the subject at that." Clare refrained from discussing 
the youngest member of the Schanke clan any further, preferring to look ruefully 
down at her clothing instead. "Jeans and a T-shirt - it's just so *ordinary.*" 
She shrugged dismissively, then focused her attention fully on Nat. "Did Nicholas 
say anything when you returned to the loft last night?"

      "No," she answered, staring absently at the bracelet of precious flowers 
that garlanded her wrist. It seemed like another lifetime, another world when Nick 
had given it to her. Maybe it was just another Natalie. "He asked if I was okay, 
I said that I was fine, and it was pretty quiet after that."

      "When are you going to talk to him, Natalie?" Clare reached out and took 
one of her offspring's hands in her own. "How long do you think you can live 
with him and hide *everything*?"

      "I know I can't," she admitted. "I just need a little more time to figure 
out how to tell him the truth." Nat gave a heavy sigh, squeezed Clare's fingers, 
then let them go. "But, first, I have to go to the morgue and examine Number Murder 
number four."

     Clare waved her off. "Have fun. Don't eat anyone I wouldn't."

     Natalie sent her sire a grin over her shoulder as though it was a good 
joke. Hidden below the surface of smiles, however, both women knew that Clare had 
added the comment as an order.

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

     Schanke smoothed his snazzy tie flat against his chest, unable to resist 
delivering a jibe. "Woo-hoo! Slumming it today, are we Detective Douglas?"

     Clare wasn't amused. Without looking up from the file cabinet, Clare rolled 
a higher drawer closed while simultaneously yanking the next one open. It just 
happened to slam into his stomach with a thump. "Remember, Schanke: I know 
where your duck lamp lives."

     He grunted, then let out an exclamation as he observed Clare's activities. 
"Please tell me you aren't doing what I think you're doing."

     "I'm looking through all the Missing Persons files between 1969 and Monday 
for any blue-eyed Caucasian male, approximately 1.7 meters tall, with anything 
in his background that would make our killer want to remove his hair, 
fingerprints, etc."

     "Uh-ow! I said don't tell me that!" Schanke groaned. "Let me guess - you 
want my assisto-mundo in the paperwork jungle, right?"

     "I wouldn't shoot you if you pitched in a helping hand." What Clare would 
do to him if he didn't was left to Schanke's own imagination.

     "Okay, okay..." he sighed, "but I am *this close,*" Schanke gestured as 
though he was pinching the air, "to having some leads on our killer."

    That was intriguing, seeing as how the killer was a vampire Schanke should 
know nothing about. "Do tell."

     Schanke raised his eyebrows and waggled his head. "I'm telling. I've been 
working on a list of Metro citizens who ever lived in Ohio in the Fifties. I've 
got a short list of names for people who either paid taxes or were enrolled in 
public school at the time and now live in our fair city."

      "That's assuming the killer was a law abiding citizen or didn't go to a 
private institution," Clare pointed out while grimacing internally. 

       "Yeah," Schanke nodded as he pulled open another file cabinet and joined 
into the work, "but I've also got a guy willing to hunt up the police records of 
all these potential psychos."

      "And you're waiting for him to send you some useful information?"

     "Bingo."

     "Like what?" 

     "Some kid who shoplifted a paint-by-numbers set in 1957?" Schanke 
shrugged. "I don't know. But there could be some kind of Ohio link I can bulls-
eye."

     Clare sighed unenthusiastically. "I'm sure if there's anything to be found, 
you'll lasso and hog-tie it into submission, Schanke."

    He assumed his exaggerated Southern drawl and pretended to tip an invisible 
hat. "Why, thank you, ma'am!"

     Nick appeared in the doorway. At first, his features carried a smile of 
warm greeting. He noticed both of his partners with their hands buried in drawers of 
Missing Persons files, and his face fell. "You two aren't doing what I think 
you're doing, are you? That's looking for a needle in a haystack!"

     "Yes, but we don't have any fingerprints to run or identifying marks. Nat 
can do a dental match, but only if we give her someone to match with. By all means, 
pull out a drawer and join in the fun," Clare offered.

     None of the three detectives looked remotely happy with their task. It was 
going to be a long, long night.

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

     "What's tonight's project, O Master Builder?"

     "I'm putting in the floor joists," Vachon answered. "They'll be doubled-up, 
since there'll be some marble flooring."  

     "Don't you mean *we're* putting in the floor joists?" Ivy said teasingly.

     "You don't have to help," he stated plainly as he lifted an armful of four-
by-eights, stepped over the stone foundation wall, then lay the boards down on the 
ground again. "I planned to do all the work."

     Ivy picked up her own load of joist material and joined him. "But I planned 
to help - just tell me what to do."

     "Are you sure?"

      She nodded. "Positive." Ivy fluttered her eyelashes winsomely. "Left to my 
own devices, who knows what trouble I could -"

     "Okay, okay - you're working," Vachon announced. "It won't take that long. 
Are you ready to ride back to TO?"

     "I don't know. I like it here. I don't sense my sire is watching me 
anymore. It's like the longer I stay away, the more I feel like he can't catch me." 
Ivy closed her eyes and let out a noise of frustration. "At the same time, I want to 
know what's happened to Domino. Clare's probably gotten your note by now, right?"

     Vachon nodded. "Probably." He noted Ivy's worried expression. Reaching 
out a hand to rub the back of her neck, he offered reassurance. "Clare can 
handle it. We can stay here another day or two, if you want. For tomorrow's building 
excitement, we have a feast of sub-flooring."

     She broke into a smile. "A feast, eh?" she commented, then nudged a plank 
with a boot. "Well, bring on the appetizer, O Master Builder."

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

     "Going my way?"

     Anticipation swelled unbidden in Nick's mind as he glanced in the direction 
of the voice. There was Natalie, leaning against the hood of an automobile, 
swinging the car keys as if they were stainless steel carrots. But then, these 
weren't just any keys to just any car.

     They belonged to the Caddy.

     Nick could not contain his excitement. He seemed to glow as he approached 
Nat, and she handed over the keys. "How did you find out the Caddy was ready 
before I did?"

     "Well, you left the loft first this evening - you barely missed Aristotle's 
call. I thought I'd pick it up and surprise you."

     Nick brushed a tentative hand along Natalie's left jaw. "And you're full of 
surprises," he said enigmatically before kissing her briefly on the lips.

     She watched as Nick moved around to the other side of the car to open the 
passenger's side door for her, muttering dryly under her breath, "Aren't I 
just?" before moving to join him. 

     He shut the door firmly once Natalie was settled, then returned slowly 
around the front, examining every minute detail of the front grill and fenders. 
Sliding behind the steering wheel, Nick turned the ignition, closing his eyes to savor 
the sound of the engine springing to life. "How was the drive over?"

     Nat raised her eyebrows slightly as she considered her answer, nibbling the 
tip of her tongue between her teeth. "Mmm...It was fine."

     Nick looked at her in alarm. "Fine? What does that mean? Is there something 
wrong with the way the Caddy handles?"

     "I said it was fine - since when does that mean something bad?" Natalie 
protested.

      Nick 
thought sadly. "It's just not an overwhelming recommendation."

      "Well, Nick, I haven't exactly driven your car as a habit, now have I? 
Maybe to the courthouse, now and then, so you wouldn't *implode,*" Natalie responded 
a touch too defensively. "Come to think of it - I haven't driven the Caddy since -"

     "Since?"

     Her voice lowered to a distant rumble. "Since I became a vampire. I really 
wouldn't know what it should be like."

     "Then I guess I'll just have to see for myself," Nick stated as he pulled 
the car into traffic.

     Nat's focus faded from the conversation. She turned her head, gazing 
absently out the passenger side window as she chewed her lower lip. "Yes. Sometimes 
you have to experience something for yourself before you can make a 
judgment."

     The distant tone to Natalie's voice made Nick concerned. Suddenly, he knew 
that they weren't discussing the Cadillac's repair job anymore. His right hand 
left the steering wheel, seeking out her fingers where they rested on the seat belt 
closure. The bracelet of flowers around her wrist twinkled from the street 
lighting pouring through the windshield. He squeezed Nat's palm reassuringly. 
"I'm sure everything will be fine."

     She let out a deep breath, almost choking on her answer as it came from her 
throat. "Yes. Fine."

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

     Clare never got around to the hotel. She lingered too late over the Missing 
Persons files with Nick and Schanke, forcing her to pick between driving to the 
Four Seasons in order to access her wardrobe or spending the day with LaCroix. 
She chose to head for the Raven.

     Besides - she didn't need clothes to spend the day with LaCroix.

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

     "That's one service I have done you," Cecilia announced.

     "You will have to share every grisly detail with me, my dear," Thomas 
answered.

     "I intend to," she said sweetly. "I must admit - the job whetted my 
appetite for more - perhaps a visual demonstration would be best."

      "Ah, that is an excellent idea!" Thomas agreed.

     They walked along a pale corridor, entering what was formerly Eddie 
Shaker's cell. The room had a new occupant - Domino - hands bound, mouth 
taped and staked through the stomach to keep him incapacitated.

     "This won't be an *exact* duplication," Cecilia complained as she smoothed 
the deep red skirt of  her borrowed gown. "After all, he won't die," she 
released a piteous sigh, "and *this,*" Cecilia struck the piece of wood extending from 
Domino's abdomen, causing him to deliver a hoarse cry, "will be in my way. I 
think you'll be able to pick up on the general idea, though, don't you?"

     "Certainly."

      "Good," Cecilia trilled, then she began. "He wasn't cooperative at first - 
he actually tried to crawl away. I had to string him up by his ear to teach him a 
lesson. Here - I'll show you..."

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

     October 17, 1996

     Natalie looked up from an autopsy report as Nick, Schanke and Clare all 
filed into the morgue. "Good. You're here. The lab reports for the fourth Number 
murder just came in." She opened a file and appeared ready to discuss its 
contents, then noticed Clare was talking on Nick's cell phone. Nat looked from 
Nick to Schanke. "Who's she talking to?"

     "The Four Seasons," Nick answered.

     "She's getting a hotel lackey to *bring* her clothes over to the precinct," 
Schanke elaborated, then said in an aside to Clare, "While your at it - have 'em 
pick up my dry cleaning and a souvlaki to go."

     She put a hand over the receiver, then murmured to the detective, "With 
onions?"

     Schanke's mouth fell open. "I was *kidding.*"

     Clare waved a hand carelessly in his direction. "They'll do it." She 
uncovered the mouthpiece and added to her order. "I'd also like you to deliver a 
souvlaki with onions, and pick up some dry cleaning under the name 'Schanke' at -" She 
motioned for Don to supply the name of an establishment.

       "White Collar Cleaners?" Schanke still looked befuddled.

       "- White Collar Cleaners," Clare said into the phone. "That's right. 
Detective Douglas, 96th Precinct..."

     "I was kidding," he repeated for Nick and Natalie's benefit.

     Nick clapped him on the shoulder good-naturedly. "You have to be careful 
what you wish for around her, Schank." Natalie glanced at him with a strange 
expression, then turned away.

     As Clare closed the phone and handed it back to Nick, Natalie asked her, 
"Haven't you replaced your cellular phone yet?"

     Clare shrugged. "I never think about it until I need it."

     "Besides," Nick said smartly, "why would she bother when she can always 
use someone else's?"   

     Clare ignored him and pointed to the folder in Natalie's grasp. "Are those 
the lab results?"

     She nodded. "I took a cross-section of the skin and also did a 
magnification of the surface. From the texture, I'd say the victim's scarring came 
from repeated, even friction, perhaps involving  some kind of caustic chemical or a 
gritty abrasive."

     Schanke's upper lip curled as his forehead wrinkled curiously. "You mean, 
the guy was scrubbed with Comet?"
 
      Nat pressed her lips her lips together, and answered with an air of 
regret, "That's a possibility."

      "So he was cleaned to the point of obsession," Clare commented.

     Natalie nodded. "I'd say he was...to a degree where there is permanent 
damage to practically all of his hair follicles and a good deal of his sweat 
glands. Our victim had to have been rubbed raw over and over again."

     "If we stay with the idea that the killer is transforming the victims: a 
proud man into a meek one, a beautiful woman into hideousness, a spoiled socialite 
into someone seeped in their own squalor, then this victim was cleaned because -"

     "He was considered dirty," Nick concluded. He frowned in concentration, 
suggesting, "Someone figuratively living in the gutter."

     "Figuratively?" Schanke let out a snort. "How about literally? Maybe the 
guy was homeless. He could have been one of the undergrounds - remember them?" 
Don shook his head. "That would explain why there's no Missing Persons report 
on our date. If the guy was among the disenfranchised, who's going to care if he 
disappears?"

     "There was cirrhosis in the liver that could have been due to alcoholism," 
Natalie offered in support.

     "Some of the case files we pulled last night were closed because the 
missing individual was arrested for vagrancy," Nick said. "Maybe one of them is our 
victim."

     "Send the files over, and I'll see if I can match them up."

     "Then it's back to the precinct," Nick announced with a smile. He dropped a 
quick kiss on Nat's lips, making her start in surprise. "Thanks."

     Natalie dazedly waved them out of the door. "That's what I'm here for," she 
said faintly, "to be the *good* doctor."

    The trio's attention had already been drawn away from her and their voices 
echoed down the halls of the Coroner's building.

     "What do you two think about the Caddy? How's she riding?" Nick 
questioned the other detectives. 

     "It's fine," Schanke replied.

     "Fine?" Nick echoed with a note of uncertainty in his tone.

     "I'd say it's fine," Clare agreed. 

     "So, really...what's the problem with it?" Nick asked, perplexed.

      Schanke patted him on the shoulder. "We said it was fine. The word means 
'no problemo,' pardner. Don't worry about it." He spoke to Clare, as though in 
confidence. "Who'da thunk this guy'd need a dictionary?" Schanke laughed as he 
opened the Coroner's Office door and held it for the other two. "Anyway, what 
could be wrong with the Caddy? It's not as if you drove it into a telephone 
pole, or something."

     As Schanke walked ahead, Nick glared at Clare accusingly. She raised a hand 
in protest. "Don't look at me - I didn't say a word to him. I think he has 
untapped psychic abilities," she theorized.

    "I wonder if that's from his Polish or Italian side?"
 
********************************************************************

     Clare tapped on the surface of Nick's desk in a huff. "Why aren't they here 
yet with my clothes?"

     "Grilling those onions for Schank's souvlaki?" Nick said jokingly.

     "Hey! I was *kidding!*" Don insisted.

     "He may contend his desire for the souvlaki," Clare said in an aside to 
Nick, "but I bet you ten to one he still eats it."

     "You're on."

     "Hel-loo? I'm right here in the same room," Schanke called, waving his 
arms. He saw Nick and Clare's grins sober, then glanced around to see Captain Reese 
coming out of his office. All three detectives mentally prepared to make a 
report, when the captain was suddenly waylaid by a junior officer.

     "Captain?"

     "What is it, Pulte?"

     "We just got a call about a body found at the Four Seasons," the sergeant 
said, then rattled off a suite number. 

     A recycled pencil snapped, and everyone turned to stare at Clare. "That's 
my suite."

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

     "No arguments, Detective. You're staying here," Captain Reese ordered.

     "I beg to differ," Clare said in clipped tones. "If there is a body in a 
hotel room registered in my name, it is *my* concern."

     "And that's exactly why you're not going," Reese countered. "How the hell 
am I supposed to justify one of the first officers on the scene with access to 
the evidence being a homicide detective who lives there? Think, Douglas!"

     Her eyes narrowed into deadly, mesmerizing slits. "I am thinking - I'm 
thinking that you should do what I-"

     Nick pulled Clare back a step as he saw the Captain begin to go under her 
spell. "He's right, you know. It's inappropriate of you to go to the hotel," he 
said in a steely voice. He caught Schanke staring at them, impatient to head for the 
Four Seasons himself, and Nick forced on a casual and unconcerned facade. 
"Besides, it's not as if you've done anything to feel guilty about," he said 
with false charm.

    "Of course not." Clare whirled around to glare at him. "Why would I be so 
stupid?" she rasped under her breath.

     Schanke approached them. He reached out a reassuring hand to rest on 
Clare's shoulder, then said in earnest support, "Nick and I will go with the 
Captain and make sure everything's done right. We'll tell you exactly what's 
going on when we get back. Count on it."

     Clare offered him a half-hearted smile. "Thank you, Schanke." She looked 
from Don to Nick, frustration fuming from her every pore. "Go on," she sighed 
heavily. "Take care of it...for me." The last words appeared painful for her to say.

     Captain Reese and Schanke aimed for the exit, while Nick paused as though 
he wanted to say something else. Clare refused to indulge him. "Well, go!"

     Nick took his time turning around and joining the other two men. Clare 
collapsed in Nick's chair, then furiously propped her feet up on his desk. 
Officer Pulte was still standing at her elbow. He cleared his throat, asking with a 
slight stutter, "S-so what are you going t-to do now?" 

     Clare opened a folder, her features radiating cold indignation. "I'm doing 
paperwork." She broke into a scowl, twisting another recycled pencil in two with 
a satisfying click. "I must be insane."

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

     "Okay - Clare called the hotel about ten minutes after midnight, asking the 
night clerk to arrange for some of her clothes to be brought to the station, as 
well as Schanke's dry cleaning and snack-time," Reese briefed them. Schanke 
instantly reassumed his 'I was kidding!' look while the Captain continued his 
description. "Approximately fifteen minutes later, a porter entered her suite to 
fulfill the request and found a dead man in the master bedroom and bath."

     "There were two bodies?" Nick questioned.

     Reese shook his head in disgust. "No. There were *parts* of the corpse in 
both locations."

     "Man, oh, man," Schanke breathed.

      "Tell me about it," the Captain echoed. "The porter informed the night 
clerk, who talked to the night manager, who called it in to the precinct." The three 
men filed into the suite, where the sitting room already swarmed with technicians 
dusting the furniture for prints. "Before we get inside, I want to make 
something clear. You're Douglas' partners, so I can't let you officially work this 
case," Reese lectured as they entered the master bedroom. "You can look around, but 
stay in the background, and *don't* touch anything."

     "Right, Cap," Don announced casually. "We'll be as quiet as church -" 
Suddenly, he subsided into stunned silence.

     Nick examined the panorama of violence, momentarily looking away before 
suggesting quietly, "Schank, maybe you shouldn't stay."

     "What the hell, are you crazy? That's Marky on the floor there...and 
*there*..." he dazedly ran a hand over his hairline, "Oh, Christ - how am I 
going to break this to Myra and Jen?..."

     "You can ID the victim, Detective Schanke?" Reese's tone was commanding, 
yet sympathetic.

     Schanke nodded. "Yeah. Marcus Brevard, M.D. He's the doctor that operated 
on Jen...he saved her life. He was a good guy." His face filled with genuine grief. 

      A uniformed officer approached the Captain. He carried a book in his 
gloved hands and carefully held it open to show Reese the inscription. The 
Captain released a weary sound. "It's a gift Clare had for your daughter, 
Schanke. I'm sorry, but it needs to be impounded as evidence." 

     Both Don and Nick examined the volume, their expressions changing: Nick's 
grew cloudy, while Schanke's grew angry. "Evidence of what?" he demanded.

     "No one is pointing any fingers, Detective," Reese replied sternly. "I'm 
not saying Clare, you, or Little Bo Peep had anything to do with this. They've found 
fingerprints on the book and the star map that was folded inside of it - they 
could be the killer's."

     "Captain, this whole scenario strikes me as a direct blow against my 
partners and me," Nick hypothesized. "I mean, to kill Jen's doctor - someone all three 
of us met - to do it in Clare's bedroom; it seems designed to throw the three of us 
into disarray."

     "Well, it worked," Schanke said, burying his fists in his coat pockets.

     Reese frowned. "Are you thinking of the Number murders?"

     Nick nodded. "Maybe it's the killer."

     "Even if you're right, for now I want you to stand back. Let's see what 
forensics gives us before we jump to any conclusions."

      Nick pretended to accept the Captain's decision, but he already felt 
confident he wasn't mistaken.  Nick mentally started to design plans for Clare to 
access the suite and give her judgment at the earliest opportunity. 

     Natalie appeared at the bedroom door, shrouded in a business-like demeanor. 
Her gaze landed on the victim's features, and she paused, then looked at Nick, 
then Schanke in shock.

     "You know him, too, Doctor Lambert?" Reese sighed.

     Natalie chose to downplay her familiarity. "I met him at the hospital in 
passing when Jennifer Schanke was..."

     "All the same, Doctor," Reese interrupted, "I'd rather the medical examiner 
for this case be completely uninvolved. I want you to call in your assistant 
coroner. What's his name? Barney?"

     "Uh..." Natalie licked her upper lip in hesitation. "I can't. He didn't 
show up for work yesterday or today, and no one has been able to reach him. We're 
starting to become really worried..."

     "I get the picture." The Captain did not appear thrilled with Natalie's 
news. "Well, we've gotta have a medical examiner, so I guess you'll have to do. Knight 
and Schanke, however - I want you two out of here. Now." When both 
detectives looked ready to protest, Reese persisted. "I have a feeling you'll 
hear all the details your own way...later." He glanced momentarily from Natalie to 
Nick. Reese wasn't oblivious to office gossip, and he wasn't naive. Doctor 
Lambert would talk about this case to Knight in private, he was certain. 

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

     Clare was not overjoyed to see them. "Why are you back so soon?"

     "The victim turned out to be Dr. Brevard. The Captain decided we were all 
too emotionally involved," Nick explained.

     "Jen's doctor? Oh, Schanke, that's terrible." Her features took on a 
vengeful cast. "Who would want to kill him and put the body in *my* hotel room?"

     "The killer didn't just put him there, Clare - Mark was murdered there," 
Don corrected.

     "Oh?" Death poured from her expression.

     "Yeah, and Nick had a theory as to who's responsible."

     "Did he?" Clare stared commandingly at the blond vampire. "Why don't you 
share it, Nicholas?"

     "I have a feeling it's involved with the Number Murders."

     "A feeling?" Clare arched an eyebrow as if to ask,  Nick gave a short nod of confirmation.

     "I guess we can find out the nitty-gritty from Nat about the crime scene," 
Schanke mused aloud.

     "Natalie's on the case?" She almost looked pleased with that information.

     "Yeah," Schanke confirmed. "Ol' Barney's gone AWOL."

     "Ooo," Clare commented casually, "that's bad of Barney. That sort of 
behavior could get him terminated." She trailed a recycled pencil absently along 
the desktop. "So...do you think they've already dispatched officers to search 
Doctor Brevard's home?"

     "Yes," Nick said carefully, "but tomorrow or the next day, the premises 
should be deserted, just like your hotel suite."

     "Hmm...interesting."

     "If you two are thinking about engaging in any sneaking around, skulking in 
the moonlight, subterfuge kind of shenanigans," Schanke warned, "you had 
better count me in."

     "Of course, we will, Schanke." Clare finally broke into a full-fledged 
grin. "What are friends for but to slip through the shadows together?"

     "Amen to that," Schanke said. "I get dibs on picking out our secret 
handshake, though. Would you two compadres mind if I book off for the rest of 
the night? If I've gotta break this news to Myra, then Jen, I'd rather do it 
sooner than later."

    "I was thinking about leaving, myself," Clare admitted.

     "I agree - let's all call it a night. Considering the circumstances, I 
don't think the Captain could have a problem with that," Nick agreed.

     Schanke stretched his arms, brushed a palm under his chin, waggled his 
fingers, then gave a salute. "I'll see you tomorrow." After a few steps away, he 
turned and said to Clare. "I'm sorry, but they tagged your gift for Jen. I know 
she would have loved it. Thank you."

     "It was my pleasure," she answered simply. "She can still get it - just 
later rather than sooner."

     The two vampires watched affectionately as their mortal partner wandered 
out of sight. Clare spoke first. "Please tell me Schanke's little dance wasn't 
our secret handshake."

     "I think it was our secret handshake."

     "Oh, dear."

     "I sensed another vampire had been at your hotel other than you and 
Vachon," Nick stated.

     "Not Thomas?"

     Nick shook his head. "It was different, yet familiar."

     "Could it have been Cecilia?"

     "Possibly."

     "Hmm."

     "It was a nice gift you selected for Jennifer Schanke," Nick said 
reluctantly.

     "I wanted to do it, so I did," Clare responded stiffly.

     "You don't have to give a sign of affection a predatory motive for my 
benefit," Nick said in a light rebuke.

     "I'm not. Everything I do is for *my* benefit, even if appearances may 
confuse you, Nicholas."

     "So what are you doing to your own advantage concerning Natalie?" he 
challenged suddenly.

     Clare's smile was enigmatic. "My, my. I wondered when you'd summon the 
courage to ask *someone* that question. Really, it's been burning in your 
thoughts since the moment I brought her across, hasn't it?" Nick didn't respond. 
"It has." She leaned over the desk, lowering her voice to converse in an even 
softer tone. "Consider it, Nicholas. I suppose even I can be magnanimous 
sometimes: I have given Natalie every opportunity to choose how she adapts to 
her vampirism."

     Nick delivered a sniff of disbelief. "You made her a vampire. How much of a 
choice is that?"

     "But what she decides to do with that gift is up to her. I have hardly 
interfered -"

     "What about this job - working as a detective?" Nick protested. "You can't 
tell me that wasn't to keep your eyes on Natalie."

     "You interrupted me," Clare chastised firmly. "I was saying that I have 
hardly interfered with your relationship with Natalie. I have left her to your 
influence - a decision I believed was fair considering circumstances between the 
two of you. What Natalie and you make of the situation is your responsibility. 
It is not my fault. I am simply here."

     "Right. I'm supposed to believe that you haven't influenced Nat at all by 
teaching her to hide her thoughts from me? Why else would you share that 
knowledge with her, if you didn't intend to intrude?"

     "You're confusing me with LaCroix. I have never denied my offspring a 
lesson when asked. Figaro was a perfect example."

     "When asked nicely," Nick countered. "How often do you offer?"

     "You are in a mood," Clare laughed unsympathetically as she rose from the 
desk. "Go home, Nicholas. Tend to your own concerns, and leave me to mine. 
The two do not have to conflict." She strolled toward the precinct entrance, 
intent on having the final word.

     Nick, however, wasn't content with ending the conversation. He followed her 
down the front steps and into the parking lot. "Do you love LaCroix?"

     Clare spun around to face him, her interest arrested. "Why on earth would 
that matter to you?"

     "If you did, it would prove you cared for someone other than yourself. It 
wouldn't just be an illusion that you give out now and then."

     "If I did love him, I wouldn't speak of it with you. And if I did say a 
word of what I feel for LaCroix, what reason would you have to believe me?" Clare 
laughed at him. "You can't simply decide whether I'm friend or foe by your 
instincts, can you, Nicholas? Maybe that's part of your problem." She patted his 
face condescendingly. "You should use your instincts more, and stop trying to 
think about things." 

     Nick watched her waltz toward her car. As her Ferrari sped out of the lot, 
Nick meandered absently to the Caddy.  Nick grinned in 
satisfaction as his car's engine crescendoed proudly to life. 

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

     When Clare reached the Raven, she stalked directly to the private quarters, 
stripped off her offensive jeans and borrowed shirt, grabbed an armful of 
bottled blood from the wall rack, then climbed directly into bed.

     Over an hour passed before LaCroix joined her. He stood at the side of the 
bed, his arms folded across his chest, and gazed down at her in intense perusal. 
"You are in a mood."

     Clare's head snapped up at hearing the same words she'd used to dismiss 
Nicholas earlier directed at herself. "What is that supposed to mean?"

     LaCroix observed calmly as her lenses flared, belying her vicious temper. 
"That means, if this were another time, another place, you'd be rendering a 
remote village into a bloodbath about now."

     "Ah, the good, old days," she said, then tilted her current bottle vertical 
and finished off its contents. "Now, the bloodbath is in my bedroom over at the Four 
Seasons." She elaborated at LaCroix's questioning glance. "A vampire, possibly 
Cecilia, decided to kill the doctor who operated on Jennifer Schanke in my 
territory."

     "I take it you knew this mortal?"

     "Yes. I encountered him a few times at the hospital - so did Nicholas and 
Natalie. That's a minor irritation. What really bothers me is having to wait, to 
cooperate with mortal justice, when all I want to do is track the vampire 
responsible down and make him or her pay."

     "Clare, remember what I said about taking your vengeance, but retaining 
your control," LaCroix warned.

     "Don't lecture me," she said stonily. "I'm of no mind to indulge." LaCroix 
simply raised an eyebrow, then moved to leave. Clare snatched at his arm, 
bidding him to stay. "I am sharper than a serpent's tooth when I become 
restless."

     "And when you become restless, you typically storm off alone," he said 
harshly. "I was merely saving you the effort."

     "But I am never alone," Clare insisted with a gamine smile as she wound her 
fingers through his and pulled LaCroix onto the bed with her. "I am with you 
even when we are apart." Her lips sought his in a hungry embrace.

     LaCroix considered what Clare was doing. She was substituting passion for 
her rage, thinking of herself more than desiring him. It bothered LaCroix, but 
the lure of the coming explosion of emotions, the thought of the burning flow of her 
blood rushing through him like a brushfire, had him deliciously trapped. Even as 
he mourned his strong will, LaCroix succumbed to taking a taste.

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

     Natalie called several hours after Nick reached the loft. "I'm going to 
spend the day at the morgue and complete Mark Brevard's autopsy and rush the lab 
work. My guess is you, Schanke, and Clare will all want to know as much as 
possible as soon as possible."

      "You're right, Nat. Thanks," Nick said, his voice seeming to smile into 
the phone. "Still, I wish you were going to be here."

     "You know, I wish I could be there, too," Nat said before making her good-
byes. As she replaced the receiver of her desk phone, she whispered darkly to 
the empty room, "but I can't."

     Drawing off her apron, Natalie glanced at the morgue clock, then pulled on 
her overcoat. She had two hours before sunrise. It was time enough to find and 
lose someone to help her make it through the day.

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

     Nick was restless for most of the day. He tried to engross himself in 
painting for distraction, but he found himself caught in images soaked in red that 
only added to his disquiet. He attempted to relax with Sidney - petting a cat was 
supposed to have a soothing effect, wasn't it? - but Sidney seemed uneasy as well.

     Nick checked the telephone listings and found Mark Brevard's residence 
listed. The moment the sun entered the process of dusk, he ventured outside, 
swaddled from head to toe in heavy black wool and sunglasses. By the time 
Nick finished driving to the doctor's house, the day was a sliver on the 
horizon, and headlights were very necessary. He parked the Caddy about a block away 
and shed his excess clothing. Nick also turned off his cell phone; he'd rather 
it didn't ring while he was doing an unauthorized search of Mark's home. 

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

     "Stop by the morgue first. I found something. Several things," Natalie's 
voice stated over the phone. "Schanke's already on his way, and maybe Nick, too. I'm 
not sure - he's not answering his phone."

      Clare fastened her infernal jeans, then borrowed a collar-less red silk 
shirt from LaCroix's wardrobe. "Alright, I'm almost on my way. Wait - what is the 
exact nature of what you found? Do we want Schanke hearing this?"

     "I'm not going to mention vampires, if that's what you're thinking," Nat 
assured her. "Actually, I think you'll be interested to hear what Schanke knows 
about this."

     "Granted, but is that a good thing?"

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

     Nick bypassed the front door of the house, choosing an entry that wasn't 
blocked by police tape. He carefully pried open one of the upstairs windows and 
climbed inside. A quick survey proved him to be in a hallway, doors to his left 
and right.

     He chose to search the room on his right, first, finding it to be a study. 
There was a row of bookshelves, completely filled with medical texts and periodicals - 
no fiction, and nothing associated with a hobby or an outside interest. Nick 
booted up Mark's computer, finding more of the same: records of patients, 
speeches prepared for various medical societies, and a virtual copy of the 
doctor's daily planner. Jennifer Schanke's appointment leapt out at him, still 
scheduled for the morning of the nineteenth. 

      Nick shook his head.  Nick pried over the computer files 
for several more minutes, finding only one sign of non-hospital activity, though 
it still appeared to be a medical community service.

     Mark had been heavily involved in an organization dedicated to drug-use 
prevention and assisting recovering addicts. His accounting program evidenced 
large contributions to the Hospice for Opiate Abuse Prevention, and the 
founders, Gordon and Candace Mousseux, were featured prominently in his 
address book. It also appeared he worked as one of the organization's volunteer 
sponsors.

     Nick made notes of the names and addresses, left the office, then crossed 
the hall to enter the other room. This appeared to be Mark Brevard's bedroom. It 
was starkly furnished, carrying few personal mementos, and it seemed to have 
only served as a place for catching sleep, and then infrequently. Nick found no 
sign of any overnight guests, female or otherwise, but it was already possible 
that forensics had already confiscated all proof associated with Mark's personal 
life.

     Making his way downstairs, Nick found few supplies in Mark's kitchen - its 
bareness held an uneasy resemblance to the loft's. The only appliance that 
displayed signs of frequent use was the coffee maker. A used batch of grounds 
still rested in the top receptacle. He left the kitchen through a different door 
and discovered he was in a den area.

     There was a television and a videocassette recorder, but all of the 
remaining tapes appeared to be films of Mark performing various surgeries - perhaps as 
a reference for medical school students. Photographs of Mark ranging from 
childhood to a portrait - no doubt taken for the hospital board - hung on the 
far wall. There were also several images of couples. From the familial resemblance, 
most likely these people were the doctor's parents and grandparents. In the 
middle of all the commonplace posed photos, one picture stood out. It was a 
candid photograph of a young woman at the beach, laughing as the ocean wind 
disturbed her rich, curly brown hair.

     Nick recognized her in an instant. It was the girl he'd bumped into at the 
Raven, the girl whose Missing Persons file he'd buried, and the orphaned child 
Janette wanted to keep under her wing. It was the vampire named Ivy.

     Snatching the frame containing her picture off its hook, Nick hurried 
silently out of Mark's house the same way he'd entered.

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

     "He's still not answering?" Clare asked.

      Natalie shook her head as she hung up the phone. "No. I guess I'll just 
start telling you what I've found so far without him."

      "Nick probably had some seemingly brilliant lead and went after it," 
Schanke commented as he finished off the last bite of his French fries with 
extra ketchup. "Y'know, communication, especially with his partners, has never been 
one of Knight's strong suits."

     "You can say that again," Natalie and Clare responded simultaneously.

     "I rest my case." Schanke wiped the grease off his fingers with a Handi-
wipe borrowed from Natalie's desk drawer, then prompted, "So what's shakin', 
Senorita Lambert?"

     "Well," Nat began as she pulled back the sheet covering Mark Brevard's 
remains, "I haven't done a complete exam yet, namely, I haven't gone inside, 
because a few things caught my attention externally." She pointed toward stab 
wounds littering the torso. "The cuts have clean, precise edges. They were done 
by a straight blade roughly three centimeters wide and extend from front to 
back. This made me suspect that the weapon used was longer than your average 
knife. The severed hands and feet  made me certain that we're dealing with 
something more like a sword blade. Each was removed in one uniform stroke, 
and there were matching metal fragments left behind with each type of cut."

     "The killer was strong enough to shear bone in one blow?" Schanke let out a 
long whistle. "That's pretty rough, I admit, but you're talking like this is 
supposed to mean something to us, Nat. I'm still a nickel short of buying a clue."

     "While I was checking to see if the metal filings matched under the 
microscope, something caught my eye," Natalie informed him with an excited 
grin. She dimmed the lights in one section of the morgue, turned on a projector, 
then flashed two images side by side on a view screen. "These are fragments 
from a stab wound just below the left clavicle and from the stump of the right 
arm." She pointed to the screen with a finger, outlining a minute pattern on the 
magnified metal. "The folding of the steel can act almost as a fingerprint. See 
how they match?" When both Schanke and Clare gave their assent, Natalie 
flashed up another pair of images.

     "They appear to be the same fragments," Clare commented.

     "Uh-huh... now look at this." The projector clicked, and yet another pair 
of close-ups appeared on screen.

     Schanke approached the screen, moving to stand at Natalie's side. "I'd say 
they look alike again." 

     "No," Clare debated. "These photos are from two different blades. Ones 
where the manufacturers used the same process, perhaps, but if there were two 
different people folding the steel, there would be minute differences. See? The 
pattern of the right is slightly warped."

     Schanke squinted, then rubbed his eyes. "It is? Man, oh man...I gotta get 
some glasses."

     "Clare's right," Nat concluded, then shook her head. "The last time I 
studied these magnifications, I missed the variance completely."

     "The last time?" Schanke demanded. "Wait a minute, wait a minute - what 
are we looking at here?"

     "Evidence from a case you and Nick worked a year ago last March. The 
image on the left is from the original murder; the image on the right came from 
the weapon the confessed killer used to commit suicide. Both samples are from 
Japanese swords constructed in the late eighteenth century."

     Clare tilted her chin upward at the significance of that remark, while 
Schanke barreled on with his opinion. "I remember the case you're talking about now! A 
fashion correspondent was murdered at the House of Figaro right after the place 
opened up. The guilty party turned out to be a job rival. She confessed, then 
committed hara-kiri in her apartment."

     "I thought that you'd remember that," Nat said knowingly.

     "Sure I do," Schanke announced proudly. "I got a Figaro Newton suit out of 
the deal. My *good* suit. Too bad I was wearing it on the trip to Edmonton. 
When I woke up in the hospital, it was gone. The docs probably cut it off me."

      "If this pair of pictures are from a case that occurred over a year and a 
half ago, and the first set came from Doctor Brevard's wounds, where did you obtain 
the second matching pair of photos you showed us?"

     Natalie smiled, flicking the slides in reverse one station and displaying 
the images Clare was questioning. "Again, the filings on the left are from the old 
murder at the House of Figaro. The metal on the right came from Brevard's left 
clavicle wound."

     "Whoa..." Schanke tapped his right temple with his index finger. "This does 
not compute. Are you saying we didn't get the right killer in the old case? 'Cuz 
I have to point out, we got a confession - written and verbal."

    "Well," Natalie hedged, "what I'm suggesting is that we didn't get the right 
murder weapon the first time around. The killer confessed and killed herself out 
of guilt; I'm not going to question that." She sent her sire a look, 
telegraphing her thoughts of reasonable doubt. "We had the sword she used to kill 
herself. What I'm saying is, the sword she used in the original killing is still out 
there somewhere, and Mark Brevard's murderer just happens to have it."

     "That is a strange coincidence," Clare agreed. "What were the other 
interesting items you found?"

     "There was a bottle of blood - human blood - left on your dresser. At first 
I thought that maybe it belonged to the victim, but the amount of blood present at 
the crime scene is pretty consistent with the wounds inflicted. Just to be sure, 
I checked the blood type, and the two didn't match."

     "So where did that bottle of blood come from?" Clare mused.

     Natalie shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."

     Officer Pulte entered the morgue then, looking expectantly at Clare and 
Schanke. "The Captain sent me over to escort you through the hotel suite." He 
sheepishly turned to Clare, saying apologetically, "He wants you to make a list 
of all items missing from the premises, to double check against what was 
impounded last night."

     "Very well," Clare allowed, "But I'd like Detective Schanke to come along 
as well."

     "That's fine with me."

     "Natalie? Do you want to come along?" she questioned.

     The coroner shook her head. "The fingerprint analysis is due any time now, 
and I need to start Doctor Brevard's internal exam."

     "Then let's hit the road," Schanke said, rubbing his hands together 
expectantly. 

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

     Nick rushed into the precinct, asking everyone he saw whether Clare and 
Schanke had been in yet. No one had any answers.  Nick immediately aimed for 
the Missing Persons files, gravitating toward the section where he'd replaced 
Ivy's doctored file. 

     He had slipped the portrait of Ivy taken from Mark's wall out of its frame 
in the Caddy, and he now held the image next to the photograph in the report. They 
were undoubtedly of the same person, yet the smiling, sunny picture seemed to 
resemble the woman Nick had encountered at the Raven more closely than the 
photo supplied by the family to the police. The portrait in her Missing Persons 
report was hollow-eyed and sullen. Her skin had an unhealthy pallor, and she 
appeared empty and lifeless. Nick noticed there was another image attached to 
the file - a police photo. This young woman had been arrested on charges of 
heroin possession in the spring of 1980.

     Nick glanced up at the name on the folder again. Her mortal identity had 
been 'Ivy Mousseux.'  He flipped through a few more pages and 
found the information printed clearly in black and white: Gordon and Candace 
Mousseux had made the report of their child's disappearance on November 18, 
1980, becoming concerned when their daughter had not cashed her bi-monthly 
support check. The last person to see Ivy Mousseux alive had been a former 
boyfriend, a medical student name Marcus Brevard, who had encountered her 
outside a Halloween production of 'The Rocky Horror Show' at what was then 
the O'Keefe Centre.

      Nick wondered.  He felt a cold ache develop inside.  Nick shook his head 
and pushed the thought away. 

     Returning to his desk, Nick overheard Officer Miller asking for Captain 
Reese's whereabouts - the fingerprint matches from Clare's suite had arrived. He 
waylaid the female officer outside the Captain's vacant office.

     "Tell me...share what you found with me," he said, his stare urging her to 
capitulate.

     "There were prints belonging to Detective Douglas and Detective Schanke, 
Jennifer Schanke, Doctor Natalie Lambert, and several members of the hotel 
staff. The victim's fingerprints showed up, as well. We had problems with three 
other samples, though: two had no known matches, and the third only matched a 
woman arrested on drug charges over fifteen years ago. She's been dead almost 
as long."

     "What was her name?" Nick demanded in a hypnotic tone.

     "Ivy Mousseux."

     That was all Nick needed to hear. Before Officer Miller could blink 
herself back into focus, he was out the precinct door. 

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

      "Nick, you realize that Janette has no desire to speak with you," Robert 
said impatiently over the phone. "I'm hardly any more inclined."

     "But you might be able to help me. Have you had any contact with Ivy since 
I made my visit?"

     "No. Why? Have you found her?" There was an anxious note of concern in 
Robert's voice.

     "No," Nick answered, thoughts of Janette's involvement in this killing 
momentarily banished, "but I am looking for her. She may be in trouble. I'm at 
the studio right now, and there's no one around. Do you have any other 
suggestions as to where I might look? Maybe somewhere that Janette wouldn't 
think of?"

     There was a pause, then Robert offered a possibility. "She could be with 
that vampire Vachon. Janette disapproved of their contact because of her antipathy 
toward Clare, but I suppose Ivy could be staying with him regardless. The last 
time I talked with her she was concerned about her sire, as well. He appeared to 
be threatening her, and it was frightening Ivy. I suppose she could be hiding 
out anywhere."

     Nick mused momentarily over the news that Janette had shared her grievance 
against Clare with this man, and wondered exactly how Robert felt about the 
situation. He pushed the thought away with a shrug.  Instead, Nick focused on the Ivy/Vachon connection, and the 
seeming threats from her sire. "I'll look into it, though - thanks."

     "Nick?" Robert stopped him from hanging up the phone with the question. "If 
you do find Ivy, call us. That is one thing I know Janette would want to hear 
from you. She's taken on responsibility for the girl emotionally."

     "I will," Nick promised. "It's the least I can do in return for your 
cooperation. Thank you, Robert." Replacing the receiver, Nick decided on his next 
destination: Vachon's church.

********************************************************************
End of Part Twenty Five

     Clare used her passkey card to unlock the hotel suite door.

     "Uhm, since you aren't staying here, Detective Douglas," Officer Pulte said 
nervously, "I need to impound your key to the premises."

     "Sergeant," Clare replied sweetly, "is Metro Police going to pay for the 
suite, keeping it in my name while this investigation continues?"

     Pulte cleared his throat. "They were relying on cooperation from the hotel 
and -"

    "A simple 'no' would have sufficed, Sergeant." Clare slipped the keycard 
back into her jeans pocket. "I may be spending my days somewhere else, but, for the 
near future, this suite is still my official home, and I plan to have access to it."

    Officer Pulte blinked hopelessly in Schanke's direction, who just grinned 
and followed Clare through the entrance. "Trust me. You don't want to get in an 
argument with her. I've seen her make homicidal maniacs cry in interrogation - 
she'd eat you for breakfast."

    Clare overheard the comment and smiled, then mouthed the word 'literally' 
while her back was turned to both mortals. Noting the contents of the sitting 
room, Clare saw nothing missing and little out of place, merely an 
overabundance of greasy fingerprinting powder residue. She also noticed that 
her most recent delivery of flowers was wilting. "Oh, my gardenias!" she 
groaned as she moved to the secretary and caressed a withering blossom. "I 
really should tell Feliks I'm spending more time at the Raven." Clare glared to 
her right as she realized Officer Pulte was writing something down. "What are you 
doing?"

     "I'm keeping track of your comments about the scene."

     Schanke peered over Pulte's shoulder, reading what the officer's notes 
contained thus far. "Yep, that's what he's doing. 'Spends time at the Raven.' 
'Has friend named Felix.' 'Gardenias wilted.' 'Belligerent about giving up key.' Yep, 
Clare, he's getting it all."

     Clare regarded the junior detective as though he was something green and 
slimy that resided on the surface of a pond. "How quaint." She moved to Pulte's 
other side, also glancing at the notepad. "You spelled 'Feliks' wrong. It's with 
a 'k' 's,' not an 'x.' "

     Pulte scratched out the name and offered her a fidgety, "Thanks."

    "My pleasure." Clare sounded insincere. That was her intention. "I don't see 
anything missing here. Was any evidence taken from this room besides 
fingerprints?"

    "Uhhh," Pulte frantically flipped pages in his notebook and answered, "One. 
A pad of hotel stationery to see if forensics could determine the last message 
written on it."

    "Ah. I suppose that's reasonable," Clare allowed, then pondered the idea for 
a moment. "I suppose the last thing I wrote on the hotel stationery was a list of 
activities that Schanke's daughter might want to pursue one night when I baby-sat."

     "Oh," Officer Pulte said as he nodded in understanding. 

     Clare pointed to his notebook. "Don't you want to write that down?" 
 
      "It's S-c-h-a-n-k-e," Don added with just the right touch of helpful 
sarcasm.

     By the time the Sergeant had completed his impromptu spelling tutorial, 
Clare had made her way into the second bedroom.  When the men caught up 
with her, she gestured unhappily at the feline furniture. "That's upholstered - 
what imbecile thought they could lift prints off it with powder? It will have to 
be cleaned before Carmen can nap on it again."

     "Is that 'Carmen' with a 'C'?" Pulte asked as he earnestly wrote down the 
details.

     "It's spelled just like the opera," Schanke answered. Pulte looked up at 
him quizzically, causing Don to groan, "Yeah, it's with a 'C'! Doesn't anyone listen 
to opera anymore?!"

     Clare patted her partner consolingly on the arm, "Not every police officer 
can have the same appreciation for culture that we do, Schanke."

     "Exactly." Don withdrew a roll of candy from his pocket and offered Clare 
first choice. "Wanna Lifesaver? You can even have the green one."

    "Thank you, but I never acquired the taste for them," Clare desisted.

    "Right," Schanke commented as he took the green one for himself - Pulte only 
was worth the orange candy. "I guess they're artificially fruit-flavored, 
anyway. That wouldn't be part of your diet." He turned to the Sergeant, magnanimously 
offering him the inferior flavor. "So what did the evidence fairies find here?"

     "Just a lot of fingerprints at the French windows," Pulte answered, then 
began to crunch his Lifesaver into sugar dust.

     Schanke rolled his eyes. 

     "I'm not surprised," Clare said confidently. "I open the windows often for 
ventilation. I also wager there are simply *scores* of window washers and 
miscellaneous cleaning staff from the hotel that you might never track down 
who have left their marks in that area." 

     "That's not a problem," Pulte commented as he led the detectives toward the 
last room. "We're most interested in your bedroom."

     "Well, that's not unusual," Clare quipped. Her grin faded as she crossed 
the threshold. If she'd had any doubts about Cecilia's presence in her suite, they 
were quashed now. The malevolent hate of her grandchild seemed to pulse at 
Clare from every bloodstain marring the plush carpet. "This is where the killing 
took place," she stated in a frosty voice.

     "Yes." Officer Pulte cleared his throat again. This time, it wasn't 
nervousness that affected him, but a lingering hesitation to delve into the dark story 
the stains blemishing every surface of this room told. "Doctor Lambert found traces of 
generic duct tape around the victim's mouth, wrists and ankles, apparently used 
to keep him incapacitated at first. Forensics mostly found clothing fibers on 
the mattress and in a path leading to the shower - that's where we believe his hands 
and feet were severed - the final stab wounds and cutting occurred on your bed."

     "What about this blood here? Did the killer track it?" Schanke asked, 
pointing to a solitary blotch between the bed and the bedroom door.

     Pulte shook his head. "Forensics found clothing fibers leading from the bed 
to that spot. There's no blood between the two spaces, so Doctor Lambert 
concluded the victim struggled on his own to that point before the killer caught 
up with him. That's where the first injury took place. The killer then lifted 
Brevard to the mattress, leaving his ear atop the bloodstain."

     "This is where his ear was cut off?" Schanke's lip curled in distaste.

     "It was ripped off, Schanke," Clare corrected. "That wound was ragged, it 
wasn't cropped with the precision of the other injuries." Clare stared intensely 
at the red-soaked counterpane and carpet for a few seconds. "You found fibers 
from Doctor Brevard's clothing - what about the killer?"

     "We found traces of silk as well," Pulte answered. "In fact, we thought you 
might be able to help us with that." The young officer motioned toward the 
walk-in closet. "It looks like the killer tried on some of your clothes."
 
     "Well, I can tell you right now that they didn't fit," Schanke said in a 
determined voice.

     "Why do you say that Schanke?" Clare asked as she carefully surveyed the 
contents of her wardrobe without touching any of the outfits.

     "The killer had to be able to overpower Mark, for one. The guy wasn't 
exactly a push-over. You forget that I've seen him bench-press patients a hell 
of a lot bigger than Jen all those days I spent at the hospital with the kid."

     Clare decided to play devil's advocate. After all, Nick *had* said she was 
good at that. "Natalie didn't mention running a blood panel yet. Maybe the 
killer drugged him."

     "Come on, Clare! Natalie said the hands and feet were each severed with a 
single sword blow. Marky's ear was ripped off!" Schanke protested vehemently. 
"Don't tell me you think the killer was a woman! What - you're saying *you* 
could've done this?"

     Clare walked slowly out of the closet, pinpointing Schanke with a glare 
that could singe sideburns. Pulte looked lost in a quandary as to what was 
appropriate to include in his notebook. "No, Schanke. I don't think I would 
*say* that here in present company, but thank you for giving me the 
opportunity."

     "Oh, man...Hey!" He turned and spoke pointedly to Officer Pulte. "That is 
*not* what I meant."

     "Actually, Schanke, I do agree with you," Clare said soothingly, "The 
average female wouldn't be strong enough to perform a killing in this manner."

     "Yeah, yeah," Schanke emphasized, "so there's no way you're remotely 
guilty!"

     "Uh...maybe I should mention that Doctor Lambert gave us a time of death 
between midnight and three a.m. on the Sixteenth. Captain Reese, himself, 
vouched that you, Knight and Detective Douglas here were all at the precinct at 
the time. None of you are possible suspects."

     "So why are you taking so many notes?" Clare demanded.

     Pulte offered her a shrug. "Maybe the killer is someone you know."

      Clare fumed internally. 


     "There are two gowns missing from my wardrobe - one is a dark red silk, the 
other is a forest green crepe with a matching jacket," she described. Clare 
pushed the closet door closed slightly with an elbow, her eyes landing on an 
unwelcome metal protrusion. "What's a screw doing in my door?"

     "The green dress was taken as evidence - it was laying on the closet floor. 
There was also a shoe with a damaged heel that we tagged, believing it was used 
to hammer the screw into your closet door. The screw," Officer Pulte pointed 
toward Clare's dresser drawer which lacked its normal hardware, "came from 
there. We just can't figure out why the killer did it. There was nothing 
attached to the screw, and no sign that it was used to inflict harm on the victim. 
Would you mind checking to see if anything was taken from your dresser?"

     Clare frowned as she complied. Removing a handle from her lingerie drawer 
did not sound like a Cecilia sort of activity. The girl never did anything laborous; 
she steadfastly avoided such things. She dug through various bits of silk 
unmentionables and, finding nothing out of order, informed the sergeant that all 
was well.

    Schanke, meanwhile, had wandered into the bathroom. He only took three 
steps inside before he reached the dried tide of blood staining the floor. The 
slashes of red ran up the walls, smeared over the sink and commode, and coated 
the shower in a streaked crimson blanket. Clare entered the room after him, 
then clenched her teeth at the smell.

      "This is where the hands and feet were cut off?" she inquired.

     Officer Pulte did not cross the threshold. He chose to hang back in the 
bedroom and spoke in solemn tones. "Yes. The hands were placed on either side 
of the vanity, the feet rested at the base of the commode."

     "Was Mark dead by the time the killer dragged him back to bed?" Schanke 
asked quietly.

     "Doctor Lambert said he was most likely unconscious and on the verge of 
bleeding to death, but Brevard technically survived until the final stab wounds 
were administered while he was laid out flat and unbound on the mattress. His 
heart was apparently still beating at that point, hence the large stains."

     Clare gave a conclusive sigh. "I think we've seen everything that we need 
to, don't you, Schanke?"

      "What about the bottle of blood you found - where was that?" Don asked.

      "On the dresser," Pulte nodded in the direction of the attached mirror. 
"It was right next to the gift for your daughter."

     "And Nat said it wasn't Mark's, so who or what did it come from?"

     "We'll just have to wonder about that, Schanke. Meanwhile," Clare said as 
she turned her attention to the sergeant, "am I correct in assuming that I 
shouldn't repossess any of my clothing from the premises until further notice?"

     Pulte appeared genuinely apologetic. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid so."

     All three police officers left the blemished master bedroom for the 
relatively undisturbed lounge. "I'm going to need to drop by a relative's to get some 
clothes to wear other than these infernal jeans," Clare announced. "You two can 
just head back for the precinct without me."

     As they exited the suite, Schanke offered to drop her off at her 
destination, but she graciously refused. "Thank you, but I'll just grab a taxi...or 
something. Didn't you want to follow up on your Ohio connections?"

      "That's right," Schanke agreed. "I'm way overdue for feedback on my list 
of Toronto citizens from Dayton."

      "Well, have a delightful time. I'm not sure how long my mission will 
take." Clare really was planning on acquiring some items for her wardrobe from 
Figaro's studio. While she was there, she didn't see any harm in looking up 
Figaro's sword or having a nice chat with Domino about his sister, either. 
     
******************************************************************** 

October 18, 1996

     Vachon and Ivy stopped off at the Raven for a breath of fresh noise on 
their way back from the country. They didn't linger very long, because Vachon 
considered Carmen to be way overdue for feline maintenance. Javier considered 
interrupting the Nightcrawler broadcast to ask if Clare had taken care of the 
Domino problem yet, but his instinct for survival prevailed. Vachon had a strong 
impression that LaCroix didn't like acting as Clare's social secretary, even 
when they were hot and heavy. 

     As soon as Ivy and he downed a couple drinks and learned through gossip 
that there'd been no sign of Dom for the past several days, they were motoring 
for the church. No sooner than they'd climbed the stairs and fed an 
appreciatively purring Carmen, there was a knock on the church door.

     "Who would that be?" Ivy asked cautiously.

     Vachon shrugged and climbed off the sofa. Carmen, feeling lap-deprived, 
deigned to receive attention from the other vampire. "This is an abandoned 
church, remember? It's not going to be a Skin Pretty saleslady. I bet it's 
Clare," he concluded, moving to open the door.

     Ivy gave a doubtful snort, which earned her a disapproving look from the 
feline. "Clare would knock?"

     Vachon had already turned the doorknob, though, and frowned as he revealed 
Nick glowering in the doorway. "You're right, Ives. Clare wouldn't have 
knocked. Pragmatic, polite types - they knock. Hey, Knight - what's up?"

     Nick seized him by the throat, holding Vachon there with his feet off the 
floor after slamming him headfirst into a nearby wall. Ivy jumped off the sofa, 
dropping the cat to the floor, and both females hissed.

     Vachon gestured toward Ivy, croaking, "It's okay - I think this is how he 
says 'hello.' Knight - when I said 'what's up,' it wasn't an invitation."

     Ivy let her defenses subside slightly. Vachon was still pinned to the 
wall - how 'okay' was that supposed to be? "Wait - I remember bumping into you at the 
Raven. What do you want? And put Vachon down."

     Nick let the Spaniard's boots become intimate with the flooring once more 
while he withdrew a photograph from his jacket pocket. Extending his arm to 
hold the laughing, mortal portrait in Ivy's face, Nick declared, "Ms. Mousseux, 
you're wanted for questioning in the murder of Doctor Marcus Brevard."

********************************************************************
   
    Denial surged through Ivy in an instant.  Her sense of safety, nurtured by 
the past few days of sequestering with Vachon, began to rapidly erode. "What are you 
talking about?" she asked, her voice not even making half a whisper. 

     "Someone killed your old friend, and your fingerprints were found at the 
crime scene."

      Ivy shook her head plaintively. "No. You've made a mistake. It's just not 
possible." The movement of her head began to protest Nick's accusation even 
more stridently. She didn't know how this man had discovered her last name, 
found a picture of her almost two decades old, but there was no way that she 
was going to acknowledge that she had any responsibility in Mark's death. 


      "You're denying that you have had any contact with Doctor Brevard since 
you arrived in Toronto?" Nick challenged.

      "Hold it - who is this Doctor person, and what does he have to do with 
Ivy?" Vachon demanded.

      She answered, though not directly. Her voice was fragile as she reached 
out to touch the picture Nick continued to hold before her.  "I can't deny that. I saw Mark once at the 
hospital. It was an accident, really - I ran into him...literally." Her irises 
glittered insistently as she jerked her head away from the photo. "I haven't seen him 
since. If he's dead, I had nothing to do with it."

     Vachon leaned against the stone wall of the church now, crossing his arms 
in front of his chest as he studied both of the other vampires. He remembered Clare 
mentioning there was a doctor at the hospital that Ivy had recognized and shied 
away from. From her reaction, it appeared the guy had been more than just a 
doctor to Ivy in her mortal days. What had she said that day at Janette's? 
 Was Mark Brevard that man? And if Ivy hadn't 
cared then, did it matter to her now? 

     Vachon decided to observe as the story unfurled between Nick and Ivy. 
 Javier felt a movement at his ankles, so he 
glanced down to find Carmen weaving sleekly around one boot while glaring 
with all her feline fury at the blond detective. The Spaniard leaned over and 
scooped the cat into his arms to give her better leverage for her outraged 
stare.

     "If he's dead?..." Nick repeated. "Mark's dead alright - and there are too 
many paths pointing back to you for me to believe that you are uninvolved. I could 
almost understand the temptation - running into an old lover like that from your 
mortal days - it had to have entered your mind." He let the hand holding her 
photograph fall to his side, then stepped closer to murmur tauntingly in her 
face. "You could have had him more intimately than you ever experienced as a 
mortal. For a period of time, you could have *been* him, taken him into 
yourself, and understood everything that he was. You would have known what 
makes a man hold onto the image of a dead woman more than a dozen years 
after she's gone."

     Ivy's eyes fell again to the photo in Nick's grip. "You got the picture 
from Mark?" she asked blankly, then rubbed her face briefly, as if to clear her 
muddled view. "Of course you did. He took it when we drove to Charleston the 
summer of my freshman year. Who else would have had it?"

      "But you didn't drain Mark," Nick said, his tone carrying a full note of 
disgust. "Instead, you..."

     "I what?" Ivy interrupted fiercely. "I never did anything but walk away 
from him. I can't be held responsible for his death - I can't!"

     "You're lying. There's guilt in your eyes," Nick said with certainty. He'd 
had enough practice recognizing that look from his own reflection in the mirror. 
"You say you have no responsibility." Nick slowly raised a hand for her to take. 
"Prove it, and come with me."

     Ivy gave his fingers an unsure glance, then turned wary eyes toward Vachon. 
The Spaniard took that as his cue to become involved. "If Ivy goes, I go."

     The elder vampire looked Javier up and down, unimpressed. "Suit yourself." 
Nick nodded toward Carmen. "Does the cat want to tag along, too?" The feline 
began to squawk and wriggle, so Vachon shrugged and let her pounce back to 
the floor and out of sight.

     Ivy turned away from Nick's hand, but faced in the direction of the door. 
"You want me to prove I didn't kill Mark? Well, let's get going," she said 
bitterly.

     Nick pulled out his cell phone, finally turning it back on, and made a 
short, to-the-point call. "Knight here...I found her...we're on our way to the 
Coroner's Office."

     As the detective closed the hand-held, Ivy demanded to know, "Who was 
that?"

     Nick gave her an unsympathetic look. "What do you care?" He started down 
the church stairs without them, leaving Ivy and Vachon to follow.

    "Is he always this charming?" she mumbled at Nick's back.

     Vachon slung an arm around her shoulders and Ivy wound her fingers 
through his. "It might sound amazing, but I actually witnessed Knight grin once 
upon a time. Say nice things about his car," he advised. "Nick likes that."

    "But is he *safe*?" Ivy whispered urgently. "He seemed agreeable when I 
saw him at the Raven, but, then, he also used to visit with LaCroix." Her 
expression twisted. LaCroix definitely wasn't what she would consider a safe 
acquaintance. "I remember Cecilia was awfully interested in eavesdropping on 
whatever they discussed, too. That can't be a good thing."

     "Trust me," Vachon assured her. "Knight is no more buddies with Cecilia 
than you, me or Clare. LaCroix, however, is another matter. He's Nick's sire."

      Ivy's eyes widened. "Then he probably knows - what if his attitude has 
something to do with Janette?"

     "You think Janette would kill your mortal lover?" 

     "No! Of course not." Wrinkles creased Ivy's forehead as she looked up at 
the dark-haired vampire. "I just got the impression Janette wasn't having an easy 
time distancing herself from her old family, even though the blood ties were 
broken. There could be bad feelings on Knight's part. What if he wants to know 
something about her? About Robert or Patrick? What am I supposed to tell him?"

      "Honestly?" Vachon asked. Ivy nodded her response, so he continued 
speaking. "From what I've seen of the guy, Nick is more likely to help you 
simply because you need help. He's the slaying-dragons type. Who you know 
isn't going to matter."

     "What about what I've *done?*" Ivy countered quietly. "A spoiled-brat, ex-
junkie vampire is not exactly virtuous-maiden-in-a-tower material."

    They were outdoors now, the cool October wind stirring their hair. Vachon 
quickly spotted Nick leaning against the Caddy door, the top down, waiting for 
their arrival. Javier dropped a quick kiss on Ivy's cheek, then pulled her 
toward the car. "Don't worry - it worked on me, and I don't do rescues as an 
occupation. Everything will be fine."

     She nodded at first, then, thinking about his words, let out a perplexed 
grunt. "Fine? *Fine?* Did you mean that as a good, bad or indifferent sort of 'fine'?"

     "English," Vachon muttered under his breath. He delivered the word as 
though it was on par with month-old filtered plasma halved with castor oil - can 
you say 'unpleasant'?  he warned himself, 

     "I meant that in an indifferent-to-good kind of way," he explained as they 
reached the Caddy, and he opened the passenger side door for her entry.

      Ivy appeared somewhat relieved to hear those words, so she quirked her 
lips slightly as she joined Knight inside the car. Just before Vachon slammed it 
shut, he heard her trill, "Well, that's fine."

      Javier wondered as he climbed in the back seat of the Caddy. 


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

     No one was home. No Domino, no Ivy, no incidental employee working 
overtime to hem her a pair of couture trousers. Clare was displeased. 

    Figaro's office had been her last stop, but it had been physically as vacant 
as the rest of the studio. Spiritually, however, the large room almost felt 
haunted. Her gaze zeroed in on the empty berth above the mantel. After Natalie's 
report, she hadn't exactly expected to find the sword safely residing there, but Clare 
had been surprised before, especially when anything associated with Figaro was 
involved.

     The color of the wall struck her attention next, coupled with the lingering 
fragrance of latex paint. Where once the color had been a shade of ivory that 
matched the other three sides, doors, and ceiling of the office, this wall was 
now a happy shade of orange. 

      Clare thought as she sniffed the air once more.  Something in the odor of the wall teased her. Leaning 
closer to the smooth surface, she sampled another whiff. 

     She stalked around the office, searching for stains or visual signs of 
another source for the scent. Blood seemed to linger in the air. Clare paused in front 
of Figaro's desk, then let out a self-mocking laugh. Sinking into the comfy 
cushions of Figaro's leather chair, she casually lifted a frosted glass atomizer from 
the desktop. Clare misted a cloud of fragrance with a few pumps, breathing in 
deeply as the odor of gardenias and other familiar tones wafted about her head. 


     She tossed the bottle back onto the desk, absently wondering if Vachon had 
delivered her thank you for the complimentary sample Domino had sent over to 
the Raven. Clare shrugged and rose from the leather cushions. 

     Clare leaned distractedly over the desk, lifted a clove cigarette from its 
holder, and ran it beneath her nose. The tobacco was stale, probably acquired 
just before Figaro's destruction. She ferreted out a lighter and smoked one for 
sentimental reasons, enjoying the memories, if not the flavor, of the cigarette.

      She mentally ticked off the locales where she'd shared a smoke and a 
joke with Figaro. 

     Clare stood before the three-way mirror, remembering when she'd stood there 
last - Figaro lamenting a dull dinner with a fashion critic, Domino and Cecilia 
pinning her new wardrobe like docile sheep, her careless mention of finding 
Maeven...

     She stopped smoking and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Each 
presence seemed to swirl about Clare as if they were projected alongside her image in 
the glass. She could still hear Maeven's screams as she dissolved into dust, the 
grief and pain of Cecilia and Domino, especially Domino. Clare twisted her lips. 


     "Many have argued the same of you, my dear," she whispered mockingly. 
Clare's reflection glared at her from the mirror, fingers of smoke rising from 
the tip of the cigarette, intertwining in a dance around her head as though she 
tangibly smoldered, as though it wasn't simply emotion burning from her eyes. 
"On rare occasions, they've said it to your face." She reached out, mesmerized 
by her counterpart, and brushed her fingertips across the cool surface that 
captured her curious face. It was hard and impenetrable. A mirror either 
projected the world before it, or it was broken, shattered and useless. There 
was no middle state for a looking glass. It adapted as the lens of an eye, or it was 
blind.

     "Can you love anyone but yourself?" The words slipped softly from her 
throat, sounding almost like a dare.  She leaned against the mirror, pressing 
her cheek against the smooth glass as she inhaled another puff from the clove. "Love 
follows me like a shadow." She exhaled, smoke billowing in front of her face, 
temporarily causing an opaque cloud to blank out her features. "But I live in a 
world of darkness - every time I lose a piece of my heart, the night envelops 
it. I am a vampire - do I have any right to expect more?"

      Clare thought, 
 Clare took in 
another drag of smoke, then released it with a contemplative sigh. 

     Clare frowned down at her cigarette, noticing that a long stalk of ashes 
had accumulated to the verge of collapsing all over her and the rug. Cursing as she 
held a hand beneath the clove, Clare stepped lightly toward Figaro's desk in 
search of an ashtray. Settling for an ornamental porcelain bowl that was 
probably half her age, she tapped the ashes into a gray pile against the bone 
surface.

     Clare settled in Figaro's comfy leather chair once more, rotating the seat 
to face the direction of the mantel as she continued to smoke. She had given Figaro 
the missing sword - it had been fashioned by her other offspring, Seiji, as a 
combined gift/sign of approval. He had always been so demanding of her time 
and attention, and, though Clare had enjoyed Figaro's company with great 
affection, he had often been too dependent. She recalled that it had been the 
year Mozart came to Vienna when she received the note from Figaro: he had found a 
mortal he wanted to marry and bring across. Clare had been thrilled that he had 
reached the decision to begin his own family. After commissioning the sword 
from Seiji, Clare promptly joined Figaro in Vienna, pleased to provide him 
assistance. 

     She never actually met the mortal that Figaro seemed so taken with, Mary-
something-or-other. Clare had presented him with his present, and Figaro had 
been enthusiastic. The next news she heard, Figaro had lost all interest in 
bringing anyone across. Clare certainly wasn't going to force him to do it if he 
wasn't ready, so she found entertainment elsewhere.  She smiled at the memory. No, Clare 
had let Figaro go his own way, the sword, in a sense, symbolizing his own 
autonomy to her. 

     She had always been proud of Figaro, for he was the first vampire she had 
brought across after Vachon's sire had walked into the morning sun. Figaro 
made such a perfect vampire and eventually had become an excellent sire in his 
own right. It had bolstered Clare's confidence after her tribulations with 
Leila. She hadn't lost her touch.  she 
thought ruefully.  
The clove cigarette was dwindling down to a nub as Clare considered her own mistakes. 


     She grimaced as the wave of regret that she'd been resisting for months 
poured through her. "Oh, Figaro...I *do* miss you," she said in a low voice. "I 
apologize for what I intend to do to Cecilia, and I promise to be doubly 
protective of Domino to compensate. I just wish you were still here. If you were 
here, I think I would find my way in the darkness better. You were always 
so...colorful." Clare felt a tear pushing from her right eye and ruthlessly 
crushed her cigarette into a cold stump.

     Grief was also a mortal institution, founded on the principle of dwelling 
in the past, not dissimilar to history. Clare did not believe grief served a 
purpose to vampires, not like love or history. Love gives a vampire a compass, history 
teaches them their mistakes, but sorrow was nothing but a pointless call to the 
lost past. Every moment of her unlife Clare devoted to crying over the dead and 
destroyed, she could have spent loving or experiencing the newness the world 
eternally served.

      she vowed in her thoughts. 

     Clare stood and strolled toward the ivory double doors of the office 
entrance. She would pick out a collection of new clothes from the showroom downstairs, 
then stop off for an overdue visit with Jen and Myra Schanke. She felt 
completely disinclined to bother with the morgue or homicide investigations 
anymore. It was so much more rewarding to laugh with a few mortals, then 
return to the embrace of a man she loved as much as she was capable of loving 
anything.

     She was a vampire: life was her stock in trade. The emotions that prolonged 
life - those were meant to be her companions. She left death, and all the 
feelings of guilt and grief that coupled it in her wake, abandoned and unneeded.  she thought as she turned out the lights and closed the 
doors on her way out.

     

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

     The drive to the Coroner's Office was practically silent. Nick had turned 
off the car radio earlier in the evening, because the sound of LaCroix's voice 
ringing content over the airwaves troubled him. Ivy was the first to break the 
conversation vacuum, offering up a tentative, "Nice car."

      Nick didn't act like he heard the comment. Vachon rolled his eyes, making 
a face that seemed to say, 

     Ivy sent Vachon a quick glare,  
before she continued talking. "My dad had a Cadillac like this when I was a kid. Well, 
not exactly like this - it was black and it was a hard top, but it had the fins 
and the major chromage." Those words earned her a glance of acknowledgment from 
Nick, so she kept the string of phrases going. "I wasn't even in kindergarten 
yet, maybe four years old, and one morning I crawled into the trunk - you know, 
because it's so big?" Both male vampires nodded their comprehension of 
Cadillacs and their relative trunk space. "I remember bringing along my teddy 
bear, and this doll I had that wore a kilt - I think Gammie must have gotten it 
for me on a trip to Scotland..."

     "Gammie's her grandmother," Vachon said in an aside to Nick, "She had a 
Mustang."

     "And I just sat in the trunk, playing with my dolls," Ivy recalled. "My dad 
came out and drove all the way to work, and I kept playing. Mum realized I was 
missing and went crazy calling the neighbors, then finally she rang Dad and he 
drove the Caddy back home. By this time, I was ready for a nap, so I slept 
awhile, still in the trunk. Mum and Dad went driving around the neighborhood 
looking for me, and I just dozed away. They stopped off at the police to make a 
report, and I was still sleeping like a baby."

     "So what happened?" Vachon asked. "You had to get out of that trunk 
sometime."

     "While my parents were moaning inside the station, I woke up, and I was 
hungry - it was well past lunch time. I got out of the trunk, with my teddy and 
my doll, and realized that I didn't know where I was. I saw the police precinct 
sign, though, and my parents had told me that if I ever found myself lost, the 
police were okay to ask for help, so I wandered inside. I talked to the first 
person in uniform I saw, who coincidentally happened to be a detective with a 
sandwich. I got half of his roast beef on rye, *and* he took me to my parents."

     "What did your parents say when they found out where you had been?" Nick 
wondered.

     "They didn't *say* anything. The next day, Dad drove home a station wagon."

     Vachon looked playfully mournful. "So long, Caddy - hello family car."

     Ivy shook her head as her features acquired a cast of regret. "No. The 
station wagon didn't last. You see, when I saw Dad bring home another car, and my 
parents made it clear the Cadillac was gone, I cried." She held up a hand 
deciding to qualify that remark. "No, I pitched an absolute fit, bawled my eyes 
out, threw a tantrum - the works. When my Dad came home the *next* day...he 
was behind the wheel of the Caddy again."

     "And you lived happily ever after," Nick concluded.

     "I got what I thought I wanted," Ivy said harshly. "That's not necessarily 
the same thing."

       Both she and Nick turned face forward, the conversation effectively 
deadened once more.

     "Your car story started out very nicely," Vachon whispered in Ivy's ear 
from the back seat. "The trustworthy police angle was an excellent touch, but your 
ending had almost no redeeming value."

     "Of course - I'm a spoiled brat," she muttered back.

     "Yeah," Vachon countered, "but you're a spoiled brat with a sincere, long-
standing aversion to practical automobiles. In my blue book, that's a redeeming 
value."

     She turned around in the car seat, sporting a half-grin, "I can't believe 
you picked that one facet out of my entire story to focus on."

     "I don't believe in skepticism," was Vachon's bantering reply.

     "Well, I do!"

     The Caddy braked to a halt. Ivy and Vachon looked up to find they had 
arrived at the Coroner's Office. He jumped out of the backseat and opened the 
passenger-side door for her while Knight walked to the front of the car. 

     "Follow me," Nick told them stiffly.

     Ivy hesitated momentarily, and Vachon caught the fingers of her left hand 
in a firm grip. "If you want to leave, we'll go."

    "I know," she said softly. "But if I leave, how do I absolve myself 
completely? Knight was right - I did consider draining him for a moment in the 
hospital. Maybe this is a stupid way to go about it, but seeing Mark's body will 
be a way of saying goodbye to my mortality."

    Vachon raised an eyebrow. "You think so?" Ivy nodded slowly. "Then lead on."

     Nick led them down a solemn corridor, through a pair of red, swinging 
doors, through another hall, then pushed another door open, holding it ajar for Vachon 
and Ivy to pass him by.

     Natalie was bent over the dissecting table, her back to the trio, 
effectively blocking their view of her project.  "Nick!" she exclaimed without looking 
up from her tweezer work. "Where have you been? Clare and Schanke were here 
hours ago. They already headed over to the hotel without you."

     "I got an early start and dropped by Mark's house," Nick explained. "Have 
you finished his autopsy, yet?"

      "I just put him to bed," Natalie murmured. "I found something interesting 
in his stomach contents - a piece of balled up paper - that's what I'm examining 
right now. Did I mention that we've had another disappearance? Not only is 
Barney missing, another 'guest' was checked out without permission." Natalie 
paused in her ministrations, straightening as she began to focus more on her 
company. "Who's with you? Vachon?" She spun around, giving the Spaniard a 
smile of welcome and noting Ivy's presence curiously. "The more the merrier. 
Take a look. I've almost got it unrolled." Nick and Vachon moved to the side of 
the examination table, taking excellent vantage points. Ivy approached at a 
slower rate, feeling a sixth-sense that she should be wary of what was to come. 
Natalie continued to describe the evidence as she stretched back the edges of 
the paper and gently smoothed the damp surface flat. "It doesn't look like this was 
in the stomach long enough for the digestive acids to completely ruin the writing. I 
think we'll be able to read any message without any enhancement." 

     Natalie pressed the second corner of the paper against the stainless steel 
surface, revealing the logo of the Four Seasons' stationery at the top. Ivy 
closed her eyes and swallowed in rising dread. 

     As the third corner flattened, fully revealing Vachon's note to Clare and 
his signature, he breathlessly whispered, "Dios..."

     As Natalie pulled back the fourth corner, Nick read the contents of the 
paper humorlessly. It appeared to be two different notes, written in two different 
hands. The first, from its contents and the man's reaction, he assumed to be 
from Vachon:

                   Dom's in trouble - find him.
                   Find me if you want details.

                                            J.

     In a smaller, neater hand, an even briefer message followed:

                   COME TO ME

                                    --oxox

     Natalie glanced at Ivy in concern as the young woman released a fragile 
sob. "Do you know what this means?"

     In a haunted, tearful voice, Ivy answered plainly, "It means Mark's murder 
*is* my fault."
  
********************************************************************


     "This is not your fault," Vachon said insistently. "You didn't raise a hand 
against this man. You were with me constantly after writing the note to Clare." 
He stared pointedly at Nick, damning any accusations the detective might decide 
to make. "You are not to blame."

     Ivy moved her chin desperately from side to side. "No. No, that's just an 
excuse. Mark died because *I* knew him. I saw him, I spoke with him; that was 
enough to draw my sire's attention."

     Natalie moved on to the extra credit question. "Who is your sire?"

     Ivy looked blankly at her, then Nick. "I..."

     "Ivy doesn't know." All four vampires turned to see Janette occupying the 
doorway. She moved to stand behind Ivy, curling her long fingers possessively 
around the young woman's shoulders.

     "Well, isn't this a regular vampire convention?" Natalie drawled.

     "It won't last long," Janette responded coldly. "Ivy and I will be leaving 
immediately."

     "She can't," Nick and Vachon said simultaneously.

     Janette gave a self-assured laugh. "*You* have no say in the matter. It is 
Ivy's decision. What do you want to do, Lierre?"

     "I would love to go with you, but they're right - I can't do that."

     "Why?" Janette demanded, turning Ivy to face her inquisitive expression. 
"What is this threat your sire has over you that keeps you away from Robert and 
me? We want you to stay with us as part of the family. There is no need for this 
distance between us."

     "Yes, there is. I'm a threat to everyone that I've been in contact with 
since I returned to Toronto. Janette," Ivy took the other woman's hand, her eyes 
pleading for her to understand, "you know how he was haunting me before - 
when you found me outside the Raven - I even felt him at the townhouse. The 
last night you saw me, I went out against your wishes and met Vachon. We went 
to the hospital so he could do a favor for Clare." Seeing Janette's eyes widen 
in outrage, Ivy rushed her description to the critical point to keep her attention. 
"My sire attacked me while I was alone. He considers my vampirism to be a 
temporary gift on his part, and he wants it back now. He wants to destroy me, 
and he'll use anyone to achieve that end. I started hiding at the studio with 
Domino, but a few nights ago, he disappeared." Tears began to trace garnet lines 
down Ivy's cheeks as she squeezed Janette's fingers tightly. "My sire left a 
message in blood on the wall of Figaro's office - 'Come to me' with little 'x's 
and 'o's. I was going to run, but Vachon showed up at the studio then."

     "Why didn't you tell anyone about Domino?" Nick broke in.

     "We tried," Vachon answered impatiently as he motioned toward the paper 
spread out on the autopsy table. "What do you think the note was for? We 
checked the Raven, the police precinct, and finally the hotel, all with no sign 
of Clare. At the time, I thought Domino was more her department, don't you?"

     "You were right," Natalie said assertively. "Clare will be furious if 
someone has harmed him. She'll want to take the first opportunity at revenge."

     "Wouldn't we all?" Janette said in a biting tone. Thoughts of Clare and 
revenge shone from her dark blue eyes.

     "This isn't just about vampires," Nick pointed out. "Ivy's sire is killing 
mortals, as well."

     "Do you recall me talking about encountering Mark on the night I was 
brought across?" Ivy asked Janette.

     "Oui. You used a chance encounter with him in the present to excuse your 
absence from us," Janette reminded her.

      "My sire murdered him. That's why we're here." Ivy directed Janette's 
attention to the damp hotel letterhead spread out on the examination table. "He 
left the same 'Come to me' message *inside* the body."

      Nick shook his head, speaking in a low rumble. "I don't believe that a 
'he' killed Mark Brevard. Your sire may have decided to murder him, but he had a 
helper who did the actual damage. Your fingerprints were at the crime scene, 
Ivy - no doubt from when you and Vachon left Clare your note. Between that 
and the photograph I found at Mark's house, I jumped to conclusions. I'm sorry 
that I picked the wrong accomplice."

     "If you want an idea of who Mark Brevard's killer was, take a look at the 
connection I made. This is what I showed Clare and Schanke earlier." Natalie 
projected the three sets of slides detailing metal fragments for her new 
audience. "To be brief, I think the murderer used the same sword on Mark that was used 
to kill that fashion correspondent at the House of Figaro just after it opened in 
Toronto."

     "Wait - you're talking about that sword that was always in Figaro's 
office?" Ivy face was a study in concentration.

     "I remember," Janette said lazily. "He hung it over the mantelpiece. I 
tried to convince him to do otherwise - it looked so out of place - but Figaro would 
have it no other way."

     "The sword wasn't there the other night," Vachon stated. "Ives and I 
painted over the bloodstains her sire left on that wall, and the hooks were empty."

      "You're right," Ivy confirmed. "I remember noticing it was gone in 
passing, but it didn't occur to me that someone took it. I was more worried about where 
Domino was than some sword."

     "Then Cecilia *is* the accomplice," Nick said distantly.

     "How do you know?" Natalie questioned curiously. "I recall you telling me 
the story behind the sword way back when, and how you thought Fig was 
somehow connected to the murder when it first happened. I also remember you 
appearing unhappy when the case closed, but at the time, the evidence *looked* 
like a solid match."

      "I know." Nick's voice was slightly bitter. "It was engineered that way. 
The first victim, Langtry Muller, had discovered evidence that Figaro was a vampire. 
Cecilia decided to kill her with Figaro's sword, then hide it on the roof of the 
building - there was no direct access unless you could fly."

     "So the police never searched there," Natalie concluded.

     "Exactly." Nick nodded. "Figaro wanted the sword badly, so I gather Cecilia 
confessed to him what she'd done to appease his sensibilities. He was angry with 
her, but he covered the killing up by murdering the second correspondent, Sasha 
Miglioni. After he 'convinced' her to confess and provided a substitute sword 
that would pass as the murder weapon, of course," he added.

    "Of course," Janette agreed with an air of practicality. That was the season 
Figaro banished Cecilia to New York, wasn't it? She was still there when I 
moved on to Montreal. He was *very* unhappy with her."

    "So you're saying that Cecilia had enough of an attachment to this sword to 
take it and use it on the doctor?" Vachon asked. It seemed like an inordinate 
amount of trouble to go to, even to kill someone.

     "Figaro prized the sword because it was a gift from Clare," Nick reasoned 
carefully. "I think Cecilia became involved to strike out against Clare. That 
would explain why Mark was killed in Clare's hotel suite. She used the sword 
because it's symbolic to her."

      "Now that I think about it," Natalie announced as she opened the freezer, 
"the stab wounds on Brevard's torso bear a similarity to the placement of the 
older case." She absently pulled out a gurney, then walked over to her desk for 
a file. Nat picked up a handful of photos of a woman sprawled on the floor of one 
of the House of Figaro's fitting rooms and displayed them for the group. "See? 
Langtry Muller was stabbed beneath both clavicles, then between each rib."

     Ivy reached out hesitantly toward the photographs of the studio, carefully 
taking one and dangling it between her fingers. They were glossy and in full 
color - not exactly what she expected as a crime scene photo. Ivy drank in the 
violent image, branding the wounds on her memory, then curiously turned the 
print over. There was a sound of surprise when she found a recognizable name 
along with the date. "Domino took these?"

     "He was first on the scene with a camera," Nick explained. "I think he 
wanted to help."

     Ivy turned the image graphic-side-up once more, "That would be Domino." 
She wondered how much trouble that helpfulness had brought on his head when
Cecilia found out. Natalie had moved to the gurney and had unwrapped the contents so 
she could study them. Ivy glanced up from the photographs, absently checking the 
coroner's movements. She let out a stunned exclamation and turned away, 
visions of missing ears and severed appendages bolting through her head, all 
coupled with the memory of a lost love and overwhelming blame. "Excuse me, 
but I can't do this," she gasped in a miserable voice, then stumbled out of the 
morgue.

     "Lierre!" Janette called in a concerned tone. She systematically delivered 
a withering look to Nick and Natalie, and would have moved on to Vachon, but he 
had already left, close on Ivy's heels. Janette spun around dramatically and 
followed.

     Natalie appeared completely undisturbed by the antagonism directed her 
way. She was deeply involved in comparing the wounds on Mark Brevard's 
torso with the photographs of the old victim. "Yes, I would say there is a 
significant similarity in the stabbing patterns."

     "Was that absolutely necessary?" Nick demanded hotly. "You didn't have to 
throw his body in her face like that."

     "He's dead," Natalie said callously. "Whether Ivy deserves any blame or not 
for his condition, she still needs to learn to deal with it. Don't you dare tell me you 
didn't intend to show Ivy Mark's corpse to get a reaction out of her. I 
won't believe you."

     Nick turned his head away. "That was before."

     "So when you thought that she was guilty, it was perfectly acceptable to 
torment the girl with the harsh truth. Now that you think she's innocent, I'm 
supposed to hide it from her?"

     "Her sire wants to destroy her - don't you think she has troubles enough?"

     "Tell me, Nick," Natalie asked frankly. "What's the borderline between Ivy 
being damned for her crimes, for being guilty in your eyes, and the point where 
she becomes worthy of protecting? I'd just like to know, because I'm starting to 
wonder where I fall in this mish-mash of judgment."

     "I'm always on your side," Nick said in a bewildered voice, squeezing her 
shoulders tightly, "for as long as I've known you, for as long as I've loved 
you. I can tell you've felt a little rough around the edges lately, but everything's 
going to be okay. You're just not feeling like yourself - you'll get over it."

      Natalie looked up at him with wistful eyes. "Will I?" she whispered 
sincerely. "Will you?"

      Nick was interrupted from his answer by Vachon storming back into the 
morgue.

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

      "Ivy," Vachon called firmly, then downright yelled. "Ivy!" He turned a 
corner in the hallway and almost stumbled over her. She was leaning against the 
clinically bare wall, deeply shaken. He pulled her into his arms, wrapping her 
tightly in an embrace, and stated emphatically into her curls, "Don't run away from 
me."

     "I'm not," she choked out. "I'm not running from you. I'm running from my 
sire and from myself."  She pulled back slightly, taking his stubbled chin 
gently within her small fingers. "Everything I do, it's simply because I'm afraid of 
someone else being hurt. I don't want you hurt, Javier. I'm sorry that I keep 
slipping away."

     "I want to help you, Ives - I need to," Vachon said urgently, "but I 
haven't a shot in hell of succeeding when you're not here."

     Janette cleared her throat nearby. Ivy and Vachon, both of their 
expressions becoming startled, pulled apart at the interruption. Vachon obviously 
considered it unwelcome, whereas Ivy clung to the older woman's presence like a 
sanctuary. "Javier, would you mind if Janette and I talk alone for a while? We haven't 
seen each other for weeks, and there are a few things we need to discuss."

     He felt summarily dismissed, but what good would protesting do? Vachon 
shrugged, said, "If that's what you want," then branded Ivy's mouth with a firm 
kiss before heading back for the morgue. Janette and he both frowned at each 
other in disapproval as he passed her and moved out of sight.

     Janette opened her arms, and Ivy fell into them in a desperate hug. "I'm 
sorry that I've brought this into your home," Ivy sobbed. "My past is just as much of 
a threat to your life with Robert and Patrick as Clare could be."

     "Shh, Lierre," Janette soothed. "Do not worry. I will protect them from 
your sire, just as I have protected them from Clare. That is not the problem, ma 
petite. What are we going to do about you?"

     Ivy glanced back in the direction of the morgue, then earnestly up at her 
friend. "Let me go. If I'm what he's after - then let me go out into the city 
where he can find me and confront me."

     "That is inviting your own destruction. That is no solution!" Janette 
protested. 

    "But hiding, cowering out of the way - it has caused nothing but harm so 
far. I need to get out of here. Will you cover for me? Please?"

     Janette released an impatient sigh. "Of course, I will. I know that you're 
choosing to do this because you believe it will protect us. For Vachon, for 
Robert and me, and especially Patrick. You did say once that you would give 
your life to protect him in order to repay me for my kindness."

     "I would," Ivy vowed. "Isn't that loyalty? Don't families protect each 
other, even if the cost is great?"

     "I never wanted you to fulfill your promise, Lierre," Janette reprimanded 
softly. "I want you to be at home *with* your family, not alone and in danger." 
She examined the younger woman methodically, judging slowly. "I see that you 
will not be content unless you stand up alone. Depending on others for your 
safety, caring for them, then seeing them tortured must be agonizing for you." 
Janette's brow creased, and she gently offered Ivy a kiss on either cheek. "I do 
not like it, but I will let you go alone."

     Ivy clasped one of Janette hands firmly, her eyes transmitting her 
gratitude. "Thank you for understanding."

     Janette gave a weak smile as Ivy began to pull away. "I consider you one of 
my own. If I love you, how can I keep you a prisoner?" She watched as Ivy 
turned down the corridor, out of sight, and out of the building. Janette leaned 
against the hallway, a funeral of anguish dancing across her face. "What have I 
done?" she whispered. "What will I have to do?"

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

     "That went well," Vachon said sarcastically as he re-entered the morgue. He 
turned to Nick, questioning in a demanding tone. "I get the impression you have 
some idea about who Ivy's sire is. Care to fill in the reason why?"

     "Clare and I have been investigating a series of murders where the victims 
have been systematically tortured for several years, then killed by slicing a 
number into their chest. There's a countdown pattern to the dates and murders."

     Vachon gave a brief nod. "Clare mentioned that to me. She said you thought 
the killer was a vampire. At the time, she wasn't convinced."

     "She's become more of a believer. When Jennifer Schanke was shot, she 
began to notice the same vampire presence that I did. She also began to suspect 
Cecilia was involved with the killer because of her suspicious behavior before 
the shooting."

     "Why did it take so long for Clare to pick up on this vampire's 
involvement, compared to you?"

     "Because I've met the man - his name is Thomas Monroe - Clare hadn't. If 
Cecilia murdered Mark Brevard, Thomas no doubt has something to do with it. 
He could very well be Ivy's sire. She could be his next intended victim," Nick 
stated coldly.

     "But all the others have been mortal," Natalie protested. "Not to mention 
that every other victim has been kidnapped and imprisoned for years before he kills 
them. Ivy is a *vampire,* and her sire certainly doesn't have her locked in a 
cage. I admit the instances with Domino and killing a mortal lover are malicious 
acts against her, but I don't see how it fits with the motive of transforming 
the victim that you've given for Thomas' kills so far."

     "What do you mean, 'transforming the victim'?" Vachon demanded.

     Nick offered up a concise briefing. "The first victim, William Hyatt, was a 
proud man before Thomas captured him and beat him into a cowering shadow of 
his former self over the course of twenty years." 

     Vachon's expression froze as he held up a hand. "Stop right there. You're 
right - Thomas Monroe *is* Ivy's sire. She forgot to mention a little 'gift' 
that her sire left behind after taking Domino. He slipped a bottle of blood into 
Figaro's office stores, and Ivy happened to drink from it by chance. When I saw 
how it was affecting her, I took a sip myself. The blood was from a man named 
William Hyatt - it carried every moment of his beatings, every second leading 
up to his death, every instant of his death, and her sire *definitely* killed 
this man."

     "He left a bottle of blood?" Natalie asked, intrigued. "There was another 
bottle of blood left with Mark Brevard's body. I've been trying to figure out 
where it came from." She returned to her desk, flicking through pages of autopsy 
files. "There! The sample I extracted from that bottle matches the type and 
factors of the second victim's blood." Natalie marched over to the refrigerator 
and extracted a marked vial, quickly unscrewing the cap.

     "Nat! What are you doing?!" Nick said in shock as she tilted a few drops 
onto the back of her hand and licked it clean.

     Natalie closed her eyes, flinched, and shuddered momentarily. Her face 
haunted, she informed them in an unsettled whisper. "It came from Evelyn 
Prescott - the second victim."

     Both Vachon and Nick appeared disturbed by this turn of events. "Knight," 
Vachon said in dark tones, "if Ivy's supposed to be the next victim, how do you 
think he wants to transform her?"

     "She used heroin as a mortal, correct?"

     The Spaniard nodded. "It was the Halloween of 1980. She was as desperate 
as a junkie can get. She didn't care if she died, she just wanted another fix. 
Problem was, the fix she got was tainted. Ivy was dying from it when her sire 
brought her across."


     "She lost the will to live," Nick mused. "Now she's become accustomed to 
being a vampire and the thought of living forever. That was the first 
transformation. Thomas said he was taking the vampire back - he plans to make 
her want to die. That's what the 'Come to Me' messages are for - she's supposed 
to find him when she loses her desire to survive. The blood...the gifts of blood 
are supposed to show Ivy the horror that is waiting for her when she does go to 
Thomas."

     "If he succeeds in demolishing her spirit, in crushing her need to exist - 
if he makes her desperate - she's not going to care what happens to her," Natalie 
whispered, feeling ugliness crawling through her as the diseased blood 
memories rotted her from the inside.

     "Then we need to make sure she doesn't give up," Vachon declared with firm 
intent.

     "His goal, if he continues with his old pattern," Nick added, "gives us 
until Halloween. That's the day he brought her across; that's the day he'll want to 
take her life back."

     The three vampires turned expectantly toward the morgue entrance as Janette 
returned. Their expressions ranged from alarm to anger and worry when they 
noted she returned alone.

     "Where is Ivy?" Vachon said, an unwelcome suspicion dawning in his 
thoughts.

     "I let her go," Janette replied calmly, her manner almost meek. "She wanted 
to face this alone for a time."

     "That could be the worst move she could make right now!" Nick snapped 
angrily.

     "What makes any of you so certain that you can rescue her from danger?" 
Janette contradicted with a proud tilt to her chin. "In the end, Ivy has to want 
to save herself. She has to fight her own battle. None of you can do that for her. 
You can't bend her will. What difference would there be between you and her 
sire? The best help we can offer her now is to protect ourselves from harm. Our 
pain can destroy Ivy far more than her sire at the moment."

     "Watching Ivy may be our best chance of stopping Thomas before he kills 
again. You've made a terrible mistake, Janette," Nick said reproachfully.

     "And if I was wrong, I will have to live with my decision. Ivy begged me, 
Nicola. What would you have me do? Imprison her?"

     Nick turned away in frustration, silent in fury. Vachon wasn't so 
undecided. He stalked to the doorway, a vow of determination ringing in each word. "I'm 
not to going to just sit around and wait to hear if she lives or dies. You may 
have chosen to let Ivy go, but I plan to find her and make her survive." 

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

     Clare halted in front of the Schankes' house, immediately realizing from 
the sleepy atmosphere that it was much too late at night to expect a visit with 
anyone. She experienced a wave of disappointment - the sight of Jennifer 
Schanke's lively smiling face was just what she needed, but at roughly two a.m., 
it was unreasonable to demand attention from a ten-year old. Both Myra and Jen 
would be nestled soundly in their beds, just as they should be.

     She couldn't resist a peek, however, and flew to Jen's bedroom window. The 
girl was sleeping on her uninjured side, so her back was turned to Clare's view. 
With silent precision, she raised the sash and slipped indoors. Brushing against 
the headdress to Jen's sunflower costume hung over a wooden chair by the 
window, Clare casually fingered the reinforced felt with a smile. Moving along, 
she observed a stack of stuffed animals, balloons, cards and flowers stacked 
along Jen's dresser and atop a chest of drawers. They were all get-well gifts, 
mostly from Schanke's fellow officers. Clare considered her own, never-
wrapped-and-presented offering, languishing in a police evidence locker or 
forensics lab somewhere, and frowned severely. 

     There was a chirping sound, and Clare turned to find that Jen had installed 
her pet frog's terrarium on the bedside table. Letting her gaze drift from the 
cage to Jen's nearby pillow, she felt a warmth twist inside her at the sight of the 
tousled head resting there. Clare dropped a feathery kiss on the child's 
forehead and moved to leave the same way she had come.

     "How'd you get in through the window?"

     Clare whirled around to see Jen blinking at her groggily, but very awake. 
"It was unlocked."

     "I know *that,* but how'd you get to the window? I meant to ask you that 
before. It's too high, and there're no trees." Jen yawned and rubbed her face 
dreamily with the back of one hand.

     "Before?" Clare grinned and requisitioned a corner of the bed. "When did 
you see me before?"

     "When you left those flowers - those gardenias - remember?"

      "Ahh," Clare said in dawning comprehension. "That was months ago. I 
remember you thanking me for them, but you didn't mention seeing me leave 
them. I thought you were asleep."

     "Your portable phone rang as you were sneaking away. I never figured out 
how you did that."

     "Maybe it was magic," Clare teased. Seeing Jen fight back yet another yawn, 
she started to stand. "I'm keeping you awake."

     "No, stay!" Jen urged, grabbing on to the woman's hand. "I want to be 
awake!"

     Clare searched for another excuse. "It's a school night."

     "I don't start school again until Monday. I'm stuck studying at home, and 
it's sooo boring! Please stay and talk awhile."

      Since that was what Clare wanted to do in the first place, she had no 
difficulty relenting. "All right, but remember to keep quiet so we don't wake up 
your mother."

     Jen raised her right hand in a solemn vow. "I'll be quiet as a church 
mouse."

     "I don't know anything about *church* mice. Are they really quiet?"

     "How am I supposed to know? I don't live in a church."

     "Who am I to fault such logic?" Clare queried with a grin. "Is school going 
to be a problem since you've missed three weeks?"

     "No sweat. There's no chance of me jumping up to the next grade now, 
though. That's a relief," Jen confided, twitching her eyebrows.

     "Why? You said you were bored. Why not welcome the challenge?"

     Jen rolled her eyes at the clueless adult. "Do-oh. Because school isn't 
just brain stuff! Some of those kids would be twelve! We're talking puberty! Not 
only would I be a different age, I'd be the only one without a training bra!"

     Clare took on a perplexed expression. "Well, hopefully not *all* of the 
boys would wear them."

     The girl let out an exasperated sigh. "You know that's not what I meant. 
I'm talking about being an outcast. I don't wanna be the freak of the class."

     "Being different is not a curse," Clare announced. "I admit, it does make 
things tricky at times." She gestured toward the flower costume hanging by the 
window. "You didn't want to be the only child with petals instead of jeans at 
the Open House, but it didn't make you a freak."

     "Yeah," Jen said begrudgingly, "but it's hard work having attitude all the 
time. I don't care if it does convince people."

     "Ah...but you're talking as though you, yourself, need some convincing. 
Quick! Tell me something you believe, without a doubt, is true."

     "Hospital food sucks."

     Clare appeared doubtful. "Are you sure?" Jen nodded vehemently, causing 
Clare to arch an eyebrow. "Really? I recall a man down the hall *raving* about 
the macaroni and cheese."

     The girl stuck out her tongue. "Blech. That guy was a goof. The mac n' 
cheese was like rubber!"

     "Oh." Clare's argument still wasn't complete. "I also remember your father 
literally vacuuming up something they served. What was that?"

     "That was ice cream. It doesn't count as hospital food because it's 
packaged. There's no way they can mess it up," Jen explained.

     "So you have no doubts whatsoever that hospital cuisine is terrible?"

     Jen wasn't about to waver. "I had to eat enough of the stuff - it reeks."

    Clare gave the girl an enigmatic smile. "I notice that you don't have any 
trouble expressing a convincing attitude, either. It doesn't matter what some 
man down the hall from you in the hospital thought about the food. You believe that 
it was bad, so you don't immediately decide that you're an outcast or unusual 
just because I didn't agree with you right away."  

     "Hey, you're right!" A grin gradually widened across the girl's features. 
"That was a sneaky way to make a point. I bet you're wicked at poker."

     "More wicked than most."

     "Still," Jen argued, "everything doesn't fall into the 'Believing in 
Tinkerbell Makes Her Real' category."

     "Hmm...." Clare murmured as she wrapped her arm around the child's 
shoulders. "Do you want to know what I believe?"

     Jen rested her head beneath the vampire's chin. "What?"

     "I believe that self-doubt is twice as bad as hospital food." She gingerly 
brushed a lock of hair away from the girl's face, then closed her eyes to 
momentarily relish the sense of nurturing that welled from within her centuries-
old form. "When we begin to question what we are, when we second-guess each 
choice, each step - that is when unhappiness creeps inside our hearts, Jen. 
Don't question. Am I good? Am I bad? Am I beautiful? Am I smart? What does it 
matter what the answer is to each query? When you ask any one of these, you 
are doubting your self-worth. That is a terrible shame."

     "But no one's perfect. No one's always right. Look at my parents." Jen 
dared a giggle. "Look at you."

     "What?" Clare assumed a properly horrified expression. "How could you 
possibly think I'm not perfect?"

      The girl's laughter became full-throated. "You smoke cigarettes. I can 
smell it on your breath."

     "You're an observant young thing, aren't you?"

      Jen nodded proudly. "Dad used to smoke, too. Mum and I nagged him into 
giving it up, though. We can start harassing you."

      "That's not necessary. I just gave them up."

      "That easy? I doubt it. Smoking's an addiction."

     "Perhaps, but I can be stubborn."

     "You mean it?"

     "Of course. Now that I'm a non-smoker, I *must* be perfect."  Clare enjoyed 
watching the girl giggle again. "When you laugh, your cheeks glow like stars 
over the Equator."

     "You've been to the Equator?"

     "Mmm-hmm..."

     "Where? Tell me about it."

     "Which place? There are so many...Colombia, Indonesia, Kenya..."

     "Go alphabetically."

     "Which alphabet? There are so many..."

      Jen made an impatient sound. "Just pick one."

     Clare chuckled softly and began to weave stories in a low, magical voice.

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

     Worry marred Robert's features as he met Janette's gaze. "Did you see her?"

     She nodded slowly, hesitant to speak.

     "What is it, Janette? Tell me. Is Ivy okay?"

     "She is good, and yet...she is not." Janette clutched at one of his hands, 
closing her eyes as she brought the palm to rest against her cheek. "When I told 
you about Clare, what a danger I thought she was to Patrick and our happiness, 
you asked me if we should send him to live with Peggy for a time." Her lids 
cautiously opened, revealing the struggle within her thoughts. "I said 'no' 
then, but my decision wasn't for him or for you. It was a selfish answer, made for me 
alone. Now, I am answering for you, Patrick and Ivy. Yes. Yes, Patrick should 
live elsewhere right now." Janette squeezed her eyes shut, forcing back tears as 
she delivered each painful word. "He doesn't belong in our world, not the way it 
stands now."

     Robert cupped her cheeks, gently kissing away the ruby beads pushing a path 
down her face. "You said this choice is for Patrick, Ivy and me. What about you, 
Janette? I can see, I can feel how this hurts you."

      "It does, but how can I keep Patrick here if it places him in danger?" She 
lay her head against his chest, her voice developing a note of determined promise. 
"As soon as the threats have passed, he can return to us, Ivy will come home, 
and we can be a family."

     Robert buried his fingers in her dark hair, holding her close. "I'll call 
Peggy as soon as the sun rises and have her fetch Patrick. In the meantime, talk to me 
about Ivy." 

     "Her sire is a problem."

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

      The rustle of silk skirts drew LaCroix's attention first. The fabric 
whispered in tempo with her walk; it was almost a chant announcing that Clare descended 
the stairs. She carried a number of garment bags, branded with a familiar logo, 
which she hung on a metal stair rail before approaching the bar.

     The Raven's dance floor was bare. Dawn was closing in as quickly as Clare's 
heels clicked against the floor. All of the club's guests had left or retreated 
to the cellar some time before, leaving her with an audience of one.

     LaCroix was alone behind the counter, looking for a fresh glass with which 
to drink the bottle of vintage resting at his elbow. He observed appreciatively as 
Clare paused in the center of the dance floor, turning around with provocative 
deliberation to model her new gown. The color of an aged penny, the material 
draped sinuously over her body, rippling in waves as she moved.

     "I've been shopping," she proclaimed, the rasp of her voice blending with 
the movement of her dress.

     "I see."

    Clare pursed her lips together coquettishly, then closed the distance 
between her and the bar. "It's only ready-to-wear," she confessed as she leaned against 
the counter. "No one was at the studio, so I had to make do."

     LaCroix rested his hands on the bar surface, bending slightly toward Clare 
from the opposite side. "A case of survival of the fittest? You survived, and 
the clothes obviously fit...in all the right places."

     Her white teeth gleamed as she broke into a delicious grin. "I like 
adaptation... the challenge of acclimating to my surroundings. This counter, for 
instance," Clare tapped the hard surface of the bar, "it's barring me from my 
intended goal...you."

     LaCroix lazily folded his arms across his chest and lifted his eyebrows in 
challenge. "Surely you would not allow such a minor obstacle to stand in your 
way."

     "I wouldn't," Clare agreed, using a barstool as a stepping stool. In an 
instant, she was seated on the counter and swinging her legs over to LaCroix's side. 
"Obstacles are meant to be climbed." She reached out and pulled his arms 
toward her, letting one of his hands fall to her thigh while bringing the other 
to her lips. She kissed his knuckle, then ran the tip of her tongue down his index 
finger before taking the digit into her mouth. Pausing momentarily, she 
mentioned offhandedly, "I made a stop at the precinct on the drive here to turn 
in my homicide badge and my gun. I kept my handcuffs - call me sentimental." She 
nibbled on LaCroix's fingertip, then moved her mouth along to his middle 
knuckle, delivering another kiss. "I now rank among the unemployed."

     His free hand wandered along Clare's thigh and around her hip, then pulled 
her body tightly into his own. "Whatever will you do with your free time?"

     She released his other palm in favor of inching her nails along LaCroix's 
shoulders and down his back. "I could take up sewing. That might come in 
handy. I don't believe that I've needled a stitch since the Moors first ruled 
Toledo, but I feel a necessity to resume the skill."

     "And why is that?"

    "You intimated that your clothing has remained unharmed throughout all of 
my attentions. In all fairness, I have fallen down on the job." There was a 
popping sound as Clare tore the front halves of LaCroix's shirt open, the 
fastenings bouncing and clattering to the floor. "I think I'll start practicing 
on buttons."

     LaCroix's eyes began to glow as he replied, "Good."

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

October 19, 1996

  
     Nick threw his coat on the leather couch in disgust. "You'll never guess 
what Clare did."

      Natalie wasn't eager to hear the news, but offered a tentative, "What?" 
anyway.

     "She turned in her badge yesterday morning. Clare never breathed a word, 
and just like that," Nick snapped his fingers, "she drops out on the job."

     "I thought you wanted her to go. Nick, you weren't exactly bouncing with 
joy when Clare continued working after giving Captain Reese her resignation last 
month."

     "She said she would work homicide until the Number Murders were closed. 
They aren't." He stalked to the fridge, yanked out a bottle, and tore the cork 
free with an agitated swipe of his teeth. "This is just the typical, untrustworthy 
sort of behavior I'd expect from her kind."

     "Excuse me?" Nat glared at him from her seat on the sofa. "What do you 
mean by 'her kind'?"

     Nick shook his head dismissively. "Nothing. Forget I said it." He took 
several long swigs from the bottle before stopping to wipe his mouth with the back of 
his hand.

     Natalie stood stiffly from the couch. "I think you forget that I am 
permanently connected to Clare. When you insult her, you're damning me, too." 
She turned her back to him, moving across the floor and up the loft stairs with 
jerky steps, Sidney bounding speedily to the next floor ahead of her.

     The bottle of blood made a clatter as Nick set it roughly aside on an end 
table. "Nat! Wait!" He caught her halfway up the stairs and enfolded her firmly 
with his embrace. "It was the wrong thing for me to say; what's more, it was 
untrue." He leaned down until they were touching foreheads. "I do trust Clare, I 
do. It's taken a lot of debate from you, but you finally made it through my 
thick skull. I just...I'm just disappointed. I convinced myself that this case 
mattered as much to her as it does to me."

    "Well, Nick," Natalie brushed her tongue over her upper lip as she let go of 
a shallow sigh, "you keep putting people up on pedestals, building up these high 
expectations of them. They're bound to get knocked down sometime." 

      "So I'm the bad guy, and Clare can do no wrong," Nick stated as he pulled 
his head back to stare at her solemnly.

      "No, Nick. You're not the bad guy. It's not about you. It's about Clare, 
and a little bit more acceptance than black and white. Both of you have concluded that 
Thomas Monroe is responsible for the killings and that Cecilia is involved. Just 
because Clare isn't at the police precinct, borrowing someone else's desk, that 
doesn't mean that she's abandoned the idea of tracking down the vampires 
responsible. If you want her help, if you want to help her, talk to Clare."

     "I can't. She's at the Raven," he said stubbornly.

     "And you don't want to face LaCroix," Nat followed unsympathetically. "So 
call her. Put an ad in the paper, or send Clare a singing telegram. I don't 
care!" She spun around suddenly, forcing her way up to the landing, Nick shadowing 
each step.

     "Natalie." The low, intense tone of his voice made her stop and turn to 
face Nick again. He took her face in his hands and kissed her lingeringly on the 
mouth. "Let's just pretend that this argument never happened." He snapped the 
barrette securing her hair free, encouraging it to tumble over her shoulders as 
his lips meandered a path toward her left earlobe. "We can go back to the point 
where everything was perfect."

     She let her head fall back as she closed her eyes and delighted in the 
sensation of his tongue licking along the side of her neck. "You can't alter the 
past, Nick," she murmured.

     "Shhh..." Nick whispered as he met her lips again. Natalie returned the 
kiss, the desperate hunger building within her, begging for release. "We can forget," 
he said insistently.

     A portion of her heart turned cold at his words, Natalie's thoughts 
screaming out their demand,  She released the 
beast with roar of passion, allowing her fangs to plunge savagely into his 
throat as the noise died to a snarl.

     It felt wonderful.

********************************************************************
End of Part Twenty-Six

October 21,1996

 
     The Raven was having a busy night; scores of mortals had been turned away 
from the door already. Atop the building across the street, two figures hovered 
over the side of the roof and observed each exit and entry.

      "She hasn't come out! Why doesn't she come out?" the woman complained, 
frowning sourly.

     "Patience, Cecilia," the man chided with a lofty air. "She will leave her 
little love nest, given the proper provocation. Clare will show you just how greatly 
you tax her, if you only wait long enough."

     Cecilia made a rude sound. "She must know that we have Domino! I was certain she 
would search for him."

     "But I am blocking his presence, just as I do yours. Playing with Clare is 
fine and fun, but not at the expense of my plans. Soon enough, I will be ready for 
you to repay me with a second task - it will dwarf your first production by far."

      Cecilia noticed a long-haired woman in a long beige wool coat approaching 
the club. "Oh, look, Thomas! It's Auntie Natalie! I wonder why she's coming 
here to see Clare - from what I hear, she lives with Nicholas." Cecilia 
pretended to stifle a yawn. "Not a fun relative at all."

     "Things change," Thomas said observantly. "How well do you know your 
Auntie Natalie, Cecilia?"

     The pale blonde pouted with distaste. "Not much. She accompanied Clare on 
a few visits with Figaro just before his destruction. The rumor was, she was 
searching for the elusive cure to vampirism for Nicholas' benefit."

     "And has she met with any success?"

     "I wouldn't know. Why would such a thing interest you?"

     Thomas looked at her darkly, and Cecilia felt her nerves twist into knots. 
"It might be an interesting topic to study, and you never know exactly which 
information may come in handy. I want to watch your Auntie Natalie for a few 
days. Who knows? It may prove useful in your quest to torment Clare." Thomas 
rose, moving to stand on the ledge of the roof. "Come. We have other objectives 
to sculpt."

     Thomas blended into the night sky as Cecilia sent a lingering look in the 
direction of the club, then followed. 

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

     "Clare."

     The elder vampire turned from the bar at the sound of her protegee's urgent 
voice. "Natalie! How excellent of you to drop in! How have you been feeding?"

     "As well as can be expected," Natalie motioned to the bartender for 
service. "I've been spending more time with Nick for a change. I have some decisions to 
make..."

     "To tell the truth or lie? I gather neither choice is especially appealing 
to you at the moment."

     Natalie's drink arrived, and she took a generous sip. "You can say that 
again." There was a pause in the conversation, and Nat glanced up from her bloodwine 
to see her sire staring knowingly at her. "I'm also nervous," she confessed. "I 
finally asked Nick to have someone check up on Barney. There could be police 
at his apartment as we speak."

     "Excellent. They'll find the suicide note Aristotle forged for us. Barney 
will assume the blame for all those dearly departed in which you took too close of an 
interest, and that will be the end of this whole unpleasant affair." Seeing that 
Natalie did not appear entirely convinced, Clare emphasized, "Eating from 
carrion is not an acceptable practice. It is a desperate manner of sustenance at 
best. Don't think that I am not sympathetic to your situation. You were under 
pressure from Nicholas and your mortal sense of morality to squelch your new 
hunger. It was unfortunate that you were forced into such behavior."

     "I was trying to support Nick's quest," Natalie made the halfhearted 
excuse, then questioned her sire with earnest bewilderment. "He manages to subsist on 
steer blood. Why couldn't I control myself on the same?"

     Clare covered her vampire offspring's palm gently with her own. "Because 
Nicholas has practiced denying his nature in one form or another for centuries. 
Even then, he cannot always resist the call of the beast."

     "He killed Louis Secour," Natalie recalled distantly.

      "He killed *you,*" Clare reminded her with a smug twist of her mouth. 
"Nicholas isn't perfect, Natalie. He has no right to expect perfection of you." 
She clasped Nat's fingers in a firmer grip. "Tell him what you are. Talk about your 
research and let Nicholas know how you felt hunting. Relieve yourself of this 
burden of hiding the truth."

     Natalie looked dazedly between her almost-empty glass and her sire's grip 
on her hand. "What if I decided to reject the vampire? What if I decided that I 
couldn't exist like this, and insisted on Nick's meager diet. No killing. No 
human blood. What would you do, Clare?"

     Clare's lips spread into a pitying tableau. "I would weep for you, Natalie. 
You loved Nicholas so much that you let him kill you physically. It would be a 
shame if you let him kill your will, as well. I would prefer that you held a 
little more regard for yourself than that."

     "I don't want to hurt anyone," Natalie stated, then finished the dregs of 
her drink.

     "You either hurt them or you hurt yourself. You choose, Natalie." Clare 
began to pull her away from the bar, toward the club entrance. "I want to go for 
a little night stroll. Why don't you come along and tell me what Nick and 
Schanke have gotten up to at the precinct? Were you able to identify the fourth 
Number murder victim?"  

     Nat nodded as she allowed her sire to lead her out onto Richmond Avenue, 
through the congregation of wanna-be club patrons. "I was able to do a dental 
match with one of the vagrancy charges. His name was Edward Shaker. He had 
a budding career as a Chartered Accountant until his fondness for alcohol took a 
toll on his work. He lost three jobs, then his spouse and his house. Apparently, 
he didn't care for what remained and started living on the streets. His ex-wife 
made the report after he missed two alimony payments. The vagrancy charge 
came in February of 1979, so his case was closed."

     "But he was still homeless and an alcoholic when Thomas found him in 
October," Clare mused. "Only there was no one left to care if he vanished for 
seventeen years."

      "Right." Natalie was momentarily distracted by the sight of a couple 
passing, lovingly entwined arm in arm. "Have you had any success finding Domino?"

     "No, nor Cecilia," Clare wrinkled her nose at the irritating thought. 
Vachon had visited the club two nights before, intent on briefing Clare and recruiting 
her aid in finding Ivy. She had been surprised to hear of Domino's disappearance 
and the attack at the House of Figaro. Clare had completely disregarded the 
sensations she'd felt in Figaro's office; she'd been too lost in the memories of 
Fig and her own self-indulgent mental meanderings to notice anyone else's turmoil. 

     Vachon had accompanied Clare on a return visit to the studio, but a second 
examination of Figaro's office had provided no assistance. The blood message 
on the wall had begun to seep through the fresh coat of melon paint, making the 
letters of 'Come to me' mock both vampires in a subliminal taunt. Clare 
wandered through the studio, trying to pinpoint Domino's location while Vachon 
applied a second coat of paint. The wall was easily covered in minutes, but 
Clare had no success in tracking either of Figaro's children that night.

     Javier was less than thrilled with her current mode of action: inaction. 
He'd stormed furiously out of the club the night before when Clare had refused to 
help him hunt for Ivy. She'd had her own, logical reasons for refusing. 

    "I think Thomas is helping Cecilia shield their presence from me," she 
explained to Natalie. "They want me to stumble around blindly, searching for 
them. I've decided to assume an unconcerned facade. If Cecilia's greatest desire 
is to trouble me with Domino's abduction, to irk me by slaughtering a mortal in 
my hotel bedroom, then the wisest thing for me to do is ignore her and assume 
an aura of bliss and delight."  Clare smiled wickedly. "It will drive her 
insane. More importantly, it will drive her out. Cecilia isn't quite controlled or 
bright enough to resist the urge for a more blatant confrontation. She'll want me to 
realize and acknowledge how problematic she's been. She might even want my 
respect. When Cecilia succumbs to that weakness, she'll make a mistake, and I'll 
have her."

     "So you're just waiting for her next move?" Natalie asked unhappily. "What 
if she harms someone in the meantime - someone you really do care about?"

     "I've arranged for some associates to observe the Schankes. I intend to 
watch over you. Everyone else can either take care of themselves, or they are 
unimportant."

     "It sounds like you have everything figured out." Natalie's tone did not 
reveal whether she approved of Clare's plan or not.

     Her sire made no reply. Instead, Clare stopped walking and tipped her chin 
in the direction of a car parked against the curb in front of the next alley 
entrance. The driver, a woman, repeatedly tested the ignition, but the engine wouldn't 
turn over. "Perhaps the lady could use a helping hand."

     "Wait," Natalie clutched at her sire's arm. "What are you going to do?"

     "Mmm...I don't know. Look under the hood, maybe? Call her a taxi?" 
Amusement lit Clare's features as she cautioned her vampire fledgling. "Just 
because I am a predator, it doesn't mean I jump on every unsuspecting innocent 
that crosses my path. Even I don't have that much spare time." She chuckled, then 
lifted a questioning eyebrow. "Unless...Are you hungry, Natalie?"

     "Not at the moment."

     The two vampires assumed friendly expressions as they approached the 
driver's side of the sedan. Clare knocked on the window, and the woman 
jumped. She hesitated for a moment, then cautiously rolled down her window.

     "Can we do anything to assist you?" Natalie asked politely.

     "I could look at the engine if you'd like," Clare offered.

     "Would you?" The woman evidently decided Nat and Clare were harmless. 
She unlocked the car's hood and her door, commenting thankfully as she 
climbed from the vehicle, "I'm afraid that I don't know much about cars."

      "That's all right," Clare said as she lifted the bonnet of the Ford. "I 
don't know much about American cars." She leaned under the hood for a moment, 
then commented suspiciously, "I do know that most engines need spark plugs to 
fire. Yours are absent. How did you -?" The car owner had rested her hands on 
the lip of the hood as the vampire spoke. Clare noticed the woman's arms tense 
with the intent of slamming the bonnet down on her head and shoulders. The 
vampire's fingers darted around the rim of the car hood, effectively cutting off 
the woman's sabotage."No. That was a terrible idea."

     At the same time, Natalie noticed two large men rushing out of the alley to 
attack them. Both had knives and held them menacingly as they moved to cover 
her from either side. "Clare?" she called casually to her sire. "It appears they 
want to rob us."


     Clare shook her head as she straightened, then released a disappointed 
sigh, frowning at the female driver. "And you looked so helpless, too! How bad of 
you - attempting to hoodwink us like that!"

     The men hadn't realized yet that there might be a problem robbing Nat and 
Clare, but their female accomplice developed a hint of foreboding at the furious 
tint in Clare's expression. She started to back up abruptly with the intention 
of spinning and making a run for it, but Clare easily captured both of her wrists 
and twisted them behind her back.

     Natalie raised her right palm, gesturing for the two men to stop what they 
were doing. "I think you should put down you weapons." One man was arrested 
by Natalie's intense gaze. His mouth dropped open slightly, and he appeared 
ready to comply. "You really don't want to injure anyone, do you?" Natalie 
continued. The man nodded, slowly squatting down to calmly place his knife on 
the pavement.

     The other robber hadn't succumbed. He released a yelp of outrage. "What the 
hell are you doing to him?" 

     Then he made the mistake of stabbing Natalie. She winced as stainless steel 
sliced into her heart, experiencing a raw tumult of rage in aftershock. Nat 
whirled around and snapped the man's neck before he even had a chance to 
express his surprise.

      Seeing her offspring begin a frenzied feeding, Clare confided silkily in 
her terrified prisoner's ear. "Oh, dear. I had a feeling that might happen. Well, 
since we're going to have to dispose of your partner-in-crime anyhow, I suppose I 
could be tempted..." Clare pulled the woman's head back by her hair, running 
her fingers down her rapid pulse. "Quiet, now...I'm simply a harmless, 
defenseless female, just like yourself. Isn't that why you attacked us? You are 
not...afraid...at all." The woman's fear melted into a gurgle, and her arms 
became limp at the elbows as she ceased struggling. Clare continued to murmur 
soothingly to the female, running her thumb up and down the woman's throat as 
she urged her into the alleyway. Once enshrouded in darkness, Clare ripped into 
the mortal with a snarl.

     The robber who had bemusedly laid down his knife slowly regained his 
focus. He started at finding himself on his knees, then became horrified. His 
partner was hanging limply in the embrace of one of the women he thought had 
been *their* victims. He swiped his weapon from the sidewalk and thrust it 
upward, sinking the blade into Natalie's upper leg. 

     She released a shout of discomfort, throwing the body in her hold toward 
the cover of the alley. With an iron grip, she grasped her attacker's wrist in a 
devastating hold with one hand and pried the knife from his fingers with the 
other. Following her sire's lead, Natalie yanked the man into the darkness. 
Slicing his throat with a fatal stroke, she licked up the red streams that 
throbbed from the incision.

     When she'd had her fill of the taste of him, Natalie let the dead man 
tumble to the ground. She turned numbly toward her sire, finding Clare standing over 
the female's corpse, shaking her head in distress. 

     Clare glanced up and smiled as Natalie stumbled closer. "At the rate we're 
disposing of mortals, Lake Ontario will soon carry more corpses than fish." 
Clare reached out, taking the bloody knife from Natalie's waiting hand. Running 
her tongue along the flat of the blade, Clare unleashed a contented sigh. "Not 
very bright, but flavorful nonetheless. Hmm...and he was quite skilled at 
automobile mechanics as well as larceny." She nudged the woman's limp leg 
with the toe of her heel. "The female was interesting. Even her blood tasted of 
deceit, yet innocence." Clare gave Natalie a considering look, then held out her 
wrist, just below her offspring's chin. The elder vampire slit her wrist, urging 
her child to sample the flow. "Go on...Judge for yourself."

     Natalie staggered out a long breath as she experienced the scent of her 
sire's blood. It almost seemed to carry the not-yet-forgotten smell of sunlight baking 
grassy earth. She drank and felt overwhelmed at the impact of two different 
people, Clare and her victim, rushing, whirling through her senses at the same 
time. She perceived her mind expanding with the knowledge. 

     Observing her neophyte's surrender, Clare risked a tiny smile of triumph. 
She was a very ungracious winner, and her bond with Natalie was growing stronger 
with each drop.  One short, crowing laugh escaped, 
then Clare was at her offspring's throat, possessing her own measure of 
revelation in turn.

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

October 23, 1996

     Ivy returned to the quad, sipping off junkies where they lay. The heroin in 
their blood weighed like lead on her senses. It was a familiar apathetic 
lassitude that slipped on easily, as if the drug was a worn pair of leather 
gloves. Ivy became little more than a somnambulist, wandering through the darkness 
and waiting for her sire to come.

     When he did, she was drifting cockily from streetlight to streetlight, 
smoking a joint she'd rolled off of one of her fellow residents. His dark eyes centered 
on her as though he was a vulture evaluating a future feast. Ivy knew he was 
watching, so she blew smoke signals in the air. U-P...Y-O-U-R-S...she spelled, 
then giggled inanely. At least those yawning years in the Girl Guides had been 
worth something.

     He fell into step beside her. "I must say, you're progressing nicely."

     "Progressing? Is that what you call it?"

     "You've returned to your old stomping grounds; you're cutting yourself off 
from your friends. I'd call it a start."

     "Aren't you the smarmy bastard? Don't pull that fakey 'I'm so shocked' crap 
with me," she snapped when he appeared astounded by her caustic attitude. Ivy 
took another puff of fancy tobacco and sneered. "By my vast experience of 
recollection, I'm probably as stoned as a vampire can get. That means at this 
moment in time, it doesn't matter if you kill me or do the Maquerena with a 
lampshade on your head. I'm two clouds high above caring."

      "You're taking heroin again," he concluded with undisguised glee. "You're 
using the blood of the resident addicts as your supply. How charming! That *is* 
progress!"

     "It's not the same as before, and you know it," Ivy snapped. "I don't need 
'H' anymore, not like the mortals."

     "Then why drink their blood?" her sire challenged joyfully. "There are a 
million untainted bloodstreams in the city waiting for you to dine. You wanted 
the drug for the same reason you did sixteen years ago: to escape."

     Ivy stopped strutting. The tough set to her chin faltered as she scuffed 
her boot heel along the grainy surface of the street. Suddenly decided, she threw 
her joint to the ground, and smashed it beneath one foot. "God forbid I should make 
you happy. There. I quit. No more." She stalked over toward the shadows, 
dragging one of the vagrants curled up sleepily to his feet by his ragged 
collar. "You want me to feed from people like this? That pleases you?" The man cried 
out in pain as she pushed him to the pavement once more. "Well, I'm through, 
Thomas. I don't have to do anything that you want."

     "You remembered my name," he said, his lips spreading into an unholy grin. 
"I am flattered.

     "I didn't remember your name," Ivy scoffed. "I don't want to know anything 
about you. The other vampires, however, they're not so pleased with all your 
little antics. They know who you are, and it's just a matter of time before they 
find you and stake you to a tree."

     The slap came out of nowhere. Ivy's body flew backward crashing into the 
wall of one of the abandoned brick buildings with a dead thunk. "Not in time for 
you, sweetheart."

     Ivy climbed to her feet, a drunken, hateful smile adorning her mouth as she 
looked up at him. "Did I upset you, Thomas? Does the thought of a big, mean, 
vampire posse aiming to grind you into ashes make you scared?" she mocked. 
His arm drew back again for another blow, but she didn't cower. "Go ahead. Hit 
me again. I don't care. No matter how many times you strike at me, they'll still 
find you. They *will* destroy you, even if I don't survive to see it. Go ahead 
and kill me. You want to. Do it. I dare you."

     Thomas appeared lost in rage for a handful of seconds. All at once, he 
tilted his head back and laughed long and robustly. "No, no, no...I'm not going to 
destroy you yet! Haven't you been paying the slightest bit of attention?" His 
features became stony and ugly as his laughter froze and he reached into a 
pocket of his long, tan coat. From its depths, he produced a dark green bottle. 
"Another gift." He held the canister out for Ivy to take. She ignored him. "Go 
on. Take it," Thomas ordered. "I gathered that the police ended up with my 
second offering of refreshment." He tapped his temple with an index finger. 
"Cecilia doesn't always think things through. It was a nice touch, though, 
making Mark swallow the note, and ripping his ear off!..." he said 
conspiratorially, "I've done that to enough that I feel concretely that it must 
be excruciatingly painful for them..."

     "Stop it. Shut up!" Ivy shouted.

     "Did I upset you, Ivy? Or, maybe I should call you Lierre. Is that what you 
prefer?" her sire asked sweetly.

     "SHUT UP!"
 
     "Take the bottle. Drink it," he commanded.

     She refused to move. "No."

     "Don't you want to know what happened to William's successor? Her name 
was Evelyn, and she *was* beautiful."

     Ivy shook her head stubbornly. "No."

     Thomas' lips flattened into a sharp line. He set the bottle on the concrete 
before her boots and snarled, "You will drink it." Thomas swiftly picked the 
nearest mortal out of the shadows. "Drink it, or he dies."

     Ivy stared into the panicked eyes of the vagrant, then down at the waiting 
bottle with fear. "No!" she howled.

     Thomas broke the man's neck with a simple twist. He threw the body aside, 
the floppy limbs hitting the pavement like careless litter. Ivy looked away and 
began to cry.

     Her sire stepped away for a moment, returning with a frail, grayish-skinned 
woman captive in his arms this time. "Drink from the bottle, Ivy," he 
commanded. She didn't acknowledge that he had spoken; her own crying may 
have drowned his order out. He snapped the woman's forearm. Her high-pitched 
screams as a bone punctured her skin brought Ivy to attention. Thomas gazed 
calmly at the young vampire, stating, "If you do not drink from that bottle, I 
will kill every man, woman and child within a two block radius. There are a dozen 
mortals here alone. They will all die, and it will be because you refused to 
drink. Do you really want to be so ornery, my sweet?"

     Ivy sniffed and paused a second too long before moving. There was another 
snap, and the woman's body fell to the sidewalk to join the other. Ivy reached 
out with a shaky hand for the bottle, then uncorked it, her fingers fumbling.

     Thomas watched as she tipped the canister back for a sip. "Good. Good! Take 
nice, healthy swallows...That's a good girl." He urged her on until Ivy had 
consumed a third of the bottle's contents. She began to shake, and he kneeled at 
her side, prying the glass from her hand. "There. How does she feel? Ugly?" He 
gave a small chuckle. "Are you feeling ugly, sweetheart?" Ivy huddled back into 
the shadows, coughing up low moan-like sobs. "The point of this lesson is to 
reinforce the rules. What was the message I left for you when I took Domino?"

     "C-c-come to me," Ivy answered.

     "And what did the note buried inside your mortal lover's body instruct?"

     "Come to me," Ivy repeated.

     "Exactly." Thomas grasped her chin firmly in his hand, forcing her to meet 
his gaze. "You are so wretched. All the pain you've caused Domino - you really 
should feel bad for him. Then Mark...I had Cecilia kill him because of you. Do 
you have any idea what it feels like when your hand is severed from your body?" 


     Ivy's eyes focused slightly at those words, pushing away the sensation of 
wires and knives shearing through her skin, criss-crossing, repeating, leaving 
her on fire with pain. She fought back nineteen years of torture, every agonizing 
memory Evelyn Prescott's blood held, with thoughts of Vachon. There was 
something his blood had told...something about a severed hand...

     Ivy battled the pricking of barbed wire against her skin and the shock of 
heavy blades cleaving through the air, then through her ribcage. She 
concentrated on Vachon: Javier smiling, his eyes and the devilish look they 
carried just-because-they-could, Javier sharing wild stories about Screed, 
Javier buried...paralyzed...the earth filling his nostrils, constantly pressing into 
him...he had to...

     Ivy screamed. The sound seemed to echo off the nearby buildings. Thomas 
leaned over her shaking form so that his lips just brushed her earlobe. "This 
time I came to you. I won't end the pain that way. You have to come to me, 
sweetheart, and that won't happen until you are completely without hope. Only 
then will you truly not care what happens to your pathetic life, and only then 
will I set you free." He raised his head, brushing his lips tenderly over her 
forehead as though he was putting her to bed. "I have such shocking sights in 
store; I could almost envy you, mon petit lierre."

     Her body felt captured in a pattern of ricochet. Ivy dimly perceived his 
words, felt his kiss and sensed him walk away as he whistled. A familiar taunt 
danced through her mind:

     

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

October 23, 1996

     Vachon gradually perceived that Ivy was calling to him. He pulled the 
Triumph over, choosing an aerial search for her rather than keeping to the 
roadways. Ivy's thoughts were centered on him so intently, for a few moments 
he flew as if he homed toward a beacon. The sensation did not last, however. 
After a brief, harsh burst of awareness, Javier was left hanging in the air, 
lost as to which direction to turn.

     He dropped down to the street, hunting for a new sign of Ivy, but none 
came. The neighborhood buildings carried a rougher appearance. There was less 
attention to upkeep than usual, and the inhabitants that Vachon passed didn't 
really seem to care. Some of the residents had a glazed look to their eyes, some 
smelled strongly of whiskey, and others simply looked worn and tired. He began 
to stalk down the sidewalk, sending anyone who approached him scrambling 
with a hard disinterested stare.

     Vachon quickly guessed that he was near the area Ivy had lived in during 
her last months as a mortal. He recalled Clare's mention of interrupting Ivy as she 
prepared to feed from a dealer several weeks back, then cursed softly. She had 
returned to her old stomping grounds, freely wandering about the area where 
Ivy's sire would know to look.

     "And she called me an idiot," Javier muttered under his breath.

    An average-sized man wearing a dark, hooded overcoat brushed clumsily 
against Vachon as he passed from the opposite direction.

    "Excuse me," the man mumbled, only his mouth and nose revealed from the 
cowl of the coat.

     Vachon gave a careless grunt and moved on down the block. He walked 
perhaps twenty meters when he felt a sense of awareness. It was as if a veil had 
lifted, and images of William Hyatt's tormentor and death flashed through his 
mind in slow motion. Javier halted in sudden recognition, then whirled around to 
find that the hooded man had vanished. 

     Instinctively, he sprinted down the street in that direction. After several 
blocks with no further sign of the man he guessed to be Thomas Monroe, 
Vachon stopped by a streetlamp. He propped his hands on his hips, checked 
every direction, then released a pent-up sigh. The hooded man was gone. Javier 
turned around again, treading the lost blocks and resuming his search as he 
mused over what he would have actually done to Ivy's sire had he caught up 
with him.

     Maybe half an hour had passed before he wandered into a quad of abandoned 
buildings. At first glance, the space appeared vacant, but the area hummed to 
him with a chorus of heartbeats sequestered in the shadows, hiding out of view. 
There were people there, but they cowered behind walls and around corners, a 
lingering terror making them too cautious to speak or move.

     Vachon's eyes narrowed then, sharpening on two figures sprawled on the 
concrete at the other end of the square. As he moved closer, it became apparent 
that these individuals were dead, not drunk or wasted. Both had broken necks, 
but the bodies were still warm. He crouched next to them, trailing a hand along 
the pavement nearby. He followed a path of blood soaked into the concrete 
where it wound deeper into the darkness, finding a green glass bottle tipped 
over on its side, a red puddle collected below the neck. 

     Vachon picked it up, sniffing the contents, then gingerly sampled a drop 
with his index finger. The taste was foul enough to make his skin twist, confirming 
Vachon's suspicions. It had come from Evelyn Prescott; it was the same blood 
that Natalie claimed had filled the bottle left in Clare's hotel suite. He 
pictured Ivy returning to her old neighborhood, loitering around until her sire found 
her. In the process, it appeared that Thomas had killed two mortals and foisted blood 
from one of his other victims on Ivy's palate.

     "But where are you?" Vachon whispered into the chilled air. He couldn't 
feel her anymore, not palpably. He reasoned that, if he had really brushed past her 
sire, Ivy couldn't have traveled far in the same amount of time. Javier harshly 
banished the thought that his earlier sensation of contact with Ivy had erupted 
as Thomas made good on his promise to destroy her. 

     Vachon stared methodically at the corpses again. 

     Wait he did. Vachon stashed the bodies out of plain view, then took up 
watch outside of the light, a stubborn set to his chin. 

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

     Ivy stumbled into the club, sending a pair of patrons occupying the space 
beside Clare at the bar scattering with a single glare. She raised a hand, 
gesturing for the bartender's attention, but the elder vampire covered her 
fingers with a palm.

     "No, you don't. You're filthy." Clare frowned derisively at the  dark red 
stains marking Ivy's clothes, then pulled her off her stool. "Even the mortals should 
be able to smell the blood on you. Come with me."

     "Damn! You're always interfering with my meals," Ivy complained as Clare 
led her to a side door and out of sight.

     "And you are not particularly ingratiating, are you...Miss Mousseux, I 
believe, wasn't it?"

      "No, I'm not Miss Congeniality, but just look at how much unwanted attention I 
get already," Ivy said as she stared down at Clare's hand banding her wrist. 
"Imagine what a pain in the ass it would be if I was polite."

     Clare stared at her frankly for several seconds, then burst into laughter. 
"Oh, little one, you are charming despite yourself. Lucky girl." She opened a door 
and motioned Ivy ahead. "I did not say that you couldn't eat, merely that you could 
not do so in front of the Raven's guests. The sight of your sweater might bring 
on even more undesired attention than a few manners, and we don't want that, 
now do we?"

     "Lucky girl?" Ivy echoed. "You must be joking."

     "No, just a little insane, that's all." Clare tossed Ivy a glass, then 
plucked a bottle of fine vintage from the wall. Once the elder vampire had popped the 
container open and filled the stem crystal poised between her right thumb and 
index finger, Ivy traded, grabbing the bottle for her own consumption and 
handing the glass back to Clare. The older woman glanced from the drink 
resting in her hand to Ivy, who had hesitantly tested the bottle's contents, 
then tilted her head back to drink heavily with growing approval. Clare smirked as 
she took a seat. She sampled a delicate sip to be polite, then set the glass 
aside, commenting, "Let's hope that the insanity isn't catching."

     "I've had a rough night," Ivy confided between swallows.

     "I can see that," Clare agreed, again frowning pointedly at the other 
woman's stained clothing. "I still claim you're lucky, however. You repeatedly 
disappear, and Vachon continues to search for you."

     Ivy's forehead crinkled. "He does?"

     Clare nodded. "He does. I find it very surprising that he hasn't washed his 
hands of you yet. I'm sure that all of the intrigue that surrounds you must act 
as a lure of some sort. Still, you do not make it easy for anyone to help you: you're 
very high maintenance. I wonder why Vachon even cares what happens to you, 
Ivy. I wouldn't say you're exceptional in any way, except perhaps as a pawn in 
your sire's little game of death."

     "I'm trouble," Ivy said, shrugging as the elder vampire stood nonchalantly. 
"Maybe that's enough. Why are you so curious, Clare? Would you like some 
notes for future use? Do you need a little inspiration in controlling your 
relatives?"

     Clare plucked the bottle of blood from Ivy's grip, then leaned down to 
whisper in her ear. "Don't sneer, dear. On you, it's very unattractive." She 
moved out of sight, leaving Ivy to frown in the direction she had disappeared. When 
Clare returned, she handed  the young woman a pair of castoff jeans and a 
'Metro Police' T-shirt.

     Ivy grimaced as she held up the clothing. "These jeans are going to be too 
big."

     "Beggars can't be choosers." 

     Ivy stripped off her soiled sweater and pulled on the T-shirt with a 
refreshed sigh. She yanked off her own boots and dirty denim next, easily sliding on 
Clare's jeans in their place. The legs were much too long, leaving Ivy's feet 
covered with fabric before the hem. She brought her legs to rest on the sofa and 
strategically began to roll the extra material into cuffs.

     Clare studied Ivy candidly while she changed. "You think I am 
manipulative," she announced.

     Ivy glanced up, then switched her attention to the other leg of the jeans. 
"Aren't you?" Clare did not answer aloud. She chose to incline her head slightly 
in acknowledgment instead. Out of the bloody clothes, fresh food simmering in 
her veins, Ivy felt emboldened. "Funny, but I've wondered why Vachon puts up 
with you, too. There's only so much gratitude a person can feel for one favor. I 
wonder how long it will take for him to stop appreciating how you dug him out 
of the ground."

     "Not long enough for it to do you any good," Clare replied coldly.

     Ivy's expression carried a rueful smile. "Hmm. You're probably right, and, 
unlike me, you *are* exceptional: you're exceptionally beautiful, powerful, and, 
sometimes, exceptionally cruel."

     "Please, do stop. I may start blushing," Clare said sarcastically. "Why did 
you come here, Ivy? Why don't you go pester someone more sympathetic?"

     "Because you're involved. As much as you might dislike the thought, you 
became one of his victims the moment Cecilia began helping my sire. With 
Domino's disappearance, Mark's body in your hotel suite...more and more, it 
seems to me that these events are supposed to trouble you just as much as 
myself."

     "Don't be silly. I am not a victim," Clare said dismissively. "You've had 
enough experience at it, Ivy. Don't you realize by now that victimization is a 
form of consent? Of submission, if you will."

     "Ah...I knew you would have some insight. I've heard you called a monster, 
just like I feel about Thomas. Who better to give me a glimpse into why my sire 
torments anyone?"

     "Well, flattery certainly isn't going to earn you enlightenment," Clare 
said haughtily.

     "I'm still holding out for a way to fight back."

     "That is what you should do. The moment you stop caring what happens to 
yourself, he will have won. The smartest thing for you to do is to remain 
confident. If you want to survive, you need to feed your will to live. Your will 
must become stronger than your sire's desire to crush you. Do what is necessary 
to ensure that strength."

     "And let everyone else come to harm around me?" Ivy shook her head. "I 
don't know if I can stand it."

     "Then you will die."

     "That's what you're doing, isn't it?" Ivy slowly realized. "You're here 
instead of hunting for Dom. You're waiting instead of tracking Cecilia down for 
revenge...but what are you waiting for? Tell me - what good does it do for me to 
keep my spirits bolstered? How is that really going to stop Thomas."

    "Spoil his pattern, and it will disturb him. Your sire has fashioned an 
entire ritual around the killing to make it interesting and to make himself feel like a 
god. Ruin it for him. Don't let him bother you, and he will react out of 
instinct, not calculation. He will make a mistake, and that is when we will stop him."

     "In that case, can I borrow your car?" 

     "That's a bit much, don't you think?"

     "It didn't hurt to ask. Besides, I was thinking a road trip using enough 
horsepower to run the Kentucky Derby would strengthen my will enormously."

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

October 24, 1996

     The teenager turned down the volume of the television slightly, then 
bounded over the back of the couch to answer the front doorbell. Swinging the door 
open, the youth experienced a cold sweat as he took in the sight of a beautiful, 
blonde woman in a red dress on the front step. 

     "Good evening," she said brightly.

     "Uh..h-hi," he stammered.

     "Is Gordon Mousseux at home?"

     The teenager was dumbstruck. "That's me! I'm Gordon Mousseux!" Then 
common sense overcame his hormonal surge. "Junior, though...You must want 
my dad, Gordon Mousseux, Senior."

     "If you really want to know," the blonde admitted playfully, "I need both 
you and your father. Your mother, too. May I come inside?"

     "Oh, sure! If you want to wait in there," the teenager gestured toward the 
room with the sofa and blaring television, "I'll go get them. Uh...who should I 
say is here?"

     She gave a him a dazzling smile, then said, "My name is Cecilia Franka. 
Tell your parents...my visit concerns Mark Brevard's murderer."

     Gordon Junior frowned. Cecilia listened as he stumbled off to find his 
parents and deliver the message. There were some exclamations, then three pairs of 
footsteps approached. A distinguished-looking man, evidently Gordon Senior, 
appeared in the doorway first. A gray-haired woman and the youth stood at 
either side of him. "My son tells us you want to tell us something about Doctor 
Brevard's murderer. Are you with Metro Police?"

     Cecilia released a trill of laughter. "Oh, no, no! You see, I wouldn't want 
anything to do with the police," she said, her eyes beginning to shine a golden-
green hue. "*I'm* the murderer. I killed the doctor." 

     In the blink of an eye, Cecilia had her grip around the throats of both 
adults. "Just like I'm going to kill you."

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

      "I found something, Nick!"

      "Found what, Schank?" the detective asked with dread.

     "Someone who lived in Dayton in the Fifties and old enough to remember it," 
Schanke answered, sitting on the corner of Nick's desk. "A guy named Hamish 
Bugby: he moved to Toronto in the mid-Seventies. The guy designs and brokers 
fabrics in the fashion district. Not only did Evelyn Prescott model for some of 
his clients, the House of Figaro has used him almost exclusively for the past 
two years. I found Bugby's name on the long list of suspects who had access to 
Figaro Newton's office during the Langtry Muller case."

     "It's a connection," Nick allowed.  "Are you 
going to bring Bugby in for questioning?" he asked in a nonchalant tone. 

      Schanke appeared thoughtful for a moment, then made a frustrated sound. "I 
should - it's a lead...But, Nick, I met the guy when Figaro Newton was making 
me that suit - remember? - my good suit?" Schanke shook his head. "My gut 
tells me it's not him," he patted his trouser leg in a nervous gesture, then 
climbed to his feet, "but I'll bring him in anyway. Who knows? I might have missed 
something."

     Nick started to absently tap the desktop with a recycled pencil. "Schank? 
Have you seen Clare since she turned in her badge?"

     "Sure. She's come over to the house twice to visit with Myra and the kid. 
Oh - and that book and map she fixed up for Jen that got tagged as evidence? Clare 
did it all over and gave it to the kid on Tuesday. We're talking, Jen was over 
the moon."

       "Did Clare speak about the case at all?"

       "No, but, Nick - if she was in the mood for war talk right now, don't you 
think she'd be in the bullpen with us right now? I think having Marky murdered 
in her boudoir bothered her more than she let on. She's burned out. Lay off on 
her for a while. She'll be back," Schanke said with casual certainty.

     "Right, Schanke," Nick echoed halfheartedly. 

     "Detective Knight? Detective Schanke?" Officer Pulte approached them as he 
consulted his clipboard. "There've been two different reports that the Captain 
wants you to check out: two homeless; their necks snapped." The sergeant 
handed Schanke a pile of paperwork, making the detective's upper lip curl in 
horror. "The other is Dr. Barney Camden. A patrol checked out his apartment as 
per your request, Detective, Knight, and found this." Officer Pulte presented 
Nick with an even larger stack of forms, topped with a printed, but signed, 
note. "Forensics is almost done searching the place."

     Schanke read the suicide letter over Nick's arm, then the detectives 
exchanged a stunned look. "Dr. Barney's the creep who's been stealing bodies 
from the morgue?" Don groaned. "I knew there was something I didn't like 
about that guy."

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

     Vachon careened around the corner on his motorcycle, uncaring of speed or 
danger. The motion made his hair trail in a wave afterward, the strands flicking 
whip-like as he pulled the Triumph off-road and maneuvered through the woods. 
Content that he'd added the threat of  collision and impalement by any number 
of trees to the risk of decapitation if he crashed, Javier gunned the cycle to 
speed even faster. He was in that kind of mood.

     He'd been searching for Ivy for almost six nights. Javier had felt as 
though he had been swimming blind the entire time until the night before when the brief 
perception of contact with her had led him to the square of abandoned buildings, 
a blood trail and the prematurely dead. 

     Vachon had waited for some sign of Ivy until sunrise, then he had ducked 
into one of the brick structures for shelter from the sun. When darkness had 
touched down once more, he'd resumed his post, waiting several more hours 
before becoming restless. A need to do *something* overcame him. Vachon had 
the urge to move, to ride, not standing in the darkness, hoping for something to 
happen.

     He'd made an anonymous call into Nick's precinct and reported finding the 
two bodies, then rendezvoused with his motorcycle. Vachon took to the roads 
again, at first thinking he was just tooling around randomly, then realized he 
was headed north in the direction of the construction site.  

     It was after that thought that Vachon pulled into the woods, cutting 
through the trees to ante up the risk. What did it matter if he crashed? Who would it 
bother? His friends and family were gone. If Ivy hadn't given up on survival 
yet, she was close. Close, yet out of his reach. That left Clare. Clare, who appeared 
to have abandoned her family problems in favor of her own convenience. She 
didn't want to help him search for Ivy or even Domino; would Clare bother 
searching for him?

     "Hardly," Vachon muttered as the bike bumped over a fallen tree trunk, 
momentarily leaving the ground. A spray of leaves flew into the air as he 
touched down again, crackling a dance as Vachon accelerated. 

     There was no one to cry for him, to give him a passing thought if he was 
destroyed now. Nobody would regret not seeing him one last time or words left 
unsaid. No one depended on him at all, no one except...

     Vachon cursed as he remembered. The bike tilted for a split-second, losing 
traction on the dewy surface of the forest floor at night. The rear of the 
motorcycle fishtailed, slamming into thick passing stump before he had the 
opportunity to correct for it. The jarring impact sent Javier flying over the 
handlebars. He rocketed through a multitude of brittle twigs, experiencing the 
sharp sting of them scratching his skin before he gained control of his flight. 

     He finally landed on his feet at the edge of the construction site 
clearing. Vachon immediately sat down and began to chuckle. No doubt the rear wheel of 
the Triumph was going to be painful to look at, and it was all *her* fault!

     "Uh-oh, the insanity must be contagious."

     Vachon turned around with a jerk, finding Ivy grinning at him from several 
meters away. He risked an undignified and punchy expression.  "Well, look who 
dropped in."

    "Drop in, nothing. I've been here since yesterday, waiting for you to show 
up."

    "I showed up. Yippie kai yi yay." 

    Ivy frowned as Vachon started laughing wholeheartedly. "What is so funny?"

     "I just smashed my motorcycle into a tree."

     She crouched at his side, watching him warily. "That's ...funny?"

     "No, that's serious. It's very sad. The reason I crashed it was the screwed 
up part. I lost control of the bike when I realized I forgot to feed Carmen before 
I left town. You're lost..." Vachon gestured toward Ivy, frowned, then grabbed her 
hand and pulled her closer. "Okay, so you were lost...Dom is in peril...Clare is 
ignoring the whole situation, but what really throws me off kilter is not 
feeding the cat!" Vachon dazedly rubbed at his eyes. "I wish I had hit my head. I need 
a solid pop upside the skull."

     Ivy pointed her thumb in the direction of the construction site as she 
tucked herself under Vachon's right arm. "The limestone shipment arrived earlier. I'll 
throw a few blocks of marble your way if you want. The first concussion is on 
the house."

     Vachon's expression became intent as he wrapped his left arm around her stomach 
and hugged Ivy onto his lap. "Why did you come back?" He peered curiously at her gray 
cotton tee. "Where'd you get that shirt?"

     Ivy followed Vachon's stare, looking down at the 'Metro Police' emblem 
marking her chest. "Oh, this? I got it from Clare. She wasn't about to give me 
any of the good stuff."

     Vachon blinked and shook his head as if to clear it. "For a second there, I 
thought I'd slipped into an alternate universe. I thought you said that Clare 
gave you a change of clothes."

     "I did."

     "O-kay...Why?"

     "I had blood on my other clothes, and she thought someone would notice."

     "Blood? Was it from the bottle I found with those two homeless people your 
sire broke?"

     Ivy's features became stark. "How did you find out about that?"

     "You practically summoned me there."

     "I did?" Her eyes grew distant. "Yeah, I suppose I did. I just never 
thought that would actually work."

     "Tell me what happened," Vachon insisted.

      "Okay, I'll relay the events during the drive," Ivy promised.

      "What drive?"

      "The Triumph's not up to speed, and you have a feline to feed!" Ivy pulled 
a pair of shiny keys out of her jeans pocket and beamed wickedly. "Oh, did I 
mention Clare lent me the Ferrari?"
     
*******************************************************************

October 24, 1996

     Cecilia pushed the boy face first down the stairs. "How clumsy of me!" She 
turned to the parents of the youth and confided, "I think my fingers must have 
slipped." There was a cracking sound as the boy tumbled. "Oh, dear. That didn't 
sound pleasant."


     Candace Mousseux began to scream through her gag, urging her son to move 
from where he lay at the bottom of the winding stairs. He made no sound, not 
even a whimper. 

     "Hush," Cecilia commanded, then gave the woman a healthy slap. In her 
other hand, the vampire carried a bottle, and she shook it threateningly at the 
woman as she spoke. "No one said you were allowed to have an opinion." The 
blonde stared at the parents with a harrowing glare, then jerked them closer to 
the door at the top of the landing that they had just entered. Both Candace and 
Gordon Mousseux, Sr., had ropes slipped around their necks like animal leads. 
Cecilia tied the free ends around the doorknob, unconcerned that either prisoner 
would escape. After all, their hands were taped behind their backs, and they 
knew leaving might upset her. No, they didn't want to upset her.

     Cecilia descended the stairs, nudging the boy's body with a heel as she 
reached the bottom. His head was twisted abnormally to the side, as was one leg. 
She dragged his form into a seated position, setting down the bottle she carried 
and sighing as his limbs draped lifelessly to the ground. "It looks like I broke 
Gordon Junior!" she called up to the anxious parents. "Damn. I hate it when that 
happens." She climbed back up the stairs, sneering when she reached the quietly 
sobbing parents. "You know, Ivy never mentioned you were chronically 
hysterical. No wonder she chose death over celebrating your anniversary."  
Cecilia untied them from the doorknob, then carefully led them downstairs, 
shoving them onto a couch. She hefted the son's body onto a chair. Because it 
only had one armrest, Gordon Junior's left hand dangled limply, almost touching 
the floor.

     To the Mousseuxs, the room was black. To Cecilia, it was irritatingly 
cluttered, and she couldn't find a light switch. She wanted the mortals to see 
what she was about, and all Cecilia could locate in the form of a light source 
were the candelabra littered about the floor, tables and boxes. With a sour 
face, she rummaged some matches from one wooden crate as she muttered under her 
breath. 

     "It's the Twentieth Century, you'd think Vachon would move beyond 
living in such a fire hazard." A row of candles sprang to life, bathing 
Cecilia in an eerie, unholy light. "Even coffee-pickers in Bogota have better 
lighting."

     The blonde stepped back abruptly, the glowing candelabrum in her grip. Her 
leg encountered something warm, and there came a sudden squawk, coupled 
with the sensation of slashing fire along her leg. Cecilia let out a foul curse, 
whirling with glowing lenses as she spotted a longhaired feline ducking from 
plain sight. She'd stepped on the cat. 

     "I hate cats," she hissed, glancing down to inspect her leg as the 
scratches closed.

     Cecilia continued to light candles about the room, brushing her hands 
together as she finished the job. "There now. Where was I?" She glanced merrily 
from Candace to Gordon, Sr. "Oh, yes. I was going to kill you. I have something 
special planned." She moved to stand over them, her fists on her hips and her 
arms akimbo. "I bet you think that you provide a service to the community. You 
rescue the ignorant and troubled masses from the evils of heroin. You purge 
their bodies, and you purge their souls of dissipation. But I ask you," Cecilia 
said with a note of challenge as she pulled a handful of hypodermics out of the 
bodice of her gown, "how can you knock it, until you've tried it?" She pointed 
at her captives with the capped ends of the needles. "I've brought a nice little 
concoction that will be sure to give you a nice zing before it kills you. 
There's one for you..." Cecilia seized Candace Mousseux by the throat with one hand, 
ignoring her guttural protests. She expertly felt for a blood vessel and delivered an 
injection to the woman, then her husband. "And you...and..." The 
blonde's gazed fell on the dead boy with disappointment. "You. Well, that would 
be a waste." Cecilia glanced casually around the room. "What else can I use as a 
victim?"

     She strolled thoughtfully past a stack of industrial chairs and several 
picture frames leaned against the wall, pausing at the guitar stand. She eyed the 
Gibson for a moment, then shook her head. "It just wouldn't have the same impact."

     Cecilia continued to search the old church, tapping the hypodermic along 
each surface she passed. A piece of furniture shrouded by a dusty sheet...tap-
tap...a metal alarm clock with Minnie Mouse on the front...tap-tap...a litter 
box...

     Cecilia stopped searching. 

     She glanced over at the Mousseuxs, noting how their limbs were beginning to 
twitch fatally, and a devilish anticipation twisted her lips. In a low, sweet 
voice, she began to call:

     "Here...kitty, kitty...Cecilia's got a treat for you!"

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

    "So Clare's not laying low because she doesn't care what happens to Domino 
and company, but because she thinks that'll draw out Cecilia more quickly?" 
Vachon concluded once Ivy gave him an overview of her visit with his 
grandsire.

     "That, plus I think she has tickets to the theater tomorrow night?" Ivy 
grinned. "What? You thought she was slacking, didn't you? Come on, admit it. 
You did!"

     Vachon wasn't embarrassed to admit she was right. "If the backless dress 
fits, wear it." Ivy snickered at his comment, zipping the Maranello around a 
pothole, then shifted the six-speed into higher gear. "I would have liked to 
have been a fly on the wall while you two chatted," he continued. "I *know* you 
aren't telling me everything."

     Ivy blinked innocently. "What's not to tell? We only talked a short time."

     "Come on! She lent you her car! She doesn't toss the keys to just anyone." 

     "She tosses them to *you*!" Ivy announced with a grin, as if that was the 
penultimate argument for the amount of protectiveness Clare gave her quarter of 
a million dollars' worth of sportscar.

     "Now you're just being silly." Vachon tried to appear offended, but Ivy 
kept laughing at him.

     "Seriously, I gave her the impression I was going to track you down, 
Javier."

     Vachon sent Ivy a doubtful look. "You *gave her the impression*?"

     "Well, I did, didn't I? I knew you would show up at the building site 
sooner or later."

     "I would have shown up at the church, too."

     "Yeah, but the country is so much more tranquil up here, plus I don't have 
to fight with Carmen over who gets the sofa."

     Vachon appeared downright mischievous. "No cat fight over the bed? I'm 
crushed."

     Ivy smoothly upshifted one more time, then smirked his way. "Now *you're* 
just being silly."

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

     "So what else did forensics find?" Nick asked Schanke, looking up from 
Barney's home computer.

     "Not much. They've got hair samples belonging to two, possibly three 
different people. Otherwise the place is clean. You wouldn't think the guy had 
had so many 'guests' over for partying."

     "Maybe Barney was thorough in cleaning after himself until the guilt grew 
to be too much," Nick excused.

     "Maybe. You find anything?"

     Nick nodded. "He had an address book on his computer. Most of the numbers 
are work related," he said, pointing toward specific names on the monitor. "See? 
There's Grace and Nat. This one, though," Nick indicated one unfamiliar entry, 
"perhaps she was a friend."

     "Let's check it out, pardner."

     Nick's cellular phone rang. "Knight, here."

     Thomas' voice struck his eardrums like a cold, taunting whip. "Having a 
busy night, Nicholas? It's getting even busier, I assure you."

     The detective's grip clenched around the handset as he stepped out of 
Schanke's range of hearing, causing the plastic to creak in protest. "I know who 
you're after. You aren't going to be able to destroy Ivy without a horde of us 
tracking you down. Stop this pattern, now."

     "If you are truly cognizant of these things, Nicholas, then you are aware 
that it is not in my nature to bend to the will of a sniveling, guilt-laden specimen 
such as yourself."

     Nick clenched his jaw, forcing his voice to remain calm. "Then what about 
Clare?"

    "Ah, Clare. She is an interesting subject, but I will not gossip out of 
hand. You have other, more pressing concerns now...Who knows? You might be the 
first to arrive at the church." There was a click, and the connection was 
broken.

     "Schanke," Nick said urgently as he handed over his cellular. "Something's 
come up. I need to go. Do me a favor, and see what you can find out about the 
source of the call I just got?"  He clapped his partner on the shoulder, then 
headed for the apartment door.

     "Would you care to elaborate on why it's important?" Schanke complained. 
"Cripes, give me a crumb or two, Nick! This *is* police business, right?"

     "Of course it is, Schank."

     "Which case?"

     Nick paused before ducking out the front door, grinning like a prankster. 
"Pick one."

     "Pick one. That's funny," Schanke laughed unconvincingly. "No, really, 
which case?" Nick was nowhere to be seen. "Knight? Knight! Man!"

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

     Nick cautiously entered Vachon's church. He could not sense anyone nearby, 
but that didn't mean it was safe. Climbing slowly up the narrow stairs, he 
carefully opened the wooden door at the landing, then gazed down into the 
candlelit vestibule. 

     There were three bodies posed in a limp tableau over the furniture. Two 
adults and a teenager, the youth being the only victim with obvious physical 
injuries. Nick tried to remain detached as he descended into the room, 
examining the bodies with a homicide detective's clinical eye alone. Nick 
recognized Ivy's mortal family from his research into Mark Brevard's past. He 
didn't want to think about the distraught visit the precinct had received from 
the man three evenings before, demanding a solution to the doctor's murder. Nick 
didn't want to start the chain of self-recrimination that he knew was coming. 

     He should have known the Mousseuxs would be in danger. 

     The cause of death in the parents wasn't visually apparent. The son, 
however, had a broken neck. The boy also had a long incision across his right wrist. 
There wasn't much blood, so Nick suspected that Cecilia might have indulged in some 
swordplay after Gordon Junior's death, using the blood for the now-familiar 
message added to the other graffiti painting the church's walls:

                        COME TO ME

                                    -xoxo

  
     Nick also noticed a corked bottle standing guard atop a stack of crates by 
the staircase. 

     Nick spun around, feeling the arrival of other vampires, then hearing the 
outside door creak. He flashed to the top of the stairs, sternly blocking access 
to the room with his body as he stared urgently down at Vachon and Ivy as they 
climbed higher.

     "You don't want to go in there," Nick stated matter-of-factly.

     Both younger vampires stilled at the dark promise carried in Nick's voice.

     Vachon watched him intently for several seconds, then asked, "*Why* don't 
we want to go in there?"

     "It's a crime scene." This explanation appeared to increase Vachon and 
Ivy's curiosity, not abate it. As they both reflexively climbed another three steps 
higher, Nick held out a staying hand. "Thomas and Cecilia have made another 
attack. This time it looks like Ivy's family."

     Ivy's features pressed into knots of concern, and she felt Vachon take her 
hand. "You mean...they killed my parents?"

     Nick nodded solemnly. "Yes, and your brother."

     A wave of relief flushed over her expression, then she continued to forge 
her way up the stairs. "They got the wrong people."

     Vachon followed her, not releasing his frown. "How can you be sure?"

     "Because I don't have a brother," Ivy said confidently. "I'm a spoiled 
brat - only child, remember?" She came level with Nick, who blocked her path. "Let 
me pass."

     He shook his head insistently. "You're making a mistake."

     "If you insist that it's *my* family, then I'd have the right to see how 
they died, wouldn't I?" Ivy argued. "The only way I can prove that they aren't is to 
go in there."

     "Let her pass, Knight," Vachon said in a soft, urgent tone.

     Grudgingly, Nick stepped aside. Ivy quickly bounded past him before he 
changed his mind again. Vachon was slower to move, studying Nick as he 
passed. He looked at the door, then back at the blonde vampire. "Ives' sire 
wouldn't make such a blunder at this play in the game, would he?" Javier asked, 
his eyes already reflecting his pessimistic conclusion.

     "I recognized them from pictures at Mark Brevard's house. Her father even 
came to the precinct a few nights ago," Nick confirmed.

     Vachon closed his eyes momentarily, then began to complete his climb with 
slow steps. Entering the room, he saw Ivy standing down below, a forlorn figure 
staring at the sofa. He dropped over the side of the stairs, landing softly at 
her side.

     Ivy sluggishly raised her shining eyes away from her parents' bodies to 
look at him. "They seem so old. They didn't have gray hair before," her lips quirked, 
"at least, not that they let anyone know about." She turned away from them, 
squeezing her eyes shut as she covered her mouth with her hands. "This doesn't 
seem real. I could just pretend everything's a dream; that isn't my mother and 
father, and their deaths have nothing to do with me." She wiped her face dry, 
her head sinking toward her chest.

     Vachon lifted her chin with gentle fingers, gazing steadily into her eyes. 
"Could you?"

     Ivy glanced away, her head turning in the direction of the youth. Her brow 
furled as she inspected him, then she pulled away from Vachon to examine the 
boy more closely. "Wait a minute...I met this guy!" She looked up, her features 
strained with alarm. "It was the night I fled the hospital. I saw him buy some 
drugs, then stopped him before he shot up." Ivy stumbled backward in a daze. 
"Ohmigod...he said his name was Gordon." She bumped against the wall, 
leaning against it as her mind skittered over her memories. "Oh, I remember 
saying something about that matching my dad's name..."

     Nick had joined them and now stood where the red woven rug ended and 
scuffed floor began. "He was born over a year after you disappeared. You 
wouldn't have known if you stayed away."

     Ivy's lips were curled into a faint, painful smile. "A second chance kid? I 
can see them going for that. You know, when I stepped into the light, when he 
finally got to see the person lecturing him to never start the drugs and talk to 
his parents instead, the guy...my brother...he completely freaked out. He recognized 
me. He must have thought the ghost of his dead sis was ragging him something 
awful..." Ivy's eyes focused on the boy's flaccid face, noticing for the first 
time a resemblance in his features. Her nose, her chin, her hair streaked lighter by 
the sun. She moved closer, tentatively reaching out with her hand to touch the 
smooth skin of his jaw. It was as cool as her own.

     Vachon laid a hand on her arm, breaking her trance with a low firm voice. 
"Ivy..."

     Her fist snapped, her fingers seizing his arm in sudden panic. "Jav, 
where's Carmen?"

    He stiffened, then swallowed methodically. "Maybe she's hiding."

    "Yeah, maybe while there were strangers tracking up the place, but while 
you're here?" Ivy shook her head violently. "You forgot to feed her; she's 
hungry...Why hasn't she come out to glare at me yet?"

     Vachon began to stalk around the room, searching for the cat in every 
shadowed nook and cranny. "Carmen! Carmencita...querida...come out!"

     "That's Clare's cat?" Nick asked with a frown.

     Ivy nodded worriedly. "She's been with Vachon ever since Clare 
started spending her days at the Raven."

     "Clare could have taken her cat back," Nick pointed out logically.

     "She could have," Vachon called as he frantically pushed a crate over, "but 
she also asked me to take care of Carmen until I finished building her house. Clare 
seemed to think LaCroix would have a problem with the cat hair."

     Ivy had joined in the search, repeating the feline's name in a pleading 
voice as she searched under tables, working her way around to the alcove leading to 
Vachon's bedroom. She backed into the room, whistling softly, chanting under 
her voice, "Carmen...please come out...please?"

     Ivy slowly turned around as a sixth sense of dread crept into her stomach, 
spreading in a syrupy blackness through her chest. Her eyes lifted to Vachon's 
bed, her throat immediately twisting out a tortured wail.

    Vachon was there in an instant, grabbing Ivy fiercely from behind as he 
drank in the sight that had her choking back sobs. His eyes widened, and he pushed 
around Ivy as he fell to his knees by the mattress. He trailed his long fingers 
gently along the counterpane, starting as he encountered the cool silk of one 
paw. It was abnormally cool.

     Nick entered the chamber in time to see the Spaniard bury his fingers in 
the cat's fur, then bend his head until his cheek rested by Carmen's silent form. 
The feline's eyes were open, staring blankly at the far wall, her tongue hanging to 
the side of her jaws. An object lying on the floor to the left of the bed caught the 
detective's attention. Nick crouched down, then held the empty hypodermic aloft 
for Ivy and Vachon to see. "She was injected. I found two more needles in the 
other room; I'm assuming they were used on your parents."

     Ivy let go of the tears. She cried for her parents and for Mark, for a 
brother she met only once, yet knew like her own heart, and she cried for the small 
ways people could have their souls ripped apart. She gently placed a sympathetic hand 
on Vachon's shoulder. "Javier..."

     He jerked away from her. "I'd rather be alone with Carmen for a while."

     "But -"

     Vachon's head shot up and he gave her an accusatory stare. "Haven't you 
done enough? Go take care of your family, and leave me to mine."

     "Vachon!" her voice raised in protest. "I am not to blame for this, isn't 
that what you said about Mark's death? I didn't raise a hand against him, my family, 
or Carmen. I can't be held accountable for the insanity of those who murdered 
them!"

     Vachon looked away. This time, when Ivy rested a palm on his shoulder, he 
did not reject the contact. "I am sorry," she whispered. "We'll wait for you in 
the other room."

     When they had gone, Vachon cradled the feline's body against his chest as 
he sat with his back leaning against the foot of the bed. There were no purrs, no 
sultry blinks, and Carmen's tail hung limply instead of flicking with irritation 
because her stomach fur was exposed. She was gone, abruptly taken from him 
while his back was turned, and nothing was going to bring her back. Nothing 
would bring any of them back.

    

     "Damn." Vachon said the word with all the hate, anger, and pain he had to 
give. He buried his face against the cooling body as he felt the tears break 
free. Vachon had never quite been able to bury the grief of loss, the hurt at being 
the one left behind, and the faint tremolo of loneliness that came with being the 
survivor. 

     He took in a deep breath, finding Carmen's fur still held the familiar 
perfume of his leather jacket and sweet vanilla. His voice came in a shivery whisper, 
ravaging the silent emptiness of the room.

     "Goodbye."

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

     "Are you going to call the murders in?" Ivy quietly asked Nick when they 
returned to stand by the bodies of her family.

     "I can't bury this under the rug," he answered. "Even if I wanted to, your 
parents would be missed for their community service."
  
     Ivy gave a melancholy smile. "My brother will be missed. He just made his 
school's hockey team." She tried to ignore the corpses of the familiar, but her 
eyes repeatedly strayed, dancing along their slack jaws and motionless ribcages 
with growing distress. "This is so odd. It's difficult to understand that it's 
really them. My parents...murdered. I've been telling myself for sixteen years that 
they were dead to me, and now that it's happened, I'm not sure how to feel."

     "Don't lie to yourself. It either hurts you, or it doesn't. If you've 
already let go," Nick said stiffly, "you don't have to mourn for my benefit."

     She looked at him, an uncomprehending frown gracing her features. "Don't 
worry. I wouldn't." Ivy turned away, strolling toward the letters staining the 
wall with human blood. She leaned closer, studying the surface intently. "This is 
different writing from the first message. I think these letters are Cecilia's 
work again, just like the note she made Mark swallow." Ivy nodded toward the small 
pool of blood gathered on the floor below her brother's cut wrist. "She used his 
blood, didn't she?"

     "That appears likely," Nick agreed, "unless there was another bottle. The 
one that she left is filled to the brim."

     "Where is it?"

     Nick picked up the dark glass container. Ivy approached him, then reached 
to take the bottle from his grasp. "What do you intend to do with that?" he 
demanded.

     "I'm going to drink it."

     Nick didn't like the sound of that plan at all. "You do realize that, if 
Thomas remains true to form, that blood is from his third victim, don't you?"

     "Yes." 

     "You don't have to drink it to prove anything," Nick insisted. "Natalie can 
run a panel and match the blood. There's nothing to be gained by torturing 
yourself."

     "But there is," Ivy argued as she pried the cork free of its capsule. "My 
sire wants me to drink from each victim. He intends for their experiences, their 
suffering, to weigh me down with despair. Thomas expects their deaths, coupled 
with each part of me that he takes," Ivy gestured toward her parents and 
brother, "my family and friends, to drown my urge for survival." She raised the bottle, 
observing the reflection of the candlelight play off the glass as she confessed, 
"It's horrible. It's foul. But, like a poison, each exposure brings new 
immunity. When I taste and experience each abuse that he used to wreck their spirits, I 
understand him just a little bit more."

     "How can anyone understand such a monstrosity?" Nick questioned in a 
distant voice. "He holds nothing sacred. He carries no one in respect. I don't 
think I've witnessed someone with such an immoral perspective of the world 
before."

     "And you've had lots of experience with those of small moral fiber?" Ivy 
echoed. "I guess you have. What do I know? I'm just a neophyte. You know, I'm 
only thirty-eight. That's mortal and immortal years combined. A blade of grass 
in a field compared to you, Vachon...Clare. Maybe my judgment is screwy from 
lack of experience," she tilted the bottle toward Nick in a mock toast, "but I'm 
learning by leaps and bounds." She took in a healthy swallow, then sat down on 
the steps. "In a way, he's made a mistake by giving me this knowledge. I see 
how he acts, and how he reacts to what his victims do." Ivy released a shudder 
as the sensations from the blood swept over her. "I feel how much they grow to 
fear him, how some even begin to worship him...but each of the three: William, 
Evelyn, Marjolie... they all hate him, even when they cower or simper, they hate 
him for what he's made them become."

     With these words, Nick's thoughts roamed inevitably to LaCroix. "They hate 
a weakness in themselves that he seeks to cultivate," he said sympathetically. 
 Nick studied Ivy as she took several more sips of Marjolie Parker's 
blood, then lay back in an incline on the stairs. Her expression knotted into a 
traumatic mask of suffering, but she made no sound.  

     Nick glanced at the Mousseuxs' bodies, a wave of sureness overwhelming 
him. 

     "Thomas is psychotic," Nick announced. "He considers that the world 
revolves around him. Humans, other vampires: these are just pawns in his make-
believe world." 

     "He thinks he's a god," Ivy whispered, fighting her stupor.

     Nick nodded. "And his victims are his creations. That's why he has to 
transform them. He wants to make them anew."

     "In his own image?" Ivy asked in a wondering voice. "Could that be 
possible? I mean, to me, he comes across as a living nightmare. He is everything 
decrepit and rotten that I want to pretend doesn't exist."

     "He could be acknowledging the power of his own evil," Nick suggested.

     Ivy shook her head, then her arm trembled unsteadily as she brought the 
bottle to her lips again. "I'm not sure. Each victim became something 
unflattering, don't you think? William became meek and cowardly, Evelyn 
became a physical monstrosity, and Marjolie became rough and filthy. With me, 
I think he considers me to be a weakling, someone tired of existing. If my sire 
is acknowledging that he sees these qualities within himself, couldn't he also view 
destroying us as a method of purging himself? This whole set-up, this ritual he 
has...maybe Thomas believes he's perfecting himself with each kill, making 
himself more god-like."

     Nick considered that insight thoughtfully. "It might be his way of setting 
himself above even vampires."

     "You're handling that well."

     Both Nick and Ivy turned to the source of Vachon's voice. He stood in the 
doorway, his leather jacket gone.  Ivy thought.  "Yes, I am. Part of it is that I'm getting used to this blood. The other factor 
is that Thomas didn't win with this victim. I think he believed that he had, but, 
in her thoughts, she still carried the threat of rebellion. Even as he was 
preparing to kill her, she was focusing on the luxuries of her past - the very things 
that my sire wanted to force her to eschew. I can smell the perfume, just as she did. 
Marjolie looked up, she spotted Cecilia from across the room, and she savored 
the scent of flowers in the air. Another thing that isn't too bad about this 
vintage: she hated Thomas, thoroughly and completely. I actually enjoy that part."

     "In that case, give me a swig of it." Vachon moved to sit at Ivy's side, 
their knees touching. She passed over the bottle, and he tried a small amount, 
grunting as it took effect.

     Nick shook his head, saying, "I'm going out to the Caddy to radio this in 
to the precinct."

     "So you want us to clear out?" Vachon grimaced. "Just great. You mind 
helping me move my blood supply first?"

    "Where do you want to take it?"

     Vachon handed the bottle back to Ivy, then stood purposefully as he 
shrugged. "Screed's place, I suppose. I'll take my guitar, too. Nothing else 
really matters."

     "What about Carmen?" Ivy asked solemnly.

     "We'll bury her after we've moved," Vachon murmured quietly. "Maybe at 
the waterfront. It's a popular spot for that kind of thing."

     "What if Clare has other ideas?" Nick pointed out. "After all, it was her 
cat."

     Vachon roughly picked up a crate. "It was my damn cat, just as much as it 
was Clare's, probably even more so. We're taking her, and that's the end of it. 
I'll give Clare the news when I'm ready," he said in a tone that dared either of them 
to argue, because he was feeling dangerous. He flew out the door without 
another word to either of them.

     "Well, that's that," Ivy sighed. She re-corked the bottle and hefted it 
under an arm, then grabbed Vachon's guitar by the neck. "Do you know the way to 
Screed's, or should we be racing to catch up?"

     Nick grabbed another crate. "Just follow me."

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

     "It might be nicer to bury her at the house," Ivy suggested once they were 
in the Ferrari again. Vachon's stock of blood and his guitar had been successfully 
moved to the hole in the wall that passed as his friend Screed's old home. 
Vachon now sat quietly in the passenger's seat, Carmen's body swaddled in his 
black leather jacket lying across his lap.

    "Why not?" he conceded. "I've still got to retrieve my bike from the woods. 
We can kill two birds with one stone."

     Ivy looked at him strangely. "Vachon, I know you're upset. What can I do?"

     "Just drive."

     Ivy did, wisely choosing to not offer further comment. When they reached 
the building site, she hopped out of the car and quietly went in search of a 
shovel. Returning to the car, she found Vachon waiting by the same tree she'd 
lazed under the first time he'd brought her here. 

     "I'll put her here," Vachon said in a low voice.

     "I'll dig." 

     Vachon gave her a questioning look at this pronouncement. "You don't have 
to."

     "Do you want to dig another grave?" Ivy demanded impatiently. "No, you 
don't." Seeing Vachon's pained expression, she reached out with her hand to cup his 
jaw. "I'm sorry."

     "I am, too." Vachon reached up and took her hand within his own, gently 
rubbing her palm with his thumb. "I'm not angry at you. I'm angry at..." his 
voice trailed off, and he swallowed emotionally. "I've lost too many important friends 
in the past year. Too many at once, and it's been harder to forget. I don't want 
it to happen again." 

     "I can't promise it won't," Ivy said mournfully as she gazed at the leather 
shroud Vachon had placed on top of the thick grass. "I can't control everything 
that happens, and, though I wish I could wash the wrong decisions away, I don't 
know whether I've chosen the right path until it can't be undone." She wrapped 
her arms tightly around his waist, pressing her cheek firmly against his chest. 
"What if it's already been decided? What if it makes no difference what we do 
from now on, because our fate has already been chosen for us?"

     "No. We are not caught up in some tangle of threads, or whatever metaphor 
you want to call destiny," Vachon insisted. "There's luck. Things can happen by 
chance, I grant you that. You can be in the wrong place at the wrong time to 
help someone that you love, but that's just the way it works out. You choose; I 
choose; everybody goes their own way, and when we collide, that's life, not 
fate."

     "So when we make the wrong choice, we just have to learn to live with the 
outcome," Ivy concluded reluctantly. "Oh, I hope I make the right choices from 
here on out."

     Vachon took her face in his hands, then kissed her lingeringly on the 
mouth. "Whatever happens, I don't care as long as you're standing here come 
November."

     Her lips cracked a smile, and she kissed him soundly before stepping back. 
She wielded the shovel. "I'll do the work."

     "And I'll wait."

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

     "This is unbelievably disgusting!" Cecilia exclaimed from her perch, high 
in the treetops. "They aren't even going to tell Clare that I killed her cat! What 
kind of degenerates are they?"

     "Don't be overly dramatic, Cecilia," Thomas stated. "It tarnishes any charm 
you may have." He observed stonily as Vachon and Ivy entered the trailer, each 
with an arm slung companionably about the other's waist. "Besides, Clare is 
only an afterthought."

     "To you, maybe," Cecilia sniffed. "She can't ignore this! She's going to 
find out, even if I have to drop the bomb myself!"

     "You will do no such thing!" Thomas snarled. "You will only do what I allow 
you to do."

     "You aren't allowing me to do enough!"

     Thomas yanked her head back violently by the hair, pulling clumps from her 
scalp. "You will never make another demand of me. I can break you like a china 
doll, Cecilia, and throw you away like so much forgotten trash. I may decide to 
do it without a reason, but if you don't breathe another word about your 
pathetic obsession with your grandsire, your chances of survival might be better."

     Cecilia took him at his word and shut up.

     "My, that was exciting," Thomas said as he released the blonde from his 
grip. "I must admit, I feel a slight prickling of vexation at Ivy's behavior. She 
should be crushed with guilt at her family's death. How thoughtless of her to spend 
more time disposing of the cat's corpse than shedding tears for her own dearly 
departed. Then she cozies with the Spaniard. Unfeeling brat," he spat. "Maybe 
slaughtering them with the drug wasn't enough. Perhaps something more visually graphic 
like drawing and quartering would have been in order." He let out his breath in a cold 
hiss. "But there is always the delayed impact of what she has wrought on her family to 
consider...their deaths could crack her yet. If not...I can improvise quite nicely..."

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

October 25, 1996

     "Clare, I fail to see why you chose to attend this play out of the scores 
available to us," LaCroix complained as they settled in their theater seats. 
"The subject matter borders on the unappetizing."

     She chuckled, flicking open the cover of her 'Murder In The Cathedral' 
program. "Simple: the Thomas character dies in it."

     LaCroix rolled his eyes. That name, *again.* "Becket was a holy man."

     Clare waved her hand carelessly. "Details, details." She slid that hand 
under his elbow, curling her arm through the crook as the lights turned down. "Ah! 
Perfect timing!" she whispered.

     "Is that why you had to change twice before we left...so you wouldn't have 
to wait for the excitement to begin?" LaCroix drawled.

     "Now, now. Don't complain," Clare countered. "You didn't seem to mind the 
excitement at the time."

     A prim looking woman in the row ahead of the vampires turned around in her 
chair, then lifted her left index finger to her lips as she gave them a stern 
glare. "Shh!"

    Clare's mouth dropped open as the woman smugly faced the stage once more. 
She glanced in amazement at LaCroix, who promptly rolled his eyes 
sarcastically. Clare had to fight back bursting into giggles. "She shushed us!" 
Clare barely voiced the exclamation, she was speaking so low. "I don't 
remember ever being shushed before," she murmured in his ear, sotto voce.

    LaCroix teased her earlobe with his cool breath in return. "What are you 
going to do about it?"

     "Hmm..." Clare sat up straight, then tapped the woman on the shoulder. 

     The woman gave Clare her attention again with staunch unwillingness and 
pursed her lips together as she looked down her nose at the seemingly younger 
woman. "Yes?"

     "Thank you," Clare confided under her breath with an innocent smile. "That 
was a novel experience. I've never had a straight-laced biddy order me to be 
quiet before."

     "I beg your pardon?" the woman exclaimed hotly.

     A half-a-dozen playgoers turned their way and hissed unanimously (as Clare 
joined in), "SHHH!!"

     Clare subsided against LaCroix's arm as she laughed softly. "You are such a 
troublemaker," he chastised, kissing the corner of her mouth in punctuation.

     The opening verses were well underway before the stage drew their 
attention. A chorus of women were speaking in unison, setting the scene:

     "Destiny waits for the coming. 
     Who has stretched out his hand to the fire and remembered the Saints at All 
Hallows,
     Remembered the martyrs and saints who wait? And who shall
     Stretch out his hand to the fire, and deny his master?
     Who shall be warm
     By the fire, and deny his master?"

     Clare peered up at LaCroix surreptitiously, noting the stern set of his 
chin.  She laced the 
fingers of her left hand through those of his right, absently noting the cool 
metal of his pinkie ring as she settled into watching the drama unfold:

      "For a little time the hungry hawk
     Will only soar and hover, circling lower,
     Waiting excuse, pretence, opportunity. 
     End will be simple, sudden, God-given.
     Meanwhile the substance of our first act
     Will be shadows, and the strife with shadows.
     Heavier the interval than the consummation.
     All things prepare the event. Watch."

    Noise from a small commotion at the theatre entrance reached her ears, and 
both Clare and LaCroix turned to watch for the nature of the uproar. Clare 
scowled as she spotted Vachon pause to talk to the panicked usher who had tried 
to intercept his entry. Clare read the usher's lips, seeing her insist that he 
wait until the interlude of the play to enter - he didn't want to disturb the actors 
did he? Vachon mouthed a subtly persuasive argument in reply, then glanced up to 
catch Clare staring at him.

     She signaled with a hand for him to wait, then reluctantly slipped out of 
her seat, whispering, "I'll take care of this."

     "Do it quickly," LaCroix urged, a touch of irritation in his voice. "I do 
not intend to suffer through the liturgical selections all by myself. This was 
your idea."

     Reaching Vachon, Clare pushed him back into the theater lobby, the usher 
eagerly closing the door behind them. "I suppose Ivy actually searched for you; 
she was the only person besides LaCroix who was aware I was attending this 
play. Now why are you here, interrupting?"

     "I have bad news."

     Clare's eyes narrowed. From the gloomy cast of Javier's expression, it 
appeared to be terrible news. "There was another attack against Ivy?"

     Vachon nodded. "Cecilia killed Ives' parents and her brother at the church 
while she and I were at the construction site."

     "That is unfortunate," Clare said, allowing herself to experience empathy over the 
murder of the girl's family. "Has Ivy handled the loss well?"

     "Better than Thomas expects, I'm sure," Vachon answered. His voice 
lowered, and after a heavy pause, he added, "I'm afraid there's more. I think 
it was meant to be another attack against you, like shooting the girl, taking 
Domino or murdering the doctor in your hotel suite."

     "These petty attempts of Cecilia's for gaining my attention are becoming 
more and more pathetic!" Clare exclaimed derisively, appearing primed to return 
to the play. "I have no interest in hearing about that girl's idiocy. If that's 
the reason you disturbed my evening at the theater, you can leave now."

     "Carmen's dead."

     Clare stilled, then walked stiffly over to a divan waiting by one of the 
lobby doors and sat, patting the seat beside her for Vachon to join her. Once he 
complied, she began to question him quietly. "How was it done?"

     "A lethal injection, same as Ivy's family. Knight thought it was heroin mixed with 
something else."

     Clare nodded, then frowned, "Did the police take her body?"

     "No, I did. We buried her beneath one of the trees in your future yard."

     "An oak tree?"

     "Come to think of it, yes. Why?"

     "Just a long-standing partiality," Clare explained as she rose to her 
feet.

     "What are you going to do?" Vachon asked her urgently.

     "Return to watch the remainder of Eliot's work before LaCroix riots," 
Clare said calmly. She gave a tired laugh as she noted Vachon's outraged 
expression. "Did you really expect me to act differently? Yes, I am displeased 
that Carmen was a victim in this affair. Inside, I am agitated and anxious for 
revenge, but this is an ancient vampire with which we are dealing, not simply 
Cecilia. Thomas is helping her, hiding her, and I tell you honestly, Vachon, for 
a vampire as old as myself, LaCroix or Thomas, if we do not wish to be found, we 
are invisible. How do you think I kept my survival after Hiroshima such a secret 
from the community, from Figaro, for fifty years? I shielded myself so that no 
one could find me if they went looking. Thomas is doing the same thing for 
himself and Cecilia."

     "It's a good thing I didn't have that skill while I was being tracked by 
The Inka," Vachon said sarcastically. "I might have actually stayed in one place now 
and then."

      "And you would be duller now for the lack of travel," she said 
reproachfully. "Believe me, Thomas and Cecilia will only be caught when they come to 
us, not the other way around." Clare shrugged nonchalantly. "There's also the chance 
they could make a mistake. That is what I am waiting for."

     "That means waiting until Halloween," Vachon argued.

     "Perhaps. I assure you, I intend to wreak vengeance on Cecilia and 
Thomas...Simply not tonight. I want to enjoy myself before the final 
confrontation. Why don't you do the same? Where is Ivy now? Have you lost 
her again?"

     "No," Vachon countered irritably. "She's at Janette's, visiting."

     "So pick the girl up and romp while you can." She heard Vachon grunt 
softly. "What?"

     "I have a feeling I'm going to regret listening to you."

     "Good night, Vachon." 

     She watched with satisfaction as he left by the front doors of the lobby. 
Clare headed back to the theater, silencing the usher's protests with a cold stare and 
a few well-delivered words. She briskly slid into her seat again, sturdily 
clasping LaCroix's fingers once more. "What did I miss?"

     "All the temptation," LaCroix whispered. "The first act is almost over."

     Clare pouted. "The temptation is my favorite part!"

     "I know. What desperate business brought Vachon here?" he asked curiously. 
He had been mildly inconvenienced. For that, he deserved an explanation.

     She released a deep breath, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Not 
much. Cecilia tried to vex me by killing my cat. Vachon had grown rather attached to 
the animal."

     LaCroix carefully searched the emotions in Clare's expression. "And you?"

     She looked up at him blankly. "It was a cat. Carmen was entertaining," she 
insisted, "but cats die. Does it really matter how or when?"

     He raised an amused eyebrow as Clare began to watch the play. "Indeed."

     "The last temptation is the greatest treason:
     To do the right deed for the wrong reason."

     The words of the archbishop onstage danced in her ears, but Clare's 
attention easily stretched into the realm of vengeful thoughts. She wanted to rage, to 
vent and murder, but her common sense and control ordered her to be patient. Clare 
realized she was squeezing LaCroix's hand too severely, and ordered herself to 
relax. She pushed away her dark thoughts and considered her present situation 
with contentment instead. 

     Clare nuzzled against LaCroix more devotedly as the sermon segment of the 
play began, and he feigned a yawn. She enjoyed the second act tremendously, 
sighing triumphantly as Thomas Becket was slain, just as she had envisioned. 
The night was pleasant, her escort was attentive, and the moon was almost full. 
She told herself she had no worries.

    But in her sleep, the nightmares began again.

********************************************************************
End of Part Twenty-Seven

     The world was a black night, and she was bathed in blood, the blood of her 
husband's kinsmen. He was carelessly promising that she would never lose a 
loved one again.

     "LIAR!"

     The scene changed to sunlight, music and trees. Conchobhar stood behind her 
as he spoke warningly in her ear. "I told you to forego revenge against Cecilia. 
You're putting on a grand show of it for some, but not for me. I am your deepest 
subconscious, remember?"

    "Oh, bother! Go away," Clare commanded to her husband. "I am no longer 
interested in your dream counsel."

    "I am only sparing you pain. When the time comes, when Cecilia gives you 
the chance to crush her, resist the temptation. Let it go. One of the others 
will see this through, I promise, Cliodhna."

     She laughed derisively. "You speak in echoes of doom, gloom and 
foreboding. What do you know of living compared to me? I have more than six 
times your experience in survival, and the last time you made a vow to me, it 
never came true. Forgive me, Conchobhar," she drawled, "if I put more trust in 
my own abilities, than the vague omens of a shadow."

     "I've given you fair notice, my love" he said, circling her on foot as 
Clare stood stagnant. "Make of your future what you will. Don't forget what I said 
before: while you know the byways of living, I am the specter of death. That's 
why I will never leave you. Until..."

     The sky absorbed every trace of sunlight in a roaring vacuum. Suddenly, 
they were shrouded in ebony. The music stilled, leaving the air empty with a heavy 
silence. Conchobhar dissolved into the shadow she'd compared him to: no matter 
which direction she turned, he seemed to float there, smothering her.

     "The last temptation is the greatest treason," his whisper reverberated 
through the darkness.

    Clare could no longer discern where he ended and began. It felt as though 
the black mist was swallowing her, sinking closer and closer, until it was stifling 
her. Clare imagined that the dark cloud pulled her inside out, crushing her, 
exploding yet compressing like a collapsing star.

     She couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't escape.

     She screamed.

     Clare awoke to find LaCroix's arms wrapped securely about her, his lips 
pressing against her forehead. She was soaked with ruby sweat.

     "I'm awake."

     LaCroix loosened his grip, looking down at her with staunch concern. 
"You're having nightmares about Conchobhar again?"

     "Yes. The dream is different, though." Clare's nose wrinkled with distaste 
at the thought of it. Feeling oppressed by LaCroix's weight pressing into her, she 
urged him to roll over, reversing their positions. "I used to have nightmares of 
Conchobhar now and then, usually only when old friends and family were 
destroyed. In those dreams, I would always see him staked and burning again, 
turning black, his ashes blowing like dust in the breeze. I'm always helpless; I 
can't move," she said, her lips quirking. "That's really why they were 
nightmares, I suppose."

     "You would abhor the sensation of being powerless," LaCroix observed.

     Clare nodded. "Exactly. This new nightmare, it's strange. I'm powerless 
again, but not in the same way. Now, instead of watching Conchobhar's 
destruction, it's as if I'm fighting my own. She shook her head angrily. "I 
don't like it at all."

      "What do you think the dream means?"

       "It doesn't have to mean anything. I'm putting it down to mental 
indigestion. For example, Conchobhar was quoting Eliot. The nightmare was just a by-
product of that play. You were right: it was a terrible idea to go see that. I 
should have picked Shakespeare instead."

     "You would have traded one set of mad kings and Englishmen for another," 
LaCroix commented, "and I know that you had this dream before Friday's play. 
I've witnessed the rare occasions that your sleep has been disturbed in the 
past, and now for the past three days, you've woken up screaming. Psycho-analytical 
babble aside, I think you know very well that our dreams can come like ghosts. 
We banish our guilt, our regrets and fears from conscious thought. We absolve 
ourselves, because we must, but sometimes these burdens can leave a residue on 
our thoughts. My question is...what has been troubling you?"

     She trailed a finger over his chin, answering casually, "My impatience. I'm 
tired of waiting for Cecilia and Thomas to fall. Suppressing my rage has become 
a burden. Part of the dream is Conchobhar telling me to let someone else see to 
their destruction, that my own vengeance will cause me harm."

     "Perhaps your dream has a point," LaCroix admitted. "I would enjoy it if 
you centered your thoughts elsewhere."

     She stiffened, rising up on her elbows. "Would you?" Clare rose to a seated 
position, the silk sheet pooling about her waist. "I've noticed that every time 
I mention Thomas, part of you seems to close off. You're not with me completely 
anymore," she rebuked.

    "You think of him too much," LaCroix said harshly.

    "And not enough of you, I suppose."

    "You certainly haven't given me your undivided attention in weeks," he 
retorted, his annoyance evident. "Natalie, Vachon, Thomas: they've all taken 
precedence in your thoughts over me."

     "Oh, I see. You would rather that I devote myself completely and utterly to 
hanging on your every word," she said sarcastically.

     "What I would like is to have you," LaCroix drawled as he sat up. "And when 
I have you, I want it to be you and me, without every acquaintance and enemy 
along for the ride."

     "Now you're being hypocritical," she argued. "Did you consider that I might 
feel the same? Maybe I don't want to experience how thoughts of Nicholas, 
Janette, and long-rotting mortals that you can never have consume the depths of 
you."

    His demeanor was now awash with bitter reproach. "Perhaps I would be more 
inclined to let them go if you acted like a lover, not a convenience."

     Her indignation turned solemn. "But I am accustomed to being your 
convenience, Lucius. Most of my experience stems from that role." She released 
a weary sigh, then kissed him slowly. "I do adore you." Another kiss. "What do 
you expect of me? To cling to you like I did Conchobhar? You know that I have 
changed from the woman who loved thus. "

     LaCroix brought his hands to her face, trailing a thumb just below her 
lower lip. "Immodesty demands that I mean everything to you."

     "You do," Clare said plainly. "Neither of us approve of how the other can 
be distracted by the memories and concerns of old loves, family and friends. We 
keep overlooking how their influence varies. Yes, in one moment I might be 
thinking of Natalie, but I forget her and move on to someone else." She crawled 
closer over the bed, moving her legs and wrapping her arms around his waist 
until their chests were pressed against each other. "But, while you may have to 
share my attention with others, they come and go in my thoughts, whereas you 
never leave. We continue to repeat the phenomenon," she said in hushed tones. 
"I am with you even when we are apart." She licked a path from his left 
collarbone to his earlobe, whispering, "I'm right, aren't I? Whether I am in 
your arms doing this..." LaCroix caught his breath as Clare nipped slightly at his 
neck, sucking at the skin, but not piercing it. "Whether I venture halfway around the 
world, whether I am plotting revenge or wondering about my offspring's eating 
habits," she promised as she threw her head back, bringing her throat into 
prominence with a sultry smile, "we are always together." 

     LaCroix bent to taste the smooth column of skin, his desire to take her 
growing to an overwhelming force. He pushed her gently onto her back, intent 
on feasting from every inch of her flesh. "You're not going anywhere," he said 
possessively.

     Clare offered no argument.

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

     October 29, 1996

      Vachon insisted on escorting her to the front door. "I still think that I 
should stay."

     Ivy gave a beleaguered sigh. "Jav, I'll say it one more time: if I'm not 
safe with Janette and Robert, I'm not safe with you. Besides," she said, checking her 
Han Solo wristwatch, "we still have twenty-five hours until Halloween strikes. 
He's not going to be after me." She grabbed the lapels of his new leather jacket 
and pulled him closer. "You should be concerned with watching your own ass 
instead."

     "But I like watching yours more," Vachon countered with a wicked smile. 
"Why don't I just come in and say 'hi'?"

      "No-o. Janette will have a fit. The only reason she tolerates you is 
because I'm keeping you out of sight, not flaunting Clare's relative in her face."

     "The gal sure can hold a grudge," Vachon grimaced. "Just so you know, 
every time I drop you off on this doorstep, I feel like Janette and I are sharing 
joint custody."

     "In that case, when you pick me up tomorrow for some 'quality time,' can we 
go to the zoo?" Ivy started to laugh at his expression, but Vachon quieted her 
with a kiss.

     Their goodbyes lasted a while, until Vachon finally broke away, turned her 
around, and directed Ivy toward the door with a pat on her rear. "Get in there, 
before I change my mind and haul you back to Screed's."

     She grinned over her shoulder, then unlocked the door. Stepping over the 
threshold, she blew him a kiss. "Dream of you and me in the llamas' den."

     Vachon rolled his eyes. "Call me," he ordered. Ivy made an affirmative 
noise, then closed and locked the door as she gave a lingering wave.

     Javier paused for a moment on the stoop, his features holding the memory of 
a smile, then shook his head. "Llamas," he muttered, then aimed for the Ferrari.

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

     Thomas watched their embrace from afar with hollow eyes. "You're 
wondering why I don't destroy him."

     Cecilia had mused at length over that exact point, but she wasn't going to 
question him about it. "I assumed you were ignoring him out of some personal 
wisdom." 

     "Because Ivy expects me to. She's steeled herself against future attacks, 
so another death at this point would have less impact. It appears, to bring the 
child to me, I need some form of appealing bait."

     "Domino?"

     "We already have him, and that did not bring Ivy to my door. No, I am 
thinking of a more tender lure, someone more dependent on her 
protection...Someone she would come for so I won't kill them."

      "Is this to be my third service to you?"

     "No. I plan to take care of this personally. I want you to provide a 
distraction for some of the others. Go to your Auntie Natalie's and clean the place 
out. Destroy everything: burn it, smash it - I don't care." Cecilia nodded and moved 
to leave, but Thomas paused her with a hand on her arm. "On second thought, 
keep the items involved with your Auntie Natalie's experiment. It might be 
amusing to hold on to that research."

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

     "How is Patrick?" Ivy asked eagerly.

     "We just got back from visiting him at Peggy's," Robert explained.

     "Yes," Janette said enthusiastically. "He was terribly excited over his 
Halloween costume. He's going to be a hockey player."

     Ivy's thoughts flashed briefly to her brother at the mention of hockey. 
"You know, I've never seen one of Patrick's Junior League games. I'll have to do that 
sometime."

     Janette frowned ruefully. "I'm afraid that I don't quite see the finesse to 
the game that the boys do," she said with a flirtatious look at Robert, "but there 
is something to be said for contact sports. Unfortunately, most of Patrick's games 
are on Saturday mornings. Peggy takes him to most."

     Ivy shrugged. "I could still manage. It wouldn't kill me to spend the day 
in an ice rink."

    "Why not?" Robert agreed. "You could always sleep in a locker room, 
provided the smell of gym socks doesn't get to you."

     Janette and Ivy threw pillows at him, repulsed at the idea. As their 
laughter settled, Ivy broached a sensitive, but crucial, subject. "Janette, what did 
Clare do to make you hate her so much? Why are you so certain that she's a threat to 
Patrick?"

     Janette's features tightened, and Robert's countenance grew forbidding. 
"She killed a boy that I wanted to raise as my own. His name was Daniel. Clare 
destroyed him. She taunted me with the deed, because she believes children do 
not mix well with vampires. I have no faith that she would treat Patrick any 
differently if she knew of him. Clare can only be a danger to him and to our 
family. *That* is why I hate her, Lierre, and I will not waver in my opinion."

     Ivy gave a slight nod. "I understand. We have to protect our family. Just 
the few times I've been around her, I've seen glimpses of just how ruthless she can 
be. You know what?" she confided optimistically. "I think Vachon is starting to 
pull away from her because of it."

     "Let us hope so." Janette affectionately caressed Ivy's cheek as she 
promised, "I want you to be happy and safe. *All of us,* happy and safe." She stood, 
inviting them with a hostess' air out of the den. "Maintenant, it is the time to 
feast."

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

October 30, 1996

     Cecilia fumed. She'd taken care of the errand at Natalie's, burning 
everything except the research notes and rodents. Those she sequestered in one of the 
empty cells in Thomas' lair.

     Since he was still absent, no doubt buried in whatever project he had 
planned for Ivy's torture, Cecilia couldn't resist the temptation of watching Clare 
from afar again. Thomas had insisted that Clare had anguished after the shooting of 
the girl, but Cecilia had missed every sign of it. She wanted proof. She wanted 
her reward.  

     Cecilia hovered with anticipation over the rooftop, watching intently from 
afar as Clare and LaCroix stepped out of the Raven for an evening stroll.

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

     Clare paused in admiring how her jacket looked with her Figaro bone buttons 
at the fastenings rather than the mundane pearl clasps that had been there 
before and gave a happy sigh. "Well, well, well...it seems we have company." She 
paused in walking and slipped a hand around LaCroix's waist. "Cecilia's here," 
Clare whispered. "I can feel her presence above us. She must have come alone."

     "Or it is a trap to make you think she is alone," LaCroix corrected.

     "That is a possibility," she allowed. "But if she is here alone, she must 
be growing impatient to see some sign that her work has not gone unnoticed. I 
wonder how long she can stand my indifference without venturing closer?"

      "Why don't we test her?" he suggested. 

     Clare took his arm with a brilliant smile. "That sounds delicious." 

     They continued with their plan of tracking an evening's entertainment, all 
the while monitoring how Cecilia lingered above. A would-be mugger invited them 
into a dark side street, and they saw no reason to resist his hospitality.

     Clare licked away a ribbon of blood trickling down LaCroix's chin once they 
finished with their dinner guest, pausing to murmur in his ear, "I'm beginning 
to believe that she *is* alone. She could still fly away successfully if we rushed 
her."

     "Then one of us should provide a distraction, while the other circles 
around."

     After they disposed of the remnants of their meal, Clare and LaCroix began 
to meander back to the club, visibly delighting in each others' company. "Which 
one of us should lead her astray, do you think?" Clare mused.

     "You are eminently distracting; why don't you?" LaCroix proposed gallantly. 

     "Well, you're distracting, too," Clare argued selfishly. "You know how 
anxious I am to throttle her. I think I should waylay her." Her eyes narrowed 
suddenly. There was Natalie, waiting outside the Raven, the violence of her 
temper evident by her angry stance. "Hmm...Natalie looks ready to help distract 
Cecilia. My question is...why is she here, and why is she upset? Lucien, you 
haven't done anything *interesting,* have you?"

     "I don't believe that Doctor Lambert is looking for me; she's glaring at 
you as she comes this way, my dear."

     Clare scowled. "That's strange. I don't recall performing any 
transgressions, either. Oh, well...Apparently I have earned the right to distract 
Cecilia by default. Have fun."

     "I will." 

     LaCroix slipped into the shadows just as Natalie arrived and demanded, 
"What the hell have you done with my things?"

     "I don't know what you are talking about," Clare answered in an honest, 
pleasant voice.

     "I just went to my apartment," Natalie explained furiously, "and everything 
is gone: all my furniture, my old clothes, and my research! Gone! The manager 
insists that he hasn't touched anything."

     "Did you consider that you might have been robbed by a common everyday 
thief?"

     Natalie released a disdainful snort. "Oh, please! What's the average 
burglar going to want with four dozen rats? You destroyed Maeven's research before I 
could see it," she challenged. "Did you decide to wreck mine because I found 
something, too?"

     "I haven't seen your research. I was waiting for an invitation," Clare said 
calmly.

     "Well, if you didn't take it, who did? You're the only person other than 
the building manager who knows that I still have the apartment."

     Clare's lips twisted mischievously. She really couldn't resist. "That's not 
exactly true..." she drawled.

     Natalie's expression was arrested. "What do you mean?"

     Clare shrugged ingenuously. "Nick knows. He found out about it weeks ago. 
He mentioned reading your research notes." She eyed Natalie sympathetically. 
"He also mentioned that he didn't trust you anymore because you kept such a 
secret from him."

     "Did he now?" Natalie's eyes and voice were etched in granite. 

      "Yes. I'm afraid he's been waiting for you to 'confess' everything to him 
of your own accord before he will have any faith in you again. I apologize for not 
telling you sooner, but I really didn't want to interfere with your private 
affairs."

      "No, thank you," Nat said distantly, patting her sire's hand. "I'm glad 
you finally said something. It helps to clear up a lot of questions I've had."

     "Questions?" Clare echoed curiously.

     "Yes," Natalie nodded. "Questions about Nick's feelings for me; questions 
about myself." She looked up, straight into Clare's eyes with a faint, resigned 
smile. "Thank you."

     Clare also smiled. It was a small smile, at first, that grew as her 
offspring wandered away. Then, she smiled up into the night sky.

     Lucien had cornered her quarry.

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

     The evening was dreadful. Cecilia had followed the couple for almost an 
hour, watching them flirt, seeing them share and enjoy a kill, and now they were 
returning to the Raven, no doubt planning to drown in each other's admiration. 
They weren't sparing Cecilia a moment's thought, even after all her devious 
work.

     She was furious.

     As she verged on the point of storming away to find Thomas and beg him to 
help her against Clare once more, the sight of Auntie Natalie angrily 
approaching the couple seized her attention. Cecilia swam in the thrill of the 
trouble she'd caused, laughing aloud over the side of the roof as she watched 
Natalie scream in rage at her sire. It was wonderful, delicious, and delightful. 
Finally, a taste of what she'd waited for! 

     Gradually, though, it appeared that Clare was escaping blame. Auntie 
Natalie calmed, then touched her sire's arm in a respectful, friendly gesture. Cecilia 
felt her ire explode within her chest. How could Clare continue to remain 
unscathed?

     She growled as she raised to a stand at the roof's edge. For this, she 
swore she would destroy Domino once and for all.  
the blonde thought smugly as she turned to leave.

     Cecilia froze.

     LaCroix stood before her, his eyes sharing the knowledge that she was 
trapped. She released a staggered breath, then futilely tried to leap off the 
building and run. He caught her easily with one hand at the back of the neck.

     "You don't actually believe you can escape, do you?" LaCroix informed her, 
his voice snaking down her spine causing her dread to swell until she thought 
she would explode. "Clare has a few things to share with you, and I am loath to 
disappoint her."

     Then her voice came. It was smooth with menace and a promise of agony. 
Instantaneously, every shred of Cecilia's indignation and malice dissolved in 
the face of the certainty that she was going to die.

     "Hello, Cecilia," Clare said. Her laughter carried joy and pain.

     Suddenly, Cecilia realized that she had succeeded. She *had* reached 
Clare's core, striking her blow after blow.  She had irritated her grandsire, made her 
panic, even grieve.

     The glory Cecilia expected to accompany her victory never came. It was 
stolen by the bloodthirsty green fires of hate flaring in Clare's eyes.

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

October 30, 1996

     "So?"

     "So come pick me up!" Ivy said into the receiver.

     "You mean Janette will let me ring the doorbell?" Vachon voice came wryly 
over the phone. "Wow."

     "If you're good, you might earn the chance to wait in the foyer," Ivy 
teased.

     Janette was buttoning her coat as she walked into the study. "I didn't 
realize you were going out so soon," Ivy said with disappointment.

     "We're going to see Patrick," Janette explained. "Do you want to come?"

     Ivy shook her head. "I just called Vachon to pick me up."

     Robert stepped into the doorway. "Ready?"

     Janette nodded, her smile filled with anticipation, then she glanced 
worriedly at Ivy. "Perhaps we should stay until your friend gets here, just to be on 
the safe side."

     "No, don't do that! It'll cut into your visit! Patrick's bedtime will 
arrive too soon after you get there, as it is. Don't worry about me. There's almost 
three hours until it's officially Halloween. I'm safe until then," Ivy assured them. 
"Besides, Vachon will be here in fifteen minutes, twenty tops, and then we're 
going over to Knight's loft. I'll be fine. You two go ahead, and give Patrick my 
love."

     "Very well," Janette conceded, kissing either of the young vampire's 
cheeks, "but wait inside."

     "I will."

     Robert gave her a hug as she accompanied the couple to the front door. 
"We'll call you at the loft when we get home. How does that sound?"

     "It sounds great."

     Ivy locked the door behind them, then returned to the study to evaluate 
some fabric samples for the studio. Five minutes later, she had her hands buried in 
silk swatches when the doorbell rang. Ivy glanced up, startled, and checked her 
watch. 

     She peered through the door's peep hole before opening. No one was there. 
Ivy frowned.  

     With a hint of nervousness, she double-checked the lock. She glanced at the 
alarm box, realizing with horror that she had forgotten to arm it after Janette 
and Robert left.  "Stupid...stupid..." Ivy chanted as she typed in the code. The 
green light flashed on. All the windows and doors were secure. Closed. Locked.

     But that didn't mean that they hadn't been opened and shut in the past five 
minutes. 

     Every incidental noise now hit Ivy's ears like a sledgehammer. There was 
the sound of the clock in the study, its ticking striking against her nerves in an 
artificial heartbeat. She had left the radio on in the kitchen, turned up loud 
enough so that she could hear when the Nightcrawler's broadcast started. 

     LaCroix was speaking now, sharing some riddle about dreams and reality. His 
voice seemed to manipulate the sounds reaching her ears until she couldn't 
determine whether their sources were near or far. Ivy eased her way down the 
hall, destined for the kitchen. With each step, her stomach clenched at the 
minute creaking of the wooden floor under her feet. The shadows were 
suspicious; every nook of the hall a potential enemy as she drew closer, closer 
to the sound of LaCroix lecturing over the airwaves about dreams and the tricks 
they can play on the mind.

     Ivy grimaced, then emphatically ripped the radio's power cord from the 
wall. "Oh, stuff it."

     With stiff posture, she leaned against the kitchen counter, soaking in the 
new panorama of whispers and bumps breaking the silence. She padded forward, 
much more swiftly than before, until she stood at the foot of the stairs. There 
was a click followed by a humming rhythm as the gas heat kicked on 
automatically. Ivy stared fatally up the staircase.

    Thomas was near.

      Ivy thought . 

     She started up the stairs, her hands holding desperately onto the side rail 
as though she had to physically pull herself up each step because her feet wouldn't 
obey. Her shoes sank into the thick carpeting coating the second floor. Ivy 
turned, homing for the first door on the left. It was Patrick's room.

     Tentatively turning the doorknob, Ivy bit down on her lower lip as she 
looked inside.

     No one was there.

     No bodies, no vampire sires, nothing violently insidious leapt out to greet 
her gaze.

     There was a bottle on the dresser, though, and a black box bound by a 
bright orange ribbon waiting beside it.

      Ivy didn't want to unravel the bow. She didn't want to unwrap this 
sinister gift and learn what was inside, but she felt she had no choice. Ripping off 
the bindings, Ivy slowly dug her thumbs under the rim of the box lid and lifted it 
free. There was orange and black tissue paper inside, shielding the nature of 
the prize, but one thing struck at Ivy unmistakably without peeking:

     There was blood.

     Her lips pressed together tightly as she peeled back the layers. There were 
damp patches visible on the delicate paper, blistering the surface with random 
blotches of discoloration. The contents were a mixture of red and white, with 
dark trim.

     Ivy sniffed back her dismay as she lifted Patrick's favorite hockey jersey 
free of the cardboard and paper. Attached to the front of the shirt was a blood 
stained note:

          HE DIES AT MIDNIGHT.
          HE DIES IF YOU BRING COMPANY.
          COME TO ME.
    
                             -xoxo

      "How am I supposed to know where you are?" Ivy hissed into the empty 
room. "How am I supposed to know that he's not dead already?" She slumped to 
the floor, the shirt draping her lap as her features twisted from indecision. 
Ivy examined the jersey covering her legs. The bloodstains on the material were 
still wet in the middle, only dried around the edges. Visually, it seemed like a great 
amount, but once she considered the volume rationally, Ivy suspected that 
Thomas had used only a couple cc's. 

     She rolled to her knees, then reached to take the bottle from the dresser. 
Prying out the cork, Ivy took a small sip, closing her eyes briefly with relief 
that the blood came from a stranger. She set the bottle aside in disgust, then rubbed 
at her arms, feeling suddenly unclean.

     Ivy picked up the hockey jersey again, frowning critically at the stains. 


     With grim determination, Ivy brought the damp fabric to her lips, sucking 
steadily at each blemish. She learned that the blood had come from Patrick. She 
saw her sire grabbing the boy, then mesmerizing Peggy into keeping silent. He 
left her sitting in the dining room, absently staring at a painting on the wall, 
stirring her tea like an automaton. Ivy pictured Janette and Robert arriving to 
find the eerie setting and Patrick gone, his aunt empty of a reason behind his 
absence. 

      Ivy mused. 

     Ivy saw her sire pull the jersey over Patrick's head, then bind the boy's 
hands, feet and mouth. His terrified screams were stifled as Thomas rose into the air, 
Patrick slung over his shoulder as if he was a sack of potatoes. The boy 
gradually succumbed into a numb amazement as they soared through the night 
sky. He blinked at the many landmarks below, watching the ground through the 
entire trip.

     Ivy saw Thomas' lair. He'd planned for Patrick's vision to lead her 
straight to him.

     What choice did she have but to go?

     Ivy stood, stuffing the shirt, paper and tissue back into its box as 
visions of her sire slashing Patrick's palms with a knife flashed through her head. 
There was a sting, the fire of pain, but Patrick was alive. Injured and frightened, 
yes, but as far as she knew, the boy lived and waited for her to come to his rescue 
sometime before the clock struck twelve.

     Ivy recalled telling Janette that she would give her life to keep Patrick 
from harm. She had never really expected it to come to pass. She still carried a 
thread of hope that she would survive without Janette's son enduring further harm.

     She was constrained to face her sire alone, no Vachon and no Nick by her 
side for support. That didn't mean she couldn't fight back.

     Ivy tucked the box under one arm, clasping the bottle's neck with her hand. 
With her other hand, she searched through the boy's toys, slipping potentially 
useful items into her pockets or the waistband of her jeans. She grabbed a set 
of drumsticks, a Swiss army knife, and a wooden ruler. 

     Ivy shuffled to the bathroom, pilfering bottles of mineral oil and rubbing 
alcohol from the cabinet. She checked her watch again, debating the amount of 
time that remained before Vachon's arrival. Feeling a sense of urgency to get 
away, Ivy bounded over the banister, landing in the hallway. She made a brief 
stop in the den to fetch a box of matches from over the fireplace, then she 
disarmed the alarm system. Within seconds, Ivy was out of sight.

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

     "I'll leave you two to your...girl talk," LaCroix announced as he loosened 
his grip on Cecilia's neck.

     "What? You aren't going to join in the fun?" Clare demurred. 

     "I believe not. You have, after all, been planning for weeks how you would 
punish Cecilia once you laid hands on her." He smirked as the blonde cringed at 
the prospect. "I'll share your triumph...later. For now, my radio listeners 
await."

     "Thank you, Lucien," Clare said as she sent Cecilia a sickeningly smug 
smile. He nodded an acknowledgment, then was gone.

     Clare hadn't touched Cecilia yet. There were inches between them, yet 
Cecilia felt fear, and that panic worked more efficiently than any binding of 
hands or arms. Her grandsire began to circle her slowly, Clare's eyes burning 
into her, branding Cecilia with the specter of her own destruction.

     "You have been very bad, Cecilia," Clare said, her voice oozing antipathy. 
"But, then, I expect you were well aware of the nature of your actions. Your 
purpose was to offend me, to irritate and annoy me, and, of course, to hurt me." 
Clare stopped her rotation, pausing in front of Cecilia, surveying the blonde 
with distaste. "How could you convince yourself that you would escape retribution, 
Cecilia? Did you truly believe that Thomas would protect you from my 
wrath...forever?" 

    Cecilia stared at her blankly.

    Clare scoffed. "What? After all of the effort you've gone to, don't you have 
anything to say for yourself? No vituperative, nasty declarations of how 
horrible I am and how unappreciated you are?"

     Cecilia's expression remained vacant of emotion. "What does it matter if I 
say anything?" she said quietly. "Even if I struggle and fight, I'm no match for 
you. You're going to rip me apart, and I suppose I deserve it. Like you said, 
Clare...I've been bad."

     Clare laughed. "I doubt that your survival instincts are so weak that you 
would simply resign yourself to your fate. What do you have up your sleeve?" 
She eyed the familiar deep red gown. "Or, should I say, under my skirt?" Clare's 
hands dove to search the blonde, but Cecilia squealed in fury, leaping backward.

     In a split-second, the blonde had withdrawn Figaro's sword from the folds 
of the gown and brandished the blade with glowing eyes.

     Clare gave a satisfied chuckle. "That's more like it."

     "Shut up!" Cecilia hissed. "You have no business laughing. Don't you 
realize that I have the advantage."

     "Oh, dear. Whatever gave you that idea? You've already shown a great 
partiality for carrying Figaro's sword. I suspected you were armed with it from 
the beginning. If I was remotely concerned that you might succeed in cutting off 
my head or debilitating me in any way, why would I be so foolish as to leave 
you unrestrained once LaCroix was gone?"

     Cecilia swished the blade threateningly in front of her several times in 
warning. "I'm not stupid. I know how to use this."

     "Against unarmed mortals, perhaps," Clare countered derisively. "Mortals 
who have never fought in combat or defended themselves in swordplay against a 
skilled opponent. Come to think of it, Cecilia, except for your immortality, 
that description matches you to a 'T,' doesn't it? You have only used a sword against 
the prone and helpless, people who were unable to counter your physical 
strength in the first place, much less avoid a slash or thrust. I, on the other 
hand, was instructed in sword-fighting from the time I could walk. Give it your best 
shot, Cecilia. Try to win. We'll see how long you last."

     The blonde's eyes filled with blood, the curl of her lips echoing her rage. 
"You arrogant bitch!" She moved forward, furiously swinging the steel toward 
Clare's throat.

     The elder vampire effortlessly avoided the blow, then grasped Cecilia's 
right wrist with her left hand and delivered a punch that cracked the blonde's elbow 
joint. Cecilia howled, much to Clare's delight, but her grandsire wasn't 
finished. Still holding the blonde's right arm aloft, Clare decked the other woman in 
the stomach with her right elbow. Smiling at Cecilia's grunt, Clare seized the 
blonde's other arm, then flipped the younger vampire's body over her back and 
pile-drove her head-first into the concrete roof.

     Cecilia's hold on the sword slipped, and the metal clattered from her 
hands. She writhed as Clare hitched her arms behind her back with one hand. The elder 
vampire dragged Cecilia to her knees, choking her with another arm about her 
throat.

     "Face it, Cecilia," her grandsire taunted, "you're not good at bullying 
anything except helpless mortals. The only vampire you've successfully thrashed 
is Domino, and he let you do it because he loves you." 

     Cecilia burst into demented screams, attempting to thrash free. She felt 
Clare force her neck to tilt sideways and divined with horrified certainty what was to 
come. "I HATE YOU!!!" she shrieked as the ancient vampire's fangs pierced her 
throat. She wallowed in every loathing-filled moment of her existence, 
concentrating the malevolence, encouraging it through every fiber of her being. 
Cecilia felt herself weakening as the draining left her starved and desperate. 
"Taste my hate," she said with an acrimonious sob.

     Clare raised her head, then kicked the blonde to the ground with a leather-
soled foot. Revulsion filling her eyes, she swiped the Japanese sword off the 
roof concrete, raising it with expert precision. "Your hate feeds me. It only 
makes me enjoy killing you more."

    Clare's arms swung down, Cecilia whimpered, and there was silence.

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

     Had Vachon realized Ivy was waiting for him alone at the townhouse, he 
would have trashed the Metro speeding laws to get there. He might have decided 
to forego driving and fly to her on a more direct route, as well. 

     Since Vachon believed Janette and Robert were still monitoring Ivy's 
safety, however, he chose not to test the limits of Clare's Ferrari in downtown 
traffic. This was called keeping his ass out of a sling by keeping his grandsire's 
sportscar free of dents. Javier was riding the self-conscious trail on this 
subject, recalling the current pitiful state of his Triumph. A beautiful engine is a 
terrible thing to waste.

     As a consequence, Vachon elected not to race several amber lights before 
they flicked to red, and chose to wait out the signal change instead. The length 
of the drive ended up closer to twenty-five minutes than fifteen. 

     He whistled as he climbed the front steps and pressed the doorbell. A 
minute passed, and the door remained closed. Vachon rang again. When there was no 
response, he propped his hands on his hips and looked back at the street. Robert 
and Janette's sedan was missing.

    

     Vachon gave an exasperated sigh and tested the front door, his mind 
wandering over methods of breaking inside. The entrance swung open, 
unlocked. He briskly searched through the rooms, quickly realizing no one was 
home. Javier resigned himself to two possibilities: either Ivy left with 
Janette, or she had a visit from her sire while waiting for him to arrive. Cursing, he 
chose to concentrate on the first option, since the second was more serious and there 
hadn't been a hell of a lot he could do to track Thomas down thus far. The 
question was, if Ivy went somewhere with Janette and Robert, where would they 
have gone?

     

     Vachon entered the study, searching the room until he found a phone 
directory. Ivy had mentioned that the boy had gone to stay with his mortal aunt 
for a while. 

     "'McDonaugh'?...McDonaugh," Vachon repeated as he flipped through pages 
of phone numbers. "Ah, Aunt Peggy!" He made a note of the street address, and 
was gone in a flash. This time, he floorboarded the Ferrari.

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

     Janette and Robert let themselves in the front door with their key.

     "Peg? Patrick?" Robert called. "We're here!" He exchanged a curious look 
with Janette when there was no answer.

     "Peggy?" Janette's voice rang more insistently. She walked to the left and 
through the den, Robert helping her slip off her coat as they moved. "Patrick!"

     The was no reply. 

     "They could be upstairs," Robert reasoned. "You know how Patrick's started 
playing the rock n' roll station loud. He could be using headphones while he's 
on the computer, too."

      "Then why doesn't your sister answer?" Janette demanded, then stepped 
through the doorway to the dining room.

      Peggy sat at the table, sipping at a cup of tea as she stared straight 
ahead.

     "There you are!" Janette exclaimed. "Surely you heard us calling!"

     The woman turned her head slowly and smiled up at them. "Janette, 
Robert...I'm glad that you've come."

      "Where's Patrick?" Janette snapped. "Is he in his room?" 

     "Patrick's gone." Peggy delivered the words with frank neutrality.

     Janette's voice turned cold. "What do you mean 'Patrick's gone'?!"

     "Thomas took him a few hours ago," Peggy said innocently.

     Janette and Robert's eyes met with panicked intensity. They both pulled 
chairs from the table, then took a seat on either side of Robert's sister. "Why 
didn't you call us?" he asked.

    "He said I shouldn't. He said to wait here, drinking tea and admiring the 
artwork until you arrived." Peggy gestured toward the framed paintings hanging 
on the opposite wall. "He said to make sure you knew it was Thomas who took 
Patrick, no one else."


     Janette reached for Robert's hand, capturing his fingers in a stranglehold. 
"How was Patrick when they left? Was he...alive?"

     Peggy smiled. "Oh, yes. He had on his favorite jersey. You know, it was the 
one he was going to wear as part of his Halloween costume.  Thomas took it 
from him, tied him up and gagged him, then carried him out the front door. I 
went to the kitchen to make my tea," she said, her voice and features 
noncommittal.

     Robert pushed his chair back abruptly, heading out the room.

     "What are you doing?" Janette demanded as she rose to follow.

     "I'm calling home on the off-chance Ivy and Vachon are still there," he 
said, picking up the receiver of the kitchen phone.

     "Of course," Janette said numbly. "He'll use Patrick to get to Lierre. She 
will be protective of him, not simply because she cares for Patrick, but also from 
loyalty to us." Her jaw tightened. "We should have kept him with us. Patrick 
would have been safer that way!"

     "We have no way of being certain of that," Robert countered, then slammed 
the phone down. "Dammit, there's no answer!"

     Janette reached out, picking up the receiver and dialing a number of her 
own. "They were going to the loft. They could be with..." She let out a sound of 
outrage. "Curse you, Nicola!" She hung up, her blue eyes glinting. "It's busy!"

     "Come on," Robert bit out, pulling her by a hand after him. "Let's go back 
to the townhouse and see what we find. We can try calling Nick again from there."

     They rushed through the dining room, not sparing Peggy a second glance. 
Once outside, Janette announced, "I say we fly. It will be quicker."

     "No," Robert insisted. "We're going to find Patrick, and when we do, we 
can't fly."

     "Then drive quickly!"

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

     Nick was on the phone with Schanke.

     "She panned out," Schanke's voice boomed. "Barney's old flame was willing 
to sign an affidavit that their romance went sour because she thought he liked 
the morgue customers too much, and Nat matched some of the hairs we found in 
his apartment to the last disappearing corpse. It looks like we've got a 
confession, suicide and confirmation."

     "Great. Now all we have to do is find all the bodies." Nick wandered 
restlessly about the loft as he spoke, pausing by his desk to stare at the open 
Number murders files while he talked.

     "Yeah, sure. I'm just getting ready to consult my Magic Eight Ball. Gee, I 
hope you're enjoying your night off, Nick, while I'm sitting here up to my neck 
in nada."

     Nick pretended to be surprised. "What? Your big interview with Bugby didn't 
pan out?"

     "Let's put it this way: the guy doesn't have the heart to be guilty, as in 
he spent October twelfth through nineteenth in the hospital for open heart surgery. 
I kid you not, the fella had a minor heart attack *while I was at his house.* I 
followed them to emergency."

     "That's too bad, Schank. Listen, I'm expecting company any minute. I'll 
talk to you tomorrow, okay?" Sidney bounded up onto his desk, and Nick scratched 
the cat under the chin for a few seconds before placing him back onto the floor.

     "Okay-fine. Oh, by the way...I traced that phone call you wanted, and thank 
you for the wild goose chase. It was from Clare's cellular, but I guess you knew 
that already. You could've just said it was her on the phone, you know, instead 
of all that cagey stuff about pick a case, any case."

     "Sorry about that, Schank. I don't know what I was thinking," Nick said. In 
reality, he was musing over Clare's missing portable phone. If Thomas had it in 
his possession, could it be used to track his location?

     Nick made his goodbyes and hung up, pulling a city map of Toronto free 
from the pile of folders on his desk. There was a red dot marking the locations 
where the first four victims were found, plus an 'x' blacking out the 
O'Keefe/Hummingbird center for Ivy. Nick recalled the circular pattern from the 
Ohio murders and pulled a recycled pencil out of one of the top desk drawers. 
First he drew an arc connecting the five locales, then he extrapolated a full 
circle.

      Nick wondered.  A sudden thought struck him. 

     Nick straightened from leaning over the desk as he mused over his sudden 
revelation. "He's in the center of the circle."

     The lift door slid open to reveal Natalie. Nick stepped forward, eager to 
share his theory. His face fell as she turned and walked away without greeting him. 
"Nat? Is something wrong?"

     She paused on the loft stairs. "I'll be back down in just one minute. Hold 
that thought." Nat tromped briskly up the remainder of the flight, Sidney bobbing 
along beside her legs.

     At least five minutes passed before Natalie returned. When she did, she 
held a cat carrier containing Sidney in one hand and a small suitcase in the other. 
Nick watched in shock as she marched solemnly down the stairs, then stopped 
before him, setting both the carrier and her bag on the floor beside her feet.

     "Yes, Nick," she said stiffly. "There is something wrong."

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

     "I haven't been completely honest about myself lately," Natalie said. "But, 
then, you already knew that, didn't you?"

     Nick's eyes narrowed. "You've been talking to Clare. What did she say?"

     "Does that really make a difference?" Natalie said hotly. "What matters is 
this: do you *trust* me, Nick?"

      He met her blue eyes steadfastly for several seconds. Nick's jaw clenched, 
then he abruptly gave his verdict. "No. I don't." A sensation of betrayal swept 
over him again, and Nick looked away, attempting to hide his disillusionment.

     "Well, that's just great," Natalie said facetiously. "You know, you have a 
*hell* of a lot of nerve judging me! For six years, I put up with disappointment 
after disappointment. You wanted me to help you find a cure, you wanted me to 
be your friend, and you made me fall in love with you, but there was always 
some obstacle in the way. How many times did you 'forget' to follow my 
prescriptions?" Natalie's voice grew harsh and accusatory as she began to pace 
angrily across the floor. "How many times did you backslide, whether it was 
running for another bottle or into Janette's arms?!"

    "Nat, you don't understand..." Nick protested.

    "No. You're wrong. I always understood. Sometimes I had to remind myself 
over and over again why I was so positive that you have humanity buried deep 
inside you somewhere. You aren't perfect," Natalie said, shaking her head as she 
delivered the words. "It's that simple. You make mistakes and you fail. 
Sometimes, you make the wrong decisions. But you know what, Nick? Through 
everything, I never stopped believing that you would get back up on your feet 
and try again. All those years, I didn't lose faith in you, even when you lost 
hope for yourself, even when you went off on some dark binge or almost left town 
without a goodbye. I trusted *you,* and believe me, it wasn't always easy." She 
squeezed her eyes shut, but Natalie's tears wouldn't be held back. They began to 
roll steadily down her cheeks as her speech grew caustic. "You know, I'm 
feeling a little indignant, because I spent all that time having faith in you, 
and the first time *I* do something that you find questionable, you don't trust me. 
Maybe you shouldn't," Nat gave a hollow laugh, "but I still resent it."

     "Nat...Nat, listen to me," Nick took her hand as he spoke in earnest, 
pained tones. "I've already gotten over finding out about your research. I wanted you 
to believe in *me* enough to share it on your own without being afraid that I might 
not approve. The reason why I can't trust you anymore isn't just some lab notes 
you hid; it's not such an isolated incident. Somehow, I feel as if you're always 
shielding some part of yourself from me now."

     "And you aren't guilty of the same thing?" Natalie demanded. "Haven't you 
hidden things from me?"

     "You can't expect me to just accept that and ignore it!"

     "But I can?"

     They stared at each other passionately, their expressions demanding 
capitulation. Nick spoke first, speaking with quiet reason. "Maybe it's a case 
of both of us making mistakes. We're both wrong. Neither one of us is perfect."

    Nat licked her upper lip as she nodded, her arms crossed defensively in 
front of her chest. "Maybe you're right." She swallowed grimly, then took a deep 
breath. "You know, I started the research for you. I didn't say anything because 
I wanted it to be a surprise. The best kind of surprise: I wanted to find a cure 
and be able to give it to you without any fear that it might not work. You see, I 
didn't want to raise your hopes again, not like I did with the Lidoveuterine."


    "Oh, Nat...that's all that I needed to hear." He reached out for her face, 
his fingers gently brushing her hair before she turned away.

     "Aren't you curious to hear about what I've found so far?" she asked, an 
edge in her voice.

     "I read over your notes a few weeks ago. I think I grasped a good deal of 
the direction you're taking," Nick admitted.

      "A few weeks ago?" she challenged. "Not more recently than that? That's 
too bad. You've missed out on a few things."

     "I saw where you thought vampirism worked like an infection, and a mortal's 
immune system is involved in successfully bringing someone across."

     "I believe it's implicitly involved. I asked myself why Bernice and Joey, 
when injected with vampire blood, didn't become vampires. Then, there's the 
question of why the vampire element did affect them, then deteriorated after a 
time. That's why I used the rats: I wanted to examine how the vampire in my 
blood affected them systematically."

     "And you found antibodies to the element..." Nick recalled.

     "Yes. There was an immune response to the vampire. The rats responded just 
as if they had the sniffles or some other infection. Their immune systems 
proliferated an antibody that would bind to the vampire entity, much like 
Lidoveuterine B did, allowing it to be eliminated from the host."

     "Didn't you find something wrong with your own immune system? People 
are brought across when their bodies can't make immune cells to fight the 
vampire?"

     "I didn't find any immune cells in my blood, which is highly unusual, 
considering we only know of one disease that has any effect on vampires. Our 
immune systems must have been replaced by something else. What, I don't 
know. Maybe it's some different kind of protein that mortals don't produce, or 
perhaps once the vampire element invades enough of the body, it simply 
overwhelms everything else through natural competition. I found something 
interesting, though: I had a problem with one of the rats becoming a vampire 
unexpectedly. It had been receiving large dosages of my blood, but then it 
developed tumors, and I thought it had died."

     "But it hadn't," Nick prompted hesitantly.

     "No, it hadn't. I couldn't figure it out. With the dosages it was getting, 
the tumors shouldn't have caused the rat's death. After wracking my brain for weeks, 
I went back to the breeding history of the lab rats I was using, and I 
discovered a notation that this line of rodents had had problems with a birth defect. 
Some rats did not have the ability to produce beta lymphocytes."

      "Those are the cells that produce antibodies, right?"

      "Right. It occurred to me that the vampire rat didn't actually die from 
cancer. It simply had this condition and...automatically...became undead. I mean, I 
assumed correctly that the rat wasn't alive, I just never dreamed that it had 
been brought across."

     "But, Nat, how do you think this can relate to cure?" Nick asked 
quizzically.

     "By applying what I've found to what happened with Janette and Robert," 
Natalie answered matter-of-factly. "The riddle is more than how taking just a 
little of Robert's blood at a time worked to make her mortal again. There's also 
the question of how Robert became a vampire. Janette told us that she failed to 
bring him across. I'm not sure that's entirely accurate."

     Nick frowned, then walked over to the sofa to take a seat. "What do you 
mean?"

     Sidney began to mewl from his carrier and Natalie told him to hush. "The 
vampire element can be delivered in various ways to bring someone across. 
Clare injected me with her own blood, whereas you brought my brother across 
by simply biting him. I've also seen that the vampire element is sexually 
transmitted, at least as far as the rats are concerned."

      Nick's eyes widened with realization. "You're saying that when Janette was 
feeding from Robert as they made love, she infected him with the vampire."

     Natalie nodded, moving to sit in one of the leather chairs. "What I think 
happened is Robert had a normal immune response to the vampire. He started 
producing antibodies to the element that would work to clear it from his system. 
When Janette repeatedly fed from him, she took in these antibodies. It worked as 
a type of passive immunity, like mother's milk."

     "The antibodies destroyed the vampire in Janette?"

     "At least diluting it to a sufficient degree where she was effectively no 
more a vampire than Joey or Berniece were when it was in their systems. Robert, on 
the other hand, was being exposed to the vampire element. Now, it wouldn't be 
cleared from his bloodstream immediately. My theory is, he had sufficient 
bloodloss when he was gunned down to impair his immune system. That's the 
opening that the vampire needs to take root: the draining of enough blood to 
eliminate the white blood cells, but not so much that the individual is dead. 
After all, the vampire element needs some blood to survive."

     "But how does it work? How does it take root and end up as extra 
nucleotides in our RNA like you captured in the micrographs?" Nick demanded.

     "You said that from what you saw of Maeven's research, she had inserted 
genetic material into mortals on the point of death to create her vampire-like 
creatures. I think that the vampire element has its own mechanism for doing the 
same kind of insertion. The genus of mutant bacteria that Maeven used has two 
interesting characteristics: it requires certain factors from red blood cells to 
grow, and it is used in recombinant DNA research, i.e., It can incorporate genes 
from other bacteria, even other species, and produce proteins that aren't 
indigenous to the organism. I think the vampire entity works in a similar way: 
it inserts itself into the RNA of each human cell, kind of like recombination, kind 
of like a retro-virus, yet different from anything in current pathogenic theory. 
The vampire RNA is added to the human portions, then translated into proteins 
along standard methods. The difference is, the new nucleotides would code for a 
series of molecules completely foreign to humans. That could account for our 
heightened senses, and it could mean an alteration in the way our bodies 
heal and decay. You know, if humans do have a sixth sense; if mortals really 
have latent psychic abilities, the vampire element could work to accentuate 
them. That might explain why we can fly, and why we have heightened 
perceptions..."

      "But what about the sun?" Nick argued. "What about crosses, holy water and 
garlic? Why would all of these have such a potent effect on us?"

       "I'm not sure," Natalie said resignedly. "They could be sensitivities; 
some bacteria are susceptible to light and specific chemicals." She shrugged. "That 
was something I wanted to study, but I guess it doesn't really matter anymore. 
For one thing, someone cleaned out my apartment. All my old clothes, furniture, 
and my research is gone. Clare says that she didn't take anything, and, at this 
point, you would have said something if you were responsible...wouldn't you?"

     Nick glared his response to that suggestion. "So you don't doubt Clare's 
word? It appears for all your heartfelt testimony, you don't trust me anymore, 
either."

     Natalie glanced away, her eyes haunted. "Maybe I don't trust myself," she 
whispered. Her mouth hardened, then she began to speak in more resolute tones. 
"Over the past few weeks, I've begun to doubt whether I can define vampires 
within the realm of science. Maybe immortality doesn't break down into 
molecules. There may not be a complete cure in the natural realm." She gave 
him a considering look. "Do you feel *natural,* Nick?"

     He moved forward, leaving his seat on the sofa to fall to his knees before 
her chair. Nick took one of her hands, then brushed Natalie's curls away from her 
face in a desperate caress with his other hand. "What are you saying? Tell me 
that you don't believe that we are damned forever to this existence. You're the 
one who always had hope, Nat. I need you to have hope."

     "Oh, Nick..." She trailed her fingers through the hair at his right temple 
with tired affection, then held out her arm, displaying the band of flowers winding 
around her wrist. "It's only been four months since you told me how much you 
love me with all those live flowers. That was a night to remember." Natalie's 
smile was bittersweet.

     "I meant every word of it," Nick insisted.

     "I'm sure you did." Natalie unfastened the bracelet, and began to muse over 
the different links. "There is a language to flowers...a bluebell stands for 
constancy. Where once I was constant in my faith, now I feel the only thing that 
doesn't sway is my hunger. The darkness is always there, clouding my path." 
She moved onto another charm. "A fern represents confidence. You said one of 
the things you love about me is my strength. I don't want to be blunt about your 
illusions, Nick, but I can be weak and I can be selfish, just as easily as 
anyone." She began to pick off flowers with rapid precision. "A white chrysanthemum 
stands for truth, and a flowering almond means hope." Natalie's mouth 
tightened. "I think we've already covered how I don't exactly represent a 
shining beacon for either quality anymore."

     "Natalie, none of that changes how much I love you." His eyes seemed to 
plead for her to accept his words. "I *do* love you."

     "Do you, Nick?" Natalie said absently. "Do you love me as I am now, crimes 
and all, or do you love the mortal Natalie, the one who was pure and innocent in 
comparison. The mortal Natalie is the one who had faith. She's the one who 
shared honesty, strength and hope with you. That Natalie is dead." She leaned 
forward then, taking his mouth in a melancholy kiss, then she pointed to one 
more blossom in the bracelet. "Purple hyacinth means 'I am sorry.' I'm sorry, 
Nick, but I can't be that Natalie for you anymore. You knew it would happen. I 
understand now why you always fought the idea of bringing me across. The 
vampire changed me. It expanded my world, and made me reevaluate everything 
I considered sacred in my existence. People seem different. The sights, sounds, 
tastes, smells, and sensations that the earth has to offer were magnified in 
ways I simply couldn't grasp as a mortal. Words alone can't capture the reality of your 
first kill...the taste of someone's dreams and ecstasies on your tongue..."

     Nick's expression became a painting of stark dismay. "Nat, what have you 
done?"

     Natalie took one of his hands, pooling the bracelet into Nick's open palm, 
then closed his fingers until they blocked out the sight of the glittering 
jewelry. "I'm sorry, Nick. I tried to hold on to the woman you wanted, but it's tearing 
me apart. Even when we're together, it feels like there's a divide that separates 
us. You don't want to be a vampire anymore, and I'm just discovering that I do. Part 
of me will always be a killer now; I can't undo it. I'm sorry, Nick, because I 
know that I'm hurting you, but it's not right that I lie, that we keep lying to 
ourselves to protect something that's gone forever. We can't go back."

     Nick shook his head in denial. "I don't believe that...Natalie -"

     The phone rang. The ringer repeated two more bells as they exchanged 
stares, each trapped in the fathoms of the other's eyes.

     "Aren't you going to pick that up?" Natalie whispered. "It could be 
something important."

     "Your humanity isn't dead, Natalie," Nick vowed, his face shining with 
fervor. "Just like you said about me: you can make a mistake, you can fail, but 
you can pick up the pieces and try again."

     "I am picking up the pieces in my own way...without you." There was 
another insistent sound. "Answer the phone, Nick. It's time for me to go." 
Natalie stood and slipped around him, grabbing her suitcase and the carrier as 
the answering machine tripped into operation, asking the caller to leave a 
message.

     Nick stood with her, his features pleading for more. "This isn't over."

     Natalie strolled toward the lift, turning to face him one more time after 
sliding the door open. "For tonight, it is." Janette's voice came over the 
answering machine's speakers in panicked tones. Natalie released a fatalistic 
sigh and stepped into the elevator. "It sounds like she needs you more right 
now."

     Nick watched stonily as she pulled the door closed, placing a physical 
barrier between them. Natalie was gone. He walked numbly to the phone and picked up 
the handset. "I'm here, Janette. What's wrong?" he asked distantly.

     "Thomas took Patrick from his Aunt Peggy's house. We're at the townhouse 
now, and Ivy isn't here. Is she with you?"

     Nick glanced at his watch and cursed. "No. No, she and Vachon are late. 
Damn! Listen, Janette," he said, approaching his desk to grab his map of 
Toronto. "I think I may have narrowed down the location of where Thomas is 
keeping his victims. It's in the area where Davenport meets Marchmount. You 
and Robert go ahead. I'll meet you there, but I'm going to search the roads 
between your place, here and Screed's first. Ivy and Vachon could be in 
transit."

     "I hope you are right, Nicola."

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

     Vachon was in transit. He pulled into the drive of Peggy McDonaugh's home, 
his mood sinking when there was no sign of Janette and Robert's car. He rang 
the doorbell, feeling a nasty rumble of deja-vu when there was no answer.

     There were lights on inside the house, so Vachon tested the doorknob. It 
turned easily, unlocked. Cautiously venturing inside, he slipped from room to 
room, freezing as he discovered Peggy in the kitchen boiling water.

     "Pardon the intrusion, but you didn't answer the door," Vachon said.

     "I'm not supposed to," Peggy replied as she filled a cup with steaming 
water. "I drink tea and wait. Would you like some?" she asked, tilting the kettle 
toward Vachon.

      "No, thank you." He eyed the woman solemnly, debating the reason she was 
conversing calmly in the kitchen with someone who, as far as she should be 
concerned, had just broken into her home. "Is there anyone else here?"

     "No. They're gone."

     "Who's gone?"

     "Robert...Janette...Patrick...Thomas..."

     "Thomas was here?" 

     "He took Patrick."

     "And Janette and Robert know this?"

     Peggy nodded. "Of course. I told them."

     "What about Ivy? Was she with them?"

     "No."

      Vachon had heard enough. He could see Ivy's sire using the boy as bait, 
threatening her with Patrick's death. The question was, where were they now?
He abandoned the Ferrari, flying toward the warehouse district. Knight would be 
wondering why they hadn't shown up yet, and Vachon was out of ideas on 
where to search.

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

     Clare had learned the location from Cecilia's blood. She could feel the 
suffering hanging in the air in a dense cloud, polluting the dark corridors. 
Clare glided invisibly through the building, focused on shielding every sign of her 
presence from anyone who might care...like Thomas.

     She had left Cecilia's body on the rooftop to be scorched by the morning 
sun, then paused long enough at the Raven to drop off Figaro's sword and grab an 
overcoat. She filled the large pockets with supplies she would need when she 
found Domino. That was her goal at the moment as she flitted from shadow to 
shadow: she was looking for Domino.

     Clare reached his door without a moment's hesitation. She traveled on 
Cecilia's memories, leading her straight to Dom's prison. The room wasn't 
locked; neither Cecilia nor Thomas believed he had sufficient strength anymore 
to move, much less escape. She found him sprawled in the middle of the floor. 
The room had a white base, but smears of dried blood scratched across the 
surface of the walls in sharp relief. The floor tiles remained comparatively 
spotless, except for the area directly around Domino's body.

     Clare rushed forward, pulling the stake extending from his stomach in a 
swift economy of motion. As the wood exited his flesh, Domino's sigh resembled a 
furnace releasing steam. Clare picked up his body and carried him to the side of 
the room. She sat with her back against the wall, pulling the younger vampire 
onto her lap as she pulled bottles of blood from the depths of her coat. She 
supported Domino's head with the crook of her elbow, tilting a container of fine 
vintage to his lips. Dom's parched tongue seemed to absorb the blood on contact. 
He swallowed convulsively until he had consumed half the bottle, then his hands 
struggled upward to clutch at the glass surface and hold it desperately to his 
mouth. 

    Clare watched Domino slowly regain his faculties with a mixture of relief 
and sadness. "What you need for the quickest recovery is a taste of vampire blood," 
she whispered as she caressed his cheek. "Forgive me for not offering you my 
own right now, but I need all my strength if I am going to fight Thomas."

     Domino smiled graciously up at his grandsire as she replaced the now-empty 
bottle in his hands with a fresh supply. His drinking became more methodical 
and less abandoned, and he gradually began to support himself in a seated 
position.

     "I destroyed Cecilia," Clare stated as he finished off the second 
container.

     Domino's expression revealed little. "I expected nothing less."

     Clare stood and offered him a hand. "Can you walk?"

     Domino nodded slowly. "I think so."

     "Here," Clare said, wrapping an arm around his waist. "I'll help you."

     They shuffled their way softly through the dark hallways, then blended into 
the darkness of night. "I gather flying is out of the question," Clare 
commented. Domino grunted, so she swiftly lifted him into her arms and took to the air. 
She settled down about a kilometer away at the nearest subway station and pressed 
some money into his hand. "I have to go back. Buy yourself a token and head 
for Nicholas' loft on Gateway Lane. Let him know where I am, all right?"

     Domino nodded as he clutched at her arm. "Be careful."

    "Don't worry. I wager everything will already be at its proper conclusion 
before Nicholas ever arrives. I wouldn't even tell him where this place is, but 
the threat of his incessant complaining afterward driving me mad if I don't share 
the location is potent."

     Domino sniffed through a half-smile. "Thank you, Clare."

     "You're welcome Domino."

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

     Ivy stepped into his parlor, her hands stuffed into the pockets of her wool 
jacket. "I came to you," she announced.

     Thomas rose from his chair, eyeing her with a malicious fervor. "Then let 
the games begin."

********************************************************************
End Of Part Twenty-Eight

    Clare moved through the darkness with ease, identifying her surroundings 
with the mental map provided by Cecilia's blood. Fifteen victims waited in the 
underground rooms here, fifteen different schemes of torture, fifteen different 
souls for Thomas to carve into warped fragments. Her brain ticked over each 
cell, mulling the possibility of saving the lot before dealing with the other 
vampire.

     

     Clare paused at the end of the corridor. The walls were filthy, as if hewn 
directly from dirt and pitch; any light was an afterthought. The door to the 
final room, the slaughtering room, was shut.

     A closed door meant a victim was inside.

     Clare had counted fifteen mortal heartbeats as she traveled through the 
winding halls of this maze of sarcophagi. Inside this chamber, there lay one 
more, beating a rapid pulse with undeniably human fear.

    

     She silently examined the lock and hinges of the door. It was strong enough 
to stop a human or two, but not a vampire with a nasty temper. Clare rammed 
the door with her shoulder as she wrenched the handle. There was a harsh crack, 
then silence. The room stood open. 

     She made a quick survey of her surroundings: no vampires waited above or 
around, and the stone floor was wet with muck and bits that were better off left 
unidentified. The room smelled of rot and death aged to the point of ripeness. 
In the center of the chamber was a star-shaped platform, over which a sculpture of 
enormous razors honed into the form of the number sixteen loomed with 
threatening gravity.

     Clare's fingers clenched, and she momentarily lost her train of thought. A 
child lay secured to the middle of the table, waiting prone for the modeled 
blades to fall and slice him open. His eyes were wide, terrified at the sight of 
her. His mouth was unbound, but he watched her with slack jaws, his fear 
paralyzing him into muteness.

     She edged closer, steeling her will into ignoring the tug of pity that 
arose as she observed the boy's hands, feet, waist and throat were fastened to the 
table with barbed wire.

     Clare reached out with gentle hands and smoothed the child's hair back from 
his clammy forehead as she offered him a reassuring smile. "I'm going to set you 
free." 

     Suddenly there was an alarming click, and the chain holding the makeshift 
guillotine aloft went slack. With lightening speed, the blades rattled downward 
to meet the child's flesh.

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

     "Where's Patrick?" Ivy hissed. "I want to see him."

     Thomas' lips twitched sardonically, and his head twisted to the side as if 
alerted by a faint sound. "Did you hear something, my child?"

     Her mouth rose into a sneer. "Maybe one of your 'guests' are restless."

     Ivy watched him warily as he approached her. Thomas clicked his tongue 
against his teeth, then bent to whisper jocularly into her ear. "You brought 
someone along for the visit. Shame, shame. After I ordered you to come alone, 
at that!"

    "I didn't bring anyone," Ivy snapped.

    "You can't hide from me. You don't have the power," he derided. "I felt 
them. It was a momentary slip, too brief to pinpoint, but it was there. I warned you, 
and now you must pay the price."

     "No! I came alone! I demand to see Patrick!"

      "Patrick," Thomas informed her as he moved past her, forcing Ivy to turn 
around, "is alive, waiting in the chamber directly below this one." The ancient 
vampire reached up to tug a cord hanging by the wall. "Now, he is dead." A 
scream clawed its way to their ears from below, the sound not quite stifled by 
the layer of flooring. It was a child's scream. Thomas smiled. "Ah. Do you feel 
that? There's pain in the air."

     Ivy's jaw worked in numb shock. "You bastard."

     He cooed his response. "Are you living yet, sweetheart?"

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

     Clare couldn't think of anything to do on the spur of the moment other than 
get in the way. Interference tended to be her strong suit. She leapt onto the 
table, straddling the boy's body, her hands above her head as she tried to stop the 
blades from crashing down upon them. The child screamed from pure terror or 
agony...which,  she wasn't sure. Clare seized at the razors instinctively, her 
hands clamping down on the metal from either side to interrupt their progress. 

     The friction of her fingers against the blades' safest surface slowed them 
tremendously, but her grip could not find permanent purchase. The metal 
slipped free, and Clare experienced a white-hot eruption of pain in her right 
shoulder before the guillotine came to a halt.

    She fought back the urge to let out a roar of anguish while she fumbled with 
her left hand to grasp the chain securing the blades. She closed her eyes as she 
lifted, a searing jolt piercing her as the razors inched free of her skin. Clare 
extended her left arm upward, keeping the contraption as high as possible. She 
swung her left leg behind her, propping on her knees as she dismounted the 
table. Clare examined her right arm in disgust. The blades had sheared through 
her collarbone and cleaved the upper flesh of her arm to the bone. For now, she 
was bleeding profusely, her new favorite jacket with Figaro's bone buttons was 
ruined, and it hurt like hell.

     Biting back a curse, Clare reached above her head with her injured right 
arm and snapped the guillotine's chain in two, lifting the heavy amalgamation of 
metal aside and lowering it safely to rest on the floor.

     Clare turned her attention back to the boy, who was now quietly sobbing 
with his eyes wrenched shut. She released her breath in a hiss, realizing that, as 
she had jumped on top of the boy to protect him, she had inadvertently pressed the 
barbed wire knotted across his waist through the thin cotton of his undershirt, 
embedding the sharp points in his tender skin.

    Her fingers hovered momentarily over the area as she whispered 
apologetically, "I'm afraid this is going to hurt when I take it out. Try and be 
brave, all right?" 

    The boy didn't open his eyes, but he spoke with a barely perceptible lift of 
his lips. "O...kay."

    Clare chose to attack the wire from the underside of table first. She 
snapped through the metal thorns pricking the wooden surface with forceful flicks of 
her thumbs. Now she had more play to work with while extracting the barbs. 
Concentrating intently on each movement, Clare worked to ease the sharp points 
free of the boy's skin as swiftly as possible. He didn't cry out, only sighing 
abruptly when the pain grew fierce.

     The wound on her right arm had begun to close, allowing her to deal with 
the wire remaining around the boy's wrists, ankles and throat with greater speed and 
precision. When she stepped back from the table, her hands were covered with 
scores of cuts, but she had all of the bloodied barbed wire removed. The boy 
was free. 

     Clare scooped him up against her chest, moving rapidly from the chamber, 
through the corridors leading out of the depths of the building. The boy clung 
to her, his face tucked forcefully into her uninjured shoulder as though he still 
couldn't bear to look at what awaited him. As they ducked out of the building 
and into the outdoors, however, he seemed to come to life. His eyes opened, and 
he began to fight her hold as he yelled, "Let me go! That's their car! They're 
coming for me! Dad! Mom!"

     Clare let her grip slacken, and the child writhed to the ground. The 
vehicle was a good distance away, too far to pick out passengers, but she moved back 
toward the building regardless. There were stirrings of hunger from her 
injuries, and Clare thought better of staying with the boy or his imagined parents. He 
was out of grave danger for the moment, and that would have to be sufficient. There 
was a gust of wind, and she was gone.

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

     Vachon landed at the loft in an exasperated mood and practically slammed 
the buzzer. There was no response. 

     "What did you expect?" he muttered. "No one answers doors in this town 
anymore."

     Feeling impatient, Vachon opted for the skylight and eased his way indoors. 
Of course no one was home. It was becoming a tradition.

     

     He took the liberty of sitting on Nick's motorcycle (Knight wasn't there, 
so it wasn't like he was going to fuss at the imposition), hoping it would be 
conducive to figuring out where to go next. He could try the Raven. Clare might 
consider the current circumstances an emergency, worthy of her involvement. She might 
even become annoyed if she though Nick was beating her to the action. Vachon 
grunted and rolled his eyes.

    

     A buzzer sounded, and Vachon instinctively jumped off the motorcycle with 
visions of being caught messing with another vampire's stuff. The security 
monitor held an unexpected face.

     "Domino..."  The man looked weak and unhealthy on screen. Up close and 
personal, his condition had to be worse. Vachon swept down the stair exit, 
running around the building to meet him rather than wait for Dom to come up by 
the elevator. He found the vampire leaning limply against the door, one arm 
wrapped tightly around his stomach.

     "Dom...How did you get away?" As Vachon rushed forward, the younger 
vampire collapsed into his arms. Javier pulled the hand aside that Domino was 
using to shield his stomach and discovered the reddened puckered edges of a 
stake wound. "You're not healing."

     "I need...more..."

      Vachon frowned in concern, then  unzipped the 
closure on the right sleeve of his leather jacket, baring his forearm.  

     Vachon brought his wrist to Domino's mouth, allowing the man to bite it 
reflexively in greedy hunger. Dom's eyes opened as he drank, his irises pulsing 
with bloody repletion. He released a heavy breath, letting Vachon's arm fall 
aside, then attempted an appreciative smile. "Clare brought me a couple bottles 
of human when she broke me out," Domino whispered, "but I was too far gone 
to be replenished by that type of sustenance alone. I wanted to drink so badly 
on my way here, but I'm so weak, and there have been too many people around to 
risk a fight. Thank you, Vachon."

     "Happy to oblige," the Spaniard said casually, then prodded for new 
information. "You said Clare found you?"

     Domino nodded. "Through Cecilia...she destroyed Cecilia." He tried to mask 
his expression, a maze of pain and relief, but was unsuccessful. "Clare set me 
free and went back inside. She's aiming for Thomas."

     "What about Ivy? Dom, I need to find Ivy," Vachon said urgently. "Where 
did Thomas and Cecilia have you imprisoned?"

     "It was a two-story building with a limestone front off of Davenport at 
Marchmount. There's an extensive basement. That's where the victims are kept. 
The walls are stoned in to muffle the screaming."

     Vachon grimaced. "Yeah. I'm using limestone in Clare's new house for noise 
control, though torturing mortals in the cellar wasn't what I had in mind. Dom, 
are you going to be okay if I leave?"

     "Yes. Just get me inside and out of sight."

     Vachon helped Domino to the stair access, then up to the loft where he left 
the other vampire laying on the sofa. The wound marring Dom's belly had 
subsided into a rosy pock mark about the size of a dime, and some of the grayish 
tint had faded from his features. Javier checked the fridge, grabbing an armful 
of random bottles, and set them within Domino's reach. "I'm afraid this all might 
be steer blood, but it'll tide you over until someone can bring you the good 
stuff."

     Even in his condition, Domino managed to look appalled at the insult to his 
palate. The two men exchanged grins, then Vachon was gone.

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

     "Patrick!"

     Janette and Robert cradled the boy between them with relief.

     "You are safe. We are here now. Nothing can hurt you," Janette promised 
roughly.

     "Mom, Dad...I want to go home," Patrick whimpered.

     Janette glanced up at Robert as she kissed the boy's brow. "Take him. Clean 
him up and make him forget this nightmare."

     Robert stood, hugging his son against his chest. "What are you going to 
do?"

     She frowned critically at the building behind them. "Ivy is here somewhere. 
I can't leave her behind. At the same time, Patrick needs care and coddling. You 
are his father, and he needs you. Ivy needs me."

     Robert clasped Janette's cheek and kissed her. "Be careful. Consider how 
Patrick ended up outside, alive."

    "Ivy could have helped him," Janette shrugged. "Does it really matter at 
this moment? Be thankful that he is in your arms, then get him a bath!"

     Robert kissed her smiling mouth once more, then carried Patrick to the car. 
He watched Janette disappear inside the structure, clutching worriedly at the 
steering wheel, then resolutely drove away.

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

     Natalie slipped into Clare's hotel suite, releasing Sidney from his carrier 
so he could investigate the cat fortress occupying a fair portion of the second 
bedroom. Nat tossed her suitcase onto the spare bed, then strolled into the 
sitting room, intent on further investigation. 

     Natalie knew that the police had released the room back into the care of 
the hotel almost a week ago. Apparently the Four Seasons staff had been busy bees 
removing all signs of a homicide, restoring the suite to it former elegance. 

     It appeared that they had completely replaced the plush cream carpet 
cushioning the floors rather than begin the laborious process of scrubbing out 
the bloodstains. Natalie wondered if the charges would show up on Clare's bill. 
After all, her sire knew blood; she might have even suggested scrapping the 
stained furnishings from the beginning. The mattress in the master bedroom 
certainly had the faint scent of factory newness, and they had refitted the 
bathroom, covering the floor and walls with a fresh sheen of marble. Natalie 
could certainly detect the lingering fragrance of blood in the rooms, but a 
mortal, unaware of any dire history, would never suspect the suite as the scene 
for a murder.

      Natalie mused with a heavy heart.

     She entered Clare's walk-in closet (which also had a new door) and found 
the racks filled with garments enclosed in plastic. The hotel had dry-cleaned 
everything using their own service. Natalie ran her fingers distractedly over 
the slick bags, enjoying the cool rustlings that ensued. 

     Sidney joined her in the closet and made imperious noises as he glided 
around her ankles. Nat picked him up and wandered back into the sitting room. 
"Let's see what Clare has in the way of cat food, hmm, Sid?" She peered 
through the bar cabinets and the mini-fridge, searching for feline supplies. 
There were ceramic bowls etched with a 'C,' and a wide rectangular box that would 
serve Sidney's bathroom needs, but no food suitable for a cat.

     

     Natalie ended up ordering a bowl's worth of ground chicken from room 
service. Sid's vet would curse a blue streak if she found out Nat had fed him 
straight meat, but the cat vacuumed down the poultry with abandon, 
unconcerned or unaware that it was supposed to be bad for his digestion. She 
planted a kiss on Sid's broad gray forehead, then ventured out for some food of 
her own.

     Natalie returned to the Raven, intending to share the news with her sire 
that she'd 'borrowed' the hotel suite. There was no sign of Clare among the club 
guests, so Natalie decided to check in back. Tapping on the door earned no 
response, so she entered unbidden. The rooms appeared empty, yet LaCroix's 
voice hung in the air, traveling from speakers attached high on the walls, 
perhaps filtering directly from the sound booth itself.

     Her eyes centered on the Japanese sword, lying unexpectedly on a side 
table. Natalie lifted it gently, recognizing the carved handle with mother-of-pearl 
banding from Figaro's office wall. She ran her fingers absently along the blade. 
It was slightly crusted with dried blood, and Natalie wondered how it had ended 
up here.

     "Excellent craftsmanship, is it not?"

     Natalie started from her daze and whirled around to find LaCroix standing 
by the door. She glanced accusingly at the radio speakers, which now delivered a 
Baroque quartet. "It is unique. I came to see Clare," she added defensively.

    "Clare is not here," LaCroix countered. He considered her for a moment, then 
offered an elaboration. "Cecilia was so kind as to pay a visit. Clare...dealt 
with her, then left for parts unknown. I assume that she is hunting Thomas as we 
speak."

    Natalie's eyes widened with disbelief. "You don't know where she is? Why 
didn't you go with her?"

     "Are you suggesting that she isn't capable of exacting her own revenge?" 
LaCroix mocked. "She would be insulted at the notion. This is Clare's vendetta. 
She neither wants, nor needs, interference."

     "So you believe there's no danger? I thought Thomas was almost as old as 
you or Clare."

     "I didn't say there wasn't danger, dear Natalie, I said Clare was capable 
of handling it. Thomas may be a challenge, but, in the end, he alone is no match 
for your sire."

     Natalie's voice became uncertain. "Do you mind if I wait here? I need to 
see her."

     LaCroix smoothly gestured toward the sofa. "By all means, be my guest." He 
turned to study his blood supply, debating over his vintage choice as he spoke 
casually. "I am surprised that you don't have somewhere else to be."

     Natalie's lips twisted, and she plunged into her admission. "I wanted to 
ask Clare if it was alright for me to stay indefinitely at her hotel suite. My 
apartment is too vacant for habitation at the moment." With those words, she looked 
suspiciously at LaCroix.

     He uncorked his blood choice and offered Natalie a glass. "How 
interesting...and whose idea was this 'move'?"

     The set of Nat's chin was stubborn as she accepted the proffered beverage. 
"Mine."

     "This will be wonderful news for Clare, and terrible news for..." LaCroix 
let the observation trail away, incomplete.

     "I am perfectly aware of the ramifications of my decision," Natalie 
insisted.

     "Of course you are. Pardon me for not staying to keep you company," he 
excused, "but I am in the middle of a broadcast."

     "I understand."

     LaCroix nodded in farewell, leaving her to the bottle of blood and her 
thoughts. He had interesting thoughts of his own. LaCroix returned to his 
microphone and interrupted the musical selection for a sudden speech:

     "Let us talk about a new subject, gentle listeners, one that has occupied 
my mind for some time now. Let us talk about children. Children...are an act of 
creation. We give to them our blessings, our talents, and our faults. We teach 
them, we shelter them, and we mold them so that they may acquire the skills 
necessary to cope with the nature of their existence. We challenge them, and we 
make them think. We offer them affection, camaraderie, and a measure of 
discipline. That is what they need.
     "Any parent can tell you that giving a child what it needs has its perils. 
Children rebel. Children forget who made them and lose sight of how much they 
owe a parent. They owe a parent *everything.* But what does that matter?
     "In the end, parents sacrifice for their children. They don't always get to 
make the easy decisions. Parenthood is not all beaming with pride at a child's 
trophies as we pat them on the head. Sometimes we are forced into severe 
actions to protect our children from their own folly. Sometimes, we must let 
them fall before we can bandage their wounds, and for that, we are called 
unfeeling and abusive. Our offspring stare at us with rebuking eyes, damning us 
for not understanding them, and they turn away from our guidance. 
     "Children often forget that we have traveled these paths before, when they 
weren't yet a twinkle in a smile, before they took their first breath, and 
before they supped on their first meal. A parent speaks from experience when we 
instruct, when we chastise, and when we praise. A parent wants their child to 
succeed. A parent wants their child to enjoy the fortunes that are laid at their 
feet and banish the demons that cause them to falter.
     "Let me share a secret, dear listeners...let me assure you lest there be 
some confusion...no true parent wants to see the destruction of their child. We want 
them to prosper and flourish. You see, a parent gives up a part of themselves 
when they bring a child into the world. They are bonded by blood, bound by the 
spirit. Hurting a child, hurts ourselves...and giving a child up means 
sacrificing part of our soul. Is it any wonder that the act is so difficult? Is it any 
surprise when the apron strings threaten to strangle? But a parent cuts them, because 
they must...because sometimes a child becomes more of a burden than a gift.
     "When a son repeatedly shuns a father's wisdom and sneers at his 
birthright: let him go.
     "When a daughter denies her family and calls herself an orphan: let her go.
     "When children reject your love and your care and demand to make their own 
way: let them go.
     "A proper child turns to a parent when they are in need of comfort. A 
loving child considers their parent's advice and respects their legacy. But a thankless 
child...
     "How sharper than a serpent's tooth, it is to have a thankless child. They 
pierce the heart and fill it with venom, until the only possible act is to cut 
the poison out. Don't allow it to fester. Set the thankless child free. Save 
yourself. Wish them well and goodnight."

     LaCroix looked over at the clock on the wall, finding the time nigh on 
eleven-thirty. He adjusted the microphone closer, settling in for a comfortable coze 
with his attentive audience.

     "I have had several children, dear listeners, with varying degrees of 
success. Some behaved as they ought, some wanted to kill me...some tried. Some loved 
me too much, and some -"

     The words died in his throat. Suddenly, there was a blackness welling up 
inside him: a fear, a pain, a loss. LaCroix flung his body out of his chair, 
shoving aside the club patrons as he stormed to his private rooms. There was blood 
spilt on the floor, and the shattered glass littered the rug like crystal thorns. 
Natalie was huddled into a ball on the floor, clutching at her chest. 

     LaCroix's face twisted with rage and denial. He dragged Natalie to her feet 
as he demanded, "WHAT IS HAPPENING?!"

     "There was a pain in my heart," she coughed over her tears. "It was 
burning; I didn't think I could bear it any more. Then it was gone!" Natalie shook her 
head hysterically. "I don't feel anything!" She buried her face in her hands, sobbing 
into her palms. "There's nothing there. I'm alone."

      LaCroix roared. 

     The sound broke through the din of the Raven's festivities, shocking the 
patrons into stunned silence. The club hung quiet for several frozen seconds. 
Vampires and mortals exchanged worried glances as the wrenching cry echoed 
off the walls and faded into nothing. When they next spoke, their voices were 
low, wreathed with a funereal solemnity, and no one dared to ask why.

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

     "Am I living yet?" Ivy sneered. "How can you possibly show me anything 
about living? You don't know how to live. Isn't that what this warped game is 
about? All you understand is destruction. You kill people's dreams and their 
spirits, you choke their creativity, and you take their purity and their pride. 
Well, what I've learned about living didn't come from people who take, but people 
who give. Living comes from love, from support and loyalty, and from respect." 
She released a bitter laugh. "But those words mean nothing to you. You can't 
understand anything that remotely puts any other creature on the same level as 
you. No, that's too much input for that twisted black hell you call a brain."

     "All of this rage, my child, the indignation..." Thomas crowed. "Don't you 
think it's a bit much? After all, you're the girl who brought about the little 
boy having his chest cleaved open....*chop**chop*!"

     "No. That's not true. None of it is my fault. You're the one who took 
Patrick. You and Cecilia murdered Mark and my family, not me."    

     Thomas shook his head. "And after everything that I've done, you don't 
appreciate me. The wealth of feelings and pain that I have allowed you to 
experience, the amusement in snapping another living thing like a twig...I let 
you have that. You should fall on your knees, worshipful that I picked you to 
have the life and death that all but a handful of creatures never know."

      Ivy blinked, then squinted as if overcome by a sudden realization. She 
continued to dig her hands into her pockets, one flicking the cap of a squeeze 
bottle, coating her fingers liberally with its viscous contents, the other 
grasping a long, thin stick, bulbed and rough at one end. "You're right," she agreed. 
"If only I could say that I wished I had never met you, that I wished I had died from 
the heroin in that alley," Ivy shook her head mournfully as she slowly began to 
approach her sire, "but I can't. I have seen such sights, and I've met such 
extraordinary people. I can't imagine forsaking that, despite the horror with 
which you've haunted me." Ivy paused to stand before him with such an earnest 
expression, Thomas' face split into a fiendish smile. "Perhaps I should fall to 
my knees before you," Ivy whispered, then paused for several pendulous seconds, 
"but I won't."

     She whipped her left hand out of her jacket, smearing her fingers coated in 
mineral oil over her sire's cheek while she simultaneously started a match with 
a flick of her right thumbnail. An instant later, the flame lit up Thomas' face 
like a bonfire. He backhanded her, sending Ivy flying backward across 
the room, then began to scrub furiously at his burning skin with the sleeves of 
his wool coat. 

     Ivy scrambled to her feet, digging in her pockets for more fuel. By the 
time her sire smothered the fire down, leaving the left half of his head a raw 
blister, her grip had dug out the bottle of rubbing alcohol and another match. As he 
rushed her, she splashed the liquid in his face and sparked another light. This 
flame lasted for brief seconds, dying as the alcohol swiftly evaporated, but it 
left Thomas temporarily blinded.

     Ivy had aimed to stop his charge, but her sire could fight on sound and 
instinct, as well as sight. He caught her with an expert uppercut to the chin, 
breaking her jaw with a sickening crunch. She flailed in panic as he grabbed her 
by the throat. Hand-to-hand combat was the very thing she'd wanted to avoid. 
Once he got a hold of her, Ivy knew she was no match for Thomas' strength.

     Her hands still free, Ivy reached under her waistband for one of the 
drumsticks she'd hidden there. Thomas was twisting at her neck, trying again to 
snap a vertebrae. She could hear the bones cracking as she struck at his side 
with the piece of wood. She felt it slide between his ribs and experienced a moment 
of victory at his shout. Then her neck broke, and Ivy sank into a dark void.

     Thomas clubbed her awake with something blunt. Ivy groaned, but wasn't yet 
capable of lifting her arms to shield herself. She pried her eyes open to find 
red glowing lenses smirking down at her in anticipation.

     "You've almost been...fun," Thomas hissed, then held a wooden stake in 
front of her face. "I'm not in the mood to play with a puppy, though. I'd like killing 
you, but it's too early. You have thirty-five minutes to midnight, and I want 
you to keep still while I prepare. Remember: I've got to move the little boy's 
entrails out of the way to make room for your body. Let's go ahead and say our 
farewells now... or would you like to kiss and make up?"

     Ivy knew it wasn't a brilliant move, especially considering she'd just 
barely regained feeling in her hands, but the urge was overwhelming. She spit in his 
face.

     Thomas wasn't amused. He slapped her so hard, for a second she thought her 
neck had broken again. Ivy realized her feet would work, however, and kicked 
out in a spasmodic gesture. 

     "That's it," her sire snarled as he caught her ankle in one hand and 
squeezed. "You earn a piece of wood in your stomach, and I get some silence until 
showtime."

     Ivy flinched as he raised an arm to strike at her with the post, but the 
blow never came. There was a flash and a clatter, then Ivy saw the stake lying 
abandoned across the floor. 

      Moving into action, Ivy crawled to her knees, treading methodically toward 
the wooden fragment until it was within arm's reach. She grasped the stake, 
holding it aloft as if it was a treasured prize. Ivy lifted her eyes, and the 
sight of Thomas' back lured her like a beacon. She pulled herself to a stand, focusing 
her gaze into marking an imaginary bulls-eye on her sire. She lunged forward with 
all the power she could muster, pushing Thomas' body into the far wall as she 
stabbed at his heart. The wood slid to the hilt with a sizzle, leaving less than 
a centimeter free of flesh.

     Ivy stepped back, triumph soaring through her veins. Suddenly, she gasped. 
There were hands stretched around her sire, clawing at his back in a parody of 
an embrace. A woman's fingers clutched at the stump of the stake, desperate to 
pull it free.

     Ivy stumbled backward several steps, clutching her sides in horror. 
"Ohmigod...what have I done?"

     She realized that Clare had saved her. Clare had been fighting Thomas, and, 
when she'd staked her sire, Ivy had impaled them both.

     Clare's eyes glittered at the young vampire over Thomas' shoulder with 
unholy light. "Take...it...OUT!" she screamed.

     Ivy moved to comply, but strong hands gripped her from behind. "Leave her!" 

     Ivy looked up, her eyes wide with shock, to find Janette restraining her. 
"I can't! You don't understand, Janette...Clare helped..."

     "Ah..." Janette interrupted, "Clare may have helped you, but that was 
before you thrust a stake through her, non? I don't believe that she will think very 
kindly of you now."

     Clare grew too weak to support the burden of keeping Thomas upright. One 
of her feet caught, and they tumbled to the floor. Ivy stepped toward her, but 
Janette held her back again. "But..." Ivy protested weakly as she gestured 
wildly toward the fallen woman.

     Janette turned Ivy around so that she faced away from the bodies. "Leave 
her," she commanded. "If Clare survives, she will only want to destroy you. If 
she dies, you will be safe. *Patrick* will be safe." 

     "But Patrick...Thomas killed him!" the girl wailed.

     "No. Patrick is alive. Robert is taking him home right now." Janette 
grasped Ivy's chin, holding it firmly as she looked into the girl's eyes. "We can be 
together as a family, but not if Clare survives. Do you want us to be a family, 
Lierre?"

      Ivy began to cry in desperate pants. Each decision seemed to be wrong. 
"Please don't make me decide between you and Clare. Why was she here?!"

      "You put the stake through her heart, Ivy. It's your choice what happens 
next. Do you want us to be a family?"

      Ivy looked away as she wiped at her eyes. She bit at her lip, feeling as 
if her 
stomach might crawl up her throat as the word of betrayal came. "Yes!"

     Janette gave her a mothering smile, then tested Ivy's pockets. "What do you 
have in your jacket?" Ivy pulled them inside out, offering up the matches and 
mineral oil. Janette calmly took the supplies, then pushed the girl toward the 
door. "Go on, and I will catch up with you. Remember: Clare and Thomas were 
still fighting when you ran. You don't know what happened, and Lierre..." she 
called, causing the young vampire to look back at her from the doorway. "We 
will *never* speak of this again."

     Ivy nodded in agreement, then she ran.

     Janette efficiently trickled mineral oil over the throw rugs and wall 
hangings decorating the room. She followed the fuel with a rain of matches, lighting up 
the chamber with a dozen small blazes. 

     As the fires started to feed themselves, Janette approached the fallen 
bodies. The stake rose from Clare's back by several inches, and Janette yanked it free 
and rolled Clare onto her back, delighting at the pain on the woman's face. She 
kicked Thomas' body out of her way, then crouched down, her expression 
flooded with malicious intent. "That was for Daniel," Janette raged. She raised 
the stake high, her mouth wide with victory as Clare's lids slitted open to meet 
her ferocious gaze. "This is for ME!!" 

     Clare screamed as the wood sank into her heart once more.

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

      Ivy ducked down the stairs, feeling as if the guilt would consume her. It 
had been the wrong choice to leave, and yet it felt like the only one she could 
make. Janette, Robert and Patrick *were* her family now. Everyone else was dead.

     Except Vachon.

     Ivy propped against the cool, smudged wall, her limbs shaking with self-
revulsion. "Ohmigod...what am I going to do? How do I hide this?" she cried, 
the sound echoing down the murky hall.

    Smoke began to waft from somewhere above. Ivy looked dazedly at the stone 
walls, wondering where the cloudy air came from. She jogged down the dark 
hallway, tracking the smell. At the end of the winding corridor, smoke pooled in 
the final chamber. Ivy glanced around frantically for the source. 

    She spotted a grill in the ceiling that spouted a steady stream of carbonous 
fumes. Climbing onto the lower left branch of the star-shaped table in the 
center of the room, Ivy yanked the metal grate open. It appeared to be a vent, lined 
with insulation and filters.  she thought 
with startled comprehension,  There was a flash of light, then Ivy witnessed a stream of 
fire whistling toward her, swiftly burning a path along the flammable lining.  She 
dove from the table, experiencing a wave of heat at her back as flames exploded 
from the opening.

     Ivy crawled out of the chamber, envisioning the event repeating through the 
other cells as the fire grew above stairs. 

     She shuffled down the corridor, stopping at a numbered door. Using her 
shoulder as a battering ram, she butted it open. Smoke polluted the air in a 
thick screen. She heard coughing and discovered a man huddled on the floor, his 
hands and feet chained to the wall. Ivy snapped him free, then slung the man's 
limp body over her shoulder, then scrambled him to safety.

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

    Nick searched the streets thoroughly looking for a sign of the Ferrari that 
would contain Ivy and Vachon. The car was a singular landmark, but it wasn't 
anywhere to be found within the triangle of his loft, the townhouse, and 
Screed's former hole in the wall.

     He turned toward Davenport, landing near the appropriate intersection, and 
eyed the surrounding buildings for a sign of which one held Thomas' stronghold. 
He began to peruse each structure up close, monitoring them for suspicious 
signs. Half a dozen buildings later, his frustration began to mount.  It was 
past eleven-thirty, and there was no sign of Robert or Janette. Nick felt plagued by 
a gnawing sense of urgency that picked at his nerves. He perceived grief reaching 
out at him from a distance, but he didn't know which way to turn.

     Suddenly, Nick noticed tendrils of heavy smoke rising from a building half 
a block away. He ran toward the edifice, then saw Ivy trip outside, lowering a 
man's body to the ground. Nick rushed her, grabbing her by the arms to seize her 
attention. Ivy released a hysterical shriek, her eyes fluttering wildly, and he 
shook her, demanding, "What happened? Where's Patrick?!"

     "Janette and Robert took care of him...he's safe," Ivy said in a rush, then 
tried to pull away. "I've got to go back in."

     Nick held her firm. "What about Thomas?"

     She stared at him blankly for several seconds, then stuttered, "I-I don't 
know." She glanced with haunted features back at the building. "I'm not sure. 
When I left..." Ivy swallowed a rising tide of panic, "Thomas was fighting with 
Clare. I didn't see the fire start."

     Nick squeezed her upper arms firmly. "Clare's inside?"

     Ivy nodded. "But listen...the other victims are locked underground. They're 
going to asphyxiate unless we get them out, and I haven't found Domino yet!"

    Nick pulled her toward the building then, commanding, "All right...show me 
where."

    They unearthed a half-dozen more injured bodies before emergency crews 
began to arrive. The building was roughly four blocks from a fire hall, and they 
had noticed signs of the blaze, calling in the situation to the police and 
medical support. Nick flashed his police badge to the fire personnel and barreled back 
inside the building before they could protest. Ivy moved to follow, but they 
caught up with her. An EMT, seeing the smoke on her face and clothes, tried to 
fit her with an oxygen mask, but she pushed him away.

     Ivy spotted Janette on the fringes of the growing crowd, and approached her 
nervously. "You should go before anyone else arrives. I told Nick that you were 
with Robert and Patrick back at home."

     Janette reached out a hand toward her. "Come with me."

     "No. Not right away. I want to see what happens. I'll join you soon. I 
promise."

     "Don't take too long," Janette murmured with a smile, then strolled into 
the shadows.

     Nick rescued two more of the victims before the fire crew intervened. Ivy 
quietly walked up beside him, asking in a hesitant voice, "Did you see anyone?"

    Nick shook his head. "Not Domino, Clare, or your sire. You should get out of 
here soon. It's going to be awkward or downright dangerous if someone decides 
they need a statement from you."

     Ivy nodded painfully, then her attention was caught by a figure in the 
distance. Her body felt numb as she moved closer, caught in the bleakness of 
Vachon's features. The finality of what she'd done struck at her insides, 
strangling her spirit in a python of regret. She stood before him, trapped by 
the pain in his eyes, and was afraid to speak.

    Vachon lifted his hands, holding her chin between his palms. "Where is 
Clare?" His voice conveyed that he already knew the answer.

     Ivy felt the tears start down her cheeks again. She swore they came from 
sadness, not fear of the truth. "I don't know."

     Nick had followed her approach, and Vachon lifted his head to meet the 
detective's gaze. "I felt Clare in pain, and then there was nothing."

    The blonde vampire turned to stare at the building, his eyes wide with 
shock. "What are you saying, Vachon...that she's still in there, injured?"

     The Spaniard swallowed, his words coming in a half-whisper, "I think she's 
gone...permanently." Ivy wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed, not 
daring to say another word. Vachon brushed a hand over her smoky hair and 
offered her a pained grin. "It's after midnight, Ives. Happy Halloween."

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

     November 4, 1996

     The Metro police officers were corralled around the conference table. There 
was an evidence packet lying in the middle of its surface, quietly taunting each 
individual present. 

     "Are you sure about this, Doctor Lambert?" the Captain asked.

     "As sure as anyone could be," Natalie answered. "Clare was wearing a jacket 
with these bone buttons the last time anyone saw her. They were the only 
evidence we found after the fire. There were no other bones present on the 
premises, but there were multiple explosions once the heating and air systems 
caught. There have been instances of people being completely incinerated in 
similar circumstances."

      "Then how come Clare's button's weren't *incinerated,* too?" Schanke 
demanded.

      "She didn't have to be wearing the coat when the explosion happened, 
Schank," Nick said gently.

      "Right, so she didn't even have to be in the damn building!"

      "Look," Natalie broke in, "none of us want to believe it. I wish I could 
think of some loophole, but based on the evidence...based on my gut instincts...I'm 
going to report that I believe Clare Douglas and the perpetrator of the Number 
murders died in that fire. I'm sorry. You have no idea how sorry I am."

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

     Jennifer Schanke buried her eyes in her father's sleeve. "Why? It's not 
fair!"

     "I know, Pun'kin," Schanke said as he cuddled his daughter close. "I know. 
Sometimes the wrong things just happen. It doesn't make sense. We can't control 
it...people die out of season, Jen. Remember, though, you know that she was 
trying to help people when she died. That's good for her, you know?"

     "But I don't want her to die!" she croaked in a sob, turning away from him 
to cry into her pillow. "Clare promised that she wouldn't leave without saying 
goodbye. She wouldn't break a promise, not her." Jen looked up, her eyes 
suddenly shining with a ray of hope. "It could be a mistake, Dad, just like you 
and the plane. The police said you were dead, but a couple days later you came 
home. She can come back, just like you did!"

     "Hon, what saved my life was a one in a billion piece of luck." Schanke 
sighed heavily as he wiped away some of his daughter's tears. "I can't *make* 
you accept that she's gone, Jen, but trust me: it's going to hurt you a helluva 
lot more if you don't let go. Clare thought you were special, you know? She wanted 
you to be happy. Don't let her down."

     Jennifer hugged her father tightly, soaking the front of his shirt. "It's 
not fair!"

     "I know, Pun'kin," Schanke repeated. "I know."

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

December 7, 1996

     Nick displayed no emotion as he entered the loft. There was the same 
furniture, the same appliances, and the same rug, but it felt empty. He walked 
to the fridge out of habit, pulling a bottle out and snapping its cork free as he 
hunted for his remote control. He clicked the blinds closed, taking his first 
sip of the new day, and let his thoughts wander over how Natalie looked at the station 
the night before.

     She seemed to be going through the motions of her job, not really excited 
or challenged by it anymore. She didn't ignore Nick, or show him any partial 
attention. It was as if her spirit had died, and she no longer cared to connect 
with anyone.

     Nat continued to live in Clare's former hotel suite, and finally let her 
apartment go at the end of November. On his nights off, Nick would watch her 
windows, sometimes following Natalie to see how she lived. Twice, he had 
actually seen her hunting, and it troubled him deeply. It was more than just the 
kills: it was the feeling that she was unhappy, that Natalie felt lost and at 
loose ends.

     Nick wanted to help her. He wanted to comfort her and love her, but he was 
torn at just where he should begin.

     He wandered over to the piano. An easel rested beside the lacquered 
instrument, supporting a painting covered by a slip of lace. Nick pulled the 
fragile material away and stared at the portrait of Natalie that he'd done 
almost six months before.  Nick thought grimly. 

     Nick sighed and turned on the radio. The Nightcrawler's voice rose to greet 
him in smooth, rhythmic tones. LaCroix had resumed his broadcasts a few nights 
earlier, disappearing completely after Clare's death. Nick had gone to the Raven 
in search of his sire, unsure of what he intended to say or why he even came, 
and LaCroix's absence had come as a mixture of disappointment and relief.

     Nick returned to the kitchen for a glass, then settled on the couch as he 
drank, staring at the painting of Natalie and listening to his sire's speech.  he realized.  Nick sipped his 
blood and tried the emotion on for size.

     "I smell her," the Nightcrawler said. "I enter a room, and the scent hits 
me in a wave of gardenias and sunlight as if she'd just left by another door. It's 
just an illusion. She's not there. She's never there. The sunlight was always my 
imagination, and the flowers belong to another time. I look at my shadow and 
see a solitary figure, alone and black. Yes, I am alone, yet she haunts me 
still. I am with her even when we are apart...forever apart...Whomever loves like that 
is tortured upon the wheel..."

     Nick rose solemnly from the couch and flicked the radio into silence. 
Bitterness wouldn't win him Natalie back, and Nick believed wholeheartedly 
that he would win her back. Didn't LaCroix and Clare show the perils of wasting 
time, of letting pride and misunderstandings steal away every chance two lovers 
had to be together? Yes, Nick would win Natalie back. In that, he had faith. 

     He just needed a plan.

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

     Murder is not necessarily due to fate. Chance weaves around a person 
becoming the victim in a killer's ode to death. Five minutes of staying too late 
at work, opening the wrong door, sharing the wrong smile - murder is a matter of 
the little things: passing the wrong place at the wrong time and striking the 
homicidal mind's imagination. 

     

     Murder catches the victim by surprise. They never think, "Today's the day I 
die." They never wonder, "Is my life as I know it going to end if I cross this 
bridge?"  No, the victim follows their merry way, luck tripping them up. It is 
an unexpected betrayal, an enemy unseen. It is an invisible weakness, known only 
to the killer, who breaks happenstance down into malleable clay.

     Murder is a matter of chance, and, somewhere, the next victim waits.

*********************************************************************
End Of Part Twenty-Nine
End Of Thankless Child


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