LC/Nat Explicit Healing A Forever Knight Story by Cagey 14 February 1997 Legalese: The characters of Forever Knight do not belong to me, but no copyright infringment is intended. The story is mine, however, so please do not repost or reprint without permission. Ella Fitzgerald's rendition of the Johnny Mercer songbook is property of Verve and Polygram. Many virtual hugs to my fearless beta readers, Jill Kirby, Maureen Wynn and Eliz Palmer--you're invaluable, as always. As always at this time of year, For the Valentines... --kg **** visit the Valentine archive: http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/1263/valarchive.html Healing She finally resorted to pen and paper--she couldn't stand the mechanical hum of the gizmos and widgets, or the shock flash glare of the blue-lit computer screen. Methodically she covered the black-lined columns of an inventory sheet with dark ink, her hand moving so quickly that the not-quite-dry script blotched as she crossed the page. "You could have made a killing in a scriptorium," Dominique drawled from the doorway. Natalie blinked at her for a moment. The young woman paused beneath the dark wood frame, her ebony hair pulled back by a violet scarf. To Natalie's sensitive eyes, her friend's clothes were a vibrancy almost forgotten, like the pale blue of daytime sky that she saw only in her dreams. The laugh lines around Dominique's chocolate eyes faded. "You know," she prompted, "Brother Lambert, fastest copyist in the West." Natalie smiled weakly, mentally kicking herself. "Sorry, Dom." Hastening to reassure her, Natalie surprised herself by admitting the truth. "I've felt kind of weird lately." "Hrrmph." The snort was tinged with frustration. "Big surprise --you don't eat, you don't sleep...." "I sleep during the day, you know that. And as for eating--" Nat waved a hand, indicating the room beyond her office walls. "If I started eating here, I'd never stop." The pulsating heartbeats of the last late-night stragglers mocked her words. If she closed her eyes, Natalie knew that she would not see the familiar blue tablecloths, the tapered candles and soft lighting, not even the sculptured presentations of food which her efficient and inspired staff turned out of the kitchen. She would see the throbbing pulse points on each neck. Hear the lethargic beating of rested, relaxed, unwary customers. She nearly shuddered. Oblivious to Natalie's turmoil, Dominique patted her own trim waistline. "I know what you mean," she agreed mournfully. "Strawberry souffle may be good for the soul, but it's doing terrible things to my diet." The absurdity of the statement jarred Natalie from her reverie. She gave a short, grateful chuckle, and pulled her mind back to business. "Did you need something?" "The jazz band for tomorrow night canceled. They sent their apologies. More importantly, they sent back the deposit. They all got food poisoning at their last gig." Dominique's face was an interesting study in pity mingled with annoyance. "Send them some flowers." Natalie tapped a ruby-polished nail on the desk, thinking. "I suppose we could do without," she mused. "Hey, what's Natalie's without live music on Friday night?" Dom complained. Natalie smiled. It was true--in the short time that she had owned the restaurant, their Friday nights had become a haven for regulars. "What about that piano player we had last month? The one you were flirting so outrageously with?" "I don't flirt!" Dominique protested with some dignity. "Besides, I happen to know that Jack has a date tomorrow night." Natalie arched an eyebrow. "Well, we weren't going out until I got off work anyway." Her eyes lit up with devilish glee. "Besides, then he'll have more money to spend on me." "That's very noble of you," Natalie agreed solemnly. "Okay," Dominique pulled on her capable manager persona once again. "I'll give Jack a call. Thank goodness we're about done for the night." She punctuated the statement with a tired yawn. "You coming out?" Natalie shook her head. "You can close up tonight." She glared at the inventory sheets. "I'll finish up here." As the young woman turned to go, Natalie stopped her with a gesture. "And Dom? Thanks." She leaned back in her chair. "I needed the break." "You think too much," Dominique pronounced, then shot Natalie a Cheshire Cat grin and disappeared. Natalie allowed herself a short, bitter smile. Too much thinking indeed. Too much planning to do. Not enough time. But the pulsating track of Dominique's heart as the woman slid farther away warned her that she had little time left. With some effort Natalie pushed aside the sound of her friend's heartbeat. "Damn!" she exclaimed in disgust. She threw down her pen and stared blankly at the sheets for a moment. With a swift movement she crumpled the paper into a tight ball. Let Dominique do it--she needed to learn how. Soon. Natalie sighed, thinking of the ever present bottle in the bottom drawer. She glared at the computer. Glared at the drawer. Glared at her own manicured fingers. Glared at the clock on the wall and found with relief that she could equitably abandon the restaurant. She could go home, start packing. In response to the thought, she had half-risen from the chair when Natalie sensed Dominique's return. "Locked up?" she called. Dominique peered through the doorway, her expression uneasy. "Just about. There's one guy left, at table three. Wants to talk to the owner." Dominique looked intrigued. "Weird guy--ordered a full meal, but didn't eat any of it." Natalie kept her face impassive. "I'll see to it. You get going-- it's late." When Dominique bustled off, Natalie stepped into the main dining room. The silence was almost oppressive, now that the patrons had gone. The silence was, in fact, complete--not one mortal heartbeat marred it. She could practically feel him. "Natalie," he breathed. Even with her sensitive hearing, she only half heard him. "LaCroix," she acknowledged just as quietly. "It's been a long time." * Now, standing across from him, she marveled that she had not sensed him before. His presence stirred her blood, a subtle hum that pricked around the edge of her senses. It reminded her unsettlingly of the anticipation which thrashed against her boundaries of control when she took the first drink of blood of the night. Or of the tightness in her chest, the warning which told her of the sunlight outside her shuttered windows in the morning. "You are looking well, Dr. Lambert," LaCroix said quietly. She did not answer, taking the time to study him instead. Her clearest memory of him was the towering figure of anger, vengeance personified as a corpse bearer. She could still recall Cal's pale hand curled toward them on the silver table in her lab. Her last impression was a shadowy one, a tall figure whispering at the fringe of consciousness; he had been, she suspected, the droning, utterly weary voice pulling at her as she balanced on the brink of death. And then there were the beating, violent, half-memories--the twin ravages of love and hate which she did not want, but which she clasped to her because she knew they belonged to *him*. They were Nick's blood ties to LaCroix. And here he was, his presence churning up those unwanted currents. "Thank you," she answered evenly. Natalie gestured to the chair beside him. "May I?" Without waiting for a reply she slid into the seat, feeling the cool leather pressed against the warm velvet of her dress. "You're looking...worn out." She said it with surprise. His complexion was as pale as ever, his height imposing, his close-cut hair and high collar vaguely menacing. But she was puzzled at the shadows around his eyes, the palpable aura of weariness which pressed against him. "Tactful as ever, I see." His expression was wry. She snorted. "Tact has never been one of my virtues, as I'm sure we both know. So, in the interests of being honest--what are you doing here?" LaCroix ran his finger across the blue silk of the tablecloth. "How could I resist a fine restaurant called 'Natalie's'?" "Easy. You keep on walking. Or flying. You should be good at it by now." His brow furrowed at her bitterness. Before he could reply, however, Dominique came to Natalie's side, placing a crowded key ring on the table beside her employer. "I've locked up." Dominique shot a look at LaCroix, faintly warning and obviously curious. Natalie wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. "Do you need me to stay?" "Thanks, Dominique," she said gently. "I'll be fine." Natalie covered Dominique's hand with her own, feeling the reassuring warmth beneath her own cool skin. "This is Lucien LaCroix." Somewhat placated, Dom gave LaCroix a short nod, then squeezed Nat's shoulder in farewell. Natalie watched her go before turning back to LaCroix. "Was I right? Will I be fine? Or have you come to finish the job?" He regarded her evenly for a moment, then sighed quietly. "Perhaps we have gotten off on the wrong foot," LaCroix said gently. "Let me start again." She was astonished when he stood and offered her a half bow. "It is a pleasure to see you again, Doctor. I had no idea that you were doing so well." LaCroix grasped her hand and raised it to his cool lips. She nearly froze when she felt his touch on her skin. "You really didn't know, did you?" LaCroix raised his eyes from her hand, his lips pursed. "No," he acknowledged, releasing her and sliding back into his seat. "I thought you were dead. I hoped it. It would have been for the best." Stung, Natalie bristled. "I guess it depends on your point of view." He leaned back in his chair, silent for a moment. "You have done well." She nearly mistook his meaning until he gestured to the room about them with an airy wave. "How did you manage it?" "Courtesy of Nick." Natalie was satisfied with the surprised look which slipped past his facade. "Before I left Toronto I cleaned out his place. All of the money. ATM and credit cards." The thought was no longer tinged with bitter glee. She watched LaCroix steadily, daring him to judge her. His lips twitched. Then, to her surprise, he chuckled softly. "You do have extraordinary depths, my dear. And resourcefulness. I shall remember it." She watched him for a moment in silence. She would not ask about Nick, dammit. "So now that you've found me, what are you going to do?" "I don't intend to *do* anything," LaCroix responded, his eyes hooded. "You weren't part of my plans." "And what are your plans?" Natalie pressed him. He closed his eyes, and she was again struck by how weary he seemed. "I shall be in town for a few days." Natalie found herself staring directly into his blue eyes when he opened them. "If it won't inconvenience you too much." She studied the tone of his voice for signs of sarcasm. "No," she replied, keeping her tone even with effort. "It won't. But now, if you don't mind, I have quite a bit of work to do before my night is complete." She rose from her chair, pulling herself up to her full height. "I'll let you out." "Don't bother," he replied; this time she sensed something different, something more familiar, in his voice. He took her hand again, but his grip was stronger than it had been before. LaCroix's lips grazed her knuckles; when she felt his teeth nick the skin, she expected the near-challenge she found in his eyes. "There's not a lock able to keep me from where I wish to go." The scrapes beneath the diamond-shaped wells of blood had not yet begun to heal when he disappeared. * Natalie drowned herself in the jarring brass of a big band. Ella Fitzgerald swam through the crowded melody, her lilting, exuberant, daylight, human voice lifting Natalie's mood slightly as she firmly closed another packing box. Nat glanced around the apartment. She hadn't much to pack, really. She'd abandoned many of her personal belongings when she left Toronto. The furniture was rented. There was no television--the news seemed somehow less pressing, movies too unreal. Only the stereo in the corner, wrapping her in an intoxicating duet between the saxophone and the chanteuse, could she call her own. Ella, the voice of an angel, warned her that something had to give. The refrain pounded in her head. Something's gotta give. Somethingsgottagive. Natalie pointedly ignored the refrigerator, sinking onto the couch instead. The window shades were tightly shut, despite the black night sky beyond. Working late hours at the restaurant kept her safely away from the sun. Nick had loved watching the sunset, she remembered. It made her sick. It physically hurt. It pricked at her half- healed soul. The image made her glance at her hand. She thought that she could barely discern the tracks from LaCroix's warning. She knew that there should be no scar. She should be healed. She should be healed by now, dammit. She ignored the refrigerator. Natalie ran a finger over the ridges of her knuckles. Her skin was milky white, the surface smooth as polished marble. An incision should reveal nothing but cold, dead cells. Not blood. Not pain. Once a coroner...once a clinical observer of the dead, always. So she clinically noted that it had taken her too long to heal from LaCroix's small infliction. Just as she had noted the increasing blood urges, first absently, then with forced detachment. Months of learning, coping, coming to terms, building a new life--about to come crashing down. What was there to be emotional about? Did LaCroix's presence have something to do with the disintegration of her fragile control? Natalie pictured him at the restaurant: bemused expression, weary eyes. She believed that he had not known that she survived. There was no reason for him to expect anything else. No reason for her to be alive. Natalie looked at the refrigerator. The door glided open. Inside was the usual congregation of misted green bottles. She did not look at them. Exiled on the top shelf was a bag. She lifted it, feeling the smooth edge of the plastic sliding across her fingertips. She hefted it in her palm, letting the contents settle like a pool within the basket of her fingers. The ruby polish on her fingernails was the same color as the human blood. The thought nearly drove her mad with hunger. Natalie hurled the bag to the back of the refrigerator, grabbed one of the bottles, and tried to wash away the internal ache. After a moment she forced herself to tear the bottle from her lips. She whimpered involuntarily, unable to stop herself from licking the last drop of blood from the glass rim. She shut the door of the refrigerator, sank to the floor, and wept. * She awoke with the feel of LaCroix's lips on her hand. Natalie blinked, willing away the sensation. She threw an arm over her face, hiding her eyes in the crook of her elbow. She did not want to look at the bedside clock--it would mean pushing aside the heaviness of her limbs, the lightness in her head. It would mean giving in to the craving clawing at her insides. With a sigh she peered over her own pale skin. Damn--she was late. Somehow she'd forgotten to turn on the alarm. Natalie lurched out of bed, knowing that she would not have time for a shower. She cursed; she'd wanted time to primp. She wanted time to slide into a dress so tight that it pinched when she breathed, that emphasized every curve, every fold of skin. She knew that LaCroix would be there again tonight. Before she left this place, she wanted to see LaCroix again. She wanted him to go back to Nick and tell him that she was well. Wonderful. Spectacular. To make him long for her, dream about her. To make him hurt as much as he'd hurt her. Natalie smiled grimly. She would make the time. * She walked down the street, the cold air swirling in little eddies around her bare shoulders. She felt the chill on her collarbone, the sharp bite of the coming frost on her fingers. She paused outside the door of the restaurant to sweep back a stray curl; she glaced at her reflection in the window, then pressed her lips together to blot the lipstick to an inviting red. In the foyer Natalie could hear the hushed conversations of the dinner patrons, and the polite applause as notes of piano melody slid into silence. She was surprised to find that Dominique was not at the door, playing hostess. She knew that Dom's welcoming smile, her eyes shining with good-natured humor, set their clientele at ease and made them feel at home. Natalie frowned. She heard his voice. "Please welcome our own hidden asset, ladies and gentlemen. A talented songbird." His warm tone, so alien to her, was punctuated by the flutter of piano keys. Natalie stepped forward, giving herself a full view of the dining room. Dominique was on the stage, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and reluctant excitement. LaCroix, poised behind the keyboard, had been waiting for her, Natalie realized. His dark blue eyes did not leave hers as Dominique, led by his lazy melody, began to sing. "When an irresistible force such as you," Natalie felt her cold heart contract. "Meets an old immovable object like me," LaCroix's gaze slid the length of her black silk dress. "You can bet as sure as you live," She thought that she saw his lips form the words. "Something's got to give, Something's got to give, Something's got to give." Dominique's voice, like velvet, echoed in her ears as she fled. * She shouldn't have gone back to the apartment. She knew it was a mistake as soon as the door slid shut behind her. "How did you get here before me?" Natalie asked flatly, hovering in front of her escape route. He was on the couch, one black-clad arm thrown across the back. Lounging, damn him, a languid smile on his lips. LaCroix raised a hand to his face, a single elegant finger resting against his temple. "I have my ways." Anger pushed her forward. "Don't give me that crap," she sneered. She threw her keys on the kitchen table, restraining herself from leaning on the solid wood for support. "I thought that I wasn't part of your plans." He cocked his head. "Perhaps you aren't." His lips parted; she could hear him breathe. "That delectable creature, however, presents interesting possib--" She was upon him before he realized it. As her nails raked across his face, she knew with certainty that he had been waiting for this. Had she? The thought made her angrier. "Leave her alone," she snarled, a low, guttural sound. "Leave her alone or I'll kill you myself, you son of a bitch. I'm a lot more determined than Nick could ever be." LaCroix held her arms pinned painfully to her sides. He ignored the line of crimson that beaded across his pale cheek. Natalie was nearly transfixed by it, though, watching the line ripple as he spoke. "My dear, I'm only trying to help you." She met his eyes, trying to freeze him with the look. "Help me? You left me to die." "Yes," he said, leaning so close that she could smell the drying blood. "I didn't expect you to survive. But you did." He cupped her chin, tilting her face up to his. She was startled by the sheer fury--at her? she wondered-- she found in his expression. "You have to accept who you are," he hissed. "The walking dead?" The words came unbidden. Her memory railed against her. Don't talk like that, Nick. You can't mean that, Nick. You are more than that, Nick. "I can't control myself," she spat. His expression softened. "What do you expect?" he asked so gently that she nearly wept. "You're starving yourself." LaCroix traced the tip of a finger down her cheek. "You are killing yourself. More slowly and torturously than even Nicholas could have managed." She reeled, as if struck. He released her, and Natalie sank back against the couch. "Blood is life," she heard him say. She watched, fascinated, as he produced the bag--the worn, clear, plastic vial of human blood. She heard the soft escape of air as he pierced the corner. He pooled a small drop on his forefinger. She closed her eyes. "Leave me alone." He was beside her, his breath in her ear. "Is that what you want?" "He left me." She heard the voice, not really registering it as her own. "No," LaCroix murmured. "I took him from you. We both thought you dead. Don't punish yourself for my mistake." His tone was almost pleading. Natalie felt her heart contract into a tighter ball. It hurt to breathe. "He left me long before you took him, LaCroix." She shuddered. "He left me when he killed me. When he hurt me with the words 'I love you' on his lips. He left me." Numbly she realized that she'd slid from the couch, fallen on her knees, the dress bunched awkwardly beneath her. The torrent of images pummeled against her fragile control. Her father's soft hand on her cheek. Mom's voice, shrill in anger. Richard's gold eyes, reflected in her own mirror.... She felt colder than ice, unable to control the chattering of her teeth. "Everybody I have ever loved." It was a dull keen. "Left me, left me." She dimly registered the fact that he had wrapped his arms around her. "Shhh," he crooned, his touch more gentle than she could have imagined. "Natalie, my sweet." She felt his hand upon her hair. He buried his fingers into the long curls, pulling her closer against his chest. She heard his heart beat once, a quiet, hollow echo. LaCroix ran his fingers through her hair, down, across her forehead. Caressing her temple. Moving to the highest part of her cheek. She opened her eyes, saw that he had captured a single blood tear on his forefinger. She watched as he raised it to his lips, tasted it. His eyes were a peculiar, shining gold. He leaned towards her, and Natalie felt his lips on her cheek. He traced her tears with his tongue. The silence rang in her ears as he moved down, caressing her neck, cupping beneath her hair to pull her closer. She tensed. This would be the end. She could not--she *would* not survive this time. He spoke into, *through* her skin. "Natalie." It was a word, a promise. "It doesn't have to be that way." He captured her lips with his. He was kneeling beside her, pulling her mouth to him with gentle ferocity. Natalie shuddered, the nervous tension that held her muscles frozen suddenly dissipating. She felt as if she were melting, pooling into his arms out of sheer amazement. His lips trailed across hers, gently, questioning. She moved her hands from her sides, threading her fingers against the back of his head, pulling his body against hers. She heard his teeth scrape across her own, felt the sharp points in his mouth with her tongue. LaCroix pulled back for a moment, looking at her. She saw the gold of her own gaze reflected in his eyes. Natalie realized abruptly how badly she wanted him. This was not LaCroix, the dark figure of vengeance. Not Nick's shadowy menace. Not even the mercurial LaCroix of last night. The fever in his eyes seemed to be infecting her. She closed her eyes, but he gripped her face between his hands. "Look at me," he spoke with ferocity. "Look at *me*." "Lucien," she whispered, tasting it. She raised a hand to him, caressing his cheek. Leaning forward, she kissed the pale line where she had scratched him. The taste of his blood sparkled on her tongue. She heard him sigh, a release so sweet that she gripped him to her. She dug her nails into his back, felt his erection pressed against her. "Please," she gasped. He nearly growled, pulling her into his lap, his back pressed into the sofa cushions. He buried his face in the silk of her dress, rubbing his cheek across her waist, moving up to trace the shadow of her breasts with his lips. She undid the collar buttons of his shirt shakily, pulling them apart enough to slip her hands down, reveling in the feel of his bare back beneath her fingertips. Her nipples strained against the sheer lace of her bra, and she arched toward his wandering tongue. He nipped at her, tracing an arc down the curve of one breast, up, around, before grasping her with his teeth, biting against the double layer of fabric. One hand pushed against her back, supporting her; the other found her knee, folded into his lap. He slid his hand around her leg, gliding up beneath the folds of her dress, kneading the muscles of her calves as she leaned into him. Natalie pushed forward, supporting herself half on him, half against the seat cushions of the couch, reveling in the dual sensations. She breathed sharply as his fingers traced the line of her panties, following around to cup her buttocks, up to stroke the small of her back softly before dipping beneath the satiny cloth. LaCroix grasped her hip with his hand, his fingers pressed into her skin, his thumb coaxing her forward. She shuddered as he ran the finger through the tight curls, teasing, touching the willing labia. He dipped into her; she felt the soft pressure of his finger, moaned as he pulled her to him with gentle stroking movements. "Lucien," she whispered. He raised his eyes from her chest, the damp fabric of her dress clinging to her nipples. Then he smiled, leaning backwards against the cushions and sliding her forward to reach her mouth. He traced kisses down the curve of her chin to the hollow of her neck, his hand never stopping in its intoxicating rhythm at her center. She felt the gentle pressure of his teeth at her neck, hesitating only long enough for her to press her hand against his head, urging him forward. She came swiftly, violently, as he slid into the soft skin. She could feel her own blood, alive for the first time since she awoke on that chilled floor in Toronto, swirling into him, could feel his own desire as he pulled the moan from her, plunging his fingers to fill her. She could feel her name on his lips. He pulled away too soon; she felt weak, unable to help him pull the dress from her shoulders, rip the remaining buttons from his own shirt to free his flesh. He supported her, murmuring softly and raining kisses on her pale skin as she tried to shrug out of her tangled underwear. Finally she was free, and taking strength from his desire she moved to pull his pants away impatiently. He chuckled, a throaty sound laced with anticipation, and she felt his fingers trace the pattern of her lips. "You have a beautiful smile," LaCroix murmured. He pushed the long, tangled hair from her face. "Hypnotic eyes." She caught his face in her hands. His eyes were ice blue, the gold temporarily at bay from his feeding. For a moment Natalie could forget that they were crossing boundaries which she had never imagined. She wondered, just for an instant, why he was really here, with her. Then he buried his face in her hair, and she didn't care. Nat half-pushed, half-followed him up onto the couch, pressing herself into the length of his body, now unencumbered by the dark clothes. Her breath caught in her throat as she realized that he was waiting for her, letting her drink in the sight of his desire for her. She ran her hands lightly down his chest, and he twitched. Natalie chuckled; her hands moved down, teasing, caressing, as he had touched her, until--in a still moment when neither of them were breathing--she slid onto him. LaCroix gave a strangled groan and clasped her to him, resting inside her, digging his hands into the soft flesh at the small of her back. She waited just a second, then ground into him abruptly, filling every part of herself with his touch. He groaned again, then moved with her, picking up her gentle pace. She pressed into him fiercely, trying to nearly crawl inside him. She rubbed her cheek across his shoulder, feeling the sharp pressure points of her own teeth on the inside of her lips. She listened to his rapid breathing, heard her own need ringing in her ears. And yet, she hesitated. "I don't know if I can control it," Natalie managed from between clenched teeth. LaCroix gripped one hand in the back of her hair, painfully, pulling her gold eyes to meet his. "I give you my heart." The words thundered in her ears; she could hear the slow pulse of her own heartbeat in rhythm with his. "Would you deny it?" A question breathtaking in its simplicity. As she drew forth his blood, she seemed too to be drawing out his essence. He came inside her as a shower of warmth; his blood filled her senses. His emotions nearly crushed her in an onslaught--gentle wonder, blinding passion, and dark fury at his Nicholas. She shuddered as they fell together, a cool sheen of blood sweat binding them together. She had no rational thoughts as she lay cradled in his embrace. Then Natalie heard him say, quite clearly, as she drifted to sleep, "What wound did ever heal but by degrees?" She wondered, as she felt the feather-light touch of his lips on her hair, whether LaCroix was speaking to her or himself. Nat threaded her fingers though his, as if to keep him there until she could find out. She slept without dreams. *end*