Subject: UF: Breaking Day (01/0?)
Date: Tue, 26 May 1998 21:15:39 -0000
From: "MOLLY K SCHNEIDER" <MOLLYSCHNEIDER@prodigy.net>
Reply-To: unnamed@MyList.net
To: <unnamed@MyList.net>

This message sent by: "MOLLY K SCHNEIDER" <MOLLYSCHNEIDER@prodigy.net>

The characters portrayed in the following fiction are the property of James Parriott, Sony, Tristar, and the gods know whom else.  The situations, actions, attitudes and dialogues are my own and in no way should be interpreted as the intention of the characters' creator or owners.  No profit is made from the use of these characters.

Permission to archive at JADFE and www.fkfanfic.com.  All others, please inquire.

Another installment of "One Night in Byzantium" will be along soon, but in the meantime, here is a sequel to "When You Don't See Me" (no, not the bedpost sequel!)

Breaking Day (01/0?)
by Molly Schneider
copyright 1998

There was some insistent logical thought fluttering like a ghost at the fringes of Nick's brain, but his satiated body was humming sweet music to him and it lullabied him to sleep, leaving the ghost unlaid.  LaCroix nestled into a more comfortable position, careful not to disturb his son, and tracked down the stray thought.

Natalie.  Ah, yes.  They both knew it was time to move on, given the change in their relationship.  They hadn't discussed it yet.  LaCroix was all for simply putting their business affairs in order and leaving, but he knew Nicholas' attachment to his mortal friends would demand of him some proper leavetaking.  He sighed.

He did not dislike the good doctor.  In truth, he found her intelligent, strong-willed, and in some whimsical way, charming.  The trauma she would put Nicholas through when he told her was something he could gladly do without, though.

The prudent thing to do was to let his son handle his affairs the best he could.  It was difficult, but he was learning.  He permitted himself a moment of amused exasperation.  Parenthood! he thought, and slept.

****

A cropped blond head appeared around the edge of the shower.  "Need your back scrubbed?" suggested LaCroix with an impish smile.  Nick looked over his shoulder and grinned.  "I'd say yes, but I'd never get to work."  As LaCroix opened his mouth to respond Nick aimed the spray of water at him.  The Roman vanished.

Nick emerged from the bathroom to find LaCroix lounging across his freshly changed bed.  The other had showered before him but hadn't bothered putting his clothes back on, and Nick paused for a moment to admire the pale lean body.  LaCroix returned the scrutiny--then sighed audibly as Nick went to his closet and began to pick out clothes.  "Must you?"

"Yes."  Nick was firm.  "I've got work to do.  Besides," he said, as he shrugged on an indigo silk shirt, "I feel so full of energy I should make good use of it."

"Define 'good use.'" LaCroix said, arching his eyebrows.  Nick laughed, pulled on exquisitely cut black trousers, and sat on the bed to put on his socks and shoes.  A lazy hand caressed the silk on his back, moved up to tug gently at his blond curls.  "LaCroix!"

"Oh, very well."  The hand waved dismissively as the master lounged back on the pillows.  "Carry on with saving the world, my boy.  Just don't let it sap your strength."  At Nick's questioning look he smiled.  "I'll be waiting for you."

****

Slowly, all heads turned to follow Detective Knight as he strode into the station.  Sure, he was easily the most attractive and best-dressed man in the precinct--they were used to that--but tonight he was incandescent.  His hair gleamed, his eyes danced and there was a definite bounce in his step.  Even his pale skin seemed to be lit from within.

"Whoa, Nick!  Is it your birthday or something?"

"Schanke?  What are you talking about?"

His partner leaned forward over his desk and waggled his eyebrows.  "You look like I feel after I get a special 'present' from Myra."

Nick shook his head, laughing.  "So, do we have any work to do tonight?"

"Ah."  Schanke leaned back, tapping his pencil on his desk.  "I suppose that means you don't want to talk about it, huh?"

Nick's grin grew wider.  If only Schanke knew how fascinating his volatile expressions were to vampire eyes!  "It means I don't know what you want to talk about."

"Uh huh.  You went to military school, didn't you?"

"What?!"

"Yeah, that's it.  You know just how to refuse to answer a question without refusing to answer it.  Very tricky.  Well, you just wait.  Ol' Donny-boy will get it out of you."

"Gentlemen."  The partners looked up at the stern figure of Amanda Cohen.  Why, she wondered briefly, does one of them always look so innocent and the other always so guilty? "Got any leads on the Stratton case?"

"A few, Captain," Nick told her.  "But they're weak."

"Then I suggest you go out and try to pump them up a little, Detective.  I'd like to think the city is getting its money out of you."

"She hates me," Schanke said as they headed for the car.

They looked up the witnesses on the Stratton case, such as they were, and did second, and in some cases, third interviews.  They went back to the murder scene and walked around trying to look insightful.  They stopped for coffee, a lot.  Through it all Nick was suspiciously cheerful.

"You're gonna tell," Schanke said from time to time, "you're gonna let it slip."

They were in the Caddy again, just driving around pointlessly, when Schanke decided to close in for the kill.  "Of course," he told Nick smugly, "I already know who and what.  All I need is just one little word of confirmation.  Come on, Nick, tell your partner."

"Schanke, just what *are* you talking about?"

"Aw, give it up, Nick! What are you trying to prove? I have never seen you look this happy. The whole station could tell you got your tires rotated yesterday."

"My . . .tires?"  It bubbled up from deep in his stomach and a moment later he doubled over, convulsing in a laughing fit so out of control that he had to pull the Caddy over to the curb and kill the engine.  Schanke could only stare, openmouthed.  Geez, he thought.  Nat's a nice girl, but I wonder if she realizes what a whacko Knight is?

"That's it," Nick wheezed, when he'd recovered enough to talk.  "We're
calling it a night."

"Fine with me," Schanke said.  "Let's just drop by the morgue and see if they're done with that McGee stiff yet.  Oh, Nat is working tonight, isn't she?"

Now that was a sharp twist, thought Nick, puzzled.  "I suppose so.  Why wouldn't she be?"

They heard her before they saw her.  An excited voice carried down the hall from the coroner's office:  "Oh, Grace, he's so sweet!  And so big!  I could hardly believe it.  I never saw one that big and healthy before."

Schanke flushed.  Women!  Honestly, when they thought men weren't around to hear them they were worse than soldiers.

They walked in as Grace was nodding her head.  "He is a cutie, all right."  She and Nat looked up at the pair, Nat grinning widely.  "Look," she said, thrusting a Polaroid print at them.  "My friend Marla's baby boy.  Isn't he just great!"  The men looked at the fuzzy print of a wrinkled red lump and nodded solemnly.

"Uh, Nat.  Florian McGee?"

"Oh, sorry, Nick." She found the file on her desk and handed it to him.  "Natural causes.  Mr. McGee might have had a heart as big as the world, but he had a liver to match--and it was thoroughly pickled."

"So he was drunk and simply fell?"

"Yep."  He caught her full attention for the first time.  "Hey, you look great!  How are you feeling?"

"Wonderful," he said softly.  Grace raised an eyebrow at Schanke and slipped away.

"I'm heading home, Knight," Schanke said.  "If I get there early enough, Myra might think she forgot my birthday."

"Huh?"

"Never mind," Nick told her.  Schanke hurried down the hall, trying to ignore the tickle of unease in his gut.  He'd noticed how Nick's wattage had dimmed considerably in Nat's office.  Geez!  Something happened yesterday, but it wasn't with Nat.  Oh, no, this is not good.  This is not good at all.

She led Nick into the lab and started bustling around.  "Okay, roll up a sleeve."

"Not tonight, Nat."

She turned, leaning back against the counter as she saw the look on his face.  "Nick, what's up?  A week or two ago you were obviously in a funk.  Tonight you walk in looking better than I've ever seen you.  I think I should take a look at your blood; we may be making progress, finally."

"Nat . . ." He looked away.  He had to tell her--but it was hard, so hard.  And he couldn't do it here, in this cold, sterile place that smelled of old blood and antiseptic.  "We have to talk."

"I'm listening."

He straightened.  "Not here.  You're off tomorrow, right?  I'll call you."

He turned toward the door, then looked back over his shoulder.  "I love you, Natalie."  And then he was gone.

Great, she thought.  He loves me.  So why do I feel so rotten?

Nick stepped out of the elevator with a small sigh.  "That's not the mood you left in," LaCroix commented, looking up from the laptop.  His son shrugged off his jacket and holster and leaned over his master, wrapping his arms around his shoulders.  "You really did wait for me, didn't you?"

"As I said."

Nick planted a tender kiss on his forehead.  "I'm glad."  He went to the refrigerator and was relieved to find that LaCroix had stocked up.  His master tapped in a few last instructions to his broker, checked the London gold price a final time, then signed off.  He closed the laptop and put it aside, folding his hands and watching his son.  He weighed the choices in his mind, then spoke.

"I presume you saw Doctor Lambert tonight."

Nick sat at the table across from him, the overhead light making him look very tired.  "I don't want to hurt her, Lucien, you know I don't.  But . . ." He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

"Lay your possible courses of action before you, Nicholas," LaCroix said, resuming the role of teacher, "and choose the one that will advantage you the most, or disadvantage you the least."

His protégé looked at him with that reflective air that came over him whenever he was learning something.  "All right.  One, I don't tell her, and pretend everything's the same.  That doesn't hurt her, but it doesn't resolve the situation either.  Two, I don't tell her, and we just leave.  That hurts her a great deal, more than I can stand.  Three, I tell her and ask her if she wants-" he hesitated, and LaCroix finished for him: "If she wants for you to bring her across?"

"What do you think?"

I think it would be disastrous, the general responded silently, but he kept his thoughts hidden.  "It's your choice to make, mon fils, not mine."

Nick looked down into his glass.  "I don't think it would be long before she hated me."  He shook his head.  "No.  As much as I care for her, as much as I want us to remain close to each other, it wouldn't be Natalie.  So the only choice is to tell her the truth, and then leave her."  His voice trembled on the last words.  He dropped his head in his hands.  "LaCroix," he moaned.

LaCroix went to him, sank down beside his chair, and held him.  Nick turned into the embrace, hot tears against LaCroix's cool skin.  "Why?  Why do I hurt everybody?"

"Because you love," replied his master softly, and lifted them upstairs.

He carried his child to the bed, Nick's arms wrapped around his neck.  Tenderly he laid him on the bed and undressed him like a child.  Stroking the beloved face he asked, "Do you wish me to leave you by yourself tonight?"

"No!"  Nick clutched at him.  "Don't go, Lucien.  I need you now.  Hold me."

Their mouths met, exchanging memories of spring rains and quiet mornings, of wooden rafters and the soft sound of horses.  Hands moved caressingly over cherished skin.  Naked, LaCroix slid in next to his beloved and pulled the covers up over them.  He gathered Nicholas' hands in his and covered his face with light kisses.  Remember? he said through their link.  Remember winter mornings sandwiched between feather beds and goosedown comforters, making our own warmth?  Remember Italian nights with the scent of orange blossoms heady on the evening air? Remember the books we read together before a thousand fires?

Yes, his son replied, snuggling closer, twining his legs with LaCroix's.  I remember, all this and more.  He wrapped his arms around his lover's neck and licked the hollow of his throat, oh so slowly.  LaCroix worked his hands between them to rub tiny circles around Nicholas' nipples.  He pinched the buds lightly until they puckered and stood erect.  Their erections touched, and they rocked against each other easily.

"Mmmm," Nick sighed.  "Good.  Yes, that's good."  He stroked down LaCroix's arms, marveling at the strength in his biceps and tilted his head back so his master could savor the tempting flesh of his throat.

They rolled, so that Nicholas was lying underneath, cradled in his master's arms.  Like swimmers underwater they drifted into their favorite position, Nick's legs opening to wrap around LaCroix's waist, LaCroix leaning over his son to gaze into his eyes.  Effortlessly they moved together, joined. The lover worked his beloved's cock with experienced finesse.  The beloved gave himself up for his lover's adoration, drifting in the bliss of demonstrated desire.

LaCroix took his son with deep, steady strokes, filling up that yearning emptiness.  He gave more than his body: his soul throbbed with a steady chant of I love you, Nicholas, I love you.  He could not give voice to it, murmuring instead a constant stream of endearments in a half-dozen languages.  He watched rapt as his son's half-closed eyes glowed golden and his lips curled back to reveal his fangs.

I love you, I love you.  Yes, thought Nicholas dreamily.  Haven't I always known that?  He nuzzled into LaCroix's neck, just pricking the skin, and was rewarded with a long groan.  They melted together in perfect synchronicity, Nicholas' come splashing on LaCroix's belly just as his master laid his seed deep within his core.  Soft cries broke, then were muffled as their mouths filled with each other's essence.

###

(02/0?)
 
 

The old one heard the footsteps, the mortal heartbeat, the single word echoing through the dim stillness of the loft.  The one beside him stirred in his sleep, and he quieted him: shh.  It's nothing.  Sleep. Closing his own eyes again, he waited.  Patience was no longer a virtue with him, but a habit.  He had, after all, all the time in the world.

Nat stood uncertainly just inside the door.  She felt like a fool; of course Nick was asleep.  She hadn't been able to rest, wondering just what sort of talk he wanted to have, and so she'd rushed over here expecting to find him waiting for her.  Hesitantly, she started up the stairs.  "Nick," she called again--but softly, unsure as to whether she really wanted to wake him.

The bedroom door was open.  Cautiously, she looked in, then froze in shock.

He lay like an effigy on a sarcophagus, white as alabaster, his face serene, his limbs perfectly straight except for his left arm, which cradled protectively the ivory-and-gold figure at his side. Nicholas nestled against LaCroix's chest, his lips curved in a smile of contentment.  They were naked and beautiful and without shame.

No.  God, no.  No.

She wanted to run.  No, she wanted to be back in her apartment, asleep, having never come here and seen this.  As she was about to flee, the old one's eyes slid open and fixed her in an ice-blue gaze.  LaCroix held his right forefinger to his lips.  "Let's not disturb him, shall we?  If you'll wait for me downstairs I'll be with you shortly."

Nat's temper spiked upward.  If this--this--villain thought she was taking orders from him, he'd better think again!  She turned, practically running down the stairs, only to be brought up short at their foot, facing an unruffled--and dressed--LaCroix.  She exhaled a "humph!" of exasperation.  LaCroix raised an inquiringly eyebrow.  "I believe Nicholas keeps refreshments on hand for your visits, Doctor Lambert.  Would you like a cup of coffee, perhaps?"

Without waiting for a reply he moved into the kitchen.  She noted smugly that his feet were still bare.  So he moved fast, so what?  He wasn't perfect.  "You know how to make coffee?" she inquired with a heavy dose of skepticism.

"One picks up many useful skills in the course of a millennia or two."  He put together a pot of coffee quite neatly while Natalie leaned on the counter and watched him.  She had her Irish up now; damned if she was going to turn and run from him.

"So," she began her opening volley.  "Just what have you done to him now?"

"I'll assume you didn't mean that in its baser connotations, doctor.  If you're implying that I've somehow manipulated Nicholas into my bed, I assure you that the current stage of our relationship has come about entirely without design on my part."

"You're asking me to believe that Nick just suddenly flung himself into your arms?  After 800 years of running away from you?"

He turned back to the cabinets and found her favorite mug, a spoon, and a tray.  "Your coffee's ready."  He waved a graceful hand toward the couch.  "Shall we?"

She settled back on the couch, making it clear that she belonged here, while he took the armchair and steepled his fingers.  Nick would have recognized it as his chess-playing mode, but Natalie didn't know him well enough.  "I understand this must be distressing for you, Doctor Lambert.  If you had only waited until Nicholas had the chance to speak with you, he would have handled this . . . conversation.  Badly, of course, but in his own way."  He shrugged.  "It is not my wish, and certainly not my son's, to cause you more pain than is inevitable."

"Oh, I believe that!  You're loving every minute of this, aren't you?"

"Had we met under other circumstances, doctor, I would have no ill feelings toward you.  Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact; you're a charming and intelligent woman."  He leaned forward slightly.  "But understand me.  Nicholas is my son, my friend, and yes, my lover.  He is *mine*, Doctor Lambert.  And I will not allow anyone to take him from me."  That panther-smooth voice had changed subtly as he spoke, until his last few sentences were uttered in a harsh breath of absolute menace.

"No matter what he wants?"  She fought to keep her last image of Nick from her mind, of him curled up naked next to LaCroix, smiling in his sleep.

"He's made it quite clear to me what it is he wants.  Soon we will be leaving Toronto, doctor.  It's time for you to get on with own life."

"He wants what he's always wanted--to be mortal!  To be free of you!"

"Always?  Hardly.  There were decades, centuries, when Nicholas and I were very happy with one another."

She looked away from him.  If only she could think straight!  But her mind was reeling.  The man facing her was--charming, likable even.  In other circumstances . . . but not now, not while he was sitting there fresh from making love with Nick.  *Her* Nick!  "How long has this been going on?" she asked quietly.

He understood her.  "This time?  A few weeks.  We first became lovers, though, shortly after I brought him across and he was eager to taste all the sensations of his new life.  Surely you must have guessed, doctor?"

She'd had her suspicions, but she wasn't going to admit that to him.  She pursued her line of questioning.  "Why now?"

For a long moment LaCroix regarded her impassively, then his eyes flicked away from her.  "An event happened in my personal life that Nicholas came to hear of.  It disturbed him far more than either of us would have suspected, and caused him to reevaluate our relationship."

She waited.  When it was clear that he'd told her all he was going to, she opened her mouth to say, "What now?"--but LaCroix's attention moved to the mezzanine railing. She turned.  Nick stood at the top of the stairs in pajama bottoms and robe, eyes wide with shock.  "Nat . . ."

"Nick, I--" But the shock had changed to a glare and he was advancing down the stairs.

"I told you I'd call you.  What are you doing here?  How is it you think you can just walk in here whenever you feel like it?"

She leaped to her feet to face him, eyes blazing.  "I ought to tell you to go to hell, Nick Knight!  I was supposed to just wait by the phone until you got around to telling me about--*this*!"  He started to speak, but she held up her hand.  "No.  Change that.  I am going to tell you--go to hell, Nick Knight!"

With that she stormed out the door.

"No, wait!  Nat!"

###
 
 

(03/0?)
 

Silence, reflected LaCroix, did indeed echo, if it went on long enough.  The urge to break it, to make some cutting or consoling remark was getting nearly irresistible when Nicholas finally turned away from the elevator door.

"She's gone," he said numbly, then those dark eyes raised to LaCroix and flared indignantly.  "What did you do?  What did you say to her?"

"Odd, isn't it?  She wanted to know what *I* had *done* to you.  She seems to think that I somehow manipulated you into . . ." He hesitated.  "Into being with me.  I assured her that what has happened between us was your own choice.  She, of course, prefers not to believe that."

He thought he saw a flicker of understanding in his son's eyes, and he went on:  "I also told her that I have no ill feelings toward her, but that I would not let anyone or anything take you from me.  And I won't, Nicholas, you know that."

Nick ran his hands through his hair and drew in a ragged breath, then dropped down on the couch next to his master.  "Oh, God, what am I going to do?"  LaCroix sat very still, careful not to touch him or even turn towards him.  The wrong look from him right now would push Nicholas away again--and he wouldn't lose him through his own carelessness.  It was Nick who turned toward him.  "I have to try and talk to her, LaCroix.  I care for her too deeply just to leave without a word."

"And what could you say that would make it easier for her?  She is already hurt and angry; does the manner of your leaving matter?"

"Yes.  It does."  He glanced at the shutters first, then at the clock.  "I can't speak to her until after her shift tomorrow, but I will speak to her.  In the meantime--" He held out his hand.  "Come to bed, mon pere."

LaCroix took the offered hand, fiercely fighting down the joy leaping in his breast.  Trust no one, he told himself as they climbed the stairs together.  By this time tomorrow this could all just be another bitter memory.

As they kissed Nick tugged LaCroix's shirt out of his pants and ran his hands up underneath the silk.  Lucius Divius had been tautly muscled as a mortal, and vampirism had made a living sculpture of him.  Nick pressed his palms against the cool marble of his stomach, traced the contour of his pectorals.  His fingertips just grazing the shelf of LaCroix's collarbone, he growled deep in his chest and tore the shirt off in one sudden movement.

Breaking the kiss, LaCroix looked down at the remnants of his shirt and commented dryly, "Your passion is expensive, Mon fils."

His wicked child grinned, that curious slanting grin he always found so seductive.  "Am I worth it?"

LaCroix smiled back at him, then lunged.  Nick found himself pinned to the floor and quite effectively immobilized.  He lifted his head a few inches, then let it drop and looked up at LaCroix.  "This bedroom really isn't big enough for this, you know."

"Come now, Nicholas, I'm sure we can be resourceful."  Still holding Nick's wrists he bent over and began brushing his lips up and down the exposed throat.  Lightly, maddeningly lightly, until Nick moaned in protest.  He swept his tongue in lazy swirls up the tantalizing flesh, then blew a light stream of cool breath over the trail. A soft whimper rewarded him; a whimper that ended in a yelp when he bit down on Nicholas' earlobe.  He suckled the lobe, the trickle of blood a delicious tease.

Nick squirmed violently.  "Damn it, LaCroix! Let go!"  His master drew back a little and considered the situation.  Eyes glazed, yes; a fine sheen of blood sweat . . . he continued his perusal downward . . . and a full erection, from the looks of it.

"But if I let you go, who knows what you might try?"

Nicholas laughed the deep throaty laugh of the vampire.  "Don't you want to find out?  After all, you started this."

An eyebrow quirked.  "*I* did?  That's open to debate--" He let go of his son's wrists and rolled just as Nick came up from the floor, sending the younger tumbling over him.  He was on his feet in a flash, but so was Nick and the two circled around the bed, eyes golden and glittering.

"Come on, old man, make your move.  I haven't got all day," Nick taunted.

"Hmm.  I think Pliny had something to say on the matter of respecting your elders, or was it Cicero?  Let me think--"

"I don't care if it was Homer Simpson!" Nick dropped his robe off his
shoulders and flopped on the bed, allowing one hand to curl seductively against his chest.  He looked up at LaCroix.  "Come here and make love to me."  The tension went out of the ancient's body and he sat on the bed and leaned over his child.

Nick smiled dreamily and ran his hands up LaCroix's arms.  Before he could reach his neck, though, his wrists were seized and he found himself once again on the floor.  An impish face appeared over the edge of the bed.  "You didn't really think I'd fall for that one, did you?" his master chortled.

No, he hadn't.  He knew damn well LaCroix was going to win this one, but he was having fun.  How long since he'd actually had fun in bed?  He did a somersault off his hands, locking his legs around the other's neck, and tugged.

LaCroix could either be choked or come off the bed, so he let himself be pulled off the bed and onto the floor.  A grunt came out of him as he hit.  He looked up into the upside-down face of a fallen angel who told him, "Your turn now, father."

It was interesting, kissing upside down, and he lingered over those soft lips.  He was just about to push his tongue into that sweet wetness when Nicholas started inching down his body.  A languid tongue moved slowly down his throat.  He mirrored the movement, tasting his son's throat.  Soon a light dusting of golden hair came into his field of vision, just as a fangtip made a neat little cut into his chest.  He sighed deeply, and ran his hands into Nicholas' armpits, then around his back.

Another cut, not quite so gentle, and a lapping sound.  He gasped, and smiled, and closed his teeth on a rosy nipple.  He held it tight for a moment, then released it suddenly, causing a moan of mingled pain and pleasure as the blood throbbed through the sensitive tissue. The scent of this golden one's blood sent a feral pang of lust through him; he could feel it in the tips of his fingers and the pit of his belly.  He caught the ruby drops on his tongue.  "You are delicious," he breathed, then cried out sharply as Nicholas drove his fangs into the tender flesh between his ribs.

Veins throbbing, erection aching, he arched his head back.  He couldn't reach the hard cock that bobbed just at the edge of his vision.  Frustrated, he growled and raked his nails down Nicholas' stomach, tearing cuts, which bled gratifyingly.  The son sucked harder on the wound he'd made as the father smeared his hands, then his face, in the blood, inhaling deeply.  LaCroix's vicious tongue dug into the tears and Nicholas snarled.  "LaCroix! God!"

The weight of his son came down upon him; Nicholas' cock pushed against his lips.  "Now!" Nick demanded harshly.

LaCroix chuckled, and rolled.  "Not so fast, mon petit plaisir." He shoved the strong thighs apart and leaned down to the crotch spread open underneath him.  He gave his son's straining cock one teasing lick, then took his balls in his mouth. Nicholas opened his own mouth around LaCroix's cock, but the other moved just out of reach.  Satisfied, he found the femoral artery and caressed it with his tongue, gently at first, then gradually increasing the pressure.  Nicholas--*his* Nicholas!--was thrashing underneath him, gasping incoherent pleas.  He bit deeply into the artery.

Nick sobbed as his lover fed on him, sucking fiercely at his essence.  He grabbed the hips just above him.  He had to have his cock, he had to!  But the old one was as immovable as stone.  He hammered his fists against the marble body.  "LaCroix!  LaCroix, please!"

LaCroix stopped and turned, gazing at him through a bloodsmeared mask.  Nick froze. They held the gaze a long moment, fire and ice, in thrall to one another.  Then LaCroix's face slowly changed to the familiar one of his friend and Nick sighed with relief.  "Please?" he asked softly.

A strong hand encircled his cock.  "Can you last a little longer?  Or must you have it now?"

Nicholas hesitated.  He ached, he burned--but LaCroix had taught him well that often it was better to delay.  Past encounters flickered through his mind and he shivered.  "I can hold out, if you wish."

"Good boy.  Come here, now."  He scrambled over to his waiting master, who indicated the bed with a wave of an elegant, bloodied hand.  "Up on your knees."  He obeyed, and LaCroix bent him gently over the edge of the bed.  "You are delicious," he repeated.  "And so beautiful."

Those hands. . . those hands on his ass, stroking. . .then parting his buttocks gently.  Too gently. He laid his cheek against the cool sheets.  A practiced finger slid into him, wet with saliva and blood.  The finger worked his passage, preparing him for his master's entry.  He felt his sphincter throbbing and he went with the rhythm, closing and opening around LaCroix.  "Oui, mon enfant.  That's good."

The head of his master's cock rested against his opening for a brief moment, then it was driven into him, all the way up.  He cried out, arching back off the bed, knotting his fists in the covers.

"Good," rasped LaCroix.  "Yes.  Yesss."

His master rode him.  *Took* him, laid claim to him and took possession of him with a relentless will.  It was hard and merciless and Nick wanted no mercy; he drove himself back on to that cock, working his inner muscles for the enjoyment of his master.  "Yesss," he echoed.  "Take me, LaCroix."

A hand moved up his sweaty back and ruffled through his hair.  "Are you mine, Nicholas?"

"Yes. . ."

"Now, at this moment, are you mine?"

"Yes!"

"And tomorrow?  And all the tomorrows afterward?  Forever, Nicholas?"

"Yes!" Nick screamed.  "I belong to you.  Yours, forever!"

He exploded then, bursting over the bedclothes, just as a strong arm circled him and pulled him up against his master.  Fangs drove into his neck and he grasped the proffered wrist.  He took the blood as the gift it was, as the sustenance he needed, and felt their link grow stronger than ever.

At last they broke apart, laughing softly at the sticky sounds they made as they peeled themselves off each other.

They stumbled into the shower, then into bed and curled up against each other.  LaCroix ran a lazy finger down Nick's spine, but was silent.  At last he said, "Nicholas.  If I lose you again I do not think I can bear it."

Nick raised his head to look at him.  To his relief there was a shadow of embarrassment on his father's face.  He smiled.  "You never said anything like that before."

LaCroix looked away.  "I know."

"Well, do me a favor, OK?"  An eyebrow quirked inquiringly, and he leaned to whisper in a pale ear.  "Don't do it again."

LaCroix chuckled, and turned toward him again.  "By the way, Nicholas--"

"Um?"

"Who won?"

"Who cares?"  And with that he closed his eyes and slept.

 ####
 

(04/0?)
 

The flowers began arriving an hour after her shift started, and came regularly every hour after that.  Sunflowers.  Daisies.  Marigolds, chrysanthemums.  Daylilies and daffodils.  They filled her office with a sea of sunshine and each new bouquet made her angrier.  Damn you, Knight, she thought.  I don't want your chauvinistic gallantry.  The winks and grins from the rest of the staff made it worse, and she nearly lost it completely when one of the new techs sighed and said, "Oh, Doctor Lambert.  Detective Knight is so romantic.  They just don't make them like that any more, do they?"

Natalie knew he'd be waiting for her when she got off and she considered staying over past dawn so he'd have to go home--go back to LaCroix, she thought bitterly.  But that was Nick's game, wasn't it?  Avoid the issue; pretend that if you ignore something long enough it will go away.  Besides, it wouldn't be past him to hide in her trunk and go home with her, in which case she'd be stuck with him in her apartment all day.

She looked at the clock.  Time to go and get it over with.  Chin up,
Lambert.

Yet her breath caught as she saw him leaning against her car, the parking lot lights gleaming off his golden hair.  So beautiful--not handsome, not cute--beautiful.  She remembered that first night in the morgue; how haggard and grim he'd looked, how dangerous he'd felt to her.  It had been so long since then.  They'd become friends.  And now--now it was all over.

The click of her heels on the asphalt sounded an ominous tattoo as she neared him.  His eyes drunk her in, committing her to his preternatural memory.  Tonight could very well be the last time he saw her.  He fought back his tears: he didn't want her to see him with blood on his face.  He'd dressed for her tonight, in the pale blue silk sweater she'd given him one Christmas, wanting to look as human as possible.

Pretending, he thought.  Well, so what?

"Nat, we have to talk."

"We *have* to talk?  Shouldn't that be a mutual decision?  What if I don't want to talk?  Or does that matter to you?"

He opened his mouth, took a step forward, but she was on a roll.

"You listen to me, Nicholas Knight, or de Brabant, or whoever you are now--I don't want your flowers.  I don't want your excuses, or protestations of friendship, or any of your bullshit charm!  Do you understand me?"

"Yes," he said softly.  "You have every right not to talk to me or see me ever again.  But I wish you would find in yourself to listen to what I have to say."

She folded her arms and looked down.  The rational part of her was saying, 'yes, hear him out, it's only fair' but deep inside she just didn't want to let him go.  To get in the car and drive away, to sever completely any bond they might still have--she didn't have the courage to face that moment of finality.

"All right," she said finally.  "Talk."

"Not here."  He looked at the car, then up into the night.  He moved closer and took her in his arms.  "Trust me, Nat--just once more."

And they were off, rising rapidly into the sky.  She gasped and instinctively wound her arms around his neck.  He murmured against her ear, "It's all right, Nat.  I won't let you fall."

Then she was lost in the wonder of it.  Under the indigo sky the city was as perfect as an illustration in a child's fairy book.  All the dirt and turmoil of the city, all the sordid weariness of human lives, faded away with the distance.  "It looks like a toy," she marveled.  "A beautiful, magical toy."

She felt him smile against her cheek.  "Yes."

All too soon they were landing, Nick's arms bracing her against the impact.  They were on the open slope of a hill somewhere, with a stand of trees behind them and beneath them.  There were lights far off, hardly bigger than the stars overhead.  "Where are we?"

"Someplace I go when I need to be alone, to think.  I've always sought such places out, especially when Janette and LaCroix and I were living together.  It can be difficult, you know, living with those who can read your thoughts."

She couldn't keep the bitterness from her voice.  "Sometimes I wish I could read yours."

"I never meant to hurt you, Natalie."

"Six years!  Six years we've been friends, Nick, and how often have I heard how much you hated LaCroix, how evil he is, how horribly he's treated you--"

"I know."  His voice was so soft she could barely hear him.  "But even when I hated him I loved him."

There was no response she could make to that.  "What about a cure, Nick?  Does this mean you're giving up?"

He sank down on the grass, and she followed.  "I came out here just about two weeks ago.  Something LaCroix had done--upset me.  I couldn't understand why I felt so disturbed."  He raised his eyes to hers.  "I had to face myself, Natalie.  What I found out was that deep inside, I haven't been running from LaCroix.  I've been trying to escape myself.  And there's no way I can do that--even if I were mortal; there's no way anyone can do that."

"Or maybe you're just giving in to him.  Giving in, and giving up."

"It's time I made peace with myself, Nat.  Can't you understand that?"

She looked away from him, from that face like a condemned angel's and those vulnerable eyes.  "Six years," she said, more to herself than to him.  "Six years of my life wasted."

"That's not fair.  I never asked to become your whole life."

"You asked me to help you!"

"You were the one who made the offer, that night I woke up in that body bag.  Remember?  I asked you what was in it for you.  Solving a puzzle, isn't that what you said?"

He had her there.  She remembered that being gulping down blood in her morgue.  Dangerous, yes; but she'd sensed the fear and desperation in him, too.  The combination had drawn her to him like a dolphin caught in a net.

"So I lied," she said dully.  "I did want to help you, Nick.  Do you blame me if I fell in love with you, too?"

Softening, he took her hands, drew her around to face him.  His hand trembled as he raised it to her cheek.  "I love you, too.  More than you can ever know.  It won't work between us, though.  I tried to tell you; I thought you understand."

"It's only been your fear that's held us apart."

His laugh was harsh.  "Held us apart?  It's kept me from killing you in the heat of passion.  Or should I bring you across, Natalie, so we can make love as vampires know it?"

The tears were flowing down her cheeks, now.  "I told you I wanted to spend eternity with you, even if it meant being--" her voice faltered.  Strong arms enfolded her, a tousled head pressed against hers, and he rocked her gently.  "Oh, Nat, I haven't been very good at explaining what it's like to be a vampire, not if you can say that."

"I wouldn't have to kill."

"It's not just that.  The whole world changes for you." His voice dropped to a whisper, a mere breath against her ear.  "It's magical at times.  Everything throbs with life, yours to drink in.  Music, art, people--I never knew the true scent of a flower or how many variations there can be in an indigo sky.  But it's horrible at times, too."

He drew away slightly to look at her.  "Making love, as vampires . . . it's sensuality amplified many times over.  Your lover's skin is a source of fascination, their voice echoes through every nerve in your body.  You drown in sensation.  But the beast is there with you; it's part of that sensuality.  You rejoice as your teeth meet in their flesh, you tear them apart, laugh as you smear their blood over your body.  Do you want that, Natalie?  With anyone, even me?"

There was fear in her eyes.  He let her go, and she stood, wandering in aimless patterns on the hillside.  "I don't want to know me like that, Natalie.  Maybe I haven't explained things fully to you.  I'm sorry.  But I couldn't bear to have you think of me like that."

She hugged herself as she turned her head slightly toward him.  "Is that how it's like for you and LaCroix?  You and Janette?"

"Yes.  Violence and tenderness, so intertwined that one can't exist without the other."

"Knowing about Janette was bad enough.  LaCroix . . ."

"Why?  Because we're both males?" He chose the word deliberately.  "It doesn't matter to vampires.  We all have our physical preferences, but the emotions that draw us to one or the other override that."

She came back to him a few paces; stood there looking at him.  He sensed very little anger coming from her now, only hurt and bewilderment.  He stood and went to her.  "LaCroix wanted me to make a clean break.  Just leave, without a word.  I couldn't do that, Natalie, you mean too much to me."

"What do you want?"

"I want us to be friends.  I want to see you now and again, if I may.  I want to watch a movie with you and have you throw popcorn at me and laugh.  I want to open my mailbox and find long letters from you."

The sobs came in earnest, then.  "Damn you, Nick Knight!"  She flung herself into his arms, clinging to him for all she was worth.

LaCroix sat in the library of his townhouse, an open book on his lap, a bottle on the table beside him.  He'd purposely closed his link with his son when Nicholas went off to face Dr. Lambert.  Whatever the outcome of their meeting, he would prefer not to know it until Nicholas came through his door.  The stoicism he'd learned as a mortal child and had had honed by nearly two millennia of unlife was the only thing keeping him upright.  By the gods, to lose him now--!

He sighed, and turned his mind to a course of logical speculation.  Perhaps Nicholas should bring her across.  She'd be his granddaughter. A ghost of a smile flickered across his face.  A spirited addition to the family, at least.  On the other hand, it was never that simple.  So many fledglings broke early.  They went insane, or killed themselves, or had to be killed to protect the Community.  Yet again--an idea took shape in his devious mind.  A novel idea, yet not entirely without precedent.  He turned it over and inside out, then nodded in satisfaction.  Yes, a sound idea it was.  He wondered just how much--or how little--"persuading" he would have to do.

 ######

(05/0?)
 

"What?!  Are you out of your mind!"  Lucien LaCroix sighed and held the receiver away from his ear as the initial shrieks cascaded into a torrent of archaic French.  Strange, he thought idly, how his children--especially this one--lapsed into the dialects of their mortality when in the grip of strong emotion.  *He* never railed at them in Latin, did he?

"Janette--"

"Senile!  That's it!  I heard the old ones sometimes go mad--"

"Janette."  The frost in his voice cut across the telephone wire and silenced the outraged vampire on the other end of the line.  "If you would calm yourself long enough to mull over the idea I think you will find it has its amusing points."

"Hmmph."

He smiled at the verbal version of a Gallic shrug.  "In any event, if it doesn't work out, we can always get rid of her."

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

"Oh, no!  No way, Jose."

"Nat--" Nick pulled nervously on the fingers of one hand with the other. One Mr. Dan Fleckner stared uncaringly at the ceiling as Nick followed the coroner around the morgue.  "Just give him a chance, OK?"

"Why?  What does *he* want with me?  More gloating, perhaps?"

"I don't know, Nat.  He just said he wanted to talk to us, both of us."  The last few days they'd resumed their friendship--gingerly.  Natalie was keeping her wounded heart well-guarded, and Nick was being very careful not to assume too much.  He didn't know what LaCroix had in mind, either.  The old one had merely said he wished to speak to the two of them regarding "a matter which may be of interest to us all."

Nat snapped the sheet over Mr. Fleckner's face and peeled off the latex gloves.  She stared at the mound on the table(heart attack due to high blood pressure and obesity).  Her curiousity was piqued, she had to admit.  Part of her also wanted the opportunity to match wits with the old devil again; she maintained the stubborn conviction that one day she'd best him.  She looked up at Nick.  "OK, fine.  With one condition--I come out of there alive."

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

"You're deranged."  It was said more in a tone of disbelief than rancor, so the only reaction from his master was a pointed sigh.

"Really, Nicholas, I do wish you would come up with more creative accusations--that one's getting a little shopworn."

"Well, it's out of the question, that's all.  Absolutely out of the
question."

Natalie closed her open mouth abruptly and rounded on him.  "You wait one damn minute, Nick Knight!  How dare you step in before I've had a chance to say a word?  What ever gave you the right to make my decisions for me, huh?"

LaCroix very carefully kept from chortling.  Janette, reclining along the back of the couch, stifled her humor in another gulp from her goblet.

"You'd give up your life here, your work?  Do you really enjoy being a
physician to the undead that much?"

"What life, Nick?  What life I have revolves around you: the only excitement I've had in my life has been since I unzipped that body bag and you sat up on my table.  As for my work, I like feeling that I'm helping someone, even if they're dead.  If I take LaCroix up on his offer, I can still find a way to help someone, wherever we go."

Nick sat down heavily on the nearest chair.  Eight hundred years, he thought, and he can still surprise me.  He ran back LaCroix's earlier words: "It is obviously time for us to move on, Nicholas.  Yet it is equally obvious that you do not wish to part from Doctor Lambert, nor she from you.  A solution to this problem has occurred to me.  We can take her with us."  "You don't mean--" "No.  Even if she wished to be brought across--and she doesn't--I doubt that the life of the undead would suit her.  No, I suggest that we take her with us as a companion."

He ran his hands through his hair and looked across at the little tableau: LaCroix at ease on one end of the couch, Janette draped slinkily along the back, Natalie perched on the farther arm.  "Do you understand what it means, Natalie?  You will be alone with us, a human among vampires, separated from humanity by a secret you must never tell."

"It's not an unheard-of situation, Nicholas.  Our kind often have human . . . companions."

Nick set his jaw grimly.  That hesitation in LaCroix's voice had reminded him of the nature of those human "companions."  Thralls; that was what they were called.  Servants, usually, to do for their masters what the masters could not, or would not be bothered to do; concubines, sometimes, for a bit of quick sex and a convenient source of blood when the situation demanded it.  But what LaCroix was proposing was different.

" . . . *do* understand.  It's time for a change, Nick.  I could use a new adventure."  There was a softness in her eyes when she looked at him, and his heart leapt at the idea that he would not have to part from her.  Not yet, at least.  But still . . .

"There's one more thing."  He looked from her eyes to LaCroix's.  "Protecting her."

Nat laughed.  "Surrounded by vampires?  What more protection do I need?"

"Nicholas is right.  You will need protection, doctor, from other vampires."

Janette leaned towards her.  "They will not trust you, you see.  Or they will see you as an easy victim.  The Community must know that you belong to someone."

"You know how it is done, Nicholas.  Perhaps you will explain it to her."  LaCroix rose and went to the kitchen for another bottle; at his silent signal Janette uncoiled herself and drifted around the loft to look at her brother's latest paintings and browse through his CDs.

Nick moved over to the couch and took Natalie's hands in his.  She turned to face him, her eyes solemn.  "What is it, Nick?" she whispered.

He gave her hands a quick squeeze of comfort.  "I've heard you speak of 'blood markers.'  I don't pretend to understand what that means, but the term is apt for what needs to be done."  Her eyes widened, and he hurried on.  "To protect you from the others, there needs to be a marker placed in your blood so that any vampire you encounter will know that you belong to one of us."

She tried to make a joke of it.  "I'm afraid to ask."

Looking away, dropping her hands, he threw it out.  "You will have to exchange blood with LaCroix."

"Are you out of your mind!"  Her roar brought the patriarch and his daughter nearer--though of course they'd heard every word of the conversation.

"Doctor Lambert," the elder began.

"You shut up!"  She whirled back on Nicholas.  "Why didn't you just say 'let LaCroix bring you across'?  Well, you can just forget it, blondie!"

"Nat!  For God's sake, if you would just be quiet and listen--"

"I *was* listening!  I distinctly heard you say 'exchange blood with
LaCroix'."

"Doctor Lambert."  Everyone froze as LaCroix sauntered over to her.  "Nicholas did not mean that I would bring you across.  Neither he nor I believe that vampirism is a condition you would be able to endure for long.  What is involved in our exchange of blood is the tiniest sip.  You will be as mortal as you are now."

"But?"

Oh, she was a clever one!  He just might enjoy having her along for the ride.  "What will happen is that other vampires will sense your connection to me and, unless they are exceptionally foolish, they will leave you be."

"And you'll be able to control me?"

He shrugged an elegant shoulder.  "To some extent.  Not the control, the power, that a master has over his fledglings.  Just enough control to ensure that you will not betray us."

Natalie turned it over in her mind.  She hated to admit it, but it *did* make logical sense.  Protecting her, protecting them . . . "Why you?  Why not Nick?"

How much to tell her?  He marshalled his diplomacy, but his children beat him to it.

"Our darling Nicolas," drawled Janette, "although we love him dearly, is not so beloved by all of the Community.  To some, he is weak, and they would consider it great sport to challenge him by taking his companion.  To others, he is unstable, not to be trusted, and therefore you would be considered untrustworthy as well."

Nick stood silent under her assessment.  It was true, and he wanted Natalie to realize how vital it was to both of them that they had LaCroix's protection.  "There's another reason," he said.  "Vampires have an older notion of family than modern mortals do.  LaCroix is the head of this family.  That means a lot to them and they will accept you more if they know that you are accepted by him."

She dropped back onto the couch.  "Sounds like the Mafia," she commented, but the tone of her voice indicated her acceptance of the situation.

Nick grinned at her.  "It is," he said.

####

(06/0?)
 

Natalie hurried into her apartment, locked the door, then went around locking all the windows before gathering Sydney into her arms and sinking down on the couch.  "Whatever happens, Sydney, I promise I won't leave you."

What had she agreed to, she wondered.  Traveling with Nick and his "family" was one thing--she was more than ready for a change of scenery, a little adventure, and the opportunity to stay with Nick.  But letting LaCroix drink from her!  Worse, drinking *his* blood--she shuddered.  She cuddled the purring cat until she calmed down.  When he let out an inquiring "Meep?" she let him down and went to get his supper.  The habitual, almost ritual motions of feeding him let her mind settle into a comfortably analytical pattern.  She had very little family here anymore, and few close friends other than Grace, who would be perfectly happy if she "ran off" with the charming Detective Knight.  Her job was no longer much of a challenge.  What
she had told Nick in the loft this evening was true: he *was* her life.  If he left, all the excitement would leave with him.

With Sydney contentedly slurping down lamb and rice, she lifted the phone and dialed the number she knew by heart.

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

Nick was packing the way a human packs; that is, he was doing more browsing through his possessions than actually putting them in boxes.  So engrossed was he in this that at first he failed to register another presence in the loft.  The presence in question was too amused by this to be more than mildly annoyed.

"Do you have something to offer me other than *cow*, Nicolas?"

He started, the pile of old letters sliding off his lap, and threw his hands in the air.  "Why is it that nobody knocks anymore?" he inquired of the ceiling.

Janette advanced into the center of the room and looked around.  "You're not making much progress, darling."

He sighed.  "I'd forgotten how hard it can be sometimes, moving on."

"That is why you pay someone to do all this for you and put it into storage.  Or better yet, get rid of most of it.  The dead travel fast, because the dead travel light."

"Oh, yes, she of the two dozen Louis Vuitton trunks."  He rose to his feet and pulled her toward him, wrapping his arms around her and breathing in the mysterious scent of her dark hair.  She held him for a minute, then patted his arm and let him go.

"So we are together again, the three of us.  Or, no--the four of us, I should say," watching him like a panther as he took a bottle of LaCroix's reserve out of the fridge and poured them each a glass.

His eyes raised to hers--oh, those eyes, she thought.  So like a child's.  "Are you angry?"

"But no, darling.  Indeed, I'm quite looking forward to it.  It should be very amusing."

"Janette--don't be cruel to her.  Please."

She raised the hand that held the glass and stroked his cheek with one exquisitely manicured fingernail.  "I'll be good."

"Anyway, it was LaCroix's idea, not mine.  Though I still don't understand why."

"Oh, Nicolas!  He is conceding the battle so that he does not lose the war; is that so hard to understand?  He allows you to keep your precious Natalie so that you are not torn between the two of them.  He will never let you go now, not ever.  Are you sure you've made the right decision?"

He opened a box and slammed an armful of books into it.  "Yes, I'm sure," he said firmly--and he was, for the most part.  "What about you?  I can't figure out where you stand."

She sighed and set her empty glass down on the counter.  "I can't either, Nicolas."  And she was gone, a shadow in black, passing through a dream.

He stood looking at the mess around him.  Perhaps she was right; perhaps he should just call someone in to handle it.  Leave it for now, he thought.  He shrugged on his coat and grabbed his keys off the table.  There was something more important to do tonight, before he handed in his resignation tomorrow.

***********

It was his night off, and tomorrow wasn't a school day, so Schanke cuddled his daughter on his lap and opened the book she'd picked out.  Any other time she would have protested that she was too big to sit on his lap, but this little ritual of theirs stretched back into her babyhood.  They were halfway through the first book of the Prydain Chronicles, The Book of Three.

Nick sat in the Caddy and closed his eyes, listening to his partner's zestfully hammy readings of the urchin Gurgi and the crotchety old wizard, Dallben.  A father and his child, laughing together at the end of the day.  He'd wanted that once; part of him still wanted it.  But all that had come of his quest for a cure was disappointment and misery.  It was time to move on, in more ways than one.

Adrift in bittersweet scenes of his own childhood, he didn't hear the
question in Jenny's voice or Schanke stop reading.

"What is it, pumpkin?"

"Daddy, why is Uncle Nick here?  And why is he just sitting in that old car?  Why doesn't he come in?"

Schanke let her slide off his lap and peered out the window.  "Good
question, sweetie.  Why don't I go see?"

Taking a hunk from the first loaf out of the oven in the morning, running with it down the path and through the tall grass to the river.  Sweetness of the world waking up--enough sounds and scents to keep a young boy's curiosity busy all morning. . .

"Nick!  Hey, Nick!"  He opened his eyes to the concerned face staring in the window at him.

"You gonna sleep out here on the curb, buddy?  Why didn't you come in?"

"I--I didn't want to interrupt your time with your family."

Schanke shook his head in disbelief.  "So you drove all the way over here to sit outside my house.  Come on, get inside."

He always felt uneasy in Schanke's home.  It was so--normal--here; so unlike his own world, his own family.  But Jenny turned a widely smiling face toward him and wrapped her arms around his waist; Myra came from the kitchen with a plate of something that smelled warm and rich even as it turned his stomach.  He was welcome here, even if they didn't realize what manner of beast they were welcoming.

He listened to Jenny's tales of school and girlfriends, charmed Myra into forgiving him for not trying her brownies, then turned to Schanke.  "Schank, I've got to talk to you.  In private--if you don't mind, Myra?"

"Not at all."

Oh, no.  Nick *did* get his tires rotated, and it wasn't Nat and now he's gonna tell me about it cause he feels guilty and geez, I don't wanna know . . .

But he led Nick into the den.  They were partners, weren't they?

His partner wasted no time in getting it out:  "Schanke, I'm leaving.  I'm turning in my resignation tomorrow."

"What?!"  He'd never expected this.  "Nick Knight, the star detective of Metro PD?  The lives-for-his-job Nick Knight?  This is a joke, right?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Geez, man, you can't do this!  I just got you broke in."

At least that brought a smile to Nick's face, although a brief one.  "I wanted to tell you first.  I didn't want you to hear it from anybody else."

"But why?  You gotta at least tell me why."

Nick looked around the den: the family pictures on the knotty-pine paneling, the bowling trophies.  "It's about . . . my family."

"I thought the only family you had was that uncle of yours."

"He's not really my uncle.  He's more like my foster father."  He sat down on the plaid couch beside his friend and leaned forward with his hands between his knees.  "We've fought, a lot, over the years.  I was angry when he came to Toronto.  Lately, though--" Be careful.  Don't say too much.  "Well, we've reconciled, and we need to spend some time together."

"And you can't do that in Toronto?"

"No.  We need to get away."

"Mind telling me where?"

Nick stood up again, pacing the room.  He peered at a mantle clock in the form of a sailing ship.  "I'm not sure.  Europe, I suppose."

"Europe?!"

"It's where we're from," he answered absently, then cursed himself.

Schanke was busy putting two and two together.  Nick's exhilaration the other night, his obsessive listening to the Nightcrawler's show, the way someone that good-looking kept Nat and all other women at arm's length.  Oh, geez, he thought.  Jesus.

"Nick," he said, picking his words carefully.  "This foster-father of yours.  He's more than that to you, isn't he?"

Nick turned to face him. He wanted suddenly to tell Schanke everything, to say, "Yes.  I'm a vampire.  LaCroix is my master, and my father and my lover."  He took another look around the den, then stepped forward and held out his hand.  "You're one of the best friends I've ever had, Schanke."

He grasped the cold hand automatically.  "That's it, then?  Just like that?"

"Do me a favor, Don.  Forget about me.  I can't tell you anymore than that."

Schanke shook his head emphatically.  "No, sir.  No way!"  Then he pulled Nick to him in a crushing hug.  "If you don't keep in touch, Nick, I'll come hunt you down myself."

Nick heard the emotion in his friend's voice.  "I'll see what I can do."  He pulled away.  "I have to go."

#####

(07/08)

Stripped of most of its furnishings, the loft glowed poetically in the light from a dozen candles in floor stands scattered about the vast empty space.  Like a stage set, Nick thought as he moved restlessly around the room.  Sitting in the armchair shoved back into a corner by the fireplace LaCroix sighed at his son's display of nerves and picked up his violin.  The first soft notes drew the younger to his side; Nick sank onto the floor in front of him and rested his forearm on the chair's arm.  "She'll be here soon, Nicholas."

"Do you think it was a mistake to send Janette to help her get ready?  It should have been me.  She's used to me, she trusts me--"

"Shh.  Hush, now."  Nick closed his eyes and let the music seep into him, calming his strained nerves and anxious heart.  LaCroix was here, as he always would be, and Natalie was coming.  Soon.

----<@ ----<@ ----<@

"I don't need any help getting dressed," Natalie had said firmly.

"Of course you don't.  That's not exactly the point, is it?"

"What is?  To make sure I show up and don't waste LaCroix's time?"

Janette leaned against the door jamb and rolled her eyes.  "La!  Modern times," she commented.  "When you went to your high school prom, your mother helped you dress?"

"Yes," Nat admitted, wondering how Janette knew about high school proms.

"And if you were getting married, your maid of honor would help you dress, no?"

"I'm *not* marrying LaCroix!"

"But you *are* joining his household.  It is a ritual occasion, of sorts, and we are women--no?--so we have our own ritual to perform beforehand.  Getting dressed."

The soon to be ex-coroner eyed the other woman warily for a moment, then plopped down on the edge of the bed.  "I guess you're right.  I've got the jitters so bad you'd think I was getting married.  I was so sure about this, that I was doing the right thing, but now--I keep asking myself, 'Are you insane, Lambert?'"

Janette sat down next to her with a vampire's fluid grace, but the pat she bestowed on the human woman's hand was tentative to the point of being awkward.  "When I was mortal, the night before my wedding, I felt much as you do.  Oh, I knew why I was doing it!  It was what a woman of my position was supposed to do, and my family had put a great deal of planning into the alliance.  But I barely knew him, and I was going away to live with him in a strange household in a strange place.  I kept thinking, 'What shall I do?  How will I know what to say, how to act?'"

Natalie took a deep steadying breath and, much to her surprise, put her arm around Janette.

"I was fifteen," Janette murmured abstractedly, then shook her head and rose briskly.  "Do you prefer a shower, or shall I run a bath?"

|888888|==============>

"It looks so bare," he said.  "Maybe we should have done this at your place, Lucien."

LaCroix finished the piece he was playing smoothly, unhurriedly.  When he was through he rose to stand by his protégé.  "It looks lovely, Nicholas.  And she is familiar with the loft, comfortable here.  It will be easier for her."

Nick turned and rested his forehead against LaCroix's shoulder, putting his arms around his waist.  A quick stab of passion radiated through him at the contact, followed by instant embarrassment.  What is wrong with me!  Now, of all times!  His master chuckled and cupped his face in strong cool hands, raising Nick's eyes to his own.  "Most complimentary, mon amant, but you are right.  Now is not quite the time.  However--"  He leaned forward to capture that sensual mouth in the most tender of kisses.  I love you so, my beautiful child, he thought and back through their link it came:  And I you.  So much.

There was a faint whir, and both men turned to face the elevator door.  When it opened, Nick was across the room before he realized it.  "Natalie . . ." he breathed in awe.

She wore a cocktail dress of deep blue silk.  Its wide neck exposed her fine shoulders even as her chestnut curls floated like a veil around them.  Diamond hearts glittered at her ears, echoing her heart-shaped face.  "Do I look all right?" she asked him in a nervous whisper.

"You're beautiful," he told her, and she knew that he meant it wholeheartedly.

"Enchanting, doctor," purred a silken voice from the shadows, and LaCroix sauntered forth.  He bowed to her, then took Janette's hand and kissed it.  "And you are a vision, as always, daughter."

A vision she was, of the perfect femme fatale:  an elaborately cut velvet sheath embraced her lithe body, her lips were painted a deep wet red, and a choker of rubies and pearls encircled her throat.  Nick felt desire tease his nerves once again, but this time he basked in it.  The room and its occupants shimmered with sensuality; how could he not react to it?

Natalie felt it, too; she also felt a stab of regret at seeing the loft stripped of all of Nick's possessions.  The leather couch remained, and the armchair, and the piano.  But the little mementos had been packed away.  So had the paintings.  Everything that indicated the character of the man who lived here was gone.  Moving on, she thought.  It gave the place that had been like a second home to her the eerie atmosphere of a dream.

Not that the other occupants of the room did anything to destroy the illusion.  She was the only one not dressed in black, she realized--though Nick's full silk shirt was white, he was wearing it over black trousers and boots.  She wished to God that he'd been wearing jeans and the sweatshirt he wore to paint in.

"Natalie."  She started; Nick was taking her hand, leading her to the couch as the others moved into the kitchen, talking in voices too low for her to hear.  She looked at him--those soft blue eyes, that golden hair--and felt a fist clamp around her heart.  I loved him.  God help me, I love him still.

He stroked her hair.  "You mustn't be afraid, Nat.  He won't hurt you."

"I still don't understand something, Nick.  Why is he doing this?"

"For me.  Because I love you, and I can't bear to leave you.  And for
himself."

"Himself?"

The full mouth quirked in that slanting grin and he leaned close to whisper in her ear.  "He likes you, Nat.  A lot."

She drew back in astonishment, her mouth open, but then LaCroix was at her shoulder, offering a glass.  She took it, and sniffed it suspiciously.

He chuckled.  "It's merely a very good Pinot Noir, doctor."  He was right.  It smelled of wine, and it tasted like an earthly paradise.  Taking a seat on the coffee table as elegantly as he would a table at the most exclusive restaurant, he leaned toward her.  "Have you given your notice at your job?"

She sensed he was not making small talk.  "Yes.  I go in tomorrow to tidy up my office--and endure the farewell party.  I still don't know what to tell everyone."

"Not too much, but not too little either."  She looked up at him, surprised.  He smiled.  "You're not one of us.  If you disappear without a trace it would raise far too many questions.  Let them think you ran off with Nicholas here."

Which was what she had been planning on doing.  Had he picked it up from her thoughts?  But he was going on:

"You are already acquainted through Nicholas with some of the most important aspects of our existence; the need for discretion, for one.  The evening I put forward my proposal to you, you remarked that the structure of our Community was akin to the human Mafia."  An eyebrow arched in amusement, briefly, then his face turned serious.  "Your observation has its points.  Without going on too much, I must emphasize to you that the alliances we form among ourselves are for protection and power.  They are necessary to our survival.  A weak vampire is a dead vampire."

Her throat dried up and clamped shut.  She could only nod.  His posture relaxed and he leaned back a little, crossing one leg over the other.  "My point is this, Doctor Lambert: *I* am the head of this family.  Nicholas may argue and Janette may pout, but in matters important to our survival, my word is law.  Do you understand me?"

She thought about it, frightened now not of him but of the darker undercurrents of the dark world she was entering.  She met his eyes.  "Yes," she said firmly.

"Good."  He moved to the couch, sitting on her other side.  Nat turned toward him, unconsciously shrinking back against Nick.

Ice blue eyes bored into hers, then past her eyes into her mind.  Strong hands reached up to cup her face, stroking her hair, trailing down her arms to her hands.  He was speaking, but she couldn't make out the words through the languid haze that had enveloped her.  She stared at him, transfixed.  White and blue . . . a cool refuge . . .a wall, strong and sheltering against the red and black tides of fate . . .safety . . .

"No!"  She shook her head to clear it.  "Don't do that.  I don't need to be hypnotized."  His eyes flicked briefly over her shoulder.  Nick took her shoulders and leaned forward.  "Don't fight him, Natalie.  He's trying to make it easier for you."

"No."

"Have you ever been bitten by a very large dog, Doctor?"

"What?  No--" She started with a little cry as LaCroix bared his fangs suddenly.

"It hurts," he rasped.  "A great deal."

Suddenly Janette was there, leaning over the back of the couch to pat her on the arm.  "He is right, ma petite.  Let him cloud your senses, just a little."  Strangely, her touch was more soothing than any.  Natalie found herself lying back against Nick, his arms around her, while Janette stroked her arm and murmured nonsense French to her.  Again LaCroix's image filled her attention.  Then he leaned over her and turned her head to the side.

His fangs were like burning icicles as they drove into her artery, but just as she opened her mouth to scream a moan escaped from her instead.  Dimly she became aware of her nipples hardening, of the throbbing in her groin and she was dimly embarrassed.

Then he was sitting up a little, unfastening his cuff.  Three faces watched in rapt attention as he bit into his own wrist.  Two sharp hisses rippled across the loft's velvety silence.  He held his dripping wrist out to her.

The blood shimmered in the candlelight, but the light danced over its surface, never penetrating its dark depths.  Blood to her was something messy but matter-of-fact.  She had it on her scrubs, in careless streaks on her face almost every night.  Why then did his evoke such emotion in her?  Repulsion warred with an awakening attraction.  Her lips parted.

It didn't taste much different from her own, she noted clinically.  A little like raw oysters and iron supplements.  Or her few tastes of caviar.  Then she swallowed.

Will.  A will like stone and steel and the eternal tides.  A will forged in a child's battered heart and hardened in the forge of pain and disappointment.  A will that demanded survival--no, more than that; triumph.  And surging through that cold implacable will was a river of fire.  Love.  For music and ideas and beauty.  And more than anything, a love for his children.

"Nat . . .Nat, that's enough."  Nick was easing her away from LaCroix.  She lay back against him, stunned, as LaCroix stood and went into the kitchen for another bottle, calmly fastening his cuff.  As she came to herself, she giggled.  "Stop that," Nick hissed in her ear.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she gasped as she sat up and reached for her wine glass.  "But maybe looser trousers would have been a good idea, Nick."  He sat up straighter on the couch and pulled the flowing shirt over his lap.  In a communication not shared with Nat a surge of arousal and amusement echoed through the loft.  Oh, stop! he sent back., dismayed.

The sight and scent of his master's blood had aroused him, as had the intimacy of LaCroix's feeding so close to him.  For that matter, he'd been on the verge of arousal all evening, what with Janette and Natalie both looking ready to ravish, and LaCroix so close, with the bed just up the stairs.  Hell, he wished he'd had LaCroix on the floor before Nat got here.  I'm a beast, he thought, glumly.  A pig.

There had been a moment, too, when his master had offered his wrist to Natalie.  He'd wanted to push her out of the way and take it for himself.  The stab of jealously he'd felt had both shamed and excited him.

"Are you OK?" he asked her now, his gentleness an atonement.

"Yes," she said softly.  "It was--strange.  Not what I expected.  I think I'd like to go home now, Nick."

"In a little while.  There's something else you need to do."  He'd been dreading the moment to come.  This would get her back up more than sharing blood with LaCroix ever would.

"It's time, Nicholas."  LaCroix was standing in front of the fireplace, ramrod straight.  Taking Nat's hand, Nick led her over to join the others.  They stood to one side as Janette knelt in front of the elder.  He held out his hand, palm down.

"Father," she said fervently, and pressed her lips to his ring.

"My daughter," he responded, laying his other hand on her head.

She rose gracefully and stepped aside as Nicholas took her place.  He gazed up at LaCroix for a moment as he took his hand in both of his.  "Father," he breathed and he too kissed the ring.  "My son."

Nat's apprehension had been rising all through the atavistic ritual.  If they honestly thought that she was going to kneel to that arrogant, egoistic, insufferable--!  Apparently they did.  They were all watching her expectantly.

She opened her mouth to disillusion them in no uncertain terms, and Nick stepped on her foot, hard.  She looked at him in shock and he gave her the briefest shake of his head as he pushed lightly on the small of her back, urging her forward.

She got down rather clumsily--she wasn't exactly in the habit of *kneeling* to people, for crying out loud--and steeled herself.  But the hand was not extended and she looked up at LaCroix.  There was a wry smile on his face.  "I must confess to being at somewhat of a loss, Doctor.  How shall I mark your entrance into my family?  Servant?  Not hardly, I think.  Ah, but wait . . ."  the hand with the ring was held out to her, yet he held his eyes with hers.  "Trusted retainer."

She didn't miss the emphasis he put on "trusted."  Inspired, her response was "Protector."  And she kissed the ring.

----<@ ----<@ ----<@

Janette had taken Natalie home soon afterward.  Nick had offered, but for some reason he couldn't fathom she'd seemed very comfortable with Janette.

And so they were alone together, master and fledgling, father and son, lover and beloved.  The vast loft was filled with the waves of emotion emanating from the two still, silent figures facing each other.  Desire, both feral and tender; love, faith, and a deeper tie that was all of these and more.

#####

(08/08)
 

For moments that may have passed in heartbeats or centuries the two men stood in the center of the loft, drinking in the sight of each other and the complex vibrations that thrummed around them.  It was Nicholas who finally broke the spell, crossing the space between them to stroke his fingers lightly across LaCroix's cheek.  "I've been burning for you," he said softly, "all night long."

"I am here," whispered his lover.  With one accord they turned to climb the stairs, hands loosely clasped.  Each was keenly aware that every step brought them closer to bed, and each other's arms.

At the side of the bed they stopped again to look at each, then the elder backed away.  "Shoes first," he commanded.  Obediently Nick sat on the edge of the bed to pull off his boots and socks.  "Trousers."  He undid buckle and fly and slid the black silk down his legs and kicked it aside.

He was gold and ivory, his fair warm skin dusted with fine blond hair.  His white silk shirt only veiled the outline of shoulder, pectoral and erect phallus.  He smiled suddenly and lay back on the bed, one hand curling beside his head, the other subtly pulling up the hem of his shirt to reveal his waiting cock.

"Beautiful," breathed LaCroix.  As his child watched, he unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it to the floor with a single movement of his
powerful shoulders.  He stripped without fuss, then advanced to the bed, setting one knee on it and bending over his child.  "Beautiful," he said again, cupping that golden face in his hands.

Nicholas looked up at him, awed.  He thought of something he had read 150 years ago:  'Nature is visible spirit, spirit is invisible nature.'  This was LaCroix, was it not?  The body hard and pale as marble, the eyes like ice--and the mouth more expressive than any words could be, the strong hands that could be so tender.  He closed his eyes, trying to put into visible shape the need deep within him.  He failed.  All he could say was, "Make love to me."

A gentle smile warmed LaCroix's face. "I was planning on it."

Nicholas shook his head.  "No, that's not what I meant.  I . . ."  He abandoned the search for the words, and pulled LaCroix gently down beside him.  His hands traced the other's body, finding in skin and bone the maps of memory.  This shield-like chest was protection, these strong arms, support.  He touched his fingertips to the softness just below the ribcage and swept to the abdomen, letting his soul supply the connection: pleasure, it whispered.  Relaxation.

His father had been absorbing this through their open link, and he too turned his perception to this connection between the spirit and the flesh.  Ivory and gold, he thought, running his fingers through Nicholas' hair.  So precious a treasure: a beauty fashioned out of pain and death, a beauty untarnishable by time.  He traced the soft lips, fresh as rose petals, then tilted his son's chin to look deep into his eyes.  And what he saw could have been called faith or goodness or innocence.  Life, he thought, the love and hunger for life and the world.  "All these centuries you thought I destroyed you," he whispered.  "Do you see now that your fire could never have been quenched, even had I so desired?"

Nicholas wrapped his arms around LaCroix and pulled him into a fierce embrace. "I see more clearly now that I have for all our history together.  Why?  Why now?  There were times when things were good between us, why did I not know then?"

"I am done with questioning the gods, Nicholas."  LaCroix's voice was husky.  "Now will I praise them," and he kissed his beloved's mouth with a fervor akin to worship.

Their passion bloomed from deep within them, as dormant seeds in the desert ground blossom forth after the spring rains.  They lost themselves in each other, and it was with a start that LaCroix found Nicholas had rolled on to his back, carrying the other with him so that LaCroix was above him, poised to enter, before he even realized it.  "Is this the way you want, mon fils?" he breathed.

"Tonight.  Other nights," that wickedly slanting grin flashed suddenly, "I may want other things.  But now, I need you to feel your strength."

Ice-blue eyes held his as strong sure hands parted his thighs.  He reached for LaCroix's cock and guided it to his opening, already throbbing with longing.  His eyelids fell and he moaned deeply as he was entered, his inner muscles caressing that welcome cock.

LaCroix sought Nick's mouth with a desperate intensity as emotion threatened to overwhelm him.  Anything, he pushed through their link, do you not know I will do anything for you?

Love me, came back, and let me know I am loved.  It is all I want.

Then they were beyond thought, united in that depth where words do not exist.  Nothing broke the hush of the room except the moans and cries of animals, of angels.

Harsh teeth pierced tender skin; sacred blood flowed into the mouths of the communicants.  The flesh and the spirit twined tighter and tighter, then broke and melted into one.

After, they lay a long time silent, wrapped around each other, listening to the small sounds of the morning.

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

A suburb of Paris, one month later:

Natalie looked up from the book she was reading, one of the rare volumes she'd discovered with delight in the house's library.

"You're rushing that passage, Nicholas.  Again."  LaCroix stood beside the piano, gently cradling his violin.  Natalie found herself admiring the elegant figure he made, then pushed the feeling aside with a twinge of alarm.  She'd found herself more and more attracted to LaCroix, whether because she'd drunk his blood, or through simple proximity, she didn't know.  She had no desire to examine the feeling, either.  Her attention turned to Nick, who was looking up at his sire with a mixture of exasperation and affection.  "Again?!" he asked.

"Oh, very well.  We'll work on it again tomorrow."  The patriarch of the household carefully put the violin away in its case as Nick rose and poured from a decanter on the sideboard.  Carrying a glass to his sister he glanced at the pile of glossy folders on the sofa beside her.  "Oh, no," he groaned, "More sale flyers?"

Janette raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at him in reproof.  "They are not 'sales flyers' Nicolas.  They are announcements from various houses of their latest offerings."

"Uh huh."

"Natalie and I are going shopping tomorrow evening, aren't we, Natalie."  She smiled warmly and Natalie found herself smiling back.

"I'm afraid of what I may be getting myself into," she commented.  Sidney chose that moment to leap gracefully into LaCroix's lap, and the Roman shifted slightly to allow the cat a more comfortable perch.  The cat took an inquiring sniff of the goblet in LaCroix's hand, then shook a dismissing foot at it and settled down.

"Now that's something I never expected," she whispered to Nick as he brought her a glass of merlot.  "Who'da thunk it?"

"They both think of themselves as superior creatures," he quipped back, whispering also, even though they both knew they could be heard perfectly clearly.  He perched on the edge of the desk.  "Are you all right?  You're not bored with us already, are you?"

Am I all right? She asked herself.  Well, outside of the fact that my cat is cuddling up to the man I once thought of as my worse enemy, that Janette is determined to turn me into a fashion plate, that no one will let me use my own money for anything . . . and outside of the fact that the man I still love is sleeping in the arms of someone else . . .

She smiled up at him.  "I expect I might find myself bored someday, but certainly not yet.  It's what I wanted, Nick, and needed: an adventure.  All this may be old hat to you, but not to me.  I'm in Paris, for crying out loud!"

"And when we have had enough of Paris for a little while, then there are a hundred other cities to explore," promised Janette.

"Yes," Nat echoed, and the thought stunned her for a moment.  They could go anywhere, do almost anything.  She felt Nick's hand take hers and his lips brush her forehead.

"It tore me apart, to think of leaving you, Nat.  I'm so glad I didn't have to."

Didn't you, she thought, thinking of him in LaCroix's arms, but she pushed that thought away also.  There was time enough to face that later.

World enough, and time.

FIN

--
Molly/StormBorn
UF/FKPagan/Cousin/NA/Inn-mate
stormborn@uswest.net -or- stormborn@netscape.net