The setting, dialog and actions of the first 7 paragraphs of this story are taken directly from the
_Partners of the Month_ flashback.  I've chosen to set this story in 1518, in Firenze, Italy.  The
characters from Forever Knight, Nicholas and Lacroix, as well as the dialog in the first 7
paragraphs belong to James Parriot and Sony/Tri-Star.
WARNING:  m/f sexual activity, m/m vamp sex and non-graphic violence.  (This story is
archived to JADFE with the permission of the author.)

Solace by Leslie GS

Lacroix walked slowly toward his son, the candle light of Nicholas's
room bringing out the ruddy glow of his dark red tunic, glinting on
the gold threads of the quilting, the row of buttons.  Tossing a fur
collared coat over his tunic, Lacroix had left his home, finally
having had enough of the miasma of emotions flowing sullenly through
their link.  He had no reason to look at his protégé's expression,
quite conscious of the waves of dark melancholy rolling from him.
Clearly, Nicholas was not taking easily Janette's need to move on.
Coolly, he asked, "Did you really expect she would stay with you
forever?  I want you to be painfully honest."

With that, Lacroix turned his head, fixing his gaze on Nicholas for
the first time since he'd entered the room.  The young vampire sat
sideways in the window seat, his far leg drawn up, an elbow resting
on that knee, that arm crossing his chest to rest one pale hand on
the heavy black velvet on his shoulder.  He stared sightlessly out
the window, nearly motionless, the only life and color about him the
fire light glimmering in his short, dark gold hair, the flash of
white lace at his collar and cuff.

Dully, with some apparent effort, Nicholas replied, "I loved her."

With some impatience, Lacroix broke in, "This has nothing to do with
love."  Nicholas rolled his head heavily, looking at his maker for
the first time.  Insistently, Lacroix went on, searching for some
spark in those dim blue eyes.  "This has to do with moving on.
Immortals cannot cling like lichen to the stone.  `Tis our nature,
our imperative, to wander throughout the world, throughout time."

At that, Nicholas lowered his eyes again, despair shaping his face
into a pale mask.  More slowly, trying to give his son time to
absorb his words, Lacroix said, "We either change and grow or we
wither and die... inside."  That seemed to reach Nicholas, who felt
no doubt at that moment the deadening pain of rejection,
abandonment.  He looked back up into the pale eyes of his master,
who lifted his brows, continuing with a soft irony, "And wouldn't
that be eternal hell."

Nicholas looked away as Lacroix walked slowly toward him, coming to
stand next to him by the window.  Gazing down at his protégé's
profile, Lacroix reached out to place hands upon him, one on
shoulder, the other on his lower forearm.  He lightly patted his
shoulder, then his arm, saying softly, almost gently, "Let her go,
Nicholas."

He dropped his hand from Nicholas's forearm.  The tone of his voice
darkened somewhat as he finished, "There's plenty more love left in
the world."  With that he turned and walked away, feeling Nicholas's
gaze resting upon his back.

At the door, Lacroix turned again, resting one hand on the frame,
catching his son's eyes with his own, and said, "Nicholas, come out
with me this evening.  Sitting here, alone, brooding..."  He trailed
off as his protégé's chin took on a stubborn set.  "Very well,
please yourself.  I suppose Janette has immured herself in some
dark, dank hole as well."  He permitted himself the slightest smile.
"But perhaps not...  knowing Janette and her lust for life."

He was through the door and had it almost closed behind him when
Nicholas called out, "Wait!  I'll get my cloak."  Lacroix pushed the
door wide again, face carefully solemn.

Though in the less savory part of Firenze, the tavern Lacroix had
selected was no stew.  Seeing mortality at its worst occasionally
depressed Nicholas, for whatever indecipherable reason, and that was
not Lacroix's intent.  The small, private room where they lounged
was well appointed and clean, as was the wench who brought them
their wine.  She had smiled coquettishly at Nicholas as she'd set
the drink, cups and extra pitcher Lacroix had requested on the
sturdy table, well marked with the whittled doodles of previous
guests.  However, as the younger man seemed unaware that she was
present, she had willingly turned her charms on the elder.  He had
proved far more promising, with his lift of a speculative brow
accompanied by a lingering look down the length of her body.  She'd
murmured she'd be back shortly, after seeing to some other guests,
to ensure that they had all they desired.  Once she'd left, Lacroix
had deftly mixed most of the wine, a strong burgundy, with the blood
he'd brought in a bottle tucked in a deep pocket of his coat, making
the mixture lean rather heavily on the wine.

She'd come back quickly enough, thankfully before the blank
whitewashed walls and his equally responsive companion tempted
Lacroix to some mischief.  She now sat enthroned upon his lap, a cup
of the unadulterated liquor in her hand, giggling vapidly.  The
tavern keeper had checked in once to see what his wayward serving
girl was up to.  Upon seeing her performing the other half of her
duties and after his eerily pale (but well paying) customer had
rested his very cold blue gaze upon him (prompting him to make a
quick, concealed gesture against the malocchio), he had left her to
her own devices.

Lacroix responded to her giggles with a slight smile, keeping her
cup as near to brimming as her thirst permitted.  Nicholas, lost in
his sorrows, stared morosely into his goblet when he wasn't draining
it.  Though wine affected his kind only slightly, he had had enough
by the time Lacroix addressed him that his vision drifted slightly
when he glanced up.  Plus the blood Lacroix had added to the wine
had been, by necessity, fairly fresh.  Even in his coolest cellars
couldn't keep his special vintages from spoiling quickly.

"Nicholas.  Nicholas, look.  Isn't she a pretty one?"

Nicholas gazed at the woman, who peered at him with inebriated
coyness through long, curling lashes.  Aye, aye, she was pretty
enough, though her eyes were common brown, not twilight blue.  She
had the most charming dimples though, which she flashed to her best
advantage.  He offered her his rakish grin, and simpering, she
circled Lacroix's neck with her arms, hiding her face in the crook
of his throat.  Watching Nicholas from the corner of her eye, she
tilted her head to place a kiss on the underside of the older
vampire's jaw.  With a slight smile, Lacroix lowered his mouth to
hers.  He reached up with one hand, cupping her forehead, pulling
her head back to rest on his shoulder.  With a hooded glance at
Nicholas, he lowered cool lips to her throat, laying down a light
trail of kisses.  With his free hand, Lacroix loosened the ties of
her bodice, while she giggled, delighted with the way the younger
man had fixed his eyes upon her.  Slipping his hand under her
chemise, the warm fullness of her breast filled Lacroix's palm, her
nipple crinkling from the coolness of his flesh.  He trailed his
fingers across her skin, taut and smooth with her youth, bringing
them together on the tightening bud.  She gasped as he pinched
lightly, then sighed as his hand drifted to her other breast, touch
deft, delicate.

Transfixed, Nicholas watched, a sullen burn building in his groin,
as Lacroix slowly, deliberately, worked upon the woman.  Or rather,
Nicholas realized, a wicked grin curving his lips, played.  The
woman's head lolling back against Lacroix's shoulder as he teased
with one hand her breasts while other caressed her thighs, the
circling of his palm gradually lifting her skirts higher and higher,
called to mind the sensuous attention he tendered on his rebec.
Lacroix glanced up at him with a small complicit smile as his
fingers traveled up the final inches of her inner thigh to brush
lightly at the dark fluff concealing her center.  The woman moaned
softly, licking her upper lip, easing her thighs apart, lifting her
hips up to Lacroix's hand.  The musk scent of her arousal perfumed
the small room and with a low growl, Nicholas leaned back in his
chair, gulping down the cup of wine and blood in his hand.  He
poured himself another serving, fumbling, spilling a bit across the
black silk on his thighs, as he was unwilling to look away from what
was spread out before him.

Lacroix ran a fingertip along the edges of the warm, slick crevice
in the curls between her legs, not deigning to delve any deeper at
first, though she sighed and undulated against him.  She tried to
slide her hands under herself, to reach his crotch, aware it was her
place to give rather than receive pleasure, but he pulled her closer
down upon his lap, laughing softly in her ear.  She subsided a
while, until his hand, never tentative, but always slow, so
agonizingly slow, began doing its excruciating work deeper in her
cleft.  Her pleasure bud was stroked, lightly pinched, rolled, the
opening beneath it barely caressed.  She ground her buttocks into
Lacroix's lap, seeking to inflame him, to speed his hands upon her,
desperate for release from this torturous pleasure.  He would not be
diverted from his own pace, however, and she went limp against him,
submitting completely to his will.  Her reward was being lifted to a
plane of arousal she'd never reached before.  For a time she stared
into the dark blue eyes of the younger man, his avid gaze serving to
heighten her pleasure.  Eventually, though, she closed her eyes,
aware only of the hands upon her.

Lacroix lowered his mouth to her throat, the rapid pulse against his
lips echoing her heart's thumping in his ears.  Sighing, he tongued
her salty skin, looking up from under his lashes to meet his son's
gaze, beginning to burn with golden flecks.  He slid his fingers
deep into her slick core, then pulled them out to glide them over
her swollen bud, balancing her on the edge, denying her that tiny
push that would permit her her climax.  Her breath came in small,
desperate gasps, she was rigid in his arms, and she whimpered as he
again lightened his touch.

"Signore, please," she moaned, lifting her chin as his mouth
caressed her throat, her sense lost in a haze of wine and desire.
Teetering on the peak of an arousal more intense than she'd ever
felt in her life, she had nearly forgotten the other man in the room
until the one under whose hands she writhed spoke to him.

"Nicholas," he murmured.  "Come kiss her, Nicholas.  We'll ...
release her together."  She looked up, her vision blurred with
passion, at the sound of two knees hitting the floor beside her
The naked lust on the young man's face, right next to hers, drew her
to him and their mouths met with a frantic twisting of tongues.  She
felt his hand, rougher than the other's, close on one breast, but
she wanted it, wanted anything that would free her.  His mouth left
hers and he lowered his head to nuzzle her throat.  She raised her
head again, turning it, and her mouth was captured by the older man,
his tongue insinuating itself deep, thrusting.  She sucked it
avidly, and the fingers were working on her again, and she was
climbing, climbing that peak, the four hands and two mouths on her
blending into one pleasure, suffusing her whole body.

As Nicholas's fangs sank into her throat, she burst under Lacroix's
implacable fingers, her scream of mingled pain and rapture muffled
in his mouth.  Holding her convulsing body easily in his iron grip,
Lacroix shivered as Nicholas's ecstasy flared through their bond,
the scent of the woman's blood and his son's moaning snarls jerking
at his self-control.  His own blood-lust ignited, bringing him to a
delicious state of tantalized arousal.  He raised his lips from the
woman's slack mouth to gaze more fully at his son's face, to watch
the quivering tension of his body.  The mortal's heart began its
last fluttering fight for life as Nicholas drew her in fiercely,
taking her, possessing her utterly.

"Ah, yes, mon cher fils," Lacroix murmured, his voice caressing.
"All of her.  She is yours, totally, completely yours."

Nicholas groaned deeply as her heart lurched one last time, as she
died under his mouth, her final sense of sinking into warm emptiness
coursing through his own veins as he shoved himself away from her,
staggering to lean against one wall.  Lacroix quickly stood, dumping
the corpse on the table and moving to lightly grip one of Nicholas's
elbows.  His protégé turned to look at him, eyes still aflame, fangs
gleaming a liquid pink as he rolled the last mouthful over his
tongue.  He grinned wolfishly at Lacroix, aware, though dimly
through the images and sensations washing through him, of his
master's arousal.

"Let's find another one, Lacroix," he rasped.  "You didn't even get
a taste."

Lacroix chuckled, and caught a ruby drop on a fingertip just before
it fell from his son's chin.  He lifted it before Nicholas's eyes,
then lapped it up with a little shiver.

"There.  That's my taste."  He grinned sardonically.  "Come,
Nicholas.  We must ... tidy up a bit before we ... indulge ourselves
further."  The other vampire's gaze followed his to the white-
skinned, blue-lipped woman sprawled on the table.  They moved
together to her side, Nicholas with a feeling of floating
disconnectedness.  Her drunkenness, her lust, rolled through his
veins, mingling with his own, and only the utter satiation of his
hunger allowed him to wrestle his beast back under control.
Nevertheless, he scooped her up with a practiced efficiency, making
sure her wound was hidden against his body, that her head was
securely nestled under his chin.  Her body, still warm, a supple,
yielding pliancy in his arms, was both arousing and disturbing
together.  He pushed the uncomfortable sensation away, focusing
instead on the impression of her last rushing ecstasy.

Nicholas, laughing softly, carried the limp girl from the tavern,
while Lacroix intercepted the busybody proprietor, pressing gold
into a clammy palm and `suggesting' that the woman had found more
promising employment as a gentleman's mistress.  Once outside,
Lacroix led Nicholas, who, sadly out of date, hummed one of
Guillaume Dufay's more romantic tunes, to a stinking alley some
distance from the tavern.  Relieving the man of his burden, he left
him standing abstracted, savoring the slowly ebbing heat of the
girl's life, while he took her corpse down the alley.  Rats
skittered away from his boots as he found a place deep in the
shadows.  Dropping the body on a pile of offal, he drew his dagger
and cut its throat to conceal the distinctive wounds.  He also
disfigured the face, not trusting the rats, whose eyes watched his
movements with glittering interest, to do a complete job before the
body was found, with any luck some days from now.  He emerged from
the alley, collecting Nicholas with an arm over his shoulders, and
began leading him toward the finer part of town.

"Come, Nicholas.  Let's find a party to invite ourselves to.
Something with music, dancing."

"Dancing, yes," the younger vampire agreed, twirling himself out
from under Lacroix's arm, to spin down the street, his own arms
outstretched.  His feet picked out the quick steps of some country
dance, a skill he would lose in a few hours time.  Lacroix strode
after him, face impassive as he watched his protégé whirling, a
dervish swept up in the blood-ecstasy.

A skip, a sliding sideways step, turn, clap, turn back, boots
skimming the polished green marble floor...  Nicholas looked over
his shoulder, enjoying witnessing the little jolts of excitement his
gaze galvanized in his partner.  Each time her eyes, the melting
darkness of a gazelle's, met his stare, she gasped, her breasts
rising to press tightly against the rose silk of her embroidered
bodice.  The black glare of the lad next to him in the men's line,
stepping mechanically through his paces, the wisps of his newly
blooming mustache quivering with outrage, also gave him a measure of
amusement.  Since Nicholas, an interloper powerful in his lithe
movement, his arrogant maleness, had arrived, the young woman's
callow suitor had been unable to win a single glance from her.
Smiling, Nicholas turned again.  The large hall of his unwitting
host, a powerful merchant-prince, spun past him, a blur of dancers
in richly colored silks, glowing in the light of hundreds of beeswax
candles set in golden candelabra.  Through the crowd, he caught a
quick glimpse of Lacroix bent in conversation with a black gowned
woman seated against the wall, her heavy, mature face glowing a
fierce, astonished red.  Nicholas's grin widened and he nearly
laughed aloud, suppressing the bloom of hilarity in his chest with
some difficulty.  He turned his sparkling, mischief-ladened gaze
back to the girl whose chaperone Lacroix was keeping ... distracted.
Her blush rose from the edge of her bodice up her slender throat and
over her cheeks, and her full lips parted as she drew in a quick
breath.  He watched as she caught a near misstep, and he imagined he
could feel the heat of her desire warm against his own body.  He
*could* smell her, the enticing aroma of newly ripened womanhood an
irresistible lure, easily discerned even mingled with the scent of
scores of other heated mortal bodies.

The musicians played a final triumphant chord, and the dancers swept
together, the men to grasp and bow over their partners' offered
hands, while the women bent in a deep curtsey.  The more demure
dropped their eyes.  No doubt Nicholas's partner would have numbered
among them any other night, but this time, she kept her eyes locked
on his.  And when the other dancers released one another's hands to
applaud the musicians, she would not let go, keeping his fingers
firmly in hers.  The players began another song, this one slower,
the steps to this dance more sinuous.  Her boldness continued as she
requested, her voice slightly high with her delightful tension,
"Another dance, signore.  If you please..?"

"I do please," Nicholas replied, his own voice deep, caressing, and
he bowed low in the first figure of the dance.  Flushing, she
reluctantly released his hand, dipping into her own responding
courtesy, before they began the first sweeping steps.  The young
man, who until that night had thought himself the most favored of
her suitors, had spent this time gaping rather than acquiring
another partner.  The movement of the dancers pressed him back, and
he retreated, manhood wounded sorely, to glower jealously from the
sidelines.

By the end of that dance, with its slow, lithe steps that displayed
Nicholas's supple strength to its best advantage, she could only nod
without words at his murmured suggestion that they take a cooling
breath in the garden.  Her ignored suitor looked after them in
amazement and shot a glare at her - until this night - diligent
nurse.  The older woman sat slumped against the wall, heavy chin
nestled on the swell of her bosom, apparently fast asleep.  With an
invigorating surge of righteousness, intent on preserving his lady's
honor, he darted after the rapidly departing pair.  Only to find
himself suddenly blocked, nearly running his nose into a broad, dark
red silk clad chest.  Tiny faces, his own, distorted with
astonishment and the curve of polished gold, stared back at him from
a row of closely placed buttons.  Furious, he scowled up at the
jackass in his way.  His hot temper chilled abruptly under the icy
blue gaze meeting his.

"A beautiful night," declared Nicholas, breathing deeply of the
cool, orange blossom scented air.  He tossed his head to look up at
the stars, hard white points of light in the moonless sky.  Then he
turned his gaze back to the woman beside him, his eyes locking with
those that followed his every move.  Her heartbeat pulsed in his
ears and the clean, heady fragrance of her desire came to him, even
sweeter than that of the citrus trees.  Her lips formed the word,
"Yes," perhaps in agreement with his words.  Smiling, he reached out
to take her gently by the shoulders.  She turned, pliant under his
hands, molding her body against his as he pulled her lightly to him,
nestling her back against his front.  She trembled though, when she
reached behind her to set her palms, hot and damp, upon the hard
muscled length of his silk clad thighs.  His own breath caught at
the touch of her hands, and he fought a moment to suppress the
burning of his eyes, to keep his feeding teeth within, so his next
words would not be hissed.

"Yes, beautiful," he said softly, voice husky with his desire, "but
never so lovely as your ... heat, your fire, is to me."  He bent his
head and set a careful kiss on the side of her throat.  She gasped
softly at the touch, at the coolness of his lips.  Then, she tilted
her head sideways, inviting more.  He kissed her neck again, the
frantic pulse beating against his lips enflaming him, and his Change
surged through him.  Lust jerking at the reins of his control, he
caressed the soft skin under his mouth, parted lips carefully
covering the razored points of his teeth.  She sighed, leaning back,
resting her weight upon the solid strength behind her.  He growled
softly, his tongue tip darting forward to taste the salt of her
fevered flesh.  She moaned, nails digging into the corded muscles of
his thighs.  Sighing, he embraced her in one smooth movement, an arm
curling around her, under her breasts, the other hand lifting to cup
her forehead.  Holding her firmly, he struck, the fangs piercing her
vein so sharp she felt no pain.  She cried out softly in surprise,
then her blood burst into his mouth, hot, rich, and they both
groaned together.  His pleasure washed over her and she knew him and
her yielding was so sweet, the bliss melting her loins and
spreading, liquid fire, through her limbs. He drank down her desire
for him and it flowed like balm over his wounded heart, even as the
ecstasy of her burning blood ignited him.  The taste of her wanting
him, his power and his beauty, was so good, so true, that he didn't
even notice when her life slipped away, as he took her completely.

He soared an eternal moment in satiation, then something called him
to open his eyes, to look up into Lacroix's pale stare.  He was
caught a moment by the intensity of the other's gaze, then he
dropped his eyes to the girl, hanging limp in his grip.  He sighed.
"I'm sorry, Lacroix.  There's nothing left."

"Not to fret, Nicholas.  I had the boy."  He inclined his head to
the side, and indeed, there the slighted suitor lay in an untidy
heap under an orange tree.  Then Lacroix said briskly, "We'd best
make our exit.  The watch dog is sure to be stirred to wakefulness
eventually, and she will bark out the alarm."  He stooped, scooping
up the lad's corpse under one arm.  Upon standing, he reached out to
take the girl.  "Give her to me, Nicholas.  You check to see nothing
untoward is left behind, which would unravel the tale of two young
lovers eloping.  I'll meet you by the Arno."

With a final look at the girl's face, eyes filming with death, he
turned her over to Lacroix, who lifted his burdens easily into the
night sky.  Nicholas cast about, finding almost immediately an
embroidered kid hide dancing slipper that she must have lost in his
embrace.  He searched under the orange tree, but the boy had left no
trace behind.  He launched himself after Lacroix, following him
slowly, filled still with the sweetness of her wanting him, glowing
with a heat made up of more than her mortal warmth.

Lacroix had flown over the center of the river, to where it was
deep, where its swift currents would most likely carry the bodies in
an uninterrupted journey to the Tyrrhenian  Sea.  There he'd dropped
them, the boy followed by the girl, the spume of the double splashes
white in the starlight.  He'd hung in the cool, gentle breeze above
the water a moment, watching as one bobbed up, then the other, where
after rolling once, they were swallowed down together again,
disappearing from his sight.  When he sensed Nicholas's arrival, he
angled back to the shore, turning just before his feet touched,
soundless on the rocky bank, so that he came to rest a step behind
and slightly to one side of his protégé.  They stood a moment,
unmoving, as the black waters chuckled against the stones at their
feet, the edge of an occasionally rippling current gleaming in the
starlight.  Nicholas tossed the slipper into the river, and they
watched as it sailed off, following its mistress.  Then Nicholas
spoke.

"Raphael is in Rome."

Lacroix stood quietly a moment, then said, "I'll send word to have
the villa there opened and cleaned."

Nicholas nodded, then sighed, Janette's loss, her rejection of him,
dragging him again toward dismal melancholy.  Lacroix reached out
and set his left hand lightly on the other's left shoulder.
Nicholas quickly lifted his right hand, setting it over Lacroix's,
then shifting his grip to interlace their fingers tightly together.
Lacroix turned his gaze from the dark waters to the finely cut
planes of his protégé's profile.  Eyes fixed on the river rolling
past them, Nicholas slowly drew Lacroix's hand forward, twisting
slowly, so that with a slight lowering and turning of his head, he
could set a light kiss in the center of Lacroix's palm.  His lips
were still warm with the heat of the two women he'd taken.  Lacroix
bore the caress impassively.

Then Nicholas's mouth moved lower, brushing over the pulse point of
the wrist, and Lacroix drew in a quick, soft breath.  Closing his
eyes, Nicholas ran slightly parted lips slowly back and forth over
the cool skin, nudging Lacroix's cuff down as he did so.  Easing the
half-step closer it took, Lacroix lightly set his lean length
against Nicholas's back, while his free hand came up to skim
smoothly over his shoulder and biceps.  With another sigh, Nicholas
leaned back, resting against Lacroix.  Lacroix's hand slid from his
arm and under it, across Nicholas's chest, where he set it over his
heart.  He ducked his head, his cheek against the silk of his
protégé's hair, and inhaled slowly.

Nicholas's tongue tip crept out, teasing the sensitive skin, and
Lacroix's head bent even lower so he could trail his lips lightly
over his ear and then his throat beneath.  Nicholas shivered and the
hand not holding Lacroix's wrist to his nuzzling mouth came up to
press hard on the hand his companion had rested over his heart.  His
fangs slid from their concealment, the points pricking carefully
over the vein.  He felt the pressure of Lacroix's chest expanding
against his back.  Nicholas himself drew in a long breath.  Then,
abruptly, as a diver plunges headfirst into the unfathomable waters
of a bottomless sea, he pierced the flesh under his teeth.

"Ahhh," Lacroix breathed, his exhalation caressing the side of
Nicholas's neck, "oui..."  The searing pleasure sent a ripple of
memory through him, of the sensation of Nicholas's teeth, as yet
mortally blunt, worrying the flesh at this very spot...  then he
felt himself rushing into the sucking hunger of his protégé's mouth.
His arm tightened around Nicholas's chest as his son suddenly bucked
against him, moaning as his maker's essence flared across his
tongue.  Nicholas's grief, buried and muted only somewhat by their
evening's jaunt, tore at him through their link.  He lowered his
head, growling softly as he released his blood-lust, and bit down,
penetrating the vein under his son's ear.

Lacroix grunted as the fire of Nicholas's blood burst in his mouth,
the lust and desire of the two mortal women distilled into something
fierce, primal.  A deadly brilliance, mercurial in its exaltations
and its rages, never temperate.  Even the anguish of abandonment
couldn't dampened that flame.  Lacroix drew hard, swallowing down
Nicholas's grief, the sullen suffering, as greedy for pain as for
pleasure, its lash, too, affirming life.  His voracious, savage joy
as he consumed these sensations worked their own alchemy on
Nicholas, who screamed as he was seared in the brutal crucible of
his master's passions.  Lacroix held him even tighter, his hunger
for life, for his creation, for Nicholas, smashing through the
younger vampire's body and mind.  Groaning, Nicholas slashed
Lacroix's wrist again and again, ever deeper, ravenous for the
elemental, wordless desire that welled up from his maker's core.  He
tasted himself permeating Lacroix's blood, his awareness, and
rejoiced in the bond between them, one that would not, *could* not,
be broken.  Spiraling tighter and tighter, the devouring ecstasy
rose in them together, until rapture exploded, the bloody climax
incandescent in every vein.

Black abyss, sown with sharp white points, spilling pristine light
into his upturned eyes.  He stood, legs braced, Nicholas's limp
body, racked by deep, tearing sobs, in his arms.  While Lacroix took
long, slow breaths of the damp river air, his awareness collected
itself again around that core of hard wariness, which had watched
even while most of his being had been absorbed with Nicholas.
Satisfied they had no reason to hurry their departure, he held his
son, silent, unmoving, as his catharsis washed through him.
Gradually, Nicholas calmed and straightened, and Lacroix loosed his
hold as the other man gently disengaged from him.  Nicholas looked
out at the river as he wiped his cheeks with his palms.  He shot a
glance at Lacroix, aware he had little patience with the weaker
emotions.  But while the returned look was cool, it was without
scorn.

"Lacroix..." he began, the other man's blood still smoldering in his
body.  His master's brows rose, and he found himself standing there,
open mouthed yet wordless.  He had no words to put to what had just
happened between them.  He never had.

"Never mind," he went on.  But he reached out, and ran light
fingertips over Lacroix's forearm, then down to the wrist he'd just
fed from.  The other man inhaled sharply, the wound barely healed,
and caught Nicholas's fingers for a quick squeeze before letting go.

"A bath, I think.  Then bed," Lacroix stated briskly.  "Come spend
the day at my villa, Nicholas.  We can discuss our travel plans
after we've slept."

Nicholas contemplated his empty home, and while a deep ache welled
up at the thought, the heart-twisting pain he'd suffered under
earlier that night had faded.  Too much filled him, too much, and
though there was nothing there of tenderness, that hollow space was
gone, saturated with mortal life ... and the dark, ineffable essence
of Lacroix.  Still, he had no wish to face those silent rooms.

"All right."  Nicholas's expression became abstracted.  "Rome.
Raphael.  Have you seen, Lacroix, how he brings such light and life
to his works?"  The younger vampire flung himself abruptly into the
sky, his voice trailing after him.  "Those he's done lately, you'd
think his subjects could step from the painting..."

Lacroix watched after his son a moment, his hands coming together
before him, the thumb of his right running lightly over the left
wrist.  Wounds of the flesh healed so much more quickly than those
of the heart.  But even his Nicholas, to whom these lessons of
eternity came so hard, unlike his daughter, his wise Janette, would
learn "immortal" did not mean "immutable."  His progeny *would* come
together again, their relationship changed perhaps, but still
strong.  For the bond that linked them together, forged from his own
blood, that, that, was immutable, unchanging, no matter what battles
were fought between them.  Even hatred could not sever those ties.

He delicately licked his lips, tasting there still the traces of the
fiery essence that flowed through him.  He took to the air,
following his protégé.  Rome.  The tenth Leo was pope there now,
born a Medici.  There would be the art and music for Nicholas, the
politics and literature for himself, and the ... luxuries for them
both.  He laughed softly, pressing with more speed after his son.
It would be refreshing to sojourn with just Nicholas for a time,
without Janette.  He would eventually come to desire her wit, her
elegance, her deadly grace again.  Until then, though, it would be
amusing to find his sport with Nicholas, drinking, whoring, sharing
other indulgences...  A hunger surged up in him, fierce, sharp,
though his body still burned with the flame of Nicholas's blood.  He
laughed again, exulting, that unquenchable thirst for his creation
suffusing him with the brute joy of being alive.

FIN

Leslie GS
LoosCanN@m4.sprynet.com
March 1998