Date: Mon, 10 Jun 1996 21:31:56 -0400 From: Everyone else seems to preface their work with a disclaimer stating that they did not create these characters. I have no idea whether this is done for legal reasons or out of sheer politeness, but in either case, I will join the chorus and state, for the record, that the characters and backstory herein are based on those from the television show Forever Knight, to which I have absolutely no legitimate claim whatsoever. Whatever's left is mine alone. This story takes place between the second and third seasons, but was written, and should be read, with the events of Last Knight firmly in mind. Comments and criticisms are welcome. Absolution (Part One of Twelve) by Iocaste@AOL.COM "It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution." -- Oscar Wilde, _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ Jacob watched as the sergeant shuttled a brown envelope to him across the desk. "Check to see that everything's there and sign here," the sergeant said in a bored voice, tapping a line on a form on a clipboard. Jacob almost laughed at the absurdity. Even if every one of his meagre possessions was missing, there was still no way he would try to recover the rest, not if it meant staying in this place for an extra minute. But he dutifully gave the contents of the envelope quick glance, fighting back the jolt he received on seeing these remnants of a former life. Like looking in the mirror this morning and seeing himself in civilian clothes. Surreal. He signed the sergeant's form and a guard escorted him to the front gate. "Good luck," the guard said, his lips twisting. As Jacob stepped into the car that would take him back to the city, he very much doubted that the guard wished him anything of the kind. Shifting to make himself comfortable in the back seat, Jacob watched as the scenery gradually shifted from trees to small buildings, and then to larger ones. Home. Free. Almost. He had the name of his parole officer in his pocket, and he was due to report to him first thing in the morning. Tonight he would be staying at his mother's apartment. Dear old mom. He hadn't seen her since the trial. His fingers trembled as he thought of walking out into the night, with no cameras to watch him, no walls to block his path. No guards to control him. And Jacob smiled. Natalie snapped off her surgical gloves and tossed them into the wastebasket. Tendrils of hair had escaped her ponytail and she brushed them back impatiently. Dammit, this waiting was _unbearable_. She tried to calm down by forcing herself into the numbing dreariness of paperwork. But no matter how many times she stared at the lines running across the page, she couldn't make sense of them. She glanced at her watch. It was after 2 a.m. Where _was_ he? "Nat." She gasped, startled, and glanced at the doorway. "Nick. You scared me." He smiled, walked over to her desk, kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Sorry." He looked down at the papers scattered liberally across her desk. "Are you busy?" Her mouth twisted in irony. "Hardly. I haven't been able to get anything done in days." She stood, donning a fresh pair of gloves. "Roll up your sleeve." He chuckled as he shed his long, black woolen coat and undid the buttons at his shirtsleeve. "You're almost more excited about this than I am," he said, watching the nervous energy in her movements as she moved about the room. He sat on the edge of one of the unoccupied surgical tables. She shot him a sharp glance. "Don't worry. I'll keep my scientific objectivity intact." Suddenly needing to have some physical contact with her, however fleeting, he caught her hands with inhuman speed and kissed them through the latex gloves. "The hell you will," he murmured. "The hell I will," she agreed. She wrapped a blood pressure gauge around his arm, letting out a long, agitated breath as she read the results. "Well?" Nick asked. She met his eyes and he could hear the racing of her heart. Could hear it so strongly, in fact, that the beat seemed to shudder through his body, giving him the brief illusion that it was his own poor, dead heart that caused the rhythm. "We are getting very, very close." She unwrapped the gauge and replaced it with a tourniquet. She inserted a needle into one of his veins and watched him wince. "Sting?" she asked. He shrugged. "A little." "Good." He smiled affectionately. "Bloodthirsty." "Humans hurt, Nick. Better get used to it." She peered at him through the hair that had once more escaped its confinement. "And if one of us is bloodthirsty ....." "Not me," Nick said with satisfaction. "It's been three weeks, and the hunger ... well, let's just say it's not what it once was." She reached out and smoothed her fingers over his cheek. "Your colour is excellent. You're looking downright rosy." She turned away from him and began transferring drops of his blood to a glass microscope slide. "There's a blender full of my magic vitamin milkshake in the corner, if you want to take some home with you," she told him as she worked. Nick frowned at her. "Nat?" "Yes?" She didn't look up from the blood. He walked over to her. "Are you all right?" That got her attention. "Of course I'm all right," she told him, sounding surprised. "We're almost there. Why wouldn't I be all right?" He shook his head uncertainly. "I don't know. I -- you just seem --" Her mouth stretched into a wide smile. "Hey, aren't you the one who told me I was more excited than you about this?" Nick sighed and closed his eyes briefly. "You're right. I'm just on edge." She laid a comforting hand on his arm. "We both are." She inserted the slide under the microscope lens and examined it closely. "Well?" "Well, I'll have to study it for a while, but it seems like the number of those nodules is definitely diminishing." "And those are why I am ... the way I am?" "Not exactly. They're more like your cells' reaction to the nucleotides that make you the way you are." She stepped aside. "Here, take a look." He looked. It was just blood to him and he said so. Natalie chuckled. "Trust me, Nick. In strictly medical terms, you are more human now than you were three weeks ago." He straightened and caught her in an impulsive hug. She pulled away. "Don't -- don't thank me too soon." "What do you mean?" "I just -- don't want you to be disappointed again." "I'm not going to be," he told her confidently. "I'm in control now, I've been following your directions, and the new potion or whatever it is you brew for me is really working this time. I can feel it." She nodded. "I know you can. I'm just being cautious. It's -- it's the hallmark of a good scientist." She began to transfer the leftover blood samples into glass vials. As she worked, the rapid flutter of the pulse in her throat caught Nick's attention. Its pace betrayed her agitation, and the spot was coated by a fine sheen of sweat. He had a sudden, fierce urge to cover the area with his lips, gently slide his teeth under her skin, sip delicately at the sweet, warm, sticky crimson he knew he would find there. Just a taste, just a drop to help soothe the awful craving. Surely no one could deny him just a tiny sip, just so that he would know what she tasted like, just once .... Nick was actually leaning towards her when he caught himself with a jolt. He looked away quickly, before she could see the yellow glow he felt burning in his eyes. The hunger wasn't what it once was. But it wasn't gone. End Part One Absolution (Part Two of Twelve) The car dutifully dropped him outside his mother's building. Out of habit, Jacob tipped the driver (stingily, as the prison had not provided him much in the way of travel money) and slid out of his seat on to the pavement. The car remained where it was. Jacob looked at the driver, who shrugged sheepishly. "We're supposed to wait until the -- passenger -- goes inside," he explained. Jacob felt his jaw clench in annoyance, but he nodded politely. "All right." He made a show of walking through the front door and greeting the doorman. The driver was apparently satisfied because out of the corner of his eye, Jacob could see the car pulling away. The doorman was new, or at least, had been hired sometime in the last six years. He had never seen Jacob before. "I'm sorry," Jacob said with a smile. "I think I have the wrong address." And before the doorman could say anything, Jacob had disappeared into the night. The lights of the Raven failed to comfort her. They had, once. She was not troubled often -- did not allow herself to be, often -- but in those rare moments of discontent, she would look out at her club, watch the mix of mortals and immortals weave between flashing lights interspersed with darkness, and she would find it ... soothing. This place that she had created, to resemble her memories so that they would not be able to haunt her with quite so much intensity. It was a powerful thing, to create. The life she led allowed precious little of that. she told herself harshly. "That's good advice, my dear," said a dark, raspy voice. Janette turned, startled, and surprised that he'd been able to startle her. "Yes," LaCroix said slowly. "You were so engrossed a moment ago that I was able to enter ... unnoticed." She nodded, accepting -- and then her eyes narrowed in fear. "What do you mean, good advice?" "Be happy with what you have. Don't try to change that which is immutable." She stared at him and he almost smiled, his eyes glinting with amusement. "No, my dear, I didn't. But after so many centuries, do not imagine me incapable of following a simple train of thought, especially when it leaves such an imprint across your lovely face. Now, tell me what has you so troubled? These -- moods -- aren't like you. If you're not careful, you'll end up like Nicholas." She flinched. "I'm fine." "Secrets? What can't a daughter tell her father?" She took a sip of the liquid in her glass, feeling its heat rush through her in a glorious burst of sensation. She closed her eyes to savour it carefully, drew upon it for strength. "There are some things, LaCroix, that a daughter must discover without her father's guidance." "Perhaps." He trailed his fingers across the back of her hand, the most emotive gesture he would allow himself. "But bear in mind, Daughter: you can always come to me." He retreated as silently as he had come. Janette stared at the blood in her glass. She could _feel_ the human from which it had come -- a young, once-vital boy -- and for a brief moment, she felt something that she never before experienced in her one thousand years of existence. Something so alien it took her a few moments before she was able to name the emotion. Regret. "No, Father," she whispered. "I cannot always come to you." Jacob was unable to tear his eyes from the mass of writhing, twisting bodies in the center of the dance floor. From his vantage point, tucked in a corner of the darkened club, he could see everything, and yet was almost completely concealed from others' prying eyes. He found that if he forced himself not to blink, the images blurred together so that the myriad of forms almost seemed like one great, tortuous beast, its shape coalescing and reconstructing itself in time to the music. The image pleased him, and he smiled inwardly. One face stood out in the crowd, destroying his fancy. A young woman, very young -- he doubted she was more than twenty -- looking ill-at-ease and out of place in the decadent atmosphere. She danced uncertainly, her eyes constantly darting to her partner as though asking him to put an end to her torment. The man, however, seemed oblivious to her discomfort. The man was part of the beast and had no interest in anything outside of it. But Jacob did. The woman, having drawn up her courage, said something to her date and left the dance floor. She stopped briefly at her table to collect her purse, then headed outside without another look back. It really was a shame she hadn't looked back, Jacob thought with a rush of pity. If she had, she might have seen him as he began to follow her. End Part Two Absolution (Part Three of Twelve) The body had been left half hidden under some bushes in a small playground, but the bushes had since been cleared away to allow the police a thorough examination of the corpse. It was 4 o'clock a.m., pre-dawn, but late enough that some early risers, drawn by the lights and the sirens, had come to gather round as the uniformed officers scoured the area. Nick and Schanke elbowed their way through the crowd to join Natalie where she knelt by the body, oblivious to the mud that stained her neat brown skirt and shoes. "Victim's name was Rosalie Evans," Natalie said by way of a greeting. "Twenty-one years old. They found her purse over there." She nodded vaguely toward the undergrowth. "T.O.D. about 2 or 3 a.m., but I won't be certain until I can perform an autopsy. Sexual assault, obviously. Her death may very well have been accidental. It appears she suffocated on her bile. " Nick looked more closely at the body. The victim's skirt had been dragged down around her ankles, and though her only visible wounds were some tiny scratches and bruises on her thighs, Nick could seen blood pooling between her legs. The smell of it tempted him. He could feel his canines begin to project and sharpen, and he tried to find something else on which to focus his attention. With vampiric eyes, he spotted the small, glittering object near where Natalie had indicated the purse had been found. No one was watching him as he retrieved the item and examined it with a feeling of inevitability. It was a matchbook from the Raven. "Hey, partner!" Schanke called, walking over to him. Nick hurriedly slipped the matchbook in his pocket. "Find anything interesting?" "No." "Well, it doesn't matter anyway. Call just came through on the radio. We are looking for one Jacob Woodrow. Released from prison just over a week ago, was dropped off at his mother's place, but he never made it upstairs. The mother called looking for him. Captain's got an APB out on him now, and little boys and girls in blue are out interviewing everybody he ever met." "What was he in for?" "Rape. Five counts. Likes pretty, young brunettes. Never killed anyone before, though. I guess he was frustrated, after all that time inside with no opportunity to get his rocks off." Nick looked at his partner in disgust. "We'd better go find the girl's parents and let them know what's happened." Nick and Schanke escorted the girl's father to the morgue so he could identify the body. They didn't expect he'd be able to offer much in the way of useful information -- not only was he almost incoherent with grief, but he'd been asleep all evening and had had no idea where his daughter had been, or with whom. The two detectives left him in the care of a uniform to take his statement and headed back to the station. "What I don't understand," Schanke was saying as he and Nick approached their captain's office, "is how this guy Jacob Woodrow could have been released after only six years. I mean, they proved he was guilty of five different assaults and the cops at the time thought there were probably more that they couldn't pin on him. And yet six years later, he's walking the streets with no supervision at all. Just how does something like that happen?" "I don't know, Schank," Nick said tiredly. They stopped outside the captain's door. Nick raised a fist to knock, but Schanke caught his wrist. "Answer me this: what exactly are we busy putting them away for if they're just going to be out again before we can say Rumpelstiltskin?" Nick jerked out of Schanke's grasp and made a second attempt to knock, but this time the door swung open before he could make contact. He found himself perilously close to rapping his knuckles on Captain Amanda Cohen's small forehead and he hurriedly dropped his arm. "Detectives," the captain greeted them. She ushered them inside. Already seated in one of the chairs facing her desk was a thin, bookish-looking man with round glasses and thinning hair. At the detectives' approach, he stood and proffered his hand. "Detectives Knight and Schanke, I'd like you to meet Dr. Linus Merritt," Cohen introduced them. Her voice had taken on that tone of barely veiled disgust that both detectives recognized. "Dr. Merritt runs a prison program for the rehabilitation and release of sex offenders," Cohen continued in the same tone. Nick and Schanke's eyes trained on the doctor with the same immediate, horrified comprehension. Schanke was the first to speak. "Jacob Woodrow wouldn't happen to be one of your successes, would he?" Dr. Merritt, whose entire physicality suggested the image of a meek, bookish professor, became, if possible, even more meek and bookish-looking at Schanke's attack. "Jacob was one of my patients, yes," he admitted. As if the doctor's words had plucked a chord that vibrated in perfect resonance with Nick's own tendrils of memory, an overwhelming sense of deja vu began to swirl in Nick's brain. "And were you the genius who suggested that he be paroled after only six years in prison?" Schanke was asking. Beads of sweat glittered on the man's forehead. "He seemed to be making a great deal of progress. I had taught him -- I thought I had taught him -- more ... shall we say, healthy ways to release some of his violent impulses. He was responding well to the treatment ... I was trying to show him how to relate to women in -- constructive ways...." A sinking feeling was gripping Nick's chest, so painfully intense that he almost staggered .... "Oh yeah?" Schanke demanded, his voice vibrating with anger. "Tell that to Rosalie Evans. Better yet, tell it to her father, who my partner and I left sobbing in the morgue!" Dr. Merritt's jaw worked, but it was a while before any sound escaped his lips. "I thought he felt ... remorse, over what he had done." It was this statement that shattered the final barrier between Nick and his past, and he suddenly found himself trapped in the twisted, nightmarish world of remembrances, the seductively beckoning echoes of a life he'd given up long ago .... <"Nicholas Girard?" she asks. Unnecessary, really. She knows exactly who and what I am, just as I know about her. It's a strange sensation -- I've lived so long among mortals that I've almost forgotten how that vampiric connection feels. Almost.> <"Who are you?" I ask.> <"My name is Andrea Brutus. And I feel like I've been searching for you forever."> "Nick? Earth to Nick!" Schanke's voice jerked Nick back into the present. "Yeah, Schank?" Nick said slowly, trying to shake off the haunting melancholy his memories had left him with. Becoming aware of his surroundings again, he realized that he and Schanke were now standing outside of Cohen's office, and Dr. Merritt must have beaten a hasty retreat, for he was nowhere to be seen. "What. Do. You. Think?" The way Schanke punctuated each word made it clear that he had repeated the question more than once. "About what?" Schanke groaned in frustration. "About what? About the quack's offer, that's what! About the Captain's recommendation that we 'utilize' his 'unique knowledge' of Jacob Woodrow to figure out what he's going to do next! I mean, if the doc's such an idiot that he's willing to let this psycho out of prison, exactly how much help is he going to be to us during an investigation?" Nick shrugged. "It's possible he could help, and I don't suppose there's much more damage he could do now." Schanke stared at his partner. "You mean you don't care that this was the guy ultimately responsible for that kid's death?" "Jacob Woodrow was the only one responsible for her death, Schank." Schanke's lip curled. "You don't really believe that, do you?" Nick hesitated. "No," he admitted softly. "Dr. Merritt knew what he was dealing with, and had a responsibility to make judgments accordingly." He glanced at his watch. "I've got to go. Sun's coming up." End Part Three Absolution (Part Four of Twelve) Tonight's topic, gentle listeners, is sin and redemption. This is the favoured topic of most of the world's religious mythology -- the prodigal son, the journey of Odysseus, the Hebrews' forty years wandering in the desert -- these are all tales of the trials one must undergo to cleanse one's soul and make it fit for heaven. And they are all predicated on one basic, underlying assumption: that the soul is not only capable of, but is desirous of, change. That having sunk into the depths of darkness, having tasted the forbidden fruits, the soul will still voluntarily turn its back on all of these ... shall we call them "nocturnal pleasures"...? ... for the far less tangible benefits of a pure, unstained aspect in the eye of God. So the question I put to you, children, is this: Having reveled in all of these glorious evils, does the soul really want to change? Before you answer, consider the poor sinner who faithfully attends confessional every Sunday, who dutifully pours out his heart to his priest, who gratefully accepts his assignment to recite however many 'Hail Marys' and 'Our Fathers,' and who yet returns the very next week with an identical list of transgressions. This, I assure you, is an accurate portrait of the true believer. He enjoys his sins, and fears his pleasure, and so he confesses and in this act of contrition finds his fear diminished, his sins ... absolved. He accepts his guilt as proof that his soul is not in danger. And once this has been established, he is free to begin the cycle anew. Such, my children, is the definition of 'rehabilitation.' End Part Four Absolution (Part Five of Twelve) <"What do you want of me?" I ask.> <"I have heard --" her voice lowers, as though she fears eavesdroppers, "-- that you do not drink human blood, and that you seek a ... remedy, for our mutual condition."> <"I thought this was the life I wanted ...." She wipes blood- sweat from her upper lip. "I didn't expect the hunger. I didn't realize how completely .... I've killed more times...." She looks away. "I want to stop. It _must_ stop. Will you help me?"> Nick shook off the memory as he hesitated outside the door of the Raven. He could hear the music even through the heavy steel doors, the beat heavy and grinding and stirringly heartbeat-like. Even out on the pavement he the delicate threads of his connection to Janette began to revive. Natalie had warned him about this, had urged him to stay away from the club, to shed all the trappings of his immortal life. And he'd listened, like a good patient, he'd followed his doctor's advice. He looked down at the matchbook in his hand. He was here on a case now. "Official police business." Rosalie Evans had probably come here the night of her death. Someone had to go inside, and it couldn't be a mortal. That left only himself. Just stepping inside the club, he could feel the pull of his old life. It was early yet, and the place was comfortably empty, with only a few still-sleepy immortals scattered among the various tables. The dim lighting forced him to use his vampire sight to maneuver comfortably, the deafening music forced him to listen conversations with vampiric hearing. And the scent of blood hung heavy in the air. Natalie was right. He should not have come. Janette was seated at the bar. Nick shivered a little at the sight of her beauty. Her head lifted as he approached. "Nicola," she murmured. Her tone lacked the usual pleasure at his arrival. He attempted to kiss her, but she drew back before his lips could brush her skin. And he could sense the currents swirling in her soul. "What's wrong, Janette?" "Why, nothing!" There was an edge to her voice that Nick could not remember having ever heard before. "Nothing is wrong. What _could_ be wrong? My life is the same as it has always been. Endless. Changeless." He sensed there was a terrible import in her words, but he could not quite grasp it, like a hint of melody from a song only half- remembered. He responded with the first thought that came to mind: "You do not live without change, Janette. How many names have you had over the years? How many lives?" "Ah, but remember the old saying, Nicola. 'Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose.'" She took a sip from her glass and held it to Nick. "Drink?" she offered. The smell teased his nostrils and he bit down on his tongue hard enough to draw his own blood. He relished the taste of it. "No," he said abruptly, and she laughed. "And still you say we do not live without change." Kindly, she moved the goblet out of his line of vision. "Now tell me, what is it that has drawn you here this evening?" He reached into his pocket, pulled out Rosalie Evans's high school graduation photo and Jacob Woodrow's mug shot. "Were either of them in here last night?" She rolled her eyes. "Oh, do _not_ tell me the Raven is at the center of yet another one of your cases!" He smiled a bit at that. "The periphery, maybe. Did you see them?" She did not smile. "You know, Nicola, I am becoming rather weary of your attempts to draw me into your mortal life. I am not interested in the comings and goings of these humans, and I do not care to be forever dragged into the center of your petty little plots and investigations." He blinked. "Janette --" "I do not want it, Nicola," she interrupted him, her voice rising angrily. "I have not chosen your path and it is -- unfair of you to behave as though I have!" He swallowed, surprised at her fury and unsure of how to respond. He tried to keep his voice low, soothing. "Please. I am not trying to make you part of my 'mortal life.' I just need some answers. This man, he may have killed the girl, and if he found her here he may return. Did you see them?" A growl of frustration rumbled deep in her throat. She retrieved her blood-filled glass, thrusting it to Nick's face. "Drink," she hissed. He stared at her in disbelief. "I need your help --" "Then you help me. Drink!" He tried to fight the panic, and the delicious temptation, rising in his throat. "Janette, think. Please, _think_. How could my drinking this possibly help you?" She watched him for a long moment, then set the glass down on the bar. "You are right, of course. It will not help me in the slightest." He started to relax, but caught himself at her next words: "Nevertheless, if you wish information, you will drain the cup." "I can't believe you're doing this." "Then leave," she taunted. "You've done that often enough." His gaze was drawn to the goblet, riveted by the gentle lapping of the beckoning liquid stirred by Janette's passionate handling. Janette turned her back to him, seemingly unconcerned with his choice. Almost of its own volition, Nick's hand shot out and grasped the glass's stem. With one jerky, violent movement, he tossed the blood down his throat and swallowed. He hurled the goblet against the bar and watched it shatter. "Satisfied?" he snarled. Janette did not turn around, and her voice, when it came, sounded very, very tired. "No, Nicola. I'm not satisfied at all." She paused. "They were both here. She was with a date, he watched her. She was unhappy and left alone. He followed. That is all I can tell you." Her head tilted slightly so that she could just meet his eyes. "Get out of my club, Nicola. And do not return for a long, long time." As he spun on his heel, an unseen figure watched from the shadows. When Nick was well and truly gone, LaCroix stepped into the light and glided his hand over Janette's hair. "Well done, my dear," he praised her. She pushed herself off her stool. "I didn't do it for you, LaCroix. And I forbid you to take pleasure in it." End Part Five Absolution (Part Six of Twelve) The blood sent Nick reeling. The cadillac weaved right and left as Nick fought for control, prompting a chorus of angry car horns. A broad swerve brought Nick up to the parking lot of his building. His hands were shaking so badly that he could barely remove his keys from the ignition, much less punch in the security code to his front door. He stumbled inside and fell to his knees. He was desperate, hungry, ravenous for another taste. At that moment, he'd have killed any human who crossed his threshold. He struggled to the refrigerator, almost ripped the door off its hinges. The bottles were there, untouched for almost a month. Grabbed one, tore the stopper out with his teeth. The cow's blood spilled down his throat, washing pieces of cork down with it, its mute, animal essence clashing painfully with the human images still echoing through him. He held the bottle to his lips and drained it entirely, uncaring of the trails spilled along his jaw, splattering onto his coat, onto the floor. Its coarseness, the primitive emptiness of it made him want to retch, but he could not bring himself to lift the bottle away from his mouth. When it was empty he slumped against the refrigerator with an awful kind of relief. He brushed at the drops dotting his skin, licked at his fingers absently, tried to recapture the fading remnants of the vintage he'd sampled earlier. "So, Nicholas," Lacroix intoned, looking over Nick's prostrate form, "my son has been reduced to this. Sucking down the blood of animals as though it were ambrosia, his body so bloated and his senses so dulled that he is almost unable to lift his head." "It keeps me from killing," Nick answered through deadened lips. "Oh? You say that as though it were something to be desired." Using the wall as a crutch, Nick forced himself into a sitting position. "Have you come to gloat, LaCroix?" LaCroix considered. "No." He began to wander around the apartment, idly examining a few of Nick's keepsakes from times long past. "Actually, I'd rather hoped that your little experience tonight would have finally ... clarified a few issues for you." Nick tilted his head. "You were there," he realized slowly. LaCroix gave a slight nod of acknowledgment. "It is not impossible for me to conceal myself from you, Nicholas, surely you know that by now. And I was so pleased by your performance at the Raven, I feared making my presence known would distract you. It was wonderful to see you yield to your true nature." Nick somehow found the energy to shake his head in vigourous denial. "I had no choice." "Oh, come now," LaCroix said with exasperation. "You don't seriously believe that, do you?" Nick closed his eyes. "What are you getting at, LaCroix?" he asked wearily. Instead of answering, LaCroix stopped in front of the fireplace, examining its unique carvings. "You do love to indulge yourself, don't you?" he murmured, amused. "I find it a constant source of a amazement how little you are prone to self-examination." His energy returning after his gluttonous rampage, Nick slowly lurched to his feet. "I don't want to play this game anymore. Say what you came to say and leave." LaCroix continued as if he hadn't heard. "Answer a question for me," he requested, his fingers idly tracing the patterns in the wood. "Just how important was Janette's 'information'?" Nick shook his head, confused. "It ... established contact between the suspect and the victim ...." LaCroix turned and fixed Nick with a penetrating stare. "But how necessary was that? You already know the name of your criminal. You have his picture. Why was it necessary to visit the Raven at all?" "I --" "And let us suppose, for a moment, that there in fact was essential knowledge to be gleaned. Did it have to come from Janette? There must have been over a dozen others who you could have questioned, none of whom would have made uncomfortable demands." With vampiric speed, LaCroix moved to Nick's side. Nick could feel his breath hot on his ear. "It's interesting, don't you think, how your loss of control came when you were becoming perhaps _too_ human, and lasted just long enough to restore the status quo. Nicely accomplished." Nick swung away. "You're wrong. I drank because Janette might have had information that would have saved lives." "And did she?" "No." His reply was almost inaudible. "Pity." LaCroix lifted his head and vaulted up to the skylight. Halted there, in mid-air, he leaned down for one final question. "Did you ever ask yourself why I haven't killed your doctor-lover for assisting you in your hopeless quest?" He smiled slowly. "It was because I knew that as long as regaining your mortality rested on your own actions, she was no threat at all. You have no more desire to become human than I. All you want is to absolve your guilt. Good night, Nicholas." "Damn!" Natalie exclaimed as one orange, and then another, spilled out onto the floor of the elevator. She set down her parcels to chase after them. "Nick, you are a _flake_," she muttered. "Well, if Mohammed won't come to the mountain -- aha!" She captured the errant fruits and set them firmly inside one of her grocery bags. That accomplished, she continued her imaginary diatribe. "You could at least affect some of the _trappings_ of humanity -- keep real food in the house, some decent cooking utensils ... because I gotta tell you, Nick, it's a real bitch lugging this stuff back and forth ...." The elevator lurched to a halt. The oranges almost tumbled again as she hauled open the heavy metal door. She allowed herself a small glimmer of pride that she'd managed to balance them this time. "Nick!" she called out. "Nick, I waited for you for over _two_ hours...." Blood. On the walls, on the furniture, ringing his mouth, staining his fingers. Like a gruesome child gorged on Halloween candy. She stopped. Swallowed. The packages hit the floor with a thud. "Oh, Nick," she whispered, and her voice came like a sob. End Part Six Absolution (Part Seven of Twelve) It was rare to find someone so young out alone after dark. Twelve, maybe thirteen. An afterschool meeting that had run late? A playdate with a friend? Maybe a boy's first kiss? Out after curfew, probably. Hurrying along, head down, glancing nervously at her watch. Too concerned about what punishment here parents might mete out to pay much attention to her surroundings. And then, when looking up, forgetting the first rule of traveling alone in a city. Never make eye contact with strangers. Nick watched his visitor with a heavy feeling of despair. "Nat, I can explain --" "No need," Natalie interrupted pleasantly. She dropped to her knees and began to gather her things, carefully replacing them in their bags. She lingered a moment over her blender. It had fallen into a puddle of blood. She took a breath and picked that up as well, quickly tucking it out of sight. "I had no choice --" "Yes, of course." The oranges had been crushed almost beyond recognition. "I'll just throw these away, if you don't mind." He reached for her. "Nat ...." She jerked. "Don't!" They both stared at the red smears on his hand. He curled his fingers into his palm. "I'm sorry." "Me too," she said quietly. She bit her lip. "Is this the end of the line, Nick?" He stared. "What do you mean?" "I mean, is it over now?" she explained patiently. "We were so close, and you gave up -- do you want to continue or not?" "Of _course_ I want to continue!" He started towards her again, remembered the stains that covered him and cursed. "I need to rinse this off ... will you be here when I get back?" "While you wash the blood from your hands?" Her smile held a trace of self-mockery. "Aren't I always?" Only gone for a few minutes, Nick returned in a change of clothes, all traces of his meal erased. "It was Janette," he said abruptly. She closed her eyes. "You went to the Raven," she accused softly. "Nat, I had to." His voice was tinged with desperation. "Rosalie Evans was there just before she died." Her lips parted in surprise. And then she nodded. Accepting. She touched his sleeve with gentle fingers. "And you wanted the blood too badly to resist." She let out a long breath. "It's all right." "_No_," Nick insisted, frantic to have her understand. "I went - - because I needed answers. And Janette offered ... a trade." It took Natalie a moment to understand what Nick was telling her, and when she did, the horror she felt was plain on her face. "Oh God, Nick...." "I've never seen her like that before. I don't know why she did it. I just knew I couldn't refuse. Not even if it meant giving up a chance at mortality." "No. I know you couldn't. You did the right thing, Nick." She shook her head. "What are they doing to you?" she murmured, brushing a single blond lock from his forehead. "I am so _sorry_." He crushed her to him in a tight embrace, indulging himself for one brief moment by allowing his lips to brush her hair. "Help me, Nat," he pleaded. "Don't give up on me. I couldn't stand it if you gave up on me." And Natalie vowed, "I will help you. I promise. I won't give up on you." They stood there a moment, until the simultaneous activation of their beepers startled them apart. "Thirteen years old." Schanke shook his head. "_Thirteen_, Nick. Jesus, she's only a few years older than Jenny!" Natalie stepped out of the examining room to join Nick, Schanke, and Captain Cohen in the hospital hallway. "She'll be all right," she informed them. "Physically." "Can we talk to her?" Nick asked. Natalie shook her head. "You can ask the attending, of course, but I wouldn't recommend talking to her. Not now." Her control cracked and a spasm of pain crossed her face. "Maybe not ever. My God, Nick, she's just a _baby_!" He grasped her shoulder, the only comfort he could offer her, and she touched his hand gratefully before impatiently brushing the tears out of her eyes. "Anyway, the counselor's in with her now ... maybe she'll be able to get some information." "What information?" Schanke demanded. "We know exactly who this guy is! What we don't know is where the hell to look for him!" "And that's why we have officers out talking to everyone who could possibly have anything new for us," Cohen said steadily. "We're going to catch him." "Sure," Nick broke in. "We'll catch him eventually. But after how many more attacks? It was just pure luck his victim didn't end up dead this time; we have know way of knowing how the next attack will turn out. Come on, Captain, you know these interviews are a waste of time -- Woodrow hasn't seen any of these people in six years. They're not going to have any idea where he is." "Well, you must have a better suggestion, Detective." Nick remained silent, and Cohen nodded. "I thought so. Look, I want this guy as badly as you do. But we're doing everything we can right now. Dr. Lambert, did you learn anything from the Evans autopsy?" Natalie shook her head. "Not anything that will be of much help. Semen samples, blood samples, skin samples -- now all we need is a suspect to match them to. I left a report on your desk earlier, but there's nothing that could give us a clue as to where Jacob Woodrow has holed up." She opened her mouth, closed it again. "What is it, Nat?" Nick asked. "It's just -- I don't think it could help, but -- the skin samples I took from under the victim's fingernails were coated with Noir, the men's cologne." "Cologne," Nick repeated thoughtfully. "I'm guessing he didn't wear cologne in prison, so he must have bought it since being released." "Which means he's found a source of income. He's either been stealing it or ...." "Or he's got a job," Cohen finished for him. "We'll start circulars, tell employers to look closely at their new hires." "Oh God!" Schanke exclaimed suddenly. The three followed his gaze down the corridor to the doorway, where Dr. Linus Merritt, looking as meek and miserable as he had earlier, was approaching them. "I came to see if there was anything I could do to help," he said quietly as he joined them. "No, I think you've done plenty," Schanke assured him sourly. "Did anyone tell you he's targeting children now? In _playgrounds_? Just exactly what kind of 'therapy' do you offer?" The doctor flushed deeply and turned to Cohen. "Please ... I worked with Jacob for almost a year. I _know_ him. If I could read the reports -- I think I might be able to help," he finished lamely. Cohen considered him seriously. "How do you think you could help, Doctor?" "Oh come on," Schanke interrupted. "Captain, you can't really --" "Schanke," she cut him off sharply. "Well, Doctor?" The doctor fidgeted with his glasses. "Jacob has always been ... obsessed with youth. With innocence. Young women, young-looking women. Particularly those who look -- uncertain, vulnerable." He peered at Schanke. "Do you know how he was caught originally, Detective?" "No," Schanke admitted. "The sex crimes division gathered every young female officer they had and put them out on the street. Eventually he tried to attack one, and they arrested him. That was the only way they could think of to find him." He removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. "I think he's determined not to fall for that this time. I'm sorry, Captain," he sighed, "I think you can only expect the victims are going to get younger. Too young to possibly be undercover officers." "But Rosalie Evans --" Nick began. "Rosalie Evans was attacked before the police were even looking for him, and he knew it. He's going to be more careful from now on." "Even if that's true," Schanke broke in, refusing to be cowed, "how is this going to help us? The best we can do is put out some sort of general warning to parents -- but he'll manage to find a victim no matter how much publicity we generate." "There's more." Dr. Merritt moistened his lips nervously. "Despite all this, I think he wants to be caught." Cohen, Schanke, Nick, and Natalie all stared at him with identical expressions of disbelief. Nick cleared his throat. "Uh -- and would you mind explaining to us exactly _why_ you feel that way?" "I worked with him," the doctor said firmly. "In spite of what's happened, I think the remorse he felt in session was genuine. He _knows_ his actions are immoral. He just -- can't seem to control himself." Schanke's laugh held no amusement. "You really can't face the fact that you failed, can you? You're still trying to convince yourself that you were right to give the O.K. to let Woodrow out on parole." Dr. Merritt flushed again, only with anger this time. His lips flattened into a thin line. "Listen to me, Detective. Do you have any idea what the recidivism rates are for sex criminals? I have been running my program for over seven years, and the men who go through it are ten percent less likely to be arrested after their release. Yes, I was wrong about Woodrow. I thought he could control himself and he can't. But he would have been released some time -- and I was _trying_ to make him less dangerous." He shook his head. "All of the criminals you put away are going to end up back on the streets someday, Detective. The best thing we can do to protect ourselves is to try and rehabilitate them while they're in jail. Otherwise we're just delaying the inevitable." His eyes narrowed. "Or maybe you'd rather just shoot them when you arrest them?" "All right, enough!" Cohen said, stepping between Dr. Merritt and Schanke as if they were boxers. "Fighting isn't going to get us anywhere. Doctor, you said you thought he wanted us to catch him. How do you think we can use that?" "I -- don't know." "Jesus, Captain --" "Enough, Schanke! Doctor, until you can come up with something more concrete than your intuition, there's nothing you're going to be able to do for us." "But --" "Go home. Tomorrow you can drop by the station and take a look at the reports that have been filed." Dr. Merritt almost smiled. "Thank you, Captain." "Don't thank me. Just find me something." She faced the others. "All of you. Find me _something_." End Part Seven Absolution (Part Eight of Twelve) "Isn't it odd, gentle listeners, how the guilt-ridden sinner is constantly in need of companions of a similar nature? Just as the delinquent youth coaxes his friends to joint him in his petty acts of rebellion, so the sinner searches for those who would, by sharing his all-too-natural desires, persuade him that the responsibility for his actions is not his alone, that it is the sin, rather than the man, at fault. "But I urge you to stand alone with your sins. Embrace them, for they are the children of your heart. Your sins are what make you what you are. So pursue the merits of Originality over those of redemption. And do not seek to become part of the teeming hordes eternally joining in each other's promises never to sin again. "Not until the next time." Five a.m., near-dawn, and the Raven was still packed. Beard the lion in his den. Or in this case, hers. Natalie stood inside the club's entrance and gathered her courage. She could see Janette in her usual spot, sitting on a stool, watching her patrons drink and dance themselves into their own private frenzies. She was dressed in her usual velvet, and Natalie wished that she had changed into something more attractive than her traditional suit. Then she dismissed the thought as unworthy of her. An eighteen-year-old, glassy eyes and flushed cheeks indicating a taste for more than alcohol, began to approach Natalie with what appeared to be lascivious intent. His presence spurred her on, and she picked her way through the crowd to the bar. "Janette." At the sound of her name, Janette turned her head and came face to face with Natalie's cold stare. A slow smile spread across her face. "Well. If it isn't Nicola's exorcist. You're bit far from your usual night of -- what was it? Television dinners?" Natalie attempted to shrug off the gibe. "Anyone can do with a change." "Ah yes, I imagine your usual companions from work are ... cold comfort." Natalie cleared her throat and turned to the bartender. "Rum and Coke," she ordered quietly. Janette arched one smooth, perfect brow. "You would not care to sample one of the more ... exotic house specialties? Your daring only goes so far, then." Natalie couldn't let that pass. "Yes," she bit out. "I hear you're very good at choosing others' beverages." "Oh, Nick _has_ been talking, hasn't he?" Janette examined her for a moment, then emitted a low, throaty laugh. "And you're here to protect him from my wicked influence. How innocent you are, Doctor." To keep herself from exploding, Natalie took a sip of her drink. "You hurt him." The glee vanished from Janette's eyes. "Well, we must be cruel to be kind." "And is that really the type of kindness Nick needs?" "You have known him for three years. I have known him for centuries. I think I have far more ... extensive knowledge than you regarding his ... needs." Natalie's chin came up. "He wants to be human so badly -- why do you have to take that away from him? Why can't you let him be happy?" Janette stared in disbelief. "Doctor, the Nicola I know has never been happy. Does not know how to be happy. Surely if you claim to know him at all, you must know this as well. His little quest is just another way for him to punish himself. That makes you, not me, the instrument of cruelty." "I'm trying to help him!" "Are you?" Janette's eyes grew wide with predatory fervor. "Or are you trying to help yourself?" Natalie snorted. "Oh, I'm sure you think that's very clever- sounding ...." "I think it is more than that, cherie. But have you really given Nick more than you have taken from him?" She shook her head. "If you want me to deny that Nick has given me a lot, I'm going to disappoint you." Her voice shook with its intensity. "He has brought me ... more than I can put into words. And I am doing _everything_ I can to return the favour." "He has brought spice to your mortal life, I have no doubt about that," Janette conceded. "Taken you away from your microwave and your television. Finally, to have one of your corpses befriend you. That must be very gratifying. "Such a busy woman you are, Doctor. So modern. So 'career- oriented.' And do you have _any_ close mortal friends? Or is it all Nick? If you were to lose him ... why, then you would be completely alone. Oh," she said in mock realization, "that's right. You do not need to worry about losing him, do you? Because as long as he searches for his 'cure,' you have him completely under control. "And if he slips the noose a bit every once in a while, so much the better -- because it proves how badly he needs you." Janette smiled sympathetically. "That does seem to be a problem of Nick's doesn't it? He always seeks a master -- and then once he or she is found, resists. But that will only wed the two of you more tightly together." Natalie was shaking by the end of Janette's speech. She quickly finished off her drink. "I can see it was a mistake to come here," she said unsteadily. "You don't care about him. You just try to justify your own desires by projecting them on to him." She pulled a few dollars from her purse and dropped them on the bar. "Why, Doctor! Surely you know that is unnecessary -- any friend of Nick's ...." "That's not for the drink." She smiled bitterly. "It's for the entertainment." Lost in memory, Nick did not even hear the telephone until his answering machine picked up on the third ring. He listened dispassionately, staring out of his window, as the mechanical imitation of his voice echoed back to him with its irreverent message. "I'm either in bed or incommunicado ...." "Detective? This is Dr. Merritt. I need to talk to you ... to someone. I've been reading the police reports .... I think -- I think I know how to find him." End Part Eight Absolution (Part Nine of Twelve) "All right, what is this about?" Cohen asked when she, Nick, and Schanke had assembled at the station. Dr. Merritt wiped his lips before speaking. "I told you -- I told you at the hospital that I believe Jacob wants to be caught. And I thought maybe -- maybe he would leave us a clue, leave us a hint. Consciously, he wants to avoid capture. He'll be choosing his victims with caution. But unconsciously ...." "The point, Doctor, the point," Cohen urged. "You -- you have to understand that I _know_ him. And I know his crimes. There's something different this time." "Yeah, yeah." Schanke leaned back in his chair, lifted his feet onto his desk. "You told us before. He's going after little girls now." "It's the playgrounds," the doctor said in a rush. Nick's head jerked up. "What?" "Rosalie Evans was found in a playground. And the girl was cutting through one on her way home when she was attacked." "So?" Schanke demanded. Cohen shushed him. "Why do you think it's significant?" she asked gently. "Before he was caught he was ... obsessive about not leaving clues, not leaving a pattern. He didn't want the police to be able to connect all of his attacks. He was charged with five rapes -- the police suspected the actual number might have been higher -- and I can tell you that they were right. But now, suddenly, he leaves a very distinct connection. I think -- he's hinting." "Okay," Nick conceded. "It's significant. I'll buy that. But how do we use it?" "Dr. Lambert -- she thought, after the autopsy, that he somehow found work. That he had money to spend on things like expensive cologne. Jacob -- I told you before, he's obsessed with youth. He'd want to find something that would allow him to be near youth -- 'purity,' as he calls it -- as much as he could. And he'd need a job he could do mostly alone, to avoid anyone recognizing him, or becoming suspicious." "Playgrounds," Nick said suddenly. "You think he's working in, or near, a playground." "Maybe more than one. The Parks Department's been hiring a lot of new people -- sanitation people -- after all those complaints about the condition of the public recreational areas ... Jacob could wander around freely, collecting trash, and watch the children ... he might even choose a victim that way." Schanke's feet dropped to the floor with a thud. "We'll get on the phone right now, Captain." "I've got it!" Schanke called out at about 7 p.m., after only an hour and a half of telephone calls. "Supervisor said he hired some guy named Jay Gardener -- fits Woodrow's description -- to cover several playgrounds on the south side. And we have an address. I'll call Central Dispatch, have them send some units to meet us there." "Let's go," Nick said, hanging up his own telephone and grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. It took them twenty minutes to find Woodrow's apartment building -- or maybe tenement would have been a better description. The hallway lights had gone out, and the walls were covered with obscene graffiti. The distinct smell of urine issued from darkened corners. "This place should have been condemned years ago," Schanke commented. "Apartment 5B," Nick read from a scrap of paper. "Come on." "We're walking, right? Because I will _not_ take the elevator in this place." "Don't worry, Schank. I'd be surprised to find the elevator in working condition." The stairs creaked disturbingly as they trudged, guns drawn, up the flights to the fifth floor. Schanke fervently hoped that all of the squeaks he heard came from their own footsteps and not from unseen vermin. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the door to apartment 5B. Somehow, Schanke had expected there would be. He flattened himself against the wall as Nick knocked softly, then with more force. No response. "Police, open up!" Nick called. Still no response. "Out of the way, Schank," Nick warned. He drew back from the door, took a deep breath, and lunged forward. The door shuddered off its hinges as Nick rushed into the center of the room, Schanke close behind. A bed, a dresser. No Jacob Woodrow. "Dammit!" Schanke opened the top drawer of the dresser and began methodically searching through the clothes. "Noir," he said, using a handkerchief to hold up a bottle. Nick nodded and walked over to the window. "Hey, Schank, come here." Schanke joined him and peered outside. "A park. Jesus, Woodrow is one sick puppy. And there's our backup, finally -- what, did they stop for doughnuts?" "Schanke." Nick pointed. "Look." Schanke looked. Cutting through the playground, headed towards the building, was their suspect. "Holy -- he's going to see the cars!" Schanke began gesturing wildly to the arriving police officers to move out of sight. Too busy arranging themselves in a defensive perimeter around the building, they didn't even notice the detectives leaning out the window. But Jacob Woodrow stopped in his tracks. Peered up at his window, glimpsed the cars outside of his building, and took off running. "Christ, that park is full of kids ...." Schanke headed for the door, and it wasn't until his was halfway down the stairs that he realized his partner wasn't behind him. "Jacob." The voice called his name, as distant as a stars, as close as a heartbeat. He spun around, looking for its source, but there was no one to be seen. "Jacob." It came again, closer and further away, a whisper and a yell. "Where are you?" he shouted. No answer but the voice. "Come to me," the voice said. "Come to me, Jacob." "No!" he screamed, and ran. The voice followed him. He could feel it as he ducked under tress, pushing his way through brambles until his skin was torn and bloody. "Jacob." "Get away from me!" he called to his unseen pursuer. He vaulted a low iron fence and found himself in a small clearing. There was a group of children not far from him, playing kickball in the park lights, under the watchful eyes of their parents. They were so beautiful they made him ache. "Jacob." Now he could see it, the source of the voice. It was standing maybe thirty feet away, and in the darkness all Jacob could make out was a dark coat and pale skin. "Keep away from me," he warned. More lights. Hundreds of them, shining in his eyes, blurring his vision. More people, in uniforms, in suits. The children were frightened now, running in all directions. "Jacob Woodrow, place your hands in the air and get down on your knees." Another voice, comforting in its normality, through a bullhorn. Jacob stared at the children. Run little ones. Run everywhere. Run free. Run _closer_. "Put your hands in the air and get down on your knees," the voice repeated. One small girl, so tiny, so perfect. So breakable. An anguished cry echoing in his ears. "My _baby_!" "Oh no. Oh Jesus, please _no_," Schanke groaned as Woodrow grabbed one of the children, his fingers clasped tightly around her small throat. "I'll break her neck, I swear to God!" he shouted. "Drop your guns!" Schanke called to the officers surrounding the area. "Goddammit! Drop your guns!" Nick watched tensely as Jacob pulled the child closer to himself, her tears dripping onto his fingers making his grip wet and slippery. "Get away from me!" he yelled. "Get back, get away!" "Jacob," Nick called out. "Jacob, it's hopeless. There's nowhere for you to go." "Don't make me do it! Don't make me kill her! Just let me walk away, and I'll let her go, I promise!" <"Andrea? Andrea, what are you doing here?"> "Woodrow, listen to me," Schanke said. "We have officers surrounding this park. You cannot make it out of here. Don't hurt the girl -- she has nothing to do with this." <"I was looking for you, Nick. I was so hungry ... but you weren't here. You left me alone."> Nick peered at Jacob with vampiric eyes. Reaching out with his mind, he could just taste the edge of Jacob's fear. He drew it towards him, gripping it tightly, twisting, feeling Jacob's heartrate change in response. And Nick's own heart began beating with it. "Jacob," he murmured. "Jacob, come here. Come to me." Jacob shook his head. "No," he whispered. "No." "Let go, Jacob. Let go and come to me." His grip slackened, and then his hands fell away. The child ran, was snatched by her father in a hug harder than Jacob's hold had been. Jacob walked forward, blinked slowly as Nick relinquished his mind and cuffed his hands. He shook his head, cleared it from its previous fog. Stared at the officers surrounding him. Cameras to watch him, walls to block his path. Guards to control him. And Jacob smiled. End Part Nine Absolution (Part Ten of Twelve) Statement of Prisoner # 8020589 Jacob Woodrow (06/19/96): Night of June 16th? Let me think. I was -- I think that must have been the night I was committing murder. Joke. Oh, don't look so surprised. That's the answer you expected, wasn't it? It's not like if I said I was home watching television you would just let me walk out of here, right? And I imagine you have all kinds of evidence. You know. All kinds of _biological_ evidence. So I must have committed murder on June 16th. Legally, anyway. It was purely unintentional, I assure you. I didn't think she would die from it. They usually don't. They cry a little, they scream. They bleed. And after awhile, they lie there and wait for you to finish. Sometimes they even walk away afterwards. No, it doesn't bother me. I'm a hardened criminal. Nothing bothers me. Isn't that what you expected? Dr. Linus Merritt. He's a clever one, isn't he? He used to say I wasn't any good at understanding my own motivations. That's what he was trying to teach me to do. I always thought it was the doc who wasn't much good at understanding my motivations, but that's apparently part of my disease. Tell me something, Detective Knight. You like girls, right? No, I don't mean kids. I mean _girls_. Women. You like women, don't you? Well, just how much chance do you think anyone would stand if they tried to "treat" you for liking girls? You think Dr. Merritt, with a deep analysis and examination of your relationship with your father when you were four, you think he could stop you liking girls? You think he could suddenly get you to be turned on by pre-pubescent boys? It's different, you say. It's not the same thing. You don't hurt your girlfriends. You don't kill them. But that's not the point, is it? Of course I know it's wrong. Of course I'm _sorry_. But how do you rehabilitate from who you are? End Part Ten Absolution (Part Eleven of Twelve) So Nicola had saved the day again. Janette looked at the face staring up at her from the front page of the newspaper. Caught a killer. Saved countless mortal lives. She wondered if he kept a tally of those he saved against those he had killed. A bottle under the counter. A special drink for a unique thirst. How better to value a life? A message preserved. An S.O.S. She smacked her hand against the bar in frustration, but felt nothing. And was struck by the wrongness of that. Unnatural, Nicola called it. There _should_ be pain. When striking one's hand against a hard object, one should be hurt. After one thousand years, was it possible to miss the hurt? The thick, official-looking paper had been hidden behind the bottles and jars and glasses for twenty years. Janette pulled it out now, inspected it carefully. It was quite the worse for wear. Proof of ownership. To the Raven. To her life. A life that she had enjoyed more than any in the past several centuries. Until recently, that is. "I hear congratulations are in order," Natalie said as she slid open the door to Nick's apartment. He did not turn from his perch on the windowsill. "Thank you," he said absently. "You're welcome." She joined him by the window, followed his gaze. "Anything in particular have your attention?" she asked. "No." She noticed the wine goblet under his fingers and her eyes shadowed. "I expected you to come by earlier. I wanted to run some tests ...." "Come on, Nat." He lifted the glass and took a long, deliberate swallow. "We both know exactly what you'd find. I've gone back to where I started. Maybe even further." "We don't know that for sure --" "_I_ know." His eyes rested on her throat. "I know." She felt a flutter of apprehension and moved away from him. "Then we'll have to try again," she said with forced calm. "You can start by dumping that out." He shrugged. "I can't." And he took another sip. "What do you mean, you can't?" "I mean" -- he slowly rose to his feet -- "that I don't want to hurt you. And without this," he indicated his glass, "I might. Is that clear enough?" Her eyebrows rose. "Well, fine," she said flatly. "Well, that's just _fine_." Her voice dripped sarcasm. "You're protecting me. I'm _so_ grateful. So grateful, in fact, that I won't stay another minute forcing you to do something you so _obviously_ don't enjoy." And she turned to go. "Why did you come here, Nat?" he called as she reached the door. "Why do you keep coming back?" She swung back around to face him. "What kind of question is that?" she exclaimed. "You know why! I want to make you human again." He watched her impassively. "Do you?" "Of course I do!" She came forward in disbelief. "My God, Nick, what the hell is this about?" He shrugged again. "Nothing important. Maybe it's just that after all this time, I need to know." His gaze locked with hers. "Why do you want me to become human?" "_Why_?" she echoed incredulously. His eyes narrowed. "Yes, why! It's not so outrageous a question, is it? God knows, we've both put in enough effort. Is it too much to ask you what you were doing it for?" Her eyes widened. "Past tense, Nick?" He waved his hand impatiently. "_Are_, then. What are you doing it for?" "I'm intrigued by the challenge. The _scientific_ challenge." "And what else?" he demanded. She hesitated. "I want to -- help you." "And what else?" She could feel a painful clenching around her heart. "I want -- I wanted us ...." She stopped. He continued without mercy. "You wanted us to -- what?" She couldn't meet his eyes. "I care about you, Nick." "Ah, but which Nick?" he challenged. "If I become human, I won't be the same person, will I? I won't be _me_ anymore." He shook his head wonderingly. "Am I real to you, Natalie? Do you even see _me_?" Her hesitation was almost undetectable. "You're being ridiculous." "Am I? I just want to know: How can you care about _that_ Nick, if even I don't know what he'll be like? Or is that the Nick you really care about? Some imaginary companion you've conjured up for yourself?" "I --" "No, don't say anything." He closed his eyes. "I don't know if I can do this, Nat. I don't know if I can keep trying, keep following your instructions, when I don't even know who it is you're doing it for." "Oh." A bitter smile crept across Natalie's face. "Oh, I see." She nodded. "Now I understand what this is about." "What are you talking about?" She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "It's obvious, isn't it? You're drinking blood again, you're making no effort to stop ... so who will you blame this time, Nick? Whose fault is it now?" Her voice was beginning to shake with rage. "Is it Janette's? Or LaCroix's? Or _Monica's_? Or is it my turn now? My fault, of course, that's it -- My God, Nick, I offered to find you a cure, but I didn't promise to do all the work for you! I want to help, but I can't _make_ you change! You can't keep doing this? Dammit, since when did you actually _start_?" At her words, his anger flared to match her own. "Nat, when are you going to face the fact that I am not human? I am not going to _become_ human just by pretending I'm one! Your methods haven't worked because there is no way I can fool myself into thinking I'm human long enough to make them work! _This_ is what I am." And to demonstrate, he tipped the glass to his lips. And Natalie exploded. "After all of the work I've put in for you, Nick, how _dare_ you do that in front of me?" She drew her arm back and with a wild, furious swing, shattered the goblet in his hand. The two of them stared at her palm as the cow's blood oozed between her fingers. And at the same time they realized it wasn't cow's blood at all. He raised his eyes to hers. They glowed bright with blood fever. "Oh, God." Natalie rushed to the sink, but he moved with blurring speed, catching her wrist with crushing force. "Nick, don't --" He forced her lacerated palm to his face, holding it just inches from his lips. His eerie green gaze trapped her, kept her captive as his grip tightened until the feeling faded from her fingers. He was shaking so violently that she could feel his tremors spread through her own body. And Natalie had never been more afraid of him. "Nick," she said, and her voice was barely above a whisper. She swallowed, wet her lips, and tried again. "Nick, please." <"Please, Nick. I needed to find you. I was so hungry ... why did you leave me alone?"> <"He came looking for you -- I couldn't help it, Nick. He was so young, and so beautiful ... and I hadn't fed in so long."> <"You could have come to me! I would have helped you --"> <"You weren't here. You're supposed to always be there ... I couldn't control it, not without you."> <"He was just one boy, Nick," she says.> <"Nick, I did all I could. You know I tried. Can I help it if I can't control myself every second?"> <"I looked for you, for someone to help me!" she shouts. "I didn't kill for weeks -- isn't that enough? What else do you want of me? It is our nature, Nicholas. No matter how we try, we can only resist for so long! We've done all we can, no one could possibly expect more! You know I'm right, Nick. Nick? Nicholas!"> He opened his fingers and released her. Stepped back, turned his face away. Natalie almost collapsed with relief. She went to the sink and scrubbed at her palm with hands trembling so badly she could hardly hold the soap. Nick watched from a distance, his expression brooding. "You're right, Nat," he said slowly. "I've made you my conscience. And you've made me your fantasy. We feed on each other." The silence between them was broken a few minutes later by the telephone ring and Captain Cohen's clipped tones informing them via answering machine that Jacob Woodrow had hanged himself in his cell earlier that evening. End Part Eleven Absolution (Part Twelve of Twelve) "Two words: good riddance," Schanke said. "The city of Toronto is spared the cost of incarcerating him, and the world is now a slightly better place." He turned to Cohen. "Isn't that right, Captain?" She sighed. "I can't find anything pleasant in this whole sick mess, Detective. Except maybe that fact that it's over." Schanke appealed to Nick and Natalie for help. "Come on, guys. You agree with me, right?" They did not answer, merely stared at the conference room table top in identical silence. Schanke snorted. "I never knew I worked with such bleeding hearts." There was a soft knock from outside, and the door opened to reveal Dr Merritt. He hesitantly stepped inside the room. Schanke jumped to greet him. "Doctor, I gotta hand it to you. We couldn't have caught him so quickly without your help." He stuck out his hand. "No hard feelings?" Looking vastly uncomfortable, the doctor clasped Schanke's palm and gave it a brief shake before dropping it as though it burned. "So, what brings you down here again?" Schanke asked. "I asked him to come," Cohen answered. "I wanted him to file a report with an assessment of Jacob Woodrow's mental state at the time of his arrest." Schanke chuckled. "Can't be much of a report, can it, doc? I think 'psycho' sums it up for me." Dr. Merritt handed the captain a manila folder. "There it is." He grimaced. "There's not much in it you haven't seen before. I should have seen this coming." "How's that, Doctor?" Cohen asked. He shrugged. "Depression. Self-hatred. He knew exactly how horrendous his actions were. But -- he couldn't stop. He couldn't quite exercise enough control to bring himself to stop. His ... urges ... were just too powerful for him. I should have realized that. If I had taken more time ...." "I'm sure you did all that you could," Cohen assured him. "Maybe. But it wasn't enough. And ultimately, he couldn't live with himself, knowing what he was, and thinking he could never change." "Water under the bridge, Doc," Schanke said. "If you ask me, this was the one worthwhile thing he ever did." Dr. Merritt looked slightly ill. "He was a brilliant man, Detective. And if circumstances had been -- different -- for him, he might have done wonderful things. There's nothing worthwhile in lost potential." "Thank you for your help," Cohen said. "I'll call you if I have any questions." As Dr. Merritt left the room, Schanke shook his head. "Can you believe that guy?" No one said anything, and he groaned in frustration. "I really do not understand you people! How can you mourn for someone like Woodrow? If you want to mourn, do it for Rosalie Evans." At that, Cohen got to her feet. "Okay. Time to get back to work. There are other cases waiting." She began to leave, then stopped in the doorway, realizing Nick and Natalie had not moved. "Are you coming?" she asked them. "In a minute, Captain," Nick said quietly. Cohen nodded with understanding. "It's all right, Detective. In a situation like this, nobody wins." She left, Schanke following close behind. "The doctor was wrong, you know," Nick said once they were gone. Natalie glanced up. "What?" "Jacob. It wasn't a question of self-control. The problem was that he knew he was evil. And he didn't want to live any other life." Natalie looked at Nick for a long moment. Finally she asked softly, "Are we still talking about Woodrow?" And there was no answer but the ghostly, half-heard echo of a noose swinging forward and back. End