Date: Sun, 21 Mar 1999 21:49:23 -0800 From: Steve Hood Subject: Agenda (01/12) To: FKFIC-L@lists.psu.edu AGENDA (01/12) author: Steven S. Hood Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Permission to archive at the FKFanfic site. Note* The events following follow the arc of the Virtual 4th Season, but as of this time, is not considered to be a part of that season. Chapter 1 Dusk settled on the waves of night as northern winds swept through empty streets. Thomas Westwood shook, despite the warmth of an overcoat. He shook, trying to fight the strain of tense muscles that he could never relax. He had been away too long this time, and no miracle could pull him back. 'How long has it been this time, old man?' A least six months. He lost his watch to an overweight pawn dealer down in Detroit, and his wedding band to a money-exchange for a ticket back to Toronto. He had lost Selena again, this time he suspected, for good. He walked down the south street of Cemetery Park, in part for the grimness of his environment. The rest he wasn't certain. 'Memories? Some idle remnants of ghosts I haven't left behind?' He blinked, images of Anne flashing. He remembered the quiet walks on nights like this one, the young lovers of summers past. Laughter walked with him leaving a bitterness he hadn't felt since he left Vancouver. He wouldn't go back. Thomas stopped to gaze through the iron fence of the cemetery, past the days old bouquets of loved ones, the landscapes, the stone statues of a religion he left behind almost a decade ago. He saw gravestones, the names of innocents, the lives of others passed on. No. He closed his eyes and gripped the bars. 'Please. I don't want to remember.' But he did. ********************** Thomas paused long enough to raise leaden eyes to the bar clock hanging on the wall. He barely made out half past nine. Slumped in a stool, he raised the glass to his lips, a small smile to his otherwise sober expression, and sloshed one to the department chair who so graciously honored the accomplishments of his peer, the esteemed Dr. Shawn Kalkhoven. He would hear it all from his wife after the party. 'A party,' he added, 'you should be at.' He didn't, though. Kalkhoven would only gloat, and he had enough of that from the precinct. Right now he simply wanted to forget today. A light tap on his shoulder proved otherwise. Thomas looked up to the hardened jawbone of Detective Luc Dervocha, a man who discarded almost everything Thomas reported to him. There was a slight difference in that solid, uncaring, pocketed face of Dervochia reserved for him. In fact, he almost swore the man displayed a streak of sympathy. "What's that?" Thomas said, half dozed. "Come on, Dr. Westwood," Dervocha said gruffly. "You're needed." "I'm off. Get someone else's opinion. Not that you'd listen." Thomas smirked. Dervocha yanked Thomas up by his coat. "Listen to me, doc. When I say you're needed, you're needed." "All right already!" Thomas broke Dervocha's grip. Pain lashed through his forehead. He winced, and felt his knees start to buckle. "Whoa- don't want you falling there." Dervocha took a firm grip on Thomas' shoulder, and lead him out into the cold blast of a September night. They tromped to Dervocha's pride and joy, a beat-up 69 Camero he spent more time on than on the streets. The detective dumped into the passenger seat. "Don't get sick." Thomas didn't care. If the leather upholstery had a few stains, it would be worth it. He made an attempt to sober his thoughts, ignoring the throbbing veins popping over his forehead. They drove off, heading toward the station. "What happened?" Dervocha chomped on a toothpick. "Auto crash. A piledrive near the University. Real mess." "Why call us? This is traffic." "This is personal." Thomas paused to let that sink in. A sudden surety gripped him as he trembled. Oh, God. "What's happened?" "You don't want me to answer that, doc." "Tell me it's not Anne." Dervocha glanced at Thomas briefly, no more, no less. Piercing eyes regarded him, and Thomas felt the blow without the words. He knew. He knew, and Anne was gone. He closed his eyes, the remains of liquor burning away from the onrush of endorphins. Clenching his fists, he fought not to punch the glass. 'It's my fault. Oh, god. Anne, I'm sorry. I should have been there. Damnit all! I should have told you. I should have told you and you wouldn't have gone.' "I'm sorry Tom." Thomas forgot to correct him. ************************ Thomas stared into the graveyard, feeling the tears burn across his cheeks. He frowned, then scaled the fence. It wouldn't be much, and her grave wasn't here, but he needed to do something. Between Anne and Selena, madness couldn't be held off much longer. He dropped into the cemetery and walked. Headstones surrounded him, but he didn't care. He needed this place. The cold reality made sense. 'We're all victims of our own self-destruction.' With certainty, he knew he came here to die. A flicker of light caught his attention. Thomas looked off toward the distant field, caught by an azure glow near the heart of the cemetery. 'A vigil?' He picked up the pace, halfway jogging across the cemetery toward a large cross in the center of the field. He could make a few details. He saw a man standing in front of the cross, and what looked like a body tied to the cross. The glow was fire. 'Oh, shit!' Forgetting himself, Westwood raced across to the scene, reaching for the Beretta he kept for emergencies. He wasn't a cop, but could act in steed of one if circumstances forced it. Right now it was the latter. He raced across to a dirt clearing, facing the back of man watching as a body writhed. "Freeze!" Westwood shouted. The man turned, a sharp face with a pair of wild, green-glowing eyes. The man smiled. "He burns." The world exploded as the man on the cross burst into a starry flame. Thomas felt the impact, rising and hurled away from the force of the blast. His last thoughts filtered through his conscious. 'People don't explode.' AGENDA (02/12) author: Steven S. Hood Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Note* The events following follow the arc of the Virtual 4th Season, but as of this time, is not considered to be a part of that season. Chapter 2 "Good evening, gentle listeners. Tonight, as such, is always another rainbow. The rare, but lively, remains of some memory that walks with you along the stone trails of Vatican City. Cold, alone, isolated in that not so gentle night. Perhaps you may chance a stranger, a crusader, a lost soul seeking a warm bed. I must admit, though, I've never seen a rainbow. "At times, these memories swim after you, in storm drains of Germany's holocaust. Brutal, swift, and lingering. How much longer can one run? Away from the dreams, from alleyways of stricken heartbeats, knowing death lingers in those corridors. And death, like memory, has a way of returning. In the end, my listeners, we all return to the earth. Each one of us returns home. "This is the Nightcrawler, calling you home." LaCroix punched off-air, pausing a moment to let his words linger in the silent echo of the room. He permitted himself a small smile, relishing the alliteration. How ironic, after over two thousand years, that the human race could produce a medium as such, so much like the Court Musicians during Louis' reign. He paused to fill his glass and taste the rush. He felt- 'alive'. He chuckled at that. "How much longer, Nichola?" LaCroix whispered softly. Janette's influence, no doubt. Each of his children left a legacy, some character trait reflective of themselves. He supposed it was the same for him with Divia. He raised his glass to stare at the thick, red richness he and his own survived with. "How much longer before time winds down? Before you and everyone else around watches permanency crumble and the lies exposed?" LaCroix stared off, listening to his words. Sooner or later, all this would fall. The station, the city, this notion of countries. Old barriers would weaken, and nations would fall. He had seen it a hundred times, and would see it a hundred more. 'As such Rome,' he mused. He hoped Nicholas would settle his issues, this bout with a need for humanity. Yet somehow, despite all, his son continued. Sometimes LaCroix suspected he lost Nicholas a long time ago. Looking back, he couldn't decide what exactly happened. A boy Nicholas attempted to send away, a monk who faced persecution from his own, a scullery maid and her master's taste for virgins, a young noble with ideals of rularship- too many to count. He sighed, finishing the glass. "Nicholas," he whispered. ****************** Night fell as they entered the hall. LaCroix dressed for the occasion in a fine brooch and tailored coat. It was a new label; a young company called London Fog. Very sharp. Janette accompanied him, dressed in a midnight-blue velvet gown and a white shawl. He thought the diamonds were a nice touch. Nicholas had not made an appearance. "Where is he?" Janette spoke, anger mixed with amusement. She tapped her foot, some odd tendency she acquired from one of the many maids. "Patience, my dear," LaCroix replied. He stopped and admired one of Picasso's works. A copy, he was sure of, but a clever one. The original was currently in the possession of a somewhat less than reputable noble in the Eastern Courts. "Patience lends to an art of itself." "He promised, LaCroix." He loved seeing Janette animated. Her anger lead to such 'carnivorous' inventiveness. If she fed tonight, he would make it his business to witness. Already this evening showed promise. "And he shall be here," LaCroix said crisply. Damned if he didn't capture that British tenacity. "Of that you can be certain." Of course, he didn't add he could feel Nicholas close by, certainly within the premises. Another statement, no doubt. Of late, Nicholas had been acting odd toward the business of killing. 'Children do love their addictions.' He felt certain that soon, Nicholas would outgrow this childishness. Running never gained ground until it lashed back. That was a lesson LaCroix learned well. The hall filled with tonight's patrons. Lords and ladies chattered among their peers, within the circles of secret trusts and closets of testimony the Pope would weep at in confessional. He smelled the evil of these well-dressed tormentors. Servants were everywhere, though ignored and unnoticed. How many would later weep under the chains of their masters? LaCroix smirked. "Tell me again why we're here?" Janette growled. "A Grand Ball," LaCroix answered, somewhat distracted. "Some coordination Nicholas felt a need to witness. I suspect he has something planned." "I would rather take a stroll around WhiteChapel," Janette complained. "I hear there is a killer with a taste for a certain type of woman." She couldn't hide the bitterness from her voice, a flaw LaCroix was well too aware of, considering her background. She smiled, grim, no doubt remembering her former captivity. One day, LaCroix promised himself to rid his daughter of that tendency of past stations. She should be about it by now. LaCroix was about to rebuke her when Nicholas made his appearance. He tisked, though silently. Nicholas came toward them, dressed both for the night and fine dining afterwards in a sharp, black robe. His hair was tied back with one of those ridiculous red ribbons, as was fashion. Along with him was a young woman in a white dress with straw-colored hair. LaCroix didn't know her, but he didn't have to. The woman's unease, her obvious discomfort, and her tendency to bow stiffly when passing nobles marked her station. If nothing else, he could hear her heartbeat whirl faster than normal. 'Damn him!' "Janette," Nicholas smiled, kissing her hand. "You are exquisite." "Nichola," Janette replied; though her smile was forced. "We were beginning to worry." She turned on Nicholas' companion. "And who do we have here?" "This is Marie," Nicholas said. "Marie, allow me to introduce my companions. This is Janette. The man is LaCroix." Marie bowed, a bit ungraceful. "Sir. My lady." LaCroix reached over and pinched Nicholas' shoulder. "Why do you risk this?" he whispered. "She does not belong here." "In case you haven't noticed, there's a killer out there" Nicholas whispered back harshly. "We all die, Nicholas," LaCroix countered coldly. "It's a simple matter of how." ************* LaCroix grimaced, remembering all too well that night. Nicholas and his "guest", Janette vanishing in the middle of the festivities to amuse herself with that Jack creature- he shook his head slightly, amused with his children's past antics. And now- Janette gone and Nicholas drifting farther and farther away from his blood. He had hoped Dr. Lambert would eventually lead Nicholas home. 'Agendas within agendas.' He wished he could be sure. For once, he forced himself to admit that events were starting to settle their own paths. And he did not take kindly to defeat. "Time, Nicholas. Time is running out." AGENDA (03/12) author: Steven S. Hood Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Note* The events following follow the arc of the Virtual 4th Season, but as of this time, is not considered to be a part of that season. Chapter 3 Fire rained from the heavens, sparks of ash left over from the blast. At least, that's what it looked like as Nick drove up to the scene. "Damn. Looks like a fireworks show." Nick glanced at his partner, Sakai, who watched the display, and concealed a wry grin. He still wasn't quite used to Sakai, though at times it seemed forever. His partner's occasional twist with bad irony reminded him of his former partner, now ashes from an ill fated plane crash. He hadn't realized how much he missed Schanke. Even the damned polka. Fighting off a grin, he pulled up to the yellow tape and parked. The media already jumped on this one. Packs of reporters lurked just outside of the crime scene, waiting for a scent, a scrap, some off-colored quote from someone on the force. Not that it was likely. The police and the media weren't too friendly since the arsonist case and a badly twisted statement made by the public relations officer. "Times like this make me wish I chose some other line of work," Sakai quipped, glaring at the media. "Think we'll get to bust some heads?" "Not likely," Nick replied, grinning. "Come on." They exited the Caddy and stepped under the tape before any of the media could spot them. Nick shivered slightly, glancing at a statue of the Virgin Mary. He had never felt comfortable in graveyards. Too reminicent of his former life and calling, where many of his comrads had died in the name of God. 'Eight-hundred years and you'd think I'd be used to it.' He shook himself and continued on to the scene, already covered by an investigations unit. Men and women worked together in pairs, sometimes in groups, covering every inch of the blast radius. He knew and worked with most of the crew out tonight. Sakai approached one of the officers. "So what's happened? Someone set off a rocket?" "No sir. We're finding what remains of a body." Nick clamped a hand on Sakai's shoulder. "Come on. I think we'll have better results to check it ourselves." Sakai glared at Knight, obviously not caring to step into the scene. "I don't like graveyards." "Who does?" Nick stepped towards the cross, and flinched. It smelled- wrong. He couldn't place it. It was something familiar, but something very different. He glanced at the black film covering the cross and paled. He could still still feel the presence, even if the man had died. He felt the agony, the burns of flame consuming his body. He smelled the fear. 'What the bloody hell?' There wasn't a doubt. A vampire had died on this cross tonight. "Got lost?" Nick turned, facing Natalie, who grinned. "Not exactly," he said, swallowing. "What have you found?" "Oh, a scrap here. A scrap there. It's as if someone stuck a firecracker on him and let it explode. This will be a fun one to dissect." She glanced up into his expression. "Nick?" "Come with me a moment." He turned on Sakai, who was staring at the cross grimly a few paces behind him. "Find out what you can. I don't think it's going to be much." Sakai visibly lost color. "This is sick," he whispered. "Who would desecrate a graveyard like this?" "Sakai!" Sakai flinched, blinking. He stared at Knight, his thoughts elsewhere. "Yeah, right. I'll check." "You going to be all right?" Sakai took a moment, but finally nodded his head. "Yeah. For a moment there, it was dicey." Nick nodded, completely understanding. His Christian heritage made him want to fall to the ground and vomit. This went beyond a simple vandalism, and to do this to a vampire- He led Natalie over to the side, away from the scene and the crew, and rubbed his nose. "A vampire died here tonight." Natalie didn't flinch, but Nick could hear her heart. She looked back at the cross, shivering. "It wasn't-" "No. It's not him. I would know in a second if he died." "Nick. What's going on here?" He could see the situation was getting to her. "I don't know. I may ask LaCroix. He might have heard of something similar." Natalie gripped his arm and stared into his eyes. "Be careful Nick. You don't need another vampire killer." Nick grimaced, knowing who Natalie was referring to. "I know." He left her and approached the cross again, this time carefully scrutinizing the cross and the surrounding land. It wasn't an old vampire. He was young, barely a century old. He let the scent bask over him, washing him the memory of the man's life- his thoughts, feelings, dreams- Jerahmiah. He straightened. This would tell him nothing else. "Hey Knight!" Sakai's voice boomed over the field. "We've got a live one." Nick snapped his head toward Sakai, over at the far edge of the field where gravestones began covering the ground. He raced over to him, feeling the bond with Natalie not far behind him. He glanced down at the unconscious form, a homeless man from the looks of it. Clothes hadn't been washed in days, and the stubble indicated at least a week without shaving. He was young, probably somewhere in his early thirties. Again, he smelled a familiarity. He bent down and slowly moved the man's head toward him. "Damn," he said, more surprised than anything. Medics were already setting up the oxygen mask. "Oh my god," Natalie's voice boomed. "It's Westwood." Nick finished. *********************** Voices. They floated about and around him in the dark grey void of his sleep. 'Let me sleep.' He wanted to. He wanted to sink back into the comfortable darkness that welcomed him home. After all, didn't he come here to die? He flinched at the thought, seeing a young woman with ageless eyes study him with a dark frown. He saw a man, tall, with white hair. 'No more. I want no part of this.' But they wouldn't go away- the darkness outside the hospital, watching her leave with another woman. He remembered following them, first to a restaurant, then to a warehouse district. The voices again, though both of them were female. He wouldn't lose her again. Not this time. 'Lose who?' Then he felt something slam into him. Not bullets, but something else- a body. He fell, and sank back into the long, dark nightmare of quiet stares and a pale reflection of another woman, lain on a slab in the morgue. 'No!' "You will remember nothing. Not me, nor the reasons why you came here tonight. All you will remember is my name, and the need to start over elsewhere in another city. You will remember me, and the project we worked on." Her voice- Selena's voice! Anger swelled within him. He had the proof he needed now. All of his suspicions, the leads, the vision of her standing over the body, turning to face him briefly. He saw then, the golden eyes, the fangs, the blood dripping from her mouth. 'I remember.' How much had she taken away from him? How much had been blocked from memory, and would he get it all back? He remembered hearing a man's voice, telling her to take care of the problem. He remembered she argued against killing him, and instead chose to make him forget. Somehow, some way, he vowed the score would be settled. Not kill her. He loved her too much for that. But he would understand her, discover what she was and how she became that way. 'Purpose blinds the man who hunts it'. No! It had to end somewhere. Selena would face him, and the truth would be released. 'I killed her!' No. He hadn't, but the guilt remained. 'What is the price of a man's soul, when everything he does cannot comfort the sins of his crime?' Anne. He wished more than anything he could comfort her, tell her what he hid. 'After it's over. I'll go to her and ask her to forgive me.' 'Then you've made your choice?' 'Yes. I want to live.' AGENDA (04/12) author: Steven S. Hood Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Note* The events following follow the arc of the Virtual 4th Season, but as of this time, is not considered to be a part of that season. Chapter 4 "I think he's coming around." Thomas slowly opened his eyes, wincing with the pain of bright light. He saw shapes at first, shapes that formed the outlines of faces. He smelled burned flesh, and felt his body groan in protest. He blinked hard, trying to wash away the blurriness and focus. Slowly, he could make out some of the details of the people in the room. It was a hospital room. He had seen and been in too many not to know. Tubes ran through his nostrils, through his right wrist. He saw Natalie hovering over him, no doubt reading the vitals on the monitor. Adam Sakai stood over against the door, hands in his pockets, concern etched into his expression. The man seemed more relaxed from the last time he saw Sakai. He tried to work his mouth. "Some reunion," he croaked. Natalie snapped down, a smile rippling over her expression. "You're back," she said. Thomas tried to smile. "Nat." Sakai suddenly stood next to Natalie, looking down at him with those serious eyes of his. "Good to have you back, doc." "You don't want me to answer that, doc." Thomas coughed, driving away Dervocha's words. He swallowed, tasting the dryness of his own throat. "Water." Natalie grabbed a glass and tipped it toward his mouth. "Drink slowly," she instructed. It tasted wonderful. He sipped at the water falling into his mouth, treating it as one of the many wines Anne had brought home. She pulled the cup away after a moment. "That's all you get. I don't want you spitting it back." It hurt to grin. "Damn. How badly was I burned?" "You got lucky," Sakai jumped in. "The doc said was first degree burns, along with smoke inhalation. Guess you got too close to the fire, huh?" "Not exactly." Adam had changed. He couldn't help it. He was starting to like the guy. "I don't suppose you remember what you did see?" "Sakai!" Natalie snapped. "This is not the time." "He's the only witness we've got!" "He's in no condition to make a statement." "Fine. You want to tell that to the Capt.?" Thomas smiled. He could see Detective Knight's influence rubbing off on his partner. He hadn't heard anyone else call Captain Joe Reese "Capt." besides Knight. "It's okay, Natalie." His voice was up to a whisper, so the damage to his lungs couldn't be that bad. "There was a man strapped to a cross. Another man was watching him burn." Sakai flipped open a small notebook. "Description?" "Couldn't tell much. Tall, maybe about six feet two inches. Black hair, short. He had green eyes. Really, green eyes, the kind you see in jade. Was wearing what looked like an overcoat." "Got it," Sakai said, growing animated. "Anything else?" 'Chiseled features, like right out Rome.' "Yeah. The guy looks like he could've jumped out of history. That Roman look, you know?" "My wife talks about those pictures all the time," Sakai grinned. "I know the type. This is good. I think we can draw a sketch from this. Check back on you later." Sakai quickly exited, practically racing out of the room. Thomas chuckled. "You'd swear he was a reporter." "How are you feeling?" Natalie checked his pulse. "Tell the truth, I feel hell ripped through me. The last time I felt this bad was after Dervocha hauled me out the bar when Ann died." "It's okay. You don't have to tell me." Thomas touched Natalie's arm and looked into her eyes. "I found it, Nat. I found the truth." He swore he saw Natalie flinch. "What are you talking about, Thomas?" "About vampires. I remember what Serena did to me, and what she saved me from. She's real, Nat. A real, living vampire. Who would image?" He chuckled, and found he couldn't stop himself. Laughter rippled through him, clawing its way from his chest into his throat. "And you were with her." For some reason, that only made him laugh harder. AGENDA (05/12) author: Steven S. Hood Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Note* The events following follow the arc of the Virtual 4th Season, but as of this time, is not considered to be a part of that season. Chapter 5 "When does the rain stop? When does memory take the place of the man who lives it? All that we are, bubbling to the top in some convenient way to remind us the sheer folly of man's excusable lies. Does not the clock stop ticking with the fractions of each second that passes? Does not the picture on the wall reflect a small part of what we cling to, in hopes someone will remember in the years to come? Memory never lies, gentle listeners. It is, perhaps, our greatest friend and enemy. One must never linger too long in the depths of its mirrored offspring. One way or another, memory will hold you longer, until it remains the permanent gravestone. And you will fall, unable to let go of what was consecrated to the earth." Colin snapped off the radio next to the sleeping bum, unable to listen to LaCroix's haunting words. What had gotten into the man lately? He was ready to think LaCroix meant to end it all, now, after gods know how many centuries. Now that was a scary thought. He had heard stories about one or two vampires that sought to end it all over the past two hundreds years he lived, but not LaCroix. The man had it all together. Rumor said he had lived to see the fall of Pompeii. Now that was old. Colin rose and stretched, feeling the twinges of hunger sharpen his fangs. Of late, he found it harder and harder not to find some alleyway urchin who wouldn't be missed by anyone, take him or her somewhere and relish the memories of the person in their passing. Perhaps it wasn't quite right with the times, but he knew all about blood-thirst from the bloodbath outside of Jamestown as the Redcoats came tromping down, raising Britain's flag. He was there, one of the border patrols marching around the perimeter when they came in a flood. That was right before he was taken into the night. But he didn't mind. Colin relished the idea of seeing the centuries before him, living beyond the time he was allowed. There were times he missed seeing the sunrise, and being able to eat. But the time was worth it. He got to see America grow right from the beginning. Who could ask for more? There were restrictions, though. His master had been kind enough to explain how the politics worked within the community. He privately didn't agree with some of the restrictions, like disposing the bodies where they couldn't be found. But he understood the dangers. It just seemed like there were more restrictions every passing generation. No more kidnapping. Kill quietly without trace. Don't let the human race know we exist, under any circumstance. Consult the master before converting another mortal over to the darkness. They had restrictions for everything. And those damned Enforcers. Colin shivered, remembering his master's words even to the day. "Stay away from them. If you see one, acknowledge yourself, but don't speak. They represent the Covenant. They clean up the problems that emerge when discovery is eminent. They do not make mistakes. If even one of us considers going solo, they will hunt you down and destroy the remains. They are ultimately the body we answer to, and many do not survive. If they ask for your help, give it without hesitation." Enforcers. They sounded like nasty business, and they were the only reason why Colin hadn't acted. He had never seen one, but he heard about the clean up over in the Irish Republic last year. As far as he was concerned, one stuck to the rules. And that's precisely what he was doing, gazing down at the old man sleeping in the cardboard. The man was intoxicated, but the effects wouldn't last long. He could feel the man's heart, pumping away, trying to beat harder and faster against the nervous system that slowly killed him. The man was dying, and soon. It wouldn't hurt to end the suffering. At least the man would no longer have to worry about having a place to stay. Colin started to reach down and lift the man's coat when he felt hands propel him up and slammed him against the wall. He snarled, ready to rip the joker apart, and stared up into a solid mass of muscle with a large, square head. Black eyes regarded him quietly as Colin sized the man's strength. Whoever he was, he was powerful. Colin made the fangs go away. "What's the deal?" he asked. "The man was going to die anyway. No one would have suspected a thing." "We're not here to discuss your means of disposal," the man said. Colin then suddenly became aware there were a great many of vampires within the alley. He regarded the stranger before him, then resigned himself to wait until the man lowered him to the ground. He wouldn't win. The man suddenly smiled. "You're right." Colin swore. The man set him down gently, as if it hadn't been a major feat. "It's not what you think. You have to shout for me to hear." "Who are you?" The man's smiled broadened. "You don't know? Whoever your master was, he was too lenient with you." "And what would you know? I'm older than I look." The man slammed Colin back into the wall, baring his fangs with those dead, black eyes of his. "Change your tone. We don't need a reason to destroy you." Colin's eyes widened. "Enforcers?" "So good of you to notice." The man chuckled. "Finally." He let Colin go "I-I didn't know." Colin dropped down to the ground and kneeled, not really knowing the protocol. Mentally he cursed his master for not telling him the proper response to an Enforcer. "Get up," the man said disgustedly. "Your master probably told you all the wrong things- and even garbled that up." "That's getting to be a problem, you know," one of the other Enforcers said. "That will be taken care of in time, Mitchell," the man said. Colin was beginning to suspect the man in front of him was the leader. "Listen to me, boy. I don't know what you've heard, but we're not as bad as most have made us. And I'm not going to kill you." "Then if I may," Colin replied. "What do you want with me?" Someone chuckled. The man flashed back a black look, then returned his attention to Colin. "Your help. And my name's Bronovic." "Is there a problem?" Colin asked shakily. "You might say that," Bronovic replied, suddenly weary. "I don't know that many here," Colin said quickly. "I just arrived not too long ago." Bronovic laughed. "You're thinking about that mess in Ireland, aren't you? Don't worry my young friend. The man we're after doesn't hail from here." Colin was starting to feel hunger pains. "You don't mind if I eat first. I haven't had anything yet." **************** "So what brings you to Toronto?" Colin asked, wiping his chin. The homeless man now slept quietly, and peacefully. He could feel the remains of the man's soul slowly diminish from the blood now coursing through his body. Bronovic leaned against the alley wall, slumping. "A very long and tiring chase. We've been tracking a rouge player, and one that's not too keen with vampires. You heard about the body burned on the cross?" "Yeah. The police were all over it." Bronovic grimaced. "It's not the first. This guy's been doing it across two continents. The first time was in Cairo, just outside of a quaint little town. The same thing, the cross. He's gone from Cairo to Western Europe, then down into the United States. Now he's here." "Wait a minute. Someone's burning vampires? Is this some kind of vampire hunter, like from the novels?" Bronovic snorted. "One could only wish. Let's just say him and his kind should've never have happened." Colin was suddenly interested. "Then this guy is old?" Bronovic nodded. It occurred to Colin these guys were a little weary from the long chase. 'Maybe these guys aren't so bad at all.' "You know who would know? This guy named LaCroix. He's about the oldest vampire around here." Bronovic suddenly focused on Colin with rapt attention. "Did you just say LaCroix?" he asked softly. "Yeah. Why?" Colin felt just a bit uneasy with the way Bronovic looked at him. "Did I say something wrong?" Bronovic just shook his head with a weary sigh. "So that's why," he said, mostly to himself. "Damn him." He shook himself, then stood up and stretched his massive body. "We move, gentlemen." Colin watched the parade of vampires leave the alley, and silently whispered a small prayer of thanks he hadn't tried to put up a fight. He counted at least twenty-four. They marched out, slowly at first. The fatigue was apparent. Bronovic watched as well, until all of his people had left. He turned to Colin and smiled grimly. "Thanks for letting me know." He turned and walked to the mouth of the alley. "Oh, and if you feed like that again without disposing the remains, I'll rip your bleeding heart from your intestines." AGENDA (06/12) author: Steven S. Hood Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Note* The events following follow the arc of the Virtual 4th Season, but as of this time, is not considered to be a part of that season. Chapter 6 Nick paused as he pulled over to the curb and looked up at the headquarters of CERK Broadcasting. He never could get over the fact LaCroix chose to house himself in a public building and one easily accessible to a great many elements. He hesitated, wondering if this was really a good idea. Of late, LaCroix hadn't really been himself, and Nicholas wondered if LaCroix wasn't tiring of the situation here. 'And what if he does go? The notion hasn't bothered you before.' But he hadn't exactly seen LaCroix like this before either. There was something to the words tonight that seemed distant, as if somehow the message wasn't directed toward him, but to his father as well. He debated whether or not to ask LaCroix. Then he felt the recognition. LaCroix knew he was here. Nicholas sighed and stepped from his car. He could feel the movement of air, but not the chill of it that affected the people around him. He stared up the building again, and shivered. A premonition? He hoped not. He entered CERK quietly, nodding to a couple of technicians who knew the detective on sight. He bounced up the stairs into the broadcasting lobby and waited just outside the studio, watching the drapes. LaCroix wasn't there, but the man was close. "Nicholas." Nick turned; finding LaCroix entered the lobby from the staircase. He arched his stare. "A snack?" LaCroix smiled. "One does tend to get hungry maintaining a radio show. The conversations can sometimes be stimulating." Nick blushed, ignoring the obvious. "Nicholas. I'm surprised at you. When did you develop this sudden revulsion?" "I didn't come here to have my motivations explored," Nick replied quickly. He hated feeling on edge, and yet somehow LaCroix seemed quite at ease. 'What the hell's the matter with him?' "I came to ask for your opinion." LaCroix arched an eyebrow. "This is a first. I trust this is going to be a promising conversation." "Yeah. You'll appreciate its irony." "Now you're baiting my curiosity." LaCroix smiled broadly. "Of late, I'm finding I miss this part of our relationship. Go on." "There was a body burned tonight at the cemetery. The man was strapped to a cross, and burned." "Other than the twisted sense of Catholicism, I'd say your man relishes the metaphor of several Christian uprisings I could name." LaCroix was truly enjoying himself. "You were right, for once." "But that's not the whole story," Nick continued. "LaCroix. The man was a vampire." LaCroix paused, staring at Nicholas for a long moment. "Now that," he spoke quietly, "is interesting. I don't suppose you have a suspect at hand, as of yet?" "We have a description. Tall man, perhaps around six feet two, short black hair, and green eyes. Looks like a Roman." LaCroix turned to gaze out the window, staring into the night. He would have to check the stock later and find a good vintage. A glass wouldn't hurt right about now. "I see," he said, drifting away with his own thoughts. ************************ The cell was damp, hidden below the water pipes those engineers had so brilliantly designed to pump water. The one thing they forgot, it occurred to LaCroix, was that it tended to leak. Puddles of water decorated the ground. Again, he pulled at the chains, wishing for the strength he possessed under normal circumstances. Misery was not an attractive emotion, and one he found he didn't care for. The wood door opened, revealing another one of those damned nobles and his current custodian, Reikkel. "It's time, LaCroix." LaCroix curled his lip, retracting his fangs. He smelled the blood, and it was driving him mad. "Do you intend to keep starving me?" he said quietly, knowing the effect it had on mortals. Even as he said this, he could see the noble squirm and look toward the door. Reikkel grabbed the noble's shoulder. "Don't be a fool! You'll have greater power than you can imagine. Besides, look at him! He's weak." LaCroix focused his attention on the noble, no doubt startled by his golden eyes. "Yes, young noble. Weak, and very hungry. Careful you don't step within my reach, less I drain you first." It was too much for the young noble. With what sounded like a yelp, he broke from Reikkel's grasp and bolted through the door. LaCroix laughed, though it came out like a rasp. Reikkel's eyes blazed, coloring over a hideous shade of lavender. He swept across the room and lashed the back of his hand against LaCroix's cheek. Stunned, LaCroix looked up as the sting slowly faded away. He spat. "Damn it all! Do you care nothing for what I have given you?" "Of course." Reikkel sneered. "But it doesn't change the fact you oppose my plan." He spat. It was his favorite way of demeaning others. "We could be the masters, yet we live as slaves. Slaves to the darkness that belongs to us. We can rule, here, now, and these humans would bow to our design." He laughed then. LaCroix smiled grimly. "I give you another chance, Reikkel. Release me now, and no harm will come to you or your own. Keep me and I will visit a rain unlike you've known. The choice is yours." Reikkel just stared at LaCroix. "You truly are mad. You think to order me? You have no strength left, let alone the means to break your bonds." He leaned closer and snarled. "You belong to me now." LaCroix only smiled. "Remember your words, Reikkel, when I drain you of yours." ******************* "You know of him?" "Not him," LaCroix replied. "But those like him." He remembered the long, bitter struggle between his and Reikkel's forces, and how finally he tracked Reikkel down and left him to burn in the sun of the Sahara. "They are followers of a dead martyr." "Martyr?" Nick asked, somewhat disbelieving. "He was a faction leader?" LaCroix smiled. "Of sorts. More mad than a leader. It would be his ruin and our kind's worse nightmare. Events better left buried and alone." "How long ago?" Nicholas asked. "Centuries," LaCroix replied softly, closing his eyes. AGENDA (07/12) author: Steven S. Hood Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Note* The events follow the arc of the Virtual 4th Season, but is not considered to be a part of that season. Chapter 7 Colin paused to stare at the azure sky, knowing he couldn't stay out much longer. Still, he liked to wait as long as he could to see the break of daylight. It was the one thing he missed from his mortal life, the ability to sit and watch as day broke over the horizon. He wished he could see a sunrise again, but the risk was too great. Maybe if he lived as long as LaCroix, he might have the strength to withstand a few minutes, just to see it again. He sighed, turning to enter the dark quarters of the abandoned warehouse he found down near the waterfront. He was tired, and still reeling from meeting Bronovic. He wasn't at all like the stories he heard of. A lot of the myths he lived with were turning out to be false. Perhaps even this vampire killer wasn't at all like what Bronovic had said. He felt confident that if the guy found him, he could dispose of the killer quickly and efficiently. 'Maybe Bronovic would even let me become an Enforcer.' It was an interesting dream, and one Colin intended to think about. He liked the idea of becoming an Enforcer. "Hey, kid." Colin turned, facing some weird guy who looked completely out of place with that black cloak and tight-fitting boots. "Nice costume," he said. "But Halloween isn't for another month." The man smirked, his green eyes twinkling. "Forgive. I not know local custom." "What? Don't you speak English?" The man smirked again, this time with a sarcastic twist. "Not well. I still learn." "Well, go learn somewhere else. I have to go." Colin turned away to walk into the building. Much to his annoyance, the strange man followed behind him as he entered into the main floor. He turned back, anger forcing him to keep his fangs in check. "Look pal. Go piss off someone else." "He's one of them." Colin swore, turning to the source of the new voice. Something slammed into him, and he felt hands ripping the clothes from his body. Rage overtook him, and he felt the call of his blood burst forth as his vampiric nature ripped the arms that touched him. But there were too many, and Colin soon found he was immobile from the hands that held him. He twisted, trying to fix each of the faces that held him. They would learn what it meant to hold him. They were ageless faces, some that looked like the strange man with the green eyes. He saw green eyes holding his feet. "You will die," he swore to them. "If not me, then someone else." "I think not, youngling." Colin struggled, but he couldn't see the one that was talking. He began to sweat blood, and much to his disgust, several of those who held him tried to lick the blood. "Later. I don't want him drained until we've learned what we came for." Colin struggled, trying to break the chain of hands. "What do you want?" he screamed. Already he could feel the warmth of dawn descend through the windows. Faint whispers of smoke climbed from his body. "Please!" "A simple question, young friend. And one you will answer." Colin spat, feeling the satisfaction of his spit in one of his captor's eyes. He felt the kick to his head, and his vision swam from the impact. What the hell? His legs began to burn, and he screamed again- this time through the pain of his body slowly dying. A pair of glowing bluish-red eyes stared down at him. "We have all day." ********************* "I'm telling you, Nat. I'm not making this up." Thomas shoved some of the hospital food down, blanching at the taste. It was food, if tasteless. It must have shown. Natalie looked back at him struggling not to giggle. "Is that about vampires, or the food?" "I remember perfectly. Hypnosis is attributed to vampires, and the memories I have of Selena make much more sense now. I still can't believe it's all true." He picked up his spoon to sip on the lukewarm soup the hospital restricted him to. Making a face, he set the utensil down again. "Thomas," Natalie said calmly. "Are you sure you're not reacting to the blast? Sometimes we see things that aren't real." Thomas treated Natalie to one of his rare "don't treat me as an inferior looks". He snorted, gazing down at the soup. "I would if I had these memories at the site, but this happened here in the hospital when I was more aware. I'm not crazy, Natalie. And I know you don't think I'm crazy either. You were there." He shot her a significant look, expected her to deny the story. Natalie averted her glance and breathed in. "Tell me." "Look, Thomas. You've been sick. You hadn't eaten anything for a few days, and sleeping outside in the weather-" "Tell me!" "All right!" Natalie snapped. "I was there! Is that what you wanted to hear?" "Damn it all! You knew. You knew they existed, and you didn't tell me. Why? Why did you go with Selena, if you knew what she was? I'm tired of being lied to. I'm tired of having been tricked to live a lie." Thomas stopped to get a hold of himself. He didn't need a nurse coming in to shove another one of those damned pills down his throat. "I apologize. That was inconsiderate." He closed his eyes and went through the calming exercises he learned through the University. He looked back up at Natalie, tired and ashamed. One of the few friends he made, and he treated her as a suspect in an interrogation. Natalie sat on the hospital bed, brushing her eyes. "No," she said after a moment. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't tell you the truth. You deserved to know." "Did you know her." "Yes. But not in the way you think." Thomas looked at her, considering. "Through someone else." "No one's supposed to know. I'm not even supposed to be telling you." Thomas breathed in, and sighed. "Thank you, Natalie. Thank you for the truth." Natalie looked back, unable to hide the redness within her eyes. "What are you going to do now?" Thomas turned on the radio, tuned into CERK. Right now it was early morning broadcast, but he knew the man who ruled the roost at night. He knew, because he had seen the Nightcrawler before at the station. It was the same man with the white hair, the one who slammed into him, the one that had spoken to Selena. No one could forget that voice. "Since Selena is no longer available to me, I'll find the one who told her to kill me." "Thomas-" "I believe his name is LaCroix, is it not?" "No!" Natalie snapped. "You don't know him the way I do. He's a killer like you've never known. He will kill you." It was Thomas' turn to smile now. "That, my dear, is where you're wrong. I can guarantee that killing me will be the last thing our Mr. LaCroix will do." AGENDA (08/12) author: Steven S. Hood Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Note* The events follow the arc of the Virtual 4th Season, but is not considered to be a part of that season. Chapter 8 Nick watched as the shutter doors slid over the windows. The clicks made the sound a final chime from one of the bells at St. Petersburg. He sank down into the couch, drawing himself into a ball. How much did LaCroix know? How much was his father telling him, this time? Truth and LaCroix didn't always meet at the center line, and when it came to LaCroix's past, the old vampire tended to toss morsels, snips and strings of events often times colored by the man's own reflections. 'What do you know, LaCroix?' Nick asked himself the same question all evening, and it didn't bring him closer to the truth. This killer, this half-breed wouldn't stop with just one. They never did. Janette was testimony to that, when she took off into London nearly over a hundred years ago. He frowned, staring into the candles that danced their flames on the smooth, dark surface of his piano. How long had it been since he played? Since LaCroix joined him with the violin that now belonged to Capt. Reese's daughter? He stood and walked over to the piano, playing a few keys. He didn't know what to do, didn't know what LaCroix was playing at with the heavily laden words on memory. Nick paused in his thought. 'He wouldn't.' Not LaCroix, who pursued his life with the ambition of Charlemange and Napoleon together. He sat down on the bench, absently playing a few pieces of Mozart. How long had LaCroix really lived? Since Pompeii. He knew that for a solid fact, even tried to provoke LaCroix into going to museum presentation a while ago. Had something happened then to trigger this display of time? Nicholas looked toward the shuttered windows, wondering for the first time if his maker, his master, his father, was slowly growing mad. ********************** Darkness swarmed London's streets as Nicholas raced through the narrow corridors. Somewhere ahead, he knew his beloved lurked. Marie was safe (as safe as she could with LaCroix), but he knew he couldn't leave her with LaCroix for too long before his father decided fate. 'Damn Janette!' Why? Because of a past she couldn't leave behind? He understood her, to a point. But there was a better way. They could let the mortals take care of this killer. It better that way. Nicholas stopped, surveying a intersection, and listened. He heard several heartbeats, but none that indicated something else was happening. A faint whisper ticked his ears. Janette's slow pulse. He raced ahead, following the trail as he closed in. Up to the corner and around. Then he heard a second heartbeat, much stronger. He smelled the scent of blood. 'Janette! No!' He flew, landing down on the other side of the building. Janette whirled, blood dripping down her mouth. "Nickola," she purred. "You came to play." She moved aside, revealing the body of a man clothed in black. Nicholas stared into the drained, vacant eyes of the man who lay dying on the cobblestones of London. That he was a killer, Nicholas had no doubt. He could smell the blood on the man, even though no stains lingered. He watched as the man slowly died before them, one killer and two vampires. Such a twist of fate. "He's dead now." Janette turned, watching the last embers of life pump from the heart. Then she smiled for the first time in a long while. "Moure lent, monsieur," she said, blowing him a kiss. Nicholas grabbed her hand. "Janette, why? We should have turned him over to the constable." "And to do what, Nickola? Do you think they would kill him? Ha! These englishmen are no better than him, raping their daughters and maids. They would not do justice the way this man deserves it. They will laugh and say 'What a great joke- too bad he did not kill more of them'. These people here, they treat these women no better than those who treat me." He didn't argue with her. He knew she was right. Murderers, thieves, the whole lot of them. His plans for the evening were now ruined. Had he stayed, he could have convinced the court that a prostitute could be more than the station she received. Marie was likely dead, her body hidden somewhere back at the manor. "What do you plan to do with him, Janette? Leave him for someone else to find?" Janette gave Nicholas her most hideous smile yet. "Oh no. I have a much better plan for Mr. Mordeaux here." ***************** Nicholas finished the piano piece, unconsciously recreating a piece he heard last in the halls of the Queen's palace. He stopped and looked away, swallowing the memory of what Janette did with the body. No killer would ever accomplish what she did that night. He stood up and lowered the cover over the keys and walked toward the shuttered window. Madness walked with Janette that night, a worse madness than what was happening now. 'Are you sure?' "He's not," Nicholas whispered harshly, for once feeling the need for something more than what he thrived on now. He didn't know if vampires went mad. LaCroix never spoke of such a thing happening. But words not spoken did not mean the possibility existed. Silent, Nicholas went upstairs to sleep. Sometime later, Nick was aware of a phone ringing in the background. He lay there on his bed and listened, too tired to get up and answer it. The answering machine caught it. "Yeah. This is Knight. I'm either in bed or incognito." "Knight. It's Sakai. Buzz me when you're up. We've got another one down at the waterfront." AGENDA (09/12) author: Steven S. Hood Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Note* The events follow the arc of the Virtual 4th Season, but is not considered to be a part of that season. Chapter 9 "Sometimes at night, if one listens long enough, the rain becomes a bitter tune. Its ringing chords strike the halls of an empty room in Buckingham Palace on empty ears. Does it become a symphony then? I have my doubts. No, my children. Memory does not linger here, but passes on with the whiff of a day's scent, barely palatable, and descends on some unsuspecting mortal life. There is not a just cause, nor a simple remedy for such an intrusion. Solace becomes memory's mate. "How well we know that, listening tonight in the scant comfort of young lovers' arms. It lingers, watching the insurmountable feeling that indeed the end does come. At what the price? Is it for a hollow promise, or a blind eye to a larger game? Is it for empty words where a heart beats slowly, waiting to embrace memory's mistake? I think not, gentle listeners. Charlemagne spoke of it. Napoleon lived it. It does come, and the second does freeze. Perhaps not within the hour, nor the day. Memory does not erect its epitaph without one final embrace, one peck, one lullaby so to speak. "So I hope you remember these nights as they pass- always alone, cold, dark as London's dust-covered streets after the German storm. I trust many of you will linger and struggle those inner thoughts, with the false hope of some remnant that survives, as did the cinders of Rome. I trust your memories will be far more discreet before handing the reigns to Shakespeare's curtains. "Because, my faithful listeners, memory does extract its price." Nick snapped off the radio, pulling into the drive toward the building. "Hey." Sakai complained. "I was listening to that." "Forget it," Nick answered, managing a brief smile. "Kelly will tell you all about it when you're home." Sakai glared at his partner, but the strength of his stare was too comical to make a lasting impression. He finally laughed, releasing some of the tension Nick felt all day. "Yeah. she will. I swear she's going to try and set up an interview one of these days for a paper or two. That guy's a walking Britannica." Nick hid his own gentle mirth and muttered under his breath, "If you only knew." They pulled into the warehouse, where dozens of police vehicles had parked and were canvassing the area. They tromped up through a small opening in the wall and into a large factory area illuminated by dozens of portable lights. Technicians were everywhere, and a large group of them stood in the center of the floor whispering excitedly. Natalie stood off to one side, a bit green, glancing at Nick. "Go check it out," Nick told Sakai as he began walking toward Natalie. "Knight," Sakai replied. "One of these days I'm going to cash in on this grunt work." Nick could have laughed. He came over to Natalie, who leaned in closer. "It's bad, Nick," she said. "He left some remains." Nick stared back to the clump of technicians, searching for reactions. He could tell no one was quite sure what to make of it. "Just a sec," he said, moving toward the clump. He came over and stared down. His gag reflect almost floored him, staring down at the pulp remains of a vampire. Half of a skull still grinning up at the scribbling technicians, who were making comments about the degree of decay, possible time of death, and what kind of combustion could have done it. He turned, and bent slightly, bombarded by the flash of images. 'The burning, incinerating pain coursing through his body as the sunlight slowly melted his skin. He screamed himself hoarse, but it made little difference. They were going to kill him, regardless, despite what he told them. He didn't expect it to end this way, not like this. After over two hundred years, and all of his superior strength couldn't avail. "Please!" he screamed. "I've told you what you want! Let me go!" 'But they didn't. 'He felt the fire of the sunlight consuming, and silently hoped he might see the break of a new dawn before he died. 'One more sunrise,' he wished.' "Nick." "I'm alright," Nick replied, fighting off the images. Sometimes vampires did that, create such a lasting memory that no amount of time would wear it thin. Colin would remain here forever. He stumbled away with Natalie following, leaning up against the wall of the warehouse. "They tortured him, Nat. They tortured him even after he gave them what he wanted." "Who's they?" Nat asked. "I don't know," Nick said, looking back toward the group. "Faces. A bunch of faces he couldn't make out." 'Ageless faces.' It suddenly hit. "LaCroix," Nick whispered. "Nat. I've got to go." "Nick, wait." Natalie grabbed his arm. "Listen, there's something I've got to tell you." "It can wait." "No, it can't." The urgency in Natalie's voice convinced him. Nick turned back briefly, questioning. "Make it quick." "Thomas knows," Natalie said quietly. "He knows about Selena, and about LaCroix. He's going over to the station tonight to confront him." "Bloody hell!" Nick swore. He turned and raced out of the warehouse into the street. He raced through the darkened streets, away from the public, until he felt sure no one would see him. He stopped and looked up into the night sky, the moon on a vertical arc. 'Pray I'm not late.' He flew. AGENDA (10/12) author: Steven S. Hood Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Note* The events follow the arc of the Virtual 4th Season, but is not considered to be a part of that season. Chapter 10 Thomas paused to stare up the face of CERK, a slight admiration for the architecture. He could see the attraction for someone like LaCroix, the gothic overtones and subtle traces of Georgian influence. It was a beauty and a testimony to the greater art of stone masonry. Tactically, he knew what he was about to do was dangerous. Selena had lived a long time, but not even she matched the strength of one as old as this. He hoped he was right. He entered the lobby of the radio station and went up the stairs into the studio area, surprised by the lack of technicians. 'He must have some set up here.' Thomas watched through the window as LaCroix sat back in his chair, sipping at a wine glass with what he suspected was blood. The man was dressed in black tonight, and with that white hair, looked like something out of the old vampire films. Thomas could wait. He sat down on one of the sofas. LaCroix paused to look up and stare at him through the window. He gave Thomas a slow smile, and a wink. He spoke a few more words into the microphone, then pressed a button on the control deck. He disappeared through the curtain. A few moments later, LaCroix emerged from the back. "A good evening to you, Dr. Westwood isn't it?" "I prefer Thomas," he replied stiffly. If LaCroix preferred formality, he was willing to oblige. LaCroix threw him an amused glance. "Very well, Thomas. What brings you to my studio?" Thomas breathed in. 'Don't lose your confidence.' "I want to know why you asked Serena to kill me?" LaCroix's smile melted away as he studied Thomas. "So. It seems you have remembered a few things. I suspect we have much to discuss, yes?" "That's one way of looking at it." LaCroix smiled then. "Have I told you that you remind me of someone close to me?" Thomas was about to reply when LaCroix waved him off. "No matter." He went to the other sofa and sat, spreading his arms across the back. "So what would you have me say? That I'm a vampire?" "I know you are," Thomas replied, throwing his pitch. "You're the one that slammed into me that night Natalie and Selena met down in the warehouse district. You're the one that told Selena to kill me. Privacy considerations, I suppose." "And I don't suppose it occurred to you the folly of coming here, did it?" LaCroix asked. He narrowed his eyes slightly. "Yes. I can see it did. You're either a very brave man, or a foolish one. I'm not sure which. What would you have of me, doctor?" "To learn about you," Thomas finished. "To study you." LaCroix raised his eyebrow. "Really?" He gave Thomas a wolfish grin. "Suddenly I find that history does repeat itself, as another doctor would have remarked." "You mean Lambert." LaCroix sighed. "You're digging yourself deeper, doctor. I think you've approached a situation that's well out of your control." "And that's what it's about, isn't it? The need for control. Serena, Natalie, god knows how many others. What is it that you're doing here, Mr. LaCroix? Why are you playing with so many lives, when you could easily crush everyone around you, including me? Is your life that lonesome?" LaCroix snapped a fiery gaze toward Thomas. "Tread lightly here, doctor." "So there is a purpose to all of this. An agenda." LaCroix closed his eyes briefly, then refocused on Thomas with a slight smile to his expression. "Words of a lone crusader. I should kill you right now." "But you won't," Thomas rushed in. "Because once you've accomplished your means, you'll be back to square one. And with no one to command." Thomas felt himself slammed against the wall, held up by LaCroix's hand around his throat. Golden eyes blazed at him, with a curved smile of fangs. "Don't presume, doctor. You have no clue what I'm capable of." "If you wanted to kill me," Thomas wheezed, "you wouldn't have asked Serena to do it. You would have killed me yourself." LaCroix gripped him tighter, drawing the air to a faint trickle. Golden eyes studied him, cruel, yet reflecting the knowledge of centuries past. In a flash of insight, Thomas realized LaCroix was much older than he gave him credit for. "Death, doctor. Is the final embrace. What does nature care if the means are otherwise?" "Then kill me," Thomas rasped. "End it now, and continue with this agenda of yours!" LaCroix threw Thomas against the far wall. He turned on Thomas and slowly advanced. "Have you heard the slow beat of a dying heart? A thousand graves across thousands of years? Do you presume as well, doctor?" "Don't you get it?" Thomas screamed. "A vampire was burned out there in the cemetery. And it was another vampire that did it. From Rome, I suspect. Are you blind to your own? Your own kind are killing each other! A war no one can win! How many more have to die? How many more before you can appease a goal you can't even see the end of? Why? Why didn't you kill me?" And Thomas was lifted again, this time held in the air without support. LaCroix snarled, revealing the vampire within the man. A being of power held Thomas now, every inch a commander of his own legions. He stared down into LaCroix's eyes, into a dark, recluse corner of a man who witnessed centuries behind a web of deceit and lies. He looked in, and could visualize the wars taken place down through the centuries, the events, the sorrow of watching a world destroy itself, yet stand at the heart. "Why?" Thomas choked. Slowly, LaCroix changed before him, the vampire bleeding away until the man stood holding Thomas. He looked up into Thomas' stare, considering. Then he dropped Thomas to the ground. "Because, you were never a threat. At least not until now." Thomas pulled himself up, gasping for air. He clutched his throat and rubbed it. "If I'm a threat, then why don't you kill me?" LaCroix raised weary eyes toward him. "I simply choose not to." Thomas picked himself off the floor and faced LaCroix. "I don't believe you, and I don't think anyone else will either. And I don't think I'm the one who's dying here." LaCroix stared back at Thomas, unable to answer. "Not dying," he said finally. "But reconsidering. Of late, I find my purpose, your 'agenda', is no longer applicable." He sighed, embracing the cold truth the last of his children were no longer his own. "And the feeling is- unsettling. For the first time in alomst a thousand years, I find myself- alone." "Not easy, is it?" LaCroix smirked. "Time, doctor, breeds certain traits to one's own concept of self. For my children, it was a question of humanity. I've never been bothered by it. But when the final curtain falls, one tends for the companionship of the bonds that ties us together. And I fear I no longer have that." "One of your children lives here." "Yes." "So it's never been a question of possession or domination. It's about love." LaCroix turned his gaze upon Thomas, amused. "Of that, I find it's the greatest irony for such that of mine. When your children abandon you, wouldn't you rather it be for a better cause, than the hatred that fuels the empty promise of memories?" Thomas understood. It was similar to what he felt about Anne's death, and the terrible weight of memories that it didn't have to be the way it was. Consequences and bitterness. He couldn't imagine what it would be like for a vampire. "Maybe it's time to make some new friends." LaCroix suddenly laughed. "That's what you want?" Thomas smiled. "Unless you'd rather kill me." AGENDA (11/12) author: Steven S. Hood Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Note* The events follow the arc of the Virtual 4th Season, but is not considered to be a part of that season. Chapter 11 Bronovic waited with the rest near the CERK Broadcasting Station. It was an even gambit that if one of those fanatics showed, it would be here. After some two thousand odd years, he never did understand their madness. 'But the charge is still mine.' "Bronovic," Mitchell said. Bronovic brought his thoughts under control, watching the man that approached the building. That scent of wrongness assaulted his senses. He nearly snarled. It was one of them, the one they had been chasing across the globe. "Finally," he whispered. "Are we ready?" "As always," another answered. Bronovic watched as the man approached, seemingly without a care that two full squadrons of Enforcers were about to rain down. "Steady," he whispered. The man was just about at the front entrance. "Now!" They swarmed from the darkness toward the man, who turned toward them and snarled. Bronovic could see the gleam of dark, radiant green eyes laughing at them. He felt the hairs of his skin stand. "Stop!" he screamed. "It's a trap!" It was too late. The rest came forward, easily a full twenty of them. Too late Bronovic realized the scope of the campaign here, and the skillful manipulation of larger forces at work. He threw himself into the frenzy while sending the call out. Every Enforcer alive would know, regardless of where they were. This had to be stopped here and now, before others fell. It was his apex, the cultimation of thousands of years at war. "Raise the banner!" he barked. For the first time since the fall of Pompeii, the banner of its last commander was raised, flapping in the fall winds of Canada. That was the signal, and the entire community would soon know the truth within the lies. Bronovic prayed this day would never come. He prayed the consequences of a mistake that happened long ago would never unfold as such tonight. But it did. Tonight, they would serve their purpose as it was dictated so long ago. Not just a set of rules, or of regulations, but of a war, a silent war against the madness of one vampire. He only wished Mikkel was here, now, so it could finally end. Bronovic cried out, and the Enforcers descended. ********************* -- "They wait, my lord," Bronovic said, bowing. LaCroix turned, staring among the torches across the countryside. His sharp gaze betrayed the weariness and the lack of blood. The man was paler than usual. "The fools," he said quietly. "Fanatics of a dead martyr. Will they not yield, Bronovic?" Bronovic stood to stare out across the night horizon, and the camps of vampires silently waiting. "No," he replied frankly. "Reikkel forever divided us. None could have conceived of it." LaCroix closed his eyes briefly, then opened them to reveal the greenish glow of his baser nature. "Even in death, Reikkel reaches. This plan of theirs is madness. Not even Caesar would have dared this." "Is there another way?" Bronovic pointed out. "Regardless, we are now at war. And it will be a war to reach the heavens itself. You can either lead us, or reduce us to livestock. Choose, LaCroix." LaCroix stared down at the camps and silently snarled. He gripped the edge of the wall, crumbling the mortar. "I fought my last war crushing the Gauls, and hoped never to raise my banner again. This is without nation, and without honor." "You must," Bronovic urged. "Of us, you are the oldest. And if there are Ancients out there, then they are silent. Reikkel's followers must not be allowed to complete their mad plan. You must lead if we are to survive." LaCroix was silent, lost to his own thoughts. "If I lead," he said finally, "then you must enforce. I will not do this again. "You will ground the earth, and they will curse your name. You will create the laws, and they will hunt you. Is this the path you choose? To be the betrayer and the hope? Do you choose to rule where none have before, by a law enforced in blood?" "Is there a choice?" Bronovic countered. "Your protigi is destroyed, and the nations are divided. We risk total exposure from Reikkel's forces, and if that happens then the world dies. We have to preserve the nature of our existence." "Then it's done," LaCroix replied formally. "And let our blood fall. You have sealed us to secrecy where it was not before. Any who oppose shall fall. This is the compact I make with you." Bronovic slashed his hand with his teeth, holding out to LaCroix. LaCroix stared down at Bronovic's bleeding hand, then did the same. "Now and forever," LaCroix declared, staring down at Bronovic with an unearthly glow. "You are sealed to your Code." "And you shall lead, General," Bronovic finished, feeling the blood igniting his gaze. "Thus our compact is forged, now and forever, until the war is finished." -- ************************ Bronovic snarled, draining the remaining blood from one of Reikell's vampires. The husk fell from his hands as he leaped back into the fray. Around him, those he recruited to the cause joined in their own feasts. He lost five of them so far, but the battle was even. He smelled the victory he promised as he ripped another one's head. Blood sprayed, drowning the night in a red rain. 'It's time, LaCroix.' AGENDA (12/12) author: Steven S. Hood Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Note* The events follow the arc of the Virtual 4th Season, but is not considered to be a part of that season. Chapter 12 'It's time, LaCroix'. LaCroix snapped up, dozing in his chair. "Bronovic?" he whispered. He rose and crossed to the window, staring down at the mass of bodies now engaged outside of the radio station. He curled his lip, staring at the remnants of Reikkel's nightmare, and smiled grimly. All of his years of planning unfolded below as the two nations fought. It would make his king proud, if the man were still alive. He watched as the groups unfolded, releasing a blood bath unlike any had seen since the Inquisition. "My, my," he said. "So Reikkel's children have finally come to play." It would be fitting to see his tormentor's face as the man's creations were ripped apart by those he and Bronovic chose to stand against them. And after that intriguing conversation with Dr. Westwood. Tonight was proving to be full of surprises. It was too bad Nicholas wasn't here to see the festivities. "Poor Nicholas," he remarked. "This time I'm afraid you won't get your man." And that was the larger issue. Where did he stand now with his son? LaCroix stared out; surveying the battle as images of Nicholas floated to the surface. He had tried. So many circumstances, so many choices. The arguments, the plans, the people he had turned against his son. Still Nicholas refused to come home. 'As have I.' LaCroix frowned, wondering where that came from. Was he referring to Divia, or to his home of Pompeii? He had always stressed the necessity of leaving memory behind to the dust it collected. One could not afford to cling to the mortal life shed once brought across. 'But does that mean one must never return to the beginning, lest the memories destroy him? Or is fear? Do you fear to look back at what you left behind?' He trembled, knowing he finally struck home. Nicholas had a strength he did not. And it was that strength that allowed Nicholas to continue where others had fallen. He no longer needs me. LaCroix felt the tears of blood slowly trickle from his eye. "How fitting." LaCroix turned, and stumbled. He stood there, stunned, unable to draw his gaze away. "Well," he finally said. "This is a surprise." "Hardly. You of all should know better." LaCroix smiled back, once again in control of his emotions. "Yes. I should have. It is a mistake I will not make again." "Assuming you'll live long enough, which I think not likely." "Do you really think you can destroy me?" LaCroix chuckled. "One of the most powerful vampires left in the world? Your plans have always fallen to ash." "You know, that was very annoying. You don't know for how many centuries I've cursed you for stealing my brother." Mikkel replied. The resemblance between him and Bronovic was uncanny. "Your death was not at my hands." "I know. But you did kill Reikkel." LaCroix shook his head slowly. "It cannot be allowed. No one in over a thousand years has dared to tread where you would lead them. The nations would rise against you and paint the world in a sea of blood. We would be exterminated, and you would follow. Why risk it?" "Why settle for a small nation, when the world is waiting for the picking? Do you remember who said that, LaCroix?" "Yes. But your master is dead, as are your conquests." "Not anymore." LaCroix braced himself for the attack. "You know, it's funny. I never thought this would have worked. I must remember to thank that Dr. Westwood of yours for providing a distraction." LaCroix froze in place, extending his senses around him. "What do you mean?" His nose twitched. There was a familiar substance. Mikkel struck a match, grinning. "Just like Rome." ***************************** Outside the war was dwindling down to a few remaining survivors of Reikkel's forces. Bronovic watched as the remainder of his forces hunted down the remainder. "We've won," he said to himself. He chuckled. "We've won!" Several other vampires joined the cheer, raising their hands. Grinning, Bronovic stared up at LaCroix's banner, flapping in the wind for all of its glory. It would be good to see him again. CERK exploded, raining down embers of its fire. _______________________________________________________ *Since this is my first contribution, there's always the question of how well the story is received. The second part of the story, "My Father's Keeper" has been written but is undergoing a major rewrite at the moment. I'd love to hear back from you guys, your thoughts and comments. I apologize for some sections, since there were a couple of things I didn't catch that clash (including this one).