ALL THAT'S BEST OF DARK AND BRIGHT
A Forever Knight Story
by Susan M. Garrett

Pt. 1 (In which Janette receives two visitors)

Janette leaned against the cool steel of the rear door to the Raven, one
finger toying with her choker absently. Beneath her breath, she hissed,
"Nicola, what <is> keeping you?"

A quick sip from the glass held in her other hand helped break the monotony
of the seconds, but it did nothing to ease her annoyance. Over the
centuries, only that one emotion seemed able to come to her unbidden.
<Everything> seemed to irritate her. The nights dragged one into another,
unchanging. And the occasional flirtation with danger or with something new
passed too quickly.

She saw him, then, struggling down the alleyway, supporting someone hidden
from her view. "You are beginning to try my patience," she scolded, standing
aside as he hustled the newcomer through the doorway.

He flashed her a brief smile and she relented, although she let the door
slam shut behind her as she followed them inside. Nicola looked back at the
sound of the door with a raised eyebrow and she echoed his smile. It was
good that he know she was annoyed.

"If you must pursue these foolish fantasies of becoming mortal, I can't stop
you," Janette said, as his back came between her and his companion. "But I
do <not> appreciate the disruption of my business--"

"Your friend here, was about to put a serious dent into one of your mortal
'guests'." Nicola turned to face her. "I was only doing your bouncer the
favor of getting him out before things escalated into something you couldn't
handle."

"I can handle anything." Sweeping past him, Janette, got her first look at
the vampire who had caused such a fuss at the club entrance . . . and her
cold blood ran colder, freezing in her veins.

If he had fed within a fortnight, it would have been a miracle. His skin was
like parchment, pale and taught over the skull beneath, his eyes fever
bright and shining so in the dim light that she forced herself to turn away.
"He's none of mine," she whispered, taking a step that placed Nicola between
her and this skeletal vampire. "I've never seen him before. But he can have
all he needs . . . on the house."

"No--" The whispered hiss came from the dry lips of the vampire, who slumped
forward in the chair in which Nicola had placed him. She peered cautious
around Nicola's wide shoulders.

"Who are you?" asked Nicola earnestly, leaning down to meet the eyes of the
starving vampire. "If you need to feed--"

One of the vampire's hands clamped onto Nicola's suit jacket and he seemed
as if he were going to pull himself to his feet. "The light," he whispered,
staring at Nicola, then at Janette. "Blood burns . . . in the light."

His eyes went wider at he stared at her and Janette realized that he was
staring at the glass of blood mixed with wine. After glancing at Nicola, she
cautiously offered the glass to the visitor.

The vampire threw his head back and a low moan rose from his throat, a sound
that shook her to the bones. His hand left Nicola's jacket, snapping out to
wrest the glass from her fingers so quickly that even she had difficulty
following the movement. She held her hand to her chest, the other reaching
up again to toy with her choker, and she met Nicola's eyes again.

He, too, seemed puzzled, for the vampire didn't drink at once. He held the
glass, his eyes burning yellow, then red, as he sniffed at the rim. As if
reluctant to drink, it seemed that he would throw the glass aside and Nicola
even moved to reach for it.

But then there was a sigh. The sound was not frightening like the last, but
filled with such sadness that Janette thought his heart might burst. He
raised the glass to them, as if in a toast, then downed the blood.

Nicola kept his eyes on the visitor. "Janette, I think we'll need more than
a single glass."

"I can ring for it," she said, moving to a buzzer on the wall that would
summon the bouncer.

"I think <you> should get it."

Janette stopped where she stood and whirled to face him, pulling herself to
her full height. <He> was sending <her> away. And in her own club! "Nicola,
you presume--!"

There was a choking sound from the vampire in the chair as he fell forward
to the floor, resting on his knees. Nicola leaned to pick him up, but the
vampire planted one hand on his chest, shoving him away so that he fell
backward into some boxes that were piled against the wall. Shaking, the
vampire began to crawl on his hands and knees toward her, his red eyes
fixing her with a desperate glare. "The blood burns," he whispered, in a
voice so low she could barely hear the words.

Smoke rose from his body and she backed away, calling, "Nicola?" The pitch
of her voice rose to a scream as the vampire suddenly burst into flames.
Tongues of fire licked the ceiling. The wisps of smoke became thick and
black, accompanied by the acrid smell of burning, dead flesh.

Something heavy and metal was pushed into her hands and she almost dropped
it, then realized that the hissing she heard was Nicola using the fire
extinguisher required by city ordinance. Making a mental apology to the
young fire inspector who had unknowingly come close to losing his life over
his insistence on such petty details, Janette found that Nicola had already
loosened the catch--the foam spurted out.

The fumes and foam tickled her nostrils for a moment, but, being a vampire,
breathing was not a matter of survival. Janette fought against the kick of
the metal cylinder and kept spraying, hating and fearing the flames that
dared invade her club.

It was only when Nicola placed a firm hand on her shoulder and wrested away
the extinguisher that she stopped. Collapsing against the comforting
solidity of the wall, she stared at the pile of foam covered ash on the
floor and shivered.

Nicola's hand was still on her shoulder. Dropping the extinguisher to the
floor, he pulled her into his arms and murmured, "It's all right, <petite>.
It's out. The fire's gone."

For a moment she stood there, shivering. He knew how she felt about fire,
how the fear of it was enough to freeze her in place. The very thought of
the flames made her cold inside and he, like she, lacked warmth.

So Janette turned to her anger, letting that warm her as she pushed him away
and gestured down at her dress. "Look at this. And my club. I have
deliveries tomorrow night--this will not be ready in time. What will you do
about it?"

"Me?" Nicola's temper flared for an instant, but then he smiled . . . that
insufferable, understanding smile. He knew her too well. After so many
centuries, he knew all of her moods and her methods. "I think one of your
fledglings should be willing to do some heavy work in exchange for room and
board." Then he squatted down, his fingertip reaching for, but not touching,
the foam. "I've never seen anything like that."

"Spontaneous combustion," answered Janette, circling so that she entered his
line of sight. She wasn't about to be dismissed so quickly. "We've heard
stories . . . ."

"But <only> stories. Nothing burns that quickly. Or that hot." He looked up
and she followed his gaze, to where the lick of the flames left black
stripes across her ceiling. "You didn't know him. I didn't know him. But
someone must have."

"You're going to <investigate> this, aren't you?"

Her acid tone caused him to smile. "I think I should, don't you? After all,
it happened to one of <us>." His gaze dropped back to the ash. "It's my
night off. I'll ask Natalie--"

"It's <our> concern." But then he fixed her with those eyes and she backed
off, reaching for her choker again and pouting as she turned away. "All
right," she relented. "But . . . not here. Have someone pack that," Janette
gestured toward the remains, "up for you." She shivered again and suddenly
he was standing behind her--she could feel his presence.

"You'll be all right?" he asked.

A smile came to her lips and she almost shook her head. Always the knight
errant, coming to the aid of a lady in distress. But it wouldn't be well to
let him know how much this incident had disturbed her. Turning, she placed
her hand against his chest and pushed him away, walking toward the doorway
the led to the back of the bar, but giving the ash and foam a wide berth. "I
am always 'all right,' Nicola." Over her shoulder, she gave him a smile.
"<You> have never made any complaints."

Once the door was closed behind her, she rested against it, taking a deep
breath that her body didn't need but which her composure required. How
horrible that she complain of sameness! It was the way of fate, to drop
something like this into her lap, not only shattering her nerves, but
occupying Nicola. Now, no matter what game she enticed him with, his mind
would be wound around this new mystery. Ever the <inspector>, her Nicola.

The bead curtain parted and Alma was there. There was an instant of
scrutiny, an accounting of the ruin of her dress and hair, and a smirk from
the fledgling vampiress.

Gathering her dignity around her, Janette pinned Alma with her gaze, until
the smirk faded and the younger vampiress was forced to avert her eyes.
"There's been an accident," she stated flatly. "Send Tyler to clean up the
mess--he should talk to Nicola. Arrange for two new fire extinguishers. And
have that damn sprinkler system in the front connected to the rear of the
club."

At even the hint of the word 'fire,' Alma's lips drew taut. She nodded.
"Tyler is . . . between conquests. He'll take care of it right away.
But--there's someone here to see you. At least, he's asked to meet the owner
of the club." When Janette raised her eyebrow, Alma added, "He's one of us.
And he's a hunk."

Intrigued, Janette ran over a quick mental list of anyone of their kind who
could fit that description and would be in the area, but was stymied. "Did
he say he was an old friend?"

Alma shook her head and handed her a business card. "No. He said he was
calling to pay his respects."

"You should have said that at once, you foolish girl!" she chided. A glance
at the card told her nothing--Gregory Mercer, Imports/Exports. The paper was
fine, the print elegant in its simplicity. This had promise.

Then Janette remembered that she was covered with foam.

"<Merde>." She turned toward the door to her rooms and office. "Show him to
my office. I'll be with him in a few minutes."

"As long as that?"

A snarl sent Alma scurrying through the beaded curtain. Janette wasted no
time, turning to the doorway that led to her rooms. Once there, she ran
behind an oriental changing screen and slipped out of her dress. Stepping
into another dress, a black sheathe with silver lacings, she quickly
dressed. Her shoes were tossed aside as a loss, replaced immediately by
black satin pumps with silver trim and stiletto heels. A brush passed
through her hair set everything in place. She knew she looked like she meant
business.

He was waiting in her office, admiring an art deco print framed on the far
wall. Her first assessment was that he had some money, but not enough to
afford the expensive cloth that made wearing clothing bearable to their
heightened senses. The suit tailored, at least, which meant he had taste.
She liked mortals with taste. If he wasn't already a vampire, she might have
brought him across for that reason alone.

As if he knew he was being inspected, he waited a moment, then turned toward
her. The mane of brown hair, just below shoulder length, and the drop dead
smile were locked into her memory immediately. Janette almost purred as he
crossed the room and lifted her hand to his lips. "If I may be so forward,
I'm Gregory Mercer."

The accent was British, pulling her own favored French accent into greater
prominence. "You <are> forward, Mr. Mercer. I am Janette, the owner of the
Raven. You wished to see me on some matter of business?"

"Business, yes." The smile dimmed, but barely. "But I like to know my
business partners. The night is young and I'm a visitor to your city. Would
you have the time, tonight, to show me some of the sights?"

Her internal clock told her that he was right--the night <was> young. The
scent of the fire and burned flesh still clung to her nostrils. Withdrawing
her hands from his, so that he wouldn't feel her slight shiver, she turned
away. She needed to get out, get away from this place for a while. And who
better to spend her time with than this handsome vampire, if Nicola would be
too busy playing <gendarme>.

"I think, Mr. Mercer . . . Gregory," she amended, "that I would like nothing
better this evening. If you'll wait here, I'll make arrangements."

"Of course."

His elegant bow at their parting gave her something to chew on--just how old
could he be? Well-mannered but brash, well-schooled but with a natural charm
no schooling could impart . . . . Janette passed into the bar, eyes
searching for Alma. Someone else could lock up for the night. It would do
well for these fledglings to learn some responsibility. Nick was right--she
pampered them.

Her hand reached out, plucking Alma from the dance floor as a child removed
fruit from a tree. "I'm going out," she explained to the startled young
vampiress. "I'll trust you and the others to lock up."

"But you'll be back before sunrise," said Alma.

Janette bristled when the tone implied a statement rather than a question.

"After all," continued Alma, "You're not as young--"

The girl had no idea of the danger in which she was placing herself. Janette
placed her hand around Alma's shoulder, her nails digging into the skin and
drawing blood. "In future, you will remember to keep such thoughts to
yourself," she said, in a carefully neutral tone. "And <you> will lock up
tonight."

Alma turned wide eyes to her. "Of course, Janette. Have a, uh, good time."

Arching an eyebrow, she glanced back at the office where Gregory was waiting
and knew the girl followed her gaze. "There was an American actress who had
a phrase--I believe it was along the lines of 'goodness has nothing to do
with it'."

With that, and a sharp smile, she crossed the dance floor on her way back to
the office, knowing that every vampire eye in the club was watching her.

end of part 1

Pt. 2 (In which Natalie is given a present)

Nick nodded at Grace as he passed through the outer office. "Natalie in?"

"When is she ever out?" Grace crossed her arms, as if daring him to answer,
then she glanced at the brightly patterned hat box he was carrying. "Then
again, if you start bringing presents for Natalie--"

"Business, Grace," he answered, sweeping past her and to the door to the
examining lab.

"Yeah. Sure." But she smiled and waved her hand at him. "Go on. She needs
the break."

Natalie was dressed in scrubs when he entered; her mask was on, the
microphone was humming, and every light in the place seemed to be burning.
Of course, the patient she was working on didn't appreciate any of it.

She looked up, caught sight of him, muttered something into the microphone
and switched it off, her eyes never leaving the hat box. "Is that for me?"
she asked, pulling off her latex gloves.

"Yup." Nick held the box out to her, then perched himself on the counter,
trying to hide his smile.

Matching the smile, Natalie distractedly pulled a cloth over the corpse on
which she'd been working, then placed the hat box on an empty stainless
steel gurney. She glanced at him again, looked down at the box suspiciously,
then lifted off the cover.

Nick looked away as she opened the box, fixing his eyes on a chart against
the wall. "Ick," was her first response. "Just what every girl needs?"
Reaching over to a dispenser, she pulled on another set of latex gloves.
"What am I looking at?"

"Vampire remains, with some added foam from a fire extinguisher."

"Anyone you knew?" She tipped the box this way and that, like a miner
sifting for ore.

"No. He wandered into the Raven. Janette didn't know him either," he
clarified, when she looked up at him quickly. "I hustled him in through the
back alley when it looked like he was checking out the human clientele. He
was starving."

She wrinkled her nose, her attention back on the box. "So, you fed him."

"Well, Janette did. He drank about two cups of blood mixed with alcohol.
Then he started burning."

"Burning?" Picking up a probe, she began to sift through the ashes again.
"I'd call that a significant allergic reaction. What set him on fire?"

Nick shrugged, wincing when she glared at him. "It was similar to a sunlight
reaction. He went up like a magnesium flare. There was nothing left in a
matter of minutes."

"So I see. Was he coherent before he started . . . burning?"

He watched her pick out some ivory buttons from the ashes. "He was
starving--none of us are coherent at that point." He winced, remembering the
mummified skin pinched tightly over the skull. "All he said was 'blood burns
in the light.'"

"Well, we know <that>."

Nick hopped off the table and stood by her side. "I know it sounds crazy,
but I saw it. So did Janette. It . . . shook her up."

Natalie looked up at him. Peeling off a latex glove, she reached up and,
after he jerked away, touched his eyebrow. "Looks like you got a little
singed." She turned, pulling off the other glove, and headed for the sink to
wash her hands. "And a little spooked, yourself. So, this isn't standard,
vampire operating procedure, huh?"

"I'm stumped."

"You're the expert." Wiping her hands on a paper towel, she picked up the
lid and placed it on the box, sighing. "I'll see if I can get something a
little more dignified for your friend. Let me guess, it's Janette's, right?"

"Not my choice for a final resting place."

"Or anyone's. I'll look into it, later." Pushing the table to one side of
the room, she shook her head. "You've got lousy timing. Have you called
Stonetree?"

"It's my night off."

"It may be your night on again. Take a look at what the narcotics cats
dragged in."

She led him over to the body on which she'd been working when he'd entered.
"Just started on this one. I've got three more waiting, but they all look
the same."

He half-closed his eyes, expecting to see the bloody remnants of a drug gang
street battle. The last thing he needed was something like that to whet his
appetite. Having a puzzle to solve often helped to push the beast into
submission, but fresh blood often tempted it out of hiding.

What he saw was a male Caucasian, between mid-teens and early twenties.
Needle marks dotted the insides of both arms.

"Heavy user," he noted, remembering what she'd said about the bodies coming
from narcotics.

"We're in the last stages of rigor, I'd say time of death has been over
twenty-four hours, at least." She pointed to the barest discoloration along
the base of the spine and alone the back of the legs. "That indicates they
were sitting down when they died, then pretty much drained where they were."

Nick had been concentrating on the hatbox on the other gurney. That and
trying to identify the sweet odor that accented the smell of rotting human
flesh. That one word brought his full attention back to Natalie. "Drained?"

"That's why there's so little pronounced lividity. It's barely off-white.
The blood's gone."

He immediately reached for the neck to check for marks, but Natalie shook
her head. "No, not one of yours. Artificial pump, attached near the heart.
Here." Moving the sheet, she showed him the raw wound left by the
instrument. "Cause of death was an overdose."

"Of what?"

She covered the body again. "I don't know." Leaning back against the
counter, she folded her arms and looked up at him. "Nobody does. This is our
first set--"

"Set?"

"But we've already gotten word from Chicago and New York that they've had
group overdoses like this, too. The bulletin came through a few days ago.
The narcotics boys thought they'd gotten enough forewarning to get the word
out on the street."

"Apparently not," said Nick, his gaze returning to the body. "Addictive?"

"It doesn't need to be. The speculation is that it produces a two to four
hour high, then leads to simultaneous organ shut-down." She shrugged. "Kind
of ruins the repeat trade, doesn't it?"

"Could death be caused by a residue reaction from other drugs in the
system?"

"Might be," she admitted. "But one of those kids isn't a user--no marks.
Most she's ever sniffed might be aerosol fumes. And that still begs the
question."

"Why take the blood?" He walked back to the hatbox, resting his hands on the
cover. "The other cases had blood drained?"

"Yes." Natalie held her breath for a second--it usually signified that she
was branching out into what she considered uncertain territory. "Do you
think one of your kind is involved?"

"Just because of the blood? No. It's . . . wrong."

"Fact or instinct?"

"Instinct," he answered, then amended quickly, "and some experience with the
species. Vampires don't usually take blood after death. You couldn't survive
on it. There's the taste of death in it. Maybe, if you were hard up, a
scavenger . . . ." He shuddered, remembering the one time he had been forced
to feed solely from corpses. "No, we don't do it by choice."

Natalie was watching him. "I don't suppose there'd be any residual effect of
the drug in the blood. After all--"

"We're dead?"

"It's not like anyone's done any scientific studies on the effects of hard
drug residue on vampires," she countered.

He moved his hand as if to touch her arm, then drew it back quickly. "I'm
sorry, Nat. I'm still distracted from this--" his gaze went to the hat box.
"I didn't mean to imply that you don't know what you're doing."

"Apology accepted. But you do know what this means?"

"We've got a homicide." Nick ran a hand through his hair. "And I've gotta
call Stonetree. Thanks, Nat."

"Don't forget," she called, as he ran for the door, "first priority is a
sample of this stuff."

"Your wish is my command." He bowed toward her as he went through the door
backward, just as Grace was passing by.

She clicked her tongue at him as he headed for the phone. "Just business,
huh?"

"Just business," he replied, with a forced smile, wondering how the
jurisdiction war was progressing between Schanke and the crew from
narcotics. A case of spontaneous combustion paled beside inter-departmental
rivalry.

end of part 2

Pt. 3 (In which Janette sees the light)

Gregory held the door for her, bowing as she walked past him and into his
apartment. "Enter freely," he said, with a smile.

"Those movies have much to answer for," Janette answered, sweeping into the
room. She nodded approval at his choice of decor--simple black and white,
with an emphasis on the white.

The music began at the moment he opened the door--a soft and wistful song
sung by a crooner. He lifted the lace wrap from her shoulders, his hand
pausing for a moment on the soft curve of her neck and she shivered. She
turned toward him, but he had already moved away. "Antique?" he asked,
carefully draping the wrap over the back of a hardwood chair.

She shrugged non-commitally. "I suppose."

He was clever, this vampire, and quick to gauge her lack of interest in the
subject. Instead, he turned toward the bar. "Another drink?"

The tiny chronometer in her heart that ticked off the hours of blessed
darkness and dangerous daylight gently reminded her that it was time for all
good little vampiresses to find their way to quiet, dark places, to rest out
the scorching hours ahead. She frowned, prepared to shake her head
wistfully, but three things stopped her; the thought of further proving to
Alma that she wasn't as 'ancient' as her wrap, the promise shown by Gregory
Mercer's attentiveness to her every whim all evening, and the drink she'd
had before they'd left his apartment earlier . . . a sweet and heady brew
that she couldn't identify.

Letting the frown linger, she said, "I <shouldn't>."

"But?" Gregory stood by the bar, dressed in an immaculate tuxedo. He'd told
her that if he were to do her justice, he'd have to appear the proper escort
for such a lady of quality. How could she refuse him?

And how could she refuse that ruby liquid in the crystal carafe sitting on
the glass top of the bar? She walked toward the bar, as fascinated by the
blood in the pitcher as she was by the handsome vampire. "It's too splendid
an opportunity to let pass. "You must tell me what it is."

"Ah, could that be occupational curiosity?" he asked, pouring the blood into
a crystal goblet, which he handed to her.

"Perhaps." She took a sip, let the iron taste dissolve on her tongue and
closed her eyes, savoring the delicate flavor. When she opened her eyes, she
found him staring at her.

Good. She liked to be the center of attention. Especially male attention.
Walking away from him, she held the glass upward, inspecting it in the light
of one of the room's many lamps. "And you're not about to tell me the
secret, are you?"

"You tell me." Elbows resting on the top of the bar, he leaned forward,
cupping his chin in his hands. "If you're right, I'll give you a bottle to
take with you."

That was an offer she couldn't refuse. Again, Janette took a sip. "Citrus,"
she announced, after a thoughtful pause. "It tastes like . . . sunlight. Or
how sunlight <should> taste."

"Close," he admitted. "Very, very close. Enough to qualify for a consolation
prize."

"Oh." Janette pouted and sipped at the glass again. If she could wean the
secret of this mixture from this handsome vampire, The Raven would soon be
the talk of vampires everywhere.

Gregory smiled and left the bar, walking toward her. "You look
disappointed."

The pout remained. She'd found it most effective in getting what she wanted
from recalcitrant males . . . with the exception of LaCroix and Nicola.
"Perhaps I am. You take me to a very chic nightclub, you treat me like a
queen, and then you make sport of me."

"Never, Janette," he said quietly. "Sport is the last thing I'd make of
you." Slipping one arm around her waist, he placed his other hand around
hers, over the stem of the glass, then began to sway to the music. They
alternated sipping from the glass.

"Do you remember what it's like--the sunlight?" he asked, leaning forward to
nuzzle her neck.

Janette shivered involuntarily in his arms, as the memory of the burning
vampire returned--the heat of the flames and the smell of singed flesh--but
Gregory tightened his grip and she snuggled against his shoulder. "Why
torture ourselves?" she whispered. "It's something we may never have again.
Nicola is a fool, to believe that he may walk in the sunlight again, without
burning. It's madness." Drawing back from him, she retained the possession
of the crystal glass and drained the remaining drops, savoring the taste.
"But this! This is true sunlight. If this is your creation, Gregory, then
you are an <artist>."

She saw his eyes light at the compliment and something in her breast
fluttered, however weakly. The blood made her feel giddy, possessing more
impact than her alcohol-laced private stock ever did. He took the glass from
her hand, but she held onto it for a moment, her fingers touching his, then
leaving the stem to travel up his arms, to his shoulders. Her lips touched
his, and they met no resistance.

Distantly, she registered the crash of the glass as it fell to the parquet
floor of his apartment. His arms moved around her and he returned her kiss
with equal passion. A flash of memory, of Alma's incredulous expression when
she'd left on Gregory's arm, added fuel to her fire.

But . . . something was wrong. Different. Her fangs hadn't fallen into place
and neither had his. Her senses weren't colored by the bloodlust that had
always accompanied such passion.

Janette pulled back from him. His lips followed hers, but then Gregory
paused. Their eyes met, their gazes locked.

He took a deep breath and expelled it, slowly. "I don't suppose I explained
about that consolation prize, did I?"

He left her, stalking purposefully toward the heavy, black draperies that
covered the glass doors leading to the apartment balcony. Turning, he placed
one hand high upon the track along which the draperies ran, pale fingers
twisted among the black cloth.

His hair was disheveled, his eyes very brown, and wide, and mad. She opened
her mouth in horror and she turned, looking for some place to hide, knowing
what he planned.

Behind her came the sound of tearing cloth and broken metal and wood. Then
the warmth of the early morning sun touched her.

It was much later than she'd thought and there was nowhere to hide.

Janette began to scream.

end of part 3

Pt. 4 (In which Nick gets a call and Janette meets the morning)

The light entering the slitted blinds of his apartment was already starting
to creep across the floor. Nick forced himself to walk toward the
television, where the remote for the blinds had been left. With measured
steps he crossed the room on a gray tightrope, balancing between the patches
of light and dark that dotted his floor. Only after picking up the remote
and shutting the blinds completely did he relax, easing down into the black
leather couch.

His head resting against the back of the couch, he massaged his closed
eyelids with his fingertips. Sunlight, and what it could do to him, scared
the hell out of him, but he was usually able to keep that fear within the
realm of reason. After what he'd seen at The Raven . . . the vampire's words
kept echoing in his brain--"Blood burns in the light."

The smell of the burning body and the sudden flare of fire was still with
him. He knew it would be preying on Janette's mind, not matter how hard she
tried to distract herself, whether it be with wine-laced blood, thundering
music, or a brief flirtation with one of the party-boys at the club. He'd
meant to call her, but he'd gotten busy. By the time he'd reached the
abandoned building where narcotics had tracked down one of their missing
stoolies--discovering four bodies, instead--most of the ground had been
covered. Schanke had gone home until jurisdiction could be straightened out.
Even some discreet prowling on his part turned up nothing new--too many warm
bodies had come and gone in the intervening hours for him to pick up much of
anything.

Nick was tired, frustrated, . . . and hungry. He shifted his position on the
couch, so the he could easily glance across at the refrigerator. Natalie
couldn't fault him, not with the pressure he'd been under lately. If he was
ever going to cross over again, into the light, he'd need his strength. And
strength, right now, was provided by the cow blood chilling in his
refrigerator.

The decision equaled action--Nick half-rose and vaulted over the back of the
couch, heading for his stash of blood. The door was opened, he picked up a
bottle, popped the cork with his teeth, and was gulping down the thick red
liquid. Seconds passed before he regained enough control to actually sip it,
instead of chugging it.

Staring at the bottle in his hand, he made a mental note to ask Natalie if
his problem could be compared to bingeing. Rather than constantly denying
himself what he needed and what he couldn't get from protein drinks and rare
hamburgers, maybe he'd do better to put himself on a strict, measured
regimen; drinking steadily but cutting back, instead of going cold turkey.

He opened the refrigerator door and put the bottle back inside. It might
work, but it wouldn't save him from Natalie's wrath. Oh, she might not say
anything past the first barbed comment or two, but there was always that
disappointment in her eyes. He'd marveled that he desperately wanted to
prove to her that he had the inner strength she seemed to see within him.

So, he was frustrated by an incinerated vampire, four overdoses with missing
blood, and a disappointed Natalie. Was there anyone else he could
disappoint?

Then again . . . he could still check on Janette.

He was on his way to the telephone when his senses exploded.

"NICOLA!"

For an instant, there was bright white light everywhere and the sound of
Janette's scream filled his ears. He stumbled, knocking into a table and the
back of the couch as the world righted itself. Still tasting the blood on
his lips, he wondered how he would have weathered that call without recent
fortification.

Then it struck him.

Janette. Sunlight. Fear.

That was the message. The <only> message. And, try as he might, he had no
real sense of Janette.

Scrambling to his feet, Nick raced to the phone, punching the auto dial. The
phone at The Raven rang three times, then five, then ten--he stopped
counting at fifteen.

Finally, the ringing stopped as the phone was lifted from the cradle.
"Y'ello?" asked a sleepy, female voice.

<Not> Janette. "Alma? This is Detective Knight. Is Janette there? I have to
speak with her."

"Janette? Who--? Oh," there was a yawn, "Janette? She's . . . um . . . out
for the day."

"Out?" Nick looked up at the darkened windows, well knowing that the sun was
shining. Janette never strayed from The Raven past dawn, except for the
occasional emergency. "What happened?"

"Oh, you know Janette. She was bored, I guess. She's just . . . out." Her
voice was clearer, Alma seemed to be awake. "You know, <Detective> Knight,
she's not as old as she looks. A girl her age needs to get out and have some
fun now and again."

Nick threw back his head and counted beneath his breath, forcing back the
frustrated roar that would be far more effective in person. Alma was trying
to play games again. "Alma, listen--this is very important--can you tell me
<where> she is?"

"I don't know if--"

"Alma, I'm <not> Janette. I don't <like> games. And if you don't tell me
what you know, I'll come over to The Raven right now and throw you into the
sunlight."

Alma wasn't that bright, but she was still a young vampire. If anything, her
fear of fire and sunlight was even greater than Janette's. "His name's
Gregory Mercer," she said, the words coming quick and high-pitched. "He had
a business card, but Janette took it. They left together--he said he wanted
to talk business with her. He's one of us. And she didn't know who he
was--they've never met."

"Very good, Alma," he said softly, but leaving the steel in his voice. "Now
go have a nice nap. And when you see Janette, have her call me." Hanging up
the phone, he sighed, realizing that LaCroix had passed on his talent for
intimidation, if nothing else. Then again, if LaCroix had wanted information
from Alma, she would never have survived the encounter. At least he'd gotten
a name.

Gregory Mercer.

It didn't ring any bells. Then again, their kind often changed names as
mortals shed clothing--so much easier to detach oneself from an old life and
enter into a new one, if you could call what they did 'living.'

Picking up the phone, Nick wandered to the couch and started dialing. He'd
see what his friends at the department knew about a 'Gregory Mercer.' There
was no point in trying to sleep; the sound of Janette's voice was still
ringing in his ears.

And whenever he closed his eyes . . . he saw the light.

***

There were hands pinning her, holding her against the wall, covering her
mouth. Still screaming, her eyes closed, Janette struck out blindly,
twisting and kicking.

"Janette? Janette, listen to me! It can't hurt you! It can't hurt you any
more! Can you hear me? Janette!"

The voice was lying. It was the light and it would burn, burn like the
vampire at The Raven, and burn in the light, the blood burns in the light--

She <wasn't> burning.

Janette's eyes shot open. Gregory Mercer was standing before her, one hand
holding her against the wall, the other covering her mouth. That hand
dropped the instant she looked at him and the pressure on the other one
eased. "Janette--I didn't know you would--I didn't mean--none of the others
ever!--"

There was no breath left in her to produce sound. Janette breathed deeply,
still staring at him. "How <dare> you!" she hissed, almost spitting in his
face. "I am not amused by this! If you think it's funny to fool me into
thinking I'm in the sunlight--"

"But you <are>," he answered, his voice very soft. "And you're more
beautiful than ever." Then he stepped aside, so that she could look past
him.

There was light. It was white, golden sunlight, shining full upon her from
the east. The sun was beginning its upward journey and the sky around it was
blue, well beyond banishing the pinks, reds, and violets of dawn.

Entranced, Janette walked to the balcony door, pressing her cheek against
the glass. It was warm, without burning. She closed her eyes, feeling the
light heat on her pale skin, wanting to stretch like a cat in the glow. But
then her eyes flew open again--she had to <see>!

Her fingers fumbled with the catch of the door and she was on the concrete
balcony. Twelve stories up, her view was barely impeded. The sun shone down
on the city below her. A light, warm breeze touched her and she lifted her
arms, feeling the urge to fly--

Then Gregory's hand clamped on her shoulder and she turned to face him. "You
can't fly," he said. "We're like them, like mortals. Most of what we need to
survive in the night goes dormant during the day."

The words didn't make sense to her at first, her eyes were still dazzled by
the brilliance of the sky. But as she stared at him, the enormity of it hit
her.

"How?" she asked, then realized that her lips had made no sound.

But he understood. Sliding her hand into his own, he smiled and led her
inside the apartment, partially closing the glass door behind her.
Carefully, Gregory set her onto one of his white couches, then sat beside
her, still holding her hand. "You said I was an artist. Well, I'm a chemist.
Or, I was, before I came across."

"An 'alchemist'?" she asked, still sun-dazed.

He laughed lightly. "In a way. I was what could properly be termed a
bio-chemist . . . although we didn't call it that back then. The how--it's
far too complicated." He placed his finger on her lips as she protested.
"And my own trade secret. But I've been walking in the sunlight for over a
year, now."

"A . . . year." Janette stared at him, stunned, then looked over his
shoulder, to the light streaming through the window. "Am I--? Are we--?"

"We're still vampires," he told her. "It <does> wear off. Think of it as a
sort of heavy-duty sun screen. All that you need to know is that you have a
day in the sun. It's my gift to you."

"Your gift. To me." She paused, wary. "And what will this gift cost me?"

"Nothing. As I said, it's a gift." Gregory's eyes were wide and earnest. She
felt herself trusting him, a feeling that she hadn't felt in some time.

Then there was a sound, a strange sound that stirred something in her
memory. Rising and walking past him, she went out to the balcony again.

Gregory followed. "What--?"

"That . . . sound."

"Sound?" He looked around, then pointed up, at the bottom of the balcony
over them. Several small birds were building nests, chirping and singing to
one another. "The birds? It's spring."

"Birdsong." Eyes wide, Janette stared up at them. The sound they made was so
different than what she was used to hearing. Most songbirds didn't sing at
night. And the memories they stirred in her, of her childhood--

"We are . . . mortal. For the day?" she asked, resting her head against
Gregory's shoulder.

"For the day." He touched the strap of her sheathe dress. "I think I know
the first stop for you. Those are hardly day clothes. A bit of shopping is
in order."

"Shopping?" She laughed and touched his cheek. "You can't be serious! I want
to go to the park. I want to see the streets. I want to see--" she paused,
"is the water safe?"

He shrugged. "I suppose so. Why? Are you planning to take a cruise?"

"I want to watch the boats on the water."

"And you'll look damned strange standing there in a black evening dress,
however becoming it may be."

Janette chuckled under her breath. She liked this vampire, with his
courteous ways and his ability to turn every criticism into a compliment.
Turning her head, she began to study him in the light--the shadows on his
face, how his dark night eyes were golden brown, mirroring golden strands in
his dark hair. "All right," she relented, "We'll go shopping. But there are
other things I'd like to do in the daylight."

Pulling him close, she whispered in his ear. She took delight in that he was
mortal enough in the sunlight to blush.

"What?" he croaked, as she toyed with the collar of his shirt. "On the
balcony? Janette, it's broad daylight."

"Exactly!" And with that, Janette reached up and kissed him full on the
lips.

***

Pt. 5 (In which London burns and Nick wakes a sleeping beauty)

The wooden shutters on the window were drawn closed, heavy black cloth
draped across them. Nicholas toyed with the stiff white collar that rested
over the neck of his blue doublet, then his hand moved toward the cloth at
the window.

The music ceased suddenly, the bow hissing across the strings. "You don't
want to do that."

His fingers paused, barely touching the cloth. He wanted to disobey, to tear
the cloth from the window, but fear stopped him--fear of the light . . . and
of LaCroix. Hissing, he whirled, the curls that hung at his shoulders
brushing against his neck, his high heeled boots thumping as he paced the
floor.

The room was dark and cramped, the beams of the ceiling less than an inch
above his head as he walked the length of the room. The walls seemed to be
closing in upon him, as the noise from the crowds outside grew louder, the
sound of crashing timber and hissing flame adding to the tumult.

The bow sighed against the instrument again and LaCroix shook his head
lightly as he went back to his music. Leaning against the edge of the table,
he waited in the deepest shadows. "You should pay more attention to fashion.
Those boots were out of style long before the Lord Protector met his end."

"The Lord Protector met his end in his own bed. And my boots are still
perfectly serviceable, thank you."

Shrugging, LaCroix purposefully mis-drew the bow, making the strings
screech, before beginning another highland jig.

Unable to take any more, Nicholas stalked toward him. "Stop that--noise!
<Stop> it!"

LaCroix pointed at him with the bow, using it as one would use a fencing
foil. His eyes glittered and the hints of a smile played around the corners
of his mouth. "Or--?"

Ducking his head, Nicholas looked away, stalking nervously to the window
again. He could smell the smoke and the cries of the refugees were growing
louder, even through the heavy shutters of their secluded house. "London is
burning," he growled. "It's been two days and London is <still> burning!
Don't just sit there playing that damned instrument!"

"There <is> precedent," said LaCroix quietly. Then, sighing, he set aside
the bow, tenderly laying the violin on the wooden table. "There are times
when I wonder if I'll ever be able to properly civilize you, Nicholas. But
as you so object to my playing--" Slipping a quilted satchel over the wooden
instrument, LaCroix carefully wrapped the bow in lamb's wool. "I've been
told of a young violinist in the south of the continent. He's supposedly the
master of his craft, the best of the age. You'd find the country
interesting, Nicholas. The drink is stronger stuff than these peasants would
ever dare to touch and the babes are weaned on it. And the women--" LaCroix
rubbed the soft woolen bundle against his cheek, before packing it with the
violin, "they're as strong and as heady as their drink. There's a dusky,
earthy, flavor to them."

"Good." Nicholas walked over to him. "Let's find Janette and go. Let's go,
<tonight>, when the sun sets."

"That won't be for another hour or so." LaCroix paused, his eyes fixing on
the covered windows. Almost mechanically, he withdrew a pair of black
leather gloves from his satchel and tugged them over his hands. "But . . . I
agree. The time's come to leave this place. I can't abide the stench of
London for much longer. You've packed, as I told you?"

Nicholas found himself held in place by those eyes. He nodded dumbly,
gesturing toward his own small satchel, which rested on the floor by the
barred door. LaCroix nodded in response and smiled, clapping him on the
shoulder. "Good."

"And Janette?"

The eyes fastened on him again--serpent's eyes, lidless and unblinking. "So,
you've found your voice."

"We <must> find her!"

"<Must> we?" After a moment, LaCroix shrugged and walked to the window
again. "We shall find another Janette, Nicholas. There are thousands of
beautiful young women awaiting our kisses. We have only to choose the one to
suit our needs. The others will feed our hunger."

"But--"

"It's time to go."

Nicholas followed close on his heels as LaCroix walked back to the windows.
"But you said we've two hours until sunset--"

The sound outside was reaching a crescendo. The heat was palpable now--a
blistering, roaring, angry spirit venting its wrath on the wooden
metropolis.

"We leave, <now>," stated LaCroix, tossing aside his feathered hat for the
dark monk's cowl he pulled over his head. "London is burning, dear Nicholas.
Or haven't you heard?"

The black gloved hand reached for the cloth over the window shutters.
Nicholas moved forward, his own hand trying to catch the black covering
before it was moved, before the daylight could spill into the room and burn
them, as surely as the fire--

He was on his feet, wide-eyed, still caught in the terror of that moment.
Wiping the back of his hand against his forehead, Nick collapsed onto the
couch and breathed deeply. He wanted a drink, wanted to wipe the taste of
fear from his mouth with cool, clean blood. It'd been some time since he'd
thought about the fire, about losing Janette.

Janette.

Racing to the phone, he found the message light blinking. Nick picked up the
receiver, then stopped before he dialed. He struck the replay button, hoping
against hope that one of his many calls had borne fruit.

"Hey Nick, what, is everybody in the department on your private payroll?"

He winced at the sound of Schanke's voice, finger pausing over the
fast-forward button. "Come <on>, Schank!"

"Got a couple of messages for you. Joe says 'no go' on that Mercer guy--is
he a suspect I don't know about? You gotta talk to me, man. We're partners.
Me, I've got about fifty pounds of paperwork on the desk. Looks like we got
a guy passing some heavy-duty bad stuff. Even Scotland Yard wants in on this
one. And guess what? Narcotics fumbled--we've got the ball! Stonetree wants
you here a.s.a.p. This paperwork's driving me snow-blind."

The message ended and the tape rewound. Nick stared at it, heart sinking.
Nothing. All of his phone calls, all of the favors he'd called in, and no
one had come up with anything.

Lifting the receiver, he punched the auto-dial and listened to the clicks
that would connect him to The Raven. The sun had just set and the young
vampires would be tumbling out of the wine cellar and other nooks and
crannies in which they'd chosen to spend their daylight hours.

Five rings before the phone was picked up--it was Alma again. "Raven."

"Alma, is Janette back yet?"

There was a pause. "Yeah, <Detective> Knight. She wandered in a few minutes
ago. Looks like she had a busy day. A <very> busy day."

"Can you put her on?"

"Well," another pause, "actually, she's sleeping."

Nick found himself staring at the phone, wondering if he'd heard right.
"She's--?"

"Out cold," confirmed Alma, in a satisfied tone. "Like I said, a <very> busy
day. But if you want me to wake her for you--"

"No! No. I'll stop by on my way to work."

"Oh, yeah. You do that, don't you. Work? What's it like?"

"Try it some time. You might like it." He slammed down the receiver and took
a deep breath. He had no patience with fledglings anymore. He wondered how
Janette could stand their insufferable arrogance.

Then again, there were a lot of things he was wondering about Janette. He
intended to get answers. But first--

Walking back to the couch, he picked up the remote control and pushed the
button. The shades of the windows hummed open, letting in the last deep
blush of twilight as he headed for a shower and a shave.

***

There was a ticklish sensation along her neck. Purring, Janette snuggled
deeper into the fur coat in which she'd chosen to wrap herself, enjoying the
warmth. But the sensation was repeated.

Annoyed, she opened one eye and saw Nicola looking down upon her, his
expression quizzical. He was standing behind the couch, the sleeve of the
coat in his hand. "Ummm, Nicola, she murmured, shifting on the soft cushions
of the couch. "What a lovely sight to find when I awake."

Dropping the sleeve of the fur, he walked to her office desk, and leaned
against the side. "Alma told me you were sleeping. I wasn't certain I should
believe her."

"It's always best to question Alma's version of reality," said Janette
sagely. Coyly, she pulled back the fur, exposing a leg covered with silk
hose and the hem of a very chic and expensive beige dress. "What do you
think? I hear it's all the rage in New York."

She frowned when his reaction consisted of nothing more than a slight
movement of his eyebrow. "I thought your color was black?"

"Pooh. You're no fun." Stretching languidly, she touched the tips of her
fingers and her toes to either end of the couch, then rose to a sitting
position. "And if you're not going to play, you can't stay. I'm hoping for a
diverting evening."

"What? With as big a diversion as last night?"

Pouting, she picked up the coat and dragged it over her shoulder as she
crossed the room, draping it over a chair. "Nicola, that's not nice. You
know that horrible vampire upset me so. Why did he have to come here? Why
couldn't he have burst into flames somewhere else? Say--" turning toward
him, she placed her finger to her lips and smiled, "why couldn't he have
visited your favorite coroner? <She> would have enjoyed the spectacle far
more than I."

"Janette, leave Natalie out of this," Nicola answered. He hadn't moved, but
his eyes had gone cold.

"But she's <in> this, isn't she, Nicola? Because you take all of your little
problems and investigations to her." Janette examined the coat, picking up a
sleeve, shifting a seam, as it lay over the back of the chair. "This is
beginning to bore me. The color, the cut . . . it's too common." Lifting the
full weight of it with one hand, she picked it up and tossed it at him.
"Give it to your mortal girl friend. I doubt she has a fur muff, never mind
a coat. And that mousy brown color would <so> suit her."

Before he could say anything, she slipped into the next room and behind her
screen. She wasn't really certain why she was taunting Nicola this way. It
served him right, though, waking her like that. And now that she'd been
awakened, she might as well dress and get ready for Gregory's arrival.

Janette licked her lips as she ran her finger along the rows of dresses on
her rack. Without turning, she called, "Nicola, do be a dear and buzz Alma."
She chose one and held it up, turning to check out the look in the mirror,
but Nicola stood before her. A breath caught in her throat, but she hid her
look of surprise. "You <do> creep like a cat," she complimented. "Although
it took you too many centuries to learn how."

"Where were you today?"

She twisted herself this way and that with the dress, as if he'd moved out
of the way and she was checking her reflection. Frowning, she returned it on
the rack and chose another. "Nicola, is that . . . are you jealous, my
sweet? How charming!" Pushing past him, she brushed her fingers along his
cheek, cupping his chin for a moment. "But then, it isn't your business
where I spend my days."

Leaving him, she posed before the mirror and nodded, approving the look of
the dress. Faint twinges of hunger brought a frown to her lips, but she
found the thought of her normal diet distasteful. Who could drink that
horribly distilled wine, after dining on sunshine?

It was only then that she realized Nicola was speaking. "Hmmn?" she asked,
dreamily, still staring at her reflection in the mirror.

He stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders, staring into her mirror
eyes. "It <is> my business where you spend your days. I--I just don't want
anything to happen to you, Janette. I don't want you to be hurt."

There was a sadness, a softness in his face that she had not seen for some
time. Dropping the dress to the floor, she turned to place her arms around
his neck, but the room tilted on her. With a cry, she began to fall, but
Nick's strong arms caught her, lowering her to the carpeted floor of the
boudoir.

"Janette?" Nicola touched the back of his hand to the side of her face.
"You're warm."

His fingers were cool against her cheek and she wrapped her hand in his,
closing her eyes. "I'm . . . hungry," she admitted, licking her lips again.
"I shouldn't be, but--"

"Am I intruding?" asked a voice from the doorway.

Janette's eyes shot open and she twisted free of Nicola's arms, crying,
"Gregory!" She made no pretense at grace as she scrambled to her feet over
discarded dress and ran to him, embracing him tightly. Her sudden weakness
disappeared as his lips touched hers. She could smell the scent of sunlit
blood on his breath.

He drew back from her for a moment, holding her at arm's length. "That's
quite a welcome from such a lovely lady."

"No more than a handsome man deserves," she returned. Noticing that he had
one hand behind his back, she tried to peek around him, but he moved,
thwarting her. Giving up, she planted herself in front of him. "What did you
bring me?"

"How do you know I brought you anything?" he teased.

"Because I'll pout if you disappoint me."

"I'll try to remember that." He pulled a long-necked, crystal bottle from
behind his back, presenting it to her with the base of it resting in his
palm, like a wine steward. "Does it meet with Madame's approval?"

"Oh, yes!" said Janette, her eyes filled with the ruby red color that shown
through the twinkling crystal. "I have glasses--"

It was only when she turned that she remembered that Nicola was there. He
stood beside her changing screen, arms crossed, and eyebrow raised. Gregory
could not have failed to have seen him. But then, Gregory was a gentleman,
and gentlemen waited for a proper introduction.

Putting on her most gracious smile, Janette caught Gregory's arm and pulled
him to her side, careful not to upset that beautiful bottle of blood.
"Gregory, may I present an old . . . friend, Nicola--Nick Knight. Nicola,
this is Gregory Mercer. He is . . . new to our part of the world."

Not being foolish, she slipped the bottle from Gregory's grasp as he and
Nicola approached one another. Men could be so foolish at times and she
wasn't about to let stupid male ego keep her from vanquishing her hunger.

"Knight?" asked Gregory. "A relic of your youthful occupation or a chosen
avocation?"

"Both."

Nicola's voice was filled with steel--she was just as glad she had her back
to them. Opening a small cabinet, she withdrew two of her finest crystal
glasses and set them on the small, leather pad that protected the wooden
surface. "Nicola is a police detective," she announced, while carefully
maneuvering the cork-edged stopper from the bottle. "He . . . works for a
living."

"Do you, now? I've kept my hand in myself--imports, exports. I'll cheerfully
admit, I don't have the experience or years under my belt that either of you
have. I'm still trying to build myself a nest egg to invest for my
eternity."

Janette focused her attention on pouring the blood from the bottle,
terrified that she might lose a drop. If neither of them had been present,
she would've upended the whole thing into her mouth. She was almost faint
with hunger just <looking> at it.

"Oh, Janette, allow me," said Gregory, hurrying over.

The crystal bottle was snatched from her hand, but almost instantly replaced
by the stem of a filled glass. Recapping the bottle, he set it atop the
cabinet, then picked up his own glass and raised it in a toast to her.
"Beautiful Janette--"

She hungrily raised the glass to her lips, but stopped herself when he
turned to Nicola. "Won't you join us--Nick?"

"He won't," she said sharply, darting a look in Nicola's direction. Her
annoyance at being denied her treat leaked into her words as she added,
"It's human. He only drinks <cow>."

Gregory winced. "That's a bitter pill. Not because you have to, I hope.
You're not ill?"

"It's a dietary choice," said Nick, with forced pleasantness. "But--speaking
of illness--"

Janette could wait no longer. She hurriedly clinked her glass with Gregory's
and tipped the edge to her lips. Before she knew it, she'd gulped down the
full glass of blood.

For a brief movement she was embarrassed at her social <faux paux>, but
Gregory merely smiled and matched her, downing most of his own glass, before
setting it on top of the cabinet. She touched her finger to the side of his
mouth, gently wiping away a speck of blood, and found him in her mind's eye,
bathed in sunlight, as they'd walked across the cool, green grass. How she
burned to tell Nicola about the sunlight!

But Gregory had asked her not to--at least, not yet. There would be time,
he'd promised. And, she realized, that's why she'd been so cross with Nicola
before! She desperately wanted to tell him about her day in the sunlight and
<couldn't>.

"We should go," said Gregory, reaching for the crystal bottle.

Janette's gaze moved from his face to the bottle and she smiled, ready to
follow him, and his precious elixir, anywhere. Tonight she'd have the
secret, or so Gregory had promised. And once the secret of sunlight was hers
. . . .

There was a movement beside her and she turned quickly, facing Nicola. His
hand brushed against her cheek again. "Janette, perhaps you shouldn't--"

"What, Nicola? Go out, into the night?" She tossed back her head, the shell
earrings she had bought during the day clattering against one another. "I
was spending my nights out when you were still dreaming mortal dreams."

Nicola stared at his fingers, then moved to touch her cheek again. "You
don't feel warm any longer." When she jerked her head away from his touch,
his hand clenched into a fist, which he dropped to his side. "Perhaps, it
was only my imagination."

"Perhaps it was." Janette met his gaze evenly, then smiled and touched her
finger to his lips. "Be happy for me, Nicola. I shall tell you all, later,
when the time is right."

Gregory cleared his throat. "Janette?"

Slipping her arm through his carefully, so as not to disturb the bottle, she
nodded at Gregory. "Were my packages delivered?"

"Every one!" he promised.

"Good. Then I shall change there." Tossing her head again, Janette put on
her most charming smile. "Good night, Nicola. Don't wait up. And do ask Alma
to lock up for me again. She's a most forgetful, silly girl."

So, for the second time in as many nights, Janette walked through the
crowded dance floor of The Raven on Gregory's arm. She was pleased to note
that, this time, her beige day dress received almost as much attention as
the handsome vampire beside her.

end of part 5

Pt. 6 (In which Schanke gets a clue)

London <was> burning.

Nicholas held the heavy cloth over himself, racing out the door after
LaCroix--but the bright sun of day had disappeared beneath the billowing
gusts of black and yellow smoke. Ash fell like rain, accompanied by the
thundering crashes of houses falling in upon themselves.

Starring in wonderment at the sight, Nicholas' hands fell to his side, the
cloth forgotten. It was like a scene from one of the priest's sermons. Red
and yellow flames leapt against the darkened sky to the south. Many of the
landmark church steeples were burning or had disappeared. Even the screams
and cries of the damned were supplied by refugees from the flames, crowding
Cornehill on the way to the Leadenhall Marketplace or those surging east
toward Cheapside for safety. One man's voice called out an offer of forty
pounds for a cart, while a woman stood in the center of the melee and
screamed hysterically, a small, wide-eyed child clinging desperately to her
skirts.

There was a tug on his arm, which he tried to shrug off--LaCroix would not
release his grip. He pointed to the left, toward Leadenhill and began to
push his way into the crowd.

But Nicholas stayed where he was for a moment, still taking in the scene
around him. He felt detached, senses still deadened by the day, his night
powers and abilities absent until dusk. It was the south that interested
him, not the east. The south, near Thames Street, where Janette had sought
her amusements these past three months.

LaCroix screamed his name--he could hear it clearly above the tumult--but he
ignored the call. Ducking his head, he held the black cloth over himself, to
shield from the falling ash as well as any sunlight, and burrowed into the
mass of humanity. LaCroix was as helpless as he in the daylight. He would
pay for his insubordination later . . . if he survived. But now he needed to
find Janette, to know if she had burned, or was trapped, or had escaped the
fires.

The crowds thronged the streets; most refugees, some roving gangs looking
for loot or someone to blame for the fire, and a few brave souls forming
water brigades and trying to douse the flames on this building or that.
Nicholas pitied the latter--their task was insurmountable, but they
continued throwing the thimblefuls of relief against the raging flame. Had
his own mission not been as imperative, he might have stopped to help them.
He admired the bravery of those men . . . and women.

Relentlessly, almost ruthlessly, he made his way south. Alleys and entire
streets were blocked by fire or clogged with fallen debris. As he headed
down Lombard Street for Grace Church, a street wider than most and which he
was certain would be passable, a sudden rush of wind struck him and he, as
well as the rest of the crowd, were driven to the northern side of the
cobbled stone way. Fire came roaring northward despite a row a houses,
passing through one after another, the tongues of flame screeching overhead
through a blown-out window like the arm of some great demon, then
dissipating when there was nothing left to burn.

His ears were already becoming inured to the sounds around him, but at the
sight of the flames, his heart leapt in his throat and some tiny portion of
his once-baptized soul began to pray, using words that he no longer
understood or believed.

"Detective Knight?"

Nick started, then forced a smile as he rose to his feet. The squad room had
been quiet. If Schanke had been there he'd have taken the package down to
the lab himself. As it was, he'd drifted off into reverie.

The lab assistant was wearing a suit jacket. He fussed with the lapel. "I
hate pick-ups. You got me out of my lab coat and sweats for this."

"Sorry."

Gesturing toward the cardboard box on the desk, the assistant asked, "This
it?"

"Yeah. Can we get a rush on that?"

The young man opened the lid of the box and peered inside. Nick was pleased
to see the crystal goblet hadn't broken. "Good--it isn't cut glass. Man,
those are a bear to work with. Smooth--hell, we'll just use some magnetized
filings. Latent or patent?"

Nick hesitated, hoping against hope that Charles Mercer was as young a
vampire as he claimed--there'd still be enough oil in the dead skin to get a
good fingerprint off him. "Latent. I didn't catch any patent. Then again,
that's not my job--?"

"Gotcha." The lab assistant gave him a thumb's up, then tucked the package
under his arm--Nick very much expected to hear the crash of the glass
inside. "But you owe me."

"Schanke will pay you," promised Nick, as he partner approached the desk.

The bewildered detective stared at Nick. "Schanke will pay what? What?" he
pressed. Turning and following the lab assistant out of the squad room and
getting no answer, he entered again, a finger pointing at Nick. "Schanke's
saving up for his kid's education, so you can pay for whatever it is, Mr.
Bachelor pad."

"It's a clue. I just asked the lab boys to put a rush on it," promised Nick.
He sat down in his chair and leaned back, gazing up at Schanke with what he
hoped was an innocent expression. "That's business-related, tax deductible,
right?"

"A clue? As in 'the case on which we have been handed from Narcotics without
a hope in hell of solving' kind of clue?" Schanke rubbed his hands together
greedily. "Oh boy, oh boy, is this gonna look great on the file. It'll make
up for them creaming us at the last department picnic. Which <you> didn't
attend."

"I was on duty the night before." Nick tipped the chair back into position
and opened one of the files of his desk. Schanke was getting better at
turning the tables at him in mid-conversation. He'd have to be more careful
in future.

But Schanke wasn't letting go. He sat on the edge of the desk. "Ten-eight!
Two runs--that was all we needed. And our star hitter doesn't show." When
Nick refused to answer, he leaned forward. "I thought you <liked> baseball?"

Giving up, Nick closed the file. "I <do>. I like <watching> baseball." He
rose from his desk and walked over to the coat hook, anxious to retrieve his
jacket and get away from Schanke.

"So come and <watch>. Support the team. We'll . . . we'll let you be bat
boy."

"Now <that> I'd like to see."

Nick turned in time to see Natalie walk into the squad room. Out of her lab
whites, she was dressed in a light tweed jacket and skirt and held a manila
folder in her hand. She gave a slight wave as someone called, but her eyes
were on Nick.

"Ah, the cavalry," he sighed, returning to his chair. "Natalie, would you
ask him to lay off about the picnic?"

She frowned and looked at Schanke questioningly. "But that's two months
away--not until June, at least."

"So, I figured I'd get an early start on him." He clapped Nick on the
shoulder. "Come on--a little sun, a little fun, a little barbecue . . .
what's wrong with that?"

Nick sighed again. "You're not going to help me, are you?" he asked Natalie.

Her smile was her answer. "Who knows? Maybe by then your condition will have
improved enough to--they really <do> need your help."

Placing his hand in front of his mouth, as if hiding the comment from
Schanke, Nick asked, "Are they really <that> bad?"

For a moment, Natalie paused, then bit her lip. "Um--I refuse to answer on
the grounds that I have to work with you guys. <Both> of you guys."

"Well, you can talk, you've got the trophy," grumbled Schanke, crossing his
arms.

Nick sat upright in his chair. "These are hidden depths, Nat. I want
details. Was it a slaughter?"

She lowered her eyes modestly. "We took Narcotics, seven to three." Brushing
her fingernails against the lapel of her jacket, she added, "Of course, we
had the print lab and the rest of forensics on the team."

"And you hit a home run?"

Natalie stuck her tongue out and turned her back to him. Shrugging his
shoulders, Nick looked to Schanke.

"No homers, but a beautiful pop fly to left field," he offered.

"Which you dropped."

Schanke straightened his tie with an aggrieved expression. "Hey, I'm trying
to help you out, here."

"Which I appreciate. And I'm here to return the favor." She handed him the
manila folder. "Grace ran through that syringe you came up with--it's the
same drug that killed those kids."

"Syringe, what syringe?" asked Nick, reaching for the folder, but Schanke
pulled it out of his reach.

"The syringe <I> found doing a second run-through of the crime scene," said
Schanke archly. He flipped through the pages, glancing down at them as he
spoke. "You see, Knight, I've helped out on Narcotics cases before. Users
don't waste needles--especially a needle that might have a hit or half a hit
left. So, I went back and checked the place out, thinking 'If I were a kid
who'd just shot up--'"

"'Where would I hide a needle,'" finished Nick. He shot Natalie an
appreciative glance. "And where <would> you have hidden the needle?"

"Nat said something about death being just about instantaneous," noted
Schanke. "And we found all four kids sitting up--but the theory is someone
moved them just after they died, right? So I figured out the length of the
kids' arm reaches, made a circle and--right there in a crack in the
floorboards!"

"You are amazing," said Nick, allowing his admiration to be overshadowed by
a sarcastic tone.

"That's what I keep telling you." Schanke handed the folder back to Natalie.
"So what does <this> mean?"

"It means that I have a sample, a very <small> sample of the drug to work
from. So far I've gotten it down to base elements, but chemical structure
will take time and equipment--neither of which I've got." She tossed the
folder on Nick's desk, where he whisked it up. "At least it's something."

The door to Stonetree's office opened and he stepped into the squad room. He
nodded to Natalie. "Dr. Lambert. Anything on that syringe?"

"We're just discussing it now, Captain," said Nick.

Stonetree nodded again, his grim expression immovable. "Good. Keep
discussing it until you get something. In the meantime, I need Schanke to
run as liaison for Narcotics."

"Me?" Schanke all but fell from the desk and pointed at Nick. "But I found
the syringe. What about Nick?"

"He just brought in something--the lab's got it." Stonetree met Nick's gaze.
"You think you should wait for that to come through?"

"Possible prints?" Nick paused, then nodded, catching Natalie's eyes. "Yeah,
I'd like to be here. It might help me narrow down the list of suspects."

"So you've got a list. That's good." Stonetree waved his hand toward
Schanke. "Come on--I've got 'em on the phone. They won't bite."

Schanke paused, leaning low over Nick's desk. "That's the clue--you've got
prints? What--of that Mercer guy you had everybody checking?"

"Schanke?"

Taking a deep breath, Schanke flashed a subservient smile at Stonetree, then
turned back to Nick and pointed his finger at him again. "You stay there,
okay! We need to talk about this. I need to know about clues and . . . stuff
like suspects."

"And syringes?" asked Nick, leaning forward, so he could watch Schanke being
drawn to Stonetree's office, almost by magic.

Stonetree's expression had gotten even darker. "You haven't been throwing
your weight around about taking this case from Narcotics, have you?" he
asked, as Schanke entered the office. The precinct captain began to close
the office door behind them. "Because I've got Narcotics on the line and
they're pretty upset--"

Even though the door was closed quietly, Natalie winced. "He <has>, hasn't
he? Been throwing it back in their faces?"

Nick shrugged and turned back to her report. "Who knows what happens on day
shift? But the odds are--in spades."

Wincing again, she took up Schanke's position on the corner of the desk.
"And what about <your> clue?"

"It's a crystal glass, with prints." He closed the file and leaned back,
fingers to his temple. "I've got a second one for you. It's got blood in
it."

Natalie looked over her shoulder, then realized that their conversation
couldn't be overhead. "The one you sent to the print lab--"


"Had blood in it, too. I transferred the blood to yours, then wiped the
inside clean, rinsed it with whiskey. They won't find anything inside that
glass. It's the prints on the outside that I want."

"And this might be our killer?" Natalie took a deep breath. "Nick, if you've
broken chain of evidence on this one, we'll never get a conviction."

"We'll never get a suspect." He shot her a glance then looked away, unable
to face her. "You were right--he's one of us."

She didn't speak for a moment and he was just as glad. It was something
neither one of them really wanted to face--the possibility that a case might
come up where both of them would be forced to break most of the oaths they'd
made to save their own lives . . . and the secret of the vampires' existence
in Toronto.

"Is it this 'Mercer' Schanke mentioned?"

He nodded, slowly. That was information he wouldn't have volunteered. The
less Natalie knew, the better. But she'd never be satisfied with 'less.' It
was one of the things about her that intrigued him so. "I met him an hour
ago."

"You're not telling me he confessed? No wonder your kind don't need a police
force."

He smiled at her joke, but it was a grim smile. "No, he didn't confess. And
yes, we have a 'police force.' Of sorts."

That was something else he liked about Natalie--she knew when he wanted her
to let something alone. And she usually also knew when she should and
shouldn't heed that warning. This time, she simply looked away, across the
squad room. "Then how do you know he's involved?"

"The smell." When she looked back at him quickly, he took another deep
breath and said, "There was a smell on the corpse you had me look at--a
faint, sweet smell. I smelled it again, tonight. He had a bottle of human
blood. I smelled it in his glass. And on his breath, when I spoke to him."

"A . . . smell."

"A smell."

Natalie made a tsk-tsk sound with her lips. She reached down and began
playing with the stapler on his desk. "I don't think we could get an
indictment with a smell, never mind a conviction. The prints--"

"Are pointless. I can't go the legal route with this one."

"<We> can't go the legal route with this one," she corrected.

He was ready to protest, when he recognized something in <her> tone--and
knew enough to back down. He simply stared at her, then shrugged and leaned
back in the chair again.

Natalie hadn't met his eyes, she was still toying with the stapler, but her
shoulders had relaxed somewhat, now that it seemed he wasn't about to
protest her involvement. When she finally looked at him, he was
confused--her eyes were guarded. "How's Janette?"

He fought to keep himself very, very still. "Fine."

"Because, you said she was shaken up, by that vampire--you know. In the back
room of the club."

"Yeah." He tried a nonchalant shrug and failed. "She's over that."

"Okay." Natalie looked down at the stapler in her hands, then placed it on
top of the desk. "On the glass you've got for me--the fingerprints belong to
Janette, don't they?"

She was far too clever by half. "Yes. If you find any, they'll be
Janette's."

"So she's <not> all right?"

"No."

Natalie rose from the edge of the desk and smoothed down her skirt. "I guess
you left the glass in your car."

"Front seat." Nick cleared his throat and started to rise. "Nat, I--"

But then she looked at him. And his voice died with any protestations still
on his lips.

"Just promise me that you won't lie to me. Not to protect <me>. Not to
protect <you>. Not to protect . . . someone else. We've got to know we can
trust one another, Nick." There was a sadness in her eyes as she added,
"That's all we <can> know."

In another place, another time, he would have swept her into his arms. He
would have made her a princess, dressed her in fine silks, surrounded her
with the luxury of an age. And he would have placed her on a pedestal,
afraid to touch her too often and too long, afraid that it would all come
crashing down when the blood and the light came between them.

But that wasn't possible. He would have to settle for being her friend and
hope against hope that she would settle for being his. That meant she was
right about trust being the only thing they <could> have. For now.

"I'll try," he promised.

"I know you will."

She smiled and turned to leave, but Nick caught her hand, stopping her. She
faced him and he dropped her hand almost instantly. "The smell . . . I found
it someplace else," he admitted.

He saw the light in her eyes, the curiosity and the immediate reinforcement
of the promise he'd just made. "Where?"

"On Janette. And--" He picked up the stapler from the desk. The spring
unlatched beneath his fingers and the staples tumbled onto the blotter pad.
"On the vampire at the Raven. The one who burned."

end of part 6

Pt. 7 (In which Janette makes a decision)

Standing before the glass door to the balcony, Janette checked her
reflection. Powder blue had never been a color that suited her, but when
patterned with the royal blue fleur-de-lies and the cream color blouse, the
skirt looked lovely. "What do you think we should do today?" she asked, her
eyes moving past the reflection and outward, to the gold and red line that
shimmered on the eastern horizon. "Another trip to the park and the dock?"

Gregory didn't answer her. She glanced over her shoulder to make certain he
was still there, brooding in a chair, at the darkest part of the apartment,
the furthest he could get from the window.

She tried on her pout in the reflection, looking for one that was enticing
and provocative. What was wrong with Gregory? Or had something changed about
her? He'd certainly been interested in her last evening, holding her close
and drinking her blood till she thought he would drain her dry.

Janette's fingers rested at the side of her throat and she shivered. The
marks were gone--healed almost instantly, when Gregory had given her a glass
of blood, mixed with sunshine. But the memory of his passion lingered.
Perhaps he <was> the wounded party.

She walked over to where he sat in the darkness. Gregory barely moved at her
approach, his eyes shifting to follow her, but his hands remained held
together before him, thumbs intertwined, almost as if he were praying.

"That's the steeple," whispered Janette, slipping behind the chair. Leaning
forward, she placed her arms around his neck and bent the fingers. "That's
the church. It's a children's game."

He shook his hands free of hers, resting them on the arms of the chair.
"We're no longer children, are we?"

She ran her fingers through his hair, but he brushed her away again. "You're
cross with me?" she accused, walking back toward the balcony door. Looking
down at her hands, Janette realized that she desperately wanted a cigarette
for the first time in days.

"Not with you. With the situation." Gregory's voice was taut. Did she detect
a note of fear? Certainly not annoyance--she knew well enough what that
sounded like. "Why didn't you tell me about your 'Nicola'?"

Smiling to herself, Janette paused at the window. Now jealousy she <could>
understand! "He's an old friend. I helped to bring him across. There is
nothing more between us, truthfully. He has . . . other interests."

"You never mentioned him. Or that he was a police detective."

Shrugging, she turned and picked up the glass of warm blood that she'd left
cooling on the bar counter-top. "I didn't think it was important. There was
you. And me."

"And the blood?"

Sipping the liquid, she closed her eyes and tilted back her head. "Mmmmm.
And the blood."

"Actually, your Nicola's presence might save me some time. And energy." For
the first time since the last evening, he actually seemed to register her
presence. "I think, dear Janette, it is time I made clear my terms."

"Terms?" she asked dreamily. Raising her glass to him, she closed her eyes
and began to sip.

The glass was gone, wrenched from her hand. Her eyes shot open. Gregory's
fingers wrapped around hers, holding her, while he placed the glass back on
the bar with his free hand. "Terms," he repeated sternly. "I think you've
had a free ride long enough."

"What are you talking about? Let me go!"

As Janette began to struggle, he released her. She ran to balcony doors,
planning to fly away, but the sun was rising. She couldn't fly until dusk
returned. Her eyes went back to meet his.

And Gregory's smile, which had been so charming, now seemed sinister. "We
need to have a serious discussion, Janette. If you sit down, you might be
more comfortable."

He gestured toward a chair on the darker side of the room. In defiance, she
flounced to the white sofa and seated herself primly. At least she could
bask in the sunlight until this silliness ceased. What could be wrong with
Gregory?

"Thank you," he said, never indicating that she had done anything but what
he'd asked. Opening a panel in the bar, he withdrew a bottle. She recognized
the color even through the green glass--it was human blood, the scent, once
he flipped off the cork with an opener, was unmistakable. But it was not the
special blood like the glass he'd taken from her, the blood that let her
walk in the sunshine.

"You have to understand that my little discovery," Gregory gestured toward
her glass on the countertop, as he poured himself a goblet of blood, "is
expensive to produce. Each bottle takes two mortals. The process that brings
such freedom to us is fatal to them. But then, when have they ever
mattered?" Raising his glass to her, he said "Salute," before sipping from
it.

"I care for mortals as little as you," said Janette. The light from the
balcony beckoned her, distracted her, taunted her to come out and play.
Worse, she could hear the birds singing, wheeling in the sky outside. "But
you know the rules. This world is too . . . modern. Deaths are difficult to
explain. Too many and the--" She shuddered at even thinking of the
Enforcers.

Then her gaze moved back to the window. What would the Enforcers think of
her dalliance in the daylight?

When she looked back to Gregory, he nodded. "Yes, you too have enjoyed the
fruit of my labor. They wouldn't look kindly upon you, would they? Unless .
. . we were protected. If there were a way to distribute my elixir in a
controlled setting, we could choose whom to initiate, whenever we wished.
And in return--" Eyes sparkling, he sipped from his bloody goblet again. "In
return, we could ask whatever price we liked. Money buys power, protection,
even from the Enforcers. We could harvest the mortals as we wished, build up
sufficient stock for several months, and expand the operation. Eventually,
we will be too important to the vampire community for the Enforcers to stop
us. If they're smart, they'll shift their allegiance to us."

For a moment, she couldn't see the light, couldn't see anything but the
greedy eyes that reflected red from the glass of blood he held before him.
"You want to extort money from our kind? You want to use others of our kind
to make your fortune?"

"Money talks," said Gregory, before setting aside his own glass.

"Now, mortals, I really don't care what happens to them." Rising from her
seat, Janette returned to the window. "But to use our kind for financial
gain?" Holding her arms across her chest, she shuddered, even as the warm
sun beat down upon her flesh. "It's monstrous."

"But I don't want to use all of them, not at once," admitted Gregory, from
behind her. "I only want to use . . . you."

Janette whirled. "Me? But what good would I be to you?"

"Not you, specifically. Your club." Gregory's smile disappeared. "Dear
Janette, your price for daylight will be The Raven. I want it."

"No," she said instantly, turning away, back to face the glass and the
warmth of the light. "I--no."

"It's the perfect place," whispered his voice, seductive and appealing. "We
could begin slowly, as I said. Build a steady clientele. We'd be wealthy
beyond Midas. And we'd expand, over time. We'd have our entire race begging
for our gifts. And you could be beside me. You know that end of the
operation. You could run things."

As he spoke, she considered his offer. Would it be so bad, really? He said
she could still run the club. And she'd have more attention than even she
could handle. The youngest and most beautiful vampires would court her, as
well as the old and wealthy. They would wait on her every whim, every mood,
just to taste the liquid sunshine that would let them walk with her in the
light.

And Nicola . . . would get his wish. Not to be mortal, surely, but to be as
close as he might come for their kind.

"What about . . . Nicola?" she whispered.

"He could join us, if he wished. Having someone on the police force to
muddle cases, hide disappearances of runaways or vagrants--he could be very
useful. And he'd be handsomely repaid."

"Money isn't important to him." Turning, she leaned against the warmth of
the glass door. How she would have loved a cigarette right now! "And he has
this <thing> about honor. It used to be all the rage. But, that was before
your time, isn't it?"

"Times have changed, pet. If Nicola wants, he's in. Otherwise . . . I'll
have to do something about him. And as for you." Shrugging, he walked away,
to the chair that sat in the darkest corner of the room. Seating himself,
his eyes held hers the while. "Make your choice, Janette. Belong to me and
walk in the sun or keep your club and lose the light."

It was his choice of words that decided her. She was the owner of The Raven.
With LaCroix gone, she belonged to no man or vampire, only to herself. Even
the daylight at her back, that warmed her shoulders, would be a prison if
she accepted Gregory as her master.

Drawing herself to her full height, she stalked toward him, but he waved his
hand, stopping her in the center of the room.

"No--don't tell me now. Think about it. You have one more day of light to
enjoy. And then the night. And then a day without the light. Compare them.
I'll contact you tomorrow night, tell you where to meet me."

"My answer will be no," she answered coldly. "It is no now and shall remain
no. The Raven is mine."

He shrugged. "Forgive me if I phone, on a whim. I think, perhaps, you might
change your mind."

"Never," spat Janette. She turned at the door, adding, "I hope you have
sufficient breeding never to enter The Raven again."

"I won't," promised Gregory. "Until it belong to me."

His laughter echoed as she slammed the door to his apartment behind her. She
ran down the hall to the elevator, ignoring the well-dressed woman walking a
leashed poodle and the delivery man burdened with flowers. She only wanted
to get away from Gregory and from this place.

It wasn't until she was out on the street and stepped back into the full
light of day that she began to regret her decision. Birds whirled overhead,
the cars honked at one another, and blue skies were filled with fluffy white
clouds.

But beyond all that, Gregory's laughter still sounded in her ears.

end of part 7

Pt. 8 (In which Natalie has a blast)

The first hour of the two that remained between him and the dusk was so dark
and dim that Nicholas moved easily, without the burden of the sun. The press
of sweaty, terrified bodies, carts, and animals were moving north and out of
London, not south. He was one of the few who turned down Eastcheap, then
Philpot Lane.

The sky was no less dark, but fewer of the buildings were alight. The
Belgian wind, still rising from the south, was threatening to spread the
fire further north and east. Occasionally, clean air assaulted his nostrils
and he breathed deeply, welcoming the coolness like some long, lost friend.

Twice he found himself accosted, once by one of the the ministers from
nearby St. Boltolph's who grabbed his sleeve, as he did the sleeve of every
able bodied man who passed by. "For God's grace, please help us, sir. Stay
and fight the fire! Do not forsake your church in her hour of need!"

Nicholas shook off the old man's grip. He turned to face him, but averted
his eyes--the white falling bands worn over the plain black designated the
parson as a man of God, which drove a different kind of fire into his soul.
"God's already forsaken me, sir. I'm returning the favor." As the parson's
face fell, a twinge of pity touched his cold heart and he added, "Take the
chapbooks and the plate north, while you can. By dawn your church will be a
ruin."

The elderly parson backed away quickly. "God have mercy on your soul," he
whispered, staring at Nicholas with haunted eyes, then running to plead with
some other stranger.

He had almost reached his destination--the Ram's Horn tavern--when a man,
terrified and babbling, ran headlong into him. The man grabbed his shoulders
and began speaking rapidly in Dutch. "Help me, please!" he cried in terror.
"The mob will kill me! They think I set the fire."

Four young toughs emerged from the crowd and approached them. "That's him!"
cried one loudly. "That's the foreign papist! He set the fire. He's a spy. A
papist spy!"

Nicholas felt his anger rising, but it was still a half hour before darkness
fell. He was the equal of any mortal man, but only that--an equal. Against
the four street bullies out for blood, what could he hope to accomplish? The
accused was probably innocent, but what should it matter to him? He had to
find Janette.

On the brink of abandoning the man to his fate, Nicholas caught the eye of
one of the city's civil guards, who was fighting the flames of a warehouse
across the street. The guard nodded to Nicholas, the gesture one of
subservience, and he realized that the cut and cost of his clothing marked
him as a wealthy gentleman, even in this mob.

Pulling the accused from behind, Nicholas said, "These men claim this man
set the fire and that he's a papist spy. Surely he should be imprisoned
until these charges can be investigated. The fire comes first, does it not?"

The accused man turned fearful eyes to him, but Nicholas pulled him closer,
whispering in Dutch, "You'll be safe in the hands of the guard--they'll
release you in the morning." Then he repeated the words in English, to
appease the guard

"God's grace fall upon you, sir," whispered the man.

Privy to their conversation, the guard eyed the toughs, then grasped the
poor victim by the back of the collar. "I'll take custody of this papist,
sir. He won't escape the King's justice." Again, he glared at the toughs.
"You can tell he's a papist. All able-bodied men not fighting the fire would
have to be papists, not wanting to see the city saved."

The rough young men began grumbling, deprived of their sport, but they
quickly melted into the crowd, getting the message. It was then the guard
turned back to him. "You're not a local, sir. Are you looking for family?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Nicholas half-smiled, realized that his
worried expression would have betrayed him. "There's a woman, named Janette,
she's staying at the Ram's Horn tavern."

The guard shook his head. "That's not part of my watch--I don't know of the
lady. Most of the taverns along the Thames burned this morning. Janette?" He
tasted the word in his mouth. "She's French? A courser?"

Nicholas held back a smile, knowing how Janette would react if the civil
guard had called her a prostitute. "No. She's well born."

"Your pardon, sir." The guard had manners and the wits to know when to use
them. He gestured down Botolph Street, toward Thames Street, where yellow
smoke rose beside the black. "That's where the tavern is. And if you find
your lady, keep an eye on her. This is the third 'papist spy' we've
rescued." Having released his grip on the accused spy's shoulder, he nodded
toward the man. "Poor bastard's don't speak the king's tongue--they're
spies, plain and simple. Fires have got all of 'em rattled, but the common
street folk are the worst."

"They've got the most to lose," agreed Nicholas. Suddenly, his eyes began to
take in the fire in a whole new light--he saw not only businesses and
churches burning, but homes. London was crowded to over-flowing before, but
after the fire, what would happen to the poor? Where would they go? The
churches, the wealthy, the government could rebuild . . . but the poor would
spend the winter in alleys and streets, if they ever came back to London.

"I hope you find your French lady," said the guard, tipping his cap to
Nicholas. "Just watch for the mobs, sir. Stay away from the river."

"I plan to. Thank you." Nicholas grasped the Dutch man's shoulder as well
when they parted, accepting the man's thanks with a nod, but no words. The
common folk might be wary of foreigners, but all of the English were wary of
the French and Nicholas knew a slip of the accent LaCroix had drilled him
into hiding might well mean he'd spend the night as a guest of the king's
justice.

The darkness was close enough to taste. Even though the sun had not yet set,
the sky was black as pitch, lit only by the hellish flames and the yellow
smoke.

And somewhere, in that mass of fire, and refugees, and angry mobs, was
Janette.

His senses screamed of daylight. Nick fell from the couch, fully clothed,
and scrambled to his feet, eyes gold and fangs bared.

"Nick!" shrieked Natalie, who was standing by the window. "It's me!"

He saw instantly what had happened--she had opened the shades on the windows
a crack. Turning away from her, he took a deep breath, trying to drive back
the fear. "Natalie, don't ever do that. For your own safety."

"Okay, I know now. I know." He closed his eyes, hearing her steps behind,
and breathed deeply again. By the time her hand touched his shoulder, he was
himself. "Nick?"

He spun and grabbed her hand. She would have jumped back from fright if his
grip hadn't held her. "Don't ever do that," he said firmly, staring into her
eyes.

"Are you all right?"

Releasing her, he walked away from the couch and accidentally kicked an
empty bottle across the floor. He looked up at her and saw her eyes follow
the bottle. "Evidently not," she answered. "Bad dreams?"

"Daymares." Squinting at the windows, he checked his estimate of the
daylight left on the clock. "You're here early." Then he focused on her,
seeing the dark circles under her eyes. "You haven't slept."

"I have." She tilted her chin upward defiantly, but wilted under his stare.
"All right, a couple of hours. But wait'll you see what I found!"

She'd unpacked a small kit of items on the table by the window, but all of
her instruments, testtubes and slides were sitting in shadow. Waving him out
of the way of the light, Natalie stood on the darker side of the table.
Picking up an eyedropper, she dropped a bit of red fluid on a slide. "Okay,
so this is vampire blood."

"Whose?"

"Yours." When he raised an eyebrow, she added, "I've got some stashed from
previous tests. Don't worry, it's well hidden. So, we put this in
sunlight--" Natalie picked up the slide with a pair of forceps and held the
slide in the light.

Nick was forced to shield his eyes as the blood sizzled, then the slide
cracked, falling out of the forceps. "Nice trick."

"You should see what I do for birthday parties." Cleaning off the forceps,
she pointed to another red test tube. "Now this one is that blood sample you
brought me--which happens to match what little I could scrape out of those
four overdose victims--mixed with vampire blood. Yours," she added quickly,
before he could ask.

Again, she dropped the blood onto the glass slide and used the forceps to
hold it in the light.

Nick stared at it, but nothing happened. He looked at Natalie, who was
grinning from ear to ear, then back to the sample. "Am I supposed to be
impressed?"

"You big dummy!" She struck him in the shoulder with her free hand. "It's
vampire blood in <sunlight>."

It took him a moment to understand just what he was looking at. He stared,
waiting for something to happen.

"It's inert," explained Natalie. "I won't bore you with the details, but
your wonder drug, when injected in the human body, invades the entire
bloodstream with an enzyme that transforms the blood. It also happens to
kill the human. If the blood is removed from the body within a certain
period of time, and then a vampire drinks that blood--"

"The vampire could withstand sunlight." Nick almost reached out to take the
slide from the forceps, but couldn't because Natalie was still holding it
under the beam of light let in through the shutter. He looked at her in
wonder. "How?"

She made an 'o' with her mouth, whistled lightly for a moment or two, then
shrugged. "Beats me. Like I said, we've got no definitive rules on vampire
anatomy. My best guess would be that the drug-enhanced blood acts like a
sort of sunlight battery. It stores the sunlight, preventing decay."

"So what would release this stored-up sunlight?"

"Hey, I only call 'em as I see 'em. The only way this thing works at all is
because the enzymes have one reaction in the human body, then another
reaction in the vampire body. What happens after the fact--?" She shrugged
again.

Nick turned away. "So Mercer injects his victims, or finds victims desperate
enough to inject themselves, with the drug. He waits until they die, then
suctions out the blood and stores it--" a memory of the crystal bottle
flashed in his mind and he snapped his fingers "in crystal!"

"Could be," said Natalie, hesitantly. "The reflective properties of crystal,
higher purity than glass." Then she shook her head and started gathering up
bits of the broken slide from the table. "So what are you going to do about
Janette?"

"What about Janette?"

"If she's been drinking the blood supplied by Mercer, what happens when the
supply gets cut off? Is she going to want to stop her daytime jaunts?"

Nick stared at her. "She's been in the light." He walked away again, to the
couch, tasting the words, trying on the idea. "Janette's been walking in the
light. The new dress, the way she's been acting . . . she's been in the
light." He whirled. "Nat, do you know what this means!"

"Ow!"

"What?" He walked back to the table quickly. Natalie was holding her finger,
which was sliced along the ball of the tip. "Cut myself on the broken glass.
It's okay, it's a clean cut. I wasn't near any of the solu--"

The sizzling noise started low, but grew. They found themselves staring at
the inert slide, which was no longer inert . . . now that pure human blood
had fallen on it. "Back!" cried Nick, pushing Natalie aside and shielding
her with his body.

The small slide flared hot and bright behind them and then shattered,
sending glass everywhere. Nick rose from the floor and offered Natalie a
hand up, but his eyes were fixed on the charred spot on the table.

"Nick, I'm sorry," began Natalie. "Geez, I bet it was an antique. I'll pay
for it. Not all at once, I can take some money out of my check every week,
but--"

He placed his hand on her shoulder, still starting at the table. The room
was growing darker, the light coming through the blinds fainter. "I don't
care about the table," he said flatly. "Natalie, does that happen only in
sunlight? Or would that happen whenever a vampire drank human blood after
drinking Mercer's brew?"

"I don't know. But--" She walked toward the table and picked up her forceps,
carefully pushing aside bits of glass from the blackened area. "What about
your visitor? The spontaneous combustion? It would have been dark, after
sunset. He wasn't in sunlight. You said he drank the blood Janette was
holding, and then he began to burn."

"Blood burns in the light," repeated Nick. "That's what he meant. Vampire
blood exposed to the light burns when the vampire returns to regular human
blood. The enzyme isn't there . . . and the light is released, all at one
time."

"Ooooh. Sunburn from the inside out," commented Natalie. Then she dropped
the forceps and grabbed his arm. "Nick, if Janette was drinking that
stuff--does she know? Does she know what it could do to her?"

"I don't think so. She wouldn't have continued. Janette has a very strong
instinct for self-preservation. Mercer probably didn't tell her what could
happen." He remembered Janette falling and how he'd caught her. "Her skin
was warm, she was burning up. She said she was hungry--and then Mercer
showed up with a bottle of his special blend. He offered to let me try it."
Natalie's hand dropped from his arm and he smiled at her reassuringly. "I
declined. As you can see by the evidence."

Her gaze went to the bottle by the couch. "Which means, she's probably going
to be hungry again. Soon."

"I'll warn her," said Nick, heading for the door.

Behind him, Natalie called, "I'll follow--" but her words were swept away by
the wind. The sun had set and he was gone, out the door and flying to The
Raven, hoping in his heart that Janette hadn't begun to burn.

end of part 8

Pt. 9 (In which Janette goes on the wagon)

Her office was a mess. Janette leaned against the doorjamb and yawned,
staring with dismay at the papers already beginning to pile on top of her
blotter. She so liked a clean desk. But she knew very well that taking time
off to play meant she'd have to pay, sooner or later.

The fur coat was lying on the floor near the desk, where she'd thrown it at
Nicola the evening before. Walking over to it, she picked it up and draped
it over her shoulders, luxuriating in the feel of the fur beneath her
fingers. It wasn't a bad fur. In fact, she was still rather fond of it.
She'd been annoyed at Nicola--that's why she'd taunted him. Now she would
have to be magnanimous. But to send the coat as a gift to his little coroner
friend would be seen as a challenge. She was too tired for challenges.

Yawning again, Janette wandered from the office into her boudoir. It was
time for a drink, to quell the gnawing hunger in the pit of her stomach,
then she'd nap through tonight, and the daylight tomorrow. Her work could
wait a little longer.

There was a bottle of her private stock warming in the compartment of her
boudoir cabinet. Smiling, she took the bottle out and glanced at the label.
Alma might be a silly, vengeful thing, but she did attend to her duties. For
now, Janette would accept the gesture as a peace offering, rather than as
Alma intended--pointing out that Janette's fling could last no longer than
two nights.

Taking a glass from the cabinet, she noticed that two of the set were
missing, and frowned. They would be difficult to replace. Had one of her
fledglings taken them, or was Alma having private parties and trying to hide
the evidence?

Then again, did it matter? The fur still around her, she sank to the deep
plush carpeting of the floor, glass in hand, her back against the heavy
wooden cabinet. When the glass was held up to the dim light, it looked
tasteless and uninviting. The brilliant red of Gregory's special blood, as
well as the fine taste, still haunted her.

As did the daylight it had given her.

Propping the glass against her knee, she stared across the darkened room.
The changing screen and mirror, the tapestries, the fine art and
furniture--none of it compared to the warmth of the sunshine and the open
blue sky. Closing her eyes, she pictured the birds, of all shapes and sizes,
wheeling and turning, calling to one another with songs of love, or threat,
or common gossip. The birdsong lingered in her ears, the warmth still
touched her skin. Could she really give that up? Could it be so bad to give
him The Raven? Could it be so bad to accept a master for eternity, after
having a brief taste of freedom, if it meant walking in the light?

Opening her eyes, Janette sighed and looked at the glass of blood again. No.
Whether or not Gregory called, the answer would still be no. She was her own
mistress now, subject to no whim or will but her own. If it meant eternity
without sunlight, then so be it. She'd lived so many centuries without the
light, how bad could eternity be?

Frowning, she raised the glass to her lips--

The door to her boudoir blew inward, as if from an explosion. She saw Nicola
in the doorway, framed in shadow, then he was beside her before she could do
more than blink. He struck the glass of blood from her hand and it flew,
shattering against the wall, the glass fragments and blood raining onto the
carpet.

Rage coursed through her. She saw him through a golden haze and her fangs
were in place as she hissed, "How <dare> you!"

Nicola's roar silenced her. Cowed by the fierce gold in his eyes, she backed
down immediately, going limp as he placed one hand on her shoulder and
hauled her to her feet. "Did you drink any?" he snarled.

She had seen Nicola in a rage before and knew enough to be frightened. Her
fangs withdrew and the gold fled her vision as she stared up at him. "No.
I--"

He released her and turned away. Janette caught the edge of the cabinet to
keep from falling, then pressed herself into the small space between the
cabinet and the corner of the wall, trapped. If there was some way to
distract him, get past him--

But when Nicola turned back, the rage and the gold was gone from his eyes.
He reached forward, pulling her from her hiding place, and held her close,
folding his arms around her. "I was in time," he breathed. "Oh, Janette. It
was so close this time. So very close."

Normally, she would have enjoyed the situation, but she was bewildered and
hungry. Planting her hands against his chest, she pushed away, just far
enough so that she could face him, but without breaking his embrace.
"Nicola, what are you doing? You've gone mad, haven't you?" When he smiled,
she sighed and shook her head. "I told you this business about trying to be
human would push you over the edge. Oh, what will we do with you?"

He laughed, picking her up in his arms and twirling her about for a few
turns. "What will I do with <you>, Janette," he said, a note of exasperation
in his tone. Then, lowering her to her feet, his expression grew serious.
"Where were you today?"

The words flew to her lips--an offhand, flippant remark--and died there,
unspoken. Looking in his eyes, she saw that he knew the truth. She lowered
her gaze, looking at the bloody stain on the wall, at her tapestries, at
anything, except Nicola. "Oh, can you forgive me?" she whispered. "You have
wanted it for so long. And I . . . it was given to me."

He placed his finger beneath her chin and turned her face toward him. "You
walked in the light."

There was no accusation in his words, no anger. Startled, she stared back at
him, seeing only joy, understanding, and, perhaps, a touch of envy.

It was the envy that stung. "Yes. I walked in the light."

Saying the words aloud brought back every sensation. Suddenly, she pushed
away from him, as the memory of the warm sunlight tingled on her bare arms.
Walking back to the cabinet, she picked up one of her cigarette holders,
then opened the gold and diamond case that held her cigarettes. "And I will
never walk in the sunlight again. It was Gregory. He had this blood . . . it
protected us from the sun. But he wants The Raven. He wants . . . me. And I
won't give it to him. I'd rather spend eternity in darkness."

Once the cigarette was lit, she raised the holder to her lips and inhaled.
The smoke tasted strange in her mouth. But it was a comfort to see the gray
swirls in the air as she exhaled. "It's over, Nicola. His price for the
sunlight is too high."

"Much too high," agreed Nicola. He walked toward her and placed a hand on
her upper arm. "Janette, remember that vampire two nights ago?"

"The night I met Gregory." She took another drag from the cigarette,
fighting back the shiver. "Oh . . . yes. A bad night. An evil night."

"Natalie and I think he was one of Mercer's clients. We think he walked in
the light."

The cigarette holder nearly fell from her hand to the carpet, but Nicola
caught it. She felt the hysteria rise in her as she remembered the gaunt
face of the starved vampire, his whispery voice, and how he had crawled
toward her, burning, the fire consuming his flesh and his existence. "Oh . .
. no," she whispered, staring at Nicola in horror. "No, that must not
happen. I won't burn. Nicola, I can't <burn>!"

Janette barely noticed that he was holding her again, making comforting
noises, as she screamed silently inside. Her voice remained low, there was
too much terror inside her for volume. "I <won't> burn. You must stake me
first, and take my head. I won't burn, Nicola. You mustn't let me burn! You
<must> promise!"

"I won't stake you," said Nicola. "And I won't let you burn. I promise,
Janette. I won't let you burn." He leaned back, she that she could meet his
eyes and see that he spoke the truth.

"What am I to do?" she whispered, her voice very small and far away. There
was only Nicola and the promise in his eyes. It kept her sanity from fleeing
into a red and terrible abyss. "Oh, Nicola, what am I to do?"

There was a slight tap on the doorjamb. Janette looked up and saw Alma
standing in the doorway, lips pursed and eyes hooded. Behind her was Natalie
Lambert. Janette noticed that at least Natalie had the decency to lower her
gaze to the floor, obviously embarrassed.

"She was looking for Detective Knight," said Alma, her tone neutral. "I
thought you might--"

"It's fine, Alma," said Nicola. He released Janette, but his left arm stayed
around her shoulders, as if protecting her. "Nat, I think we'd better
adjourn to the office. This seems a little public."

Alma hesitated. "Go away!" hissed Janette. "And--have someone take care of
that!" She pointed toward the pieces of the door that were scattered around
the room.

"Um, right." Alma's lips twisted into a snide smile. "Someone might fall and
. . . hurt themselves."

Standing up to Alma's intrusion sapped the last of Janette's reserves. She
slumped and Nicola caught her. Placing a hand beneath her knees, he swept
her into his arms with one motion, and carried her into the office. He
rested her on the couch, as Natalie followed him into the room.

"Have you told her?" asked Natalie.

"Not all of it."

Janette looked from one to the other. There was concern emanating from
Natalie, but she was certain most of that concern was for Nicola.

Nicola knelt beside the couch. "Janette, you won't burn . . . if you don't
drink blood. Remember what happened to the vampire? When you offered him the
blood, he didn't want to take it at first--"

"But he was starving," protested Janette. Then the words began to make
sense. "Oh, Nicola, he <was> starving." She shivered and he seated himself
on the couch beside her, his arm around her shoulder. "The burning . . .
would be kinder."

"What happens?" asked Natalie. She walked over to the desk and leaned on the
edge. "What happens if you can't . . . you know?"

"We can go mad," said Nicola, his voice low. Janette looked at him and saw
that he, too, remembered the too-bright eyes of the vampire who had burned.
"Instinct takes over completely and the intellect, the personality
disappears, forever."

"It's why I worry when Nicola doesn't feed often enough," said Janette. She
reached her hand out to touch the side of his face. "I do worry about you,
Nicola. I may not seem to--it isn't my way--but I do."

He smiled, showing that he understood. And that he'd always known. For a
moment, her hunger was abated by that smile. And, for a brief instant more,
Janette wondered if his quest to tame that horrible beast by means other
than blood wasn't as doomed to failure as she'd first thought."

"Which means we have to get you some of that special brew," said Natalie
thoughtfully. "I can't make it--I've tried to produce it combining the
chemical and donated blood, but that doesn't work. It has to be injected in
a living human being."

"And that can't be done?" asked Janette.

Nicola was hiding a smile. "No. It kills mortals."

"And there's a problem with this?"

Nicola patted her hand, then glanced at Natalie, who was shaking her head in
wonder. "Let's assume it's not an option. If we can't make our own, we go to
the source. Does Mercer have stock on hand or does he make it up as he needs
it?"

Janette stared at him. "I don't know. You never ask your host where dinner
came from. It's impolite." She glanced over at Natalie again, and added, "We
may be dead, but that's no excuse for a breech of good manners."

"Did Gregory drink the blood, too?" asked Natalie. "Because if he did--"

"He'd have to have his own supply," finished Nicola. "He had a glass here. I
saw him. But he didn't drain his, like Janette did. That's why I was able to
get you the sample."

"<You> took my glasses?" asked Janette. "Nicola, how could you? They're a
set!"

"I'll replace them," he promised. "You can take it out of my paycheck." He
never moved, even though Natalie made a strangled sound. If it wasn't for
her serious expression, Janette would have assumed that the coroner was
laughing.

"Janette, try to focus," asked Nicola. "When was the last time you saw
Gregory drink?"

"This morning. Before I . . . left." Then, she paused, staring at the desk,
trying to remember. "But . . . that was human blood. I could smell it."

"He drank human blood?" asked Natalie quickly.

Janette blinked. "Well, yes. It's what we do, dear."

"She means, other than the blood that let you walk in the sunlight,"
explained Nicola.

Rather resenting the long-suffering glance he gave Natalie, Janette pouted.
But then a stab of hunger reminded her that she was in no position to play
games. "That's all he drank. He had part of a glass here. Then nothing all
night. Then the glass of human blood in the morning. Then I left."

Nicola looked at Natalie again. "And he didn't burn?"

"No. Well," said Janette, "he stayed in the apartment. I thought he was
being melodramatic, but he wouldn't come into the light with me."

"He's got a cure. A way of protecting himself," said Natalie, her voice
tinged with excitement. "If abstinence from any blood worked, then your
visitor wouldn't have burned. No, he's got an antidote, all right. Something
that drains off the light from the blood."

"Right." Nicola rose from the couch, his attention on Natalie. "Janette can
give me the address. I'll go over there as soon as I check in."

"You're not taking Schanke?"

"Of course I'm not taking Schanke. I'll ditch him . . . somehow." He
shrugged. "If there's an antidote, I'll find it. And if there isn't, there
should at least be more blood around so she won't starve."

"<She> is very hungry," said Janette tersely. She usually didn't mind being
the topic of discussion, but they could, at least, pay attention to her.

"You can't leave her here, Nick," said Natalie, frowning. "That's like
leaving an alcoholic in a liquor store."

Janette crossed her arms defiantly. "I have willpower." When Nicola raised
his eyebrow, she was forced to smile. "Well, most of the time."

"You're right," agreed Nick. "She'll stay at my place. There's less
temptation there."

"I'll take her over," offered Natalie. "You check in at the station."

Janette glared at the coroner. "I <can> drive. And I don't think your car
would be anywhere near as comfortable as mine."

"I'm more concerned with the willpower issue," said Nicola, glancing from
one to the other. "And much as I admire your driving, Janette, I think I
should take you over there myself. I don't want any unauthorized stops."

The hunger flared again. "You're treating me like a child!" she shouted,
rising from the couch and facing him.

Nicola placed his hands on her shoulders and stared into her eyes. "I'm
trying to keep you from burning."

She winced, then sniffled. "Oh, Nicola. That is <so> cruel. Must you remind
me?"

"If only to make you behave." He kissed her forehead, then gestured toward
the door. "You might want to throw some things together. I need to speak
with Natalie."

She was being dismissed. Janette didn't like being dismissed. But she was in
no position to argue. Shooting Natalie a murderous glance, she drew herself
up to her full height and stalked from her office, slamming the door behind
her.

Someone was working on the other door to the boudoir. When she snarled at
him, he fled.

Feeling slightly better, Janette removed her emergency traveling bag from
her wardrobe and threw it onto the floor. She wouldn't need much, just a few
things. And as the hunger lanced through her again, she decided the fewer,
the better.

***

end of part 9

Pt. 10 (In which Nick plays detective)

The greetings Nick received as he walked into the station were warmer than
usual. Hands in his pockets, he approached Schanke, who was at the main desk
signing something on a clipboard. "What gives?" he asked.

"What gives?" Schanke turned, staring at him. "What <gives>? My partner--"
Pointing to Nick so that everyone could see, he repeated loudly, "<My>
partner, who has bagged a wanted fugitive from seven countries and three
continents, wants to know <what gives>?"

"I'd be happy if you'd just answered the question."

Putting his arm around Nick's shoulder, Schanke led Nick back to their
desks. A mountain of phone messages sat atop Nick's blotter, as well as
several manila files and expanded files, rubber banded together. "You know
how you thought those prints didn't check out?"

"They didn't," said Nick, picking up the stack of messages, still in shock.
"I ran them through, myself."

"But only through <our> prints. They were forwarded onto Interpol, Scotland
Yard, and the FBI. And that's what came back." Schanke pointed cheerfully to
the stacks of files.

Nick barely hesitated, then began reading the names from the files. "Gregory
Maitens. Gregor Marx. Greg Miles."

Schanke snorted. "Yeah, like that's going to fool anybody. He always uses
the same first name."

"It's easier to remember that way," said Nick, without thinking, slipping
the rubber bands off each file. "Murder, theft, extortion."

"They think he's into some Satanic blood fetish kind of thing," explained
Schanke. He twirled his finger in the air. "Real nutcase. And he shouldn't
be that tough to catch."

Nick looked up at him sharply. "Why not?"

"He's ninety years old."

"That young?" muttered Nick, going back to the files.

"Well, I think you could probably bring him down with a flying tackle,"
joked Schanke. "Then again, you probably won't have to. They should be
bringing him in soon."

The files fell from Nick's hands. "They're <what>?"

"What do we care? It's gone higher up. But because of <my> partner's work,
our names will have little gold stars next to them. By the way, where'd you
get that glass with the prints on it?" Schanke picked up the department
folder. "I didn't see an evidence tag for it, and the lab says they don't
have one."

Nick grabbed Schanke's arm, trying to get his attention. "How do they know
where to find Mercer?"

"Ran back account records under the other names, then traced the transfer of
funds. One of them had a local apartment address." Schanke whistled, looking
at the folder again. "Really swank place. And he's a real eagle, twelfth
floor."

"The idiot," hissed Nick, beneath his breath. "He should have known better.
<I> should have know better--"

"Hey, Nick, ease off," said Schanke. He threw the folder on the desk. "It's
not our problem any longer. I can understand you're wanting to be in on the
kill, but let's bask in the golden glow of the moment."

Picking up the stack of phone messages, Nick thrust them into Schanke's
arms. "You bask," he said sharply. "I've gotta run."

Before Schanke had recovered, Nick was gone. He cared nothing about the
phone messages scattering in his wake, only that mortal cops, from a variety
of jurisdictions and nations, were going up against a vampire. And he wasn't
certain to which of his own kind his loyalty belonged--the men of law
enforcement or the children of the night.

He knew the address--he'd gotten it earlier from Janette--and landed half a
block away, far enough away to avoid notice. When he arrived at the front of
the hotel, he found a number of marked and unmarked cars. Lights were
flashing, occasionally sirens wailed, and a cordon had been put up to keep
interested civilians out of the way. There were no ambulances present, which
was a good sign.

Making his way to the front of a police cordon, Nick flashed his badge at
one of the patrolmen assigned to crowd control, then proceeded into the
lobby. There seemed to be cops everywhere; uniforms, detectives, and even
some of the local brass, were coordinating, interviewing, and searching the
vast hotel.

He stuck with the elevator, rather than the stairs. He could fly faster than
the machine moved, but there were too many cops around, too many search
parties. They hadn't found Mercer yet. And he was just as glad.

At the door to the apartment, his badge was checked again. "What's it like?"
he asked the young cop at the door, nodding toward the apartment.

The cop yawned. "Clean," he admitted. "You'd figure with all the brass we've
got out tonight, there'd be some blood and thunder."

Nick forced a smile and tapped the young man on the shoulder as he passed.
"Maybe we just got lucky."

He wandered the apartment as members of different forensics teams gathered
evidence--vacuumed samples from the carpets, checked cabinets and doors, and
fingerprinted every surface they could manage. With the others here, he
couldn't search properly for the hidden places a vampire would stash
valuables . . . and blood.

Past the kitchen and the bathroom was the bedroom. The bed was unmade, the
covers disheveled. They were vacuuming the bed for fibers and evidence as
well. The pillowcases and sheets were being bagged and tagged. He leaned
closer, watching one of the forensics people carefully making a notation
about a pillowcase--Nick spotted the small bloodstain immediately. But to
whom did it belong? Was Mercer the kind who liked to drink in bed, or had he
and Janette shared blood from each other, as well as from the bottle?

Returning to the living room, he moved to the balcony. Janette had told him
about her first few moments in the sunlight. He looked upward, but he
couldn't spot any activity from the bird nests built on the undercarriage of
the next balcony. Staring out across the city, he tried to remember what the
non-lethal light could be like . . . and failed. It was so long ago. So very
long ago.

"Knight?"

He turned when he heard his name called and moved back into the apartment.
Captain Stonetree was walking toward him. "Captain."

"Guess Schanke filled you in."

"Most of it. I headed over as soon as I heard."

Stonetree nodded. "We missed him. I've got half a mind to call off this
bunch and stake out the place. He might be back."

"No." Nick walked to the center of the living room, his eyes roaming over
every service. How many might hold Janette's prints? Not that they'd ever be
able to identify her by them--she'd never been fingerprinted, to his
knowledge. "No, Captain. He's gone."

"You know something I don't?" asked Stonetree, his eyes hooded.

Nick turned to face him. "A hunch. Instinct."

"Your instincts are pretty good. I'd go with them." Stonetree frowned, again
surveying the brightly lit, black and white room, that swarmed with gray,
and brown and blue. "Which means we're gonna be here a while. You go back to
the station, finish that evidence tag for the prints. The FBI was grumbling
about that earlier."

Nick licked his lips as Stonetree turned away. "Uh, Captain? About that
evidence tag?"

Stonetree turned, fixing him with a steady gaze. "Yeah?"

"I got a tip. I followed him here."

"You've been in here before? Without a warrant?"

Nick hung his head. "Yeah. He was in the back room. I took the glass from
the bar--over there." He pointed out the teak bar with the glass top, that
stood to one side of the balcony. "He never knew I was here. And we had
nothing. I figured, if I could establish his identity, maybe we could set up
some sort of deal, a sting."

"Yeah. But who knew he had enough outstanding warrants to keep him locked up
for a couple hundred years?" Stonetree paused, then nodded. "It broke the
case. You write it up like that. I'll see what I can do about deflecting any
heat off you. Yeah, it was a bad move. And sloppy. But it's not like we
could use the prints as the basis for an indictment, even if it had been
clean evidence. Just . . . don't do it again. I want to retire with an old
age pension."

"Thanks, Captain." Heading back to the hallway, he breathed a sigh of
relief. His cover had held by sheer luck and the fact that his discovery had
activated a dozen different cases from around the world. If the evidence had
been needed to make the case . . . resigning from the force would have been
the best of his options.

Making his way to the lobby, he walked over to a pay phone on the wall and
dialed his apartment phone. It rang, and he waited through his message.
"Pick up, Janette. It's me."

The receiver was lifted. "So, it's you. Making sure I've been a good girl?"

"You couldn't have answered if you weren't."

"Oooh, Nicola!"

Smiling, he said, "I'm sorry. That wasn't nice. Any messages for me?"

"Yes. Natalie called." Janette paused. "She said she has tried other bloods,
even . . . cow. There is nothing on which I can feed. Nicola, I'm so very
hungry. Can't you bring me something?"

He could hear the hunger in her voice and knew that this was only the
beginning for her. It would be worse later unless they found the antidote .
. . or Mercer's stash. "He's gone, Janette. I was just in his apartment.
He's cleared out. Is there anywhere else he could have gone? Any place he
mentioned?"

She was silent for a moment and when she answered, her voice was small. "No.
But . . . he did say he would call me tomorrow night. That he would see if I
had changed my mind and tell me where to meet him."

Nick placed the flat of his hand against the wall, knowing that to vent his
rage against the lobby would put his fist through the plaster. Mercer
wouldn't be calling to hear her answer--he'd be calling to confirm that
she'd been destroyed. She wasn't supposed to know that blood would be
dangerous to her. By tomorrow night she'd be ravenous, ready to sink her
teeth into anyone or anything.

And if she was this cranky now . . . .

"I'll have your calls forwarded from The Raven," he promised. "And I'll see
what I can do about getting a line tap. Maybe we can find out where he is
when he calls."

"He won't expect me to be there, will he?"

There was no sense in lying to her. "No. He won't. And that might give us
the edge. We'll be able to meet with him. Negotiate."

"<Will> I be there, Nicola? When he calls?"

"If you're a good girl and don't drink anything while I'm gone."

He heard a low moan. "I'm trying. But it is so very hard."

"I know. I'll be there soon. I promise."

"Hurry, Nicola. I do not think I can do this without you."

The receiver was replaced. Nick hung up the phone, then found a very puzzled
uniformed officer looking at him. "She just went on the wagon," he
explained. "Tonight's her first night without a drink."

The man nodded, then gave him a sympathetic smile. "You're in for a long
night tonight."

Nick shook his head, moving away from the phone. He didn't know how true his
words were. What was worse, he had tomorrow to get through.

And for Janette, tomorrow would be a very long day.

***

end of part 10

Pt. 11 (In which Janette considers cow)

She'd crossed the apartment a hundred times, counted the bricks in the wall,
run through the channels on Nicola's television, and even tried to catch up
with her paperwork.

Janette glanced over her shoulder at the shredded paper on the floor. That
last had been a disaster. Alma would have to send for new invoices, do a
stock recount, send for new forms for the payroll taxes.

But Alma wouldn't mind doing it. The bar would be hers. Janette wouldn't be
there any longer.

The steady burning inside her would flare angrily from time to time, growing
from an angry fire into a raging torrent, leaving her helpless, unable to
move, unable to do anything but feel the pain and hunger that ate and ate
and ate until it consumed all of her.

Throwing herself on the couch, Janette dreaded her next bout with the fire.
She glanced at the iron stairway that led to the second floor, where Nicola
was sleeping. He had sat vigil with her by talking to her, telling her
stories, making her talk about old times, old memories. It was difficult for
him, sometimes . . . when LaCroix was mentioned. And his name was mentioned
often. She hadn't realized how much a part of them he had been, the first
and strongest part of their triangle. The ruler, the despot, the father, the
teacher, the lover . . . he'd played so many roles. As had they all.

And after dawn had broken, when the worst of the spells began, Nicola had
held her, even as she had writhed and twisted, begging him to stake her, to
open the blinds and let in the sun, to give her blood--his blood, <any>
blood--to end her torment. He'd held her tightly, so that she couldn't hurt
herself. He'd pressed cold compresses to her forehead, stroked her hair,
kissed her cheek.

They'd made it through the worst . . . for a while.

She'd pleaded and cursed, called him everything from lover to demon, used
those old memories, and those not so old, to torment him as the hunger
tormented her. Until she accused him of trying to kill her, as he'd killed
LaCroix.

Nicola's anger had flared, then. Reason left him and his eyes, which had
gone golden many times that night and morning, had outshone even the sun.
He'd picked up the leg of a table that she'd broken earlier and raised it
above her chest. She'd snarled back at him, daring him to plunge it into her
heart, some small cool spot inside her fearing and hoping that she could
enrage him beyond the morality that he held so dear, that code by which he'd
chosen to live.

That was how far she was willing to go.

But he'd returned to himself too soon. Crying aloud, he threw away the table
leg and backed away from her. And, as the hunger gnawed relentlessly inside
her, she writhed on the floor and watched him flee upstairs, beyond her
reach.

Janette twisted her hair around a finger and chewed at it, her eyes moving
to the door to his bedroom. She'd checked on him not long ago--he'd fallen
into an exhausted sleep. He'd trusted in her fear of the light to keep her
from fleeing, but he could do no more for her. And she knew it would be some
time before he would forgive her for pushing him as far as she had.

Slowly, she made her way up the stairs, not flying, but walking. Her feet
were bare and she was wearing Nicola's silk bathrobe over her chemise--her
clothing and stockings had been torn and discarded in one of their many
tussles. She moved silently, so as not to wake him and was please to find
the door hinges were oiled and did not creak.

Still half-dressed, Nicola was lying across the bed, the black silk sheets
and pillows twisted around him, ripped and torn. His face was smooth and
soft and innocent, marred only by the stubble of his beard. Her problem had
left him no time for grooming. Her problem had left him no time for
anything. For once, just as she had wished, he was completely and utterly
hers.

And she had tried to destroy him.

Janette leaned her head against the doorway and watched him, afraid to sigh,
afraid the sound would wake him. He had not slept much, if at all, the past
few days. The sleep would do him good. And if she were quiet enough about
it, he would never know. Not until he awakened.

She thought at first of drinking from him, of giving him her kiss one last
time. It would be worth burning, to know that her lips had last touched his,
her teeth had last stuck into the fleshy part of his neck, that the taste of
his blood would fill her mouth. But who know where that might lead? If he
should taste her blood, would he be condemned to the same fate as she? Would
Nicola burn?

She shuddered and a small sound escaped her lips. It was enough to cause him
to stir. Like a statue, she froze in the doorway as he shifted in his sleep,
noting that the scratches on his face and hands had already begun to heal.
By sunset they would be gone.

And so would she. It saddened her a little, to think that even that little
memory of her could not be held by him.

Turning, Janette made her way down the stairs, the cool iron against the
soles of her feet pushing back some of the inner fire that consumed her. She
stood and looked over his apartment--his paintings and mementos of his
conquests . . . and failures. He was always even-handed, saving the best of
triumph and defeat.

Standing there, she realized she had as little to show for so many centuries
as he, perhaps less. She admitted that her faults were many, as she
continued down the steps. She was vain and selfish. Her jealousy was
formidable. And her greed and lust for blood and pretty things were common
enough among her kind. She was not brave, or faithful, or humble, or all of
those lovely things the church had demanded that she be so many centuries
ago. Among the first to go had been chastity and purity. LaCroix had
followed, not far behind.

Her eyes fixed on one of Nick's paintings. She had no art in her. She could
not sing or draw or paint or write or dance or act or tell stories. There
would be nothing left behind her, except the memories Nicola held of her and
The Raven . . . until Alma's incompetence destroyed it. And then there would
only be Nicola.

She knew this and still she made her way to the refrigerator. The door
opened quietly and the bottles waited inside, equally silent. She lifted
one, held it up to one of the dim lamps she'd allowed to remain lit, and
looked at it.

It was cow. She knew it was cow. But at the moment it touched her lips, she
knew it would be the grandest, coolest sensation she had ever felt. And it
would be her last.

Janette twisted the cork from the bottle and placed it on top of the
refrigerator. She lifted the bottle to drink--

And then she stopped. She sniffed at the bottle. And she frowned.

Hurriedly, she recapped it and placed it back in the refrigerator, closing
the door and leaning against it. To think she was willing to end her
existence with <cow> blood on her lips!

Shuddering, she chalked it up to another thing she owed Gregory. Wanting to
see another dusk, wanting to be with Nicola and to feel the night air and
drink the sweetest of blood was no longer enough. Hate would take her
through. It would be hate that would carry away the pain, hate on which she
would concentrate. The thought of destroying Gregory would be her salvation.

The phone rang and she stared for a moment, unable to place the sound. By
the time she'd realized what it was and that Nicola might be awakened, the
ringing had stopped and Nicola's message had run.

Natalie's voice came from the machine. "Nick, it's Natalie. I know, I'm
supposed to be sleeping. But I wanted to help. And since I can't be there to
spell you because--well, let's face it--I'm dinner on the hoof--"

Janette couldn't help but roll her eyes. She'd drink the cow blood before
she'd drink Natalie. Not only would Nicola never forgive her, but . . . the
woman worked with <dead> things. Even the thought of it made her nauseous.

"But I might have found something. That sample I took from Janette--?"

She rubbed her arm, even though the mark of the needles had already
disappeared. She wouldn't have minded so much if Natalie hadn't seemed to
enjoy spearing her with that medieval instrument.

"Well, I combined it with some of the test blood I'd created--your blood and
the drugged human blood. It seems to cancel the effect. When I added human
blood to the mix, I got no reaction. It still burns in sunlight, but no more
than it ever did. My guess is Gregory took blood from Janette before he
drank human blood. That's the antidote. Look, this tape's gonna end. Call me
late--"

The tape clicked off in the machine. Janette stared at the blinking red
light, trying to find sense in Natalie's words. Gregory had been in the
sunlight; he had a glass of the special blood. But then, he'd bitten her.
And he drank human blood.

She was his antidote.

And he would be hers.

But Nicola would stop her if he knew what she planned. Gregory was wanted
for his crimes against mortals.

Janette hesitated for only a second, but then she pressed the erase button.
It would not give her much time, but some would be better than none. She
would survive this thing, as she had survived so many others.

Fire lanced through her, from the center of her being straight through her
brain. Janette fell to her knees. Holding her arms tightly against her
chest, she rested her forehead on the floor, concentrating on her hate, on
the thought that now she had an answer, and on not making a sound that would
wake Nicola.

And all the while, the tape whizzed above her, erasing the message. ***

end of part 11

Pt. 12 (In which there are secrets)

The further south Nicholas made his way down Botolph Lane, the worse the
heat and flames became. Buildings that were blackened deeper than pitch or
darkest midnight still burned, the smoke gray and wispy against the
ever-darkening sky. Dusk was fast approaching, yet it brought no relief for
London. The city continued to burn.

Abandoning the black cloth he'd held over his head, Nicholas now used his
cloak to hide the fine cut and cost of his clothing. The wharves had never
been the safest place in London and now that the rats had been burned from
their dingy bars and dens, there was a new element lose in the crowd. Time
and again he found the eye of a man taking his measure. Each was met
squarely, with an unflinching gaze. The thugs slunk away, looking for easier
prey.

He knew Janette would not be so lucky. And that thought pushed him onward
through the crowd, struggling against the tide that kept trying to push him
northward.

When he reached Thames Street, he turned one way, then another, lost.
Landmarks had gone--church steeples long since tumbled, burnt to the ground.
He could feel the wind coming in from the water, but it was hot and filled
with the grit and ash of the burning wharves and warehouses. He had never
been to the Ram's Horn. Janette had mentioned it in passing, during one of
her brief visits to their lodgings over the past few months. LaCroix had
seemed only mildly interested in where she plied her trade and her answer
had been just as offhand. It could have been the truth, or a lie, meant to
appease LaCroix.

Once he realized that he had no absolute knowledge of where Janette might be
in the midst of this burning city, panic set into his heart.

It was then that he heard, above the cries and screams of refugees and
victims, a very female voice, cursing in French. The words were far from
delicate, and any lady of quality would have blushed to encounter them for
the first time, her reputation in danger should she admit having heard them
before.

He pushed aside the crowd before him, moving west, into the heart of the
burning city.

And there, her fine dress covered in soot, ragged and torn, was Janette.
There were smudges of ash on her face and her skin was far too fine and pale
against the skins of the men at whom she shouted. The sun had yet to set,
but there was a faint amber glow in her eyes as she pleaded and cajoled,
bribed and threatened.

Nicholas was able to reach her side in a matter of minutes. Catching her
around the waist, he twirled her in his arms to face him and lifted her into
the air.

The amber in her eyes grew more pronounced at the indignity, but she broke
into a loud cry when she saw who held her thus. Her arms knotted around his
neck and she kissed him. "Chevalier," she whispered, kissing his cheek, then
the lobe of his ear. She drew away before he could kiss her again. "Ah,
you're filthy."

"No worse than you." He ran his glove down the bridge of her nose, removing
the black ash. "I'd feared the fire had gotten you."

"I feared the same for you," she admitted. "But not LaCroix. He knows death
too well. He'll always stay a step ahead of the reaper."

"This is no place to talk." Grabbing her arm, he started to drag her after
him. "Come, there's safety in the west--"

"No!" Janette broke away and turned back to the men, who were fighting the
fire that licked at what was left of the Ram's Horn tavern. "Ah, now some of
them have run off. Here!" she cried, scattering a handful of coins
underfoot. "There's more if you beat the flames! Save the tavern!"

All of the men stopped long enough to scrabble for the coins she scattered,
as did a few of the refugees close enough to grab one of the metal disks
that rolled beneath the trampling feet of the crowd. Some joined those who
were carrying water from a cistern to douse the flames. That, added to the
kegs that were being emptied onto the burning walls, was the sum of the
effort.

The facade of the building was still in place, but the thatch and wood roof
had long-since burned. A loud crash from the interior signaled the loss of
the upper story. Soon, the floor beams would give way and the cellar would
be filled with burning remnants.

But Janette didn't seem to understand that the cause was lost. Her face was
filled with an expression that troubled him--hope. He had thought her long
since past caring for anything. Yet she continued to scatter the coins when
the men began to tire or their enthusiasm flagged.

Nicholas stood behind her. "The building is gone, Janette. Leave it. What
does it matter to you? We should go, before your friends decide to leave off
at their efforts and take the coins from you by force."

As she turned to face him, her mouth set in a grim line. "I cannot. If you
are afraid, Nicola, then go. Find safety. I will stay."

"It is done!" he insisted, pointing at the building, all the while knowing
that his words wouldn't help her to see what her own eyes refused to accept.
"It's time we left."

"I can't leave."

"LaCroix is waiting."

He was certain LaCroix could find them, no matter where they went. It was a
half-truth, at best. But Janette didn't know that. The amber rose in her
eyes again, but this time they were fearful.

Then she turned back to face the tavern. "It was mine," she whispered. "It
was almost mine."

Nicholas placed his hand on her shoulder. "What matters if you bedded the
owner--"

"It was <mine>!" she hissed, whirling on him. "Paid in gold. Mine, as full
as the law allows in this barbaric place." She tipped her chin upward in
defiance, but the fear was still there in her eyes. And he knew why.

"You did not ask LaCroix."

It was a statement, the truth of it reinforced by the way her chin trembled.
She looked back to the building. "He told us to be careful with our funds,
that they would make our nights easier. He cannot fault me for being
attentive to his words."

"And when it came time for us to leave, to move on?" She didn't answer--not
in words. It was in the set of her jaw, a sudden hardness in her eyes. "You
would have stayed. Or tried to."

The sign of the Ram's Horn swung loosely from its mooring; one chain was
broken and the post that held the other in place was smoldering. With a
final gust of wind, the chain broke and the sign crashed to the ground.

That signaled the end. Many of the workmen grabbed what was left of the open
kegs, others dodged into the wreck, looking to salvage what they might.

"It was <mine>," she repeated. She pushed her way through the crowd, not
heeding the burning edges of the roof, and knelt down in the dirt to touch
the sign. "I am so tired of traveling, Nicola. This would have been a place.
For us. For our kind."

He stayed close to her, watching her back, watching the crowd, who had seen
her with her shining coins. "LaCroix never would have let you keep it."
Placing a hand on her shoulder, he added, "Better <it> burn, Janette, than
you."

Her eyes were flashing amber as she rose to face him. "I will never burn.
Never! Not even LaCroix--!" But then she stopped and paled. Her hand rose to
her open mouth and she looked around quickly. "He is near. Not near enough,
but near."

"Then we should go." Nicholas placed his arm around her waist, guiding her
into the crowd. He wanted to put as much distance between them and the
evidence of Janette's momentary defiance of LaCroix, before the vampire
caught up with them. "It will be our secret," he whispered to her.

She reached across to the hand that rested over her shoulder, her fingers
intertwining with his. At that moment, they shared their fear of something
more dangerous to them than the fire. And it was that fear that led them
through the flames, to safety.

It was a sound that woke him from his sleep, a soft humming from the lower
floor. Nick rose from his bed, tossing the covers away, and went to the door
of the bedroom.

>From the upper railing, he could see the apartment stretched beneath him.
The clock and his inner senses told him that the sun was setting, that night
was again bringing the only safety he and his kind could ever know. With the
shudders tightly closed and the lamps extinguished, there was little light
to see by.

But neither he nor any other vampire needed the light to see. And he would
not have needed it to see Janette. She had propped herself in the corner of
the loft, where the two brick walls met. Her face was pressed against the
stone, her skin seeking the cool, rough surface. She had drawn her knees
against her chest and her arms were wrapped around them. Sitting there, she
rocked back and forth, humming softly.

He didn't know what to do, at first. His memory of their day together was
blurred by moments of grief, and joy, and fury. The blind fury burned
hottest in his mind--he remembered how she had tried everything she knew to
goad him into killing her, how she had nearly succeeded. And how he had
abandoned her, fearing that if he stayed with her, she might push him so far
that he <would> kill her, before he regained his senses.

Quietly, he made his way down the iron staircase, to the lower floor. His
hunger was a small flame in his heart and he hissed at it, feeling ashamed
that he might take pride in his chosen abstinence, while Janette starved
because she had no other choice.

Her eyes were open, but Janette made no sign that she knew he was near. He
hesitated again when he reached the bottom of the steps. Her skin, usually
pale, was the color of parchment. Still smooth, it had lost much of its
suppleness, which had been swallowed by the internal fire that consumed her.

He walked over to her and crouched down beside her. "Janette?"

The humming ceased. "Mmmmn?" was her only response.

Nick touched the palm of his hand to her cheek and she moved, finally,
against his cool hand. Her own skin was hot, in comparison.

"I dreamed of London, Janette," he whispered. "And the tavern."

"The . . . Raven--?"

There was a faint spark in her eyes, although her voice was weak. Her mouth
was too dry to form words. "Before the Raven," he said softly. "The first
time. The Ram's Horn."

Her head turned to face him, her eyes fixing on his. Wherever she had gone
to face the pain and inner fire, he was bringing her back from it. But he
needed her to be here. If he was to find Gregory in time and save her, he'd
need her help.

"It was . . . so very long . . . ago." Janette licked her lips, her eyes
still locked with his. Slowly, she held out her hand to him.

Taking her fingers carefully in his, he brought her hand to his lips,
kissing it. Then he placed his arm around her shoulder, and helped her to
stand.

Before, she had always seemed as light as a feather to him, but now her
composition seemed even more tenuous, as if she might blow away like flowers
dried in the pages of a book. She rested, leaning against his chest for a
moment. She was slow in coming back to herself, but her mind had not left
her.

Even though he had.

Nick rested his chin on top of her hair. "I'm sorry, Janette. I ran away . .
. . "

"Sssh." A warm, dry hand folded over his. "I am still here . . . Nicola."
Janette tilted back her head, so that he could look down at her and meet her
eyes again. "I have not thought of . . . the tavern for a long time. You
have never mentioned it." She looked down at the floor. "He was so angry at
you for having left him. It would have been so easy--" The edges of her
too-red lips managed the barest smile. "What else have I forgotten about
you? What other secrets have we shared, that no longer live within us?"

"There <are> no more secrets."

Her fingers left his hand, then tips brushed his cheek. "Nicola, you are
still <so> like a child. There are always secrets. They are part of what we
are."

One hand on the wall, the other on his chest, Janette balanced herself, then
smiled at him. She took a step, then another, her hand never moving too far
from the support of the wall, or him. "I shall dance again, I think," she
announced, after she managed three steps in succession. "And soon."

It was then he realized that she was fully dressed. His bathrobe had been
replaced by one of her finest dresses, her hair was brushed and carefully
styled, and even her makeup was in place, smudged only at the very corner of
one eye.

She met his stare, then said, "If I must burn, I will burn well."

"No one would know."

"<I> would know." Then she frowned, darkly. "And Alma would know. And she
would tell <everyone>."

He didn't bother to hide his amusement. And, after she glared at him, even
Janette smiled. Nick trailed behind her, watching her steps become steadier,
her progress faster.

But she stopped abruptly and grabbed the corner of the couch for support,
bending almost double. Nick caught hold of her, but she pushed him away,
gasping. After a few seconds, she straightened, her lips drawn into a grim
line.

He could see that the intensity of the hunger had increased dramatically
since he had left her. And if this were the pain she could withstand, what
must the bouts with the beast be like?

"How . . . bad is it?"

He realized as soon as the words left his lips that it was a stupid
question. Janette looked at him with an expression of pain that had less to
do with the beast than her estimation of his intellect. After shaking her
head slightly, she walked into the kitchen, directly to his refrigerator.

He shadowed her. "What are you doing?" he asked worriedly, as she reached
into the refrigerator and withdrew a bottle of cow's blood.

"Making you breakfast." She placed the bottle on the counter, then looked
coyly at him, over her shoulder. "Doesn't Natalie make you breakfast in the
evening, when she spends the day?"

Brushing past her, he took the bottle out of her hands. "I've told you--it's
not like that between Natalie and I."

"Ah," said Janette, pointing at him, "but you wish it <could> be . . . ."

Exasperated, he walked away from her, still holding the bottle of blood. The
very nearness of it awakened his hunger, but he tried to ignore the burning
sensation. Exposing Janette to blood would be a foolish move at the moment.

The answering machine distracted him--there were no flashing lights. He
glanced over at Janette, who was studying the objects in the container of
kitchen utensils Nat had given him. "Did I get any calls? I was hoping--I
thought Nat would call, at least."

Janette looked down, suddenly very intent on the spatula she held in her
hand. "Nicola, I was occupied with . . . other things."

Again, he'd said something desperately stupid. "Yes, well--Schanke said he'd
try to get a line tap approved. I told him that you'd been my lead on Mercer
and that Mercer might try to get to you."

"Secrets, Nicola?" She frowned, checking her reflection in the flat metal
utensil she added to the spatula . "I suppose I'll have to go upstairs."

"It would be best," he agreed.

Janette stuck the spatula back into the canister. "Mortals annoy me.
Especially this--this--"

"Schanke?" supplied Nick. Crossing his arms, he walked back to the kitchen
and placed the bottle of blood on the countertop. Now <this> was the Janette
he knew well.

"Yes. This <partner> of yours. He leers at every pretty young thing at my
club. He's just such a--a--"

Nick waited, as she sputtered, searching for a word. "Schanke," he offered,
again.

"Yes!"

The phone rang. They stared at one another. Then, as it rang a second time,
Nick moved to answer it.

Janette was there, before he'd even blinked. "It's for me."

There was a flash of amber in her eyes. Taking his hand from the receiver,
he backed up a step, silently cursing Schanke. If this was the call they'd
been waiting for, it was too late for a trace. But the situation was
salvageable--he could still hear what Mercer said.

Janette held the phone to her ear. "Hello?"

"Janette?" Nick could make out the blatant surprise in Mercer's voice. "I'm
pleased to find you in."

"Don't you mean, you're pleased to find me at all?" she asked, not bothering
to hide her bitterness.

"Pleased, at least, to find you're more clever than I thought." Mercer
paused, Nick knew that he was adapting his plans to this new situation. "My
offer is still open. Is your answer the same?"

This time, Janette paused. Her eyes met Nick's, then she grimaced, gasping
slightly as the hunger struck again. "I--I will give you--the Raven.
And--anything else. I need--"

"I know what you need," said Mercer, his tone of voice smoother than satin.
"And I have it with me. Meet me, now."

"W-Where?"

"I've yet to find new accommodations. Why not where you asked me to take
you, on the first day? You remember." He paused again. "I'll be waiting,
Janette. But I won't wait long."

The phone went dead in her hand. The instant the connection was broken,
Janette leaned heavily against the table, then her elbows gave way. Nick
caught her before she hit the floor and carried her to the couch.

She wasn't sweating, she had no liquid left in her to sweat, but her skin
was even warmer and her eyes were fever-bright. He smoothed her hair from
her forehead and held her hand, angry at himself for doing nothing, yet
knowing there was nothing he could do.

The spasms ended quickly, this time. Janette relaxed, falling limp like a
puppet whose strings had been cut. She tried to lift herself from the couch,
but Nick put his hand on her shoulder. "Wait, we have time."

"You--have time. I don't," she corrected. Forcing a smile, she gave him a
nod, then let him help her to a sitting position.

"Do you know where he is?" asked Nick.

"A pay telephone, probably." She looked down at the floor. Bending forward,
her fingertips massaging her temples, Janette sighed. "There were so many
places we went on the first day. Gregory is--so much cruder than I first
thought." Dropping her hands to her lap, she sat upright and met his eyes.
"Nicola, I must think. And it is so hard, with the hunger--"

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. "You need some
sleep. Why don't you go upstairs? Schanke will be here any minute. I'll have
to find a way to get rid of him. Maybe I'll send him on a wild goose chase,
to Mercer's apartment."

"No, not there--" warned Janette. "You said they searched, but there still
might be things there that he should not see. You must protect the others,
Nicola. And yourself."

"And you?" he asked.

Janette drew herself up straight, frowning slightly. "I've always taken care
of myself."

"Yes. You have," he agreed. Then his kissed her forehead again. "Now, go lie
down. Try to sleep."

"I will." Janette rose from the couch and started for the iron staircase.

Nick moved to follow her, but the alarm on the lower door sounded. He walked
over to the screen, dimly aware that Janette had paused at the bottom of the
staircase. He hit the intercom.

"Nick, it's me," said Schanke, staring up at the video monitor. He held up a
large, black case. "I got that paper for your trace and the hardware. So
open up already."

"Just a second, Schanke." Nick turned, but Janette was already beside him.

"Nicola, you never dress for the occasion. Now what will your <partner>
think when he enters, if you are in your pajamas and I am sleeping upstairs,
hmn?" She handed him his bathrobe, then leaned past him, hitting the button
to unlock the lower door and elevator. "Come in, Detective Schanke. Nicola
is almost decent."

Rolling his eyes, Nick swatted her lightly with the back of his hand and
caught a glimpse of Schanke leering into the video camera. By the time he
turned his attention back to her, Janette was already half-way up the
stairs.

She faced him, hands behind her back, leaning on the railing. "Nicola?"

"Yes?" He slipped his arms into his bathrobe.

"You will forgive me for last night. I didn't want to hurt you. But . . .
the hunger . . . ."

Nick smiled and shook his head. She wasn't asking. Janette seldom offered
forgiveness, but she always seemed to demand it from others. "Go to sleep,
Janette."

With one hand, she blew him a kiss.

Sighing, Nick rubbed his hand over his eyes, just as glad that Janette would
be upstairs while Schanke was here. If her ravenous hunger for blood
collided with Schanke's almost preternatural fascination for shapely female
flesh--he doubted even he could keep them apart. Or would ever want to try.

Nick stepped aside, returning to the kitchen as the elevator reached the
loft. He had just enough time to put Janette's attempt at 'fixing breakfast'
back into the fridge--and away from Schanke's prying eyes.

The bottle wasn't there.

Nick spun, eyes scanning the room, then he opened the refrigerator--the
bottle was nowhere to be seen. And if the bottle was missing . . . .

He ran to the foot of the staircase, calling, "Janette?"

She didn't answer. The sound of the elevator door opening stopped him from
taking flight. Schanke bounded into the loft, eyes wide, grinning. "So,
Nick, where's the little lady?"

There was a crash from upstairs--the sound of one of the upper windows
breaking. Grabbing the railing, Nick started up the stairs, but Schanke was
no more than a few steps behind him. Stopping in the center of the
staircase, he blocked his partner's advance. "You just missed her, Schanke.
You just missed her."

***

Pt. 13 (In which Janette takes care of herself)

Janette stood with her back to the bedroom door, but there was no sound of
immediate pursuit. She opened the door to Nicola's closet and slipped into
one of his black leather jackets--it was far too large for her, but she
needed hiding places, and her slinky black dress left little to the
imagination. Turning, she headed for the window--

Then she saw the gun. He had left it in its holster, draped over a chair.

Knowing she had no more than seconds, Janette pulled her arm out of the
jacket sleeve and placed the strap of the holster over her shoulder. As it
was set for Nicola's proportions, it rested against her hip. The bulk of the
jacket covered it nicely.

But there was sound from below--she heard the elevator. And then Nicola
called her name.

Janette raced to the window and leaped through it, tucking her chin low and
shielding her head with her arms. The black leather took the brunt of the
flying glass, but it meant that she was away and safe for the moment. Nicola
didn't know where she was going. And until he could evade his partner, he
would be kept from following. She owned Detective Schanke her gratitude. It
annoyed her to add another mortal to her list of debts.

She concentrated on flying, concentrated on keeping aloft, on using every
bit of energy she had left to get to her destination. The hunger had
weakened her, but the anger made her strong again, aided by the comfort of
darkness.

It did not take her long to reach the hotel and even less time to find the
balcony, dark and seemingly empty. Gregory had phrased his clue well. She
hoped it would be the last time that his plans succeeded.

He was waiting for her, standing at the balcony railing. Janette landed
easily, hands in her pockets. She shifted the jacket, showing just enough of
the dress, and herself, to put him at ease.

"You're late."

His tone was surprisingly cordial, for someone who'd expected to find her
burnt to ash. Janette matched his easy air with a light smile, ignoring the
fierce fire inside her, the torment that could only end with the taste of
sweet blood on her tongue. "Not as late as you might have hoped."

Gregory smiled, his eyes showing a gleam of amber. His clothing was somber,
but well-tailored. "I see you've dressed for the occasion. I didn't think
our meeting would be this formal. Then again, are you dressed for a funeral
. . . or to toast our future success?"

She wanted to rip out his throat, to throw him from the balcony and tear at
him as he tried to fly, forcing him to fall. But her life depended on her
assuming the one role for which she'd been born--the gracious hostess.
Affecting a hurt tone, Janette pouted. "What an unkind comment. I agreed to
join you because of your charm, Gregory."

"And because I can give you what you need?"

She smiled, lightly, and batted her eyelashes, taking a step toward him.
"That, too."

He withdrew the bottle from a small black bag that stood beside his leg, and
offered it to her, as he had at The Raven two nights before. "I'm afraid I
didn't think to bring glasses."

"Nor did I." Janette closed her eyes for a moment, but the image of the
bright red liquid had burned into her inner eye, stirring the hungry beast
within her. When she opened her eyes, she realized that the color and the
crystal almost glowed in the darkness. "I suppose . . . we can make do," she
whispered, her voice deserting her.

Gregory removed the crystal stopper from the bottle, then extended it to
her. "Ladies first."

It took every ounce of willpower Janette had not to wrench the bottle out of
his hand. She swooned as she smelled the sweet scent that rose from the
narrow opening, her fingers grasping the balcony railing to keep herself
from falling to the concrete.

It called to her, that shimmering brightness, the promise of light and
birdsong. If she accepted, it would mean giving Gregory absolute mastery
over her. Nicola, and his mortal sentiments, would become a danger to her.
But she would walk in the sun . . . .

One hand still clutched the railing while the other reached for the bottle .
. . then it fell to her side. Looking up, she met Gregory's eyes. "You
wanted to see me burn," she whispered, the fire inside her stealing her
voice. "How do I know that bottle doesn't carry oblivion?"

"Because you know I want The Raven." He took a step closer to her, so that
the bottle was only an inch between them. "Because you know I want you. You
<know> that."

Janette caressed the design on the cool crystal with her fingertips, but did
not take what he offered. "I <know> that I will drink . . . if you will
drink." Her eyes refused to release him, holding his gaze. "I will not burn,
Gregory. Not for you. Nor for anyone, or anything."

He nodded, then lifted the bottle to his lips, sipping it. As he swallowed,
the fire knifed through her, so that she was forced to clutch the railing
for support. Gregory lowered the bottle, his hand reaching to help her, but
she backed away, hissing, "More! Drink more of it! I will not burn. Prove to
me I will <not> burn."

And Gregory drank again. His eyes fixed on hers, he lifted the bottle to his
lips and drank deeply, a small bit of blood trickling down from the corner
of his mouth, resting on his collar.

Forcing herself upright, Janette tottered, leaning into his arms as he moved
to catch her. The leather jacket kept her from feeling the cool crystal
against her back, his arm around her, supporting her. Her weight, such as it
was, forced him back, against the balcony wall.

Snarling, her eyes burned amber and her fangs extended. Before he knew what
was happening, she tore the collar from his neck with her teeth and sunk her
fangs into his throat.

Gregory's hands flailed at her shoulders and her throat, searching for a
hold. She drank deep, sucking the fresh, sweet blood from his body. The
beast in her wouldn't let him go. Pinned as he was, there was no room for
leverage. He was helpless against the experience she had gained over
centuries with thousands of struggling victims. When he tried to use the
crystal bottle as a club, her hand grasped his wrist and forced it back
against the concrete, hard. They were showered with crystal shards and sweet
blood, but Janette didn't really notice. There was only the blood, the blood
that fed her hunger but would not make her burn, the blood that was her
life.

His legs buckled and he sank against the wall. Janette followed the fall of
his body. Still drinking, she absorbing all that he was and had been,
savoring his petty evils and fruitless greed. Despite the sunshine that he
had swallowed, his blood was bitter and dark. It was a vintage she would
have passed even for a diet of Nicola's cow's blood.

It was that thought that made her stop. Janette withdrew from him, sitting
back on her haunches, his blood covering her dress and Nicola's leather
jacket. Taking a handkerchief from her décolletage, she wiped daintily at
her lips. "Thank you, Gregory. You were right--you had just what I needed."

The wounds at his throat were beginning to heal, the jagged tear of her
eagerness smoothing at the edges. He stared at her with vacant eyes. She
knew he could sense her, could hear her, but her passion and savagery had
torn much from him. It might be hours before he would recover enough of
himself to walk, never mind to fly and flee from this place.

Feeling cool and refreshed, Janette rose to her feet and stared down at him.
"You are too dangerous, Gregory, to me and to our kind. You want to enslave
the others, to profit from them. And . . . you have insulted me."

His eyelids flickered. He moaned, shifting against the wall.

Janette frowned. "Oh, aren't you comfortable? Here, let me help you."

His attempts to escape her were feeble, his hands swept aside as easily as a
child's. Kneeling beside him, she propped Gregory so that his back rested
against the wall, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. "You should have
learned your lessons from your master," she told him, as she straightened
his tie and fixed his collar. "I did. I might not have done everything
LaCroix demanded, but I listened. And I learned."

Sitting back on her heels, she inspected her efforts on his behalf. He was
presentable, if not as dapper as he could be when at his best. "There. And I
bet you're hungry, too."

Another amber flame flicked in his eyes.

"Good. Because I have just the thing for you." Pushing aside the front of
Nicola's leather jacket, she reached into the lining and unzipped the flap.
The bottle of cow's blood that she'd taken from his kitchen had remained
unbroken, luckily enough. Although, she noted, looking down at the blood
stains on the front of the leather, she'd probably have to add Nicola to her
list of debts.

And that was one more thing Gregory would have to repay.

The gold flecks in Gregory's eyes lit again at the sight of the bottle. She
smiled, knowing that he was reacting only to the presence of blood. "It's
cow," she admitted, making a face. "But it's the best I could do at such
short notice. Would you like some?"

Digging her fingernails into the cork, she yanked, pulling it from the
bottle. The blood splashed over her hand and she automatically moved to lick
it off, then stopped herself. Janette offered the bottle to Gregory with her
crimson-covered hand. "Would you like some?"

By now, his mind had begun to work. Weakly, he pushed himself away from her
and the blood that would burn him. But there was no where he could
go--Janette's presence kept him pinned to the wall.

Moving the bottle closer, she raised it to his lips, but he shut his mouth
and turned his head. The fluid splashed down his collar and shirt front,
staining his tailored jacket.

Curiously, Janette took a bit of the material between her fingers and felt
it, then frowned. It was cheap and poorly made. "And I thought you had
taste," she muttered. Then, looking at the bottle in her hand, she sighed.
"Well, maybe you do. Personally, I despise the stuff, but Nicola likes it
well enough. And he's anything but common." Again, she tried to get Gregory
to drink the blood.

Again, he twisted away.

Janette made a sound of disappointment, clicking her tongue against the back
of her teeth. "You know," she said sadly, "I could make you drink this. I
told you, I was well taught. But, perhaps there's a better way--" Putting
the bottle down, she reached into the jacket and found the gun holster.

Gregory's eyes widened, then seemed puzzled at the sight of the gun. "I
know," explained Janette, as she ran her hand along the cool metal barrel,
"that you'd recover if I shot you. I don't doubt that you've taken a bullet
before." Then, she picked up the bottle with the other hand. "Just as I know
the places where a bullet causes us some pain and minor inconvenience. An
eye takes some time to heal, fully. An ear, well," she shrugged. Holding the
gun in her right hand and the bottle in her left, she pushed the bottle
toward him, near his lips. "You <will> drink, Gregory. You might not be able
to hear, or to see, but you <will> drink. Now, show me that you have as much
breeding as I first thought."

There was terror in his eyes and some small part of her fed on that terror,
the memory of the pain of her hunger still fresh. For that, and for the
debts he had caused her to take, and for the hurt that he had forced her to
cause Nicola . . . the fear was a small repayment.

But then that fear was gone. She saw the surrender in his eyes. His hand
rose not to try to block the gun or push her arm away, but to close over the
smooth, green glass. Nodding, she let his fingers hold the mouth of the
bottle, although she never loosed her own hold on it.

Janette tucked the gun into the holster almost thoughtlessly, intent on
Gregory--on the first swallow, then the second, on the way his eyes gleamed
as the blood entered him. The hunger she had left in him from her feeding
would be satisfied, but only for a moment.

Then he would burn.

Releasing the bottle, she rose and backed away from him. But Gregory still
had enough strength to keep his fingers from losing their grip. He drank,
and drank still, blood trickling down either side of his mouth as he tilted
back his head and upended the bottle. The blood was giving him back some
small strength. He hadn't been starved or weakened, like the vampire that
had entered The Raven, burning before he could fully warn them.

It was empty. Smacking his lips, Gregory threw the bottle over the side of
the balcony. Slowly, pushing himself up with his arms, he made it to his
knees, then his feet. He leaned against the wall for a moment, resting his
head against the concrete. Then, he turned to face her.

His eyes were the gold of the dawn sun, his fangs white and sharp, and
strong. Gregory snarled and leaped toward her.

Placing her hands on her railing, Janette vaulted it and began to fly. But
Gregory grabbed her shoe, his other hand fastening higher, on her ankle. She
kicked against him, trying to fly away, but her bout with hunger had
weakened her. She'd need more blood to fight him, more blood to sustain her
flight and give her the strength to overpower him.

There was no blood here. Only Gregory remained. And she saw her death in his
eyes.

A flash blinded her, so that she stopped flailing at the air and covered her
eyes with her hands. Gregory had burst into flame. His scream of rage and
anguish tore her hands from her eyes and she looked down at him.

He still stared at her, still snarled at her through the flames that
consumed him. Every inch of him was on fire--he burned hot and bright. But
his burning hands never lost their grip. He pulled at her, tugging her back
toward him, toward the balcony, his hands reaching higher up her leg.

Janette screamed as the burning flesh touched hers, as the leg of her
stocking smoldered and burned under his assault. But it was when the hem of
her dress flamed suddenly that she knew the fire had won. And her scream
became an unending animal howl against fear and flame and fate.

***

end of part 13

Pt. 14 (In which the burning ends)

Schanke wasn't giving up. He stood on the step just below Nick, craning his
neck in an attempt to see Janette. "Just want to pay my respects to the
lady. I know she's up there."

"Yeah, well, I don't think she wants to see you right now. Or anyone, for
that matter." Nick glanced over his shoulder, following Schanke's gaze. He
knew that Janette was gone, but Schanke's insistence would save him some
awkward questions later. "Look, she's banned you from The Raven for a while.
You want to make that permanent?"

For a moment, Schanke seemed to be considering the idea. But he frowned and
turned, walking back down the steps. "I guess not."

Inwardly, Nick sighed with relief. He'd hoped the threat of eternal exile
from the club would make his partner back down. If Schanke could continue to
ogle shapely young--or young-looking--things in tight dresses, his wandering
eyes would remain in his head and he wouldn't get himself and his marriage
into a position of irreconcilable differences.

"So, maybe she'll join us later," said Schanke. He dropped the briefcase
flat on the seat of the couch. "The Captain and the higher-ups okayed your
request for a line tap. I've got the goods right here," he tapped the
suitcase with the flat of his hand. "And I'll be happy to baby-sit your
phone all night if I have to."

Picking up the case, Nick thrust it into Schanke's arms, then put a hand on
his shoulder, propelling him toward the elevator door. "We don't need
it--Mercer called just before you showed."

"Damn." Instantly, Schanke became all business, stopping in his tracks.
"That means we won't be able to trace him."

"By phone, no. But he wants Janette to meet him in an hour, in the park."

At the sound of her name, Schanke immediately looked to the second floor.
"She's not going?"

Nick put on his best incredulous air. "Are you kidding? She's terrified."
Pushing his partner toward the door again, Nick lowered his voice. "I think
you're right--I should stay here and keep an eye on her--just in case Mercer
doubles back. You can handle the park stake-out."

"I can?" Schanke stared at him, then smiled, suddenly appropriating Nick's
suggestion as his own. "You're right--how tough can a ninety-year-old drug
pusher be? I'll take this back to the station and--"

They were almost at the elevator. "You take that back to the station and the
FBI and everyone else who wants a piece of this one will be swarming all
over you." Nick placed his hands on his partner's shoulders and met his
eyes. "The bust belongs to <you>, Schank. You came up with the syringe. All
I did was get a set of prints. You should get the glory for this one."

"Gee, thanks, Nick." Schanke smiled, the corner of his mouth twisting
slightly. "But, hey, you deserve credit for coming up with those prints."

Nick nodded, with what he hoped was sufficient humility. Shifting his hand
to Schanke's back, he turned him toward the elevator. "There won't be any
credit until Mercer's caught, Schank. And you'll do it. Not just for us--for
the department."

"Yeah, for the department." Schanke stepped into the elevator. He'd
transferred the handle of the case to one hand and made a fist with the
other. "I'll get him, Nick."

"I know you will, Schanke." Nick leaned on the elevator button as the door
closed, sending Schanke to the lower floor. He glanced up at the upper
railing, then action followed thought. He flew the distance, vaulting the
railing and landing on the upper floor with a tread as light and swift as a
cat's.

"Janette?" Training and experience kicked in--he stood to one side of the
bedroom door and turned the handle, letting the door swing into the room.
Then he peeked around the corner.

The room was empty. The evening breeze entered through a broken window,
causing the sheets on the bed to ripple, and shards of glass covered the
floor nearby.

Watching for glass, he crossed over to his closet in bare feet. The closet
door had been opened--he was certain that he'd left it closed. A quick look
told him that his jacket was missing.

It was a second sense that made him look for the gun. With a thought, he
stood beside the chair, but the holster in which it had been hanging had
been taken.

That was a puzzle. The blood, he could almost understand. The jacket--well,
Janette was Janette. But the gun? What did she need with a gun? She was a
vampire?

And . . . so was he. And so was Mercer.

It didn't take him long to throw on some clothes--enough time to consider
Mercer's meeting arrangements and Janette's comments afterwards. Obviously,
what Mercer had said meant something to her. She knew where they were to
meet.

The problem was, he didn't. Janette hadn't spoken about her days in the
light. The only thing she'd mentioned was her first moments, looking at the
sun, hearing the birds on the balcony--

The balcony. Which was why she'd used the lame excuse about not sending
Schanke to Mercer's apartment on a wild goose chase.

>From a police perspective, it was a stupid place to hold a reunion. Any
number of police organizations would be watching the interior of that
building, checking the coming and going of anyone who might have a
connection to Mercer. But the balcony was on the twelfth floor and at a bad
angle--they wouldn't be able to see it from a balcony above or below, and
the angle from the ground guarenteed an awful lot of privacy. Real
surveillance would mean having a helicopter on duty--and from what he'd
seen, that kind of money wasn't involved in this investigation.

Slipping his left foot into his boot, Nick paused long enough to grab his
other jacket from the closet, then went out the window, following Janette's
chosen path--and making a mental note to call for a repair tomorrow. The
next time he chose to make his home in an old warehouse, he'd put steel over
<all> of the windows. It would save a fortune in glass repairs and provide
extra security against unwanted visitors.

A quarter moon sat in the eastern sky. The May night wind was cold, but the
temperature didn't matter to him. His concern now was finding Janette. And
Mercer. And deciding what to do when he got there.

As he flew, he went over the options in his mind. Janette was mercurial.
Over the centuries, he'd learned that for her there was no 'right and
wrong,' 'good and evil,' beyond the things that could harm her or actions
that were in bad taste or breeches of her own special code of etiquette. If
she decided that she wanted to walk in the sun for eternity, then Janette
might very well throw in her lot with Mercer, despite the cost in mortal
lives and the danger Mercer's plans posed for their kind.

But if she were angry--and he'd seen hatred flash in her eyes at the sound
of Mercer's voice over the phone--then she'd never stop until she had
retribution. She and Nick were the students of LaCroix and they'd both
learned their lessons well. He'd chosen to ignore his, but there were times
when Janette proved that she was an apt pupil and for lesser slights than
this. If her rage got the better of her, she might kill Mercer outright.
She'd done equally foolish things in the past, although she'd never risked
her own life in such a way before . . . but then, even LaCroix had known
enough not to cross her like this.

The building was ahead of him. The tower was at least twenty stories high
and the shadows made it difficult to tell, at first, which balcony it might
be. Then a light flared, like a bonfire or beacon. Even from where he stood,
his senses were almost overpowered by the scream of agony and rage that
accompanied the fire. Hands over his ears, he continued to fly for the
balcony.

Janette was trying to flee, but a flaming thing--it had to be Mercer--had
hold of her and was pulling her back. Hands grasping the iron railing on the
balcony edge, she resisted Mercer's pull. Her screaming had joined his and
lights were quickly popping on up and down the building, on other balconies.

Nick didn't hesitate. He flew straight for Mercer, slamming into him,
knocking him through the glass door into the room. The curtain, the carpet,
everything was set alight, tongues of fire licking everywhere.

But Nick turned and leapt from the balcony again, catching Janette in
mid-air as she lost her grip and plummeted toward the ground. Her dress and
stockings were on fire, the rush of the wind from her fall and her flight
feeding the flames that fed on her. In her terror, she tried to push him
away, but he held her tightly, ignoring the smell of burned silk, and satin,
and flesh, only knowing that he had to get her to earth and douse her the
flames.

Behind him, the screams from the balcony increased. Nick put as much height
and lateral distance between himself and the balcony as possible, but saw
Mercer standing there, flaming. He tried to fly, tried to come after them,
but as he stepped from the balcony, he fell. Like a fireball, Mercer's
progress lit the night, his screaming ceasing only when his charred and
still burning corpse crashed into the parking lot.

There was dirt below, a vestige of grass and lawn. Nick dove for it, pulling
up at the last moment so that Janette tumbled out of his arms as he hit the
ground. Ignoring the track of grass he'd plowed up in his landing, he tore
off his leather jacket and began to smother the flames that licked at her
legs and dress, rolling her in the dirt to kill the fire.

Deprived of oxygen, the flames died. She was lying face down, unmoving. Nick
knelt in the dirt, leather jacket in his hands, watching Janette for any
sign of spark or smoke. But there was no flicker of flame or tell-tale wisp
of gray. Janette <wasn't> burning.

He stared down at her, confused. Then she moaned. She pushed herself up from
the ground and turned her head to face him. Janette's eyes opened, red-gold,
and she snarled at him, fangs extended.

It surprised him. Nick fell backward, onto his hands, as Janette tried to
get her knees beneath her. A whimper escaped her and he could see why--the
flesh at her knees was blackened, the upper layers of skinned badly burned.
But still she tried to rise, snarling, her eyes fierce and wild.

When he first moved to help her, she lunged at him. "Easy, Janette," he said
softly. Standing up, Nick slipped his own leather jacket around his
shoulders, then reached down to help her again. "It's me. I won't hurt you.
We have to go, Janette."

There were police sirens nearby. He could see the building from where they
stood, the twelfth floor balcony alive with flame. The fire alarms were
sounding, the sirens wailing on the trucks that raced through the night
streets.

"We have to go," he repeated, looking around. No one was there. No one had
seen them. "Janette?"

This time, when she looked at him, she was herself. The amber still
flickered in her eyes, but there was sense and sanity inside her again.
Reaching her hand to him, she whispered, "Help me, Nicola. I must see. I
must know."

He took her hand, then her arm. Putting one hand beneath her shoulder blades
and the other under her knees, he shifted her into his arm.

Again, she whimpered, turning her head into his jacket for a moment, blood
red tears trickling down her face. He loosened his hold beneath her knees,
but could do little else. Her legs were solid, but badly burned, the flesh
falling away in spots in black flakes, blood oozing from beneath the wounds.
A mortal might not have survived such an injury. For Janette, with rest and
red blood on which to feed, it would be survivable.

If she could feed without burning.

Then, when she looked up at him, meeting his gaze, he saw the red crimson
tears at the corner of her eyes and knew. "You've fed."

She nodded, ever so slightly. "It was Mercer. It was the sunlight in his
blood. He had me, to cure himself. And . . . I had him."

Her words were quiet, whispered. "Did you know this?" asked Nick, the
beginnings of doubt feeding a fire in his chest. "Did you know this and not
tell me?"

"Natal--Natalie . . . called." Janette burrowed her head into his shoulder
and the soft leather of his jacket, her words muffled against him. "She said
it might work. And . . . it did." She peeked out from beneath a fold of his
jacket, eyes bright. "Nicola, you will not be . . . <too> angry with me?"

Nick was furious, but that fury was dissipated by the pain in her eyes and
the pale skin of her face, which was still tightly stretched over her skull.
"We'll discuss it later," he warned, in a deep-throated growl. Then he
planted a kiss on her forehead. "Much later, foolish, foolish Janette."

Sighing, she snuggled against him. Nick started walking.

"Where are we going, Nicola?" asked Janette.

He didn't bother looking down at her, as he stalked across the grass,
heading toward the a darkened space between buildings, where taking flight
would be unnoticed. "Home. I'll call Natalie to look at your burns. You'll
have to make do with cow's blood until Alma--"

"No!" said Janette firmly, struggling in his arms.

Stopping, Nick was surprised enough to let go of her legs. She would have
fallen to her burned knees on the grass, if he hadn't caught her shoulder.

Supported by him, Janette stared into his eyes. He knew the pain must be
excruciating, but her eyes were bright with red-gold anger. She'd locked the
pain away, ignoring it for the moment, concentrating on her hatred instead.
"Take me to him, Nicola. I must see. I must know."

Shaking his head, Nick moved to lift her into his arms again, but she pushed
away. When she fell into the grass, a small cry escaped her lips, but that
was the only sound he heard for a few moments. He stood, staring down at
her, until she twisted her torso, her hands holding her up. "I <must> see.
If I have to crawl there, I <must> see. Or I will never sleep again."

Nick squatted down beside her. Cupping her chin in his hand, he forced her
to look at him. "The police are there. And crowds. Mortal crowds. Do you
want them to see you like this?" Releasing her, he straightened. "They might
recognize me. And they'll take a second look at you. He <burned>, Janette.
And you wear the mark of flame, yourself."

She met his eyes without flinching. "I have to see."

"Janette--"

Her chin quivered and she looked down. "I have to see, Nicola. I will not go
anywhere with you until you let me see."

"If we waste much more time, your legs could scar. Janette, you need blood.
And among all those humans--"

Her attention shot back to him when he mentioned her legs. Her eyelids
flicked as she turned her head, but he saw her close her eyes--she couldn't
look at the burns. Pounding her fist into the grass, she repeated, "I must
see. I will be good, Nicola. I will go with you, then. But first . . . ."

"Yes. Yes, I know." Reaching down, he lifted her in his arms again, taking
care with her legs and knees. "All right."

She was quiet as he made his way between buildings and along the sidewalk.
There were few people out this night--although that was something of a
misstatement. Fire engines and crowds gathered at the building. Residents in
bathrobes and casual clothing were still being evacuated. Firemen were
busy--running hoses and shouting instructions--as the twelfth floor burned.

But Nick walked past the mayhem. His chin tucked down, he avoided the eyes
of any of the police who might have recognized him. He continued on, to the
far side of the parking lot, where he had seen what was left of Mercer fall.

With nothing left to burn, the flames had more or less died seconds after
impact. The tar of the parking lot in that area smelled hot and fresh, after
being exposed to the sudden fire. All that was left of Mercer was a pile of
ash.

Nick checked the area carefully as he approached, but without his keen night
vision, no mortal would have noticed the spot--apart from the stench of
burned flesh and hot tar. The attention of the crowd was concentrated on the
fire twelve floors above and the heroic rescues that would be made tonight.
Something inside froze as he thought of the mortals who might die tonight,

because of Mercer . . . and Janette.

But she twisted in his arms, even as he stood beside what remained of
Mercer. "Let me down, Nicola."

"Janette," you can't--"

"Let me down!"

Sighing, he gently lowered her legs to the ground. For a moment, her eyes
filled with pain and tears, her hands holding desperately to his arm and
shoulder as she supported her own weight on her burned legs. And then a
shutter seemed to fall behind her eyes, cutting off the pain. There was only
the red-gold of her anger.

Releasing her hold on him, Janette tottered to the pile of ash, one shoe
missing, the sole of the other broken and burned. She moved slowly, stiffly,
and Nick almost called to her to stop, knowing how much pain she must be in.
But he closed his mouth and folded his arms across his chest, knowing that
she had taken herself to a place beyond the pain. If she had to do this
thing, then she would do it by herself.

Janette reached down and picked up a handful of ash. "I condemn you to the
wind," she said, in a low voice. "I convict you by the fire. I consign you
to the water from the sky and from the sea and from the flesh." Throwing the
ash away from her, she stepped forward and scattered it, grinding it into
the still hot tar. "I call upon the earth to swallow you, so that you may
never walk the night again."

The wind rose, picking up what ash remained, scattering it. For a moment,
there were no crowds of people hundreds of yards away, no sirens or flashing
lights, no fire, no sound--nothing except he and Janette and the night.

Janette turned toward him. "I had to see, Nicola. I had to know."

He caught her, before she fell to the ground, unconscious. "Foolish,
foolish, Janette," he whispered, as he kissed her forehead again. Gathering
her in his arms, Nick picked her up and walked into the darkness.

***

end of part 14

Pt. 15 (In which Janette is faces the light--for the last time)

She couldn't see him through the crowd of dancers or hear him over the
pounding bass of the music, but she knew Nicola had entered the club.
Janette kept her eye on the glass of blood in her hand, although her finger
moved to her choker. She twisted it absently, the end of her silver strand
earrings caressing the back of her hand.

"It's been three weeks, Nicola," she said, as he appeared, suddenly
obscuring her view of the club.

Without asking, he slipped into the booth beside her. "We've gone longer
than that without seeing one another. Decades, quarter-centuries--"

"Yes." She lifted her glass to her lips and sipped, letting the blood rest
on her tongue for a moment before she swallowed. "I remember them all.
Vividly."

"That young comte in Paris, if I remember--"

Janette waved her had, brushing away the memory and its consequence. "He's
dust, these many centuries. We're forced to take our pleasure where we may,
Nicola."

He nodded and she glanced at him sideways, seeing the he, too, seemed
ill-at-ease. "The club seems to have survived your temporary absence."

"Yes. Alma did better than I expected. I may give it to her as a gift . . .
eventually," she added, when he shot her a surprised look. "We all tire of
our toys sooner or later. And this one will wear thin in time." He looked
away, shaking his head. "You think it strange of me?"

"Janette, with all you went through to keep it--"

"I will not have it <taken> from me," she answered sharply. "It's mine. And
I may give what is mine, as I please. Speaking of which," she reached across
the table and touched a small jewelry box with her fingers. With a flick,
she slid it to Nicola's hands. "Please give this to your <friend>, Natalie,
with my compliments."

Again, Nicola seemed surprised. She smiled to herself and concentrated on
the dance floor when he opened the box. The necklace had been crafted to her
specifications, a silver double strand chain, with a silver heart hanging
from the center. "It isn't priceless," she commented, hearing him close the
box, "but it's worth the debt I owe her."

There was sadness in his voice. "That's all you consider it, a debt?"

"She is well-versed in her healing craft. My legs are as lovely as ever, if
a bit stiff. That will take another week." She couldn't help but smile,
remembering Natalie's most recent visit. "I . . . approve of your choice of
her, Nicola. She's intelligent and discreet. Although I'll admit that her
witticisms often elude me." Then, when she heard the edge of argument in his
intake of breath, "Please don't be cross with me, Nicola. I'm still not
myself. I tire easily."

There was a change in him after her words. He slumped back against the seat
of the booth. When she glanced at him from the corner of her eyes, she saw
that he was still toying with the box. "She might not accept this."

"She will. I told her you'd be annoyed if she didn't."

He sighed, that long-suffering sigh she had grown to know as signal of her
minor victories against his almost-limitless patience. "Janette--"

"And did your partner appreciate the cigars?" Leaning back against the couch
and abandoning her glass of blood, she smiled at the way Nicola wrinkled his
nose.

"He's stinking up the office! The next time you want to give him cigars, ask
me. He would have been just as happy with a gift certificate from a souvlaki
stand."

"But then, it would not have annoyed you, would it, Nicola?" Leaning her
chin on his shoulder, she toyed with the curl of hair above his ear. "Now
every time he blows that rancid smoke in your face, you'll think of me."

"I think of you, often, without your little games." He reached up to take
her hand from his shoulder, then released it.

Janette intertwined her fingers, resting them on the table. Nicola leaned
closer to her, whispering, "Given up on cigarettes?"

"I am not fond of smoke, at the moment." Frowning, she shook her head. She
didn't want to speak of it, but the subject continued to slip into their
conversation. For all her annoyance at his having absented himself for three
weeks, she'd been just as glad not to face him. "I hadn't thought of the
tavern for many years," she said, after as moment. "Do you still dream of
it?"

"No. It's gone. In the past." He waved his hand as she had earlier, but his
fingers clenched into a fist at the end of the movement, when he dropped his
hand to the table.

Janette reached for his hand and uncurled the tight fingers. "There was the
winter afterward. When we were rejoined by LaCroix." She shivered, then
quickly reached for the glass of blood. "Cruel, cruel winter. He would not
have treated you so badly, had you told him about my tavern."

Nicola shrugged in response. She watched him as she sipped from the glass.
It was true--there would have been nothing else for him to do, other than
play the part of brave chevalier. He'd thought her weak, then, and under his
protection. Even when she joined in LaCroix's games of terror and mayhem,
he'd considered her less evil than misguided. Now . . . well, he didn't
understand her, but he accepted her for what she was.

Then he met her gaze and she saw that steel in his eyes. A feeling of panic
flashed through her. If she'd been well she would have fled, but her legs
were still weak. She'd never have gotten away from him in time and he'd have
held her there. There was to be no scene. If this had to happen, she would
have it quiet, between them.

"Janette," he said softly. "I need to know."

Desperately, she turned to the glass of blood for support, taking a full
gulp, looking away from him. This was the moment she'd dreaded. The pain in
her legs was momentary, it would pass. But the memories . . . she did not
want to face the memories. Long ago, she'd learned the trick, to care for
nothing too much, lest it hurt her; to distance herself from that and those
she'd yearned to love the most, knowing they would be her downfall.

Nicola had been an exception. She'd been hurt many times on his behalf, but
his own hurt had countered the balance. This thing could never be balanced
between them.

"I need to know . . . about the light."

The words had been said. She refused to look at him, until he placed his
fingers beneath her chin and turned her face toward him. She knew what he
would see--her hard eyes helpless, the edges brimming with tears at what she
could not give.

"I am no artist, like yourself, or Erica," she whispered, in apology. "There
is none of that in me. Nicola, I am no more than what you see. I take what I
am given, but I cannot give it back."

"Then give me your memories," he said, his voice the only sound she could
hear, despite the beat of the dance music and the crowds and the other
sounds she knew must be there. "Give me the sights and sounds and feelings
of the sun."

"No . . . ," she whispered, her eyes pleading with him. "Nicola, do not ask
me--"

"As your gift to me. Repay my debt."

Janette searched his eyes and found no respite in them. They were blue, but
the softness she'd seen in the past had been replaced by steel and cold. For
the tavern, long ago, when he bore the brunt of LaCroix's anger over many
months because he'd tried to save her, had kept her secret hidden when
stronger men--and, she admitted, she herself--would have betrayed the trust
to find a moment's peace, she owed him. For the use of the mortal friends
he'd cultivated and she'd endangered, she owed him. For pushing him into
rage, beyond the fragile inner boundaries he so carefully constructed and
fought to hold, she owed him.

"You can be very cruel," she told him, trying to harden her own heart and
eyes against what would come. "LaCroix's lessons are part of you, how ever
much you may deny them."

The steel flickered and she knew she'd scored a point, but it was not a blow
strong enough to free her. "Tell me," he insisted. "Tell me about the
light."

She could't turn away from him. Her hand reached blindly for the stem of her
glass, found it, then the human blood touched her dry lips. It was not so
sweet as the sunshine, nor as satisfying, but it was enough. It would have
to be enough.

"The . . . birds. The birds were singing--"

The memories flashed through her as she spoke, and Nicola swallowed them,
like a ravenous beast who had been chained too long without food. She spoke
of the birdsong and their sweet melodies, how their feathers flashed as they
danced in the sky and played and quarreled with one another. She spoke of
the sweet knowing of mortal union that she had shared with Gregory, in their
dalliance on the balcony. There was the warmth of the light, the feel of
sun's kiss on her naked arms, the flash of brilliance on the waves, by the
water, the proud wind as it caressed the sails, giving them power to master
the blue-sparking wetness.

She gave him the laughter of the children in the park and the soft fur of
the small dog that had run up to her, ready to play. She gave him the joy of
being part of nature, neither the animals nor the children carrying the fear
of her night scent, both accepting her as one of their own. She gave him the
clothes and furs and fine silks that she tried as they shopped in store
after store, the end of each excursion like the emergence from a dark
tunnel, into the warm and nurturing light in the sky.

She gave him the white clouds that hurried after one another, in their
unending game of tag in the vast field of blue more perfect than any
Renaissance painter's palette. She gave him the perfumes of the shoppers,
the lungs filled with clean air tinted with spray from the water, the smell
of the grass as she played with the puppy.

Finally, she gave him the light. Those were the images spoken without sound;
the dreams of life, and love, and truth that had haunted their daylight
slumbers for centuries. But her memories were fresh and clean, and living.
She could still taste it on her tongue, see nothing but the brilliant wonder
of it in her eyes, feel its warmth on her skin . . . .

A warmth forever denied her. For eternity.

Janette rested her forehead on her arms, exhausted and cold. He had made her
think on those things, those things that she'd hoped to keep from touching
her. Regret burned in her heart so strong and boldly that she thought,
almost hoped, it might burst and send her into oblivion. The hunger that had
consumed her had been fire, but this ice crept into the marrow of her bones,
chilling her cold, dead body.

There was a touch against her hair, but she brushed Nicola's hand away. She
wanted no part of him, for what he had asked her to do. He had made her care
about what she had lost, reget all that she held in her heart. If she did
not see him for a millennium, it would be too soon.

But his lips brushed her ear, lightly. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice
heavy. "You have let me touch heaven."

And, as his presence left her, Janette finally lifted her head from the
table. Her eyes glanced this way and that, but none had seen her
distress--or they were wise enough to pretend not to see. She turned, facing
the soft leather of the booth in the back of the club and, oblivious to the
noise and the press of bodies, and the hot blood, she cried for the light,
for what she had lost, and what she would never find again.

THE END

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