Date:         Mon, 22 Aug 1994 13:19:56 -0700
 
Hi, gang! Here's a little something I wrote regarding LaCroix and
Friends.
 
 
 
 
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As Day Crawls Into Night
 
A Forever Knight Story
 
 
by Margaret Newman
 
 
 
 
The sun exploded onto the morning sky, and he condescendingly
pulled the heavy drapes over the windows. His boots made a steady,
rhythmic sound as he walked across the floor covered with tiles
imported from Italy. The front room, as with the rest of his
abode, was sparsely but expensively furnished. Little of modern
technology was seen here. No television, no telephone nor answering
machine. His only nod to the 20th century was a stereo complete
with a 5 cd carousel, six speakers, turntable, am/fm radio, and
double cassette player.
 
The stereo was currently playing a cd of Vivaldi. Not loudly, but
comfortably. A book, marked by a red silk ribbon, was resting on
a short table. By the book stood a large goblet full of a deep
red liquid. The table was placed by a leather chair, large and
set low so that a man's long legs could easily stretch out in front
of him as he read.
 
Once all the windows in his domain were covered, he came back to the
front room. The living room; the front parlor. It did not matter
what one called it, it was the room where he spent most of his
leisure time. He stood by the chair for a moment, slowly glancing
around this main dwelling space. In years past, others would have
been settling in for the day with him. They would have shared
conversation, anecdotes of the previous night would have been
reviewed, and companionship appreciated. Now, he stood alone.
 
For now, he thought with a half smile. For now. Times change,
though, and time was one thing he had plenty of.
 
Settling into the chair, stretching out his long, jean covered
legs, he crossed his booted feet at the ankles. He took his book
in hand, re-reading the title, glancing at the list of contents.
He turned to where the ribbon marked his spot, and holding the
ribbon intertwined in the fingers of his right hand, began to read.
 
The antique clock on the mantlepiece struck 7am. He paused, glancing
up at the time piece. He was relaxed, no particular expression
graced his face, but his eyes... they showed that thoughts clicked
away inside the head, memories pulsed all about his mind. He reached
for the goblet, taking a mouth full of the liquid. His eyes glowed
a trifle at the richness of the liquid. Once he swallowed, he sighed,
smiling down at the contents of the goblet.
 
A sweet young thing she had been. Now she served to give him
sustenance.
 
He leaned his head back, eyes scanning the ceiling as, inwardly,
he scanned his memories. When had been the last time his
companions had willing sat down with him, and enjoyed their
daytime imprisonment together? Long before the War Between the
States, before the Crimean, before the year of 1812....
 
Doubts had danced in the young man's eyes even then. Stupid doubts,
insipid weaknesses. Had he not taught the lessons well enough?
Had he been to light on the reins? Shaking his head at the puzzle
that continued to confound him, he sat up, and continued onward
with his book.
 
*
 
"Was that not the best music, the best singing we have heard in
ages?" Nicholas had commented with a smile as he sat down on the
horsehair settee.
 
"Oh, Nicolah," Janette had sighed, "you say that every time you
fall in love with one of the singers. Which one is it this time?
I do hope it is not that," she shuddered prettily, "one with the
mousy brown hair."
 
"My dear," LaCroix said from his chair, "I do believe that is your
jealousy speaking. I think this one is quite lovely. Seek her,
Nicholas, if you want her."
 
"I want to hear her sing again." The young man said with a
charming, boyish wistfulness. "And again." He rested his chin
in the palm of his hand, his elbow balanced on the arm of
the divan. His eyes gazed off at nothingness as LaCroix and
Janette exchanged glances.
 
*
 
The antique clock on the mantlepiece chimed 8am. He placed the
ribbon, and shut the book, setting it back on the table. He
stood, taking the empty goblet with him. He strode into the
kitchen. It was the most sparingly furnished room of his home.
The large refrigerator, purring contentedly against the wall,
seemed out of place.
 
Opening the door of the refrigerator, he withdrew a half empty
bottle. There were few bottles in the refrigerated appliance,
three of them separate, and forward of the others. He let the
door shut as he moved to the island counter. He set the goblet
down, and pulled the cork from the bottle, setting it by the
goblet. He poured more of the dark red liquid into the goblet,
but the bottle was not quite empty. Loathe to place it back
in the refrigerator, he swirled the contents in the bottle.
 
"To Nicholas." He said with a grin, raising the bottle to his
lips. "...and to all the girls unfortunate enough to sing
infront of him."
 
He drained the bottle quickly. Licking his lips, he re-corked
the bottle, and set it in the empty sink. Picking up the goblet,
he went up the stairs to the second level.
 
In the bathroom, he disrobed. The shower was quick and efficient.
He dried off, and wrapping the towel around his waist, he carried
the goblet into his bedroom. He set the goblet on the nightstand.
Pulling back the covers of the bed, he discarded the towel, and
slipped beneath the sheets. He leaned back against the headboard
for a moment, considering the day, the book he had been reading
and the memories tugging at him.
 
"To Nicholas." He said, raising the goblet in a toast. "I will
no more leave him be than his memory leaves me." He took a good
drink, but did not finish yet. "I may have lost the battle, but
I have not lost the war." He considered the red liquid, rolling
it around the bottom of the goblet. Animal blood was a waste
of his time and talent. Too bad Nicholas couldn't appreciate
such a fine vintage. With a grin, he finished the drink.
 
Easily finding a comfortable position, sleep came to him almost
immediately. As did the dream...
 
*
 
"Aubyn," Persis snapped at his new apprentice, "you are trying
my patience."
 
"Then we are even." Aubyn spat. His world destroyed, his life
condemned, he did care that he angered a very dangerous man.
"I lost mine hours ago."
 
"Perhaps I saw something in you that was only a figment of my
imagination." The master stood, and strode towards his student.
"I think drawing this relationship out would be madness."
 
"Indeed." Aubyn snarled. His movements were so quick that Persis
never saw the pointed staff until it rammed through his stomach.
"Let me recall our earlier lesson. A vampire may be killed by
one: sunlight. Two: fire. Three: decapitation. Four: a stake
of wood."
 
Aubyn shoved the Egyptian against the marble wall. The older
vampire struggled but he was no match for the fire in Aubyn's
eyes. A fire that burned throughout his body but did not touch
the cold hardness of his resolve. He paused.
 
"Ah, I have made an error. How *peasant*," he growled the word
that Persis had called him earlier in the evening, "of me." He
withdrew the stake, and raised the tip to touch the fine silk
robe that covered his master's chest. "Four: a stake of wood,
driven threw the heart."
 
With that, he skewered Persis. The old vampire writhed, trying
to shake free of his torment. Aubyn held him steady. Blood,
putrid and thick, foamed from Persis mouth. His body quivered
and shook. Then, suddenly, smoke rose from the robes as the
body began to burn. Aubyn quickly stood back. The flames
were bright, and very hot. At the end, there was nothing more
than a pile of ashes. He stood looking down at them for a
moment, an eyebrow arched.
 
"I think I shall see to these as well." Aubyn commented to
no one but himself. "I should not like to have the old fellow
recombine himself and come looking for me."
 
*
 
He awoke briefly. His eyes flickered about his bedroom. Alone.
Yes, very much alone. For now. Thankfully, there would be other
opportunities for him to instruct his unwilling student. It
paid to leave certain items out of a fledging's lessons.
 
Raising his head, he gave the pillow a slap, and settled back
down into the awaiting arms of Mistress Sleep...
 
*
 
"Nicolah?" Janette said into the phone. "Nicolah, if you can
hear me, answer!"
 
"Janette?" A husky, warm voiced Nick answered his phone. "What's
the matter? I was sleeping."
 
"So was I." She hissed. "So was I. Until every nerve in my body
jumped. I saw him. Nicolah, I saw LaCroix as plain as-"
 
"Day?" He sighed. "Janette, you have had a nightmare. They are
quite common. Mortals have them all the time. Who did you drink
last night? Or was it bottled?"
 
Her reply in French made him cringe. She always knew how to
swear, and make a sailor blush. "It was him. He isn't dead. You
did not kill him!"
 
"I staked him, Janette." He was getting tired of this subject.
She had been going on only a few months ago about their link
tingling, when he had finally told her about the ballet dancer.
His ballet dancer... "His body burst into flames."
 
"Are you certain? Many things happened that night." She moved
the phone to her other ear, and counted slowly to 10. He could
be so aggravating. "Nicolah, I know what I have been feeling.
You have been feeling it, too. Whether you admit it or not."
 
"I haven't been feeling anything except a lack of sleep. I've
got barely two hours of sleep left before I have to get up and get
ready for work. Schanke and I have been transferred to a new
department and-" <click>. Nick looked at the phone, perplexed.
She had hung up on him. Oh, well. At least he could go back to
bed now.
 
*
 
"Nicholas, Nicholas." He shook his head, sitting at the desk in
his study. He was enjoying reading a copy of a certain homicide
cop's record on his Mac while he waited for the sun to set. "We
have been busy, haven't we?"
 
He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, contemplating
the efforts of his young 'student' to repay society for his debts.
The new path for the war would take on a more subtle direction.
He would, of course, make sure he knew every aspect of Nicholas'
identity in this city. One had to have back-up plans for every
contingency. This Dr. Natalie Lambert could prove to be a very
interesting pawn.
 
*
 
"No!" Nick exploded from the nightmare, rearing up in bed. His
eyes wide and full of horror, he glanced around him expecting to
see the worst. There was nothing but him, his bed, and the alarm
ringing incessantly. "Nat-Natalie?" He frowned, rubbing his face,
and finding his hands covered with blood-sweat.
 
It had to have been in reaction to Janette's phone call. He could
have sworn he saw LaCroix, could have sworn he heard LaCroix in
his mind, thinking of Nat. Nick reached around and slammed the
alarm clock off. He growled with frustration as the alarm
fell apart. Another one bites the dust. He should buy stock in
the damn company.
 
After a quick shower, and half a bottle of 'liquid refreshment'
-Nat's newest euphemism- Nick strapped on his shoulder holster,
collected the keys for the caddy, and headed downstairs. He
hesitated at the caddy, looking across the first level of the
warehouse. His eyes settled on a locker that was half hidden
against the far wall.
 
Would it hurt to look? To make certain? To be able to shake off
that nagging feeling that Janette was right?
 
Leaving the keys on the nose of the car, Nick headed over to
the locker. He stared at it for a moment, remembering the gray
dawn when he had stuffed it full of it's contents. No one knew
about this, not Natalie and not Janette. It was his, a certain
link to his private hell.
 
Gingerly, he reached out to touch the combination lock and it
fell loose. His brow furrowed as he removed the lock, tossing
it aside. He would get a new one after work, on his way home
in the morning. Stealing himself -almost expecting to find
LaCroix standing in the locker, waiting- Nick drew open the
doors of the locker. No LaCroix.
 
'No LaCroix' repeated in his head several times. He knelt
down and carefully poked through the debris he had put in here.
Gathered into a box, and locked up. Not very much seemed left.
Some pieces of wood, a bit of singed canvas from a ruined painting,
and an old bottle he had once used to rinse his paint brushes in.
 
There was no pile of gray ashes. Dust, yes. Ashes, no. A bit of
cloth with rusty stains. A scrap left of LaCroix's coat that he
had been wearing that night.
 
Nick dropped it, and stood back quickly.
 
No, he said to himself. No, I made certain. I saw him burn!
 
*
 
He did not give a great deal of thought to his outfit for tonight.
His boots, a pair of jeans, a black t-shirt, a jacket. The leather
jacket. He liked the smell of it. He made certain that the computer
was off before he left his abode. Walking to the common elevator
of the building, he saw his neighbor from across the hall waiting
for transport as well.
 
The young woman, rather unremarkable looking, glanced at him. Her
eyes slid down to his t-shirt, a slight grin touched her lips.
He looked down, and then back up at her with an arched eyebrow.
 
"It was on sale, and I rather admired it." He commented.
 
"The moon looks like it would glow in the dark." She replied. "It's
really neat, with the bats all over it. My nephew would like that."
 
"If I see another one, I shall acquire it for you." He motioned for
her to enter the elevator ahead of him. "We wouldn't want him to
be deprived, would we?"
 
"My nephew thinks he was born deprived." She laughed, smiling up at
him. "My name is Belle."
 
"Many young men feel that way. Sometimes they are not grateful for
the gifts we give them." He pressed the button for the ground floor.
"My name is LaCroix. I think it's going to be beautiful fall, don't you?"
 
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(I used Persis as an Egyptian name because it was all that I
could come up with. I had started out with Xerxes but that's
Greek... margaret)