Date: Wed, 15 Dec 1993 01:52:05 EST Christmas Challenge Story #3 Coin of the Realm A Forever Knight Story by Susan M. Garrett The Raven was nearly empty, but it was still early in the evening. Nick nodded at the regulars in passing, most of whom gave him a wide berth. Some treated him that way out of respect, others out of fear, and others because he was known to be an old companion of the club's owner. There were times when the quiet deference was annoying. Right now, he didn't much care. It was Christmas, after all, or near enough. It was the time when all men, mortal or not, should treat one another with civility and gentle hospitality. Unfortunately, reality didn't often conform to the ideal, which was why he was on duty this evening and the next, which would be Christmas Eve, and even Christmas Day itself. Janette, as usual, had seated herself at the bar. She raised her glass him as he entered, then leaned forward so that he could kiss her cheek. He did so, then moved behind her, resting his arm on the side of the bar. "Checking on our license, Officer Knight?" she asked. "I promise you, I'm well over the drinking age." "And getting pretty close to your limit." Touching her chin, he tilted her head and looked in her eyes, seeing there a red haze from the blood that she drank and smelling the scent of alcohol, from the wine she used to cut it. "Janette, it's barely after sunset." She sniffed, an extravagant gesture. "If you're here to chide me, you c leave now." "I'm concerned for you, that's all." The hard look in her eyes softened and she leaned her head back against chest. "I know. And you needn't be. It's only the season, after all." "Yes. I know." He placed a hand on her bare shoulder, then kissed the of her head. "Which is one of the reasons I stopped by. Your gift arrived today." Her head twisted around and, in response, he reluctantly pushed back the sleeve of his leather jacket and his shirt to show her his wrist. "I had to be careful. I know how the city feels about civil servants receiving expensive gifts. We wouldn't want them to think that one of their was on the take." Janette examined the watch, her fingers tracing the line of the band around his wrist. Then she looked up at him, frowning. "The calendar is only accurate to the year 3000," she complained. "Hopefully, I won't need it that long." "Spoilsport." She turned back to her drink. Nick leaned over her shoulder and whispered in her ear, "But I love it anyway. Thank you." Janette turned her head, her eyes meeting his. "You're welcome." She glanced over the clientele and took another sip from her glass. "I suppose I should thank you for that new birth certificate. Although you could have made me a younger--" "Infants are not licensed to own bars in the city of Toronto," he remind Slipping to her other side, he sat down on the stool beside her. "I left a message for you--that I'd be busy tomorrow night." Her eyes fixed upon his instantly. "Yes. ." "On duty." He said the words slowly, to let her understand that this fo engagement was professional. Her lips twisted in a sneer. "Oh, yes. The ." It never ceased to amaze him how much derision she could apply to the pronunciation of so small a word. Catching her wrist, he stopped her from raising the glass to her lips. "Janette, I came here for our toast. Since I'll miss it tomorrow night?" Her hand stopped in mid-motion and she met his eyes again. "How thought Will you do the honors?" Leaving the stool, he moved behind the bar. The bottle was ready, as always, the red velvet ribbon on its neck. He lifted it, staring through the brown glass at the red contents that swirled inside. How many years ago had it begun . . . ? Copenhagen was gay at Christmastide. Nicholas held the door open as Jan stepped from the house they had rented, then was forced to release it as the night wind swept his top hat from his head. She laughed as he stumbled after it in the snow and he clowned a bit, wanting to hear more of her laughter. She laughed so seldom any more. "Merriment?" asked LaCroix, exiting behind her. Smiling, he offered Jan his arm. She slipped her hand through the opening, then returned her delicate fingers to her fur ruff. Finished with his clowning, Nicholas stood still, admiring the sight of as they waited for the carriage. The candle lamps shown brightly off the black satin and beaver of LaCroix's coat and hat. And even Janette had foregone her favorite black for a more festive dress, the pattern of which he could spot beneath the hem of her coat. They were all of a fashion, having just arrived from Berlin. Copenhagen society had not seen their like in some time. "Are you certain?" asked Nicholas, brushing the snow from his hat and setting it in place again. When he was close enough, Janette reached over to adjust his tie beneath his coat. "We are not so far from civilization that gold and florins are not highl prized," promised LaCroix. He lifted the cane in his hand and gestured toward the carriage that approached down the cobble-stoned street. "There, our carriage. These Dutch are most efficient. Commendable, don't you think, Nicholas." And it was a city unlike others they had passed through over the years. rumors of the cleanliness of Copenhagen were true. Although Nicholas had not and never would witness the legendary women who whitewashed their porch steps with the rising sun, he saw the results each night. He could only imagine what a bustle the city was during the day--how the festive holiday greens and decorations would look in the sunshine, the smart suits and dresses that paraded through the gold district that had drawn LaCroix, the calls of the vendors who plied their trade from carts, wrapping their goods in fresh, brown paper and leaving no trace of their presence after dusk. Even now, he tipped his hat to the watch, who stepped smartly through th street. Their footsteps echoed from the pavement in the near silence. Church bells rang in the distance, accompanying the heady melody of a dancing tune from a tavern down the way. Beyond that he heard the call of a match seller, and yet another voice offering mistletoe. The salt of the nearby sea was on the air, hinted with the powerful scent of fresh cut evergreens that seemed to be all around them. "Nicholas?" LaCroix was standing by the carriage, the door open and Janette already inside. Nodding, Nicholas took his place beside her inside the box, and LaCroix closed the door behind him. It was only seconds later that LaCroix opened the other door and slipped into the carriage, sitting on the seat across from them. He tapped the roof of the carriage with the tip of his cane and the box lurched awkwardly. The sound of the horses hooves echoed on the stone road. Janette sighed, then suddenly leaned forward. "LaCroix, what is that? gift for me?" For the first time, Nicholas noticed the wicker basket that sat beside LaCroix. "Or your needlework," he jested, laughing at the frown she gave him. She so hated to work a fine needle, although after centuries of practice her work was the most delicate to be found in the world. "I doubt our Janette plans to become a seamstress anytime soon," comment LaCroix, as he opened one side of the wicker hamper. "Although with what she spends on clothes, we might well be forced to resort to menial jobs ourselves, Nicholas, if we're to keep her in fine silk and satin." Janette crossed her arms and turned her face to the window. "I will ref to speak with either of you for the rest of the evening, unless you cease jesting at my expense." "It's Christmastide," whispered Nicholas, leaning close to her ear and planting a kiss on the lobe. "Be careful or you might find your wooden clogs filled with switches." "Mind what you find when you put on boots tomorrow evening," warn Janette. But when he kissed her ear again, she turned and smiled at him. "That's right, children, play nice. Or Sanct Herr Nicholass will send B Pete after you with his birch rod. And don't think you'll get off lightly, despite your name, Nicholas." Leaning forward, LaCroix ran his finger along Janette's cheek. "And if you pout, dear Janette, how can you make the toast? It's your turn this year, I think." Janette sat up straight, clasping her hands together. "Oh, have you bro it with you?" She glanced at Nicholas, then back at LaCroix. "I thought it might be waiting for us." LaCroix withdrew three crystal glasses from the basket, handing one to Janette, then two to Nicholas. A bottle, the neck of which held a red velvet ribbon, followed. "Even in such enlightened times, we must be careful when we toast with this vintage. I think I shall do the honors, Nicholas, as your hands are full--" Nicholas watched the bottle hungrily as LaCroix withdrew the cork using fingernails. A second later and he poured the thick red liquid into each glass, timing the flow against the bumps and eddies of the carriage. "It should be cold enough, I think," said LaCroix. "And as recent as yesterday." Janette's eyes were aglow with flecks of gold and red and Nicholas felt own fangs slip into place, as he watched the crimson liquid fill his crystal. Most of their blood was taken warm, from live donors. In the cold climes, they were able to bottle and preserve a store for a brief time, which provided for them during the storms which sent vagrants to shelter and made finding prey difficult. To drink chilled blood was an annual event with them, a tradition of Christmastide. LaCroix finished pouring the last glass and set the bottle aside. Noddi his head, as if in a slight bow, Nicholas presented the glass and LaCroix accepted it. They both looked to Janette, for it was her turn for the toast. She licked her lips, eyes shining at the sight of the blood. Then she raised her glass. "To we three, to the night, to the season." "To the blood," echoed LaCroix and Nicholas, as the glasses clinked. An they drank. The blood was fresh and the cool taste was a change from the warm blood which he survived, however reluctantly. Nicholas couldn't help but savor the taste on his tongue, leaning back against the soft satin pillows of the coach. Over his glass, his eyes wandered to Janette. She held both of her hands beneath the glass and had upended it, swallowing in a most unladylike manner. Rolling his eyes, he shared the joke with LaCroix, who was sipping at the edge of his glass like a gentlemen might partake of some fine liquor in a drawing room. "A fine toast," said LaCroix, reaching for the bottle to refill Janette' glass. "Better than the last, I think." That moment was frozen silence between them. Nicholas turned away from two, his eyes glued to the carriage window as it passed through the small lanes into the wider, more trafficked center of town. It had been his toast last year, but he had not been present. After another falling out with LaCroix, he had tried to slip his leash again. His return, in disgrace, had not been pleasant. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned his head, to find LaCroix's ey on him. "It's a new year," he said softly. "The past is best forgotten." Still, he had been so close that time. He settled back into the carriag sullen. A glance at Janette showed him that she had chosen to remain silent in the matter, as she so often did. "Come, children. It's Christmas," reminded LaCroix, raising the bottle. "Nicholas, may I?" He placed his hand over the top of his glass, then let it rest on his kn almost forgotten. Frowning, LaCroix looked to Janette, who eagerly accepted yet another refill. That silence occurred again. Nicholas refused to look at either of them lost in his own remorse. He had not run far enough that time. Next time, next year, he would cross the oceans again, return to the Americas without LaCroix and Janette beside him. Would it be easier to lose himself on that wild continent? For he was most certainly lost, beside these others. "You still have not answered my question about a present," said Janette, finally breaking the silence. LaCroix laughed. "And what is it that you would like? A ring for your pretty finger? Or yet another new dress?" His own crystal glass emptied, LaCroix returned it to the hamper, and suddenly withdrew a small jewel box. "And how ever did that get into the basket? What could it be?" "A dress," said Nicholas flatly. Janette reached for the box, ignoring LaCroix's frown. But LaCroix was longer to be diverted by her. He leaned toward Nicholas. "I have yet to find you a present, because I do not know what you most desire. What trinket would please you, Nicholas?" "Nothing. I want nothing from you." "Surely . . . ?" pressed LaCroix. "Something you are not prepared to give." "Ask me, then. And I shall be the judge of whether or not I can afford give you the gift you desire." LaCroix's gaze was steady, the eyes sliver gray and shifting in the dark of the carriage. Nicholas turned away, unable to meet the force of that gaze. "Have some compassion," he muttered, turning his attention to the window again. "And leave me to my own devices. For this one night, at least." "If that is what you wish." Behind him, he heard LaCroix settle back against the pillows of the carriage. Janette was exclaiming over her new bauble. He could hear her whispered endearments to LaCroix. It turned his stomach. Or that could have been the chilled blood. And then he sat upright, for the horses had stopped and the coach settle against the springs, shaking lightly. Outside stood the great hall, the courtyard blazing with torches and candles. From the window, Nicholas could see that the finest families of Copenhagen were attending this night's performance. Yet he knew he would feel no honor in sitting in the midst of such splendor, their presence having been paid by LaCroix's funds.. The footman opened the door and lowered the step from the coach. Nichol stepped down, then offered his hand to Janette, who was forced to struggle with the full skirted fashion of the day. She made much of her ring as he took her hand and, to please her, he kissed her fingers, making her smile. The coach door closed behind her--but LaCroix was still inside. He lean out the window. "Enjoy the evening." With difficulty, Janette escaped the attentions of the footman and turne as did Nicholas. "But you were looking forward to tonight's performance!" she cried. "Where are you going?" "I have an errand. I'll return with the coach, later." Tapping his can against the inner roof of the carriage, he signaled the horses to start up again. Nicholas began to run beside the coach, but there was so much traffic, with more coaches arriving, that he could not keep up. He hurried back to Janette, who was still smiling prettily. When he too her arm and started down the long walk across the courtyard, she leaned close. "You've angered him." "I want no part of him," he'd answered stiffly, pasting a smile on his f nodding to casual business acquaintances as he caught sight of them. "But we part of him. And is part of us." When he looked dow her, she was staring straight ahead. And her eyes, however pleasant her smile, were frightened. "Do not press him, Nicola," she warned. "One day you will go to far. It will be you or LaCroix." She dared a glance up at him. "I do not think we could survive without LaCroix." Saying that, Janette looked away, and did not speak to him again until t last of the evening's applause echoed from the ceiling of the great hall. "Nicola?" Her voice stirred him from his reverie. He found he'd twisted the cork the bottle with his nails, as LaCroix had always done. Lifting two glasses to the counter, he poured, then sniffed the bottle. "Not your preferred vintage," she apologized, abandoning her other glass the counter and slipping from her stool. "But I assumed you might make an exception this night." "For you. Yes." He picked up the glass, the red color dark and thick, uncut by alcohol. "We haven't done this for some time." "And it's your turn to toast." She picked up the glass and met his eyes Nick paused, staring at the briliant red of the blood, the shone brightl even in the darkness of the Raven. "To we . . . two. To the night. To the season." "To the blood," answered Janette. The clink of the two glasses sounded hollow to him. Still, he drained h in one gulp and set the glass aside. Human blood still had a sweet tint and it made his heart sing, after so many months of subsisting on cow blood alone. He looked to Janette and saw her frowning, toying with the ring on her finger, the ring that LaCroix had given her that night in Copenhagen. He'd not realized she still had it. "Janette--" She hadn't tasted her glass, but stared at it, as if expecting it to cha shape or color. "I don't blame you for destroying him." Nick closed his eyes for a moment, his fist clenching of its own accord. "If he would have let me go--let me alone. He pushed and pushed. It had been so long, I thought he'd finally given up." "He could be cruel." When he opened his eyes, he saw that Janette still had not tasted the blood in her glass. "And yet . . . he made us." Her finger traced the crystal rim absently. "I never thought I would miss him." Nick reached across the bar to take her hand. "I'm still here." "Yes. But so was he. And he is gone." She looked up at him, her dark shining. "And you will go, Nicola. And I will be alone." Tightening her grip on his hand, she downed the glass, then threw it against the back wall of the bar. "Which is why you must not be rude to me when I drink too much." Leaving the bar, he reached her side and kissed her on the forehead. "M Christmas, Janette." But she placed her hand on his cheek holding his face inches from hers. "Merry Christmas, Nicola--" "Detective Knight?" He looked up at the voice, ignoring Janette's exasperated sigh. The bartender waved a phone receiver at him, from the far end of the bar. Nick looked at Janette and she pointed behind them. "There's a phone back there." "Thanks." Standing on the rungs of the stool, Nick reached over to the side of the bar and picked up a receiver. "Knight here." "Nick! Geez, partner, do you know how hard you are to track down?" Closing his eyes, Nick rested his hand against his forehead. "What is i Schanke? Has Toronto declared war on Chicago?" "They're calling everyone in early. There's a probable kidnapping at th mid-town mall, a two year old kid. Stonetree wants you to head there. Kelly's on the scene--she'll give you the details." He could almost imagine Schanke shaking his head. "Can you believe the sickos in this world? Imagine, taking a kid the day before Christmas Eve?" "That's why we're employed, Schank. Tell Stonetree I'm on my way." He up the phone, then straightened. "I know--you have to go." Nick took her hand and kissed the knuckles. "Don't drink too much." In response, she waved her glass at him. "Joyeaux Noel, Nicola. To we . . for now." *** The mall was awash with the colors and sounds of the season. Speakers blared an unending cacophony of muzac Christmas carols, but even that noise wasn't enough to drown out the drone of the shoulder-to-shoulder shoppers. Evergreen, spun sugar, hot buttered popcorn, and a thousand other scents blurred together and permeated the length and breadth of the mall. Voices argued or laughed, children screamed and wailed and pleaded, and feet trampled wearily across one level, then another. It was madness. And each and every part of it would make his job harder not completely impossible. "Nick!" Natalie was struggling through the crowd toward him, a ski cap perched tenuously on her disheveled hair, her coat hanging open, the scarf askew and threatening to strangle her. But there was a brightness in her eyes and he smiled at the sight of her. It was only a matter of sheer physical effort that brought her near enou for him to grab her arm and remove her from the herd of shoppers traveling past. "I thought you were done shopping," he chided. "So did I." Natalie tried to catch her breath, leaning on his arm. Two shopping bags were slung over her shoulder and she held another, smaller bag in her hand. She grinned impishly up at him. "Oh, I opened my present." Putting on a mock frown, he shook his finger at her. "Now, you're suppo to wait for Christmas--" "So don't give it to me early. And I love them, all of them." Smiling shyly, he shrugged his shoulders and looked off into the crowd. "Well, I didn't know what color you wanted. And since you practically live in them . . . ." "One sweatshirt would have been enough. Really. But, Nick, one of ever color they had? I can start my own exercise club. And now I've gotta get more hangers--" "I'll remember for next year," he promised, holding up his hand, palm outward. "You'd better." Planting a quick kiss on his cheek, she whispered, "Thanks." The crowd chose that moment to impinge upon their personal space, pushin them together. Nick found himself staring into those large, mortal eyes, heard her heartbeat throbbing even beneath the layers of winter clothing, and, for a moment, forgot where he was or why he was there. There was only Natalie, with the warm eyes, bright smile, and inviting lips. Then they were jostled from the other side, broken apart by the hustle a bustle of the insistent shoppers. Nick looked up and away, pretending the moment had never happened. It was better that way, easier if they just remained friends. "You're the last person I'd expect to see in this madness," commented Natalie, after clearing her throat. "I thought you did most of your shopping mail order." "I do. It's business." Again, he looked up into the mall, but the sign were obscured by sale banners and holiday decorations. "You wouldn't happen to know where they keep the security office in here?" "Why? Are you on shoplifting detail?" she teased. "We might have a kidnapping on our hands. A two-year old." Her smile fled. Lips drawn into a tight line, she nodded, then looped h arm through his. "Hang on--I'll get you there. I think it's on the second level." It took them almost ten minutes to brave the cresting tide of shoppers a reach the security office. One of the mall security guards was exiting as they approached. Reaching in his pocket, Nick withdrew his badge with one hand and with expertise born of practice, flipped it open for the guard's inspection. There was no pause on the guard's part--he held open the frosted glass d standing to one side as they passed through. The office was small, the plain white walls decorated with framed pictures, photographs, and service awards, as well as posters of known shoplifters. A bank of surveillance equipment, including three monitors, was manned by two mall security guards. There were two desks and a small waiting area with a couch, table and lamp. A hallways led away, to distant doors and other noises. Three uniformed officers were listening to a woman who was wearing a tan skirt and jacket. Seeing Nick, she waved him forward, then the officers dispersed, all heading for the door. "Glad you're here," said the woman. "Stonetree said he'd call in everyo he could get at short notice." "Natalie Lambert, Detective Kelly Ross." Nick stepped back as the women shook hands. "Kelly, Nat's the County Coroner." "Here strictly as a civilian and mall guide," said Natalie quickly, as R blue eyes widened. "Nick told me what was up and I thought I'd lend a hand." Ross smiled and gestured down the corridor that led out of the small off "How's your bedside manner with the living?" Natalie stiffened slightly, her eyes followed Kelly's gesture. "Let me guess, the mother?" "In one. Lucy Reese. I think I've gotten all I can out of her. She's hysterical--yet." Dropping her packages behind a desk, Natalie reached up to touch Nick's "I'll see what I can do. Call me if you need anything." "Thanks." Seating himself on the edge of a brightly patterned sofa, Nic looked up at her. "What have you got?" "Less than I'd like." Ross picked up a notebook from the desk and flipp it open. "She took the kid to see Santa. They got off line, she turned around and the kid was gone. No one saw anything, of course. And with the traffic in this mall, there was no way to track down witnesses by the time we arrived. I've got someone talking to Santa and his elves right now." Frowning, she handed him a photograph from the notebook. "The only good thing about it is we've got a recent picture a visual on what the kid's wearing." The picture could have been of any child--brown hair, dark eyes, dressed an orange and blue snowsuit. Completely average, down to the kid crying on Santa's lap. But this child was missing. "I've called in the description. We've got it on the wire. And the mal photo lab's got dupes of this picture running. We should have them in another--" she glanced up at the wall clock behind her, "fifteen minutes." Ross shook her head slightly. "We got the call an hour ago. The kid's been gone for ninety minutes." Nick met her gaze evenly, knowing the implications of that statement. M non-parental abduction cases without a solid lead in the first two hours after the disappearance ended up with a corpse or . . . the child seemed to disappear from the face of the earth. "What about the parents?" Her eyes dropped to the pad again and she flipped a sheet of paper aside "Like I said, I got what I could from the mother. No real problems in the marriage, no custody issues, no strangers hanging around, everything's cool with the relatives. The mother was laid-off from her job at a cannery five months ago. We're trying to get word to the father--he does night trucking from the airport." Flipping the notebook shut, she sighed. "They're subsistence level, if that." "So ransom isn't an option." Ross looked away. "Somebody just took the kid. And that's the worst ki of case to have. Why do people do shit like this? Christ, Nick, it's Christmas!" Nick saw the tightness in her shoulders, the tension in her eyes, and wi there was something he could do. He'd seen countless children die through the centuries--in plague, in war, in helpless squalor--yet he could offer her no answer. All they could do was their job--keep their attention on the details and their options open. "Is the station running a list of possibles?" "All sexual offenders or known pedophiles recently released or in the ar No recent snatch attempts at the local hospitals or playgrounds." "At least something." Ross shrugged, but there was a half-smile on her face. Touching his a she gestured toward the surveillance equipment. "How about a video?" "You buying the popcorn?" The look she gave him was one of mock-disgust. "That's all you night-sh guys ever think about--food." Nick followed her over to the console. "Can I assume that means you've worked with Schanke recently?" An amused snort was his only answer. Arms crossed, he stood to one side waited. "Run it," said Ross, to one of the security guards. She pointed toward far monitor, but stood where she was, watching another display. "You'll get the better shots there. The whole thing's less than a minute long." The picture appeared on the blank screen, shuddering and rolling, then settling in place. "The left side's the exit from 'Santa's Workshop.' Just past the sign on the right is the north side mall entrance wing." "Got it." Nick watched the picture, hoping his extra-acute vision could catch some detail that even Ross' quick eyes would miss. The film was in black and white, he noted, which would give them better resolution in the blow-ups. People moved to and fro in jerky fashion on the film. Children and adul casual shoppers, and even a security guard passed beneath the eye of the camera. Nick leaned forward as the child in the photo, holding his mother's hand, wandered into view. They moved upward, out of frame. A second later, the child was back, alone. Seemingly confused, it moved toward the sign that obstructed the view of the north mall wing entrance. "There!" cried Ross. "Freeze it." The image froze in place. Ross walked over to stand beside him. "That' the best we can do." Nick stared at the image--the standing sign obscured most of the camera' view. The child's hand was upward, being held by the left hand of an adult. From the pants and the boots visible beneath the lower portion of the sale sign, and the shoulder that he could see beyond a bit of the sign, he would guess the kidnapper to be male. "Six foot, maybe taller," he muttered under his breath, already creating a profile. "Caucasian. No rings on the left hand--" A shudder went through him. He backed up a step from the monitor, stari No. It couldn't be. Not . . . LaCroix. He started at the touch on his shoulder and stared at Ross a second. "What?" she asked. Her attention moved to the monitor, as she tried to spot what had stopped him cold. "Nothing," he said, offering her a sheepish smil "Just trying to get some perspective." Swallowing, he placed his hands on either side of the monitor and leaned closer, Ross beside him. "Is there any more?" "That's the best shot." Turning to the guard, she said, "Let it run, Neill." She was right--the picture never got clearer or closer than that one sho and the sale sign cut out anything that could be of use. As the tape cut to black, he met Ross' eyes. "Run it again," he ordered. Shrugging, she went back to the console and spoke in low tones with the security guard. But Nick kept his attention on the black screen. The freeze frame had been captured in his mind. As if it were a mental photograph, he viewed it from all angles, looking for something, anything, to disprove that one brief flash of recognition--the color of the hair, the bend of a finger, the stance and balance of the boots . . . it was all too familiar. Nor would it be out of character. There was one Christmas that still haunted his memory, how his careless, sullen reply had led to spilled blood. LaCroix had slipped into his seat beside Janette during the second half the symphony. Nicholas kept his gaze to the stage and tried to keep his fidgeting to a minimum. The music bored him this night, as did the various politicians and society matrons that he'd been forced to charm during intermission. There would only be the ride back in the carriage and then he'd be left to brood on his own The audience was rose in ovation, applauding. Janette leaned down, slap his shoulder with her fan, then applauded as well, casting him a disgusted look as he struggled to his feet. LaCroix, thankfully, didn't look askance and was pretending as if nothing had happened. Nicholas clapped all the louder, again catching a reproving glance from Janette. Still, he followed her dutifully from the great hall and helped her into her coat at the cloakroom. He received no thanks for his pains--in fact, she grabbed her ruff from his hands and tied her bonnet on so quickly that it was slightly askew. The carriage waited for them, as did the carriages of the other patrons. Janette walked ahead, escorted by LaCroix and Nicholas continued to follow. This time it was he who took the small seat on the far side of the coach, a glare from Janette letting him know in no uncertain terms that to sit beside her would be to endanger his immortal existence. It was only after the horses began to move and the coach rocked on its w that she turned her dark eyes on him again. "Nicola, I have never been embarrassed! You were rude--" Too tired, too annoyed to fight any longer, he simply turned away, prepa to endure what could not be stopped. But LaCroix leaned forward and took Janette's hand. "Now, let's not have this," he warned, in a voice of silk lined with steel. "You must forgive Nicholas. After all, he has a right to sulk. I gave you your present before we went inside and he did not receive his. It was a thoughtless oversight on my part. If anyone has been rude, it is I." Trying not to show his surprise, Nicholas glanced at Janette, but her bl expression told him that she was as baffled as he at the turn of events. "You have a present for Nicola?" she asked, an eyebrow arching. "Here?" "Not here," countered LaCroix, his smile secretive. Indicating the wind with a gloved hand, he added, "We'll arrive presently." Nicholas stared at him, willing his master's gaze to meet his own, but LaCroix sat quietly, his smile still hiding his secret. "I told you," he said quietly. "I want nothing from you." "You asked for a show of compassion. And that you will have." Finally, LaCroix looked at him, his smile twisting into a sneer. "It is Christmastide, after all." The rest of the carriage ride was consumed with talk of the performance had witnessed. LaCroix talked Janette through the half he had missed like a drill sergeant, asking about instruments, going back to clear up minor points, correcting her pronunciation of terminology like a school master. Thankfully, Nicholas was spared the exercise. Some time before LaCroix had dismissed his talent for music appreciation as barely adequate, concentrating instead on the more promising pupil. It was only as the carriage drew near their residence that he heard the music that interested him the most--the tavern tunes that escaped even through the shutters and doors battened against the snow. He found himself leaning against the carriage window to better hear as they passed, then found LaCroix beside him. "There's life in that music," said LaCroix. "No grandeur . . . but raw, untamed passion." Nicholas leaned back inside the carriage, assuming a pose of disinterest "Too common, is it not?" he asked, tugging to loosen his tie. LaCroix remained at the window. "There will be sport, there. Blue bloo runs too thin. I think we might indulge in the common now and then." Half-turning, he lifted the cane from the seat beside him and tapped on the hatch in the carriage. It opened and the coachmen glanced down. "Sir?" "Stop at the tavern," commanded LaCroix. The hatch in the roof of the ceiling closed. The carriage jerked slight to the left and Nicholas slipped on the satin coverings, bumping his shoulder against the wall. Janette smiled sharply, still glaring at him beneath her half-closed eyelids. Pretending not to notice, he waited until the carriage slowed, then open the door and leaped to the ground. As the others disembarked, he pulled the satin tie from his neck, dropped it into the gutter, and started for the tavern door. That's when they heard the scream. Nicholas glanced back, but LaCroix was helping Janette from the carriage He ran in the direction of the cry, but was beaten to the scene by a night watchman. Indeed, by the time he arrived at the alley not more than a stone's throw from their residence, there was already a small crowd. He forced his way through them, to the center. A night watchman was kneeling in the snow, beside the body of a child. Because of the ragged cap and the dirty, patched apron, he relegated her to the group of homeless urchins that the work houses sold out to match and posey concessions. A tray lay in the snow beside her, neatly placed. Beside this were blackened wooden matches, a few strays alone and then all in a mass, together. The night watchman bowed his head and looked back at the crowd. "She's frozen to death, poor thing. Does anyone know her bondsman?" As others came forward, trying to identify the young girl, Nicholas rose his feet and stumbled back a pace or two. He knew the child had not frozen. He could see the two pinholes of red on her neck. He knew how the child had died. Blindly, her turned and fought his way out, away from the body in the sn But LaCroix stood in his way, Janette beside him. "Nicola, what has happened?" she asked. When he didn't answer, Janette a sound of impatience and, lifting her skirts from the wet drifts, she pushed past him roughly and went to see for herself. Nicholas stared after her, then turned his gaze back to LaCroix. There was no pretense of innocence. Wearing a thin smile, LaCroix tippe his hat. "Merry Christmas, Nicholas. I hope you like your gift." Nick turned away from the monitor, shaking his head. No, LaCroix had be destroyed. It could be LaCroix. The office door was opened, the glass rattling in the frame as it slamme against the outer wall. A man entered--hair disheveled, coat open--accompanied by a security guard. He looked from Nick to Kelly Ross, then to the other officers in the room. "Where's my wife?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "Lucy--?" Ross stepped forward. "Mr. Reese, I'm Detective Ross, this is Detective Knight. We're investigating your son's disappearance. Your wife is fine--" A door closed down the corridor. Nick looked up and saw Natalie approaching, accompanied by the woman he identified from the surveillance photos as the child's mother. As soon as she saw her husband, she began to cry. Sobbing, she ran into his arms. "God, Brian, I only took him to see Santa, that was all! He wanted to s Santa--" The man wrapped his arms around his wife. "I thought we weren't going t that this year," he said, eyes glazed over. "I thought we agreed, we don't have the money--" His wife pushed away from him. "So it's my fault?" She spun around wil looking from one of them to another. "I took to my son to see Santa! That's not a crime. He's a good boy. He wanted to--" Her eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed. Nick, just a hair faster than her husband, caught the woman and lifted her to the couch on Natalie's instructions. "Keep her feet elevated," called Natalie, above the tumult. "And somebody call first aid--" "It's next door," said a security man, who headed immediately for the ex "Good, they can take over." Backing away, Natalie touched Nick's arm an gestured away from the crowd. "Did you get anything?" he asked, following her. Natalie shook her head. "Det. Ross probably got more. She was borderli hysterical when we showed up. I thought I'd calmed her down a bit, but the sight of her husband--" Biting her lip, she looked back at the crowd that surrounded the woman. "I'd suggest a mild sedative, something to take the edge off. She blames herself. She and Brian haven't been doing too well this year, cash wise. They agreed to play down the whole Christmas thing. The baby's small enough not to notice that he's missing out. But they have a television. And the kid became obsessed with Santa. So the next thing she knows, they're in the car, driving out here to visit Santa--" "And the child gets snatched." "Something like that." Her eyes looked up at him. "Can you use your . you know . . . to find something? Anything?" There was so much faith in her eyes, he didn't want to answer. Pausing, looked up, away, then his glance fell on the blank surveillance monitor. Suppressing a shudder, he took a deep breath. "There's nothing more to do. Kelly's got the drill down to a fine art form. And there have been too many people through that area since the kidnapping--the crime scene's gone. If there'd been some blood spilled, maybe--" He shrugged. "Well, we can thank God there was none of that, at least." She took a d breath, as if to steady herself. "You want my unsolicited opinion?" Suddenly, Nick realized that she'd slipped her hand into his. He nodded down at her. "Anything, Nat. Anything." "Continue with the drill. Take them both back to the station, after the mother checks back in. Have them look at the photos. Keep them busy. They need to feel they're doing something. We've got to keep them from realizing there's not a damn thing they do." "I'll have Kelly take them back," promised Nick, meeting the eyes of the other detective across the room, letting her know that he wanted to speak with her. "I think I'll try downstairs. Who knows, maybe . . . something . . . ?" Natalie smiled at his half-hearted shrug and squeezed his hand. "I'll h back to the office, then." "I thought you were off." "I was. If something comes up, I want to be there." Her smiled turned a grim line as she indicated the parents. "It's kind of sick, I guess. They think about their little boy, and they see a walking, breathing two-year-old. In my mind, I'm already tallying supplies and doing a prep for the autopsy. Occupational hazard." As Natalie gathered up the bags she'd left behind the desk, Nick touched arm again. "Nat--one last thing. Kelly never told me the child's name." "Christopher," she answered flatly, her eyes going to the mother, who'd regained consciousness and was now weeping hysterically in the arms of one of the mall medical staff. "But they call him Chris." "As in mas?" Her eyes met his for a moment and she frowned as he looked away. "Is th something up with you? Is there something you know about this you need to tell me?" He hesitated for the barest of heartbeats, wanting to explain about LaCr and the picture from the surveillance camera, about Janette and their toast, about Copenhagen so many years ago . . . . But he could easily be wrong. The death of that child should have nothi to do with the disappearance this one, no matter what his gut instinct said. And he'd thought often about LaCroix since the beginning of the season--combining his image with a blurry picture from a camera was a simple trick of his imagination. "No," he told her, reinforcing the lie with what he hoped was a convinci smile. "No, it's just--this. The same thing that's got everyone down. Having to deal with this so close to Christmas." She nodded her understanding. "Call me later, okay?" Only after he nodded his agreement did she head for the door, balancing shopping bags with care. That was when Nick tapped one of the security guards at the surveillance desk on the shoulder. Leaning forward onto the electronic board, he asked, "Could I see that still frame one more time?" He had to be sure. He had to . "Detective Knight?" asked another of the security guards. He looked up. The man held a telephone receivrd out for him. "It's for you. Downtown." His heart beat twice. He grabbed the phone and took a deep breath, know the news was either going to be very good . . . or very bad. "Knight here." That's when he realized that everyone else in the room knew the score. There was silence, punctuated by occasional sobs from the child's mother. "Nick, we've got an all clear," said Schanke's voice. "We've got the ki He's fine." Nick placed his hand over the mouthpiece. He met the mother's worried e "Christopher's fine. They've got him." Slipping his hand off the mouthpiece, he turned his back to the rejoicing parents and cheering security and asked softly, "Where and how?" "He was dropped off here. And I do mean --right on the front step There was a note of wonder in Schanke's voice. "He was sitting on the steps, crying his eyes out. We've got no idea how he got here. Seems okay, but we had the EMT's pick him up and take him to Westside, just in case." Nick sighed in relief. "Good work, Schank. I'll send the parents down. Oh, and put in a call to Natalie. She's heading back to her office." "Natalie? What's she got to do with this? Nick?" He hung up the phone and walked over to the parents, who were seated on couch. Squatting down to their level, he said evenly. "Christopher's fine--he was dropped off at the police station. They've taken him to Westside hospital, just to check him over." Nodding to Kelly, he added, "Det. Ross will take you over there." "Thank you, Detective Knight," cried Mrs. Reese, throwing her arms aroun his shoulders and hugging him. "God bless you. Thank you." Embarrassed, he looked to Kelly Ross for help. Almost instantly, she'd turned her attention to the security guards, but not quite fast enough. He'd seen the tears sparkling in the corners of her eyes, as well. *** It was a welcome change not to be entering the hospital though the emerg room doors. Nick hesitated just inside the entrance, then saw Natalie sitting in the general waiting area. She stood and waved him over. Vaulting a couch, he reached for her and pulled her into his arms, lifti her from the floor as he hugged her. Then a nurse walked by and he set her back on the floor, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry." "Don't be," she answered, eyes shining. "We've got reason to celebrate. He's fine." Nick's gaze moved to the hospital corridor. "How's it going?" "Last I looked, they'd given Lucy a mild sedative. They've got her in a private room with Chris." She sank back into one of the waiting room chairs. "I think Kelly Ross is still with them." "Good. She's the officer of record, let her handle it." Falling into a chair beside her, and nearly sending the attached row of chairs backward with the force of the movement, Nick sighed. "Besides, I don't think I'd be much help in talking to a two year old." "Oh yeah? How come?" He grinned, meeting her challenge. "Well, first there's the age difference--" "Not from where I'm sitting." Natalie jumped from her seat before he co swat her arm. Then she leaned down and picked up a small package from beneath her seat. "Since you gave me my present early--" Nick took the red ribboned package from her, then held it to his ear and shook it. It clanked. He cast a suspicious eye on her, then the package. "You're not going to let me wait for Christmas, are you?" "You'd better not," she threatened. Tossing the package from one hand to the other, Nick rose to his feet, pretending to consider her suggestion. "Maybe I'll have it x-rayed." "Nick!" He started toward the front desk, but paused as Natalie began to protest "You should learn patience," he told her, as he seated himself again. "Yeah, maybe if I had a hundred years to--great, he ribbons. I you reuse the paper, too." Nick stopped in mid-movement, part of the ribbon untied, and put on a wounded air. "Printed paper used to be scarce." "And vampire-police detectives are going to get a lot scarcer if they do learn the proper way to open packages," Natalie whispered, leaning toward him. "Just open it already!" Sighing loudly in defeat, Nick ripped the paper and ribbon from the pack It took him only a few seconds more to open the box, revealing seven stainless steel corkscrews. He looked up at Natalie in surprise. "I figured you must not have any at the loft," she explained, tucking he leg under her, as she sat back at the chair. "And stepping on half-chewed corks gets real old, real fast. Besides--" she lowered her voice again, "if you have to go back to the bottle, I want to make you work for it. Every second longer is a victory. And maybe, someday, it'll be just too much of a pain in the ass to bother getting the cork out." Nick stared down at the corkscrews and smiled. "I don't know what to sa I don't think anyone's ever given me corkscrews before." "Yeah. Just . . . don't tell Schanke. And if you do, don't let me hear comments, okay?" Rising from her chair, she took a step back, then another, suddenly awkward. "Look, I'm going to check on Lucy and Christopher. I'll tell Ross that you're out here." "Thanks." He rose to his feet as well. "And thanks for the present. M Christmas." She paused, hands clasped together, her cheeks flushed. "Yeah. Merry Christmas." And then she ran down the hall, out of his line of sight." Returning to his seat, Nick stared down at the corkscrews in wonder. On for each hundred years behind him. Or one for each day of the week. It was all a matter of perspective, really. That's what Nat kept trying to tell him. There was a way to beat this thing. There had to be. "Detective Knight?" Putting the box top back, he rose from his seat and found himself facing Brian Reese. The man moved toward him hesitantly, a few steps at a time. "Mr. Reese, how's Christopher? And your wife?" Reese smiled, almost shyly and tucked his hands in his coat pockets. "L she kind of gets upset sometimes. And thinking that we lost Chris--" He swallowed hard and looked down at the floor. When he looked up, some of his hesitancy was gone. "But Chris is fine. And we, Lucy and I, wanted to thank you and Detective Ross." "No thanks necessary," said Nick. "We were doing our jobs. We're just it worked out for the best. And we're going to find the man who kidnapped your son." "Yeah, well." Reese looked toward the admitting desk, then down at the floor again. "Det. Ross had the hospital people take Chris' clothes . . . ." There was something wrong, but Nick couldn't put his finger on it. Then remembered Kelly's comments about the family funds dwindling. "I'll make certain they're returned to you," he promised. "Not that. I mean, they're just clothes. But, there's something I thou you should take a look at. I was there when they were undressing Chris--Lucy was out of it and he was crying and they wanted me to make sure all the clothes were his and all--" The man shook his head, as if unable to accept the scope of what had been asked of him. "I didn't see them at first, but I'm pretty sure they fell from Chris' pocket when the nurse pulled off his overalls." Nick felt a cold chill steal over him and took a step closer to Reese. what?" After a pause, Reese withdrew his hand from his pocket and held it out toward Nick, palm upward. There was a coin in his hand--a gold coin--and several burnt stick matches. "I bet it's gold, isn't it?" But Nick couldn't answer. For a moment, his eyes were blinded by the glitter of the coin and the memory of snow . . . and burnt matches. He had stared at LaCroix in horror. "You took that child's life for you sake, not for mine," he accused, yet he kept his voice quiet--there were mortals near. "It's my gift to you." Placing his arm around Nicholas' shoulder, he tu him toward the crowd, who were already dispersing. "Imagine, if you will, that poor child. Starving, shivering from the cold, she huddles in the alley and offers matches that no one wishes to buy. If she returns before she's sold all of the matches, she'll be beaten. So she stays. And, just to keep herself warm, she lights a match. One match. How could it be missed?" LaCroix held his fingers in the air as if holding the match. Nicholas s the arm from around his shoulders, but found his eyes drawn to that invisible match. "You saw that?" "I did. When I left you, I returned here. And I watched her. I saw he eyes as she watched the match burn." LaCroix touched his fingers to his lips, puzzlement in his gaze. "I cannot imagine what she saw, Nicholas, but it held her in a trance. Then it burned to the quick and was out." Nicholas could see Janette now, kneeling beside the cold body. "But the were other matches . . . . " "And I saw her light those, too. First another, single match, but the l was almost as brief as the first. And then a third. It too was gone." LaCroix blew on the tips of his fingers, as if blowing out the match, then made a motion as if flicking the burned stub to the ground. "And the others? All of the matches were burned." "Ah," said LaCroix, "yes. The others. I wasn't certain at first what s planned. She walked back and forth in the snow for a bit, but it was obvious that she was still freezing." He shrugged, as if that part wasn't important. "Then she did something odd--she sat down in the snow and she lit all of the matches." "All?" "At once," emphasized LaCroix. He shook his head in wonderment. "She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. That's when I remembered what you'd said about compassion." Nicholas started guiltily. "What said?" LaCroix slapped him on the back. "Yes, of course. You said I should sh compassion. And I thought, what better way to show it than to rescue that miserable child from her existence. She was going to die in the snow--if she returned without the matches or the money, she have been beaten, and, I can assure you, Nicholas, it would not have been the first time. So I eased her suffering. I ended it. For you." Smiling brightly, he slapped Nicholas on the back again. "Isn't that the gift you asked for?" He vaguely felt the blow, but a harder, colder hand struck inside him, t his heart and the pit of his stomach. He felt stunned, cold beyond belief, but not from the snow. With one step, then another, he stumbled toward Janette, the night watchman, and the few who remained at the side of the body. Dirty golden hair rested against the snow, then Janette lifted the child head, cradling it in her lap. With a movement quicker than mortal eyes could follow, she snapped the neck. With the sound of that snap, quiet enough so that only he could hear, so strength came back to Nicholas. He straightened, an angry fire building inside him. When he turned and crossed the distance to LaCroix, it took all of his will to keep his fangs from falling into place. His eyes, he knew, were nothing like their normal color. "How you," he hissed. "How you blame me! I never asked f that child's life. You took that blood because wanted it, not because I asked you for it or anything else. Yes, she interested you for a few minutes. When you grew bored, you killed her. That's what happens. You grow bored too easily. When you're bored with Janette, will you destroy her, too? Or me?" "Take care, Nicholas," replied LaCroix, his own eyes beginning to glow. "Oh, yes, ." Holding her skirts above the snow, Janette walk between them, glaring at each of them in turn. "Both of you, with your pathetic posturings. You," she turned to LaCroix, "claim to have shown compassion. You could have done better with a gold coin than with your teeth. That, and a warm bed in the tavern, and the child would be alive." She sniffed as LaCroix stared at her, stunned. Nicholas smiled at LaCroix's astonishment, but his smile faded as Janett turned toward him, shaking her finger beneath his nose. "And you, Nicola--you're as much to blame as he! I heard that child's voice last night and the night before. You've gold in your purse. You could have tossed her a coin. LaCroix was right--had he not taken her life, she would have frozen in any case. But you do nothing until she's cold. Then, as mortals bend over her, you stand here and hiss at one another, while I must take care of practical matters." Janette stalked back to LaCroix and held her hand out. "Your purse, if you please." He hesitated only a moment, but then reached inside of his coat and with a slim wallet and a small purse. Ignoring the wallet, Janette took the purse and counted out three gold florins into the palm of her hand. Tossing the purse back at him, she turned and walked back to the body of the child. Nicholas met LaCroix's gaze, then they followed her. A discussion had ensued as to the disposition of the corpse. "Her master will have none of her," said a young man, from the tavern's stable. "I've seen the brute. He'd have you throw her in a pauper's grave." The night watchman shook his head sadly, looking down at the tiny corpse "That's true enough. Cobbler, you knew something of the child. Is there none who will care for her remains?" "She came to my shop with the other children," admitted the cobbler, aft brief pause, "but not often. Her master would look to see that she sold her matches on the street, and beat her if he caught her shirking. I slipped her bread and food when I could." He shook his head. "I have a few coppers saved. Perhaps that will be enough to send her soul to rest, poor thing." Nicholas hung back as Janette approached the men. "Gentlemen," she said acknowledging their greetings, "we're strangers to your city, but our hearts are touched by this child's end." "Her Dutch is atrocious," said LaCroix, beside Nicholas' ear. "She speaks more eloquently than we have this evening," countered Nichol "Let her finish." "If you would accept these coins and see that she is properly cared for. When she held out the gold florins, both the eyes of the night watchman and the stable boy shone brightly. Several members of the crowd moved forward. But Janette dropped the coins into the cobbler's hand. "Lady," he protested, "one will surely be more than enough." "Then I trust you shall use the rest to feed any other children who come your shop, as did this one." The cobbler nodded shyly. "I will do as you ask." "Then, I thank you. And good Christmastide to you." Her skirts aswirl, Janette turned her back on the crowd and stalked past Nicholas and LaCroix. "That, is compassion," she said quietly. "In future, kindly pay your debts in the coin of the realm and leave philosophy to scholars." Head held high, she continued to the street, in the direction of their residence. Nicholas moved to follow her but LaCroix caught his arm, staring after h "It would be best if we left her alone for a time." "But she--" LaCroix's lips were twisted in a smile, but there was a warning darkness his eyes. "Take care, Nicholas. Never underestimate Janette. She may play the coquette, but there is a brain inside that pretty head. I think she resents our inattention this evening and we're apt to pay for that error. Leaving her to her own devices and spending a night at the tavern would not be amiss." Turning his head, Nicholas saw that Janette had disappeared. Then he realized that LaCroix was already returning to the carriage and their driver. Only as they passed the night watchman carrying away the body of the child did they stop. As if in a gesture of respect for the dead, LaCroix removed his hat and it against his chest. "You see," he whispered, "how quickly it goes? The child will be buried in the morning and none but her master will remember her--until he admits the money he would have gained from the matches has been lost, and returns to his bottle. Janette was right that debts should be paid in kind, but that--death--that is the coin of realm." His eyes bored into Nicholas. "That's how we pay and are repaid in the mortal world. It's with your own kind that you belong. With Janette, and myself." He clapped Nicholas on the back and returned his hat to his head, tipping it at a rakish angle. "And in the spirit of the season, I shall allow you to buy the first round. Yes?" He again headed toward the tavern and Nicholas followed. But as they pa the wall where the child had perished, he could not help but see the outline of the small body, and the handful of blacked matches in the snow. He still stared at the coin and three stick matches in the man's hand. he, Janette, and LaCroix knew of that evening in Copenhagen, of the dead match seller. And LaCroix had been destroyed, he was certain of it. Which left him with only one option. "How much did she pay you?" he asked, pinning the man with a steady gaze that threatened to turn into gold and bloody fury. "You didn't find those things on the floor--she gave them to you, didn't she?" Reese stared at him in amazement, returning the matches and coin to his pocket. "I don't know what you're talking about--" Nick paused, looking for some mark in the man's eyes that he was under Janette's spell . . . but this was no vampiric power. He took another step forward and Reese backed away. The man was confused, but there was no sign of guilt on him, even as he fell back into a chair. His heartbeat was fast, but the pattern was nothing like that which Nick had learned to associate with a guilty man fearing discovery. Facing the man, he leaned down on the arms of the chair, trapping Reese place. "All right. Mr. Reese, I believe you. We're going to pretend that this whole thing never happened." Reese's eyes glazed over almost immediately. Nick continued to stare at him, his voice low and even. "You didn't find anything on the floor. We never had this conversation." Still holding Reese's gaze, Nick reached into the man's pocket and took the coin and burnt matches. Then he released the chair arms and walked backed to the spot at which he'd stood before. "Mr. Reese?" he asked. There was a second's pause before Reese looked up at him, eyes bewildere "I'm sorry, Detective Knight. I must have--it's all this with Chris and--" The man rubbed his hand across his eyes. "You were saying?" "I was saying, you might want to check with Detective Ross and the docto There's every possibility your wife and son can go home with you this evening." The tension seemed to lift from the man's shoulders. He rose to his fee leaning heavily on the arm of the chair, which snapped off under his weight. Wincing, Nick leaped forward and caught Reese before he could pitch head first onto the carpet. "Maybe we'd better get someone to take you home," he amended, making a mental note that he owed the hospital a chair arm and to take more care with the furniture in future. "Yeah, I'd better go see how they are." Reese turned and took a step ou the waiting area, then looked back. "It's . . . it's a tough time to have a kid, have a family. But without Lucy and Chris--it wouldn't be worth living. Did I--did I thank you?" "I was only doing my job," said Nick, echoing his earlier answer. "But thanks, just the same." Smacking his fist against his palm nervously, Nick began to pace the wai area. What was going on? There had only been the three of them; Janette, LaCroix, and himself. Could Janette have engineered this without the father's assistance? And, if not, that only left LaCroix . . . . He started at a sound behind him and turned. Natalie stared back at him suspiciously. "If I didn't know you better, I'd suspect you were on a serious caffeine high. What's up?" Nick gave her a weak smile and shrugged. "Nothing. Not much of a case, it?" "You'll get the guy." Then, she hesitated, staring at him. "Nick, you' holding something back again." "Me? Naw. It's . . . nothing." He walked away from her, anything to k from meeting her eyes. Natalie was beginning to know his ways too well. "Just the case." "Yeah. Just the case." She didn't sound at all convinced. He tried no hunch his shoulders as he heard her footsteps behind him. "Spill it." It was an order. And Natalie wasn't going to let him get away. Hands raised at shoulder height in mock surrender, he said, "You're not going to want to hear this--" "I it!" She raised her hand into the air, then let it fall to he side. "Okay--I want details. Is this sort of thing going to happen again?" "No!" he answered fiercely. Then, as the nurse at the reception desk at far side of the room looked up, he gave the woman a reassuring smile and sank into a seat. "No," he answered, more quietly, looking up at Natalie with what he hoped was sincere contrition. "It will happen again. I'll see to that. As to details--" There were storm clouds gathering in Natalie's eyes. When she crossed her arms, he added, "It'll be safer for all concerned, including the Reese family, if you don't know everything. I'm not sure, but I think it's about something that happened a while back, in Copenhagen." "Denmark? Like . . . where Hans Christian Andersen was from?" Nick stared at her blankly. "Who?" "Hans Christian Andersen." When she got no response, Natalie tucked her under her and sat down on the seat beside him, leaning over the arm of the chair. "You know, he wrote fairytales. Com'on, Nick! Every kid in the world read--uh, scratch that." "That's right. me feel ancient." "It's not my fault you were born before he was. before he was," amended, after a thoughtful pause. "But I know you read everything you could get your hands on. He wrote folk-tales, fairytales about . . . say eighteen thirty-something." "Eighteen ? Nat, we've gotta do something about your grasp of history." She stuck her tongue out at him, but he didn't care. Her banter was beginning to lift the weight from him. "You know--God, how could you know? 'The Little Mermaid'? 'The Emperor's New Clothes'?--" He nodded, the titles starting to make sense. "Okay, yeah. I remember reading some of those about eighteen thirty-somethin--" "'The Little Match Girl? 'The Ugly Duckling'?" "Hold on, hold on," he said, catching her arm, and stopping her recitati It was simply too much of a coincidence. "What was that last?" "'The Ugly Duck--'" " the duck," pressed Nick. "Uh . . . 'The Little Match Girl'?" "And that's about . . . ?" "A little match girl." When he made a face, she slapped his arm. "No, really. There's this little girl with this amazing gold hair and her grandmother's died and she's selling matches--I guess that's what orphans did--and she's freezing because it's cold outside." Nick leaned his head on his hand and stared off into space. Natalie's v seemed to reach him from a great distance, as he picked that night from his memory--the snow and the body of the child, the blonde hair against the white. "And it's . . . New Year's Eve." "Christmas," he corrected. "What? You know the story? I thought--" Nick waved his hand. "Go on." He heard her shift in her seat, but he didn't move. The picture was so clear before him. "Well," said Natalie's voice, "it's really cold. So she lights one of the matches, even though she's not supposed to, and she sees this vision of a tree--no, that's later." He came to himself long enough to cast her a reproachful look., then tur away again. "Give me a break, I haven't read it in years. But the upshot is that sh lights four matches--" "Three." "Four. I'm sure it was ." Nick shook his head slightly, seeing the scene in his mind's eyes. "Thr That matched what LaCroix said. And then she lit them all." "Then she saw a star falling in the sky and knew that someone was dying- course, it's supposed to be her--then she saw her grandmother in a vision. And she went with her grandmother. The people find her the next morning, because she'd frozen to death--" "LaCroix killed her. The idiot night watchman didn't know any better. few did, back then." Natalie's voice was quieter, slower. "And the people took up a collecti to bury her, because she was so poor." "Janette paid for it. Well," he shrugged, "it was LaCroix's money, but Janette's idea." He started, the vision slipping from him, when Natalie grabbed his arm. "What?" She stared at him, her nose inches from his. "You the Little Mat Girl?" Nick met her eyes, then looked away. "I didn't notice her when she was alive. Only . . . after." Then he sat upright in his seat and met her stare. "You mean, there's a about her?" Natalie's sigh indicated that he was the densest man alive. "That's wha I've been asking . If Hans Christian Andersen had been there, or if he'd read about it in a newspaper or something . . . ." Again, Nick cast back through his memory, then shook his head slowly. "There was a small crowd, just the people in the surrounding houses and shops--the stable boy from the tavern, the night watchman, the cobbler--" "Andersen's was a cobbler." Nodding thoughtfully, he sank back into his seat. "Yes, that would make sense. Eighteen-thirty-something would be right." "You met Hans Christian Andersen's ?" Nick turned back to her, amused. "Nat, I think you should do something about this hero-worship thing." More of the memory of that night returned to him--LaCroix's words as the child's corpse passed them echoed in his ears. "LaCroix was wrong," he said in wonder, almost to himself. "He said that no one would ever remember her, that they'd forget her." "Believe me, it was one of my favorite stories growing up. Sad, but kin heart-warming." "And, there's no mention of us? LaCroix, myself, or Janette?" He rubbe his chin, thoughtfully. "Especially Janette." "No. Not in what I remember. It a long time ago." "But we could find a copy of it?" "At a bookstore. Probably in the mall. Which is still open." Natalie to her feet. "I can get over there and back in a few minutes." "Could you?" he asked, glancing toward the hospital corridor. "I've got check in with Kelly before I head back to the station--she should be out any minute. I get off duty at four." Natalie's coat was already zippered, she swung her scarf into place and nodded. "I have no idea what's going on . . . but sure. As long as Chris is okay, I'm heading back for a mall crawl. I've still got some things to pick up." "Not strange men, I hope." She slapped him with the end of her scarf as she walked by. "They shoul so lucky. See you later." "Thanks, Nat," he called, half-turning in the seat. He waited until she slipped out the door, into the darkness, then his attention returned to his current problem--who'd kidnapped Christopher Reese, then returned him to the station? It could only be one of the three of them. Which meant one more visit to Janette this night, just to make certain. Because if she wasn't involved . . . The alternative was unthinkable. *** The Raven was even darker than when he'd entered earlier that evening an unlike most nights, completely empty at four in the morning. Nick had no difficulty seeing Janette, who was seated at one of the booths in the back. A bottle sat on the table, a half-filled glass before her, and the ashtray was full. His first guess was that she'd been there all night. "Janette?" His whisper sounded like a drum roll in the empty club, but even had it filled with dancers and music, she would have heard him. Her eyes turned from studying a black wall, to meet his across the empty room. "Nicola? And are you here to cancel next Christmas, too?" "I'm here because I have a problem." He walked to the table behind whic she was seated. "We found the child who was kidnapped tonight." "How good of you. Ever the vigilant . . . police detective." Dropping the book on the table, he picked up the bottle of blood mixed w wine, then placed it on another table. "Now you've definitely had enough." "I thought we agreed that you wouldn't mention such things." Janette tr to bat her eyes at him, but failed. Her words weren't quite slurred, but she answered first in English, then in French, until she picked up the book he'd placed on the table. "'The Little Match Girl,'" she read aloud, ending with a giggle. "Nicola, someone's written a book about our girl. The night LaCroix--" Janette dropped the book to the table and leaned back into the booth, covering her face with her hands. "Oh, perhaps you are right. I've had too much to drink." "Then you don't know anything about these?" He tossed the coin and the match stubs on the table. Her hands dropped from her face. Janette peered at him, then looked dow the coin. She shook her head, her hand automatically reaching for a cigarette from the case on the table. He could see the effort she was making to sober herself up. "No. I haven't seen a gold florin in--good gracious, it must be at least a century, Nicola. And I use a lighter . . . if there are no helpful, handsome young men around." To emphasize the remark, she reached for the small, mother-of-pearl lighter that sat beside her cigarette case. "It seems curious that there are three, don't you think. Were there three that night?" There was a sharp sound, a rasp, then the smell of sulfur. Janette gasp her cigarette falling to the table top, and Nick whirled in place, his hand reaching for his gun. A light shone in the center of the club. A small flame, like that of a match, moved toward them. As it came closer, Nick saw that the match was held by a hand, the hand connected to an arm, and the arm to a child. It was a girl, no more then seven or eight years of age, with golden hair that shimmered in the light of the flame. Her image flickered slightly as she came toward them, still dressed in her ragged apron and bonnet. He looked down to see that Janette was beside him. She grabbed his arm whispered in his ear, "Nicola, I swear that I broke her neck. She had no time to come across. It is not " "She's not one of us," he answered, also whispering. "I'm not sure what is." The child stopped, only a few feet away. She gave a rough sketch of a curtsey and Nick found himself staring at a pair of brown eyes. He'd never seen her eyes. Her eyelids had been closed--for all eternity he'd thought--when he'd come upon her in the snow. "Lady, sir," she said, in Dutch, "have you seen my matches? I've misplaced them and must find them." Nick gestured toward the table. "Are you looking for these?" She held the lit match upward, like a torch, so that the light fell upon table top. "Why does the match not burn out?" whispered Janette, but Nick held a fi to his lips. The little girl smiled when she spotted the matches. "Yes, there they a I lent them to a little boy, to light his way. He was lost, you see, and crying." She picked up the matches with her free hand and they, too, burst into flame. Carefully, she transferred the three matches into one hand, and the light steadied. "It's hard to cry, when you have light. I meant to ask for them, but I couldn't find him. I can't go back without them." Nick knelt down to the ghost-child's level, shaking off Janette's insist hold on his arm. "Where did you find the lost boy?" "Where are any of the lost?" The child smiled at him. "I know you, sir You did not see me, but I saw you. You had such fine clothes. So straight and tall you stood. And then after . . . ." She touched her fingers to the side of her face, brushing back the blond hair. "You needn't have worried after me. I was warmer, then. And in a better place." The child turned her smile to Janette. "And you were the one who gave m the box in which to sleep. I would have thanked you, lady, were I able." For the first time in his memory, Janette stood speechless. He gave her right hand and she squeezed it so fiercely, he was almost afraid that her nails might take off one of his fingers. But he turned his attention back to their visitor. "Why did you come here?" he asked gently. "Other than for your matches? The child stared at him, as if not understanding the question. "Did you call me?" "Not to my knowledge." Nick glanced back at Janette, who shook her head quickly. "To be honest, I haven't thought of you for many years." "To be thought of is to be called in memory. And if the call is strong enough, we may come back. Especially now, when the holly is cut and Sanct Herr Nicholass travels in the world. Many of us are called. And if the calling is strong and true, we come back. But few may see us. And even fewer may hear." Her brow furrowed as she studied him. "I think you are different than most, sir. And so is the lady." "I should say so," said Janette, managing to give an air of arrogance ev to a nervous whisper. Then the little girl caught sight of the book on the table. She reached touch it, but her hand went through it and the top of the table, like a barge through mist. Rising to his feet, and prying his hand from Janette's grip, Nick picked up the book from the table. "Would you like to see this?" "Yes, please." He hadn't really looked at the book that Natalie had left for him at the station--seeing only the title and the bright illustrations. It was a children's edition, filled with broad stokes of color and large print. Kneeling down, he held the book, so that the ghost-child could see it. "What does it say?" she asked, her finger pointing to, but not touching, letters on the cover. "Would you like me to read it to you?" The child nodded. "Oh, yes, please. There's time yet before cock's cro "All right." Pulling a chair from another table, Nick sat down and held book on his lap. The ghost-child stood beside him. Standing, she was shorter than he was seated. She placed a hand on his shoulder gently, then seemed surprised to find him solid--her hand did not pass through him. "You may lean on me, if you like," said Nick. She stared at him, then nodded again. Placing a tiny hand on his should she held the matches high, not knowing that he needed no flame to read. "'The Little Match Girl,'" read Nick, pointing to each word on the title The ghost-child looked into his eyes. "Is that me?" "I think so." She nodded, then said, "You may begin." The words passed quickly, one into another. She made him stop at some, return to others, but the ghost-child was attentive. The brightly colored pictures interested her most. He barely noticed that Janette had joined them, standing at his right side and peering over his shoulder as he read. The story was not long. "'No one knew what lovely sight she had seen or what radience she had gone with her grandmother into the happiness of the New Year,'" he finished, closing the back cover. The ghost-child touched her finger to her lips. "That's wrong. It was Christmastide, not the New Year feast." "That's what I told Natalie." "And I wasn't mentioned." Janette pouted. "Can you imagine? I pay to the child buried, and not a word of me. The nerve!" Nick shook his head, amazed. "Your memory is faulty, Janette. After al it was LaCroix's gold--" The flame from the child's matches flickered with his words, almost goin out completely. She shivered and stepped back. "Oh please, sir, don't call more than one of us this night. It's bad enough one such as he should walk in the world." Nick rose to his feet, the book falling from his lap as the child backed away into the darkness of the club, the light from her matches fading. "Wait, don't go! Please!" She hesitated. On an impulse, he picked up the book and held it out to "You've forgotten your present." "Don't be foolish, Nicola," said Janette. "She tried to take it before- "But it wasn't hers before," he answered, meeting the child's eyes. "Sh read it. It's her story. And now it's her book." "Truly?" asked the ghost-child, brown eyes wide. When Nick nodded, she reached out her hand gingerly, touching the edges of the book. Her grip was solid. When Nick released it, she pulled the book toward h then held it against her chest. "Thank you, sir and lady. But I must go. You will watch the little boy for me?" "I will," promised Nick. "Good." Again, she started to fade as she moved backward, then stopped. Almost as if on impulse she ran forward, planting a kiss on Nick's cheek. Turning, she ran back into the darkness, until they could see only her match, then even that was gone. Janette reached for the bottle of blood that sat on the table and upende into her mouth. After taking a large swallow, she offered it to him. "No, thanks." He touched his hand to his cheek, where the ghost-child h kissed him. "I wonder what that was all about." "Perhaps, to counter what went before. Remember, Nicola," she said, mov to stand behind him and placing her arm around his neck, "you paid no attention to the child until she was dead." "Then why were allowed to see her?" "I'm guilty of the same crime." Sighing, Janette sank down to the floor then placed her other arm around his neck. "I heard her calling in the night, selling her matches while she was warm, while she breathed. I could have tossed her a few pennies, or a florin, as easily as you." "The florin--" Nick escaped her embrace and shot out of the chair. The coin still sat on the table, untouched. "She didn't take it." "Perhaps it didn't belong to her." "Then who it belong to?" A whistling sound ran through the club, accompanied by a cold, damp bree Janette wrapped her arms around herself, her eyes wide and even Nick shivered, although he wasn't usually bothered by cold. He picked it up and looked at it. "Get rid of it," hissed Janette, her eyes meeting his. "Drop it in a po box. A poor box, if possible." "It's just a coin," he said. But he dropped it onto the table. Then he turned, to face Janette. "If the match girl was trying to return that missing boy to me, do you think it's possible that he was taken by--" "No!" Janette put her hands over her ears. "Nicola, I will hear m talk of ghosts of Christmases past. I am going to my flat and sleep the day and night through until this dreadful holiday is over." Quickly, she gathered up her cigarette case, lighter, and purse, which had been sitting on the bench. "And that?" Nick gestured toward the coin, still sitting in the center the table. Shuddering, Janette closed her eyes, then opened them again and headed f the door. "Leave it. Perhaps Alma will think it's a tip and take care of it for us." "Fine." Nick followed Janette through the club, to the main door. He h it for her as she passed outside, and was just about to close it when he heard a long, low laugh from inside the darkness of the club. Janette stopped in her tracks and stared back at him, eyes wide. "I did hear anything." "Neither did I," he answered, with far less conviction. When he made a m to go back inside, she leaned past him, grabbed the door handle, and slammed it closed firmly behind them both. The end