All right, folks, here's my sorta-Schanke story.... You may blame Pamela
Rush for this one.
 
Thanks to Susan as well, who mentioned John Donne in 'Kind Soul' and sent
me scrambling back between his pages. (How COULD I have wandered?)
 
Comments to me, hate mail to Pam, and souvlaki all around. Cheers.
 
Teleri
vxurnm01@reading.ac.uk
 
______________________________________________________________________________
Death, Be Not Proud 
Copyright 1994
T. Beaty
Warning:  Graphic imagery, violence, language.

                               Death, Be Not Proud
 
"Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou are not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me; . . ."
                                                      --John Donne
 
 
 
 
     Schanke groaned. "Not again."
     Innocent eyes blinked at him.
     "No. Uh-uh." Schanke shook his head vigorously and glared furiously down
at his desk, searching for something--anything--to do. "No way you're doing
that to me again, buddy. I'm not giving in to you again."
     Nick glanced cautiously over the top of his file, careful not to look at
his partner. "What's up, Mitch?"
     The small head turned his way, legs kicking rythmically against the
chair legs, dangling at least twelve inches above the floor. "Uncle Don won't
let me play with the siren on the way home." Childish lips pursed, ready to
pout.
     Schanke turned beseeching eyes towards his partner. "I've already let
him turn it on. More than once. It drives me crazy, Nick. It's too loud."
     "Vroom, vroom," the little boy added enthusiastically.
     The vampire glanced at his partner, noticing that Schanke didn't have
too far to go before utterly crumpling under the child's rapidly watering
eyes. Soon good ol' Don would be drooling and making a spectacle of himself.
Nick repressed a chuckle, well aware that the little boy didn't consider him
a target. Yet. "Why don't you go ask Norma for a donut, Mitch? She's always
got some stashed under her counter." He pointed towards the woman's desk.
"Don't worry, she's a good friend of your uncle's. She'll let you have
one. Just tell her that he sent you."
      The little boy hopped off the chair, the hint of pout wiped from his
lips. "Thanks, Uncle Nick!"
     *Uncle* Nick? His eyes tracked Mitch's progress across the floor.
     "Don't get any of the jelly donuts!" Schanke yelled after him. "They're
mine!"
      "Donut Don," Nick laughed. "Sucker."
      "Shut up, *Uncle* Nick."
      Nick choked softly. "Uncle Nick?"
      Schanke solemnly looked at him. "I'm warning you now. Run, Knight, run."
      "He can't be that bad."
      "Bite your tongue. You've only been on duty for twenty minutes."
      Nick looked over at the small figure, now bent pleadingly towards
Norma, who was laughing and reaching under her desk. "Don't tell me you've
had him here all day, Schanke. Isn't that bad for kids his age? He's what,
nine or ten years old?"
      "Nine. All day? Are you kidding? He's been here an hour and I'm ready
to unleash him on the criminals of Toronto. He'd have this city on its knees
in less than six hours. God knows what disaster we'd all be in if he'd been
here all day." Schanke shook his head. "No, Myra and her sister went out to a
movie. The babysitter we hired canceled, so Myra figured that they could just
drop Mitch off here, and I'd watch him until I got off shift. Less than an
hour, all totaled. Fine in theory, but hell in practice." He sighed. "At
least I've only got twenty more minutes left, and then I'm outta here."
     Nick smiled. "I take it you're enjoying the familial visit?"
     "Hah. Myra and her sister only get together once or twice a year.
You ever heard history at warp speed? At least Myra's sister also cooks like
a dream. The best kofte lamb you'll ever taste. Almost makes up for me
babysitting. I thought I was over this when Jenny got into kindergarten."
     "Why didn't you take some days off, to be with them?"
     "I did. Today's my last day. You don't get to see me until next week,
Knight. Gonna miss me?"
     "Not if I aim correctly. Playing family man? Don, the father figure?"
     "One of my better roles, if you must know."
     "I'll bet." Nick stemmed the sudden jealousy that took him by surprise,
the wrenching feeling that stabbed him in the gut. He coughed. "I'm surprised
Cohen didn't object to having a child in her precint."
     Schanke shot him a significant look. "I didn't give her a chance to."
     "Oh. Well. He looks like a nice kid."
     "He is." Schanke's voice was warm. "He's just about to drive me crazy,
that's all."
     "Not too far of a trip."
     "You should know, having made it yourself."
     Nick laughed. "Looks like you've still got your sense of humour, though."
     "About the only thing left," Schanke grumbled.
     "Hey, Schanke, take heart. He has to grow up sometime."
     "Yeah. Frightening thought, isn't it?"
 
 
 
     "Frightening, isn't it?"
     Nick turned as Nat came up behind him. "Yeah, it is." He looked down at
her as she stopped, level with his shoulder, and stared at the scene. "You
assigned to the workup on this one?"
     "Yup. Wonderful priveledge, isn't it? I get to count how many pieces
this one's been ripped into. Think I'll notice if any parts are missing?"
     He patted her on the shoulder understandingly. "You're better than that."
     "Are you going to tell me that I've handled worse than this? 'Cause I'm
telling you, Nick, they seem to be getting worse. Or is it just my
imagination?" She didn't wait for an answer, but turned to stare thoughtfully
at the brightly-lit area in front of them. "If I didn't know any better, I'd
say that this was done by a vampire."
     He glanced around instinctively, probing the shadows to look for
listeners. No one was close by; the nearest were the forensics crew, working
the scene fifteen metres away. The cameras flashed, washing the alleyway
around them in brief sheets of white light. No one was listening. "Couldn't
have been a vampire, Natalie. Too much blood was spilled."
     "That's why I ruled it out. Exactly that. *Too* much blood. Vampires
aren't that wasteful. Seems like whoever did this wanted the place to look
like some scene out of a slasher movie." Her eyes rested on the white chalk
outline that scarred the pavement, a stark memorial to violence. "It worked,
too."
     "One person did all that damage?"
     "That? No." Natalie shook her head. "Too brutal. The victim fought
back--or tried to, at least. Bruising around the wrists and throat suggest he
was bound. Not tied behind his back, either, but held out to the side. The
rib cage was lifted, suggesting that at least two people held him up. Opened
up a clear path to his internal organs. No ribs in the way."
     "He still had his wallet. One hundred and seventy-eight dollars inside,
plus loose change. Checkbook untouched. No credit cards missing."
     "Not a robbery, then."
     "No," Nick murmured. "Hate crime? The victim was black."
     Natalie shrugged. "Doesn't feel right. No swastikas. No 'Hail Hitler'
written in blood. I don't know--"
     "It doesn't feel like that to me, either."
     "So what could it be? Just some random violence? Don't tell me we've
sunk that low."
     "Not yet." He gave her a quick hug. "We'll find something. A reason.
Probably something in his background. Maybe he stepped on someone's cat."
     "He was young. So much ahead of him." She shivered. "Someone must have
hated him badly."
     "You don't have to know someone to kill them," he murmured to himself.
He watched as she moved away. "Mind if I drop by later, for the preliminary
report?"
     "Sure, go ahead." She froze. "Oh, wait. I'm doing the Sawyer workup
tonight, too. You might as well take that back to Cohen, if you don't mind."
     "Saywer? Not--our Sawyer?"
     "One and the same. You found out anything about that yet?"
     He shook his head angrily. "Not my case. Stevens got it. Not that all of
us won't be looking for a perp matching the witness' description."
     Her eyes were solemn. "That's the third cop killed this year, Nick."
     He shrugged, suddenly uneasy at her tone, her stare. "Chenkoff was an
accidental death, Nat. "
     "A hit and run doesn't necessarily happen accidently. You guys never
found the driver. Or the perp that shot Rork, back in February."
     "A robbery that went wrong. Rork was just in the wrong place at the
wrong time. That's all."
     "I hope so."
     "What are you saying? That we have a cop-killer around?"
     She shrugged. "Just noticing a trend. Take care of yourself, Nick." She
turned and walked away.
 
 
 
     He dropped by the medical examiner's office several hours later, his
face lined and weary. "Nat. Find anything?"
     She was still wearing her scrubs, bright neon-green sneakers finishing
the incongruous picture. "You?"
     He shook his head. "Still can't figure it out. I just don't understand
why someone would want to--"
     "Nothing in his background?"
     "Nothing I could find. Yet. I'll be checking deeper tomorrow, asking
some questions of people who knew him, but according to what we've got on
paper, the man seems to have done it all right. Accountant, thirty-one years
old, no previous record, no filed complaints, nothing. Seemed to have a good,
if not great, future ahead of him."
     "Well, he did something wrong. Or someone." She leaned back against the
counter. "I ran a few preliminary tests. You know, the usual. Checking for
drugs, alcohol. I did a lot of tests, just to be on the safe side. I was
grasping at straws. But." She stared at him. "I found traces of a drug in his
system. This isn't your normal, run of the mill sort of drug, though. We
don't usually screen this one. This particular type is only accessible to
specific people."
     He frowned. "What people?"
     She watched him carefully for a reaction. "People with AIDS."
     He paused. "You mean he's HIV positive?"
     "Full-blown AIDS, Nick."
     He drummed his fingers on the countertop, worry blossoming in his mind.
"Are you--I mean, did you touch any of the blood?"
     "In this day and age? Nick, latex gloves are standard. Not to mention
that it's a little harder to catch than that, you know." She stared at him.
"Or maybe you don't. Does AIDS affect vampires?"
     "I don't know. It's not something I've thought about a lot. I drink cow,
remember? Not right now, Nat. Back to the case--the man. Why couldn't we
tell?" Had anyone touched the body? He racked his brains, thinking back.
     "Just by looking at him? What do you think, that they walk around with a
tattoo on their forehead, saying they're HIV? This isn't Auschwitz, you
know. You can't tell just by looking. It's not that easy. This guy had Kaposi's
sarcoma lesions, yes, but small ones, on his chest. You couldn't see them
unless you took off his shirt and searched for the tissue patterns under the
bruising and swelling."
     "There wasn't much left of his shirt," Nick pointed out.
     "Or of his skin, either. Knife cuts through that just as easily. I was
working with scraps."
     "Damn," he muttered. "The assailants--they were probably bathing in his
blood--we've got to find them, and tell them--"
     Her eyes widened. "You're not going to release this to the press, are
you? They'd have a field day with this one!"
     "No. No." He ran a hand through his hair, movements quick and angry.
"Dammit! No witnesses. No fingerprints. No motive. Nothing!" He glared at her.
     She glared back. "Well, don't expect me to pull the rabbit out of my hat."
     "I'm sorry," he muttered. "It's just--"
     "I know." She walked past him, picked up a file, and gave it to him. He
stared at it in bemusement.
     "What's this?"
     "The workup on Sawyer. Cohen will probably want to see it as soon as you
get in."
     "Oh. What'd you find?"
     "Other than a bullet hole in his brain?"
     "We know how he died, Nat." Nick looked away, remembering the body as
he'd found it. Cold, pale, stiff. Strewn among the alley rubbish not two
blocks from his house. Sawyer had been reported missing midway through a duty
shift, and Nick had found him the next night. He had called it in, noting the
neat bullet hole in the side of the man's head.
     "He was dumped close to your house."
     "I know. That worries me."
     "A warning, do you think?"
     Nick watched her. "From who? A cop-killer?"
     She shrugged. "It's an interesting coincidence, don't you think? A
detective's corpse dumped close to the house of another detective? On the
same precint?"
     "Those are the questions to ask later, Nat. I'd just like to know how he
got there."
     "I don't even want to know that much. Me, I'd be satisfied with knowing
how the Drano got into his blood."
     Nick did a double-take. "What did you say?"
     "Drano. Cleaning fluid. It was in his bloodstream, Nick. Intramuscular
injection, not oral. No burns around the mouth or throat. I don't know if
this ups the stakes or not; you already knew he'd been murdered. Now you know
he's been tortured. Someone not only wanted a cop dead, they wanted him to
hurt. Badly."
     "Torture." He tasted the word, and found it bitter.
 
 
 
     "Torture. Such a lovely pastime, you know." Lacroix carefully licked the
blood from his fingers, red tongue sliding out to gather the lacy liquid
oozing over his pale skin. "I consider it . . . something of an art."
     Nicholas kept the snarl from his voice with difficulty, refusing to
glance down at the body sprawled beneath them on the wooden floor, the costly
linen shirt ripped and stained with blood. The man's features were shadowed
by the flickering of the wall sconces. "You're very good at it."
     Lacroix turned to him, surprise lighting the pale blue eyes. "Really? Do
you think so?" He smiled, some emotion firing his face from within. "You have
yourself to thank, really. It's you who has given me such wonderful practice."
     "Which you perfected."
     "Of course. If you're going to put effort into some endeavour, Nicholas,
you might as well see it through."
    The younger vampire tried not to shiver as he recalled all of his
master's endeavours. He could be counted among them, after all. "He was an
innocent mortal, Lacroix."
    "Innocent?" Lacroix glanced questioningly at Nick. "That only made it
better." He laughed. "Oh, come now, Nicholas. What does it matter? It's only
a little blood, after all."
 
 
 
     "That was quite a lot of blood," Cohen remarked, sitting back in her
chair. "Dr. Lambert doesn't seem to be too worried about her own crew."
     "They're usually gloved. Careful. They've all gone through that
hazardous biological waste course. She might have given a couple of classes
herself, on the blood-borne pathogens. Standard training. They're used to it."
Nick shifted slightly in his seat. "It's our people that we have to worry
about, I think. We're not . . . as used to this sort of thing."
     Cohen watched him. "And the perpetrators, of course."
     "Yeah. They need to be . . . warned, in some way. They might have become
infected--fighting, slashing. Too many opportunities for blood to mingle." He
winced at his own phrasing.
     "How are you going to let them know?" Cohen's voice was calm. "Frankly,
Detective, you can't just walk out there and talk to the media. They'd go
crazy with this; public reaction would be unpredictable. We'd have people
screaming for mandatory testing, and paranoia everywhere. We'd get all those
calls again, about sodas spiked with blood, or spiked food, drugs, you name
it. Not to mention all the idiots who will start spreading who-knows-what
rumours about it all, trying to stir everything up into a frenzy. Saying you
could catch the disease just by breathing the same air as an infected person."
     "I agree, we can't use the media. But we don't have any witnesses,
either." He sighed. He was tired. He wanted to go home. "I'm going to try
and dig through the victim's past--see what I can get. Maybe there will be a
lead. Something."
     She nodded and looked at the other file that he'd handed to her. "What's
this?"
     Nick stood up, hoping to escape. "The Sawyer workup. Dr. Lambert asked
me to bring it over."
     "Hmmmm. One moment more, Detective?" She opened it, flipped through it.
Her eyes widened as she read something, then her finger paused over it, her
mouth forming a small 'o'. She looked up at Nick. "You found Saw--the body.
Did you notice anything odd about it?"
     He'd already filled out numerous forms, but he answered anyway, feeling
tired and overworked. He was going to be flippant; he knew it. "He was
missing part of his head. Seems as if a bullet found its way through."
     She sighed. "Other than that, Detective."
     "No, not really."
     She folded her hands and rested her chin on them. "Any odd smells?"
     She'd obviously read about the Drano. He wondered if there was anything
else in there that Nat hadn't mentioned to him. "Not really. There might have
been, but everything stank of garbage. I wasn't noticing very much, other
than the obvious.  Actually, I was surprised that he was so close to my place."
      Cohen's eyes were blank. "That's the third one we've lost this year,"
she murmured quietly.
      Nick nodded. "That's what Na--Dr. Lambert said, as well."
      The woman's gaze snapped on him, and he fancied he could hear an
audible click. "What?"
      "She pointed out that it's the third cop from our precint that has died
this year."
      She watched him carefully. "What else did she say?"
      "She told me to be careful."
      "Are you telling me," Cohen said slowly, "that Dr. Lambert thinks that
these . . . were all engineered? Rork? Chenkoff, for heaven's sakes? It was
an accident!"
      Nick shrugged. "She just told me to be careful."

 
     Nick glared down at the body, angry. Another one. Senseless. Stupid! He
quashed the growl before it could escape. "So, what can you tell me about
this one, Nat?"
     The woman sighed. "Not much. Beaten to death. Oddly enough, they didn't
touch her face. It's the only part they didn't touch. She's slashed up quite
a bit, though I don't know yet if cause of death was internal hemorraghing
from the fists, or loss of blood. Though they pretty much mean the same
thing, in the end."
     "Yeah," Nick muttered, "death."
     She was watching him. "It comes to us all sometime, sooner or later."
     He shot her a dark look, the anger still clutching at him, simmering in
his voice. "Some of us."
     Natalie shrugged. "You can't live forever, Nick. I won't let you.
Forever would be dull."
     "Tell me about it." He looked down at the body again. "Tell me about her."
     Her voice changed slightly, became deeper, surer, her professional
voice. "Nothing much to tell. Nothing that we know, anyway. Body was found
two hours ago, but she's been dead longer than that. Wallet was still on the
victim, money inside. All identification still there. Victim was young,
mid-twenties, Caucasian, loving family. Just got out of graduate school.
Master's in History. Doesn't seem like she has any ties, any enemies, that
would want to murder her. Especially like this. Beating someone to death?
I've gotten used to the popularity of guns, I suppose."
     "Isn't this like last night?"
     "Same general state, yeah."
     He turned his back on the scene, breathed in the fresh air that swept
down the small side street. "You think they're related?"
     He felt her turn towards him, felt the warmth of her body follow him.
"Could be. Cause of death is similar, though this woman was beaten more than
the man was. I won't really know until I get her back to the office."
     Nick shut his eyes, recalling the woman's face perfectly, the surprised
expression that she still wore, smeared across her face and twisted, just
slightly, with pain. His imagination could well add life to form, breathe
laughter into those green eyes, brush those lips with joy. "She was young.
Too young."
     "For what?" Her voice was sharp. "Not too young to die."
     "She'd barely begun to live. She deserved more time. She was just
starting."
     "And someone came along and changed all that. Unfair, isn't it?"
     Nick didn't look at his friend. He thought the same thing, but then, he
had lived enough for nine people, and still sometimes wondered . . . if that
was enough. He shook his head, banishing those thoughts. "I wonder why? What
makes killers choose one specific victim? Why her?"
     "Because she was there."
     He sighed. "Yes." He'd known. He'd used that excuse himself, many a
time. "Because she was there."
 
 
 
     "Because she was there, Nicholas."
     "That's not good enough, Lacroix," he hissed.
     "Because I was hungry, then," Lacroix answered, voice calm and mildly
amused. He twisted a lock of long brown hair between pale fingers,  toying
with the ringlets that rustled against his shirt. "And if that is not a good
enough reason, what is?"
     The younger vampire turned away, angry.
     His master's voice followed him. "Do you have some sort of objection?"
Lacroix sighed, loudly. "You really must get over this mortal habit of
morals, Nicholas. At first it was amusing, but now it's becoming quite
tiresome."
     Nicholas turned back to face his master. "So are you."
     Lacroix's smile froze. "Am I, now?" He sat up in his chair, letting the
body stretched over his lap fall. It slid to the ground, slowly, the limp
hands seeming to clutch at his doublet in mute supplication. Lacroix flicked
them off absently, and the body thumped to the ground, falling sideways,
lolling to rest on its back. It rocked to a stop, head flopping to face
Nicholas, the woman's eyes staring vacantly through his. There was no
accusation in them, no horror. Perhaps surprise, but only a flicker, now
snuffed out.
     The white-haired vampire stood upright and stalked towards the younger.
"Perhaps," he growled low in his throat, "I should pay more attention to you.
I *have* been somewhat remiss in your teaching recently--"
     Nicholas stepped back, anger still a shield held before his master. "Too
busy leaving a trail of blood behind us. One day, Lacroix, it will catch us."
     Lacroix shrugged. "But not today."
     "No. Today you added another to the list."
     "As should you."
     Nicholas turned away. "I am not hungry."
     Lacroix caught him by the shoulder, pressed fingers deep into the
muscles. He turned the younger vampire to face him, only inches seperating
their lips, their eyes. "There is no need for hunger in order to kill,
Nicholas. It only sweetens the hunt."
     The blond man stared back defiantely, meeting Lacroix's angry gaze with
his own. "You didn't need to kill her. You were not even hungry--you fed,
just a few hours ago. You didn't need to kill again."
     "No," Lacroix smiled, "but I wanted to."
     "Why her? Why not someone else? Find yourself some thief, some beggar.
She was just a serving girl!"
     "She was mortal," Lacroix hissed. "That is enough."
     "She was poor, Lacroix. Working hard to earn coin to feed herself with.
Clothe herself."
     "Well, now. She doesn't have to worry any longer."
     Nicholas shook free of Lacroix's iron grip, stepping towards the body.
He knelt, touching the smooth cheek with a fingertip, feeling the body's
warmth escaping. Her sightless eyes stared at him, the lines smoothed from
her face. Her fingers did not itch at her dress, plucking at the seams,
worrying the coarse wool, as they had when she was alive. He looked up at
Lacroix, sorrow wreathing itself about his heart. "She was only a servant,"
he said quietly. "Still a child."
     The other man shrugged. "One of the lower class. What does she matter? I
don't understand you, Nicholas. This unseemly show of--of grief over a mere
slut? Why? Surely this doesn't offend your puritanical notions of good?" He
snarled, exasperated. "Don't turn righteous on me, Nicholas. You've done it
before, this practice of taking only the inferior. The unpleasant. The
unnecessary. You've supped from the dregs of society." He motioned towards
the body on the floor. "Now you dare condemn me for following your lead?"
     Nicholas' voice was a low growl. "After you've shown me the error of my
ways? After you taught me it was wrong to take *any* life?" He stood up.
"They're people, Lacroix. They are *all* people, no matter what they do, no
matter if they be whores or dancers or gentlemen. They had a right to live."
      "Yes." Pale eyes smiled at him. "And I took it away."
 
 
 
     Nick tapped on Natalie's office door, nodding wearily at her. "Hi. Mind
if I come in for a minute? It'll be quick, I promise. I'm just stopping
through."
     "Nick! I was just about to send you last night's workup. You look like--"
     "Death warmed over. Yeah, I know. One of the PC's already told me, when
I was down at Stevens' house. He thought it was very funny."
     "Stevens?" She frowned. "Isn't he on the Sawyer case?"
     Nick nodded, leaning tiredly against the doorframe, a dull ache in his
body. He recognized it absently as hunger, defined the rising feeling in his
throat as the aching for another life. "He was."
     "Was?"
     "He's dead."
     Natalie stiffened. "What?!"
     "Someone broke into his house and shot him. Earlier this evening, before
Stevens was slated to come on duty."
     "Come in," she said, rising from her chair and sweeping papers off her
other chair. She dropped them onto her desk and swiveled back to stare at him
as he collapsed into the newly-vacated spot, sighing as his muscles loosened
their stranglehold around his bones. "What happened?"
     "Robbery. At least, that's what it was meant to look like."
     "'Meant to?'"
     "Stereo equipment, TV, VCR. Gone. Not the computer, though.  Money was
taken, but not the small stuff. The cash in his wallet was still there." Nick
rubbed his eyes. "Looks like a robbery, but didn't feel like it. Stevens was
shot clean, too. Once, in the middle of the living room. Doesn't look like
they surprised him, so I'd guess that the things were taken after he was
shot, not before."
     "A cover," Natalie said to herself.
     Nick heard. "Exactly. I hate to say this, but you may be right. About a
cop-killer."
     "Where's Schanke?"
     "Myra's sister is in town with her kid. They're staying over at
Schanke's place, so he's out playing tour guide. I think. He got a couple of
days off. I'm going to go by there after I leave here, drop in on him on my
way back to the station. It's still early--only nine o'clock. They'll be up."
     "You going to warn him?"
     He nodded. "Have to. This is the fourth cop, Nat, and this killer's
losing his subtlelty. Fast. He's speeding up the time between his kills." He
stared down at the floor, brooding.
     She watched him. "Nick, are you okay?"
     "They're dying all around me," he said softly, under her hearing. No. He
shook himself. He couldn't let himself slip. He wasn't alone. He sat up.
"What's the deal on the woman that we picked up in the alley last night?"
     Natalie frowned. "Same thing."
     "Huh?"
     She crossed her arms. "AIDS."
     "You're joking."
     "No." She shook her head. "Everything checks out, all the bruises match
to fists and feet, knife slashes, etc. The only anomaly is the blood makeup.
Found it while I was screening for drugs. Ran the same tests as last night,
and got the same results. She had AIDS, too."
     It was his turn to frown. "I don't understand."
     "It gets worse." At his raised eyebrow, she nodded. "I went back over
the recent day-shift logs on a hunch. Got these back." She handed him a
printout. "These were the homicides in the last month. I cross-referenced,
looking for everyone that got slabbed because of either fists or knives. I
deliberately left out guns. Then I went back and screened through those that
had attached files--the ones with obvious motives behind them. What you see
are the ones left."
      "Eight other murders?" He looked up at her. "What?"
      "I went back and checked the blood. We do a routine sample, just to
see if drugs were involved. You'll notice that, in all of these cases, there
*was* a drug involved. Just not the ones we normally look out for."
      He read it aloud slowly. "Azidothymidine?"
      "Also known as AZT. Drug used to treat AIDS patients."
      Nick stared at her. "Wait a minute. Are you telling me that someone's
been going around killing people because they're infected with a virus?
*That's* their motive?"
      "Not just someone, Nick. Some people. More than one. Possibly for more
than a month, too. I haven't checked back farther. I wanted to make sure,
first."
      He pushed himself upright, head cocked in confusion and hands held in
the air, drifting aimlessly. "But that's--that's insane!"
      "So are most killers," she said drily. "At least now you know. Not only
is there a cop killer around, but you've also got a group of hate killers on
your hands. They already know about the blood. You probably won't have to
warn them."
      He felt carefully for the chair behind him and sat down slowly. "All
those victims . . . . Just because of what's in their blood. That's it?
Nothing else matters? They can be young, old, black, white. . . . It doesn't
matter. Just what they're carrying in their blood." He paused, thinking.
"Something that's going to kill them anyway, in time."
     "Not soon enough for these guys."
     "And so they're killing them. That's not fair, Nat," he said quietly.
"Why?"
     "Probably someone's idea of being surgical. Or being scared. They're
afraid that these people are spreading the disease. Giving it to other
people, infecting innocents. Never mind that the victims are usually
innocent, too. The perpetrators probably they're saving us." She smiled
grimly. "Not that we all won't die eventually, anyway."
     Nick swallowed. "They've already been told they're going to die
anyway. . . . Why does someone have to take what's left of their time? Why
does someone have to cut it even shorter?" He closed his eyes, pushing the
questions out of his mind as his friend, his mortal friend, leaned over him
worriedly, her mortal heart beating, using up an alloted number of pulses, a
certain number of breaths. Why? Why? He felt the warm air, pushed out from
her lungs, feather over his face. Why did people die? Why did some die before
others? Who decided? "Why them?" he whispered. "Why do they have it?"
     "I don't know," she replied, her voice low. "I don't know, why them."
     He looked down at his hands. "And I . . . I stay here. I remain behind."
     She moved in front of him, took his cold hands in hers. "Not if I have
anything to say about it, Nick."
     He stared at her, at her brown eyes, at the place in her throat where
her pulse fluttered, where her skin stretched over her tendons as she
breathed. Would she leave him behind, too? Her hands were warm over his,
leaching his coolness away. Taking it into herself. Would it seep into her
heart and freeze it, stopping the beating? Would these strong hands, that
held him so tightly, crumble under his grip and flake into dust?
     He wanted her to promise him that she wouldn't die, that she would live
forever. She could, he knew. She *could* live forever. Death wouldn't have
to take her, too. She would never be one of the victims. Never be one of the
many.
      She smiled sadly at him. "Look at it this way, Nick. They died a lot
faster this way. Their suffering was only for hours, not days. Not months or
years."
      "Was that a blessing?"
      "They might have thought so."
     "They didn't get the choice," he said. "They still died."
      "So will I," she said softly, evenly.
      He clutched her tighter, willing her to stay with him.
      Her fingers rubbed over his, moved within his tight grip to smooth over
his skin. "It's not that bad, Nick. I'm not going to say that I'm not scared,
but I'll deal with it when it comes. That's all I can do. It's not so bad.
It won't be that bad for me, for any of us. All I've got to do is go.
Death isn't cruel to the dead. It's the living that suffer."
      He would still be living.
      "Don't leave me, Natalie," he whispered.
     She smiled. "I'll take you with me."

     Nick checked his watch as he pulled up in front of Schanke's house.
Quarter till ten. Schanke should still be up.
     The lights were still on in the house, gleaming through the living room
windows. Nick knocked lightly on the door, hearing footsteps tread evenly
across the carpet, muffled in the thick nap. He frowned as the door swung
open. "You didn't even check the spyhole, Schanke."
     "Nick. Good evening to you, too. Watcha doing here? I'm off duty,
remember?" His partner was dressed in a loud plaid shirt and wrinkled beige
slacks. "You're the one who's working."
     "Just stopping by. I need to talk to you."
     "Sure. Myra's with her sister in the kitchen, if you wanna come in.
Coffee? We don't have any of those diet drinks of yours--"
     Nick stopped his partner with a light touch on the arm. "Privately."
     "Serious, huh?" Schanke looked into Nick's eyes and nodded, turning to
go inside. "Come into the living room, then. I'll tell the women to stay out
of our way."
     Nick followed his partner into the house. "Thanks. Tell Myra and her
sister hello for me, will you? I don't have much time." He stood by the
couch, glancing around worriedly. Had he just heard a noise? He moved
slightly to the left, out of clear range of the window. He stepped towards
them, intending on drawing the curtains.
     "Myra says hello, Nick. Sit down. What's up?" Schanke entered the room
and settled himself on a high-backed armchair, facing Nick, the night held
back through the window behind him. "This isn't a friendly chat, I take it."
     "No." Nick took a deep breath, turning to face his partner, half-hidden
in shadow. "We've got problems in the department, Schank."
     "Oh, gosh. I leave for two days, and look what happens. You guys can't
do a thing without me--"
     "Don." The vampire's voice was quiet. "I think we've got a cop killer on
our hands."
     Schanke froze, his amused expression dying. "Nick?"
     "I'm not joking, Schanke."
     His partner slumped against the back of the chair, shocked. "How--how
do you know?"
     "Natalie's the one that put it together." Nick thought he heard another
noise, then dismissed it when it wasn't repeated. "First Rork, then
Chenkoff. Then Sawyer. And now--" He faced his partner. "Now Stevens."
     "Stevens?!" Schanke sat bolt upright. "Stevens was murdered?"
     "In his house. Set up to look like a robbery. He was shot through the
heart, a clean shot. Instant death. Not even a lot of bleeding, just one
large hole. We've got to be careful, Schanke. This guy might be coming after
any of us--"
     The vampire heard the sound again, this time louder. A gasp. Inside the
house, in the very room. His muscles relaxed as he identified the noise.
Still. He was behind the couch in a second, grabbing at the figure there.
Nick hauled it out, holding the figure well away as it kicked and grabbed
at him. He stepped away from the couch, into the clear spot between the
furniture, afraid that the child would hurt himself on the various pieces
scattered about the room.
     Schanke stood up in dismay. "Mitch!"
     Caught in Nick's grasp, the struggling boy froze at the sound,
turtle-print pyjamas hanging askew and hair ruffled wildly. "Uncle Don? Is
that true? You're not gonna die, are you?"
     Schanke stepped towards them, but Nick held out his hand, stopping him.
The mortal man frowned at the child. "You were supposed to be in bed!"
     "I couldn't sleep," the boy said. He sneaked a look at Nick, then back
at his relative. "Are you gonna die, Uncle Don?"
     Nick knelt down on the rug, holding Mitch by the shoulders. He looked at
the boy carefully, face to face, the light gleaming on the wet eyes, showing
the trembling hands. "Are you afraid he's going to die?"
     "Yeah." Mitch's voice was shaky, though the boy was obviously trying to
control it. "Uncle Don's a cop, right? And you said this guy was killing
cops--"
     "Not your Uncle Don." Nick smiled reassuringly at the boy. "He's my
partner, you know. I can't let anyone kill him."
     "You promise?"
     "Absolutely."
     The boy smiled, grin breaking over his face, and suddenly threw himself
around the vampire, arms clutching at Nick, small head tucked into the
vampire's neck. Nick rocked back, thrown off-balance.
     That was when the bullet struck.
     Nick felt the shudder ripple through his hands and stared down at the
child in growing horror, ears deafened by the sudden crack of the bullet and
the shattering of glass. Time slowed, melted away like ice. He saw Mitch
slowly back away, pitifully thin arms loosening their hold about his jacket,
alien warmth flooding onto his chest. The small fingers plucked at him
uselessly, cloth sliding through child's hands. Mitch looked curiously down
at himself, an expression of wonder and fear as he stumbled back, separated
himself from the older man, and Nick followed his gaze down to that small
chest, the thin body suddenly shivering as he backed out from the circle of
Nick's arms, stepped away.
     Mitch touched his pyjamas, stared at the red running to cover the cloth,
licking at the green turtles, devouring them. The red flowed onto his skin,
spread over it. It smeared over the tiny fingers as they rubbed together, and
the boy looked up at him, confused.
     Nick vaguely heard Schanke scream, a sound that seemed to come from
everywhere, seeping in from the kitchen in multitonal echoes, people
frozen in fear, in the sudden realization that death had struck, here and
now, to one thought safe.
     The child's whisper was loud in his ears, loud in the shrieking silence
all around. The frail sounds reached him with no effort, filled all of the
echoing spaces inside his head. "It hurts," Mitch whispered, painful
discovery marking his features. He took Nick's hand weakly, brought it to his
chest, and Nick felt the spurts wash over his skin, marking time that slipped
away from him. Liquid time, that rose from under his hand and ran down his
fingers.
     Nick reached up to touch the soft cheek, to hold onto him--
     "It hurts, Uncle Nick." Time stopped, but not the boy. Mitch was
slipping through his hands, the blood from Nick's fingers smearing on the
downy cheek, slashing red, and Nick shifted to hold onto him, grabbing the
smiling turtles, twisting the blood-soaked cloth between stiff fingers. Their
eyes were locked together, and Nick felt the child's mind reaching out,
scrabbling at his, trying to hold on. The child's eyes, so innocent, stared
into his own. No blame there, no accusation. Just confusion, clouded with
pain. "It hurts," he whispered again, crumpling, a broken doll.
     There was nothing Nick could do.
     He stared down at the child, whose eyes were fluttering now, breaths
coming shallower. Nick could hear the small heart skipping, missing beats,
slowing. Blood leaked to the floor, the same blood that covered Nick's hands,
the front of Nick's shirt. The boy's pale cheek was laced with red, the same
red that painted the small heart.
     Nick leaned over the small body, and Mitch stared into the vampire's eyes.
     "It hurts," he said, simply, calmly. And then the light died from his
eyes, and Nick could no longer hear his heart.
 
 
 
     "Nick."
     He didn't blink, didn't turn his gaze from his hands towards that
whispered sound.
     "Nick, I'm here."
     He felt a blanket draped around him, material rough beside the memory of
a soft cheek. The blue cloth--nothing like the turtles--was pushed around
him, tucked about his body. He stared blankly ahead, uncaring. He was cold,
and nothing would warm him. Not even blood. Especially not blood.
     He stared at his hands, rubbing the fingers together slowly. Blood
flaked off, scattering in the air to sink slowly over his pants.
Floating. He watched it hypnotically, hearing the sobbing in the background,
the hysterical crying. Myra's sister, Mitch's mother. The hubbub of the police,
working in hushed whispers, tiptoeing about. The people, creeping through the
bushes outside, occasionally stepping on the broken glass. Whenever a shard
crunched, popped and tinkled as it scattered into smaller bits, Nick closed
his eyes, reliving the scene.
     A body moved in front of him, kneeled before him, and he stared dully
into concerned eyes. A soft hand touched his cheek, and he closed his eyes,
struggling to keep the tears from leaking. From shedding more blood. He
didn't really care if they found him out, asked him why he cried blood.
Wasn't that fitting? Still. He couldn't cry; was cheated of that path. No
more blood. Too much had been spilled already.
     "Nick, look at me." A soft voice, thick with tears. "Damn you, Nick,
look at me!" Hands clutched at him, but these wouldn't let him go. These
wouldn't let him slip through. "Damn you!"
     He touched her wet cheek slowly, with blood-encrusted hands. "Natalie,"
he croaked through a closed throat. "Natalie--I couldn't hold him--"
     She held him now, clutched him with fingers made of steel. "I'm sorry,
Nick. I'm so sorry."
     He bowed his head, closed his eyes in pain. "Not as much as I am," he
whispered.
     She leaned forward, touched his hot forehead with her cool one. He felt
her breath run over his face, sweet-smelling and whispery, like the scent of
a child. He shuddered, and she held him.
     He heard the weeping in the background, the sound of two women's sorrow
and tears. He wished he could join them, wished that hot liquid would splash
down his skin and draw away the fire and pain. He heard the clank of the
stretcher being set up, of gloved hands grasping cooling flesh, leaving
indentations. Gentle but impersonal, they lifted, swung, settled the small
body on the stretcher, zipped up the bodybag. Nick heard the zipper teeth
gnash together, shutting, closing, eating the remainder of what was once a
life. Swallowing it to disgorge a corpse, something that once was another.
     Bodies were bundled together, these two infused with life, now tinged
purple with pain and sorrow, bound to the dead child through flesh,
through blood. Nick rubbed his fingers together. Blood. The two women
drifted after the small bag, beggers pleading for one last crumb, one last
morsel. They followed the white-coated men out the door, heads bowed
together, leaning on and clutching at each other for support. For reassurance
that the other was still there, still alive.
     Holding on.
     He heard them go, heartbeats fading away.
     "It's not fair," Schanke whispered.
     Nick looked up, breaking contact with Natalie. He opened his eyes and
looked at his partner, standing before him, another blanket wrapped around
Schanke's suddenly-small figure. Hollows nestled under the man's eyes,
shoulders bent under some uncaring hand. "It's not fair," he repeated slowly.
     The vampire nodded sadly. "I know."
     "No, you don't."
     Natalie held up a warning hand. "Schanke, don--"
     The man didn't look at her, but stared at Nick. "He doesn't, Natalie. He
doesn't know what it's like. He doesn't understand." Schanke leaned forward.
"That bullet was meant for you, Nick. It had your name on it."
     Nick nodded, rubbing his fingers together, watching the flakes drift away.
     "Dammit, Nick! It was *you,* not him! Not Mitch! It was *you* that was
supposed to get hit, not my nephew!"
     Natalie gasped. "Don!"
     Schanke stepped forward, crying now. "It was you that was supposed to
die, Knight. Not him. Not Mitch. He was only nine years old, for God's sake!
He was only nine!" His voice cracked. "You've lived longer than that. You
should have gone, dammit, and left him. You should have gone! It was your
bullet!"
     Nick remembered the feel of soft skin under his hand. His fingers tingled.
     "Schanke, don't you hear what you're saying? Don't you realize?" Natalie
cried.
     "Yeah, I know what I'm saying," Schanke whispered raggedly. "I'm saying
it's not fair. I'm saying it's not right. That bullet came for Nick. Nick.
Not Mitch. You hear me, Knight? Mitch wasn't meant to die. It was you. You're
the one that should have died. Answer me, dammit!"
     The vampire smiled sadly, face turned away from the raging mortal
standing above him. "I know," he said softly.
     Two younger policeman came, touched Schanke lightly on the arm. He
shrugged them off, leaning over Nick, but they grabbed him, restraining him.
He ignored them. "Look at me, Knight. C'mon, dammit, look at me!"
     Nick raised his eyes, looked his partner directly in the face, knowing
that his eyes echoed horror, sadness, all the pain of several centuries.
     Schanke's pain shone in his own eyes. "It's not fair, Nick."
     The vampire nodded, fingers still rubbing together.
     "It's not fair." Schanke closed his eyes. The two constables led the man
away, and he left willingly, seeming to collapse into himself. The constables
struggled to keep him on his feet as they took him out the door.
     Nat turned back to him, touched his face. "Nick, he didn't mean it--"
     He captured her hand before she could give more comfort. He didn't
deserve it. He was the one who had let the child slip through. He was the one
that hadn't held on. "Yes, he did."
     Her voice was high, urgent. "He was wrong, Nick."
     He smiled sadly. "No, he wasn't. He's right, and you know it."
     "Don't do this to me," she whispered, tears falling down her face again.
     "Oh, Natalie," he sighed, "I should have died. I should have died."
     Her response came not in words, but through touch, through her hands,
which wound about him. She held him tightly, unwilling to let him go.

     "Nick."
     He raised his head dully, looking up at Cohen with uninterested eyes.
"Yeah, Captain?"
     She jerked her head. "My office. Now."
 
     She settled into her chair, never taking her eyes off of him. "You're
still beating yourself up about it, aren't you, Detective? It's been over a
week."
     He didn't look at her.
     Her voice hardened. "At least answer when you're spoken to."
     "Yes," he said quietly.
     "There was nothing you could do, Knight."
     He stared down at his fingers, rubbing them together, remembering the
feel of Mitch's blood coating them. "I know."
     "Detective Schanke is still angry at you."
     He shrugged. "He has every right to be."
     "Why? Because some killer doesn't take into account a kid? Because
things happened, over which you had no control, and you weren't the one
killed?"
     "I should have died," Nick said dully. "I was the one the shooter was
aiming for. Me. Not Mitch. Mitch was young. He was innocent. He didn't
deserve to die."
     "And you do?"
     He didn't look up, knowing that her eyes would bore through him. "Better
me than him."
     "It happened, Detective. I'm very sorry it did, but I would have been
just as sorry to lose you. It's over. There's nothing you can do about it
anymore."
     Nick looked at her. "But Schanke knows. I'm his partner, and he knows.
Every time he looks at me--he's going to see what should have been. I should
be dead, not Mitch. He's going to remember that, every time he looks at me."
     "I've pulled him from duty, you know," she said quietly. "I sent someone
by his house to pick up his gun. Just in case. It was the only thing I could
do. He wanted to come back."
     He met her eyes. "He doesn't want to work with me."
     She nodded. "I'm not going to lie. No, he doesn't. When he called
earlier, he asked for a change." She sat back, steepling her fingers. "I
suggested to him that he may be acting somewhat hasty. Somewhat emotional.
Unprofessional, and not in the department's best interests. I told him to
stay home and think it over."
     "He's never going to forget," Nick said.
     "No, but I think he'll learn to forgive."
 
 
 
     "Forgive me," Nicholas whispered, reaching out to touch the cool stone.
His fingers slipped over the weathered grooves. "Please forgive me."
     "How touching," a familiar voice sneered. "I thought I'd find you here.
Really, Nicholas, you can be so predictable at times."
     He didn't turn around. "No more than you, Lacroix."
     The older vampire moved up beside him. "She's been dead for over thirty
years, Nicholas. The world has changed, moved on. There has been a great war.
Why don't you just forget her? Put her from your mind?"
     "I remember how she danced," the younger vampire said quietly. "I
remember her smile, when she performed. She loved to dance."
     "Really. I wouldn't have guessed. Is that why she was a ballerina?"
Lacroix laughed.
     Nicholas ignored him. "She smiled at me, once."
     "Yes. Before you killed her, if memory serves."
     The younger vampire's smile faded away, like the setting sun. "Yes.
Before I destroyed her."
      "Over thirty years ago," Lacroix sighed.
      "You tricked me."
      "I always have."
      Nicholas rose, feeling the anger inside echo the movement. "You told me
lies."
      Lacroix smirked. "I told you what you wanted to hear."
      "I did not!"
      Eyebrows rose. "Oh?" Lacroix moved around him, whispered in his ear.
"But you believed me readily enough. Yes, you were more than eager to listen
to all that I said."
      Nicholas shook his head, suddenly tired. "I paid for my folly," he said
sadly.
      "No," Lacroix pointed out, "she did."
      "Bastard," he hissed. "You told me she was unpure. A whore. Tainted."
      "She was. Unclean. Unpure. Tainted, by mortal thoughts and mortal blood.
Fit only for our consumption. Tainted by death, that human death which
visits each and every one, sooner or later. Save us. We are the chosen ones,
Nicholas, and they are not. They are our food, our wine. Ripe for our taking,
ours by every right of our existance. Marked, as the fruit for our hunger.
Tainted by blood." He smiled. "By us. We are the hunger. We are death."
 
 
 
     He walked out of Cohen's office, only to see his partner at the precint
door.
     Nick moved towards Schanke, thrusting his hands into his pockets. He
looked at Schanke's cheek, not quite staring his partner in the eye. "I
didn't think you'd be here," he said quietly.
     "I wanted to come." Schanke walked past him brusquely.
     "Wait--" Nick touched him quickly, then withdrew as the other man
whirled around. "Schanke, I--"
     "I don't want to hear it, Knight."
     Nick finally looked at his partner. "But I need to say it, Don."
     Schanke looked down. "Don't, Nick. Don't do this to me."
     "What about you? What you're doing to me?"
     "What do you care?"
     "A lot," Nick said. "Can we go outside?"
     "I have nothing to say to you."
     "So listen." Nick led the way outside, through the doors and away from
the curious eyes, the avid ears. They were well-meaning, but this was his
partner. His . . . friend. He led the way to one of the darker shadows
outside the building, avoiding the light.
     Schanke followed listlessly. "What do you want, Knight?"
     Nick watched him with eyes filled with sorrow. He'd lost so much
already--felt it slip through his fingers, defy his hold. "I don't want you
to hate me." I don't want to lose you, too.
     "You should have gone, Nick."
     "If I'd been given a choice," Nick said simply, "I would have. But I
wasn't."
     Schanke stared at him. "If only you hadn't moved--"
     "But I did."
     "If only you hadn't come over--"
     "He would have killed you, then."
     Schanke stared at him.
     Nick nodded. "Someone was going to die that night, Schanke. Someone
wanted to make sure of that. If it hadn't been Mitch, it would have been me.
Or you. The killer wanted a cop. We didn't have a choice." He looked down. "I
didn't have a choice."
     "It wasn't fair, Nick," Schanke said quietly.
     "I know. No one is saying it was."
     "He was so young. So young! He still had a lifetime ahead of him. A
lifetime, Nick. It was so stupid. Why him? Why now? Why couldn't he have
gone, years from now, after me and Myra? When we wouldn't have to know?"
     "I don't know."
     Schanke's eyes were pleading. "Look at us, Nick. Look at us. How long
we've lived. What did we do to deserve this?"
     Nick felt a flush of shame. "I don't know," he said quietly.
     "It's unfair."
     "Yes."
     "Don't ask me for anything more right now, okay, Nick? No more.
Just . . . give me time. Okay?"
     Nick nodded. "Take all the time you need."
     Schanke jerked his head. "I'm--I'm gonna go now. Okay?"
     The vampire shook his head in agreement. "I'll walk you to your car."
     It was the sound of the safety coming off, the metallic click, that
warned Nick. He shouted, throwing himself at his partner, tackling Schanke to
the floor, both men sprawling. The gun discharged over their heads.
     Nick was up in a flash, hands reaching towards his own gun. The shooter,
the cop killer, moved out of the shadows, obviously having been prepared for
such a reaction. Nick felt a blur, then a stinging sensation as his fingers
were smashed, kicked by the man as the foot whirled up and over, sending the
gun flying.
     The vampire cradled his hand, staggering back. It didn't hurt him, but
he needed to get his bearings, figure out where the gun had gone. The man was
insane! Trying to kill them here?! Think. He needed to think. They were right
outside the precint; the policemen would soon come swarming out--he heard
yells already, at the door.
     The man leveled a gun towards his heart, walked towards him, pressed it
into his gut. The vampire felt the cold metal nose into his stomach, and he
stared into the other's eyes. They gleamed. "Think you're so smart, don't you?"
     Nick shook his head. The man was obviously insane.
     Or perhaps--he'd gotten the taste of blood, been overcome by it. Grew
bolder with each killing, moving closer and closer to his victims--
     He'd seen it before.
     Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Schanke move slowly, roll to his
feet--
     Where was Nick's gun?
     "You're never going to get away with this," Nick told the man facing him.
     "Don't wanna. Don't care. Just wanna little more. Cop blood. You think
you're so tough. All of you. Didn't want me. Think you're so tough! But you
die, just as easy. Want me to show you how?"
     Nick motioned to the cops running towards them, guns drawn, shouting.
"They'll kill you."
     "S'okay. I'm death already." The man laughed, but the gun was firm
against Nick's flesh. "That's funny, isn't it? I'm death. You're gonna die,
you know. You can't cheat death."
     Nick shuddered. He thought he had, once. Before he'd become death itself.
     The killer's eyes were wide, joyful. "Think you're so powerful now, eh,
buddy? Think that uniform gonna stop this bullet? I don't think so. Say
goodbye, buddy," he smiled. His eyes were level and gleamed in the faint
light. "You're gonna take a one-way trip--"
     "To hell." Schanke, unnoticed by the other man, stepped up behind him,
placing the barrel of Nick's gun to the back of the man's head, where it
joined the spine.
     The man dropped his gun. It fell to the ground, clattering. The vampire
was grateful that it didn't go off.
     Nick lowered his hand, the tension in his muscles not loosening. Not a
bit. There was still death here, prowling through the shadows. It had his
partner firmly between its teeth, crawled down his arms. Hovered over his
finger where it pressed against the trigger. "Schanke--don't."
     "Knight, shut up."
     "Schanke," Nick repeated quietly, "don't do it."
     "I've got every right, partner."
     "To kill?"
     The man's eyes, just barely showing a ring of white, flicked from one
cop to the other.
     Schanke pressed the gun harder against the man's neck, grabbing the
back of his shirt collar. "This son of a bitch killed my nephew," he said in
a low voice.
     "And so you're going to pay him back in kind?"
     "That's all they know, Nick. That's all they understand. Death."
Schanke's lip twisted. "You heard him. You gotta speak to them in their own
language, you know? Make them understand."
     They were ringed by cops now, more spilling from the precint like angry
bees from a hive. They circled around the three men in the middle, faces
cautiously blank, guns held out and at the ready, fingers hovering over
triggers. They all knew the choice Schanke was facing; they all knew the
danger of giving in to one's rage. One's anger. They, too, desired the death
of the man. To see the killer killed. Nick was aware of all the heartbeats
around him, strong and sure and fast. The heartbeats in front of him,
Schanke's indistinguishable from the killer's.
     "Don't become him, Schanke. Dammit, you're my partner, not a killer!"
     "You heard him, man," the shooter croaked. "You don't wanna kill me."
     "Like hell I don't," Schanke growled. "You've killed my friends, buddy.
You killed my *nephew.* You spilled their blood."
     "Don't spill more," Nick said.
     The shooter writhed in the mortal's grip. "Don't spill mine, man!"
     The vampire took a deep breath. "Schanke--"
     "Dammit, Nick!" His partner turned to glare at him, the killer wavering
in his strong grip. "Don't tell me I can't! It's not fair!"
      "No one ever said it was."
      "Then let me even the odds a little."
      "You go ahead and kill him, then," Nick said quietly. "But that won't
bring Mitch back."
      Schanke froze, eyes closing briefly. A tear slid down his cheek.
"Damn you." His eyes opened. He stared at the man, at the policemen around
them, then suddenly threw the man away from him, as if he were flicking
something dirty off his fingers. He stared at the gun, then at Nick. As if in
a daze, he walked towards Nick. "Damn you," he whispered, echoing each step.
"Damn you, damn you, damn you." He slapped the gun into Nick's outstretched
hand.
      "Too late." Nick stared sadly at the gun, then looked up at his
partner. "I already am."
      Schanke didn't move as the men around them rushed in to take the
shooter, to grab him and turn him roughly, deaf to his cries. They handcuffed
him, being none too gentle. He'd brought death to their ranks, after all.
Schanke didn't move throughout all the action, but remained still, staring,
at Nick. "Someday I'm going to thank you for this." He looked back at the
shooter as that one was hustled away. "But not today."
      Nick nodded. "I'll wait. I've got plenty of time."

     "There is death everywhere we go," the young vampire said quietly.
     Lacroix stared thoughtfully down at the body at his feet, a few trails
of blood still dribbling down the broken neck and staining the high, starched
wing collar of his shirt and the lapels of his frock coat. The narrow
trousers were soiled with dirt, and the spats muddied. The older vampire
bent down and picked up the curly-brimmed top hat that had fallen during the
struggle, fingering the brim. "Of course. Like attracts to like, after all."
     "Really?" Nicholas' lips lifted in a sardonic smile as he gazed at his
master. "Then that explains why I hate you so much."
     Ice-blue eyes shot him a reprimanding look. "Hate is the first step in
the right direction, Nicholas."
     "The path to hell," the younger vampire mused, the flush of anger at
Lacroix's flagrant and unecessary kill subsiding back into the deep pain that
nestled at the bottom of his stomach. The old pain. And yet he returned, time
and time again. It hurt too much to run, and, when he escaped, it hurt too
much to be among the mortals. To live, and watch them die. So he returned, or
was brought back, again and again. To Lacroix. He ran a hand through his
hair, grimacing at the macassar oil that slicked it back.
     Lacroix tossed the hat contemptuously down onto the body. "We know no
hell."
     Nicholas laughed. "We carry it with us. We share it among ourselves."
     "Not our hell," his master contradicted, stepping over the body, his
greatcoat billowing to shadow the dead man's face, then flipping and swinging
about the vampire's legs as he walked. "Mortals', perhaps, but not ours.
Beings such as we are beyond all that."
      Nicholas fell into step beside him. "And beyond salvation, as well."
      Lacroix shrugged. "What need have we for salvation? We are beyond the
laws of men, Nicholas, and beyond the laws of men's gods."
      Nicholas glanced back at the body lying in the gutter. "Forever damned."
      "Or forever freed."
      The younger vampire stared at his master. "Not from you."
      Lacroix nodded approvingly. "Remember that, Nicholas."
      "Then what good is this eternal life? I know no freedom, as you claim.
I have seen none of it." He moved his shoulders restlessly, straining within
the confines of his double-breasted frock coat.
      "You have never seen it, because you do not accept it. You are blind,
you fool. Look around you. Look at yourself. Are you old? Are you ill? No!
You are young, Nicholas, and while your child-mates crumble into dust and
feed the worms, forgotten names in long-lost books, you are healthy and
alive. Breathing. Death has no meaning for you. Only life."
      "Life?" Nicholas glared at the older man. "This is no life, Lacroix.
Only death. Always, and forever. One death after the other, each marking the
rest of my days!"
      "Is that not a good trade, my young friend? You trade your death for
another's. They give you life, and in return, you hasten them to that end
which they will all meet. Does it really matter when or how?"
      "Yes," he breathed. "Yes, it does."
      "Fool!" the older one spat. "Centuries pass, and you still do not
understand! When will you learn, Nicholas? What must I do to teach you, to
make you understand?"
      Nicholas turned to face him. "Kill me," he said quietly.
      "No." Lacroix's voice was low and angry. "No. You shall live, Nicholas.
I will not kill you. I will make you live."
      The young vampire felt his heart slow, felt some purpose creep up his
spine and stiffen it, to stare at the other's eyes in quiet certainty.
Not to back down. His voice was quiet, almost unrecognizable as his own.
"Kill me, Lacroix, else I do the same to you one day."
      "You can try, Nicholas. You can try." The pale eyes were bright. "And
then you will learn that you cannot kill death itself."
 
 
 
     Nick started in surprise when he saw Schanke walking towards him,
ducking to pass under the yellow police tape. "Schanke." He stood up,
uncurling his length from his crouch beside the body sprawled across the
floor. "Are you . . . supposed to be here?"
     Schanke pulled aside his jacket to show his gun. "Cohen cleared me for
duty. Finally. Told me that I'd find you here." He looked up at Nick.
"That . . . I'd find my partner here."
     Nick nodded slowly, feeling the hollow in his throat melt away. "Welcome
back, Schanke. We've missed you."
     "Tell me about it. I'm gone for three weeks and you guys manage to screw
up but big time." Schanke looked around, glanced down. "This what you guys
have been dealing with recently?"
     "Yeah." Nick restrained his friend as Schanke tried to go down for a
closer look. "Watch out, Schank--this might be one of those HIV-related
cases. Don't touch anything without the gloves."
     "HIV?" The man frowned. "What'cha talking about?"
     "They started over a month ago. At least, that's when we figured it out.
Natalie again."
     "Why don't we just put her on the force?"
     Nick shrugged and continued. "At first they looked like random
murders--no apparent motive, all victims beaten or stabbed to death, usually
a combination of the two. Most of them relatively young, fitting no
particular pattern. Characteristics across the board. Natalie screened them,
and then chased up a lead. Seems all of the victims are HIV positive, if not
with full-blown AIDS. So far this homicide matches the MO established.
Beaten to death."
     Schanke turned to him, shocked. "Why?"
     Nick shook his head. "Because they're infected, I suppose. Someone
doesn't want them to live."
     "But if they're going to die anyway--"
     "All humans do, in the end. Someone . . . just doesn't think it's fast
enough."
     "Damnit." His partner turned away, shoulders stiffening. "Jesus, Nick,
how can people be so damn . . . uncaring? Don't they realize it's a life?"
     Nick touched Schanke on the shoulder, a small bit of comfort. "I know.
I don't understand, either. I've seen it--but I don't understand."
     Schanke looked back at the body of the man, barely thirty--if that.
"He's younger than you or I, Nick."
     "I know."
     "And someone just came along . . . and took his life away. Just like
that." Schanke snapped his fingers. "Just like . . . the others. Cut it off
and didn't give a damn." He looked at Nick, pain haunting his eyes. "How long
has this been going on?"
     "I've been on it a little over two weeks. Natalie traced it back at
least a month."
     "Jesus." He shook his head again. "A trail of death."
     "Leading back to a killer somewhere," Nick said.
     "You hope. If you don't have a motive, you don't have a clue. If this
has been going on for more than a month, you probably don't have many clues."
     Nick nodded slowly. "We don't."
     "You think you're really going to find them?"
     "I don't know," Nick admitted.
     Schanke turned away and walked towards a window. Nick followed him, and
the two men looked outside, into the night, the silent blackness occasionally
pierced by a police light, or the wail of a siren. Schanke finally looked at
him, weariness clouding his eyes. Pain. "I don't want to see death again,
Nick," he said.
     The vampire looked at him and spoke carefully. "You see it every day,
Schank."
     "Blood. Everywhere." Schanke looked down at his hands, clenched them.
"It's the only thing that binds us together, Nick. We've all got it. We all
need it to live."
     "Yeah."
     "Seems like everyone wants to spill a little bit nowadays. Seems
like people just can't get enough. Doesn't matter if the victim's got two
years or twenty to go. All they want is the blood. Not the years."
     Nick closed his eyes. "Do the years really matter?"
     "No. Not really." His partner looked up. "They were alive, Nick.
They were so *alive.*"
     "We have to keep fighting, Schanke. We have to keep facing the
monsters we create."
     "I don't want to, you know. Not right now. Maybe not anymore. But I
can't quit now, can I? If I do, someone else has won. I've lost. I've given
up." He bowed his head, and his shoulders shook. "Mitch wanted to become a
cop. Did you know that? Wanted to be just like his Uncle Don." His voice was
thick.
     "I'm sorry, Schanke."
     "You can't help it, Nick. I know that. I always did, somewhere. I can't
forget what could have been, but I remember what was. I've got to let it go.
I know that." Schanke shrugged, eyes glinting suspiciously. "I'm always
going to remember . . . how he died. How I just stood there. I couldn't
move, Nick. I . . . just couldn't. I wanted to hold him, to tell him it
was all right--but I couldn't move. I couldn't lie to him. It was just so
much easier to let someone else do it. Let someone else. . . . It was
easier to blame you. That you were the one who let him go, not I. But you
were brave enough to hold him when he--" A single tear slid down his face,
ignored. "Oh, God. I couldn't, Nick. I guess . . . I couldn't face him."
He closed his eyes and shuddered. "Oh, God . . . at least he wasn't
alone. You were there. He wasn't--" His voice broke, and he sagged.
"He wasn't . . . alone."
     Nick hesitated, then lifted his hand and touched his partner gently
on the shoulder. Schanke looked up, eyes dazed and lost. Wet, and unashamed.
     "I promised him that you wouldn't die," Nick said quietly. "I didn't
know that he would need--"
     Schanke shook his head. "None of us did."
     "At least . . . you're still alive."
     "I didn't trade my life for his."
     "I didn't say you did." Nick shook his head. "I'm just saying . . . I'm
glad you're still here."
     "That death didn't get me?" Schanke smiled humourlessly. He took a
deep breath. "Not yet, Nick. Not yet. Death's come close a few times, and now
I think of Death as a good friend. But not yet. I'm not gonna go just yet.
Death's gonna have to try a little harder than that."
     Nick squeezed his partner's arm. "I'm glad to hear that."
     "You and me, Nick. We're gonna cheat Death a little while longer, you
hear me? You and me." Schanke looked back at the body on the floor. "And
we're gonna win this one, Nick. We're going to find these guys, and we're
going to laugh in Death's face."
      Nick nodded. "You and me, Schanke."
 
 
 
     Lacroix looked up as Nicholas passed him in the hall. The younger
vampire felt his master reach out, grab his shoulder, swing him about to face
pale eyes.
     "Enjoying your night, Nicholas?"
     Nicholas shook off the grip with a pointed stare, removing his hat and
dusting it off. "I *was.*"
     "You managed to find amusement in a city besieged by the Blitz?" Lacroix
shook his head at Nicholas' uniform. "And I had thought only Janette could
do such a thing in war-torn London."
     "It's better outside than in here. After all, outside there are only
Nazis flying about."
     "And inside?" Lacroix laughed. "Temper, temper, little one. Careful. I
have yet to feed tonight." He leaned closer, the belted overcoat he wore
tickling the younger's nose with the woody smell of tobacco. "In fact, I was
waiting for you. I thought we might hunt together. You and I. Just like old
times."
     "The old times are past," Nicholas said flatly.
     "And the future lies before us." Lacroix cocked his head. "I thought
you were over this ridiculous idea, Nicholas. Why else did you come back?"
     The younger vampire smiled tightly. "You didn't give me a choice."
     "True," admitted Lacroix. He bent closer towards Nicholas, a curious
look on his face. "Are you not hungry? Do you not thirst for the taste of
warm blood? Or do you still hold to those ridiculous notions? Don't you tire
of such foolishness?"
     The younger vampire met his master's eyes squarely. "I will not kill,
Lacroix."
     Pale eyes snapped in anger. "Then be killed!"
     "Do it." Nicholas stood calm under his gaze. "Do it, Lacroix. I will
not kill again. You showed me the error of my ways."
     "I meant to teach you a lesson," Lacroix hissed.
     Nicholas smiled sadly. "Yes, you did. And you succeeded, beyond your
expectations."
     Lacroix stepped forward, grabbing Nicholas' uniform shirt, the heavy
cloth crinkling under his grip. "I have power over you, Nicholas. I gave you
eternal life--I can take it away."
     "Then do it. Strike me down." Again that ghost of a smile, so sad,
flitting over his lips. "Eternity is no gift I wish to keep."
     Lacroix stared at him, nodded to himself. "You will change your mind,
Nicholas," he rumbled, releasing the younger man. "You will see the error of
your ways, and then you will cease this nonsense and take your place beside
me. You will glory in the power of death."
     "Only if it's yours, Lacroix. Only your death."
     The older vampire laughed. "Even you know better, Nicholas. Even you
know that you cannot kill me. Death cannot die." He turned away, dismissed
Nicholas with a glance, and moved down the hallway to be swallowed by the
darkness, the echoes of his laughter following and fading. "Death cannot die."
      Nicholas stared after him, a smile curving his lips. "But you are
not Death, Lacroix," he whispered after that mocking laughter, "for you, too,
have eternal life."
 
 
 
". . . One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more, death, thou shalt die."
                                -- John Donne