Date: Fri, 15 Apr 1994 10:27:21 PDT --------------------------------------------------- FALSE HEART A Forever Knight Story by Susan M. Garrett Ye are of your father the devil . . . there is no truth in him . . . he is a liar and the father of it. The Holy Bible: John - Acts 8:44 Chapter 1 The body was already bagged and on its way out the door as he arrived. Nick held up a hand, motioning to one of the Coroner's Office attendants. "Would you mind?" The man shrugged his indifference. "He's not going anywhere." A quick tug unzipped the black-lined silver bag. Nick didn't touch the body--his hands weren't gloved yet-- but he committed the man's features to memory . . . as well as the large bloody gash that left the salt and pepper color of the man's left temple a muddy red. Zipping up the bag, he looked away quickly. "And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the hallmark of a true professional--not tossing cookies on the corpse." Schanke was peeling protective white latex gloves from his hands as he walked over to Nick. "Schanke, could you turn down the tie?" Nick held up a hand before his face, shading his eyes from the orange day-glow monstrosity Schanke wore over his suit jacket. It was decorated with a tall, thin, purple polka band. In response, Schanke smoothed down the tie and adjusted his tie clip. "Hey, I'll have you know Jenny picked this out." "Yeah. Well . . . it's nice." Nick lowered his hand, winced, then placed his hand before his eyes again. "But I'd have her eyes checked." "Wait'll you check out this guy's closet, Mr. Armani. Bet even you'll go green with envy." Flipping back a few pages on his notebook, Schanke shook his head. "He's got shoes in there cost more than I make in a month." Turning, he surveyed the room. Natalie was kneeling on the floor beside what appeared to be an 18th Century bureau, tweezers in hand and her attention at the corner of the piece. There were two other forensics staff members dusting and bagging around glass presentation cases and other antique furniture. "Let me guess," said Nick, still trying to absorb the breadth of the eclectic collection, "museum affiliation? Art collector?" "The second. Alexander Kenko, Toronto native, Assistant Vice President of claims, Beneficial Insurance. You passed what was left on him on the way in. Looks like what was called in--straight forward 'burglary gone wrong.'" Schanke met his eyes. "What took you so long getting here?" "You know that ATM repeater we've been looking for?" "Yeah?" Schanke wore a hopeful grin. "Some uniforms spotted him--the call came through while I was on the way over--" "Yes!" As the other police personnel in the room looked up, Nick turned a blank expression to the ceiling, the walls, the floor--although he flashed a smile at Natalie, who gave him a nod and went back to her tweezer work on the bureau. Schanke tapped him on the shoulder. "And my ever-vigilant partner got him, right?" "After a fifteen minute chase. The uniforms took him downtown; they should have him processed by the time we get there. Which reminds me--don't let me to forget to put in a claim for the caddy's gas, okay?" "I keep telling you, buy Japanese." Shrugging his way out of the conversation, Nick walked over to Natalie and squatted down beside her. "I didn't know you were into wood work." "Hah-hah." Squinting, Natalie carefully wedged the tweezers into a crevice on the corner of the bureau, extracting a small clump of hair and matted blood. "Has anybody introduced you to the murder weapon yet?" "This?" Nick slapped the back of his hand against the wood and Natalie winced. "Careful, it's an antique." "So am I." Smiling, Nick leaned close to her ear, whispering, "It's a fake." She stared at him, stunned. Then remembering what she was about, picked up a plastic bag from the open kit beside her and carefully inserted the evidence. "You're kidding?" Nick shrugged, then rose to his feet, his voice just low enough for her to hear. "I'll bet they're all fakes. From the Vermeer," he gestured toward a painting on the far wall as if stretching, then placed his hand on his hip, fingers pointing to the nearest glass display case. "Down to the ivories." "You're sure?" Natalie accepted his hand up, then carefully sealed the evidence bag. "At first glance--yeah." "Wonder if his daughter knows?" Nick met her gaze, then looked around quickly. "Daughter?" "Yeah, she's the one who discovered the body. Had a dinner date with her dad. Found the door open and him--" Natalie looked down at the white tape that marked the area just beyond her feet. "Right there." "Any time of death yet?" "Ballpark figure--I'd say maybe three or four hours. But don't quote me on that till I get back to the lab. Speaking of which--" She punched him in the shoulder lightly, "It's needle day. I want to do another white cell count on you. See if cutting back on the stuff is having any effect." "Why don't I just resign from the force and become a professional pincushion?" "Why?" Biting her lip rakishly, Natalie met his gaze. "Don't tell me you're getting a phobia about needles?" "I'm getting a phobia about the fact that you seem to enjoy it so much," he answered, with a mock frown. When she leaned down to pick up her bag, he asked, "So, you want me to stop by the lab after shift?" Natalie paused, bag in hand, and pushed a lock of hair back from her face, expression thoughtful. "No--I'll drop by the loft on my way out. All I need is Grace asking questions about why I'm taking blood samples from you once a week." "That'd make two of us." Wrinkling her nose at him, she turned her back and started toward the door, but Schanke caught her arm on the way out. "Nat--could I have your professional opinion on this--?" When Nick looked over, Schanke waved him away. "Be with you in a second." Nodding, Nick walked over to one of the glass cases and looked inside. The cards with the small ivory altarpieces identified them as 400 AD, but he knew better. They were fakes. And, if robbery the motive . . . Alexander Kenko had died because somebody couldn't tell the difference. "But it's Saturday--" Schanke's voice was low, but Nick could pick up the words easily enough. He pretended interest in another case containing more ivory--netsuke, small ivory animals or figures that were used as sash ends or were placed in the hilts of swords. These, too, were fake, although quality fakes, like the other pieces. Kenko hadn't gotten these at a local dimestore. Which begged the question--did Kenko know his collection was filled with fakes? Or had someone been selling him fakes, and forging the provenances and authentications as real antiques? "Schanke--lay off, okay! He hasn't asked me. For all you know, Nick's got other plans--" Nick's attention was attracted at the mention of his name, his train of thought suddenly derailed by Natalie's voice. Frowning, he continued to stare down at the glass, trying to connect Saturday with . . . the Solicitor General's Dinner/Dance! Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes and wondered for the hundredth time why his perfect memory always fell by the wayside when it came to night- to-night mortal details, particularly those dealing with Natalie. Not that Schanke hadn't been on his back about his asking somebody--particularly their favorite coroner-- for the past two weeks. And it was weekend? "Don't tell me he's shy, Nat. Cause I've seen him around women and Nick is the shy type--" Wincing inwardly, Nick made a mental note to thank his partner for his intervention in this matter. If Schanke hadn't messed up the situation beyond repair, he'd ask Nat this morning, when she came by to get the blood sample. She'd probably decline. He'd no idea whether or not she even dancing. And the Solicitor General's black-tie get-togethers--all in the name of charity, of course--were supposed to be deadly dull affairs, with speech after speech . . . . The cellular phone in his jacket pocket beeped. Grateful for the distraction, Nick reached into his coat and unfolded the phone with a snap of his wrist, then extended the antenna. "Knight here." "Nicola?" "Janette, I've asked you not to call on this number," he said, unable to keep his voice from that inevitable mixture of frustration and exasperation that her calls produced. And he hadn't kept his voice down, because Schanke was saying--"You hear that? It's Janette, from that club downtown. What is it with those two? Every time he drops by there, they spend two minutes talking and ten minutes chewing on each other. Then again, if I had an informant with that body--" Nick closed his eyes tightly and wondered what non-fatal remedy he hadn't tried on Schanke that might get the man to keep his mouth shut. Natalie's answer was lost to him, as Janette spoke. "I know, but it's an emergency. here." There was a note of contained panic in her voice that he hadn't heard for at least a century. "Who?" "The Archivist. Dorian." As Nick released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, her panicked voice continued, "And he's looking for , Nicola." But the rest of the sentence hadn't registered, for the one word alone--Dorian--was enough to send his head spinning. His long, blonde hair was soaked with water, slapping against his skin as he turned his head to look behind. There was no pursuit to be seen. But, still, LaCroix hurried ahead, his cloak drawn around Janette in a protective manner as they thrashed their way through the forest underbrush. They'd left the trail some time before, heading down the bank of a small trickle that wasn't worthy of the word 'stream.' But when the rain had continued and the trickle had swollen to a respectable depth, they'd gone back up the bank and into the uncut forest. And with each step, LaCroix had seemed uncharacteristically careful with Janette, his eyes on her as often as they way ahead. Janette shrieked aloud, stopping as a thin, green branch smacked against her pale skin, leaving a welt. Instantly, she grabbed hold of it, tearing it from the tree-- but showering them all with more water in the process. LaCroix raised the back of his hand, as if to strike her, but stopped himself, grabbing hold of the back of her neck instead and looking over his shoulder, at Nicholas. "I think I see light up ahead." "I need to rest," wailed Janette, her hand raised to the welt on her cheek. Escaping LaCroix's grip and leaning her back against the tree she'd struck earlier, she looked from him to LaCroix. "I can't run any more." "What are we running ?" pressed Nicholas for the hundredth time, glaring at LaCroix. "Let's stand and fight." But LaCroix's eyes were cold and hard and . . . was there an edge of fear within? Nicholas started back a step, surprised. Not seeming to notice, LaCroix reached for Janette's hand, pulling her to him. "We'll need to feed if we're going to keep up this pace," he said, over the steady sound of the rain. "There should be something of worth in that hovel. Take care when we enter and leave them alive, Nicholas--for the moment." He knew enough not to question. Nodding, Nicholas followed, still casting glances over his shoulder. Only once did he pause, when he thought he saw a gleam of gold among the leaves. It could have been nothing more than a reflection from a leaf, or a brightly colored bird. But birds had fled these northern climes a half season before. And there was no moon to give light, hidden by the clouds that gifted them with this chilling, steady rain. LaCroix's eyes, as usual, had been sharp and accurate--there was a cottage ahead built of wattle and daub. The thatched roof had seen better nights, but it appeared fairly sound. And an oiled skin that hung over a gap in the wall flickered with the glow from an inner fire. Counting the door--made of nothing stronger than sticks bundled with twine--as no real obstacle, he nodded to LaCroix as they exited the cover of the trees and underbrush and started across the muddy clearing. Janette hung back, covering herself with the hood and leaves of her cloak. They'd come upon one cottage in the past where a pious monk had holy water, which he'd sprinkled on them in welcome. His throat had been torn out by LaCroix's angry teeth before the burning drops had dried. Nicholas flashed her a confident smile--he'd protect her at all cost. But still, she hung back, taking her rightful place among the three. LaCroix stood to one side of the door and Nicholas on the other. When he reached for the sword at his belt scabbard, LaCroix shook his head and made a motion with his hands, indicating that the gleam on the metal from the fire would take away their immediate surprise. Not that they expected much resistance, but they'd been running for three nights, with only one feeding since first flight and that a paltry shepherd and his son. Whetting his lips with the rain, Nicholas hungered for the iron taste of the blood. At LaCroix's signal, he put his shoulder to the door, breaking it from its moorings, and stumbled a step or two into the room. A hand closed around his throat, pulling him backward, even as LaCroix came through the door. Nicholas shoved his elbow back, hard, against his captor's midsection, expecting to hear the crack of ribs beneath solid bone. Instead, he felt a shudder go through him as his elbow connected with what felt like the best of walls a clever mason could build. Another shriek from Janette caused him to look back to the doorway. Eyes golden, she struggled in the grip of a vampire whose skin was paler than the finest bleached parchment. Nicholas had only a second to register eyes that glowed green, the color of tarnished gold, before he was forced to his knees, arm pulled almost from its socket as it was wrenched roughly behind him. His hair was grabbed by another hand and pulled back, so that he looked into the white face of death, lips red and fangs pearl, seeing a sharpened stake held above him, ready to be plunged into his chest. "No!" cried LaCroix's voice, as Nicholas' gaze fixed on the destruction that hovered above him. "Dorian- -leave him. Please." Another surprise--LaCroix's words were breathless, his tone that of surrender. The captor behind Nicholas released the hold on his wet hair. Nicholas looked over at LaCroix, stunned, then followed his master's gaze, to the fire. The figure seated on the rickety chair was dressed better than the other vampires in his entourage. His hands were gloved, the leather fine, and his cloak and cotebardie were brightly colored, as were his matching hose. The girdle he wore around his waist was of gold, inset with fine stones. He held no weapon. But Nicholas had learned, long before he came across, that the cut and quality of a nobleman's clothes were often his best weapon. This man, this . . .Dorian, as LaCroix had called him, had eyes dark as coal and hair to match. Lit only by the glow of the fire, he emerged from the shadows as a brightly colored image. But once the fire had faded, he would sink back into the dark cloak, being nothing more than a memory of pale skin and red-black eyes. For this was indeed, no man. This was a vampire. And LaCroix, who feared not even the sun as much as he should, surrendered to Dorian. "Nicola?" The panic in Janette's voice startled him awake. "Yes, yes, I'm here," he answered softly, very glad that his mortal friends didn't have his sensitive hearing. "Well, you shouldn't . He knows where you live, Nicola--he flaunted it before me--so don't go to the loft. Or here. His spies will be watching. I can have someone meet you with some money, you carry so little these days. There must be somewhere you can go, somewhere you can't be traced--" "I'm not running." "Fool!" He smiled to himself, having heard that tone in her voice before and very glad he wasn't there in person, to feel her fingers smack against his face. "This is no time for brave posturing--it's ." "So?" "So? It's the interview, you idiot." Taking a breath, Nick glanced down into the case of ivories--a pudgy god of luck smiled back. Unfortunately, he was a fake. "You'd have me run. Dorian would declare . I'd become an outlaw, Janette. And you'd be in danger, if only for warning me. No . . . I'll stand for the interview. I've got nothing to hide." He turned as he spoke and caught sight of Natalie still arguing with Schanke. She blushed as their eyes met, slapped Schanke on the shoulder, then headed out the door without a backward glance. "You've got a to hide," corrected Janette, as his own eyes confirmed her opinion. "Nicola, ? For my sake?" Nick couldn't help but smile at the tone. Janette demanded more often than asked. "I'll see you tomorrow night, Janette." For a moment, he thought the line had gone dead, then he heard her sigh. "I will miss you, Nicola. Truly." There was no mistaking the slam of the receiver into the cradle. Knowing how that softness in her tone often presaged such events, he was quick enough at holding the phone away from his ear. But the sound still echoed. It seemed so . . . final. "Finished with the personal phone calls, are we?" asked Schanke, adjusting his tie proudly. He tapped his knuckle against the notebook in his hand. "You want to interview the daughter?" "What?" Startled, Nick stared at him, the word 'interview' giving him pause. Then he shook his head. "No, not if you've spoken to her. I assume we're ruling her out as a suspect?" "Considering I was ready to call the paramedics when I showed--I thought she was heading for a breakdown. But there was a family friend in the building, they're both in the kitchen." Glancing down at the notebook, Schanke sighed. "Gloria Kenko. Hydro- electric engineer." Schanke smirked. "Can you believe that--'hydro-electric engineer'? Used to be 'power plant employee' till the unions took over." "Also used to be sixty hour weeks with no overtime," reminded Nick. He gestured around the room, at the various pieces of furniture and cases. "Could she tell if anything was missing?" "Not a clue. She seems to think it was a robbery. Says her dad was real bad about locking up." Schanke pursed his lips. "Then again, the mother died some years ago, no other kids or relatives, so she be sole beneficiary . . . ." "But you don't think so?" Schanke shook his head. "Doesn't feel right." "Then we'll go with it as a robbery." Holding his hand over his heart, Schanke took a step backward. "Do my ears deceive me? Is my partner trusting instinct for a change?" Managing a wan smile, Nick slapped Schanke on the back as he passed, heading for the door. "You're the primary, right? I'm just here for backup. Besides, we've gotta find out where Kenko got this stuff. And most of the antiques agents and dealers work day shift . . . ?" Schanke was hot on his heels, pausing only long enough to tell a uniformed officer, "Tell Miss Kenko she can go, will you?" He followed Nick from display case to display case. "How come we never get cases where can do the leg work, huh?" "We . Tonight. I chased that ATM suspect for five blocks." "Uh, yeah." Smirking, Schanke took a step back. "And never lost the crease on your slacks. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were allergic to exercise." Nick planted his fist lightly in Schanke's midsection. "This from Donut Don?" Before Schanke could answer, the uniformed officer returned, accompanying a woman who appeared to be in her mid-twenties, and another, older woman. Almost instantly, he concurred with Schanke's conclusion- -this wasn't a family squabble gone bad. He'd seen the many forms guilt took, over the centuries, and this woman didn't show a sign of it. Schanke stepped forward. "Miss Kenko? This is my partner, Detective Knight." Nick shook the woman's hand. Her eyes were glazed--he knew immediately that she wouldn't know who he was later. "We'll be in touch. If you'll be able to help us by answering a few questions?" The woman stared at him blankly, then nodded. The older woman smiled at him, extending her own hand. "Mrs. Cornell," she said. "Rita Cornell. I used to work for Mr. Kenko, before I retired." Schanke cleared his throat. "Would it be possible for you to come down to the station tomorrow--?" Mrs. Cornell gave him a curt nod, then looked at Nick. "I don't suppose there's much I could tell you. But I think Gloria needs to be looked after. And the arrangements." "Of course," answered Nick. Gesturing toward another of the uniformed officers, he said, "Davies--you want to escort these ladies home?" "That won't be necessary," began Mrs. Cornell. Then, after glancing at Gloria Kenko, who seemed frozen in place, she nodded. "Yes. Maybe that would be best." Nick turned to watch them go. Instinct and experience told him that they had nothing to do with the crime. Which meant they were back to the robbery theory . . . and hours of paperwork loomed ahead, as they tried to figure out what, if anything, had been stolen. "Earth to Nick?" "What?" He started, looking at Schanke. "Sorry. Just thinking." "Well, that's a change." Schanke gestured over his shoulder, toward the door by which Gloria and Mrs. Cornell had left. "So's that. You escorting home a pretty, young, bereaved family member? That's just not SOP." "Lay off, Schanke. Okay?" Nick took one last look at the apartment. "I guess we're done for now, right? Let's just seal the place off until we can get some documentation on this stuff. Maybe Natalie will come up with something." "Speaking of Natalie--" began Schanke, following him out of the apartment. Thankfully, the talk about the Solicitor General's Dinner/Dance was cut off when Schanke had to take his own car to the station. Nick settled into the silence of the caddy gratefully. For a moment, he hesitated, his hand reaching for the phone in his jacket. He'd missed most of what Schanke had said to Natalie, but what little he'd caught made him uneasy about leaving the invitation until this morning. Natalie didn't need that kind of pressure. If he called her now, invited her as a casual gesture, it would give her a chance to turn him down gracefully. But when his hand touched the phone, Nick froze, the phone call with Janette coming to mind. Putting off the question of the Dinner/Dance, he started the engine and headed back to the station, knowing that Dorian wasn't a problem that could be solved with a phone call. When Dorian rose from the seat by the fire, the cloak rose with him, a dark shadow that joined the one the fire cast. It made him appear taller than anyone in the room, although Nick would have judged the man no taller than himself and no older. But the apparent age of vampires was more than deceptive. He struggled against the vampire's grip around his throat and the other that held his hands--it took two of them to hold him. But when Dorian stood over him and fixed him with those dark eyes, he froze. ", LaCroix?" asked Dorian. "Are you up to your old tricks, again?" Reaching forward, he placed a hand to the side of Nicholas' face, the fine, soft glove wiping away some of the rain that still clung to him--cold water on cold skin. "He doesn't seem much of a prize. And you owe me forfeit for running." Nicholas was just as glad that dark gaze left him and turned to LaCroix. But the fear was gone from LaCroix's eyes. He met Dorian's eyes, a smile twisting his lips. "Would you rather I run?" Dorian's smile matched LaCroix's, line for line, edge for edge. "True. You make the game more interesting. All right, I concede the forfeit. Let the brute live . . . for now." The arm fell from his neck at Dorian's words, but a vampire's grip still pinned Nicholas' hands behind his back. He was lifted to his feet, none-too-gently, in time to see Dorian approach the pale vampire that held Janette. Muscles tensed, as he prepared to break the grip that held him and spring at Dorian, but a sharp look from LaCroix stopped him. Dorian lifted Janette's chin with the edge of his finger. "Pretty, isn't she? Remarkable, LaCroix. I'd say your taste has improved, but for this other one." Nicholas waited for LaCroix to make his move, to take a course of action that he could understand and follow . . . but LaCroix did nothing. Even as Dorian nodded to the vampire that held Janette and whispered, "Take her. I'll be ready for her in an hour." When he turned back to the fire, the vampire backed out the empty doorway, Janette still clutched in his grip. She started to shriek, screaming at him in French, then in at least two languages that Nicholas didn't understand. Again, he met LaCroix's eyes, waiting for a signal. But the signal didn't come. Dorian seated himself by the fire, the dark gaze looking at the flames. "Why don't you sit down? There's no reason we can't be civilized about this. And you look soaked to the bone." The vampire behind him released the grip on his arms. Nicholas rubbed his forearms with his hands, then paused, wary. One of the vampires moved to the door of the cottage, blocking the exit, although Nicholas knew that the barest blow from his own fist could have weakened the wattle and daub structure easily, bringing it down atop their heads. "Sit down, Nicholas," instructed LaCroix. He'd walked to the fire, standing beside Dorian. He looked to the doorway again, but before he could ask, LaCroix added, "She'll come back to us. Now sit down, this chivalry nonsense is becoming tiresome." Eyeing the three pale vampires in turn, Nicholas sat away from the fire, his back against the weak wall of the cottage. "At least it takes direction well," said Dorian. When LaCroix only glared at him, he smiled. "And I'm being a poor host. I have something for you, LaCroix." Reaching to one side, he dragged forward a rough cloth sack, less than the size of a man. Dorian twisted the rope at the mouth, then freed it and pulled back the cloth. There was a woman inside--little more than a girl, actually, not yet of marriageable age, but old enough. Her eyes were wide and blank and a cloth had been tied around her mouth and hands. She seemed oblivious to their presence or her own predicament, her shift askew and her hair dirtied. LaCroix turned, hands clasped behind his back. "She looks anything but appetizing." "There others," he admitted. "We were at least an hour ahead of you--I had to have to occupy my time. Be thankful that I thought to leave one. And the best. She's virgin . . . not like that you tried to keep from me." "Take care what you call Janette," warned LaCroix, still staring down at the girl, but a smile stole across his lips. "What? In her hearing? Or ?" He nodded toward Nicholas. "You bait the hook well, but I can't say much of the catch." "He's less than a century across. Let him be." Leaning down, LaCroix placed his hand beneath the girl's shoulder and lifted her to her feet. Seemingly without will, she remained limp in his grasp. "Will you release her?" Dorian sighed. "She'll only scream." "So much the better." Shaking his head, Dorian rose. His eyes locked with the girl's, then her eyes grew wider as he whispered something. LaCroix laughed. The girl's mouth opened and Dorian put his hands over his ears, turning away. But before sound could escape, LaCroix spun the girl like a spindle, so that she faced him, and sank his teeth into her throat. When there was no sound, but the slurp of blood, Dorian turned back to watch LaCroix feed. He raised an eyebrow, and shook his head, a slight smile gracing his lips. Then he walked over and squatted down before Nicholas. "So, Nicholas, that's what LaCroix called you, yes?" "That's my name," he spat. Dorian wiped his gloved hands together. "Oh good. It speaks." Then those dark eyes were raised to his again. "LaCroix knows the ways of these things, so he must have taught you about the Code. And the Enforcers." Gesturing with his thumb, Dorian pointed out the pale vampires, who stood guard. "But I can also safely assume that he never mentioned me. My name is Dorian. I'm the Archivist." Nicholas couldn't meet those red-black eyes--they burned too hot and bright. Instead, he looked over Dorian's shoulder, where LaCroix was feeding. The shift had fallen from the girl's still form and a thin bead of blood ran down her bare back, across her mottled skin. "You work for the Enforcers." " them," corrected Dorian, his tone containing annoyance. "I record the histories of vampires- -that's part of the Code as well. They have to tell me the truth, because I know false words and false hearts. I'm here to interview your Janette. She'll be returned to you, when I'm through with her. What happens then is your own affair." Rising to his feet, he stared down at Nicholas. "Remember me. One day I'll come for ." The black cloak swirling around the colors of his cotebardie, Dorian turned and stalked out of the cottage, into the darkness of the night and the steady hiss of the rain. One of the Enforcers--for was what they were--accompanied him, while the other two stayed behind. Nicholas dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword thoughtfully. With LaCroix just feeding now, surely they two could easily overtake these others and rescue Janette? There was a thud as LaCroix allowed the girl's body to fall to the dirt. Blood dribbled down his chin. He touched his finger to it and licked it. "No, Nicholas," he warned, returning to the fire. "We'll stay here, until Dorian tells us otherwise." Nicholas struggled to his feet, then moved to stand beside LaCroix, stepping over the corpse to reach him. "But Janette--?" "survive. She always has, long before you ever joined us." Gesturing toward the seat Dorian had left, LaCroix said, "Sit down. Rest. I know you've a pair of dice. coins enough to gamble." Looking over his shoulder, to the open doorway, LaCroix's smile disappeared. "But gamble with Dorian. Do as he says, and you may yet live to see your first century." Then LaCroix glanced down at the corpse with disdain. "Ah, but the field is blocked. Do me a service, Nicholas, and get rid of this. In return, I'll give you first throw." There was no thought involved--there never had been before. He grabbed the corpse by the hair and dragged it to the door. Neither of the Enforcers made a move to stop him as he leaned forward, broke the neck, then tossed the mortal remains out into the mud . . . . Laughter rang from the squad room as he entered the station. Nick paused at the Public Desk for a moment, catching sight of one of the uniformed officers to whom he'd turned over his ATM suspect earlier. "He through booking yet?" The officer nodded, gesturing over his shoulder toward booking and holding. "Paperwork's on your desk, Nick. He's got a call in to his lawyer, but he knows we got some nice shots of him from the last ATM camera. Five'll get you ten he pleads guilty on a lesser charge." "Which'll still put him away for two years." Sighing, Nick nodded at the news--two years wasn't half the sentence the ATM stick-up artist deserved, but it would have to do. Modern justice wasn't swift, but as long as he was part of the system, he'd have to take what he could get. "Thanks for bringing him in for me." "Any time. But you got the collar," said the officer. He shook his head in disbelief. "How you got to that guy so fast--you on the track team in high school or something?" "I used to run a lot." Another burst of laughter from the squad room caught his attention. Flashing a quick smile at the officer, he said, "See ya, later. And thanks again," then started toward the office door. But a glance through the sliding glass window froze his blood and he quickly moved to one side of the door, where he couldn't be seen. The man sitting in his chair, at his desk, was Dorian. Even after so many centuries, there was no mistake. The hair was still as dark--jet black and shiny-- but the long curls had been cropped. He was talking to Schanke, who was parked on the edge of his desk, beside a blonde woman that Nick didn't immediately recognize, but whose face seemed familiar. "He should be here any second," said Schanke's voice. "I don't know what's--" "He's here. Now." Dorian's tone of voice hadn't changed. Nor had his tendency to maintain control over every situation. Nick stepped out from beside the door and leaned against the doorjamb, casually. "Hi. Long time no see." Rising from the chair, Dorian gave him an appraising look, then a nod. He offered his hand. "Nicholas--. You're right, it's been a while. Seems like centuries." He half-turned. "Your partner was just filling us in on the progress of your career. ? Very impressive." "I've earned it," answered Nick, his tone carefully neutral. Dorian stepped aside as he moved toward his chair. The blonde met his gaze with an even stare as he sat down. "If you don't mind, I've got work to do--" Reaching forward, he pulled a file folder out from beneath her. She hastily slipped off his desk and out of the way, glancing quickly at Dorian. Both she, and Dorian, were dressed casually, wearing denim jeans and cotton shirts. "Com'on, Nick, work can wait." Schanke moved around to his own desk. "How often do your relatives stop by?" "Relati--" "Distant relative, Detective Schanke--uh, Don," Dorian corrected. He smiled at Nick. "There's blood between us. It's thin, but it's there." "I know exactly what you mean," said Schanke, dropping into the chair behind his desk. "Myra--that's my wife--got into this genealogy thing once. If you knew how many people had Schanke blood in their veins--" Nick cleared his throat, loudly. "I, for one, would be terrified." He looked at the blonde woman and frowned. " not related. But I've seen you somewhere . . . ?" "Ah-hah!" cried Schanke, clapping his hand down on his desk. "Got you! I knew it." "What?" Bewildered, Nick turned to his partner. Schanke leaned across his desk. "You watch the soaps during the day!" When Nick continued to stare, he pointed toward the blonde. "Or how would you recognize Vivian Messer? You know--Tia Revenge on 'Stormy Paradise'?" "That was five years ago," said Vivian. But as Nick looked back at her, she smiled warmly. "Five very years. I'm afraid I just don't fit the role of an ingenue any more. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Detective Knight. If I still carried photos, I'd give you an autograph." Nick stared at Dorian, not bothering to hide his surprise that the Archivist of the vampires would be accompanied by an ex-soap opera star, but Dorian's face was a mask, giving nothing away. "Thanks, but--whatever Schanke says, I'm not really a fan. I may have seen it flipping channels--" "Myra would to have your autograph." Schanke was rummaging hurriedly through the drawers of his desk. "Hang on, I know I've got an old Soap Opera Digest somewhere." While Schanke rummaged, Nick glanced back and forth, from Dorian--the Archivist of vampires--to Vivian, ex-soap star who was definitely an Enforcer. She wasn't even a . Finally, the corners of Dorian's lips curled upward. "All right, Nick . . . she's my secretary. And my traveling companion." He reached out and placed his arm around Vivian's shoulders, drawing her closer to his side. "You know how lonely our lives can be. Think of my avocation--I don't have the leisure to put down roots as often or for as long as the rest of you. Besides, it's only recently we've been able to access funds and travel arrangements after sunset." "Oh, thanks," said Vivian lightly, slapping his shoulder. "Make me sound like the latest in a long line, why don'tcha?" But when she looked at Nick, there was something about the way her lips trembled that belied the ease in her words. "Got it!" Schanke threw a dog eared copy of the slick magazine down on his blotter, then picked up a pen. For the first time, he seemed hesitant, as he looked up at Vivian. "You wouldn't mind?" "Not at all. My acting days may be behind me, but it's nice to know someone remembers me for what I was." Walking past Dorian, she leaned over Schanke's desk. "What was your wife's name--Myra?" "Just make it out to Don." In response to Schanke's glance--which dared him to say --Nick shrugged, biting back a smile. "Not a word." "Yeah, like you have a right. I you were a closet soapie! And if it wasn't for that skin condition, you'd be watching 'em on tape, like the rest of us." "Skin condition?" Dorian's thin smile grew broader and he winked at Nick. "Other times, other customs, eh?" Then, as Vivian finished the autograph, handing it to a beaming Schanke, he reached out his hand and caught hers, pulling her close again. "So, Nick--we'll only be in town for a few days. I thought we might visit for a while. At your convenience, of course. I wouldn't want to interrupt your . . . work schedule?" "At least your timing's good," said Schanke. "Nick's got some time coming, after tomorrow night. Two days off." "Perfect," purred Dorian. Then, he glanced around the squad room. "I don't suppose you could slip out with us now, Nick, could you? I was by your place earlier, but since you weren't home, I came here. I'm dying to get a look at it." Once again, before Nick could answer, Schanke chimed in, "Sure he could. The Captain's off for the night. And after taking out that ATM suspect, he'll ruin the department case curve if he solves anything else tonight." He ignored Nick's furious gaze. "I'll cover for you. The Kenko case seems pretty cut-and-dried. It's mostly paperwork, now. And I just know how you paperwork. A real man of action, we got here," he explained, directing his comments to Dorian. Dorian's eyes grew hard, as he met Nick's gaze. "Yes. I remember." Then he turned and offered his hand to Schanke. "Thank you Detect--Don. You've been most helpful. I'm more convinced than ever that the fates are smiling at Nick, having given him a partner like you." "We're the best," said Schanke proudly. His grin bordered on a leer as he leaned forward to shake Vivian's hand. "Hey, thanks for the autograph. Maybe if you're in town longer next time, you could stop by and meet Myra. She'd really get a kick out of it." "I'm sure I would, too." Vivian smiled prettily, then was encircled by Dorian's arm, as he led her to the door. "We'll wait for you in the lot, Nick," called Dorian, over his shoulder. "Yeah. Let me just wrap up a few things first." "Nice people," commented Schanke, leaning back in his chair. "Wonder how a guy like that hooked up with such a babe? Five years ago, she was . More steam than soap. But, hey, I don't have to tell you, right?" As Schanke rattled on, Nick picked up the files from his desk, put them into a neat pile, then dropped them on Schanke's blotter. "There's the ATM paperwork. And the Kenko preliminaries. And I don't want you to tell me , Schanke. Not a single thing." "Don't I at least get a 'thank you,' for covering for you?" Holding his temper, Nick placed his hand on the desk and stared across the squad room. "No," he answered, after a moment. "And I'll tell you something else. Next time Myra's cousin Agnes calls, I'm going to tell her you're in. In fact," he headed toward the door, but turned to point at Schanke, "I'm going to tell her you're dying to try that new diet stuff she's selling and to put you down for two of !" Knowing enough not to keep Dorian waiting, Nick headed out of the station, Schanke's voice echoing behind him, "But they were such nice people . . . ." He was barely out the door before he spotted Dorian, standing beside his caddy. "Vivian's gone ahead," Dorian explained, walking around to the passenger side. He ran his hand along the line of the roof. "Convertible. '63 model?" "'62," corrected Nick. He walked to the driver's door and opened it, but paused, the keys dangling from his hand. "Would you like to--?" Dorian waved him inside, opening the passenger door. "Thank you, no. I've gotten used to being chauffeured. One of the perks of the position, I suppose." Once inside the car, he buckled the seatbelt, then turned his head to look behind. "Lots of trunk space?" "The largest." "So I've heard." Shaking his head, Dorian rested his arm against the open window frame. "I thought we were doomed when those Japanese toys with engines hit the market. And have you been over to Europe in the past ten years?" Nick concentrated on the simple things--put the key in the ignition, turn it, press the accelerator, start the engine . . . . "No." "Most of them don't even 'have' trunks. If it wasn't for the cellars in the old cities, I would've roasted a half dozen times. Not that there aren't a few of you who wouldn't have been happy to hear that." Nick kept his expression neutral and his eyes on the road. "I suppose it comes with the territory." "That. And a lot more." Dorian chuckled beneath his breath. "At least learn from your experience. Knowing LaCroix was your master, I half expected to find the old buzzard here to defend you, or that you'd run off on me. He ran from me twice, you know." Nick started, daring a glance at Dorian, but the vampire was looking out the window. "That time . . . with Janette?" "Was the second time. When you and I met." Again, he chuckled. This time, he eyes were directed ahead, out the windshield. "The first was when I interviewed LaCroix, himself." When there was no further explanation, Nick dared another glance. "What happened?" He caught a sparkle from Dorian's dark eyes and looked back to the road quickly. "That's one of the rules. I don't talk about anyone else's interview. What you say to me is between us. It goes no further." Then, he cleared his throat. "You're still close to Janette, yes?" "In a manner of speaking." "I saw her, earlier this evening. She's done well for herself with that club. I'm surprised LaCroix permits it." Then he shrugged. "If you wish to know, ask Janette. She was there at the time, if memory serves. But if I were you, I wouldn't ask LaCroix." Dorian's chuckle was dark and deep. "No, I certainly do that." Nick remained silent. Either Dorian didn't know that he'd destroyed LaCroix more than a year ago, or was trying to lead him into admitting his guilt in the matter. Was that what this was all about? Yes, he was coming close to his eighth century and had never been interviewed . . . but was that what Dorian was here to do? To try him for the murder of LaCroix? Dorian asked no further questions, simply staring out the window, lost in thought. Nick was just as happy not to make further conversation. It was only as they approached the warehouse in which his loft was located that Dorian seemed to awaken. As they pulled up, Nick spotted another car. Vivian stood beside it, leaning on the driver's side door. "Always punctual," commented Dorian, raising his hand in a wave, as the caddy passed the parked car and turned toward the garage. He waited for the garage door opener, then drove the car inside. "That's a very rare quality in mortals. They think they have all the time in the world." "I'm surprised to see her with you." Nick turned the key, glancing quickly at Dorian, before he opened the car door. "A mortal, I mean. You used to surround yourself with Enforcers." "They grew tiresome after a few centuries--no sense of humor and no aptitude for irony." Dorian closed the passenger door behind him, then stared across the top of the car. "It surprise you--aren't I allowed the privilege of having someone? Eternity can be a very cold and lonely place, without these brief, warm, mortal lights to cheer our way. Surely you have someone of your own?" Thankfully, Vivian appeared at the garage door, two paper grocery sacks in her arms. Nick was rescued from having to answer by moving toward her. "Let me take those--" "Ever the gallant," said Dorian, from behind him. "The world's outgrown chivalry, Nick." But Vivian surrendered the heavy bags gratefully and the smile he received for his pains was heart-rendingly sincere. "Thanks. Dorian's right--you can't even find a Boy Scout anymore to help you across the street." "There's your solution, Vivian." Passing Nick, Dorian took Vivian's arm, looping it through his. "Look for Nick. I'm certain he helps old ladies to cross streets and rescues cats from tree with alarming regularity. Or . . . is that what firemen do? The cats-from-trees thing, I mean." Nick carefully punched in his access code. Dorian never bothered to offer to take the bags from him and his eyes were elsewhere, but Nick had no delusions--the code was inscribed in Dorian's memory. Not that gaining entry to the loft would ever have been a problem for the vampire . . . . There were no further comments made during the brief elevator ride. Dorian's eyes drifted over everything, as if he were memorizing every detail, down to the studs in the metal. And every time Nick looked up, Vivian's eyes were on him. He smiled at her, but she looked away, back to Dorian as if to check that she hadn't been caught, then down at the floor quickly. Nick recognized the furtive look as that of a animal caught in a trap. But Dorian didn't seem to notice. When the elevator door opened, he hung back. It took Nick a moment to remember old customs. Turning, he gestured into the loft with the bags. "Make yourself at home. It's not much, but it's mine." "It keeps the rain off--that's what counts. And--" As Dorian entered, he waved toward the windows, "the light?" "Shutters." Walking into the kitchen with the bags, Nick paused to nod toward the remote, which sat on the edge of the couch. "Everything's electronic, with a central control." "Modern technology." Dorian walked away, into the depths of the loft. Vivian followed Nick into the kitchen, then reached for one of the bags as he placed it on the counter. "Thanks again." "No problem." He met her gaze, but when she looked away, he leaned close to her, his voice low. "Are you okay?" "Fine. Yes, I'm . . . fine." Her wan smile was obviously forced. Suddenly business-like, she reached into the bags and withdrew a can of instant coffee. "Just need a pick-me-up, that's all. You have a pot?" Nick looked around the kitchen. "I know Nat--I know there's one here someplace." He reached down to open a cabinet, but she placed her hand over his, then inclined her head toward the rest of the apartment. "Thanks, Nick, but I'll take care of it. Why don't you give him the grand tour?" He hesitated, but she gave him a nod and added, "It's okay. It's what I do. Go ahead. Show off the place. Like you said--you've earned it." "All right. But . . . we'll talk later. If you want." "That'd be nice." Nick watched as she continued to take items from the bag, then moved back into the larger portion of the loft. Dorian was standing below one of his paintings, staring up at it. "You've changed quite a bit since we've met, Nick. Primitive, but showing promise." Turning, he made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "But what do know--I'm an historian, not an art critic." Taking a few steps back, Dorian gestured at the second floor, then around at the room. "Bit large for just you, isn't it?" "It's home. For now." "Yes. A far cry from some of the places we used to frequent, eh?" Chuckling, Dorian walked over to the large black dining table. " I suppose you have to be careful about flaunting your wealth, with your choice of profession. Wouldn't want to give the impression of a 'cop on the take.'" Seating himself at the head of the table, Dorian slung himself sideways upon the chair and nodded. "So far, I very much approve. You've done better than I would've expected from one of LaCroix's get. Much better." Again, Nick was saved from answering by the arrival of Vivian. She carried a green bottle in one hand and a pair of wine glasses in the other, which she set carefully on the table before Dorian. Without waiting for any response, she turned and walked back into the kitchen. Which seemed just as well, because Dorian seized the bottle immediately and pried the cork from the lip. "Something I picked up from Janette earlier this evening," he explained, sniffing at the cork. "It's supposed to be one of her better vintages. We mustn't forget custom, after all these years. Since you're the Master here--" Dorian poured the mix of human blood and alcohol into a glass and offered it to Nick. His nostrils flared at the scent and it took most of his willpower to be able to stare at that glass and not take it. "No. Thank you, but . . . no." Suspicious, Dorian lifted the glass to his nose and sniffed. "Why? That little minx hasn't laced it with garlic, I hope. She always did have a soft spot, where you were concerned--" "Janette wouldn't risk her life on something that stupid." "You'd be surprised." Dorian raised the glass, then shrugged, as if accepting the fact that it hadn't been tampered with. "I know you haven't completely abstained- -you're still after all," he wondered aloud, still holding the glass aloft. "And if you work in such close quarters with mortals, you be feeding . . . ." Vivian returned to the table, a different bottle in her hand, the cork already removed. "I'm sorry, Nick," she apologized. "I found this in your fridge. I automatically assumed--hadn't thought--" "It's all right," he said quickly, daring a glance back at Dorian and reaching for the bottle she held. "I'll do it." Vivian maintained her hold on the bottle. She poured the glass of cow's blood for him, but Dorian intercepted it. Placing his own glass on the table, he lifted Nick's and sniffed. "Oh. Cow." Smiling, he put the glass down on the table and slid it against Nick's hand. "Whatever must your Janette think of that, I wonder?" Then, Dorian raised his own glass, waiting. Nick slowly placed his fingers around the stem of the glass, his eyes on the red liquid. For the past month, Natalie had been monitoring his blood consumption, keeping careful records about the when and how much, then matching it against his own blood chemistry. He had no idea how the experiment was proceeding. She usually made non-committal noises and muttered something about not having enough data yet. This glass would put him over his scheduled blood intake. He had no idea what it would do to her data. Then again, he had no idea what he was going to do about Dorian. Slowly, Nick raised the glass, meeting Dorian's silent toast. The blood, cow though it was, slid down his throat easily. He was hungry, hungry, since Natalie's latest experiment had started. It took an effort on his part not to drain the glass to the dregs and pour himself another. But he managed some restraint, drinking only half the glass in the first swallow, then setting it down on the table before him. Dorian was watching him. Nick stared back at those coal black eyes. And Dorian smiled, just before raising his own glass to his lips. "I think you're going to be an interesting interview. A interesting interview." One hand resting on the table, Nick looked away. He caught sight of Vivian in the kitchen, a coffee cup raised to her lips. "Look, could we get this over with? I've got a job to do. And Schanke's volunteered information withstanding, I have plans for my days off. So if we could--" The base of Dorian's glass clattered against the table top, catching Nick's attention. " choose the time and the place. That's another rule." He touched his finger along the top of his glass. "It's very simple, really. I ask questions. And you answer them. If you give me a sufficient answer, we proceed to the next question. If I don't like the answer, I'll ask again. And again. And again. Until I get an answer that satisfies me. And don't think you can lie--" Those dark eyes fastened on his again. "Because I . Ask Janette." Nick made a mental note to do just that. "So . . . when?" "I'll let you know tomorrow. I'll need to prepare my questions," he gestured around at the loft, "now that I've some reference to work from. Vivian will stop by for some preliminary information tomorrow evening, before you leave for your . . . shift--is that what you call it?" "Good." A smile hovered at the edges of Dorian's lips. "You don't have to like me, Nick. And you don't have to hate me. It's what I do." "Maybe I hate what you do." Picking up the glass of blood, he downed the rest of it and rose from his chair. "Or maybe I hate the fact that you enjoy it so much." But Dorian remained seated, the smile fixed on his face. " interesting interview," he murmured, as he sipped slowly from his glass. Nick didn't know what else could be said. But if he got rid of Dorian--and Vivian--he'd be able to talk to Janette. And he had a feeling particular interview might give him some of the pieces he needed to work out this puzzle. Just as he was about to ask Dorian to leave, he heard the elevator motor begin to run. But who? Natalie. He'd forgotten she was coming by, hadn't realized it was so late . . . . Trying not to alert Dorian, he walked toward the elevator door, needing to intercept her before she entered. But Dorian was beside him as the door opened and Nat walked in. "Hi, Nick. You look great, what have--oh!" Natalie's hands tightened on the handle of her medical bag. Eyeing Dorian, she asked, "Am I interrupting something? Because I'll just leave--" Dorian placed himself between her and the closing elevator door. "Are you Dr. Lambert, by any chance? Detective Schanke said something about you, I think. Nick, aren't you going to do the honors? Or does your gallantry only extend as far as carrying in a lady's packages?" Natalie's eyes went wide as she met Nick's gaze, the question as to what Dorian might be, unspoken in the glance. He nodded, very slightly, and her eyes went even wider. "Nat, this is Dorian. Dorian, this is Natalie Lambert. She's a County Coroner. We together." Dorian shook her hand. "A pleasure to meet you. As I said, Detective Schanke mentioned you in passing." Releasing her hand, he met Nick's eyes. "And Nick's right--I'm one of ." A sudden tension in her shoulders was the only clue that she was considering just how to reply, whether to admit that she knew what 'them' meant, and fighting the urge to look for Nick to give her a hint. "Any friend of Nick's--" "He's not a friend," corrected Nick. Then, as Natalie look at him, added, "More of an acquaintance," to calm that sliver of fear he saw sparkle in her eyes. "An acquaintance," corrected Dorian. Returning to his seat at the table, he poured himself another glass of human blood. "When I first met Nick, he was a pale shadow of his master. Little more than a thug, actually." He gestured toward the table. "Please, Dr. Lambert, have a seat. If you'd like something, I think Vivian's preparing some coffee." Natalie mouthed the name to Nick, as Dorian turned his head toward the kitchen. Nick gestured with his hand, trying to indicate that Vivian was a mortal, like Natalie. She nodded, just as Dorian turned back to them, then she put on that professional demeanor that Nick had watched her use to face down predatory defense attorneys and obstreperous lab personnel alike. But she was out of her element and they both knew it. Only Natalie couldn't begin to guess just how out of her element she might be . . . . . By even admitting that she knew vampires existed, she was putting herself in danger--Nick well remembered the Enforcers had been Dorian's shadows, for centuries. But there might be a way around it, if he could get Natalie to cooperate. "Nat, you know where the coffee pot is, don't you?" asked Nick, holding up his palms, as if he were at a loss. "Vivian was asking, but I don't know where I saw it last--" "What?" She was staring at the bottle of cow's blood on the table, then glared at him, knowing that he was trying to get rid of her. But when he narrowed his eyes slightly, she relented, her reluctance and annoyance very evident. "Oh . . . yeah. And we need to talk. About buying more filters? coffee?" "I'll make a list," he promised. "Yeah. You that." As she left the table, she grabbed his empty wine glass. "Why don't I rinse this out for you, while I'm near the sink?" Inwardly, Nick groaned--she'd seen the bottle and the glass. There'd be hell to pay later, when she read him the riot act about screwing up her data and how the hell was she supposed to help him when he wouldn't help himself. But he'd deserve it. If he could only keep her alive enough to deliver the lecture . . . . Dorian was biting back a smile, watching what he could see of Vivian and Natalie becoming acquainted in the kitchen. His voice low, he said, "She's immune, isn't she? The best often are." "She's not a problem." "She be. In time." "She's bound to me." It was a lie, a calculated risk. Dorian never batted an eyelash. "Is she? I'd think you'd try harder to keep her under control." "I don't her 'under control.'" Dorian rose from his chair as Natalie entered, a cup of coffee in her hands and a forced smile on her face. "Vivian found the pot by herself." "Vivian's very capable," said Dorian. Pulling out her chair for her, he stood to one side as Natalie seated herself. "Always in control. That's what Nick and I were discussing just now, control. This is what I mean, Nick--" Natalie had no sooner placed her cup on the table before Dorian's left hand curled around her neck, pinning her body against the back of the chair. Eyes red-gold, he darted toward the carotid artery on the right side of Natalie's neck. Instantly, Nick was at his feet, fangs extended, his leap stopped only by an unwavering cry of "Nick!" from Natalie. Even as he snarled, her lips formed the word 'no.' Remaining very still, she stared at him, eyes wide and fearful, but pleading with him not to move. "I'm fine," she said softly, as Dorian straightened behind her, his arm still around her neck. "I'm . . . okay." If Dorian had been serious, there wouldn't have been any time to save her. But Dorian had done nothing more than frighten her, frighten of them, not even grazing her neck. Nick turned away for a moment, unable to look at Natalie, to meet her eyes, changed as he was. And once his own fangs had retracted and his eyes had returned to normal, it was Dorian's black gaze he met. " play false with me." Dorian stared, eyes cold and unyielding. "This time, I concede the forfeit. Next time, you won't be so lucky." As Nick watched, Dorian slowly released his arm from Natalie's throat, backing away. "Dr. Lambert, please excuse me." He brushed the back of her hand with his fingers, where it still rested on the table, beside her coffee cup. Then he returned to his seat . . . and his glass of blood. "I can't apologize enough." Color rose to Natalie's cheeks as she turned to glare at Dorian. "Maybe you should give it a shot." "Nat--" warned Nick, under his breath. She wouldn't look at him, continuing to stare at Dorian, her anger unabated. Dorian cleared his throat, then lifted a hand, waving Nick back to his chair. "She's right. I owe her an apology. She isn't one of us and isn't bound by the Code-- I've got no claim on her and certainly no right to treat her that way." Turning his attention toward Natalie, he smiled. "Ah, but what a brave and true heart you are, Dr. Lambert. I've known vampires centuries old who would've begged for mercy in such a situation. I hope Nick agrees to bring you across, and soon. We're the less for not having you among us." Natalie stiffened, her back going ramrod straight as she glanced quickly at Nick, then back at Dorian. "I don't think--" "Nat's not interested in coming across," answered Nick, cutting her off quickly. "No? That's a shame. Well, maybe you'll change your mind, in time. My Vivian--ah, here she is." Seemingly oblivious to what had just happened, Vivian returned to the table with another one of Janette's bottles, handing it to Dorian. He took it from her, placing it on the table, then rested his hand around her waist. In turn, she draped her arm around his neck, leaning her weight against him. "My Vivian can't wait to turn, can you?" He gazed up at her. "That's all she ever asks of me. But I'm not a fool. You can find a willing convert in any dance club in the world. But executive secretaries who know enough to close the blinds--they're the treasure." Despite Dorian's words, Vivian seemed uneasy. Once again, she met Nick's eyes, then looked quickly away. And in that brief meeting, he'd seen the look of a trapped animal again. Picking up his wine glass, Dorian gestured toward Natalie. "I'm curious--how did you meet Nick?" Nick took a step toward Dorian. "You're not here to interview ." "True." Dorian never moved, never indicated that he took Nick's proximity as a threat. "Dr. Lambert's under no compunction to answer any of my questions. tell me the truth." He sipped from his glass, then shrugged. "But it doesn't hurt to ask." Nick looked back at Natalie. Her hands were on either side of her coffee cup, as if she were warming them. He thought he saw the barest shaking of her fingers, as they curled around the handle. "I guess," she said, after a pause. "I guess you could say we first met in a . . . professional situation." "Professional?" Dorian frowned, as he sipped from his glass and looked up at Nick. " you joined the local law enforcement, yes? And Dr. Lambert is a . . . County Coroner?" A smile slid across his lips and he raised his glass to Natalie. "That must have been a rude awakening. For the both of you." "It isn't every day one of my patients sits up on the table, if that's what you mean," countered Natalie. When she looked up at Nick, he saw that she was wearing a wan smile, which he echoed. "We've been friends for a while, now." "I assume you're still his doctor, then. Because I can't understand why any vampire would limit himself to of his own volition." Dorian released Vivian and reached forward to pick up the bottle of cow's blood. "That's choice," said Nick, taking the bottle from Dorian's hands, without warning. After holding it for a moment, he put it back down on the table, deliberately placing it beyond his own immediate reach. Noticing the move, Nat gave him an encouraging smile. "If it was up to me, he'd be off the stuff altogether." Picking up her coffee, she shrugged lightly. "But we're working on it." "Really?" Nick couldn't help but draw a breath at Dorian's sudden interest--the last thing Dorian needed to know was how desperately he wanted to return across that wide void between eternity and mortality. "Nat's been working on some questions I have about how our physiology differs from mortals." Dorian spared him a glance, then turned his attention back to Natalie. "It's been some time since I've spoken with anyone on subject. It's an interesting field." "You mean--someone else has looked into this?" Natalie's curiosity was evident from her tone of voice--her eyes sparkled as Dorian nodded his assent. "Yes. I've spoken to several individuals over the centuries." Then, glancing at Nick, he added, "That's right--you don't know, do you? I'm the Archivist, Dr. Lambert. The Code requires that all aspects of vampire history be recorded and stored. Which means . . . I may just have something you'd find useful in your research. Perhaps we could discuss this further--" "That wouldn't be possible," said Nick quickly. "Natalie works, Dorian." "Which means she has time off, just as you do. Don't be so protective of her, Nick. The lady's proven she can handle herself admirably. And as you said earlier, I'm here to interview , not her." Reaching into his rear jeans pocket, Dorian withdrew a billfold, which he opened. He took a card from it, placed it on the table and used a pen from his shirt pocket to scribble down an address. "We've rented a house in the suburbs--York, I think it's called. It's isolated enough for my purposes." Returning the billfold to his pocket, Dorian slid the card across the table, to where Natalie was sitting. "Feel free to drop by tomorrow, Dr. Lambert, if you can. I'm usually available a few hours before sunset." Natalie picked up the card, glanced at it, then looked up at Nick. "I really don't know--" "I give you my word," said Dorian, meeting her eyes with a steady gaze, "there'll be no repeat of tonight's performance. My actions were in poor taste and I owe you a debt of apology. Please, consider it as a favor, to me. I'd enjoy questions, for a change." He turned his eyes to Nick. "Your calming influence may even lead me to deal more gently with our friend, here." Reaching over, Nick took the card from Natalie's hand and tore it in half. He dropped the pieces to the table. "I don't think so." Ignoring Natalie's glare, he never looked away from Dorian. "In fact, I think Nat mentioned something about having to leave." Dorian rose to his feet, picking up the sealed bottle of blood and handing it to Vivian. "No, don't leave on our account. I can see we've over-stayed our welcome." He picked up the first bottle he'd opened earlier and held to up to the light. "No sense in letting this go to waste." Tipping his head back, Dorian drained the bottle to the dregs in a swallow. When the empty bottle glass bottle clanged against the table, his eyes were more red than black. Nick stood his ground, fighting back the urge to snarl, in answer to that red-black challenge. "I'll show you to the door." "No need. I'll find the way." Slipping his arm through Vivian's, he nodded toward Nick. "You'll hear from me, tomorrow." His stern expression lightened as he moved forward, toward Natalie. "It was pleasure meeting you. I hope you'll accept my invitation, Dr. Lambert. I don't make them often, or lightly. Good day." Nick watched as Vivian and Dorian walked to the elevator. At one point, Vivian turned her head, giving him a wistful glance over her shoulder. Then the elevator door closed behind them and they were gone. For a moment, he stared at the elevator door, fury at Dorian's arrogance raging inside him. But when the sound of a coffee cup clattering against a saucer caught his attention, he glanced down at Natalie . . . and the memory of Dorian's arm around her neck, fangs at her throat, turned the focus of the anger from Dorian to himself. Moving around the table, toward her, he said, "Nat--I'm sorry. There wasn't time to warn you--" She barely met his eyes before pushing back her chair and rising, but in that brief glance, and the chair she kept between them, he felt something tear at his heart. "It's my own fault. I walked into it." Picking up the coffee cup and the saucer, she moved to take Dorian's wine glass, which still had blood in it--but her hand froze and drew back quickly. "It's not even like I buzz before I walk in. Geez, how stupid am I?" Turning, she headed toward the kitchen, still avoiding him. "It's . . . rude. That's what it is. Rude." Intercepting her, Nick placed his hands on her forearms, but she still wouldn't meet his eyes. "I'm sorry he scared you." That's when Natalie looked up. A sudden glint of anger lurked in her eyes and tinted her words. "Oh, we're beyond 'scared,' Nick. beyond 'scared.' I'm not even sure 'terrified' covers it." Backing away, she walked around him, depositing the dishes in the sink. "Who the hell is he, anyway?" "Just what he said." Nick walked back to the dining table. On a whim, he picked up Dorian's wine glass and tilted it, watching the blood race around the inside. "He's Dorian, the Archivist. He keeps the records. It's part of the Code." Natalie raised her voice above the running water. "You mean, he was on the level about having information about vampire physiology?" Still fascinated by the blood in the glass, Nick tilted it in the other direction. "Probably. He's been at this for centuries. He's the only one with access to the records-- that's part of the Code, too." Sighing, he walked back into the kitchen, still turning the stem of the glass between his fingers. "No warning--there he is. And then it's your turn to be interviewed." "Right. You kept mentioning that--both of you." Turning, Natalie plucked the glass from his hand. "I'll take that, thanks." Nick followed her back to the sink and leaned forward, licking his lips as the human blood disappeared down the drain. Then he looked away, when he realized that Natalie was watching him carefully. "I guess I screwed up your data, huh?" She frowned, then dipped the glass in the soapy water she'd used to fill one of the double sinks. "Depends. How much did you have?" "A glass." "A . . . glass." Giving him a half-smile, Natalie dipped the wine glass into the water, then held the water- filled glass at eye level. "Six ounces, at a guess." Shrugging, she dumped the water back into the sink. "We'll do the cell count tomorrow. It shouldn't throw me off too badly-- you're a good boy and halve your blood intake tomorrow." Nick winced at her questioning glance. "Ouch. You're tough--anybody ever tell you that?" "But fair." Rinsing the glass, she handed it to him. "Dry." When he stared at her blankly, she picked up a dish towel and threw it at him. "That's for the 'Vivian needs help in the kitchen' business." "Oh. Yeah." Nick toweled off the glass, replaced it on the shelf, then turned back for the cup and saucer. "I was trying to keep you out of harm's way." "Didn't work, did it?" He froze, nearly dropping the coffee cup. "No. It didn't." "So next time, don't try so hard. I can handle myself." "Not against Dorian." Natalie looked up again at his tone of voice, absently washing off the other wine glass. "So, what he? Other than an archivist?" " Archivist," corrected Nick. Still drying the coffee cup, he turned, leaning against the sink. "He's got ties to the Enforcers--they get their information from him. Which is why he does the interviews. He asks the questions, you answer. Then he goes away. And sometimes--" Nick looked down at the cup in his hands. "Sometimes the vampire being interviewed . . . disappears." "Oh." Natalie placed the wet wine glass carefully on the counter, then met his eyes. "Oh. Which means he's judge, jury--" "And the Enforcers serve as executioner. They uphold the Code. And if Dorian discovers that the Code's been broken . . . ." A light smile touched Natalie's lips. "So, he's an informant. You're used to dealing with informants. Lie to him." Her smile faded as he looked away, refusing to meet her eyes. "But . . . you can't, can you? He said--can he tell when you're lying?" "Dorian says he can. I never believed it." "It's dry, Nick. The pattern's to stay on the cup." "What?" Nick stared at her, then down at the cup. Smiling sheepishly, he put it on the counter and then picked up the rinsed wine glass. "I'll talk to Janette about her interview tomorrow." "Dorian interviewed ?" "A time ago," answered Nick. He walked over to the shelf and placed the wine glass with its mate. "That's the first time I ran into him--literally." "But . . . she disappear." Natalie pulled the plug from the drain, then caught the dish towel he tossed to her. "Maybe you're making too much of this." "Maybe." Nick leaned his back against the counter, watching Natalie dry her hands. She paused. "But--?" "But, maybe Janette didn't break the Code." Her eyes widened slightly. "Someday, we've gotta have a long talk about this Code of yours." Nick chuckled. "Well, that'd be one way of breaking it." "Great." Natalie walked back to the dining room table and picked up the empty wine bottle from the table. "And I guess me knowing about you--?" "Gray area," said Nick, following her. He caught the bottle she threw to him and placed it on the counter. "Not the letter of the Code, but the intent." Lifting the bottle of cow blood, Natalie glanced back at him. "Then, all of Dorian's questions--he was trying to find out how much I really knew?" "Could be. He's got carte blanche--he can say anything he wants to just about anyone and get away with it. It could just be that you interested him." "Or he could try to use me against you?" Walking over to Natalie, he lifted the bottle of cow blood from her hands. "Nothing you said tonight would have counted. It has to be during the interview. If he asks me a question about it . . . ." Shrugging, he left her and moved to the refrigerator. "But that's not what worries me." Natalie blinked. "It isn't?" Nick opened the refrigerator door. He placed the bottle of blood on the top shelf, then closed the door and leaned against it. "I don't think he knows LaCroix's been destroyed. Or, he could be here because he know." "That you killed him," finished Natalie. She picked up the pieces of the business card from the table. "I suppose killing another vampire is a breach of your Code." "Depends." Hands in his pockets, Nick walked into the living room. He turned in place, his perfect memory replaying the scene in every detail. The smell of the fire; LaCroix's eyes going wide, as the burning wood pierced his chest. His own voice whispered in his ear ' . . . .' "Nick?" Shaking his head, he picked up the remote and pointed it at the shutters, blocking out the rays of light he knew were no more than minutes away. "It depends on the circumstances." "What about . . . Richard?" Nick paused for a moment and looked down at the floor, not daring to meet Natalie's eyes. "That was different." "Why? Because . . . you brought him across?" He looked up at her and nodded, hesitantly. With a shrug and half-smile, he turned away, tossing the remote onto the couch. "Yeah. Something like that." "But killing your 'master' is breaking the Code." Hearing the word from Natalie's lips, in her voice, made him uneasy. "More or less. Like I said, it's the circumstances, one of the gray areas." Nick turned away. "It's getting late, Nat. Go home. I'll see you tonight, at work." "What happens if you don't answer the questions Dorian asks?" "Nat--" "What ?" He knew that insistent note in her voice too well--it brought back the night she'd tried to talk him into bringing Richard across. "There isn't any choice. If you run, the Enforcers go after you. If you stay, you face Dorian." Turning back to her, he shrugged, implying what he hoped was indifference. "Like you said, I'm probably making too much of it." Her eyes indicated that she wasn't buying it, but Natalie gave him a wan smile. "Yeah. Probably." She picked up her bag from the floor, then glanced down at her watch. "Gee, look at the time. I'd better get going." He kept pace with her, paralleling her every step, so that they met at the elevator door. Nick reached past her to hit the button and she jumped back, startled, then looked away, quickly. A lump rose in his throat--this time he knew for certain that the flash of fear had been because of . "Nat--I'm sorry. About what happened--" Again, her eyes met his and again she smiled, even though it was forced. "I told you, it wasn't your fault. Well, not completely." When Nick pulled back in surprise, she shook her finger at him. "It's just that, well, the next time you and Dorian get into this 'my fangs are bigger than your fangs' macho crap, you can leave me out of it. Deal?" "Deal," he promised. For a moment, Nick stared down into her eyes. Dorian's words echoed in his memory--'Surely you have someone of your own?' In that instant, he could have answered, 'yes,' and not even Dorian could have said he'd spoken falsely. Dorian was right, Natalie had a brave heart . . . and true. Then the elevator door slid open. Natalie slipped quickly inside, barely giving him more than a supportive smile. And the shadow behind her eyes shattered that unspoken 'yes' into a thousand, sharp-edged splinters. Nick rested his back against the closed elevator door and looked across the loft. Again, he could see the flames rising. The wood was in his hand, alight, the crunch as he shoved the spear into LaCroix's chest, pushing him backward. ',' was whispered in each flicker of the flames, the light dancing across Alyce's pale, drained face . . . . Brushing a hand across his eyes, he stumbled forward, fighting down the need for blood. It took a conscious effort on his part to walk away from the refrigerator, to push back that part of him that wanted to drown the memories and the fear and the stress in a thick, salty, crimson stream. But memory could be turned against itself--the image of Natalie's eyes, disappointed and angered when she saw the bottle of blood on the table and the empty glass in front of him, helped him win the battle. As did the supportive smile when, hands covered in soapsuds, she forgave him the lapse and found a way around it. Exhausted, he fell onto the couch. Something was gnawing at the corner of his mind, something that should have been important. Call Janette--yes, but in the evening. Although she'd probably only hang up on him again. What he had to ask, about Dorian and the interview, could only be asked in person. And if she hadn't answered him when it had happened, almost seven centuries before, how would he convince her to tell him ? There was something else, but it eluded him, slipping away as his eyes closed, his last thoughts of Natalie. She'd forgiven him yet another lapse, and would have forgiven him even more readily if she'd known anything about Dorian. He couldn't have refused Dorian's silent toast, even if his glass had been filled with holy water instead of cow blood. What Dorian wanted, Dorian got. And so the memory of the torn business card, which he'd last seen in Natalie's hands, was lost to dark dreams and bloody memories and a promised invitation to a dinner/dance that he wasn't certain he'd be around to attend. Chapter 2 At first, Natalie thought the map had been wrong. The drive she followed wandered through rolling hills covered with finely manicured grass and few trees--it looked very much like a golf course without sand traps. Her heart rose in her throat when she caught a glimpse of a large, stone mansion in the distance when her car crested the top of a rise. But the road turned away from that, eventually ending at a small, one story dwelling, with a circular car park at the side. There were two other mid-size cars in the lot, both with rental plates, neither overly grand or flashy. The house seemed to have been converted from either a small stable or out-building of some type. It, too, was so completely ordinary, like the cars, that the knot in the pit of her stomach started to unravel. From the moment that she'd picked up the pieces of Dorian's business card from the table last night and tucked them in her pocket--while Nick wasn't looking--that knot had been growing in size and complexity. She'd barely slept, the memory of Dorian's breath on her neck and his arm around her throat diametrically opposed to the image of Nick, leaning over her as she waited for the elevator. He'd had look in his eyes. Natalie was never certain whether he was looking at her, looking at her, or some memory from his past, or was seeing past the surface of her self, to some place down deep in her soul. The possibility of its having been the latter was what had given her the courage to drive out here. Something within her told her that Dorian hadn't been lying--he might very well go easier on Nick if she accepted his invitation. It was a chance she had to take, or risk losing the first vampire she'd ever encountered, who'd gone from curiosity, to friend, to . . . part of her life. Leaving her car beside the others, Natalie walked up the gravel path to the front of the house. She pressed the button for the bell and was pleased to find that her hands weren't shaking. Her bag strap was over her shoulder and she held her hand over the closed flap possessively, knowing that the zippered section beneath the flap was open. Experience with vampires--particularly the bit last night with Dorian--had taught her to be prepared for anything. The door opened inward. Vivian stood in the small hallway, wearing jeans and a beige blouse. "Dr. Lambert? I see Dorian was right, he said you'd be here. I didn't believe him. Won't you come in?" Natalie hesitated only a moment, before walking into that all-too-normal house. "Thanks." But once the door had closed behind her, the oddities were immediately noticeable. Every lamp in the place was on, bathing the interior in a false form of daylight. The windows, even the fanlight, were completely sealed by heavy, black cloth, which, on closer inspection, had been stapled directly into the wallboard. The impression was that the house was in mourning, but whether for itself or its temporary occupants, she couldn't decipher. "This way." Vivian led her down the narrow hallway to a door. Natalie hung back as Vivian opened the door and entered the room. "Dorian, you were right. She's here." Peering over Vivian's shoulder, Natalie saw that the large living room was no different than the rest of the house, containing comfortable, modern furniture. The windows to either side of the room had been sealed, but all of the lights in the room were on. Dorian was sitting at a couch, a briefcase open on the glass coffee table before him. There was a carafe and two coffee mugs on the table, as well as an arrangement of fresh daisies. Glancing up from the papers in his hand, Dorian nodded at Vivian, then smiled when he saw Natalie behind her. The papers were dropped into the briefcase and the case was shut and locked in one, fluid movement. Rising to his feet, he snagged the handle of the case and placed it on edge, on the floor, before walking forward to meet her. "Dr. Lambert--I'm honored. Thank you for accepting my invitation." Stepping into the room and around Vivian, Natalie shook his hand. There was nothing in his appearance or manner that would have stopped that knot of tension within her from unraveling. Wearing a charcoal gray suit and a matching silk tie, Dorian looked like a stockbroker. She must have been staring, because he raised an eyebrow. "What?" And Natalie couldn't help but smile. "You don't like a vampire." "Don't tell me that Nick is into that cape and dinner suit business--he doesn't seem the type." When she shook her head, her smile fading at the mention of Nick's name, Dorian ducked his head almost shyly. "It's best to take that as a compliment, I suppose. I'd suggest, though, that you didn't mix up our coffee cups." Turning away from her, he walked back to the 'L' shaped couch, gesturing to the end, where she'd be the furthest from him. "You have coffee, I assume?" "Yes, thanks." Natalie walked to the place he indicated and seated herself on the coral cushions, her bag still at her side. Vivian leaned over her, picking up the carafe and pouring coffee into a mug, which sat on the coffee table in front of her seat. "Although I'm not thrilled you took for granted that I was going to show." "Let's call it 'wishful thinking." Picking up the handle of the briefcase, Dorian flipped it on edge, handing it to Vivian. "Take care of this for me, would you? And, did you call Berlin?" "They're signing the deal tomorrow, at nine A.M." "Good. That would be--" Dorian closed his eyes, then opened them again. "After all these centuries, I still have problems with these damned time zones. What does it matter--it'll be signed, no matter what the time here." Smiling up at Vivian, he gave her another nod. "You might as well be on your way, then. Unless--" Dorian met Natalie's eyes. "It won't make you uneasy, being here alone, with me? Vivian will stay, if you'd prefer?" "It's fine with me," answered Natalie, with more confidence than she felt. "But if you're worried about your reputation . . . ?" Dorian chuckled, then gave Vivian a dismissive nod. She flashed Natalie a quick smile, then left, closing the hallway door behind her. "I was right, you have a brave heart. And a sense of humor." Sitting back against the cushions of the couch, he touched his fingernails to his tie, lightly. "I'm surprised Nick let you come here." "Nick has nothing to say about where I go or who I see." "Ah. Which means, he doesn't known you're here." Leaning forward, Dorian picked up his own coffee mug. "If it were me, I wouldn't have let you come. But then, I wouldn't have wanted to try to stop you, either. Brave hearts can be very formidable. Especially when they know enough to carry a crucifix and garlic in their handbags." Then, Dorian suddenly seemed uncomfortable, placing his mug back on the table. "I should apologize again about last night. It's only right that you should know what that was all about. And I very much doubt Nick would have told you." Natalie straightened in her chair, then found herself staring down at her coffee cup as that tiny knot started to reassemble in her stomach--he knew about her small measures of protection. And, what bothered her most, he didn't seem to care. "I'm not certain I want to know." "But you should, in any case." When she looked up, she found that Dorian was staring at her, with too-sad eyes. "Nick lied to me. He told me you were bound to him." The lying part she remembered from last night. But the rest-- "I don't understand." "It was a stupid lie. One look at you and I would've known--it was too easy to tell." Shrugging, Dorian picked up his coffee mug and sipped from it. Natalie tried to ignore the red liquid she saw on his lips. "If you mean, when he tried to hypnotize me . . . he couldn't." "You're wrong, there. He , but only with your consent. If you surrendered your will, you'd be bound to him." His eyes darkened and he leaned toward her as she straightened in her seat again. "Don't take offense--he thought he was protecting you. My little object lesson was an attempt to show him how easily I saw through his deception. And that the next time he tried something like that, he might not be so lucky." Anger had run through her at the suggestion that she'd allow anyone, never mind Nick, such control over her. But then she remembered what Nick had said about her being in danger. "If I bound to Nick . . . that would fall under the Code?" "You know, don't you? Effectively, yes." Dorian's eyes widened and he took another sip from his mug, his gaze still locked with hers even as he swallowed. She had a feeling he was choosing his next words carefully. "Dr. Lambert . . . a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. The more you know about us, the more you endanger yourself . . . and Nick." "Which means you're not going to answer my questions." Clutching her bag tightly, Natalie started to rise to her feet, but Dorian lifted his hand to stop her, then leaned forward and placed his coffee cup on the table. "I didn't say ." When she seated herself, he looked down, at the floor. "There are some questions I can't answer because of the Code. Others . . . I'd prefer not to answer, for personal reasons, and for my own protection. But between those two--" He held his hands apart and looked up at her, "There's quite a bit of latitude." "All right. How old are you?" The ghost of a smile slipped across Dorian's face as he reached for his coffee cup again. "That's a difficult question." "Because of the Code? Or personal reasons?" "It depends on how you redefine the question. Do you mean, how old was I when I was brought across--?" "How long have you been a vampire?" He chuckled aloud again. "I'll have to decline--on both counts. You know how old Nick is?" For a moment, Natalie wasn't certain she should admit it, but then she nodded. "I'm older." When she frowned, Dorian lifted his mug to his lips again, hiding his secretive smile. After a moment, he shrugged. "That's all I can say. You can make your own deductions from our conversation. And if you guess rightly or wrongly . . . I let you know." "Or you may not." Sighing, Natalie reached for her coffee cup and held it in her hands, staring into the dark, hot liquid. "Okay, let's try another approach." She fixed him with a steady gaze. "How'd you become the Archivist, then? What qualifications did you have?" "Being in the wrong place at the wrong time. An interest in history and an ability to read and write--which were rare enough qualities to be found in a mortal, never mind a vampire." Dorian held up a finger, forestalling the question on her lips, "Which applies to a good part of history, I know--no clues there, Dr. Lambert. Basically I got the job by forfeit. No one else wanted it. And I can't say I didn't try to find some way out myself, the first century or so." Natalie couldn't help but smile at his frustrated expression. "Am I supposed to be sympathetic?" "Well . . . yes!" Putting his cup on the table, Dorian rose from the couch and walked over to a painting that hung on the wall. For a moment, he seemed to be studying it. His back was to her, when he finally returned to his original thought. "This artist--for example--has spent a good portion of his mortal life painting. Perhaps for the art of it, perhaps for the money?" Shaking his head, Dorian turned back to Natalie and gave her a wan smile, "And if that's the case, he's a fool bankrupt. But the point being--he only has lifetime to occupy. We have countless lives, limitless hours to fill. And yet, few of us are dedicated enough to pursue occupations in the mortal world, decades at a time. We grow impatient and move onto something else, simply because we , and, lately, because it's not safe to remain too long in one place or one profession." Natalie put down her coffee cup and looked away, hearing the truth in his words. She'd sat with Nick, when he gone through the relics of some of his previous lives. No matter how light his words, how much he smiled, there was always a sharp edge of loss in the memories, a wistful look. He'd never said it aloud, but she knew it was always there-- the thought that he might have stayed longer, or had stayed long. Not to mention the mortals whom he'd met, with whom hadn't shared his secret, who'd been left with no word, no knowledge that he still existed or thought of them. By the time it would be safe to track them down, they'd have been dead for decades. Their children, or their children's children, would greet him as a descendent of father's or grandfather's friend. And the cycle started again. Her gaze drifted to the daisies on the table--how alike the flowers were! Just like mortals must seems to these long-lived vampires, after so many centuries. If she didn't succeed in bringing Nick back across the dark divide between life and the world in which he existed, would she be replaced by another Natalie--her daughter or granddaughter, or a stranger--who could give him hope for a cure to his condition? Or when this portion of his life, too, passed into a bag of artifacts to be placed in storage, would the memory of her be sealed in the darkness with them? "Now, you see," said Dorian, returning to his seat, his voice causing her to start out of her wool-gathering. "I'm boring you, aren't I? I told you, I'm not used to answering questions." "No, no--not at all," said Natalie hurriedly. For some reason, she felt embarrassed and reached for her coffee to hide the flush in her cheeks. "It's just that . . . there's so much to think about, isn't there?" "Consider your own profession--can you imagine being saddled with the same job, for so many centuries?" Dorian waved his hand in dismissal. "Of course, there benefits; I make my own hours, travel wherever I like. Now that I think about it, I don't know what else I might have done. I should think I would've gone mad by now. Or walked into the sunlight, as have so many before me . . . and since." Natalie felt the distance between them grow as he spoke, his eyes focused on the flower centerpiece on the table, then beyond that. She'd seen that look in Nick's eyes, as well. The memory of the vampires seemed to be both a blessing . . . and part of their curse. "I suppose you're often lonely." Dorian started at the statement, meeting her eyes, then looking away quickly. "That wasn't a question." "No. An observation." "It might be better if you were less observant." "For my own safety?" asked Natalie, unable to hide the hint of sarcasm in her voice. "That's the easy answer where you're concerned, isn't it? If you don't want to talk about something, it's passed off as 'something mortal man was not meant to know.'" Still avoiding her eyes, Dorian smiled and lifted his mug from the table. "Ah, now I think you're talking more about Nick. Although, you're right." "That you're lonely?" "That it's a useful evasion." Dorian's eyes glanced downward, at the floor, as he sipped the blood from his mug. Then, he met her relentless gaze again. "And . . . you're correct in the former, as well. Mortals flicker in our sight and are gone far too quickly." Those dark eyes bored into her, as if studying her soul. "Have you considered that a day, a hundred years from now, I'll remember this conversation, sitting here with you--and you'll have long turned to dust?" Natalie refused to turn away, refused to let him win the round. " asking the questions, remember?" And when Dorian leaned forward, returning his mug to the table, she pressed the point. "They're afraid of you, aren't they? The other vampires?" "And rightfully so." Resting his folded hands on one knee, Dorian looked at her again, his gaze suddenly darker than night and colder than winter--the hesitation, the vulnerability she'd seen a moment before had disappeared into coal-black depths. "Think, Dr. Lambert. You know something of Nick, of what he can do. We could destroy the mortal world as easily as a man might crack the shell of a walnut in his fist. Or, we destroy ourselves by forcing the mortals into such fear that they'd destroy . The Code ensures that we survive. The Enforcers protect us from ourselves." Somehow, the words seemed well-worn and rehearsed. Natalie wondered how many times Dorian had given that speech, justifying his deeds to vampire and mortal alike. Or . . . to himself. "And you help out by telling them who's been naughty or nice?" He flinched, as if burned. But that cold darkness never left his eyes. "So, you been talking to Nick. I pass along information, when it seems appropriate. Consider it my civic duty. As a . . . County Coroner, yes? You have an obligation to forward evidence of a misdeed to proper authorities. Is it wrong for me to do the same?" Dorian stared at her for a moment longer, then looked away. Leaning back against the couch, he said, "Excuse me, Dr. Lambert. As I said, I'm used to questions, not answering them. And you . . . I thought your specialty was physiology, not sociology or politics." Natalie didn't dare say what she thought--that unless she found some way of getting around Nick's interview, a cure that might bring him back across would be problematical. "Just want to know where I stand." "All right." Then, Dorian sat upright suddenly and looked to the hall door. "Did you hear something--just now?" "No." Natalie listened carefully, then shook her head. "But as you just said, regarding physiology . . . I ." "True." Dorian smiled softly, relaxing against the cushions, although his fingers drummed against his knee. "Our sensitive hearing does prove distracting, in this modern world. You were saying?" She hadn't been. And she wasn't certain she should. But, knowing this was the only time she was ever likely to get an answer to the question--"You know the history of vampires. Has anyone ever crossed ? Become mortal again?" Dorian's eyes widened and he stared at her, his disbelief apparent. "Is what the fool's up to?" His eyes narrowed. "But, you're not asking on Nick's behalf, of course." The lie rose to her lips . . . and stopped, when she remembered Dorian's arm around her throat, his fangs on her neck. So far, she'd gotten by with evasion, but she hadn't tried to slip an out-and-out lie past him. She wasn't certain she could. Or that it was worth the risk. Instead, Natalie picked up her coffee cup. The coffee was cold and growing bitter, as she reached the dregs, but she still drank. And, when Dorian realized she wasn't going to say anything else, he cleared his throat. "I'm afraid I can't answer." "Personal reasons, again?" she asked sharply. "The Code. I tell you that a number of us have tried that path over the centuries. I've been witness to some spectacular failures." Dorian's eyes were cold and dark and empty again. "Dr. Lambert, I should warn you off this path of inquiry. It's very dangerous--" "You promised to answer me, honestly." "Anything I ," he corrected. The dark eyes softened and he smiled. "You can only blame yourself if you ask questions I can't answer." Natalie looked away, fighting back the angry words that rose to her lips. She'd been here less than an hour. There was another hour before sunset. If Dorian continued to be evasive, she wouldn't get any of the answers she needed, needed. But those were the questions . . . . "Why have you come here, now?" she asked, after a second's pause. Dorian tilted his head, expression wary. "To interview Nick. You know that." "You've had eight hundred years to interview Nick," she countered, her frustration giving an edge to her voice. "Why ?" He stared at her a moment, expression still wary. "You shouldn't take my presence as a personal affront or attack," he whispered, after a moment's pause. "I can promise you, I'll do everything in my power to protect you, and my power is considerable. In fact . . . perhaps, Dr. Lambert, it would be best if you left town, until this was over." The words chilled her soul faster and more completely than the coldest of Toronto winter winds. She couldn't look away, lost in the dark gaze that was offering her no hope . . . for Nick. "Is it . . . it's going to be bad?" Dorian didn't answer at first. Rising from the couch, he walked around behind it. "If Nick had any sense, he would've sent you packing last night." He'd ignored her question. Which told her more than any words. Natalie turned her body, following him with her eyes. "I wouldn't have gone," she answered, with no small amount of belligerence. "He could've made you." Dorian glanced over his shoulder, meeting her eyes only briefly, before turning away. " would have." She was preparing an answer when he turned toward the door. This time, Natalie, too, heard the resounding crash and clatter of breaking glass. Saying, "What in Hades--?", Dorian was across the room and at the door before she rose from the couch. Another crash came from behind her, at the far end of the living room, beyond the couch. The glass from the windows shattered inward, the force of the blast pulling the dark curtains from their pinnings and setting them flapping. Daylight flooded the small space and, among the sudden sunshine, smoke began to rise, like a mist, from the floor. At first, she thought it was a fire. Dorian vaulted the couch, knocking over the coffee table in his haste to get to her. The carafe fell to the carpet, shattering along with the top of the glass table, turning the salmon carpet dark brown. Instinctively, Natalie clutched her purse tightly, as Dorian placed an arm against her back, his eyes moving to the window--though she couldn't tell if he'd seen a flash of something outside or was worried about the influx of the light, which nearly reached them. If he hadn't heard something at the hall door and moved to the other end of the room, he would have been caught in the sunlight. Only seconds had passed since that first crash, but though the smoke continued to rise, there was no sign of flames, or heat. Then Dorian's hand, which had been supportive, was suddenly pressing down on her shoulder. Natalie grabbed hold of him as he doubled over in pain and began to cough, almost retching. That's when she realized the smoke wasn't smoke-- it was . gas. Dorian was a dead weight against her, then he moved away, falling helplessly. Coughing, Natalie, grabbed at him, catching his shoulder and managing to duck beneath his arm. He was conscious enough to stumble with her, as she dragged him toward the hall. Once there, she let go of Dorian and opened the door, but was faced with more gas--the other crash they'd heard had been another smoke bomb, which had effectively cut off the rest of the house. With a sudden burst of energy, Dorian ran into the gas-filled hallway, ignoring her as she cried out for him to stop. She reached him just as he opened the front door and was barely in time to push him to one side, as light, and fresh air, flooded in. But his flesh still sizzled--his hand had been on the edge of the door as it opened. Dorian fell back with a cry, hand clutched to his chest, choking on the garlic fumes. He fell to his knees, then to his hands, hiding in that small space of darkness beyond the door, effectively trapped. The wind was blowing in the wrong direction, drawing the garlic gas out of the house, but not quickly enough. Natalie staggered out into the sunlight, coughing violently, eyes tearing. She'd seen the reaction Nick had to garlic, but she'd no idea if it could be fatal to vampires, in a sufficient dose. Her first glance went to the cars in the driveway-- the larger of the two was gone--presumably taken earlier by Vivian. She was pretty certain that Dorian wouldn't fit inside her trunk. And the other one looked too small. She didn't know how much longer he'd fight the urge to get away from the gas. He'd almost run into the light once. If he succeeded now, she wouldn't need a body bag to gather up what would be left of him. And . . . wouldn't that solve Nick's problem? Dismissing the thought as uncharitable and inhumane, Natalie ran for her car, suddenly realizing that she might have an answer. Tossing her purse to the ground, she opened the driver's side door and hit the trunk release, then ran around the rear, to check her spare supplies. The police weren't the only public servants who could be called to an emergency from home. It just so happened she had a couple of spare body bags in with her emergency kit. Shaking it out, Natalie unzipped one bag, then picked up the second and shook it to its full length, as well. The bags were supposed to be light-proof--colored silver on the outside and black on the inside--but she didn't dare take chances. Not with the life of a vampire on the line. The bags flapped behind her like pennants as she ran back up the gravel walk and to the front door of the small house. Dorian was curled into a ball in the spot of darkness. The gas was rising, but wherever it came from must have been spewing forth more, because the gray smoke still billowed out the door. After dashing in and making a quick assessment, Natalie was forced to step out into the light and take a deep breath. Only then did she dare return to kneel down beside the vampire, the light shining on her back. At her touch, he snarled, straightening. Eyes flashed red and gold, even through the smoke, and his fangs were in place, all too sharp and lethal. But Natalie had dealt with live, wounded people at emergency situations before. She slapped his face, hard, to get his attention. It worked. The eyes were still gold, the fangs still in place, but he was her. Placing the doubled bags beside him, she rolled them to their full length. It was hard to talk, with the gas in her throat and those fangs so close, but she tried. "Dorian--listen. It's a--protective-- bag. It'll stop--the sun." The words were broken by choking and gasping. He seemed to understand, but resisted as she tried to roll him onto the bag. Natalie pushed at him, then placed the flat of the back of her hand against his cheek. Leaning down, her throat perilously close to his fangs, she said, "Dammit, me. Or you'll die!" His hand grabbed her shoulder without warning, insistently. Natalie froze, afraid that she was going to feel those fangs bury themselves deep in her neck. And, she wondered what Nick would think, or if he'd even guess that she'd died trying to save a vampire who was probably going to kill him. But Dorian shifted his weight, following the push of her hands. The bag was dangerously close to the sunlight and he snarled, but once she got him centered over the bag, it took only seconds for her hands to perform the actions that were second sense to her by now--pull up the edges, flip the flap, then zip up the length of the bag. The inner bag was first and she'd almost sealed it completely through habit, when a blackened finger appeared in the opening, stopping her. Muttering, "Sorry," between coughing fits, Natalie zipped up the second bag, sealing Dorian inside. Natalie smiled grimly as she grabbed the handle at the head of the bag--'remember which end is the head' having been one of the ageless jokes throughout her medical schooling--and dragged Dorian into the sunlight. He wasn't a lightweight and she slipped on the gravel as she tugged the bag as slowly as she could onto the lawn-- all she needed now was for the bag to rip, thank heavens she'd thought to use two! Once outside, she dropped to her knees in the grass and flipped the bag over, zipper side down to the ground, reaching beneath to unzip it slightly. He'd continued coughing as she'd dragged him, but that seemed to have lessened. The shape in the bag shifted, he seemed to be trying to get his knees under him--but there wasn't much give in the bag and he might very well rip it open from the inside. "Stay put," she warned him, placing a hand on what she guessed to be his back and exerting some small amount of pressure. Then her knees gave out and she fell on her rear, landing hard. For a long time, she sat there, coughing, staring up into the sunlight, and watching the gray smoke continue to pour out the front door of the house. What she needed was a drink--water would be great but alcohol would feel a whole lot better in the long run. All in all, she was fine. She hadn't been inside long enough to give her lungs more than a slight irritation. But Dorian-- Leaning down, she peered beneath the shadowy underside of the bag. "Are you--?" "Amongst the . . . living?" Coughing accompanied the comment. "Yes. And very glad embarrassment isn't fatal to vampires." "Maybe not, but it's hell on inflated egos." There was another fit of coughing, followed by a weak. "Touche'." The silver back twisted and she caught a gleam of an eye in the crack he'd opened in the bag. "Vivian isn't here. Dr. Lambert--I'm at your mercy." She could strike a bargain--Dorian's life for Nick's? But Natalie shook her head, frowning at herself, knowing she'd lose her own soul in bargain. The oaths she'd taken when she'd entered the field of medicine weren't meant to be discarded at the first opportunity, no matter how desperate the situation. "What can I do?" "Get me to a . . . safe place," whispered Dorian. "Somewhere ." Rubbing the back of her neck with her hand, Natalie thought for a moment. Glancing over at the parking area, she said, "I'll bring my car around. There's no trunk space, but I'm sure there's some place nearby, a parking garage or something." There was a muffled exclamation from inside the bag. "Good," said Dorian, after a pause. "Between the two of us, I should survive on your rear seat. I think a body bag as a passenger might attract attention." "Yeah, you should see what happens when I take them to the laundry." Natalie got her knees under her, then wiped her grass-stained hands on her skirt, chalking off another good outfit. Why was it that since Nick had sat up on her dissection table, she'd had more work clothes torn, ripped, or stained than she'd gone through in the previous five years? Sighing, she looked down at the large silver bag and wondered at the sight they must make--a coroner and a corpse on the lawn, taking in the late afternoon sun. Definitely your average Andrew Wyeth. "I guess you're right," she admitted, after considering a moment more. "If we get pulled over, you're going to be tough enough to explain on the seat." Her hands were on the ground, ready to propel her to her feet, when the sound of fire engine sirens reached her ears. And Natalie froze, her eyes moving from the silver bag to the house. "Dorian--is there something in there they find?" "Nothing incriminating," he said quickly. "I finished the blood from last night while we talked. My clothing--will be a loss. Vivian's put my papers in a safe place. Your handbag?" "By the car." "Then go. I shouldn't think I'll be easier to explain on the lawn, than on your back seat." Natalie ran for the car, her shoes slipping on the loose gravel of the walk. Scooping up her shoulder bag, she threw it onto the passenger seat, then rescued her keys from her pocket and started the car. The trunk banged opened as she drove over the gravel walk and the lawn. There was no time to be careful with the grass and her tires left treads. A brief image passed through her thoughts--of Schanke, in a trenchcoat, examining her tires with a magnifying glass. Well, it wasn't like her prints weren't all over the living room, particularly that coffee mug. The worst they could tag her for was miscellaneous mischief and some property damage. She wondered if the ever-capable Vivian had thought to purchase rental insurance, which would seem a no-brainer if you were used to vampires She'd known two-year-olds who were less destructive. Dorian hadn't moved. Pulling the car alongside the body bag, Natalie leaped out, but left the engine running and the car in park. She slammed the trunk closed on her way around the back of the car, then opened the rear passenger door. A second later, she was down on her knees beside the bag again. "Ready?" "I don't suppose I have a choice." "Then let's zip you up. Watch your nose." Reaching beneath the bag, which lifted upward for her, Natalie zipped the bag closed. "All right. I'll see if I can get you to your feet. Maybe we can hop you over to the car." There was a muffled comment from inside the bag which she took as assent . . . and a confirmation of the absurdity of the situation. Working carefully, she managed to get Dorian to his knees, then his feet. It was only a matter of five feet to the car, but their progress was slow, until the fire sirens sounded again . . . closer this time. Dorian suddenly seemed to master the art of hopping inside a body bag and she had to force down his head, as he all but threw himself into the back seat. Unfortunately, there was still about a foot of bag sticking outside the door and there wasn't time to walk around the other side, unlock the door, and pull him through. "Pull in your feet," said Natalie, giving the bottom of the bag a slap. As soon as he complied, she slammed the rear door, then hurried to the driver's side. The wheels spun on the grass, giving her a bad moment, but then they caught and the car lurched forward. Natalie took her hand off the wheel to put her seatbelt in place. "Continue on the road that brought you here," came the instructions, slightly muffled, from the back seat. "Go beyond the turn off. It'll take you in a circle, to the main road." Natalie turned the car as instructed and they were soon under way. She continued to glance in the rear view mirror and was rewarded at one point, as they crested a hill, of the sight of a fire engine and car turning down the road they'd just left. "I think we're clear." There was a moment of silence from the back seat, then she heard the zipper open further. "Dr. Lambert, I hope I can trust your discretion about this . . . situation?" Her first words were bitten back--who the hell was she going to tell? But if Dorian still held Nick's life in his hands, she wasn't about to piss him off. "Sure." "And, if I may ask, are we going?" Natalie stared at the road ahead, wondering that herself. At least one of Dorian's hands were burned, she'd have to look at it. Which meant access to water and some first aid supplies until his natural regeneration processes kicked in. He'd probably want to get to a phone, as well. "How about an underground mall? There's a parking garage--we could go straight into the mall without having to go outside. Some parts have skylights, but the majority of it should be safe enough." "Yes. I've heard of it." His voice was still raw and he coughed for a moment. "I owe you a debt. If you hadn't been there, the attack might have succeeded." For the first time, Natalie shivered, as she suddenly realized what had happened. She kept her eyes glued to the road, afraid she might swerve into another lane. Dorian was right--the garlic gas bombs were no accident. It was a deliberate attempt to destroy him. "But who--?" she asked aloud. "Whoever knew I was there," came the response. "Vivian, of course, and the Enforcers--they always seem to know where I am, even when I take pains not to tell them. You. And . . . Nick." Dorian coughed again. "You didn't tell Nick you were coming to visit me, remember?" Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Natalie dared a glimpse into the back seat, but all she could see was the lumpy silver body bag. "No. I didn't tell him." "Ahhh," was the only reply, as the bag shifted. "As I thought." "You can't tell me you think Nick--?" "Why not?" Again, Natalie bit back the first answer that rose to her lips. "You don't him." "I thought we'd established that I'd met him several centuries ago." "That's not what I mean. And . . . he's got the same problem with daylight that you do. Or had you forgotten?" The bag rustled in the back seat. "As you've demonstrated, there are ways around our shared . . . skin condition. I must remember to keep one of these things at hand--they're damned uncomfortable, but they work well enough." She glanced over her shoulder as the bag rustled again. "And I think you'd agree that he's in a position to find some mortal to do his day work for him." "Because he's a cop?" asked Natalie, her eyes returning to the road. A shiver ran through her and she chided herself--Nick have done something like this. Could he? "He's a detective. He probably has a string of informants. People like that are always willing to perform the odd service, for coin or consideration." Natalie shivered again, hearing her words--spoken to Nick the night before--twisted out of context. "No," she said, with more confidence than she felt. "Nick wouldn't do something like this." "You said the vampires fear me. Can you tell me, truthfully, that Nick ?" It was a question she couldn't answer. So she didn't. Biting her lip, Natalie guided the car down Younge Street, her thoughts caught in a turmoil. But Dorian didn't press the point. "Is there a men's clothier in this mall of yours?" The question was so innocuous, Natalie couldn't help but glance in the rearview mirror again, surprised. "Yes. I mean, there are a couple of different stores. What are you looking for?" "Anything that doesn't smell like garlic." As the bag shifted again, Natalie grimaced--now that he mentioned it, the interior of her car was staring to smell a bit iffy. "And we'll purchase something for you, as well," added Dorian, as if reading her thoughts. "That won't be necessary--" "It certainly . You saved my life and lost your suit in the process. It's the least I can do. Besides which . . . I'll need you to take me by Nick's, as soon as the sun sets. And I'd rather neither of us smelled like a Sicilian luncheonette." A police cruiser sailed by them. Natalie kept her eyes on the road ahead, afraid she'd recognize the officers in the car as it passed. "Dorian, I . . . ." "I'll ask you not to mention the matter to him. Our interview will be tomorrow--whatever questions I have for Nick can be asked there." She opened her mouth to say something, but Dorian continued. "I think you'd prefer that he not know you came to visit me today. If you keep my secret, I'll keep yours. Agreed?" And although Natalie doubted, in her heart of hearts, that Nick could be capable of an act that was nothing less than attempted assassination, she agreed not to mention the attack. For what would Nick think, if he knew that she'd saved the life of a vampire who might be his mortal enemy? Would he forgive her? Because, if Dorian did anything to harm Nick, Natalie knew she'd never forgive herself. Chapter 3 Nick stripped the black leather gloves from his hands and threw them onto the top of the piano. Passing them, he paused, then rested his hand on the sun warmed-leather. For a moment, he closed his eyes, trying to remember what the sunlight had been like, before it had become a symbol of destruction . . . and salvation. But the memory escaped him, as always. He had lost the light too many years ago, before the totality of every passing second had begun to be inscribed upon his heart. As he walked into the darkened loft, the sunglasses followed--falling to a chair. The long sleeved coat was dropped over the back of the couch, a dark woolen scarf slipping from the collar and falling to the floor. He didn't stop to pick it up, simply left it where it lay, as he headed toward the refrigerator. His brief trip into the light over, it was, as the saying went, 'Miller Time.' Although his particular brand of choice wasn't found on any supermarket shelves. Pulling the half-empty bottle of blood from the refrigerator, Nick lifted the mouth of the bottle to his lips, then paused. Smiling, he lowered the bottle and walked over to the shelf above kitchen counter, where his wine glasses were stored. With a certain amount of pride at this display of self-control, he poured blood into the glass, stopping the flow when it reached the halfway point, as Natalie had instructed the night before. Frowning slightly, Nick added just a bit more to the glass, before setting the bottle aside. He deserved a little self-congratulation. Lately, he'd begun to feel that his being a good cop was starting to depend too much on him being a healthy vampire. His little outing had just proven that he perform in a mortal, daylight world. Raising the glass in a silent toast to himself, he forced to admit that most mortals wouldn't have been dressed as heavily as he'd been, on a late spring afternoon. But it was all one step at a time, wasn't it? And Natalie would be pleased to hear that, for once, he'd taken the initiative. The blood was gone too quickly. Walking into the living room, Nick sat down on the couch and contemplated the empty glass. The hunger was put off, but barely, like a blanket of live coals banked in the evening. Come morning it would burn hot and bright within him. Once again, he'd go to sleep hungry. But he'd disappointed Natalie last night by breaking with her schedule and he'd go hungry as long as he could bear to win back her trust and approval. Leaning against the black leather of the couch, he stared at the metal shades that protected him from the sunlight. In a little over an hour, he'd be free again to walk the night. Until then, he could turn on the television and watch a talk show, or even head upstairs and change into his clothing for work . . . but doing anything seemed too much of an effort. He'd grown used to waiting, over the centuries. And there had been so many things to wait for--a carriage or coach, the smile of a pretty debutante with a long white neck, the end of a battle or a war . . . but always, each day, he waited first and foremost for the setting of the sun. Nicholas stalked the length of the wattle and dub structure. Nothing more than a hovel, it had become a cage for him. There were no bars, no iron, no chains, not even stone to contain his rage at inaction. Only the Enforcers stood silent sentinel. There was always a matched pair on hand, but never the same twice, who stood inside the door when the sun burned high and hot, then outside the door when the cool evening set in. For two days, through the rain and the mud, the Enforcers had kept watch over them. And still . . . there was no sign of Dorian, or Janette. "Oh, sit down, Nicholas," growled LaCroix, from his seat by the fire. "The floor is only dirt beneath the thatch, you know. You've already worn a rut in the mat." This time, he did not do as he was told, but walked to the stone half-moon hearth that held the fire and stared down at LaCroix. "Are we to do ?" "We're doing . We're . And if you're going to survive past a century, it's something at which you should learn to excel." LaCroix's words were clipped. He poked at the last of the coals, stirring them into the heat of the remaining fire. "We could dice again." Folding his arms, Nicholas turned his back to the fire and met the always-angry stare of an Enforcer. "You've won all my coin," he said bitterly. "What else would you have me wager?" "That's true. Too much of you belongs to me and even I'm not yet bored enough to risk losing what I already own." Smiling and shaking his head, LaCroix turned back to poking at the coals idly. "The sun's barely set--they should be here soon. I can't see there being all that much to be discovered from Janette. And Dorian is a slave to the tradition of hospitality. He'll return before we've run out of coals, or he'll supply more. And prey. --" LaCroix sent a burning coal spinning out of the fireplace, onto the worn thatch covering the cottage floor, "is when we start to worry." Nicholas barely heard the words, concentrating on quickly stamping out the smoldering thatch, then kicking the coal back to the stone hearth. LaCroix simply sat back and watched his frantic movements, still smiling. "Take care--" warned Nicholas. But he turned quickly when he heard movement outside the door. Only Dorian's black cloak was visible at first, as he ducked and pushed aside the blanket they'd been using to keep out the daylight. His eyes rested on Nicholas briefly, then drifted onto LaCroix. "I've brought back your prize lure, though I found it to be of little use, myself." An Enforcer entered behind him, Janette in his arms. She seemed barely conscious, her eyelids closed. The vampire dropped her to the floor, where she remained, letting out a low moan. Nicholas ran past Dorian and knelt, lifting her in his arms. Her dress was a ruin, torn and shredded, covered with dirt and blood--but whose he could not say. Only her cloak remained intact, and he wrapped that around her, for the sake of common decency. Stroking her tangled hair, he whispered her name. Her eyelids flickered, then rose. The eyes that stared back at him showed no sign of life or recognition for a second. But then she was there, staring back at him. His heart leaped within him, to see that some part of her had not been harmed. But, for his pains and his care, she looked past him quickly, turning in his arms to see LaCroix, her lips forming his name, but giving forth no sound or intelligible speech. LaCroix, for his part, did no more than glance at her, then turned back to poking at the fire, seemingly disinterested in her welfare. "You're through with her?" "Yes." Only then did LaCroix look up, his eyes filled with challenge as he glared at Dorian. "And with ?" "For now." Nicholas suddenly found himself the subject of Dorian's coal-black stare. "I'll return for your newest acquisition . . . in time." LaCroix threw the poker to the floor, the clatter catching Dorian's attention. "It'll be centuries before his life is worth anything to you." "Perhaps. But you should begin his education in earnest, LaCroix. Teach him not to lie to me. And remind him of it, often. It will go easier with him if he learns to tell me the truth, not what he thinks I would hear." A sharp smile crossed Dorian's lips, as he pointed at Janette, the pale, clean hand emerging from his cape. "Like one." Nicholas was surprised as a deep throated growl rose from Janette--he could feel the rumble of it beneath his hands as he held her. Then she spat, the spittle not quite reaching Dorian's boots. That, at last, earned her LaCroix's attention, as well as an approving smile. His eyes were triumphant as he stared at Dorian. "You haven't destroyed her, despite your best efforts." "There was no need," replied Dorian. His voice even, he showed no sign of annoyance or even anger at Janette's display, although he moved the to