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 toe of his boot enough to grind the spittle into what was left of the thatch mat. "She's been true to the Code. And to you." "You expected less?" challenged LaCroix, still smiling. Dorian turned away, the black cloak swirling around him like a cloud of darkness. "Until we meet again, LaCroix." "May it be a millennium." "Oh, not quite that long, I should think." He paused as he passed Nicholas, staring down, with a hint of a smile playing about the edges of his lips. "No. Not quite that long." Without another word or backward glance, Dorian swept out of the hovel and into the darkness, the three Enforcers following, each silent. Nicholas almost rose to follow them,. but whatever effort Janette had been expending to keep herself upright in his arms was finally exhausted. She fell back and it was only the speed of his reflexes that allowed him to catch her, before she fell to the dirty thatch matting. Again, she seemed to have left herself, her eyes staring blankly upward. Nicholas cradled her head in his arms. "Janette? Can you speak? Were you . . .ill- used?" Her eyelids flickered at the sound of his voice, then closed at his words. Moaning again, she curled herself into his cloak, hiding her face. "Yes," she muttered, her voice low and thin, muffled by the heavy cloth of his cloak. "Oh . . . yes." Anger feeding the fire within him, Nicholas stared up at LaCroix. "You cannot tell me you'll not seek vengeance for this?" Instinctively, his free hand moved to the pommel of his sword, ready to rise and strike at LaCroix's command. LaCroix gave no command, but stood, staring down at the remains of the fire, as it burned itself out. "Leave it, Nicholas. Chivalry is dead. And your devotion is tiresome." Unable to believe his ears, Nicholas stared. "But . . . if we're not to avenge her honor--?" "Honor?" A laugh rose from LaCroix's chest. He turned, gesturing down at Janette, whose only response was to shiver and burrow deeper against Nicholas' shoulder. "Janette? I send Nicholas out to avenge your . . . honor?" When she gave no answer, he turned cold eyes to Nicholas. ", her 'honor' was lost centuries before this. Unless you've found some magic or fancy that will carry you into the past, you're far too late to avenge petty theft." A small sob escaped her. Wrapping both of his arms around her, Nicholas whispered, "Janette--tell me to go and I shall. I'll tear his heart from his chest and make it a present to you. Only tell me that you wish it and it shall be done." Her eyes appeared, small and dark, ringed with black, smeared makeup and bruises against the ivory pall of her skin, whih was in turn surrounded by the thick warm brown of the cloak. Her fingers reached up to touch his lips, the nails cracked and broken. "Oh, Nicola . . . where have you been for all of these centuries?" "Tell him, Janette," said LaCroix, still at the fire. "By all means, release him--I give you leave. Send this pup against Dorian and his hounds of hell." Despite LaCroix's words, Janette's eyes had stayed with Nicholas, until he thought the blue within them would swallow what might be left of his soul. A bright fire burned suddenly in those depths and the fear erupted in her voice. "No! Nicola, you must go, not for me. Don't face Dorian and his kind. Not for ." Stroking her dark hair again, he held her close. "But his treatment of you cannot be allowed--" "Tell him why Dorian took his time and his pleasure with you, foolish girl." Janette started at LaCroix's voice, then turned to stare at him. "It'll save him, in the end. Remember, Nicholas will have his time with Dorian, eventually." Nicholas looked back at LaCroix. Despite his words, he seemed to be speaking plainly, the point of the barb directed more at himself than Janette. Then, as Janette shuddered again in Nicholas' arms, LaCroix added, "Tell him what you , Janette." Again she shuddered and Nicholas held her tightly. "You could do nothing to deserve such ill treatment," he said forcefully. "!" " him!" badgered LaCroix, and Janette twisted as if the words had been accompanied by a slap. "Or he'll lose himself in a rage on your behalf. If Nicholas goes after them, you'll lose him ." Again, Nicholas dropped his hand to the pommel of his sword. LaCroix was right, the anger was building inside him. The frustration of waiting, or not knowing, of being held prisoner . . . and then this brutality visited upon Janette, Janette, that was not to be avenged? He knew his eyes had taken on a golden cast and, carefully, began to pull away from Janette. But she threw her arms around his neck, holding him. "No--Nicola, you !" " him!" Those blue eyes met his own, the cold depths drawing off some of the heat of his anger. "I . . . spoke falsely," she admitted. If anything, the words increased his fury. "And Dorian abused you for this? For a minor mistruth?" " mistruth is minor to Dorian." LaCroix's voice was quiet, but it sounded like thunder in the closeness of the hovel. Nicholas turned his head and LaCroix nodded. "He told you himself. He claims to be our historian, our , so that our history, at least, won't disappear in some mortal conflagration or pestilence or argument over ownership of a fistful of dirt. Truth is to Dorian. He worships at her altar." As LaCroix spoke, Nicholas began to feel the anger drain from him. He didn't understand the meaning of the words as they were spoken, but it was as so many other things said by LaCroix in a serious tone--to be heard, fed upon, and digested later, in a quiet moment. If LaCroix said to accept what had been done to Janette then, for now, it must be accepted. But, in his heart, he made a vow that his reckoning with Dorian would come, in time. And let LaCroix or anyone try to stay his hand. Janette snuggled against him, burrowing beneath his cloak, enfolding him in her arms. Her lips were pressed against the skin at hollow of his neck, as she whispered, "I'm so hungry, Nicola. So very ." "Yes." LaCroix walked over to him, towering above him, in the near dark of the cottage. "I'm tired of feeding off livestock. And unless she feeds well, we'll not make the next town by sunrise. Nicholas, since you're in a mood to draw blood, why not see if you can find a lone mortal to break Janette's fast? The rain's stopped--there may be one or two out by now." Nicholas carefully set Janette back, seating her on the floor, then rose to his feet, facing LaCroix. "Yes," he agreed, after a second's pause. Then, as he turned, LaCroix put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. "Bring what you find back with you. We two will hunt along the way. I think we deserve a bit of sport, after this enforced captivity." A wan smile rose to his lips, in echo of LaCroix's. He knew LaCroix's 'sport' would send them chasing over field and fen, seeing which of them could bring the prey to earth first. It would be good to run and fly, after staying so long in the hovel. There was no need for further agreement--the smile served. But . . . he paused at the door and turned, in time to see LaCroix bend to Janette. LaCroix looked up, meeting his gaze. "What?" "Dorian said . . . he will come for me?" "He comes for all of our kind, in the end," answered LaCroix, voice heavy with sarcasm. "The grim reaper of our truths." Nicholas licked his lips. "When?" "Not for . . . some time." "Then why warn me now?" He watched as LaCroix straightened, Janette leaning against his legs. "When he comes for me, you'll be there. And Janette." "How do know that?" Wearing a light smile, LaCroix reached down and took Janette's hand in his own, meeting her eyes. "Would you see into the future, as well as the past? Slow down, Nicholas. Take one step at a time. After all--" LaCroix looked up, arching an eyebrow, "it's a long walk, through eternity. The path can be treacherous. Who knows what could happen along the way?" The words were a dismissal, when accompanied by LaCroix's eternal stare. Nicholas turned in the doorway, hearing their murmured voices behind him. But their words made no sense to him--his heart was afire with the fear of facing that foreboding eternity alone, as he walked into the darkness. Recognizing the sound of the elevator, Nick started and was just in time to catch the glass in mid-air, as it tumbled from his fingers. Setting it down on the coffee table, he walked toward the elevator doors with a light step, preparing to give Natalie his good news. But, when the doors opened, it was Vivian who stepped into the loft. Seeing him, she started, clutching a briefcase to her chest and uttering a light cry of surprise. "Nick! Hi!" Sheepishly, she looked down at the floor. "I'm sorry, I thought you'd be sleeping and I didn't want to disturb you. I have some forms for you to fill out." "It's all right--I was up. I had . . . something to take care of." As Vivian struggled with first opening, then holding the briefcase, he asked, "May I?" When she smiled in assent, he took the case and placed it on the piano lid. "Thanks." Vivian shifted through a number of folders in the briefcase before she seemed to find what she was looking for. With an apologetic grimace, she handed a file folder to Nick, then closed the case and slipped the lock shut. The papers were forms, as she said, filled with question after question, each more mind-numbingly intricate and senseless than the previous one. "A questionnaire?" he asked, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. Vivian shrugged, her sheepish smile returning. "Don't look at me like that--it wasn't idea! Dorian has this thing about keeping up with the times. I never should have taken him to that mall in Detroit." Sighing, she gestured toward the paperwork. "Gee, that's the last thing I thought I'd grow up to be--a survey lady. But, I guess that's part of what I do." He met her eyes. "And what is it that you ?" She didn't look away, but he saw a shiver run through her. "You mean . . . what am I doing with Dorian?" Gesturing toward the living room, he asked, "Would you like to sit down? We never did get to talk last night." "I know." It was only then that she looked away, to the dining table, where he and Natalie and Dorian had met. "I have some things to do, but . . . maybe for a few minutes?" Vivian seated herself on the couch. He sat beside her, finding himself welcomed by a shy smile. "I suppose," she said softly, "what you're really asking is why the career change from soap vixen to archivist's apprentice?" He wasn't quite fast enough to hide his astonishment at her words and saw it reflected in her expression. "I . . . hadn't even considered . . . ." "It's what Dorian wants," she answered firmly, looking away. "And what do want?" Her sigh came from the bottom of her soul. "I want . . . to wake up. I want to wake up and find out this whole thing has been a nightmare." The blue eyes fixed on him, suddenly. "I kind of walked into a . . . situation. The Enforcers were there. So was Dorian. And . . . he saved me." At first, the words didn't make sense. Nick stared at the metal shutters, knowing that his image of Dorian didn't include the vampire archivist 'saving' anyone--mortal or vampire. "From the Enforcers?" "I was a witness. And, I guess, a celebrity. They wanted me . . .dead." He looked up at the sudden tremor of fear in her voice and found that she too, seemed to be seeing something far away. "Dorian told them he wanted me, that he needed help with his work and that I'd be perfect." "He could have made you forget." Vivian looked at him, eyes sad. "I know that . . .now. But he didn't tell me that at the time. He . . . wanted me. I've been his secretary for the last five years. My life, my family, my friends, the business . . . it's all gone." With a half-smile, she gave a dismissive shrug. "Not that the business end of it was going all that well. Like I said, the stuff was wearing thin." "So, you gave up your life, to save your life?" "It was from me!" protested Vivian. "And now--" she swallowed, "now he wants to take it for real. He wants to bring me across." The controlled terror in her voice chilled his heart. Nick reached across the couch and took her hand in his. "And you don't want to turn? But, Dorian said last night--" "He won't listen--says I've just got last minute jitters or something. Stage fright." Vivian squeezed his hand, a terrified smile on her face. "But that's what Dorian wants. How can I say no to him?" He saw that she knew the answer--the hopeless look in her eyes gave it away. "You can't," he whispered. "I know." Her answer was just as soft. Vivian pulled her fingers away from his, then clasped her hands together. "I thought you'd understand much. After all, when you sent Dr. Lambert over today--" Nick straightened, staring at her. "What?" "Yeah. She arrived, just before I left--Dorian had a few errands for me to run." When he stared at her, she added, in a comforting tone, "It happens all the time, Nick. It's nothing to be ashamed about. They're always trying to buy him off. I think that's why he does the pre-interviews. If Dorian sees something he likes, he makes a point of mentioning it. We usually get it by messenger the next morning." She shrugged. "Sometimes it's a painting, or a pot, or a piece of jewelry--" "Natalie's a ." "Yeah. Them, too. It's to be expected, the way you treat us like toys, or pets, or something." As if embarrassed by the bitterness in her tone, Vivian cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. I guess when Natalie showed up, I was . . . disillusioned. The way Detective Schanke talked about you, what a good cop you were, what a good you were--" The blue eyes moved back to him and he saw her hopes dashed in their depths. "I thought you might--you'd be able-- But, you've really one of , aren't you? Just like Dorian." Before he could answer, her eyes focused elsewhere. "Forget it. It was a stupid thing for me to say." "I'm like Dorian. Believe me." Again, he reached across to take her hand. And some hope seemed to flicker in the eyes that turned to meet his. To be able to give her that much warmed his heart, made him feel that maybe he stand against Dorian . . . and . But then he remembered Dorian's object lesson of the night before--and the warmth was stolen by a sudden fear for Natalie's safety. Releasing Vivian's hand, he rose from the couch and walked over to the fireplace. What the hell did Natalie think she was doing? She'd met Dorian, knew how dangerous he was- - "She was there when you left?" he asked, leaning his arm against the stone fireplace. "How long ago?" "An hour? Hour and a half, maybe?" Vivian shrugged again, glanced at him . . . then stared, as if suddenly understanding the cause of his agitation. "Nick--it's okay. okay. Dorian won't hurt her. He likes to with us, but . . . nothing serious. At least, not in the past three years." The words were meant to comfort him, assuage his fears. In fact, they did the opposite--he how vampires played with mortals. Stalking to the phone, he barked, "What's the number there?" "There's no phone at the house. Dorian's got a cellular phone, but I can't give you number." For a moment, he simply stared at her. "Vivian, I'm a . I can the number, given time." Fear filled her eyes and she raised her clasped hands to her mouth. "He'd know," she whispered. "Dorian would . He'd kill me for betraying him." Some deeper, darker part of himself wanted to tell her that he'd kill her with his own hands, if she didn't give him the number. But when he took a step toward her, she threw up a hand and turned her face into the couch, crying, "Don't hurt me, please! I can't tell you! I can't! He'd kill me! He'd kill me!" Nick froze, looking away, to the elevator door. He took a breath, forcing back his fear for Natalie. It occurred to him that Dorian knew exactly what he was doing--he'd sent Vivian here, knowing that she'd mention Natalie's presence. And what was the Archivist's plan? Was he supposed to force her to give him the information? Was he supposed to fly into a rage and her? The echo of her sobs in the loft brought him back to himself. Nick walked over to the couch and sat beside her. Placing his arm around Vivian--she shivered and shied away at first, but he persisted--he held her against his chest. If that was Dorian's plan, he'd underestimated just how much Nick had changed over the centuries. "I won't hurt you," he promised, whispering in her ear, stroking her hair. He could feel the fear in her frail, mortal body, her heart beating wildly against him. And he rejoiced in the fact that her fear elicited no hungry response from deep within, no need to kill or rend or tear or torment. Compassion filled him as he touched her chin with his finger, lifting her eyes, to meet his. "I told you, I'm not Dorian. I'm concerned about Natalie. you. I can . . . I protect you from Dorian." Those blue eyes were filled with disbelief. But as she stared at him, he saw uncertainty there as well; in convincing himself he might just have convinced her. Her heart skipped a beat, the thundering sounds of panic slowing, as she reached up a hand to wipe the tears from her eyes. "It's not possible . . . ." "I can find a place for you to hide, where he'd never find you." Vivian shook her head, her eyes darkening, unable to accept his words, but he persisted. "He'd find you." "Then you know him." Wrenching away, Vivian left the couch and stood with her back to him, her arms crossed over her chest. "No, it wouldn't work. He'd just kill you. That's what happened the last time. He'd kill you. And then he'd find me." Nick followed her. He reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, then drew it back, as her uncertainty about his own abilities and her faith in Dorian's power began to shatter that sudden confidence he'd gained. "There are places you could go. You could start a new life." He saw her hesitate, her head turning, slightly, considering his words. But then her back stiffened and she shook her head again, her hands rising to the corner of her eyes and roughly erasing the tracks of her tears. "The Enforcers are everywhere. They'd find me. They'd take me back to him." Vivian walked to the piano, where she'd left the briefcase and her purse. "This time he might just let them have me. But . . . thank you." "Vivian--?" She pressed the button on the elevator and the door slid open. Turning, she fixed him with a steady, hopeless gaze. "Tomorrow night. Dorian said the interview's tomorrow night. You'll be told when and where to go. Just . . . be there on time. And, please, lie to him." Vivian stepped into the elevator, but when the door started to close, stopped it with her hand. She swallowed, then added, "973-4712." There was no time to answer, no time to thank her--Vivian turned away and the door closed behind her. Nick paused only for a second, wondering at her courage. Then he moved to the phone and began dialing. It rang. And rang. And rang. A second and third attempt with redial, then dialing the number again proved useless. The sustained ringing twisted the knife in his heart. There were other numbers he could try. There was no answer at Natalie's apartment. His luck changed when he called the Coroner's Office and the phone was answered on the second ring, "Toronto County Coroner?" The voice wasn't familiar and gave him a moment's pause--best to make it sound official. "Yes, this is Detective Knight. I'd like to speak to Dr. Lambert?" "I'm sorry, Detective, but she's not due in until--" a chair creaked and papers shuffled, "at least eight this evening. Is this in reference to a particular case? I see a notation that she's scheduled the Kenko autopsy first thing, and your name's here--" "No. It's . . . all right. Just leave her a message- -I'll be by to see her." "Okay. I'll make sure she gets the message. 'Bye." Resisting the urge the throw the phone across the room, he carefully replaced the receiver, then looked up at the closed shutters. There was only a half hour until the sun set. If he waited, he could fly there directly, avoiding mortal limitations like traffic. Nick's gaze moved to the piano, to the black leather gloves he'd left there, then to the coat he'd draped over the back of the couch. Walking to the coat, he picked it up, holding it in his hands. He'd dared the rays of the sun once today. To do so twice would be foolish. There was no guarantee he wouldn't get stuck within a sea of traffic, unable to leave his car and take to the air when the sun finally set. There was no way of knowing which delay might prove worse--to wait for night or to brave the day. But then . . . he had no way of knowing if he was already too late. The sound of the cloth tearing in his hands, was drowned out by his roar of anguish and indecision and hatred of Dorian, the Archivist of the vampires. Chapter 4 Twilight had passed into darkness, as Natalie stopped the car at yet another traffic light. The red glared at her and she glared back. How odd it was to be doing something so utterly normal as obeying a traffic signal. Ever since Nick had entered her life, 'normal' had become a relative term. If someone had told her in med-school that one day she'd spend a frustrating hour shopping in a mall with a very fussy vampire, she'd have gone straight to the Psychology Department and warned them that one of their test subjects had gotten loose. She sneaked a look at Dorian, who had lowered the car window--the garlic fumes were still in evidence, despite their purchase of the best and biggest air- fresheners his money could buy. He held his hands lightly in his lap, the hasty bandages she'd used to cover the worst of the burns covered by a pair of brown suede gloves. Natalie choked back a laugh, remembering the astonished look on the salesman's face, as Dorian had instructed him to remove the lamb's wool lining from the two hundred dollar gloves. The astonishment had turned to out-and-out shock--when the man didn't move fast enough, Dorian picked up the gloves, turned them inside out, and quickly snapped the stitching with one of the fingernails on his left hand, which hadn't been as badly burned. The light changed and she pressed the gas pedal, following the flow of traffic. "How are your hands?" Dorian started, then lifted his right gloved hand, as if inspecting it. "There's no pain, at least, none to speak of. They'll heal well enough once I've fed." "Will you have to cancel the interview?" When she glanced over, she saw him clench the gloved hand into a fist. "I usually don't need my hands to ask questions." "But don't you take notes or something? Or does Vivian do that for you" "No need. I remember everything. ." He paused and leaned back against the seat with a sigh. "And there are no witnesses to the interviews. When it was necessary, the Enforcers were permitted to be present, but I always sent them away when I felt they were no longer needed. Something like-- the sanctity of the Christian confessional, I suppose. Or-- " "Doctor/patient confidentiality?" "Exactly." Natalie lightly bit her lip, choking back the questions she wanted answered. She had a feeling that Dorian wouldn't tell her whether the Enforcers would be 'necessary' this time. Or what that might mean for Nick. In fact, she'd done everything she could to dissuade Dorian from seeing Nick. She'd watched the two last night--Dorian verbally feinting and parrying, Nick resisting his efforts to draw him out, into . . . a fight? And now that Dorian suspected that Nick was trying to kill him--"He's probably already left for work." "Oh, is he punctual?" Dorian gave an approving nod. "I'm pleased to hear that. At least he has one worthy quality." "Nick's got a lot of good qualities," protested Natalie, frowning and glaring briefly at Dorian, before her eyes went back to the road. "You being the best among them." Dorian cleared his throat. "He'll be there. I called and told him I'd be dropping by, to tell Vivian to wait for me there, if she returned." Surprised, Natalie dared another glance. "When was that?" "While you were trying on that dress, I believe. It become you. I commend your taste. And I wish you'd let me pay for it." She was used to this trick from Nick--changing the subject by using compliments. Briefly, Natalie wondered if that was the sort of thing they were taught when they came across--she'd love a look at the textbook for Vampire 101--or if it was a habit they picked up over time, in dealing with so many mortals through the centuries. At least he was being honest; the dress look good, a stunning green and gold number that was just a shade too dressy for work. It wasn't something she'd have bought on her own--as evinced by the silent scream only she could hear as her credit card went through the machine. She'd headed for the bargain basement, but somehow Dorian had led her led her upstairs, to an expensive salon. There'd been no choice-- she'd shopped where he'd indicated and bought the dress he wanted her to buy . . . although he kept offering to pay for it himself. Again, she half-considered talking him up on his offer. She'd be down to skipping lunch for months and cutting back on Sidney's catnip to pay for the thing. But something about the way he'd managed to maneuver her into doing exactly what he wanted warned her to beware of vampires buying dresses . . . and the souls that lived in them. "No, thank you," said Natalie firmly. " independence." She could hear the smile in his voice. "In the past, Dr. Lambert, the life of an independent woman depended much on her financial circumstances. If she were a princess, she could manipulate the crowned heads of Europe with a finger, as did Margaret of Valois. If she were a commoner, the best she could hope was to be widowed early and the worst might mean being burned as a witch. Or stoned." He looked out the window, thinking for a moment, then nodded, "Yes, I remember a stoning in Tilmun, if only because it happened in the evening. Mobs prefer light-- they like to see the blood, the crushing marks of each stone. A young woman, little more than a child, was stoned because she refused to wed." "The laws are a little more liberal in Canada," said Natalie. "When this?" For a moment, she actually thought Dorian was going to answer. But then he chuckled beneath his breath. "A long time ago. I have to watch my words with you." When she glanced at him, he was trying to adjust his tie, but the gloves were giving him a problem. "Leave that. I'll fix it when we get out," she chided. Then, when he looked at her curiously, she stared pointedly at the road, feeling the warmth in her cheeks. "I'm sorry." "Don't be." He ran his hand along the lapel of his suit jacket--so close to the color of the suit he'd unceremoniously dumped in one of the mall trash cans that she wouldn't have been able to tell them apart. "I won't feel properly dressed until I can get to a tailor." Used to Nick's preferences and his astounding lack of laundry--she had a sneaking suspicion he simply threw out most of his clothing when it got dirty and bought new- -she stifled a laugh. Then again, it was tough explaining to a laundry why the bullet hole they reported in your jacket didn't match a bullet in . "Let me guess--you don't buy off the rack?" His look of mock horror made her laugh aloud. "I should say . My measurements have been the same for--" Dorian shot her a quick look and sighed, "some time. But, of course, tailors never take your word for anything. And it's a real bother to have to change tailors every few decades, especially after you've found an exceptional one. I tried passing myself off as my own son once." He looked away, to the window. "He cared more for his questions than my continued custom. And with the Enforcers keeping close watch over me . . . it didn't end well." He didn't offer more on the subject and Natalie knew enough not to press him. That was something else he shared with Nick--a talent for understatement. Knowing the details of a situation that didn't 'end well' might very well be worse than watching one of those Argento films Nick had in his video collection. As it was, his words had twisted a knot in her stomach. "I suppose I'll have Vivian pick up the rest of my purchases when she gets a free moment," continued Dorian. She saw him reach into his coat pocket, then frown. "Forgot. I left my phone at the house. Getting too dependent on technology, I suppose. I'll have Vivian see if it's possible to retrieve it. arrange for a new rental car, something with sufficient trunk space and tinted windows, this time." "I'm surprised you didn't get something like that in the first place." "I'm afraid I've been thinking more of comfort than protection in the last decade. I've grown complacent. After all, it's been at least a century since someone tried to assassinate me." Natalie winced at the word, which was linked in her mind with the phrase 'lone gunman' and, more lately, 'Oliver Stone.' Watching with Nick hadn't helped any--he'd laughed uproariously through most of the picture when they'd watched it on video and only stopped after she threatened to turn off the tape and leave. But she'd still caught him chuckling to himself, when he thought she wasn't watching. Which brought her back to her current dilemma. "I'm sure Nick had to do with it." But Dorian didn't answer, turning his attention back to the window. After a moment's pause, he said, "I hope this detour won't make you late for work." Another evasion. But she didn't feel much like pointing it out to him. "No. I'm not due in until eight." "But surely you've missed your dinner?" "Grace and I'll do take-out from work," she answered, making a mental note. "The only one I'm putting off is Sidney . . . and he can stand to lose a half pound as it is." "A . . . child?" "Sort of." Natalie smiled to herself at the description. "A cat." "Ah." Dorian chuckled. "I'd put even money on the fact that he doesn't get along with Nick." When she turned to stare at him, she saw that he was smiling. "They're not overly fond of us. Predators don't like to share territory." Natalie was just as glad they'd reached Nick's apartment--she wasn't sure she liked the mental image Dorian had just given her to mull over. She turned off the engine and unbuckled the seatbelt, then reached over to hit the seatbelt release on Dorian's catch--the gloves were giving him difficulty. By the time she'd gotten out of the car, he was already at the door, punching in the keycode. Seeing him hit the correct numbers gave Natalie pause--but then, she'd arrived in the middle of the party last night. Nick might have given him the numbers. And she didn't doubt Dorian had his own sources of information which, from what she'd seen, might prove to be formidable. But the door didn't open. Turning, Dorian smiled at her. "What?" "He's changed it. As if that would matter?" Chuckling under his breath, he looked up to the loft. The metal shades had been lifted and light was shining through the open windows. "How like his master-- opportunity for some minor bit of defiance! But not enough like LaCroix for it to matter, in the long run." As Natalie stared at him, he gestured toward her car. "I'll buzz Nick--did you notice if I left my wallet on the dashboard?" She paused a second, then shrugged. "It's okay. I'll get it." Natalie walked back to the car, unlocking the passenger door, then flipping on the overhead light. There was no wallet on the seat or the dashboard or--she clicked the lock--in the glove compartment. She was just about to check the floor of the car when she froze, suddenly realizing that Dorian had sent her on a wild goose chase. Slamming the car door, she walked back to him, but the elevator door was already open. A glance up at the video camera told her all that she needed to know-- Dorian didn't want Nick to know that she was here, with him. He wouldn't be able to see her car from the window, where she'd parked. Natalie glared at Dorian as she walked into the elevator and he released the button that held the door open for her. "That was a shitty thing to do." "I like to have the element of surprise on my side. It's kept me alive these many centuries." "But . . . ." Natalie was about to accuse him of having lied to her, then went over his words. All Dorian had done was ask if she'd noticed if he'd his wallet on the dashboard. been the one to assume that he had and had to fetch it. Dorian's eyes were on her, watching. "Yes, you see. I didn't to lie. The truth, and silence, leave us options with which to protect ourselves." A slight smile was on his lips as he added, "He's really not worth all of your effort, Dr. Lambert." "That's for to decide." As the door opened, Natalie heard Nick's voice-- he was standing with his back to them, talking on the phone. "--Car trouble. I'll be a little late. No--don't for me. Just tell the Captain, okay?" Natalie glanced at Dorian, who was frowning. That was when Nick turned, hanging up the phone. His eyes hardened as he nodded to Dorian. But . . . his astonishment was evident when he saw her. Natalie couldn't immediately identify the look that flashed across his features, but her heart leaped within her--until his mask fell into place. "Your call surprised me," he told Dorian, walking toward them. "Vivian said the interview was tomorrow." "It is." He hesitated, touching a pile of paper that sat on the piano. Gesturing toward Natalie, Dorian added, "Dr. Lambert offered to drop me off on her way to work. I've had car trouble of my own, this evening. If I may use your phone?" Nick waved toward the telephone, then, as Dorian moved away, he met Natalie's eyes. There was no more then three yards between him, but she felt like he was suddenly miles away. "So, how was your day? ?" Never before had Natalie felt so ill-at-ease at Nick's loft . . . well, there that one time, when she'd first met Janette--"I wouldn't say that." She glanced away from him, her eyes drifting past the piano, then pausing, as she spotted his black leather gloves. Picking them up, she looked again, spotting his coat, scarf, and sunglasses scattered around the room. Nick had this thing about putting stuff away. That his protective 'day gear' was out meant that he'd used it. There was a cold spot in her heart as she realized that he could very well have gone out to Dorian's house and thrown the bombs. If he had, he'd probably seen her car there. Which meant that he knew she'd gone to Dorian's, despite what he'd said the night before. Nick was suddenly at her side and she gasped aloud, as he took the gloves from her hands. "I guess there's something we should talk about," he said softly. Her eyes focused on the gloves, then moved up to his face. But there was something hard in his expression . . . it sent a shiver through her. "Definitely," she answered, putting as much steel as she could in her voice. For a moment, she saw his mask slip, seeing betrayal in his eyes. But he glanced up at Dorian . . . and when his gaze returned to her, that hardness returned with it. "Later," he promised. "I'll drop by the lab." He walked away. Clearing her throat, Natalie fell into a professional tone of voice. "You'll want the Kenko results. It's number one on tonight's agenda." "I know." Nick's answer was flat, final, and . Natalie followed him. "Are you checking up on me?" she asked, in an angry whisper. "Why? Do I have a reason to?" His eyes widened as he walked around her, suddenly noticing the dress. "That's new. And nice." Then he leaned close, sniffing at her hair, startling her so that she jumped back. "But you shouldn't eat Italian if you're going to hang out with Dorian. It's kind of a 'thing' we have." Natalie stared up at him, not bothering to hide her own hurt. "We were 'hanging out,' she answered sharply. "We went to a mall--" "A mall?" Nick's eyes widened and the sharp edge of his smile made her shiver. "I'd always heard Dorian had a reputation for being able to show a girl a good time. Did he buy that for you, then? And what happened to what you were wearing before?" She wanted very much to slap him. But there was also something in her brain that reminded her of that wounded look he'd had, before the mask had slipped back into place. of them had to be adult about this . . . . Swallowing, she met his gaze, unable to hide the sadness and hurt in her own eyes and not caring if he drew pleasure from seeing that he'd wounded her. "Nick, I don't know what you--" Simultaneously, he began, "Do you have any idea how worr--" The receiver was dropped into the cradle with a needlessly resounding 'thud.' They both looked up as Dorian turned to them. "Thank you, Nick. As usual, Vivian's proven to be most capable. She anticipated my request--it seems she's had an appropriate vehicle left at Jarvis and . . . Suffolk." Nick glanced down at Natalie, then back at Dorian. "That's on my way. I'll take you." Natalie sighed inwardly, having found that brief look encouraging--there'd be a chance to clear the air later if Nick dropped by the lab, as he'd promised. "Thank you, but Dr. Lambert's already offered." Dorian's eyes narrowed and a sharp smile crossed his face as he added, "I shouldn't want you to risk it, since you're having car trouble of your own." That's when Nick stared at her again. Looking in his eyes, she felt herself sliding back across all of the ground she'd gained in the last few seconds, and then even more, so that more than miles now separated them. "I'm sorry to have disturbed your evening," said Dorian, his voice anything but apologetic. "I know you must have been getting ready for your shift." "Not at all. I was just about to grab a quick drink before I left." As she watched, Nick walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out an open bottle. He had a slight smile on his face as he gestured toward her. "I know Natalie doesn't indulge. You?" he asked Dorian. Dorian winced. "Not if it's cow. But thank you, anyway." "Specialty of the house." Nick lifted back the bottle and drank. It was like watching a road accident--Natalie wanted to look away, but couldn't. Nor could she stop that small sound of dismay from escaping her throat. Last night, he'd promised to drink no more than half a glass-- three ounces at the most. When he'd finished . . . well, she didn't need the augmented vision of a vampire to see that the bottle was nearly down to the dregs. Nick met her gaze defiantly as he replaced the bottle in the refrigerator and slammed the door. "Why don't I walk you out?" "Yes, we should be going. I don't want to delay Dr. Lambert more than necessary." Dorian offered her his arm. Natalie paused, then met Nick's hard eyes. Chin lifting slightly, she smiled at Dorian and looped her arm through his. "We've got plenty of time. We can even swing around the park first, if you'd like. I don't suppose you've gotten to see much of Toronto." It was a stupid thing to do and Natalie knew it before she even made the offer, before she took his arm. But Nick had hurt her, hurt her. And there was something in her mortal pride that wanted and needed to hurt him back. Dorian smiled at her suggestion. "Thank you--I like to see some of the city." Nick stalked past them, grabbing his leather jacket from a chair on the way. Before they'd reached the elevator, he'd pressed the button, then stared at her with angry eyes. "I'll need that autopsy report ." "And you'll get it ." "Surely you don't rely on Dr. Lambert to solve your cases for you?" asked Dorian, in mock amazement. "Or . . . is she the reason for your phenomenal success?" Nick opened his mouth, then closed it, looking away. Feeling that she had to intervene, Natalie said quickly, "No. I do my job. And if I find something that'll support a case Nick and Schanke have built, or can put them on the right trail, so much the better." Natalie willed Nick to look at her, but he simply stared at the door. Dorian, however, smiled. "Ah, such modesty. Detective Schanke spoke highly of you, Dr. Lambert. He seemed to think you work too hard. In fact- -" He looked at Nick. "I hope my presence hadn't upset your plans for this weekend. Detective Schanke said something about some gala event?" His eyes remaining focused on the door when it opened, Nick said coldly, "I think I should wait until the interview before I make any plans." "Oh, I disagree. Strongly." Dorian and Nick stood to one side, waiting as she entered the elevator. As it was, Natalie was sandwiched between them. And never before had she felt so uncomfortable standing beside Nick. Even when he'd fallen off the wagon, when she'd been afraid of him . . . but it wasn't like . Almost as if he'd shut her out of his mind, his life, his heart. "We should always have something to look forward to," continued Dorian, during the ride down to the street level. "Something to live for. We often forget that." He smiled down at Natalie. "If I were planning to stay, I might ask Dr. Lambert, myself. But I'm afraid I'd be broken-hearted when she declined the invitation-- surely, Nick's stolen the honor of escorting you?" The door opened as the elevator stopped. Again, they stood to the side while she exited. Nick looked down as she passed, but Natalie refused to meet his eyes, stating flatly, "I haven't been asked." Nick followed her out of the elevator, but Dorian was there also. "Haven't been asked?" he echoed, glancing at Nick. If looks alone could have killed, Natalie knew that the look Nick gave Dorian would have disintegrated him. "I've been busy," snarled Nick. "Things have . . . come up." Dorian stopped when he reached the passenger side of her car, then turned to face Nick. "That's a poor way to phrase an invitation, Nicholas. I was hoping you'd managed to acquire some civility this past half-millenium. I know LaCroix traveled in the best circles, when possible. Still, if that's all that can expected of you--" Natalie barely heard their words, as she walked to the driver side door, her heart like a lead weight in her chest. "Dr. Lambert?" She looked up over the roof of the car, at Dorian's voice. "What?" "You should at least give him an answer, shouldn't you?" He nodded back over his shoulder, toward where Nick was standing. "The condemned man, and all that?" Natalie met Dorian's gaze, his words sending a chill through her. She had no idea how lightly he meant them. Then she looked to Nick. He met her eyes evenly, but there was no light there, no life. Very much . . . very much like when she'd first met him. But worse. "I . . . didn't hear a question," she said, softly. She thought she saw a flicker of light in his eyes, but it disappeared almost immediately. "Would you . . . would you like to go to the Solicitor General's Dinner/Dance?" Nick's tone was almost belligerent. Yesterday, at this time, she would have been thrilled to hear those words from his lips. But now . . . . "I--I don't know." Instantly, she regretted the words, when he turned away. "Later, Nick. All right? We'll talk about it later. Nick?" But he had walked to the opening door, ducked his head, and disappeared inside the garage. Fuming, Natalie opened the driver's side door, slipped into her seat, then reached over and slapped Dorian hard, in the chest. "You . That was a way for you to pay me back for saving your life." "I thought that's what I was doing," countered Dorian, staring at her with carefully innocent eyes. "I finally forced the poor boor into inviting you--something that Detective Schanke seemed to have found impossible." Then, Dorian hesitated. "You want him to ask you?" Natalie's eyes were fixed on the garage door, as Nick's '62 Cadillac screamed out of the garage, then sped away, taking what was left of her heart with it. "I don't know." After a few moments of silence, she glanced over at Dorian and offered him a sad smile. "I'm sorry." "For what? For telling me the truth? be afraid to tell me the truth." Clearing his throat, Dorian looked out the window. "It's I who should apologize. I made an assumption about your relationship with Nick. I was . . . in error." "I think we were," seconded Natalie softly. "I think you need cheering up. Is it too late to take that promised drive around the park?" Turning the key in the ignition, Natalie shook her head--there was that shift of subject again. But he was right, she needed something to get her mind off Nick for the moment. "We've got time." "Good. Vivian's sole idea of sightseeing involves shopping. And daytime attractions aren't within the realm of possibility. Then again, I was familiar with most of the palaces and cathedrals of Europe when they still served the purpose for which they were intended. Museums are . . . too filled with memories." He turned weary eyes to her. "But that's something you wouldn't understand." "Maybe." Natalie looked up at the signs through the windshield and aimed the car for Nathan Phillips Park. "I guess I'd feel a little strange seeing somebody I worked for or with, wrapped up in bandages and on display." "Precisely. That horrible Ramses exhibition . . . ." Then he gave her a quick glance. "I just dated myself, didn't I?" "It's a clue," admitted Natalie, trying to hide her grin. "But we're still dealing with a broad range." Dorian looked out the window, his tone of voice containing a certain amount of relief. "That's true. I must remember to take more care." "I guess you aren't used to paying much attention to mortals." "More than most of my kind. I spend so much time with vampires, I find mortals refreshing. I . . . respect mortality. It takes a certain amount of courage to attend to mindless, mundane tasks, when you know the hourglass is running." "Thanks for reminding me." Dorian started, but she flashed him a quick smile, letting him know she'd taken no offense. "Seriously," he said, " have time to better ourselves, erase our flaws. And so few of us do." "And you've tried?" She almost thought he wasn't going to answer. Dorian sat back in the seat. "That's personal--but, yes! I tried. And succeeded, in some aspects. Others?" He shrugged. "Change is always an act of destruction-- erasing the old to bring in the new. And so much about us must be false, for our own protection. That's why the truth is so important. If we can't be true to the mortal world, why shouldn't we be true with our own kind?" Natalie bit down on her lip, thinking of Nick. He'd trusted her with so much information about himself and his kind. She'd still resented what he'd kept from her-- things like Dorian and the Code--which he claimed to have done for her own protection. But it was also to protect himself. "Some of you true with the mortal world." "Parts of it," corrected Dorian quickly. "Exceptions are rare. Like you." She felt his eyes on her, but refused to look at him, still seeing that betrayed look on Nick's face, in the loft. When things got tough, he seemed to retreat too quickly behind that 'but I'm a vampire' shell. What Dorian had said about truth struck a chord--Nick had to learn to be honest with her, and himself, if he ever hoped to cross back into the mortal world. Tonight, when he dropped by the lab-- "What's that?" asked Dorian, pointing to a building on her left. Natalie shook herself out of her reverie and slowed. "That's the old city hall. The new city hall is just past here . . . ." They spent an hour driving more or less in circles, sightseeing from the car. Dorian seemed to have an affinity for architecture, constantly commenting on this building and that throughout the centuries. She soon lost track of his comments about various historical periods and any hope of dating him by his words fell quickly by the wayside. His questions about the when and where and why kept her occupied--there was no chance for her to think about Nick. It was only when she looked down at the clock that she noticed how late it was. "Dorian--would you mind if I dropped you off?" In answer to his questioning glance, she indicated the clock on the dashboard. "Oh, not at all. I wouldn't want to impose upon your work schedule. Is it nearby?" "Just around the corner, actually." Natalie turned the corner, then spotted a convenience store halfway down the street. A darkened car stood at the curb, just beyond the store parking lot. "Is that it?" "Probably. It matches Vivian's description. And-- yes--that's the license tag." As Natalie pulled her car in front of his, against the curb, he began to struggle with the seat belt. "She wanted to stay with it, but there was just too much for her to do tonight. Like finding new quarters, among other things. I very much doubt the house I rented will be habitable by humans, never mind vampires, until it's fumigated." Turning the ignition key, Natalie smiled at his frustration, then slapped his gloved hand away and undid the belt clasp. "Thank you." Opening the car door, Dorian slipped out from under the belt with an obvious air of relief. "Never had that problem with carriages." "I'll wait until you get the car started," promised Natalie. He leaned on the door and shook his head. "There's no need--" "What happens if the engine doesn't work and Vivian can't get out here? You could call a taxi . . . ." "You forget." Dorian smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the darkness. "I could always fly . . . ." "And get hopelessly lost. You don't know this city." That seemed to decide him. "All right, then." Dorian closed the passenger side door as Natalie opened her own door. He walked around the rear of the car, meeting her on the driver's side. "Thank you for the sightseeing trip. That was an unexpected and welcome kindness. I owe you." Standing there, at the driver's side of the rented car, Natalie took a deep breath. "You pay me back." "Dinner?" "Don't make Nick go through with the interview." Dorian looked away and leaned back against the car. "I can't do that. Not even for you." "Then . . . delay it." "Impossible." He shook his head, then met her eyes. "My authority is based on the Enforcers and what can best be described as tradition. To remove either would undermine my position. They'd lie to me. And I wouldn't get the true histories." Natalie didn't care about the true histories, all she cared about was Nick. "Would that be so bad?" she asked. "I'm the only one who knows." Sighing, Dorian looked into the distance. "This afternoon, you asked me if anyone's ever come back across. I can't answer you . . . but I do an answer. I know with that answer is correct." Straightening, he placed one of his gloved hands against the car door and met her challenging gaze. "Would you ask me to settle for less?" "I don't know. It depends on what your answer is to that question about coming back across." His smile was filled with understanding. "No. I can't tell you. And I can't change the interview. Or dismiss it." Dorian bent down and reached beneath the car, withdrawing a key attached to a magnet. "Magnets are such clever things, don't you think? We have your kind to thank for that." "Us?" "Mortals. We don't invent things, as a rule." Smiling, Dorian tossed the key into the air, catching it in his gloved hand. "In general, mortals invent to make their mark on history, or to make their short lives easier. We have eternity. And we take our time." His fist closed over the key. "For the record, I think electricity was an outstanding discovery. And that moon-walking business . . . extraordinary." Natalie hid a smile, not certain whether his last comment referred to dancing or space exploration. "On behalf of humanity, I thank you." "You're quite welcome. Just . . . keep up the good work." Dorian placed the key in the lock and opened the door. Once the door was opened, he stared down at the seat in dismay. "Damn--she's adjusted the seat again." Leaning inside, he felt around for the seat-adjustment lever. "Here," said Natalie, pushing him aside as his gloves seemed incapable of handling the task. "Let me." Sitting in the driver's seat, she leaned forward, trying to find the catch. "I must remember to put a height requirement in the prospectus, next time I have to fill a secretarial position," said Dorian, his annoyance obvious in his tone. "Uh--there it is," said Natalie. Folding her hand around the catch, she pulled on it. "That's right--you said Vivian wants to be brought across--" The catch snapped. Natalie pushed back on the seat and it gave, until it clicked in place again. "There. I think that's got it." Dimly, she registered the sound of a louder, metallic click, and a snarl. Dorian's eyes flashed gold and he pushed her flat, so that she fell across the gearshift and into the other seat. Startled, she started to yell--then a pointed piece of wood erupted from the right side of the driver's seat with a clunk. For a moment, she simply stared at the foot-long wooden spike. Had she, or Dorian, been sitting on that seat when it was moved back into position, it would have been driven straight through their chest . . . and their heart. Vampire or human, it was a deadly device. "What--?" she managed, still trying to catch her breath. In response, Dorian grabbed her legs and started to drag her from the car. Instinctively, Natalie grabbed the passenger door handle and kicked at him. "Stop!" "Fire!" he snarled, eyes still gold and fangs extended. "The stake might have been enough, but if he wanted to make certain, he would have rigged the car to explode." Dorian made sense. Kicking him away, Natalie scrambled out from beneath that spike and to safety. She hit the ground outside the car, but Dorian lifted her to her feet, his arm around her, holding her close. He backed away a step or two, then seemed to relax. When she looked up at him, his eyes were dark again. His expression remained grim. "It's a variation of the crossbow trigger," he explained, starring at the open car door. "But he took a risk this time. That might not have killed me. I'd only be wounded. And a wounded vampire is dangerous." Dorian looked down at her. "Remember that, Mouse- Mouse. When you play with cats, kill with the first blow. You won't live long enough to have a second chance." Natalie stared at him, disengaging his arm from around her. "What did you call me?" "Hmn?" Dorian started, glanced down at her, then back at the car. "Oh, 'Mouse-Mouse'. It's from a German nursery rhyme, about a baby mouse who sits on a windowsill and calls to the garden cats to come and play with her. They talk her into jumping from the ledge and joining them in the garden. Which she does." Sighing, he started back toward the car. "It seems safe enough. have rigged it to detonate just after the stake cut through. Sloppy work. Or perhaps . . . not enough time to finish the job properly?" As Natalie trailed after him, he added, "Stay close. That's twice you've saved me. You're my good luck charm." Staring at the sharp point of the stake, she shivered. "I don't lucky." When she reached forward to touch it, his hand shot out, catching her wrist. "No!" He released her quickly, then put his hand up, indicating that she should back away. "I'm going to close the door." Natalie didn't need to be told twice. She took a few more steps back and Dorian closed the door. But then she felt foolish when nothing happened. "What will you do?" Dorian looked down at the car. "Call Vivian and have her contact the rental agency. We'll tell them it's been vandalized. Which is a pity, because the trunk looks to be of a good size and the amount of tinting of these windows seems just beyond the legal limit. It's covered by insurance, I don't doubt." Then, he turned back to her and she saw a golden glow in his eyes. "I think it's time I confronted Nicholas about this foolishness." "No," said Natalie firmly, meeting those eyes and hoping that a skip of fear in her heartbeat wouldn't betray her. "You could have been killed." "He was going to work." She took a step closer to Dorian. "He couldn't have done this." "He knew where the car was--I made no secret of that. He even said it was on his way, asked to drop me off." Dorian turned his head away. "He might have planned to use that stake on me. But since we took our time . . . ." "Not enough time to do ." Dorian glanced back at her, his eyes dark again, then at the car. "You're wrong, there. As I said, It's a simple enough trap, made even simpler by the rubber band--another marvelous invention, by the way. You forget, Dr. Lambert, your Nick was a knight. In effect, a soldier, a warrior. After all these centuries, he knows more ways to kill than you could count stars in the sky on a clear night." "I don't deny that," she said softly, her fear easing now that the gold was gone. "I don't think he's capable of something like this." "And you know him well?" "I . . . thought I did." Dorian took a step toward her, pointing with his finger to one side. "Tell me that he wasn't in the sun, today. I saw the gloves, the protective gear--" "He's had to do it before," she countered. "Nick's a police detective. That means he's on call if they need him. He has to question witnesses, give evidence in court . . . it could have been any one of a half-dozen things. I--I don't know why he had to go today." She could see the anger in his eyes, in the curl of his lip . . . as well as his frustration with her. Dorian put his hands on his hips, turned away from her, then turned back. "You doubt him yourself, but protest his innocence. Admirable, Dr. Lambert, but don't let him drag you down with him. False hearts desire nothing more than to corrupt and devour the true." Stepping forward, Natalie took his hand in hers. "Dorian--the interview's tomorrow night. Let me talk to Nick tonight." He looked down at their hands. "I'd rather you stayed away from him. Far away. I protect you." "I'll deal with that when the time comes," said Natalie flatly, fighting back the inner tremor caused by the implications of his statement. But Dorian's eyes were sad, as he met hers. "No. I mean . . . I can't protect you from Nick." Stunned, Natalie stared at him. "He'd hurt me." Pulling his hand from hers, Dorian pointed toward his car. "Are you so certain?" She wanted to answer 'yes,' to scream it until it echoed in the empty street. But the word wouldn't pass her lips. Instead, she remembered the time he'd last felt betrayed, when he'd joined the twelve step program. In the back room of the Raven, he'd stood behind her, scaring her, enjoying her fear. All the warnings he'd even given her had come so close to being true that night. He'd pushed her and pushed her, as if he her to give up, to abandon him as lost, as too dangerous to help. She'd been terrified . . . but she'd stayed. And he'd come back. "You said you owe me something," she said, meeting Dorian's dark gaze. "Give me this--let me talk to him. I can find out what's going on. If you confront him now, you won't avoid bloodshed." He turned his head away at her words and she added, "For my sake, let me try." The silence between them seemed to last an eternity. Finally, Dorian looked down. "All right. For your sake." Then he looked over his shoulder, at the car. "Well, I still need a lift. Are you willing to chauffeur me a little farther, Dr. Good Luck Charm? Perhaps I could go to work with you--I could use the phone there to contact Vivian and let her know what's happened. Warn her to be careful." With a sigh, he said, "I should send her away. She's much too vulnerable here. It wouldn't be the first time someone's tried to take their vengeance by harming one of my secretaries." "But . . . where will you go?" She surprised herself at the amount of concern in her voice, and found that surprise echoed in Dorian's uncertain gaze. "I'll make my own arrangements for daylight accommodations. And I'll tell no one. Not even you." "Nick wouldn't ask--" she protested. Not knowing whether Dorian would be safe during tomorrow's daylight hours seemed to make her uneasy, for some reason. With a grim smile, Dorian placed a hand on her shoulder and led her to her car. "But Nick might try to the information from you. Desperate times call for desperate measures. He hasn't lived this long without sacrificing bits of his honor to ensure his future survival." A strong protest rose to Natalie lips, as she watched Dorian walk around the front of the car, to the passenger side--but, again, she remembered the betrayal in Nick's eyes. If she could only be . . . . Slipping behind the wheel of the car with a sigh, she decided it was probably going to be a long night. Chapter 5 It was relatively quiet at the precinct station, but it was still early. Nick stopped off at the public desk and leaned on it. "Any new calls, Norma?" She looked up from the computer screen, smiled, then continued typing. "Nothing, Nick. That's a good sign, right?" "One less dead body in Toronto? Yeah, that's a good sign. Thanks." Shaking his head, Nick continued into the squad room. He craned his neck, looking through the glass window. It gave him a direct view of his desk and Schanke's desk. Schanke wasn't there. Deciding that his luck was changing--with no new cases to add--Nick headed for his desk and sat down. He was just about to reach across to Schanke's desk, to see what had happened on the Kenko case during his absence, when he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that his luck just wasn't going to hold. "Is that--is my long lost partner?" asked Schanke, with mock surprise. Nick winced as Schanke walked around, to the aisle that ran through the office. "Car trouble?" he asked, . "Man, everybody in this place knows that you baby that car. If you'd had car trouble, you would have taken the night off. What it is with that thing? It's like your life depended on it, or something." Nick looked down to his desk, hiding a smile. "You never know." Then, noticing the signed copy of Soap Opera Digest prominently displayed on Schanke's desk, he sighed. "Look, about what happened with Dorian and Vivian last night--" "Yeah, I'm real sorry about that." Schanke walked around to his own desk and sat down. "I didn't know there was any bad blood or anything." "It's okay. There was no way you known. I only found out Dorian was in town when Janette called--" "Right--at the Kenko scene." Schanke nodded. "Too bad, they seemed like nice people. You're, uh, not gonna have a problem with . . . ." Nick smiled, as Schanke picked up the framed soap digest with a mixture of hope and religious reverence. "No. But somebody else in this place might object." "Are you kidding?" Schanke leaned across the desk. "I've gotten an offer of two bills for this so far. I'm holding out for three. Vivian's . . . uh, still around, right?" "As far as I know. But I don't think she'll be signing any more autographs." When Schanke's face fell, he added, "What's with the Kenko case?" "Oh . . . yeah." Schanke shifted through the stack of folders on the left hand side of his desk. "Nat's doing the autopsy tonight." "I know." There'd been just enough strain in his tone of voice for Schanke to give him a questioning look. "I was planning to drop by." Schanke started to rise from his chair. "If you're heading over now, I'll go with you--" "No!" Inwardly, Nick winced at his exclamation. He turned to his typewriter and picked up a form, then fed it into the machine. "I'm not going . She's probably still cutting. Later. And, we've got other cases to wrap up. Like that street artist--" "Pulled a guy in on that one this afternoon. Petty theft gone bad," said Schanke. "You know the Kenko case is priority--it's still smoking. If we can't get a solid lead in the next twenty-four, we can kiss it good-bye." Then, he chuckled lightly. "Oh, I get it. You sly dog." Surprised, Nick looked back at him. "What?" "You don't want me around 'cause you're gonna ask Natalie to the dinner/dance, right?" He turned his attention to the typewriter, his hands clasping the metal tightly. "I already . . . I already asked her." "And?" pressed Schanke. Nick stared across the room, seeing Natalie's face, Natalie's eyes. He'd never seen such doubt there before. And her words still echoed in his ears, inscribed on his heart. "She said she . . . didn't know." Schanke's chair creaked as he leaned back. "Not good." When Nick looked up sharply, he waved a hand in dismissal, "But not , either. You've still got a chance, unless somebody else has asked her. I kinda thought she'd hold out for an invitation from you." He picked up a pencil from his desk, fingers from each hand at opposite ends as he stared off into space, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You know, I never thought of Natalie as the kind who'd play hard to get. But you take your time asking her. Maybe she's just letting you know it's turn to sweat." The platen knob snapped off in his hand. Nick stared at it, then threw it down in disgust. "Look, can we just drop it? "Not Mr. Chatty Cathy tonight, are you?" He turned an exasperated gaze toward Schanke. "We've got a case to solve, don't we?" "Don't ," corrected Schanke, rising from his chair. "I'm off shift as of--" he glanced down at his watch, "an hour ago. Captain asked me to hang till you sailed in. Myra wasn't happy--she had a pot-roast ready to go. It's gonna be shoe-leather by the time I get home." "Give her my apologies." Nick cleared his throat. "I guess I owe you for that, too. You got a minute--catch me up on the case?" "Sure." Smiling, Schanke picked up a folder from the pile and handed it to him. "I went back to see the daughter today. Nothing. She's got a tight alibi--between five and thirty witnesses, depending on what Natalie comes up with for time of death. However, she sole beneficiary." Opening the folder, Nick scanned the papers, which tallied with Schanke's information. He shook his head and set it aside. "No, still doesn't feel right." "Guess what? I agree with you." When Nick arched an eyebrow, he added, "Yeah, I'm a little worried, too." He picked up another file, opened it, and sighed. "Recent run down on our smash and grab repeaters. Two of 'em have felony homicide convictions, but nobody stands out. I've got records checking parole reports and violations. We should get that by morning." Nick took the folder and set it aside, trusting Schanke's assessment of the situation. "Could be new talent. It's not like a smash and grab needs specialized training." He looked up at Schanke, again shaking his head. "But that doesn't fit? Why kill a man and leave empty-handed?" "We don't know that he did." "None of the cases were smashed." Schanke pursed his lips. "Panic?" he offered, playing devil's advocate. "No. He'd still grab something, anything." Nick looked away, across the office. There was something he was missing. If they could only be certain that nothing had been taken . . . . "We got an inventory yet?" "Got hold of someone who can give us one." Nick looked down at the folder Schanke passed him. "Diane Osgood." "She sold him most of those doodads." Smiling, Nick opened the folder. "I know." "Wait-wait-wait, you ?" Turning, he opened the folder flat on his desk, reading over Schanke's notes. "There are only so many dealers in Toronto who do ivories. I kept calling until I found a likely prospect. She wasn't there when I went by the office, but Kenko's name was on her secretary's Rolodex." "You went ?" asked Schanke. Nick looked up, grinning. "Yeah." "You missed to check out a lead? But . . . Monica was going to get back the test results. The video tape of which may be the only thing that'll get me through that pot-roast." Shaking his head, Nick looked back at the contents of the folder, turning the page. "It was negative." "It ?" When he looked up, Schanke was frowning. He raised a finger to his lips. "That mean's Kevin's the father? She didn't sleep with Ryan . . . but what about that ski weekend?" Laughing, Nick looked up from the file. "Schanke, how the hell should I know? I told you, I watch those things." Schanke stared back at him. "Then, the test negative?" "I told you," said Nick, still smiling. "I don't . And I don't care." Letting out a sigh of relief, Schanke placed his hand over his heart. "Thank God! I can't believe you lied to me." The smile slipped from his lips. "What?" "You just lied to me about Monica." Nick stared, hearing an echo of Dorian's words. "It was a . It's just a soap opera, Schanke. It's not ." "Well, you shouldn't say stuff like that. Or maybe I'll start thinking that you're lying about other things. Like . . . having car trouble?" Nick winced and looked away. "Point taken. Sorry." "Yeah, well, apology accepted. Just don't do it again." Still frowning, Schanke gestured toward the folder. "Osgood should be here tonight, about eleven or twelve--said she'd stop by after some museum dinner or something. So, for once, get to do the preliminary." "Okay. I'll be here when she shows." Nick started flipping through the files Schanke had given him. "Scene still sealed?" "Yeah." Reaching over the desk, Schanke pulled out one of the folders. "That should have the scene photos and the content list so far. They started a full workover today, with his insurance people." "Good. I'll need that to match what Ms. Osgood can come up with." "Better get an alibi, too, while you're at it." Nick looked up quickly. "I thought she was coming in as an assist?" "The daughter put me in contact with the lawyer. Guess who Kenko specified to sell off the estate collection after he bit the big one?" Tapping the folder, he added, "Looks like a pretty hefty commission." "If they were ," muttered Nick, looking down at the folder. Schanke coughed aloud. "You're gonna tell me all that stuff's fake?" "I didn't say " Nick leaned back in his chair and frowned, looking up at Schanke. "I'm no expert . . . but it's possible." "So, if they're fakes, they're worth squat, which blows any motive for her--" He threw up his hands. "Which leaves us with a smash and grab gone bad." "Which we have no way in hell of solving unless we've got prints, a witness, or know what to look out for at the local fences. So far, no prints, no witness, and we're not even sure anything was taken." Schanke tapped his hand against his chest. "You're giving me heartburn, here. And that pot-roast is sure gonna help. I'm going home." Heading out of the squad room, Schanke called aloud, "Somebody clock me out." Nick rose quickly, following Schanke. "Schanke-- I forgot, about last night? I talked to Vivian today and she said--she told me you said some good things about me. About me being a good cop. I . . . appreciate it." "You a good cop. Some of the time. Most of the time, you're just lucky--like having me for a partner." Schanke grinned. "Besides, if you can't lie for your friends, who you lie for?" He lightly punched a fist into Nick's shoulder. "See you in twenty--no, wait a minute. You've got two days coming." He groaned. "I knew it--you're dropping this Kenko thing on me. But, don't let that stop you from having a good time. And call a florist." Nick stared at him blankly. "What?" Schanke leaned close and whispered, "Nat'll say 'yes.' I know she will. And they like these corsage things- -but you gotta be careful when you pin them on." Again, he tapped Nick on the chest. "Call Myra, she'll tell you what to get." He managed a ghost of a smile, his heart telling him that whether Natalie would accept his invitation to the dance was a dead issue . . . pretty much what be, if things went badly at his interview. "I can manage it, Schanke. Thanks. For being a good partner. And . . . a good friend." "What, you're gonna be off two days and you go all soft?" But Schanke continued to grin. "I'll put money on it, Nick. She'll say 'yes'. Trust me. Would I lie?" Absently, Nick's hand rose to where Schanke had hit him. He turned and walked back to his desk. At first, he began to sift through the files, then let them fall from his hands. Nat would be at the office by now, well into the autopsy. If he waited just a little longer-- Frowning, he carefully stacked the files into a pile and headed for the door. There was no sense putting this off. In fact, any delay might be dangerous. Nick stopped at the front desk, tapping it with his fingers. "Norma--would you tell dispatch I'm in transit to the Coroner's Office?" "Okay, Nick." She nodded, then turned, picking up the radio handset. "Good luck." He was two steps away from the desk. Whirling in place, he asked, "Huh?" "With Natalie." Norma smiled at his surprise. "Schanke's right. She'll say yes." Nick walked slowly back to the desk. "It's a ." "It's a ," corrected Norma, frowning. Her dark eyes narrowed. "What is it with you guys? Don't you know how important a first date can be? It means a hell of a lot more than you think it means." Sighing, Nick leaned his elbow on the desk. "You don't know the half of it." "She say yes," promised Norma. When he frowned, she added, "And if she doesn't, I'm free. And so are they." Nick followed her gesture toward the doorway, where several of the women from booking and information were pretending not to pay attention to their conversation. "Should I assume this is a set up?" asked Nick, in a quiet whisper. "No. Just a little friendly interest." She chuckled when he dropped his head to the desk in dismay. "And despite the fact that I love to dance--Nick, I hope she says 'yes'." Wearily, he raised his head. They had no idea, none of them. But he managed a smile and a quiet, "Thank you," to Norma, before heading out to the car. There was no way they'd understand that the dinner/dance was the least of his worries. The caddy, thankfully, was running perfectly. He headed toward the Coroner's Office, intending to go over just what he'd say to Natalie. But his thoughts kept drifting back to Dorian. If he told her all that had happened, would she understand? Would it make a difference, even if she did . . . ? Pushing back the heavy drapes that had been drawn across the open portico, Nicholas looked down into the street below. Rome usually smelled like cesspit by mid-June, but the streets had been cleared, cleaned, and strewn with flowers for the occasion. The wedding festivities had been under way since mid-day--the racket left him little more than fitful slumber. With the coming of darkness, torches and candles had begun to glow, creating a false day for a false city. "Nicola? You must help me--" He turned at the sound of Janette's voice. She pushed aside one of the heavy hangings that insured his safety from the sun and entered the room, feet bare and dressed only in a chemise. The gown over her arm was of a deep burgundy, with black laces, trim, and ties. "Are you only dressing?" he asked. She frowned, but prettily. "You should talk! I've seen you take hours, matching doublet and hose." But the frown turned into a look of helplessness as she ran toward him. "The silly serving girl's run off again. Or LaCroix's gotten peckish during the day and forget to tell us to hire another. Please, you help me dress. I'm missing the party!" Nicholas took the gown from her hands and fanned it out, then glanced at her. "Why not go in what you're wearing? You'd be very popular." She slapped his arm lightly, then fussed with the ties of the gown as he held it. "I'm popular. Tonight I want to turn heads. Perhaps even the head of the Borgia himself." He laughed. "Cesare? He's taken to the church. Then again--" he gave her a stern look-- "you've never had much care for a man's vow of chastity." "As if any man be chaste in thought and deed?" Taking the gown from his hands, she held it up against her, running her fingers along the fine material. "Not Cesare--he has eyes like LaCroix at times, and a heart for nothing but war. It's his father I'd like to tempt." "The Pope?" asked Nicholas, taking a step back in mock-astonishment. "Blasphemy!" "Oh, he's Pope in name, but has the weaknesses of all men, mortal or not." Coyly, she approached him, then leaned forward to kiss him on the lips. Before he could wrap his arms around her, she danced away, the burgandy cloth billowing like a flag of war as she moved. "Now, help me dress before you go to feed. And take care to mind the badges, this time." Nicholas folded his arms. "I see nothing to gain in avoiding feeding on thugs who wear the Borgia crest." "You'd better do so and soon. As well as pay your tithe, as LaCroix has told you, and wear the crest yourself. Mortals get too wrapped up in their petty games--they think that if you're not for them, you're against them and so are fair prey. These are dangerous times." The serious expression didn't become her. He walked around her, Janette turning to face him, following his movements. "Then you should watch your dangerous words--how dare you speak so freely of the Borgias, then? And on the day of the girl's wedding?" "Oh--wedding!" Janette gave a heavy sigh. "No more than thirteen years and she's already bedded her father two of her brothers. She'll wear herself out before she's reached two-score years." Nicholas paused, suddenly tiring of the game. "Janette--take care, there are easr everywhere. Slander should not be repeated so lightly in this place. For your own safety, fear to speak it." "Never fear to speak the truth," said a voice from behind him. He knew it was Dorian even before he turned. For her own part, Janette greeted the Archivist with a hiss, and ducked behind Nicholas, her fingers gripping his arm tightly. "Not to fear, pretty Janette," said Dorian, sketching a bow. "Your time has passed. I won't need to hear your little secrets for many centuries." Dorian hadn't changed--the eyes and hair were still dark. His doublet was black, with gray lacings, his hose gray with white stars embroidered in the knit. But it was arrogance that he wore now, in place of his dark cloak. Nicholas straightened. He placed his hand over Janette's fingers, as much to reassure her as to remove her nails from his arm before she could tear his sleeve. "Have you come for me?" "No, alas. I'm only here for information." Dorian sat down in a seat built into the window. "I was hoping you could help." Nicholas took two steps toward him, Janette still hanging onto him. "You'll leave empty-handed and quickly. You're not welcome here." Dorian's smile was like that of a well-fed wolf, contented, but still dangerous. "You've got backbone now. Good. LaCroix's taught you well. It's a pity he didn't think to teach you common courtesy." Sighing, Dorian picked at the ties of his sleeve. "I wish to know where I can find a certain vampiress--Carlotta? Whom some fool poet seems to have dubbed 'the Golden Rose'?" Those dark eyes looked up, pinning him. Nicholas wrenched himself away from Janette and turned, walking toward the window that overlooked the street. "I know of her." "Where may she be found?" He gripped the Tuscan stone of the portico tightly, staring down at the lights in the street below. "This is no interview. I'm under no compunction to answer you." "True." Dorian's sigh was audible. "At least you didn't lie. In time, you may improve, Nicholas, but you're nothing more than a shadow of your master. My regards, lady. And to your master, LaCroix." Nicholas stood at the window, not even turning when he knew Dorian had left. Janette's bare feet pattered across the wooden floor, as she joined him. "You should have told him," she said quickly. "LaCroix will--" "The devil take LaCroix," hissed Nicholas. Pushing her aside, he stalked across the room, heading for the door. "Where are you going?" "To warn Carlotta." If Janette said anything, it was lost to his growing anger. Nicholas ran down the steps of the house, to the road, and fought his way through the drunken revelers. The crowds filled the streets, making their way to the Papal apartments, where coins and sweetmeats would be tossed from the balconies when the entertainments had ended. Had the night not been so bright with candleflame and torchlight, he would have flown the distance. But there was too much chance of discovery this bright night and even his fear for Carlotta's safety couldn't override that instinct for self-preservation. It took him many hours to make his way across the city, through the busy streets, to one of the far hills. Only then did the crowds thin and the skies blacken, so that he was able to take to the air, over the fields and the palazzos of the merchants, who'd begun to spend their ready cash on fine imitations of the houses of the wealthy families. His heart knew fear as he landed not too far from the palazzo at which Carlotta had set up residence, for there was no candle or torchlight in the windows or at the front walk. She was known throughout Rome as a woman of grace and learning. For months he'd spent many an evening seated in one of the large parlors, talking to poets or painters, or even during the daylight, seated in her library, poring over the books and scrolls she'd collected over the centuries. To find her windows dark and uninviting would normally have meant that she'd wandered down to share in the wedding feast, to which she'd no doubt been invited. But Nicholas knew that this wasn't the case. He opened the door and walked through the depths of the house, the stone having held off the heat of the day and draining off the cool of the evening. It took him a moment to orient himself, but he heart the sound of a single heartbeat, and the whisper of turning pages in the garden. He paused at the doorway to the garden. She was small, looked even smaller dressed in the chemise and voluminous gown of fashion, with golden skin and close- set eyes. The poets adored her, having grown tired of the alabaster beauties that graced the great families of Rome and her surrounding city states and duchies. Their muses found new words and flights of fancy, in trying to praise the oriental beauty who spoke softly and with intelligence. "Mortals would call you bewitched, to see you reading in the dark," he said, with forced lightness in his tone. She looked up as he walked toward her, and smiled, her lips a dusky rose, against the bronze of her skin. "A mortal would have better manners," she chided. Setting aside her book on the stone bench, she walked toward him and took his hands in hers. "Niccolo, what brings you here? Are there no fair maidens for you to woo among the revelers? Or have the Borgias claimed them for their own beds?" "You speak like Janette." "There are some things women accept, of which men deceive themselves." Taking his hand, she led him to the bench and seated herself. "Which is why I'm here, and not among the wedding guests. But does not explain your presence." Nicholas looked down at the hand held in his. "Dorian's here. He's asked for you." "I know." He looked up sharply at her admission and found a sad smile graced her lips. "And he'll find me, here, in my garden, should he care to look." "You can run." "No, Niccolo." "Then--" he paused, looking away, the memory the aftermath of Janette's ordeal returning to mind. "Will you stand for the interview?" "I . . . cannot." There was such certitude in her voice. He met her eyes, seeking some answer in the almond depths. "You'd be safe. Janette survived." "Her crimes have never been against the Code, but against the heart." Carlotta touched a hand to his cheek. "Niccolo, I would not long survive past the interview." He shook his head angrily. "No--what crime could have committed?" The sad smile returned to her lips and she sighed. "My mortal lover knows what I am." "Make him forget." She laughed lightly, then rose from the bench and walked across the path, to a trellis of sleeping flowers. "You say that so easily. No one who has ever truly loved could say such a thing. In love, Niccolo, one finds that part in another that completes the whole of yourself. In controlling it, influencing it, it becomes changed . . . and something other than what it was." She picked a small yellow flower from the trellis and held it in the palm of her hand, stoking the petals with her fingertips. "He has letters in which we've discussed my condition. He could not be made to forget by another--so do not think to save me from myself." "Then . . . bring him across." "He does not wish it." "Do it anyway." Confused at her obstinateness, he met her too-sad eyes. "If he returns your love, surely he would do anything so that you might survive." "But would not have it so." Carlotta returned to him, her gown rustling against the paved stone walkway. "You're too young among us, Niccolo. My lover's of a noble line, well-married, with two infant sons. His alliance with the Borgias means a bright future, for himself and his family. I would not take that from him. I love him too much." She handed him the flower, but he rested his fingers alongside hers. "Dorian have your secrets," he warned. Carlotta seated herself beside him, leaving the flower in his hand. "I will decline the interview. Instead, I will walk into the sunlight." When he made a sound of protest, she held up her hand and there was steel in the softness of her voice. "Do not argue, Niccolo. It's true that he'll protest--it'll annoy him to lose one so old as myself--but there is still his sense of honor. I'm allowed this request and it must be granted when asked." "No." Nicholas rose to his feet, his fist closing around the yellow flower. "There must be another way. I find another way." "Do so, Niccolo," she whispered, reaching up to catch his closed fist and bring it to her lips. "And if this is our farewell, then I gift you with my books, in which you take so much pleasure. I hope that in them you'll find the answers you seek." He bent down, touching his lips to hers. The flower still clutched in his hand, he stalked back through the house, each step stoking the furious fire within him. He knew the name of her lover and knew, as well, that the man was at the wedding feast for the Pope's daughter. If the man had any honor, he'd return to Carlotta's palazzo and let her bring him across, or burn the letters and let her erase the memory of her existence from his mind. She would be saved, then. And Dorian would not win. Nicholas had hoped the crowds would thin with the onset of full night, but the ranks of the revelers had swelled to such proportions that he was often forced to travel above the street level, moving from rooftop to rooftop or even balcony to balcony as he made his way across Rome. By the time he reached the wedding feast, the last songs had been sung, the happy couple carried to their chamber, and the deed pronounced witnessed. The guests had left with wine and food and gifts, leaving only the commoners still drinking, dancing, and singing in the streets. There was no time to head to the house of Carlotta's lover--the sun was already beginning to peer over the rim of the world. And so Nicholas returned to his palazzo as quickly as he could, racing the rays of light through the streets, knocking down the smoldering torches in his haste. He dashed into the darkness of the house--and into Janette's arms. She glared at him, angry. "Nicola! What kind of a fool can you be, you haven't fed! I've spent half the night looking for you. And now, to race the sun!" But her eyes softened as she saw his face. "Ah, but I can forgive you. Come, spend the day in my chambers. I'll watch over you." He stared at the wall, at her, at the floor, but found no sense in anything. Only as he turned and saw the light drive the shadow from the street, beyond the threshold of the door, did his reason return. "Too late," he whispered. "I'm too late. Carlotta--" Without warning, he dropped to his knees on the floor. "I've failed her. Janette, she's chosen to walk into the sun. I've failed her." "Sssh!" Janette placed her arms around him, holding him against her like a child. "Nicola, you cannot save the world. You must be content to do what you can and no more. How could you hope to win against Dorian?" He looked up as she mentioned the name, then saw her draw back in surprise, as he spat, "Dorian!" "I see such things in your eyes, Nicola . . . they frighten me." Janette shivered and rose to her feet, backing away from him. "Be sensible, wait for LaCroix to return. He'll know what to do." "He'll try to stop me, as he did the last time." Nick struggled to his feet, leaning against the wall. "But he's not here. And this time, I'll have Dorian's blood. I swear it." When she made a sound, he pointed at her. "And if LaCroix returns, you're to tell him none of this. Do you hear? of it." Janette's eyes widened in fear. Hissing at him, she turn and fled up the stairs, to her rooms. Only then did he realize that he'd raised his fist, threatening to strike her. Leaning against the wall, he closed his eyes. Dorian had been right in that--his words and actions just now had been nothing more than a mimic of LaCroix. Only he hadn't the heart--or lack of heart--to follow through. But his fist clenched at his side, smacking the stone wall against which he rested. Dorian be surprised when they met again. This time, there would be no LaCroix to stand between them. And Dorian, finally, would pay for all of the sorrow he had caused and the lives he had taken. Grace was at the front desk as he entered. Nick nodded to her, heading for the lab door. "Hi, Grace." "Hi, Nick--wait!" She rose from behind the desk and moved between him and the door. When he backed up a step and gave her a questioning look, she cleared her throat. "This is none of my business, but . . . ." "What?" "Have you asked Natalie to the dance yet?" He settled for a sharp smile in response. "You're right--it's none of your business. She in?" Grace's face fell at the lack of any humor in his tone. Wearing a carefully blank expression, she moved back to the desk. "One minute, Detective. I'll buzz her and see." The temperature in the room dropped about thirty degrees. Hanging his head, Nick walked back to the desk. "Grace--I'm sorry. I've got . . . a lot on my mind." For a moment she sat there, eyeing him, then a slight smile crossed her lips. "Yep. You're sincere, all right. Apology accepted. Guess I asked for that--I was just being nosy. But the reason I asked--" She glanced up at the door to the lab, then back to him. "Natalie came in with this guy earlier. Didn't quite catch the name. 'Bout your height, real dark hair and eyes . . . ?" "Dorian," said Nick, trying with all his might to keep his tone neutral. But enough of the inflection got through for Grace to raise an eyebrow. "Could be. Just that . . . I like to keep an eye on my girl. Sometimes she doesn't know how good she's got it." When he didn't answer, she nodded toward the door. "Go on. She's probably expecting you, anyway." "Thanks." Flashing her a quick smile, Nick moved toward the door. Once there, he almost turned around and left--but he to face Natalie, for her safety, as well as his own. Natalie was standing at the sink as he entered, still wearing her greens and scrubbing her hands. When she heard the door, she looked over her shoulder. "Grace?" But then she saw it was him. And something in her eyes went from friendly to coldly professional. "Nick." She turned back to the sink, gesturing with a nod toward a sheet-covered corpse, which rested on a trolley. "The preliminary work's been done on Kenko." "And?" he asked, matching that 'all business' tone of voice. Picking up a towel, she dried her hands, eyes on the corpse. "I haven't finished the write-up yet, but it looks like you're gonna be stuck dragging the bureau into court as the murder weapon." When that image brought a smile to his lips, she smiled in return, then said, "Actually, it's a contributing cause. I'll show you." Natalie walked past him, dropping the towel, grabbing his arm and pulling him over to a counter. "Stand . . . there," she said, moving him into place. Then she turned her back to him, glancing over her shoulder to check his position, as well as the corner of the counter. "Okay, so I'm Kenko--adjusting for the height. The counter's the bureau." "And what am I?" he asked. "Life support." Without warning, she threw herself backwards. "Nat!" Nick caught her, before she could hit her head on the counter. "Freeze!" Natalie tilted back her head and looked up at him, smiling. "From the location of the wound and the angle, this is about it." Nick nodded. "All right--so he was probably pushed. Or slipped." "That's your problem, although I'd vote for 'pushed'--there was carpeting on the floor. I could take a look at his shoes, though." Raising a hand to her head, she added, "Skull fracture, head trauma, internal hemorrhaging. About an inch to either side and he probably would have been okay. As it was--" Natalie straightened, as if to move out of his grasp, but Nick raised his hands to her shoulders. She met his gaze, then looked away. "He was probably alive when he hit the floor. The internal bleeding killed him, say thirty to forty-five minutes after the blow." "Then he was left for dead?" "Looks like it." "Time of death?" "Between four and six yesterday afternoon. I could try to get it closer, but it's pretty problematical. I don't think I'll be able to pin it down further." Again, she went to move away, but he tightened his grip on one shoulder. "Nick--" There was a warning note in her tone. Nick opened his hands and held them away from her. "We need to talk." "I know." Natalie walked away from him, back behind her desk. Nick stood there for a moment, waiting, but she stared down at the blotter on her desk. "You went to see Dorian today. After I said not to." Her eyes flashed angrily as she looked up at him. "You're not my keeper." "But you know how dangerous he is. He's a ." "He's an archivist." "He's a ." "So are !" she countered. "We're the same." Nick turned away, remembering how he'd said those words to Vivian, earlier. "Why do you think we're all the same? We're ." "Define 'you'." "You. Vivian. Mortals." "So, is this a 'mortal/vampire' thing, then?" Natalie moved around the desk toward him. "Because if it , I'm really getting tired of it." But then, she stopped. After a pause, the anger seemed to drain from her eyes and she gave him a wan smile. "Yeah. I went to see Dorian. And . . . you're right. You the same." "Thanks." Sitting down the edge of her desk, he stared at her, trying to figure out what it was that he saw in her eyes. "I guess we should put all our cards on the table?" "I guess so. Did--did you go out today? In the sunlight?" He could have answered her. He'd been so proud of that small accomplishment. But there it was, in her eyes, that . . . doubt. "Why?" She seemed surprised by the question. Frowning, she said, "Because need to know." "Or . . . does need to know?" "?" "He's using you to get at me." Natalie shook her head slightly, as if not believing what he was saying. "Look, if anybody's using me, it's Dorian. Nick, I tried to talk to him, tried to get him to cancel the interview, to back off for a few days." She looked down at the ground. "It didn't work." "So what was that business about sight-seeing?" "And what about drinking that blood right in front of me, after you'd promised to keep to the schedule?" Natalie met his eyes and he looked away quickly, seeing the hurt he'd caused her. "All right. That was stupid." Then he looked back at her. "But so was spending time with Dorian." "I told you, I was trying to get him to lay off." "I can fight my own battles." "This doesn't have to a battle!" Nick chuckled bitterly. "Then you don't know Dorian well enough." "Maybe don't know Dorian well enough." He stared, as she crossed her arms defiantly. "Wait-a-minute--you him? Nat, he's--" Nick searched his memory for words, but nothing was quite foul and black enough to describe Dorian accurately. "That's always the way with you, isn't it? Black or white, right or wrong? Well, I don't think you've given him a chance." Nick closed his eyes, pushing back the anger in his heart, the image of Janette, battered and abused, coming to mind. And poor Carlotta? When he opened his eyes, Nat was still glaring at him. " haven't given him a chance, huh?" he asked. "And what is it given him?" She turned her head as if slapped. There was a warning bell in his brain that screamed at him to stop. But there was also that darker, older part of him that had been trained so well, to return wound for wound, hurt for hurt. "Because if this is that thing with Roger all over again, I'm not going to able to save you this time. You've upped the ante, Nat. You've moved from mortals to vampires. What is it about , anyway? You to be scared? Live on the edge, but still be safe?" He rose from his seat and took a step toward her. "Because Dorian isn't . He's a lot of things, but safe was part of the package." Biting her lip, Natalie turned her head away from him. Tears sparkled at the corners of her eyes and she was holding her arms tightly against her. The warning bells in his head had been stunned to silence by his words. He watched her, knowing the sound that echoed in his ears was that of a heart breaking, but whether it was his or hers he wasn't certain. He knew how to hurt her, how to scare her--he'd proven that before. And she'd forgiven him, stood by him, in spite of that. But this time, he had no excuse for his actions. "Nat--I didn't mean . . . ." Words failed him when she looked at him, met his eyes. "I just . . . I need to know about Dorian. I need to know . . . how to destroy him." Any light left in her eyes that had survived his first onslaught, was now dead and buried. Clearing her throat, Natalie walked past him, to her desk. "Nick, I think you'd better leave." "Nat . . . ?" "Just . . . get out." The beep of the phone in his coat pocket startled him. Turning away, he reached into his coat, pulled out the phone, and opened it with a snap. "Knight here." "Nick--it's Vivian. If you're with Dr. Lambert don't . . .don't say it's me." Her voice indicated her terror. Nick glanced over his shoulder, at Natalie. "Okay . . . Janette." "I've found out something about Dorian. I have to talk to you--I need your help. Can I meet you, now?" He continued to watch Natalie, as she mechanically opened a file folder and sat at her desk. When she picked up a pen, her hand was shaking. "Where?" he asked. "Not your loft. He'd expect that." "The Raven?" Vivian's voice paused and he heard traffic behind her . . . she was at a pay phone. "All right. He thinks I'm running errands. If he finds out I was there, I could have been picking up supplies." "Twenty minutes?" "Yes. But . . . hurry." Nick snapped the phone shut. Natalie looked up at the noise, met his eyes briefly, then looked down at her paperwork. When he leaned his palms on her desk, she pushed her chair back, putting distance between them. "I have to go. When the autopsy report's ready--" "I'll have someone run it over." Again, she looked up at him, eyes dark, tears still sparkling at the corners. "It's true, then. You want Dorian dead?" "If it's him or me." She leaned her head on her hand, staring up at him. "Could I have been wrong?" "About him?" "About you . . . ." It been the sound of Natalie's heart breaking, earlier. He knew that only because he felt his own heart break as she spoke. Swallowing a lump in his throat he turned and walked to the door. But once there, he stopped and looked back. "Nat?" This time, she didn't look up. "Yeah?" "About that dance, on Saturday . . . ?" The eyes that met his across the room belonged to a stranger. "I don't think that's a good idea." "Maybe not." He wanted to say something more, anything--about the Kenko case, about how sorry he was, about only wanting to protect her--but the words weren't there. And Vivian's frantic phone call had to be considered. If he got to the Raven early enough, he might be able to get something useful from Janette. Smacking the door open with the flat of his hand, Nick stalked out, leaving some part of himself behind. He didn't ignore Grace--he just didn't hear her--as he continued out of the building and into the parking lot. Best not to think about it, best not to think about Natalie. He'd lost her, no matter what happened. If Dorian killed him . . . well, that was the end. If managed to kill Dorian . . . . As he drove to the Raven, Nick considered his options. He'd have to leave Toronto. He couldn't work with her, work her, day after day. And he wasn't about to ask her to disrupt her short, mortal life to accommodate his wishes. It would be easier for him to just pick up and walk away. He'd done it often enough. It should be easy by now. But he knew that was just a lie. It was easy. And he had a feeling this time would be the worst of all. When he arrived, the Raven was packed. The bouncer moved aside as he entered, and he felt the vampire's eyes on his back, watching him as he roughly made his way through the couples that crowded the dance floor. He was in no mood to be gentle, with vampires mortals. But they were in no danger from him. His anger was turned inward, against himself. He'd been a fool to take Natalie into his confidence, to let her convince him that there was something in him worth saving, worth trying to bring back into the light. Janette was dancing on the outskirts of the crowd, a cigarette in one hand. Seeing him, she turned and walked quickly away, heading toward her office. Nick pushed through the crowd and managed to outmaneuver her. Placing himself in the doorway, his hands to either side of the doorjamb, he blocked her exit. She glared at him, then turned her back, taking a drag of her cigarette, her right arm folded across her chest. "Go away. I can't talk to you. You're dead." "That's never stopped you before." Standing behind her, Nick put his arms around her waist and drew her close, then kissed her bare neck, below her choker. For a moment, she leaned against him, purring. Then Janette turned in his arms and broke his embrace, pushing him away. "Nicola, you're insane. Don't you know Dorian will you?" "Not if I can get him first." As she stared at him in stunned amazement, he added, "I need some information. About your interview." Taking another drag from the cigarette, she leaned against him, placing his arms around her. "It was so long ago." He felt her shiver and she pulled his arms around her even more tightly, eyes closed. "No." "And LaCroix's interview." Her eyes shot open, wide, and she turned her head to stare at him. "Who told you that?" "Dorian. He told me to ask you about it." "Dorian!" She spat the name, then looked away. "You know, Nicola, there might be some hope. I've been asking around. It seems that Dorian and the Enforcers have had a . . . difference of opinion?" "About what?" he whispered, his lips close to her ear. Janette's hand reached back, to stroke the side of his face. "No one seems to know. It was recent, perhaps as little as two centuries ago . . . ?" She shrugged in his arms. "Publicly, they still support him. Privately, well, there are murmurings that they would look kindly on whomever could rid them of him." "Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?" said Nick, half to himself. Smiling, Janette turned her head to look at him. "Words to that effect. Caused quite a bit of trouble the last time, didn't it?" Completely turning, she placed her arms around his neck, her lips inches from his. "And that should be enough to save you, yes?" Nick kissed her lightly, then smiled. "I still need to know, Janette. About the interview?" Her eyes narrowed and she dropped her arms from his neck to his chest, trying to push him away, but he held her forearms, trapping her. "Let's see if there's a booth free, shall we?" There --the booth in the back, raised slightly, where Janette could keep an eye on the entire club and yet remain hidden. Nick all but dragged her to the booth, letting her fall into the seat, then slipping in beside her. She grabbed the ashtray and tapped off the ash from her cigarette angrily, then slipped just a few more inches away, putting distance between them. "I can see in a good mood," she muttered. Then, she looked up at him, and something in her eyes softened. "Nicola, there's something troubling you. Something . . . dark." "The interviews?" he asked again, placing an arm around her bare shoulder. Janette stared at him a moment longer, then shrugged lightly and tapped her cigarette into the ashtray again. "Neither is a pleasant memory. My own interview . . . well, you were there. You ." "You lied to Dorian." "Yes." She shot a glance at him, as he leaned against the back wall of the booth. "Because I was afraid. I tried to . . . seduce him." Shivering again, she leaned back against his arm and shoulder. "He knows us too well, Nicola. He knows how to use our best weapons, our best defenses, against us." Janette shook her head, her voice breaking slightly. "No . . . I can't talk about it. It's enough that he couldn't condemn me. I was nothing more or less than LaCroix made me." Reaching for the cigarette, Nick plucked it from her hand and crushed it into the ashtray, despite her cry of protest. "And . . . LaCroix?" Janette pouted, glaring at her crushed cigarette, then at him. "I was . It took ten Enforcers to take us to Dorian. And, of course, I wasn't allowed to witness the interview. It wasn't permitted." Turning her gaze away, she stared out over the club. "An interview usually takes two days, perhaps three. Dorian interviewed LaCroix for . . . ten." Surprised, Nick started. "LaCroix to Dorian?" "Oh, no. He simply to talk." Her voice was low, as she added, "He's strong-willed. They were evenly matched--LaCroix and Dorian. That's why Dorian couldn't break him. Like two sides of a coin, the false and the true. Dorian tried . . . everything." She winced, reached automatically for the cigarette, then stopped herself. "I was in the next room. I heard . . . most of it. Sometimes I screamed, so that I couldn't hear. But I could only scream for so long . . . ." For a moment, she was silent, her eyes still looking at the past. Then she leaned close against him and wrapped his arm around her. Eyes closed, she rested against him. Nick touched his head to hers, whispering, "And Dorian just let him go?" "He had to, it's part of the Code. You can avoid the interview by walking into the sunrise. Or face Dorian and refuse to talk. If he succeeds within ten sunrises, your life is forfeit. But if he fails, you're free of him. He can take no reprisals, nor can you ever be interviewed again." Her eyes opened and she looked up at him. "Dorian walked away." "And LaCroix?" "It was a week before he could see. Some weeks after that before he could walk again." Suddenly, Janette sat upright, pushing aside his arm. "What's Dorian's whore doing here?" Vivian had entered the club and was wandering among the dancers. Quickly, Nick caught Janette's arm, drawing her back against him. "She's here to see me." "What are you doing, Nicola? You'll use her against him?" She met his eyes, staring long, until he looked away. "You're not the type to seduce her. And if you kill her . . . it will only make it worse for you." "I'm going to help her escape Dorian." Closing her eyes, Janette smacked the palm of her hand against her forehead. "Of course, forgive me. I forgot, the brave , defending helpless maidens!" Releasing her, Nick rose to his feet, but Janette caught his arm before he could escape the booth. "Don't forget she's Dorian's creature!" she warned, in a harsh whisper. "And don't let your heart rule your head. She can't be trusted--I've seen the type before." "I'll try to remember." Leaning forward, he kissed her forehead. But Janette caught his collar and pulled him lower, so that their lips met. After a moment, she drew back, but still held his collar, her eyes meeting his. "Do nothing foolish, Nicola. And . . . promise that you'll come back to me, as always?" He kissed her again, then left the booth, heading for the dance floor. Vivian was like a lost soul among the damned, blocked off at every turn, her attempts to escape the crowd frantic. Nick pushed his way into the crowd, then grabbed her shoulder. Vivian whirled, hand to her mouth, choking back a scream. When she saw who it was, she relaxed slightly. Nick placed his arm around her shoulder and guided her through the crowd, knowing that the couples who hadn't parted for her would think twice about hemming him in. Once they were free of the dance floor, he took her to a secluded corner, near the wall. She was pale and shaking, but seemed otherwise unharmed. "Thank God you're here," she gasped. Nick only nodded, looking back to the booth-- Janette was gone. "Have you left Dorian?" "Not yet. But--" she said quickly, as he frowned, "I'm giving it some serious thought. Especially after what he said tonight." "Which was?" "I think he's got plans for Dr. Lambert." He thought he'd left that part of his heart behind him, in the lab. But it turned cold within him when he heard Natalie's name. "What kind of 'plans'?" Vivian stared up at him, hesitated, then blurted, "He wants her to bond with him. Then he's going to bring her across." The cold within him was starting to spread. Nick looked across the dance floor, as if seeking an answer there. "But . . . Natalie's immune. He can't mesmerize her." "He can, if she submits, willingly surrenders her soul to him." Nick shook his head and looked down at her, wanting to see a lie in her eyes. "Natalie wouldn't do that." "She might . . . if he promised to let you go." Raising his hand to his mouth, Nick looked away, his cruel words to Natalie taking on new meaning. 'And what is it given him . . . ?' "She hasn't--?" "No," he answered sharply. Nick turned his eyes back to Vivian, swallowing hard. "No. I would have seen it in her eyes." Vivian sighed, relieved, and leaned against the wall. "Then I'm in time." She closed her eyes. "And . . . I was working on his notes, for the interview." For a moment, she was silent. "Yes?" asked Nick. Vivian's blue eyes stared up at him, filled with fear. "He plans to condemn you." "On what grounds?" "For destroying your master, LaCroix." She reached forward, grabbing his arm. "Nick, you've gotta run. You've gotta save yourself. The Enforcers may not go after you--Dorian's no longer on good terms with them. In fact, they might just you if you moved against him." Nick placed his hand over hers, then looked up. "Janette said--" But Janette wasn't in the booth any longer. In fact . . . he didn't see, or sense, her anywhere in the club. He glanced down at Vivian. "If this was a vendetta, a private matter, could the Enforcers interfere?" "I . . . don't know. All I know is that he wants you dead and he's willing to let the Enforcers do it for him." Her blue eyes troubled, Vivian looked away, shivering. "Nick, I have to get back. And you have to leave." "I can't." Vivian stared up at him and he gave a half-shrug. "I can't leave Natalie." "She may already be lost. If she's under his control--?" "I can't believe that." He placed a hand on her shoulder, then cupped her chin with his palm. "If Dorian finds out you've been here, that you warned me . . . ." Again, she shivered, meeting his eyes. "I know." "You to break with him." "I don't think I can." "The interview's tomorrow night, right?" When she nodded, hesitantly, he asked, "What does the Code say about what Dorian can do?" "Dr. Lambert's part of your interview. He can't bond with her bring her across until he condemns you at the interview." "Okay." Nick took a deep breath, releasing her. "So I keep Natalie with me for the day. I can hide her." Then he met Vivian's eyes. "I can hide of you." "I . . . don't know." " about it." Putting his hand on Vivian's shoulder again, he smiled down at her. "Look, I've got an appointment at the station. My shift ends at four. Meet me there, and we'll pick up Natalie at the Coroner's Office." She looked around wildly, like a trapped animal. "I want . . . Nick, I don't know." "I'll wait for you," he promised, squeezing her shoulder lightly. "I can wait until five, but that's the latest." When she nodded, he turned her toward the crowd. "Go ahead. I'll wait. We shouldn't be seen leaving together . . . just in case." Vivian started, then stared at him. "You mean, I might have been followed?" Nick paused, then shrugged. "Not if he can't count on the Enforcers to back him up. They used to do all his leg work for him. Without them--?" Nick smiled. "You're safe enough." Her eyes told him in no uncertain terms that she didn't safe. As Nick leaned against the wall, he watched her thread her way through the crowd, to the door, also paying attention to any interest shown in her departure. But the dancers danced, the drinkers drank, and the music thrummed loud and low. No one noticed the loss of one, terrified mortal. Nick started to make his way through the crowd, but stopped. Looking away, he again tried to find Janette, but knew that she'd left . . . no one would know where. She hated good-byes, always had. And, for a moment, he turned in place and swallowed the sights and the sounds and the passion of the Raven with his senses, wondering if this was, indeed, his good-bye to Janette, and the club, and the world in which he'd spent so many centuries. Chapter 6 She'd looked down at her paperwork when he'd left, the slap of his hand against the door cutting through her like a knife. It was such a final sound. For all the people who'd come and gone through that door, she'd never heard a noise like that before. And Natalie doubted she would again. Her eyes looked at the form on her desk, but her mind couldn't concentrate on dates and times and other nonsense. She knew he'd gone to the Raven. To Janette. Whenever things got bad, Nick went back to what he was. Never forward. Never to the future. Never to her. It was better she find out now, really. Before she wasted her life trying to help him find something he probably didn't want. It was just another way to spend a couple of decades. Something to do. But she'd been so of him, that the only thing he really needed to be saved from was himself. He wanted to come back across. Fine. She'd find a way. She'd give him the hope that it could be done, the courage to do it, and a reason for trying. The last part was selfish. Natalie knew she had no hold on him. There was every possibility that if she found a way to bring him back across one night, he'd be gone by morning. She was his , after all. His . And . . . . But that was before, when she thought she'd known him. There was still a chance to salvage what was there--a phone call, drop by the station, drop by the loft . . . . But she didn't have the heart to try any more. She knew she didn't want him dead. She knew she didn't want Dorian dead. And she knew . . . that she couldn't have everything she wanted and what ever was going to happen was going to happen despite all of her best efforts. It simply wasn't up to her. Afterwards, she'd be there to pick up the pieces. But she wasn't even sure of that much, any more. The lab door hinges creaked as it opened slightly and her heart rose in her throat, half in hope that Nick had come back and half-dreading his return. She looked up, keeping her expression neutral. Grace simply stared at her a moment, then walked into the lab. She cleared her throat, managing an annoyed, "What?" "I'm waiting for you to tell me to get lost." Natalie looked down, scratching the back of her head, then managed a wan smile. "Doesn't look good, does it?" "Didn't sound too good either, from where I was sitting. Lots of shouting, no words--" she explained quickly, as Natalie's eyes widened, the word 'vampire' echoing in her ears. Grace walked over to the desk, frowning. "He was wrong." "About what?" "Everything. They always are." She managed a half-laugh at that, which made Grace smile. "No," she corrected. "They're not . . . ." Then, meeting Grace's eyes, she couldn't help but smile herself. "Okay, so maybe time . . . ." "See!" Grace leaned on the edge of her desk. "It's their fault for the first two hours. Then it's your fault for a couple of days. Then, if you're lucky, it's their fault your fault." She reached into a pocket and took out her house keys. "Wanna borrow my rabbit's foot?" "It would have to be a rabbit," said Natalie. "How big?" "Maybe . . . Godzilla-sized?" Grace winced and looked away. "Sound's bad." She wasn't able to answer and so looked down at the form. Grace had no idea how bad it really was. How could you explain about pig-headed police detectives who also happened to be vampires, or archivists who've walked the earth for centuries because they drank the blood of everyday people like her and Grace? Nope--just wasn't an option. "Let me guess," said Grace. "It has something to do with that guy who came in with you tonight?" Natalie looked up and met her friend's eyes. "Maybe." "An old friend of Nick's?" For a second, she believed in mental telepathy . . . or that more sound got through the lab door and into the outer office than she'd thought. "How did you know?" "His reaction when I mentioned it." She moved quickly off the desk when Natalie drew in a breath through her teeth. "Sorry--it just slipped out." Natalie closed her eyes. "It's not your fault. They know each other. I wouldn't call them 'friends' by any stretch of the imagination." "Sounds like they have some unfinished business. And maybe you got caught in the middle?" Opening her eyes, Natalie had to smile sadly. "Yeah. I guess you could say that." "Is he worth it?" "Who?" "This other guy . . . Dorian?" Natalie must have made a face, because Grace cleared her throat. "I think you're on the verge of telling me to get lost, right?" Natalie shook her head. "No. I don't . . . have an answer. We just met. He's . . . different." "From Nick?" "From ." Grace quirked an eyebrow in challenge. "How?" "He tells the truth." Grace gave a low whistle and shook her head. "Nat, if he can remember birthdays and anniversaries and he doesn't watch hockey, nail him . That type don't pass this way but once." She couldn't help but chuckle, some of the heaviness lifting from her heart. "You make this sound like war." "You never heard of the battle of the sexes?" "That's one battle we're never going to win," she answered, leaning back in her chair. "That's why we keep hoping the truces last. But . . . we never really lose, either." "I think I've lost, this time." Looking down at the form on her desk, she remembered Nick's expression, just before he went out the door. Those dead eyes, again. "So that's how you're gonna deal with it? Work yourself into a coma?" "Well, I could go home and feed Sidney." Natalie sighed. "Unless you've got an alternative that isn't illegal, immoral, or fattening?" Grace frowned. "Take all the fun out of it, why don't you? That knocks out the drinks and a half-gallon of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, doesn't it?" Then, Grace's expression changed to something not quite . . . subtle. "Spend some time with this other guy. The one who doesn't lie." Natalie stared at Grace, astonished. "I just met him. Besides, it's not like that. not like that." "Now who's lying?" Grace held up a finger in warning. "Okay, I'll shut up, you can tell me with a straight face that he's not interested?" " not interested," protested Natalie. "You ?" The word was on her lips, but Natalie shut her mouth and frowned. Damn, but this telling the truth business was infectious. Grace folded her arms triumphantly. "Thought so." Rising from the desk, she patted Natalie's shoulder. "Think about it, hon. You've been locked up in this place too long. 'Bout time you found out it's safe to hang out with guys other than cops." There was no answer to that. Grace left and Natalie watched the door swing shut behind her. Of course, Grace wrong. was wrong. There was between her and Dorian. He was a . He was interesting. There was a lot she could learn from him--and from him- -that she could use to help bring Nick back across . . . even though that wasn't supposed to matter any more. There was still a lot she could learn from him. And there was something about him, something that wasn't quite . . . complete. The way Nick had seemed, when they'd first met. Natalie shook her head to clear it and concentrated on the report in front of her. No, it wasn't possible. Grace was wrong about that, too. Work the answer. At least, it would keep her busy, keep her from thinking. The Kenko report was finished . . . after a few hours. Then a call came in on an unattended death that she was supposed to autopsy. It seemed someone found the attending physician, who was more than happy to sign off the death certificate as 'having died of a heart condition while under a doctor's care.' Which meant that was one less case for her to cut tonight. Wearily, Natalie waved good-bye to the body the attendants wheeled out of her lab--he was going to a finer, cooler, quieter place--then sank down in her chair. God, but she was tired! The Kenko file sat on her desk. Natalie picked up the phone to buzz Grace and ask her where the hell the courier was to take it over to the station . . . then stopped. It was a slow night. Maybe she should take it over herself? Nick might be there. For a moment, she held her breath, staring down at the report in her hand. Maybe she could get him to explain he wanted Dorian dead. Get her to . So she could make sense out of this mess and find some way to stop it before it all went horribly wrong. One last chance. She couldn't let him push her away again this easily. She had to be . Picking up the report, Natalie moved to grab her handbag . . . but the lab door opened and Grace poked her head into the room. "There's someone here to see you." "Yes?" The file dropped from her hand, onto the desk, as she carefully composed her expression, her heart beating a-mile-a-minute. If it were Nick, if it were Nick . . . . Dorian stepped into the lab, hesitating behind Grace. "Am I intruding, Dr. Lambert?" Grace wrinkled her nose and mouthed the words, ' Lambert?' It was all Natalie could do to keep from laughing. But she managed somehow, settling for a smile. "No, it's all right. You've picked a slow night." She gestured around, at the sinks and steel trolleys. "If you don't mind- -?" "No, not at all." Grace moved behind Dorian, then gave Natalie a gesture--she awarded two points to Dorian. Natalie made a gesture in return trying to tell Grace to get out--and wasn't all together sure she hadn't been caught by Dorian's quick eyes. But he pretended to look elsewhere. Which told her in no uncertain terms that she been caught. "Grace, you want to cancel the messenger heading to the precinct? I'll take this over, myself." Grace raised an eyebrow, then glanced at Dorian, who was absorbed in looking over her charts and diagrams on the walls. "If you're sure?" "Yes." She waited until Grace left, then turned to Dorian. "I didn't expect to see you again, tonight." "I suppose I should have called, but my new rental doesn't have a car phone. I really lost without my cellular. And . . . Vivian." He frowned slightly, then asked, "Have you seen Nick this evening?" The question gave her a moment's pause, but it really seemed like he didn't know. "Yes," she answered, smiling at how she was acquiring the vampires' ability for understatement. "He was here. Why?" "I sent Vivian to give him the time and place of the interview several hours ago. She . . . hasn't returned." His eyes were everywhere, except on her. "Nick wouldn't hurt Vivian." "I wish I could be as certain as you." He scowled, finally meeting her eyes. "Never underestimate LaCroix's get. The blood runs true. Damn! I knew I should have sent her away--" There was a flash of gold in his eyes. Natalie started, her hands going to the flat surface of her desk for support. "She probably had car trouble or something," she answered. "She'll call you when she can." It sounded lame, even to her. Dorian looked away, shaking his head. "She can't reach me. Without the phone . . . ." Then he closed his eyes. "I can't pretend that I'm concerned with her safety. These two attacks have proven how vulnerable I am. I would have been killed . . . if not for you." He seemed to age as he closed his eyes and turned away--Natalie saw a weight on him that she hadn't noticed before. "That's not true." "That's true." He gave a short laugh. "I've never been alone before an interview before. Enforcers, mortal slaves or servants or secretaries--there was always someone there." Dorian met her eyes and she saw something very frightened and very vulnerable within those dark depths. "I need someone to watch over me, during the daylight." Natalie stared at him, the words not quite making sense. "Uh-huh? I don't think--" "Now who's lying?" Grace held up a finger in warning. "Okay, I'll shut up, you can tell me with a straight face that he's not interested?" " not interested," protested Natalie. "You ?" The word was on her lips, but Natalie shut her mouth and frowned. Damn, but this telling the truth business was infectious. Grace folded her arms triumphantly. "Thought so." Rising from the desk, she patted Natalie's shoulder. "Think about it, hon. You've been locked up in this place too long. 'Bout time you found out it's safe to hang out with guys other than cops." There was no answer to that. Grace left and Natalie watched the door swing shut behind her. Of course, Grace wrong. was wrong. There was between her and Dorian. He was a . He was interesting. There was a lot she could learn from him--and from him- -that she could use to help bring Nick back across . . . even though that wasn't supposed to matter any more. There was still a lot she could learn from him. And there was something about him, something that wasn't quite . . . complete. The way Nick had seemed, when they'd first met. Natalie shook her head to clear it and concentrated on the report in front of her. No, it wasn't possible. Grace was wrong about that, too. Work the answer. At least, it would keep her busy, keep her from thinking. The Kenko report was finished . . . after a few hours. Then a call came in on an unattended death that she was supposed to autopsy. It seemed someone found the attending physician, who was more than happy to sign off the death certificate as 'having died of a heart condition while under a doctor's care.' Which meant that was one less case for her to cut tonight. Wearily, Natalie waved good-bye to the body the attendants wheeled out of her lab--he was going to a finer, cooler, quieter place--then sank down in her chair. God, but she was tired! The Kenko file sat on her desk. Natalie picked up the phone to buzz Grace and ask her where the hell the courier was to take it over to the station . . . then stopped. It was a slow night. Maybe she should take it over herself? Nick might be there. For a moment, she held her breath, staring down at the report in her hand. Maybe she could get him to explain he wanted Dorian dead. Get her to . So she could make sense out of this mess and find some way to stop it before it all went horribly wrong. One last chance. She couldn't let him push her away again this easily. She had to be . Picking up the report, Natalie moved to grab her handbag . . . but the lab door opened and Grace poked her head into the room. "There's someone here to see you." "Yes?" The file dropped from her hand, onto the desk, as she carefully composed her expression, her heart beating a-mile-a-minute. If it were Nick, if it were Nick . . . . Dorian stepped into the lab, hesitating behind Grace. "Am I intruding, Dr. Lambert?" Grace wrinkled her nose and mouthed the words, ' Lambert?' It was all Natalie could do to keep from laughing. But she managed somehow, settling for a smile. "No, it's all right. You've picked a slow night." She gestured around, at the sinks and steel trolleys. "If you don't mind- -?" "No, not at all." Grace moved behind Dorian, then gave Natalie a gesture--she awarded two points to Dorian. Natalie made a gesture in return trying to tell Grace to get out--and wasn't all together sure she hadn't been caught by Dorian's quick eyes. But he pretended to look elsewhere. Which told her in no uncertain terms that she been caught. "Grace, you want to cancel the messenger heading to the precinct? I'll take this over, myself." Grace raised an eyebrow, then glanced at Dorian, who was absorbed in looking over her charts and diagrams on the walls. "If you're sure?" "Yes." She waited until Grace left, then turned to Dorian. "I didn't expect to see you again, tonight." "I suppose I should have called, but my new rental doesn't have a car phone. I really lost without my cellular. And . . . Vivian." He frowned slightly, then asked, "Have you seen Nick this evening?" The question gave her a moment's pause, but it really seemed like he didn't know. "Yes," she answered, smiling at how she was acquiring the vampires' ability for understatement. "He was here. Why?" "I sent Vivian to give him the time and place of the interview several hours ago. She . . . hasn't returned." His eyes were everywhere, except on her. "Nick wouldn't hurt Vivian." "I wish I could be as certain as you." He scowled, finally meeting her eyes. "Never underestimate LaCroix's get. The blood runs true. Damn! I knew I should have sent her away--" There was a flash of gold in his eyes. Natalie started, her hands going to the flat surface of her desk for support. "She probably had car trouble or something," she answered. "She'll call you when she can." It sounded lame, even to her. Dorian looked away, shaking his head. "She can't reach me. Without the phone . . . ." Then he closed his eyes. "I can't pretend that I'm concerned with her safety. These two attacks have proven how vulnerable I am. I would have been killed . . . if not for you." He seemed to age as he closed his eyes and turned away--Natalie saw a weight on him that she hadn't noticed before. "That's not true." "That's true." He gave a short laugh. "I've never been alone before an interview before. Enforcers, mortal slaves or servants or secretaries--there was always someone there." Dorian met her eyes and she saw something very frightened and very vulnerable within those dark depths. "I need someone to watch over me, during the daylight." Natalie stared at him, the words not quite making sense. "Uh-huh? I don't think--" But then Dorian turned his back to her and headed for the door. "No. It wouldn't be a good idea. I'd hoped- -" He stopped in mid-step, looked at her over his shoulder, then shook his head. "No. I've interfered enough with your life." He started toward the door again. "Just . . .just watch over you?" asked Natalie, unable to keep the hesitation out of her voice. Again, he stopped, then turned completely, to face her. "To be there in case something happens, like this afternoon. I feel . . . safe with you around." He raised the knuckles of his gloved right hand to his lips, the hesitation still in his eyes. "If you're afraid, I'd understand. I can promise that I won't harm you. But you've no reason to trust me." "I've got every reason," she answered evenly, meeting his gaze. "You won't lie to me." "I won't touch you," he promised. "As to what Nick will think--" "I don't care what Nick thinks, any more." Dorian flinched, then looked away. "I'm truly sorry to hear that. I never wanted to ask you to choose sides. I'd--I'd better go." Leaving the desk, Natalie hurried to get between him and the door. "No, it's all right. I'll . . . watch over you." Those dark eyes met hers, searching her soul for a moment, before a smile quirked his lips. "Thank you. It means a lot to me." Natalie crossed her arms. "I can't promise I won't try to talk you out of doing the interview." "I wouldn't ask that of you. I don't want to interfere with your loyalties." Dorian looked down at the floor again. "And I'm asking you to choose sides." "Maybe, you don't have to." When Dorian looked up, curiously, she added, "Nick's admitted that he wants you dead." He sighed. "I was afraid of that." Reaching across, he placed his gloved hand lightly on her arm. "Now you come with me." "Why?" She wasn't able to keep the challenge out of her voice, but his expression remained very dark and very serious. "It's too dangerous. If he finds out where I am, there could be more gas. Or, a fire? Being with me could put you in danger." "Not if he knew I was there. Nick won't hurt me." "Even now?" The suspicion in his voice gnawed at the certitude in her heart. But there was still enough faith within her to answer honestly, "Even now." After a pause, Dorian nodded. "All right." "Let me get my purse. And my bag--just in case." She scooped up her emergency bag--which she still hadn't unpacked from her trip to Nick's last night--her purse . . . and the Kenko case folder. "We'd better take your car. Nick's likely to put an APB out on mine." She started toward the lab door, but Dorian offered her his arm. There was no pause as she shifted the emergency bag and folder to her other hand and looped her arm through his. Grace raised an eyebrow as they walked into the outer office. Natalie dropped the Kenko folder on her desk. "Could you have someone take that over to the precinct for me?" "I just canceled--" Then she met Natalie's eyes, looked at Dorian, and smiled. "Sure thing." "Thanks. And--one more favor?" Withdrawing her arm from Dorian's, Natalie reached into her purse and got out her extra apartment key, which she held before Grace. "Could you run by my place tonight on your way home and feed Sidney? I left early this afternoon and he's probably hanging off the drapes by now." Grace's eyes widened and she took the key with two fingers. "Tonight?" Then Natalie looked at Dorian. "And . . . tomorrow." "Tomorrow?" Snatching the key from Natalie's hand, Grace grinned. "All right. You have a nice night. I mean --day." "Thanks." Not daring to meet Grace's eyes, she looped her arm through Dorian's again and led him to the door. "I'm sorry," Dorian said, "but--arriving late and leaving early? Dr. Lambert, I'm doing irreparable damage to your reputation." Natalie laughed, not daring to look behind her, at Grace. "I don't want to about what you're doing to my reputation." "May I take your bag, at least?" Gladly, she surrendered the emergency kit to Dorian's hands, noticing that his grip seemed to have improved. Checking his hands when they got to wherever they were going was going to be a first priority. And after that . . . . She wondered what the going hourly pay rate was for vampire baby-sitters. Chapter 7 Nick tried to pay attention to the files on his desk, but his eyes kept going to the clock. He'd been back by eleven. It was now almost two . . . and still no sign of Diane Osgood. Not that he didn't have enough backed up paperwork to keep him occupied. Going through the various reports on the Kenko case alone kept him busy. Forensics reported fingerprints of Kenko, his cleaning lady, and his daughter were scattered throughout the apartment. Nick guessed the other prominent set of prints would belong to Diane Osgood--but if she'd sold Kenko even half of the items in his collection, she'd had good reason to be there and it would seem suspicious to find her prints at the scene. Other than that, there was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that could be remotely called a 'clue'. He looked over the photos of the individual items in Kenko's collection, making mental notes on those that were obvious forgeries . . . which was pretty much all of them. It was true that some of the forgeries had attained a value of their own by surviving the passage of time intact, or being identifiable as having come from the hand of a fairly famous or infamous forger . . . but he still couldn't understand why Kenko limited his collection to fakes. The only one who could probably tell him was Kenko. And Kenko wasn't expected to say much. But the autopsy might reveal . Nick looked down to find his hand on the phone receiver, then withdrew it quickly. He couldn't call Natalie. Not yet. There was still a chance that she'd drop by with the autopsy results herself. If they had to start with--something safe and ordinary--maybe they could start to mend the bridges that had broken and burned during their clash at the lab. Shaking his head, he looked down at the file folder on his desk, eyes glancing across the pictures of ivory figurines and period furniture. The pieces had a history. Just like he had a history. Just like Dorian had a history. If he could get Natalie to understand what Dorian was, really . . . if he told her what had happened all those years ago, to Janette, and to Carlotta, maybe he could get her to understand why he hadn't been able to save them from Dorian. But then, in the many centuries since either run-in with Dorian, he'd gone over each memory in his mind a hundred times, a thousand times. And not even was certain why he'd failed both so lamentably. Merriment continued in the streets as he left the palazzo and the sleeping Janette--he neither knew nor cared where LaCroix had taken himself. The last rays of the sun were still visible in glints from copper awning joints or silver bridles on the decorated trappings of horses being led from the streets to night stables. Nicholas ignored these, and the drunken revelers, and the pretty ladies who hoped to entice the visitors and revelers into enjoying their favors. It was easier to move, the crowds were thinner on this second night of festivities, but he still had to take to the streets. Too much light, too much attention and gaiety stirred the night. To fly would be to court disaster. And, somehow, in his heart, he knew that speed was no longer essential, for there could be no successful conclusion to his mission. When he was beyond the reach of the lights and the eyes that might spy him, he took to the sky, finding comfort in the deepening darkness, the kiss of the wind, the false freedom found in the air, so far above the petty earth. Carlotta's palazzo was dark, as it had been the night before . . . but the darkness was close, rather than cavernous. He walked through the house and found it silent again--her servants having fled, no doubt. But when he heard the heartbeat in the garden, and the turning of a page, his steps grew lighter. Running to the rear door, he paused at the archway, wanting nothing more than to see the dark-haired beauty as he'd seen her the night before, enjoying her book among the scented memories of the day. It wasn't Carlotta who sat on the stone bench in the garden, turning the pages of the great volume . . . but Dorian. His clothing was as the night before, black velvet with gray lacings and accents. He looked up, then closed the book and raised it. "Niccolo? I believe this is yours." Nicholas stalked toward Dorian, whose only movement was to follow him with his eyes. Slapping away the book, which clattered to the stone-paved walk of the garden, he stared down at Dorian. "Where is she?" "She is . . . no more." Dorian leaned down and picked up the book, dusted it off, then placed it gently on the bench. "You should take more care with your things, Niccolo. They break so easily, you know." His hand moved to the hilt of the light dagger belted to his waist, more in remembered reflex than any conscious threat. "What have you done with her?" Dorian smiled, then pursed his lips. "The shape of your sword has changed since we last met . . . two centuries ago. Why, it seems like a fortnight, if that." His eyes narrowed. "A pity your manners haven't improved." He took a step closer. "I asked you a question," snarled Nicholas. Dorian rose to his feet, less than a hand's width between them. " ask the questions. But . . . I'll answer you, this once." He pointed to his left, deeper into the maze or trellises and flowering bushes. "At dawn, Carlotta was walking in the garden." He followed Dorian's gesture, turning his head, then closed his yes. "No," he whispered. "No!" "Yes." He felt his eyes go gold and red, the anger filling him. Nicholas turned on Dorian. "Murderer!" But Dorian didn't flinch. He met the angry gaze evenly, his own eyes still dark, still pretending to be mortal. "It was her choice and allowed within the Code. I had to honor her decision." Only then did he look down and Nicholas was surprised to see some flicker of sorrow pass over the carefully composed features. "Such a waste of all those centuries, all those memories. She was very old, you know. old." Nicholas looked up at the sound of a snarl. Two Enforcers stood in the doorway to the house, skin paler than bleached linen, eyes red-rimmed and filled with gold. Putting a hand on his shoulder, Dorian pushed past him, moving to stand before the Enforcers. "It's done?" He paused as one of them nodded. "Good." "What's done?" asked Nicholas, catching hold of Dorian's doublet and spinning him, so that they faced one another. "Carlotta's crime has been expunged." He sighed and looked down. "A mortal knew of our existence. He had proof." Dorian's eyes rose, to stare at the Enforcers. "It was the Code. He had to be eliminated." "You her lover?" Dorian turned away, walking back to the stone bench. "He was . As were his wife and children. You can tell--" he gestured with his hand over his shoulder, toward the Enforcers, a note of disgust in his voice. "They seldom smile unless they have the blood of children in their mouths." In horror, Nicholas stared at the Enforcers-- Dorian was right, one was still licking the crimson droplets from his lip. He turned and leaped at Dorian, a furious growl erupting from deep within his chest. But he overshot the mark. Dorian ducked out of his way, then hit him in the chest as he hurtled past, knocking him into the stone bench. There was a loud crack as he collided with the edge of the bench and he knew several of his ribs were either bruised or broken. But then Dorian returned, placing his knee on the back of Nicholas' neck, pinning him to the bench. He heard the snarl of the Enforcers, saw the flash of a freshly hewn stake out of the corner of his eye. But Dorian held up his hand, his eyes staring down at Nicholas. "I've been patient with you because you're still young . . . but my patience is wearing thin. Two and a half centuries is more than old enough to know the Code and to abide by it." The broken ribs would heal in a matter of hours. For the moment, they were only an annoyance, any discomfort swallowed by the anger that still burned within him. "You've murdered innocents!" Nicholas hissed. "And a sweeter, kinder lady than has ever walked this world!" Dorian sighed, saying "Chivalry, again!" as he removed his weight from Nicholas' neck. The Enforcers stepped forward as Nicholas pushed himself up from the bench and he moved more slowly, the stake now very visible in the grip of an Enforcer. "Go," said Dorian, waving them off. "I've no need of you. I can handle this one myself." The Enforcers snarled again, pausing warily before turning their backs and disappearing into the darkness of the house. Nicholas sat up on the bench. Withdrawing one of his riding gloves from the belt at his waist, he waited for Dorian to turn, then threw it hard against Dorian's chest--or as hard as his broken ribs allowed-- saying, "Handle !" Having the reflexes of a vampire, Dorian caught the glove. He stood, staring down at it for a moment, as if examining the stitching. "Is this a challenge?" "To a duel of honor." Smirking, Dorian threw the glove back at him. "I can't duel with one such as you. You have no understanding of Truth--how can you understand her brother, Honor?" Nicholas let the glove fall to the pavement of the garden path. "I may not be old enough to understand it, but I can see when it's lacking." "You--!" But Dorian bit back his words. Half- turning, he looked out over the garden. "For this one, you'd fight me? You couldn't have known her long. And she's not of your bloodline." "She was " When Dorian looked back at him, an eyebrow raised, Nicholas added, "Someone must protect them, from you and your kind." "Yes," said a voice from behind them. "Someone protect innocents and fools. And I seem to have been given that task, for the night." LaCroix stood in the doorway of the house, arms folded across his green velvet doublet. Shaking his head, he stalked past Dorian, grabbed Nicholas by the shoulder and shook him. "Have you taken leave of your ." Nicholas wrenched himself out of LaCroix's grip, still favoring his side. "I've challenged Dorian to a duel of honor." LaCroix rolled his eyes. " you?" Then he looked to Dorian. "And . . . you've accepted the challenge?" "Not yet." Dorian stared down at Nicholas. "I'm still considering." "Then consider that, as his master, I have the right to fight in his place." Nicholas struggled to his feet. "I'll fight my own challenges." The look LaCroix gave him would have withered a mortal to dust. " you?" He stared at Nicholas, an eyebrow raised, until Nicholas looked away. "I thought not. You do have native intelligence, although where it hides most of the time is beyond me." Turning back to Dorian, he smiled. "Shall we finish what we began, so long ago?" Dorian met his gaze. "You know the Code. If you killed me, you'd be destroyed by the Enforcers." "Ah, but that's over an interview. This is a personal challenge . . . which I believe exempts us from reprisals." He paused, still smiling. "Dorian?" Flinching at the sing-song tone in LaCroix's voice, Dorian turned his head away, looking toward the open doorway to the house. "You're not certain of the outcome," noted LaCroix. "But that's the eternal nature of war, isn't it? Will you take the challenge?" Dorian was as stone, unmoving. "Truth will not be served by this." "Too true." LaCroix looked down, as Nicholas began to speak, hissing, "Be ." Only then did Dorian turn, eyeing Nicholas first, then LaCroix. "If I should win," he said softly, "history will lose your memories." "And should win, we lose all of our history." If possible, the corners of LaCroix's smile grew sharper. "Either way, there be a loss and truth will suffer." "I've lost enough, this night. I . . . do accept your challenge." The dark eyes dropped to Nicholas. " of your challenges. A challenge shouldn't be accepted from a dishonorable foe." Then he raised his eyes to LaCroix and frowned. "Keep a tighter leash on him, LaCroix. Or the next time we two meet, I'll grind him to dust beneath my boot heel." "Oh, I should think that would be many years from now." LaCroix looked down at Nicholas. "By then, he may be able to handle you." "No." Dorian spat on the ground, the eyes he turned to Nicholas filled with nothing but contempt. "He doesn't serve Truth. He could never conquer me." Turning on his heel, Dorian stalked toward the doorway of the house. Nicholas rose to follow, but LaCroix's hand clamped down on his shoulder. "Stay." "He killed Carlotta," hissed Nicholas. LaCroix raised an eyebrow again. "And I'm supposed to be impressed? She walked into the sun, Nicholas." "To protect her lover and his family." He stared into LaCroix's hard gaze, needing to make him understand, then turned his eyes to the dark doorway, where Dorian and the Enforcers had vanished. "He them." "It was the Code." "Their deaths weren't necessary." "Their deaths necessary." LaCroix pushed down hard on his shoulder, the same side as his broken ribs, forcing him to sit on the stone bench. "The Code us. It's inconvenient at times, but that was a foolish thing she did. There are prices to pay when fools do foolish things." He paused, waiting until Nicholas nodded reluctantly. "Good. Now, the wedding celebration is still on-going." Leaning down, he whispered in Nicholas' ear, "There's fresh blood for the taking." "No." Picking up the book that had been knocked from the bench, he shook his head. "No--you go. I'll stay here." He ran the flat of his hand against the scuffed leather cover. "Carlotta left me her books. I should go through them before the vultures descend." "A practical alternative--although you'd do better to look for coins and jewelry, rather than books." Sighing, LaCroix wiped his hands together. "I suppose I'll stay here and have a look, myself." Nicholas glared up at him. "You're staying here to watch me. To keep me from going after Dorian." "To keep you from doing as Carlotta did." When Nicholas seemed stunned by the suggestion, he pointed toward the doorway. "Going after Dorian right now would be as pointless an action as hers and have the same result." Leaning down, he placed his hand against Nicholas' shoulder blade, pushing him to his feet. "You'll have your chance, Nicholas. But . . . you must learn to wait for it. With the Enforcers behind him, Dorian's invincible. Without them--and one day his dedication to Truth will leave him bereft of their support and company-- he's nothing more than a bookworm with a nasty temper and a long memory. when you can act. before." Again, Nicholas nodded, hearing some hope in LaCroix's words. As he followed LaCroix into Carlotta's house, he held back his anger and desire for revenge. LaCroix was right--to fight Dorian now would be suicide. He knew enough of tactics to see the possibilities in LaCroix's words--Dorian's day would come. He had been denied just vengeance, twice. And it lifted his heart somewhat to know that there would not be a third time. "Detective Knight?" Nick started, then rose to his feet. The woman standing before him had platinum blonde hair and green eyes--the eyes green he looked into them a little longer than necessary and found colored contact lenses. She might have been in her early forties. The only thing that detracted from the smart style of the silver lame' dress and lace shawl was the large brown leather briefcase she carried. "Diane Osgood." She held out her hand, shook his, then gestured down at her dress. "Sorry about being so late. And the outfit. I just came from a museum dinner, one of those really dull things, lots of pointless self-congratulatory speeches. But . . . one has to be seen by the right people in the right places." "I . . . understand," answered Nick. "I'm sure you do. I saw a notice in the lobby-- guess you've got one of those coming up, yourself. I never knew police had to endure those, in addition to crime in the streets. I suppose they're just as boring?" "Unless a car backfires nearby." She chuckled. "Right. Guns. Must be quite a sight." Tilting her head, she eyed him thoughtfully. "If you don't mind my asking . . . how can you dance wearing a holster?" The question caught him by surprise and he shrugged. "I never tried." "If you find out, let me know." Hefting the briefcase up into both hands, she looked around. "Is there someplace you'd like to hold this interview?" The word gave him pause. Nick glanced to the rear corridor out of the squad room, then picked up the stack of files from his desk. "I'm relatively certain we've got a briefing room empty." Stepping out from behind his desk, he gestured her down the hall. " room? That sounds much better than interrogation room." Her fingers tapped against the leather case. "I think we may need space to spread out some of this stuff, if you need detail on individual pieces." Nick couldn't help but smile again, as he led her down the hall, to the larger of the two rooms--he wasn't about to tell her that the room changed names, and purposes, as needed. He chose the larger room, although both were empty, because it was lighter, contained several tables, and seemed much less . . . criminal. Placing his hand on the table top, he said, "How about here?" then slid around the other side. Diane Osgood put the briefcase on the desk, then seated herself. Nick remained standing until she was seated--this was a citizen providing information, after all, and a suspect under interrogation--then gestured toward the coffee pot at the far end of the room. "Would you like a cup of coffee? It's not all that fresh . . . ." She wrinkled her nose, then gave him a half-smile as he dropped his own files to the desk. "No thanks. I'm about up to with coffee," she indicated her chin line with the edge of her hand. "Needed it to get through all those speeches without falling asleep." Flipping open the lock on the briefcase, she peered inside. "I guess this is something like 'I'll show you mine if you show me yours,' right?" " like that." Nick cleared his throat. "How well did you know Alexander Kenko?" Diane Osgood had withdrawn a ring binder and a file folder from the briefcase, but her hand shook at the last. Her eyes were fixed on the cover of the file, then the interior of the briefcase. "About ten years, more or less. He was one of my first clients. A nice man, generally." Finally, she closed the lid of the case and ran her hand along the cover. Nick suddenly realized that it was only suede, not leather as he'd first thought. "And your business is--?" "Is this on the record?" There was a slight tension in her voice and the green eyes narrowed, as if trying to fix him in place. Nick noted the flutter of her heart. She was nervous. But anyone sitting on the other side of a table, answering perfectly innocent questions, was usually nervous . . . especially when the police were the questions. "No. That's why I appreciate your coming down here, especially at this hour. We need to know something about Kenko's collection, get a handle on what it contained, where it came from, how much it was worth . . . ." "You mean, like a motive? For murder?" He shrugged. "Standard procedure. Everything has to be accounted for." "I suppose." She smiled slightly. "I'm a go- between, an agent. I track down pieces for collectors, attend auctions, that sort of thing." Again, she placed her hand on the briefcase, running it along the suede cover, her eyes slightly unfocused. "I didn't hear about poor Alex until this afternoon, when his daughter, Gloria, called. The viewing's the day after tomorrow. I suppose the funeral's on Saturday." "And the Estate sale will be in two months?" Diane Osgood looked up quickly, as if surprised. Then she relaxed, leaning against the back of the chair. "Of course---you'd know Alex specified in his will that I handle the sale. He knew I'd do right by Gloria." Reaching for the file folder, she flipped it open, then turned it toward Nick. "That's the inventory of everything I've sold Alex in the last ten years, with the purchase information--it's all on computer. I think his lawyer holds the provenances on the pieces." "Even the fakes?" Again, she seemed surprised. Lowering her eyes, she seemed to look at the list. "I didn't know the police had an ivory expert on call to provide authentications." "You going to mention they weren't originals before they were auctioned at the Estate sale?" "As in 'intent to defraud'? I thought you said this wasn't an room?" Smiling, Diane Osgood seemed to have found what she was looking for--pointing to an item on the list with a well-manicured nail. "Every item is listed for what it is. What it is." Nick picked up the list and began flipping through it. He'd called it at the crime scene, item in Kenko's collection was a reproduction or a fake. Finished with the listing, he dropped it to the table and raised an eyebrow. "Alex only fakes," she replied, still smiling. "And, what was important to me, he only fakes." "Why?" The question seemed to catch her off-guard. She looked away. "I'm . . . not sure. I'd asked him in the past, but he never really answered." Lost in thought, she hesitated. Then, she opened the ring binder, which contained a combination of inventory sheets and photographs. Slipping one of the photos out of its holder, she passed it along to Nick. "They're fakes, of course. Ranging in value from the mid-1700 pieces that came from the around the Rhine. Then there was the counterfeit ivory glut in England in the mid 1800's." "Yes, I remember," Nick said absently, as he looked at the photo of a depiction in ivory of the Annunciation. Then he looked up quickly. "I remember . . . reading about it." "Art history courses?" asked Diane Osgood. "In college?" There was just enough of professional snideness in her tone to cause him to smile. "Living history," he answered, going back to the photo. "Then you know they're not 'fakes'--not to us. We call them 'unauthorized reproductions.' Half the museums in the world have been weeding these things out of their permanent collections . . . and they've missed some. Alex went on a crusade against the Toronto Museum two years ago, after he spotted a reproduction labeled as 'real' in their collection." Nick smiled at her choice of words, then turned the notebook of photos toward him, replacing the picture. "I suppose that made him very popular in the community." "Oh, they him. He had this thing about them labeling as real. He started out as a claims investigator, for his insurance company. Finding fraud was a way of life for him. And he was the best they had. They kept moving him upstairs." She sighed. "Somewhere along the way, he went from trying to weed out fraud to trying to save the company money. Not to speak ill of the dead, but . . . ." She waited for Nick to meet her eyes. "I think he actually turning down claims. Especially claims. Maybe it was some sort of power trip . . . being able to decide what was real and what wasn't?" She shrugged, glancing down at the book. "Then he's killed by a burglar for a fake. I don't suppose . . . do you know what was taken?" "We were hoping you could tell ," explained Nick. Pausing, he pulled out the inventory list and photo folder from his own pile of files. "His daughter wasn't familiar enough with the collection." "And I am." Diane Osgood nodded. "Yeah, I can probably tell you if something's missing. I was at his place . . . the day before it happened. But I guess you know that." Nick never made a movement to let her think otherwise. She leaned forward to pick up the inventory sheets, flipped to the last page, then handed it to him. "He asked me to pick up a medieval triptyph with ivory figures--it's similar to one in the British museum, down to the gold leaf." "A fake?" While he looked at the inventory sheet, she turned to the end of the photo album, then tapped her finger on the plastic holder. "That's one of the authentication photos. I never got a chance to deliver it. And Alex never paid me." Sighing, she leaned back in her chair again. "I get the estate to pay for it, verbal contract and all that. Maybe I'll keep it. Something to remember him by." From the two photos, Nick judged the wooden housing of the triptych to be about three feet high. The ivories depicted the life of Christ, the central and largest section being the crucifixion. He'd gotten better at dealing with crosses, but . . . he concentrated on the other parts of the triptych, like the gold leaf interior and the painted outer panels, which formed a picture when the leaves of the triptych were closed. "Would it be possible to bring it in sometime?" asked Nick. "With the paperwork?" Diane Osgood seemed surprised at his interest. "It's not particularly valuable--or fragile--but I don't know about bringing it over here." "It's a beautiful piece. I'd like to look at it, if you wouldn't mind." "Well, if it's interest . . . ?" She shrugged, some of the hesitation leaving her. "I can bring it by." "Good." Smiling, Nick placed the scene photos and inventory file on the table and opened it. "Do you have time to go over the inventory lists with me?" "Sure. I'm used to keeping late nights." Reaching for the photo book and her own inventory list, she flipped to the beginning. "Let's get started." It took nearly two hours to match the inventory photos to the sales photos Diane Osgood had maintained for her records. The number and description of the pieces matched . . . except for the quality of a few. Nick picked up the sales photo. "Four chess pieces, mint condition--" Then he picked up the crime scene photo, which showed the same pieces. "Three chess pieces in mint condition. One . . . mangled." "You can see, I didn't sell it to him like that," said Osgood quickly. "That's why I take the provenance photos before I turn over the pieces, and have them notarized." She took the photo from Nick's hand and winced. "It was a gorgeous piece, too. A bishop, with such fine detail . . . ." There was a note of sadness in her voice. Then she quickly dropped the photo and smiled. "Oh . . . right. I remember now." She met Nick's eyes. "Alex said he was re-labling some of his collection and left them out. The cleaning lady knocked this one off the table and it got caught in her vacuum." There was a skip in her heart beat. Nick stared into her eyes, then back down at the photo. "That's odd. It doesn't look like that type of damage. In fact, this seems . . . deliberate." The laugh was false as well. "Why would Alex mutilate a fake? Especially a piece in a condition like that? No," she said firmly. "It was an accident. And . . . it's getting late." Diane Osgood pushed back her chair and stood. Gesturing at the inventory and photos, she said, "You can keep the inventory. I'd like the photos back. They're a second set but I hate to lose my backup copy. If you need to call, I should be in tomorrow by--" she glanced down at her watch and frowned, "--not before two." Nick rose to his feet and nodded. "Thanks for coming in. And if anyone calls, it won't be me--it'll be my partner, Detective Schanke." She paused, her hand grasping the briefcase handle, but not lifting it from the table. "This isn't case?" "I've got . . . a few days off." "Lucky you." Smiling, she put her other hand on the case, holding it against her chest. "I guess you'll be able to sleep in, too." He shrugged. "You might say that." "Who's the lucky lady? Not that it matters." She reached forward and shook his hand. "Nice to have met you, Detective. You have any questions--about --you give me a call. I'll show myself out." "I ," Nick promised. "Thanks." He watched her leave the room, then sat down in the chair and sighed. Schanke was going to look like road kill after dealing with Diane Osgood . . . if it came to that. Now that they'd determined nothing had been stolen, the smash- and-grab theory was out the window, allowing for the fact that the murderer might have panicked and fled. But it still didn't seem . . . right. Picking up the photo of the mangled chess piece, Nick compared it against to the original sales photo and shook his head in disgust. Osgood was right--it had been a gorgeous piece. He could almost imagine it in his hands, the hills and valleys of the features and the carving, as it was lifted and moved across a chessboard in a tiny war. The question was why she bothered to lie about how the bishop had been damaged. The scoring wasn't mechanical, but haphazard, as if done with a heavy, sharp knife. He stared at the photo, trying to come up with an answer, but nothing made sense. Osgood admitted the damage had been done before the murder, which meant that the murderer hadn't deliberately killed Kenko, then gone after this particular piece, or any of the others that seemed to have been damaged. That left Kenko. But why would a collector deliberately deface a piece from his own collection? Especially a piece that was so well tooled, that it might be taken as real, instead of fake? Unless . . . the piece been real? Hurriedly gathering together the photos of the chess piece and the triptych, Nick ran from the room and back to the hallway. Seeing Stonetree's door open, he glanced inside. The Captain was seated at his desk, a number of files open, pen in his hand. Nick tapped quickly on the doorjamb and then walked in. Stonetree looked up, nodded his greeting, then looked back to the form he was filling out. "Nick. What can I do for you?" "I want a search warrant." got Stonetree's attention. Eyes glittering, he looked up. "The smash-and-grab from last night?" " a smash-and-grab. pre-meditated murder." He hesitated. "I just talked to Diane Osgood-- Kenko's purchasing agent? She was supposed to deliver a piece to him. She says she was there the day before the murder, but she never dropped the piece off to him." He handed Stonetree the photograph. "I think she took it over there last night. They had an argument--" "And Osgood killed him?" "My take is that it was an accident. I went by the Coroner's Office earlier. Nat--" He stopped, then stared down at the desk--now was the time for . "Nat gave me a demonstration on how she thinks Kenko fell. He was either pushed or slipped, then cracked his skull on the furniture." "How much backup you got on this?" "Her fingerprints at the crime scene--but she's been there before." Running a hand through his hair, Nick walked away, waving the photos he still held in his other hand. "We might want to talk to the neighbors again." "You got an ID from them, putting her there at the time of the murder?" "No. But they might be used to seeing Osgood come and go from Kenko's place, so they'd never think to mention it, unless we asked specifically." "Have Schanke do it, first thing." Sighing, Stonetree leaned back in his chair. "But a theory and a possible ID isn't enough for a warrant." " might be." Returning to the desk, he pointed at the photo of the triptych. "That's the piece Osgood was supposed to deliver. She says he never received it. But if we dust it and come up with Kenko's fingerprints--we prove she lied. And if she lied about that--" "That's enough for probable cause?" "If it's backed up by the autopsy results." Again, he reached down to the photograph. "That's gold leaf--it'll leave trace elements on the fingers if he touched it. Which means Nat'll have to do a metal series on the hands." Stonetree met his eyes. "You think Osgood'll try to dump the evidence?" "I don't know." Turning, Nick thought back to the interview. "I think she came in to find out how much we knew. I might have spooked her. If I leave her a message--the general 'thanks for cooperating' speech--it might put her at ease. She might try to take the prints off the piece . . . but she'd be careful with it, especially if I'm right." "About what?" "Kenko collected fakes and only fakes." Nick moved to the desk and handed Stonetree the pictures of the ivory bishop. "Osgood dropped off her provenance pictures--that's before Kenko touched it. The second," he couldn't help but wince, seeing the disfigured bishop, "is our scene photo. Osgood thought she'd sold him a fake, but it was real. So he destroyed it." Stonetree's eyes narrowed and he picked up the picture of the triptych. "So, this was supposed to be a fake. And . . . it's real, too?" "Maybe. Or maybe just part of it." Nick shrugged. "You'd have to get someone to authenticate it. But she's not going to dump something that valuable if we make her think she's got nothing to worry about." "That's a hell of a motive for murder . . . or accidental homicide." Stonetree picked up the photos and handed them back to him. "Let's go with it. You're off tomorrow, right? Schanke can do the follow-through on this one. we can get the autopsy evidence." "Taking care of that right now." Photos in hand, Nick left the office and headed for his desk. Throwing the pictures onto the blotter, he dialed, picked up the receiver and leaned against his typewriter. This was business. He could handle business. Nat would talk to him. She to. The phone rang once. "Toronto County Coroner's Office." "Grace, this is Nick--" "Yes, detective." He winced at the chill in her voice. "If you're looking for the Kenko autopsy, it's on its way over." "Actually, I need to talk to Nat." "She's not in right now. Would you like me to leave her a message?" The voice was official, methodical, and distant. Nick took a breath. "Grace . . . I'm calling to apologize. I need to talk to her." "She's left for the night. Nick, I'm sorry. If she knew you were going to call--" "That's okay. We need someone to do a metal series on Kenko's hands, specifically looking for traces of gold leaf. Can you get someone on it?" "Hell, yeah. It's like a tomb over here." She chuckled. "But a slow night for us is good for everybody else." "Yeah. I guess you're right." Nick smiled, hearing the echo of his earlier conversation with Norma. "Thanks, Grace. I'll try Nat at home." "Uh--wait! Nick?" He'd been ready to hang up, when his exceptional hearing caught Grace's comment. "What?" "Nick, she's not . . . Nat asked me to drop by her place and feed Sidney tonight, on my way home." At first, it didn't sink in. So Natalie wasn't going home . . . was she going? "And . . . tomorrow." Nick closed his eyes. "Grace, I know I shouldn't put you in this spot, but it's very important I know. Did Natalie leave by herself? Or was . . . someone with her?" He expected the pause. Grace was Natalie's friend and co-worker, while Nick was little more than a distant third on the list . . . if that. She could justifiably tell him to go to hell. Grace cleared her throat. "In order--no, yes. And . . . yes." "I haven't asked--" "But you were going to. Yes, it was the guy who was here tonight." "Dorian." "Like I said, she didn't think you'd call back. If you'd only called a half-hour ago . . . . Nick, I'm sorry." "So am I." Trying to keep the fear and disappointment from his voice, he added, "Thanks. Thanks for being honest with me." Nick dropped the receiver to the desk, then reached behind and placed it in the cradle. Natalie had left with Dorian. He'd waited too long to call. He was too late. But then, that's the way it had always been with Dorian. He was too late. "Nick?" He looked up at the sound of Vivian's voice. She stood in the squad room doorway, a hesitant smile on her face. "I'm not too late, am I?" Wincing at the words, he looked around--even on the tail end of the night shift, there were too many people here. And he'd left the photos in the interrogation room . . . . Nick gestured for her to follow him. Vivian hurried to keep pace with him, catching up with him in the hall. "What's happened?" "I called the Coroner's Office. Natalie's not there." Saying the words only seemed to make it worse, turned the lump of ice in his chest to lead. Entering the conference room, he walked to the table and began to shove things hurriedly into files, not paying attention to the rhyme or reason. What was the point? Schanke could straighten it out tomorrow. Vivian paused in the doorway. "Dorian?" He nodded, ever so slightly, still intent on the paperwork on the desk. Vivian walked over to him and placed a comforting hand on his arm. "She wouldn't have gone with him willingly." "It doesn't make a difference. I have to find her. She has no idea how much danger she's in." Leaning on the more-or-less even pile of evidence, he pressed his hands down against it. "Where Dorian?" "I don't know." Nick looked up quickly and Vivian took a step back. "!" she protested. "I was supposed to drop off the time and place for the interview, then meet him. He was going to take me to the new place." Shaking her head, she sighed. "But I didn't go back. I go back." Her fear was a presence in the room and in her eyes. Nick put his hand on her shoulder, needing her to focus. " were you supposed to meet him?" "The parking lot, in the underground mall. I was supposed to pick up some clothes for him there. He was going to find a place on his own, then come to get me." She swallowed. "Nick, he had a lot of cash on him. He could be ." "No. Not . He has to make it to the interview tomorrow, on time, or he loses his chance at me. And that is--?" Vivian handed him a slip of gray paper. "Here." "Eight." He looked up from the paper. Sunset would be about six, which meant that Dorian would have a little less than two hours traveling time to drive or fly to- - Nick felt his heart stop as he looked at the paper again, the address stirring memories within him. It was a gray place, with vats of blood and animal carcasses. Quiet, at night. There'd be no witnesses, no eavesdroppers. Not like the last time he was there. Closing his eyes, Nick leaned on the edge of the table. It had been LaCroix. After so many years, they'd met again. Words echoed in his brain, bits of conversation--'How long is the longest friendship?' 'You can't deny what you are.' You don't have the courage.' Alyce's scream. The shattering of the cup . . . it was all so crystal clear in his perfect memory. Even the memory of the scent of stale blood . . . and the sound of metal bar cutting through LaCroix's chest. Dorian had chosen well. It was a place of false death. "Do you know where it is?" asked Vivian. "Yes." Clearing his throat, Nick opened his eyes and turned toward her, knowing that he couldn't show her his fear, his anger. She needed security, composure, protection. "Yes," he repeated, crumpling the paper in his hand. "I remember it well." He almost tossed the paper away, but stopped himself. It was important that it not be found, that no one be able to trace him there, in case . . . . Swallowing, Nick put the crumpled paper on top of the files and carefully smoothed it out with his hand. "It's a . . . gray place. An abattoir." "A slaughterhouse?" Vivian's voice rose into panic at the end of the question. She grabbed his arm. "Nick, you've gotta run." "I have to find Natalie." He stared down at the paper. "In ?" He looked up at her, knowing that she was right. Clothing would give him only temporary protection from the sun, but he couldn't act, couldn't think, while he was in so much danger. A two hour radius from the abattoir was a large area to search. There was no way to find her before the interview. No way. "Run," whispered Vivian. Giving her a wan smile, he reached a hand to her cheek, touching it lightly, then moved past her. "No." "Then go somewhere safe. Not your apartment." She touched his shoulder, to get his attention. "The Raven?" Again, he shook his head. "No. If he's going to condemn me, anyone who helps me is forfeit. I won't endanger Janette." "Then . . . where else can you go? Nick stared at her over his shoulder, her words echoing in his brain. He had no bolt hole here--never needed one before. His loft, the Raven, the station--that was the length and breadth of his world. Natalie's place . . . no, he couldn't bear that. And Grace would get the surprise of her life, if she awakened him when she came in to feed Sidney. The thought made him smile, but he sobered almost instantly, meeting Vivian's concerned gaze. "There no where else." Suddenly, something seemed to change in her--her eyes lost the look of fear and became more confident. She drew herself to her full height, picked up his files from the table, then turned back to him. "We'll find you a safe place, even if you have to spend the day in the trunk of your car." For a moment, she looked away, clicking her tongue against her teeth. "A motel or hotel would be best, somewhere your car couldn't be spotted. And we'll need cash . . . ?" Only then did she look back to him. "Sorry, but I'm down to a couple of bucks." Nick stared at her, amazed, then it hit him--Vivian was doing job. And her job had been taking care of a vampire. "I--uh--have some cash on me." "Good." She tilted her head, eyeing him critically. "You'll need to feed. We can probably get some from the Raven . . . Dorian couldn't hold Janette responsible for common charity." "I'm fine." "No, you're ." Showing sudden backbone, she frowned at him. "I know Dorian tanks up before an interview. You'd better do the same." He smiled at her choice of phrasing. "I don't suppose you've eaten anything today, either?" For a second, that competent facade flickered-- now it was turn to be surprised. And Nick wondered, not for the first time, how much attention Dorian paid to the needs of the mortals who attended him. "Thanks--I hungry. But I can catch a bite after you're settled in for the day. As long as there's a deli in the neighborhood that delivers, I'm okay. And we should get going." Nick tried to pry the files away from her, but she held onto them tightly. Giving up, he led her out of the interrogation room and back to his desk. There were more people around--the shifts were changing. It was time to go. The sun would be rising in an hour, or less. If he did as Vivian suggested, stopping at a motel, he could call Schanke and update him on the Kenko case. But there was still Vivian to deal with. "You don't have to be my bodyguard," whispered Nick, glancing down at her. "You could take the car." Vivian placed the files on Schanke's desk, then smiled up at him. "And leave you defenseless?" She placed her arm through his, as they headed for the door. "I'll watch over you." Pausing in the lobby, he carefully slipped out of her grasp, sandwiching her hand in his for a moment. "Vivian, I don't anyone to watch over me. I know it's fairly common practice for some, but I've never--" Reaching up with her free hand, she placed a finger to his lips, stopping his words. "Then how do you know, if you've never ?" Her fingers intertwined with his, as she clasped his hand. "Maybe it's time you picked up the habit. It's nice to be taken care of, now and again." It was nearly impossible to argue with her. Some very small part in him felt a flicker of pity for Dorian--if he didn't know better, he'd think this mortal had wound the vampire around her little finger so tightly that he'd never get loose. But then, was the servant, after all. was the one trying to escape. Still, he rolled his eyes and relented, following Vivian out the door. The last thing Nick saw in the station, before the doors closed behind him, was Norma. Hands on hips, she glared at him from the other side of the information desk, wearing a look that could have turned a mounted regiment of Hungarian hussars to full retreat. Chapter 8 Her mind fuzzy with sleep, Natalie blinked at the darkness. The closing of a car door still echoed in her ears. Turning her head, she looked to the driver's side and found it empty. The car had been parked in a small garage or vehicle bay. Unhooking her seat belt, she opened the passenger side door, then slipped between the wall of the garage and the car, making her way to the large, open door through which they'd entered. The sun had risen. Dorian was trying to close the door from a shadowed side. Grabbing the door in the middle and shutting it would have exposed him to the sunlight. He wasn't having any luck and she heard him muttering comments in a language she didn't need translated to understand. "Let me," she sighed, grabbing the overhead door and rolling it down into place. It was wood, without windows. Once it was closed, the garage fell into complete darkness. Knowing it would take a moment for her eyes to adjust, Natalie stood where she was, afraid that she might trip over some tools or, God forbid, a spare garden hose. She let out a short cry, as something touched her arm. "I'm sorry," said Dorian. "Sometimes, I forget mortal limitations." "It's all right." Natalie could see shapes in the darkness, but not much more. "If the sun's up--how close did we cut it?" "I'll have to compliment the car manufacturers on the window tint--we did very well. But in another three minutes, I was going to stop the car, crawl into the trunk, and direct you from there. Hardly dignified, but it would have worked well enough." His voice moved away and she heard a click--faintly reminiscent of a padlock snapping shut? "This place seems safe." Then, she realized he was suddenly standing beside her again, felt his gaze on her. "Perhaps this wasn't a good idea." "This place safe?" "I meant . . . you're being here." She touched his arm. "I'm a volunteer, not a hostage." "Nick doesn't know that." "He wouldn't care." But her words were betrayed by the uncertainty in her tone. "I think he would. A great deal." Taking her arm, he led her over to the car, which was a dark shape against the blackness. Dorian opened the driver's side door and the small light inside the car shone like a beacon. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he took out the keys, which he placed in her hand, closing her fingers over them. "Take the car. Go back to the your apartment . . . or Nick. You shouldn't be here." Natalie took the keys from the palm of his gloved hand, then held his hand flat against the palm of her own. "You'd be alone." "I'll manage." This time, voice betrayed him. "Be careful, Dorian. That was close to being a lie." When he frowned, she chuckled. "I promised I'd stay," she said, rapping her knuckles lightly against his suit jacket. "And I . Or do you want to make a liar out of ?" "Thank you." Reaching into the car, Dorian pulled her medical bag from the floor, then her purse, which he handed to her. Once the car door was closed, there was no light. Dorian grabbed for her hand in the darkness. "This way." In the brief light from the car interior, Natalie had recognized the garage for what it was--an automotive repair bay. It hadn't been too long abandoned--oil slicks dotted the floor, still shiny, occasional rainbows forming on the surface in the light. Most of the heavy equipment had been removed, but the floor was pock-marked, chunks missing from the concrete. She was just as happy to have Dorian guiding her through the darkness across that automotive no man's land. Dorian paused at one point, leaning away from her. Lights appeared on the other side of an open doorway. Gesturing with a hand, he indicated that she should enter first. The room had a concrete floor, a high ceiling, and cinderblock walls. Small windows along the top had been covered with thick black duct tape, so not a stray ray of light entered. There was a door at the far side, with a counter--this would have been the outer office. Another door was on her right. Several grocery bags, packages, and small boxes sat on the counter. A card table and two folding chairs stood beyond that. Just inside the counter was a king sized mattress, with sheets, pillows, and blankets. There was a click and Natalie turned--to see Dorian padlock the door behind her. For some reason, she shivered, especially when she saw that the other exit was padlocked from the inside. He walked past her, to the counter. "We've electricity, as you can see--there are a separate set of lights by the table, should you want to read while I'm sleeping. The restroom's there--" he gestured toward the unlocked door to her right, "and it's relatively disinfected, but no shower or bath facilities, I'm afraid." Natalie walked to stand beside him, putting her medical bag and purse on the counter. Dorian opened a box and withdrew an electric drip coffee pot, while another contained mugs, paper plates, and various plastic utensils. "I'm usually better at entertaining than this. Vivian manages . . . everything." His eyes darkened when he mentioned Vivian's name and he quickly busied himself with the boxes. For her own part, Natalie dug into the grocery bags, which contained an odd assortment of luncheon meats and cheese, two loaves of French bread, a six-pack of diet cola, and a number of bags of snacks, mostly popcorn. "This is great. But, do you have any clue as to how much mortals eat, on average?" Dorian's hesitant expression proved just how limited his knowledge of the mortal world might be. Natalie laughed at his wry smile. "I'll take that as a 'no.' Just for the next time, about half of this would have been fine. But it's always best not to skimp on the popcorn." "I'll remember," promised Dorian, solemnly. He tumbled an odd assortment of paperbacks from another bag, one of which Natalie rescued as it tumbled off the counter. "I grabbed a bit of everything, not knowing your taste. And about that--" He sighed, staring down at the bed. "I hope you won't take offense--I thought Vivian would be here. Not to worry, I've slept on the floor before." "None of this gallantry crap," warned Natalie, holding up her hand to stop him. " take the bed. I'll take a chair. After all, be the one sleeping." "Don't be too certain." Dorian walked around the counter and fell into one of the folding chairs, beside the table. He held up his hands, in a helpless gesture. "I'm sorry. I wasn't prepared for this." "It's all right--" "No, it's not. You see, Vivian takes care of all the details. She takes care of--" "You," supplied Natalie. "Yes. I suppose she does." He leaned his head on his arms on the top of the card table, then closed his eyes. "They always have." Grabbing her medical bag and, as an afterthought, a can of soda and a bag of popcorn, Natalie moved to the table. Once there, she opened her medical case and removed packages of sterile dressing and a small scissors. "Let's take a look at your hands before you fall asleep, okay?" Dorian sat back in the chair and let his hands rest lightly on the table. Natalie removed the glove carefully from his left hand, shifting her chair so that she'd be closer to him--she'd have cut it off him, but didn't know if she'd need it again. The light dressing she applied to keep the burns clean seemed not to have shifted too much during the evening. In fact, they fell away easily enough when she cut through them. The skin underneath was lightly scarred, but relatively whole. She looked up at him, curious. Dorian held up his hand, examining it. "I've had quite a bit to drink this evening," he replied. "The healing is always faster and cleaner if we feed heavily and frequently." Natalie was half-way through cutting the second glove, when he mentioned feeding. She looked over her shoulder, to the counter, but there was no sign of any 'wine' bottles. "In a cooler, behind the counter," said Dorian, smiling when she met him eyes. "I know how disturbing it can be." "I appreciate your concern, but I'm used to it." Holding up the scissors, she clicked the ends together. "Occupational hazard. Blood a problem." "Vivian seems to have the same immunity to squeamishness. She says it comes from having worked on too many low-budget gore movies." As the bandages fell away, Dorian examined his other hand, which was in even better shape. "My compliments, Dr. Lambert. I doubt Vivian could have done as well." Tossing the used gauze to one side, Natalie repacked the rest of her supplies in her bag, now that they were unnecessary. "I told you, Nick hurt her." "But what will she do . . . without me?" There was a lost look in his eyes, before he turned away. For a moment, Natalie couldn't identify what it was. Popping the top from her soda can, she stared down as the brown liquid bubbled up through the small hole, then settled back again. "Dorian, it's not like Vivian's you. Has she?" He shook his head quickly. "No. She's devoted to me. Our only point of contention is that I refuse to bring her across. That's not what I--" Those dark eyes met hers. "What has Nick told you about me?" There were a few problems dealing with someone who placed value on truth and Natalie ran smack into one. If Nick and Dorian would be facing off tomorrow, the last thing she wanted to do was make the situation worse for Nick. But not answering would be almost as bad as outright lying. "He said you were a killer. A murderer." Dorian clapped his fresh, pink hands together. "Guilty as charged, as are we all. I've killed mortals to survive. For the blood. For centuries." He shrugged. "It's part of what we do, most of what we are." Something churned in Natalie's stomach--that knot was starting up again. But she forced it back down, forced herself to meet his eyes. "I know. I can't . . . accept it. Or approve of it. But . . . I understand." "I don't think you do. If you did, you wouldn't here." His eyes narrowed, as he stared at her for a moment, then looked away. "I've killed many, many mortals, Dr. Lambert. But I've never killed one of my own kind before. Not like this." A shiver went down her spine. He was talking about Nick. But, if he hadn't killed . . . . "Really?" Dorian nodded, then frowned. "Only once. Just after I was brought across. I was . . . an accident. A meal that came back to life because the fool hadn't been a vampire long enough to know of the Code, or the rules, or what he was about. A lone traveler, with scholarly intent, a small house in the city, a handful of servants." Leaning his head on his hand, he looked across the room and she knew that he was seeing the past. "And when was this?" A smile slipped across his lips and his eyelids flickered. "You persistent, aren't you?" "I've learned to get my shots in when I can." "I'd imagine, having dealt with Nick, myself." When she frowned, he looked away again. "I knew enough of folklore to know what I'd become and what my limitations were. I took my 'master' back to the city, to my house. I told the servants I'd been ill, had them make the house safe for me, protect me from the sun. They were loyal. My only family." Natalie cleared her throat. "I take it you didn't have any . . . outside interests?" "I'll have you know I was a philosopher." Dorian chuckled beneath his breath. "Which meant I wasn't a prize catch. Nor did my work leave me any time for . . . outside interests, as you call them. There wasn't