Date:         Sun, 12 Dec 1993 03:27:58 -0600
 
My contribution to the Christmas story challenge.
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Flowers in the Night
 
  A Forever Knight Christmas Story
 
 
    by Sharon S. Scott
 
 
 
 
"I'll be out of the office for a week or so--I'm going to
visit my parents for Christmas." Natalie was suddenly struck
by the question of what vampires did at Christmas. She
hadn't given it a thought before. If they were Christian
*before* they were turned, did they celebrate Christmas as a
religious occasion? Did they decorate trees and send out
cards and buy gifts for one another? Images of bottles of
blood wrapped in festive paper danced in her head. No, it
was too gruesome to think about. Nick had been away over the
holidays every year since she'd met him, so the question
hadn't come up. Should she ask him? No, probably not. But on
second thought ... no, she wouldn't ... yes ... no ... Oh,
the hell with it, why not?
 
She made her voice deliberately casual. "What are your plans
for the holidays?"
 
Nick's tone matched hers. "I get to work. We're going to be
really short-handed, and Schanke's been saving his vacation
days so he and Myra and Jenny can visit his parents. So I'll
be covering for him." He didn't mention that all the talk of
family get-togethers during the holidays still made him miss
his own family, even after so many years. "Have a good trip,
and be careful. You know how many drunks there are on the
roads during holidays."
 
"Okay, don't work too hard, and be careful yourself. I'll
see you next year. Bye." She had a feeling there was
something she'd forgotten to say, but couldn't remember what
it was. Oh well, it would come to her.
 
Nick knew what she'd forgotten. His birthday. January 1. He
would be 36, or was it 37? He always had trouble remembering
the birth date Larry had provided for him. He shouldn't
care--he'd forgotten her birthday, too. If Schanke hadn't
reminded him ...
 
He smiled at the thought of the thousand and one questions
Nat was probably wanting to ask him about vampires and
Christmas. But his smile faded as he thought of the answers
he'd have to give her. He didn't celebrate Christmas--it
would be a sacrilege. He was always lonely over the
 
 
holidays--almost all the humans he knew spent the season
with their families. His family ... no, he refused to think
of all that again. It was time to go to work. He turned the
answering machine on as he shrugged into his shoulder
holster and then headed for the garage.
 
***********************************************************
 
Christmas Eve was always a quiet night for the police.
Everyone was home, either putting together children's toys
or wrapping gifts. A few drunks, a few domestic squabbles.
Rarely any homicides. He spent his shift catching up on
paperwork, and went home to sleep just as millions of
children were waking their parents up far too early to see
what Santa had left for them, if they'd been good. He
wondered fleetingly if Mr. Claus would think *he'd* been
"good". Sure. The blinking lights and tinsel in the store
windows looked pale in the dimness just before dawn. The
nativity scenes in front of the churches revealed their
makeshift construction and extension cords. Nothing like the
candles and mysticism of the masses he had attended as a
child.
 
He picked up his mail and checked for messages when he
arrived at home. No messages on the machine. He took off his
holster and laid it and the gun on the coffee table. He
turned on the television and sat on the couch to open the
mail--a Christmas card from Stonetree, junk mail, utility
bills. He used the remote to close the shutters, then
checked out the fare on television. "Miracle on 34th Street"
was on one channel, "It's a Wonderful Life" on another, and
most of the others had church services. He hit the off
button on the remote, got a bottle from the refrigerator,
and picked up a book from the end table as he stretched out
on the sofa. The Warhol diaries--Schanke had brought the
book to work and had insisted that he read it. He took a
drink and began to read.
 
He was startled mid-book by the sound of the elevator door
opening. Hadn't he armed the security system? He almost
dropped the bottle as he reached for his gun. The weapon was
in his hand before the door had opened fully to reveal
Janette, who had a look of mock terror on her face, and had
her hands raised.
 
"Oh, please, Monsieur le detective, don't shoot me."
 
 
 
"Janette, don't do things like that. Damn." He put the gun
back in its holster and sat down on the sofa again. Janette
remained standing in the doorway.
 
"May I lower my hands now? I assure you that I'm no danger
to you."
 
Nick took a long drink from the bottle, then looked over at
her. "Do whatever you wish, Janette, as always."
 
"Aren't you happy to see me, Nicholah?" She lowered her
hands, picked up a bag that was near her feet, and moved
towards him.
 
"I'm ecstatic. Can't you tell?" He picked up the book and
tried to find his place. Janette stopped at the back of the
couch, reached down and removed the book from his hands,
replacing it with the bag.
 
"Open it."
 
He looked from the bag to her face, and back. "What is it?"
 
Janette smiled. "Open it and find out."
 
He hesitated, then opened the bag. Inside was a small
package wrapped in cloth and tied with a thin silk ribbon.
And a wine bottle. He removed the bottle and looked at the
label. "That's a very expensive year."
 
"I can afford it. And so could you, if only you were so
inclined." She glided to the kitchen, got two wine glasses,
and held them out as she sat on the other end of the couch.
"What are we celebrating?"
 
"Nothing in particular. The club was almost deserted, I was
bored, and I thought perhaps two old friends could enjoy a
talk and a bottle of wine." He didn't respond. She raised
the glasses, and said impatiently, "What are you waiting
for? Open it. Or don't you drink wine anymore, since you
became such a solid citizen?"
 
He didn't answer, but opened the bottle and poured the wine
into the glasses as she held them out to him. She watched
him as he stared into the depths of the dark red liquid. She
watched him, waiting for him to take a drink. He didn't. He
just kept staring into the glass. "It's wine, Nicholah. Just
wine. Nothing else--nothing that could contaminate you." She
 
 
stood and reached for his glass. As her hand closed over
his, he spoke softly.
 
"I was just remembering."
 
She drew her hand back and sat back down on the couch. "What
are you remembering?" She sipped the wine and waited for his
answer.
 
"Do you remember the year this wine was laid down?" When she
looked puzzled, he continued. "It was the year we were in
Mexico. Just the two of us, for ... how long was it? ...
before LaCroix showed up again." He drained his glass and
reached for the bottle.
 
"Eight months. We were together for eight months. Yes, I
remember. It was glorious. For a while." She finished her
wine and held her glass out for a refill. "Do you remember
the man who played the guitar while we danced in the
moonlight in the plaza?"
 
"And the bird outside our window singing us to sleep every
morning?" He filled her glass and his, and leaned back into
the cushions of the couch, turning the wineglass in his
hands. "Those white flowers that bloomed only at night ..."
He broke off and gulped down the contents of the glass. He
looked at Janette, and saw his own pain at those memories
reflected in her face. He put his glass down on the table,
moved closer to her, and touched her cheek. "I'm sorry, I
shouldn't have brought it up. I know how he hurt you."
 
"He hurt both of us. As he had done in the past, and would
still be doing if you hadn't killed him." She handed him her
glass. "I shouldn't have come here. This was not one of my
better ideas." She rose to leave, but Nick took her hand and
wouldn't release it.
 
"Don't go, please. Don't ... " He kissed her with a desire
that hadn't ceased in centuries, and she responded in equal
measure. He broke away to kiss her cheek, the hollow behind
her ear, and the softness of her neck. She shuddered, her
knees seemed to weaken, and his hands moved to her waist to
steady her, then to enfold her. She pulled away slightly,
and he looked into her eyes. He whispered "Oui?" She
answered by reaching for the neck of his shirt and ripping
downward, then put one finger on his chest and pushed him
backward onto the couch. In one fluid motion she was on top
of him. Her hands moved to the back of her head, but he
stopped her, and the dark softness of her hair flowed around 
her face as he removed the pins himself. He reached for her,
but she shook her head and just looked at him a moment. He
started to speak, but she put a finger to his lips to
silence him. Her hands moved over his face, touching the
faint circles under his eyes, the soft skin of his cheeks,
his mouth, as if she were learning him again. She traced
those same places with kisses as his fingers wove themselves
into her hair. And then the desire became hunger, and the
hunger became need, and they moved together without
conscious thought.
 
She wasn't there when he awoke. But the small package that
had been in her bag was on the coffee table, and when he
unwrapped it and opened the box, he found a white flower. It
was carved from white jade, and it was an exact replica of
the white flowers that bloomed only at night.