For I Have Sinned 
by Imajiru 
imajiru@mindspring.com
imajiru@unicorn-x.net


Be careful what you wish for...

--- I ---

He's dying.

He's dying, and it's all my fault.

I can still remember his face, when he stood in the 
daylight and stared into the light of the sun in utter 
fearlessness.  The joy, the rapture etched into his 
expression.  The laughter that bubbled forth, pure sound of 
delight, as he blinked the sun-dazzle from his newly mortal 
eyes, and swept me up into his arms.

And now, here he is, so still and pale -- paler than he 
ever was as a vampire, the pallor of true death creeping up 
to engulf him.

Oh, God, he was so *happy*.  Every moment was so 
incredible, so perfect. The party at Schanke's; barbecue 
sauce smeared across his face, and Don looking so 
triumphant because Nick couldn't get enough of his cooking. 
Watching the game with his buddies from work, devouring 
pretzels and beer and looking for all the world like 'just 
one of the guys'.  Spending the night with him at his 
place, not just sleeping over on the couch but *spending 
the night*, a reality so much sweeter than my fantasies had 
ever been -- and the long day we spent together afterwards, 
strolling through the park and being two ordinary people in 
love: a luxury we'd never had before.

Two days.  Two *stinking* days.

His first ever day-shift, pursuing an armed suspect.  
Schanke says that Nick never even tried to get out of the 
line of fire -- and why should he have, with eight hundred 
years of instincts to tell him that it was unnecessary?  
But his instincts were wrong, fatally wrong.

Three bullets, chewing up most of his insides as they 
ripped through him.

He hasn't regained consciousness since it happened, nor is 
he expected to. I watch the monitors, watch his face, 
knowing that it's just a matter of time.  Wishing that my 
cure hadn't been so damned effective.  Wishing I'd never 
found the cure at all.

If tears were a magic elixir, Nick would be just fine; I 
haven't stopped crying since I got the call.

Two days.  Eight hundred years of searching, in exchange 
for two days of mortality.  How could I have been so 
stupid?  How could I have been so blind?

How could I have failed to realize that letting Nick stroll 
blithely into work was a certain death sentence?  Anyone 
would have the sense to try to dodge a bullet -- anyone 
except an immortal.  Or a mortal who'd once been 
invulnerable.

This morning, we'd been lying in bed together, our naked 
bodies entwined with each other and tangled up in the 
sheets, and I'd wrapped my legs around his waist and urged 
him to call in sick and spend the day in bed with me. He'd 
been so eager to go, to work his first ever day shift -- 
but my offer had tempted him, I could tell.

I should have tempted him more.  Dammit, I should have 
chained him to the bed!  Instead, I cooked him breakfast 
and sent him off to work, never dreaming that it would be 
the last time -- the only time -- I'd ever do so.

It isn't fair.  It just isn't fair.

I hear a sound at the door, a rustle of inhuman movement, 
and I look up, knowing who it must be.  Who else would it 
be?  I'm just surprised he hasn't shown up before now.

His face is as severe and intimidating as I remember it, 
yet his expression banishes any trace of fear I might have 
felt.  It is the look of a man in agony, a parent watching 
his child die.  It is a reflection of my own pain, and all 
I can feel for him is empathy, and deep sorrow.

He barely glances at me, merely moves to Nick's other side 
and stares down at the too-pale face.  "He's dying," I hear 
myself say, although surely this man is all too aware of 
that.

"Your doing."  The words are barely audible, and there is 
fury in his tone.

I look up, meet his eyes: ice-blue laser beams, impaling 
me.  "Yes," I say, too filled with misery to entertain the 
thought of terror.  "Yes, it is."

And in a single moment, the meeting of eyes becomes a 
meeting of minds, and I know that he can see everything 
inside me, feel everything I feel. Unnerving, this intimacy 
with this venomous stranger, but I don't resist. He does, 
after all, have the right to know.

I did it for Nick, because I love him -- and I am so sorry 
I did it, so very, very sorry.

The hard stare softens, just a little.  "I can bring him 
back," he says, in a velvety-soft voice.

I am stunned.  But why not?  Nick was brought over once, 
from mortality to eternal life; why not again?

Because Nick wouldn't want it, that's why not.

But he's *dying*.  Not after a decade of humanity, not 
after a year or even a week.  After two days, *two days*...

The rhythm of the monitor falters, and my heart stops 
beating along with it.  He doesn't have long, now.

"Are you going to try to stop me?" the other inquires, so 
softly, so very politely.

I look at Nick.  Dear, sweet Nick, pale and bruised and 
dying.  Nick, who finally found his long-lost mortality -- 
more swiftly and cruelly than either of us could have 
imagined.

It isn't fair.  It just isn't fair.

My lips part, and I hear sound emerge.  "No."  //What have 
I said?  What have I done?//  Distant horror grips me, 
causes me to tremble fiercely.  But I cannot undo what I've 
said, what my treacherous heart has decided.  "Go ahead," I 
say, "do it."

He studies me, and the approval in his eyes fills me with 
self-loathing.  I have betrayed Nick, betrayed everything 
he believes in.

But this premature death is just as much a betrayal, and I 
cannot allow it.

"He need not know of your choice."  The compassion in the 
elder vampire's voice startles me, and I look up and see an 
unexpected warmth in the pale eyes.  "I have always been 
the villain of Nicholas' personal fairy tale," he says 
gently.  "I can bear the brunt of the storm for both of 
us."

"Thank you."  It is a generous offer, meant to spare me 
anguish, and possibly to spare Nick as well.  After years 
of Nick's bitter reminiscences, the gesture is a revelation 
-- I know that I will never see this man in the same light 
again.  "But he *must* know," I say simply.  "I can't deny 
him that."  He deserves the truth... and I'll face his 
wrath, his condemnation, if I must.

He may never forgive me for this, may never speak to me 
again, but at least I'll know that he's *alive*.

LaCroix nods once, and we share one last moment of silent 
understanding. Then the ice in his eyes turns to 
incandescent fire, and I see the sharp gleam of his 
emerging fangs.

I turn away as it is done; I cannot bear to watch.

When it's over, only the occasional flutter of the monitor 
betrays the fact that life lurks in his still form.  I 
reach out to touch his face, wondering if it's the last 
time I'll have the opportunity to do so.  "I'll handle it," 
I tell the vampire, now safely cloaked once more within his 
mortal guise of blue eyes and even white teeth.  "I've... 
done it before."

"I'll be in touch."  A strong hand clamps down on my 
shoulder, oddly reassuring.  I look up, and see his 
equanimity restored: the pain has vanished, for his child 
is his once more.

And in some strange way, there is a connection between 
LaCroix and me as well.  Our love for Nick has bound us 
together somehow.  I can feel the link, intangible but 
undeniable.

It's not something I particularly want to think about at 
the moment, though.

When LaCroix is gone, I go through the motions, requisition 
a driver and vehicle to get Nick's body back to the morgue, 
where it will be switched with another.  The tears flow 
quite convincingly.  Unlike the time with Richie, when it 
was all I could do to repress my joy that he lived, Nick's 
salvation brings me nothing but misery -- for I know that 
it isn't salvation at all, but damnation.

But I couldn't let him die, I just couldn't.  Two days... 
it just wasn't fair.

I love him so much... and he will hate me for it.

Forgive me, Nick.

--- II ---

 The funeral was dignified and solemn.  I think the whole 
Metro force was there; I don't remember any faces but 
Schanke's, expressionless but with tears streaming down his 
face the entire time.

I tried to tell Nick about it, but he just stares into 
space, refusing to acknowledge my presence.

From the moment he awoke in Janette's cellar, with LaCroix 
at his side and me hovering in the background, he knew what 
had happened.  Never said a word to me.  Just looked at me, 
stared at me with wounded eyes filled with disbelief -- 
then his expression hardened, and he turned away to 
silently accept the bottle LaCroix offered.

Ever since then, I've been invisible.

The others, Janette and LaCroix, he acknowledges with his 
eyes, although he speaks to no one.  But me... he will not 
look at me, will not take a bottle from my hand even if he 
is starving.  He's shut me out, completely.

My heart aches, but it doesn't matter.  I'd rather gaze at 
his sullen, resentful -- living -- face than remember the 
pale, still, almost-corpse in that hospital room.

Even though it is a life Nick despises.  Selfish of me, and 
I know it, and still I can't help how I feel.  So many 
people I love have died... but not Nick.  Not Nick.

He must relocate, of course.  And since his two days of 
mortality have left him as weak and powerless as any 
newborn fledgling, LaCroix will accompany him.  Nick seems 
to be accepting the necessity of this; at least, he barely 
flinched when LaCroix told him.

I won't be going with them.  I wish I could... but I have 
the feeling my presence would only make things worse.  And 
though LaCroix has promised to 'keep in touch' once they 
depart, he has most pointedly not invited me to go along.  
Why should he?  I'm only human, after all; I'd just be in 
the way.

I think Nick will be glad to see the last of me.

Only a few short days ago, his eyes were filled with love 
when they gazed into mine, and now I do not exist in his 
world.  I don't even try to penetrate the walls around him 
anymore, just sit quietly in the room with him and watch 
him, savor the sight of his living, breathing form, trying 
to memorize every detail against the awful emptiness that 
will haunt my life when he is gone.

They're leaving tonight, I think.

He will never forgive me.  I know that now.  And though it 
was a possibility I'd believed I was prepared for, I am now 
aware that the pain of his loathing will forever haunt me.

I realize now that, unfair as it was for his humanity to 
have lasted only two days, he would have preferred that 
cruel demise to the life he has now.

And I still can't bring myself to regret what I've done.  
He's alive, dammit, alive!

But I do hate myself for it.

Nick, I'm sorry.  I'm so, so sorry.

--- III ---

 LaCroix meets me at the airport in El Paso.  His immortal 
face has lost its imperturbable strength; he looks harrowed 
and weary.  The brief message he'd sent with the plane 
ticket gave me only a hint of his difficulty: his 
expression tells me much more.

"We must hurry," he says to me, escorting me through the 
terminal.  "I don't dare leave him unattended for long."

It has been a hard several months.  I go through the 
motions of work and life, dully, listlessly, without 
caring.  Schanke drops by frequently with his new partner, 
and every single time I find myself surprised all over 
again that Nick isn't with him.  Grace and the others keep 
their distance, sensing the invisible shroud of mourning I 
wear around me like a cloak.  My thoughts are always with 
Nick, always.

And I work the night shift, always.  I can't bear to see 
the sun anymore; it's just too damned painful.

LaCroix's driving is enough to make an Indy racecar driver 
nervous; fast and reckless, weaving around traffic with a 
lead foot on the accelerator. Yet I can understand his 
urgency.  "You said that he was... becoming unmanageable," 
I say at last, hesitant to disturb the driver's 
concentration whilst moving at over a hundred miles per 
hour.

"Unmanageable," LaCroix says grimly.  "He is a wild 
creature, Natalie. Left to his own devices, he kills 
indiscriminately, carelessly...  even I am having 
difficulty controlling him.  It is my hope that seeing you 
again will bring him to his senses."

//Or drive him right over the edge,// I think, but do not 
have the courage to say.

Their residence is an underground chamber hidden in an 
inhospitable stretch of desert.  I am taken through lengths 
of twisty corridors, and through several heavy doors locked 
with mammoth steel bars.  "Is all this really necessary?" I 
query.

"It is," says LaCroix.

My first glimpse of Nick is a shock that shudders all 
through me, jarring me to the roots of my hair and the tips 
of my toes.  LaCroix has confined him in a cell, walled in 
with thick bars that even a vampire would have trouble 
breaking -- but Nick has tried, that much is evident by the 
twisted metal and many repairs.  As I enter the room, he is 
clawing at the bars, throwing himself at them.  His hair is 
long and matted, and his eyes are bright with bloodfever; 
his clothes are rags.  He looks more like an animal than a 
man, and it hurts me to see him this way.

From the moment I enter, his attention is fixed on me.  
"You," he seethes, his voice a hoarse growl.  "You did this 
to me."

"Nick," I hear myself moan.

His eyes fasten on LaCroix.  "Give her to me!" he demands.  
"I want vengeance!  I want her blood!"

"Nicholas..."  To my ears, LaCroix's voice sounds shaken.  
"Don't you remember your mortal love?" he says, and it 
seems as if he's pleading.

"Love?"  Nick laughs, and the sound is frightening, 
appalling.  "You betrayed me," he growls at me.  "You made 
me into a monster again!"

//Not true!// I want to cry out.  //LaCroix would have 
brought you back over even if I'd tried to stop him...//

But I *hadn't* tried, that was the thing.

"Is this what you wanted?"  His voice was softer, though 
still hoarse -- his tone was an eerie perversion of his old 
gentleness toward me, and it cut into me like a blade.  
"I'm a killer, now," he hissed at me.  "What else is there 
for me?"

"Civilized behavior!" LaCroix spoke up urgently.  "What 
about your treasured humanity?"

"*She* showed me just what that was really worth."  His 
eyes focused on me again, and there was no fondness there, 
no affection, nothing but searing fury and raging hunger.  
"Come to me," he says, in a low intense voice. "Come..."

His attempt to hypnotize me slides away, as always, but my 
guilt is so severe and so agonizing that I actually begin 
to respond, taking one step toward the barred cell and then 
another.

"No!"  LaCroix lashes out, sweeps me aside with a harsh 
movement of his arm.  "What's happened to you?!"  No 
pretense now: he is openly pleading, desperate.  "Have you 
lost all reason?  Nicholas..."

"*I want her blood!*"  His hands clench against the bars, 
rattling them; there is a creaking sound, as they begin to 
come loose from their anchoring.

"Get out of here, Natalie!" LaCroix shouts, and I scuttle 
from the room, with only one last glance back to see him 
struggling to restrain Nick before he can escape.

       I go into the tiny room beyond, fall onto the small 
threadbare couch, curl up into a tight ball and burst into 
tears.

After hours of raging, Nick is finally quiet.  LaCroix has 
been in and out of the cell room several times, every time 
bearing some new wound that Nick has inflicted; he brings 
bottle after bottle of human blood to his charge, and still 
Nick demands more.

The last time, I cleaned and treated LaCroix's wounds, not 
because he needed the medical attention, but because it was 
some small thing that I could do -- and LaCroix seemed to 
welcome the care.  He looks truly awful, fatigued beyond 
mere human weariness, worn down to a thread from the 
constant stress.

"I don't know what to do," he said bleakly, just before 
settling into a deep slumber on the cot at the other end of 
our small room.

There is a two-way glass, and I stand just to one side, 
taking no chances that Nick might sense me and become 
violent again.  He is sleeping as well, sprawled out on the 
floor haphazardly.  When he was Nick Knight, I'd often 
watched him sleep, treasuring the gentle innocence I would 
find on his face -- now, his slumber is the restless doze 
of a jungle cat, twitching in sleep with desire for his 
prey.

His eyes open and he sits up, staring directly at me, 
seeing me through the mirrored glass.

"Natalie," he says, and his voice is calm.  "Nat, come 
here."

I hesitate, for only an instant -- but it is the closest 
he's come to sanity since my arrival, and I can't refuse 
his summons.

The door closes behind me, leaving only the metal bars 
separating me from Nick.  Fear surges through me; Nick 
Knight would never have hurt me, but this isn't *that* Nick 
anymore, and I am deeply afraid.

"Nick?" I say softly, praying that the return of sanity is 
permanent.

His eyes are blue again, human-blue.  "It's good to see you 
again," he says, very sincerely, and the breath leaves my 
chest in a long sigh.

"Oh, Nick," I moan, and come to stand beside the bars.  I 
don't dare reach out to him, but I am close enough for him 
to reach if he wants, close enough for him to grab me 
through the bars and snap my neck... but Nick doesn't; 
merely edges a little closer to me, gazing at me warmly.

"Everything happened so quickly... I guess I just lost it 
for a while," he confesses.  "I'm so sorry, Nat."

"Nick... it's all right.  Everything's all right."  I'm 
virtually delirious with relief; it's *my* Nick again, my 
nearly-human Nick, the man I love.

"Come here," he urges, "come here, Nat," and I don't even 
consider refusing, nearly stumbling in my haste to unlock 
the door.

I step into the cell and into his embrace; his arms close 
around me, and for a few heavenly seconds I'm being held in 
his strength, enfolded in his love, in the comfort of his 
forgiveness.

Then his arms tighten, painfully, and I look up, into his 
eyes...

They are silver-gold, hazed over with bright lust, and the 
madness, oh dear Lord, the madness is back in his face.  It 
was all a ruse, nothing more; my heart turns to lead and 
sinks to the ground.

"Nick," I whisper, still not quite believing.

"*Now I've got you,*" he growls triumphantly, a hot snarl 
of vicious vengeance.

"Nick, please, no..."  But why am I pleading?  It is, after 
all, no more than I deserve.

"You gave me back this curse.  Revived the beast in me."  
Every word gouges out another piece of my soul.  "Now you 
will feed its hunger."

"No..." I beg him, but to no avail.

He lets out a howl, a sound that chills me all through, and 
the feel of his fangs sinking into my neck is a sharp flame 
of agony that sets me ablaze with pain.  In the far 
distance, I hear a cry, LaCroix's protest, but it is too 
late, far too late.

I descend into the darkness, knowing that my life is being 
extinguished to feed Nick's dark desires, knowing too that 
it is the price I must pay for my intervention.  My love 
had been his damnation; now my death would be his triumph 
over that betrayal.

I slide into nothingness with Nick's name on my lips, 
singing a haunting dirge in my mind.

 --- IV ---

 Consciousness brings with it a dull ache in my midsection, 
and a rasping noise.  Someone is crying, sobbing 
helplessly, the plaintive sound of a child in pain.

I open my eyes, and find Nick by my side.

His arms are wrapped around me, cradling me tenderly.  His 
hair is combed, and his clothes are relatively clean and 
fresh.  His eyes... his eyes are bloodshot, red and 
swollen, streaming pink-tinged tears.  He looks as if he's 
been crying for so long that he's forgotten how to stop.

Those eyes meet mine, and along with the tears I see his 
pain, and his guilt.  "Nat," he manages hoarsely, through 
the shuddering sobs.  "Nat, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

In that instant, I know what has happened.  I can feel it 
in me: what Nick started, what LaCroix finished -- what I 
have become.  The hunger gnaws inside me, demanding 
sustenance.

But that doesn't matter.  None of it matters.  Nick is 
beside me, holding me -- not the demented creature ravaged 
by hatred and hunger, but *my Nick* -- and nothing matters 
but that.

I reach out and slide my arms around him, pull him even 
closer with brand-new strength; his face, watching me 
anxiously, crumples into an expression of sheer relief, and 
he crushes me against him and sobs into my shoulder.

So good to hold him again.  So damn good to be together.

My fangs are piercing his neck almost before I'm aware of 
what I'm doing. Reflexive reaction, instinctive -- the 
hunger inside me is fierce, and Nick *smells* good, 
appealing to senses I've never had before.  Realization 
almost makes me pull back, but there is no denying the 
hunger, or the desire; and Nick doesn't struggle, doesn't 
resist, just tilts his head a little further sideways to 
give me better access to the vein.

Maybe he figures, turnabout's fair play.

Feeding becomes lovemaking, then feeding again; later, I 
have no recollection of removing my clothes or his, but 
there they are, shredded tufts of fabric adorning the bed 
and the floor.  So intense, so electric -- more so than our 
brief interlude of mortal love had been -- but there is 
something missing, a sweetness and innocence, that we will 
never again share.

But what we *will* share, now, is eternity.

There are worse fates, surely.

A hand tugs the thin sheet more securely over my bare 
shoulder, moves to cover Nick as well, before placing a 
familiar-looking bottle on the table beside the bed.  
"Intimacy is a wonderful thing," says the familiar voice 
lightly, indulgently, "but my children need proper 
nutrition as well."

"Thank you," I say tentatively, trying out the unfamiliar 
word on my tongue, "father," and LaCroix smiles and goes 
back to his task: packing up the few belongings we will be 
taking with us when we go.  There is no need for us to 
remain in this dismal isolation cell, not any longer.

Nicholas is back with us; I can sense the pattern of his 
thoughts as he sleeps.  Smooth, untroubled, steadied by 
calm reason.  The guilt is there, oh yes, the guilt and the 
pain endures -- will be worse now than ever, when he 
awakens from his slumber and realizes anew what his 
vengeance has done to me -- but it is guilt balanced by 
sanity, and that's good enough.

The way I see it, there's a curious symmetry to all of 
this.  My cure gave Nick his fondest dream, and his worst 
nightmare; and now it's come full circle, now I am the one 
to suffer.  Will it be suffering?  I don't know. At the 
moment, I am blissfully happy, lying here curled up with 
Nick, who is alive and rational once more.  A year from 
now, a decade, a century?  I don't know.  None of us knows 
what will come to pass.  Perhaps this is damnation, and I 
just don't have the sense to realize it yet.

But right now, I'm happy.  And that's good enough.

It *has* to be.  What other choice do any of us have?   

--- V ---

The winter nights are long, just the way I like them.  
Cold, but that doesn't matter anymore.  The letter I just 
got from Schanke bemoans the icy Toronto deep-freeze -- and 
sports pictures of Jennie, so grown-up now that I can 
hardly believe it.  Nick swiped one of the photos from me; 
he keeps it in his wallet, along with the print Schanke 
gave me of that barbecue, of the short time we were mortal 
together.

We own a little shop, a used record store and coffee bar 
where young mortals gather to hang out in the evenings.  
Our jobs there are nice and safe and boring.  No contact 
with crime and death, no tantalization of spilled blood to 
torment our fledgling hunger; the scent of our human 
customers is hard enough to bear.  Sometimes I have to lock 
myself into the office until the urge to sink my teeth into 
some tender young neck fades away.

Nick is having a harder time of it than me: he's used to 
being able to control his hunger, and is dismayed that he 
doesn't have that same strength anymore.

LaCroix does a nightly radio show on a Boston station, 
comes by the shop every night afterwards.  Nick was 
nervous, at first, about what our life would be like, but 
in fact it's been going very smoothly.  LaCroix has been 
gentle, solicitous, allowing us to make our own decisions; 
he procures the bottled human blood that our newborn 
vampire bodies require, without urging us into the violence 
we both abhor.  It's as if his near-loss of Nick (twice) 
has given him a new perspective, and a new patience.  Nick 
doesn't like to talk about it, but I have eyes: I see the 
way his face brightens when LaCroix walks in, the way the 
rest of the room is left waiting while LaCroix's personal 
coffee mug is filled from the flask kept for our 'special' 
customers.  The sparkle that lights up his entire being on 
the nights when an impromptu 'jam session' occurs, violin 
and piano blending into sweet rapture as the mortals sit 
spellbound, watching Nick and LaCroix play.  We are, for 
the moment at least, a happy family.

Janette visited last month, just for a night; she and Nick 
disappeared into the back room and didn't emerge until 
nearly sunrise.  I didn't say a word, and I didn't ask 
about it afterwards.  The fact that LaCroix didn't go to 
work that night, so that he could keep me company during 
their absence -- and the fact that Nick couldn't meet my 
eyes when it was over -- tells me more than I really want 
to know.

There are facts of our existence that I still haven't grown 
accustomed to.

Yesterday, there was an auto accident, right outside our 
shop.  Old instincts aroused, I ran outside to help -- and 
was a hairsbreadth from drinking the blood of the young 
woman I'd been trying to save, when Nick stopped me.  His 
own hunger was fierce, glowing in his eyes; only his iron 
will kept him from succumbing to the same desire that had 
consumed me. "Come inside, Natalie," he said to me softly, 
compassionately.  "There's nothing you can do here."

And I went inside with him, my heart aching for the doctor 
I'd once been, the Hippocratic Oath that was now 
meaningless beside the shattering strength of my vampiric 
hunger.

Sometimes I see him looking at the uniformed police 
officers we occasionally happen across, yearning written 
plainly across his face.  But it will be centuries before 
he has that sort of strength again, the control needed to 
function in that world once more.  Knowing as I do now the 
intensity of our bodies' demands, I have trouble believing 
that Nick ever managed to resist -- and a deep respect and 
admiration, that he fought that battle and won, so many 
times.Schanke still talks about Nick in his letters.  About 
how he misses his partner and friend, about what a good cop 
Nick was.  Speculating on the life Nick would have had: 
would he and I have been married, with a family? Grieving 
for his own loss, and for mine.  And every time I read one 
of those letters, I cry -- hot blood-tears of mourning, for 
those two days that should have been an eternity.

Nick locks himself into his room, sometimes, to read 
Schanke's old letters to me, and when he comes out, his 
eyes look as awful as mine.

LaCroix tells us often that this is a fact of vampiric 
life, that we must learn to leave our previous lifetimes 
behind us -- but there is no rancor in him; he realizes, I 
think, just how impossible that is.  After all, none of 
this should have happened.  If I hadn't found the cure, 
Nick wouldn't have had to die and be reborn at a fraction 
of his old strength; he could have easily spent another 
decade in Toronto, savoring the existence he'd built there.  
Instead, that comforting pseudo-mortal reality was stripped 
from him -- and from me.

We have each other, Nick and I, but not much else.

Tonight, after we close the shop, we're going sledding.  
LaCroix, on one of his late-night hunts, has found this 
steep, steep hill that no mortal dares attempt; I've bought 
one of those plastic frisbee-type things guaranteed to 
slide like wildfire down any reasonably slippery slope, and 
the two of us are planning to drag Nick with us no matter 
how hard he resists.  He's prone to fits of melancholy, as 
always, and worse now than ever, but sometimes, if we do it 
just right, we can lighten his mood.  Like the time we all 
went ice-skating on the pond.  Like the Guns & Roses 
concert last summer in the park.  Like when we 'kidnapped' 
him to Mardi Gras in New Orleans last year.

Let me tell you, trying to keep Nick from slipping into 
despair is a full-time job, even for immortals.

But so far, it's working.  So far, we're keeping our lives, 
and Nick, relatively intact.  LaCroix and I -- never 
thought that we'd be working together this way, nor that 
we'd make such a good team.

Nor that I'd find so much comfort in his presence, in 
knowing that he'll always be there, looking out for us -- 
for me.

It's not what I imagined, being a vampire.  There is less 
violence in it (mostly because of Nick's attitudes, and 
LaCroix's unwillingness to push his so-fragile child into 
changing them), less glamour, and less danger.  In fact, 
the worst peril we face is that of boredom.  Hence the 
sledding expedition tonight -- and our adoption of the 
puppy that stumbled into the alley behind the shop during 
the last storm.  He isn't yet housebroken, and he slobbers 
and drools all over everything, and wakes us up from our 
daily slumber with big slurpy dog kisses -- but for all 
that Nick gripes about the barking and the puddles on the 
floor, he loves that dog; which is why LaCroix didn't 
throttle the pup when he discovered it teething on his 
violin.

Nick has named the dog after ol' Donny, and every time I 
hear, 'Fetch the donut, Schanke!' I burst into laughter.

A night of tobogganing and snowball fights won't erase his 
guilt and pain, nor my own.  A playtime session with an 
unruly mongrel pup won't change the dark realities of our 
world -- but these things bring light, and any light is 
unutterably precious to beings who exist in eternal night.

Keeps us going for another day, another week; helps us face 
the impending decade with something like equanimity.

And maybe someday, I'll have the heart, and the courage, to 
seek another cure -- for the last remedy won't work, now; 
the drugs that brought remission to Nick's eight-hundred-
year-old vampiric body would destroy our young and fragile 
forms.  Besides... after the disaster that occurred last 
time, neither of us is ready to contemplate throwing 
ourselves headlong into another fiasco.  Humanity will have 
to wait, at least for a while.

For now, we have each other.  Not much else -- but we do 
have each other.  Damnation?  Perhaps.

But if I can coax a smile onto Nick's face, just for a 
moment, if I can even briefly hear the sweet sound of his 
merry laughter... that's my salvation.

I made a mistake; I can't change that.

But isn't there always a chance for redemption?

Love.  A curse... and a promise, for the centuries to come.

I just hope that we can endure.

--- end ---

=================================

"Love You To Death" the sequel to "For I Have Sinned"  by 
Imajiru July 6, 1995

Be careful what you wish for, part two...

Children.  How does one cope?  They insist on making their 
own mistakes, no matter how hard one might try to guide 
them, no matter how one struggles to be patient with their 
mishaps.

My poor Natalie.  I did try to warn her, but of course she 
wouldn't listen -- and now I heroically refrain from 
reminding her of that fact, as she sits in the window seat 
and stares out at the velvet night, waiting for Nicholas to 
return.

If he returns.  Of late, he has been given to spending the 
days with his new mortal 'friend'.

She is all of twenty-two years old, with hair lacquered 
metallic crimson in the current fashion trend.  There are 
holes pierced through her earlobes and her nose and her 
eyebrows and her navel and the webs between her fingers.   
A tattooed dragon curves over her shoulder, its tail 
encircling her breast; she is not shy about exposing any 
part of this tattoo, or the surrounding anatomy.  She has a 
fondness for mixing plaids with floral prints, and wearing 
as little clothing as possible.

The first time I glimpsed this creature, I thought I might 
actually die laughing.

Natalie, however, is not amused.  When Nicholas came home 
sporting a gold metallic streak in his long hair, they came 
to blows for the first time in fifty-four years.  The look 
on his face when she threw him across the room was utterly 
priceless: Nicholas has never fully assimilated the fact 
that his precious Natalie is now as powerful as he is.  
Touching, that he hesitated to respond in kind -- my 
Nicholas, ever the knight.

But he will not give up the mortal girl for Natalie's sake, 
and I am tempted to discipline him severely for that.

Blind as ever while in the grip of his selfish desires, he 
does not see her grief, her anguish.  He doesn't realize 
how she suffers, struggling with the knowledge that her 
beloved has found another.  Self-righteously, he claims 
that it is neither infatuation nor romance...  but anyone 
with eyes can see the truth.

Especially a woman who once stood in that mortal girl's 
place.

"I'm Janette," she said to me this evening, just after 
Nicholas departed in a huff after another of their 
arguments.  "I'm Janette, mark two.  Yesterday's news."

She looked so forlorn that I embraced her, and she clung to 
me for quite a while, seeking comfort.

Nicholas' welfare was reason enough for me to bring Natalie 
over, for I knew that he would never forgive himself if she 
died.  After centuries of his venom, I had expected more of 
the same from his protege, and resigned myself to a long 
and tedious battle.

Instead...  Natalie became my daughter.

Unsurprising in retrospect, for the incidents resulting in 
her birth to darkness disturbed her far more than she 
allowed herself to acknowledge.  She could not turn to 
Nicholas for support, for he had been shattered by those 
same events and was only beginning to recover; I suppose 
she had no option other than to turn to me.

In our struggle to keep Nicholas reasonably sane, we had no 
choice but to turn to each other.

After fifty-four years of her devotion, he has now rewarded 
her with betrayal.  Ah, Nicholas; for all your high-minded 
ideals, your feet of clay have tripped you up once more.

I cross the room to my Natalie, and let my hand glide 
across her soft curls.  Such a lovely texture to her hair.  
"And will you wait here until he returns?" I ask her.  "It 
may be quite a long wait."

"What else can I do?" There are tears in her voice, tears 
in her eyes.   I wipe the droplets away before they can 
spill from her cheeks and stain her snowy white blouse.

"Nicholas is a fool," I tell her, not for the first time.  
In fact, over the past fifty-four years, it is the main 
piece of advice I have conveyed to her.  "You must not 
allow your existence to revolve around his; you will only 
destroy yourself if you try." How many times did I urge 
Janette to persevere, to pursue him, in the hopes that her 
success would keep him tamed?  If my Janette hadn't 
possessed such formidable strength of will, she would 
surely have been devastated by the battles that ensued.  
No, far better for Natalie to find her own path.

"What else can I do?" she repeats bleakly.  "Lucien, I'm 
losing him, and I just can't bear it..."

She leans into me, and I hold her.  It is a strange 
sensation.  I never encouraged such physical expression 
from Janette; with her background, it was better that our 
relationship contain a certain...  distance.  But Natalie 
is a very different person, weaker in her own way and yet 
stronger in others.  She does not -- necessarily -- equate 
physical contact with sexual desire, a remarkably 
refreshing attribute.

As I stroke her silken hair, an idea occurs to me, a 
startlingly attractive option.  I have always refrained 
from extending the invitation, out of respect for Nicholas 
-- but that reason no longer obtains.

"Hunt with me," I say.

A tremor races through her slim form.  "I..."

"You need not join me, if you wish to abstain," I 
elaborate.  "Simply...  accompany me on the hunt." Knowing 
perfectly well that no fledgling of her tender years is 
capable of witnessing the kill, scenting the blood, without 
responding to the lure.

It is obvious from her face that she has considered this 
before.  In over half a century, Natalie has never killed, 
never sampled blood fresh from the source.  I have 
respected their wishes in the matter, and kept my own 
routine separate from their existence -- but I have always 
felt saddened that my beautiful young daughter has never 
known the savage ecstasy of the chase, the sweet thrill of 
living blood.

I have waited half a century, for just such a chance as 
this.

"Come with me," I coax her, with all the gentleness I 
possess.  The very thought of taking my child on her first 
hunt is unbearably alluring, but I restrain the response as 
best I can.  "Natalie..."

It only takes her a moment to decide.  A flash of rebellion 
in her lovely eyes, a determined twist of her lips.  
Without a word, she rises, and I escort her to the door.

We take flight from the backyard, under cover of darkness, 
and depart our comfortable suburb for the fringes of the 
city.

-------

He is a large man, burly and strong, with a rough voice to 
match his profane language.  His thoughts are filled with 
venom, picturing the girlfriend who left him for a kinder 
man; he fingers the knife under his mattress and makes his 
final plans for her murder, savoring the thought of her 
lifeless form bleeding on her new beau's carpet.

Natalie stares into the bedroom window with loathing in her 
eyes, hatred for this insect of a human whose only purpose 
is to create suffering.  I am pleased; it seems that I've 
chosen well.  Perhaps his evil will counter her eventual 
guilt at what is to come.

I lure him outside with a telepathic suggestion, and he 
comes around the side of the ramshackle building with knife 
in hand, ready to lunge.  It is a simple task to subdue him 
-- but instead I toy with him a bit, keeping most of my 
strength at bay, evading his slashes and goading him on, 
while Natalie watches intently from the bushes.

Finally, when my desire is almost unendurable, I strike, 
succumbing at last to my own hunger.  The feeling of his 
hot blood rushing into my mouth is overwhelming, but 
somehow I manage to keep a part of my attention fixed on 
the real world, on my fledgling child.

She restrains herself far beyond what I would have imagined 
possible, until her hunger is an agony within her...  then, 
in the space of a human heartbeat, she is beside me, 
kneeling at the monster's other side.  I've been careful, 
saved her a full measure; curiosity triumphs over 
bloodlust, and I draw back to watch as my Natalie sinks her 
fangs into human flesh for  the first time.

Her face is transcendent, filled with rapture, as the 
sensation floods through her.  The innocence is broken -- 
for now she knows, firsthand, our great secret: there is 
nothing as perfectly exquisite as the kill, nothing that 
remotely approaches this ecstasy.

Not even the passion she shares with Nicholas can outdo 
this feeling.

When she is done, the body sags from her arms; I catch it, 
snap the neck quickly.  Tonight, I will dispose of the 
kill, most likely in the deepest part of the river -- 
eventually, Natalie will have to learn to handle such 
things herself.  But there is no reason for my daughter to 
have to face that unpleasantness tonight.

She is dazed, reeling, and I help her to her feet.  
"Ahhh...  I never knew," she moans softly.  "I never 
*knew*...  but I killed him.  I killed him.   Oh, God, how 
could I kill him?"

Talk of gods invariably puts me in a foul mood, but I 
maintain my composure.  "He was vermin, Natalie," I remind 
her gently.  "His death will prevent the deaths of others."

"That doesn't make it right..."

Right and wrong, heaven and hell: how tiresome.  Yet I must 
somehow summon up sympathy for my daughter's suffering, 
though truthfully I simply don't understand it.  "It makes 
it better," I tell her, thinking that it sounds like 
something Nicholas might say.

Of course, Nicholas will never forgive me for this; will 
never realize that Natalie's 'fall from grace' was 
inevitable.  Will never appreciate the fact that her first 
victim was carefully chosen for his evil, and for the 
relative safety of the encounter.  The uneasy truce that my 
son and I have maintained for the last fifty-four years 
will be irrevocably shattered, once he learns of this.

Ah, well.  My congenial relationship with Nicholas was 
becoming boring, in any case.

"Natalie," I say, capturing her face in my hands and once 
more wiping away her tears with my fingertips -- a deeper 
crimson tone, now -- "you are a vampire.  I have sheltered 
you, protected you, made certain that you were provided for 
in every way..."

"You have," she interrupts, and the look of fondness in her 
eyes is unaccountably warming.

"But you *must* be capable of attending to your own needs," 
I continue.   "Should we ever be parted, you must be able 
to feed and protect yourself.  You must be able to survive.  
I have no intention of losing any of my children!" 
Interesting: until the words crossed my lips, I had no idea 
I felt so strongly about the issue.  Or at least, about 
Natalie.

"Nick..."

"Would take care of you, yes -- unless he is otherwise 
occupied, as he is now.  Or are you worried about his 
disapproval?" More tears to be stroked away from her 
velvet-soft cheeks.  "Remember, my dear, that he hunted 
among the mortal flock for hundreds of years, with neither 
guilt nor remorse.   Whatever *enlightenment* he claims to 
have found does not reverse that fact."

The guilt in her face becomes thoughtfulness, as she 
considers.

"You must be self-sufficient," I reiterate.  "I will not 
cripple you by allowing any less, regardless of his beliefs 
or your own.  Once I am certain that you have the ability 
to hunt and kill successfully, you may make whatever 
decision you choose -- but until that time, I will teach 
you what you must know, and you will follow my 
instructions.  Oui, ma chere?" French endearments, old 
habit; Natalie doesn't speak the tongue, but has fifty-four 
years of experience in deciphering the basics.

She isn't happy about it, but she accepts the necessity.  
"Oui, papa," she murmurs reluctantly.

And is that the barest twinkle of eagerness lurking in the 
depths of her steady gaze?

We make our way back to the house, detouring briefly to 
dispose of the dead weight in my arms; and there is a smile 
on Natalie's face as she soars through the clouds by my 
side.

-------

It is nearly dawn when Nicholas arrives; he is smoldering 
underneath his heavy coat.  His own fault, for wearing 
flimsy metallic fabrics instead of something sensible like 
leather.  His own fault, for a great many reasons.

He has the good grace to look sheepish as he glances toward 
me.  "Not now," he mutters, "please, not now."

A century or two ago, I might have knocked him around a bit 
for such insolence, simply as a matter of principle.  My 
mood is sufficiently dark that I am tempted to do it anyway 
-- but I can feel his hunger, emanating from him in a great 
wave, and it seems only sensible to leave him be for the 
moment.

Nicholas heads straight for the storage unit, snatches two 
full bottles from the top shelf, pops the vacuum seal on 
the first one and tilts it to his lips, drains it in one 
long draught, without pause.  Drains the second bottle the 
same way, and reaches for a third.  Studying him closely, I 
note the dark circles around his eyes, and the desperation 
within him.  Oh, yes, he's torturing himself again.  Fallen 
in *love*?  Most likely.

Ah, Natalie, I underestimated you so badly at first; you 
have a strength I never thought to find in another.  
Whatever made you choose Nicholas, poor specimen that he 
is?  Did his immortal weakness so enchant you that you were 
blinded to his flaws?

I, of course, am rather fond of Nicholas' flaws.  I find 
them to be the most intriguing part of his psychology.The 
third flask goes into the disposal, and he reaches...  
"Really, Nicholas," I say.  "Four?"

"Leave me alone," he mumbles, but there is no conviction in 
his voice.   "I need it."

"Was your evening truly so...  frustrating?"

A short laugh issues forth from his throat, an 
extraordinarily bitter sound.  "Frustrating?" he echoes.  
"Try *torturous*."

"Then why do you torture yourself?"

He is taken aback.  "I..." Shakes his head, tries again.  
"It's..."  Stops short, and slowly, ever so slowly, his 
eyes widen and darken in realization.

"Oh, God," he moans, and the sound of it is so piteous that 
I feel a moment of empathy.  "Nat's right, isn't she?  
She's known from the very beginning."

"We have both known," I remind him.  "And she has suffered, 
Nicholas.   She has watched you entwine yourself more and 
more deeply with this...  this..."

"Cinnamon," he supplies.  "Cinna."

Ridiculous name.  "What are your intentions with this 
mortal?"

"I..." He sighs.  "I don't know."

"Do you *love* her?"

"I-I don't know."

"But you intend to continue to see her, even though you 
find it *torturous*."

"I..."

"And regardless of how much pain you are causing your 
*beloved* Natalie?"

"Stop it! Leave me alone!"

He snatches up flasks number four and five and tries to 
evade me, get past me to the relative privacy of his room.  
I intercept him.  "You have no right," I tell him sharply.  
"You owe her more than that."

"I don't owe her my life! Nor...  my heart." His eyes cloud 
over, troubled.

"Don't you?" I am not concerned with Nicholas' personal 
torment at the moment; his attitude is infuriating.  "I 
think you owe her exactly that, and much more.  Certainly, 
you owe her more than fifty-four years."

"Fifty-seven," he mumbles.  "We had three years before...  
before..."  Even now, he can barely bring himself to 
discuss Natalie's 'birth'.

"In those three years, did you give her anything of lasting 
worth?"

The clouds in his eyes turn a darker grey.

"What have you truly done for Natalie, other than betray 
her?"

"I'm not..." His voice trails off.  "I have, haven't I?  
I've betrayed her, just as you said."

I do not say a word.  I don't have to.  For a change, 
Nicholas is thinking almost clearly.

"What have I done?" he whispers, and buries his face in his 
hands.

Ah, but I have no patience left for his self-pity.  "You 
have made a mistake," I tell him, "and if you have any 
sense, you'll rectify the situation at once," and depart, 
heading for my own room and a badly-needed day's rest.

-------

The soundproofing of our home is adequate, but there is no 
effective insulation against the intimacy of our family 
bonds.  They are both my children, and their argument is as 
clear to me as if I were in the room.

A shame, really; I am terribly tired, and long to sleep.

"How could you?" Nicholas' voice is anguished and self-
righteous at once.  "Nat, how could you?" Then, pure fury.  
"LaCroix.  This is his doing! I'll..."

"It was my decision," Natalie interrupts.  "My choice, not 
his.  I've...  I've been thinking about it for a while."

Dearest Natalie, my youngest child, the one who was a mere 
afterthought, is perhaps the most loyal offspring I've ever 
spawned.  Her instinctive defense of me touches a part of 
my soul I'd thought withered away long ago.

"Thinking," she continues, "wondering.  Wanting to know...  
what it's like."

 "What it's like?" His tone is incredulous.  "It's like 
*killing*, Nat.   It's like *murder*."

"It's, like, survival," she shoots back.  "Bottled human 
blood is a luxury, Nick! We can't manage without it -- and 
what happens if someday I don't have access to prepackaged 
food, and neither of you is available to take care of me?  
Do you want me to *starve*, until I'm so desperate I start 
killing people at random?  Or should I maybe be able to 
choose my own victim, someone less innocent and more worthy 
of death?"

"More worthy of death?" Nicholas cannot believe his ears, 
it seems.   "Nat...  listen to yourself! What are you 
*saying*?"

She sighs.  "I'm saying," she murmurs, "that I think it's 
time we both faced the facts.  I'm a vampire, Nick.  I 
require blood.  And I have to be able to obtain it for 
myself safely, if the need arises.  I...  we can't hide 
from the truth forever." Her voice strengthens.  "I've 
asked Lucien to teach me what I need to know." An outright 
lie, and Nicholas never suspects.

And how easily, how naturally she has covered my 
involvement in the matter, protecting me with casual ease 
from my son's wrath.

This child, a mere afterthought...  what a rare and 
precious jewel she is.  I find within myself a fierce 
determination, to guard her safety with the same 
steadfastness.

And to do whatever might be necessary to ensure that 
Nicholas does not cause her further pain.

I just wish they would continue their argument at another 
time, and let me sleep.

"I'm sleeping in the den," Nicholas says.

"Fine with me," Natalie answers stonily.

He storms out of the bedroom, slams the door with a force 
that echoes throughout the house, soundproofing or no.

When the turmoil of pain and anger and fear that is 
Nicholas' mind has retreated to the other end of the house, 
I drag myself from my comfortable bed (the pillow is 
beckoning to me with all the allure of fresh blood on a 
cold night, but somehow I resist) and seek out my youngest 
child.  She's crying, the tears that she would not allow 
Nicholas to see.  I seat myself on the edge of the bed, and 
stroke her hair the way a mortal might stroke a cat.

"I thought you were asleep," she mumbles through her tears.

"Who can sleep, with all this racket?" Half a century ago, 
it was difficult for me to feign the compassion required to 
deal with Natalie effectively.  Now, the pretense has 
become second nature -- or else I have genuinely begun to 
develop the attribute.  Which would be damned inconvenient.   
"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine.  Or at least...  I will be." She sits up, makes 
a brave attempt to hold back her sobs.  "This is 'way 
overdue."

"Is it?"

"Oh, yes." A sideways glance at me.  "And don't play 
innocent with me; you know it as well as I do."

I cannot repress my grin.  My Natalie is perceptive; 
moreover, she dares to be honest with herself about her 
perceptions.  A formidable challenge to Nicholas' stubborn 
denial.

It *will* be a delight, to watch these two struggle with 
each other through the centuries.

"I knew he'd find another me," says my daughter -- her 
voice is bleak, but steady.  "I knew he'd fall in love with 
another mortal woman.  I hoped it wouldn't happen, but...  
I knew it would." A bitter laugh.  "He's *Nick*.  How could 
it not?"

I slide my arm around her back, and she rests her head 
against my shoulder.  "And I knew, right from the 
beginning, that eventually I would...  you know."

"What?" I ask her.  This is not the time for her to be 
taking refuge in euphemism.

She seems to realize what I'm doing.  "Kill," she says 
clearly.  "I knew that someday I would kill -- and that 
Nick would never forgive me for it."

"It's himself he can't forgive," I remind her.

"Yes, I know," she says wearily, "but he blames me, too.  
He wanted me to remain...  innocent, untouched.  As close 
as possible to the mortal woman I used to be.  And what 
that represented to him."

A sign of her intelligence, that she recognizes the truth 
that Nicholas refuses to admit.  And an immense cruelty, 
that she should be forced to face it in this manner.

Oh, I *have* to do something about this.

"But I can't help thinking," Natalie continues, "now that 
I'm just another vampire..." The tears well up in her eyes 
again.  "Will he still love me at all?"

Unfortunately, I have no answer for her.  Eight hundred 
years of careful study is not nearly long enough to unravel 
the tangle of complexities and contradictions that is 
Nicholas.  Eight thousand years might not be enough.

Natalie, poor child, has not had even eight decades.

I hold her, and she cries in my arms -- cries herself to 
sleep; and I set her down carefully and cover her with the 
quilt, leave her to her unhappy dreams.

It is a relief to change my shirt, which is damp and 
stained with Natalie's tears.

And then I prepare myself for what I must do.  I dislike 
venturing out in daylight; I don't have Nicholas' foolish 
craving to feel the sun on my skin.  But this is a task 
that must be performed by day -- for there must be no hint 
that I am involved.

The tunnels of the sewers and the subways provide cover for 
most of the distance; shadows of buildings shelter me over 
the remainder.  I emerge at my destination feeling 
considerably tense, but unharmed.

Cinnamon lives on the fifteenth floor of a housing project, 
and I glide up the elevator shaft so that none will witness 
my arrival.

Convenient that she sleeps by day, as we do; blackout 
curtains shield her apartment, and me, from the sun's 
lethal rays.  Asleep, the punkish female seems to shed her 
camouflage, to embody the innocence which Nicholas sees in 
her.

There is a framed photograph, of the two of them together; 
he is embracing her and grinning at the camera.

Her eyes blink open, and she stares up at me, sleep-
befuddled.  "Who're you?" she asks me sleepily.

I say not a word, simply raise my hand -- the hand holding 
the dagger.

Afterwards, it is all I can do to keep myself from lapping 
up the blood spurting from her wounds.  Torturous...  and I 
must remain here until she dies, make certain that it is 
finished.  Thankfully, her death comes swiftly, and I am 
free to depart.

I take the photograph with me when I go.

In the deepest levels of the sewers, I crush the laminated 
print into powder.

And make my way home as swiftly as I am able, longing to be 
free of the putrid sewer tunnels, and safe from the 
scalding sunlight.

-------

A long, hot shower -- such facilities being, to my mind, 
the premier invention of the last several centuries.  Fresh 
clothing, and a flask of blood to offset the gnawing hunger 
left over from the day's escapade, and I feel almost 
(pardon the expression) human.

Nicholas is fast asleep on the couch, his face troubled.  
Empty bottles of blood are strewn across the floor, one 
lying beside his lax fingertips.   His eventual awakening 
will no doubt be unpleasant -- more so when he learns of 
Cinnamon's death.

Natalie, too, slumbers; streaks of crimson have dried on 
her cheeks.  She will suffer as well, when the evening 
comes -- but not as badly as she might have, had I not 
taken action.

Nicholas will, in his misery, turn to Natalie for comfort.  
And for the time being, at least, their conflict will 
cease.

Soon enough, the scenario will play itself out again.  But 
perhaps by then, my Natalie will be stronger, more able to 
survive the hurt.  Who knows?  Perhaps Nicholas will come 
to his senses and learn that these doomed loves are no more 
than a reflection of his wistful longing for humanity; that 
it is the mortality he treasures, not the woman herself.  
(And perhaps pigs will fly.)

In the meantime, the crisis has ended.

Maybe now I can get some sleep.

-------/end