Date: Fri, 15 Apr 1994 02:24:29 EST All right, all... Before the rush of finals hits, and all are too busy, I wanted to post one last bit of fanfic before I moved. So... Here 'tis. A bit longer than my others, but hopefully just as enjoyable. (Again, be kind... I just finished writing it today.) ______________________________________________________________________ Teleri Beaty tmbeaty@main.rmwc.edu Copyright 1994 In the Night, Cries "Schanke--you don't want to go in there." Schanke looked at his partner, blocking the dark alleyway, with a frown creasing his high forehead. "Hey, Nick, have your liquid shakes finally turned your brains to mush? It's my job--" Nick shook his head slowly. "It's another one of his, Schanke." Schanke stiffened, his dark complexion flushing pale. The flashing lights danced eerily over his skin. "No, Nick--" "I'm sorry, Schanke." Schanke nodded and turned around. "So am I, Nick. So am I." Nat stared at the body bag. "Again," she said quietly. The vampire stood at the room's small window, staring out into the night. His jaw clenched. "Yes." "Same way?" "You mean discovery? Yeah. The body was dumped. Not killed on the spot, but brought there. Thrown out like a piece of garbage." She swallowed heavily. She was tired. She was worn out, mentally and physically. She didn't want to touch the heavy plastic, didn't want to peel the skin away from the small body inside. She didn't want to hesitate over the zipper like a new voyeour. *Not again--*. But she had to. She looked up. Her friend was watching her, artificial light painting his bright hair gold. His face was shaded green, though she couldn't tell if it was just a reflection off the walls or an indicator of his mood. She swallowed again, smoothing her facial muscles out into a mask--the first layer of protection she would use before touching the tiny corpse. "All right, Nick, I've got it from here." She headed over to the counter to grab the file, pushing all thoughts of *person* from her mind. Right now it was only a job, only a slab of flesh on her table. It wasn't-- "Nat, are you sure?" "Nick." She turned to look at him. "I know that you take these things badly. Go away." "This one's not pretty--" "Neither were you when you first showed up on this table. Now go away, Nick." "Nat--" "Nick. Leave." He left, and she turned away from the softly-closed door to stare at the dark blot spilled over her table. Grace looked up. "Hello, Detective Knight. What brings you here?" "I saw the body, Grace, and I thought. . . ." "That Natalie would need some comfort?" "Well . . . yes." He shrugged, rotating his shoulders slightly under his jacket. "It's another one of his, Grace." She bit her lip. "The--the crazy one?" "Yeah. Thank heavens the press don't know about him--" "They don't know? How tight are you guys keeping it?" "Very. We have to. If the details get out--" The black woman closed her eyes. "I know." She breathed deeply. "Well, Detective, I hope that you catch him soon." He turned back to the morgue, his body seeming to lean towards the closed door. "And Nat--" "Will be fine," Grace said firmly. "She's--she's used to this." "Grace," he said softly, "she's not ready for that. Not--not that one." "Give her more credit, Detective. She's already done--" "I know, Grace. And I do. But I know Nat--" "Not as well as you think you do." She turned back to her newspaper. Nick stared back at the lab. Concentrating, he could only hear the zipper of the bag. Nothing else. He felt tense, uneasy. *But . . . Grace is right. She can handle it. Probably better than I. At least she--she's strong. She'll be fine.* He left quietly. Inside the morgue, Nat held the zipper quietly for a moment, eyes closed, gathering her thoughts before she revealed the misshappen pearl this black oyster had to offer. There was always that moment before, when the mind hoped that something had changed--that the life beneath was still there-- Once before, and only once, had that been true. And that--her lips twisted slightly--that had led her off the path of what was normal. That time . . . had given her hope. She didn't dare wish that this one would be the same. Pulling the zipper, she faintly heard the echoes around her, coming as if from a great distance. Her eyes could only focus on small areas at a time--how the zipper teeth split apart, gaping open as if to spill secrets--how her fingers, enclosed in the surgical gloves, seemed as pale as the flesh being revealed slowy, oh so slowly, as the light spilled into the shadows--the remaining areas of flesh that were still whole and clean, that is-- And then the pitifully small bag was open, spilling its contents to her-- Her eyes couldn't take in the entire scene. She saw only bits of flesh with hair remaining on them *oh, that's the scalp*, strips of skin hanging in ribbons *well, that's a finger*, large areas of discoloured flesh *well, that was trauma--blunt--probably . . . yes, sexual penetration as well*-- And then the light caught on the few bits of hair that were still reasonably clean, making them shine bright gold. Her mind shut down instantly, realizing that this was a child, a creature of her own species, and not some horribly mangled specimen given to her as a test; no, this had been a living, breathing, laughing young thing that had once been *whole*, not these scattered parts-- This was a *child.* She slumped to the table, her hands running carelessly through her hair, pulling, grabbing heedlessly at something, anything-- This was the fourth one. The tears fell onto the hard steel surface, shining like diamonds set in silver. Nick approached Grace cautiously, his teeth nearly grinding in frustration. He hadn't slept well after last night, and his temper was nearly on the breaking point. He hoped Grace didn't try to do-- whatever she was doing. He wasn't in the mood. He'd nearly snapped off Schanke's head when Nick had gone into the precint to check in, and he'd quickly figured that he needed to cool down. Take a rest. Schanke, still trying to recover from last night--he hadn't seen the body, but he'd been on the scene for the first two, and his imagination had run wild--with Jenny in the starring role--had understood his partner's anger. He'd backed off quickly. And when Schanke backed off, Nick thought ruefully, you knew you were being obvious. Schanke was as subtle as a brick wall. Grace looked up from her desk, a frown on her face. Her fingers twitched over her report. "Detective?" "I'm just here to see Nat for a sec. I won't be long." Her hands fluttered nervously. "Detective--she's not here." She pressed her hands together to stop their movement. "I--" Nick felt a tremour slide through his legs. "Where is she?" His hands clenched, and he tried not to wrap his fingers around Grace's throat--she was only doing her job, dammit, she didn't know what he was going through-- "I don't know. She hasn't come in. I tried calling her, but her machine picks up. I've called her at least five times in the past hour. I called the precint to see if she was with you; I thought maybe her car had broken down and you'd given her a ride. Schanke said you were coming over to see her." She looked down at her hands, knuckles pale. "I'm worried about her, Detective. She was still working when I left; she said something about trying to do a good job- - She looked like hell. I was worried about her, but she insisted that I go home." She looked up. "Detective?" The corridor was empty. "Nat!" Nick ground out the words, barely keeping himself from screaming her name to the world. From releasing the anger he felt as he clutched her cold body-- "Nat!" Still no response. She lay quietly in his grasp, limp and pale as a newborn child. When he'd seen her like this-- He closed his eyes and held her tighter within his arms, uncaring of what she should think if she opened her eyes--how he wished she would open her eyes! He'd flown over to her apartment, too uneasy to attempt to drive. He wouldn't have kept control of the Caddie, pressing it too hard and running lights in his haste to get to Nat, to find her, to-- So he'd flown. He would have broken in a window, except that he knew how angry she'd be if she found out . . . *and she would find out, too, because she's still there, watching reruns or something. She's probably sick with a cold, or something, and she'll hate me for showing up like this and seeing her when she's lounging*. He smiled at the thought, trying to keep his hope. The darkened windows hadn't helped much. He had stood in the doorway, listening for a heartbeat, any heartbeat--praying that blood would be flowing and that it would flow for his sake. Inside, nothing . . . until finally, he could hear a rythym, low and nearly lost in the beat of the city around him. He'd broken the lock of the door, promising Nat silently that he'd buy her a new lock. A new door, if she wanted. Anything. Inside, nothing. His eyes had swept the living room, searching for signs of disarray--but nothing. Only her purse on the living room table, her shoes in a path to her bedroom, as if she'd merely stepped out of them on her way to bed-- He had listened, and prayed, and finally opened the door, praying even more . . . and had cursed and thanked God in one breath. Nat lay on the bed, still clothed, still above the covers. Stiff as a corpse, from the way her hands and elbows were bent. She was still alive, he knew; her heart muttered slowly in his head. Yet her body on the bed was pale and cold, and he'd gathered her up, wincing inside as he touched her clammy flesh, bent her limbs like a doll's. He had stripped her, carefully as any worried father, and wrapped her pale form in her large cotton bathrobe. Now he held her, cradled her in his arms, wishing that he had some warmth to give her--some heat to share--and rubbing her arms, her legs, smoothing her hair as he would to any child, whispering in her ear. "Come back, Nat. Come on back to me, Natalie. I'm here, Nat." He held one of her hands against his chest, his larger hand over it. She was cold to the touch. "Please, Nat," he whispered. "Come back to me." * * * *That voice--where have I heard it before?* "Come back to me, Nicola. Come back to us." A rustle, and the light tracing the patterns on Nicholas' eyelids shifted--seemed to scurry off, like mice before a cat. A lower voice, deeper and thrumming with power. It hurt his ears, seemed to ring in his mind. "Well? Why isn't he with us yet?" "It takes time, LaCroix!" The woman's voice was angry and high. "You insist on draining them so violently--" "Are you complaining?" Silence then, and Nicholas could hear the mice scurrying in the rushes scattered in the room. "No, LaCroix." "Good." Then a light touch on his hair, someone stroking his face with soft, cold hands--he was so cold--and he felt someone close to him. *How?* He could hear *something*, he wasn't sure what. It sounded like the castle drums beating--*but why would they be beating now?*--deep, sonorous, far-off. "He's back." "Good. Another child--" The voice was rich with irony. "--is born." The larger shape drifted forward, brushed at the edges of Nicholas' mind. He flinched. The figure . . . laughed. "Good." Nicholas opened his eyes, blinded by the sudden rush of light flying in and piercing his brain. He tried to throw up his arm, block the light, but it was heavy . . . oh so heavy. The dark-haired woman, Janette, laughed delightedly. "You're back with us, *mon cheri!*" She clasped him lightly to her breast. Nicholas turned, instinct switching on, nuzzling not for her breast like a baby, but for her neck like the dark creature he'd become-- * * * Nick nearly jumped with relief when Natalie moved slightly, shifting, her fingers closing spasmodically on his sweater, her cry muffled by the wool. He held tightly to her hand, feeling the pulse quicken beneath his fingers, her breath blowing over his knuckles. "Nat?" She mewled slightly, her eyelids twitching, her breath coming faster. He touched her face carefully with his right hand. "Nat? It's me, Nick--come back, Nat, it's all right." Her lips moved, and he thought he caught a word--he thought he heard his name. He tightened his left arm around her body, holding her against him, showing her that she wasn't alone. "Nat," he breathed. Her lips moved again, and she groaned slightly. "Nick?" "Nat, I'm here. Nat." Her eyes opened, and she blinked fuzzily, dazed, pupils dilated. "Nick?" Her voice was light, confused. "Nat, hold on a second--I'll get you a glass of water--" But when he moved, she held on to him tightly. He could feel the terror in her body, the fear at not being able to see, to focus. . . . *What the hell happened to her?* Finally he merely picked her up, easily carrying her with an arm around her waist and another under her legs. She clung to him for support, looking curiously at him. *Probably doesn't recognize who I am.* He felt a curious rush of pain. In the kitchen, he set her down lightly on the countertop, fumbling for the glass and filling it full of water with only one hand, the other constantly touching her, reassuring her. Nat stared around at the darkness of her living room, eyebrows furrowing as she tried to see into the night. "Drink this." He held the glass while she drank, watching the way her throat bobbed, drops of clear liquid spilling out the sides of her mouth and down her neck, hating himself. She squeezed her eyes shut, breathing heavily. He watched her. "Nat?" She looked at him, and he was relieved to see her pupils were back to normal size, her colour was returning--he could see her in her eyes. "Nick?" He backed off several paces, aware that the woman had once again come into her body, aware that Nat was . . . there. "Nat, we were worried. What happened?" She frowned, blinking rapidly. "I . . . worked hard last night, Nick. I was tired." She glanced around. "I'm . . . surprised I made it home, actually . . . I don't remember driving. I knew I wanted to get home--" "You barely made it, I think. It looked like you'd barely walked in before you crashed." She looked down at her robe, but said nothing. "Crashed is probably a good word. How long have I been out? What time is it?" "At least you didn't ask what century it is." Nick looked down at his watch. "It's nearly three in the morning." "Oh! Why aren't you at work? What are you doing here?" "You were missing, Nat. People were worried about you. Grace tried calling a few times--" "I didn't hear." "I know. You shouldn't work so hard. You're pushing yourself too much." "So are you." "It's my job." "I could say the same thing." He sighed. "Are you sure you're okay?" She flicked her hair out of her face and pushed herself to the floor. Nick watched her carefully, but she did nothing more than wobble. "I'm fine, I guess. It's just the stress--it finally caught up to me, I guess." "I'm sorry about last night." "Hmmm?" "The . . . boy." "Oh, that." Her eyes lowered briefly. "It's not your fault, Nick. You couldn't do anything about it." "I shouldn't have brought him to you. I should have asked for another one--this is the fourth one you've done already--" "And it'll be the last one I do." Her voice was quiet. "Do you hear me, Nick?" He stared at her. "I don't want to do another one." She watched him. "Catch the man, Nick. Don't . . . let him do that again. Please." He wanted so much to promise her-- "I won't, Nat. I'll get him." "Do it." She sighed, releasing him from her strange stare. "Now, get out of here." He paused. "Are you sure you're okay?" "I've already grown up, Nick. I'm not the one in trouble." He left, shutting the front door quietly. Nat watched him leave, the blond hair glinting as he passed under the light outside her door. Her heart thumped. If she hadn't known better, the child could have been his. She looked backwards, back to the sterile morgue and the cold room, no place for a child. Only for bodies, emptied of soul and life. The child was beautiful, even in death. Scarred and torn, discarded like a rag toy, he seemed to be peaceful, angelic. She had worked hard to give this one . . . respect. Ceremony. She had worked hard on all of them, but this one. . . . If she hadn't known better, the child could have been Nick's. "Partner! What'cha looking at?" Nick frowned as he stared at the papers spread over his desk. "Reports, Schanke." "Oh." Schanke sighed as he flopped into the chair opposite Nick's desk. "The kids?" he asked quietly. "Yeah." The other man traced coffee rings on the desk. "Hey, partner. . . . Thanks." He swallowed. "For not having me go in to--" Nick watched his partner. After the man's reaction the second time he'd been called onto the scene-- Schanke hadn't been in to work the next day. Myra had called him in sick."I understand, Schanke. I'm sorry." "Yeah." Schanke looked at Nick, something shining in his eyes. "You know I went home that night and couldn't sleep? Kept on going into Jenny's room--just to make sure. You know. Myra thought I was crazy. Couldn't understand why I . . . I just had to touch my baby girl. Know what I mean?" Nick's throat tightened. "I . . . I think I do." "Don't have kids, Nick. You worry about them so much--you're always so afraid for them. That something will happen--something's going to take them away from you." Schanke looked away. "I know I'm going to die sometime; everyone does--but you always hope that your kids--that your kids are somehow above that. You want to think they're invicible just as much as they do. Death is worse if it's a kid." "Schanke--" Nick raised his eyebrows. "I know, I know. It's just--this scares me, Nick. I have my little girl to think about." He shifted in his chair. "I just wish . . . I wish that Jenny would live forever, Nick." "No, you don't." "Whatever. I just want . . . I want to die first. You know what I mean? I don't want to see my baby suffer. God isn't that cruel, is He? He wouldn't make me watch my kid suffer." Nick shook his head. "I don't know, Schanke. I just don't know." He stared down at the report in his hand. Something hovered at the edge of his mind, teasing him, staying just out of reach-- Schanke shook his head and shifted his bulk, coming to stand behind his partner. "We don't know much, do we?" He glanced over the papers spread haphazardly over the usually clean surface of Nick's space. "What have you found?" "Nothing. I've been reading the same things over and over for hours now." He sighed. "The bodies weren't killed on the spot they were discovered. Where were they killed? We don't know. The killer did a phenomenal job cleaning up after himself. So I tried to think of somewhere someone could stash a child long enough to . . . murder. Problem is, there are too many places. Good places." "It would have to be a secluded place," Schanke pointed out. "I can't see any kid . . . not making a hell of a lot of noise while the guy did that-- that . . . to him." "True. And there's been no trace of tranquilizers in the bodies." "Underground, you think?" "Perhaps." The vampire closed his eyes, feeling something-- something. . . . "Hey, Nick--what is it?" Nick, eyes straining to reach past the papers and pierce the mind of a murderer, didn't even wince as the rank green smell of garlic floated past his nose. "I . . . I'm not sure." Schanke watched his partner. "But you caught something. You were off in la-la land there--" Nick lay the report down on the table and, steepling his fingertips under his chin, stared off into space. "It's just--these facts." He frowned. "Something's not fitting." "I checked them out already. Everything seems to fit." Schanke snorted. "Other than the complete lack of clues on the suspect. All of this modern technology, and people can't seem to find a single clue--" "Nat's doing as much as she can, Schanke. More than she should." "Yeah, I know. But . . . Nick, it's not enough." "I know." "You'd think that psychos like this would--I don't know, leave clues or something. Prints. Drop a knife. Leave a few traces of dirt around. Something." Nick stared at his partner. "What did you say?" * * * "I said," the older man murmured, pulling on his immaculately tended moustache, "that this murderer--this psychotic--seems as if he ought to leave some sort of clue." His cultured London tones barely pierced the fog around them. "It would be nice of him." "Why?" "My dear Nick," the Inspector looked up at the taller man, "this sort of killer is brutal. You can see that; you've pointed it out to me yourself. Now, how many people can kill with such ferocity and force, yet manage to keep their waistcoat clean? I haven't met any." *Not many men--but more than a few vampires.* "Like a mad dog, Inspector?" "Much. And yet no mad dog to lose control. No, those poor women were killed as he meant them. Our Jack is quite the clever man, he is. Fast worker, quick to clean up after himself, and even leaves us little presents. Wonder if he's an artist." He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat, the gaslight under which they stood throwing his lean features into sharp relief. "Bloody bastard." "Bloody is right." "So, you do have a sense of humour." On the Thames, a ship drifted by, creaking and groaning as it stumbled through the dark thick night. The two men heard the muted call of a foghorn. The Inspector smiled. "Here I thought you were making a career of being grim." "Only when . . . hunting." "How sad. It's often the murderers who've the best sense of humour, you know." *Not always.* "Why?" "Must be something about blood--the power of killing someone. Our Jackie ought to be entertaining. He's got quite a sense of humour, showing us his wonderful collages." *About as nice as LaCroix.* "When we get him, you can ask him." "If we get him." "You've doubts?" The Inspector smiled genialy. "I'm human, Nick. Of course I have doubts. Don't you?" "We'll catch him." "Ah, the arrogance of youth. My boy, when you've been in the business as long as I, you don't presume anything. But you've still years ahead of you, I suppose." "Yes." "You'll learn." "Mmmmm." "That's what you want, isn't it? To learn the ropes, perhaps become an inspector yourself?" "I suppose." The Inspector pulled a pipe from his pocket and examined it carefully. "Why are you here, Nick?" Nick's fingers clenched spasmodically in his pockets. "What do you mean, Inspector?" "You're slumming, my friend. I'd like to know why. Call it curiousity, if you will." Nick watched him carefully. "Why do you think that, Inspector?" "Oh, come now. Give me some credit for my powers of observation; others certainly do." His eyes looked Nick up and down quickly. "You've a nice modern cut to your clothes, you carry yourself well, your manners are impeccable. . . . All in all, a nice sort of chap who shouldn't be out here. You come from the old school of aristocracy, Nick." The vampire didn't blink. "You could say that." "A man approaches me one night, leads me to a body, tells me it seems like our murderer--he hadn't been named Jackie then--has struck again, then disappears. The next night I turn around and there he is, asking me about the case. Which, I pointed out in my job as civic protector, was really none of his business. He tells me, however, that he thinks he can help me, and for some odd reason, I believe him." The Inspector shifted slightly from one foot to another. "I begin to let him accompany me to the scenes of the crime--not very lawful, but then, Jackie's not a lawful sort either." The Inspector carefully knocked the ashes from the bowl of his pipe, his eyes on the smooth wood. "It's been two weeks, Nick. I'm curious." He looked up and caught sight of Nick's face. "You're not going to explain?" "I don't see why I should. I've helped you. Isn't that all that matters?" "Oh, yes. In the grander scheme of things. But I'm curious, Nick; it's my job." He walked around Nick slightly. "See it from my point of view, my friend. I'm approached by a man who isn't what he seems-- yes, I checked, my lad, and there are no night-clerks by the name of Nicholas Watson in the city." The Inspector polished the pipe on his sleeve. "You said nothing of this to me. Why? Even after you found out I was not who I said, why?" "I was curious. My friend, you are uncanny at spotting what my eyes miss. Your way of thinking is simply extraordinary. I knew I couldn't let you go, Nicholas Watson--or whoever you are. You are woefully inadequate at police procedure--no great suprise; you haven't been taught, after all--but I find myself wanting to teach you." Nick stared at the older man in shock. "Excuse me?" "You have . . . an astounding nose, young man. Almost a nose for a crime, if you'll pardon the phrase. Only through your help have I gotten this close to our Jackie." He paused. "My friends think me quite marvelous now. They don't know about you, really, just that I've taken in an old doctor with a common last name. I thought I'd throw them off the track a bit, should they ever meet you." "Good." "I suspected as much. However, when this affair is over, I shall want to keep your sharp wit beside me." "I--I don't understand." "It's elementary, my dear Watson. You're quite the man for this job." * * * "And you're the perfect guy for this job." Nick looked up guiltily. "What, Schanke?" "I said, Nick, that if anyone can catch this guy and bring him in, you can. You've surprised me before, partner. Do it again." Schanke shook himself slightly. "Heaven help me, I'm so scared for Jenny. If I ever meet the man, Nick, there's no court of law that can keep me from killing him." "Schanke, don't--" "I can't help it, Nick. I can't." The darker man shook his head. "I can't even say to myself, 'Well, this guy only likes only the homeless kids or the poor or the rich, and so Jenny's safe.' Nick, this is a serial murderer with no pattern except his MO and choice of victims--slice and dice the tender ones. He leaves no clues, he doesn't seem to have preferred victims except for *kids*--I can't even comfort myself with that. And the next one may not be Jenny--but some father out there is still going to lose his child." He swallowed heavily. "It doesn't matter who's kid it is, Nick. It's still a kid. And I don't think there's a parent alive who wouldn't want him stopped." One of the leuitenants walked by and overheard their comments. He snorted. "Well, the press agree with you," he said sourly. Both the detectives turned to him. "What do you mean, Johnson?" Schanke demanded. "Look at today's paper. The mayor's calling the Captain, furious. Seems we had a leak last night, and now the entire city knows about our Jackie." Nick felt a jolt of electricity crack through his body. "Our *what?*" "Our Jackie." The lieutenant shrugged angrily. "After that last kid, everyone's saying that we've got another Jack the Ripper. Only this one likes little kids." * * * Nick gulped at the cool night air, trying to wash the stink of violence from his lungs. He had smelled death before, had tasted it on his lips, had drank it in . . . but never like this. That last one- -the room had been so stuffy, so . . . dead. Just like the occupant, who lay gored on the bed. Her head had been on the pillow beside her. When Nick had found the first body, his interest had been only in stopping the vampire who would do such a thing. He wanted to avoid the Enforcers that he believed were coming and find the rogue himself. But now that he'd seen what the killer did-- *I was wrong. This isn't one of my kind. No vampire would ever waste that much blood. This Jack--he loves the blood, he bathes in it- -he loves their dying more than their death.* Now he, Nick, wanted to stop the killer. The Inspector touched him gently on the arm. "Feeling all right, Watson?" "Better." He took another deep breath, ignoring the smell of fetid waste rising from the gutters. This was London, after all. "And . . . this one?" "Missing some of her rather precious parts, I'm afraid." The older man sighed. "Bloody rich bastard. So greedy that he took her life, too." The younger man frowned. "Rich? Sir--how do you know? Can you tell? Did he leave a clue?" "No clue, Watson, other than that of lack of clues." "What do you mean?" The Inspector rubbed his large, beaklike nose carefully. "Hmmm. . . . Well, she wasn't robbed. Her bedroom still has quite a few trinkets in it that would have gone for a few pounds. So the motive wasn't money." "That doesn't mean the killer's wealthy." "No. . . . Nick, look around you." The younger man did so. "Yes?" "What do you see?" "Err. . . . Tenement houses. Garbage. Darkness." "Nick, these people are poor. They're too poor to be worrying about killing; they're too concerned with surviving themselves. Why would one of them bother to kill a few whores? No, lad, this murderer is quite wealthy." He snorted sardonically. "Apparently became bored with his other hobbies." Nick looked away. "That's . . . sad." "Very. But so is this life, Nick." "I shouldn't want to live here." "Have you been here before? To this end of London?" "No, sir." "You're getting quite the tour of London then, my friend," the Inspector observed, glancing around curiously. "Along with some of the city's . . . little perks." "Yes." Everywhere Nick looked, the shadows welled over like blood. "Why would someone do that, sir? Why would someone be. . . ." "So cruel?" "Yes." "To prove to us he can." Nick looked back at the Inspector. "What?" "He's showing off, Nick. All that he's done--it's for us. He wants us to see his handiwork." A muscle jumped in his jaw. "He's teasing us. Telling us that he's better than us. Daring us to catch him." "How can you tell? The brutality?" "Oh, no. He would do that anyway, I suspect. But his little collages--they're his card, so to speak. He's telling us he was there. He wants us to know that *he* did it, not another random murderer. He's flaunting his cleverness." "By preying on the weak?" "Easy prey, my friend. The hunters of the night prefer them." "True." "We'll need to look around again, I'm afraid. Ready to go back in?" The vampire glanced cautiously at the Inspector. "Holmes, sir. . . .We?" The older man smiled. "Yes, Nick. We." He slapped the younger man genially on the shoulder before turning to go back into the tainted room. "You've the makings of a good one, Nick." * * * "Why children?" Nat glanced at Nick. "Hmmmm?" Nick sighed. Two weeks he'd been on this case, and all he had to show for it were four dead children. Rather, pieces of four dead children. Papers lay scattered over his coffee table. He'd even brought some of the reports home, going over them during the day, trying to find something, anything, that he'd missed. Natalie had brought some of hers over, and they'd brainstormed. "Why does he kill only children? Why not women? Or other men?" "He might be a small man," she muttered, glancing back down at her reports. "Or perhaps slightly built. Weaker. Something." She shrugged. "You ought to know by now, Nick, that you don't attack people stronger than yourself." "Why not women?" She smiled at him pointedly. "We're just as likely to know how to defend ourselves nowadays, buddy. Or have little suprises in our purses. It's been eight hundred years, Nick; give us a break. We've learned, buster." "So children--" She nodded. "Are weak. And he takes advantage of that." "Bloody bastard." She said nothing. There was nothing to say. "Nat, would you like something to drink? Eat? You've still got some things left in the fridge--" He hoped that she'd say yes, giving him something to do-- She mumbled under her breath. "What?" "I said, no thanks." He stumbled off the couch and crawled to her chair on his hands and knees. She didn't even look up. He hung over the arm of the chair and glanced at what she was reading. "Nat, those are the morgue reports from the kids." "And?" "What are you doing?" "Looking." He tried to catch her gaze. "Nat, what are you doing?" She shot him a look from the corner of her eyes. "Trying to see if there's anything I missed." He could see the circles under her eyes, the bloodshot whites, the slightly dilated pupils. . . . "Yeah. About fourteen hours of sleep." "Rather that than another kid." "I know. But you can at least take a break." "You can take your own advice." "Nat--" "Nick, I can help you." Her voice was quiet, sure. "Like this?" She pushed a piece of paper over to him. "Here. It's a list of the similarities of the victimes. The one under it is the differences. Here's my map of the city--don't look so suprised, Nick; I know what to look for. The dots in red are where we found the bodies. Now, since they were dumped, not killed on the spot, it might not mean much. I don't know if any of this will help, but I figured I'd give it a shot." She pointed out several lines. "I've underlined a couple of my notes--they're odd. They seem to be . . . I don't know. Familiar." "You, too?" "Me, what?" He frowned. "I've been getting feelings of deja vu since this affair began." She snorted. "You've probably lived long enough to see it before." Something was niggling in the back of his mind. "Anyway, Nick, here's what I found when I did the autopsies. Facts and speculation added." He frowned. What was it? Nat sighed. "They were all still in primary school, too. . . ." *That was it.* Nick scrabbled through the reports on the coffee table, searching for the page on which he'd doodled absently, trying to find patterns. *Aha. Here we go.* He skimmed down the page. Here he'd compared the similarities in the victims' economic status. . . . *Yes.* He compared the two lists. Each child had gone to a public school- -and though they lived far apart geographically, the schools were each within five kilometres of each other. And though all had gone to public schools, one came from a wealthy family, two from white-color middle class, and one from blue-collar parents. It wasn't the family, it was the schools. That was the pattern. That was how he picked his victims. On the second page, though. . . . There was the proof *he* needed. Each victim had organs removed. One had been found decapitated. Each had been slashed repeatedly. . . . Someone had done their homework. "Nick, what is it?" Nick stared off into space, into the centuries past time. *I'll best you this time, Jack. Oh, I'll get you this time . . . whoever you are.* * * * The Inspector wandered over to the edge of the dock. Nick slipped out of the shadows and joined the older man in his contemplation of the murky Thames. The Inspector sighed heavily. "Did you get a good look at the last one?" "Yes." "And to imagine--" The Inspector looked around, an odd catch in his voice. "To imagine that this London night harbours such a brutal creature." *He and many more.* "I wonder . . . what the darkness hides, Nick. Do you ever wonder?" "No, sir." "Why not?" "Because . . . it compares as nothing to the darkness in my soul." The Inspector touched him gently on the shoulder. "My friend, there is darkness in all men's souls. That . . . that is why we strive for the light. To drag ourselves out of the darkness in our hearts. To redeem ourselves." He paused. "Don't give up, Nick." Nick shook his head. "No, sir . . . I won't." * * * Nick ran into the coroner's office. "Nat!" His voice echoed eerily down the corridors. "*Nat!*" His footsteps rang as he raced down towards the morgue, hoping-- When the door opened inwards, he knew. Grace was standing, holding a pale Natalie in her arms. Natalie was stiff and pale, her eyes fixed-- The bodybag lying on the examining table was a whirlpool of darkness. Nick shoved it out of his mind and, panting heavily, skidded to a stop in front of the coroner and touched her face gently with one trembling hand. "Nat?" "Nick." Her eyes were on him, vacant. "They brought me another one. Again." "Yes." He smoothed back her hair. "Nat, I'm sorry--" Suddenly her pupils contracted. "I know, Nick," she said softly. "I know." She gently disengaged herself from Grace's arms, smiling sadly at the worried nurse. "Don't worry, Grace--I'm all right." "No, you're not," the other woman said stoutly. Nat was already at the bodybag, her back towards the two. "You're probably right," she murmured absentmindedly. "But that's not important." "Nat," Nick interjected, "you've been pushing yourself too hard--" "And you haven't?" "I can get away with it." He glanced sideways at Grace. "Insomniacs always can." "Ah . . . of course." Grace looked from one to the other. "I'll . . . be outside. If you need me. Just call, okay?" She gave them a worried look before leaving. "Nat?" Nick noticed she was stroking the bodybag softly, gently . . . almost as if petting a small creature. "This one was a girl, Nick." "I know. I heard--over the radio. I couldn't get to the scene in time--" "Yeah. The sun was still up when we found her." He came to her side. "Are you sure you're okay?" She looked at him, and he saw the tears spiking her lashes with diamonds. "I've always wanted children, Nick," she said softly. "I know." Her hands were still touching the heavy material of the bag. "I've always thought that someday--someday I'd be a parent. Have my own child." She smiled sadly. "I've always wanted . . . to tuck them in. Have them under my care. Feel like . . . I was protecting them, you know?" Nick pulled her into his arms and tucked her head under his chin. Her soft words, spoken almost wonderingly, were ripping at his heart. He felt his eyes flooding, clouding his vision with red mist. "And now--and now I get to tuck them in, Nick, but . . . it's not the same. I'm tucking them in forever, not for a night. They're hurt, and I have to piece them back together--it's like doing a puzzle, Nick, like putting together a child--and I'm supposed to tuck them in forever?" She shuddered. "Can't I just--shake them, and wake them up? Why do I have to tuck them in?" "Nat. . . ." He didn't know what to say. He, too, wanted children. . . . They held each other then, taking comfort in each other's pain. They held each other, and as Nat's tears fell onto Nick's shirt, red streaks painted lines from his face to hers, binding them in their mourning. He entered the morgue at the end of his shift, stopping only to pick up any reports that might be useful. Tired, worn, and no closer to finding the killer, he was utterly unprepared to find Natalie, hands shaking, hesitating over the girl's--over the body. "Nat--what are you still doing here? Shift's over--time to go home and let the day crew take over." She shook her head. "No--just a little longer, Nick. I'll be home whenever. I just need--to say goodbye." "You need to go home now, Nat. You're a mess. What do you think you're doing?" She turned to look at him, and he was struck by the loss in her eyes, the delirium of being cast into a sea of blood-soaked emotions. "I don't--I--Nick--" He resisted the urge to rip her gloves from her hand. "Why, Nat? Why are you working yourself so hard? Why don't you just go home and rest?" Her face crumpled. "Nat, Nat," he crooned, moving to hold her, "we'll get another coroner to do this job. It's okay. We'll get one of the day-shift ones--" "It won't matter, Nick!" She pulled away angrily, shunning his comforting touch. His painful touch. Didn't he realize? "It won't matter," she said harshly, her voice echoing off the sterile walls, mocking them. "She'll still be here, cold and alone." He grabbed her, held her, staring quietly into her eyes. "She's dead, Nat. Don't make this more than you can handle--she's dead, she's passed over. She's gone--it doesn't matter anymore." Nat stared at him. "It doesn't matter?" she whispered. Nick could see the anger rising in her eyes, a deadly, cold, wounded anger that crawled up her throat. "But you're dead, Nick. And you're not alone." Janette smiled coyly at him, one hand cupping a wine glass half- filled with rich, red liquid. Around her, the club was closing down. "It's good to see you, Nicola." He walked past her and took a seat at the emptied bar. "Glad someone thinks so." She cocked an eyebrow as she walked back towards him, her smile dying. "Ah. I see." She took a last sip of her drink and set the glass on the counter. When he said nothing, she gave him an icy stare. "Once again, Nicola, you come to see me only because you need something, yes?" Her eyes flashed. "So, what is it you need this time? Information? News? Tell me, so that I shall not take up so much of your valuable time." "Janette, don't do this." His voice was low and tight. Hers could cut steel. "Why not, Nicola? Your coroner is making you jump through one too many hoops, perhaps? Or maybe you're just too tired?" She turned away. "Too bad." He moved so quickly she was caught by suprise. Nick had lashed out of his seat and was behind her, hurting her. Pain shot up her arm as he forced the arm lock tighter. She grimaced. "Janette, my dear . . . I have had . . . a very bad week." She froze. He sounded just like LaCroix. "I . . . can see that," she said carefully. She felt him take a deep breath. "Nicola . . . you're hurting me." His fingers stroked her arm as he gently released her. "Janette . . . I'm sorry--I don't know what to say--" She turned slowly and faced him, her anger drained away. His eyes were sad, so sad, and weary. Guilty. He watched as her hand rose, and he closed his eyes as she gently smoothed down the lines of his face with her fingertips. He leaned into her caress, sighing. Her skin was cool on his forehead. "Nicola--what's wrong? Is this personal, or business?" She looked into his eyes. "Nothing has happened to your coroner, yes?" "It's all of the above. And more." Nick ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it wildly. "It was business; now it's personal. Nat's included. . . ." He closed his eyes. "Another child was killed last night." She closed her eyes. "No." He wasn't suprised that she knew about the murders. "I'm no closer to finding him--I've gotten several leads, thanks to Nat, but she's driving herself to exhaustion. Schanke's no use to me; he's had nightmares about his daughter being a victim . . . and I can't seem to . . . to get a fix on this man. This killer." "Those poor children . . ." Janette whispered brokenly. "Nicola . . . the killer . . . he's not one of us, is he?" Her voice sharpened. "He's not . . . ours, *cheri?*" "No. Not that it matters to the children." "No." She held him tightly, dropping her usual cool reserve to touch him with muted grief. "I can't look at them, Janette. I can't . . . bear to see . . . what he's done to them. What. . . . I failed them, Janette." "Nicola, you have not failed! You could not have forseen their deaths. As much as you desire, Nicola, you are not their father, to protect them." "No," he murmured against her, head bent and pressed into her breast, feeling her arms around him, comforting, Nick sighed. "I am not their father." * * * Nicholas glared dully up at LaCroix. "You are not my father." The older vampire smiled, fangs glistening in the sputtering candelight of their room. "Oh, but my dear Nicholas . . . I am." Nicholas gingerly tested his jaw. It was swelling, puffy, he'd bet, even while healing with his new-found powers. He didn't know how long it would take to fully heal; LaCroix had dealt him quite a blow and he wasn't yet experienced at judging this other world. He clenched his teeth, eyes boiling at the man towering above him, the light making his hair seem to catch fire. The older vampire was ready to strike him again should he try to stand. "You are *not* my master. You have no rights over me." "I have *every* power over you, Nicholas. Even that of life or death." LaCroix had stilled, become cold as marble. "I am your master in this world. You have no say here in the night." He smiled coldly. "I am your vampire father, Nicholas, your sire. Your master. You are *nothing.* I must be your life now; you can never leave me. Do you understand, my son? You can never leave me." "I have a father already," Nicholas spat out. LaCroix sneered. "No, the foolish young knight had a father. You . . . have me." Nicholas shook his head, cursing inwardly as it began to throb. "No," he muttered. "No." LaCroix knelt by the young vampire. "Yes, my son," he hissed. "Yes." He smiled, fangs bared, and reached for Nicholas-- Nicholas screamed as his world turned first to blood, and then to darkness. * * * Natalie grabbed at the countertop as her world turned to darkness. *No. No. Have to keep on working--not finished yet. Have to make sure--make sure she's . . . okay.* Her vision cleared gradually, strength seeping back into her legs, and Natalie could once again see that tiny corpse, the small face that had dominated her life for two long nights-- She frowned. From her angle, bent over the examination table, she could see light slanting into the remains of the child's nose. Yet something was different-- She grabbed one of the q-tips from the drawer to her right without looking and inserted it carefully into the nostril. It came out black. Hours later, she sighed and straightened up. Her eyes ached from peering into the microscope, and her back creacked audibly. She ignored it. She felt tired, old . . . and curiously at peace. They were close. She picked up the phone and dialed. Her eyes never left the body still on the table, reclined as if in sleep. If it hadn't been for the missing pieces, she would have thought the child was sleeping, so peaceful she looked. The coroner's eyes were steady on the small girl. The victim's name had been Natalie. Someone picked up the phone. "Hello?" "Nick?" "Yeah. Nat?" Questions went unsaid. He settled for non-committal. "Are you okay?" "Nick, could you come over? I've got something to show you--" He stared at her. "It's what?" "Gunpowder." She stared at the sample bemusedly. "It's honest-to- God gunpowder." "How did it get in her nose?" "I don't know. She must have breathed it in." "Where," Nick said slowly, "did she *find* enough gunpowder to breathe in?" Nat glared at Nick. "I don't *know*, Nick! Give me a break, will you?" He hesitated, moved as if to hold her. "Nat, I'm sorr--" *For everything.* She cut him off. "Forget it, Nick. You're tired, I'm tired. We say things we don't mean, we move on, and together we get this guy. Okay?" He nodded slowly. "Bad dreams again last night?" She ran a nervous hand through her hair. "I'm sure I would have had them, if I'd slept. But--forget it, Nick. We've got to get down to business." "Yes." "Good. Now." She took a deep breath. "We have to think of places that would have gunpowder in them--a storage room or something--and that fits the other parameters." "Hmmm. . . ." Nick began to pace, and suddenly Nat felt as if the room had shrunk. "I don't know. Some kind of shooting range? They're usually soundproofed if they're indoor, and outdoors. . . . It would be out of the way." "No," she shook her head, "that doesn't feel right. They're usually well-locked. And the composition of the gunpowder was . . . odd. How about a fireworks company?" "Only the professionals keep that much, manufacturing for official use on holidays. And that would be well-guarded." He shrugged his shoulders uneasily. "We can rule out police ranges." "Yeah." "So. Where else would someone store large amounts of gunpowder, and still have enough space around to murder a screaming child and get away with it?" Nat frowned. "Nick--" "Hmm?" He turned to find her staring off into space. "What?" "You ought to know. You've lived there--sort of." "Where?" "The nineteenth century, Nick." She turned to him. "Black Creek Pioneer Village, over in Downsview. The recreated village. They've got gunpowder--" He pivoted in mid-stride. "I'm going." "I'll go with you." "No!" He turned on her. "You stay here. Go to sleep, Nat! Get some rest!" "I can help you!" "I'll be worried sick about you!" She paused and stared at him. "Then go, Nick," she whispered. "Go." He left before she could change her mind. *They died here.* He looked around the storeroom, eyes taking in the disarray. It hadn't taken too long to find the correct warehouse; his senses had led him to the spot that blotted out the natural black of the night. When the crews came in here to ready for the March opening, they would find quite a suprise. His nose could smell the dried blood over everything. *Five of them--and they died right here.* He knelt down and touched one of the brown splotches covering the floor. "Whoever you are, Jack," he whispered, "I'm going to get you." * * * "I'm going to get him." The Inspector raised his eyebrows. "You are?" "Aren't you?" "I hope so. However, I shall not make it personal." "After all he's done?" "Yes." "Why? He's hurt everyone! Those he hasn't killed he's made afraid- -" "Watson, I am an officer of the law," he said quietly. "I do not make it; I simply enforce it. When I am on duty, I follow the law, and not my own feelings, whatever my romantic friends may think of me." "Yes, but--" "No. If you wish to be the law, Nick, you must first decide whose law you will follow. If it is your own . . . then this conversation is moot. If you follow the laws of man and God, however . . . then you must become merely an executioner of the law, not its maker." Nick nodded slowly. "I . . . understand, sir." The older man turned to his paper, one hand patting down his mustache. "Excellent." Nick glanced out the window. "At least the courts will find him guilty." "If the courts find him." "You should be more confident, sir. We've nearly got him." "Oh?" "We've narrowed down where he must live, sir. A few nights of watching, and sooner or later he'll strike--" "Perhaps," the Inspector murmured, shifting his attention back to his paper. Nick paced around the small library. They had retired early that night, tired from their hunting, and Holmes had invited Nick back to his flat. "And when we get him--" The older man put down his paper with a sigh. "Nick, my friend . . . we haven't caught him yet." "But we will!" "I shan't count my criminals until they're locked away, my young friend." "I want to look into his eyes." "To do what? See what you'll find there?" "Yes. To know what would make a man do such a thing--" The Inspector stared quietly at Nick. "Look into a mirror, my friend, and see what you find there. You'll have your answer." He turned back to his paper. "You'll find it in the hearts of all men." * * * Nick froze. He thought he'd heard something-- After three nights on stakeout, he *wanted* to hear something. He tensed the muscles in his legs. He was nervous, he was stiff, and he was tired. And he was hearing things. He wondered where Schanke was. His partner was supposed to patrol the village while Nick remained in the storeroom. He heard the noise again. Then the door exploded inward. Nick jumped, unable to help himself. Then he growled, low, under his breath. His superior night vision showed him, all too plainly, what he didn't want to see. A man had kicked open the door, obviously familiar with the fact that the wooden door was only loosely latched. In both hands he carried a struggling wide-eyed girl, perhaps seven years old, who writhed against the duct tape binding her, making terrified noises into her gag. In the man's hand was a large knife, sharp. It was a fillet knife, long and thin. He deposited the girl on the floor, roughly dropping her. Nick winced. The man turned to shut the door, snapping on the light as the door closed. *Schanke, where are you?* Nick waited until the man had stepped away from the girl before quietly standing up, pulling out his gun, and stepping out from behind the crates. "Metro Police. Put down your knife." He fought to keep his voice steady. The man turned quickly, suprised. The shock in his eyes quickly turned to hatred. Nick moved his gun slightly, letting the light gleam along the muzzle. Anger ate away at him as he watched the child out of the corner of his eyes, rocking to and fro desperately. "Don't make me do it," he said quietly. * * * "Don't make me do it," the man whispered to Nick, his voice low and menacing. A hunter sure of his prey. He'd stepped out of the shadows of the Bridge long enough to sieze the Inspector-- Nick stood frozen, watching the Inspector's face as the knife at his throat bit lightly into his flesh. The vampire's hair was whipped wildly about by the gusts that swept across the darkness, clouding the night over with fog. "Jack! Don't do it!" The murderer laughed harshly. "Why not? I've got me some copper here, and I want to see if their blood flows as freshly." Blood seeped out of the cut in Holmes' neck and dripped over Jack's fingers. A few drops spilled to the road beneath, swept carefully to the ground by the wind coming across the bridge. "I like blood," the killer whispered in the Inspector's ear. "I can tell," the older man shot back drily. He earned a slice across the jaw for his wit. Nick saw the pain cross the Inspector's face. "Jack! Listen to me!" *How did I let this happen? Why wasn't I paying more attention to what the Inspector was telling me? He told me to watch him, just like he would watch me. Why did I think I knew better? Why didn't I run fast enough to catch up when I knew someone was there?* He remembered the Inspector's ironic words. "You're still young, Nick." *And now he'll pay the price--* Jack laughed. "As soon as I'm finished with the Inspector, here, I'll have you." Nick stepped forward, trying to grab the knife, grab the killer's arm-- A sickening crack then, and Nick stared down at the torn body of the Inspector, blood flooding the bridge. *No. He can't be dead. He was such a clever man--he knew Jack would be here, figured it out by himself--No. He can't be dead!* "I broke his neck." The man smiled. "He was lucky. I didn't have time to do him proper. But you--" He sneered. "Run, little boy. Run for your life." Nick fought back the Hunger, searching to replace the grief he felt with anger-- *I could never taste his blood--I'd feel dirty for decades after. . . . No!* "I have no life," he said coldly. "Not after this, no," the killer laughed. "I'll take your life." Nick smiled cruelly. "It's too late for that." He felt his fangs slide down. He wouldn't feed, but he would kill. He would emulate the master, and Jack's body would never be recognized--if the authorities even found all of the pieces-- "And now," he said quietly, "it's too late for you." * * * "It's too late," Nick said quietly. "Just . . . give yourself up." The man grinned, lips twitching. "I don't think so, buddy," he growled, grabbing for the child at his feet. Nick shot him before the man had moved a meter. "You got him." Nick and Nat walked through an empty park, each one tired and worn. The shadows circling the trees nested in their eyes. They were spent. Nick had filled out his reports, Nat had done the autopsy on the killer. "Yes. Jack the Ripper is finally dead." "Again." "Again." She sighed. "That's good. This time, at least, we know he's dead." *I knew the last time, too.* They passed an empty playground, the swings moving as if ghosts still played at their games. Nat paused and looked over the empty area. Nick moved over and touched her lightly on the shoulder. "Nat?" "I just wish--I wish we'd gotten him sooner, Nick." "I know." He slid an arm around her shoulders and held her close. "I know, Nat." She shuddered against his jacket. "I just wish--I didn't want to let them go, Nick. I didn't want to condemn them to a life underground. They should be up here, playing, laughing. Instead I've put them to bed forever. I've put them away." Nick swallowed heavily. "You helped them, Natalie. You loved them last . . . and then you let them go. They went to a better place, Nat." "Yes." She sighed against him, relaxing slowly, her head moving up and down. "I let them go." She glanced up at him. "But Nick . . . I'll remember. I'll never forget." She paused. "I loved them, Nick." He touched her face gently. "I know."