KIND SOUL

A Forever Knight novel

By Susan M. Garrett

"In human relations kindness and lies are worth a thousand truths."
The Heart of the Matter -- Graham Greene


CHAPTER 1


     It was nothing more than a whisper, the words, "In the back," cutting 
through the noisy crowd, the thundering bass, and the clink of glassware 
behind the bar.
     Janette looked up and across the Raven, meeting the eyes of the bouncer.  
It was a source of pride to her that the club--<her> club--seemed to run 
itself.  But every now and again something arose that only she could handle.  
It could very well have been a minor emergency caused by a momentary lapse in 
judgment on the part of one of her patrons or even the heart-rending discovery 
that the last box of cocktail napkins mistakenly held swizzle sticks topped 
with small green leprechauns.  Whatever the case, both mortal and vampire 
alike turned to her for an answer.  And she didn't mind admitting that every 
now and again her annoyance at dealing with cumbersome details masked her 
pleasure at being needed, being indispensable.
     Leprechauns, for pity's sake.  And in July?
     But that had been another time.  Now she hesitated, remembering some of 
the tokens that had been left at the rear door of the Raven in the past few 
weeks.  At first, it had seemed harmless.  She'd guessed that one of the more 
adventurous--and foolhardy--pranksters among her crew had left the box of 
chocolates with garlic centers, the silk scarf emblazoned with crosses, or the 
suntan lotion and beach towel at the back door of the Raven.
     None of them had admitted anything . . . not that she'd confronted any of 
them.  That wasn't her style.  But neither had any of them so much as smirked 
out of turn or smiled guiltily.  Even Nicola, who'd been known to indulge in 
such senseless adolescent pastimes as practical jokes, didn't once blink when 
she'd wandered around the question in one of his recent 'professional' visits 
to the Raven.  Again, there'd been no confrontation.  If he didn't do it, she 
really didn't want him to know the details.  Because if it <wasn't> one of 
their own . . . .
     Janette didn't want to think about the consequences.  Nicola would only 
interfere, after all.  Try to 'protect' her.  As if she couldn't take care of 
herself?
     But the bouncer shook his head lightly, as if knowing her thoughts.  Of 
course, that would be impossible--he wasn't of her bloodline.  But he was 
astute and very good at reading the expressions and actions of others.  Which 
was why he was so very good at his job.  And . . . certain other things.
     With a sigh, Janette pushed those thoughts from her mind, tapped out her 
cigarette in an ashtray, and made her way through the throng of dancers.  Not 
a bad crowd this night, with more than enough mortals in the place to make the 
air almost oppressive with their heat and vitality.  A glance at the bar as 
she passed boded well--the receipts would be impressive.  A taut smile graced 
her lips as she mentally dared Nicola to match his 'cop' salary against her 
take on even a bad night at the club.
     The stench of garlic in the hallway caused her to turn her head, as she 
made her way through the rear storerooms of the club, to the service entrance.  
As she moved closer the scent grew in intensity, until she was forced to take 
the perfumed handkerchief from her cleavage and raise it to cover her mouth 
and nose.  She sniffed lightly at the sweet scent, glad that the habit she'd 
picked up crossing corpse-strewn battlefields and taverns filled with dirty 
oafs in past centuries had remained with her.
     The bouncer was no more than a step or two behind her.  But as she 
reached the back door he slipped around her.  His opening of the door was a 
courteous gesture, but there was a protective air in it as well.
     Almost immediately, she saw why.  The body outside the door reeked of 
garlic, the clothing dirty and streaked with blood, fresh and dried.  Torn 
flesh was revealed between the gashes in his clothing--knife wounds--and the 
skin, where it was visible, held the bruised marks of fists or other blunt 
instruments.  There was no heat from the body, which would have meant a dead 
mortal.
     Or a vampire who'd been beaten to within an inch of his immortality.
     Janette leaned forward, trying to discern any features beneath the dark 
hair, which glistened with fresh blood.  Seeing her purpose, the bouncer 
touched the body lightly in the ribs with the toe of his sneaker--such a 
charming affectation--and the body elicited a groan, the head turning 
slightly.
     It was enough.  With a hiss, Janette drew back into the Raven.  Her fangs 
descended involuntarily behind the handkerchief she held at her mouth and she 
turned her back to the doorway as ancient angers were stoked to fire within 
her.
     It was Dorian.


     She'd remained close to LaCroix, grabbing onto his tunic sleeve for 
support, although he continually shrugged off her attentions, hissing at her 
to stay calm.  Janette knew she should have taken comfort in the fact that 
LaCroix didn't seem at all unnerved by the group of Enforcers that surrounded 
them.  In fact, he seemed composed, almost amused, his mouth twisting slightly 
at the corner as when he'd discovered some new challenge at which to try his 
hand.
     Maybe that scared her, for even in her brief time with LaCroix--since 
he'd brought her into the darkness--there was little he'd encountered that had 
seemed anything like a challenge.  He was always so secure, so certain of 
himself and his--their--abilities, that she'd seldom felt the fear she'd known 
often enough in her mortal life.
     Until these horrid creatures--of the blood, like themselves--had begun to 
hunt them.
     One of the Enforcers caught her looking at him, at his chalk-white skin 
and long, strong fangs.  He laughed and his smile was enough of a leer that 
she hurriedly wrapped her woolen veil around her head and tried to tuck her 
hands into her long tunic sleeves, which were still knotted from their 
attempted flight.  From the span of the new moon to the waning of the full, 
they'd been chased from city to city, across the Iberian peninsula, to the 
Holy City, and then further south even than that.  Here, in Sicily, they'd 
awakened at sunset to find themselves surrounded.
     Janette dared a glance at LaCroix, still half-expecting to see that look 
of annoyance, as if he was disappointed that the chase had so quickly come to 
an end.  But his features were unchanged, quite calm . . . except for that 
twist of the lip.  Unaccountably, she shivered as they made their way through 
the silent streets, the occasional torch glaring down upon the white skin and 
light armor of their captors.  The softness of their tread did little to ease 
her fear, but she took comfort in the shadows that covered the narrow streets, 
the moon casting little light between the two and even three-story brick and 
plaster merchants' shops.  There was comfort in the darkness, as there was in 
LaCroix's presence.  He'd protect her.
     Or else why would he have saved her in the first place, given her the 
gift of eternal darkness?  With a feeling of pride, she cast him what she 
hoped was a supportive and obedient smile.  He was her master, her maker, her 
protector.
     And yet he never seemed to notice her presence, his eyes focused only on 
the streets ahead, then on the doorway through which they were hustled.  
Lights flared around them, candles taking flame and oil lamps lit as they 
entered.  The sudden fire made her gasp in surprise . . . and fear.  She well 
knew what fire could mean to them; LaCroix had been an excellent tutor on that 
subject, as well as many others.
     He cuffed her lightly on the cheek and glared, warning her to be silent.  
She was too pleased for a moment to have finally gotten his attention and so 
didn't notice how silently and successfully the Enforcers blended into the few 
shadows that were left in the room, the mastery of darkness having been 
banished by that sudden light.
     What she <did> notice was a man who stood in the doorway--vampire, 
rather, for there was a red-gold cast to his eye that was anything but mortal.  
His cloak was green and rich, in the fashion of the wealthy northerners, and 
his tunic was black and heavily embroidered with gold and silver threads.  The 
light from the lamps and candles made his clothing shine and she wondered, if 
briefly, what clothier and tailor he might have found to have done such 
magnificent work.  It seemed a shame to waste such finery on men . . . .
     But then, as he stepped forward, she caught LaCroix's sleeve again.  This 
time, he didn't brush her off, as the stranger advanced toward them.  Instead, 
he placed his hand over her own, his manner more proprietary than protective.
     It didn't much matter to her.  His hand, his presence, gave her strength, 
made her bolder than she should have been.  So she met the stranger's eyes 
evenly, without the demure modesty required of model ladies of noble birth.  
It was her own form of challenge.
     Which the stranger met, his too-red lips quirking into a smile that 
almost mirrored LaCroix's.  He acknowledged her look with a bow and a nod, 
dismissing her that quickly as he turned to face LaCroix, standing so that no 
more than the span of a man's hand stood between them.  "We should have met 
before this, Master LaCroix," said the stranger in a friendly manner.  "I'm 
Dorian, the Archivist."
     LaCroix didn't blink or frown, his lips never moving from that look of 
anticipation.  There was a pause as his eyes met the stranger's and she saw 
them take the measure of one another in less than a mortal's heartbeat.  The 
look sent a chill through her, worse than any raw wind or icy rain.  It was 
their first meeting and yet she saw a line drawn between them, something 
intangible and yet strong as steel.
     For a moment, she didn't think LaCroix was going to answer.  And then, 
his lips parted--
     "I know," he said, in a voice filled with such certitude and strength 
that she wondered how deeply his gaze had gone into the soul of the other.
     And Janette shivered, both at the implied understanding in the statement 
and the cold smile that crossed the Archivist's lips.


     "What do you want me to do with him?" asked the bouncer, moving to her 
shoulder.
     "What, indeed!" she hissed.  She glanced back at the doorway, but the 
stench of garlic rose again, causing her eyes to tear.  Quickly, she raised 
her handkerchief to her lips.
     "Should I--?"
     "Let me <think>, damn you!"  The bouncer backed up at her unaccustomed 
shortness, then gave a slight nod, as if awaiting her pleasure.
     It <was> her pleasure.  Janette moved to a space beyond the doorway, 
where she could see out but the prevailing breeze wouldn't assault her with 
that hideous garlic smell.  And she thought.
     She thought about what Dorian had done to her, so many centuries ago.  
She thought about his arrogance, his cold precision, his dedication to some 
empty, out-dated ideal.  She thought about the days she'd spent in 
helplessness, as he'd tried his will against LaCroix's and failed.  Then the 
days after that, tending to LaCroix, seeing him weak and knowing the hatred in 
his eyes wasn't only for Dorian, but for her, because she'd seen his weakness.  
She thought of how Dorian had been most recently--still arrogant--as he'd 
arrived to interview Nicola.  And how, not too many nights beyond that, she'd 
seen Nicola more dead than undead on the couch in his loft, badly in need of 
blood . . . with Dorian standing over him.
     Her blood boiled, fueled by these memories, pristine from latest to 
oldest, each clear and crisp as the tones of a bell ringing on a winter's 
evening.  If her anger could have set him alight, he would have burst into 
flames and been consumed into less than ash instantly.
     But it couldn't.  And Dorian remained huddled outside her doorway, 
bloody, dirty, and reeking of garlic.
     Gesturing toward the bouncer, she commanded, "Get rid of that stench, 
hose him down or something.  Then drag him in here."  She stalked over to the 
main corridor and picked up the phone she'd installed in the storeroom.  It 
rang once at the bar and the snapping of chewing gum told her exactly who'd 
been unlucky enough to pick up the receiver.  "Alma, I want a case--pure. Two 
blankets.  And two towels."  When the gum snapped again, she barked, "Now!"
     Janette hung up the phone with a satisfied smile, hearing Alma's startled 
shriek from the other room even without the benefit of the modern 
communication's device.  A splash of water against concrete, accompanied by a 
low moan, caught her attention and she returned to the service entrance.
     The bouncer had followed her commands exactly, if not prettily.  She 
kicked an empty bucket to the wall as it dared to roll across her chosen path, 
then stood to one side and watched as the bouncer grabbed Dorian by what was 
left of his jacket collar and hauled him bodily across the threshold.  He was 
dumped unceremoniously on the cement floor, soaking wet.
     She pursed her lips in the wan light and looked pointedly at the slick 
trail of blood and dirt the bouncer's actions had created.  He blanched at the 
look, hurriedly closed the rear door, then hesitated, as if waiting for the 
explosion of her wrath.  After a moment of what would appear indecision, she 
waved him away in disgust.  He bolted for the doorway and she heard the 
clatter of bottles and several unladylike comments from Alma as a minor 
collision was averted in the hall.
     Janette kept her back to Dorian, and to Alma.  Staring at the window, she 
listened, hearing Alma's intake of breath--Alma didn't know who Dorian was, 
but coming across a battered and soaking vampire was always a bit of a shock. 
Alma would be worried, of course.  There was no way of knowing exactly who had 
left the vampire in this condition.  And with Janette standing there--
     There was no need to hide her smile, Alma couldn't see it with her back 
turned.  Janette let her ponder the question for the moment, then decided that 
Alma's limited mental capacity had probably been stretched too far beyond its 
normal limits--any more lessons would probably be a lost cause.
     "Put down the box and leave," instructed Janette, her tone cold and 
sharp.  "You've seen nothing here tonight.  And tell everyone to stay out 
front--I don't want my . . . private party . . . interrupted."
     Alma nodded--Janette had long since learned to distinguish the sound of a 
lone thought being battered around by the movement of the pretty blonde's 
empty head--and her steps were fast and furious, echoing brief seconds after 
the full case of bottles was placed on the floor.
     Now, they were alone.  And would remain alone--Janette was more than a 
little certain Alma's dramatic tales of what little she'd seen would be enough 
to keep the denizens of the club at bay, in fear of their fangs.  She didn't 
need <much> time after all.
     Janette stalked over to the pile of old furniture and refuse.  Her steps 
echoed on the concrete, seconded by the crack of wood as she snapped a leg 
from a broken chair, leaving the end jagged and brimming with splinters.  An 
appraisal told her that it was sharp enough and long enough for her purpose.  
Neatness didn't count for much in this situation.  In fact, the more untidy it 
was, the more fun she might have.
     She eyed Dorian carefully as she turned, but he was still huddled in one 
cold, wet, miserable lump on the floor, seemingly oblivious to her.  "Dorian?" 
she called, her voice sweet and soft.  "Oh, Dorian?"
     An eyelid flickered, then she saw the bit of bright darkness that 
signified his eyes were opening into some state of consciousness.  Heedless of 
her dress, Janette pounced, landing beside him on her knees, the point of the 
chair leg pressed against his chest by one hand and the other on his throat, 
holding him down.  He still smelled of garlic; her skin itched where it 
touched his, but she ignored the sensation, concentrating on his eyes, his 
heartbeat, his terror.
     "You're mine!" she whispered in glee, her lips brushing his ear, tasting 
a speck of blood from a scalp wound.  To prove her power, she pushed the point 
of the chair leg against the skin over his heart, drawing fresh blood from an 
area that was not torn and tattered like the rest.  "I can take your life, 
Dorian.  But if you beg me prettily, I might let you go."  Lifting her hand 
from his throat, she pinned his shoulder as he tried to shift, then stared 
down into his eyes.  "Beg me," she whispered.  "Ask me to spare you.  Or I'll 
end your life <now>!"
     She'd hoped to see fear in his dark eyes--the terror of being at the 
complete mercy of another, the rancid taste of defeat and utter humiliation, 
the torment in knowing that his former captive was now his captor and held his 
life in her hand.
     But . . . he smiled.
     It was a wan smile, to be certain, but a smile just the same.  Just to 
prove to herself that his senses weren't entirely gone, she pressed the sharp 
and splintery point further into his skin--if anything the pain of it should 
bring him around.
     Dorian winced and the smile was a bit more strained, but it was still 
there.  His eyes were half-closed, but in weariness rather than agonized 
dismay.  She realized then that he'd passed beyond the point of feeling pain 
and saw in him some of the despair she'd seen in the aftermaths of Nicola's 
defeats, when LaCroix had found him, conquered him, reclaimed him as one of 
the blood.
     Still, Janette stared down at him, almost dumbfounded.  "I could kill 
you, now.  Don't you care?"  Her heart leapt as his lips moved, as he tried to 
form words.  Her ears ached to hear his pleas for mercy, for salvation.
     "It would be . . . a kindness."
     His eyes closed, after he spoke.  For a long moment she stared down at 
him, the timbre of his voice ringing too many somber chimes within her memory, 
too many echoes of Nicola at his most forlorn.  Dorian's body would heal with 
time and blood, and not too much of either at that, but there was something in 
his spirit that was wounded and festering. Thwarted of her vengeance, she 
placed both hands on the make-shift stake and held it over his heart, knowing 
that--as he'd said--it <would> be a kindness to free him from this place, this 
existence.
     This wasn't fun.  Frowning, she looked down at her hands and mentally 
reviewed the steps she'd taken, had learned so diligently from LaCroix.  
Everything had been <perfect>.  Except, of course, for the fact that for a 
victim to plead for his life, he must want to live.
     Dorian didn't really seem to care one way or the other.  Which meant that 
if she was ever going to get her revenge, she'd have to <make> him care.
     Growling, Janette lifted the stake from his chest and tossed it angrily 
across the room--her throw so hard that it splintered against the wall and 
broke further, into smaller, sharper shards.  "I'm not <that> kind."
     Her dress, of course, was ruined.  She rose to her feet and wiped at it 
ineffectually as she walked over to the case of blood.  Grabbing two bottles, 
the blankets, and the towels, she returned to Dorian's side.  The first 
blanket she tossed on the floor beyond him, then rolled him onto it with the 
toe of her very expensive and very blood stained shoe.  The second blanket was 
folded deftly and neatly into a pillow, which she placed beneath his head.
     There was enough water on him for her to clean some of the grime and 
garlic-crusted blood from his face with the edge of a towel.  Janette then 
pulled the cork from a bottle.  Placing a hand beneath his head and raising 
him easily enough, she put the bottle to his lips.  At first she only 
moistened them, letting him taste the blood.  His tongue flicked out over the 
water-wet skin, catching a drop or two.  It was all that was needed for the 
blood-hunger would set in.  His body knew what it required to survive, it only 
had to be reminded.
     He wasn't so far gone that he could deny instinct, but his hand raised 
weakly for the bottle, then fell away, unable to complete the task.  Janette 
cradled his head against her and tilted the bottle, giving him just enough, a 
swallow at a time.  As he drank, she tried to concentrate on the task at hand, 
tried to make certain he didn't drink too greedily or too slowly, didn't cough 
up a mouthful of blood.  Not that it mattered to her--her dress was destined 
for the furnace, spots of blood being damned annoying and nearly impossible to 
get out.
     Dorian's eyes opened again only as she took the bottle away.  Janette 
touched her finger to his lips and said softly, "Just rest a moment.  You'll 
have your fill in time."  On impulse, she traced the line of his jaw, noting 
the deep bruising that was already beginning to heal.
     He was now able to raise his hand enough to catch hers, his eyes holding 
a gratitude that made her uneasy.  "Thank you," he whispered, his voice 
hoarse.
     "For what?  I would've done the same for any of the blood."
     Her tone was meant to be cold, dismissive, but Dorian merely smiled 
again.  "More kind than kin."
     Ignoring him, she picked up the towel and dabbed at some of the cuts 
along his arm, which caused him to wince.  "Garlic," he explained weakly, as 
she raised an eyebrow.  "In the . . . wound."
     Janette hissed beneath her teeth, pulling back her hand as if burned.  No 
wonder he'd smelled like a garlic field in flower . . . and his wounds were 
not only causing him pain, but healing so slowly!  This was nasty business.  
In fact, the only members of the blood who'd even consider such a punishment 
might be LaCroix or--
     Her eyes widened and she glared down at him.  "Did the Enforcers follow 
you here?"
     "No," he said quickly, looking away.  "No, they--they didn't follow me 
here."
     She slapped his cheek lightly, then rested red-lacquered nails on the 
soft skin of his throat in warning.  "Dorian--?"
     "No," he repeated sharply.  It was only then that he turned his head 
again, to meet her eyes.  "Why . . . the Enforcers?"
     "There's been talk that you've been naughty and are out of favor."
     "Has there?"  He closed his eyes and sighed wearily.  "More than talk."
     "As I suspected."  Janette bit her lip and studied his face--handsome in 
its own way, but she'd seen it in too many unpleasant contexts.  A shiver ran 
through her as older memories resurfaced.
     Dorian's eyes opened quickly.  "What?"
     There was some life in them, some spark in his gaze now that had been 
missing before.  Of course, she'd shattered the stake.  And she was too worn 
out from playing nurse-maid to <really> enjoy tormenting him . . . .  
     "You can't stay here," she said, after a moment's pause--no use lying to 
him, since he'd know immediately whether she was telling the truth-- avoiding 
an answer to his question.  "I don't want <them> around the club."
     "Then do me two favors."  When she hesitated, he added quickly, "It won't 
endanger you.  Or . . . the club."
     He coughed midway through the latter sentence.  As Janette reached for 
the second bottle, Dorian pushed it away, asking, "Two favors?"
     "Let me hear them before I decide," she demanded, putting a note of steel 
into her voice just to let him know she was neither to be bullied nor trifled 
with.
     Dorian nodded solemnly.  "Call Dr. Lambert."
     "Call . . . Dr. Lambert."  Janette blinked.  "And the second?"
     "Don't tell Nick Knight."
     "Don't--?"  She watched his face, but his solemn expression never 
shifted, there wasn't a twitch of a muscle.  "And what, precisely, am I <not> 
to tell Nicola?  That I called Dr. Lambert?  Or that you've been here?"
     "Neither.  Both."  His eyes closed again and he leaned back against her, 
suddenly seeming weary beyond words, as if the strength was draining from him.
     "That's all?"
     "Yes."
     Janette hesitated, considering his request.  What Nicola's coroner friend 
had to do with all this was beyond her, but letting Natalie deal with Dorian--
and the Enforcers who might be pursuing him--suited her far better than having 
those fiends roaming through her club.  She had her own to protect now and 
mortal patrons might just be a bit put out if they were treated like the happy 
hour drink special.
     As far as not telling Nicola . . . what could it hurt?  If anything, the 
consequences would be on Natalie's head.  Any mortal foolish enough to be 
involved with the affairs of vampires deserved exactly what she got.
     "All right," she said softly.  "I'll call Dr. Lambert.  And Nicola won't 
hear a thing from me about any of this, but--" she warned, as a smile stole 
across his lips, "if he asks--"
     "Tell him," said Dorian sleepily.  "You mustn't . . . lie for me."
     "My thoughts exactly."  Janette lowered his head to the pillow with more 
care than she was wont to take with anything, then, as an afterthought, threw 
the edges of the rough blanket around him.  Rising again, she looked down at 
him and touched a finger to her lips in thought.
     To agree with Dorian's two requests was easy.  Too easy.  She might have 
her revenge after all, if Dorian planned to play with Natalie Lambert behind 
Nicola's back.  Certainly, Nicola would be hurt, but then he'd need 
comforting.  And she knew very well where he'd come for that . . . .
     Janette smiled and all but ran to the hall phone, just at the doorway of 
the rear storeroom.  She dialed the Coroner's Office number from memory, then 
stood, tapping her painted nails against the cement wall as the phone rang.  
Glancing back over her shoulder, she considered how well timed this had been--
she could have her revenge and it had cost her nothing more than a case of 
blood, two blankets, two towels, a dress, and a pair of shoes!  Cheap, at 
twice the price.
     Dorian was quiet, his labored breathing punctuated by an occasional moan.  
The sound gave her a moment's hesitation.
     But the pause was only that long, when her anger rose again at the sight 
of him, at the memories his presence stirred to life.  Her smile grew sharper 
and colder as she watched him, only half-aware that she'd muttered, "Dr. 
Lambert, please," when the receptionist had answered, the connection ringing 
in her ear.
     Foolish, foolish Dorian, to have called her 'kind.'  Had he never heard 
of the unkindness of ravens?

CHAPTER 2

     "You don't look good."
     Natalie removed the palms of her hands from her eyes--even though the 
pressure seemed to increase in the area of her frontal lobes at the movement--
and glared up at Nick.  He leaned down over her desk with a sympathetic smile.
     It took all of her willpower not to smack it from his face.  "<I>," she 
announced sharply, "have a headache."  When his lips parted, she pointed a 
finger at him, warning, "And if you tell me you don't get them, I'm sure as 
hell going to give you one!"
     Nick held his hands up in mock surrender, but when she didn't smile, his 
eyes narrowed in concern.  "Have you taken something for it?"
     "Everything within legal and medical boundaries.  It was there when I 
woke up this morning."  Natalie closed her eyes for a second, then opened them 
again and blinked, having found that seemed to ease the throbbing somewhat.  
"Nothing's working at the moment.  At least it's only an annoyance, not a 
migraine."
     "So, go home."
     "I'm waiting for the blood sample results from the Impala."  She met his 
eyes.  "I saw the scene photos taken by the Burlington police department--I 
can't believe they got <anything> off that car."
     "It <was> stripped clean," admitted Nick.  Seating himself on the edge of 
her desk, he shrugged.  "But the VIN matches--it's Jeff Bartnichak's car.  If 
it's his blood, this goes from missing persons to homicide."
     "That's why I'm waiting--I know how much is riding on this one."  Natalie 
managed the faintest of hopeful smiles for his benefit.  "Anyone could have 
stolen that car.  The blood could be from one of the kids who stripped it, 
there's a lot of chance for injury.  Have you--uh--seen Ed?"
     Nick shook his head slightly, as if dismayed.  "Hard <not> to.  He's been 
haunting the station."
     "You can't blame him.  Any word on his brother is better than this . . . 
not knowing."
     Nick intertwined his fingers and stared down at them a second, then 
looked back at her.  "Even being told that Jeff's dead?  That the blood on the 
car was his?"
     "Blood doesn't mean there's a body to be found--"
     "No, it doesn't."  Nick still held her gaze.  "You tell me--<is> it 
better to know for certain?  Or to not know?"
     Natalie met his eyes and thought about the question, not at all sure that 
he was asking about Jeff and Ed Bartnichak.  "I think . . . it depends on the 
circumstances.  And the people involved.  I'd only worked with Ed a few times 
before he resigned and I met Jeff maybe twice at the division picnics.  How 
close were they?"
     "Ed raised his brother after their father was killed."
     "Their dad was a sergeant wasn't he?  Shot in the line of duty?"
     "Long before my time," noted Nick.  "Or yours."
     That brought a smile to her lips--the thought that even though she'd been 
at her job longer than Nick, there were people in both the Coroner's Office 
and the divisions it aided that had spent a lifetime serving and protecting 
the citizens of Toronto.  The Bartnichaks were police blue, down to the bone.  
Jeff's disappearance had been given top priority in all divisions and 
departments for the first few weeks.  Even now, two months later, when other 
cases would have slowed to a crawl or been buried by more recent problems, 
this one was still on the top of everyone's list.
     "I don't know," she answered, pausing again.  "If I raised someone, cared 
for them for all that time, I think I'd want to know.  I think I'd <have> to 
know, before being able to get on with my life."
     "But," countered Nick, "there's always hope that they're still alive, 
that they'll come walking through that door at any moment.  Isn't that worth 
something?"
     Natalie looked away, not certain what thoughts were behind that blue 
gaze.  Every now and again, Nick got into a funk about something.  Jeff 
Bartnichak's disappearance seemed to have struck a chord.  She knew Nick had 
made some rather abrupt departures from other places, in other times.  And for 
some reason he'd begun to realize that there were people he'd left behind, 
people who wore the same anguished face, spoke in the same weary but hopeful 
tones as did Ed, Jeff's brother.
     But what worried her was the possibility that he was feeling out her 
thoughts on the matter for a reason.  Maybe Nick had accepted the 
inevitability of his having to leave her behind some day.  And he was trying 
to decide on the best way to do it.
     She closed her eyes and massaged the throbbing spot between them, not 
knowing what to say.  The more he dwelt on the impossible nature of the task 
he'd set himself--to cross back into mortality--the more unlikely it was to 
happen and the more difficult her job became.  How could she find a cure if he 
didn't believe one existed?  She knew how attitude affected a patient's 
ability to heal, as did any physician.  Just as she knew that a doctor's 
ability to effect a cure could be as strongly affected by the patient's 
attitude as the patient himself.
     "Nick, I've already <got> a headache," she said sharply, opening her eyes 
into slits and fixing him with her gaze.  "You're making it worse."
     "Where does it hurt?"
     She pointed to her forehead, between her eyes.  "Here."
     To her surprise, Nick leaned forward and kissed the spot, then moved back 
and asked, "Better?"
     She couldn't help but smile.  "It's no miracle cure, but I'll survive."  
Natalie sat back in her chair and picked up a pencil from her desk.  "Why's Ed 
bothering <you>?  He should know it's not your jurisdiction.  And he resigned-
-what--two years ago?  Just after you came on the force, right?"
     Again, Nick shrugged.  "Once a cop, always a cop."  He rubbed his chin 
with the top of his fist and looked away, his expression thoughtful.  "We'll 
have to see how long that lasts.  Maybe a couple of centuries."
     "Once a knight, always a knight?" mocked Natalie lightly, trying to keep 
him from falling into brooding again.
     It worked--he grinned at her.  "We'll see.  As for jurisdiction--they 
found the car in Burlington, Vermont, which means the FBI is involved.  The 
RCMP's are involved.  And half of the local jurisdictions between here and 
there.  If we found a body and could prove that he'd been killed here, in 
Toronto . . . ?"  Nick shook his head.  "Can't do much more than keep tabs on 
it, keep looking--"
     "And keep Ed from doing something stupid."  When Nick raised an eyebrow, 
she added, "Well, he's a private investigator, isn't he?"
     "Does a lot of work for security firms, employee theft and such.  Pretty 
successful, from what I hear.  He's trying to talk Schanke into going to work 
for him."  He slid from the desk and smiled again.  "No leads, there.  We 
<have> been doing our homework, <Detective> Lambert."
      "That's not what I mean."  Natalie rose from her chair, her headache 
abating slightly, and walked over to the filing cabinet.  "I just think you 
should be careful."
     Nick followed.  "In what way?"
     "With Ed.  I remember what he was like.  He doesn't let go of something 
when he thinks he's on the right track--even when someone proves him wrong."  
She picked up the clipboard from the filing cabinet and glanced over the test 
the lab was supposed to return this evening.
     "That made him a good cop.  And a good P.I."
     "And dangerous."  Natalie turned and bit her lip, then added, "He's 
fingered the wrong suspect before, Nick."
     "We all make mistakes."
     "But <we> don't destroy evidence to back them up."
     There, she'd said it.  Nick's eyes widened and he took a step toward her.  
"Ed Bartnichak destroyed evidence on one of his cases?"
     Natalie met his gaze and hesitated again.  "It's . . . rumor.  None were 
my cases.  But I know that evidence from a scene was tampered with between the 
scene and here.  Some items disappeared entirely.  And . . . it wasn't a one 
shot deal."
     "Then, his resignation might have been forced?  Why didn't you tell me 
this?"
     "I thought you <knew>.  And then, when I realized you didn't--"  Sighing, 
Natalie took the clipboard back to her desk and fell into her chair, suddenly 
weary again.  "Look, it's just rumor, okay?  That's why it took so long for 
the alarm to sound when Jeff disappeared from the police academy.  Everyone 
knew Ed had put a lot of pressure on him to graduate with honors.  A lot of 
people assumed that Jeff just took off."
     Nick nodded, his expression thoughtful.  "And that's why Ed <has> to 
prove it was foul play--to save face."
     "He won't look kindly on anyone who suggests otherwise," she warned.  "I 
know he's got to be investigating this on his own time.  I may be 
overprotective--hell, it may be this damned headache--but . . . . be careful 
around Ed.  Nick, you take enough chances as it is.  And if Ed thinks there's 
anything off about you--"
     "Yes, mother."
     His grin could get so damned irritating.  Natalie picked up the clipboard 
and swatted him.  "Go back to work and leave me alone.  I'll send over a copy 
of the test results when they get here."
     "And then you'll go home?" he pressed.  When she hesitated, Nick leaned 
toward her, over her desk.  "Because I'll call Grace.  And <she'll> tell me."
     "You fink."  With a sigh, Natalie relented and leaned back in her chair.  
"Yes, I'll go home."  He'd turned to leave when she snapped her fingers and 
reached behind her, for the styrofoam coffee cup.  "Nick, one more thing--?"
     By the time he turned, she was holding aloft a plastic speciman baggie 
filled with water . . . and containing a small goldfish.
     Nick eyed the bag suspiciously as he took a step toward her.  "You want 
me to drop off Sidney's dinner?"
     "No.  It's the next step in your treatment."
     "Nat--I don't eat fish."
     With another sigh, she rose to her feet and walked over to him.  Lifting 
his hand, she transferred the bag to him, closing his fingers over the plastic 
tie at the top.  "It's a <pet>."
     "A . . . pet."
     "It's time we got something else living in that wasteland you call a 
loft, other than dust mites."  Returning to her chair, she rested her elbow on 
the desk and watched him, watching the fish.  "I thought about plants, but 
you'd have your cleaning people water them for you.  I wanted something you'd 
have to care for by yourself, something that <moved>."
     "A . . . goldfish."
     She grinned, seeing the idea slowly sinking in past his thick 'don't you 
dare move that chair' skin.  "We'll start you off slow.  Maybe move you up to 
a hamster by next year if you cooperate."
     Finally, Nick looked at her, grimacing.  "But fish . . . smell."
     "Only when they're dead.  And--" she pointed to the bag, which he held 
with such dread that it might have contained unprotected plutonium, "this one 
isn't.  I expect you to keep it alive."
     "I don't think I'm ready for this."  His eyes narrowed and he looked at 
her suspiciously.  "This doesn't have anything to do with the fact that you've 
got a headache, does it?"
     "I've been planning this for a while," she admitted.  "If you want to 
cross over, you have to change your way of thinking.  Having to care for 
something alive and--more or less--breathing might just help with the 
transition."
     "Are you . . . that close?"
     There was such hope in those few words and it was so much of a contrast 
to his mood of only a few moments earlier that Natalie felt a lump rise in her 
throat.  She wanted to tell him 'yes,' to throw her arms around him and 
promise him that she'd have him walking under the sun in a day, or a month, or 
a year.
     But she wasn't about to give him false hope.  She wasn't going to lie to 
him.  Not now, now that they <knew> it was possible.  "No," she admitted, 
trying to keep her tone light.  "But you need to start your conditioning soon.  
We have to ease you back into the mundane, humdrum, mortal world."
     Nick looked at the bag in his hand, which hadn't moved from the instant 
she'd closed his fingers over it.  "And you think a goldfish will do this?"
     "Well, I can't think of anything <more> mundane."  Natalie picked up a 
slip of paper from her desk and held it out to him.  "It's still early--I 
suggest you stop off at a pet shop on the way to the station.  I wrote down 
some things you'll need."
     Barely moving the bag containing the fish, he reached over with his free 
hand and took the paper from her, then peered at it.  "Fish food, a bowl--"
     "No fifty gallon tank," she warned.  "Keep it simple.  Some colored sand 
in the bottom, maybe one of those little castles for him to swim through . . . 
."
     His eyes widened and Nick glanced at the bag again.  "How do you know 
it's a him?"
     "I don't."  When he met her eyes, she smiled and shrugged.  "It's one of 
the mysteries of goldfish.  The pet store clerk can probably tell you."
     "I'm not sure that's something I <want> to know."  Nick continued to 
stare at the fish, getting up enough nerve to turn the bag slightly as it swam 
back and forth inside the confined area.  "What's its name?"
     "That's up to you."
     "You mean, I actually get some say in this?"
     Blowing a raspberry, Natalie rose to her feet and stalked toward him, her 
hand reaching out to take the goldfish bag from him.  "If you don't want it--"
     But Nick moved it above her reach and backed up a step, saying, "No, no . 
. . it's okay.  Just give me a chance to get used to the idea."  He lowered 
the bag to eye level and watched the fish for a moment.  "A name.  I'll have 
to give it some thought."
     The phone on Natalie's desk buzzed.  She lifted the receiver and seated 
herself on the edge of the desk as Grace said, "Nat, there's a call for you on 
line two.  It's on hold."
     She glanced down at the phone pad, saw the second button lit, and 
answered, "Thanks, Grace."  Then Natalie dropped the phone in the receiver and 
smiled at Nick, who was now entranced by the goldfish.  "Just don't wait too 
long.  It'll be all right in the bag for a while, but it'll need a bowl soon."
     "Yeah.  Okay."  Her smile grew wider as he barely moved his eyes from the 
bag.  "I have to get back to the station.  Hope you feel better."
     "So do I," she answered fervently.
     Nick looked up at that, then covered the few steps between them in a 
heartbeat and kissed her on the forehead again.  "Just in case," he said, 
before turning and heading for the door.
     "No fair asking Schanke for help," Natalie called after him.  "And if you 
name it 'Goldie,' I'm taking it back to the store!"
     She didn't know if he'd heard her, but she managed to keep the smile on 
her face until after she was certain that he was gone.  Only then did she 
wince and press her palm against her forehead--God, did her head hurt!  She 
was more than ready to call it a night and if this was the lab on line two--
     Not up to par, she answered in as civil a tone as she could muster, "Dr. 
Lambert--"
     "Dr. Lambert?  Yes.  This is Janette."
     Instantly, Natalie's gaze went to the door.  "Nick's just left.  Were you 
looking for him?"
     "No!" said Janette quickly, but then her voice softened and she added, 
"No, thank you.  I wanted to speak with <you>.  You're certain he's gone?"
     "Yes."
     "Good.  I don't think you want him to overhear what I have to tell you."
     Natalie pressed her palm harder against her forehead and wished 
desperately that Janette would cut to the chase.  "Which is?"
     "Dorian's here.  He's asked me to phone you."
     They weren't so many words, but the reactions they elicited ran the gamut 
of fear, to anger, to loathing, to . . . something that she wasn't quite ready 
to give a name to.  "And?"
     "He's in rather a bad way.  Will you come?"
     Natalie's breath caught in her throat, she was still trying to get over 
the initial shock of Janette's calm announcement--why not just say the 
building was on fire and all the exits were blocked?  "Bad way?  What do you 
mean?"
     "I can't discuss it over the phone."  Janette gave an annoyed and 
exasperated sigh.  "Will you take him off my hands or shall I throw him into 
the street to fend for himself?"
     "Yes.  No.  I'll--I'll be there in a few minutes."
     "Good," purred Janette.  "Use the service entrance and pull your car into 
the alley--I don't think you'll want to take the chance of being observed.  
May I suggest covering your upholstery with plastic?  He's something of a 
mess."
     Natalie had only <thought> her head hurt before.  Because now--  "All 
right.  But--?"
     "I assume you know enough not to mention anything to Nicola?  It would 
only upset him.  And I do so dislike seeing him upset.  <Au revoir.>"
     "Janette?"
     The phone clicked and then a dialtone rang in her ear.
     Natalie was stunned, but only for a moment.  Instinct kicked in and she 
picked up her medical bag, shoving supplies into it as she crossed the room.  
Blood wasn't necessary--she'd be at the Raven and Janette would supply what 
she'd need, if she'd need any.  Body bags could be opened to cover the rear 
seats; Dorian could lie there easily enough.  What could have happened to him?
     And why, after what he'd put her through, was she even <thinking> about 
helping him?
     The thought made Natalie pause, half in the process of shoving a folded 
body bag into her carry-all.  She was doing this because of the oath she'd 
taken to heal the sick, no matter who or what they might be.  Because he'd 
helped her save Nick's life, when she couldn't have done it by herself.  
Because . . . .
     Because he'd asked for her.
     Shaking her head, Natalie shoved the rest of the bag into her case and 
closed it.  Better not to think, for now.  She grabbed her purse from behind 
her desk, then headed for the door at a run.
     But stopped, slowing, as she moved through the doorwat and into the outer 
office.  
     Grace looked up from her desk with a sympathetic smile.  "Girl, have you 
<finally> come to your senses and decided to go home?"
     It was a good explanation.  A <great> explanation.  The fact that it was 
a lie didn't matter.
     Not really.
     "Yes, yes I am," she said weakly, managing yet another wan smile.  "This 
. . . headache . . . ."
     "Take my advice," said Grace.  "Feed the cat, turn off the lights, and 
get some shut-eye."
     "Exactly what I'm going to do," agreed Natalie.  She glanced back at the 
lab door over her shoulder.  "Uh, I promised Nick, the lab sample from the 
Impala--"
     "I'll send copies to the station.  You take a sick day," chided Grace.  
"It's not worth driving yourself into the ground.  Take care of <yourself> for 
a change."
     "I'm trying.  Really.  Thanks."  Natalie wandered out to the hallway 
until she knew she was out of sight, then raced for the door to the parking 
lot.  There was no way of knowing how long Janette's feelings of hospitality 
would last.
     Her thoughts were confused as she fumbled with her keys.  Natalie opened 
the front passenger door, tossed her purse and medical bag onto the seat, then 
leaned inside and unlocked the rear passenger door.  Pulling two of the body 
bags from the carry-all, she shook them open, unzipped them, then placed them 
across the back seat, until the upholstery was covered.  At this rate, she'd 
have to order more body bags.  But at least her seats were protected.  How bad 
could it be?  What could have happened to Dorian?
     Why should she care?
     She slammed the passenger doors at the last thought, regretting the 
action instantly as the throbbing increased in her head.  Grumbling beneath 
her breath, Natalie fished the keys out of her pocket again, opened the 
driver's door and slid behind the wheel.
     The drive to the Raven wasn't very long.  She had to pass the ninety-
sixth division station to get there.  And she conveniently forgot to make the 
correct turn, which meant going out of her way for a few blocks, around the 
station . . . .
     Who was she kidding?  She knew Nick would be at the station right now; 
all she needed was him spotting her on her way to the Raven, after she'd 
promised to go right home.  She didn't want to keep secrets from Nick.  She 
didn't want hurt feelings getting in the way of communication again--the last 
time he'd nearly gotten himself killed, for God's sake!  And she'd actually 
<let> Dorian--
     Shivering, Natalie decided not to think about it.  She'd tell Nick that 
Dorian was back . . . but only after she took stock of the situation and knew 
what was going on.  He had Ed Bartnichak to deal with, along with several 
other open cases.  The last thing he needed was to worry about Dorian.  And 
what did he have to worry about, after all?  Supposedly, Dorian had given Nick 
an ace card, a secret that Nick could use to destroy him . . . as if Nick ever 
would.  In the end Dorian had done them a favor, he'd told them in no 
uncertain terms that a vampire had crossed back to mortality, that Nick's 
dream was more than possible, that it had <happened>.
     The two weeks after Dorian left had been glorious.  Nick had been 
astoundingly cheerful; he'd ribbed Schanke unmercifully about his choice of 
tie or music, conned her into an afternoon of mystery videos and then told her 
exactly who the murderer was just before the end--and that after swearing that 
he'd never seen any of the movies before.  He'd even taken her to dinner on 
the wharf--their dinner breaks just happened to coincide one evening.  Even 
though it was only take-away fish and chips she considered it a major event 
because he'd actually bought his own and <tried> it.  The seagulls had gotten 
ninety percent of what he didn't eat or spit out, but still . . . it was a 
step in the right direction.  He had hope again.   
     But that was only the first few weeks.  When no breakthrough seemed 
imminent, he began to brood.  And with all that had happened since then--their 
inability to find out exactly what had happened to Jeff Bartnichak was only 
the latest in a long line of terrible events--his faith began to falter.  Nick 
grew more and more pessimistic about finding a cure, and even she'd begun to 
doubt her line of research, her attempted treatments, and even the validity of 
her results.  The goldfish was the first time in a long time she'd really seen 
him at all interested in her treatments.  She'd have declared it a success at 
the start if it wasn't for this damned headache.
     And receiving the call from Janette about Dorian . . . .
     She steered the car into the alley behind the Raven, parking it just in 
front of the service entrance.  Slinging her purse over one shoulder, Natalie 
picked up the handle of her medical bag, leaving the car unlocked.  She walked 
to the heavy metal door, noticing that the ground outside it was wet.  It 
hadn't rained in days . . . and was that blood mixed in with the water?
     Tilting her head, she sniffed and looked around, certain that she smelled 
Italian food, then passed it off as some refuse in one of the dumpsters.  Not 
even Janette would be so desperate for camouflage that she'd locate her club 
near any restaurant that specialized in garlic foods.  Knowing her, she'd pass 
quite a wad of money around to prevent such an occurrence in her chosen 
neighborhood, in an attempt to keep the area vampire-friendly.
     Natalie banged on the door with her knuckles and stepped to one side, the 
hollow metallic clang setting her head throbbing again.  She pressed her 
fingers against her forehead and caught sight of a puddle on the ground.  Even 
in the darkness, she could make out the thin red that drifted along with the 
oil from the tar.  It <was> blood . . . .
     She was on the verge of kneeling down and taking a closer look when the 
door opened, just a crack.  Janette looked out, almost fearfully, but 
straightened as soon as she spotted Natalie.  Immediately assuming the air of 
the propietress of the Raven, she leaned against the edge of the door, an 
eyebrow raised in challenge.  "You took your time."
     "You've got enough of it to spare, why complain?"  Noting the bloodstains 
that spotted Janette's very chic and expensive black dress, Natalie hesitated 
before adding any further comment.
     Following her gaze, Janette smiled.  Then she stepped forward and placed 
her hand against Natalie's taupe work blouse and pushed her back a step.  "I'm 
not in the habit of giving advice--"
     Natalie shrugged off Janette's hand angrily.  "That's all right--I'm not 
in the habit of listening to it."
     "--But before you do this--think carefully."  Janette's blue eyes, lined 
with dark mascara, weren't as threatening as she'd anticipated.  Even her tone 
was . . . concerned.  "It's the last warning I'll give you.  For Nicola's 
sake."
     "I'm not very good about warnings, either."
      Janette's lips curled into a sharp smile and she gave Natalie a 
measuring stare.  "You can't say I didn't warn you.  Remember that, when it 
all comes crashing down on your pretty mortal head."  Stepping back into the 
entrance, Janette opened the door wider.
     For a moment, Natalie hesitated.  She watched Janette, but could see 
little or nothing as the vampiress blended into the darkness.  Janette, of 
course, could see her <perfectly>.
     A shiver started through her, but Natalie steeled herself and clasped the 
handle of her medical bag tightly.  She almost scurried into the darkness, 
suddenly feeling very vulnerable and unprotected in the alley.
     Unfortunately, just after she entered the storeroom, Janette closed the 
door behind her, leaving her feeling even more vulnerable--she couldn't see a 
damned or undead thing in the pitch blackness.
     "Where <are> my manners?" asked Janette, in a dry tone of voice, from 
behind Natalie's shoulder.  "One often forgets the limitations of mortals."
     There was a click of a light switch and a small overhead bulb gleamed.  
Natalie glared at Janette, then took a quick look around the storeroom.  It 
was filled with boxes, odd pieces of bric-a-brac--nothing like the back room 
she'd seen the last time she'd been at the Raven.  That time, too, she'd been 
brought by a phone call from Janette.  And Nick had been--
     She closed her eyes, trying to compose herself, to keep herself from 
being shaken by the memory of Nick out of control.  When she opened them, 
Janette was watching her, a taut smile on her lips.  "You should visit more 
often."
     "It's not my kind of place," said Natalie lightly.  "No offense."
     "None taken. Although, you really <should> give it a try.  You never know 
what you might like, until you've tried it."  Janette gestured with her hand, 
then took a step forward.
     Natalie fell in behind her, suddenly realizing the garlic scent had grown 
in intensity.  And there was a trail of blood and water across the cement that 
led from the doorway to--
     She fell to her knees beside Dorian the moment she reached him, tossing 
aside her purse and letting her medical bag drop to the floor with a thump.  
He'd been wrapped in a coarse, thick woolen blanket and was curled into a 
ball, shivering.  The stench of garlic and blood was so thick, she felt her 
stomach flip.
     "Not a pretty sight, is he?" commented Janette, from behind her.
     She didn't like the fact that he was shivering--vampires didn't feel 
temperature extremes as much as mortals.  Touching the blanket, she realized 
it was wet--<he> was wet.  But that still wouldn't account for the shivering.
     With her hand on his shoulder, she tried to force him to lie on his back.  
His face had been cleaned off, faint scars indicating cuts that had already 
begun to heal.  Natalie touched the back of her hand to his forehead--his skin 
was cold and clammy.  As he turned his head, she realized that his hair was 
wet, plastered to his skull by water and blood.
     "What'd you do, have a near miss with a Cessna and take a header into 
Lake Ontario?" she asked beneath her breath, as she started to pull aside the 
blanket.
     Janette coughed lightly.  When Natalie turned to look at her, she cleared 
her throat.  "He reeked of garlic.  We couldn't touch him.  I thought it best 
he be brought inside, so--"
     She stared at Janette a moment, then bit back her immediate response and 
returned her attention to her patient.  She didn't really have time to take a 
pulse--not with one beat every ten or eleven minutes.  And even though she was 
probably the foremost mortal expert on treating assorted vampire injuries, she 
still didn't have a clue as to what she was doing.
     Dorian's eyelashes flickered.  Taking that as a good sign, she touched 
his cheek gently, tapping it with her fingers, trying to rouse him to some 
sort of consciousness.  "Dorian?  Can you hear me?"
     His eyelids opened almost lazily, as if he were drowsy.  He half-smiled, 
seeing her.  "You're . . . here."
     The words was hoarse and low--there was a rattling quality to his voice 
that she didn't much like.  Even though his eyes seemed focused, she didn't 
see any gold or red, and they appeared glazed.  "Let me take a look at you," 
she said softly.  "Just relax for a moment.  Then we'll get you cleaned up and 
comfortable.  All right?"
     Dorian didn't answer, merely moved his head slightly against her hand in 
assent, his eyes closing almost immediately.  He might be asleep or 
unconscious--there didn't seem to be that much difference between the two in 
vampire physiology.  And there were times when Nick was wide awake, but said 
such stupid things that she would have <sworn> there was no one home . . . .
     "Classic symptoms of shock from blood loss," she muttered to herself, as 
she eased back the blanket that covered him.  She'd seen the blood in the 
alley and the trail of it across the cement floor--Dorian was leaking like a 
sieve.  So why wasn't his body making any attempt to heal itself . . . ?
     The garlic smell was amplified a hundred times as the wet and bloodied 
blanket fell away and she heard Janette let out a muttered oath in French.  
Natalie ignored the vampire behind her, professional curiosity getting the 
better of her as she automatically began to identify the size and type of 
wounds.
     The knife wounds were first--the cut clothing a good giveaway that the 
blade had been fairly clean and sharp for at least the first half-dozen 
strikes.  She lost count somewhere about forty.  Bruises consistent with the 
use of brass knuckles were also apparent when she pulled back shards of his 
shirt that hadn't been shredded by the knife.
     The wounds hadn't even begun to heal, the cuts still welling with fresh, 
wet, barely congealed blood.  If not for that, she would have guessed the 
attack had occurred several hours ago.  But with the fresh blood--
     Natalie sat back on her heels and took a deep breath, amazed at the 
sinister brutality of his attackers--she guessed more than one because of the 
spacing of the wounds and the various depths and degree of the bruising.  This 
hadn't been the result of a casual brawl.  No thug or mugger in his right mind 
would bother coating a knife blade or brass knuckles with garlic . . . unless 
he was going after a vampire.  And, to add injury to insult, she was pretty 
certain the gray-white residue clumped in his wet clothing was garlic salt or 
powder that been sprinkled into the wounds after the attack.
     Of <course> Dorian was shivering--he was suffering from garlic poisoning.  
The shock, his inability to heal, the fresh blood . . . .
     She struggled to her feet angrily and turned to face Janette--only to 
find another vampire in the doorway.  He was quite large, a scowl on his face 
as she stalked toward Janette.
     "Who did this to him?" she demanded, pointing at Dorian.  "You?"
     Janette leaned against the doorjamb and took a drag from the cigarette 
Natalie hadn't even noticed her light.  "I <could> have done this--and believe 
me, I have good reason--but then why would I have called you here?"  She 
lifted the cigarette to her lips and shrugged.  "My guess is the Enforcers."
     The large vampire in the doorway hissed at the word.  Janette shot him an 
annoyed glance, but her face was composed as she looked back to Natalie and 
asked politely, "You <do> know about them, don't you?"
     "Yes."  Natalie cleared her throat, her gaze going back to Dorian.  "I 
know."
     "Nicola has more common sense than I gave him credit for."  She stepped 
past Natalie and flicked the ash of her cigarette to the floor, not far from 
Dorian.  "As hunters know their prey, so prey should know the hunters."
     She swallowed another answer, knowing that ignoring Janette's barbed 
comments would antagonize her more than any sharp response.  "Do you know why 
they tried to kill him?"
     An eyebrow raised in surprise, Janette gave a short laugh.  "If they'd 
wanted to destroy him, he wouldn't be here.  This is their form of a warning."  
She continued to walk around Dorian, as if studying him.  "From what I've 
heard, they'd be happy to see him gone.  But before they could dispose of him 
without any . . . difficulties, they'd need a good reason.  A <very> good 
reason."
     "If he broke the Code?"
     Janette looked up quickly, then walked away as if unimpressed--Natalie 
gave herself points for having surprised her.  "Nicola <has> been chatty, 
hasn't he?  What do you know about the Code?  No!"  She held up her hand 
quickly, before Natalie could speak.  "Don't tell me.  It's better I not know.  
Just . . . just get him out of here."
     Natalie narrowed her eyes and frowned.  "I've got to clean that garlic 
out of the cuts first.  <If> he starts healing, I've got to start pouring 
blood in him--I don't know what garlic does in a vampire's system, but he's 
probably in shock from blood poisoning.  He shouldn't be moved until I've 
gotten him stabilized."
     In an instant, Janette stood in front of her, arms folded.  "You <have> 
to move him.  If the Enforcers come by--and they <will>--I can say he's been 
here and left.  They'd never think to ask if a mortal offered him shelter--it 
would be too absurd of a question.  And they'll believe that no vampire took 
him in.  "  Her eyes flashed an angry blue and she shot a glance of disgust 
over her shoulder, in Dorian's direction.  "None would <dare.>  This one has 
too many enemies.  And . . . no friends to speak of."
     Janette's stance and words left her no choice.  Natalie looked down at 
Dorian and sighed.  "Where can I hide him?" she asked, half to herself.
     "That's not <my> problem."  Janette snapped her fingers and the vampire 
in the doorway stepped forward quickly.  She pointed toward Dorian and said, 
"Get rid of him--put him in her car." 
     The vampire followed her instructions.  Before Natalie could move, he 
leaned down and lifted Dorian into his arms, then carried him toward the 
service entrance.  Janette turned her head toward Natalie asking, almost 
politely, "Did you cover your upholstery as I said?"
     "Yes," answered Natalie without thinking, still trying to come up with 
some place she could hide a wounded vampire.
     "Good.  I had a feeling you were the practical sort.  Perhaps <too> 
practical."  Janette tossed her cigarette to the floor and ground it beneath 
the heel of one of her shoes.  She gestured toward a wooden case that 
contained less than a dozen bottles--filled.  "He's had two of those.  You can 
take the rest.  I'll send more along as necessary."
     Natalie reached down and lifted one of the bottles from the case.  She 
looked into the green depths of the glass, than back at Janette.  "Blood?  No 
alcohol?  Aren't you taking a risk, supplying him with this?"
     "It's mine to take," countered Janette.  She touched her finger to the 
choker around her neck, running her skin across the velvet.  "Do you think 
you'll have luck finding him another source?  You, perhaps?"  She held up a 
hand before Natalie could express her anger in words.  "Spare me, please!  
Don't bother being noble or assume that's what I'm doing--I have my own 
reasons for making certain Dorian escapes the Enforcers."
     Again, Natalie bit back her first response, not wanting to give Janette 
the satisfaction of knowing she'd scored any points.  "Reasons?  And what 
might those be?" 
     "Those might be my concern.  <Not> yours."
     Natalie met Janette's gaze for as long as she dared, then she looked down 
at the case of blood.  "All right," she said, after a moment's pause, "but 
I'll pay for it, later.  Thanks."  She leaned down and tried to lift the 
wooden box, then realized just how heavy that many bottles of blood must be.
     "Oh, let me," said Janette in annoyance.  Muttering something about 
'mortal weakness' beneath her breath, she picked up the box easily, and, 
resting it lightly on her hip and balancing it with one hand, headed toward 
the door.
     Natalie followed.  By the time she arrived outside, the trunk was already 
open. The large vampire had placed Dorian across the back seat of her car.  
Janette leaned down to put the case of bottles in Natalie's car trunk, then 
straightened and wiped her hands against one another.  "From one girl to 
another, you shouldn't leave your car unlocked here.  It can be a . . . 
dangerous area.  Unsavory individuals might get into your things."
     "So I see," answered Natalie.
     Janette slammed the lid of the car trunk closed, then snapped her fingers 
again.  The male vampire moved quickly into the rear of the Raven, 
disappearing almost instantly into the darkness.  Natalie half expected 
Janette to follow and she started to, then stopped, eyeing Natalie.
     "I'll tell you what I told him--" she gestured toward the back seat of 
the car, indicating Dorian.  "Nicola will hear nothing of this from me . . . 
unless he asks."
     "I plan on telling him myself."
     "How . . . charming."  Janette didn't bat an eyelash.  "I don't know why 
Dorian asked for your help.  All I know is that Nicola seems to value you.  
And I value Nicola.  So I warn you--Dorian's nothing but trouble.  Get rid of 
him quickly."
     Janette paused and looked at her expectantly.  After a moment, Natalie 
smiled, suddenly realizing just what she was waiting for.  "Thank you."
     "My pleasure.  If you'll excuse me, I have a club to run."  Turning on 
her heel, Janette stalked through the rear service entrance.  The heavy metal 
door slammed shut behind her and the deadlock clicked into place.
     Natalie reached for her throbbing forehead out of habit, then realized 
that her headache had eased somewhat.  Smiling at that small victory, she 
walked to the rear passenger door and opened it.
     Dorian was stretched across the back seat of her car, still wrapped in 
the blanket.  She leaned over him, sorry that she hadn't thought to bring 
something dry and a bit more comfortable for the trip to--where?
     "Is there a safe place I can take you?" she asked quietly, not certain 
that he was even capable of answering her.
     His head moved slightly, the best he could manage, along with a hoarse, 
"No.  Nothing . . . left."
     "Then we'll work something out.  Don't worry."  Natalie found a bit of 
dry blanket and wiped away some of the water that trickled down from his wet 
hair, across his face.  "Two bottles?" she asked aloud, in wonder.  "What the 
hell did you look like when Janette found you?"
     Dorian's eyelashes flickered slightly.  "She was . . . kind to me."
     "That harpy?  You're lucky she didn't put a stake through you."  Natalie 
looked up at the door to the club, remembering that Janette had her 'reasons,' 
whatever they might be.  And as for her own reasons . . . .
     "Why did you ask her not to tell Nick?"
     Again, the question was more for herself than for him.  But he struggled 
to answer, this time managing to open his eyes, staring up at her as she 
leaned over him and secured him with the seatbelts.  "Not . . . cause you . . 
. trouble."
     His answer seemed so earnest and heartfelt--God, he was a mess!  Natalie 
straightened, grasping his hand for an instant.  "Rest," she instructed.  
"I'll take you somewhere safe.  Once you're all cleaned up, you'll feel 
better."
     There was no response this time--she was certain that he'd drifted off to 
sleep.  Or had fallen unconscious again.  It was so hard to tell with 
vampires.
     Shaking her head, she walked to the driver's side of the car, then 
turned, knowing she'd left her medical bag and purse in the Raven.  But . . . 
no, Janette had somehow managed to put them on her front seat.  Slipping 
behind the wheel, she glanced over at her things, more than a little annoyed 
that she'd forgotten about them, then backed the car out of the alley and into 
the street.
      It took her a minute before she realized she'd headed the car for home.  
But, as she glanced over her shoulder, she knew in her heart of hearts that 
she didn't really have any other choice.  With Dorian looking the way he did, 
she couldn't drive around Toronto trying to find a place to treat him.  The 
sun would be up soon and he'd need shelter in a bad way.  And Nick . . . well, 
she didn't want to bother Nick until she knew what the story was.  She 
wouldn't know that until she got Dorian fixed up, which meant finding  a safe 
place for him--
     Her forehead was beginning to throb again.  Sighing, Natalie decided that 
her apartment was the best option, the <only> option.  She'd take Grace's 
advice and call in sick tomorrow evening, if she had to.  For now, if anyone 
wanted to check on her, at least she'd be home.
     Tending to a wounded vampire on her couch.
     For the first time in her life, Natalie hoped against hope that Nick 
wouldn't choose this particular evening to drop by unannounced.



CHAPTER 3

     He kept looking at the fish.  Nick just couldn't help himself.
     Not that the fish ever looked back.  The water-filled evidence bag was 
resting beside him, on the front seat of the Caddy.  He'd propped it up 
against the passenger seat belt to keep the bag from flopping over and to give 
the fish more room in which to swim.
     Which is what the fish did.  It swam.  To the left.  To the right.  
Sometimes it even seemed to move backwards.
     When he'd paused at a red stoplight, Nick had lifted the bag, taking a 
closer look at his new loft-mate.  Its mouth opened and closed and the gills 
to either side of its head feathered in and out as it breathed.
     It <breathed.>
     The blare of a horn behind him nearly made him drop the fish.  Noting 
that the light was green, Nick stepped on the gas, carefully placing the fish 
back on the seat.  The driver of the car behind him was a little too impatient 
and passed on his right--but Nick ignored the illegal move.  Traffic wasn't 
his detail and the driver wasn't a danger to himself or others.  Besides, he 
had to check in at the station before Schanke went off shift.  And, unless a 
new call had come in, he'd retrace Jeff Bartnichak's steps one more time . . . 
stopping by a nearby pet store en route.
     Nick glanced down at the fish again and shook his head, grinning.  He was 
an idiot.  It was only a fish, after all.  
     When he'd been a child, animals had their place in the household--dogs 
were for hunting, horses for riding and farm work, and so on.  After he'd been 
brought across, he'd found his presence agitated most animals.  Even the one 
time he'd actually attempted to keep a bird, he'd frightened it to death when 
he'd reached into its cage to catch it.  He winced at the memory of holding 
the still, feathered body in his hand, feeling the heat leave it, LaCroix 
standing to one side and laughing at him.
     But . . . a fish?  
     The thought made him grin again--Natalie had been right on the money.  
The fish didn't seem to care that he was a vampire.  It didn't appear nervous 
or threatened or the slightest bit agitated.  In fact, the fish didn't seem to 
know he was <there.>  But it <breathed.>  It ate.  It swam.
     It lived.  She trusted him to take care of another living thing, on a 
permanent basis.  And he wasn't about to let her, or the fish, down.
     Of course, they'd have to have a talk about this 'bowl' business.  Even a 
little goldfish deserved a decent amount of room, especially since its <raison 
de etre> was swimming.  Not a fifty gallon tank--obviously an exaggeration--
but a five gallon tank shouldn't be too much to take care of.  Money was no 
object.  Only the best for his fish.
     <His> fish.
     It was as he pulled into a packing space at the division station that he 
realized he didn't know what he was going to do with <his> fish while he was 
inside.  The night wasn't too warm or too cold and he wasn't going to be in 
there long, just see Schanke, get caught up, and get back on the road.  The 
fish should be perfectly safe in the car . . . .
     But those big fishy eyes stared up at him, from where he'd cradled the 
bag with the passenger seatbelt.  And he knew he just might as well take the 
damned thing with him.
     A quick look around his front seat didn't turn up anything, but in the 
back he found an empty styrofoam cup Schanke has tossed a few days before, 
when they'd taken off in hot pursuit of a suspect.  He grimaced as he leaned 
over the seat and retrieved it, making a mental note to rag on Schanke about 
messing up his car.  
     As it turned out, it was the perfect fish carrier.  The evidence bag, 
with fish, fit gently into the cup.  In fact, with the water compressed in one 
place, the fish seemed to have even more room to swim around.
     Pleased with himself, Nick left the car and locked the doors, carrying 
the cup in one hand.  He ran up the steps and into the division station, 
realizing that he still hadn't given a thought to what he was going to name 
his fish.
     He all but ran into Schanke, who was heading for the front doors at top 
speed and grabbed Nick's shoulder, spinning him sideways, so as not to collide 
with him.  "Partner, are <you> just in time," he huffed.  Spotting the coffee 
cup, he snatched it from Nick's hand and lifted it.  "I could use one of these 
about now."
     "Schanke, don't--!"
     Schanke had the cup up to his mouth, then looked down inside it.  He 
pulled back, eyes wide, then reached into the cup and withdrew the evidence 
bag with the fish.  "Aren't you a little old to be pledging a fraternity?  Or 
is this a material witness to the Carver homicide?"
     Nick grabbed back the cup and deposited the fish into the relative safety 
of its temporary home.  "Neither.  It's a pet."
     "A . . . pet."
     "Yeah," said Nick defensively.  He shrugged his shoulders lightly, hiding 
the cup from the officers at the reception desk, who were starting to take an 
interest in their conversation.  "I have to get him a bowl or something.  Do 
you know anything about goldfish?"
     Schanke raised an eyebrow.  "Other than they have an incredible mortality 
rate, tend to eat one another, and are one of the most inexpensive pets to 
replace after you've been gone for a week and left them on their own?"
     Nick's eyes widened and he glanced down at the harmless little fish in 
the cup.  "They <eat> each other?"
     "Yeah.  And they get big, too.  The bigger the bowl, the bigger the 
fish."
     He was still staring down at the cup.  Was the fish smiling at him?  
Maybe the five gallon tank <was> a bit much . . . .
     Schanke put an arm on his shoulder and drew him aside, saying, "C'mon, 
Nick, a goldfish?  What kind of a pet is that for a grown man?  Next thing, 
you'll be getting a hamster or a rabbit or something--"
     Nick looked up at the hamster comment, remembering Natalie having said 
something to that effect.
     "Although girls really go in for that 'cute and fuzzy' stuff.  It's 
supposed to mean you're sensitive.  And they eat that with a spoon.  But a 
goldfish?"  Schanke shook his head, smiling knowingly.  "Get yourself 
something worth having.  Like a snake.  Or an iguana.  Or how about a golden 
retriever?  There's a neighbor of mine, the dog had puppies two weeks ago and-
-"
     Swallowing, Nick looked back at the coffee cup, still trying to deal with 
the 'eat each other' aspect of his new pet.  So much for buying his little 
roommate other little roommates.  "I think I'll start slow.  Work my way up to 
something with legs."
     "Yeah, with your schedule, you'd never have the time to get a dog paper 
trained.  Cause when they gotta go, they go."  Suddenly, Schanke looked back 
toward the squad room nervously,  "Speaking of which, I'm gone--"
     Nick's hand shot out, catching Schanke's shoulder before he could move.  
"Whatta ya mean you're gone?  I thought you were gonna catch me up on the 
Bartnichak--"  When Schanke rolled his eyes, Nick leaned back against the wall 
and sighed.  "He's here, isn't he?"
     "<He> is in the captain's office.  And <he> is under the impression that 
we're holding out on him."  Schanke hesitated and looked at Nick suspiciously 
when Nick glanced away.  "We aren't, are we?  Holding out on him?"
     "No," said Nick quickly.  "No results from the lab yet, Nat said she'll 
drop them by as soon as they're in.  But--"  It was his turn to push Schanke 
back, out of earshot as he added, his voice low, "What do you know about Ed 
Bartnichak's resignation?  Did you ever work with him?"
     Schanke straightened, then looked around, as if trying to see whose 
attention they may have drawn.  He leaned forward and asked softly, "Why?  
What have you heard?"
     Nick met his partner's eyes, then looked away, realizing that he was on 
shaky ground.  What he'd gotten from Nat was hearsay and really had no bearing 
on the case.  Police forces were notorious breeding grounds for unfounded 
gossip.  Normally, he didn't pay any attention to that sort of thing, it 
simply didn't interest him as to who was sleeping or not sleeping with whom, 
who may or may not have fudged their scores on the mandatory target tests, and 
so forth.  Ed Bartnichak had the reputation of having been a good cop--a hard-
line, no nonsense, rough-edged cop, but a good man to have at your back.
     And his brother was still missing, presumed dead . . . .
     "Evidence tampering?" asked Schanke, voice still quiet.
     Nick looked up quickly.  "Something like that."
     "I've heard that, too," said Schanke.  He moved to stand beside Nick, 
leaning against the wall himself.  "Okay, I worked with Ed on maybe four or 
five cases over time.  Sometimes I'd bag stuff at the scene, sometimes he'd 
bag stuff at the scene.  One case, we lost something.  It happens."  He 
straightened, glaring at Nick.  "If you're saying he was out to make a buck, 
it was nothing--a fingerprint on a door frame."
     "Which might have cleared a suspect?"
     Schanke looked down, his lips tightening into a grim line.  "You know how 
much we rely on instinct.  That's what makes a good detective--not the badge, 
or bench pressing three times your weight, or nailing the highest score on the 
entrance exam.  It's instinct, pure and simple.  Who's innocent.  Who's 
guilty."  He raised his eyes, meeting Nick's gaze.  "Stonetree always said you 
had it.  Which is why he let you work solo for a year, let you keep working 
after the first few screw-ups, and cut you a hell of a lot more slack than 
he'd ever cut anybody before or since.  Instinct doesn't usually just walk in 
off the street on a transfer.  When you find it, you hang onto it.  Ed 
Bartnichak had instinct."
     "But instinct can be wrong."
     "Yeah."  Schanke looked across the reception area, eyes narrowing.  "You 
gonna tell me that we haven't cut a few corners in our time--in your time--to 
get a case and make it stick?"
     Nick hesitated, unable to answer, unable to look at Schanke.  His partner 
didn't have a clue as to how many times he'd had to mesmerize suspects or 
informants to get information or confessions.  Not to mention the times he'd 
had to cover for himself when the vampire had kicked in and a suspect found 
himself faced with fangs and golden eyes.  Or when Natalie had been forced to 
deal with murders she knew were committed by a vampire . . . and neither of 
them could admit the truth to the world.
     "We don't try to convict the innocent to prove a point," said Nick, after 
a pause.  
     "Who says we're always right?"
     Again, he remained quiet.  There were times when he'd had doubts, but 
then he'd dug deeper into the cases, to prove to himself that he'd done the 
job right or find the real perp if he could.  He couldn't lie under oath to 
convict a known pornographer and racketeer for a murder that man didn't 
commit.  And yet, he was only there to apprehend a suspect, to do the 
groundwork for a case that someone else would try, with a conviction that 
would lie upon the conscience of a judge or a jury.  That was the way it was 
supposed to work.
     Schanke took his silence for assent.  "I'm not saying Ed Bartnichak's 
hands are clean, or even cleaner or dirtier than ours.  That's not what we're 
here for.  We're here to find out who murdered Jeff Bartnichak."
     "<If> he's dead."  Nick managed a slight smile at Schanke's hesitation.  
"All we know is Jeff left the Academy at six, on his way to a date.  We don't 
know with whom and we don't know where.  His brother tags him as missing two 
days later.  And we find his car in Vermont, stripped to the lining, almost 
two <months> later."
     "With blood stains."
     "That may or may not be his.  And we both know that a little blood 
doesn't mean there's a body waiting to be found."
     Schanke nodded slightly.  "You think Jeff might have run?"
     "Too much pressure from Ed to stay on the fast track?  We've seen it 
happen before.  You'd know--what was their relationship like?"
     "Back then, pretty good, but starting to strain.  Ed was getting 
overprotective.  Jeff was in high school, just starting high school?"  Schanke 
put a hand to his forehead.  "Geez, who remembers that far back?  Memory's the 
first thing to go, right?"
     "That's not what I've heard--"
     Schanke scowled at him and punched him lightly in the chest with his 
finger.  "Yeah, well it gets us <all> in the end, partner, so laugh now.  But 
in a couple of years you're gonna be making those same noises after you sit 
behind a desk for five hours.  Like I said, there was some strain. Made the 
kid turn down a sports scholarship--track, I think--so he could get his degree 
here. Bartnichak had this thing about making Jeff a cop, like he was."
     "Control," said Nick distantly.  He looked toward the doorway as a shiver 
washed through him, what Janette had called the 'threads' that connected them 
to one another . . . and to LaCroix.  "He wanted to make Jeff into what he 
wanted to be; Ed wanted to control him."
     "Yeah, I guess."  Schanke tilted his head slightly, eyeing him 
speculatively.  "Sounds like you know something about that."
     "Yeah, some."  Nick forced a slight smile, pushing away the thought.  
"Let's just say I have a whole lot more sympathy for Jeff Bartnichak.  So, 
it's possible Jeff got tired of it, wanted to live his own life, and just took 
off."
     "I wouldn't have bought that a few minutes ago," said Schanke, after a 
brief pause and another studying look that made Nick turn away.  "Now, yeah . 
. . it makes sense.  But it would be tough for a kid like that to cut the only 
ties he had left and run for it."
     "Not if he wanted to be his own man, wanted to be what he was and not 
something someone else wanted him to be, forced him to be."  Nick moved to 
wipe the back of his hand against his chin, then realized he was still holding 
the cup with the goldfish--his fingers had made indentations on the styrofoam.  
That's all he needed.  He could just imagine telling Natalie that he'd crushed 
his goldfish in a styrofoam cup at the station.  "Anyway," he forced his voice 
into a more neutral tone, looking away from Schanke, "that's what I'd guess it 
would be like.  For Jeff."
     "Must be tough having family like that.  Having to put up with that kind 
of pressure from a brother.  Or a father."
     Once again, Schanke was proving to be just a bit too intuitive--Nick 
could tell a fishing expedition when he heard one.  "This might not be our 
case after all."
     "I sure as hell hope so.  Jeff was a good kid.  Real track star--it <was> 
track," said Schanke triumphantly.  "And from what Ed used to say, the kid had 
girls wearing down a path to the door.  Tried to put a stop to it, if I 
remember.  Said the kid had no sense when it came to women.  Hey, he was on 
his way to pick up a date that night, wasn't--?"    
     Nick looked over his shoulder when Schanke stopped in mid-sentence, 
recognizing the booming sound of Ed Bartnichak's voice in the squad room 
behind them.  Bartnichak was an impressive six feet tall, with the board 
shoulders and daunting build of a linebacker.  He swaggered when he walked, 
his voice carried when he talked . . . Nick had seldom seen a man more suited 
to the role of neighborhood bully.
     But Ed Bartnichak had also been a cop.  Bullies with authority could be 
dangerous.    Since his brother had gone missing, much of his swagger and 
egotistic preening had developed a very hard and sharp edge. Nick was only 
beginning to notice what Natalie had tried to tell him--that Bartnichak had 
<always> been dangerous, a stick of dynamite capped and prepped for a fuse.  
Now with his sole focus in life--his brother--gone, the fuse had been lit.
     "It's your shift," said Schanke, slapping his hand against Nick's 
shoulder.  "<You> deal with him.  I'm gone.  Good luck with the fish."
     Nick had barely turned before Schanke had left him, heading for the door.  
For an instant he considered following him to the safety of the parking lot 
and the Caddy, then steeled himself for another encounter with Bartnichak.
     That was when Bartnichak caught sight of him, raising a hand in greeting 
as he walked over.  "Nick!  Just the man I wanted to see."
     "Ed."  Nick slapped the man's hand in greeting, then took a step back.  
"Just catching up with Schanke.  What can I do for you?"
     "What you can do for me is tell me what the hell you're doing about 
Jeff's murder."  Bartnichak's voice was low, rumbling like thunder through the 
room.
     Nick felt the tension level rise a couple of dozen degrees, as officers 
and staff suddenly found very important things with which to occupy their 
attention and time.  But he wasn't about to be brow-beaten by a bully like 
Bartnichak--he'd seen many men like this one in his eight hundred years and 
they'd all proven to be too mortal for their own good.  "We're doing all we 
can.  You know that VIN matched--the car in Vermont was Jeff's.  Forensics is 
doing a work up on the blood to see if they can get a match.  The results 
should be here tonight."
     "If those idiots in Forensics and the coroner's office would stop sitting 
on their hands, get off their asses and--"
     The memory of Natalie, eyes closed and suffering with a headache while 
she waited for that report to come in, was rubbed raw by Bartnichak 's words 
and the sarcastic tone with which they were delivered.  Before Nick knew what 
he was doing, he'd grabbed a fistful of Bartnichak's shirt and very quietly, 
but firmly, pinned the man up against the wall with his free hand.  "Those 
<people> are doing the best they can," he said, trying to hold his temper 
back.  "Just like we are.  We've got other cases.  Cases with <bodies>.  Dead 
bodies."  Taking a breath, Nick released Bartnichak's shirt and took a step 
back.  "We have to find the people who killed them and put them away, before 
they hurt someone else."
     For a moment, Bartnichak had seemed thrown by his sudden fury . . . but 
it <was> only for a moment.  "Are you telling me you've got evidence that Jeff 
<isn't> dead, Detective?  Because if you do, I think I deserve to hear it.  
He's my brother, for Christ's sake!  My only flesh and blood."  Bartnichak's 
eyes narrowed.  "Or, maybe you think he just went for a joy ride?"
     "It's . . . a possibility.  Maybe he needed to get away for a while."
     His brown eyes very still, Bartnichak glared at Nick.  "All my brother 
<needed> was to finish his courses at the Academy.  He had everything.  I 
<gave> him everything.  And I'm not giving up until I know what happened to 
him.  Maybe I'm not the most popular person here, but there's a lot of people 
who still owe me . . . and our father.  I'm going to get my answers, Knight, 
if I have to can your ass and that sorry excuse for a partner of yours to do 
it."
     Closing his eyes, Nick looked away.  He raised his hand to his forehead 
and shielded his gaze, fighting back the gold he felt there, fighting back the 
instinct to tear into the man with fangs and the full fury of the beast.  He 
tried to remind himself that Ed Bartnichak could very well be the relative of 
a murder victim.
     It wasn't working.
     "Nick?"  He nodded toward the reception desk, eyes still closed, 
recognizing the voice of the policewoman on duty.  "The Captain's on line one-
-she said she'd like to see you about the Bartnichak case."
     Natalie didn't know it, but she was getting her revenge in spades--if he 
hadn't had a headache when he'd walked into the station, he had one now.  Only 
when he was certain that the gold was gone from his gaze did Nick look back at 
the reception desk.  "Tell her--"  He glared at Bartnichak, then turned back 
to the desk, "Tell her I'm on my way out--I'm doing another run-through of 
Jeff Bartnichak's last known whereabouts.  And that I'll see her before the 
end of shift."
     The policewoman at the desk gave him a terse nod, then turned and began 
to repeat the message into the headset, not looking at all pleased.  And Nick 
very well knew why--the captain would be furious that he'd left without seeing 
her.  But he wasn't in the mood to play nice with the brass and the only thing 
that could result was suspension or walking a daytime beat . . . neither of 
which he considered a viable option.
     Turning, he pointed a finger a Bartnichak.  "I don't care if the whole 
damned force owes you favors," he said quietly.  "I <don't>.  But I'm doing 
everything I can, because Jeff deserves the consideration.  You're damned 
lucky to have Schanke working this case because he's the best cop on the 
entire metro force.  And if you <ever> say anything like that about him again, 
I'll shove your teeth so far down your throat it'll take a search and rescue 
crew to find them.  You hear me?"
     Bartnichak stood his ground.  "I hear you, Knight.  Now, you hear <me>--
you find Jeff's body.  Or you find the person who killed him.  What about the 
woman he was supposed to meet, Knight?  What about her--?"
     From the squad room, he picked up the captain's voice, saying, "Is Knight 
still here?  Because--"
     It wasn't safe to stay, not with Bartnichak and the captain both on the 
warpath.  Nick did something he hated--he turned tail and ran, heading out the 
division doors and down the steps.  Styrofoam cup clasped tightly in his hand, 
he made a bee-line for the Caddy, planning on making his escape while he 
could.
     But there was to be no escape for him this night.
     His steps slowed as he crossed the parking lot, again feeling that 
something was amiss, and quite close.  On instinct, he covered the top of the 
styrofoam cup with his hand.
     LaCroix was standing beside the Caddy, leaning against the passenger side 
of the car, running his long fingers over the metal in a caress.  He didn't 
look up as Nick approached, but smiled, still leaning against the car.  "You 
took your time."
     "I'm on duty."  Nick stood, glaring, willing LaCroix away from his car, 
out of his life, off the planet.
     Only then did LaCroix look up.  The corner of his mouth crinkled slightly 
and he indicated the styrofoam cup with a dismissive wave.  "Coffee?  Will 
donuts be far behind?"
     "If you want something, tell me.  If not, leave me alone."  He made his 
way around the car to the driver's side, put the styrofoam cup on the 
convertible's top, then fished in his pocket for his keys.  "I'm busy."
     "So I see."  Again, LaCroix leaned against the car, his arms folded.  
When Nick glared at him and unlocked the door, LaCroix dropped his hands and 
held them chest high, moving away from the car as if in surrender.  "Pax, 
Nicholas.  I only want a word with you.  It's a matter that concerns us both."
     "And what would that be?" asked Nick sharply, one hand resting on the car 
roof, poised to swing his body behind the wheel and drive off--even if he had 
to go through or over LaCroix.
     "Janette."
     It was the only thing LaCroix could have said that would have made him 
pause.  Nick hesitated.  "What about her?"
     "I believe she's being hunted.  Or, in your vernacular, 'stalked.'"
     LaCroix's eyes were open, straightforward.  But Nick had long since 
learned not to trust his master to betray truth or lie with his words or his 
expression.  "How do you know?"
     "I have . . . friends . . . at the Raven."  He smiled softly as Nick's 
eyes widened.  "Don't look so surprised, you know I'd have to be a fool <not> 
to keep an eye on her.  And you know I may be many things, but <never> a 
fool."  Then he sobered and took a step forward, resting his hands on the top 
of the window of the driver's side door.  "Someone's been leaving presents for 
Janette.  Very <disturbing> presents."
     "Like?"
     "Garlic candies.  Suntan lotion.  A silk scarf covered with crosses."
     Again, Nick hesitated, not wanting to believe anything LaCroix said.  
But--  "It could be a joke.  Someone at the club--?"
     "No, I've checked."  Shaking his head, LaCroix frowned.  "She's being 
hunted.  Someone knows what she is.  And they're playing with her."
     "She's said nothing to me--"
     "Nor would she."  When Nick opened his mouth to reply, LaCroix dismissed 
him with a wave.  "She's become so independent lately--well, she's always been 
that way, but more so now.  She doesn't <want> our protection."  Sighing, he 
rolled his eyes.  "This feminist movement has a lot to answer for."
     "We never should have given them the right to vote."
     LaCroix smiled again at the comment.  "<We> had no say in the matter.  
But <you> may be able to do something about this."
     Nick's first reaction was to ask what he could do about suffrage at this 
late date, then decided that he really didn't feel like bantering with 
LaCroix.  "You handle it."  He slipped behind the wheel and began to close the 
door, but LaCroix held it open, in place.
     "You're the policeman," he reminded, an edge to his voice.  "I believe 
she's a taxpayer.  You're supposed to 'serve and protect.'  Should Janette be 
denied your protection because she's a vampire?  Because of what she is?  Or . 
. . who she is?"
     The words struck more than a little close to home.  He stared out the 
windshield, hands on the steering wheel.  "Are you telling me to take care of 
this?"
     "I'm asking you to look into it . . . as a favor."  He met LaCroix's gaze 
and found a worried frown--something that he didn't remember seeing before.  
"If you've bothered to get the training, the least you can do is put it to 
use.  It may be nothing, after all--a harmless prank, like you said.  But I 
don't think either of us want to take that chance.  And, in this case you're 
better qualified to make that judgment."
     Nick looked back over his steering wheel and stared out the windshield 
again.  If LaCroix was telling the truth, Janette might very well be in 
danger.  And, as a Metro Police detective, he could actually investigate the 
situation as a stalking without raising too many suspicions.  First, he'd have 
to check it out for himself, get the truth from Janette, along with her 
cooperation.  And if something <was> happening, he'd have a better chance of 
being able to protect her when she was most vulnerable, during the day.
     "All right," he said, after a moment's consideration.  Glancing back at 
LaCroix, he nodded.  "I'm heading in that direction anyway.  She wouldn't 
think twice if I stopped by and asked a few questions."
     "Good."  LaCroix took his hands from the window and stepped back, away 
from the car.  "Thank you."
     Nick simply stared, surprised at the comment, then nodded, accepting it.  
"You're welcome."  When he leaned out to catch the open door, LaCroix pushed 
it toward him, closing it.  Then LaCroix turned and walked away, across the 
parking lot.
     It was too much to handle--LaCroix asking him for a favor, Janette 
possibly in danger?  Nick shook his head and started the car.  He looked over 
his shoulder and put the car in reverse, seeing something white fall from the 
roof out of the corner of his eye.
     And just as he realized what it was, he heard the sickening crunch, as 
his tire smashed the coffee cup to bits.
     With his fish inside.
     He froze, half out of the parking space, then leaned his forehead against 
the steering wheel.  This was definitely <not> his night.  He'd been planning 
on stopping by the coroner's office, maybe even calling Nat to check on her, 
make certain she'd gone home and threaten to drive her home himself if she 
didn't leave work.  But now . . . ?
     He couldn't call.  Because she'd know.  Somehow, she always did.
     Muttering a few words in Latin from the distant past, a prayer for the 
dead, Nick consigned his former fish to whatever sweeper was scheduled to run 
through the parking lot in the next few days.  Then he pulled the car out of 
the lot and scanned his memory, hoping against hope that there was a pet shop 
somewhere along the route he planned to take to the Raven.  There was still 
the list of supplies to purchase, with one addition.  Thankfully, as far as he 
was concerned, all goldfish looked alike.  
     And he doubted that Natalie would ever notice the difference.


CHAPTER 4

     With a few shakes of the bottle, Janette spattered <eau des violettes> 
over the hairbrush, then ran it quickly through her hair.  She stroked it 
through the upper side of the dark strands, then those underneath, her hair 
hanging back against her shoulders.  Her movements were tight, tense, her 
mouth grim and determined.
     Only when it was done did she drop the brush to the credenza in her 
office and take an experimental sniff.
     Garlic. And stale blood.
     No amount of violet water was going to hide the scents--they were 
clinging to her skin like whining infants, a part of her that refused to let 
go.
     Angrily, Janette flounced across the room wearing only her black silk, 
strapless sheath slip and curled up on the davenport, pushing aside her new 
dress for the evening.  What she needed was a shower and a soak, not a quick 
change and makeover.  But she didn't dare leave the club.  Since Dorian had 
been taken away, she'd awaited the arrival of the Enforcers with fearful 
resignation.  They'd come.  They had to come.
     And she wasn't about to endanger the future of the Raven by leaving Alma 
or one of those other idiots in charge.  They had no idea how to deal with the 
Enforcers.
     Then again, neither did she.  For centuries, she'd left those 
responsibilities to LaCroix.  Now that he was back in town again, Janette had 
half a mind to call him and tell him to handle it.  It was his function--to 
protect her.
     But she didn't <want> to be protected.
     Janette released an angry hiss and leaned against the arm of the 
davenport, resting her chin on her hands.  The Devil take Dorian!  And 
LaCroix, for that matter!  It was their fault she was waiting for the 
Enforcers, smelling like an overly aromatic, day-old kill.  Foolishly, she'd 
thought it was done between them, that the two had come to some understanding 
centuries ago.
     With a sigh, she closed her eyes and gave her head a light shake.  In 
assuming that, she was as foolish as Dorian, for she knew LaCroix too well. 
LaCroix never allowed a slight to go unrewarded.  And what Dorian had done to 
him could hardly be spoken of as a 'slight,' no matter what the language of 
the time or place . . . .


     LaCroix and Dorian had stood less than a hand's width apart, eyes locked.  
"You <know>," echoed Dorian, that chilling smile still in place.  "And you 
ran?"
     "That's why I ran.  It's my right."
     "It's your <privilege>.  You never would have escaped me in Carthage.  Or 
anywhere else."  Dorian's correction of LaCroix's statement was smooth, 
without emotion.  He gestured toward a table and chairs, poor in contrast to 
his finery.  "Shall we talk first?  I have some refreshment for you.  And I 
like to have the measure of a man, before his interview."
     LaCroix never moved an inch, only his eyes following Dorian.  "There will 
be <no> interview."
     Janette held her breath, watching the red fire rise in Dorian's eyes.  If 
his smile had been chilling before, it positively reeked of malice now.  His 
hands drifted across the rough back of one of the wooden and hemp chairs, as 
if he were searching for splinters, unconcerned.  "You'll refuse the 
interview?"
     "I'll refuse to acknowledge the call."  LaCroix's eyes were steel gray, 
with flecks of gold dancing in that disturbing stillness.  "I'm aware of the 
distinction between the two."
     "You'll match your will against mine, rather than your brawn?"
     With a flick of the wrist, LaCroix gestured toward the shadows.  "A wise 
man knows when the numbers are against him."
     "A wise man doesn't challenge the lightning to strike him," countered 
Dorian sharply.  He strode back to LaCroix, his smile gone, his face pale and 
eyes angry.  "Are your secrets worth that much to you?  Are you willing to 
risk your immortal existence for a few falsehoods, a few indiscretions?"
     It was LaCroix's turn to smile, matching Dorian, malice for malice.  "I 
bow to no man.  Or vampire.  My secrets are my own."
     "For ten sunrises?"  Dorian licked his lips and glanced at Janette.  "You 
know the Code well.  I hope you've taught your fledgling all that she needs to 
survive--because you won't win against me.  If you like, I'll take care of 
her.  She'll have my protection as long as she wishes it.  She seems pretty.  
And you owe me forfeit for running."
     He reached out a hand to push away her veil.  Janette drew back from him, 
her fingers tightening on LaCroix's arm, and hissed.
     "It's her decision," answered LaCroix.
     Dorian looked at him, the red in his eyes smoldering, then drifting back 
into pitch black, like dying embers fading to darkness.  Nodding slightly, he 
bowed toward Janette.  "Then let me explain the situation, 'Lady'--your Master 
will pit his will against mine.  I have ten sunrises in which to break him.  
If he remains silent, he's free of me.  If he speaks, then his secrets are 
mine.  And I'll destroy him, as is my right as Archivist."
     Janette looked quickly at LaCroix, but his face was impassive.  Only his 
eyes seemed to hold any life and those she could not read.  It seemed this 
<was> to be her decision.
     Catching her hand before she could move, Dorian raised her fingers to his 
lips, kissing them lightly.  But when she tried to withdraw her hand, he held 
it.  "Your Master has no chance of winning--he may as well have walked into 
the sunrise.  Out of respect, I'm offering to protect you after he's gone.  
You can refuse my protection, of course."  He released her fingers and she 
drew her hand back quickly, clasping it with her other hand as she glared at 
him.
     Dorian only smiled.  "But then, all of our kind would know that your 
Master had challenged the Archivist, challenged the Enforcers . . . and 
failed.  You'd be shunned from vampire society.  The blood line would be 
tainted.  You, and any that you brought across, would be treated as pariahs.  
You <do> know what that means, don't you?"
     Again, Janette looked to LaCroix, but he gave no sign.  What did he want 
her to do?  With no answer forthcoming, she decided to do what <she> wanted.
     She spat at Dorian, hissing angrily.
     "I think you've had your answer," said LaCroix, the faintest of smiles 
lighting his features as Dorian wiped her spittle from his richly embroidered 
tunic.
     "She may change her mind, many do."  Pulling a cloth from his sleeve, 
Dorian wiped away the stain.  Then he looked to the shadows.  "Take them," he 
ordered.  "We begin at sunrise."
     The Enforcers separated themselves from the darkness, surrounding them 
again.  But this time, she didn't care.  Janette kept looking to LaCroix for 
any indication that she'd done as he wished.  The answer came as he turned to 
her, his hand covering her deathgrip on his arm, his fingers prying her own 
lose, but holding them gently.  The look in his eyes was one of pride.  And 
she lowered her eyes, smiling shyly, unaccustomed to such a response from him.
     "She'll remain here," said LaCroix.
     "No," corrected Dorian.  "She'll come with us."
     Janette looked up as LaCroix dropped her hand.  "No one can witness an 
interview."
     "I was right--you know the Code well."  Dorian smiled, tucking the cloth 
back in his sleeve.  "You also know that I can bend it to my will, in certain 
circumstances.  You still owe me forfeit, LaCroix.  I want your fledgling on 
hand.  I want her to hear the consequences of your choice, I want her to hear 
you beg for mercy.  And before I tear your head from your body and your first 
limb from your last, I want you to warn her never to defy me again."  He 
looked to Janette and those dark eyes chilled her.  "If she swears to tell the 
story to all that she meets, I'll lift the taint on the bloodline.  She and 
those who follow her will prosper . . . by telling the tale of your 
humiliation and defeat at my hands.  That's your forfeit, LaCroix--to be 
destroyed again and again, in word and thought and memory, throughout 
eternity."
     A nod from him brought the Enforcers tighter around them.  Janette 
clutched LaCroix's arm, and shivered, still cold from Dorian's attention.  But 
LaCroix stool firm, undaunted.
     "<If> you break me," he warned.
     "I'll break you," said Dorian confidently, almost cheerfully.
     LaCroix moved quickly, far more quickly than the Enforcers expected--he 
broke through their ranks and grabbed Dorian by the front of his tunic, 
drawing him close.  Janette yelped as an Enforcer threw his arms around her, 
pinning her neck and her waist against his leather and link armor.  Dorian 
raised a hand immediately as other Enforcers moved forward to take LaCroix, 
his movement stopping them in place.
     It seemed that LaCroix expected as much.  "<If> you break me," he 
repeated, his tone strong and colder than a dagger of ice.  "You'll have one 
chance.  And if you fail . . . I'll break <you.>  I'll make you betray all 
that matters to you, let you stumble to the very gates of hell, and then, when 
you long for the final peace of utter destruction, I'll take even that from 
you.  So break me, Dorian, if you can.  And if you can't, you'll spent 
eternity looking over your shoulder, wondering when I might strike, knowing 
that you'll be powerless to raise a hand against me, or defend yourself."
     Dorian's eyes blazed in dark fury, but he said nothing for a moment.  
Then he lowered his hand, hissing, "<Take> him."
     Four Enforcers rushed forward, but LaCroix released Dorian's tunic and 
kept his hands aloft, pointedly showing no resistance.  The Enforcers looked 
at one another as they surrounded him, but none touched him as he adjusted his 
own tunic.  "Sunrise?" he asked, arching an eyebrow as he met Dorian's gaze 
again.
     In response, Dorian snarled, then hurled himself past them and toward the 
door, the edges of his green cloak flapping behind him and echoing his fury.  
LaCroix turned toward the Enforcer who held her and Janette was suddenly 
freed.  She jabbed her elbow ineffectually into the Enforcer's stomach as a 
form of protest and hurried to LaCroix's side, adjusting her veil, which had 
twisted about her hair and neck in her struggles.
     "<Can> you break him?" she asked anxiously, as the Enforcers fell into 
place around them, escorting them through the doorway and into the street.
     LaCroix smiled as he looked up at the early morning sky, which was 
already turning lavender and fainter shades of violet in the east.  "Oh, yes," 
he answered.  "In time.  The question being, is Dorian strong enough to break 
<me>?"
     Again, his eyes were unreadable and his tone was that of a philosopher 
pondering some distant, purposeless question.  Janette shuddered, knowing that 
this question, at least, would be answered by the tenth rising of the sun.


     Resting her cheek against the soft covering of the davenport, Janette 
opened her eyes, as much to drive away the memories that came after as to 
return to the problem at hand.  She could deal with the Enforcers--for all 
their force and fury, they were <only> men after all.  She'd heard, of course, 
that there were female Enforcers as well, but that seemed a contradiction to 
feminine nature.  Women, whether mortal or vampire, had always seemed to have 
better things to do than engage in that sort of nonsense.  If the rumor were 
true, it was a sad comment on the state of her gender, that to find their 
equality with men they'd lowered themselves to that level.
     And she <still> smelled of garlic.
     Wrinkling her nose, she'd barely risen to her feet when there was a light 
knock at her office door.  She'd only begun to answer when the door opened 
slightly--
     It was Nicola.
     As always, her heart lifted at his presence, at that hesitant smile he 
wore when he realized she was only half-dressed.  "I just stopped by--I didn't 
realize--"
     "Oh, forget that nonsense.  You've seen me in less."  She walked to the 
door, grabbed the arm of his blazer and tugged him into the room.  "You can 
help me dress.  I don't like the catch on this one--remind me to have it 
changed."
     Nicola managed to shut the door before she pulled him after her.  For an 
instant, she tested the cloth of his jacket sleeve beneath her fingers and 
frowned.
     "Not up to your standards?" he asked.
     "If you paid what I imagine, you were cheated.  But then, you always are.  
Or is this part of the camouflage for your job?  Aren't detectives allowed to 
dress well?"
     He smiled as she confronted him, her hands on her hips.  "On the salary 
we're paid?  Not <that> well."
     "A pity.  Next time you really <should> choose a profession that allows 
you to wear decent clothing, if you're going to work in the mortal world."  
Janette shuddered at the thought, then stalked to the davenport and picked up 
the dress.  She threw it into Nicola's hands, then held her arms over her head 
and said, "If you don't mind, I'm in a bit of a hurry.  Alma's been a little 
too free with the complimentary drinks--she's developing an alarming 
attraction for balding men.  And at <her> age!"
     She watched as he carefully unzipped the back of the dress and a tender 
smile came to her lips.  Those large hands and that tiny zipper--but he was 
careful not to let it snag, if only because he knew that she'd make him pay 
for the error.  Tapping her stocking-clad toe lightly against the carpet, she 
let him know that she was waiting.
     As she remembered, those warrior's hands could be exceptionally gentle.  
He slid the dress over her head, his fingers running down the length of her 
bare arms and shoulders as it fell into place.  For a moment she basked in the 
closeness of him, the scent of his after shave--he'd changed it recently--the 
familiarity of him.  Over the centuries she'd grown to know parts of Nicola 
better even than she knew herself.
     When his fingers lingered a little <too> long on the nape of her neck, 
she reached up to slap his hand, then lifted her hair.  "The zipper?"
     "Your wish--"  She imagined his fingers clasped around the zipper and 
stood very still as she heard the sound of the metal teeth catching in 
sequence, fighting the urge to giggle as he brushed his fingers along the 
sensitive skin over her spine, just before the zipper's advance.  It was easy 
to forget that Nicola, too, knew parts of her quite well.
     Then he sniffed her hair.  "Do I smell . . . garlic?"
     She stiffened, allowing him to bring the zipper quite near the top before 
she pulled away.  "An accident.  It's been taken care of."  Janette reached 
over her shoulder and finished the job, then walked to the credenza as if 
nothing were wrong.  Thank heavens Dorian was gone!
     And why was Nicola here?  Did he know about Dorian?
     "What <kind> of accident?" he asked, following her across the room.
     Janette put on a charming smile, placed the choker at her neck, then 
turned toward him.  "Again, if you wouldn't mind?"
     With a light frown at his question having been ignored, Nicola moved 
behind her and fastened the choker, this time his fingers fumbling in his 
haste.  "How do you manage to dress by yourself?"
     "As I've always done.  Although some evenings I <do> have help."  She 
gave him a saucy smile in thanks, then walked over to the davenport and seated 
herself.  With a regal wave, she indicated the shoes that sat on a chair by 
the door.  "Those, please.  And why <did> you drop by, if not to help me 
dress?  I don't feel like answering any of your boring police questions."
     "I hadn't been by in a while, thought I'd see how you were doing."  He 
picked up the shoes and looked at them in that fascinated way men often had--
they'd never understood the engineering behind a pair of high heels, even when 
the fashion had been in style for men.  When he walked over to her, she held 
up a stocking-clad foot and wiggled her toes.  
     With a resigned sigh, Nicola knelt down; she rested one foot on his left 
knee and the other in the palm of his hand as he slipped the shoe in place.  
"What <kind> of accident?" he asked again, as she placed the other foot in his 
hand and his fingers curled around her instep.
     Janette suddenly realized that she'd made a tactical error--she wasn't 
going to get her foot back, or her shoe, unless she answered him.  "Oh, the 
kind of things that happen when you run a business," she said, dismissing the 
event with a wave.  "A mis-delivery, for a restaurant on another street.  
Garlic, of all things!  Alma wasn't getting anywhere with the delivery man and 
so I stepped in . . . just as the box broke open.  We'll have that stench in 
the storage room for <months.>  I can only be thankful it didn't reach the 
cellars."
     She <was> thankful . . . when Nicola slipped the shoe on her foot.  But 
he didn't seem convinced.  "And that's all?"
     "Ummm."  Janette rose to her feet and walked back to the credenza, where 
she picked up her earrings.  She held them in her hands for a moment, 
pretending to choose among the several pairs she'd set out.  "As you can see, 
everything's fine."
     "And you haven't had any trouble lately?"
     She froze for the barest mortal heartbeat, then dropped the earrings as 
if in disgust at the lack of choice and picked up her hairbrush.  Tapping it 
against her palm, she turned and eyed him thoughtfully.  "Trouble?  Nicola, 
you aren't trying to tell me that my club's going to be raided?"
     "No, nothing like that."  There was still that suspicion in his eyes as 
he added, "No trouble with the customers?"
     "Of course not.  Bruno can handle them well enough."  She walked past 
him, slapped the handle of the brush into his palm, and seated herself on the 
davenport, turning slightly so that he could sit beside her, her back toward 
him.  "You may brush my hair, now."
     Nicola <did> sit beside her.  "I'm on duty."
     "So, these <are> cop questions?  So much for being concerned about my 
welfare--"  Pretending anger, she tried to grab the brush from him, but he 
held it out of her reach.  With one hand on her bare shoulder, he turned her 
back to him again and began to stroke the brush through her hair.
     Janette breathed a sigh and smiled, as his fingers and the brush plied 
their magic.  He <did> remember.  Her eyes closed as she let the sheer luxury 
of it, the familiarity of it wash over her--without that horrid scent of 
garlic still assaulting her nostrils, they could be anytime, anywhere, having 
shared this moment in the past more often than she could count.
     For just as LaCroix had tutored Nicola in many things, she'd taken his 
education on the ways of women into hand.  At the start she'd realized that 
he'd never learn to understand them--so few men had that rare ability--so she 
settled on teaching him how to please them.  It was hardly a waste of time, 
for in caring so much about his education, she did herself a good turn.  
Nicola could be an apt and enthusiastic pupil when he wanted to be.
     And there were times when he <so> wanted . . . .
     "Have you been receiving any threats?" he asked.
     "Threats?"  She opened her eyes, her memories of pleasant times 
interrupted by the non sequitur.  "Nothing out of the ordinary.  Occasionally 
Bruno tosses a rowdy customer into the street with a little too much 
diligence, but that's easily settled.  And I've had no incident of that sort 
in weeks."
     "I've heard--"  The brush stroked upward, against the hairs on her neck 
and she shivered at the touch, her back arching involuntarily as she leaned 
against Nicola's shoulder.  "I've heard that you've been receiving some 
unwelcome attention.  Some gifts?"
     "I often receive gifts from admirers.  You used to be among them.  Can 
there <be> unwelcome gifts?"  She forced herself to be calm, her heart 
skipping its solitary beat.  "Who told you that?"
     "Is it true?"
     There were two options--lie or tell the truth.  Since he seemed to know 
the truth, what would lying gain her?  "Yes."
     "Janette," he put the brush down on the davenport and placed his hands on 
her shoulders, turning her to face him, "why didn't you tell me?  You know you 
could be in danger."
     She forced a smile, touched to see the concern in his blue eyes.  "The 
next thing you'll say is that I'm being hunted."
     Nicola's eyes narrowed, trying to pin her in place.  "Are you?"
     "No, of course not.  Not for decades, at least a half century."  She rose 
to her feet, taking the hairbrush with her back to the credenza.  Once there, 
she picked up the bobby pins and twisted her hair around her hand, in 
preparation for pinning it up on one side.  "Haven't you heard?  We're passe'.  
No one believes in vampires any more.  There aren't any professional hunters, 
as there used to be."
     Nicola remained on the sofa, she could feel his eyes on her back, 
watching her for any reaction.  "You haven't . . . killed anyone recently?"
     Janette stuck a pin into her hair to keep her hands from shaking.  This 
was a sore point between them and would remain so until he got over this 
business about wanting to recross the line between vampire and mortal--he 
hadn't killed for blood in over a century.  While she, being true to their 
nature, saw nothing wrong with feeding on mortals.  "Nicola, you know we don't 
hunt anymore.  Not here.  It's just too dangerous."
     "I didn't ask about <we>," he corrected, voice sharp.  "I asked about 
<you.>"
     Another pin was set in place.  She turned her head, touching the back of 
her hair lightly, as content as she was going to be with the result.  "If I 
answer you, will you believe me?"
     He hesitated only a moment, before saying, "Yes."
     Grabbing a set of earrings from the credenza at random, she turned toward 
him, eyes meeting his as she blindly fastened the dangling pearls into place.  
"I haven't hunted in at least . . . I'd say five years.  Does <that> satisfy 
you?"
     Nicola rose to his feet, wearing that studious expression--that <cop> 
look.  It irritated her.  "Yes," he answered, again after a measured--or 
measuring--pause.  "But that means we've got no easy answer, no clue as to 
what mortal wants you dead.  Or how they found out you were a vampire in the 
first place.  I know you're careful--"
     "Why, thank <you> for noticing."
     "--More careful than most."  He moved to stand behind her as she adjusted 
her choker, checked her earrings with the tips of her fingers.  "There's 
nothing to say that this couldn't be one of us."
     "It's not a prank.  I've checked."
     "Is there anyone you know who's got a grudge outstanding?"
     Janette tilted her head thoughtfully as she picked up the perfume 
atomizer from the top of the credenza.  It was made of scarlet crystal--the 
light from the lamps made her hands appear to be covered in blood.  She rather 
liked the effect, it helped her concentrate as her memory ranged back, far 
back . . . then she shook her head slowly.  "No.  No one that would be here, 
now."  She felt Nicola's hands settle softly against the skin of her neck, but 
raised the atomizer in her hand and warned, "If you don't move, Nicola, you'll 
be marked by my scent.  Although I would <love> to hear your explanation when 
you returned to duty . . . ?"
     She smiled as he backed away, then turned her head and gave the bulb a 
squeeze.  A fine spray of perfume enveloped her, complementing the violet 
she'd already brushed through her hair.  Flinging her pinned hair this way and 
that, Janette gave an experimental sniff.
     No garlic.
     Pleased with herself, Janette returned the atomizer to the credenza.  She 
placed her fingers along the wooden edge, arched her palm, and posed prettily, 
asking, "Better?"
     Nicola merely shook his head, a stern smile on his face.  "Janette, this 
is <serious.>"
     "And so am <I.>  I have an image to maintain.  There are some who would 
like to see me fail at this venture.  Others who think I have no right to be 
so public because I'm a woman, or a vampire, or a child of LaCroix.  Showing 
fear--<any> fear--would put my club in a very untenable position."  Stalking 
up to him, she touched his lower lip lightly with a red-lacquered fingernail.  
"It's nothing.  Don't worry.  I can take care of myself."  She trailed the 
finger down his chin to his neck, then pressed her lips lightly to his, 
whispering, "Or don't you remember?  Has it been <so> long?"
     Just as he placed one hand on her neck, the other sliding down to her 
waist, she hissed, "Lipstick!  Nicola, you should have reminded me!" and 
escaped him, running back to the credenza and ignoring his exasperated sigh.
     "I don't think you realize the--"
     Janette barely heard him, her attention centered on finding just the 
right lipstick from amongst the many colors and pastes and applications she'd 
scattered across the top of the credenza.  A knock sounded in mid-sentence and 
she said, "<Entrez,>" without thinking.
     The click of Alma's stiletto heels, even muffled by the thick Persian 
carpet that covered her floor, was unmistakable.  Janette barely gave her a 
glance.  "What is it, Alma?"
     "Bruno found this taped to the front door."
     Turning her head, Janette saw Alma's eyes rake across Nicola with an 
unabashed, primal interest, as she waved a white envelope.  Nicola, in turn, 
seemed not entirely disinterested--there was a saucy edge to that official and 
polite policeman's smile.
     Walking between them, Janette snatched the envelope from Alma's fingers, 
saying, "That <will> be all, Alma.  I'll need an early count on the midnight 
receipts.  If you'd be so kind?"
     Alma's glance was deathly cold as she batted her eyelids at Janette.  
Flashing Nicola an inviting smile over her shoulder, she headed for the door.  
But she was no more than a step or two away when she stopped.  Her lips 
twisted and she turned blank eyes to them, as if puzzled.
     She sniffed, delicately.  Taking a step closer to Janette, she sniffed 
again.
     Then she smiled.  And swinging her shoulders back, Alma left the room, 
closing the door behind her.
     "That's <it>!" snarled Janette.  Stalking directly to the desk, she 
picked up her car keys.  "I'm going to take a shower.  Nicola, tell Bruno he's 
in charge.  And tell that--that <vamp>--!"
     As she swung by him, Nicola deftly lifted the crumpled envelope from her 
grasp.  He opened it and unfolded the paper inside, reading it.  Her fury was 
extinguished by his suddenly blank expression, like a match in a hurricane 
wind.  "What?" she asked, as he stared at her.
     In answer, Nicola held the paper out to her.  Janette took it, her eyes 
taking in the two, scrawled words--
     I KNOW.
     A shudder ran through her.  She clasped her fingers around the edges of 
the paper, suddenly recalling LaCroix's first words to Dorian, from so many 
centuries ago.  Was this some message from the Enforcers?  From Dorian?  From 
LaCroix--could he have found out that Dorian was here, that she hadn't 
destroyed him when she'd had the chance--?
     There were too many possibilities, too many options.  Her knees felt weak 
and started to give way . . . but Nicola's arms were around her, supporting 
her.  He took the paper from her hand, saying, "<This> is serious."
     "No, no," she muttered weakly.  "This has nothing to do with those other-
-you don't understand--this is--"  Janette looked up into his face, his eyes, 
which were anxious and just a bit angry at her obstinate nature.  She tried to 
find words to explain her confusion, that the note could mean any one of a 
hundred different things.  There were names she could speak, explanations she 
could give, stories she could weave--
     And she remembered her earlier promise, both to Dorian and Natalie 
Lambert, that she wouldn't mention Dorian's presence unless she was asked.
     It wasn't as if she'd never broken a promise--she could pave a road to 
Calais with the promises she'd made and then conveniently forgotten.  She 
hadn't sworn an oath on any saint or stone, any blood or tie, any tune or 
trail.  They were words.  Only that.
     But for some reason, it was important that she honor that very pointless 
and--so she had thought at the time--ill-considered request.  It could only 
lead to disaster later.  Such secrets always did.  It might bring to ruin this 
blind trust Nicola had so placed in his mortal friend.  It might be enough to 
shake him from this foolish preoccupation with the mortal world, mortal 
things, mortal lives. It might break Nicola's heart.
     It might even send him back to her, to what he truly was and where he 
truly belonged.
     At that moment, Nicola pressed his lips to her forehead and drew her 
close, whispering, "There's no reason to be afraid.  At least I've got 
something physical to work with.  I'll take care of it--I'll tell them you've 
received threats before, but this is the first in writing.  We'll treat it 
like a stalking.  It'll be investigated.  We won't let anyone get near you, 
Janette.  <I> won't let anyone get near you."
     She shuddered again, at the familiarity of his arms and his embrace, but 
her eyes were open as she tucked her head down, against his shoulder.  Nicola 
took her confusion and hesitation for fear.  Fine.  Let him think that.  She 
would keep her promise to Dorian, let his little tableau work its way to a 
tragic end.  And then <she> would protect Nicola, pick up the pieces and put 
him back together again.
     But if he got the police involved . . . .
     "No."  Her voice was quiet, muffled against his blazer.  Janette pushed 
herself back, away from him, straightening her spine.  Meeting his eyes, she 
adjusted her choker with the touch of her finger, then smoothed the length of 
her dress.  "No, Nicola, I don't want the police involved.  This is my 
concern, not yours."
     "If you're being threatened--?"
     She slapped the message against his arm.  "Fool!  Your friends ask 
questions.  And what's the first question they'll ask?  What does this person 
know that could be so damaging, so threatening?"  She raised an eyebrow, 
seeing her logic mirrored in his expression.  "Yes, I pay my taxes.  I'm a 
model citizen, according to the records.  But someone might suspect blackmail 
and begin to dig.  Dig too deeply and they may find holes in those records.  
Larry Merlin is a genius, but even he's limited in what he can do and the 
speed with which he can do it."
     He opened his mouth to answer, but she held up a warning finger.  "And 
what about your partner?  You've brought him here too often, he knows we're . 
. . friends.  If my past has holes, you might be guilty by association.  Are 
you in such a hurry to leave this life, to endanger all you've built and 
accomplished because your chivalric instincts drive you to act?  Because you 
have some <need> to protect me?  Or is it that you feel guilty, having 
neglected me for all these months?"
     She saw the hurt in his eyes and, for a moment, regretted her words.  But 
Janette steeled herself, hardened her heart.  She glared at him, feeling her 
eyes slip from blue to gold, as the beast fed on her anger, transformed her.  
"I don't need your protection!  Or LaCroix's protection.  I <can> take care of 
my club.  And myself."
     Nicola was trying to be reasonable--she could see the muscles in his jaw 
tighten as he exerted control he'd not displayed for . . . he <had> learned 
something, these past few years.  "I never said you couldn't protect yourself.  
But this is beyond you.  If nothing else, think of the club--if you don't let 
me take care of this, the club could be endangered.  At least . . . at least 
let me have that note.  Nat can have forensics take a look at it for me, on 
the sly.  There could be fingerprints, paper fibers, <something> we could use 
to identify--"
     She forced herself to ignore his common sense.  Shoving the note back 
into the envelope, Janette folded it in half, then in half again, and tucked 
it down the front of her dress.
     Nicola moved forward, as if to take it from her, but as the note 
disappeared from sight, he stopped himself.  Taking a breath, he turned away 
from her angrily--she saw a glint of gold in his eye as he ran his hand 
through his hair, but his control still held.  He met her gaze and pointed at 
her chest.  "<That> is evidence."
     "Of what crime?  <This>," Janette touched her hand to the front of her 
dress, "is personal correspondence.  If you want it, get a search warrant.  
You know where to find it.  And even then, I'm not giving it up without a 
fight."
     There'd been a time when he would have taken it from her--but he was no 
longer that man.  His fists clenched and he took a step toward her . . . but 
then he unclenched his fists and held up his palms, as if in surrender.  "All 
right.  If that's the way you want this handled."
     "It <is>."  Janette whirled on her heels and headed for the door, calling 
over her shoulder, "Remember, Bruno's in charge.  Alma--I'll deal with her 
later."
     But Nicola caught her at the door, moving quickly.  He circled her wrist 
with his hand.  When she went perfectly still and looked down at the fingers 
that held her, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her palm gently.  
"Don't wait to call if you need help," he said, the words whispering against 
her skin.  "Be careful, Janette.  Be very, very careful."
     When he released her hand, she stroked his cheek with her fingertips, 
lightly, something in her heart melting at his concerned, earnest warning.  
Not enough of course to sway her decision, to make her give in, but it was a 
gallant move.  "As you said, <cher>, I'm <always> careful."
     And with that, she slipped down the hallway and toward the rear storage 
area of the club before he could catch up with her.
     A thorough cleaning had removed most of the garlic smell . . . but only 
bleach would remove the bloodstains.  Janette made a mental note to have that 
attended to as quickly as possible--she might have diverted Nicola's attention 
this night, but he'd be back.  She'd never quite determined how he could be so 
blind to the ways of women and yet have such an eye for the smallest, 
inconspicuous detail.
     It was that thought that occupied her as she unlocked the rear entrance 
and exited the Raven.  Janette smiled a little, fitting the key in the lock 
and rebolting the door, as she considered some of the details Nicola had 
remembered over the years . . . as well as those he'd pretended to forget.  
Her car was not that far away--she hummed a few stanzas of a song to herself, 
it having been part of a happier, simpler time.  Fresh blood had been so 
plentiful then.  One could take what and whom one wanted, without fear of 
discovery or later regret if one was careful.  And she had always been 
careful.
     Well . . . almost always.
     When she reached her car, she was surprised to find that the electronic 
lock beeper on her keychain locked the door instead of unlocking it.  Janette 
opened the door and moved to slide into the seat--
     Then pulled back in horror, hissing.  A large crucifix had been propped 
up on the seat and threaded through the steering wheel of the car.
     Placing her arm across her eyes, she hissed again and turned, outrage 
managing to drive away at least some of her immediate fear--how <dare> someone 
touch her car!  If this <was> a prank, she'd have the fool's head for it.
     That's when she heard the heartbeats.
     Janette turned slowly and found herself facing four men.  They appeared 
strong, of good build . . . one was even handsome.  They were scraggly and 
poorly dressed, their jeans torn and tattered, their shirts and T-shirts 
smelling of sweat and dirt.  Even their hair was unkempt, although the 
handsome one had tied his back in a very becoming tail.
     Folding her arms across her chest, she regarded that one with an 
appraising eye.  "Can I help you, <gentlemen>?" she asked, fighting back the 
urge to let her fangs fall into place.  As she'd told Nicola, she hadn't 
hunted in years.  Open displays of menace could be costly in these modern 
times.
     One of them held up another crucifix, thrusting it in her face.
     It had all been too much for her that day--too many surprises.  She 
hissed at him, fangs bared, before she thought about what she was doing.  Too 
late, she heard the noise behind her, heard the other heartbeats.  There was a 
swoosh in the air, a light breeze accompanied by an overwhelming stench of 
garlic.
     Entangled in a net made of thick rope, Janette foundered.  The smell of 
garlic over-powered her--the rope must have been soaked in it--and her eyes 
watered blood red tears as she closed them, shrieking at the attack, weakened 
by nausea.  The weight of the net and the gut-wrenching effects of the garlic 
had dropped her to her knees onto the tar.  Janette fought to keep her eyes 
open, fought to keep conscious, as the fumes choked her, attacking her lungs 
just as it irritated her skin.
     She couldn't keep anything straight--the heat of their bodies blended 
into one other as bright red and orange streaks against the darkness, their 
heartbeats blurred into cannon blasts.  Raising her hands to her ears to hold 
out the sounds, she managed a weak wail and opened her eyes--
     Just in time to see a stake descending toward her.

CHAPTER 5

     Natalie pulled the car into a space around the corner from her apartment 
building, put on the parking break, then shut off the engine.  Instantly, she 
slumped and she sighed in relief, a little of the tension draining out of her.  
Her shoulders were still stiff and sore, mostly because she'd kept them ramrod 
straight.  Not to show fear, that was the thing.
     That was one of the lessons she'd learned early, when she'd first had to 
deal with Nick sitting up on a gurney in the coroner's lab, the first and only 
time one of her 'patients' had come back to life.  There were a number of 
reasons that he hadn't killed her that night--or the subsequent night when 
he'd tried to test her, to see if she still remembered what he was--but she 
still felt that not having shown fear, or controlling it as much as she could, 
had helped him to deal with her on a level other than 'food.'
     She'd seen Nick at his worst--as bad as she ever <wanted> to see him--
since then.  Not showing fear had helped then, too, when she'd confronted him 
during his 'fall from grace,' when he'd felt betrayed by Monica and the Twelve 
Step program.  And again, when he'd nearly been killed by that crossbow bolt, 
not so many months ago.  Healing a wounded vampire wasn't all that difficult--
you simply had to remove the offending agent and give them lots of blood so 
that their natural defenses would kick in.
     The problem was that she--being essentially lots of vampire-friendly 
liquid protein--was exactly the cure to what ailed them.  And, at the moment, 
what ailed Dorian.  She'd been a nervous wreck on her drive from the Raven, 
sneaking glances in the rearview mirror to check on her patient--half 
expecting to see him slip up out of the back seat, fangs ready to plunge into 
her throat.
     Thankfully, he'd done nothing but moan and mutter during the trip.  Even 
with the engine off, she could hear the little sounds he made, which broke the 
deathly stillness.  He'd be better when she'd gotten more blood into him, when 
she'd cleaned the garlic out of the open wounds and they began to heal.  To do 
that, she had to get him upstairs . . . .
     Not to show fear.
     Natalie opened the driver's side door, slipped out of the seat, then 
locked the door behind her.  The rear doors were locked as well.  She moved 
around the front of the car and opened the front passenger side, grabbing the 
straps for her purse and medical bag, then closed and locked that door.  For a 
few moments, Dorian would be safer locked in the car.
     She hesitated, glancing in the rear passenger window--Dorian's eyes were 
closed and the blanket was wound around him--it didn't look like he was going 
anywhere fast.  Natalie scanned the empty parking lot behind the building, 
knowing that it was still early enough in the evening for someone to wander 
by.  And though Dorian would be safe enough inside the car, there wasn't much 
she could do to protect a casual passerby from a wounded vampire who wanted 
out.
     Correction--a <hungry> wounded vampire . . . .
     Deciding that her only option was to get him upstairs and fast, Natalie 
ran for the front door.  There were two flights of steps to cover before she 
reached her apartment, and every step reminded her of just how difficult it 
was going to be--moving Dorian to safety without endangering him, her, or the 
rest of the neighborhood.  By the time she'd turned her key in the door lock 
of her apartment, she'd almost decided to call the Raven in hope that Janette 
could offer some help.
     'Almost' being the operative word.  From what she'd seen, Janette wasn't 
the generous sort.  And no matter what Dorian had said about Janette having 
been kind--he was probably delirious after all--she'd very much gotten the 
impression that Janette would just as soon have had her bouncer toss him into 
the alley as onto the back seat of Natalie's car.
     She rattled the keys against the lock in habit and Sidney came running.  
Slipping inside and closing the door before he could make a dash for it, 
Natalie scooped up the cat into her arms.  "Sorry, honey," she told him, 
holding him up in the air, a bag dangling off either arm, "but you'll have to 
stay in the bedroom for a little while.  Try not to shred anything too 
expensive to replace, okay?"
     Resting the cat against one shoulder, Natalie dropped her purse and 
emergency bag on the couch, then headed for the bedroom.  True to her word, 
she dropped Sidney on the bed after she'd closed the bedroom door, then 
gathered what she thought she'd need--a thick quilt, a blanket, a clean white 
bedsheet, and oversized gray sweats she'd received as a gift and which she'd 
tucked into her bottom drawer with the full intention of returning for the 
correct size someday.
     Those things were piled on the middle of her bed, much to Sidney's well-
announced annoyance.  Then Natalie stripped off her blouse, skirt and hose--
her shoes having been kicked off on the way to the bedroom--replacing them 
with another pair of sweat pants and shirt.  She'd grabbed whatever she had 
close to hand and hesitated momentarily before putting them on, knowing they 
would be a lost cause; she'd probably never get the blood and garlic stains 
and smell out of them.
     But this was an emergency situation--what choice did she have?  She 
shrugged her way into the shirt and pants, then sat down and tied her sneakers 
over her bare feet.  Grabbing the pile of blankets from the bed, she headed 
back to the living room, taking great care to keep Sidney on the bedroom side 
of the door--Dorian might just be working on the 'any port in a storm' theory 
as well and who knew where cats ranked on the vampire blood-preference feeding 
chart?
     The blankets went onto the couch, over her purse and bag.  Natalie's next 
trip was to the bathroom, where she ripped the shower curtain liner from the 
rings, knowing full well that neatness didn't count.  Racing back to the 
living room, she spread the quilt on the floor, then covered that with the 
plastic shower liner.  The blanket went next and the sheet followed--it wasn't 
much but Dorian would be moderately comfortable and she'd have plenty of room 
with which to work.  Kneeling on the floor as she tucked down the edges of the 
sheet beneath the under-pieces, Natalie paused a moment, closing her eyes and 
trying to visually reconstruct the type of wounds she'd seen during her brief 
examination of him.
     Just the scope of the injuries made her stomach queasy--and she wasn't 
the type to give in to that sort of thing.  Not to mention the fact that her 
head still ached.  It wasn't quite as bad as before, but the dull throb was a 
constant reminder that she, herself, was supposed to be on the list of the 
walking wounded.  And might easily switch over to the list of the walking dead 
if she didn't take a few more precautions.
     She rose to her feet, remembering just how dangerous Nick had been when 
he'd been wounded and needed blood.  He'd attacked her--something she'd never 
consciously admitted might happen--and only Dorian's presence had saved her 
from becoming an involuntary blood donor at least once.  Of course, he' been 
provoked by Vivian, he was in pain, he was about as near unto death as someone 
in his state could be . . . and a number of other excuses that made her feel 
better whenever she thought about it.  Even now, she could picture Nick's 
face, eyes closed tightly, jaw clenched, as he fought down the urge to grab 
the nearest mortal and start feeding.  She knew he would rather have died than 
hurt her and that his attack on her had probably scared him just as badly as 
it had her.  She couldn't count on Dorian to have that much willpower, or 
consideration.  And she wasn't about to call Janette for help, especially 
since the vampiress had indicated that she expected a visit from the Enforcers 
at any moment.
     Calling Nick . . . was out of the question.  Which meant that was on her-
-very mortal--own.
     Natalie hurried into the kitchen and pulled a clean dish towel from the 
drawer.  Turning on the water in the sink, she passed the dish towel through 
the water quickly, barely wetting it.  Then she opened the cabinet and 
rummaged through her spices in search of the one thing she'd tucked away 
almost two years ago and to which she hadn't given more than a spare thought--
garlic salt or garlic powder.  Finding the latter, she tossed it liberally 
over the wet towel, then folded it in half, hoping that most of it would 
stick. Dorian's wounds were permeated with the stuff; a little more wouldn't 
cause him too much bother and might save her life.
     Towel in hand, keys in her pants pocket, Natalie took a deep breath.  She 
pulled the last weapons in her arsenal from the kitchen drawer, the two things 
she'd need to get Dorian up those steps and to a point where she could help 
him without either one of them having to do something they'd later regret.  
The corkscrew went into her pocket, but the long handled wooden spoon was 
another matter--she snapped that against the counter, leaving a jagged wooden 
edge.
     Now, she was ready.  Ignoring Sidney's plaintive and indignant meowed 
protests against his enforced captivity, she tripped the lock on her front 
door as she left--she'd only be downstairs and she'd rather not have to bother 
with the key if she had her hands full of wounded vampire.  Muttering a silent 
thank you to whomever looked after coroners who didn't know enough to say 
"You're right," when one of their patients sat up and admitted he was dead, 
she all but flew down the steps to the ground level.  Her neighbors were used 
to her coming and going at all hours of the night, but what a sight she must 
be, dressed in sweats and sneakers, garlic towel in one hand and broken wooden 
spoon in the other!
     No one was around, either in the stairwell or outside; her luck was 
holding.  Once she got to the car, Natalie tossed the towel onto the car roof 
just over the rear passenger door, where she could get at it in a hurry.  The 
wooden spoon was stuck carefully into the waistband of her sweat pants, also 
ready at a moment's notice.  She just had to remember not to bend down too 
quickly or she'd risk impaling herself.
     The thought made her smile for some reason.  Returning to the trunk of 
the car, she opened it and looked over the case of bottles Janette had placed 
inside.  Dorian had two at the Raven, which meant there were eight left.  He'd 
need most of them before the night was over, the way those cuts were still 
bleeding.  Right now, he needed just enough to get him up and on his feet--if 
he collapsed once they got upstairs so much the better.  He'd be less likely 
to attack her.
     Natalie grabbed hold of one bottle and pulled it from the case.  The 
corkscrew worked well enough to get the cork out in one piece--she tossed that 
into her trunk and closed the hood.  The corkscrew went back into her pocket 
and the keys were in her hand.
     It was time to deal with Dorian.
     She opened the car door carefully, so as not to startle him--God only 
knew what she'd do with a startled vampire.  As it was, he merely shifted and 
moaned again.  Natalie grimaced as she leaned back on the open car door, 
annoyed at having to deal with a patient who was probably going to spend most 
of his time complaining--one of the reasons she'd stuck to patients she 
thought would <never> talk back.  Having left the windows up and the car 
locked meant that wonderful smell of wet, blanket-covered, bleeding, garlic-
soaked vampire had now permeated the interior.  The odor was strong enough to 
knock her off her feet.
     But Natalie persevered.  She leaned over just enough to check--Dorian's 
eyes were closed, his occasional breathing labored.  "Dorian?" she said 
softly, tapping his cheek with the flat of her hand.  "Dorian?  We're here.  
It's time to move you again.  And then you can have a nice, long rest."
     He groaned, but then his eyelids opened, eyes glaring gold--and his hand 
shot up to catch her wrist.
     Natalie froze in place, having forgotten just how quickly even a wounded 
vampire could move.  She almost spilled the bottle of blood as she held it in 
position, tilting it so that a trickle fell on his lips.
     Dorian's hand released hers and he grabbed the bottle.  Resisting the 
urge to get away as far and fast as she could, Natalie placed her hands under 
his armpits and pulled upward, grunting as she shifted him into a sitting 
position.  He didn't wait, but immediately gulped at the liquid, swallowing 
almost faster than it could leave the bottle.  She expected it to go all over 
and was surprised to see just how little was wasted or spilled.
     It was amazing how quickly he could drink.  When he'd drained the last 
drop from the bottle, his hand fell down to his lap, his fingers losing hold 
of the glass.  Before Natalie could catch it, the bottle slipped out of the 
car and to the ground, where it smashed against the tar.  The noise made her 
jump.
     "Let's hope Janette doesn't expect deposits back on the empties," she 
said, eyeing the broken glass in dismay.  Then, she looked at Dorian.
     He was sitting upright, head lolling against the back of the seat, 
shoulders slumped and body sliding against the slick body bag behind him.  
Only the bulk of the sodden blanket seemed to keep him upright.  His eyelids 
fluttered, half-closed, but there was no gold in sight, just dark pupils.  He 
was, as best she could tell, fairly conscious.
     It probably wasn't going to get much better.  She could give him another 
bottle, but she'd rather save the rest for after she'd cleaned him up and his 
body started working on repairing the tears, cuts, and bruises--then he'd 
<really> need blood.  And she'd better have enough on hand.
     Natalie lifted the dish towel from the car roof and slipped it around her 
neck.  Then she leaned into the car and reached past Dorian, trying to move 
his legs closer to the door.  "Time to go, lazy.  Let's get a move on before 
the neighbors wonder why I have to beat up strange men to get them into my 
apartment."
     He let out a low hiss at the additional smell of the garlic, throwing his 
head back against the seat in an attempt to get away.  Natalie managed to get 
his bare feet out of the car and resting on the tar, well away from the broken 
bottle.
     Dorian's eyes opened a bit wider and he shook his head, as if trying to 
clear it.  "Just--just let--"
     "No 'just,'" she scolded.  "We've gotta do this quickly or not at all.  
Unless you can get your legs under you and let me help you upstairs, you're 
spending the night in the car, covered in garlic and leaking like a sieve."
     <That> got his attention.  He moved his head, looking up to meet her 
eyes.  For a moment she saw specks of red in those black depths and some inner 
bell went off, once again warning her to get the hell out of there.  But the 
red disappeared.  The muscles in his jaw tightened visibly and he lifted his 
hand toward her.
     Natalie leaned forward, placing his arm over her shoulder, and wedged 
herself up against his body.  With a little leverage she got him on his feet 
and out of the car, the blanket hanging off him like a ragtag cape.  Natalie 
moved to take it from him, as Dorian leaned the full length of his body along 
the car, his cheek pressed against the roof.  He hissed again and shifted--she 
grabbed him before he could fall over.
     "Okay--keep it for now," she told him.  "But that's the first thing that 
goes to the laundry when we get upstairs.  You think Janette wants it back?  
Knowing her, she'll want it fumigated."  She closed the rear passenger door as 
gently as she could so as not to jar him, talking nonsense because it gave her 
something to do and him something to listen to.  Keep his mind on anything 
except his wounds and the blood hunger, that was her scheme.
     Again, Natalie pushed her shoulder between his arm and his body, taking 
what she could of his weight on herself.  Dorian was about Nick's height, but 
thinner and less barrel-chested.  She got him turned in the right direction 
and over the curb, onto the sidewalk.
     When they rounded the corner and she caught sight of the outside steps, 
she swallowed for a moment.  But she didn't dare falter.  He stumbled every 
few feet, gasping sometimes.  She didn't dare look at him, or at the trail of 
blood, garlic, and water that they left behind them.  Natalie focused her eyes 
on the steps, tightening her grip on his side and on his other arm, trying to 
ignore his blood-tainted breath against her cheek and neck.
     It actually got a bit easier once they reached the staircase.  Dorian 
pushed away the hand on his arm and grabbed onto the railing with a death-
grip, pulling himself up as she supported his other side.  At one point he 
stopped, swinging his back against the railing and nearly sending her 
stumbling.  "--Rest--" he muttered, between clenched teeth.
     Natalie wasn't about to let him sit down.  As his body sank toward the 
concrete, she grabbed hold of his waist.  Throwing her arms around him, she 
pulled him to a standing position.  The wooden spoon dug into her side, but 
she focused past that, growling, "Get up, dammit, or I'll leave you here!  Do 
you want the Enforcers to find you?  Or do you want to wait until the sun 
comes up?"
     Dorian's eyes opened wide--red as fire--and he snarled.  Her instincts 
told her to let him fall, to back off and leave him there, especially when 
faced with those fangs.
     Instead, she dug her fingers into him, tightening her hold.  And she 
snarled right back.
     It couldn't have been half as effective as his--she knew her teeth 
weren't anywhere near as lethal as a vampire's--but the attitude got through.  
Dorian stared at her, his face going slack in astonishment, his eyes returning 
to a very bewildered black.  She didn't dare let up, not while she had the 
momentum.
     "Don't you <ever> do that again!" she scolded.  "Now, move!"
     And he did, grabbing hold of the handrail as she slipped under his 
shoulder.  Their progress was faster for the first few steps only, but they 
gained some ground and that extra push got them over the crest of the stairs, 
through the door, and into the building.  There were only two half-flights of 
stairs to go.
     Natalie tried not to notice how hard her heart was pounding, thinking 
that if she didn't draw attention to it, Dorian might not notice.  Personally, 
she felt great--her headache was down to an almost non-existent tingle, which 
she attributed to the adrenaline rush.  And she was hard-pressed not to grin 
like a fool.  It wasn't every day she faced down fangs and won!
     But concentrating on the matter at hand made it much easier to set her 
lips into a grim line.  By the time they'd reached the mid-landing between the 
first and second set of steps, Dorian was all but hanging from the handrail.  
He was fading fast.  She railed at herself for not having given him another 
bottle of blood in the car or for not having the foresight to have taken 
another bottle with her.  Then again, the thought of him sitting on the steps 
of her apartment building stairwell and chugging a bottle of blood--God only 
knew what would happen if one of the neighbors decided to take in a movie or 
put out their trash early for tomorrow's pickup.
     "Only a few more steps to go," she coaxed.  "Then you can rest."
     His head slumped down against the handrail and he muttered, "I can't--I 
can't--"
     Natalie leaned closer, knowing that browbeating had gotten him this far, 
but it wouldn't work any longer.  "Dorian, please, you've <got> to try--"
     The words were barely out of her mouth before the arm that rested over 
her shoulder moved away, the hand gripping the front of her neck and pushing 
away the garlic-covered towel.  Whirling, Dorian pinned her between himself 
and the rail.  The hand moved up the side of her face, turning her head and 
exposing her neck.
     He was weak.  And he was slower than he should have been--by catching her 
off-guard he'd wasted a lot of what strength he had left.  She was able to 
wedge the wooden spoon out from between them.  Wrapping all of her fingers 
around the handle, she pressed the sharp end of it against his chest, exactly 
over his heart, suddenly realizing that Anatomy 101 hadn't been such a waste 
after all.
     Too late, Dorian realized that he was in danger.  He let go of her neck, 
hands reaching down to grab the wooden spoon from her.
     Natalie knew it was probably the only chance she had left.  She was 
higher than he was, he was off-balance.  The instant his hands connected with 
the spoon she should let go, let his momentum take him right down the steps 
and, hopefully, break his fool neck.
     She <should>.  But Natalie took a step backwards, up the stairs, pulling 
on the wooden spoon.  First one step, then two, then three--Dorian followed, 
grabbing onto the spoon, his eyes still red, his lips curled back over his 
fangs in a snarl.  His brain had gone somewhere else; now he was working on 
instinct.  He was stalking her.
     And she let him.
     Once she reached the top step, Natalie bolted for the apartment door, 
thanking providence that she'd remembered to leave it unlocked.  If he'd been 
healthy and on his mark, she wouldn't have made the first step, but he was 
barely mobile and only some animal part of him made him stumble after her, in 
search of food.  She opened the door, slipped through, then hesitated there, 
hoping against hope that he'd come after her, full tilt, thinking he had her 
trapped.
     At the sight of her standing in the door, Dorian's eyes gleamed--he 
gurgled in  his throat, which sounded almost like a laugh.  He ran at the 
door.
     Natalie slammed it into him--hard--with every ounce of energy she 
possessed.
     Some sage and separate part of her knew that <crack> meant that he'd 
probably broken his nose.  But she was wired and ready for action.  The blow 
stunned him and he started to fall.  Natalie yanked the door open, taking 
Dorian's weight on herself.  She moved backward, dragging him to the makeshift 
cot she'd prepared on the floor, then she eased him to the floor, face down, 
as gently as she could or dared.
     Dorian didn't move--still somewhat stunned by his unexpected collision 
with the door, she guessed.  For her own part, Natalie leaned against the wall 
and tried not to think about how tired she was or how she envied him that nice 
almost-soft spot on the floor.  Dorian might have time to lie down on the job, 
but she still had things to do to ensure his continued survival, not the least 
of which was moving some of that blood out of the back of her car.
     Knowing that she looked a sight, Natalie fished her keys out of her 
pocket and locked the front door as she left, picking up the wooden spoon in 
the hall almost as an afterthought.  She tried not to notice the small nose-
high dent in the door, just as she tried not to notice the trail of drying 
blood that ran up the staircase and directly to her apartment.  Explaining it 
wasn't a problem--she could say that she'd taken some work home with her 
without realizing it.  Paying for it would be another matter.  Granted, it was 
about time the super recarpeted the stairs, but she'd never imagined that 
she'd end up footing the bill.
     The trip downstairs was nothing.  Natalie walked out the door, turned the 
corner, and reached her car.  She opened the trunk and stared at the remaining 
seven bottles.  Four, maybe five this trip?  Which would mean having an extra 
two to pick up later.
     Shrugging, she let it go at that--she wasn't about to make another trip 
down to the car tonight.  Hefting five of the bottles in her arms, she slammed 
down the lid of the trunk with her elbow, then headed for front steps.
     The trip upstairs was a bit more of a grind.  Still, she managed not to 
drop one bottle and found herself tired, but pleased, at her apartment door.  
It was while she attempted to fish out her keys that she realized she had no 
idea just what she was going to find on the other side of that door.  If 
Dorian had regained any bit of sense, he'd be sorry for his attempted attack 
on her.  If he'd gone back into 'no brain-instinct only' mode, he could be 
waiting beside the door, ready to pounce when she walked through.
     A bit more juggling and she was prepared for even that contingency, 
holding one of the bottles by the neck and prepared to use it as a club, if 
necessary.  After all, Mama Lambert didn't raise any stupid children--
     Which was why she had a wounded vampire lying on her living room floor, 
right?
     Grimacing at the thought, Natalie opened her apartment door with the 
touch of her foot, then waited in the hall.
     Nothing, including Dorian, had moved.
     The bottles went into the kitchen--three into the fridge and two on the 
counter.  She removed the cork out of one completely, then loosened the cork 
on the second and stuck that into the fridge as well, just in case it was 
needed in a hurry; she had a feeling hungry vampires weren't unlike toddlers 
in that 'hungry now' meant 'hungry <now>.'
     Carrying the open bottle with her into the living room, Natalie carefully 
knelt down beside Dorian.  She touched his shoulder gently.  "Dorian?  I think 
you'd better have this before we get started."
     He didn't move at first and that scared her.  She put down the bottle and 
grabbed his shoulder, shaking him lightly.  Dorian groaned, but fell back to 
the floor, making no effort to lift himself or open his eyes.
     Natalie bit her lip--she was right, he'd worn himself out.  Which was 
good for her--he was unlikely to attack her.  But bad for him--she wasn't 
certain whether vampires <could> die from extensive blood loss.  Nick had 
never mentioned anything about it, but then Nick never told her that garlic 
could affect their healing abilities or that a miss near the heart was as good 
as a mile given time and blood enough to heal.  It astounded her that he could 
have existed in this state for eight hundred years and <not> have investigated 
the various things that could do him injury and/or how to put himself back 
together.  Then again, that was Nick.
     And this was Dorian.
     Stepping over him, she seated herself at his back, then picked up the 
bottle and put it down beside her.  Natalie lifted him as best she could, 
partially turning him so that he lay against her abdomen and shoulder.  There 
was little or no reaction from him until the bottle touched his lips and he 
tasted the blood.
     Again, the move was automatic; like an infant, his hand rose to grasp the 
bottle.  But unlike a few moments ago, in the car, he didn't seem to have the 
energy to hold onto the glass--his hand slipped back almost immediately.  
Natalie concentrated on feeding him, holding the bottle with one hand, 
cradling his head with the other to keep him from choking.  It was a moment 
before she realized that his left hand had risen and reached back to cover 
hers.  He closed his fingers around hers and she realized how cold his skin 
was.  That was a physiological reaction she <could> understand, as blood flow 
helped to regulate the body temperature.
     The hand reaching out to hers she could understand as well--a need for 
comfort, to make certain that she was there.  It was all too human.  And it 
brought a lump to her throat as she realized that there <wasn't> anyone else 
to help Dorian.  Janette had said he didn't have any friends, per se.  How 
could he, if the other vampires were frightened of him, or wanted him 
destroyed?  She was it.  She was the only one he could turn to for help.
     He gasped and she tilted the bottle away from his mouth, he'd finished 
about two-thirds of it in a few swallows.  His eyes opened, not quite seeing 
her and he raised his right hand again, as if trying to find the blood, to 
continue his feeding.
     Deciding that he'd had enough, Natalie placed the bottle beyond his 
reach.  "Dorian?  Can you hear me?  Can you understand me?"
     He blinked, eyelids fluttering.  She suddenly realized that there was a 
spatter of blood across his face and his nose was twisted to one side--she 
<had> broken it.  For some reason, that made her feel guilty, even though it 
had been a matter of self-preservation.  Which made it all the more difficult 
for her to put her fingers around the cartilage and yank it gently, but 
firmly, back into place, before his body started repairing itself and he spent 
eternity looking like a refuge from the vampire staging of 'On the 
Waterfront.'
     He gasped again, shuddering against her.  She saw the smallest amount of 
red gathering at the corner of his eyes--they were tearing.  Natalie patted 
his cheek with his hand.  "Can you hear me?" she repeated.
     This time he nodded, almost a little too energetically, as if afraid 
she'd touch his nose again.  Natalie smiled in spite of herself--men were 
<such> babies--and lifted him from her, barely catching him as he slid away, 
so that he was face down on the floor again.
     "Just rest a second," she told him, patting his back lightly.  "I've got 
to get a few things together before I start patching you up."
     Her muscles groaned as she tried to rise and Natalie had to put a hand to 
the floor to push herself upright.  When she was standing, she placed her 
hands on her waist and stretched to relieve some of the strain in her back--
she was going to need tomorrow off at this rate.  <And> the next day.  But at 
least her headache was all but gone.
     Padding into the bathroom, she picked up Sidney's litter box, and food 
and water bowls and slipped them inside the bedroom door.  She closed the door 
just as quickly before he could get out.  Then she spent a good ten minutes 
collecting what she'd need--clean towels and cotton, antiseptic and a basin of 
warm water, another blanket, scissors to cut away his clothing . . . . .
     Every time she thought she was done, she thought of something else to add 
to her collection.  By the time she was finished, she'd placed all of the 
items alongside the makeshift cot within her easy reach, the foremost among 
them being the contents of her emergency medical bag and the extra bottle of 
blood with the loosened cork, just in case things started getting out of hand.
     Dorian didn't move when she pulled the sodden blanket from him--that was 
tossed to one side.  It had been dyed a deep burgundy and that dye had soaked 
into the scraps of clothing that covered him, as well as staining spots of 
skin.
     Natalie sighed as she assessed the scope of his injuries again.  She had 
her work cut out for her.  Best to do him a little at a time, let him heal as 
he could.  If the garlic was preventing the blood from clotting and the 
injuries from sealing--which seemed to be the case, as several of the cuts 
were still seeping fresh blood--then she'd have to work remove as much of the 
garlic as she could.  He wasn't in any condition for a bath or a shower, which 
meant sponging him off in spots, taking care of those wounds, and moving on.
     The back and chest were first, being that his heart seemed the most 
vulnerable area.  His scalp could wait until he was a bit more conscious and 
she'd gotten some blood into him.  The longer he stayed out of it, the more 
chance she'd have to work without interruption, or fear.
     And she couldn't be afraid.  She couldn't do the job right if she were 
afraid.
     After cutting away the fragments of his jacket and shirt, she found the 
sight of his torn back all too familiar a sight.  Some part of her catalogued 
the extent, type, length, depth, and other statistics of the injuries as if 
she were doing an autopsy, cleaning the area thoroughly with water, then 
antiseptic.  She was about halfway done with his shoulders, neck, and ribs 
when the angles and depth of the cuts started to make sense.
     Natalie sat back with a low whistle, having put together the pieces of 
the attack without conscious effort.  His wrists had been held--two attackers 
to start--while at least one additional person had stabbed him, beaten him 
while immobile.  As he'd been released, fallen to his knees and then his 
hands, the stabbing had continued--this from the second and third changes of 
depth and angle of the cuts in the skin.  The bruising along his ribs 
indicated that he'd been kicked while on the ground.
     "Bastards," she hissed beneath her breath.  If she'd feared the Enforcers 
before this, she hated them now.  How they could do this to one of their own, 
to <anyone> was unthinkable--brutality for the sake of brutality disgusted 
her.  Janette had said that if the Enforcers had intended to kill him, they 
would have done so and he wouldn't have escaped.  Which meant he'd been left 
to reach the Raven on his own.
     How he'd done it eluded her--he wouldn't have had the strength to fly.  
By the time she'd reached the Raven, he'd been fortified by two bottles of 
blood and he'd still barely been able to move.  She made a note to herself 
about the resiliency of vampires, the sheer determination they could be 
expected to exhibit when endangered, that they'd do just about anything to 
stay alive.  The knowledge might come in handy some day.
     Until then . . . she continued scrubbing him down, cleaning and tending 
the wounds as she found them, gratified to see cuts and scrapes began to seal 
themselves even as she moved onto another area.  In less than a half hour 
she'd managed to clean off his shoulders, back and upper arms.  Then she 
placed her hands beneath his side and began to roll him over.
     Dorian surprised her, moving with her gentle push, resting on his side.  
Her hand went to the wooden spoon beside her immediately, just in case this 
was a prelude to another attack.
     There was no red or even gold in his dark eyes, just a slight sadness as 
he followed her movements, saw her clutch the wooden spoon.  His brow furrowed 
and Dorian frowned, then rolled onto his back and rested there, arm across his 
eyes.
     There were fewer stab wounds, more bruises on the chest than had been on 
his back.  She stopped for a moment, realizing the basin of water she'd been 
using was bloody and foul--time for a refill.  But before that--  "How do you 
feel?"
     "Better than . . . I look."  He never removed his arm from his eyes and 
his voice was raw.
     "Do you need more--uh--?"
     There was only the barest hesitation on her part as she picked up the 
full bottle beside her, which was almost room temperature.  The pause had 
gotten his attention and he raised his arm from his eyes enough to look at 
her.  "Yes.  Yes, I think so.  Is it . . . is it cold?"
     "No."  Natalie started to rise to her feet, bottle still in hand, and 
looked toward the kitchen.  "But I have some--"
     His hand shot out, catching hers.  She looked down at him quickly, her 
breath catching in her throat as she squatted there.  She was defenseless, 
unable to reach the wooden spoon.
     "I prefer it . . . warm."
     Still never moving her gaze from his, Natalie handed him the bottle.  He 
released her wrist and took the bottle from her, leaning on one elbow and 
tilting back his head as he drank.     
     She managed to pick up the basin of water without shaking, got it to the 
bathroom without spilling a drop.  But as she tilted the plastic basin in the 
sink, she had to grip the edge of the vanity with one hand to keep from 
falling over.  She hadn't allowed herself to feel the fear, had tried to keep 
it bottled up, but the memory of that hand around her wrist, the sudden 
knowledge that even swinging the open bottle at him probably wouldn't have 
saved her, made her realize just how close a call that might have been.
     By the time she'd collected herself, he was sitting upright on the floor, 
his back leaning against the couch.  Dorian was just finishing off the end of 
the bottle and let it fall to the floor with a thump.  Tilting his neck back 
against the cushion, he watched her as she collected the dirty towels.  "I 
think," he continued, after a pause, "I think I can manage a shower on my own.  
If you can help me to the bathroom."
       Natalie stopped cold and looked at him with a critical eye.  The wounds 
on his chest were still open, a few still bleeding.  But his shoulders and 
arms had healed, his face and neck were clear and unblemished, and his eyes 
were coal black.  "I don't know.  I <should> finish cleaning off your chest.  
Some of those cuts are pretty deep--"
     "Let me attempt to recover at least <some> of my dignity.  I've caused 
you enough trouble. "
     She returned to picking up the towels.  "Do you think you can stand?"
     "Well enough," he countered, his voice stronger.  "I need to get this 
stench off me."
     "You need to get the garlic out of your wounds or you'll keep bleeding 
away everything you're drinking."  Natalie met his eyes again, noting how pale 
his skin really was.  "Are you asking because you think you can do it?  Or do 
you have a problem with being treated by me?  Because, Dorian, I can promise 
you that I'm a professional--I've worked with more than my share of bodies 
during the past few years and the plumbing and appendages have been pretty 
consistent over time."
     He looked down and rubbed his hand along his chest, then grimaced at the 
fresh blood he found there.  "Natalie, please . . . ?"
     That was her answer.  He couldn't blush but she had a feeling he would 
have, if possible.  Natalie bit back a smile at his sudden familiarity.  "All 
right, I'll let you off this time," she promised, setting a stern look in 
place when he glanced up at her, more than a little relieved.  "But if I hear 
you hit the floor, I'm coming in, towel or no towel.  Is that understood?"
     "Yes, doctor."  Dorian's answer was almost meek.
     Natalie tossed the towels on top of the dirty blanket and wiped her hands 
on her sweat pants before walking toward him.  Taking his hand, she helped him 
to his feet.
     It was amazing what a little clean-up had managed--he'd gone from near 
comatose to moderately lucid in less than an hour.  He was limping badly--she 
hadn't gotten a good look at any of the wounds on his legs, but the tears in 
his pantlegs indicated that he'd suffered a good amount of injury in at least 
one thigh and a trickle of fresh blood appeared down the side of one foot as 
he regained his feet.
     She managed to pick up the sweats as they passed the couch, tossing them 
onto the vanity counter when they entered the bathroom.  "They'll probably be 
tight, but it's something to wear.  I'll have the couch ready for you when you 
come out, and there's more blood in the fridge.  I can leave a bottle out on 
the counter--"
     He shook his head slightly, cutting off her remarks.  "No need.  If I 
stay here, you'll only be in danger."  When Natalie stopped just inside the 
bathroom, turning her head to look at him, Dorian met her eyes, then looked 
away with a grimace.  "I'm sorry--I'm not thinking clearly.  I didn't mean--"
     "I know what you meant.  Don't worry about the Enforcers--Janette's not 
about to rat on you.  And as little as I trust her, she seems to be pretty 
solid about that."  Natalie released him and he leaned his hands on the 
vanity, but remained steady.  Still, she hesitated.  "There are towels--help 
yourself to the shampoo and soap.  And make sure you get the garlic off--I 
don't want you bleeding on my couch, since you'll be spending the night and 
most of the day there.  No buts--!" she said sternly, as he opened his mouth 
to protest.  "You're in no condition to go flying around town.  I'll cover the 
windows, you won't have to worry about sunlight.  And I've got two more 
bottles of blood down in my trunk, if you need them."
     He stared down at the counter.  "Yes.  You're right.  I--I'm sorry this 
happened.  If there was any other way, anything else I could have done, you 
know I would have done anything but . . . ."  Dorian moved his head a fraction 
of an inch, just enough to see her out of the corner of his eye.  "How are 
you?"
     The question surprised her.  "How am <I>?"
     "Yes.  How--?"  He raised a hand and ran it through his hair, then sighed 
at the remnants of blood on his skin from a scalp wound.  "I'm not really--I 
don't know what I'm talking about.  I'm sorry."
     "Stop apologizing and get wet!" she ordered.  Turning, Natalie picked up 
a dry washcloth from the towel rack and tossed it onto the vanity.  "I'll 
leave you to it.  But if I don't hear that water running in five minutes, I'm 
coming in.  And that's a promise."
     "All right."  She saw the edge of a smile on his lips.  "You're the 
doctor after all.  You know best.  I'll trust you to handle the 
accommodations.  I suppose you've had some practice in that department."  When 
she hesitated in answering, he met her gaze again.  "I mean--Nick's been 
trapped here during the daylight now and again, I assume."
     Natalie swallowed, her spine straightening in defiance.  "No.  He hasn't.  
Ever."
     Dorian raised his hand to his face and wiped it against his eyes.  "I'm 
sorry--that was rude.  And . . . I don't know what--"
     "Get cleaned up," she said, taking a step forward and slapping him 
lightly on the back.  "You'll feel better.  Then you can have a nice long 
drink and get some real rest."
     "I--thank you."
     "All right, then."  Natalie turned and headed for the bathroom door.  She 
was almost there when she heard him call.
     "Natalie?"
     She froze in the doorway.
     "Could you leave a bottle. . . or two . . . out for me?  I <do> prefer 
them warm."
     "Of course," she answered, keeping her voice as neutral as possible.  She 
closed the door behind her, then leaned against the wall a moment, her legs 
weak.  It was starting to get to her.  But she couldn't collapse, couldn't 
think about any of it . . . not just yet.
     Instead, she went to the closet and pulled out a sheet and pillow.  Those 
she fixed on the couch.  She tossed aside the blanket, sheet, and inner shower 
curtain, making a pile on top of the dirty blanket--that would be handled 
later, tomorrow, when Dorian was sleeping and when she was awake enough to 
care about such things.  The quilt she'd used as padding had been protected by 
the plastic shower curtain--that went onto the couch.
     The windows were more difficult, but a few safety pins and blankets 
covered them well enough.  On one of her trips past the bathroom, she paused 
and was gratified to hear the sound of running water--at least he was obeying 
instructions.  Then it was a matter of cleaning up her medical gear and taking 
the bottles out of the refrigerator, opening them with the corkscrew.  She 
left the bottles on the kitchen counter, knowing that Dorian would find them.  
He was a big boy, he'd work it out.
     And she was <exhausted>.
     Natalie hesitated for a moment, listening to the sound of running water 
from the shower.  She could use a good wash herself.  But for now, she settled 
for a splash and a promise from the sink.  She didn't need to use the 
facilities--luckily--and figured the best thing to do would be to let Dorian 
deal with his meal in peace.  Exiling herself to the bedroom for a quick nap, 
at least until she was certain that he was safely asleep, seemed the way to 
go.
     So Natalie took most of her normal precautions, double-locking and 
chaining the front door.  She turned out all but one of the living room 
lights, knowing that Dorian shouldn't have any trouble finding his way to the 
kitchen or the couch and hoping that the dim light might give him the 
incentive to try something abnormal for his kind--sleeping at <night>.  It was 
on her way past the kitchen that she remembered the broken wooden spoon, which 
she'd tossed aside with most of the other supplies.
     That she took with her, as she walked to her bedroom door and opened it 
carefully, afraid that she might hit Sidney, who was no doubt waiting just 
inside.  But Sidney had given up on escape some time before--she spotted him 
curled peacefully on one of her pillows, his tail twitching as he dreamed his 
little feline dreams.
     Not wanting to wake him and deal with a seriously annoyed cat, Natalie 
closed the door behind her, locking it.  She let her eyes adjust to the dim 
streetlights that shone in the window, past the curtains, before crossing the 
room, stripping off her blood and sweat-stained clothing as she moved.
     She smelled like garlic, but she couldn't help that.  At least, not until 
tomorrow.  Shrugging into a nightshirt that she pulled from the bureau drawer, 
Natalie half-felt her way to the bed and slipped beneath the sheets.  Picking 
up the wooden spoon she'd dropped on the bed as she'd dressed, Natalie rested 
her head against the pillows.  As tired as she was, her eyes wouldn't close.  
She lay there, staring into the darkness, her fingers clasped around the 
handle of the wooden spoon.
     It was then that she realized that her headache had completely 
disappeared.


CHAPTER 6

     More than a little bemused by Janette's brush-off, Nick closed her office 
door behind him and headed into the club.  LaCroix had been right--she <was> 
being hunted, he had no doubt of that.  It was her reaction that didn't make 
sense.  Janette had definitely been frightened and yet she'd refused his help.  
That wasn't like her.
     Bruno gave him a grim look, the bouncer's gaze going past Nick's shoulder 
and to the office door. 
     "Janette said you're in charge."
     For a moment, Bruno met his eyes.  Then he nodded in response and turned 
his attention back to the clientele.
     Nick shrugged--Janette's bouncer was a vampire of few words. LaCroix was 
right about Janette having grown more independent of late, but she'd never 
been able to tolerate incompetence. She demanded nothing less than the best 
and was more than willing to pay for it.  Bruno seemed capable.
     He headed toward the door, then stepped aside as Alma came by with a tray 
of drinks.  Instead of going around him, she actually moved closer, a 
predatory smile on her face as she hefted the tray onto one hand, the nails of 
the other hand raking lightly across his shirt front.
     Nick looked after her with a slight smile, then shook his head--she was 
playing a very dangerous game.  He moved toward the door again, slipping 
through the crowd of dancers, thinking that he might do Alma a good turn by 
having a few words with her in the near future.  She seemed to think that he 
belonged to Janette.  
     He didn't.  Nor did he <belong> to LaCroix, or anyone else for that 
matter.  He was his own man, not someone else's puppet or slave.  If she 
wanted to challenge Janette, he didn't want to be involved.
     Remembering Janette's comments about 'others' wanting to see her fail, or 
trying to take over her club, Nick opened the door to the street, then 
hesitated and looked back over his shoulder.  Surely she couldn't mean Alma?  
Was Janette really being threatened from inside the community . . . and, if 
so, why?  She'd hinted that it might be because of who she was, a child of 
LaCroix.
     Which was possible.  LaCroix made enemies far more easily than friends--
he always had.  Nick had decided a long time ago that LaCroix was ultimately 
responsible for everything, in the long run.
     Letting the door fall closed, Nick walked across the street to the Caddy, 
reaching into his coat pocket for his keys.  He unlocked the door, 
automatically checking the rear seat.
     The small glass bowl was still there, along with the new goldfish in the 
plastic container, swimming contentedly and protected until it could be 
transferred to its quarters in his loft.  There was also a bag containing 
everything the pet store clerk had suggested--sand, the obligatory castle, 
fish food, a net to catch the fish when the bowl had to be cleaned--as well as 
a book on the care and feeding of goldfish.
     Nick smiled, seating himself behind the steering wheel.  In a few hours, 
he'd go home, read the book cover-to-cover, and know everything he needed to 
keep this goldfish happy, healthy, and well-fed.  Of course, he was still 
trying to decide exactly what, if anything, he was going to tell Natalie about 
the unpleasant end suffered by his first fish . . . .
     A wave of fear enveloped him just as he moved to turn the key in the 
ignition.  He froze, just short of breaking out into a cold sweat, bewildered 
at his reaction.
     That's when he heard the shriek.
     He had enough self-possession to grab the keys as he shot out of the car, 
heading for the source of the sound.  There was no doubt in his mind that it 
had been Janette--he'd heard that sound too often over the centuries not to 
immediately recognize the tone, timbre, and import.
     Nick dashed across the street, his senses telling him that he wanted the 
alley, rather than the club itself.  She'd been heading out to her car . . . .
     The car was still there, driver's door open.  Seven men were gathered in 
the alley, dressed in jeans and T-shirts--street types.  The stench of garlic 
hung heavily in the air, accented by the smell of stale beer and sweat.  A 
flash of movement on the ground caught his eye--black and white, rope and silk 
and skin--Janette.  One of the men had raised a sharpened stake into the air 
above her.
     Nick growled low in his throat and if that sound didn't manage to stop 
all of them in their tracks, the loud snarl that followed it did.  There was 
no real thought for his gun or his badge or his position as a police 
detective.  The garlic and the fear he felt from Janette drew the beast from 
the depths, bringing the worst of what he was to the surface in the form of 
fangs and golden eyes.
     He leaped like a cat, crouching down and then launching himself at the 
man with the stake, knocking him to the ground.  The stake clattered away as 
he rose to protect Janette, facing the men.
     Most of them ran.  The one he'd hit was on the ground, stunned, but 
another of the street gang picked him up, dragging him away.  Still snarling, 
Nick started after them.
     But he'd only gone a step or two when he heard a whimper . . . Janette.
     Nick ran back to her, started to reach down to lift the net from her, 
then stopped himself.  Shrugging off his jacket, he wrapped it around his 
hands and picked up the weighted rope net, noting that it would have taken 
three mortal men to lift the thing.  It had been soaked in garlic; he almost 
stumbled as he tossed it away, the stench of it weakening him. 
     Janette's hand raised toward him and he took it, pulling her to her feet, 
wrapping his arms around her and holding her close.  She was drenched with 
garlic and she almost slipped out of his arms as he loosened his hold on her 
involuntarily, his stomach doing a backflip.  She whimpered again, eyes only 
half-open, her nails digging into his skin through his shirt.
     Fighting back his revulsion, Nick slipped his hand beneath her knees, 
scooping her up into his arms.  He started toward the open door of her car, 
then froze when he saw the crucifix threaded through the steering wheel.  It 
was a brilliant move on the part of the hunter and as effective against 
vampires as a locked iron bar would be to a mortal car thief.  That street 
gang had been hired--none of them could have come up with something like the 
cross, or that net.HeH
     The rear door of the Raven opened and the bouncer, Bruno, appeared, a 
long iron pipe in his hand.  He winced at the smell of garlic, then looked 
from one end of the alley to the other, taking the car, Nick, and Janette in a 
glance.
     "They're gone," said Nick.  He gestured toward the car with a nod.  "Have 
someone take care of that.  And the net--but hold onto them, I'll want a look 
at them later."
     Bruno dropped the iron bar and took a step forward, his arms reaching out 
to take Janette.  Nick stepped back, tightening his grip on her even as he 
heard her nails rip through the front of his shirt.  "She'll be safe with me."
     The bouncer hesitated for a moment, then nodded.  "All right.  Where--?"
     "I'll be in touch.  If they come back--?"
     The bouncer followed his gaze toward the alley.  "We'll be watching."
     "Just make sure that's <all> you do," warned Nick.
     Bruno's eyes flashed gold for a moment, then he looked away.  "Of 
course."
     Janette in his arms, Nick headed out of the alley.  He was right--
Janette's people were good at taking orders.  Unlike Janette herself . . . .
     He pressed his lips to her forehead briefly as he carried her to the 
Caddy, then turned his head and spat at the taste of garlic.  Flying her home 
would have been faster, but with the smell of garlic whipped up by the wind, 
he doubted he'd be able to keep them both aloft for long.
     She sneezed and burrowed her head into his chest, again moaning softly.
     "It's all right, you're safe.  I've got you," he promised.
     Her only response was to sneeze again, which was followed by a whimper.
     Getting the keys from his pants pocket without dropping her took a bit of 
juggling, but he managed.  Nick opened the passenger door and carefully 
slipped her into the seat, then ran for the driver's side and slid behind the 
wheel.  Once the door closed beside him, the garlic smell washed over him in a 
wave and he bit back the choking sensation in his throat.  Then he looked over 
at Janette quickly--it was bad enough that he'd have to have his car 
fumigated, but the last thing he needed was her vomiting blood all over the 
upholstery.
     Reaching past her, he rolled down the car window, then quickly followed 
that action by rolling down his own.  He started the engine, taking a deep 
breath only after the breeze carried fresh air in through the windows.
     It seemed to revive Janette somewhat.  She started, her eyes shooting 
open.  "Oh--Oh no!"
     He reached out a hand in front of her to keep her from moving and she 
grabbed his arm, her nails digging into his skin through his shirt sleeve.  
"You're all right," he said. 
     "<Merde>."  She shifted, leaning her head against the side of the door, 
her mouth open as she gulped the fresh air.  Her pallor told him he might very 
well have been right about the possibility of her losing her dinner in his car 
and the thought made him press the gas pedal just a little further beyond the 
legal limits.
     As an afterthought, he pulled his arm away from her and picked up the 
radio handset.  "Eighty-one kilo to dispatch, copy?"
     "Go ahead, eighty-one kilo."
     Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Janette start at the sound of the 
radio crackle, but she never turned her gaze from the window.  "Sign me off 
duty.  Tell Captain Cohen I'll see her tomorrow evening."
     The radio crackled again.  "Dispatch copied, eighty-one."
     He hung up the handset, just as glad that no one questioned him.  The 
Captain would probably hand him his head on a platter for calling out sick in 
mid-shift, especially when she'd let it be known that she wanted to see him as 
soon as he returned to the station tonight.
     "Will you . . . be in very much trouble, Nicola?"
     Janette's question echoed his thoughts.  He glanced at her, saw her blue 
eyes watching him through the tangle of her dark hair, and reached out to 
brush it back from her face.  "Not as much as you seem to be."
     "<Merde.>"
     That was all she said until they reached the loft.  He parked the car in 
the garage, windows still open in vain hope that it would dispel some of the 
stench, then hurried around to the passenger side of the car when he realized 
Janette was having difficulties.  She'd managed to open the door and was 
leaning on it, as if unable to get out of the car.
     He reached in to lift her and she pushed his hands away in annoyance--she 
was angry at her weakness, at herself.  But Nick persisted, lifting her into 
his arms easily enough and carrying her from the car and up the back steps, 
into the loft.  It was quicker . . . and he wasn't comfortable with the 
thought of stinking up the enclosed space of the elevator like the interior of 
the Caddy.
     Once in his arms, Janette didn't protest.  She rested her head against 
his shoulder.  Every now and again he felt a tremor run through her body, as 
the smell of the garlic got to her.  It wasn't until he'd actually entered the 
loft and was halfway up the steps to the second floor before he realized she 
was crying softly.
     She seldom cried, if ever.  That she was doing so even though she was 
safe frightened him.  "It's all right," he whispered, over and over again.  
"You're safe, I'm here, you're safe."
     There wasn't much that he could do--she hadn't been hurt that he could 
see.  She was scared, certainly.  And the garlic was probably making her sick 
to her stomach.  He needed to wake her up, to bring her back to herself.
     That's when he decided to head directly for the bathroom.  Once there, he 
kicked off his shoes as he stepped into the shower with her.  Then he turned 
on the water.
     Nick winced and turned his head as her shriek echoed loudly in his ear 
and she struggled in his arms.  Her fists slammed into him as the cold water 
hit her, hit both of them.  He dropped his arm from beneath her legs and 
grabbed her waist, catching her as she tried to get away, holding her under 
the stream of water, but managing to reach past her long enough to turn on the 
hot water as well, making the assault bearable.
     Janette cursed in French, then English, then in a half-dozen other 
languages, slapping him, trying to get out of the shower.  Her silk dress was 
instantly slick and water soaked.  Torn and dirtied from the attack in the 
alley, it tore away easily beneath his hands; Nick tossed it to the bathroom 
floor.  Her slip he left intact, although he knew she'd climb out of that 
quickly enough once he let her get dry--anything to get away from that garlic.
     She'd never been as strong as he, could never hope to be, but still she 
fought him, twisting one way then another.  He rescued his hand before she 
could sink her fangs into it, then realized that her eyes had gone from red to 
gold, her words interspersed with hisses.  Janette was <furious> with him.
     And then, she suddenly threw her arms around him so tightly that he 
thought she'd never let him go, her fury flaming into passion.  Her lips 
pressed against his neck, along the side of his face, behind his ear, her 
voice whispering, "<Mon amour, mon coeur>. . . ."
     It took most of the will he had left to raise his hands to her shoulders 
and push her back, to arm's length.  Her blue eyes opened wide as Nick shoved 
her underneath the full flow of the shower again and she sputtered, coughed, 
growled and snarled.  When she stopped resisting, he drew her close again and 
reached past her to turn off the water.  He grabbed a large white bath towel 
from the rack nearby and wrapped her in it, then tossed another over his arm.  
Janette went limp as he helped her out of the shower and lifted her into his 
arms, carrying her into the bedroom.
     Her eyes blazed at him from the depths of the towel and she raked her 
fingernails across his face, shouting, "Beast!"  In response, Nick tossed her 
onto the bed, then sat down beside her.  Before she could scramble away, he 
placed an arm firmly around her waist, pinning her against him.  He started 
drying her hair with the other towel, rubbing furiously at first, tossing away 
the pins and barrettes that had fallen and gotten tangled in her dark tresses.
     She didn't fight him for long, eventually leaning back against him, 
enjoying the attention as she usually did.  Nick dropped the towel onto the 
bed and rose to his feet.  As he moved away to the bureau, he felt the water-
soaked towel slam into him and turned to find Janette's eyes locked on him, 
blue-gold.  "Beast!" she accused again.
     He only smiled, then opened the drawer and found a pair of black silk 
pajamas.  Tossing them back at her, he said, "Dry off and put those on.  The 
robe's in the closet.  I'll have a bottle open by the time you get 
downstairs."
     Janette's eyes narrowed as she watched him cross the room.  He picked up 
the towel from the floor as he moved to the bedroom doorway.  "It better not 
be cow," she warned.
     "It's cow or nothing."  Nick paused at the door and raised an eyebrow.  
"Which?"
     Her fingers curled into the black silk--he hoped she wouldn't rip them 
because he didn't have too many to spare for her temper tantrums.  Janette's 
lips opened, then closed.  Her jaw tightened and she sat upright, trying to 
regain her dignity--which was a little difficult considering the fact that she 
was drenched, wearing nothing but a ruined black silk slip and a large bath 
towel, and that her makeup had all but disappeared.  But she did a fair job of 
it, casting him a regal glance, then looking away imperiously.  "Cow."
     "I--uh--wouldn't take my time, if I were you.  There might not be any 
left."
     He managed to close the door quickly enough, before the other towel 
thudded against it.  Whistling softly at the near miss, Nick took a step 
toward the bathroom, tossed the first towel to the floor with a promise to 
clean up later, and grabbed a dry towel for himself.  He draped it over his 
shoulders as he walked downstairs, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind 
him.
     Crossing to the kitchen, he took a bottle from the refrigerator and 
pulled out the cork with his fingers.  Knowing that they'd probably finish the 
bottle between the two of them--despite her scorn, Janette could pack it away 
with the best of them--he left it out on the counter and reached up to take 
down two glasses.  Nick poured one, then the other.
     For a moment, he debated whether he should wait until he'd dried off, but 
he wasn't quite as sodden as Janette and he really didn't care what happened 
to his clothing.  He pulled at his shirt, noting the tears from her 
fingernails, then the cuts in his skin underneath, which were already healing.  
Although--
     He unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt and gently ran the tips 
of his fingers along one of the larger incisions in his skin because it stung.  
From the garlic, he guessed.  Nick took the towel from around his neck and wet 
a small corner at the sink, then used that to clean the cut and the area 
around it.  It began to heal almost immediately.
     That was something to discuss with Natalie, he decided.  Until then--
     He never completed the thought because he heard footsteps--Janette was 
coming down the stairs.  She gave him a grim but regal nod, one hand on the 
railing and the other adjusting the neck of the silk pajama top.  She'd 
foregone the bottoms, but the top was large enough to act as a nightshirt, 
ending just about mid-thigh.
     "It's not my choice of lingerie," she said archly, as she walked toward 
him.  "But it works well, don't you think?"
     "It's dry, at least."  
     He smirked when she stuck her tongue out at him, then she took the glass 
of blood from his hand and walked around the couch, trailing the fingers of 
her free hand along the leather as she moved.  Janette settled on the couch 
and raised the glass to her lips.  "Always the knight errant.  For which I 
should be thankful."  He saw her hand shake, even from where he stood.  She 
carefully placed the glass down on the coffee table, then turned and looked at 
him, resting her arms along the back of the couch.  "Oh, Nicola, I could have 
been <killed>."
     It wasn't a comment but a wail, meant to instill sympathy.  But he didn't 
have much to give, being somewhat wet and worn-out himself, knowing that work 
the next evening would be nothing short of hell and that the dawn was fast 
approaching so nothing more could be done tonight.  "You <should> have been," 
he corrected.  Placing his own glass down on the counter, he stalked toward 
the remote, then pointed it toward the windows, shutting out the remnants of 
the night.  "It was luck that I was still there.  You cut it too close this 
time.  Next time you might not be so lucky."
     Janette rose from the couch and passed him, moving to pick up his glass 
of blood from the counter.  She walked toward him, touching the glass to her 
lips and taking a sip, then running her tongue along the edge to catch a drop 
that had escaped her.  All the while her eyes held his.
     He gave her points for not grimacing.  "Getting used to cow?"
     "If I have to.  For your sake."  She placed the glass into his hand, then 
reached up to flip aside the tears her nails had torn in his shirt.  "It's 
been some time since I've bothered mending anything, but if you have a needle-
-oh, and I've cut you as well?"  She leaned forward and pushed away the shirt 
enough to touch her lips to the wound, a soft kiss.  "Perhaps I can mend that, 
as well?"
     Brushing her aside, Nick walked to the chair and sat in it.  "I'll buy 
another shirt."
     "And will you buy another skin?"  Janette sank down on the couch across 
from him and leaned forward, picking up her own glass.  "Really, Nicola, you 
should be more care--"
     He moved before she could blink, his free hand catching her own, holding 
her fingers around the stem of the glass in case he startled her and it fell.  
"We're not here to talk about me.  We're here to talk about you.  And why 
someone tried to kill you tonight."
     Her eyes narrowed and she wrenched her wrist from his grasp, the blood 
sloshing out and over both of their hands with the force of the movement.  "I 
don't need--!"
     "You <do>!"  When she turned her head and raised her glass to her lips, 
still sitting oh-so-prim-and-proper, he fell back into his chair, exasperated.  
"LaCroix was right, you're in danger."
     She gasped, almost choking, and he moved quickly again, taking the glass 
from her and setting it on the floor.  "LaCroix knows?" she managed.  Meeting 
his eyes, she stared, as if searching out some secret in him.  "You've spoken 
to him about this?"
     "He spoke to <me>.  He told me he thought you were being hunted and I 
might have better resources to deal with it.  I didn't believe him, but after 
the note and this . . . ."  Her eyelids lowered and she looked down at the 
floor.  Nick placed a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face, making her 
meet his gaze again.  "Janette, tell me.  And don't lie to me.  Because I'd 
much rather save you than avenge you."
     A slight smile crossed her lips.  "Would you?  Avenge me?  I thought you 
were an officer of the law, Nicola . . . ."  She grasped his hand with her own 
and raised it to her lips, her tongue flicking out and catching the blood that 
had spilled on his fingers seconds before.
     She seemed disappointed when he pulled his hand away and settled back in 
his chair.  "I couldn't leave a killer to run lose," he answered, managing to 
keep his voice even.  "LaCroix reminded me that to 'protect and serve' means 
more in my case than most.  You're a citizen of Toronto.  You pay taxes.  You 
deserve police protection."
     "And that's all?"  Pouting prettily, Janette tossed her head, setting her 
dark hair cascading over one shoulder and leaning back against the couch 
seductively.  "I must be losing my touch."
     "You'll lose your life," he warned.  "Who's hunting you?  Who did you 
kill?"
     She sniffed and reached down to pick up her glass from the floor, raising 
it slightly in a dismissive gesture.  "I told you, I haven't hunted--"
     "I didn't ask if you've been hunting.  Who did you kill?"
     Janette froze, then moved the glass to her lips, her hand shaking 
slightly.  Leaving his glass on the coffee table, Nick rose and seated himself 
beside her.  He placed his arm behind her, on the back of the couch.  "Who did 
you kill?" he repeated softly.
     "He was . . . no one.  A young man.  Very pretty--"  She clasped both of 
her hands around the stem of the glass and fixed her eyes on the blood within 
it, refusing to meet his gaze.  "Nicola, why must we talk about this?  It will 
only upset you, it always does.  Just because you've vowed not to take a life, 
to deny what you are, doesn't mean we can or <should>--"
     Taking a deep breath, he hesitated a moment, then bit back his reply and 
rose to his feet.  "Okay, forget I'm a cop.  Forget that I . . . that I've 
chosen to live as I do."  He turned, face stern.  "You've put yourself in 
danger.  As well as the others at the club.  So let's stop talking about me, 
all right?  I'm trying to help you, before this goes too far.  Before it 
starts getting messy and somebody starts to notice."
     She looked up quickly, eyes wide.  "Nicola, you don't think <they> know?"  
Her body shuddered and the blood in her wine glass shifted with the tremor 
that ran through her.  "It's possible the Enforcers could be here.  I don't 
think, I don't want--"  Again, her eyes met his, filled with fear.  "If I tell 
you, you'll hate me.  And . . . I couldn't bear that right now.  Not if 
<they>--"
     He sat down beside her again and took her into his arms.  Janette rested 
her head against his wet shoulder, but didn't complain.  "Who did you kill?" 
he said, knowing that this time he'd get an answer.
     "I don't know.  He was young.  I'd seen him in the club a few times, 
watching me.  Alma started taking an interest in him and I thought I'd . . . 
warn him away."  She straightened, pulling away from him and sitting upright, 
taking another sip from her glass.  "We . . . talked.  For a long time.  That-
-I'd forgotten what that was like.  He made me laugh."  She shot him a glance 
over her shoulder.  "Like you used to."
     "He was mortal."
     Janette looked away and he reached forward to brush her hair from her 
shoulder.  "Ah, yes," she said regretfully, sinking back into his arms, 
careful not to spill the glass of blood she held.  "He was mortal.  His name 
was . . . Tim."
     "And . . . you killed him."
     He wasn't able to contain the sorrow in his voice; he knew exactly what 
she was saying.  For a moment she rested there, letting his fingers toy with 
her hair.  "Why are they so fragile?" she asked, after a moment's pause.
     "Perhaps they're not.  Perhaps we're too brutal."  When she winced at his 
words, he added, "You thought about bringing him across?"
     "I <thought> about it.  Yes.  But as I said," a cruel smile played across 
her lips and he saw the shadow of LaCroix in it, "I'm too greedy.  I couldn't 
stop.  It was over too quickly.  And then . . . he was cold."
     Nick closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the couch.  He felt 
her shift in his arms, heard the clink of the glass as she set it down on the 
coffee table.  Janette sat on his lap, her arms around his neck, her head 
resting on his chest and shoulder.  "You didn't tell me," he accused, in a 
weary voice.
     "Because you would have been angry with me."
     Opening his eyes, Nick sighed.  "Who saw you?"
     "No one.  I thought."  Janette shrugged lightly, then snuggled against 
him.  "I . . . disposed of him elsewhere.  I didn't want to make it awkward 
for you."
     "I appreciate the thought."  Nick raised his hand to the back of her head 
and began to stroke her hair.  "Did he have family? Friends?"
     "I don't know."
     He stopped, then looked down at her.  "You don't <know>?  How long did 
you spend with him?"
     "A few days.  We never exchanged resumes.  And we had . . . other things 
to keep us occupied."  It was her turn to sigh, regretfully.  "He did remind 
me of you in so many ways . . . ."  Then Janette bit her lip lightly and 
looked up at him.  "Nicola, what am I to do?"
     "You'll stay here," he said firmly, then raised a finger to her lips to 
stop her from commenting.  "We'll limit contact at the Raven--if that's where 
you met him, that's where they'll be looking.  I'll let the others know that 
you're all right and that I'm watching out for you."
     "I have no clothes--"
     "We'll have some delivered."
     "Off the rack?" she asked, horrified and indignant at the same time.  
Slipping off his lap, she rose to her feet and stalked away, taking the glass 
of blood with her.  "You can't expect me to--"
     He rose as well, facing her down.  "You'll do as I say.  Or I'll wash my 
hands of you and send you packing.  Do you want help or not?"
     Janette met his eyes, saw that he meant business, and lifted the glass to 
her lips absently.  Then she grimaced and shuddered disdainfully.  "I won't 
have to drink cow?"
     "If you're good, I'll have Alma drop off a case of your finest.  Just 
don't ask me to join you."
     "More for me, then," she said, shrugging her shoulders.  Placing the 
glass on the table, she walked past him, eyeing the loft as if suddenly seeing 
the possibilities of her situation.  "Sleeping arrangements?"
     "You take the bed, I'll sleep down here."
     "I don't quite think that's fair.  You <work> after all, and it's your 
loft--"
     "Okay, you take the couch and I'll take the bed."
     Janette whirled and stamped her foot.  "Nicola!  That's not what I 
meant!"
     "That's the best you're going to get."  He grinned at her scowl.  "Like 
you said, I work at night--so I'll expect you to behave yourself and not 
bother me."
     "And I'm to stay trapped here, all day and all night?  What about my 
club?  And I have a fitting at--"
     He walked toward her and placed his hands firmly on her shoulders.  "Do 
you want me to take care of this?  Or do you want the Enforcers involved?"
     He felt her shiver as she pulled away.  Folding her arms, she turned her 
back to him.  "You have cable?"
     "Yes." 
     "And I can order what I need, to be delivered here?"
     "Of course.  Just . . . be careful."
     "Are you afraid your mortal friends might ask questions if lingerie 
packages started turning up on your doorstep?"  She walked into the kitchen 
and leaned against the counter, her eyes wide and pretending innocence.  "A 
few from Frederick's, perhaps?  Wouldn't your Natalie be disappointed, to find 
out they weren't for her?  And your police friends relieved when they find out 
they aren't for <you>?"
     "I'm afraid that someone might be smart enough to trace back some of your 
accounts to your deliveries," he warned, leaning against the counter beside 
her.  "If they're clever enough to come up with a garlic weighted net, and 
that cross in your car--"
     She placed a hand on his arm and swallowed.  "<Don't> remind me!  
Hideous!"  Then she touched the sleeve of his shirt again with the tips of her 
fingers.  "You're still wet."
     "Am I?"  Nick placed a hand against his chest and said in mock-surprise, 
"I think you're right!"
     Huffing indignantly, Janette walked past him.  "Go upstairs and change.  
I'll clean up down here.  You'll need a blanket and pillows.  And a sheet, of 
course."  She stopped at the couch and eyed him critically.  "I want clean 
sheets on that bed.  I hope that's understood."
     Nick smiled and chuckled to himself.  "Anything else?"
     "Do you have bubblebath?"
     "Fresh out."
     Picking up the glasses from the coffee table, Janette sighed.  "I'll do 
without, I suppose.  For some reason, I've gone off showers."  Then she glared 
at him, lifting the wine glasses to show that she'd accomplished something.  
"I've done my part and you haven't moved!"
     "Sorry, I didn't realize I was being timed."
     "Well, you are!"  Walking back into the kitchen, she placed the glasses 
in the sink, she waved her hands at him.  "Shoo!  It's almost sunrise and I've 
had a very difficult day.  I need my beauty sleep."
     Nick bit back on his retort, knowing that his life wasn't worth it.  He 
started up the stairs, but turned when she called to him.  "Nicola?"
     Janette was standing by the sink.  She pushed the hair back from her face 
with one hand.  She was still so very beautiful, even without her makeup and 
finery.  In fact, she looked very small and helpless and innocent, wearing 
nothing but the top of his black silk pajamas and her panties.  Almost shyly, 
she said, "Thank you.  For tonight.  And . . . tomorrow."
     He wanted very much to hold her at that moment, to promise her that he'd 
never let anything happen to her.  There'd been so much between them over the 
centuries that he didn't often look past the makeup and perfume to see what 
she'd been, what she still was.  She encased herself in a shell, a work of art 
that was both seductive and untouchable.  But for this moment, this second, 
there was no art or artifice.  There was only Janette.
     As if embarrassed by allowing him to see her vulnerability, she ran away 
to the kitchen and hid herself behind the partition, her movements accompanied 
by the sound of running water.  And Nick continued upstairs, wondering just 
how good an idea it was to keep Janette so close to home.
     And so close to him.

CHAPTER 7

     Her heart beat . . . and beat again, in quick time.  Janette clutched the 
black satin sheets to her chin and stared at the strange surroundings.  She 
relaxed only when she recognized the paintings, the decor--or lack thereof--as 
belonging to Nicola's loft.  Then she closed her eyes and concentrated, 
driving down the fear that had risen inside her.  She didn't want to disturb 
Nicola downstairs.
     Pushing aside the sheets, Janette slipped from the bed and walked over to 
the bureau.  She could feel the presence of the sun outside, the heat and 
danger of it.  It couldn't be much past mid-day.  And yet she was wide-awake, 
unable to sleep.
     No small surprise, if she thought about it.  Frowning, she picked up 
Nicola's brush from the bureau and began to stroke it through her tangled 
hair, watching herself in the mirror.  Dorian's arrival, as usual, had meant 
trouble.  She knew he wasn't responsible for those thugs attacking her, or for 
the hunter who'd begun sending her warning gifts weeks ago, but she still held 
him culpable for the sheer fact that any of this had happened.  He was like an 
ill wind, following misfortune and trailing even desperate events in his wake.  
She might even place the loss of her lover at Dorian's doorstep . . . but only 
if she refused to be honest with herself.
     The brush hit a snag, a knot in her hair.  Janette tugged at it in 
annoyance, then seated herself on the edge of the bed and worked her fingers 
through the snarl, carefully separating the strands, then snapping them 
angrily if they didn't part as she wished.  But as she brushed, and paused, 
she found herself smiling--the scent of Nicola's aftershave lingered in the 
room, like the memory of his caress.  Continuing to run the brush through her 
hair, she closed her eyes and lingered in the moment, in this place and time, 
in the sensation of the bristles running through her hair, the soft silkiness 
of the sheets beneath her and the pajama top against her skin.
     But the moment couldn't last--such things never did.  And once her hair 
was free of tangles and she tossed her head to let the strands bounce free, 
Janette found she was more awake than before.  Padding across the floor in her 
bare feet, she returned the brush to the bureau, then checked herself in the 
mirror.  She played with her hair, pulling it back severely, letting one side 
fall softly across her face, or allowing a roguish curl to dance against her 
cheek--but even that proved to be small diversion.  She wasn't used to waking 
during the day.  At least, not alone and with nothing to do.
     Returning to the bed, she climbed between the sheets, fluffed up the 
pillows, and pulled the blanket up to her chin.  Perhaps she could remember 
what had awakened her.  <Then> she might be able to slip into the only dark 
safety afforded vampires during the daylight hours.
     So Janette clasped her fingers together across her chest and stared up at 
the ceiling.  It was white, something like stucco, or rough plaster.  Not a 
very interesting ceiling.  But the brightness of it stirred her memory, if 
only a little--


     She'd knotted and unknotted her sleeves a half dozen times as the 
Enforcers had escorted them out of the valley in which the town was settled 
and not too far up the side of a small mountain.  The way was well worn, not 
difficult to travel, and the shadow of the mountain fell across them, holding 
back even the most daring rays of light from the approaching sunrise.
     LaCroix had walked the way as if unconcerned, allowing her arm to rest on 
his as if they were merely taking the air before retiring.  Only once did he 
seem at all attentive to their situation, as Dorian rode past on a jet black 
stallion.  The Archivist did not stop and the hooves of the beast sent up a 
cloud of dust that enveloped them.  She was barely able to get her veil in 
place before they were assaulted by the sudden rain of dirt.
     "How rude!" she exclaimed, forgetting her fear in that instant of 
indignation.
     And LaCroix had smiled, his eyes following the distant signs of Dorian's 
furious progress.  "Perhaps he fears the dawn," he said lightly.  "Or . . . 
me."
     It was all he said and the Enforcers took no notice of that, although 
they'd been careful enough as an escort and accorded them some amount of 
deference, if not courtesy.  One even offered her his hand as they ascended 
the stone steps that led up to the villa that had been carved into the side of 
the mountain.  She declined the offer, half-hoping that LaCroix would still 
have her presence in mind and assist her.  But he made his way before her and 
she was forced to try the steep steps on her own, lifting her skirts carefully 
to keep herself from falling.
     The building was a combination of mud brick and smoothed stone, with 
small windows.  As they moved inside, she was astounded at the lightness of 
the place and the height of the interior--LaCroix could enter easily without 
stooping and could stand straight.  The walls had been washed white with 
plaster and the clean stone floor covered with woven matting or elegant rugs.  
Candles flickered in the wall sconces and she felt a breeze flutter her veil.  
It was a place she would not have minded visiting, or in which she would have 
been pleased to reside for a time . . . .
     If not for Dorian's presence.  He stood in a doorway as they entered the 
main hall, pushing aside an embroidered hanging that covered the space.  Dust 
from his travel remained on his clothing, but there was something in his 
arrogance and the self-assurance of his stance that made him appear freshly 
groomed.  He walked toward them, his eyes fixed on LaCroix.
     This time the Enforcers did not fade into the shadows as before, but held 
their places.  He nodded toward one at the lead and the vampire, followed by 
two others, moved through a doorway that was obscured by the embroidered 
cloth.  Janette heard the sound of small voices, sleepy protests . . . and 
then the Enforcers returned, leading three children.  The eldest was a girl, 
not yet a woman from the look of her.  The next was a boy, with a stubborn 
frown, blinking the sleep from his eyes.  And the third was little more than a 
babe, still soft and fresh with the weight of childhood, yet steady on its 
feet as it walked beside an Enforcer, the chubby fingers curled around the 
cold hand of the vampire.
     Janette's eyes fixed on the golden curls of the youngest, the pink cheeks 
and ruddy skin.  She swallowed, already tasting the sweetness of that rich 
blood, then looked to LaCroix.
     But he seemed not to notice.  His eyes matched Dorian's, stare for stare.  
And it was Dorian who frowned and looked away.  He pushed aside his cloak and 
seated himself on an iron chair, leaning against the back and setting one foot 
up, against the footrest.  "Common courtesy, Master LaCroix.  Will you dine 
before we begin?"
     LaCroix hesitated, his chin lifting slightly.  Janette felt her heart 
fall, fearing that she might be deprived of that pink morsel with the golden 
curls.  She felt the defiance rise from him and knew that he wouldn't accept 
anything from Dorian's hand.  She, however, had no such compunction--
     "It's been a long journey," she announced, arranging her gown as she 
seated herself across from Dorian.  "And, I, for one, am hungry."  Casting a 
glance at LaCroix, she gestured toward the seat beside her.  "It's only common 
courtesy, after all.  He <is> our host."
     LaCroix's eyes widened at her unseemly intervention.  Then he nodded 
toward Dorian, after a brief pause.  "Common courtesy," he repeated, with a 
light tone.  "I wouldn't want to be discourteous.  May I?"
     "If the lady doesn't have a preference--?"  Dorian raised an eyebrow and 
glanced at Janette, his hand raising slightly as he gestured toward the 
children.
     "The lady <does.>"  LaCroix stepped past her and the Enforcer released 
the hand of the youngest child.  Kneeling down beside her, LaCroix pointed 
toward Janette and said softly, "I think that lady has a sweet for you."  Then 
he patted the child lightly on the rump and rose to his feet.
     Janette's eyes fixed on the little cherub as it toddled toward her, a 
small fist rubbing the sleep from those golden lashes.  "Come here," she 
cooed, holding out her hands, then picking up the child and placing it upon 
her lap when it reached her.  She brushed her hands through the curls, then 
turned bright eyes to Dorian.  "They're <charming>!  Where did you find them?"
     He shrugged modestly.  "They turn up in the market every now and again, 
if one has contacts.  I prefer adults, myself, but there wasn't much time for 
me to provide refreshment."  Dorian looked over at LaCroix pointedly.  "This 
was all very last-minute.  And we still haven't much time, at that.  Will you 
choose?"
     The last was directed at LaCroix, who studied the girl with fearful eyes, 
then the scowling boy.  He placed his hand on the girl's shoulder after a 
moment's pause and gave Dorian a nod.  "This one, I think.  More of her."
     "As you wish."  Dorian gestured toward one of the Enforcers, who pushed 
the boy toward him.  The boy's eyes widened and he tried to dig his toes into 
the stone floor, turning his head to see what had happened to the girl who'd 
been beside him.
     Janette sat back in her chair and ran her hand through the child's hair 
absently, as the little hands toyed with the beads that ended the laces on one 
of her gown's ties.  She watched as LaCroix ran his hand lightly along the 
girl's neck.  She was under no compulsion, her will was free, and the fear in 
her sweat rose enticingly into the air like a fine perfume.  LaCroix walked 
around her, his fingers tracing the line of her face, ruffling through her 
hair, which was close cropped to her head.  He leaned forward and whispered to 
her, soothing and soft sounds.
     In contrast, Dorian grasped the boy's hand--a comradely grip--and smiled 
reassuringly.  "What's your name?"
     The boy looked back to his sister, whose eyes had begun to glaze over.  
She placed her hand over LaCroix's and smiled shyly.  Then Dorian tugged at 
the boy's hands again.  "Are you mute?" he asked, his tone light.  "Come, tell 
me your name."
     "Roger," said the boy stubbornly.
     Dorian raised an eyebrow.  "Ah . . . one of the Norman conquerors, no 
doubt.  You'll have a tale to tell me, about how you came to be sold."  He 
drew the boy closer, adding, "And I have one to tell you."
     Janette shifted the baby on her lap, brushing back the shoulder of the 
simple linen tunic the child wore.  She pressed her lips against that soft 
pulse, against the warm, pink neck, and closed her eyes.  The skin was clean, 
smelling of fresh milk and honey.  She didn't wait for the others, but opened 
her mouth wide and bit deep.
     There was only a moment's struggle, a short, sharp cry, echoed also by 
the boy as Dorian sank his teeth into the child's neck.  The girl LaCroix held 
made no sound.  Janette was too pleased with her prize to spend more than an 
instant's thought to the others, holding the child tightly, determined to 
drain the last of that lovely nectar.
     And, too soon, it was done.  The child's head lolled back, the two red 
wounds harsh and angry against the very pale and cooling skin.  She kissed the 
babe's lips, her own still covered with blood, and ran her hand through those 
golden curls one last time.  Then an Enforcer stepped forward, taking the 
child's body from her hands with a look less stoic than envious.
     She'd finished first, having taken the smallest.  With a sigh, she 
settled back in her seat and pouted at the impetuous nature of her choice--the 
child had been little more than a mouthful.  A wonderful taste, to be certain, 
but not enough to satisfy her.  If either of the other two had <any> breeding, 
they would have offered her--
     But it was too late.  The child Dorian had taken fell back into his arms.  
Without a second glance he let the body fall to the floor; an Enforcer lifted 
it easily and disappeared through a doorway.  LaCroix was just finishing with 
the girl.  He held her hand in his until the last, then let her body slide to 
the floor, only then releasing her fingers.  He stepped over the corpse and 
gave Dorian a brief nod, as an Enforcer dragged away what remained of the 
girl.  "My thanks."
     "I owed you a final meal, at the very least."  Dusting off his tunic, 
Dorian said, "Take him."
     The Enforcers moved forward before Janette could blink, four surrounding 
and holding LaCroix in that instant, less hesitant at laying hands upon him 
than before.  As she started to rise from her seat, a protest forming on her 
lips, Dorian stood before her, blocking her view of LaCroix's removal.  "Lady, 
if you'll accompany me--?"
     His tone held more than a hint of sarcasm.  Janette stared down at his 
offered arm, finding the gallantry both inappropriate and offensive.  And she 
meant to say just that, raising her angry gaze to meet his--
     His eyes were dark and soulless, black voids in which bits of red 
flickered, like blazing stars.  Finding herself mute, she swallowed, then 
rested her arm over his, allowing him to lead her to yet another cloth covered 
doorway, the scent of children's blood permeating the air around them.


     The memory of it made her lick her lips.  Janette opened her eyes, but 
the milk and honey freshness of the baby's skin, the short salt tang of that 
blood, caused the beast to rumble within her.  That's what had awakened her--
she was hungry.  And though Nicola might keep her captive, he surely wouldn't 
expect her to starve . . . ?
     Pushing back the covers, Janette shifted her bare feet to the floor and 
moved to the door.  She opened it and walked to the second floor railing, 
looking over the loft.
     Nicola had closed the shutters, sealing the windows.  The darkness, of 
course, was no problem to her.  She had little fear of waking him by accident-
-she'd known him to sleep as though he were dead.  Although she'd learned a 
few tricks over the centuries that had never failed to awaken him . . . .
     Janette paused again as she came down the stairs, leaning her arms and 
chin on the iron rail, watching him sleep.  Nicola was stretched along the 
length of the couch, the blanket on the floor, along with one of the pillows.  
Heaven only knew what he'd done with the sheet.  He looked so young when he 
slept, without that mischievous gleam in his eye or that devilish smile.
     Oh and what she wouldn't give for that smile!
     But he <was> sleeping and she really <shouldn't> disturb him . . . .
     Tiptoeing down the stairs, she made her way to the refrigerator and 
uncorked a bottle of blood.  She lifted the bottle to her lips, taking a swig, 
then nearly choked on it.
     Damn!  She'd forgotten he only kept cow!  How anyone with even the 
slightest veneer of culture could drink swill like this was beyond her.
     Wincing, Janette took another sip from the bottle, then pulled a glass 
from the shelf and poured herself a good dose--as Nicola had said, it was cow 
or nothing.  She was suddenly <very> glad she'd decided to let him sleep.  He 
seemed to get some perverse satisfaction out of watching her drink this 
hideous stuff.
     She replaced the cork in the bottle, closed the refrigerator door, then 
picked up the glass, realizing that something was amiss.  The room wasn't 
entirely dark, but there was a small night-light on in the kitchen.  Curious, 
she walked toward it and discovered it was the shape of a small, smiling, red-
headed mermaid.  With a sigh, Janette arched an eyebrow and shook her head--
from the small size of those shells, that mermaid had little enough to smile 
about.
     Leaning against the counter, she raised the glass to her lips again and 
noticed a large glass bowl, filled with water.  There were green and blue 
stones scattered along the bottom, a small ceramic castle, and what looked to 
be a very fake plastic piece of seaweed.  It was a fishbowl.  But, for the 
life of her, she couldn't see the fish--
     "Janette?  What are you doing?"
     She looked up over the bowl guiltily and spotted Nicola--he'd raised his 
head over the arm of the couch and was watching her.  In answer, she picked up 
the glass of blood and showed it to him.  "I got hungry."
     "Take it upstairs.  I need to sleep."  With that, he disappeared below 
the side of the couch again.  She saw his arm reach out to retrieve the fallen 
pillow and blanket--the missing bed sheet seemed attached to it--and Nicola 
settled himself in place once more.
     On impulse, she happened to look down into the bowl.  "Nicola?"
     "Hmnnn?" he answered sleepily.
     "Aren't fish supposed to swim?"
     "Hmnnn."
     Putting down the glass of blood, she gritted her teeth and touched the 
fish gently with the tip of her fingernail.  It bobbed lightly near the 
surface of the bowl, fins in the air.  "This one <isn't> swimming.  In fact, I 
don't think they're supposed to swim upside down, are they?"
     "Hmnnn?  What? Oh--"  Nicola appeared again, the pillow falling as he 
tried to scramble off the couch, slipped, and hit the floor.  Janette winced 
at the thud, but Nicola regained his feet quickly and stood beside her, 
dressed in another pair of black silk pajamas.
     She took a step back as he looked into the bowl, noting that the pair of 
pajamas he wore were of a different style and cut, but <still> black silk.  
How silly he was, to buy all of his pajamas in different cuts, but of the same 
color.  Sometimes she just didn't understand men . . . .
     Then again, the view wasn't all <that> distressing. 
     "Maybe it's just resting."  He touched the fish with his finger as she 
had.  Janette moved to stand beside him again, hearing the desperation in his 
voice.
     When the fish simply bobbed in the water, she placed a hand on his arm.  
"Nicola, it is no longer a fish.  It is now a <dead> fish."
     "But it <couldn't> be!  I mean, I bought everything.  I did everything 
right this time."
     "<This> time?"  Janette raised an eyebrow.  "How many fish have you had?"
     He squatted down and looked up through the bottom of the bowl, as if 
hoping the view would change things.  "Just one.  I ran over--"  He looked up 
at her, then straightened and shook his head.  "Oh, never mind."  Again, he 
peered into the top of the bowl.  "I was sure I got it right.  The bowl, the 
stones, the castle, the food--it seemed fine."
     "Maybe it was just a sick fish."  Janette placed her hand on his sleeve 
again, in what she hoped was a comforting gesture.  "It happens, Nicola."
     He placed his hand over hers, startling her, eyes wide and just a bit 
wild.  "Wait a minute--you had goldfish for pets, didn't you?"
     Janette stared at him.  "<Moi>?"
     "Yes.  Yes, you did, I remember!  You had a whole pond of them when we 
were in the Orient--"
     Sniffing aristocratically, Janette picked up her glass of blood.  "They 
weren't <pets>.  They were <objet d'art>.  And the gardener took care of them.  
Really, you have <no> sense of design or decoration."
     But he'd returned to his fish bowl.  "My fish is dead."
     "So, dispose of it."  When he looked at her with sad eyes, she brushed 
him aside, saying, "Oh, let me!"  Putting down her glass of blood, Janette 
reached into the bowl.  Taking the tiny tail between two fingernails and 
scowling, she held the fish well away from her, walking quickly to the trash 
bag.  Shrugging, she released it.  
     Nicola looked forlorn, wincing at the sound of the soft 'thud' as it hit 
the bottom of the bag.  "You threw it out," he accused.
     "That's what you do with a dead fish.  Unless you'd prefer to give it a 
burial at sea?"  Janette gestured toward the second floor of the loft.  
"Personally, I think this is far kinder.  Less ironic.  Take it out in the 
trash and say good-bye to--what did you name it?"
     He was still staring at the garbage bag.  "I never got a chance."
     "Good-bye to . . . fish number two, then," said Janette.  Walking back to 
the sink, she washed her hands thoroughly, then dried them and picked up her 
glass of blood again.
     "But I need to know what killed it.  So the next one doesn't die."
     Janette stared at him over the lip of her glass.  "You what?"
     "I need to know--"
     "Yes, yes.  But . . . the <next> one?  Nicola, accept the fact that 
you're not meant to keep pets and move on.  Unless you want to spend eternity 
pursuing this unfortunate trend, which can only lead to the extinction of the 
species."  Her lips quirked into a smile.  "Goldfish genocide?  LaCroix would 
be amused.  At least you're still killing <something>."
     She realized she'd gone too far when she saw that light in his eyes dim.  
He walked away from her, heading for the couch.  Sighing, she followed, but 
spotted a small book with a goldfish pictured on the cover.  Putting down her 
glass and picking up the book, Janette followed, then sat beside him.  When he 
made a move to rise, as if to get away from her, she tapped the book against 
his arm.
     Nicola looked down at the book, then at her.  "What?"
     "I assume this is an instruction manual."
     "Yes."  He took the book from her.  "I'd planned on reading it after my 
shift.  But, I was distracted--"
     Not about to take the responsibility for the premature departure of his 
pet, Janette leaned back against the couch.  "If you start at the beginning, 
perhaps we can determine where you went wrong?  You <are> a detective after 
all."
     She regretted the words almost immediately and half-expected him to leave 
her again, but he was too absorbed with the book, opening it and finding a 
list of things necessary for the preservation of a fishy pet.  Janette leaned 
over his shoulder, mentally ticking off items as he read aloud.  It was nice 
just to be close to him, to lean her head on his shoulder, run her fingers 
through his hair . . . . 
     "If you are in an area where water is chlorinated, remember to leave 
fresh water out over night so that chemical additives can evaporate--"
     That was number eight on the list, but the warning seemed to have hit 
home.  Nicola placed his finger on it as if marking it--either of their 
perfect memories could have reproduced the page exactly--which Janette took as 
a sign that he was spending too much time with mortals and was beginning to 
accept their limitations as his own.  
     "Is that it?" she asked.  
     "After you went to bed, I went out to the car and brought in the fish and 
the note.  Then I put the water in the bowl, and the fish in the water, 
straight from the tap--"  He slammed the small book shut angrily.  "I've 
killed <another> one!"
     "It's <only> a goldfish."  Janette patted his shoulder lightly to get his 
attention.  When he turned his head to look at her, she asked, "<What> note?"
     "The threat you received at the Raven."  A smirk touched the edge of his 
lips as she glanced down to where she'd last placed the note--before she'd 
been drenched and changed her attire.  "And, no . . . I didn't take advantage.  
It must have slipped out when I put you in the seat or took you out of the 
car."
     "Well, they say such things happen with age," she said sadly, still 
looking down at her body, which had betrayed her.  "You'll give it back to me, 
of course."
     When she looked up, the smirk had disappeared from his face.  "I'm taking 
it in to Natalie tonight.  She may be able to get some prints from it."
     Janette took in a breath, letting it hiss between her teeth.  "Nicola . . 
. ."
     He reached out, his hands resting on her shoulders.  "We have to find out 
who's hunting you.  Fingerprints might help.  And it's physical evidence, in 
case I need to make this official."  When she opened her mouth to protest, he 
removed a hand from her shoulder and touched his finger to her lips.  "No--
don't bother.  You told me I could handle this my own way and I will."
     Staring into his eyes, seeing his concern, Janette felt something melt 
within her.  Smiling, she kissed the finger, but he withdrew it and rose from 
the couch.  He held his hand out to her, helping her to her feet, but kept 
hold of her hand.  She allowed him to drag her toward the stairs to the loft, 
hope in her heart.  But that hope faded when he grabbed the glass of blood as 
they passed it.  Once at the foot of the stairs, Nicola pressed the glass into 
her hand, then gave her a light pat on the behind.  "Up you go, then.  Sweet 
dreams."
     Pouting, Janette put a foot on one step, playing the recalcitrant child.  
"But what if I get hungry again?"
     "You won't be hungry if you're asleep."
     "And what if I have bad dreams?"
     Nicola ran his hand through his hair, then gestured toward the couch.  
"I'll be right here.  Any bad dreams would have to get by me."
     "They'll be less likely to bother me if you sleep with me--"
     "I'll be less likely to get to work on time if I sleep with you," 
corrected Nicola sternly.  "And I want to get that note to Nat as soon as 
possible.  Not to mention the pet stores tend to close early and I have to get 
a new goldfish.  So, go to <bed>."
     Janette ducked her head, pouting again.  "What about a bedtime story?"
     "Janette--!"
     "A goodnight kiss, then?"  She batted her eyelids in such an exaggerated 
manner that he laughed.  
     "All right," he relented, "if it will get you into bed--"
     She was ready for him.  Nicola cupped her chin with his hand, his lips 
moving to meet hers . . . but she pulled back quickly, escaping him.  Janette 
planted a light kiss on his forehead, then smiled, as he looked up at her in 
bewilderment.
     Then, turning, she started up the staircase.  She took one step at a 
time, knowing that Nicola's eyes were on her every move.  Right up to and 
including the instant she closed the bedroom door.
     And locked it behind her.

CHAPTER 8
     
     Natalie burrowed her head under the pillow, one hand over either end to 
hold it in place.  God, what was that banging!  Who in the hell was making 
that kind of noise in the middle of the night?
     Day.  Middle of the <day>.
     The correction was almost automatic by now.  She sought refuge from the 
light that shone in through her open window, half-afraid to look at the clock 
and find out just how late in the day it was.  Sometimes it seemed like she'd 
just gotten to sleep and then she was up and at work again, elbow deep in 
bowels, fishing around for a bullet.
     Another loud bang made her sigh, then she sniffed, catching the scent of 
garlic.  It wasn't just a scent, really more of a stench--like her 
refrigerator had smelled when she'd taken that escargot home from a party, had 
forgotten about it, and then spilled it on the way to the trash.  Wrinkling 
her nose, Natalie grabbed the blankets around her, wondering why she hadn't 
thought to close the window and which of her neighbors was thoughtless enough 
to be cooking on such a breezy--
     When she moved, the scent grew stronger, almost choking her in the 
confined space underneath the pillow.  And that's when she realized that she 
was the one who smelled like garlic.
     And why.
     Natalie scrambled to her knees, the blankets and pillow being airborne 
for brief seconds and scattering this way and that.  Breathing heavily, she 
looked around the room, then grabbed the wooden spoon--the edge of it was 
peeking out from beneath a pillow--and held it to her chest.
     She was fine.  The room looked fine.
     Rising hesitantly from the bed, spoon still clutched in her hand, Natalie 
picked up the pillows absently, then followed with the blankets, tossing 
everything onto the bed.  Sidney had to be here somewhere.  His bowl was here.  
His litterbox was here.  And the door had been locked.
     Hadn't it?
     A lump in her throat, Natalie walked toward the door, still clutching the 
wooden spoon with both hands.  When she turned the knob, it resisted the 
movement--locked.  She unlocked it carefully, opened it a crack, and peered 
into the darkened living room.
     The door was wedged open from beneath her hand as Sidney flew into the 
room, a gray and white blur.  Shooting past her, he went directly to the bed, 
jumped up on it, and burrowed underneath the covers.
     For a moment, she simply stared at him.  Then Natalie walked toward the 
bed.  "Sidney?  Sidney, honey?"  Bending down, she peered into the small 
cavern the blankets had formed and saw two gold-green eyes staring back at 
her.  He meowed softly, a sound that meant he was feeling neglected or scared 
or both.
     Natalie reached into the protective nest he'd created for himself and 
caught hold of him, dropping the wooden spoon and lifting him into her arms.  
She stroked him gently, scratched him beneath the chin just the way he liked, 
and brushed her lips lightly across the top of his head.  "It's all right, I'm 
here.  Don't be scared."
     "I'm afraid that's my fault."
     Natalie froze at the sound of Dorian's voice, then turned her head to see 
him, her arms tightening reflexively around Sidney.  He stood in the doorway, 
well back from the wan light that crept into the room when the breeze billowed 
her curtains and blinds.  She couldn't see much more than a silhouette.
     "He cried to get out," explained Dorian, his voice apologetic.  "I was 
afraid he'd wake you.  And when he <did> get out--I think we agreed to ignore 
one another.  But I dropped something and it frightened him."
     "You unlocked the door."  She tried to keep the fear out of her voice, 
tried to keep the tone even.
     "Yes, I did.  I'm sorry.  As I said, I thought he might wake you.  
Perhaps I'd better--perhaps you want to get cleaned up.  I've done the best I 
could with the bathroom, it's almost usable again."
     There was a forced lightness to his tone.  "I'll be out in a minute," she 
managed, her teeth clenching in anger as much as fear.
     "Yes.  I'll . . . yes."  Reaching into the room, Dorian grasped the 
doorknob.  She saw his hand and part of a shirtsleeve--where did he get a 
shirt?--before the door closed.
     Natalie let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding, then dropped 
Sidney back to the bed and sat down on it herself, her knees giving way.  
Sidney sidled up to her bare leg and rubbed against it, then sneezed.  She 
stroked her hand down the flat of his head and along his back, watching his 
ears flatten and his eyes narrow into slits.  "It's all right, Sidney," she 
said softly.  "We're fine.  Nothing happened."
     The cat's eyes glowed up at her.  Then he sneezed and ducked back under 
the covers.
     "Guess I could stand to be cleaned up at that," she answered, taking a 
sniff and wrinkling her nose.  Natalie rose from the bed and found her 
bathrobe in the closet.  After slipping into it and tying it quite securely, 
she fixed a pile of clean clothing for herself--jeans and a T-shirt, underwear 
and socks.  Her sneakers were somewhere in the apartment, she'd have to find 
out how usable they'd be or if she should toss them into the basement washers 
with her sweats and everything else, put the cycle on high, pour in a half 
gallon of heavy duty detergent and hope for the best.
     But hard as she tried, she couldn't find the sweats she'd crawled out of 
last night.  Then she remembered that Dorian had opened the door, to let out 
Sidney.
     Dorian <couldn't> be doing the wash.  He--no, it was just too stupid an 
idea to even consider!  On the whole and through varied experience, she'd 
discovered that men didn't do those sorts of things voluntarily.  And her time 
with Nick had so far led her to believe that vampires just didn't <do> 
laundry--period.
     The thought made her smile.  And it gave her more than a little self-
assurance as she crossed the bedroom, opened the door, and walked out into the 
apartment.
     The first thing she noticed was that the pile of blankets and dirty 
towels was gone.  The blankets she'd hung over the windows to keep out the 
daylight were working well--Dorian had turned on a few of the lamps.  Putting 
a book he'd been reading down on her coffee table, beside one of her coffee 
mugs, he rose from a chair located a good distance from the window.  "Good 
afternoon."
     "Is it?"  Natalie managed a lop-sided smile, hugging the clean clothes 
close to her.  She kept her eyes on him and the furniture between them, 
although the smell of garlic alone should have driven him away.  "How are you 
feeling?"
     "Weak.  But it'll pass.  And you?"
     "Exhausted," she admitted.  "And wishing like hell that you guys were 
sensitive to something other than garlic.  Like . . . bananas or something."
     Dorian raised a hand to his mouth, but was unable to hide his smile.  
"That's a thought I'd rather not deal with on an empty stomach.  Speaking of 
which, I've made coffee for you."
     It was her turn to feel queasy, remembering the last time Dorian had made 
coffee--the thick, black goop was so strong it had been undrinkable.  But 
Natalie forced a smile and said, "I think I'd better take my shower first."
     He seated himself and picked up the book again.  But as Natalie turned 
and headed past the kitchen and into the bathroom, she felt his eyes on her, 
following her.  Once inside the bathroom, she dropped her fresh clothing on 
the vanity, then looked around.
     Dorian had done a sterling job--the only smell of garlic came from her.  
Fresh towels hung from the rack and there wasn't a speck of blood or dirt 
anywhere.  She was stunned for a moment; she never would have expected 
something like this from him.  He'd been utterly helpless and hopeless at 
household tasks the last time she'd seen him.  And now . . . the change was 
both unexpected and unbelievable.  If he could manage this, she could almost 
imagine him doing something as mundane as wash.
     But that didn't make him any less dangerous . . . . 
     Natalie locked the bathroom door, then unknotted the sash on her 
bathrobe.  The mirror caught her eye and she paused, staring at herself with a 
sigh.  There were smears of dried blood on her face and her hair was a mass of 
snarls and tangles.  Shaking her head didn't help--the garlic smell seemed to 
rise around her like a cloud.
     That's when she decided that enough was enough.  The robe fell to the 
floor, then she pulled the nightgown over her head and let that go as well.  
Leaning forward, she turned on the water, letting it run for a few seconds to 
get up to speed, then her panties followed the rest of her clothing to the 
floor and she stepped into the shower.
     Her building, like most older buildings, had a hot water problem, but 
she'd discovered one of the few advantages to working night shifts was that 
her mid-afternoon shower was seldom interrupted by a lack of hot water or a 
toilet being flushed in a neighboring apartment.  There were advantages to 
just about everything; it all depended on how you looked at it.
     But, as she doused her hair with water and then spread the shampoo 
through it, lathering it up, she couldn't think of any advantages to the 
current situation.  She'd taken care of Dorian because he'd needed help and 
couldn't find it anywhere else.  Fine.  Her conscience was clear on that.  
From here on in it would get tricky.
     Turning her back to the shower head, Natalie washed the first set of suds 
from her hair, barely pausing before she lathered up again.  She stared at the 
tile in the shower, watched the trails of the soapsuds as they slid down the 
wall, and tried to see some sense in them.
     The Enforcers were after Dorian.  They knew he was in Toronto.  They'd 
beaten him up.
     So why was Dorian here?  How had the Enforcers found him?  And why had 
they assaulted him, then released him?
     There were too many questions to which she didn't have answers.  She had 
a feeling that asking Dorian wouldn't get her anywhere--he'd just put on that 
'vampire things that mortals aren't meant to know' superiority and that would 
be that.  Their arrogant pig-headedness never ceased to amaze her.  In fact, 
there were times she'd thought Nick would rather die than admit that he was 
wrong about something or just didn't know an answer to her question . . . .
     Nick.  If this was a 'vampire' thing, then she'd ask Nick to help Dorian.  
They weren't friends, but they weren't quite enemies.  Although when Dorian 
had said--however lightly--that he might not honor his promise to release her 
from the bond, Nick had been all but ready to--
     Closing her eyes, Natalie leaned her hands against the wall of the shower 
and let the water cascade over her hair and down her back.  There was no way 
she'd be able to explain this to Nick, no way she'd be able to explain it 
quickly enough for him to digest the bottom line before he over-reacted.  At 
the very least, he'd go after Dorian.  And at the worst . . . .
     Natalie opened her eyes, then stepped out of the force of the water and 
began to wring out her hair.  She never wanted to go through a scene like 
they'd had the last time.  She knew he trusted her implicitly, more so now 
than before.  But Nick always walked that edge, was always so afraid of 
betrayal, of rejection, that he tended to explode at the merest hint that his 
trust might have been misplaced.  She remembered the look on his face, the 
doubt as he'd confronted her in the abattoir, accused her of taking Dorian's 
side against him.
     Dorian had rescued her with a lie, telling Nick that he'd blackmailed her 
into helping him.  Of course Nick had believed Dorian; he'd <wanted> to 
believe Dorian.  He'd wanted to be right in having trusted her.
     And it had been a lie.  She'd helped Dorian not because he'd threatened 
Nick, but because Dorian had needed help.  And because she'd doubted Nick.  
And because . . . .
     Natalie turned off the shower, her thoughts drumming louder than the 
force of the water against the wall.  She hadn't told Nick about Dorian's lie 
for a number of reasons.  He'd been so happy when Dorian had confirmed that at 
least one of their kind <had> gone back across and returned to the mortal 
world and a mortal life.  It was ironic that Nick trusted Dorian's words 
because he believed Dorian never lied.  And he hadn't.
     Until then.  For her.
     Then there was the lie itself.  It had been so important at the time, 
seemed less so now, but who knew how Nick would take it?  Add that small lie 
to the fact that she'd given Dorian shelter, treated him for his injuries even 
thought it placed her in grave danger . . . .
     There was no way she was going to tell Nick.
     Which meant there'd be no help for Dorian, other than mortal assistance.
     Which meant . . . her.
     Natalie had toweled down and dressed, letting her hair dry of its own 
accord, prepared for the static frizz as it took on a life of its own later.  
What did she care, really?  At work she spent half of her time in scrubs, 
anyway.
     She looked into the mirror, suddenly realizing that she fully planned to 
go into work this evening.  Yes, she was tired, but no more tired than if 
she'd added a few hours to her shift.  Her headache was gone and she felt 
fine.  If she didn't show up for work, Nick would check on her, especially 
after having seen what she looked like last night.  If she'd looked even 
<half> as badly as she'd felt, she wouldn't blame him for calling or even 
dropping by her apartment.
     Shaking her head, Natalie decided that might not be such a good idea.  
Better to let this go for another night, see what the situation was, get a 
little more information.  <Then> she'd make a decision about what to do.
     Having decided not to decide made her feel better.  She made faces at 
herself in the mirror as she brushed her teeth, thrilled that the only garlic 
smell seemed to be emanating from her discarded nightshirt.  Once she felt 
clean and presentable, she bundled the smelly clothing and dirty towels 
together, unlocked the bathroom door, and stepped out into the small hall, 
which was separated from the living room by a partition.
     The aroma of brewed coffee drew her into the kitchen like a siren's song.  
Dorian was standing at the kitchen counter--having made the room safe for 
himself by covering those windows as well as the others she'd covered the 
night before--fixing something on a plate.  He turned as she entered, placing 
the plate and a mug of coffee on the table.
     Toast.  With a sprinkling of cinnamon and sugar.
     Natalie stared at it, swallowing a moment, remembering the last time 
Dorian had prepared a meal for her . . . and failed miserably.  
     "I hope it's all right," he asked, his voice containing a note of 
concern.  "I remembered what you'd said about not eating much in the morning."
     That had been a lie, to spare his feelings.  And it was that lie, and the 
fact that he'd believed it, that had helped her figure out exactly what was 
going on the last time they'd met--how both Dorian and Nick were being duped 
by Vivian, Dorian's mortal assistant.  Up until that point, she'd assumed that 
he could detect a lie told by vampires or mortals.  It was only then that 
she'd found his blind spot--that mortals could lie to him easily enough.
     Of course, that was before he'd tricked her into bonding with him . . . .
     The thought disturbed her, set in on edge.  She couldn't take her eyes 
away from the toast for a moment.  "No, it's fine.  Really.  The coffee smells 
great."
     "Sit down, I know you must be hungry."  
     He moved to get a chair for her, but Natalie took a step backward, 
finally looking at him.  
     She was right, he'd changed clothes.  The sweats--oversized on her but 
tight on him--had been replaced by a white casual shirt and jeans.  He had 
sneakers on his feet.  And she knew none of it come from her clothing closet.  
"Where'd you get the outfit?"
     Dorian dropped his hands to his side and leaned back against the counter.  
"I've been awake for some time--I guess I overfed, couldn't sleep.  So I 
contacted one of my accounts and had a courier run over some cash.  All my 
phone calls were local, I'll be happy to pay for--"
     "Don't you know how dangerous that could be?" asked Natalie, dismayed.  
"If they're looking for you, the first place they'll go is the bank."
     "I forgot how tied you are to detective work."  He met her stare with a 
slight smile.  "Don't worry--my problems with Vivian taught me that I couldn't 
afford to leave my finances in other hands.  I'm quite a quick study.  The 
cash I drew won't be traced.  Nor will any of my purchases."
     "Well . . . all right."  Still not quite believing him, Natalie pulled 
out her chair and sat down quickly, before Dorian could do it for her.  Her 
stomach grumbled aloud as the scent of coffee reached her and she felt herself 
blush at the sound.
     But Dorian had the good grace not to notice.  He moved to the microwave 
and opened the door, pulling out a coffee cup.  Her eyes widened for a moment, 
then she remembered what he'd said the night before--he preferred to drink his 
blood warm.
     It made sense, in a way.  The first time she'd spoken with him, he'd been 
drinking from a coffee cup.  For some reason she'd assumed that the blood in 
it had been cold.  Nick always seemed to drink his cold, straight from the 
fridge.  Although maybe cow tasted better that way.  It was possible that 
human blood--
     Her stomach flipped.  To cover, she raised the cup of coffee to her lips 
and drank it--straight black, no sugar.  She fully expected to find it as 
thick and foul as the last time Dorian had made her coffee.  Instead, she 
found herself putting down the cup and staring at it in surprise.  It was 
fine.  In fact, it was one of the best cups of coffee she'd ever had.  And she 
knew that it wasn't her brand.
     When she looked up at him, an eyebrow raised in question, he sat down at 
the table, across from her.  "I hope you like that.  The clerk said that it's 
one of their best.  I only bought ten pounds of it.  And I bought another ten 
of this other--"
     "You did <what>?"  Natalie sipped at the coffee again, staring at him 
over the rim of the mug.  Damn, it <was> good!  Then she looked around the 
kitchen, just to make certain all of her appliances hadn't been replaced.  
"Dorian, what else did you buy?  Other than the clothes . . . and the coffee?"
     "The cleaner picked up that mess in the other room."  He held up a hand 
as she started to protest.  "Don't worry about the blood--he's very discreet.  
I've used him before.  It should be delivered some time this evening.  I'll 
leave you his address.  You should sent him your nightgown--garlic can be just 
as bad as blood, sometimes.  It . . . lingers."
     Natalie rested her forehead in her hand and shook her head, trying to 
hide her smile.  He <had> been doing her laundry . . . in true vampire 
fashion, of course, by having it sent out.  What they ever did before the 
invention of telephones and ATMs was beyond her.  "What else?"
     "The superintendent of your building stopped by--"
     She looked up quickly, half rising from her chair and looking over her 
shoulder toward the living room, only now remembering the trail of garlic 
blood-water that had stained the hall carpet and led right to her apartment 
door.
     Dorian caught her arm, stopping her from rising.  She froze at his touch 
and looked at him.  He dropped his hand quickly, but continued to meet her 
gaze, his expression almost amused.  "Don't worry, I took care of it."
     "You . . . took care of it."  Again, Natalie swallowed, half-wondering if 
she'd find a body tucked behind one of her living room chairs.
     As if he'd read her mind, Dorian leaned back with a wounded expression.  
"No, no, nothing like that!  He wondered who I was, of course--"
     "Oh, God."
     "And I explained that we were . . . acquaintances.  That I got into a bit 
of trouble at a local bar and you were kind enough to help me out."  He 
dropped his gaze and picked up the coffee cup.  "My clothing hadn't arrived 
yet.  And he seemed very concerned about your welfare.  I explained that you 
were sleeping, that we'd had rather a late night."
     "Oh . . . God," she said again, pressing the palms of her hands over her 
eyes.  She almost wished Dorian <had> killed the super.  The man was <such> a 
gossip.  Her neighbors all thought she was a little strange to begin with--
such a nice girl, but she cuts up dead bodies for a living?  Add picking up 
friends who'd been involved in bar fights and trailed blood through the 
building, not to mention . . . .
     But what did that matter?  She dropped her hands and looked at Dorian, 
who was still staring down at his coffee cup.  "It's fine.  Don't worry about 
it.  They all think I'm a little nuts anyway.  What about the carpeting?"
     "It should be fixed in a few days.  And, to be honest, it needed 
replacing.  I couldn't go out with him to take a look at it, but--"
     "Just as well," she muttered into her coffee, trying to banish the mental 
picture of Dorian--in his tight gray sweats--having a serious discussion with 
Mr. Giegle about carpeting replacement.  "What's it going to cost?"
     "I've taken care of that."
     "You took care of <what>?"
     "I paid for the carpeting."  When she stared at him, he cleared his 
throat.  "It seemed my responsibility, after all.  It <was> my blood."
     She had to give him that.  God only knew what Mrs. Aspwith would make of 
<that> one, once the story started to get around. 'There was a man at that 
nice Lambert girl's apartment and he paid for the new hall carpeting.  Can you 
believe it?  It looks <so> expensive.  Well, at least she's finally found 
someone, poor dear--'
     "You really should move into a nicer building.  This place <does> have a 
certain charm, but--"
     "I may have to," she admitted, only half-listening to him.  Now that her 
stomach seemed steadier, she picked up a piece of toast and bit into it.  "Not 
half bad," she complimented, raising the toast to him in a sort of salute.
     "Thank you.  I can't begin to repay you for what you did for me last 
night.  Breakfast seemed the least--"  Dorian stopped in mid-sentence, than 
looked away.  "Natalie, I frightened you last night.  Badly.  I want to 
apologize for anything I did, anything I said . . . ."
     Her teeth crunched down on the toast.  Somehow, she managed to chew and 
swallow without choking at the vampire understatement.  <Frightened> her?  
He'd <attacked> her.  And she'd survived only by--
     "Well, I guess I'm sorry about breaking your nose."
     "Oh.  Yes."  He reached up and touched the edge of his nose gingerly.  
"All healed, thank you.  Though the way you reset it was a bit of a shock."
     "You deserved it."
     "I probably did."  The words had been light-hearted for a moment, but 
then she saw a shadow pass behind his eyes and he looked away again.  "It's 
just that--I don't want you to be frightened of me."
     This time she nearly did choke on the toast.  Giving it up as dangerous, 
Natalie chewed, swallowed, and pushed the dish away from her, at least until 
the conversation ended.  That was <great> toast.  "Am I wrong, or do I 
remember you telling me that I should be afraid of all of you, even Nick?"
     "Yes.  And you <should>.  Last night proved that."  He clasped his hands 
around his coffee cup, still refusing to meet her eyes.  "That's the beast in 
us, part of what we are.  If you want to keep your life be very wary of that, 
even in Nick.  But, I was hoping that you wouldn't fear . . . me."
     There were warning bells inside her, the memory of that bond she'd shared 
with him, the control he'd been able to exert over her, threatening to make 
her shiver.  But she sat rigidly in her chair and fixed her gaze on her coffee 
cup as she lifted it to her lips.  "You're saying there's a difference, 
between who you are and what you are?"
     "You make that distinction for Nick.  Can't you afford me the same 
kindness?"
     There was an edge to his voice, something so desperate and so sad that 
she wanted to sympathize.  But she still held the memory of how afraid and 
angry she'd been of him, <at> him, when she'd realized just what bonding had 
meant.  And, maybe, just a little fear and anger of and at herself, when she 
fondly remembered something of the closeness of it, his protectiveness toward 
her, his worry about and for her, his--
     She shut that line of thought away quickly, locking the mental door and 
tossing the key over her shoulder, into oblivion.  "Nick . . . wants to be 
mortal again.  What do <you> want?"
     Natalie raised her eyes to him; Dorian was watching her.  "To keep you 
safe."
     A chill went through her, as he echoed her thoughts.  "For <you>," she 
corrected sharply.
     Dorian's eyes widened momentarily and he looked down at the tabletop.  
"Forgive me if this sounds cruel, but . . . I don't share Nick's delusions 
about becoming mortal.  He seems to think that will redeem him, serve as a 
recompense for all that he's done these past centuries."
     "And you don't believe that?"
     "I've done so much, to so many over time--vampire <and> mortal--"  Dorian 
rose to his feet, pushing back the chair, the sound of the legs scraping 
across the kitchen floor causing him to wince.  He picked up his coffee cup 
and walked to the sink, then paused there and tilted his head back, draining 
it before continuing.  "I told you--I remember telling you that I'd never 
regretted anything I've done.  I always thought that would be a great lie, to 
deny my past actions because it seemed expedient.  I've condemned others for 
doing just that.  Like Nick . . .he carries <such> regret in him.  I don't 
know how he manages to survive."
     Carefully, he placed the coffee cup in the sink and then turned on the 
tap, running water into it.  His eyes were fixed on the covered window and 
Natalie placed one hand on the back of her chair, ready to rise--she almost 
had the feeling that he was about to rip away the window covering, expose 
himself to the full afternoon sunlight.
     "He has <hope>."
     Dorian flinched slightly at her soft words.  "I don't believe in <hope>.  
I've tried to improve myself, tried to rid myself of all the impurities of the 
flesh.  Tried to be better.  Even tried to be kind to mortals . . . as if I 
knew what I was doing."  He gave a short, harsh laugh.  "I've changed, over 
time.  But none of that justifies anything I've done.  I've begun to regret."
     Natalie pushed her chair back from the table.  Picking up her coffee cup 
and the remnants of toast, she busied herself with normal tasks--toss the 
crusts in the garbage, carry the plates to the sink.  "But you've made the 
effort," she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral, as she stood beside 
him.  "You said it yourself--you're a different person now.  Just like Nick is 
a different person now.  Regret is fine, but don't wallow in it.  Keep moving 
forward."
     Standing beside him as she did the dishes, Natalie found she wasn't 
afraid.  Not even after what had happened last night.  Dorian remained very 
still, almost as if <he> were afraid that movement might startle her, make her 
bolt.  In answer, she picked up a dish towel and slapped it against his chest, 
saying, "Work toward what you <want> to be."
     He seemed startled for an instant.  But he took the first coffee cup from 
her and dried it carefully, then the second.  Natalie concentrated on those 
few dishes for a moment, trying not to feel his eyes on her.  
     "I'm a vampire," he said finally, his voice low.  "It's the one truth 
left to my existence.  If I deny <that>, I've nothing left."
     Finishing up the last of the dishes, Natalie turned aside and pulled a 
paper towel from the rack--if she kept this up she'd have the equivalent of a 
degree in vampire therapy.  "Then be the best vampire you can be.  I can't 
help you with that."
     "No.  Perhaps . . . perhaps you can't."
     The last of the dishes were done.  Natalie glanced up at the kitchen 
clock.  "I'd better get ready for work."
     "And I'd better get ready to leave--at sunset," he added quickly, with a 
smile, as she shot him a questioning look.
     Natalie stood at the partition as he passed her and watched him move into 
the living room.  There were a few other boxes that she hadn't noticed before, 
as well as a briefcase and a small piece of luggage.  "You <have> been 
shopping," she said, amazed at the variety of items.
     Looking up from the briefcase, which he'd opened on an end table, Dorian 
smiled.  "I wish I'd given a thought to picking up some reading material.  
Most of your books are medical . . . and very graphic, I'm afraid."
     She chuckled beneath her breath.  "Don't tell me the sight of blood makes 
you queasy?"
     "Blood--no.  The dissection of internal organs?"  He frowned and she 
could have sworn that his skin grew even more pale.  "I'd rather not discuss 
it so soon after breakfast."
     "I think there's a couple of trashy novels."  When he raised a 
questioning eyebrow, she shrugged.  "I pick them up in airports, on my way to 
conferences.  Beats spending two hours on a plane talking to a woman from 
Ottawa about how her son the pharmacist, who isn't married, just added a 
built-in pool to his house and is trading in his car next year."
     "I pretend to sleep, myself," admitted Dorian, straightening and closing 
the suitcase.  "Only night-flights, after all.  I'm just surprised you don't 
have any poetry."
     "Poetry?  You mean, 'There once was a lady from Spain--?'"
     "<Poetry>," corrected Dorian sharply and, she noticed, somewhat taken 
aback at her comment.  "Fiction is composed of organized lies.  But poetry, 
<good> poetry, is truth incarnate."
     Natalie shrugged and bit back a smile, amused by his indignant attitude.  
"If you say so."
     "I <do>.  And I'll prove it to you."  He walked over to the couch and 
picked up a few boxes from the floor, then opened the suitcase and placed it 
on the cushions.  "Some other time."
     She took a step forward, then another, until she was standing beside him.  
"Where will you go?"
     "I . . . don't know."  He wouldn't look at her, but opened boxes and 
removed shirts and such, placing them carefully into his suitcase.  "I'll find 
a place--"
     "Where the Enforcers can't find you?"
     He froze, staring down at the interior of his suitcase.  "<If> they're 
looking, they'll find me no matter where I go.  It's only a matter of time."
     "Then stay here.  We'll find help for you.  Nick--"
     Dorian looked up quickly.  "No.  I don't want him involved in this."
     "He'd help you--"
     "No."  Dorian raised a hand as if to touch her cheek, but hesitated and 
dropped it to her shoulder.  "No," he repeated softly.  "I can't allow him to 
be involved.  I have my reasons."
     "All right--if you won't take my advice as your friend, then at least 
take my advice as your doctor."  Natalie lifted his hand from her shoulder and 
rested it on her palm.  "You've still got some scars, which means you haven't 
healed completely.  No matter how much blood you've had, you're ragged out.  
You need a few days rest.  So take it.  Stay here as long as you can.  Then 
when you're ready to go, you'll be able to defend yourself."
     He started at her words, but didn't pull his hand away.  "If the 
Enforcers found me here--"
     "I'll take my chances.  I wouldn't mind getting in a shot at those 
bastards."  Her eyes narrowed and she looked away, thinking about what she'd 
deduced from his wounds.  "What they did to you--haven't they ever heard of 
Amnesty International?"
     "How . . . how do you know?"  It was the slightest quiver in his voice 
that made her look back at him.  She saw his eyes were wide, almost 
frightened.  And she closed her hand over his, trying to remember what she 
knew of the treatment of victims of abuse or torture.  Did any of it hold true 
for vampires, as well as mortals?
     "It's my job," she answered, keeping her voice neutral.  "That's what I'm 
trained to do--look at the results and work backwards, to find out what 
happened."
     "Oh."  Dorian pulled away and seated himself on the arm of the couch, 
still looking at her.  "It might not be a bad idea . . . to stay here.  I <do> 
need the rest.  If I'm not putting you out?  Or . . . your reputation?"
     Natalie almost laughed at the last bit, but kept her feelings down to a 
smile.  "I think you've taken care of that.  There's some room in the closet 
if you want to hang up those shirts--they'll wrinkle if you don't.  I'll get 
those last two bottles from my car for you before I leave.  I'm sure Janette--
"
     "I'll handle the details," he promised.  Dorian rose to his feet and took 
a step forward.  He reached for her hand and when she didn't resist, took it 
in his, wrapping his fingers around hers.  "I already owe you my life, several 
times over.  And I'm grateful for your offer.  But, I feel I should ask--what 
about Nick?"  When her eyes widened, he continued, "I know you'll have to tell 
him I'm here.  He might not understand.  He's very . . . possessive."
     Again, he'd echoed her thoughts.  Natalie swallowed, meeting Dorian's 
gaze.  "I'll tell him, later.  He'll understand.  And it's not like we're . . 
. we're just friends, that's all."
     "That's all?"  For a moment, she felt he was looking past her eyes, into 
her soul, measuring her.  Then Dorian smiled, ever so slightly.  "Yes, I see.  
All right.  I'll accept your hospitality, then.  Thank you."
     "You're wel--"
     Before she knew what was happening, Dorian leaned forward and kissed her 
lightly on the lips, cutting off her sentence.  Stunned, she simply stared at 
him.
     He frowned slightly, as he pulled away.  "I'm sorry.  Was that . . . 
inappropriate?"
     Warning bells were going off.  At least, she <thought> they were warning 
bells.  And she decided, again, to ignore them.  "I don't think so."
     "Good."  Dorian released her hand and turned back to his suitcase.  
"You'd better get ready for work.  Shall I pack you a lunch?"
     "No--no, that's all right.  Grace and I--we--no."  She was more than a 
little disoriented as she backed away toward the bedroom.  "Like I said, 
there're hangers in the hall closet.  Help yourself.  I'll just go--"  
Turning, she almost sprinted for the bedroom.
     The door closed behind her.  Leaning her back against it, Natalie took a 
deep breath, wondering what in hell that had been about.
     After a moment, she walked over to the bed and started to sit down, when 
she heard a meow of protest.  Sidney's head appeared from beneath the 
blankets, his eyes glaring at her intrusion.
     Chuckling beneath her breath, Natalie picked up Sidney, saying, "Aw, poor 
baby.  I'm sorry--I forgot you were there."  He crawled into her lap and part 
way up her shoulder, stretching against her.  In answer, she rubbed along the 
side of his stomach, then scratched his head almost absently.  
     There weren't many times in her life she'd been rendered absolutely 
speechless.  It was the surprise, of course.  She hadn't expected Dorian to 
kiss her.  That last time, he'd kissed her at least twice--and gotten smacked 
good and hard for it the second time.  And it wasn't like Nick didn't give her 
a friendly smooch now and again, like when she'd had the headache last night . 
. . .
     God, had it <only> been last night?
     She shuddered, suddenly realizing all that had happened in that brief 
span of time.  She could have been killed.  And now she was shaking like a 
leaf because of a friendly kiss?  It was the surprise, that's what it was.  
She just hadn't expected it from Dorian.  Just like she hadn't expected Dorian 
to send out her laundry, pay for the hall carpeting, straighten up her 
apartment, make her breakfast . . . .
     He'd offered to pack her a <lunch>.
     "Sidney," she announced, after a brief pause, "this is just too weird.  
If I had any smarts, I'd follow you under the covers and hide until this was 
over with."
     Snuggling against her, Sidney meowed his assent, then leapt out of her 
arms and headed for his food dish.  Natalie watched him eat, wondering if that 
was last night's grub or if Dorian had remembered to feed her cat, too.  She'd 
have to give Nick a call, remind him to feed his goldfish.  He tended to 
forget little things like that.
     But Dorian didn't.  Not any more.
     Rising to her feet, Natalie padded over to her closet and began to sort 
through her clothing for something to wear.  It would be better if she 
concentrated on the essentials for the moment.  She'd have to remember to dump 
those body bags from her back seat.  And leave the car windows opens to get 
rid of the garlic smell.  Those two bottles of blood were in the back of her 
car--she'd promised to bring them up for Dorian.  After sitting in the trunk, 
with the sunshine beating on the metal, they'd probably be warm.  But that was 
all right, since that's how he liked them.
     Which, for some reason, didn't seem to bother her as much as it had 
earlier . . . .

CHAPTER 9
     
     Nick concentrated on traffic, on turning the car left, then right, as he 
headed for the crime scene.  He kept glancing into the back seat, afraid one 
of the sharp turns would dislodge the small plastic container that held his 
latest attempt at a pet--goldfish number three had been in his custody for 
only fifteen minutes before the radio in his car had blared to life, directing 
him across town and to the waterfront, rather than the precinct station.  The 
last thing he wanted to do was dump his fish into the foot-well of his back 
seat.  Then again, with the way his luck was running, he'd find himself in the 
middle of a gun battle and the thing would get probably splattered against his 
upholstery by a stray bullet.
     There were at least six patrol cars, four detective vehicles--Schanke's 
car among them--and three coroner's vans already present when he pulled up.  
After having been waved through the immediate cordon, he parked his car near 
the others and paused for a moment as he closed the driver's side door, trying 
to get his bearings.  That's when he spotted Schanke, notebook open in his 
hand, standing beside two uniformed officers.
     Nick hurried across the grassy area, still scanning the scene.  There 
were at least five bodies that he could spot, each surrounded by a forensics 
team, officers, and police photographers.  "What's up?" he asked quietly, as 
he stepped in between Schanke and one of the officers.
     Schanke waved away the uniforms with a, "Get me ID's if you can.  And 
tell the photographers to hurry, the coroner's people are chomping at the bit 
over there."  Then he turned to Nick, grabbed his arm, and started walking him 
back toward Nick's car.  "<You're> gonna be up, hanging from one of those 
trees if the Captain gets a hold of you."
     "She's here?  Good."  Nick dug his heels into the soft dirt and grass, 
resisting Schanke's tug on his arm.  "I need to check in with her."
     "You <needed> to check in with her.  Like <last night>.  She's gunning 
for your hide, partner.  If you want my advice," Schanke gestured toward the 
bodies and cops on the scene, "pick a corpse and stick with it.  Hide in plain 
sight.  Or get the hell out of here and pretend like you've got the flu and 
call in sick."
     Nick shook his head, dismissing the latter suggestion, then headed toward 
one of the corpses.  "I think you're going to need all the help you can get on 
this one.  What have we got?"
     Schanke trailed behind him, reading from his notebook.  "Six victims, one 
shooter.  Assault rifle.  Gang argument gone bad, from the looks of it; 
they're all wearing the same colors."
     "Do we have the shooter?"
     "Sort of."  When Nick glanced back at him, Schanke twirled his finger at 
his temple.  "The body's here, but the mind's gone bye-bye.  Nobody's home.  
He just keeps repeating, 'I did it, I did it.'"
     "At least we've got a confession."  Nick nodded toward one of the 
uniforms standing guard over a corpse.  He gave the street tough sprawled 
across the grass a cursory glance, then turned back to Schanke.  "Could be he 
wasn't ready for--"
     Something in him froze solid and the words disappeared as he took a 
second look at the dead gang member.  He was familiar--one of the young men 
who'd attacked Janette in the alley last night.  And then he felt a whisper in 
his mind, a call from somewhere not too far away.
     LaCroix.
     Had LaCroix found them?  Had LaCroix done this to avenge her, gotten the 
information from the bouncer, then mesmerized one of the thugs into killing 
the others?  Surely this was beyond the scope of Janette's pet bouncer, or any 
of the others at the Raven.  And now that he was almost certain that the gang 
members had been hired by someone else to attack Janette, this meant he'd lost 
his lead on the hunter who was after her.
     Slamming a fist into the palm of his other hand, he looked away, trying 
to pinpoint LaCroix.  That would be just like him, to drop it into Nick's 
hands because he knew what he was doing, then to take action on his own and 
screw up any chance he had of finding a fast and clean resolution to this 
thing.  He'd have to continue to keep Janette under lock and key--no easy 
task--unless Natalie was able to turn up something he could use.  The way 
she'd looked last night, she probably wouldn't even be in to work . . . .
     "Detective Knight?  Glad you were able to make it."
     Nick turned at the sound of Captain Cohen's voice.  Schanke moved to one 
side, just within his peripheral vision, and said, "Uh, Captain, Knight just 
got here.  I was going to bring him up to speed--"
     "In a minute, Detective Schanke.  If he's still on duty."  With that she 
started off at a quick stroll, gesturing for Nick to follow her.  "You owe me 
a meeting, Knight.  We'll talk here."
     Schanke gave him a supportive, if weak grin.  Nick only nodded in 
response then ran a few steps to catch up with her.  The captain paused, just 
beyond earshot of the other cops.  She whirled, facing him, as he reached her.  
For a moment, she gave him an appraising glance.  "You don't look dead."
     "I'm sorry," he said, surprised and not quite understanding her greeting.  
"I don't--"
     "You knew I wanted to talk to you last night.  You said you'd catch me 
when you returned from shift.  Fine."  She made a dismissive gesture with her 
hand.  "The last thing I want to do is keep you from doing your job.  But then 
you call yourself off-duty midway through your shift."  Captain Cohen looked 
away, back toward the corpse-strewn grass.  "There's probably at least two 
reasons I shouldn't suspend you.  One would be that you'd died."  Her eyes 
moved back to him, hard and unyielding.  "You don't look dead to me.  So you 
give me the other reason.  Or I want your badge and your gun and you're on a 
three day suspension, pending disciplinary action."
     Nick didn't have a lot of options.  He looked down at the ground, that 
call from LaCroix still lingering at the outer edges of his consciousness.  
The truth would be best, but he couldn't tell that to Captain Cohen--being a 
vampire cop in a world of mortals had its disadvantages.  A version of the 
truth, maybe . . . .
     "A friend of mine was assaulted last night.  Outside the Raven."
     When he looked up, Captain Cohen's eyes were just as sharp, but the set 
of her jaw had changed--it seemed less formidable.  "You were there?"
     It was a guess--all too accurate.  He'd have to be careful in giving her 
as much of the truth as he dared.  So Nick nodded.  "Yeah.  It was on the 
route Jeff Bartnichak took the night he disappeared.  I thought I'd check in 
with my contacts there, flash his picture around the club.  He was known to 
frequent--"
     "I <know> the file, detective," she said sharply.  "You arrived before . 
. . or after?"
     "During.  There were seven of them.  Gang members."  He indicated the 
bodies behind them with a slight turn of his head.  "The one I was looking at 
when you walked up--could have been one of them."
     "Seven?  Six bodies and a shooter."  She took a deep breath, then looked 
down at the ground.  "There anything else you need to tell me?"
     "Other than the fact that I've got an alibi for my whereabouts, no."  He 
managed a half-smile.  "I don't think they set it up on their own.  I think 
there was someone else pulling the strings.  The last thing I wanted was a 
corpse I couldn't question."
     The captain nodded again, then looked up to meet his eyes.  "What's your 
friend's condition?"
     "Battered and bruised.  I got there before anything else could happen."  
Like a stake being plunged into her heart . . . .
     "the Raven."  Captain Cohen stared at him thoughtfully.  "That's not 
their turf.  Could be they were trying to pull in protection money, expand 
their borders.  Will she come in and make a report, sign a complaint?"
     Nick hesitated, knowing what the captain wanted to hear, but also knowing 
he could afford to stray a little closer to the truth.  "No.  She doesn't want 
to get involved.  I think she wants to forget it ever happened."
     "That makes it harder."  After a moment, she gave him a taut smile.  "All 
right, you're still on duty--although you're off this case.  Take a look at 
the bodies, see if you can confirm an ID on any of the others, let Schanke 
take your statement.  Even if your friend won't come down, we can still use 
you as a motive witness.  I'll need Schanke for this one, so the Bartnichak 
case is on your shoulders.  Can you handle it?"
     "Yes," he answered, without blinking, knowing just how close he'd just 
come to being suspended.  "Thank you."
     "If you want to thank me, get your friend down to the station to sign a 
complaint.  Tell her that next time, she may not be so lucky."
     He gave a light laugh, hearing her repeat the words he'd told Janette not 
so long before.  "It didn't work."
     "<Make> it work."  She headed back toward the crime scene and gestured at 
him to follow.  "I'll try to keep Ed Bartnichak at arm's length, but you'll 
have to deal with him sooner or later."  She stopped, then half-turned and 
looked up at him--he nearly ran into her.  "He thinks you know something 
you're not telling him.  Do you?"
     "No."
     "Well, if you <do> find something--I want to hear it first.  Be careful 
with him, Knight.  His father had a lot of friends who've gone on to bigger 
and better desk jobs.  I don't want to lose you because Ed Bartnichak manages 
to bend some top brass ears with his hare-brained notion that you're trying to 
protect someone who's involved in Jeff's disappearance."
     "He told you that?" asked Nick, not bothering to mask the surprise in his 
voice.
     "Ummn."  She took another two steps, then stopped again, glaring up at 
him.  "But if you <ever> call yourself off-shift when you know I'm waiting to 
see you, don't bother coming into work the next night--I'll have a uniform 
drop by your place to pick up your badge and gun . . . or your body.  Because 
next time you'd better be dead.  Understood?"
     "Yes, captain."  Nick rubbed his hand against his chin and turned his 
head, trying to hide his smile as she stalked away--she didn't know just <how> 
close he was to using that particular excuse.  
     When he'd turned back to the crime scene, Schanke was walking toward him, 
his expression cautious.  "What happened?"
     "What do you think?" countered Nick, with a grin.
     Schanke reached out a hand and pulled back Nick's blazer, revealing the 
gun in his holster.  "I'd guess she let you off.  Why?"
     "Maybe she thinks I deserve another chance?"  He almost laughed at 
Schanke's disbelieving expression.  "And maybe because you'll have your hands 
full on this.  She gave me the Bartnichak case as a solo."
     Schanke let out a long, low whistle, as they walked into the thick of the 
crime scene.  "Don't take this the wrong way, but better you than me.  Ed 
Bartnichak was starting to get under my skin."
     "<Starting> to get under your skin?" asked Nick, raising an eyebrow and 
grinning.
     "Okay, so he'd hit muscle."
     "More like flab."  Nick put out a hand against Schanke's chest, stopping 
him as two of the coroner's staff walked by, carrying a corpse on a stretcher.  
"Ed Bartnichak seems to think we've been holding out on him--that <I'm> 
holding out on him--because I'm trying to protect someone."
     "The captain said that?"  When Nick gave him a slight nod, he shook his 
head in disbelief.  "Now I <know> Ed's lost it.  But at least you know the 
captain's not double-teaming us--if she told you, it means she doesn't think 
Ed's story holds water."
     "Or she wanted to see how I'd react."  
     Nick automatically headed toward his car.  Schanke caught his elbow, 
saying, "Hey, you on a coffee break, or what?  We've got a scene to cover."
     "<You've> got a scene to cover," said Nick, grinning again.  But he 
dropped the grin almost immediately and took a step toward Schanke.  "The 
reason I took off last night--Janette was attacked in the alley outside the 
Raven."
     "Man, oh man," said Schanke softly.  He swallowed, looking away for a 
minute, but then he quickly met Nick's gaze.  "She's okay, right?"
     "I happened to be there.  So . . . yeah."
     "Good."  When Nick gave him a questioning look, he shrugged his 
shoulders.  "Hey, she took a chance, letting me hide out in the club when 
MacAvoy was after me and we didn't know where the next bullet with my name on 
it was coming from.  I wasn't . . . I guess I wasn't a great guest."
     "Yeah.  I remember."
     "I'll bet you do," said Schanke, with a slight grin.  "And the way things 
are with you and her--what's with you and her, anyway?"
     "The point is--" Nick placed his arm around Schanke's shoulder and 
steered him toward the Caddy, "that I recognized one of the gang members who 
attacked her."
     "Where?  Here?"  Schanke released a breath.  "That's why you looked so 
spooked when I showed you the body.  Any of the others?"
     "I don't know yet.  I'll head down to the morgue--they'll probably have 
the bodies unbagged by then--and see if I can ID any more of them.  You'll at 
least have their whereabouts for part of last night."
     "Great."  Schanke took his notebook from his pocket, then his pen, and 
began to scribble.  "I thought we had an open-and-shut.  Now I've got a 
possible gang war.  Sure, it could have been an argument that got carried 
away.  Or the kid could have been a plant by another gang.  Geez."  He flipped 
the notebook closed, scowling as Nick opened the driver's door of the Caddy 
and got into the car.  "And I was wanted to get in some personal time this 
week, too."
     "Tough break.  But at least Bartnichak's off your back."
     Schanke waited until Nick rolled down the Caddy window.  "Yeah, and on 
yours.  What about Janet?  She's all right?"
     "Janette," corrected Nick, making a mental note to tell her that Schanke 
had asked about her welfare.  "I'm keeping an eye on her."
     "I'll bet you are."  Schanke's grin was more of a leer.  Then his eyes 
widened and he pointed toward the back seat.  "You'd better get a bowl for 
that fish.  You're only supposed to keep them in those things for a few 
hours."
     Nick turned the key in the engine.  "That's--uh--a different fish."
     "Oh.  What happened to the one in the coffee cup."
     "I ran over it."
     As if scanning for evidence of a piscine hit-and-run, Schanke looked down 
at the side of the Caddy.  "With the car?"
     "Yeah."
     "Get a Golden Retriever," he called, as Nick shifted the car into gear.  
"Great dogs.  Sure, they chew on shoes--"
     Nick winced as he made his way through the police barricade and the 
crowd, knowing that the last thing he needed was a pet that considered his 
couch a personal chew toy.  The again, a dog <would> be a lot harder to kill.  
Maybe Janette was right, maybe pet fish just weren't in the cards for him.  
But anything higher up the food chain was bound to mean more maintenance . . . 
.
     With a sigh, he glanced into the rearview mirror, adjusting it to make 
certain that his fish was safe and sound.  A flick of a scaly gold tail 
satisfied him that all was well in the back seat.  He'd actually remembered to 
leave water out to 'breathe'--as the book had instructed--and threatened 
Janette with a continued diet of cow if she so much as looked at the bowl 
while he was gone.  Now, if he could manage to get this one home in one piece 
. . . . 
     His instinct told him that he was being tailed, but then he felt the call 
again, heard the echoes of LaCroix in his mind.  He was near, closer than 
before, but still a distance away.  First, Nick had business at the Coroner's 
Office; he'd check the bodies and find out if Nat was in--she hadn't been at 
the crime scene.  LaCroix would come later.  And they'd have a <lot> to talk 
about.
     The bodies had only just come in when he'd arrived, so Nick was able to 
confirm his suspicions quickly.  He unzipped one bag, then another, matching 
the pale, lifeless features--sometimes half-features, thanks to the 
effectiveness of the assault rifle--against the brief glimpses he'd caught in 
the alley.  His memory might be colored with red-gold tints, but it was 
sharper and more accurate than any photograph.  
     The gang members were the ones who'd attacked Janette; there was no 
question in his mind.  And he was just as certain that they'd been told what 
to do, armed, for whatever reason, by someone who knew what weapons to give 
them and how they should proceed against a vampire.  He found no comfort in 
the fact that the gang members had met such a violent end--Janette's real 
hunter was still out there.  Which meant she was still in danger.
     Oh, yes . . . he and LaCroix would have <quite> a lot to talk about.
     He followed one of the morgue attendants upstairs with the last of the 
bodies, catching the 'freight' elevator doors for the trolley.  "Is Dr. 
Lambert in?"
     "Thanks."  The man wheeled the trolley into the elevator, then moved it 
against the far wall, so that Nick could squeeze in as well.  "Yeah.  She's 
checking in this group, as a matter of fact."
     The doors closed, trapping him inside the steel box with the attendent 
and the body.  Nick cleared his throat, as he felt the man's eyes on him.  
"Because--I usually see her at the scene.  And I didn't think she was out 
there--"
     "She was cutting when the call came in, so she skipped this one.  But 
she's done, now."
     The doors opened again and the attendant deftly guided the trolley out of 
the elevator and down to the lab as Nick stepped aside.  The attendent pushed 
the trolley through the swinging door, announcing, "Got a live one and a dead 
one for you, Doc."
     Nick hesitated on the threshold of the door and peered inside.  Natalie 
grinned at him, then looked pointedly at the corpse.  "Which one's which?"
     "That's your problem--you're the one with the degree," said the 
attendant.  Tapping the trolley, he said, "That's the last of them."  As Nick 
entered, he headed out the door, saying, "Thanks for the help, detective."
     "Any time."
     She was wearing her greens--thankfully fresh, he hated to see her covered 
in blood and gore.  "If you're here for your appointment, we're running a few 
minutes late.  There are some magazines in the waiting room.  Or if you want 
to stretch out, I think we've got an empty trolley somewhere."  She walked 
over to one of the corpses and unzipped the bag, peering inside with a 
critical eye.  "This one should be free in a minute--he won't be needing it."
     "Very funny."  Nick walked past her, shaking his head, but avoided 
looking at the bodies--he'd seen enough of them downstairs.  "You're certainly 
in a good mood."
     "Why shouldn't I be?  Business is booming."
     He turned back when he heard her zip the bag closed and found her 
checking the tag at the head of the bag.  "Well, after last night . . . ."
     Natalie froze, unmoving.  "Last night?"
     There was an edge to her voice, something he couldn't quite place.  Nick 
moved closer to her, trying to get a look at her face, but she was bent over 
the bag, still reading the tag, as if avoiding him.  "You didn't feel that 
hot, remember?"
     "Oh . . . yeah.  But I'm fine now.  Really."  Natalie gave him the 
feeblest of smiles--causing him to wonder whether she really was as recovered 
from her headache as she claimed--then moved to the next trolley.  "I . . . 
shut down shop early, last night.  Like you said.  Didn't even wait for--did 
you ever get the copies of Bartnichak's test?"
     "No."  When she looked up, Nick ducked his head.  "I cut my shift short, 
too.  And tonight I didn't even make it to the station before this call came 
through."
     "Hell of a mess, huh?  Sorry I missed all the fun."  Natalie sighed, then 
moved to the next bag and tag.  She gestured over her shoulder.  "The results 
are on my desk, if you want to take a look at them.  I don't know if you're 
going to like them, though."  
     "Why?"  Nick sat down on the edge of her desk and waded through several 
files, before finding the one with Bartnichak's name on it.  He flipped it 
open and turned immediately to the summary.  "It <wasn't> Jeff's blood in the 
car?"
     "Not even close."  Natalie gave him a supportive smile over her shoulder, 
then turned back to the bagged corpses entrusted to her custody.  "He's AB, 
same as his brother.  The blood's O.  It was a good sample.  Even considering 
the exposure to the elements, I'd say that's a clear-cut negative."
     "Then that's that."  Nick dropped the file onto the desk top.  "It's 
still a missing person, <not> homicide."
     "Schanke will be glad to hear that.  Ed's been driving him nuts."
     "It's not his case any more."  Nick rose from the desk and stood behind 
her.  "The captain's dropped it on me.  Schanke's got this one."
     Natalie looked at him, as he indicated the six trolleys that cluttered 
the room.  "You got stuck with Bartnichak, solo?  What'd you do, set her 
office on fire?"
     He managed a half--smile.  "I told you, I cut out early last night, 
against orders.  But it was for a reason."  Reaching into his pocket, he 
pulled out the note Janette had received.
     Natalie watched his actions, her eyes narrowing.  Her hands weren't 
gloved--she hadn't begun any serious work yet--but she took the plastic bag 
from him carefully, out of habit.  "What's this?"
     "My reason.  Janette was attacked in the alley behind the Raven last 
night.  She's fine," he added quickly, as Natalie looked up, eyes wide in 
alarm.  Taking a step closer, he gestured toward the envelope.  "I'd been 
told--I'd been told there might be something wrong, so I dropped by the club, 
to see her.  I was there when this arrived, but she brushed it off.  On my way 
out, I heard her scream.  They ran off when I faced them down."
     The words on the paper were visible through the plastic.  "I know?" read 
Natalie.
     "Janette's being hunted."
     He expected her to look up, to react.  But Natalie simply stared at the 
note in the plastic bag.  "You're sure?"
     "Seven mortals, with a garlic-soaked net and a crucifix locking her car 
steering wheel so she couldn't drive away?"  Nick's laugh was short and harsh.  
"I think that's a pretty good indication."
     "Garlic?" whispered Natalie.  She still hadn't looked up from the bag.  
"But . . . are you sure that she's being hunted by mortals?  It's not any of 
the others?  The . . . the Enforcers?"
     That's when she looked up.  And he saw the fear in her eyes.
     Nick took a step closer to her, placing his hand on her shoulder to 
reassure her.  "Mortals," he repeated firmly.  "In fact, the gang's all here."
     Natalie did a double-take, her gaze moving from his, to the body bags, 
and back again.  "<They> attacked Janette?"
     "And one of them shot the others."  Releasing her arm, he walked the 
length of one of the trolleys, his eyes on the lumpy, lifeless shape inside 
the bag.  "I have my suspicions.  I'll take care of it."
     "Your way?"
     There was a note of disapproval in her voice.  But he closed his eyes, 
unable to face her, or to look any longer on the mortal remains, who'd been 
nothing more than pawns.  "Yes."  Then he straightened.  "But I told Captain 
Cohen what I could about the attack--it kept me from getting suspended."  Nick 
glanced at her over his shoulder, then turned to face her as her eyes widened 
in surprise.  "I had a busy night last night."
     "You weren't the only one."  Natalie fixed her gaze on the note in her 
hands again.  "You told Cohen--what?"
     "That I recognized the victims as my friend's assailants.  That Janette--
no names," he added quickly, "wasn't likely to sign a complaint or report the 
incident.  She took me off the case.  At least this time I'm not a suspect."
     "Heaven only knows why."  Natalie bit down on her lip for a moment.  
"You--you didn't know this was going to happen, did you?"
     For a moment, he was too stunned to answer her.  But before he could get 
a word out, she looked up quickly, as if suddenly realizing what she'd said.  
"Nick--I'm sorry.  I didn't mean that the way it sounded.  I don't think you 
had anything to do with . . . this."
     A wave of her hand toward the body bags encompassed the carnage at the 
crime scene.  Nick forced a smile, to let her know that he understood, 
although the fact that she'd even said the words tore at some place inside 
him.  "Like I said, I'll handle it.  In the meantime, could you have forensics 
run that through for me, see if they can pick up any prints or fibers."
     "But you've got--I mean, they're all dead.  Aren't they?"
     There was still that hesitation in her voice.  And there was a shadow 
behind her eyes when she looked at him.  "They're street punks, gang members . 
. . they didn't come up with that net on their own.  Somebody else planned 
this.  And as long as he's free, Janette's not safe.  Nat, is--is something 
wrong?  Are you okay?"
     He'd taken a step forward, but she moved away, back to her desk.  "I'm 
fine," she repeated, her attention on the note as she pulled out an evidence 
envelope and started to write something on the exterior.  "Just . . . probably 
still a little out of it.  From the headache.  Where's Janette now?  Is she 
safe?"
     That's when she looked up at him.  And Nick took a guess at naming that 
shadow behind Natalie's eyes, the odd tone of her voice--jealousy, perhaps?  
He'd thought twice about telling her that Janette was staying with him.  Of 
course, it was only for Janette's protection, but Natalie knew enough of his 
past relationship with Janette to at least wonder if something more might be 
going on.
     "She's at my place."  He raised a hand to his neck, as if massaging out a 
stiff muscle.  "Which is one of the reasons I want this solved and soon--the 
next couch I buy'll be a sleeper."
     Natalie smiled at that--it didn't entirely dispel that awkwardness 
between them, but it seemed to help.  Maybe she was right, maybe she was just 
still under the weather.  She hadn't looked well last night and then, tonight, 
business was booming, like she'd said . . . .  "Are you sure you're all 
right?," he asked, unconvinced.
     "Fine."  This time, he was almost convinced by the lightness in her tone 
of voice.  She waved the evidence envelope at him, promising, "I'll get 
something back to you on this as soon as I can.  Probably later this morning.  
I'll drop it by the loft, if I get a chance."
     "Okay.  That would be great.  Thanks."
     "How'd things go at the pet shop?"
     It was his turn to freeze.  Nick held his smile in place, realizing just 
a second too late that she wasn't asking about his trip to the pet shop 
tonight, to purchase his third fish.  "Fine."
     Unfortunately, she'd caught his hesitation.  "You got everything on the 
list?" she asked suspiciously.
     "Even read the book.  Cover to cover."
     Natalie's eyes narrowed.  "Don't tell me you didn't buy the two-gallon 
bowl?"
     "Okay, so I won't tell you."  When she threw up her hands in despair, he 
added, "Only the five gallon.  No tank or anything.  Have a heart, Nat, the 
fish has got to have room to swim, right?  And have you <looked> at one of 
those two gallon bowls?"
     Natalie shook her head, but at least she was smiling.  "You do realize 
that goldfish growth matches their environment?  Nick, that's going to be a 
big fish."
     "I can afford to feed it.  Maybe I'll get him a friend.  Her a friend.  
Whatever."  He shrugged, then leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead.  
"Bye, Nat.  Thanks."
     Nick wasn't certain if it was his imagination--had she flinched when he'd 
kissed her?  He was almost tempted to try it again, just to make sure . . . 
but Nat rose from the desk and was pushing him toward the office door.  "Go.  
Before Cohen decides to suspend you for hanging out over here."
     "You wish!" he countered, over his shoulder.  
     Then he was out the door.  He gave Grace a quick hello and a wave before 
heading to the parking lot, where the Caddy--and fish number three--waited.  
But his steps slowed as he recognized a familiar voice in his mind.
     Not the car again--that would be too obvious.  So he walked out of the 
building and down the street for a block, letting LaCroix know that he 
wouldn't wait for long.
     "Not very polite, Nicholas.  The least you can do is give me a hearing 
before condemning what I did."
     In less than a mortal heartbeat, LaCroix had appeared beside him, 
matching his stride.  Nick stared straight ahead, kept walking, fighting to 
keep his anger under control.  "You admit that you killed them?"
     "Killed them?"  There was such incredulity in his voice that Nick turned 
to face him.  LaCroix merely shrugged.  "I may have made a suggestion to one 
of them--but there's no blood on my hands."  Then his eyes hardened.  "They 
had to be dealt with, you know the Code.  It's bad policy to let them get away 
with something like that.  What would you have done, put them in jail?"
     Nick shoved his fists in his pockets and continued walking.  "At least 
there's one left--"
     "Not by now."
     He stopped again, hearing those words, and glared at LaCroix.  "You told 
him to commit suicide?"
     "Of course.  I wasn't going in there myself."  LaCroix clicked his tongue 
lightly against his teeth in a disappointed manner.  "You know the Code, 
Nicholas.  <None> shall be spared."
     "Too soon," he hissed, beneath his breath as he turned away.  "You moved 
too quickly."
     "And you moved too slowly.  Or is Janette proving to be too much of a 
distraction?"
     In the instant that would have fallen between mortal heartbeats, he 
grabbed a handful of LaCroix's leather coat and threw him back against the 
wall of the building, pinning him there.  "You told me this was in <my> hands.  
You said <I> should handle it."
     "And what have you done?"  LaCroix didn't bother to shake him off, just 
stared at him with an imperious gaze.  "Nothing!  Janette would have been 
fine, you could have chased them, caught them.  You weren't <thinking>."
     "You were there?"
     LaCroix didn't seem to hear the edge in his voice, or feel Nick's grip on 
his jacket tighten.  "Of <course> I was there.  How am I supposed to trust you 
to keep on eye on things, when you've bungled this so badly?  I followed them 
while you carried our little Janette to safety.  You play the hero well, 
Nicholas, but you've got a lot to learn about turning your back to the enemy."
     Nick loosened his grip and turned away, LaCroix's words carrying some 
small and stinging amount of truth to them.  "Where did they go?"
     "They scattered.  I followed one until near dawn--there's a youth club 
they frequented.  They were all there tonight."
     "All except the one who was giving the orders."  He glared at LaCroix 
again, over his shoulder.  "They never would have come up with those weapons 
on their own.  Someone sent them after Janette.  Until we find him, she's 
still in danger."
     "And you still have a roommate?  No wonder you're taking your time."
     He brushed aside the taunt easily.  "I may have a lead.  I'll know by 
tomorrow."
     "A . . . lead?"  LaCroix arched an eyebrow and fell into step beside him, 
following him back down the street.  "Don't tell me you've made this a police 
matter?"
     "<You> made it a police matter!" he countered, pointing at LaCroix.  "I'm 
just taking advantage of my situation, of the resources I've been given.  As 
far as anyone's concerned, it was an alleged assault, with a victim who 
refuses to come forward and swear a complaint.  But those bodies--and now a 
suicide in custody--have turned it into a priority case."
     LaCroix's expression was carefully blank, although he seemed just on the 
edge of smiling.  "It seems I've complicated matters for you."
     "You <have>."
     "That wasn't my intention."  He caught Nick's arm, stopping him.  
"Believe what you will," he said seriously, "but I <do> want Janette 
protected.  And never forget, while you're playing among mortals, that our law 
comes first."  When Nick met his eyes, nodding reluctantly, LaCroix asked, 
"What would you have done, when you'd caught them?"
     "Made them forget.  Given them a suggestion to get out of Toronto."
     "The Enforcers would have tracked them down, no matter where'd they fled, 
and killed them. Then they would have come after Janette, for being careless.  
And you, for not following the Code and taking care of it when you had the 
chance."
     "The Enforcers wouldn't have known--"
     "The Enforcers <always> know."  LaCroix gave him an icy smile.  "I think 
you put too much faith in Janette's friends at the club.  They may like you.  
A few of them might even fear you.  But they're terrified of the Enforcers.  
And there are a few who would turn you in just because it might break up a 
dull evening."  His smile flattened into a stern frown.  "Follow the Code."
     "We can't kill <everyone>," said Nick flatly.
     "We <can>.  If we have to."  LaCroix shook his head in annoyance, his 
eyes hard and unforgiving.  "Do what you must, Nicholas.  If you don't have 
the stomach for it, I do."
     He backed away from LaCroix, fists clenched at his side.  Then Nick 
turned and headed toward the parked Caddy at a fast walk, his steps fueled by 
frustration and anger.  LaCroix had taken away his witnesses--there would have 
been at least one among them who would have known something, said something.  
It was LaCroix's fault that the hunter was still free and would stay free 
unless Natalie turned up something on that note.  LaCroix was to blame.
     And yet LaCroix made him feel as if <he'd> somehow failed, as if it had 
been his own fault.  Yes, Janette might have been fine if he'd chased them 
down last night.  But who knew how many more attackers could have been there, 
lying in wait?  There could have been weapons hidden--
     Reaching the Caddy, Nick leaned against it and slammed his fist down 
against the roof.  LaCroix was right--he'd made a mistake.  He should have 
gone after the gang members.  If he had, they might still be alive.  He might 
have found the hunter by now.  But he'd begun to think like a mortal.
     Or, rather, like a cop.  The priority at a scene was to assure the safety 
of the victim or any innocent bystanders--that was procedure.  Even then, he 
could have left Janette with the bouncer, or Alma, taken to the air and 
followed the suspects.  Had the victim been anyone else, any other vampire, he 
might have done just that.  But it <hadn't> been anyone else.
     It had been Janette.
     Nick turned, leaning his back against the driver's window of the Caddy 
and looked toward the sidewalk.  LaCroix was gone, but the memory of his words 
still lingered--the taunts, the teasing about Janette being his 'roommate.'  
LaCroix knew that there was nothing between them any longer, that Janette and 
he were no longer intimate and had ceased to be that close some time ago.  
Yes, they were still friends.  If anything, LaCroix's return had drawn them 
closer again, reopening old wounds and bringing old memories to the surface.  
There had been that one moment in the shower, then another, when she'd asked 
for a good-night kiss . . . .
     Shaking his head to dispel the memory, Nick opened the car door and sat 
behind the wheel.  Any good cop knew enough to stay away from cases in which 
he had a personal involvement--emotions clouded judgment and you couldn't help 
but make mistakes.  Making mistakes meant that someone might get killed.  This 
time, that someone might be Janette.
     But he'd done the best that he could--there was no way he could make this 
case more 'official.'  Nor was there anyone else, mortal or vampire, that he 
could or would trust to handle it.  It was up to him to find the hunter before 
the hunter found Janette . . . or LaCroix had the opportunity to kill any more 
hirelings.
     That's when his call number sounded over the radio.  As Nick reached for 
the receiver he knew, in some cold, still place inside of him, the LaCroix's 
latest victim had just been discovered.


CHAPTER 10  
          
     With a grunt, Janette shoved aside the various shirts hanging in Nicola's 
closet--most of which were still wrapped in dry-cleaning plastic--then began 
to hang up the dresses Alma had brought for her.  She tried not to think about 
having given the little minx the opportunity of going through her wardrobe.  
But one of the better aspects of vampire memory was that she'd know instantly 
if anything had been moved or removed.  And woe be it to Alma if she'd decided 
to try on any of Janette's clothes while she was in exile.  So she sorted the 
frocks to size and style, then resorted them again by material.
     It was something to do, however boring.  Not that she hadn't tried to 
exhaust many of the loft's charms.  Her fondness for movies had waned several 
decades ago; she'd never found them as entertaining as Nicola did, which she 
guessed from the size and variety of his video collection.  Reality had always 
been far more fascinating and unpredictable for her.
     She'd found the same problem with his choice of reading matter--mostly 
history and archaeology, which she'd found deadly dull.  After having lived 
through a period, why bother reading lies about it, written by people who 
hadn't even <been> there.  Now <she> could tell a few tales about Josephine 
and Napoleon . . . .
     The blood Alma had brought with her had been some relief, although she'd 
stuck to the straight stuff and not mixed it with wine as she preferred.  The 
serious nature of the attack in the alley seemed to fade with each passing 
hour, but the memory still made her shiver enough to want to keep her wits 
about her.  Although thinking about what Nicola might doif he came home from 
work and found her three sheets to the wind in the middle of his living room 
kept Janette entertained for at least a half hour.
     She was bored.  She almost wished Nicola's goldfish had survived, it 
would have been something to torment.  She didn't feel like listening to 
music, nor was she up to listening to LaCroix's eclectic and occasionally 
amusing radio program--he could be charming at times, but his wit was wasted 
on his mortal listeners.  What was most disturbing, he always seemed to know 
just when she'd tuned in and made a point of dedicating something to her.  
Perhaps it was due to that connection between them, which had grown stronger 
now that he'd re-entered Nicola's life.  Sometimes his dedications were meant 
as an annoyance, sometimes whimsy, and yet there were times when he played 
pieces that couldn't help but bring to mind memories of the centuries they'd 
spent in one another's company.
     LaCroix often treated her as an afterthought, a forgotten piece of the 
past that he'd occasionally remember and that she should consider even that 
passing consideration an honor.  Why she should even care eluded her.  She did 
as he asked, behaved herself--more or less--and didn't disgrace or embarrass 
him, managing even to amuse him upon occasion.  There were times when she very 
much appreciated the fact that he left her alone, to pursue her own interests.  
And there were other times, like now, when she wondered why he hadn't bothered 
to come to her defense.  Nicola said he'd spoken to LaCroix--had he appointed 
Nicola her guardian?  Did he really think that Nicola--sweet as he was--could 
be trusted to keep her safe?
     The sound of the velvet tearing in her hands brought her back to herself.  
Janette looked down at what was left of the black dress she'd shredded during 
her musings.  Then, with a sigh, she tossed it over her shoulder knowing that 
she wouldn't need it.  She'd had Alma bring ten, that should be enough for a 
day or two.  If she had to stay here beyond that--
     Turning, Janette eyed the interior of Nicola's walk-in closet with a 
predatory air.  Nicola would simply have to move some of his things out of the 
way and that was that.  Although, if she <did> have to stay in this dreary 
place too much longer, she was certain she'd go mad.  Maybe she could 
accompany Nicola when he went to work?  It was bound to be boring, but less 
conducive to mind-numbing ennui as flitting about in this vast, half-finished 
aerie which he'd chosen to inhabit.  Of course, his partner would probably be 
there . . . she'd had more than enough of him when Nicola had asked her to 
protect him by letting him hide out in the Raven.  And what a disaster <that> 
had almost been!
     Janette pushed the shirts together, trying to squeeze a little more room 
for her precious ensembles.  And just as she'd managed to eke out another inch 
or two, the bolt gave way from the wall.  Shirts, dresses, suits, and all 
sorts of things began to rain down upon her, as she grabbed onto the clothing 
rack for purchase and slipped on a pair of Nicola's loafers.  With a shriek, 
she tried to scramble out from under, but the dry cleaning plastic made the 
floor slippery going.  By the time she'd crawled and burrowed her way to the 
wall, the clothes were all rumpled, hangers meshed into something resembling a 
magician's ring trick.
     "Oh," she managed, as she settled her back against the wall and looked in 
dismay at the mess that surrounded her.  Wouldn't Nicola be angry?  But then, 
what did she care?  She was a guest--a prisoner, really--and he had to make 
allowances for such events.  He'd never thought to keep sufficient closet 
space free for her things.  Even when they'd traveled together, sharing 
quarters, he'd always protested loudly when she'd had to place her spare 
dresses and linens in his closets or chests . . . which occasionally had meant 
a few of his suits might be left on the docks, but if he was so concerned 
about the poor and downtrodden, he shouldn't begrudge them a little free 
clothing.
     Leaning back against the wall, Janette stretched out her legs and kicked 
off her shoes, squelching her toes amidst the plastic and silk and cotton and 
velvet.  Such lovely memories!  Of course, she'd never have taken such 
liberties with LaCroix's wardrobe--she wasn't a fool, after all.
     The thought sobered her and she found herself frowning.  Janette picked 
up one of her dresses and let it rest across her lap, caressing the soft silk 
gently, before it became too wrinkled.  It was black, with gold embroidery 
along the neck.  The dress had no shoulders, but lovely broken sleeves like 
the fashion . . . oh, so many centuries before.  But it was the black and gold 
that caught her attention.  And she realized then why she'd taken such pains 
to amuse herself, to keep herself occupied.
     Their perfect memory of times and places long past was handy upon 
occasion.  Though she would have liked to remember only the pleasant moments--
pleasant for <her>, at the very least--Janette knew that once a memory was 
brought to mind, she'd be forced to see it through, to relive with terrifying 
clarity all that was said and done and felt.  When Dorian had arrived to 
interview Nicola not so many months before, a good part of her fear had been 
that she'd remember everything that had happened during her past encounters 
with Dorian, especially that first when he'd interviewed LaCroix.  It had been 
hard enough to dredge up the few details that Nicola demanded of her.
     Placing her fingers to her temples, Janette closed her eyes, trying to 
focus on something--<anything> else.  But it was no use.  Surrounded by so 
much black cloth and with the gold embroidery close to hand, she couldn't help 
but remember how the gold and silver threads of his tunic had glittered in the 
candlelight . . . .


     Janette kept her attention on the embroidery of his sleeve, the edges of 
it peeking out from just beneath where she rested her arm atop his.  She 
didn't dare his glance again, the intensity of that dark, red gaze having 
chilled her.  Knowing her place, she let him attend her as any noble host 
would treat a noble guest.  
     Dorian was courteous still, although she felt it was more a veneer than 
anything.  She kept her eyes downcast as he led her into an adjoining chamber; 
he bowed slightly and held the curtain as he stepped aside to let her enter.
     There were no windows in the room, although she felt the breeze pass 
through and saw the hangings of a beautifully appointed bed shiver lightly 
with the breath of fresh air.  She didn't much believe in magic and LaCroix 
had instructed her in the ways of miraculous engines, so she decided that this 
mystery, too, must have an answer.  But it could wait until later.
     Feeling Dorian's eyes upon her, Janette made her way to a cushioned chair 
and seated herself.  There was a table beside it which held a gaming board and 
a few scrolls.
     "I hope you approve of your quarters," said Dorian, again giving her a 
stately, if possibly sarcastically exaggerated bow.  "I've provided amusements 
for you."  He nodded toward a credenza, and a serious of chests.  "Some 
jewelry, embroidery, musical instruments . . . if you desire something, ask 
one of the Enforcers.  Someone will bring it for you."
     Janette clasped her hands in her lap, finally daring to meet his gaze.  
"You're most kind," she answered properly and with respect.  "I'd like to 
inspect LaCroix's quarters--he's very particular."
     "He's being seen to, even now."
     She didn't much like the sharp smile that played around the edges of his 
lips.  "I'd like to see him."
     "That isn't possible."  Pulling one of the heavy iron chairs forward with 
ease, he sat across from her, and took her hand in his.  Those dark eyes 
stared down at her fingers as he turned her hand over and traced the lines of 
her palm idly.  "LaCroix is my prisoner, for ten sunrises.  During that time, 
you aren't permitted to speak with him."
     "Will I be permitted to speak with you?"
     He looked up at the question, as if startled.  "I--I suppose.  No one's 
ever asked before.  There's nothing in the Code against it."
     "I want to see you each dawn, before you take your rest."
     Dorian looked down at her hand again, just as her fingers closed over 
his.  His eyes narrowed and he looked up suddenly, glaring at her.  "Don't 
think you'll tempt me to release him, witch.  Your wiles have no power over 
me."
     "But you <will> come to see me," pressed Janette.  Even as he rose, 
snatching his hand away from her and stalking toward the door, she managed to 
ask, "Am I your prisoner, too?"
     "No.  A guest."  Leaning his hand against the stone of the doorway, 
Dorian grinned back at her.  "At your master's request."
     "Then I should be treated as a guest.  There will be blood provided--?"
     "Of course."  He nodded, if curtly.  "That's within the Code."
     "And you've provided me with entertainment."  She gestured gracefully 
toward the credenza and the table.  "As well as comfortable shelter.  Surely 
you won't deny me your hospitality, a few kind words?"
     "Kind words?"  Dorian continued to stare at her, as if intrigued.  His 
eyes fixed on hers and he crossed the room quickly, taking the chair opposite 
her as if by feel and belief in the fact that it hadn't been moved, more than 
conscious notice of its location.  "Lady, do you have any idea what's going to 
happen here?  Your master is going to test his will against mine.  I must 
break not only his body, but his will and his mind.  I <must> make him yield 
to me."
     "You won't," said Janette softly.  "He'll break you long before that ever 
happens."
     "And how will he do that, if he's in chains?"
     Janette lowered her gaze, having needed to hear that much--it was what 
she'd gathered.  If that was the way of it . . . .  "You should be warned--
he'll never yield.  He'll torment you with his silence.  You have the work of 
it, to break him.  He has only to resist you.  And in resisting you, he'll 
make you journey to places in yourself that you've never seen before."
     Dorian chuckled, then reached forward and raised the back of her hand to 
his lips.  "I doubt that," he whispered.  "I've found too many dark parts in 
my nature these past centuries.  There's nothing there that can frighten me."
     "Are you certain?"  Janette raised an eyebrow, smiling when she realized 
she'd imitated her master's mannerism.  Gently taking her hand from his 
fingers as her question gave him pause, she leaned back in her chair.  "He'll 
break you, Archivist."
     "How?"
     "He's LaCroix.  That's all the answer you need."
     His brow furrowed and he frowned.  Dorian rose from his chair, his 
departure more in keeping with his nature as host.  "I'd suggest you take your 
rest now, Lady.  The preliminaries will take some time.  When we begin in 
earnest . . . I doubt you'll find much peace."
     "Nor will you."  Still, she raised her hand for him to kiss, as if giving 
him permission to depart.
     Dorian hesitated only a moment, then took her hand.  Instead of pressing 
his lips against her knuckles, he turned her hand palm upward, kissing the 
softer, more sensitive skin lightly.  "Remember my offer, Lady.  Good day."
     "Good day."  She remained composed until he left.  Only then did Janette 
rise from her chair, freeing her cloak and tossing it aside without a second 
glance.  Rest?  How could he expect her to rest?  Despite her brave front, she 
was terrified at the thought of what could be done to LaCroix within the 
strictures of the Code.  How could anyone--even LaCroix--endure so much?  And 
for ten sunrises?
     Walking to the bed, Janette seated herself on it and touched her fingers 
to her lips.  Absently, she chewed on her fingernail.  She'd thought to 
undermine Dorian's confidence.  And if Dorian kept his promise and visited her 
as she'd asked, she'd do all that she could to continue to gnaw at his will, 
his arrogant self-assuredness.  She'd felt LaCroix's thoughts in her mind, 
echoed his words--they seemed to have disturbed the Archivist.
     But those words had gone away.  And, try as she might, she couldn't get 
LaCroix to answer her.  So she stretched full length upon the bed and stared 
up at the roof of the silk canopy, LaCroix's last message to her having echoed 
Dorian's words--to rest now, while she could.
     When Janette opened her eyes, she realized that she'd fallen asleep.  
Yawning and stretching like a cat, she knew that the sun had set in the world 
beyond her stone prison.  Water had been left for her, as well as a screen for 
dressing and changing.  The gown that had been provided was far from elegant, 
but her own had grown so road-soiled from being dragged across the countryside 
night after night by LaCroix that she saw it as a step upward.
     Having no one to dress her proved bothersome, but she managed on her own, 
tying laces with expert fingers, then choosing from amongst the riches Dorian 
had left for her amusement.  She managed to entertain herself for some time 
with those trinkets, combining them, pulling her hair up over this gold 
circlet or that.  She felt almost decadent.  And, because she'd fed so late, 
her hunger--which was monumental even by LaCroix's standards--was nothing more 
than a vague irritation.
     Janette wasn't certain when she'd first consciously heard the voice.  It 
had been going on for some time, now a whisper, now in conversational tones.  
Perhaps it was the first shout that alerted her, but even that was followed by 
more whispers.
     She rose to her feet and padded to the doorway.  As she parted the 
curtain, another hand took it from her and she stepped back into her chamber 
quickly.  The Enforcer, still wearing light armor, simply stared at her.  When 
she made no comment or request, he ducked back beneath the curtain.
     So, she had a guard.  Very well.  But the voice--where was Dorian's voice 
coming from?  Certainly, her hearing was well beyond that of mortals--she 
could stand in a marketplace, hearing the chatter and clatter of a throng 
around her, and still pinpoint one voice or conversation with absolute 
accuracy.  There was some of that to the voice she heard.  But there was also 
a tone to it, as if she were present in the room with him.
     That's when she remembered the breezes that came and went at intervals.  
It was only a matter of moments to scan the room, find the cold spots high in 
the walls.  Hovering near the ceiling, she found tiny holes had been drilled 
through the stone, large enough so she could insert her finger in them.  They 
were long and deep, she saw no light or outlet at the other end.  But the air 
and breeze came through there, as did the voice.
     For it <was> only one voice--Dorian.  If LaCroix answered, it would mean 
his destruction.  And so he remained silent while Dorian questioned him.
     The questions, for she heard them clearly, were not difficult or even 
interesting.  In fact, they were repetitive--What is your name?  Who is your 
master?  Will you yield?  The litany was repeated over and again, sometimes in 
whispers, sometimes in shouts, the inflection and force of the voice having no 
rhyme or reason over time.
     Having heard the questions more than a hundred times, Janette began to 
find them annoying.  She walked over to the credenza and picked up a small 
wooden flute, playing a random tune on it to drown out the noises.  But still 
they came.  And she found herself accenting syllables with the instrument, 
making a guessing game out of whether it would next be high or low, loud or 
soft, short or long.
     That grew tiresome.  And, after an hour, even the jingle of the trinkets 
failed to amuse her, precious stones and priceless jewelry doing little to 
combat the dull throb in her brain, caused by those questions.  "Leave off," 
she hissed softly.
     But Dorian still talked.  As the night wore on there were brief pauses--
she guessed that he drank to clear his throat.  Whether LaCroix was fed she 
did not know nor could she guess, she was not clear on many matters of the 
Code and what LaCroix had told her she'd augmented with gossip from other 
vampires or groups of vampires they'd encountered on their travels.  He could 
be patient when he wished, but it was an effort on his part and not of his 
nature, so she knew Dorian's verbal assault would be driving him to 
distraction.
     Another hour, and yet another passed.  By then Janette had begun to pace 
the chamber.  If she'd thought it pleasant and spacious at sunrise, she now 
found it too confining.  The elegant hangings, upon close inspection, were 
threadbare in spots.  There was fault in everything--not hidden as it should 
be, but almost glaringly obvious in its placement.  The dressing screen was an 
affront to her, the strange Persian scenes of men seated on cushions and 
smoking oddly shaped pipes began to annoy her.
     And still, the questions continued.
     It was while she was shredding the screen that an Enforcer entered, 
pushing aside the curtain and stepping into the chamber.  He raised an eyebrow 
at her industry, as she carefully unwove the colored strands that formed the 
screen, but made no comment or response to her glare.  Instead, he reached 
into the room beyond and pulled forward a young woman, holding her upright by 
the back neck of her dress.
     Her eyes had been covered with a cotton cloth and her hands were bound 
before here.  She was weeping aloud, pleading for help, or mercy, or to God in 
a language Janette didn't readily recognize.
     Janette's mouth watered at the scent of fear and her hunger, which had 
remained quiescent due to the weight of her boredom and her irritation at the 
continual voice in the background, suddenly sprang to life.  There were no 
preliminaries, no pretense at grace--she walked to the woman, lifted her to 
her feet and savagely tilted her head to one side.  Then Janette sank her 
teeth into the woman's neck and drank deeply and fiercely, barely savoring the 
tang of fear and the last feeble beats of the heart before there was no more 
to be had.
     She paused then, with her teeth still in the woman's throat, and realized 
how foolish she'd been.  If she'd taken her time, she could have played with 
this one--spoken with her, calmed her fears, terrorized her . . . there were 
so many games they might have played.  She'd robbed herself of entertainment 
and a diversion from those tiresome, unceasing questions!
     Janette threw the woman's body to the floor angrily.  The Enforcer, who'd 
never moved while she'd fed, picked up the body and then disappeared to the 
other side of the curtain.
     She'd hoped that having fed would help her endure the sameness, the 
throbbing annoyance caused by Dorian's questioning.  Instead, it made her even 
more aware.  She could distinguish differences in pronunciation, when he might 
have spit when he spoke or when his mouth grew dry and it was time for him to 
drink again.  Rather than diverting, it proved to be maddening.  
     Again, she paced.  When the flute failed her, she threw it to the floor 
and smashed it against the stone with the soft heel of her slipper--a 
difficult task, but possible when enough height and force was applied.  But 
the voice continued, echoing in her brain, until she wished that she could 
answer the questions for LaCroix.  His name, she knew.  She'd never thought of 
who his master might have been and he'd never said.  And as far as yielding--
     He'd never yield.  Although she was more than ready to yield on his 
behalf.
     Janette ended up on the bed, pillows held against both ears to drown out 
as much of the noise as she could.  She'd begun murmuring the answers to 
herself, countering the litany of questions with her own, bizarre novena.  And 
it was not too much later that she knew two things with sudden certainty--
     The sun was about to rise.  And the questions had ceased.
     She dropped the pillows from her just as the curtain at the doorway was 
pushed back again.  Janette rose from the bed and ran her hand down her 
disheveled gown--she'd undone or torn some of the laces in her frenzy.
     But Dorian didn't notice.  He glanced over at her, eyes half-closed, then 
fell wearily onto the cushions on one of the iron chairs.  "Your pardon, 
Lady," he said, his voice little more than a broken whisper.  "I'm too weary . 
. . for formalities."
     "You'll never break him."  Janette moved to stand behind him.  He 
flinched as she touched his shoulders, easing slightly as she rubbed along the 
length of the muscles, feeling the tension in them.  His dark curls, which 
hung almost to the collar of his tunic, were damp with sweat.  She twisted his 
hair in her hand and leaned close to his ear, whispering, "You can't win.  
Give it up.  He'll never yield.  LaCroix will break you."
     He pulled away roughly, rising from his seat with such force that he left 
at least a lock of his hair in her hand.  "Witch!" he hissed, backing away 
from her.  "He'll yield.  And for your own sake, you'd best hope he yields 
quickly!"
     Before she could say more, he hurried out the doorway, the cloth hanging 
flapping in the breeze caused by his departure.  Janette looked down at the 
lock of hair in her hand and, for a moment, wished she was a witch as he 
claimed--she'd be able to stop him with some powerful spells if she threw this 
into the mix.  But then, she wasn't much convinced that such things worked.
     Tucking the lock of hair beneath the game board for safe keeping, she 
wandered back to the bed and threw herself across it.  There was no word from 
LaCroix, but she had the impression that he, too, was resting while he had the 
chance.  So she closed her eyes and sighed, knowing that it was only the 
second sunrise.  There were eight more sunrises to go.
     And eight very long nights . . . .


     Janette hugged her arms to herself and shivered, forcing herself back to 
the present.  It couldn't continue, it <mustn't>.  Yes, that first night had 
been bad, but when compared with the others . . . .
     She swallowed, then placed her hands against the wall and struggled to 
her feet.  There were things to do--clean up this mess for a start.  Alma had 
dropped by some ready cash with the dresses and Janette guessed that the money 
she had on hand would be enough to compensate any repairman for such a late 
night call.  She'd feed well first, of course, to keep from getting peckish.  
But if he were young enough or handsome enough--?
     Shaking her head, she drove the thought from her mind and made her way 
through the piles of wrinkled clothing.  Bruno's report on last night's 
receipts had been encouraging--she had few qualms about leaving the bar in his 
hands.  From his comments, she gathered the Enforcers hadn't been around--they 
were <so> noticeable.  Then again, by the time you got around to noticing they 
were there, it was usually too late to do anything about it.
     It did lead her to a few conclusions--that they'd either beaten Dorian to 
a bloody pulp as a warning and were done with him or they hadn't tracked him 
to the Raven.  Either of which was fine with her.  The less she had to do with 
Dorian, the better.
     Janette headed out of the bedroom and to the stairs.  Making a bee-line 
for the refrigerator, she grabbed a bottle of blood--the <real> thing--then 
headed for the phone.  A brief review of her memory yielded the number of a 
rather stunning carpenter's apprentice who didn't mind high pay for a little 
late night--or early morning--work.  He'd prove a distraction, anyway.  As 
Janette dialed, she decided that it was almost a pity that Nicola would be 
coming home from work in a few hours.  
     Then again, an hour could seem a <very> long time.


CHAPTER 11
         
     Natalie wearily trudged up the steps to her apartment and tried not to 
wince at the sight of those blood, etc. stains on the carpeting.  With a sigh, 
she hefted the brown shopping bag in her arms and consoled herself with the 
thought that at least the carpeting would be gone in a few days.  Although Mr. 
Giegle would probably install something equally as annoying as the stains--
something in a salmon color, maybe.  She still had a sneaking suspicion that 
he was the one who'd painted the one wall in her apartment that flaming orange 
color for the previous tenant.  She'd always meant to repaint it when she'd 
moved in, but had never gotten the time.  Work seemed to swallow up most of 
her free time.
     Like tonight.  Hesitating at the top of the landing, she sighed again.  
Who would have guessed that the suspect in the gang slayings would commit 
suicide?  So instead of six bodies she had seven, and half a dozen different 
criminal units wanted confirmation of prints and IDs, or immediate drug use or 
trace test results.  Of course, she wasn't the only ME on duty tonight, but 
she still had two more bodies to finish before she was done, and that was 
<after> completing the autopsies on two of the gang members.  The paperwork 
alone would take hours to complete.
     But there were other things on her mind.  And as Natalie fished in her 
coat pocket for the keys to her front door, she decided she didn't really feel 
all that guilty for having taken an extended dinner break to check on her 
house guest.
     Before she'd even located the keys, she heard the locks click off.  
Dorian opened the door, stepping to one side, but reaching forward to take the 
grocery bag from her hands.  "Natalie?  I didn't expect you for another half 
hour."
     "Pit stop, only," she admitted, kicking off her heels the instant she was 
inside the door and all to happy to let him take the bag.  "You really should 
check to see who it is before you open the door.  It's a nice enough 
neighborhood, but you never know--"  Then she glanced back over her shoulder, 
catching Dorian's very polite, but disbelieving look, and suddenly realized 
that the average push-in burglar would be no match for any vampire.  "Oh, skip 
it!  But . . . it could have been the Enforcers.  You shouldn't take chances."
     "Enforcers wouldn't have bothered looking for keys--they would have taken 
the door off its hinges and worried about formalities later."  Dorian set the 
bag down on a table just inside the door.  "Does this mean your shift isn't 
over?"
     "We had a multiple homicide.  And then the suspect suicided in custody."  
She tossed her purse onto a cushion and leaned against the arm of the couch.  
Lifting her foot, she massaged her arch--one of the bad things about her job 
was that she could never tell when she'd be working on her feet for prolonged 
stretches.  "That means everybody wants to know everything . . . <now>."
     "Sounds very stressful."  
     "No more so than your average F-16 bombing mission."  Natalie shook her 
head slightly, then bit back a smile as she looked at him.
     Dorian seemed suddenly wary.  "What?  Is something wrong?"
     "No.  It's just that the only person who ever hears about my work is 
Sidney.  And he doesn't answer back."
     "I should hope not."  Dorian nodded toward the other side of the room.  
"Relax for a moment.  Sit down.  I hope you haven't eaten yet--I've made you 
something."
     That was a lot to digest all at once.  The thought of Dorian having made 
her a meal once again brought to mind that really dreadful sandwich with which 
he'd tried to please her.  But he'd done well enough with the coffee and toast 
this afternoon.  
     Natalie wasn't used to coming home and having someone making sympathetic 
noises when she complained about her day.  Or having someone tell her to 
relax.  There were certain advantages to having a thoughtful vampire--or 
someone who just happened to be a night person and thrived on odd schedules--
as a house guest.
     If she'd had any reservations about the food, the table setting put it 
right out of her mind.  Natalie gaped in astonishment as she crossed the room, 
staring at the matching china and silverware--none of which was hers--the 
linen napkins and the tablecloth--ditto---and the crystal candle holders and 
beeswax candles--which Dorian was in the process of lighting.
     He hesitated again as he stepped quickly back from the candleflames, 
watching her reaction.  "It's all right, isn't it?  I didn't want to presume, 
but I thought this might repay something of what I owe you."
     Somehow, she managed to shut her mouth.  As she approached the table, he 
moved to stand behind a chair and held it out for her.
     This time, Natalie let him do the proper 'gentlemanly' thing and seat her 
at the table.  "This is <very> impressive," she managed, looking out over the 
table.  She knew just enough of 'proper' dining etiquette to get by and though 
he hadn't bothered with anything as esoteric as fish forks or any of that 
nonsense, the salad forks, desserts spoons, and even bread knives were all in 
the proper place.  "Where did you--?"  
     It took her a moment to realize that he wasn't there.  She'd half-risen 
from her chair before she saw him exiting the kitchen, a plate balanced on 
either hand.  Natalie sat down just as he placed a dinner plate in front of 
her, and a salad just out of the way.
     "I suppose you'll be in a hurry to get back.  The rolls aren't done yet, 
I'm afraid--they'll take another few minutes."
     She stared up at him in wonder, then down at the plate.  There was half a 
chicken on her plate, swimming in some sort of light, clear sauce, barely 
touching a mixture of glazed carrots, baby peas, and pearl onions.  The salad 
was a combination of lettuces, with cucumbers, and slivers of carrots, onions, 
and what looked to be cheese.  "Dorian--who taught you how to do this?"
     "The chicken rosemary I picked up from a Chef Francois Deberet when he 
was at the Savoy," he announced proudly.  "It took quite a bit of effort to 
convince him to part with the recipe <and> to show me how it was prepared."
     "The Savoy, huh?"  Natalie picked up her napkin--it was folded into a fan 
shape--and spread it out, placing it in her lap.  "Where is he now?"
     "Who knows?  You know how chefs are--ego is everything.  They'll die 
before they'll reveal their secrets."
     She swallowed, looking up at him, suddenly wondering just what it had 
taken to 'convince' the chef to part with his secret recipe.  "He's dead?"
     "Dead?"  Dorian seemed aghast at the notion, taking the seat across from 
her.  "I should hope not!  The last I heard, he was holed up in some little 
kitchen in the West End, coming up with a new signature dish.  Whatever would 
cause you to--?  Oh."  He looked down at the table, unable to meet her eyes.  
"Of course.  You assumed--"
     "I'm sorry," she said quickly, realizing that she'd hurt his feelings.  
Natalie reached across the table and squeezed his hand.  "I've had a hard day.  
I wasn't thinking.  This is all so . . . surprising."  But then the smell from 
the dinner plate reached her and she released his hand, moving toward her fork 
and scooping up a mouthful.
     It was good.  Not only edible, but <good.>  When she looked up at him, 
she found that he was sipping from his coffee cup as if hiding behind it, not 
even making a pretense at eating.  But then, he wouldn't.
     Natalie looked down at the food on the plate.  "I'd imagine it must be 
tough, following a recipe.  Do you taste this or--?"
     The expression of disgust on his face at the thought of even tasting the 
food made her smile.  "Strictly by the book--I watched what he did.  And I 
repeated it.  I'm just very lucky you happen to like chicken.  I haven't 
gotten much beyond that."
     "How many things can you cook?"
     "Four dinners, two lunches, and some minor breakfast foods--nothing too 
elaborate.  I gave those a miss because you'd said--"  Dorian stopped himself 
in mid-sentence and looked down at the table.  "I'll admit to having had a 
moment of panic when I found you didn't have any rosemary.  But your super 
told me about a small grocer around the corner."
     Natalie didn't quite hear his last comment, fork halfway to her mouth as 
she suddenly realized what he'd said.  Dorian had learned to cook--in and of 
itself a pretty miraculous thing.   But he'd learned to cook for <her>.
     The thought warmed a space inside her, because she knew from Nick's 
various failures and vehement refusals just how difficult Dorian must have 
found the entire process of cooking, the worst of it probably having been 
dealing with the raw chicken.  That was countered by a shiver of fear that ran 
through her.  Yes, she was flattered, but she wasn't certain that she wanted 
to know that Dorian was willing to go to such lengths to please her.  And now 
that she <did> know . . . what would she do about it?
     Thankfully, the ever-capable and rational part of her mind leaped into 
the confusion and gave her another point to pursue--"You went <outside>?  To 
the grocery store?"
     "Yes."  He met her challenging gaze with only barest measure of guilt in 
his eyes.  "It wasn't far, after all--"
     "You're <supposed> to be recuperating!  Not to mention the fact that the 
Enforcers are probably still looking for you."
     "You were out of rosemary.  I couldn't finish dinner without it."  Then 
he sighed and gestured toward the bookcase.  "Besides, I told you--you've 
nothing to read.  I don't much like television.  There was a wonderful jazz 
program on the radio earlier but I found the late night chat show . . . 
disturbing."  Rising from the table, he walked over to her bookcase and 
removed a volume, which he presented to her.  "There was a used bookstore near 
the grocer.  He was closing, but I convinced him to let me look.  This was all 
I could find.  There wasn't much of a selection."
     Natalie paused only a moment before taking the book from him.  It was a 
battered paperback, probably a trade-in from the university, with notes 
scribbled on certain pages.  "<The Poetry of John Donne>?"
     "Not complete, I'm afraid.  But a beginning.  And an antidote to your 
grisly medical volumes."
     She opened the book at random and glanced at the page, her eyes skipping 
from word to word quite quickly.  Natalie had never been one for poetry--it 
had been enough to learn what she could to get through her core classes and 
then on to medical school.  Dissecting a desiccated liver had always been more 
interesting than dissecting iambic pentameter.  
     Not that she was <completely> ignorant; she knew who Donne was.  She 
remembered getting most of those test questions correct.  But whether she 
hadn't understood the poetry she'd been assigned at school, or if they'd 
assigned only certain of Donne's poems to protect the moral fiber of her 
students, she couldn't say.  Because she suddenly started making sense out of 
all those pretty words.  "This is <filthy>," she announced, with an astonished 
chuckle.
     "What?"  Dorian wrenched the book from her hands and glared down at the 
page.  "If you mean the commentary someone's written--I apologize.  As I said, 
I didn't get a chance to look through it and . . . ."  But then his frown 
deepened as he read his way down the page.  And with a despairing sigh, he 
closed the book and turned away, a hand covering his eyes.  "I'm sorry--you're 
right.  I wasn't thinking.  <Completely> inappropriate.  I might just as well 
have gotten you a book of dirty limericks for all I--<please> forgive me."
     She rose from her chair and walked toward him.  "No, no, you're not 
getting away with it that easily."  While he was half-turned, his eyes 
covered, Natalie grabbed the book away and held it against her chest.  Aghast, 
Dorian stared at her and she had a feeling that if he could have blushed, he 
would have turned scarlet.  "It's not<that> bad," she said, as he started to 
sputter.  "I remember some Donne from school--it's not <all> like that.  And 
you've given it to me already.  So you can't take it back."
     His eyes darkened slightly at the challenge, but then he turned away and 
flopped onto the couch, as if defeated.  "Marvell," he muttered, his head in 
his hands.  "It should have been Marvell.  Or Wyatt--no, <not> Wyatt.  
Browning?  It's wrong, all of it.  It was a stupid thing to do.  I apologize."
     "Why? For giving me poetry?"
     "For not thinking about what I was doing."  Dorian looked up at her, then 
shook his head and looked away again.  "Tennyson would have been fine.  Or 
Kipling--there's still a good deal of Kipling that shines, no matter what 
those damned literary critics say.  Why can't I manage to think when I'm 
around you?  I act so impulsively.  You've been so kind and I wanted to give 
you something, but--"  He threw his hands into the air and rose from the 
couch.  "You see, your dinner's getting cold.  I'll take back the book, find 
you some Kipling."
     Natalie took a step backward, her arms folding around the book and 
holding it to her.  "No, Donne's fine.  I don't <like> Kipling--it's a load of 
militarist crap.  What's the problem with Donne?"
     "You said it yourself."  Still watching her, Dorian returned to the table 
and seated himself.  He picked up the coffee cup and placed both his hands 
around it, as if it--or the blood inside it--could offer him some comfort.  
"It's inappropriate.  I wanted to get you a gift, something to thank you for 
all you've done for me."
     "Well, it's not a mink--not that I want one--" Natalie said quickly, as 
Dorian eye's widened with sudden interest--she knew how literal vampires could 
be and wanted to stop <that> business before it got started.  There was no way 
she wanted the karma for twenty dead baby minks at her doorstep.  "Dorian, the 
book is fine.  I don't have any problem with it."
     "But it's--"
     "Inappropriate."  She said the word as he repeated it, which caused him 
to frown.  "I know.  <Why> is it 'inappropriate'?"
     "Because . . . it's romantic poetry.  That's what I mean, I wasn't 
thinking.  Most of it's romantic.  And I know how you feel about Nick.  For me 
to give you something of this nature is . . . ?"
     Natalie gave him back the word with a carefully neutral expression.  
"Inappropriate?"
     "Well . . . yes."  He glowered down into his coffee cup.  "I've caused 
you enough distress.  And put you in danger.  And--did you see Nick at all 
tonight?"
     The sudden shift in subject startled her.  Natalie walked over to her 
chair and placed one hand on the back of it, as if to steady herself.  "Yes.  
He came by the lab."
     "Did you tell him that I was here?"
     "No."  The first sound was so soft and quiet, it surprised her.  Clearing 
her throat, Natalie sat down at the table and placed the book beside her 
plate.  "No," she said, with a little more force and what she hoped came 
across as confidence.  "You said you didn't want him involved."
     "It was very awkward for you, wasn't it?"
     Natalie tried a casual glance as she picked at that delicious chicken, 
which somehow had begun to taste like sawdust.  "It was business.  I told you, 
we'd had a gang problem.  In fact," giving up the attempt to hold his gaze, 
she looked back to her plate, "Nick said they were the same bunch who'd 
attacked Janette--"
     The rattle of silverware and plates on the table gave him away--Dorian 
started, almost rising from of his chair.  "Janette was <attacked>?"
     "Not by Enforcers," said Natalie quickly, dropping her own fork to her 
plate and meeting his eyes.  "By . . . the gang members."  She picked up the 
glass of wine and sipped at it, needing to forget that she'd almost said 
'mortals' in the same tone Nick had used.  
     "She's all right?"
     Remembering Janette's very evident lack of concern for Dorian's well-
being, Natalie couldn't quite reconcile that attitude with Dorian's sudden 
fear for Janette.  "Nick said she's fine.  He said he thinks she's being 
hunted."
     "Hunted?"  Dorian sank back against his chair, a thoughtful expression on 
his face.  "Does he know by whom?"
     "He asked me to look at something for him.  He's taking care of it."  
Natalie gave what she hoped was a careless shrug and picked up her fork again, 
just as uncomfortable with what those words might mean, especially since that 
suspect--the gang member who'd shot the others--had suicided in custody.  Not 
that she thought Nick had anything to do with that.  He'd hadn't been gone 
from the morgue for ten minutes before the call came through.  There wouldn't 
have been time for Nick to . . . .
     Not that she'd ever believe that he'd do <anything> like . . . .
     But she'd seen him plant something akin to post-hypnotic suggestions 
before, like he'd done that time to Schanke . . . .
     "Take care of it?" echoed Dorian.  "Yes.  Yes.  I'm sure he is.  Is he 
keeping an eye on her?"
     It took her a second to realize he'd asked her a question, she was so 
wrapped up in her own thoughts.  Pretending interest in her vegetables, 
Natalie tried to cover the lapse.  "I think she's staying at the loft.  At 
least until this whole thing blows over."
     "I'd imagine she'd suggest that, knowing Janette."  When Natalie looked 
up quickly, Dorian straightened in his chair.  "Well, after all, for Nick to 
suggest something like that would be--"
     "Inappropriate."  Not bothering to hide her annoyance, Natalie put her 
fork down a little too close to the plate and the metal clanged against the 
china.  "Nick told me he's sleeping on the couch."
     "I didn't mean to imply--"  Dorian picked up his napkin from the table, 
rubbed it against his lips roughly, then tossed it to the table as he rose to 
his feet.  "You see?  I've done it again.  I'm making this very awkward for 
you.  I won't presume on your hospitality any longer."
     Natalie rose from her chair and pointed to the window, which was showing 
a sky growing lighter with every passing moment.  "You're going to burn to a 
crisp out there."
     "Well," he walked toward the window thoughtfully, "not all at once."  He 
glanced back at her over his shoulder.  "I'll leave this evening."  
     "And where will you go?"
     There was the barest of smiles on his lips as Dorian contemplated the 
coming dawn.  "I'll find something.  After Viv--after what happened, I 
realized that I'd taken too much for granted.  I'd been cared for by so many, 
for so long . . . I'd never thought about what they'd given me.  I've finally 
learned to take care of myself, after all of this time.  Do you know," he 
glanced sidelong at Natalie, "you're responsible for that."
     "You still haven't said where you'll go."
     She was proud of herself, managing to keep her voice so very neutral.  
Dorian looked back at the window in answer to her question.  "Does it matter?"
     "Yes."  When he turned to her, surprised, she frowned.  "Hey, I invested 
a lot of time, sweat, and scare on you yesterday.  The last thing I want to 
find out is that it's been wasted because the Enforcers caught up to you and 
decided to finish the job."
     "Umm, that reminds me."  Suddenly, Dorian turned.  In the blink of an 
eye, he was gone and then back at her side again.  He handed her a yellow slip 
of paper.
     Still dealing with the concept of vampiric speed--God, she <hated> when 
Nick did that . . . and which he knew and tried not to--Natalie glanced down 
at the slip.  It was a laundry list.
     "They delivered it earlier.  The blanket belongs to Janette . . . I left 
it in the kitchen.  I'll get it back to her before I go, if I can.  I've put 
the rest of your laundry away--"
     "You did . . . what?"
     "--Except for a few things.  I left them on your bed.  I didn't know 
where--I didn't want to--I didn't think you'd--"
     Natalie had almost decided against rescuing him.  It absolutely floored 
her that Dorian, for all of the things he'd claimed to have done, seemed to 
have a major problem with anything of a personal nature . . . like lingerie.  
"I'll take care of it when I get back," she promised, trying to manage a 
serious tone of voice.
     "Ah . . . good.  The cleaners were able to get rid of the garlic.  As for 
the blood stains--"
     "Speaking of blood, how much have you had tonight?"
     Dorian seemed stunned at the question, then looked across the room, 
gesturing toward the coffee cup on the table.  "I've had . . . some.  I 
haven't arranged a delivery."
     "You said you were going to take care of that," chided Natalie.
     "I planned to--but the evening got away from me, what with the cooking, 
putting away things, and then I realized I didn't have any rosemary."  Dorian 
shrugged.  "There's some left from yesterday, almost a bottle."
     "A <bottle>?"  Natalie saw him wince at her tone and took a step toward 
him, suddenly angry.  "Look, you lost a hell of a lot of blood yesterday.  You 
need to replace it.  With Janette at Nick's, it's going to be tough to find 
anything for you.  I might not be happy having to deal with Janette, but I 
definitely don't trust those painted corpses at the Raven not to turn you in.  
Damn it, Dorian, you just said you'd learned to take care of yourself!"
     "I <have>," he said defensively.  "It's just that I got busy trying to 
take care of you."
     Natalie turned away, pretending that the words hadn't really touched her.  
"I don't need anyone to take care of me."
     "Maybe you don't need it, but you <should> be cared for."  Dorian stood 
behind her, his hands on her shoulders.  "You deserve it."
     "Tell me about it.  After a shift like that?" she muttered wearily and in 
a sarcastic tone, hoping to hide the fact that her heart was beating just a 
little too quickly.  "Thanks for the dinner, but I've gotta get back.  I can 
take care of the blood at work--if they pull less than a pint off a donation, 
they can't use it and they send it to the labs instead.  I can tell them I 
need a few bags for a test.  It won't be grade A, but--"
     Dorian turned her toward him and looked down into her face.  "Don't lie 
for me," he said, in a soft voice.  "I don't ever want you to lie for me.  
I'll survive."
     "You need blood."
     "There <are> other sources in this city."
     She could hear her own blood pounding in her ears, as she met that dark 
stare.  "Not if you're talking about killing people."
     "No.  Not now.  Other suppliers.  I'll make some phone calls tomorrow."
     "And the Enforcers will trace you right back here.  Don't tell me they 
don't know every supplier in the area.  That's the first place I'd go, if I 
were hunting you."  She looked away, toward the windows, then suddenly 
realized the blankets hadn't been replaced.  Natalie hurriedly picked up one 
of the blankets and fixed the pins to the window frames and valances.  "I have 
to drop that note off at Nick's on my way in to work tomorrow night.  I could 
talk to Janette about having them send some extra over to her, then get it 
from there before Nick checks in."
      "And then you'd deceive Nick, instead of the people you work with?"
     The pin wouldn't stick in the window frame--it kept falling out.  "Work 
with me on this, Dorian, I'm trying to <help> you," said Natalie, half in 
frustration and half in annoyance.  "Damn pin!  Ouch."
     "Let me try."  Dorian was suddenly beside her, moving with that very 
unmortal speed.  He placed his hand over hers, edged her finger aside, and 
pushed the pin solidly into the window frame. But he held onto her hand, as 
she lowered it.  "You've hurt yourself."  Meeting her gaze, he raised her hand 
to his lips.
     That's when Natalie realized that she'd actually stuck her thumb with the 
end of the pin--there was a small drop of blood on her finger.  Dorian brushed 
her fingers across his lips; she felt a slight tingle as his tongue flicked 
out, catching the spot of blood from her skin.  Then he kissed the wounded 
thumb lightly and asked, "Better?"
     She wasn't certain she should answer.  Or that she would have, if the 
words had been there.  Because they weren't.  Alarm bells should have been 
ringing, but they were stilled by some soft whisper from that back of her mind 
that she couldn't quite place.  It wasn't worth the effort, really.  There was 
only Dorian's dark eyes and the blood pounding in her ears, each drowning out 
any other sights or sounds.
     He kissed her and she closed her eyes, the touch of his lips noticeably 
cold.  Her brain informed her that it was all a matter of ambient temperature 
and the fact that he hadn't fed as much as he should.  She turned off the 
medical travelogue and concentrated on that kiss, on the hand that trailed 
down her back, or the other that caressed her neck, played with her hair.  
     Pushing away the thought that the taste of her blood still lingered on 
his tongue, Natalie fell victim to the whispers and promises spoken in her 
mind, not quite understanding words or hearing voices, but finding a 
comforting wave of compassion and passion, a need to care and to be cared for.  
She placed her arms around his neck, embracing him.
     Perhaps Dorian didn't have to breathe, but she <did>.  Natalie broke from 
him, her eyes opening.  She sought out his lips again, after she hauled in a 
lungful of air.  Then she stopped, dead cold and frightened.
     His eyes were black, but red sparks flew within them; they were changing, 
<had> changed.  He was falling victim to what he was, what he <really> was
     And despite the fear and the fright and the eyes, all she wanted was to 
continue that kiss.  
     But Dorian released her, pushing her back and stumbling away.  Dishware 
and silverware clattered and crashed to the floor as he planted his palms 
firmly on the table top.  His shoulders were shaking.  He must have seen the 
fear in her eyes.  He couldn't have helped but see.
     Just as he must have known that she had, for a brief moment, lost any 
sense she'd possessed, was unable to do anything but surrender.
     Natalie grabbed hold of her arms, hugging herself for a moment.  There 
were no more whispers in her mind, no schoolgirl giddiness like the feelings 
that had lingered from this morning's kiss.  An icy terror settled over her 
heart.  Only his eyes had turned, although she could almost swear she'd felt 
the lines of his mouth change toward the end, as his fangs must have fallen 
into place.
     It wasn't the change so much that scared her--although that was scary 
enough in itself.  She'd been menaced twice by Dorian yesterday, had faced 
down fangs and had been shit-scared but not totally paralyzed by fear.  What 
frightened her now was that she'd seen death in his eyes.  <Her> death.
     And it hadn't mattered.
     Yes, her heart had gone a mile-a-minute when Nick had pinned her that 
once, in the back room of the Raven.  He'd stalked her, played with her, like 
prey.  But beneath it all, he'd still been <Nick>.  There was something so 
sure and certain in her that Nick would never hurt her, that her fear for him 
had been greater than her fear <of> him.  When he'd been wounded by the 
crossbow, it had been the same--she'd been scared, but there was always that 
concern for him, bolstered by that irrational but strong-as-steel belief that 
he couldn't bring himself to harm her.
     Natalie knew better when it came to Dorian.  She knew he was deadly.  
Dangerous.
     But she still hadn't been able to save herself, hadn't been able to stop 
herself.  She'd expected it to happen someday with Nick.  And she'd hoped by 
then she'd have brought him far enough back across the line between mortality 
and death that he'd manage to be strong, even if her formidable will faltered.
     Her will <had> faltered . . . but not with Nick.
     "I'm not Nick," said Dorian.  His voice sounded strange, almost distant, 
but he still wouldn't turn to face her.
     Again, there was that eerie seconding of her thoughts, but she brushed 
that aside.  Staying rational would save her, would keep her from thinking 
about things.  "I have to get back.  To work.  I have to get back to work, 
now."
     It was something to say, as she edged backward, toward the door, catching 
her pocketbook and picking up her shoes on the way. They could be used as 
weapons, better than nothing if he decided to come after her.
     But he didn't.  After a moment, Dorian seemed to go limp, like a 
marionette whose strings had been cut.
     Natalie didn't know what to do, at first.  Of course, she didn't have the 
speed and instincts of a vampire--she wasn't able to keep him from hitting the 
floor.  But she did manage to kick a chair out of his way and grabbed his 
shoulder to keep him from smacking his head against the table leg.
     His skin was cold, almost marble white, and clammy; his eyes were closed.  
Natalie eased him down to the floor and flipped him flat on his back.  She 
tapped his face, then scrambled to her knees, reaching up on the table to grab 
one of the cloth napkins and a water glass.  She toweled down his forehead, 
calling to him, slapping his cheek lightly with the palm of her hand.
     There was no response at first.  It was only when she'd decided she'd 
might have to haul off and smack him one that she saw his eyelids flutter.  
Then his eyes snapped open and he stared up at her.  "What . . . ?"
     "You fainted."  Setting aside the water, Natalie left the wet napkin 
across his forehead, then paused to press down on his chest as he started to 
rise.  "No--don't move.  Doctor's orders."  She pushed up from the floor to 
her feet and went into the kitchen, where she retrieved the last bottle of 
blood.  Whether he liked it or not, he was getting it cold and straight.
     When she returned, she helped him to sit up and lean against the legs of 
the chair, then handed him the bottle.  He didn't really seem to notice the 
temperature,  drinking it quickly--far more quickly than she would have liked. 
Natalie was frowning as he dropped the empty bottle into his lap and sighed. 
     "I didn't think I was that hungry," he managed, after a moment's pause.
     "Of course not.  The sun hadn't risen yet."  She squatted down beside him 
and pointed up to the covered windows.  "You overdid it with the Happy 
Homemaker routine--you wore yourself out.  I told you, there's no way you're 
ready to travel."
     Dorian shook his head.  "That's not possible.  I've had a spear wound, 
nearly lost an arm . . . and it's never been like this."
     "That's because you've never had garlic poisoning before.  Or is this a 
new field of vampire medicine?"  When Dorian hesitated in answering, Natalie 
gave him a grim smile.  "Guess you're the test case."
     "Garlic poisoning?"  Shaking his head, he tried to use the chair to climb 
to his feet.  About halfway to stability, his legs started to wobble.  Natalie 
quickly moved to support him and managed to get him as far as the couch before 
he collapsed.
     "You've got too much garlic in your system.  I think that's why you look 
like hell even though you've been feeding constantly--it's breaking down the 
blood before you can metabolize it.  Only a theory, of course."  She put a 
pillow under his head and threw a blanket over him--it was all she could do 
for the moment.  The fresh blood had given his skin some brief color, but it 
had only been a bottle and now it was gone.  If she was lucky, he'd sleep for 
a few hours.  There was no question about her having to bring home as much 
blood as she could get her hands on--her life wasn't worth a damn around him 
unless she could get him fed and keep him quiet.
     The change in him was dramatic.  There was no way of knowing just how 
high the sun had risen short of taking one of the blankets off the windows--
not an action conducive to the continued good health of a vampire--but 
Dorian's skin seemed to be getting grayer as the sun rose.  Not for the first 
time, she regretted not being able to call up her local bookstore and order 
'The Big Book of Vampire Medicine.'  If only somebody had some records . . . .
     "No records," Dorian murmured, his eyes closing. "Never happened before.  
So much garlic--"
     "It makes sense, in a way."  Natalie fussed with the blanket for a 
moment, then drew her hand away quickly--why tempt him with warm blood?  
"There's no way for it to leave your system, so I have to dilute the hell out 
of it.  Either that or give you as near to a complete transfusion as I can."   
Still working off the adrenaline from moments before, she cuffed him in the 
arm angrily.  "I told you to rest, dammit!  Why didn't you listen to me?  You 
think you're all indestructible.  Immortal--hah!  Ten minutes on the beach at 
noon and you're toast."
     His lips were the palest pink, the red almost faded entirely.  "I make . 
. . toast."
     Natalie stood at the head of the couch, watching him.  "I'll try to be 
back as soon as I can.  Just don't move, all right?  No wash, no dishes, no 
cooking.  Just . . . stay there."  She touched his hair lightly, brushing her 
hand through it, and he snuggled down against the pillow of the couch, already 
half-asleep.  Looking up, she noticed the bedroom door was closed--Sidney was 
very probably inside and annoyed as hell, but she didn't want him roaming 
around out here with Dorian so out of control.
     And she <still> had to go back to work.
     With a sigh, Natalie straightened her blouse, picked up her purse from 
the floor and slung it over her arm, then retrieved her shoes.  She headed for 
the door, already working on a reasonable explanation for why she would need 
lots and lots of blood that wouldn't appear on any inventories or on test 
results.  No matter what Dorian had asked, it would require some pretty fancy 
verbal two-stepping on her part to get this one through and she fully expected 
she'd end up with not only the blood, but a major league headache in the 
bargain.
     Thankfully, she didn't have a headache . . . yet.  Although her stomach 
<did> feel kind of queasy.  That wouldn't be surprising, considering what had 
happened.
     She just hoped it wasn't the chicken.  


CHAPTER 12
 
     Nick held the small plastic container with both hands as he rode in the 
elevator up to the loft.  The fish didn't seem to mind the trip, but he wasn't 
taking any chances.  After his encounter with LaCroix, his evening had gone 
from bad to worse and he wanted to put a stop to this slide of misfortune.  
Getting his third fish safely into its prepared home seemed to be a good way 
to start.
     He nearly dropped the container as the door slid open and he found 
himself faced with a very slim stranger--male, in his mid-twenties, his 
heartbeat subdued, but mortal.  Before either of them could say a word--the 
stranger being very glassy-eyed and less likely to say something first--
Janette appeared.  Placing her hand on the man's shoulder, she drew him back 
from the elevator door, allowing Nick to enter the loft.
     "Nicola, I didn't expect you so soon.  You should have called--I would 
have had your dinner waiting for you."  When Nick raised an eyebrow and nodded 
toward the man, Janette ducked behind her shield, peering at him from behind 
the other shoulder.  "Oh, this?  You've never met Stephen, my carpenter, have 
you?  Stephen, this is Nicola, a very <dear> friend."
     He held out his hand, saying, "Nick Knight."
     Some of the glassiness seemed to disappear from Stephen's eyes.  In fact, 
he looked more than nervous, giving Janette a sidelong glance as he shook 
Nick's hand.  "Steve McNamara.  You--uh--shouldn't have any problem with that 
closet pole.  I set up a couple extra braces, put some mounts in the cement 
wall.  Is that a goldfish?"
     "Yeah.  It's a pet."  Nick looked past Steve, toward Janette.  "Closet?"
     But Janette was pushing Steve into the elevator.  "Thank you so very 
much, Stephen, you don't know how much I appreciate your help.  We'll settle 
our accounts in the usual manner, yes?  Good-night."
     Nick managed to wait until the door slid shut, trapping Steve in the 
elevator.  "Closet?" he asked again.
     Janette slipped by him, taking the plastic container with the fish from 
his hands as she passed.  "Yes.  Alma dropped by a few things and I had an 
accident--your closet pole snapped in half.  You really must be more attentive 
to the construction in the places you choose, Nicola.  You know how dangerous 
broken wood can be, if it's left lying around--"
     She headed into the kitchen, but Nick managed to intercept her.  He held 
his hand out and she slapped the plastic container onto his palm, after a 
moment's pause and a pout.  He put the container down on the counter and moved 
the fish bowl closer to the sink.  "I didn't know you had a carpenter."
     "I'd be foolish not to.  He's very accomplished you know.  He did a 
beautiful job on restoring my davenport after Alma nearly splintered it.  
She's <far> too enthusiastic sometimes."
     "So I've noticed."
     "Yes, well that's Alma.  She likes <everyone> to notice <everything>.  
Don't pay any attention to her, Nicola . . . she's too common.  And she'll put 
on airs if she thinks you're interested."  She leaned forward, watching 
closely as he carefully lifted the plastic top from the container and held it 
over the sink.  "What are you doing?"
     "Putting the fish in his new home, if you'll give me a little room--"
     "Sorry.  You pet owners are <so> touchy.  The next thing you'll know, 
you'll have a little picture of it tucked in your wallet, next to your badge." 
     "Net?"
     "What?"
     Carefully holding the plastic container on the palm of his right hand 
over the sink, Nick snapped his fingers and held out his left hand, gesturing 
toward the other counter.  "There's a net over there."
     "Oh . . . that.  I wondered what that was for."  Janette turned and 
picked up the net from the counter, then placed the flat of it in his hand.  
She walked around the other side of the counter and leaned her arms on it.  
"It's almost like an operation.  Should I scrub up first?"
     Ignoring her, Nick carefully lifted the fish from the plastic container, 
fully intending on transferring it to the bowl.  But the fish never made it.  
For some reason, it leapt up out of the net, diving directly into the sink and 
dropping immediately down the opening in the drain.
     There'd been no time to catch or intercept it.  Nick stared down the 
drain in horrified dismay.  "It's gone."
     "<Definitely> a suicide," said Janette, also peering down into the sink.  
When he looked up at her, she shrugged.  "There was nothing you could have 
done."  Trailing her hand along the counter, she moved to stand beside him.  
"Poor Nicola!  And it was such a young fish, too."
     He was too stunned to take in any of what she was saying.  Hauling 
himself over the sink, he stared down into the dark drain, desperately hoping 
for some golden glint, any sign the fish was still there. He'd managed to get 
his last fish out of the container without any problem--but then had promptly 
placed it into a toxic death-trap.  Were they able to sense that sort of 
thing?  Did this fish know somehow that he was the third in a line of fish 
who'd met untimely and gruesome ends and decided to take control of his own 
destiny, rather than chance whatever fate had in store for Nick's latest finny 
acquisition?
     Janette tapped him on the shoulder.  When he met her gaze, she shook her 
head sadly.  "Face it, Nicola, you are <not> a friend to fish."  Then, 
grabbing his arm, she dragged him over to the refrigerator.  Opening the door, 
she reached inside and pulled out a bottle.  She removed the cork with one 
tug, her long, lacquered nails digging into it, then she handed him the 
bottle.  "You need a drink."
     Nick agreed with her, there.  He half-turned toward the sink as he lifted 
the bottle to his lips, but stopped when he caught a whiff of the contents--
<human> blood.  Turning back to her angrily, he thrust the bottle into her 
hands and then removed a bottle of cow's blood from the fridge and slammed the 
door shut.  "Thanks, but no thanks."
     "<We're> in a mood today," noted Janette, as he headed for the couch.  
Following him, she perched on the side of the couch and placed one arm around 
his shoulder, still holding the bottle in her other hand.  "Did you have a bad 
day at work?  Not enough bodies to play detective?"
     "Too many bodies."  Nick glanced up at her suspiciously, then decided 
that there was no way she could know what had happened.  Unless . . . .  "Have 
you heard from LaCroix?"
     "No."  She raised her bottle to her lips, sniffed at it, then took a very 
small sip.  "Should I have?"
     That lady-like sip didn't fool him--she was dying to chug the blood.  He 
knew Janette's drinking habits.  But he also sensed that she was telling the 
truth.  "I saw him tonight.  He found the men who attacked you."
     <That> got her attention.  Janette lowered the bottle, but her gaze 
remained fixed on the window and the coming dawn.  "And--?"
     "One of them killed the others."
     Again, there was almost no reaction from her, but the slightest nod, as 
if she were deigning to accept the news.  "How did they die?"
     "The suspect gunned them down in a public park.  We arrested him."  Nick 
took a slug from the bottle, then put it on the table as he rose and reached 
for the remote.  Walking toward the windows, he clicked the button and the 
window shutters slid into place.  "He committed suicide in custody."
     "That must have been awkward for you."
     "It wasn't my case."  Turning, he met her gaze.  "I told them that you'd 
been attacked--I didn't name you," he added quickly, as she turned blazing 
blue eyes toward him and rose from the couch.  "Only Schanke and Nat know that 
it was you.  I told the Captain that I'd recognized the dead gang members as 
being the ones who'd attacked you.  She took me off the case."
     "Convenient, I suppose, since the other one died in jail.  Still--"  She 
frowned and turned away from him.  "I <won't> sign a complaint."
     "I told the Captain that would be your answer."
     Janette paused and took another sip from the bottle.  She wrapped her 
arms around it, holding it tightly to her chest, her back toward him.  "What 
did she say?"
     "That I should tell you that you were lucky I happened to be there.  And 
that you couldn't count on being that lucky next time."  Tossing the remote on 
the table, he walked around the couch and stood behind her, placing his hands 
on her shoulders.  "She's right."
     Janette's hand reached up, her left fingers intertwining with his own as 
she leaned back against him.  "And did you get into <very> much trouble for 
rescuing me?"
     There was no collar to the dress; the shoulder straps were thin and the 
neckline slid down to a revealing net of black lace, which outlined the shape 
of her breasts.  Nick found himself intoxicated by her perfume and he placed a 
light kiss on the side of her throat, whispering, "I was almost suspended."
     "But . . . she forgave you?"  Janette's chuckle traveled through her, he 
could feel her body shake as she pressed against him.  "You're very lucky, 
<mon cher> to have been transferred to a precinct with a lady captain.  With 
those eyes and that smile, she could deny you <nothing>."
     "You'd be surprised."
     "About anything you do?  I doubt it."  Janette twisted away from him and 
walked over to the kitchen.  Placing the bottle of blood on the counter, she 
took two fingers and flicked the edge of the glass fishbowl.  "This 
fascination with mortality has led you into some interesting adventures, 
Nicola.  Goldfish . . . really!"  Sighing, she straightened and sipped at the 
bottle again, then left it on the counter.  "I'm almost sorry that I won't be 
here to see whether you can avoid killing the fourth.  Isn't three supposed to 
be the 'charm'?"
     "You can't leave."
     "Of course not.  The sun's only risen."  Janette raised a disdainful hand 
toward the metal shutters.  "Inconvenient.  But I'll find something to occupy 
myself.  I know you need your rest or you'll fall asleep on duty.  Although I 
understand that's supposed to be one of the perks of the job?"
     "That's not what I mean."  Nick walked toward her until he stood no more 
than an arm's length away from her.  She tilted her head and gave him a 
questioning look, a few locks of hair falling from the clip with which she'd 
pulled it back from her face.  Reaching out his fingers, he brushed the hair 
back from the skin of her neck.  "It's not safe. The hunter--"
     "You said they were dead.  'Gunned down'?"
     Those blue eyes were very wide, but her smile was saucy and sharp.  Nick 
turned his back to her, needing to be busy with something else.  He slipped 
out of his blazer, tossing it over the arm of the couch, then started to 
remove his holster.  "The ones who attacked you . . . yes."
     "And the other one?"
     "He choked to death--swallowed his tongue."
     He wondered for a moment whether she was going to react at all.  She 
seemed to consider the information, but her verdict consisted of little more 
than a shrug.  "Fitting, I suppose.  You arranged it?"
     "LaCroix."
     Janette met his eyes briefly, then looked away, the edges of her smile 
growing sharper, as if she were pleased.  "So.  LaCroix."
     "But the hunter's out there.  LaCroix's killed my leads.  All I have is 
the note."  He stood very still as Janette slipped by him.  She picked up his 
blazer from the couch, then shook it out, as if saving it from being wrinkled.  
She seemed distracted, unfocused, as if she were trying to keep herself 
occupied.  He almost reached out to touch her arm, but stopped himself.  
"You're in danger."
     "Am I?"  She looked up at him, eyes searching his.  "Or . . . are you?"  
Before he could answer, she'd moved away, his blazer folded over her arm as 
she crossed the room.  "You have that note.  You've given it to your friend?"
     "Yes."
     "And you told her that I was staying here?  With you?"
     She'd hesitated at the foot of the staircase.  There was something in 
Janette's manner that he couldn't quite interpret--was it annoyance?  Fear?  
What secret was she hiding from him now?  "I told her I wanted to keep an eye 
on you."
     "I'll bet she took that news well."  She'd started up the stairs, then 
paused after a step or two.  "And how <is> Natalie?"
     "Fine."  Nick walked toward the staircase, watching her carefully, but 
finding no clue to her state of mind in those disarming blue eyes.  "Why?"
     "Nothing.  Just . . . being polite."
     Janette's smile was charming.  She brushed her hand along the blazer 
draped over her arm almost as an after-thought, then seemed to notice what she 
was holding.  "I'll hang this up.  Stephen did a beautiful job on the closet.  
You <must> see it."
     "About Steven . . . and the closet--"  He was surprised that Janette 
bothered to <walk> up the stairs.  Nick was at the top of the upper landing 
when she reached it, but she moved past him, heading for the bedroom.  
"Janette, the whole point in keeping you here is to stop anyone from reaching 
you, from finding you.  If you start inviting people--"
     "Not <people>," she corrected sharply.  "Alma."  Entering the bedroom, 
she headed directly for his clothing closet.  "I couldn't stand drinking <cow> 
another minute.  And, if you remember, I had nothing to wear."
     Nick leaned against the closet door molding and watched as she hung his 
blazer on a hanger, then placed the hanger over the wooden bar.  He also 
noticed, with a wan smile, that she'd pressed his dress shirts all but through 
the wall to make room for her dresses.  "I thought you said Alma was 
dangerous."  
     "Not 'dangerous' . . . 'common.'  Besides, she told me she's seen nothing 
strange, no one new at the club."  Janette busied herself, rediscovering her 
dresses.  She flipped through them like a reader would turn the pages of a 
book, pausing here and there.  "I shouldn't want an Enforcer turning up, it 
might put a damper on business.  Bruno would be able to handle it, I suppose, 
but it <is> my club after all."
     "And you expect to find an Enforcer at the club? "
     "Well, you put those nasty thoughts in my head, didn't you?  No wonder 
I'm having bad dreams."  She took a step back, then pointed to the new wooden 
bar with no small amount of pride.  "Isn't it beautiful?"
     With a sigh, Nick stepped into the large closet and examined the braces 
and the replacement bar.  He nearly tripped over Janette--she hovered almost 
anxiously underfoot as he made his inspection.  "Not bad."  Experimentally, he 
pushed aside one of her dresses, ignoring her outraged squawk of protest, and 
gave the bar a light pull.
     It didn't budge.  Nor did the unobtrusive, ornamental braces that had 
been placed at various points along the rack.  "Not bad at all," he admitted, 
with a nod.  "Is his work always this good?"
     "I've never found him to be . . . unsatisfactory."
     Nick didn't bother looking at her, hiding his smile by rubbing his chin 
with his hand, as if still considering the braces.  "How long did it take him 
to do this?  Two hours?"
     "An hour, at most."
     "And . . . how long was he here?"
     There wasn't more than an instant's hesitation in Janette's manner.  
Slinking up to him, she leaned her chin on his shoulder, ran her hand down his 
sleeve.  "These things take time.  The job itself--it's nothing.  But there's 
so much preparation involved--measuring, drilling, testing to see how well 
everything fits . . . ."
     He captured her wrist and held it, shooting her a warning look.  "Be 
careful.  You've already had one accident.  And look where it's gotten you."
     "Imprisoned in a loft with a fish-killer, drinking cow's blood?" she 
asked, eyes wide and as innocent as they could ever be.  "Why, Nicola--are you 
jealous of my carpenter?"
     "No," he answered slowly as he grasped her other hand, then clasped them 
together.  He took a step back, putting some space between them, but held onto 
her hands.  "I'm surprised you've been this careless.  Alma--well, there's not 
much we can do about that now; she's probably told everyone at the Raven that 
you're here.  But Steve . . . ?"  When she continued to stare at him, wide-
eyed, he drew her close and placed his arms around her.  "Janette, this is my 
<home>.  I brought you here to protect you.  But I can't protect you, or 
myself, if you invite strangers in here without checking with me first."
     She pushed back from him, just enough to meet his gaze with a defiant 
pout.  "He's <not> a stranger, he's my carpenter.  And you would have been 
angry with me if you'd come home and found I'd broken the clothing rack in 
your closet--"
     "You shouldn't have been in here."
     "Then where am I to hang my dresses?"  Slipping out of his grasp, she 
walked further into the closet, hands clasped behind her back.  "I was bored.  
And lonely.  And--and--you weren't here.  How can you protect me if you're not 
here?  If someone had come, if anything had happened . . . ."
     Astounded, he stared at her, as her voice raised in pitch with each word.  
He'd had no idea she was so terrified.  And . . . she was right.  He'd made 
another mistake.  When she'd been attacked, he'd gone to check on her instead 
of following her attackers.  Now that she <was> safe, instead of protecting 
her he'd left her alone.  
     Turning his back to Janette, he leaned his hand against the door, and 
stared down at the floor.  His work came first, but LaCroix had reminded him 
that he owed Janette as much, if not more of his time than any other citizen 
of Toronto.  It wasn't even as if he was making any progress in his attempt to 
find out who was hunting her--every avenue of his investigation seemed blocked 
by dead bodies.  What could Janette do if he was out on his shift and she ran 
into trouble?  Why had he left her alone in the first place?  He knew better 
than that.
     But the thought of spending all that time alone with her, in the loft . . 
. .
     Nick started as Janette wrapped her arms around his chest from behind and 
rested her head against his back.  "Nicola, I'm sorry.  You're right--I 
shouldn't have called Stephen.  But I was bored.  And I'm tired."
     He leaned his back against the door frame and shifted her, holding her in 
his arms and against his chest.  "Then sleep."
     "I don't want to sleep."  Her voice was muffled against his shirt.  "I 
had a bad dream.  The memories . . . they won't go away."
     He kissed the top of her hair.  "Would you like to talk about them?  It 
helps, sometimes."
     Janette shook her head vehemently, but didn't change position, holding 
him even tighter.  "No.  They--they scare me.  I don't want to even <think> 
about them."
     "Let's go downstairs.  We'll have a drink."  When she peered up at him 
almost hesitantly, he grinned down at her.  "We'll play cards for a little 
while."
     "It <is> still early."
     "It's <late>."  Arm around her shoulder, he led her out of the bedroom 
and down the staircase.  "I'll sit with you until you fall asleep.  And if I 
see you're having a bad dream, I'll wake you up.  Is that fair?"
     She seemed to consider the idea for a moment, then nodded with an air of 
dignity and gravity.  "I think so.  May I cheat?"
     "You always do."
     "Good.  I like winning."  Reaching the foot of the stairs, she hurried 
away and returned to the bottle of blood, which she'd left on the counter.  
Janette walked to the shelves and removed a wine glass, then poured the blood 
into it.  "What shall we play for?"
     Shaking his head, Nick went to the bookshelf and found a box containing a 
bridge set.  "Money?"
     "Too common."  She frowned as he looked up at her, then walked over to 
him and peered at the cards inside the box.  "I remember those.  I'm surprised 
you still have them."
     He picked up a set of cards and dropped them into her outstretched palm.  
"Why waste a new pack?  You'll only bend the corners on all the face cards, 
anyway."
     "As if anyone marks cards that way anymore!" chided Janette laughingly.  
"Nicola, you <must> learn to keep up, or the world will pass you by.  And we 
still haven't decided what we'll play for."  She settled herself on the couch, 
put her glass of blood on the coffee table, then leaned forward to shuffle the 
cards.  "If you win, I must buy you a new fish.  And a proper home for it, 
with lights and pretty stones and bubbles and all the other things fish like."
     Nick moved the black leather chair closer, then picked up the bottle of 
cow's blood he'd left on the table.  After taking a swig from it, he gestured 
toward Janette.  "Since you're going to win, what would you like--a bracelet?  
A necklace?  An anklet?  Earrings?"
     The cards whisked together in her hands as she shuffled expertly.  
Janette tilted her head a moment, as if considering.  "One of each, please.  A 
matched set, I think.  Or can you afford that on the salary of a public 
servant?"
     "If I don't eat for three weeks and buy cheap gas for the Caddy--"
     "If I had any pity, Nicola, you'd make me want to weep."  With a thump, 
she set the cards on the table before him.  "Cut?"
     He picked up the top half of the deck of cards and put them to one side, 
then sat back in his chair as he watched her shuffle again.  She'd always been 
good at games.  And he had very little doubt she'd win, whether she played 
honestly or cheated.  Janette hated to lose at anything.
     "Gin, to start?" she asked.  Then she opened her eyes wide and smiled 
coyly.  "Or would you prefer 'Go Fish'?"
     "Gin," he growled, leaning forward to swipe the cards from the table as 
she dealt them, face down.  "And let the dead rest with some respect, thank 
you."
     "That's not what you used to say."  Picking up her glass from the table, 
she sipped at it, then lifted the cards and fanned them in her hand, peering 
over the top of them at him.  "I dealt, so you may go first."
     "Thank you."  It was a minor concession, but any concession won from 
Janette was a victory.  Nick glanced at the cards in his hand, then down at 
the sole card face-up on the discard pile.  He was starting with nothing.  
Typical.
     On impulse, he tossed a card on the discard pile, then picked up another 
from the deck.  Smiling, he found that he had at least three cards of the same 
suit--clubs.
     "Are you finished?" asked Janette.
     "I think so."  
     Settling back in his chair, Nick lifted the bottle of blood and took a 
swallow, watching her as she picked up the card he'd discarded, tossed down 
another, then dropped her hand to the table and said, "Gin."
     "Janette!" he protested, as she fanned her cards out to prove her 
victory.  "At least give me a chance."
     "I've given you plenty and you never take advantage of them, so why 
should I bother?"  Then she leaned back against the couch and sipped at her 
glass.  "If it matters--I didn't cheat that time.  It was luck, pure and 
simple."
     "Nothing pure about it," he mumbled, gathering up the cards, and ignoring 
her when she stuck her tongue out at him.  "The necklace?"
     "Bracelet first," Janette corrected, holding out her wrist.  "Something 
flashy, I think.  I'm in the mood to be spoiled."
     Nick let the comment slide without replying and began to shuffle the 
cards, finding himself yawning.  He was exhausted, but he knew that as long as 
Janette was awake, he was unlikely to get any kind of rest.  His only hope was 
in wearing her out.
     Two hours, innumerable hands of gin, and a small fortune in jewelry 
later, Nick managed to pry open one eye and found that Janette had finally 
fallen asleep on the couch.  She was curled into a ball, her fingers still 
gripping her last hand of Gin.  The bottle on the coffee table was as empty as 
the glass beside her, which gave him hope that she'd actually sleep through 
the day and leave him in peace.
     With as much care as he could manage, Nick lifted her from the couch and 
into his arms.  Janette snuggled against him, making the slightest of soft 
sounds, her perfume drifting around them like a delicate cloak.  He carried 
her upstairs and into the bedroom.  Steadying her against him, he leaned down 
to pull back the blankets with one hand and placed her on the bed.  As he 
pulled away, he found himself caught--her hair had come loose from the clip 
and a strand had wound around one of his shirt buttons.  Nick leaned down to 
extricate himself.
     Still asleep, Janette shifted and came in contact with his hand.  Her 
arms reached up automatically, moving around his neck, and pulling him 
downward, toward her.  He froze, terrified that he'd wake her up, and resisted 
the pull, concentrating on getting free of her hair.  After a second of panic, 
he snapped off the strands close to the button, careful not to tug on it and 
wake her, then backed away.  Almost as an afterthought, he reached down to 
slip off her shoes, tossing them on the floor, then draped the blankets over 
her.
     She didn't move after that., although he watched her for several minutes.  
She'd be furious when she awoke and found she'd fallen asleep in the dress--it 
was probably an original of one sort or another and the type of thing that 
required some care.  He <could> undress her.  He'd done it often enough, over 
the centuries, and there was even a good chance he'd manage to get the dress 
off in one piece without waking her.  But, he decided with a sigh of dismay, 
that could very well lead to other things.  Better to get some sleep while he 
could.  Tomorrow, if Natalie couldn't come up with anything on the note, he'd 
speak with LaCroix about keeping an eye on Janette for him while he was at 
work.
     The world outside was beginning to stir; coffee was perking throughout 
Toronto and the highways were filling with motorists.  It was time for bed and 
Nick fully intended to grab a pair of pajamas, change, and settle down on the 
couch with what was left of his bottle of blood before he fell asleep.  But he 
found he couldn't tear himself away from watching Janette.  Her hair against 
the pale whiteness of her shoulder, the fingers clasped around the dark silk 
of the pillow, the slight parting of her lips as she turned her head . . . it 
was all so achingly familiar to him.  
     There were times when she angered him, caused him endless frustration, 
other times when he hated her for being callous or cruel or hard as the 
diamonds that she sometimes wore around her neck, or on her wrist, or in her 
hair.  But there were also times when he saw the joy in her, like when her 
eyes laughed at him over her cards.  And when she was afraid, he wanted 
nothing more than to enfold her in his arms and protect her from everything 
that might harm her.  Janette was the one link to his past that he would put 
behind him with regret if he returned to the mortal world.  And if this failed 
for him, as had so many other things before, he knew she'd seek him out in 
time, wherever he'd go to hide himself, to comfort him and remind him of what 
he was, and what he'd been, and what he was yet to be.
     There was no place for her in the mortal world with which he'd chosen to 
surround himself, now.  If he was going to succeed this time, he had to keep 
her at arm's length, to force himself to forget that there were parts of what 
he was that had brought him joy over the centuries.  He'd have to turn his 
back on those bright blue eyes, alabaster skin, and hair the dark softness of 
a raven's wing.  He'd always known it would be difficult.
     But as Nick grabbed a pair of pajamas draped over a chair and headed for 
the stairs, he suddenly realized that what he'd thought would be just another 
part of his transition from the world of darkness to the light, would actually 
be one of the most painful things he'd ever attempted.  And that the greater 
burden of the pain would lie in the fact that in succeeding, he'd wound not 
only himself, but Janette as well.

CHAPTER 13     
     
     Janette had no idea what had awakened her.  It was a sound--of that she 
was certain--but when it didn't seem to repeat itself she wrapped herself in 
blankets and reveled in the luxury of still being abed after sunset.  Closing 
her eyes, she yawned and pretended not to notice that she was still fully 
dressed.  She'd been <so> tired this morning, after that night of incessant 
questioning.  And even though she'd slept, she knew she wasn't fully rested.  
The beginnings of hunger were beginning to burn within her and she wondered if 
she might convince the Enforcers to bring her something a little earlier--
     Snap.
     It was a quiet sound, short and sharp, much like the one she'd realized 
had awakened her.  Janette opened her eyes and pushed back the coverlet, 
sitting up in the bed.  Again, there was no follow-up to the noise.  But she 
listened intently for a least a minute before giving up.  Nothing.  Probably 
nothing.  Although it was so awfully familiar . . . .
     Janette noticed with some glee that water had been left for her again, as 
well as a new dressing gown and a new screen--the one she'd begun to shred 
last night had disappeared.  Taking some small comfort in the fact that the 
Enforcers were at least tidy--LaCroix would approve--she stripped down to her 
chemise, then past that to her skin.  She washed off the dried flakes of 
blood-sweat that still rested on her, not bothering to hurry.  She had the 
night to wear away, one hour at a time.  Despite those strange sounds she knew 
there'd probably be little diversion for her until her meal was delivered, and 
then some time would pass before she'd get a chance to speak with Dorian 
again.  LaCroix would want her to be ready for him.
     So she took her time as she dressed, lacing the ties on the gown this way 
and that, taking care with the braiding of her hair into a plait and then 
pinning that into place.  Janette even sorted through the jewelry and trinkets 
Dorian had left to amuse her and mixed and matched them to her fancy.  She 
passed at least two hours in that manner and still found those sounds 
startling her at odd intervals.
     They were difficult to identify.  Seating herself in one of the folding 
iron chairs, Janette rested on the cushion and listened intently.  This last 
time she managed to catch all of the sound in her memory, for this was just a 
bit louder than the last and of a slightly longer duration.  Then she sat back 
in the chair and closed her eyes, trying to match the noise against all of the 
sounds her perfect memory could recreate.
     It was not the sound of a tool or metal, of that she was certain.  There 
was no stone involved.  If anything, it sounded like the crack of a tree 
branch that was broken by the weight of ice in the winter, when the storms 
came out of the north and blistered the countryside with heavy sheets of hail 
and snow.  She'd seen limbs twice her own width snapped in half beneath the 
weight.
     Of course, they were in Sicily, on an island where snow wasn't to be 
found, except on the highest of peaks.  This villa might have been carved from 
the rock, but it still rested low and well within the shadow of the mountain--
one reason why it remained cool during the day.  Someone <could> very easily 
be snapping branches of twigs for firewood . . . but it didn't seem likely.
     Another hour passed, during which she played with some embroidery that 
had been left half-finished.  Janette painstakingly removed the stitches that 
had been placed, so that when she was done the cloth was pure white, dotted 
only by a small stain of rust where someone had pricked their thumb.  And yet 
another hour was spent arranging the blankets on the bed, tidying the room.
     It was at the beginning of the fifth hour, as the cracking sounds became 
more frequent, that she again began to pay attention to them.  Sitting on the 
bed, Janette listened carefully, trying to decide what might sound like the 
breaking of twigs or the branches of a tree.  And it was with no small amount 
of horror that she began to suspect what the sounds might mean.
     The sounds were that of breaking bone--the smaller sharper sounds might 
signify fingers or toes or thin and fragile bones, while the louder sounds 
must surely be the breaking of an arm or leg.  The fleshy, cushioned sounds . 
. . was that the shattering of ribs?
     Dorian <was> breaking LaCroix.
     Literally.
     She froze in place, transfixed by the sounds, taking a breath with each 
and holding the air in her lungs until the next sounded.  If he'd been fed, 
LaCroix would heal quickly enough . . . but the bones would only be broken 
again.  And again.  And again until he'd yield.  Or until his body could no 
longer heal itself.
     Janette tried to comfort herself with the thought that Dorian couldn't 
destroy LaCroix.  He could break his body, wound his flesh, but he dared not 
immolate him or sever the head from the body or piece his heart with a wooden 
stake--the Code was very strict on those matters.  But he was free to do all 
that which his mind could conceive to that point, if not farther.  
     She'd seen him with LaCroix, had judged them as equals in mind, even if 
Dorian had the weaker will.  She knew that LaCroix could devise the most 
interesting torments, for discipline and amusement.  She'd learned quickly not 
to thwart him and to obey his every command without hesitation . . . if there 
was ever was the slightest possibility of being caught in disobedience. 
     And she wondered what the next few nights would be like, if Dorian's 
ingenuity matched his intelligence.
     By the beginning of the sixth hour, Janette sat huddled against the 
headboard of the bed, shaking, each snap or crack sending an uncontrollable 
shudder through her.  Had she been mortal, she would have been branded as one 
possessed by a demon.  By the seventh hour, she'd made it a point to hum 
loudly to herself, to drown out the sounds.  It was of little use, of course, 
but it gave her something to do.  Until she found herself changing her tunes 
to the crackle of the bones.
     It was in the middle of the seventh hour that the curtain at the doorway 
billowed lightly.  Janette sat up on the bed, her hands clasped around her 
knees, knowing that it was time she was fed and looking forward to the 
diversion.
     The Enforcer--a different one from the night before--sauntered into the 
room, followed by a large loutish man, who was very obviously drunk.  The man 
grinned at the sight of her, revealing a mouth filled with missing or rotted 
teeth, then turned and cuffed the Enforcer on the shoulder.  "She's mine, 
then?"
     Janette's eyes met the Enforcer's, his look letting her know in no 
uncertain terms who was predator and who prey.  Only then did the Enforcer 
give the man a slight nod, then turned his back, disappearing again to the 
outer room, guarding her door.
     The man spoke a local dialect--strange to her hearing but not 
incomprehensible.  Janette decided to play the fool for a moment.  Sliding 
from the bed, on the side opposite him, she let her features appear frightened 
and sputtered brief query, in French.
     "Come here, pretty," said the man, reaching across the bed, trying to 
grab her.
     She slipped away, but backed herself into a corner intentionally and 
turned her head aside as one of the breezes that ran through the room carried 
his scent to her.  The lout smelled of beer and sweat and dirt . . . but not 
fear.
     That would come later.
     Janette cowered in the corner as he stalked toward her, intent on 
capturing her.  Those large, callused and dirt-stained hands pawed at the 
front of her dress, the fingers gripping the cloth as if to rend it, his mouth 
open and searching to capture her own.
     His breath was more rotten even than the stench of the filth that covered 
him.  Before his heart could beat twice, Janette grabbed the front of his 
tunic and spun him around, pinning him in the corner.  She snarled, fangs 
sharp and ready, then reveled in that first moment of confusion.  He was 
bewildered, then just as quickly realized that he'd been tricked into his 
doom.  Before he could begin to beg for mercy, she stared deeply into his 
eyes, caught hold of the beating of his heart and slowed it, concentrating.  
The less she had to touch him, the better--he was so grimy.
     He was still in a moment, transfixed and held immobile, but still knowing 
that his life was at an end.  It amused her to think that he'd had the tables 
turned on him in this way.  The beast had met his better . . . and a woman 
yet!  She let him revel in that thought for a moment, before bending her head 
and baring his neck.
     Snap.
     The noise distracted her.  Janette turned her head at the sound and 
closed her eyes, knowing the source.  Her grip on his tunic loosened slightly, 
her mind elsewhere.
     The beast pushed at her with his clammy hands and ran for the door.  It 
was only a matter of thought for her to scramble to her feet and be there 
before he could move more than three steps.  She advanced on him, holding his 
gaze.  He had the presence of mind to continue to back away, stumbling over 
one of the iron chairs and falling with it, landing with a cry.
     Snap.
     The sound had come not from the other room, but from the lout--his leg 
was twisted at an awkward angle and he bellowed in pain, evoking the help of 
God and any saints he could remember, his prayers interspersed with curses and 
foul language.
     It was too much noise after so much silence--with a stare, she silenced 
him.  "You cannot speak," she said firmly, pushing away the chair to reach 
him, as he sprawled on the floor.  "You will make no sound . . . ."
     His lips closed, eyes fixed on hers.  But she saw the fear and pain in 
his eyes.  He held himself still, not only because of her gaze, but because 
the movement would jar the leg that had broken.
     This time, the distant 'snap' didn't distract her.  Janette was able to 
identify it immediately, having heard the sound only moments before--a shin 
bone had been broken.  And then, she decided, she would know what the other 
sounds had been, for each was different in the tone and timbre.  Before her 
was the perfect opportunity to pursue her studies.
     It took not so much effort to crack a finger and the noise was small and 
brittle, like the breaking of a twig.  The lower arm proved to be difficult 
and the upper arm more so--but she guessed that was due to the farmer's beefy 
physique.  The thigh was thick and heavy; it splintered under her pressure.
     That last almost cost her the hold she had over him.  In obeying her 
edict to remain quiet, he emitted only strangled sounds as she explored the 
breaking of his bones.  When she finished each one, she would look into his 
eyes, reading the pain she found there, able to match each new veil of anguish 
with a limb or a rib or a finger.
     It was when he began to choke and she saw blood foam at the corners of 
his mouth that she realized he'd bitten off his own tongue.  But by that 
point, it didn't matter--he was no more than a mass of broken flesh.  The 
scent of his blood overcame her reason.  Her vision clouded with red, she dove 
toward his neck and tore into him, taking the blood greedily, wantonly.  There 
was a lot of him to savor, due to his size, and she took her time in draining 
him.
     When Janette finally stumbled to her feet, she discovered the dress she 
was wearing was spattered with blood and bits of flesh.  It disgusted her--
with a swipe of her nails she tore the laces from their pinnings, shredding 
the dress and letting the pieces fall about the room.  Wearing only her shift, 
she made her way to the bed and wrapped herself in a coverlet, all the while 
hearing the snap and crack of bones.  There were no uneven pauses now, as dawn 
grew closer.  Bones were broken and broken again, in rapid succession.
     Sliding to the floor from the bed and wrapped in the coverlet, Janette 
let her head rest against the feather cushioned mattress and listened.  Now 
she knew what each sound meant.  In her mind's eye she could see a finger 
wrenched, then left broken and hanging limply, askew.  The rattle of a chain 
and a thunderous crack led her to envision a shin snapped cleanly.
     The blood trailed down her face--for having fed so well she could afford 
to spare the tears--but she made no sound.  For LaCroix made none.  His lips 
would speak no words, no signal of surrender, even as his body was broken in 
pieces.
     Janette could not have said when the sounds ended.  Her tears didn't 
stop.  Nor did any sobs begin.  She waited in silence for what seemed the 
longest of eternities and yet could not have been more than a span of minutes.
     The rustle of the curtain drew her attention, but she barely moved, 
turning her head slightly so that she might see him.
     He'd changed his tunic--there was less embroidery on this one, although 
it was quilted all in black.  The blood spattered upon it, both crimson-fresh 
and rust-dried, blended into the dark background like some haphazard design.  
If the morning before he'd been weary, he now seemed fresh and confident, 
surveying the room with a frown.
     "Are you done with that?" he asked, standing over the remains of the 
farmer.
     Janette raised her hand wearily, dismissing the body.  Dorian had only to 
glance at the doorway that led to the outer chamber and the Enforcer returned.  
He reached down, grabbed the leg of the corpse, then stopped as it flopped 
limply in his grasp.  He stared down at it for a moment, then raised his eyes 
to her, not moving from his stooped position.  She met that gaze as evenly as 
she could.  And the Enforcer smiled at her, before dragging the body from the 
room.  She might have imagined the soft chuckle . . . or she might not.  
     Dorian seemed to have heard nothing.  He stalked over to her, then 
reached down a hand.  Janette took hold of it and let him draw him to her 
feet, her other hand still clasping the blanket around her.  Her steps were 
unsteady, but she refused to lean on Dorian, her hand resting on his arm with 
the lightness of courtesy, nothing more.  With one movement he righted the 
heavy overturned chair, then he fixed the cushion.
     Janette seated herself, then watched him as he sat down in the other 
chair.  For a long time, nothing was said.  He simply stared off into the 
distance.
     And then, finally, Dorian seemed to remember that she was present.  "I 
hope you've fed well," he said, in a proper tone.  "Is everything to your 
liking?"
     Giving a light sigh, Janette shrugged her shoulders, then arranged the 
blanket around her.  Suddenly, Dorian stood over her, his hands fastened to 
either arm of the metal chair, forcing her back.  "Answer me!" he demanded.  
"I want to hear a voice other than my own in this damned place.  Answer me!"
     Janette, startled by the sudden outburst, shielded her face with her 
hand, fearing that he'd strike her.  His dark and angry eyes followed the 
movement of the blanket as it fell from her, exposing her shoulder and breast.  
Releasing his hold on the chair, he turned his back to her quickly.  "Your 
pardon, Lady."  When she gave no answer, he glanced back at her over his 
shoulder.  "Lady--your dress . . . ?"
     Very slowly, Janette replaced the edge of the blanket, covering her 
breasts, but remaining silent.  
     "Will you say <nothing>?" Dorian asked, voice taut, but steady.  "Even 
out of courtesy?"
     She'd fixed her gaze on the edge of the blanket, her fingers running 
along a frayed bit.  "You can't win."
     "How can you be so certain?"  Dorian moved to stand beside her chair, 
leaning his weight back against the table and the gaming board that rested 
there.  "He's only a vampire, like any other.  True, he has time on his side . 
. . but that doesn't make him indestructible."
     She'd glanced up at him only for a moment, then turned her attention back 
to the edge of the blanket, hiding her smile.  "He's LaCroix.  He'll destroy 
you long before you break him."
     "I've broken him many times, as you've heard."
     "Only his bones.  He's more than that.  Much more."
     His hand rested on her naked shoulder as he leaned down toward her.  "We 
shall see, Lady," Dorian whispered.  He grasped her hand, lightly pulling her 
fingers from the blanket, then pressed his lips against her knuckles.  "He'll 
speak by the next sunrise.  Then he can tell me himself how much more he might 
be."
     The blanket had fallen away again, but Janette made no move to cover 
herself, nor did Dorian look away from her.  "How can you be so certain?" she 
said, echoing his words in a sharp tone.
     He smiled, his eyes dark, but red embers danced within them.  "Because 
even the oldest of us knows enough to fear the flame.  It finds us, even in 
the darkness.  Until tomorrow."
     Janette watched him as he left, then sat staring at the doorway a long 
time, even well past the rising of the sun.  She knew Dorian couldn't destroy 
LaCroix.  But she was sure there was something that she'd missed.  He was too 
confident, too sure of himself.
     Rising to her feet, she walked the distance to the bed, her steps slow 
across the blood-stained carpet.  No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't 
seem reach LaCroix with her thoughts.  He was there--Janette could feel his 
presence as if he stood beside her.  But his thoughts were closed to her.  And 
as often as she pleaded for a response, demanded to know how he fared, she 
received no answer.
     It made no difference after a time, for she fell asleep amongst the 
tangle of blankets and cushions.  Her dreams were dark and filled with rivers 
of blood, until she sat bolt upright in bed, panic tightening her throat and 
her heart missing a beat.
     Fire!
     The word sang through her blood and her mind, feeding fear.  But as she 
looked around hurriedly, terrified that she'd find the room in flames and the 
bedclothes alight, she discovered that she was safe.  In this place of stone, 
only the furnishings would burn and they were sparse enough.  There was no 
flame other than the tiny flicker of new candles--replaced and lit while she'd 
slept.  Swallowing that sudden gasp of terror that had brought a sheen of 
sweat to her skin, Janette placed her bare foot over the edge of the bed--then 
froze.
     The breeze and her exceptional hearing brought her more than she would 
have wished--the sudden sizzle of hot metal to flesh and the smell of burned 
meat.  Neither lasted long, seconds only, but her eyes opened wide and her 
stomach flipped as she knew instantly what that night would hold for LaCroix.
     He was being burned.
     Branded, perhaps, would be a better word.  It mattered little whether 
they employed tongs or a poker or an iron belt--she'd seen each used in its 
own time and they all had same end, to burn flesh.  If Dorian could not set 
LaCroix alight and dissolve him into ash, he could brand and burn the flesh 
from his body, only to let him heal and then burn him again.
     Dragging the blankets with her, Janette sunk to the floor beside the bed, 
shaking. Again, there was no pattern to be followed, no constant so that she 
might count and know that from one to one hundred she wouldn't smell the 
burned flesh, hear the searing of the metal against skin.  The acts were 
random in occurrence and duration--sometimes being no more than a touch and 
sometimes the metal being left to burn and sizzle the flesh until it became 
cold and needed the coals to heat it again.  Unbidden, her mind reached for 
LaCroix, needing to know how he fared, how he could endure such a horror.
     She expected no response, but found, this time, a wall with which he'd 
seemed to have surrounded himself.  It was not something of earth or stone, 
but a construct of his mind and will.  Closing her eyes, she tested it, 
feeling a heat from it that had little to deal with the sizzle of the pokers 
against his flesh--it was the pain and anger that he kept within himself.  She 
realized then that he'd spoken to her mind as she slept, which was how she 
knew what to say to Dorian, how to act, how to test the Archivist's defenses.  
But now, when LaCroix was being tested, he'd shut himself off from her and all 
else.
     Curiosity led her to linger in that strange realm, walled off from him 
and yet sensing so much of what he was, as if only beginning to know the scope 
of him for the first time.  Even more clearly than before, Janette could sense 
the heat of the metal as it was brought near, heard the sounds of the brand 
against his skin, the ripping as it pulled away blacked strips of flesh . . . 
but she could feel no pain.  The sound alone was real, building the image in 
her mind, made stronger by her presence just beyond LaCroix's own will.  She 
almost felt that she should see the embers flaring in the brazier, the bright 
sparks as they flew from the hot metal bands and strips.  The Enforcers were 
there--there was a sense of strong hands pinning his body back against the 
cool of the stone wall.  Beyond that, somewhere in the darkness, was Dorian.
     There were no questions, because none were needed.  He was waiting for a 
plea for mercy, a word that was not a sound of anguish or pain.   And Janette 
knew, finding a sense of pride in her certitude, that LaCroix would not give 
him even that much.  There'd be no grunts or moans or cries of anger or 
frustration or weakness.  LaCroix would remain silent, trapped behind the wall 
he'd built of his will.  Janette lingered there, wondering that she could know 
so much, and still not see.
     But how could she see, when the first thing they'd burned had been his 
eyes . . . ?
     It was <his> thought, not hers.  Her gasp of horror was brushed aside by 
a sudden flare of anger, as LaCroix realized that she was present.  A sound 
that was not a sound thundered from beyond the wall, forcing her away.  And as 
she fled back to herself, she felt part of the wall begin to give, to buckle 
beneath this unexpected assault that had come not from Dorian, but from her.
     Some part of what he'd held back escaped from that inner prison.  His 
lips stayed sealed and it traveled through his mind, chasing her.  She'd only 
just returned to herself, only opened her eyes and grasped the blankets strewn 
on the floor around her, when that smallest piece of what he'd endured found 
her, breathing fire along the lines of thought and mind and all else that 
connected them.
     The pain was bright, and hot, and white, like the light of the sun.  She 
was blinded by it and could not see, although her eyes were full open.  Her 
lips parted and she drew in a sharp breath, then a longer breath.  Even as 
some part of her mind heard the sizzle of flesh and the rattle of chains, 
another was turned to ash by that sudden sliver of agony that had escaped 
LaCroix's will and overwhelmed her.  There was no way to drown out one or the 
other or both.  It could only be endured.
     That's when she drew the third and longest breath.
     That's when she began to scream . . . .


     The sound was harsh, and shrill, and high-pitched.  It stopped when she 
drew in a breath and started again after the air filled her lungs, but Janette 
found sought no connection between the two occurrences.  Her eyes were closed, 
but she could see that blue-white fire of memory.  Her fingers and nails tore 
at her dress, at her skin, at her hair, at the sheets and blankets that 
surrounded her, but she took no notice.  There was only the screaming, to 
drown out the sounds of the blazing iron, the pain that flooded through her, 
and the fury she'd glimpsed from LaCroix as she'd nearly caused him to lose 
everything.
     There was an arm around her, someone shook her, shouted her name, but 
still she screamed, again stopping only to fill her lungs with air.  The 
dream, the memories, had engulfed her.  There was no escape from the past.  In 
shrieking, she might keep it at bay, keep it from going further.
     Even a hard slap against her face, a blow that raised a welt on her 
cheek, gave her only a second's pause before she drew in breath again.  Her 
throat was raw but she screamed all the louder, ignoring the sudden pain, 
unseeing and unhearing.
     But as she tried to fill her lungs another time, something had changed.  
There were lips against hers, cutting off the sound and the air.  Janette 
could not open her eyes, couldn't escape from the dream that easily, but held 
onto the reality of that mouth and that kiss.  She tasted the lips that 
battered her own, the shape and the touch being so familiar they reached her 
even through the dream.
     And even more was known to her--the arms around her that were strong and 
well-muscled, the cheek with a growth of stubble--though she'd known it clean 
shaven and fully bearded as well--that rubbed against her own, the chest 
against which she rested . . . .  It was then she realized that her eyes had 
opened.  But she closed them again, finding solace in the red-black darkness, 
her fingers seeing through touch and ripping down through the buttons on the 
shirt of his black silk pajamas, so that she could snuggle against his chest, 
touch his flesh.
     Nicola rocked her in his arms, soothing her with soft noises, touching 
his lips to hers and then trailing kisses down her neck and along her bare 
shoulders.  But she couldn't be comforted so easily.  She traced her fingers 
along the lines of the muscles of his chest by memory alone, kissed the soft 
skin of his neck and behind his ear, her lips lingering no more than a second 
before moving elsewhere.  And all the while she murmured, "Save me, Nicola.  
Take away my memories.  Take away the past.  Save me from the nightmare, my 
<chevalier>.  Save me . . . ."
     There was no defining moment, no one instant when his kisses and caresses 
changed from comforting to passionate.  She'd torn her dress and his hands 
ripped it further, discovering her breasts.  His pajama top was shed easily 
enough and Janette opened her eyes and kissed the skin of his neck and 
shoulder, knowing what to touch and where and how often.
     It was all a tumble of flesh and silk and cloth, each caressed or 
shredded in a fashion.  When she dug her nails into his back, he snarled in 
response, grabbing her wrist and pinning it back over her head.  There was no 
anger in the gold eyes that stared down at her, no harsh words from the lips 
that pinned hers, fangs nipping at her flesh.  Janette reveled in the sense of 
it, the reality of it, his passionate growls drowning out the sound of 
screaming that still rang in her ears.
     There were seconds when she felt almost removed from herself, some part 
of her mind taking note of the event, as if chronicling the moment from a 
distance of time.  During their first nights together--centuries ago--he'd 
been less than a gentle lover and there was something of that desperate 
fierceness within him still.  It might have been her fear that drove him to 
such a frenzy--she could smell her own terror and it made her teeth ache in 
anticipation, heightened her yearning for blood.  Or it might simply have been 
that he missed the touch of her hand and the closeness of her body as much as 
she missed his.
     Whatever the case, she took her joy from him as she best knew how, 
tasting his flesh and his sweat, nipping at his chest and his arms, growling 
and snarling in answer to his challenge.  She could have laughed in abandon, 
the sameness of him, the close comfort of his weight upon her, his breath on 
her chest and her cheek bringing to mind memories of a thousand days and 
nights when everything had been different . . . and yet not so different.
     Janette's eyes closed tightly as she felt his lips at her throat, then 
his teeth sank into her flesh, that sharp and sweet second of pain followed by 
the rush of ecstasy as he drew her blood, drank all that she was and had ever 
been.  She couldn't stop herself--not even pausing to tickle his ear or tug at 
his hair as had been her way--before biting into his throat, her teeth sinking 
deep and hard enough to raise a gasp from him, amidst his growls of pleasure.
     His blood was finer than she remembered--tasting of iron salt and 
thundering power.  If, perhaps, there was an aftertaste of cow--<that> 
couldn't be allowed to continue--there was still enough of him to make the 
rest of it his own.  She let the sensations slice through her, a fiery flood 
which carried his memories in its wake.  Oddly enough, the disconnected images 
were mostly of her over their many years together; throwing pottery at him, 
scolding him for having torn the cloak she'd just mended, her lips and body 
against his during the warm summer day, as they huddled together in darkness, 
hiding from the light . . . . 
     His blood sated her hunger, the memories fed her ego, and her body 
shuddered with and against him as that brilliant, white-hot flash drove 
through them--the one light not denied them by the darkness they'd embraced.  
All else ceased to be for that one, eternal moment.
     Then . . . not so eternal, as it came to an end.  She withdrew her fangs 
from his neck and kissed the skin there, her tongue flicking to catch the 
small beads of blood before they disappeared, even as the angry wounds she'd 
torn with her teeth began to heal.
     Nicola rested against her, his weight pinning her, his breath tickling 
her ear as the last of those final tremors traveled through him.  She raised 
her free hand to stroke his hair, as she let those softer sensations run 
through her as well, following each through the connection that bound them 
until they faded away.  Caressing the hand he'd pinned back over her head, 
Nicola rested on his stomach, chin propped on his folded arms, and watched 
her.
     Janette regarded him through lowered lashes as he kissed the inside of 
her wrist, the bruise from his fingers already beginning to fade.  "<You> are 
a beast," she said softly.
     "I am," he admitted, voice still hoarse.  "And I'm sorry.  I'd . . . 
forgotten."
     "Ummm, your memory loss seems to have been selective.  You managed to get 
everything in the right order, at least."  She pulled her hand back from him 
and traced a line down his nose, then played with the hair behind his ear.  
     Nicola ducked his head, then punched up one of the pillows.  He raised 
himself enough so that she could lean against his shoulder.  "No complaints, 
then?"
     "Other than the fact that you ruined my dress?"  Janette looked down to 
where it should have been, found herself more skin than satin, and dropped her 
head against his chest with a sigh.  "You'll pay for it, of course."
     "I don't doubt that.  In cash or kind or trade?"
     She pretended to ignore his meaning and his grin, brushing a lock of hair 
from her neck.  "We'll see.  Although I may forgive you."  Through half-
lowered lids, she looked up at him curiously.  "You've been thinking about 
me."
     "I have," he said, after a pause.  But then his blue eyes met her gaze in 
a challenge.  "You were having nightmares about LaCroix's interview.  And 
Dorian."
     Closing her eyes, she shuddered and turned her back to him, but Nicola 
moved closer to her and placed his arm over her.  "It's all right," he 
whispered, as she nibbled at her fingernail nervously.  "You're safe.  I'm 
here."
     "Yes.  For now."  The words sounded so cold and so bitter that she wished 
instantly she could take them back--it was enough to have him for now, wasn't 
it?  She'd settled for less in the past.  And there was always the future, 
once he got over this thing about wanting to fit into the mortal world.
     Janette let her weight lean against him, just to let him know that she 
wasn't trying to shut him out.  She felt something smooth slip along her body 
and realized that Nicola was covering her with what was left of his bedsheet.  
"What are you doing?"
     "You need to sleep."
     Panic rose in her throat at the thought of dreaming again.  Her eyes shot 
open and she choked out a strangled, "No!" before she managed to gain control 
of her fear.  
     His arms moved instantly around her and Nicola hugged her close.  "You 
need to sleep," he said softly.  "It's almost noon."
     Janette closed her eyes and shook her head angrily.  "No.  I'll only 
dream again.  There's so much more--"  Before the images could reach her, she 
opened her eyes, then turned in his arms to look at him.  "You have to work 
tonight, yes?  I'll only wake you.  I'll go downstairs."
     She moved to slip off the bed, but his arm encircled her waist, holding 
her there.  "I'll stay here with you," he promised.  "I'll chase away your 
memories."
     Janette arched an eyebrow and glanced back at him, over her shoulder.  
"You know very well that if you are here and I am here . . . you are <not> 
going to get any sleep."
     "We could try."
     His eyes were all innocence, his smile so utterly childlike and 
disarming.  When would she ever have another opportunity like this?  And there 
were still those memories, waiting to run their course, to take her back 
through all of those nights of horror . . . .
     Suppressing a shudder, Janette grabbed the blanket from the bottom of the 
bed, tossed it over the sheet, then slipped beside Nicola, her head on the 
pillow and her back toward him.  She grabbed his arm and held it around her, 
telling herself that the dreams wouldn't dare disturb her while she rested in 
his arms.
     "Better?" he asked, his lips brushing against her ear.
     "Ummmm."  Janette snuggled against the pillow.  "Yes, thank you."  She 
closed her eyes, but then opened them again when she felt his hand stroking 
her breast.  "Nicola?"
     "Yes?"
     "We are going to try to sleep."
     "Yes."
     He agreed readily enough, but his hand continued to breeze lightly along 
her skin, sending shivers through her.  Quite deliberately, she caught hold of 
his hand and clasped it between both of her own, then closed her eyes and 
settled her head on the pillow again.  Trying to find a comfortable position, 
she brushed against him . . . .
     Her eyes shot open. "Nicola!"
     "I'm trying.  Really."  
     She knew better, of course.  And so, she waited.  It was only a moment 
later that his hand escaped from hers and ran down the length of her flank, 
beneath the sheets.  Then he pressed his lips against the skin of her 
shoulder-blades.
     "You're being naughty," she warned.
     He'd begun to nibble the back of her neck.  She could feel the edges of 
his fangs scrape against her skin.  "I <do> owe you for the dress," he 
reminded her.  Then his hands began to roam farther afield.
     When Janette found herself purring in response to his caresses, she 
decided that it wasn't really worth the effort to protest any longer.  Turning 
toward him, she rested on her back and gave a small sigh of annoyance.  "Oh, 
very well."  Pursing her lips, she narrowed her eyes and regarded him 
carefully.  "Just how much <have> you forgotten about me?"
     Not many moments later, she found herself extremely grateful for that 
perfect vampiric memory with which she'd found fault not so long before . . . 
.

CHAPTER 14 
            
      Natalie leaned on the end table.  Wincing, she stood on one foot, 
bending back her other knee in an attempt to put on her shoe.  It was mid-
afternoon, but the blankets over the windows meant the apartment was still 
dark.  She didn't want to turn on a light, afraid of waking Dorian, and she'd 
spent the last twenty minutes finding out how little she knew about where her 
furniture <really> was.
     With a sigh, she managed to get her foot into her shoe without tearing 
her hose, then did a quick mental rundown of everything she needed; keys were 
on the table, purse on the floor by the door, the note Nick had given her was 
in her bag along with the forensics results--she wasn't sure whether she was 
going to dock Nick for the box of brownies she'd used as a bribe.  The bedroom 
door was closed; Sidney had been fed, watered, and fussed over--he was still 
irritated that she'd been ignoring him and she was fairly certain that he'd 
end up with a new scratching post by the time this was over.  And maybe a 
catnip toy or something . . . .
     "Natalie?"
     She stopped, her hand reaching for her keys, as she heard Dorian's voice 
and the rustle of the blankets on the couch.  Of course she couldn't see a 
damned thing because it was pitch black and she didn't have vampire eyesight.
     Although Dorian did.  And for some reason she felt a chill run down her 
spine when she realized that he could see her perfectly.
     "Go back to sleep," she said softly.  "It's only afternoon."
     As if in answer to her fears, the light clicked on.  She blinked, blinded 
momentarily, her hand reaching out to the table to steady herself.  Dorian 
hadn't moved far from the couch--he'd reached up to click on the light switch 
of the halogen lamp.  "You're going to work?" he asked, his fist rubbing the 
sleep from his eyes.  "But . . . you've just gotten back."
     Natalie knew she wasn't going to be able to slip away as quietly or 
quickly as she'd hoped.  She walked back to the couch and stood over him 
shaking her head.  "That was a while ago.  I got a good five hours in."
     "That's not enough for mortals.  You're supposed to need eight."
     "And <you're> supposed to be asleep."  Reaching over, she pulled the 
blanket higher, and frowned at him.  Dorian's purchases had included a 
dressing gown and the ugliest plaid pajamas she'd ever seen.  He'd changed 
into them while she'd been gone and when she'd returned from work she found 
that he'd cleaned up the dinner dishes, despite her warnings to the contrary.
     He'd also been face down on her living room carpet and white as a sheet.  
It took her a few seconds to work up enough nerve to wake him and having a 
plastic bag of blood on hand hadn't been all that bad of an idea.  Dorian had 
torn into the bag with his fangs, drained it in seconds, then gone through 
four more before he'd even stopped to breathe or acknowledge her presence.
     She'd made him drink as much of the blood she'd brought home as he could, 
then packed him off to sleep again before seeking the sanctuary and oblivion 
of her own bed--not even bothering to lock her bedroom door, this time.  But 
he hadn't disturbed her.   Natalie was used to working odd shifts and all she 
really needed was a solid few hours of uninterrupted maintenance sleep.  She'd 
hoped to sneak out to her early evening shift without waking him.
     No such luck.  He stared up at her, dark eyes still hazy with sleep.  And 
there was a spot of red on the side of his face--some dried blood.
     She resisted doing the spit thing and wiping the mark off him.  Instead, 
she settled for resting the back of her hand against his cheek and was pleased 
to find that his skin was warmer and not so clammy.  The gray tint was gone 
and even though he was still pale, it wasn't as bad as that pasty color that 
had so alarmed her before.  "How do you feel?"
     "Better.  Not so hungry."
     "If you need some, I've got it in the fridge.  And <don't> try to put the 
bags in the microwave--they'll melt.  Neither of us is up to dealing with 
cleaning that goop."  Natalie pulled her hand back from his face, shuddering 
slightly at the thought of having to mess with melted plastic and microwaved 
blood.  "I've been thinking--maybe the best thing for you is dialysis."  When 
Dorian stared at her blankly, she smiled.  "I think there's a portable unit I 
could get my hands on--it'll clean your blood and then we'll pump it back into 
you.  It won't be pleasant, but it might be a good way of getting the garlic 
out of your system."
     "Dialysis."  He tried the word as if tasting it, and frowned.  "Will it 
take long?"
     "My shift gets off early tonight.  I could probably bring the unit home 
with me.  We could hook you up tomorrow."
     He shook his head slightly--he wasn't really awake yet.  "I don't know--"
     "We'll talk about it later.  Until then, you stay put.  The only reason I 
want you off this couch is if you need a drink . . . and then it's right back 
under the covers when you're finished.  All right?"
     "Yes.  All right."  He reached up to catch her hand, then rubbed his eyes 
with his other hand again.  "Are you all right?"
     Deciding not to mention her brief bout with nausea--which she'd 
determined <had> to have been from the chicken--Natalie shook her head.  "I'm 
fine.  Don't worry, I'm used to these kind of shifts."
     "And caring for wounded vampires?"
     "It's a habit I'd rather not get into.  If you'd stop beating the hell 
out of one another, maybe you wouldn't need my help."  On impulse, she leaned 
down and kissed his forehead, then ruffled his hair slightly with her hand.  
"Now put out the light and go to sleep."
     "Not until you've gone."
     She walked toward the door, pausing at the table to pick up her keys and 
her purse.  "Don't tell me a big, bad vampire like you is afraid of the dark?"
     "I'm afraid you'll fall and hurt yourself.  It's bad enough"--he yawned--
"you'll have a bruise on your shin from banging into the chair."
     "I think you're right."  She reached down and touched the tender spot 
just below her right knee and winced slightly.  "Grace'll spot it in a minute.  
And she'll want all the gory details--she won't be satisfied with me stumbling 
over a chair in the dark.  Hey--"  Natalie straightened and glanced over at 
him, eyes narrowing.  "How'd you know about that?  You were sleeping."
     Dorian slid further down the pillow, as if trying to hide from her.  "I 
heard you."
     "Oh."  She smiled sheepishly.  "Guess I was a little louder than I 
thought."
     "A little," admitted Dorian. "Such language . . . ."
     "Well, you know what they say, 'Use it or lose it.'"  He raised an 
eyebrow at the comment and she felt her face go warm.  Natalie shifted her 
purse on her arm and cleared her throat.  "I'm at the door--so turn off the 
light and <go> <to> <sleep>."
     She used her best 'don't mess with me, I've got a scalpel' voice, which 
she'd found usually worked with Nick.  It seemed to work just as well with 
Dorian, because he reached up and clicked out the light.  She opened the door 
just enough to get through, not wanting the daylight in the hallway to reach 
him, then heard him settle down beneath the blanket on the couch.  "Sweet 
dreams," she called softly, then closed the door.
     "Of you."
     The words reached her as she locked the door from the outside.  Natalie 
froze, her hand on the key, knowing there was no way she could have heard 
Dorian through the door, no matter how loudly he'd spoken. Still, she managed 
to get the key out of the door and place it in her pocket.  Her hand <wasn't> 
shaking.  
     At least . . . not much.
     She walked down the steps, out of the building, and to her car on 
automatic pilot.  It was when she opened the car door and the lingering smell 
of garlic hit her that Natalie finally let herself feel the knot in her 
throat.  Turning, she leaned against the car and looked across the street.
     It was only mid-afternoon.  The sun was shining and it was warm enough 
for her to be out without a coat.  Traffic on her street was light--it would 
get a little heavier in a few hours, when people with normal nine-to-five jobs 
headed home from work.  In fact, 'normal' was the operative word.  People 
strolled along the streets, going from here to there, some carrying bags or 
books or briefcases, or holding children by the hand on the way to a park or 
playground or store.
     For a moment, she found herself angered by this, by the fact that 
everything could be so normal when her own life had turned been turned upside 
down.  Not that she hadn't chosen her way of life--odd shifts, particularly 
night shifts, were part of her job.  She liked her job.  And she was good at 
it.
     She'd never asked to have a vampire sit up on her autopsy table, but 
she'd had a choice in that, too--she could have walked away.  And she hadn't.  
Because it was something new.  Because it was a mystery she wanted to solve.  
Because . . . it was Nick.
     That last reason had only begun to make sense over the past two years.  
She'd spent time with him, learned a lot about him, and realized just how much 
more there was to learn.  Step by step, she'd wandered into some pretty 
strange and dangerous territory following Nick.  How had she gone so far 
without noticing what was happening?  How had she wandered so far away from 
the mid-afternoon, and the traffic, and the people doing ordinary things on an 
ordinary day?
     How could she <still> be bound to Dorian?
     It explained so much--her headache when he'd been beaten, her queasiness 
when he'd fainted this morning, how he seemed to know what she was thinking, 
know what she was feeling.  She'd been flattered and impressed by the fact 
that he'd known her so well, closer than anyone else had ever come to 
understanding her.  Nick had never . . . but that was Nick.  She'd begun to 
think that Dorian might have been <the> someone she'd been meant to spend some 
time with.  That maybe, if he'd been mortal, things could have been different.  
Although, if she thought about it, his knowledge of her had also been 
frighteningly accurate, terrifying it its own way.  How could she not have 
known?
     Or <had> she known and Dorian had somehow hidden it from her?  Had he 
erased it, manipulated her mind in such a way that there was no way for her to 
tell the difference between her own thoughts and the ones he planted in her 
head . . . or even that the thoughts she had weren't all hers? 
     Natalie sat behind the wheel of the car and closed the door.  After 
putting on her seatbelt, she opened her purse and pulled out the note Nick had 
asked her to check.  She was going to drop it by the loft before she went to 
work and had thought about telling him that Dorian was here.
     Now, she didn't really have any choice.  She <had> to tell Nick about 
Dorian.  In any case, he'd probably know the instant he looked into her eyes.  
She'd need his help this time, even more than that last time in the loft.  She 
knew she couldn't do it on her own.  Especially not after she'd kissed Dorian, 
seen what he was, what he could do to her . . . and <not> pulled away.
     Making the decision helped.  It gave her purpose, gave her a center.  And 
knowing that she had to get the note to Nick, and the lab results--not that 
they'd help him much-- steadied her a little more.
     It was only when she'd parked outside his apartment and headed for the 
elevator that she had second thoughts.  Natalie's hand stopped just short of 
punching in the keycode.  He might be sleeping.  If he was, she didn't want to 
disturb him--he'd said he was sleeping on the couch while Janette was there 
and the elevator made so much noise.  If she went up the back stairs, she 
could see if he was up and around yet.  If he was, they'd talk.  If he wasn't, 
she'd drop off the note and then catch him later, leave a message with the 
station to have him stop by.  She'd had her fill of dealing with sleepy 
vampires.
     Note in hand, she used her key to get in through the garage entrance, 
then made her way to the steps and the kitchen door.  The key stayed in her 
hand as she walked past the Caddy and up the stairs.  Natalie glanced down at 
the tag on the keychain--it was a freebie given out by some orange juice 
company, the picture being a bright yellow, smiling sun . . . wearing 
sunglasses.  
     As she fitted the key into the door, she wondered again if he'd given her 
that keychain on purpose or whether it was something he'd just had on hand 
when he'd thought to give her the keys.  She had a sneaking suspicion he'd 
gotten it from Schanke's desk.  It was just the sort of thing Schanke would 
have cluttering up his desk drawers.  It still amazed her that they hadn't 
transferred Schanke's desk to the ninety-sixth precinct, along with its 
contents.  Nick said it had taken Schanke the better part of a week to empty 
the drawers and that they'd filled every waste-paper basket in the place with 
food wrappers and unused condiment packages.
     That was why she was smiling when she opened the kitchen door.  But then 
she remembered that Nick might be sleeping.  So Natalie walked over to the 
counter, dropping the note by the fish bowl--he <had> gotten a five gallon 
bowl and she didn't see the fish right away, but it was probably hiding out in 
the castle--then tiptoed to where she could see the couch.
     There were blankets, a sheet, and a pillow.  But no Nick.
     So he <was> up.
     With a sigh, she clutched her purse strap tighter, knowing that she 
wouldn't have the luxury of telling Nick her troubles in what she considered 
her own territory--the coroner's lab.  Her mouth was open as she turned, about 
to call his name.
     The sound of a feminine giggle from the second floor stopped her.  And 
that was followed by a low-throated growl and a laugh that was undeniably 
Nick's.
     Natalie turned her back and faced the shuttered windows.  She stood very 
stiff and straight, feeling . . . nothing.  It was a void, that sudden cold, 
emptiness inside her.  He'd said he was sleeping on the couch--he'd said--
     And Dorian had said that he'd released her from the bond.
     Before her mind began to work properly, before the shock had subsided, 
she heard a thump and another giggle from upstairs.  That was followed by 
words she couldn't quite distinguish, but the voice was very obviously 
Janette's.  Nick's reply was just as indecipherable, ending in another growl.
     She'd half-decided to make a mad dash for the kitchen door and was well 
on her way when Janette walked out of the bedroom wearing Nick's bathrobe.  
She closed the bedroom door behind her, then stopped as she saw Natalie, one 
eyebrow raised slightly in question, her hands reaching down to close the 
bathrobe and tie it tightly.
     Natalie also stopped.  She swallowed and opened her mouth, no quite 
knowing what she was going to say, but Janette held up a hand and touched a 
finger to her lips, giving a nod toward the bedroom.  Before Natalie could 
breathe, Janette was standing beside her, taking her arm and leading her to 
the refrigerator.
     "It isn't what you think," whispered Janette, so softly that Natalie 
almost couldn't hear her.  Dropping her grip on Natalie's arm, she opened the 
refrigerator door and took out two bottles, then walked over to the counter 
with them.
     Natalie followed her.  "Does it matter, what I think?"
     Their voices were still no more than whispers.  Janette glanced at her 
over her shoulder.  "I suppose not."  Her smile was sharp as she turned back 
to the bottles, pulling the corks out with her fingernails.  "And how <is> 
Dorian?"
     Natalie didn't mean to, but she drew in a sharp breath.  Janette gave a 
slight sigh, shaking her head, as she picked up the bottles.  "No, I haven't 
told Nick about him, if that's what--"
     Then Janette stopped.  And looked at her.  Her expression became very 
carefully blank as she stared into Natalie's eyes.  "So . . . it's that way, 
is it?"
     Natalie matched the sharp smile Janette had given her a moment before.  
"What way?"
     Taken aback for a moment, Janette glanced over her shoulder toward the 
second floor.  "Does Nick--?"  But then she looked back at Natalie.  "No.  He 
doesn't know, does he?"
     "I'm going to tell him."
     "Just like you've told him that Dorian's here?  Ah, don't worry.  I'll 
keep this secret for you--I seem to be making it a habit.  It brings us 
closer, having something to share, other than Nicola."
     Natalie took a breath, steeling herself.  "I <am> going to tell him.  
About Dorian."
     "I'm sure you will.  I suppose this makes things less complicated, 
doesn't it?  It's only a matter of time before you become a member of our 
little . . . club."  She picked up the bottles of blood, then raised one 
toward Natalie with a triumphant expression.  "Just a little hint--I don't 
know about Dorian, but Nick's <always> hungry . . . afterwards."  She took a 
step toward the stairway, then turned and widened her eyes.  "I assume you'll 
show yourself out?"
     Natalie knew there wasn't any point in answering.  She watched as Janette 
climbed the steps to the loft, a bottle in either hand.  Then Natalie very 
quietly walked to the kitchen door, locked it behind her, and headed down the 
steps into the garage.
     The key was still in her hand.  She quickly dismissed the impulse to 
scrape the key along the side of the Caddy as she passed.  It would have been 
fun . . . but childish.  And they were all adults, weren't they?  They could 
handle this in an adult fashion.
     By the time she'd reached her car, that hollow feeling inside her was 
slowly being filled by anger.  Natalie wrenched open her car door, got inside, 
then slammed the door shut behind her.  Damn him!  Damn him for lying!  
     She smacked her hand against the steering wheel and told herself she 
wasn't going to cry.  Her eyes burned and she closed them, then opened them 
again quickly, trying to force back the tears.  He wasn't worth it.  This 
wasn't worth it.  They <were> friends, after all.  Just friends.  Nick had 
made that very plain from the start.  And if she'd read more into it than 
that, thought that maybe it was what he was that made anything more 
impossible, well, that was her fau--
     No, it <wasn't> her fault.  Leaning back against the seat, Natalie ran 
the back of her hand across her mouth and pressed her knuckles to her lips.  
She swallowed, replaying in her mind the times she'd spent with Nick.  She 
might not have had the perfect recall of a vampire, but she could remember 
well enough.  And however much he might joke with her or laugh with her, there 
were times when he smiled, or simply looked at her . . . and it was there.  
She hadn't imagined it.  She hadn't imagined it at all.
     Damn him to hell!
     The keys for the loft were still in her hand.  Natalie very purposefully 
placed then into her coat pocket and withdrew her car keys.  She didn't have 
time for this.  She had to go to work.  She had to go to work and cut up 
bodies and record how they died and why they died and why the hell hadn't she 
walked away that night on the street, when Nick had tried to see whether she'd 
remembered who or what he was?
     She turned the key in the ignition, starting the car.  She'd go to work.  
And she'd pretend that nothing was wrong.  Grace would know, of course, in 
that way Grace had of knowing everything about anyone.  But she couldn't tell 
Grace the truth--gee, the guy I really happen to like a lot is a vampire and I 
walked in and found him biting his old girlfriend . . . even Grace wasn't 
<that> open minded.
     How could he?  How could he buy her gifts to make up for acting like an 
idiot, go to all the trouble of bringing the dance to her when everything had 
gone so very wrong between them, let her push him into bringing Richard across 
. . . how could he do all that, and then do something like this?  Not that she 
hadn't suspected that he and Janette had been more than an 'item' in the past.  
All you had to do was look twice at Janette to--
     It wasn't Janette's fault.  Natalie frowned as she paused the car at a 
red light, then rolled down the car window to let in air that didn't smell of 
garlic.  Much as she'd like to blame this all on Janette.  Or all on Nick.  Or 
all on herself.  Well, it <was> mostly Nick's fault . . . .
     Her thoughts ran around and around in circles, chasing one another.  She 
was hurt and angry and--she didn't know what else.  Then she heard that sharp, 
clear sound in her mind, like the ringing of a bell.  
     It was Dorian, trying to find her.
     The car swerved slightly to the right, but she recovered instantly from 
her panic, pulling the car to the side of the road.  Natalie leaned her 
forehead on the steering wheel and took a deep breath, then another, knowing 
that if she let the fear take hold of her, she'd start to hyperventilate.  She 
felt Dorian's concern, his need to know what was wrong with her, why she was 
so upset, his desire to comfort her, to make everything right.
     He wanted to take care of her.
     "Leave me alone," she whispered, grabbing the steering wheel tightly, 
until the  pattern imprinted itself upon the palms of her hands.  "Leave me 
alone.  Leave me alone.  Leave me <alone>!"
     She heard the slamming of a car door and sat up, then looked behind her.  
It was a police car--the uniformed officer was walking toward her.  Natalie 
hastily wiped the corners of her eyes with the tips of her fingers and cleared 
her throat.
     The officer approached the driver's side window, just as Natalie 
continued to roll it down the rest of the way.  "Excuse me, ma'am, is 
everything all right?"
     "Uh, fine. I thought I heard a noise in my engine.  Just had the 
transmission fixed and I didn't want to take any chances."
     "May I see your license?  And your registration, please?"
     "Of course."  Natalie reached over to the seat and slowly pulled her 
pocketbook toward her.  It was as she withdrew her wallet that she froze, 
suddenly remembering that she'd left the note and the lab report on the 
kitchen counter in Nick's loft.  Janette <might> keep her secret about Dorian, 
about her being bound, about her having been at the loft when . . . but if 
Nick found the note, he'd know she'd been there.
     "Ma'am?"
     "Sorry."  She faked a look at her wristwatch.  "Just realized I was going 
to be late for work."  Natalie opened her wallet and handed it to him, pulling 
out the car registration so he could see it.
     The officer looked not only at her registration, but at her police ID.  
"Dr. Lambert?  You're with the coroner's office."
     "We bag 'em, you nab 'em," she countered with a wide smile.
     The officer smiled in turn, as he handed the wallet back to her.  "You 
want to try your engine again?  If there's a problem, I can get you in to work 
and get someone from the police yard to tow you."
     "Let's give it a try."  Natalie dropped her wallet into her bag, then put 
her tongue between her teeth and turned the key in the ignition.  The engine 
started immediately.  And after a few seconds of letting it run, she shrugged 
and made a gesture toward the windshield.  "Sounds fine now.  Maybe I'm just 
not used to the new transmission.  Cars, y'know?"
     "Yeah."  The understanding nod from the policeman nearly drove her crazy-
-he'd tucked her in the pigeonhole marked 'women who didn't know one end of a 
car from another'--but he seemed to accept her explanation.  "You want me to 
follow you, just in case?"
     "No.  Thanks, anyway.  I'm just around the corner.  I'll have someone 
take a look at it for me."
     "All right.  You be careful--transmission's nothing to fool with."
     Natalie leaned her head out the window, calling, "Thanks for the help!"  
Then she rolled up the window and looked for an opening in traffic, muttering, 
"Transmission's nothing to fool with!  Chauvinistic, gun-toting, badge 
wearing--"
     She came up with a few more adjectives, repeating some of the words she'd 
used earlier when she'd nearly taken a header over that chair in the dark.  It 
was only when she'd parked her car that she realized she was no longer 
restricting herself to describing the police officer, but had expanded her 
invocation to include men, vampires, male vampires in particular, and Nick and 
Dorian, if she really wanted to get down to pinpoint accuracy.
     Calling them names didn't solve any of her problems, but it did make her 
feel a little better.  Ponderous paperwork remaining from the day's autopsies 
would be tonight's agenda and she almost welcomed the sheer monotony.  She 
needed something to take her mind off her troubles.  And maybe if she didn't 
think too hard, she'd find an answer.
     Damn him.
     Grace was just sitting down at her desk as Natalie entered the outer 
office.  "Long time no see.  Nobody's called in any more gang action."
     "Let's hope tonight's quiet--I'm going to try to cut my shift a little 
short."  Natalie draped her purse over her shoulder and headed into her lab.  
     "Um, hot date?" asked Grace, following her.
     "No."  Natalie cleared her throat and tossed her purse back behind her 
desk.  "What gave you that idea?"
     "A certain phone message."  Grace held a pink message slip in the air as 
evidence, then handed it to her.  "That's a name from the past.  Anything I 
should know about?"
     Natalie looked at the name on the slip--Dorian.  With a heavy sigh, she 
pushed her chair from her desk and sat down, then rested her head in her 
hands.
     Grace walked behind her and placed her hands on Natalie's shoulders.  
"Okay, what's up?"
     "Nothing."  Crumpling the paper, Natalie tossed it into the trash can 
behind her desk and leaned back in her chair.  "I'm just tired."
     "Don't give me that.  I know tired when I see it.  And I know upset when 
I see it.  And <you> are upset."  Grace leaned toward her.  "Come on, tell 
Auntie Grace.  You'll feel better."  She gestured toward the garbage can.  "Is 
he involved?  I thought you'd dumped him a while back."
     "Dumped him?"  With a grim smile, Natalie swung her chair around, just as 
Grace pulled over the chair behind the computer and seated herself.  "How do 
you figure that?"
     "With all these detectives hanging around, I'm bound to pick up some 
pointers.  First, there hasn't been a call from him for months.  The last time 
he called--and kept calling--I think your exact instructions were for me to 
tell him to do something that's physically impossible.  And I don't even want 
to <think> about what you did to those flowers he sent."
     Natalie sighed and rubbed her forehead with her hand.  "I don't want to 
talk about this right now."
     "Sure you do."  Grace cleared her throat.  "He didn't leave a number.  
Which means he knows that you know where to call him.  So, he's back."
     Realizing that she wasn't getting out of it that easily, Natalie sighed.  
"Yes.  He's back."
     "Asking for a second chance?"
     "Actually, he needed help."  Natalie turned back to her desk and picked 
up the clipboard lying on top.  "Now, if you don't mind, I've got--"
     "And that stuff with Nick's still going on?"
     Natalie dropped her pen on the desk blotter and turned wide eyes toward 
Grace.  "<What> stuff with Nick?"
     She gestured toward the waste basket again.  "The bad blood.  Between him 
and . . . Darren?"
     "Dorian," corrected Natalie.  She followed Grace's gesture with her eyes, 
staring at the message crumpled in the basket.  "I don't know.  Nick doesn't 
know he's here.  Nick doesn't know much about anything.  In fact, I don't 
<care> what Nick knows and he can take a flying leap--"  She stopped that 
train of thought, then leaned back in her chair.  "Sorry.  It's been a bad 
day."
     "Sounds like it."  Grace rose from her chair and stood behind Natalie 
again, gently rubbing her shoulder blades.  "Girl, you are <tense>."
     "You don't know the half of it," muttered Natalie.  Closing her eyes, she 
let Grace massage her shoulders and neck for a moment.
     "I thought things had gotten a little more solid between you and Nick."
     Fighting the urge to sit up, Natalie forced herself to relax.  "Well, 
maybe we both did," she admitted, after a moment's reflection.  "And maybe we 
were wrong."
     "That's too bad.  He was good for you."
     Natalie leaned back and looked up at Grace, escaping the massage.  "Was 
he?"
     "He made you smile.  Somebody makes you smile, he can't be all bad."  
Grace bit her lip lightly and took a step back.  "What's he done this time?"
     She looked down at the floor, not quite knowing how to answer.
     "Lipstick, right?"  When Natalie met her eyes, confused, Grace nodded 
knowingly.  "It's usually the lipstick they forget to wash off.  Or the 
perfume--that always happens to be the one kind you don't buy because it makes 
you sneeze.  Maybe Nick's making somebody else smile?"
     Instantly, she remembered that triumphant expression on Janette's face.  
And Natalie pulled her chair back to the desk and leaned over her paperwork.  
"I've really got to get this--"
     Grace  leaned forward to give her a light hug.  "Oh, Nat, I'm sorry.  I 
thought that might be it.  Nick's got an eye--you can spot 'em a mile off.  I 
think it's occupational hazard for the night shift guys.  Can't seem to keep 
their hands off the ladies."
     "Grace--"  Natalie dropped her pen to the desktop again.  "I don't want 
to talk about Nick right now, all right?"
     "So what about this other guy?  The one you dropped.  The one's who's 
back and who Nick doesn't know about?  Dorian?"
     Natalie shook her head.  "No.  He's . . . got a different lifestyle.  He 
wants to . . . he wants to take care of me."
     Grace leaned on the side of her desk and put her hand on Natalie's 
shoulder.  "I've heard worse.  Different lifestyle--does he work both sides of 
the fence?"
     "No."  She choked slightly at the thought, then met Grace's gaze with a 
wan smile.  "Let's just say we don't move in the same circles.  If I got 
serious about him, I'd have to leave my job, have to drop everything, my whole 
life.  And I'd never get it back.  Any of it."
     "But you'd have him?"
     "That's about it.  Dorian.  And . . . eternity."
      Grace seemed to consider for a moment, then nodded.  "So he's one of 
those religious types, huh?  I don't remember any crosses or anything from the 
last time he was here."
     Natalie covered with a cough.  "Uh--it's a small sect thing.  Not a lot 
of members.  Kind of an exclusive club.  And . . . I don't want to join."
     "So dump him again."
     Natalie picked up the pen and scratched it idly on the clipboard.  "I 
don't think he's going to take no for an answer.  I don't even know if I could 
trust myself to turn him down."  She looked up at Grace.  "Guess that sounds 
weird, doesn't it?"
     "It sounds like you're confused and you've got a lot to think about.  And 
maybe I'd better leave you to it."  Grace placed a hand on her shoulder and 
squeezed lightly.  "This guy . . . he's not going to do anything crazy if you 
dump him again, is he?  Because--"
     Natalie somehow forced a smile to her lips.  "Keeping my track record in 
mind, you mean?  I think I can handle him.  I think . . . I'm the only one who 
can."
     "Well," Grace leaned her head close to Natalie's, "Nick may be a jerk, 
but he's still a cop.  This gets to be something you <can't> handle, you call 
him.  Or me."
     She held her hand over Grace's, wondering how she'd thought she had no 
one to talk to.  "Thanks.  I'll keep that in mind."
     "You do that."  Grace straightened and put her hands on her hips.  "I 
don't want to see you hurt."
     Natalie almost laughed at that and, with her pinkie, brushed back the 
tears threatening at the corners of her eyes.  "Guess it's a little late for 
that."
     "I'm talking about a more permanent kind of hurt.  This . . . well, 
you've gotta work your way through it.  But it's part of life, part of taking 
chances."  She touched Natalie's shoulder again.  "You want to talk, you know 
where to find me.  I've got a big shoulder to cry on and those tissues you 
like--the fluffy ones with lanolin, so your nose doesn't get all red and 
scaly."
     "My nose appreciates the offer.  But I'm fine.  Really."
     "If you say so."  Grace started toward the door, then stopped and snapped 
her fingers.  "Almost forgot!  There was a message--they dropped off your 
book."
     "Book?"  Natalie stared at her, rising from her chair as Grace looked 
around the lab.  They both spotted the brown paper bag at the same time.  
Natalie reached the counter first and picked up the receipt, then reached into 
the bag and withdrew a spiral bound red book.
     "A cookbook?" asked Grace.
     "Yes."  She opened it and flipped through it.  It was exactly what the 
bookstore clerk had promised over the phone--a step-by-step guide to basic 
cooking.  
     She'd ordered it first thing that morning, as soon as she'd gotten back 
to work and the stores had opened, having decided that vampires weren't the 
only ones who could take advantage of shopping by phone.  It had seemed such a 
good idea at the time.  Dorian had given her a book.  So she'd give <him> a 
book.  She couldn't help that the gift was practical . . . it was just her 
way.  It was a damned sight cheaper than buying recipes off world-renowned 
chefs.  She'd thought that maybe if he started off with some simple stuff--
instead of wanting to know everything instantly, which also seemed to be a 
vampire trait and was odd considering they had all the time in the world to 
learn how to do things <right>--she'd manage to avoid ptomaine poisoning.
     That's when she'd still thought her upset stomach was due to the chicken.  
The chicken had been fine.  But Dorian had been . . . .
     Natalie slammed the book closed and dropped it on the counter.  "Too 
late," she said, in a flat tone of voice.  Then, as Grace's eyes widened, she 
added, "It was supposed to be a present."
     "A present."  Grace nodded slightly.  "If you want it returned, I can 
call the store--"
     "No.  No, it's all right."  She ran her hand over the bright red cover of 
the book.  "I'll take care of it myself.  Tomorrow."
     "If you're sure . . .?"
     "Yeah."  She gave Grace a confident look.  "I've got another book to 
return, too.  But I left it at home.  It can wait."
     "Okay.  I'll just be out--"  Grace gestured toward the door, then backed 
toward it.  When Natalie didn't stop her, she left the room.
     Natalie breathed a sigh of relief, then placed the book back in the bag, 
fully intending to return it the next day, along with the copy of Donne he'd 
given her.  When she got home later tonight, she'd tell Dorian to leave.  
Garlic poisoning or no, she couldn't risk having him around any more.  He'd 
have plenty of time before sunset to find someplace safe to stay.  Maybe she'd 
even suggest Nick's place as an alternative; he seemed to be running a hotel 
for wayward vampires.  Thinking of which--
     Reaching into her pocket, Natalie pulled out the loft keys and dropped 
then on top of the book.  The little sun on the keychain fell face up and she 
started, imaginingg that it had winked at her.
     It <had>.  She picked up the keychain and held it up to the fluorescent 
light, for the first time seeing the little lines on the shiny surface of the 
keychain.  If she moved it to catch the light just the right way, the little 
sun took off his sunglasses and winked at her.  She played with it for a 
moment, smiling.  It was cute.  Maybe Nick <had> known about it when he'd 
given it to her. Funny that she'd had the keys all this time and never 
noticed--
     Maybe there were a <lot >of things she'd never noticed.
     Natalie held the keychain in her hand for a moment, then threw it on top 
of the book.  She stalked back to her desk, a lump in her throat.  She was at 
work, right?  Well, maybe she'd better get back to her weights and 
measurements, causes of death and positive identification.  None of it was 
going to go away just because she ignored it.  She had to start somewhere and 
keep working, until she reached the end.
     But as she pulled out her chair, she looked up.  The little sun winked at 
her from across the room.  Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes as she 
sat down and started rifling angrily through the papers on her desk.
     Damn him to hell.
     Damn both of them to hell.

 CHAPTER 15
     
     Nick stood before the mirror and knotted his tie, carefully turning the 
black silk over and around itself.  Suddenly, other hands reached over his, 
adjusting his work.
     "I <can> do this," he said, lightly slapping away Janette's fingers.
     She grabbed his shoulders, turning him toward her, then adjusted his tie 
again when he let his hands drop to his side.  "It needs the proper touch.  
There!"  She tapped the knot lightly with her fingernail.  "That's perfect.  
Almost--"  
     He waited while she slid her finger along the inside of the tie band, 
then flattened the collar of the shirt over it.  But when she leaned forward, 
touching her lips to his neck, he caught her chin with his hand and held her 
away.  "No," he said softly.  "I'm late."
     "Well, you <did> take your time in the shower."
     Nick turned back to the mirror, readjusting his tie, then checked the 
cufflinks on his shirtsleeves again.  He bit back his immediate reply--he'd 
been doing just fine in the shower until she'd suddenly joined him on the 
pretext that he'd use up all the hot water before she got to it.  Even though 
he'd explained with what he considered extraordinary patience that the hot 
water boiler was the largest he'd been able to purchase and they had more than 
enough hot water for ten showers, Janette wouldn't relent.  She had to prove 
him wrong.
     By the time he'd finally turned off the water, it <had> gotten decidedly 
chilly.  Stepping out into the steam-filled bathroom, he'd wrapped a towel 
around her, pushed her out into the hallway, and then locked himself inside, 
knowing that it was probably the only way he was going to get dry, dressed, 
and ready for work before the night was over.
     He glanced over at her as Janette sat down on the bed and slipped on her 
shoes.  The dress she'd chosen to wear began with a solid band around her 
neck, then black netting attached there stretching down to a point just above 
her breasts, and that followed by black crepe.  The fit was perfect.  Other 
than the fact that as she crossed her leg to put on her shoes . . . . 
     Nick cleared his throat and turned back to the mirror.  "I didn't think 
hems were that high this season."
     "They aren't.  But they will be <next> season."  She moved to stand 
beside him and opened the small jewelry case she'd left on his dresser.  
Removing a pair of dangling pearl strings, she held them up to her ears.  "You 
needn't worry.  I don't advertise recklessly.  They see only what I want them 
to see."
     "Lately, you do everything recklessly," he said, taking a step back as 
she fixed one earring in place.  He reached over and held the lock of hair 
she'd arranged to fall over one ear, receiving a smile in response as she 
fastened the second earring.  "And what am I supposed to see?"
     "Whatever you wish.  You've seen everything.  More than once."  Janette 
turned her head carefully, watching her reflection in the mirror.  With a 
satisfied nod, she turned and posed, her hands on her hips.  "Is everything 
satisfactory?"
     Nick paused as he shrugged into the blazer he'd draped over the chair.  
He was right when he'd told her last night that he'd forgotten so much about 
her.  He'd forgotten how addictive she could be, how the perfume that rose 
from her wrapped around his senses and drew him close.  The sparkle in her 
eyes, the curve of her neck, the smoothness of her leg . . . all brought back 
such memories.  It would have been so easy to forget the mortal world that 
awaited him, to pull her to him, to kiss her bare shoulder, to bite away the 
clasp that held the dress together at her neck . . . .
     Nick turned away and closed his eyes, his tongue telling him that his 
fangs had all but fallen into place.  "Perfect," he said, after a moment's 
pause, when he knew his voice would be back to normal.  Only then did he open 
his eyes and reach past her, picking up the two pearl bangled bracelets from 
her jewelry case.  He took her hand, slipped the bracelets over her wrist, 
then headed for the hallway, dragging her behind him.  "Let's go."
     "Must you always be in such a hurry?"  Janette pulled her hand from his 
in annoyance.  
     Ignoring her, Nick continued down the stairs.  She flew past him and was 
standing beside the box that held his watch and keys even before he'd reached 
the living room.  Lifting the lid of the brass box, she tossed his keys to 
him.  After he caught them and tucked them into his pocket, she moved close 
beside him and pulled up the sleeve of his shirt as if to put on his watch.  
She touched the inside of his wrist to her lips.
     Feeling the scrape of her teeth against his skin, Nick pulled his wrist 
away from her and then grabbed the watch.  "Janette . . .," he warned.  He 
fastened it onto his wrist as he stalked over to the coffee table, where he'd 
left the remote control.  Pressing the buttons, he released the shutters and 
they rolled back, revealing the darkness--too much darkness.  That's when he 
glanced at his watch and saw the time.
     "Damn, I <am> late.  And I've still got to drop you off at LaCroix's."  
     Janette had opened the refrigerator and was reaching for a bottle.  
Catching her fingers and pulling them back, he slammed the door shut.  "You 
can drink later."
     "But I'm hungry <now>."  Janette slipped her arm behind his neck and 
leaned against him, stretching.  "You know how it is, Nicola.  And don't tell 
me you aren't <ravenous>, after all that exercise?"
     She was right--the hunger burned in his chest.  But he didn't have time 
for it.  And he didn't have time for her.  "You'll feed at LaCroix's."  Still 
holding onto her wrist, he started pulling her toward the elevator.  Janette 
gasped as they passed the kitchen and he stopped, staring at her.  "What?"
     "My--um--purse," she said hesitantly.  "Upstairs.  On the chair.  Be a 
dear and get it for me--"
     She hadn't finished the sentence before he gave an annoyed growl, then 
flew to the second floor landing.  Darting into the bedroom, Nick found 
nothing on the chair.  Or the dresser. Or beside the bed.
     "Never mind," she called from below.  "It's down here."
     Giving an exasperated sigh, he ran out of the room, leaping over the 
upper railing to the floor below.  He walked toward her, dusting off his 
hands.  Standing in front of the elevator, Janette tucked a white piece of 
paper into the purse, then pulled the zipper closed.
     "Laundry list?" he asked, gesturing her into the elevator as the door 
opened.
     "Just a note.  I need to cut a check for Stephen.  For his . . . 
services."
     Leaning an arm against the wall of the elevator, Nick shook his head in 
wonderment as the door closed and the elevator started to descend.  "Why do 
you do that?"
     "Do what?"  Janette looked at him with wide blue eyes and a sly smile.  
"Tease you unmercifully?  Because I can.  And because you always react.  You 
<must> learn to hide your feelings, <cher>."  Touching his cheek tenderly, she 
added, "You're like an open book, every page there for the world to read."
     "It's better that way.  It's . . . honest."
     "It's a good way to get hurt.  Especially with these mortals.  They just 
don't understand--"  Janette looked down at the floor, shaking her head.  He 
saw her frown and touched her chin with his finger, lifting her face toward 
him.
     When she met his gaze, he found her eyes were darker, troubled.  
"Problems with Stephen?"
     Janette caught his hand and kissed his fingers.  "Just . . . be careful, 
Nicola.  Don't let them hurt you too badly."
     "I think I can handle it," he promised, tinting his confidence with just 
an edge of sarcasm.
     Once they reached the sidewalk, he turned and entered the garage.  
Pulling the Caddy up beside the curb, Nick hit the electronic controls that 
would close the garage door behind him.  Janette stood pointedly outside the 
passenger door--he could hear the toe of her shoe tapping against the cement--
and even though he was running late, he waited just a few seconds before 
leaning over and opening the door from the inside.
     "A <gentleman> opens a door for a lady," scolded Janette, as she slipped 
into the passenger seat.  She slammed the Caddy door--hard enough to cause him 
to wince and make a mental note to check for scratches later, then folded her 
arms across her chest and glowered at the windshield.
     "Belt."
     "What?"
     "Belt.  Seatbelt."  Nick gestured toward his own, hiding a smile as he 
turned the key in the ignition and Janette muttered a few choice comments as 
she clicked the seatbelt in place.  "It's the law," he informed her, as he 
moved the car out into the street and to the corner.
     "It's a silly law.  These things are so confining.  I despite 
restraints."
     "Mortals can't survive car crashes like we can," Nick reminded, his 
attention focused on the street.
     "That's their problem.  There should be a separate law for us."
     "And what happens if I have to stop short--?"  He hit the brake--checking 
first, of course, that there weren't any cars around--and threw his right arm 
out before Janette, catching her as the seatbelt gave slightly.  "Without a 
belt, you'd go through the windshield.  And if that pretty little head of 
yours were cut off by the glass . . . ."
     Janette shivered, her arms tightening around herself.  She shot him a 
cold stare when he glanced at her.  "You <are> a beast."
     "You weren't complaining this morning."
     "Well, there's a time and a place for being a beast.  That was then.  
This is now."  He heard her settle in her seat.  "When will you be by to pick 
me up from LaCroix's?"
     For a moment, he had an odd sensation, like they were being followed.  
But a glance in the rearview mirror revealed nothing.  There were no cars on 
the side street . . . .
     Nick took a deep breath and continued to stare out the windshield.  "I 
won't.  You'll be staying at LaCroix's until this is over."
     He heard her slight intake of breath.  "If it's because I've made you 
late for work, Nicola . . . well, you weren't complaining <that> much--"
     "It's because of what you said last night," he replied, trying to keep 
his voice even.  "You're right--I can't watch you because I have to be out 
there.  The only way I'm going to get anywhere on this is to track down that 
hunter.  If I start from the gang hangout, maybe someone there saw something.  
And the note?"  Nick shook his head in despair, knowing how few clues he 
actually had to work with.  "LaCroix can keep better tabs on you.  And . . . 
you'll listen to him.  You'll do what he says."
     He heard her seatbelt unclip, then Janette took his hand from the 
steering wheel and placed it around herself, snuggling close to him.  "That's 
not fair," she whispered, her breath on his ear, her fingers playing with his 
hair.  "I did exactly what you said this morning."
     Lifting his arm from around her, he replaced his hand on the steering 
wheel, pushing her away.  "That's part of it, too.  It shouldn't have 
happened.  It was a mistake."
     The temperature in the car dropped fifty degrees as Janette stiffened in 
her seat.  "A . . . mistake?"
     Her voice was sharp, almost shrill.  Instantly, he reached out to catch 
her hand and brought it to his lips.  "I mean, I forgot myself.  Having you so 
near, it was like old times."
     "We <did> have some lovely times, didn't we, Nicola?"
     He brushed her hand across his lips again.  "Yes.  We did."  Then he 
released her hand and placed it on the seat beside him.  "But they're in the 
past.  I should have known that letting you stay at the loft would be . . . 
difficult."
     He felt her hand on his arm, then his shoulder.  "You're not accusing me 
of having taken advantage of you, I hope?"
     Nick smiled and chuckled lightly.  "I think we took advantage of each 
other.  And the situation."
     Her hand left his arm.  When he glanced over, he saw that she'd rebuckled 
her seat belt.  "So, I'm to be exiled to LaCroix's for being too much of a 
temptation to you."  Janette fluffed the side of her hair with her hand.  "I 
suppose I should be flattered.  And . . . that it was too good to last.  Just 
remember, Nicola, that when you come to your senses and you're done with your 
mortal toys, I might <not> take you back."
     He didn't dare grin, although he desperately wanted to.  "My loss," he 
said, in as serious a tone as he could manage.  
     "Yes.  It <will> be.  How long can it last, after all?  Sooner or later, 
you'll have to make a decision about what you want.  And whom.  I just hope 
for your sake that your friend Natalie hasn't made her own decision by then."
     A chill ran through him--Nick looked at her quickly.  "What's that--?"
     "Stop!  Stop here!"
     Nick hit the brake immediately and the car skidded a few feet.  After 
putting the car in park, he peered out over the steering wheel, trying to 
figure out what Janette had seen.  "What--?"  
     By the time he looked over to her, she'd slipped out of the car.  The 
window was rolled down and she leaned in on the passenger side.  "I'll walk 
from here, Nicola.  It's such a lovely night--"
     He unbuckled his belt and leaned across the seat, grabbing her hand 
before she could slip away.  "The hunter?"
     "Will be watching the club.  I'll be fine.  LaCroix's townshouse is just 
around the corner."  She lifted his hand to her lips, kissing his fingers, 
before releasing it.  "Thank you, Nicola.  I had a lovely time.  I'll send 
Alma over later for my dresses."
     "Janette--?"  Nick put one hand on the passenger door handle, opening it.  
But she'd already disappeared into the shadows of a side street.  He <could> 
follow . . . .
     But she was right about the hunter watching the club--he'd have had no 
idea she was staying at Nick's apartment.  With any luck, the hunter didn't 
even know who he was, or that he was a cop.  Which meant that Janette would be 
just as safe here as she'd have been if he'd dropped her in front of 
LaCroix's.
     The thought of LaCroix gave him pause and he checked the rearview mirror 
again--but there was nothing.  If he closed his eyes, he could sense LaCroix's 
presence nearby.
     Nick opened his eyes and shook off the feeling.  He wasn't ready to deal 
with LaCroix yet.  Besides which, Janette showing up on LaCroix's doorstep was 
going to be enough of a shock.  Yes, he'd meant to call and warn LaCroix, but 
they'd been running late and--
     Glancing down at his watch, Nick swore beneath his breath and scooted 
back into the driver's seated, hastily rebuckling his belt.  He was <very> 
late now.  Not to mention the fact that he wanted to pick up another goldfish.  
He didn't dare waste another moment getting to the station, not with the 
captain a hair's breadth away from suspending him.
     The station was no busier or emptier than usual.  Nick walked up to 
Schanke, who was hunched over his desk, making notations in a file.  Leaning 
his hands on the desk, Nick asked, "Have I missed anything?"
     Schanke started, leaning back in his chair and grabbing at his heart as 
Nick grinned at him.  "Geez!  Don't <do> that!  Bad enough we had one stiff in 
the station last night, but if I keeled over they'd start checking the pipes."
     Sobering, Nick sat on the edge of Schanke's desk and nodded at the file.  
"That your gang suspect?"
     "All that's left of William B. Terre--a handful of personal effects, the 
beginnings of a petty rap-sheet, and a confession to the mass murder of six of 
his fellow gang members."  Schanke closed the file and shook his head.  "Kid 
like that . . . he was only seventeen."
     Nick looked down at the floor.  "Any idea why he did it?"
     "Kacked his friends?  Or killed himself?"
     "Both.  Either."  He threw up his hands.  "Does it make a difference?"
     "Not in the long run."  Schanke picked up a sheaf of papers and passed 
them to Nick.  "There's the prelininary report from the autopsy.  The kid was 
smoking marijuana a couple of hours before the shooting, but no other drug 
traces.  So far as we know, he wasn't connected with any other gangs.  Could 
be they had an argument and things got out of hand."
     Nick was paging through the report, then realized Schanke was holding out 
another set of papers.  "More?"
     "The preliminary psych eval.  They guess he suicided out of guilt, that 
he was so spaced out he didn't know what he was doing.  'Temporary 
psychosis,'" said Schanke, putting emphasis on the words, as Nick handed him 
back the paperwork.  He tucked it into the file, which he shoved to the other 
side of his desk.  "Fastest case on file.  Six homicides, one suicide, and a 
confession, all in six hours.  My point spread's off the charts this month."
     "Good for you."  Nick rose from the edge of the desk and walked around 
the other side, to his own desk.  "Hell of a way to make a case, though."
     "Tell me about it," answered Schanke mournfully, with a sigh.  Then he 
gestured toward the Cohen's office--the door was closed.  "Heard we <both> 
missed some major action in there this afternoon."
     Nick picked up the pencil from his desk and tapped it against his cheek.  
"Let me guess--Bartnichak?"
     "In one."  Schanke nodded.  "Fredericks told me during the shift change 
he thought they were going to have to replace every plate glass window in the 
building--Ed's temper took off into orbit and keep circling.  He only left 
when the captain threatened to have him thrown out, or locked up until he 
cooled off."
     Nick sat up as the captain's door opened.  She looked directly at him, an 
eyebrow raised, then nodded toward her office.  "Knight."
     Slowly, Nick placed his hands on the desk and levered himself to his 
feet, meeting Schanke's eyes.  
     "You need help, don't forget my case is closed," said Schanke softly.
     "Thanks."  He headed into the office.
     Captain Cohen was already behind her desk.  She nodded toward him, 
saying, "Close the door and have a seat."
     Swallowing, Nick did as she said.  He clasped his hands together and 
leaned forward.  "If it's about my being late, I apologize--"
     "You'll get docked for your late time," said Cohen, dismissing the matter 
with a wave of her hand.  "I want to talk to you about the Bartnichak case.  I 
guess you heard Ed Bartnichak was in here today."
     Nick nodded, after a brief hesitation.  "Just now.  He wanted an update?"
     "He wanted you arrested for complicity in his brother's murder."
     Nick shook his head, unable to comprehend what she was saying.  "But 
what--?"
     "<And> he wants the Coroner's Office investigated for malfeasance and 
incompetence.  He claims--" she handed him a few sheets of paper stapled 
together "--that the report on the blood found in his brother's car was 
deliberately mishandled.  That another sample was substituted.  That you're 
somehow involved."
     Nick looked down at the captain's report of the conversation, noting 
quickly how many times the word 'shouting' appeared.  "How am I supposed to be 
involved?  I'm investigating the case."
     "He wouldn't say.  Or . . . he said he couldn't say, that I wouldn't 
believe him and that he had to get proof."  When he looked up, Captain Cohen 
was frowning.  "The man's unhinged.  If I could have found grounds on which to 
lock him up, he wouldn't be walking the streets right now."
     "You think Jeff's disappearance put him over the edge?" asked Nick, 
handing her back the reports.
     "Personally, I think Ed Bartnichak went over that edge a long time ago.  
I just think nobody's noticed until now."  The captain hesitated, looking down 
at her desk.  "That goes no farther than this room."
     "Of course, Captain."
     Cohen smiled grimly.  "What's the status on the case?"
     Nick took a breath and leaned back in the chair.  "The blood sample 
turned out negative, so if Jeff is dead, that wasn't his blood in the car.  
We've had no luck tracing him after he left the Academy that night.  Nobody's 
been able to get me a description of the mystery woman Ed claims Jeff was 
supposed to meet.  We've got no records of the car crossing the border . . . 
."
     "You've got nothing to prove that Jeff Bartnichak is anything more than a 
missing person."
     Her conclusion covered it all.  Nick shrugged.  "That's it."
     "Then the case is going back to missing persons; I'm not casting any 
aspersions on your abilities, detective, I just want this handled by the right 
department.  Clean up the file and forward it down there, I'll assign someone 
later tonight."
     "Okay."  Nick started to rise from his chair.  "I'll take care of it."
     "Knight--I'm not finished with you, yet."  Captain Cohen looked toward 
the blinds that covered the glass window of her office.  "This isn't official, 
but . . . how's your friend doing?"
     He sat down quickly and found himself flinching when Cohen turned her 
gaze toward him.  "Better.  Still a little spooked."
     "She still won't come in and sign a complaint?"
     "No.  I've spoken to her about it and--"  He shrugged again.  "No."
     "You told her that the men who attacked her are probably dead?"
     Nick hesitated before answering, then he nodded.  "Yes."
     "And how does she feel about that?"
     It was an odd question.  Nick raised an eyebrow questioningly, not 
knowing how to answer.  "Um . . . safe, I guess.  She knows they won't be 
coming after her again."
     "We're on the other end of the rope, we deal with suspects so often, we 
tend to forget about the victims."  The captain met his gaze, then smiled 
grimly.  "What your friend went through isn't going to be easy to forget, no 
matter how well it's turned out.  I wanted to remind you--we've got a lot of 
victim's rights and victim's help groups in this city, several of them out of 
this division.  I left the list of numbers on your desk.  If your friend needs 
help, needs to talk, she might want to get in contact with someone."
     Nick looked down at his hands and frowned.  He'd wondered why Janette was 
having nightmares--could the attack have done something to trigger them?  He 
began to regret his decision to leave her to LaCroix's tender care until he 
could find the hunter.  LaCroix was unlikely to be sympathetic to whatever 
Janette was going through, whatever old memories this experience had brought 
to the surface.
     "Knight?"
     He looked up quickly, then managed a wan smile.  "Sorry--I was just 
thinking about what you've said.  I think . . . maybe I didn't understand some 
of the things she's been saying."
     "It's not too late to start listening."
     "You're right."  He smiled at the captain across her desk, wondering what 
Janette would say if she knew this stranger, this police captain, was so 
concerned about her welfare.  "Thank you, for your help."
     "It's part of the job."
     That was his dismissal.  Nick rose from his seat and opened the door, 
then she called to him again.
     "Detective Knight?"
     Nick turned.  "Yes, captain?"
     She didn't look up from her desk.  "You <will> be docked for the time you 
lost.  And the next time it happens, you're on report.  I can't assign cases 
to detectives if they're not here.  Understand?"
     "Yes, captain."
     "That's all.  You can leave the door open on your way out."
     Nick walked toward his desk, his eyes widening slightly as Schanke gave 
him a questioning look.  Thankfully, Schanke waited until he sat down before 
leaning across the desk and whispering, "What happened?"
     "Nothing."  Nick smiled, then gathered together the various files 
concerning the Bartnichak case.  "Jeff's disappearance is going back to 
missing persons.  It's out of our hands."
     "That's a relief."  Schanke sat back in his chair and wiped his forehead 
dramatically with the back of his hand.  "For a minute, I thought Cohen was 
going to put me back on it--I mean, I <did> solve six homicides in six hours."
     "Your suspect suicided."
     "Details."  Schanke dismissed the criticism with a wave of his hand.  
"The <last> thing I want to deal with is Ed Bartnichak.  Fredericks said there 
was steam coming out of his ears and he was screaming, 'Conspiracy,' at the 
top of his lungs."  He shook his head.  "Jeff's disappearance has really hit 
him hard.  Rough break, losing a father in the line of duty, then your kid 
brother up and disappears.  That's what it all comes down to--family."  
     "Yeah."  He tapped the files together and grabbed a rubber band from his 
desk drawer to hold them together.
     "How's Janette?"
     Nick stared at Schanke a moment, then smiled, realizing the connection 
between 'Janette' and 'family' was little more than a coincidence.  "Okay.  
She's not going to press charges."
     "They usually don't.  She's just <real> lucky you came along when you 
did.  You should see the rap sheets on some of those kids--they make the Mafia 
look like ice cream men.  Bet she's glad they're off the streets."
     Nick stared across at Schanke, half-wishing he could tell his partner 
part of the truth--that someone was <still> after Janette.  If there was 
anyone whose help he could use, it would be Schanke.  But he might very well 
put Schanke in deadly danger without realizing it.  And there was no way he 
could explain just why the hunter was after Janette, or why he'd be using 
particular weapons like crosses and garlic, without stretching even Schanke's 
elastic credulity.
     He shook his head and rose from his desk.  "She might sleep easier, at 
least.  Look, I'll drop this off to Missing Persons.  I'm heading over to the 
Coroner's Office, see if Nat's got any lose ends hanging around from the 
Bartnichak case that I can get rid of.  You got anything over there you need 
brought back?"
     Schanke looked down at his desk, then shook his head.  "No.  It's all 
pretty much here.  They probably won't have the 'i's dotted until tomorrow.  
Except--?"
     Nick hesitated, already two steps away from his desk.  "What?"
     "Maybe an Italian hot dog, with extra sauce and sausage?"
     "In <my> Caddy?"  He patted Schanke on the shoulder.  "Dream on."
     "Hey, it was worth a shot," Schanke called after him.  "At least get me 
more ketchup packets--I threw away most of my stash when we shifted 
divisions."
     Nick dropped the folder down at Missing Persons, then he headed out to 
the Caddy.  Outside the station doors he turned and closed his eyes, his mind 
seeking any disturbance, any contact--there was nothing there.  If LaCroix was 
following him, he'd decided to leave him alone for now.
     Which was just as well.  He wanted to get what he could from Nat about 
that threat note.  And he didn't quite know how he was going to broach the 
subject of Janette's nightmares to LaCroix.
     As Nick drove, he found himself haunted by the images he'd gathered from 
her blood.  They were fragmented at best--flashes of Enforcers dressed in 
light armor with fangs threatening, Dorian dressed in a black tunic but 
recognizable even after all this time, LaCroix standing against Dorian, 
children . . . something about children.  And the sounds that were accompanied 
by such blinding fear and anger, but which made no sense--the snapping of 
twigs and the hiss of steam?
     He shook his head, remembering when Janette had first confided to him 
something about that interview between Dorian and LaCroix, and even then only 
because he'd pushed her into it.  He'd remembered her own interview, how she'd 
been abused by Dorian.  Why was she thinking of the earlier time, if these 
memories had been triggered by the attack?  Had Dorian assaulted her then, as 
well?
     The thought didn't sit well with him.  He pulled the Caddy alongside the 
Coroner's office and sat for a moment, before leaving the car and entering the 
building.  He still wasn't certain how he felt about Dorian.  There was too 
much in the past to let go.  Not to mention the present, when Dorian had 
tricked Natalie into bonding with him.  Dorian had released her, but too 
slowly and reluctantly for Nick's taste.
     And Dorian had tried to warn him that LaCroix wasn't dead.
     He turned on the staircase entering the building and looked behind him, 
then walked down a step or two, suddenly feeling a presence.  LaCroix?
     Or . . . Dorian?
     After a moment, Nick shook his head and decided that Janette's memories 
were spooking him, now.  Dorian had his own troubles with the Enforcers, he 
probably wasn't within ten thousand miles of Toronto.  Besides which, he'd 
entrusted Nick with a secret that the Enforcers could and <would> use to 
finally destroy him  Nick doubted he'd ever see Dorian again, and if so, then 
not for a very long time.
     He passed Grace in the hall on his way into the lab area.  "Hi, Grace."
     "Detective."  Her voice was unusually cold and it stopped Nick dead in 
his tracks.  He stared at her as she passed him and entered the reception 
office.  "And you're here for?"
     Nick let the door close behind him and took a step into the office.  "I'd 
like to see Nat, if she's not too busy."
     "I'll check with Dr. Lambert for you."  Grace turned her back to him and 
picked up the phone.  She glanced at him while the connection was still 
ringing and asked, "Business or personal?"
     "A . . . little of both."  He hesitated, confused at Grace's sudden 
hostility and listened carefully to the phone conversation.
     "Dr. Lambert?"  Grace eyed him sternly while she spoke on the phone.  
"I've got Detective Knight here to see you?  Shall I tell him you're busy--?"
     "No--no," said Nat's voice, sounding very strained.  "I haven't really 
started cutting yet.  Send him in, Grace."
     Grace turned her back toward him and whispered, "Are you <sure>? Because-
-"
     Nat's pause made him wince.  Nick looked away, pretending not to listen 
as she finally answered, "Yeah.  It's all right.  Send him in."
     He heard Grace hang up the phone.  "She can see you, detective, but only 
for a few minutes.  We're <very> busy tonight."
     "Thanks."  Then Nick turned toward her.  He licked his lips, watching 
her.  "Grace, have I done something?  I don't think I have, but . . . if I've 
done anything--"
     "I think you've done more than enough," said Grace, in a sharp tone.  
Sitting down behind the desk, she started shuffling papers.  "I'd get in there 
if I were you.  She'll start cutting any minute."
     "We'll--uh--talk later," promised Nick, his stomach flipping at the 
thought of having to deal with Natalie in mid-autopsy.  Sometimes it wasn't so 
bad, but after last night, and then not having fed before he left . . . he 
wouldn't be at all surprised if he passed out in a dead faint.
     Thankfully, Grace was right--he hesitated inside the door and sniffed . . 
. just the usual smells.  "Nat?"
     Her back was toward him and she was wearing her greens--cap in place, 
mask hanging down over her neck.  A body sat on the trolley in front of her--
he placed it as male, early sixties immediately--covered with a sheet from the 
waist down.  "Come on in."
     The weariness in her voice concerned him, but Grace's reaction outside 
had put him on edge.  Nick paused in the doorway.  "If you're busy, I can come 
back later . . .?"
     "No.  Don't bother.  We'll be busy all night."  Nat leaned forward to 
click off the tape recorder that sat to one side of the trolley.
     Nick took one hesitant step forward, then another.  She hadn't looked at 
him, hadn't smiled . . . that made his stomach flip worse than the thought of 
walking in on Nat while she had her hands in the middle of a corpse's lower 
intestines.  "Is Grace okay?  Something up with her?"
     "We're all on edge.  We had an extra shift this morning, thanks to those 
gang members you found.  She's just tired.  <We're> . . . just tired."
     There it was in her voice again--the absolute and utter surrender to . . 
. exhaustion?  He stood behind her and placed his hands lightly on her 
shoulders, then felt her tense beneath his touch.  When he tried to plant a 
light kiss on her check, she flinched, suddenly becoming very interested in 
fixing her gloves.  "You shouldn't be so dedicated," he told her.  "After that 
headache you had the other night . . . you know I worry about you."
     Nat pulled away from him, walking around the cart and moving toward the 
instruments she'd set out on a tray.  "I'm fine.  Really."  Picking up a 
scalpel, she seemed to examine it.  "You wanted to see me about something?"
     Surprised, Nick stared at her, wishing he could see her face.  When he 
tried to walk around the cart, she moved in the other direction, keeping her 
back toward him.  "The threat note Janette received . . . you said you might 
have something back on it tonight?"
     Nat straightened, then he saw her place the scalpel back on the tray a 
little too carefully.  "I dropped it off at the loft.  You didn't get it?"
     "No."  Nick shook his head, still watching her as she picked up each 
instrument in turn, as if memorizing it.  "When did you stop by?"
     "Not too long ago.  I just . . . dropped it in the kitchen and left.  I 
didn't see you, so . . . ."
     She'd punctuated the end of the sentence with a shrug.  Nick rubbed his 
hand against his mouth, trying to fix the time in his mind.  "You must have 
just missed me.  Well?"
     "Well, what?"
     "Anything on the note?"
     It was like pulling teeth.  Nat was <never> like this.  "Oh.  Your 
prints.  Janette's prints.  Two other sets on the envelope."  She shook her 
head as she looked at a pair of clamps and then dropped them into another 
metal tray, where they clanged noisily.  "It's all in the report."
     "Two sets of prints on the envelope?"  Nick snapped his fingers, then 
walked around the table to stand beside her, moving quickly so that she 
couldn't evade him again.  She started at his sudden appearance, but he put a 
hand on her shoulder to steady her; she hated when he moved like that, but 
right now he didn't seem to have any choice.  "Probably Alma and Bruno.  Or 
whoever found the note.  Anything else?"
     "No fibers.  Number two pencil.  Standard Bond paper."  When she tried to 
move past him, he blocked her way.  She looked up at him, eyes flashing 
angrily and a frown on her face.  "The next time you get evidence, try not to 
let the rest of Toronto handle it before getting it to me.  I might actually 
find something useful that way."
     Nick caught her upper arm as she moved past, holding her in place.  Nat 
looked down at the clamp in her hand.  "Nat, have I done something?  Because 
the way Grace is acting and the way you're acting--?"
     She wrenched away from him and returned to the trolley with the corpse, 
the clamp in her hand.  "I told you, we're just tired.  That's all.  We're 
mortal.  We get cranky when we're tired."
     He turned toward her.  "Is it about Janette staying at my place?  Because 
if it is, she's gone."
     Only then did Natalie look up at him--a brief look, but more than he'd 
gotten so far.  "You found the hunter?"
     There was hope in her voice.  But he was forced to shake his head.  "No.  
I found her somewhere else to stay."  Nick walked back to her side, this time 
slowly, and this time she didn't move away.  "It was a stupid move--I left her 
there alone while I was out here looking for the hunter.  She . . . Janette 
gets into trouble on her own."
     Her reply was muttered.  "<Tell> me about it."
     Nick ducked his head, trying to get a glimpse of her expression.  "Which 
means?"
     Again, there was only a quick look as she turned to her other side.  
"She's being hunted, isn't she?"
     "Yeah.  I guess you're right."  He leaned back against the counter and 
stared across the lab.  "She needs someone who can handle her, keep her under 
control until this thing is settled."
     "And you can't do that, after all this time?"
     There was a note of amusement, almost bitterness in her voice.  "No," he 
said defensively.  "No, I can't."  Then she turned back to the body again.  
"Nat--?"
     She threw up her hands.  "Nick, I've got a lot of cleanup work to do 
right now and--"
     "I shouldn't be bothering you."  He backed away a step, as she turned 
back to the corpse.  "Thanks for the help with the note.  I--uh--owe you one."
     "I'll put it on your tab.  Oh--there's something I wanted to get back to 
you.  On the counter--"
     He followed her gesture and her gaze as she looked up and pointed toward 
the counter across the room.  Nick walked over and picked up the cookbook--a 
set of keys slipped off it, onto the countertop.  "Basic cooking?" he read in 
dismay.  "Nat, I don't think I'm ready for--"
     "Not the book," she corrected, a sharp note in her voice.  "Don't touch 
that--I'm returning it.  It was . . . a mistake.  No.  The <keys>."
     Nick picked up the keychain and held it lightly in his hand, the small 
sun on the tag smiling up at him.  "Don't they fit?"
     "They're fine.  It's just that I decided . . . maybe I shouldn't have 
them."
     His fingers closed over the keys involuntarily and he looked up at her.  
"Shouldn't have them?" he echoed.
     Her back was still toward him.  "Maybe I . . . I don't want them.  You 
should have your privacy.  You don't want me just walking in any time and--I 
think you should take them."
     Nick squeezed the keys so hard, he felt the imprint of the metal against 
the flesh of his fingers.  Staring at her, it suddenly began to make sense.
     She knew.  He didn't know how, but Natalie knew what had happened between 
Janette and him this morning.
     And then, as he opened his hand and looked down at the keys, he 
remembered the note.  She'd dropped off the note to the loft.  Sighing, he 
turned toward the door, picturing in his mind's eye exactly what had happened-
-she'd seen the blankets on the couch and he wasn't there.  And then she'd 
heard--
     Nick rubbed the back of his wrist across his mouth.  It was too much to 
hope they'd been asleep--neither of them had gotten much sleep this morning.  
He was normally aware of any strange sound in the loft; he should have heard 
the keys in the kitchen door, heard Nat enter the apartment.
     Of course, he'd been more than a little distracted . . . .
     He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped when he realized he 
didn't know just what to say.  He couldn't deal with this now, not with 
Janette still being hunted.  He had to get back out on the street, check out 
the gang's hangout at the youth center, talk to LaCroix . . . .
     Later.  He'd talk with her later.  He could explain everything then.  
She'd understand.
     He hoped she'd understand.  But for now . . . .
     Nick walked over to Natalie and held the keys just above the level of the 
trolley, so she could see them.  "Why don't you hold onto these for now," he 
said softly.  Then, when she didn't take them, he reached for her gloved hand 
and pressed the keys lightly into her palm, folding her fingers over them.  
"You might need them sometime."
     He saw her swallow, heard her slight intake of breath, but she still 
wouldn't look at him.  Ducking his head, he kissed her lightly on the cheek--
and this time she didn't flinch or move away.  "You know the last thing in the 
world I'd ever want to do is hurt you."
     And then he turned and walked quickly out of the Coroner's Office.
     "Nick--?"
     He almost stopped when he heard her call to him.  But bowing his head, 
Nick pressed on, moving as quickly as he could, becoming little more than a 
blur as he ran from the building and out to the Caddy.  There was too much for 
him to do right now.  All he could hope was that Natalie would understand, 
that she'd hear him out when the time for explanations presented itself.
     Later.

CHAPTER 16
     
     Janette swung her bag idly as she walked down one street, then another.  
Flying would have been so much faster, but she found the indolence of an 
evening stroll more satisfying tonight.
     It was not too late in the evening.  Cars passed upon occasion, as did 
other pedestrians--usually couples arm in arm, or groups of young people 
traveling together and chattering excitedly.  She smiled to see them, wistful 
at the thought of the strolls she and Nicola had taken through the streets of 
a dozen cities.  There was always somewhere to go, something to see, something 
to do.  And, afterwards, there was always prey to be caught . . . although 
Nicola grew temperamental over time, taking only criminals or killers or petty 
thieves.  It had caused a few arguments.  And though they had parted for 
months, or years, or decades, she'd always been certain that she'd find him 
again, that they'd walk the darkened streets of other cities, arm in arm, 
until time would come to its end.
     Slipping the long, thin chain of her bag over her shoulder, Janette 
sighed sadly, seeing another couple pass.  She'd thought it would have lasted 
longer this time.  It wasn't as if they weren't good together anymore--because 
they were.  And there were times when she found his affectation of mortal 
things quite charming.  But this assumption of a flexible morality . . . she 
didn't find it at all amusing.  He'd been more than willing to let her remind 
him of the fact that he <was> a vampire--a number of times--but when all was 
said and done, it was back to his mortal work and his mortal world and his 
mortal friends and <au revoir> Janette.
     Her fingers tightened around the purse, as she remembered the note