Date:         Tue, 8 Mar 1994 03:25:07 EST
 
This story would follow my previously posted story, "Like a Shepherd," and it
takes for granted the details of LaCroix's past from Karin Welss's "Heart of
Darkness."  The copyright to the characters Menelaos of Pergamon and Sharibet
is owned by Marian Gibbons and Karin Welss, and they are used here with
permission.  The copyright to the characters of Nick, Nat and Janette is, of
course, owned by the "Forever Knight" people, and they are used without
permission.  (Is that the FCC police I hear battering down my door?)  I'm
sorry, but I feel compelled to see how many stories I can write entitled
"Like a Shepherd."  This would be [Like a Shepherd]', if I come up with
another it would be [Like a Shepherd]'', etc.
 
 
 
 
 
Like a Shepherd-2
 
 
by Lisa Payne
 
 
 
 
 
   Nick Knight awoke in Janette's bed.  His burns were worse than they had
first appeared; he was oozing blood and fluid all over her sheets.  And it
hurt like hell -- chalk up another disadvantage to moving more towards
mortality.  Bullet wounds weren't the only things that hurt more than they
used to.  He sat up and looked disgustedly at the big blisters on his hands,
the small blisters on the reddened skin of his abdomen.  They had barely
started healing.  The music from the nightclub below would have told him that
it had been dark for hours, even without his vampire's sense of time.  "I
don't think I'm going in to work tonight," he muttered to the empty air.
   Janette breezed lightly into the room.  Her hair was upswept and secured
with a black velvet ribbon.  Her dress -- tight, short and off-the-shoulder
-- was also black velvet, as was her ubiquitous choker.  To Nick she lookd
almost unbearably cheerful.
   "Nicolah!" she exclaimed, "awake at last!  Cherie, you look terrible."
   Why was everybody always telling him that?  "Did you speak to the others?"
he asked.
   Janette fetched her jar of burn salve, and perched on the bed behind him.
"Yes, Nicky.  The word is on its way out.  Everyone I've spoken to so far
agrees that these *creatures* sound very dangerous, and they will keep a
watch out for them."
   The salve helped a lot.  "Good.  Thank you, Janette."
   "Any little thing, Nicolah," she twinkled.
   "Well, actually," Nick gestured with his burned hands, "there is another
favor I'd like to ask you.  Could you call the precinct -- I'm obviously not
going to make it in tonight, and I don't think I could dial the phone.  And I
don't know what I'll put in the report.  Maybe you'd better call Nat
instead."
   Janette brought the phone over to the bed without protest, and dialed the
number as he gave it to her.  She held the handset up for him to hear.
"You're very accommodating tonight, Janette," he whispered as the morgue
phone rang.
   "Well, you really _do_ look terrible, Nicky," she replied, just as softly.
   "Nat's All-Night Diner," the answer came on the phone.
   "Nat, this is Nick."
   "Nick!  Are you okay?  Where are you?  I've called your place about forty
times, and Stonetree's gone through a whole _box_ of Kleenex...."
   "Listen, Nat, I'll be fine.  I need you to bring some of my 'Private
Reserve' over to the Raven for me."  The human blood he'd drunk last night
had been a mistake, and he didn't mean to compound it.  "And bring your
doctor stuff," he added reluctantly, contemplating his burns.
   Nat was instantly concerned.  "Are you sure you're okay, Nick?"
   "More or less.  I'm not going to make it in tonight, but hey, I'll live,
right?  Tell Stonetree something to make him feel better.  And I need you to
help me make up something to put in the report for last night's -- incident."
   "All right.  Look, I've got a pretty gooey suicide here, but I could put
him in storage and polish him off in the morning...."
   "No big rush, Nat.  Go ahead and finish what you're doing."
   "I'll see you in an hour or two then.  You're at the Raven?"
   "Upstairs."
   "Oh?  Well, I'll see you in about an hour.  Bye."
   "Goodbye."
   Janette hung up the phone for him.  Wordlessly, she began to anoint his
burns again.
   "That's very good salve," Nick ventured.  "Where did you get it?"
   "This?  Oh, an old woman made it up for me a long time ago.  I think her
name was Bup-something...."  Presently she added, "Roll over, Nicky, there's
a good boy.  Acch, these burns!  It's like crosses all over you!"
   "Hmm?"  Nick was half asleep again under her ministering hands.  "Not like
crosses -- or fire or sun.  This feels like there's -- I don't know --
*malice* in it.  And crosses hardly even leave a mark anymore."
   Janette stopped, surprised.  "No?  How remarkable."  She gathered up her
jar and went into the other room to put it away.  When she came back, she sat
on the edge of the bed next to the drowsing detective and said, "LaCroix told
me a story once, a long time before you were ever born.  Would you like to
hear it?"
   Nick roused himself enough to smile at her and replied, "Sure.  Tell me a
story, Janette."
                         ***************************************
   Menelaos awoke to the smell of dust and trampled grass on the warm night
air.  There were thousands of people clogging the lonely countryside, in the
hills across the lake from Bethsaida, which had been empty when he settled
into his cave to sleep that morning.  They were seething like a flock of
silly sheep, and he smiled to think how rich the pickings would be around the
edges of that formless mob.  He was glad, now, that Sharibet had sent him
away.  He could kill and kill -- he was free from the only creature in all
the world who could restrain him.  Killing was good, he found,  It had been
his living while he yet lived, and it was his delight now that he was dead.
   The pale figure flitted soundlessly down from the hidden hillside cave he
had made his refuge.  He studied the mortals, savoring the planning phase of
his hunt.  The humans were slogging away from the lakeside and all chattering
among themselves of some prophet or healer -- the usual nonsense.  Apparently
there had been some sort of ridiculous prayer-meeting that had gone on all
day.  The working class and the begging class were heavily represented in the
mob.  Superstitious fools!  It was a common thing for the peasantry in the
area to wander after some dreamer or charlatan who called himself a prophet.
King Herod had recently eliminated one of the rabble's filthy leaders, but
more sprang up like mushrooms every day.  Ah, well.  Nothing to do with him,
except insofar as _this_ prophet's followers had been led right into
Menelaos's hunting grounds.
   As he floated closer to the crowd, he noticed one strange thing.  These
people were all eating as they walked!  Some of the dirty mendicants who
clutched their bits of bread and fish in their loathsome hands were
marvelling that there had been enough for all the people, and some
_leftover_!  This particular prophet must be a rich man, to be able to afford
to feed such a multitude.  Maybe it would be more fun to kill the idol of
this mob, rather than just picking off a few stragglers for food.  Maybe
there would be money, as well as life, to rob from the man who inspired such
devotion from this enormous band of riffraff.
   Menelaos the vampire, formerly of Pergamon, stalked his prey.
                 ***************************************************
   The teacher sat in the dust exhausted.  He and his closest friends had
come to this remote area to rest for a while after their travels and their
labors.  Somehow the people guessed where they had gone, and thousands had
come on foot, harassed and dejected, to listen and be healed.  How could he
ignore them when they needed so much?  How could he ignore their faith?
Maybe it had not been wise to feed them all -- he could have sent them home
earlier, as Peter had suggested, and they could have gotten food for
themselves.  But it would have been a pity to send them away before they had
finished listening, before all those in need of healing had been cured.  The
crowds had finally said goodbye and headed for home; the Twelve were in their
boat on the way to Bethsaida; he could be alone for a little while and pray.
   Not alone after all -- the prophet looked up to see a tall white-haired
man staring down at him from the edge of the lantern's light.  He got up.
"What do you want with me?" he asked.
   The stranger only smiled.
   Clearly there was something wrong with him.  It did not seem to be demonic
possession, or epilepsy, or madness, or anything the teacher had encountered
already in his short period of public ministry.  _Had_ this menacing-looking
man come to be healed?
   Menelaos was disappointed.  The mob's leader seemed to be almost as poor
and dirty as his followers.  Still, it would be good to kill him.  Menelaos's
eyes burned, his fangs descended, and he attacked -- only to be abruptly and
completely stopped when the grubby little commoner grabbed him by the wrists.
   The prophet looked deep into the shocked yellow eyes of his attacker.  He
could feel Menelaos trying to control his mind, just as he could feel him
trying to escape his physical grip, but that was all external.  The spirit
was what concerned him; the spirit was where the root of this sickness lay.
"Come to me," the prophet promised, "and you will find rest for your soul."
   Menelaos was terrified, for the first time since he had been turned.  He
struggled mightily, exerting his vampiric strength to the fullest, but it
made no impression at all on his captor.  The ordinary brown eyes continued
to study him, the calloused and tool-scarred brown hands continued to cleave
to his wrists.  This could not be happening!  Even his mistress Sharibet
could not have held him like this, with so little evident exertion.  As was
his habit, Menelaos found release for his fear in defiance.
   "Let go of me, peasant!" he hissed.  "I do _not_ come to you, and I have
no need of rest for my soul!"
   The brown eyes stared into the yellow ones for another long minute.  They
looked sad now, but the teacher's voice was stern.  "If you choose thusly,
then you are none of mine.  I tell you now, STAY AWAY FROM MY FLOCK."
   As the last words thundered out into the warm night air, Menelaos found
his arms had been released.  He flew away as fast as he could, and didn't
stop until the morning sun forced him to take shelter.
   Jesus of Nazareth sighed.  Then he walked out across the lake to rejoin
his companions.  They seemed to be having some sort of trouble with the boat.
            ***************************************************
   "Later he made his way to Rome and did all he could -- indirectly -- to
snuff out the new religion that the rabble had founded after their leader's
execution.  He couldn't do as much directly as he would have liked, because
of their morbid little crosses.  Can you imagine carrying a hangman's noose
as a holy symbol?" Janette finished up.
   "I had asked him why he picked the name LaCroix, one time a little while
after he changed it.  He told me that story as the answer.  I still don't
know what it means.  Maybe we weren't the only ones he never allowed to
forget a mistake."  Janette saw that Nick was asleep, so she went downstairs
to make sure Natalie was not molested on her way through the club.  "Sweet
dreams, cherie," she whispered as she left the room.