From: br1035@ix.netcom.com Date: Wed, 8 Apr 1998 12:54:10 -0500 (CDT) Subject: Miracle On Queen Street This attachment is a story written by Patt Elmore and myself. Bons br1035@ix.netcom.com Disclaimer: Forever Knight and its characters were created by Parriott, et al., and are owned and copyrighted by Sony/Tristar. This disclaimer is not to be tagged in a Metro Police Evidence Packet, we don't care what excuse Nick gives you. Monsieur Louis Cabon, Madame Kiki, Biff the Buff Slave Boy, Sergeant Pulte and Dirk belong to Patt or Bonnie. The following RL people appear in this story with permission: Annie Raper, Cousin Jules, Laura (and her son John-Travis), Tracy Sue, Cousin Mids, Cousin Jesse, Cousin Tser, Jade (a.k.a. Mrs. Leaf! Woohoo!), DragonHaven Sallie, Debbie C., Kate, Caren, MacCousin Heather, Charl, Annette, Libby Singleton, 'Lady' Jayne, Kusine Kaninchen, Kissing Cousin Susan Nix, Susan Pierce, and John Rutledge (or, as Bonnie likes to call him: 'My Dad'). Thanks to Cousin Jules and Annie for beta reading. There are some references here to other NA stories, including 'Better Than Chocolate,' 'August Heat' and some War 8 fiction. Interested in learning more about the Roma? Visit the Patrin website at http://www.geocities.com/Paris/5121/history.htm ************************************************************************** Miracle on Queen Street A Nunkies Anonymous Holiday Adventure by Bonnie Rutledge and Patt Elmore The snow came down in pillows and in sheets, quilts, but not comforters, a veritable white sale of frozen precipitation. It piled in the doorways and mushed in the gutters in globs of icy powder. The power lines were laden in a brand new coat of ice, making fireplaces a necessity and workers from the electric companies rich on overtime. No sooner would the plows and salt serve their purpose than the roads would clog once more. Shoveling driveways became a full-time occupation. Yes, Toronto was literally drowning in snow, sleet and ice. People spoke of not seeing a storm its equal in a lifetime of Decembers. Driving was for the foolhardy, and flying was for the supernatural. Some citizens rejoiced, such as small schoolchildren who'd already escaped reading, writing and arithmetic for a week. Others, those stranded and incapacitated by the potent sway Mother Nature was demonstrating over the elements, had more insidious thoughts toward this winter wonderland. It was damn inconvenient. *************************************************************************** "What are you doing!?!" Bonnie exclaimed in horror as she spotted something suspiciously red and jolly clutched within Patt's grasp. Jules looked on with an air of disapproval. "Patt, you know that just isn't possible." "If I'm going to be stuck here for Christmas, then I'm going to *have* Christmas!" Patt's tone was adamant as she stared at Jules and Bonnie. "I'm hundreds of miles from my kith and kin, being held a virtual prisoner by a sadistic addiction, not to mention the weather. That doesn't mean that I have to give up everything which means something to me over the holidays." The High Priestess shook her head sadly. "I hate the prospect of having to confine you, Patt," Jules eyes narrowed, "especially considering how I just went through an ordeal of confinement myself." Patt swayed nervously under Jules' scrutinizing glare. "But, these are the facts: Christmas is a religious holiday and, therefore, has the potential of causing LaCroix extreme discomfort. There will be *no* Christmas in this Shrine. There will be no further discussion of the matter." With a regal sweep of her body, Jules turned and left the small anteroom. Patt stood, silent, still holding the garland which she'd been intending to hang. After a moment, the older addict noticed that the Scribe was still standing nearby. "How come you're not hoofing it after the High Priestess?" Patt said bitterly, commencing to roll the garland strand back around her hand. "You don't *do* Christmas either." "True," Bonnie shrugged. "The fervor of commercialism associated with the whole thing does tend to put me off some. No, it puts me off *a lot.* And, Jules has a point - Christmas and Nunkies aren't exactly compatible, are they?" "In some ways, yes," Patt muttered. "And, if there was any way I could take my seasonal slavering from this place, I would, but we have a snow and ice storm raging outside, the airport is shut down and, even if I could find transportation out of Toronto, I think I'm still under house arrest, especially since Jules blames me for her sojourn with the Italian police." "Yea," Bons snickered, "she *is* pretty hot about that one. You do have a penchant for pulling some interesting stunts, Elmore." Bonnie grew serious once again. "Do yourself a favor, Patt. Don't stir up the Shrine with this one, okay? Put a little tree in your sleeping chamber, if you must. Sing a carol or two while taking a Sacred Cold Shower. Just don't make a big deal out of the season." Patt watched as the tiny redhead left the room, then looked down at the silver and red rope twisted around her fist. "Always trying to tell me what to do, to quell my spirit," she muttered. "But not this time. Damn the consequences . . . I'm having Christmas!" Whistling 'Jingle Bells' softly, Patt began weaving the garland around the bust of Nunkies. ************************************************************************** "What are you doing?" Jules demanded as Bonnie slipped into the lengthy store line, the rug-rats nipping at their heels. She frowned as a tiny tyke in front of them juicily popped a sucker out of his mouth, causing a small dollop of toddler-slobber to land perilously close to her all-weather-but-stylish boots. Unable to resist, Jules surreptitiously swiped the child's face clean with a wet nap, then smiled innocently at the boy's parental units as he squealed. (Small children have allergic reactions to cleanliness, you know.) "This is just to prove a point, Jules," Bonnie insisted. "I can't enter this lion's den of commercialism and not confront Santa." "There is no Santa, Bons." Jules crossed her arms impatiently and tapped her foot. "It's a man in costume representing a fantasy of the masses, not to mention the god, Saturn, having a fashion crisis. You know that as well as I do." "Exactly. It's a totally irresponsible fantasy inflicted on the psyches of the very individuals least likely to discern reality from wishful thinking. Consider: we're Nunkies Addicts. Understanding the borderline between fantasy and the real world is our stock in trade. Children haven't our maturity -" Bonnie paused as Jules made a choking sound. "Okay, children don't have the life experience we do. They are ruthlessly encouraged to believe in Saint Nicholas through popular culture and the media. He's an inescapable symbol. Yeah, people will naively say Santa Claus represents the spirit of giving, but look!" Bonnie gestured with both arms to the scene surrounding them. "*This* is what Santa Claus truly represents!" Jules ruefully eyed the heaving throng of the young, middle-aged and elderly. Every face, no matter how unlined or wrinkled, appeared to be wanting something, whether it was another candy cane, a Valium, or a nap. "Taking," she mused. "Everyone here expects something. They want toys or love and happiness, and they're bartering for it with their behavior and credit cards." Bonnie tsked. "It's awful. All these hopes, dreams and expectations hanging on fuzzy red dolls and video games. Then there are the adults: jewelry and golf clubs, appliances and electronics. Everyone's compulsive about buying a happy-ever-after that will probably only have a lifespan of a day, if they're lucky. Where does it end?" "The worst thing is," Jules agreed, "these people are only going into hock to try and live up to everyone else's expectations. What about those families who don't have that luxury? There are so many children, so many unfortunates, who are lucky if they have food and a roof over their heads on any given day, much less some tribute from Santa Claus on the twenty-fifth. What are these little ones supposed to believe when society tells them St. Nick rewards the worthy with prizes, and they fall through the cracks? It's just not right." "Exactly, Jules. That's why *we're* here." "I thought we were here to get clothing suitable for another ice age. You need sensible shoes, remember?" "Bleh." Bonnie wrinkled her nose. "How do I know I won't like hypothermia until I've tried it?" Jules rolled her eyes. "You *are* here for winter clothing, and I need some new leather gloves. So I'm curious... We've established that we mutually disapprove of the commercialism inherent to this holiday season. We need warm, fuzzy, practical - yet fashionable - things. What on earth are we doing in this line?" "Like I said: we're going to confront Santa Claus, and reveal him to be the false hope that he is." "Oh, dear. This is going to be embarrassing, isn't it? I'm warning you up front, Bonnie, if I get arrested because of any stunts you pull, I will be *very* put out." "No sweat, Jules. All that I require of you is to ask Santa for something that you really, really want badly. It doesn't even have to be for yourself. Hell, it doesn't even have to follow the laws of fanfic and physics (which are not mutually inclusive)! I'll do the same thing. Then, when our earnest wishes are crushed into the dirt and snow with all the other unprivileged, CERK can publicize the intrinsic horror of the whole manufactured tradition! The more people don't *do* Christmas, the happier they'll be!" "I was with you up until the part involving publicity and CERK. Have you gone INSANE!?!? I work there! I'm going to bandy *zip* about the holidays at the office in front of *HIM*!" Jules tried to tug Bonnie out of line. "Let's get you a cappuccino. Caffeine depravation must be doing odd things to your brain." "No way! Juuu-wuuuulllzzz!!!" Bonnie gave the addict's name several extra syllables, and her voice was suspiciously close to a whine. "LaCroix made you a Vice President of the station! What's the point of having all that power if you aren't going to abuse it?! If you expose the hypocrisy of holiday propaganda, causing a few simple souls to completely re-evaluate the manner in which they live their lives... Dammit! Nunkies will be impressed!" Jules' hazel eyes narrowed. "You really don't think he would mind?" "Of course he won't mind. That's what he does on Nightwatch every evening! Anyways, he'll be even more impressed if you don't care whether he minds!" "Uh-huh..." Jules patted the other addict on the shoulder. "With an argument like that, how can you call yourself a true Cousin?!" "Easy. Cousins will say anything when LaCroix's not around to hear it. That's part of our charm." "Next? Miss?" Bonnie and Jules looked up from their wicked chuckles to see one of Santa's helpers urging them closer. Bonnie skipped up the steps, around the pseudo-reindeer, then plopped herself in the pudgy old guy's lap. "What's shakin', Santee?" she cooed in a jaunty tone, poking the man in his stomach padding. "Besides your jelly belly." "Ahem. Santa is doing jolly, young lady!" The bearded man peered closely at the perky redhead. "You are young, aren't you?" "Old enough to know better, but too young to care," Bonnie assured him. "Ah, well, in that case, what can Santa get for you this year?" "Rhode Island." "I beg your pardon?" "I want Rhode Island for Christmas," Bonnie repeated. "Stick the deed or constitution or whatever necessary rights of ownership states have under the back door of the Jeweled Peach, okay?" Santa gave a nervous chuckle. "That's a mighty big order for such a little girl, don't you think? How about a nice computer instead?" "But I picked a smaller state just to make it easier for you. It's not as if I asked for Ontario!" Bonnie exclaimed innocently. Her eyes darkened as she slipped a look toward the surrounding parents and children to see who could hear, then her voice increased to an easily audible shout. "What?! ARE YOU SAYING SANTA CAN'T GET ME WHAT I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS?!?!" Jules' mortified groan punctuated this statement. "Ahem. Now, now," the big man in red said soothingly as he patted Bonnie's hand. "Santa would *never* say that!" "I bet you wouldn't," Bons muttered under her breath. "The thing is, young lady," Santa reasoned smugly, "to get such a mighty gift for Christmas, you would have had to have been a very good girl this past year. Have you been a very good girl?" "It's interesting you should mention goodness, Santee. I'm rather interested in the ethical standards you're placing on the youth of today. Would you be of the mind that goodness is relative, a means to an end as in the philosophy of Immanuel Kant, or do you believe goodness exists as an entity in of itself, like Plato? Hey!" Halfway through this speech, Santa Claus gestured to two of his helpers with an index finger slicing across his throat. They picked Bonnie bodily off of the jolly one's lap. As they escorted her to the other side of the North Pole, she kicked her legs wildly in a hyperactive moonwalk above the floor. "Hey! I'm not through with you yet, Santa! Don't you want to know *why* I want Rhode Island? Help! Saint Nicholas is oppressing me!" Three husky elves handed her a candy cane and booted her off of the stage. Jules, meanwhile, was left to endure being next in line and trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. Santa wasn't helping. He gave her a good once over, then lasciviously patted his lap. Reminding herself it was for the good of the cause, Jules reluctantly complied, seating herself primly across the stranger's knees. Santa chuckled with pleasure. "Aren't you a little old to be visiting with St. Nicholas?" he asked, then added suggestively. "Actually, you look just the right age: legal. You know, Santa's a well traveled man. I could show you the world on a sleigh, sweet stockings." He twirled his white beard jauntily. "Indeed." Jules expertly raise her eyebrows while delivering her answer in a deliciously dismissive tone, some of her own best Cousinly skills. "Don't let your cheeks get too rosy, Mr. Claus. You're not nearly old enough for *me.*" Jules' voice was as icy as the trees outdoors. "Let's make this quick: all I want for the holidays is a 'Forever Knight' movie. This request isn't just for me, mind you, it's for the thousands, millions, of people who have seen and appreciated the show. We deserve more! Tell me...have you seen 'Forever Knight,' Santa?" "Why, yes. I liked that episode that talked about showing our true selves by getting naked. Sounds like fun, eh?" Santa waggled his eyebrows at Jules. "Tell *me,* sweet stockings, are you naughty or nice?" Jules pulled a stack of red rectangles out of her coat and stood as she gave him The Look. "Neither. I'm finished. Here are some Kickstart the Knight flyers. At the very least, could you have your helpers pass these out to the parents and drop a letter or two in the mail yourself? It's so little to give, and what you'd get back is immeasurable!" Santa eyed the flyers with interest, then looked up hopefully at Jules. "How about your phone number?" She strolled across the North Pole, turned down the elves' offer of a candy cane, then called over her shoulder before descending the platform stairs to join the pouting Bonnie, "If you really were Santa, you'd have my number already." *************************************************************************** Amidst much grumbling and grandstanding, Jules and Bons left the department stores with warm leather gloves, sensible shoes, and other new woolly layers. They trudged to the subway, then through the snow and ice for the final block along Queen Street before they reached the Jeweled Peach. The five-star restaurant had been almost deserted of customers for several nights now, with only a few citizens willing to battle through the foul weather for a gourmet meal. Louis Cabon had approached Jules recently, complaining of being overstocked, but Jules had assured the restaurant's maitre 'd that the foodstuffs would not go to waste. Both addicts were wringing their gloved hands in anticipation of enjoying one of those elegant repasts in the peace and quiet of the Shrine, without the specter of the season spoiling their digestion or relaxation. What Jules and Bonnie found, as they wandered from the Peach's private dining room to the main chamber of the Shrine to Nunkies, was anything but quiet or relaxing. The sound of James Brown singing 'Santa Claus, Go Straight to the Ghetto' was tooting over the sound system. There were garlands from fir trees entwined with ruby and silver cording lacing the Nunkies tapestries. Each of the seven Lucius busts designating the stations of the Shrine sported a Santa hat tilted jauntily to one side. Patt was overseeing Jayne and Charl as they worked on adding greenery to the center altar, her prized Mountie hat garnished with a healthy sprig of mistletoe. Both Jules and Bonnie's mouths dropped open in stunned disbelief. Their arms went limp, sending their packages to the floor in a series of thuds. They were at a loss for words. The dropping packages immediately attracted the attention of the currently residing animals, who could not resist sniffing the new boxes and crawling into the crinkly bags. Jules' dogs, Watson and Devo, inspected her pile, while Patt's pups, Fred and Barney, checked out Bonnie's purchases. The dogs' enjoyment soon ended as the cats arrived. It was a veritable pride. Libby's Sunshine, Marie's Barnaby and Dache were on the premises, and Bons had brought along Vivian, Sabu, Eastway, Emily, Kitty Nunkies and Mariah after suffering intense cat withdrawal during her past visits to Toronto. When cats collide with cats, dogs collide with dogs, and cats collide with dogs...noise happens. The resulting cacophony of snarls, hisses, barks and general rude behavior snapped the anti-holiday addicts out of their stupor. Bons and Jules finally took note of the branching brown gear attached to one of the cat's heads. Bons let out an unholy squeal. "All right! Whoever put antlers on Kitty Nunkies is getting decked!...And I'm not talking about boughs of holly!" Charl and Jayne exchanged the looks of elves considering thoughts of a career change. "Patt?" Jayne asked sweetly. "You said to tell you when we heard the sound of all hell breaking loose...was that it?" "Should we run for cover?" Charl added, her instinct for survival kicking in. Patt tried to appear merry in the face of opposition, but it wasn't easy. Looking at Jules and Bonnie, she realized that vampires weren't the only ones who could get their eyes to glow red when they were *really* worked up. She had sudden visions of being trussed up like a Christmas goose and roasted. Patt gulped, then attempted appearing nonchalant as she sipped from her green bottle of beer festooned with a cheery red bow. "What? You think the antlers were too much?" ************************************************************************** End O' Part One "AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Charl eyed the High Priestess thoughtfully as Jules screamed. As the shouted fury continued to echo off the Shrine walls, the addict winced and commented, "I think Jules is handling it pretty well - what do you think, Jayne?" Jayne shrugged. "No one's dead yet. That's always a good sign." "Maybe we ought to slip into the Video Room and join Debbie and Laura, just in case," Charl suggested. "Good idea! Debbie should be finishing up her sixth viewing of 'Holiday Inn' about now." "Only forty-four more showings to go!" Charl and Jayne slinked out of sight, visions of Bing Crosby singing in their heads, leaving Patt to face the firing squad alone. Jules glared at Patt, annoyance radiating from her every pore. "I thought I made it perfectly clear that there was to be *no* holiday decorating in the Shrine!" "Well, that's fine and dandy!" Patt argued. "It's always what you two want, and faa phooey on the rest of us. What the High Priestess dictates and the Scribe scribbles: no wreaths, no red and green trimmings, no lights and reindeer. Well, I have news for you two Scrooges: I think it's rotten... ROTTEN, I tell you! I have needs! I have traditions! I feel lost and astray! Every fiber of my being wants to make like Kris Kringle, and you're telling me to stomp on my true nature! How do you think that makes me feel!?" the Third Cousin roared. Across the room, a shivering Fred, hiding behind an equally shivering Barney, began to bark furiously. Jules and Bons blinked at each other. They were Cousins. They usually encouraged people to give into their true natures. Jules fought back a momentary sympathy, insisting, "I said there would be no discussion on this subject - why are we discussing it? Take every speck of this garnish off the Shrine walls before Nunkies drops by unannounced and sees it! How do you think Christmas decorations are going to make LaCroix feel?" Patt pondered that thought. No doubt LaCroix would be irritated, maybe angry enough to wring her neck. Christmas was good, but life was even better. The Third Cousin's shoulders slumped in disappointment as she morosely began to rewind the greenery and cording wrapped around the Shrine altar. "Okay...but I hate it." Jules picked her bags and boxes off the tile floor. "I appreciate your cooperation, Patt, and your respect for Nunkies' non-traditions. You had better remind the other addicts: any more making merry, and somebody will earn grout duty! Come, Watson! Devo!" The Jack Russell Terrier and the Wonder Whippet sprang to attention as Jules walked out of the Shrine. "I'll be in the Wardrobe room putting away my purchases. When I come back down, I expect every speck of glitter to be gone!" "Ho Ho, Highness," Patt muttered as she watched the Priestess walk away. As Watson pranced by Fred, the Min Pin uttered a low growl. Bons sat Kitty Nunkies down on the Shrine altar and began to work on unfastening the antlers from his head. His cobbly British shorthair body assumed a dignified posture and his blue eyes flashed indignantly. Kitty Nunkies opened his mouth slightly, showing a thick set of fangs as he sighed a silent meow. Bonnie glanced accusingly at Patt as she slipped the faux horns off the feline's Siamese-marked head. "Look at him, Patt! He's so affronted! Poor Kitty Nunkies!" she crooned, brushing the cat's fawn colored fur. He lifted his chin proudly, then decided to groom one of his pale paws. Bons rubbed him between the ears for good measure, then handed the Third Cousin her antlers back. "I can't believe you put those on him. I can't believe he *let* you put those on him!" "Well, he did draw blood. Repeatedly," Patt admitted reluctantly. "Who'd have thunk with a name like 'Kitty Nunkies,' the cat would have so much attitude?" "What I don't understand is why you had to pick my cat. If you had to put an animal in a silly costume, why not make it Fred?" "His head was too big." Patt released a sad whimper as she began to collect the Santa hats from each bust. Bonnie didn't want to be remotely sympathetic to the Third Cousin's plight, but a tug of compassion came anyway. "You know, Patt, we haven't forbidden you from your festivities entirely. We just don't want you doing them here. Jules and I may believe these activities are a waste of energy and have the potential for emotional trauma, but that doesn't mean we would stop you from celebrating elsewhere in the city. Why don't I call around the hotels and see if I can book a place for you guys to swamp with Season's Greetings while you finish clearing out the garlands?" Patt brightened a little at this prospect. "You'd do that?" "Sure," Bonnie shrugged. "I don't want everyone moping around, acting like they belong with the Knighties or something, BUT I certainly won't endure Christmas junk in my face twenty-four hours a day! If a hotel suite will work, bring me the phone!" Patt completed the cleaning-up task, then wandered to the Video room as the NA Scribe occupied herself on the telephone. There were almost a dozen addicts aggregated among the sofas and squooshy chairs, watching Laura's copy of 'The Nightmare Before Christmas.' KC, Mids, Jesse and Tracy Sue sat on the floor making ornaments. Debbie, Laura, Kusine and Charl had their eyes glued to the screen, while Tser tried to instruct her burro, Lavalianna, to not nicker during the movie. Sallie had stretched out, taking up an entire couch for a dragon-worthy nap. Annette, Susan, Jayne and Libby conferenced in the corner over a stack of sheet music. The Third Cousin cleared her throat. "Guys? We need to have a meeting." The Ratpacker stood up proudly. "Rightee, then! Aye's called Libratsie, and Aye'm not an - " "Not an NA meeting, Libby," Patt interrupted. "This is a Christmas conference, namely to inform you that Jules and Bons are insisting on no festivities in the Shrine." There were sounds of protest, exclamations and disappointed groans. "They can't do that!" Jesse argued. "It's not fair!" Mids agreed. "Besides," KC added in a naughty tone as she rubbed her palms together in greedy anticipation, "we outnumber 'em! Who want's a mutiny!?" Tracy Sue cackled as a swarm of hands rose into the air. "Majority rules! Let's string the party poopers up! Tornadoes can't stop me from celebrating Christmas! Winter storms can't stop me from celebrating Christmas! What makes Jules and Bonnie think they can stop me from celebrating Christmas?!" "Wait a second," Patt announced calmly over the grumbles, "before you put together the lynch mob, let me be the voice of reason." Everyone shut up. Patt, the voice of reason? This had to be heard. "Jules insists that LaCroix will be unhappy if he sees our decorations hanging all over his busts and tapestries. She may have a point. As a compromise, Bonnie is getting us some hotel space as we speak, so that everyone can still get their jollies." "Tootin' right, we're gettin' our jollies off," Libby inserted. "I want my shiny, pretty, blinkey lights!" "And you'll have them," Patt assured the Ratpacker, "just not here." Everyone agreed that they could live with these events. They would have preferred to have their festivities within the luxury accommodations of the Shrine, but Christmas at a hotel was better than no Christmas at all. Their eyes all turned expectantly toward Bons as she joined them in the Video room. The NA Scribe's smile was slightly guilty as she said, "Hi, guys! I just finished going through the hotel listings, and I'm afraid I have bad news. All the vacancies are filled with people trapped in town like us because of the winter storm. Basically, there's no room in the inns for you guys. You'll just have to hold back your Christmas urges until next year. Sorry," she offered half-heartedly, then gestured out the door. "I'm going to go join Jules in putting my shopping away in the Wardrobe room." Bonnie pointed toward the ornament supplies at Tracy Sue, Mids, KC, and Jesse's feet. "Clean up that mess, will you?" Patt watched as Bonnie waltzed out of the room, leaving her with the disappointed expressions of the crowd. "Oh, crap!" ************************************************************************** Yes, it was freezing cold outside, but not nearly as cold as the reception Patt had encountered after Jules and Bonnie had demanded no festive mood within the Shrine. The mature addict's intentions had been good, but following the encounter with the High Priestess and the Scribe, Patt was witness to an aftermath of somberness which encompassed this place of usual, joyful high spirits. Finding there was no room in the inn and hearing Bons' and Jules' dismissive attitude toward their holiday needs seemed to quash everyone's humor. That is, except for Sallie's. She had woken from her dragon nap, unabashed to find there would be no festivities in the Shrine, then left to catch up with the Scribe, the other addicts staring traitorously at her back. Upon learning of the ultimate fate of their holiday plans, all of the remaining addicts had filed from the video room, one by one, leaving Patt alone within the cold confines of the celluloid world. Even Jack Skellington seemed to be pointing an accusing, boney finger at the Third Cousin. Jules, Bonnie and Sallie couldn't seem to grasp that going without seasonal traditions could really bother the other addicts. No, those three had dressed for dinner in their finest, then wandered over to the Peach for a feast, uncaring of the devastation they'd wreaked on the Shrine populace. Patt shook her head, wondering how anyone could enjoy Moet & Chandon while so much gloom hung in the air. The older addict walked through the halls, where she found weather-bound residents in various states of vegetation. She located young Mids, staring wistfully out an anteroom window, counting snowflakes and sighing "Greg" under her breath as Barnaby slept in her lap. Laura was waiting by the telephone, obviously hoping for a call from the States, and toying with a skein of white yarn. Jayne and Charl were in the Sacred Game Room, threatening to 'crown' each other over a game of checkers. Annette was in her room, door locked. This made Patt very unhappy. As the mature addict continued to stroll through the Shrine, other signs of discontent became obvious. The usually irrepressible duo of Tracy Sue and KC were sitting quietly in front of a television set, watching 'Father Figure' and weeping, rather than snickering in MST3000-like form. This caused Patt to quicken her step in alarm. She almost collided with Kusine, who was exiting the Sacred Sauna, her pale skin looking rather grayish and wrinkled, a sign that she'd steamed a bit too long. Kusine noted Patt's scrutiny and shrugged - 'nothing else to do.' Susan was in the Wardrobe room, removing every holiday-inspired accessory that she'd added to the heavy chiffon toga and silver breastplate of her Not-So-Vestal-Virgin uniform. She tossed aside an ivy cutting with a pout, then glanced up, showing Patt a heartbroken expression. The Third Cousin then found Tser, Libby and Jesse loitering sadly in the Laboratory/Kitchen. They gazed wistfully at a recipe for cheese straws, sighing in unison. But, the icing on the cake was Debbie's mournful air when Patt encountered her in one of the Shrine's anterooms. The addict, also known as Fleurette, was staring up at the tapestry of Nunkies, not in the usual delight and droolishness, but with tear-filled eyes and such intense longing that Patt felt unsteady. "Debbie," Patt approached the addict and laid a tentative hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong?" "I hate Christmas," Debbie said softly. "And I hate that I hate it." "Okay . . ." Patt put on her social worker hat and went to work. "Care to elaborate?" "Christmas has always been one of my favorite times of year," Debbie said, after a moment of silent encouragement from Patt. "Now that I'm stuck here, and we've been forbidden to celebrate it, I hate that it's Christmas." A strange coldness, icier than the winds outside, crept through Patt. "Hate Christmas...hate Christmas. No... this won't work, dudette." The Third Cousin's tone grew in pitch, alarming Debbie. "I can't believe that even LaCroix would want his children to hate Christmas!" "You know, this is all Jules' and Bonnie's doing. LaCroix hasn't said anything about us not being able to celebrate, has he?" Patt was unable to keep her voice to a non-earsplitting octave. "Why should we go without fun?!" The shrillness commanded attention, and several of the aforementioned addicts began homing in on the signal. "When it comes down to the nitty-gritty, I don't see why celebrating Christmas would offend Nunkies." Fleurette seemed embarrassed. "The religious aspect." Patt nodded. "Okay, I'll give Jules that point, but a lot of the Christmas thing is a celebration of friends and family. Heck, even in LC's mortal times, the Romans celebrated the Saturnalia - Jules wrote an excellent documentary about that last year! The Romans were the ones who changed the 'birthdate' to their own holiday date, so they could keep continuity with their own celebration. Some scholars have put the actual 'birthdate' in early January or even later, in Spring." "So, technically, you're saying that the date we usually celebrate Christmas is not the actual religious-based holiday, but one manufactured by the ancient Romans, right?" Charl asked shrewdly. Patt nodded. "So," Jayne added, a grin spreading across her face, "if we choose to celebrate a traditional Christmas, we're really celebrating a Roman holiday, right?" "Uhhhhh . . ." Patt looked at the others with an uncertain feeling. "And, being the party animal that he is, Nunkies would approve of such a celebration - especially one that commemorates family. After all, Nunkies is big into family," Laura's voice was excited as she uttered these words, while Mids nodded enthusiastically. "Uhhhh . . . ." "I SMELL TINSEL!" KC shrieked, darting from the room, with a glowing Tracy Sue in hot pursuit. "Uhhhh . . ." "We can put the garlands back up, and I know we have some lights leftover from the Conversion Ceremony," Laura said. "Come on, Kusine, help me go get it from the attic. Mids, you check in the kitchen..." "Laboratory," a chorus of voices corrected her. "Whatever," Laura gave them all a menacing look, then smiled brilliantly. "Mids, check and see if you can find some cranberries, popcorn and other foodstuffs which we can use for decorating. I also have some of my own stuff in my room," Laura winked, "which will give this decorating scheme a decidedly Nunkies-like flavor." A manic look appeared in Tser's eye. "Libby? Jesse? Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" "Cheese straws!" The trio exclaimed, racing after Mids toward the Kitchen/Laboratory. The addicts spilled out of the room, leaving Patt alone. The mature addict looked around, feeling a little out of sorts. Somehow, she knew, something had been started, again, which she would ultimately be blamed for. But, what had been started was good. The air felt fresher, the sky looked brighter, the temperature seemed less chilly. It was the resurgence of cheer and goodwill. Patt began to redeck the halls, picturing Jules and Bonnie feasting on their lobster crepes and vichyssoise, unaware that forces were at work which not even the threat of grout duty could arrest. Patt began to whistle 'Chestnuts' as she continued her intricate weaving of leaves and tinfoil about the Shrine columns. Annette ran back into the chamber, carrying new lights and extra sprigs of mistletoe. "We're really going to do *it*? No matter what Jules and Bonnie say?" Annette questioned, her eyes alight. Patt nodded and threw the other addict a box of star-shaped ornaments. Annette grinned and began hanging them, attaching one skillfully and fashionably to the Nunkies bust's left earlobe. "Yes, indeedy," Patt reiterated. "We are going to *have* a Shrine Christmas." *************************************************************************** Bonnie, Jules, and Sallie did enjoy their meal. Monsieur Cabon hovered, since, other than a couple from Montreal forced to extend their vacation and a pair of Japanese businessmen, they were the restaurant's only guests. They lingered over their dessert, a version of chocolate tiramisu that the Peach's chef had recently concocted, as their conversation turned from French cabaret chanteuses to the other addicts. "What do you think they're doing right now, Jules?" Bonnie wondered aloud. The High Priestess lifted one shoulder clad in gold sequins with a small shrug. "Feeling a bit sorry for themselves, I suppose. They'll be upset for a day or so, but once they realize that they still have the company of friends to enjoy, they'll snap right out their pity party and be running around the Shrine having Sacred Cold Water Balloon fights before you know it. Their need for celebration will pass, Bons." The Scribe nodded, taking a sip from her cafe Frangelico. "You're right, Jules. Once they let go of their Christmas bonds, all will be well. We'll just have to put up with the last faint embers of their seasonality, remaining patient as they mourn their lost holiday." "I just don't see how they could enjoy it," Sallie stated. "Christmas is one thing if I was actually with my family. The Dragon must confess: I would celebrate if I was at home. But here? Stranded so far away? It is too depressing to consider. Give me a warm lair and more tiramisu, and the Dragon will be content." Jules lifted another forkful of her dessert, giving a moan of pleasure at the luscious bite. "If only the others were as sensible as you, Sallie. Just think," she said after swallowing, "they could be here now, enjoying this incredibly sinful dish of chocolate paradise instead of moping away in their rooms. Those addicts are only hurting themselves with their foolish quest for Christmas." "It's a good thing we don't have that burden," Bonnie agreed, then licked a last fleck of cocoa whipped cream off her fork. "We are soooooo lucky!" "And," Jules added, turning over her utensil and allowing a waiter to pull back her chair as she stood, "we have maintained the sanctity of the Shrine. Just think, we'll have a safe haven away from the holiday festivities outside!" "Exactly, Jules!" Bonnie agreed as the trio strolled through the private dining room toward the Shrine's entrance. "We are soooooo lucky!" As they stepped into the Shrine, the addicts felt a wave of dizziness. Instead of softly glowing marble walls, they saw ribbons and evergreens. There were twinkling lights, silvery ornaments dangling from the bottom of each tapestry, and every available surface sported a holiday mug filled to the brim with candy canes. Annette and Jayne were balanced on stepladders, stringing mistletoe and more lights from the ceiling as they sang along with the music blasting overhead, an unlikely rendition of 'Jingle Bells' that involved chirping frogs. Libby was adding fragments of tinsel to the existing decorations. Since Ratsie-types liked the glitter of gold, however, there was more tinsel draped off Libby, herself, than the greenery. "Ugh," Jules said. "I'm having this terrible feeling of deja-vu." "Yah," Bonnie sighed. "I'm having deja-vu, too." Jules and Bonnie looked at each other, then back at the Shrine, then back at each other again. The High Priestess' fists clenched as her expression turned dangerous. "That's it! No more patience! Let's go to the Wardrobe room and change into something sensible-yet-fashionable!" "You're going out?" Sallie asked in a confused voice. "You aren't going to yell at them first?" "Yes, Sallie. They had their chance. Now we'll bring in the big guns: Bons and I are going to tell LaCroix." The Dragon's eyes lit in anticipation. Sallie thought. "I, of course," Sallie voiced aloud, "will follow." *************************************************************************** End O' Part Two "Why Rhode Island?" Jules asked suddenly as they waded through the snow toward the subway. "Hmmm?" Bons said distractedly. "Why did you ask Santa Claus for Rhode Island? What use do you have for an entire state?" "Bonnie asked Santa for Rhode Island?" Sallie wondered logically. "How can that be, when she doesn't *do* Christmas?" "It was to prove a point," Bonnie assured her, then gave a cheeky grin. "It's not as if I *expect* to get Rhode Island. As for why...perhaps I'm fulfilling dreams of tyranny?" The perky redhead shrugged. "No, I guess what I really want is an animal refuge. I want the land and the revenue to help abandoned creatures. So many die every year, just because they're unwanted. My family likes to remind me that I can't save every orphaned animal in the world. If I had a state at my beck and call, maybe it would be a start." Bonnie smirked sheepishly. "I know, it's a grossly sentimental concept. I ought to be ashamed of myself: a Cousin, waxing maudlin. Blah." "Is that why you referred to yourself as 'a sensitive Cousin' that one time?" Jules teased. "Sensitive Cousin? Isn't that a contradiction?" Sallie asked. Jules and Bonnie growled at her in irritation. "I don't believe that I'm really that sensitive," Bons admitted. "I think I'm a very frank person. The world is built of predators and prey - who am I to gloss over that? Mankind is an excellent predator, and we trod over every other species when it's convenient. I'm not saying that's wrong, I'm simply saying when we kill something, it should be for a reason: to eat, to survive, for shelter, or pleasure...but not just to throw away the extras like trash. Otherwise, it seems so empty...so pointless. Consider LaCroix..." Jules and Sallie smiled warmly. Considering LaCroix was one of their favorite pastimes. "LaCroix kills people. He's a predator." Bons kicked at a bank of snow with her sensible boots for emphasis. "He's a vampire!" She spun around, laughing, her arms spread wide. "So why don't I have a problem with that?" "Why don't you have a problem with that?" Jules demanded. She was beginning to wonder why she didn't have a problem herself. There was that Raleigh incident... "Because LaCroix *does* kill for a reason." Bonnie stopped walking, deciding she wanted to sit in the snow. There was a drift blocking one doorway that rose past her waist. With childish enthusiasm, Bons dove in. Her knit cap fell off as she wiggled to her back, leaving her auburn hair to spread in stark contrast to the pale snow. "You know: He kills out of hunger, revenge, to protect himself and the Community, to prove a point to that other guy..." Bonnie wiped the snowflakes away from her face before looking up at the standing addicts with naughty grin. "He kills out of lust, passion and desire..." The Scribe chuckled as she observed the others' eyes glaze over due to their active imaginations. Bons grabbed handfuls of snow as she continued to speak, compressing them into a tight ball. "But LaCroix doesn't kill humans just because of overpopulation. Remember what he told Schanke in 'Close Call'? 'A terrible thing...to waste people.' I agree. Only I think it's a terrible thing to waste animals," She gave Dragon Sallie a respectful nod, "or reptiles, or amphibians and avians." The Scribe had second thoughts, wrinkling her nose. "Except pigeons. Pigeons freak me out." "But what about Raleigh?" Jules demanded. "I am as loyal to the General as they come, but even I had difficulties accepting LaCroix making Nick's dog into a carouche." "Yes," Sallie agreed. "That was bad of Nunkies, luring the Rottweiller to doom like that." "Yeah, that pissed me off, too, and LC's reasons for doing it weren't exactly pretty," Bonnie admitted, "but, you know...the brunt of it is, we accept Nunkies. We never said that he was perfect." "Just fascinating, intelligent, and desirable," Jules countered. "And with a voice that could melt steel," Sallie added. "Bingo!" Bons laughed as she sat up in the snow pile, but then her face sobered. "But if the man ever tried pulling a Raleigh on one of my own, I'd change affiliations." She aimed her snowball at a nearby sign, hitting it dead-on with a serious *smack!* "I have limits." "We all have limits," the High Priestess agreed. "Don't you think you should limit your exposure to the cold?" Jules lent the Scribe a hand, pulling Bonnie to her feet. Bons wiped the snow from her legs and rear with annoyance, then pulled her cap back down over her newly cold and damp hair. "It doesn't snow much in the South," Bonnie commented ruefully. "Now that I've transformed my tush into an iceberg, I recall why this is a good thing." "Maybe we should hurry to the subway, so you can thaw," Jules suggested worriedly. Sallie, looking at the street behind them, released an exclamation. "Look! A drunk St. Nick is trying to jaywalk!" Jules and Bonnie moved to either side of the Dragon, their gazes following her pointing finger. There was a man in a red suit with white fur trim and black boots, carrying a voluminous black sack and weaving unsteadily on his feet. While the snow and ice had decimated the normal traffic on Queen, there were still a few stubborn souls who attempted driving, along with the city transit buses and trams. A pickled fat guy making merry in the middle of the road could easily cause an automotive disaster. Jules sighed. "I suppose it would be wrong to just leave him be." "Yah," Bonnie agreed. "Even Santa doesn't deserve to be roadkill." "Let's help him across the street," Sallie concluded. The three addicts approached the jolly old soul, all three assuming polite and considerate demeanors. Jules cleared her throat and tapped the man on one red shoulder. "Excuse us, but we were wondering if you needed assistance crossing the - " Santa Claus turned around, holding a .45 automatic which he aimed directly at the High Priestess' stomach. His eyes lacked any twinkle as he ordered in a rough voice, "Hand over your money and jewelry slowly, or I'll shoot." The robber slung the sack off of his shoulder, dropping it to the icy pavement. He yanked the bag open with his free hand, then gestured toward the addicts with greedy fingers. Bonnie and Jules did as he asked, both handing him their purses, watches and jewelry with cautious movements. The man in red dumped the items in his sack, then pointed impatiently at Sallie. "You, too. Give me your valuables!" Sallie didn't move, causing him to shout, "Hurry it up before my finger slips on the trigger!" Sallie was frozen with horror at the suggestion. "Dragons don't give up valuables. We *horde.*" "Sallie," Jules commanded stiffly, "as your High Priestess, waiting for a bullet to perforate my organs, I order you to give Santa your wallet!" The Dragon reluctantly pulled out her billfold, then paused for one more try before letting her money go. "It might only be a flesh wound, you know." "SAL-LIE!!!" "Okay." The Dragon handed Santa the leather pouch. "Happy, now?" The robber cinched his sack closed and motioned at the three addicts with the automatic. "Put your hands behind your heads, eh, and lay face-down on the sidewalk. Quickly!" Jules grimaced at the sludgy ice covering the pavement, then down at her stylish faux-fur coat. "I am very unhappy about this," she hissed. "Tell me about it," Bons echoed as she felt her new ski jacket grow dingier. "I still say you could've taken the flesh wound," Sallie muttered. "Now, I want to hear you count to twenty-five...slowly, eh," Santa-with-a-gun instructed. The addicts complied, chanting unmerrily as the robber made his escape on a John Deere snow plow. "One...bah humbug...Two...bah humbug...Three...bah humbug..." **************************************************************************** "Eh, wot a crew o' strings, that," Screed said, patting his chest with pride as he inspected his abode. Every square inch was covered by tiny clear bulbs, the wires linking them together attached to his stone walls by a judicious amount of duct tape. "All old Screed needs now is a bit o' juice to make 'em spark the blinky-linky!" The carouche wandered over to his circuit breaker and prepared to turn his electricity back on, thereby empowering all the bulbs into shiny, pretty beacons. Screed flicked the main switch and stood back to admire his work coming to life. There was a lingering moment of darkness, then a humming sound began to grow in the depths of the carouche's dim chamber. There was light. It wasn't a dainty twinkling of light, as though the bulbs were a subtle decorative afterthought. No, this was an eye-popping spectacle of brilliance, guaranteed to leave a lasting impression. Bright and shiny, there was no doubt that Ratsie-types would enjoy decorating their surroundings with lights and find Screed's place a mindboggling example. In fact, it was a blinding example. Screed's vision, more accustomed to candles, or, at the very brightest, the overhead fluorescents at the swap meet, was overwhelmed. "Cor' blimey!" he exclaimed, squeezing his eyes painfully shut and covering his head with sweatered arms. His pupils continued to sting long after he'd closed his eyes. "Aye outdid meself!" Screed suddenly realized that it wasn't simply his eyes that were burning. He sniffed the air, comprehending with growing dismay that his carouche skin was smoking! He'd conjured up something that had properties somewhere between sunlight and a roaring fire in his living room! Screed lunged toward the circuit breaker, but the light overpowered him. He was afraid for his safety, so he ducked through floor grate, cursing as he went. *************************************************************************** "Buggery Bloody Hum Bah!" Vachon glanced up from his evening chore: replacing all of his old candles with brand new beeswax stock he'd gotten for a song at Bugby's Wax And Textile Emporium. The Spaniard usually kept a low profile, but he still knew people. Javier studied his carouche friend's scorch marks curiously while he set down a stack of creamy-colored candles. "Buenos noches, Screed. You look...overheated. Did you have an accident playing with tin foil and a microwave again?" "No, an' it wuddn't tha' firecrackeries, either," the carouche said in an annoyed voice. "I lighted me estab-leash-ment all festive-like with the junior watts, an' blew meself out o' me own squat. Tha' home's nawt safe fer vampire 'abitation 'til the power goes dodo." "So, you want me to help you turn it off?" Vachon inquired. "Wot? Yew speak Spanish 'er somethin'?" The dark-haired vampire gave Screed The Look. "Right, right," the carouche sighed. "Yew know what Aye'm hablo-in', mate: our sort crashes at my place, an' we burn. Got it? This is a mortals-only type o' so-loo-shun. Is Baby Jane free to flick a switch?" Vachon shook his head. "No. From what I gather, Trace is under house arrest with her dad and uncles over the holidays. We won't see one blonde hair until New Year's." "Dast an' Blam! Aye thought fer sure Janes could 'andle the brights." Screed had a pensive moment. "Wot about that toasty doctor wench wot savvys Defect-ta-tive Knight?" Javier's expression was unenthusiastic. "You'd have to ask him." "Good an' lotta 'elp that is," The carouche said dejectedly. "Tell you what, Screed. You can hang out here until the power company turns you off, or you get a mortal to help." "Aye can?" Vachon shrugged, then clapped him on the shoulder. "Sure. Why not? You let me crash at your place the last time I had trouble with the Inca: consider it returning the favor." "Well, that's a mate!" The Rat-Man rubbed his hands together, inspecting his surroundings greedily. "Yew know, this place could use a string er tew o' -" "Uh-uh, Screed," the Spaniard interrupted as he handed the carouche a handful of tapered wax cylinders. "No decorations...just *candles.*" *************************************************************************** "Can I help you ladies?" Officer Pulte asked the trio of addicts. "Can you?" Jules inquired harshly. "I only ask because a total of six uniformed men have asked us that same question since we arrived here two hours ago, and each time we've answered, they've said it wasn't their department. They also all promised they would be right back with someone who was in that department. Well, guess what? They disappeared, and we are still waiting. So I ask you," Jules eyed the name on the officer's badge, "Sergeant Pulte...*Can* you help us?" "Uh..." "Ack! Jules! That Other Guy is here!" Bons exclaimed, elbowing the High Priestess in the ribs, then pointing in the direction of a familiar tousled blonde head. "Why would we want to see him?" Sallie turned up her nose at the prospect. "He doesn't appreciate Nunkies nearly enough. Besides, he does homicide. If Jules had let the evil Santa shoot her like I wanted, maybe *then* we could've used him." "Which makes it an attempted homicide," Jules said coldly, unappreciative that Sallie had brought the subject up again. The High Priestess didn't do birthdays, she didn't do Christmas, and she didn't *do* gunshot wounds. Period. "You want to see Detective Knight?" Pulte said with some relief. He didn't recognize Jules or Bonnie, though he'd been on the Shrine premises the August before when Metro Police had finally tracked the infamous art thieves, Deon and Miss Prentiss, to their door. The sergeant's lack of memory was all Nick's doing: the Detective hadn't wanted word of his unfortunate Marmite bath to get back to Schanke or Captain Reese. That might have proven embarrassing. No, of course, the reason was moot. The addicts, likewise, had avoided the topic as well, not to spare Nick any humiliation, but to spare LaCroix an unpleasant reminder. In exchange for this discretion, Nick had relaxed on his attempts to find any reason to arrest the Nunkies Addicts (he still carried a slight grudge over the scratch one of Bonnie's non-sensible shoes had inflicted upon the Caddy's hood). Officer Pulte had turned away and was approaching Detective Knight before any of the addicts could have second thoughts. "You know he doesn't trust us, Bons," Jules said ruefully. "Nick probably won't even believe us if we tell him we were mugged by Santa Claus. He'll just assume we're making trouble." "Isn't that what we usually *are* doing?" Sallie commented. "Okay, so Nick will be suspicious," Bonnie reasoned. "If we act really pitiful and sorry for ourselves..." "Which we are," Jules interjected. "Ditto," the Dragon agreed. "...it will pull on the guy's guilt strings," Bonnie concluded. "He'll angst himself into helping us!" The addicts watched as Officer Pulte crossed the bullpen and caught Nick's attention. They saw the sergeant speak to the detective confidentially, then motion in their direction. The blonde vampire's expectant gaze followed the officer's pointing finger to the three addicts, who all assumed properly victimized demeanors. Nick's face fell as he recognized Jules and Bonnie. They had caused him, and his Cadillac, no end of trouble in the past. No doubt the other woman with them was bad news, as well. He thanked the Officer stiffly for bringing the addicts to his attention, then he reluctantly strolled their way. Knight looked each addict critically in the eye before asking, "It's broadcast time. Shouldn't you ladies be somewhere drooling over the Nightcrawler?" "We should," Jules concurred in a taut voice. "The criminal element of Toronto, however, has delayed our plans." "You mean to say you three actually know a criminal when you see one?" Nick said sarcastically. "You could have fooled me." "I told you we shouldn't talk to him," Jules whispered harshly in Bonnie's ear. "This is getting us nowhere." Bonnie was preparing to reply, when Sallie broke out in a sudden traumatized ranting, "We were robbed! Robbed! Robbed! Robbed! He held Jules at gunpoint and made ME give up my valuables!!!! My gold! What's a Dragon supposed to do without their gold? Hmmmm? The Horror! The Horror!" Sallie ended her speech with a tormented dragonesque groan. Nick frowned in concern. "She was robbed?" "We were all robbed," Bonnie corrected him. "At gunpoint," Jules said emphatically. "He threatened to shoot *me.* He intended to kill *me.* Plus, he made us get sludgy snow on our fashionable winter-wear!" "Okay, okay," Nick said, beginning to take their distress seriously. "So we're talking about an attempted homicide, assault with a deadly weapon, and three counts of robbery." "What about our ruined clothes?" Jules insisted. "He should suffer for that crime, too." "Yeah, charge him with vandalism of personal property!" Bonnie cried. "We'll discuss the details later," Nick promised. "All three of you saw the perpetrator?" The three addicts nodded, and Nick pulled out a small leather notebook. "Describe him to me." "Well, he had white hair, a moustache and beard," Bonnie began. "He was a plump man, maybe two inches shorter than you, and he wore a red suit." Nick paused in his shorthand. "A red suit?" "Yeah," Bons continued, "with white fur trim, a big black belt with a silver buckle, and black boots. Oh, and he had a matching cap." "Oh, give it up, Bons," Jules said with an exasperated sigh, then turned to stare defensively at Nick. "You want to know who mugged us? It was a man in a Santa Claus costume, all right? Our descriptions are not exactly going to provide a bounty of klews! Bonnie is right about his height, though, and he had a Canadian accent." "Right," Bonnie said," He said 'eh' a couple times. Oh - and he had gorgeous brown eyes." Jules glared hotly at the Scribe. "I can't believe you were checking out Santa at the same time he was threatening to kill me!" Bons shrugged. "It's instinctive." "Don't forget how he drove off on a John Deere snow plow," Sallie said firmly. "Do you want the license number?" Everyone turned to stare at the Dragon. "You got the plate number?" Bonnie exclaimed. "Jeez, Sallie!" "Why do you think I wanted to come to the police precinct? I'm not going to let Santa just *take* my valuables and not seek retribution," Sallie said dangerously. "The plate was 'DEC-025.' Ontario." Nick wrote this information down, then looked up with excitement. "Believe it or not, you may have given us a big break. You aren't the first report of armed robbery by Santa Claus that we've had this week. One of the victims wasn't as lucky as you, Jules, and ended up dead. Your adventure tonight actually coincides with one of my cases." "Well, goody," Bons said with false sweetness. "I knew that you'd be excited, Rutledge. Look," Nick said as he ushered them toward an interrogation room, "I want to get statements about the robbery from each of you. It will probably take another hour. Do you want something to drink?" "Tea, please," Jules said. "I want coffee," Bonnie followed, "but only if you send somebody on a cappuccino run." "Can do," Nick offered kindly. Their statements took closer to two hours, the process slowed because each woman had to give an individual interview, and none of the three were short on words. "Well, I hope this delay was worth it!" Jules sighed as the trio walked toward the station exit. The High Priestess suppressed a shudder. "Do you realize the thousands of activities that I would have preferred over spending the past three hours in a police station?" Sallie begged to differ. "Hey, Nick looked almost predatory after he got all of our statements. I'm certain we'll see the safe return of our valuables, and Knight will have Santa Claus in the pokey before you can say 'Ho Ho Ho'!" Madame Kiki's voice broke in on their conversation from nearby. "Who are you calling a 'Ho Ho Ho'? I prefer sexual entrepreneur, remember, dears?" Jules elegantly extended a palm and shook the woman's hand. Bonnie and she had met Madame Kiki during one of their unfortunate incarcerations (these were always misunderstandings - the addicts never *deserved* to be put in jail), and the lady of the night had proven to be a useful acquaintance. "Of course we remember, Madame Kiki. Sallie was using the word 'Ho' in the non-Biblical sense. I hope that you aren't here because of some pesky legal problem." "No, no," Madame Kiki assured them, "I was merely dropping off holiday poinsettias for the Captain and Vice squad. Giving them a poisonous plant is the least I can manage, considering all they do for me and my business in a year." "Kiki!" Bonnie said accusingly. "I thought that you had no more use for Christmas than we did!" "Well, yes, personally I'm quite ho-hum about the entire spectacle, but what can a sexual entrepreneur do? It's my busiest season!" "That's rough," Bonnie consoled. "Trust us, you're not the only one growing tired of celebrating against your will." "All of the other Nunkies Addicts have persisted in decorating the Shrine with boughs and trinkets, despite my edicts to the contrary!" Jules explained, obviously affronted. "No!" Madame Kiki appeared horrified. "But you're the High Priestess! They have to listen to you!" "Apparently not," Sallie interjected, earning a glare from Jules. "What are you going to do?" Madame Kiki asked curiously. "I *know* you're not going to just put up with their forbidden celebration!" "Of course we aren't," Jules agreed. "That's why we're visiting CERK. The other addicts may try to ignore our opinions, but LaCroix's decision on the matter will be immutable." "Oh, redrum! Jules...how are we going to get to CERK now?" Bonnie asked. "Santa stole all of our change! How are we going to ride the subway?" "Ugh," Sallie commented. "It was arduous enough walking here!" "Never fear, my friends!" Madame Kiki assured the trio. "I have a few of my Buff Slave Boys parked outside on snowmobiles. We'll give you a lift." Bonnie whispered jealously in Jules' ear as they followed Madame Kiki outside. "You know she just offered as an excuse to see the General." "Can you blame her?" *************************************************************************** End O' Part Three Was there ever a time when an addict visited the hallowed halls of CERK and didn't feel a tremor of excitement? Jules experienced it every time she opened the door numbered '78' with the station logo overhead, and she came here five, sometimes six times a week. Jules mused as they climbed the station stairs, Jules smiled secretively as the group strolled down the hallway toward his sound booth. Lacroix's chin lifted as he noticed the four women join the radio technician working in the outer section of the broadcast booth. He raised his ringed hand as he continued to speak, gesturing for them to enter. "I feel some of you tonight...you're lost and lonely, cut adrift from your family and friends, cut adrift from yourselves. In this month of forced civility and jingle bells, society calls on us to love our fellow man..." LaCroix glanced at the addicts with a twinkle in his eye as he added, "...and women. There is a call for togetherness, festive gatherings, banquets and toasts...so many *good feelings*...Why then, my children, do you feel so alone? No one understands your pain. No one cares for your needs. In a sea of carols, ribbons and ringing bells, laughing voices and warm embraces, no one loves...you. Ah, my poor children," LaCroix released a smug laugh into the microphone, "I care. I understand. I know how so many torture yourself unnecessarily. You don't *need* Christmas, gentle listeners. There is so much more..." He motioned the addicts closer. Jules and Bonnie took the available chairs, while Sallie and Madame Kiki crowded in closer to the microphone. "The Nightcrawler has some visitors. Welcome, ladies - and I use that term loosely - what brings you out on such a cold and cloudy night?" LaCroix asked smoothly. "Christmas!" Sallie blurted, then snapped her mouth shut at the Nightcrawler's immediate frown of disapproval. "Would you care to elaborate?" he prompted coldly. Sallie shook her head. This trip hadn't been her idea: she'd just wanted to observe and drool in peace. The Dragon had already lost her valuables, and from LaCroix's burgeoning frown, she was halfway toward vexing him. Sallie wanted someone else to take the hot seat and annoy the velvet-voiced one. With this logical conclusion, she did the logical thing: passed the buck. "Jules would." LaCroix turned to gaze at the High Priestess. "Indeed? You have something to say about...Christmas?" Jules leaned into the microphone, stating emphatically, "Yes. We don't *do* Christmas." "Well, isn't that refreshing?" LaCroix responded encouragingly. "Why don't you share with our eager listeners the reasons why you've forsaken the season. Share...your...wisdom..." All of the women were leaning closer toward LaCroix from where they stood or sat, staring intently at the movement of his lips as he uttered each sound. Madame Kiki was the first to snap out of her daze of lust (it was a job skill). "Well, act-ually...technically speaking, I do celebrate Christmas...but I'm only in it for the money." "You mean that you fake it," LaCroix concluded, his mouth tugging into a smile. "Uh," Madame Kiki cleared her throat, "I guess that's as true a description as any. Any...ecstasy...or exhilaration that I might demonstrate because of the holidays, well, I'm just putting out...*ahem*...I mean, I'm putting on an act." "Your festive celebrations are motivated by greed," LaCroix commented. "I dare say you are not the only reveler consumed by this reason for the season." "I'll say," Bonnie broke in. "There are three things that stand out in my mind that made me stop celebrating Christmas, and two of them, not to condemn you or anything, Kiki," Bons said, laying an apologetic hand on the Madame's arm, "have to do with greed." LaCroix's eyes lit with curiosity. "Really? Tell us more, Bonnie. Bare your soul." Jules' expression displayed her sudden alarm as she put a hand over the microphone. "Are you certain you want to get Bons started on a rant? She's short in stature, but not short on words." At this declaration, Bonnie scowled. Sallie agreed. "Yes, how much time does your show have left?" LaCroix rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, then gestured for Jules to relinquish her hold on the microphone. "Thank you," Bonnie muttered, then continued in a clearer, firmer tone. "Soul Baring - Part One: you know, my family celebrated Christmas every year when I was a child. We would do all the decorations, church services, parties, and family get-togethers, but, to me, it's all a blur. I'm certain that I went through these things more than a dozen times, yet, of all those years, I actually remember only one vividly: I was twelve. I didn't believe in Santa, but I believed in presents; the more I could get my hands on, the better. So that Christmas when I was twelve, I recall that I thought that I would *die* if I didn't get this one present. I was literally obsessed over whether that thing was under the tree, wrapped in shiny paper and bows. I don't think I slept for the entire week before the big day. I was that excited. In fact, I was so worked up, by the time Christmas morning dawned, I broke out in hives." "Oh, Bons!" Jules exclaimed sympathetically. "How awful!" "Wasn't it?" the Scribe said. "All everyone wanted to know the whole day long was 'What happened to Bonnie?' I was so humiliated." "Let me guess," LaCroix inserted, "after all the trauma, you didn't receive the gift you wanted, making you the delightful unbeliever we have today." "No, no. I got the gift. I recall that much. For the life of me, though, I can't remember anymore what it was that I wanted so badly. The present was overshadowed by the hives, you see. I had red spots from my head to my toes, just breaking out all over because of my overwhelming greed. The rash sticks in my mind, raw and obvious like some symbol in a Hawthorne novel. 'Control your greed,' it said, 'because the consequences can be ugly.' And so, that was the first step in my liberation from the Christmas spirit." Bonnie looked at the surrounding faces, ending with LaCroix. "Shall I go on?" "By all means, continue," LaCroix said. Sufficiently encouraged, Bons stopped leaning toward the microphone. Instead, she settled back comfortably in her chair, pulling the mike away from the Nightcrawler until it rested in front of herself. "Soul Baring - Part Two: it's not nearly such a fable. It's a horror story, actually. I worked through my first two holiday seasons during college in a department store. I was the sweet thing in Housewares who promised your Mother that *everyone* would love a waffle iron that year. I was the young woman in a sharp red suit with buttons like doubloons and flawless makeup who spritzed perfume on my wrist for your husband or boyfriend to smell. Repeatedly." Bonnie paused for a moment, then grinned at the Madame. "Not so different from what Kiki does...different merchandise, that's all. I was still selling holiday cheer. The problem was, I encountered thousands of people over those two Christmases and not once did I meet someone who seemed genuinely pleased to give anyone anything. The customers always spoke as if they were performing a chore or making some narrow escape from certain doom. They were just checking off their lists. It struck me as so empty, so mechanical, so pointless. The Christmas I saw there was a facade that I didn't want to be a part of anymore." "But the Christmas that department stores sell," Sallie pointed out, "that's just one layer to the whole extravaganza. What about friends? What about family? They are important this time of year. That's why I'm not doing Christmas - I can't be with my family, so why bother?" "You're right," Bonnie said thoughtfully, "I can't ignore family and friends. I suppose that brings me to Soul Baring - Part Three. Truman Capote had fruitcake weather. I had Luminaria weather. It was a town Christmas project that the youth would participate in, and, for years, my father headed it up. We would go out on the first Saturday in December. It seemed like some ungodly early hour that we had to get up and head out, and the morning always seemed colder for it. Basically, the young people would knock on the front doors of all the houses in town and ask them to line their curbs with white bags filled with sand and candles on Christmas Eve. "Sometimes my house felt like a strategic outpost, planning for some war...the War of the Luminaries. There would always be last minute emergencies: people needing supplies, streets left out in the shuffle, or someone needing the candles set up for them because they were traveling over the holidays. My father would call my brother and me in like good little soldiers to help him take care of the problems when necessary. "Then Christmas Eve would arrive, just like it did tonight, and we would set everything up. We lived next door to the fire chief, so my brother and I never had too much fun with the matches, though there were exciting flammable moments from time to time. When the night grew its darkest, my family would climb into the car, driving from neighborhood to neighborhood to examine the handiwork. "Luminaria is supposed to have some kind of holiday significance: it lights the way for the arrival of the Christ child or marks flight patterns for Santa's reindeer...something crazy like that. I don't really care now, and I didn't really care about what it was *meant* to stand for then. You see, I would be riding in the back seat, gazing out the window in the night, and suddenly my dad would slow the car to almost a standstill. As far as my eyes could see, the lights would wind along the road in glowing paths of light that appeared like a reflection of the stars in the sky. It was as if the earth and air were one, each black with scattered bursts of brightness. "It would leave me in awe. It was beautiful, the kind of beauty that can steal your breath or make you cry at the impact of it. I would just stare at the road and the sky and smile, thinking, 'My Dad did this.' I would forget the early mornings and doorbell ringing that my brother and I, and who knows how many other people put in over the month before. No, I thought of my Father, organizing the whole thing, and I really admired him for that. I still do. "So, looking at the faces here in the studio, no doubt you people out there listening to my not-so-little rant are trying to figure out what the hell Soul Baring - Part Three has to do with not celebrating Christmas. It certainly sounds lovely: a touching family moment in the midst of the season fit for a soda commercial. Well, here's my point: I grew up, my Father retired from the project, and Luminaria never seemed quite as magical when Dad wasn't in charge. The thing is, Luminaria wasn't important. It was just one little act out of thousands which my Father has done for me over the years. I love and admire him whether it's December 25th, January 12th, or May 2nd - the date is meaningless. If you love someone, why should a calendar determine when and how you show them your affection and respect? In the end, I don't believe brightly colored packages tied up in glitzy ribbons can begin to compare with a simple 'thank you' or 'I love you very much.' Don't forget to appreciate your family and your friends the rest of the year, because they just might need it more on a nameless day without bells and lights." "Well, so ends my overly grand portion of soul-baring this evening about why I choose not to celebrate Christmas. I'll be quiet now." Bons pushed the microphone back in LaCroix's direction. "We will, of course, believe that when we *don't* hear it, Bonnie," he refuted with a knowing smile while the others looked on doubtfully. Bons humph-ed, but she didn't breathe another word. "How many of you out there agree with my friends? Are you disenchanted with the holiday season? Do the festivities strike you as an empty charade? Tell the Nightcrawler how you feel. Expose yourself." LaCroix pressed a button on his control panel, saying, "You're on the air. What do you think about Christmas?" A deep, masculine voice came over the line in an assertive tone. "I prefer to avoid it, just like my daughter. For one, I'm allergic to Christmas trees." "That's an irritation with which I can sympathize," LaCroix commented. Bonnie's cheeks flushed, and she covered her face with a groan. Jules elbowed her in the ribs. "Oh my...don't tell me that's..." the High Priestess said in surprise. Bons nodded meekly. "And who would you be?" LaCroix prompted. "John Rutledge...Bonnie's father," the caller identified himself. "But he's not even in the country!" Jules hissed in Bonnie's ear. "How does he know you're here?" "One of those international band radio thingees? I don't know!" Bonnie hissed back. "He's a father *and* a Cousin. Don't you think that gives him secret powers?!?" "Ah...Bonnie's father," LaCroix continued. "You must be touched by your daughter's declarations of familial devotion. You really are quite fortunate. Not all children are so appreciative." "I realize that. I assume she's still there, listening, probably hiding her face in the background," John said, humor evident in his baritone voice. "That she is," LaCroix shared. "Do you have a message for her?" "Well, I love her, too, and I'm proud that she's my daughter, even though she usually doesn't do what's best for her. I'm sure you'll agree, Nightcrawler, that's a common parental lament." "You'll find no argument from me there, John," LaCroix agreed. "But I'm curious...surely you realized that, by calling into Nightwatch and indulging in this feast of affection with your daughter on Christmas Eve, you are doing exactly what your daughter was complaining about: appreciating loved ones during the holidays?" "Certainly! If a father can't enjoy tormenting his children, who can?" As the sound of both men chuckling rang through the studio, Bonnie stubbornly crossed her arms across her chest, mumbling, "Ha. Ha." "Oh, there's one more thing before I go..." John said, his tone full of trickery. "My daughter forgot that there is *one* holiday tradition the Rutledges still embrace. Her brain must have frozen due to all that ice in Toronto...Xmas Eve Gift, Bonnie!" Bons squealed, leaping out of her chair. "Da-ad!!! No fair! Radio conversations don't count on Xmas Eve Gift!" "Telephone calls do," her father countered. "I have to agree with John," LaCroix inserted. "It was a valid Xmas Eve Gift attack. Accept your defeat gracefully, Bonnie." "Oooo, Dad! Just wait until next year! I'll get you!" Bons threatened, shaking her fist at the telephone. "That's what you always say," John laughed, then hung up. Jules sighed as Bonnie plopped back into her seat. "Oh, Bons... For someone who started out so well championing our quest to convince people to abdicate the holidays, your finish was an absolute disaster." "But...but..." Bonnie appeared to be at a surprising loss for words. "It was my *Dad*!" she finally exclaimed, as if that logically explained everything. "Excuse me," Sallie piped in, "but would somebody mind telling me what 'Xmas Eve Gift' is?" "It's horrible, and I never win," Bonnie said with a pout. "It's a spoken game," LaCroix explained casually, "where the participants attempt to be the first ones to say 'Xmas Eve Gift' aloud to as many of their competitors as possible on, of course, Christmas Eve. Often, a great deal of trickery and strategy goes into avoiding capture. It's quite a charming game, really, except for the name," the vampire mused. "Xmas Eve Gift, Bonnie." "Ack!" "Xmas Eve Gift, Bonnie!" Sallie and Madame Kiki echoed. Bonnie slid lower in her chair, completely mortified. "You are all evil. Evil, evil, evil!" Jules patted the Scribe's hand sympathetically. "Don't worry. I won't say it, Bons." "Thank you, Jules." LaCroix leaned over the microphone with a wicked grin. "And here's our next caller, gentle listeners...What is *your* name?" "Ed." "Are you related to any of my studio guests, Ed?" the vampire queried. "I don't think so." "Then what is the nature of your call? Is there something that you loathe about the holidays that you would like to share with the rest of us?" "Uh...I just wanted to say that I agree with that 'Xmas Eve Gift' girl." A moan came from the direction of Bonnie's chair. "Greed, greed, greed. That's all you ever see anymore this time of year! You know what burns me even more?" "What's that, Ed?" LaCroix asked. "Every time you turn around, there's somebody asking you for money, and they act like you're the devil if you don't hand over your last two dollars!" "Our friend, Ed, has an excellent point, listeners. The Nightcrawler asks you, my children, how much has the spirit of the season demanded of your coffers? They are everywhere, aren't they? Vultures, circling for the opportunity to pilfer your pocketbook, gypsies and thieves who declare themselves unfortunate: they have nothing to recommend themselves other than the theme of goodwill surrounding the holidays. They crawl from the gutters and out of the shadows begging for more, growing rich, their purses fattened off the weakness of those foolhardy souls who seek absolution for a year's worth of delicious sins. They are everywhere: charming souls soliciting charity for their licensed, non-profit organizations over the telephone, at your door, and in your face. You give, don't you? Not freely. If you gave freely, you would expect nothing in return. Everyone *always* wants something in return. You want to wash away guilt by buying indulgences. You want a receipt for the tax deduction." LaCroix chuckled wickedly. "You want to be desired by someone, anyone - even the disenfranchised rabble. You *need* to feel needed, even if you have to buy your glory. Well, my children, they say a fool and his money are soon parted. How foolish are you?" Jules leaned over and whispered in Bonnie's ear. "I guess that means Nunkies isn't planning to give you Rhode Island any time soon." Sallie crouched down beside their chairs, joining them in a low voice. "That would mean Nunkies is Santa Claus. Now, wouldn't that rock your world and freak you out?" "As much fun as this soiree has been," Jules pointed out succinctly, "need I remind you that we came here on a mission?" "That's right," Madame Kiki inserted. "You're here to tattle on your addicted brethren." "High Priestesses don't tattle!" Jules said hotly, her voice rising to a normal level. "We *inform.*" Bonnie's reply was even louder. "So let's quit playing around and 'inform' LaCroix that the rest of the addicts are decking the Shrine! Patt put antlers on Kitty Nunkies! She needs to suffer some crushing defeat for that!" Suddenly, the four women realized that the Nightcrawler wasn't talking to a new caller. He was glaring at them, his temper obviously soured. "'Hark!' the angel said. 'I bring you tidings of extreme unpleasantness,'" LaCroix drawled sarcastically. He snapped off the microphone and started a track from This Mortal Coil's 'Blood' CD. "How long were you planning to dally before telling me of this outrage?" he demanded, his expression extremely annoyed. "Well, I suppose we originally planned to tell you about four and a half hours ago," Jules reasoned, "but that was before Sallie, Bonnie and I were mugged at gunpoint by someone dressed as Santa Claus. Then, Sallie insisted we report the crime to the police." "Santa took my *valuables*!" the Dragon exclaimed. "So, we visited the police precinct, and we ended up being interviewed ad nauseum by Nick," Jules continued with a frown. "That's where we ran into Kiki, and she was kind enough to offer us a lift on her snowmobiles." Jules released a sudden gasp. "Oh, my. Kiki! Your Buff Slave Boys have been waiting outside all this time!" "Damn!" Kiki cursed. "Just you wait and see, they'll tell their union on me!" The Madame rushed for the booth door. "I'd better go offer them some cocoa." "As I was saying," Jules continued, "Madame Kiki offered us a lift over here on her snowmobiles, you invited us in and asked why we were here, so I plainly stated that we don't *do* Christmas. Then you let Bonnie talk, time passed, and, now, we are here." "A-hem?! 'You let Bonnie talk, time passed?' What kind of description of events is that?" Bons complained. "Pardon the interruption, sir," the technician's voice came over the intercom from the next room, "but there's an 'Annie Raper' on line two? She threatened me with grout duty if I didn't patch her through." "It seems everyone has one of those international radio band thingees," Sallie observed. "Or maybe, because she's NunkMommy, she has secret powers." "Go ahead. Put Ann on," LaCroix instructed. Immediately, an outraged roar came over the speaker. "PATT DID *WHAT* TO KITTY NUNKIES?!?!" "Antlers, Annie," Bonnie sighed. "She put antlers on his head. Kitty Nunkies bit her, of course." LaCroix grunted in satisfaction. "DID YOU TELL HER THERE IS TO BE NO DECKING OF THE SHRINE?!?!" "Yes, Annie," Jules explained. "I was adamant, and all of the decorations and antlers were removed before we went to dinner. Apparently, however, sometime during the vichyssoise, Patt and the rest of the addicts decided our word counted for naught." "MAYBE I SHOULD COME UP THERE. I'LL GIVE THEM A FEW WORDS AND KNOTS UPSIDE THE -" "No need to trouble yourself, Ann," LaCroix inserted. "I will take care of this problem personally. If the addicts won't listen to me, they won't listen to anyone." The addicts in the studio gulped. Nunkies' pronouncement sounded more like a threat than logic. "In that case," Annie said, her temper finally soothed, "I have nothing more to worry about. Have fun making them listen, Lucien." "Laura will probably take pictures," Jules said knowingly, steadfastly ignoring Annie's use of LaCroix's given name and how he didn't seem to mind. LaCroix picked up the phone receiver and murmured something into the phone for Annie's-ears-only, while the addicts strained jealously to eavesdrop. After a few minutes, the vampire hung up, then demanded for the technician in the other room to tell him, "Who is the caller on line three?" "I don't know, sir. It must have just come in." LaCroix put the call on speaker, saying impatiently, "I am the Nightcrawler. Who are you?" The caller ignored the question, rasping a statement over the line, instead. "You should not say such things." "And which 'things' would that be?" LaCroix said dismissively. "We give in kind what we receive," the caller's voice grated. "And eternity is too short for nonsense," LaCroix replied, decisively cutting off the line. He stood, then ushered the addicts out of the studio before him. "I'm assuming you will use Madame Kiki's services for transportation back to the Shrine. I will travel more directly...by air." **************************************************************************** Patt was not prone to panic. She was a mature addict, and maturity entailed a certain calmness of disposition. She did not wring her hands with worry or succumb to fits of agitation. It was somewhat surprising, then, to the Third Cousin when she found herself wringing her hands with increasing frequency as the hours passed. She'd expected Jules and Bonnie to storm into the Shrine some time ago, verbally massacring the addicts for their current decorative frenzy. The dinner hour had come and gone, however, with no sign of a furious High Priestess or Scribe. After a while, Patt had gone in search of Monsieur Cabon. Sure enough, Jules, Bonnie and Sallie had finished their repast and gone out into the snowy night more than an hour earlier. That made Patt experience an instantaneous fit of nervousness. Yelling was one thing; silence was ominous. As time passed and the Shrine began to sparkle with lights and hum with the sound of 'I'll Be Home For Christmas,' the Third Cousin began to pause worriedly more and more often and start at each foreign sound with greater anxiety. The other addicts bustled about her, merrily enterprising, but Patt was struck still because of her concern. Yes, the mature addict was panicking. Her imagination was running overtime, picturing just what Jules and Bons would do to all of the addicts, with Patt branded the ringleader, of course, when they finally returned. She envisioned Jules' frowning brow as the High Priestess sneered at the greenery, before launching a scathing tirade. Patt anticipated Bonnie taking the time to sample the cheese straws and cookies Tser had prepared, then ripping all the tinsel from the walls. She visualized Sallie in the background, snickering knowingly at the entire scene. None of these unpleasant images caused Patt to quake in terror, however. It was the sight of LaCroix, real and dangerous, standing under the dangling beer bottle which finally caused Patt's ultimate moment of panic. At the time she'd wrapped the malt container in mistletoe and suspended it over the doorway by a piece of silver string, the idea had seemed extremely cute. Patt had been very pleased with the way the green glass of this particular beer brand caught the light, giving it a festive internal glow. But now, with the *ornament* hanging directly over Nunkies' head, Patt wasn't as convinced of the merit of this idea as she'd been a short time ago, while caught up in the throes of decorating fervor. In fact, a hanging beer bottle dressed in parasitic weed seemed to be the ultimate in folly. LaCroix noted Patt's color draining and followed her gaze. He glanced upward, saw the hovering bottle and returned his eyes to the addict. "Requesting a *kiss*, Ms. Elmore?" LaCroix said smoothly, his voice dripping with threat. "Perhaps, in this case, I might oblige." Patt took a step backwards. As she did, her foot came down hard on Kitty Nunkies' tail. The fawn cat snarled in fury, spitting and scratching, his claws attaching to offending ankles. Patt yowled and began her descent to the floor. LaCroix looked at the cat approvingly. "I could not have handled the situation better myself," he noted. The cat leapt away as the Third Cousin crashed to the tile. Kitty Nunkies took shelter under LaCroix's feet, but didn't remain there long. The tall vampire scooped up the snowshoe and, holding it in the crook of his arm, began stroking the feline's soft fur. Jules, Bonnie, Sallie, Madame Kiki, and a veritable posse of Buff Slave Boys burst into the Shrine at that moment, their eyes greedily drinking in the scene. Jules gaped in horror at the amount of festive decorations covering the chamber. Sallie smiled wickedly at Patt's unease. Madame Kiki checked her Slave Boys for chapped lips. Bons saw LaCroix rubbing one of her cats between the ears, and both Kitty Nunkies and she began to purr in unison. "These *decorations*," LaCroix looked back up at the beer bottle with obvious distaste, "will be removed - NOW. No further discussion will be entertained." Still holding Kitty Nunkies, LaCroix turned and left the room. Jules sniffed in vindication and followed him quickly. Bonnie made a sweeping gesture with her hand and said, "You heard him - get cracking. They *all* go - pronto." Then, the Scribe tilted her head upward, made a snorting sound, and stalked from the room. "You really shouldn't have even tried," Sallie said with an air of wisdom, then wandered off to the Video room to curl up for another dragon- worthy nap. Patt, still on the floor, felt something tickling her ankle. She looked down to find Fred, licking a trickle of blood from her ankle. "Et tu, Pupie?" Patt said tersely, pulling her foot from the dog. Fred just twitched his nubby little tail and looked at her earnestly. Patt sighed. "Guess better you than him, Pupcake. Come on...let's get this stuff down and out of here before the General comes back and pillages us." Laura had been reaching to take down some garland, but at Patt's words she paused. "Did you say - pillage...?" the addict's voice was hopeful. *************************************************************************** "That went well," Jules commented as she poured herself a portion of dry sherry and LaCroix some of his private stock that the addicts kept on hand 'just in case.' "It could not have gone otherwise," LaCroix stated firmly. He ceased to stroke the cat at his side in order to accept the glass proffered by Jules' elegant fingers. Kitty Nunkies sat stoically on the settee, occupying the prized spot next to LaCroix. Jules and Bonnie eyed the area covetously, but the Scribe looked away first. It was her cat, after all, and she was well aware what Kitty Nunkies would do if she tried to relocate him without some measure of cooperation. Jules was a bit more stubborn. She stared into the cat's blue eyes, her gaze telling the feline to 'MOVE.' Kitty Nunkies returned her stare with hypnotic intensity. 'Try and make me,' the cat's expression seemed to say. Jules finally sighed and took a seat at the other end of the settee, cat flesh acting as a barrier between her and the vampire. It took the High Priestess only a moment to hit upon a possible way to get LaCroix alone. She cleared her throat, then assumed a concerned expression. "My, Bonnie, Kitty Nunkies appears *very* hungry. You should take him to the Laboratory/Kitchen and give him some Crunchy Food Beast." Bons, who had a tendency to sit on the floor even when chairs were available(that is, unless chairs with LaCroix in them were available), scooted across the rug. She looked up at the cat, inspecting Kitty Nunkies intently, then shook her head. "No, he usually looks like that. It's an 'I rule' kind of thing he does. When he's hungry, that's when he turns on the charm, not the disdain." "For a cat," LaCroix observed smugly, "this animal certainly demonstrates an advanced personality development." "What's in a name?" Bonnie trilled flirtatiously. Jules stifled her groan with a sip of sherry. Suddenly, a melodic gong rang over the Shrine, coming from the direction of the Laboratory/Kitchen, the tune suspiciously similar to the chorus of a holiday standard. Jules choked as she swallowed, and LaCroix's brows drew together thunderously. "*What* was that?" the vampire demanded. His commanding tone had Bonnie hopping to her feet. "Why don't I go kill somebody?...I mean, I'll go check it out?" "Why don't you do that, Bons?" Jules echoed, content with the prospect of finally having LaCroix all to herself. Jules mused. As Bonnie slipped from the intimate parlor, a black blur zoomed in the door. The kitten paused in front of the sofa, blinked her orange eyes up at Kitty Nunkies, then flung her small, slinky form with abandon at the older cat. Finding himself suddenly saddled with an attentive whirling dervish, Kitty Nunkies stood, then calmly bounced off the settee, the kitten still clinging to his back. "Is that typical behavior?" LaCroix inquired curiously. Feline barrier removed, Jules edged her body across the settee. "Of course," Jules explained. "That's Mariah. She's a Kitty Nunkies Addict." "Ah." Jules was leaning in closer, preparing to say something intriguing and seductive, when, all at once, LaCroix moved out of her reach and toward the door. "Bonnie means well, but my presence in the Laboratory/Kitchen will certainly be more effective," the vampire announced before leaving. Jules sighed in exasperation as she rose to her feet. She paused to glance where Mariah continued to tug at Kitty Nunkies and advised the silky black cat. "Keep trying, little one. Eventually, you'll get him." Jules took one more sip from her sherry before setting it down, then moved to follow LaCroix. *************************************************************************** End Of Part Four From the silence of her room, Patt could hear the sounds outside her window. It seemed that, despite the snow and ill weather, the bulk of Toronto was caught up in holiday bliss. Carolers were caroling, store loud speakers were pumping out music and happy shoppers, clad in their bulkiest clothing, were scurrying about, laden with packages for loved ones. Patt mused. The Third Cousin's eyes were slightly moist as she watched a tall man stoop to tie a child's unlaced boot. But, LaCroix had come, LaCroix had seen and LaCroix had put his black shod foot down - quite forcefully. Patt's finger's unconsciously sought her throat and massaged the carotid slightly. Christmas had definitely been forbidden. Patt thought, leaving the window with a sigh. Patt walked over and picked up her Mountie hat, the sprig of mistletoe still poking from the band. With a longing escape of air, she caressed the brim and thought of Biff, stuck in Arizona on a rock hunt. Another wave of self-pity ensnared the mature addict as she thought of Jules and Bonnie downstairs, sharing wine and whatever, with himself in the bleak, now barren, parlor. They were in LaCroix's good graces and, once again, Patt was on the skewering end of the proverbial stake. The Third Cousin's thoughts were shattered by the sudden glaring gong of the kitchen entry doorbell - a gong which had been reprogrammed to announce visitors with the tinny opening strains of 'Partridge in a Pear Tree.' Patt paled, knowing that the Christmas tune would further irritate Nunkies. Then, with a sudden drop in her blood pressure, Patt ashened further, realizing what the gong probably announced. A blaring shriek from the kitchen/lab confirmed her suspicions. "WHAT IS *THAT* DOING HERE?" Jesse asked indignantly, pointing at the fifteen foot evergreen hoisted onto the shoulders of the two delivery men outside the door. "Being delivered," the front man replied wanly. He looked down at the scrap of paper in his hand, "to a Ms. Patricia Elmore." He squinted back at Jesse. "You her?" "Absolutely not," the young Cousin was affronted. "I would never condone the killing of an innocent tree, much less allow such an indignity to be brought into my presence. Sap and sticker needles - YUCK!!" "Then I suggest you find Ms. Elmore," the man said, bullying his way into the Shrine as other addicts burst into the room. "Cause one way or another, I have a fee to collect." "Patt ordered a 'live' tree?" Susan was incredulous. "Kewl," Charl said. "I love the smell of fresh evergreen." "Then burn a scented candle," Susan countered. "Killing a tree to satisfy a need to decorate is stupid." "What's the difference in having a Christmas tree and having cut flowers?" Patt said quietly, as she entered the room. "I don't hear any of you complaining when you receive the traditional white roses on your birthdays." "Yea . . . but they don't cut down the whole bush when they pluck the blooms," Jesse protested. "You have to kill the whole tree to have a 'real tree.' It's such a stupid waste when artificial trees are just as pretty and much more flame retardant." "Not to mention, easier on the allergies," Susan added, swiping a finger under her nose. "It's not like I went and damaged the rain forest, or something," Patt glowered at the assembled addicts. "This was a tree grown on a tree farm specifically designated to be cut as a *Christmas* tree. It was already *cut* when I bought it. If I hadn't purchased it, someone else would have." "Couldn't you have purchased a potted variety?" Debbie offered. "Then we could have enjoyed the tree and planted it in the Spring. That's how we do it back home...real tree and a chance to replenish the earth's forests and oxygen. It's one of our traditions." "That's real nice, lady, but let's get back to talking about purchases," the heavy man carrying the front end of the fir announced. "That will be $186.99 - not including the tip." "Uhhhh, okay," Patt grinned meekly at the man. "The Santa-Land man told me that you accepted plastic." Patt began rummaging through the pockets of her fleece wear. "Visa, okay?" "Make sure she uses the platinum, Greg," a familiar voice announced from the back boughs of the conifer. "It still had an impressive limit when I returned it." "Dirk?" Patt grinned as she identified the man emerging from the branches. "DIRK??!!" Bonnie sneered/moaned as she burst through the swinging doors into the kitchen. "What are you doing here with that murdered piece of wood??!" "Making a living, Daisy girl," Dirk replied, propping the tree trunk on the floor. "Deep snow makes cabbing a no-go. What do you care, anyway, Red? You blew me off, remember? Cost me a darn good retainer as the driver for this little group, if I recall correctly." "Blew you off?!!" Bonnie said indignantly. "As I recall, it was you..." The Scribe decided not to finish a statement of her version of the story. After all, why proclaim to the gathered addicts that you'd been stood up? Especially with LaCroix and Jules now entering the room. "Oh, Sugar Plums," Patt muttered, stepping back into the alcove between the refrigerator and the freezer. "And fairies," LaCroix smiled viciously toward the beer-less addict, his vampire hearing once more catching Patt's betrayal. "Would you care to explain the evergreen? You know that I do not approve of non-furniture lumber in any way, shape or form." "Yule Log, coming through," Cousin Heather announced cheerfully as she burst through the doorway, her arms laden with a massive hunk of timber with a fat red candle ensconced in a knot near the center. "I've already sprinkled it with cider, so now all the wood needs is fire. Where should I put it?" Patt looked at LaCroix, who was staring at the Yule Log with revulsion, obviously imagining it in an ignited state. Heather glanced up from the wood resting in her arms, saw the vampire, then her expression filled with alarm. "Eek! No one said Nunkies would be here! I'm so sorry!" The tartan-ed Cousin confided in a low voice in Patt's ear, "Celts used to bring a Yule Log into the house to invite the sun-god to purify the place." Patt felt herself blanching again. This night was definitely not one that was promoting her mental and physical well-being. "And you thought that was a *good* idea?" she hissed at Heather. "Remember how we were going to stick to Saturnalia-based stuff?" "Well, it's pretty! I'm a MacIntyre! It's part of my cultural heritage, and, like I said, I didn't know Nunkies was actually going to come here! I mean...Whoa!...This log must seem like a giant, flaming cross to him!" The vampire caught the Third Cousin, then Heather, in a death trance stare. "Lose the log." "Done." Heather scooted briskly outside with the offensive chunk of tree, then Patt fled out the back door immediately after, brandishing her wallet and shooing the delivery men in front of her. Outside, the cold air smacked Patt across the face and brought her back to relative consciousness. "So, what about the tree?" the hefty foreman persisted, not particularly happy to be out in the elements again. "Stick it, for all I care," Patt muttered, handing the man her credit card. "Take it to the town square and donate it to the Queen. Send it to the Picker factory and make toothpicks out of it. Hollow it out and use it to send a Viking to Valhalla. I really don't give a sh..." "'Scuse, us, won't you guys?" Dirk clasped Patt's elbow and steered the unhappy addict away from the other mumbling workers. "Okay, girlfriend, what's the problem?" Dirk questioned as he guided Patt into the sheltering overhang of an alley doorway. "Holiday stress?" "Sheesh, if only we had a Holiday to be stressed about," Patt's voice was almost tearful. She looked up at Dirk, unable to clear the moisture from her eyes. "They've banned Christmas." "Doing the Hum Bug Rhumba, huhh?" Dirk looked toward the now closed Shrine kitchen entrance. "Figures. Fickle females, those addicts." Patt alerted amid her sobs. She'd always been curious about why Dirk had disappeared from the Shrine's company, and now an answer seemed to be imminent. "Whatcha mean, Dirk?" The tall, dark-haired hunk shrugged. "You know, like Bonnie Rutledge, there. Fickle. She gives you the green light, then slams the brakes without warning. No phone call, no card, no nothing. Just a terse message on the e- mail saying sayonara, so long, get lost." "I can't believe that!" Patt was truly shocked. "You and Bons seemed so...compatible. You sure couldn't prove a mismatch based on my charge bill." "Well, believe it," Dirk affirmed with a terse nod. "I got locked into a Union negotiation meeting, trying to avoid a strike like this one that has crippled the Canadian mail system, and the next thing I know I get this cyber-message stating 'Your services are no longer required.'" "Damn, that doesn't sound like Bons," Patt said. "Not nearly wordy enough. That sounds more like..." Patt's eyes widened as a shocking thought entered her brain. Luckily, the shock thickened her tongue, disabling speech. Dirk looked at Patt pointedly. "Sounds like...?" Patt coughed and blinked up at the cabbie. "Sounds like Bons made a mistake to me, giving a great guy like you the heave-ho." "Ho, ho," Dirk echoed. "So how goes your courtship with the Buff fellow?" "Biff?" Patt's expression fell slightly. "We're cool, and cooling off, I'm afraid. He's really into rocking, and I'm still confined to the city limits of Toronto, except on very special occasions. He's in Tempe right now, sifting warm sand and looking for agate." Dirk and Patt sighed in unison. "Life sucks," Dirk offered. "So does unlife," Patt replied. They sighed again. Then, Patt shivered. "You're getting cold out here without a jacket," Dirk said, shrugging off his dark blue peacoat and placing it across the mature addict's shoulders. Patt smiled up gratefully. "Come on, lady, let's get you back inside where it's warm." Patt looked uncertainly toward the Shrine's back door. "I don't think it would be so warm in there for me right now, Dirk. Or, more precisely, it might be too warm." Dirk nodded in understanding. "Any friends in town you can stay with?" "Only in there," Patt indicated to the Shrine with a nod. "And, I've been told that the hotels, motels and B&B's have no vacancies. Not even in fanfic." "Bummer," Dirk commented. "Guess you'll have to settle for rooming with me for the night." Patt's mood immediately brightened as Dirk shouted to the other nursery personnel. "Joe, Greg, scoot over. We have a passenger." As Patt slid into the extended cab seat behind Greg and Joe, followed by Dirk, she smiled at the later and asked, "Do you do Christmas, Dirk?" *************************************************************************** The last of the trees on the truck had been delivered and the other workmen had headed to their own homes, leaving Patt and Dirk on their own. They trudged toward the cabbie's personal auto, a dark blue Bronco, equipped with chains and all the stuff needed to navigate the nasty weather now covering the city. Patt snapped her passenger-side seatbelt while Dirk climbed into the driver's seat and did the same. He sat back and looked at the mature addict. "All set?" "All set," Patt acknowledged. Though she was happy to be in Dirk's company and headed for a warm nook, something kept nagging at her, dampening what could have been a supremely happy moment. She began ticking off the cons in her head: Bonnie and Dirk - unresolved. LaCroix's present and continued irk at the Third Cousin - definitely on the front burner at the moment. Jules and Bons - their disappointment in Patt and her disappointment in them. Patt herself - running away from the problems. Patt pursed her lips in irritation. This self-analysis always peeved her, but seemed unavoidable. The phrase, 'physician, heal thyself' kept creeping into her mind. "Want me to take you back to the Peach?" Dirk offered, as though reading her thoughts. Patt looked up and smiled wanly. "Is it that obvious?" The dark-haired man grinned. "Only 'cause I know your history and where your heart is." "You're a good man, Dirk," Patt said with conviction. "I only hope Bonnie gets her act together and realizes that soon." The cabbie grinned again, but said nothing. He eased the clutch out and steered the vehicle out of the Santa Land parking lot. "Mind if we make a stop on the way back to the restaurant?" Dirk asked. Patt indicated that she had no objections, so at the next corner he turned the vehicle toward downtown. "I need to drop off a package at the Fed-Ex office - it's going to my nephew in New Brunswick. He's four and doesn't understand that Santa is regulated by the postal commission." Patt chuckled softly and sat back to enjoy the ride. It felt good to be cradled in the seat belt with an experienced driver at the wheel. Patt hated to drive -especially with the addicts. They always seemed to end up in high speed chases... "STOP!!!!" Patt sat up and shouted with sudden excitement. Dirk applied considerable force to the brakes, causing the Bronco to skid slightly as it rattled to a stop. Patt unbuckled and bolted out the door. "CAREN!!!" Patt shouted and waved her arms as she sloshed through the snow toward the train terminal. Sitting in the waiting room, her breath frosty on the window, was the other addict from Louisiana. Patt burst into the train station and Caren looked up, startled. "What are you doing HERE?" Patt was delighted to see her friend, but unhappy at the same time. Caren should have been half-way to the Pelican State by now. Caren shrugged. "I didn't make it before the sleet started. They had already closed the tracks to New York, so I missed my ride." "Damn," Patt said, dropping down to sit beside the other addict. "And you've been here all this time - eight hours? Why didn't you call someone. We'd have come got you." "I kept hoping they'd clear the rails, and I'd be able to catch a later ride," Caren said unhappily. "It hasn't really been too bad...they've been giving us unlimited free coffee." "Sheesh, don't let Bons know that," Patt admonished. "She'll be down here playing frequent choo-choo rider, just to get the free java." "What are you doing here?" Caren asked. "I thought you were confined to the Shrine for the holidays." "I was...am...long story," Patt finished as Dirk walked through the terminal door. "I kind of got myself ousted for misbehavior." The cabbie spotted the women and began walking over. "Why should Christmas be different from any other time?" Caren chided Patt playfully. She glanced toward Dirk. "I take it that Bons was kicked out with you?" "Actually," Patt said slowly, "Bons was one of the kickers." This news shocked Caren. "Bons and you aren't in on the same scheme this time?!! What's going on? What *did* you do?" "Hey!" Patt was offended. "Why do you jump to the conclusion that it was something that I did?!" Caren smiled knowingly. "Because I know you, dear," she said sweetly. "Hi, Caren," Dirk said in greeting as he walked up. "You get stuck in the snow?" The pretty Cajun addict smiled. "Yes...unfortunately. I have a house full of family in the States, and I'm stranded...and now, I have Patt." Patt sniffed and stood up. "Hey, I *can* leave, girl," the Third Cousin began moving toward the door. Caren laughed and stood, gathering her things. "Wait up, Elmore. You've talked me into it. Eight hours on a hard bench is enough. I'm ready for a warm bed and hot chocolate." The train terminal door opened, and a familiar-looking woman entered the station, blowing her nose into a tissue. "Jade?" Patt called in a curious tone, doubtful that she had truly run into another addict by chance. The woman sniffled and looked up. "Patt? Caren? Oh, this is awful!" "Thanks, Jade," Caren said wryly. "We're thrilled to see you, too." "I didn't mean it was awful to *see* you," Jade protested impatiently. "I meant that it's awful that you're both stuck in Toronto instead of Louisiana." "Yeah," Patt commiserated, "it's turned out to be pretty rotten." The Third Cousin noted the woman's small suitcase and asked, "Are you here alone?" "Don't get me started," Jade complained. "This was only supposed to be a short trip: drop in on Toronto, get the tour, then I was going to zip straight home and spend the holidays with my new hubby. Instead, I'm caught in a winter storm, my hotel kicked me out after three days because someone else had a reservation for the room, and now I've caught a cold!" Jade pulled out another tissue and blew. "Are any of the phones free? I've been calling home as much as possible." "You should come back to the Shrine with us," Caren mused. "There's plenty of room." "Plus you could charge your phone calls to NA," Patt added. "Debbie's been calling her husband while he's stationed in Italy, and at least Jules and Bonnie haven't had a problem with *that.*" A short time later, Dirk completed his business with the package delivery service and returned to find the women discussing the merits of various forms of celebrating. Caren appeared to be leaning toward the wreath-hanging side of the argument, but also understood why some of the addicts might not want to engage in such activities. Jade was non-committal, still too distraught over being stranded away from her new hubby for their first Christmas. The women continued to talk softly while Dirk began to drive toward the Shrine. "STOP!!!!" the three women shouted. Dirk slammed on the brake again, pitching to a slushy stop. "Kate!" Caren leaned out of the Bronco and yelled to a bundled addict, standing beside a bus sign. The woman looked up, smiled and mushed toward the blue car. "Hi, guys!" Kate said breathlessly as she arrived. "What are you doing out on a night like this?" "Not Christmas shopping, that's for sure," Patt grumbled. She and Caren moved over some, making room for Kate to climb in. Dirk waited until Kate was buckled in, then geared the Bronco again. "You're lucky," Kate said, "to be through with your shopping, I mean. It always seems like I have one or two items pending up until the actual exchange." "Hey," Patt replied. "Right now, I'd love to be out choosing presents for my buddies. Thing is, my buddies have said no gifts, no goodies, no yummies." "No way!" Kate exclaimed. "Whose bright idea was that?" "LaCroix's," Caren responded. "Oh." "Darnit!" Patt exclaimed suddenly. "Running into you three just proves it! We're right, and LaCroix is wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong. We *should* be celebrating Christmas! STOP THE CAR!" Dirk's foot was already on the brake. As the vehicle halted, Patt snapped off her seatbelt and climbed out of the Bronco. "Take them to the Shrine, Dirk," Patt instructed the driver. "I just can't handle it right now...I need time alone." And, ignoring the protests of the other addicts, Patt slogged off into the frozen night. ************************************************************************** End Of Part Five LaCroix had said he intended to handle the problem at the Shrine, and Annie knew that meant he would. Yet, for some reason, her confidence in the vampire's commanding abilities didn't silence the urges that had grown in the NunkMommy since her telephone call to CERK. She *really* wanted to be in Toronto. She *needed* to be in Toronto. *Nunkies* was in Toronto. Annie was in Arkansas. Fate had a cruel sense of humor. Luckily, fate didn't have much of a say-so in fanfic. Armed with the resources at her NunkMommy disposal, Annie effortlessly chartered a plane to fly her as close to Toronto as the inclimate weather would allow. This turned out to be on the other side of Lake Ontario, in Niagara Falls on the Canadian side of the border. Annie refused to be stranded in an American tourist trap, much less Buffalo. She had standards. She paid a totally unreasonable sum for a one-horse open sleigh, and rode over the fields and along the icy QEW toward St. Catharine. Once there, Annie hired a boat. Crossing the lake was the most direct route between her present location and where she wanted to be, so she was determined to be seaworthy. With a good motor, she could be lolling in the Shrine in under an hour. Annie couldn't find any sporty, speedy models available. There didn't appear to be anyone willing to hit the water on such a cold night. Annie assumed their reluctance was because most of the boat-owners preferred to celebrate Christmas Eve rather than work. As a result, the only transport the NunkMommy could find was a thirty-foot cruiser that had seen better days. The exterior was dingy and weathered, as was the crew, but Annie thought of LaCroix and the warmth of the Shrine, and signed on for a cruise across Lake Ontario without a second's more hesitation. The boards creaked in welcome as she crossed the deck, and the engine sputtered like a choked goose as the owner warmed the boat for some action. The captain had bloodshot eyes and wore a grimy yachtsman's jacket with tattered gold braiding and a patch on one elbow. He commanded his assistant, a thin man named Pete, to escort Annie below deck and out of the bite of the icy winds. She was pleasantly surprised by the lower accommodations. The room was small, but lined with golden teak paneling that belonged to another era. The furniture was upholstered in emerald velvet, and a dainty gilt and crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. Annie pulled down the hood of her dark red wool cloak so she could get a better look. Her curly hair bounced around her face as she turned toward the shipman, her eyes shining in appreciation. "This is really quite lovely." Pete bloomed with pride. "The Cap'n an' I think so. Would you like some champagne, Miss Raper? We stocked up two months ago, planning to wine the guests on our holiday charters, but the past week's been pretty dead. You paid us enough for a dozen parties, so I figure you've bought a bottle or two, at least." "I suppose I wouldn't mind a glass." Annie's eyes came to rest on a sound system tucked away in one corner. "You have music?" "Yeah," Pete said as he popped the cork. "What would you like to hear? Christmas carols?" Annie wrinkled her nose. "I don't think so. What else do you have?" "Hmmm...Neil Diamond and some show tunes." "Do you have 'The King and I'?" Annie asked, her eyes lighting eagerly. "I think so." "Excellent." Pete set a wine stand cradling the champagne bottle beside Annie's chair and handed her a glass. She thanked him, then paused for a momentary frown as she noticed the scent of something stronger, brandy perhaps, coming off of his sweater. She pushed the twinge of concern out of her thoughts and lifted her glass of bubbly in toast to herself. Annie mused, Annie turned to watch Pete as he shuffled through the ship's collection of audio tapes and asked conversationally, "You mentioned the past week has been pretty dead for your boat service. Isn't that odd? I would have thought that with the airports and railways closed, you would have seen an increase in business. Haven't you had an influx of people like me, needing a ferry across the lake?" "Nah," Pete said dismissively. He found the desired soundtrack and popped it into the sound system. As the strains of 'Getting to Know You' spread through the chamber, Pete continued to speak. "Most folks around here are spooked about ice floes in the water." Annie sputtered on a mouthful of champagne. "Ice floes?" "Hey! Don't worry your pretty head about that. The Cap'n knows what he's doing - I don't care *what* everybody else says." With that unnerving comment, Pete climbed up the steps to the ship's deck, and out of sight. "Oh, dear," Annie muttered. Suddenly, she realized that Pete had had two more bottles of champagne in his hands as he went above stairs. The NunkMommy gulped worriedly. "Oh dear, dear. I have a bad feeling about this." *************************************************************************** Patt was beginning to feel the full brunt of her recent impulsiveness. As she trudged along within the warehouse section of Toronto, she discovered that sweat pants, sneakers and a one-size-does-not-fit-all pea coat weren't exactly the clothing of choice for fending off the bitter winter weather. The winds were picking up again, and the foggy night was heavy with moisture. Cold, hungry, alone, full of self-pity, Patt was prime for making foolish choices. Not counting her abrupt departure from Dirk's Bronco, her first judgment error came when she turned at the corner. She was now facing north, and the icy winds pricked at her face, leaving her eyeglasses dulled by frost. Patt squinted, unable to see into the increasing fury of the blow. She had to keep her head down, trudging slowly, using what she could makeout of the sidewalk as a guide. If she had held her hand in front of her face, she wouldn't have seen it there. And, that's why she almost tripped over him. Gasping, Patt jumped back, barely avoiding contact with the vagrant huddled against the wall. The man, grizzled but not so old, lifted his head slightly so that he could see who had almost walked over him. "Hey, lady," the words were almost perfunctory, "got some change you can spare?" "Sorry," Patt patted her pockets and said apologetically. "Left home without it." "It's okay," the man said, dropping his chin back down to his chest, his eyes almost feverishly bright. "At least you pretended to offer. Most people just pretend I'm not here." Patt moved cautiously around the man, quickening her steps slightly. Then, on impulse, she turned and looked back. He was still there, cold and silent, unmoving, frozen. Patt reached back into her pocket and retrieved her wallet. She leafed inside and found that, except for the plastic, she had $2.00. She pulled out the loonies, returned to the man and gave him the coins. "Merry Christmas," the addict murmured. "God bless you," the man replied, taking the money and stuffing it in his shirt pocket. Patt turned and continued up the street. Ahead, the fog seemed to lessen somewhat. Patt quickened her step and soon found herself standing outside a neighborhood tavern. Under normal circumstances, the mature addict would not have gone into such a place alone, but this night was far from normal. Inside, the drinking establishment was warm and dark. Patt allowed her eyes to accustom to the lighting, then made her way across the room to the bar. She took a stool and waited for the bartender to finish serving two men at the other end. "Whatallyouhave?" the barkeep asked as he walked up to the addict. "A beer, please," Patt replied. "One of those green bottle ones, if you have it." "Tap only," the man replied, already drawing the brew. "Tap it is," Patt agreed, looking around. "Nice place you have." "Manages to pay the rent," the bartender said, putting the mug down in front of Patt. As he did, he took a closer look at the woman. "Don't I know you?" Patt peered back at him. "Do you know me?" "Yea," the man insisted. "I know you. You're one of Louis' girls." "Excuse me?" Patt was genuinely confused. "Louis...ya know...Louis. Calls himself Cabon. Runs that fancy restaurant on Queen Street." "You mean Monsieur Cabon?" Patt was incredulous. "Do you know him?" "Know him," the bartender gaffed a bit. "I grew up with the little blighter. I'm his brother, Phil. Except I kept the family name intact...Camembert." "Camembert," Patt repeated, her grin growing. "Camembert...like the cheese?" The bartender didn't see the amusement. "Yea, the good old family name wasn't good enough for the fancy clientele that Louis was seeking to satisfy. Had to make some 'adjustments' to sell more Coq au Vine." "Vin," Patt corrected automatically. "Yea," the bartender's eyes narrowed just a bit, but he continued, "so off he goes to join the elite, barely remembering that he has family down here in the bottoms. While me...I struggle with drunks and bums, trying to eke out enough to feed six." "Big family," Patt commented. This caused the man to smile. "Yea...and a great one. Wouldn't change it for the world." He paused in wiping a glass. "I love my wife and kids. I have three girls and a boy. Unfortunately, the boy is having some medical problems..." Phil's voice trailed off. "Sorry," Patt said. "Doctors remain hopeful," the bartender shrugged, sitting the clean glass on a stack. "That will be a twoney, Miss. Got to pay the bills." Patt winced. Her last two dollars were stuffed into the shirt pocket of a derelict. "Do you take plastic?" she asked hopefully. Patt, sans beer, was hastily shown the door which exited into the street outside Camembert's Pub. The addict continued walking, leaving the docks and heading uptown. The wind bit and clawed at her, leaving her exposed skin red and burning. Patt trudged by a shelter, and a voice called to her. "Don't stay outside on a night like this, young woman. Come inside. We'll make room for you." "It's okay," Patt called back to the unseen figure. "Use the room for someone who really needs it." The woman kept walking, her self-pity intensifying with each step. "No friends, no money, no family, no life." Patt headed up a steep-railed incline. "No one cares, either. Jules and Bons - all they feel is important is keeping LaCroix happy and lusting after him. The rest of us don't count for squat." The incline leveled off, but the railing branched, one level and one going upward at a slant. Patt realized she was on a bridge. Looking down, she could just barely make out the dark swirling mass of a body of water. "They wouldn't even miss me if I were dead," Patt said aloud, staring down into the murky depths. "In fact, they'd probably celebrate *that.* Have a party and LaCroix would make the first toast." The churning waters made no reply. "Everyone would probably be better off if I'd never declared my addiction," the mature addict continued to stare down into the water. "Better off if I'd never been born." Patt heard the sound of bells tinkling. "Oh no, not *her* again," Patt groaned, closing her eyes as she dropped her face, her forehead pressed to the frozen bridge railing. "Talk about 'mis-fortune.'" Patt opened her eyes again, hypnotized by the water. She stood there for a long, long time. She finally lifted one foot and placed it on the railing. "Man, oh, man, oh, man." The familiar voice sent a chill through the addict. She whirled, almost afraid of what she'd find. "You know...this really fries my ashes," an indistinct figure emerged from the swirling fog encasing the bridge, "I spent a good part of my life checking out jumpers who took a nose dive off this overpass. You wouldn't think they'd send me back here on a second tour of duty, would you? I guess this is just an example of the big guy's sense of humor." Patt felt herself sagging against the railing. "Okay...what's it going to be? You jumping or not?" "Ahhhhhhh..." Patt just stared at the apparition, for that's what it had to be. "Look, time's a wasting," the figure said. "I hate paperwork, but if I have to do it, I'd rather do it and get it over with. If you plan to jump, do it so I can get my reports done, okay?" "Uhhhhhh," Patt felt dizzy. "Uhh, oh. You're fixing to go down, aren't ya?" The figure hurriedly stepped forward and caught Patt's arm. As he came closer, his face became stark relief, confirming Patt's suspicions. It was Don Schanke. *************************************************************************** "Jules," Bonnie asked absently, "why don't you let the addicts use your townhouse for their holiday shenanigans? All of their sad sack faces are starting to give me a tummy ache." "My house? Besmirched by all that cheer? I don't think so." Jules frowned contemptuously. "We aren't celebrating! Why is that so difficult for them to accept? And *why,* because we are in a minority who chooses to eschew holidays, does everyone end up treating us as if we were cold, unfeeling monsters? How come not 'getting into the spirit' automatically makes us terrible people? We're automatically damned 'Scrooges'! It seems to me that that's not a very nice thing to call someone who's been a friend to you the rest of the year!" "Free thinking is rarely respected," LaCroix observed. "It is a common historical fact. Most mortals choose to mold themselves within the strict confines of traditional societal and anyone brave enough to flout those limits, such as yourselves, are persecuted." "Or our opinions are shrugged off as though they mean nothing!" Jules said with fire in her eyes. "All we ask is for some private, personal space to remain clear of any sign of the holidays. It's not as though it's been banished from the face of the earth! Go into the streets of Toronto, and there are signs of Christmas everywhere! We *need* an escape. Apparently, though, that's too much for everyone else to understand. Our personal feeling on the matter are blindly overlooked, and everyone expects us to conform! I am heartily tired of being patient with any and all of these merry makers." "I know, Jules," Bonnie agreed. "Their attitudes frustrate me, too. We're the ones expected to be tolerant, not the other way around. Blah. Still, I do feel sorry for them." LaCroix scowled. "You are being too sensitive for a Cousin, Bonnie." "Yes, but they are my fellow addicts. They're my friends. I really don't have much patience with the rest of my species, but I do care about them." "Of course you do, Bonnie," the vampire argued, "and though your addict friends may deny that knowledge at this moment, they are well aware of your feelings. Do you think for a moment that this self-pity of theirs isn't designed to tug on your heartstrings until you give in to their pleas? They want you to feel guilty." "Exactly," Jules echoed. She'd finally captured a seat where she was curled up at LaCroix's side, but the conversation had completely distracted her from enjoying herself. "It's manipulation, pure and simple. All they have to do is think about the favors we've done them and the spontaneous gifts we've given them over the past year, and they know we're susceptible." "It's completely unscrupulous," LaCroix observed. "Aren't addicts delightful?" "Oh, well," Bonnie sighed, "before this whole ruckus started, I was thinking we ought to have a party. A 'just because we have too much food in the Peach's freezer' feast. You remember Louis mentioning the full freezer, right, Jules?" The High Priestess nodded. "Yes, when we came home from shopping for sensible-yet-fashionable winter wear. We can't have a feast now, though. The addicts will think we're giving in. We *aren't* giving in." "Yes, but I hate seeing all that chocolate tiramisu go to waste." The Shrine's gong rang out in one pure, solemn note, someone having had the foresight to replace the 'Twelve Days Of Christmas' melody after the tree fiasco. Bonnie leapt to her feet (she was sprawled on the floor again). "Maybe Patt's come back!" LaCroix watched the Scribe leave the room, then stood, pulling Jules to her feet beside him. "On that note, I believe I shall take my leave." "You're going?" The High Priestess' disappointment was obvious. "You must admit, my dear, your thoughts are consumed elsewhere," LaCroix challenged. He raised Jules' fingers to his lips, then murmured, "We will have to spend some time...later." Just as Jules felt her drool mechanism kick into full gear once more, the vampire was gone. "When's 'later'?...Damn!" **************************************************************************** "You're not fixing to faint, are ya?" Schanke asked while trying to steady Patt. "You act like you've seen a ghost or something." "Uhhhhhhhhh." The usually very verbal addict was at a complete loss for words. Luckily, Schanke was not. "Don't worry, I'm not here to spook ya," he grinned reassuringly. "I'm on the good guy side. See, I even have my buds." Still holding Patt's arm, he turned around slightly, giving her a view of his back. Protruding from beneath the sports coat were two tiny nubs, positioned directly over his shoulder blades. "They told me that if this gig with you works out okay, I may get the full blown feather job by the New Year. Now ain't that a kick in the pants - my wings depending on one of Mr. Nightcrawler's nubiles." "Uhhhhhhhhh." Schanke bent slightly and squinted squarely into Patt's face. "You're not going to mess this up for me, are you?" Patt looked into his concerned brown eyes, and something came into focus. Slowly, she shook her head. "Whew...that's a relief," Schanke sighed happily, loosening his grip on Patt's arm. He straightened and appeared a trifle agitated. "I was worried that they might try to send me through the Academy again." "Police Academy?" Patt asked, still swaying slightly. "Nahhh," Schanke replied with a grin. "Angel Academy. They said I had it here," he said, pointing to his heart, "but that I lacked...sensitivity. Imagine that - them thinking I wasn't *sensitive* enough. Hey, I might never get a guest spot on 'Touched,' or anything, but I'm a compassionate guy, right? And...can you believe the irony of it? That show about supernatural flying good guys gets prime time treatment and they wouldn't give us a fixed slot so we could gather a core audience. Just doesn't make sense to me." "I kinda like the show...'Touched by an Angel,'" Patt said quietly. "Oh, don't get me wrong, so do I!" Schanke hastened to say. "But, I have to admit, I prefer the spin-off with the Marine guy better. More of a man's show, don't you think?" Patt could only nod. The full impact of the reason for Schanke's presence here was finally beginning to come to bear on her. "Were you sent to stop me from jumping?" Patt asked. "Not really," Schanke said matter-of-factly. "I can't stop you if you want to tell the world bye-bye. Let's just say I'm here to help you 'review your situation,' okay?" "Okay," Patt agreed. "But can we do it somewhere warmer?...I'm freezing to death." "Ugly way to go," Schanke agreed, taking the addict's arm and steering her down the bridge walkway. "Almost as bad as exploding jets." He gave an involuntary shudder. "Ya know, I really don't know why I'm so set on getting these wings anyway, except the status thing and all. I really hate to fly. Now, if I remember right, there's a little souvlaki place right about three blocks from here..." A short time later, Patt and Schanke entered the warmth of the little Greek storefront restaurant. The man behind the counter looked up in surprise, then smiled in pleasure at the sight of his guests. Don indicated a little table, and the two patrons sat down. Patt perused the menu chart while Schanke looked around, his face warm with memories. When the waiter came over for their order, Patt asked for a Gyro with *everything*, but Schanke just regretfully shook his head. After the proprietor left, Patt gave the ex-detective a questioning look. "Eating is out...unnecessary activity," he responded. "And they call that *Heaven*?" Patt looked very unhappy. "Trust me...it all works out," Schanke gave her a warm smile. "Gives us more time to take care of the...*important* stuff. Speaking of which, how about filling me in on why you were thinking about bungee jumping without a rubber band?" "You're an angel, right?" Patt said dejectedly. "Don't you know?" "Yea, yea, yea - of course *I* know, but it's in the rules that we're supposed to ask the client. It's called 'drawing a person out' so you can 'establish empathy' with them." Patt had to grin at this. Schanke mirrored the grin, a larger smile spreading across his face. "Hey, this is working, isn't it?" "Yea," Patt smiled. "You're making me feel a lot better, Schanke, I have to admit it." Then her face drooped just a little. "But that doesn't solve the problem." The restaurateur arrived and placed the steaming sandwich in front of Patt, along with a side of extra cucumber sauce. The addict's mouth began to water as the aroma of lamb and garlic tantalized her nostrils. She reached for the stuffed pita and began to lift it toward her mouth, but Schanke's hand stopped her. He pulled hand and sandwich toward him and ran his nose across the length of it, inhaling deeply. "Not against the rules to sniff," Schank said as he winked at Patt. Then his face grew serious. "We were talking about your problem." "LaCroix cut Christmas," Patt said. Schanke lifted an eyebrow in a very good imitation of the master vampire. Patt stifled a giggle, but, in the process, a piece of pita became lodged in her throat. The addict began coughing harshly. "Call 911!" Schanke shouted, jumping up and pulling the addict's chair back. He clasped Patt under her armpits, drug the ample addict upward, lowered his arms around her ribcage and gave a compressing, upward thrust. "Stop!" Patt managed to gasp. "As long as I'm coughing, I'm breathing! Let go!" "Sorry." Schanke released the woman and took a step back. "Medical continuity error. I think that was part of Cherub 101, and I skipped that class. Darned if I was going to go dancing around in a diaper. Not this guy. Ohhhhhh, no." Patt plopped heavily back down in her chair, grabbing a napkin so that she could wipe the spittle from the corner of her mouth. Schanke eyed her carefully, took a quick look around the room, then returned his attention to the woman. "Thought for a minute LC might have come in, judging by the way you were drooling." Patt gave him a cutting look. "Hardee har har har." Schanke shrugged. "Born for stand up," he replied. Then he grew serious again. "Enough of the bonding, babe. We have a timer running on us, and we need to cut to the chase. Let's see if I got it straight, okay? Uncle said 'no holidays' and your friends, Jules and Bonnie, agreed with him, right?" Patt nodded. "I have to say, though, that Bons was agreeable to the other addicts and me celebrating, but just not at the Shrine." "But, you couldn't find an alternative site for your merry making," Schanke said thoughtfully as he stared blankly across the room. He refocused on Patt. "So you decided 'nobody loves me' and ran away, right? Really mature on your part, wouldn't you say?" Patt wanted to show Don Schanke the tip of her tongue, but decided that wouldn't be very mature either. Instead, she just stared at him. "So, you trot off into the sleet and snow, feeling sorry for yourself and leaving the others to wonder where you've gone. Gonna punish them good for being mean to you, right?" Patt pursed her lips and lowered her eyes just a little. She placed the uneaten half of her sandwich on the plate and watched it grow cold. "Well, I always thought it would be great to punish those smart asses who made fun of Don Schanke, too," the angel detective said, his voice very serious. "When I was alive, I'd have given almost *anything* to have the last laugh on Nick. Even though I knew he liked me deep down, I still hated it when he shoved his smug 'better than thou' attitude in my face." Schanke grew pensive. "That, of course, was before I knew that if I'd ever *really* pissed him off, he could have snapped my neck like a twig and sucked me like a fountain Coke." "How descriptive," Patt responded. Schanke nodded. "Now...it doesn't matter. I'm dead - and all the petty bullshit is just that...bullshit." He looked into Patt's face, his eyebrows knit together in an accusing frown. "You want to talk tragic? You want to know where you should put your misplaced self-sympathy? How about sticking it right here?" Schanke pointed to himself. "Tragedy is looking back at all the wasted moments when you could have been doing something good, could have been helping make it easier for someone else, rather than being so tied up in knots about what you don't have and being thankful for what you do. Tragedy is never being able to kiss your wife's warm lips again, or hug your daughter, or tell your friends that you love them." Schanke's voice lowered. "Did you know that Myra has started seeing someone? From what I can tell, he's a nice enough guy. Works at the hospital where she started doing volunteer work. I want Myra to be happy, but it unnerves me to think that someone else might raise my daughter, that Jenny might call someone else 'Daddy.'" Schanke shook his shoulders and gave Patt a strange look. "That trip down memory lane probably cost me ten wing points. Let's get back to you, okay? Bottom line time. Do you really think the world would be better off without you?" "I don't think I would be missed that much," Patt said truthfully. "My brother would take care of my Mom, my friends would feed my dogs, the addicts would distribute my video collection and give the rest of my things to Libby to take to the swap meet. Then, I'd be a memory gathering dust on one of the urns in the Shrine." "Wrong-a-roni," Schanke said, turning his head from side to side. "Time for the finale...let's go." "Where?" Patt protested loudly as Angel-Don pulled her from the restaurant back into the snow and ice. "To show you why you're needed by your friends," Schank replied, "and to remind you of the true meaning of Christmas." *************************************************************************** "Caren! Jade! Kate!" Bonnie called out the names in joyous welcome, obviously pleased at their arrival. The Scribe's face fell. "And...Dirk." She scowled. "Who let you back in?" "Dirk gave us all a lift," Caren explained. "Jade and I were trapped at the train station, and Kate was trying to walk the *whole* way." "He really came to our rescue, Bons," Kate insisted. "Umm-hmm." Bonnie stubbornly crossed her arms in front of her chest and eyed the dark-haired Canadian unsympathetically. "Jade - do you want to join in? Maybe claim that Dirk's a superhero? 'CabMan - The Wonder Driver'! Better yet, you could rename the Bronco 'Toronado' and pretend you're Zorro." Dirk shook his head. "You've got a mean streak, Miss Rutledge." Jade didn't offer an opinion, specifically because she wanted to keep her phone privileges. Jade ignored the Scribe and her ex-beau and centered her attention on Jules, who was just entering the Laboratory/Kitchen. "Jules? I need to call home. It's long distance. You don't mind, do you? Good." Jade didn't pause for a breath, but ducked into the Shrine to hunt for a free phone line. The High Priestess wasn't entirely certain what Jade's quick spiel had been about, but she hadn't picked out the word 'Christmas,' so Jules was content. She examined the congregated faces, then demanded, "Where's Patt?" Kate, Caren and Dirk shrugged in unison. Heather looked up from the stove, where she and Annette were mulling cider (This was a year-round activity for the MacIntyre Cousin, so it had escaped the label of 'cursed holiday fare.'). "But she left with you, Dirk!" Heather insisted. "I saw her get in the truck with you and your tree buds." "Yes, and Patt decided she didn't want to come back here. Apparently, she anticipated the reception *some people,*" Dirk said these words while glaring emphatically at Bonnie, "were going to give her. I can't say that I blame her. Who wants to hang around and be used as an emotional punching bag?" The cabbie tilted his head toward Heather, Kate, Caren and Annette. "Ladies." "Where do you think you're going?" Bonnie cried as she caught Dirk by the arm. "You can't just waltz in here, announce that Patt's AWOL, then walk away!" "You're just sore," Dirk said knowingly as he leaned against the doorjamb, "because I almost got to have the last word." Jules stifled a laugh as she joined the pair. "Trust me, Dirk. *That* will never happen. Bons is too verbose." "Is it just me," Annette whispered in Cousin Heather's ear, "or does Dirk remind you of somebody?" "Remind me of who?" Heather asked. "I can't put my finger on it," Annette mused, "but every time I see him, I have a 'Trekkie' moment, like I'm looking at a former Bajoran resistance fighter, or something." "Don't be silly, Annette," Heather argued. "'Star Trek' isn't real." "And fanfic is?" "Besides," Heather reasoned as she added another cinnamon stick to her cider brew, "if Dirk resembles anyone, it's that fellow who married the evil Visitor chick on 'V.'" Both Heather and Annette examined the cabbie intensely while he continued to debate with the Scribe in the doorway of the Laboratory/Kitchen. Finally, they looked at each other and shook their heads. "Naaaah." Meanwhile, Bonnie was declaring hotly, "You're saying that I always have to get in the last word? Hah! *I* don't have to get in the last word. LaCroix does!" The Scribe clapped a hand over her mouth in sudden panic. "Oops." She glanced frantically around the Lab/Kitchen, then asked Jules, "Where *is* LaCroix?" "He left." Bonnie released a sigh of relief. "I am sooo lucky! Wait! No, I'm not! Why did LaCroix go?" "He said we were too distracted to enjoy his company," Jules confessed. Bonnie looked back at Dirk with a growl, then thwapped him on the arm. "See what you made me do? You distracted me from Nunkies!" "And now, like 'Nunkies,'" Dirk retorted, "I'm leaving you alone." As the Lab/Kitchen door slammed behind him, Bonnie stood frozen, her mouth opening and closing repeatedly in stunned silence. Jules tapped her on the shoulder and confided, "You can't let him get away with that, you know." "I can't?" Jules shook her head. "Uh-uh. Who does he think he is, just walking out on you like that? Royalty?" "Yeah! Who does he think he is?" Bons repeated. "And we still don't know where he left Patt! Come on, Jules!" Bonnie said, yanking the High Priestess after her into the snow. ************************************************************************** LaCroix stepped from the front door of the Jeweled Peach into the pristine iciness of pre-dawn. If he was distraught by any of the events at the Shrine this night, he gave no outward indication of it. In fact, he gave no evidence of emotion at all. Ramrod straight, he turned down Queen Street toward the direction of the Raven. Several buildings later, he stepped between two of the brick structures and into the alley behind them. The ancient vampire glanced around, then up into the sky, preparing to launch himself. "Hold," a raspy voice, barely above a whisper, cut through the darkness. LaCroix looked around, eyes steady and fearless. "The Ghost of Christmas Past, I presume?" he said laconically. A figure, stunt and slight, stepped from the shadows. A face, wrinkled prune-like and almost as brown, looked up at the vampire. "My mistake," LaCroix breathed, amusement tingeing his lips. "It appears we have one of Santa's elves dropped down for a visit. Have you come to ask if I've been a good little boy?" The mortal, who appeared almost as ancient as the vampire himself, glared at LaCroix. The stranger wore a scarf around his head, a battered hat pulled low across his forehead. A golden medallion hung around his neck, bearing a symbol which LaCroix did not recognize, but knew to be old European. The man wore a ragged eye patch over his left eye and now fixed his one good blue orb on the vampire. "You are swift and clever with words, evil one," the old man said, his voice harsh in the winter stillness. "And, your words cut with the sharpness of any knife." "You flatter me," LaCroix said, watching the stranger carefully. "Flattery is not my motive for addressing you," the other said fiercely. "Then, pray tell me, sir, what is your motive? Come to offer me holiday greetings and good cheer?" LaCroix took a step forward. "The only thing I have to offer you is a warning, Nightcrawler," the old man replied, standing firm. "A warning from the community you so maligned tonight." "Ahhhhhhhhh. You're a gypsy," LaCroix said, laughing in understanding. "You didn't like my slant on holiday giving, I take it? I struck a little too close to home and the purse, ehhh?" "Your words were cruel," the old mortal said, his blue eye cloudy with rage. "You spoke of fools who empty their pockets in the name of Christmas, trying to absolve their guilt from the past year. You held up my people to ridicule as the receivers of these donations. That is a lie." "Is it?" LaCroix said, his manner serious now, his voice filled with menace. "Did I utter one falsehood, formulate one fabrication? Yes, I mentioned your people - but in the same breath I discussed all those who have their hands out, preying on the over-inflated goodwill of the populace at this time of year. Street beggars, charitable institutions, door to door solicitors - no one is safe from the pillage of their pocketbooks, all in the name of Christmas." The bent man shook with anger. "You do not know my people. We give in kind what we receive. When one chooses to help us, we return the generosity." "Indeed," LaCroix said, taking a step forward. "Shall we put that to a test?" The old man lifted a gnarled hand, pointing one of its six fingers at LaCroix. "Hold," he uttered flatly. "If you insist," LaCroix replied. With supernatural speed, the vampire was at the man's side and beyond, turning quickly so that he was directly behind the gnome. The man's hand was still lifted, and LaCroix caught it easily. "Your heart still beats strongly, old one," the general whispered into the gypsy's ear. "Does your fury give your blood heat? If I quell my appetite on it, will you bless me with tidings of comfort and joy?" *************************************************************************** End Of Part Six "Who do you think you are, just walking out on me like that!?" Bonnie exclaimed as she planted herself (and the reluctant Jules) in front of Dirk's Bronco. Dirk rolled down the driver's window and glared at the perky redhead in irritation. "I'm your pissed ex-romantic interest taking my leave." "Well, you can't!" Bons argued stubbornly. "You'll have to run over Jules and me, first!" "Bonnie." Jules tugged the Scribe's elbow and motioned her slightly aside. "You know I support you. Really, I do. When I picture my pre-mature death, however, it does not involve tire marks, not even *Jaguar* tire marks. Count me out of the vehicular womanslaughter, please?" "Juuu-wuuuulllzzz!!!" Bons was desperate for solidarity: she was using the extra-syllable name again. Dirk gunned the Bronco's engine, then gave the Scribe a not-very-nice grin. "Hon, I hate to break it to you, but, if I drove forward, I'd smash my nice car into the Peach. To leave, I need to go in reverse." Which he began to do, separating the distance between the two women and his vehicle. "Dirk!" Bonnie yelled. "Dirk, stop! Please!" Maybe the cabbie had a soft spot for redheads running through the snow in non-sensible shoes, or perhaps he had a thing for ladies (and he used that term loosely) with manners. Whatever the reason, Dirk hit the Bronco's brakes. His expression was non-committal as the Scribe stepped breathlessly up on the vehicle's running board. "My, my, Red. I didn't think you knew the magic word." Bonnie's eyes narrowed, and she squelched an angry retort with an exasperated sigh. "This isn't about me or you, okay? This is another problem entirely. Jules and I want to find Patt. Can you give us any clue as to where she might be?" Dirk observed her quietly with deep blue eyes. Jules, who had walked rather than run with the optimistic hope of preserving the condition of her Italian leather heels despite the drifts, joined Bonnie, a hopeful expression on her face. The cabbie scrutinized both women intently. "You're really worried about her, aren't you?" he asked. "Of course we are!" Bons exclaimed. "Whatever our differences of opinion, Patt is still our friend," Jules added. "And, though nice and Canadian, Toronto at night is no place for her to be wandering alone. There's an armed Santa out there!" Dirk put the Bronco in park with a sigh. "Okay. Do you want me to take you to the spot where she bailed?" "Would you?" Bonnie plied a devastatingly appreciative smile in his direction, as though he was a giant carafe of Sumatra Mandehling espresso. The cabbie knew he was caught when she gave him the coffee look. There were some things mortal men weren't meant to withstand. "I would. Come on...Hop in, and buckle up." Jules started around to the passenger's side, but Bonnie paused to give the man a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you, Dirk." He set the car back into gear, musing ruefully on his soft heart as the woman walked around the back of the Bronco, "You're welcome." *************************************************************************** "I don't want to go back to the Peach," Patt whined in protest as Schanke pulled her bodily down Queen Street toward the five-star restaurant. "Hey, I only told you I wasn't taking you back to the Shrine," Schanke replied, striding purposefully down the salted sidewalk. "You agreed to that, so come on and quit bellyaching." "Duhhhhhh! Like there's that much difference between the Shrine and the Peach," Patt whimpered. "One step over the threshold, and you're out of the pit and into the pendulum." She pulled back with all her weight, but it didn't seem to bother Schanke at all. "You and that Bonnie chick," Schanke replied, shaking his head. "Both so drunk on the fancy way you think you can put words together. No wonder you two are cat-fighting right now. Sibling rivalry." "Meower," Patt hissed, digging in her heels. The only effect was she changed from a walking motion to a skidding one, leaving deep grooves in the slush. From the alley way, they heard the metal crash of an overturned trash can, followed by a low feline growl. Schanke pitched back against the building facing, pulling the addict with him. "What now?" Patt asked as she regained her breath. Schanke pressed a finger to his lips for quiet and listened at the alley opening. Finally, he motioned for her to follow. "Come on," he whispered. "Keep your mouth shut and your body in the shadows, kapish [sic]?" Patt opened her mouth to question him again, and again he shushed her. He moved away, body low, and Patt, after looking furtively around, followed him. When she reached the edge of the building, she found Schanke standing at the corner, hidden in the darkness. He was staring into the alley, listening intently. Patt moved to his side and followed his gaze. There was no cat in the alley. Instead, Patt saw two figures - one tall and straight, one bent and slight - conversing in a manner which indicated controlled anger. As she continued to watch, Patt saw one of the figures dart and catch the other. That's when the addict recognized the aggressor. "LaCroix," she said softly. "Having supper, from the looks of it," Schanke confirmed in a quiet voice. "Don't you think you should stop this?" Patt whispered quickly, tugging on Schanke's sleeve. "You're an angel, for heaven's sake. You can't stand here and do nothing." Schanke shrugged. "Birds gotta fly, and fish gotta swim. I guess a vampire drinking blood falls into a category like that somewhere. All I know is that the Big Guy never told me to interfere in such, so my hands are bound." "Mine aren't," Patt snorted, making a move further into the alley. Schanke quickly grabbed her and pulled her back into the dimmer lighting. "You are *not* going to cost me my wings," Schanke said, pushing Patt back against the building. "Quit trying to be a hero and have the world center around you. The whole beer bottle joke is old news now. Bury it, okay?! Just watch and listen and learn - that's what I brought you here for." ************************************************************************** "If you drink from me, vampire, you will die," the old gypsy said flatly as LaCroix pressed his lips to the man's neck. The old mortal did not struggle, but stood firmly within LaCroix's grasp. As the vampire leaned closer, he caught the scent of the rancid sweetness of the man's ancient flesh. "You're probably right," LaCroix agreed, loosening the strangling hold he had on his intended victim. In a blink, he stood in front of the gypsy again, his hands tight on the man's throat. "Better just to kill you outright than risk a sip of your diseased blood." "You will not kill me tonight, Nightcrawler," the dark mortal crooned softly, his blue eye now sparkling. "The only thing you will take tonight is knowledge: the wisdom and understanding that everyone needs charity from time to time - even those who feel they are above such requirements." The bent man waggled his six-fingered hand in LaCroix's face. "I curse you, Nightcrawler. I curse you with the need for the charity of others to survive." In a motion so swift that it almost rivaled LaCroix's own movements, the gypsy reached up and plucked the sword stick pin from the vampire's shirt lapel. Then, he made a downward tossing motion with his free hand and a massive cloud of smoke rose up. When it dissipated, LaCroix held nothing in his hands except air. "I will not be fooled by such sorcerer's tricks!" the vampire shouted in anger, looking swiftly around the alley. Seeing nothing, he flew upward, bent on finding the thief and retrieving his property. *************************************************************************** Patt watched in awe as LaCroix leapt into the air. "Fascinating," Schanke said from beside her. He stepped out of the shadows and continued staring into the sky where LaCroix had disappeared. "I just don't know how they do that without catching an updraft." "Geesh...he's really ticked off." Patt was shaking when she moved to Schanke's side. "He really scares me when he's like this. I could use a drink right now." Schanke looked at her and smiled cheerfully. "Cappuccino?" "I was thinking of something stronger, but I guess that coffee would do," Patt replied. "I wouldn't want to tarnish your reputation by consuming alcohol on your watch." The angel twitched his head to the side and made a clicking sound with his tongue. "That's the ticket, hon," he replied proudly. "Now, the drama has been set in motion. What say we go share some cafe au lait and let the other addicts have their turn in the limelight, okay?" "Suits me," Patt responded, taking Schanke's offered arm. "I'm tired anyway. And, to be honest with you, I'd rather stay as far away from an infuriated LaCroix as possible." "Oh...he won't be angry for too long," Schanke reassured the woman as they exited the alley and began strolling the sidewalk again, this time in a direction away from the Peach. "In fact," Schank said with a smirk, "he's going to be much, much too busy to even be worried about such things. You can bet the farm on that, yes sirreee." *************************************************************************** Annie was easily on her third glass of bubbly as she waltzed around the stateroom to the strains of 'Shall We Dance?,' the long hem of her full red cloak floating over the polished floor. Suddenly, there came a very disconcerting rumble off the bow. She paused, then moved to the foot of the cabin stairs. "Pete? Captain?" she called worriedly. "Is there any problem?" There was a violent crash, and Annie's body was flung across the room. She remained unhurt, but shaken, and rolled to a seat against the far wall. Music from 'The King and I' continued to play, but the speakers had fallen to the floor, muffling the melody. There was a creaking noise coming from the direction of the stern, as if the entire ship was groaning in pain. Annie stumbled to her feet, brushing some stray curls away from her face, then ran for the stairs as the creaking grew louder. She had climbed a dozen steps when there came another forceful slam against the boat's frame. She was forced to cling to the railing to keep from flying across the room again. As it was, when the uproar settled, Annie found herself crouched halfway up the steps, her arms wrapped tightly around one teak post. She looked up slowly, a trickling sound dancing in her ears. With staggered breaths, Annie opened her eyes. For a moment, her lungs stopped working. There was a steady stream of water pouring in the stern side of the chamber. All at once, the ship began to protest again, the wood of its hull screaming in a symphony of cracking, shattering noises. Annie started breathing again. She leapt to her feet, cursing as the tie of one of her Victorian-style laced boots snagged on a nail in the step. "PETE?!? CAPTAIN?!?" She pulled free, then clambered up the rest of the steps, just as the stateroom caved in behind her. Annie whirled about and stared down below, her eyes widening with horror at the swirl of icy water flooding the chamber. She backed away, colliding with the ship's steering from behind. The boat shuddered again in response, and Annie jumped away, then scrambled out of the control booth. She was on deck, now, and the view off the bow displayed a stretch of gray water with the Toronto skyline as backdrop. The shore still had to be miles away. A gust of frozen wind struck Annie as she rotated to inspect the stern end, plastering her hair across her face in a blinding curtain. "PETE?!?! CAPTAIN?!?! DAMMIT! ANSWER ME!!!" Before Annie pushed the curls out of her eyes, the ship lurched again. She was thrown backward against the deck, landing roughly on her backside. The ship tilted forward and Annie slid toward the stern for several meters before she caught herself with her heels and hands. She climbed to her feet once more and pulled her hair back from her eyes. A splash of water off the port stern drew her attention. It was a rowboat, about twenty meters away. Pete and the Captain were inside, steadily paddling away. Annie looked to her left, then, and realized the rear end of the boat was submerged. She whirled around, yelling furiously at the crew-mates who had abandoned her on ship. "COME BACK HERE, YOU BASTARDS!!!" Pete called back, his voice hollowed by the wind, "Sorry, Miss. We've got maximum capacity...and you didn't pay us enough to risk our necks!" "YOU CAN'T JUST LEAVE ME HERE TO DROWN!" "I'm afraid we must. It's not your lucky night, Miss!" The man's laughter reached her ears with galling effrontery. Annie leaned over the boat's side, shaking one black-gloved fist in their direction. "YOU BLOODY, UNSPEAKABLE BASTARDS!! THIS IS FAR FROM OVER!! WAIT UNTIL I GET MY HANDS ON YOU, YOU MISBEGOTTEN LITTLE -" The ship pitched once more, but Annie clung desperately to the brass side rail as her feet fell out from under her. Suddenly, her body seemed to almost dangle in the air. Annie looked down and saw the water yawning below her pointy-toed boots. She was sinking quickly toward a rush of icy waves that seemed to be sucking the ship under the lake's surface. Annie tried to climb higher, but her leather gloves slipped along the icy metal surface, dropping her a meter closer to the dark water. She looked down again, the full skirt of her cloak twisting about her legs from the updraft of the surging lake. Annie felt the first of the freezing fine spray mist against her skin, and she screamed, loud and long. *************************************************************************** LaCroix whisked through the night sky, his temper drawn out and ready to snap like the thinnest chain. The gypsy's neck was his. He would catch the prune-faced old man, squash the vagrant like a bug, then take back his property. No one took what belonged to Lucien LaCroix and lived. The vampire was readying to swoop down like a bird of prey when the wave of panic struck him. It was an odd experience, an uncommon lure, drawing his instincts to follow another path. He jerked in mid-flight, then turned in the direction of the harbor as he followed the sensation. LaCroix realized as the strange feelings grew stronger. The shores of Lake Ontario were coated in ice. LaCroix swept overhead too swiftly to leave a shadow in his wake. Within seconds, the tableau below him was composed of the murky grays and blacks of frigid, deep water. Now, the ancient vampire's enhanced hearing recognized a familiar voice uttering threats into the cold night air. LaCroix grinned at the words. He frowned as her next curse was rendered incomplete by a resounding crash. The vampire scanned the landscape, his vision focusing with fierce intensity upon a yacht that was rapidly plummeting beneath the water's surface. He saw her cloak first, waving in the wind around her body as though she was a toreador enticing the charge of a bull. LaCroix thought in passing, He felt Ann's will to survive even as he witnessed her attempt to pull herself to higher ground. LaCroix, likewise, shared her panic when Ann's grip failed. Having her plunge beneath the surface wouldn't do at all. Within seconds, the freezing waves would rob the addict's leader of any body heat he could use as a tracking device. Lacroix thought in satisfaction as Ann managed to halt her descent. Then he had his arms wrapped around her body, and Ann was screaming in his ear. LaCroix pressed her face into his shoulder as they climbed higher in the air. She was abominably loud. Annie suddenly realized that she wasn't dead, and she certainly wasn't drowning, but rather floating through air. The sound issuing from her throat subsided into a gasp, then expired. LaCroix smiled, enjoying the vibration of her rapid heartbeat dancing against his chest. It continued to beat because of him, and he was well aware of that fact. His smile deepened. It wasn't the first time LaCroix had saved her life, and he remembered fondly just how delicious her gratitude could be... Annie found her voice again. "Oh, my, my...who knew sea travel could be so eventful?" "Fortunately for you, we seem to have some connection. Why is that, I wonder? This degree of awareness is by no means a typical mortal quality." Annie ventured a guess. "NunkMommy powers, perhaps?" LaCroix raised a doubtful brow. "Someday you really must share with me those documents the Order of Felidia passed on to you. The contents must be quite intriguing. On another note, I thought I said there was no need for you to journey to Toronto. The Shrine situation is completely under control, just as I told you it would be," he said with a measure of sternness. "Your eventful travel was completely unnecessary." "Do I need an official reason to come here?" Annie said, her fighting spirit returning. "Maybe I simply *wanted* to be in Toronto!" "Then you could have waited for a flight when the airports re-opened." Annie grinned cheekily. "But I *am* flying." "That could change in an instant," LaCroix countered. Instead of the playful response he expected, Ann stiffened in his arms and released a cry of outrage. She pointed to the lake surface below and cried, "I just remembered - those bastards who owned the boat - they left me to drown! They're getting away!" LaCroix gave a satisfied grunt. "Thirsty for revenge, are we?" "Starving." "Then by all means, let us deliver swift retribution." **************************************************************************** "Ther yew go," Screed said happily, looking up from the cross-stitch pattern he had spread across his lap. "Where am I going, Screed?" Vachon glanced up curiously, but returned his attention to the motorcycle standing in front of him. He drifted the dry cloth lovingly across the chrome, enjoying the gleam it left. "Aye finished me pattern, is wot," the carouche said, holding up the scrap of cloth in a gleeful manner. "Wot yew be thinkin' of it?" Vachon gave the motif a cursory glance. "It's... colorful," he replied, before resuming his rubbing. "That all yew have tew say?" Screed appeared slightly miffed at Vachon's lack of enthusiasm. "Look, Screed," Vachon said, putting the rag down and standing up. He stretched, a languorous movement which pulled each of his hard muscles taut, giving an edge to his form. "I offered to let you crash here until your electrical problems were resolved. I did not say that I'd honor you in sickness and in health and bad taste." Screed turned his cross-stitch back around and looked at it front ways. "A bit tew much on tha' red side, eh, V-man?" "The red I can handle," Vachon replied with a lopsided grin. "It's the green, silver, gold, royal blue and burgundy which hurts my eyes." Seeing the disturbed expression growing on the carouche's face, Vachon hastened to add. "But, it is very bright and, with the gold braid stitched in, very shiney. I'm sure your friend - Libby, isn't it? - will be thrilled. It *is* for her, right?" "Yeahhh." Screed's face began to glow slightly. "'Tis fer me Lil' Squeak. Aye want tew sew it tew a sleepie shirt so she kin think o' me when she drifts off on a nod." "Well," Vachon gave the pattern one last skeptical look, then reached for a can of degreaser. "If she wears that, I can almost assure you that she won't be thinking of anything else." Screed looked down at the square, still beaming. The picture portrayed was of Screed himself. The acknowledged object of Libby's desires appeared to be au natural, except for a garnish of tinsel, garland and bows. One especially large, round ornament had been strategically placed over an area Libby was certain to take particular note of. "Aye'm awesum proud o' this piece, Vachonetti," the carouche grinned as he folded the cloth carefully. "An' Aye gawt it finished up right in time fer Christmas an' all." "Lights, cross-stitch presents...if I didn't know better, Screed, I'd think you were big into celebrating this particular holiday," Vachon said. "Aye am, mate," Screed replied, placing Libby's present in a small box. "Christmas 'as always been me favor-right holidee fer over a cen-tree now. 'Member 'ows Aye liked tew 'ear tha' story by Chuckie Dickens? Don't see no reason to miss the frivolitee jus 'cause Aye sup on rat blood rather than chew tha' goose, wot?" Vachon wrinkled his nose. "Ahhhh, yew're jus' bein' a carbuncle about it, 'cause yew got fleas in yewr Navidad," Screed chided the vampire. "When yew were a tyke, I eemajun yew liked Christmas jus' as much as aye did," the carouche said as he rubbed his belly. A memory passed over Vachon's countenance and he had to nod in agreement. "We had some pretty cool feasts in our time, didn't we?" Then he sighed. "But those days are long gone, Screed. Religious holidays and vampires aren't exactly on a parallel course. You know that." "Aye wuz listenin' to the Creepycrawler, Vachie, jus' like yew," Screed replied. "'Is Monkiness wuz on a real tare tewnight, tha's a rite estimate, that is. But, wot Aye dew in me private crib ain't no business of tha' Community, tha's me motto, an' if'n Aye choose tew ornamentate meself and share a bit o tha' bubbly with me squeaks, 'tis no 'arm tha' Aye kin see." "And," Vachon chuckled, "it's better to be safe than sorry - just in case some of the Christmas legends are true, right?" As if in response to the vampire's statement, a loud thud rang off the roof of the abandoned church which Vachon called home. Screed looked up toward the ceiling in awe and whispered, "Santee Claws?" "I doubt it." Vachon followed the other man's gaze, then looked toward the carouche. "More likely it's a rat." "A prezzy! Fer me?!!!" the carouche rubbed his hands together in delight, licking his lips in anticipation. "Yew shuddn't 'ave, mate!" Screed paused for a moment, then waved a careless hand at his friend. "Naw, yew should 'ave. Let me 'ave it!" Another thud echoed hollowly off the roofing tiles, followed by a skittering of smaller sounds. "I didn't, Screed. It's rocks and pebbles," Vachon identified the sound, his eyebrows creasing. "Someone is outside throwing rocks at my roof." "Blighters," Screed announced, moving toward the door. Vachon was already past the carouche, moving from the vestry which served as his parlor into the main room which once housed the church's sanctuary. Vachon ran up the aisle, between the overturned pews, and burst out the front door. The blinding white of the snowstorm stopped him cold. Everywhere he turned, the ice reflected back at him, as bright as day. By the time Vachon was able to focus, he could see no one. But someone was close. Very close. "I hear a heartbeat," Vachon said, looking around. "Perhaps it be one of yewr comely Vaquera types," Screed suggested as he caught up to stand beside his friend, "come to share sum cheer wi' us two mates." Vachon shook his head. "No...I can't put my finger on it, but something about the heartbeat is odd." "Wot yew mean?" Screed questioned. "Too thready... no, faint. Strong and rapid, but..." Vachon's voice trailed off as he looked around, trying to pinpoint the source. When he did, his eyes involuntarily widened, then narrowed in distrust. He began walking toward a small alcove beside the church door. Inside the alcove, hidden in darkness, was a picnic basket. "Me ratsie?" Screed tried to edge past Vachon to get a better look-see at the promised goodies. "It's mammal, all right," Vachon said, grabbing Screed by the neck scruff and pushing him back, "but not a rodent." Vachon stooped down and gently pulled the checkered covering away from the contents of the basket. "Ding-dong! It's a babe!" Screed said in awe as the tiny mortal child came into view. It was an infant, not more than a week old, Caucasian, with a light blonde fuzz of hair covering its head. The baby looked up at the two immortals, watching them with blue eyes the color of fall sky. The child seemed able to focus much too well for its age. "Yeah," Vachon said without humor. "Somebody left a baby on our doorstep." "An' wha' better place tew leave a babe than in fron' uv a church, Vachonetti," Screed said. "If'n Aye's dumpin' a tot, Aye kin't think o' nuthin' safer." "Get real, Screed," Vachon replied, rebundling the child and taking a last look around. "A church, maybe, but not a dark, abandoned one in the middle of a seedy neighborhood. No...someone left this child on purpose for *us* to find. The question is who? And why?" Vachon lifted the basket and headed back toward the front door. "In the meantime, this kid needs shelter, food and...other stuff." "Other stuff?" Screed questioned, following Vachon back inside the church. "Yeah...like...changing." "Changing?" the carouche screwed his face into a knot. "Yew thinkin' a bringin' the babe across? 'Avin' a permanent babe to call your own? Aye got some food jars Aye cud loan yew cheap, Aye guess." "No, no, no," Vachon asserted, taking the basket into the relative warmth of the inner chamber. "Changing...as in diapers." At the mention of the 'd' word, Screed shivered. "My sentiments exactly," Vachon acknowledged the carouche's reaction with a nod. "We need to find someone to take the kid off our hands and pronto." "Baby Jane?" Screed suggested hopefully. Vachon shook his head. " 'ey! Aye know! Take it tew tha' swap meet! Naw, wait, tha' meet's closed on Chris'mas Eve. How about Doctor Nat?" Vachon looked doubtful as he busily began to peel the checkered cloth off the child again to get a better look and, perhaps, a clue to its origin. "Is it a pink or blue?" Screed said, looking over the vampire's shoulder. What Vachon found was totally unexpected. "A boy," Vachon said, his voice uneasy. "Oh boy, it's definitely a boy." *************************************************************************** The Captain and Pete were quietly pleased to still be alive. Their victorious laughter had soon died with the fading echo of Miss Raper's final cries. They were alive, yet hanging in the aftermath of what was, essentially, murder. Their surroundings offered no sounds except the faint hiss of the wind and the rumble of their boat's small motor. "We could've saved her, I suppose," the Captain mumbled groggily. He was slumped in the floor of the boat as though he couldn't remain upright. Pete snorted rudely and spoke in slurred tones. "Who do you think you're fooling? Damn! I was there, remember? 'Leave her! Leave her!' you said. Save the bitch? You're full of it!" He leaned toward the Captain, his mouth twisting bitterly. "We've been drinking, and she could've told! Hell, if you weren't so pissed-drunk you couldn't see straight, we wouldn't have run into the ice! Save her! We saved ourselves, that's what counts!" Pete sat back, trailing his hand in the frigid water over the side of the boat. "Where do you think we would've put her?" He flicked wet fingers in the Captain's face. "The boat's already low enough that, if we breathe hard, it floods. Where the hell would Miss Red Riding Hood have gone? Are you saying you would've stayed behind?" The older man made no reply, staring solemnly at the cityscape ahead. Pete sniffed knowingly. "I didn't think so. Why don't you just shut up, old man? We've got her money and our insurance. Be thankful your ass is high and mostly-dry, and don't give me any more of this, 'we could've saved her' bull." The men motored toward the Inner Harbor of Toronto, Pete maneuvering the skiff with caution through the waterways while the Captain slept to clear his head. About ten minutes had passed when a clear dock came into view. Pete hooted with pleasure as he aimed the boat's rudder toward the open landing. Fifty meters glided by, then Pete caught himself blinking and rubbing at his eyes with a hand. Standing in the middle of the wooden platform was a woman dressed in a full-length red cloak that drifted to one side. Her hair was a mass off dark curls, floating through the force of a passing gust of air. "Oh, Jesus..." Pete whispered, his mouth hanging agape. He hit the other man on the leg repeatedly. "Cap'n! Cap'n, wake up! Get up, you old fart!" The Captain snorted awake, but he was hardly alert. "Whazzit?" "Look! Tell me I'm seeing things!" Pete pointed toward the dock. "God! That's not the bitch from the boat, is it?" The Captain's gaze followed his first mate's finger with muddled vision, then his eyes widened as he gasped, "Holy Mary! It can't be!" "It sure as hell looks like her!" Pete shook his head as the woman slowly raised one arm, gesturing for them to come closer. "I'll be damned if I draw up there! I don't care if I *am* seeing things!" They were about fifteen meters away from the dock when Pete pushed the rudder jerkily, intending to turn a one-eighty and get out of there. Suddenly, Pete found himself in a vise of black-clad arms. He let out a yelp, realizing that he was floating unbidden over the last stretch of water toward the woman's ghostly figure. "Lemme go! PLEASE, LEMME GO!!" he cried in fear. A wicked chuckle rang in his ears, and he heard a silky voice whisper malevolently, "Very well." Pete howled as he felt himself falling. The impact of the dock planks against his bones was jarring. He released a whimper of pain, then slowly lifted his head. He saw a pair of lace-up boots made out of black leather. One foot tapped lightly against the wood underneath as it rocked back and forth on the edge of a heel. Pete felt his stomach drop as he looked higher. It was Miss Raper, her arms planted akimbo on her hips as she sneered down at him with undisguised rage. "I warned you the matter was far from over, and when I get my hands on you..." Annie kicked out violently with one sharp toe, catching Pete under the jaw. His head jerked backward as he moaned, then struck the hard landing once more. He felt small hands bound in leather wrap around his throat, yanking his head up so that he was forced to look into the woman's angry hazel glare. "Hell hath no fury like a woman left to drown, Pete," Annie hissed in his face, "and I'm not just *any* woman." Pete gurgled, then released a strangled yelp as he witnessed a man float from the sky to land just behind the woman. The stranger's eyes glowed with an unnatural greenish fire as he smiled at Pete, exposing a set of ferocious fangs. Pete begged for mercy, but his earlier words to Annie came back to haunt him as the demonic man spoke with laughter in his voice: "I'm afraid we must. It's not your lucky night, Pete." **************************************************************************** Screed peered over the Spaniard's shoulder, intent on double-checking the gender of the foundling. When he spotted what Vachon had seen, the carouche's eyes grew round in a mixture of fright, awe and subliminal suggestion. "Blimy," Screed said. "Yea," Vachon agreed, still looking down at the babe. "Ya don't think...?" Screed began. Vachon shook his head. "No...no way. This is someone's idea of a really warped practical joke. Personally, I think it smacks of Knight." "You mean De-fect-a-tive Nicky?" Screed questioned, unable to tear his eyes away from the bundle in the basket. "Who else might have access to...*that*?" Vachon gestured pointedly to the baby. "But Knightsie don't 'ave a funny bone. Whatta 'bout his Monkiness, 'isself?" Screed argued. "Nahhh, he wouldn't risk *misplacing* it," Vachon argued back. "No, this is someone using us to play a prank on LaCroix and I'm not about to get mixed up in it." The Spaniard began to carefully fold the bunting back over the child. "Roight, then. It's 'no thank yew very much' tew tha' tater-tot...Wot you plannin' on doin, then?" Screed asked. "Like I said before - find someone to take this little joy off our hands," Vachon picked up the basket and began carrying it toward the door. When Screed followed, Vachon turned abruptly. "On second hand - here!" Vachon thrust the basket at a startled Screed. "I can travel faster without the baggage. You take care of the baby while I find a nanny." Before Screed could open his mouth to protest, Vachon had vanished. The carouche set the basket back down on the table and carefully unwrapped the cloth, revealing the baby once more. The child, his bright blue eyes intense, stared up at Screed, unblinking. Screed looked at the diaper fastening, reaching out to gently touch the silver sword stick pin. "There, there," the carouche cooed, lifting the baby into his arms. "Papa Screed is gonna take good care o' tha' tyke, 'e is. Gonna treat 'im like 'is own. After all, if this ain't a *prank*, as V-man thinks, 's best to take care a the little monkey, now, ain't it?" Screed began to sing one of his less tawdry drinking songs to lull the infant to sleep. ************************************************************************** Nick felt his senses tingle with the anticipation of the hunt when he heard the call. It was a man's voice, breathless and urgent. "Someone catch him! He's getting away!" Nick pulled the Caddy over, jumped out of the car, then took in his bearings. He was in an area not quite uptown, but close to the docks. Vachon's church was maybe three blocks to the east. The call came from a northeasterly direction, and the detective took off at a slightly supernatural pace. The vampire quietly willed the anonymous man to continue yelling, giving him a vocal beacon to follow. Nick perceived the voice growing closer, stronger. He centered his vision on a raggedy-looking man waving his arms in the middle of the street about half a block ahead. Nick felt a tug of disappointment at the sight. By appearances, this man could very well just be a drunk, with too much whiskey, or something else, urging him to wave his arms at any and all passers-by and call for assistance. Nick grimaced as he dropped to a jog-trot, then pulled out his badge as he closed the final meters between himself and the frantic man. "Metro Police," Nick stated. "What's the trouble?" "I was crossin' the street to get some coffee when I saw him, Officer," the man explained in a rush. "It was this guy in a Santa suit, and he was holdin' up this lady with a baby. He took her baby, Officer. He had a gun on the kid when I caught sight of him. I let out a yell, and the Santa crook ran. I tried to chase him down, but he got on a tractor-like thing and drove that way." The scruffy man signaled to the east. During this description, Nick's attitude became deadly serious. "Where's the baby now?" "Still with the bad Santa." "And the mother?" "She's back that way." The man gestured to the west. "She was crying an' all about the baby, but she's not hurt." "You go back and find her," Nick instructed. "Tell her you found the police, and we're working to track her baby down. Can you do that?" The man nodded and began jogging down the street. Nick moved in the opposite direction, pulling out his cell phone to call in his location. As the vagrant moved out of sight, the vampire whooshed into the air. **************************************************************************** End Of Part Seven The Captain watched in stunned disbelief as a man flew out of the sky and swept Pete from the boat. He stared dumbly as the two figures floated through the air until they hung over the dock, then suddenly Pete fell with a violent crash into the landing. The Captain shook his head, attempting to jar some sobriety back into place. Men didn't fly. Women didn't rise from their watery graves to haunt you. It was all due to the alcohol. He head been lying on his back, propped up slightly on one elbow to look at the shore, when Pete was taken. The sight imprisoned the Captain's attention. He completely overlooked how there was no shipmate controlling the rudder of the skiff, how the boat was headed straight for the scene of action, until it was too late. When the Captain realized he was on the verge of crashing into the end of the pier, he scrambled forward, desperate to change direction. His shaky hands wrapped about the bar of the rudder just as the boat slammed into a wooden post. The skiff lurched violently to the side, causing the Captain to flail his arms. He grasped blindly for any secure object that would prevent him from falling overboard. His hands encountered the landing post, but found no steady purchase. The support was cracked from the collision, and a long shard of wood came off in his right hand. The Captain slipped, making his left hand brush against something metal. His expression brightened joyously as he recognized a ladder. He clumsily climbed onto the dock, then turned his attention back to Pete and their attackers. The Captain stumbled backward and allowed the wooden fragment to fall from his grasp as he soaked in the horrific view. He caught himself before he took one step too far and plunged into the icy waters below, then, crouched in a huddle against the planks, the Captain's digits grasped the fallen stake. He watched numbly as the strange man underwent a demonic transformation, then seized Pete in a vise as the woman looked on. Between her blood-red cloak and her hair, the curls twisting ferociously in the wind, she looked like one of the Furies. The strange man... The Captain experienced the knot of fear and nausea tighten in his stomach as the thought bloomed. The man attacking Pete was a vampire! The Captain barreled forward, acting with the blind determination of self-preservation that would have been absent had he not been royally drunk. He struck at the feeding vampire with the wooden stake and heard the woman cry a shout of alarm. The vampire roared in pain and managed to backhand the Captain with a blow that felt like a bomb exploding in his chest before collapsing to his side on the landing. The Captain mused dazedly through the pain as his body was flung backward in the air. he wondered. He stopped flying and hit the water. The cold of Lake Ontario shocked his breath away, and the Captain plunged below the surface. There was a pain in his chest. He gasped and took in nothing but icy liquid. He jerked once, twice, then stopped fighting as the gray clouds in his mind and sight began to blacken. One more reflection swam in his head, then he was gone. *************************************************************************** "Come on, Lava. Do your thing so we can go back inside," Tser pleaded with the burro. They'd been outside for sometime now, and Lavalianna was showing no more sign of emptying herself than she had when the duo had first started their walk. The chilly wind whistled around Tser, causing her to pull her scarf closer around her ears. She looked at the donkey with growing irk. "Potty already, won't you?" The burro responded by raising its head and nickering at the woman. Tser made a face, lifting her upper lip and exposing teeth. Then, the woman from Portland snorted and voiced a passable imitation of an equine bray. Lava pricked her ears and whinnied back. Tser grimaced. "This is getting us nowhere, dear girl. How do you feel about enemas?" The burro pawed at the alley floor, frosty breath exuding from her nostrils. Tser sighed, turned her back to the north, and continued to wait. The roar of the wind shadowed the whisper of air displacement overhead. Tser did hear the gentle *plopping* sound as something hit the pavement. The addict turned around with a smile of relief. "Good girl, Lava..." She never finished her praise. Instead of finding a pile of poop, Tser stood face to face with Vachon. Tser decided, looking at the raven-haired vampire standing before her. The Spaniard blinked at her and smiled warmly. "You're one of LaCroix's toga chicks, aren't you?" "What?" Tser blinked also. "One of the addicts. You know, Nunkies Anonymous?" Vachon's tone was cordial, almost too sweet. "Why do you want to know?" Tser replied suspiciously. "Yea...you're one of his," Vachon confirmed his own question with a grin. "Do I have a Christmas present for you..." Vachon moved an arm quickly around Tser's waist and prepared to lift her into the air. "NO, WAIT!!" Tser pulled back with all her strength. "I'm not going *anywhere* without Lava!" "Huhhh?" Vachon paused in his launch to look at the addict quizzically. "My donkey," Tser explained, pointing at the burro, which now stood some fifteen feet away, eyeing the pair cautiously. "We'll come back for her, I promise," Vachon said easily, preparing again to take flight. "I SAID *NO*," Tser struck the Spaniard on the shoulder with a balled fist, making him wince. "Take it easy," he remarked, rubbing his collar bone, flight temporarily forgotten. "You've got a strong right hook, there." "You try taking care of forty-odd animals, plus help at the zoo, and see if *you* don't develop muscles," the tiny woman responded, shaking her hand to relieve the pain. "Point taken," Vachon replied. Then he brightened. "With a menagerie like that, I bet you have a lot of experience taking care of babies, right?" Tser's pale green eyes narrowed. "Come again?" The tall vampire shrugged. "You know: bambinos, kids, ninos, little ones, the travel-sized version of grown-ups...babies." "Human babies? Not this girl," Tser said emphatically. Vachon blinked at her, focused, caught her eyes and lowered his voice an octave. "You will come with me," he said. Tser's face soured. "I can't believe you'd try a stunt like that with me, Vachon," the addict said angrily. "Tracy is right - you *are* full of it." "Obviously not," Vachon sighed, then he gave Tser one of his best 'poor little puppy' looks. "Would honesty work with you?" "It would have a better chance than this 'he-vampire' stuff you've been throwing around so far," Tser responded cautiously. "Okay," Vachon said, "this is the deal. Somebody dropped a baby on my doorstep." "And this concerns me, because...?" Tser replied, her eyes never wavering from his. "I need someone to take him. You know...a 'motherly' type." "Oh, please! So you picked out the first *female* who wasn't a complete stranger to dump it on? I don't think so. I don't play 'mommy,'" Tser replied. "You have two hands at the moment, take care of it yourself, or, if that's too much *responsibility* for you...Call the police." "I don't think that would be such a good idea," Vachon said, running his hand through his long, dark locks and looking around the alley. "This baby might be - special." "In what way?" the thin addict pressed. Vachon pursed his lips in contemplation, then decided to tell all. "The baby might be LaCroix," he said evenly. Tser stared at the Spaniard for a moment, then a strange smile began to spread across her face. Before she could catch and control it, the addict began laughing so hard that she doubled over. Vachon was not amused. He stood in the alley, looking rather lost, waiting patiently for the addict to recover from her fit of mirth. "I'm sorry," Tser said finally, wiping her tear-filled eyes. "A baby LaCroix? What makes you say something like that?" "Because the kid's nappy is secured with the General's sword pin, that's what," Vachon stated flatly. "And you, of all folk, should know how he feels about that pin." Tser sobered immediately. Strange things *had* happened concerning LaCroix over the past six months, between the alternate universes and his drunken August escapade. "Are you joking with me, Vachon? Because if you are..." "Vampire's honor," Vachon made a crossing sign across his chest and immediately flinched. Tser was impressed. "Okay, I'll come with you," the addict replied, "but I'm bringing my burro." "It's a long walk," Vachon said, looking longingly into the air. "So I guess we'd better be on our way," Tser replied, gathering Lava's halter reins and rejoining the Spaniard. "That is, of course, if you want to get us to the church on time." ************************************************************************** It didn't take Nick very long to track down a Santa Claus moving east on a snow plow, even considering the season. The problem was that the first Santa on a snowplow Nick saw didn't have a baby held hostage. The John Deere did, however, have a license plate that read 'DEC-025,' just as one of the addicts had reported earlier in the evening. If this wasn't *the* criminal Santa, it might at least be *a* criminal Santa. "Halt! Metro Police!" Nick ordered as he dropped to the ground, blocking the man's path. Any doubts Nick carried about this man being disreputable evaporated as Santa decided to open fire. The detective felt a faint sting as one shell entered his shoulder and another grazed his side. This injury (though completely irrelevant - it was the *principle* that bothered Nick) brought a sneer to his face. No more Mr. Nice-n-Fluffy Vampire. Santa was going down, then he was headed straight for downtown lockup. He leapt forward, wrenching the gun from the man's grasp and tossing it aside in the snow. He had the perpetrator forced face-down against the seat of the snow plow within a second, the man's arms held securely behind his back. "Where's the baby?" Nick growled in Santa's ear. "I'm not saying anything!" "Tell me......Where is the infant?" Nick commanded. The perp blinked dazedly, stuttering, "I...I left it..." "Where......did you leave the baby?" "At the - Wha?!" The harsh blast of police sirens broke through the criminal's stupor. Nick saw that he was losing Santa's attention. In a minute, they would no longer be alone. He shook the man forcefully, repeating, "Where did you leave the infant?!" The perp's expression was now shuttered. He wasn't offering any more information without counsel. "Merry Christmas...Ho Ho ho...Merry Christmas." Nick cursed softly under his breath as two squad cars skidded to a halt nearby. Sergeant Pulte jumped out of one vehicle and swiftly cuffed the criminal Claus, then inspected the scene with confusion. "Didn't you report Santa kidnapping a baby?" "Yeah," Nick acknowledged grimly. "He said he left the child somewhere, but he's not offering up a location." "Ho Ho Ho...Merry Christmas," the felonious Santa repeated. Nick patted the Sergeant on the shoulder, saying, "Why don't you start a sweep of the streets? Our perp had to have dropped the infant within a kilometer radius of here." The officer nodded. "Will do." The vampire detective stalked off in a westerly direction, his steps full of frustration. He wanted to join in the hunt for the child, but the presence of his fellow policemen scouring the area stymied the use of his supernatural powers. His decided to search on foot, relying on his hearing and sight, rather than an aerial investigation to track down the baby. Nick had progressed almost half a block when he whirled around in alarm. His senses were flooded with a burst of input. All plans of hunting for the missing baby vanished from his thoughts as Nick glanced cursorily at his surroundings, then flashed into the air. Nick cursed his worry even as he followed the trail of the bond with his sire. This flight might prove pointless, just a prank on LaCroix's part to prove he could still draw Nicholas out. On the other hand, Nick couldn't stifle his desire to follow the call. With a swift rush of instinct, for he didn't consider his decision to be based on distinct reason, Nick knew that LaCroix needed him. *************************************************************************** After securely tethering Lavalianna outside, Vachon took Tser's hand and led her into the dark interior of the church. "Nice digs," Tser breathed, looking around. "Improved a bit since you last saw it, hasn't it?" Vachon said, a touch of sarcasm in his voice. "Just beware of the bathroom." "You kept the guitar poster up, I see," Tser observed, following the Spaniard into the vestry. "It was a cool picture," Vachon shrugged. "I'd never seen my guitar pout before." "Hmm. I missed out on the Cousinly raid during the war," Tser explained. "I had other, graver, concerns on my mind." Inside the vestry, the pair found a cheerful fire crackling in the fireplace, with a row of tiny baby bottles warming beside the flames. Screed was sitting in a chair beside the hearth, holding one of the bottles, and gently rocking the child in his arms. Vachon and Tser both blinked. "I'm impressed," the addict announced. "I'm astonished," Vachon echoed. "Aye'm a 'appy papa," Screed smiled at them, his eyes misty with love. "E's slurped up all 'is formula and is askin' fer more. E's insatiable. A right bang-bang bottle boozeler." "Uhh huhh," Tser commented, walking over to Screed. "I don't remember having a rocking chair," Vachon looked at the seating arrangement with interest. "Yew didn't," Screed smiled, standing up so that he could show off his handiwork. "Aye took the bellows out a the old organ in the chapel and set your chair on top. Now," Screed sat back down and began pushing with his rump, "Aye just press down like this, and the air pushes me back up. Nifty, wot?" "Amazing," Vachon replied. "So, this is the little fellow who *might* be a general," Tser reached to lift the blanket which covered the child. Screed slapped at her hand. "There now, girlie, keep yewr paws tew yewrself. Don't be x-posin' me babe tew the cold and damp. 'E's a mite croupy now, after 'im bein' out in the night air lik 'e was." "Sorry," Tser said, "but if I'm to take charge of this little fellow, I want to make sure I'm not being sold a bill of goods." Screed did not look convinced. He held the infant tighter, as though he was a very nice, Bright and Shiny Thingee. "Come on, Screed," Vachon demanded, "show her the baby. You know you can't keep him. We're not equipped for the A.M. feedings." The carouche mulled this for a moment, then reluctantly handed the child over to the woman. Tser gathered the baby into her arms, partially unwrapped him and stared at the diaper. "Is this how you found him?" she asked, looking at the Spaniard. "To my knowledge, he's still in the original," Vachon replied. He glanced at Screed, and the carouche nodded vigorously. "Okay, I don't like this, and I really don't think that this baby has anything to do with LaCroix, but I have to admit that you two are more ill- equipped to take care of an infant than the addicts are. I'm willing to take him to the Shrine, but only if you," she looked pointedly at Vachon, "come along and explain this. I am not going in there alone and babble like an idiot." "Fair enough," Vachon agreed, but not too happily. "Let's take him to the Peach, then. I'll let the High Priestess figure out what to do with him." "Tha's the ticket," Screed agreed, standing up to join them as Tser and Vachon turned to leave. "We'll nest with tha' toga chicks all friendly- like." Vachon placed his hand on Screed's chest, stopping the other immortal. "No, you stay here," Vachon instructed the carouche. "We need someone available, just in case whoever left the baby comes back looking for him." Screed opened his mouth to protest, but no one was there to listen. "Yew fergot 'is little cap," Screed said sadly, holding up a piece of leather, carefully stitched with the Forever Knight logo. When no one returned for the hat, Screed stuck it in his pocket and sighed heavily. *************************************************************************** Annie had moved back when LaCroix began to drain Pete's blood, watching the scene with hesitant fascination. Suddenly, she caught sight of the Captain's movement and shouted, but the damage had already been done. The seaman staked LaCroix through the heart with a wooden fragment from the pier. The vampire struck out at his attacker as he tossed Pete's body aside, sending the Captain flying through the air. "NO!!!" Annie screamed. She watched as LaCroix's form fell to the dock as though in slow-motion. "No..." she repeated, her voice between a moan and a whimper. Ann scrambled toward LaCroix, examining the fallen vampire with panicked eyes. The stake projected from the front and back of his torso. She released a stressed gasp, then gingerly attempted rolling LaCroix so that he lay face up instead of on his side. The moment the stake encountered the boards of the pier, pressing against LaCroix's wound with the force of his weight, his eyes snapped open in rage. LaCroix brushed her aside with one hand, not hard enough to do damage to anything but Annie's pride, and sent her tumbling backward to land on her rump with a rough thump. "That hurts!" he complained. Annie crawled indignantly to her knees. "I'm trying to help you! You want me to pull the stake out, don't you? Quit being such a baby!" LaCroix squeezed his golden eyes shut, releasing a pained sigh. Annie climbed to her feet, placing both of her hands firmly around the stake. She then lifted one boot, intending to place it on his stomach for better leverage, but she paused. "This is going to hurt like hell, you know. Don't deck me or anything," she said cautiously. "Just do it," LaCroix hissed. So, like an ardent Nike aficionado, Annie yanked energetically with all of her might. The stake remained in place, steadfastly stuck between two ribs. LaCroix let out a tortured grunt, while the NunkMommy issued an annoyed curse. "They always make this look so easy on television!" Determined to succeed, this time Annie straddled the vampire's waist, then tried to pull the wood free as she turned it. LaCroix caught his breath, grinding his teeth for several seconds. The wood budged slightly, but would not come free. Annie redoubled her efforts, and the stake twisted within the wound, yet remained buried. LaCroix let out a hiss of agony, speaking stiffly, "I suppose I should be thankful I am under the caring ministrations of someone who *likes* me." "No," Annie countered. "You'd be better off in the hands of some buff chick named Helga with the physical strength to get rid of this stake. I need help getting it out. *You* need help." There was a gust of wind, and Annie jerked her chin up as her curls blew across her line of vision. It was Nick. His gaze flickered over his sire, then centered angrily on Pete's corpse, sprawled forgotten to the side. Annie saw LaCroix's eyes had shut, and she wondered whether he was unconscious or simply focusing away from the pain. She looked up again, and, seeing Nick appear disinclined to any action except glowering at the pair of them, chastised in a stern NunkMommy voice, "Don't just stand there! Help Lucien!" Nick nodded gruffly toward the body of the fallen mortal. "Just like you helped this man when LaCroix fed from him? You wouldn't stand by and watch while he murdered someone, would you, Annie?" She didn't answer, but stuck out her chin stubbornly. Nick's eyes flared with fury, and he pulled her to her feet. "Would you do that, Annie?!" "Pete is dead!" she shouted defiantly. "He's no longer important. *LaCroix* is who matters! Help him!" "That's what I was afraid you'd say," Nick muttered bitterly. "What is it with you addicts?" Annie ignored the question and jerked away to lean over LaCroix once more. He hadn't moved, and she was very afraid that he wasn't conscious. she thought worriedly. She ran one black-gloved hand over her favorite vampire's cheek, whispering, "I haven't been able to remove the stake by myself, yet. Either you do it, or I will find someone who will." "Who are you going to find? 'Excuse me, Doctor, but I have a friend with a really *large* splinter that needs extracting.' Oh, yeah, that will work," Nick scoffed. "Don't worry. I'll take it out...eventually." Nick bent down to pick up Pete's body, then slung it over his shoulder. "Eventually?!" Annie exclaimed. "What kind of offer of help is that? He *made* you, remember? You *owe* him everything!" "Don't remind me." As Nick prepared to take off in flight again, Annie protested. "Wait! Where are you going?" "We can't just leave...what did you say his name was?...We can't just leave Pete lying around with puncture marks in his neck. Don't panic. LaCroix will be fine. He'll just have to suffer a little longer, that's all." "But it's needless suffering! Why can't you remove the stake before you hide Pete's corpse, or is it that you just don't want to?" Nick glanced away momentarily, fighting to keep his temper under control, then explained the situation to the head addict dispassionately. "Have you heard of that riddle where a farmer has a fox, a goose and a bag of corn, and he needs to cross a river by bridge? He can only bring one item per trip. The problem is, if he leaves the fox alone with the goose, or the goose alone with the corn, something gets eaten. You see, Annie, if I pull that stake out of LaCroix's chest, then leave, you'll get eaten. He'll need blood when he regains consciousness. I don't care how devoted a follower you are, he will take you, and he will kill you." Nick shifted one shoulder, adjusting his hold on Pete. "I think there's been enough bloodshed for one night, don't you?" He was gone before she could think of a suitable response. *************************************************************************** Bonnie fiddled with the Bronco's radio, repeatedly cursing as each channel offered up a selection of music, from country to classical, retro to jazz, dance to pop, every bit of it flavored for the holidays. Jules and Bons tsked in unison, then the Scribe turned off the volume in defeat. "Hey! I liked that last one! 'What Child Is This?' is my favorite!" Dirk complained at the silence. "Yes, well," Jules said unsympathetically, "We old-fashioned types like to call it 'Greensleeves.'" "Why do you two have to ruin Christmas for everyone else?" Dirk asked quizzically. "Why does everyone else have to celebrate it?" Jules countered. "Consider how we feel for a second, Dirk," Bonnie insisted softly. "Jules and my attitudes toward the holidays set us apart from everyone. It makes us outcasts. But are we allowed to go our own way, to live our Christmas-free lives? No. Everyone wants us to give up our lifestyle of choice. They want us to put the people we are, the same people we were the other three hundred and sixty-odd days of this year, and be someone else who fits in with their society. If we don't, they curse us. They call us names, like 'bah-humbugger' and 'Scrooge.' We don't want to share Christmas with anyone, so immediately you say that we 'ruin' it. We're treated like a fly in the soup, rather than the parsley that adds color to a favorite entree. So I ask you, Dirk...Where is the tolerance for the minority view, hmmm? Where is that smack of goodwill that's supposed to be so popular this season? All we've asked for is a little corner away from the holidays, where we can be ourselves in peace. All we want is for our feeling to count, to be respected, just like anyone else. Consider it, Dirk. You merry-makers, you've got the majority of the city, of the continent, wrapped in boughs of holly and candy canes. Jules and I have one Shrine. Are we really unreasonable to want to keep it uncluttered?" Dirk turned to look at her as the Bronco came to a halt. "You have a point, Bons. I know that you and Jules have been pretty adamant that the date doesn't matter: People should act in the way that their hearts and minds tell them to regardless of the calendar. They should show their generosity unmindful of any reward, am I right?" "That's right," Jules said quietly. "So what I'm asking both of you is this: You both have that generosity the rest of the year...why do you have to act differently just because it's Christmas? So it sucks that you're in the minority. It's not fair, I'll grant you that, but you can take the high road." "Suffer in quiet?" Jules sniffed. "I don't think so." "Who said you had to be quiet?" Dirk argued. "It's not as though you take a vow of silence the rest of the year. I'm talking about expressing your displeasure, but putting up with everyone's antics because you care about them. That's what you do when it's not Christmas. They know it, and they appreciate it." Dirk nudged Bons in the arm. "You know, calling the hotels to find a place for your friends to have a celebration was a nice thing to do. It meant a lot to Patt, I could tell." "She told you about that?" Bonnie huddled in the passenger's seat. The Bronco was cooling rapidly now that the engine and heater were off, and both Jules and she had run outside in non-sensible clothing and shoes in their haste to catch up with Dirk. "Yes, she did. Patt was pretty frustrated by everything else though. Take it easy on her when you find her, okay? As a favor to me?" "Hmm." Bonnie reflected quietly for several moments before Jules piped up, "I'm enjoying the peaceful mood, but my fingers are also growing numb. Did we stop here for a reason other than character development?" "Yes," Dirk said as he got out of the vehicle. "This is where I dropped Patt off." Dirk, Jules and Bonnie decided to search separately, in order to cover the most ground. Neither Jules nor Bonnie found anything of note, but Dirk spotted a collection of Metro Police cars on alert near the docks. He pulled an Officer by the name of Pulte aside and asked if he'd seen anyone fitting Patt's description, but the sergeant had no information to offer. Half an hour later, three very cold people were back inside the Bronco, the heater turned to full blast. "Maybe she's back at the Shrine," Jules reasoned. "She's had hours to return." "Yeah," Bonnie followed absently. "Just because we didn't find her doesn't mean anything bad has happened." Dirk didn't offer further comment. He drove. When he turned the radio back on, no one protested the strains of 'Silent Night' as they echoed through the car. *************************************************************************** "This is the worst Christmas of my life," Charl complained. She reached for a cookie located on the table sitting beside the divan where she lay. "Nothing to do, and I'm eating too much." "Sounds like a typical Christmas to me," Jayne replied, stretching luxuriously. She looked around, gauging the mood of the room. "Anyone for hot chocolate with marshmallows?" The reply was a plethora of pillows launched in her direction. Sighing sadly, she sat back into the mound of cushions and muttered, "Well, at least I tried." "Jayne has a point," Kate announced, sitting up straight. "Here we sit, lethargic and complacent, while everyone around us is celebrating the season. Why?!!" "Because we were ordered to do so," Annette replied dryly. "And," Kate reasoned, "who gave those orders?" "Jules and Bonnie, with LaCroix's endorsement," Sallie replied smugly. "And," Kate said slyly, looking from addict to addict, "do you see any of those three people in this room?" "No," Susan answered, "but they weren't here the last time we all got Christmas fever, either. That little fact did not save Patt, now, did it?" At the mention of the absent addict's name, the room grew quiet. Everyone had been silently wondering what had happened to the mature merrymaker, but no one had had the courage to voice the question aloud. The possibilities as to Patt's fate were...terrifying. "I bet she went to an all-night bowl-a-rama," Kusine suggested hopefully. "She once told me that she loved to bowl. Even boasted a 59 handicap." "Nahhhh," Laura shook her head. "She's probably found some friends to hang out with and is drinking eggnog and opening Christmas presents." "Or," Annette said softly, "she *is* the present someone else opened." The addicts looked around, worried expressions on their faces. "Let's not think the worse," Caren said reasonably. "If the General had those kind of plans for Patt, Jules and Bonnie wouldn't be out in this storm looking for her, right?" The addicts exchanged mutterings of agreement at this statement. "I wonder if they're having any luck?" Mids said, popping a piece of hard candy into her mouth as her cat, Dache, stretched at her feet. The loud gong of the kitchen back doorbell resounded through the Shrine. "Now who in the world could that be at this time of the morning?" Sallie said, glancing up at the intricate Roman numeral clock gracing the marble mantle. "I'll get it," Mids announced, hopping off her divan and heading for the kitchen. "I'll go with you," Tracy Sue jumped up and followed the younger addict out of the room. "Better that than to sit here and be bored to death." A few moments later, a squeal of delight startled the other addicts. Mids and Tracy Sue rushed back into the main anteroom with the younger addict clutching a large envelope to her chest. "It was the Fed-Ex man!" Tracy Sue announced excitedly. "He brought a package for Debbie! From Italy!!" "Oooooooo," the addicts chorused as Debbie grabbed for the package. She stripped the sealing tab with trembling fingers and pushed open the cardboard. Carefully, Debbie lifted out another envelope, smaller and much richer than the packing container. The addict broke the seal and slipped the card from the covering. "It's from my husband," Debbie said, her eyes moist with happiness. "He sent me a Christmas card." She held up the ornate card, its cover a beautiful gilded affair picturing a Botticelli painting of the Virgin, Child and Joseph. "Ooooooooo," the addicts chorused again. The kitchen back door bell gonged again. "More presents!" Charl cried, jumping up and running toward the source. Several of the other addicts hurried to follow. KC, young and energetic, was the first to arrive. She threw open the door and stood motionless in stunned surprise. There on the doorstep, almost invisible in a pelting of snow, was a tall, dark haired man holding the reins of a donkey. Sitting astride the burro was a young woman, a blue scarf covering her head and thrown casually over her left shoulder. In her arms, the woman held an infant, wrapped in a blanket. "Errrrrr, Debbie!" KC called back through the kitchen, never removing her eyes from the scene in front of her. "Just how much into the Nativity is your hubby?" Jesse peered curiously over KC's shoulder, commenting, "Bons said there was no room at the inns, but this is ridiculous!" "Get out of the way, KC, Jesse," Tser growled, getting stiffly off of Lavalianna's back. "I'm heavy with child, and I'm tired of carrying the little fellow." The addicts parted into two parallel lines, giving Tser a passageway into the kitchen/laboratory. The addict walked briskly into the Shrine. Vachon, leading the burro, smiled at the women flanking him and followed Tser through the kitchen and into the anteroom. "Hey, this is okay," the Spaniard said, looking around the room. "Where do you want me to park your ride, Tserisa?" The addict shot the vampire a dirty look as she placed the baby onto one of the armed divans. Laura quickly seated herself on the sofa and steadied the babe so that he wouldn't roll off. "Lavalianna is stabled in the area off the atrium," Tser advised Vachon. "Will someone show him the way?" Mids and Tracy Sue practically collided as they ran to escort Vachon through the Shrine. Both girls grabbed an arm and smiled up at the tall vampire. Vachon blinked once, then returned the smiles before strolling off with the giggling addicts. KC followed surreptitiously, on the off-chance (Hell! - the highly probable chance) she could catch Tracy Sue doing something that would be suitable for blackmail purposes later. "What's with the baby?" Susan questioned Tser as the addict removed her scarf. "It was dropped on Vachon's doorstep," Tser replied simply. "Vachon found me walking Lava and *asked* me to help him." The Portland addict looked around. "Jules and Bonnie still out?" "Yea," Annette answered for the group. "Haven't heard from them in hours." "And they could be additional hours in returning," Tser grumbled. "We can't wait that long. The kid's been fed, but his other end needs addressing, I think." "Yes, I'd have to agree with you," Laura responded from the divan. She held a gentle hand on the baby's stomach. The child was looking up at her expectantly, his bright eyes glittering. "He seems to have a *ripe* air about him." "Okay," Tser said, looking from face to face. "We need a motherly type to step forward and attend to the motherly stuff." The addicts looked around at each other, uneasily waiting for a volunteer to step forward. Jesse edged backward, glad that she was a teenager. Charl and Debbie both shook their heads. Annette looked at Caren, and Caren returned the other addict's glance. "I gave up diapers eleven years ago," Caren announced. "I did my duty already," Annette added. "I'm a grandmother now." "I don't *want* to change any more diapers," Jade said insistently. "Oh for heaven's sake," Laura shook her head in consternation. "If someone will hand me a Pamper out of the Anti-Nunklear Device cabinet, I'll change the poor little fellow." "Thanks, Laura," Tser said in relief. She turned, intent on going to check on Lava, when Laura's tentative voice stopped her. "Tser?" The addict looked over to where Laura cradled the child. The Californian had removed the blanket and was touching the sword pin diaper fastening with a questioning look on her face. "Yea, I know," Tser shrugged. "That's kind of the other reason that I brought this baby to the Shrine. Vachon and Screed seem to think that the kid is connected to LaCroix in some manner." "And what manner of 'kid connection' might that be?" Jules asked as she entered the Shrine through the Peach. "Don't tell me we still have some of those goats left over from the last toga party!" Bons followed behind, shaking the snow from her hair, while Dirk was busy rubbing his hands together briskly to alienate the cold. Tser looked toward the Peach entrance, announcing, "We're not talking about that kind of kid, Jules." Meanwhile, the other addicts inspected the arrivals, frowning as they counted only three heads. "Weren't you looking for Patt?" Jade asked. "You didn't have any luck?" Annette echoed worriedly. Jules shook her head. "I'm afraid not. Wait...if you aren't talking about baby goats, what kind of kid are you...? Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no...You don't mean..." Laura turned slowly, finally displaying the infant for the benefit of the newcomers. "Yes, Jules. Tser was referring to a baby." Then the baby threw up, as babies are wont to do, leaving an unappealing puddle on the Shrine altar. *************************************************************************** End Of Part Eight Jules' expression became unreadable as she surveyed the carnage left behind by the infant's expressive digestive tract. "I think I need a nice cup of tea. I find that always helps to head off the hysteria. Anyone else?" "Forget the tea," Heather followed. "Who wants some cider?" "Who wants some Scotch?" Jayne elaborated. A half-dozen hands lifted into the air, and Heather and Jayne headed for the Lab/Kitchen to pour the beverages. Laura sighed. "I suppose the sweetheart will need to be fed again now, as well as changed." She tickled the child's tummy, and he beamed up at her, blowing a saliva bubble with a laugh. Frown lines appeared in Laura's forehead as the baby stared at her with wide eyes. "It's funny, but when he stares at you with those baby blues, I just get this uncanny feeling, like he's looked at me that way before." "Laura, Tser...where did you get the kidlet?" Bonnie demanded, warily moving closer to stare at the infant as though it was some rare biological specimen. She looked at the splotch on the altar and wrinkled her nose. "Eeehhhwwww! What have you been feeding him? Pea soup? Do we need to call an exorcist?" "That didn't help you, dear," Jules interjected dryly. "Gee," Tser mused, patting the pale peach fuzz on the child's head, "I'm not sure what Screed and Vachon fed him." "SCREED?!? VACHON?!?" Jules and Bonnie shrieked simultaneously. In response to the sudden explosion of noise, the infant knotted his face into a mask of extreme unhappiness, then shrieked in return. Tser and Laura gave the High Priestess and the Scribe stern looks. "Now look what you've done!" Laura scolded them in an outraged whisper. She then began to coo sweetly to the infant, "My poor widdle schmoopie is all boo- hoo!" She blew on the baby's tummy in a light, tickling path of air. The infant coughed himself into a mesmerized trance, obviously bewildered at the sensations across the skin of his belly. "Someone abandoned the boy on the doorstep of Vachon's church. Since he and Screed aren't exactly care-giving experts, they went looking for some help and found us," Tser explained. "And why couldn't the slacker find a nice Vaquera to play nanny for him?" Jules said dismissively. "There's a Nunkies connection," Laura said, pointing out the sword pin that secured the infant's nappy into place. "Oh, my. I *really* need some tea," Jules said faintly. "No, wait, Jules!" Bonnie protested. "That isn't necessarily the pin that goes with *our* Nunkies. Remember the Sacred Objects you and Patt picked up at that lively party, once upon a time?" Jules clapped a hand on her forehead. "Of course! The Sacred Objects! I get it! You naughty addicts are just playing a prank on us because of the Christmas contretemps. Very not funny." The High Priestess regally made her way toward the altar. Jesse stepped aside, having just retrieved a half-dozen Pampers from the Anti-Nunklear Devices. Laura took one and began to see to the infant's changing. Charl readily offered to fetch a towel and some Clorox Clean-Up to wipe away the mess the baby had coughed up from his other end. She was a Die-Hard by nature, therefore she had vast wisdom and experience in the field of cleaning supplies. Refusing to choose a faction could be a very messy business. Jules was concentrating on another shelf in the altar cabinet, one that had a combination lock. The High Priestess glared at those who were casually trying to peek at the combination, and everyone swiftly looked away. Jade managed an excellent, innocent-sounding whistle, while Kate and Annette practiced their looking-without-looking-like-you're-looking skills. With a few clicks and a snap, the safe door opened. Jules gingerly pulled out a display case, then released a gasp as she examined the contents. "They're still here," she moaned. "I was so hoping this was a case of someone swiping the Sacred Objects for a prank!" Jade, Kate and Annette looked eagerly over the High Priestess' shoulder to gaze admiringly at the silver sword pin and poison ring that gleamed majestically on a bed of black velvet, sequestered in a glass case. "Not to nit-pick, but where did we get these objects?" Jade wondered curiously. "How do you know they're so darn sacred?" Jules raised a commanding eyebrow that brooked no further discussion. "*That* is another story. Patt and I can vouch for their authenticity." Sallie had awoken at the scent of valuables, the faintest odor of rare and precious goods striking her dragon nostrils like an alarm bell, even where she nested in the Video room. She pushed her bifocals up her nose and pondered the simplest manner in which a Dragon could add the items to her sadly depleted horde. "Well, damn," Bonnie said sadly. "You don't think it could be *His* pin, do you, Jules?" "I most certainly do not!" the High Priestess declared as she slammed the altar safe shut once more. "But Screed and Vachon think that the baby might *be* LaCroix. I think they might have a point," Laura said quietly. "LaCroix? That baby? No, no, no, no, no..." Jules paused in her denial fest and reasoned momentarily, "Perhaps in some unfathomable, inexplicable, insane way, this baby is wearing LaCroix's genuine sword pin on his nappy! Okay! I'll just let the madness of that idea slide for a minute. There is still NO WAY that I am going to believe for ONE INSTANT that this burping larvae - though he may be a very cute burping larvae - is MY LaCroix!" "Jules?" Jesse asked. "Yes, Jesse?" "You said 'MY LaCroix.' That's not exactly right, is it?" Jesse questioned the High Priestess. Jules raised a challenging eyebrow. "Are you suggesting he *isn't* my LaCroix?" "Well, no, but..." Jesse began. Jules interrupted the young Cousin, concluding in a satisfied tone, "Well, there's your answer. Now, what are we going to do about this child?" "Call the police and dump it on Child Services," Bonnie suggested casually. "No!" Laura and Tser cried in protest. "Geez, Bons," Caren chided, "I would think you'd jump at the chance to play with a bouncing baby boy, seeing as how you're so infantile yourself." "Ha-ha. Very funny, Caren," the Scribe replied. "My point is not to ban the baby, or because I carry any latent fear that he might steal my toys. There are a lot of people in this country who would want a baby more than any of us. The child's...*gasp*...parents, perhaps? Even if the kidlet was abandoned or an orphan, there are sooo many people, excellent families, willing to adopt. Where's Patt? You know she'd tell you the same thing." "But what about the pin?" Jade inserted. "What if this baby *does* have some connection to LaCroix? Maybe he doesn't want us to dump the infant on child services." "Right," Caren agreed. "We should wait until we hear from Nunkies." "But what if the baby *is* Nunkies???" Kate exclaimed. "All we'll hear from him is 'ga-ga-goo'!" "Kate's got a point. What if the kid's LaCroix?" Jesse asked worriedly. "HE'S NOT LACROIX!," Bonnie, Jules, Jade and Caren exclaimed. "YES, HE IS!!!" Laura, Tser, Kate and Jesse retorted. Sallie was occupied elsewhere, eyeing the safe and lighting her blowtorch. (Dragons breathe fire you know.) "ENOUGH!" Dirk shouted. "We're getting nowhere. Okay, so the odds of this baby being the same fellow decorating the walls around here sound pretty unlikely to me, but there is the possibility that the pin might mean something. Why don't you look for some other proof that the bambino is connected to your guy? Until then, nix on the Child Services." Vachon returned from his Shrine tour, Mids and Tracy Sue latched onto either leather-clad arm. KC was busy scribbling quotes into her journalist notebook, visions of forcing Tracy Sue to scrub her dorm room (including the fridge) dancing in her head. Hearing the tail end of Dirk's suggestion, however, KC froze, then demanded indignantly, "Nix? Child Services? You can't put me up for adoption!" Mids grinned wickedly. "Why not? I think it's a great idea." "Yeah," Tracy Sue added. "They'll put you in pigtails and those footsie flannel pajamas with a tush door. I want pictures! News flash! And I mean *flash*!" KC tapped her notebook smugly. "Laugh all you want. I've got the goods on your time in the stable with Vachon!" "Hey!" Tracy Sue shouted, immediately searching for her wiffle bat. In her...distraction, she'd left it in the Shrine stable. "Damn! I'll get you, KC!" Mids immediately delivered the line that she'd been waiting the entire story to use. "Look! A dinosaur!" "Huh?" KC looked, but not because she expected to see a velociraptor. She knew that addicts tended to use the dinosaur ploy when they wanted to sneak out of trouble. Mids had used the ploy, so naturally, KC immediately watched Mids like a hawk, searching for signs of furtive activity. This left Tracy Sue free and open to snatch the notebook from KC's fingers and run like mad. "Huh?" The Kissing Cousin snapped to attention, realizing her hands were empty. "Ack!" In a moment, she was running madly through the Shrine as well, yelling, "Don't forget, Tracy Sue! I know where your cow collection is! Muahahaha!" During this delightful fiasco, Bonnie had noticed Vachon was actually *in* the Shrine. That was bad. Very bad. "Uhm, well...you all seem to have everything under control, so I'll just disappear now. Bye!" Bons began to move from the chamber as quickly as her non-sensible shoes would carry her, ducking in the direction of the Wardrobe room. She made it safely up the stairs, closed the door, then indulged in a victory bounce across the carpet at her narrow escape. She bounced too soon. The door latch clicked. Bonnie whirled around, but saw nothing but a closed door. She sighed in relief, mentally kicking herself for granting her imagination free rein. Then she turned, finding Vachon leaning casually against The Official Sock Cabinet with a knowing glint in his eye. "Eek!" "You have some explaining to do, Rutledge." "Who me? Explain? I don't know what you're talking about." Vachon began to approach the Scribe predatorily. "You were very, very naughty with me in the last story." Bonnie appeared highly offended. "I most certainly was not!" "You know what I'm referring to," Vachon said slowly. "No hanky. No panky. I seem to recall a certain Porsche promised to me that turned out to be stolen, though." "It was?" Bons snapped her fingers. "Gee, and the fanfic fairy that I got it from looked *so* reputable. That'll teach me. See? I've been taught a lesson." "Oh, yeah," Vachon continued, "there was also a certain pair of leather pants you gave me that turned out to be *Knight's*! What were you thinking?" "What? Don't tell me that he wanted them back!" Vachon gave her 'A Look.' "As if you didn't know that already." "Hey!" Bonnie raised her hands in the air and protested. "I admit that I knew they were Nick's leather pants, but I didn't think that he actually *wore* them. I mean, they were from the 'Dying For Fame' *dream* sequence, for crying out loud! Not his closet!" Vachon stared at her for several seconds, then continued to speak softly and distinctly. "Alright, you've made your excuses for the car and the pants, but what about that flaming rock you dropped on my foot during my last scene in 'August'?!" "Lapilli," Bonnie said. "What?" "Lapilli. That's the technical name for it. A piece of volcanic debris. Lapilli." Vachon blinked. "Oh." "It went with the whole Nunkies/Pompeii theme," Bonnie explained. The Spaniard rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You learn something new everyday, even when you're a vampire," he commented. Vachon's eyes narrowed then, and he raised his voice. "But you didn't have to drop it on my foot! It hurt. A LOT." "But your big toe grew back, right? Quit your bellyaching," Bonnie said hotly. "Geez, you didn't fuss this much when you lost a hand in the plane crash. *That* had to hurt more than a toenail trim, right?! Besides, you deserved it!" "I did not!" Vachon protested. "Did too!" "Did not!" "Did too!" "Did......not..." "Did not!" Vachon crossed his arms smugly in front of his chest. "I told you so." Bonnie nodded in agreement. "You did. Wait a second - you DID!!!! Ack! You've gotten story powers again! Bad vampire! Aaaaaaahhhhhhh!" Vachon gave a satisfied chuckle. "I thought that's what you'd scream." "Why me?! Why Patt?! Why can't you go pick on some other lowly fanfic writers?" "Because picking on you is fun." Vachon began to count off reasons on his fingers. "You're a Cousin; that's always a bonus. You're very good at acting indignant, and when you're really pissed, you get this funny, bumpy, wrinkly thing going in your forehead...just like right now." "Grrrr." Bonnie practiced being funny, bumpy and wrinkly. A rustling sound came from one of the closets, and a fluffy tortoiseshell cat bounced to the floor. Vivian pranced across the carpet and sat between Bonnie and Vachon's feet. The feline blinked once at her person, once at the vampire, then began an intense purr session. Vachon frowned. "That cat looks familiar," he said accusingly. "Don't be silly. There are tons of tortoiseshell cats in fanfic." "Name one." "Tser's Cousin Gwendolyn," Bonnie said smartly. "Hmph," Vachon grunted. "I still say that I've seen that cat somewhere." He shrugged dismissively. "Okay. What are you going to do to make amends with me?" "Amends?" "A peace offering," Vachon explained. "I need a peace offering from you in this story, or I'll make the plot a living hell." "Well, that sounds peaceful." Vachon snapped his fingers. "Give me Jules." "I beg your pardon?" "I want another Two-Timing Clause incorporating Jules," Vachon said with a wicked grin. "You aren't getting another Two-Timing Clause with Jules. She'll kill me." "I know." Bonnie took off one of her soggy non-sensible shoes and threw it at the Spaniard on principle. "Oof!" "Won't you take a Two-Timing Clause with Tracy Sue or Mids? They won't mind," Bonnie suggested. "That's why I want Jules. It'll drive her crazy. That means more amusement for me," Vachon said in an unrepentant tone. "Oooo!" Bons squealed. "You are wicked, Vachon. Why aren't you a Cousin? Okay...here's the deal: I can't just hand the High Priestess over. She's wise to that ploy, and I would suffer immeasurably. However..." Bonnie continued as she preened innocently, "...if you've managed to wrest story control for yourself, there's no way I can really stop you from showing up in any and all of Jules' scenes for no apparent reason other than to drive her insane. How's that?" Vachon stuck out a hand. "You've got a deal. You are wicked, Bons. Why aren't you a Vaquera?" The Scribe engaged in a quick handshake, then headed for the Wardrobe room door. Pausing at the threshold, she glanced over her shoulder to drawl, "Just lucky, I guess." The Spaniard gave a snort, then looked down at the cat at his feet. He scooped the tortoiseshell into his arms and studied her frankly. "Purr if I know you from somewhere, mi gata linda." Vivian, who would oblige any poor schmoe if there was a snowball's chance in Rio that she might get some treats out of the situation, purred. "I thought so," Vachon said knowingly. Tracy Sue and Mids popped their heads anxiously into the Wardrobe room and breathlessly asked, "Need anyone?...I mean...anything?" "Can we have you?...uh...make that 'Can we help you?'" Vachon grinned slowly, the fluffy feline cradled in his arms. "Maybe you can. I'm in the mood for a costume change, Rutledge can't be trusted to whip up anything permanent, and Elmore is out of the Shrine. How about I write in some leather pants, then you can help me try them on for size?" Mids paused momentarily in awed wonder at the mental image those words conjured, while Tracy mumbled, "Gee, I hope they're too small," before rushing to the Spaniard's assistance. The next time anyone saw Mids and Tracy Sue, both women were wearing new leather pants and shrieking as they chased KC, who cackled maniacally while clutching a camera with zoom lens to her chest. Vachon was carrying Vivian, unconcerned with the pursuit or incriminating negatives. Yes, he was wearing leathers. The dark-haired vampire strolled into the Shrine at the same moment that Patt made her appearance. The Third Cousin entered from the restaurant, her manner wary but determined. "Well, well, the prodigal returns," Jules commented, giving the mature addict a stern, but relieved, look. "Just in time, too, it appears. We have something which requires your line of expertise." Jules pointed at the gurgling baby in Laura's arms. "That's a baby," Patt remarked. "And, you work for child services," Bons announced. "He was abandoned at Vachon's church. What do we do with him?" Patt looked surprised. "Call the police?" she suggested. "They'll call the Canadian version of family services who will place the child in a foster home while they look for the natural mother." "That option has already been discussed and thrown out," Jules sniffed. "We need other alternatives." "Why?" Patt was curious. "Because," Vachon offered as he extracted the collar of his leather jacket from Vivian's eagerly chewing jaws, "this kid might be special." "Vachon and Screed think the child might be LaCroix," Laura announced happily. "I think so, too. Look at that brow. Look at those eyes." "How about the teeth?" Patt craned her neck to get a better, but still distant, look at the infant. "Are they LaCroix-like?" "No," Jules replied. "The child is mortal. Warm blooded, milk drinking, gooing, cooing, spewing mortal. I, for one, believe Vachon's idea is utter nonsense." "Wellllll, I wouldn't write the Spaniard's idea off too quickly," Patt said. "At least, not before I tell you about what I overheard in the alley." Jules and Bonnie both looked at the mature addict, challenge in their manner. "Go on." Jules glowered at the older woman. Patt quickly gave the High Priestess and Scribe a rundown of the conversation she'd overheard earlier that evening between LaCroix and the gypsy. She told them about the gypsy's curse, but left off any mention of Angel Don Schanke. "So..." Jules said, her voice dripping with contempt, "you believe that this *baby* might actually be Nunkies, the victim of a gypsy curse? Do you realize how preposterous that sounds?" "It would explain the sword pin, wouldn't it?" Patt replied. "So would a pawn broker," Bons remarked. "Okay, okay. Maybe there's other evidence that will prove if the baby is little LaCroix or not," Patt argued. "He's got blonde hair, blue eyes and an attitude, right?" "So does Nick. So does Kitty Nunkies," Jules pointed out. "That doesn't prove a thing." "Okay," Patt pursed her lips, thinking hard. "Does LaCroix have any other identifying features, such as a mole or something?" "A cane-shaped birthmark on his inner left thigh," Jules and Bonnie replied in unison. Then, realizing that the other had spoken at the same moment, the addicts turned and eyed each other suspiciously. Patt tried hard to control the smirk spreading across her face. "So...let's check out the baby and see if he has the...candy cane on his keester, okay?" While Patt pulled the diaper aside, Jules and Bons hovered over her shoulder, watching intently. The mature addict drew the covering aside and revealed the child's pink flesh. All three women gasped. There, clearly visible on the child's skin, was a dark, crooked mark which clearly resembled a cane. "LaCroix," the women exhaled as one. *************************************************************************** Annie crunched a handful of snow into an icy ball in her fist with an air of frustration. Nick had been gone for ten minutes, and the NunkMommy was feeling restless. She would worry distractedly over LaCroix, who hadn't budged or breathed a word since his offspring's departure, then catch her hands shaking uncontrollably as the events of the past hour began to soak into her muddled thoughts. she cursed mentally. His face had grown slightly ashen, not nearly as severe as his condition in the flashbacks of 'Night In Question,' but the despair over Nunkies' suffering was no less severe for her. Annie thought. Annie gave a frustrated sigh. LaCroix's head rested in her lap. Annie let the snowball fall unused from her grip, then pulled off one of her leather gloves so that she could lightly caress his forehead with warm fingers. It hurt to watch Lucien gradually wasting. It was anguish to feel powerless to cure the problem. After a few moments, Annie glanced away abruptly. She tried to distract her thoughts by studying their surroundings in minute detail. Eventually, her gaze returned to the water. Annie sighed. she thought. There was a blast of motion, and Annie jerked her head around to pinpoint the cause. Nick felt a momentary tug of compassion as the head addict stared up at him. The trails of her mortal tears had frosted at the edges due to the bitter wind, leaving an icy path winding down each cheek. "What do you regret, Ann?" he said in a low voice. "Are you sorry for the mortals you let die? For LaCroix? Or do you just feel sorry for yourself?" Annie's eyes began to burn with fury rather than tears. Before she could launch into a scathing reply, Nick caught her off-guard by throwing a ring of keys at her. "You can take the Caddy," Nick said abruptly as he lifted his sire's body into his arms. He rattled off the car's location, then said, "Drive carefully. I'll call the Jeweled Peach when there's something to report." "Excuse me? I am NOT going to simply sit by the telephone and twiddle my thumbs while you do who knows what with my Nunkies! I'm coming with you!" The vampire detective ignored her protests and flew into the night once more, leaving Annie alone but for a set of Cadillac keys. She shook her fist furiously into the air and yelled, "You...you...Oooh! There's a name for people like you, Nick! And it's not BRICK!" Annie fumed for another minute, covered her now-cold and clammy hand again with its glove, then began to march in the direction of the vehicle. With each passing imprint of her boots in the snow, an alternate plan began to form in her mind. "Return to the Peach like a good little mortal?" the NunkMommy seethed under her breath. "Hah! I don't think so." *************************************************************************** Jules remained speechless, while Bonnie repeated the phrase, "Oh my," over and over like a damaged audio loop. Both women were stunned beyond their individual reasoning powers, unable to comprehend what the facts indicated to be true. "This baby is LaCroix?" Laura looked up, her eyes gleaming in fascination. "You mean I'm actually holding little Nunkies in my arms?" "Only because he's been cursed, Griffin," Patt responded. "I doubt that LaCroix would be too happy about this situation, if he had the cognitive ability at his current physical age to understand it." "Cognitive ability to understand...this!!!!" Jules found her vocal chords and thrust a condemning finger at the baby. "And," Jules gave Laura a vicious look, "do *NOT* call him 'little Nunkies'!" "What should we call him, Jules?" Bonnie was staring at the child, her eyes wide with a mixture of fright and wonder. Bonnie, you see, didn't *do* babies. "You know, he's much *scarier* like this, and what fun is it lusting after a week-old sprout?" The Scribe frowned studiously at the infant for several more seconds, then nudged the High Priestess demandingly with an elbow as she repeated, "What should we call him, Jules?" "I don't know," Jules said, her exasperation palpable, her voice near a shriek. "All I know is that *that* is not *MY* Nunkies!" "Hold your voice down, Jules," Patt cautioned. "You'll upset him, and that wouldn't be a smart thing to do, just in case he is..." Jules shot the mature addict a look which could have melted lead. Patt hushed quickly. "This is just too weird," Bonnie remarked, unable to take her eyes from the child. "Like, weirdness personified. Really. This is even too weird for me." "That's pretty weird, all right," Dirk agreed, walking up to join the group. "Hey, Patt. You found your own way back, I see." "Just followed the tiramusu crumbs and they led me straight home," Patt grinned at the cabbie. "Amazing how I leave for just a little while and the whole place falls apart." "I will not accept this," the High Priestess' voice brought everyone's attention back to her. "I want answers, and I want answers now!" No one spoke. The only sound audible was Laura's gentle cooing to the infant. "Don't mind her, little one," the California addict whispered softly, caressing the baby's head. "She's under a lot of stress right now." As if in reply, the baby hic-coughed and looked up at the addict with interest. Jules turned on Patt. "Tell me *exactly* what happened, about this gypsy and this curse. Do not leave *anything* out." Patt shrugged. "Like I said before, LaCroix and the other guy - no, not *that* other guy - got into a discussion in the alley. The conversation deteriorated, and then the gypsy fellow grabbed the General's sword pin and put a curse on him that he'd be depending on the charity of others as long as the sword pin was in the mystic's possession." "But," Bonnie argued, "if the baby is Nunkies," Jules flinched, "it looks like *he's* in possession of the pin now. So why is he still cursed?" Jules looked at Patt pointedly, her expression demanding an answer. Patt shrugged again. "I just told you what I heard." "He's sleeping," Laura sighed, her eyes loving as she smiled down at the child. "He's really such a sweet baby, isn't he? Wouldn't it be a wonder if this really was LaCroix - reverted back to a mortal infant? Just think of it. We'd have the chance to raise him, nurture him, teach him all we know. Make a difference in his life and the kind of man he will be. Think how lucky he would be, having a multitude of mothers, catering to his every whim. That's what we can call him...Lucky. Lucky LaCroix." "Lucky, lucky. Speak for yourself," Jesse protested. "I'm too young to drive, much less assume motherly responsibilities, and, Ms. Laura, I don't know nothin' 'bout burpin' no babies." Jules, Patt and Bonnie stood immobile during Jesse's declaration, staring at Laura. As one, they looked at the baby. "No. I will not be addicted to an infant," Jules said, her voice solemn. "Infancy changes the whole dynamic of the relationship! There's a whole lot *missing,* if you know what I mean." Bonnie nodded her head in vigorous agreement. "About five feet and then some." "We've got to find that gypsy," Patt agreed. "The question is, where do we start?" "In the alley where you witnessed the conversation," Jules replied flatly. "Maybe we can find some clues. Now, let's grab some sensible-yet- fashionable winter wear and get going." Jules was already striding for the door. "The sooner we are shed of this little bundle of joy and joyfully holding our General again, the better. And, I have an even greater stake in this matter than you do," the High Priestess added, "for I do not believe a week-old child can sign payroll checks." At the Shrine's entrance to the Peach, Jules paused. Bonnie and Dirk were present, but Patt was hanging back, watching them. "Patt," Jules said, her eyes narrowing. "Why are you standing back there when we have a mission to perform?" "I wasn't sure you wanted me along," Patt replied. "Wasn't sure I was welcome." "Welcome or not, you've got to come," Jules stated. "You're the only one who knows which alley we're going to." "Yea, Patt, quit with the Nicky-angst and come on," Bonnie sang out. "We need to table the hard feelings and debate over holiday cheer until a later date. LaCroix needs us...all of us. Even you. I may have announced myself as NunkNanny in the past, but I have no desire to undertake a literal interpretation of the role. How can I change LaCroix's diaper and still respect him in the morning?" "And," Jules observed, "just think of the paperwork you'd have to deal with if we fail at this and end up having to, ahem, *adopt* little Lucky there. That task would fall squarely on your shoulders, as well as perpetual nappy duty for not intervening to stop this travesty when you had a chance." Patt opened her mouth to protest, but Jules swept the unheard argument aside with a flick of her well-turned wrist. She whirled and continued her swift walk toward the restaurant's exit. Bonnie and Dirk stood there a moment, watching Patt and waiting. When the addict did not move, they turned and followed Jules. Patt watched them go. It was up to her now to decide if her pride was worth more to her than their friendship. Slowly, the mature addict began to smile. Turning, Patt looked once more at the baby in Laura's arms. The tiny face was pale, peaceful in sleep. The blue eyes were tightly shut and just a hint of a bubble touched the side of his mouth. "Just in case this mission is successful," Patt said aloud, though not really to Laura, "there's something I need to know before I go." Patt moved in close and stretched a hand toward the child, one finger predominantly extended. She moved the finger in the direction of the baby's posterior, until it hovered above his ankles. Then, with a swift but gentle motion, Patt ran the finger down the bottom arch of the baby's left foot. In response, the infant squelched his foot into a tight little ball and eschewed his face in anger. With a smirk of triumphant satisfaction, Patt pulled back and announced, "Just what I figured - LaCroix is ticklish." Patt then hurried off to join the others. *************************************************************************** Nick carried LaCroix into the loft through the skylight, then deposited his sire on top of his bed. He hurried down the stairs and sorted through the refrigerator's contents for anything human. LaCroix's recent kill had slowed the effects of the staking. When it was removed, however, his sire would be famished. Nick cursed as he realized he only had one suitable bottle in stock. Offer LaCroix steer? The blonde vampire cringed. Cow would not go over well at this juncture. Nick had to smother a laugh. As he wandered back upstairs, Nick concluded that he would have to go out once more into the wintry night and fetch some supplies from the Raven. He set the bottle on the bedside table, then examined LaCroix ruefully. Nick shook his head as he closed his hands in a firm grip around the hilt of the wood protruding from his sire's heart, then pulled with a decisive yank. The stake exited with the sickening sound of tearing flesh. Nick grunted as he finally ripped the fragment free of his sire's chest. LaCroix broke into consciousness and screamed. *************************************************************************** "This is the spot, the exact spot?" Jules demanded, looking in disdain around the dark alley. "I told you it was just an alley, Jules," Patt replied, looking bored. "Just what did you hope to find here anyway?" "Clues," Jules flashed a dagger laden smile at the other addict. "Now, follow Bonnie's example and start digging!" As Jules had pointed out, Bons was busy sifting through some rubbish near the far wall. Using a writing pen to push aside a particularly offensive looking piece of sticky newspaper, Bonnie gave one of her patented 'Woohoo's' in triumph. "What is it?" Jules hurried over. "It's a sock monkey!" Bonnie extended the button-eyed stocking toward a less-than-delighted High Priestess. "Isn't it neat?! I remember doing a school presentation once about the civil War with a sock puppet. It was Sherman's sock, you see, reporting all the intimate details about the March through the South from a foot's perspective. With a good wash, this one would be as good as new." Jules considered the ragged-looking piece of cloth being shoved toward her. It was soggy, soiled and gray, not due to the material's coloration, but because of exposure. The red felt tongue was wrinkled into a position which made the puppet look like it was gagging, causing Jules' stomach to lurch slightly. "Bonnie, dear," Jules said with false sweetness, "what does that *object* have to do with LaCroix?" Bonnie was immediately crestfallen. "Nothin, I suppose, but it's kewl!" "Then, dear, I suggest you drop it and resume hunting for more appropriate items, lest we forget why we are here. Hmmmmmm?" "Okay," Bonnie carefully placed the puppet back onto the snow and gave it a wistful look. "Hey, Jules," Patt called from another part of the alley. "Check this out." The copper-haired Priestess sloshed carefully over to where the mature addict was examining something on the ground. As Jules grew closer, Patt crouched and indicated to a black striation in the white flaking. "I think this is where the gypsy threw the smoke bomb thingee," Patt announced as Jules eyed the spot with interest. "See how the slush is smashed down a bit, like people were standing and walking in this area." Dirk, who had been searching in the same approximate area as Patt, suddenly stooped and picked something up from the ground. He walked over to Jules and took her hand, placing a small circular object into her palm. It appeared to be a talisman of some sort, its face stamped with a sixteen- spoked wheel design. "It looks like a flower," Patt remarked of the golden charm. "A sixteen petal daisy." Bonnie had also joined the group and was peeking over Jules' shoulder. "It's a chakra," Dirk explained, "the international symbol of the Romani." "Romani?" Patt questioned. "The Romani," Dirk smiled as he repeated the word, then his expression grew serious. "Better known to those outside the community as gypsies." "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," Patt and Bonnie exclaimed together. "So, you're telling us that this is proof that a gypsy was here in the alley, right?" Jules nodded and did not wait for Dirk's answer. "That what Patt was telling us is true?" "I'm just informing you that that is a Rom amulet," Dirk responded. "Whatever else you believe is your interpretation." "But this still doesn't help us in finding the gypsy," Bonnie said. She turned toward Dirk. "Does it?" "I don't know how useful it will be, Bons," Dirk admitted, "but I may be able to get you a little closer to the location of the owner, if he resides among the local Rom. Wait here and I'll go bring the Bronco around." The three women watched intently as the cabbie made his way between two buildings, heading for the main street. "Solved the mystery yet?" Vachon's voice and question caused all three of the women to start in surprise. "You shouldn't sneak up on people, Vachon," Jules declared, as she recovered and turned on the dark-haired vampire. "I thought you were back at the Shrine." "I got restless," the Spaniard replied, but he risked a conspiratorial wink in Bons' direction before refocusing his attention on the High Priestess. "Besides, Red, I read ahead and I figure you'll need my special skills during this adventure." "How magnanimous of you," Jules drawled, her words dripping in sugar- coated venom. Vachon's smiled widened and his eyelids drooped to a low, suggestive slant. "Anything for you, Precious. Got to keep our relationship kindled, you know. You never can tell how things might turn out, if LaCroix stays in diapers long enough." Jules blushed hotly. "In your dreams, slacker." Vachon reached out, placing two fingers against Jules left cheek. "Later, Princess." Then, with an upward glance, he was gone. At the far corner of the alley, twin headlights appeared, followed swiftly by the main bulk of Dirk's vehicle. As the blue car crunched to a stop, the addicts climbed in and assumed their seats, Jules and Patt in the back and Bonnie in the front. After making sure that all were belted, Dirk transversed the additional length of the alley and emerged on a street perpendicular to Queen. As he turned toward downtown, Jules leaned forward. "Where are we going, Dirk?" "Storefront section," the cabbie replied, his eyes focused on the road. "Not the best part of town, but it's where the greater Roma population in Toronto call home." Jules sat back in her seat and Bonnie glanced over at the driver. "Why do you call the gypsies 'Roma,' Dirk?" "Because that's the name they prefer," the cabbie responded. "'Gypsy' is a gadje word, and conjures up all the stereotypes that any people would like to be shed of. They're viewed as either romantic figures or shiftless bums, when both images are false. Most of the Roma I know are simply trying to make a living and keep their culture alive within the confines of societal demands." "Kind of like addicts," Patt mused. Dirk nodded. "Good analogy, Patt." "So, Dirk, where in the Roma community, exactly, are you taking us?" Jules questioned. "To the home of a fortune teller by the name of Madame Ruzena," Dirk answered, never cracking a smile. *************************************************************************** Nick caught Janette on her way out of the Raven. "He's all right. He's recuperating at my place." Janette's eyes narrowed into points of impatient blue fire. "What happened?" Nick took Janette by the arm and escorted her back into the recesses of the club. "Do you remember that pinata artist you hired last May?" Her face lit in fond memory. "Ann! Yes, it was amazing what she could do with a little flour, water and paper, ah?" Janette's mouth formed a pout. "I also remember what you did to the papier-mache bust of LaCroix she crafted - you split his head right open! It was my favorite, too. You really should make that up to me sometime, Nicola...but what does Ann have to do with the feelings of pain I've felt from LaCroix?" "You also know she's the head of that Nunkies Anonymous group, don't you?" Janette pursed her lips together momentarily, then shrugged casually with one shoulder. "But of course. Their Shrine decor is quite innovative; I've simply never been one to wear a toga. Cette mode, elle n'est pas la mienne." Nick lips spread into a teasing grin. "Mais notre pere, c'est la sienne. LaCroix has become more involved lately with the affairs of Annie and her friends through a series of mishaps," Nick explained. "One such adventure with Ann tonight earned him a stake through the heart." "But you are certain that you have the situation under control?" Janette inquired in a firm voice. Nick nodded. "Perfectly. The culprit was already dead when I arrived on the scene. I disposed of the body, and I sent Ann back to the Shrine. I came here because I need more human blood to aid LaCroix's recovery. My supplies are obviously insufficient." "Ummm-hmmm." Janette swept toward the back rooms, slipping into a playful lecturing tone as Nick followed. "Did it occur to you, Nicola, that more than any 'mishaps,' our sire may be drawn to his addicts because they recognize the darkness within him and within themselves, yet they accept both unconditionally? They revel. They enjoy themselves." Nick and Janette had reached the private rooms, and she unlocked the gate protecting her stock, then swung it open. Janette ran a silk-gloved hand up one of Nick's arms, then across his shoulders as she bent to a breath's distance and whispered, "You were so much more fun when you were an addict, Nicola." She straightened, gave him a wide, seductive grin, then gestured toward the racks of bottles with an elegant hand. "Help yourself, mon cher. Help yourself." ************************************************************************** LaCroix had suffered for almost an hour before Nicholas had finally extracted the stake. He waited, sometimes conscious, sometimes blissfully unaware of his condition. The wood set fire to his flesh, a slow heat that was slowly burning away every cell in his body. For the young ones, the reaction was almost instantaneous. For him, the fortunate ancient, it was as though he could feel his existence deconstructing, breaking down bit by bit into dust. Thousands of pricking stings snapped along his skin, scraping through to his very core. LaCroix experienced every one die, only to melt into a new symphony of torture for each second the stake remained in place. Of course, there was also the searing spike of sensation gouging his heart from the wood. That was another torture entirely. LaCroix had fallen unconscious immediately after the agony of the stake's removal. It was difficult to conceive, to express to one who has never felt the pain, the undeniable torture of experiencing an object plunged brutally through the flesh of your heart, then ripped out once more. From blood knowledge, LaCroix supposed the closest sensation mortals could compare stake removal to was childbirth. There was that same pain of the body stretching, pulling, contorting, and aching for release, yet there was more. Imagine acid filling a gaping wound, then set aflame with a match. That sensation, plus childbirth, described LaCroix's recent debilitation somewhat adequately. Now, as he opened his eyes, his mind was no longer centered on pain, but hunger. LaCroix rose with a snarl, noting he was in Nicholas' bedroom and sensing his offspring was nowhere nearby. His gaze seized upon a bottle resting on the bedside table. LaCroix grabbed the container and violently ripped the stopper free with a solid twist of his fingers. He drained the bottle's contents in seconds, the blood sinking into him like a raindrop in the desert. Realizing it was gone, LaCroix flung the container across the room, the dark glass shattering and falling to the floor in a shower of dark fragments. LaCroix's eyes were steely as he searched the room, then jumped to the lower level of the loft. A swift perusal of the shelves and appliances produced no sign of any palatable nourishment. "Damn you, Nicholas!" he said venomously as he slammed the fridge door shut. He scanned the loft once more with a sneer, then glanced overhead. LaCroix prepared to exit via the skylight and hunt down a satisfying feast, but a sudden buzzing sound caught his attention. Someone was at the door. LaCroix strolled curiously toward the security video to identify the visitor. It was Ann, appearing disgruntled, harassed, and very, very mortal. A glimmer of welcome encompassed his features as he unlocked the downstairs entry. What a fortuitous arrival. ************************************************************************** Although the pre-dawn traffic was light, a fresh falling of snow made visibility difficult. During the forty-five minutes it took Dirk to drive to one of the city's more depressed areas, the two backseat passengers were quiet. Jules fretted in silence, her eyes focused outside, her mind in turmoil. An exhausted Patt fell asleep. Bonnie couldn't help but smile at the sound of the mature addict's thin, snorting snore. "Glad to have her back, aren't you?" Dirk commented, giving the redhead a side-long glance. "Yes," Bonnie said, looking toward the driver. "Especially so because she's safe and sound. I'd have missed her punny humor and warped slant on things, if something had happened to her." "Such good will, Bonnie," Dirk chided the woman, his face warm. "Watch out, or you'll be singing Christmas carols next." The Scribe wrinkled her nose. "Let's not push things, shall we, Dirk? I'm enjoying our being civil to each other." "Fair enough." The front seat grew silent, but only for a moment. "Dirk?" "Yeah?" Bonnie nibbled at her lower lip, eager to ask questions, but wondering if they'd be appropriate. Dirk glanced at her, saw the woman's dilemma and smiled encouragingly. "Okay," Bons plunged in. "How is it that you know so much about the gyp...Roma?" Dirk's smile faded just a slant, so slight that only one as intimate with him as Bons would have noticed. "I'm personally acquainted with members of the Roma population," he replied. "Through your driving?" Bonnie asked, her curiosity increasing. "In a roundabout way," the driver said. Dirk grew quiet, seemingly uncomfortable and unsure if he wanted to continue. Bonnie waited patiently. Finally, knowing that Bonnie's interest in things tended to be genuine, Dirk resumed speaking. "There was an incident this past summer." "Incident?" Bonnie repeated the word. "I don't remember you telling me anything about an incident." "It happened after we broke up," the dark-haired driver replied. "Remember I told you we were in union negotiations?" "Yeah, I remember," Bonnie suddenly felt uncomfortable, too. "Well, we'd been hashing out with management for ten hours straight and I was already worn to a frazzle," Dirk said. "That was the night I went home and found your message on my e-mail." Bonnie started. Her mouth opened in a gape. She started to speak, but Dirk was still talking. "I felt like a caged animal in my place," Dirk was saying. "I had to get out of there, out of those four walls closing in on me. I'm not very proud to say this, but what I really wanted to do was punch somebody out. So, I went out looking for trouble, and I found it." Bonnie closed her mouth, listening intently. "I was driving near the lake and I rode up on a group of skinheads beating up on a couple of kids. Turned out to be a couple of Rom teenagers - refuges from the Czech Republic, part of the influx which was pouring into Canada at the time. They'd had some sort of demonstration that day, and feelings of hate were still running high. I waded in and busted some heads. Ended up with a broken rib for my efforts." Dirk looked solemn. "One of the kids got off with cuts and bruises, but the other wasn't as lucky. Concussion and lost half of his ear. The bigger kid, the one who wasn't as hurt, wouldn't let me take them to the hospital. They wanted their own healer, their drabarni. So, rather than fight again, I drove them down here." Bonnie looked around. This was the heart of urban Toronto, an area of slum habitation and homeless shelters. It wasn't an area she visited often. "When we got here, I thought they were going to kill me. The big kid pulled the unconscious boy out of my car and about five big guys jumped me. The kid started yelling something in another language. I found out later it was Romany, and they stopped. One of the guys, who turned out to be the uncle of the hurt one, accepted me into his home." Dirk's features grew heavy as he remembered. "Do you know anything about the plight of these people, Rutledge? Do you know about their persecution in the Czech Republic? Discrimination is encouraged and unemployment among the Rom was sixty to seventy percent, compared to four percent for all Czechs. According to the media, about eighty percent of *Gypsy* children in the Czech Republic are sent to elementary schools for the mentally handicapped, which prevent them from having the right to seek higher education." The cabbie shook his head. "Then someone whispered that Canada was a haven from this persecution and prompted the Roma in that part of Europe to give up all they owned to follow a dream. There was a mayor in one Moravian town who suggested that his government should make a 'friendly gesture' and pay two-thirds of the airfare to each of the Roma who relocated here and abandoned their homes and licenses of tenancy." Dirk sighed. "Even without the financial incentives, the Czech Rom started immigrating to Canada in droves. Up to one-hundred and fifty Roma families began arriving here bi-weekly. Local shelters were reporting that about twenty percent of the families housed in Toronto hostels were Roma. No housing, no jobs, strict immigration rules against individual incentive without prior permission - it seemed they'd escaped one prison to find themselves in another." Bonnie watched as Dirk's clouded face brightened just a bit. "But despite this, despite the prejudice, the anger and the hate, Mihil put aside his suspicions and took a gadjo into his home. Befriended me and offered me a glimpse into his world." A large neon outline of a red palm was the most predominant adornment of the building that Dirk now pulled up to. "Pretty stereotypical, I agree," Dirk acknowledged Bons' puzzled look. "But it is one of their major sources of income. That, and automotive body repair." As Dirk brought the Bronco to a halt at the curb, Patt gave a mighty snort and came fully awake. "What time is it?" the sleepy addict blinked and looked around. "Time to get some answers," Jules said, stepping lightly from the backseat. The four mortals, with Dirk in the lead, walked up to the storefront door. "Do you think she's still awake?" Bonnie tugged at the man's sleeve before he rapped on the panel. "Busiest time of the night, especially on Christmas Eve," Dirk replied, applying his knuckles to the wood. "The Gadje like to come down here when they don't think anyone will catch them, so they come in the darkest hours of the night." "Makes sense," Patt commented. "What's a gadje, by the way?" "Anyone not Rom," Dirk commented. He looked pointedly at Jules. "You have cash, don't you? Madam Ruzena will expect to be paid for her services." "Yes," Jules bristled a bit. "I have enough on hand to satisfy, I believe." "Good," Dirk said, turning to the door as it slowly creaked open, "because the show is about to begin." *************************************************************************** Annie settled behind the wheel of Nick's Cadillac with purposeful intent. As she rode through the icy streets, she gave silent thanks for the weight of the classic car. There was so much metal in the construction of the automobile, it handled firmly through any patches by the sheer force of gravity. There was no way she was going to run to the Jeweled Peach like some naughty child sent home from school with a letter from her teacher. Certainly there were addicts at the Shrine who would kill to get their hands on the Caddy. No doubt there would have been squabbles between Tser, Jayne and the other Caddywhacks as to who got to play in the trunk first if she drove it home. Annie still didn't know if LaCroix was safe, however. She felt responsible for his condition, so instead of driving to the Jeweled Peach, she headed for Nick's loft. The NunkMommy realized a technical difficulty as soon as she pulled up to 101 Gateway Lane. She didn't know the alarm code. If the fanfic authors were on the ball, doing their job, they would have come up with some convenient reason for Annie to know those four digits. She could have seen Nick type it in last May when she was forced to stay at the loft in his protective custody. She could have bribed a Knightie with full-color photographs from the Marmite incident last August. The authors could have just claimed she used her NunkMommy powers to sneak inside, but nooooooooo...Annie had no such luck. She kicked the front door in frustration. Annie had a sneaking suspicion that Bons had done something to screw up the story control status again. Rutledge was always doing things like that. Annie suppressed a shudder. Annie decided to lean interminably on the buzzer. Nick might let her in just to stop the noise. After a few seconds, she suddenly remembered that she had Nick's keys. That meant that not only was access to the Caddy in her hot little hands, but also the key to the side door. Before Annie had a chance to capitalize on her brainstorm, the front door clicked. Her shoulders fell. The drawbridge was raised. Annie hummed to herself in satisfaction as the elevator began its gentle rise up to the loft. Obviously, Nick had realized that she wasn't going to leave him alone until she was certain that Nunkies was doing well. "I'm the lichen; LaCroix is the stone. Get used to it Nicky-poo," Annie hummed under her breath. The lift drew to halt, and she drew the door open, prepared to do verbal battle with the irritating blonde homicide detective who wants to become mortal again. That's not what she found. A relieved grin sprang to Annie's lips when she found LaCroix standing on the other side of the door. She rushed forward, anxiously inspecting the hole in Nunkies' suit marking the site of his recent impalement. "You *are* safe! Thank goodness Nick finally took that stake out! I hate to admit it," Annie confided conspiratorially, "but I didn't really trust him to actually take care of you." "So you came to take care of me, yourself," LaCroix said smoothly. "Your arrival is timely, Ann, I assure you." "Oh, really? Is Nick being difficult?" She glanced around the loft. "I don't see him. Where is he?" LaCroix gave her a smile that made the NunkMommy feel hot, yet bothered. "Nicholas is not here. We are very much..." The vampire pulled the lift door closed behind Annie decisively, "...alone." **************************************************************************** End Of Part Nine "Alone?" Annie felt herself move closer to LaCroix as if drawn by invisible, inextricable chains. "Yes." LaCroix closed the distance between them even more, until Annie was forced to tilt her head up to look the vampire in the eyes. "I'm very glad that we have this opportunity...alone." She was caught in his eyes, floating, swimming, drowning...drowning. A thought flashed through Annie's mind, making her blink and step aside. Annie put a hand on the vampire's chest over the tear in his shirt where, until recently, there had been a protruding stake. "Your wound?" LaCroix enclosed her hand with long, cool fingers. Rubbing the back of her palm with his thumb, he slowly raised her wrist to his mouth. Annie watched in a daze as his tongue flicked along her pulse-point. Her eyes lifted as he spoke, her gaze traveling first to his lips, then back to his eyes where Annie felt herself falling, falling...deeper and deeper...he was gravity. "As you have no doubt discerned, I have recovered and am doing...quite...well." "You are doing well," Annie sighed, leaned against his chest for support, then repeated, "well, well..." Her breath caught. The memory splashed over Annie like a douse of icy water. represented in a piece of fanfic is never supposed to experience lest they be branded a Mary Sue...> She felt LaCroix's lips on her wrist again, and she shuddered as a warm, pleasant glow grew within the pit of her stomach. A tiny crumb of her common sense remained, however, coupled with a soucon of survival instinct. When Annie experienced a slight scraping of teeth along her skin, her brain snapped to attention. She stumbled backward several steps, then moved toward the kitchen table. As LaCroix retained a firm grasp on her hand, however; she wasn't free by any stretch of the imagination. "You look concerned, Ann," the ancient vampire whispered with a dangerous smile. "Why?" Annie shook her head slightly, feeling a wave of dizziness overcome her. "I was just curious...about the reason Nick isn't here. He couldn't have removed the stake that long ago. Nick is such a Boy Scout...he'd stick around." Annie nodded with newfound determination. "Yes, he should be here." LaCroix raised an amused eyebrow. "But he isn't." Annie squinted, as though concentrating was an arduous task. "Why is that?" She began to walk to the side, halfheartedly trying to pull away, but LaCroix held onto her hand firmly. After a half dozen steps, Annie had the growing sensation that he was circling her, stalking her. She swallowed convulsively, then began to reason aloud. "Nick would have pulled out the stake, then would have seen that you had plenty of..." Annie's head snapped suddenly in the direction of the refrigerator. Fascination and dread twisted inside her as she grasped the situation. Annie looked back at the ancient vampire and felt the pull all over again. His eyes were glittering now, and she knew that she was in trouble. A part of her felt frantic with panic and struggled to control her senses, hanging onto her reason for dear life. Another part of her didn't care what happened; let him sweep her away and take her. What did it matter? This was LaCroix... The reasonable, terrified part of her managed to stammer, "You haven't fed, have you?" LaCroix chuckled, then pulled her to him physically. A flick of his wrist and she was pressed against his chest, the vampire's arm wound about her waist. "One bottle...hardly a taste." His lips hovered over her throat as he spoke in low, dulcet tones. "I need more...so much more. De plus en plus...I need...you...Ann." As her fingers crept compulsively around his back, Annie felt as though her heartbeat roared within her. She heard no sounds except the liquid throb of her pulse and LaCroix's whispers in French. Somehow she knew this wasn't right, that she was in danger, terrible danger. Rather than words of protest, only a primitive moan issued from her lips. Annie thought hazily. There were teeth at her throat. There were hands caressing along the length of her body, soothing words playing in her ear, and the insistent call of her own heart. It was LaCroix. <...and I don't care.> *************************************************************************** Nick flew back to the loft with a crate of human vintage in his arms and a bee in his bonnet. Janette had taunted. "Addicts," he whispered irritably into the night air, "are trouble." Janette claimed LaCroix was fond of the addicts because they accepted his sire's darkness as well as their own. They reveled in it. That was what Janette saw. Nick saw LaCroix feeding his ego with their abject devotion, nothing more. Their adoration was simply another commodity for his sire's sustenance, no different than blood, meant to be consumed. Nick's features clouded suddenly as he flew over the loft. The Caddy was parked outside. "Addicts," Nick cursed as he broke through his skylight. He cringed as the glass shattered and fell about his body like silicon precipitation. In Nick's experience, that sound was inevitably followed by turmoil and conflict, making a bad night turn even worse. In one rapid movement, the vampire detective tossed the crate of bottles to the sofa, then wedged himself between his sire and Annie. A tournament of hissing and growling ensued. Annie couldn't discern whether it was unintentional or on purpose, but Nick pushed her aside. She tumbled over the leather couch, then hit the floor roughly, her head smacking against the corner of the coffee table. She reached up reflexively to hold her head, and her fingers encountered blood. As the pain seared through her temple, she glanced up to see LaCroix seize Nick by the collar and toss him into the kitchen table. The younger vampire skidded along the table surface, then he and an end chair slammed to the floor with a crash. "Stay out of my way, Nicholas!" LaCroix turned in Annie's direction again, leaping over the couch and pulling the head addict to her feet. The ancient vampire caught the aroma of her blood, and Lacroix's glowing eyes narrowed on the red trickle winding a path down Annie's forehead. She breathed in heavy gasps, as though she'd been running a marathon. Annie clutched at LaCroix's arms forcefully, her muscles flexed as if she was unsure whether to push him away or drag him closer. LaCroix decided for her, leaning in closer and tasting the cut above her temple with a ravenous swipe of his tongue. The vampire savored the drops with a sigh. A broken sound escaped from her throat. Annie tilted her head back and looked LaCroix straight in the eyes, though she knew the action was deadly. She had one question, uttered in a quiet, but resolute voice: "Did you save me from sinking to kill me now?" LaCroix had become intent on Annie's throat again, but her words gave him pause. "I need you." Annie gazed at him frankly, her eyes shining, "I know." Suddenly, Nick jerked Annie behind his back as he held Joan of Arc's cross in front of him. LaCroix seethed in rage as he recoiled from the symbol. Nick used the momentary distraction to shout at the addict. "Get out of here!" Annie didn't respond right away, transfixed by the sight of smoke coming from the detective's flesh where he gripped the cross. "MOVE! NOW!" Nick ordered. Annie snapped to attention and scrambled out of view. Nick turned back to his sire. "I don't care if she gives you free consent or a Living Will...it's not happening in my loft." "You left me little alternative, Nicholas," LaCroix spat. "I need blood to recover. *Human* blood." Nick reached down to the crate on the sofa and ripped the lid off with one hand. He pulled a bottle free, then tossed it in his sire's direction. "Janette sends it with love." LaCroix caught the container effortlessly, uncorked it, and drank the contents with feverish intensity. The elder vampire opened his eyes again when the flow ran dry. Nick had finally dropped the cross onto the couch and now cradled his blistered hand against his stomach. His other hand held another bottle of human vintage, extending it toward his sire. LaCroix gave a mocking smile as he accepted the offering. "Why, Saint Nicholas, you shouldn't have." "But, too often, I do," the younger vampire replied in a heavy voice. Nick turned away as he gestured to the crate. "Help yourself." LaCroix did. Nick walked toward the kitchen area, noting that one of his Shaker chairs had cracked from his fall, and it would need to be repaired or replaced. He moved on to the fridge. As his hands settled around two containers of steer blood, Nick froze at a sensation of recognition. He yanked the bottles free, tucking one under his elbow, then slammed the fridge door. Annie hadn't fled the loft; she'd simply sequestered herself in the downstairs bathroom. "I'm beginning to see how an addict could drive you to kill," Nick muttered furiously as he passed the sofa. LaCroix glanced up from opening a third bottle and watched as his son entered the bathroom without hesitation and slammed the door behind him. Annie had survived him; she could certainly survive Nicholas. ************************************************************************** As the storefront door slowly opened, the Jules, Bons, and Patt waited, breathless. "Are you going in or not?" Dirk asked, his voice betraying a tinge of impatience. "It wouldn't be polite to just barge in," Jules pointed out. "We're waiting for the proprietor to invite us inside." "Then you'll be standing out here until August," Dirk said, reaching around and giving the door a little push. As the portal opened further, the addicts noticed that there was no one standing beside the door. "It was opened by an unlocking mechanism from down the hall," the driver explained. "Go on in." Bonnie decided to be brave and ventured through first. She stopped short and was almost flattened by Patt, who was following right behind her. Jules collided with Patt, while Dirk hung back and chuckled. "It's dark!" Bons protested, after she'd regained her breath. "I can't see a thing." "Give your eyes a minute to adjust, Red," Dirk instructed the Scribe. "Or, I could just lead the leading ladies to their destination," a soft voice whispered in Jules' ear. Jules yelped and turned on the speaker. "VACHON!" she whispered fiercely at the dark shadow at her shoulder. "You seem surprised to see me, Julie-girl," the dark-haired vampire's cool breath tickled the hairs of the Priestess' neck. "I told you that I was coming along for the ride." If Jules planned a witty retort, it was shelved when Patt let out a low whistle. "Hey," the mature one said, looking around. "Check this place out." Dirk had moved to Bonnie's side, and together the five visitors looked around the room they occupied. They seemed to be standing in a lobby of sorts, with wide doors leading off to individual areas. The rooms had been designed to have solid walls two feet high, capped with window glass to the ceiling. The glass panes had long been removed and dark curtains had been hung from hooks in the ceiling, separating the shops. On each door was a small, handwritten sign declaring the name and specialty of the fortune teller plying their trade within. "Geeeee," Patt breathed as she read the notices. "This is just like Jackson Square in New Orleans, except with walls." "Back in the sixties, this place was built to house one of those mini- mall boutiques - having a common area leading off to each of the shops," Dirk explained. "The developer abandoned it when the neighborhood became depressed, and the Crazov family bought it." "Kewl," Patt said, looking around. "Is everyone in here a member of the Crazov family?" Bonnie questioned as she finished counting five doors. "If you count extended, in-laws and third cousins, yes," Dirk replied. "The residents are transient, moving on and replaced periodically by new family members, but Crazov is the name on the lease." "Which one is Madam Ruzena?" Jules brought the conversation to the most immediate concern. Dirk pointed toward an aged, burgundy velvet curtain hanging near the back of the lobby. "She's over there. Come on." The party moved toward the area, with Jules and Vachon bringing up the rear. "If you really wanted to know your future, I could have told you, 'cause I peeked." Vachon snuggled Jules hair as they walked along. "All you had to do was ask nice." The Priestess slapped at the Spaniard, who deftly ducked the blow and gave her a grin. "Would you two please behave?" Bonnie admonished the scuffling couple. "We're here to conduct some serious business, remember?" Jules' mouth opened in shocked protest, but Bonnie turned before the copper-haired woman could reply. Lifting the heavy curtain aside, the Scribe ducked into the even more dark interior area. "Bonnie?" Patt said, tentatively preparing to enter Madam Ruzena's space. "Where are you so I won't run into you again?" "I'm out of collision range, I think. Come on in, Patt." "Okay," the mature addict ducked under the opening and proceeded inside. Dirk followed, and Jules and Vachon heard a low 'Ummmpppfff' as flesh made contact with flesh. "This is like some Keystone farce," Jules said with exasperation. "Good thing Nick's not around, I guess," Vachon's face was serious as he spoke, "or you might be treading on copyright infringement." Jules held up her hand, her forefinger and thumb parallel to each other. "You are this close, Vachon," she threatened. "Promises, promises," the vampire grinned as the Priestess passed through the curtain to join the others. As they had glimpsed through the curtained entrance, the interior of Madam Ruzena's was darker than the lobby outside. Several candles offered dim lighting, but their eyes still required adjusting before they felt safe to proceed. As the five of them stood silent, a shadow moved in the darkness. "Female," Vachon leaned over and whispered in Jules' ear. "About nineteen, slim and dark." "Thanks," Jules acknowledged grudgingly. The young woman came forward. Her face was suddenly illuminated by the flaring flicker of candle light. "You have come to consult with Madam Ruzena?" the girl looked from face to face. "Hello, Jolana," Dirk said as the girl's eyes rested on his face. "Dirk! Why are you here?" the girl was obviously surprised. "Brought some friends who need to talk with your mother," the cabbie explained. "Okay," Jolana replied, already turning. "I'll go get her." "Hey!" Bonnie was obviously disappointed as the girl disappeared. "We're not getting our fortunes told?" Patt nodded, also clearly dismayed. Jules rolled her eyes. "Ladies - and I use the term loosely - we are not here to consult with spirits of Christmas past, present or future. We're here to find out if this woman knows how we can locate the dastardly fellow who put the curse on LaCroix." Properly chastised, both Bons and Patt stepped back, pouting. "And, what makes you think I might be able to give you that information?" a soft voice with just a hint of a European accent spoke to the Priestess. Jules turned and looked at the orator. As Jules studied the woman, Ruzena Crazov returned the favor. The Roma woman appeared to be in her late thirties. She was of medium stature, with dark hair pulled back under a scarf and hanging loosely about her shoulders. Her eyes were crystal blue. "We found this," Dirk stepped forward, offering her his closed left hand. Ruzena extended her palm and Dirk dropped the golden talisman into it. The Roma looked at the chakra, her expression unchanged. "These can be bought from any drabengi, Dirk," Ruzena said, attempting to hand the amulet back to the driver. "You know that." "Yea," Dirk picked up the coin and turned it over, placing it in her palm again, "but not the solid gold ones. And, this one has been marked by the owner." He pointed to several scratches near the edge. "Hey, he didn't tell us that it was marked, did he?" Bonnie leaned over and muttered hoarsely to Jules. Jules shook her head, raising her hand to shush the Scribe so that she could listen. The slight narrowing of her eyes was the only sign of recognition that Ruzena betrayed. She remained silent for several moments. "To seek certain knowledge can prove dangerous, gadjo," Ruzena finally spoke, her voice full of warning. "Woooooooooooo," Vachon ghost-hooted softly at Jules. The Priestess slashed a well groomed hand in his direction, and he leaned swiftly back to avoid the blow. "But, if the knowledge might aid a friend," Dirk was speaking to the Roma woman, his voice just as tenacious as hers, "then danger must sometimes be faced." Ruzena did not answer immediately, but looked around the room, searching their faces. Bonnie widened her eyes hopefully while Patt gave the woman her most winning smile. Ruzena turned to Jules, who returned the woman's stare with mirrored determination. "Very well," Ruzena said, indicating that they should pass through another curtain, which their now-adjusted eyes could see. "Let us see if the spirits can help you." "Oh, goody! We *do* get our fortunes told after all!" Bons exclaimed, hurrying toward the curtain, with Patt hot on her heels. Madam Ruzena held out an arm, catching the Scribe across the chest and halting her before she entered the other area. Patt crashed into the petite redhead, propelling her into the Roma woman. "Eager, ehhh?" Ruzena's bright eyes darted up and down the length of the tiny woman, then peered into the Scribe's face. "Then, you will be first." "I really don't understand the need for all this mumbo jumbo," Jules complained as she took her seat at the small table in the interior chamber of Madam Ruzena's establishment. "If the woman knows the identity of LaCroix's assailant, why can't she just tell us who he is?" "Because," Vachon drawled, "she's holding the *cards,* and we have to play this game her way." After ushering the addicts and their gentlemen companions into her parlor, and instructing the women to sit down, Ruzena had disappeared. The table was round, with barely room for four, lit by a three-tiered silver candelabra placed in its center. Jules had just finished seating herself when a pair of interior drapes parted, revealing the slim form of Jolana, Ruzena's daughter. She carried a tray with a bowl of water and several cloth towels. "Please wash your hands," Jolana advised the women. "Madam Ruzena will be with your momentarily." Then, the slim girl vanished. "Finger bowls," Vachon commented idly as Jules, Bons and Patt dipped their hands and reached for the towels. "Now that's a class act." "Don't you *really* have someplace else to be?" Jules said, giving the Spaniard a glowering look. "Would," Vachon shrugged, then turned his attention to Bonnie, "but I don't have wheels at the moment." Bonnie shifted uncomfortably. "But, at least you're well-dressed," Patt offered brightly, causing Bons to sink lower into her chair. "Shhhhhhh," Dirk said easily. "You're paying for the whole show, here, so you might as well enjoy the affects." As the room quieted, the addicts and others heard the low hum of music coming from an unseen sound system. The far curtain parted and Madam Ruzena entered the chamber. Posture straight and manner commanding, Ruzena took her place at the table. She looked around at the women. "As you are all aware, I am Ruzena, daughter of the house of Staroz, married to the house of Crazov. My people came to the Americas in 1919, part of the diaspora from Europe. I am a drabardi, and I shall tell your fortune, if that is what you wish." "Too kewl," Patt breathed happily. Ruzena continued to peruse the addicts, her gaze finally resting on Bonnie. "You have questions?" "Oh, sweetie, do I have questions," Bonnie leaned forward. "What are my chances of getting Rhode Island for Christmas?" Ruzena blinked. Then she smiled. "Better than you might imagine, little one." Then her face clouded. "I see that you choose to walk with dark spirits," Ruzena looked around. "You all walk with the mulo." "Yea, but Lavalianna is kind of an honorary addict," Patt spoke up. "Mulo means *evil spirit*, Patt," Dirk advised the Third Cousin, who was standing between Patt and Bons, leaning against a column. "Oh," Patt grinned sheepishly. "Who we choose to *walk* with isn't important," Jules stated emphatically. "What *is* important is finding the owner of the amulet. Why don't we just hurry this little show along, hmmmmmm?" Ruzena considered the High Priestess briefly, her thick lashes veiling her eyes. Then, the Roma returned her attention to Bonnie. "Give me your hand," she instructed. Bons quickly extended it, palm upward. Ruzena clasped Bons' hand and began to study it carefully. Bons watched anxiously as a flickering of emotions crossed the woman's face, enhanced by the flickering of the candlelight. "What?!!" Bonnie demanded impatiently as Ruzena continued to stare at the hand in front of her. "Okay! So I bite my nails...get over it!" "You are a very strange person," Ruzena finally announced. "You have a gentle spirit, a caring for your fellow man, but you are also bloodthirsty and bordering on insanity." Ruzena looked up at Bons. "You should seek psychiatric treatment immediately." "NO WAY!" Bons said flatly, pulling her hand away. "A doctor would only take away my PC and lock me up." Then Bons cast Patt a cold look. "You go next, Elmore. Give the gypsy your hand." Patt did as instructed. Ruzena studied the lines for a moment, then gasped. "You don't *look* like sisters," the Roma said. "We're not," Patt pulled her hand back and began rubbing it briskly. "I come from a much better gene pool." "Says who?" Bons was incensed. "Says me," Patt replied. "You have a pig thief in *your* family, remember?" Bonnie was shocked into silence. But just momentarily. "Well, you..." the Scribe sputtered, "your people got run out of the east Tennessee hills for violating the Volsted Act!" "It was the 1920's," Patt replied smugly. "It was the *in* thing to do." "SHUTTTT UPPPPP!" Jules' scream startled the table to silence. Patt and Bons looked at the High Priestess and sat back, meekly, in their chairs. "Let's get this over with," Jules said, extending her hand toward the fortune teller. Ruzena took the offered hand and began examining it. "I'm impressed," Ruzena said, releasing the Priestess' hand. "You have compassion, impeccable taste, a will of iron and the tolerance of Job. Have you considered a career in tabloid television?" "Hardly," Jules said dryly. "I much prefer radio, thank you." "I am also versed in the reading of Tarot cards," Madam Ruzena advised the addicts. "If you care to have a reading, it will only be $10.00 extra - apiece." Jules gave the woman an extremely annoyed look. "Not in this lifetime," the Priestess retorted. "Now, if this show is over, can you please tell us if you know anything about the identity of the owner of the charm?" Ruzena smiled. "Of course. I understand your impatience." She made a waving motion over the table and, as if by magic, a crystal ball rose up from its center. "Too fudging kewl," Patt grinned. The Roma woman moved her hands to the orb, beginning a caressing motion around its surface. The circular object started to glow softly from within. Ruzena peered into the glass, its light reflecting on her face. Smoke rose from the floor. "Are we on fire?" Patt leaned toward Bons, but the Scribe shook her head. "Dry ice," Bonnie replied. "We used to use it in our theater productions. "Silence," Ruzena demanded, causing the addicts to hush and sit back quickly. The Roma looked back into the crystal, searching. "I see a dark place..." "So do I," Vachon commented, looking around the room. "...and an argument taking place." Jules leaned forward, eagerly. "Go on." Ruzena closed her eyes, as if feeling the altercation, as well as witnessing it visually. "Two are quarreling. The tall figure, he is cruel and bent on harm. The smaller is just and fair, fighting for a purpose." "Poppycock," Jules inserted. "The little one is the one who flung the blow. Can you identify him?" Ruzena glanced at the Priestess, then closed her lids again. "Too hazy. Too many dark forces to see clearly." "So you're telling us this has all been for nothing?" Jules pushed back her chair, prepared to rise. "That, quite frankly, you've just been jerking us around?" The Roma's eyes fluttered open, fixing on Jules. "*I* cannot answer your question, gadja, but perhaps the dark forces can." A rush of cold wind swept across the table, fluttering the candle flames. The smoke increased, swirled upward. It rose, taking form above the table, turning slowly, as if regarding the seated women. "Kewl..." Bonnie and Patt responded in unison. "Please..." Jules began dismissively, but the smoke demon opened its mouth and darted at the Priestess, looming directly in her face. Startled, Jules fell back involuntarily, almost toppling her chair. Vachon quickly grabbed it and steadied the seat. The smoke resumed a less-threatening shape. "Fiend of the air," Ruzena began, "all-seeing specter of the night. Do you have knowledge to impart to these seekers?" A low howl seemed to emanate from the vision. "Speak to us, then, spirit. Tell us what you know." "Pssssssttttttt," a voice came from the shadows. Patt looked up, startled, but no one else reacted. Cautiously, the mature addict looked in the direction of the sound. A figure was standing there. It wore a long, flowing skirt and sleeveless blouse, the traditional dress of the older Roma woman. As Patt watched, the figure stepped from the shadows, revealing its face. "Check out who's running the controls," Don Schanke said, pointing to the far curtains. Patt gave Ruzena a quick look. The fortune teller's eyes were closed, her body swaying as if accepting possession. Patt got up slowly and began moving toward where Schanke stood, looking where he indicated. As she drew closer, Patt noticed a thin thread of light where the drapery did not come together. She reached out and pulled the curtain back slightly. Behind the heavy cloth, working an intricate electronic panel, his twelve fingers moving swiftly over the knobs and switches, was the prune- face gypsy with the eye-patch. "It's HIM!" Patt shouted triumphantly, pointing at the old man. "That's my Romo!" The others in the room moved swiftly to join Patt. "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain," the old man said, giving them a piercing look with his one good eye. "He has nothing to do with this." "You had to sense he was back there," Jules looked at Vachon accusingly. The Spaniard shrugged. "Sure, but if I'd told you, it would have ruined one of Patt's moments, and she's writing this bit." Perceiving that the approaching women were capable of inflicting bodily harm, the small man decided to make a run for it. "Hero time, Vachon," Jules shouted, pointing at the fleeing figure. "Catch him." Vachon darted forward, catching the mystic by the collar. He whirled the old man round to face him. The ancient Rom looked into the Spaniard's gold-flecked eyes and whispered, "Beng." "You'll think you *beng* had, if you don't cooperate," Jules rushed up, her manner threatening. "Let him go, Vachon. I'll take over from here." The vampire released the gypsy, stepping back and collecting himself. "Why did you curse our Nunkies?!" Bonnie shouted at the little man. "Never mind the reason," Jules asserted. "Just put him back right." "What are you speaking of?" the old man asked, squinting at them. "I don't understand." "You put a curse on LaCroix," Patt offered. "I saw you both in the alley tonight." The old man's face registered recognition. "Are you referring to the Nightcrawler?" The three women nodded. "He deserved his fate," the old man waved a twelve-fingered hand dismissively. "He even chose his own amria." "Whether he *deserved* anything or not is moot!" Jules was verging on hysteria again. "Just take the curse off him, now." "The curse will lift when he has paid his penance," the old man replied. "Once he understands and retains charity in his heart, he will no longer be cursed. And, he will have new knowledge and understanding from his experience." "He has enough knowledge, gleaned from three-hundred lifetimes," Jules countered, her voice rising. "We just need you to change him back." "Change him?" The old Rom was genuinely confused. "Change him!" Jules demanded. "You turned him into a baby, now change him back!" The old man's eye grew round. "What is this nonsense about a baby?" Jules grew quiet, staring at him. "Errrr, you know," Bonnie stepped forward to intervene for the dumb- struck Priestess. "Little person, pre-toddler, infant...baby." The old man gaped at the Scribe for a moment, then burst into laughter. "Oooooo, bad move, Pops," Schanke whispered from behind Patt. "The Jules-ed one is going to clean his clock for that." "Maybe not," Patt whispered back discreetly, knowing that, if caught doing so, it would look like she was talking to air. "Looks like Jules is winding down." Indeed, Jules looked more tired than angry now. "Did you curse LaCroix so that he became a baby?" Jules asked calmly. The wrinkled man shook his head. "But that I had such power," he smiled. "So," Jules turned to look at Patt, "the child is not LaCroix." "I knew it all the time," Bonnie announced triumphantly. Dirk reached out and put protective hands on the Scribe's shoulders, just in case Jules decided to charge. "What about the sword pin you swiped," Patt argued. Jules returned her look to the old man. "An enhancement to the suggestion," the Rom shrugged. "It will be mailed back anonymously to the radio station. I am not a crook." "Oh, yea, Mr. Nixon?" Bonnie stepped forward, pulling from Dirk's hold. "Then explain how it got in the kid's diaper?" "What kid?!!" The old man was losing patience. "You continue to speak of children and farm animals. Explain your words!" Ruzena, who had remained silent during the discussion, spoke up. "Take care, Papa. Remember your blood pressure." "My blood pressure is fine, bori," he advised the woman, "but it boils with the need for answers." "Let me explain," Dirk stepped forward. "We've never met, but you're Tibor, Mihil's father, correct?" The old man looked over the dark-haired mortal and nodded. "I'm Dirk." "The gadjo who intervened on behalf of my grandsons - I recognize your name," Tibor affirmed. "Explain to me what these women rave about." Dirk didn't dare look around at the offended addicts, but kept his eyes on the old man. "We found the stolen sword pin, holding up the diaper of an abandoned infant." "Impossible," the Rom snorted. "The pin is on my bureau, among the coins and other items I emptied from my pockets earlier." "No...it isn't," a soft voice interjected. All eyes turned as Jolana stepped forward. "Explain, granddaughter," Tibor instructed the girl. Jolana looked around nervously. "Earlier this evening, I was visiting with Mutina." "What was *she* doing here?" Ruzena asked while the old man's eyes narrowed. "She came to show me the baby," Jolana lowered her eyes, her voice low. "While she was here, he soiled his last disposable diaper. I gave her an old cotton scarf to use, until she could purchase more, but I could not find a safety pin to fasten it with. So, in my search, I discovered the sword shaped clasp and loaned it to Mutina." "So the baby at the Shrine belongs to this Mutina person," Jules processed this information. "Why would she abandon her baby?" "She wouldn't," Jolana shook her head fiercely. "Something terrible must have happened for her to be separated from her child." "Where can we find Mutina?" Vachon spoke up, ever helpful. Jolana lowered her head, not wishing to answer. "Mutina was once of the Rom," Tibor declared, taking the task from his granddaughter. "She chose to take a husband outside of the community, so she is no longer considered one of us. She lives in one of the shelters near here." "Which one?" Dirk asked. Tibor and Ruzena both shook their heads. "I know," Jolana spoke up. "I don't know the name, but I can take you there." "Thanks." Patt, Bons and Dirk went after the girl, who was already heading for the lobby exit. Jules and Vachon moved to follow them, but Jules stopped and turned back to Tibor. "Oh, Mr. Gypsy?" Jules said sweetly. The old man's one good eye gleamed with loathing, his eyebrow arched. "If I were you, I'd relocate as soon as possible. Now that we know LaCroix is still LaCroix, once he finishes up with whatever he is doing and gets back here, he's probably got revenge plans for you." The old man's eye lost the loathing and twinkled with delight. "Let him come, Priestess," he said, surprising Jules that he knew of her title. "In my own way, I am as old and powerful as he, and would look forward to the challenge." "Yeah, right," Jules said with uncertainty. Vachon placed gentle hands on the woman's back and began propelling her toward the door. "Come on Julsey," the Spaniard said, giving her a little push. "Dawn will be arriving soon, and you need me for this next bit. We'd better get going." *************************************************************************** Nick set his extra bottle of cow blood down on the bathroom counter with a harsh *thunk!* Annie was sitting in the vanity chair, turned to face away from the mirror, and ignored the sound. She had a crumpled wad of wet tissue in her hand, stained with blood from cleaning the wound on her forehead. "I thought I told you to get out of here," Nick said in a rough voice. "I remember," Annie said non-committally. "I chose to stay." "LaCroix almost killed you," Nick challenged. "He could *still* kill you!" "I realize what just happened here, Nick," Annie said softly. "I'm not as naive as you appear to think I am." "Funny. You certainly haven't acted like anything other than a star- struck ingenue in over her head," Nick countered angrily. "All of you addicts - you're oblivious to the darkness aren't you? You dally in togas and tapestries, your pool parties and reckless abandon, and every one of you ignores the true nature of the man you follow. You follow him *blindly.*" "Make up your mind, Nick," Annie voiced in cold tones. "On one hand, you speak as though we addicts are innocent, ignorant fools, useful only when you need a bath in our Sacred Cold Pond." Nick grimaced at her reminder. "The next moment you treat us as though we were corrupt, untrustworthy and immoral. Why the indecision?" "You stood by while LaCroix drained that man tonight. I could bring you up on charges of accessory to a murder." "Two murders, actually," Annie said faintly as she dabbed at her brow with the tissue once more. "There was another man, the Captain; I'm pretty sure he drowned." "And you don't care, do you?" Nick growled, then pulled the cork free from one of his bottles with teeth. "You should be punished under the fullest extent of the law." "Perhaps," Annie agreed calmly. "You won't arrest me for anything, though. That would bring attention to LaCroix's vampire activities." "Which makes you the luckiest little murderess in Toronto tonight," Nick hissed, then took a heavy gulp of steer blood to quench his anger. "Pardon me if I fail to feel guilty at the moment. It will kick in, I promise you, but, right now, I'm still seething. I wanted those men to die. I wanted revenge. I was angry, thrilled to be alive, and I suppose a bit of the god-complex took root in my head. Narrowly escaping death will do that to you. It leaves you feeling weak, brutally aware of your own mortality, yet, somehow, you feel invincible because you survived." Annie glanced thoughtfully up at the blonde vampire. "Can you even begin to comprehend that? How it feels to cling desperately to life, kicking and screaming over a chasm of cold, dark water just waiting to suck you into its depths?" Annie frowned. "I suppose you do. You were on the Titanic. Watching all those passengers consumed by the ocean waters must count for something. You must have heard their screams the moment they realized that they would drown, their desperate panic and hopeful illusions of escape fleeing their hearts completely." Nick's attention was arrested by the head addict's speech. "What does that have to do with you? Better yet, what does that have to do with the dead men?" "I hired them to take me across Lake Ontario. Apparently the Captain was a bit too much into the bubbly, or something stronger, and ran into an ice floe. They took the ship's only skiff, abandoning me on board. Pete *laughed* as I called for them to come back. They left me to drown, Nick," Annie explained. "The ship was sinking. I was clinging desperately to the rail so that I wouldn't plunge into the water, but that didn't last for long. Soon enough, I could feel the icy spray strike my body as the boat submerged. I honestly believed that I was going to die. I was screaming, and, suddenly, I realized that I hadn't hit the water. I wasn't sinking: I was flying, instead." Nick's eyes widened in surprise. "LaCroix rescued you?" Annie nodded slowly, then whisked a fresh Kleenex out of the vanity canister. "Is that such an impossible idea?" She discreetly dabbed at her eyes with the tissue, then stared at the blonde vampire with a hint of challenge. "Do you believe LaCroix wouldn't have bothered because I'm a mortal?" "You wouldn't be the first," Nick countered. "Chances are, if LaCroix rescued you, it was a whim on his part. No doubt he had an ulterior motive. Maybe the act was a one-shot-only deal because of your connection to NA. Being an addict, you probably haven't noticed, but my sire is hardly knight- in-shining-armor material." "No." Annie shook her head in protest. "I don't believe that. Remember when you were investigating the murder of Vincente Leotta, and I could identify the shooters? He shielded me at the Bach concert and took the killer's bullets in my stead. LaCroix didn't know I was connected to Nunkies Anonymous at that point." Annie frowned in memory. "At least, I don't think he did." Nick took another swallow of blood, pursing his lips at the taste. "That's my point. You put too much faith in him. All the addicts do, and you have no idea what you're dealing with. *Who* you're dealing with. Fine, LaCroix has saved your life...twice. Maybe you feel a degree of loyalty to the man because of those acts, but, Annie," Nick set down his bottle, placing his hands on the head addict's shoulders and gazing earnestly into her eyes, "if I had returned to the loft a few minutes later, you would be dead right now. LaCroix would have killed you. Do you understand? *LaCroix* would have drained you dry." Annie blinked, glanced away for a split-second, then replied softly. "I know. What makes you think that I don't realize that, Nick?" "You're still here," Nick snapped. "You're sitting in my bathroom praising my sire for saving your neck instead of damning him for nearly biting it. If you really understood the danger you're dealing with, you'd be running for your life, not mangling tissue by the sink." "And how much do you know about me, Nick?" Annie countered. "Sure, I grant that you know volumes more about LaCroix's history than I do, but do you know anything about the history of NA?" She cocked her head slightly to the right, studying him curiously. "Do you know about Felidia?" "No, that name doesn't ring a bell," he answered. Annie grinned slightly, and gestured toward the commode. "Then take a seat, and I'll shed a little light on what it means to be a Nunkies addict." **************************************************************************** The shelter was slightly farther than comfortable walking distance, but walk the addicts did. Jolana, her steps quick and sure, seemed unaffected by the winter sludge. The addicts, on the other hand, found themselves floundering and uttering mild oaths as they slipped on the icy sidewalk. "Your sensible winter shoes are certainly getting a good breaking in," Dirk commented as he followed close behind the petite Scribe. "If you call wading through slush and rendering good suede prematurely moisture-shrunk, 'broken-in,' I guess you're right," Bonnie muttered in disgust. She stepped forward, trying to match Jolana's pace. In doing so, the red-haired addict slid and became precipitously close to impact with the pavement. Dirk grabbed her arm, steadying her. The party had traversed approximately four long blocks when Vachon tapped Jules on the shoulder. "I'll meet you at the scene. I don't *do* walks in the snow," Vachon informed the High Priestess when she turned toward him, then he bolted upward and was gone. "LAZY SLACKER!" Jules called after the vanished vampire. "The least you could have done was taken me with you and saved my shoes!" "Come on, Jules," Patt turned around and called. "The others are getting way ahead of us." At the sixth block, they turned the corner and trudged toward the dock area. Everything about them was dark and still, caught in the frigid calm of early morning. In some shadowed doorways, figures huddled, covered by cloth coverlets and cardboard. Their frosty breaths were the only indications that they continued to survive the winter. "Why don't they go to one of the shelters?" Jules commented as she walked beside Patt. The mature addict shrugged, for she had no answer. Three blocks later, Jolana halted and turned toward a storefront entrance. A streetlight reflected enough light off the window so that the words 'Claymont Mission' could be deciphered. Dim lights shone from within. The Roma girl extended her fist, paused for another moment, then rapped on the door. A shuffling of footsteps came from inside, followed by the metallic sound of a turning lock. The door opened slightly, revealing a pair of eyes which rapidly appraised the situation. "We're full," the middle-aged woman advised the teen. "Call the Street Helpline. Maybe they can help you." "I am not seeking shelter," Jolana said. "I'm looking for one of your residents." "Who?" "Mutina Wiseman." The woman looked skeptical. "It's awfully late..." Jules stepped forward. Though her hair was disheveled by the wind and her face was flushed red by the cold, the Priestess projected an air of confidence and breeding. "Please allow us to come in, Ma'am. This might be an emergency." The woman behind the door surveyed the group outside, weighing the request, then opened the entrance further. "Come in." The addicts, Jolana and Dirk moved inside quickly, thankful for the warmth and cover, then they stopped, stunned by the scene in front of them. When the woman had told them that the shelter was full, she had been understating the situation. People occupied every available area of space, leaving only room for a narrow pathway down the hall. Vagrants, elderly, whole families...they slept in sleeping bags and under blankets, propped against the walls and spread out on the floor. "Probably a good thing it's so packed," said the middle-aged woman who had admitted them. "The body heat is coming in useful. By the way, I'm Sarah Boydell, the administrator." The woman extended a hand, which Jules took and shook warmly. "Jules Stafford," the copper-haired woman said, then introduced the other members of the group. "Thank you for allowing us inside. I had no idea how crowded you were tonight." "No one does," Ms. Boydell commented as she began leading them down the hall. "We tend to be one of Toronto's best kept secrets." They proceeded down another corridor until they emerged into a kitchen area dominated by stainless steel and mint green tile. A tall, thin woman looked up from where she was preparing coffee. "Ohhhhh," Bonnie breathed in the aroma, her eyes glazing. "Please tell me you have Guatemalan!" The woman didn't crack a smile. "Columbian - straight and strong. Help yourself. Cups..." she nodded toward some styrofoam containers, "are over there." "I suppose caffeine from anywhere in Latin America will do," Bonnie sighed, reaching for a plastic cup. "If you can afford it," the woman looked the Scribe up and down, "put a quarter in the till." Bonnie patted her pockets then offered the woman a sheepish grin. "I seem to be insolvent at the moment." "No problem," the woman responded. "Most of us are." "Tess," Sarah Boydell addressed the coffee drinker, "would you please go see if you can find Mutina Wiseman. These people are here to see her - they say it is an emergency." "It *might* be an emergency," Jules corrected. Then she looked at Tess. "Thank you." The thin woman nodded and turned to exit the room. "I'll go with you," Jolana said, and followed her. "Is the shelter usually like this?" Jules asked, "So crowded?" "No - this is an extreme case," Boydell confirmed. "The weather has driven in a lot of people who wouldn't normally set foot into the mission, except for an occasional hot breakfast. Still, our homeless population keeps increasing, but the number of available beds remains about the same." Boydell pointed toward a rectangular-shaped formica table, inviting the group to sit down. "We're one of several licensed hostels, shelters and boarding house units serving metro Toronto. There are also plenty of programs around trying to address the problem, but there are more people than solutions, as seems to be the case in any social welfare program. Queen Street Mental Health Center helps sponsor the Out of the Cold Program, aimed at providing boarding rooms for released psychiatric patients. The Spread the Warmth project is getting a lot of press right now, trying to collect blankets and sleeping bags for those who insist on remaining on the street." Boydell poured several cups of coffee and passed them around to those at the table, before taking a seat herself. "How many people live here?" Patt asked, taking a sip of her coffee. Sarah smiled. "I can't divulge the exact figure, due to confidentiality," she replied. "I can relate to that," the mature addict smiled back. "I'm civil service myself." "I can tell you that Toronto has hostel accommodations that can assist up to 3,300 people daily and 700 boarding rooms." "How many homeless are there?" Bonnie asked, enjoying the feel of the coffee steam on her face. "Reports differ," Boydell replied. "The Pathways into Homelessness Report, which was issued in November of 1997, indicated that there were more than 10,000 homeless adults who took refuge in Toronto shelters in 1995, forty-two percent of whom were homeless for the first time." The addicts' mouths dropped open. "The number, of course, has increased - with many of those being families. Perhaps one of the most staggering figures noted has been the poverty among children. A full thirty-six percent of children living in the Toronto metro area live below the poverty line." No one spoke. "We're grateful that there are so many who want to help try to solve the problem." Boydell continued. "Volunteers come in daily to help in the kitchens. The Street Helpline I mentioned earlier - it is a peer support line staffed by those who have experienced homelessness. Other groups have started literacy campaigns. The Alternative Housing Subcommittee began a Business Outreach Project in early 1997, concentrating in the area around Queen and Bathurst Streets, seeking to further involve the community where the 'problem' is most prevalent. Some of the area business keepers have balked, just wishing that the problem be eliminated by 'sweeps,' but some have shown heart and agreed to offer resource kits to the homeless in their area." "Resource kits?" Patt asked. "Handouts with a map of the area that show the location of resource agencies and give a brief description of the services they offer, their hours of operation, etc." "Sounds like you have a good handle on things," Jules sipped her coffee, impressed by Sarah Boydell. "Tip of the iceberg, Ms. Stafford," Boydell replied. "If we had the situation under control, I would be happily out of a job." "Miz Boydell?" a sleepy voice spoke from the kitchen entry. Boydell turned and smiled. "Come in, Lisa," the administrator held out her arms and a young girl, perhaps six or seven, climbed easily into her lap. "This is Lisa," Boydell said, smoothing the child's dark curls. "She's lived with us for fourteen weeks now." The child looked at those around the table, her brown eyes slowly coming awake. She looked back into Boydell's face. "They're rich, aren't they?" "We're comfortable," Jules answered the girl with a gracious smile. The child focused her attention on the copper-haired woman. "I'll bet you know Santa Claus, then, don't you?" Jules gaped at the child, uncertain of how to respond. Somehow her standard lecture about Santa being an irresponsible icon for small children to believe in seemed poignant, yet vastly inappropriate. Then there was the matter of the larcenous St. Nick robbing her at gunpoint... "Intimately acquainted," a masculine voice interjected, "or, at least, that's what I've heard." Jules turned around quickly and offered Vachon a glinting why-are-you- butting-in-again stare. "Javier!" Ms. Boydell exclaimed. "I wasn't expecting you this evening. It's not your night to help." "I just dropped in for a visit, Sarah. Blame it on it being Christmas Eve." As the Spaniard took a seat at the table, Lisa left Boydell's lap and slipped onto the knee of the dark vampire. She clasped her arms gently around his neck and planted a kiss on his bristly chin. "Thank you, Mr. Vachon," the child said. "I'm glad you like the doll," Vachon replied, his eyes warm as he looked at the girl. "She's very pretty," Lisa nodded her head, her expression solemn. "I just hope Santa brings her more clothes." "Perhaps he will," Vachon murmured into the child's hair. "But, it's for certain that he won't come at all unless you're asleep." Lisa sighed and hopped down from the vampire's lap. "Okay, okay...I get the hint." She walked toward the door, but paused and turned before leaving the room. "If you see Santa, tell him I need a stroller, too." "Good night," Vachon lifted his chin and called to the child as she scampered off. "She's beautiful," Jules said, her eyes still on the spot where the little girl had disappeared. "Yes," Boydell agreed, "and so tragic. Javier found her, wandering the streets. Her mother, a street person, was killed by a mugger - her throat slashed. We thought that Lisa would end up being turned over to child services, but Javier managed to find her father, who has since resided with us." Jules looked toward Vachon, her eyes full of questions and accusation. Vachon returned the stare, never blinking. "Sarah," Tess and Jolana said as they entered the kitchen, followed by a tall, blonde young man in his early twenties, "Eric says that Mutina isn't here. He said that she went out early this evening with the baby to visit Jolana, and she hasn't returned." "I just figured she got caught in the snow and stayed at the Crazov's," Eric said, his face wracked with worry. "They're family, after all. I never dreamed that she might be missing. I'm going out looking for her." "And I'm going with you," Jolana ran after Eric, before anyone could ask him about the foundling. In fact, the baby seemed to have slipped everyone's mind. "Should we call the police?" Bonnie got up, ready to offer aid. Boydell shook her head. "It wouldn't do any good. They won't do anything unless she is missing for twenty-four hours, and, in this case, they probably won't do anything, anyway." Sarah Boydell looked at the addicts, her voice steady. "She's just another homeless person, after all." ************************************************************************** The addicts were unusually quiet during the initial leg of their trek back to Dirk's vehicle. As they'd left the mission, Vachon had taken his leave without a word, ducking between two buildings and vanishing. "He didn't want to stick around and face answering for his crime," Jules said angrily, kicking at several particularly ugly gray chunks of sludge. "Maybe he didn't know that Lisa's mom was a mom until it was too late," Bonnie half-heartedly defended the Spaniard, though she couldn't for the life of her fathom why. Perhaps, it was the knowledge that he had access to her hard drive, and she feared a possible crash. "She was a 'street person,' after all, and maybe he really didn't know until he discovered it in her blood. " "Yeah," Patt agreed, crunching along beside the other two. "And it looks like he tried to do right by the kid by taking her to the shelter, then finding her Dad." "Pitiful excuses," Jules was having none of the other addicts' explanations. "LaCroix wouldn't have made such an error." "He's got almost 1500 years on Vachon, too, Jules," Bonnie pointed out. "LaCroix has caused his share of widows and orphans, and he probably didn't go to so much trouble to care for any of them. I'll bet Nunkies pulled some major boners before he became all-powerful and wise. Look at Nick for example..." Jules gave the Scribe a vicious look, and Bonnie immediately hushed. The perky red-head looked forward, spotted Dirk some distance ahead, and decided to join him, leaving Patt and Jules to trudge on alone. "Do I have grout duty for the rest of my life?" Patt asked, her voice carrying a hopeful, joking chord. "That sentence is not mine to dispense," Jules replied, "but you can be assured that Annie will be made aware of all of your indiscretions and appropriate punishment will be meted out." "Thanks," Patt said sarcastically, "and a very Merry Christmas to you, too, your worship." "ENOUGH, PATT!!" Jules turned and shouted into the face of the older, yet obviously immature, addict. "This whole thing has happened because you couldn't just follow the rules. NO...you had to seek a new order, buck convention, follow your own path. YOU had to have CHRISTMAS! Well, dear, here you are: HO HO HO." Jules stooped and stood, clutching a handful of dark slush in her hand. With a move of quick precision, she smushed the dirty snow into Patt's face. Patt reached up and gently removed her lenses from her face. Except for the two pink spots which had been protected by the eyeglasses, her face was crystallized white. Patt blinked. "That wasn't very nice." "I don't have to be nice," Jules tilted her head regally. "I am the High Priestess of Nunkies Anonymous." "And you are also dead," Patt said, reaching down and grabbing a handful of snow. She crunched the packed ice in her hands and moved into throwing position. "You wouldn't dare," Jules said defiantly. "Oh, yeah? Since you *don't* celebrate the holidays, Happy Un-New Year!" Patt released the snowball, and it hurtled toward the Priestess, catching her on the left shoulder. Jules, aghast, looked at the Third Cousin. "That hurt my new coat! I hope you have dry-cleaning insurance!" "Bill it to your boss," Patt was already reaching for more ammunition. "At least I have someone *to* bill it to," Jules retorted, also scooping up additional snow. "Your only possible source of income right now is beer endorsements." "SNOW FIGHT...hehheh...hehheh!!!" Bonnie was scrunching back to join the battle, taking giant jumping steps through the snow drifts, waving her arms like a bird. Jules and Patt paused in mid-throw, assessing the charging Scribe. With a cursory nod at each other, the Priestess and Third Cousin launched a volley at the on-coming redhead. And so, it came to pass that a number of events took place in the ensuing mayhem which are best recorded for Nunkies Anonymous posterity, lest said events be distorted in tales retold by the parties involved. Perhaps one of the best-placed blows came shortly before Dirk excused himself from the scene: Patt, arm arching gracefully - strengthened, obviously, by those nights at the bowl-a-rama - landed a well-aimed shot directly on the crown of the Scribe's head, sending her fashionable daisy yellow tam flying through the wintry air. A gust caught the beret, lifting it gracefully, and set it down gently into the curve of a street lamp framing, some eight feet off the ground. The five-feet-at-most Scribe looked at her tam and emitted a furtive yell, accompanied by a series of hopping motions, arms extended upward. "I want my hat! Dammit! I want my hat!!" Bonnie yelled, her manner rather soubrette- like. "It's a Max Azriaan, and it keeps my ears warm! I want MY HAT!! "Keep your lid on, Red," Dirk said. "Ex-significant other to the rescue." While dodging the occasional snowball hurled by Patt and Jules, who were more intent on pulverizing each other at this moment, Dirk squatted and allowed Bons access to his broad shoulders. The Scribe mounted the driver, using her most feminine demeanor, then Dirk stood. "Just a little closer," Bonnie commanded, her fingers stretched toward the beret. "I've almost got it." Her fingers grazed the material, but would not reach. "Going up," Dirk informed the woman, just before gripping her knees and giving her an upward thrust. "WOOHOOO!!" Bons shouted excitedly as her hand made contact with the tam. "I just love these trips down memory lane. 'August Heat' flashback!" "Especially the way Patt writes them," Dirk agreed, while Bonnie lifted her hat from its perch. "*She* has talent." "Awwwwww, shaddup!" Bonnie slapped at the dark-haired man's head with the beret, before pulling it back down on her head. Elsewhere, the war between Jules and Patt had escalated. While Jules was bent over, raking together a particularly deadly looking mound of snow, Patt let loose a cinder-blackened slush ball which impacted the Priestess on her posterior. "Ashes to Asses!" the mature addict chortled exultantly. Jules dropped her chosen weapon and reached upward, scraping a handful of nasty looking sludge off the side of a building. The ice now occupying the Priestess' palm carried a reddish-brown hue derived from the structure's metal surface, which had been worn by the elements and left untreated. This particular snowball found a home, splashed across the Third Cousin's rather ample chest region. "Rust to Bust!!" Jules returned triumphantly. Dirk looked on as Bonnie waded back into flaky fray. "Why don't I just go get the car, okay?" He did not wait for an answer, but left the tirading trio to attend to their business. Bonnie burst into shrieks of laughter when Jules placed a rather well executed missile into Patt's groin area. The resulting impact left the impression that the mature addict had suffered an 'accident.' During the hysterics and gasps for breath which followed, Patt fired an ice chunk which flew into the Scribe's open mouth. While Bons sputtered and clawed at her face, Patt shouted, "Just pretend that was LaCroix giving you a cold, slurpy kiss - French, no less." The final encounter took place when the Scribe and Priestess joined forces against the wily Patt. It took both of them sitting on the ample Third Cousin to hold her down. Patt thrashed with all her strength, while Bons and Jules stuffed snow down her sleeves and into the waistband of her fleecy jogging pants. Bons pulled up on the back of said trousers and cried out, "Wedgie!" Finally, spent and choking for breath, the addicts lay on the ground, soaked and filthy, the snow, ice and weather hiding their features and figures. A pair of headlights appeared down the street and they raised their hands to signal it. As it drove past, a male voice, angry, yelled out, "Get a job, you bums!" "Get a *life*, you...you...you peckerwood, you!" Jules shouted, raising a gloved fist and shaking it. They all lay back again, panting until their breaths began coming in a normal rhythm. They looked around at each other, slow smiles spreading across their faces. Dirk's Bronco came to a stop in front of them. "Climb in, ladies..." "Don't say it!" the addicts warned in unison, each raising a snow filled hand. "...and I'll take you home," Dirk finished with a grin. As Dirk maneuvered the Bronco carefully, but swiftly, through the vacant Toronto streets, Jules seethed from the back seat. "Imagine the nerve of that fellow, mistaking us for hobos." "Well, Jules," Patt pointed out, "you have to admit that we *do* look rather scruffy." "Speak for yourself, Elmore." Bons said, flecking a spot of dirt from her yellow beret. "I, myself, am simply properly rustic." Dirk hrumffeed. "The fact is, ladies, you all look like a bunch of bums. That's what you get for engaging in a childish snowball fight." "At least *we* did not run from battle," Bonnie reached out and punched Dirk hard on the biceps. "Right, Jules?" "Childish..." Jules repeated the word, her eyes distant. Suddenly, the copper-haired woman's lovely hazel eyes widened in dismay. "The child! We forgot to tell Mr. Wiseman that we may have his baby!" "Want me to turn around and go back to the shelter?" Dirk asked helpfully. "No," Jules shook her head. "Mr. Wiseman isn't there -he's out looking for his missing wife. We'll go on to the Shrine and call from there, leaving him a message to call us." "I hate to speculate about this, but Mrs. Wiseman may have abandoned the child herself," Patt said, "and Mr. Wiseman may know about it - been a part of it. It wouldn't be such a stretch to imagine, you know." Bonnie turned around in her seat. "Why would you think that, Patt?" The addict shrugged. "It's not that uncommon, actually," Patt replied. "I don't know the Wiseman's circumstances, but they're a young couple living in a homeless shelter. No visible means of support, no obvious hopes for a better life. Perhaps they believed giving up the baby would lead to a better life for their child. Sometimes, giving up a child is the ultimate act of love." Patt shifted uncomfortably under the gaze of the other addicts. "I just hope I'm wrong, though, because abandonment is a criminal offense. There are much better ways to surrender a child." "In either case, I believe that, now that we've definitely established the fact that our little boarder is not LaCroix, it is time to notify the authorities," Jules said. "I don't think that even Nunkies could get us all cleared of a kidnapping charge." Bonnie and Patt nodded in agreement. A short time later, Dirk pulled the Bronco up to the curb in front of the Jeweled Peach. Bonnie politely tapped him on the shoulder and smiled sweetly. "Back door, please." After Dirk parked in the alley, Jules and Patt got out of the back seat and began slogging toward the kitchen delivery door. Bonnie, noting that Dirk was making no move to leave the vehicle, paused. "You're not coming inside?" she asked. The driver shook his head. "Not back to that point yet, hon," he replied. "Besides, I told a guy I'd meet him at the tree lot at 4 a.m. - he's one of those that puts his tree up on Christmas Eve so that it will look like Santa delivered it along with the presents. Major tip pending." "I understand," although her hazel eyes held just a tinge of disappointment. Bonnie leaned over gently and placed a warm kiss on Dirk's cheek. As she pulled back, the driver turned his face slightly and moved to follow her. Bonnie stopped, allowing Dirk's lips to meet hers. The kiss was gentle and could have been interpreted as platonic, except for the fire it ignited in each of their abdomens. They pulled apart, searching each other's face. "Why?" Dirk said finally. "Just tell me why?" "Why what?" Bonnie replied, her confusion obvious. Dirk hesitated, almost deciding to forget the whole thing. Then, he swallowed his pride and continued, "Why the e-mail brush off?" "I don't know what you're talking about," Bonnie replied, her eyes never wavering from his. "Really. All I know is that you never called me after you told me that you'd be tied up in union negotiations." "You didn't send me an e-mail?" Dirk wanted desperately to believe the woman. Bonnie shook her head. "Well, someone did," Dirk continued, "from your server address. Told me to take a hike." Bonnie's mouth dropped open. Dirk looked at her, realizing that her astonishment was real. "Does anyone else have access to your PC?" "Uhhhhhhhhh..." Bonnie had an idea, but to say it aloud was, to say the least, not a healthy idea. She recovered quickly. "I guess someone could have sneaked into my sleeping chamber and logged in if they'd watched me. My password, hehehe, is pretty common among the group. Anyone could have done it as a joke." "I think that's a pretty lousy idea for a prank," Dirk muttered. "It cost us some good months, Red." "Months," Bonnie said, reaching out to stroke his face, "which we'll start making up for right now." She leaned forward again, this time kissing him in earnest. He took his time pulling away, and when he did, it was with obvious reluctance. "I have to go." "I know," Bons said softly. She scooted away from him, reaching for the passenger door. When he offered to come around and open the door for her, she shook her head. "You stay inside the car and keep warm," she instructed fondly. "Besides, it would ruin my independent image." She stood at the door, watching as he drove away, feeling warmer than she had for sometime. She waited until the last of his exhaust mist had drifted up to join the smoggy overcast of the winter atmosphere. "Men," Bonnie said thoughtfully. "Alive, dead or somewhere in between - they're still worth it." The Scribe kneeled momentarily to scoop up one last portion of snow within an already sodden glove. "Ugh, why am I such an addict?" She released a laden sigh as her hand began to feel chilly. Bons quickly entered the warmth of the Lab/Kitchen. After securing the latch, she left the tiled work area and entered the main Shrine. The addicts were all clustered together, with Laura at their center. The Californian addict held the baby that most of the women still considered to be the infant LaCroix. Jules and Patt were already in the room, and the High Priestess was moving up onto the raised area at the foot of the Shrine altar. With everyone's attention focused on either Jules or the baby, no one paid attention as Bonnie paused by one of the Seven Stations of the Shrine. The Scribe eyed the bust of LaCroix for several moments, then plonked her gloveful of rapidly-melting snow on top of his marble head with a satisfied sniff. Jules was clearing her throat as Bonnie joined the congregation. With effort, the assembled addicts tore their eyes from the assumed object of their affection, even if those affections had been altered somewhat. "Ladies..." "And you use that term..." the addicts began, but Jules waved her hand for silence. "No, this time you *are* ladies," Jules looked out over the crowd with a tender smile. "That's obvious in the manner that you have accepted the responsibility to care for our little visitor over there." She inclined her head toward Laura and the baby, then straightened again. "Because of the respect I believe you all deserve, I feel the need to speak with you immediately, despite my disreputable appearance at the moment." "You do look a little scruffy, Jules," Annette agreed, eyeing at the Priestess' scrungy attire. Several addicts muttered in agreement, and speculated about what momentous event could have occurred that would cause the Priestess to appear as anything less than immaculate. "Thank you for the observation," Jules replied, snaking a hand through her limp hair. "Now, on to my announcement: Tonight, during a rather intensive investigatory jaunt, Patt, Bons and I have uncovered concrete proof that out infant guest is *not* LaCroix." The room settled into uneasy silence. Tears began forming on faces, one addict teetering like she might faint. Laura clutched Lucky to her breast and emitted an anguished cry. "I'm sorry, but it's true," Jules insisted. "This baby," she pointed toward the infant, "is the child of a homeless couple currently living in the Claymont Mission. We don't yet know why the baby was abandoned. The mother is missing, and the father is out looking for her. Knowing this information, we feel that now is the time to call the police and seek their help in this matter." "You want us to give Lucky up?" Jade asked, as Kate reached to steady the shaking addict. "Call the police and give Lucky to foster parents?" Kusine added. Jules nodded. "Why can't we just keep him?" Jesse spoke up. She looked around the room. "It seems that at least *one* of you adults could qualify as a foster mother." The addicts looked at each other, shrugged, and turned back toward Jules. Jules turned to Patt. "Huhhh?" Patt looked startled that the others were actually *asking* for her opinion. "Explain why we can't keep the infant," Jules instructed the mature addict. "Ohhh," Patt suddenly understood what the Priestess wanted. She stepped forward a few steps, but stayed off the podium. "To qualify as foster parents, you have to have what is called Map training - parenting classes and stuff like that." Several addicts indicated a willingness to comply. Patt shook her head. "It's not that easy. You have to first apply for the training, then undergo a background check to see if you qualify." The addicts looked uneasily at each other, then returned their attention to Patt. "Then," Patt continued, "you have to wait until the next training sessions. That could take six months or more." "In the meantime, Lucky would have to be placed in a home where the parents already have these Map credentials, right?" Charl spoke, then turned toward Caren for confirmation. The Louisiana woman nodded in assertion. "So, no matter what we do, Lucky is going to be taken from us if you call the police, right?" Kusine asked. "And you feel the authorities must be called," Jayne added. "Unless we all want to end up facing kidnapping charges," Jules confirmed. "I'm sorry, but the longer we wait, now that we know the truth, the more guilty we become of hiding a possible crime and obstructing a police investigation." Speaking softly among themselves, the addicts began slowly trickling from the room, heading in various directions. Some walked in groups, some alone. All, though, wore the same dejected expression. Soon, only the three villains and Laura, holding the baby, remained. "What about the birthmark?" Laura said accusingly. Jules shrugged again. "Just a coincidence, I guess. I don't have an answer for that...yet." Bonnie walked over to Laura. "Come on, Laura, give the baby to...Patt." "Huhhh," Patt, startled, took a step back. "I don't do CPI!" Laura ignored the Third Cousin. She gave Bons a fierce look, shaking her head negatively. "Laura," Jules said softly. "Please, give us the child." "NO!" Laura shouted. She quickly turned and fled the room, running toward the circular staircase which led to the upstairs sleeping chambers. When Bonnie went to follow her, Jules lay her hand on the Scribe's arm. "Let her go, Bons," Jules said, her eyes watching the retreating woman. "She has nowhere to go. Let her hold the child, if she wants, until the authorities arrive." With that, a solemn sadness akin to nothing ever felt on those hallowed grounds, fell upon the Sacred Shrine of Nunkies. ************************************************************************* End Of Part Ten Jules, Bons and Patt watched as Laura, holding Lucky, disappeared at the top of the stairs. "Gosh," the Scribe remarked, "everyone is acting so morbid. It's almost like a soap opera." "Add this to Christmas being banned, and you have yourself a group of mighty disgruntled addicts," Patt said. "Which is why I need you to do some damage control, Patt," the High Priestess said. "Huhhh?" Patt turned quickly to face Jules. "Talk to them, Patt," Jules voice was not pleading, because that was not her style. It wasn't threatening, either. It was simply a request. "Try and help them see that keeping this child is wrong. The Shrine does not have nursery facilities. There is also a real mother and father involved, who well might want this child back. Help them understand this and be *positive* about it. Start with Laura, okay?" "Uhhhh, okay. I'll try," Patt walked away, heading upstairs. "And you..." Jules turned toward Bonnie. The little redhead looked up startled. "I'm bad at the good cheer, Jules, remember? I'm one of the enemy." "Which is why I'm giving you the assignment of calling the police to report the baby," Jules informed the Scribe. "The addicts already dislike you right now, so your performing this task shouldn't make you any more of a miscreant in their eyes." "Oh, yeah, that's an incentive, Jules. What if I just say *no*?" Bons looked at the other woman with a questioning frown. "Let's see," Jules glanced upward, face thoughtful. "Grout duty appears to be permanently spoken for of late. How does washing windows strike you?" Bonnie was aghast. "And put the Fanfic fairies out of work!?! How dastardly an idea! How cruel and unusual!!" "Then I suggest you reach out and touch the metro police," Jules said sweetly. "Okay, okay. I'll do it, *if* I can wrench the phone from Jade's hot little hands," Bons grumbled. "She looked like she was aiming for the communications room when she headed out of here." Still muttering under her breath, the Scribe left the main parlor. *************************************************************************** "Felidia was the first addict. She lived long before people like me were ever called 'addicts,'" Annie began, "before there was any group called Nunkies Anonymous, even before LaCroix was a vampire. He was a general in the Roman Army, and Felidia...she was a Vestal Virgin." "Why am I not surprised?" Nick muttered. Annie ignored the comment and continued with her story. "Felidia first saw Lucius about a dozen years before the destruction of Pompeii. It was the last ovation that Nero held in honor of LaCroix's military exploits before they parted ways due to the Emperor's growing unpopularity." She gave a wry grin, then asked, "How much do you know about the Vestal Virgins?" Nick shrugged. "Your typical antiquarian facts: they were recruited as girls from noble families and served for thirty years. They spent the first decade in training, the second maintaining the sacred flame at the Temple of Vesta, then the last ten years of service were dedicated to teaching the new acolytes. Unlike most Roman women, they were legally free of ~patria protestas~ and could own property, leave wills and even pardon those sentenced to death. The only things Vestals had to worry about were letting the state hearth or their vows of chastity lapse." "Well, that wasn't all they had to worry about. They baked sacred bread and had a ton of paperwork, too." "I'm not surprised," Nick said with a grin. "Paperwork is the only thing I'm certain has existed longer than LaCroix." "Hmm. You have a point," Annie sighed. Paperwork *was* eternal. "Felidia was seven when she took her vows. She was at the end of her second decade as a Vestal when she saw Lucius promenade through the Forum Romanum. I wouldn't say she had a Nunklear Meltdown on the spot, but Felidia began a diary that day, making notes of her newfound obsession with LaCroix. "In a sense, Vestal Virgins were cut off from the rest of society," Annie elaborated. "They lived in their own special world with its own special rules for so many years, that, by the time they reached their late thirties and were free to leave the House of the Vestals, most didn't. Out of those who tried to rejoin society, very few were happy or could fit in with the new lifestyle." "But not all of them," Nick argued, feeling somehow that he was defending his quest to be mortal again, not simply discussing a Classical cult. "Some of them must have wanted to leave the Vestals. Some must have been happier out of the cloister." "But most weren't," Annie reiterated. "Felidia was well aware of this - all of the women who had trained her were either still in residence or deceased. She had never experienced any of her sisters wanting another life. Felidia had assumed that she would be no different. Suddenly, however, she had the overwhelming desire to leave her priestess status behind. Felidia wanted LaCroix. He was all she could think about, morning, noon and night...especially at night. After nearly twenty years of tending the sacred flame for Rome and Vesta, all at once, the only fire she cared about burned inside her heart." Nick's eyes narrowed, then he drank another swallow from his bottle. "Lust...that's all you're talking about," he said gruffly. "Ah, but lust to a Vestal Virgin is like murder to your average citizen. Felidia had a vow of chastity to consider, and she still owed nearly eleven years on the deal. Impure behavior in a Vestal brought the wrath of the gods down on all of Rome, not just the guilty ex-maiden. Poor Felidia... What would she do? Well, fortunate or not, Nero killed himself, civil war set in, and LaCroix left Rome for a couple of years. Maybe it was a case of 'absence making the heart grow fonder,' but Felidia didn't forget him. She would write in her diary about each instance she had seen Lucius, over and over again in minute detail. She would draw portraits, attempting to remember the most minor feature of his face. As Felidia waltzed through calendar after calendar of her duties, she would fantasize about what LaCroix would do, or what he would say if he was there with her." "She was obsessed," Nick concluded. "She was *addicted,*" Annie corrected. "The first year, Felidia engaged in these wonderings alone. She entered her third decade of duty as a Vestal and began to spend time training the initiates rather than constantly guarding the temple flame. One day, the two Vestals on duty were careless, and the fire extinguished. No one questioned it when the women were taken to be beaten by the Pontifex; it was the standard punishment for allowing the sacred flame to die. When they returned, however, Felidia was consumed with curiosity about what had happened. The fire hadn't gone out in years, and she knew the Vestals in question were dedicated to their duties. Felidia questioned them carefully about the circumstances that led them to forsake their sacred responsibilities. Imagine her surprise when they confessed to daydreaming about a certain General..." "Thus Nunkies Anonymous was born," Nick announced. Annie nodded. "The three Vestals began to meet secretly to talk about LaCroix, and, gradually, a few members of the patrician class and one retired Vestal joined their ranks. Everything was done with the utmost discretion to escape censure, though, technically, the Vestals had yet to do anything wrong." "*Yet,*" Nick repeated emphatically. "Eventually, the object of their affections returned to their city. There was much excitement in the House of the Vestals the day LaCroix reappeared in Rome. They contented themselves with watching the General from afar and listening to the stories of their patrician compatriots detailing each party where he was in attendance. Still, the virgins committed no crime. Then, one day, the Vestals heard word that Vespasian was sending Lucius on a campaign to Gaul. The news devastated Felidia. Faced with the prospect of enduring years without seeing him, she threw her caution and her veil aside and attended his going-away banquet in disguise." "Where LaCroix seduced her," Nick concluded ruefully. "No," Annie protested, "I'd say Felidia did the seducing. She wrote about LaCroix later, saying, 'He is my only goal and my only obstacle. He is my curse and my life, and I shall die for wanting him.' She knew what she was doing. She knew the consequences. Felidia simply didn't care about her fate; she couldn't help herself." "She was caught, of course. This story wouldn't be so notable if Felidia lived happily ever after." Annie's eyes twinkled. "No, that's LaCroix's job." She gave a small chuckle, then her expression sobered as she began to describe the downfall of the priestess. "Felidia was recognized, and word reached the Pontifex. The next day LaCroix paraded from the city, his legion marching triumphantly off on their new campaign. Felidia went with her fellow Lucius addicts to watch the procession. While they were out, the House of the Vestals was searched. Felidia's diary, the portraits - their hiding places were uncovered. Seven Vestals came under suspicion, though only three were still bound to the temple. The retirees were cast out of the House - that was their only punishment. Felidia, however, suffered the fullest extent for her crime. She broke her vow of chastity, so she was put to death to appease the goddess and spare Rome the misfortune of her wrath. Felidia was bound in heavy linens, then carried on a stretcher through the Forum in a silent procession as though she was already dead. They dug a burial Vault for her on Quirinal Hill. Supplies such as a bed, a day's supply of food, drink and oil, as well as a lit lantern, were placed inside. Felidia was still from a noble family, and it was considered in poor taste for her to die hungry. The provisions were to make certain she suffocated. They unwrapped her body, placed her in her future tomb, denied her the normal funeral rites, then sealed her inside the earth. Care was always taken to hide the locations of these burials. The boundaries of the vaults would be blended seamlessly into their surroundings so that no one could slip onto The Field Of Unhappiness and rescue a lover, family member or a friend. There were no pardons, and absolutely no reprieves. Felidia died, but the group carried on her passion. Until the last century, the group called itself the Order of Felidia in her honor." "Why the change?" Nick asked curiously. "To modernize, I suppose," Annie guessed. "That's a pretty bold step for people who run around in togas." "I told this story for a reason, remember, Nick? My point is that Felidia knew the danger entailed in being close to LaCroix. All of the Vestals who died knew what the consequences were, and they wanted him anyway." "No doubt you think LaCroix was innocent in the entire affair," Nick said doubtfully. "Oh, please!" the NunkMommy argued. "By the time word reached him that he'd deflowered a few Vestals, they were long buried. Three beautiful women tempted him, and he was seduced. Whether he had regrets or not, it wasn't exactly an act of transgression at his own going-away orgy." Annie's hazel eyes grew solemn. "Felidia knew the danger - what makes you think the addicts don't? He's a vampire, and we are all his natural prey. No matter how much we may drool and sigh, all the addicts are aware, if only subconsciously, of LaCroix's darkness. I realize that it isn't safe for me to be here. I understand that the outcome could be fatal, and I don't care. That's the addiction. That's what it means to be a Nunkies Addict, or at least to be the NunkMommy. I'm not going back to the Peach, not yet." Nick released a heavy sigh, then drank his bottle's last swallow. "LaCroix and I aren't going anywhere, either. The sun is well into blistering range by now." He watched critically as Annie stood once more, appearing prepared to venture out of the bathroom and into his sire's company. "Are you certain you want to go out there?" "He was going to kill me, Nick. I can't cower in the bathroom shredding tissue; I have to face him." "All right," the detective allowed. "If you're certain." "I am." Annie paused as her hand wrapped around the doorknob, then turned back to face the blonde vampire in afterthought. "Thank you, Nick. Thank you for helping LaCroix and rescuing me. Most of all, thank you for listening." "You're welcome." *************************************************************************** After Bonnie had exited the room, Jules sat down heavily on a nearby divan. She lay back into her pillows with a deep, exhausted moan. The brocade felt good against her cheek, and she was suddenly so sleepy... The copper-haired woman felt a chill. Since the Shrine had one of the best climate control systems that currency could provide, she immediately became uneasy. Sitting up carefully, Jules looked around. Standing in the shadows, near a back pillar, was Vachon. "Damn! Give him access once, and he's like lichen clinging to a stone," Jules muttered under her breath, then a thought struck her. "Wait a minute! I want to talk with you." "I know," the Spaniard replied, not moving. "That's why I came back." Jules stood up, walking toward him, her anger fanning each step. "Why did you kill that child's mother?" "It was an honest mistake," Vachon shrugged. "Her mother was a street hooker. I hungered, I fed. Things happen that way." "But why her? Why Lisa's mother?" "Like Bonnie suggested, I didn't know until I had her blood inside me." "Why didn't you stop before you killed her, then?" Jules fumed. "Why didn't you stop when you realized? You didn't have to kill her!" Vachon shook his head. "It doesn't work that way, Jules," the dark- haired vampire explained patiently. "Haven't you ever discussed this with your boss?" Jules paused, blushing. "Well, I might have been distracted," she mumbled. "Okay, I see," Vachon said. "Well, let me tell you some facts of unlife, then. Feeding is one thing, effeting is another." Vachon came further into the Shrine, allowing the lighting to strike his face. Jules was suddenly struck by the sadness which shifted there, hidden by the callousness of necessity. Vachon indicated that the High Priestess should sit back down on the divan, which she did. The vampire began to pace. "When vampires take blood, it is to feed the hunger, like food for humans. You know that, right?" Jules nodded. "That's why vampires can drink the bottled variety and not have to take from humans." Vachon continued to pace. "But, sometimes, just feeding the need isn't enough. Sometimes," Vachon paused, his eyes distant, thoughtful, "you need the hunt, the heat, the connection. You need to take everything." He looked straight at Jules, his eyes unfathomably dark. "The only way to achieve that is to kill your victim or bring them across. You must take the entire person into you to touch their mind, their heart - to know them. My point is, Lisa's mother was dead before I knew Lisa existed." Vachon smiled wistfully. "I curse the Angel everyday for giving me a conscience. This whole gig would be a lot easier if I wasn't supposed to be some kind of champion of the oppressed. That mantle gets to be a snug fit sometimes." "I thought you liked snug," Jules said, giving his black leather trousers a cursory glance. She didn't know why she felt the need to joke at this moment, but the tension was so sharp she felt strangled. Vachon responded with a smile, which quickly vanished as he grew serious again. "Doing the right thing isn't always easy, Jules. It's way easier when you're at the top of the food chain to look at those less fortunate as fodder. I do it. You *know* that your boss does it. Even you do it." When Jules opened her mouth to protest, Vachon grinned. "Everytime you flex your muscles over the other addicts -like the whole Christmas celebration thing - you're doing it, and enjoying it," his expression changed, somber again. Jules said nothing. "Sorry, Red," Vachon said, moving closer. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, but honesty is sometimes brutal. I still luv ya," he leaned forward, kissing Jules' forehead gently. Then, he stepped back into the shadows and vanished. Jules lay back, her heart and mind racing. Something about the Spaniard had touched her. She closed her eyes, shaken, bidding the feelings back... A short time later, Jules awakened as Bonnie came back into the Shrine altar room. The little Scribe's forlorn expression convinced Jules that the deed had been done without the need for confirmation. "Bons," Jules said quietly, "I've found this whole baby incident rather stressful, haven't you?" Bonnie opened her eyes wide, speechless. "In fact, I don't think this holiday season could have been more stressful if we'd just allowed the other addicts to cavort around, clad in garland and singing carols off-key. Do you?" The Scribe nodded mutely, marveling at the High Priestess' masterful use of understatement. It was at this point that Patt entered the room. Jules and Bonnie looked at the other woman expectantly. "Nothing stirring," Patt reported. "Everyone has disappeared into their own morose little universe and is possessively protecting their melancholy. Laura locked herself in her room and wouldn't answer my knock, but I think I heard several others in there with her." "When are the police supposed to arrive, Bonnie?" Jules asked. "Errrrr, not sure," Bonnie hedged under Patt's hard stare. "They said they were pretty busy right now. Lots of traffic problems and mugger-stuff going on, you know." "All right, you two put your heads together and try to come up with something," Jules rose from the divan and stretched her neck muscles. "Once the authorities take the baby away, we will need some major diversionary stuff to bring this group out of the gutter of gloom. I'm depending on you both. I am off for a shower and some hot tea." The Scribe and Third Cousin watched as their copper-haired co-leader walked from the room, then they turned to face each other. "You called the cops?" Patt's tone was sharp with accusation. Bonnie flinched. "Technically...maybe..." "What do you mean...maybe?" "I dialed the number, got the desk sergeant and..." "And?" Bonnie bit her lip. "Wished him a Merry Christmas and hung up." Patt stared for another hard minute before allowing her face to break into a massive smile. "You wimped out?" "Yeah. Jules is gonna kill me. I had an attack of sensitivity, and I just couldn't do it," Bons explained. "It just didn't seem right, tossing the kid into a foster home on..." "...Christmas," Patt finished gently for the little Scribe. Bons continued to nod. "So, what do we do now?" "Not sure, but we had better think of something fast. When Jules finds out that Lucky is still here in the morning, she is gonna want my head." "I think you're safe until tomorrow evening, Lil Bit," Patt said, putting a protective arm around the other woman's shoulders. "Jules is nocturnal, remember?" Bonnie managed a small smile. "Yeah, but that still gives us only twelve hours to come up with a really brilliant idea. You got any?" "Maybe a couple," Patt grinned. "Let's go get cleaned up and we'll talk." *************************************************************************** "I heard once that a person's whole life could be summed up in a series of country songs." Patt finished pulling on a fresh pair of tennis shoes which she'd selected from the massive store in the Wardrobe Room. She felt amazingly refreshed and marveled again at the wonders that a warm shower could perform. At the mention of country music, Bonnie wrinkled her nose. Her father was the country music fan. If it wasn't Conway Twitty or Dwight Yokum, Bons was rather klewless. "Like this story - 'It's Only Make Believe'?" She stood in front of a Sacred Closet, still clothed in her gold silk bathrobe, trying to decide between seven equally perky outfits. "Nope. The feeling around the Shrine has me humming another particular song," Patt continued cheerfully. "Ever heard this little ditty, Bons? 'Gloom, despair and agony on me!'" Patt began chortling in her off-alto voice. "'Deep, dark depression, excessive mi-ser-eeeeeee!'" Somewhere down the hall a chorus of canine howls joined with Patt. Bonnie looked in the direction of the tormented dogs and nodded, "I understand perfectly." "Okay, okay, I get the hint." Patt mocked anger, but her manner betrayed her good humor. "I'll hush up. You just hurry and get ready, so we can start spreading the good news that the cops won't be showing up to haul the baby away." "Oh, we can't do *that*!" Bons turned around, horrified. "If we breathe a word of that, it will get back to Jules, and I'll be served up as Sunday dinner!" "You're right," Patt said thoughtfully. "What we need is a diversionary tactic to take Jules' mind off the baby altogether. Hmmmmmm. Maybe it *is* time to call the police after all." "Huhhhh?" Bonnie, holding a green silk pantsuit to her front, looked at Patt with shock. The Third Cousin nodded. "Yup, I think it's time, and that one looks good on you. Hurry up and get dressed while I make the call." "Good luck on getting the phone away from Jade!" Bonnie called after the rapidly moving Patt. Bonnie turned back to redress the clothing issue, only to find a grinning Vachon peeking at her through the hanging garments. "Patt's right. The green one looks good. Highlights those confused glints in your eyes. Country songs...hmmm...how about 'Dangerous Man'?" "EEEKKKK!!" Bons shrieked, clutching said outfit to her bosom. "So, how is the rewrite going?" Vachon chuckled. "I really enjoy watching the creative process at work. Too bad about cutting the Moses stuff - I liked that." "Maybe Patt can work it in later," Bons retorted. "Listen, what are you doing here? We had a deal: you get Jules, the pants, etc., and leave me alone." "Yeah, but in this rewrite it doesn't seem like you'll have to pay for your crimes," Vachon noted. "I just decided to pop in and make your life miserable for a second. That's *my* deal - with myself." He grinned broadly. "And I'm sure you'll make good on this new deal," Bons replied. "Now vanish so I can get dressed. This may be Part Eleven, but, I assure you, there's plenty of opportunities for me to suffer yet." "Okay, Red," Vachon agreed, still grinning. "But remember: I'll be watching you." "That's a comforting thought," Bons muttered as Vachon melted into the shadows at the back of the closet. Grabbing the outfit that everyone had chosen for her, Bons left the Sacred Closet and headed toward the privacy of an enclosed dressing area. Bonnie was just leaving when Patt walked up, whistling. "The police will be here shortly," Patt grinned at the Scribe. "I'm going up to tell Laura." Patt headed off toward the circular stairs which would lead her to the second floor sleeping chambers. As the Third Cousin walked away, Jules appeared at the Kitchen/Lab entrance and approached Bonnie. "Did I hear Patt mention that the authorities were on their way?" Jules took a sip of her tea and eyed the Scribe speculatively. Bonnie nodded. "That's odd," Jules said as she looked in Patt's direction again. "She appears so cheerful about it. Is something else going on that I should know about?" Bonnie shook her head. She was just as confused about Patt's cavalier attitude as Jules. "Hmmmmm. I sense something afoot." The High Priestess was known to have wonderful instincts when it came to discerning conspiracy. "Follow her, find out what she's up to, and report back to me." "Okay," Bonnie hurried to follow Patt, because that was what she wanted to do anyway. Jules watched the Scribe disappear, looked around the vacant altar room, then emitted a heavy sigh. Jules thought. Though she would not have admitted it aloud, she missed the antics of the group - the trampoline stunts, the water balloon fights, and the filling drool cups. More than that, Jules missed LaCroix. If he were here, he could certainly contravene this massive attack of maternal instinct with his own brand of addictive assertiveness. Jules needed Nunkies to come back to the Shrine, spread his aura over the addicts and make everything right again. LaCroix had promised her "later," and now, much later, he still wasn't here. Where was he? For some time now, Jules had not been able to rid herself of the feeling that something was terribly wrong, that something had been left undone. The sound of the front entry gong startled her from her reverie. Jules regally approached the door and met two uniformed figures who made their way through the restaurant. "We're here for a kid," one of the officers announced. He was a strapping young man, and Jules could swear he looked very familiar, as did his partner. She decided that she probably had seen them during one of her many unfortunate visits to the Toronto Police facilities. "Wait here and I'll find someone to go get..." Jules never finished her statement. The officers were looking past her, and Jules turned to see Laura enter the room, babe in arms, followed by an entourage of addicts. "You take good care of him," Laura's voice was fighting tears. She placed Lucky into the arms of the first officer while Kate handed the child's basket to the other. "He's just been fed. He has a bit of the croup, so keep him well covered." Laura reached over, snugly tucking in the baby's blanket. Lucky opened his eyes, locked gazes with Laura and gurgled. "We'll take good care of him, Ma'am," the officer noted, smiling at the California addict. Laura didn't notice him, because she couldn't tear her eyes from the tiny bundle in the policeman's arms. Salt brine brimming, threatening to take her sight, Laura stood silent as the officers turned and left the Shrine with the child. Then, with one glance at Jules, Laura turned and walked from the room, followed by the attending addicts. Alone again, Jules eyes narrowed. "That was too easy," the High Priestess noted. "Something isn't right here." "A-hem." Jules started, then turned her attention to where Vachon leaned against one of the Shrine's porticoes. She eyed him uncomfortably, thinking about her recent dream. The High Priestess sighed. "What do you want, Vachon?" "Now that's an open question." The Spaniard grinned devilishly, uncrossed his arms, then approached the scowling Jules. "Relax. It's nothing humiliating or remotely painful." The dark-haired vampire drew in a deep breath and tried to look humble. "I need a favor." "From me? Well, isn't that interesting?" Jules said smugly. "Before you blow me off, don't you want to hear what it is that I need you to do?" Jules waited for a significant pause, hoping to make the Spaniard squirm. "I suppose." "I just need you to make a phone call downtown," Vachon explained. "Screed got a little over-enthusiastic and decked his place with enough lights to rival a dwarf star. His squat is so bright it's hazardous to vampire health. I thought it would be useful if a vice-president of one of the major radio stations in town called a vice-president of the electric company and asked them to turn off Screed's power. It's a holiday - they won't do it unless networking is involved." Jules frowned in confusion. "Why don't you just whammy a company executive?" "It's daylight. I want it to be a present for Screed, and, if I wait until tonight, the dousing of the lights will be too late." Vachon watched as Jules rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I know how you feel about Christmas, but Screed gets a kick out of it. Come on, Jules...make an orphan carouche happy for the holidays?" The High Priestess made an exasperated sound, but the vampire saw she was weakening and gave a final argument. "It would be the *nice* thing to do..." "Alright, alright! I'll see that Screed's power gets turned off!" Jules sighed. "I don't need to call, though. I'll just send Libby over to flick the circuit breaker or something." The Spaniard shook his head. "Have you seen head or tail of the Ratpacker since you came back to the Shrine?" "Hmm. Come to think of it, I haven't." "Right. I have no idea where she is, and I have story control. How do you think you're going to find her and send her on an errand?" Jules pondered that idea for a moment. The Spaniard had a point. "I guess I'll have to go make a phone call. Distract Jade for me while I snatch the receiver out of her hand, okay?" ************************************************************************** Bonnie had been down the hall, looking for Patt, when she'd seen Laura emerging from her bedroom, followed by several other addicts. She'd watched as the California woman had stoically carried the child downstairs to turn him over to the authorities. Bonnie felt a wrenching pain for Laura's agony and had been unable to follow her downstairs to watch the deed being done. Noticing Patt wasn't among the entourage of addicts, Bonnie turned and continued toward the Third Cousin's room. "I'm depressed," Bonnie announced herself as she entered Patt's quarters. "And I'm confused," Patt responded, looking up from her PC. "The Spaniard was just in here, making vague references to Moses and the foodchain. Got any idea what he was talking about?" "Moses...Yeah, I recall him spouting something about the Cousine. The foodchain - he didn't mention that one to me," Bons replied, plopping down on Patt's unslept in bed. "According to Vachon, we had an altercation with a reptile in a previous version." "Hmmmm, sounds interesting," Patt sat back, staring at her blank monitor. "Think we can still incorporate it?" "It could happen," Bonnie shrugged. "The only thing I'm sure of right now is that I'm hungry, and your reference to the 'foodchain' didn't ease the growling in my stomach." "*I* didn't bring the subject up," Patt retorted, "Vachon did, and if he's still lurking around here this late in the day, it's a pretty good bet he's spending the day somewhere in the Shrine." Bonnie groaned, putting her face between her hands. "Ooo, slacker in the Shrine. Bad karma." "Come on, Bons," Patt grinned, rising from her chair. "Plotting is taxing on the body and brain, and, if we have to deal with Vachon on top of that, we'd better have sustenance. Wonder what Cabon has cooking at the Peach?" As they exited Patt's room, they saw Laura and the other addicts going back into the Californian's room. "Do you think we should speak to her?" Bons asked. "Not right now," Patt replied, continuing down the hall. "They're grieving and need their space. They'll be more receptive to other options later." As she passed Laura's room, Patt was glad Bonnie was two steps behind her. From behind the closed door, the mature addict could hear the sound of stifled giggles, and Patt's own face broke into a betraying grin. She quickly masked it, though, as she noted Jules approaching them. "You know, it's a good thing that the slacker had me call about Screed's electricity. I located Libby," Jules said. "She was at Screed's?" Bons and Patt exchanged a look of bewilderment. They hadn't known that, and they had story control. Jules nodded. "The power company sent someone out there to investigate before I ever called because of the enormous drain of electricity in that one location. They found Libby spread out in a sort of coma on the floor." "Is she okay?" Patt asked, deeply concerned. "Oh, yes," Jules assured the two addicts. "It was nothing diabetic. Libby had just fallen into a euphoric stupor at the sight of so many shiney, pretty, blinkey lights. She still hasn't recovered completely. I'm having the medics transport her back here and dump her in a nice dark cubby." "Ahhhh." "What are you two up to?" the High Priestess asked, eyeing Patt and Bonnie carefully. "Going for some breakfast," Bonnie replied truthfully. "Want to join us?" "We're holding a planning session," Patt added. "Your input might be useful." "All right," Jules agreed, reversing her direction and joining the women. "I could manage some toast, I guess." "I'm for waffles," Patt grinned. "Bagel and coffee for me," Bonnie chirped in. A short time later, the three women entered the Peach, seating themselves. The restaurant wasn't usually open for breakfast, but Monsieur Cabon made special allowances when the addicts were in residence. He hustled over to the table, taking their order himself. The women settled back, looking out the window at the dawning day. "Christmas," Patt said quietly. No one spoke for a long time, each entertaining their private thoughts, dealing with their private feelings. It was Jules who broke the silence. "I didn't insist on giving up the child to hurt anyone, you know," the High Priestess said. Patt and Bons nodded, but didn't answer. Jules sighed. "I just felt that it was the right thing to do." "It was the *proper* thing to do, Jules," Patt agreed. "Everyone will see that eventually. It's just giving him up coming on the heels of banning the Christmas revelry is pretty hard on all of them. The addicts are away from their homes, their families, their traditions. Having Lucky around was kind of like a mini-lifeline to what they were missing back home." "At least we know he's being taken care of: fed, clothed and sheltered," Jules continued. "So many, it appears, are not so fortunate." Taking a deep breath, Bons spoke. "I don't think that we did anything wrong, Jules," the Scribe said, casting Patt a quick glance. "Banning the celebration of the mishmash that Christmas has become - the greed, the commercialism, the crassness of it all - I don't regret that we did that one iota. In our stand for our rights, though, maybe we lost sight of what we were really fighting for. The people who celebrate this season call it the true meaning of the holidays - what Christmas is supposed to be about when you set aside the sales pitch. You and I call it the spirit of living, Jules, a goal to strive for no matter what the day of the year. Somehow, I think we stopped giving because it was Christmas. That's not really upholding our ideal of treating this like just any other day, now, is it? So...I've been thinking..." Jules grinned crookedly. "Yeah, I know," Bonnie wrinkled her nose. "It's scary, but I can't help it. I keep wondering about the little girl, Lisa." Jules sobered and nodded. "So do I." "I keep questioning," Bonnie went on, "how many other kids are like Lisa, crowded into shelters and wondering if Santa remembered them? Okay, so it would compromise our principles to give them all Tickle Me Elmo dolls and perpetuate the jolly-fat-guy-giving-presents myth. However, that got me to thinking about all the food we have on the verge of spoiling in the Peach's industrial fridge." "You see a correlation?" Jules asked, already sensing the answer. "Call it my scientific mind at work," Bonnie said, "but it seems a shame to waste good milk and cookies when there are a lot of hungry kids out there. Well, make that cream and fudge covered biscotti...Still, if we invited the folks from the shelter to come over, we'd be able to have the feast we discussed without looking like we're wimping out to the other addicts." "Feast?" Patt interjected, her interest growing. "Those higher on the foodchain, helping the less fortunate," Jules mused, mostly to herself. Patt and Bons looked at each other. There was *that* word again. An omen. A sign. The women grew quiet again, looking at each other and thinking. Finally, Jules spoke. "Go call Ms. Boydell, and ask if her residents have any plans. Once we know that they're available, we'll discuss it further." Bonnie jumped up, good feelings giving her extra buoyancy. "It means prying the phone away from Jade again," Bonnie grumbled, but this time good- naturedly. "Last time, she almost clonked me with the receiver. When are we going to get an extension?" "As soon as the insurance adjusters finish their paperwork from the August incident," Jules replied with a smile. Bonnie, coffee in hand, went off on her errand, leaving Patt and Jules alone. The High Priestess eyed the other addict carefully. "Well?" "I think this is a wonderful idea...feeding the needy," Patt replied. "Count me in to support it wholeheartedly." "Thank you." Jules nodded to the other woman. Patt nodded back, then ventured just a little farther. "Merry Christmas, Jules." "I don't *do* Christmas," the Priestess retorted disdainfully, then she looked at the other women, her mouth curled playfully at one side. Patt responded with a wide grin. "I hope Nunkies brings you every thing you wish for, anyways." "Right now, I'd settle for Nunkies just showing himself." Jules looked at the lightened sky ruefully. "It's too late in the day now, though." Bonnie bounced back into the Peach, her face glowing. "It took some doing, but I got the phone away from Jade again," the Scribe announced. "I got through to Ms. Boydell and told her about the food surplus. She thanked us, but said that they had plenty of food for the holiday. It seems that *everyone* wants to do a good deed and feed the homeless on Christmas, plus helping the poor is a tradition for Boxing Day on the 26th..." Bonnie grinned widely. "Then, she made a suggestion and asked if we'd consider hosting the feast on a non-holiday. Not as much goodwill media publicity attached, but people get hungry every day, not just on holidays." "So, we wouldn't have to make it a *Christmas* celebration, just a celebration of...*whatever*." Jules smiled as she caught Bonnie's meaning. "By all means, call Ms. Boydell back and advise her that the Peach will be serving supper the evening of the 27th, and that the residents of Claymont Mission are cordially invited to attend." "Goody!" Bonnie clapped her hands and scampered off. She was beginning to enjoy jousting with Jade for phone privileges, it seemed. Jules turned to Patt. "I'm going to call an NA meeting for later this morning," she advised the mature addict. "Would you please talk to them, encourage them to come and share this repast with us?" "Sure thing." Patt got up from the table. "I'm in total agreement with this plan, Jules. I think this is probably just what this place needs to bring some spirit back. Count me in." Patt prepared to leave, then turned back to the Priestess. "Jules...about Nunkies. What do you think about asking the Roma to join our festivities too? Couldn't hurt to encourage a little goodwill, could it, just in case LaCroix is still running around cursed and all that? That might explain why he hasn't shown back up here." Jules looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, make the call, Patt. Ask Madam Ruzena if her family would also like to join us." "Thanks," Patt said. Alone again, Jules sipped at her beverage thoughtfully. She watched as Cabon moved around the restaurant, tidying tables and clucking at the bus boys. Just one more obstacle to their plans needed addressing. "Another task for Bonnie," Jules smiled slightly, enjoying the warmth of her tea. *************************************************************************** When Bonnie informed Monsieur Cabon that he could expect a packed house two evenings hence, the man began rubbing his hands in glee, his eyes shining in anticipation. When she told him *who* the guests would be, he began hiding the silver. "Now that's a pretty poor attitude to have, Louis," Bonnie fussed, following the man around as he began gathering up the fine linen from the tables. "You do not have to deal with zeese people on a day to day basis, Ma'moiselle Bonnie," Cabon replied, never slowing down from his task at hand. "Zeese people hang around on zee street, scaring away zee paying customer. Zay steal crackers when zee sidewalk cafe addition is open, and zay want to use our facilities." "They're just trying to survive, Louis," Bonnie protested, grabbing cloth napkins off his tray as fast as he could gather them, placing them back on the tables as she walked. "Well, let zem survive elsewhere. I do not need zee debris on my doorstep." Cabon set the linen tray down, threw up his hands and stalked away. "But you've never met them, Louis. You've never talked with them. Give this a chance, okay? Pleeeaaassseee!" "Monsieur Cabon acts like he could use a vacation, Bonnie." Debbie walked into the restaurant, noting Louis' quick departure. "What's he so upset about?" "We're having a big party at the Shrine the night after next, and I came in here to tell him so he could get things ready," Bonnie replied, watching as the maitre-d' disappeared into the Jeweled Peach's kitchen. Debbie lifted an eyebrow. "Party?" Bonnie clapped a hand over her mouth and looked quickly at the other addict. "You didn't hear anything from me, Fleurette. Jules is supposed to announce it at an NA meeting later this morning." The other addict shrugged. "It doesn't really matter to me, your Scribeness, because I really don't think anyone in this place is in a partying mood. I just came down here, looking for someone in charge. There's something taking place upstairs which needs - the Shrine *police.*" Bonnie noted the sarcasm in the other woman's voice. "Mids went into Tser's room 'by mistake' and disturbed the pseudo-velociraptor's hibernation cycle. She's up there terrorizing the sleeping area." "Okay," Bons said slowly. "I guess I'll go have a look-see." "Whatever," Debbie said. "But consider yourself warned: it's havoc up there. If I didn't know better, I'd think you and Patt had lost story control." Bonnie went back into the Shrine proper, shaking her head in incredulity. It appeared that Vachon had succeeded in retrieving the Moses episode from the trash bin after all. From somewhere in the far recesses of her brain, she thought she could almost hear the Spaniard's laughter. The petite addict took the circular stairs to the sleeping chambers, two at a time. On the second floor landing, she stopped, surprised to find three shivering, semi-clothed addicts huddling in the hallway. "What's shaking?" Bonnie asked cheerfully as she walked up. Susan, Jayne and Caren each gave the Scribe a cutting look. "Mids woke up the darned iguana," Susan replied. "Now, Moses thinks it's open season on anything that moves. She came into my room and twitched her tongue at my tush!" "She *stared* at me!" Jayne announced, her manner indignant. "Looked at me like I was dessert or something." "Like you were a plump strawberry, ripe for the picking," Caren said pleasantly. Jayne turned on the other addict, absolutely horrified. The Louisiana woman fluttered her eyelashes innocently. "So, where is the lizard now?" Bonnie asked, looking around. "Tser and Mids have her cornered in there," Susan said as she pointed to one of the closed doors. At the moment she did, someone inside shrieked. The four hall-bound addicts fell into silence, waiting. Nothing happened. There was no sound of movement, no noise from within, only the agony of wondering and the anticipation of the worst. Bonnie bolstered her nerve and reached for the door knob. It began to turn. All four addicts jumped back. The knob continued to rotate with excruciating sluggishness, then the door finally began to open. Slowly... A beam of light cut across the addicts' faces as the door opened wider. As they took in the scene, they gasped in horror. Tracy Sue and Nix, dressed in pink, fluffy velour bathrobes, their hair in large pink rollers, were standing in the entry way. "Eeeek!" Jayne squeaked hoarsely. "They look like twin pre-ripe berries!" "Or really bad parfaits," Caren nodded in agreement. Bonnie gaped. "Close your mouth, Scribe." Patt walked up and reprimanded the other addict. "Your stitches are showing. Yuck." Susan simply clasped her hand over her mouth and ran. "She did that a lot at CCC." Patt watched the blonde addict's retreat, then turned her attention back to the others. "What is everyone doing lurking in the hall?" "Waiting for the 'all clear the raptor has been recaptured' signal," Jayne replied. "Moses?" Tracy Sue and Nix snickered. "Coast clear. We got her happily back in her terrarium, and Mids is reading her a bedtime story - 'Lost World,' I believe. The kid can do some really neat sound effects, by the way. We just came in here to help." "Help?" Bonnie raised an inquiring eyebrow and the Arkansas mirror sisters commenced a giggling fit. "Yeah," Nix replied, recovering first. "I was videoing the whole thing, and we're setting up an MST3000-type screening in the video room later. Maybe it will help dispel the doom and gloom feeling a little." "I hate to say this," Bonnie whispered to Patt, "but maybe Nix has a good idea." "Scary," Patt muttered in agreement. "It doesn't involve mangoes or polyester, either." "Or rhubarb," Bons nodded in agreement. "Or was that rutabaga?" The mature addict and the Scribe moved away from the little hall gathering and headed toward Patt's room. "I see Vachon got his way and worked the iguana segment into the story," Patt noted as she shut her chamber door behind them. "I guess Mids and Tracy Sue must have made more of an impression on him than I first figured. He kept pushing for it and finally won." "He's good," Bonnie said as she nodded in agreement. "I hate to say it, but he's good." She gave Patt an inquiring look. "Any chance of saving the firepole piece?" Patt responded with a negative shake of her head. "Extraneous and non- plot moving. It has been deleted." Then the mature one shrugged, "Perhaps in a future story... who knows?" "Cabon didn't take the announcement of the party well," Bonnie informed Patt, plopping down on the bed again as Patt moved toward her PC. "Did you expect him to?" the Third Cousin asked, pushing the power button. She was as addicted to the computer as she was to LaCroix, and made no bones about it. Patt quickly scanned her e-mail and sighed. "It's all for Fred and Barney." "Well, I really expected Louis to moan a little about the extra work, but I didn't expect the utter negativity he fed back," Bonnie continued. "It was like a personal affront to him to feed these people." "We only see the do-good side of this picture, Bons," Patt said, continuing to scan her screen. "Cabon has to deal with the day to day problems that having the homeless on their doorstep causes the business owners. A lot of patrons are scared off by a ragged person sprawled on the sidewalk, begging for drink money. The homeless picture is not pretty." Patt looked at the forlorn Scribe. "Hey, cheer up. We're doing what we can. We'll feed folk the day after tomorrow and try to capture a little caring in our hearts for the rest of the year. Louis will probably come around. He usually does." "Yeah, he will come around, or someone will lock him in a cabinet." The melodious chiming sound of the ceremonial gong echoed throughout the Shrine, announcing a Nunkies Anonymous meeting. Patt and Bons looked at each other. "Showtime," they said in unison, heading toward the door. *************************************************************************** Annie took a deep breath and opened the door. She stepped into the open space of the loft proper, then quickly scanned the room. She sighted LaCroix seated on the leather sofa, his back to her. As she walked closer, Annie silently willed the ancient vampire to turn around and acknowledge that she was there. She wanted some sign of concern: was she upset? Was she afraid? LaCroix didn't move. Annie swallowed her disappointment as she rounded one of the leather chairs. Annie thought ruefully. It wasn't until she came to stand before his chair that LaCroix glanced up and considered her with a hard stare. Annie's features and figure received a cursory examination, but LaCroix's steely blue gaze centered upon the clotted gash above the addict's brow for several pendulous seconds before he met her eyes. "I trust that you are no worse for wear?" Annie's lips twitched with the inkling of a mischievous smile. "I'll live." LaCroix raised his eyebrow with a hint of emotion. He was amused, yet slightly annoyed that she might dare to mock his earlier weakness. "Lucky girl." He gestured toward Joan of Arc's cross, lying in plain view beside the crate of blood on the sofa. "Would you mind removing that monstrosity from my sight? I find it rather...irritating." Annie quickly picked up the cross, then frowned as she scanned the loft further. "Where did its box go?" "Here," Nick's voice announced from across the room. He waved an object in either hand. "It's funny how my old universal remote was inside. I've been missing it since - what - May? Strange, but I don't recall concealing my remote control beneath a holy object for safe-keeping," he said sarcastically as he handed the wooden container to Annie. The head addict gingerly put the antique cross to rest inside its proper storage site, then passed the closed box back to the detective. "Yes, that *is* strange," she commiserated knowingly. Nick had realized that she had hidden the remote beneath the cross during her jaunt in police custody a la loft last May, but she didn't have to admit it *or* apologize. Too much being nice to Nick might give Annie a tummy ache. That's when Annie realized her tummy *was* aching. She frowned in consternation. Nick had food (bovine vintage), Nunkies had food (human vintage), and six hours had passed since Annie's last glass of champagne. This would not do, not if she was going to spend the day at the loft. The NunkMommy cleared her throat. "Uhm, Nick? Do you have any mortal food around here?" "No, Ann, but I hear there's a great restaurant on Queen Street...'The Gilded Apricot,' or something." The detective appeared stern as he made the deliberate misnomer. "If you want something besides protein shake mix, you'll just have to leave." "You're being an ungracious host, Nicholas," LaCroix chided. "She wasn't invited." "But she is here, she is staying, and the noblest behavior on your part would be hospitality," LaCroix concluded, causing Nick's forehead to pucker and Annie's lips to spread in a satisfied smile. "Perhaps you should order in some food. I'm sure you recall how Janette reacted when culottes became high fashion?" Nick shuddered reflexively, preferring not to have that horrific flashback. "It was terrifying." "But not half so terrifying as Ann two quarts short of Diet Dr. Pepper," LaCroix warned. Nick marched double-time for the phone, while Annie preened as she provided Nick with a list of necessary food and beverages to keep a NunkMommy happy. *************************************************************************** The speed with which the addicts arrived at the main Shrine altar room was slower than usual. Imperceptibly slower, except for the trained eye of the High Priestess of Nunkies. Jules surveyed the room as they slowly gathered together, taking their seats. Their faces reflected a multitude of emotions, ranging from anger to apology, hostility to angst. Jules noted. Yet, even though the atmosphere in the room was charged with high negative power, all of the addicts currently residing at the Shrine were in attendance, even Laura. Jules was almost surprised that Laura had come down, but, then, Laura was as devoted a follower of Nunkies as anyone in the room, if not more so. The Priestess gave the Californian a smile, which Laura returned thinly. Jules motioned for Mids to cease striking the gong. After Mids took her seat near a front aisle, the Priestess looked out at the addicts and cleared her voice. "Thank you all for coming," Jules started the meeting simply, without the usual bravado that Nunkies Anonymous was known for. "This meeting will be short, and I appreciate your patience." Jules located Patt and Bons, relying on them for support. "As you all know," Jules began again, "Bons, Patt and I went searching for answers shortly after we suspected that something had happened to LaCroix. During this venture, we came into contact with a number of street-related citizens, including members of the Roma community and residents of a homeless shelter. They were very helpful to us in our search for Nunkies and, with your help, we'd like to repay their kindness." The room was showing some responsiveness now, several addicts shifting in interest. Jules smiled inwardly, but kept her manner regal and to-the-point. "The three of us," Jules indicated toward Bons and Patt, "discussed this and decided that one way we could show our appreciation is by hosting a supper at the Peach. As you all know, this winter storm has curtailed the restaurant's business severely, leaving the larder overstocked and foodstuffs threatening to spoil. With all the hungry people we encountered during our excursion, such needless squander seems sinful. Therefore, we have invited the Crazov family and the Claymont Mission to join us the day after tomorrow in a feast of celebration." "Celebration of what?" Charl asked, looking around at the other addicts, then turning back to Jules. "Christmas is over." "Feeding the hungry shouldn't be just a holiday event, ladies," Jules noted. "Helping the less fortunate can occur any time one is able to provide. It can be a holiday of our own making." "What should we call it, then?" Kusine spoke up. "Feeding Day?" "Well," Patt leaned over and whispered to Bonnie, "being in the Shrine of a vampire, feeding day is kind of appropriate." Bonnie wedged her elbow between two of Patt's ribs, and the older addict coughed into silence. "How about 'Have a Heart' Day?" Jesse suggested. "That sounds more like sharing one's self, rather than just feeding." A murmur of discussion and agreement seemed to wash over the addicts. "That's a wonderful suggestion, Jesse," Jules nodded. She looked at the others, who echoed the Priestess' nod. "All right, then, 'Have a Heart' Day it is, and we're depending on all your hearts to make it a success. We need all of the addicts to pitch in and help by decorating, cooking, serving, cleaning up - well, the fanfic fairies will clean up - but you get the gist of things." Jules scanned the addicts. "Are you willing to help?" Jules looked straight at Laura, who met Jules questioning stare with stony ambivalence. Before Jules could continue, Laura stood. The room was so quiet that the ticking of the mantle clock pounded like a heartbeat. All eyes were on the Californian as Laura addressed the Priestess. "Of course we will help, Jules," Laura said quietly. "We may not be able to provide for little Lucky right now, but maybe we can make a difference in another child's life by helping to make sure that they don't go hungry." She turned around, looking at the other addicts. "Of course, we'll help." "Then," Jules clapped her hands together, "let's do it." ************************************************************************** Nick grimaced as he washed Annie's dishes in the sink. Wiping a stray smudge of red mole from his thumb, he noticed a raw area where the pepper sauce had been. he wondered. The detective grunted his annoyance, then finished scrubbing the rarely-used dinner plate with more caution. Before returning to the living area ( Nick wondered distractedly), he made a stop at the fridge. Now, nestled among the rows of green glass bottles, there was an assortment of aluminum cans, fruit, and more of the dangerous Mexican food. Nick half- suspected Annie had asked for peaches as a joke, not because she intended to eat any of the fruit. The detective could have sworn he actually heard his sire snicker when the head addict made the request. Nick shrugged and sighed, grabbed a diet Dr. Pepper from the refrigerator, then rejoined his guests. Nick stopped in front of the couch, staring blankly at the sight of Annie and his sire. Somehow, during the course of the morning, the head addict had maneuvered herself so that she was planted firmly at LaCroix's side on the sofa. His sire had consumed half of the supply Janette had provided, and the crate was now subtly tucked out of sight, but handy should LaCroix's appetite smolder anew. With the crate's absence, there was plenty of cushion space for the current tableau: Ann was asleep, her curly head resting on LaCroix's shoulder. Her left arm was wrapped around his waist as his cradled her shoulders. Annie's bare feet were tucked to the side, her lace up boots finally discarded. Nick set the now-useless soft drink aside, using a recycled coaster from the Raven so the drink wouldn't sweat on his antique table. Straightening, Nick felt a wave of confusion sweep over him as he watched LaCroix gently extract himself from the sofa without waking Annie. He brushed her brow with a light kiss, Annie sighed contentedly in her sleep, then LaCroix approached the other vampire. "Gaping in surprise is rude, Nicholas. Close your mouth," his sire commanded. "You never cease to amaze me," Nick muttered, walking toward the piano bench. LaCroix paused long enough to pick up his glass, then followed. "I will take that as a compliment, rather than admonish you for harboring such a poor opinion of your sire." "Don't act so smug," Nick said roughly as he leaned his elbows against the closed lid of the grand. "You know why your actions shock me. Annie is a mortal - the addicts are mortals - and you almost act as though you give a damn what happens to them." LaCroix moved to stand at his side. "I do." The elder vampire took a slow sip of his beverage, then swallowed methodically. There were several moments of silence between the two men, then LaCroix spoke once more, his words low, but firm. "I am glad that you prevented me from taking her, Nicholas. Had there been any other outcome, it would have been... regrettable." "What about the men you killed on the dock? Do you regret their deaths? No. Why should I have a mote of faith that you would treat NA any differently? Addicts, Felidiates, whatever they choose to call themselves, they've died because of you in the past, and they are bound to die because of you in the future." LaCroix's head snapped around, his eyes burning with icy fire as he hissed, "I regret that I was staked before I had the opportunity to destroy both of those men who left Ann to die. This world easily simplifies into three concepts: loyalty, power and survival. Life for a mortal is a balance among the three. The sailors were in Annie's hire - that is purchased loyalty. They abandoned that loyalty in favor of their own survival, and, unfortunately for them, they were not powerful enough to escape my wrath. Annie, however, respects all three qualities: as the ship was sinking she had the power to call to me over a mental bond." Nick's eyes widened in disbelief. "But she's mortal!" "I was surprised myself, but, I assure you, the link was real. Had Annie been incapable of drawing me to her location, she would have drowned. Power and survival," LaCroix repeated proudly. "Her loyalty to me is almost staggering. Do you think she willingly offered me her throat because she was under my sway? Annie never truly succumbed. Her submission was just out of reach. In the end, she would have given me her life out of loyalty, because I needed it to survive." "Because she imagines herself in love with you," Nick corrected. "Oh, Nicholas...Haven't you realized in all these centuries that love, trust, friendship and respect are all different facets of loyalty?" LaCroix released a self-deprecating chuckle. "Loyalty...sweet beguiling loyalty. The respect of an army - it can make you feel as though you are a god. The unwavering companionship of a friend - it banishes the black wolf of loneliness, and love...love grants you nobility. It can even grant you a soul...or a conscience." LaCroix moved to take a gulp from his glass, but reconsidered and set the goblet aside. "Never doubt how important the addicts are to me, Nicholas. They have earned *my* loyalty." Nick stared at his sire, his thoughts dizzy, delighted, yet wary. Finally, the younger vampire lifted his own glass to his sire in a toast. "I can respect that." Pleasure widened LaCroix's eyes in a barely perceptible flicker as he saluted his offspring with his goblet. Lacroix extended his free palm, and Nick accepted it in a firm handshake. LaCroix watched the younger vampire through solemn eyes, then stated earnestly, "Thank you, Nicholas." "Thank you, LaCroix." An eyebrow arched. "For what?" Nick appeared bewildered, yet resolute. "I don't know. Everything? Nothing? For the longest friendship?" LaCroix's smile grew slowly as his grip on Nick's fingers solidified. "For loyalty." *************************************************************************** It never ceases to amaze how a common goal can heal wounds, and perhaps no one was more surprised than the addicts themselves. Things were somewhat tense when the Nunkies Anonymous contingent invaded the Jeweled Peach directly after the non-regularly scheduled meeting. Upon the arrival of the addicts, Monsieur Cabon had approached Jules, as the NunkMommy was not present, and tendered a rather terse letter of resignation. The High Priestess had then taken the Maitre-'d aside for a private conference. In her most regal, astute businesswoman manner, Jules had reminded Louis of his contract and certain clauses which involved personal health, wealth and welfare. Cabon had grudgingly capitulated in the end, with Jules' assurances that he would not have to be personally involved in the occasion, and that all would be put right with the Peach before his return from vacation in two weeks. Part of the agreement with Louis Cabon had been the exclusion of the use of the Peach's dinnerware. Patt had decided that this was probably a good idea, as many of the homeless might be uncomfortable in the crowd surroundings and prefer to have their supper in a take-out manner. Having disposable cutlery would allow their visitors the option of staying or leaving, without worrying about having to eat with their fingers. So, with as dignified a shudder as she could manage, Jules had agreed to the use of *plastic* forks, knives and spoons and *paper* napkins and tablecloths. Such items were not kept in stock at either the Peach or within the Shrine, therefore the addicts had to obtain them from an outside source. After a brief discussion with Patt and Bonnie as to where the disposable tableware could be purchased, Jules appointed KC and Tracy Sue the task of walking the two block distance to the neighborhood Open-all-Night Toronto- Mart MegaMetro store. The High Priestess left the two addicts with the understanding that they would return with only the items needed for the feast...no very bad videos in need of critique were to be purchased. The two Arkansas women had moaned a bit, but accepted the assignment and headed out into the wintry chill. "It's much better to have them run this errand than to give them kitchen duty," Jules mused, watching the two younger women depart. "I can just imagine the food fights which might... no, *would* have prevailed." "Food is not going to be a problem - we have all the stuff at the Peach," Patt remarked. "How about the decorations?" Jules looked around the Peach's main dining area, noting the elegant paneling and refined touches which gave it the premier status it enjoyed. "I really don't see the need for decorations," Jules replied. "The Peach is a polished jewel in itself. It needs no further adornment." "I agree with you," Patt acceded, "but it is a little *high-brow* for the folk we're scheduled to entertain. Don't you think it would be better to tone it down a little, and make the place more *user-friendly* for our expected visitors?" Jules gave Patt one of her disdainful, pinched-nose expressions. "You want to do Christmas, don't you?" Patt grinned slightly. "We have plenty of decorations, so it would be no added expense. " Jules did not look convinced. Patt brought out the big guns. "Come on, Jules. Do it for the kids," Patt nodded her head toward the Shrine entrance where Mids and Jesse stood waiting. Patt looked back at Jules, "For all our kids - both here and at the shelter." Jules closed her eyes, bit her lip and flexed her forehead muscles. "All right," she said finally, the assent seeming to cause her physical pain. Jules then grabbed Patt's arm, squeezing the appendage forcefully. "But do it with taste. Christmas is over, remember? And, come the 28th, the decorations are gone. Not one nanosecond later." "Yes, Ma'am," Patt gave the High Priestess a quick salute, then turned and gave Mids and Jesse a thumbs-up sign. The girls' faces widened into beaming grins and they scampered back into the Shrine to fetch the decoration boxes. Bonnie was busy taking inventory in the kitchen, aided by Heather, Annette and Jayne. She assigned Heather punch duties, with explicit instructions to not spike the cider. Heather swore a Celtic oath, more out of custom than complaint, and set to her task with relish. Annette and Jayne began pulling meat from the freezer to begin the thawing process. Both had old family recipes to share and began a friendly argument over the merits of various seasoning methods. "If it ain't Cajun, it ain't palatable," Caren announced, coming to join in the kitchen activities. "I don't mind helping, if you'd like." "The more the merrier," Bonnie greeted the Louisianan. "There's something that Patt told me about a while back that I've been interested in trying. Do you know anything about *frying* a turkey?" Caren's eyes lit with a mischievous gleam. "Oh, yeah. Just give me space and plenty of peanut oil." The decorating committee was busy hanging greenery around windows when KC trudged back into the Peach, laden with plastic MegaMetro shopping bags. "Where is Tracy Sue?" Jules asked, looking for the young and evil (well, *misunderstood*) addict's alter-ego. "It was the weirdest thing," KC announced, unhooking the bags from her arms and dropping them on a nearby table. "We were looking - *just* looking - at some really cheap videos, and an announcement came over the store intercom, asking Tracy Sue to come to the information desk. We figured it was one of you guys, telling us to bring something that you'd forgotten to add to the list. Anyway, Trace went up to find out what was going on, and, next thing I knew, there came a loud screech from the front of the store. I ran to find out what had happened, and Tracy was speeding out the front of the store yelling something about 'Scavenger Hunt!' That's the last I saw of her." "Oh, my," Jules furrowed her brow in worry as she imagined the bail expenses for a repeat offender. "I hope she doesn't accost too many innocents during her search." KC examined the room with interest. "Looks like you have plenty of people hanging up things. Is it okay if I go help in the kitchen?" "Hmmmmm, I suppose," Jules said absently, her mind still mulling Tracy Sue's sudden departure. "Thanks," KC grinned wickedly, taking off before the High Priestess could realize what she'd unleashed. As Jade and Kate began spreading out the disposable tablecloths, Patt handed candles to Susan to be placed around as centerpieces. In a moment of complete unthought, Patt gave Dragon Sallie some matches, with instructions to light the candles as Susan placed them. After fumbling with the little sticks of wood for some minutes, Dragon snorted and pulled out her handy blowtorch (hardly even used in this story except for some necessary horde- replenishment), lighting four tapers at once, completely eliminating the need for the little sulfur-tipped nuisances. With Patt now busy supervising the table decorating, Jules turned her complete attention to the draping of the Peach's walls. Tser was standing on a ladder, with Kusine handing her garland and red ribbon. Jules winced slightly. "Can we tone that down, just a mite?" the Priestess hoped. Tser looked thoughtful for a moment, then removed a black silk sash from her waist. She carefully threaded it with the green and red. The result was a rather attractive shadowing affect, which earned Jules' nod of pleasure. "More black ribbon!" Tser shouted, to Mids and Jesse. "I can help," several eyes turned to look as Laura stepped forward. "Remember, I told you that at my home, my son and I celebrate Christmas with a Halloween motif, 'Nightmare Before Christmas,' and all that? I have plenty of black ribbon and other items which might be usable. Let me go get them." She moved to the Shrine entrance to join Mids and Jesse. "She has more control than I do," Charl whispered to Debbie, watching Laura walk from the room. "The only thing I'd be volunteering my black ribbon for right now would be a noose for the High Priestess." "Shuuussshhh," Debbie cautioned, glancing toward Jules. "Just keep your mind on the flower arranging and remember: Jules just *thinks* she won this one." "Yeah," a wicked little smile spread across Charl's face. "We did get the last laugh, didn't we?" Heads together, the two women began giggling, never noticing that Bonnie, coming from the kitchen to seek Jules' advice about hors-d'oeurves, had overheard their conversation. The Scribe rerouted, making a bee-line for the napkin-spreading Third Cousin instead. "Do you know anything about any secret doings among the addicts?" Bonnie asked, catching Patt's arm and startling the older addict. "Huhhhh?" Bonnie looked toward Charl and Debbie. "Those two seem awfully full of themselves and are talking about 'last laughs.' Any ideas on the subject?" Patt's face registered guilt, which she immediately masked. "Uhhhh, no." Bonnie clinched Patt's flesh, causing the mature addict to yelp. "Come with me," Bonnie insisted, tugging at the other woman. "I don't *do* secrets." "Hey, leggo!" Patt protested as Bonnie began discreetly to drag her toward an inset private dining area. Their progress was interrupted, though, by a sudden high pierced screaming followed by extensive metallic clanging from the kitchen. "Sounds like your hub of command is under attack," Patt said smugly as Bonnie released her grip and ran for the kitchen. "This isn't over, Elmore!" Bons retorted over her shoulder. "Like Patton said, 'I'll be back!'" "Patton said, 'I will return!' oh ye queen of research," Patt called to the retreating Scribe. "The Terminator guy said 'I'll be back'!" "Whatever!" Bons pushed through the stainless steel doors, her reputation for having the last word still intact, only to come face to face with a more fowl problem: Laying on the floor, basting the tile with its juices, was a half- cooked turkey. "What happened?" Bonnie asked, giving the bird a quick glance, then turning to her staff. Annette and Jayne, resplendent in full length white aprons and starched chef hats pointed at KC. "It smelled good," KC said as she shuffled her feet, glaring at the offending poultry. "Soooo...I was just making sure it was cooking okay. I didn't want anything to burn." KC attempted to appear noble and innocent, like a scout selling cookies. It didn't work. "You were pinching a wing," Annette said accusingly. "Well, luckily, we have plenty more," Bonnie sighed. "Clean this up, KC, while I pull another bird out of the meat locker." "Will it thaw in time?" Caren asked. "This is fanfic, Melvina," Bonnie assured her. "We can thaw this puppy in two minutes flat, if we need to." Caren grinned perkily. "Okay, then! I'll go get my needle." All stopped, everyone turning slowly toward the Louisiana woman. "Needle?" they squirmed. "Injector needle," Caren nodded. "To squirt the seasoning juice into the turkey. It's frying time!" She pointed toward a deep cast iron vat of peanut oil bubbling over a gas flame. "Ohhhhh," Jayne remarked, staring at the rolling liquid. "That looks downright cannibalistic." "Mmmmm, mmmmm, good!" Caren replied, easing a prepared turkey into the boiling oil. The air was immediately filled with the aromatically pungent bouquet of the braising bird. The affect was a salivating by all of the kitchen addicts which rivaled any drool brought forth by Nunkies adoration. As the aroma wafted through the kitchen door into the Peach, shouts of appreciation could be heard. Unfortunately, the smells did not confine themselves to the Peach. KC was on her knees, dabbing at turkey fat with multiple paper towels, when an uproar was heard within the restaurant, punctuated by a series of barks. The Arkansan looked up just in time to see the addicts' canine companions come blundering through the swinging kitchen doors, all suffering from food fever. Fred tied with Watson for first place, both skidding through the poultry grease with doggie abandon, grabbing hold of the fowl on the run. KC made a dive for the sliding bird, but only succeeded in slipping, her hands going out from under her. The two dogs hauled the bird across the floor some five feet before stopping for a quick gobble. The two other resident dogs, Devo and Barney, entered at a more mannerly pace, but eager, nonetheless. They noted the two others devouring the repast with vulgar indulgence, and barked repeatedly in outcry before diving into the kill. The cats arrived next, their whiskers twitching in anticipation. Some were much more sedate and chose to stalk the situation because the annoying canines were in their way. Bonnie noted Kitty Nunkies, however, slide into stealth mode. She howled in terror. "Stop them!" Bonnie yelped, grabbing Kitty Nunkies in one arm and Emily in the other, and shooing Vivian away with a foot. Vivian ignored her. "Uncooked poultry is not good for pets!" Addicts, both kitchen help and newly arrived from the restaurant, began clutching at romping dogs and cat, while said furry types sprang for the turkey scraplets. Barnaby and Dache wrestled for a loose drumstick while Vivian tugged the neck loose from the carcass. Kusine earned a scratch for her efforts when she lifted Sunshine from the fray. She held the struggling cat aloft, and cried, "Does anyone know where Libby is? I've rescued her cat!" "Last I saw she was in the kitchen/lab looking for something to eat," Susan shouted as she hefted Sabu and Mariah from the floor. "The lights were still overly bright, she began to chant, 'Shiney...Pretty...Blinkey...' then passed out again. We shoved her back into her cubby hole. That was about two hours ago." "Hurry! Get them all out of here!" Bonnie encouraged urgently. "Don't let the animals eat the bird! They could choke on bones, and their poor domesticated digestion can't handle actual chunks of flesh! We'll have dogs and cats throwing up all over the Shrine! Do you *realize* how traumatic that will be for the animals *and* Jules? We don't want that to happen, now do we? To make matters worse, every one of the dogs and cats could get food poisoning or bacterial infections from the uncooked turkey! I don't want to spend the next week feeding all the animals antibiotics, thankyouverymuch! Kitty Nunkies does *not* do amoxicillin!" As Bonnie finished speaking, she spied Eastway disappearing within the cavity of the demolished turkey. "Ack! Sallie! Grab that cat!" The Dragon caught the bonsai-sized cat by the hind legs and pulled the clawing feline from its meaty cave. Eastway squawked in a chain of colorful kitty curses and grabbed one final chunk of bird flesh before the Dragon managed to extract her. Face to face now, the two looked at each other and footnoted the encounter with mutual throaty growls. As the last of the critters were escorted bodily from the kitchen, Bonnie noticed Jules standing at the kitchen door, her face unfathomable. Devo and Watson, smug smiles of satiation on their muzzles, stood behind her. "My, my, my," the High Priestess noted, looking around. "What a mess." "Minor inconvenience," Bonnie reported, reaching down to retrieve what was left of the bones. "We'll have it cleaned up in no time." "Nooooo," Jules said quietly, "I will supervise the kitchen for the remainder of the preparations. *You* will take charge of decorating, which is almost complete. By the way, I will be keeping an eye on you, so no tastelessness." "Suits me," Bons sniffed walking from the area of her shame, then she remembered something and nodded, "I need to check some stuff in the restaurant anyway." "Good," Jules watched Bonnie to the door then returned her attention to the kitchen staff, who already had the place spotless. Jules smiled in acknowledgment of the combined efforts of the addicts and fanfic fairies. "Excellent." Then she aimed her eyes toward the grease covered KC. The Arkansas addict threw a thumb over her shoulder and stated, "I was just headed for the showers." "Good idea, dear," Jules watched the soggy addict squish out of the kitchen, her oily footprints magically disappearing as she walked away. Outside in the restaurant area, Bonnie gathered her six furry companions and escorted them to the Shrine entrance. Kitty Nunkies met the floor with feline grace and began walking with the air of an emperor back into his abode. Mariah, though, decided that flying was better, and attached herself once again to the back of the object of her affection. Once Kitty Nunkies and his kitten cargo were out of sight, Bons watched suspiciously as Vivian padded into the shadows. the Scribe thought jealously. Seeing that all her felines were safely back inside their NA home, Bonnie turned and scanned the restaurant. She spotted Patt on the opposite side of the room and began striding purposefully toward her. "Uh-oh," Patt remarked as she swiftly handed an artificial poinsettia to Jesse, who stuck the red flower behind her ear and grinned. "I've gotta go, kid. Catch you later." "Halt!" Bonnie shouted, quickening her pace. For a large woman, Patt moved with surprising dexterity. She would have reached the front entrance of the Peach had Bonnie not resorted to nontraditional methods of personal transportation. The Scribe grabbed hold of a hanging piece of silver garland and with a very loud yodel, swung across the length of the restaurant. The Scribe caught Patt in the shoulder blades with the heels of her non-sensible shoes and sent the older addict flying. Bonnie finished her tackle by pouncing on the Third Cousin's back and administering a head lock. "You are not setting a good example for the others," Patt yelped. "YEOWICH!!" "Example, smample," the Scribe responded, pushing the other addict's face down to the floor. "What gives with the covert action against Jules?" "Nothin really," Patt smuffed, her face buried in carpet. Bonnie rolled the Louisianan over so she could see her face. Patt noted the threat in the other woman's features and buckled. "We still have the baby," she croaked. Bonnie rocked back on her heels, amazed. "Wha...what did you say?" she sputtered. Patt sat up, cross-legged, hand rubbing her throat. "I said that we still have the baby," the Third Cousin repeated. "Lucky was never turned over to the authorities." "But..." Bonnie protested, "...there were police! They picked Lucky up!" "Impostors," Patt said, then she grinned sneakily. "They were really a couple of Kiki's Buff Slave Boys dressed up as cops. The baby is in the Madame's *custody* as we speak." Bonnie's mouth gaped open. "That is the most unethical conduct I've ever heard of," she gasped, "I can't believe it ... especially from you!! I mean, it's extremely Cousinly behavior - wow! - but you're an extension of the court and juvenile system, for heaven's sake!" "In America, yes," Patt stood up and extended a hand toward the Scribe. "In Canada, though, I'm just another criminal awaiting extradition." Bonnie put her face in her hands, ignoring Patt's offer of aid. "Jules is gonna kill somebody..." "Nahhhh," Patt grinned again. "After all, she's the one who supervised the handing over of the kid." Bonnie looked up, flabbergasted at Patt's gall. "It's gonna be okay, Bons, really. I've been keeping close telephone contact with Kiki - supervision, so to speak. All is well, and the Buff Slave Boys have even given Lucky a mini-sarong thingee." Patt became very serious. "If we'd turned that baby over to child services, there would have been a depression in this place which might have well turned to mutiny. It just seemed stupid to surrender the kid, especially since we know who his parents are. Let's find out the whole story before involving the cops. I've called Ms. Boydell, and the Wisemans are supposed to get in touch with me as soon as they check back in at the Mission." "Argggggghh!" Bonnie moaned, returning her head to her hands. She began twitching all over, until even the end strands of her red hair were quivering. "Come on, Bons," Patt said as she reached down and took hold of the other woman's upper arm. With a hoisting motion, the Third Cousin lifted the Scribe to her feet. "We have a feast hall to finish decorating. Guests will be arriving soon." Bonnie began slapping at Patt in rage. "You don't understand, you twit! You've completely undermined the authority of the High Priestess." "And I'm sure I'll pay for it!" Patt lifted her arms to shield her face from the blows. "But, as I see it, Jules really just wanted the baby out of the Shrine, and the baby is out of the Shrine." Bonnie stopped her frantic pummeling and stood there, breathing in unsteady gulps. "She's got to be told." "She will be," Patt nodded, "*after* the party." "Nonononono...Now," Bonnie turned, headed for the kitchen. Patt grabbed at the other woman's arm, pulling her back. Bonnie shook her limb furiously, shouting for the Third Cousin to release her hold. It was at that moment that Tracy Sue burst through the restaurant entrance. She held a piece of paper listing a series of items in one hand and a semi-full plastic sack in the other. Tracy passed by Patt and Bons muttering "canned whip cream," and walked directly to the kitchen. Bonnie gave Patt one last recriminating look and followed Tracy Sue. Before Bonnie reached the kitchen entrance, however, several bangs, thumps and a scream of rage emitted from the food preparation area. The Scribe paused, then turned and walked slowly back toward Patt. "Maybe it *would* be better to tell her later," Bons muttered as she passed by the older addict. "Jules would be really upset if this tinsel stuff isn't hung in a dignified manner." Patt grinned at her temporary reprieve, but sobered quickly. Two things demanded her immediate attention. Charl and Debbie. At the moment, they were busy placing bouquets on the tables. When approached, Charl bristled for a moment, then broke into a smile at Patt's words. "Okay, Patt," the addict replied. "Charity in our hearts and goodwill for all. Got it." "Good," Patt continued her trek through the room. She'd told a little white lie, of course, but the addicts were happy and all thoughts of insurrection had been aborted. Dealing with Jules, though, would take more than a fib, Patt knew. But, as she'd told Bonnie, that could wait until after the party. *************************************************************************** End Of Part Eleven It was two nights after Christmas and the Peach was bedecked, awaiting the arrival of the post-holiday guests. The vittles were cooked and ready to eat, and all of the addicts were assembled to greet. But, as time passed on, and no one came in, the good spirits of the addicts began to wear thin . . . Jules looked once more toward the front door of the Peach, her brow drawn in a combination of consternation and worry. Around her, the addicts were growing fidgety, obviously despondent that the promised feast appeared to have failed. "I'm hungry," KC muttered, looking longingly at the baked turkey she stood behind, knife and serving fork ready. Mids looked up from where she and Jesse were engaged in a spirited game of table football, using a tiny red plastic bell as the ball. "So am I. When are we supposed to eat? OUCH." Mids reached up, touching the spot on her temple where Jesse's punt had landed. The other girl grinned at her and said, "Touchdown." "The addicts are getting restless," Tser leaned over and whispered to Bonnie. The Scribe was standing near the Shrine entrance, glaring at Patt. As Tser's words registered, the petite redhead turned and blinked at the woman. "What?" "Look around," Tser continued, her eyes surveying the room. "It's like we've all been stood up." "Well, it looks like we have," Charl said as she walked up, her face a pretty pout. "And I was really looking forward to playing with the kids from the shelter. We really needed some lift for our spirits." "Yeah, I was looking forward to having the kids here too." Susan joined the group. "But, if they're not coming, I'm heading for bed. It's too dreary in here." "I wonder what happened to them?" Kate remarked, coming up behind Tser. "I don't know, because I'm the one who called the shelter and, at that time, they seemed eager to accept the invitation," Bonnie shrugged. "Maybe I'll go give them another call." The other addicts murmured in agreement, and Bonnie looked toward Jules, catching the Priestess' eye. Jules, understanding Bons idea, nodded her head in approval. The Scribe headed back into the Shrine, hurrying toward the communications room. Jules watched as the addicts talked softly among themselves, waiting for word from Bonnie. The Priestess was studying Patt when she heard a confrontational noise from within the Shrine and the Scribe's loud voice saying, "Give it up, Jade. Give me the receiver, NOW!" There was a loud *thwap!*, a painful yelp and stillness. Kusine and Jayne, who were standing nearby, ran through the Shrine entrance to get further details. Jules hung her head, her eyes closed. "This is not good," she moaned. "Nope," Vachon spoke from where he stood at her elbow. "Not good at all." Startled, Jules whirled to face the Spaniard. "What are you doing here, Vachon?" she demanded, squinting toward the clock. "It's not even full dusk yet." "Nope, but then I was inside already, so all I needed was relative darkness," the vampire smiled. "You have some neat hiding places in su casa, Julesy. I had a lot of fun exploring. Kind of reminded me of the old days, except there was no one to conquer." Then, before Jules could react, Vachon snaked his arm around the Priestess' waist and pulled her close. "Unless we count you, of course. Care to be vanquished?" Jules, snugly held in the Spaniard's arms, was momentarily still. Her heartbeat raced, her face flushed. Vachon, noting this unexpected response from the woman, gentled his smile. He moved closer to her, his stubbled cheek brushing her soft one. "I'll show *you* vanquishing, Vachon," Jules recovered quickly. Placing a single finger on each side of his nose, she made a decisive twisting motion with her hand. "YEOWCH!!" the Spaniard cried, releasing the Priestess and pulling back swiftly. "Sorry," Jules said, smoothing her clothes and giving the vampire a slightly smug look. "I guess growing up with brothers does that to a girl." "Uhh, huhh," Vachon rasped as he rubbed his nose and considered the woman guardedly. "Vachon, there is something I want to ask you about," Jules said. "Do you have any idea what happened to the people from Claymont?" "I have a theory," Vachon replied. "Look around, Jules. What do you see?" The High Priestess examined the room carefully. "Elegance," Jules responded proudly. "Refinement and dignity." Vachon nodded. "Yes, exactly. Very upscale. If you're used to soup kitchens and handouts, a place like this could be kind of intimidating, couldn't it? Especially, when you spent most of the year being swept from the front of such places like trash on the street." Jules didn't respond for a moment, then she nodded and turned thoughtful hazel eyes on the vampire. "I see your point, Vachon. These people might feel the place is a bit stiff, wouldn't they? Any suggestions?" The Spaniard smiled. "I guess I could go talk with them, if you'd like. I could tell them that you're sincere and the dress code isn't in effect this evening. Of course," he said, massaging his nasal area petulantly, "that means I have to go face them with my injured, red nose." The dark-haired vampire grinned slyly. "Could you kiss it and make it better?" "You'd have better luck getting a kiss from Rudolf," Jules retorted. "Don't be such a *Vixen*," Vachon grinned, turning toward the door. "I'll go see what I can do, okay?" He paused, as if waiting. "Well?" Jules prodded. "Just a minute," Vachon said. "Bonnie has a line coming up." On cue, the Scribe raced from the Shrine, followed by Kusine. "I just finished talking to one of the Mission folk. They said the bus we chartered loaded up and pulled out over an hour ago. I hope they didn't break down." "Okay, the sun's down," Vachon said. "I'll go see if I can track down our wayward congregation." *************************************************************************** Annie tried to squash the feeling of victory that came with avoiding all of Nick's subtle and not-so-subtle attempts to shoo her away. The blonde vampire had committed to working on Christmas and Boxing Day nights so that other detectives could spend the holidays with their families, so there wasn't much he could do to interfere with Annie's activities without abandoning his obligation to the mortal world. The detective was caught between a rock and a brick wall, and Annie delighted in his every tortured moment. She fully intended to apologize later, dreaming of a lovely new cactus Nick could install in front of the blinds. she chuckled to herself. Christmas night, Annie had accompanied LaCroix to the Raven. There, she had a pleasant reunion with Janette, and after one-too-many Flaming Diet Dr. Peppers provided by Miklos, the club owner wheedled a promise out of the NunkMommy for new pinatas. Annie woke up on Boxing Day with a hangover, craft duties, and Nunkies nowhere in sight. She spent the afternoon, her hands coated in paste and paints, somewhat thankful that Lacroix wasn't around to see her disheveled and goopy condition. It was nearing dusk as Annie put the final touches on the papier-mache Lucius bust and a caterpillar a la 'Alice In Wonderland.' The Raven's phone rang, and the head addict stood looking blankly from the chain curtain to the red bar phone, fingers sticky with hookah-colored paint. Thankfully, the vampires in residence were stirring, for there were two rings, then silence. Annie was washing her hands behind the bar as a smugly excited Janette appeared at her side in a flash. "You have a rendezvous," Janette announced. "A rendez-who rendezvous?" Annie asked cautiously, wiping her hands dry on a black towel. Janette pouted impatiently. "LaCroix, of course. Who else would want to take you to 'The King and I'?" The raven-haired vampire's forehead puckered. "It *is* strange. LaCroix doesn't usually appreciate musicals. There's not enough death in many of them to suit his tastes. He liked 'Assassins,' 'Les Miserables,' and 'Sweeney Todd,' though. He would not sit through 'Aspects of Love' or 'Passion,' claiming they made him sleepy, and he absolutely refuses to see 'Phantom,' 'Miss Saigon,' or 'Rent' for reasons of personal bias." Janette sighed as though she was contemplating some mystic riddle. "I wonder why he wants to take you to a Rodgers and Hammerstein production? That is not his style at all." Annie's smile was secretive. "Hmmmm..." she murmured nonchalantly, "I kind of envisioned him as the King of Siam." Janette considered the suggestion momentarily, then sniffed in dismissal. "Pas de tout! LaCroix would *never* wear those pants!" The vampire stretched out a hand toward Annie. "We haven't much time. Let's find you a proper ensemble, ah?" As they wandered back to the club's private rooms, Annie inquired, "Janette, I need a nice cactus. Do you know where I could find one in the middle of a Canadian ice storm?" This is how, after a fine night of theater and an aerial trip to Feliks Twist's greenhouse, LaCroix and Annie wound up in Nick's loft with a cactus just as December 27th dawned. It was a lovely cactus, too. Annie was imminently proud of the thick, waxy stalks that rose from the potted soil as though they were outstretched fingers reaching for the sky. She had thanked Feliks profusely for his generosity, but he was more interested in shooing LaCroix and Annie out of his greenhouse so that he could tend to his ferns and gardenias. At first, Nick eyed the plant suspiciously, then with growing enthusiasm. He spent several minutes arranging his new cactus on the plant stand, which had been empty of flora for quite some time. Finally, noticing his offspring had begun to smoke, LaCroix ordered impatiently, "Close the blinds, Nicholas." The detective whipped his trusty Universal remote out of the waistband of his jeans and did as he was told. Nick turned to face Annie and his sire with a smile. He had a brand-new cactus, his favorite remote, and he didn't have to spend the daylight playing checkers against himself again. Nick thought, then feeling a twinge of guilt at his happiness, ameliorated. Still smiling, Nick headed for the fridge. "Hey, Ann - want a Diet Dr. Pepper?" The day passed pleasantly and uneventfully. It wasn't until sunset, when Annie ventured back to the kitchen on a salsa picante hunt while Nick and LaCroix argued over whether dead languages were 'legal' in Scrabble, that anything surprising occurred. "Boo." Annie jumped three feet into the air. "Eek!" She dropped her prized jar of salsa, then cringed, waiting for the ensuing crash of glass against concrete. It never came. Prying her lids open, Annie's nose scrunched in annoyance when she found Vachon grinning at her, holding her container of picante. "You've been making yourself right at home, haven't you, Annie?" Vachon said knowingly. "Near death experiences, history lessons, pinatas, and a night at the theater. You're a mighty lucky senorita. And to think that I could have dropped you in a Well O' Doom at any time - how come *I* didn't get a pet cactus?" The Spaniard's grin was loveably wicked. "Eeek! Eeek! YOU have story control!" Annie gasped in horror. Vachon nodded in pleasure. "Guilty and proud." The NunkMommy's eyes narrowed as she surveyed the Spaniard. "New leather pants, I see." "Yes, and they're mine to keep. I gave Tracy Sue and Mids a pair each, too. I share the wealth, unlike some I could stare at." Vachon proceeded to look pointedly in the NunkMommy's direction. "You didn't think this little slumber party with Bambi and Thumper all to yourself was going to last indefinitely, did you? We're at the last chapter, Anniebug. I am the Spirit Of Plot Closure, and I'm calling your name." "Well, pooh!" "Is there a problem, Ann?" The sounds of indignant addict squeals and the obvious presence of a slackerly vampire had broken Nick and LaCroix out of their argument. The ancient vampire now sneered at Vachon with the same affection he would offer a flaming rosary. Nick wasn't eager to see the Spaniard either. "What do you want, Vachon?" "Bonnie and Patt screwed up again and let him get story control," Annie explained. "He says the story's almost over, so you can't finish your Scrabble game." Nick and LaCroix growled. Vachon held up his hands in surrender. "Hey! It wasn't my idea for the addicts to have a 'Have a Heart' feast and invite the homeless and whoever else wants to show up at the Peach for post-holiday turkey! I'm the good guy here: I'm trying to help Rutledge and Elmore along. They are," Vachon held a thumb and index finger together, "this close to a story disaster." "The addicts are having a *what*?" Annie exclaimed, dropping the salsa jar again. Vachon caught it once more, this time deciding to hold onto the container for safekeeping. "They're feeding the homeless," Nick reasoned. "There's nothing wrong with that. LaCroix and Annie grumbled. "So..." Vachon continued. "...I thought I'd drop by and give everyone an invite." The Spaniard looked pointedly at LaCroix. "Especially you. I know you may not approve of this feast idea - the whole sharing-decking the halls-being nice scene - but Jules, at least, would like to know you're alright. She's..." Vachon paused, deciding against the sentiment. "The addicts have been worried about you, okay? Now, I'm off to fetch Screed and the Claymont Mission bus." There was a whoosh, then Vachon was gone, the jar of salsa placed neatly on the counter. "We told the addicts to not decorate the Shrine for the holidays," Annie fumed. "No decking! That was the edict!" "Apparently," LaCroix drawled, "we have been overruled. It seems we need to reclaim our authority at the Shrine." "What?" Nick began to laughed. "I can't believe that you're so hot and bothered over a little seasonal revelry, LaCroix! You haven't exactly remained an un-involved spectator over the centuries!" LaCroix's tone was full of warning. "Nicholas..." Annie's indignation at the addicts melted in the face of curiosity. "What are you talking about?" "Nicholas is speaking nonsense. Nothing...happened..." LaCroix dismissed. "Oooh! This sounds good!" Annie exclaimed as she clapped her hands together joyfully. "Tell me!" "I *will* have to kill you," LaCroix threatened mysteriously. Both Nick and Annie turned to glare at him. The ancient vampire shrugged in resignation, then strolled casually back to the sofa as though they were both forgotten. "Very well, Nicholas. Have it your way. Tell her how we used to celebrate." "LaCroix," Nick described, his eyes lit with mischief, "was the Lord Of Misrule on more than one occasion." Annie frowned. "I don't get it." "Role-reversal was a frequent custom during the holidays," Nick explained. "Altar boys would become bishops for a day on the Feast Of Fools. Donkeys were treated as royalty at the Feast of Asses. The Lord of Misrule was most often associated with universities, and, while the bearer of the title *was* obeyed with extreme fealty, he had to wear...an interesting outfit." From the back, Annie could see LaCroix's shoulders stiffen. Nick was on the verge of bursting into laughter. "What *kind* of interesting outfit?" Annie dared to ask. "Oh, you know..." Nick snickered. "...he dressed like a Court Jester." "And it will NEVER happen again!" LaCroix boomed from the couch. Annie was very tempted to burst into giggles. Realizing that such behavior might prove hazardous to her health, Annie picked up the jar of salsa, unscrewed the lid, and swallowed an incendiary mouthful. That kept her quiet and her head attached. Nick, being immortal, had fewer concerns for his physical safety. He approached the couch, teasing his sire. "And you're the one who accuses me of having no sense of humor. If I recall correctly, you enjoyed yourself, despite the gaudy outfit. Those wild nighttime processions, causing the townsfolk to raise a ruckus in your honor outside all the churches...you reveled in it. Besides, it's not as if anyone has pictures..." Annie noticed that Nick had one hand behind his back, fingers crossed. She swallowed some more salsa. Nick leaned down over the back of the sofa so that LaCroix could see his grinning features. "Ruling over your addicts' not-so-holiday feast is a stroll in a moonlit park by comparison. You don't have to wear tights..." A choking sound came from Annie's direction. "...and think of all that mistletoe..." "You're coming along, Nicholas," LaCroix instructed, "and you will tell Annie about every embarrassing, inane mumming play you ever performed." "Tell her about them?" Nick grinned. "If it's for charity, I'll *do* one." *************************************************************************** Upon Vachon's departure, Jules considered the black silk evening dress she'd worn for the occasion, then glanced around at the other addicts. Most of them were dressed casually, some with aprons on. Several had slipped into togas. "Bonnie," Jules asked as she swiped her tongue across her teeth and looked at the Scribe, "do you consider me 'overdressed' for this occasion?" The petite redhead shrugged, but offered no answer. Patt, more blunt, had walked up and given Jules a critical grazing over. "Have any jeans?" the mature addict asked. "Of course I have jeans," Jules said indignantly. "They'd probably look very nice on you, too," Patt suggested. Jules mused for a moment, then, turning elegantly, she strode toward the Shrine. "I'll be back in a moment." When the Priestess returned, she was dressed in her version of informal - a pair of snug, dark blue Lees, black patent leather high heels and an emerald silk blouse by Escada, tied up at the waist. Her entrance was greeted by a sharp, wolfish whistle. Vachon, holding little Lisa's hand, stood at the entrance of the restaurant. Behind him was a crowd of people, huddled at the door, their faces reflecting hunger, uncertainty and hope. Jules met the Spaniard's eyes, then looked at Lisa. She smiled warmly. "Welcome. Welcome, everyone, to the Jeweled Peach!" When Jules extended a welcoming hand in Lisa's direction, the child turned uncertainly toward Vachon. "It's okay," the Spaniard said warmly. "She won't bite." The vampire gave Jules a quick, glancing grin. She quirked an eyebrow in response. Lisa smiled and turned back to Jules. The child held out a tentative hand. Jules grasped it and shook it politely, her manner business-like, but inside, the High Priestess was glowing. "I'm glad you could come share supper with us, Lisa. Could you ask your friends to join us, please?" "Okay," the little girl chirped and practically skipped outside. As Jules and Vachon watched, Lisa singled out a bearded man, simply dressed in old denims. Pulling him inside, the child proudly announced, "This is my Daddy." "Welcome, sir," Jules smiled, shaking hands with the new arrival. "Please, sit down and have some food. We have plenty." As the other visitors began filtering hesitantly into the Peach, Laura and Debbie retreated discreetly to a far corner of the restaurant. Debbie reached down and plugged in an electrical cord, which ran current through a multitude of tiny white Christmas bulbs which were wound through the garland on the walls. The vast dining room was immediately awash in the twinkling effect of the lights, causing several of the patrons and addicts to emit sounds of awe and admiration. Laura plugged in another cord, and tiny orange lights joined the sparkling white, casting a soft peach glow to the room. Even Jules had to admit that the result was pleasant. The swinging doors of the kitchen entrance pushed open. Caren and Annette, each carrying a pewter platter laden with Cajun fried turkey, appeared. Following closely behind them was Heather, toting a large bowl carved with intricate Celtic designs. "Eat, drink and be merry," Patt chuckled, and thus, the festivities began. From all outward appearances, the feast was a success. Tons of food were consumed amid laughing, joking and general expressions of pleasure. Soon the only evidence remaining of the south Louisiana fowl was a few non- edible scraps, and several of the shelter children engaged in the time- honored tradition of 'making a wish on the pulley bone.' As expected, some of the shelter residents found the regal setting of the Peach just a bit uncomfortable. They accepted their food, thanked the serving line addicts, and carried their fare outside for consumption. The off-shoot of this practice was the spreading of the word about the dinner to others on the street, and non-shelter residents began wandering in. Jules positioned herself near the front door, acting as the official greeter. The sight of the stately copper-haired woman initially appeared to alarm some of those seeking food, but Jules' warm manner soon allayed all their fears. Vachon, uninvited by the High Priestess, positioned himself near Jules and 'helped' her with the welcoming duties. Sometime during the banquet, Patt looked up to see the front door opening. To her alarm, Madame Kiki and several of her buff attendants came into the establishment. The Madame, wearing a radiant smile as she looked around, was carrying a closed picnic basket. "Oh, crap," the Third Cousin muttered, not knowing if she should move to intercept Kiki or head for the back door and escape. "Jules, dearest!" Kiki greeted the High Priestess with a quick peck on each cheek. "This is absolutely fabulous! How wonderful of your group to sponsor such an event. Very civic minded." "They're calling it the 'Have a Heart' feast," Vachon leaned over and grinned at the Madame. "Everyone's invited, Kikes. Come on in and take a load off." He looked at her burden with interest. "What's in the basket?" "Oh," Kiki fluttered flirtatiously, "nothing much. A little surprise, that's all." Then, running a cupped hand gently across the length of Vachon's jaw, the Madame moved into the room, nodding to and greeting the other guests. Vachon watched the woman. "That basket looks awfully familiar," the Spaniard muttered to himself, but loud enough that Jules could overhear. "Can't place it though." "So much for vampiric perfect recall," Jules quipped. She felt great and her face was radiant from her emotional high. Vachon turned to her and smiled. "You're very beautiful, you know. LaCroix's a lucky vampire to have your devotion." The sincerity in Vachon's tone caused the High Priestess to blush. "Vachon..." Jules started to respond, but a flurry of activity near the Shrine entrance caught her attention. The addicts parted slightly, allowing the arrival to enter the restaurant, and Jules caught her breath. "LaCroix." Jules started toward LaCroix, murmuring, "Thank goodness he's all right." Then she noticed that someone cleaved to Nunkies' arm. Then she saw who that person was. "Anniebug!" Bonnie shouted joyfully, going to great the NunkMommy. "What are you doing in Toronto?!" Only Vachon was privy to Jules' momentary crestfallen expression. The High Priestess recovered quickly and walked over to the recent arrivals. Patt, who was standing with Laura and Kiki, saw the Spaniard alone. She hurried over to him. "Vachon..." she started. "Yeah, I know, you need my help," the vampire finished for the addict. "How'd you know that?" Patt blurted out. Vachon gave her a patient look and Patt shook her head, clearing it. "Oh, yeah, story control. Just call me a twit." "Twit. This time you've really pulled a boner, Elmore," the Spaniard drawled, glancing at Jules, who covered her disappointment well as she shared conversation with LaCroix *and* Annie. Nick Knight, he noted, was with them also. "Yoohoo!" Patt began to snap her fingers in front of Vachon's face. "You aren't having a flashback, are you?" Vachon's eyebrows knotted in puzzlement, then he returned his attention to Patt. "No, I wanted to know about the basket, so I just did a speedy story review. How do you expect me to fix this?" "If Kiki hadn't brought bambino Lucky to the party, I might have been able to wiggle out of it on my own," Patt reasoned. "So this plot development isn't really my fault, is it? So...using unorthodox means to resolve it isn't really a no-no, right?" Vachon blinked at the babbling addict. "When Charl and Debbie were bad-mouthing the NA higher ups, I told another little white lie to help smooth over the hard feelings," Patt continued. "I told them that it had been Jules and Bonnie's idea to turn over the baby to Kiki for safekeeping, so the addicts wouldn't be held liable for any possible kidnapping charges. I also told them that Jules and Bonnie didn't say anything to anyone about doing it, because the less all the innocent addicts knew, the safer they were from criminal prosecution, right?" "Addicts...innocent? Patt, Patt, Patt...who the hell is going to believe that?" Vachon stopped blinking and gave the woman a testy look. "What do you want me to do, Elmore?" "Errrr, whammy them?" Patt blinked hopefully. "Whammy who...specifically?" Vachon pressed. Patt lowered her eyes, then lifted them again. "Jules and Bonnie." The Spaniard whistled softly. "Tall order," he commented. "Bons...she's not too tough a subject, but Jules..." "I know," Patt agreed, then she laid a gentle hand of the Spaniard's arm, "but, if anyone can save my bacon, Vachon, it's you." The vampire grinned crookedly down at the mature addict. "I know. Just as you know this will cost you...big time." Patt swallowed hard. "I know." She swallowed again. "What's your price?" "Depends on what you want," Vachon smiled wickedly. "I can make them forget the whole baby incident from before they decided to call the cops, or, if you want them to think that they arranged for Kiki to take the kid...that costs extra." Patt nodded that she understood. Vachon held up his fist, extending fingers one at a time. "1) New leather jacket to go with the pants, 2) a no breakdown, no repossession clause written into all vehicle ownership, 3) a supply of beeswax candles from Bolivia for the church, 4) a partridge in a pear tree, and, if you want the second option of Jules and Bons assuming responsibility for your criminal actions..." he looked at the Third Cousin, his eyes glittering dangerously with just a hint of gold flaking, "...5)a date." He narrowed his gaze into Patt's eyes. Patt blinked hard. "Geeee, I'm flattered, V-man, but I don't think it would work out. I just can't get past the fact that you physically look young enough to be my son. There's just no...spark." Vachon grinned, a budding of canines barely visible. He surveyed the room, his eyes resting on the addicts hovering around the object of their affection. Patt followed his gaze. "Rutledge," Vachon said softly. Patt shook her head, "No can do, Vachon. She's just now getting her romance with Dirk straightened out. There's too much work invested in that one to undo it." "Hmmmmmm," Vachon continued to look around the room. As he did, Tracy Sue walked by, obliviously heading toward the kitchen. As she passed, she muttered the word 'tart.' "There's a good candidate," Patt said hopefully. "I know how you like 'tarts.'" Vachon shook his head. "She's about to be 'otherwise occupied,'" he replied. A sharp squeal of delight flooded the restaurant, its epicenter behind the swinging kitchen doors. In a moment, Tracy Sue burst forth, her hands and face covered with strawberry jam and whipped cream. She held aloft a sparkling diamond ring. "I'M ENGAGED!!!!" she shrieked to the assembly. While the other addicts (sans Jayne, who turned a ghastly shade of green at the sight of the Vaquera's 'jammed' appearance) began gathering around Tracy Sue to offer congratulations and gawk at the shiner on her finger, Patt began making other suggestions to the vampire. "Mids?" Patt hated the idea, the addict being so young, but desperation was rearing its ugly head. "She's a little young, yet," Vachon replied. "Let her ripen." "Sallie? She's of age," Patt suggested. Vachon was aghast. "That Dragon might burn me to a crisp, woman. Have you no sense?" "Well..." Patt began, but Vachon ignored her. "Where's Jade?" he said finally, then, before Patt could speak, he joined her in a unison reply. "On the phone." While most of the addicts had gone over to Tracy Sue, LaCroix still held the attention of Jules, Bonnie and Annie. Vachon returned his gaze to this little group. "Annie," he breathed. "Won't happen," Patt shook her head. "Not even under hypnosis. Your association with Screed gives her the shivers, and I think NunkMommy powers act like mental ScotchGuard. I'm not sure Annie *can* whammy." "Well," Vachon turned to Patt, meeting her eyes, "you know who that leaves, don't you?" Patt nodded slowly, then turned toward the group again. "Jules." The Third Cousin sighed heavily, weighing her culpability in the matter and rendering a decision. She turned to Vachon. "Be gentle with her." Vachon grinned, nodded and vanished. **************************************************************************** Nervously, Patt watched as Laura hovered near Kiki. Intermittently, the two women would peek into the basket's cloth-lined interior, exchanging whispers and smiles. "Who would have guessed the old party girl had such a maternal instinct?" Patt muttered, bracing herself for the moment that little Lucky cried, and the plot would be uncovered. Luckily, Lucky remained mute, giving time for Patt's plot to move into motion. The Third Cousin had no idea what Vachon had in mind, so she steeled herself for any manner of surprises. That's when she noticed Jade at the Shrine entrance. "Bonnie?" The addict, also known as Mrs. Leaf, asked as she looked around the room, her expression dreamy. "Yo, Bonnie. You have a phone call." Puzzled, Bonnie shrugged and headed for the communications room. Jade walked into the restaurant, poured herself a healthy glass of cider and sat down at one of the window seats. She began lazily tracing designs on the window, a rather silly smile on her lips. Patt grinned. "Looks like a buy-two-get-one-free sale to me." A short time later, Bons returned, her face smooth, all unhappy thoughts erased. She looked around the room, saw Patt and offered the mature addict a little wave. Patt felt a sudden pang of guilt as she watched the redhead glide across the room, resuming her position near LaCroix. Bonnie stopped near Jules and whispered something to the High Priestess. Jules, in turn, excused herself from LaCroix's presence, her vexed expression increasing the further she moved away from him. Like Bonnie before her, Jules headed into the Shrine. "I sure hope Vachon isn't using too strong of a hypno-technique," Patt fretted. "Bons looks mighty spacey to me." "Too late to back out now," a friendly male voice sang from behind her. Patt wanted to whirl, but she made herself turn slowly, so as not to draw attention to her 'Harvey.' "Hello, Detective Schanke," Patt said softly. Schanke grinned back, his eyes dancing with delight, tempered by castigation. "That was rather naughty of you, telling those fibs, then getting Vachon to cover your butt," Schanke chastised the older addict. "Yeah," Patt said mournfully, hanging her head. "Won't get ya in to visit with the Big Guy, if you keep this up," Schanke continued. "I have to admit, though, that it was pretty clever." Patt looked up. "You really think so?" She tried to suppress her delight, but her expression betrayed her. Schanke just shook his head. "Man, oh man, oh man. You addicts." His voice resumed a reprimanding tone. "You have potential, Elmore. Trouble is, you hang around with a bad element. That said, it's time for me to split. You seem to be on pretty steady ground now, so my services are no longer needed." "Schank?" Patt reached out and grabbed his arm as the angel-detective started to fade. He quickly resumed corporeal essence and waited, eyes questioning. Patt squeezed the man's arm and leaned forward, placing a soft kiss on his cheek. "Thanks." Schanke broke into a grin, which would have emblazoned the room, if anyone other than Patt had been privy to the sight. He started to vanish again. "Man, oh man - you addicts," he repeated, shaking his head in wonder. "Schank!!" Patt whisper-shouted to the evaporating wraith. "Did you get your wings?" Schanke shrugged, continuing to fade. "Don't know for whom the bell tolls, babe. We'll just have to see. Hasta la bye bye!" Then he was gone. Patt continued to stare at the spot where Donald Schanke had disappeared, already missing him. Soon, though, activity at the restaurant entrance shook the Third Cousin from her reverie. She turned, expecting additional guests, but got a surprise. Dirk entered the Jeweled Peach, a fully flocked Plantation fir tree hoisted onto his back. "Dirk!" Bonnie called in greeting as she saw the man. Without hesitation, she detached herself from the throng around LaCroix and made her way toward the dark-haired mortal. LaCroix noted her departure with interest. "Hey, Red," Dirk greeted the petite woman as she approached. "What's with the tree?" Bonnie looked at the shrub with interest. "It's a leftover from the lot," Dirk grinned. "I thought the shelter kids might enjoy decorating it for one last hurrah." He glanced toward LaCroix, whose sharp eyes met Dirk's. "Unless Uncle Lucky, there, has any objections?" Bonnie pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Let's not give him a chance to demur. Hey kids!" Bonnie turned, addressing a group of nine or ten pre- teens. "Does anyone want to decorate the 'Heart' tree?" "YEAH!!!!" a chorus erupted Bonnie pointed toward one of the recessed dining areas, out of sight of the main restaurant. "Let's take it in there, and then we'll go dig up some ornaments. Okay?" Dirk followed Bonnie inside the smaller room and put the tree down, positioning the temporary stand carefully. As he stood back up, Bonnie reached out and clasped his hand. Sensing her intentions as she drew him close, Dirk looked upwards. He looked back down at Bons, a puzzled look on his face. "No mistletoe that I can see." "Wrong holiday," the Scribe murmured, grasping the man's lapels and drawing him closer. "Happy Heart Day." Patt had been watching the couple with interest. the Third Cousin pondered, then she noticed Jules returning from the interior of the Shrine. The Priestess made a quick scan of the restaurant and, upon locating Patt, locked eyes with the older addict. Jules lifted a hand and curled one finger, beckoning Patt to come closer. "This does not look good," Patt muttered, but started toward the Priestess anyway. "I need a diversion." It was at that moment that Louis Cabon walked into the Jeweled Peach. Cabon, wet, weary and a tad miffed, entered the restaurant, looked around and uttered a sobbing "Mon Dieu!" Jules went to the proprietor immediately, giving Patt a warning look which advised the mature addict not to disappear. Patt decided it was safer at the eye of the storm, so decided to join Jules and Cabon. "What are you doing back here, Louis?" Jules asked, concerned by both his unexpected arrival and unkempt appearance. "Zee plane...she is grounded," Cabon moaned. "Paris ees not to be!" "I'm very sorry about your vacation going bust," Jules sympathized with the maitre-d'. "Perhaps you'd like to go into the Shrine and rest? You're welcome to use the sauna, if you'd like." "I just want zee Peach back!" Cabon's voice raised an octave in his distress. "I want zees people..." A small tug on Louis' jacket made the man look down. A little boy, perhaps six, stood holding a cup of steaming cocoa. "We're glad you came in from the cold, mister," the waif said, smiling. "You look like you need some chocolate." Cabon stood dumbstruck. He stared down at the blonde child, who continued to hold the drink, his bright green eyes alight with friendship. Finally, Cabon accepted the cocoa and the lad, with a quick grin, skipped rapidly away. "Well, I'll be damned, Louis! I never would have believed it!" Patt knew the voice, but for a moment she couldn't place it. Then, the speaker approached, and Patt recognized the man she'd met several nights earlier. Cabon stood speechless as he stared at the other man. "I heard on the streets that you'd opened up your fancy place to the less fortunate, but I knew it couldn't be true. The Louis I know wouldn't waste his time doing something decent like that," the man said. "Who is that man?" Jules leaned over and whispered to Patt. "Phil Camembert," Patt answered automatically. "Louis Cabon's brother." Jules straightened and stared at the newcomer. "I didn't know Cabon had a brother, much less a brother in Toronto." "He owns a bar down near the docks," Patt replied. "From what I understand, they've been estranged for quite a few years." Before Louis could respond to his brother's words, Phil placed a hand on the maitre-d's shoulder. Patt and Jules watched as Phil nodded in admiration of his brother. "I'm proud of you, Louis. This is a good thing you're doing." Cabon's mouth gaped open. Before he could speak, Jules stepped forward, also placing a hand on the man's shoulder. Louis turned, staring at the Priestess. "Yes, Louis," Jules assured him. "It is a wonderful thing that you're doing here tonight. Why don't you show your brother around the Peach, and let the rest of us take over the work? Is that agreeable with you?" Cabon slowly closed his mouth and nodded mutely to Jules. Then, he and his brother walked away. "I hope they can work things out," Patt commented, watching them. "You'd better be worrying about yourself," Jules' deadly tone caused the hair on Patt's neck to prickle. The mature addict turned around and offered the irate redhead a thin smile. Jules would have none of it. "Would you care to explain why a certain dark-haired Spaniard of the vampiric type just tried to hocus pocus me into submission?" "He likes your company?" Patt offered. "Don't even try," Jules warned the other woman. "He already told me the truth." Patt's eyes widened in horror, then she began sputtering in fury. "Why that two-timing, false-fanged ferret of a freeloading SLACKER! He *ratted* on *me*?" Patt focused rage filled eyes on the Priestess. "And, you believe him over me? Your friend?" Jules nodded severely. "Yes...yes, I do," she replied, watching Patt closely. "And I can't believe you'd do such a thing! I'll even use your wording. How could *you* RAT on Bonnie and me?" Patt stopped in mid-tirade. "Wha...what...?" Jules shook her head. "We tried to do the right thing and keep everyone happy, only to find out that you, our *friend,* betrayed us by telling the other addicts about Lucky still being with us." Jules looked fondly toward where Laura and Kiki were again peeking into the basket. The Priestess sighed and turned to Patt again. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself." "Uhhhhh," Patt faltered, but, Jules made a 'nuhh uhhh' tick-tock motion with her forefinger, and walked away. "I could not help but notice the recent altercation between Monsieur Cabon and the other gentleman, and then between Jules and yourself." LaCroix's smooth voice was so close to Patt's ear that she felt her heart physically flutter inside her chest. "Tell me the details, Patt. You know you want to." Patt turned slowly until she was facing him, her eyes level with his chest. She looked up slowly. LaCroix lifted an eyebrow, and Patt felt her toes curl. The General looked down at the addict, his face amused. "You're not frightened are you, Patricia? Look around. This is a public gathering. You're perfectly safe." "Perfectly...safe..." Patt repeated, nodding slowly. LaCroix leaned forward, his smile feral. "For now." "Meep," Patt said softly. There was another influx of movement at the Peach's entrance, announcing the arrival of more guests. LaCroix released Patt from his stare and looked toward the front door. His body stiffened involuntarily. Patt ventured an upward glance and watched in fascination as the vampire's eyes reflected every color of the rainbow, like an undulating prism. "Cursed spawn of Cerberus," LaCroix growled low in his throat. Patt turned slowly, looking toward the door. The Crazov family had arrived. The entire Roma family was present, including Ruzena, her daughter, Jolana, and a tall, dark man whom Patt assumed to be Ruzena's husband, Mihil. Standing with them was Ruzena's father, Tibor. The gnomish old man looked around the restaurant with interest, his one bright blue eye appraising the place. LaCroix's manner was distinctly predatory as he started toward them. He fully intended to kill the elderly Rom, of that Patt was certain. Knowing that, Patt reacted without thinking, doing perhaps the stupidest thing she had ever done in her forty-four years on earth. She placed a hand on LaCroix's arm and uttered a sharp, "Wait." In the next few moments, Patt learned that all she'd heard of imminent death was true. Her life passed before her like a slide show - bits and pieces of landscape colored by sharp emotion. All moved in slow motion, as if taking place behind a layer of clear molasses. LaCroix looked from the hand on his arm to the addict, fixing his eyes on Patt's. Waiting. For a moment, Patt was non-verbal. Under the scrutiny of LaCroix's stare, she desperately tried to reconnect her brain synapses and get something coherent going in the circuitry. LaCroix frowned at the stupefied addict, then turned back toward the old Rom, his eyes rimmed with fire. As the General tried to shake Patt's hand free, the motion jarred the woman into semi-intelligible speech. "You can't hurt him. He was invited," Patt squeaked. "Remember what you said about this being a public place." LaCroix held up a finger and thumb, creating an L-shape. "Never," he said softly, with the venom of a thousand scorpions, "use my own words to contradict me." He looked back toward the Roma family. "Who invited them?" Patt winced. She had hoped he wouldn't ask that question, silly woman. "Jules," Patt said. LaCroix shifted his vision to where the High Priestess stood, chatting easily with Laura and Kiki. The women were peeking into the basket and laughing. "I see," LaCroix said, then turned back to the restaurant entrance. "I respect Jules' decision on the matter, but that *mortal,*" he spat the word, "stole from me. *NO* one takes from me and lives." "Yes, sir," Patt agreed hurriedly, then, seeing his glance, hastened to say, "No, sir, I mean..." "Quiet." Patt's lips clamped together, unmoving. "Why would Jules include the gypsies in her feeding of the homeless?" LaCroix mused, watching the Crazov family move further into the Peach. He looked at Patt. "What do you know of this?" Patt remained speechless, caught in the icy glow of his now crystal blue eyes. LaCroix waited patiently for a moment, then narrowed his gaze. Patt tremored involuntarily. "Ahhhh, the gyp...Roms helped us find out who the mother of the baby was when we were trying to find the sword pin to remove the curse on the baby when we thought he was you and..." The vampire reached out with a snake-swift motion, catching the mature addict by the throat. Just as quickly he released her. Patt slapped her own hand to her neck, a gurgling noise completing her litany. LaCroix placed a firm hand on the woman's shoulder, his eyes capturing hers. His voice, smooth and low, addressed her. "Tell me what you know of this affair, slowly and completely." Patt's eyes glazed as she melted into that voice. Her heart thudded heavily in her ears, shutting out all other sound. She told him everything...from the meeting with Angel Schanke to the present moment, including Vachon's hypnotizing of Bonnie and Jules. Satisfied that he had extracted from her all she had to offer, LaCroix released Patt. The woman swayed slightly, and LaCroix reached out, pushing her lightly on the shoulder with two fingers. Patt fell back and, in doing so, sat down heavily in one of the restaurant's chairs. Her head lolled to one side, a single drop of drool at the corner of her mouth. "Perhaps, in this case, discretion would be the best path to follow," LaCroix said to himself. His eyes fell on Tibor again. The elder Rom was moving through the crowded restaurant, shaking hands and greeting many of the people within. He was obviously acquainted with the *disenfranchised,* LaCroix noted. Tibor raised his head and hand to motion to someone across the room and locked eyes with the vampire. The old man scowled. LaCroix's face was void of emotion as the two men glared at each other for a moment, then Tibor's face also smoothed. They began moving toward each other, like two stags in a rutting dance, until they were face to waist. "You are LaCroix," the Rom said, squinting up at the other figure. "And, you are Tibor," LaCroix noted dryly. "I believe you took property which is mine. I would have it back." "Ahhhhhh," Tibor loosened his grim set lips to expose a jagged smile. "Your 'ladies' have not yet returned your sword pin." The old mortal inclined his head toward Jules. "I suggest you speak with that one." "In due course," the vampire responded. "At this moment, I am dealing with you. I could still kill you, you know." "No doubt, beng, you have the power to do so," Tibor's countenance was serious again. "But to do so would bring you only prikaza...the bad luck. Did you learn nothing during your journey?" LaCroix looked at the man thoughtfully. Then, he turned his focus toward the girl, Jolana. The Roma girl had joined Jesse and Caren, who were busy bringing new desserts from the kitchen. "I may choose to let you live for now, old one, if it suits my purpose. But, I caution you: I will not tolerate interference in my business. If you vex me again, I will destroy your house." The old man's one eye slitted, but showed no fear. "We understand each other then," LaCroix smiled thinly. "Now, I suggest that you rejoin your family and enjoy the festivities." After the antagonistic Lacroix and Tibor parted, Bonnie slowly poked her disheveled red head out from behind a brocade curtain near where the males had stood. Dirk's head, dark hair rumpled, followed. They looked first left, then right, then at each other. "Damn." Bonnie let out a previously deeply held breath. "What was that all about?" Dirk asked, confused. "Errrrr...sounded like the boss was conducting some business," the perky woman said as she grinned up at her ex-ex-significant other. "And you know what they say about business, don't you?" "Dulls the senses?" Dirk grinned back. "Ummm-hmm!" Bonnie replied, placing her hand to the back of his neck and drawing him down. "Delicious." The curtain fell discreetly back into place. Jules reached down and tickled Lucky's stomach again. The child mewled and kicked, and the Priestess was surprised once more by the strong flood of feeling she had for the infant. "I trust that my property is not still attached to the neonate, Jules." The General's soft voice was cool on her neck. The Priestess inhaled a deep breath and began to slowly shake her head, her back still to him. "No." "Good." LaCroix extended his hand from behind the woman, leveling his palm near her face. "May I have it?" Jules turned so that she faced him, hazel eyes brazen. She tilted her chin up and reached inside the cleavage of her silk shirt, extracting the sword pin from safe keeping. LaCroix appraised her carefully. "I got the idea from the baby," she explained, "keeping things close to the flesh, so to speak." She deftly began fastening the pin to LaCroix's collar while he watched her, unmoving. "I will trust that your rather presumptuous behavior is a direct result of your recent exposure to Javier Vachon," LaCroix said. Jules flickered her thick eyelashes, her lips full and pouty. LaCroix carefully removed the Priestess' hands from his upper chest and, gently kissing her fingertips, moved away. His path intercepted that of Jesse, who was busily handing out pastries from a large platter. As he walked past the young addict, Jesse looked up at the General with adoring eyes. LaCroix felt a sudden impishness take hold of him. He stuck a finger into one of the turnovers, then gently traced the whipped topping across the girl's lips. Before Jesse could react, he was gone. The evening continued and the whammied addicts eventually began to sober, remembering bits and pieces of the incidents which had occurred while they were under the influence. Patt immediately went in search of something less sobering. Jules came out of her trance to find herself squeezing little Lucky's foot. She released the child with a small yelp and began scanning the room for witnesses to her odd behavior. Bonnie and Dirk eventually withdrew from their curtained hiding place, not much worse for wear. "I have to go, Bons." Dirk's voice was heavy with regret as he leaned down to kiss the woman once more. "I've ignored my beeper as long as I can and still be able to pay the rent." "I know," Bonnie replied, ardently returning the touch of his lips. "Call me later, okay?" "Oh, yeah," Dirk grinned. "And, don't forget our secret password when we e-mail, okay?" "Never," Bonnie vowed, placing her hand over her heart solemnly. With Dirk gone, Bonnie looked around the room. She noticed Annie, who appeared to be engrossed in a rather spirited conversation with Detective Nick Knight. Jules was across the room, watching the two of them closely. Patt was leaning against the opposite wall, a green bottle growing from her lips, her face rather pale. LaCroix was nowhere to be seen. Bonnie decided that the Annie/Nick debate looked the most interesting, so she sauntered up to them. "Hi," the redhead said with her usual perky air. "What's going on?" "Nothing!" Both of them turned on Bonnie. "Sorrreeee," the Scribe started to leave, but Annie shook her head. "You stay here and entertain the detective, Bonnie. I need some air," the NunkMommy said as she turned toward the Shrine entrance. "Be careful and avoid the water, Annie," Nick called after the woman. "You never can tell when it's holy." "Ouch!" Bonnie noted as Nick turned back to her. "That was a low blow, even for you." Nick sighed. "Sorry. Let's just chalk it up to a series of stressful evenings, okay?" "Suits me," Bons shrugged. "I have no desire to antagonize all the Knighties." "Sounds like an excellent idea," Jules said as she came up to them. "You have had an eventful time of it of late, haven't you?" Nick looked at the Priestess skeptically, then his face softened. "You could say that. And, it hasn't been just dealing with Ms. Raper and her attraction to my sire. Your 'Santa' gave me quite a headache, too." Nick began rifling through his pockets, producing an assortment of objects including several watches, pieces of jewelry and other valuables. "I believe these belong to you." "Our stolen stuff!" Bons exclaimed in delight, reaching for the diamond tennis bracelet which Nunkies had presented her after a particularly interesting fashion demonstration. The High Priestess took both her own and Sallie's valuables. Since the Dragon was taking another nap, she decided to store Sallie's horde away in the Shrine safe until the owner was awake. "You caught the thief?" Jules reasoned as she replaced one of her own rings on a finger. Nick nodded. "Santa-perp is securely behind bars. It's funny how it all happened, though." The addicts looked at him, obviously curious, so Nick continued. "I received assistance from a vagrant," Nick explained. "He was walking to a cafe and encountered 'Santa' mugging a young woman. It appears that Santa was holding the woman's baby with a gun to the child's head, making demands. Even after the woman gave the thief her money and jewelry, Santa didn't relinquish the child. Instead, he knocked the woman down and took off, carrying the baby." Nick paused, looking around at the women. One woman's heart was beating fast and, pinpointing the source, Nick smiled inwardly. "The vagrant gave chase, yelling for help. That was when I heard the situation and intervened. Santa was caught, but, unfortunately, not before he abandoned the child. The baby is still missing. Male, Caucasian, about a week old..." "With blonde hair and blue eyes?" Bons and Jules said in the same breath. "Yes," Nick looked at the women, his eyes narrowing somewhat. "The baby wouldn't happen to have a birthmark, would he, Detective?" Jules asked. "The mother said he had a curve-shaped spot on his inner thigh," Nick replied. "Do you have information on the child? "We have both information *and* the child," Bons sighed. "He's kind of our guest of honor, you see." "He's here?" Nick said with surprise. "Alive and well," Jules responded. "If you wait here, I'll go get him." "I'll go with you, Jules," Bonnie said as she followed the High Priestess. "They seem disappointed about something," Nick said, watching the two women cross the room. "Post-partum-LaCroixum depression," Patt replied, taking a sip from her beer. "They'll get over it." "Yes," Nick agreed. Then he gave the mature addict a knowing look. "Thank you, by the way." Patt looked at the detective, surprise evident on her face. "The vagrant told me that if it had not been for a woman giving him two loonies, he wouldn't have gotten up and walked to the cafe for coffee. And, if he hadn't done so, the woman and child would probably be dead by now." Patt just stared at Knight. "He couldn't really identify the woman except that she was a husky, mature person with glasses and a nice smile. Also, she slipped him these when she handed him the money." Nick held out a matchbook bearing the logo of the Jeweled Peach. "Interesting how a simple act of kindness can have such a domino affect." From somewhere above her, Patt heard the tinkling of bells again. As she watched Knight walk away in the direction Jules and Bons had gone, a feather slowly floated down from the ceiling, landing on Patt's shoulder. The mature addict smiled. Across the room, Louis Cabon and his brother, Phil, were engaged in conversation with the elderly one-eyed Rom. "You have no hedgehog, man?" Tibor was berating an astonished Cabon. "How can you call this a banquet without such a delicacy? Let me show you what a feast is supposed to entail." The elder lifted his arms, sharply clapping his hands over his head. As if by magic, they assailed the Peach - the masses from the Toronto Roma community. They came, bearing food of every variety-roasts, both beef and pork, chicken and goose. Huge platters piled high with fried potatoes and boiled cabbage stuffed with rice and chopped meat, herbs and garlic were whisked into the restaurant to replace the dwindling plates on the serving line tables. "Oh my goodness," Patt exclaimed, her eyes and mouth watering. "Nirvana!" "There's enough here to feed us for days!" Mids exclaimed, joining the older addict. "Exactly," Tibor smiled. "That's as a feast should be. Now we can eat." "And dance," Ruzena added, looking toward where a group of musicians, including her husband Mihil, were tuning instruments. "Come, help me move back these tables so we will have room to move." The addicts responded quickly. KC, Jade and Annette pulling tables to the right while Heather and Tser helped Ruzena to pull to the left. Jayne, Charl and Kate, aided by the guests, shoved chairs to the wall, clearing an area for a dance floor, while Louis Cabon looked on in dismay. The first strain of the violin hushed the room. It's low, sad note echoed through hearts. Mihil drew the bow across the strings once more, and the tune changed. Two more violins and a tambourine joined Mihil's. Several of the Roma began snapping their fingers, the sound a rhythmic progression akin to flamenco. The beat increased, and soon stamping feet joined the sound of the hands, echoing with power and passion. Dancers moved to the cleared area, their bodies turning in time of the music. Several of the Rom grabbed addicts, pulling the gadja women into motion. "All we need now is for LaCroix to play," Patt grinned as Jules and Bons walked up. "I wouldn't hold my breath," Bons grinned back, "even though I'm sure he'd be a hit." "I wonder where he's gone?" Jules mused, looking about. In doing so, she noticed that Annie had not returned to the festivities either. Jules sighed heavily, knowing they were probably together. She tried to laugh with the others as the evening continued, but somehow her heart just wasn't into the festivities. Jules was growing tired of waiting. *************************************************************************** "Did Nick take the baby?" Patt asked casually as she took another sip of her beer. "No," Bonnie replied, then she grinned slyly. "He said one *official* custody stint with a kid was enough. He called the station so that they could get in touch with the Wisemans." "And, in the meantime, Laura is taking good care of little...Gilbert," Jules informed them. Bonnie and Patt both turned slowly toward the High Priestess. "...Gilbert?" "As in Libby's dog, Gilbert?" Patt gulped. Jules nodded. "You mean we've been nurturing a baby named after a rat terrier?" Bonnie shook her head. "Fox Terrier," Patt corrected. "But, he does like rats." "Yeowwwww," Jules and Bons responded, wrinkling their noses. "Actually,...you've been caring for a child named after Mr. Wiseman's great uncle, Gilbert Shepherd." Vachon was beside the women, grinning smugly. All three of the addicts gave the Spaniard withering looks. "Glad to see me, I see," Vachon joked, letting his eyes wander to the party happenings. "Looks like everyone is having a good time. Where's Nick and LaCroix?" "Nick is making a phone call," Jules answered patiently. Then she shrugged, trying to hide the disappointment in her voice. "Who knows where LaCroix is off to? He left without saying anything." Vachon detected her hurt and looked at her closely. Annie Raper, he had noticed, was also absent. "Who knows?" Vachon tried to make light, "maybe he's out playing Santa Claus." Patt nearly choked on her beer and Bonnie snorted. Jules lifted an eyebrow. "Not hardly," she drawled sarcastically. "The holidays are over, remember? And, I simply don't see Nunkies in a red suit. It's not his color." "It once was," Nick offered, walking up to the group. He gave a cursory nod to Vachon, then returned his attention to the women. "I seem to recall several occasions where LaCroix donned a red suit for holiday celebrations." Knight tilted his head, his face boyish with mischief. "I even have proof." He reached into his inner jacket pocket and withdrew an ancient, hand-sized portrait in an ornate frame. The addicts' eyes widened in astonishment as they perused the picture of LaCroix, resplendent in red leggings and waistcoat. On the General's head was perched a three-fold cap, as associated most often with court jesters, a tiny bell at the tip of each point. "Oh, my stars and satellites," Patt whispered. Jules made a gagging sound, her ears turning a shade to match LaCroix's former attire. Bonnie watched the Priestess, unsure whether to break into a cold sweat, or peals of laughter. Vachon, ever present, took action. Gently grasping Jules' elbow, he smiled gently down at the copper-haired woman. "You look like you could use some cider," he suggested, leading a semi-comatose Jules toward the drink table. Vachon looked at the Scribe and added, "You come too, Rutledge, in case Jules...has to be accompanied to the ladies' room." "Okey-dokey," Bons sighed, giving the photo one last, longing look. Watching them go, Nick smiled and moved to return the picture to his pocket. He was distracted, though, by the appearance of a young couple at the Peach entrance. When the detective looked away, Patt gingerly plucked the picture from Nick's fingers and stuck it into her pocket. Nick looked back at the Third Cousin, who smiled up at Knight innocently. He shook his head, a slow smile forming. "You do have a death wish, don't you?" Then he walked toward the obviously distraught couple. "Mr. and Mrs. Wiseman," Nick called as he approached. Mutina and Eric Wiseman looked at the detective, their expressions desperately hopeful. "The police called...they said our baby was here," Mutina spoke quickly. Nick nodded and looked toward Laura, who was now standing, looking at them. Mutina followed his gaze and, seeing the California addict, headed in that direction hurriedly. "My baby?" Mutina looked at Laura questioningly as she ran up to the addict. "He's fine," Laura assured her warmly. "See." Laura pulled aside the bunting and little Lucky gurgled up at his mother. Mutina's face was heavy with tears of joy as Laura slipped the child into her arms. She looked at Laura once, unable to speak, to voice her gratitude. Laura simply nodded, her own eyes moist with emotion. Mutina clutched the child to her and, with her husband's arm around her, walked away. Laura stood quietly, watching them move toward the entrance of the Peach. Her heart was heavy with both joy of the reunion and loss for herself. She noted the couple stop as they passed by the gathered Crazov family. A few unheard words appeared to be spoken, then the women gathered around Mutina, looking at the child. Vachon slipped up to Laura, a glass of cider in his hand. "Looks like I'm the designated water bearer," the vampire quipped, holding the cup out to Laura. "Here." "Thanks," Laura said as she accepted the punch gratefully, her eyes still on the child. He was in good hands, she knew, but it didn't make the pain of departure any easier. "What's that?" Vachon said suddenly, his eyes past the entrance, his face puzzled. "What's what?" Laura replied, looking at him intently. "I hear bells," Vachon said. "Bells?" Laura made a strange face. "Sounds like...sleigh bells." Vachon headed for the entrance. Curious, Laura followed. As they stood by the frosty window, looking out, a tiny sled-cart pulled by two reindeer made its way down Queen Street from the east. The sleigh stopped in front of the Peach and a bundled figure, carrying several packages alighted. The form plodded toward the restaurant. "Probably just another hungry soul," Laura commented, moving to open the door. The figure came inside, stamping his feet to remove the snow, then he looked up, his bi-colored eyes glistening with delight. The young man pulled down the scarf covering his nose and grinned at the blonde addict. "Hi, Mom." "JOHN-TRAVIS!!" Laura's joy was overwhelming as she grabbed her son and held him close. Vachon, grinning, slipped away. The dark vampire moved through the crowd, smiling and talking with the gathered folk. He passed the dance floor, where couples moved in happy abandon to the music. Near the sideline, several addicts stood, tapping their toes in time to the tune. Vachon glided up to one of them. "I understand that you've been writing special, selfish little requests to the authors," Vachon's dark eyes met Debbie's. Fleurette blinked, her mouth open a bit. "Oh...I forgot that you had access to their e-mail! That was a...errr... joke. Hehehehe. Wouldn't want to interfere in their creative process, intercede on my own behalf, so to speak. No, hehehehe. Not me." Patt walked over to Mihil and whispered something in his ear. He frowned, shook his head and whispered something back. Patt gave him a pleading look and Mihil appeared to lessen his resolve. He spoke softly to the others in the group. They nodded, and the vibrant notes of a polka soon filled the room. "Well, we'll just attribute it to your loneliness... what with hubby away and all," Vachon was smiling at Debbie. Then, he extended his arms, his hands poised to grasp hers. "Dance?" She was against him in a minute, her fingers entwining his. "Selfish can be good," she smiled as they began to move with the other dancers. ************************************************************************** Jules was sitting off to herself, her heart heavy. She sipped at her drink, trying to sort her thoughts and feelings. She knew she had no right to feel as she did, but the thought of Annie always seeming to end up with LaCroix was beginning to grow old. "Miz Jules," a soft voice addressed the woman. The Priestess looked down into the soft eyes of Lisa. "Isn't it past your bedtime, little one?" Jules said, touching the child's dark curls. Lisa nodded. "But Daddy said it was okay - being a special 'casion and all." "I see," Jules smiled. Then her face brightened. "Oh, I almost forgot. A package was left here by mistake, addressed to you." The copper-haired woman rose, walked to an alcove and removed a parcel. "For me?" Lisa's eyes danced as she looked at the brightly wrapped package. Jules handed the box to the girl, who tore the paper off eagerly. "My stroller!" Lisa cried happily as she lifted the toy from the carton. She looked at Jules happily. "Thank you!" "You're most welcome," Jules smiled back. The child started away, probably intent on showing the stroller to her father, then turned back to the Priestess. In a quick darting motion, Lisa hugged Jules, then turned and sped off. Jules sat there, in wonder of the child. How simple it had been for her - to simply reach out and display her affection with an embrace. "Tser?" she called. The other addict paused as she walked past the High Priestess. "Yes, Jules?" "Do you think that Lava might be interested in meeting some of the children?" Tser's face spread into an eager smile. "She'd probably even be willing to give some real, live burro rides." "Wonderful!" Jules exclaimed, then excused herself to track down Lisa and her father. The girl was busy showing her parent just how imminently suited her new doll and stroller were for each other when the High Priestess approached. "Lisa, have you ever seen a donkey?" The child looked up at Jules with wide eyes, shaking her head slowly. The High Priestess extended a hand toward the girl. "Would you like to meet one, then?" Lisa glanced to her father for permission. He nodded, and the child turned back to Jules and beamed as her small hand grasped the addict's in a warm, trusting grip. From across the room, Vachon caught Jules' eye. He winked and pulled Debbie closer, moving across the dance floor in a swift, hopping gait. The music suddenly changed, the sound of a flute, harp and bodhan added to the violins and tambourine. The guests looked up to see several of Heather's clan had joined the Rom, the tune taking a decided Celtic quality. Vachon pushed Debbie from him, still holding her hand. He gave her a spin and pulled her back, breathless, to his chest. They were off again, caught in the music. *************************************************************************** Unfortunately for Annie, it wasn't LaCroix who was keeping her out in the cold night air. She walked one block along Queen before deciding it was simply too c