usual disclaimers.  permission to mel moser to archive, thanks mel!
comments to author at:  vampwrtr@innocent.com

"The Natural"

He felt her body slump against his, as the last of her life's essence
entered his mouth.  It tasted of coffee and almonds, and he savoured it
with a depravity that surprised even one of his years.  The young blonde's
body slipped from his hands; she was nothing more than the wisp of a memory
to him now.  With practiced ease, he hefted her body onto his shoulder, and
took to the air.  It would not do to leave a remnant of his most recent
meal, out where a mortal could find it.

He weighted the body down with a few stones and deposited it in the lake,
several miles from shore.  By the time the body surfaced, if it did so at
all, there would certainly be no evidence of bite marks.  The fish wouldn't
leave much.  They never did.

More and more, it was becoming frowned upon within the Community to take
what used to be inherent.  Not that the opinions of others would stop him
from taking what was rightfully his, no; but, he had no desire to attract
the attention of the Enforcers.  The last thing he wanted, was to feel the
whoosh of a long fanged bruiser at his heels.

He landed gently in the alley of the Raven, and let himself in through the
back door.  He ascended the private staircase at a rapid pace, heading
toward his apartment, when her voice stopped him in mid step.

She appraised his appearance, he looked a bit worse for the wear.  "Should
I even inquire as to your whereabouts?"

He turned to look at his daughter, his icy blue eyes flashing irritation,
"No, you should not."

LaCroix turned quickly, having dismissed the irritant, and went up the
remaining stairs.  Janette watched him go from the bottom step, shaking her
head at him.  She was beginning to worry.  He had not been the same since
the night he had become agitated over........what?  She knew it had to do
with his father, but that was all she knew.  LaCroix had stormed out that
night, and was gone the entire next day.  During the ensuing weeks, both
Janette and Nick had tried to entice their father into opening up to them,
but he was as close-mouthed as a clam in September.  They still did not
know where he had been, nor what had transpired.  All they knew, was that
whatever had happened, it had caused him to shut down almost completely.

And now this.  Janette could sense that he had killed, again.  He had taken
another mortal, and relished it.  It's not that she did not understand the
craving for fresh human blood; on the contrary, there were times when she
missed it immensely.  What she could not comprehend, was why an Ancient of
LaCroix' experience and control, was suddenly on a binge of killing.  And
the frequency was building, not diminishing.  Killing on a whim, was no
longer an acceptable way of feeding within the Community.  The occasional
live mortal, properly disposed of was one thing, but at the rate LaCroix
was going, Janette knew it would only be a matter of time before the
Enforcers would become interested.  Enforcers.  Now that, could be trouble
with a capital "T".

=46or the moment, Janette decided the best possible offense, would be to
gather facts.  She retreated back into the club.  She would wait, and
choose an appropriate time at which to prod him for answers.  She needed to
have a hold of some details before she approached him.

She saw him quietly slip into his broadcasting booth no more than a quarter
of an hour later.  He had obviously showered and changed clothes.  Janette
watched him as he shuffled some cd's around, and then sat down at his
console.  She waited until she saw the red "on air" light cast its almost
fiendish glow across the booth, before she quickly went upstairs in search
of whatever she could find.

=46rom inside the booth, LaCroix could sense that Janette was upset with him=
.
More than that, however, he could not perceive.  He positioned the
microphone close to his mouth, so that he could easily send his velvety
soft tones across the air waves.  He felt sated, recalling the taste of
coffee and almonds.  It caused a slight smile to touch his full lips.  He
spoke gently into the mic; each word almost a caress to the ears of the
listener.

"How many of you believe that each of us is predestined to his future?  An
artist has no choice but to paint; a teacher must dedicate his life to the
shaping of young minds; a serial killer feels the need to add to his
collection....."

He paused for a brief moment, adding to his collection of thoughts.

"Are we predestined to be a certain way, or is it society that molds us
into what we are?  There is the school of thought that believe it is our
DNA which makes us who and what we are, mes amis; fact or science fiction?
If it is so, then it gives credence to the idea that such immutable things
as evil can be inherited.  An interesting possibility."

His mind touched on an image of Divia, but came immediately back to another
image which haunted him:  An image of evil ending the life of a small boy
on a beach.  LaCroix closed his eyes momentarily.  What was that feeling
trying pushing itself into his mind, his......heart?  He took a steadying
breath and continued.

"There is also a school of thought which believes that it is our experience
and our environment which shapes us into either monster or saint.  An
equally good possibility, I should think."

A smirk lit up his face, as an image of his long dead father filled his mind=
.

"Can humans be reared to become either a victim or a killer?  Answer that
with absolute fact, and you'll be in line to receive a Pulitzer, I am
certain."

He paused yet again, and when he continued, his voice was almost a whisper.

"Perhaps what we become over time, is simply the sum parts of whom our
creators want us to be.  Is it not natural to plant a sunflower seed and be
rewarded with a sunflower?  One can surmise, that all the beings we
encounter in this life, are merely a conglomeration of their natural
tendencies, mixed in with the desires of their creators.  But how does this
explain the unleashing of true evil inside a mind?

"There is, after all, no ambiguity in true evil.  Take for example the
father who begets a son with the mind of an artist, but cultivates that son
to have the cold heart and soul of an assassin.  I'll lay odds that we end
up with an executioner who is artistic in his killing, mes enfants.  While
the son may have had a desire to create, he instead, has been trained for
the sole purpose of destruction.  It makes perfect sense then, that the son
eventually winds up self-destructing, does it not?

"And therein lies the tangible ambiguity.  We have a being who is at cross
purposes with himself.  Does his natural desire to appreciate and create
beauty wither and die?  Doubtful.  However, is it possible for him to deny
the breeding, the.....abuse which ingrained in him the disposition to kill?
I doubt that even more.  A parental figure is a most influential being in
a young life.  The lessons we learn as small children, insinuate themselves
into the dark recesses of our souls, where they cling like cancers to a
cell.  Fighting the City Hall which is locked away in one's psyche is a
most daunting task indeed."

LaCroix stabbed a button on his console, and pushed the mic away from
himself.  For a moment, he could only sit in his chair with his eyes shut.
He had allowed it to become personal.  Much too personal.  After a few
moments, when he felt his control return, LaCroix left the soundbooth and
slowly made his way back upstairs.

When she heard the door to the apartment open and close, Janette let out a
huge sigh of air.  She had listened to his monologue, and had let the ache
of his words wash over her like a giant wave.  She could barely believe the
reality of it all; yet it had come to her with such astounding clarity as
she listened to him speak, it could not be denied.  She sat, unmoving on
his bed, when he entered the room.

He stopped abruptly when he realized that Janette was sitting in his room.
Their eyes met, and the intensity of her presence actually caused him to
look away.  She knew.  Anger began to well up within him, his eyes took on
a golden hue as he turned once again to look at her.

"You had no right coming in here and--"

"--I have every right.  You are my family.  Mon p=E8re, I will not stand idl=
y
by while you self-destruct."

"Don't be ridiculous," he spat as he turned abruptly away from her.

Janette stood up as she spoke, "I'm not being ridiculous.  You are looking
for some way to punish yourself for something.......I've never known you
not to cover your tracks well, LaCroix.  You left blood all over your
clothes, and your clothes here, in the middle of the floor.  Did you leave
the body out in the open as well?  It's almost as if you want someone to
uncover you.  To discover us, our Community...."

He bristled at her comment, "I will not stand here and listen to this nonsen=
se."

LaCroix turned on his heel and stalked into the living room.  Janette
merely followed him, practically cornering him by the window.

"How many times over the centuries have I had to listen to you lecture
Nicolas about guilt?  I never imagined that I would have to lecture you
about it--"

LaCroix laughed in her face; but it was a hollow sound.  "Guilt?  Over what
Janette?  Killing a few mortals?  Hardly."

"No.....but guilt over one, perhaps?  You tell me."

LaCroix quickly averted his eyes from her.  She hit the nail on the head.
When she spoke again, it was with as soothing a tone as she could muster.

"I do not know what happened to you the night you did not come home, but I
do know that it has effected you tremendously."

"You know nothing of the sort."

He tried to move away from her, but Janette grabbed him, hard, by the
wrists and held onto him.  He frowned at her, but allowed her to hold onto
him.

Janette continued, "I live here with you, do not forget.  I have heard you
pacing around during the day; I have heard you cry out in your sleep.  I
have watched you grow increasingly restless and morose.  LaCroix, something
is eating you up inside, and I am frightened by it."

Her words hit him with such power, he swayed where he was standing.  Had
Janette not been holding onto him, he might have toppled over.  For a long
moment, there was only a perverse silence in the room.  LaCroix just stared
into nothingness.  When he finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper.

"I thought it would pass.  So many others have passed before....  It was
only a mortal.  How many mortals have I taken over the centuries?
Hundreds?  Thousands?"

His voice drifted off, and the confused look of a child marred his normally
stoic features.  Janette carefully maneuvered him to the couch, where the
two of them sat down.  She sat very close to him, holding one of his hands
in her lap, caressing it, waiting for him to continue.

"This....feeling hasn't gone away." His voice was like gravel as he
continued, "Instead, it's intensified.  I thought I could rid myself of his
memory, his face, by obliterating it with others, but....."

She finished for him, "But it has only made you feel worse."

He whispered, "Yes."  Another long moment passed, then finally, "I have
never felt remorse for taking another life, Janette.  Certainly not as a
vampire; not even as a mortal.  It is simply what I have always done.  It
is what came naturally to me.  It is what I am."

"As a mortal, you were a soldier, and soldiers kill.  That is what they are
trained to do. Vampires are predators.  We hunt mortals.  That is what we
do.  This does not make you some kind of natural born killer, LaCroix."
She paused, then finally voiced what she knew in his heart he feared the
most; "It does not make you purely evil."

He looked at Janette sharply, so needing to believe her words.  But LaCroix
knew the truth.  A killer his father made him, and a killer he would always
be; if it wasn't evil that sustained him, what else could it be?  LaCroix
looked away from her.  Janette gently pulled his head back to face her.

"What?  What has happened to cause this?"

He suddenly blurted it out, "I made a mistake, Janette.  I killed when I
should not have....."

Janette stared at him.  In the thousand years she had known him, she had
never heard such words come out of his mouth, and propelling them, the
voice of remorse.

"LaCroix?"

He swallowed hard, then looked at her in earnest, "I projected my own
miserable childhood memories onto another, and I destroyed--"

He looked down, unable to complete the voicing of his guilt.  Janette
looked at him, unsure of what to do next.

"It is all right, LaCroix.  Whatever it is, it will not change what I feel
for you."

"Do not say things that you can not be certain of, Janette," he snapped at
her sharply.

She reached for his face, to caress it, but he pulled away.  He couldn't
beare for her to treat him with compassion.  Not now.  Not that he ever
really could.  After a long pause, he looked straight ahead and continued,
his voice taking on a slighty disconnected tone.

"Destruction and killing is all I know.  A glorified executioner is what I
was in the Emperor's Army, and it is all that I am now. Nothing has changed
in almost two millennia."  His voice echoed with dim self contempt, "I am
still my father's son.  Nicholas has always been right about me, you know.
I am the very embodiment of evil incarnate, that he has believed me to be.
I just didn't know it."

Janette could feel his pain, and her heart ached for him.  She did not know
the full extent of what his mortal father had put him through, nor the
recent catalyst for his sudden aberrant remorse.  The only thing she did
know, was that she wanted to take away his pain; she wanted to comfort him.
She tenderly stroked the back of his head, trying to soothe him.

Her voice was soft as the most gentle of caresses, "You are not the
embodiment of evil, mon amour.  I know so much more of you than that.  I
have felt your compassion, your protection, even your love.  And you know
as well as I, that Nicolas does not mean it when he says those things.  He
is just a spoiled child who likes to get his father's attention."

LaCroix could no longer look her in the eyes, knowing what the killer in
him had done.  Janette frowned, she could sense the turmoil inside him once
again.

"We all have moments of doubt within ourselves, LaCroix.  Even you are not
as immune as you have led yourself to believe."  She paused as she gently
pulled his face up to look at her, "You are not your father.  You have the
choice not to be like him."

"It's too late, Janette.  I am exactly like him."

"Non.  Despite what you might want to believe, I have seen your heart, mon
p=E8re, it is not without love."

LaCroix did not comment.  Instead, he closed his eyes, and gently let his
head tilt, until it rested against hers.  He would say no more.  He had
said too much already.  Janette wrapped her arms around him, and held him.
He knew that she would hold him as long as she sensed that he needed her
to.  For the first time in weeks, he fell into a tranquil sleep, curled up
on the couch, still within the comfort of her arms.  Janette smiled down at
him, as she looked into his now peaceful face.  The only thing that was
truly natural about him, was his immortality.  In time, he would remember
that.

fin

end
vampwrtr@innocent.com