From: "Susan M. Garrett" Figure this one as the flip side. **************************** Nemesis by Susan M. Garrett The keys jingled in the lock. Gritting his teeth and juggling the three grocery bags, Nick carefully turned the door handle and pushed the door open with his foot. He'd spotted no lights on in the front windows--if Natalie had fallen asleep, he didn't want to wake her. It wasn't often she trusted him alone on such a delicate mission as a grocery run, but she'd been so tired . . . . Closing the door behind him, even remembering to snag his keys from the lock, proved to be a mistake--Nick was in total darkness. For a moment he simply stood just inside the door, hoping his eyes would adjust quickly to the minimal light that shone through the windows. It was one of the things he'd taken for granted in his old life, being able to see so clearly in the dark. But, he decided with a grin, he wouldn't trade it for the ability to walk in the light without burning, to have a mortal heart beat and a pulse, and to eat scrambled eggs with bacon. He scrambled eggs with bacon. Which brought him back to his current predicament--putting away the groceries without waking up Nat. First, of course, he had to get across the room in the dark. And they hadn't been in this house for more than a few days, which meant he was still a little fuzzy about where all the furniture was located, Natalie unwilling to settle for anything less than fully furnished. One step, then two, then three--he made it that far before colliding with the edge of the coffee table. Nick bit down on his lower lip, muffling the grunt of pain and knew he'd have a bruise there tomorrow. He'd forgotten about bruises. And blisters. And being cold and wet and hungry. Not that he was complaining. Whenever he opened his mouth, ready to tell Nat just how miserable he was, he'd meet her eyes . . . and he'd remember who'd been able to give him this wondrous gift of painful mortality. And how he'd never be able to adequately repay her for it, although he'd dedicated his life to the attempt. Two more steps and he was in the kitchen. It was still too close to the bedroom--the hallway led into the living room and if she had the bedroom door open, she'd see the light. So he placed the brown paper bags on the kitchen table and worked by the light of the microwave clock and the open refrigerator door. Nick held the plastic container of milk in his hands for a moment, then grinned and placed it on the shelf. No wine bottles with cow's blood here--just milk and eggs and cheese and fruit--oranges!--and however many other mysterious boxes and cans that filled the larder shelves. Closing the refrigerator, he moved to put away the dry goods, pausing when he found the boxes of macaroni and cheese. Again, he grinned--that was another favorite. Nat had laughed at him when he'd told her that he could be happy eating nothing other than macaroni and cheese for the rest of his mortal life, then she'd informed him with mock-seriousness that his taste was pretty consistent with that of the average toddler. Of course he'd then kissed her, to prove to her that he was anything the average toddler . . . . Yes, he certainly liked macaroni and cheese. And he liked seeing Nat happy. Which, oddly enough, seemed to be a rare thing. Not that she ever said anything, but there were times when she thought he couldn't see her or wasn't looking--there'd be such sadness on her face, such care and worry. Nick walked over to the sink and washed his hands, automatically checking the window. They'd had to leave Toronto in a hurry. His cure had been a fluke and so sudden that there'd been little time to prepare. Their immediate excuse was that they were running away to elope--which elated most of their friends, although Schanke was a bit put out at not being able to stand in as best man and both Myra and Grace made loud noises about being denied a full-scale wedding. But their friends understood, or thought they did, never knowing how final those good- byes would be. It pained him to think of the resignations he'd faxed in, when they'd been relatively certain they were safe for a moment or two and could afford to leave a clue to their whereabouts. Sidney had been delegated to Grace's care, Schanke had been given the Caddy--thank God he'd at least remembered to sign over the title in the mad rush to gather up the few things that meant anything to him--and the warehouse apartment, which Schanke had been told to sell and invest the money in Jenny's college fund. It still amazed him that they'd managed to tie up so many loose ends in so few hours; two lives neatly wrapped and put away, so that two more could begin again . . . . Nick forced himself to pay attention to the night sky and the quiet suburban street. And what lives did they have now? On the run, always looking over their shoulders, waiting for LaCroix to catch up to them? There had been any number of close calls in the past year and a bad one recently. Each time Natalie had seemed a little slower in bouncing back, a little more anxious that it had been too close. He closed his eyes and clenched his fist, thinking of the nights she'd awakened in mid-scream, trembling, almost sobbing. No matter how he pressed her, she'd never talk about her nightmares. So he'd kiss her softly, giving her something else with which to occupy her mind, or wrap his arms around her, holding her until she fell asleep again. There was a sound in the other room--he heard the pop of the gas jets as the fireplace in the living room was lit. Nick opened his eyes and took a deep breath. Good, she was awake. Maybe he could convince her to stay here for a few more days, even a week. She needed the rest. And they needed to come up with more paperwork and false identification. Money hadn't been a problem--he'd been able to access quite a few hidden accounts that even LaCroix didn't know about--but coming up with convincing ID without the formidable talents of vampire forgers and a certain amount of hypnotism to make it stick was proving to be a real challenge. Deciding that he'd use that argument, because she'd never admit to being worn out, Nick walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. "Nat? Did I wake you? I'm sorry, but since you said we were out of eggs, I figured I'd pick up a few other things--" The fire in the fireplace blazed cheerfully, the only light in the room. But the woman who rose to her feet, tossing a handful of paper into the flames dismissively, wasn't Natalie. "Janette." He barely breathed the name, his heart leaping into his throat at the sight of her--he'd never told her good-bye or any of the other thousand things he'd wanted to say but had never quite gotten around to, even in eight hundred years. Feelings long buried rose suddenly in his chest. And were as quickly dashed when he realized that if were here, then-- "LaCroix?" Nick moved toward the bedroom, but Janette became a blur, suddenly blocking his way, her hand on his arm, holding him in place even though he resisted her with all of his strength. "LaCroix . . . isn't here," she said softly. For a moment he wasn't certain he believed her. The firelight revealed little of her features to his mortal eyes. She was still lovely--her skin whiter than polished ivory--but her features were drawn, tight. Janette seemed . . . older. Or it could have been that he was seeing her for the first time--in a long time--with mortal eyes. Nick stared at her, then turned away, looking across the room. If LaCroix wasn't here but Janette , could he be far behind? "Will you give us a head start? For old time's sake, if nothing else--?" "He's dead." Nick felt his heart stop momentarily, then looked at Janette, daring her to tell him that it was a lie, some sort of sick joke. The slight, sad downward turn of her lips belied the cold, hardness of her eyes. He took a step away from her, then sat down on the couch before the fire, feeling his way to it almost blindly. She seated herself on the arm of the couch and leaned his head against her chest, stroking his hair. "I thought, at first, that you knew." "No," he whispered. "I had no feeling, nothing, since--" Nick swallowed, not understanding the overwhelming numbness that her news instigated. He should be thrilled! LaCroix had tormented him for eight centuries, led him down dark paths, destroyed everything good he'd ever found, he'd ever loved . . . and yet LaCroix had made him. And, in his own way, LaCroix cared for him. "Of course you couldn't have known." Janette touched the back of her cold hand to his cheek, as if testing him for a fever. "You're among the living again. The threads were severed." "But, I think--I think I heard . . . something." He remembered having awakened from a sound sleep--his first sleep as a mortal--drenched in sweat, the sound of LaCroix's voice calling his name still echoing in his ears. It had been a dream. That's what Natalie had told him. "How?" he whispered, still staring at the flames. Janette moved away from him, eyes downcast. She stood at the mantle, but not too close to the flames in the fireplace. "It was more accident that anything. At first I thought you'd done it. But she convinced me otherwise." "She?" asked Nick. Then, as Janette nodded her head toward the bedroom, he found his voice strained as he asked, "Nat?" "It was on the day you were cured. While you were sleeping, she went to see LaCroix." Her lips twisted into a grim mockery of a smile. "Ever the optimist that one--I don't know you find them, Nicola. I think she had some idea of talking him into leaving you alone, that he'd listen to mortal reason." She touched her forehead with her fingertips and closed her eyes, as if the discussion were painful. "It wasn't--what do you call it--pre- meditated? Not consciously. But I think that something within her knew that the only way you'd be free was if he were dead." "No." Nick rose to his feet and turned toward the hallway to the bedroom, but Janette caught his arm, holding him in place. He stared into her eyes. "No. Nat's not a killer, Janette. Not like us. She could --" "Any woman will kill to protect what she loves," hissed Janette. " woman." She pushed him away roughly and he landed back on the couch as Janette stood over him, glaring down. "You've understood that, have you. You've always underestimated us. And--" She looked away, a vague, astonished expression on her face as the realization seemed to strike her, "LaCroix was the same. He never thought he was in danger. The prey became the predator. She . . . destroyed him." Her last words were so faint that Nick barely heard them. Again he looked to the hallway, realization dawning on him, as well. The nightmares, the heaviness in her heart--Natalie a killer, no matter what Janette said. If she'd destroyed LaCroix, she was paying for it in her own way. It was eating at her, the thought of what she'd done. And it would eat at him, for the rest of his mortal years. To save him, she'd had to kill. Another good soul he'd tarnished, another innocent corrupted. He'd thought it would end when he could breathe again, when he could walk beneath the sun-- But it would never end, would it? "I owed it to him," said Janette softly, her words breaking his reverie. She was staring at the flames of the fire again. "That's why I hunted you. Yes, he was cruel-- but he made us, Nicola. The thought that you could have done that to him so easily--and I was certain you had. You never came to say good-bye." "There wasn't time. I thought LaCroix would be after us." "Yes. So she said. So she'd led you to believe. Leave the scene of the crime." Janette laughed lightly. "That's where she made her mistake. I it was you. I swore vengeance against you, Nicola. That's why I've hunted you." Nick sat up straight in the chair, suddenly hearing her words. "Then, it was you? In Wyoming? Baton Rouge?" "And elsewhere. Yes." Her smile grew sharp and she looked at him, her eyes shining beneath half-lowered lids. "I didn't know I could hunt so well. And neither did you." The smile vanished. "I wanted you ." Nick swallowed, seeing the hatred in her eyes. "But, I didn't--" "I know. Which is why you aren't spread-eagled on the floor with rats chewing at your lower intestines." She shrugged, seeing him blanche at the thought, then sat down beside him, on the couch. "It was only an idea. I had many days to think about it. It's all I had to think about . . . how I would kill you. I going to end it here." Her gesture at the interior of the rented house was one of contempt. Janette sighed and took his hand in her own, intertwining their fingers. "She knew, of course--your Natalie. I arrived just after you'd left. She was . . . very hospitable, considering. We sat in here, where you and I are now, and she told me everything--how she'd killed LaCroix, that you'd had nothing to do with it, that even though she'd do anything to protect you she couldn't live with it, with knowing what she'd done." Again, he looked toward the bedroom, fear making him break out into a cold sweat. Nick tried to rise, but Janette placed her free hand on his shoulder, holding him in place with little effort. He was afraid to look at her, to see what he knew he would have to see in her eyes. "She told me where her notes were, so that I could burn them. It was a deal we made--I would take her life, but I wouldn't bring her across. Very accommodating, your Natalie. Very . . . sensible. Pedestrian, perhaps, but sensible." With a groan, Nick lowered his head into his hands and closed his eyes. That's why she'd sent him out to get groceries, trusted him on that small mission . . . she'd known Janette was coming for him. She'd known he'd lose track of time in the grocery store as he always did, still astounded by the variety and texture and quantities of food available to him in this modern age. Natalie was dead. She'd let Janette kill her. "She didn't suffer," whispered Janette softly, leaning close to his ear. "It was the least I could do. But I'd vowed vengeance for LaCroix, Nicola. I owed him that. So did you. And we've each paid the price, in our way . . . our final debt to him." Nick raised his head and stared at the flames, suddenly seeing the balls of smoldering paper among the ashes. Natalie's journal, her notes, her cure--it would have been her legacy. Even that was gone. Somehow, the tears wouldn't come. He felt numb. And tired. It had all been so pointless. There have been another way . . . but not for him. for him. What had he done, that he was condemned to this eternal hell? Could he do nothing to pay for whatever sin he'd committed that made everything he loved disintegrate around him? Would he never be free? But he was mortal now. Mortals . If he ended it now, no one else would suffer because of him. Suicide--that took courage. He no longer had any. He'd never had the strength to walk out into the sunlight, as many times as he'd contemplated it, been tempted to try. Always, he'd pulled back at the last instant. LaCroix had told him that it was only instinct, that his will to survive was too strong and would prevent him from such foolishness. But, perhaps there was another way-- Janette leaned back a bit as he turned toward her. Gripping her hand as tightly as he could, he met her eyes. "You know what you have to do." She licked her lips lightly, eyes cautious. "There one more thing, the last thing I promised LaCroix . . . ." Nick smiled faintly and squeezed her hands, pulling her close to him. "Then, do it," he whispered in her ear. There was only the barest hesitation on her part. He felt the cool breath on his neck as she pulled back the collar of his shirt with her free hand. He steeled himself, knowing that it was almost over. Then he'd be free. He'd never hurt anyone again. Janette bit his neck and his eyes flew open in pain and shock, but he tightened his grasp on her hands. It ! He hadn't remembered that, not that sharp, fierce, tearing pain. And then . . . the softness, the distant sound of her drinking, sucking the blood from the wound as he fell into a place that had no time or ties to the physical world. The room was gone, dissolving into mist as his eyesight failed him. Peace. He'd finally be at peace . . . . But then Janette's voice whispered in his ear-- "You'll see, Nicola, it won't be awful this time. I will be a better master than LaCroix." A shudder ran through him as she sank her teeth into his neck again, but he was too weak to respond. He'd hoped to find eternal rest, but Janette had made certain he'd reawaken to an eternity of moonlight and blood. There would be no ending, no peace. This would go on and on and on . . . forever. His silent howl of anguish was lost as he slipped into the darkness, knowing for certain that he well and truly damned. **************************** Another end.