Date:         Wed, 21 Jul 1993 13:41:28 EDT
 
 
 
                           *OLD BLOOD*
 
 
         (a *Forever Knight* story by Veronica McKnight)
 
 
 
 
     Nick glanced nervously around the crowded reception hall.
Why had he ever let Schanke drag him here?  A wedding.  A
celebration of life.  He felt especially wrong here, unclean.
 
     "Come ON, Knight," Schanke was herding him over toward the
side of the hall where a sumptuous wedding banquet was laid out
upon long lace-covered tables.  Along the adjoining wall the huge
bar was provisioned with glistening kegs of beer and jewel-like
green bottles full of home-made wine.
 
     "Listen, Schanke," Nick broke his partner's hold and started
backing away toward the exit, toward his cadillac parked outside
in the cool Toronto night, "I don't know. . .," He shot a quick
glance over his shoulder, scanning his getaway route, "I'm really
not feeling up to this tonight. . ."
 
     But Schanke gave him a swift push that propelled him through
the crowd.  "Myra!" he was yelling as he pushed, "Look who's
here!"  A small, pretty woman turned around, and a dark-haired
little girl peeked up at Nick from behind her.  The woman smiled,
and reached out her hand.  "You don't even have to tell me who
THIS is," she said, "Hi, Detective Nick Knight.  I'm so happy to
FINALLY meet you."  She rolled her eyes at her husband as she
said the word FINALLY.  Schanke shrugged helplessly and gave her
a lame smile.
 
     Nick took hold of Myra's small, delicate fingers.  She had
such a peaceful face.  Forgetting himself for a moment, Nick bent
and kissed her hand.  "My Lady," he said, and blushed when he
realized what he had done.  Then he felt an excitement as he
remembered that he hadn't blushed since he'd been "brought
across."  He'd have to tell Nat about this.
 
     "Don't overdo it, Knight," Schanke spoke low, out of the
corner of his mouth.  "Hey, pumpkin!"  He reached around his wife
and gently drew the dark-haired little girl out where Nick could
see her.  "This is our daughter, Jenny."
 
     "Hi," Nick said.  The little girl looked to the floor, then
suddenly back up at him, her eyes bright with a mischevious
twinkle.  "Are you from Poland, too?" she asked.
 
     "What?" Nick had to laugh a bit at that.  "No!"
 
     Schanke and Myra were laughing too.  "I just introduced her
to Don's two cousins who arrived here from Poland this morning,"
Myra explained.
 
     "Yeah--all the relatives are here!  From Poland, Chicago. .
even Cincinnati!"  Schanke bent down to speak to his daughter.
"Nick's my partner, pumpkin."
 
     Jenny took a step closer.  She spoke in a whisper now.  "Can
he polka, Daddy?"  Schanke raised an eyebrow at Nick who decided
to just play dumb.
 
     "Why don't you give him a lesson?" Schanke said, and then
cracked up at his own idea.  Jenny took Nick's hand.  "Let's go,"
she said as she pulled him toward the crowded dancefloor.
 
     "Hey," Nick called back as he was being lead away, "Your
daughter takes after you, partner."
 
     "That's my girl!"
 
     The night had already been a long one.  Though it was only
midnight, it seemed much later to Nick.  Another family murder--a
man had shot his wife and their two children. . .and then,
himself.  Even Nat had succumbed to the horror of it.  Nick had
never seen the coroner betray the slightest emotion while
examining a corpse; but this evening, when they brought her the
children, Nick's quick eyes caught the slight trembling of her
hands.  "Are you OK?" he had asked her.  She had swallowed,
steeling herself.  "Yes."  She had wiped a bit of perspiration
from her brow, given her head one terse shake.  Then, of course,
she was steady as ever, steady as a rock.  How he admired her.
 
     The worst part of it was that there were no criminals to
catch--no way to alleviate the sacrilige.
 
     "1-2-3, 1-2-3,"  Dark-eyed Jenny was patiently teaching her
new pupil.
 
     Nick was smiling as he pretended clumsiness.
 
     "No, no, Mr. Knight. . ."
 
     "Nick."
 
     "Nick."  She grinned up at him.  "Let's begin again."  Nick
wondered if she'd heard that phrase from HER teacher.
"1-2-3, 1-2-3. . ."
 
     He felt the lively and festive spirit of the people whirling
around them.  The dining and dancing and drinking had obviously
gone on for hours; and the people were really letting their hair
down.
 
     Relaxing a bit, Nick allowed Jenny to steer him deeper into
the crowd, nearer to the stage where the Polka Band was
performing.  It was a 6-piece band--men of all shapes and sizes,
dressed in flowered shirts and pastel-colored trousers, playing
their instruments with wild vigor.  The accordion player, who
seemed the center of the group, was stamping his foot to accent
the music.  Directly in front of the stage, a group of younger
men danced in a line, whistling and hooting and shouting "Hey!"
 
     Dancing couples whirled by--all ages of men, women, boys and
girls.  Old men dancing with their granddaughters, women dancing
with each other.
 
     "Go faster Nick!" Jenny urged him.  The music crescendoed,
and with one final "HEY!" the polka segued into a proud and
stately waltz.  Nick was relieved.  This he could do, and do
well.  He picked up the little girl in his arms as she giggled
and they went waltzing gracefully around and around the floor,
turning in perfect circles.
 
     Around and around, around and around. . .Nick fell into a
light trance as the old memory surfaced.  Poland, 1873.  Another
wedding.  The last wedding he'd ever dared attend.  How he'd
danced with Janette, holding her sensuous body lightly as the
rhythm of the waltz lead them to measure the huge, candle-lit
ballroom, turning and turning, under sparkling crystal
chandeliers.  It had been a long time since he'd been with her;
and she had looked particularly tempting that night, tightly
swaddled in a velvet gown of deep burgundy.  And he in his Polish
officer's uniform had basked in the the admiring gazes of a
hundred young ladies.
 
     But the dancing had gone on too long.  People were starting
to whisper.  Where had the bride disappeared to?  Eventually she
had appeared, at the top of the spiralling staircase, innocent no
longer, with Lacroix suddenly materializing at her side, a
grinning, leering, demon-groom.
 
     Nick gave his head a shake, as Nat had done with hers
earlier, to get rid of the awful visions, the memories of Lacroix
that threatened to engulf him in a mixture of loathing and grim
fascination.
 
     Schanke was dancing with Myra, and he trotted up close to
comment, "Forget the polka, Knight.  Waltz ain't bad, though."
 
     As the music ended, Nick gently lowered Jenny to the floor.
She skipped over to her Dad, who twirled her around in a little
jitterbug step.
 
     Everyone was starting to move to the perimeter of the dance
floor, to make room for the young bride and groom.  Schanke
pointed out that the groom was his nephew, Stush, who was totally
in love with the voluptuous Emma.  Again, Schanke leaned closer
to Nick's ear, "Myra's in her glory!  She introduced them.  She
helped design Emma's gown, too."  He was leering.  "Hubba hubba."
 
     Myra was, indeed, beaming with pride at her handiwork.  Nick
also marvelled at tall, blond Emma's gown--cream-colored satin,
embroidered with pearls and winking rhinestones.  It fit the
bride snugly.  The groom was appreciative of his new bride's
resplendence as well, holding her closely while he helped her
lift her long train off the floor.  Together they made the ritual
promenade around the dance floor, smiling and nodding at their
admiring relatives and friends.
 
     The huge wedding cake was wheeled out into the middle of the
dancefloor, and the customary photographs taken of the bride and
groom feeding each other amidst much merriment and good-natured
joking.
 
     Again, Nick's mind went drifting. . .but now it was not a
memory which held him.  In his fantasy he imagined another
wedding cake, one of many layers of white on white, with red
icing scrawled across the top: "Nat & Nick."  The red letters
were melting and the red color was bleeding into the icing and
down the sides of the cake.  As eldrich music played, the scene
in his mind shifted to a huge cathedral, where all the the
crosses were covered and draped in cloth.  Down the aisle a bride
came gliding, in an alluring gown of BLACK lace, veil of BLACK
lace.  It was Nat.  The veil covered her face to her chin.  Her
lovely neck and shoulders were exposed, the color of pale rose-
petals.  The enticing curve dipped into a daring decolletage.
Holding her bouquet of white lilies, she glided to the altar.
And then from some invisible place, Lacroix and Roland suddenly
materialized in formal attire, pushing a shiny jet-black coffin
on its wheels, pushing it to its place of rest beside the bride-
in-black, beside Nat, as she stopped and faced the altar.
Slowly, they lifted the coffin lid and Nick saw that it was
himself lying there, in tuxedo and tails, eyes closed, hands
crossed over his heart near the red rose upon his lapel.  He saw
his eyes snap open. . .green vampire eyes. . .and he heard
himself snarl as the fangs descended and he sat bolt upright. . .
 
     A pat on the arm by Schanke jogged him out of the vision.
"Hey, partner, I didn't know you got so emotional at weddings."
Myra gave him a warm smile as Schanke squinted at him, then
added, "Maybe you're just hungry.  How long since you've eaten,
Knight?  Come on. . .I wanna show you something. . .Myra?"
 
     "You go ahead, honey.  I want to watch the old women dance
the groom to death."
 
     "W-w-what?" Nick asked as Schanke pulled him unerringly
toward the tables.
 
     "Oh. . .that."  Schanke grinned.  "It's kind of an old
Schanke custom."  He stopped and pointed, "See those old women
sitting by the dance floor?"
 
     "Yes."  Nick was relieved not to be moving toward the food
anymore.  He saw that Schanke was referring to a line of 6 or 7
folding chairs on which were seated old women, all wearing long
black skirts and cardigan sweaters, all with their legs planted
firmly apart.  Most of the old ones were big, with huge bosoms. .
but a couple of them were scrawny, just skin and bone.  Some
wore flowery babushkas on their heads, while others wore their
heads bare, their grey or white hair wrapped in tight coronet
braids.  They were chattering with each other intensely,
fiercely.
 
     The tiniest old woman in particular looked especially
ancient.  She was little more than Jenny's height, and her legs
were spindly white sticks that ended with feet stuck into a pair
of black oxfords which looked far too huge for her.  She, of all
the other old women, was the only one wearing ALL black, not a
touch of color on her.  The black scarf which wrapped her head
also eclipsed her face.  Nick looked harder, deeper, and caught
the gleam of a pair of bird-like eyes peering back at him from
beneath that cowl.
 
     Schanke noticed and gestured toward the small old woman.
"That's old Buptcha. . .the eldest member of the Schanke clan.  I
call her my great grand-aunt!  Nobody knows HOW old she is; but
I'd say over 90."  He wiggled his fingers at her and she waved
back.  Chuckling, he winked at Nick.  "She looks like she's got
her sights set on YOU, Knight. . .better watch out!"
 
     Nick looked at him quite seriously.  "But what did Myra
mean, Schanke?  That they dance the groom to death?"
 
     "Watch."
 
     One by one, the young men were asking the old ladies to
dance.  The old ones reacted with feigned disbelief.  "Ha!"  They
were saying, "Feh!"  But eventually they would let themselves be
drawn out onto the dance floor where they would dance with the
same fierce intensity as they had when they talked with each
other.  They danced so hard that they wore out the young men; and
then more young men would replace the ones who had tired out.
But the groom was not allowed to sit down.
 
     "C'mon, Knight.  They'll be at it for a while."  Schanke had
finally succeeded in getting Nick to the tables.  He rubbed his
hands together.  "Just LOOK at this spread!  Souvlaki, kielbasi,
pierogi, sauerkraut, kruschiki!"
 
     Nick forced himself to stare at the food.  Schanke was
right; the variety was incredible.  But he staggered backwards as
a whiff of Polish garlic hit him right between the nostrils.
 
     Schanke grabbed a souvlaki and took a huge mouthful.  "My
Goddth-- therth's home-made pie , too--and look at all theeth
cookeeth!"  Schanke was in ecstacy as he paced the length of the
banquet, piling his plate precariously high with sausages,
dumplings, home-made breads and cookies, tasting everything he
touched.  But he paused at one of the serving plates, frowning.
"Aww, poor Buptcha," he shook his head at Nick sadly and poked at
the plate with his fork, "I'm afraid she's finally getting senile
after all these years.  She made keishka--that's blood sausage,
Knight, heh heh--and she left out all the spices.  Yuck.  This
blood pudding tastes like just plain blood!"
 
     Nick hurriedly got a bowl and filled it from the Buptcha's
plate.  He tasted it.  It was good.  From across the hall, he
could hear a maniacal bird-like laugh. . .and when he looked up,
he could see that the old lady, Buptcha, was watching him with
obvious amusement.  As she cackled, he noticed that one pointy
tooth protruded from the dark shadow that was her mouth.
 
     Schanke shook his head in disbelief.  "Knight, are you
trying to get her to fall in love with you or something?"
 
     "No, Schanke," Nick was finishing the bowl, "It's good.
Really."
 
     "Yeah."  Schanke rolled his eyes.  "Sure."
 
     "Mmmmm."
 
     Schanke just shook his head and seriously set to work eating
his huge dinner.
 
-----------------------------------------------------
 
                   . . .to be immediately continued in Part Two
 
>Date:         Wed, 21 Jul 1993 13:44:58 EDT
>From:         "Andreas, Peggy" <U0A75@WVNVM.BITNET>
>Subject:      Old Blood, II
 
------------------------------------------------
 
Here's Part Two of *OLD BLOOD* (A Forever Knight story by
                                   Veronica McKnight)
 
 
 
     Feeling somewhat satisfied with himself, Nick wiped his
mouth with the back of his hand.  It felt delicious to be able to
eat, and eat with obvious relish, in front of humans.  It made
him feel reckless.  As he stepped away from the table, he
realized that he was feeling a bit tipsy, too.
 
     Schanke was so absorbed in gobbling everything in sight that
he didn't notice when Nick melted back into the crowd, moving in
quick flashes until he came to rest standing near to the band,
arms folded, watching the old ladies dance.  It seemed, however,
that Buptcha had disappeared.
 
     The musicians were churning the dancers into a frantic pace.
All the people watching were clapping, stomping, and yelling with
delerious energy.  And the old ladies were yelling even louder.
As their dancing partners bogged down, they lifted their skirts,
and danced with a passion that, in Nick's eyes, transformed them
into creatures of rare beauty.  "This is the wild energy of
life," he said to himself.  He imagined translating the feeling
of the immense vitality into a piano rhapsody, or perhaps into an
abstract painting full of color and texture and movement.
 
     Up on the stage, the accordianist dropped down to one knee,
playing as if he were in a trembling religious ecstacy.
Nick smiled in disbelief:  The old ones had worn out 25 young
men!  Amazingly, the groom, dizzy, staggering, was still
standing. . .but barely, when the music finally came to a
crashing, orgasmic halt.
 
     The old women looked at each other and grinned.  As they
smoothed their skirts back down, they walked demurely back to
their seats where they pulled handkerchiefs out of their bosoms
and fanned themselves.
 
     Softly, the band began to play another waltz, and all the
couples took each other's hands and flowed out onto the floor.
There seemed to be a relief in the air, as if a storm had cleared
the tension away, and the couples swayed happily and freely
together, glad simply to be alive.  The groom was lead away for
some refreshment before he finally collapsed from exhaustion in
the corner.
 
     Nick felt a cool breeze caress his skin.  Someone had opened
the huge doors to let in the cool night breeze, and it called to
him.  Gliding quickly out to the balcony, he moved across the
terrace.  He checked to make sure that no one was watching him,
and then he rose effortlessly into the air.
 
     He drifted down into a small apple grove not far from the
building.  He realized that his senses of texture, sight, and
smell were all heightened to an extraordinary degree.  What was
IN that bloody concoction he had eaten?
 
     Silently he stood there on the cool earth, marvelling at the
silver moonlight seeping through the branches of the apple trees.
He could smell the ripening apples, and for a second he
remembered what an apple had tasted like when, hundreds of years
before, he'd been a teenage Knight with a voracious appetite.  He
remembered sleeping with his first love when he was only 16, in
an apple tree grove just like this one. . .out in the open, in
the moist night air.
 
     "Time for OUR dance now, my handsome one." Like the
crumbling of old leaves, the voice seemed to come from all around
him.  He couldn't pinpoint its direction at all.
 
     "Who's there?" he asked, quickly.
 
     Without warning, something flew at him, clutching at his
skin and pulling at his hair with sharp claw-like fingers.  It
appeared to be a bat--a very large bat!  He tried desperately to
brush it off, and he succeeded for a moment.  But straightaway it
was back, attacking him from the other direction.  It knocked him
to the ground and dug its claws into his shoulders while what
seemed to be its wings flapped back and forth across his face.
 
     He hit out at it, but it was moving so fast he couldn't
connect.  So he rolled himself into a ball, to protect his
vulnerable chest, his heart.  Immediately, he felt the thing
withdraw.
 
     He lay there for a few seconds, gathering his ragged breath,
before he dared to uncoil himself a bit and look around.
 
     She was there, standing over him--the old lady, Buptcha.
 
     She stood perfectly still and he could see her face now. .
a mass of deep wrinkles from which those two black eyes burned
like hot coals.  She raised a gnarled hand and pointed a finger
at him.  It came to rest only an inch from his nose.
 
     "So, my fine gentleman. . ."  Her voice was the voice of
those dry leaves, crackling, hissing, "You think you can stalk my
family and get away with it?"  Her one pointy tooth gleamed in
the moon light.
 
     "I. . ." Before Nick could get a word out, she had kicked
him in the face with those huge oxfords.
 
     She howled with laughter.  Her eyes shone like a cat's
fixing to pounce upon its kill.
 
     In response, Nick's eyes began to glow as his vampire
strength suffused his body; and with one gliding effort, he rose
to his full height, looking down upon the old one.  To his great
relief, she seemed momentarily surprised and backed up a step.
Not missing a beat, Nick grabbed her neck.  He wanted to lift
her, to throw her against a tree; but he found that she would not
budge.  She seemed rooted to the earth.
 
     Buptcha's eyes stared into his own and became dark magenta-
colored stars into which he felt himself falling.  Then came
stabs of pain as he felt her dagger-like claws grab his sides and
rip through the skin.  She was laughing and shaking him as if he
were a rag-doll.  As she shook him, he saw her form shifting and
churning, flapping on the quickening wind, taunting him.
 
     From the depths of his being, he summoned words.  "Wait.
Please.  Buptcha."
 
     Abruptly, she let him go and he hit the ground heavily.
 
     She laughed.  "I'll wait to see what you have to say, boy.
But only because you're so pretty."  Her eyes sparked
malevolently.  "Then I'll eat you alive."
 
     Nick sat up, crossing his legs beneath him.  Taking a long
breath (and stalling for time), he brushed himself off.  "I'm not
stalking your family, Buptcha," he said, struggling to keep his
voice even, "I'm partners with your great grand-nephew on the
police-force; I'm partners with Don Schanke."
 
     "Partners!  Partners!"  Buptcha spun around, chortling with
great delight.  "Ah, that's rich!"  She moved toward Nick and
looked him up and down.  "What's something like YOU doing on the
Toronto police force?"
 
     Nick raised an eyebrow at her.  "What's something like YOU
doing at a Schanke family wedding?"
 
     Buptcha bared her one tooth.
 
     Nick pushed on.  "I don't understand how you could attend a
wedding anyway."  Now it was HIS turn to smile malevolently.
"Did you actually go to the Church?"
 
     "Of course I did."  Buptcha seemed a bit curious as to his
knowledge about her.
 
     "Didn't the crosses burn you?"
 
     "Ha!"  Buptcha reached out and tousled Nick's hair.  He
tried not to squirm as the touch of her claws made his skin
crawl.  "Crosses!  That's all psychological.  Neurosis," she
said.
 
     He was a little shocked at her use of those terms.  "What!"
she gave him a sharp pinch on the cheek.  "You don't think an old
ignorant woman would know about such things?"  She slapped him on
top of his head a couple times.  "You think you're so smart!"
 
     Nick fought down the urge to recoil.  "I. . .guess not."
 
     Buptcha slapped him one more time, hard, and then turned and
walked back toward the trees.  She picked the biggest tree and
sat down in front of it, leaning her narrow back against its
thick trunk.  Then, she spoke, but in a different tone.  She
seemed to have decided to tell him of herself; her voice became
richer, more substantive.  It reminded Nick of the drone of a
locust.
 
     "I've guarded my family for a millenium.  Each fourth
generation knows me under a different guise, but I return again
and again to them."  She smiled crookedly.  "You don't think the
Schanke family would have survived this long without some help,
do you?  Trusting souls as they are. . .and a bit stupid."  She
grinned, her lone tooth sticking out of her mouth, "But they have
big hearts."  She thumped her withered breast with the palm of
her hand.
 
     Nick shook his head in bewilderment.  "You are. . .what I
am?" he asked.
 
     She nodded.  "The one who brought me across thought it was a
great joke!  I was already 97 years old when he happened upon me
gathering wood for my meager fire, to take back to my little hut
in the mountains of the old country.  He made great jest of me
with his riding companions--and when I spat in his face," she
grinned again, "He told me he'd fix me."  She held her ancient
hands up in front of her face.  "Well, fix me he did.  He bit me,
and then he made me drink of his blood.  And then he left me, in
those woods, to fend for myself."
 
     Nick was silent as he tried to comprehend what she was
saying.
 
     Buptcha laughed to herself and went on, "I went back to my
family.  I didn't know what else to do."  She stood, coming to
her feet in an instant.  "I had 8 children, 42 grandchildren, 20
great grandchildren, and 2 great-great grandchildren.  There was
not much food to put on the table.  There were armies marching
through our mountains.  There was so much sickness and
suffering."  She smiled a macabre smile as the moon disappeared
behind a cloud to leave the grove swathed in a gloomy mist.  "I
learned to cull from those who threatened my family."
 
     Nick felt his muscles flex automatically, ready to move him
into a crouch, to fend off another attack.  "One more question,"
he said, almost desperately.
 
     The old one cocked her head to the side, again reminding him
of a dark, intelligent bird.  A crow, perhaps.
 
     "What did you put in that blood pudding?"
 
     Buptcha's cackling filled the grove.  "I tricked you, didn't
I, DETECTIVE KNIGHT?" she teased him in her croaking voice.
"That was my own blood in there."
 
     "What?"
 
     "I've been watching you. . .I know you work with my Donny
and after I studied you for a while, I figured out what you
were."  She started to come toward him now, arms outspread in a
gruesome embrace.  "But I had to prove it to myself.  I set that
blood out there knowing that you would be drawn to it.  You would
be unable to resist that old, OLD blood. . ."
 
     Nick scrambled up and backed away. . .smack into a tree.  He
sprang into the air, but the old lady lunged and caught him.
Holding him against the tree, she snarled and sank her spiked
fang into his arching neck.
 
     He bucked and tried to struggle, but found himself bound
tightly against the tree, locked in her claws.  Trying to kick
was useless; his foot found no purchase.  He was caught.  She was
drinking.  Sighing, he let the tears flow.  With a sob, he
surrendered himself to her noxious grasp, his knees going weak.
The feeling of being drained by this. . .creature. . .was
exquisite.  On top of his already drunken state he now felt
totally dominated, yielding not to death but to her command.  He
heard little sounds coming out of him, but he did not know what
they were.  The creature at his neck was merging with him and
they were one in a morass of dark fluttering wings, rushing
blood. . .
 
     He awoke, in the grove, alone.  The moonlight had returned,
and it was shining directly into his eyes.  He rubbed his neck;
the scab was already healing itself.  So it had not been a dream.
 
     As if to answer his unspoken questions, a breeze caused the
apple tree branches to stir, and an apple disconnected itself and
fell onto his head.  Bonk!  He staggered to his knees, laughing a
bit hysterically.
 
     He froze, though, as he heard the sound of the leaves
crackling and hissing again.  Was she coming back?  Then he heard
something else.  It was Schanke's voice, calling him.  "Knight?
Hey, Knight?  Come out, come out, wherever you are!"
 
     Nick pulled himself onto his feet and tried to stand
upright.  He was dizzy. . .but he was also filled with a new and
unfamiliar energy.  With a supreme effort, he tried to balance
the two sensations.
 
     Schanke tramped into the grove and found him holding on to
the tree.  "Hey, partner," he said gently, "You don't look so
good."
 
     Behind Schanke, a small dark shadow trailed.  "I told you I
saw him fall off the balcony, Donny," Buptcha said in that hoarse
voice that now sounded so innocent.
 
     "You were right, Buptcha," Schanke said.  He walked up to
Nick and cocked his head.  Nick had to smile, because it was the
same gesture that Buptcha had used.  It was a Schanke gesture!
Again, Nick felt the hysteria begin to rise from inside him.  And
again, there was that feeling of ease, of strength. . .
 
     "What were you trying to do, Knight. . .the climbing bit
again?"
 
     "I. . .guess I had a bit too much home-made wine," Nick said
sheepishly.
 
     Schanke grinned.  "Yeah. . .you gotta watch out for the
Schanke home-brew!"  He leaned in close.  "Don't tell the
Captain, OK?"
 
     Nick reached out and put his arm around Schanke's shoulders
to steady himself.  "I won't if you won't."
 
     "Deal."  Schanke started helping him up the hill, toward the
street.  "Friends don't let friends drive drunk, Knight.  Where's
your keys?"
 
     Nick felt his pocket.  His keys were gone.
 
     A claw-like finger tapped his shoulder.  Buptcha dangled a
set of keys in front of his face as he glanced backwards.  "I
found them in the dirt," she croaked and her tooth sparkled in
the silvery light as if it were the crescent moon itself.
 
     From all around him, Nick heard her, although her mouth did
not move at all.  "Only your blood could tell me the truth," the
words hissed through his mind, "I know now that you do not mean
to harm my family.  But I will be watching you.  Do not doubt
that."
 
     And then she was gone.
 
     "Buptcha?"  Schanke and Nick both turned around to face the
darkness of the grove.  "She's kind of shy," Schanke said, by way
of explanation.
 
     "Yeah, but she's cute."  Nick and Schanke climbed up the
hill together as the moon lit their way.
 
                             THE END