Date: Wed, 8 Dec 1993 10:08:26 -0800 Say Goodbye to the Light A Forever Knight Story by Karin Welss copyright (C) May 1993 Warning: This is a horror story containing violence, death, and other unpleasantness. * * * Prologue: Nick's apartment, the present day Dr. Natalie Lambert yawned and stretched contentedly as she watched the closing credits roll on Nick's big screen TV. She leaned back into the comfortable black leather sofa and propped her feet up on Nick's coffee table. Curled up on the opposite end of the couch, Nick ran his fingers through his hair and grinned at her. "Enjoy the movie, Nat?" "Oh, yes, I've always had a weakness for Sir Walter Scott," she replied, turning towards him and crossing her arms on the back of the sofa. Suddenly, she chuckled, and at Nick's inquiring look, said, "I was just trying to imagine you running around wearing armor, waving a broadsword at the enemy." Nick looked at her, his dark blue eyes filled with amusement: "That's right. Your very own knight in shining-- well, somewhat tarnished-- armor, at your service, my lady." Nat gave him a wry smile and wrinkled her nose at him. Try as she might, she couldn't envision the Toronto homicide detective sitting next to her as a medieval knight. But of course, that had been many centuries and many careers ago for him. "So, tell me, Nick-- what was it really like?" she asked. "The Crusade, I mean." The amusement in Nick's eyes disappeared, and he looked thoughtful and suddenly a great deal older. "Well, it certainly wasn't anything like the movies," he said, quietly. "The Crusade-- at least the one I participated in-- was brutal, dirty, and violent. Mostly it was hot and boring. The knights, and that includes my much younger self, sat around drinking and gambling most of the time, waiting for some action. A lot of us succumbed to heatstroke and dysentery rather than dying an honorable death in battle." Nick paused. "And that's, indirectly, how I came to be a vampire. You see, I first met Lacroix in Egypt, when I was a young knight on Crusade with my cousin Sir Roland d'Agincourt..." Natalie leaned forward. "Tell me about it," she urged, interested. * * * Damietta, Egypt, 1218 "God's Wounds, Roland," Nicolas de Brabant groaned, squinting painfully as the wooden shutters were flung wide open and the morning sun pierced his eyes like crossbow bolts. "Shut the damned windows. Have you no pity for a wounded man?" "Hah," said Roland d'Agincourt, entirely without sympathy. "A brave knight such as yourself, cousin Nicolas, should shrug off all wounds. Especially those inflicted by the fruit of the vine." Nicolas, his eyes still closed tight against the brightness, groped under the bed and threw a slipper at his cousin. Not surprisingly, he missed. And Roland laughed. "Look at the fearless warrior, still slug-a-bed when there are noble deeds to be done and Jerusalem to be rescued! Besides," prodded Roland. "I thought you swore never again to drink yourself into a stupor, after your last hangover? " "We're not in Jerusalem-- we're in bloody Damietta, and likely to remain here forever," grumbled Nicolas, but prodded by the insult to his manhood, he rose slowly, and rubbed his face, feeling the prickle of his unshaven beard. He bore only the vaguest resemblance to the eager young knight who had dashed off to follow Roland when the call went out to save Jerusalem from the Infidel. After several months in this damned place he felt no closer to redemption than he had kneeling in the chapel to take the Crusader oath. And he was certainly no closer to winning glorious fame and fortune on the field of battle against Saracen knights. By the time the two cousins arrived in Egypt, it had become apparent that Damietta would only be taken after a long siege. If anything, he and Roland were almost out of funds, and the few florins and ducats they had left were rapidly becoming fewer as they left their pockets to pay for food, lodging, and of course, wine. Unlike some of the luckier knights, Nicolas and Roland had not managed to attach themselves to the entourage of a generous lord who provided a living in return for an oath of fealty. "Noble deeds?" grumbled Nicolas as he picked up a pottery jug from the table and dashed water over his head. There was a foul taste in his mouth and the cheap little room was already uncomfortably warm. By noon it would be unbearable in here. "What noble deeds? I came here to battle the Saracens but I'm pickling myself in cheap wine instead." He began to dress, rummaging through the small piles of clothing scattered on the floor, hunting the cleaner ones through the pounding in his head. Roland was still leaning against the stained plaster of the wall, smiling. That smile used to mean he knew something that Nicolas didn't. It still did. Roland being Roland, he waited until Nicolas was almost finished dressing before he said: "Don't forget your armor, brave cousin knight. I have managed to get permission for us to ride along on one of the Duc's patrols. Not exactly the glorious field of battle, but better than wearing your knees out in the chapel, and then drinking yourself insensible. Have you paid the stablemaster recently?" "Hah, you're one to speak! At least my praying and drinking aren't putting my soul in immortal danger like your wenching and drinking, O most noble Christian knight. And, yes, I have paid the stablemaster recently," replied Nicolas, his tone laced with acid. "Even if the mangy son of a cur has been feeding Gaston straw instead of the hay I've been paying him for." "Good," grinned Roland. "Then you won't have to owe me another favor for providing you with a mount." "My horse needs the exercise, thank you very much, Roland. Why the sudden interest in the Duc's patrols?" Nicolas crossed the room, and hefted the large bundle of cloth and leather leaning against one of the walls. It proved to be his helmet, sword, and armor. He carefully unwrapped each piece, which had been wrapped in oilcloth to keep the salt air and dust from damaging it. For Nicolas, a landless younger son from an impoverished branch of the ducal family of Brabant, these items plus his horse were both his livelihood and the sum total of his worldly possessions. "Well, Nicolas, it appears that your horse is not the only one who needs exercise. You've been spending far too much time praying and drinking, and not enough fighting." Roland paused, and then lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Besides, rumor has it that this is no ordinary patrol. They say that the Emir's sorcerer, that renegade Englishman, is in one of the Saracen villages nearby. Probably looking for babies to sacrifice for one of his damned rites of black magic. We're going to try to flush him out-- he should be worth a juicy ransom to the Emir, don't you think?" "Oh, yes!" Nicolas stopped laying out his armor and smiled suddenly. It was an utterly charming smile that reminded Roland of the boy with hero worship in his eyes, who had followed him around on the practice grounds when they were both training to be knights. "How soon do we ride?" * * * Nicolas could barely contain his excitement as he and Roland rode through the marshes of the Nile Delta, towards the village where the Emir's sorcerer was to be found. Maybe he would finally get the chance to prove himself worthy of his early knighthood. Although he had ridden patrols against highwaymen and other criminals on his family's estate, he had not yet had the chance to prove himself on the field of battle. At eighteen, inspired by the knightly tales of Lancelot and innumerable recitals of The Song of Roland by his mother's troubadors, Nicolas was painfully eager to imitate his heroes. He looked around at the sun-lined faces of the other, older knights in the raiding party. None of them looked like they had sweaty palms. Even Roland, who was only a few years older than Nicolas, looked composed. But then again, Roland was already a seasoned knight. He had already fought-- and been wounded-- in the service of their kinsman, the Duc de Brabant. Nicolas took a deep breath, and a firmer grip on the reins of his horse. He made a conscious effort to try to look as calm and stern as his fellow knights. *I won't disgrace myself today,* he promised himself. *I'll be courageous and chivalrous, and the troubador Amien will compose a song about my deeds when I return to France. * * * * Later that afternoon, in a small village near Damietta Nicolas stood over the corpse of an armed Saracen, lying sprawled in the dust of the village street. He sucked in the hot, dry air in great ragged gulps as he stared at the first enemy he had ever met on the field of battle, the first man he had ever killed. The whole fight had occurred so quickly that he couldn't remember exactly what had happened. Heart pounding, dizzy from the adrenaline surge of his brush with death, he held his sword ready, and glared around for more foes to fight. Instead, he spied a girl half-hidden in the shadow of a nearby house. She saw him and, much to his surprise, came towards him rather than fleeing. Her hands were held out beseechingly in front of her, and she seemed to be pleading with him, although in a tongue strange to him, and the words poured out of her mouth in a stream of meaningless noise. Somewhere between pretty and plain, she was dressed in the humble tunic of a slave girl, her long brown hair unveiled. As she came closer, Nicolas found himself staring at the smooth skin of her bare arms and throat, and the delicate lines of her exposed ankles and feet. The sweet dizzy feeling of victory over a foe was suddenly transmuted into a surge of monstrous lust. Nicolas swallowed, his throat suddenly as dry as the dust on the street. The girl plucked timidly at his sleeve, still babbling at him, and Nicolas found himself responding mindlessly. He grabbed her and pinned her against the wall of the nearest house. She gave a single startled yelp, before his gloved hand descended on her face to stifle any further outcry. Nicolas felt powerful, almost omnipotent, as the cheap fabric of her tunic ripped easily away. She wriggled and fought, her terrified noises muffled by his hand across her face and nose. But Nicolas was possessed by the demons of his battle rage, and her attempts to resist him only whetted his lust. This was good, a hundred times more exciting than the compliant peasant girl who had taken his virginity just before he departed on Crusade. Nicolas persisted relentlessly, burying himself in her warm flesh, scarcely noticing as her struggles grew weaker and weaker under the suffocating pressure of his gloved hand. When he finally finished, he stepped back from her, feeling weak-kneed from the force of his release, and she slid bonelessly down. His temporary fit of madness having abated along with his lust, he looked down at the girl, now lying crumpled in a pathetic heap amongst the shreds of her clothing at the base of the wall. To his horror, Nicolas spied a small silver crucifix gleaming on a leather thong around her neck. And the awful realization numbed him: the girl had been a Christian slave, appealing to him for protection. Nicolas knelt clumsily beside her, meaning to revive her from her faint, to make amends for his hasty, ill-considered deed. When she did not respond to his ministrations, he stripped off his glove and touched her throat. There was no pulse, and he could feel the smooth skin rapidly cooling under his hand. He looked, distraught, at the livid mark of his gloved hand, imprinted across the lower half of her face. Not only had he robbed her of her virtue, but he had stolen the very breath of her life. He had murdered a fellow Christian. "Nicolas!" he heard Roland calling excitedly in the next street. "Are you all right? Where are you? They've captured the Emir's sorcerer-- you don't want to miss this!!" Acting on impulse, Nicolas tugged the thong holding the girl's crucifix, sliding it over her limp head, and dropped it around his own neck, concealing it under his mail shirt. Then, he hurriedly pulled his clothing back in to place, took a last look at the slaughter he had wrought, and went to join his cousin. He felt blessedly numb. Roland stopped short when he saw Nicolas. "Holy Mother Mary," he exclaimed, pointing at the dark stains on his cousin's surcote. "I hope none of that is yours, Nicolas." "It isn't," replied Nicolas, shortly. "One of your sorcerer's bodyguards tried to ambush me. He's burning somewhere in Hell at the moment." "Anyone else back there?" Roland asked, curiously. "This village seems deserted, except for our sorcerer and his entourage." Nicolas raised his hand to brush at his surcote, and was surprised to find it shaking noticeably. He lowered it quickly, hoping Roland hadn't noticed. "No, no one else," he lied. Feeling profoundly isolated from the genial glow of victory, Nicolas rode apart from his companions during the long journey back to Damietta. He tried not to think about the things he had just done, but he could feel the weight of the small crucifix around his neck, and he was haunted by the pleading eyes of the slave girl as she plucked at his sleeve. He had broken his knightly vows, and failed her, a fellow Christian held as a captive in a barbarous land. The truth was, his first battle had not proved him the heroic and chivalrous knight he had always aspired to be. Instead, he was no better than a common rapist and murderer. Wrapped in his dark thoughts, Nicolas scarcely noticed when Roland edged his mount over and addressed him. "Pardon?" said Nicolas, startled. "I said," repeated Roland, patiently. "That I felt the same way when I killed my first man. You'll get over it. There's nothing to be ashamed of." Nick looked at his cousin, and Roland flinched at the haunted look in Nicolas' eyes. "You have no idea what you're talking about," Nicolas replied, coldly. * * * Later, after washing the dust, blood, and sweat of the afternoon off, Nicolas entered the chapel to stand guard over the prisoner. The members of that afternoon's patrol had drawn straws to see which of them should spend the night in vigil in the chapel with the sorcerer. As junior knight, Nicolas was somehow not surprised to find that he was the selected guard for the onerous task. But for once in his life, he did not mind. In fact, he welcomed the chance to beg God's forgiveness for dishonoring his knightly vows in the heat of battle. He wanted so desperately to be a parfait knight, to be worthy of Jerusalem and the Holy Grail, and now he had plunged deep into sinfulness ere he had been a knight a twelvemonth. They had pulled the sorcerer from his lair in the village by sheer chance. The man, or demon, or whatever he was, had submitted meekly once the Duc's knights had given their word of honor that the prisoner be shielded from the sun. And had they not seen his flesh begin to blister and smoke as a stray beam of sun penetrated the shutters of the house they captured him in? And so, they had ridden back to Damietta through the long hot afternoon, the sorcerer swaddled securely in the all-shielding, all-encompassing black robes, hood, and veil worn by infidel women. No fools they, the knights had ensured their prisoner's continued compliance. He had been wrapped in stout chains, blessed by a priest, and stowed in the chapel, where his sorcerous powers would no doubt be nullified by the many holy relics kept there. Just ahead of Nicolas, under the altar, a shadow detached itself from the floor of the chapel, and became the hooded, cloaked figure of a man. A dull clank against the stone flags of the floor attested to the weight of the chains wrapped around him. "Will you join me for Vespers?' Nicolas asked the sorcerer, courteously. The prisoner gave a snort of disgust in reply, and rolled over so that he faced the wall, his back to Nicolas. Nicolas shrugged, then knelt, crossed himself, and began to pray for forgiveness from this day's deeds. About an hour passed, the twilight deepening to night. Finally, Nicolas rose from his knees and began to light the oil lamps placed in various parts of the chapel. The prisoner seemed to wake, and sat up effortlessly despite the chains. The hood of his thick cloak fell back, revealing pale hair several shades lighter than Nicolas' own bright head. "I saw you fight this afternoon. That was well done, sir knight," the sorcerer addressed Nicolas pleasantly, in French. "It has been some years since I saw anyone enter battle with such... zeal, and I do consider myself a connoisseur of battlefields." The memories of this day's deeds came crowding in, and Nicolas winced. His prisoner's words had struck a nerve. "What do you know about me?" Nicolas asked, with the same cold contempt he had used on Roland earlier in the day. But the sorcerer was not as easily intimidated as Roland. "Why, I know a great deal about you. I admit to being intrigued with you, Nicolas," said the sorcerer, in a voice like warm honey. Nicolas felt his forearms goosepimple with a sudden chill, despite the heat. "How did you know my name?" he demanded. "I've been watching you for a while now. But I thought that you were too good and pure to be truly interesting... unremitting virtue wears on one after a while, don't you agree?" Nicolas turned a dull red but did not reply. The sorcerer's mobile mouth curled slightly in a smile as he witnessed Nicolas' discomfort, and then he continued: "But then, there I was, resting from my wearisome journey in that dreadful little village, when your little band of cross-wielding barbarians appeared and ferreted me from my hiding place. But before that happened, I watched from the window for a while, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but our chaste, virtuous knight enjoying rewards of victory with a little slave girl? But so discerning of you to select a fellow Christian, eh? She was Andalusian, I believe... not bad. Although in my experience, the Saracen maidens are... spicier." The prisoner watched Nicolas silently for a few minutes, drinking in the play of emotions across the young knight's face, and then he said: "It goes away, you know." Nicolas jerked his awareness back to the sorcerer, who was now on his feet, and standing a great deal closer to Nicolas than he had been a moment ago. And Nicolas had not even seen him move. "What does?" asked Nicolas, dully. He was too horrified by the sorcerer's confirmation that the girl had indeed been a Christian, to even care that the cloaked man, chains or no chains, might be dangerous. "Why, everything goes away, young Nicolas. Even the guilt-- if you live long enough..." As Nicolas stared at the apparition who knew his name, another cold shiver prickled the hair on the back of his neck. And the man began to laugh, a deep, rich, utterly insane laugh. "Would you like that, Nicolas? And never end up like one of those poor, legless, armless beggars in the street? Never die... never grow old... and outlive everything but your youth, your eternal youth?" Several pictures chased across Nick's mind. He saw himself as a crippled knight, begging charity from passerby on the street, with no money to return to the care of his family in Brabant. Then he was one of the rotting corpses littering a battlefield, bloating in the hot Egyptian sun. And a vision of Judgement suddenly appeared in his mind's eye, and Nicolas saw himself damned for his sins and cast in the Pit. "Yes," Nicolas heard himself whisper. "I want to live forever." * * * Damietta, Egypt, the following morning "You mean to tell me," Roland said, incredulously. "That you helped the sorcerer escape? That you aided and abetted a creature of darkness, a demon, in return for gold and eternal life?" Nicolas nodded grimly, his left hand toying restlessly with one of the velvet bags of gold that lay on the rough-hewn planks of the table in front of him. The gold had mysteriously appeared while Nicolas was telling his prepared story to the knights who came to relieve his vigil just before dawn. "I don't know what came over me," whispered Nicolas. "I told Georges and the others that he used sorcery to put a spell on me, and break the chains." Roland looked at his cousin skeptically. "Well, I can see the gold, clear enough, but eternal life? Oh, Nicki, why did you do it?" "He's coming back tonight, after sunset, to grant me the eternal life. There wasn't enough time, before dawn-- he still had to get far enough away so that they wouldn't find him during the day," replied Nicolas, miserably. "I don't know why I did it..." "Oh, Nicki," Roland said again, and shook his head slowly. "When you decided to fall from Grace, you certainly did it in a grand way, didn't you?" He paused, and scratched at the golden stubble on his chin. "Well, I would say that a visit to your confessor is in order. This is beyond my powers to advise you." "I can't go to my confessor," said Nicolas, horrified. "He'd have me denounced as a sorcerer myself. And you know what that means..." A vision of the stake and the flames hung silently between the two men. Finally, Roland said, quietly: "You didn't hear this from me. I never said it-- but if I were you, Nicolas de Brabant, I would saddle up my horse, ride hard for the port, bribe a ship's captain with some of that gold, and hurry back to France as fast as I could, before that demon returned to claim my soul." Nicolas was in a quandry. "Desert the Crusade?" he whispered. "What about my knightly vows? I couldn't..." "Nicolas, by all that's holy!" Roland said sternly, secretly shocked that he was even suggesting such a thing, much less arguing about it. "I think it's a little bit late to be worrying about your vows, don't you? You have trafficked with the Powers of Darkness, lied to your fellow knights, and committed at least one of the Deadly Sins by succumbing to the lure of--" he waved a contemptuous hand at the bags on the table, "--avarice. At least in France, you will have a chance to beg God for mercy and redeem yourself. But if you stay in Damietta, you may lose your soul before dusk falls." Nicolas glanced out the window nervously, at the bright light of midmorning, and remembered the smooth menace and compelling eyes of his erstwhile prisoner. He considered his cousin's advice, running his hand absently through his close-cropped golden hair, and came to a decision. "Very well," he agreed, relieved. "I shall do as you advise. Thank you, Roland-- for everything." Roland scowled to hide his mixed feelings at his cousin's departure. "Now, in addition to all the troubles that have plagued me on this infernal Crusade, I will have to scour Damietta for another companion-in-arms. The Blessed Virgin only knows the trouble I had training *you* to cover my back properly." He paused for a second. "I think I've thought of a way you can avoid the charge of desertion. Ask the priest to send you as a courier to the Church authorities in Europe with a letter about these demonic events. Omitting, of course, your role in freeing the sorcerer. Once you've completed your mission as a courier, I would think about contributing that gold to Mother Church to buy prayers for your soul. I think you are going to need all the help you can get." He looked to where Nicolas was hurriedly gathering together his meagre possessions. "May God and the Virgin guard you, Nicolas. I will miss you. God willing, we will meet again in Paris when this Crusade is finished." * * * The sorcerer returned to the shabby little room shortly after sunset, to fulfill the final terms of his bargain with Nicolas. No longer concerned with hiding the full extent of his powers, he entered via the second-story window. To his surprise, he found his prey sitting in a chair, his back to the wall, fully armed, with his broadsword lying across his knees. "What foolishness is this, Nicolas?" asked the sorcerer, contemptuously. "Have you changed your mind?" "Welcome, Sir Demon," said Roland, ironically. Only the bright glitter of his eyes and the rapid sound of his heartbeat gave away his fear-- or excitement. "I am Sir Roland d'Agincourt, cousin to Nicolas. I've been expecting you." "Where is Nicolas?" demanded the Emir's sorcerer, after a sharp glance at the knight, who upon closer observation proved to be a few years older than Nicolas. "I imagine he sailed with the noon tide," replied Roland, calmly. "And you are volunteering to take his place?" sneered his opponent. "How noble of you!" His eyes locked on Roland's, and he focused on the rapid but steady heartbeat. And he began to exert the force of his will on the young knight, willing him to rise, and lay aside his sword. "Come with me now," the sorcerer said softly, his gaze never leaving Roland's. "You want to put down your sword, and follow me..." "Not precisely," replied Roland, breaking the hold of the other man's compelling gaze. Before the sorcerer had time to recover from the surprise of Roland's immunity to his wiles, Roland whipped out his crucifix and a vial of holy water. "Begone, demon!" he commanded, sternly, thrusting the cross at the sorcerer. The sorcerer hissed and backed away, suddenly revealing yellow eyes and long, sharp canine teeth. Turning suddenly, he swept past Roland with inhuman speed, and left the way he had arrived. After a long moment, Roland let out his pent breath, then cautiously looked out the window, to the alley below. There was no sign of his unwelcome visitor. * * * Alexandria, Egypt, near dawn "Having bungled all else, I assume you at least managed to make him forget about your visit," said Sharibet coldly, clipping another faded bloom from her treasured rose bushes. The warm night air was heavy with their scent. She was the oldest of them all, and she had given Menelaos of Pergamon, lately the Emir's personal sorcerer, the gift of immortality and the thirst for blood when he came to Egypt with the armies of Alexander the Great. He adored her, worshipped her like a goddess-- and lived in terror of her wrath, as did all vampires. For she was Sharibet the Lamia, ancient enough to have quite possibly tempted Adam in the Garden of Eden. Menelaos grimaced. "Roland proved to be resistant to persuasion. He would not submit his will to me. Pfui! I wash my hands of both of them, the pathetic creatures. There are hundreds of Crusaders in Egypt. Surely I can find someone else." "You are wrong. This is your responsibility. You revealed yourself to a knight, a sworn servant of the Christian Church, and worse yet, a mortal who cannot be coerced," Sharibet replied sternly. "You know the Code as well as I do-- You have two choices, now: either silence him, permanently, or bring him over into our life." Menelaos opened his mouth to protest, and Sharibet silenced him with a wave of her hand. "I am merely reminding you of the Code," said Sharibet, the elfin planes of her face disappearing and reappearing in the flickering torchlight that illuminated her rose garden. "You know the consequences of flouting it as well as I do." "Very well-- I will go hunting soon in Damietta. It should be easy enough for one more knight to disappear on this infernal Crusade," grumbled Menelaos, acceeding grudgingly to the vampire whose word was law. But Sharibet pursed her lips, and shook her head. "Bring him to me. I am rather intrigued by this young man. I should like to see for myself whether or not Sir Roland d'Agincourt can be persuaded to accept immortality. I leave the matter in your hands, Menelaos, my son. Do not disappoint me." * * * Nicolas stood on the deck of the small supply ship, and watched the moon rise over the gentle waves of the Mediterranean. He had been fortunate to find a place on the crowded vessel, although his luck had admittedly been aided by the large bribe he paid the captain. He took a deep breath of the fresh night air, glad to escape the fetid atmosphere belowdecks. The other passengers on the vessel were sick or wounded knights and footsoldiers returning to France, and the hold was filled with the groans of suffering men and the stench of their infected wounds. Nicolas, whole, young, and healthy, garnered curious looks from those well enough to notice him. He knew they considered him a deserter. Letter or no letter, he found himself ashamed to meet their eyes. Nicolas glanced over the silver-dappled waves, back towards the long- vanished coast of Egypt. He wondered how Roland was faring in his absence. * * * Alexandria, Egypt, the following evening "Release me, demon!" demanded Roland, squirming dizzily against the iron bands that were the sorcerer's arms. The sorcerer laughed. "Are you certain that is your wish?" he asked, silkily. "It's a long, long, way to the ground, sir knight." Roland froze. It was true, then, not just a dream induced by a surfeit of wine. They were flying. He had been snatched away from the midst of his companions as they left a tavern, and now he hung limp in the demon's embrace like a rabbit snatched from a field by a falcon. It was not a very comforting image. "Holy Virgin and all the saints, guard me," Roland began to pray, keeping very, very still now so that his captor would not be tempted to drop him after all. Roland felt rather than heard his captor give an exaggerated sigh. "Be silent, sir knight. I dislike excessive piety." "Really?" blurted Roland, his desire to battle his captor verbally if he could not physically overriding his common sense. "Why, Nicolas is one of the most pious members of our family. He told me he had invited you to Vespers." "Nicolas is a most foolish young man, and I intend to make him see the error of his ways. Unfortunately, you are the one who will pay for his foolishness first." That remark effectively killed the conversation for the rest of the journey. Roland, the last of the wine fumes cleared from his head by the rush of danger, frantically made and discarded a number of plans for battling his captor and escaping... once they were safely back on the ground. He did not know what he had expected, but he was surprised when his captor landed on the roof of a large but otherwise perfectly ordinary house in what appeared to be a large city. Alexandria? Thebes? Luxor? Roland had no idea how far he had been taken from Damietta. "Where are you taking me?" Roland demanded as his captor pulled him along in an irresistible grip. His captor glanced briefly back at him, lips curling and the hair white in the moonlight. "Someone wants to meet you." Roland was prodded into a sumptuously furnished chamber, richly hung with costly fabrics, and bright with the soft glow of a hundred beeswax tapers. Instead of the usual straw or rushes, he felt the soft, yielding texture of silken carpets under his feet. A breeze moved randomly through the chamber, entering freely through doors and windows that were covered with carved, pierced wooden screens, carrying the sweet scent of roses with it. He had barely had time to take in his surroundings, when a door on the far side of the chamber opened, and the most exquisite woman Roland had ever seen entered the room. She was tiny, with nut brown skin and night-dark hair, and large, amber eyes cunningly outlined in kohl. She was clad in exotic scarlet silk draperies, and carried a basket of freshly cut roses over one arm. Golden, ibis-shaped shears gleamed in her other hand. She looked briefly at Roland with those captivating eyes, and smiled at him. Roland reminded himself that she consorted with demons, if she was not actually a demon herself, and that he would have to do penance for every word he exchanged her. And then he fell utterly and fiercely in love with her. Putting down her burden on small, elaborately inlaid table, she walked around Roland, trailing a cloud of delicate rose perfume, and embraced his captor warmly. She greeted him in a language that Roland thought might be Greek, though he could not understand it, kissed him heartily on the cheek, and then arranged herself in a giant carved chair. Roland thought she looked just like the Queen of Faerie, diminutive and regal. More astonishing yet, as Roland sneaked a glance sideways, was the sight of his captor looking decidedly nervous and respectful. In fact, the arrogant, all-powerful demon who in the recent past had threatened to drop him while they were flying, was actually somewhat flustered. Roland barely managed to suppress a smirk, and caught the eye of the dark-haired woman, who was not fooled by his sudden solemn expression. She smiled at Roland gently, sweetly, and Roland was further enchanted. She was so tiny, so perfect. And obviously a powerful sorceress, if his captor's respectful behavior was any indication. "I am Sharibet," said the woman, in flawless French. She had a voice whose sweetness matched her smile. "I apologize for the inconvenience of my summoning you here. I had heard of your courage, and I was curious to meet you, Sir Knight." *Inconvenience* was something of an understatement for being kidnapped by a flying demon. Nevertheless, Roland bowed deeply to her, and said with the deepest sincerity: "I am Sir Roland d'Agincourt. The honor is all mine, fair demoiselle Sharibet. I place my heart and my sword at your service, until the last drop of blood has left my body, my lady." That earned Roland another smile, and he felt impossibly intoxicated. "What a curious turn of phrase, Sir Roland. You do not know what you are asking for, but I will grant you your wish, nevertheless." Emboldened by the courteous reception that Sharibet was giving him, Roland looked at his captor. "I don't believe we've been introduced, Sir Demon. How are you named?" Roland asked boldly. His captor looked at him as if Roland were an insect discovered crawling across the dinner table. "You may call me Lacroix," he sneered. Roland laughed incredulously. "Lacroix? Really? I can't think of a name less appropriate for you, Sir Demon." Lacroix scowled, and looked at Sharibet, who was watching with amusement shining in her amber eyes. "I think we should silence him-- permanently," he growled. Roland felt a sudden stab of fear. Despite the dreamlike quality of his adventure, there was a real possiblity that he might yet be killed or ensorcelled. He was relieved to see Sharibet shake her head, the candlelight sparkling gaily off her elaborate headdress of twisted gold wire and jewels. "Menelaos-- Lacroix-- you were always so... impulsive," she said, lightly. "I suggest that we allow our guest to bathe and change into fresh clothes, and then he shall join us for our evening meal." Roland was gazing at Sharibet with rapt adoration, so he almost missed Lacroix's jealous glare as two noiseless servants led him from the room. Lacroix sulkily turned to Sharibet as the door began to close behind Roland, and Roland caught a last, intriguing snippet of conversation as he was led away: "You're going to do it," Lacroix said, accusingly, still speaking in French. Sharibet laughed, a low, charming sound. "But of course! He will make a magnificent convert, I'm quite certain of it." Lacroix scowled, which provoked another burst of maddening laughter from the tiny, dark-haired woman. "Menelaos, my beloved son! You know I've always had a weakness for fighting men. Indulge me." Her tone brooked no opposition, and Lacroix subsided into silence, glaring angrily at the door that Roland had exited through. * * * Paris, six months later "Sir Geoffrey!" Nicolas shouted, despairing that he would be heard over the cries of the hawkers and fishwives. Heedless of his dignity as a knight and returned Crusader, Nicolas ran towards the man wearing the distinctive white mantle of a Knight-Templar, shoving aside anyone unfortunate to get in his way. It was early, and despite the winter chill, the marketplace was crowded. The smell of unwashed humanity was almost disguised by the pervasive odors of day-old fish, pigs, and hot meat pies fragrant with cinnamon and cloves. "Sir Geoffrey!" Nicolas had spotted the knight at Morning Mass, and remembered his distinctively scarred face from the siege of Damietta. But he had vanished before Nicolas could speak to him, and it was by merest chance that Sir Geoffrey passed through the marketplace just as Nicolas was buying his breakfast from a vendor of hot meat pies. "Sir Geoffrey de Bourchaut!!" Sir Geoffrey heard his name called, stopped, and looked around. A vaguely familiar young man with a boyish face and bright hair dashed up to him. The youth was richly dressed, and wore the sword belt and golden spurs of a knight. "Sir Geoffrey de Bourchaut? You were at the siege of Damietta, were you not?" Nicolas looked at the older man hopefully, and saw the blank look on the man's face change to recognition. "Damietta... ah, yes. I remember you now-- you were there with your cousin, was it not? I regret I do not recall your name." Nicolas smiled. "Nicolas de Brabant. I am kinsman to the Duke of Brabant. Are you recently returned from Egypt, Sir Geoffrey?" The older man nodded. "I have returned this past fortnight. I suppose you wish to hear the news?" Nicolas nodded eagerly. "If you have no other pressing engagements, Sir Geoffrey, I would like to buy you a drink. Is Damietta taken?" "Not yet, I fear," replied Sir Geoffrey, gravely. "I think it will be a hard-won siege, in the end. But we must take it if we are to control the Saracen supply lines on the Nile... " As he related the latest news of the campaign, the two men found a tavern, and Nicolas ordered hot cider for both of them. He waited until the tavern keeper had returned with a steaming pottery jug and two cups, and left again, before asking the question that burned uppermost in his mind: "And what news of my cousin, Roland d'Agincourt?" Sir Geoffrey sighed, and looked grave again. "Now there lies a strange tale, indeed, Sir Nicolas. I am surprised that you have not heard of it. I scarcely know how to relate such strange and horrifying events." Nicolas swallowed convulsively, feeling the hot cider turn to ice in his stomach. "What happened?" he inquired, dreading the answer. "Your cousin was snatched away from amongst a group of his fellow knights by a flying demon, and has not been seen since. So, we know not what his fate was, but it was surely not a pleasant one." "Sweet Mother of God," groaned Nicolas. "The Emir's sorcerer-- this is all my fault." Sir Geoffrey looked at the tortured face of the young man sitting opposite him, and said: "Sir Nicolas, I am a knight, but also a monk. Is there something you wish to tell me as Brother Geoffrey? I will hold it sacred, under the seal of Confession, if you wish." As Nicolas looked at him, torn, Sir Geoffrey reached for the jug and refilled their cups. "How long has it been since your last Confession, my son?" he asked, as compassionately as he could. "Not since Roland-- since Egypt," Nicolas replied. He raised his hand and briefly touched the outline of the small silver crucifix he wore constantly. Then, shying away from the full and terrible truth, he said: "I committed some terrible sins when I went on Crusade, Sir-- Brother Geoffrey. Then we captured the Emir's sorcerer at the end of August, and I was chosen to stand guard over him. He escaped by means of a powerful spell--" The older man sitting across from him nodded. "So, you were that young knight. You vanished, and we talked of nothing else for days. After your cousin was taken, we thought that perhaps you had suffered the same fate." "I angered the sorcerer, and he swore vengeance against me." Another half-truth, and Nicolas felt the guilt eating away inside him. But he did not dare reveal the truth, even under the seal of Confession. "So I returned to France as a courier, and he took his revenge on my cousin instead. Roland-- Sweet Jesus, have mercy on his soul. And mine." Geoffrey de Bourchaut looked at Nicolas and said, as gently as he could: "It is sometimes harder to survive a battle, than to fall in it. And what will you do now?" "Merciful God-- I don't know. I can't go home to Brabant-- Father called me a damned coward for deserting the Crusade, and he was right. I should have stayed. And then perhaps Roland wouldn't have..." Nicolas' face twisted with anguish and self-loathing. "I might go back to Egypt. The Pope has promised that all of our sins will be forgiven if we die while on Crusade. Or I might take a vow of silence in a monastery somewhere, and spend the rest of my life begging God's forgiveness for what I've done. I don't know. I have so many sins to atone for." "There is another way, Sir Nicolas," Geoffrey said, with quiet fervor. "The brothers of the Order of the Knights-Templar, such as myself, serve Christ and the Church for the remission of our sins. You need not renounce your training as a warrior to seek atonement for your sins. And you will find our Rule as strict as the Cistercians--" Nicolas looked at him in disbelief, and Geoffrey continued: "Oh, yes, Sir Nicolas. Our life is a hard one, despite what you may think of our fine horses and expensive armor. Our vows bind us to chastity, poverty, and obedience. Even the noblest among us are sworn as servants and slaves of the Order. We may not drink wine while at the table, nor keep the company of women, even if they be our mothers, sisters, or kinswomen. And we must obey, even if I wish to be in Egypt, and they send me to Acre instead." The Knights-Templar. Warrior monks-- could this be the answer he had been praying for? "I will think on it, Brother Geoffrey," Nicolas promised, his mind already racing with the possibilities. "Do that," agreed Sir Geoffrey, amiably. "And if you reach a decision, you may contact me at the Temple here in Paris. We need fine young knights who wish to serve God and Christ on the field of battle, Sir Nicolas, and I think you may need us." Sir Geoffrey rose to leave. "Remember, Nicolas. No sin is too great for God to forgive, if the sinner is truly repentant." Nicolas noted the respectful glances accorded Sir Geoffrey's white mantle blazoned with a red cross as the older knight left the tavern. Then he was gone, leaving Nicolas much to ponder. "A second chance," whispered Nicolas de Brabant, draining the last of the now-lukewarm cider from his cup. Unconsciously, his hand went up to touch the crucifix again. "Blessed Virgin and all the saints, thank you! I swear I will not fail you again." * * * Paris, 1228: Eleven years later "Menelaos," greeted the beautiful, raven-haired woman as she entered his chambers. "It has been a long time. What are you calling yourself these days?" "Ah, Janette," he replied, rising from the thronelike chair in the middle of the bedchamber. "My princess. You are still the most gorgeous creature ever to hunt the night. You may find it amusing that I have been calling myself 'Lacroix'-- it has a certain... irony about it." Janette, accustomed to both Lacroix and to centuries of flattery, did not bother to simper. After one swift, suspicious glance at the vampire who was her master, she stood quietly in the middle of the chamber, looking appraisingly at the costly tapestries and furnishings. "Well," she remarked finally. "You seemed to have recovered from your financial setbacks in Palestine. Or was it Egypt? Tiresome places, both of them. Far too much sun for my taste." She did not quite dare to smile, but her sapphire eyes grew wide and innocent-looking. "Outwitted by a mortal--- I could scarcely credit my ears." Lacroix scowled. Nicolas had made a fool of him, but he was about to get his revenge. "Actually," said Lacroix, softly. "About that young -- and extremely handsome-- knight who captured me. I felt his audacity should be rewarded. So, I offered to make him one of us. But he is, sadly, an indecisive fellow. One time he says yes, then he says no. Most unlike his cousin. That young man was a most willing convert-- after meeting Sharibet, of course." "Of course," agreed Janette, her mouth quirking. "And does your knight know what happened to his cousin?" Lacroix smiled, unpleasantly. "Nicolas de Brabant knows that his cousin disappeared under mysterious circumstances. And I believe he blames himself-- one of the side effects of actually having a conscience, I suppose. After all of these years of searching I have finally found him, and he is here, in Paris. I won't let him escape me this time, but I want him to come willingly, and betray everything he believes in for a chance at eternal life, eternal youth." As he spoke, he busied himself with a decanter and goblets. "I see," Janette observed coolly, reaching out and taking a jeweled goblet from his hand. After long association, she had some idea of what Lacroix was up to. She closed her eyes as she drank deeply, and her full lips shone scarlet in the firelight as she handed the goblet back to Lacroix. "And so I thought of you," Lacroix continued. "I want you to collaborate on a small venture with me, my dear." "It would depend on what sort of venture it was," replied Janette, although she knew full well that refusal was not an option with Lacroix, since she was bound by the blood to obey him. "I find myself rather bored at the moment. A venture involving the conversion of a knight might amuse me." "You have read my thoughts, my princess," said Lacroix. "Are we agreed, then?" "Only if he is as young and handsome as you say, Lacroix." "I'm sure you will find Sir Nicolas entirely to your... taste," Lacroix grinned evilly. "And how do you propose I go about-- encountering-- this Nicolas?" Janette asked idly, sinking gracefully onto a large bearskin rug in front of the fireplace. "The vicinity of the Paris Temple would be the best place, I imagine," replied Lacroix "The Temple? You're going to try and bring a Knight-Templar across?" Janette raised her eyebrows and looked intrigued despite her deliberately bored tone. "I do not care if I appear a courtesan, but as a Templar-- a monk!-- he does not seem the type to keep a mistress." "Yes-- too poor for anything but holiness," sneered Lacroix. "He's a typical younger son-- off to the Holy Land for some adventure and the chance of a fortune. My fortune. Well, I will certainly share all that I have with him, all that I promised him. I am, if nothing else, a man of my word." He smiled slowly, his mobile mouth revealing perfectly white, perfectly even teeth. "And I have promised myself that he shall not escape me." "Oh yes," sighed Janette, coiling her midnight hair pensively around her fingers. "To be in the company of such a young, delicious mortal after all of those unwashed, starving beggars-- I think that I am going to enjoy myself very much with your Nicolas..." "I want you to make him fall in love with you-- seduce him if you like, although I'm sure he'd be perfectly content to worship at your feet like the chivalrous young knight he is." Janette smiled, a predatory smile, and leaned back on a pile of silken cushions. The firelight gilded her smooth skin and she looked both very young and very vulnerable. Both appearances were deceptive. Lacroix bent down to kiss her mouth, her chin, and her throat with the carelessness of long familiarity. "Ah, he will adore you, my dark Aphrodite. He is only a man, and powerless to resist the spell you weave." "But," he added, warningly, "you will not bring him across. You may amuse yourself all you like with him-- a nibble here, a nibble there-- but do not forget yourself and make him a vampire. I want him to be my convert-- I'm certain that there's much that I can teach our young Crusader!" He chuckled, a ripe, richly evil sound, and saluted Janette with the dark garnet liquid in his goblet. * * * Paris, 1228. Two months later Cold rain was pelting down out of a featureless gray sky as the day faded imperceptibly into night, but wrapped in his own gloomy thoughts, Nicolas de Brabant scarcely noticed. He hurried along the slick cobbled streets, automatically dodging noisome puddles and floating bits of refuse in the gutters. He was a Templar; a knight of the bravest and most renowned fighting order in France, sworn to die rather than retreat from the field of battle, and he was running away. From a woman, a dark haired seductress; and from his memories. He had first noticed her several weeks ago, smiling at him from a small group of noblewomen headed for some evening feast. They had been surrounded by torchbearers, and Nicolas noticed how the flickering golden light gleamed off smooth skin and perfect teeth. He had wondered briefly what her lips would taste like, and then hurried back to his quarters to do penance for his sinful thoughts. But from that evening onward, she began to haunt him. Nicolas would catch glimpses of her black-cloaked form out of the corner of his eye as he left his quarters to attend Evening Mass. Was she a widow? Sometimes she smiled at him from across a great hall in the fine palaces where he went to raise money for the new Crusade, but she always vanished before he had a chance to ask his hosts who she was. And sometimes, he encountered her after twilight, wandering the dangerous, unlit streets of Paris seemingly without concern for her safety. She might have been returning from Evening Mass, but somehow Nicolas knew, with instincts forged in the burning sands of the Holy Land, that she was dangerous, and evil. But he could not banish her image from his thoughts; could not stop thinking about her, speculating about her; could not stop awaiting their next brief encounter with a mingling of hope and fear. He had not broken his vow of chastity since that long-ago day in Egypt, but he felt the stain of carnality upon him still. He was frequently tortured by lustful thoughts, which he tried to exorcise with prayer and fasting, and harsh self-inflicted penances. And he wore the small silver crucifix constantly, as a reminder of his fall from Grace. Through the haze of his other sins and guilt, the memory of that rape still had the shameful power to stir him. Even the endless hours spent kneeling on the cold stone flags of the church could not erase it. Or the memory of the sorcerer's taunting words: Why, everything goes away, young Nicolas. Even the guilt-- if you live long enough... "Sir Nicolas... I beseech you. Please stop!" This voice was low, cultured, and feminine. Nicolas looked up, startled to hear his name, and saw the mysterious woman who had been haunting him these past weeks. His chest tightened in shock and a dangerous pounding excitement began to course through him. He had spied her on the bridge just now, and had quickly fled in the opposite direction. How had she followed him so quickly, dressed as she was in delicate slippers and a noblewoman's fine gown? Yet she stepped out of the shadows now, close enough to touch, her face glowing pale in the twilight rain. Her eyes were dark sapphire under smooth black brows, her skin as white and translucent as fine alabaster. The water drops clinging to her hood and cloak made it look as though it were embroidered with diamonds. He swallowed, attempting to moisten a mouth gone suddenly dry, and she smiled seductively. "Sir Nicolas de Brabant?" she inquired, and then at his look of surprise: "Ah, but I have heard of you. You are a most renowned... and virtuous knight ." She lowered her gaze demurely, and then raised it again. Nicolas found himself unable to look away from her. Then, she smiled again, a long slow smile that revealed perfect white teeth. "Is it true," she asked coquettishly, "that you wear a hair shirt under your clothes, to atone for your sins in the Holy Land?" How could she know that? She was surely a witch. The iron-salt scent of freshly spilled blood returned to haunt him with sudden force, and the hot smell of sunbaked dust. "Yes, it's true," he replied, hoarsely, reaching automatically to touch the small crucifix he still wore around his neck. "I have much to atone for." The woman looked at him, and Nicolas was suddenly reminded of a lioness eyeing her prey. The impression was dispelled when she parted her red, red lips and smiled her enchanting white smile again. "You will have to tell me about it, later," she said, softly, her voice filled with unspoken promises. Nicolas had the good grace to flush. "I am afraid that we have not been introduced, demoiselle." "You may call me Janette," she said, and Nicolas watched, fascinated, as her small pink tongue emerged to lick her lips. "Demoiselle Janette," Nicolas began, uncertainly, seized with idea of offering her an escort home. "The streets of Paris are dangerous--" This earned him another smile. "You need not worry about me, sir Nicolas," she interrupted, smoothly. "I will be well-protected. But I must go now." As she turned back towards the shadows, Nicolas realized he had not really satisfied his curiosity about who she was. "Demoiselle...." he called. She turned and looked over her shoulder at him. "We shall meet again, Sir Nicolas." He saw her teeth gleam briefly in the faint twilight. "The Light shines strong within you." As Nicolas puzzled over her strange remark, he noticed that she was gone, vanished into thin air. A shiver of superstitious dread ran down his spine. She was evil; he should be in the chapel beseeching the saints for protection. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop wondering what her skin would feel like, bare to his hands and lips. * * * Chateau du Chancy, Paris, two weeks later "... and so, with your help brave knights and noble lords, we will reclaim the Holy Sepulchre and Jerusalem, in the name of Our Lord!" Amid the wild pounding of fists and tankards on the long table, Nicolas finished his speech and sat down. As a Knight-Templar and veteran of the previous Crusade, he had been given the place of honor at the head of the table. The Great Hall of the Chateau du Chancy was filled with fighting men and their lords. The combination of freely flowing ale and Nicolas' speech had fired them up with the desire to go forth and battle the Infidel. The Templar elders would be well-pleased, Nicolas thought smugly as toasts "To Victory!" were shouted out down the length of the table. His experienced eye travelled over the men assembled in the hall, assessing each for potential wealth and fighting ability to contribute to the cause. Then, his professional assessment faltered as he caught sight of a knight with hair the color of dark honey at the far end of the table. For a moment, he thought it was Roland, and the grief and shame welled up in him anew. Seeking to distract his gloomy train of thought, Nicolas glanced around the Great Hall-- and froze. The woman Janette was standing at the entrance to the Hall. He found himself unable to look away as her lips moved and she spoke. It should have been impossible to hear her above the din made by the eating, drinking, and general merriment going on, but strangely, he could hear each syllable as clearly as if she stood next to his chair, with her lips brushing his ear. "How badly do you want me?" Witchcraft, he thought, feeling a cold shiver raise the hair on his forearms and the back of his neck. But he couldn't look away from her, couldn't stop wanting her, even if it meant offering his soul to the forces of darkness. She turned away, but looked over her shoulder at him invitingly. Nicolas felt his throat go dry. He hesitated a moment longer, reminding himself of his Templar vows, then he slammed his tankard down on the table and rose to follow her out of the Hall... * * * Afterwards, sated, he lounged on the low divan, and leisurely kissed Janette's cool, white shoulders as he puzzled over her references to darkness. At her request, he had taken off the little silver crucifix for the first time in over a decade. It now lay gleaming reproachfully at him from the pile of his clothing on the floor. Nicolas had no doubt that Janette was a witch, but it only made his liasion with her all the more exciting now that he had once more broken his vows. He would have to visit his confessor in the morning, and his penance was certain to be harsh. But at this very moment, Nicolas did not care. Janette rose as if suddenly impatient with his caresses, and walked away from him, clad only in her shift. "Where are you going?" Nicolas asked her, bemused, and was startled by the look of contempt she turned on him. Janette walked to the doorway, and spoke briefly to someone outside, in the corridor. Then, the figure of a man entered the room behind her. "Who are you?" demanded Nicolas, unable to see the man's face in the dim light, suddenly suspicious that he had been set up for discovery by a jealous husband. He felt cold at the thought of blackmail, or worse yet, the resulting scandal for the Templar Order if his adultery became public knowledge. "His name is Lacroix," answered Janette, coldly, as if she expected Nicolas to recognize the name. "Hello, Nicolas," said the man, in a voice like oiled silk. Nicolas remembered that voice, and felt a dull despair take hold of him. He had not escaped his bargain with the Emir's sorcerer after all, but only gained a decade-long respite. Now, his Nemesis had finally come for him. The thing that now called itself Lacroix was suddenly standing next to Nicolas. He had moved so quickly that Nicolas had not been able to follow his movements. Nicolas slumped back onto the divan in dismay, convinced that Janette had summoned the Devil himself to fetch his soul. At such close proximity, he could see the fangs, and Lacroix's eyes glowing yellow with vampire hunger as he smiled a terrible smile. "We're going to be friends for a long, long time," Lacroix said softly, just before he swooped down and buried his fangs in Nicolas' throat. As Nicolas felt his life draining out of him in a great rush, his last thoughts were of Janette's words to him earlier: "Say goodbye to the Light, Nicolas." And then the darkness claimed him for its own. * * * Paris, three days later Nicolas awoke, swimming slowly to the surface of the warm black sea of unconsciousness. The first thing he recognized was the smell of old incense and mildew, underlaid with the faint, almost imperceptible scent of bones moldering slowly within prisons of cold polished limestone and marble. He could hear the distant sounds of church bells and chanting, and he realized, without even opening his eyes, that he was in the crypts beneath the cathedral. His last distinct memory was of the bedchamber at Chateau du Chancy, kissing the smooth shoulders of his leman Janette, the most enchanting woman in the world. With that memory he felt his throat ache like an old battle scar on a rainy day. And Nicolas remembered the rest of it. His eyes flew open, his body stiffening suddenly, like a man awakening from a nightmare. Only, if his memory was not deceiving him, he was awakening *into* a nightmare. Then he became aware that he was lying in an open tomb. Nicolas sat up slowly, cautiously, seeing that the heavy limestone lid with its full-sized effigy of a knight in armor had thoughtfully been pushed aside. Hunger-- heightened senses-- Janette-- and the sound of a musical instrument being played somewhere in the distance. Lacroix the Sorcerer. Something felt different. He raised a cautious hand to his head, and felt an almost ludicrous sense of dismay. His hair, formerly styled with the long flowing locks of a returned Crusader, had been shorn. The dank air of the crypt was chill against his newly exposed neck. Nicolas looked down at himself, half-afraid of what he might see. Skeletal limbs, perhaps. His fears proved unfounded. He was dressed in the white, long-sleeved woolen tunic and rough brown robes of a monk-- his shroud, since he died a member of the order of the Knights-Templar. I died. And now I am alive again. Nicolas did not want to think about the implications of that right now. He felt so weak-- like a convalescent after a long illness-- and ravenously hungry. But for what? The thought of roast boar, once his favorite dish, sickened him now. He rose out of the tomb, levering himself up on the thick, carved stone panels. And walked unsteadily out of the alcove, towards the distant glow of light, and into a large stone chamber glowing with the soft light of a hundred precious beeswax candles. Janette, beautiful, beautiful Janette, appeared like a dark angel in his unsteady vision. "You are awake, my handsome one," she said, softly. "Come." Nicolas reached out tentatively, profoundly relieved that she was here, and grasped her hand. His gaze focused on her perfect alabaster skin, the red, red lips, and the graceful white curve of her neck. She drew him closer to her, still enigmatically seductive, and he fell into a deep kiss, filled with hunger and the remembered desire for her flawless white body. Unable to help himself, he blindly moved his mouth closer to her throat, fascinated by the slow rush of her occasional pulse. Janette smiled knowingly at him, and drew back. "We have an endless parade of nights before us," she said, making it sound like a promise. Then, she took his hand and led him over to a corner of the chamber where Lacroix waited, playing his melancholy tune. Nicolas stared at him in shock, suddenly remembering the feel of Lacroix's teeth in his neck, and the swift, ecstatic ride to dark oblivion. Was it only last night? Or longer hence? How long had he lain immured in the carved stone of his knight's tomb? His mind felt numb and he shied away from such speculations. Later. I'll think about it later, he promised himself. Now, he was aware only of the overwhelming hunger that possessed him, the parched tissues of him mouth and throat screaming for.... what? Lacroix stopped playing at his approach, lowering the rebec and bow. There was a small, discordant note as the bow came to rest against the strings. "My Nicolas," he said, smiling smugly. "Now you are as eternal as Paris." Nicolas stared at him for a moment in bewilderment, and then said the first thing that came to his mind: "I'm thirsty," he whispered, like a little boy, entwining his fingers with Janette's for reassurance. "Yes... I know," replied Lacroix, his smile both sinister and charming. "It's very simple. " Suddenly distrustful, Nicolas glanced at Janette. She returned his look enigmatically, her lips parted slightly, showing her perfect white teeth. "It's time to kill," Lacroix reached out a long white arm, and clasped Nicolas' neck, forcing his attention from Janette. Then he steered Nicolas away, his face as indulgent as a father with his newborn son. * * * The following evening, Nicolas stood in the doorway of Lacroix's house, looking out into the night, hearing it, smelling it, seeing it in new ways. Janette stood beside him patiently, waiting for him to accustom himself to his expanded vampire senses. "I feel so strange," he murmured. In his mind's eye, he saw again the drugged young girl that Lacroix carried into the crypt, to quench the first terrible thirst of a newborn vampire. Her skin had been so warm, so soft, and her garments had smelled of lavender. In a way, it was like that long-ago afternoon in Egypt. He did not like what had he done, but he couldn't stop thinking about doing it again, about feeling the velvety skin of her throat against his lips and the hot salty blood pouring down his throat, filling him with warmth and the sweetest pleasure. "You'll get used to it," Janette replied, shrugging. "Come now, and enjoy your first hunt as an immortal. Lacroix is waiting for us." "What must I do?" he asked, apprehensively. Janette smiled, but this time it wasn't the least bit seductive. "Follow your instincts, Nicolas. And do try to rid yourself of your damned conscience." She pronounced the word as if it were an expletive. "I know you prided yourself on being the perfect Christian knight, but that life is over now. Besides," she added, "You will make Lacroix think that you do not appreciate his gift to you, and that will displease him. You do not want to displease him. Trust me on this." "Whatever my lady wishes," replied Nicolas, not without irony. Janette looked sharply at him but took his hand firmly within her grasp without saying anything further. He followed her out of the house, down a long unlit street redolent with sewage and rotting vegetables. Towards a heartbeat that sounded its siren drumming in the distance. And he felt his canine teeth aching with a sweet throbbing that was perfectly in time with the distant heartbeat. * * * The weeks passed, and Lacroix and Janette tutored Nicolas in the use of his new powers. Nicolas discovered flight, and revelled in the hunt from the air, like a great bird of prey. It drove Janette to distraction-- she stalked her victims like a great cat, feet planted firmly on the ground, and took to the skies only when absolute necessity forced it. Nicolas scarcely noticed the passage of time-- he lived only for the hunt, and the ecstatic moment when he held his chosen victim in his arms, and felt the warm blood quench the terrible hunger that ruled his life now. And always, Janette his dark angel stayed with him, and guided him, and slept in his arms at night, while Lacroix watched both of them with a possessive hunger. Blood and passion. And each night, a new, faceless, nameless body held tight in his embrace, as the three of them stalked the poor and homeless of Paris like lions in a jungle. He was damned for eternity now, and his life had become a dark dream that held no promise of salvation. What he did now could make no difference in his fate. Or so Nicolas told himself each night as he ventured forth from the house he shared with his immortal companions. And he forced himself to believe it. Until the night that he came to his senses after the ecstatic fulfilment of his blood thirst, and realized that he held the limp figure of a young girl in his arms. She looked no more than seven or eight years old, and his enhanced vision noted the black lashes that framed her closed eyes, stark against the pale, bloodless curve of her cheek. The dark dream shattered and dissolved. Nicolas dropped the body of the little girl, and backed away, horrified. "What have I become?" * * * Near Saint-Germain-en-Laye, three months later The abbey lay silent and dark under the moonlight. If any of the monks had been awake to see it, they would have seen the dark shadow of a man swoop overhead. Nicolas, revelling in the way he had neatly eluded Lacroix and Janette for this evening, landed silently in the abbey's kitchen garden. The faint smell of newly turned earth, manure, and the sharp scent of crushed herbs filled the night air. Nicolas caught sight of a humble wooden rake and hoe, leaning against a low wall in preparation for the morrow's work. He stood for a moment, looking around, his skin prickling uneasily at the reminders of a life he could never have now. Then he shook off the gloomy train of thought. Perhaps there was still some hope of redemption for him-- if he did not think so, then why was he here? Ernaud would surely know of a way to help him. His younger brother had always been the clever one in the family. Nicolas stood for a moment longer, letting his vampire senses expand, seeking one particular heartbeat from among the dozens that beat peacefully in sleep in the buildings around him. Then, having found what he sought, he moved purposefully, silently, towards the chapel. He slipped silently through through the great oaken doors, and swallowed, feeling suddenly dizzy and nauseated at the odor of sanctity within. The aversion to the things he had once worshipped had been the one of the most difficult things for Nicolas to grow accustomed to in his new life. His brother was kneeling in front of the altar, with his back to the door. Nicolas' night-sensitive eyes could see the peaceful expression on his face in the dim light of the small red vigil lamp at the altar. "Ernaud," he said softly, feeling a great rush of tenderness and hope. If anyone could find a way for Nicolas to regain his soul, it would be Ernaud. "Brother Anselm?" Ernaud rose slowly, stiff from the long kneeling, and turned around, trying to see make out his visitor's features in the deep shadows. "You're not Brother Anselm," Ernaud said, surprised, having determined that the silhouette did not match Anselm's short, rather portly figure. Nicolas took a deep breath. "Ernaud, it's Nicki. I need to talk to you..." "Nicki..." Ernaud said, wonderingly, still straining to make out his brother's features in the dim light. "It can't be. He's dead. I saw him placed in his tomb." Nicolas stepped forward, into the circle of radiance cast by the vigil lamp. "Ernaud, I need your help..." Before he could finish his sentence, a wide-eyed Ernaud snatched the Host from the altar, and Nicolas flinched involuntarily as its proximity assaulted his senses. Nicolas saw Ernaud's mouth tighten in the instant before his brother grabbed at a small vial and flung the contents at him. Nicolas snarled in pain as the holy water spattered him, smelling the scent of scorched flesh on his face and hands where the liquid had touched bare skin. Ernaud, his face twisted with fear at the sight of Nicolas' glowing green eyes and elongated canines, brandished a crucifix at him, driving him away from the altar. "Begone, demon! My brother Nicolas de Brabant died a brave and godly knight! How dare you invade a house of God, wearing his shape, you unholy thing!!" he thundered, gaining courage as Nicolas retreated. "Depart, I command you, in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit!" Nicolas, his face burning with acid intensity from the holy water, fled the chapel. His brother's parting words echoed in his ears. An unholy thing, was he? Well, they would know the truth of that quickly enough! He had not fed before coming here on his futile errand. But he would feed well, now. * * * Nicolas returned to the house that he shared with Janette and Lacroix just as the sky was turning pale gray and pink with the approaching dawn. Much to his relief, neither of his companions appeared to be at home. Once in his bedchamber, Nicolas fastened the shutters securely, draped the heavy tapestry over the shutters to guard against stray shafts of light, then crawled wearily into his bed . Even monsters must sleep, he thought bitterly, feeling himself sink into the dark depths of slumber, his descent weighted by the twin millstones of loneliness and guilt. He dreamt of a cross dripping with blood. * * * "Nicolas, you fool!" Lacroix's voice, thick with rage, brought Nicolas diving out of the bed with his knight's reflexes. Barely awake, he was fumbling for his sword from the force of long habit, when he remembered where he was, *what* he was, and why he no longer needed a sword. Clad only in his nightshirt, crouched futilely on the cold stone flags of the floor, Nicolas groaned, rubbing his face with his hands. Despite his heavy feeding the night before, he felt groggy from exhaustion. But the shutters to his room had been opened, so it was already past sunset, and he had slept soundly all day. Lacroix's voice, continued, relentlessly: "Haven't you learned anything in the past three months? What did you think you were doing last night?" Nicolas managed to stand up, and forced his mind to work. Last night? Then he remembered. "I..." Nicolas began, and then stopped as a thought struck him. "What do you know about last night?" he asked, warily. Lacroix sneered, and grabbing Nicolas' shoulder, slammed him into the wall. Without releasing the younger man, he shouted: "They are speaking of nothing else in the streets of Paris tonight! A messenger from the abbey arrived at the Cathedral this afternoon, imploring the aid of the Inquistor-General against a blood-drinking demon who killed several of the monks at the Abbey of St.Germain-en-Laye last night. And if that weren't bad enough, your brother reported seeing you, returned most malevolently from the grave." Lacroix was in an extreme rage, and his grip tightened on Nicolas' collarbones, until they were on the verge of snapping. Behind him, Nicolas caught sight of Janette, looking disgusted. "Didn't we explain the Code to you clearly enough, Nicolas? Or did you think that we hunted among the beggars and street vermin of Paris for sheer enjoyment? You have put us all in danger!" she said, and the icy contempt in her tone worried him more than Lacroix's rage. "I'm sorry," whispered Nicolas, looking at Janette. "My family..." "We are your family now, Nicolas," interrupted Lacroix. "Your complete loyalty and love must be given to us. Because the rest of the world-- the House of Brabant included-- will shun you and hunt you down." "Well," said Janette, the contempt still strong in her voice. "I suppose we must pack up and leave the city, at least until the Inquisition decides to call off its hunt. A pity, that: I've only just returned to Paris. I was looking forward to a longer stay this time." She turned and left without looking at either Nicolas or Lacroix again. Lacroix released his grip on Nicolas. He reached out, and touched Nicolas' face with terrifying gentleness. "Remember that, Nicolas. I am all you have now. And I will never let you go." * * * Epilogue: Nick's apartment, the present day. Nick finished his story, and sat back on the couch, spinning the stem of his wine glass idly between his fingers. He looked affectionately at the small, tousle-haired woman curled up on the dark leather next to him. "But what about Roland?" asked Nat, curiously. She had met Nick's cousin a few months earlier. "Didn't you know he'd become a vampire?" "I don't think Lacroix wanted me to know," Nick replied, thoughtfully. "He was afraid it would weaken the bond he had established between us. Besides, he and Roland could never abide each other." Nat grinned. She had never met Lacroix-- and thank goodness for that!-- she thought with a shudder, but she knew from personal experience that Nick's cousin could try the patience of a saint. "So, when did you find out that Roland was a vampire?" she mumbled, around a massive yawn. Nick smiled at her, and raised the remote control to open his blinds-- revealing the last rays of the setting sun disappearing behind the skyscrapers of downtown Toronto. "We've talked all day, Nat," he said, ruefully. "Time to go to work. I'll tell you that story another time." "I'll hold you to that," she warned, rooting around the couch for her purse and sweater. "It's important to keep your promises." ** The End ** Acknowledgement: Roland d'Agincourt and Sharibet appear in this story with the gracious permission of their creator, Marian S. Huntsman Gibbons.