Thankless Child (00/29) by Bonnie Rutledge Copyright 1997 SPOILERS: This is a post-Last Knight fanfic. It contains references to many episodes, the most important being "Human Factor", "Father Figure" and "Faithful Followers". This story also continues a series begun in "The Spirit and the Dust" and furthered in the "The Unselfish Partner" and "Shades Of Evil.' This story should be enjoyable by itself, but it does include references to these three stories, because continuity is our friend. They are all available through Mel's wonderful fanfic page at www.fkfanfic.com and the first two are also archived at the ftp site at ftp.cac.psu.edu/pub/people/lms5/fkfiction I will also happily forward stories if you send me a request at : br1035@ix.netcom.com Adoration and lauds to the beta readers: the splendid and vivacious Cousin Jules and Joni. I owe unending gratitude to Lee Belsky for sharing a motherlode of information about Toronto with me. Without her input, this story would not have been the same. Standard Disclaimers Apply: The characters of `Forever Knight" were created by Parriott et al., and are owned by Sony/Tristar. This story includes quotations from the following works: `Carmina Burana' by Carl Orff, 1935. John Donne, `A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning' Samuel Taylor Coleridge, `Kubla Khan' T.S. Eliot, `Murder in the Cathedral.' Harcourt, Brace and World, Inc. 4th ed. 1935, 1968. pp. 12,23,44. William Shakespeare, `King Lear.' Act I, Scene IV. ************************************************************ ********* Thankless Child (01/29) Copyright 1997 by Bonnie Rutledge 1976 Murder is not necessarily due to fate. Chance weaves around a person becoming the victim in a killer's ode to death. Five minutes of staying too late at work, opening the wrong door, sharing the wrong smile - murder is a matter of the little things: passing the wrong place at the wrong time and striking the homicidal mind's imagination. The killer stood in the lamplight, unafraid of being seen, for fear held no place in his world. He savored the joy, the glory, at recognizing his prey. He was a proud man. He stood tall and strong, walking with confidence and power. With dignity. Breaking him would be a sublime distraction. The killer shuddered passionately at the beauty of the image. So murder was a matter of the wrong place, wrong time, and the wrong expression. The killer understood this. Oh, yes, he had witnessed the crimes of passion, the premeditations, the accidents - what could be more amateur? But randomness, to take your time and luxuriate in the event, to be cold and methodical, yet tender and devoted to your victim- that precision transformed murder into art. A necromantic religion. The killer breathed a gasp of pleasure, moving out of the lamplight to trail the haughty sacrifice. His chosen one wiped the back of his neck, but not because he noticed the killer's breath lick down his butterfly collar. He was too arrogant to ever suspect a cause for wariness. No, the victim's brushing palm came from the warmth of the August night that caused sweat to trickle down his spine. The victim did not realize the importance of the date, of course. Soon enough, so tantalizingly soon, the killer would explain all in tawdry detail. He licked his lips, then struck. ************************************************************ ******* August 18, 1996 "Ooo! That tickles!" Natalie gave a little jump in concert with the squeal. "It was supposed to." Natalie turned and grinned mischievously. "Now what kind of liberated woman would I be if I didn't retaliate?" She wiggled her fingers at him threateningly. Nick pretended to be abashed at the prospect and laughingly hid his head with his arms while pleading, "Mercy!" His entire performance conveniently rendered his stomach and sides unprotected against Natalie's counterattack. She took full advantage. Soon, the two figures were waving arms and digits in a mock battle of squeamish torture. The final coup had Nick and Natalie rolling off the bed in a quivering heap. Nick indulged in another type of assault, caressing Natalie with his lips. "Happy Two Month Anniversary, Nat," he whispered in her ear. "Mmm. Happy Anniversary to you. You continue to excel at giving gifts." Natalie extended her arm, watching the molten gleam of gold illuminated by the glow of candles. Nick had presented her with a charm bracelet bearing miniature likenesses of the fourteen flower species he had offered to her in tribute of his love exactly two months before. The clasp was modeled after flower fifteen: the star-shaped chickweed blossoms that Nick had used to lure her to the loft. "So what do I get?" It was a strong hint on Nick's part. "An answer to your question - Yes, I'll move in with you." He had mentioned the idea weeks earlier, eager to spend more time together. Natalie had insisted on proceeding slowly on that score. She was used to living alone, save for Sidney, and co-habitation was a big step. The suggestion filled her with excitement, but she chose to spend more time grooming and tooth-brushing at Nick's with the cat in tow until she gradually felt ready. Nick gave her another kiss. "When? We could move some items tonight." "I don't have anything packed! I want to store some paraphernalia and donate some other things to charity. And I don't want to spend tonight relocating when I could have you," Natalie playfully poked Nick's chest, "wooing me." "Like this?" He caught her hand and nibbled on the inside of her palm, then turned her hand over to begin working his way up Natalie's arm. Her eyes glowed as she said in a contented murmur. "Mmm- Hmm. I think you've read my mind." ************************************************************ ******** 1977 The killer sat in High Park, watching those who passed. They paraded before him, most dressed in shorts and brief tops, for the early September night was even warmer than usual. Each form held a potential of sorts, but none would become his choice this night. No, they were not special enough. Not like his first of the cycle, his beautiful proud man. That one progressed splendidly. Not so arrogant now, the first bowed his head when the killer entered his cell. Fear cowered in his eyes, delighting his captor. Eventually he would harvest more - hopelessness, respect, then gratitude. The killer abandoned these pleasing anticipations. He recognized his second quarry, bathing his vision with her image, causing the thrill of ecstasy and satisfaction to wind through him. She was exquisite, tall and finely sculpted, with heavenly gold hair. His was not the only gaze drawn to her features in admiration. She was aloof. That was the temptation, the project. He would unravel the second's indifference and shatter the protective shield that radiated about her. It would be a delight to see those uncaring eyes flare in rage, to watch her desperation grow to fulfill any demand he made, and best of all, the pleading. As she strolled past, the killer set a pace that would maintain his position just behind her. She did not care who was near. No one was worthy of concern. Still, she should have foreseen danger in walking through the shadows. ************************************************************ *** August 18, 1996 Minutes after sunset, Clare walked purposefully down the sidewalk littered with home-town explorers. She was on a time-table, and though the rush would normally seem an irritant, tonight she was eager to feed well and hurry home. She suddenly swerved to narrowly avoid stepping on a spider. Clare paused and picked the arachnid up, then gingerly placed him out of harm's way in a grassy patch off the pavement. She continued walking, examining the mortals before her intently. Clare had hunted regularly for the past several weeks, setting aside time each night from her work at the precinct. It was a form of control, the heady possession and destruction of a living thing. She was a god, electing who lived or died, swallowing their whimpers of fear and transforming them into moans of pleasure. Clare needed the control, the balance, that hunting provided. She felt she was drifting, becoming weaker in the time she'd spent in Toronto. The welfare of too many others consumed her thoughts. Something must be done, so she encouraged the darkness and let it shelter her like an old friend. Then the prospect of concealing her handiwork followed. One delightful thing about living in Africa had been the luxury of leaving mauled bodies in the grasslands. With all the other predators roaming about, the authorities apparently accepted that savaged bodies went with the territory. In this day and age, most of her victims tended to be gang members. From her recent work as a homicide detective, Clare had discovered that the police were not extremely diligent in investigating these murders since the victims were already fated to die young from their lifestyles. A gang member, a criminal, or an addict would not satisfy her tonight. She needed someone perfect and flavorful to quench her hunger, for she would be hindered from blood-drinking, bound to her best behavior, until the next afternoon. Clare was determined not to go hungry during her nobility. Then she saw him. Young, attractive -- bound to be missed -- at the very least by a lover. Clare could taste him already. Clare smiled avariciously. She did not devote her usual time to stalking her choice, feeding the anticipation. Instead, Clare approached him quickly and pretended to be unaware of her surroundings. Colliding with her prey, she feigned a stumble. As he reached out to steady her, Clare twisted her lips in satisfaction. Making an elegant show of regaining her balance, she clutched at his arms in a hapless embrace. She breathlessly gushed a wondrous `Thank you', treating him to an eager smile and warm eyes. Caught by her expression, the man smiled in return. Dinner was served. ************************************************************ *********1986 His name was William Hyatt. He recalled that much. He had never shared his identity with his tormentor, but The Man seemed to care little for his victim's background. He would always refer to him as `the first' or `one'. For His tormentor only needed William to say the words that he fed him and stay alive: nothing more, nothing less. He had learned these requirements slowly. The hard way. Once upon a time, when the prison seemed new and affronting, he had been indignant. Prideful. Caustic. Could he really have spoken such things to his tormentor? William was horrified at his impudence. Soon enough, the arrogance had been carved away, making him smaller, calmer, better, he was told. Sharp little cuts flicked out slivers of his pride, whittling his body and soul into the form required of him. His tormentor announced this night was an anniversary: Ten years had passed since the time they met. William could only nod in agreement. How could he judge time with no light, no hope, and no will? "Ten more years for you, and then you will be free," said his tormentor. "Won't that make you happy, dear one?" "Hap.py." William forced the word from his throat in a voice that scratched at his belly. He already sounded dead. He had become a wraith, haunting this one berth, moaning and scraping, not really living. his thoughts whimpered. What was freedom to a shadow? His tormentor frowned. "What is this? You do not appear properly enthusiastic! Smile!" He slapped his victim brutally, sending the body careening into the stone wall, just a meter away. William heard his bones crackle against the hard surface and crumpled to the floor as though he was a paper doll. Pain gnawed its way through his arm and face. The limb was broken, he could tell by the way it flopped obscenely at his side. Something had cracked in his mouth as well -- a tooth or his jaw. It didn't really matter. What was important for William was that he scrambled into a kneeling position at his tormentor's feet and clutched at The Man's hand with his good arm. As his face split into a bloody slice of a smile, William kissed his tormentor's knuckles in reverence. ************************************************************ ********* August 18, 1996 Arriving at the Raven, Vachon collared Cecilia and Domino from the dance floor. Both vampires had worked as design assistants for their sire, Figaro, before his untimely destruction many weeks before. Vachon had spent little time with the fashion designer before his death, but those scant hours had been enjoyable, so he felt some sympathy for Figaro's offspring. From his own experience, he could understand why the two vampires felt at loose ends after the loss of their parent. He also had little problem with participating in their recent quest for wild nights of partying. Since Feliks never left his greenhouse, and Natalie -- well she was more occupied with another certain vampire recently -- they were the closest thing he had to family besides. Vachon pulled the two over to the bar. "Have either of you seen Clare tonight?" Cecilia wrinkled her upturned nose. "Certainly not." "And *I* hope it stays that way." Domino tended to agree with whatever Cecilia said. Vachon was impatient with the attitude of the younger vampires - he was beginning to wonder if he liked them, and animosity would play hell with his social life. "If you weren't family, she'd destroy you if she heard you speak like that." "And since we're Clare's family," Cecilia dismissively flicked her silvery-blonde hair over a shoulder, "we'll probably end up dead, anyway." At Vachon's scoff, Cecilia continued. "I'm serious, Javier. She comes to town after a long sabbatical, and within a couple of weeks, two of her offspring are dead." "You weren't there. You don't know what you're talking about." Vachon angrily gulped from a glass the barman set at his elbow. Domino jumped to his sibling's support. "It looks suspicious to me, too. I mean, this Maeven person was Clare's oldest offspring -- hadn't been around her for over a thousand years, so I hear, and just after they reconnect, Maeven's history. It seems like Clare didn't like the poor girl questioning her authority." Vachon gave the fellow a stern look. "Poor Maeven is the one who killed your Figaro. Surely your little gossip network spread that one." Cecilia persisted. "But Maeven would have never done it had Clare not returned. Can you deny that?" Vachon wanted to disagree, but deep inside he'd harbored the same thought. Clare had battled the same second-guessing herself. Seeing his dilemma, Cecilia smiled smugly. "All we're saying, Javier, is that you would do well to be more cautious. Seeking Clare out will only jeopardize your existence. You are the oldest among her relatives now. Be smart and distance yourself, as we do. We offspring must stick together." With that warning, the pair returned to the dance floor, leaving Vachon at the bar, glad to watch them go. Regardless of whatever problems he may have had with Clare from time to time, she had rescued him from being buried, paralyzed, in the earth. A small shiver passed through Vachon at the memory of his helplessness, his hopelessness after waking from Divia's poison and the staking. Clare and he were even, at the very least, and he probably owed her more than loyalty. Furthermore, he liked his grand-sire. The woman had style. Elegant with a sense of humor, and somehow almost angelic - Clare was like Feliks, Figaro, and his sire all rolled into one. And when she was furious, she became ruthless, similar to. Lacroix. There was something going on between Clare and Lacroix. When Vachon was around the two elders, a palpable cloud of feral energy would envelop them, making a statement like `Pass me that coaster,' develop into an erotic threat. Lacroix might know where she was. Javier left the bar to scope out the Raven's head honcho. Easily enough, he caught Lacroix exiting the radio booth. "Do you know where I might find Clare?" Vachon was the picture of innocence. Lacroix's expression became extremely unpleasant. "I am *not* Clare's social secretary." Vachon wrinkled his eyebrows. This response was a doppleganger to what he'd envisioned. "Of course you aren't," he said. "Only, she hasn't been to her hotel for the past four days, and since Clare and you are friends, I thought you would know -" Lacroix cut him off. "You were mistaken. I don't know." If anything, the elder vampire's gaze felt more deadly. Vachon reconsidered the wisdom of pushing the issue. Rather than give a hint as to why he had become so opposed to discussing Clare, most likely Lacroix would eagerly do Javier injury if he pressed further. That would not be good. "All right, then. I'll leave you to. whatever." Vachon shrugged and walked away, while he still could. He missed the instant of stark torment that streaked over Lacroix's features, immediately replaced by a stony composure. Cecilia, however, had taken a position where she could observe the exchange. At its end, she smiled in self-satisfaction. ************************************************************ ********* William rejoiced internally as the words of his tormentor danced upon his eardrums. His eagerness was so overwhelming, William spread his cracked lips wide, forming a choppy and brownish grin. His tormentor noticed the joy during a brief glance up from his work. The killer leaned next to his first's ear and caressed the scabby surface of his forehead. "Does freedom please you so greatly, my dear one?" William nodded jerkily. He wished he could embrace his tormentor for allowing his imprisonment to end, but his arms would not move nor would his legs. He remembered his body being placed on a wooden structure shaped somewhat like a star. His mind had drifted away with happiness at that point. The killer completed his preparations. Barbed wire cinched tautly about the first's wrists and ankles. The spiky metal projections bored through the skin underneath, causing small pockets of red in their wake. Additional wire encircled the first's throat in a macabre necklace. It wouldn't do to have his pet wriggle during his liberation. The killer began to stroll around his fettered guest, relishing the view from every angle. Delighted with the spectacle, he began to speak in loving tones. "Ah, my sweet one.You have surpassed my every expectation. The change has been exceptional. No more pride.no more lust for life.I have shown you a world of darkness beyond your blackest imaginings. You have experienced such fascinating pain.I almost envy you." The killer's eyes became cloudy in delight at the moment. "You should thank me for sharing my work with you." William wanted to cry out his appreciation. The moment was coming, he knew. He tried to speak, but found his tongue plastered to the sticky, parched roof of his mouth. As if he was ripping tape from a package, he pulled with all of his might to separate the pieces of flesh. While William licked his flaky lips to prepare for his ode of gratitude, the killer yanked a rope which descended from a structure of wood and metal hanging from the ceiling. William heard a rattling whistle scrape through the air, and felt the sharp, burning shock of his release slice through his chest. Nothing came from William's mouth, for at the first pulse of agony, his remaining teeth snapped through his tongue. ************************************************************ ********* End of Part One As Clare rushed down the hallway towards her hotel suite, she spotted Schanke and his daughter knocking industriously on her door. A call of welcome sprung to her lips. "I hope you two haven't been waiting long." Schanke fingered his suit collar. "No! No Way." Then he murmured for Clare's hearing alone, "Only long enough for that no- babysitter-panic to resurface." Clare eyed Schanke's snazzy ensemble. "So *where* has Myra decided you will escort her this evening?" Schanke shrugged, appearing a mite concerned. "Apparently that's privileged information, and I'm one of the under-privileged." "Are you going to open the door, or what?" Jen impatiently nudged her waiting knapsack with a toe. Clare swished out her keycard. "All right. There you go." When the light turned green, Jen was across the threshold and bouncing on the couch before the adults had taken a step. Schanke observed as his daughter made herself right at home. "You don't think the kid's excited, do you?" Clare smiled, watching with amusement as Jen propped her sneakered feet up on the antique coffee table. As she moved to join the girl, Schanke touched her on the arm, so she paused. "Hey, Clare." His forehead wrinkled in uneasiness. "Are you sure you're okay with this?" He waved a hand towards his daughter who had begun to snoop through the room. "Jen spending the night and everything? This *is* the Four Seasons, and Jen can be rambunctious. I mean, Myra and I could postpone our plans if you have any problem -" "I'm not uncomfortable with the situation.Are you?" Clare's expression was neutral. Not a single sign of her whirlwind emotions shone through - none of her excitement at Miss Schanke's company, or the fear and doubt that she was doing the wrong thing. A familiar mantra sprung to mind. Clare smothered the thought. Who cared if it made her a hypocrite? She would do what she wanted. Friendship with Jennifer Schanke was just another form of control. Schanke quickly protested Clare's notion. "No, no, no.Myra and I trust you, and the kid thinks the sun shines around you." "Ooo - I hope not. That would be uncomfortable." Their attention was diverted as Jen squealed with joy. "Carmen!" The girl bent down behind an upholstered chair, proudly producing a fluffy tortoiseshell cat whose legs indignantly stuck out like the limbs of a divining rod. Jen scratched behind the feline's ears, then approached her father. "Remember the cat, Dad?" This particular feline had played a part in the discovery that Schanke was alive and well, not the victim of the plane bombing, and his subsequent return to work as a homicide detective two months ago. Nick had been the main catapult behind Schanke's resurrection, however, while Natalie, Clare, Myra and Jen had assisted. Schanke started to sniff as if a mohair sweater had been placed directly under his nostrils. He exploded with a reluctant sneeze. "Okay, that's my cue. I'm outta here." He encouraged the release of the animal, then hugged Jen as he warned, "You know the drill. Brush your teeth, get some sleep, and -" "No open flames. Yeah, yeah. I know the drill." Jen escorted her dad out the door too quickly for parental self-esteem. "Myra'll pick her up at noon - hasta la bye-bye, ladies!" Schanke called as he exited down the hall. Jen shut the door determinedly, then shook her head with a sigh. "I thought he'd never leave." She planted herself firmly in front of Clare. "So what do you want to do to get this party started?" Clare settled on the couch, and Carmen immediately curled into a horseshoe of fur on her owner's lap, tucking her head in the crook of Clare's arm. "Well, our activities depend on you." Jen plopped down next to her with a frown. "Me? I thought you'd have some great, original idea." "Hmm. I *did* scribble down a few possibilities on that paper over there.I wasn't sure what would be best, though." The girl eagerly snatched up Clare's list from the table and read aloud. "Number One: Going to the symphony." Jen turned the paper over to look for a different set of activities on the back. "Are you sure this stuff is for us to do? Ugh." Her nose scrunched with dismay. Clare grinned teasingly. "Read on. It gets better." Jen gave her a suspicious glance. "O-kay. Number Two: Make perfume. How are we supposed to do that?" "I've made arrangements to use a chemistry lab at the University. We'd be taking a substance like rose petals or lemon grass, and use heat and vapor pressure to separate out the oils that cause their scents. The process is called distillation. The end product is wonderful, but it would be time consuming, as well as involve quite a bit of waiting." Jen considered the idea, her sternly creased forehead indicating the girl intently weighed the pros and cons of chemistry and the ten year- old. "That one might be a winner - especially since heat is involved. I want to see what else you've got here before I commit, though." "That sounds reasonable." "Number Three: Frog catching." The child's eyes lit up with delight. "Cool! I want to do that!" "Now why am I not surprised?" "But we can't catch frogs all night," Jen pointed out practically. "No we can't. Read on some more." "Number Four: Watch a meteor shower - we can do that?" "Yes - the Perseids should still be visible. There are other meteors we might catch, and a comet as well. We would have to go to the Planetarium to use a decent scope. You might have to stay up rather late, if you don't mind." Jen jokingly wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. "I guess I will force myself to stay awake." Clare rolled her eyes. "Back to the list. There is one more entry." Jen scanned the words quietly, then let out a squeal. "Ghost hunting - now you're talking! When can we go? Where?!?" "For enhanced finding of paranormal people, we should wait until at least midnight. I vote that we track down the woman who haunts the Hockey Hall of Fame." Jen let out a whoop. "Let's go for it! First up, frogs!" She gave Clare's clothing a brief glance. "Uh, you aren't going to wear that, are you?" Clare inspected her slacks, blouse, and jacket. She perceived no rebel blood stains overlooked from her earlier activities. "What is wrong with what I have on?" "Well, for one, you've got those creases in your pants, like they've been ironed." Jen gingerly tested the fabric of Clare's sleeve. "I knew it! That's silk, isn't it?" Clare nodded. "You know, there's going to be mud and dirt and stuff when we go frog hunting - don't you have some jeans?" Clare frowned. "I'm not sure - let's look." Jen followed her into the main bedroom while grumbling, "You don't know if you have jeans? How can you not know?" Meanwhile, Clare opened the double doors to her walk-in closet. Jen's mouth dropped open. "Okay, I get it - if somebody owned everything, I guess they could lose track of a little denim." Clare was busily shuffling through the racks. "I do not own *everything*." She paused at a dark red silk number, dropping a mellow smile before she continued sorting outfits. "No sequins, no polyester, and absolutely no hats. One has to draw the line somewhere." Jen began her own search through the garments. "Where did you get so much stuff anyhow? Do you realize half of these dresses don't have backs? You got cheated big time." Clare turned to the girl and murmured secretively, "Sometimes clothes are for more than covering your assets. In wearing this," Clare fingered the clingy white jersey sheath Jen was holding, "I am the cheater. You'll understand perfectly when you are older." Jen wailed as the vampire returned to her search. "Arrgh! Those are the most horrible words you can say to a ten-year old! `When you're older,'" she mimicked. "Yuck!" Clare laughed. "Sad, but true. All of the `stuff', to answer your question, came from a designer friend named Figaro. He became somewhat .overenthusiastic. with the project." Jen gave a squawk of delight, "Hey! I found some!" She looked at the label and wiggled her eyebrows. "They're Newton Originals. Whoa! - you even have classy jeans." She handed the pair to Clare, then crouched to peer through the shoe racks. "You wouldn't have any sneakers down here, would you?" "Not unless they had leather soles." "But then they wouldn't be sneakers." "Exactly." ************************************************************ ********* The phone rang belligerently, and Nick groaned. "I thought that we shut that off." "Then don't answer it," Natalie murmured quietly, but he rolled over anyway. "Nick! No! Don't pick up!" Nick smiled apologetically as he lifted the receiver to his ear. "It might be an emergency." Natalie sighed. "*I'm* the emergency," she muttered, then began to practice her eavesdropping skills. "Knight, here." "Nick? Captain Reese." Natalie let out a low growl. "We've got a real doozy in High Park, and it's going to be very messy. The guys who took over for you tonight are rookies. They've barely cut their teeth and I think this case might be too rough. I'd rather have someone experienced on the job. Now I know I promised no disturbances to you and your partners tonight since you three haven't had a night off in weeks, so I'm asking, not telling you.Will you come to the scene?" Natalie sat up, fire in her eyes. "Don't you do it, Nick. Uh-uh. No. You have an unbreakable prior commitment." She pointed to herself. "Sorry, Cap." Nick winked in Natalie's direction as she raised her hands in a silent cheer. "I've got an unbreakable prior commitment. What about Schank or Clare?" "They aren't answering their phones - something you should have tried," Reese sighed. "Just put it out of your mind. I guess these two have to walk the hard road sometime. It might as well be now." Natalie looked concerned as Nick hung up the phone. "Do you think he was mad?" He shrugged. "Nah. The Captain's had anniversaries himself. If anything, he commiserates. Now - did I hear something about an unbreakable prior commitment?" Nick gave Natalie a wicked grin. She wound her arms around his shoulders. "That would be me - and rumor has it - vampires can be pretty unbreakable." Before they had a chance to snuggle under the covers, the phone rang again. "That'll be the morgue." Natalie stretched out an arm for Nick to pass her the phone while smirking. She threw her pillow at him while she answered. "Natalie, here, and I'm not free to go to any crime scenes." "Oh, darn!" Grace said. "Someone's already called Nick, haven't they?" "Got it in one. He's not moving and neither am I, no matter how particularly gruesome and unusual this case is. I refuse to be intrigued." "But, Nat, honey.you know I can't go with my leg in this cast." Natalie's assistant had crashed her car recently, breaking her left leg and badly spraining her right ankle. She was confined to the morgue, rolling from table to table in an office chair. Natalie heard the squeak of ball bearings as Grace lowered her voice. "I'd have to send Barney to the scene. You know you've been unhappy with his work lately. Can we trust him not to mess up?" Natalie was groaning inside, but her voice rang resolute. "We'll just have to have faith in him." Grace sighed. "All right - you and your faith. Oh - there's one more thing, and it's just as rotten." "Let me guess - the scale's off again. You just have to hit it until it resets to zero." "Nope - this problem is much worse. A corpse has gone missing. I haven't been able to track it down. Believe me, I tried all the usuals." Natalie sat up in alarm at this information. "Are you saying a body was *stolen*?" She grabbed the pillow that she had thrown earlier at Nick and hugged it to her chest. "It looks that way." Natalie spoke with her friend a minute more, then hung up, her eyes turned golden with anger at the implications. Nick hadn't eavesdropped, but Natalie's side of the conversation had been very clear. "Someone stole a corpse from the morgue." His hand found hers, enveloping it in a gentle, comforting grip. She slipped her fingers through Nick's in return, then turned to her side to face him. "Yep...I'm really hoping it's a massive paperwork error and I don't have to come up with a solution where someone has to take the blame." "But there's something else - you almost look afraid." Natalie brushed his worry aside. "Gee, Nick. I *do* still have my old lab notebooks locked away in my desk. We don't exactly want those to go missing, do we?" "So bring them here. I mean, it all concerns old experiments - you aren't working on any new cure ideas, right?" "Um.right." "Why risk losing your background? I'll keep your journals and save you the hassle of worrying. Besides," Nick hugged her close, "pretty soon this will be your home, too." "And I *need* less hassle. Tell me, Detective Knight - how come everything goes to hell in a handbasket the moment we take off from work?" Nick tried an old trick - when you haven't a practical answer, attempt earnest flattery as a distraction. "I don't know about myself, but in your case it's probably because you're perfect in every way." Her eyes were no longer gold with upset, but another emotion. "Ooh, good answer, Detective." ************************************************************ *** "This feels totally weird." Jen Schanke had just captured her first frog. It was about ten centimeters long, brownish-green, and sported a darker X mark on its back. "I think that's called a chirper. It's a common species across the United States and central Canada." Clare had diligently spouted educational amphibian facts while they had squished around the muddy banks of Grenadier Pond in High Park. Jen had continued to trail her index finger lightly over the frog's back while cradling its body securely with her other hand. "It's skin is wet, but not slimy like it looks. It feels like that bright blue relaxation mask my mom has." Clare dug through her duffel bag, a hand-crafted masterpiece of black leather. She unearthed a makeshift plastic aqua-terrarium for animal confinement. "That's because amphibians have a great deal of skin ducts. They help keep the skin moist by producing mucous." Jen jerked her hands away from the frog, leaving it to land with a splat in a nearby puddle. "Eeehhww!! You've been letting me play with frog snot?!?" Clare, not phased by this notion (After all, she believed she had dirtied her hands with much worse over the centuries.), retrieved the animal with a flash of her hand. "He`s probably wary of your secretions, too, dear heart." Jen peered closely at the frog. "'He'? How do you know it's a `he'?" "He's chirping. Male frogs do that to attract females." Jen tentatively placed her hands around the amphibian once more. "A love call, huh? I think my dad has one of those." "Jen?" "What, Clare?" "You're sharing *way* too much." ************************************************************ ******** End of Part Two Ivy walked along Yonge Street, just a couple blocks from the O'Keefe Centre. She sucked violently on a cigarette, then chucked it into her path, pausing momentarily to smear the last of the tobacco into the sidewalk with her boot heel . There was a fine art to proper littering. She unzipped her battered leather jacket, knowing it looked strange to the people she passed to be wearing a coat on such a sultry night, but for Ivy, it was a choice of wearing, carrying, or trashing the thing. She was one of the homeless. Ivy mentally edited that thought. She'd just returned to her old stomping grounds - dark, delicious T.O. Ivy had been roaming around Alberta in recent years. Roaming, scraping by, slumming - whatever you wanted to call it. On the spur of the moment, easily accomplished because she didn't really have a life or responsibilities to drop, she had caught a flight to Toronto. Her thoughts were interrupted as she sashayed past two loiterers who grunted appreciative comments on how Ivy filled her blue jeans. She granted the fellows a leer in reply, but as they decided to join her, Ivy became serious. "Follow me - and you're sopranos, boys." Her voice was a harsh challenge that caused the men to have second thoughts about their welcome. Their walking slowed, and after a few steps, the men resumed leaning against the building while murmuring that Ivy didn't know what she'd missed. Ivy smiled. The memory of sweets directed her thoughts to her arrival. Landing at the Island Airport, she'd shown the pilot a few personal lessons about flying while visiting the cockpit. Mr. Airman had been too drained to thank her before she caught the ferry across the Western Channel. Ivy really had no regrets. Reaching Bathurst Quay, she had headed away from the yacht clubs, refusing to think about any patrons she might know. Instead, Ivy had hiked east through Queen's Quay. Offering a mock salute, she drew parallel with the CN Tower. She'd passed the Conference Centre, then turned onto Yonge, where she walked now, the Gardiner Expressway crossing overhead. The O'Keefe was her destination. She could see the structure in the distance. The O'Keefe, where her life had ended and begun again. It seemed only right that she should check the place out for old times' sake. Ivy heard a commotion up ahead. There was a black Mercedes parked against the curb, and a pair of thugs studiously breaking into it. She was ready to shrug it off - it wasn't her problem - but a movement inside the car caught her eye. It wasn't empty. The thieves soon had the front passenger door jacked open, and a high voice of protest reached Ivy's ears. It was a boy. He was calling for help - calling for his parents from where he cringed in the back seat. Thief Number One didn't want the noise. He had a gun - a handy accessory for someone in his line of work. He moved to club the kid with his pistol butt. The weapon never contacted flesh, because Ivy arrived first. She grabbed his forearm and snapped his hand back, then heard the satisfying pop of his wrist. He dropped the gun, and sheltered his hand while cursing a blue streak. Smarter than he looked, Thief Number One started a fast retreat. Thief Number Two wasn't as bright. He tried to slug her with an unchivilrous right hook. Ivy feinted, weaved, and returned his assault with a wicked punch below the belt. She liked playing dirty, and he deserved it. The second thief gasped for breath and clutched his injured regions as he stumbled toward the shadows. Ivy smirked, enlivened by the overwhelming victory. She turned her attention to the Mercedes, and the boy still huddled inside. Ducking her head inside the open door, Ivy reassured the trembling boy in a calm voice. "It's okay - they're gone. Between the two of us, we scared those losers off." The boy appeared ready to respond, and Ivy smiled encouragingly, but felt powerful arms yank her out of the car, throwing her across the sidewalk and into the brick facing of the nearest building. Ivy was speechless and full of wonderment as a beautiful raven-haired female lifted her off the ground by her leather collar. The woman's eyes burned with golden rage. Ivy's mind reeled at the discovery. The woman bared her fangs, giving Ivy a violent shake. She didn't care. In fact, Ivy was downright thrilled to be slammed into a brick wall by one of the undead. Her happiness at finding another creature of the night rapidly faded as Ivy realized this one wanted nothing more than to rip her head off. She tested the woman's hold and found that the other vampire obviously knew what she was doing with her powers. The woman understood much more about using them than an orphaned tyke like Ivy, who'd picked up her every trick through instinct and happenstance. Ivy let her thoughts whirl, searching for the proper words to rescue her neck, when the call of the boy rang out. "Mom! Don't hurt her! She rescued me!" In a matter of seconds, the woman perfectly hid all signs of the beast. Her now-blue eyes looked to the boy with concern and adoration. Ivy felt her heels touch ground again, then straightened the rumpled leather across her shoulders as she watched the pair incredulously. "Mom?!?" The woman kneeled down to look levelly at her `son'. She brushed his hair back from his brow and seemed to reach some private assurance that he was unharmed. "You are safe, mon enfant. I'm here now. Tell me what happened, Patrick." Ivy noticed a lilting accent in the woman's speech. "I waited in the car like you and dad asked, but these two guys started breaking in!" Patrick said. "One of them was going to hit me with a gun - then she came along," the boy pointed towards Ivy, "and chased them away! She's real tough." The woman turned, keeping Patrick close by her side with an arm wrapped around his shoulders. "You acted nobly in protecting my son - merci," she said to Ivy. "But. I wonder at your motive." Ivy's grin didn't reach her eyes. She gave Patrick a pointed glance before meeting the woman's gaze. "Funny - I was just thinking the same thing." Sudden movement came from the shadows. A well-built man appeared a few steps away, giving the impression that he'd rushed to the scene. Patrick exclaimed a greeting at the man's arrival. "Dad!" The boy rushed to embrace his father. Ivy saw the man and woman exchange a look that seemed to signify more than just a locking of eyes. The man gave a brief nod, as if agreeing with some unspoken proposal, then extended a hand to Ivy. "How do you do? - my name's Robert McDonaugh. I see you've met my wife and son already." His handshake was cold and firm. A yellow glow flared in his eyes for the briefest of moments during the contact. Robert let Ivy's hand fall back to her side. She got the message. "My name is Ivy," she said. "Just Ivy." "And we haven't been properly introduced." The woman slipped her arm through Ivy's. "I sense that you have a need to talk. What say we have a little chat, non? Patrick, you can tell your father all about your adventure while we are gone." Ivy let herself be lead away from the strange father/son pair. She had questions - so many questions - and they weren't all concerning this paranormal nuclear family. ************************************************************ ********* Nick awoke with a start. He'd experienced a disturbing dream - one filled with loss, loneliness and despair. He fumbled across the bed and felt for Natalie's hand for reassurance. She pulled it as well as the majority of the sheets away as she turned her back on Nick in her sleep. He then reached out to pet Sydney, who habitually rested against Natalie's knees. The cat yawned, then deserted Nick's hand in favor of rearranging his body against his favorite vampire. Nick leaned against the headboard, frowning at the lingering sadness from his dream. This hadn't been the first feeling of its kind in recent weeks. Faint sensations of desolation would overtake him suddenly for no apparent reason. This gloom in his sleep had been the most striking to date. Nick checked the bedside clock - only one a.m. - it was no wonder that he felt so restless. It was strange that Natalie slept so soundly in the middle of the night. Perhaps they'd been too rambunctious. He leaned over to check her quiet form, noted her contented smile, then decided to go downstairs. He pulled a bottle from the refrigerator distractedly, actually uncorking it with his fingers rather than his teeth. The steer blood burst bitterly on his tongue, making Nick frown in distaste. Feeding from Natalie made everything else pale in comparison. She was moving into the loft. Nick unconsciously grinned at the prospect while taking a seat on the sofa. The past two months had been so happy, so fulfilling, despite the pressures of work eroding away at the time he managed to spend with Nat. Cohabitation was the perfect solution. It amazed Nick that it had taken so long for her to agree to live with him. He'd thought she'd jump at the chance, especially after those first blissful days they had spent together, sharing themselves utterly and purely. Natalie was part of him now, more than just a loved mortal - she flowed through his blood. He hadn't revealed the hurt her deliberation had caused. Natalie was logical, practical - she was a scientist. He couldn't fault her for these traits - they made up a portion of the reasons that he loved her. Nick simply wished that Nat had experienced the same urgency to spend every day together, throwing her caution to the wind. Her affection for Clare troubled him as well, perhaps because it wasn't idealistic faith on Natalie's part. She had formed that irrevocable bond with her sire in rapid time, despite treachery and lies on Clare's part. Natalie was an intelligent woman, but continued to defend the woman when faced with a cause for doubt. Nick frowned. He granted that it was unfair to condemn all of Clare's behavior. She had taken care of Natalie after bringing her across, and for that he was grateful. Without Clare's interference, Natalie wouldn't be alive right now, much less lying in his bed. It was a rueful admission on Nick's part. It was possible that his attitude towards Natalie's sire derived from jealousy. Those first few weeks after she brought Nat across, Nick had been tormented by self-loathing. He also had been forced to come to terms with Natalie becoming one of the damned. Accepting the change had left an acrid taste in his mouth, but he loved her too much to commit to anything less. Then there was the period of distance between them. Natalie had second-guessed the nature of their future together, torn between the quest for mortality and living as a vampire. Every one of these challenges had Natalie running to Clare for support and advice. Miraculously, some of that advice had helped to bring Nat and him together. Yet, Nick still couldn't bring himself to trust Clare, despite his gratitude. Even working with her in homicide the past two months, coming to respect her talents as a detective, hadn't helped. Lacroix's words haunted him. So how could Nick ever completely trust her motives? Believing Lacroix's statement was much easier. Nick continued to be intrigued by his sire's relationship with Clare. He'd witnessed their interaction a few times over recent centuries, and their familiarity seemed to represent a long-standing battle for one-upmanship. Since her recent reappearance, however, Clare and Lacroix's association had appeared more complex, and apparently, more unstable. Lacroix wouldn't satisfy his curiosity with a personal status report on Clare, but he would answer Nick's other questions. Nick found himself spending the most time with his elder since his move to Toronto. Sometimes Lacroix would continue filling the gaps in Nick's memory from his amnesia the year before with stories of the past. Surprisingly, his sire did not paint a flattering portrait of himself in every recollection. Nick's actions, of course, did not fare any better. Lacroix and he would fall into the same repetitive arguments about guilt and mortality, but for the first time, there was a lack of bitterness on Nick's part. Perhaps that difference accounted for Lacroix's increased tolerance of his independence. Nick felt somewhat strange at the thought of allowing himself to enjoy Lacroix's company again. He told himself that the visits stilled his loneliness on the days Natalie was away. He grimaced. There was that word again - loneliness. He couldn't really be a victim of it, not with Natalie's love and Schank's friendship. He didn't require one or the other by his side at every moment to be fulfilled, did he? Of course not. He was stronger than that. He had to be. Nick resolved to push the feelings away. He would ignore them - surely the emotions would soon fade? ************************************************************ ********* End of Part Three Ivy thought in shock. It was her first unsettling taste of the world moving on without her. Ivy doubted it would be her last. How did such changes affect vampires who had lived for centuries? At the moment, the idea boggled her mind. Ivy let her eyes drift to observe the woman walking silently at her side. She had to have been around for a while - she appeared so confident, so comfortable in her immortal skin. Ivy quietly requested that they enter the O'Keefe (her mind had yet to accept the name change), and her companion wordlessly complied. To Ivy's surprise, the Centre was deserted, despite it being a Friday. The last time she'd visited the facility it had teemed with noise and commotion. Ivy had automatically headed for the balcony and momentarily gazed down into the rows of the orchestra and mezzanine before removing her jacket and taking a seat beside the other vampire. Janette watched the young woman with interest. Ivy was lovely, with rich brown curls the shade of maple syrup and the hazel eyes of a cat. She was below average height, maybe 160 centimeters tall, and she was a young one - that was obvious from her reactions. Mademoiselle Ivy appeared brash and independent by her behavior, but the scattered thoughts Janette could sense conveyed a poignant neediness that struck her instincts. The elder vampire privately cursed her response. She had no time to shelter the orphans of Toronto anymore, vampire or not. She had a family to care for. "For someone whose mind is full of questions, you are strangely silent," she said. "My name is Janette.Janette McDonaugh. Ask me what you need to know, and perhaps I will give you an answer." Ivy's smile was self-deprecating. "It's funny.I've had almost sixteen years to think about.*this*," she waved her hands, drawing an invisible ellipse that linked her and Janette. "our existence, if you will, and I haven't a clue where to start." "You were brought across sixteen years ago?" "Yes," Ivy nodded, "right here at the O'Keefe." She momentarily wrinkled her nose. "Well, technically, it happened outside the building, but I always think of the Centre, at least, when I remember that night. Truthfully, I don't think on it much." "Tell me the story." Janette whispered the request. Ivy's response was a wary frown. Janette, curious to hear more, said, "It might expose what you need to know without you continuing the struggle to form the questions, non?" Ivy considered this proposal, then nodded. "Then tell me the story." Ivy licked her bottom lip. "You know, it isn't easy. I wasn't exactly in a condition to remember the events of that night clearly. Some parts stand out though - I felt like crap and it was a *wild* party." ************************************************************ ******** 1980 "SEX, DRUGS, AND ROCK & ROLL!!!" Audience participation overwhelmed the songs, eclipsing the true lyrics of `Whatever Happened To Saturday Night.' The crowd thronged around the runway that stretched into the orchestra. Most of the participants were clothed in black garb or outlandish costumes - some identical to those of the players on stage. It was Halloween - what better night for "The Rocky Horror Show" at the O'Keefe? Ivy huddled in her seat as another wave of the shakes hit. She sat on her hands so that the involuntary jerking of her arms wouldn't be obvious. She hadn't dressed special for the occasion - she'd been wearing the same jeans and long-sleeved shirt for the past two days. If Ivy had trusted her nose, she'd have sworn her body carried the odor of vinegar and sickness. She hadn't eaten, and Ivy had spent the day before huddled in bed, passing the hours until the next check came. Mummy and Daddy's care package. A thousand bucks every two weeks because they worried about her. A fortune for nothing - sent because she was their daughter. She would never go wanting as long as the ol' folks were around to house and clothe her. Oh, yeah, and feed her veins - a thousand went pretty far towards keeping her habit well-nourished. At least, it used to support her. Somehow the well had run dry two days ago. Ivy couldn't say how she'd used her entire supply so quickly. In the beginning - those good old days - twenty bucks of narcotic had lasted a week and beyond. Ivy wiped her perpetually runny nose with her shirt sleeve. She then clutched her arms around her middle, trying to pretend the cramps in her legs and abdomen weren't really there. Euphoria didn't exist anymore. She'd shoot and shoot again, and the only bonus was how it made the pain fade. There were no highs, only lows. Right now she was rock bottom. The show had progressed to `Toucha, Toucha, Toucha, Touch Me.' Someone leaned over Ivy's shoulder to whisper in her ear. "I wanna be dirty," they said. Ivy felt a warm mouth on her skin and clumsy hands roaming over her body. She didn't care. Everything was cloudy. All she knew was the burning, the aching, the need. Oh, God, she needed a fix - and Ivy was stoned broke. She released a cackle at the mental pun, and the stranger's embrace fell away. Now she was alone and cold. The shakes were back again. Her eyes were watery - Ivy couldn't tell if she was crying or not. Her eyes always seemed wet nowadays. The crowd was screaming again - words like `night', `day', `rose', and `thorn' crept into her consciousness. Ivy cursed to herself. She should have scalped her ticket instead of coming inside. That would have gotten enough cash for a hit. Where had her ticket come from? Ivy tried to remember. Maybe a friend, if she had any left. Damn, she needed money. She needed heroin. She needed it more than dignity and more than hope. More than life. It had been so simple when she'd started chasing the dragon. She'd burn the stuff on a piece of aluminum foil at a party, inhale, and enjoy the glow after a while. But the need to feel good, to lose the world, grew too strong. She'd let her parents find out, of course. They were the reason she'd taken the first whiff. Ivy wanted their dismay. She wanted Mum and Dad to be disgusted by her behavior. It never happened. The word `no' never slipped from her parents' lips. Ivy wiped at her wet eyes once more. All her parents had offered her from the day she was born was everything. Nothing had been too good or too bad for Ivy if she wanted it. Ivy was smothering - dying - from their tender-loving care. She'd started taking brown in the vein over a year ago. The first time, she'd been so full of herself, her invincibility. She'd smuggle a gram bag into the chemistry lab after hours, using hydrochloric acid, ammonia, ethyl ether, and sodium bicarbonate to filter out any impurities and the cut. With pure stuff, sterile water, and sterile needles, she'd gone to town. If a little made her glow, Ivy would take two or three times more. Before she knew it, no amount of injections would bring her pleasure, and it took hypo after hypo to make normalcy return to her wasted frame. She was wasted, that was for certain - her body was only a scrawny afterthought. Any muscle or fat tissue had deteriorated due to malnutrition, and her eyelids were circles of gray. Ivy's arms and legs, on those rare occasions she brought them into the light, rippled with strings of white scars that snaked about her veins. Ivy didn't recognize her face in a mirror anymore. New words screamed in her head from the crowd and speakers. Ivy scrambled to her feet, feeling her breaths shorten to pants. Some members of the audience were running, making a circle around the theater as they echoed the action on stage. Ivy couldn't keep track of the bodies flying towards her and repeatedly felt the slap of passing arms and feet. Several times she was knocked off balance as she struggled to escape the Centre. The night air did nothing to soothe her gasping lungs. Nausea swept over her and she crouched, grasping her stomach while she retched on the pavement. Halloween revelers swarmed Front Street, too lost in their own celebrations to risk a glance at Ivy's misery. It was better to turn a blind eye to her unsightly form than risk contamination of their party fun. She needed a hit. "Ivy?" A familiar baritone caressed her ears. She slowly raised her eyes, torn with the hope at whom she might find and the agony if she'd guessed his identity correctly. It was Mark. Unruly brown hair curled around his ears. She remembered when they were students at the University of Toronto - how she would reach out in the middle of a study session to curl that hair around a finger, just to see him smile. Her heart twisted while she memorized his every feature as he looked at her now. The slight stubble on his jaws that she used to find so sexy - she had always shown strawberry burns on her face from rubbing against that shadow. She remembered the seductive jut of his lower lip and chin, how she would stare at him for endless hours, feeling warm and safe. That mouth was stretched into a tentative smile as he repeated her name. Mark managed to smile even when his eyes were sad and concerned. Her lips tilted reflexively in response, and he rushed forward, catching Ivy in a hug. It was a surprise to feel him hold her again. They'd last spoken - no, shouted - on Valentine's Day. He had wanted to help her with her addiction, and she had kept pushing him away. She finally pushed hard enough that he hadn't come back. Or maybe that was when she started living in the dark, breaking all ties with her old friends. It didn't matter which - he'd still been gone. His arms supported her weight easily so that she didn't have to work to stand. Ivy wound her arms around his neck, imagining how they'd danced, how she had massaged his shoulders after an endless day in his first year of medical school. He was still practical - his costume was a set of aqua scrubs. "Hi," she said softly, feeling her skin soak in his body heat. She savored the contact for a second more, then stepped back under her own strength. Ivy began to nibble on her lip, and it felt numb. "You look great." "And you look like hell. What have you been doing to yourself?" Ivy shrugged and wiped her nose again. "Same old, same old." Mark grabbed one of her arms suddenly and yanked her right sleeve up. Ivy flinched as the scars appeared. He just stared at the ridges in silence. "Mark? Are you coming?" Ivy looked over his shoulder to see a blonde woman in matching scrubs frowning impatiently. He didn't look up. "Go ahead - join the others!" he snapped angrily. The blonde grudgingly did as he ordered. No one spoke right away. Finally, Mark spoke. He trailed a gentle hand along the skin of her inner arm, his voice soft and poignant. "Once I thought your skin was the softest thing imaginable. I used to sit beside you and do this, remember?" He brushed his fingers lightly over the rippled flesh from her wrist to inner elbow. Ivy was having difficulty breathing once more. "I remember. So.What do you imagine is the softest thing now?" She tried to make it sound like a joke, to act as if the answer would amuse her. "Your skin." His eyes were blurred. Mark was in pain for her and that hurt Ivy as much as the cramps twisting through her body. "I love you," Mark said. "I've always loved you." Those words snapped Ivy out of the haze. "Don't. Don't start this, Mark." "Start what? You're killing yourself, dammit! You're in pain and it hurts me because you won't let me help. How am I supposed to stand by and watch you hunch over in the street like a bum when -" "When what? When you could rescue me? Take *care* of me?!?" Ivy's voice was bitter with distaste. "Yes!!" Mark shouted. "Okay, so you wanted to screw your parents - Fine! - Screw them! But you're fading fast, sweetheart - you're running out of time, and it doesn't have to end this way." "Yes, it does. My parents want to take care of me. You want to take care of me. I keep thinking -" she broke off with a cough, "I keep thinking, `If I'm so great, if you love me so much - why can't I take care of myself?!?' Huh?" "Ivy." Mark moved to pull her closer. She suddenly felt hysterical. Pushing at him, she yelled, "Let go of me! Just go! Find your little blonde friend and love her! I don't want it! I'm just a screwed-up wreck that you don't need. Go! Become a doctor and move on! Forget me! Please - just forget me and let me die!" Ivy knew she was crying in earnest now. It wasn't just a case of the runny eyes and nose. Mark had released her arms and pulled out his wallet. He collected several bills and a card, then folded her shaking fingers around them. "This is my new address and phone. There's money for a taxi. I won't forget. Please, Ivy - come home to me. It's your choice." Mark grazed her mouth with a brief touch on the lips, then left. Ivy looked at the imprinting on the paper. The letters blurred and the nausea returned. Her veins screamed at her for sustenance. There really wasn't a choice. She crumpled all the paper into a mighty wad in her hand and started to look for a connection. She didn't have to look long. She spotted a guy with the familiar signs: the drawn eyes, the sniffles, and wonder of wonders - he was offering heroin for sale as people passed closely. Ivy bought a gram and practically flew for the shadows. She carried all the other tools she needed in her shirt pocket. She sat on the damp, muddy concrete and set the items before her. Grabbing her spoon (a euphemistic name for the cut-off bottom of a Tab can), she dumped all the brown inside. Her needle (she'd only used it twice before - there was still some sharpness to the tip) was filled with orange juice - she needed its citric acid. She added the juice to her spoon, grabbed her lighter and held the flame underneath until she had a syrup. Now all she needed was water. Looking around, Ivy saw a puddle nearby. She drew up half a hypo full of the murky water, the added it to her spoon. A little more cooking and relief was in sight. Ivy managed to fill the syringe with the final product, but her hands shook violently as she tried to inject. She unbuttoned her shirt and used a sleeve as a makeshift tourniquet. Ivy played a desperate game of tag with her vein for several minutes before she managed to pull back some blood. She pressed the plunger with relief, dropped the hypo, and leaned back to wait for the effect. Within minutes, Ivy felt sluggish. No euphoria, but she hadn't expected any. Her body was still, unshaken. Ivy sighed. The withdrawal had passed, leaving a hollow emptiness. "Time is flying, and you are grounded, *sweetheart*." Ivy sat up in surprise at the masculine whisper. It seemed malevolent, yet seductive. More words slithered against her eardrums, drawing her attention. "It is an amazing spectacle - to watch someone destroy themselves so completely, so willingly. Friends, lovers, family - they mean nothing to you now. They pale in comparison to shooting up that dark sludge of death in an alleyway." Ivy felt a cold breath wisp against her face. She couldn't see - for some reason her vision had become dim and blurry. "You want to die, don't you, my child?" She felt the shaking come back - there was a burning in her blood, in her brain, and in her heart. Ivy felt her nails break as she clawed convulsively at the pavement. She was choking. Her lungs seemed to be filled with cotton wadding. She wanted to cough. She wanted to speak. She wanted to die. "Yes." The word escaped in a wheeze. A measure of tranquillity set in. Ivy had collapsed in a heap on the ground, and the convulsions had subsided to a jerking of her head and limbs. Her eyes were open, yet they stared blankly at the night sky. Her mouth was open, but her lips and jaws were slack. Only her ears worked, or perhaps the voice somehow sang in her thoughts. The words floated and hummed through her head. Each syllable called to her like a siren in the murky fog of her brain. "Good. You are almost there. You weren't too careful, my child - anything could have been used to cut that narcotic - crushed glass, dirt, or some other candy - you were too blind to even care, weren't you? Too self-destructive. Die.die, my sweet, and I'll make you ache to live." "The next thing I remember was waking up a vampire. The voice was gone. He was gone," Ivy said. "You didn't see a light or a door?" Janette asked quietly. "You felt nothing?" Ivy shook her head. "I don't remember. I sat in the alley for a while, feeling the hunger, then someone made the mistake of passing my way." She shrugged. "I fed. I followed every piece of vampire lore I'd seen in movies or read in books - stayed out of the sun and away from Italian eateries - then I hied out of town. I carried a sleeping bag full of Toronto dirt around for half a year to sleep in before I figured out it was unnecessary." "You got your wish, cherie. You found your way. You took care of yourself." Ivy met Janette's gaze and confessed with dignity, "I learned that total independence and freedom makes you solitary. I have gained a strength of will, some control - oh - and let's not forget my health," Ivy gestured to her smooth forearms. "but I am lonely." The young vampire's last words held a yearning plea that made Janette's forced indifference falter. She took Ivy's hand in hers. "There are others, mon petit lierre, others that will shelter your heart. I will tell you where to find them. I wish that I could show you myself." Ivy appeared confused. "But you -" Sudden understanding came over her features. "You already have a family to share your attentions. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interfere." Janette placed a finger over Ivy's lips to hush her apology. "Prudence is a fine quality, and in this circumstance, well-placed. All I ask is that you keep silent about Robert, Patrick, and myself." Ivy clutched at the woman's hand in sudden panic. "I will see you again, won't I?" Janette slipped an embossed card out of her coat, placing it in Ivy's grasp. "In good time." Ivy examined the card. It held the graphic of a black bird, an address, and the words, "The Raven?" Ivy looked up as she spoke the words aloud. Once again, she was alone. ************************************************************ ********* End of Part Four August 18, 1996 Too much time had passed since Clare last rolled in the grass for the pure enjoyment of the experience. She exhaled in a rush of happiness, tasting the odors of earth and chlorophyll. If ever a scent symbolized green, this was it. Clare laughed softly at this thought. She turned on her side to observe Jen's sleeping form. The girl had deflated soon after midnight, let her eyes drift shut, and curled up into a ball atop a blanket in the middle of Queen's Park. They had reached the Planetarium hours before, giggling at the trial of staying quiet in the dark rooms where the serious-minded were collecting data for hobbies and otherwise. The mood was urgent, for the cloud cover had dispersed temporarily, allowing excellent views. Clare let Jen sit in front of her at a scope, gradually explaining how to direct their view based on the constellations. "We can't see Orion this time of year - it's below our horizon view. Let's start from the Big Dipper." "Ursa Major - the big bear." Jen appeared proud to be able share this tidbit of information. "Almost. The Big Dipper is what astronomers call an asterism. It's smaller than an entire constellation." Jen grinned saucily. "But bigger than a breadbox?" "Quite. Now we'll move our view in this direction.and there is Andromeda and Pegasus. If we look up and to the left a little, we'll see Cassiopeia, Andromeda's mother - she was a very sorry parent." Jen squinted through the scope at the collection of stars. The lights didn't include the stick figures or overlying pictures they included in the planetarium presentations her school dragged her to see. Unimpressed, Jen wanted more substance. "Bad mom - how so?" "She constantly boasted about how beautiful her daughter was - nothing else. Finally, she went too far, saying Andromeda outshone any of the sea nymphs. Poseidon, the sea god, was furious at Cassiopeia's pretense. He demanded that Andromeda's parents chain her to a cliff and sacrifice her to a sea monster - or else." "Or else what?" "Or else he'd destroy their kingdom." "So what did they do?" "They chained her to the cliff." Jen's nose wrinkled up like a raisin. "That sucks - but Andromeda's folks *did* have to save their kingdom." "Ah - but what had the poor girl done to deserve such a fate? She was a sacrifice to her parents' vanity. They were selfish - their kingdom mattered more than their child's welfare." "So you think Cassiopeia should have been chained to the cliff?" "It was her fault," Clare said. Jen nodded, mimicking Clare's reproof of the queen. "So what happened next?" Clare did not appear to find this portion of the story important and abbreviated her narrative. "Perseus - whose constellation is here," she adjusted the scope once more, "came along, rescued her, and they lived happily ever after." "Now *that's* what sucks," Jen was indignant at this finale. "How come the beautiful chick in distress always has to be rescued by some buff hero guy? Why doesn't the girl ever get to waste the monster? Women in these stories never get to take care of themselves. I mean, if my parents wanted to feed me to some sea creature, I would raise the roof. I wouldn't marry any old hero that came along, either. I'd have to love him, and he'd have to respect my abilities and needs as a person." Clare smiled at the girl in admiration. "That's an excellent point." "Mom gets `Cosmopolitan'," Jen explained. "Cosmo girls don't need Perseus." "I'm afraid that *we* do. The meteors will appear in his constellation as they enter the Earth's atmosphere. Watch carefully." A few minutes passed, then Jen released a sigh of awe. "I saw something! It was as though the sky lit a match - there was a bright flare, then the light trailed in a line until it burnt out!" Over the next fifteen minutes, Jen witnessed six more meteors. When three shimmered through the sky at once, she beamed enthusiastically at Clare. "That was so cool! It was as if I could reach out and touch them!" Peering through the eyepiece once more, Jen gave a wail of protest. "Hey! The picture's messed up!" Clare inspected the sky through the glass dome overhead. "There are clouds blocking that part of the sky. We will have to wait until they clear to see more. Do you want to head outside? We can watch from the lawn now that you know what to look for." Once outdoors, Clare suggested that they track down some food to offer Jen's frog companion. They walked across Queen's Park Court, then devoted the next hour to crawling after crickets and digging up earthworms with their hands. Feeling confident after sharing the joys of amphibian mucous, Jen didn't have a problem with the worms until she accidentally snapped one in half. "Ugh! Gross!" Jen blanched at a smear of brown and yellow liquid that the worm part deposited on her skin, then threw the end of the creepy-crawly and her handful of dirt away. It smacked Clare bull's-eye on the jaw. Wiping grime and the clingy invertebrate off of her cheek, Clare retaliated by dropping a scoopful of dirt over Jen's head. Genuine mud-slinging commenced, leaving both females with stains on their clothes and laughing brown faces. The clouds shielding Perseus dissipated. Before they settled down in an open stretch of grass, Clare delved into her duffel bag. She first pulled out some Handi-wipes so that they could wipe the muck from their skin. Clare then unearthed a small, black cotton blanket, letting Jen use it for ground cover. They lay flat on their backs, their gazes navigating by the stars. Jen managed to locate Perseus once more with only minimal cues from Clare. Jen successfully observed a pair of meteors ribbon a bright trail through the night. "I wonder what people used to think those lights came from before scientists figured out they were rocks entering the atmosphere," she said. "Usually they were considered signs from whatever deities their witnesses believed in.I used to tell my children that the lights were missed opportunities fading out of reach." Jen sighed sleepily. "Tell me about them." "Them?" "Your kids. How old were they? What were their names? Stuff like that." Clare reasoned. Jen was a ten year-old - she was curious about this mysterious dead family - nothing more. "I had two sons and a daughter. The boys were oldest. Mac'con was your age, and Olcan was nine." "Those are weird names, and if Mac was ten when he died, you must be way older than you look." Clare grinned. "I married young. As for the names, my husband and I both had Celtic ancestors. We were being traditional. Mac'con meant `son of wolf' and Olcan just meant `wolf', and since my husband's name, Conchobhar, meant `lover of wolves', everything fit." "Cona - what?" "Conchobhar. The modern form is Connor." "That's much better, if you ask me. What about your daughter? Was she called `wolf-girl'?" "Nooo - her name was Morrigan. It stood for `great bright one'. She was four when I saw her last. You remind me of her." "A four year-old?" From the sound of Jen's voice, Clare could tell that she hadn't taken the comparison as a compliment. "She had gorgeous brown hair and eyes like yours, endless curiosity, charm, and she was very smart." Jen apparently approved of these attributes. "Smart, eh?" Clare sat up and decided to tease Miss Schanke. "Well.smart for a *four year-old*." Her expression became serious as she tenderly picked a wayward clump of dirt out of Jen's hair. "I look at you and I see the fading trail of a meteor - a missed opportunity." "I didn't mean to make you sad," Jen murmured. "I bet you were a great mom." Clare's smile was self-reproachful. "You didn't make me sad. I did it to myself." She sighed as she rested her head in the grass once more. "I suppose I was as good a parent as any. Raising children is mainly improvisation. Look, Jen - another trio!" The girl missed the lights for she had drifted off to sleep, curling her legs spoon-fashion to the side. Clare felt a warm bubble of caring expand in her heart at the sight and squelched her instantaneous defenses that demanded she prick her interest in Jen into nothingness. Clare preened as she inhaled, tasting the scent of the lawn and night air combined. ************************************************************ ********* Domino trailed behind Cecilia like a lost puppy. His dependence had its advantages, but now, when she was trying to do something *interesting*, he wouldn't go away. She couldn't snarl at him or force him to leave with bitter words - their united front was a part of their strength in the community. Age certainly wasn't. Cecilia had become a vampire barely two centuries before. She had the honor of being Figaro's first attempt at bringing another across. Cecilia had been joyfully bewildered by her new position as the man's consort. The vampire had showered her with adulation, placing her on a pedestal. Fig had been an exotic patron: obviously foreign from his dark complexion, yet undeniably desirable due to his rich lifestyle, his gifts, and his willingness to feed her ego more than any personal lust for her body. Yes, Cecilia had always been a social climber, trading on her appearance and wit. She hid the calculations behind a multitude of poses, letting the world see her as nothing but lovely form that lacked substance. Her shock at the heights her association with Figaro brought had been short-lived but victorious. If there ever had been an exclusive, privileged club to access, vampire society won the trophy hands down. Imagine Cecilia's surprise at discovering she was a substitute, a second class model to what Figaro really wanted - Clare. The moment his sire waltzed back to Vienna, Cecilia had become an afterthought compared to Figaro's original muse. The demotion had been a violently bitter pill to swallow. The whole nature of Cecilia's success was to persuade men to see her as number one. Clare overwhelmed her on every score. She had the age, she had the respect, and she had Figaro scrambling to impress her, as if she were a queen holding court. Cecilia loathed the woman. She loathed her power, her prestige. Cecilia suppressed a shudder at the memory of the first night Clare had entered the Raven. Everyone had stared in awe. The crowd had literally parted, the mortals following the example of the vampires in their midst. Those Clare had seen fit to acknowledge had reigned pompously over the rest for the remainder of the night. Especially Figaro. Cecilia remembered the frenzied days he had spent consumed with designing the woman's wardrobe. Clare had ignored them, rudely brushing aside their attentions unless Figaro was present. Domino and she had become nothing more than hand servants - tucking , holding, and sewing at Clare's beck and call. The image made Cecilia want to spit. Of course, a good deal of Clare's mystique came from the rumors that surrounded her - no one actually knew which ones were true. Had she ripped Enforcers apart with her bare hands? Had thousands of mortals offered their throats to her, worshipping her a deity? Had she murdered dozens of their kind, anyone who crossed her or stood in her way? Then there was the ultimate mystery - how had Clare survived the fires of an atomic weapon? Everyone was willing to talk about how she had been in Hiroshima - it had been a topic of either mourning or relief since 1945. Her reappearance had the community rehashing the same emotions, yet no one actually offered an explanation. Cecilia had hoped to win that information from Vachon. He was just the sort to have asked Clare straight out what had happened. He was also just the sort to whom Clare would grant an answer. Cecilia had tried to win Vachon over, to distract him, and to embitter him towards their grand-sire, but Vachon hadn't bought into her scheme. He remained steadfastly closemouthed about anything he considered filed under Clare's privacy. It had galled Cecilia to no end, and, unfortunately, she had overplayed her hand tonight. She had alienated a vampire she wanted to entrap. Vachon appeared to have connections that outclassed Figaro's, with none of the powerful enemies like Aristotle. He was also several centuries older than her sire had been, therefore more powerful. That was an added attraction. Finally, there was Cecilia's overwhelming obsession to have a hold over any man under Clare's spell. She turned her gaze to Lacroix and observed the elder hungrily. More than anything, she wanted *him*. He would be the ultimate protector, lover, and victory to shove in Clare's face. Cecilia pulled Domino closer to hiss in his ear. "Leave me alone. Don't make me punish you, Dom. Just walk away with a smile on your face." He complied with just enough hurt pleading in his eyes to make Cecilia want to really make Domino suffer. She filed that job away for her future amusement as she smoothed her silver hair. Then she joined Lacroix at the bar. ************************************************************ ********* Vachon thought. Vachon stared at the windows overhead, pinpointing hers easily even though it was over a dozen floors high. He'd come to know that window well. It seemed that every night he came here, drawn to check on how she was doing. Javier turned away from the window and distractedly rubbed his palm along the large, wooden object that sat nearby. He couldn't blame his grand-sire. If the victim had been anyone else, Vachon would have joined Clare in the joke. But in this case, he was the casualty. Though it might be stupid of him to admit, he adored the lady in question with all of his heart. He took to the air, hefting the tree-like sculpture along for the flight. He let his feet rest on the ledge outside the pristine French windows that separated him from her suite. Heavy blinds blocked his view inside, but he felt only the faintest sign of life. Vachon grinned in satisfaction. He pushed the windows open stealthily and lugged his gift inside her bedroom. She lifted her head at the sound of his approach, making a small sound of welcome. She was stretched invitingly on the bed, one arm extended forward to beckon him closer. Vachon knelt at the foot of the mattress, murmuring to his enchantress silkily, "Carmen, carida.Como estas, mi gata linda?" The cat leapt to her feet and pranced over to Vachon while purring sultrily. She licked his nose once, then rubbed her whiskers against his own. She posed expectantly in front of him, and Javier did not disappoint. He curled Carmen's fluffy, warm body against his chest, burying his long fingers in her fur. "Come see what I brought you, sweetheart." The tortoiseshell sniffed inquisitively at her present, initially preferring caution. After a few minutes, noting that the Spaniard's largesse made no sudden, unseemly movements or sounds, Carmen proceeded to methodically scratch her claws along the surface. Once assured of the cat's enjoyment, Vachon left the bedroom to inspect Carmen's other supplies. Her food and water rations appeared recently replenished - so where was her companion? If Clare knew she was going to consistently leave her pet in solitude, she should have let Carmen stay at his church. She hadn't had a problem handing the cat over to Javier the night it had come into her possession. Clare had even instructed him to think of a new name for the animal. He'd been somewhat relieved when Clare had considered his suggestion thoughtfully. "Carmen? What made you think of that?" "It was my mother's name." Clare's expression had been unreadable, but she quickly declared that Carmen would be the tortoiseshell's new name. Javier suspected that she'd been laughing to herself, especially when he repeatedly caught Clare grinning as she watched him visit with her cat. Carmen reclaimed his attention as she rubbed against his ankles. Vachon lifted the soft form once more, scratching the cat under the chin. "So what do you think, Carmencita? Purr if you want to be abducted." Carmen willingly complied, blinking lovingly in time with her vibrations. "Well, that settles it - far be it for me to deny the request of a lady. Let's get your things." Vachon searched the vicinity for something appropriate for packing full of the cat's accessories. Spotting a bright purple knapsack on the floor, he gently set Carmen on her feet and examined the bag. It was jammed full of clothes, and they weren't Clare's. The small athletic socks were the first item to disprove that notion. Then there was the pink cotton nightgown, obviously sized for someone much smaller than his grand-sire. They belonged to a child. Before Javier had a chance to consider the permutations of this discovery, he felt a presence. In the next second, the suite entrance swung open to reveal Clare, her arms filled with a sleeping girl. His elder froze, then spared a self-conscious glance at the child she carried. Vachon simultaneously dropped the purple satchel as if it carried garlic toast. He placed his hands nonchalantly on his hips, trying to act casual. "So, Clare - what's new?" ************************************************************ ********* End of Part Five "Let me guess." Vachon said. "She sat in your chair, slept in your bed - I hope that she didn't eat your porridge - I hate to break the news, Clare," He gestured at the child's dark hair, "but that kid is not Goldilocks." Clare fought her impulse to slam the front door with her foot, choosing instead to close it smoothly and quietly out of deference to Jen's ears. "And what are you doing here, Vachon? Absconding with my cat?" "Maybe she needs absconding." Clare sniffed reproachfully at him as she passed, aiming for Carmen's bedroom. "Bring me that knapsack, Vachon," she whispered over a shoulder. He complied, though he mentally kicked himself for doing so. He wasn't here to fetch for the woman, unless she asked nicely. Or ordered nicely. Clare was kind of fun when she was feisty. Vachon found her standing just inside the bedroom doorway, staring at his gift for Carmen. Feeling him behind her, she moved to the bedside to pull back the covers before setting Jen down. Clare took the purple bag from Vachon, murmured a soft word of appreciation. Then she gently began to untie the girl's muddy sneakers. Javier realized that Clare must have had some experience in this field. She slipped the girl's sleep-laden arms and legs from her dirty garments with a minimum of fuss, then replaced them with the nightgown Vachon had found earlier. The child didn't budge or protest - she merely sighed contentedly as Clare arranged the sheets over her form. Clare didn't turn around right away, but paused, knowing that Vachon watched her movements. Finally, she dropped a quick kiss on the girl's forehead, then walked over to Carmen, who had enthroned herself atop the present. The gift could have been labeled `cat-furniture', but that moniker would have oversimplified the grandeur of the object. It was a jungle gym of maple branches and forest green cushions - pillows that rose from heights from just off the floor to two meters. Some were square, some were rounded - there was a padded tunnel that wound around two trunks, ending in a plush grotto. There was a house, complete with a porch and an open skylight for the cat to exit through. Between the bark and the leafy fabric, Carmen appeared to be the proud owner of a deluxe feline tree house. "That is incredible, Javier. Where did you get it?" "Behind the church." Clare raised a doubtful eyebrow, escorting the Spaniard from the room and closing the door. Vachon decided to be more specific. "I built it, all right?" Her teeth flashed in happy surprise. "I didn't know you had carpentry skills!" Vachon shrugged. "It's just a trade I picked up over the years. It's easy to come and go from a construction job - just like working on oil rigs. A contractor usually doesn't mind a guy pounding nails at night if he can pay him less and end up ahead of schedule." "I think Carmen's playland took more ability than hammering a few nails. What else would you do for these contractors?" "Nothing much. A little plumbing, masonry, some wiring - though I hate wiring - and flooring." "And?" There was more - Clare just *knew* there was more. Vachon gave her a mischievous grin. "Well, there was that time I did some freelance architecture. I gave Wright some competition." "And here I thought you avoided anything that involved drafts," Clare said. "It's good to know you're thinking about me." His voice was as indescribably charming as his smile. Clare sent him A Look which had Vachon watching her every move as she carried the pile of dirty children's clothes and sneakers to the phone and rang the desk. "A laundry emergency, Clare?" His grand-sire had just requested that the hotel pick up the items and have them spotlessly clean by mid-morning. "I am baby-sitting, Vachon." She placed the jeans, shirt and shoes outside her suite door. "One of the rules involves returning the child and their things in the condition you found them." "And you're such a stickler for rules," he teased. "If you don't mind my saying so, you appear more involved with that girl than a simple favor to her parents would warrant." "I do mind your saying so, Javier," Clare said as she entered her bedroom. Vachon followed. "Then I'll change the subject. Did you realize that Cecilia and Domino have passed beyond the point of simply avoiding you and have moved into the resentful phase?" Clare was in her walk-in closet, out of his line of sight. "I expected that. Cecilia always struck me as somewhat petty, and Domino follows her example. Don't worry, I'm keeping an eye on those two." As she answered, the `Metro Police' T-shirt that Clare had been wearing flew out the doorway and landed at Vachon's feet, followed by a pair of jeans and some other interesting items. He resisted the lacy bits, concentrating instead on the shirt. It had to be Clare's only T-shirt - she wasn't exactly the type to have a collection. No doubt this one came standard with her job as homicide detective. Vachon recalled Tracy wearing a twin to the shirt in his hand the week before Divia came. He experienced a faint pang of regret, then let the item fall back to the floor. "Hmm. Onto my last subject of interest then - what's going on between you and Lacroix?" Clare exited the closet wearing a long, bronze silk robe. "Nothing out of the ordinary - why do you ask?" Vachon noted that her demeanor was suspiciously innocent as she posed that question. "I just had an uncomfortable feeling that Lacroix experienced a sudden urge to tear my arms off when I asked if he knew where you were." Clare couldn't hide her pleasure at that reply. "Really? How interesting. Maybe you should avoid asking him such questions in the future, Javier. For your own welfare." She walked towards the bathroom , leaving the silk bathrobe in her wake. "I'm off to shower - you can let yourself out, can't you?" Vachon was momentarily silenced by the brief view and simply nodded at Clare's bare back. "Oh, and Javier?" She leaned her head out the bathroom entrance and winked. "If Carmen goes missing - you're the first person I will torment. Find a nice vampire girl to seduce instead." The suggestion hit Vachon like a splash of holy water. Clare had intended her little performance to intimate that he needed more distraction in his unlife than a cat could provide. The irritating thing was, Vachon was now sorely inclined to agree with her. ************************************************************ *** Lacroix sat at the bar, chatting with another man who had dark hair and a cultured appearance. The two vampires shared a similar aura of power and authority, yet Cecilia did not recognize Lacroix's companion. The stranger made his farewells as Cecilia approached, pausing as she brushed past to return her intrigued examination. He was not moved to stay and discover more about her, however, and Cecilia claimed the stool at Lacroix's side in triumph. She posed in a sultry manner, then politely requested a drink from the bartender. Taking the glass, she sipped slowly, then employed a gesture she'd seen Clare use - trailing the tip of her tongue around the rim. Cecilia was convinced that her interpretation of the movement was much more alluring. She then allowed a drop of the blood wine to cling precariously to her lower lip. Cecilia savored an inner shiver of excitement and success as Lacroix brushed the droplet away. He proffered a reddened thumb pad for her to lick clean while cupping her chin with his other fingers. "A word to the wise, my dear - learn to discern between a man who desires second-rate artifice and one who prefers honest ingenuity in a woman." Lacroix let his hand rest beside his own glass once more, fixing Cecilia with an amused stare. She gulped reflexively, suddenly feeling like prey instead of the predator. The words `second-rate' planted a cold seed of hatred for Lacroix in her soul. She was not to prepared to abandon her quarry, though. Cecilia swallowed more blood, this time in a simple motion. She regrouped and attempted another tack. "I wasn't aware that any vampire traded on honesty," she said. "Doesn't it imply obligation, therefore weakness?" Lacroix's gaze acknowledged the intelligence of her response. Cecilia recognized the small victory and sensed a slight return of her confidence. She returned his look with a clear, open stare - aiming to appear calm as he responded. "Hence honesty's attraction - weakness signifies a conquest. There's nothing more seductive than a conquest." Cecilia changed topics, hoping to keep her momentum. "Who was that gentleman you just finished talking with?" She breathed an inner sigh of relief when Lacroix's tone conveyed that this was a welcome subject. "Yes, I noticed your mutual interest." Cecilia bowed her eyes, neither confirming or denying those words. "His name is Thomas," Lacroix continued. "He is an old acquaintance of mine who came bearing gifts. Perhaps you would be interested in sharing them." Cecilia let her lids widen with surprise. "What sort of gifts did Thomas bring you?" Lacroix stood and leaned closely to murmur in her ear. "Tickets to a chorale - would you enjoy attending?" Cecilia smiled winsomely. "In the right company, yes." Lacroix moved to her other side, placing a further distance between them. "Excellent. The performance is three nights from now. Thomas is included in the party - you can keep him entertained." Her mouth dropped open in confusion. "What about you?" Cecilia questioned. "I intend to take pleasure from the music. Thomas has an annoying tendency to demand my attention during the best compositions. You will be perfect for distracting him with tedious conversation." Lacroix lifted her palm, dropping a kiss on Cecilia's fingers, then departed for his sound booth. She held her caressed hand against her cheek while distractedly watching Lacroix walk away. She released a whisper of a sigh as he disappeared from her line of vision, only then realizing his parting comment was nine-tenths an insult. ************************************************************ ******* Ivy didn't know what to think about the Raven. The shadowy lighting of the nightspot did not invite illusions of safety, and neither did the first vampires she encountered. They seemed like blunt, freakish people, incapable of a meaningful discussion. Ivy wondered what Janette had been thinking to recommend these people as potential friends. The patrons closest to the entrance all looked hungry, vampires and mortals alike. Their desperate expressions reminded Ivy of her own during those last weeks as a self-destructive mortal. Each person was obviously discontent with their life or immortality and ready to take it out on the next available victim. Reaching the foot of the stairs, one vampire who had the tattoo of a scorpion wound about his neck, hitched an arm around Ivy's waist. He bent his jaw to her throat, snarling in her ear along the way. She slammed her head to the side, butting the would-be feeder with her skull, and successfully interrupted the advance. Scorpion Neck appeared ready to argue the issue and Ivy was winding up her fists when the sound of someone clearing his throat drew the combatants' attention. Another vampire, a trendy-looking man of average height, shiny black hair and gray eyes, frowned disapprovingly at Scorpion Neck. "You know public displays of assault are not allowed, Vincent. Stop them before someone stops you." Vincent appeared unwilling to argue with this statement and slipped back into a dark corner. The vampire extended his hand to Ivy with a welcoming smile. "The name's Domino. You've never been here before, have you?" Ivy shook his hand firmly, saying, "No. How can you tell?" "You didn't enter with enough attitude. Attitude is important. You looked like a scared little rabbit and you ended up hounded like one as a result. It's good that you fought back. That saves some face with the wild ones." Ivy felt the need to defend her abilities. "You know, I could have taken care of fang-boy myself. I didn't need you to come to the rescue." "Of course you didn't," Domino said guilelessly. "I can smell the strength in your veins. A sneer simply goes much farther than a barroom brawl, if you want to meet the folks who count. I just thought I'd help you make a nice first impression." "Oh. In that case, thank you. My name's Ivy. Tell me Domino - if vamps like Vincent are the ones who don't `count' around this club, how come they're here, wrecking the atmosphere?" Domino waved a nonchalant hand at that criticism. "Owner's prerogative, and let me tell you, this owner's got a hell of a lot of prerogative. Basically, he's been in a rotten mood and hasn't cared who drops into the Raven. Usually, he's more selective." "Let's hope he cheers up - and soon." Domino beamed. "A charming thought. Care to join me for a drink, Ivy? I'd love to hear more." Ivy agreed. What could be the harm? He appeared harmless and eager to spout all sorts of gossip, some of which might actually be useful to her. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship. At least, that was Ivy's opinion before she met Cecilia. ************************************************************ ******* End of Part Six August 20, 1996 Natalie had called the precinct again, swamped with work, and planned to spend the lighttime at the morgue catching up on the overflow. Nick left the precinct early and didn't feel like returning to the loft, so he drove the Caddie in the direction of the Raven. The club was especially crowded for a Sunday night, ready to burst at the seams with the wicked atmosphere. Nick noticed a pack of rough fledglings gathered around the entrance and had to deliver a few steely glares before they parted to make way for him. Nick moved along the edge of the dance floor that was filled hip- to-hip with swaying bodies. One dancer stepped back to avoid crashing into her partner and collided with Nick instead. He helped her keep her balance, returning the smile of her laughing eyes. "Oops. Pardon me," she said. "No problem." He watched her brush back her brown hair as she slipped once more into the throng with enthusiasm. Nick recognized her dance partner - it was Domino, a distant relative of Clare's. Nick continued towards the bar, detoured for a drink, then headed for the sound booth. He found Lacroix speaking into the microphone, wrapping up the night's broadcast. "I am Chance - your master of mayhem - and fortune, my children, is a fickle lover. So off to your beds and your safe tiny dreams of delight and darkness - pause for a word of thanks that you've survived my grasp for another night. Don't be too cocky about your escape, gentle listeners - it is better that you bare your backs to my whim.for Fate crushes the brave." Lacroix snapped the soundboard off, looking pleased. He returned Nick's frowning expression with a raised eyebrow, as if to say, `What did you expect, Nicholas?' Nick modified his grimace into a resigned grin. "'Fate crushes the brave?' - I gather that you're getting in the mood for `Carmina Burana' tomorrow night." "I expect it will be a stunning performance, yes." "And the fact that the score is a pagan parody of Catholic rituals has nothing to do with that?" He turned and looked out the window of the sound booth to watch the crowd. "Really, Nicholas, I am merely considering the artistry of the work - though it is delightful to hear a secular composition in Latin now and then." Lacroix stood and joined his offspring at the window in observing the Raven's guests. "Quite a crush, isn't it?" Nick nodded. "A few of your clientele leave something to be desired, though." He considered the safety of the club's mortal patrons. "There's a gathering of youngsters near the entrance that are apt to attack someone outright. You should get rid of them." "You mean the Wild Ones?" Lacroix said. The Wild Ones were a collection of vampires brought across during the meteor scare two years before. No one would claim them, so technically they were orphans, untrained and very unmannered. "A curious suggestion, Nicholas - no doubt staking the rabble would prevent future problems for the community. I'm delightfully surprised that you would propose such an efficient solution." Nick glared hotly at his sire. "You know that wasn't what I meant by `get rid of them'." Lacroix smiled indulgently and eliminated the view by drawing the window's curtain shut. Teasing Nicholas really was too easy. "Pity. Usually I do not allow them inside the Raven, but recently, I have not given the club much attention." They left the privacy of the booth, taking seats at the bar. "What is causing the distraction, Lacroix? Or should I ask who?" Nick glanced about the immediate area, noted the lovely form of Cecilia draped nearby, but dismissed her as responsible for his sire's preoccupation "It's Clare, isn't it?" Lacroix simply stared coldly at him in response, daring Nick to elaborate on whatever theory he had in mind. "Come to think on it, I haven't seen Clare here for months - since Schanke's return," Nick said. "Did you have a falling-out over her work?" Sudden realization dawned on Nick. "You probably made one of those observations you enjoy throwing at me - something about how indulging in relationships with mortals is an exercise in self-torture - and Clare lost her temper. She's pretty impressive when she loses her temper," Nick said knowingly. "We had three perps confess last week just because she looked as if she *might* get angry." Lacroix appeared bored. "She is a boon to your detective team, no doubt." Nick considered that comment thoughtfully. "Actually, yes. She has a talent for the job. It's a pity she intends to leave in a month." "Are you certain?" Nick shrugged his shoulders. Clare made no secret of her intention to leave Metro Police when Schanke's probation was complete. He thought it was odd that Lacroix had doubts. "That is what she said - believe it as much as her word can be trusted." His sire nodded abruptly and excused himself to sternly approach the front stairs. A disturbance had broken out at the entrance, causing off-pitch yells and shoving. Apparently Lacroix had decided the Wild Ones were ready for a lesson or two in manners, but Nick had a faint suspicion that the fury in his sire's expression did not result solely from the actions of the young. ************************************************************ ****** "Let's stop, Domino. I want a drink." Ivy pulled on the other vampire's arm, urging him to comply. "Please?" "She says `please' - how can I resist? One drink, coming up." Domino gave her a wink and proceeded to fulfill his promise. Ivy smiled in return, then walked off the dance floor to lean quietly against a shadowed wall. It was amazing how empty the Raven had become after the owner had dealt with the crazies hanging around the front door. Ivy's lips twisted. `Crazies' became a relative term around a club full of vampires. Dom had been right - the owner *did* have a hell of a lot of prerogative. He'd scared the unliving bejeezus out of Ivy, and she'd been standing halfway across the club and out of sight. She hadn't heard a word that he said, his voice hadn't raised, but there had been a palpable aura of anger about the boss vampire. Ivy knew what the look had meant - it had been a `get out of my backyard' moment. Very territorial. Very effective. Ivy suspected another motive to the quiet confrontation. The owner had appeared ready and willing for someone to challenge him and more than capable of rearranging that person into a piece of Dada sculpture. The rowdies had quickly exited, followed by several club patrons who had felt especially faint of heart this evening. Ivy fought the impulse to duck out herself. She hung on at the club and enjoyed Domino's company, uncertain if she had anywhere else to go without a fight. That was mainly the fault of the blonde at the bar. Dom's sister Cecilia had tried to not get along with Ivy since the moment they were introduced. Ivy had finally decided to let her succeed. The first night she had been cautious. Cecilia was older than her, and though apparently only a decade or two Dom's senior, she molded the fellow to her whims as though he were made of play- dough. Dom was in a tricky situation - he liked Ivy, but Cecilia was in charge. Ivy had decided acting nice couldn't hurt. But it did hurt. It made her lips ache to smile when a snarl would feel much sweeter. It made her hands hurt to be helpful when they would love nothing more than to shake someone senseless. She accompanied the siblings to Figaro Newton's studio - they kept the name though he had departed - and within an hour of sunrise, she was ready to explode. Cecilia was petty, nasty, and Ivy did not like her one bit. She'd appeared pleasant enough within the confines of the Raven while surrounded by a crowd of her peers and elders, but once they'd departed Cecilia became a creature transformed. She pushed Domino around physically, and he would allow it, slipping embarrassed looks towards Ivy and adoring ones to his abuser. `Attitude is important,' he'd said earlier. It was too bad Domino didn't follow his own advice. Ivy thought Cecilia's words were even worse. Not a syllable escaped the woman's mouth that wasn't intended to insult, as if every shred of kind spirit she lay claim to had been scattered among the Raven's patrons and left behind like litter cluttering the floors. Domino wasn't good enough to run with the likes of Cecilia, and apparently, neither was their new acquaintance. Ivy held her tongue at first, but humility had never been one of her strongest character traits. When Cecilia didn't stop biting, Ivy snapped back. "If I'm such a waste of space, why the hell did you invite me here?" Domino (and Ivy got the impression this was a bad, free-thinking sort of thing) answered for his sibling. "We need you to design for the business. If it fails, Cecilia will look bad." Ivy soon heard an expanded version of this excuse, that the failure of Newton Originals would make Cecilia look bad in front of Clare. Whoever this Clare person was, her name seemed a forbidden yet frequently mentioned subject among the siblings. Cecilia and Domino had to understand very little about their departed sire's occupation if they believed Ivy would rescue them from failure. She racked her memory, trying to discern what she had said about fashion in the course of that first conversation with Domino. It couldn't have been much - she knew a bit about sewing and slightly more about shopping. Ivy's secondhand clothing should not have inspired confidence in her ability to design anything. The two vampires were either beyond desperation, or Domino was spreading a thick layer of fibs his sibling's way in order to gain a new ally. The next night, seeing Cecilia behave again for the audience at the Raven and treat the folks at home miserably, Ivy took the gloves off. If Cecilia was truly needy for help, Ivy welcomed her to have a problem with anything she did. If Cecilia frowned, she'd frown back. If the woman pouted, Ivy would stick her lower lip out and do her worst. Ivy `borrowed' a new wardrobe from the samples that the studio had on hand. Between Dom and her, they successfully managed to size the pieces down to fit Ivy's sub-average height. Cecilia was otherwise occupied with self-grooming, granting a few peaceful hours in which Ivy devoted her nosiness and common sense towards understanding just what work the pair had done to prepare a new collection. She found very little. The best find among the variety of papers that hid desktops and counters was Figaro's sketchbook. It included shape, color and fabric descriptions that had yet to appear on any runways. Cecilia had not paid any attention to these notes, preferring to scribble her own unattractive drawings and pose for photographs. Ivy decided that Cecilia was obviously fond of posing, a conclusion evidenced by the stacks of proofs that collected dust around the desks. Cecilia and Domino needed someone with style and flair to save their reputations, and Ivy had serious doubts that she was that talented individual. Ivy grimaced as she considered this problem once more. She felt Cecilia's eyes glaring at her yet again this evening, and Ivy had no compunction about glaring in return. A few hours before, Ivy had caught Cecilia eavesdropping on two other vampires: the intimidating owner and the fellow she'd collided into off the dance floor. The memory of the man's friendly smile had prompted Ivy's behavior. Cecilia did not appear quite disinterested enough in what the men discussed, even though she relaxed several feet away. Sudden small changes in the blonde's expression caused Ivy to conclude that Cecilia was listening in on every word. Ivy resolved to intervene and distract by approaching the woman for an overdue discussion of Domino. "Hey, Cecilia! What'cha doing?" The vampire sneered. "Drinking *alone*." "Uh-huh." Ivy nodded sympathetically. "You realize that is supposed to signal a problem, right?" Ivy settled onto a bar stool between Cecilia and the nice stranger's back, then requested a beverage with a spiffy and decorative umbrella. "You might be depressed. I'll just stay right here, and we'll have a nice little chat." Ivy's drink arrived. She removed the umbrella, twirling its toothpick stem between two fingers until the bright pattern on the shade's paper became a blur. Ivy followed this play with a happy sip. "You don't have to do that." Cecilia's voice was brittle. "Ah, but what are new *friends* for?" Ivy flashed an innocent grin. "Besides - I think we should discuss Domino." Cecilia's face momentarily twisted in fury, and she agilely yanked Ivy into the side shadows. "Listen, little girl. You don't have the luxury of `discussing' anything with the likes of me. You do what I say, or I'll get even. The next time I suggest that you leave me alone, do it - or else." Ivy was still holding onto her drink umbrella. She spun it slowly and listened patiently as Cecilia hissed out her speech, then spread her lips in a calm smile. "Or else - what?" Suddenly, Ivy took the offensive. Pulling Cecilia by the arms, she rotated their positions so that the other vampire's back was to the wall, then slammed a hand into Cecilia's chest. The woman's eyes bulged slightly with surprise, and a choked gurgle escaped her throat. Ivy gradually lifted her palm to reveal a circle of colorful paper emblazoned above Cecilia's breast like a target. "It's funny the things that turn out to be weapons, isn't it?" Ivy said. "A toothpick pricking the heart must be pretty painful - I hope you can still hear me?" Cecilia nodded jerkily in reply. "Good. I hope I have made one thing clear: I will not let you sling dirt at me, then smile and hand you a shovel. Domino might put up with it, but I won't. Remember Cecilia - I may be little, but I still bite - and I have just enough self-respect to dislike you violently." Ivy took hold of the sliver of wood protruding from the blonde's chest and withdrew it swiftly. The woman stumbled forward, snarling at Ivy in pain and hate. Ivy spared a glance back at the bar, and saw that the friendly stranger now sat alone as he watched his friend move through the crowd towards a larger scuffle at the entrance. Ivy leaned against the wall and observed as her own `friend' began to walk away. "Make me like you, Cecilia," she said, then began to twirl the umbrella once more. Hours later, Ivy had returned to stand in the same spot. She saw Cecilia turn her attention to Domino as he requested drinks further down the bar. The blonde leaned over and whispered in his ear, causing him to turn and abruptly protest. Cecilia whispered some more. Domino's shoulders sank, and he sent Ivy an apologetic look as his sibling commandeered his bloodwine order for herself. Ivy hadn't really expected a different outcome. The threat of responsibility had been narrowly averted, and she was once again homeless, unemployed, and owned only the clothes on her back. As a bonus, she'd made her first genuine enemy. Ivy supposed it was a Kodak moment, but - Drat! - she had no camera. Ivy decided to leave, so she turned hastily towards the exit. For the second time that night, her movements were pre-empted by a collision with another vampire. Hands settled around her waist to steady her, and Ivy reflexively clutched a pair of leather clad shoulders. It was another smiling stranger, but this time, instead of shining blue, the stranger's eyes smoldered in a bottomless depth of dark brown. Ivy felt a tingle of sensation shoot down her spine as she returned his stare. Ivy wondered. He spoke first, softly and distinctly. "Are you all right?" "Yes." Ivy repeated the words with more assurance. "Oh, yes." Moments passed before Ivy realized she still practically hung from the guy's neck, grinning at him like a twit. She took a step back, lowering her arms. "I'm sorry. I wasn't watching where I was going." Ivy's forehead wrinkled slightly in concern. "I think it's becoming a habit." The stranger's mouth continued to lift in a smile, but there was an added devilment behind it. "Congratulations." Ivy raised an eyebrow. "Becoming clumsy isn't exactly winning the lottery." "Ah," His velvety exclamation teased Ivy's ear, "but we ran into each other. Jackpot." "Then the prize is.?" "Yet to be decided." He gestured at the bar, then extended a hand for her to grasp. "Care to discuss our windfall?" Ivy grinned openly. "I'd have to be a fool to ignore fortune when it stands right in front of me." She slid her fingers through his own, allowing him to lead her to the drink counter. "My name is Ivy." "Hello, Ivy. I'm Vachon - Javier Vachon." The approach of Cecilia and Domino stymied any further revelations. Ivy noted that Domino appeared somewhat smug, and wondered what had caused his sudden pleasure. "Well, well, Vachon," Cecilia was behaving again. "I see you've met Newton Original's newest designer." Vachon observed Ivy's surprised reaction and asked, "You're a designer?" She smiled uncomfortably. "I guess so." "Of course she is," Cecilia said. "Domino insists she's fantastic." "I do!" Dom echoed wholeheartedly. Ivy had a sinking feeling inside. For some reason, Cecilia's desire to impress Vachon outweighed any rancor she felt towards Ivy. The blonde may have decided to kiss and make up simply because she was talking to Vachon. Ivy thought nervously. Cecilia and Domino excused themselves, leaving her with Vachon once more. She felt awkward now, like a blemish had spontaneously sprouted on her forehead. "So." Ivy cleared her throat. "Do you know those two well?" Vachon shook his head while watching her closely. "Nah. They're just family." He smiled when Ivy's mouth dropped open. "Relax. It's a distant relationship. I only met them a couple months ago." "You have me beat - I've known Cecilia and Domino for two whole days." "And already you're wary? Smart girl." "I like Domino. He can be kind and entertaining, only." Ivy let the qualification trail off. "Only *not* around Cecilia." Ivy thought it was fascinating the way Vachon's tongue produced the `l' sound of the woman's name. Ivy had a sudden urge to be called something that rolled and flowed more like `Cecilia'. "Exactly," she said. Ivy felt someone brush up against her back. A shock of recognition jolted her mind, and she responded with a startled gasp. Ivy looked at the surrounding faces, but saw no one that she could identify. Vachon took her hand. "Are you all right?" Ivy rubbed her right temple with shaking fingers. "I'm not sure. I think that I felt someone familiar." The sensation began to fade away. "Can you excuse me for a minute?" Not waiting for Vachon's response, Ivy followed the presence, using her instincts to lead in the right direction. She climbed up the club stairs and stumbled out into the night, searching frantically for more than the shadows she found. Then she heard the voice. His voice. It cut tauntingly through her thoughts, making her tremble like the last time she'd heard it - when she was dying in a muddy alley. "Are you flying yet, my sweet?" "Show yourself." Ivy ran right then left, yearning to link those sounds to something solid. "Do you ache to live?" "Why? Why won't you show me who you are?!?" She clutched at her head, willing his voice to silence. She saw her body as it was the night she came across - drained, lonely and scarred - a speck of nothing to the thousands who celebrated only a wall away. She witnessed herself, filthy and wracked with pain, moaning outside the O'Keefe, the crowds avoiding her as though she carried a contagion. She saw Mark - saw his anger, his frustration, his pity. "How much is your life worth now?" Ivy screamed. She couldn't stand remembering - not vividly, not like this vision filled with ugliness. It made no difference that it was the truth. She could talk about it dispassionately, as though that part of her past was a bad dream, but she couldn't feel it again. "Why does it matter!?!" She fell to her knees and began to cry uncontrollably. The voice gradually began to fade from her mind in echoes of hateful laughter. "Ivy? Lierre - what is wrong?" Suddenly Janette was by her side, protecting her, soothing her. Ivy flailed halfheartedly, then subsided with a whimper. "It was him - the man who brought me across - he's in my head." She gripped Janette's shoulders frantically. "He hates me. He loves me. I don't understand!" She sobbed heavily, and Janette hugged her close. "Shhh. I'm here. I will take care of you. We will leave this place." There was a streak of movement as their bodies became part of the ebony sky, leaving Vachon to step from the Raven and discover an empty sidewalk. The man watching them all from the shadows still laughed alone. ************************************************************ ******** August 20, 1996 Natalie had lied to Nick. She didn't spend the day at the morgue catching up on work for the Coroner's Office. She scurried home instead, racing the dawn with arms full of laboratory supplies. Sydney now lived at the loft, and for more necessary reasons than because she had promised to move in with Nick - Natalie had rats in her living room. There were two dozen cages stacked against one wall, their wire tops airing the faint odors of ammonia and musk. Natalie was beginning a new experiment, and she had a very strong feeling that Nick would not approve of her methods. She preferred to keep any progress from him until she had a breakthrough to report. So Natalie had lied to Nick, and she fully intended to keep lying, hiding and obfuscating her work for as long as it remained feasible. Clare had become an invaluable help in this endeavor. A hidden thought here, a clouded memory there - she owed endless thanks to her sire for sharing these secrets in blood-sharing, no questions asked. She was fortunate that Clare could be spontaneously generous, for Natalie knew that her friend offered no enthusiastic praise for her research. Her sire had become stiffly disapproving once she detected the nature of the thoughts Natalie wished to obscure. Luckily though, Clare had chosen to not probe deeper for details. Natalie was certain that Clare would loathe the details. Natalie wanted to understand vampire blood. Her earlier tests had depended on samples acquired from Nick, and he had possessively pursued the fate of each ruby drop in every experiment. After the incident where she had given Joey injections, Nick no longer offered his plasma for study, as though he wasn't sure of Natalie's judgment. Then Natalie had become a vampire, making new research lack priority for months. Now she had an ample supply of blood for tests - her own. Natalie had acquired too many questions over the past six years and dishearteningly few answers. She wanted facts, she wanted to understand, and decidedly, she wanted a cure. What better gift could she offer Nick? He had presented her with his heart and soul, wrapped in petals, paint and music. She wanted to give him mortality again in return - a new heart, a new life, an answered dream. Natalie no longer had to race against the clock for this prize. Nick wasn't going anywhere without her, he'd sworn as much. She had the freedom and ability to learn, grow, and gain knowledge for as long as it took. From Nick, she knew Maeven's laboratory notes had referred to a mutant strain of Haemophilus bacteria that, when spliced into the human genome, created a vampire-like creature. This was a fascinating concept, but seeing that Lacroix had destroyed the entire culture stock of Maeven's work, pursuing the connection was next to impossible. Natalie did not ignore the bacteria angle - the method of transfer in diseases associated with Haemophilus influenzae and H. ducreyi was through the bloodstream after all. A cut, wound, sexual contact, or permeation of epithelial tissue in the nose and mouth could all result in a Haemophilus infection. Natalie compared becoming a vampire to contracting a disease. She recalled the effects of an injection of vampire plasma on Joey, as well as the women aided by the Baroness, Dr. Sophia Jeorgen. They had not become vampires, yet the added blood had shown definite effects which faded. Perhaps this dissipation signaled an immune system response against the vampire factor, a reaction against a non- self molecule - an antigen. It struck Nata