Just a quickie to help me face the return of reality. Sorry to keep jumping up on some sort of soapbox, but I can't seem to write anything else! Ack! Dedicated to all the Cousins, whether they like it or not. I don't only write about Nick.... _________________________________________________________________________ The Taste of Angels Copyright 1995 T.Beaty Comments to: vxurnm01@reading.ac.uk Warning: various disturbing images (tm). The Taste of Angels "Daddy? I'm cold." "I know, buddy." Lacroix frowned. He could have sworn he was alone in the dark alley. Where where the voices coming from? Whimpers now, along with rustling, like mice running through wheat. Lacroix froze and looked around carefully, his gaze running over the piles of refuse littering the path, frost crusted over them, gleaming in the faint light. Although he was merely walking, enjoying the coolness and the quiet of the night, he didn't like the thought of being spied upon. It grated on him, made him feel hunted. No, he didn't like it at all. Did the mortals know he was here? Perhaps it was time to find out. He slithered next to the wall, a darker shadow among the many, and padded forward quietly, ears straining to pinpoint the location of those quiet noises, of those soft voices. Of the whimpers. His body throbbed. Oh, yes, those whimpers drew him forward-- "When are we going home, Daddy?" "Soon, Joey, soon. Don't worry. We'll get there. . . ." Lacroix's eyebrows rose as he peered over a particularly noxious heap and spied the mortals huddled against the brick wall of one of the rundown buildings, burrowed among the trash piled into a heap not four feet away. An older man, perhaps in his late forties, face lined and dirty. In his arms he clutched a younger boy, a child, really, whose teeth chattered. Lacroix could barely see the plumes of their breath in the cold air. Both their clothes were tattered and old, and Lacroix's nose told him that their camouflage extended to their smell. They fit in perfectly. His lips wrinkled in disgust. Two brought so low--they were no more than animals, really, and thus should be treated like such-- He paused. No wonder he hadn't been able to tell they were here--in reality, they barely were. Little heat radiated from their bodies. He cocked his head, almost listening. Yes, both the heartbeats were slow, dull, and the man's beats came irregularly, skittering lightly across the vampire's senses in random measures. "Tell me a story, Daddy?" The man sighed and looked down at the boy in his arms, and Lacroix paused. He had seen anger flash across that tired face, an all-consuming anger at the boy. Then . . . it had gone. Just like that. The man had let it go. Why? If he'd been angry at the boy, why not punish him? The child reached up, thin arms wrapped in rags, and clutched the man's neck, burying his face into the torn shirt. Lacroix nearly winced as he imagined what it must smell like. The boy didn't seem to mind, though, and merely snuggled closer to the man. "Tell me a story about home." The man sighed, and Lacroix slitted his eyes, wondering what was sliding down the man's cheek. Water? Oh, tears. Why was he crying? Lacroix frowned. This was unusual. What had been said to make the man cry? The child's question? "Let me tell you a story about angels, Joey." The vampire sighed. "Angels?" The child's face lifted to peer at the man. "You mean with wings and circley-things on their head?" "Some angels are like that, yes. Some aren't. The angels with wings are up in Heaven, you know. The others. . . ." He bent over his young son's face dramatically, breath barely stirring the child's matted hair, " . . . aren't." "Where are they?" "Here. On earth." The man paused, gathering his thoughts and his breath. "Once there was an angel that was very bored with being up in Heaven. One day, he heard the prayers of two people. They were praying for a little boy." "A little boy? Like me?" "Hold on, Joey, you'll see." The man took another deep breath, and his heartbeat tolled dully in his body. "So. This angel decided he would come down to earth, to these people. He was going to be born. The two people were very happy, and when the angel was finally born, they celebrated happily. Very happily. The angel, of course, didn't know who he was--he had to be reborn, you see, and all that work had just made him forget all about who he was! So he started growing, as all boys do, playing with his friends, and all sorts of boyish activities." The man panted, struggling for air. Joey was unmoving in his father's lap, and his eyes, when he turned them up to look at his father, were rimmed with dark shadows. "Was he any good?" "Oh, he was very good." Lacroix snorted. Please. How could children be so foolish? Then he shook his head. There was Nicholas, of course, who could, at times, be even more gullible than this child--if that were possible. He sighed. Ah, well. He could well wait until the end of the story, though he wasn't really interested. It wouldn't take too long, he was sure. It didn't matter that the man's voice was barely a whisper, either. His vampiric hearing caught all the words. The man fell silent, and the boy nudged him, moving sluggishly. "What happened to the angel, Daddy? What happened to the boy?" The man cleared his throat. "Well, you see, Joey, he grew up to be big and strong, despite all the bad things that happened in his life. A lot of bad things happened, you know. The devil came to test him, to try and drag him into the evil pit. And the angel fell, and nearly became one of them. He lost his house and his family and his friends. But not for long! He was strong. He made new friends, who helped him, and who believed in him, and he realized that it doesn't matter if you don't have a home, if you don't have toys and clothes and things. He tried to do good things for others. He learned that helping others is the real way to Heaven. He realized that he was an angel, and it was his job. Then. . . ." The man choked, eyes bright, and his heartbeat skipped again. "Well, the angel lived happily ever after." "In Heaven?" "Yes." The man leaned back against the trash and closed his eyes, arms moving around the child to hold him tightly. "He went to Heaven. That's where all the angels live. That's their real home." "What happened to his mom and dad?" "They went with him, of course. They were waiting for him." Lacroix rolled his eyes. He couldn't believe the child was lapping it in. "Daddy?" "Yes?" "Why don't the angels come to help us?" The boy's voice was sad and slow, though his throat bobbed with the effort to control it. "Why didn't they save Mom from the fire?" Only Lacroix, watching the father, saw the pain flash across his features, felt the struggle to keep his voice even. "Because Mom wouldn't have liked it if they'd saved her. You know how Mom is. She couldn't live out here, like we are now. She wouldn't have been happy without a house to live in." "I'm not either," Joey confessed quietly. "I'm tired of camping out, Daddy. I'm cold and I'm hungry. Can't we go back inside now? Can't we go someplace warm? I'm hungry. Isn't there anyplace to go?" The man was openly crying now. "Soon, baby," he said, hugging the child tightly, stiff fingers held awkwardly. Lacroix realized that the man had little motor ability. "Soon. I promise." "Will the angels bring Mom back?" "No. She's happy where she is now, you know, and she's waiting for us in Heaven. You wouldn't want her to have to leave Heaven, would you? She's up there right now, making a home for us. She's getting ready to see us." "Really?" The child looked up at the man, who quickly looked away. Lacroix noted, for the first time, that Joey's lips were tinged with blue, and that he shivered, even though he was covered in more rags than the father was. His voice was slurred. "Soon?" The man gasped for breath, and Lacroix heard the struggle in his heart. Beat. Beat. "Soon, Joey. Real soon." "How we gonna get there?" The man's hands kept the boy's face pressed to his chest, keeping his son from seeing his face, the tears running freely. His heart spasmed in his chest, and Lacroix heard his breath whistling in his lungs. "The angels are going to take us, Joey." "Really?" The small voice was thinning out, blowing away like smoke. "Really." The man bent over the boy, and Lacroix wondered if it were pain or love that twisted his features. Though they were really the same, in the end. "I promise, Joey," the man gasped. His heart spasmed again. "Daddy?" The child tried to twist upwards, fear beginning to weave into the fading threads. "Daddy? Why's your voice gone all funny? Are you okay?" His voice wavered as though he were sleepy. The man kept his arm firmly about his son, preventing him from looking up and seeing the tears. His heart beat once, loudly. "Wait for the angels, Joey. They're coming soon. Okay?" He hugged the child, desperation fueling his wasted muscles. "I won't leave you alone. I love you, Joey. Remember that. Don't worry about me. Just be real quiet, and wait for the angels. They're coming--" His heart twisted in his chest, and he choked. "They're coming, Joey. I love you. . . ." Lacroix waited for another heartbeat. After a moment, he stepped out from behind the pile of trash. Fastidiously, he picked his way through the bags towards the body slumped against the wall, the arms wrapped about the silent boy. The tears were still sliding down the man's face, though the eyes were open and staring. The watery tracks would freeze soon. Lacroix bent down and carefully moved the man's hands, prying the cold fingers away from the boy. His hands lingered briefly over the wrists, but he felt no flutter under the cold skin. As the father's hands fell away, the boy moved his head slightly and opened his eyes. They glanced dully at Lacroix. He smiled. "Hello there, Joey." The dark-shadowed eyes widened. "How'd . . . how'd you know my name?" The voice was nearly lost in the silence. "I'm an angel," Lacroix said. "Of course I know your name." He reached forward and picked up the boy, extricating him from the protective embrace of the father. The arms surrendered their hold, hitting the floor with a quiet thump. Lacroix tucked the child into the folds of his overcoat, ignoring the smell that rose to greet him. "My dad." The boy tried to twist in his embrace, movements feeble. "You gotta take my dad, too." "He's already gone, Joey. He went ahead of you, you see. Don't worry. You'll catch up." "We gonna fly?" Lacroix smiled. "Excellent idea, Joey. Do you want to?" "Can't," the child murmured. "Don't know how." "Of course you can. You're an angel, too. Didn't you know that? You're an angel, Joey." "Really?" His eyelids fluttered feebly. "I'll show you how." Lacroix rose into the air, Joey folded into his arms. The cold winds circled about them, tugging at the child's hair, but the vampire wouldn't let him go. Lacroix drifted upward slowly, carefully holding the child, arms steady. He listened to the small heartbeat as they flew higher and higher, feeling the breath skitter over his shirt. "Joey." Lacroix carefully shook him. "Open your eyes, Joey. You're flying. Open your eyes." Joey opened his eyes, fatigue glazing them, the shadows seeping through the pupils. "Daddy?" "Not Daddy. Not yet. Look down, Joey. You're flying." Joey twisted his neck back, eyes wandering weakly about. He blinked as he saw the lights below him, and his lips moved. Lacroix bent closer to hear him, and the child's breath mingled with the cold breeze that caressed his cheek. Joey's eyes were wide. "Is that--is that Toronto down there?" "The lights of the lakefront, yes. We're over the lake now. Do you see those lights over there? That's Toronto. The entire city. And if you look all around us, you'll see the other lights. The rest of the world. You can see it all from up here, Joey." "I'm really flying? Like Superman?" "Like an angel," Lacroix whispered into the boy's ear. "I can fly," the child said dreamily. "I can fly, and see Mom and Daddy. . . ." He turned and nuzzled at Lacroix's chest. "I'm an angel." His arms crept up, and he buried his face in the vampire's neck. Lacroix bent down. "You're an angel," he whispered at the smooth skin. "A perfect angel." His lips touched that cold white skin, and his mouth opened, his fangs sliding through the thin tissues easily. He heard the child sigh, as if in a dream, and he sucked gently, letting the blood flow and fill his mouth gently, rather than gulping or tearing greedily. The child moved closer to him, head lolling away, and Lacroix bent further, mouth opening wider, lips gliding over the chilled skin. The child sighed once again, the breath creeping along Lacroix's collarbone. He lifted his head, fangs slipping out slowly, lips tinged red, and stared down at the quiet child, the hands sliding from his neck to fall, limp, the small head still tucked into his chest. The skin seemed no paler, and little blood leaked from the small puncture wounds in his neck. Save for the still heart, the stopped breath, the child might have been alive. Lacroix loosened his hold on the tiny body, releasing him to the night, watching as the child slipped through his hands to tumble into the embrace of the cold wind. They grabbed him in sharp teeth and whipped him away, sending him tumbling towards the darkness below, eager to share him with the black waters of the lake. His eyes remained on the figure that plunged downward. The child's eyes had been closed as he'd slipped from Lacroix, the long eyelashes dusting against the cold skin. His mouth had been soft and smooth, freed from the pinch of hunger. The child fell through the air, and Lacroix watched him go. "Fly," he whispered. "Fly away, little angel."