Subject: War Wrap 1 of 2 FKWAR II -- Wrap Up Part one of two. Monday, July 18, Mid-afternoon The Raven was dark and silent, its usual condition during the day. Janette sat at a booth at the back of the bar, rolling the stem of a blood-filled glass between her palms. Occasionally, she'd take a drink. More often than not she'd pick up the pen, stare down at a piece of blank stationary for a long time, then drop the pen and return to the glass. She heard footsteps and a mortal heartbeat, but didn't look up. "Well, Goblin's on her way. Was it really necessary to send her in a limo? All that way?" "She deserved it. You fill the courtesy bar as per my instructions?" Janette picked up a cigarette from her case on the table. "Yep. Salmon and cream. Plus I packed all the cat toys from your office. I figured--" "You 'figured' correctly." Lighting the cigarette, she concentrated on the paper as it flamed, brilliant red against the darkness. "Betsy and Mary?" "Left two hours ago. Saw them off myself. And Beth and Hazel are just packing up at the hotel--Beth wanted to backtrack a few of the sights we hit with the kids the other night. Stuff looks a lot different in the day." Janette looked up, her eyes cold. "Does it? I hadn't noticed." Susan looked away quickly. Spotting the long white flower box open on the table, she moved to pick it up. "You want me to take care of the flowers from Nick." "No. Leave them. And they're from LaCroix." She allowed herself a smile as Susan released the box, dropping it as if it were on fire. Idly she reached inside and pulled out a flower, running her nail along the length of the petal. "It's a peace offering, of sorts." Susan swallowed. "What he said last night--he's not going to, uh . . .?" Janette raised an eyebrow, but when Susan wasn't more forthcoming, she shook her head lightly. "No. I'm too useful to him. It's just a reminder--I tried to get his attention and now I've got it, for good or ill. Wonderful." She touched the flower to the side of her face and looked out across the darkened club. "I've been informed that Nicola isn't speaking to me. Nor should I expect him to set foot in the club for business or pleasure. Unfortunately, his coroner friend--" "Foren--" She stopped cold at Janette's glare. "His friend talking to me. At some length. So . . . LaCroix's had his revenge." Susan bit her lip and looked down at the floor. "Do you want me to talk to Nick?" "You?" Susan looked up at her chuckle. "After you've all but killed him in your fiction? And you've even done that, I think, no?" The Ravenette shrugged and offered a slight smile. "So, maybe I'm not the best peace emissary. But if you want--?" "No." Janette shook her head. "No, he'll come back to me. He always does. And I have other ways to bide my time." She sighed, then saw Susan standing there. "Will you sit! You're making me nervous." Susan scuttled into the booth, well away from the flowers, Janette noticed. They were silent for a few moments, then Susan asked, "Was it worth it?" The question gave her pause. She'd asked it herself a hundred times since this had started and had come to a different conclusion each time. "Is it ever?" She took a drag from her cigarette and blew the smoke into the air. "In some ways, yes. In others--" "Well, at least you have your mail." "Yes. And speaking of stealing mail--" Susan met Janette's eyes with a steady gaze. "I knew it was a trump card. But I figured the way things were going for you, you'd need it." "It was a foolish thing to do. Fortuitous, perhaps, but still foolish. My followers should be foolish. As foolish as threatening--was that an original manuscript?" "The one I hid the letters in?" Susan nodded slowly. "Typed. No copies." "No copies." Janette tapped off her cigarette ash. "Would you have burned it?" There was no immediate answer. When she looked up, Susan's expression was carefully blank. "What do you think?" It was better not to answer, easier in the long run. Janette picked up the glass and took a long swallow. "I think . . . you'd best stay with your computers. Your spelling is atrocious, you know. And as for your upcoming work--?" Susan held up a hand. "Please! I've got the new season jitters already, I haven't gotten through the most recent story because of this damn war, and there's two more, the sequel to 'False Heart' that should be written before September." "Then you'd better get home and get started." Susan placed her hands on the table, as if preparing to rise, then met Janette's eyes. For a moment she hesitated, then she started to sit down again. "Maybe I'll just have a drink for the road." "Go ," Janette repeated. She forced a smile and gestured at the club. "I've got more than enough to keep me occupied. And a clientele to court, after last week's disasters." Susan rose to her feet and took a few steps away, before Janette called, "You know . . . ?" There were no words to finish the thought, nothing that wouldn't sound trite and hackneyed in English. And Susan, colonial mortal that she was, had a lack of facility for languages equaled only by her inability to spell in the one she'd mastered. But Susan smiled, nonetheless. "Yeah, boss. I know." The frown rose to her lips at the term, but she waved it and the mortal from her thoughts. The closing door echoed in the empty club, but she paid it no attention. She was alone. With her flowers, and her cigarettes, and with that crisp and oh-so-very blank piece of stationary. It was the last, unfinished piece of business and the hardest of the many odious tasks this war had required of her. She began the note as she had done countless times, the pen scratching out upon the paper in an elegant script-- --My dearest Monica,-- After a pause, she took a drink from her glass. After another pause, she crumpled up the paper with a snarl and tossed it to the floor, beneath the booth, where it joined the dozen other discarded attempts. *** Monday - Early Evening Natalie paused at the elevator to Nick's loft, surprised at how empty the place looked with all of his recent visitors having packed and gone their separate ways. "It's pretty quiet, isn't it?" Nick noted. She looked up--he was walking down the stairs from the second floor, fastening the collar button of his shirt. "Never really noticed how quiet it around here." "Until you had unexpected house guests?" Natalie grinned, then wandered into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. "Still some food left. I have to give those FoDs credit--those people have some supply lines. You know, you should really try eating some of--oooo!" She reached in and pulled out a small container and inspected it. "Trout almondine! Can I have this for Sidney?" Nick chuckled. "Is he that spoiled?" "Worse," declared Natalie. She put the container on the counter, then dived into the fridge again to inspect the other leftovers. "He turned his nose up at his cat food. And he was really put out when I disconnected my computer before I left for work this morning--I think I'd better nip this e-mail cat-dating thing in the bud. But I think it's going to take a couple of days of easing him off the good stuff before we're back to dinner from a can." "I warned you." Nick walked over to his coffee table, on which rested a number of laptop computer and computer parts. He sat down on the couch and leaned forward, picking up a laptop screen and examining it. Natalie cleared her throat. "I, uh, talked to Janette, today." He concentrated on the computer piece in his hand. The connector was broken--it wouldn't take much to fix, if he tried. Why bother, when he could buy a new one . . . ? Natalie leaned on the back of the couch, looking over his shoulder. "You have to talk to her." "I don't to do anything." He picked up a third piece and tried to figure out how it fit with the other two. "I can't believe you're even speaking to her, after she kidnapped Sidney. held onto our mail." He looked back at her when Natalie cleared her throat again, then quickly turned his attention to the computer parts. "All right--I did the same thing to LaCroix. But that was different, I was trying to keep someone from making the same mistake I made. Janette was deliberately interfering with trying to keep me from going back across." "I've looked through those letters," said Natalie quickly. "Some suggestions, but nothing really concrete--" "It doesn't matter." Nick tossed the parts of the computer back on the coffee table and shook his head. "There's no excuse for what she did." Natalie put her hand on his shoulder. "In her position, I probably would've done the same thing." "No. You wouldn't." Nick squeezed her hand and gave her a smile, then rose to his feet. "You're not Janette." But his smile turned to a frown as he glanced down at the laptop pieces again. "Selma said something about copies of the database sent to you as 'Medical Supplies'?" "Found 'em," declared Natalie cheerfully. "Grace put them aside when they arrived--we usually do shipments together and with me running in and out, we just assumed it was regular inventory. But hang onto them until you've got something up and working again." Grimacing, Natalie walked around the couch and leaned over the coffee table and the broken laptop computers. "Tell me, doctor, is there any hope?" "A little time and effort and it'll be good as new," said Nick. He picked up what was left of a track ball and shook his head. "Might be worth the challenge--see if I can fix something broken this badly." "That applies to a lot of things," noted Natalie. "Including . . . relationships?" "All right, all right," he relented, knowing she'd badger him unmercifully until he did. Nick met her gaze, then smiled slightly. "Maybe a week. A couple of days, at least?" Natalie seemed to consider, walking past him. "Yeah, I guess so. She deserves that much for the crack about my friends not being able to dance." "That's one of the reasons I wanted to get this up and running," said Nick, gesturing toward the laptops on his coffee table. "I need to get back on line. And I wanted to ask you . . . how do you deal with them?" "Deal with them?" echoed Natalie, turning. She shook her head, puzzled. "I don't--" "Your fans. The 'Nat-Pack.'" Even pronouncing the name made him smile. "How do you deal with them?" "You just . . . treat them like people. They keep tabs on you, you keep tabs on them. We're friends, that's all." She laughed as he made a facethen she headed toward the elevator. "What?" "You make it sound so simple." "It once you get used to it." Natalie moved toward the door, but Nick pointed at the kitchen counter, warning, "Don't forget Sidney's treat." "And mine," scolded Natalie lightly. She scurried over to the counter and picked up a stack of containers. "Almost makes you consider joining the FoDs." Nick laughed. "That'll be the day." He held the door open as she headed for it. "So, help me out. Scottie's one of mine. And Selma--" "Nope, Selma's mine." She grinned when Nick looked startled. "She jumped ship. Literally." "How'd that happen?" asked Nick, assuming a wounded expression. "Why is it better to be a Nat-Packer than a Knightie?" "Dunno." Natalie juggled the containers as the elevator doors closed. "Maybe because can still answer my e-mail--?" *** Subject: War Wrap Part 2 of 2 FKWAR II -- Wrap Up -- Part two of two *** Monday Evening Nick was still wiping Natalie's spilled chicken divan from his jacket as he walked into the station. He paused for a moment and looked around, happy just to be back in normal surroundings. Nothing like some off-beat murders to get you back into your stride. Spotting his partner at his desk, he walked over and tapped him on the back. "Schanke?" Schanke whirled, then put on an exaggerated surprised expression. "Is this my partner, back from undercover?" Then he sobered and asked, "You back on real time, or are you just dropping by to make certain we poor working slobs still have our noses to the grindstone?" Nick held his hands in the air. "Done. Thanks for the help last night, by the way," he said, seating himself on the edge of his desk, as Schanke moved around him, stacking paperwork. "I couldn't have gotten all those people to safety without your help." "You know the rules--just because you're off-duty doesn't mean you leave the badge behind." He paused and looked at Nick. "Mail fraud--can you believe people stealing other people's mail? I mean, like mail's one of the last sacred, private things we've got left, and--" "Yeah," said Nick quickly. He touched his knuckles to his lips guiltily. "I know." "Now that bad check thing I can understand. Show business types!" He shrugged. "Gotta love 'em." His eyes narrowed and he pointed at a spot on Nick's jacket. "Is that . . . chicken divan?" "Yeah, yeah, sure." Nick looked around, suddenly noticing the stacks of paperwork piled on his desk. "What's all this? We rearranging the filing system again or something." "Or something." Grinning, Schanke reached into his pocket and withdrew two plane tickets. "These are mine--one week, all expenses paid to a garlic festival in Los Angeles. We're making a family vacation out of it." "Garlic festival?" asked Nick weakly, leaning away from the tickets. "And these--" Schanke tapped one of the piles of folders. "Are yours. Most of the paperwork from the last two weeks, while I've been doing solo legwork trying to solve new cases. Captain said I should leave the paperwork for you, being as you'd be rested up from your 'vacation.'" "Oh, no." Nick looked at the piles of files that surrounded him and rose to his feet. "Schanke--he didn't. You can't--you can't just leave me here with this?" "Watch me." Schanke tapped him lightly on the cheek and walked out of the squad room. "If you finish by the time I get back, maybe I'll bring you back a little present from the festival." Nick was ready to run after him, when he heard Stonetree call from his office, "Nick?" Quickly, he dashed over to Stonetree, hoping against hope a body had been found, some new case was out there waiting for him. "Yeah, Captain?" "You wanna get through that stuff as soon as you can?" asked Stonetree, gesturing toward the piles of files on his desk. "You're blocking my view of the water cooler. Like to keep an eye out over there. Simmons keeps leaving his gun on top. It's dangerous." "Yeah, Captain. Sure." Nick walked toward his desk, a lump rising in his throat at the sight of all of those forms to be filled out in triplicate, case files to be organized, evidence to be catalogued and tagged. He was considering making a break for it, despite knowing that Stonetree was watching him, when he realized that it reminded him of something, something recent . . . . The mail. All that mail he'd left waiting in his loft. And look how had turned out. Sighing heavily, Nick sat down behind his desk and reached for a folder. Before opening it, he turned and looked behind him. Stonetree was right . . . the files were blocking his view of the water cooler. And Simmons had left his gun on top of the water bottle again. Everything was back to normal. *** Wednesday, Late Evening LaCroix sat in a chair pulled up to the window of his hotel suite, gazing out on the city below. He'd crossed the continent twice since his last dramatic exit from this city and the long arm of the local law. How astounding that the most telling blow of this conflict had been financial. It was a warning he wouldn't soon forget--his other accounts and reserves had kept him afloat for the past few days, but he'd know in future to leave a better balance. "Tell me again, who was it who nearly succeeded in bankrupting me?" Sandye looked up from the ledger on which she was working. "Ivy, wasn't it?" Dennis was sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting through the rest of LaCroix's mail. "A Knightie." "Really?" LaCroix touched his finger to his cheek thoughtfully. "It seems the caliber of Nicholas' followers is improving. A bit underhanded for that lot. Mark her as a possible convert." Monica looked over at Margaret, who nodded dutifully and checked off an entry on the clipboard. Monica typed the information into the laptop. "Anyone else?" "The Die-Hards, of course. Nice name, that." Smiling as if at some private joke, LaCroix rose to his feet and walked down the center of the room, bypassing the couches and desk at which Sandye was seated. She was adjusting his triple set of financial accounts. "And several of that mortal woman's group--that Tanaquil for one. Spies have their uses." "What about the Ravenettes?" asked Dennis. LaCroix stopped, then reached out to place a hand on Monica's shoulder. "They belong to Janette. Which means they belong to me. There's a difference between choosing and being chosen. I thought Janette had learned that distinction long ago. I was wrong." Releasing Monica, he turned and walked back the length of the room. "Not a bad little war for us." "You lost some money on that film set," said Sandye, pointing at a ledger. "Although I could go into lawyer mode--we could sue the Toronto P.D. for harassment, excessive force--" LaCroix dismissed the idea with a wave. "Later, if it would serve some purpose, embarrass Nicholas, perhaps." "You lost Cousin John," said Dennis. "Yes. By mischance. But Lisa and I have discussed her little . . . error. It won't happen again." He smiled slightly. "It would have been interesting to see how Nicholas fared with the fledgling. What happened to John was enough to make him turn on Janette--which I wouldn't have thought possible." He clapped his hands together. "Enough. Now, tell me what I've ." The cousins looked at one another. "Well," said Dennis slowly, "there's me." "Yes. Very nice explosion on the lighthouse by the way," complimented LaCroix. "Although next time use a bit more plastique. And--?" "You're filming again," said Sandye. "Got a call in from Jennise--she said the next episode will probably come in under budget as well. Something about hypnotizing someone--we had a bad connection." "Good, good." LaCroix rubbed his hands together. "And--?" "We got back your mail," said Cousin Margaret cheerfully (or as much cheer as she could muster, considering she had blisters on the inside of her thumb from those darn scissors). "Yes. And--?" "You've got me," said Monica. LaCroix leaned down to face her. "Are you sure?" "Yes." "Absolutely certain?" "Yes." "Beyond a shadow of a doubt?" "Yes." He grinned and touched her nose with the tip of his finger. "Then you'll be the perfect one to send to Janette, the time we engage in hostilities. If necessary," he added quickly, when Monica's eyes went wide. "She'd never suspect you of being a double agent--her pride wouldn't allow the thought to cross her mind." "What about Alma?" asked Cousin Margaret. "She doesn't have one," said LaCroix. "A thought?" asked Dennis. "A mind. Or a thought to keep in it." "There that cassette tape," reminded Sandye. "That should be taken care of." "Then do it." LaCroix looked out the window again. "I've got a taping session to attend. You'll keep in contact." It was a command, not a question. The cousins nodded. "Good. Tell Laurie I won't need her as a chauffeur tonight--it's so pleasant I think I'll fly." He headed for the door. "What about--?" He stopped and turned, then Sandye continued. "What about the next time?" "What about it?" "Will there be one? Another war?" He walked toward them, looking from cousin to cousin, then shook his head as if disappointed. "You don't see it, do you? With people turning from one affiliation to another, they've no idea where they stand. Anyone could be a spy. Well," he smiled at them as they looked at one another suspiciously, " anyone. Sow enough discord and mistrust and we can pick them off at will. It's only human nature." "Or vampire nature," muttered Sandye. LaCroix shot her a look, then dismissed the comment. "At some time in the future, in some way, there be another war." He allowed that to sink in, then, smiling, heading for the door. "And the next time . . . we'll be ready for them." The echo of his words hung in the air ominously in the hotel suite, the ensuing silence broken only by the shuffling of paper, the turn of a ledger book, the scratching of a pen, or the tapping on computer keys as the cousins turned back to their assigned duties with renewed fervor. There were plots to be made, plans to be hatched, schemes to be concocted. They'd made their decisions--they'd put their trust in LaCroix. And heaven help the list. *** That's all Folks. SusanG2522@aol.com