Here's the adult cleaned up version of B&B This is a LaCroix story. Except for a flashback, he is the only Forever Knight character appearing in this tale. LaCroix, of course, belong to James Parriot, Sony Tri-Star, etc. I appreciate them making him available to me. No copyright infringement is intended. This story takes place immediately after the events described in my previous story--LOST KNIGHT--Elmore version. In that story, due to incidents recently occurring in his life, Nick Knight has decided to leave North America, at least temporarily. LaCroix, as per his decision voiced in that fiendish "last episode," has left Toronto and relocated to New Orleans. He has resumed his radio career at KDRK, under the pseudonym, Devil's Advocate. Much of this story is a romance, and should be considered PG-13 at the least. Some segments will be posted as adult. It is an adventure story also, but with definite NA overtones. ~~p.e. Many thanks to Jules and Bonnie betaing; I can't say enough about these wonderful ladies and their help, encouragement and honesty. This is a work in progress, so it may take quite a while to finish posting. Those of you who know my work will understand; others, I beg your patience. Permission is given to archive at Mel Moser's FKFanFic site and the FTP site. Others, please ask permission. Note: I do not have a personal website. This story is for Jules, my inspiration, my mentor and my friend. This version includes ADULT chapters 16, 22 and 38. ************************************* A WEEK AT THE BED AND BLOODFEST A LaCroix Story By Patt Elmore Part 1 - 10/64 Lucien LaCroix felt as ancient as his chronological years. Forefinger pressed against his tightened brow, LaCroix rubbed the skin stiffly, trying to force the muscles to ease their tension. On the floor below, a figure arched once then fell still. LaCroix opened his eyes and looked idly at the body. the vampire thought. A choked, mewling sound caught LaCroix's attention and he looked across the hotel room to see the second man crouched against the wall. The small human's face was as pallid as LaCroix's own, his fingers torn and bloody where he'd tried to claw his way into the wall's plaster--trying to escape the fury of the fiend in front of him. LaCroix smiled. The human groaned. His eyes darted furtively, seeking an avenue of departure. They finally met LaCroix's. And this time held. They held in a grasp as secure as frozen chain. Caught in the depths of those cold, blue eyes, the man moaned softly. LaCroix smiled again. Slowly, the vampire walked toward the human. A stray drop of blood began to irritate the corner of LaCroix's mouth, and he brushed the back of his hand against it absently. The human shuddered, but he could not break free of the gaze. "Mr. Wheelton," LaCroix began easily, reasonably. "I'm afraid I have some bad news to tell you." Wheelton shrank within himself, gasping as LaCroix drew nearer. LaCroix raised his hand in placation. "Please, don't be alarmed, Mr. Wheelton." LaCroix continued to smile as he advanced, towering over the huddled figure. "You will not suffer bodily harm by my hand, if you cooperate." Wheelton's frightened eyes now also held curiosity. LaCroix's lips pursed in satisfaction. "In fact, as I see it," LaCroix drawled, "the only bodily harm perpetrated here today appears to have been dealt by your hand." Wheelton's eyes widened and LaCroix snared them, along with the man's quaking heartbeat. LaCroix lowered his voice, his words precise, slowing the human's pulse. "How unfortunate that you and your partner had such a heated disagreement regarding certain financial matters," LaCroix said, his voice deep, barely above a whisper. "So vehement, in fact, that you felt an uncontrollable urge to stab Mr. Kosmitis in the throat." LaCroix leaned in, staring levelly at the frightened human. "Shame on you, Mr. Wheelton." Wheelton, eyes glazed, nodded. "Shame on me," he murmured. LaCroix watched the human a few more seconds and then, with a satisfied sigh, turned and walked to the wetbar. Glancing quickly across the surface of the bar, LaCroix found the particular implement he sought and picked it up using a cocktail napkin. He moved back easily to Kosmitis' prone body and, lifting the corpse's head by its dark hair, stabbed the corkscrew's tip into the site of the bite wound. Grimacing, LaCroix gave the corkscrew a twist, effectively eliminating the marks of the vampire with a gouging tear. He let Kosmitis fall back to the carpet and turned once again to Wheelton. LaCroix approached the human and knelt. He grasped the man's right hand and thrust the corkscrew into his grip, clasping Wheelton's fingers around the 'weapon.' Wheelton looked down stupidly at his hand, now holding the bloody corkscrew. He looked back at LaCroix, confused. LaCroix leaned into and just past Wheelton's face, his lips hovering near the human's ear. "Shame on you for murdering your business partner, Mr. Wheelton," LaCroix hissed softly. "And . . . I was not here tonight." "Not here," Wheelton nodded, but by this time LaCroix was halfway into the hallway. There was a very good chance that LaCroix's 'suggestion' to Wheelton would be of a permanent nature, but it was best not to tempt the fates. At the end of the hall, LaCroix paused at a payphone. He retrieved a business card from his pocket, smiling slightly at a remembered thought. LaCroix inserted the required coinage into the telephone box and quickly punched in a local number. "Police department. Ebarb here," a voice answered after the third ring. "Yea," LaCroix offered his best vocal interpretation of a 'thug.' "Dere's been a moider over in the Pallas. You better check it out." "Who is this?" the detective demanded, but LaCroix had already wiped any evidence of prints and dropped the receiver to the soft carpet below. At the end of the hall, LaCroix paused once to look for observers, then he opened the window and flew into the night. Back in his own quarters, LaCroix poured a snifter of his private vintage and seated himself on the soft leather sofa. He took a sip and began replaying the night's events in his mind. LaCroix had no fear of being suspected in Kosmitis' murder, but he was sure to be included in the investigation which must follow. Knowing the efficiency of the New Orleans police department, they'd be inquiring into all the business dealings that Kosmitis and Wheelton had been involved in. They would find LaCroix's name on that Rolodex, and perhaps on an appointment schedule. That meant that Marquand Ebarb would most likely be coming to call. LaCroix sighed. Ebarb's proximity might trigger memories in the Cajun detective which LaCroix did not wish to deal with, especially after making a promise to Nicholas regarding the safety and well-being of Knight's 'friend.' LaCroix sighed again, just as a knock announced someone at his door. LaCroix looked at the door skeptically. Too soon for the police. "Room service," a muffled voice said. LaCroix placed his drink on the bar and strode toward the door. Outside, a perky teenage girl, clad in black trousers and a white dinner jacket, held a small silver tray with an assortment of envelopes. "I didn't order anything," LaCroix smiled down benevolently at the child. The girl visibly melted as she looked into the tall man's eyes, her mouth opening in awe. "No . . . no you didn't." The girl caught herself in a stammer and reddened. She averted her eyes and began fumbling with the letters on the tray. "This is your mail. You haven't picked it up in a couple of days, Mr. LaCroix." "I was not expecting any personal mail," LaCroix replied, accepting the envelopes and thumbing through them. The girl turned to leave, but LaCroix caught her with his voice. "Young woman . . ." The bellperson froze and turned back to the tall figure in black. Despite the prematurely white hair, the man in front of her was absolutely striking. the girl thought. LaCroix reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet and, in turn, pulled out a ten dollar bill. He handed it to the girl, who accepted it with a warm, grateful smile. "University student?" LaCroix inquired politely. She nodded, too stricken by the man to find her voice. LaCroix nodded also. "Good luck in your studies, then. What is your major, if I might ask?" "History," the young woman found her voice at last. Seeing a flicker of amusement cross the vampire's face, the girl quickly added, "Please, no lectures about the uselessness of a Liberal Arts degree. I get enough of that from my father. I happen to 'love' history and hope to do museum research someday. I especially find the ancient Roman Empire a fascinating time period." "Ahhh, yes," LaCroix looked at the child again, her youthful features so fresh, her life so new. "'Ancient' Rome. And, what fascinates you so about that particular era?" The young woman thought for a moment, then grinned mischievously at the older man. "The men wore togas," she suddenly quipped and, before LaCroix could respond, she turned and practically skipped down the hall in her haste to leave. LaCroix chuckled slightly at the girl's impertinence and made a mental note to check back on her activities, several years hence. Back inside his apartment, LaCroix sat down on the sofa and began perusing the correspondence. To his disappointment, it was all junk mail of sorts. Not that he had expected to receive a personal note from either Nicholas or Janette, but one could always hope. LaCroix prepared to throw the entire bundle into the trash bin when a bright picture postcard caught his eye. The picture depicted a tidy white Acadian-style building set amongst colorful blooms on a cool green lawn. The sky above was crystal blue--a blue now only remembered from the vampire's youth. LaCroix flicked the card over and read the advertisement: +++ Hello, hotel resident! As you live in a residence hotel, we believe that you most likely consider yourself a permanent visitor in our fair state. Therefore, we'd like you to come visit our part of the country--Cajun Country! We'll show you southern hospitality as you've only been able to dream about before--all with a spicy South Louisiana accent. Come, stroll through history at one of the South's most prestigious addresses. Come, stay with us at Chenes Pointte Plantation in scenic Arnaudville. We guarantee you the best Bed and Breakfast experience of your life. Your privacy guaranteed. +++ LaCroix fingered the postcard thoughtfully for a few more moments before placing it, face up, on his writing desk. He made a few telephone calls, the last of which was to the front desk, advising them that he would be away from his residence for at least a week. A vacation in the country had suddenly become a choice idea. Traveling bags in hand, LaCroix allowed the door of his apartment to close behind him with a soft click. he mused, sadness enveloping him suddenly. The feeling was brief, though, for he willed it away. But, he did miss Nicholas. Terribly. ***************************************** End part 1/64 ***************************************** The drive to the small town of Arnaudville was swift and without incident. From New Orleans to almost Lafayette, the passage was entirely on Interstate 10, then north on State 31. The highway paralleled the meandering path of Bayou Teche, a flatland area. LaCroix watched from the rear windows of the private limousine he'd commissioned, noting the swampy areas and dwellings with vague interest. The area gave an appearance of poverty, where a shack owner's wealth could best be determined by how many portable buildings had been erected on the property. Reaching the Arnaudville limits, the limo passed quickly through the darkened streets and then turned back east, crossing the Teche. The night here was deeper, unlit by the harsh artificial lights erected for the driving needs of the human population. LaCroix's eyes had no trouble seeing the passing scenery--dense vegetation, crooked barbed wire fencing, an occasional home. Approximately fifteen miles outside Arnaudville, the driver left the main road, turning under an overhead metal sign which proclaimed their arrival at Chenes Pointte. The sign was ornate and newly painted. The gravel driveway extended some three-hundred feet from the main road, crossing over a small wooden bridge which, like the sign, was painted white. The bridge was old, but in good repair, and held the weight of the vehicle without groaning. The actual home did not come into view until the traveler had made more than half the journey along the gravel drive. When it did, LaCroix could not suppress a small smile of approval. It was built in the traditional Acadian style, an almost plain looking, flat-faced two-story frame structure. It was raised up from the ground on short pillars. Its true grace was its porch, a wide, roofed attachment which wrapped all the way around the main building. Here, the early residents of this area could seek what respite might be available on those sultry days and nights when even the mosquitos refused to stir because of the heat. Further down the road, the vehicle turned slightly, and LaCroix had another view of the home. The rear of the original structure had been enlarged and modified, not following the earlier style of architecture. It looped back and to the left, in an "L" shaped pattern. Where the original was plank, the rear addition was hand-kilned brick, at least one hundred years old. Like the frame, the brick had been whitewashed. At the joinder of the frame and brick, the Acadian porch had been chopped off. Even in the darkness, LaCroix could see that the grounds were immaculate. The lawn was St. Augustine, thick and virtually weed-free. The house was accented by azalea hedges, which had long since cast their spring blooms. An abundance of flowers were present, though, including hot red salvia, white and blue petunias, dianthus and bright yellow marigolds. Where the house curved left, a large clump of cannas bloomed, their yellow, orange and red flowers almost as tall as LaCroix himself. The limousine crunched to a stop in front of the home's main entrance. Stepping out into the humid night, LaCroix's nose caught the faint fragrance of honeysuckle. Cicada songs buzzed in the air. LaCroix counted at least five heartbeats, not including his driver's, within a few minutes walk. LaCroix retrieved two matched leather and cloth bags from the trunk of the limousine, one containing his clothing and personal items and the other holding a weeks supply of his exclusive "vintage." He tipped the driver and, slinging one bag across his shoulder, walked toward the wide wooden porch steps. In front of him, the single green entrance door opened, issuing forth a middle-aged woman. She was of medium height and not-quite slender, with once dark hair now peppered with the beginnings of silver. Her skin tone was olive, and her face was thinnish, but very pleasant. The woman's eyes were her most striking feature. They were small and dark, almost almond in shape, and sharp with intelligence. She wiped her hands on her apron and walked forward to meet LaCroix as he reached the edge of the front porch. "Mr. LaCroix?" she inquired. When LaCroix nodded, she nodded once back to him and moved slightly to the right, allowing him entrance to the domicile. "I am Mrs. Simmoneaux," she said, moving past LaCroix, pulling him deeper into the entry room. "This your first visit to Chenes Pointte, yes?" "Yes." LaCroix acknowledged her question as he looked around the large foreroom. It was open, with no sign of a stairway that would lead to the upper floor. To his left was a doorway which, if the architecture was true, LaCroix suspected would lead to a hidden staircase. When originally constructed, there was a very good chance that this stairway had been on the outside of the home, accessible only from the veranda. To his right was a wall. To the rear of the home was a huge open fireplace crested by a rough hewn cypress mantle. To the left of the fireplace was another door which, presumably, led to the old kitchen area. LaCroix accessed the room and found it quite satisfactory. The furnishings were sparse, but suited the period of the house. If the cane chairs were not original, they were, at least, tasteful reproductions. The long table across the right wall was constructed of cypress and resembled the mantle in its rough texture. The wall sconces, which had been converted to electricity, were highly polished antiques, and the bulbs cast a soft yellow glow reminiscent of gaslight. The most striking feature of this front room was the framed print on the right wall. It was a large picture, probably four feet by thirty inches. It was an artist's sketch of the house as it must have originally appeared, probably drawn in the early 1900's and color washed in an attractive mauve shade. "When we began renovating the home five years ago, we were lucky enough to find this original drawing among those kept in the archives at Tulane University," Mrs. Simmoneaux had followed LaCroix's eyes to the painting. "We tried to hold to the original feel of the home and I hope we succeeded. I just wish that you had arrived during the daylight so that you could have seen our efforts more clearly." "We?" LaCroix inquired, still studying the sketch. "My late husband and I," she replied. LaCroix turned his attention to the woman. She wavered slightly under his scrutiny and, catching himself, LaCroix smiled in reassurance. "I assure you, Madame, that I was well able to see the beauty of your home when I arrived. You and your husband's efforts deserve commendation." At the compliment, Mrs. Simmoneaux blushed slightly and smiled back, just a hint of sadness at the corners of her mouth. "This was our dream, Lawrence and I. To give rebirth to this beautiful home." She reached for one of LaCroix's bags but he shooed her hand away with a glance, then a smile. "Well, then, let's get you settled for the night." Mrs. Simmoneaux led the way toward the rear of the home and, as LaCroix had suspected, the back door led to another large room which housed the kitchen. As they entered, they passed the fireplace, which opened again in the kitchen area. A large preparation table was the centerpiece of the room. The floor was of laid bricks and the windows were small and high on the wall. The room had been modernized to allow indoor plumbing, a refrigerator and freezer unit, but the old world origins were still evident by the lack of cabinet space. Upon entering the kitchen, Mrs. Simmoneaux turned sharply to the left and went through another door. This led to a small hallway with a door at the opposite end. In the middle of the right wall was another door. This was the more modern part of the house, LaCroix affirmed. "The dining area," Mrs. Simmoneaux indicated the door on the right as they passed it. She reached the far door and opened it, leading into another large room. LaCroix looked past Mrs. Simmoneaux into the brightly lit area. Unlike the rough whitewashed planking of the old part of the home, this part of the structure was plastered and painted. The hardwood floor was polished to a high sheen and partially covered by a very old Persian rug. The furniture, except for two petite winged chairs, was overstuffed and comfortable looking. The outdoors was accessible by a pair of large French doors cut into the right wall, midway through the room. LaCroix could hear humans just on the other side of the glass. A grand piano dominated the far right corner. A staircase had been erected flat against the far wall, ascending from the left, over the piano and disappearing into a hole cut through the ceiling. "We have four guest rooms upstairs," Mrs. Simmoneaux explained as she led LaCroix across the room towards the staircase. "With your arrival, all the rooms are occupied this week. Please be careful when you climb these stairs," she cautioned, taking the lead. At the top of the stairs, after passing through the claustrophobic ceiling notch, the house opened into the second floor. The bedrooms were long and narrow, each gained entry by the equally long and narrow middle walkway. At the far end of the hall was a huge plate glass window, an anomaly for such a house. LaCroix looked at the window in interest. It was religious in nature, depicting the crucifixion in heavy primary colors. The cross, though covered by the human form of the Christ, was clearly visible. "An addition to the house made in the 1920's by the then owner, Mamie Cression," Mrs. Simmoneaux informed him, noting LaCroix's studying of the pane. "She was a bit eccentric and remained in the house alone until the late 1940's. She was also a poor judge of character, which resulted in the mismanagement of much of her family's fortune. It was essentially during Ms. Mamie's residence here that the house fell to ruin." "Indeed," LaCroix said dryly, removing his eyes from the window and letting them rest on Mrs. Simmoneaux's much less painful visage. "I would be more than pleased to tell you more of the history of Chenes Pointte, but I am sure that your journey has tired you and we have a week to discuss such matters," Mrs. Simmoneaux said, moving to a far door. "At your request, I have placed you in the room farthest to the back of the house, on the west side." She took a key from her apron, inserted it into the lock and turned it until the tumblers fell. She then handed the tool to LaCroix and gently pushed open the door. LaCroix moved past her into the room, noting the simple, comfortable furnishings and the tidy appearance. "And you understand that I am not to be disturbed during the daylight hours for any reason," LaCroix said firmly, noting that, as per his telephone instructions, the window shutters had been closed and latched. Mrs. Simmoneaux nodded as LaCroix turned to face her. "I cannot emphasize to you how important it is to me that my rest not be disturbed. My employment requires me to work into the morning's early hours, and my sleeping patterns must not be disrupted, even for a vacation." "Understood, Monsieur," Mrs. Simmoneaux said unconsciously. LaCroix noted her ease in speaking the language and smiled inwardly. Mrs. Simmoneaux lifted her head slightly and addressed LaCroix, "And your meals?" "My appetite is sparse," LaCroix replied. "I require only one meal per day, usually an early supper. I will most likely take my meals in one of the surrounding villages, so you need not concern yourself in this matter." Mrs. Simmoneaux nodded. "Then I bid you goodnight, Mr. LaCroix," she said simply. "If you should require anything else this evening, please do not hesitate to call me. You may summon me by using the bellrope next to the lavatory." "Thank you, Mrs. Simmoneaux, and good evening," LaCroix said. "You said that the other three rooms were occupied. Might I ask as to the number of guests you have staying here?" "Thirteen, including yourself," the dark woman replied. At the lift of LaCroix's eyebrow, she hastened to explain. "We have three couples, one with a child, staying on this floor and a party of six are occupying the stable quarters." "Stable?" LaCroix looked at the woman in interest. "Yes," Mrs. Simmoneaux said. "One of Lawrence's first projects when we became the proprietors of this plantation was to convert the old stable into a private residence. That was our home for several years until the main house was habitable. It is now let to groups too large to be housed in the main living quarters." "I see," LaCroix said with interest. "And, I assume, it is very private." Mrs. Simmoneaux nodded, but then realizing his reason for interest, slowly shook her head. "I am sorry, Monsieur, but the stable is spoken for and those arrangements cannot be altered." LaCroix noted the conviction in her words and accepted her decision, for now. "I assure you, Mrs. Simmoneaux, that this room suits my needs, as long as I am not disturbed," LaCroix smiled. "May me heart be ripped from my chest if your slumber is disrupted," the woman promised him. LaCroix, smiling, took careful note of her words. She turned to leave, then turned back to her guest. "Mr. LaCroix," she began. "Yes?" "I believe some of my other guests have not yet retired for the evening. If you would care to meet some of them, they are on the back veranda." "Thank you, Mrs. Simmoneaux," LaCroix said. "I may join them after I freshen up a bit." The woman nodded curtly and turned, moving away from him in swift strides and then disappearing at the staircase. Alone inside the room, LaCroix accessed it in more detail. A large four poster bed, an old steamer trunk, a secretary and chair, a chiffonnier, a wardrobe--these were the articles of furniture. The bedspread was heavy white chenille, its tufted surface rough to the touch. The lavatory closet had been renovated with a flush toilet and shower stall. The promised bellrope dropped from the ceiling to hang by the basin. LaCroix deposited his bags on the bed and unzipped the one carrying his food supply. He twisted and removed the cork in one motion, then tipped the bottle's lip to his own. LaCroix drank deeply of the contents, finishing it in three healthy swallows. Placing the bottle on the secretary, he moved across the room to the shuttered windows. They latched from inside, he noted in satisfaction. He lifted the window and unlocked the wooden gates, pushing them aside to allow the night to flood into his room. LaCroix breathed in the evening air and allowed his senses to search for the humans congregated below. Four, no five, of them. LaCroix walked back to the bed and unpacked his luggage. The secretary, he noted, had a locking filing drawer, so he placed the bottles of blood within. Finished, LaCroix took one more look around the room then smoothed his clothing with his hands. LaCroix thought wryly. He closed the shutters and window, making certain that the latches were secure, then drew the heavy drapes. He was unaware that, from the ground below, eyes had been watching him. Closely. ***************************************** End part 2/64 ***************************************** LaCroix retraced his steps to the great room downstairs. He crossed the room to the French doors and gently pushed them open. As promised, several of the plantation guests were congregated on the veranda, enjoying the unusually mild summer evening. "Well, well, our new guest has decided to join us." A loud voice greeted LaCroix's arrival. The vampire's eyes darted to the source of the voice, and, seeing it, he cringed inwardly. This was, perhaps, LaCroix's least favorite human-type. Large, overbearing, pompous and able to inflict vulgarity because it had a healthy bank account. LaCroix had had to deal with such humans during all of his existence, both mortal and immortal. LaCroix assessed the man. Smiling at his own joke, LaCroix accepted the man's handshake. The fingers were soft and plump, the squeeze a little too tight as if to demonstrate to the recipient who was the stronger. LaCroix met the man's look and returned the shake with equal firmness. He was rewarded by a slight narrowing of the human's eyes, then a rather fake, beaming smile. "Howdy, friend. Really didn't expect to see you until the morning, what with your late arrival and all. I'm Aaron Brackin. This here," he turned to indicate the woman he'd been seated with, "is my better-half, Bunnie." The willowy woman was not unattractive. Where LaCroix might have expected her to be a garish display of Brackin's wealth, she was casually dressed in flowered shorts and a tank top. Her hair was frosted blonde and cropped short. Her tan was healthy and, most likely, artificially obtained. "My real name is Roberta," the woman chirped in a voice shrill enough to shatter glass. LaCroix winced, but the woman did not seem to notice. "But everyone calls me 'Bunnie' 'cause I keep going and going and going and ..." She stopped only to take another sip of her drink, giggling. LaCroix watched in amusement as she inhaled the alcohol into her sinuses and began sputtering. Brackin turned to his wife and began patting her on the back. "There, there, Sugar, ain't I told you to be careful about that?" Seeing an avenue of escape, LaCroix turned to observe the other guests. Two elderly women returned his look, but offered no greeting. He moved his focus to the last person present on the veranda. She was sitting away from the group. She was slightly past young, perhaps in her early to mid-thirties. She sat at a small cane table, her arms resting gracefully on its surface, a magazine laid open before her. She had been observing the interplay with quiet amusement. Noting that LaCroix's eyes were now upon her, she met them and smiled. The smile had an affect on her features much like moonlight, softening the sharper, darker areas of her face. She was fair in complexion, with soft auburn hair and hazel eyes. Her lips were full and brushed with just a touch of color. Her teeth, when she exposed them, were strong and white. Although hard to ascertain from her seated position, LaCroix judged her to be petite. Her bearing was relaxed and self-assured, but her confidence was not without effort. She was secure in her environment, but only because of its familiarity. She was, by far, the most interesting guest that LaCroix had met so far. He moved toward her, and she alerted immediately, a slight surge of controlled panic moving through her veins. LaCroix smiled at his affect on her. Finishing his approach, he extended a hand. "Please forgive any impropriety, but it does not appear that we have a mutual acquaintance to provide proper introductions. Lucien LaCroix." Hesitating only momentarily, she accepted the offered hand and pressed it warmly. "Julia Sanford." "May I join you, Ms. Sanford?" She laughed. "Since you used the proper salutation of 'Ms.', I guess that would be acceptable." She indicated a second chair which LaCroix pulled to the table. "Please, Mr. LaCroix, do sit down." Neither spoke at first, a fact which pleased the vampire. This showed her to be thoughtful and intelligent--qualities he appreciated. As she studied him, LaCroix studied her. As LaCroix had surmised from a distance, Julia Sanford was small in stature, perhaps five feet and several inches in height. Her body was lithe and well-proportioned, but not that of an athlete. Her heartbeat, which had raced slightly at LaCroix's initial approach, had now steadied. It was strong and intoxicating. "So," she broke the silence, "What brings you to this remote little corner of the world?" Their eyes met. LaCroix held her just long enough for her pupils to dilate slightly, then released her. Julia blinked in slight confusion. Satisfied that the woman was not a 'resistor,' LaCroix relaxed. "Actually, it was an advertisement which I received in the mail," LaCroix answered her question. "It offered me peaceful tranquility in a country setting." "But, it didn't tell you about Aaron and Bunnie Brackin," Julia laughed. LaCroix glowered slightly but, noting her mirth, relaxed his face again. The vampire leaned forward to speak in confidence with his companion. "They are rather hideous, aren't they?" "Careful, Mr. LaCroix," Julia warned him with mock disapproval. "They'll label you a 'snob' and make your stay here truly miserable." "No more miserable than I can make 'their' stay, Ms. Sanford," LaCroix replied, leaning back. "Oooo," Julia's face glowed, "a man of danger as well as mystery. Tell me, Mr. LaCroix, are you independently wealthy, or do you have to work for a living like the rest of us?" "I could answer your questions, Ms. Sanford," LaCroix's eyes gleamed, "but then I would have to kill you." Silence held for just a moment before Julia laughed again, breaking the tension. LaCroix smiled and, at that moment, decided that he would possess this women before the week had ended. Before times had changed, before the old hunting methods had to be abandoned because corpses began arousing too much suspicion, LaCroix had always enjoyed the seduction aspect of his existence. Finding the proper host, bringing the blood to fruition and savoring it--these were the things that gave his being life, rather than simple actuality. "Should have known that you'd hook up with the only single woman here this week, unless you count the crones over there," Aaron Brackin's voice boomed from behind LaCroix. Julia lowered her head, shaking it slightly, as a frown spread across LaCroix's face. "Bunnie and I came over to join you both, just to make sure that Ms. Julia here is not being pestered against her will. Kind of like chaperones, right, Bunnie?" "Right," the tall blonde plopped herself in the chair she'd dragged over to Sanford's table. "So, how you'all doing?" "We were 'doing' fine," LaCroix began, but silenced as Brackin, with a grunt, sat down opposite his wife. "I never did catch your name when we first met, son. What's your handle?" The vampire's eyebrow ticked slightly as he looked at Brackin. "LaCroix," he said finally. "LaCroix," Brackin repeated. "What kind of name is that? Frenchie maybe?" LaCroix stared passively at the man. "Maybe," he answered slowly. "Well," Brackin continued without abatement. "I'm from Texas." "Indeed," LaCroix lifted an eyebrow, but then glanced toward Julia when he heard her sniff. She was staring in disdain at Brackin, but stopped when she noticed that LaCroix was watching her. Brackin continued, taking no notice of this interplay. "Yup. Born and bred, but extensively traveled all over the world," he said with pride in his voice. "Bunnie, here, is from California. Landed me a Yankee girl." "I am not a 'Yankee,'" Bunnie protested, playfully reaching out and striking her husband's arm. Brackin clutched at his 'wound' and screwed his face up painfully. "Well you sure ain't 'Southern,' Sugar," Brackin said through his 'pain.' "Even if you were born in Mission Hills. So, LaCroix, what did you say you do for a living?" "I didn't," LaCroix said simply. Julia clutched her hand to her mouth, stifling a snicker. "Uhhh, huhhh," Brackin said, looking pointedly at LaCroix. "Hey," Bunnie said, changing the subject abruptly. "we were just discussing that, with all the guests we have here this weekend, maybe we could play a game, you know, like those role-playing mystery weekends where someone is 'killed' and all the guests try to figure out who-done-it." "And, which one of our guests would you like killed, Mrs. Brackin?" LaCroix asked dryly. Julia shot him a quick glance, but said nothing. "Oh, it shouldn't be one of us, because that would eliminate a player," Bunnie said. "No, we need an outside body to be the dead person--a fictional corpse." "You just say the word, Sugar, and I'll find you a body," Brackin said, leaning forward and nuzzling the woman's throat. She broke into another round of giggling. Although he found the human's gesture disgusting, Brackin's action stirred the vampire within LaCroix. He felt his fangs budding. Julia must have seen something in LaCroix's expression because she chose that moment to place her hand on the vampire's arm. LaCroix turned swiftly to her. "Why don't we take a walk?" she suggested. Her eyes held just a hint of pleading. LaCroix nodded and they rose as one, moving away from the Brackins. They strolled along the veranda, giving LaCroix time to collect himself and check the vampire's cravings. Julia was a silent shade by his side. Upright, she seemed even smaller than he'd expected, a mere wisp of a being. They continued walking along the wooden porch, each enjoying the evening and the silence of each other's company. >From the far end of the veranda walkway, off in the distance, they could hear music. Julia laughed softly when she heard the sound, causing LaCroix to look at her questioningly. "It's coming from the stable quarters," she answered him. "I'm staying with the party housed down there." "I see," LaCroix said. "Do you?" Sanford looked up at the tall man through thick eye lashes. "What do you 'see,' Mr. LaCroix?" "I see," LaCroix said, leaning into the young woman, "an attractive woman who was just as annoyed by those Brackin people as I was." Julia hhruumphed and flexed her nose. "They give Texans a bad name," she said. "I'm from Houston, by the way." "New Orleans, at the moment," LaCroix offered. "You're not a native of Texas though, are you?" "Actually, I am," she smiled. "I've just traveled a lot between my birth and the present. What made you think I wasn't?" "Your voice," LaCroix said. "You don't intone your words as a typical Texan does." "And what does a 'typical' Texan sound like?" Julia countered. LaCroix smiled, giving her the checkmate. She returned the smile, humor lighting her eyes. Julia moved away from LaCroix toward the edge of the porch. She placed her hands on the railing and leaned against it, face to the night. "Hmmmm," Julia said, cocking her head and listening as the strains of the music changed. "They're playing a 'Sonesta.' " Turning and noting LaCroix's inquiring look, she laughed. "It's a dance, the Sonesta. I think it's fairly new. The kids were telling me something about it. As far as I can tell, the object is to dance as close to your partner as possible, without actually touching each other. If you touch, even by accident, you're supposed to leave the dance floor." LaCroix's mouth twitched, but he said nothing. Julia pushed herself from the rail and stood before him, her eyes glittering. "Care to try it?" "I do not dance," LaCroix declared. "Neither to I," Julia responded, "so we'd probably make good partners." Intrigued, LaCroix allowed the woman to approach him. Within a whisper of his chest, she abruptly turned so that her back was to him, her body moving to the rhythm of the music. She leaned back, the top of her head almost touching his chin, then shied away, only to turn again so that her shoulder almost brushed his. She danced away, like a fairy sprite, then came to him again, arms curved and held above her head. Coming close, she extended a soft hand toward him, reaching for his face. LaCroix felt the friction as the hand moved past his cheek, felt the warmth of her closeness, but never her touch. Julia was behind him now, her back almost kissing LaCroix's. She extended her arms back and away from her, so that they each appeared on opposite sides of LaCroix's shoulders. She pulled back and turned again, her arms extended forward. LaCroix felt the movement as she lifted her chin, the softness of her breath blown upward, hot on the back of his neck. She brushed a hand down each side of his face, past his neck and over the curve of his shoulders. His skin tingled with the passing of her flesh, the stirring of the air as she moved so close to him. Julia's hands continued their journey, moving past the muscles of his upper arms and along their length. Her sexual excitement was building, her breath coming in small gasps as the dance continued. LaCroix turned suddenly, careful not to touch her. They were face to face now and he saw the small beads of perspiration which had formed across her skin, giving it sheen. He leaned down to her, moving his face past hers and decending. Sensing his intentions, she leaned backwards, giving him full access to her throat and breasts. LaCroix lifted his hands, palm out, and traced the lines of her cleavage, his chin almost touching her. His hands changed position and moved downward, along the lines of her hips, then back as if to clasp her buttocks. Julia moaned softly as he enshrouded her. Her eyes were closed and her heart was beating madly. LaCroix's response was predictable. His eyes glowed golden with lust. He moved closer, his lips a whisper from her throat. The music stopped. Laughing, Julia opened her eyes and moved back from the vampire. If she noticed anything odd about his visage, she gave no indication, assuming the strange glow in his eyes was a trick of the moonlight. "My," she was gasping for breath, "but that was a long set. And we didn't even dance the whole thing." LaCroix said nothing. He simply stared at the woman. "And you said that you couldn't dance," she chided him, moving to the railing and leaning her back against it. "More accurately, I said I 'do not' dance," LaCroix corrected her, moving to stand by her side. He, too, leaned against the railing, breathing her essence and willing the vampire under control. He would take her, yes, but not until he was ready. "Well you should, and often," she replied, moving a hand up to brush sweat from her brow. "You are excellent at it--you move like a cat." LaCroix smiled. Her return smile was clear and inviting. He leaned in, prepared to accept her offer. "MS. SANFORD!!" a young voice disrupted his plan and caused both Julia and LaCroix to turn at once. A young girl, maybe eight or nine years old, ran toward them from the darkness. "MS. SANFORD!! Julia sighed and called into the darkness. "Yes, Theresa, over here." The child responded to the woman's voice and hurried over to stand on the ground below the veranda. "What's the matter now?" Julia inquired. "Corlie broke the cassette player," the child whimpered. "Can you fix it?" Julia sighed again and turned to LaCroix, an apologetic smile on her face. "Have to go now. Duty calls." She fell to a sitting position and slipped under the railing, dropping to the ground. Julia paused, looking back at the tall figure watching her. "Goodnight, Mr. LaCroix and thanks for the dance." LaCroix nodded once to her. Julia took the child's hand and hurried away into the darkness, knowing that his eyes never left her. Not knowing that another set of eyes had been watching them, that another set of eyes had seen the golden glow in LaCroix's eyes and knew that it wasn't a trick of the moonlight. Another set of eyes which belonged to someone who now knew a secret. ***************************************** End part 3/64 ***************************************** After watching Julia Sanford retreat into the darkness, LaCroix started to take flight, but reconsidered when the sound of laughter reached him. Caution appeared to be in order. He turned, instead, and strolled back down the veranda, back to where the mortals had been seated earlier. When LaCroix arrived, Brackin was the only one remaining on the porch. His wife had not left long before, though, for the scent of her was still present. The elderly women had also disappeared, presumably retiring for the evening. Brackin was opening a bottle of beer when he saw LaCroix approaching. "So, LaCroix, you struck out after all," Brackin sneered cheerily. "Could have told you that you didn't have a chance in hell of scoring with her." LaCroix bristled at the man's insolence. Brackin, oblivious to the danger, continued. "Yep, she's too wrapped up in her kiddies to pay too much attention to mere mortal men." Much as he would rather have ripped open Bracken's throat and watched him bleed to death, LaCroix found himself wondering if the man might have useful information regarding Sanford. Brackin, knowing he had LaCroix's attention, was pleased. The human took a long swig from his beer and then indicated with the bottle that LaCroix should join him. LaCroix sat down opposite Brackin, taking care to repose himself in an attentive, but languid manner. Brackin watched LaCroix carefully, the process of mental dissection beginning in earnest. Yes, Brackin had intelligence, the vampire surmised, but his boorishness more than negated any respect LaCroix might have had for the man. Both men waited for the other to speak. Brackin finished his beer and sat the empty bottle on the table between the two men. The man's eyes flicked to LaCroix. LaCroix met the look with indifference, noting with satisfaction that the game of chicken was unnerving the human somewhat. Brackin broke first, but with practiced grace. "Yep," the human said casually, "she's too busy playing 'mama' to those little brats to dare have a social life." "I see," LaCroix responded. "Yea," Brackin's tone was smug. "Julia's a regular here at Chenes Pointte. She comes every summer and spends two weeks out there in the stable with her little girls." Brackin was rewarded by a lift of LaCroix's eyebrow. Brackin made a mental note to himself, "So, LaCroix," Brackin continued casually, "You got kids?" LaCroix smiled. "Not at the moment, no." Brackin looked perplexed for a minute, then laughed. "Oh, I get it. The little ones are in mommy's custody, right? I bet she hit you up for mucho dinero in the child support department, didn't she?" LaCroix said nothing, allowing the fool to prattle on. Brackin leaned back and continued. "My ex pretty much tried to take me to the cleaners, but my accountant did some 'creative financing' and I came out of it okay. Only have two more years to pay on that little mistake of my youth." Brackin's tone was bitter, but then his good humor returned. "Bunnie's my second wife. I would have been quite content to skip the baby route again, but she wanted a little one, so I had to oblige." LaCroix smiled slightly, encouraging Brackin to continue. "The kid's okay, I guess, but he's more of a weinie than I thought my gene pool would produce. Too bad you can't just go out and choose the children you want." "Indeed," LaCroix nodded, "but, I have learned that *choosing* your progeny might still not secure for you the child that you seek." Brackin was suddenly very interested. "Voice of experience?" LaCroix shrugged slightly. "A historical fact," the vampire replied, noting that Brackin was displeased that he still had no personal insight into LaCroix. "I am, you see, an observer of human behavior." "That your occupation, LaCroix? You some kind of psychiatrist, psychologist or something?" "Or something," LaCroix smiled. Brackin waited, then realizing that LaCroix did not plan to embellish, grunted a slight laugh. "I'll give you this, LaCroix, you're the most closed mouth SOB that I've ever met. I just wish some of those high priced *financial executives* on my payroll had as much discretion about my business as you do about yours." LaCroix continued to watch as Brackin leaned across the table, his tone lowered, "But, personal secrecy doesn't extend to Ms. Julia Sanford, as far as you're concerned, does it? You're still *dying* to know more about her, aren't you?" Noting the faintest flicker in those cold blue eyes, Brackin leaned back in satisfaction. "Well, friend, that little bit of information will cost you." Brackin leaned further back and called over his shoulder, "Hey, Avonne! Bring me another beer, will you?" Brackin turned back to LaCroix, smiling smugly. "And bring one for Mr. LaCroix, while you're at it. It's going on his tab, after all." The men waited in silence for a few minutes before Mrs. Simmoneaux appeared from the shadows, carrying two frosted bottles. She sat the beers on the table, one in front of each guest, and left without words. Once the proprietress had exited, Brackin reached for his beer. He unscrewed the cap with expertise and took a long drink. Finishing, Brackin noticed that LaCroix's beer remained untouched. "Oh, pleeaasssee," Brackin said with some disdain. "Don't tell me that you're one of those white-wine-sippy types." "Actually, I'm not," LaCroix replied politely. "I prefer . . . red." "Yea, and with cheese on the side, I bet," Brackin said with disdain. He took another swallow from his beer, his interest in LaCroix fading with his disgust. "You were going to tell me something about Julia Sanford that you thought I might be interested in," LaCroix reminded Brackin. "Huhh, oh, yea," Brackin turned his attention back to LaCroix. "She's some kind of paralegal or something. Works for a law firm in Houston, big group, bunch of rich bastards. They do a bunch of pro bono stuff for the poor Hispanic and elderly population--looks good in their corporate newsletter, I guess. They're also big into this mentoring program for underprivileged urban *youths.* That's where our dear Julia comes into the picture." "Indeed," LaCroix said. "Then those children you referred to earlier are not Ms. Sanford's biological offspring, I presume." "Heck no," Brackin looked at LaCroix with a sneer. "Every summer, the big guys at the law firm send Sanford out here for a week or two with a group of crippled, excuse me, *special needs* kids to give them a vacation in the country. She's really into it--the mentoring thing--from what I understand." "Is there anything else, then, that you have to tell me, Mr. Brackin?" Brackin took another long drink from the beer and, shaking his head, said "No, don't think so." "Then," LaCroix said, rising, "I will say good evening, Mr. Brackin. As you noted earlier, I did arrive late and morning will arrive very soon." "Well, we'll see you at breakfast then, LaCroix," Brackin lifted his head and smiled narrowly. "Doubtful, Mr. Brackin," LaCroix returned. Then, tilting his head slightly to the side, LaCroix winked confidentially at Brackin, "but, one can always hope." Brackin watched at the dark stranger opened the French doors and disappeared into the main house. He reached across the table, grabbed the beer meant for LaCroix, and opened it. Brackin downed the brew quickly. "Avonne," he shouted. In a moment Mrs. Simmoneaux stood by the table. He leaned back in his chair, eyeing the small, dark woman. "I'll just bet that this LaCroix fellow is your kind of guest, isn't he? All manners and aristocratic airs." Mrs. Simmoneaux said nothing, continuing to stare forward, waiting. "Well, Avonne, honey, I want to know some more about our favorite guest," Brackin said. "The privacy of guests is . . ." she began. As quickly as a snake, he reached out and clutched the woman's lower left arm. Mrs. Simmoneaux flinched under the pressure of his hand. "That little policy is in affect for the *paying* guests, Avonne, honey," Brackin noted with satisfaction that the woman's eyes reflected pain. "Now my personal policy is to know about everything that goes on and everyone who stays at Chenes Pointte. Understand?" Mrs. Simmoneaux shot Brackin a look of hatred, but nodded. "Good," the man said with satisfaction, releasing his hold on the woman. "Now, tell me something. What is Mr. LaCroix's first name and where does he come from?" A few moments later, Brackin was again alone on the veranda. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a cellular phone. Brackin punched in the required numbers and waited impatiently while the other end connected. "Yea, Buddy. Aaron Brackin here. Yea, yea, I know what time it is, but I have some work for you. No, not in the morning--I want you to get started on it *now* so you can give me a report in the morning. I need you to do a little personal investigating--I need you to get me the skinny on a *Lucien LaCroix* from New Orleans. Okay. Yea, yea. Just remember who signs your paychecks, hot shot." Brackin closed the phone's cover and placed it back into his pocket. Brackin thought smugly, Sighing, Brackin lifted his bulk from the chair and headed toward the French doors. He did not hear the rustling of bushes beneath where he'd been sitting. He did not see the eyes which had been watching him through the flooring below. ***************************************** End part 4/64 ***************************************** Aaron Brackin opened the door to his apartment as quietly as possible. He really didn't want to wake his wife unnecessarily. She could be a real bear if she was disturbed and didn't want to be. Brackin looked around the room, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. His was the largest guestroom in the home--no less than he would have expected. In addition to having a large built-in closet, unlike the other rooms, his quarters also had an anteroom--a ladies sitting area, they used to call it. That room was being used for the kid's bedroom during their stay. Brackin grunted and made his way to the bed. He sat down easily on the edge of the side assigned him and turned so that he could observe Bunnie. She was sleeping soundly, making soft snoring sounds. Brackin bent forward and tugged at his boots, careful not to drop them. In his sock feet, Brackin made his way to the lavatory and splashed some water on his face. He had just finished unbuttoning his shirt when he heard a sound from the other room. A creaking sound. Silently, Brackin made his way to the anteroom's door and grasped the knob. He tried it and found it locked. "Little brat," he muttered to himself. Brackin retraced his steps to the bedside and retrieved a key from the table. He'd gone through this on his last trip, his son's secretive little hiding ways. He wasn't going to put up with it this time. That's why he'd made this key, just in case little Petey-boy tried one of his tricks. Brackin inserted the key, turned it and pushed open the door. Poised by his bedside, ready to hop in, was Peter Matthew Brackin. "Dammit," Brackin cursed softly. "What have you been up to, you little brat?" "Nothin," the boy hissed back. "I just took a pee out the window, so I wouldn't have to come into your room, okay? You told me not to wake up Mom, so I was trying not to." "You lying little scum bag," Brackin approached the skinny child with upraised hand. "You're standing there in muddy shoes telling me that you just pissed out a window? I ought to beat the living shit out of you." "Aaron?" Bunnie Brackin's sleepy voice drifted in from the other room. "Is everything all right?" Brackin stopped his advance on his son and called back to his wife, "Yea, darlin', everything's okay. You go on back to sleep now." Turning, Brackin shook his finger at the boy and said, "I'll deal with you in the morning, mister. Now keep your ass in this room for the rest of the night." "Yea, yea, yea," the younger Brackin replied after his father had left the room. Pete shed the incriminating athletic shoes and crawled, fully clothed, onto his bed. He lay on his back, wide awake, for a long time, thinking. A lot had happened to Peter Brackin tonight. Too much for one twelve-year-old boy to digest in one sitting. Pete rolled over and reached under his bed, sifting his fingers through a stack of comic books. He finally settled on one and began thumbing through a well-read old issue of "Terror Tales." Around dawn, Pete finally fell asleep. *************** Once the house was still, LaCroix reopened the shutters and left his room. He alighted on the lawn below and moved into the embracing warmth of the shadows. Careful to remain in the darkness, LaCroix began exploring the grounds. Behind the main house, connected by a stone walkway, was a shed-like building used for storage. LaCroix guessed that this must have been the original kitchen, which would naturally have been set off from the main residence for safety purposes. Any reminders of its origin, though, had long been boarded over. Adjacent to this was a cold, windowless structure--a log building so tightly fitted that it was almost air-tight. This was the larder. Several long discarded glass jars remained on the crude shelving along the walls. LaCroix noted that the hooks from which hams and sausages had once hung were still attached to the ceiling. Just past this, a bare spot on the ground indicated the former site of an outdoor privy. Even though lime had been spread to ease the scent, LaCroix's sensitive nose could still smell traces of human waste buried deep within the earth here. He moved on quickly. The path here had not been cut, but worn into the earth by many repetitious footsteps over the years. LaCroix passed a good-sized building enclosed within a twisted wire fence. Inside he could hear movement and soft clucking sounds. Stopping beyond the poultry house, LaCroix surveyed the landscape. To his left, he made out the shape of a good-sized barn with an attached out-building. To the right of the barn was a cluster of seven or eight small one-room structures lined in two rows, facing each other. The buildings had not been used for some years and appeared to be in varying states of decay. LaCroix allowed his eyes to go to the left again, beyond the barn. Out into the open space where a large pasture area was evident, bordered to the far left by what appeared to be a grove. LaCroix flew up and landed within the stand. The grounds here were neglected, thick vegetation choking at the roots of the fruit trees. Skeletal rows of vines gave evidence of where grapes once grew. Some of the vines still held green, but the fruit was pitifully small. Off to the side of the main grove was a single tree, surrounded by a black iron fence. Curious, LaCroix walked to the site and opened the small gate which allowed him entrance. The enclosure was perhaps twelve-feet-square, dominated, of course, by the tree. A small stone bench had been placed to the side, beneath the shade of its branches. LaCroix examined the gnarled, uneven trunk. His eyes lifted to observe the gray-green leaves and its many small, imperfect flowers. Something within LaCroix stirred as he recognized the species. An olive tree. LaCroix touched the soft foliage. Someone, long ago, must have planted it here and taken extraordinary measures to keep it alive, for it was not native to this habitat. Someone had once cared very deeply about the fate of this tree, nurturing it with passion. Memories of his human youth threatened to come and LaCroix bade them back fiercely. Such thoughts weakened the vampire spirit. With a shift of his shoulders, LaCroix flew from the grove. He landed behind the main house, to the right of the initial outcrop of buildings he'd investigated. Half hidden beyond the corner of the home was the stable. LaCroix walked toward it, allowing his senses to probe for the humans within. He detected six heartbeats--five of which beat swiftly. These were the heartbeats of children. The sixth was a female adult. Her heart beat slowly, steadily, strongly. The vampire made his way to the rear of the cottage. He tried the door and found it locked. A swift jerk of his wrist and the lock snapped. LaCroix gently pushed the door open, waiting for it to squeak. The door's passage was silent; as silent as LaCroix's entry into the room. The stable origin was evident. The door opened into a long hall which extended the length of the building to another door. On each side of the hall were four doors leading to rooms beyond. This had been the stall area, LaCroix knew. Four horses, the carriage team, had been kept here. The other plantation stock had been confined to either the barn or pasture area. The door beyond would lead to where the livery had been kept and a tack room would be off from that. The stall area, though, was what LaCroix sought. This was where the humans slept. LaCroix followed Julia Sanford's heartbeat. He caught her scent in the air and smiled. The door to her bedroom was not latched. LaCroix pushed it open and stood in the doorway, unmoving. Sanford lay on her side, one arm tucked under her pillow, a thin bedsheet her only cover. She was breathing deeply, her sleep undisturbed and restive. LaCroix moved over to stand by her bedside. He looked down, watching the movement of the coverlet at each intake of her breath. the vampire observed. He noted that her eyes flickered in REM deepness and wondered, with a slight smile, if she was dreaming of him. There was a way to assure it, he knew. One kiss, one long lingering look and she would be his, body and soul. She would never even be truly aware that it had happened. But there was the rub, ehh, LaCroix thought. What good was the prize if won by deceit? If there was no coming by free choice, then the result would surely be a sour fruit. LaCroix laughed softly, bitterly. Sometimes even *free choice* held no certainty that there would not be disappointment. Sanford sighed and moved, rolling her body slightly so that the bedsheet slipped away from her shoulder, exposing her. Julia was wearing an oversized white T-shirt. The shirt was adorned with some black printing, but LaCroix could not read it, except to note that it began with an "F." What he could see, clearly, was that Julia's perspiration had made the shirt cling, tightly, to her flesh. Her breasts, like the rest of her, were small, but full and firm. They moved gently up and down with her breathing, pulsing with life. LaCroix noted with a smile. The angle of her head had also changed with her turning, falling to the side, exposing her neck more. The tiny vein which coursed from her shoulder to her ear vibrated with the passage of her blood. LaCroix reached out easily, allowing two fingers to gently brush the softness of her throat. Julia moaned softly, but did not waken. LaCroix moved his fingers downward, tracing the vein to her shoulder. He touched the material of her night shirt. LaCroix took the cotton garment's edge and pressed it between his thumb and forefinger, tugging at it slightly. Julia sighed and stirred again. The vampire leaned closer, allowing his breath to make contact with her flesh. Her heart fluttered once with the intimacy of his closeness, but then resumed its natural slumber beat. LaCroix allowed his senses to absorb her. She was mulberry and chocolate. Clear spring water after a dusty day's campaign in the desert. He drank her in deeply, his nostrils flaring slightly. He felt the demon coming in his blood. Something else, too, he realized. An intriguing spice flowed through her, giving her uniqueness. He had sensed it before, but the memory would not come to him where. He allowed the vampire to rise, felt his eyes glowing with the cold gold fire of his lust. LaCroix was so tempted to take the woman. He felt the sharpness of his fangs pushing into his lower gums. LaCroix allowed his mouth to open slightly, to relieve the pressure. Julia's eyes fluttered and opened a slit. Sensing a shadow above her, she came more awake, rising up on her elbows. Sanford looking around, but seeing nothing, fell back onto the mattress. She shifted her body slightly, sighed and was asleep again. >From the hallway, LaCroix watched her return to rest. He was composed now. LaCroix turned to leave and froze. A small, thin female child, perhaps eight or nine, barred his way. She clutched a battered stuffed animal which bore resemblance to a rabbit, but had been dyed a bright pink color. The girl looked up at LaCroix through sleepy eyes. The child blinked and LaCroix vanished into the shadows at the far end of the hall. The girl looked around with some alarm, then fled into Sanford's room. LaCroix left the building and made his way quickly back to the main house. From the window of his room he watched lights come on in the stable. Though his vantage point faced west, LaCroix could see the first rays of sunlight touching the high trees, reflecting pink off their dew-covered leaves. LaCroix closed the shutters and latched them, drawing the curtains tightly. He crossed to the secretary, removed a bottle and lay down on his bed. Staring at the nothing of the far wall, LaCroix sipped absently from the bottle and thought of Julia Sanford. ***************************************** End part 5/64 ***************************************** When the sunlight finally vanished on that second day, LaCroix awoke thinking of Julia Sanford. He immediately went to the cabinet and reached for the blood, but pulled his hand back in surprise. Two of the six bottles were empty. He'd brought a week's supply, but had already downed one-third of his reserve. LaCroix remembered drinking both, and the reason for doing so. The answer disturbed him. The human female had intensified his craving to feed. And he had wakened, thinking of her. the vampire mused, retrieving one of the full bottles, He uncorked the flask and downed its contents in one draught. The long summer season necessitated LaCroix's appearance be postponed until well after 8 p.m. Supper had long since been eaten and the guests were once again settled on the veranda. The elderly ladies were not among those on the porch this evening, their place now occupied by a young couple barely out of their teens. They snuggled and cooed, wide-eyed with shyness and barely concealed lust. "Hey there, LaCroix, you finally decide to return to the land of the living?" Brackin's voice boomed across terrace. "We were beginning to think that you'd 'died' up there, or something." "Sorry to disappoint, Mr. Brackin," LaCroix wrinkled his nose is the faintest semblance of a smile. "Hey, no problem," Brackin waved his hand across the table. "Have a seat and a chat, now that you're all rested up." LaCroix took the offered chair. His eyes scanned the porch, but there was no sight of her. When he returned his attention to Brackin, the distasteful man was smirking at him. "Haven't seen her tonight, Lucien, old buddy." LaCroix stiffened at Brackin's use of the adopted given name, a fact which Brackin noted with satisfaction. "Guess she and the kiddies are on an excursion or something. Guess you'll just have to settle for the company of us plain folk." "I could always read a good book," LaCroix returned, hoping that his sneer would repel the officious mortal without the need for more progressive measures. Brackin obligingly laughed and leaned back in his chair. "You are a card, Luke." LaCroix shot the man a withering glare, but Brackin paid no mind. "I think I might just like you after all. Avonne!" The woman appeared at the French doors, looking more withdrawn than LaCroix remembered her from the previous night's meeting. "Avonne, get my friend Luke, here, a glass of red wine, would you? And see if you can rustle him up some slices of cheddar or something . . . I'm sure he's hungry." Once Mrs. Simmoneaux had disappeared into the manor, Brackin returned his attention to LaCroix. He inclined his head toward the young couple. "Honeymooners," Brackin said confidentially, winking. "From the rumbling of the women, I understand that she is about four months into the family condition." LaCroix listened to the fetal heartbeat within the young woman's womb. The couple, no more than children themselves, were so lost within their own embrace that they scarcely knew others were on the same planet, much less the veranda. "So young . . . " LaCroix returned his attention to Brackin. "Speaking of family, Mr. Brackin, where is your wife this evening?" Brackin took a long drink from the beer he was nursing and then began rolling the bottle gently between his hands. "Gone into Arnaudville with the boy. Thought he needed some new underwear or something." The young couple rose and linked hands. They made their way to the French doors, passing Mrs. Simmoneaux as they entered the house. The proprietress approached the table where LaCroix and Brackin sat, placing a tray in front of LaCroix. He accepted the goblet of Cabernet which she handed him, but shook his head at the cheese and imported biscuits. After Avonne Simmoneaux had retreated into the home, Brackin smiled and addressed LaCroix. "You're an interesting fellow, LaCroix," Brackin laced his fingers together and stretched them out, as though studying the nails. LaCroix viewed him over the goblet, waiting. Finally speaking "How so, Mr. Brackin?" "Well, for one, you appear to be pretty well traveled," Brackin replied. "You work for a New Orleans radio station as some kind of late night shock jock or something, right?" LaCroix's eyes glittered, hued red from the wine's reflection. He offered no confirmation to Brackin's question. "And before that, you did pretty much the same across the border in Canada--Toronto, I believe. Stayed up there for about three years, so my sources inform me." Brackin reached for his beer. "My compliments to your investigator, but that information is hardly confidential." LaCroix leaned back in his chair, offering Brackin a slight curl of his lip. "Anyone with access to my resume would have the same details." Brackin laughed slightly. "Yea, you're right, Luke. That bit of information would hardly be worth the expense of the detective, now would it?" Brackin reached inside the pocket of his short sleeved cotton shirt and withdrew a pair of reading glasses and a folded piece of legal paper. After donning the eyeglasses, Brackin flipped open the sheet and perused it in silence for a moment. Finally, he looked up at LaCroix and smiled thinly. "Healthy bank account for a disc jockey, wouldn't you say?" LaCroix's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. "Found the one in the Crescent City, no problem," Brackin continued. "And the two in Canada. It's the one in the Caymans which almost got away from me. I was expecting that to be in Switzerland. Had to admit, though, that the assumed name gave me a tickle--Cyrus Lucent. Any kin to the telephone company?" LaCroix slowly shook his head 'no.' "So, how'd you come by your wealth, Luke? Business? Old money?" "Actually, material possessions mean little to me," LaCroix smiled slightly. He licked his tongue across the inside of his mouth, making a sucking/ticking sound. "The money belongs mostly to others. I simply 'retain' it for them, from time to time." Brackin eyed him carefully. "I'll just bet you do." The mortal took a healthy swallow from the beer and regarded LaCroix with keen interest. "You wouldn't be into anything shady now, would you?" LaCroix laughed heartily at Brackin's subtlety. "If you mean money-laundering, as in a 'mob' connection, no." LaCroix shook his head, then looked at Brackin with mirrored keenness. He smiled at a memory. "Although I have some connections within organized crime, I must admit." "Is that how you beat the murder charge up in Toronto?" Brackin asked quietly. LaCroix leveled his gaze on the mortal, smiling without mirth. "Your people are efficient," the vampire said softly. He shook his head. "No, I was released due to lack of evidence and actual innocence--of that particular crime." "How about the charges in New Orleans a couple of months ago?" "A misunderstanding," LaCroix replied. "And, if your detective had truly done his homework, he'd have told you that those charges were dropped." "But neither crime was resolved." Brackin folded the paper and returned it to his pocket. He looked squarely at LaCroix. "Which means you may just be a lucky son-of-a-bitch, Luke." He leaned forward, his eyes tense, his words stabbing. "I wonder what Ms. Julia would think of you if she knew of your rather checkered past, Mr. LaCroix?" LaCroix felt the sudden flush of pure anger, felt the sudden thrust of the fangs as they swelled within his mouth. He started to reach across the table, to be done with this interfering creature when a clamor further down the porch halted him. Looking away from and past Brackin, he saw Roberta Brackin approaching, laden with packages, a pre-teen boy in tow. The vampire sat back just as the woman arrived, dumping parcels on the table between LaCroix and her husband. "Whew, what a day at the races," Bunnie sighed, fanning herself as she fell into a chair between the two men. "And you, buster . . ." she scowled at the boy, " . . . were as useless at tits on a boar. All I needed was for you to give me some help on what to buy you, and all I get was silence or those rolled eyes of yours." Brackin looked dead at his son, prepared to cuff the boy if he retorted, but Peter remained quiet, his eyes fixed. On LaCroix. His anger under control, LaCroix appraised the child. The boy's heart was thudding rapidly, but he gave no outward indication of emotion. Peter simply looked at LaCroix, his expression masked. The child raised his eyes slightly, noting that LaCroix was watching him like a cat would a bird. Peter froze. LaCroix smiled, his eyes catching the boy's. The child stared for a moment, then blinked. LaCroix's smile faded. "Can I be excused, please?" Peter addressed his father with such politeness that Brackin almost choked on the beer he'd just taken into his mouth. Brackin looked at Bunnie, who shrugged, then nodded. "Yea, go on, Rabbit," Brackin said. Peter turned quickly to move away, but Brackin caught the boy's arm, his tone lowering to threatening. "Just remember--bed tonight by ten, and no night time visits outside, comprende?" The child nodded, then, released from his father's grip, fled. LaCroix watched the child's flight. The hairs on the back of his neck stood erect as he tracked the child's heart beat. It raced, befitting Peter's nickname. "So, hon, what you been doing to keep yourself busy?" Bunnie leaned over and bussed Brackin's cheek, leaving a mauve smear on the flesh. Brackin made a fist and rubbed at the stain. "Nothing much," he replied, then looked at LaCroix, a smirk on his face. "Just spent the day looking up some old friends." "Sound's absolutely fascinating," Bunnie said, resuming her fanning. "At least you didn't waste the day on the golf course, for a change. Do me a favor, darlin, and get me something cool to drink. I'm dying here." Brackin smiled. "Glad to oblige." He leaned back and yelled into the house. "Avonne, bring Mrs. B her usual, would you?" He turned to LaCroix. "Freshen up that *wine* for you, Luke?" LaCroix shook his head. He pushed back from the table, his eyes steady on Brackin. The mortal returned the look, never wavering, as the dark man rose. "Excuse me, but I have things to attend to," LaCroix said. Brackin allowed LaCroix to move several steps from the table before he called to him with false cheeriness. "Happy hunting, Luke." LaCroix tensed and turned slightly, his eyes pinning Brackin. Brackin returned the look with a narrow grin. LaCroix shifted his attention to Bunnie Brackin and smiled his most courtly. "Have a pleasant evening, Mrs. Brackin." She returned the smile, perhaps just a bit too warmly. LaCroix was rewarded with Brackin's look of obvious displeasure. The Brackins watched as LaCroix descended the porch steps to the lawn. The white-haired figure quickly disappeared in the darkness. Brackin waited until Bunnie had taken her second sip from the Julep before casually asking her the question on his mind. "Do you find that LaCroix fellow sexy, Roberta?" Bunnie looked at Brackin in amusement. Eyes twinkling, she tweaked him slightly with a "He's not half bad to look at, Aaron." Then, noting his pout, she repositioned herself, sliding her hand between her husband's legs. "But, I have all I need sitting right here in front of me." Brackin grinned and leaned in to her, but she withdrew her hand and pulled back. "I am worried about something, though." Aaron fell back also, shaking his head. "The boy, right?" Bunnie nodded, her features suddenly unhappy. "He was acting really weird today." Brackin coughed. "And that's unusual? I hate to tell you, Bunnie, but . . ." The woman cut him off with a fierce movement of her head and a fleck of her hand. "Weirder than usual, okay?!" Brackin grew quiet at the seriousness of her tone. He waited. "You know the only thing he wanted in town today?" she said softly. Brackin started to mouth something smart, but caught himself and only shook his head. Bunnie looked at her husband, the concern evident on her face. "He insisted that we go to the Christian bookstore," she said. "He wanted to buy a crucifix." ************************** End of Part 6/64 ************************** LaCroix was unaware he was seeking her until he caught her scent. His approach to Julia Sanford was silent, a shade crossing the overgrown landscape of the grove. If she sensed him, she gave no indication, but continued to stare off into the darkness. A night bird of some type, LaCroix knew didn't know its name, called to its mate, then there was silence. LaCroix stopped, observing the young woman. Julia was dressed in a light sundress, low at the neck and designed for the climate. She sat still on the small stone bench, like a graceful statuette. Her legs were not crossed, but held together at the ankles, so that her skirt formed a basket of sorts. On her lap was a collection of items which LaCroix had no trouble discerning, even at this distance. A small rounded stone, a wilted purple flower, a fist-width short stick which appeared sheared of bark, a tin figure encrusted in rust--all these treasures she held. LaCroix continued his approach. Only the sound of the metal gate's grating hinges alerted her to his presence. She turned, wary but not startled. When she saw him, her face relaxed into a smile. "Well, you're a long way from the main house, Mr. LaCroix," she commented. "You weren't looking for me now, were you?" LaCroix didn't reply, simply choosing to stand and watch her for a moment. He listened to her heart, noting the slight speeding up of its beat, the increase in her breath rate. LaCroix began walking toward her. "You look like you had a nice rest, Mr. LaCroix," she teased as the tall man moved to stand near her. "Thought you were going to sleep your life away." LaCroix returned her smile, measuring her. She tilted her head to him, her square jaw strong and her eyes sharp with humor. He wanted her dearly. "Would that have troubled you, Ms. Sanford?" LaCroix replied with a faint, inquiring smile, his eyes burning. "That I might have slept my life away?" Julia laughed, breaking contact. She returned to him, her own eyes kindled. "Perhaps it would have, Mr. LaCroix. Perhaps it would." LaCroix thought, bidding the rising beast back. He had no doubt of the future outcome of this tryst, but he would choose the time and the manner. Not even the vampire within would control the spirit that was Lucien LaCroix--of that he was determined. He moved away from her, diverting his attention to the tree. As he touched the rough bark surface, she spoke. "Do you know what type of tree that is?" He did not turn, but stroked the trunk. "An olive tree," he said. A slight laugh. "Very good," Julia said. "Add botany to your list of expertise." She rose, shaking her skirt and softly dropping its contents to the ground. She walked easily toward him. He felt her near his shoulder. "Do you find it unusual, to see an olive tree here?" LaCroix turned, absolutely in control of himself, and looked down at the slight figure standing next to him. "I do know that this species it not native to the area, if that is what you are asking?" LaCroix said. Julia nodded. She reached out to touch the tree, her shoulder brushing against his, her hand next to LaCroix's. "Not native," she murmured, looking up through the dense foliage. "So out of place in a hostile environment. Only surviving because someone tended it so faithfully, only to watch it grow but bare no fruit. The olive tree can live in this region, this part of the country, but will be barren." LaCroix watched her, silent. A darkness wraithed across Julia's face. "Even if it were to produce drupes, you know that the fresh fruit is bitter to the taste." "But the oil within is sweet," LaCroix said quietly, "and the flower quite fragrant." Julia looked at him, questioningly. Then, just as suddenly as it had descended upon her, the shadows lifted from her features and she smiled. "Want another history lesson regarding Chenes Pointte, Mr. LaCroix?" she teased. LaCroix nodded, humoring her. Julia returned her attention to the tree, patting the cracked outer bark with affection. "According to Mrs. Simmoneaux, this tree was planted by the granddaughter of the original owners. Her name was Trusa Vortilla." The young woman looked at LaCroix, her eyebrows creased in concern, but her glittering eyes belying the seriousness of her tone. "The story becomes tragic now, Mr. LaCroix. Are you certain that you wish to hear it?" "Please continue, Ms. Sanford," LaCroix instructed her. He quirked his lips and nodded. "I think I can steel myself to handle historic misfortune." Julia grinned, but quickly made her tone sober. "It seems that young Senorita Vortilla was one of three sisters. Barely past the age of fourteen, she was betrothed to a local landowner, Victor Pasquan, as was the custom of the time." Julia moved around the tree, tracing the trunk with her fingers as she circled it. "But, young Trusa's parents had no idea of the thoughts within the young woman's head. For her time, she was educated. Literate and with a passion for books, especially those of a romantic nature. The marriage arranged, her family thought no more of the child's silly outlook on life, and began discussing how the alliance between the Vortilla and Pasquan families should prove profitable for everyone." The young woman caught hold of the tree with both hands and quickly spun around the trunk, peering at LaCroix from the opposite side. "They didn't know about Rodrigo." "Ahhhh," LaCroix tilted his head back, nodding. "The young lover." Julia nodded also, mocking gravity. "Yes. The lover. The son of a merchant who supplied seed and supplies to the landed families of the region. The dashing, dark-haired Rodrigo who first saw Trusa, at age thirteen, picking grapes in the arbor, her hair pulled back and scarfed. Before the afternoon was over, it is said, he had removed that scarf and tasted the fruit of her garden." "Tsk, tsk," LaCroix clucked his tongue, looking off into the night. "Naughty children." "Ahh," Julia laughed softly. She reached out a hand, two fingers extended, and gently touched the side of LaCroix's face, at the temple, drawing the touch down across his cheek. "Since when has love not been somewhat naughty?" ***************************************** End part 7/64 ***************************************** LaCroix started at her touch, reaching to catch Julia's hand, but she moved away, laughing. Using the tree as a shield between them, she continued her story. "That year of their meeting, Rodrigo gave Trusa the olive tree as a gift, a token of his esteem and affection for the young woman. His father had imported the saplings from Spain, planning to buy land of his own, have a grove of olive trees and amass an immense fortune from the venture. The climate, though, proved too humid and many of the trees died before they could mature. And, those that survived bore no fruit." "But," Julia chided herself, "we stray from the story." She turned, resting her back against the tree's trunk. A quick glance in LaCroix's direction affirmed that she still held his attention. She returned her gaze to the distant darkness and continued. "During the next year, they watched together as the tree grew. Rodrigo would bring the latest thoughts from his father, regarding the care of the sapling and Trusa faithfully tended it, just as Rodrigo tended her. Even before the tiny leaves gave shade, they would sit under its promise and she would read poetry to the young man." Julia frowned. "Then, came news of the engagement. Trusa fought her parents, saying she was too young, she wanted to live life first, even later professing to religion and asking to be sent to an order. She lost, of course. Trusa was married to Victor Pasquan on her fifteenth birthday." Julia's voice was soft, yet firm. "Trusa never mentioned Rodrigo's name during the family discussions prior to her nuptials. To do so would have resulted in his death, and both of them knew that. Trusa went to live in the hacienda de Pasquan, renamed Corazo'n de la Aceituna at the request of his bride, though Victor never knew why." The auburn-haired woman moved from the tree, walking until her passage was blocked by the iron fence which enclosed them. She rested both arms on the top rail, careful to place them between the upturned pointed spikes which gave it ornamentation. She didn't look at LaCroix. "Their relationship was said to be acceptable, but Trusa Pasquan bore her husband no children. Instead, Victor Pasquan's legal heirs were his nephews, adopted from his sister. His blood progeny were the issue of assorted house servants and senoras from the area. Trusa and Victor Pasquan were husband and wife for almost thirty years before he knew of Rodrigo, and then he discovered it quite by accident," Julia continued, her voice low. "The Senora had not returned from her ride and the 'criados del establo' had been dispatched to look for her. She was found, dead, laying face down in the dirt, within this enclosure. The length of her skirt, below the knee, was filthy, as if she had been kneeling. Disturbed earth at the base of the tree indicated that she had been pulling weeds from around it. When they turned the body over, they found that her face was encrusted with mud, where her tears had mixed with the soil she'd lain in." Julia turned toward LaCroix, her eyes moist, her knuckles whitening under her grip on the iron. LaCroix made no motion toward her. "A child?" he inquired, his voice holding a note of frost. Julia looked surprised at his tone. LaCroix shrugged. "If so, dear Ms. Sanford, it is a story as old as time and repeated so very often." LaCroix looked at the base of the tree. "Mistakes are made, and mortals attempt to bury them, rather than learn from them." Julia shook her head, sadly. "Can you be so cold, Mr. LaCroix? So unmoved, if that were the case?" She moved back to the tree. "Yes, a life was buried here, but not that of an infant." She parted the lower branches, looking up along the length of the trunk. LaCroix went to her side now, following her gaze. Midway to the upper fork was the expected carving. A crude heart with the letters 'T' and 'R' within, entwined by hewn vines. Below the heart was carved one word. Poesia. "When Senor Pasquan brushed the dirt and leaves away from the tended ground, he probably expected to discover a small corpse here, much as you did. A youthful mishap which would explain his late wife's barrenness, now wouldn't it?" Julia lifted her chin, her eyes hard on LaCroix. They softened immediately. "But Pasquan found only a book. A small, ragged text, its pages shredded by weather and time spent entombed. Still, through the tatters, he was able to make out that it was a book of poems. And, on the inside cover, written in his wife's cursive hand, were the word's "For Rodrigo. Though he cannot read of my love, he holds it in his heart." The vampire and woman stood in silence for a moment, the tale ended. LaCroix moved first, as if to approach her, but Julia moved away, once again dodging behind the olive tree, using it to deflect his path. LaCroix stopped. Julia suddenly laughed. She looked at LaCroix, her face impish. "Hey! Don't take it so seriously, Mr. LaCroix," she grinned, her eyebrows drawn down in mock consternation. "They've been dead a good two-hundred years, and they are feeling no pain. Probably up there right now, laughing at us for being so *tragic.* But," she went on, her eyes lighting, "it does give you pause to stop and think. Life is too short to waste on regrets and tending to things lost. Best to live and enjoy what you have at the present." "That would be a healthy philosophy." LaCroix nodded in agreement, but sensed an undercurrent of falsehood in the young woman's belief in her statement. He would have pursued it, but she moved to the iron railing again, her eyes to the darkness. "There's a storm brewing," she said, looking to the southeast. A slight breeze lifted her hair, sending a fiery tendril into the night sky. A faint flash of soundless lightening appeared between the trees which blocked their view of the horizon. "How do you know?" LaCroix said, moving toward her. Julia lifted her head, her nostrils open to catch the dampness in the air. LaCroix did likewise, but the night's other scents held no fascination for him, only the essence of her. That spice again. Heady, piquant. What was it? "Oh, I just know," Julia shrugged. She turned to him, her face soft in the shadows. "You live in this area long enough and you learn to sense when something is churning up out off the coast." She turned back in the direction of the coming storm. "And," she said softly. "It feels like a big one." ************************* End part 8/64 ************************ Peter Brackin sat on the sill of his bedroom window, leaning half out of the room. He was watching the lightning flashes, counting the seconds until the sound of the thunder reached his ears. The storm was drawing closer. Absently, the boy touched the small beaded crucifix draped across his knee. "Pete?" his father's voice startled young Brackin--not so much the sound, but the tone. It held concern . . . almost fatherly. The boy turned to see Aaron Brackin standing in the doorway. He measured the man for a moment. Almost . . . but Pete knew from experience that any fatherly compassion wouldn't last. "Yea," he answered, turning to the window, his back to the man. "What do you want?" Pete quickly swept the crucifix off his knee and stuffed it into his front jeans pocket--an action not lost on the elder Brackin. The older man swallowed back the anger which mounted in his throat. He walked toward the boy. "Just wanted to check and see if you were okay." "Well, duhhhhh, I'm sitting here, alive and well, aren't I?" the boy responded with sarcasm, never taking his eyes from the night. Brackin stifled an impulse to strike the child. Petey sure didn't make it easy. Aaron Brackin started across the small room. As he approached the boy, he changed his course and walked toward the twin size bed instead. With a heavy sigh, Brackin sat down on the bed, closest to Pete. The room was close with the silence between the two individuals. Pete waited, barely breathing, wondering what his father wanted. "Pete," the elder Brackin began. The boy stiffened, but he didn't acknowledge his name. Aaron watched the boy's back for a moment, then continued. "Pete, your mother is worried about you." This brought a bitter laugh from the child. "What you mean, *Dad*, is that she's pissed off at me, right?" Brackin's face reddened. "Watch your mouth, kid." Brackin caught himself before he said anything further. Pete, expecting much worse, watched Brackin from his side vision. He noted his father's struggle for composure and this interested him. Usually his old man didn't bother to move past the yelling and threatening stage. Pete knew very well that Aaron Brackin had not wanted another child. He knew that his father had an older son somewhere up north whom Brackin had worshipped then lost touch with after a bitter divorce and custody proceeding. Pete also knew that Brackin suspected that Pete wasn't his child, but that he wanted Bunnie enough to ignore this suspicion. Yep, Aaron Brackin wanted his mother, Pete knew, but not the kid. "Sorry," the boy conceded also. "I didn't mean to *tick* Mom off, but it really doesn't matter to me if I wear Hanes or Fruit of the Loom ." Pete refocused on the night, his stare too hard to be real. Aaron sighed again. "Son," he said heavily, "I don't think she really cares about the underwear thing . . . she didn't even mention that to me. She's worried, though, about your insisting on buying the cross." Aaron gave Pete a moment to digest this information before continuing. "She thinks you might be into some strange religious thing--something you picked up on the internet--maybe some cult. Me . . . I'm not too concerned 'cause I think I know where you're coming from." "Mars?" the boy said, his sarcasm so thick it was spreadable. To Pete's surprise, Brackin laughed. This caused the boy to turn and face his father. "No, a little closer to home, I think," Brackin said. He gestured with his head downward. "Like the stash you keep under your bed here." Before Pete could react, Aaron reached down and pulled the box of comic books from under the bed frame. He retrieved the first one, "Poltergeist Parables," and began thumbing through it. Keeping his eyes on the book's pages, Aaron spoke softly to his son. "I think you think you found yourself a vampire." Pete's mouth dropped open. A sudden flash of lightening sent an electrical current of light through the room, brightening it to the point of blindness. The sudden loud clamor of thunder made the boy jump in surprise. Aaron Brackin sat on the bedside, calmly flipping through the comic's pages. He turned the magazine back to the cover, shaking his head. "When I was your age, this thing cost twelve cents," Brackin said with a wry smile. "Of course, my allowance was a dollar a week back then. And, I will admit, the artwork sure has improved since then. Back in the early sixties, it was a fifty/fifty chance that the hero's face would be orange instead of fleshtone." Pete said nothing, his mouth still open slightly, his mind racing. Aaron slowly raised his eyes and looked at the boy. "Want to tell me about it?" Pete quickly gulped and assumed proper pre-teen indignity. He narrowed his eyes and snorted. "'bout what?" Aaron smiled thinly. "The vampire you think you found." Pete returned the smile, his own lips a slit imitation of his father's. "I don't know what you're talking about," the boy responded, "but if you came here to give me a lecture or something, why don't you just get to it." "You little prig," Aaron chuckled softly. "I really ought to smack you silly for your back-talking me, except for the fact that I'd have probably answered my old man the same if he'd come at me with a question like that." Pete's mouth started to drop open again at his father's response, but he caught himself. Aaron went on. "Okay, Pete, we'll play it this way if you want." Another loud clap of thunder shook the tiny room. Aaron hoisted himself from the bed and walked over to window next to the one where Pete sat. He looked out into the night, a funny look on his face. "You know, don't you, Pete, that I've probably forgotten more about vampire lore than you ever dreamed of knowing." Aaron cut his eyes to the boy and grinned. "You do know that I got my business start making B-movies with your Uncle Wolf don't you?" Pete nodded. He'd never really given it much thought. He knew his dad had once worked in the movies, but then, his dad had done a lot of things in his life, to hear him tell it. "Yea, Wolf and I had some good times scaring the hell out of people," Brackin nodded, a glimmer of forgotten youth lighting his eyes. "When I was your age, I lived and breathed stuff like Uncle Creepy and Vampirella . I had this plastic model of the Mummy that I chased your Aunt Linda with--probably aged her ten years that one summer. Gosh, but that was fun." Pete grinned despite himself. He'd met his Aunt Linda, a couple of times. She was a screamer, he remembered. They'd all been at her house in Montana, where she had a ranch of sorts, really just a scrub piece of land nestled up to a national park. Linda Stockwell fancied herself to be an artist, writing bad poetry (heck, it didn't even rhyme) and making wood art that looked like wild horses and Indians. Pete must have been four or five, because they'd already sent him to bed. It was real dark outside when a piercing screech from downstairs had startled the child awake. He'd been unable to move, he was so frightened. Pete had wet the bed that night. His smile faded. His mother had finally come to the room to check on him and discovered the soaked sheets. She'd helped him change the linens, reassuring him that it was just his father playing a prank on his Aunt Linda--something to do with plastic bugs and string. Just go back to sleep, Pete sweety--she'd kissed the child's forehead and slipped out of the room. Peter Brackin hadn't been able to go back to sleep that night. Finally, he'd slipped from the bed and ventured out into the hall. He'd knelt by the top of the stairs and listened to the conversation between his father and aunt's husband, learning of his mother's suspected betrayal. It was about that time that Peter began to hate his father. "Yea, we had some good times, Wolf and I," Brackin continued, lost in his musings. "I was the idea man, but it was your Uncle Wolf who could make the magic. Even when we were kids using the eighteen millimeter, he could take a rubber hose and make it dance like a spider, or take a mound of trash and be able to convince anyone that it was an alien world. God, there's no telling what he'd have been able to do today, with computer graphics and all." Brackin turned to his son, his voice soft. "But he didn't live to see this new age of horror, Pete. Died twenty years ago from some bug he caught on a location shoot. After that, I sold the company, but took most of my buy out in stock options. The rest, as they say, is history." Pete gave his dad a sneer. "Is there a moral to this story, Mr. Peabody ?" Brackin instinctively raised his hand and Pete flinched backward. Thunder clanged in the boy's ears. Aaron caught himself and reached out with the hand, clasping the boy behind the neck. "Listen to me and listen to me good, Pete. I was a weird kid . . . maybe even weirder than you. I paid a price for it, too. Went through most of my school years known as Airhead Brackin. Got F's on theme papers because I wrote about blood and gore rather than flowers and family. Flunked art because if you put a piece of clay in front of me, you got back a gargoyle or other fanged creature rather than a piece of pottery." Aaron looked hard into the boy's eyes. "I know about them all, Pete--the werewolves, ghosts, zombies and especially . . . " Brackin released the word in a harsh whisper, "the vampires. I loved them, embraced them and they made me rich. And I can tell you one thing for sure, son . . . They don't exist." Brackin released Pete and pulled his hand back to his side. Outside, the rain began to fall softly. "Think about it, Pete," Brackin said matter-of-factly. "If vampires really existed, with the power they are supposed to have, why wouldn't they just corral us humans behind some fences so they'd have a readily available dinner source? We're definitely below them on the food chain, so it just stands to reason that we'd be like cows to them." Pete watched as his father began to slowly shake his head. Outside, the intensity of the rainfall increased. "No, they don't exist," Brackin said, returning his gaze to the night. "Not the real ones, anyway. Now the corporate kind . . ." He shrugged and grinned at the boy. Peter's face remained stony. Brackin turned back to the window. "They don't exist, Pete," he said softly. "They can't exist." After a few moments, Aaron Brackin turned to his son. "Let this thing go, Pete," Aaron instructed the boy in a no-nonsense tone. "If it continues to cause a problem for your mother, I'll have to take these," he indicated to the box of comics, "away from you, and I don't want to have to do that. Okay?" Without another word, Brackin turned and left the room. Left his unresponsive, insolent son staring out the window, exactly as he'd been when Brackin had first entered. The door clicked softly shut behind Pete, signaling that his father was gone. A sudden shift in the wind outside sent a splatter of rain into the youngster's face. Pete reached up to draw the window pane down and stopped. A motion outside caught his eye. In the next flash of lightning, he saw two running figures, emerging from the pasture area, racing toward the compound of buildings. The smaller one he recognized as Ms. Sanford, the teacher who stayed down at the stable with those bratty girls. The larger one . . . Pete recognized it too. Peter Brackin brought the window down with a shudder and quickly reached into his trouser pocket, touching the crucifix. "You're clueless as usual, Dad," Peter breathed softly. "Vampires exist--big time." The boy crossed to the box of comics and began going through them, searching. Finally, he found the issue he wanted, the one that told the story of the most famous vampire slayer in history and gave step-by-step instructions on how to destroy the fiends. Peter Brackin began reading in earnest. There was a lot of work to be done. ************************* End Part 9/64 ************************* The rain caught them between the grove and the compound. Of course, LaCroix could have beaten the downpour, but it would have meant leaving Julia behind, wondering where he'd gone. He decided, therefore, to follow her, gaiting at her speed, watching her gazelle-like movements as she dashed through the tree stand. She had scooped her treasures off the ground, looked at him once, then lifted her skirt to form a pouch over her stomach. She'd turned quickly, but not before she saw the smile of approval he gave her exposed form. Her back to him, he did not see the soft pursing of her lips, his favor giving her obvious pleasure. She darted away without a word. The chase, so to speak, was on. They moved quickly, but first the thunder, then the rain, overtook them. By the time they reached the old slave row, they were thoroughly drenched. Julia jumped to the sagging porch of the first shack and slipped through the half-hinged wood door. She was standing in the middle of the broken wood floor when LaCroix ducked inside the one-room dwelling. She still held the folds of her skirt aloft, cradling the objects she'd carried. Upon seeing the dark figure enter the quarters, Julia released the hem and allowed the treasures to fall, scattering at her feet. The rounded stone rolled across the planking, coming to rest against LaCroix's shoe. He looked down at the quartz, its auburn striation catching a glint of the lightning. LaCroix raised his eyes slowly. Julia Sanford moved toward the tall man, her skin still moist with the rain. The lightning bolted again, sending a shimmer through the room, making the woman's skin dance with glitter. Julia stood before him now, her head level with LaCroix's chest, her chin tilted upward so that she could control his eyes. She reached a hand out, resting her slender fingers on his chest. "You're drenched," she said easily. "You're going to catch your death if you stay in these wet clothes." LaCroix watched as she raised her other hand, joining both at his collar button. he found himself thinking. He should take her now and be done with it. As her fingers moved to undo the button, he caught her hands, staying their progress. LaCroix was suddenly determined. He clasped Julia's hands tightly. Confused, her eyes searched his. She could discern nothing. He gently, but gingerly, pushed her hands slowly from him, back towards her. His smile was strangely false, for her benefit only. "I assure you, Ms. Sanford, I will not 'catch my death.'" Julia blinked, breaking the connection she'd sought and been unable to find. She quirked her face into a protective mask, her grin sly, but forced. "My, my," she said, pulling her hands from his grasp. "But you do believe in being the gentleman to the extreme, don't you, Mr. LaCroix?" She stepped away from him, turning slightly and addressing him with mock amusement. "I never would have taken you to be quite so prudish." He didn't move, following her only with his eyes. So easy . . . "I am anything but prudish," he said, his voice low and full of conviction. Julia tilted her head slightly, involuntarily. The full impact of this simple statement's truth had an unnerving effect on her. She suddenly felt nervous, weak, flush--all with the anticipation of the promise of his words. As he came toward her, Julia felt her throat tighten and go dry. She opened her mouth slightly, trying to force herself to breathe. LaCroix reached a hand to her face, cupping her chin. His thumb began a gentle circular caress of her jawline. "Is it so important to *rush*, Ms. Sanford?" LaCroix's voice was low, almost hypnotic. "Can things not be taken more slowly . . . savored, if you will?" Julia's only answer was the slight moan which escaped her open lips. Her eyes were tightly shut, her face molded to his hand. Her heart told LaCroix all he needed to know. Its beat was swift and pounding, but not frantic. Her blood thick with the heat of her desire. "Slowly, Ms. Sanford," LaCroix said huskily, his voice a breath in her ear. "Enjoy the hunt, the chase, the dance . . . the rapture of final culmination. We have so much to look forward to, if we exercise restraint." She opened her eyes. A flash of lightning illuminated the understanding reflected there. LaCroix touched Julia's wet hair, stroking the fine auburn tresses gently. "So like the sunset," he murmured. This made Julia laugh. "More like the fires of hell, or so my father was fond of pointing out to me." The questioning look in LaCroix's eyes caused Julia to chuckle again. "Well, I guess I've gone and broken the romantic mood all to hell, haven't I?" Their embrace broken, both mentally and physically, Julia moved toward the sagging door, staring out into the fractured night visible through the sheeting drops. "Would it shock you, Mr. LaCroix," she said finally, "if you were to learn that I've been a very bad girl during my life?" LaCroix joined her at the cracked doorway and smiled down at the petite woman. "Would it shock you, Ms. Sanford, if I were to tell you the same of myself?" Julia looked up quickly, a mischievous light in her face. "Just my luck," she sighed. "No, Mr. LaCroix, it wouldn't. In fact, it would be par for my course. My attraction to *bad* men has been my downfall all my years here on earth." "Indeed?" LaCroix tilted his head in interest. In one graceful motion, Julia crossed her legs and dropped to the floor in a seated position, facing the rain. LaCroix joined her, but chose to sit with his legs stretched, crossed at the ankle, his back to the wall next to the door. At this angle, he could watch Julia's face as well as, with a slight turn of his neck, the weather outside. After a moment, Julia turned to him, only the suggestion of a smile on her lips. "Last chance to back out of having to listen to my sordid little life's story," she warned him. LaCroix was nonplussed. "I am interested in you, Julia," he said with sincerity. "I will listen to anything you wish to tell me." Almost unconsciously, he became the Nightcrawler, the Devil's Advocate, the persona which beckoned the nameless masses to share with him their darkest thoughts during the night hours. LaCroix's voice was smooth, soothing. Julia felt herself trusting him, a foreign feeling for the young woman. "If it helps," LaCroix continued in that soft, cultured tone honed fine by the ages, "I will not judge you or ask you to continue if the tale becomes painful to relate. The truth is, Julia, that I doubt you could say anything that would shock me." "No." She smiled at him. "I doubt that I could." She turned to the rain again. "I'll just bet the Tinker sisters are having a fit with the girls," she murmured. "They offered to watch them this evening, to allow me some time to myself, but I don't think they bargained on me disappearing for the entire night." "Shall we start with that, then?" LaCroix coaxed her gently. "Your involvement with the children?" Julia laughed, a touch of bittersweet. "Penance, Mr. LaCroix," she said. "A paying of the piper for ill deeds done." She leaned back, stretching her legs and resting herself on her elbows. The thunder was distant now, its echo hollow across the flattened land. "I was always a hellion, so to speak," Julia Sanford said, addressing the rain. "Gave Dad and Mum quite a bit of trouble during my 'formative' years, I'll have to admit. Everything from skipping school and minor drug use to shoplifting, running away and even participating in grand theft auto." She looked at LaCroix and tipped her head sexily. "Hard to believe about such a sterling character as myself, isn't it?" When LaCroix said nothing, she returned her eyes to the darkness beyond the doorway. "Eventually, my misdeeds caught up with me. And, unfortunately, though I was still in my teens, I was not a minor anymore. I received only probation, but it still went on my record." Julia's voice lowered an octave. "I tried, really tried, to straighten up after that. Went to University up north and even pulled good grades. Came back to Texas and was planning to go to grad school--make my parents proud of me." She paused. LaCroix reached out to her with his voice. "And?" Julia shrugged, her look sardonic. "A man, of course." Her jaw quivered slightly, but she held firm. "Just a guy. Dark, attractive, mysterious . . ." She grinned suddenly at LaCroix. "Sexy as hell." He answered her with a slight nod and curling of the lip. She sobered quickly and turned back to the rain. "Met him at a club. Moved him into my apartment a week later. Two weeks later, the police raided the place. He had disappeared, but I was arrested. I was tried on charges of harboring a fugitive, possession of stolen goods, possession of weapons, etc. He had stuff in the closet . . ." Julia stopped, shaking her lowered head. She lifted it, facing LaCroix. "Ten to twenty at a women's correctional facility in east Texas--served four and paroled for the rest." She paused, waiting for his reaction. LaCroix projected his lower lip slightly in thought. "Generous of the Texas penal system," he suggested finally, "considering the gravity of the crime for which you were convicted." Julia's face broke into a sudden, surprisingly bright expression. "You're right, of course," she laughed. "But the fact that I spent time in prison at all usually shocks people and puts them off." LaCroix shrugged and smiled. "I'm not *people*," he replied simply. She grinned, genuinely pleased at his response. "So it would seem, Mr. LaCroix. Not *ordinary* people, anyway." She reclined to a more supine position, laying on her side, one elbow to the ground, her chin propped on her hand. She faced him now, the rain forgotten. "With the parole came the necessities of freedom--rent, food, clothing, etc. My lawyer decided I was worthy of redemption and offered me a job. I'd used my prison time to study paralegal, so he hired me on as his assistant. The other part of the parole was," she winced slightly, "community service." LaCroix nodded with understanding. "The children." Julia grinned again. "Very good, Mr. LaCroix. Correct the first time. My sweet angels," she said drily. "My true penance." The auburn-haired woman shifted. LaCroix watched her languid movement. She was even more desirable when not trying to seduce him. Her scent was sharp in his nostrils. He held his control. "The firm that employs me wanted to 'give back' to the community and decided that mentoring would be a great way to do it. Touching the youth of today and the future of tomorrow and all that bull. Trouble was, the big shots, and even the little shots, were too busy bailing the hot shots out of legal trouble to play with the kiddies. Enter moi. Two birds with one stone. I take care of the mentoring project to make the law firm look good and I take care of my community service requirement in one fully paid vacation in south Louisiana." Her voice grew sober again. "The problem is that these kids are no joy ride to deal with. The only way they end up with me is if they are 'special needs.'" "Such as?" LaCroix prompted. Julia's response was almost a litany. "Mild physical handicaps, mental illness controllable by medication, behavioral problems . . . special needs." She looked at him and grinned ruefully. "They figured a tough gal like me, an ex-con, could handle these little jewels with *no* problem. Sheesh. Sometimes, they make me feel like a babe in the woods." "The one who approached us yesterday evening . . . she didn't appear too 'challenging,'" LaCroix commented. "Theresa?" Julia smiled. "No, Theresa's no problem. Her only claim to fame is that she is 'culturally' challenged." Julia sighed again, retracting her fierceness somewhat. "Fact is, this group I'm herding right now is probably my best group of kids. They're the young ones--ages five to eight. Good kids from poor homes mostly. I guess dealing with the other groups makes me cynical about all of them." LaCroix stretched, crossing his hands over his chest. "Do you find your work with the children . . . rewarding, Julia? Do you feel that you've made a difference in these young lives?" She blinked, surprised at his question. "I've never really thought about it. It's always just been my cross to bear--part of the conditions of my parole." "Then I will offer you this," LaCroix said, leaning toward her slightly. "Get past your bitterness." Julia sat up, shocked at his words. "Just when was I bitter?" she demanded. "Throughout your telling of your history," LaCroix said simply. "Though disguised with a smile and a matter-of-fact rendering, your tale was seething with your lack of self-worth." She opened her mouth to protest, but he stopped her with the softness of his voice. "I did not say that to offend you, Julia. My only desire is that you be able to put your past behind you and go on with your life." "Kind of hard when you have to answer to a parole officer every month." She frowned, her posture rigid, her eyes back to the rain. "I thought you weren't going to be judgmental." "How can I judge you, Julia, without judging myself?" LaCroix's meaning was clear and Julia looked at him with renewed interest. He sensed the flaring of her passion again. "How can I care for you, if you do not care for yourself?" She smiled at him. Her eyes were warm for a moment, then suddenly darkened, sparkling with the amusement of realization. "I see you've taken our 'caring' relationship to a first name basis, Mr. LaCroix. I thought you wanted to move things along slowly." The vampire quirked an eyebrow, amused. "I apologize if I've been too forward, Ms. Sanford. I will try to check that tendency in the future, if you wish." "What I wish, Mr. LaCroix," Julia said, "is that you'd kiss me." ************************ End part 10/64 *********************** A moment passed between them, a mere heartbeat of time, as LaCroix considered Julia's proposition. "So much for slow, hmm, Julia?" he finally responded in a calm voice. "It's not like I'm suggesting that we make love, Mr. LaCroix," Julia laughed. She shook her head, sending a fine mist shimmering from her already drying hair. "What's a kiss, anyway?" "A simple kiss," LaCroix instructed her as he rose to begin his advance, "can be either a beginning . . . or an ending. Are you truly prepared for both the former and the latter?" Her eyes widened at this thought. He watched her mind mull over his words, listened to the quickening of her heart as she considered both possibilities. "Are you ready to risk what might or might not be . . . on an impulsive act?" She sighed, strangled. "I see your point. But," she met his eyes narrowly, "I don't have to like it, do I?" He laughed, dropping to sit close to her. "No," he said. "In fact, I would be disappointed if you were to release your attraction to me so easily. Like you, I have other plans for our . . . relationship." "Ohhhhh," Julia chuckled, her eyes bright with humor. "Now, according to you, we've moved to having a *relationship.*" She lowered her lashes, her hazel eyes a shred of glimmer beneath them. "How come you get to set all the rules here, Mr. LaCroix?" "Because," LaCroix leaned forward, his lips a touch from hers, "I am older and wiser and have more experience." Julia averted her face slightly, brushing her cheek barely against his as she whispered, "What you are, Lucien LaCroix, is a terrible tease." "That, Julia Sanford," he whispered back, his lips tracing the contour of her throat, "is an understatement." Overhead, a sound alerted them to danger, causing both to look up simultaneously. The soggy boards overhead gaped and gave way, sending a shower of wood, shingles and rain pummeling down toward the reclining pair. LaCroix quickly reached for Julia, rolling and pulling her from harm's way. LaCroix landed on his back, with Julia pressed to his chest. Without the shielding of the roof above, the torrent from outside blew in, quickly soaking the two of them again. The initial shock of avoiding the near mishap passed quickly. Wet and gasping for breath, Julia raised herself slightly and looked down at LaCroix. His eyes were studying her face, and she fell into them, deep into the promise of those two unreadable pools of pure blue light. She was well aware of the protective action he'd taken on her behalf, of the protective way his hands still held her to him, the touch of his fingers gentle on her waist. Julia swallowed, her throat dry, her heart beating beyond control. "Vervain," LaCroix murmured. He'd finally identified the elusive fragrance within Julia's blood chemistry. He detached one hand from her waist and entangled his fingers in her fallen hair. "Hmmmm," Julia found her voice, smiling down at him. She grinned suddenly, mocking him. "The name's 'Julia,' Lucien . . . Julia, with a 'J.'" "I'm well aware of who you are, Julia," LaCroix's voice was almost capitulating. "The question is, what do I do with you?" Julia leaned down, pressing her chest hard against his. She made a loose fist with her right hand, turning the knuckles toward him. With that part of her fingers below the joint, she stroked gently across his face from his high cheekbone to the tip of his jaw. He closed his eyes, savoring her touch. The beast grew hard in his belly, pumping its heat into his blood. His hold on her tensed. "Lucien," her voice, so close to his ear now, was heavy with passion. "Do you get the impression that the fates are against our waiting?" Julia bent one leg at the knee, lifting it along LaCroix's thigh. Behind his eyelids, LaCroix knew the pupils burned gold. The control which he held so tenuously was almost gone, beyond his ability to retrieve. Julia, her hair brushing his face, moved her breath closer to his skin, her lips gliding along the roughness of his chin. "Personally," she whispered, "I think we've waited long enough." Her tongue touched his ear. The vampire growled deep within LaCroix's chest, threatening to explode his lungs. LaCroix crushed Julia to him, rolling their bodies until he covered her. His brain was on fire, his mouth sought the nape of her neck. "So be it," he said softly. Julia moaned ardently at the first touch of his lips on her skin. Felt the caress of their parting, the moist coolness of his inner mouth pressing against her flesh. Felt the press of his teeth. Her eyes flickered slightly with the first pain of entry. The sudden feeling of loss as her life seemed to rush out of her, to be replaced by something much darker than she could comprehend. Julia stood at the end of a long hallway, doorless, windowless, pitch and foreboding. She was lost in a sea awash with whispers and smoke wisps, trying to touch something ethereal which mockingly fled her grasp. With growing intensity, she felt the anguish. All of it. Almost two-thousand years of pain and suffering were visited on her in one moment of consummation, one act of lust. She tried to pull back from it, but it held her tightly, drowning her, drowning within her. At the end of the endless tunnel she saw light. Two small orbs, parallel, bobbing in front of her. She began to float toward them. The orbs, like flickering fire in a lantern, drew closer, taking on shape. "Lucien?" Julia called his name, her voice very weak. The orbs flickered, then reformed as his eyes. Glowing with such fierce, awful fire. "Lucien? Where is this place?" The sting at her throat intensified, obliterating all thought with the sheer agony of it. She gasped, choking for air. Tears streamed down her face, falling salty into her gaping mouth. "Lucien," she made the effort, weak as she now was, to call his name once more. "Lucien, help me!" His eyes, bright with the fires of hell, of having seen too much, were above her now. His voice, seductive and husky, spoke to her, pulling her back from the growing void of nothing. "Was it as you dreamed it would be, Julia?" his lips were dark above her, his face tinged with deep color she'd not noticed before. "Was the kiss all that you imagined?" From far away, she felt his hand slip underneath her, supporting her neck, turning her face to look at him fully. LaCroix opened his mouth, exposing the fangs which dripped with her blood. Julia blinked, confused. "What was it you said about your choices in life, Julia?" LaCroix's voice was soothing. She felt herself drifting again. "About 'penance' and 'paying the piper?' I'm afraid the bill has come due." He lowered her to the floor, rising to stand above her. Through the haze, she watched as he drew his hand across his mouth, wiping the last traces of her life from his lips. LaCroix turned, his back to her and walked toward the gaping doorway. Then, almost as an afterthought, he turned back. "I've been deserted by all my children, Julia," he said quietly. "I have no desire to sire another, only to face the possibility of having that one grow to hate me, to leave me alone again. I will not chance it, no matter how pretty your promises might be." "Goodbye, Julia." ************************* End part 11 ************************* Julia realized through the darkness which pressed into her mind. She watched as LaCroix moved ever more distant, almost a shade now. Perplexed, spurred by sudden anger, Julia began struggling against her death. Her fingers clinched, scraping the plank floor, leaving remnants of her nails splintered in the wood. <'I'm a survivor,> she screamed silently. <'This is not how I was meant to die!> "Come back here you bloody bastard!" her voice ached with her unheard shouting. "Come back and fix what you did to me!" LaCroix's face suddenly loomed over her. The thick lips, which his gods had formed to hold a perpetual sneer since birth, curled into the semblance of a cruel smile. "Fix it!" Julia spit at the spectre above her. "Finish it!" With a brief nod, the figure above her ducked and disappeared from her view. Once again she felt the piercing agony at her throat, a stabbing prick, hot as fire. Julia's eyelids fluttered. She awoke from the swirling darkness to the gray dampness of the storm filled sky. Instinctively, Julia reached for her throat. LaCroix stood across the room, near the door, his arms crossed over his chest, watching her with interest. Noting the alarmed look on her face, he became concerned. "What's wrong, Julia?" Julia's fingers had encountered tender, hot flesh at the spot on her neck from which the pain radiated. "I think something bit me," she said. LaCroix quickly came to her and knelt by her side. He began examining the area indicated and then nodded. "I believe that you've been stung by an insect," he announced. LaCroix looked upward, his eyes searching the area where the roof had caved in. Above, stirred from their nesting place, several hornets buzzed lazily. LaCroix met Julia's eyes. "Stay very still and let me examine the wound." With hands as skilled as a surgeon's, LaCroix's fingers began probing the swollen area at the base of Julia's neck. She bit her lip to