What Comes Around... by Imajiru imajiru@mindspring.com imajiru@unicorn-x.net 7/24/97 In the darkness, Natalie stirred, roused from slumber by causes indiscernible. "'s tha'?" she mumbled groggily, too tired to come to full consciousness, too aware of something amiss to slide readily back into sleep. A hand touched her hair, fingertips stroking the curls with exquisite gentleness, soothing her not-fully-realized apprehension. "It's all right," said Nick's voice, laced with tenderness. "Go back to sleep." Fatigue-fogged, Natalie believed him, and slept. ------- He listened, waiting for her respiration to even and slow; and when he was certain she was asleep, rose soundlessly from the bedside. Silently, he gestured to his visitor with a sharp jerk of his head, indicating that they were to move from the bedroom to a place where they might talk freely, without disturbing her anew. Nick didn't speak again until the bedroom door was securely closed, until they'd moved to another floor entirely. The simple decor of the living room seemed jarringly incongruous with the inhuman nature of his visitor. "What do you want?" he asked, without preamble. In the twilight darkness, Tracy's eyes gleamed gold, the feral flash of a leopard's eyes in deepest jungle. "We need to talk," she said. ------- Javier Vachon was not happy. The sounds of things crashing into walls and shattering was proof enough of that. The younger, weaker vampires unlucky enough to have been caught in the vicinity cringed at the evidence of his anger, fearfully wondering if they might be next to suffer the force of his wrath. Lucien LaCroix, of course, had no such fear; by contrast, he seemed amused. "Patience, my young friend," he counseled. "Patience." "I am *not* your friend," snarled Vachon, quite clearly at the end of his rope, "and what the hell do *you* know about patience?" This time, LaCroix laughed outright; the laughter was genuinely mirthful, rather than sardonic, but still it was not a pleasant sound. "My dear boy, I am far more of a friend to you than you realize," and the exaggerated tolerance in the velvety voice was an insult in itself. "And I have had cause to learn patience. As have you. A pity that you've been such a slow pupil." "Enough of your games, LaCroix!" In a saner mood, Vachon would have known better than to issue such a statement, but his fury had progressed too far for such rational judgement. "You know something," he challenged. "Tell me!" Again LaCroix laughed -- he hadn't been treated to any diversion so vastly amusing in quite some time -- and told him. ------- "No," Nick said, with finality. "Absolutely not." "Nick, *please*," Tracy begged. The fiery gold hue had long since faded from her eyes, replaced by desperation. He hesitated, and for the barest moment, she thought he might relent... As he moved toward her, pacing restlessly across the carpeted floor, his foot caught on something, and he nearly tripped. Reaching down, he picked it up, turned it over in his hands -- a remote-controlled racing car, shiny turquoise-green like the Caddy Nick had once owned, before circumstances had necessitated the station wagon he now drove. "I told Richie to put his toys away," he murmured, as if to himself. Glancing up at Tracy, his face altered, shifting into an expression of resolve -- and she was startled by the lines etched into his skin, the greying in his hair. Had it really been so long? Absently, she counted the years in her head, and realized that it had. "No, Tracy," said Nick, his voice gentler than it had been. "I understand, I empathize -- how could I not? But the risk is far too great." Worry altered his face further, deepening the wrinkles. "Our children need their mother," he said softly, "and so do I." "Natalie would help me!" An argument, and a cry of anguish; a final, heart-rending plea. "I know she would," replied Nick evenly. "Which is why you're not going to ask her." His eyes narrowed. "I'm just a mortal man," he continued, his words paralleling Tracy's thoughts exactly, "and there's very little I can do to stop you from doing as you wish. But I am not without resources of my own," and even that so-oblique mention of LaCroix caused Tracy to shiver involuntarily. "Leave Natalie be," Nick stated quietly, and his tone left no room for further debate. Tracy's expression hardened; she could feel the heat of the golden vampiric gaze creeping back into her eyes, and made no attempt to stop it. "I thought we were friends," she said, and the implication was clear: //not anymore.// Nick nodded, nearly imperceptibly; his voice, when he spoke, held regretful sadness. "I wish I didn't have to do this," he said softly. "But you're asking me to trade Natalie's life for yours, Tracy. And there are some things one cannot ask of friendship." Then the subliminal sound of vampiric movement caught their attention, and all at once, Vachon stood before them. His eyes were blazing, his entire posture bespoke of his rage; but his voice was even and perfectly polite. "Good evening, Mr. Knight," he said, as courteously as if addressing a stranger. "Good evening," Nick responded, warily. "I thought I might drop by and say hello," Vachon continued, paused a beat, then added, "and remind you of the terms of the agreement you made, so long ago." Nick's chin lifted slightly, defiantly; but his answer was respectful, even deferential. Once he had been the stronger one, but that time had faded into the past; and caution dictated his words. "I remember it well," he said, though of course they both knew it. "Natalie's... specialized knowledge... is to remain hers alone, and not to be shared with any other. Those are the terms the Community agreed to, upon which her continued safety is contingent. I need no reminder of that." Vachon nodded, his expression softening just a bit. "In that case," he said, almost nonchalantly, "I shall be on my way. Come, Tracy," and suddenly his voice was steel; he extended one hand toward her, an invitation and a threat. Tracy glared at him, and for one chill second, it seemed as if she might refuse; finally she wilted, took the hand and let Vachon pull her toward him -- but her last glance back at Nick was pure venom. Her vampire master slid one arm around her shoulder, less an embrace than a restraining grip. "You're a wise man, Knight," Vachon commented, a trace of the old devil-may- care tone in his voice. "More so than I would have given you credit for." Nick didn't answer, instead meeting Tracy's gaze steadfastly, and not flinching from the accusation and hurt betrayal he found there. Then a rush of swift movement; then, they were gone. ------- Alone at last, standing in his living room amidst the litter of toys and clothing and dirty dishes and all the detritus of a too-busy mortal family, Nick expelled a long, long breath. He put aside the toy that he still held, making a mental note to scold the children about the sorry state of the living room in the morning -- or then again, maybe not. Nat complained sometimes that he spoiled the kids rotten, but he'd long ago come to the conclusion that life was something to be savored, enjoyed to its fullest -- and children were children for such a little while. What was a little clutter, after all? Nowhere near as important as life, and living. Carefully, he tiptoed up the stairs. A quick check in the children's rooms, just to reassure himself that they were safe and sound and sleeping; then back to the master bedroom where Natalie sprawled in slumber, blissfully unaware of what had transpired. No doubt, she would be furious with him should she ever discover that he had assumed the right to make her choice for her -- but then, Natalie had always had a certain cavalier disregard for the dangers that vampires represented, to mortals like themselves. That courage had saved his life and his soul and given him back his humanity, once upon a time. It might have done the same for Tracy -- but it might also have resulted in death for Natalie, perhaps for them all. Nick had no intention of letting her find out. She woke up a little as he drew back the covers and slid into bed beside her. "Whassamatter?" she murmured querulously, as perceptive as ever even half-asleep. "Is something wrong?" He slid his arms around her and snuggled close. "Nothing, Nat," he whispered into her ear. "Nothing at all." ...Goes Around... July 27, 1997 -------/continued from "What Comes Around..." From her hidden vantage point, she watched the happy family at the table. Daddy at the head of the table, Mommy serving dinner, three little children arguing and fidgeting and complaining about impending broccoli. Such a cozy, homey domestic scene. Once, she'd expected to eventually have something just like it. The liar. The hypocrite. And to think, she'd once respected this man, had once looked up to him as an example of what she might be. Even after she'd learned of his true nature. Even after she'd become a vampire herself. She couldn't blame Javier for bringing her across; she'd been dying, after all. And he loved her, she knew that: loved her as much as he was capable of loving anything other than his own freedom. Not his fault for loving her. Not his fault for wanting to keep her with him, trapped in eternity. Javier had never been anything but straightforward about how he felt: about vampirism, about her, about their future together. Nick, on the other hand... What great, lofty ideals he'd had. He'd spoken to her of these things, in private, away from their creators' watchful hearing: how humanity was to be valued above their own dark existence, how he hoped devoutly to find a solution to their dismal plight. So earnestly, he'd spoken; and she'd believed him. Believed that he meant what he said. Believed that *he* believed. But now that he'd achieved his goal, how quickly his tune had changed. //So much for the great, lofty ideals,// she thought bitterly. After all the time he'd spent encouraging her to find her own lost mortality, now suddenly he'd denied her the chance. And why? Because *he* might be held accountable. Much easier, after all, to spout rhetoric, than to stand up and defy convention and actually do something that might cause oneself unwanted scrutiny. What a coward. And to think, she'd once *respected* this man. He'd infected her with his own longing, and now she was left to suffer alone. Look at him, so happy with his family, living his heart's desire, never giving a moment's thought to the damage he'd done, or the broken souls he'd strewn in his wake. Look at him, the selfish bastard. Look at him, Tracy, and let the hate fill you. So smugly secure he was, ensconced in the sphere of LaCroix's protection, believing that none would defy such ancient power. Perhaps wiser vampires would have indeed been deterred. But she had nothing left to lose. So happy, he was. She'd been that happy, once: happy to be alive, securely enfolded in dark power, in Javier's eternal embrace; so happy to be where she felt she truly belonged. Until *he* had begun whispering discontent in her ear, about things that should and should not be. Until *he* had begun contaminating her with his own doubts. Until *he* had finally inspired her to seek answers of her own. But of course, once an answer had been found, he'd backed away. And why? Because *he* might suffer the consequences of what *he* had brought about in the first place. //So much for friendship,// Tracy thought. Javier had warned her, the night he'd dragged her away from this very same cozy country home; the night she'd gone to Nick for help, expecting to receive it. "Trace, the others are beginning to talk," he'd said -- gently, despite his anger. "Bad enough that you're looking for a cure; but you *know* the deal about Knight. Total hands-off policy. He's LaCroix's golden boy, even now, and no vampire with any sense comes within twenty miles of his place, for *any* reason." He'd paused, looking deep into her pale eyes, apparently trying to 'talk sense' to her. "Keep this up, Trace, and your reputation will be mud," he'd emphasized, "and when LaCroix and the Enforcers come, I won't be able to help you." Startled, she'd nearly laughed in his face. How could Javier think that she cared about anything as trivial as her *reputation*? Proof that for all their closeness, he really didn't know her at all. Nick had taken away her peace of mind, and then he'd taken away her chance at a cure, and now she was expected to just walk away from the whole thing and let him get away with it cold? Fat chance of that. If no one else was going to hold Nick accountable for his hypocrisy, then *she* was, and to hell with the price she'd have to pay. She'd lost everything that mattered to her. She didn't care what she lost now. And for all her plotting and planning, it was so simple. Just one unguarded moment, as he hauled a bag of household trash out to the curb for collection. He never even saw her coming... ------- "It's done," said LaCroix, without preamble; "justice has been served." One of his lackeys handed him a towel, and he wiped his hands clean fastidiously, removing the ashes -- Tracy's ashes, thought Vachon, with a shudder. He'd expended all his rage and pain in his futile efforts to save her; now, he simply felt numb. Of course, the bottle of vintage stock that LaCroix had so kindly provided had helped. As had the fact that he'd seen this coming for a long time. It had been a nightmare, but not an unexpected one. "You should never have brought her across, you know," said the elder vampire casually, as another of his lackeys filled a wineglass and handed it to him deferentially. "She was fatally flawed from the beginning; never quite sane. You really must exercise better judgement in the future." Vachon stared hard at LaCroix, in disbelief; but some vestige of caution prevented him from making a cutting comment about *his* choices... And LaCroix laughed. "You see?" he remarked, with that nonchalant superiority that always set Vachon's teeth on edge. "A wise man knows when to preserve the status quo," he continued, a velvety threat as smooth as the finest liquor, "and keep his mouth shut." Though there was a comment he might have made about *that*, too, Vachon simply turned his wineglass slowly, watching the light skitter across the crimson fluid, and did not reply. For he knew the truth of it: what Nick had done to provoke the situation for which Tracy was taking the whole of the blame. How Nick had disregarded all warnings, all tenets of the vampiric codes of conduct, and had prodded and goaded Tracy into feeling guilt for her existence. *That* was the crime, not Tracy's admittedly misguided vengeance. For she could have simply gone to Natalie, if she was going to do something so reckless as defy LaCroix's edicts; gone to the one who actually HELD the key to the cure she sought, not the self-righteous one who'd claimed the right to decide... but that was another story. Even now, the younger vampires were busily gossiping about her, about her exploits, her supposed insanity. "Tracy's Folly," they were calling it, and the news was spreading through their tiny little community like wildfire. And Vachon simply couldn't bear it. He would not openly defy LaCroix. Only someone like Tracy could possibly be so stupid -- or so brave. But a whisper could do as much damage as a shout. Nick had proven that conclusively, when he'd inspired Tracy's discontent in the first place. Now Vachon would whisper -- and the truth would be known. It was the least he could do to honor the memory of the woman who he had loved more than any other. It would be known that Nick was no martyred saint, that he was at least as much to blame as Tracy was, no matter how much LaCroix might want to 'preserve the status quo' and the unblemished memory of his golden-boy son. With enough whispering, Tracy would be remembered, not as the crazy one, but as someone who'd been swayed and then betrayed -- foolish, perhaps, but not *nuts* -- who'd then dared to exact retribution in true vampire tradition. She would be vindicated, after a fashion -- perhaps not openly, but the truth *would* be known. Even if only whispered in the shadows. Vachon glanced sideways, feeling acutely the lack of her presence at his side; sipped at the wine in his glass, and began to plan. -------/continued in "...And Around" ...And Around July 27, 1997 -------/continued from "...Goes Around..." He was so *cute*, darkly handsome with just a hint of danger, and he played the guitar like an angel... She'd waited breathlessly at the club's backstage door, just to catch a glimpse of him up close; and wonder of wonders, he'd *noticed* her, had swept her along and into the limousine before she'd quite realized what was happening. She was too excited to worry about the fact that she was only sixteen, and far too young to be doing such things; and when she found herself in his hotel room, all she felt was gleeful anticipation. In the limo, he'd asked her name, and she'd given it to him eagerly, as she now hoped to give him so much more. "Terisa Lambert-Knight," he'd repeated, the syllables rolling off his tongue in a sultry purr, making her tremble. "Tracy..." She'd shaken her head. "Nobody calls me Tracy," she'd told him. Once it had been all she was ever called, but her mom had put a stop to that around the time her dad had died, and she'd been strictly Terisa ever since. "You're Tracy," he'd said definitely. "Tracy is a lovely name," and his arm had slipped around her shoulders; she'd snuggled close to him, thrilled beyond belief, and pleased to have a name to call herself that was his and his alone. Now she stood before him, clothed only in the moonlight that streamed through the open window, trembling from the air-conditioning and from excitement and nervousness; but the way he looked at her, all appreciation and desire, filled her with a hot longing unlike anything she'd ever known. "Tracy," he said softly, and reached out to run his fingers through her short blonde hair. Mom had been vehemently opposed to her haircut, so much that she'd had to sneak off to do it; when she'd come home with her fashionable new 'do, Mom had stared and then burst into tears. She'd felt guilty ever since. But now, the way Johnny Vanguard was looking at her, she was glad she'd dared to defy her mom -- she felt beautiful, sexy even, despite her rail-thin physique and near-total lack of boobs. "I... I've never done this before," she stuttered, instantly damning herself for revealing her lack of experience. But he only smiled. "I know," he murmured. "You smell so sweet..." He took another stop closer, and his hands slid over her skin carefully, so gently. She took a step toward him, greatly daring, and was rewarded by his embrace. His lips brushed against hers, and she moaned. "Johnny..." A slow chuckle, deep in his throat. "Stage name," he said. "Call me Javier." "Ha-vee-air," she tried out the unfamiliar syllables, and was rewarded by another kiss. His lips trailed along her cheek, toward her earlobe. "Tracy," he whispered, as if it were a prayer. "Beautiful Tracy." "Please," she begged, teenage shyness suddenly overcome by the flood of emotion and desire that washed over her, "oh, Javier, please, take me..." He sucked in a sharp breath, as if it were all he could do not to. "Patience," he scolded her lightly, teasingly, "patience, little Tracy. I want you to remember this... for as long as you live." Johnny -- Javier, she reminded herself -- lifted her and carried her to the bed, and she clung tightly to him, feeling secure in his arms -- he set her down gently and began to lavish her with kisses, from head to toe. Eventually, as things grew more heated, she helped undress him, eager fingers fumbling with the fastenings of his clothes. And finally, they lay together, skin pressed against skin, and she was happier than she'd ever imagined being. "Beautiful Tracy," he murmured, voice roughened by desire and yet still so soft, "soon you will belong to me -- forever." She should have been apprehensive, she supposed, but all she could feel was joy. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glance of the bedside clock. Two fifty-seven a.m. -- 'way past her curfew. //Mom's gonna be *pissed*,// she thought ruefully. Then all thought fled, as she felt his weight settle atop her, and waited for the moment of penetration that would make her a woman. His face buried against the side of her neck. "Calla lilies," he breathed reverently. And then there was a sharp pricking sensation at the corner of her neck and shoulder, and the world floated away..... -------/end (end?)