From v4s@fkfanfic.com Wed Apr 1 14:11:21 1998 Date: Tue, 31 Mar 1998 04:15:58 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: fkfic-l@lists.psu.edu Subject: V4S: Presumed Dead -- Part 1 (11/15) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #13 Episode Title: "Presumed Dead -- Part 1" "Air" Date: March 27, 1998 Author: Stephanie S. Babbitt Part 11 of 15 This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Copyright 1998 Stephanie S. Babbitt -------------------------- PRESUMED DEAD Natalie paused outside the familiar door, hesitating as she reached for the touchpad to enter the security code. She'd punched in the numbers maybe 300 times in the past six years, but she felt nonetheless as though she were on the border of a foreign land. This had practically been a second home to her once; now, the memories of how she had nearly died here made her uncomfortable at best. She wondered if she would ever again approach this place without trepidation. She sighed. "You sure as hell can't go home again," she muttered to herself, finally punching the buzzer instead of the security code. Nick's voice responded to the buzzer so quickly, she realized he must have been waiting at the elevator door. "Nat?" he said, the speaker's static unable to conceal the anxiety in his tone. She coughed to clear her throat and modulated her tone to sound as casual as possible. "It's me. I know I'm a little late, but the roads were kind of slick...." The last part of her speech was drowned out by the buzzer that unlocked the door. She stepped into the tiny hallway and entered the elevator. As the door slid shut behind her, she took a deep breath, held it, and released it slowly. "Chin up, girl," she murmured, setting her jaw in as firm a line as she could manage. She could not allow this place to frighten her. The elevator had scarcely ground to a stop when Nick pulled open the door. His face was such a mixture of his many years' dignity mingled with little-boy nervousness that the corners of Natalie's lips quirked upward in a smile. Nick always had been, and probably always would be, a study in contradictions. "Hi," she said, trying to keep just the right balance of friendly and businesslike. "It's been awhile." She glanced past him pointedly. "Put up any new paintings since I was here last?" She brushed past him into the room, setting her pocketbook on the table. "Uh, no," he stammered slightly. "I, uh, haven't-- here, let me get your coat." He helped her slide the garment off her shoulders. He hung the coat quickly on the rack and turned back to face her. For an uncomfortable moment, they just stared at one another, then Nick caught his breath and spoke up. "I thought you might be cold when you got here, so I made coffee. Would you like some?" Natalie's eyebrows went up in surprised appreciation. "That sounds wonderful," she said sincerely. "I am a little chilled, especially with this sleet coming down." She rubbed her hands for emphasis. He smiled, clearly happy that he'd done well. Damn, but that smile could still stop her heart. "Would you like some of that amaretto stuff in it?" he asked over his shoulder as he headed for the kitchen. "You left some here, you know." Her surprise rose a notch. Nick Knight, conscientious enough to think of flavored coffee? "Sure!" she replied, watching him in amazement. Maybe this visit would be easy after all.... She sat down in the armchair and arranged her skirt to cover her knees modestly. A moment later, Nick appeared silently at her side, bearing not one, but two steaming mugs of honey-almond scented coffee. She took hers gratefully and wrapped her hands around it. He sat down on the couch, at the end closest to the armchair she occupied, and took a tiny sip from his mug before setting it down on the table. Natalie smiled at him in spite of herself--he was trying *so* hard. "So, Nat," he said, clearly working hard to stay casual, "what's up that we need to talk about?" It hurt her to see the spark of hope in his eyes. Clearly Nick still believed that everything would spontaneously return to normal one day, as if nothing had ever happened between them. She took a deep breath and sighed. The light in Nick's eyes dimmed considerably. She decided to come straight to the point. "I've got a vampire situation on my hands, and I could use your advice, or possibly even your help," she said quickly, looking at the mug in her hands instead of into his face. "A vampire situation?" His voice was suddenly dark, menacing, all business. "Nick," she said, setting her mug on the table and looking up to meet his eyes, "Vachon's alive. But he's sick--Divia's attack is still affecting him." "I know," Nick replied flatly, the voice becoming even darker. "You do?" Natalie's voice was sharp with surprise. "Why didn't you tell me?" "I just found out myself. But you don't need to worry about it--it's being handled. The less you're involved in the vampire community, the safer it is for you. You know that," Nick said, a hint of gentleness returning to his voice. "Yeah, well, that's a lovely sentiment, but this particular situation has crash-landed in my lap, and now I've got to see if I can come up with a cure for bite- transmitted, intermittent vampire psychosis," she said, trying to stay light. "Have you ever seen this type of thing before?" Nick's reply was stony silence. She glanced at his face only to see that the primary emotion there was ill- concealed anger. "Natalie," he said sharply, "why should *you* be involved in Vachon's situation at all?" The voice held an odd mixture of protectiveness and outright jealousy. She looked at him blankly for a moment, taken aback. "Why--why shouldn't I be?" she demanded, recovering. "I'm a doctor, for one thing! I helped him with the fever, he knows I'm working on a cure for you...." Nick was on his feet. "Vachon had no right to drag you into this!" he said loudly. "I'm going to have enough trouble trying to keep the police investigators from finding out too much, but if you get involved, the situation could get completely out of control! Don't you realize that you could be killed if other vampires see you with him?" Natalie stared at Nick for a moment in disbelief. "This, from a vampire who is working with a mortal doctor to achieve a reversal of the condition?" she said, her voice rising. "Since when have you been so concerned about what other vampires see or think? And for that matter, why should my involvement make things worse, given that I'm trying to *cure* him and stop the undesirable behavior?" She was on her feet as well. "Nat, this has gone beyond the point where you can help!" Nick insisted, a little more calmly. "Vachon is out of control. He's not just killing for food. He's killed another vampire without cause--in front of *witnesses* yet-- which is the height of stupidity for a vampire." He turned to face her, clasping one hand in the other in repressed frustration. "He's endangering the Community. He's endangering you! How can you be sure he won't turn on you? In this world of vampires, rogues are an unacceptable danger." Natalie just stared back at Nick, feeling both aggravated and perplexed. Vachon? A rogue? For a moment, a bizarre image floated into her head of Vachon juxtaposed with a rampaging elephant. Pursing her lips, she ducked her head and shook it slightly to focus her thoughts again. Nick apparently misread the gesture as strong disagreement, because he frowned and gripped her by the shoulders, startling her. "Nat, I'm serious about this," he said forcefully. "He's dangerous, and if he can't control himself, he'll have to be destroyed. You can't do anything about it." When she still didn't respond, he began to look slightly desperate. "There are just some things you can't help," he insisted. "Don't you remember what happened with Richard?" At the mention of her brother's name, Natalie felt something inside her snap. She stiffened visibly, and a sudden flush of anger rose in her cheeks. Did she *remember*? A better question would have been: was there anything that *didn't* remind her of the bitter emptiness in her life since her baby brother had died screaming before her eyes? She jerked away from Nick and stepped back, breathing hard. He ran a hand through his hair, then gestured widely. "Don't you see?" he tried. "I don't like it any more than you do, but Vachon has to be stopped. There isn't *time* for you to try to cure him." "He's *not* out of control, he's sick! He's teaching *me* control, for God's sake! But that's not the issue, is it?" Natalie retorted angrily, any previous determination to be pleasant completely forgotten. "The issue is, you don't trust me. You don't trust my judgment. In fact, I'm willing to bet that you don't even believe I can cure him." She was surprised at the rush of anger she felt building in her chest, surging forward like water over a dam. It felt righteous and somehow satisfying, even as she imagined her own eyes burning red with the sheer power of it. Utterly without fear of the vampire she knew was just under the surface of Nick's controlled exterior, she stepped toward him. "You know what I think, Nick?" she continued, her voice practically daring him to challenge her. "You don't have any faith in me or my abilities, and what's more, I don't think you ever did." "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Nick shouted, his eyes ice-blue with hurt and rage. "If I never believed in you or your abilities, then why would I have spent all these years working with you to find a cure? Why would I have drunk all those awful protein shakes, or tried the litovuterine? Why would I have stayed here at all, when I could have--and probably should have--moved on half a dozen times?" Natalie's face was white, and her hands were clenched into fists. "I don't know why you do what you do. I never have known," she said quietly, hatred in her voice. "But I do know this. If you had faith in me, if you had *ever* had faith in my abilities, you wouldn't have chosen to let me die! You *knew* how I felt about that. But faith takes guts, doesn't it? It's just so much easier to let death clean up your problems, isn't it? You killed my brother, since you insist on using him as an example, because *you* couldn't control him! Then you decided to let me die, so you wouldn't have to deal with your messy vampire issues-- and now you want me to back off and let Vachon be slaughtered for something that's not his fault? You lazy, faithless son of a bitch!" All the anger drained out of Nick's face, and he stood, looking at Natalie in shock. She advanced on him, her jaw set. She knew she wasn't being entirely fair, but the words came almost of their own volition. "If you'd believed in me, even for *one* second, you'd have brought me across--all the way across, not like the sideshow freak I am now--and given me a chance to cure us both. I thought you had faith in me, in what we could accomplish together, but I was wrong. I was *so* wrong. Instead of finding a future full of opportunities, I woke up on this same floor dying, all by myself. By myself! So much for your faith." She was white down to her fingertips, and her voice shook with rage. Nick stood rooted, speechless, unable even to protest. "And now I'm trying to clean up after your mess-- yours and LaCroix's! What happened to Vachon wasn't his fault. And what's worse, he's lost everybody that he was close to--Screed, Urs, and Tracy. He woke up miserably sick and all alone. Alone, Nick! Does *that* sound familiar? But then, you don't care about anybody else's suffering-- just your own!" With a final fierce glare at him, Natalie spun on her heels and headed for the door. She snatched up her purse, then turned abruptly and took a few steps back toward Nick. "I want you to know this, Nick," she said, her eyes flashing. "I *am* going to cure Vachon. I am not going to abandon him to the wolves. I am going to give him his life back, and I am going to do it if I have to fight you and your damnable Community every step of the way. If you ever believed in anything, then believe me now." With that, Natalie turned around, grabbed her coat off the hook, and stalked out the door to the stairwell, slamming it solidly behind her. (to be continued ...) -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@fkfanfic.com. From v4s@fkfanfic.com Wed Apr 1 14:11:28 1998 Date: Mon, 30 Mar 1998 23:29:45 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: fkfic-l@lists.psu.edu Subject: V4S: Presumed Dead -- Part 1 (12/15) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #13 Episode Title: "Presumed Dead -- Part 1" "Air" Date: March 27, 1998 Author: Stephanie S. Babbitt Part 12 of 15 This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Copyright 1998 Stephanie S. Babbitt -------------------------- PRESUMED DEAD Nick sat on the couch, brooding, a bottle of cow's blood open beside him. Natalie was such a becursed puzzlement to him! Over 800 years, the ability to charm women had come to him as easily as thought. Women--shy and bold, innocent and wicked--had always gravitated to his side, with or without invitation. Pleasing them often had been as simple as offering a smile and a few well-chosen words. Why, why was he so inept at choosing the right words to say to Natalie? But then, he realized, what he'd *said* to her--now or at any time in the past--was by far the least of the infractions he'd committed against her. How many times had her safety, indeed her very life, been threatened because of him? She'd made the choice to help him freely, he reminded himself. But how informed a choice was it? How could any mortal ever imagine what it meant to tangle with a vampire? He'd destroyed so many through the years simply by entering their lives. Mortal friends of his had died by the dozens at the hands of other vampires (LaCroix, more often than not); others had taken their own lives because of what they'd seen in him, or seen in themselves after knowing him. And what of those who dared to love him, or accept his love? He shuddered, seeing flashes of faces now long gone, faces that accused him with their innocent affection: Amalia, Liselle, Alyce Hunter, Sylvaine, Alyssa.... As much as those memories hurt him, the knowledge of what he'd taken from Natalie was an even sharper sting. He should have just turned and walked away that night. He shouldn't have listened, shouldn't have trusted himself to have control. But it was done, and now...what? What was left? He'd certainly been mistaken to think that their friendship was healing! What he'd seen in Natalie's eyes was hate, pure and simple. And that hate wasn't directed at the vampire. It was directed at *him*. Clearly, whatever words of forgiveness she'd spoken before had never reached her heart. Picking up the remote, he pressed a button, raising the blinds with a noisy rattle. He tossed the remote onto the table with a follow-through that an experienced eye would have attributed to skills with swordplay. Scowling, he sank back into the couch, arms crossed in a satisfying sulk. He was still sitting there when LaCroix breezed silently into the loft and settled into the armchair beside him with a cheerful expression that only served to increase Nick's black funk. "Poor Nicholas," said LaCroix without a hint of actual sympathy. "Surely life could not have been so unfair as to deposit additional worldly burdens onto your already laden shoulders?" Nick rolled his eyes toward LaCroix with an expression of disgust. "Let's just say that I've had better days," he muttered, his voice dark. "Given that you've lived 300,000 of them, give or take a few hundred, I suppose that's a fair assumption," LaCroix replied, his good humor indefatigable. Nick uncrossed his arms and sat up, losing patience. "Why are you here, LaCroix?" he asked coldly. LaCroix leaned gracefully onto the arm of the chair. "I thought I would bring you some news that might actually cheer you up, if indeed that is ever possible," he said. When he got no response save an uncharitable frown, he continued. "As you requested, I explored some of my resources within the Community, and I have gleaned some interesting information about your 'rogue' vampire. It would seem that his disruption of your...idyllic...existence will continue for only a very short time." LaCroix punctuated his statement with a self-satisfied smile and eyes that sparkled with amusement at Nick's sour mood. Nick's expression changed to one of grudging interest. "Meaning?" he asked. "The fool has managed to acquire some rather determined enemies," LaCroix replied smoothly. "Last night, he murdered a young vampiress brought across less than a year ago. Apparently, he subjected her to some rather unpleasant physical experiences--" he paused, inclining his head, "--much, as you have observed, like those which Divia inflicted on her victims." An expression of distaste crossed LaCroix's features as he spoke of his daughter, but it quickly faded, replaced with his customary calm. "Having injured her beyond her ability to struggle or escape, he left her to be consumed by the rays of the rising sun." Nick looked at LaCroix with revulsion. LaCroix smiled. "Whatever is this, Nicholas? Concern for the misfortune of one of your own kind?" His voice held a goading tone. Nick shook his head slightly. "That's torture," he replied quietly. "That sort of cruelty is uncalled for, no matter what the circumstances or whom the victim." "Others would agree with you," said LaCroix. "Apparently, this fledgling was a favorite among the young ones of the Community, as is her master, who is less than a century old himself." He shook his head. "Children having children...simply deplorable." Nick eyed LaCroix. "Did someone see all this? Why didn't anyone help her?" LaCroix replied evenly, "No, there were no immediate witnesses. Her master was passionately devoted to her and apparently was aware of her torment through their link. He arrived to her rescue just in time to witness her screaming dissipation into carbonized debris. Now, he is relating this story to any vampire who will listen in an effort to drum up support for his cause." Nick's blue eyes widened ever so slightly, and his expression darkened with concern. "So word is spreading, then?" he asked quickly. "Oh, yes, Nicholas," LaCroix said. "The youngest ones, especially, are taking the news with very little humor. You know things in the Community have been rather volatile recently. The hunter incident was unpleasant enough, but having a sadistic killer within their own ranks has proved to be more than many are willing to bear." He folded his hands sedately. "I believe I can say with certainty that our...friend...will find himself at the mercy of a rather unsympathetic hunting party before the week is out." A smile of satisfaction crossed his features briefly, then faded into an expression of exaggerated concern as he noted Nick's worried face. "Why, Nicholas," he chided, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Whatever is troubling you so? Surely you aren't wrestling with your eternal dilemma as to the sanctity of life where this rogue is concerned?" The only answer he got was a hostile stare from beneath furrowed brows. He chuckled softly. "Poor, poor Nicholas. I never believed that your right-to-life ethic included vampires, given your own history of snuffing their lives to suit your perverted morality." LaCroix's voice became colder, and a raspy anger began to insinuate itself into his tone. "Even your own family--and your own children--haven't been immune to your crusades in that regard." Nick looked up sharply. "That's irrelevant," he snarled. "You know Vachon has no link to me. I--" "So it *is* the Spaniard," LaCroix interrupted. "Are you quite certain of that? You've seen him?" "No, I haven't seen him," Nick replied angrily, without thinking. "Natalie told me..." he broke off suddenly and turned away from his master, staring at the fireplace as though it were suddenly come to life. "Ah," said LaCroix. "So Doctor Lambert has somehow entered this twisted little drama. Tell me, Nicholas. How did you manage to drag her into it?" Nick turned back to LaCroix, anger flashing in his eyes. "Vachon went to her for help," he muttered reluctantly. "She agreed to help him." "And now, by association, she has acquired a collection of rather dangerous enemies," LaCroix surmised. "Oh, Nicholas. Will you ever learn the folly of this mortal existence you insist on pursuing? I should think the penalty your associates always pay is higher than they would have chosen, had they the sense to recognize the hazard. In offering kindness to strangers, they entertain a demon unawares." The ancient vampire pouted with exaggerated concern. "And I assume Doctor Lambert has no idea of the danger in which she has placed herself?" Nick got to his feet and started walking the floor nervously. "She thinks she can cure Vachon," he explained. "Apparently, he's having some sort of psychotic episodes. She didn't tell me much more than that." "Did she tell you what sort of...treatment...this cure would involve?" queried LaCroix, rising to his feet to stand beside Nick. Nick shook his head. "But she's determined to find the solution," he muttered, almost inaudibly. LaCroix sighed softly. "Of course, you're aware that they'll kill her, too, if they find her with him," he said without emotion. Nick leaned miserably against the mantel, staring at the carved dragon which stared back impassively. "Yes, I know that," he snapped. "But I can't convince her to leave it alone. I can't convince her of *anything*, not since...." He cut himself off smartly, but the unspoken words were not lost on LaCroix. As Nick stared morosely into the ashes of the fireplace, an expression of devilment crossed the elder vampire's features, his eyebrows lifting in anticipation of a game. *** Natalie sighed in frustration. She had managed somehow to concentrate on her work since she'd arrived at the morgue, but she still felt miserable. She hadn't meant to get so upset with Nick, but every time he disregarded her feelings and opinions in the guise of protecting her, it made her a little angrier. Why couldn't he understand that, by biting her, he'd pulled her far enough over the line of demarcation between human and vampire that she would never really be safe again? Why, *why* couldn't he take responsibility for what he'd done to her? And then he'd had to bring up Richard! brother's death was still a raw wound to her, though she hid it effectively from everyone else. She remembered the twisted agony on Richard's face as Nick held him in the sunlight that would destroy him; try though she might, she could never forget the monster shining through her brother's eyes. Now, whenever she remembered Richard--as a toddler, a ten- year-old, a skinny teenager, a new J.D.--she saw him with the glowing eyes of a demon. Vampires had stolen her past; now it looked as though they pretty well had her future sewn up, to boot. She rubbed her head, then went to check on the results of the latest battery of tests she'd run on Vachon's blood in between "customers." She found pretty much what she expected to find: his blood tested normal, or at least normal for a vampire. Grumbling to herself, she went back to the computer to double-check the data on his three mortal victims in hopes of finding a link that had thus far eluded her. The old door to the morgue squealed on its deteriorating hinges, and Natalie made a mental note for the sixtieth time to put in a physical plant request to get it fixed. She looked up to find Westwood smiling easily at her. "How's life?" he asked brightly. "I don't think it would be *possible* for life to get one bit weirder or more unpleasant than it is right at this moment," sighed Natalie, her body-and-soul weariness clear in her voice. Too late, she remembered her last conversation with Westwood, and she cringed inwardly, wondering what fodder she'd just handed him for more probing questions. She glanced over her shoulder, almost guiltily, only to find Westwood looking at her with an expression of deep understanding. "That's right," he said softly. "Tracy Vetter was a friend of yours, wasn't she?" Natalie nodded, silently thanking whichever gods watched over tired M.E.s that Westwood had misinterpreted her words. "I just cannot understand what motivates people," she said. "What kind of person would do such a thing?" "You don't want to know," replied Westwood gently. "And even if you did, I don't especially care to study it myself right now." She smiled at him. "Do you suppose one or both of us is in the wrong line of work?" she teased. "There are certainly times that I wonder," he replied, matching her light tone. He paused a moment, then said, "Natalie?" She looked up, her eyes questioning. "It's good to see you smile," he said simply. "You have just been *so* ragged lately." She chuckled softly. "Don't remind me," she said. "There's times that I think about taking a vacation to an active war zone, just for a respite." "I doubt that would be quite the sort of break you need," he said, half-seriously. "What would be better would be a day off for a long drive, or maybe a trip to the science museum--a total change of pace. Could I convince you to do that? Honestly, Natalie, you worry me sometimes. I mean, look at you. You're so pale." She smiled. "I'm tougher than I look." She picked up a sheaf of reports that had just come in from the lab and began to riffle through them. "You're sweet to offer, Thomas, and I'm sure I could use a mental-health day, but I've got such a backlog of stuff going here right now that I just can't." She glanced up from the reports to look at him. "Could I take a rain check, maybe?" He sighed exaggeratedly. "You're incorrigible," he grumbled. "Listen, let me at least take you to breakfast, then. I know perfectly well that you don't eat properly unless somebody forces you to, and feeding you would assuage my concern--at least for now." Natalie considered the offer for a moment. She noticed Westwood glancing toward her computer, where the name of one of the dead joggers was clearly visible on the screen. In the hope that accepting would get rid of him before he started asking questions about the case again, she forced a bright smile and replied, "That sounds really nice, Thomas. Thank you." "Great!" he exclaimed, looking back at her and away from the computer. "How about I pick you up here around 5? Will you be done by then?" Natalie's mind raced as she remembered Vachon, who would probably be waiting at her apartment. "Yes," she started. "I mean, no--I mean...." She laughed wearily. "What I *mean* is, I should be off by then, yes, but I can't go to eat without cleaning up first." He began to protest, but she interrupted with a gesture. "I *can't*, Thomas--the smell of formaldehyde just kills my appetite." She smiled ingratiatingly. "How about I go home and take a shower, then meet you at the pancake parlor?" Westwood shook his head. "You amaze me, Natalie," he said. "I never met anybody who consistently runs on redline the way you do. Tell you what. Let me pick you up at your place around 6. That way, you can at least relax in the car. Okay?" Natalie started to protest, but Westwood stopped her with an upraised hand. "I won't listen to arguments, Doctor Lambert," he said. "For once, take another doctor's advice. I will see you at 6 o'clock." His voice left Natalie no opportunity for rebuttal. With a cheery wave, he turned and walked through the doorway to the hall. When he was out of earshot, Natalie leaned against the autopsy table and groaned. "Great. Just great. This is exactly what I did *not* need right now." Sighing, she checked the wall clock, then took another gulp of her cooling coffee before getting back to work. (to be continued ...) -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@fkfanfic.com. From v4s@fkfanfic.com Wed Apr 1 14:11:31 1998 Date: Mon, 30 Mar 1998 23:43:32 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: fkfic-l@lists.psu.edu Subject: V4S: Presumed Dead -- Part 1 (13/15) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #13 Episode Title: "Presumed Dead -- Part 1" "Air" Date: March 27, 1998 Author: Stephanie S. Babbitt Part 13 of 15 This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Copyright 1998 Stephanie S. Babbitt -------------------------- PRESUMED DEAD LaCroix composed his features carefully before making his opening move. "I suppose, Nicholas, that we are partially responsible for the actions of this rogue vampire, given that we are Divia's progeny," he said, as if taking the matter very seriously. "After all, Vachon did stumble rather inconveniently into what should have been a simple family feud." Nick turned to face his master, surprise clear on his face. "What are you saying?" he asked suspiciously. Accountability was not one of LaCroix's better-known attributes. LaCroix's eyebrows rose slightly, but his expression remained benign. "I'm saying that the Community--and your precious mortals, for what they are worth--are being made to suffer, unnecessarily, the consequences of what amounted to an intensely personal grudge." Nick sighed in frustration. "I *know* that, LaCroix," he said shortly. "But what are we supposed to do about it? You said yourself that the Community was going to handle it. My main concern is protecting Natalie. She's just not being rational about this." LaCroix turned slightly away from Nick to hide his smirk. "You *do* have a number of options open to you, Nicholas," he said evenly. "Oh, what am I supposed to do, LaCroix?" Nick snapped. "Hunt him down and kill him myself?" "That is certainly one alternative," LaCroix replied easily. "I won't do it," said Nick flatly, turning away to stare out the window. "I didn't say that you had to, Nicholas," LaCroix said almost gently, moving to a position behind Nick. "But if not you, then who will be the ones to accomplish it? What retribution will these vampires, with their thirst for vengeance, exact on the Spaniard? And, more significantly, what punishment will they select for the mortal who has assisted him, however innocently?" He paused, drawing so close to Nick that the link between them hummed like a tuning fork. "The story of Doctor Mudd comes to mind, and his fate looks pleasant by comparison." Nick ducked away from LaCroix and strode to the refrigerator, extracting a bottle of cow's blood. "I can't kill Vachon," he insisted. "He's basically innocent in all this." "I don't recall that proving a vampire's innocence has figured prominently in your prior efforts to mete justice as you saw fit," said LaCroix, his voice beginning to take on a sharp edge. "Let me see. How many vampires have you killed, or attempted to kill, as punishment for their 'crimes'?" He adopted a look of exaggerated concentration and began to tick off examples on his fingers. "There was your sister Francesca, and your daughter, Elizabeth, and young Spark, and Alexandra, and Tran, and dear Rasputin; this is too easy, isn't it?--oh, and as I recall, you were prepared to destroy the Spaniard yourself at one time, simply because he had the *gall* to consider feeding on your mortal partner, who invaded *his* privacy. Such effrontery!" The voice dripped with sarcasm. Nick's response was somewhat abashed. "I had my reasons, LaCroix," he muttered, staring into the bottle. LaCroix moved back to Nick's side, speaking harshly. "You've always had a perverse attraction for the police work that consumes your nights now, haven't you?" he said. "Only where vampires were concerned, you've been quite comfortable acting not only as law enforcement, but also as judge, jury, and executioner." The voice softened slightly. "Now that you are faced with a situation that actually seems to warrant this sort of dedication, why are you so reluctant to act?" "Because..." Nick trailed off, unable to articulate the uncomfortable feeling that reverberated through his midsection when he considered killing Vachon. "It just wouldn't be *right*, that's all," he said unconvincingly, hugging his bottle of cow blood to his chest. "I wouldn't suppose that you'd understand." "What is your problem, Nicholas?" LaCroix snarled. "You know perfectly well that violation of the Code is punishable by death. A vampire cannot endanger the Community, no matter *what* the personal cost." Nick turned his head away sharply, remembering.... >>>----------> Nicholas escorted Janette from the noisy, crowded parlor into the quiet shadows of the balcony, where they observed the stars silently for a few moments. The babble of concerned voices continued from within, with Theodore's rich voice easily identifiable among them. "This revolution is turning into a bloodbath," Nicholas said quietly. "It has long since passed the point of justice, or even simple vengeance. The imprisonment of the king and queen has merely fanned the fire; now, it is approaching madness." "Oui," said Janette, almost disinterested. "It only goes to prove, Nicola, that the bloodlust you would forswear is just as common among mortals as among vampires. The difference is, they are fools and *waste* the blood they spill." Her lips quirked into a teasing smile, but Nicholas did not return it. "They're right, you know," he said, nodding toward the parlor. "They must flee at the soonest possible opportunity. Their lives are at stake. The infamy of their family names alone will condemn them, even if they have wronged no one personally." He scowled. "Even the children are in danger. Innocents will be the ones to pay for choices their ancestors made." Janette stepped back from the stone retaining wall, brushing grit from her elegant dress with disdain. "It matters not to us, mon cher," she observed. "We will be moving on soon enough. LaCroix has said that when he and the Marquis are finished drawing up the legal arrangements for the properties at Montaigne, we will depart." Nicholas nodded perfunctorily, glancing past Janette into the parlor at the sound of suddenly raised voices. LaCroix had moved to stand close behind Theodore's chair as the youngest of their family carried on a lively discussion with the elegantly dressed mortals in the room. Janette followed Nicholas's gaze and smiled. "The women certainly enjoy his conversation, do they not?" she observed. "And he seems to delight in their attentions as well." "Perhaps if they knew that it is their blood rather than their smiles that he craves, they would be less obliging," Nicholas replied curtly. "I do wish he would learn to keep his gaze within the bounds of decency. You would think from watching him that he had never seen an attractive woman before." Janette pursed her lips and glanced briefly downward to stifle her laughter. "Given that he was a man of the cloth, I should doubt that he *did* associate often with attractive women," she replied. "But I think you are less concerned with his faux pas than with the increased competition." Nicholas turned from the parlor to stare indignantly at Janette. With a coy look from beneath lowered lashes, she clucked her tongue. "His behavior *has* been shameful," she said, without a hint of seriousness. "First he monopolized your father's attentions, and now he is trying to steal your toys." With a deep frown, Nicholas opened his mouth to make reply, but his words were lost in the report of a musket as an armed arresting party burst through the house's main door. What had been a quiet gathering of a noble's extended family quickly dissolved into screaming chaos. Shabbily uniformed commoners, declaring themselves officers of the New Republic, rushed through the house, blocking exits, damaging what few traces of elegance and fine living remained to the home, and bodily restraining anyone who tried to leave. One older gentleman drew a pistol to defend the household, only to be run through from behind with a sword. "Quickly, Nicola," urged Janette, preparing to take to the sky. Nicholas hesitated for a moment, watching the scene inside as though torn. He observed LaCroix guiding Theodore easily and rapidly along the perimeter of the throng with a few well-chosen words to the Republicans. Beyond them, ladies were screaming and men cursing. Janette's voice grew firm. "You cannot help the mortals, Nicola," she said in a low tone. "They are lost. We must go *now*." She took flight, and he followed her, but only as far as the shadows of the huge trees that surrounded the old house. Thus hidden, he continued to observe. LaCroix and Theodore had almost reached the balcony, and LaCroix was whispering rapid instructions to Theodore, but the younger vampire seemed distracted. Inside, the youngest of the noblewomen, a stunning girl in her early teens, had flung herself across the prone body of the older man. "Grandpere!" she wailed. "Mon grandpere!" She lifted her face, and Nicholas could see the terrified child as plain in the young woman's features as the old man's blood was on her dress. Clearly, Theodore had noticed it, too, for he paused inside the doorway to the balcony. Nicholas could not discern LaCroix's words, but he picked up enough of the snarling tone to recognize his master's displeasure. Theodore, however, seemed momentarily deaf to LaCroix as the girl looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes and extended a bloodied hand to him in supplication. "Monsieur!" she wailed. "Help me, please! In the name of God, Monsieur!" Theodore actually trembled in his steps for a moment, clearly torn between the powerful influence of his new master and the memories of his abandoned God that the girl had invoked with her plea. Nicholas sensed Theodore's conflict, remembering with sudden, painful clarity the paralyzing juxtaposition of vampire desires over a life's worth of moral upbringing that one battled when newly brought across. The sensation across the link was one of being ripped quite literally in half, and Nicholas crossed his arms unconsciously to hold himself together, feeling a strange new sympathy for Theodore. As Nicholas watched, a decisive expression crossed Theodore's face, though his eyes still glittered with emotion. The young vampire mouthed the words, "One moment, Father," and ducked back into the melee. In an eyeblink, he was beside the girl, pulling her to her feet and whispering comforting words. He turned to hurry her away and found himself face-to-face with a boy not yet old enough to shave, armed with a torch in one hand and a dagger in the other. "Halt, oppressor," demanded the boy in a voice that wavered with uncertainty. Theodore smiled gently, his bright blue eyes softening. Nicholas could feel the strain through the link as Theodore searched urgently for the boy's heartbeat. "We mean you no harm," Theodore said slowly. "You will permit us to pass through to the balcony." In spite of himself, Nicholas nodded his admiration as the boy responded to Theodore's hypnotic influence, stepping aside. With his arm around the sagging girl, Theodore hurried toward the doorway and freedom. Suddenly, a cry erupted from across the room. "It's him! The one that raped the tanner's daughter last night and tore out her throat! He's the one I saw carrying her away!" The room fell silent for a moment as the Republicans all turned their attention to Theodore. At the same instant, Theodore's eyes locked with LaCroix's, and the hideous fear in Theodore's expression told of the truth behind the accusation. He shook his head wordlessly, and Nicholas recognized the meaning: the young vampire had thought himself unobserved, at least until this very moment. The cacophony erupted anew as half a dozen armed men descended on Theodore. Amid howls of, "Murderer!" the two largest men grabbed Theodore by the arms, even as a third wrenched the fainting girl from his grasp. With vampiric strength bolstered by terror, Theodore flung the two men away with sufficient violence to injure them both. He turned to fly out the doorway but found himself circled by sweating, angry faces. He charged the smallest man, determined to escape. Suddenly, a blow from behind drove him to his knees. He looked down to see the point of a huge hunting knife protruding from his abdomen. Janette gave Nicholas's arm a sharp yank as she flew past him to LaCroix's side. Nicholas followed, if only to protect her. He landed beside his master in time to hear Janette's urgent whisper: "We cannot help him here, LaCroix. We would only reveal ourselves. We must leave." Nicholas felt a wave of something akin to nausea through the link as LaCroix looked from Janette to Theodore. "I cannot leave him," said LaCroix, desperation in his ancient eyes. "He is still too young!" Janette looked toward Nicholas for support, frantic impatience in her face. LaCroix scowled sharply at her. "You know full well how vulnerable he is," he snapped. "Do you not remember how carefully I tended to you in your earliest days? And to Nicholas? A father must..." Nicholas interrupted by placing a hand on LaCroix's shoulder as he encircled Janette's waist with his other arm. "Even you cannot hypnotize them all, LaCroix," he said firmly. "Janette is right. We will leave this place and rescue Theodore when he is not so well guarded." LaCroix turned to him, an indescribable expression in his ancient eyes. In an effort to be reassuring, Nicholas smiled and said warmly, "Come, now. They cannot kill him! You yourself have seen to that." Janette caught Nicholas's eyes and nodded, and the two of them lifted into the sky, carrying LaCroix with them almost by bodily force. Nicholas cringed as he heard the desperate scream following them: "Father! Do not forsake me! FATHER!" He looked at LaCroix to see the elder vampire's eyes squeezed shut, his features contorted in pain. <----------<<< "Divia attacked Vachon because of *you*," Nick snapped, forcing himself back to the present. "Why don't *you* hunt Vachon down and kill him?" He stared evenly at his master. LaCroix chuckled out loud. "I could ensure his destruction in short order, Nicholas, just by telling the young vampires where to find Natalie Lambert. But that method would hardly merit your approval, would it?" When Nicholas failed to respond, save for a rather strained look, LaCroix lifted a finger to his chin to compose himself, then continued. "Rest assured, Nicholas. If I see the Spaniard, I will most assuredly handle the situation myself. But the fact remains; you are the one best suited to hunt him, for you have access to Doctor Lambert. I could go to her, certainly, but she is hardly fond of me, and I doubt she would voluntarily lead me to Vachon. You, however..." Nick scowled. "She won't betray him. She has a nobility of character that you couldn't possibly comprehend." His voice was cold. LaCroix refused to be insulted. "Well, then, Nicholas, consider this. What will you do when you learn of Doctor Lambert's painful and protracted death at the hands of the young vampires--or the Enforcers? What reaction will you have when you find her lifeless body, throat torn out despite her struggles? When you take her cold, stiff hand in yours, will you still have such admiration for her nobility of character?" Nick turned his head away and closed his eyes, frowning, in an effort to resist the images that LaCroix was describing, but it was no use. With a sinking feeling in his chest, he remembered what Natalie had looked like on the floor of his loft when he'd believed her dead: pale and still, chestnut curls a halo around her sweet, trusting face.... Come back to me, his heart had cried. Don't leave me! And on his lips, the intoxicating taste of her blood.... Her blood! He couldn't bear the thought of any other vampire laying a hand on her, let alone tasting so much as a drop of that precious nectar! How dare another so much as think to drink of her life, to steal the sensation of her feelings for him? How could any young, upstart vampire presume to usurp what belonged to the aged and powerful Nicholas de Brabant? A cold fury grew in his chest, focused around a single word: Revenge. Nick raised his head sharply to look at his master, eyes glowing bright gold above extended fangs. "I thought as much," said LaCroix quietly, with obvious satisfaction. "I will destroy Vachon," said Nick, his voice deep and husky. "You, LaCroix, will tell the others to leave the hunt to me." It was not a request, but an order. (to be continued ...) -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@fkfanfic.com. From v4s@fkfanfic.com Wed Apr 1 14:11:33 1998 Date: Mon, 30 Mar 1998 23:58:00 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: fkfic-l@lists.psu.edu Subject: V4S: Presumed Dead -- Part 1 (14/15) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #13 Episode Title: "Presumed Dead -- Part 1" "Air" Date: March 27, 1998 Author: Stephanie S. Babbitt Part 14 of 15 This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Copyright 1998 Stephanie S. Babbitt -------------------------- PRESUMED DEAD Natalie was practically running when she reached the door to her apartment. It was almost 5:15, and Westwood would be there in less than an hour to pick her up. Juggling the bag that held Vachon's protein shakes, she managed to extricate the key from her purse. The door swung open. Natalie realized immediately that the apartment was freezing cold. Something smelled funny, too. She hastened to the kitchen to set the bag of shakes on the table, calling, "Vachon?" She got no response. Even Sidney was nowhere in sight. She slipped her coat off and dropped it carelessly on the table as well. "Vachon?!" she called again, louder this time. Nervously, she hurried toward the living room. At the doorway, she gasped and clamped one hand over her mouth. Vachon sat on the floor, back propped against her couch. He looked up at her unsteadily, waved, and called out, "Aaaaaaay!" in what would have passed for a fair imitation of The Fonz. He seemed completely unaware of the mutilated corpse draped across his lap. Natalie's initial horror quickly gave way to anger. "Vachon, what in the name of God are you doing?" she cried. He looked at her blearily. "Sitting," he replied thickly, after a moment's consideration. "I mean, with *that*!" She gestured toward the body. Closer inspection told her that the corpse had been a man, and that it was oozing blood onto her living-room rug. Vachon studied the body, then shook his head. He pushed the corpse awkwardly off his lap onto the floor. The clock on her mantle chimed the half-hour, and Natalie's eyes widened with horrified realization. "Oh, my God! Thomas!" she gasped. "Vachon, we've got to get this thing out of here! NOW!" Vachon's head had slumped to his chest, and he was dozing. At her invective, he opened his eyes and stared at her, uncomprehending. She moved to his side, being very careful not to step on her ruined carpet. "Vachon!" she demanded frantically, shaking him by the shoulder. "Wake up! C'mon, get a grip!" He leered at her. "On what?" he slurred, grinning stupidly. Natalie rolled her eyes in desperation. "On yourself!" She looked down at the body. Oh, it was dead, all right. Vachon examined himself carefully, then looked back at her. "No handles," he observed with a crooked smile. She would have smacked him if he had been alert enough to track both of his eyes in the same direction simultaneously. A gust of wind caught Natalie's attention, and she realized that the window was wide open. Racing over to shut it, she noticed a trail of blood droplets across the room. She slammed the window and clutched her head in her hands. "Oh, God," she muttered, "what I wouldn't give for a stake right now!" Looking up, she surveyed the room reluctantly. "This is NOT happening," she groaned. The blood trail indicated a drunken trajectory that, thankfully, missed her white couch--but very little else. The hardwood was splotched here and there with blood and other nameless gore. Natalie noted with passing thankfulness that it wasn't ample or fresh enough to bother her much. The table that had been immediately beneath the window was upset, and broken knick-knacks littered the floor. Vachon apparently had caught one of the corpse's appendages on a half-height bookshelf on his way through, and books were strewn every which way--some bore splatters of blood as well. The room looked like a domestic disturbance case with a vengeance. And then there was the body... Natalie approached the couch and peered over the back at the corpse, which stared vapidly back at her. This time, at least, Vachon had left the face and limbs largely intact --only the torso bore the telltale slash marks. She observed gratefully that the ragged puncture wounds on the neck had been obliterated by one of the crosscuts. Almost automatically, she assessed skin color, weight, height, and overall bodily condition, and decided that her first impression on seeing this body would have been death from disease--he looked sickly even without the mauling. She shook herself forcefully out of medical-examiner mode and returned her attention to Vachon, who had again nodded off into a nether world somewhere. "I've got to get him to help me," she muttered frantically to herself. "What can I use to snap him out of it?" An image rose to her mind of the last time a rookie had passed out at a murder scene. She'd popped an ammonia capsule under the young cop's nose to revive him. Ammonia was an irritant. An irritant... A flash of inspiration hit her, and she raced to the kitchen, where she fumbled through her cabinets for a moment, finally locating the container she sought. Twisting it open, she hurried back into the living room and crouched next to Vachon on the side opposite the dead body. She fumbled for a moment, then extracted a clove of garlic, which she split with a thumbnail. Holding the clove under Vachon's nose, she pulled it apart sharply. "Gaaaaaah!" he cried, snapping to attention, his eyes wide. He waved both arms wildly in front of his face, finally succeeding in pushing her hand away. "Vachon!" Natalie demanded. "Are you awake?" He looked at her, still a little bleary, but with recognition in his eyes. "Yeah. I'm awake. What the hell was that for?" He scowled at her, coughed, and rubbed blush- colored tears from the corners of his eyes with the back of his hand. Instead of responding, she merely indicated the corpse with a nod of her head. "Ay, mierda," muttered Vachon. "My sentiments exactly," Natalie said tartly. "And I've got a co-worker coming by in less than half an hour. Get busy!" She leaped to her feet and set the bookshelf upright, then started grabbing books and shoving them back onto the shelves, blood spots or no. She turned to check Vachon and saw him staring with dismay at the blood-soaked front of his new shirt. He looked up at her, still clearly not capable of independent thought. "Arrrgh!" she growled under her breath, then walked back to his side. "Okay. Listen up. Pull that rug out from under the table and wrap the body in it, then take it back to the master bathroom and put it in the tub. Don't get any more blood on the floor if you can possibly avoid it. Can you do that?" "I think I'm going to throw up," was his response. "I hate to tell you this, Vachon, but right now I *really* don't care," she said. "This guy that's coming by thinks he's on to vampires, and we've got to clear up this evidence. Otherwise, feeling sick will be by far the least of your problems. Now get GOING!" She shoved his shoulder for emphasis. He nodded silently and bent to grab the edge of the rug. Satisfied, Natalie turned her back on him to gather more books, only to hear a tremendous crash. She whirled to see that he had taken her at her word, yanking the rug out from under the table with sufficient force to upset both the table and the armchair beside it. She started to go help him, but saw that he was obediently wrapping the body in the rug. She raced to the utility closet for a mop and a broom. When she returned, she noted gratefully that the corpse was gone. Then she saw Vachon wandering aimlessly in from the bathroom, leaving bloody footprints. "Vachon!" she barked. "Sit down! Right there!" Looking slightly perplexed, he sat. She dropped the mop on the floor and began sweeping up the broken knick-knacks. "Take off your boots and socks!" she demanded. "Roll up the socks, put them in your boots, and set them to one side." After a moment, she turned to check on him. He had done as instructed and was sitting cross-legged on the floor, clutching his head. He made a retching sound. "Great. Just great," she muttered beneath her breath. "Vachon!" she snapped. He looked up at her, his face a decidedly unnatural shade of green, Mediterranean complexion notwithstanding. "You're useless," she grumbled. "Okay. Just get up, go into the bathroom where you put the body, close the door, put your shirt in the sink, sit on the floor by the toilet, and *don't move* until I tell you to. Got it?" She could practically see him ticking off the commands in his head. After a moment, he nodded and struggled to his feet. "Take your boots with you!" she called after him. She watched him until he stooped to retrieve his bloodied footwear, then returned her attention to the living room. A quarter till six.... She scrambled around, righting the coffee table and the armchair, dumping the knick-knack debris into a bag, frantically mopping the wood with oil soap. As she dumped the rinse bucket into the toilet in the guest bathroom, she happened to catch a glimpse of her own reflection. "Oh, God," she muttered. Flinging the mop and bucket into the utility closet, she sprinted for her bedroom, where she stripped off her soiled work clothes and donned jeans and a sweater. Knocking on the door to her bathroom, she tentatively entered. She noted with thankfulness that Vachon had pulled the shower curtain across the tub to conceal its gruesome contents. The ailing vampire himself was draped across the toilet seat, his eyes open but unfocused. He rolled one eye miserably in her direction, then resumed staring at the wallpaper. Natalie quickly splashed her face and brushed her hair into a tight bun. She stoppered the sink and filled it with water, leaving Vachon's shirt to soak. She was just applying lipstick when the doorbell rang. Taking a deep breath, she straightened, cast her reflection an exaggerated smile, then left the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind her. She opened the front door with her coat already in hand. "Ready to go?" she asked brightly. Westwood evaluated her briefly. "You look nice. That's a pretty sweater--a good color for you," he observed. Before she could thank him, though, he held out his hand, showing her his pager. The light on the side was flashing. "Sorry to slow us up, but could I use your phone?" he asked. "I just got a page from the 96th." Natalie suppressed her desire to burst into hysterical giggles. Could things *get* any worse? "My cell phone got broken when I got mugged a few months back, and I haven't replaced it yet," he added apologetically. Natalie stood in the doorway, staring at Westwood with a wobbly grin fixed on her face, looking rather like a caricature of herself. Finally, he raised his eyebrows slightly. "Natalie?" he prompted. She shook herself mentally. "Sure, Thomas," she squeaked, then coughed to force her voice back to normal. "Come on in." She planned to guide him toward the kitchen and the phone there, but he headed toward the living room instead. Behind his back, she made a terrible face, then she hurried past him. She was about to point out the phone, which she had dumped haphazardly onto the end table next to the couch, when she noticed a dollop of blood that she'd missed on the earpiece. Snatching a tissue from a nearby box, she swiped at the phone before offering Westwood the handset. He took it and dialed. After a moment, he said, "Dr. Westwood here. I got a page? Sure, I'll hold." As he waited, he turned to smile at Natalie. She smiled back perfunctorily. In response, he frowned. "What's that?" he asked, indicating the bloody tissue in her hand. "Wh-what?" she stammered. "Oh, this? It's--it's just a nosebleed," she supplied quickly. "You know, with the cold and the dry inside air, I get them sometimes." She dabbed a clean corner of the tissue at her nose for punctuation, her stomach churning. Westwood nodded sympathetically and returned his attention to the phone. Natalie put a hand to her chest to subdue the pounding of her heart, only to feel it drop suddenly straight into her abdominal region. Just past Westwood, under the couch, Sidney was batting around one of Vachon's rolled-up, blood-soaked athletic socks. "Mmm-hmm," Westwood was saying. "How long ago? When did you pick him up? You can't hold him?" Natalie stared, horrified, as Sidney swatted the sock ball out from beneath the couch and within a half-meter of Westwood's foot. The cat pounced on the sock and swung a paw at it again, scooting it back under the furniture. "Damn," Westwood muttered, placing a hand over the mouthpiece and turning to Natalie. "They've got a mentally disturbed witness down at the precinct, and they can't get squat out of him. Reese wants me to come down and see if I can get anywhere with him before they have to let him go." He looked at once annoyed and regretful. "Would you mind too much...?" Only with difficulty did Natalie manage to conceal her enormous relief. "No, Thomas. Believe me, I understand. Happens to me all the time." Keeping Sidney in her peripheral vision, she offered Westwood a crooked smile, which he clearly took as an indicator of suppressed disappointment. "I'll make it up to you, I promise," he said rapidly. "No, really, Thomas, it's okay," she said, feigning desperate weariness. She stretched and yawned. "I think a few hours' sleep is what I need most right now anyway." He nodded, removed his hand from the mouthpiece, and addressed the telephone again. "Captain? I'll be there in ten minutes. Yes, sir." He dropped the phone into its cradle and turned back to Natalie. "Damn this job, anyway," he muttered. "Never get a break, do we?" He put a hand on her shoulder as she grinned in agreement. "Listen--you take it easy today for once, okay? And will you please eat something nutritious?" She nodded, thinking to herself what an easy habit lying was becoming. "All right, then. I expect I'll see you tonight. And if you want to talk about Tracy, you know my number, okay?" She nodded, edging him toward the door. "Yes, I do. And thanks so much for caring," she effused. The warmth in his answering smile told her that he was reading more affection into the statement than she had intended, but she would have accepted a marriage proposal at that point if it had meant getting rid of him. As soon as she got the door shut, she turned and leaned her back against it, breathing hard. "I *hate* vampires," she muttered to herself. *** After changing out of her good clothes, Natalie tapped on the bathroom door and went in to check on Vachon. She found him sitting exactly as she had left him. She got out another blood-testing kit and drew a sample with nary a protest from her half-comatose patient. She then went to the sink to wet a washcloth. Kneeling on the tile beside Vachon, she began wiping his face gently. Gradually, he opened his eyes and squinted at her. "The light," he mumbled, turning his face away from the bright fluorescent fixture above her mirror. She got up, shut off the light, and returned to sit by his side in the sudden darkness of the windowless room. "Ohhhhh, my head," he moaned, pushing himself away from the toilet to sit up. "What happened?" she asked softly. "Not sure," he mumbled. "Left Screed's place with time to spare...heard a noise behind the dumpster. Thought, probably rats, safe to go. But as I passed the dumpster, I heard a heartbeat. Then the blood scent..." he trailed off, gripping his forehead with one hand. "Where am I?" "You made it back to my place, just like I told you to," she replied reassuringly. "You're safe for the day. But as soon as the sun goes down, we've got to get rid of this body." "Body?" he said sharply, looking up. "In the tub," she replied perfunctorily. "The tub..." he contemplated her statement, then he groaned as vague memory returned. "I'm going to cut the rug into little pieces and burn it," Natalie said, planning aloud. "When the sun goes down, I want to you to get the body out of here." She leaned back against the wall wearily. "I'm not sure where you should put it...." "The lake is usually good," said Vachon. "Preferably with a large rock or two." "No," said Natalie, "The body should be found eventually. I mean, he probably has family members who wonder where he is." "No, he didn't," said Vachon quietly. Natalie turned her head in surprise and stared hard at his face, shadowed in the dark. In response, he raised his eyebrows and nodded meaningfully. The gesture was clear; yes, he was quite sure. "Right," she said flatly. "Okay, then. The lake is all right, but no rocks. The body should wash up on shore in a few days, and by then, it will probably have decomposed enough that I can write off the slashes as propeller cuts." Her voice became more businesslike. "I want you to stay so high up in the air that you can't smell anybody on the ground. Once you've gotten rid of the body, you'll come back here--to stay, until you're cured. Obviously, it's not safe for you to go anywhere that you're exposed to people." Vachon looked at her curiously and saw that her face was deadly serious. He smiled. "What will the neighbors say?" he asked, affecting a nasal whine. She stared at him for a moment, surprised, then realized that he was teasing her. Glad to see his normal personality reasserting itself, she smiled back. "The *neighbors* had damned well better not know you're here," she replied. With a grunt, Vachon got to his feet. "I need sleep," he said. "Anywhere in particular I should crash?" "You take the bed," she said, nodding toward the bedroom. "I've got work to do, plus there's no way I could sleep in there knowing about our, uh--guest--in here." Vachon grinned mischievously and licked his lips. "If it's any consolation," he said, "the hepatitis would have killed him in about two more weeks anyway." "Hepatitis. Wonderful," she muttered. "Good thing I've had the inoculations." "Hey, you should try being a vampire," teased Vachon. "No worries about minor inconveniences like vaccinations." "Vachon?" she replied. He looked at her, questioning. "Shut up and go to bed," she said. (to be continued ...) -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@fkfanfic.com. From v4s@fkfanfic.com Wed Apr 1 14:11:36 1998 Date: Tue, 31 Mar 1998 00:01:55 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: fkfic-l@lists.psu.edu Subject: V4S: Presumed Dead -- Part 1 (15/15) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #13 Episode Title: "Presumed Dead -- Part 1" "Air" Date: March 27, 1998 Author: Stephanie S. Babbitt Part 15 of 15 This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Copyright 1998 Stephanie S. Babbitt -------------------------- PRESUMED DEAD Natalie glanced up at the clock on the wall of the morgue--12:15 a.m. "Good," she muttered to herself. "Got that one done in decent time." She closed the locker door behind the body of the auto-accident victim she had just autopsied and stripped off her gloves. She'd been swamped with work from the second she'd walked in the door, but it had been a blessing of sorts, as it kept her from dwelling on the memory of the dead body in her bathtub and the smell of burning carpet. Wondering idly to herself how long it took for exposure to toxic byproducts of burning olefin to produce symptoms, she started across the lab to check the results of the tests she was running on both Vachon's blood and his latest victim's. Suddenly, she raised her head, sensing a familiar presence approaching. She smiled to herself. As the door behind her swung open, she said, "Hello, Nick." He stopped short in the doorway. "How did you know?" he asked, a quirk of surprise in his voice. She allowed herself a self-satisfied grin before turning to face him. "I felt a vampire approaching," she replied confidently, "and I could tell it was you. It feels different somehow when it's you." She smiled at him, determined to be pleasant despite their latest confrontation. A look of proprietary pleasure flashed across his face, but that look quickly dissolved into a poker-faced mask of seriousness. "What have you been doing to increase your sensitivity?" he asked in his carefully modulated "detective" voice. "Practicing," she replied proudly. "I've already learned some great techniques for dealing with the bloodlust. You know, I hardly even flinched tonight when I had to go on site to a shotgun suicide!" She looked up at him only to see an expression of profound regret etched on his handsome features. "Hey," she said cheerfully. "It's not a big deal, okay? I mean, I'm just an amateur at this. Vachon teases me about having such inferior skills because I'm mortal. He says--" Nick cut her off sharply. "I need to talk to you about Vachon," he said. Her smile faded. So much for being pleasant. "I'm listening," she said coolly. Nick sighed. "I *wish* he'd never pulled you into this," he said. "The Community is in an uproar over his vampire kills." His voice softened. "There's a death sentence on his head, Nat." Her eyes widened for a moment, then narrowed as she set her jaw in determination. Nick's own expression grew slightly desperate in response. "It *really* isn't safe for you to work with him now," he said, pleadingly. "You're putting yourself in terrible danger. If you insist on trying, the death sentence will be extended to include you. I don't want you to take that risk." "I told you I'm going to cure him," she responded flatly. "I'm not a coward, Nick. I'm not going to abandon him. There's a special place in hell for people who do the wrong thing to save their own skins, and I don't intend to end up there." She pinched the bridge of her nose and rubbed her eyes briefly before looking back up at Nick. Her expression was as congenial as she could manage, but her eyes glittered bright with nervous energy. "I *know* you understand where I'm coming from," she said, trying to be persuasive. "You've helped a lot of underdogs yourself, even at risk to your own safety. Hell, you showed up in my morgue in the first place because you risked your life to save a bunch of strangers." She took a few steps toward him, feeling a strange tingling of her senses as she drew closer. "I have to help him, Nick," she said softly. "Sure, I'm scared. But I made a promise, and I can't go back on it." She swallowed hard. "I know I'd be safer if you'd work *with* me." She was silent for a moment, aware of her heart thumping nervously in her chest, knowing perfectly well Nick could hear it, too. "Nick?" she asked, her voice a little unsteady. "Will you please help me--help him?" A look of real distress crossed his face, and he dropped his eyes. A wave of cold disappointment washed over her, and she turned her back on him abruptly to hide from him the feelings that she knew were plain on her face. Walking over to the counter, she picked up a Pyrex flask containing an assortment of retractors that she had used during the latest autopsy. "I--I can't help you, Natalie," he said, his voice deep and a little rough around the edges. "I'm sorry to disappoint you." "Why can't you?" she replied petulantly, her back still to him. "Won't the Community allow it?" The question was tainted with sarcasm. His voice was firm. "I can't because I have agreed to help carry out the death sentence." She drew in her breath sharply. "You have got to be kidding," she whispered. "No," he replied, his voice carrying the unmistakable message that the issue was beyond argument. She felt almost light-headed. Unbidden, the memory assaulted her of waking, alone and dying, in Nick's loft. For a moment, she had a queer vision of Nick as an angel of death, complete with a flaming gown and a sword held aloft. A ferocious wave of self-righteous anger swelled in her chest, and she banged the Pyrex flask down on the countertop so forcefully that it should have shattered. Startled, Nick asked, "What was that?" She spun to face him, her eyes glittering coldly. "I just want to know who in the hell died and made you God?" she shouted. "What gives you the right?" Nick's face remained impassive and carefully controlled. "I'm sorry, Natalie," he said firmly, "but you're too close to recognize the danger. You've lost your objectivity. You may think you can protect Vachon--and yourself--from the Community, but you can't. Believe me, you do *not* understand the gravity of the situation." "Then help me understand, *make* me understand!" she pleaded. "In case nobody's told you recently, you're *not* God. You can't run everybody's life as you see fit. They have a right to understand. *I* have a right to understand." He shook his head slightly. "You're going to have to trust me, Natalie," he responded. "If you don't already understand, I doubt I can explain it to your satisfaction. It doesn't matter now. The only thing that matters is that I have to find Vachon before he kills again." He leaned toward her, placing both hands on the examining table. "Tell me where he is, Natalie," he said, his voice just shy of the tone he used to hypnotize. "Please." She stared at him for a moment, her eyes still wide with anger and confusion, then she dropped her gaze, fiddling with the ring she always wore on her right hand. After a moment, she laughed, but it was a sound laced more with bitter sorrow than cheer. "I thought I knew you, Nick," she said. "You were my best friend, my confidante, my..." she trailed off, staring sadly at her hands, then cleared her throat sharply and looked back up at him, her eyes the color of cold steel. "But I was wrong. I don't know you at all. I thought you wanted to be human, but you've just shown me beyond a shadow of a doubt that you're determined to behave like the monster you think you are, no matter what the cost." He stepped back, stung, and opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. "I don't want to hear it, Nick," she said. "You're never going to convince me to change my mind, and I'm obviously not going to convince you to change yours." She dropped her arms to her sides, hands balled into fists. "Get out, Nick. Get out of my morgue; get out of this building. I don't want to see you here, and I don't want to sense you here. Do whatever you think you have to, but leave me the hell out of it, and leave me alone. Got it?" He shook his head slightly, a distressed expression on his face, and began to speak again, but she interrupted. "Get out," she said, her voice sharp with anger. "Just get out!" He hesitated. "Now!" she demanded, pointing at the door. He stared at her for a moment with a look of deep sorrow; then, with a whoosh of air, he was gone. Her chest heaving with indignation, Natalie waited until she could no longer sense his presence, then dropped into a chair. "I hate this!" she said loudly to the empty room. "I hate this! I *hate* it!" Her voice rose until she was nearly screaming. Jumping to her feet, she seized the Pyrex flask again and pulled her arm back as if to fling it at the door through which Nick had just exited. At the last second, however, she managed to gain control of herself; shakily, she set the flask back on the counter. "Steady, Lambert," she said softly to herself. "Take it easy. You're acting like a crazy person." Turning from the counter, she wrapped her arms around her chest and wandered aimlessly around the morgue, completely miserable. Her heart beat heavy in her chest, and her throat felt almost choked by the lump that threatened to rise and explode in hysterical tears, but she fought it down. She wondered to herself how her world could have fallen apart so quickly. One night, she'd been perfectly okay, if somewhat frustrated at the stalemate she'd reached in achieving a cure for Nick. The next night, she'd arrived at the scene of a suicide--routine!--only to find her friend Lora's body immersed in a tub of bloody water, with the suicide missive that would wreck her own life placed carefully alongside. Unconsciously, Natalie reached up to touch the bite marks on her neck, long since healed over and invisible. Nick had promised they'd be together forever, one way or another, yet she couldn't imagine feeling further divided from him than she did right now. It felt so very, very *wrong*. Her aimless ambling eventually brought her alongside the table where she had left her latest array of experiments. Almost disinterestedly, she picked up her notes on the latest victim. Anemic, blood type B+, positive titer for heroin...nothing unexpected there. Vachon had been right about one thing; this poor fellow had certainly had one foot in the grave. She sat down at her computer and called up the previous victims' records for a cross-check. The woman had been anemic, too, but both the joggers had been in excellent health. One jogger's cholesterol had been a little high, but the latest victim's was low. Red- and white-cell counts varied widely across the sample population, as did levels of various hormones and proteins. All had type B+ blood except for the jogger who had been holding the cross, the one that Vachon had virtually decapitated. That one was O-. Suddenly, a snippet of one of her conversations with Vachon came back to her. She scrambled to find the notepad she'd taken from her kitchen, trying to recall his exact words. "Do you remember anything at all about killing the other man?" "No. Except...his blood didn't smell right." She looked up from the notepad, a slow smile spreading over her face, and she jumped to her feet to collect supplies for yet another experiment. [TO BE CONTINUED...] -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@fkfanfic.com.