From v4s@FKFANFIC.COM Mon Mar 30 11:29:56 1998 Date: Mon, 30 Mar 1998 03:21:59 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU Subject: V4S: Presumed Dead -- Part 1 (06/15) 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 6 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 >>>----------> Janette and Nicholas entered the sitting room of their suite arm-in-arm. "Thank goodness LaCroix is permitting us to accompany him to these meetings with the Marquis," said Janette, releasing Nicholas's arm and gliding gracefully across the room. "I do grow weary of dressing like the bourgeoisie." She tipped her head flirtatiously as she looked back at Nicholas. "It is quite apparent, however, that you do not approve of his bringing Theodore along." "He's going to drive me to violence, I swear it," said Nicholas, removing his greatcoat and tossing it carelessly atop the harpsichord before sitting heavily on the adjacent bench. "If I must endure one more night of his intolerably adolescent behavior, I believe I shall have to stake him. He's going to put us all in danger if he keeps attracting attention." "Oooh, cherie!" Janette cried, teasing, as she settled herself on a chaise beside Nicholas. "I should not think that LaCroix would approve of your destroying his new creation, particularly one of which he is so fond." She edged closer and placed a perfect white hand on Nicholas's arm, stroking his sleeve enticingly. "You might as well try to bear his presence gracefully. We're going to be spending quite a few centuries together, after all." Nicholas snorted with disdain. "I simply cannot fathom why LaCroix chooses to parade him about so obviously," he said. "He's still young, and his training is far from complete." "Perhaps, but the closeness they share is quite touching nonetheless, don't you agree?" said Janette with a light, teasing caress to Nicholas's hand. Much to her amusement, his expression deepened to a scowl. "Oh, my!" she chided in a throaty voice. "Such a sour face! Could it be, Nicola, that you are *jealous* of Theodore?" He spun on her angrily. "Don't be ridiculous, Janette," he snapped. "I have no monopoly on LaCroix's affections, nor do I wish to. I simply find Theodore's company extremely distasteful." At that moment, Theodore burst noisily into the room, eyes alight with excitement. He walked quickly to the harpsichord, clapping Nick on the shoulder then taking Janette's hand and raising it for a kiss. "What a *spectacular* evening!" he gushed with unbridled enthusiasm, squeezing Janette's hand excitedly. "Each is better than the one before! Such music! Such sounds and sights! The wardrobes, the dances! And oh, the blood!" An orgasmic look crossed his features, and he dropped to his knees before Janette, twining his fingers into her skirts. "The last one was a street vendor--a commoner, of course--but oh! What *sensations*!" Janette's eyes met Nicholas's over Theodore's head. Hers sparkled with tolerant amusement; his smoldered. Theodore released Janette's skirts and clasped both her tiny hands in his large ones. "What I experienced, and all in one great rush!" he breathed, as though speaking of a lover. "I tasted the heady flavor of local wines and game birds, smelled the fresh bread in the market.... What care I that these things will never again cross my own palate when I can have a feast such as this with every draught? Then there was the melancholy pitch of a pipe he carved, singing as if to the sorrows of my own heart, almost as if I had known the tune before ever I was born...." He tipped his head back and closed his eyes as he licked his lips. A shiver ran the length of his body, and when he opened his eyes again, they were deep yellow, like a wolf's eyes against his black locks. "I almost believed I could stand no more," he continued, his voice soft, "but he drew breath still, and I was compelled to drink, to take ever more of his life into my own veins...." Breathing hard, he shivered again. "At that last moment, as his heart began to quiver, I felt the touch of a woman, of dozens of women, felt the cries of all his lovers taken in sheds and storerooms and rough-hewn beds, a thousand instances of ecstatic culmination in one great burst--oh!" He leaped to his feet, pulling Janette up as well, and waltzed her wildly around the room for a few seconds before she pulled away, swatting him playfully with her folded fan before retaking her seat. "How could I possibly have deceived myself that I was alive before this?" Theodore cried, holding his arms wide, then clasping his head as if it might burst from the intensity of his enthusiastic memories. Neither Nicholas nor Janette responded; instead, they glanced nervously at one another as they sensed approaching danger. Theodore registered nothing, at least until LaCroix appeared, almost as if conjured, in the center of the room. His brows were furrowed with anger, and the temperature in the suite seemed to drop with his presence. Theodore looked at LaCroix, greeting him with a joyous smile that faded under his master's cold scrutiny. LaCroix approached his new fledgling on silent feet, and before the youthful vampire could react, backhanded him across the jaw with a strength that sent him staggering several feet across the room, where he tripped over an ottoman and sprawled awkwardly. "You imbecile!" cried the elder vampire. "You've endangered us all, in a time when scrutiny is more hazardous than ever before! What did I tell you about leaving obvious kills behind?" Theodore lay on the floor, one hand up to shield his face. "I--I didn't..." he stammered. LaCroix strode over and snatched Theodore by the collar, lifting him cleanly off the ground to face gleaming yellow eyes and bared fangs. "*What* did I tell you?" he snarled, each word spoken with distinct ferocity. "Father, I--I intended to hide the body, but I--I just lost myself in the richness, the intensity! I..." LaCroix slowly lowered the fledgling to his feet, but did not let go his collar. "Your antics at the Marquis's home were embarrassing enough. Your attentions to the mortal women were a disgrace to us all. But most damning, you left a drained body in a public place near the estate," he growled. "Tell me, Theodore, what do you suppose happened when that body was discovered?" Theodore's face crumpled like a child's. "Oh, my Father!" he whispered painfully, grasping his master's wrists in supplication. "Have I ruined everything?" His expression was a pathetic display of fear and penitence, and blood tears shimmered in the corners of his eyes. LaCroix suddenly released the collar and yanked his hand away. Theodore faltered slightly, but regained his balance. He tried to meet LaCroix's malevolent stare, but quickly looked away, hanging his head. "I have failed you, Father," he whispered to his own feet in a thin voice. "Indeed, you have told me what behavior you expect of me, but the thrill of the night has blunted my reason. I find myself a drunkard with but a brief taste of the heady pleasures I find available to me now." He paused as if waiting for another reprimand or even a blow. When it did not come, he raised his head again, his expression childlike and utterly sincere. "You must believe me," he said. "However ill I have used your gift tonight, my sincerest wish is to please you and to prove myself worthy of the life you have chosen for me. Can you possibly forgive me my blunder?" A long silence ensued while LaCroix continued to glare fiercely at his newest creation. Theodore held the gaze as if transfixed, though his legs quivered visibly with discomfort. Finally LaCroix broke the stare and turned his back disdainfully. "It is fortunate for you--for all of us," said LaCroix, casting a look at Nicholas and Janette that made them both cringe, "that I watch closely over my children." He turned back around, sighing, and his voice took on a tone of tired patience. "I removed the body before the public alarm was raised. You--and we, by extension--survived this incident relatively unscathed." Theodore continued to gaze into his master's face, his expression changing to an uneasy mixture of fear and hope. LaCroix frowned severely at him. "Our codes exist for a reason, Theodore. None of us is exempt--not even myself." His eyes still glowed golden, though the fangs were no longer apparent. "Any vampire who carelessly disregards his own safety is a threat to all of us, and whatever threatens the Community *will* be destroyed." Theodore glanced at Nicholas and Janette only to see that they, too, were eyeing him with darkly judgmental expressions. He fidgeted and chewed nervously at his lower lip. LaCroix looked away briefly, then brought calm blue eyes back to his youngest child. "I find it extremely distasteful to regret my choices, and those who promote such regrets generally find themselves sharing my...unhappiness," said LaCroix firmly, causing Theodore's eyes to widen in nervous anticipation. "I should regret it intensely if I were to find that I had chosen ill in trusting you to adhere to your training," he continued, holding his frightened son's gaze with almost hypnotic intensity. "You will *not* disappoint me again, will you, my young Theo?" A tense silence followed, but then joyous relief dawned in Theodore's face as he realized that he was being let off with a warning. He took LaCroix's hands in his own and bent his head low to kiss them, then raised his gaze to meet his master's. "Oh, my Father, how good you are to me!" he cried, the look in his eyes one of discipleship. LaCroix gently freed his hands from his son's grasp. "So you enjoyed the blood of this peasant?" he asked, with much the same tone as a parent would use to address a schoolchild. Theodore's eyes caught fire again. "Oh, my Father, it was the most wondrous thing!" he cried. "Would you like to experience it?" He quickly pulled back a frilly sleeve and thrust a pale wrist toward LaCroix without hesitation. Nicholas scowled his disapproval. "No. Keep this experience for your own," said LaCroix, a slight smile of approval at the corner of his lips. "My tastes are different from yours, Theo. Your palate will mature as you age." "Oh!" exclaimed Theo, again rhapsodic in the memory. "I cannot find expression for the joy of it! An endless life of lives, borrowing the most delicious of the mortal experiences, the most remarkable snippets of the human condition! Keeping what excites me, rejecting what revolts me, choosing despair only if I wish it! This is a freedom beyond anything I could ever have imagined." He stopped for a moment to look upon LaCroix's quiet face, then leaned in to place a gentle kiss on his master's cheek. "I shall be devoted to you until the end of my days," he said with great seriousness. "As you should be," replied LaCroix, without sarcasm. Nicholas could sense the intensity of the link as it vibrated between father and son. His teeth began to throb, and a desire bordering on physical pain tugged at his soul. He often wished nothing more than to be free of LaCroix's dictatorial parenting, yet something deep within him ached somehow to share with his master a link as strong as the one he now sensed, a link he had once had, but scorned.... LaCroix met Nicholas's eyes and frowned briefly before turning his attention back to Theodore. "The sun will rise shortly," he said perfunctorily. "We must rest, Theo. Remember to hang the extra quilt at your window--your youth will not tolerate sunlight for some years yet to come." Theodore nodded seriously. "Good day, then, my beloved Father," he said, bowing slightly. "Until tonight." He turned and walked obediently toward the door to his bedroom. LaCroix remained in the parlor long enough to gaze for a moment at Janette and Nicholas. He inclined his head slightly as he looked at his daughter, and Janette nodded back pleasantly. LaCroix's gaze shifted to his son, and his eyes seemed to Nicholas to be uncharacteristically somber, indeed somehow disappointed. Without a further word, the master vampire turned and left the room. Nicholas leaned an elbow against the harpsichord, shaking his head in disgust. "'Tis no wonder he left the Church," he observed, nodding toward the closed door of Theodore's room. "Clearly, he had little dedication to the ideals that bound him to that institution; you can see how easily he has given them up." Janette tipped her face coyly toward Nicholas, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "He has given up nothing, mon cher," she countered saucily. "He has merely transferred his passion for his God to his new master." "His mindless worship, you mean," retorted Nicholas. Janette was quiet for a moment. "No, Nicola," she spoke finally, her voice carefully modulated. "I meant precisely what I said. It is the passion in him that excites LaCroix. It is much the same as the passion he found enticing in you and me." <----------<<< Nick sighed. "Will you at least let me know if you hear anything about who is doing this?" he asked resignedly. "If nothing else, this case is going to attract a lot of speculation--and media attention--that the Community doesn't need, and it's going to make my life hell for a while as well." LaCroix nodded, eyes cool again, the smirk back on his lips. "As if your life weren't hellish enough through your own doing," he said, drawing a furious look from Nick. "But yes, I believe I shall investigate this foolish impersonator. I should like to teach her--or him, as the case may be--a lesson about proper respect for the deceased." (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 Mon Mar 30 11:30:00 1998 Date: Mon, 30 Mar 1998 03:24:10 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU Subject: V4S: Presumed Dead -- Part 1 (07/15) 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 7 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 strode back into the station only to be faced with chaos. Small groups of officers and detectives were standing aside, speaking to one another with agitated voices. Phones were ringing, unanswered. Nick realized that the groups were falling silent as he passed, and he felt the uncomfortable sensation of eyes boring into his back. Adam met him before he reached his desk, a worried look on his face. Nick recognized the look that officers typically wore when delivering death notifications, and he felt the prickle of the vampire along the inside of his skin. "Nick, we just got a call...." Adam started, then fell awkwardly silent. "Come on, Reese is waiting in his office." Adam grasped Nick by the shoulder and practically propelled him across the room through a sea of staring eyes and troubled faces. As they entered Reese's office, Nick saw the captain sitting at his desk, forehead resting against hands clasped as though in prayer. When the detectives walked in, he raised his head and gestured for them to sit down. Nick realized that Reese's expression matched Adam's. "Nick, I don't know how to tell you this," said Reese. "But...well, there's no easy way to say it. Some crazy son of a bitch dug up Tracy's grave, and her body is missing." *** In the morgue, Natalie gasped and clutched the edge of her desk. "Oh, my God," she whispered into the phone. "Who would dig up... and why? Oh, my God." She let go the desk and pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, scarcely aware of the anxious voice at the other end of the connection. She'd already been feeling exhausted and overwrought, what with the vampire case and the lack of sleep, but this news was enough to make her head spin. She felt a knot like a lump of lead in her stomach, and she struggled for a moment to fight down the nausea that had plagued her ever since she'd reported to the crime scene at the lakefront. "Have they told Nick yet?" she interrupted suddenly. She could imagine Nick's anger, and hoped that he'd be able to keep the vampire in check when he heard the news. Lost in that thought, she realized that the person on the other end had fallen silent. "Thanks for letting me know," she said quickly, "and, um, ask Nick to call me, okay? Yeah. Bye." She replaced the phone in the cradle, her hands unsteady. The world was full of screwballs; she'd always known that, and she saw more than her share of the evidence thereto in the bodies that rolled through the morgue. But this! She shook her head and turned from the desk, rubbing her pounding temples. Suddenly, she froze in her tracks. That feeling was back, multiplied tenfold--the feeling that someone was watching her, stalking her, ready to pounce. The skin prickled along the back of her neck, and she could feel the blood draining from her face in a cold rush. Scarcely daring to move, she reached carefully for a scalpel from a nearby instrument tray. Stiffening her spine, she turned to face her tormentor--but nobody was there. "Lambert, you need to get a grip," she scolded herself, turning back around and dropping the scalpel on the tray with a clash. Then a voice spoke from behind her, causing her to whirl so fast she nearly lost her balance. "Doctor?" said the voice, strangely strained. "Please, can you help me?" Natalie's eyes opened wide in horrified disbelief, and took two quick steps backward, colliding with the cart behind her and sending instruments clattering to the floor. Off balance, she grabbed wildly for the edge of the table but missed. Her head hit the tile wall with a hollow- sounding *thunk*, and she watched the blackness close down her vision with a strange sense of detachment. *** Lost in a fog, Nick ignored the sympathetic murmurs of his co-workers as he walked toward the back door of the precinct. Reese, unaware that Nick could clearly hear his words, muttered to Adam, "Sorry to take your partner out of commission for the night, Sakai, but after a shock like that he wouldn't be worth a damn anyway." Nick struck the door with the flat of his palm; it flew open, squealed on its hinges, and banged shut behind him. Leaving his car in the station parking lot, Nick took to the air, almost forgetting to check for spectators first. He wandered aimlessly around the sky for a few minutes, then turned toward the graveyard. Ordinarily peaceful and deserted at this time of night, it now buzzed like a disturbed beehive with lights, cameras, police, and journalists. Yellow crime-scene tape surrounded the yawning, untidy hole in the ground beside the upended tombstone. Shattered pieces of the cement vault were strewn helter-skelter around the grave, and Tracy's coffin lay awkwardly on its side, open, empty. Nick's eyes sparked golden. One of the compensations of mortal death was the promise of a peaceful slumber; the fact that Tracy's had been so rudely disturbed infuriated him. He banked away, scarcely aware of the stinging sleet against his face. He had managed to push the memories of Tracy's death to the dark places in his consciousness that he rarely visited, but now flashes of that awful night assaulted his senses inescapably. As if it were happening again, he heard the sickening sound of a bullet hitting flesh behind him. Then there was the reproachful expression on Tracy's face. "You could have trusted me...." He saw her eyes, wide and glazed with pain, and her pasty complexion as the blood drained from her and shock set in. Her slender neck showed white against her clothes, the pulse in the big artery rapid and shallow.... Nick's eyes widened suddenly with realization. Tracy's skin had seemed unusually pale and stark against her blouse that day because she'd been missing the necklace she usually wore--a burnished gold cross on a chain. That necklace, in fact, had been absent from her neck ever since the day Divia died, the day Tracy buried.... "Vachon," he whispered. (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 Mon Mar 30 11:30:05 1998 Date: Mon, 30 Mar 1998 03:25:11 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: FKFIC-L@lists.psu.edu Subject: V4S: Presumed Dead -- Part 1 (08/15) 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 8 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 When Natalie came to, she had to think hard for a moment to remember where she was. Bright fluorescent lights shone uncomfortably in her eyes, and the floor beneath her was viciously hard against her hipbones. A towel was bunched under her ankles, and someone was patting her forehead with a cool, damp cloth. She looked up, remembering, and her eyes met with warm brown ones, crinkled around with laugh lines as their owner smiled at her. She sat up abruptly, making her head throb viciously. The world spun for a moment, then gradually settled into its rightful place. "Javier Vachon," she said softly. "Sorry I scared you," he replied amiably. "For some reason, I seem to cause lapses of consciousness among the women of the Toronto law enforcement community." He smiled again, but there was poignancy and strain in his face. "Well, at least you seem to have learned how to use a foot prop to bring an unconscious person's blood pressure back up," Natalie replied, a slight quaver in her voice belying her effort to match his easygoing tone. Despite the cold, rubbery feeling that persisted in her legs, she got to her knees, then leaned forward to look more closely. Vachon sat against the wall, one leg crossed casually over the other. His face and hands were more or less clean, but his clothes were torn, full of holes, and caked in places with dried mud. His boots hung open, the laces rotted apart and broken. His long black hair was a snarled mess, and his skin was pale, even by vampire standards, especially in contrast with his unruly beard. He smelled like a cross between a wet dog and a three-week-old corpse. "Not to sound overly critical, but you look like hell," she said, finally in possession of her normal voice again. "Yeah, but it beats being dead," he replied, standing up. He offered Natalie a hand, which she took, and he pulled her gently to her feet. "You okay?" he asked. She gingerly touched the lump on the back of her head. "Yeah, I guess so," she said after a moment. "I'm only seeing one of you, and I already had the headache anyway." She took a step toward him, still studying him closely. "Listen, I'm sorry I overreacted there. It's just that...well, you're supposed to be dead. And I've been feeling pretty lousy myself of late." "I know," he said matter-of-factly. "Who bit you, Knight?" She stared at him open-mouthed. "How in the hell?" she asked, outraged. He shrugged slightly. "I could tell from the first time I saw you yesterday in that alley." "Alley?" she echoed, confusion written on her features. Then she remembered. "It was you!" she said sharply. "You're the one who's been following me!" He nodded, a mischievous spark in his eyes. Her eyes suddenly registered uncomfortable realization, and the color left her face. "*You* killed that woman--and those men!" she said accusingly, backing away. "I think so," he said, moving toward her. "But I'm not going to hurt you. I need your help. That's why I'm here." "You *think* so?" she demanded incredulously. "You mean you don't *know*?" He shook his head, a slight smile on his lips that didn't reach his eyes. "I'm having these blackouts or something," he said. "I feel this pain in my gut and my head--it's like being run through with a pike--and next thing I know, it's at least an hour later, I'm sick as a dog, and I have no idea where I am or how I got there. Sometimes, just to make things *really* interesting, I'm hauling a dead body around." He lifted his eyebrows in punctuation, then grew serious. "I'm going to go crazy if it doesn't stop. I may be crazy already. Nothing's the same." He turned slightly away. "Nothing at all." He stroked absently at the scraggly, unkempt beard. Natalie rubbed her forehead with both hands, then dropped them and studied Vachon intently. "Why come to me?" she asked. "I mean, what can I possibly do to help you?" He didn't meet her eyes. "You helped Screed that time, or at least you tried to. But, when you come down to it, there's really nobody else I can go to," he said quietly. "I woke up, and I was by myself. I went to the church, and all my stuff was gone. I went to the Raven to find Urs, or even that old battleaxe, LaCroix, and it was boarded up. I went to Knight's apartment, and there was nobody there. I even called the station from a pay phone, looking for Tracy...." Natalie realized with sudden horror that Vachon had most likely been the one who had exhumed Tracy's body. She covered her mouth with one hand to control the fresh wave of nausea that accompanied that realization, plotting all the while how she might get the hell out of the examining room and put as much distance as possible between herself and her uninvited visitor. A moment later, though, Vachon turned to her, his eyes wide with sincerity and pain; her fear dissolved, and any thoughts of running away vanished with it. "She killed them all, didn't she?" he asked, his voice bitter. "Who?" Natalie asked, confused. "That little girl. What was her name, Divia? I felt her thoughts when she bit me," he said. "She wanted to kill us all; me, Urs, Knight, LaCroix, anybody else that got in her way. They're all gone, aren't they?" She saw him set his jaw as if bracing for unwelcome news. Natalie's eyes went rapidly from Vachon to the wall to the door, and she stammered for a moment. "No. Well, not-- she didn't--I mean..." She put up both hands to interrupt herself, took a deep breath, and let it out as she dropped them. "Nick and LaCroix are alive," she said carefully. "But Urs..." She shook her head gently. "I'm sorry, Vachon." He turned away, blinking, and looked up at the ceiling as though it were fascinating. "I guess I knew that already," he said, pursing his lips. "I've been trying to sense her, and there's nothing there. I guess she finally got what she wanted--150 years ago. Hope she still wanted it." He sighed deeply and leaned his shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms as though he were cold. To Natalie, he looked almost fragile in his ragged condition, even though she knew he could tear her to shreds with scarcely more than a thought. "It's weird," he said softly. "The first night I woke up as a vampire, I was on my own. I made my own way, made my own rules. But it was boring. I like a party." He shot her a hint of his impish smile. "I picked up Screed, Bourbon, Urs, a few others here and there. We ran as a group. Misfits--all of us were, in a way--but we looked out for each other." He leaned his head against the wall as though he couldn't support it. "So, now it's just me again. Solamente_Javier Vachon. And after 460 years, that feels really strange." Natalie shivered. Against her will, she remembered her own recent losses--her brother Richard, and her goddaughter Cynthia, and Schanke and Cohen, and Calvin Tucker, and Lora Haynes... and what it felt like to wake up on the floor of the loft by herself, the life seeping out of her like ice water, so very alone. Her heart surged with compassion, and she took a step closer to Vachon, clutching one of her hands in the other. He turned on her with astonishing speed; she gasped fearfully. "Sorry, sorry--keep forgetting," he smiled, grasping both her shoulders for a moment to steady her. "But, Doctor..." he paused, and a frustrated expression crossed his face. "You know, I don't even know what your last name is," he frowned. "Knight never said." "Lambert," she croaked in a voice that almost refused to work at first. "Natalie Lambert. You can call me Natalie if you like. But listen," she said firmly, "you have *got* to stop scaring me like that. I haven't exactly had an easy time of late, and I'm not up to dealing with a major adrenaline rush every thirty seconds." He grinned and performed an exaggerated bow and flourish. "As the lady wishes," he intoned, then dropped into normal cadence. "I'll try not to scare you, but you're awfully jumpy. Does it really bother you that much?" "Does *what* bother me?" she repeated, puzzled. "You know, the--what, abilities? 'Dark gifts'?" His voice was teasing. "Whatever you want to call it; the stuff you picked up when you were bitten by a vampire." He punctuated the last word with arms held out, wing-like, and eyes widened ridiculously. Natalie laughed in spite of herself. "Does it really bother you that much?" She half-nodded, head tipped to one side. "Yes and no," she ventured. "The bloodlust was a real problem at first, though I can mostly fight it back now. It's exhausting, but I can do it. I worry sometimes that I'm hypnotizing people without meaning to, and..." she trailed off, then looked up abruptly. "I knew someone--a vampire-- was here before I saw you," she said quickly. "That's part of it, too, isn't it?" "Yep," he said, nodding. "That's a handy one." He took a step toward her and touched the side of her neck with a finger. "Look at it this way. Now, if you get bitten by a vampire, unlike most mortals, at least you'll *know* what hit you before you die." He grinned mischievously, but she didn't smile back. He raised his eyebrows and extended his lower lip slightly. "Sorry," he said, withdrawing his hand. She turned half away from him. "I guess the worst part is just feeling like some sort of freak," she said. "I'm not a vampire, but I'm not the same as I was. I feel sort of like I'm at a carnival funhouse, and I've got one foot inside and one out, but I can't move in either direction." She sighed, then looked at him. "Does that make sense?" He nodded, brown eyes serious. "You know, I'd be happy to give you a full-admission ticket to that funhouse," he said softly, almost seductively, his voice warm. Her eyes grew wide, and she took a step backward, shaking her head wordlessly. "I figured as much," he said. "Well, then, how about a bargain?" "What sort of bargain?" she said suspiciously. "You help me; I help you," he said simply. "You help me figure out why I'm having these fits, and I help you learn to control the vampire stuff and make it work *for* you instead of against you." Natalie stared at him for a moment, then she frowned. "How can a vampire possibly help a mortal to manage vampire tendencies?" she said, her voice clinical. "The same way a mortal helped a vampire do it," replied Vachon with easy confidence. Natalie stared for a moment, then said, "Come again?" Vachon leaned back against the wall and put his arms behind his head, looking for all the world like a teenage street tough except for the never-quite-serious smile. "Well, you see," he said, "my vampire master walked into the sun the morning after she brought me over. What control I learned, I learned on my own. It was either that or get killed by a mob of people when I got careless." Natalie nodded and settled a hip against the table, crossing her arms. "I was able to manage it, but it was a constant struggle," he continued. "It was like you said--I *fought* with my instincts all the time." "So what changed?" she asked. "I know Nick...." Vachon made a snorting noise and dropped his arms. "Knight's a lousy example," he said. "The way he fights being a vampire just makes it harder for him. But that's his gig, not mine. No, I took some lessons--from a couple of very wise mortals." Natalie was silent, her eyes questioning. "You live long enough, you get bored," Vachon continued. "Once, when I got bored, I came to the 'new world' and spent a few decades with some of the native tribes. Mississauga, Iroquois.... They were amazing people, and they knew more about dealing with the various forces of nature than all the so-called scientists in the world." He looked at her over a crooked smile. "No offense." She waved off the comment with a slight gesture. "And?" she prodded. "The natives--some of the elders in particular--taught me to manage the vampire. I've used their methods ever since. It made it easy to live among mortals." He lowered his chin and cast Natalie a self-satisfied look. Her brows furrowed over bright eyes. "They knew what you were, yet they let you live among them, that long ago?" she asked, skeptical. "Sure," he replied casually. "To them, I was just another inexplicable freak of nature, except that I came in very handy on hunting parties and war raids." He smiled, a conspiratorial gleam in his eyes, and scratched at his beard. His expression changed suddenly, and he examined his fingernails in disgust. "Oh, great," he observed. "Bugs." Natalie suddenly looked at him as though she were seeing him clearly for the first time. "Oh my God," she said. "We've got to get you out of here before somebody sees you." She opened her desk drawer and grabbed her purse. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up, at least." She started for the door. "Doctor Lambert," he called out, stopping her. She turned and looked at him questioningly. "Does this mean we've got a deal?" She stood mute for a moment, then took a deep breath and nodded. "Yeah. We've got a deal. I'm probably crazy, but we've got a deal. Now come on; I've got to get out of here before somebody tries to autopsy you--you look worse than most of the regular customers." *** Still airborne, Nick frowned as he slowly reviewed his memories of Divia's killing spree. "I'll take you to Screed," Tracy had whispered to the battered, seemingly dead vampire lying in her lap. She'd had no idea Nick was listening behind her. Was it possible, Nick wondered? Could Vachon actually have survived Divia's attack? Eventually, Nick eased himself to the ground, feet touching the pavement soundlessly. He brushed his windblown hair away from his forehead and glanced around, mildly surprised to find himself in front of the CERK broadcasting station. He hesitated for a moment, then slipped silently through the door. LaCroix sat at the console, tented fingers against his lips. The opening strains of "Siegfried's Funeral Music," sounded in the background, and the On The Air light was dim. Nick carefully opened the door to the broadcast booth and entered. LaCroix didn't even look up. "Nicholas," he acknowledged, a hint of mockery in his voice. "Whatever brings you here tonight?" Nick ignored the tone and went straight to the point. "I think I know who the killer is, and it's not Divia, but it's almost as bad." LaCroix's left eyebrow rose in question, and his glittering blue eyes met Nick's. "Really," he said coldly. "It's Vachon," said Nick flatly. LaCroix dropped his hands to the armrests of his chair and turned to face Nick. "The Spaniard?" he said with obvious skepticism. "He's entirely too lazy to exert the level of industry you've described, Nicholas." Nick shook his head. "He was the first one Divia attacked," he said firmly. "I felt sure he was dead when I saw him with Tracy, but I could have been wrong. Perhaps Divia brainwashed him somehow, and now he's carrying out her mission. You could be in danger again, LaCroix." The elder vampire looked at his son with disdain. "Me, endangered by one less than a quarter my age?" he said, chuckling. "Your concern is...gratifying, Nicholas, but certainly unfounded." He punctuated his statement with an even but piercing glare that reminded Nick all too well of his master's ability to defend himself. "But what if she managed to transfer her strength to him?" Nick insisted. "He *is* killing vampires. He's obviously out of control. What if--" LaCroix interrupted with a sharp gesture. "Nicholas, you are, quite characteristically, overreacting to this entire affair," he said, his voice cool with distaste. "Your rogue, if that's what you think he is, is killing *mortals*. He has killed *a* vampire--a young, stupid one who had neither the intelligence nor the adaptability that is necessary to survive the ages." He rose silently to his feet and began walking a slow circle around Nick. "This is a matter of natural selection, Nicholas," he said, as though talking to a foolish pupil. "Soon enough, your unfortunate Spaniard, if indeed it is he, will encounter an opponent with little patience for the sort of childish tantrums he is displaying, and he will find his miraculous resurrection to be sadly short-lived." Nick scowled. "What if you're wrong?" he asked. "What if he *is* a danger to us? How can we be sure?" LaCroix stared malevolently at his son, all patience gone. "If he continues to behave in an inappropriate manner, or if he endangers the Community in any fashion, Nicholas," he snarled, "the situation *will* be dealt with. The Code has been in place since long before your self- absorbed appearance, and you know that it will be...enforced..." his eyebrows rose pointedly, "as necessary. I frankly find it rather surprising, and more than a little tiresome, that you insist on discussing it at such exhausting length." The music swelled to a crescendo, and LaCroix glanced pointedly at the clock. Nick stared at LaCroix, his eyes cold. "You're actually willing to let it go that far?" he asked, disbelief in his voice. "You'd let the Community call in the En--" LaCroix rolled his eyes. "Nicholas," he interrupted wearily, "were the opportunity available to lay wagers, I would bet a considerable sum against this vampire's surviving the week. Impetuous behavior inevitably brings its own destruction." He turned to face Nick, only inches away. "Stop troubling yourself," he whispered icily, enunciating each word. "It's unbecoming in the extreme and makes you appear only slightly less foolish than the one whose behavior concerns you so." Dismissing his son with a frown and an imperious wave of his hand, LaCroix turned his attention back to the microphone before him. With a grimace, Nick strode out the door of the broadcast room and down the corridor. He could hear LaCroix's voice addressing the airwaves, smooth and without a hint of the annoyance Nick had just witnessed. "Alas, poor Siegfried," said LaCroix melodramatically. "Smitten in his prime, a victim of youthful passion and overconfidence in his strengths. Choose your heroes carefully, gentle listeners; bravado is enticing but hollow, and every hero, like Siegfried, has a vulnerability. But also choose carefully the substance of your nightmares." (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 Mon Mar 30 11:30:12 1998 Date: Mon, 30 Mar 1998 03:28:43 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: FKFIC-L@lists.psu.edu Subject: V4S: Presumed Dead -- Part 1 (09/15) 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 9 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 hesitated at the door to her apartment, key wavering in her hand. Even if she hadn't known perfectly well that she'd left a vampire waiting on the other side of that door, every nerve in her body was sounding off like a fire alarm. Biting her lower lip hard and fighting down the instinct to flee, she inserted the key into the lock. "Vachon?" she called out as she entered. Better not to startle a vampire, especially a sick one, even though she knew he'd probably heard her coming somewhere around the ground floor. "Vachon? Are you awake?" No response. She set the shopping bag down and greeted Sidney, who wound around her ankles, loudly protesting the disruption of his household and his routine. Cautiously, she peered into the living room, then burst out laughing in spite of herself. Vachon lay sprawled across her couch on his back like so much road kill. Shining, damp hair curled around his shoulders. The beard was gone. Natalie wondered absently how many of her disposable razors he must have trashed to accomplish that feat. Dark hair trailed down the white skin of his bare chest. One bare leg dangled off the side of the couch, and the other, propped on the armrest, stuck out like a mannequin's stiffened limb. Wrapped around his waist was one of her good bath towels, trimmed with eyelet lace and embroidered profusely along the edge with pink rosebuds. He looked perfectly ridiculous. At the sound of her laughter, one brown eye opened slowly and stared languidly at her for a moment, then the other opened as well. For a moment, Vachon scanned his surroundings, as though getting his bearings, then he sat up with a groan and scratched his head sleepily. "Sorry," Natalie chortled, wiping her eyes. "It's just that pink isn't exactly your best color." He glanced at the towel and shrugged slightly. "Well, it was either this or the fuzzy bathrobe on the back of the door--or temporarily declaring your apartment a nudist camp." His lips, now fully visible without the beard to obscure them, twitched in a sly grin. "I tried washing out my clothes, but most of them just fell apart when I scrubbed them. Guess it's not a good idea to wear the same underwear for more than six months straight, huh?" Natalie grimaced. "I don't even want to think about it," she said. "You're just lucky you don't get skin rashes." "*Luck* has nothing to do with it," he retorted cheerfully. "Right," she replied dryly, then turned to pick up the shopping bag. "Here, give these a try." "Thanks," he said, rising and taking the shopping bag with one hand while holding the towel in place with the other. He turned and glanced toward the window, which was concealed by heavy drapes. "What time is it, anyway?" "Around five," said Natalie automatically as she slipped out of her coat. "The sun will be down soon." He looked at her absently for a moment, then he nodded. "I just realized--it's almost Daylight Savings Time again, isn't it?" he asked. When she nodded, he rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, complaining, "See what happens when you oversleep?" With a mischievous wink, he turned and headed for the bathroom. About ten minutes later, he strolled into the kitchen, where Natalie was eating a microwave dinner. She glanced with approval at the black henley shirt and black denim jeans. The pants were a little too long, bunching slightly over the tops of his boots, but they fit adequately otherwise. New laces held the boots in place. "Thanks, Doc," he said pleasantly. "These are great. The pants feel fine." He stuck a thumb in the waistband, running it around to show that they weren't too tight. Natalie smiled. "Measure enough dead bodies, and you get pretty good at eyeballing sizes," she said. "I told the dry cleaner that your jacket got left outside by mistake. He said he'd see what he could do. I think he was a little concerned about the mud caked in the seams, but I told him that comfort was more crucial than appearance." Vachon nodded agreement and pulled out the chair next to her, dropping lightly into it. He evaluated his fingernails, which were still long enough to appear almost clawlike. "Definitely have to get another pocketknife," he mused. "The old one's rusted shut." Natalie studied Vachon, shaking her head slightly in amazement. "So you've really been *buried* all this time?" He looked up at her and nodded, as if surprised that she would have expected him to have been anywhere else. "Wow," she said quietly, more to herself than him. "You know, it is absolutely incredible that you could go that long without air." He shrugged and leaned back in his chair, sticking his legs straight out in front of him and crossing one over the other. "You've heard the expression 'sleeping the sleep of the dead'?" he asked. "Well, that's not too far off the mark. And dead people don't breathe much." "Is that what it was like? Sleeping, I mean?" she asked. He frowned momentarily as he considered her question, then nodded slowly. "More or less," he said. "I didn't really have a sense of time passing, if that's what you mean. But there are a couple of things I remember happening." "Do you mind talking about it?" asked Natalie, unable to conceal her less-than-polite interest. His eyes met hers, and he shook his head. "Not much to tell, really," he said. He picked up a pepper mill from the kitchen table and begin examining it as he spoke. "I guess you know about Tracy and the stake?" "Stake?" said Natalie, surprised. "No, all I knew was that Divia attacked you. I thought she killed you the same way she killed Ur...the same way she tried to kill the others." Vachon twisted the mill, releasing a few flakes of pepper onto the table. "I called Tracy to tell her I knew who was making the kills." He shook his head. "That was kind of stupid, really--it's not like she could have *done* anything about it--but I knew she'd think it was important. Next thing I know, she's there in the church, shaking me and wanting to know what's wrong." He laughed softly, but it was a sardonic laugh without a hint of amusement. "What was wrong was, I was seeing two thousand years of weird fantasies, plus every memory that little girl ever had, all at once, everywhere I looked. It was like a kaleidoscope. It felt so good I almost couldn't stand it, and it felt like my body was full of napalm, all at the same time." He caught Natalie's eyes for a moment. "I don't really recommend it," he said, a slight smirk on his lips. She sat, fascinated. Nick was always so reluctant to talk about the dark side of vampirism--this was an education. "And?" she prompted. He put the pepper mill down softly and began tracing the pattern on the tablecloth with one finger. "I thought I was dying, and I was afraid I'd kill Tracy, so I gave her a stake and asked her to put me out of my misery." Natalie frowned, remembering how upset Tracy had been when she'd shot a perpetrator in the line of duty--a stranger, a criminal. How could she have staked Vachon? "Did she?" Natalie asked, barely above a whisper. Vachon looked up again, eyes burning with intensity. "No," he mouthed after a moment, not quite saying the word aloud. He smiled sadly and shook his head ever so slightly, then resumed tracing patterns on the table. "I waited till she was holding the stake up, then I flew into it." Natalie flinched, imagining the pain of a stake through the chest and also realizing how dismayed Tracy must have been at the time. She took a deep breath, then quietly asked, "How did you survive it?" Vachon smiled. "I missed," he said simply. "The stake has to go right through the heart. Otherwise, it's very, very uncomfortable, but it's not deadly." He met Natalie's eyes from beneath partially lowered lids. "Plus, Tracy pulled it out." Natalie considered the force that would be necessary to remove a wooden stake from a limp, uncooperative body. She shook her head. Tracy shouldn't have been able to do it alone, but adrenaline--and love, Natalie reminded herself pensively--could work wonders. "But you didn't come to?" she asked. Vachon shook his head. "Not after an injury like that, no," he said. "The staking would have been enough to lay me up for a few days, especially if I wasn't able to feed, but this other...well, I'm still not over that, apparently." "Other?" said Natalie. "The effects of that little demon kid's bite," he said. "I'm still seeing her memories, and her fantasies, only not the same way as before." "Did you have those memories the whole time you were buried?" asked Natalie, her medical examiner's persona beginning to assert itself. "Oh, no," said Vachon, a dreamy look crossing his face. "That part was great. It was the most peaceful I've ever felt." Natalie's only response was a quizzical look. He grinned and leaned forward onto his elbows. "I have no idea how Tracy managed to get me down to the lake, but I remember being aware that I was there. I couldn't move, of course. It was like--well, when I was a boy, I got so sick once, they thought I was going to die. The way I felt when Tracy was making my grave was like I felt back then, when the priest was in my room giving me the last rites. I could hear everyone in the room, but I couldn't wake up enough to move or say anything." Natalie nodded, fascinated, trying to imagine what primitive medical treatments had been tried on Vachon as a child, and marveling that he'd survived in spite of such efforts. "Tracy must have spent two hours digging," he continued, "but she still didn't get the hole that deep. She dragged me down into it and arranged me all nice and formal...." He was quiet for a moment, his eyes staring well past Natalie. "She had the softest touch," he whispered finally. Natalie shifted in her chair uncomfortably, feeling like an intruder. Aware of the motion, Vachon pulled his gaze back to her and cleared his throat. "She covered me up," Vachon continued. "She sang to the rhythm of the shoveling--funeral songs, hymns, I think. After she stopped, she read one of the old Catholic prayers-- in Latin, even." He laughed softly. "Her pronunciation was *awful*." Natalie frowned. "Wasn't that upsetting? The prayer, I mean?" He shook his head. "That doesn't bother me as much as it does some vampires. I used to live in a church, remember?" He shot her a beguiling smirk. "Over the years, I've learned some tricks to managing that, too." "So what happened then?" Natalie asked. "I heard her voice, closer than before. She must have been on her hands and knees," he said slowly, as if he was having to strain for the memory. "She said something about...she might as well leave the cross since...what was it? Oh, yeah, since there wouldn't be a gravestone." He looked back at Natalie and nodded his head in certainty. "I have no idea what she meant, but I heard her drop something and pack down the dirt. After that, I couldn't move, couldn't feel anything. And honestly? I didn't want to." "The necklace," said Natalie, setting down her coffee cup as her expression grew serious. Vachon didn't say anything, but he looked across the table at Natalie with eyebrows arched curiously. "You know the first two victims, the ones that we found by your grave?" she said. "Well, one of them was holding a gold cross on a broken chain, and the forensics tests showed it was packed with dirt from the grave site." Vachon nodded, realization dawning in his eyes. "She must have sanctified the ground," he said. "That's why I couldn't move." "I thought you just said the holy relics didn't bother you," Natalie protested. "This is different," said Vachon. "What she did was like putting a seal on the grave. A burial site marked and closed with a sacred icon is among the holiest of ground. It's hard to fight, especially when you're weak, like I was." "So what made you come out of it?" Natalie prompted. "I'm not sure," he said. "All I know is, I was suddenly wide awake and very, very hungry. I was angry, too, at being disturbed. It was like having a bucket of ice water thrown on you when you're sound asleep and having a good dream." He clasped his hands on the table and contemplated his thumbs intently. "What happened then?" Natalie asked, leaning across the table. He looked up, and his mouth puckered slightly as he concentrated. "I smelled warm blood--live blood," he said slowly, "so I dug out, fast." A flicker of a smile crossed his lips. "There were these two guys there. I was starving--I had to have blood...." He paused and looked at her carefully. "You sure you want to hear this part?" She nodded. "I'm going to have to if we want to figure out what's wrong with you," she said. "I can stand it." "Okay, then," he replied easily. "One of the guys saw me. You don't leave witnesses, so I hit him first, then went after the second one." "So the first one's dead?" she demanded. "No, probably just knocked out," he said. "Then the second one turned around and saw me, and I took him." "Meaning, I suppose, that you bit him?" Natalie noted. "You drank his blood, right?" Vachon hesitated a moment before answering, as though he were playing the scene out in his mind. "Yeah," he said, "but it's right there that things started getting weird. Normally, when we're hurt or we haven't fed for a long time, the first taste of blood feels incredible, like--well, sort of like a drink of cool water when you're half-dead from thirst--only better. Lots better." He shot her a sensuous glance and a knowing smile that slowly faded. "But after a minute, this felt like I'd swallowed acid. I thought my insides were going to come pouring out on the ground." He frowned and shook his head. "It was actually painful to drink?" Natalie asked. "No, not to drink," he mused. "I'd pretty well drained him by the time the pain started. And after that, all I wanted to do was make it stop. I felt this tingling, like bugs crawling inside in my head, then..." he scowled for a moment, then shook his head. "That's the last thing I remember." "Do you remember anything at all about killing the other man?" she said quickly. "No," Vachon responded. He was silent for a moment, tracing his lower lip with his tongue. "Except..." he paused, thinking, "his blood didn't smell right." "I'm not sure I really *want* to know what that means," Natalie moaned, "but--didn't smell right how?" "I don't know," Vachon admitted. "But it wasn't right somehow, and that...." he paused, concentrating. "That made me furious." "So instead of biting him, you ripped his head off," Natalie muttered under her breath. Vachon's only response was a rather blank stare. "If you say so," he said finally. "I don't remember." Natalie sat back and let out her breath in a whoosh. "Okay," she said slowly. "So we know the first blood you drank after being buried for several months produced a reaction that could be considered unusual at the very least. You experienced extreme discomfort and some sort of disorientation, then you lost awareness. Is that right?" He nodded. "I ought to be writing this down," she murmured, standing up and hunting around the vicinity of the telephone for a pad and pencil. Sitting back down, she jotted a few notes, then looked up at Vachon. "What's the next thing you remember?" "Being at the church, covered in blood and other stuff that you probably don't want to hear about," he replied with dark humor, as though he were describing a daily occurrence. Natalie looked at him with an expression of distaste, then arched her brows and returned to her scribbling. "Did you feel any pain or any unusual feelings then?" "Not pain," he said thoughtfully. "I felt awfully tired and sore, and sick to my stomach, which is really weird when you're a vampire. I went out and took a dip in the lake to clear my head and rinse off the blood and dirt." He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms casually. "Ever gone swimming in Lake Ontario when it's below freezing outside?" "No, and I have no intention of doing it, either," she retorted, shivering involuntarily. He smiled. "You forget. Hot running water is a relatively recent convenience," he said. "They used to think cold baths were good for you--got the blood moving, or something like that." She made a face at him, then turned the page on her notepad. "So since that first night and the two joggers, you've killed one other person," she said, hoping the body count was no higher than that. "One more mortal and two vampires--that I know of," he replied calmly. "Vampires?" she said, startled, looking up. "Is that typical behavior for you?" He snorted softly. "It's not typical behavior for any vampire that wants his fair shot at immortality," he replied. "Other vampires lose patience with that in a hurry." "Why vampires?" she said, completely puzzled, the notebook forgotten. He shrugged. "I have no idea what triggers it," he said, "but it's something in the smell of the blood." He looked up at her, brown eyes shining. "Blood scent is always tempting," he explained, his voice softly sensuous, "but unless you're in first hunger, you can manage the temptation." He stared at Natalie until a slight color rose in her cheeks. "This is different, though," he continued. "At the first scent of the blood, mortal or vampire, my head starts tingling, and the pain kicks in. I have to have the blood. I'll do anything to get it. As soon as I taste it, everything looks funny for a minute, then I start seeing things that aren't really there, then I black out. After that, I don't know what's going on for a couple of hours at least." "But it's not just anyone's blood," Natalie protested. "I mean, my blood doesn't seem to bother you, and you didn't kill anyone at the morgue..." He shook his head slowly. "I don't know what the trigger is," he said. "There's been the mortal men and a woman, and one male vampire and one female. They were in different places. The woman was an addict I found passed out in the street near the church. The male vampire was hanging around the Raven when I went looking there for Urs-- I chased him for miles before I caught him. I found the female vampire near the lake." His lip curled. "I've spent a lot of time lately at the lake--and in it." "How soon can you tell if the person's--uh, individual's, blood will cause the reaction?" she queried, scanning her notes. "Oh, it either happens right away or not at all," he replied. "It hits at first scent." He paused, looking over Natalie's head at the juncture of wall and ceiling. "First scent," he repeated. "I hate it when I get that first whiff, because I know what's coming, and it's *not* good." Natalie scribbled furiously for a few moments, then reviewed her notations while Vachon watched, silent. Finally she dropped the pad on the table and stood up. "Okay," she said. "I'm going to get some blood samples from you and take them down to the lab to test them. You think that will set you off?" He shook his head, then pulled back the sleeve of his new shirt with alacrity. Natalie went into her bathroom and brought back a kit for drawing blood. In response to Vachon's teasing, quizzical look, she simply shrugged and said, "It pays to be prepared." (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 Mon Mar 30 11:30:18 1998 Date: Mon, 30 Mar 1998 03:30:05 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU Subject: V4S: Presumed Dead -- Part 1 (10/15) 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 10 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 Having gone back and retrieved the Caddy, Nick drove home slowly, his mind far from the road. Once or twice, an irate motorist had to honk at him to prod him through an intersection, but he made it home otherwise unscathed. Once inside, he went straight to the refrigerator. He actually tasted the protein shake-of-the-week that Natalie had given him, but grimaced at its flavor and reached instead for a bottle of cow's blood. He pulled the cork with his teeth and spat it in the direction of the sink, then punched the button on his answering machine as he downed the first swig. Of the four messages on the machine, three were from various press organizations hoping to get his comments on his former partner's exhumation. Nick's expression grew steadily darker as he listened. "Vultures," he muttered, taking another deep draught from his bottle. The fourth message was from--of all people--Thomas Westwood, extending his sympathetic concern and offering an ear if Nick wanted to talk. Nick stared at the machine, half-stunned. Who would have sicced Westwood on him? Surely not Natalie! No, it must have been Reese. Nick scowled. Natalie.... He wished she were there to talk with him, to help him sort out his feelings about this whole matter. As he thought of her, he suddenly realized that he should tell her about his revelation regarding Vachon. He reached for the telephone and speed-dialed the morgue, only to learn that Natalie wasn't there. For a moment, he considered paging her, but he didn't want to force her into a stilted conversation about vampires if he should happen to interrupt her at a crime scene or on a precinct visit. With a sigh, he dropped the phone back into its cradle, returning his attention to the fast-disappearing blood in the bottle. *** With a wiggle of her finger, Natalie beckoned Vachon to follow her into the living room, where she made him sit on the couch with his legs propped up. He chuckled when she prepped his arm with iodine, but she went through all the motions anyway. Several minutes and three tubes of blood later, she withdrew her needle. She looked at Vachon's face to gauge his reaction and found him staring at her with such unblinking intensity that she shivered. "So," he said, very softly. "You want to tell me your story, now that you've heard mine?" She laughed uncomfortably and stood up, busying herself with the sample tubes. "There's not much to tell, really," she said, a little too quickly, unintentionally echoing what he had said to her earlier. Vachon swung his legs around and sat up straight, examining his arm for a moment, then pulled the sleeve of his new shirt down again. "There's another way, you know, if talking about it bothers you," he said calmly. "You could let me taste your blood." Natalie gasped and almost dropped the tube in her hand. She whirled to look at Vachon, her eyes wide. He smiled to reassure her. "I wouldn't have to bite you," he said, his tone light. "One of those would be fine." He nodded toward the vial in her hand. "I--I don't think so," Natalie stammered. "I'm not...I don't..." She stopped, took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then looked back at Vachon. He waited patiently, an expectant look on his face. "I'm sorry, but I cannot *deal* with that right now," she admitted, her voice uncharacteristically small. "Okay," he said, sounding vaguely disappointed. "Whatever you say." She just looked at him for a moment, feeling a strange vulnerability that she knew must show in her eyes, then she turned back to her samples. With effort, she managed to control the shaking of her hands. "Let's start with an easy question, then," he said. "When, exactly, does the bloodlust bother you?" Natalie looked abruptly away from the sample tubes, taking a deep breath. She rubbed a hand across her eyes, then turned back to Vachon with steely determination. "It's worst when there's a lot of blood, especially in places where I don't expect it," she said, carefully clinical. "When I do an autopsy, I know where and when to expect to see blood. But when I go to a crime scene and there's fresh blood splattered around, it gets to me sometimes, especially when I turn around and find it right in front of me." Vachon studied her as she spoke, his eyes revealing a aged wisdom that contradicted his youthful, unruly appearance. When he spoke again, his voice had an easy flow that reminded Natalie somehow of butter melting. "When you see the fresh blood, what do you want to do?" She started slightly, then pursed her lips as she forced herself to examine her impulses. When she saw fresh blood... She tried to picture a pool of blood in her mind, to pretend there was a bucket of blood on the coffee table, but her mind recoiled. Unintentionally, she grimaced and looked away. Vachon sighed softly. "Okay," he said, pushing himself off the couch and onto his feet. "Let's find out." Natalie looked up just in time to see a flash of white fangs against the soft, full lips. Before she had time to be afraid, Vachon bit into the flesh at the base of his own thumb. Surprised and somewhat dismayed, she stared as he turned his hand over. Bluish-red blood flowed slowly from the puncture wounds into the palm of his hand, pooling there. He tipped his arm slightly, and the blood began to trail a crooked path down his forearm. Simultaneously fascinated and appalled, Natalie stared at the rivulets staining his unnaturally white skin. Suddenly, faster than her eye could follow, Vachon was standing in front of her, holding her wrist. Before she could scream, he turned her own palm up and angled his arm so that the blood dripped into her hand. "What do you want?" he demanded, his voice rough and dark. She wanted to run away, first and foremost. She wanted to run down the hall, out the door, down the street, and as far away from anything vampire as she could possibly get. She wanted to get in the shower and let hot water stream over and over her body until she no longer felt the contaminating, unclean touch of blood anywhere on her skin. She wanted... The blood dripped into her palm with a steady rhythm. Some of the droplets spattered; her hand was practically coated in red. Vachon grasped her captive wrist more firmly and lifted it closer to her face. She twisted away at first, then she caught the scent. Vampire blood. Had she ever held vampire blood in her bare hand before, ever felt its cool caress against her skin as it ran free? The scent spoke of magic, of angels and demons, of long nights and longer years. Transfixed, she spread her fingers and let Vachon's blood ooze between them. She rubbed her thumb against the palm of her hand, reveling in the slippery sensation. She wanted... "I want to touch it," she whispered aloud. "I want--I want to *taste* it." She lifted her palm toward her lips; soon, this fascinating wine would be hers. It would touch her lips and give up all its knowledge, like the apple from the tree in Eden.... Vachon tightened his grip on her wrist. "*Not* a good idea, at least not right now," he reprimanded gently. "But keep that desire in your mind. Pretend for a moment like it's alive inside you. It has a shape, and a color. What color is it?" She frowned. "It's...it's not a *thing*. I can't see it. I only feel it." She licked her lips nervously, her gaze still fastened on the dripping blood. "You can't see it with your eyes," he said. "It's inside you, so you have to feel it first and then imagine what it looks like. Reach inside yourself. What do you see? There's something alive, holding on to you, threatening you. What is it?" Natalie shivered, bewildered. Vachon was keeping her from what she needed, and now he wanted her to bring that need to life? What *did* it look like, anyway? It was like a fog, swirling around her, enveloping her; everything it touched, it obscured. It was... "Black," she said softly. "It's a black fog." "Interesting," he replied, seeming a bit surprised. "Okay, so it's a black fog. Actually, that's good. They always said black was the easiest to get rid of." Unable to tear her eyes away from her hand, she merely nodded, having no idea what he was talking about. "When you fight the fog, what happens?" he asked. "Try as hard as you can. Push it away. What do you see?" With difficulty, she closed her eyes tightly against the sight of the blood. In her mind, she pictured the black fog. She reached out her hands to push it away, but they only disappeared into its depths. As if in response to her effort, the fog surged and grew, swirling around her. The desire for Vachon's blood increased with it; she was surprised to note that her teeth had actually begun to ache. She gasped and pulled her hands back. "The harder you fight it, the stronger it gets," Vachon said quietly. "Eventually, you could choke it down, but that's like stuffing it in a bottle; it traps it and keeps it inside you instead of getting rid of it. Plus, it takes all your strength away." Natalie nodded, frightened. She kept her eyes squeezed tightly shut, and her hands trembled slightly. "Here's what you're going to do instead," he continued. "You're going to accept it, let it go wherever it wants." Alarmed, she opened her eyes. "Let it *go*?" she protested. "Don't worry, I won't let anything happen to you, okay?" he told her. "Just let it loose inside you until you see it all the way to the tips of your fingers and toes." She looked at him, fear in her eyes, and shuddered. "I can't," she whispered. His brown eyes held hers intently. "Listen to me, Natalie," he demanded. "Trust me. I won't hurt you. I won't let it hurt you, either." His voice resonated in her head. Making a conscious decision, Natalie relinquished her will to Vachon's. Immediately, she felt a rush of sensations in her mind, thoughts without words. They conveyed peacefulness, invulnerability, and a strength beyond anything she'd felt before. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes again, and relaxed in the security of Vachon's promise. She imagined the fog spreading through her system, as though she'd let it out of a cage. In her mind, the darkness whirled along the lengths of her arms and swirled like funnel clouds down her legs. Her fingers and toes tingled as the fog tickled them from within. Unwittingly, she smiled. "You see?" Vachon said. "When you let it go, it spread out and lost some of its power. It's thinner now, isn't it?" "I can see through it," she replied dreamily. "It's still black, but I can see through it." "Good," he said, letting go of her wrist. She didn't notice. "Now, you're going to take a deep breath, and that breath is going to be full of--white. All the colors in the world are out there for you to use, and you're going to breathe them in, all at once, to make white. Take a deep, white breath." Natalie did as she was instructed. She imagined rainbows dancing around her, consolidating in a rush with her intake of breath, and she felt her lungs sparkle with whiteness, like the crystalline purity of snow. "Feel the breath reaching all the way to your toes," Vachon said. "Picture the whiteness flowing through your body. Everywhere it goes, let it touch the black fog and neutralize it." She laughed as the snowy white air danced along the inside of her skin, freezing the black fog, shattering it into crystals of ice that swept away on the breeze. Gradually, the colors disappeared altogether, leaving her mind clear. "What do you see?" asked Vachon. Natalie concentrated. "Nothing," she said quietly. She opened her eyes, concerned, only to find Vachon observing her from inches away with a satisfied smile. She looked down at the blood in her palm and saw...only blood. Just plain, red liquid, now becoming slightly sticky. She might as well have had honey on her hands, or liquid soap, for all it mattered. "How do you feel?" he prompted. "Fine," she responded automatically, then stopped to consider what she'd said. "I feel fine!" she said excitedly. "Not exhausted, not sick, not scared! I feel-- wonderful!" "Good," he said softly. She smiled at him, and her entire face fairly shone. "*How* did you learn to do that?" she asked. "I've never felt anything so...so purifying!" He shrugged slightly. "The Mississauga in particular know how to find the answers to their problems on another level--subconscious, spiritual, whatever you want to call it. They're also good teachers." He smiled softly, a hint of wickedness in his brown eyes. "Their blood, especially, is highly educational." She looked disturbed for a moment, then shook it off and brought herself back to the present. "But what about later on? Can I do this when you aren't there to help?" she asked. "Sure, eventually," he replied with a shrug. "It's mostly just learning to use parts of your mind that you didn't know how to reach before. I think practice would be a good idea, though. It took me about a year to really get the hang of it--but then, you're not a vampire, either." She looked up at him and smiled gratefully. "No." Vachon stretched, turned, and walked slowly to the window. He peered out. "Good. Sun's down," he observed. "And what exactly do you intend to do about it?" queried Natalie uneasily. "I'm going to go over to Screed's old place and see what's left," he replied. "I think I'm going to move in there for awhile. There's nothing left at the church." "You're going to live in a service tunnel." Natalie's voice was more disbelieving than questioning. "Hey, if it's good enough for my friends, it's good enough for me," Vachon said with an easy smile, followed by a teasing lift of his eyebrows. "Plus, I'm not likely to run into anybody else down there--I should be safe from the seizures." "How will I get in touch with you?" she demanded. "I'll check in before morning. What time do you get back from work?" He was standing at the door. "I--I don't know. It depends. I'll just leave that window over there unlocked. Come on in and wait for me if I'm not here, okay? I'll bring you some protein shakes to drink. You'll probably hate the taste, but they'll keep you from starving, and since they don't have any blood in them, they shouldn't trigger one of your episodes." Vachon didn't reply; he merely offered a silly, exaggerated salute as he slipped out the door. Natalie stood looking after him for a moment, then went into the kitchen to wash the blood off her hands. She dried them, then picked up the phone and dialed rapidly. After a moment, she said, "Nick? It's Natalie. Listen, can I come by in a half hour or so? I need to talk with you." (to be continued ...) -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@fkfanfic.com.