From v4s@FKFANFIC.COM Sat Apr 25 13:53:29 1998 Date: Fri, 24 Apr 1998 21:11:12 -0400 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: FKFIC-L@lists.psu.edu Subject: V4S: Presumed Dead -- Part 2 (01/15) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #14 Episode Title: "Presumed Dead -- Part 2" "Air" Date: April 23, 1998 Author: Stephanie S. Babbitt Alpha Readers: blitherer2@aol.com, Julia Kocich Beth Washington, Bryan Kieft, Mel Moser Beta Readers: Marci Cheeseman, , Sandra Gray, Jean Simon, Wendy Rigney, Laurie Schlagel, Valerie Gilson, Angie Lasher Historical Consultant: Valerie Gilson Continuity: Alexandra C. Wyn Bleddyn Part 1 of 15 The Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season is a project whereby a group of Forever Knight fans are putting together a series of stories continuing from where Last Knight left off. Participation is open to all. For more information, write to V4S@fkfanfic.com. Comments should be sent to the author or to the FKV4S-L mailing list. This story will be available in its entirety from . 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 "In case nobody's told you recently, you're *not* God. You can't run everybody's life as you see fit!" Nick could hear Natalie's voice in his head as clearly as if she were sitting on the seat of the car next to him instead of Adam. He tried to counter her barbs in his mind with rational responses, but each new idea he tried just left him feeling less certain of his own feelings on the matter. If she persisted in helping Vachon, she'd be killed. That was a given--wasn't it? Mortals couldn't associate with vampires and live. Period. Well, most vampires, anyway. Sure, she'd been helping Nick himself for seven years, but that was different.... Or was it? He frowned as he remembered. LaCroix had nearly killed Natalie at Azure; Spark had nearly killed her in her own home; Nick had nearly killed her himself when he'd been in the clutches of a demon. And that didn't even touch on that horrible night in the loft. His frown deepened into an outright scowl. Why had he vowed to kill Vachon, exactly? To protect Natalie from other, vengeful vampires, of course. But then, LaCroix had promised to keep the Community at bay so Nick could make the kill, hadn't he? So what was the rush? Maybe Natalie had a point. Maybe he should give her some time to try to find out what was making Vachon act like a madman. As long as Vachon didn't make any other kills, the Community wouldn't resume the hunt. If Nick could just keep an eye on Vachon, keep him in line, Natalie would be safe. That left just one problem: how to track down a vampire who was considerably better than most at avoiding surveillance. As he turned the Caddy onto Bloor, Nick's brows drew together so fiercely that Adam actually snickered. Nick looked over, surprised, practically having forgotten his partner was even there. "What?" he asked sharply. "Sorry," chortled Adam. "It's just that you--well, with that look on your face, you remind me somehow of the bad Terminator. All you need now is the regulation blues." "The bad *what*?" Nick queried, humorless. "Terminator," Adam replied. "Don't you ever see any popular movies?" "Evidently not the same ones you do," Nick said, his voice clipped. "Man, *what* has got you in such a snit?" said Adam. "It could be a lot worse, you know. We could be dealing with more bodies like that last bunch." He slid down in the seat and leaned his head against the back, arms crossed. "I'd have thought for sure we had some serial wacko on our hands, but maybe it was just a one-night thing, a full-moon anomaly." Nick didn't respond. "Or maybe Natalie's got the right idea," Adam mused. "Maybe it was just somebody on a major, major drug freak." Nick looked around sharply. "When did she say that?" Adam sat up and shot his partner a perplexed glance before responding. "When I called the morgue yesterday to get a copy of a report about an old case with a similar M.O. to our slasher," he said, relaxing back against the seat again. "That is one amazing lady. I don't think half the cases that get closed in this city would ever be resolved if it wasn't for her. She's got both brains *and* instincts." "She's a remarkable woman," Nick replied softly. Adam opened one eye to stare at Nick for a moment. "That's what's bugging you, isn't it?" he said, a note of victory in his voice. "I should have known." "What do you mean?" asked Nick, a sharpness returning to his tone. "Well, you weren't exactly a fountain of good cheer *before* you went by the morgue this evening, but you've been an impossible grouch ever since," said Adam. "What, did she cut you short?" Nick's jaw grew tight, and he took the next corner sharply enough that the tires squealed in protest. "Well, partner, welcome to the doghouse!" said Adam cheerfully. "Looks like neither of us is having a lot of success in the romance department this week." "It's not roman--," Nick began, but Adam cut him off. "Don't even start," said the younger man, a note of teasing in his voice. "You can't tell me you aren't crazy about her. Heck, if I weren't scheduled to do the aisle tango shortly, I'd be tempted to ask her out myself." Nick stared openly at Adam for so long that he almost ran a red light. "But the fact remains, we are both on the outs with our ladies fair right now," Adam continued, cheerful despite the ridiculously pained expression he was affecting. He began to sing, "Move over, little doggie, 'cause the big ol' dog is movin' in!" "I thought you were going to buy something for Kelly to smooth things over," said Nick, grimacing at his partner's less-than-operatic singing voice. Adam snorted derisively. "Yeah, and with this slasher case, when have I had time to do that?" he asked. "No, I haven't made it to the jewelry store yet. I'll be lucky if I even make our anniversary dinner, and if I don't, I might as well have central heat put in the doghouse, because I'll be spending a long, long time in there." Nick looked toward his partner with a wry grin. "Oh, I don't know, Adam," he teased. "If you behave yourself, she might let you sleep in the basement during the winter." "Very funny," said Adam, glancing at his watch. "Get a move on, would you? If we're late for Reese's briefing we'll both be *permanent* denizens of the doghouse." *** Nick and Adam walked through the precinct, unconsciously in step like a couple of soldiers. Seeing this, a desk sergeant leaned over to a passing detective and remarked with a wink, "More like partners all the time, eh?" Nick heard the whispered exchange and ducked his head slightly to hide a pleased smile. The two entered the meeting room, where Nick saw Captain Reese seated at the head of the long conference table, paging through a sheaf of notes. Westwood was sitting on the captain's left. Nick quickly chose a seat across the table from Westwood, and Adam sat down automatically next to his partner. As Reese cleared his throat to begin, Nick felt a strange stirring of the vampire, and he looked around, confused. The door opened again, and Natalie hurried in, apologizing for having been delayed. Nick stared at her openly, wondering at the odd quivering of his vampire sense. It wasn't the bond he felt with LaCroix or Janette, but there was definitely some sort of a link there. He remembered her mention of "practicing" with Vachon, and he wondered darkly exactly *what* those practice sessions involved. Natalie paused briefly to survey the room, then deliberately walked around the table, squeezing past Reese, to sit next to Westwood. She cast a cold, thin-lipped stare at Nick. For a moment, Nick thought he could feel a frigid draft blowing from Natalie to him, and he started slightly. The sensation was real, yet not real; it was somehow strangely familiar. "All right," Reese said. "I know you're all busy, but this shouldn't take long. At my request, Dr. Westwood has put together a psychological profile of the suspect in the slasher case. I want you all to be familiar with it, plus I want to be sure each of you has contributed everything you know about the case so far." He nodded to Westwood. "This evidence in this case, more than most I've worked on, is riddled with inconsistencies," Westwood began. "The suspect does not fit the profile of a serial killer from a psychological perspective. The classical serial killer follows a prescribed pattern in choice of victim, method of killing, and presentation of evidence, but our suspect in this case has behaved much more haphazardly. There's an element in these killings that suggests the killer is severely psychotic; that is to say, he is utterly outside reality as we know it, and likely operates within a reality of his own creation." As Westwood droned on, Nick lost interest. Instead, he focused on Natalie's face. She was watching Westwood intently, apparently trying to ascertain how close to the mark he really was in his assessment. After a moment, though, she seemed to sense Nick's scrutiny, and she glanced toward him with a look of severe irritation before turning back to Westwood. For an instant, Nick felt another rush of intense sensation through his body, though this time it was more like the white-hot sizzle of an electric shock. He stared at his fingers for a moment, almost surprised that they didn't show burns. The shock had felt real, yet not real. His fingers, yet not his fingers.... He realized it then: the sensation reminded him of the strange world Marian Blackwing had shown him, the surreal level of elevated consciousness that the Mississauga called the spirit plane. With sudden clarity, he recalled the ancient surveyor's letter Marian's grandfather had kept to show claim to tribal lands. One European signature had stood out among the tribesmen's signatures on the letter: J. Vachon. He looked up from his hands to stare at Natalie. What exactly, he wondered, was Vachon was teaching her? "We know a few physical attributes of the suspect as well," Westwood said, recapturing Nick's attention and drawing a startled look from Natalie. "The suspect is male, probably Caucasian, Hispanic, or a mix of the two. He has extraordinary upper-body strength, indicating that he may be an athlete, or he may use steroids. The forensics teams have found four cranial hairs, presumably belonging to the killer, on or around the victims; these hairs are brownish- black and range from six to fourteen inches in length. Unfortunately, the follicles were absent, so we cannot perform DNA testing on the evidence." Nick and Natalie exchanged concerned glances across the table. She shook her head and shrugged slightly, and Nick understood: Westwood had obtained the information from someone other than her. "The most intriguing aspect of this case, psychologically, is the timing of the episodes," Westwood continued clinically. "It's quite unusual for a repeat offender to slay one victim, then wait 29 months before committing a string of similar crimes in the same locale." Nick felt strangely disoriented for a second. "What?" he asked out loud. When Westwood turned to look at him, he shook his head and repeated, "Twenty-nine months?" "That's the one I found on the computer, Nick," Adam interjected. "You know, the report I was telling you about in the car? The case with the same M.O. just over two years ago?" Nick pursed his lips for a moment. "I'm still sketchy on the details of that one," he said distractedly. "Would you go over them again, please?" "Apparently the 53rd had a similar case back in '95," Reese interjected. "Same sort of scene, body cut up like a chunk of sashimi, likelihood of multiple weapons. The victim was a known drug runner, so they figured it was just a deal gone sour. The case was never solved, but the physical evidence matches our slasher, so we're operating on the assumption that it's the same perp for now." "Because of the time span between the killings, we're checking prison records around the region to see if anyone incarcerated during the quiet spell might match our profile," Adam added. "So far, nothing's turned up." Reese rubbed his forehead wearily. "Whether it's the same guy or not, we need to get him locked up sometime yesterday." "True, especially since his behavior seems to be getting more erratic over time," Westwood pointed out. "While all the victims show multiple wounds, the nature and extent of the wounds indicate increased hostility with each successive victim." "In other words, he's nutty as a fruitcake and getting nuttier as he goes," Reese added. Nick paid no attention. He was looking at Natalie, his eyes full of questions, and receiving only a confused, if still rather cool, look in return. (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 Sat Apr 25 13:53:35 1998 Date: Fri, 24 Apr 1998 21:10:33 -0400 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU Subject: V4S: Presumed Dead -- Part 2 (02/15) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #14 Episode Title: "Presumed Dead -- Part 2" "Air" Date: April 23, 1998 Author: Stephanie S. Babbitt Part 2 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 It was still two hours before sunrise when Natalie arrived back at her apartment. She found Vachon staring idly out the window, an empty glass in his hand. "Hey, Vachon," she said pleasantly. "You doing okay?" "Not dead yet," he said, and Natalie could hear the smile in his voice even though his back was still to her. "At least, not by some people's standards." She ducked her head and grinned in spite of herself, then recomposed her expression. "Did you get rid of our overnight guest?" He turned to face her. "No, I thought I'd leave the body in the tub to rot and annoy your neighbors," he said, eyes sparkling mischievously. "Of course I got rid of it." "Good," she said, dropping wearily onto the sofa. "You owe me a new rug." "I'll throw a few CDs into the deal," he replied cheerfully. "Do you realize how pathetic your collection is? The _Phantom of the Opera_ soundtrack is about the only thing even marginally worth listening to, and that gets old after the second or third time." He flopped onto the other side of the couch. She made a face at him. "Well, you'd better consult with Sidney before you expand the music collection, because he's the only one who's around here often enough to listen to it." "The cat hates the sight of me," Vachon said affably, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other. "I keep telling him I don't *like* cat blood, but he doesn't seem convinced." Natalie looked up at him, revulsion on her face. "You mean to tell me you've *tried*--? No, wait, don't answer that. I don't think I want to know." "It might be better than the stuff you're feeding me now." He studied the glass in his hand. "You weren't kidding about these drinks tasting terrible." "That seems to be the consensus," she retorted, "but you'd better learn to love 'em until we figure out what blood characteristics cause your problem. They'll keep you alive, at least." Suddenly realizing the irony of her words given her recent argument with Nick, she dropped her gaze uneasily. "What?" Vachon said, noting her expression. She pursed her lips, then shook her head slightly. "Vachon, I'm afraid I've got some bad news for you." She looked up at him, eyes nervously bright. He didn't change position, but his whole body suddenly came alert, like a rabbit that had heard the rustle of a nearby dog. He raised his eyebrows and tipped his head in expectation. "I...I talked to Nick today," she said quietly. "He says..." She sighed and chewed her lower lip, then shook her head again. "Vachon, the other vampires want you dead." He relaxed slightly. "This is news?" he said with an easy grin. She looked at him, slightly disgusted. "Vachon, he specifically said there's a death sentence on your head. Now, I don't know how vampires go about arranging their executions, but I should think you'd have reason to be concerned." He shrugged. "Did Knight ever tell you my story?" he asked. "Up until about a year ago, I'd spent my entire life--or unlife, I guess I should say--staying at least one step ahead of another vampire who wasn't exactly happy with me." He raised his brows and grinned at her, his expression beguiling. "Ever seen _The Fugitive_? He's an amateur." Natalie's countenance became even stonier; clearly, she was not appeased. Vachon sat up straighter on the couch and set his glass on the coffee table, his expression changing somewhat. "I expect, though, that Knight is having a fit about *your* safety," he observed, "and I can't say that his fears are out of line. Maybe I'd better find a different place to stay until we've got a better grip on this thing." Natalie was bolt upright in a second. "No," she said, very firmly. "That won't be necessary." He stared at her for a moment, his entire body still as he studied her. Gradually, he leaned back against the couch again, his expression slightly puzzled. "I wouldn't be out of touch," he offered, "just out of your hair--and far enough away to avoid incriminating you if the Community's henchmen do come after me." She shook her head emphatically. "That won't be necessary," she repeated. Vachon continued to stare at her, and she could feel the beginning buzz of what she had begun to think of as her vampire sensor. Her ability to read its strange signals had increased markedly with their practice sessions; now, she could discern Vachon's thoughts better through this mysterious wordless communication than she could by studying his expressions, though it still reminded her of a phone line riddled with static. She wondered, a little nervously, if he could gain entry to her own thoughts that way. But she *wasn't* a vampire; surely that meant that the doorway to her mind was a little narrower, a little less accessible? "There's something going on here besides a test of courage," he said finally, providing her with a somewhat unwelcome answer. "You've got a really big chip on your shoulder. The question is, who are you expecting to knock it off?" She stared back at him, put out at what she felt was an invasion of her privacy. "You know," she said crossly, "for somebody who looks like he's part drug-soaked flower child and part Gen-X grungemeister, you ask a lot of nosy questions." She got up from the couch and walked to the window, arms crossed over her chest. "And *you* are avoiding answering them." The voice was right behind her, in her ear; she'd never heard him move. Catching her breath sharply, she whirled to face him. The brown eyes bored into hers, not hypnotic but demanding nonetheless. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe my personal motives are none of your business?" she snapped, trying to breathe steadily despite her racing heart. "Sure," he replied easily, "but in this case, I'm going to keep digging, because I can tell this all has something to do with Knight. He may be a weird one by our standards, but he's older and stronger than I am, plus he's got that short-tempered old Roman for a master, and I'm not especially anxious to add *him* to my list of enemies." When Natalie didn't respond, he began to pepper her with questions, his tone uncharacteristically businesslike. "What exactly did he say to you, anyway? Does he want to help protect you from other vampires, or more likely, from me? I'll bet it's driving him nuts that I'm staying here, isn't it?" "Do you think I'm crazy?" she cut in, her tone incredulous. "He doesn't know you're here!" Vachon looked at her, clearly surprised, then his face slowly took on a dark seriousness that Natalie had never seen before; it made her uneasy. "Why not?" asked the vampire, his voice so changed she scarcely recognized it. She didn't want to answer his question, but the vampiric sense was reverberating through her body, distracting her. Denying him the answer seemed almost like denying herself. Her own voice sounding strange in her ears, she said, "Because he's decided he has to help kill you." Vachon stepped back abruptly, as if he'd received an electric shock. "Okay," he said, "that's it. I'm out of here." He turned his back on her, heading for the door. "No!" she cried, almost involuntarily. "You can't leave!" He stopped and looked at her. "Why not?" he asked, his voice flat and entirely devoid of its usual teasing tone. "Well," she said shakily, "for one thing, it's almost sunrise." She smiled, trying very hard to be disarming. "You're hedging," he said, advancing on her. "It's not cute anymore. Tell me: Why not?" His voice was stern. "Because I--I need your help," she said uncertainly. "I'm actually starting to feel like I've got a handle on the--the instincts, but I still need to work on it." She looked into his eyes earnestly, hoping he'd accept that for an answer. He didn't. "And?" he queried. She sighed, her entire body seeming to sag as she recognized the futility of trying to fool him. "And...I guess I need..." She shook her head, unwilling to articulate the gnawing sensation in her midsection. He waited silently. Finally she steeled herself and looked up, a proud lift to her chin, and met his gaze evenly. "I *need* to save you--to save both of us," she said, her voice quiet but firm. The dark brows rose over searching brown eyes, but he said nothing. "I chose to help you because your situation reminded me somehow of my own," she said, "but it's gone way beyond that now. Both of our lives, everything we are, in fact, is riding on this." Uncomfortable under his unblinking scrutiny, she shivered. "Don't you see?" she demanded. "There's so little I have left in my life that's real. I don't even have *me* any more, at least not like I used to be. I need--" She broke off, grasping for the right words. "I need to find my way back to myself, to take my life back from the damned vampire Community. I took a stand, and now I need to see it through...all the way through." Her eyes were huge, reminiscent of a baby seal's; his gaze remained unwavering. "But if you take off before we're done, and you get caught killing somebody else, or if they kill you--if Nick kills you--then we'll both lose...well, everything." She dropped her gaze, recalling the confrontation with Nick in the morgue. Before this, they had begun to trust again, to rebuild their friendship--and maybe more. What if she were to fail now? What would happen if Nick hunted down Vachon and killed him? Could such a chasm as that would create between them *ever* be bridged? Would she be left adrift in her current bizarre existence with no anchor at all? Vachon studied her quietly for a moment, slowly lifting a hand to his chin. "So the best thing I can do to help you is to endanger your life and put a wedge between you and somebody you care about," he said, his easygoing tone restored. "Has it occurred to you yet that there's something really perverse about that?" She shook her head. "I think this all would have come to a head sooner or later whether you were here or not. But now that you *are* here, we've *got* to see it through. Neither of us can run away from it. There's too much at stake." She looked away from him, and her eye caught a framed photograph of herself with Nick that stood on the table beneath the window. The frame's glass had been cracked in the escapade with the dead body, and one fissure ran neatly between her and Nick, separating them even as they stood together. She bit her lip and looked away. Vachon put a hand under her chin, forcing her to lift her eyes to his. "And in the long run, you won't feel funny about risking everything just to save the life of a vampire-- somebody who kills for a living--when your day job involves putting killers away?" he asked. She opened her mouth to reply, but he quickly touched a finger to her lips with his free hand. "You've got to be really sure about this one, Doc," he insisted. "A happy ending is by no means a given here, and mindless crusades are a *bad* idea. Ask Knight if you don't believe me." He smiled almost wickedly, causing the line at the corner of his right eye to pop up. She chuckled in spite of herself, then looked steadily into his eyes and nodded slightly. "I'm sure," she said, her voice firm again. "This is the right thing for me to do--maybe the only thing." Vachon removed his hand from her face; she found herself strangely disappointed as the vampire sense stopped humming. He settled himself slowly back onto the couch, watching her quietly for so long that she became almost itchy under his scrutiny. "You are one unusual lady," he said finally. "Not so much so," she replied quickly. "I guess I'm just a little more determined than most--and a lot more stubborn." She smiled, forcing a cheerfulness she didn't quite feel. "It's not that," he said softly. "It's how you fight what your heart wants." She looked at him, puzzled. "Meaning what?" she said. He ignored her question. "I keep thinking you'd love being a vampire, because that would set you completely free. You could experience all the desires I can feel churning around inside you, reach out and take what you want from the world with no regrets. You'd be..." he paused to choose the word, "...amazing." He touched his tongue briefly to his lower lip and smiled slightly, sensuously; she could sense an intensity beneath his words that made her quiver somewhere deep inside. "But then," he continued, the teasing tone back in his voice, "I think to myself that you'd probably live under some screwy morality, like Knight does, and make yourself just as miserable as he is." Natalie started slightly. "You think Nick is miserable?" she said. "You *don't*?" was his response. She rolled her eyes and turned away, smiling in spite of herself. "All right, Mr. Vampire Philosopher," she said. "Enough speculation already. I've got some tests I need to run on you, but we have to go outside." Ignoring the eyebrow that shot up in response, she gestured toward the door. "Shall we get a move on?" (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 Sat Apr 25 13:53:41 1998 Date: Fri, 24 Apr 1998 21:10:46 -0400 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU Subject: V4S: Presumed Dead -- Part 2 (03/15) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #14 Episode Title: "Presumed Dead -- Part 2" "Air" Date: April 23, 1998 Author: Stephanie S. Babbitt Part 3 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 Vachon hesitated at the doorway to Natalie's apartment building, eyeing the eastern sky, which was already streaked with red. "Sailor take warning," he muttered, almost beneath his breath. Natalie glanced up at him briefly. "Don't worry," she said, returning her attention to the box she carried. "You won't be out here for long. Just hold this--" she thrust the box into his hands, "--and don't touch anything in it. Stand here in the shadow, and I'll pull the van right up to the door." True to her word, a minute or so later she drew up to the curb in one of the big coroner's vans. She hopped out, leaving the driver's side door open, and hurried around to throw open the double doors at the back, motioning for Vachon to get in. She hardly saw him move, but in a flash, he was safe in the van's windowless cargo compartment. He tried to hand her the carton, but she gestured for him to set it on the floor. "Brace it with your feet," she cautioned, "'cause there's breakable stuff in there." He nodded silently, and she slammed the doors closed. As she climbed into the driver's seat and put the vehicle into gear, Vachon looked around the utilitarian interior of the van. "This is some high-class ride," he teased. "Gotta love the creature comforts. Do you usually make your passengers sit on the floor?" "Very funny," she said. "The *passengers* are usually strapped to a gurney and zipped into a body bag. You're probably the most animate individual that's ever had the experience of riding back there." "So, you drive this around very often? I'll bet that you don't have much trouble with friends bumming a ride," he observed, tracing a graceful finger across some of the long dents that gurneys had made in the van's inside walls. "No, you nincompoop, I *don't* drive this around very much," she said. "The fuel expense would wipe me out in a week. I'm not even supposed to take it for personal use, but Keith at the motor pool owes me a standing favor. Just be thankful I got the one *without* windows in the back." Vachon nodded, lips pursed seriously. After a few minutes of driving, Natalie braked the van, then opened the window and adjusted the big side mirror so she could back into position. Vachon put a hand on the side of the van and looked up at her with some concern. "Doc," he said, "you're parked in direct sunlight." "That's right!" she said brightly, struggling between the van's bucket seats to join Vachon in the back. Before he could protest, she rolled up his sleeve and began prepping his arm for a blood sample. "Exactly what do you plan on doing?" he asked, a small note of irritation in his voice. "Well," she said as she inserted the needle, "I want to test a theory I have about what might be triggering your episodes. Being as I would rather not be torn to shreds if you have one, I plan to observe you from a vantage point about three meters away--in the direct sun." She popped one vial off the needle and showed him a fresh vial before snapping it into place. "This, of course, is so I can run before-and-after blood panels." He nodded, almost grudgingly. "What's this test going to involve?" he asked, wrinkling his lip slightly as he watched her flip the vein in his arm with a finger to encourage the sluggish blood flow. "That carton we brought with us has eight bottles in it," she said, her voice muffled as she used her teeth to pull a piece of surgical tape off the roll. "Each bottle has a different color label on it. I want you to open the bottles one at a time and tell me how you respond, physically, to the contents." She taped a piece of cotton batting smartly over the puncture wound, causing Vachon to chuckle softly. When she looked at him, perplexed, he flexed his arm once, then pulled the tape off, revealing smooth skin with no evidence at all of a needle stick. She rolled her eyes at him with a concessionary smile, then struggled to a stooped standing position, tucking the fresh samples into her doctor's bag. "You'd better scootch into the middle," she said as she prepared to open the back doors. Vachon nodded and obeyed. He turned his face away abruptly as bright light flooded the interior of the van, but Natalie had parked the van facing north, and the morning sunbeams bracketed the vehicle without penetrating it. "You ready?" she called to him. As she had explained, she had moved several meters away and was waiting with clipboard in hand. He pulled the box alongside himself and asked, "Which one first?" "Doesn't matter," she called. "Just tell me what color you pick up." He reached randomly into the carton and extracted a bottle. "Green," he said succinctly. "Green," she repeated, scribbling on the chart. "Okay, open it." He took a deep breath, braced himself for an unpleasant reaction, and rapidly unscrewed the lid from the bottle. "Mmmmmm," he groaned, but it was a sound of longing, not pain. "Human blood--fresh, too. Doc, it's a dirty trick to tempt me with this when I've been stuck drinking those lousy shakes." "Sorry," she said, sounding not the least bit regretful. "Any reaction?" "Other than extreme hunger pangs, no," he replied sullenly. "Hang in there," she said, "and if you don't have any problems by the end of the experiment, you can drink it, okay?" "Good," he said, reaching into the box. "Yellow next?" "Yellow," she repeated, scribbling on the clipboard. They proceeded without event through bottles labeled purple, brown, red, and orange, each of which contained fresh human blood. With each successive color, Vachon became a little testier. "Doc," he complained, "this is worse than Chinese water torture." "You'll live," she retorted. "Next color?" "Blue," he said sharply, twisting the lid off impatiently. He didn't notice Natalie tense in anticipation. Oddly, she sensed his reaction before she saw it; she felt for a moment as though she herself had received a sharp blow to the head, and her eyeteeth throbbed insistently. Squinting, she forced herself to stare into the van's shadowed interior. Vachon's head was tipped back, and he was draining the bottle. He lowered his head, and the eyes that met hers were blood-red over gleaming fangs. She'd never seen Vachon that way before, and for a moment a surge of raw terror clogged her throat. With his wild, dark hair, he looked decidedly more feral than Nick; to make matters worse, she realized, he bore more than a passing resemblance to Spark, the long-haired vampire who had almost killed her when the world went temporarily mad in the shadow of an approaching asteroid. Unconsciously, she took three or four steps backward. The vampire threw himself at the doorway of the van, toward her; she heard the sharp hiss and sizzle as sunlight touched and vaporized exposed flesh. With a shriek that was anything but human, he retreated into the van's shadows and began scrabbling at the walls, looking for another way out. Failing to find one, he flung himself at the doorway again, only to be beaten back by the relentless sun. Natalie glanced thankfully at the cloudless cold sky, her calves aching with the adrenaline surge. Red, reptilian eyes bored into hers, and the vampire changed tactics. "Come here, Natalie, please. I need you," he said quietly, desperately, reaching an unsteady hand toward her. She felt the hum in her chest as her vampire sense began vibrating, and she took a few steps toward the van to watch him more closely. The hum escalated to a fire- alarm buzz, and she actually dropped the clipboard to hold her temples with both hands as Vachon retreated further into the van. "I can't stand the pain! Please...help me!" he wailed. She stood as if paralyzed, torn between the fear setting her nervous system alight and sympathy for the suffering she both heard and felt in the pleading tone. "Please," warbled the voice, fading, agonized. It sounded almost like that of an injured child, and her heart lurched in response. A rush of doctorly concern for her patient's distress overrode her fear, and she approached the van with steady steps. She saw Vachon in the shadows, clutching his head pathetically and rocking back and forth. As she drew abreast to the van's open doors, she realized with sympathetic shock that he was actually sobbing. She reached out a hand to help.... The change was so rapid, she would have doubted her own eyes had she not been looking directly at him to see it. One millisecond, he was a crumpled picture of tortured despair; in the next, a victorious, fierce smile flashed across his face, revealing sharp teeth and adding a hellish glow to the already red eyes. The motion was indiscernible, but he had her by the wrist and was dragging her into the shadows of the van, a satisfied growl rumbling deep in his throat. She screamed and pulled backward with all her strength, but she might just as well have been trying to escape the confines of her own body. It was hopeless; he had her, and she was going to die. "Vachon!" she screamed, pounding on his shoulder with her other arm. "Stop it!" The voice that answered her wasn't his; it was more of a child's voice, strangely sing-song in cadence. "You must be Natalie," it said. Startled, she stopped struggling for a moment to stare. "Clearly Nicholas failed in your creation," continued the voice, "for you're not really a vampire. Still, one always recognizes family." Vachon canted his head strangely and smiled. "It will be worse for you if you fight me," taunted the voice, "but that's up to you." At once revolted and horrified, Natalie struggled with renewed vigor. She yanked frantically against Vachon's grip, and his nails tore easily through the fabric layers of her coat and her sweater. Blood rose to the surface. The scent reached them both at once: the vampire turned insensible monster, and the human not-quite-turned vampire. His nose wrinkled, and a look of pure hatred flashed across his face. "It's wrong!" he snarled at her. "Wrong!!!" And of course it was; her blood, she knew, was AB-, and the blood he craved was B+. She remembered the second jogger, the one whose head Vachon had ripped off for a similar offense. "You scheming bitch!" he howled, slashing at her arm with his other hand and making new wounds. She was able to discern the hysterical, almost unintelligible words only because of the vampire sense that pulsed in her chest like a second heartbeat. Suddenly, a realization came to her. How to fight a vampire? Obviously, physical struggling was useless, but she still had her spiritual strength. Vachon himself had shown her how to tap it. She'd used all the colors in the world to make white, to eradicate the black fog. All she'd had to do was take what she felt and bring it to life, give it shape and form... Desperately, she summoned a mental image of her desire to be free. What did it look like? She envisioned a hot, frantic need--a blue-bright flame, a star glittering against the black sky of her terror. Each desperate thump of her heart fanned the fire, adding heat and intensifying the light. She shaped it into a ball, a palm-sized taste of hell. With that vision clear in her mind, she reached out with the vampire sense until she felt a wobbly connection to Vachon. With all her strength, she flung her incendiary vision across the link into Vachon's consciousness. The throaty growl disappeared into a startled gasp, and he let go his grip on her arm. It was enough. With speed she had not realized was within her capability, she pulled free and dashed far into the sun's protective embrace. Gasping almost convulsively, she collapsed onto the pavement, cradling the injured arm to her chest. She was safe. The howls of a thwarted demon resounded from within the van, but Satan's armies could not have convinced her to approach it again. They sat apart, each in his own suffering, for what seemed like an eternity. Natalie stopped shaking after about thirty minutes, but she remained where she was for far, far longer. The sun climbed into the sky, eventually beating almost straight down on her hunched-over form as she determinedly plucked the fiberfill from her ruined coat out of her jagged wounds, her jaw clenched in pain. (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 Sat Apr 25 13:53:45 1998 Date: Fri, 24 Apr 1998 21:10:57 -0400 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU Subject: V4S: Presumed Dead -- Part 2 (04/15) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #14 Episode Title: "Presumed Dead -- Part 2" "Air" Date: April 23, 1998 Author: Stephanie S. Babbitt Part 4 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 Too restless to sleep, but trapped in his loft nonetheless by the bright morning sun, Nick played a half- hearted game of solitaire as he continued to weigh the decision he needed to make. Certainly, holding off and giving Natalie time to accomplish her medical miracles was the *easiest* option, and in many ways the most palatable. Of course, he couldn't tell Natalie that he'd had a change of heart; if the Spaniard upset the Community again, forcing Nick to renege, he would never, ever regain her trust. Yes, waiting and watching seemed to make the most sense. Nick was good at waiting. What did vampires have if not time to wait? He reached over and moved a black seven onto a red eight, then turned over the next card to find the queen of hearts. Ironic, he thought, with a hint of a smile. He glanced across the table to a picture of himself and Natalie in a simple frame. Whenever she laughed, her face lit up; practically the whole world lit up. LaCroix's words suddenly intruded on his reverie, almost as though the ancient vampire was in the room: "What reaction will you have when you find her lifeless body, throat torn out despite her struggles?" Nick quickly shut his eyes against the thought, but the gesture was futile. He had enough trouble being around Natalie without being overwhelmed by the familiar, inviting scent of her blood, especially now that he'd tasted its secrets. Picturing the scene LaCroix had described was almost more than he could bear while still keeping the vampire contained. Despite his best efforts, he felt the gold rise in his eyes as he imagined the blood trickling down the sides of Natalie's neck, matting in her hair as it lay tousled around her greyish-white face. He jumped to his feet, sweeping most of the cards off the table, and headed upstairs to lie down for a while. He flipped back the black satin comforter and sat on the edge of the bed, only to discover a folder that he'd left on his bedside table. It contained copies of reports and photographs from the slasher case. Almost against his will, Nick picked up the folder and flipped through it slowly, seeing again the pitiful, mutilated bodies of the victims. How, he wondered, did Natalie expect to gain control over the sort of madness the photographs described? If the kills were any indication, Vachon was now like the Barber had been, too irrational for reason, too dangerous for rehabilitation. Natalie was playing Russian roulette with five bullets, and it was a miracle that the Spaniard hadn't already hurt her. Waiting was the easiest option, Nick reminded himself, but could he afford to wait? Was it worth risking Natalie's life, even if *she* was willing to take the risk? He could always try to make it up to her for killing the Spaniard, but he couldn't restore her life if it were lost. He dropped the folder back onto the table and walked over to his closet, throwing open the doors. From a shelf in the back, he removed a heavy box, opening it to reveal a variety of strange items collected over 800 years and countless moves. After sifting through several centuries worth of artifacts, he folded back aging, loose-woven cotton fabric to reveal a row of neatly carved and sharpened yew stakes. With a scowl, he removed three and held them to the light to evaluate their quality. Two satisfied him, showing proper line, heft, and balance; the other he returned to the box to age further. He sat back down on the bed, evaluating the stakes with distaste. What if he did decide to proceed with the kill? Hunting another vampire, Nick knew, would force him to draw on his darkest nature far more than would hunting a mere mortal. And of course, there would be the additional complication of convincing Natalie anew that he really *did* still want to be human, regardless of her interpretation of his actions. And then there was the question of how to begin. He would have to find the Spaniard, whether the goal was hunting for the kill or merely monitoring. Natalie wouldn't reveal Vachon's location willingly; Nick knew that she would not tell him where to find the rogue vampire now even if he tried to torture it out of her, which of course, he would never do. Hypnotizing her was not an option, since she was a resister. Perhaps LaCroix could...? But Natalie would never forgive either LaCroix *or* Nick if she learned of the deception later. Vachon, adept at running from danger, would not return either to the church or the sewer. Finding him was going to take every bit of skill Nick possessed. Sighing, Nick picked up one of the stakes and rubbed his fingers slowly along the smooth wood. Suddenly he paused, his hand in midair. He listened carefully, trying to determine what had intruded upon his senses. Nothing in the apartment stirred; no sound came from the courtyard below. The phone remained silent. Slowly, he put the stake down and stood up. "LaCroix?" he called hesitantly. He was almost certain that his master had not caused the disturbance, yet there was something distinctive about the feeling, something that spoke of family, and close links, and trouble. The sensation called up uncomfortable memories.... >>>----------> Nicholas couldn't tell which Janette hated worst: being dressed in common garb, or being outside before the sun had set completely. He had no trouble, however, identifying the look of complete loathing on her face as they, along with LaCroix, darted from building to building, sticking to the shadows and sprinting through the late afternoon sunlight only when absolutely necessary. "Do you think we can even make it to the prison, Nicola?" she asked him, a little breathlessly, as they paused in the doorway of an abandoned shop. "The buildings aren't so close together here. There is almost no shelter." "We *must* make the prison, and quickly," LaCroix insisted before Nicholas could answer. "His hunger is becoming more severe, and in his youth, he will not be able to control himself much longer." While doubt showed on Janette's face, she wisely said nothing. Nicholas edged his way along the building's wall until he reached the corner, then peered around. "We're almost at the square," he said quietly to his companions. "The prison is just beyond that." "Can you see the prison itself?" asked Janette. "Is it heavily guarded?" Nicholas leaned further around the corner for a moment, then shook his head. "I cannot see it clearly," he said, glancing back over his shoulder as he spoke. He frowned slightly as he watched LaCroix raise his fingers to his forehead as if battling a bad headache. "We must hurry," said LaCroix with rare urgency. "His condition is becoming desperate." His eyes glinted yellow for a moment before returning to their natural blue. "Remember, both of you," he added coldly in response to their stares, "it is in your best interests as well as mine to be sure he does not lose control and betray us all." Janette seemed not to pay heed to LaCroix's statement; instead, she held her head to one side as she listened to something else. "What are all those people shouting about?" she asked finally. Nicholas shrugged slightly by way of response and braced himself for the dash to the next building. Soon enough, the three vampires huddled together in the shade of a tattered awning over a doorway facing into the public square. Nicholas was glad for his costume, as he and his companions seemed to blend easily into the noisy crowd that was gathering. People were walking briskly down the roadway in groups of two and three, many with small children in tow. "Is it festival day?" asked Janette softly, puzzlement in her voice. "I don't believe so," Nicholas replied, peering over her head for a better look at the square beyond. Something irregular caught his eye, and he stepped to the edge of the awning's shadow to investigate. His face suddenly changed, a deep frown creasing his forehead. "What is it, Nicola?" Janette whispered. When he didn't answer, she edged forward and followed his gaze to see a crudely constructed guillotine on a platform taking up most of the north end of the square. Where Nicholas had grimaced, Janette only smiled and licked her lips at the sight of the bloodied blade suspended twenty feet in the air. Suddenly, a cheer arose from the crowd gathered in the square. A heavy, red-faced woman plodding rapidly along the road beside the vampires turned and shouted at someone behind her. "Hurry, you idiot! Hurry, or we shall miss the beginning! The carts are already arriving! Hurry!" Nicholas and Janette exchanged knowing looks but did not speak. From behind them, LaCroix uttered a guttural sound; they turned to see their master sag against the building. Janette was by his side in an instant. "LaCroix! What is the matter?" she whispered, slipping under his arm for support. "Is it the sunlight?" "His distress...is very great," LaCroix replied in a strained voice that was so unlike him that Nicholas stared openly. "He is near, and he...suffers." The ancient vampire grimaced, and Nicholas observed a flash of fangs beneath the twisted upper lip. Suddenly, Nicholas felt the fiery flush of the sun's fading rays on his exposed arm. He inhaled sharply and quickly moved closer to the building, but the sun was nowhere near him, and his skin remained clear and unblemished. He realized that Janette, too, had sensed the burning, for she was inspecting her white hands as well. She looked up at him from beneath LaCroix's arm. "The link," she mouthed silently. Nicholas nodded and tried to shake off the sense of dread that thrummed through the three of them as if they were strings on a single instrument. A creaking sound punctuated by intermingled cries of hilarity and accusation reached Nicholas's sensitive ears, and he stepped onto a crate to see better. Around a bend in the far road came a dilapidated hay cart, drawn by a pair of doddering and lame old plow horses. The cart had been fitted with heavy posts and a crude canvas roof. Inside the cart, tied and chained to one another and to the posts, were thirteen men and women. As one, the eyes of the prisoners focused on the guillotine, which cast long black shadows across the square. Nicholas's face hardened with distaste, but his blue eyes softened in gentle sympathy. "They are treated like animals," he whispered aloud, more to himself than to his companions. "They--" The words caught and died in his throat as he recognized Theodore huddled in the easternmost corner of the tumbril, cowering behind the other prisoners in an effort to avoid the slanting afternoon sunbeams. Careless of the danger, Nicholas stepped into the sun and ducked into the shadow cast by a large tree at the periphery of the square. The tumbril rolled slowly through the center of the square, scattering jeering people before it. Nicholas could see Theodore clearly, his face red and blistered from the sun, the blood from the knife wound still staining his fine shirt, now torn and dirtied. Deep in the pit of his own stomach, Nicholas could sense Theodore's turmoil and fear. As much as he disliked Theodore, the link between them still spoke of family and distressed Nicholas almost as intensely as if Janette had been the one in the tumbril. A loud-voiced man with an unkempt beard stood on the platform beside the guillotine, reading a list of charges and court decisions regarding the unfortunates who occupied the tumbril. On occasion, a prisoner would glance up at the mention of a name, but then the eyes would drop again, resigned to the inevitable. Nicholas heard a slight yelp of pain, and Janette was suddenly beside him in the shade of the tree, pressing a hand to the singed skin on her face. She gasped as she recognized Theodore in the tumbril. "Oh, no," she whispered. "What can we do now?" Nicholas looked anxiously at the sky. "The sun will set in just a few more minutes," he whispered back quickly. "If only it will grow dark enough, we can steal him away. We will have to fly to him, but if we are quick, we shan't be seen by many of the people. Their attention is on the--" he glanced at the guillotine, unwilling to speak the word aloud, "--on the platform." A sudden flurry of activity surrounded the cart. Armed men approached and untied the ropes strung across the back of the tumbril, then a youth with a long knife stepped up into the cart and cut the rope binding a thin man to the rearmost post. Two more men came forward and took the prisoner by either arm. They half-dragged, half-carried him to a flight of rickety steps leading up to the platform, then gave him a push. Yet another heavily armed man placed a pistol firmly between the prisoner's shoulder blades and guided his unsteady progress up the stairs. When he reached the platform, the prisoner was pushed roughly to his knees as his name was shouted to the assembly; with no further ado or fanfare, his head was forced into the gory cradle at the base of the guillotine. The executioner let go the rope, the blade flashed red in the setting sun, and a huge cheer rose from the gathered crowd. The bearded townsman held up the head, drawing more cheers, as a pair of old men rolled the body off the edge of the platform and into a ramshackle wagon below. Immediately, a group of older children descended on the body to spirit away shoes, jewelry, and any other valuables that remained. Nicholas grimaced with revulsion and peered anxiously at the horizon. "Just a few more minutes," he whispered to Janette, who stood beside him, clutching his arm. The sun slipped lower, and a beam edged out from beneath a tree branch to lick at Theodore's arm. He cried out in pain and ducked behind another prisoner to shield himself; Nicholas and Janette both cringed. The crowd around the tumbril began to jeer; cries of "Coward!" reached Nicholas's ears. He glanced anxiously again at the sky. "Just a few more minutes," he repeated, acutely aware of Theodore's agony through the link. <----------<<< Nick came back to the present abruptly as a sharp twinge shot through his arm. He dropped the stake he held, and it clattered noisily to the floor. He cast his senses out again, more aggressively this time, but with no better result. Finally, he remembered what LaCroix had advised when Nick had been but a fledgling: Close your eyes, and let it come to you. Accordingly, Nick closed his eyes and blanked his mind. A moment later, he opened his eyes again, and they glittered golden. "Natalie," he said aloud. (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 Sat Apr 25 13:53:53 1998 Date: Fri, 24 Apr 1998 21:11:04 -0400 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU Subject: V4S: Presumed Dead -- Part 2 (05/15) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #14 Episode Title: "Presumed Dead -- Part 2" "Air" Date: April 23, 1998 Author: Stephanie S. Babbitt Part 5 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 carefully switched off the microphone in the sound booth and cued the CD deck. The "ON AIR" light dimmed, and the mournful sound of an oboe filled the tiny room. Tenting his fingers beneath his chin, he turned his chair a mere fraction, acknowledging the presence of his visitor with a slight inclination of his head. "I am well aware of the rogue," he said, a more than slightly unfriendly tone to his voice. "Virtually nothing which concerns the Community escapes my attention. Surely you were aware of that?" He raised an eyebrow and turned his eyes toward the uneasy but determined young vampire standing in the doorway. "That being the case, then, you can tell me where to find him," said the visitor formally, a slight tremor in his voice belying the bravado he affected. LaCroix's lips curled into a smirk. "And if I should tell you, what do you expect to do, my young friend? Others with more experience are hunting him now, and your youth would sadly affect your chances of surviving a confrontation with him. It would be foolhardy enough for you given his age as opposed to yours, but he is also mad." The tone, while not exactly hostile, smacked strongly of patronization. The young vampire squared his shoulders. "If madness carries an advantage, then I go well armed, for I am mad with hatred," he replied firmly. LaCroix briefly raised his folded hands to his lips to hide his contemptuous smirk. "I see," he said evenly. "And you plan on facing the rogue alone?" The visitor's eyes dropped. "I fear that I must," he replied, quietly resigned. "Too much time has passed since his last kill. The others are frightened, but no longer convinced that my mission is necessary. They believe that he has stopped killing, or perhaps moved on, but I feel in my bones that he has not. I cannot wait any longer; I must act." He raised his eyes again to meet LaCroix's with fierce determination. "I shall have my revenge." The elder vampire glanced at the timer on the CD deck, then returned his steady gaze to his visitor. "Very well, then," he said evenly. "I do not know precisely where the rogue is hiding, for he is unusually well experienced at concealing himself. However, I can tell you where to begin your search." The visitor nodded eagerly, and LaCroix reached into a drawer to extract a notebook. "Begin at this address," he said, writing with unhurried deliberation. "You should find helpful information there; if not, return to me." He tore off a sheet and held it out to the young vampire; however, just as the younger one reached for the paper, LaCroix pulled his hand back. "I will give this to you only on certain conditions," he said, a sudden fierce rasp to his voice. Startled, the visitor pulled back. "Those being?" he asked. "One:" said LaCroix, "you do not reveal the source of your information. The hunting party would be dismayed to learn of my contribution to your interference. It really is quite irregular for me to offer assistance in this way, but I sympathize with your circumstances." The younger vampire nodded emphatically. "Of course," he said quickly. "I greatly appreciate your help, and I shall not betray your kindness." LaCroix's eyes narrowed slightly, and he continued. "Two: in your mission, you are likely to encounter a mortal, a female, with fair skin and long chestnut hair. She is at present of significant use to us in her professional role." The voice dropped, becoming even more sinister. "She must not be aware of your presence, and she must not be harmed in any way," he said. "If either of those things were to happen, you would answer to me, and I assure you that the penalty would be most unpleasant." The younger vampire's eyes grew wide for a moment, but he composed himself quickly. "Of course," he replied. "This is between the rogue and myself. No other shall be involved." "Very well," said LaCroix, extending the slip of paper again. The other reached out and took it carefully, glanced at it, then folded it up and tucked it inside his coat. "I am in your debt, Monsieur LaCroix," said the visitor. "I only hope that I may someday repay your kindness." LaCroix's lips quirked slightly. "I expect that you shall," he said softly. The younger vampire stared for a moment, bewildered, then bowed slightly before disappearing through the sound booth's door. LaCroix watched as the door slowly eased shut, shaking his head slightly. "Fool," he said aloud. "I only hope for your sake that your death is relatively quick. May it be the Spaniard you encounter, and not my daughter." *** Vachon wandered miserably around Natalie's apartment, bored clean out of his wits. He pushed open the drapes and peered out the window to see a clear, starry night, chilly but perfect for hunting, and he sighed deeply. He flipped the stereo on and scanned through the stations, scowling at rap music, a pop psychologist, and a rebroadcast of an American basketball game. Annoyed, he switched the stereo off. He meandered over to the cabinet where Natalie kept her video collection and idly flipped through the titles even though he had gone through them enough times to have memorized the lot. With another sigh, he snapped the door closed. Jamming his hands into his pants pockets, he ambled into Natalie's bedroom, stopping to pick up an old acoustic guitar that was propped haphazardly against the dresser. He looked with disgust at the stringless instrument before setting it back down with a hollow thump. He wandered into the bathroom to splash his face with cold water, then trailed into the kitchen, where he prowled through the cabinets and the refrigerator. He took out a protein shake, evaluated it briefly, and put it back untouched. "How Knight can stand these things..." he muttered, shaking his head and reaching deeper into the refrigerator for the unit of O+ blood Natalie had put there "for emergencies." Sidney padded into the kitchen, intent on getting a bite to eat from his bowl. Upon seeing Vachon, however, the cat took off in a gray streak toward the living room. The vampire closed the refrigerator and followed, clucking softly. "I'm *not* going to hurt you," Vachon said, putting forth his best effort to sound reassuring. "If I were going to bite you, I'd have done it a long, long time ago." He got down on his knees to peer beneath the couch, where slitted yellow eyes gleamed back. Straightening, Vachon took Sidney's peacock-feather toy off the coffee table and swished it gently back and forth in front of the couch. "C'mon," he encouraged. "You've got to be at least as bored as I am. Let's at least keep each other occupied for five minutes." The only response he got for his trouble was a decidedly uncooperative hiss. With a grunt of disgust, Vachon dropped the toy back on the table and flopped lengthwise onto the couch, sending the cat scrambling for safety in the direction of the bedroom. He arranged his boots carefully, crossing his feet just past the arm of the pristine white upholstery to avoid another lecture from Natalie. Reaching behind his head, he grabbed the phone off the end table and dialed. At the morgue, Natalie groaned at the sound of the ringing phone and carefully set down the pipette she'd had in her hand in order to grab the handset. "Lambert," she said, tucking the phone between her shoulder and her chin. Recognizing the unhappy voice on the other end, she stifled a grin. "Vachon," she said patiently, "I know you're bored, and I know my apartment isn't exactly a vampire amusement park, but c'mon! It hasn't been *that* long." She paused, rolling her eyes and shifting the phone to the other shoulder as the litany in her ear continued. "Hey, listen," she said, beginning to sound a little put out. "It hasn't exactly been a picnic for me, either, you know? Oh, and tonight I had to go to a suicide--no, no blood, this kid hanged himself--and Nick and his partner were there. What? Well, how should I know what he thought? We haven't exactly been chummy lately, if you remember. But I slipped on the ice walking back to the car, and Adam...he's Nick's partner. Hadn't I mentioned him? His name is Adam Sakai. No, he doesn't know. Anyway, Adam grabbed me by the arm to keep me from falling, and I almost went airborne." She pulled up the sleeve of her lab coat to evaluate the bandages and the angry weals that still surrounded them as she listened to his questions. "Don't I wish," she said. "Guess you have to come all the way across to get the rapid healing benefit. Plus, I really should have had stitches, but you know how that is....Well, of *course* Nick noticed! If there hadn't been twenty-five people from the department there, he'd have been right in my face demanding to know what was wrong, and then there'd have been hell to pay for both of us. As it was, I practically dived headfirst into the car and peeled out of the lot just to get away." She picked up the base unit and carried the phone as far as the cord would stretch to permit her to sit back down at the counter where she'd been working. Nodding her head absently as she listened to Vachon's voice, she peered into the eyepiece of a microscope. "Look," she said irritably, "you've got to have a little bit of patience here. What's a few days when you're almost 500 years old? Besides, I'm making good progress here, but there are some medical processes that simply cannot be rushed. Cells only divide *so* fast, no matter whose they are. Listen, I need to put you on hold for a minute, okay? I was in the middle of something. I'll be right back." She set the phone on the countertop, then picked up the pipette again and rolled her stool down the counter to another pair of microscopes. Very carefully, she added a drop of liquid from the pipette to the slide on each microscope. She alternated peering into one unit's eyepiece, then the other; as she watched, her mouth twitched in a victorious smile. "Gotcha," she whispered. She hopped off the stool and snatched up the phone again, her face alight with excitement. "I need to run another test on you," she said brightly, tucking the phone against her shoulder. When she got no response, the corners of her mouth turned down in annoyance. "Vachon!" she demanded. "Hey, Vachon, are you there?" Only silence greeted her through the earpiece. She scowled, exasperated, and put the pipette down to take the handset firmly in hand. "Vachon?" she demanded. "Where the..." She heard the handset clatter across the table as Vachon snatched it up. "Doc," came his voice, strangely dark, "there's another vampire nearby. I'll be back in a sec." Another clunk told her he'd dropped the phone again. Her eyes widened, and she looked with trepidation around the morgue, her heart rate accelerating uncomfortably as her excitement from the moment before evaporated. Another vampire? Nick, she knew, was still on duty--but that didn't mean that he hadn't ditched Adam somewhere long enough to go to her apartment. Why, why had she been so obvious about her arm? Now Nick was sure to be curious, to demand answers.... "C'mon, Vachon," she pleaded urgently. "Tell me what's going on." She chewed her lower lip restlessly. Suddenly she heard a tremendous crash of splintering wood and breaking glass, closely followed by a string of epithets spoken in excited, rapid French. "Vachon!" she cried. There was no response; she could make out only the hubbub of what sounded like a ferocious struggle. A gut- wrenching scream assaulted her eardrums, followed by another crash--and then the line went dead. Immediately, Natalie was on her feet, grabbing at her purse and her coat with shaking hands. She didn't even return the phone to the cradle before racing out the door. (to be continued ...) -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@fkfanfic.com.