From v4s@FKFANFIC.COM Mon Apr 27 19:43:25 1998 Date: Mon, 27 Apr 1998 00:04:55 -0400 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: FKFIC-L@lists.psu.edu Subject: V4S: Presumed Dead -- Part 2 (11/15) 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 11 of 15 This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Copyright 1998 Stephanie S. Babbitt -------------------------- PRESUMED DEAD Adam stopped in the doorway of the jewelry shop to examine his purchase one more time before dropping the small, cloth-covered box into his pocket. The pearl earrings would look nice with Kelly's hair, and the salesman had said that they would do nicely for both work and social occasions. "This ought to earn me some romance points," Adam said out loud, smiling with satisfaction at having finally completed his errand. He punched the remote-entry button on his key ring, listening for the answering chirrup from his car's alarm system as he glanced up and down the street for any signs of suspicious activity. He'd been careful by nature even before becoming a cop, but now, he realized with a self-effacing smirk, he'd developed an almost paranoid vigilance. "Chill out, Sakai," he mumbled to himself. "You're not on duty for another hour. Act like you've got a life." He slid into the car and started it up, popping a cassette into the player as he pulled away from the curb. The tape was one of Kelly's, a collection of classical pieces commonly performed at weddings. She wanted him to pick two or three songs he liked for the prelude before the bridal march. As delicate flute music began to issue from the speakers, Adam grimaced slightly. How could he explain to Kelly that they all sounded more or less alike to him? "Maybe I could still convince her to elope," he muttered. Since he had the time, he took the long way around town to the precinct, scanning the streets automatically. On a hunch, he turned down a side road to cruise past the crime scene where they had found the slasher's female victim. Stopping the car, he got out to make a quick survey. The yellow crime-scene tape was gone, and the street was deserted. Even the damaged pay phone had been removed. It was as if nothing had ever happened there. Adam ran a hand through his hair and sighed in frustration before climbing back into the car. Where, he wondered, would they ever find the clue that would pull the slasher case together? He put the car in gear and plotted a route back to the precinct. En route, he passed through a neighborhood that was known primarily for its low-wage immigrant population and its crack and meth trade. He spotted a plainclothes vice cop sitting in a beat-up car, and he could tell from the relative quiet that every punk on the street had spotted the cop as well. Glancing at his dashboard clock, he upped his speed a little and made a sharp right turn onto a cross street. As his headlights swept across the sidewalk, an odd tableau caught his eye, and he slowed down. A man with long black hair and a rough beard was talking to a sleazy-looking woman on the street corner--not unusual in itself, but the woman's body language indicated that she was extremely uncomfortable, even frightened. Adam pulled over, mentally comparing the man to Westwood's description of the slasher. Even though he knew the confrontation was likely nothing more than a hooker arguing with her pimp, he studied the couple carefully. Suddenly, the man grabbed the woman by the arm and twisted it up behind her, forcing her to move in front of him. The two crossed the street quickly and headed toward an alley between two seedy apartment buildings. Quickly, Adam turned on the police radio and called for backup, then he jumped out of the car and hustled toward where he'd last seen the pair, his gun drawn. Pressing his back to the corner of the building, he slid around to peer into the alley, only to find no one there. He felt a little bit foolish, knowing that a squad car would soon arrive to find nothing worth the rush, and that the guys would rib him about it. He was just about to slip the gun back into its holster when he heard a muffled cry coming from an open window facing the alley. Crouched like a soldier in combat, Adam scuttled beneath the window and stood up slowly on the other side so that he might have an unobstructed view both of the alley's entrance and the room's interior. He peered inside and drew back, startled. The man he had seen was holding an enormous hunting knife to the throat of the woman, who was sitting in a straight-backed chair in the middle of the room. What most surprised Adam, though, was the room's decor. Nearly every available wall surface was hung with knives, swords, axes, throwing stars, and other sharp implements of the sort that Adam had seen previously only in museums. Also prominently displayed were posters and cover pages from various magazines that Adam recognized as catering to mercenaries, extremists, and martial-arts wannabes. To his disgust, he saw what appeared to be a human scalp hanging by a hank of hair from the ceiling fixture. "I *gave* you the money for the stuff, woman," the man growled into his hostage's ear, his greasy black hair dangling in her face. "Now look around. I ain't kidding about hurting you if you try to steal my stuff." The perp shifted his grip, and Adam saw that the arms were enormously muscled and covered with scars. Just past the man, Adam saw a variety of IV drug paraphernalia scattered across a tabletop. "That money was for your date!" protested the woman feverishly. "You got what you were after. I ain't no drug runner. I don't have no drugs on me. My man wouldn't let me, or any of the girls, have any while we're working. You hear me? Now cut out this crap and let me go!" Adam had to concede admiration for the hooker, whose no-nonsense act was pretty convincing, given that she was likely terrified. The perp, however, wasn't impressed; he seemed only to grow angrier. "Look, bitch," he snarled. "I've cut up your sort before, and I'll do it again if you hold out on me. But I won't make it nice for you. I'll cut you a little at a time, just like this." With that, the perp used his free hand to pull a razor out of his belt and draw it across the woman's shoulder. The woman shrieked, and blood ran down her arm. "You're crazy!" she screamed, clapping her hand over the wound and trying to jump out of the chair. The perp dropped the razor on the floor and grabbed her by the hair, yanking her back down. The large knife scraped against the thin skin at her throat. Adam stepped in front of the window, gun trained on the perp. "Metro police! Drop the knife and let the woman go!" he demanded, careful to make his voice sound deep and intimidating to offset his boyish appearance. The perp looked up, startled; then, without a word, he jerked the woman to her feet, the knife still at her throat, and dragged her, struggling, from the room. Unable to get a clear shot, Adam vaulted through the window and set off in pursuit, even as he heard sirens approaching. *** Natalie took to the highways immediately, hoping she could outrace Nick at limited-access-roadway speeds. Her legs stopped trembling after about five minutes on the road, but her mind still raced in jumbled panic. With every bump in the pavement, the filtration unit rocked wildly on its casters, rattling the cuffs that held it in place like the ghost of Jacob Marley creeping up behind her. She stole an occasional glance at Vachon, but the ailing vampire remained motionless where she had left him. She wondered desperately how to block the link, or at the very least, how to throw Nick off her trail. Clenching the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white, she tried to fill her mind with facts that would be useless to Nick in his hunt. First, she tried reciting the names of every bone in the human body, starting at the head and working down, but she only made it to the rib cage before she found herself stammering over the words and drawing a blank. Every time she emptied her mind for so much as an instant, she could feel Nick reaching for her consciousness, homing in on her. With her tongue beginning to feel unnaturally full and stiff in her mouth, she began to babble the first thing that came into her head. "Oh, Canada," she warbled shakily, "our home and native land...." A laugh. Who was laughing at her? She looked back at Vachon in annoyance, but his eyes were still closed; the only change was that he had moved one hand toward his head as if to brace it. He rocked with each movement like a dead body on the water, rolling limply from side to side. She turned her attention back to the road, and she felt the laugh again. It was a cruel laugh, she realized, a laugh like Richard's when he had taunted her and Nick with his new vampiric talents. It was a powerful, superior sound, a sound that increased the dread in her heart until she could actually feel the adrenaline burning in her chest. Nick was laughing at her! Laughing at her fear, at her simplistic attempts to shake him off, at her effort to escape. With a sinking feeling of hopelessness, she realized that he was fully in the grip of the vampire, reveling in its power, thrilling to the awakening of senses nearly 800 years in the keening. And he was gaining on them. Sudden anger exploded in her chest, a fury born of betrayal and the urgent animal need to survive. If he wasn't going to play nice, then by God, neither would she! "Love and war, Nick, love and war," she whispered venomously, her voice steady. Though she was driving so fast that she could scarcely pull her attention from the road even for a moment, she struggled nonetheless to form images in her mind of the things that were most painful or upsetting to Nick. She pictured fire first because she hated it herself. She surrounded the van with a curtain of leaping flames, adding the shriek of superheated air and the nauseating smell of burning paint for good measure. She then drew Nick into the picture, seeing him reach into the flames only to yank his hand away, black, crackled flesh peeled back from the bone. She solidified the image and let it fly. No sooner had she let the thought go than she pictured St. Joan's cross, spectacularly powerful in its simplicity, imbued with the pure faith of a teenage martyr. She remembered Nick saying that it made him feel weak, so she gave the cross a magnetic quality, imagining it sucking the vampire's strength. She let that image go, too. To Natalie's immense satisfaction, she felt an odd sort of recoil. It reminded her of how Sidney jerked away when she reached to pet him in the wintertime and accidentally zapped him with a jolt of static electricity. She sighed with a measure of relief, believing her plan was working. Energetically, she began conjuring up another vision, this one involving a plethora of wooden stakes. She was about to let it go when a strange sense of sadness touched the edges of her mind. She frowned, confused. What was the message? "Never enough?" "Oh, my God," she whispered as grim realization dawned. For a moment, the hot hatred in her heart eased up, and her eyes softened. Instead of the bloodthirsty vampire she knew was close behind, she saw Nick's face in a more familiar light, filled with sorrow and remorse. She knew in that instant that trying to repel Nick with painful visions ultimately would be an exercise in futility. What image could she hand him that would hurt him any more than he hurt himself constantly with his own regret, his endless hatred of what he was and of the choices he had made? Suffering was more a part of Nick's daily life than breathing. She was trying to chase him off with the thing he knew best. Flashing brake lights interrupted her train of thought. In front of her, a lumbering tanker truck suddenly slowed and swung into her lane to avoid a motorist changing a flat on the roadside. She was closing the distance between them far too fast. "Crap!" she said sharply, jamming on the brake pedal. The brakes caught, and the van's wheels locked up with a tooth-jarring lurch, the tires leaving smelly black trails on the highway. She heard Vachon moan as his head lolled off the pillow and thunked onto the metal floor. At the same time, the generator rolled across the van and banged jarringly into the back of her seat, then toppled over, crushing the cardboard box beside her and spraying gasoline into the passenger compartment. Frantically, Natalie reached back to disconnect the generator's spark plug, scrabbling around the face of the machine by feel so she wouldn't have to take her eyes off the tanker truck. She didn't notice the red stain slowly spreading across the bottom and up the sides of the box. Behind her, yellow eyes flickered open. Slowly, they came around to focus on the blood-soaked cardboard, and the lips beneath parted eagerly. Silently, the vampire pulled himself to his knees and began to crawl toward the red fluid that trickled across the floor of the van, heading inexorably toward the pool of gasoline. As the truck eased back into the right lane and began its slow progress back through its range of gears, Natalie swerved sharply to the left and punched on the gas pedal to pass. The van's transmission rumbled ominously for a moment, then, with a tooth-jarring lurch and a fresh squeal of tires, the vehicle sprang forward in a fair automotive approximation of the standing broad jump. The contents of the van slid around the interior like loose furniture on a boat in a storm. The generator caromed across the floor in a trail of gasoline, bowling Vachon over before ramming into the back door of the van. On impact, the door flew open with an odd popping sound, and the generator slid partway out the doorway, wobbling precariously on the edge. Natalie saw the door swing open in the rear-view mirror, and she gasped as she watched the borrowed generator dangling on the edge of roadway annihilation. Quickly, she let off the gas and coasted into the right emergency lane with her flashers blinking. Setting the brake, she yanked the keys from the ignition, intending to race around and *lock* the blasted door from the outside this time to prevent a recurrence. As she glanced into the mirror to check for oncoming traffic before getting out, another flash of motion caught her attention. She looked back over her shoulder only to find herself face-to-face with shining yellow eyes. Natalie gasped and jumped away instinctively, banging her head on the roof and startling the vampire crouched behind her. For a moment, they stared wordlessly at one another; then, Vachon's lips quirked briefly into a chilling smile before he spoke. "The blood, Doctor Lambert," he said with a flat-voiced seriousness that she somehow found more disturbing than the monster's growl. "I need the blood." With a slight nod of his head, he indicated the stained box beside her. A quick glance told her what had happened. Without thinking, she grabbed the box and shoved it into the passenger footwell, then dropped to her knees between the seats, placing herself between the box and the vampire. Blood and gasoline soaked into the knees of her jeans. "No," she said, her voice steady. "If you even touch that blood, you'll ruin everything we've worked for, and you'll likely get us both killed." Vachon leaned a little closer to her, the expression on his face becoming far less congenial. "Get out of my way, mortal," he snarled. Natalie leaned back a bit, trying to sort out the sensations battering her consciousness. She wasn't sure if she was dealing with Vachon, Divia, or some combination thereof; in addition, she could still feel Nick homing in on her like a bat on a moth. "It's your choice, Doctor," said the vampire, the voice carrying an arch note of superiority that smacked to Natalie of Divia. "You can move, or you can die. But choose quickly, or I'll choose for you." Natalie reached down and rubbed one hand on the floor, bringing it back up covered with an oddly slick-sticky mixture of blood and gasoline. She waved the hand toward Vachon, knowing that the pungent gasoline odor would sting his sensitive nostrils as they widened to scent the blood. As he jerked his head back in disgust, she reached quickly behind herself with the other hand and pushed the cigarette lighter all the way in. "This blood here is ruined, Vachon," she said calmly. "You see? It's gotten fouled with the gasoline from the generator. It won't be any good. Just relax and lie down, and I'll get you some fresh blood later, like I promised." She stared hard into his face, looking for any hint of rational thought behind the vampire's mask. Yellow eyes evaluated her for a moment, then a cruel gleam sparked in them. "But there's fresh blood right here, Doctor," said the sing-song, childish voice from her nightmares. Vachon cocked his head to one side and reached up a hand to cup her chin. "You're the perfect vessel-- warm, breathing..." he reached up to stroke her cheek with a finger, "...and a lovely, beating heart to deliver it." The hand suddenly darted behind her, fingers wrapping in her hair and yanking her head back to expose the tender, white skin of her throat. With a sharp click, the cigarette lighter popped out. Natalie grabbed it and touched it to the arm that held her captive. With a howl, Vachon let go and jerked backward. Natalie gave him a shove, and he lost his balance, sitting down hard on the floor of the van in a pool of bloodied gasoline. She scrambled to a crouching position, her right hand on the door handle, and held the lighter with its glowing orange coil in front of her like a saber. "Listen to me," she said quickly but firmly. "You're not a monster. You're *not* Divia. You are Javier Vachon, and I am very likely the last friend you have in the world. If you drink that blood, you will eventually die, and there won't be anything I can do to prevent it. I want to help you, but if you try to hurt me, I'll incinerate you." She gestured toward him with the lighter for emphasis. "I won't let you kill me, but if you let me, I'll try to save us both." The vampire remained very still, studying her, an odd expression on his face. "Please, Javier," she said, trying to touch his consciousness with the emotion behind the words. "You can fight Divia. Make a choice to live." The cigarette lighter was cooling in her hand, and she knew she had only seconds left to decide whether to drop it in the gasoline around him or not. If he so much as twitched in her direction... He slowly lifted a hand, but it wasn't a threat; instead, he grasped his own throat, as though he were choking. Natalie frowned slightly, wondering what the gesture meant. Suddenly, the fingers closed down, and she watched in astonishment as he ripped a gaping hole in the side of his own neck. Natalie gasped, staring at the wound >as blood coursed down his naked white chest. She looked up at his face to see the gold in his eyes fade to brown. His lips moved in a whisper, but she felt the words more than heard them: "Go for it, Doc." Slowly, as if he were being deflated, Vachon sank to the floor of the van, and within seconds, the hum in Natalie's chest went away. He was out cold. The sharp sting of gasoline odor in her nostrils made her realize that she had clapped her soiled hand over her mouth. She pulled the hand away, wiping it on her jeans as she replaced the cigarette lighter with shaky fingers. Grabbing up the keys from where they had fallen on the floor, she climbed out of the van and raced around behind it. She gave the generator a good shove to push it back inside, then slammed the heavy black doors and twisted the key in the lock. She had just turned around to hurry back to the driver's side when Nick landed silently on the road, facing her, his eyes piercing red in the darkness. (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 Apr 27 19:43:32 1998 Date: Mon, 27 Apr 1998 00:05:13 -0400 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU Subject: V4S: Presumed Dead -- Part 2 (12/15) 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 12 of 15 This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Copyright 1998 Stephanie S. Babbitt -------------------------- PRESUMED DEAD At first, Adam followed the scuffling noises of high- heeled shoes dragging the floor, but he soon realized that the woman was also leaving a splotchy trail of blood that was easy to track. He rounded a corner, gun in position, just in time to see the perp drag his victim into a stairwell. Adam heard a scream, followed by a series of thumps, and he realized that the man had pushed--or thrown-- his hostage down the flight of stairs, likely to save struggling with her. As he arrived at the top of the staircase, Adam saw the perp pick up the moaning woman by one arm as though she weighed nothing and yank her through a metal door that clicked shut behind them. Racing down the stairs two at a time, Adam reached the door, only to find it locked. For a moment, he considered shooting the lock out, but he knew that the bullet could ricochet off the door and concrete walls, injuring himself or others. Frustrated, he ran back up the stairs and exited the building the way he'd come in. Adam dashed out of the alley at a dead run, nearly crashing into a uniform cop who was rounding the corner with a high-beam flashlight. Without asking permission, Adam grabbed the cop's radio and alerted his fellow officers: "We've got a hostage situation, white male suspect, tall, muscular, long dark hair, black T-shirt, armed and dangerous, last seen in basement; female hostage is injured." Tossing the radio back, he headed toward the front of the building in time to see more squad cars pulling up to join the two that were already there. Adam gestured to another officer, and together they headed around to the side of the building, where they found a stairway cut into the ground, leading to the basement. The cop went down the steps, gun drawn, and tested the door, which was locked. As Adam glanced around impatiently, a splotch of blood beneath an open ground-floor window caught his eye. With a shout, Adam set out to follow the blood trail, several uniforms close behind him. The perp evidently knew the turf well and was pretty damned good at dodging the cops, Adam noted with frustration. Were it not for the blood trail, their suspect would have been almost impossible to follow. As it was, he was already half a block ahead of them, judging from the pace the trail indicated. Jumping around a corner with his gun held in firing position, Adam nearly stepped on the hooker, who lay on the ground like a discarded bag of trash, eyes open and glazed. In addition to the arm wound, she had an obvious head injury--likely from her tumble down the staircase, Adam realized--and several fresh knife cuts; one on her cheek went clear to the bone. Glancing back to make sure that a uniform was stopping to help her, Adam ran on, faster, frantically scanning for a sign of the perp's trail now that the blood wasn't there to follow. *** For a moment, Natalie could only stare at Nick. She was exhausted to the point of collapse, and she had no adrenaline left to expend. The scene before her mixed queerly in her vision with images of that awful night in the loft, and her mind reeled with the memory of fangs tearing at her flesh, sucking away her soul. Yet, she wasn't afraid. This, somehow, seemed like the inevitable destination of the path she and Nick had set upon that night, a place and time she had been compelled to reach, like a bird that knows only that it must fly south without knowing why. She took a deep breath and clasped her hands in front of her, the keys jingling lightly. Her chin tilted upward, stubborn determination written across her features. "Nick," she acknowledged softly, without emotion. "Get away from the van, Nat," Nick demanded, his voice deep and harsh. "You know I won't," she replied quietly. "I can't let you kill him." "But he's hurt you!" Nick snarled over extended fangs. He took a step toward her, and Natalie felt the stirrings of his hatred for Vachon deep in her own gut. "He's used you! Why are you protecting him? He's nothing but a monster!" "No more than you are, right now," said Natalie calmly. Nick stopped short, glaring at her for several silent moments, a range of expressions flickering across his face. To Natalie's frustration, she couldn't quite interpret them, even though the link between them was thrashing her like the kick of an unborn child. Instead of concrete thoughts, she gleaned only flashes of nonsensical images from Nick--a gray sock, dried blood on cotton, a hazy computer screen. Finally, his face grew still, arranged in the emotionless mask she knew as well as her own face in the mirror. "Why are you taking such risks for him?" he asked, a chilling darkness in his voice. "Do you love him?" Natalie's jaw dropped, and she stared at him openly, outrage somehow giving her new energy. "Are you crazy?" she finally sputtered by way of response. "No, I don't love him! But I'm not going to let you waste his life, either." Nick remained silent and motionless, and she stared at him defiantly, trying to appear unafraid. Slowly, deliberately, she leaned back against the door she had just locked and crossed her arms. The van's bumper pressed into her calves as she spoke. "You came here to kill Vachon, even though I told you it wasn't necessary," she said caustically. "If you're still determined to do it, then I don't suppose I can stop you." She nodded toward the back of the van. "He's unconscious; he'll be an easy kill. No mess, no fuss. I imagine you've got a stake?" Nick nodded almost imperceptibly, and Natalie's lips twitched in a cold imitation of a smile. "Well, then," she said, sarcasm heavy in her voice, "I guess you're all set." Her eyes narrowed. "But there's one thing, Nick. If you're going to kill him, I'm going to make you kill me first." Nick's eyes widened for an instant, and he grasped his right hand uncomfortably in his left before the mask settled back into place. "And you'd better by God get it right this time," she added, her voice flat and icy, her eyes blazing. Nick jerked his head away as though she'd struck him. For a long, silent moment, he stared down at the ground, pressing his balled right hand into the palm of his left. Finally, slowly, he raised his face again to look at her with a sorrowful expression and eyes the color of heavy storm clouds. "I would never deliberately hurt you, Natalie," he said quietly. "I care about you far too much." Her eyes softened, and she lifted her chin earnestly. "Then leave us, Nick. Let me get in this van and just drive away. Let me finish my work in peace." He stayed still as stone, not moving a muscle, not blinking, not breathing. Natalie couldn't even touch his thoughts through the link. "Nick, *please*," she entreated, raising closed fists to her chest. "I know you don't like everything he's done-- neither do I! But, Nick, no matter how you feel about him personally, even if you hate him, his life still has value, if for no other reason that it's a life. You don't have to be the executioner. You don't have to be a killer! You have a *choice*." Nick frowned slightly, looking past her into the darkness.... >>>----------> A piece of rotten fruit hit Theodore squarely on the shoulder as he stood in the tumbril, but he seemed not to notice it any more than he noticed the derisive cries of the townspeople around him. As the armed men dragged another prisoner off the cart for the walk to the platform steps, Theodore remained, half-crouched, in the scant shadow of his few remaining companions. Nicholas was so intently focused on the young vampire that he didn't even sense his master drawing up behind him until Janette spoke. "LaCroix!" she whispered, her voice sharp with fear. Nicholas glanced over his shoulder to see Janette tugging uselessly at LaCroix's sleeve. The elder vampire was staring at the tumbril, his eyes golden and his fangs clearly visible. Nicholas realized with a start of compassion that the pain and humiliation he himself could feel though the link with Theodore was likely magnified a hundredfold in the link between fledgling and master. "My child," LaCroix whispered. Nicholas spoke rapidly, his voice deep and commanding, hoping to distract LaCroix from his turmoil. "Collect yourself!" he said, placing a hand on his master's shoulder. "The townspeople will see you. You must not reveal us! Have you forgotten your own teachings?" LaCroix turned to glare fiercely at Nicholas, a low rumble in his throat and a savage curl to his upper lip. "Impertinent juvenile," he snarled. "I hardly think *you* should be the one to remind *me*...." A sudden gasp from Janette interrupted him. Nicholas and LaCroix both looked up to see guards unlocking the chain that tethered Theodore to the tumbril. As the men pulled the young vampire away from the cart, the last rays of the setting sun licked at his skin. With a low moan of pain, he tried in vain to duck behind his captors. Tiny wisps of smoke curled from his clothes. A fat old man stepped forward, holding a woman's petticoat. "Allow me, my fellow Republicans!" he cried cheerfully to the guards. "The boy squeals like a girl. Shall we send him to his appointment properly dressed?" The guards laughed uproariously in response and thrust Theodore forward. The fat man reached around, tying the laces of the petticoat at Theodore's waist with an exaggerated bow. Stepping back to admire his handiwork, he announced loudly, "I do believe it suits him better than it does my wife!" The crowd around him cheered energetically as the man's equally fat wife cackled and swatted him on the shoulder. Through the link, Nicholas could feel Theodore's burning hatred of the mortals who tormented him. Nicholas's own stomach quavered with the fury he sensed, and his gums throbbed around unerupted fangs. Frowning against the setting sun in his eyes, he focused all his energies on Theodore, willing the young vampire to control the ferocious impulse to destroy, an urge that was now part of his very genes. The guards yanked Theodore across the courtyard. Hampered by the chains around his ankles, he shuffled along, tripping repeatedly on the lacy edge of the petticoat. Each stumble was greeted by a fresh shout of laughter from the crowd, punctuated with insults and affected, girlish squeals. As he drew abreast of the family, Theodore glanced up briefly, giving them a glimpse of blood-red eyes over a jaw so tightly clenched that the sinews of his neck stood out like twin knife blades straining against the white skin. LaCroix issued a savage growl, a sound which Nicholas could hear echoed in Theodore's unnaturally rapid breathing. Janette tugged urgently at Nicholas's sleeve. "He will betray us," she whispered desperately. "I can feel a powerful darkness rising in him, and he is too young to control it. We must leave immediately!" Nicholas frowned, concentrating hard on the link as he grasped her wrist in response. "No," he said firmly. "He knows he *must* control it if we are to rescue him, and he is confident that we will not abandon him. Can you not feel it?" Janette did not answer, and he glanced up at the sun again, willing it to move. "Just a few more moments," he whispered, the words almost a prayer. Theodore reached the platform and stumbled clumsily up the steps as his family watched, frantic but impotent. They could sense the bubbling blisters rising on the young one's skin as the sun crept through the tree branches to touch him. Unaware of the bearded townsman reading to the jeering crowd, the vampires focused their attention on the youngest of their family as he was forced to his knees, three pairs of eyes moving as if one. The executioner hauled back on the rope, and the blade slid noisily up its track, shimmying as it rose higher and higher, the red fireball of the setting sun sparkling in reflection on its face. The guards tried to push Theodore's head down into the cradle. Suddenly, their formerly placid prisoner began to strain against them. He jerked away, turning his shoulders and his face eastward. "Father!" he screamed desperately, looking directly at LaCroix. "Will you not save me?" Three pistols pressed into Theodore's back and neck. Nicholas tensed, fully expecting LaCroix to race to the platform and tear Theodore away, leaving a trail of carnage and revealing them all before the hostile crowd. Behind his back, he could feel LaCroix's body quivering slightly as if preparing to take flight, but the master vampire remained where he stood. Theodore looked into the shadows that concealed them, his face contorted with pain and fear. Ruptured and oozing blisters covered his face and neck; the left side of his face was nearly encrusted. A wispy haze of smoke surrounded him like a ghost. Bright blue eyes stared down from the platform; three pairs of bright blue eyes stared back. Slowly, the vampire's expressionless mask descended over Theodore's face; only the eyes still glittered bright with emotion. "Father, forgive me my failings," said Theodore softly, his voice that of a man utterly defeated. "I will not disappoint you further." Before any of the vampires could respond, Theodore turned back and lay his head meekly in the cradle. The executioner let go the rope, and the blade flashed down. For Nicholas, the world seemed to explode in a bizarre paradox of absolute silence and deafening sound. As the link was broken, he felt almost as though all capacity to hear or see or smell had been ripped from him; yet, the agony he felt from LaCroix seethed through him like the fury of a lightning strike, overwhelming him with sensation. He reached out, grasping at the trunk of the tree for support as the world swirled around him, sucking him into a vortex of pain turned audible, bombarding him with the hideous shriek of a soul being dragged through the doorway of hell. A sob from Janette steadied Nicholas, and he turned to comfort her. She was leaning with her forehead against their master's shoulder. LaCroix remained fixed in position, his skin so white that his eyes looked like aquamarines lying in the snow. Only a slight tremble of his jaw revealed his suffering to observers, even though Nicholas believed a stake through the heart might have been more pleasant to experience than the anguish he felt from his master through their link. Janette raised her head, visibly composing herself for a moment, then slipped her arm maternally through LaCroix's. "Come," she whispered. "Come away from this place." She looked urgently toward Nicholas, beseeching him with her eyes to help her. "Nicholas and I will accompany you." Like a statue come to life, LaCroix turned on her, yanking his arm away so sharply that she stumbled backward. "*This* is precisely what happens when a father gives freedom and favor to foolish children," he said, a hateful rasp in his tone. "They repay him only with more foolishness and bitter disappointment. Clearly, I have been far too lax with my children--a mistaken kindness! But I have neither the patience nor the inclination to have my considerable efforts wasted by churlish idiots." He turned sharply away, striding past a stunned Janette into the deep shadows as the horizon swallowed up the last rays of the setting sun. With a swirl of air, LaCroix vanished. For a moment, Nicholas stood as if stricken dumb, his head tilted oddly to one side, as he stared at the empty space his master had recently occupied. Janette, likewise, stood silent, graceful hands clasped together at her throat. A gleeful shout from the crowd behind him broke through Nicholas's reverie, and he turned to see Theodore's headless corpse fall noisily into the cart beside the platform. Pushing his way roughly into the crowd, he saw a dirty, stringy-haired teenage girl with a bloodstained apron yank a cravat pin from the body. "Won't be needing this, now that he's got no neck!" she cried, waving her prize above her head to cheers, as young people scrabbled like rats for Theodore's other possessions. Quietly, Nicholas took the girl's arm and pulled her aside. She looked at him for a moment, wide-eyed, and opened her mouth to protest, but Nicholas caught her eyes and her heartbeat. She continued to stare stupidly, open- mouthed, as Nicholas said evenly, "You do not want the pin." "I don't want it," the girl echoed, opening her hand. Nicholas took the pin, closing his own hand over it. "You thought the pin was valuable, but it actually was worthless, so you threw it away," Nicholas added for good measure. The girl nodded silently. With a slight push, Nicholas turned the girl away from him, breaking eye contact. Before she could regain her balance and look back, he was beside Janette again, holding out the pin for her inspection. She took it with hands that were not quite yet steady. "LaCroix gave this to him," she whispered almost reverently, examining the bloodstone at the center. Nicholas nodded somewhat absently, reaching out with a finger to trace the bauble in Janette's palm. "Perhaps someday LaCroix will wish to have the pin as a token of remembrance of the one who obeyed him most faithfully," he said, a resigned tone to his voice. "Perhaps," Janette agreed quietly. Nicholas looked up as a sickening thunk followed by a cheer indicated that the guillotine had claimed another life. Stepping behind Janette, he wrapped his arms around her protectively, resting his chin against her dark hair. "I truly expected LaCroix to save Theodore, up until the last moment," he mused, turning his head to lay his cheek against her hair as she reached up with one hand to touch his face. "We cannot know his thoughts, mon cher," she replied softly. "But even he is not exempt from the laws of our kind." She turned partway around and looked up into Nicholas's eyes. "We must, after all, be true to ourselves if we are to live forever." "If that is so, then I suppose Theodore's death was necessary, no matter the suffering," Nicholas replied curtly, pulling away from her. "But I believe a necessary evil is still precisely that: evil." <----------<<< (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 Apr 27 19:43:42 1998 Date: Mon, 27 Apr 1998 00:05:29 -0400 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU Subject: V4S: Presumed Dead -- Part 2 (13/15) 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 13 of 15 This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Copyright 1998 Stephanie S. Babbitt -------------------------- PRESUMED DEAD The squall of a startled cat caught Adam's attention, and he hurried toward the sound, gesturing for the others to follow. Peering around yet another corner, he realized that the road dead-ended under a highway bridge, with a mom-and- pop grocery store on one side and a small courier company on the other. Both businesses were closed, the buildings locked tight. Adam gathered the team together and quickly issued instructions. On his signal, they all ran around the corner, spreading out and taking cover, guns at the ready. Adam and one of the uniforms hustled toward a distant dumpster behind the grocery. As he reached the dumpster, an odd noise--he couldn't even identify it--made him suddenly uneasy. Automatically, he dropped to a crouch to present a smaller target. Almost immediately, he heard an odd, muffled thump, followed by a shriek. Adam turned to see the uniform cop who had been right behind him sink to her knees with a throwing star embedded deep in her shoulder. His throat tightened as he realized that the star had been aimed at his own head. He pulled the injured cop to safety behind the dumpster and yanked off his jacket, bunching it up and placing it next to the wound. "Don't pull it out--it'll bleed worse. Just hold this against it," he whispered quickly to the cop, who nodded through clenched teeth. Adam looked around the dumpster to see if anyone else was injured and found the remaining three officers behind their assigned cover, pointing their guns in the direction of the bridge. The cop closest to Adam crouched behind a pickup truck in the courier's back parking lot. Mind racing, Adam remembered that the cop was a rookie and probably on his first pursuit of an armed perp. "Go slow, kid," he whispered, concerned for the kid's safety. Holstering his weapon, the rookie dropped to hands and knees and crept crab-like toward the front tire, peering beneath the vehicle as he moved. A moment later, in a swirl of motion, he was yanked off his feet. Before Adam and the other cops could even react, the perp had hauled the rookie bodily into the bed of the pickup and pinned him face-down against the cab, the monster knife pressing against his throat. "One *move* and your pal is dead," growled the perp. "Drop your guns--and get out where I can see you!" Slowly, Adam and the two other uninjured officers emerged from their hiding places, guns held in the air. "DROP 'em!" the perp shouted. Adam stooped slowly and lay down his gun; the other police officers followed suit. His heart pounding, Adam looked toward the young hostage, who was twitching as he fought for breath against the huge body pressing his chest into the cab. "What do you want?" Adam called to the perp, whose eyes were rolling wildly from one cop to the next, the whites showing clearly in the light from the streetlamps. Definitely high as a kite, Adam realized, with the familiar revulsion that he always felt when dealing with druggies. "I *want* you fascist cops to leave me ALONE!" screamed the perp, yanking the rookie up by the hair, leaving his feet dangling uselessly and exposing the throat to the length of the knife. The kid grabbed the scarred hand that held the knife but could not dislodge it. "All right, all right," said Adam, edging toward the truck with his hands held up. "We'll leave you alone, but you know we can't go unless the officer goes with us. Let's talk a trade. What do you say?" The perp lowered the rookie enough that he could stand on tiptoe and eyed Adam nervously. "Your kind of trade usually involves time in the can, cop," he snarled. "I got no use for your offers." He pressed the big knife closer to his hostage's throat to stop Adam's forward progress. The rookie, clearly terrified, was breathing much too fast and trembling so hard that Adam feared the kid might cut his own throat. "You don't have to hold him so tight," Adam said to the druggie, trying to sound calm and reassuring. "See? We're not armed now, and neither is he." The kid turned toward Adam, a look of horrified surprise on his face. Adam nodded reassuringly, answering the unspoken question: Yes, he remembered that the rookie still had a gun in his holster. "We just need to make a deal, and we can all leave," Adam continued smoothly. Though he continued to hold the perp's eyes, he crossed his arms over his chest and wiggled his right index finger--his trigger finger--as if he were scratching his ribs. He shot a quick glance at the kid, whose eyes widened as he understood. The perp's eyes narrowed as he realized something was going on. Without warning, he slammed the kid's body back against the cab of the pickup to immobilize him. Adam heard the sharp crack of ribs breaking. The kid screamed, then went limp, drawing a chorus of outraged gasps from the cops standing behind Adam. With a look of perverse satisfaction, the criminal lifted the crumpled body, again by the hair, as if to display it like a prize fish. As soon as his hands were free, though, the kid grabbed across his body at his pistol and fired through the holster. With an animal howl, the perp dropped the young cop and staggered backward, falling out of the pickup bed onto the pavement and spitting blood from his perforated lung. Adam and the uniform cops converged on the perp, watching warily for more airborne cutlery. They arrived just in time to see the perp make an obscene gesture at them even as the death rattle sounded in his throat. As the mournful whee-ooo of ambulance sirens filled the air, Adam suddenly felt very tired, and he sat down on the pavement, leaning his head against the cool metal of the truck. One of the uniforms stepped away from the corpse to pat Adam on the shoulder. "Good call, man," said the cop. "Looks like you got your slasher." Adam nodded slightly. "Let's hope so," he said. "God forbid there should be more than one of these maniacs on the loose." *** Nick returned his gaze to Natalie, who glared at him with unwavering determination. She crossed her arms belligerently, leaning her shoulders back against the van and lifting one foot to rest on the bumper. "Why is his life so important to you, Natalie?" Nick asked her, genuine perplexity in his voice. She could feel the anger inside her starting to give way just a little as the wind blew Nick's hair down his forehead and almost into his eyes, momentarily giving him the look of a sad little boy. "Vachon and I are very much the same," she replied, slowly and carefully. "We were both alone and out of control, through no fault of our own. And now we're both okay--or at least, we will be unless you ruin everything. He gave me my life back. Now it's only fair that I fight to give him his." "And you aren't upset that he harmed you, or frightened you, or put you in terrible danger?" Nick retorted quickly, his voice again dark and demanding. "You can forgive him that, even when you can't forgive m... when you can't forgive others the same transgression?" Surprise flickered across her face as she recognized the hurt in Nick's tone. "Vachon never harmed me," she said emphatically. "Divia did. And I hope that little monster got a one-way ticket straight to hell." She glanced down, unconsciously rubbing her right hand slowly over the wounds on her left arm. As hatred for the sadistic child responsible for those wounds burned in her own chest, she felt a sudden flash of answering rage through her link with Nick. Her chin snapped back up, and she stared Nick full in the eyes as the argument that might save Vachon came together in her mind. "If somebody has to die to make things right with the vampire community, then let it be Divia," she said urgently, uncrossing her arms and clenching her hands passionately. "If you'll just turn away now and let us leave, then I can finish what I have to do. Soon--by tomorrow, maybe--Vachon should be free of the last effects of Divia's attack, and the part of her evil that we've both been fighting will be destroyed." She stopped to take a deep breath, then paused, biting her lower lip briefly to calm herself. "Isn't that enough?" Nick stared at her without responding. She couldn't tell by his expression whether or not she was reaching the heart beneath the vampire's frozen exterior. She swallowed hard and took two steps toward him, still completely uncertain whether he would choose to free them or to attack Vachon, forcing her to make good on her threat. "Can the vampire in you be satisfied with stealing the last power from an evil soul instead of the blood from a beating heart?" she asked quietly. "Or would you rather drain away your last shred of humanity along with our lives? Nick's eyes darted sharply from side to side before returning to meet her own, and she knew her words had hit home. Like boxers sizing one another up in the ring, they stared at each other for a long moment that fairly crackled with tension. Natalie struggled to keep from showing the strain she felt as the link pummeled her senses. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to her, Nick's shoulders slumped in weariness, as though the hatred that had sustained the vampire had suddenly fled and left him powerless. He turned his back on her, and for a terrifying moment Natalie expected him to spin back around with a killing roar. Instead, he slowly lifted one hand, then with a barely discernible gesture, waved her away. Natalie didn't wait for him to change his mind. Like a shot, she sprinted to the driver's seat of the van and scrambled in. As she pulled away, gears rattling, she glanced in the rear-view mirror to see Nick's frame, shadowy in the red glow of the taillights. His black coat blew restlessly around him, and he was staring up at the sky. For a moment, she felt a profound loneliness through the link, but she quickly shook it off and focused her attention on her patient, who lay crumpled and silent on the floor of the van. (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 Apr 27 19:43:48 1998 Date: Mon, 27 Apr 1998 00:05:44 -0400 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU Subject: V4S: Presumed Dead -- Part 2 (14/15) 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 14 of 15 This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Copyright 1998 Stephanie S. Babbitt -------------------------- PRESUMED DEAD Glad to be done with her first night back on the job, Natalie wearily unlocked the door to her apartment and went inside. Sidney greeted her, curling his chubby body in a figure eight around her ankles as was his wont. She picked him up and tickled him under the chin, cocking her own head to one side. "Did Mama leave the radio on, Sid?" she asked. "I hear music." She set the cat down and went into the living room to check the stereo, only to find Vachon sitting on her new couch with a guitar on his lap, playing the opening bars of "Stairway to Heaven" so skillfully that she'd mistaken his version for the recording. His eyes were closed, and he rocked from side to side in time with the music. He cut off the song as she entered, then opened his eyes and smiled at her. "It's fine with the new strings," he said, indicating the guitar. "Are you sure you don't mind me having it?" She smiled back. "I'm sure," she replied. "Did I tell you it was my brother's? He brought it here when he moved in with me between college and law school, but he never asked for it back." Her eyes grew distant for a moment as she remembered Richard, long-haired and skinny, concentrating for all he was worth as he tried to mimic his rock idols. This time, she noted thankfully, Richard's eyes were their true hazel; her memory was free of the monster. Her voice slightly strained, she added, "He would have wanted someone to have it who appreciated good guitar music." Vachon nodded thoughtfully, lower lip slightly extended. "Well, you'll be glad to know that things seem to be settling down at the precinct," she said, changing the subject with deliberate cheerfulness as she shrugged her purse off her shoulder and set it on the coffee table. "They've all but closed the slasher case since they shot that suspect." Vachon nodded again. "And they're willing to believe that somebody did all that with just a bunch of knives?" "I guess so," she said. "Frankly, I think they're all so relieved to have a suspect with matching M.O. that they'll be willing to accept any number of inconsistencies just to put this thing to bed. That's what I'm banking on, anyway." She dropped into a chair, slipped off her pumps, and put her stocking feet up on the table. "I've never been really comfortable with fudging autopsy reports, but this won't change the course of history or anything, so I can live with it. We both know it's over, right?" She smiled at him wearily before closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the chair. "And you don't have a problem with letting somebody else take the rap?" Vachon pressed. When she opened her eyes and frowned at him, perplexed, he added, "It just seems like something that would bug you." She removed her feet from the table and sat upright, sighing. "Well, it's not like he was completely innocent in his own right," she said. "He *did* kill his hostage, and there were probably others. And the slasher killings won't go on his record, because you can't file charges posthumously. They'll just close the cases as 'solved, not prosecuted.'" She rubbed her eyes. "It's not a perfect ending, but sometimes we just have to do the best we can and leave it at that." He nodded his acceptance. "So it looks like we're both free and clear," he mused. She looked at him warily. "Not exactly," she said. "There's still Thomas to contend with. I could tell from the way he was acting at the precinct today that he still has his doubts about this whole case. I'll probably be dodging his questions for months." "Is he a resister?" asked Vachon. Natalie looked up at him, surprised. "I...I'm not sure," she replied, trying to remember the time Westwood had run up against LaCroix and Serena. "Now that you mention it, I don't think he is." Vachon cocked an eyebrow. "Then it's not a problem," he said easily, leaving no doubt as to his intentions. Natalie shot him a distressed look. "Just don't hurt him, okay?" she said. "I mean, he's still a close friend, even if he does have an inconvenient tendency to draw accurate conclusions." Vachon looked at her with an odd expression. "He'll never even know I was there," he said, somewhat coolly. "Why do you always assume the worst where vampires are concerned? We don't get to be this old by screwing up, you know." Natalie paused for a moment before answering, an image of the loft clear in her mind. She remembered the night Nick promised her forever, then came within a hairbreadth of ending her life. So much for good intentions. "I wasn't implying that you would hurt him deliberately," she replied, somewhat distantly. "It's just that things can get out of hand, even if you don't mean for it to happen." Rubbing her arms, she stared across the room as though she saw something fascinating on the blank wall. Vachon followed her gaze for a moment, then looked back to her face, a gentleness softening his own expression. "Well, Doc, I'm not big on making promises," he said warmly, "but I promise you, I won't hurt your friend Thomas, even if he annoys me--which is likely. Okay? Is that better?" She didn't answer, remaining silent for several seconds, and Vachon began to look vaguely concerned. As he opened his mouth to say something more, she looked up at him suddenly with a bright urgency. "Vachon, can I ask you a question?" she said. He shrugged slightly and said, "Sure." Leaning back, he crossed one leg over the other and folded his arms over the guitar. She stood up and began to pace the room restlessly, clearly uncomfortable. Finally, she asked, "Can you drink from a mortal--without killing him or her--any time you want? I mean, can you take just a little at a time?" Her voice was strained despite her effort to sound casual. He nodded, glancing up at the ceiling as he considered her question, then back at her. "Most vampires can, except for the youngest ones. It's kind of important to be able to when the food supply is limited--'renewable resources' is the buzzword now, I think." He smiled, eyes sparkling. "Why?" Turning her back to him, she continued, "Have you ever done that--taken a little blood at a time--from a mortal that you loved?" Understanding dawned in Vachon's eyes. "Yes," he said gently, "but it was a long time ago." Natalie's voice was barely audible. "Did it change you at all?" His voice was soft as well. "No." She turned to face him. "You didn't feel different, even after you did it more than once?" He shook his head silently, the slightest hint of a smile on his lips. Her shoulders drooped slightly. "Well, I guess that explains that, then," she said, trying to sound nonchalant; still, her tone could not conceal the disappointment in her voice. He put the guitar down and stood up, moving to her side. He took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him, ducking his head slightly to meet her eyes. "Hey, it's like I told you," he said. "Knight is different. Everything's harder for him. But it's not your fault." Natalie looked up at him. "What happened to her?" He dropped her shoulders. "What?" he asked, perplexed. "The mortal woman you loved," she said quietly. "It was a woman, wasn't it?" He sighed and was silent for a moment, his eyes glancing past her to somewhere very, very far away. "Yes, she was a woman--a medicine man's daughter--and she died," he replied. "I wanted to bring her across, but she wasn't quite ready to give up the sun." He smiled, but his eyes held a deep poignancy. "She died of smallpox while I was on a raid," he continued matter-of-factly. "There's a good chance I carried it to her from an attack on a British scouting party; I don't know. But by the time I got word, she was already gone." "I'm sorry," Natalie said, meaning it. He shrugged. "You get used to it after awhile," he said. "I mean, there's still an emptiness. But you get to where you see it as more of a cycle, as something inevitable. Either you learn to think differently about what you lose, or you go crazy." "I guess so," replied Natalie, crossing her arms protectively across her chest and glancing away. "But accepting doesn't mean you forget," Vachon said emphatically, recognizing Natalie's discomfort. "I still see her in people I meet now, and I've learned to draw pleasure from that." She looked up at him, eyes bright with tears, unable to respond. She could feel him reaching out to her with the strange non-verbal communication they shared, and she understood. Hadn't she just now found a hint of Richard in Vachon's guitar playing? Vachon eased down to sit on the arm of the couch. "Take Tracy," he said, seeming not to notice the suddenly uncomfortable expression on Natalie's face. "I think the reason I couldn't kill her at first, when I should have, was because she reminded me so much of the medicine man's daughter. It was like the best parts of her were alive again: a curious nature, selflessness, the ability to deal with me--and what I am--without fear." He fell silent for a moment, staring ahead, then he shook his head slightly and brought his gaze back to Natalie's. "Someday, I'll run across somebody who reminds me of Tracy, and then I'll be able to find pleasure in remembering her, too," he said softly. He slid off the arm of the couch onto the seat and leaned back, rubbing a finger contemplatively against his lips. Natalie glanced down at the floor for a moment and swallowed hard, then looked back up at Vachon. "I have to ask you another question," she said uneasily, her voice still quavering around the lump in her throat. Vachon said nothing; he merely shifted his gaze to stare at her, eyebrows slightly elevated. "About Tracy," she began awkwardly, "I was wondering if you remembered...if you knew where...." She broke off and touched her fingers for a moment to her temples, frowning, then walked rapidly over to sit beside him on the couch. She reached down and took his free hand in both of hers. "Vachon," she almost whispered, "what happened to Tracy?" He stared at her for a moment, his expression an odd mix of puzzlement and annoyance. "When I came to, she was gone," he said finally, his tone revealing his surprise that Natalie didn't recognize the fact. "Oh, Javier, I know that. She was killed less than a month after Divia came, long before you recovered," said Natalie sympathetically, squeezing his hand. "But I was talking about her...her body. It's...it's missing, and her family's really upset. Do you have any idea what you...what happened to it?" "I just told you," he said somewhat impatiently. "She was gone when I came to." Natalie sat back, eyes widening as she realized what he had meant the first time. "So you don't remember what happened?" she said just above a whisper. "I remember *some* of it," he replied testily. "When I called the precinct to tell her about the seizures, I was coming out of one of the blackouts but still pretty bad off. When that guy said she'd been killed, I guess I just lost it. Every place I'd gone, ever since I woke up, nothing was the same, and everybody I knew was dead or missing. I'd put all my hopes for getting straightened out on Tracy, and then this jerk was telling me that she was gone, too. I didn't know who killed her, or what, and I figured somehow that it must have been that little girl--Divia." He paused, licking his lower lip as he concentrated. "Problem was, that little girl was *me*, or living inside me, at least as far as my thoughts went. Somehow, I thought I'd been the one who killed Tracy, and I had to find out if I did." Natalie stared at Vachon, feeling an echo of the pain and confusion he was describing, an echo that nonetheless was almost powerful enough to choke the breath from her body. "No, Vachon," she finally managed, a little shakily. "Oh, no. You didn't kill her, I swear. She was shot by an escaped prisoner." He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. "But...you *did* dig up her grave, didn't you?" she ventured, her heart thumping uneasily in her chest. "That part's really fuzzy," he said, "but I guess that would have been the only way to find out if a vampire had killed her, which is what I needed to know." Natalie nodded and let go of Vachon's hand, clutching her own hands together in her lap. "And you have no memory beyond that, no recollection of what you might have done with her body?" she said softly. He was silent for several seconds before speaking. "Like I said, the memories are fuzzy," he finally responded, "and there's no telling, really, what's real and what's just another of the visions." He looked at his hands for a second, then looked back up to meet Natalie's eyes with his own, the fierce intensity in their brown depths making her shrink back slightly. "But Doc, so help me, I've gone over and over this one in my head, even before you asked, and there's only one image I can pull out. The coffin's there in front of me, but, there's nothing in there, nothing at all." Natalie stared. "Nothing?" she said in a hoarse whisper. "Nothing," he confirmed, the disappointed confusion in his brown eyes answering the distress in her own. (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 Apr 27 19:43:54 1998 Date: Mon, 27 Apr 1998 00:05:51 -0400 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU Subject: V4S: Presumed Dead -- Part 2 (15/15) 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 15 of 15 This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Copyright 1998 Stephanie S. Babbitt -------------------------- PRESUMED DEAD Nick sat at the piano, brooding. He played a few bars of "Siegfried's Funeral Music," then broke off to stare at the candle flickering above the music stand. Life, he thought to himself, was so like that tiny flame--bright, enticing, incomprehensibly powerful, yet so easily extinguished.... He took a scrap of paper from atop the piano and held the corner to the candle. It caught and burned slowly, the flame heading inexorably toward his fingertips. Just as the burning sensation registered, he blew out the fire and watched the paper crumble into ashes and scatter across the floor, eddying in imperceptible air currents. He lifted his hand to his lips, his gaze miles and centuries away. Suddenly, he started. The gears to the elevator were whirring. Too surprised to respond, he merely stared at the elevator door as it opened. Natalie walked slowly into the loft, her black doctor's bag clutched tightly in white fingers. She looked exhausted but nonetheless serene. In response to his astonished, questioning look, she offered a hint of a smile. "Hi, Nick," she said softly. He jumped to his feet but stood awkwardly in place, uncertain what to do. They stared at each other silently for a moment; then she set down her purse and began to shrug off her coat. He hurried to her side to help, easing the garment off her shoulders with the same deferential care he'd have used if she were nobility and he her servant. She still gripped the black bag; he did not offer to take it. "Come on, sit down," he offered, his voice sounding nervously polite even to him. She walked to the couch and sat down, nodding at the place beside her in invitation. He sat down carefully, leaving what he hoped was sufficient distance between them to avoid upsetting her. She still clutched the bag in her lap. "Nick," she began slowly, "I've come to apologize." He opened his mouth to protest, but she silenced him with her eyes. Wide and determined, they asked for him to listen without comment. He nodded, in one gesture agreeing and encouraging her to continue. "Vachon is an interesting person, you know that?" she said, looking away and running her fingers along the arm of the couch. "He's so completely comfortable with who he is and with his own faults. He expects you to accept him as is or not at all, and if you don't accept him, well, that's okay with him, too. Likewise, he takes everyone around him on their own terms, without conditions. I mean, who else could have loved Screed, except maybe his own mother?" She looked up at Nick and received a smile in return. "Being around him, though, kind of makes you take a hard look at yourself," she continued, her voice quiet. "He refuses to let you complicate things with morality or rhetoric. He takes everything down to the most basic level. And sometimes, when you look at yourself on that level, you aren't very happy with what you see." Nick turned his body toward Natalie, absently rubbing the palm of one hand with the thumb of the other. His expression was intent; he was listening half to her words, and half to the reassuring beat of her heart. "After you and I fought in the morgue, Vachon made me realize that I had better take a good look at myself and the reasons behind the way I was acting," she said. "I don't think he especially takes to being ordered around without knowing why." She looked at the bag in her lap as the corners of her mouth twitched in a fleeting smile. "At first," she continued, "I had a hard time facing the truth, because every time I thought about that death sentence stuff, I'd get furious all over again. Eventually, though, I realized that I was angry with *you* for doing something that I do myself." She let out a bitter sound somewhere between a laugh and a snort of derision. "A pot calling the kettle black, you could say," she murmured, head down. Nick's eyebrows went up in puzzlement, but he remained silent. He desperately wanted to touch her hair or her shoulder in reassurance, but instead he held himself almost rigid except for the nervous motions of his hands. She looked back up at him, making strong eye contact. "I was angry at you because you chose to make life- altering decisions for someone else, based only on what *you* thought was right," she said, her voice steady. "I thought I hated you for trying to kill Vachon because you were being sovereign and thoughtless. But when that other vampire tracked us down at my apartment, I found out that your concerns had been valid after all. I realized eventually that I'd expected you to fall in and follow the doctor's orders without question. That's when it hit me." She smiled pensively and shook her head. "I'm just as guilty as you." Nick looked at her wonderingly, hands stilled in mid- twist. Natalie let go of the bag with her left hand and reached up to touch the bridge of her nose. "I guess everybody thinks he or she knows best, but you and I both hold on to our sense of superiority like a barnacle holds to a ship. Me in particular--I mean, once I get emotionally involved, I tend to lose perspective. Take Joey, for example. I was sure I could make everything right for him, but he almost ended up dead. And during the asteroid scare, I got in big trouble because I ignored both your advice and Janette's." She sighed deeply. Nick drew a breath, trying to find the right words to reassure her, but she faced him again before he could speak, an odd strength showing through her eyes despite the haggard weariness in her face. "As much as I hated remembering it, too, I thought about Richard," she continued, determined. "I wanted," her voice quavered, "*so* much for him to live that I didn't listen to you. I thought I knew what was best for my little brother, but I was wrong. And my bullheaded determination almost caused a disaster." Tears sparkled in her eyes, and she clenched the bag again, so hard the leather squeaked. Blinking, she looked away. Several seconds passed before she spoke again. "Basically, Nick, what all this boils down to is: the guilty shouldn't cast stones," she said quietly. "Sure, I wanted you to help me instead of fighting me for Vachon's life, but I realize now that you did what you genuinely believed was best, given a set of pretty bizarre circumstances." Nick's hands quivered. He wanted to reach out, to hold her, to forgive her anything if it would obliterate the pain in her voice and put the mischievous light he cherished back in her eyes. Yet, he sat apart from her. "If it's any consolation at all," she said softly, with a wry smile, "this tendency of yours--and mine--is a very *human* trait." Nick closed his eyes and leaned his forehead briefly against his clasped hands on the back of the couch. Humanity. How wrought with agonies it was, how fallible human nature--yet at that moment, he wanted nothing more. Natalie let her breath out in a deep sigh and stared at her bag for a long moment before opening it and extracting a small box. For a few seconds, she sat silently, stroking the top of the box with a thumb, then she turned and offered the box to Nick with a shaky smile. "Peace offering?" she said. Nick took the box, eyes wide like a little boy's. He looked at the box, then at her, questioning. "Go ahead, open it!" she said, her voice a thin but determined echo of the jovial tone she would have used in the past. He smiled then, and flicked the box open with a thumb. Inside, he found a pair of silver cuff links, edged with tiny Celtic knots. Each was set with a brilliant green stone, emerald cut. He studied the gems, puzzled. They were neither the cloudy sea-green of emeralds nor the chartreuse of peridots, yet they clearly were not man-made. He looked up at Natalie, noticing the trepidation on her face and hearing the pounding of her heart. "Remember when Mount St. Helens erupted? You know, that volcano in the States that literally blew its top back in 1980 and messed up the weather?" she asked. He nodded. "Well, those stones are emerald obsidianite from the mountain, created from the heat and pressure of the volcano," she said, speaking a little too fast in her nervousness. "To me, it's a symbol, an indicator that something can suffer a trial by fire and come out more unique--and maybe even stronger--than it was before." Nick stared at the stones, then back up into Natalie's face. She glanced down and shook her head slightly. "I still have trouble sometimes believing it was really me out there in the road daring you to kill me," she mused, patting her curled fingers against the seat of the couch beside her. "I didn't know I had that kind of strength left in me, really, any more than I realized how much of the hunter there still is in you. But, the point is, we both survived, and maybe we're different--better--for it. Like the stones." Nick frowned slightly in concentration, nodding. "I'm not saying that all the water's under the bridge yet. I'm still a little angry, to be honest," she clarified quickly, meeting his eyes. "Just recently, if you remember, we agreed that we had some major problems with trust and communication, and I think it's pretty obvious from all this that we've got a long way to go yet." She paused, studying his reaction before continuing. "But for now, I hope you'll accept the gift as a token of apology--and to remind you that I'm not *always* a self-absorbed tyrant." She punctuated the last with a determined, if slightly forced, smile and the slightest hint of a conspiratorial wink. Nick looked at her, emotion plain in his face, feeling a relief so profound at seeing this glimpse of the Natalie he remembered that it made his legs ache. "They're beautiful," he said, his voice deep and husky. "Thank you, Natalie." "You're welcome," she replied agreeably as she leaned forward to set her bag on the floor. With a deep sigh, she sank back into the couch, rubbing her eyes. "Are you okay?" Nick asked quickly. "Oh, sure," she said automatically, nodding. "Just tired." "You need to take better care of yourself," Nick chided gently. "Yeah, right," she mumbled, casting him a sideways look from beneath her fingers. "Who's got time? You guys keep coming up with these crises...." "Speaking of which," Nick said, "what's Vachon doing now? Is he moving on?" Natalie eyed him warily for a moment before sitting up with a grunt. "No, he's planning on sticking around for a little while at least," she replied carefully. "I've got him on a restricted diet--Type O blood only--and I want to monitor his condition for a few more weeks. Actually, though, I think he needs the time to get his head together before he takes off. He did lose practically everyone he was close to. He's still sort of adrift." "Just so long as he's not planning on making you the cornerstone of his new family," Nick said, his voice suddenly very dark. Natalie turned to stare briefly at Nick, a coolness descending over her face. "He offered, I refused, and that's that," she said, a bit sharply. "End of discussion." Nick tensed, and he opened his mouth to speak, but her look stopped him. He glanced down at the green stones of the cuff links shining on the table. Her life, her choices, were hers alone, he reminded himself. "I didn't mean to insult you, Natalie," he said, choosing his words carefully. "I've just seen too many people hurt over the years because of their association with me." His face darkened, and his voice took on a self- deprecating tone. "If it weren't for me, you'd never have known Vachon in the first place, and...." She interrupted him firmly. "Nick, ultimately it's my choice to chase after things that go bump in the night. *My* choice." Her chin lifted slightly, adding an element of steely determination to her eyes. "Really, now that I'm getting used to it, being on the edge of two worlds is...well, interesting, at least. The scientific implications alone are fascinating." She smiled then, and the smile seemed less forced than before. "You know I can't *resist* a good puzzle, after all." He frowned slightly as he considered her words, then opened his mouth to say more. Before he could speak, though, Natalie reached for her bag and stood up. "I have to go, Nick," she said. "It's getting late." He jumped up, too. She started slightly at the sudden motion but didn't move away. "Can't you stay awhile?" he asked earnestly. "I've--I've missed you." "Maybe another time," she said. "I've got places to go, people to dissect, vampires to cure...." She dropped off deliberately, a familiar, teasing curve to her mouth. He started to protest, but stopped himself and nodded reluctantly. "Okay," he agreed, careful to keep his voice even. "See you soon, then?" She nodded, and for a moment, they stood still, just looking at one another in silence. Without thinking, he reached forward to take her hands. Rubbing the backs of her fingers absently with his thumbs, he relished the touch of her warm, living skin against his, a feeling so precious it was almost painful. Then she shuddered slightly, and he felt an uncomfortable twinge through the link. Nick looked startled for just a moment, but he recovered quickly. He stepped back to look reassuringly into her eyes, then squeezed her hands gently before letting them go. A hint of a smile crossed her face even though her eyes spoke of a deep sadness. Wordlessly, she turned away and took her coat from the table. Nick opened the elevator door for her, and she entered, turning to face him. Just before the door slid shut, she waved a hand and said softly, "See you." With a bang, the door closed, and the gears whirred into action. Nick stood quietly for a moment, listening to the sound of her heartbeat as it dropped away. "Soon," he said softly. *** Shivering slightly in the cold night wind, Natalie unlocked the door to her car and slid into the driver's seat. As the motor turned over, she clicked on the radio. After studying the dial for a moment, she reached over and tuned the station to CERK. LaCroix's fluid voice greeted her immediately. " 'Death is Nature's remedy for all things, and why not Legislation's?' " Silence marked by an occasional electrostatic hiss filled the airwaves for a long moment before the Nightcrawler spoke again. "Why, indeed, dear listeners? Certainly death is a simple--and singularly tidy--solution to the troublesome question of how best to dispense with the incorrigible, the irredeemable, the inconvenient...and the scapegoat along with them." Knowing that LaCroix was hardly given to an abiding interest in human justice, Natalie was surprised to hear the note of fierce anger in his voice. She listened more closely as he continued. "In the face of the public good, what is the worth of any one life, of any single individual? Indeed, is it not folly to cherish that which is bound as irrevocably to cessation as the earth is to the sun? The multitudes of sparrows fall, and yet the eyes of eternity never blink." "You old fossil," Natalie murmured, annoyed, as she waited for the light to turn. "Obviously, you were never a doctor." He continued, almost as though he were responding to her criticism, causing her to raise her eyebrows in surprise. "In spite of--indeed, because of-- this...pitiful...fragility, to place one's life at risk is often considered to be among the finest of *human* endeavors." Natalie's lips twitched with amusement at the disdain that accented the word "human," and she shook her head in tolerant resignation. Some things never changed. LaCroix's voice picked up a new cadence, and Natalie realized that he was reading aloud, his voice fairly dripping with sarcasm. " 'For you, and for any dear to you, I would do anything. If my career were of the better kind that there was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you....' " Natalie heard a sharp report that she took to be LaCroix snapping his book shut. In spite of herself, she started at the sound. "What would tempt you to intercede with your own life to turn Death from another's doorstep? And what if others were to find your intentions less than honorable?" Natalie frowned slightly. With discomfort and no little fear, she realized that the Nightcrawler's next question was clearly meant for her. "Have you found, my friend, that there is sufficient reward in fighting to save that which others consider unsalvageable? In sharing a shroud with the condemned, have you found your own salvation?" Natalie's eyes widened, and she shivered. The hostile, sardonic rasp in LaCroix's voice was unmistakable. She put the car into park and stared up at the glittering night sky as his voice closed around her like dark water. "Have you found this to be a far, far better thing that you do than you have ever done before?" *** In the sound booth, dark except for the "ON AIR" light and a few blinking diodes on the panel, LaCroix reached across the table toward Divia's cameo. The aging profile in ivory relief against the black background would have been practically invisible to mortal eyes, but the ancient vampire's golden ones pinpointed its location easily. Yet, the pale hand reached past the cameo to grasp something else. In the dim red light, LaCroix held his palm up, tracing around and around the bloodstone in Theodore's cravat pin with one finger. Softly, so softly that only his most attentive listeners might hear, he whispered, "Would that I had made such a choice." ------------------------------------------------------------- For every V4S story that airs, a lot of dedicated people work behind the scenes to make it happen. I'd like to express my appreciation to everyone involved, with special thanks and kudos to: Mel Moser, who may well be the most patient woman alive; Jennise Hall, who demands the best and *knows* her stuff; the V-loop, especially those who gave me permission to borrow their "dark Vachon" ideas; Nancy for all her encouragement; Kris and Jamie for listening to me kvetch when things were bogged down; and TJ Goldstein for the Chinese dinner and for being *almost* as annoying a perfectionist as I am. VACHON LIVES! Stephanie S. Babbitt (sbabbitt@bellsouth.net)