From V4S@CYBERVANGUARD.COMFri Nov 1 00:32:57 1996 Date: Thu, 31 Oct 1996 21:08:05 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: Multiple recipients of list FKFIC-L Subject: V4S: Resurrection (1/19) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #1 Episode Title: "Resurrection" "Air" Date: October 31, 1996 Author: Susan M. Garrett Beta Readers: Sara Orel, Bast Historical Verification Group: Elizabeth Ann Lewis, Sara Orel Part 1 of 19 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@cybervanguard.com. Comments should be sent to the author or to the FORKNI-L mailing list. This story will be available in its entirety as of 11/5/96 by writing to V4S01@cybervanguard.com, or from http://www.clark.net/pub/moser/v4s/v4s.htm. 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 1996 Susan M. Garrett ------------------------- RESURRECTION She was cold. Her limbs felt heavy, as if weights were tied to them. Her eyes . . . were they open? The room was dimly lit, the world above her disappearing into a shadowy darkness. The fingers of her left hand tingled with warmth, a faint and distant feeling. Her left arm was thrown away from her body, but it seemed disconnected somehow, as if it didn't belong to her. Was she dying? The room fell back into darkness. And then . . . there was a sound. Natalie fought to open her eyes and found her eyelids were as heavy as her limbs. The world was a blur of blacks, browns, and tans, swimming to the left or right, dipping and swaying. There was a familiar sound, the echo of the elevator door being slid to one side. Something within her leapt at the sound, something not yet completely swallowed by the cold. She tried to call for help, barely managing a moan. The figure in the doorway was a forest-green blur, the image resolving itself into someone wearing a long, hooded cape. It paused when she moaned, then began to walk toward her. Natalie closed her eyes and tried to swallow, the figure doubling, even tripling in her vision as it approached. Was this her savior? Or was this Death, finally here to take her away? She wanted to laugh at the thought--would have if she'd had the strength. She didn't believe in personifying death. Death was a natural process, the cessation of life and yet another in the stages of decay that began from the instant of birth. But if Death were a person, she couldn't imagine it with a long brown cloak and hood, skeletal hands, and a scythe. No. Death would be blond, with blue eyes and a heart- rending smile. His touch would be gentle, careful, and cold, like the fingers that brushed against her skin. Death would look like Nick. He'd take her into his arms, look into her eyes, and then their lips would touch . . . . She moaned again, this time in pain, and opened her eyes when she felt a brief pressure along the side of her neck. The hooded figure knelt beside her, white and slender fingers disappearing into the shadowed darkness of the long, bell shaped sleeves. A woman's hands. Her visitor's voice was soft, murmuring something in French. Natalie guessed at a translation--'Nicholas, will you never learn?' Something like that. Her French wasn't all that it should be. She remembered her classroom, the shine of the afternoon sun on the desktop, verb tenses being scrawled on the blackboard, the smell of chalk-- The sound of a ringing phone sang through her. Natalie opened her eyes and tried to concentrate, but her plea for help was barely another moan, jarring her back to her cold, painful reality. She was dying. She knew she was dying. The phone rang again. The woman hesitated, face still hidden by the hood of the cloak. A hand reached out from beneath the long sleeve and she lightly stroked her fingertips along the length of Natalie's arm as she paused in thought, as if trying to come to some sort of decision. The world was growing dimmer and more distant as the seconds passed, the cold creeping inexorably in upon her, dragging her into the darkness. Natalie shivered as she fought to retain what little awareness she still possessed, concentrating on the presence beside her, the tentative touch of a hand. At least she wouldn't die alone. Another ring. The woman rose to her feet and seemed to glide toward the table behind the couch. Natalie blinked, finding her eyes closing again, and tried to concentrate the double and triple images into a single reality, a green blur of color amidst the brown and beige and black of the loft. The woman's absence struck her like a blow and yet she couldn't respond, couldn't scream her fears of being left to die this way. Her senses were giving her more information than she could absorb, more than she needed or wanted, and she couldn't seem to process any of it. There was an audible, mechanical click. Natalie trembled when she heard a familiar voice, her heart nearly stopping as she realized it was Nick . . . and then heard the mechanical note in it, recognizing the words recorded on his answering machine. She let her eyes close, felt a tear trickle down her cheek, and wondered where he might be. She was so cold. This was taking too long. If she was going to die, why not now? Why couldn't she just get on with it? Why couldn't it end? "Knight?" Captain Reese's voice startled her and her eyes opened again, the world still swirling around her. "Nick--look, I know this is a bad time for you. It's a bad time for all of us. But Internal Affairs has started snooping around. They're gonna want to talk to you, Nick. I'll hold 'em off as long as I can, but . . . damn it, this isn't the time to go to ground. You're gonna need help on this. We all will. And if you don't--" The subsequent clicks of the machine being turned off and the phone being lifted from the cradle were like gunshots to Natalie's ears. "Hurry," said the visitor's voice, in English this time, with the faintest trace of a French accent. "There's been an accident." "Hello?" asked Reese desperately. "Who's this? What's going on? Nick--?" A second click. Natalie's vision cleared enough for her to see the woman replace the phone in the cradle carefully. It began to ring almost immediately and the sound seemed like thunder to her, battering her senses. She closed her eyes, wanting to curl up into a ball, to hold her hands over her ears and drown out the sound. But she couldn't move. And she was cold. So very cold . . . . There was a light touch on her forehead. Natalie opened her eyes again and saw the green cloaked woman bending over her, a hint of dark hair within the hood of the cloak. "Help is coming," said the woman. She brushed Natalie's cheek with her fingers lightly and added, "Wait for them. They're coming." Her eyes unfocused again and the woman's words echoed, as if she were calling from across the room. Natalie concentrated and tried to say something, tried to move--yes, her hand shifted, just a little, away from the first rays of sunlight entering through the window. The woman had been backing away. She paused when she saw the movement and stood to one side of the patch of light, as if wondering what to do next. There was a sizzling sound and a scent of burned flesh accompanied a cry, as the woman cradled her hand to her chest. Before Natalie could manage to take in any more, the woman turned and fled for the elevator door, the green cloak billowing around her as she moved. She pushed aside the door, slipped into the elevator, and then the door closed with a thud behind her. The smell of burned flesh lingered. For a moment, the phone stopped ringing and silence reigned. Natalie knew then that she was alone. Utterly and completely alone. She closed her eyes, distantly aware that even the slight warmth she'd felt on her fingers was now gone. She was cold. She was so very cold . . . . As her eyes closed again, the phone began to ring. Natalie decided that someone really ought to answer it. -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@cybervanguard.com. From V4S@CYBERVANGUARD.COMFri Nov 1 00:33:02 1996 Date: Thu, 31 Oct 1996 21:08:10 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: Multiple recipients of list FKFIC-L Subject: V4S: Resurrection (2/19) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #1 Episode Title: "Resurrection" Author: Susan M. Garrett Part 2 of 19 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 1996 Susan M. Garrett -------------------------- *** The door slammed into the wall of his office, the glass rattling in the frame. "I don't want excuses," he bellowed, stalking into the room. "I want answers. And I want answers " Richard Vetter seated himself behind the imposing oak desk and glared at the men who had followed him. His secretary, Holly, stood in the doorway. She met his gaze, then nodded and closed the door behind her, leaving the others stranded. He knew that she'd hold his calls and have a cup of coffee in his hand as soon as humanly possible. He'd been a member of the Police Commission for almost eight years and had become convinced that if something needed doing, Holly would find a way. Even her formidable executive secretarial talents couldn't bring back his daughter. For a moment, he swung his chair to one side and covered his face with his hands. His daughter. His beautiful daughter. Three hours ago he'd been at the hospital, standing over a sheeted gurney. She'd been so pale and her skin had been cold. He'd closed his fingers around her hand, waiting for her eyes to open, waiting for her to say, "Hi, Dad." But she was dead, had been dead for at least an hour. It had taken them a while to find him. His divorce wasn't final yet and Barbara's lawyers were still trying to squeeze every last penny they could from him. It had seemed a good idea not to let anyone know his plans for the evening. His daughter had died, alone. His beautiful, baby girl. "Commissioner?" Vetter blinked and then swiped his hand across his eye as if removing a speck. "Commissioner, maybe this isn't a good time. We want you to know that all of us share in your loss. Tracy was a good cop--" "My daughter--" He stopped, looked down and cleared his throat with a series of coughs, still choked with emotion. Then he looked up and met Constable Wilkinson's eyes. "My daughter died due to the incompetence of her fellow officers and her commanding officer. I want Reese's head on a platter. And I want Knight's as dessert." Constable Wilkinson was standing, as were the other two men beside him. The tendency of Internal Affairs officers to travel in packs had always amused him. They were well- dressed lepers, the black sheep of the blue family. At worst they were feared and hated by the other officers, at best they were shunned. He'd always treated them well, because of that. Internal Affairs always had a safe haven in his office. If he needed an eye turned in another direction or the wording on a report softened, they did what they could. Right now, they looked nervous. He wasn't about to let them off the hook--not until he got the assurances he wanted. "Well?" he demanded. "What's the status of the investigation?" The man behind Constable Wilkinson, Rogers, put a hand inside his rumpled suit jacket and withdrew a small notebook. Like his companions, it didn't look like he'd been to bed since the incident. "We've started an investigation--witnesses, a prelim statement from Captain Reese, haven't talked to Detective Knight yet, but we've done a walk through of the scene. The Shooting Review Board's been notified. There'll be some questions about Knight's possible use of excessive force--" Excessive force. Vetter smiled--he knew how reports on 'excessive force' worked. "What're the findings so far?" Constable Wilkinson cleared his throat. "The on-scene statements all seem consistent. There's a question as to whether the prisoner should have been cuffed--we're looking into that. Dawkins fired at Knight; I think forensics will prove he acted in self-defense. As for Detective Vetter--" He cast an anxious look at the other two men beside him. "Commissioner, your daughter went in there without back-up--" Vetter rose from his desk and slammed a fist down on his desk blotter. "Then where the hell was her ?" When none of the men answered him, he sat down again and stared up at them. "I want a preliminary report on my desk by noon. I want indictments against Captain Reese and Detective Knight. By sunrise tomorrow, I want Knight's badge and I want Reese busted to traffic. Is that understood?" Rogers cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. "Sir, I don't think you understand. Even if there some indication of malfeasance or negligence . . . ." Vetter had met the man's gaze, glaring from the moment Rogers opened his mouth until his words finally trailed off. "Is that understood?" "The report will be on your desk by noon," said Constable Wilkinson. "Thank you, gentlemen. I'll be looking forward to it." There was no question--they'd been dismissed. Just as they turned toward the door, Holly opened it, a steaming coffee cup in one hand and a number of manila envelopes tucked beneath her other arm. She gave the Internal Affairs officers a nod as she passed, then placed the coffee on the corner of Vetter's desk, the envelopes deposited on the blotter. "Mrs. Vetter called--she's on the next flight in. I've arranged for an officer to pick her up at the airport and take her to a hotel to check in before coming here." Vetter lifted the coffee cup in his hands and held it, letting the heat from the coffee within the ceramic mug warm him for a moment. "Good. I don't want the M.E. holding Tracy's body any longer than necessary. A full autopsy shouldn't be necessary. They've done enough to her already." "I'll take care of it." Holly took a step back from the desk. "The calls have started. I've been taking messages. I assume that you'll want to take any calls from the Mayor, the Council, or other Commissioners personally?" "Yes. Thank you." He looked down at the mail on his desk, his fingers slitting open an envelope automatically before he realized that she was still there. He looked up and realized that she probably hadn't slept either. "Anything else?" "Just to say that . . . I'm sorry. Tracy was . . . she was a nice girl." Her eyes began to fill with tears and she raised a hand to her mouth, attempting to regain her composure. Which she did, after a moment. "I wanted you to know, you shouldn't blame yourself. You should be proud of her, Commissioner. Your daughter chose to serve on this force. She died in the line of duty." "I know," he answered softly. "I proud of her. Thank you, Holly." "I'll go--I'll go handle the calls." He looked back at the envelope in his hands as she left, the door closing softly behind her. He'd have to get used to that--the condolences. His father and his uncles, his own brothers . . . it was as if they'd been golden. They'd all served on the force and, aside from an occasional bullet wound or broken rib, they'd all survived. This would be their first full honors funeral. His hand shook and the contents of the envelope spilled out onto the desk blotter. At first, Vetter stared at them curiously. The old newspaper clippings, some yellowed with age, seemed to have no rhyme or reason behind them . . . until he began to read them. One was about a commendation he'd received, the next was about a case he'd prosecuted with the Crown Attorney's office . . . one way or another, they were all about him, about his career. Thirty years, now, he'd given his life to protecting the city of Toronto. Thirty years of newspaper clippings. But there seemed to be some omissions. His unqualified successes were missing. The clippings that had arrived in the envelope were factually accurate, according to the record, but each and every case or event covered had involved some leverage somewhere, a delicate alteration or omission of facts. "Holly?" Vetter dropped the clippings to the desk and lifted the envelope. It was inter-office, brand new, with his name and office written in broad, bold block letters. The door opened. "Commissioner?" He held up the envelope. "You dropped this off just now. Where did it come from? When did it get here?" "I found it when I came in an hour ago, it was sitting in your box. I assume it came inter-office." Staring at the envelope in his hands, Vetter took a slow breath. It had passed through a dozen hands before reaching him, so dusting it for prints wouldn't help. The last thing he wanted was to have these articles dusted by someone who would ask questions . . . . "Commissioner? Is something wrong?" He glanced up at Holly and quickly plastered a comforting smile on his face. "No. It's all right. I'd asked someone to dig these up for me and now I've forgotten who. I wanted to drop them a note, but there's no return mail address. Do me a favor, Holly--keep an ear out for any mention of somebody collecting information on my past cases. It's for an article for the Police Gazette. I want to make sure I give research credit to the right officer." She wasn't buying it for a minute, but Holly was his assistant and knew enough to do as she was told. "Sure, Commissioner." The door closed again and he was alone. Richard Vetter slipped the clippings back into the envelope one at a time, then carefully put it to one side--it would go home with him and straight into the fireplace. Questions might be asked. Questions that he wouldn't want asked. Questions that he couldn't answer. That's when he found himself staring at the picture of his daughter on his desk. Tracy was wearing her dress uniform, academy graduate, top of her class. "Button," he whispered. She looked so smart, so bright. Rising to his feet and feeling the weight of a night without sleep resting heavily on his shoulders, he carried the picture as he walked to the far wall of his office. They were all there, all of the family pictures, all in their dress uniforms, from his father and uncles, down to himself and his brothers. Only Tracy was missing. With a roar, he flung the picture against the wall. The glass shattered, the frame cracking into pieces. The sound of shattering glass still echoed. He turned and leaned his hands on his desk, fighting back his sobs. Only Tracy was missing. His bright, shining baby girl was dead. *** The pain could be ignored, for now. Or so LaCroix told himself, as he hit the door with his right shoulder. It opened easily and he placed both of his hands over the burden on his left shoulder. The streak of blisters and burned skin on the right side of his face would heal. Everything healed, given time and blood enough. Neither of those items was in short supply. He had all the time in the world. And the blood . . . . The floor of the room was cement and the walls brick, the ceiling tiles covered metal floor joists. There was no wood to be found, precisely as he'd directed it to be constructed. Even the window, set high and long in the wall, was situated so that the light which entered through it illuminated only a small portion of the floor--one that he easily avoided. A pile of blankets sat in the corner. "Not the best, but we must take what we can," he said softly. He lowered Nicholas onto the makeshift bed, then walked over to the window. Closing the metallic shutter threw the room into complete darkness. Despite the pain of his wound and the fact that he hadn't fed for some time, his eyesight was not about to fail him; he could still see well enough. LaCroix returned to Nicholas' side and squatted down beside him. Lifting the traveling coat he'd been wearing, and which he'd used to protect Nicholas from the light as they'd fled his loft, he took a slow deep breath. It wasn't as bad as he thought it might be. The skin on the left hand was red and cracked, exposed to too much sunlight. His face and neck were red, contrasting with the livid, purplish bruise on Nicholas' temple. When LaCroix touched the wound gently, Nicholas moaned, his head turning instinctively away from the touch. Then, too, there was the remnant of the stake he'd thrust through Nicholas' right shoulder to immobilize him. He'd broken the ends off carefully, particularly as he had no wish to impale himself as he carried Nicholas back to safety. LaCroix rose to his feet. There was enough of a stump left on the stake to give him a good grasp. Placing his foot against Nicholas' shoulder, LaCroix pulled at the stake. It resisted him at first, then gave way with a loud, sucking sound. Nicholas' eyes opened and he screamed, hands reaching blindly for his shoulder, but almost as quickly, his eyes closed again and he fell limp. For a moment LaCroix thought he'd roused his son, but Nicholas continued to remain oblivious. "Just as well." He tucked the coat over Nicholas carefully, as if it were a blanket, then checked to see if his other instructions had been met. Two ankle manacles attached to thick chains had been cemented into an outcropping at the base of the brick wall. LaCroix rose, then knelt at Nicholas' feet, carefully placing each one of the manacles around the leather of Nicholas' boots. He tested the chain, tugging on it, then smiled to himself as he discovered there was not even a hint of weakness. "Good. Very good." Standing, LaCroix looked down at his previous burden, satisfied that he'd done all that was possible . . . for the moment. He walked to the door, then paused and looked back. Nicholas moaned again in his delirium. LaCroix closed his fingers on the door frame, stopping himself from comforting his son. Nicholas would be fine. He'd awaken soon enough, as he had a hundred times before, preferring to flee rather than face the shattered remnants of the mortal world he'd created and then broken around himself. This time would be no different than the others. Or would it? Taking a breath, LaCroix leaned against the door frame and watched as the other shifted subtly, features wracked with an inner agony. This time different. This time Nicholas had also seemed to accept his failure with good grace, with resignation. Flight and escape had been dismissed as options--he'd wanted only to end all of it. How close he'd come to falling into his son's delusion. It was Nicholas' acceptance of their respective places in the way of things that had reached into his own heart. Nicholas had finally chosen to surrender, but not to him-- not to his master's will, as it should be, but to death. Nicholas had worked his magic well, preying on the connection that bound them to soften his own resolve, causing him to pity his errant child. How tempted he'd been to give Nicholas the release he'd desired, that he'd . "No," he said, in a whisper. "No, you won't escape me that easily, Nicholas. I won't allow it." Then LaCroix closed the door behind him and headed up the stairs. Yes, pain could be ignored. Everything would heal, given time enough. And blood. -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@cybervanguard.com. From V4S@CYBERVANGUARD.COMFri Nov 1 00:33:09 1996 Date: Thu, 31 Oct 1996 21:08:18 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: Multiple recipients of list FKFIC-L Subject: V4S: Resurrection (3/19) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #1 Episode Title: "Resurrection" Author: Susan M. Garrett Part 3 of 19 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 1996 Susan M. Garrett -------------------------- *** The world had gone white. Natalie blinked and other colors began to intrude-- white ceiling tiles with black spots melted together to form a uniform, blurred gray. There was light, though dim, and some small sounds. The smells were familiar; antiseptic, fresh plastic tubing and clean cotton sheets . . . it was like being at work, like being home again. "--Think she's awake--" The voice was near, recognizable. She struggled to keep her eyes open, fought to identify the voice through the cotton wool that seemed to have surrounded her brain. "--Call someone--" "No--wait--" A shadow loomed over her and she flinched at the appearance of a dark shape that blocked out the light. Natalie licked her lips--her mouth was dry--and tried to say something. What emerged was something between a groan and a squeak. Her eyes closed again. "Easy, Natalie." There was another hand grasping her own. She squeezed back and forced her eyes open, recognizing the voice. Joe Reese. Not far away, not on the phone, but here. He was here, standing beside . . . her bed. Hospital. Her eyes opened wider as the colors and smells came together. She looked up and saw Reese staring down at her. His tie was hanging loosely around his neck and there were dark circles beneath his eyes. An IV bag hung from the stand beside him, the tube traveling in her direction. Looking downward, she saw a white bandage over the connection to her arm, keeping it from infection and holding it in place. It was itchy. Like a splinter under the skin, it annoyed her. She focused on the slight pain for a moment in an attempt to still her mind's abstract wandering. One thing at a time. "Natalie? Are you with me?" She squeezed Reese's hand again as hard as she could and stared up at him, smiling. She was alive. If Reese was here, she was alive. She didn't feel cold anymore, but her body still ached and there was a throbbing at her throat. Natalie lifted her right hand, touched the left side of her neck and started at the bandages beneath her fingers. There was a flash before her eyes and the here and now was swallowed by memory. Golden-green eyes and fangs. Biting and being bitten. Silk and lace and velvet and homespun cloth, warm flesh and cold flesh, sweat and dirt and blood . . . oh, the smell of blood! . . . and heat and warmth and cold. So cold. The pictures made no sense, the sudden parade of images through her senses seemed to swallow her whole. Natalie closed her eyes and only one image came to mind; Nick was bending over her, his lips touching her cheek. Words--he was saying something, talking to someone . . . . "Nick?" she called frantically, somehow managing to get his name out past the dryness of her throat. "That's why we're here," said Reese. He held her hand in his and leaned closer, placing his other hand on her shoulder to keep her still. "We need to know what happened to you. Who did this to you? Where's Nick?" "It's too much," said an unfamiliar voice behind him. "Slow down. You're going too fast." Natalie blinked again, but the world stayed in focus this time. She looked up at Reese and his features were instantly clear, concerned and anxious. She tried to speak again but her throat-- "Wat-ter?" "Water?" Reese turned his back to her, releasing her hand. "She wants water. Call a doctor, or a nurse or--why the hell don't they have water when you need--" "Here," said the voice. When Reese turned back to her, he was holding a small plastic cup. Natalie braced herself with her right hand and tried to take the cup from his with her left, the IV tube dangling from her arm. Reese pushed her hand down and tilted the cup to her lips. Some of it dribbled down her chin, but she didn't much care. Closing her eyes, Natalie enjoyed the sensation, the cool, smooth feeling as the liquid trickled down her throat. It felt funny, somehow. Too cold, oddly cold. Thin. And tasteless. Another flash of memory, a taste of something thicker and warmer, saltier, with a tang of iron in it. Sweat. Flesh. Fangs. Blood. Natalie gagged on the water and began to choke, her eyes opening. Water dribbled from the corner of her mouth and down inside her hospital gown, chilling her. Reese pulled her upright, calling over his shoulder, "Get a doctor--now!" "No--" she sputtered. Grabbing the skin of his arm through his shirt, she held on for dear life. "No . . . just . . . down the wrong . . .pipe." Natalie struggled to breathe for an instant, letting him support her with an arm behind her back. Her left hand held his other arm; her right arm was clutched against her chest. And then it was over. She glanced at up Reese and smiled, then let her weight fall back against his arm. He withdrew his support, and she leaned against the bed again, breathing deeply. "I'm all right," she said, heartened by the sound of her voice. Not shaky, but more like her. "I'm all right." "I can get a doctor--" "No. I'm all right." She forced a smile, hoping that if she said it often enough that it would be true. "Could I have more water?" "Sure. Yeah." Reese turned and handed the cup to someone, then grasped her hand again. "Natalie, we need to know what happened to you. Who did this to you?" She took a deep breath and closed her eyes again. "Where's Nick?" "We . . . don't know. He's gone. Vanished." Natalie's eyes shot open and she fixed him with a panicked look. "Vanished?" He was gone. He'd left her. He'd bitten her and then he'd left her to die. Something deep within her curled up into a ball and screamed. Clenching her jaw, Natalie fought to keep herself from releasing that sound aloud. "We need to know if he's on the run. If there's some reason he be on the run--?" He didn't say it. He didn't have to say it. Forcing herself to relax against the pillows, she closed her eyes again. She had to come up with something, some explanation. "I went to Nick's loft to tell him . . . Tracy was dead. We were talking. We were--" she swallowed, knowing exactly what they'd been doing. Make love to me . . . . "We were talking. And then . . . ." For a moment, she couldn't speak. Nick's eyes, his blue eyes had turned gold. He'd kissed her wrist and a shiver had run through her, heat where cold should have been. "And then--?" prompted Reese, breaking her reverie. Natalie opened her eyes and swallowed again. She forced herself to look up at Reese. "Someone else was there." "A woman?" The voice came from behind Reese. Natalie shifted, propping her elbow beneath her in an attempt to sit up, but the speaker stepped into her line of sight. He was taller than Reese, but slimmer. Caucasian, brown hair, brown eyes. Clothing intact, shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, no jacket, slacks. No signs of physical trauma . . . . She smiled at her own thoughts--once an M.E., always an M.E.--and found that he smiled back. Reese turned slightly. "This is Dr. Westwood. He's from Vancouver P.D." "M.E.?" "Forensic psychologist," corrected Westwood. "You guys handle the blood and guts--all we do is head cases and theory." He sobered suddenly and shot a quick glance at Reese. "That's why I'm here-- of the reason. Captain Reese thought I might be able to lend a hand with this case." A sudden chill went through her at Westwood's pronouncement. Of course it was a 'case,' she'd obviously been attacked and Nick was gone. What must they think? What else they think? Natalie looked up at Reese, a lump in her throat. "You have to find Nick." "We need to know who attacked you," he repeated, this time somewhat firmly. His fingers curled around her own. "If you're protecting--" "No." She let the word drone out slowly, after a pause. "No--I just don't . . . remember. There someone else there." A flash of a green cloak came to mind and she stared at Westwood. "A woman. I don't know who she was. She was wearing a coat with a hood, like a cape. Green." She looked across the room, at a pastoral painting hanging on the wall opposite her bed. "The phone was ringing. I heard her answer it. Then she . . . left." "That fits what I've got," said Reese. He released Natalie's hand and turned toward Westwood as he took the cup of water from the man's hand. "I called Nick's place and some woman answered--said there'd been an accident. The line went dead and I couldn't get an answer after that, so I had dispatch send out the closest EMT unit they had." "Which is where I came in," said Westwood. His gaze moved from Reese to her, and he suddenly seemed embarrassed at her interest. "He was on his way in to see us," explained Reese. "Courtesy call. He stumbled across the EMT's at Nick's place when they found you and offered to help." "Not exactly a knight in shining armor, just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time." Westwood gave her a sheepish grin and added, "To tell you the truth, I was dead lost--had no idea where I was. But I knew acute blood loss when I saw it. When I found out we just happened to have the same blood type . . . ." The rolled up sleeves started to make sense, as did the small sterile pad just inside his right elbow. "I knew I carried my blood donor card in my wallet for a reason," Natalie said lightly. "It probably saved your life. Not that I was able to do anything--they used volume expanders in the ambulance. But you know these people; you say 'boo' about a donation and they've got you strapped to a table with a wire hanging out your arm before you know what hit you." There was a momentary grin, then he cleared his throat and looked down at the floor. "Now, about Detective Knight--" "Nick attack me," said Natalie fiercely. "No one's saying he did." Reese handed the cup of water to her, folding the fingers of her right hand around it. "But it's good that you cleared that up. You're right- -we have to find Nick. But we also have to know where to look. And be prepared for what we might find." Natalie lifted the cup of water to her lips and sipped at it. She stared at the transparent plastic, focused on it. "What do you mean?" "We think," it was Westwood, "Knight might be blaming himself for his partner's death. I've been told his previous partner--a Detective Schanke?--died earlier this year. From the people I've spoken to at the station, and Captain Reese, there's a possibility . . . ." Natalie looked up in confusion. She'd expected this line of questioning to veer into the realm of the supernatural, the vampire. "What?" Reese placed a hand on her shoulder, drawing her attention. "Natalie, you know the man better than anybody. Do you think Nick could have . . . taken his own life?" Her hand started to shake. Natalie clasped her left hand around the plastic cup as well and let it rest in her lap as she stared at the far wall. He'd thought about it before, when an old friend of his--Erica ?--had committed suicide. But he'd been different then, stronger in a way. Now, after Schanke and Cohen's deaths, after Tracy's death, after what had happened to her . . . . If he thought she was dead, if he thought that he'd killed her, if he hadn't been able to bring her across, for whatever reason . . . . "Yes," she answered, as if in a trance. "Yes." She lifted the cup to her lips and took a long sip, then swallowed, hoping reason would prevail, that the situation wouldn't seem so dire if she were able to make sense out of it . . . but the fear lingered. Turning her gaze to Reese, she nodded. "It's possible. He'd talked about it once before." "That's what I was afraid of." Reese met Westwood's gaze. "Guess I'd better get out and amend that APB." Westwood nodded. "He'll be fragile. Might be a good idea to find out if his gun's at his place." "Nick wouldn't hurt anyone," said Natalie quickly. "I know," said Reese. He squeezed her shoulder again, then withdrew his hand and looked at Westwood. "Still--" He sighed and scratched his ear, thinking for a moment. "Well, I'd better get back into the thick of things. Commissioner Vetter's out for blood. Once he finds out Nick's gone, the roof's gonna blow off that place." Stunned, Natalie stared at him. "Commissioner--? Tracy's death wasn't Nick's fault. And it wasn't your fault either." "I know, Natalie, I know. But I'm gonna carry more than a little of that to my grave--what I could have done different." He lowered his head. "Problem is, the grieving father is the man in charge. The brass giveth and the brass taketh away." He gave her a sad smile, then turned and punched Westwood lightly on the arm. "Catch you back at the station, Tom. I want a word with you about this mystery woman. I'm still Captain." "That's 'Thomas,'" said Westwood hastily. "Sure, Captain. I'd like to stay. I've got a few more questions for Dr. Lambert ." "All right, but don't keep her long. God knows how the doctors in this place haven't thrown us out yet--always sticking their noses in." Reese shook his head, then took a step back to Natalie's bedside. He took her left hand in his and squeezed it. "Glad to have you back with us, doctor. And don't worry about Nick--he's fine. As soon as we find him, I'll let you know." Tears welled up in her eyes for a moment--she knew that if Nick had walked into the sunlight the most they'd find would be a pile of ash, his clothing and his wallet. Another 'mysterious disappearance,' that's what it would be. Nothing more to anyone official, except Reese, a few of Nick's friends down at the station-- And her. "Thanks." She raised his hand to her lips and kissed it. "He'll be fine. You'll find him." "Yes, we will." Reese slipped his fingers from her grasp, nodded toward Westwood, then opened the door and headed into the hallway. Natalie waited until the door closed behind him, then took a deep breath. She closed her eyes and turned her head against the flat pillow, trying to contain the sobs that were building deep in her chest. The empty plastic cup fell from her hand. "Hey, Dr. Lambert, it's going to be all right." She felt his hand touch her shoulder lightly, then just as quickly, the touch withdrew. "For all we know, Knight took a long walk to clear his head. Or he's holed up somewhere with a couple of bottles to ease the pain. Is he a drinker?" Natalie covered her face with her hand and laughed, even as she sniffed back her tears. "I guess--I guess you say that," she managed, after a moment of chuckling. Opening her eyes, she turned her head and looked at Westwood again. A better look, now that he was standing closer. "What?" he asked, raising his hand to his cheek. "I have something on my face, don't I?" She laughed again. "No. I was just thinking . . . it seems kind of silly for you to be calling me Dr. Lambert. I think your emergency blood donation puts us on a first name basis." "Yeah. It's Thomas." He reached out to shake her hand. She shook his hand and said, "Natalie--as you may have noticed. And I guess 'Tom' doesn't wash." "Thomas," he repeated firmly, then shrugged his shoulders sheepishly when she smiled. "And believe me, it was a pleasure. I'm just glad I happened along when I did." Natalie took a long, slow breath and looked away from him. The other bed in the room was empty, the curtains drawn to one side. There was no way she should be conscious or functioning as well as she was--not after losing that much blood so quickly. "I should be dead." "You should." She glanced at Westwood quickly, surprised he didn't try to sugar coat the truth. "Coma, brain damage, internal organ failure . . . . " One by one, Natalie listed the major consequences of rapid and severe blood loss, her heart sinking with each word. "I should be dead," she concluded shakily. "When the EMT's reached me, when you reached me--" "You had a pulse," said Westwood. He moved closer to the bed, then reached down to take her hand. "Barely. They brought your temperature down and hooked you up to some expander in the ambulance. They kept you on O negative until they could positively type and match you." She closed her eyes again and sighed. Some of it was coming back to her. The cold. The feeling of being so completely alone, abandoned. "I should be dead." "There be an explanation for why you're still alive." Natalie opened her eyes and turned her gaze on Westwood. "And that is--?" He looked away for a moment as if trying to decide something. His hand grasped her own tightly, then he met her eyes again. "I know this probably sounds crazy, but . . . what do you know about vampires?" For an instant Natalie felt her heart stop, certain that it would never start again. -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@cybervanguard.com. From V4S@CYBERVANGUARD.COMFri Nov 1 00:33:28 1996 Date: Thu, 31 Oct 1996 21:08:25 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: Multiple recipients of list FKFIC-L Subject: V4S: Resurrection (4/19) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #1 Episode Title: "Resurrection" Author: Susan M. Garrett Part 4 of 19 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 1996 Susan M. Garrett -------------------------- *** It had been a long night, a longer day, and it was starting over again. Rubbing his hand over his eyes, Captain Joe Reese entered the station and made his way through the bullpen. He'd just pushed aside the swinging door when he stopped, staring at Tracy Vetter's desk. The white desktop was empty, with the exception of a desk blotter, a computer, and a cardboard box. "Sorry, Captain." He looked down to see Miller beside him--she was the duty officer. Small and compact, she was one of the benefits of having gotten this precinct. He'd worked with a half-dozen officers under his direct command before, but he'd trade them all for Miller without a second thought. She kept pace with him as he walked toward the desk, saying, "I know it's the partner's responsibility to take care of that, but with Knight missing, I thought . . . ." "You thought right, Miller. No need to apologize." He touched the sides of the box, letting his hands rest there for a moment. It seemed sad--she'd only been here a few months, less than a year, and yet the time was measured by the number of things left in her desk. A photograph of herself and her parents, a coffee mug, a couple of packets of hot chocolate, her name plate, some computer disks, a small fuzzy creature with eyes that moved as the contents of the box shifted. For a moment Reese felt like the thing was watching him, its gaze accusing and hostile. Then he pushed aside the box, swallowed the lump in his throat, and turned back to Miller. "Have that delivered to the Commissioner's Office," he said softly. "But do it--don't let them--" "I'll take care of it," said Miller, with a sad smile. He met her eyes, then placed a hand on her shoulder. "I know you will." Turning, he headed toward his office. "Captain?" Reese froze, then glanced over his shoulder. "Yeah?" "Messages on your desk--Commissioner Vetter's office has called a couple of times." He heard her take a few steps closer. "Your wife says unless you come home and get some sleep, she's going to come in and drag you out by your ear." Reese chuckled beneath his breath. "Once I talk to Vetter, I may be home for good." With a sigh, he shook his head. "Anything else, Miller?" "Three stalls in the men's toilet are clogged. And the sixty-eighth sent over a detective for night shift. He's a temporary transfer, seeing as how we've lost Tracy and Knight . . . isn't here." She cleared her throat. "He's in your office." "Good. Being two men short wasn't what I needed right now." Reese paused for a moment and listened to the ringing phones, the tap-tap of fingers on keyboards, the hum of printers and the voices of prisoners and guards from the processing area. Their job didn't stop. It seemed obscene somehow, that he'd lost one officer and possibly a second less than twenty-four hours ago and that nothing, really, had changed. "Just the same damn thing," he said sadly. "The world runs right over you." "Captain?" "Nothing, Miller. Just realizing that I'm getting old." He gestured toward the restrooms. "See if downtown can get me a couple of custodians to fix those toilets before the next shift. And--geez, I hate to ask this, but could you get me a cup of coffee?" Miller looked at him sideways. "Your wife said something about keeping you off the coffee." "My wife's had at least six more hours sleep than I have in the past twenty-four," countered Reese. He headed toward his office, adding, "Call Captain DeCaprio at the sixty-eighth and give her my thanks for the help." "You'd better hold off on that until you see who she's sent you," countered Miller. He'd reached his office by then, there was no opportunity to turn around or get more information. Making a note to make certain to spike Miller's eggnog at the first opportunity the next time a Christmas party rolled around, Reese put on the 'welcome' smile and entered his office. The Asian man sitting in a chair to one side of his desk looked like he'd barely graduated from college. His hair was dark, buzz-cut from the neck up to the tops of his ears--one of those half-assed haircuts that didn't make a lick of sense to Reese . . . after all, you either go marine or let it grow, right? He was slender and, as he stood, had a couple of inches of height on Reese. Dropping something back to the chair--it looked like one of those electronic game things his kids had been asking him for since last Christmas--he extended his hand. "Adam Sakai. I'm with the sixty-eighth. Captain DeCaprio said you might need a hand." Reese shook the offered hand, then walked around him, toward his desk chair. "Thanks, son, but we need a detective right now. Why don't you head back to the sixty- eighth for the rest of your shift." Sakai froze for a moment, then turned to face him. "Captain--I a detective. Homicide. My file's on your desk." The folder was there. Reese picked it up, flipped it open, and glanced at the page. He looked up at Sakai, then back at the page again. "Says here you're thirty. You don't look thirty." Sakai grinned. "That explain why I keep getting carded at bars." "I can see why." Seating himself, Reese looked over the computer printout in the folder. Sakai had an impressive case record. "You solved a double homicide last September. The one at the brewery." Sakai nodded, then looked away, suddenly evasive. "It was a bad job. My partner and I didn't see eye to eye." "So you went on an unapproved twenty-four hour stake- out and ended up in a shoot-out in a crowded intersection . . . without back-up?" Their eyes met, but Sakai never flinched. "I caught the perp. He's doing life . . . or will once his appeals are through. Look, I was going on instinct. Sammie was good, but he just didn't have the groove on that case." "And you had the . . . groove." "I took a suspension for it." Sakai's chin rose a little higher, defenses kicking in. "I've been Homicide for three years. I know when to play it by the book and when to let it slide. If you can't handle that, send me back to the sixty-eighth. I never asked for this assignment." "But now I know why you got it. Sit down, Sakai." Reese gestured toward the chair, folded his hands, and waited for a little bit of that defiance to drain out of him. "You ever play hockey?" Sakai seemed stunned for a second, then nodded. "Some- -in school. I follow the Leafs--" "When a team takes the ice, the captain's in charge, right?" Sakai nodded. "So say there's a good player. Not a team player, won't work with the captain or do what he's told--bit of a hotshot, but he's got talent. He needs seasoning. But maybe the team can't afford to carry him. Maybe he puts a dent in the team's playoff chances. He's a liability. What happens to him?" Sakai nodded once, then looked away. "He's traded. Or dropped to a training camp or a lower league." "Right. If he's good enough, he's traded more often than not. And the team that picks him up has a different captain." Reese unfolded his hands and put his palms flat on the top of his desk. "Now, this captain has a couple of options. He can take the new kid on with a clean slate and see how he works out, which means he gets to find out all the kid's faults through experience . . . and maybe ruin his team's chances of making the playoffs. If he's smart, though, he'll take a look at the kid's past, try to take advantage of his strengths and warn him about working on his weaknesses. If the kid manages to become a team player, they win. If he doesn't--" "He gets traded again." "If anybody wants him. A hotshot might mean a goal every couple of games, but it's an outside chance. What a captain wants is a team player, someone he can rely on in a playoff situation. A man who gets traded too often kind of disappears . . . and a hundred of his trading cards get you a transfer for the subway." Reese smiled grimly. "Sakai, you've been traded. There's no question of sending you back to the sixty-eighth. The stunt you pulled, added to all this other paper, means you're a hotshot. But DeCaprio must think there's something to you, something she missed. So she sent you here. And here you'll stay unless you pull some damn-ass stunt like you did in September. Then you'll be bounced back to beat cop so fast that detective's shield is gonna leave a friction burn on your jacket lining. Is that understood?" "I think it's perfectly clear." Reese met the hostile eyes, then smiled broadly. "Good. Just wanted to let you know the lay of the land. Glad to have you aboard." He reached over the desk and offered his hand. Sakai stared at him for a moment, then shook his hand again, obviously puzzled. "Captain, I--" "Okay, let me give you the straight dope." Reese released Sakai's hand and then closed the file. He tapped his fingers on it. "This precinct lost a good captain and a damn fine detective this past year. Last night, we lost another detective. I'm tired of black arm bands, dress uniforms, and graveside ceremonies. If you're coming on board, Sakai, I want you on board until you get promoted out or until you retire. There's no way in hell I want to ever make a call to your mom and dad telling them their son isn't coming home. Now is understood?" "Yes, sir." Sakai met his gaze again, smiling faintly. "I'm with you on that one." "Then we're gonna get along just fine." Reese rose from behind his desk, touched Sakai on the shoulder as he headed toward the door, then pointed to Tracy's desk when Sakai joined him. "That's your new home. I'm partnering you with Detective Knight--that's his desk over there." Sakai craned his neck. "I don't see him." "That's because he's not here. He's missing." Reese tried not to smile when he saw Sakai's baffled expression. "I want you to find him." "But I'm Homicide, Missing Persons--" "Right now you're the new rookie, just traded in from another team, and you're whatever the hell the team captain says you are. Besides," Reese raised his hand to his mouth and coughed lightly, then looked away, "there's a chance Knight's case might be a homicide. Or a suicide." There was a momentary pause while Sakai digested the information, then he nodded. "Okay." Before Sakai could leave the office, Reese caught his shoulder. "Hang on, we're not done yet." He turned Sakai to face him. "I also want you to pick up another case that might be connected to Knight's disappearance--one of our M.E.s, Natalie Lambert, was attacked at Knight's place last night. She's over at Mercy Hospital. We need an interview and a statement from her ASAP. And Tom Westwood should be dropping by--he's a forensic psychologist from Vancouver and we're borrowing him for a consult. He might have gotten a look at the perp who attacked Dr. Lambert. Miller can give you the paperwork on everything." Sakai stood there for a moment after Reese finished-- this was the make or break. Either the new detective would run screaming for the hills or he'd wade hip deep into the slime and start panning for gold. Reese would have put even money on either outcome. So, he waited. Finally, Sakai nodded again, then asked dryly, "You got a motive on the attack on Dr. Lambert?" There was gold on the horizon; Reese could smell it. Clapping Sakai on the shoulder and giving him a slight push out into the bullpen, he said, "You work it out. That's why you get a paycheck." Before Sakai could answer, Reese closed his office door, shutting out his new detective. He stood in the quiet of his office for a moment, then walked over to his desk and picked up Sakai's file. "I think he's gonna work out, Captain Louise DeCaprio. I think he's gonna work out fine." Walking over to the filing cabinet, he opened the top drawer, found the section for the personnel files of his detective division, then slipped Sakai's file into place. About to close the cabinet drawer, he paused and reached inside, pulling out the file marked, 'Vetter, Tracy.' For a moment, he held it in his hands, feeling the weight of it. It was thicker than it should have been for a cop who'd spent so few years on the force--all that paperwork from her transfers from division to division. He opened the file and found himself looking at a photo of her, taken just when she'd made detective; it was a copy of her badge photo. He had to remember to tell the guy taking the photos that his detectives weren't perps--all the badge photos looked like mug shots. But even the poor quality of the photo couldn't disguise the life in her, the set in her jaw that told the world that she was gonna be somebody some day, that look in her eye that said more about the bright spirit within her than a dozen commendations or plaques ever could. With a sigh, Reese carried the file over to his desk and placed it on the blotter. He sat down and lifted a pen, then paused once more, looking at the photo. "I'm sorry, Tracy," he said softly. "I'm real sorry. If there was something I could do differently, I would. But I can't. We're gonna miss you, kiddo. You would have been a good cop some day, despite your dad. You would have been one of the best." And then, very deliberately, he wrote the word 'deceased' across the top of the file in block, capital letters. -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@cybervanguard.com. From V4S@CYBERVANGUARD.COMFri Nov 1 00:33:34 1996 Date: Thu, 31 Oct 1996 21:08:32 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: Multiple recipients of list FKFIC-L Subject: V4S: Resurrection (5/19) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #1 Episode Title: "Resurrection" Author: Susan M. Garrett Part 5 of 19 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 1996 Susan M. Garrett -------------------------- *** The room was dark; black curtains drawn over the windows. LaCroix tapped the power button on the radio as he passed and the strains of Prokofiev's 'Romeo and Juliet' provided an undertone to the room. His lips quirked into a smile as he walked to the teak sideboard. He approved of irony. The fact that he'd stumbled upon the end of the ballet, at the 'Death of Juliet,' seemed fitting. The music was funereal and well- suited to his mood. Yes, Juliet was dead. And Romeo . . . had been saved from the taking of his own life only by an act of will. But how long would he remain that way? He poured, the room temperature blood falling like syrup into the glass. Disappointed, LaCroix lifted it, sighed, and then drank. It was so much better when warmed. Bottling blood was an art. He'd only walked away from the Raven within a space of hours and already he missed the selection and quality available to him as owner. He hadn't thought owning the bar would interest him, but in all things there were advantages, if one knew how to recognize and exploit an opportunity. He had never been one to allow an opportunity to slide through his grasp. The music had ended, the next piece a symphonic dance by Rachmaninoff. Lifting the glass again, he sipped at it, while removing another bottle from the cold storage unit beneath the sideboard. Not a bad vintage, mixed with wine. Human blood, of course. He hadn't thought to stock anything less for his own use. And he wouldn't have guessed that his current visitor would ever be inclined to share the hospitality of his Toronto bolt hole. Another smile as he took a final sip from the glass, then set it aside. Not that Nicholas was here of his own will . . . . The barest touch of his mind, tendrils of thought searching outward, told him that his guest was awake. And hungry. LaCroix checked the label on the bottle again, shook his head at the waste, and then made his way down the narrow hall to the door that led to the basement. There was no light, but then he had no need of light. He'd dwelt in the darkness for so long that moving within it had become second nature to him. The darkness was a friend, an ally. The darkness, however much he might love or despise it, was his home. This one thing even his vast strength of will could not change and he had grown to accept it as he'd grown to accept those things that even he had to admit were beyond his efforts. There were so few of them that it was easy enough--his ego wasn't wounded by the fact that he had to avoid the sunlight, that he must drink blood to survive, that he must occasionally kill . . . . What one must accept, one accepts with grace, embraces if one can. It was a lesson his Nicholas had never learned. The steps to the basement were narrow and steep. LaCroix took them slowly, his senses alert, his mind questing to the room beyond the heavy metal door which was barred at the foot of the staircase. His son had never completely succeeded in shutting him out and even now, as Nicholas' mind curled inward upon itself, drowning in self- loathing, hatred, and guilt, he could easily discern the depth of the despair. It gave him pause. LaCroix placed his hand on the door to the room, the metal cool beneath his palm and hesitated. It would be better, perhaps, to wait. Such things had happened before. Hunger would bring Nicholas to his senses. When the pain began to tear him apart--and that time would not be long in coming, wounded as he'd been--he would come to his senses. Instinct would drive him to feed. And, having fed, he'd fall into a more suggestible state. He'd agree to leave this place. He'd be given time to grieve, but they must move on, they must leave. He'd heal, in time. He always had before. There was a knot in the pit of LaCroix's stomach. Uncertainty was a most uncomfortable feeling, foreign as it was to his nature. He was not certain that this time was like the others. It must be and yet . . . the depth of the darkness emanating from Nicholas startled even him. This was the power, the strength of purpose that he'd once seen in Nicholas. Turned outward, with Nicholas accepting of his true, vampiric nature, he'd be a force to be reckoned with . . . and LaCroix would fully admit that even he'd have second thoughts about trying to stay Nicholas' hand. But this strength was turned inward. For the first time, LaCroix truly wondered if his actions had merely postponed the inevitable. There was a possibility, faint though it may be, that he would not succeed. That Nicholas would, indeed, destroy himself. Never one to admit defeat, LaCroix cast aside the heavy bar that secured the door as if it were an afterthought. He stepped into the room . . . and paused again. It was silent in this place--not even the radio upstairs could be heard unless he concentrated and used his preternatural senses. Ignoring his guest for the moment, he moved to the windows and opened the metal shutter, allowing in some brief measure of moonlight from the night outside. He wondered for a moment how this interview would go. When he turned, he found Nicholas was staring at him, eyes gold-green and shining in the darkness. At any other time, the sight would have warmed a cold place deep within him, to see Nicholas succumbing to his true nature . . . . It was only the hunger, of course. For whatever of the vampire he saw in Nicholas at the moment, huddled in the furthest corner of the room that the chains would allow, blanket pulled tightly around himself like a shield, there was something missing. The light was gone. LaCroix was not certain of it at first. But as he looked into those eyes, it struck him that something important changed. Some essential part of Nicholas had been swallowed by his grief and despair, had been torn apart, savaged, and consumed by his guilt. It came as something of a surprise that the brightness of spirit that he had spent centuries trying to purge should finally have sputtered and died. And even more of a surprise that the thought of it having been destroyed gave him concern. Nicholas turned his face to the wall. "You didn't kill me." "Obviously." "Why?" It was more of a sob than a question. There was no defiance in his tone, no anger . . . only despair. This was no temporary surrender. This was a final, utter defeat. "Was it too much to ask?" The question deserved an answer. "Yes," he responded, after a moment's pause. "Don't you understand?" Nicholas turned his head, eyes red, shining with fire. "It's over." "Yes, it's over," agreed LaCroix. He leaned back against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. "It's time to move on, to change, to start anew." He waved the bottle. "I've brought you something. You'll feel differently once you've fed--" "I don't want it." The snarl was fearsome . . . or would have been if he weren't so weak. Halfway through it, Nicholas turned away again, resting his head in his hands. "It's over. I can't do it anymore. With Natalie, I might have . . . there's nothing left. I've killed her." Leaning down, LaCroix slowly placed the bottle of blood upright beside his foot. "Mortals die." Nicholas flinched as if struck, but didn't raise his head. "Like Tracy," he whispered. "The police . . . they'll be looking for me--Internal Affairs, the review board. And when they find Nat--" "They won't. There'll be nothing to find." Nicholas looked up at that, not at him but at the wall. "What did you do with her?" "There wasn't time to do ." Clamping down on his annoyance, LaCroix took a breath and said evenly. "I'll dispose of the body. Properly." Nick's eyes closed, as if unable to deal even with the concept of his dear having been so recently departed. "As Dr. Lambert is no longer in a position to make her wishes known, perhaps you have a preference? A grave site overlooking the lake? Cremation?" Nicholas shuddered slightly, then nodded. "Cremation, then. I hardly think she would want her ashes scattered at her place of work. Think on it, Nicholas. Compose your words of parting. I'll return with her remains and then we'll leave." LaCroix turned, but hesitated and looked over his shoulder when he heard no sound or movement behind him. "Unless," he said softly, "you'd like to accompany me now--" There was a rustle of cloth. He'd barely turned back before Nicholas had whipped the blanket from him, a snarl in place as he grabbed a length of one of the chains on his ankles and rattled it. " will be difficult." "Not if I release you." Nicholas hadn't expected that. His eyes widened for a moment, then he raised his fist to his mouth and looked down at the floor, considering the offer. "No. No, I can't . . . not now." Taking a breath, he added, "Release me. I'll pack what I need while you're gone. We'll leave when you return, as you wish." "But is that as wish?" LaCroix took a step closer and squatted down, so that he was almost at Nicholas' eye level. "Is that what you truly want?" "Does it matter?" Nicholas eyes were cold, blue like northern ice. "Do I really have a choice?" He pondered the question for a moment, then smiled. "No, I suppose not." Reaching forward, LaCroix wrapped his fingers around the length of chain, weighing it in his hand. The best that money could buy . . . at such short notice. In his weakened state, Nicholas wasn't capable of breaking this chain or the manacle. If he remained chained, there'd be no accidents. Nicholas couldn't cause himself any permanent harm while he attended to Dr. Lambert's remains. But afterwards? He'd have to release Nicholas sooner or later. A reluctant traveling companion would be easier to deal with than a prisoner, even if his restraints were for his own well being. "If I release you, you'll promise not to leave this place?" Nicholas refused to meet his gaze. "As you yourself have said, your fellow officers of the law may be looking for you." There was a sigh, then a reluctant nod. "And you won't attempt to harm yourself?" Another pause, then a low and quiet, "Yes." "Swear." Nicholas swallowed, then nodded again. "I swear. On my soul." "You don't have one." He found himself smiling as Nick shot him an angry look, then added, "You seem to feel, however, that Dr. Lambert did. Swear on soul. Swear on her soul that you won't leave or harm yourself, and I'll release you." The battle played across Nick's features, his desire to be free conflicting with the beliefs he'd held so strongly these past centuries . . . perhaps all of the light hadn't been driven from him. At another time, he might have been pleased to torment Nicholas in this fashion, to give him an object lesson on the needless distress engendered by that mortal baggage. There was no pleasure in this now. Touching Nicholas' wounded shoulder gently, he nodded his understanding, even as those anguished eyes met his. "No, don't answer. The lie isn't worth the cost of the telling. I wouldn't believe it." LaCroix rose to his feet and walked toward the door, stopping only long enough to swing down his arm and pick up the bottle of blood he'd left by the window. He stopped at the door, then placed the bottle on the floor on its side. Nicholas was watching him, his expression defiant. Even in this, his son would stand against him. It made no sense. "We'll leave when I return," he informed Nicholas sternly. "Because then it be over." The barest push of his foot sent the bottle of blood rolling in Nicholas' direction. He opened the door, slipped through the entrance, then closed it behind him, the clang of the metal rod he set in place drowned out by the crash of the glass bottle against the other side of the door. That made him smile. Rebellion was a state of life, not of death. Perhaps there was still a chance to keep Nicholas from harming himself, to resign him to enduring and eventually enjoying his true nature. That would, of course, mean maintaining a constant state of war between them. With a weary sigh, LaCroix ascended the stairs to the upper level. The timing had been execrable. Nicholas had begun to fall victim to his own nature over these past two years and his assumption of the role of Nicholas' 'confidant' after Janette had left had brought them closer than they'd been in at least a century. The events of the past few days could have been the final masterstrokes in his prolonged attempt to bring Nicholas back into the fold. If Dr. Lambert had been brought across, she would have accompanied them--he had no doubt of that. After having recently returned Janette to her dark existence and then adding his beloved Natalie to his 'family,' Nicholas would have needed his guidance and assistance. But Dr. Lambert was dead, Nicholas was teetering on the verge of mental and emotional collapse, and he was far too weary to return to tactics that had proven fruitless and costly in the long run to keep Nicholas from falling victim to this self-destructive impulse. Still somewhat worn from the escape of the morning and having compounded that by his brief interview with Nicholas, LaCroix decided that he would be best served by a few minutes of relaxation before he left to deal with the remains of the inestimable Dr. Lambert. He moved directly to the sideboard and poured himself another glass of blood. The last few bars of the rondo from a Paganini concerto drifted from the stereo speakers. Easing himself into a chair, LaCroix thought back. Had he ever heard that piece played by Paganini, the violin concerto in B minor? That thought led to another--attending Paganini's debut at the age of eleven in Genoa. Janette was with him and Nicholas was not too far away, infatuated with a young Contessa . . . . The music was replaced by chatter, inconsequential to one who noted the passage of time in decades or centuries. The date and weather didn't interest him, other than the extent to which it might hamper his efforts to dispose of mortal remains. Still reminiscing about the debut of Paganini--the music had been --he was jarred back to the present by the sudden mention of something he'd not thought to hear. "--Attack on a Dr. Natalie Lambert. Dr. Lambert, a Toronto county coroner, was taken to Mercy Hospital in critical condition. Police have asked that anyone with any information--" Dr. Lambert, Dr. Lambert, was still among the living. It wasn't so much a blow as an unexpected development . . . that might yet work for him. LaCroix sipped the blood from his glass thoughtfully. Nicholas had, in his passion, shown an expected lack of control where Dr. Lambert was concerned. There'd been no time to confirm his assertion that Dr. Lambert was beyond their particular brand of help or even mortal assistance. If she alive, this would change matters drastically. Smiling, LaCroix placed his glass on the table beside him and reached for the telephone. As he dialed, he found himself humming along with the Mozart that had begun playing on the radio behind him. Fittingly, it was the 'Requiem.' -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@cybervanguard.com.