From V4S@CYBERVANGUARD.COMSun Nov 3 13:09:50 1996 Date: Sat, 2 Nov 1996 20:28:31 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: Multiple recipients of list FKFIC-L Subject: V4S: Resurrection (11/19) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #1 Episode Title: "Resurrection" Author: Susan M. Garrett Part 11 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 -------------------------- *** LaCroix waited for them in the darkness, standing at the far end of the vast, darkened space. He heard the creak of the door and listened for the heartbeats--one mortal, one vampire. One vampire? He sniffed the air and caught the scent of perfume. Not Janette--although he'd lost his sense of her some time ago, he knew that old habits died hard. It was not a scent she had worn or would wear. This had a spice to it that she would have thought was not quite her style. And it was far too expensive a scent for Dr. Lambert to afford, on her municipal salary. Placing one hand along the iron rail he held the head of a match against the metal, knowing that he'd see them soon enough. As it was, they caught one another's eyes at the same time, vampire gazes meeting despite the darkness. He knew her then. Knew almost instantly that this was the lost one that so troubled his Nicholas. This was the 'mistake' that he had tried to correct by taking a step that could only lead his sorry soul back to the true blood and the darkness of his nature. He owed her, this 'Serena.' Whether she knew it or not. There was no point in waiting any longer. LaCroix flicked the match across the iron railing and it flamed instantly, a brilliant star in the darkness. He moved it quickly to the candle that he lifted from the floor and stood staring down at them. "You must be Serena," he said graciously. "Nicholas has told me so much about you. And Dr. Lambert--you're looking far more flushed than when I last saw you. Almost recovered from our little ordeal?" Serena flinched, slightly--good, it meant she knew who she was dealing with and knew her place. But Natalie Lambert merely stood there, glaring back at him. "Where's Nick?" "I like that--the direct approach save time. But you see, Dr. Lambert . . . Natalie? We have nothing time. Wouldn't you agree, Serena?" "All the time in the world," answered Serena sharply. "From dusk until dawn, of course." "Of course." LaCroix smiled and nodded in her direction, then gestured them toward the concrete stairs that led up to his perch. "If you're in a hurry--" Natalie led the way, with Serena following. LaCroix leaned against the handrail, amused--Serena could have been at his side with nothing more than a thought, but she took the stairs. Out of deference to the mortal she accompanied or had her failure during her last sojourn in Toronto still not swayed her from following Nicholas' untenable search for mortality? It would be interesting to see which way the wind would blow on that one. Just as they reached him, he leaned to one side and opened the door into what would have been the foreman's quarters and which he'd appropriated for his own purposes. The light from the room shone back upon them and Natalie paused to blink. Once her eyes had become accustomed to the light, she gave him barely a glance before walking past him and into the room. He had to admire her courage . . . or was it desperation? After Serena had entered, LaCroix came up quickly beside Natalie and led her into the carpeted living area he'd prepared for himself, taking her arm as if they were old friends and holding it tightly so that she couldn't shrug off his touch. "Forgive me, but I can't help but wonder--what do you make of the events of last night?" She didn't look at him, her hazel eyes fixed forward, as if memorizing the surroundings--and, he reminded himself, identifying possible weapons. A most extraordinary woman. "Nick bit me." Her free hand raised to the bandage on her neck. "He was supposed to take a little, not too much." "Really?" asked LaCroix, casting a knowing glance over his shoulder toward Serena. Natalie met his eyes then and he saw accusation in them as she turned toward him. "He took too much. I could feel it--he couldn't stop. Then you came in--" She hesitated and lowered her eyes, staring past him, as if at a fuzzy, fading picture. "You took him away. You took him away from me." LaCroix released her arm and took a step back from her. "Close enough," he said softly. He walked around her, then headed for the sideboard where a bottle of champagne was chilling and another green glass bottle had been warmed to room temperature. "May I get you something? Natalie?" "No thanks. I learn from my mistakes." He smiled and pushed aside the ice bucket with the chilling champagne. "Touche'. Serena, will you indulge?" "Thank you, yes." Pulling the cork from the bottle, he dropped it to the sideboard. LaCroix lifted the bottle and carefully poured two wine glasses full of the slightly thick, red liquid. "It's uncut," he warned Serena, handing her the glass when she approached him. "It was my understanding that you'd left Toronto rather suddenly. A pity--I'd rather hoped to meet you. I've met so few of the ones Nicholas has successfully brought across. You've returned for business . . . or pleasure?" "Both." Serena took the glass from him, raised it slightly in his direction as if in a toast, then sipped from it delicately. Her eyes closed and she turned away, but not quickly enough to mask the twisted emotions that flashed across her features--rapture turned to disgust. So, her mortal leanings were still intact. "Where's Nick?" Natalie demanded again, stepping forward. "In time. I think it's best that you be prepared." He spoke softly, but sternly, then gestured toward one of the large, padded chairs that flanked the sofa and the shelves containing his electronic equipment. Natalie hesitated a moment, as if deciding whether or not to be obstinate, then seated herself on the edge of the cushion but seemed prepared to leap to the attack or run if the situation called for it. Serena, glass still in hand, wandered over to the couch and sank into it with the grace becoming a goddess. He placed his glass on the table beside him, crossed his legs and then fixed Natalie with an even gaze. "Nicholas believes that you're dead." She took a deep breath and panic crossed her features, just for an instant. "I'm not." "Obviously. We both believed you to be dead . . . until I heard a radio broadcast earlier this evening." He steepled his fingers. "Imagine, if you will, his state of mind. His partner has just been killed, for which he blames himself. He believes he has murdered you. And now--" "He wants to die," said Serena, her tone distant, almost ethereal. "He wants to end his existence." "But I'm not dead," protested Natalie, half-rising from her seat and looking around the room frantically. "I'm not dead--he didn't kill me." "Precisely why I've asked you here." LaCroix leaned across to take her arm and pushed her firmly back into her seat. "I've imprisoned him. I was hoping he'd come back to his senses on his own, but it hasn't happened. Your presence might make the difference." Natalie was on her feet instantly, almost before he could move. "Where is he? I need to see him." "You will--momentarily." LaCroix rose to his feet and raised an eyebrow in Serena's direction. "Will you join us?" "I wouldn't miss it." Her smile was almost predatory as she met his gaze, waiting until Natalie and he had passed and then following them down the hall and to a door. LaCroix opened the door, then turned on the wall switch, revealing the steep stairs and another door, barred, at the bottom. He placed his arm across the doorway, stopping Natalie before she could pass. "I must warn you-- keep your distance from Nicholas. I've restrained him, but he's not himself. He might attack you." Her annoyance at the arm barring her way disappeared into a look of perfect faith that touched some part of even his long-lost soul. "No, you're wrong. Nick won't hurt me." "Natalie--" Serena touched her shoulder, turning her. "You'll be the only mortal in a room of vampires. LaCroix is right--Nick might kill you, on instinct alone." What Natalie would not accept from him, she seemed to consider from Serena--LaCroix put that thought away for future reference. Then Serena took a step closer to Natalie and whispered, "Your last chance. Run while you can. Leave him. Forget him." She was a spider, this one, spinning her own web. LaCroix arched his neck in annoyance at her meddling, but steeled himself only to watch, to see what might happen. If he had any doubts, they were stilled by the look on Natalie's face. He saw there that she had no choice, she could leave Nicholas. He wondered if she knew how truly lost she was. "I'll be careful," she said, placing her hand over Serena's. "He won't hurt me. You'll see." LaCroix stood to one side as Natalie descended the stairs and met Serena's eyes. No words passed between them, but none were needed. A look was sufficient to convey his thoughts to her. Not the particulars, of course--the blood link between them was thinned by a generation. There was a means of communication consisting more of expression than thoughts or words, complex and layered beyond rational understanding. Serena shied for a moment beneath his look, then lowered her eyes and continued down the steps. Suppressing a smile, he followed her, knowing that she would not oppose him again, whatever her plans might be. Natalie already had her hands on the iron bar that held the door in place, attempting to lift it. Murmuring, "Allow me," LaCroix stepped past her and easily removed the bar, setting it to one side. Her eagerness to see Nicholas again concerned him, but only in that he might be forced to restrain her to keep them apart. Serena met his gaze. When he nodded, she pulled the door open and slipped into the room. LaCroix followed, his hand brushing against, then resting on Natalie's arm. It was more than a courteous gesture, giving him a firm hold on her if anything untoward happened. His first indication that something was wrong was the hoarse laugh that emerged from Serena. As he stepped into the room, he saw her cover her mouth and look away from him, but couldn't hide the amusement in her eyes. The floor was covered with bits of torn blanket and glass shards, the chains had been snapped and the manacles twisted open, and the bars on the window had been bent apart, the window glass scattered along the sill and the floor at the base of the wall. The night breeze entered, setting the metal shutters creaking, half-ripped from the hinges at the frame. LaCroix walked to the manacles, leaned down and lifted one. There was blood on it. Vampire blood. -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@cybervanguard.com. Date: Sat, 2 Nov 1996 20:28:38 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: Multiple recipients of list FKFIC-L Subject: V4S: Resurrection (12/19) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #1 Episode Title: "Resurrection" Author: Susan M. Garrett Part 12 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 light blinded him and then the horn blared, several staccato beeps and then one long, prolonged, annoyed blast. Nick snarled as the driver swerved around him, then he continued to stumble across the street, nearly falling over the curb and clutching a street lamp for support. He closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his shoulder, the bright glare of agony in his left foot, and the burning of the hunger that threatened to overwhelm him. It attacked again and he slid further down the pole, his shoulder pressed against the metal as he doubled over. It was tearing him in half, this unrelenting hunger for blood, any blood, so that his wounds could heal, so that his body would be whole again. He sat back against the lamppost and clutched his knees to his chest, then threw his head back so that it clanged against the metal, the sound, along with his groans, echoing in the empty street. The wave of pain passed and he fell limp, grabbing the base of the lamppost to keep himself from cracking his head on the pavement. He'd nearly killed someone. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead and the back of his hands at the thought. Nick raised his hand to his mouth, sucking the light sheen of blood from his skin. He'd been right--the small amount of blood he'd gleaned from the broken bottle hadn't been nearly enough, but it had been a starting point. He'd fooled his body into thinking that he was feeding, assuaged the beast with a token offering. Adrenaline had done the rest. That combined with instinct and the knowledge that he had to keep going, that he had to get away, drove him to a frenzy. And in his escape, he'd nearly killed the first mortal he'd stumbled across. Hiding his hands in his face, he still couldn't believe the will it had taken to sink his teeth into the man's neck. The blood had called to him through the skin, the heartbeat had assaulted him as he'd drawn closer--blood for the taking. But he'd won, if only for a moment. The man crumpled to the ground, dead or dying, but he'd refrained from taking his blood. A hollow victory, the type cherished only by the egoist and the madman . . . and the man who had nothing left to lose and takes whatever comfort he can from what he might find. For he had known that before. He knew how difficult it was to accept even the possibility of hope when despair had settled so long about your heart. <<< She'd stared at him, then wrenched away and backed up until she hit the wall, her eyes widening. "You must be mad. You've escaped from your warders. And now you lie to me, seek to harm me--" Her mouth opened as if to scream. Beside her in an instant, Nicholas placed his hand over her mouth. "I'm here to help you," he said softly. "If you scream, they'll stop me. Let me try to break your chains. If I cannot succeed, you may scream all you like and the warders will find me. Agreed?" She nodded, perhaps half-heartedly. Nicholas reached up to the ribbon--no more than a length of cloth--with which her hair was tied back, asking "May I?" before removing it. He'd given her no time to give her consent. Wrapping the ribbon around his right hand, he knelt beside her and examined the restraint on her ankle. The manacle wasn't tight to the skin, but if he pulled on it he might break some of the bones in her foot--flesh gave way far more easily than metal. The chain, however, showed promise, being rusted in spots and at the joining to the manacle. Nicholas slipped his fingers inside the manacle, glancing up at her to beg her pardon again, then slid his cloth bound hand down the length of the chain an inch or two. The flesh of her foot was warm against that of his hand and he could feel the racing of her blood even through the skin. It awakened the hunger inside him, which also awakened some of his strength. He pulled the chain taut, biting back his groans should the warders hear him and willed it to snap. The few seconds seemed like an eternity, but as soon as he felt a link give, he dropped the chain, then slipped his hand from the manacle and leaned on all fours, panting with the exertion. The woman leaned down, tugging lightly at the chain, and the broken link gave way. She was free, the manacle on her leg sporting no more than an inch of chain and the rest attached only to the wall. Nicholas leaned back to his knees with a wide smile. "You see? Easily done." In answer, she wrapped her arms around his neck, nearly knocking him to the floor in her enthusiasm. "Thank you, sir! Oh, thank you! If you can spirit me away before my husband arrives, I may yet live." Her skin was soft and warmer, now that he'd covered her with his coat. As he hugged her, Nicholas felt the beast rising within him and the urge to bare her neck and take her blood battered at his will. But he would not give way to it--he had not saved her from one sentence of death only to see her fall to another. Carefully, he caught hold of her arms and held her away, saying, "We must get you to the carriage. Stay close to me and hide in the shadows as we pass through the corridors. I'll go before, as I won't be questioned. And stay silent." He touched a finger to her lips--ah, they were warm as well!--and smiled. She nodded, then he moved to the door. The corridor was empty. Slipping outside into the hall, Nicholas started down the length one way for a few paces, then the other, but there was no sign of anyone. He returned to the cell and opened the door. Taking the woman's hand, he drew her from her prison, then closed the door firmly behind her so that it would still appear locked to the casual eye. Stealing outside with his shadow was far easier than he would have thought--LaCroix's mission was one Dr. Abscombe preferred to keep circumspect and so the light of the carriage had been extinguished and only the barest flicker of a torch lit the rear and top, where the men were loading the cases of ceramic bottles. Nicholas walked out to the carriage, pretended to oversee the work for a moment, then entered the coach. He released the heavy curtains LaCroix had installed on the windows for their prolonged, daylight travels, letting them hang low so that no one could see within. Luck was with them as the carriage had been drawn close to a hedge. Nicholas went back to the shadows just outside the door where he'd left the woman, then took her hand. His coat covered much of the dingy, grayish-white shift that she wore, so that she did not attract attention in the starlight. It was easy enough to go the long way around and to slip her into the coach through a gap in the hedge. She was shivering in fear as he helped her inside, her skin pale and her eyes wide in the darkness. Nicholas lifted her hand to his lips and said softly, "Be silent. I'll go tell my companion of your presence so he'll not startle the men when he returns. He'll be circumspect," he added quickly, as she opened her mouth to protest. "You need not fear discovery. We shall take you safely from here this night." "Thank you, sir. Thank you for all of your kindness." The woman leaned forward, arms moving around his neck, her lips warm against his own. It was far less chaste than a kiss between newly met friends should be, but then he was saving her from a horrid fate. Still, propriety and the fear of discovery--as well as the hunger that rose inside him at her close proximity--caused him to end their blissful moment. He closed the door, then leaned near to whisper. "Be silent. I'll return directly." The men were all but finished with their task, he noted with pleasure. Wearing a sly smile, Nicholas jauntily crossed the space between the carriage the door at the rear of the manor house, then stopped, startled, as he heard LaCroix's voice. "Do thank your master again." LaCroix exited the doorway, followed by the toad of a servant who had led them to the surgery. He paused long enough to drop a few coins into the man's hand, then noticed Nicholas. "Is the air better for you, here?" "Much." He glared at the servant, who lingered until catching Nicholas' displeased gaze and then scurried into the manor again, the door closing behind him. "I do not trust these men." "They serve their purpose. And I'll be certain to visit Dr. Abscombe once more before we leave, as I promised. For dinner. I doubt you'll wish to join me." LaCroix headed toward the carriage and Nicholas hurried after, stopping him by catching his arm. He glanced nervously at the carriage. "A moment." "Have they not finished?" LaCroix glanced at the rear of the carriage with annoyance. "No, they've done with it. We'll have no problem with the crates on the journey, no matter how poor the roads." "Good. Nicholas, you shine in mundane matters. It's something I must keep in mind." Nicholas caught his arm again. "There is something--" He paused, swallowing when LaCroix arched an eyebrow in his direction. "We have a passenger." For a moment, LaCroix regarded him thoughtfully, then smiled. "How kind of you to provide us with a snack for the trip home." "Not a snack--a ." He swallowed again as LaCroix's lips drew into a thin line, then hurried after his master as LaCroix whirled and stalked across the hard-packed dirt of the courtyard toward the carriage. "There was a woman confined here against her will--her husband means to have her murdered. You need do nothing. I will take her to the courts of law or find someone who will, but she must be removed from here tonight or her life will be ended." "It's likely I'll end it myself." At the carriage, LaCroix threw open the door, eyes blazing and fangs in place. Nicholas' heart stopped and he prepared himself for the terrified scream that occur, but did not. Stunned, he stared as LaCroix opened the carriage door further and revealed . . . nothing but his frock coat. One of LaCroix's hands wound tightly into the collar of his blouse, drawing him close. "Tell me that this is all a trick, a joke, Nicholas. Because you have blundered--" "She was here. I brought her here myself." Nicholas realized then that he didn't even know the woman's name--not that he dared call her, for the driver of the carriage was just crossing the courtyard and moving toward then. LaCroix released him and he nearly fell, then a slap across his cheek sent him spinning back into the body of the carriage. "Fool! You've let a madwoman loose. If she was confined, it was probably because she was a murderess." He turned his back to Nicholas and pounded one gloved fist into the palm of the other. "Do you know how this endangers us? I may have to change my plans--we may even have to leave for London tonight!" Hesitantly, Nicholas reached forward to touch LaCroix's shoulder, but LaCroix shrugged off the touch instantly. "She may not have gotten far," said Nicholas. "We may find her. But when you speak to her, you will hear how sensible she is, you cannot think her mad." LaCroix turned to him, gesturing with his hand. "Then find her and quickly. But remember, Nicholas, the glory of madness is that it may so easily masquerade as reason. Think how in this enlightened age, a man who speaks of the existence of our kind is thought unbalanced, perhaps mad. And yet we exist. So are we, then, merely the dreams of a madman?" As Nicholas stared, he opened the carriage door and entered, warning. "You have ten minutes. Find her. And if you haven't returned by then, you may find your own way back to town." <<< Bowing his head as another wave of hunger swept through him, Nick wondered if LaCroix were right--were they nothing more than the dreams of a madman? Or was he mad, to have ever believed he could regain his soul and his mortality, to have ever demanded the trust and respect and friendship and love of mortals whom he was destined to destroy--Schanke, Tracy, and now Natalie? Natalie. He lifted his head as the hunger eased and stared into the star-dotted night sky. He must get to her before LaCroix. He'd promised never to leave her, that he'd be with her forever. The loft. She was still at the loft, LaCroix might not have finished his preparations, might not yet have reached her. There was blood still there, blood enough to keep him from harming anyone else until this was finished, until he was no longer a danger to humanity. With an effort, Nick lurched to his feet, the street lamp supporting him. Not more than ten feet away was a sign post. He wasn't far from home. If he could gather together enough of his will to fly, this one last time . . . . And then, he promised himself, he rest. For an eternity. -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@cybervanguard.com. From V4S@CYBERVANGUARD.COMSun Nov 3 13:09:57 1996 Date: Sat, 2 Nov 1996 20:28:45 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: Multiple recipients of list FKFIC-L Subject: V4S: Resurrection (13/19) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #1 Episode Title: "Resurrection" Author: Susan M. Garrett Part 13 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 -------------------------- *** Her stomach churned at the sight of the manacles. Natalie glared at LaCroix as he lifted one from the floor and held it in his hands. "How could you--how could you this?" She stalked past him and picked up the other manacle. The steel was cold and there were bits of flesh and flecks of blood along one edge of the cuff. Turning, she held the manacle out to him. "How could you chain him like an animal and still claim you care about him?" For a moment she wasn't certain that LaCroix had even heard her; he was staring past her, his eyes focused elsewhere in time. But then he met her eyes and said solemnly, "A moot point, since he's escaped even my precautions." Natalie dropped the metal restraint and it fell to the cement floor, the clang echoing. She leaned down to pick up a scrap of blanket. It looked as if it had been raked apart by the claws of an animal. And it was dotted with -- "Blood." "Yes." Rising to his feet, LaCroix gestured around them, then at her sandals. "Mind where you step--there's glass. I'd hoped that leaving blood within his grasp might tempt him to feed, but Nicholas decided to expend his energy in yet another fruitless act of defiance." "Not that," corrected Natalie. She reached down and picked up the manacle again, relieved that the sight and smell of the blood wasn't affecting her like it had in the hospital. Walking over to LaCroix, she showed him the spatters and torn flesh on a sharp piece of the twisted metal. "He's hurt. Badly, by the look of this." "He had a shoulder wound. Rather than murder him with the stake as he asked me, I immobilized him with it." He brushed the manacle from her hand and it toppled to the floor again. Natalie stared down at the manacle as it fell, then looked around the mess of the room, LaCroix's words beginning to sink in. Nick had thought he'd killed her, that she was dead. And then he'd asked LaCroix to kill him? Nick was going to commit ? It didn't seem rational, but then, what any more? It was as if their own private nervous breakdowns--Laura's suicide shaking her as much as Tracy's death had shaken him- -had collided with the force of two freight engines. "If he's that badly wounded, he'll be ravenous. Despite his ill-considered scruples, I'd be surprised if he didn't kill the first mortal who crossed his path. Instinct wins in the end, as always." LaCroix walked over to Serena, who was still standing by the door, arms folded. She looked up at him as he approached. "Where is he, Serena? You're of his blood; find him for me." "When hell freezes over." Turning her head, she spat on the floor, the spittle pink and flecked with spots of red. "I want nothing to do with him." Natalie looked up at Serena's words, her heart catching in her throat when she realized that the venom was real. Startled, she looked to LaCroix, but he didn't seem at all surprised. In fact, he turned away--she almost thought she saw the shadow of a smile lingering on his lips. "Then why did you return to Toronto?" "Because I felt his anguish. I wanted to be here at the end--to watch him die." Serena straightened, her blue eyes turned gold as she pointed a finger at Natalie. "I wanted to save her from him. I thought that if I saved at least one from him, at least one . . . ." There were tears in the corners of her eyes. Serena clutched her arms tightly to her chest and turned away. Natalie desperately wanted to go to her, but stayed where she was, watching LaCroix. Somehow, she knew this was for her benefit. "That you could reclaim some small portion of the soul he took from you?" LaCroix shook his head and turned back to stare at Serena; Natalie would have said that his expression was one of pity . . . if she were speaking of anyone except LaCroix. "An exercise in futility for a number of reasons. But imaginative, I'll give you that." Then Natalie found herself the subject of LaCroix's intense stare. He lifted an eyebrow and smiled slightly. "I believe it's your turn, doctor." Natalie stared right back, her hazel eyes locking with and holding LaCroix's. "I have no idea what--" "Trust me." The smile disappeared. "Or not. But trust yourself. Close your eyes." She continued to stare at him, frowned, opened her mouth-- And suddenly he was standing behind her, her right arm pinioned against her body, her head tilted, baring her neck. She heard Serena hiss from the other side of the room and looked up to see the vampire's eyes blazing red-gold. But there was an answering hiss from behind her, from LaCroix. And Serena turned away, facing the corner of the room, her shoulders shaking. Just as suddenly as she'd been captured, LaCroix spun her out of his grasp, holding her long enough to keep her from falling and then releasing her. They stood facing one another. She couldn't seem to get enough air and was certain that her heart had stopped sometime during the last two minutes. "If I'd wanted to harm you, I could have done so at any time," said LaCroix, his voice razor sharp, yet soft as silk. "We're here for a common purpose--to save Nicholas. If he destroys himself, we both lose." There was only one answer. Natalie nodded, however hesitantly, and took a deep breath. "All right. Truce. For Nick." "Truce, as you say." LaCroix took a step closer to her and brushed his fingertips from her forehead down the bridge of her nose. "Close your eyes, Natalie. And listen." Her eyes closed automatically and she held them closed, no matter how strong the urge to open them. She swayed and felt him grasp her upper arm to steady her. "Now what?" He chuckled, probably because of the annoyance in her voice. "Think about Nicholas. Think about searching for him. Where is he? Search the darkness. Cast your mind outward . . . ." It sounded silly, but she took a deep breath and did as he asked. She thought about Nick. She pictured his smile, but that picture changed quickly. She remembered his face when they'd spoken in the loft, his sadness and his refusal to bring her across. And the hope, finally, that she'd thought she'd managed to instill in him . . . . But there was no hope any longer. Natalie knew this and it was an effort not to open her eyes. She felt tears gathering at the sadness that washed over her, the weight of his anguish pressing down upon her--then she gasped as she felt the burning in the center of her chest, like a fire had been lit inside her. She clutched her hands to her stomach, about to double over and felt them wrenched away. Cool hands covered her own, drifted over her fingers lightly, soothing her. Blood. Red, thick, a mixture of salt and iron--she could taste it in her mouth. Blood. And peace. Darkness. Silence. He was going somewhere, heading for-- "The loft," she gasped, her eyes opening. And then she stopped, realizing that the room had moved around her. In truth, moved. She was standing at the door, one hand on the door frame. LaCroix's hand lifted from her shoulder and she turned to face him, licking her lips. Her mouth was dry and her heart was beating so fast it felt as if she'd just sprinted a hundred yards. "The loft," repeated LaCroix, stepping away from her and walking to the center of the room. "There's blood there--he can avoid taking any more lives. He'll be looking for you. Or what's left of you." Deciding that there was nothing to give a person heebie-jeebies like having her corpse discussed in her presence, she opened her mouth to give LaCroix a piece of her mind . . . and then stopped. Tightening her grip on the door frame, she tried to make her knees stop shaking as she met LaCroix's gaze. "It's only common sense. I didn't find Nick--how could I, I'm not a vampire? Of course he'd go to the loft. Nick's got no where else to go." It was a brave front, but it was nearly shaken by LaCroix's self-assured smile. He walked toward her slowly and Natalie pressed her back against the door frame, having the feeling that she was being stalked. He stood beside her, facing the open doorway and said softly, "My dear doctor, you may not have joined the club, but you've certainly filled out an application." Before she could manage a denial, he turned that steely blue gaze toward her. "Didn't you ask Nicholas to bring you across if he couldn't control himself?" There was a sound of disgust from beside her, a whisper of cloth, and Natalie was again aware of Serena's presence. But she couldn't take her eyes from LaCroix. "Yes. I--I didn't want to die." "As I thought. And when he thought you were beyond his help, he was prepared to die with you, rather than lose you forever." He smiled, ever so delicately. "Will you deny him so quickly, Natalie? Nicholas was prepared, is to give his life for you. Surely that must count for something." Serena placed her hand against LaCroix's chest, pushing him aside as she swept past Natalie and on up the stairs. "Either it is done or it is not," she called back to them. "But I don't intend to miss this if I can help it. Follow if you wish, or argue, it's all the same to me." LaCroix offered her his arm, but Natalie ignored him, running up the stairs after Serena. "Wait--I'll come with you. We're not far from Nick's place. We can walk it--" " may walk," said Serena sharply. "I have my own method of traveling." The thought of Serena being alone with Nick right now frightened her. She turned to LaCroix as she reached the steps that led from the foreman's rooms down into the darkness of the warehouse . . . but he was gone. When she turned, she saw him waiting at the bottom of the concrete staircase. "Too damned fast!" she huffed, as she ran down the steps and met him at the bottom. "Immortality has certain advantages," replied LaCroix. Natalie shot him a glance. "Like going from rare to well-done in thirty seconds at high noon." By the time she'd looked up again, Serena was already standing at the doorway from the warehouse to the alley--she saw the vampire's silhouette, black against black, step out into the less claustrophobic darkness of the alley. "We can't let her get to Nick--" A breeze brushed past her--more like a wind--and the door opened and shut again. Natalie picked up speed, the soles of her sandals slapping against the concrete as she ran the length of the empty warehouse. Her body rebelled, a stitch in her side causing her to pull up short, but she continued to run as quickly as she could. It seemed insane that less than twenty-four hours ago she'd been on the verge of asking Nick to make love to her and to bring her across if he went too far and drained her. She couldn't handle much more of this. By the time she'd reached the door that led to the alley, she was more than winded. Leaning back against the door, Natalie took deep breaths. At first, there was no sign of Serena or LaCroix and for a second she thought they'd gone off to the loft without her. Then she caught sight of them, or what she thought must be them, dark shadows standing at the mouth of the alley. Standing over what looked to be a body. A lump rose in her throat at the thought that it might be Nick. Gathering up the strength she had left, she dashed down the length of the paved alley. But she was at least half way there when she realized that the hair wasn't blonde. Serena was kneeling by the victim and, as Natalie approached, said softly, "It's Thomas. He must have followed me here." Somehow, Natalie swallowed over the lump in her throat. She dropped to her knees as well and brushed back Serena's hand. It Westwood. He had a large, purplish bruise on his forehead and the skin on the palm of his hand was scraped, with superficial bleeding that had already stopped. She held her breath as she turned his head, checking on side of his neck, then the other. There were no wounds. He hadn't been bitten. He was breathing regularly. Automatically, she picked up his wrist to take his pulse, glanced at her own wrist . . . and realized her watch was somewhere between Nick's loft and the hospital. "I believe introductions are in order," said LaCroix, still standing in the shadows. "His name's Thomas Westwood, he's a forensic psychologist," said Natalie. "He knows . . . he knew Serena." She looked up, watching Serena rise, then turned her gaze to where she could make out the outline of LaCroix in the shadows. Serena must have been able to see better. She folded her arms defiantly. "He's no danger to us, or to the community." "As you reminded me, we do have time for this," said LaCroix sharply. He touched Natalie's shoulder, pushing her with enough force to knock her aside so that she was sitting on the pavement on her rear. Then he reached down for Westwood-- "No!" Serena grasped LaCroix's shoulder, stopping him. "No," she said again, backing up a step as LaCroix straightened. "I'll take care of it. He won't remember anything." LaCroix looked down at Westwood, eyes glowing gold. "It's another body to be rid of," said Serena hurriedly. "And you must go. To Nicholas. There's no time." LaCroix looked up at that, and then away. Stalking to Natalie, he offered her a hand, which she took, still breathing heavily. As soon as she'd risen to her feet, she threw his hand back at him, staring. "You were going to kill him!" He didn't so much as blink at the accusation, saying, "Yes, I was." Then he placed a hand in the small of her back and propelled her forward, toward the edge of the alley. Glancing back over her shoulder, Natalie saw Serena bending over Westwood. She dug in her heels, refusing to move, then met LaCroix's gaze again when he shot her an annoyed glance. "Serena--I don't want Serena to hurt him either," she explained, remembering what Serena had said to her in the taxi about why she'd never confronted Westwood. "He doesn't matter." "He does to me. He works with the police--I told you." When LaCroix looked away, she added, "Why make a bad situation worse? We'll have enough problems trying to sort out everything that's happened with Nick. They've got an APB out on him. If someone gets to the loft before we do--" He ignored her, looking over his shoulder at Serena and Westwood. "Is that probable?" "If they're looking for him, they'd try to get a court order to search the loft. That's the first place I'd look for him. Especially if I expected to find him at the end of a rope or with his wrist slit in the--" She couldn't finish the sentence, an image of Laura's body floating in the water coming to mind. Taking a breath, Natalie steeled herself and added, "I haven't asked you for much. I'm asking you for this. Make sure nothing happens to him." LaCroix tilted his head and regarded her curiously, as if she'd suddenly turned blue or sprouted a third eye. Then, after a moment, he nodded, said, "Stay here," and then walked back to Serena. Having pushed him that far, Natalie didn't dare move. She leaned against the wall of the alley, took a step closer toward it, then winced when she heard something crunch beneath her sandals. Leaning down, she picked up a broken bit of black plastic and wire circuitry that had been shattered into enough pieces that it was relatively unidentifiable. She dropped it back on the ground, then looked over her shoulder. LaCroix was standing with his back to her, effectively shielding her view of Serena. They spoke quietly--she could barely discern any conversation at all, but after a moment LaCroix turned back. Noting her interest, he smiled as he approached, adding, "Now you owe me, doctor. Quid pro quo." Even as he took her arm, Natalie hesitated, still watching Serena as she knelt beside Westwood. "Can I trust her?" "As much as you could ever trust Nicholas." Then, he sobered and met her questioning look with an even stare. "Do you really have any choice?" And, at that moment, Natalie had to admit that she didn't. -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@cybervanguard.com. From V4S@CYBERVANGUARD.COMSun Nov 3 13:10:03 1996 Date: Sat, 2 Nov 1996 20:28:53 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: Multiple recipients of list FKFIC-L Subject: V4S: Resurrection (14/19) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #1 Episode Title: "Resurrection" Author: Susan M. Garrett Part 14 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 -------------------------- *** "Most were condolence calls--I've written a number of thank you cards and signed them for you. Mrs. Vetter is staying at the Four Seasons. She'll be having breakfast with you at nine A.M. to discuss the funeral arrangements. I also took the liberty of sending flowers to her room." Holly handed him the sheaf of messages, a folder filled with documents requiring his signature, and a large manila envelope, adding, "I think this is all that's needed this evening." "Thank you, Holly." Richard Vetter glanced up at the clock on his office wall--it was almost ten. "You should head home. Remind me to send in the stub for your overtime." Holly stepped back from the desk and touched the collar of her blouse, fixing it. "If you need me to stay later, I will. I know how difficult this time must be for you. Several of the other commissioners have offered their help. Commissioner Warren said he'd be willing to look into the plans to the protect the Prime Minister. And Commissioner--" "No. Thank you. Tell them I'll be at my desk during normal hours . . . with the exception of the funeral service on Friday." Vetter rose from his desk, pushed back his chair, and walked to the window. Vultures, that's what they were. Circling already. Could they smell it in the wind? Was one of the other members of the Police Commission responsible for those two envelopes he'd received? If so, it would be a more delicate matter to handle, but probably easier in the long run. Someone no doubt wanted a plum currently in his basket. Staring out into the darkness, he grinned. He'd let them take the plum. And when they tried to bite into it, they'd find a hook and line, by which he'd reel them right into his-- There was a flag flying in the courtyard below, within sight of his window. No flag should have been present after dark. "Holly, first thing tomorrow I want you to find out who left that flag flying. It's against regulations. Then I want a memo of reprimand drafted--" He heard her clear her throat behind him. "I'm sorry that you weren't informed, sir. The police union asked that it be left at half mast as a sign of respect, until Tracy's funeral." "Oh." Vetter placed his palm flat against the glass as he looked out of his office window. If he moved it just to the right, he could blot out the presence of the flag. Odd, how such a large thing could be removed from view when you had perspective. "Send them a note of thanks. It's a nice gesture." Pulling a cord, he lowered the blinds, then looked up at Holly again. Leaning his hands on his desk, he told her, "Go home. You have one, don't you?" "Yes, sir. Yes, sir, I do. Good evening, Commissioner." Her answer was a little too sharp, her walk toward the door a little too regimental. "Holly, wait." She stopped, but didn't turn. "Thank you for all the work you've done on this. I wasn't prepared--" Vetter seated himself in his chair, then drew it closer to his desk. "I wouldn't be getting through this without you. And I wanted to ask if you'd sit with the family during the service." She turned at that--he saw the surprise on her face. It was good that he could still surprise her. He'd thought those days were long past. "Thank you, sir," she answered sincerely. "I'd be honored." "We'd be honored to have you there. Tracy--I know she liked you. She said that you were the only good thing about my job. And she was right." He wiped his face with the palm of his hand and added, "Now, for God's sake, go ." "Yes, Commissioner. Good night." "Good night, Holly." He waited until she closed his office door, then Richard Vetter shut his eyes and leaned back in his chair. This was the time he loved the best, when the building was all but empty, with the exception of the cleaning staff, a few people who were still too low on the hierarchy totem pole to afford to go home, and a few people so high they had to keep at it long after the others had gone just to maintain their positions. Without the constant ringing of phones and intercoms, the tapping on keyboards, the pressure of scheduled conferences, and the babble of voices, it was another world. A world in which he could imagine himself in complete control. A world in which Barbara wasn't seeking a divorce, in which his father had lived to see him become commissioner, in which . . . his daughter was still alive. At the thought of her, he moved aside the mail on his desk and rescued her picture from his blotter. He'd have Holly order a new frame for it tomorrow. They'd want an enlargement for the viewing. His daughter would be beautiful in the casket, in her dress uniform. He'd have to send someone to her apartment to find it. He wasn't certain he could send Barbara. She was probably down by a fifth at this hour. God only knew if she'd be sober enough to make their breakfast appointment. But this time, he couldn't really blame her. She had a very good reason for drinking herself into a cold, emotionless coma. Her daughter was dead. daughter was dead. In moving aside the mail, he uncovered the manila envelope. His hand moved toward it and he picked it up as if he were in a dream, knowing what it must contain. He'd opened thousands of envelopes like this during his career and they'd contained letters and memos and the occasional catalogue. Some had begun careers. Others had ended careers. But the last two envelopes he'd received had been about career. This one proved to be no exception. The papers that slid out onto his desk were things that should never have seen the light of day, from a report filed by his father protecting him from prosecution on a charge of excessive force, to his own protection of some of his favored, including Bruce Spencer. The documents weren't the originals, but were photocopied directly from originals. There was no way he could collect all of this information from the varied sources where the originals had been stored in less than a week's time. Someone had been doing their homework and had been doing it over a number of years. Someone knew every step of his professional career and could document the shadows. Someone was out to get him. The knock at the door startled him. Commissioner Vetter tossed his mail over the articles on his desk as Holly poked her head into his office. "Commissioner?" "I thought you were leaving." "I was. I am." She hesitated, then looked over her shoulder. "Captain--um, Mr. Reese is here to see you, sir. I told him you were busy--" Vetter placed his hands on his desk and levered himself to his feet. He looked down at the mail, knowing what was beneath it. He was ending the man's career--the least he owed him was a word on the way out . . . and offer him one more chance to save his salary, his benefits, and his pension. "No, Holly, it's all right. Send Reese in. And go home." "Yes, sir." Holly ducked out, then the door opened wider and Joe Reese entered, carrying a briefcase. Vetter walked around his desk, offered the man his hand, then gestured toward a seat in front of his desk, noting that Holly had closed the door. As Joe Reese seated himself, Vetter walked back to the window. "Joe. What can I do for you? Had a change of heart?" "No, Commissioner. Just thought I'd drop off some paperwork for you." Setting the briefcase on his lap, Reese opened it as Vetter turned and seated himself. He leaned forward and handed the Commissioner an inch thick sheaf of papers. "That's the transition report. Staff, assignments, up to the minute case load . . . everything the incoming Captain will need for the Ninety-sixth precinct." "Excellent. I'm certain this will make the job that much easier." Vetter took the paperwork and thumbed through it, although it didn't really matter to him. He hadn't decided who was getting the ninety-sixth. There were a few favors outstanding that it would solve, certainly. "What's the attitude of your people?" Reese lowered his gaze. "As I said, Commissioner, they're professionals. They gave me a hand when I went in to replace Cohen and they'll help whoever you send to replace me. They understand." "Understand?" Vetter thumbed through the paperwork again. Actually, the ninety-sixth was undermanned. He might be able to make a few transfers that would work for him. A couple of promotions and a couple of lateral moves . . . . "That they were there before me and they'll be there long after I'm gone, and long after whoever you choose to replace me is gone. Those people are what make the ninety- sixth work." "Yes," said Vetter absently. "I suppose they are." He looked up at Reese sternly--he'd give the man one more chance. "And that's all, then?" "Well, there's this." Reaching into his briefcase, Reese withdrew a file folder and handed it across the desk, then closed his briefcase again after Vetter took the file from him. Before Vetter could even open the folder, he said, "That's the final draft of the Internal Affairs report and the preliminary draft of the Shooting Review Board's inquiry. Detective Knight is still missing, so they haven't closed either investigation, but they've pretty much cleared him of any charges of excessive force, incompetence, or negligence in the death of his partner and the prisoner, Dawkins." Vetter was hard pressed to keep his mouth closed. Placing the report on his desk, he tore the clip away and began to scan it. The findings of the investigators and the board were spelled out in succinct terms in the last few pages of each report. Reese was right--Knight had been completely exonerated. And although Reese was cited for not having ordered cuffs for the prisoner, witness testimony from the custody officers supported his call. Reese wasn't to be indicted. In fact, he was commended for instigating an immediate manhunt, cutting the suspect off from access to the public areas of the precinct, and for limiting the number of casualties. He felt the flush of anger rising from his chest straight up through his neck. Richard Vetter turned back the pages and read them again, but the words didn't change. He closed the file folder, then picked up the entire thing and tossed it pointedly into the trash can beside his desk. "That is the report that will be delivered to the Police Commission," he told Reese, in as even a tone of voice as he could manage. "I'm afraid that it is, Commissioner. Especially since you're resigning your post, effective immediately." When Reese opened the briefcase again, Richard Vetter cautiously moved his hand to the upper drawer of his desk, where his service revolver was kept. But when the briefcase closed, he saw that Reese was holding an inter-office envelope. It took a moment to register. He met Reese's gaze. "I never thought you had it in you, Joe." "Neither did I." Reese tossed the envelope onto his desk. "I was saving the worst until last. Go ahead, take a look." Vetter was proud that his hands didn't tremble as he undid the cord that held the flap of the envelope shut and then tilted it, so that the contents spilled out onto his desk. He ran his fingers through the papers, recognizing this or that. Most of them contained his signature. "They could be forgeries." "The originals aren't. And the originals are going to the papers." He picked up one memo, then tossed it aside only to find the memo beneath it even more inflammatory. "There's a whole career there, Commissioner," said Reese quietly. "A whole history of pulling strings and covering up mistakes. Maybe nobody'd blink at one or two, but there's a ton of it there. Not to mention a couple that should raise some eyebrows next door at City Hall." Vetter glanced down at the drawer that contained his gun. "You'd do that to the force? You'd ruin us, to get back at me for taking away your job?" "No, Commissioner. I'm doing this to make sure that when I'm gone, you're not here to pull this shit any more." Reese set the briefcase beside his chair and leaned forward. "It seems to me I've spent most of my career sucking up to people like you. I've swallowed a lot of manure so your uniform can look clean and sharp. I've watched good cops fall by the roadside so your special charges could run roughshod over what we're supposed to stand for, but I always knew they'd be transferred out eventually. So I kept records. Careful records. And I paid attention. The reason people like you can do what you do is that nobody pays attention." "I'll remember that for next time." Vetter rested his left hand on the lip of the drawer and began to pull it toward himself, slowly, his eyes on Reese the entire time. "So, Joe, what do you want? Your job back? It's yours. Forget the IA investigation. But Knight--?" He shook his head. "Someone's gotta pay, Joe. My baby's dead and someone's gotta pay." Reese rose to his feet and walked across the office, toward the wall of photographs. "If someone's gotta pay, Richard, it should be you." He turned and gestured over his shoulder. "Tracy was a bright young woman. She would have made a good detective in time, but you pushed her in way over her head. Just like you'd done her entire life. That girl wanted nothing more in the world than to please you." He walked to the desk and leaned his palms against the blotter, looming over Vetter. "But she never could, could she? Just when she'd make her mark, you'd pick her up and move her somewhere else. It's a credit to her that people actually liked her. Most of 'em saw what you were doing and felt sorry for her." Reese shook his head, straightened, and walked back to the chair, leaning his hand on it for support. "It's a damn shame that Tracy died, just when she'd started to figure it out, just when she was starting to stand up to you." The drawer was open. Vetter glanced inside, then slipped his hand into the darkness. He felt his fingers fold over the grip of the gun. "What would you know?" he asked bitterly. Reese turned toward him. "I know that she loved you. And that the reason it took her so long to make her life her own was because she didn't want to hurt you. If she died, Richard, it was because you put her in the line of fire; you raised the bar so high that there was no way in hell she could make the jump every time. And this time--she didn't." There was a bright spot of color just beneath the papers scattered across his desk. With his right hand, Richard Vetter pulled out the picture of his daughter and dropped it on top of the mess. He closed his eyes and found himself blinking back tears. Reese was wrong. Reese to be wrong. But there was some part of his soul that wept the tears he couldn't allow. There was some place within that knew that Reese was right, that his wife had been right all those years ago. He opened his eyes and looked down at the picture of his child, his dead child, suddenly realizing that there had been no time for goodbyes. The last words he'd heard from her had been over the phone. 'I love you, daddy.' Reese stepped up to the desk, then reached into the garbage and withdrew the Internal Affairs report. He dropped it onto the desk blotter, taking care not to obscure Tracy's picture. "I think it's best for all concerned that you resign, Commissioner. That way, Internal Affairs can deliver the report they've put together. When we find Knight it'll be an investigation, instead of a necktie party." "And . . . if I refuse." He looked up at Reese, trying to muster something of his old spirit. "It goes to the papers." He had to give him credit, Reese looked slightly embarrassed, even sorrowful. "Every deal, every cover-up, every string is gonna be out there in public. It's gonna come down hard on you. It's gonna come down hard on your family." Reese gestured toward the wall of pictures. "Hell, it's gonna come down hard on all of us, from the blues on the street to the guys in the suits and ties. It's gonna cut a hole in the force that'll take years to mend, if it ever does." "Then why chance it?" Reese stared at him, at the coldness in his tone. "Because you're a cancer, Commissioner. You've been growing so long, you're wrapped around every vital organ this police force has left. If I don't cut you out now, while there's still a chance of saving something, it's all gonna happen someday, anyway. The whole thing'll come tumbling down around our ears. This way, maybe I can save some of it. This way, maybe Tracy's death makes sense." He shook his head, then walked back to the chair and picked up the suitcase. "I've said my piece. Good-night, Commissioner." The building was all but empty. "Joe?" Reese paused, hand on the door, barely turning. "Commissioner?" The building was empty. His hand was sweating on the grip of the gun. "What would Tracy have said to you, if she knew that you were doing this to her father? Have some respect for the dead. Damnit, man, she isn't even in the ground yet!" "Respect?" Lowering his head, Reese paused for a moment, as if there were a great weight on his shoulders. Then he straightened and met Vetter's gaze with sad and weary eyes. "What would she have said, Commissioner, if she knew it was all true? What would have done to her?" The building was empty. His hand was sweating on the grip of the gun. The door closed behind Joe Reese. Commissioner Richard Vetter sat motionless for a long time. It was only when he felt his fingers cramp that he removed his hand from the drawer, then slammed it shut, wincing at the loud noise. He stared down at his desktop, which was covered with mementos of his checkered career. She would have loved him. Despite all this, his little girl would have loved him. But she would have hated him for what he'd done. She would have lost all respect for him because he'd destroyed the police force, betrayed the people she'd sworn to protect and serve . . . because she wanted to please him. Because she wanted him to love her. Did she know that he would have loved her, no matter what her choice had been? Staring down at the picture of his daughter, Richard Vetter knew that he was about to make the most important decision of his life. But all he could hear were his daughter's last works, spoken while she was at a crime scene, her voice broken and distorted by the signal of the cell-phone. 'I love you, daddy.' Only then did he allow himself to cry. -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@cybervanguard.com. From V4S@CYBERVANGUARD.COMSun Nov 3 13:10:09 1996 Date: Sat, 2 Nov 1996 20:29:06 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: Multiple recipients of list FKFIC-L Subject: V4S: Resurrection (15/19) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #1 Episode Title: "Resurrection" Author: Susan M. Garrett Part 15 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 was an effort to push aside the elevator door, but Nick managed it . . . then nearly fell into the loft as his ankle gave way again. He stumbled toward the piano and grabbed hold of it, his hands sliding across the satin black surface leaving stains of bloody sweat. "Nat?" he called weakly. There was no answer. He hadn't really expected one. Almost falling over the piano bench, he stopped, holding himself upright by locking his elbows and leaning against the seat of the bench. By the fireplace, that's where they'd been. Not too far from that. She was gone. Pushing off from the bench, Nick took a few steps more onto the carpet before his leg gave out. He caught himself on his palms and half-crawled, half-dragged himself to the spot where he'd last left her. Resting his forehead on the carpet, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He could still smell her perfume--faint, but there. And blood . . . . Opening his eyes, he supported his body with one hand and ran his other hand along the carpeting. When he looked at it, his palm was covered with flakes of red-brown and a little wetness from a deeper stain that hadn't quite dried. Natalie's blood. Nick brought his fingers to his lips and tasted her once again, but the blood was old. It held nothing of the vitality and beauty of her spirit and her soul. She had wanted to live, demanded that he bring her across if he should fail to stop drinking, if he drained her to the point of death. She had wanted to die . . . but she'd also wanted to live. He'd failed her. If he'd had enough blood for tears, he might have cried. Still, there was some feeling of moisture at the corner of his eyes, a stinging and burning sensation. His heart felt heavy and broken and he wanted nothing more than to die, to join her in infinite darkness. But the taste of her blood awakened some sense in him. Falling onto his back, Nick stared up at the wooden beams stretched across the ceiling of the loft. In an earlier century, they would have been edged with gilt and gold, with motifs and frescos painted between, beyond mortal sight but clear to his eyes as if they'd only been inches away. For mortals, it was enough to know that they might hold heaven so close, that it was there, just beyond their vision. He no longer had that certitude. If he should take his own life, he'd never find Natalie again. Alyssa's spirit had said it; as he was now he could never join her. Heaven was denied him--his sins weighed too heavily on his soul. By allowing Natalie to die, he'd separated them forever. He hoped that in whatever place her spirit found itself, she would find some measure of happiness or, barring that, peace. When the blood hunger struck again, Nick curled automatically into a ball, but his muscles were too weary and ravaged to do more than mimic a response. This time, however, the blood was close--only across the room. The hunger knew that. He had no choice but to struggle to his feet, grabbing the couch, then the table for support as he made his way to the refrigerator. Falling, he crawled the last of it, then nearly pulled the appliance down on top of himself as he grabbed the handle and levered himself upward, to his feet. He didn't stop to count the bottles--they were all alike. He grabbed one, bit into the cork and spit it across the room. Then he upended the bottle into his mouth, his hand sliding across the smooth surface of the refrigerator, trying to hold his balance while he drank. Swallow after swallow and it was not enough. There was no thought to breath or break, there was only his body's ravenous nature, the need for blood, the hunger for it, driving him beyond all sense. When the first bottle was empty, Nick tossed it across the room, ignoring the sound as it shattered on the floor. He reached instantly for another, then stopped. Now, he could rest for a moment, take his time and think. His body demanded more, but he was accustomed to putting those desires on hold, pushing them back so often that he'd gotten used to the constant, dim burning hunger layered beneath his daily routine. Still holding the bottle, he closed the refrigerator door, then took a tentative step. His foot held, the bones already beginning to mend. The pain was still there, lingering after the injury as it habitually did, nerve endings not quite convinced that he had healed. Limping back to the couch, he fell into the seat and then turned, knees slightly bent as he rested the bottle on them. Cow blood, not human. The foul taste lingered in his mouth and he turned his head in disgust . . . until his gaze fell upon the spot where he'd last left Natalie. The memory of her blood was still fresh to him, making the cow blood even more bitter. Pulling out the cork, he drank again, telling himself that this was his penance. He would never drink human blood again after this. Not in any form, fresh or bottled. Which assumed, of course, that he was going to stay. Closing his eyes, Nick rested his head against the arm of the couch. No, he had to leave here. With Natalie dead-- they'd be looking for her--and Internal Affairs investigating Tracy's death, he couldn't stay. His life as Nick Knight, Homicide detective for the Metropolitan Toronto Police, was over. To protect the community, he had to move on. But where? And how? Opening his eyes, he took another long swallow from the bottle, then held the cool glass against his cheek as he stared across the room. There'd be no time to take anything. Just a few clothes. Feliks would handle the rest for him, store it somewhere until he could bear to look at it again. But Joan's cross would travel with him. Nick smiled at the thought that part of his essential baggage was an old cross--what LaCroix say? The thought sobered him. Shifting position on the couch, he swung his legs to the floor, drank again, and leaned forward, staring at the spot in the carpeting where Natalie had fallen. He couldn't go with LaCroix, not now. He was only starting to understand that there were parts of LaCroix he could deal with, empathize with, admire . . . but he could be as LaCroix wanted him to be. He could not become a killer again and allow his nature to prevail. It was the one thing that divided them and it could not be overlooked. LaCroix would always try to undermine him, finding ways to make him susceptible to the beast within him. Eventually, he would succeed. Nick closed his eyes for a moment and bowed his head. He wouldn't let that happen. Not again. If he died, if he ceased to exist, how many lives might be spared? Even a decade ago, how many people wouldn't have died if he hadn't been here? Jennie would still have a father, Amanda Cohen might be alive, Tracy, Natalie . . . Natalie. He drank again, opening his eyes--a smaller sip. He could feel the skin of his shoulder knitting closed, stretching and healing the wound LaCroix had given him. That was the only answer, wasn't it? To die. He was a murderer a hundred times, a thousand times over. He deserved a death sentence. At sunrise. He'd die at sunrise. He'd go down to the beach, beyond the reach of the piers, where there'd be no shelter for him. It would take an effort of will to resist the pain, to not fall victim to his self-preservation and bury himself in the sand. The blood he was drinking now would make the burning worse, so much worse . . . . Nick drank again, then put the bottle down on the table beside him with a thud. Good. He'd drink all night, then. He'd drink every drop of blood in the loft. He deserved to burn for a long time. The click sounded as he rose to his feet and he stared across the loft at his unexpected visitor--there was a man standing in his kitchen, closing the door to the stairwell that led down to the garage. His hair was dark, cut just to the tops of his brown eyes. He was wearing a light brown suit-jacket over his white shirt. He was Asian. Nick was certain that he'd never seen the man before. "You've picked the wrong time for a B and E," he threatened, his voice low and menacing. "Get out. I'm with the police." "So am I." The man smiled and leaned back against the door. "And this isn't breaking and entering--I've got a key." He lifted the keys in his hand, holding them out at arm's length so Nick could see them clearly, then tucked them into his pant's pocket. "You must be Nick. I'm your new partner, Adam Sakai." The word 'partner' stung him. For a moment he saw Schanke standing in his kitchen, cooking at his stove. When he turned it was Tracy leaning in the elevator door, telling him to hurry, that they'd gotten a call on a body downtown and didn't he listen to his answering machine? The smile that memory brought to his lips quickly disappeared. Nick stalked to the refrigerator and opened the door. Taking out another bottle, he clutched it to his chest and walked back to the couch. "I don't have a partner. And I don't have a job." "Captain Reese seems to think you're still working for the department." "Well, he's wrong. I quit. So--no job." Nick fell back onto the couch and set the full bottle beside the half- empty one, a lump rising in his throat at the thought of Tracy sliding down the wall and leaving a trail of blood as she fell, on the tile, on his hands . . . . More blood on his hands. "And no partner. The last one's dead." "That's what I heard. I'm sorry." Sakai walked across the kitchen--Nick heard the footsteps--then stopped at the table behind the couch. "I'm looking forward to working with you." "Why?" Nick turned and pinned Sakai with a stare hard enough to make the detective back up a step. "I'll only get you killed, like the others." Sakai held his stare in defiance. Nick rose to his feet, never breaking the contact and the man's heartbeat became audible, a low thrumming in the back of his skull that grew slightly in volume and intensity with each passing second. His new partner, someone else fate had destined for an early grave. Why not kill him now and be done with it, before he began to care what happened to this partner, before they became friends? "That's . . . that's part of the risks of the job." Sakai's voice was distant and soft, as if he were in a dream. Nick smiled--had him. Had him . Now, just to take him. Just to take-- There was a clink of glass against glass as Nick's leg jostled the table on which the bottles were standing. He looked down at the sound and when he looked up, Sakai was shaking his head. Lost him. Still . . . . Nick walked around the table and passed Sakai, making a wide circle around him, drawing him out into the room. Trying to keep him in sight, Sakai turned with him. "We can't think about the risks. If we did, they'd drive us crazy. It's no wonder so many cops have breakdowns. But we're in this because we want to be in this. If we don't hunt down the creeps and the crazies and get them off the streets, who will?" His back to the fireplace, Nick stopped and glanced down at the floor. The moonlight was filtering through the window, casting a shadow of bars across the floor. Bars, to keep the madness out. Or to keep it inside, secure, where it couldn't harm anyone. But when madness pretended to sanity, when it was released into the world masquerading as reason-- <<< Nicholas had only seconds remaining in which to search-- he could see the coachman lighting the lamps at the front of the coach--and he'd seen no sign of the woman he'd released from the asylum. In a near panic, he ran around the edge of the old manor again, to the front courtyard. The lights from within cast spots of brightness along the lawn, the bars on the windows breaking the brilliance into ordered, even squares and rectangles. It was a place not of healing, but of hiding, a place where the mad and the infirm were kept from sight and the mind's eye, relegated to a lonely, horrid existence until they disappeared into the darkness, remembered only as portraits in a family gallery or names and birthdates inscribed on the flyleaf of an ancestral bible. He still couldn't believe that LaCroix was right about her madness--she'd fled because she'd been frightened, that was all. She was no more mad than he. She had to be somewhere on the grounds. Or she might have escaped beyond the hedges and the large iron gate that surrounded the grounds of the manor house, seeking shelter in the fields beyond. If he returned to the carriage, they might even encounter her on the road back to town . . . . Half-convinced that this was what had happened, Nicholas finally stopped at the corner of the manor house and turned. Prepared to admit to LaCroix that he hadn't found the woman, he heard the clatter of horse's hooves and the sounds of the springs and wheels of a carriage on cobblestone. At first he feared that LaCroix was leaving without him, but the sound came from the front of the building and not the rear. Remaining in the shadows as best he could, Nicholas saw two warders meet the coach, one man grabbing the halter of the lead horses to hold them steady. The rear coachman stepped down from his perch on the back of the carriage and moved to the doors, lowering a small series of steps from the body of the coach. A man stood silhouetted against the lights from the coach lamps for an instant, then he descended the steps to the cobblestones. He turned back toward the coach as if awaiting his companion. Nicholas turned his gaze to the coach as well, which was why he missed the creature that launched itself out from the shrubbery near the portico stairs that led into the manor house. He could not miss the scream and the flash of a blade--once, twice--as the attacker stabbed the man who had exited the coach. Moving with the speed of thought, he was there, his hands grasping the body beneath the white linen shift, fighting the madwoman. She stumbled from her victim, then launched herself at him, the knife catching him in the chest, just beneath the heart. Nicholas fell back, his hand clutching his shirt as blood leaked out between his fingers. An attendant reached out to help him, but he waved the man away and then approached the woman again. She'd fallen to the cobblestones, the knife beside her-- she'd knifed herself after she'd struck him. A red stain spread down the length of the white shift and her blonde hair was in disarray beneath her like a halo. She looked like nothing less than a blood-soaked angel. Another attendant and the coachmen were turning over the man who'd exited the carriage. The attendant looked up at the victim's companion, who'd just now alighted from the steps of the carriage. "He's dead, milord." The attendant met Nicholas' eyes, then caught side of the blood on his clothes. "You've been wounded sir!" "A scratch only," said Nicholas. He sighed, despite the pain another deep breath cost him, then knelt beside the woman. "What's happened here?" A shadow fell over him and he looked up to see the man who'd been in the coach. "Lord Carlisle," he said, by way of introduction. "I came to provide counsel for Lady Christina." He touched the woman's face and she moaned. "Damnable business. Someone will answer for this." He lifted his head, shouting, "Someone answer for this!" Swallowing, Nicholas stared down at the woman's face. "She was mad?" "Quite mad. Obsessed with jealousy," said Carlisle. Spotting an attendant hovering nearby, he shouted, "Damnit, find me a doctor, man, she's dying!" Then he looked at Nicholas again. "Leslie knew the girl was wrong in the head when he married her, but she came from good family, extremely well-bred. He thought responsibility would agree with her. But she became irrational--she accused him of having affairs with her maids. He noticed that the girls he hired never remained with them long and thought his wife was dismissing them without references, but she claimed the girls ran away. He believed her . . . until he found one of the bodies, quite by accident." The woman, Christina, gave a slight cough. She smiled sleepily and her eyelids fluttered, then she looked up at Nicholas. "Leslie?" Carlisle grasped her hand tightly. "He's dead, Christina. You've murdered your husband." "Good. Now he'll never . . . leave me." She closed her eyes and sighed. "We'll be together forever. Forever . . . ." The final beats of her heart sounded in Nicholas' ears. He held his hand to his mouth and turned his head away, then noticed the taste of blood. Looking down at his hand, he saw that it was spattered with his own blood. And Christina's, from the taste of it. Staggering to his feet, for a moment he knew only of her mad obsession for her husband's affection, transmitted through her blood. It was like drowning, being flooded with sound and light and thought that centered only around one thought--to keep and hold forever. Utter and complete possession. "Well now, she's dead." Carlisle looked up at him, frowning. "Have you anything to do with this place? Where's the administrator, for God's sake?" Nicholas stared at him, unable to answer, then nearly jumped as a hand touched his shoulder. "Only visitors, like yourself," said LaCroix calmly. He glanced down at the dead woman, then shook his head. "Pitiful. But mindless devotion often is. And such a waste." He placed his hand behind Nicholas pulled at his coat. "It's over. Come, the coach is waiting." But Nicholas paused for an instant and stared down at Christina, licking the blood from the side of his hand and drowning again in the whirlpool of her memories. <<< Shaking himself from his memory, he realized he was standing on the spot where Natalie's body had been and his knees suddenly felt weak. He been mad, to think that he might join Natalie in death. She had told him once that suicide wasn't the answer--it had been after Erica had walked into the sun. And he'd agreed, then. But now--? There was a sound, motion. Sakai was standing by the table, picking up the half-filled bottle of blood. Growling beneath his breath, Nick walked across to the table and placed his hand over Sakai's. "Leave it," he said sharply. "And get out." At first, Sakai didn't move an inch, but Nick slowly placed more pressure on the man's hand. With a cry, Sakai released the bottle and drew his hand back as Nick snatched the bottle from thin air and set it back down on the table. He glared up at Sakai, who stood there, rubbing his hand, and staring. "Get out." "I don't know if you're drunk or what, but you need help, Knight," said Sakai, trying to keep his voice even . . . and almost succeeding. "I haven't been down there more than a day, but everyone at the station has asked about you at least once. You've got a lot of people who care about you." Nick bowed his head, thinking of Schanke, of Tracy, of Natalie . . . . "Caring about me only gets people killed," he whispered. Then he raised his head and took a step toward Sakai. "Get out. This is the last time I'm going to tell you." He could hear the blood flowing through Sakai's body, could hear the heartbeat, strong and steady like a siren song. The smell of it was a perfume he'd intimately known for centuries. Blood. Human blood. He'd tasted human blood again, warm and salt-iron, sweeter and more satisfying than any drink, any food could be. The heart beat faster and he glanced up, seeing the faintest sheen of sweat on Sakai's forehead. The man rubbed his hands together--he was afraid. So much the better. Fear was so sweet in the blood. Fear was fire on the tongue. "I think I should stay," said Sakai. He straightened and adjusted the collar of his shirt, unconsciously reacting to Nick's stare. Nick smiled as Sakai exposed his neck. "It's your choice," he said, lips twisting into a predatory smile as he took a step forward, eyes holding those of his prey. "If you don't leave now, you'll stay . . . forever." -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@cybervanguard.com.