DOWN INTO HELL

DOWN INTO HELL   by Leslie G. S.

It is easy to go down into Hell;  night and day,
the gates of dark Death stand wide;  but to climb
back again, to retrace one's steps to the upper
air -- there's the rub, the task.
                                                 --Virgil


Outwardly placid, inwardly quite upset, Catherine gave her statement
in a clear, steady voice.  Her shapeless clothing of muddy colors
muted the comfortable prettiness of her features, dulling the rich
brown of her hair and eyes.  She sat, back straight, in the hard
plastic chair, only the slight stiffness of her posture and the white
knuckled fist which clenched her rosary revealing her tension.  A
treasured gift from her husband, she thanked the saints that it had
been in her pocket when her purse was snatched.  The officer taking
her statement, a woman, treated her very kindly.  Catherine described
her attacker meticulously for her, even down to the fact that his long
brown hair badly needed a good shampooing.

The police officer turned away from her for a moment to do something
with her computer.  Catherine allowed her gaze to wander aimlessly
about the room, when movement out in the hall caught her eye.
Standing just outside the door in a heated conversation with a tall
blond woman was....

"Who ... who is that?" she stammered.

The woman glanced up and followed Catherine's gaze, then smiled.  She
lowered her voice, whispering in a conspiratorial tone.

"That's Detective Knight.  Quite nice to look at, isn't he?"

Catherine, oblivious to the officer's obvious interest in the handsome
detective, replied weakly. "Yes. Quite."

****
Father Randolf sighed bitterly as the phone rang again.  No doubt
another woman with a family crises.  He had just spent a tedious half
hour trying to soothe a parishioner into forgiving her philandering
husband and allowing him back into his own home.  He had very little
patience for feminine hysterics and resented this intrusion into his
life.  He picked up the offending phone and snapped, "Father Randolf."

"Father, forgive me for bothering you in the evening.  This is
Catherine Raleigh."

"Catherine," said Father Randolf, with some relief.  Catherine was a
sensible woman, a young widow quietly active in the church.  She knew
her place as a woman, pliant to the teachings and ways of her
religion, not given at all to hysterics, dependable, but with little
imagination.  Which was in itself remarkable, considering some of the
things she had seen in the past, some of the things she had brought to
his attention.

"Father, I was down at the police station.  And--"  He groaned
inwardly at her pause, shaking his head.  It _was_ some kind of
personal emergency.  Still, he forced himself to speak with concern.

"Catherine, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Father.  At the police department, though--"

"Catherine, please go on."

"There's -- Oh Father!  There's a vampire at the police department,
Father.  _On_ the police force.  He's a detective."

Randolf's heart gave an alarming lurch.  He squeezed out, "A -- a
vampire, Catherine?  Are you certain?"

"Yes, Father, yes.  Like the one you ... dealt with five years ago."

Pulse and thoughts racing, he asked urgently, "Catherine, can you come
over right now?  Do you need a ride?"

"No, no, Father, I'm at home.  It'll just take me ten minutes to walk
over."

"I'll see you shortly then, Catherine."

"Yes, Father."

****
Over the next month a very quiet, very skillful, very practiced
surveillance operation was undertaken at the Toronto police
department.  At the end of that month, Father Randolf presented
himself at a meeting with, not his official superior, but his chosen
one.  They met in the comfortable study of a man Randolf knew only as
Father Blake.  Blake was somehow not outside the normal structure of
the Church, exactly, but not really within it, either.  He held what
some deemed old-fashioned and obsolete ideas about the Church and its
place in the world; Randolf happened to agree with him.  They had met
just a few times before -- usually, Randolf serving as a simple
carrier of information.  But on one occasion, the meeting had led to
the most terrifying experience of his life, one that still left him
waking from nightmares, sweat dripping down his body, tense muscles
quivering in fear.  Though he fervently prayed this would not lead
down a similar path, he would go where Blake directed.  Such was his
duty to this man and to the Church.

"So, Randolf, what can you tell me?"  Blake stood at a low table,
pouring a couple fingers of brandy into two snifters.

Randolf made himself comfortable in an armchair, a sheaf of notes in
his lap.  "Sir, the one calling himself Nicholas Knight has been a
member of the Toronto police department for five years.  He is
considered an excellent officer, and there seem to be no suspicions
concerning his true nature.  He has been awarded numerous citations
for bravery and service beyond the call of duty, and his fellow
officers respect him a great deal. He has one of the highest arrest
and conviction rates in the department.  His previous partner was
killed last autumn in a plane crash and-"

"Do you think this ... Knight was responsible?"  Blake handed Randolf
his glass and sat down in the armchair opposite him.  He cradled his
snifter in his hands to warm the brandy.

"It is, of course, possible, sir, that, ah, Donald Schanke discovered
his partner's secret and was executed for it.  But the police
department considers the explosion to be the work of a serial bomber
who was later apprehended by Knight and his current partner, Tracy
Vetter.  That person, however, died during the arrest."

"Convenient, that."

"Very, sir.  However, given the fact that Knight and Schanke were
partners, and many convenient opportunities would arise for Knight to
be free of this man in less complicated ways...."

"You don't think he was responsible."

"I feel that it is possible, of course, sir.  But there are simpler
explanations, making it unlikely that Knight murdered his partner."

"All right.  Go on."

"There is a possibility that he has a personal relationship with the
chief coroner-"

"Any chance he's a vampire, as well?"

"Ah, she, sir.  A Natalie Lambert.  No, sir. I assigned a team to
follow her and I had Catherine observe her, as well.  She's as yet
untainted."

"Just how personal is this relationship?"

"Unclear, sir.  More hints and rumors than facts, really."

"Any idea what his game is, Randolf?"

"No, sir.  I'm completely baffled.  However...."

"Yes?  Go on?"

"Well, this is something ... it's rather odd, sir."  He shifted in his
chair and took a sip of his brandy.  "This is Catherine's idea,
really, and as such, I would take it with a grain of salt.  No offense
to her, sir.  She's quite a sensible woman, really, but she is a woman
and Knight is physically attractive...."

"What is Catherine's little theory?"

"Well, as you recall, sir, she was involved in that episode five years
ago when that vampire was captured and killed.  She had an opportunity
to study that one before he died, and -- and she says Knight _looks_
different."

"Oh?"

"Yes, sir.  She says he seems ... sad.  That he carries an aura of
regret and guilt."

"Really?"  Blake's tone was flat.

"Yes, sir.  She wonders if he is sorry for what he is and what he has
done."

"You say he's attractive.  A woman's fancy."

"Probably, sir.  However, she ... I would like to point out that
Natalie Lambert is a medical doctor, and there is an element of
physical as well as spiritual contagion to vampirism.  It's possible
he's seeking some kind of a cure for his condition."

"I find that very hard to believe.  A repentant demon is as likely."

"Yes, sir."

"You disagree."

"Not ... really, sir.  The difference between a demon and a vampire,
though, is that at one point a vampire was a mortal, an ordinary
human.  They must remember that life, sir, and what it felt like to
have a soul.  Perhaps some of them long to return to their previous
lives, to reclaim God's grace."

"Hmph."

"I only persist in this, sir, because, while it seems unlikely, there
is a slight chance this is true.  If it is ... just think, sir.  To
turn a vampire back to the ways of the Lord.  What a victory.   And
what a possible source of information.  Knight might be able to help
us contain this ... problem."

"Ah."  The man leaned back in his chair, rubbing his dark beard.
After a moment he said, "A very slight possibility.  And a great risk
to the one who tried to find out if it was true."

"Definitely, sir."

Blake smiled slowly.  "I have just the man."

****
Nick's doorbell rang at 6, as he was trying to get ready for work.  He
walked over to the elevator door and pressed the speaker button.

"Yes?"

"Is this Nicholas Knight?"  The voice was deep, but clear.

"Yes, it is.  You are...?"

"Detective Knight, I'm Father Richard Dupont.  I'd like to speak with
you, face to face."

"About what, Father?"

"Jesus says those that would be healed should turn to Him.  Would you
be healed, Detective Knight?"

"....Father Dupont, this conversation is a bit on the bizarre side."

There was rich laughter from the speaker.

"You're right, Detective.  Perhaps I was being a little melodramatic.
I was hoping to get your attention."

"Why?"

"Well, the question was actually a serious one.  Would you like to be
cured of your affliction?  The one that involves your highly
restricted diet and risk of dangerous sunburn?"

Nick was momentarily stunned into silence.  Then he snapped, "This
conversation has just gone beyond bizarre.  Who are you?"

"I told you, Detective Knight.  Father Richard Dupont.  A Catholic
priest.  I'd really like to help you."

"There's a proverb about fools venturing where angels fear to tread."

The rich laughter drifted through the speaker again.

"Well, this isn't the first time I've been called a fool, but I'd like
to think I walk with the angels."

Keep this up, and you just may, thought Nick to himself.  Aloud he
said, "I'll meet you later tonight, Father.  Give me a number where I
can reach you and I'll call you just before midnight to tell you where
you can find me."

Nick was a bit surprised when Dupont acquiesced immediately, giving
him a number and finishing, "I hope you'll be able to come to trust
me, Detective."

Nick grunted noncommittally and said, "I'll see you around midnight."

"I look forward to it, Detective Knight.  Until then."

Nick left his apartment in a completely paranoid state of mind.  He
wasn't going to try going out a window and risk being caught on video
tape, if someone was spying on him.  But walking out the front door
was a nerve wracking experience.  He even checked the Caddy for bombs.

****
Unlocking the front door of the apartment, then pushing it wide,
Lacroix shoved the cooler into the foyer with his foot.  Following
behind it, he set the paper bag full of fresh linens and clothing on
its lid and shut and locked the door behind him.  Michael appeared at
the end of the short hallway, peering at him with that all too
customary mixture of attraction and revulsion before he schooled his
childish features to careful blankness.

Lacroix studied the young vampire, lips curling ever so slightly in
disgust.  He was clean, more or less, though his pale golden hair
tangled around his face in an unkempt mass.  Apparently the lure of
hot water was too much for the boy to resist, even in his distressed
condition.  Lacroix's memory supplied him with a spurt of images;
himself hauling Michael from the bottom of the bathtub by the throat,
ruining a silk shirt, a jumbled feeling of relief and regret that the
fever had killed the boy before he could get to him with the cure.
Michael's large blue eyes wide with shock, lashes clotted with water,
as he hung, dripping, from Lacroix's hand, wrenched from a somnolent
soak in a hot tub.

Wearing only grubby dark blue sweatpants a couple sizes too large,
Michael crossed his arms over his bare chest as Lacroix picked up the
ice chest, bag still perched on top.  He backed away from the man as
he advanced down the hall into the kitchen.  Wordlessly, he watched as
Lacroix opened the refrigerator to replenish the blood supply.  After
a quick glance at the number of bottles in the fridge, Lacroix rose to
his full height and turned to stare at the boy.  Yes, all the signs
were there.

"You aren't eating," he observed.

Michael shrugged, expression indifferent.

Impatient with his sulleness, Lacroix took a threatening step towards
him.  Eyes widening, the boy retreated, hands coming up before him.

"I -- I don't need as much as full grown vampires," Michael stammered.

"True," Lacroix replied.  "But you need more than you've been eating."
One hand shot out, capturing the boy's chin, tilting his face up to
study his features, transformed from those of a Baroque angel to a
young ascetic.  The boy's eyes closed at his touch, a fine tremor
running through his body.  Lacroix smiled, knowing the reaction wasn't
a response to simple fear.  Michael's seeming asceticism was only
that.  He released the youngster's face, allowing his fingers to trail
slowly off the fine skin.

"There are fresh sheets in the bag.  Take them.  Change the futon and
put the soiled sheets in the bag.  Or have you been sleeping in the
bathtub again?"

Muttering something inaudible, the boy snatched up the paper sack and
scurried for the bedroom.

"There is clean clothing in the bag as well," Lacroix called after
him.  "Get rid of those ... rags."  Lips compressed with irritation,
he opened the fridge again and replaced a few of the oldest bottles
with fresh ones.  In the sink, three rinsed empties had been propped
at a slant to drain.  Only three.  The boy had consumed only three
liters of blood in the past seven days.  Why this foolishness?  Didn't
he understand how dangerous that was, how it compromised what little
control he had?

He strode down the hallway toward the bedroom.  Michael might appear
to be a child but that gave him no excuse to behave like one.  He was
well over 500 years old and he hadn't gotten that far with such
senseless behavior.  Lacroix hadn't laid  a violent hand on him in the
past six weeks, but Michael was going to snap out of this sulk, if he
had to beat him out of it.  A chance glimpse through the door of the
empty family room pulled him up short, snapping him out of his
righteous ruminations.

"What is this!?" he snarled, glaring at the scribblings on the
previously clean, white wall.  Michael was suddenly hovering at his
elbow.

"I -- I'm sorry.  I wasn't thinking when I did it.  It -- it just came
out."

Brow furrowed with a black fury, he towered over the boy, who,
wincing, nevertheless held his ground.

"Michael, what is the point of these behaviors?" he growled through
clenched teeth.

"You -- you're keeping me penned up in here like an animal," the boy
spat back.

"No.  No, I'm keeping you like a prisoner.  _You_ are behaving like an
animal."  He turned and stalked back down the hall toward the kitchen.
If he laid hands on the wretched boy now, he would do him serious
injury.  "I expect to find you cleaned up and well fed when next I
visit."

"And when will that be?" Michael demanded of his back.

Back in the kitchen, Lacroix picked the empty bottles out of the sink
and put them in the nearly full cooler.  Straightening, he stared into
the trembling boy's frightened, angry eyes and said quietly, "What
does it matter?  It may be tomorrow, it may be next week.  Things have
been ... rather hectic.  I'm telling you to clean yourself," and he
pointed down the hall to the family room, "and that room.  You _will_
clean that wall with the same diligence you apply to yourself."

He picked up the cooler.  "You could have asked me for a notebook, by
the way."  As he expected,  Michael's chin took on a stubborn set.  He
refused to ask for anything, accepting what Lacroix provided with poor
grace, unwilling to indebt himself further.  Lacroix knew he must be
half insane with boredom; one of the things he had found appealing
about the youngster was his ravenous mind.  Lacroix would have
willingly brought him books, music, anything within reason, but the
boy refused to bend his neck and ask for them.

Michael's hungry eyes followed him through the foyer to the door.  As
he let himself out, Lacroix said, "When I again have the opportunity
we will spend a bit more time together, Michael, apply ourselves to
your ... training."

Mingled dread and desire darkened the boy's blue eyes, but he remained
silent.  Closing and locking the door, Lacroix found himself
regretting, again, the way things had turned out after he had found
the boy in New Orleans.  Yes, he had obtained the information he
sought, though he had not yet had the opportunity to put it to good
use.  But Michael's charms, and they were, in all honesty,
considerable, had not been apparent since Lacroix had brought him to
Toronto.  Grandson or no, the familial obligation had been stretched
to its limits, and only the fact Michael allowed himself to be
contained in this apartment offered him any hope that the boy could
regain his lost self-control.  Nicholas's needs came first, however,
and they had been distressingly evident of late.  In a black mood,
Lacroix pushed the call button for the elevator.  He sensed, vaguely,
the presence of a vampire not Michael, but it wasn't particularly
close, and Toronto sometimes seemed to be crawling with his kind.

****
When Nick arrived at the station, Reese sent him and Tracy right back
out.  Residents of an apartment building in the ritzy section of town
had reported hearing loud thuds and then someone screaming in agony.
Too timid to investigate, they had called the police.  When the
officers arrived on the scene, they found the body of a woman with a
wooden stake through her heart in a nearly empty apartment.  Both Nick
and Tracy moved with greater than usual alacrity.

Nick and Tracy arrived on the crime scene to find the typical
atmosphere of controlled chaos.  They wandered though the fractured
front door and began to carefully note their surroundings.  The large
front room was devoid of furniture, including lamps. Harsh crime scene
lights cast sharp shadows.  The murder victim sat slumped against the
far wall.  Her long, lush black hair flowed forward to conceal her
face.  She was dressed in a gray jacket and skirt, her white blouse
and the front of her jacket soaked with dark red blood.  The smell
told Nick instantly she was ... had been a vampire.  The police
photographer was busily snapping pictures, so the detectives took the
opportunity to peruse the rest of the apartment while she finished.

Only one room contained any furniture, a bedroom with a neatly made up
futon.  The connected bathroom was supplied with a couple towels, soap
and shampoo, but no other toiletry articles.  The rest of the
apartment was empty.  In one room, probably supposed to be a family
room, Nick found two police officers shining their flashlights on a
wall.  One turned as he walked in.

"Hey, Detective," he called out, "come take a gander at this."

Nick walked over and stared at the wall. The circle of light
illuminated thin, pencil drawn lines stretched horizontally across the
wall.  Tiny black dots were scattered over the closely spaced lines.
Nick frowned, then suddenly recognized the arcane inscriptions.  It
was a musical score.  He took the flashlight from the officer's hand
and played it over the wall.  From the very top of the wall where it
met the ceiling all the way to the floor, all across the twenty foot
stretch of blank, white wall were the precisely drawn lines and
carefully placed notes.

"What in the world...?" he breathed.

"Weird, huh?  This whole place gives me the creeps," volunteered the
officer whose flashlight Nick had commandeered.

"I think some guy used this place to meet his mistress and that's her
in the front room," opinioned the other.

"Could be, with only that bed in the place."

"And the wine, all that wine."

Pulling his gaze with difficulty from the complex harmonies the score
described, Nick queried, "Wine?"

"Yeah.  The fridge is stocked full of red wine."

Nick shoved the flashlight back into the officer's hand and hurried
toward the kitchen.  He passed through the living room in time to get
a wave from Nat, just before she slapped the arm of the ambulance
attendant who was about to take a yank on the stake embedded in the
woman's chest.  As he stepped into the kitchen, he saw that Tracy was
there before him, staring into the open refrigerator.

"Too weird," she said.  "Nothing but lots and lots of bottles of red
wine.  I didn't think you were supposed to refrigerate red wine."

"Different tastes," replied Nick, with a half smile.  He retrieved a
latex glove from his jacket pocket and pulled it on before he reached
for one of the bottles.  Tentatively, he sniffed at the cork.  Human
blood.  Jerking his head back, he gave an involuntary grimace, willing
the hunger to stay silent.

Taking his reaction for disgust, Tracy quipped, "What, not a favorite
vintage?"

"I -- I think it's gone bad," he managed to reply.  "We'd better get
this stuff boxed up for evidence.  We don't want any of these bottles
... wandering off."

Nick was driving back to the station with Tracy, the box of bottles in
his trunk, when a phone rang.  Both of them drew their phones, smiling
at each other. Nick's rang again.  Tracy put hers away as Nick flipped
his open.

"Knight."

"Nicholas--" began Lacroix.

Nick quickly flipped his phone to the ear away from Tracy.

"This isn't a good time," he said in a low voice.  Tracy lifted an
eyebrow, then studiously stared out the side window.

"Nicholas, listen to me very carefully.  That ... incident in the
apartment.  It is to be fixed.  Nothing is to come of it.  Do you
understand me?"

"....Yes.  What's it to _you_?"

"That is none of your concern.  But we _all_ will be more comfortable
if it doesn't become an issue.  Make sure your Dr. Lambert understands
this."

"Do you know who...?"  Nick shot a glance at Tracy, who was ignoring
him as best she could.

Lacroix laughed, a low, very ugly laugh.  "Indeed I do.  By the way,
if you see your little friend Michael, do let me know, won't you?  I
have a few words to say to him."

"M--.  He...?"

"Call me if you see him, Nicholas."  Lacroix hung up.

Nick stared at the dead phone in his hand a moment, then flipped it
closed and tucked it into his pocket.  Tracy glanced over at him,
trying not to seem curious.  Nick managed an unhealthy smile, then
silently turned away to concentrate on his driving.

****
Natalie yanked her gloves off with a satisfying snap and picked up her
clipboard to make a few notes.

"Well, Nick, she was definitely a vampire.  Anyone you know?"  She
frowned at the body.  "Knew, I mean."

Nick paced restlessly past the table that the corpse lay on, hands
stuffed into his pockets.  He threw a distracted glance at the body.

"No.  I've never seen her before."

"She's not gonna jump off the table, if I pull that thing out, is
she?"  Natalie flicked a finger at the stake still protruding from the
woman's chest.

"What?  Oh, no, no."

"Good.  I imagine she'd be a bit irritable."

"Nat, your report...."

"Nick, I see no need to mention the fact that the woman was dead, or
rather _undead_, before she was killed.  Give me a break."

"Sorry, Nat.  It's -- it's just that Lacroix has taken an interest."

"Did he...?"  She pointed to the stake again, eyes wide.

"I don't think so.  He says ... he hinted that it was Michael."

"Michael?  You mean ... little Michael?"  Her brow furrowed with
concern.

"Yeah."  Nick ran a hand through his hair.

"I didn't know he was back in town."  Natalie slowly drew on another
set of gloves as she studied Nick's face.  Picking up a scalpel, she
wondered if there was something going on in his vampire world she
should know about.

"I didn't either.  The last I heard, he was in New Orleans."

"Huh.  You'd think he'd get in touch if he was in town."  She
carefully focused her attention on her work before she used the
scalpel make an incision on the either side of the stake.

"I'm wondering how he got tangled up with Lacroix."

"Doesn't sound good for our boy."  She put down the scalpel and picked
up a pair of bone cutters, flipping down her safety goggles.

"Lacroix sounded very angry."

"Well, a vampire ending up on a slab in the city morgue could raise a
few eyebrows.  If it got out, I mean."

Biting her lip with the effort, she bore down on the handles of the
bone cutters.  The sternum split with a crunch.  Nick threw a glance
at Nat's work, then quickly looked away.

"Good thing he's got friends in the right places," Nat went on,
discarding the cutters.  "You might want to point that out to him.
That if Michael did do this, that nothing is going to come of it, at
least not from the mortal end of things."  She grabbed the stake and
gave it a good pull.  It wouldn't budge.

"Whew, this sucker's in there.  Give me a hand here, will you?"

"Nat...."

She glanced up at him and noticed his queasy expression.

"Oh, sorry.  Forgot you might take this personally.  That's okay, I'll
just dig around a little more."  She reached for the scalpel again.

"No, no, that's all right.  I'll do it."  He reached out and, with a
smooth movement, extracted the stake from the wound.  The sucking
sound made him wince.

"Thanks, Nick.  Just put it down there."

He gladly laid the stake down where she indicated and moved over to
the sink to wash and dry his hands.  He glanced at his watch.

"Nat, I'm going to be late for an appointment.  Gotta run."

"Nick."

He paused at the door.

"If Michael's in trouble...."

"I'll do what I can, Nat.  You know I will."

"I know."  She sighed as he gave her a quick smile and darted out the
door.

She turned back to the corpse on the table, distracting herself from
her concern about Michael by losing herself in the delight of having a
whole dead vampire body to play with.  She knew she'd have to move
fast; it was unlikely she'd be able to keep her new toy for long.

****
Once back in the Caddy, Nick called Dupont from his cellular phone.
The man sounded a little groggy at the beginning of their
conversation, but he perked up pretty fast when Nick asked to meet him
at Queen's Park in twenty minutes.

"A lonely spot," Dupont commented.

"Yes," Nick replied.

"How will I find you?"

"Don't worry, Father.  I'll find you."

Dupont, amazingly enough, chuckled.  If he did believe Nick was a
vampire, as he had implied, he was remarkably blase about putting his
life at risk.  Either a foolish man, or one of great faith.

Nick decided to drive the Caddy to Queen's Park and then walk around
to find Dupont.  He had been tempted to fly in and drop out of the
sky, just to show the man what he was up against, but common sense
prevailed, along with the deeply ingrained habit of secrecy. Dupont
might be wired or otherwise under observation, though he hoped to
decrease that possibility by choosing the meeting place at the last
minute.

He parked the car, then spiraled toward the center of the park,
keeping his eye out for any possible points where cameras or other
recording devices could be stashed.  Nothing.  He spotted Dupont
standing in the middle of a grassy spot.  At least he assumed it was
Dupont.  There couldn't be all that many men dressed in clerical garb
stamping with cold or nervousness in the middle of Queen's Park at
midnight.  Nick studied him intently, circling around him, checking
out the area.  Again, it was clear.  As far as Nick could tell the man
was alone and unmonitored.  He took the plunge and started walking
toward him, deliberately letting his feet fall heavily so his arrival
would not surprise the mortal.

The man turned to him and Nick immediately thought how appropriate the
name Richard was for him.  Nick had never met Coeur d' Leon, being
born a few decades too late, but he had seen portraits of him, and of
course had met other Plantagenets.  This man had the look -- the
lifted chin and the direct, fearless gaze.  He was about Nick's weight
and height, his hair short and black, with a springing wave.  His
clear gray eyes met Nick's with an intense curiosity.  His ruddy skin
had the tan of a man who preferred to spend his time outdoors.

"Nicholas Knight?" he inquired as Nick approached him.

"If you're Father Richard Dupont."

"Pleased to meet you, Detective."  Dupont held out his hand and, after
a moment's hesitation, Nick took it and squeezed gently.  Dupont
didn't flinch at the coolness of his palm.

"So, Father, I'd appreciate it if you would explain the odd ...
innuendoes you made this evening."

"All right.  I owe you that much.  To be perfectly direct, we know you
are a vampire and we want to help you."

"We?"

"The Church.  The Roman Catholic Church."

"Everyone in the Roman Catholic Church knows I'm a vampire and wants
to help me?" Nick inquired with mild sarcasm.

Dupont smiled.  "Not quite everyone.  But I do.  And I want to help."

"If I am what you're saying I am, why shouldn't I just kill you to
protect my secret?"

"You don't think I'm the only one who knows, do you?" Dupont  replied
earnestly.  "I mean this in no way as a threat, but I was sent.  I
didn't just stumble across you on my own."

"How was I found out?"

"Honestly, I don't know.  I wasn't told.  I'm sure you understand
why."

"You understand that you can't lie to me.  I have ways of detecting
deception."

"I'll never, never lie to you.  We want to help you, Detective Knight.
That's what the Church is here for, to guide souls to salvation.
Yours is no exception."

"Sorry if I seem a little dubious.  The encounters I've had with the
Church in the past were not congenial.  They just wanted to get rid of
me, not save me."

"Consider though: we know what you are and where you live.  We've
known for months.  Surely you realize that if we wanted you dead, we
would have made the attempt before now.  Instead, here I am, willingly
putting my life in your hands.  We've seen, Knight, we've seen that
you aren't a beast, that you are trying to do society some good."

The man took a half step closer, his eyes intent on Nick's.  "You must
understand, if God judged any of us fairly, on our merits, we would
all be damned.  We should all give thanks every day that he isn't
fair, because not one of us deserves the grace he gives so freely.  It
is only God's grace that saves any of us.  Don't be so prideful as to
think it can't save you."

"You must understand, Father, that I know, I _know_ I can't just ask
for absolution.  I have to earn it."

Dupont studied Nick a moment.  Then he said softly, "You can't earn
it, Knight.  Working to be worthy to receive God is the task of
everyone, but it is a task without end, because we can never hope to
merit his grace.  It's a gift, freely given, to the worst of us even
before the best.  All we have to do is ask, sincerely, for
forgiveness, and we will receive it.  But you do have to ask.  Have
you asked?"

Nick shook his head stubbornly, centuries of guilt choking off the
ember of hope this man strove to rekindle.  "I don't deserve it.
There's too much blood on my hands.  I have to atone for what I've
done."

"I can't say you are the only one who has ever felt that way.  You're
wrong, but maybe we can work together to help you come to the place
where you can ask."

"How?"

"Were you a ... church-goer before you became ... what you are?"

"I was Catholic."

"So you understand the process of contrition, confession and penance.
That is, the sacrament of Reconciliation."

"....Yes."

"Well?"

"What do you want me to say?  `Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
I last made confession 768 years ago?'"

The priest stared at him.  Nick raised his brows with a slight smile.
Dupont, after a moment of stunned silence, began to laugh.

"Well, I would imagine you're full of surprises.  This could be quite
a learning experience for me.  That is, if you want to take up the
challenge."

"I need to think about this, Father.  I believe you are sincere. But
... if I agree, there will be conditions."

"This won't work without a sincere commitment on your part."

"My conditions will have nothing to do with my commitment to this ...
process.  They will only be an attempt to assure my survival."

"Survival?"

"I can't die yet, Dupont.  I have too much to do."

****
Nick walked through door into his loft, about 45 minutes before dawn.
Brow furrowed, he replayed his conversation with Dupont, trying to
sort through his confusion.  A chance for redemption, for absolution.
But at what price?  His phone rang, interrupting his thoughts.  With a
sigh of impatience he hurried over to pick it up.

"Knight."

"Nick?  This ... this is Michael."  The vampire's treble voice was
sharp with tension.

"Michael!  Are you all right?"

"So far.  I'm not sure for how long though."

"Where are you?"

Michael gave a little snort.  "No way, man.  What you know, Lacroix
knows."

Wounded, Nick replied, "I wouldn't tell him where you were."

"S--sorry. You wouldn't on purpose, I know that."

Nick was silent a moment.  Then he said softly, "He found you in New
Orleans.  He picked it up from me."

"Nick, it's ... it's okay.  It doesn't matter now.  Listen, the reason
why I'm calling is ... I'd like you to -- to call him for me.  Tell
him it wasn't my fault.  She jumped me.  It wasn't my fault."

"Why don't you call him?"  Nick would gladly do whatever he could to
help the childish vampire, but he had learned the best way to deal
with Lacroix was head on.

"I am so scared, Nick.  Like he'll be able to figure out where I am by
osmosis or something.  And I don't think I could get out a coherent
word to him right now.  He'll kill me if he finds me, I know he will.
I've made too much trouble, but I want him to know I couldn't help it,
and I'll come back if he won't hurt me, or -- or kill me, anyway.  I
really, really don't know what to do.  I need your help Nick.
Please."

"Michael, Michael, slow down."  The boy's voice was reaching a painful
pitch.  "I'll call him.  But I'll be honest with you.  Lacroix is
unlikely to have his mind changed by anything I say."

"All too true, Nicholas," Lacroix agreed as he plucked the phone from
Nick's hand.  Nick jumped back a pace in surprise, startled yet again
by Lacroix's ability to shield his presence.

"Michael," said Lacroix softly, "tell me where you are and things will
be much less painful for you, I promise."

Stark silence reigned on the other end of the line.

"Michael," prompted Lacroix with quiet menace.

"Please, please, Lacroix."  Nick could barely hear the boy's whisper.

"I am out of patience with you, boy."

"Lacroix, it wasn't my fault.  I don't even know who she was.  She
just ... broke in.  With ... with that stake.  I ... please, just let
me come back.  I'll come back."

"By all means, Michael, come back.  We'll ... have a little talk."

Nick could hear Michael take a deep breath.  Then he asked, "Could ...
could it be outside?  Could we ... talk outside?'

Lacroix was silent a moment, then replied, "Of course.  I'll meet you
on Nicholas's roof.  Come now."  He hung up.  He turned and gave Nick
a little smile.  "Thank you for the use of your telephone."

"What are you going to do to him, Lacroix?"

His eyebrows arched. "You need not worry about this, Nicholas.  The
matter is no concern of yours."

"It is a concern of mine, Lacroix. You are meeting him on my roof. And
he is ... a friend."

"A friend?"  Lacroix chuckled.  "By all means.  In that case, I intend
to kill him.  Probably.  He might have something to say that will
change my mind.  But I truly doubt it."

"Lacroix, whatever happened, it doesn't sound like it was his fault,"
Nick reasoned desperately.

"Not directly, no.  But he's become infinitely more trouble than he's
worth.  And after all I've given him."  Lacroix slid a sly glance
toward Nick.

Predictably, he took the bait.  "And what was that?"

"Food.  Shelter.  Oh," said Lacroix with a smug smile and raised
eyebrows, "and an education.  I've given him _quite_ an education."

Nick didn't want to bend his mind around the thoughts that smile gave
him. With a bit of effort, he continued, "Don't you want to know what
went on?  Who attacked him and why?"

"Of course, Nicholas.  And you may rest assured he will tell me all he
knows before I do anything ... rash.  But it doesn't sound like that
will be much, does it?"  He went on, almost gently, "He's out of
control, Nicholas.  His mind has not matured enough to cope with the
madness which has overcome him."

Lacroix abruptly left the way he came in.  Nick quickly followed.  He
found Lacroix standing on the roof, studying the eastern horizon,
hands deep in the pockets of his trench coat.  The older vampire
turned to him, features molded into a reproachful cast as Nick touched
down in front of him.

"Leave this to me, Nicholas."

"I don't think so, Lacroix.  He's just a child.  He doesn't deserve to
be treated this way."

"Just a child?  Indeed."  Lacroix raised a dubious eyebrow.  "Well,
your little friend is not the same sweet ... child you came to know
and love.  He's much changed.  He's become a danger to us and to the
mortals you so cherish.  Go back inside."

"What did you do to him, Lacroix?"

"You have this bizarre notion that I am responsible for all that goes
awry in your world, Nicholas.  And you would better serve yourself to
mind your own business.  Let's just say it was ... entertaining."  His
lips bent into an all-too-familiar knowing curve.

"Dammit, Lacroix, you--"

Lacroix turned sharply away from his ranting son as Michael suddenly
appeared above the roof.  He hovered uncertainly a few feet above the
surface for a moment, glancing anxiously from face to face of the two
older vampires.  Then he slowly sank down about ten feet away from
them.  Nick studied him carefully.  He didn't look well.  Frightened,
of course, but there was a haggardness to his boyish features that
suggested he had not been eating well lately.  His blond hair was a
dirty tangle of curls.  He wore only a pair of sweat pants, and a
long, half-healed slash marred his chest.  He's so small, Nick thought
with a pang.  Michael gave Nick a weak smile, then focused his
complete attention on Lacroix, who stood unmoving and expressionless.

Then Lacroix reprimanded him with a deadly quietness, "If you had come
straight to me, you may not have found yourself in this position.  I
am very ... disappointed."

" I -- I was scared," the boy said miserably.  "I panicked.  I ran.
But -- but I'm here now."

"This, Michael, is an inconvenience.  Tell me what happened at the
apartment."

Michael shuffled his feet, a vampire of almost six centuries reduced
to the eleven year old he appeared to be, took a deep breath, and
began, "You -- you had just left, maybe a half hour before.  Th --
then the door just burst open.  I was in the back room.  She came
flying straight at me, with that stake.  I ducked, but...."  He placed
a hand on the slash on his chest.  "We fought.  I was faster than she
was, but I couldn't get out, couldn't run.  Somehow, it just took an
instant, she had me cornered and I managed to twist the stake around
and -- and push...."  Wincing, Michael  moved his hands up towards his
ears.  "She screamed.  And I ... ran.  Grabbed some stuff and ...
flew."

"Did you know her?"

"No, no.  I'd never seen her before.  And she didn't say a thing.  I
think ... I'm afraid...."

"Yes?"

"I think ... I think she was one of Rasena's people."

Lacroix blinked.  "Rasena's?"

Michael knotted his fingers together, twisting them hard.  "She knows
... she knows I let you find out about where she is.  I'm sure of it.
She knows I told."

Lacroix took a pace toward him, bearing down on the terrified boy.
"There is no blood bond between you and Rasena.  How would she know?"

Chin coming up, almost defiant, Michael replied, "She has her ways.
You know she does."

"Michael, you're delusional," Lacroix scoffed, the mention of Rasena's
"ways" annoying him further.

"Then who was she?" Michael challenged.  His control suddenly snapped,
and eyes sparking with yellow flame, he flung his arms wide and
shrieked, "Who was she?!"

Wincing at the painfully piercing tone, Lacroix stepped forward and
slapped the boy, following with two more open-handed blows as Michael
staggered, struggling to stay on his feet, blood spurting from his
nose and mouth.  A fourth blow rocked his head back and he tripped.
Lacroix caught him by the shoulder as he fell, hauling him upright
again, and squeezed.  Michael gave a short, sharp cry and as Nick
grabbed Lacroix's wrist, hard, he heard the boy's collarbone creaking.
In a moment of tight-strung stillness, Lacroix stared at Nick's hand
on him, then reached into a coat pocket and pulled out a ten inch
stake and set it under Michael's chin.  His icy blue eyes slid up to
Nick's.

"This isn't between you and me, Nicholas.  Yet.  But I could remove
Michael from the discussion and we could carry on.  Just the two of
us."  He pressed the sharp point into Michael's tender flesh, the boy
hissing at the caustic wood, the sudden trickle of dark red blood
stark against the white skin.

"Nick, Nick," Michael whispered, eyes flickering between Nick's face
and the stake at his throat, "I can take a beating, Nick.  No big
deal.  Okay?  I blew it.  I deserve it.  Okay?"

"No," Nick growled, increasing his pressure on Lacroix's wrist.  "I
won't allow it."

Smiling benignly at his son, the ancient vampire slowly pushed the
wooden dagger deeper into Michael's throat.  "_You_ won't allow it?"

Brows furrowing, Nick fought to keep his tone civil. "This is too
much."

"I quite agree," a woman broke in, and Lacroix found his other wrist
grasped and pulled inexorably  downward and away from Michael.  Three
pairs of astonished eyes stared at the small, black haired woman, who
locked her dark gaze with Lacroix's.

"Rasena," he said in amazement.  He released Michael, who collapsed in
a boneless heap.  Twisting his other wrist from Nick's grip, he
reached out, not quite touching her, fingertips nearly brushing her
cheek.  Her head tilted back slightly, her nostrils flaring, and he
lowered his hand.

"Lucius," she replied in her oddly accented Latin.  The breeze wrapped
her dark blue silk gown around her well-curved body, blowing her long
waving hair to flutter across their hands, her grip irresistible on
his wrist.  She squeezed a bit harder, setting the stake to quivering
in his grasp.  "What is this?  He's mine.  I never said you could have
him back.  This is quite irritating."

"Rasena!  It's you!  I'm so delighted to see you."  His smile of
pleasure actually reached his pale eyes.

The woman couldn't seem to restrain a small upward quirk of her lips.
"Yes, yes, Lucius.  You, also, are looking well.  But," she continued
in mock severity, "you nearly committed a serious mistake here.  You
should ask before playing with other people's property."

The curve of his lips deepening even more, Lacroix dropped the stake
to the rooftop, the resulting clatter echoing in the pre-dawn silence.

"Should I, my lady?" he inquired, turning his wrist in her hand to
raise her fingers to his lips.  His voice darkened as he continued.
"Then I offer you my sincerest apologies, and hope that you will allow
me to make it up to you in any fashion that pleases you."

The woman laughed, her dark eyes dancing.  "I'm going to hold you to
that, Lucius.  Now," she said, freeing her hand and turning to
Michael, "my fosterling and I are going to have a little talk."

Michael, stunned, still sat where he had fallen when Lacroix had
dropped him.  Eyes and mouth stretched into a gape of amazement, he
seemed unable to believe that he was alive and that it had been Rasena
who saved him.  When she turned on him, he reeled, eyelids fluttering,
as though he were about to faint.

"Really, Michel," she chastised, frowning, "you look a disgrace.
Stand up."

The boy staggered to his feet, wiping his nose with the back of his
hand, smearing a red stripe across his cheek.  With as much dignity as
he could muster, he walked over to stand in front of her.  He knelt
smoothly, taking the hem of her long skirt and bringing it to his
lips.  Gazing up into her face, he said a few words in a language Nick
didn't recognize, but which he assumed to be Etruscan from what little
he knew of Rasena's past.  She replied shortly in the same language,
then turned her attention back to Lacroix.

"It will soon be dawn, Lucius.  I must return to my home.  Michel will
come with me.  Also, the woman's body must be claimed.  I will send
some of my mortal attendants to see to that.  Let's meet tomorrow
night. I will come to your establishment, the Raven."

"Rasena, I'll be delighted to see you then.  That is, unless I could
persuade you to come spend the daylight hours with me."

She smiled, but replied, "I'm sorry, Lucius.  I have a bit of ...
housecleaning to do.  I look forward to seeing you tomorrow."  She
reached down to take Michael by the wrist and pull him to his feet.

"Rasena, be aware," Lacroix said quickly.  "Any mortals you have in
your household should be kept away from the boy.  That is, if you want
to assure their safety."

"Oh?" she said, frowning down at the boy whose wrist she held.  He
ducked his head in shame.  "He always had such wonderful control, even
as a fledgling.  That is, after I cleaned him up."

Lacroix smiled a bit too smoothly.  "Things change."

She shot him a searching glance.  "We'll have a long talk, Lucius.
Until tomorrow."  She then turned to Nick and gave him a smile that
curled his toes.  He bowed silently, then she and Michael flew up into
the graying sky.

Nick turned to Lacroix, who watched them depart with a small smile
quirking his lips.  He then glanced at Nick and said with great
satisfaction, "Things have just gotten very interesting, Nicholas.
Come by the Raven, if you like.  I didn't have the chance to properly
introduce you.  Good night, or rather, good day."  With a whoosh of
displaced air, Lacroix disappeared.  Nick went slowly downstairs and
closed up for the day.

As he got himself ready for bed, the day's events ran through his
mind.  He hoped Michael would be safe with Rasena.  He was certainly
better off with her than Lacroix.  It had been quite ... interesting
to see the man with Rasena.  He couldn't think of another time he had
seen Lacroix being handled with such aplomb.  And the man had seemed
to welcome it, had been amused by it.  He'd seemed more ... well, not
relaxed exactly, but certainly less icy than Nick had seen him in a
long time.  Rasena _was_ quite beautiful.  A face of pure old, old
Europe, unleavened with the genetic mixing of the last three
millennia.  Her smile had given him a delightful ... tingle.  The
thought of spending some time with her would certainly cause _him_ to
warm up at bit, and it appeared that Lacroix was experiencing the same
reaction.  Nick hoped Rasena and Lacroix would get together.  That
would certainly take some of the pressure of Lacroix's attention off
himself.  And if he decided to take the chance to start talking with
Dupont, it would be very helpful to have something distracting
Lacroix.  Really, Rasena had shown up at the perfect time, and not
just for Michael's sake.

He turned his thoughts to Dupont's offer.  He knew from his near death
experience that to save his soul he had to atone, to make up to
humanity somehow the many times he had defiled it.  He tried, he
tried, but it was hard.  So many times he had slid back into the lust,
the need for human blood.  He hadn't yet crossed the line back to his
old life, but he had come so close so many times recently.  Natalie,
she meant so much to him, was his touchstone, but she didn't --
couldn't -- possibly understand the beast, the tearing agony the
denial of the vampire caused in him.  He also couldn't burden her with
the ... filth he had buried inside him.  Dupont, though, Dupont was a
priest.  It was his calling to take that filth, to purge it from a
soul.  Any soul, even his.  Given proper contrition and penance on
Nick's part.

A vampiric memory was ruthless.  He could remember every death, every
murder he had committed in full, almost tactile, detail.  Sometimes it
was all he could do to keep the ghosts away, either to avoid the
piercing guilt they caused him or the equally tormenting arousal.
What would it mean to be able to take each memory, to show his
contrition for an innocent life taken, consumed, and then do proper
penance for it?  Each of them, each person he had killed deserved as
much, an acknowledgment of their life cut undeservedly short and then
something done to show his sincere, oh God, his so sincere regret that
he had brutalized them.

Maybe this was worth the risk.  It was a risk, he knew.  He knew the
Christian churches' loathing for his kind.  He considered it
justified.  But he had a lot to do.  He wasn't ready to die yet, not
with the weight of all those restless, wasted lives on his soul.  But
maybe Dupont's offer was a way ... not out.  He didn't want to get
_out_ of his obligations.  But maybe a way to process them, an orderly
fashion, where he could _see_ some progress, a lessening of his
burden.  Sometimes he felt like he was just thrashing around, getting
nowhere, wasting his efforts.  He tried so hard, but he never made any
progress. Not alone. Not by himself.

He would do it.  He would be as careful as he could, but he would do
it.  The risks endangered his life, but no one else's.  If Lacroix
found out....  He pushed the thought aside.  He had the right, the
_duty_ to attempt this.  Dupont was an open book.  Nick didn't know
who was behind the young priest, but they had sent Dupont in like a
lamb to the lion.  They had trusted Nick not to kill him.  Perhaps he
could trust that they _might_ have his best interests at heart.  Even
if they didn't, there wasn't much he could do, if they decided to kill
him.  Except disappear.  And he wasn't ready to do that, yet.  He had
too much invested in this life to give it up without a struggle.  He
would be as careful as he could, but sometimes you just have to take
the chance, take that step into the dark.  Or out of it.

****
He had been eagerly anticipating Rasena's visit all day.  He wasn't a
man who often yearned or longed for things; that was more Nicholas's
province.  But vampires his age or older were rare beings, and of
those he knew, there were few with whom he would willingly spend much
time.  Rasena, ah, Rasena -- she was different.  Never, never could he
be considered to be in love with her.  She was not, essentially, a
lovable woman.  Erotic, yes, and fascinating, but she lacked any trace
of softness.  Lacroix felt certain she would laugh in the face of a
man who declared his love to her, then drain him dry, mortal or
vampire.  But their mutual ... lust for life had brought them together
delightfully in the past, and he hoped would do so again.  She made an
extraordinarily piquant companion, best taken in small bites.  And one
of the things that made her most alluring was with her, he never, ever
had to be careful.  He could abandon himself utterly to his ...
appetites when in her company.  As he became older, there were fewer
and fewer partners with whom he could indulge himself so completely.
One had to be so, so careful with these young ones.  It was quite
distressing.  He yearned, yes, he admitted it, yearned for a partner
with whom he could abandon all control, indulge himself totally.  It
had been so long.  Too long.

Lacroix felt the stir Rasena's entrance into the Raven made among the
vampire clientele, a sensation of awe and wonder, laced with a healthy
dose of fear.  He emerged from the back office to meet her, and
watched, amused, as a `parting of the waves' occurred as the crowd of
vampires and mortals eased back to let her through.  She met his eyes
across the room and gave him what he thought of as her `Etruscan
smile' -- heavy lidded, close mouthed.  Her raven black hair rippled
with energy, and her body, small but lush, moved with a flowing,
barely repressed power.  The delightful tightening of anticipation he
felt in his guts, though, was marred when he noticed she was pushing
Michael ahead of her through the club.  The boy held his head up,
though his eyes appeared glazed, unfocused.

In a swirl of dark red silk, she stopped before Lacroix.  She carried
herself with such authority that he had always been a bit astonished
at how far down he had to look to meet her eyes.  She held out her
hand, and after kissing it, he tucked it in the crook of his elbow.

"Let's go someplace a bit more private, Lady."

"Lead on, my dear," she replied.

"Michael," Lacroix snapped, and flicked a finger toward the door to
his office.  Michael preceded them down the hall and into the room.
Lacroix shut the door carefully behind them.

"My word, Lucius, what a din," declared Rasena, bringing her hands up
to rub her ears.  "How do you bear it?"

"One can become accustomed to anything.   Besides, I find it to have
its own naive charm.  Rasena, why did you bring the boy?"

Not at all put out by his abrupt question, she responded, "Two
reasons.  First, because he is not completely safe in my own
household.  They blame him for my current ... inconvenience.  This
will change in time, of course, but for the moment he is safer where I
can keep an eye on him."

Lacroix's lips tightened in displeasure.  Michael's presence might
have an unfortunate dampening effect on his plans.  Though with Rasena
it was never wise to _plan_.  One was liable to be disappointed.  His
hopes, then.

"The second?" he asked smoothly.  He moved to his desk to pour them
both a glass of his favorite blood-wine mix.

"The second is that I wanted those of our kind to understand that
Michel is my protege and that any who interfere with him will have me
to deal with.  If he is seen with me in public, they will be required
to, if not accept, at least tolerate him."

"Bringing him here, though.  The mortal authorities might object to a
seeming child in my establishment."  He offered her a cut crystal
glass of dark red, viscous fluid.

Taking the glass, she replied, lips curving coldly, "Well, Lucius,
that is your problem, isn't it?  I'm sure you have the means of
dealing with any awkwardness that might arise.  It's not as though you
don't have some responsibility for the difficulty of his position."

He took a sip from his glass.  "Meaning?"

"He wouldn't be here in Toronto if not for you."

"Did he tell you why I required his presence here?"

"To keep an eye on him, he claims, after he somehow, strangely, lost
his ability to control his urge to kill."  She took a sip from her own
glass and her brows rose in appreciation.  "Very nice, Lucius.  The
Nubian used to mix his with beer."  She shuddered.  "Nasty stuff."

"The Nubian...?"

"Gone."

"Ah."  Another ancient one truly dead, a gateway to history and a
unique mindset lost.

In the following silence, Rasena settled in one of the armchairs.
Michael moved to stand behind her chair, very like a servant.  It also
placed Rasena between himself and Lacroix.  The older vampire studied
him as he sat down in the chair across from the woman.  His boyish
face was set, stiff, and he met Lacroix's gaze with a careful
blandness.  So, even if Michael did blame him for his current
troubles, he wasn't saying so to Rasena.

"I must say, Lucius, that I had a greater opinion of your ability to
train a youngster before this little ... incident."

"If I had actually attempted to modify his behavior, I can assure you,
you would have no questions about my abilities," he replied coolly.
"The obligation was not of my choosing.  It came at a bad time.  I
consider it a kindness I didn't kill him in New Orleans when his
problem arose."

"A wise impulse on your part."

"I confess I find myself in agreement, if only because I am loath to
grieve you, my dear."

"`Grief' would not have described my feeling on the matter," she
corrected quietly with a serene smile.  "It is of no consequence,
however.  He's here with me and will soon have himself in hand again."

"Out of curiosity, Rasena, how do you go about training a child not of
your own blood?  I've never attempted such an undertaking.  Michael
would have been my first."

"Michel _is_ of your own blood," she said with mild astonishment.

Lacroix frowned.  "A by-blow of a rather disappointing son of mine."

"Your blood flows through him still.  The link is there, though
attenuated.  I could show you how to strengthen it."

There came a choking sound from behind her, and she turned to study
Michael with some concern.  Lacroix smiled at the youngster's appalled
expression.

"I don't think he cares for the idea, Rasena," he drawled.

"Apparently not."  She turned back to Lacroix and promised with a
roguish smile, "Don't worry, Michel, I won't give you back over to
Lucius's tender hands if you choose not."

"Thank you, Lady," Michael replied, voice trembling.  "Please, I'd
like to stay with you."

Lacroix leaned back in his chair.  "I think I should be hurt."

"You don't want me," Michael blurted, his eyes a bit wild, hands
gripping the back of Rasena's chair.

"Oh?"  Lacroix ran the rim of his glass back and forth across his
lips, one brow arched.

Rasena leaned forward to pat his knee.  "Now, Lucius," she chided,
"don't tease."

Lacroix quickly reached out to trap her hand under his.

"He's right," he said softly.  "It's not him I want."

Her eyes met his, and he felt himself being drawn into their darkness.
His heart, always so cold, steady and slow, gave a sudden leap.  She
lifted her hand from his knee, drawing his hand with hers to her full
mouth.  As her lips parted, he caught the pure white gleam of her
teeth.  His eyes closed, and the jolt when her fang tip pierced his
finger started in his groin and raced up his spine.  He opened his
eyes to gaze at her lips, tinted dark with his blood.  He leaned
forward to kiss her, but she drew away.

"There is still the matter of an apology," she remarked softly.

"Not here," he replied, his voice rough.

"No?"

"Come to my apartment.  It's much more suitable."

"For...?"

"Apologies."

She smiled.  "All right."

They stood and this time she allowed him to kiss her, his tongue first
flicking out to lick himself off her lips.  Her tongue ran across the
tips of his fangs, making him shiver, but she broke away from him
before he could nip her for a taste of her blood.

"Michel?" she inquired.

"He'll be fine here.  I'll set one of my people to watch the door, and
he could listen to music on my system."  Lacroix smirked cruelly.
"Music does seem to be his one enduring passion."

"What do you think, Michel?" she asked, turning to the youngster.  He
seemed a bit dazed, his breathing fast.

"Th--that would be fine," he squeezed out.

"Arrange it, Lucius," she said, running a long nail along his jawline.

He turned his head to kiss her palm and hurried out the door.

****
Lacroix unlocked the door to his apartment then stepped aside to let
Rasena enter first.  The small woman stood in absolute stillness a
moment, dark eyes sweeping across his front room before she strolled
across the threshold.  He took the opportunity to admire her lush
figure from behind, as well as her smooth movements that always
carried that hint of a coiled power carefully restrained.  Her long,
wavy black hair swung around her bare shoulders as she surveyed her
surroundings.  He hung up his coat and then moved into the kitchen.
He took a couple bottles out of the refrigerator so the contents could
warm to room temperature.

"This is quite lovely, Lucius," Rasena commented, indicating the room
with a graceful sweep of her arm.  "It is so reassuring to see you
didn't succumb to the gothic impulse.  Some of the places I visited in
Europe...."  She shuddered delicately.

"Well, I would so hate to live in a cliche," he said, gazing about
complacently.  The furniture was modern, with simple lines.  The
colors were rich, though -- dusty blue, cream and terra cotta -- a
pleasure to the vampiric eye.  The varied textures of the fabrics
added depth.  He changed the pictures on the walls frequently.
Currently, they were lithos of intertwined bodies of various gender
combinations.

"Well, Lucius, let's have our little talk."

"Talk?" he inquired, one eyebrow lifted.  He moved smoothly to stand
in front of Rasena, but as he lifted his arms to encircle her, she
placed a firm hand in the center of his chest.

"Talk," she repeated coolly.

"All right," he acceded wearily.  "If you feel the need.  Talk."  He
stepped away, turning a shoulder to her.

Upper lip lifting a bit at his brusqueness, she nevertheless went on
calmly, "Michel doesn't say otherwise, but I don't think he let slip
my location without some prompting from you."

"The subject had arisen in our conversation."

"Why did you want to know where I was, Lucius?"

Facing her again, he spread his hands.  "My motives were innocent, I
assure you."

"Those being...?"

"Really, Rasena, this suspicious streak in your nature has never
become you.  I was simply concerned for the well-being of an old
friend."

"After five centuries?"

"You know how it is with us."

"Companionship was your only concern?"

"Yes, Rasena.  Really, this is becoming tiresome."

"Given your urge for company, once you found out where I was, why
didn't you drop by for a visit?"

He snorted.  "A jaunt to the Himalayas?  My dear woman, I have things
to attend to here."

"You discussed it with no one else."

"This is becoming ridiculous," he said icily.  "No, Rasena.  I spoke
to no one of your deep, dark secret."

"I'm pleased to hear it, Lucius.  I would have hated for our visit to
be cut short by your sudden demise."

He stared at her coldly.  "Don't threaten me, Rasena."

"Never, Lucius."

Her voice was as icy as his own.  She studied him, face implacable,
stony, unmoved by his best basilisk glare.  The fact that she was a
thousand years his senior echoed forcefully in his mind.  She wasn't
going to be quelled by a simple look.  He found himself at the
uncomfortable crux-point of a decision.  Was the possibility of
Rasena's future company, delightful as he knew that to be, enough to
bring him to the point of making a conciliatory move?  The idea
rankled, but after all this effort, all this nonsense with Michael, if
she were to walk out, disappearing again for who knew how long,
because he couldn't bring himself to say a few words....

With a certain stiffness, he said, "Come, Rasena, I regret any
inconvenience this may have caused you."

"No you don't, Lucius.  You can't honestly say that you wouldn't do
the same thing again.  I don't actually expect you to _be_ sorry.  But
I do expect an apology.  Your prying where you were not welcome has
compelled me to commit myself to certain actions before I was fully
prepared."

"I fail to see how my simple curiosity has been so troublesome.  But
if it has been, I do apologize for allowing my desire to see an old
friend override my manners."  He held out his hands as though offering
something.  "Is that to your satisfaction?"

She studied him a moment, then her mouth curved every so slightly.
"You have said it.  Come.  Show me.  Then, perhaps, I will be
satisfied."

With severe self-restraint, he kept his face expressionless.  She had
forgiven him, both for his infringing on her rights as Michael's
foster mother, and more importantly for what she perceived as a
trespass on her privacy.  This, of course, pleased him.  However, his
irritation at being placed in the position of having to apologize
remained quite strong.  He _would_ show her.  Much more than a simple
apology.

He paced over to her slowly, until he stood staring directly down at
her.  She gazed up at him, eyes dancing with amusement.  She knew he
resented having to bend his neck, he could see that.  He took her
shoulders, and bent down to touch his lips to hers.  He placed small,
light kisses on the corners of her smiling mouth.  He then applied
even greater pressure, letting his rising passion show itself.  He
lightly ran the tip of his tongue along her lips.  Then he moved his
mouth down her jaw to her throat.  She tilted her head back with a
sigh.  Her arms went round him, her nails gently scratching up and
down his spine though the slickness of his silk shirt.

He moved his mouth up and down her throat, kissing lightly at first,
then with more force, sucking at her smooth, white skin.  Her eyelids
drooped, as her lips parted to release a soft sigh.  He moved to an
earlobe, catching it between his teeth, then flicking it with his
tongue.  Laying a line of kisses down her jugular, he then allowed his
teeth to descend, relieving the growing ache.  He laid his fang tips
delicately against her flesh, careful not to break the tender skin.
The feel of her against his canines sent a surge of pleasurable
pressure into his groin, and they both moaned as he drew his fang tips
lightly across her throat.  He was careful, so careful, not to pierce
the skin, forbidding them both the release of blood-letting, no matter
how slight.

He brought his mouth back to hers, his tongue plunging between her
willing lips.  Her fangs had descended as well, and he teased the tips
with a quick, darting tongue.  Her nails pressed into the flesh of his
back and he supposed she had ruined his shirt.  He twisted one hand
into her thick hair roughly, putting the other in the small of her
back to pull her hips against his.  Her tongue darted busily against
his teeth, her hands on his buttocks squeezing almost painfully.  He
felt his control slipping, but it was too soon.  He broke away,
placing his palms on her shoulders and pushing her back.  They stared
at one another, eyes burning.

After a moment, she reached up and ran her fingertips lightly over his
lips.  "I have missed these, Lucius."

Lids sliding down to hood his eyes, he kissed her fingers, then opened
his mouth to set his teeth against them, biting down gently.  She
shivered.

"Take me to bed, Lucius," she whispered.

He took her hand and led her wordlessly into his bedroom.  Once there,
he began unbuttoning his shirt, but she captured his hands in hers.

"Ah, let me, my dear.  I've always enjoyed unwrapping gifts."
Smiling, he let his hands fall, and she finished opening his shirt.
She pushed it back over his shoulders, letting the silk slither down
his arms and back.  She leaned forward to kiss him over the heart,
then laid her lips against each nipple in turn, biting them gently as
they puckered at her touch.  She moved back and forth, from one to the
other, as she slowly worked at the fastenings of his pants.  He
clenched his fists to restrain himself from pushing her hands away and
doing it himself.

"Rasena, my dear," he said tightly, "you were faster untying my cursed
points 500 years ago."

"Calm yourself, Lucius," she said, lips still brushing on a nipple.
"It _has_ been 500 years.  Surely you can allow me a few moments to
indulge myself.  Besides, as I recall, the codpiece _always_ came away
fairly quickly.  It was the hose that were a chore.  And those didn't
necessarily have to come off."

He breathed out in relief as she finally pulled down his zipper,
releasing him to spring into her hand.

"Well, hello," she giggled.  "Nice to meet you again, too."  He
snickered at her foolishness.  This occasional ... girlish streak had
always struck him as an absurd violation of her characteristic
dignity.  She helped him push down his pants, then turned away from
him to walk to the end of the bed.  He took the opportunity to step
out of his pants and shoes, and strip off his socks, always the least
graceful part of undressing to his mind.  There really was a lot to be
said for a toga and sandals.

He watched as she swung around to face him again, reaching her hands
up to her shoulder to fiddle with a fastening there.  Suddenly, her
dress slid down her body to form a dark red puddle at her feet.  She
had been wearing nothing underneath, and her pale skin glowed like
living marble, her breasts high and round, the nipples the palest
pink.  Generous hips flared under a small waist.

"Venus," he murmured, whether an exclamation or a description, he
wasn't quite sure.  He moved up to take her, to lift her back onto the
bed behind her, but again she stopped him with a hand in the center of
his chest.  She gazed up at him with her Etruscan smile, curving mouth
closed as though savoring a secret, eyes half hidden under heavy lids.

"The penitent is required to make obeisance at the gate before he is
allowed to enter the temple," she declared softly, lips quirked with
mischief.  She slid her hand up his chest to his shoulder and pulled
down, indicating she wanted him on his knees.  He resisted a moment,
more on principle than by inclination, then sank down gracefully.  He
placed his hands on her hips and leaned forward to press his lips
against the soft, downy triangle between her thighs.  He inhaled
deeply.  The musky woman scent brought his fangs jutting down into his
mouth, and he ran his tongue against their tips.

He pushed against her flanks, and she let herself fall back onto the
silk covers, allowing her legs to part.  She uttered a soft cry as he
bent to set an open mouth carefully against her inner thigh.  He
allowed his fang tips the barest pressure against her soft skin, a
promise of things to come; there was an unspoken agreement between
them to defer from indulging in the blood too early.  A 500 year
hiatus certainly added an element of urgency to the encounter, but it
would be a shame to destroy that tension too soon through callow over-
eagerness. His kisses carrying a hint of tooth, he worked himself
upward and inward, back and forth from thigh to thigh.

With both hands he cupped the mound between her legs.  He swept his
thumbs up, and she gasped, spreading her legs wider as he circled her
clitoris with one and ran the other along her labia.

He leaned forward, nuzzling, her wetness slick against his mouth and
chin.  He sighed, the sense of settling into a favorite place strong,
somehow soothing.  He flicked his tongue out, and she jerked with the
jolt of pleasure.

"Ah, Lucius," she murmured softly, running light fingers along the
edge of his ear, then over his hair.  He took her clitoris between his
lips and sucked gently.  She arched her hips up to him, and he ran his
arms under her, lifting her thighs onto his shoulders.  He could then
reach around and set his palms against her full breasts.  She stroked
her nails lightly up his arms, setting her hands over his and
squeezing.  He lifted his hands up and took her tightening nipples
between his thumb and fingers, pinching gently.  He swirled his tongue
around her clitoris, mirroring the motion with his thumbs on her
nipples.  Her hands, quick and restless as her pleasure built, moved
back down his arms to his ears and hair.  He plunged his tongue deep
into her vagina, licking along her labia fiercely, then rolling up in
a strong, rapid flutter against her clitoris again.  He repeated this
over and over, until she was moaning, her hips thrusting against him.
He sucked at the little nub of engorged flesh, gently clamping it
between his teeth then releasing it.  Every little bite elicited a
gasp from her, until he could tell she was holding her breath.  Her
hips strained against him, her fingers were playing havoc with his
ears, when with a sharp cry she bucked savagely.  He let go of her
breasts to wrap his arms around her hips, or she would have thrown him
off.  Tonguing and sucking, he could feel her orgasms spasming wildly
through her, as he drove her to greater heights.  She wailed, the
sound sending a pulse of pleasure through Lacroix.  She had always
been so ... appreciative.  As her orgasms eased, he lessened the
stimulation, kissing gently, knowing much more would just be
irritating.  After some time she came back to herself.

"Come up, Lucius," she whispered, voice husky.  He crawled up,
straddling her, and putting his hands under her armpits, slid her limp
body across the slick silk to rest her head on a pillow.  Smiling, he
lowered himself to lie on her, weight on his elbows.  She pulled his
head down, careful of his ears, and kissed his mouth and chin, lapping
delicately at her own juices.

"Eh, your poor ears," she commiserated, turning his head to kiss each
one.  "I fear I have been unkind to them.  As usual."

"A small, very small, price to pay."  He leaned down to kiss her lips,
then her throat.  He kept it light, giving her a chance to catch her
breath.  When she brought her legs around to rub them up and down the
back of his own legs and buttocks, he began to kiss her more fiercely.
She responded with rekindled passion, her mouth against his throat.
The tips of her fangs pricked against the increasingly sensitive skin
on his neck, and he ducked away from her.  He trailed kisses across
her collarbone.  He set his mouth against her heart, cupping her
breasts on either side, the skin velvety soft against his cheeks.  He
took one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking gently, twirling his
tongue around the crinkling flesh.  She reached down between them,
trying to take him in her hand, but he arched away from her.

"This is _my_ apology," he said with quiet implacability.  "I'll do
the pleasuring."

"But, Lucius, I want--"  He silenced her with a deep kiss, letting his
hand roam over her breasts.  Her dark brown eyes went wide, brows
lifting, and he felt her shake with her suppressed chuckles.  Feeling
her acquiescence, he brought his mouth back to her breast.  She sighed
languidly, letting her eyes close.

He allowed himself to luxuriate in her flesh, teasing her nipples
between his fingers, tonguing and sucking at the firm, creamy flesh of
her breast.  He rolled to one side, bracing himself on an elbow, his
mouth on her breasts, his other hand blazing a trail down between her
legs.  She arched her hips up to meet his fingers, and he slid them
into her slickness.  He gently stroked her clitoris, then moved his
fingers up into her vagina.  She moaned and clutched his head to her
breast, and the bowstring tension of her body against his sent a flare
of passion through him.  Shuddering, he bit into her nipple, and she
cried out in anguished delight as he sucked her blood into his mouth.
The taste burst across his tongue, heady and dark, and he suddenly
found himself close, too close to climaxing.  He released her nipple
and pulled back, gasping, almost blind with his lust.  She froze under
him, silent, letting him regain his control.  Realizing he'd better
get on with it, he rolled back on top of her.  She spread her legs to
receive him, her clutching fingers on his back demonstrating her
eagerness.

He moved the head of his cock against the lips of her vagina, eased in
an inch or two, then eased back out, taunting her, lowering his face
to set his teeth on the skin of her throat.  He eased his cock into
her a little ways again, then pulled out, smiling at her gasp of
frustration.  He lifted his mouth from her throat, and she growled.
He set the tip of his cock between her labia again, and let his weight
rest on her completely, pinning her down.  He chuckled as she writhed
under him.

"Lucius," she gasped, "you're a cursed tease."  She wrapped her legs
around his buttocks, and pulled herself up on him.  Laughing, he
plunged down on her, and she moaned as he buried himself to the hilt.

"Ah, yes, more," she breathed, and he began to thrust slowly into her.
His eyes were hot, and he buried his face against her shoulder, lips
firmly closed over his aching teeth.  He made himself vary his rhythm
for her pleasure, but the growing pressure in his groin was beginning
to make thought difficult.

His buttocks and back suddenly flared with a burning pleasure as she
drew her nails up his torso.  The smell of his own blood filled his
nostrils, and he began to plunge harder, finally allowing himself the
indulgence of letting his control slip.

He came to an abrupt, involuntary halt, eyes wide.  He swore in
soldier's Latin, as he found himself grasped and stilled as though by
a clenched fist.

Rasena laughed up at his startled face.  "Not yet, Lucius."  She
surged under him, rolling them both across the bed, and he found
himself on his back.  She sat up, sighing as she settled herself on
him, taking him in deep.  She began to move on him, eyes closed.  He
bit down on his lower lip, fang tips sinking into his flesh,
containing himself with a severe act of will.  He lifted his hands to
her breasts and she groaned as his fingers closed on her nipples.  She
opened her eyes, gazing into his own.   Her pupils were wide.  She
seemed almost blind, dazed in her passion and he felt the force of his
pleasure taking him, gasping, to the point of bursting.

"Rasena, now," he groaned, lifting his chin to expose his throat.  He
grasped her forearms with bruising force to pull her down to him.  Her
eyes flared gold.  Opening her mouth as she fell against him, her
fangs plunged into his throat.  As his blood burst into her mouth, he
came hard, hips bucking upward, his yielding groan muffled as he
twisted to bite down into her.  She cried out as well, and her burning
bliss swept through him, carried on the sweet river of her blood.  He
drew her in, all control abandoned, with a force that would have
drained a lesser vampire.  Their separate searing ecstasies braided
together, redoubling, destroying sense and thought.  He felt himself
spiraling down into her, a penetration that took him to the edge of
the all-consuming abyss at her center.  The danger of complete
dissolution sent a second, mind-shattering orgasm exploding through
him, through her.

He came back to himself, to find Rasena softly patting his cheek.  As
he opened his eyes, the patting changed to gentle stroking.  She
smiled down at him.

"Eh, Lucius, that was marvelous.  Let's not leave it so long next
time, all right?"  Sitting on the edge of the bed, she offered him a
glass of blood.  "Here, my dear.  Drink up.  We really need to get
back."

He took the glass and noticed she had dressed again.

"So soon, Rasena?" he protested, sitting up.  The spinning in his head
suggested he had better drink up, so he did.

"It's been a few hours since we left Michel, my dear.  He shouldn't be
left too long alone, and I thought you had some kind of performance to
do."

He peered at the clock by his bed, noting the lateness of the hour.
He stood up too abruptly, his head swimming in an alarming dizziness.
Rasena steadied him, then took his glass.

"Let me get you another."  She picked a bottle up off the bedside
table and began to pour a glassful, while he rocked unsteadily on his
feet.  "I must apologize.  I forgot myself.  You're so strong, I'm
afraid I played quite the wanton, and took a bit more than I should."
She handed him the full glass and he knocked it back quickly.  He held
it out to her and she filled it again.

As she handed him the third glass, she smiled with a certain sated
smugness.  "Anyone else, and I'm afraid I'd be making apologies to the
next of kin.  I'm so pleased it was you, Lucius.  It's been so long
since I've had a lover of your age and experience."

Having finished the third glass, he felt much steadier.  He was
pleased it had been himself as well. "I find the same ... dearth of
appropriate partners, Rasena.  We'll do this again soon, I hope."

She fixed her eyes on his, and her expression became quite serious.
"Oh, yes, I'm sure we shall.  If you're willing."

He took her hand, his lips curling.  "Anytime," he purred.  Bringing
her hand up, he kissed her palm, gazing into her eyes.  He found
himself sinking into their depths again.  Her lips parted and her
eyelids drooped.  With a little shiver, she lowered her eyes.
Noticing his `gallant response', she smiled, then laughed.

"Not quite yet, Lucius.  Though I'm certainly flattered.  Best go take
a shower.  Perhaps a cold one."

He laughed himself, feeling more ... satiated than he had in years.
Sauntering to the shower, well aware of her gaze upon him, he began
planning the seduction that would lead her to spend the next day with
him.

****
Nat had been a bit bent out of shape when Nick had come on his shift.
A man and woman had come in that day to claim the body of their
`daughter'.  They'd had all the proper paperwork.  She wasn't ready to
let go of it, but the official autopsy was finished and she knew it
wasn't healthy to hang on to the vampire's corpse any longer.  Much
better, much safer to release the body and gloat over the information
she did have.  She had also been very relieved to hear that Michael
was safe, though Nick didn't go into the details of the little
encounter on the roof.

Nick dropped in at the Raven during his dinner break.  The wall of
sound that met him as he walked in made him wince.  He scanned the
tables quickly to see if he could find Lacroix and Rasena.  He didn't
see them, but the bartender caught his eye and motioned with his head
to the door at the back of the place.  Nick worked his way through the
crowd, and with some relief, found himself in the back hallway.  The
noise was considerably muffled there.  A brutally impressive vampire
stood outside the door to Lacroix's office.  He nodded politely at
Nick and opened the door for him.  Nick went in, mentally bracing
himself for an encounter with Lacroix, though he thought he might be
on his best behavior with Rasena present.  But they weren't there.
Only Michael occupied the room, earphones to Lacroix's sound system
perched on his head, as he flipped through a stack of CDs.  He turned
quickly as the door opened, eyes wide with fright, but then smiled
delightedly when he recognized his visitor.  He tugged the earphones
off.

"Nick!" he cried.  "Come in."  His appearance was much improved from
the night before, his angelic face filled out again with a good
feeding.  He wore a dark blue silk shirt with his jeans and his blond
hair fell in loose, clean curls.

Nick did so, carefully closing the door behind him, and wondered what
the hell Michael was doing here.  Not only was he at risk from
disapproving vampires, but some mortal might take offense at a kid in
a place like the Raven.

"Hey, Michael, how are you?"

"All right," Michael replied, still grinning happily at Nick.  "It's
real good to see you.  Can -- can I get you something?"  He waved a
hand at the bottle and glasses set up on Lacroix's desk.  Nick raised
an eyebrow, making Michael chuckle.

"Don't worry, they left me the unadulterated stuff.  You won't have to
arrest Lacroix for serving alcohol to a minor.  I don't think there's
anything illegal about drinking blood, per se.  Is there?"

"Not that I'm aware of.  I imagine it depends on how one acquired it.
Then it may fall under concealing evidence.  And I don't want
anything, thanks."

Michael's face fell.  "Oh, that's right, you don't ...  I'm sorry..."
He looked so afraid that he might have offended him, that Nick almost
wished he had accepted a glass.  He could have just nursed it along.

"Hey, it's okay, Michael.  I just had dinner.  No room."

Michael's grin came back, as he accepted Nick's polite lie without
question.

"Why don't you sit down, then?  Rasena and Lacroix should be back
pretty soon."

Nick settled himself into one of the armchairs and Michael perched on
the edge of the chair across from him.  He flipped through the CDs he
still held in his hands.

"His tastes don't seem to run towards Mozart,"  Michael commented with
a quirky smile, alluding to the only famous mortal he had ever met and
the stories he had told Nick about that mortal.

Nick laughed.  "No.  At least, not here.  The Raven's clientele and
his radio listeners aren't generally into classical music."

"Their loss.  Still, there's some pretty interesting stuff here."

Nick leaned forward.  "Michael, where are Lacroix and Rasena?"

Michael shifted uneasily in his seat.  "They went out for a bit.
Something about Lacroix's apology. They told me to stay here."  He
nodded toward the door.  "That guy out there, he's to break both my
arms if I try to leave.  And to keep anyone else out.  Guess you're
special."

"Why bring you here in the first place?"

"It was one of Rasena's people who tried to ... get me.  They were
angry that I ... betrayed her, let Lacroix know where she was.  She's
not going to leave me alone with them for awhile -- until she's sure
they fully understand that she doesn't want me hurt."

"So ... you're okay with her?"

Michael turned to retrieve a half full glass from the desk, avoiding
Nick's eyes.  He said, "Sure.  Sure.  It's not perfect, but it's lots
better than...."  The boy trailed off, and Nick impulsively reached
out, intending to give his forearm a sympathetic pat.  Michael
flinched back with a hiss.  Nick, shocked, quickly pulled his hand
back, eyes wide.

Michael, shocked himself, stammered, "Nick, sorry!  I'm still a little
... jumpy."

"It's okay, Michael.  It ... I realize things have been a bit ...
exciting lately."

With a strained smile, Michael replied, "Well, that's one way to
describe it."

Nick extended his hand, palm up in offering.  The boy stared at the
proffered hand for a long minute before he placed his own slender
white fingers gently on the cool flesh of his elder.  Nick gave his
hand a quick squeeze before he released it.  Michael grimaced, but he
didn't jerk away.  Nick didn't need the body contact to sense the
youngster's pain.  So much to endure for a child, and nothing he could
do to ease the burden.

From victim crisis classes, Nick knew that getting a shocked victim to
talk sometimes helped them sort through their conflicting emotions.
After a short silence, Nick said hesitantly, "So, Lacroix kept you in
that apartment.  How long?"

"About six weeks, I guess.  Seemed like forever."

"Why?"

Michael glanced up at him, a flash of anxious blue under long lashes,
then lowered his gaze quickly back to his glass.  "I -- I did
something really stupid in New Orleans, Nick, all right?  And Lacroix
felt obliged to ... take me on."

"He's not one to willingly take on an obligation."  Nick struggled to
keep his tone as bland as possible.

"No, he's not.  He's not been ... pleased with me.  Lately."  Michael
hesitantly lifted his glass to his lips with a shaking hand, finishing
his drink in a single gulp.  He put the glass back on the desk, then
stared blankly down at the CDs in his hand, their plastic cases
clattering in his quivering fingers.

"Has he hurt you?"  Nick's eyes grew hard.

Michael peered up at him with earnest concern.  "Listen, Nick, don't
get caught up in this.  It's my fault.  Like I said, I did something
stupid.  And now, I can't ... I can't be around mortals safely.  I'm
not able to keep it under control anymore.  It's like it's all new to
me again.  Okay?"

"Michael, you're over 500 years old.  What-"  The growing pain in
Michael's eyes stopped him.  The youngster leaned forward and laid a
hand on top of Nick's.  He could feel a fine tremor.

"Something happened in New Orleans, Nick.  Something changed in me,
okay?"  Michael forced a smile, his eyes crinkled up like a wince.  "I
... I've lost control, and I'll kill the first mortal I get my hands
on.  It wouldn't matter where or when.  I've already done it once.  I
couldn't stop.  Know what I mean?"

"Yes," muttered Nick.  Then he took a deep breath. "Why ... why does
Lacroix feel an ... obligation, Michael?"

Michael's eyes became opaque, his face mask-like.  Pulling back his
hand, he said smoothly, "It's a family thing, I guess, Nick.  He is my
dear grandpere, after all.  He was there when it happened, and...."
Michael shrugged.

It hurt Nick to see Michael's normally open countenance shift to this
stony ... deadness.  Whatever he was keeping locked up inside him had
wounded Michael deeply.  Nick had a sickening sense that he knew what
that secret was.  Lacroix, trying to push his buttons, had dropped
enough hints.  But he didn't have the heart to press Michael any
further.  There wasn't much he could do anyway.  Except be there for
him when he needed to talk it through and let him know he cared.

"A family thing," Nick said, burying his bitterness deep.  "All right.
You can always count on Lacroix when it comes to family."

Michael's face softened into a smile of gratitude, and he went on
easily.  "So, seeing the situation, that it was as if I had just been
brought over, Lacroix gave me the choice of instant death or ...
putting myself in his hands.  For a while there I almost wished I'd
taken the first choice.  He sure did.  He'd only come over about once
a week, to deliver blood, but he was always pissed that he had to
bother.  Guess he was busy or something.  I was going nuts.  I was
about ready to ask him to let me out on the roof at dawn.  I -- I
can't stand being inside so long.  Only the music...."  Michael's eyes
lost focus and his smile became piercingly sweet.

"I saw the wall, Michael--"

Nick suddenly sensed Lacroix's approach.  He saw Michael stiffen, then
start frantically shoving the CDs into their proper places on the rack
with shaking hands.  They heard the guard outside shift his position
and then the door knob turned, as he opened the door.  As Nick and
Michael stood up, Rasena swept in, Lacroix close behind her.  She
stopped, her large, dark eyes focused intently on Nick, her gaze
almost stunning in its directness. He felt he was being drawn in,
consumed.  Nick's breath caught in his throat, and a surge of energy
prickled up his spine.

Lacroix cleared his throat.  "Rasena, this is my son, Nicholas.
Nicholas, this is an old friend of mine, Lady Rasena."

Nick shot a quick glance at Lacroix.  The man's eyes seemed heavy,
sated, and he smiled with smug amusement at Nick's reaction to Rasena.
Nick turned his attention back to Rasena, who smiled at him and
offered her hand.  He took it, soft and cool, bringing it to his lips
with a slight bow.

"It is a great pleasure to meet you, Lady Rasena," he said, letting
his admiration show in his eyes.  When he let go of her hand, she
raised it up to his cheek for a quick, light caress.

"And you as well, Nicholas."

Lacroix took a half step forward, then stepped back again as Rasena
appraised him with lifted eyebrows.

"Beautiful, Lucius.  He's quite lovely," she commented lightly.  Nick
smirked as Lacroix's eyes narrowed in annoyance.

"Yes, well, I'm gratified he meets with your approval.  But now,
Nicholas, don't you have to get back to work?"

"Oh, no, Lacroix," Nick replied with a grin.  "I've some time left,
and I so rarely get a chance to meet a friend of yours."

A light tap at the door interrupted Lacroix's retort.  He jerked it
open and the young vampire there stepped back in alarm when he saw
Lacroix's face.

"S--sorry, sir," the man stammered.  "There's a problem...."

Lacroix turned back to Rasena, telling her, "I'll be right back."

"Take your time, Lucius.  I have Nicholas here to entertain me."  His
reluctance to leave her alone with his charming young son drew her
lips up in amusement.  Such typical Roman possessiveness.

Lacroix inclined his head to her, gave Nick a carefully expressionless
look, and exited, closing the door behind him.

Rasena sat in the chair Michael had recently vacated.  The young
vampire went to stand behind her again.  She declined Nick's offer to
pour her a drink, then gestured that he should sit down across from
her.

"Well, Nicholas, Lucius tells me you are amusing yourself working as a
police officer.  That sounds quite ... entertaining," she commented as
he settled himself in the chair again.

"I derive a certain satisfaction from it, yes."

"I must say I was grateful to have one of us ... on the scene, to deal
with last night's unpleasantness."

"My lady, I mean no offense by this next question, but ... is Michael
safe in your household, really?  The woman who died, who he killed,
she was...?"

"A grand-daughter.  Yes, Nicholas, he _will_ be safe with me.  The
girl disobeyed a direct order of mine and paid the price.  The others
will come to understand that quickly or they, too, will face certain
... consequences."

"I'm relieved to hear it."  Actually, he found her cold-bloodedness a
bit disconcerting.

"Your concern for the boy is quite touching."

Nick shot a glance at Michael behind Rasena's chair.  He grinned at
the young face that watched him with a certain amount of alarm.  Nick
returned his attention to Rasena, so he didn't see Michael's
expression of astonished delight as he said seriously, "I consider him
a friend.  I wouldn't be pleased to hear that he had been hurt."

Rasena bowed her head in understanding, a small, amused smile on her
face, then inquired, "This coroner, this Dr. Lambert.  Is she someone
that I will have to ... deal with?"

Nick smiled at her easily, shaking his head.  "No.  Sometimes it's
useful to have friends in strategic places, as I'm sure you're aware.
I have her well under my thumb."

"Ah," she remarked with relief, "good for you.  Loose ends can be
dangerous, but it sounds like you have this one tied up."

The door opened again.  Nick stood as Lacroix came in.

"Lady Rasena," he said, "I am delighted to have met you.  Perhaps I
will be fortunate enough to enjoy your company again in the near
future."

She held out her hand, smiling graciously.  He took it and bowed over
it, setting it gently to his lips.  She said, "I am so pleased to have
met you at last, Nicholas.  It would please me even more to meet with
you again.  Soon, I hope."

"I am at your command, Lady."

Nick released her hand and turned to go out the door.  Lacroix took a
step back so Nick could get by, but it was such a small step that the
younger vampire almost had to brush against him to get by.  Nick met
his silent, cold-eyed stare with an insolent lift of his brow, closing
the door behind him as he went out.  As he walked down the hallway, a
huge, mischievous grin spread over his face.  Lacroix didn't want him
poaching, did he now?  Well, this could become quite amusing.

****
Nick, in a minor abuse of police powers, traced Dupont's home using
the phone number the priest had given him.  He drove over before work
two nights after their conversation in the park.  Taking a package
from the front seat of the Caddy, he walked up the short sidewalk to
the small house.  Dupont resided in an old, well-kept neighborhood;
most of the folks living here blue-collar workers.  He rang the door
bell, listening to the deep chime reverberate through the house.
After a moment, Dupont opened the door and blinked in surprise.  He
quickly recovered, though, and opened the door wide.

"Come in, Detective.  I guess it would be naive to be surprised that
you could find out where I'm staying."  Nick brushed past the priest,
noting his casual attire -- a red flannel shirt and jeans.  So, he'd
been caught off duty, so to speak.  The furniture in the front room
appeared old and a bit worn, but the housekeeping was immaculate.
Nick scanned the house, searching for any other occupants, but his
heightened senses detected nothing.  The air was heavy with the smell
of something cooking.  Something sweet, with grain.  Nick couldn't
quite place it.

"I want to do this," he said, tension making him uncharacteristically
abrupt.

Dupont's face became suffused with joy, and he brought his hands
together, squeezing them tight.  "Praise God," he murmured.

"Here."  Nick pulled a portable phone out of the paper bag and handed
it to Dupont.

The priest took it with a puzzled frown.  "What's this for?"

"I will be the one doing the calling.  Never contact me yourself.  No
one but myself will have the number to this phone.  When I want to
talk to you, I will call you, letting the phone ring three times.  You
then have 15 minutes to get someplace where you can't be overheard.
Get out of your house, out of your car, find a random spot, where you
think in all good faith you can't be bugged."

Dupont gaped at him in amazement.  "This is paranoia."

"This is survival, Dupont, and if you can't deal with it, this is the
last time you'll see me.  Or you'd better pray that it is."  Nick
regretted the words as they left his mouth.  He was letting himself
get too wound up.

The man's lips tightened and an angry spark rose in his eyes.
"There's no call to threaten me, Knight.  We'll do it your way, of
course, if that makes you comfortable.  After all, your comfort is
required if this is to work.  I just hope someday you'll come to trust
me."

"I trust you, Dupont.  If I didn't trust _you_, I wouldn't be doing
this."

"I understand.  I think ... I want you to know that I've been thinking
about this.  For this to work, this can't just be _like_ confession.
It must _be_ the confessional.  Do you understand me?  Anything you
tell me will be held in confidence, under the seal of the
confessional."

Nick stared at him in disbelief.  Somehow he had just assumed that
Dupont would be more or less a conduit, that he would be reporting
what he heard from Nick to his unknown superiors.  Nick had been
willing to endure that humiliation, accepting that his sins would be
known to others as a payment for this opportunity, almost as a part of
his penance.  Dupont had just handed him back his pride.  He was
treating him as a human.  As a sinner, but a human sinner.

"Thank you," he said softly.

Dupont looked a bit embarrassed.  "It's necessary, Detective Knight-"

"Nick.  Call me Nick."

Dupont face creased in a slow smile.  "All right, Nick.  Then you have
to call me Richard."

Nick smiled as well, a knot of tension easing in him, that knot
created by his constant underlying fear of rejection.  The glimmer of
a simple happiness sparked in him with the possibility of a friendship
beginning.  Improbable, perhaps -- a vampire befriending a priest. But
he'd been without that sense of companionship for so long, he couldn't
bear to question the joy he felt at the idea.

"I will."

"The seal is necessary, Nick.  We need to be able to work with
complete confidence in one another.  I have to be able to trust that
you are holding back nothing, and you'll need the guarantee of privacy
so you won't feel inhibited with me.  I don't want you to feel there's
some shadowy spy peering over my shoulder."

"As I said, Richard, I trust you.  But I don't know who's behind this.
I understand you feel a need to protect them--"

"It's not that.  I don't believe you would hurt anyone.  But these are
the conditions I'm required to meet to be permitted to work with you."

"I have people I need to protect as well, Richard.  I won't put anyone
besides myself at risk.  So if you don't mind, I still want to do this
my own paranoid way."

Richard grinned.  "No reason why not.  I don't mind at all."

"All right.  So after the first call, I will call you again to tell
you where to meet me.  Probably we'll spend a lot of time in my car
and in parks."

"No problem.  I don't get carsick and I love the outdoors."

"Fine.  Look, I've got to get to work.  I'll call you soon."

"I'm looking forward to it."

"Richard," Nick said, expression intensely serious, "this isn't going
to be fun for me.  There's a lot of pain wrapped up in this.  Eight
centuries of my torment, of course, but more importantly, the pain of
hundreds of innocent people.  I hope you're not seeing this as
anything but an ordeal.  For both of us."

"I don't expect to enjoy hearing what you have to say.  I look forward
to seeing you, Nick, and to hopefully helping you."

"All right.  See you soon."

"God go with you, Nick."

"I hope He will, Richard.  I hope He will."

****
"You did what?" Blake demanded sharply.

Richard Dupont peered with growing bafflement at Father Blake.  When
the man had summoned him in and told him of this opportunity to work
with an actual vampire, he had jumped at the chance with both feet.
Blake had told him to do whatever it took to get Knight to talk to him
and then had left him to his own devices.

"I'm going to act as his confessor.  Naturally, I have put our
conversations under the confessional seal.  That's the only way this
will work," Dupont repeated, trying to figure out why Blake's face was
turning red.

"Dupont," Blake said with quiet intensity, "we need to know what this
... man knows.  There's more at stake here than you realize."

Dupont's gray eyes narrowed.  "I didn't accept this assignment to ...
to gather information.  My task, the one you gave me and as a priest,
is to help this man find his way to salvation.  It is our calling, our
duty."

Blake remained silent for a very long moment, his face barely
concealing some suppressed emotion.  Eventually he sighed, his
expression clearing and he said calmly, "Do as you think best,
Richard.  What you say is true.  If, or rather, when Knight sees his
way back into the fold, then perhaps he will have information to
volunteer that will help us help others."

"Thank you, Father" said Dupont, his face filled with relief and
enthusiasm.  "I'll do my best.  And so will Knight.  He's quite
sincere in his desire to redeem himself.  I'm ... I'm incredibly
grateful that you have given me this opportunity.  I assure you, I
will do whatever it takes to help this man find his way back to God."

"May God give you strength and wisdom, Richard, in your task."

Grinning, Dupont said, "Thank you, Father.  I'm going to need it."

The two men said goodnight and Dupont departed.  Blake threw himself
in his favorite armchair and ran both hands through his hair.  Damned
idealistic young fool.  No matter.  The confessional seal was a
courtesy extended to humans.  This ... creature had no rights in this
regard.  Dupont's niceties made things a little more difficult, but
this was not an insurmountable problem.  A little caution would be
required, of course.  It wouldn't do to spook Knight before they had
what they needed.

****
She didn't know what it was.  And when Natalie Lambert didn't know
what something was, she got edgy until she found out all about it.
_Especially_ when it concerned Nick.  He had been unusually ...
relaxed lately.  Tracy had even asked the week before what Natalie had
been putting in his shakes.

"Just the usual," Nat had replied a bit acerbically.

"Well, maybe it's because it's springtime.  Lots of people cheer up in
the spring."

"That's probably it, Trace."  And maybe it was.  But she wasn't sure.
Nick wasn't talking.  Not that he was avoiding her.  Actually, he had
been hanging around more than usual lately, dropping in for quick
chats about nothing in particular.  Yesterday, he had even popped in,
handed her a single long stemmed red rose and asked her over to his
place for dinner tonight.  Not that being invited over was that odd.
The invitation, however, had been unusual.  The red rose, then his
blurted, almost awkward request.  Then the way he'd hightailed it out
of there after her, "Yeah, sure." (Followed by a roll of her eyes and
an internal, "Real gracious, Nat.")  Clearly it meant something ...
more to him than the usual.

So she was a tad nervous as she rode up in the elevator to his loft.
Choosing what to wear had been a real chore.  She didn't want to get
too formal and feel awkward if she had misread the specialness of the
occasion.  But she didn't want to come across as too casual, if it
turned out to be important to Nick for some reason.  She had managed
to put together what she hoped was a happy medium.

Nick met her at the door and ushered her to an elegantly set table,
complete with lit candles and a rose in a small crystal vase. David
Sanborn played softly in the background.  She was glad she hadn't gone
casual.

"I'm probably rushing this, Nat, but I don't want your dinner to get
cold."  He pulled her chair out for her, then hurried into the kitchen
once he got her settled.

"You haven't tried to cook something for me, have you?" she asked
suspiciously.

"I didn't ask you over to make an attempt on your life, Nat," he said
with exaggerated umbrage.  "Of course I didn't try to cook something.
No, I had a dinner sent in from Scaramouche."  He was busily
unwrapping containers from their thermal coverings.  The smell drifted
over to Nat.

"Oooh," she sighed with unconcealed gluttony.

He glided over, a small white cloth draped over one arm with all the
officiousness of a high-class waiter, and set a small Caesar salad in
front of her.  She giggled, as with an aloof, almost disdainful
expression he poured her a glass of wine.

"Mmm," she said, picking up her salad fork.  He hurried back into the
kitchen.  "Wait," she called after him.  "Aren't you going to sit down
with me?"

"During the main course, maybe," Nick replied distractedly, as he
studied a small piece of paper.  "I don't want to mess anything up
here."  Nat shook her head, smiling at his expression of fierce
concentration.  When she finished her salad, he swept away the plate
and set down a wide bowl of soup.

"Wow, Nick," she exclaimed.  It was a two pepper soup, the yellow
carefully ladled on one side of the bowl and the red on the other.
Then he had given the bowl a quick turn to create a yin-yang effect.

He grinned at her.  "This is fun.  Maybe I'll quit the force and
become a waiter."

"So long as you avoid a place that specializes in garlic dishes," she
laughed.  She picked up her spoon, reluctant to spoil the design he
had made, but he was watching to see if she enjoyed it.  One taste and
her reluctance vanished.  At her delighted expression, he grinned and
went back into the kitchen to prepare the next course.

When she had finished the soup, he brought out the main course.
Natalie couldn't restrain a small moan of pleasure.  Chicken Kiev.
Scaramouche was the only place in Toronto that made it like her
grandmother had.  There was pilaf, and new potatoes and peas to catch
the melted butter from the pierced chicken breast.

"Oh, Nick," she sighed.  "My favorite."  She picked up her fork and
with true lust in her eye purred lasciviously, "And sooo fattening."
Chuckling, he refilled her wine glass, pouring one for himself as
well.  Finally, he sat down across from her.  She smiled warmly at
him.  "Thank you, Nick.  This is really, really nice."

He smiled back at her, and she noticed that the candle light and his
dark blue shirt brought out the deep blue of his eyes.

"Thanks for coming, Nat.  I'm having a lot of fun and I so love seeing
you ... enjoy yourself."  He smiled to himself as her eyelids drooped
as the first bite of chicken melted in her mouth.  She was such a ...
sensual eater.  He continued, "You know, that blouse really brings out
the color of your eyes.  And  I really like your perfume.  Soft and
wispy, but charming and sophisticated.  Rather like the woman wearing
it."

Feeling a bit buttery, both from the chicken Kiev and Nick's words,
she replied wryly, "Better than `eau de formaldehyde', I take it?"

"You always smell wonderful, Natalie."

Heat rising in her cheeks, she reached for her wine glass.  She had
always felt awkward about receiving compliments, usually responding
with some acidic quip.  A few of those tended to stop the complimenter
dead in his tracks.  She didn't especially want him stopped at this
point, though, and she was going to keep her smart remarks to herself
if she had to bite her tongue off.

The sip of wine gave her enough time to come up with a simple,
"Thanks, Nick."

She had thought it was going to be weird, sitting there eating while
Nick watched.  But it wasn't.  He kept the conversation going
smoothly, toying with his wine glass, getting up to adroitly fill hers
as it emptied.

"Are you trying to get me drunk?" she asked in mock suspicion at one
point.

"Only if you want to be," he replied with the mischievous grin that
made him look like a little boy.

"Oh, no.  You're up to something.  I want to keep my wits about me."

"Me?" he replied, all innocence.  "Up to something?"

"Yes, you.  You're ... buttering me up for ... something."

His face became serious and he reached across the table to take her
hand.  "Really, Nat.  I'm not up to anything.  I just ... I hardly
ever take the time to show you how much I appreciate you."

"....Appreciate me," she repeated a bit flatly.

He gently squeezed her hand.  "You're very special to me, Natalie
Lambert."

She fetched her hand back.  Don't push this, Nat.  Let him say it his
own way.  She looked him in the eye.

"You're special to me too, Nick."   He didn't glance away.  His eyes
rested on her face, his expression tender.  She felt her pulse rate
rising, and she dropped her eyes first.

"Oh, you're finished," he exclaimed, following her gaze to her plate.
"How about dessert?"  She groaned, wondering where she would find room
for another bite, groping for the proper words to politely refuse
without hurting his feelings and ruining a wonderful evening.

After a chocolate mousse that melted in her mouth, she lumbered over
to the couch, a bit tipsy, while he cleared the dishes.

"I'm not complaining, Nick, that was fantastic.  But if you keep this
up, you're going to have a lot more of me to appreciate."

He sat down next to her.  "Okay," he said, smiling impishly.  "I'll
just have to find a less fattening way to demonstrate my -- my
appreciation."

Nat's face flushed as she firmly guided her thoughts away from the
images that  particular statement brought up.  Attempting to distract
her overactive imagination, she asked,  "What's showing tonight?"

"Whatever you like, Nat.  Or we could just ... chat, if you like."

"Chat."  She took a deep breath, which was hard to do after the
mousse, and said, "What's with you, Nick?"

He looked at her blankly.  "With me?"

"Again, I'm not complaining.  But -- but you've been different
lately."

"Different ... how?"  His expression became wary.

"I dunno.  More relaxed, I guess.  Even Tracy said you seem more ...
cheerful."

"Oh."  He stood up and walked over to his video collection.

"No chat, then," she remarked coolly.

He turned to face her.  "Nat, I -- I don't know how to talk to you.
Not about this."

"Just say it, Nick.  I'll listen."

He paced back over to her and sat down again, taking her hand.  He
gazed at her so intently that she had to stop herself from edging
away.

"That's just it, Nat.  Sometimes you won't listen.  Some things about
me you won't -- don't -- take seriously."

"Such as...?"

"My ... my religion."

Well, she hadn't expected _that_.  "Your ... your _religion_?"

"Nat, I know that my vampirism has a physical component.  But you know
that I feel -- that I believe -- that there is more to it than that."

"A spiritual component?  Look, Nick, everyone is entitled to their
religious beliefs.  But -- but yours rip you apart.  It's not that I
don't take them seriously.  I do.  I just don't believe you're damned.
That is not a part of _my_ religious beliefs."  Whatever they are.

"That's fair, Nat.  I'm not expecting you to come around to my way of
thinking.  But my beliefs, they're not a whim, you know.  And they are
a part of me, the way I feel and think.  I can't just drop them
because they're ... inconvenient."

"No, no, Nick.  I know they are part of what makes you who you are.
Just as ... as your friend, I don't like to see the way they hurt you,
the pain and the guilt they cause you."

"Natalie, it's not my beliefs that hurt me.  It's what I am, what I've
done."

She wouldn't let herself sigh in exasperation.  "We've all done things
we weren't proud of, Nick. Things we would take back if we could.  But
we can't.  That's part of being human.  We have to move on, leaving
the past in the past."  He opened his mouth to argue, but she silenced
him with a raised hand.  "All right, Nick," she said calmly.  "This is
something I'm not going to argue with you on.  But -- but does it have
anything to do with ... whatever seems different about you?"

He leaned back on the couch, crossing his legs and bringing one hand
up to rub his lower lip with a knuckle.  He watched her face intently
as he stated, "I've been seeing a priest."

She blinked and cocked her head slightly to one side.  "A ... a
priest."

"Yes.  For the last month I've been talking regularly with a Roman
Catholic priest."

"About...?"

"Myself.  What I've done."

"And ... does he know what you are?"

"Yes."

She stood up, crossing her arms tightly across her breasts, taking a
step away from the couch, then turning back to glare at him.  A
thousand lectures raced through her mind and she wanted to scream at
him, to rail at him for this foolish endangerment of his life.  He
watched her with defiant light he got in his eyes sometimes.

She calmed herself, trying to sound reasonable.  "Nick, that ... that
doesn't sound safe.  You know what I mean?"

"He's put it under the seal of the confessional."

"The confessional?  But Nick, how could you risk telling him what you
are in the first place?  Is that under the seal?  What if he tells
someone else?  What if ... what if they come after you?"

Nick shifted uneasily, but he said, "Nat, it's okay.  It's a risk I'm
willing to take.  And it's been helping.  I feel ... easier.  I still
have a long, long way to go.  But I feel like I've taken a step in the
right direction.  You know, like I'm attacking this from two
directions now.  The physical and the -- the spiritual."

"So, so, you've been going to this priest.  What, do you expect some
kind of miracle?"  The anger started to leak through.

The bitter tone of her words amazed her.  It hurt her somehow -- that
Nick talked about things with someone else that he wouldn't talk about
with her.  She had to admit to herself though, that she hadn't always
been patient with him when he started beating himself up for things
that had happened in the past.  She was a real "look to the future,
get on with it" kind of person.

He stood up and took her by the shoulders.  "Natalie, I'm not
searching for a miracle.  I've already found one."  He drew her to him
and softly kissed her forehead.  She let herself sigh then, and lean
into him.  He gathered her closely, hugging her as the anger and the
fear evaporated.

"This is scary to me, Nick,"  she said quietly.  "I'm glad you've
found something that helps you feel better.  But, well, it's your
life, literally.  If you trust him...."

"I do.  Look," he said, tilting her head up with a gentle finger, so
he could gaze in her eyes, "I made a good choice when I decided to
trust you, didn't I?"

"Yeah, well...."

"It's okay, Nat.  Come on, go pick a movie.  I'll make some popcorn."

"No, no more food.  But maybe just a tad more wine."

"As you wish," Nick whispered softly, his eyes warm.

Snuggled under his arm, Natalie sipped her way into a comfortable haze
as she watched "The Princess Bride".

****
"That little one is back again."

"Yeah?  What's it doing?"

"Just sitting there, like usual."

The two men sat in an apartment a half a block away from Nick's loft.
The two windows that faced his place had been boarded up except for a
small hole in each for video and still cameras.  They weren't there
every day.  They tried to avoid setting up a pattern.  This, of
course, made it less likely that they would see anything interesting.
But their subject was old, unbelievably old, and hadn't gotten that
way by being unobservant.  Randomness reduced the chances of their
being spotted.

The one who peered through the lens of the still camera took a number
of pictures of the small figure sitting cross-legged on the roof of
the stairwell that led up to the roof.  If they hadn't been watching
carefully, they may never have seen it.  It was dressed all in black,
even to the cap pulled over its hair.  Only its face, a pale oval, was
at all visible.  The lighting up there was abysmal.

"How many times is that?" asked one, his voice low.  These things were
supposed to have phenomenal hearing, and even though it was unlikely
they could be heard at this distance, they still tended to speak
quietly.

"This is the fifth time in the twelve days we've been here in the last
four weeks."

"And all it ever does is sit there?"

"Right.  Sits there a couple hours, then it vanishes."

"Haven't caught it coming or going?"

"Not yet."

"Sucker's fast."

"`Sucker'.  Ha, ha."

"Gimme a break."

"So besides Knight, this is the only other one we've seen."

"Yep."

"Too bad the lighting up there su ... stinks."

"Maybe we should ask Knight to set up some flood lights."

"I wish.  We're getting diddly-squat here."

"I don't know.  Let's make a point of telling Blake about Knight's
regular little visitor, here.  Maybe he'll be able to come up with
something useful."

"If anyone could, it's him."

****
"....I couldn't stop myself.  I had intended to help her escape from -
- from my master.  My lust, though ... she smelled of honey and wine
... I let the hunger go, let it take me ... and I killed her, drained
her."

They sat at a picnic table in a little suburban park.  It was four in
the morning; the nearly full moon had just set, and the stars graced
the sky alone, sharp pinpricks of light set in velvet darkness.  The
men, both absorbed in the story, had no interest in the splendor above
them.  Dupont, bundled up in a parka against the chilly spring night,
sat at one side of the table.  He held his head propped on one hand,
which was cupped over his forehead, hiding his eyes and shielding Nick
from any censorious expressions that might involuntarily cross his
face.  Nick tended not to look at the priest much anyway, lost in his
own visions of the past.

Into the pause that followed, Dupont said,  "This ... hunger.  It
comes up in every one of your confessions.  But we've never talked
about it, what it is, what it means to you.  I have some ideas about
it, from just having heard you describe your actions while under it's
... influence.  But sometimes I wonder, are you using it almost as an
excuse, as an alcoholic would excuse his actions as being dictated by
his drinking?"

Nick remained silent for a long moment.  Then he said quietly, "It
defines me, Father.  It is, ultimately, what I _am_.  It drives me,
owns me.  Everything else I might be, everything else I might desire,
is erased, even destroyed, when I allow the hunger to take me."

Dupont removed his shielding hand from his face, looking steadily and
silently into Nick's eyes.

Feeling compelled to try to help the priest understand, Nick
continued, "Imagine your need to eat, to survive, wrapped up in your
sex drive.  The feeding, it is extremely ... pleasurable.  So every
time you get hungry, you also begin to feel lust.  I ... I know you're
celibate, but...."

"I'm celibate, yes, but I'm also a human being.  I know what lust is."

"All right.  So, as your hunger grows, the lust grows.  And you have
to, you _must_ eat to survive.  And it's going to be so satisfying
when you do, that ravenous emptiness filled with such ... bliss.  It's
beyond words."

"And you want to give that up?"  Dupont's gaze was level, measuring.

"The sacrifice, someone else's sacrifice, is too much.  It's too much.
I can't kill anymore.  It's murder.  It's ... it's so _wrong_."  Nick
clenched his fists, staring into Dupont's eyes.  He couldn't voice the
depths of his conviction.  It was as strong, stronger, than his
vampiric instinct to hunt, to kill, the thing that allowed him to stay
balanced on that precarious tight rope of self-control on a day to day
basis.

Dupont studied his face for a moment, the said quietly, "Forgive me
for interrupting.  Go on."

Nick continued his confession, purging himself of the memory, or at
least the guilt surrounding that memory.  He offered the pain of his
shame to a woman centuries dead, apologizing to her and to God for the
unique life destroyed by his lust.

When he finished, Dupont rose and came around to stand by Nick, who
swung around on the bench to face him.  Nick braced himself as Dupont
put his hands on his head, trying to control his trembling as the
priest said quietly, "Almighty God, through the death and Resurrection
of His only Son, has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy
Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; may God give you pardon
and peace."

Dupont lifted his hands, and making the sign of the cross over Nick,
said, "I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of
the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."  He then went on, "Give thanks to
the Lord, for he is good."

Nick responded, "His mercy endures forever."

The priest finished, "The Lord has freed you from your sins.  Go in
peace."

Nick sighed deeply, his expression relaxed, serene.  "You know,
Richard, that doesn't ... make me twitch the way it did at the
beginning."  He went on humbly, "I know I have a long way to go, but I
feel ... better.  Easier.  I'm really hoping....  I feel hopeful."

****
Michael landed lightly on the roof of the stairwell to Nick's loft.
Sighing, he folded his legs under him, sitting and letting a kind of
peace seep into him.  Just being close to Nick's place did that to
him.  He wasn't sure why.  He hadn't even been inside for months,
since Nick let him stay there for a few days during his last visit to
Toronto.  Maybe it was a holdover from those days, when he had felt
safer than he had in decades.

Things were much better lately.  He had been back under Rasena's
control for about a month.  She now trusted him to go out on his own,
as long as he stayed away from mortals.  That was fine.  All he really
wanted to do was fly as fast and as far as he could, leaving thought
behind.  Then he could sit and just be, sometimes at the water's edge
at Humber Bay Park, and sometimes here on Nick's roof, like now.  It
wasn't as pretty here as at the park, of course, unless he was staring
straight up into the night sky.  But the sense of being close to Nick
soothed him.

He felt a little odd about that actually, mooning around Nick's place
like a lovelorn suitor.  But it wasn't like that, really.  He didn't
get a "charge" when he thought about Nick and being close to him.  He
thought of him as a friend, but he hadn't had one of those in such a
long time, that it meant a lot to him.  More to him than it did to
Nick, of course.  Nick had other friends.  But Nick _had_ called him.
Three times in the last month, he had called him on the phone, just to
talk to him and see how he was doing.  Michael had never had someone
call him before.  They hadn't spoken long, but Michael could tell Nick
had been listening closely to him, trying to get a sense from his
voice that he was really all right.  It amazed him, the idea someone
cared enough about him to be actually thinking about him at times and
then calling him.  It felt nice.

Rasena worked him hard, but that felt right, too.  She'd always been
very demanding and he had spent his first fifty years as a vampire
trying desperately to please her.  With her, he knew that if he did
exactly what she told him to do, he would get somewhere.  Now, he was
relearning how to be a vampire among mortals.  She worked with him for
an hour right before sunset, when he was his hungriest.  He
appreciated her taking the time.  He knew she was very busy.

The process was pretty simple, really.  Rasena had one of her mortal
servants goad Michael into attacking them.  She used two of her
strongest male attendants, so if he did manage to get to one, it would
be unlikely that he'd be able to drain the mortal before she could
pull him off.  He'd been unable to break away from her anyway.  She
was using a chain harness covered with leather, and she was strong.
He was like an infant in her grip.  These men would cut themselves,
and tease him, flicking blood on him.  One liked to call him foul
names, but the other was worse.  Michael turned him on, and his
pheromones and his lascivious tongue would send Michael over the top
in seconds.  At least at the beginning.  Now he could keep himself
from attacking the mortal no matter what he said.  Rasena hadn't had
to beat him in a week.

She'd even apologized for the necessity of the beatings.  She'd
explained that because they had no parent-child link, she couldn't use
the preferred, gentler method of controlling a young one.  The
beatings were a crude method, but the only one she had available to
her.  Michael didn't mind.  The pain could cut through the lust and
help bring him to his senses.  It was working.  He was learning to
control himself.  He hoped that soon she would decide that he could be
trusted to be on his own.  He would endure anything to be free, to be
able to go his own way.

He thought he'd head south when she decided he could go, probably to
Brazil.  Things tended to be simpler in the third world, more like the
old days.  Hundreds, if not thousands, of rootless children wandered
the major cities of Brazil.  There were even sprinklings of northern
European stock in South America, so it wasn't impossible for him to
fit in.  And his Portuguese was pretty good, if a bit old fashioned,
and would quickly become perfect once exposed to day to day life.  Or
rather night to night life.  And the Amazon jungle provided a great
place to lose oneself, should the need arise.

He'd probably miss Nick, but at least the idea of Nick would still be
there.  He didn't think staying in Toronto any longer than he had to
was a good idea.  He was under Rasena's protection, but if the
Enforcers decided to take him out, knowing Rasena would collect a few
heads after the fact was pretty cold comfort.  And then there was
Lacroix.  He couldn't get far enough away from Lacroix.  The man
visited Rasena regularly, and he could _feel_ him when he came into
the house.  It drove him crazy.  He would put on the earphones from
the sound system Rasena had gotten him and try to blast the ... taste
of him out of his mind.

He had discovered something interesting, though, when Lacroix had been
keeping him in that apartment.  If he didn't eat, or rather, if he
balanced himself on the point where the hunger was strong, the primary
sensation, but not so strong that he was unable to think clearly, the
_lust_ part of the craving decreased.  Survival became paramount, and
the confusing longings he had for a pleasure beyond that of a full
belly became more manageable.  It was hard to find and keep that
balance though.  Rasena, rightly, thought the mortals under her
protection were safer when the vampires in her retinue remained well
fed.  He'd had to get very good at concealing the signs of his hunger
from her.  Keeping himself hungry also made controlling himself in the
training sessions more difficult, and he had seen Rasena surprised a
few times by his fury.  But he thought that keeping himself on edge
like that had made the training even more effective.

And the hunger helped to reduce if not stop completely the dreams he
had when Lacroix spent the day in the house with Rasena.  He would
wake up feeling hot, his groin tight with the images.  He'd heard
mortals took cold showers to help with such feelings, but that wasn't
too effective for a vampire.  He'd tried it.  The only thing that
really helped was letting the pain of his hunger fill him.  He knew
that feeling.  It had been an almost constant companion for over 500
years.  He understood it, unlike this new hunger for mingling blood
with blood, the astonishing pleasure of sex.  What a silly little word
to describe ... all that.

So, he and his