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 old friend, Hunger, rested together on Nick's roof,
gazing up at the stars.  He carefully avoided mortals on his nightly
wanderings, because his companion did make his control a little more
chancy.  He really didn't want to make a mistake and delay his
opportunity for freedom.  Fortunately, Nick's place wasn't in a busy
part of town.  Not a lot of people wandering around after dark.

Which was why he was surprised when he heard the sounds of two men
arguing below him in the street.  Loud voices gave way to shouting,
then the sound of scuffling.  Curious, Michael hopped off the
stairwell roof, then went quietly to the edge of the building and
peeked over.  Two men grappled on the sidewalk below, their movements
seeming more like a drunken waltz than a fight.  He put his hands on
the low roof wall and leaned out to get a better look.  Then something
sharp hit him in the side of the neck.  He jumped, hissing, and
reached up.  A dull burning spread under his ear.  He pulled the
object sticking from his neck out and gaped at it stupidly.  It was
some kind of dart, the point a slender, hollow tube of wood.  He
turned to search the area behind him.  The movement made his head
whirl.  Dizzy, he had to take a step back.  He found himself suddenly
sitting on the wall, his vision swimming, a high whining in his ears.
Then his senses closed down and he seemed to be falling, spinning.
Everything stopped with a smash.

The two men untangled themselves from their adversarial embrace and
ran over to where the small figure lay crumpled on the sidewalk.

"Shit, it's just a kid!  Is he dead?"

"Of course he's dead, you ass.  He was _before_ he fell."

"Right, right, sorry.  He just looks so ... little."

"Well, he could probably rip your head off if he was awake.  Go get
the truck and the box."

"I'm on it."

****
The sound of Rasena's voice on the answering machine pulled Lacroix
out of his early morning sleep.  Knowing he was likely to be coming up
out of that first deep rest, she gave him a lot of time to get to the
phone.

"Rasena, how pleasant," he greeted her as he picked up the receiver.

"Lucius, dear one, I'm so sorry to disturb you at this time of day."

"How may I be of service?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

"Is Michel there?"

"No, my dear," he replied smoothly, with an inward spurt of
irritation.  "Why would he be here?"

"He isn't here, Lucius.  He hasn't come home.  He knows I would be
upset if he went off somewhere on his own."

"He isn't here and I haven't seen him."

"Do you have any ideas of where he might have gone?"

"No, I do not," he responded a bit sharply.  The boy despised him.
Did Rasena really think her fosterling would light anywhere near him?

There was a slight pause.

"Lucius, you seem ... irritated by my call."

"I would prefer a call from you to consist of more than a query after
that troublesome boy."

"Ah," she replied.  Again there was a small pause and then she went
on.  "I did call you last week."

"Rasena, my ego does not require placating."

"Very well.  However, I do regret not seeing more of you.  I've just
been rather busy lately, and I'm afraid I'm going to be even more so
in the future."

"Your plots within plots, Rasena," he said acidly.

Her tone became a bit irritated as well, as she replied, "Well, yes,
you may certainly view it that way if it pleases you.  But I can't
drop everything simply because you have an urge."

"Don't be tedious, Rasena."

"Lucius, the habitual scorn with which you view my endeavors implies
that you feel I might find better ways to spend my time."

Unable to resist, he purred, "Not `ways', my dear, `way'.  I can think
of one better way for you to spend your time."

"Oh, really, now?" she drawled with some amusement.  "Well then, why
don't you give up your games at your ... club and join me in my
household?  I do so like a warm bed."

"Hmmm.  How very ... convenient that would be for you, my lady."

"Oh, hardly that, Lucius.  I can't say I have ever found you
_convenient_."

"Nor I you," he declared in his most appreciative tone.

"That's gratifying to hear," she replied, laughing.  "Perhaps I could
find the time to come over to your club this evening."

"That would be delightful.  Though you might find the atmosphere in my
apartment more ... congenial."

"Oh, and you would have in mind...?"

Smiling into the phone, he conceded, "The club it is.  We shall share
a few drinks and converse.  Perhaps I will be able to persuade you to
dance."

"Not to that music."

"I'll play something special, something more to your tastes."

"Yes, Lucius.  It sounds lovely.  I'll be there sometime after
midnight, one o'clock, I think."

"So late?"

"Plots within plots, my dear."

He sighed.  "One, then."

"Until then."

"The hours will crawl."

She laughed again and hung up.  He put the receiver down.  Lifting his
eyes to gaze unseeing at a litho of a woman intertwined in amorous
embrace with a wyrm, he wondered if he should have suggested she call
Nicholas about Michael.  He decided not.  The less contact between the
two of them the better.  Otherwise, he might find his time with Rasena
even more limited.

Then again, perhaps that was shortsighted.  Brow furrowed, he ran his
thumb along his lower lip.  Some time with Rasena would certainly
bring back to his wayward son's mind some of the pleasures of the
vampiric state.  Something to contemplate.  He sighed with self-
mocking drama.  The sacrifices he was prepared to make on Nicholas's
behalf....  He smiled to himself.  Though it wouldn't do to rush the
situation.

****
Michael's awareness surged up out of darkness.  He knew right away he
was in big trouble and cautiously remained limp.  He let his ears and
nose work before he ventured to open his eyes.  There were people,
mortals, nearby.  He could hear their movements, though they seemed to
be trying to stay quiet.  And he could definitely smell them.  All
men, many of them frightened.  He felt cold stone under his back and
he realized he was naked.  Not good, really, really not good.

He decided there was no point in not opening his eyes, so he did.  The
sounds had told him he was in a large room and his first glance at the
ceiling twenty feet above him confirmed that.  What really scared him
was the lattice work of bars ten feet above his head.  He closed his
eyes tight again as panic rose in his guts and tried to grab his
throat.  He choked, struggling to push away the suffocating fear.  He
must have moved, because he heard someone say, "He's awake."

This gave him something else to focus on and he quickly sat up to
study his surroundings.  Dizziness caught him for a moment and the
room swung in his vision.  He heard the sound of footsteps shuffling
back away from him.  Slowly, his sight steadied and he could look
around.  He sat in the center a big room, maybe fifty by fifty feet.
Some kind of stone dais raised him up four feet.  Set into a metal rim
in the stone was his cage, a ten foot cube.  He found his teeth set
into his tongue, as the pressure of a scream built in his throat.

He stood quickly and walked jerkily to the bars.  Ignoring the men
gaping at him he grasped the cold metal and pulled.  There was no
give.  He studied the floor where the cage met the stone, then let his
eyes follow the metal track to the corner.  The bar there was much
thicker, a post really.  He walked over and stooped, seeing how the
post was set deeply into the stone floor.  He looked up at the
ceiling, remembering something that hadn't fully sunk in when he had
first opened his eyes.  Above the bars of the top of the cage, hanging
from a winch system was a steel cable and hook.  Apparently the cage
had been lowered down on him while he was unconscious.  He went back
to a corner post and pulled up on it as hard as he could.  He felt
absolutely no give.  The posts went through the floor and were somehow
fastened beneath.

He walked all around the edge of the cage, running his hand, bump,
bump, bump, along the bars.  One of the far walls had a large window
in it, an observation booth he realized, as a couple men behind the
glass stared at him.  He also noticed a couple of cameras suspended
from the ceiling, tiny red lights flickering.  Two walls opposing each
other contained huge windows covered by metal shutters.  The men all
stared at him, as silent and unmoving as a mortal could be.  He found
the one whom he knew to be the leader by his stance and stopped to
study him closely.  The man was short, with brown hair and a beard.
His dark eyes glared at him with loathing.  He wore the clothing of a
priest.  Not good, not good at all.

Michael swallowed a couple times, then said, "I don't suppose you'd
let me out, if I told you my mother would be worried and looking for
me?"  He felt pleased that his voice was steady and clear.

The man's lips curled, as the men around him stirred.  Apparently they
didn't care for the light approach.

"We know what you are," the priest snapped.  "You won't be able to lie
your way out of this.  Things will be much easier for you if you
cooperate."

"Easier in what way?"

The priest turned his head, nodding to a man standing by the wall
behind him.  That man pushed a button, and with a metallic clanking,
the shutter on the large window there began to rise.  Morning sunlight
spilled in on the floor and a spread in a lethal golden blaze toward
the cage. Panicked, Michael flew up, hitting the ceiling's unyielding
bars as the light rolled across the stone dais.  He heard some of the
men cry out in amazement, but the realization that he had very
effectively revealed his nature remained lost in his overwhelming
fear.

The shutter suddenly stopped moving, leaving the ceiling of the cage
in the shade.  The priest stalked up to the edge of the dais and
stared up at the vampire.

"Are you listening?"

Michael licked his lips.  "Oh, yes."

"We want to know everything you know.  About your nature, and
especially about others of your kind."

"Ah, well," Michael replied weakly, "I'm afraid I can't help you much
there.  I'm woefully ignorant.  The one who made me died very soon
after he did so, and never had a chance to tell me what he knew."  A
drop of reddish sweat ran down his cheek and off the tip of his nose
to fall hissing into the sunlight.

"Tell me about Knight."

"Night?  That's when the sun goes down and the world is thrust into
darkness.  My favorite time of the day, if you'll pardon the pun.  You
don't need me to tell you basic stuff like this, do you?  I mean, I
know modern life is pretty hectic and all, but don't you have time to
go look out the window?"

"I want to know about Nicholas Knight," the priest snapped
impatiently.  "Tell me about Knight."

"Oh, a man named Knight?" Michael heard himself babble.  "Sorry, I
don't know any Knights.  Not recently at least.  There were a few guys
a couple centuries back, but--"

The priest raised a finger and the shutter rattled, lurching up.  Pain
flared along Michael's legs.  He screamed and rolled across the top of
the cage to wedge himself along the edge furthest from the light.  The
shutter stopped again, but Michael could feel the searing heat all
along his side.  The stink of his own burnt flesh filled his nose.

"Tell me about Knight," the priest repeated quietly.

"Please, please, don't kill me," Michael sobbed, shuddering
uncontrollably.  "If I knew anything, don't you think I'd tell you?
Please, it's burning."

"If you don't know him, why was it your habit to sit on his roof?"

"I -- I didn't know whose roof it was.  It just felt safe,
comfortable."  Michael's tears disappeared into small puffs of steam
as they fell.

"You're telling me you don't know Knight."

"I don't know him!" Michael screamed.  "Oh, please, please, shut the
window."

"You sat on the roof of the stranger, who just happens to be another
vampire.  You expect me to believe that?"

"A ... a vampire?"  Michael felt a chill go through him, despite the
scorching light.  Had he led them to Nick somehow?  "I don't know
anything about that.  It was just a quiet spot, up high.  I ... it
felt safe.  Please, I ... I'm going to fall."

The priest stared up at him.  "Get a good grip, then.  You're going to
be up there a while."  He turned and walked away.  Michael watched him
leave the room though a heavy metal door, then, moving carefully,
linked his elbows and feet through the lattice work of the bars.  He
hissed as the cold metal scraped along the burns on his ankles.  He
hung, sweating precious blood, as the morning sun slowly rose, giving
him a bigger shadow to hide in.  Eventually, he was able to slide down
the side of the cage to stand shaking in a strip of darkness on the
floor.

Staring down at his legs, still bright red with burns, he cursed
himself for his stupid, stupid habit of keeping himself hungry.  He
doubted he was going to get breakfast anytime soon.  He glanced up in
alarm, as with a hum and rattle, the shutters of the skylight slid
back.  The noon light burned him severely across the shoulders before
he could scramble into the stripe of shade they had left him.

He spent the rest of the day struggling with the stupefying effect
daytime had on his system and fitting himself into the narrow safe
spot they allowed him.  They opened the shutters on the west wall in
the late afternoon and he had to take refuge on the ceiling again.
Fortunately, he had been expecting it this time and managed to avoid
being burned.  His previous burns healed slowly.  The hunger was a
small tight pain over his heart, a minor discomfort, really.  It was
going to get much worse, he was sure.  They lowered the west shutter
slowly to maintain a small shadow for him as the sun set.  Finally,
the last curve of the sun vanished below the horizon, and he slumped
into an exhausted heap on the floor.  He heard footsteps coming toward
him and he quickly crawled into the center of the cage.  He didn't
know what would come next; he didn't think it could be worse, but
humans could be fairly inventive when devising torments.

The small, bearded priest walked up to the edge of the cage and peered
in at him.  Michael blinked as a number of bright lights suddenly
flared on.

"I suppose you're hungry," the man said, as he propped a liter soda
bottle full of a dark red liquid on the edge of the dais.  Michael
glanced at it, then tore his eyes away to stare into the human's face.

"Yes, I am," he admitted calmly.

"Here."  The man lay the bottle on its side and rolled it toward him.
Michael scooped it up in a smooth, eager motion and untwisted the top.
The smell hit him and his teeth descended.  He forced them back up,
aching.  He'd always disliked the hissing lisp speaking though fangs
gave him.

"It's human," he commented with some amazement.

With a trace of astonishment, the man asked, "Would you drink animal
blood?  Cow, pig, ... rat?"

"I prefer deer, actually.  A lovely, pungent, gamy taste.  Especially
a stag in rut.  Makes for good hunting, too."  He half closed his
eyes, and delicately touched his upper lip with the tip of his tongue,
studying the priest carefully for his reactions.  "Nothing to compare
to the sublime subtlety of human, of course."

The man's cheeks flared with angry red spots, as his eyes and lips
narrowed.  He really, really didn't like being on the food chain,
Michael thought with some amusement.

"If you can drink animal blood, why do you drink human?" he growled.

Michael widened his eyes and said, "Because I want to."

He brought the mouth of the bottle back under his nose and inhaled,
closing his eyes.  His teeth slid down again, his eyes began to burn
behind their lids and he tilted the bottle back.  The blood, too cold
and too old, flowed down his throat like balm, and he didn't stop the
moan of pleasure that escaped him.  The burn in his guts cooled
somewhat.  It would take more than this for the hunger to be
completely assuaged, but it was a nice start.  He lowered the empty
bottle with a sigh.  The priest stared at him, face frozen in disgust
and horror.  Somewhere in the back of the room someone was being
wrackingly sick.

Michael tossed and caught the bottle a few times and studied it in a
judicious, weighing manner.  He poked out his lower lip, and nodding,
commented, "Nice, very nice.  Though somewhat flat due to its age.
And the ... after taste was a bit scattered and diffused as this was a
mix of at least four people's blood.  The diabetic had better keep a
closer eye on his blood sugar.  A tad sweet."

The priest gaped at him and Michael managed to resist flipping the
bottle into his stupid sheep face.  Instead he recapped it and gently
rolled it back.

"Thank you," he said with a simpering smile.  "That was lovely.
Nothing like taking it directly from the source, but it certainly hit
the spot."  He patted his bare belly.

The man collected himself, and demanded sternly, "You say you can live
off animal blood, yet you prefer to take human blood, human life."

"Ah, well, yes.  The experience is much more complete, richer, when
blood is taken from a living source.  And humans provide the most
satisfying ... meal.  There is a ... craving, which can only be met by
human blood. Nothing else can calm that need.  Though one can live, or
rather, exist drinking animal blood.  But you are mistaken, if you
think I kill every time I eat."

"You don't?"

"Of course not.  A sip here, a sip there. I kill only under the most
... extreme circumstances.  Maybe twice a month, if you average it all
out."

"That's ... that's 24 murders a year."

"Yes.  Though considerably less than the 365 you imagined."

"And you regret these deaths."

"Rarely.  Very, very rarely."  Michael's eyes narrowed.  "I tend to
find them quite satisfying, actually." His face brightened and he gave
the priest a friendly smile.  "You seem a rather curious fellow.
Perhaps you'd like to hear about them."

Groggy with his sleepless day, muddled by the pain of his slowly
healing burns and his fear, desperation rose in him.  At least
struggling to stay away from the sunlight had occupied his mind.  But
now his dislike of enclosed spaces was beginning to swell in him and
he couldn't afford to allow it to turn to panic.  His survival
depended on his controlling himself, on keeping his few secrets, yet
still giving these men something to appease them.  If he could chatter
on about things that interested them, but which contained no real
information, he might be able to draw this out long enough for someone
to realize he was missing and come get him.

"Uh...."  The priest seemed rather nonplused, really.  Perhaps he
wasn't used to dealing with someone who seemed to feel no remorse or
guilt for his sins.  He should expand his horizons, Michael thought,
perhaps form a relationship with a psychopath or two.

"You see," said Michael with an airy wave of a hand, "even if I moved
around much more than I did, killing someone every night in the unique
way of a vampire would be sure to attract unwanted attention to my
existence.  Then I would end up in a situation, oh, much like this
one.  Not very pleasant, at least from my point of view."

"So ... what do you do?  Ration out the blood of those you kill?"

Michael made a face.  "Yuck!  No way!  Blood goes bad pretty fast, if
you don't have a refrigerator.  And I'm living on the streets.  No
home to put a fridge in.  No, see, I try to get fresh blood every
night.  But in such a way that doesn't attract attention."

"Which is...."

Michael leaned forward with a mischievous smile, almost giddy with
severely repressed terror.  "Guess," he teased.

The man scowled at him with dislike.  "Just tell me."

"I whore."  Leaning back, Michael measured the man.  Maybe he could
present them with the more ... entertaining details of his personal
life, and keep the focus away from what he knew about other vampires.

"Wh -- what?"

"I whore.  I work as a prostitute.  I tap my customer for a pint or
so, he gets a thrill.  Pretty fair exchange, wouldn't you say?"

"That's disgusting."  The man's lips twisted with distaste.

"Well, I guess I could just grab a random somebody off the street,"
Michael replied with heavy sarcasm.  "But it's a lot easier this way.
They come to me.  And most of them leave my hands alive."

"You tempt men into a heinous sin and then kill them...?"

Michael's face and voice grew cold.  "I kill some of them.  The ones
that get off on hurting and killing.  And I don't _tempt_ anyone.
They are out looking, and believe me, if it weren't me, it would be
some mortal child on his knees.  Don't pretend you don't know that
this happens."

"So," the man's face was pale as he said, "you are actually claiming
to be some kind of -- of force for good."

"Get a grip, Padre.  I kill because I hate and it feels good to kill
what I hate.  Maybe you know what I mean.  Eh?  There is an
unquestionable social benefit that some men who prey on children die
under my hands.  But that's not why I do it."  With intense relief,
Michael realized that it was working, the priest wasn't going to be
able to resist arguing with him about irrelevancies.

"They die with terrible sins unrepented."

"Oh, believe me, by the time I'm done with them they are sorry for
every blow they ever struck, every cut or burn they ever made, most of
them sobbing to Jesus to save them.  And if there is a Hell, I hope
they're there, writhing in as much pain as they caused on Earth."

"There is a Hell, and your soul is already there."

"Even if I repented?"

The priest studied Michael for some time, his thoughts flickering
behind his eyes.  Clearly this question preyed on his mind and perhaps
had been for some time.

"Do you repent?"

"Honestly, no, Padre.  But it is something I think about from time to
time.  Usually when slogging through Augustine's works.  Of course, he
was talking about your condition, not mine."

"You were mortal once.  It all pertains to you as well."

"Yes, well, if you believe in that nonsense in the first place.
Nothing in my experience has lead me to accept it as truth."

The priest snorted in disdain.  "What could you, a creature damned as
you are, perceive of the Truth?"

"Well, seeing as you ask...."

Michael kept the priest busy in a sometimes heated argument for the
next four hours.  The vampire devoured books almost as eagerly as he
did blood, and his eidetic memory gave him access to pages and pages
of text he could quote.  His own intellect, dulled by exhaustion, fear
and hunger, was still sharp enough to give the priest occasional
pause.  Michael stretched out on the cold stone floor, propping his
head up on one hand, using the other to punctuate and illustrate a
particular point.  His burns had more or less healed, but their
healing had used up quite a bit of the energy he had derived from his
light meal.  The hunger was back, keeping him hyper-alert to the
presence of every mortal in the room.  The priest wisely stood well
back from the bars, and Michael could only hope some other fool would
wander too close to his cage.  But no one came near, though they
seemed quite interested in the conversation.  The tiny red lights told
him they were recording this all on tape, and he became more
determined not to give them anything practical.  He could go on and on
for hours, spouting useless intellectual or theological drivel if they
let him.  Really, when he was nervous, stopping his babble was the
hard part.

The solitary life he had led had made him a comparatively poor source
of information on the vampire community.  But he did know the location
and purpose of the Raven.  Their finding out about that place could
make things awkward in a number of ways.  Rasena, well, he owed her
everything, including his life, and if it meant giving it up to
protect her, he would.  His feelings for Lacroix were too confusing to
get a handle on.  But he didn't want the man dead.  And Nick....  The
thought that they already knew about him, that he was in danger, made
him want to scream in panic.  He wasn't going to say a word to
corroborate their information, wherever they got it.  It sickened him
to think that somehow he, Michael, would be blamed for Nick's
exposure.

The priest, rambling in exhaustion, attempted to make a point that
that eunuch Origen had made much more eloquently centuries ago.  Even
that Origen had been declared a heretic wasn't amusing enough to perk
Michael up.  He tried to doze with his eyes open, but his lids kept
drooping.  He interrupted.

"Padre, I'm sorry.  I really can't stay awake any longer."

The man glared at him, his intense eyes red rimmed and blood-shot.

"Sorry," Michael repeated and laid his head down on his crooked arm.
He yawned.

"Everything you've told me today is useless."

"Sorry again.  Maybe you could chalk it up to learning some more about
a vampire's thought processes."  Michael closed his eyes.

"I'm not interested in your thought processes," the priest spat.

Opening his eyes again, Michael commented, "As a hunter, Padre, I
suggest the more you know of your prey, the better your chances of
snaring it."  Closing his eyes, he forced himself into a death-like,
healing sleep.

****
He woke the next morning as his body flung itself up against the
ceiling of the cage as the shutters rattled up and the pale light of
dawn poured into the room.

Too many long hours later, the sun set and he lowered himself, shaking
uncontrollably, to the floor.  The priest, whom he had heard called
Blake by the other men in the room, came toward him.  He carried a
liter bottle in his hand.  Michael stayed curled up against the bars,
daring Blake with a sullen glare to come close enough for him to grab.
The man stopped well out of arm's reach, even too far for Michael to
get a decent eye-lock on him.

"Get to the other side of the cage," Blake commanded, "or you don't
get this."

Michael pulled himself up with the bars and stalked silently over to
the opposite side of the cage.  He watched, forcing his eyes to stay
blue, as the priest walked up to the bars and rolled the bottle toward
him.  Michael managed to keep himself from making a humiliating lunge
for it, but his speed at grabbing up the bottle did make Blake jump
back in alarm.

Michael twisted off the cap.  His fangs dropped with a sharp pang and
his eyes started to burn at the smell.  He caught an odd, bitter odor,
but he had the bottle to his lips and a good mouthful swallowed before
he realized something was wrong.  He pulled the bottle away, blood
flowing over his chin and down his chest.  The stuff that got down in
his throat set the hunger into a screaming burn.  The chemical taste
on his tongue meant nothing to his internal tyrant, and it took almost
all he had to shove it down.

Panting, vision blurred with tears, he choked out, "It's tainted.  You
put something in it."

"Just something to relax you, something that will make you answer our
questions more freely."  Blake's soothing tones were patently false.

Michael screwed the lid back on.  "I won't ... won't drink it."  He
tossed it deftly back though the bars.  Blake caught it awkwardly,
lips and eyes tight with fury.

"It's this or nothing," he snapped.

Michael turned his back and walked to the opposite side of the cage.
He leaned against the bars, rolling his forehead on the cold metal.

"Suit yourself," Blake said softly.  He twisted off the top of the
bottle and upended it.  Michael screwed his eyes tight at the sound of
the blood splashing on the floor.  Then he bit through his lip as the
smell washed over him.  He quickly let his lip go.  He wasn't ready to
start chewing his own flesh yet.

He looked over his shoulder at Blake, who watched him curiously.
Taking a deep breath, he walked over and sat down cross-legged in the
middle of the cage.  He cleared his throat, and inquired, "What would
you like to talk about this evening?  How about if I tell you one of
the things I truly admire about the Church?"

Blake peered at him suspiciously.  "What's that?"

Michael's eyes came alight with a fire quite different from that of
the hunger's.

"The music," he breathed.

****
Catherine stared at the gray stone walls of the Institute with a great
deal of trepidation, eyes darting from window to barred window,
searching for some sign of life, of warmth.  The last time she had
been in this building had been a terrifying experience and now she was
being asked to repeat it.  Father Randolf had driven her here in his
car.  His own fright made his movements jerky and unsure, creating a
true ordeal out of the journey.  She stood now before the entrance,
soaking up the fresh air and sunshine like a blessing to carry her
through the time to follow.  The cold glass eye of the security camera
glared down at them, as Father Randolf spoke to someone over the
little speaker by the door.

A young man in a dark suit swung the heavy metal door open for them,
his eyes hard and wary.  He preceded them down a long hall painted an
institutional green.  The young man moved easily, like an athlete.
They passed other men in the hall, very similar in dress and attitude
to their guide.  They nodded respectfully to Catherine, however, and
she attempted to smile back politely.  These young men, or at least
others much like them, had been here five years ago as well.  She
understood that they actually lived in this building, and that they
were part of some kind of religious order.  What kind had never been
explained to her.  But they didn't appear or act like she expected
monks would.

They went up a flight of stairs and approached a gray metal door at
the end of the hall.  Two more men stood guard there.  One of them
turned to a speaker by the door.

"She's here," he said.

The door was unlocked and Catherine stepped once again into the room
that figured in some of her worst nightmares.  She wrinkled her nose.
The room stank, of blood and male sweat.  The cage was still in the
center of the room, of course, set in the stone dais as it was.  She
stepped firmly toward it.  Father Randolf took her elbow, probably to
lend her some of his strength, but the tremor in his hand failed to
reassure her.  She saw something huddled in the middle of the cage,
its smallness surprising her.  She remembered the other one as a huge,
raging figure, awesome in its ferocity.

A priest came toward them, intersecting their path to the center of
the room.  She recognized the small, intense, bearded man as Father
Blake, whom she had last seen in this room five years ago.  He smiled
and reaching out, took her hand and tucked it in the crook of his
elbow as he turned to walk slowly with her.  Randolf dropped behind
them with a grateful sigh.

"Catherine, thank you so much for coming."

"Oh, you're welcome, Father Blake.  I ... I hope I can help."

"Catherine, all you have to do is take a close look, and then tell us
what you see.  We have cameras and other recording equipment," he
declared, waving a hand at the glass walled booth set up in the wall,
"but none of them is capable of the subtle impressions your vision
brings us.  A true gift from God."

"Yes, Father."  She kept her eyes fixed on his calm face, letting him
lead her.

"Catherine, this one is different from the other in outer form.  I
don't want that to ... distract you.  Let your gift show you its inner
nature.  Don't let it deceive you."

Confused, she could only answer, "All right, Father."

They stopped a few paces away from the cage, and Catherine studied the
floor a moment, working up her courage.  Noticing a large red-brown
stain to her left, she wrinkled her nose.  Then she lifted her head
and stared at the monster.

A pair of bright blue eyes immediately caught and held her gaze.

"A child," she gasped.

"Catherine, no.  Don't be deceived."  Father Blake shook her arm.

"I'm sorry.  No one told me...."

"We don't want to cloud your vision.  Look, woman, look.  What do you
_see_?"

So she looked.  And, yes, at the center of the seeming child, who sat
watching her calmly, existed that core of darkness she had seen in
that vampire five years ago, and more recently in Nicholas Knight.

Once, when she was a child, she and her family had visited a cavern.
The guide had turned off the lights when they had reached its center.
An implacable blackness had suddenly pressed down on her, a complete
absence of any light.  She had felt her self lost in that darkness.
But she had also felt an incredible peace, as though an incessant
background noise had suddenly ceased.  The darkness in these creatures
was just as threatening, but also just as compelling.

"Yes," she gasped, "yes, I see the darkness.  But...."

"What is it, Catherine?" Blake urged gently.  "We need to know
everything you can tell us."

"This one ... it isn't like that first one.  But it's not like
Nicholas Knight, either."

"Good, Catherine, good.  Go on."

"The first one, it was a monster.  Around the darkness there was only
fury and hatred.  Ni -- Knight's center is surrounded by a remorse, by
guilt and a fierce desire for redemption.  Though that isn't all."
She faltered, then went on.  "Please, Father, you must understand that
my words, they can't possibly express the complexity of what I see."

A clear voice broke in.

"Your problem, Catherine, is that you are trying to boil down into a
few words a very complicated person.  At least he sounds like one.  I
know I am.  Unless I'm starving to death.  Like the one who died here.
Then we become very ... simple."  The creature in the cage gave her a
charming smile, as she stared at him in amazement.  "But under similar
circumstances, so would most any other person.  I'm sure you agree."

Blake turned, eyes blazing with fury and hissed, "Silence."

"Oh, excuse me, Padre.  I fear I have offended."  He turned to
Catherine.  "He objects when I describe myself as a person."

"Be silent!" Blake growled.  "Or I will have them open the window."

Catherine saw a flare of fear around the creature's dark core, spiky,
sharp.  Outwardly, though, the boyish vampire seemed calm, insolently
so.  Smiling, he lounged back, supporting himself on one arm.  He
brought the other hand up and drew a pinched thumb and forefinger
across his lips as though pulling a zipper.  Catherine realized she
was standing there gaping and her teeth clicked as she quickly shut
her mouth when Father Blake turned back to her.

"Excuse my temper," he said, rubbing a hand over suddenly weary eyes.
"The creature speaks incessantly, but will say nothing that we need to
hear."

"What ... what do you mean?"

"We have been treated to its philosophy on life, on death, on good and
evil, to endless lectures on musical theory," Blake replied in
frustration.  "But it has given us no meaningful information, such as
where we may find others of its kind, here in Toronto or elsewhere."

"I'm ... I'm sorry, Father Blake."

"No, no, Catherine.  I'm sorry.  You've been distracted.  You need
some time to observe here.  Go ahead.  Will ... will you be all right
if I leave you here alone for a while?  Father Randolf can come and be
with you, if you wish."

"No, no, Father, it's all right.  I don't feel frightened anymore."

He smiled warmly at her.  "Good girl, Catherine.  Just don't get any
closer than this.  They can hypnotize you if you get too close."

"Goodness!"

He smiled at her again, then walked over to where three men stood
under the observation window and began a quiet conversation with them.
Catherine turned her gaze back to the ... creature before her.
Physically, he appeared to be a young boy, perhaps eleven, quite
beautiful.  His features had a sharpness to them, though, and dark
hollows around his blue eyes, which she associated with the pictures
of starving children she had seen on the television. Her heart sank at
the thought of a child ripped from its innocence and sunk into a life
of eternal darkness.  He had been studying her as well and her
thoughts must have been clear on her face.

"Oh, please," he requested, his light voice quiet but carrying, "not
pity.  Disgust, horror, anything but pity."

Catherine peered nervously around her.  They must be recording all
this, they must have heard him speak.  A part of her was eager to hear
what he had to say and she hoped they wouldn't demand his silence
again.  But really, it helped when the ... whatever it was she was
studying spoke.  It caused different patterns to appear, as shifting
thoughts and memories passed through the mind.

"But ... but I do pity you," she responded, amazed by her own
boldness.  But his childish, almost angelic face made it easy to talk
to him.  If she just didn't look too deep....

He shook his head, blond curls dancing.  "But I don't want it.  I like
what I am."

"You are ... were too young to realize what you've lost."

"Let's not argue about the soul thing, okay?" he groaned.  "I've been
over it, ad nauseum, with the Padre.  If it really is gone, I don't
miss it.  _And_ I don't think it's gone anyway."

"How ... how can you like what you are?"

"Because of what I am, I'm alive.  It's lots better than the
alternative.  At least I think so, though I realize others may
disagree.  And I've enjoyed my life.  As depraved as that might seem
to some."  He sat cross-legged on the cold stone, hands tucked
modestly between his legs to hide his nudity.  His smile was about as
depraved as a 6th grader's.

She felt herself, alarmingly, warming to that smile, and forced
herself to say sternly, "But you're a killer, a murderer."

"A troubling aspect of my existence, I admit."

"I see no remorse in you.  Not ... not like Knight."

"This Knight again.  Must be a fascinating fellow."

"You don't know him?"

The boy smiled.  "As far as I'm concerned, I'm the only vampire in the
world."

"You're lying."

Lips curving and eyes sparkling with mischief, he said, "I am the son
of the father of lies, Catherine.  Anyone can tell you that.  Don't
you _see_ that?"

This statement frightened her a bit.  Because while it was clear he
was indulging in private humor, she could see on one level he meant
it.  Boldly, she declared, "I can see the darkness, the emptiness at
your center."

He grinned at her.  "That's just my stomach.  I haven't eaten in a
while."  Then his face became serious.  "Really, you see no remorse?
There are people I wish I hadn't killed, you know.  Most I think are
better dead, but there are a few...."

"I've seen more remorse in a wolf."

He stared at her, then laughed.  He tossed back his head and let out a
weird ululating howl.  The sound prickled up and down her spine and
she was amazed to see the colors around him clear to a sharp silvery
white.  Many of the men around the room jumped and swore.

"Sorry," he snickered, when the echoes died down.  "I confess to
enjoying occasional melodrama.  And really, wolves are quite capable
of feeling a kind of guilt.  It's pretty short lived, though, so I
guess it couldn't be called remorse.  I lived....  Uh-oh."  Catherine
turned to follow his gaze and found Blake bearing down on her, his
face dark with fury.  That his glare focused on the vampire rather
than on her brought her some measure of relief.  She trusted Blake,
but found his intensity occasionally alarming.

"That was a mistake," Blake snarled.

Catherine watched as the child vampire curled in on himself, hugging
his knees tightly.  His fear, constant but muted while they spoke,
crackled like an electrical storm around him.  That he didn't scream
amazed her.

"Catherine, it's time you left.  I'd like you to tell Father Randolf
what you've seen.  He will make a tape.  And if you would, please come
back tomorrow afternoon.  I want you to tell me if you see any changes
on a day to day basis.  He'll be hungrier then.  I'd like to see if
that makes any difference."

"Yes, Father."  She let herself be escorted out by the sweating
Randolf.  She turned once at the door to look back.  Blake was
standing under the west window, hand on some controls there.  He was
watching her, clearly waiting for her to leave.  She took a quick
glance at the childish ... monster in the cage.  He moved one hand
down, hiding it from Blake's view and wiggled his fingers at her.  Her
hand jerked up a bit in an involuntary response and she turned sharply
away.  As the door closed behind her, she had the sudden thought that
her son, Peter, would have been eleven this year.  She gasped as she
realized what had just crossed her mind.  She took the thought and
crushed it ruthlessly back into the dark hole it had crawled out of.

****
Michael had suffered some pretty bad burns that afternoon.  Blake had
punished him for his little prank with the wolf howl by opening the
shutters all the way for a moment.  Michael sported blisters all up
his right side.  Night had finally come and he had been able fall on
his knees to the floor.  He ran trembling fingers though his hair and
ashes dusted his hand.  A real side show he must look now, he thought
with a wincing smile.

"I'm glad one of us is finding this amusing," Blake declared coldly
from the side of the cage.  Michael peered up at him, trying to gather
his thoughts.

"You don't get through 500 years without a sense of humor, Padre.
Frankly, I'm amazed you've made it this far," Michael replied, his
hoarseness distressing to him.

Blake scowled at him, then when all of what Michael had said sank in,
he blurted, "Five hundred...?  You claim you're five _hundred_ years
old?"

"I'm not _claiming_ anything, Padre," snapped Michael, his voice
loosening with use.  "I don't give a damn if you believe me or not."
He closed his eyes, already tired of the man's face.  The skin all up
and down his right side twitched, shivering as his body reached deep
into his reserves to heal.  Sucked almost dry, his need ate the flesh
off his ribs and limbs, struggling to keep him alert and strong.  See
the amazing skeleton boy.  Well, not that bad yet.  But `angelic' was
definitely a word that would _not_ be used to describe him now.

Blake cleared his throat.  Michael opened his eyes again, dreading
what was to come.  Sure enough, Blake was holding up a liter bottle.

"Dinner?" queried the priest lightly.

"Well, have you ... spiced it up again?"

Blake scowled.  "If you mean is it drugged again, yes it is.  We've
gotten nothing but meaningless babbling from you up `til now.  Drink
this, so we know we will get something useful.  Then you can have some
... untainted blood."

"No."  Michael couldn't believe how hard it was to say that word.

"This only means to us, that you _do_ know something of interest to
us.  If you really knew nothing, you'd drink this, unafraid of giving
anyone or anything away."

"Maybe it just proves I'm a private person, oh, excuse me, a private
monster," Michael spat,  "and I don't want a bunch of prurient old men
with questionable motives poking around in my psyche."

Blake's face froze, then twisted into a mask of rage.  He wrenched the
bottle top off and, stepping up to the bars, swung the bottle in an
arc, spraying Michael and his cage in a perverse aspersion.  The cold
liquid splashed into the vampire's face, shocking him into a moment of
stillness.  Then, snarling, he lunged at the priest from his kneeling
position, crashing into the bars.  The mortal, face shifting suddenly
to fear, tripped back, sprawling onto the floor.  He lay there, hand
coming up to his chest where Michael's finger tips had brushed against
him.  The vampire glared at him with a growl surprisingly deep coming
from such a small frame.  More mortals came running up to rescue their
fallen leader, but they froze like rabbits when Michael's fierce red
glare met them.

"See there," Blake declared, pointing with a trembling hand at
Michael's burning-eyed, white-fanged visage.  "For any that doubted,
there is the true face of this beast, this child of the Dark."

Michael shoved himself back from the bars, shaking, fists clenched.
After a few shuddering breaths, he began to laugh, tightly at first,
then with a feeling of real release as his sense of the ridiculous
helped him take his rage in hand.  His eyes cooled and his teeth
retracted.

"Really, Padre," he said chuckling, wiping tears with the back of his
hand.  "Your mastery of the melodramatic is quite impressive."  He
lowered himself gingerly to the floor.  "Let's see, what shall we
discuss tonight?"  The blood scent all around him had his limbs
quivering and his belly in a knot of agony.  He licked his tears from
his hand.

Blake's assistants helped him up and the man glared at Michael as he
brushed himself off.

"I want something practical from you.  If you think today was bad, you
won't want to live through tomorrow."

Michael studied the man through slitted lids.  That was, of course,
always an option.  If worse came to worse, he could always just step
into the sun and he'd be ash before they could close the shutters.
But he wasn't ready for that.  Rasena knew he wouldn't run.  She'd be
searching for him, and when she found him, well, something would be
done.  What, he didn't know.  One never knew with her.  But something.

"Practical?  All right.  How about a history lesson?"

"A ... history lesson?"

"Well, one sees a lot of history in 500 years.  I promise, this time
there will be vampires."

So Michael treated to them to a number of stories about vampires he
had known or heard about, careful to speak only of the dead, the true
dead.  Even then, he knew some bits of information useful to these men
were slipping out.  He couldn't help himself.  He didn't want tomorrow
to be worse than today.  He could only hope Rasena would understand
and forgive him.

****
Nick was rather startled when Richard picked up the phone during the
first three-ring signal.

"Nick, Nick," he panted, "don't hang up."

Alarmed, Nick asked, "Is everything all right?"

Richard laughed.  "Yeah, sorry.  Look, I just dropped my first batch
of hops into the wort and if I want this to turn out right, I need to
drop in another two sets of hops over the next hour--"

"Richard, what are you talking about?"

"Brewing, Nick, I'm brewing a batch of India pale ale.  Really, it's
not important.  I can drop this if you need to get together now."

"No, no, I wouldn't want you to ruin your ... wort.  I'll call again
in an hour."

"Hey, Nick...."

"Yeah?"

"Why don't you come over and just visit for a while?  We can take off
to do our work after I drop in the last of the hops, the stuff can
cool and I'll pitch the yeast when I get back.  You know, just come
over and ... and visit."

Nick opened his mouth to refuse, then stopped.  He had spent a lot of
evenings with the priest during the last month.  He had come to
respect and like the man.  He had never shrunk away from the stories
Nick had told him, nor had he softened his stance on the
reprehensibility of what the vampire had done.  He had heard intimate
details of Nick's past actions and abhorred them, but had become,
despite that, as Nick now realized, his friend.  They had taken very
little time to just talk about things that didn't really matter, all
those little things that glued a relationship together.

"Nick?  You there?  Did I step over a line here?"

"No, Richard.  Actually, it sounds good.  I'll be right over."

"Great," Richard said, voice bright with relief.  "See ya soon."

Fifteen minutes later, Richard was leading Nick back into his kitchen.
The smell of boiled grains was strong, but fortunately not nauseating
to Nick.  He sat down at the kitchen table, first taking off his coat
to sling it across the chair back.  He surveyed the room as Richard
did something to the huge pot of steaming liquid on the stove.  There
weren't all the little ... knickknacks and gadgets he associated with
mortals' kitchens.  It was almost stark and very, very clean.  The
windows were opaque with the steam coming up out of the pot.

Richard went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle.

"I'd offer you one, but...."

Nick smiled.  "Sorry.  I couldn't appreciate it as it no doubt
deserves."

The priest sat down across from Nick.  "You know, I was thinking about
eternal life, your kind of eternal life, that is, the other day.  I
was bottling and capping a batch of Scotch ale, a task that gives your
mind a chance to wander, and I realized, that as a vampire, I'd never
be able to drink a Scotch ale again.  The thought astonished and
appalled me.  Then I began wondering if I wasn't going a little
overboard in my dedication to a good beer, if the thought of
immortality without one sent shivers up my spine."  Richard grimaced
and shuddered extravagantly.

"So, do you suppose there's beer in heaven?" Nick inquired, eyes wide
with innocence.

"If I get there, there will be."

Nick laughed, then asked, "Have you been brewing long?"

"All my life, really.  My dad brewed and he let me help him as soon as
I was big enough to hold a ladle and stir.  I love doing it, tinkering
with recipes, the smell, the mindless task of bottling, everything.
Even getting the kitchen sterile.  I give a lot of what I make away,
but a lot of it goes inside me."  Richard grinned.  "Really, it's a
great hobby, and now, even though my dad's gone, sometimes when I'm
brewing, it seems like he's standing there just at my shoulder,
reminding me the next batch of hops needs to go in in 30 seconds."
Richard glanced at his watch, and laughing, jumped up to dump
something into the boiling pot.

"What is that?" Nick asked, as a bright, floral aroma drifted over to
him.  Richard came back over with some green pellets in a cup.  Nick
took the cup and sniffed them.  It was quite pleasant, really,
refreshing.

"These are hops, a plant that's added to ales to give them their
bitterness."  Richard stared at Nick, then blinking said, "Oh my.  You
know, I just realized, when you were drinking ale....  Did you drink
ale?"

"Oh, yes.  Sometimes to excess.  Though I always preferred wine."

"Well, when you were drinking ale, it wasn't made with hops.  They
only started adding it about 200 years ago, as a preservative."
Richard looked pensive.  "Maybe I'll make a batch without it next
time, to see what you were drinking tastes like."

"Don't forget to drink it warm."

Richard made a face and laughed.  "Maybe not."  Nick gave Richard back
the cup, smiling.  The man took it and distractedly ran his finger
through the pellets.

"Did you do stuff with your father?  I mean, your _real_ father, not
that ... other."

Nick had mentioned Lacroix, though never by name, calling him his
master and even, apparently to Richard's dismay, father.  He'd tried
to explain the relationship, but he wasn't sure he had been very clear
on the subject.  Not surprisingly, as his own understanding of it
remained ambiguous, to say the least.

"Sure," Nick replied.  "He taught me to fight, to hunt, to ride, all
the stuff a medieval nobleman's son needed to know.  He died fairly
young though.  People often did in those days."

"And you were in the crusades?  You know, my dad named me after King
Richard, and I grew up with tales of knights in shining armor and all.
But ... but I guess it wasn't really like that, was it?  Honestly,
when I read about the Crusades and the Inquisition, it ... well, it
really shook my faith."

"They really shook mine, too."

"I was fortunate in only having to read about it, not live through it.
But it took me awhile to realize the Church is made up of people, some
good, some bad, most just trying to get along.  It is our path to
salvation.  But God is working with hopelessly imperfect tools.  Those
people thought they were doing His will.  And really, what arrogance
to say that they weren't.  We have no idea what God's intent was or
is.  Who knows what the world would be like if those events hadn't
taken place?"  Richard grinned at Nick.  "I realize this isn't exactly
doctrine."

"Doctrine has changed a lot over the centuries.  For the better, I
think, if the change can keep us away from another Inquisition.  The
Crusades...?  Well, I guess there were mistakes, and horrible things
happened.  But most of us meant well.  We truly thought we were doing
a great good, fulfilling God's will.  I hadn't intended to go to
Jerusalem when I did, but can't say I hadn't felt the call."

Richard studied Nick a moment, his gray eyes sober and searching.
Then he said quietly, "You're still that crusader at heart, aren't
you?  Nearly 800 years, and that hasn't changed in you."

Nick shook his head, not really denying it, but feeling awkward under
Richard's level gaze.  "You should have been there, too, Richard,
keeping us on the proper path with your honesty and compassion."

The young priest flushed.  "No, I'm a wimp, really.  The sight of
blood makes me twitchy."

"Me, too," Nick confessed, with a slanting, rueful grin.  Richard
laughed.

 Their conversation meandered along these and other paths for hours.
They never did get to Nick's confession.  But they both came away
feeling heartened and refreshed.  Nick realized he missed this kind of
open, somehow ... fraternal conversation.  He had good friends in this
life, their love and caring priceless to him.  Sometimes they were the
only thing that kept him from giving up, and either sliding into
aimless wandering or taking that last walk into the sun.  Richard was
becoming an invaluable member of that small group.  No, he couldn't
understand what it meant to be a vampire any more than Nat or any
mortal could.  But he provided an outlet, a means of purging the
dreadful memories he had.  And he believed, as Nick did, that his
redemption and return to mortal life had a spiritual as well as a
physical element.  It was ... nourishing to have someone he could
discuss anything with, really anything, who shared a similar world
view.

****
Michael knew he was going to get another visit from the woman called
Catherine when they didn't open the afternoon shutters.  He sighed,
letting himself collapse to the floor, though his ears stayed alert
for the click that indicated they had pushed the button to let the sun
in.

The hunger burned in his guts like acid.  He'd been this hungry
before, though not often.  He had a trick for distracting himself, and
he fell with some desperation into his music, into something he had
created himself.  This wouldn't last much longer.  Soon, even here,
where his spirit sang to him, he wouldn't be able to find peace.

He heard the door to the room open, and the sound of her light
footsteps come slowly toward the cage. Randolf hovered near her.  She
was afraid, Michael could smell that, but not very, especially
compared to the rancid tang that came off of Randolf.  He sat up,
trying to find some kind of modest position.  He didn't know exactly
why he cared if Catherine was offended, but he did.  Maybe it was
because she had treated him with a certain kindness.  Also, his years
with Rasena had trained him into an almost instinctive courtesy toward
women.  That hadn't kept him from making a number of them his dinner,
but he'd always been polite about it, never permitting them fear or
pain.

He smiled as she came up toward the cage, stopping about five paces
away.  Her scent -- clean, rich, overlaid with lilac -- set the hunger
to clawing at his ribs.  He noticed her eyes widen and the smell of
her fear sharpen.  She must be able to see it moving inside him.  He
tried to soothe it, but it was getting hard to shove down.  It took up
most of his insides now, and he really had no place to put it.  He
took a deep breath and set a Bach lute sarabande playing in the back
of his mind.  Grumbling, the hunger subsided somewhat.

Oblivious, Randolf jittered to a stop slightly behind and to one side
of her, glaring at Michael with damp, red-rimmed eyes.  Something was
bothering that man's sleep, the vampire mused.  He looked back at
Catherine, a much more pleasant view.  She was quite pretty, but
sturdy too, calm, with an innate graciousness.  He could tell from the
lines on her face that she had smiled and laughed a lot as a girl and
young woman.  But then something had happened to overlay those lines
with grief and a strong will to endure.  He found it amazing that this
sensible seeming person was one of those gifted with what his maman
had called "the fairy sight".

"Hello, Catherine.  How are you today?"

"Fine, thank you, um...."  She had responded almost automatically, and
now found herself slightly embarrassed because she didn't know his
name.  She glanced at Randolf, who blinked at her blankly, her
embarrassment and its cause going right by him.

The vampire chuckled.  "Actually, they don't know my name.  They never
asked."

"Oh.  Well, my name is Catherine Raleigh."

He laid a hand gracefully on his chest and inclined forward in his
seated posture.  "Delighted to meet you, Catherine Raleigh.  My name
is Michael."

"Michael...?"

Smiling, he shook his head.  "No last name.  No fixed address.
Actually, my given name is Michel.  But when I'm speaking English, I
use Michael."

"So ... so, French is your original language?"

"Yes, it is."

"Are you from Quebec, then?"

"No.  Brest, France, actually."

"Oh.  Well, your English is very good.  I would have never known it
wasn't your first language."

He chuckled.  "Thank you.  Actually, I spent some years in England and
moved from there to North America."  His eyes twinkled with mischief
as he went on.  "In the 1890s."

"Th -- the _eighteen_ nineties?"

"Yep."  He grinned at her amazement.

"S -- so you're over a hundred years old."

"Oh, at least."

"If he's telling the truth," broke in Randolf with a snarl.

Both Catherine and Michael started and stared at him, having forgotten
he was there.

"He's a whore, you know," Randolf continued, eyes glittering with
spite.

"Oh, hey!"  Michael protested.  His anger released the hunger, sending
a sharp spike through him.

"Do you deny it?"

Closing his eyes, he responded tightly, "No, of course not.  But
Catherine is a lady.  You shouldn't say things like that around her."

"A ... a whore?"  Her tone was shocked, yes, but overlaid with a
compassion that soothed Michael strangely and he was able to open his
eyes, cool and blue.  After shooting Randolf a dark, reproachful
glare, he turned an open, earnest countenance to the woman.

"Catherine, listen, I'm sorry, but it's true.  There are a lot of us,
I mean kids, not vampires, that survive that way.  By selling our
bodies to get what we need."

"I -- I _did_ know that.  I never thought I'd meet...."

"Catherine," Randolf whispered angrily, "he is _not_ a child.  Don't
let him play off your sympathy."

She turned to the man, surprising herself as she responded with some
asperity, "Father, really, I am quite aware of what he is and is not."

He jerked back, blinking in surprise.

"Of -- of course, Catherine," he stammered.  "Look, you carry on here.
I -- I have to go talk to Father Blake."

"All right, Father.  I'll remember to stay away from the cage."

"Fine, Catherine, fine."  With another hot glare at Michael, Randolf
retreated.  He strode over to where Blake stood watching.  Catherine
and Michael watched in silence as the two men fell into an intense
conversation, then glanced at one another, both feeling rather
awkward.  Michael cleared his throat.

"Sorry about that."

"I -- I imagine you've done a lot of ... things in your lifetime."

He smiled ruefully.  "A few, yes.  I'm not ashamed of them, for the
most part."  He shifted his position, grimacing.  "Listen, Catherine.
Do you mind if I lie down?  I'm -- I'm kind of tired."

"Please, make yourself comfortable."

His lips quirked wryly as he rolled onto his belly.  "I'm afraid it
would take more than lying down to do that."

"It -- it hurts you, that ... the hungriness."

He rested his forehead on his folded hands.  "Yes," he admitted.  "A
lot."

"Why -- why don't they feed you?" she whispered.

He glanced up at her and blinked at the anguish in her face.  "They
tried.  I just don't like what they're serving."

"Michael, why don't you tell them what they want to know?"  She was
almost pleading.  He was silent, staring down at his tightly
interlaced fingers.  She saw the fear rise in him, a panic controlled
only by a desperate determination.  He began to shake and again that
dull red ... corrosiveness rose in him.

He choked out, "No.  No.  I'll die first.  I will."

Horrified, she saw he meant it.

"Michael, don't -- don't ... please."

"Catherine, would ... would you mind leaving?  Your presence is
growing ... painful.  I'm sorry."  He lifted his head slightly,
sliding her a hooded look, and to her dismay his half-hidden eyes
flickered with baleful yellow lights.

"Michael, I'm -- I'm sorry, too."  She turned and hurried blindly
away.

****
Blake had let Randolf lead the woman over to the cage.  Listening to
the conversation, he had been both delighted and angered at the ease
with which she had extracted a number of facts about the vampire's ...
existence in the space of a few minutes.  Then that ass Randolf had
had to break in and stop the flow of information.  When the man had
scurried over, sweaty and shaking, Blake had been unable to keep
himself from grasping the man's elbow and squeezing fiercely.

"You fool," he rasped.  "Why did you interrupt?  He was _talking_ to
her."

Randolf grimaced in pain and protested, "But she was getting
_friendly_ with him."

"I don't care, Randolf.  I want him talking."  He dropped the other
man's elbow.

Rubbing his arm, the sweating priest went on.  "Are you aware that
Catherine is a widow, that she lost both her husband and her infant
son in an auto accident ten years ago?"

"So?"

"She is extremely susceptible to that ... monster's charms.  It
_appears_ to be the same age her son would be if he had lived."

"Please, Randolf, she's a very sensible woman.  You said so yourself."

"She's a woman, Father Blake.  Any woman couldn't help but respond to
its child-like appearance."

"Well, be that as it may, she, unlike most women, can see beyond its
pretty mask.  Besides, Randolf, you're her confessor.  It's up to you
to see that she isn't led astray."

Grumbling, Randolf responded, "Yes, well, it has a way of creeping
under one's skin."

Suddenly concerned, Blake put his hand on his companion's shoulder.
"What is it, Tom?"

Randolf glanced up miserably, then down again, saying, "Dreams,
Father.  Or rather nightmares."

"It'll be over soon, Tom.  Just a few more days, I'm sure.  He can't
last much longer."

"Yes, I know.  I just-"  He broke off as he noticed Catherine suddenly
break away from her conversation and hurry toward the door.  He
started after her, Blake following, then overtaking him.  They caught
up with her at the door and Blake stopped her with a firm hand on her
wrist.

"Catherine, what's wrong?"

She took a few steadying breaths, keeping her face turned from them
until she had herself under control.

"He -- he says he intends to die.  I'm sorry.  It upset me.  He can't,
can he?  He can't ... kill himself in that cage.  He's safe."

The two men glanced at each other.

"No, Catherine.  He's safe," Blake reassured her.  "He can't hurt
himself.  Here, let Randolf take you home.  Rest.  We'll call you
tomorrow, if we need you."

"Of course.  I'll be at home.  Or -- or at church."

"Fine, Catherine.  We'll find you."

Randolf opened the door for her and they left.  Blake turned to study
the prone figure in the cage.  The shutters would stay closed
tomorrow.

****
Lacroix approached the front door of Rasena's house relishing the
fresh smells of the late spring night.  A jasmine hedge spilled its
heady aroma promiscuously upon a caressing breeze.  The damp soil of
the just turned flower beds added its own earthy promises to the air.
A full moon, a hand span above the horizon, poured its crystalline
light over the world.  The textures of the newly blossomed plants
leapt to Lacroix's eyes, so insistently that he could almost feel
their shapes press against his palms and fingers.

He had been delighted when Rasena had called him to invite him over
that evening.  She had been annoyingly busy lately and he had last
seen her for only a few hours at the Raven three nights ago.  It had
been a delightful visit of truly civilized conversation, in _Latin_,
and dancing to music he had selected for her pleasure.  Some of the
Raven's patrons had complained, but he'd quelled them with a single
look.

It was perhaps unfortunate that the conversation and dancing had led
to nothing further.  She'd had to leave just before dawn, claiming
pressing business for the daylight hours.  He'd been disappointed, of
course, but their time together had been quite satisfying in its own
way.  It had been pleasant, very pleasant indeed, the discussion that
was possible only with a companion equal in experience.  She was a
marvelous dancer, graceful of course, but wonderfully pliant in
following his lead and delightfully direct in her sensual movements.
Until that night, due to her time constraints, and to be honest, his
basic inclination, most of their intercourse had not been of the
social variety.  He had decided that a more balanced approach to their
encounters would be refreshing.

She had been a bit serious on the phone when she called him at sunset,
slow to respond with her usual teasing repartee.  Perhaps her ...
business was becoming tiresome and he would be able to ... persuade
her to take him on a relaxing tour of the extensive gardens
surrounding the house.  And to indulge his sudden urge for a little
`al fresco' lovemaking.  Ah, spring....

Rasena kept what Lacroix thought of as an "old fashioned" household,
based on a pattern that had fallen out of usage, oh, well over a
thousand years ago, really.  The physical house was large, a mansion,
in fact, and she lived there with a number of other vampires,
daughters and grand-daughters.  She claimed to have sons, but he had
never met one.  She ruled these women firmly, but graciously, and they
more or less willingly deferred to her.  There were also a number of
mortal servants, both male and female, who lived under strict
protection.  They served her freely, under no mental compunction,
which Lacroix found a bit amazing, not to mention dangerous.  But they
all seemed devoted.  Perhaps it was the ... religious attitude that
permeated the household.

There were also three mortal women who weren't quite servants, whom
Lacroix thought of irreverently as the "Weird Sisters".  Rasena
claimed they were her "allies in magic", whatever that meant.  She'd
once tried to explain that while it was possible for her to see into
what she called the "star realms", she couldn't move within them.

"A vampire's stellar body is tied to the physical," she had explained.
"That is the reason we heal so quickly.  The stellar allows no
deviancy from our true state.  But at times it is convenient to be
able to move freely in the star realms.  These women allow me to do
so...."  He had stopped listening at that point, letting her
mellifluous voice float though his ears while he turned his attention
to her firm, snowy breasts.  It hadn't taken her too long to stop
talking.

Tonight, he was a bit surprised that the usual crowd he sensed when
approaching her house much diminished.  He felt the presences of three
vampires, one from its intensity he knew to be Rasena's, and of two
mortals, well to the back of the house.  That was all.  How wonderful.
A truly private tour of the garden was even more likely.

The front door to the house swung open as his foot touched the top
step.  Framed in the doorway stood a young female vampire, her dusky
skin flushed with a recent feeding.  She wore red silk leggings and a
black knit top, her feet bare.  She had the rounded, lush form of an
Indian temple dancer, and Lacroix's thoughts skipped a beat to the
image of a threesome.  She pressed her palms together before her heart
and bowed.

"The darkness in me greets the darkness in thee, Lucien Lacroix," she
said in lilting English.

Lacroix imitated the gesture with a smile, saying, "Indeed."

"Please, come in.  My mistress awaits you."  She ushered him over the
threshold, her expression one of cool reserve, then preceded him down
the hallway.

"We haven't met," declared Lacroix.  On the occasions of his other
visits, a mortal servant had let him in.

"No," the woman replied, her lilt falling sweetly on Lacroix's ear.
"I arrived last night.  I am Sati, Rasena's youngest daughter."

Lacroix came to a sudden halt as the vampiric presence he had sensed
in a room ahead of them sauntered into the hallway.   It was a tiger.

The woman laughed at his surprise.  "And this is my oldest daughter,
Rani."

The tiger stared Lacroix in the face, its eyes glowing with an alien
intelligence.  Then it made a churring sound and sat, turning its head
to lick raspingly at its flank.  At the sound of the churr, a flash of
irritation crossed Sati's face and she hissed.  The tiger turned to
study her, eyes slitted, and rumbled deep in its throat.

"What is it?" Lacroix inquired.

"This ... beast has decided you make a fitting mate for my lady," Sati
responded reluctantly.

Lacroix recoiled inwardly at the idea of being anyone's ... mate.
Rasena was delightful, exciting, refreshing in small doses.  The
thought of spending ... years with her was appalling.  She was too
strong minded.  They'd be at each other's throats, in the negative
sense, before a quarter of a century passed.  The tiger rumbled again,
eyes narrowing with feline amusement.  Lacroix suddenly remembered the
courtship and mating habits of tigers and chuckled.  From its own
point of view, the beast was probably right.

Sati, however, did not appear amused.

"You disagree, I take it," Lacroix said dryly.

Her large, dark eyes narrowed with dislike.  "Your ... _boy_ killed my
youngest daughter."

"Ah, was she yours?  My sympathies.  I believe, however, that the
responsibility for her death is her own.  Or perhaps that of the
person who sent her."

Sati scowled at him and spat, "You caused him to betray my mother.
All for the sake of your trivial lusts."

"My lusts are never trivial, child," Lacroix corrected blandly.  "And
he is not _my_ boy.  He is Rasena's.  And I'm sure she has him well in
hand."

Sati growled, and the tiger rose, the fur along its spine coming
erect.  Lacroix braced himself for an attack.  The girl he could
handle easily.  The tiger might be another matter.

Rasena's voice sliced through the rising tension.  "Sati," she
snapped, "not in the house.  You're upsetting Rani and being
unconscionably rude to a guest.  Leave, now."

Sati turned and bowed to Rasena, eyes downcast and lips set.  Stiffly,
she faced Lacroix and offered him the barest nod.  Then she stalked
off down the hall, the tiger pacing easily beside her, tail waving
languidly.  Definitely the better tempered of the two.

Rasena sighed.  "Children."

With a small snort, Lacroix agreed wryly, "They certainly can be
trying at times."

Smiling, Rasena offered him her hand.  He moved to her to take it, to
turn it and kiss her wrist.  As he straightened, she pulled him along
behind her, saying, "Please come with me, Lucius."

He followed her into a room he'd never been invited into before.
Black velvet hangings draped the walls and ceiling.  The thick carpet,
also black, muffled their footsteps.  Fresh blood scent permeated the
air.  Two armchairs sat in the center of the room, facing one another.
Beside each chair was a low table.

"My meditation room," declared Rasena.  "A bit trite, I know, but it's
the best that could be done on short notice."

She sat in one chair, indicating with a graceful wave that he was to
take the other.  He sat and watched as she poured them each a drink
from a decanter on the table next to her.  She handed him his glass,
her face solemn.  Lacroix allowed himself an inward sigh.  The chances
of a moonlit ... stroll were beginning to look distressingly slim.

"Lucius," she began, "I have located Michel."

"Michael?  He's still missing?  It's been, what?  A week?"  He took a
sip from his glass, brows rising in appreciation.  His drink, still
warm, had been decanted from its original ... container within the
last fifteen minutes.

"Five days.  But as I said, I know where he is, and have since the
night after he disappeared.  He's in the hands of a maverick Catholic
priest named Blake.  He-"

Lacroix rose to his feet.  "A _what_?  A priest?  You've known for
four days?  Why isn't this man dead?"

"Lucius, please sit.  I dislike it when you ... loom so."

Lacroix sat, icy without, simmering within.  "Explain, please, Rasena.
My poor masculine brain is incapable of grasping the intricacies of
your womanly thoughts."

Rasena narrowed her eyes in annoyance.  "Lucius, please restrain your
sarcasm.  Let me finish my `womanly thoughts', and even your poor
brain will come to some measure of understanding."

Lacroix glared, but remained silent.

"Thank you.  Michel is being held in some kind of ... research
establishment.  At least one other of our kind has been held there.
His death agonies still permeate the walls."

"You've been there, you've seen him, seen Michael?"

"Yes, of course.  Though not physically."

Lacroix sneered, "Your magic."

"Lucius," she said through clenched teeth, "I realize you are angry,
and I am acquainted with your skepticism.  I would appreciate,
however, the courtesy of your silence."

Lacroix propped an elbow on the arm of his chair and covered his eyes
with one hand.  "Forgive me.  I will remain silent.  Until it is my
turn to speak."

"This Father Blake is a member of a group that sees themselves as
crusaders for the cause of what they call Good, though they are
actually tools of the Light.  Naturally, they don't look kindly upon
our kind.  I am currently caught up in a series of ... countermoves
against them.  Michel is a convenient distraction for this Father
Blake and his people.  I realize this is a dangerous situation for us,
but using it carefully will prevent an even more dangerous one.
Michel must, of course, be dealt with, and any information they have
acquired through him destroyed.  But I need just a bit more time."

She sat silently a moment, gazing expectantly at Lacroix, who peered
out at her from under his hand.

"My turn?"

"Yes, yes.  Go on."  She flicked a hand at him impatiently.

"First, if the Enforcers hear of this, there will be trouble."

Her lip curled delicately.  "They will certainly find it, if they
interfere with me."

"Rasena, you take them much, much too lightly.  You've been lurking in
your caves for centuries and you have no idea how things have changed
and how dangerous these people have become."

"Lucius, I know more of the current state of world affairs than you
surmise.  The Enforcers are no more than a group of spiteful, paranoid
children.  Some of the older ones back them, yes, but by no means all.
Dealing with them would be no more than a minor inconvenience.  And
that would be without calling on my not inconsequential array of
allies."

"Ah, yes," he responded with bitter cold sarcasm, "you have God on
your side."

Her eyes narrowed and she gave him a sharp-toothed smile.  "One of
Them, anyway."

He shook his head with frustration.  As long as he had known her, it
had always come to this.  They would be having a perfectly reasonable
conversation, or argument, rather, given their rather pointed way of
speaking to one another, and he would slam up against this wall of
deluded superstition.  He tried to bring her back to more practical
considerations.

"If Michael or any information they get from him becomes public
knowledge, we will all suffer."

"These people aren't interested in making their knowledge public.  And
nothing concerning Michel has as yet left that building.  I _am_
concerned about what they may have learned from that poor wretch they
had in their hands previously."

"Do you know when that was?"

"Well," she replied acerbically, "the tea leaves told me it was about
five years ago."

Ignoring the dig, he said, "I wasn't in Toronto at that time.  I shall
make inquiries."

"That would be helpful, Lucius."

"I would like to know what you are up to, Rasena."

"Would you, Lucius?" she responded, one dubious eyebrow raised.
"Somehow I doubt it.  With the knowledge comes a commitment, an
obligation.  I have seen nothing from you indicating that you would
find that appealing."

She sat back in her chair and gave him her closed-mouthed occult
smile, eyes hooded.

"You're like a great spider, Rasena," he commented with a certain
amount of acidity, "sitting in the center of a vast web, waiting for
the trembling that indicates yet another poor soul has stumbled into
your trap."

"Why, Lucius," she replied smiling, "that's the nicest thing you've
ever said to me.  Even nicer than when you said my navel was a secret
hollow that contained all the dark delights of the universe."

"I said that?"  He sipped from his glass, disdaining to meet her eye.

She smiled roguishly, "Well, it was either you or Solomon, and he
wasn't capable of speech when I finished with him."

"I have a feeling you want something else from me."

"Ah, a trembling of the web," she whispered, eyes wide.  Then she
sobered.  "Yes, Lucius.  I would very much appreciate it if you would
go to Michel and let him know he is not forgotten."

"Why don't you go?"

"Well, of course I will, if you refuse.  I was hoping that you would,
though, as this place has many machine eyes and ears and I am not yet
sure of my way among such things.  I have learned a great deal, but it
would be very easy for me to make a mistake and not know it."

This was all so very tedious.  The last thing he wanted was to be
dragged into Rasena's little games.  On the other hand, doing her this
favor could lead to a reciprocal favor in return. It pleased him to
think of the idea of Rasena being in his debt, if only on this small
matter.  Grudgingly, he acceded, "Very well."

"Thank you, Lucius.  And Lucius..."

"Yes, Lady?"

"If he seems on the edge of despair, if you think he cannot keep his
silence any longer, it would be best if you killed him.  He doesn't
know much, but what he does know could make things difficult.
Certainly for me, but for you, as well, if he divulges the nature of
the Raven."

Lacroix dropped his eyes to the glass he held in his hand and ran a
finger tip around its rim.  The crystal sang, clear and pure.
Prepared to kill the boy no more than a few weeks ago, he certainly
wouldn't hesitate now if it seemed best.  However, it would be with a
certain amount of reluctance.  Now that Michael wasn't his
responsibility, it was easier to appreciate the unique beauty of his
body and spirit.  Killing him would be a bit like smashing a
Donatello.  One of his lesser works, if the man could be said to have
any.

"Why not just free him, Rasena?"

"That would, of course, be best.  Michel is a dear child.  If he can
survive his youth, he may number among the best of us.  But it will
take more than one, Lucius, even if that one were yourself, to free
him and leave no traces behind.  And my people are not currently
available."

Lacroix thought of the vampires he could call on to help in such an
endeavor.  No one he cared to count on.  Nicholas perhaps, if he could
persuade him to leave work.  He'd do it for Michael....

"About your Nicholas...."

Lacroix looked up, startled.  "Yes?"

"Blake has him also under his eye."

"What do you mean?"  Lacroix's tone was low and dangerous, and Rasena
hastily raised a hand as though to fend him off.

"I mean Blake knows who and what he is."

"Michael is dead," he said flatly.

"Michel is not the source of this information.  In fact, it was your
Nicholas who, indirectly, led to Michel's capture."

"How?"  Lacroix growled.

"Nicholas has an ... association with a priest named Dupont.  Dupont
is Blake's man.  Also, Blake has had Nicholas under surveillance for
over two months, including irregular checks at his home. They captured
Michel there.  He made it a habit to visit, even when your son wasn't
there.  He was shot off the roof with some kind of drugged dart."

The possibility of a clear thinking, organized ... force arrayed
against his son sent a cold wash of fear rolling down his neck and
spine.  He knew Rasena too well to doubt the truth of her words.  "How
long have you known?"

"That Nicholas was being watched?  I had suspicions four days ago when
I realized where Michel had been caught.  But I only found out for
sure this evening."

He kept his tone civil with some effort.  "You will come to me with
your suspicions sooner in the future."

"My suspicions were based on information gained in a manner in which
you have no faith.  I only obtained the `cold facts' a few hours ago.
I called you as soon as I had them."

Lacroix growled deep in his throat and stood up.  Rasena rose as well,
laying a hand on his arm.  He closed his eyes to keep her expression
of mild sympathy from his sight.  Rage quickly overlaid, though did
not wash away, his anxiety over Nicholas's danger.  A priest!  That
might explain a great deal, the ... easement he had felt lately
through the all too tenuous link he kept to his son.  He had even
dared hope that the lessening ... taste of bitter guilt meant Nicholas
was coming to accept himself again.  Curse the boy!  He had no idea
the torment he caused him.  If the Enforcers found Nicholas consorting
with a priest, his son would be ashes before the hour was up.

He fought off a wave of gratitude that it was Rasena, with her
contempt for the Enforcers, who had discovered what Nicholas was up
to.  Any debt she would have owed him for this little errand
concerning Michael was already more than paid for.  Another irritation
his son was going to pay for.  Dupont was a walking dead man, and
Nicholas was going to get his leash jerked ... hard.

Rasena squeezed his wrist and he opened his eyes to stare down at her
coldly.  She gazed up at him blandly and kept her tone cool, realizing
that any softness on her part would be bitter to him.

"Lucius, please, take some advice.  Leave Nicholas and Dupont alone
for a time.  Your son is standing on a knife's edge.  To ... interfere
with his relationship with Dupont at this point will only push him
further away from you."

Gold flickered in his pale eyes as he replied tightly, "I know what is
best for my son."

"...As you say."

They stood a moment, Rasena looking into Lacroix's set face.  She ran
a gentle hand up his arm.  The understanding in her eyes infuriated
him further.  She wouldn't dare pity him, but even this cool sympathy
was too much to stomach.  And that she, with her plots and schemes,
her incessant web weaving, knew more about what was happening in
Nicholas's life than he....  And then to offer him advice!

She caught his gaze with hers, and even as angry as he was, he felt
himself responding to the dark peace it promised.  She said softly, "I
would be pleased if you would return and spend the day with me."

He jerked his eyes away to glare at the black velvet draped wall.
"Thank you.  But I think I would prefer to spend it with someone less
... arachnid in nature."

"You must, of course, please yourself," she replied with a mischievous
smile, unwilling to let his evil temper reach her.  "But aren't you,
as they say, cutting off your nose to spite your face?  Only it's not
your nose receiving the cut."

Lacroix couldn't help smiling, a quick baring of his teeth.  "Perhaps.
Well, we shall see.  It depends on how things fall out tonight."

****
The last night and day had been long.  He had more or less decided to
let the sun have him that morning.  But they hadn't opened the
shutters.  Catherine must have warned them.  He'd let sleep take him,
but he'd actually gotten very little rest.  The hunger burned
throughout his body.  Each joint, even in his toes and fingers, ached
with a sullen corrosiveness.  The incandescent flare of the sun's
burning light would have been a mercy in comparison.  The movements of
the humans around him snapped him out of sleep again and again.  Their
scents, their heartbeats, filled his head.  He imagined he could even
feel their body heat from across the room.  He let his fangs drop,
unless he was speaking.  Forcing them up set piercing pains through
his gums, into his cheek bones.

He ignored Blake, even when he tried to rile him up by sprinkling holy
water on him.  Rasena's early teachings, though over 500 years ago,
had prepared him for such assaults, and neither that nor the
brandished crosses had bothered him.  Other than waking him up.

Catherine had come and he had sat up in the middle of the cage as long
as he had strength.  He had tried to talk to her, covering his mouth
with his hand a number of times as his teeth dropped down.  Her warm
clean scent had surrounded him, and at times her gentle voice had been
drowned out by the sound of her beating heart.  He had blessed the
bars between them, for he would have killed her in an instant had he
been free.  His only point of pride was that he had not yet started
beating himself against the bars in a mindless attempt to get at the
mortals in the room.  That time was coming soon.  He hoped that they
wouldn't let Catherine in to see him then, but he was sure they would.
It ate at him.  Though he had little dignity left, he didn't think
Catherine deserved to see that.  More selfishly, he didn't want her to
remember him like that.

He sat up in the middle of the cage, the deep hours of the night
lending him some of their strength.  Wrapping his arms around his
knees kept him from falling over and quieted somewhat the raging beast
chewing on his guts.  He contemplated licking the old dried drops of
blood off the stone floor, but he didn't have the energy now.  Maybe
later, when his mind finally fractured and it didn't matter.

Blake had spilled the liter of blood on the cement again, as Michael
had, weeping hysterically, managed to refuse it.  Tomorrow he'd take
it.  He whispered that promise to the hunger.  Tomorrow, tomorrow,
I'll take it, I swear.  Please, please, let me rest.

The smell of the wasted blood was maddening, but at least all his
tormentors, with their heavy breathing and thundering hearts, had gone
off to sleep.  There were two men outside the metal door to the room.
He could hear them talking and shifting about.  And the man in the
recording booth.  They weren't too bad though.  He knew they were
there, but at least he couldn't smell them.  Then, oddly, all those
men became still.

Stretched to a raw edge, his senses jolted him to an almost painful
awareness of a sudden presence.  Carefully turning his head to the
left, his eyes met those of Lacroix's gazing at him coldly from the
other side of the bars.  He wondered if he was hallucinating then, but
the reality of the other vampire sent a humming pressure against his
skin.  Michael flicked his gaze to the window of the booth, trying to
alert Lacroix to their observers silently.

"He's been dealt with, Michael.  As has the equipment and a number of
tapes."

Michael glanced up at the camera.  The red recording light was off.
He looked back at Lacroix.  Pulling his teeth up made his eyes prickle
with the pain, but he had nothing to form tears with.  "They -- they
know about Nick.  But it wasn't me who told, I swear.  I haven't told
them anything about anyone."

"We didn't think that you had."

"Are ... are you going to get me out?"

"I'm afraid not.  Apparently, Rasena finds it convenient to her plans,
whatever they are, that you remain here.  For a short time longer."

"Lacroix, I'm ... I'm trying.  But I'm hungry.  The blood they offer
me is tainted, drugged with something they think will make me answer
their questions."

"Yes.  Sodium penethol.  I can smell it.  Don't drink it.  It may
prove ... confusing."

Michael slumped, burying his face between his knees for a moment.
Then he turned his head to face Lacroix again.

"Perhaps ... perhaps you should kill me.  I'll come closer to the
bars.  You can find something here, I'm sure, that would serve.  If
you haven't brought a stake with you."

Lacroix, who had a ten inch piece of sharpened wood in his coat
pocket, stood and studied Michael for a moment.  The other gazed back
at him calmly, his starvation making his eyes seem huge.

Lacroix pulled the stake out of his pocket and began to walk slowly
around the cage, tapping the bars gently with its blunt end.  "Do you
want to die?"

Michael glanced at the stake, and then fixed his eyes on Lacroix's.
Steadily, he said, "No."

"Then why suggest that I kill you?"  The bars sang, ting, ting, ting.

"Lacroix, I'm getting desperate.  They know this.  They didn't even
open the windows for the sun today.  I think they realize I might stop
trying to avoid the light.  Too much longer and I won't be able to
refuse the blood, drugged or not."

Lacroix stopped pacing around the cage.  Lightly running the tip of
the stake down his cheek, he asked,  "Why not tell them what you know?
The community has not been kind to you."

"Neither have these people.  I'm not stupid.  They're not going to let
me live any longer than I might be of use to them.  Besides...."

"Besides?"  Lacroix stared implacably at Michael, gently twisting the
length of wood in his hands.

"They ... they intend to kill us all, I'm sure.  There's no one in the
community I'd see dead."  Micheal turned his face away.  "No one."

A momentary, heavy silence fell between them.

"Come here to the bars, boy," Lacroix commanded flatly.  "Let's do
this quickly."

Michael rose and walked to where Lacroix stood by the cage.  The
youngster's usually slender form was gaunt.  He trembled, whether from
hunger or fear, Lacroix couldn't say.  His face remained calm, though,
as he gazed into the older vampire's eyes.  He knelt to bring himself
face to face with Lacroix.  Putting the stake down on the stone dais,
Lacroix undid the buttons on his cuff and pushed the sleeve back.  He
held his arm through the bars of the cage.  Michael stared at him,
dumbfounded.

"Drink, boy.  I fed well before I came."

His movements jerky, eyes still wide with shock, Michael cradled
Lacroix's arm in both hands.  He bent his head, and Lacroix felt the
gentle pressure of Michael's lips on his wrist before he opened his
mouth to push his extended fangs into Lacroix's flesh.  Eyes hooded,
lips curled back from his teeth, the older vampire held his arm
steady.  The youngster began to shake and Lacroix put his other arm
through the bars to put a steadying hand on his back.  Michael's
smooth skin under his hand evoked memories of New Orleans....  Lacroix
firmly pushed the thoughts away.  The time and place were
inappropriate.  Michael, though, through the blood link, caught a
flash of the memory, and tilted his head slightly to crinkle burning
eyes at Lacroix in a smile.  Lacroix turned his face away.

Just before Lacroix felt he was going to have to pull himself free,
Michael released him.

"Thank you, Lacroix," he breathed.  Tilting his head back, he closed
his eyes, savoring being free of the hunger.

Redoing his cuff, Lacroix said, "You're not forgotten, Michael.
Rasena wants you to know that.  It won't be much longer.  One way or
another.  I'll see to it."

"Tell her ... let her know I haven't betrayed her again."

"Soon, Michael."  Lacroix vanished.

Michael knelt silently a long moment, then moved back to the center of
the cage.  He lay down to try to sleep.  He curled into a tight ball,
hugging the pleasure in his belly.  It wouldn't last long.  Vampiric
blood burned quickly, like an alcohol flame.  But he could feel it
moving through him, healing and soothing.  Sweeter than the physical
comfort, though, was the feeling that he wasn't alone anymore. The
sense of Lacroix floated through him, around him.  He couldn't resist.
He nipped the skin on his wrist and kissed the wound there, tasting
his blood mingled with the intoxicating, musky flavor of Lacroix's.
He lost himself in the dark kaleidoscope of images and sensations
flowing through his body and mind.

 The tiny red light of the camera flickered back on.  The man in the
booth stood and stretched.  Michael smiled.  He wouldn't like to be in
that one's shoes tomorrow.

****
He sped away from the Institute, his mind a turmoil of fury and fear.
He flew fast and hard, pushing himself brutally in an attempt to curb
his ferocious temper.  How dare they ... how dare they ... the image
of Nicholas in Michael's place in that stinking cage ... Michael was
bad enough, his supple, childish body shrunken in cruel starvation ...
but knowing they knew of Nicholas ... he screamed his rage, a spew of
filthy gutter Latin ... images of hot blood spurting from rent mortal
bodies surged through him, heating his blood, exciting him into a
fevered lust for vengeance.

Unaware of where he directed his flight, he found his feet thumping to
the mossy earth of Rasena's rose garden.  The mortal gardener, a Greek
called Vassily, contentedly clipping roses for the house, fell into a
cringing, terrified heap as Lacroix advanced upon him, his urge for
hot heart-blood almost sliding him into dementia.  Only the smell of
Rasena's prior claim on the man's life stopped him, snarling
frustration.

"Lucius," Rasena called from the French doors leading to her garden.
He turned to her, eyes two golden flames.

"Lucius, come," she called again, feeling a surge of desire tinged
with a sense of danger she hadn't felt for a long, long time, his
elemental maleness suffused with a lust to hurt, to punish.  Her
nostrils dilated, bringing his musky scent to her, and her own love of
battle rose, a growl rumbling in her throat.  She laughed, almost
giddy with primal need, as he lunged toward her.

His hands clenched on her shoulders, tearing into the fabric of her
dress, bruising the white skin.  She flung her own arms around him,
her flaming eyes a reflection of his own as she lifted him, soaring
them both through the house to her bed.  His erection was a steel rod
against her thigh, his mouth and teeth demanding, cruel against her
own.

They tore the clothing from one another, urgent to reach each others'
flesh, nails scraping bloody streaks, inflaming them both.  Screaming,
she flung him onto her bed, following with a slap of flesh on flesh as
her body impacted against his.  He twisted, trapping her underneath
him, teeth straining for her throat, knees bruising the inside of her
thighs as he forced himself between them.  She allowed his entry,
engulfing him, wrapping her thighs around his buttocks, the muscles of
her cunt clenching on his cock, holding him in a howling rage as she
rolled him onto his back.  Her teeth sank into the thick muscles of
his shoulder as he struggled under her, wrenching them both back and
forth as he strove to gain the upper hand, to bear down on top of her.
His fangs slashed the flesh above her breast, the taste of her blood
spurring him to a greater frenzy.  She was amazed and delighted to
find herself in a true struggle to maintain the dominant position.  It
had been centuries since she had enjoyed a real battle.

"Lucius, you effete Roman _boy_," she goaded him recklessly, "you
slave, you copper-piece whore.  You have no more juice than a eunuch."

He roared, surging under her, and she shrieked her laughter to find
his outraged strength overpowering hers, rolling her under him, his
fierce thrusts pinning her to the mattress.  Their gazes locked, his
raw and flayed, forcing the knowledge of his terror for his son's life
into her psyche.  The fear spiraled between them, a panic that their
kind would not survive this onslaught.  Her knowledge of the depth of
the forces arrayed against them combined with the immediacy of his
experience of Michael's tortured existence in that cage.  They
screamed together, clutching their physical bliss to them, the
fundamental weapon of the vampire against the onslaught of the world.

Stunned by ecstasy, they were still a moment.  Then Lacroix's wrath
flared in him again and the battle was on once more.

****
The phone woke Dupont.  Groping for the receiver, he squinted blearily
at the clock on the nightstand.  9:30.  He groaned.  Blurrily, he
remembered a time when he got up at 5 a.m. and loved it.

"This is Dupont," he croaked when he had fumbled the phone to his ear.

"Richard, this is Father Blake.  Did I wake you?"  His slightly
censorious tone may have been Dupont's imagination.

Dupont cleared his throat, then replied, "Well, yes, actually, sir.
I've been keeping rather late nights recently."

"On that note, Richard, I'd like you to come over to the Institute
today.  I have something I want to show you.  This afternoon would be
fine."

Dupont captured the quilt that was sliding off the bed and pulled it
up over his shoulder.  He had never been to the Institute, though he
knew of it, of course, and where it was.

"Richard?" Blake said impatiently.

"Sorry, sir, I was trying to remember the directions."

"Do you?"

"Yes, sir.  Um, what is this about, Father?"

"Nothing I'd care to discuss over the phone, Richard.  But it has a
great deal to do with your most recent assignment.  It might help you
to gain a little perspective."

Dupont frowned at the phone.  He thought his perspective on his ...
assignment was perfectly adequate.  But he said, "I'll be there this
afternoon.  Would 4 o'clock be all right?"

"That's fine, my boy.  I'll see you then."  Blake hung up.

Dupont cradled the receiver, then lay back in bed, tucking the quilt
up under his chin.  His eyes roved the ceiling unseeing as he thought.
He realized that Blake wasn't completely happy with the way he had
arranged his communication with Nick. He'd let it stand, though,
apparently hoping for some future return other than Nick's redemption.
Now he wanted him down at the Institute.  He hoped Blake hadn't
changed his mind about the way they were approaching Nick.  A knot of
anxiety tightened in his belly.  He didn't even like his _thoughts_ of
Nick and of the Institute mixing in his mind at the same time.  He
didn't want Nick anywhere near that place.  Dupont knew what was done
there was done in the best interests of the Church and of all
humanity.  He knew ... ruthlessness was imperative at times.  He
despised the weakness in himself that made him wince away from the
idea of actually going there, and _seeing_ whatever it was Blake had
to show him.  Maybe, hopefully, he was getting himself worked up over
nothing.  Closing his eyes, he prayed for composure and understanding,
and managed, eventually, to drop off for a few more hours sleep.

****
A number of things disturbed Catherine when she came in to visit
Michael that afternoon.  First, the men who had let her in seemed
unusually edgy.  Then, an additional two men stood guard outside the
door to the room with the cage.  All four of these men bore strange
weapons that looked like a bow crossed with a pistol.  When Blake let
her in, he seemed pale, and though he spoke to her as politely as
always, she could see his calmness required a bit of effort.  With a
sudden spurt of concern for Michael, she darted a quick glance over
Blake's shoulder to the cage.  Relief washed through her when she
found him not only still there, but up and pacing, running his hand
along the bars.  They must have fed him.  He must have accepted the
blood.  She firmly returned her attention to Blake.

"Father Blake, is everything all right?  You seem a little ... tired."

He forced a smile.  "I'm fine, Catherine.  Everything's all right."
He took her arm and urged her over toward the cage.  "Come.  We'd
really like you to take a good look at him."

She blinked at Blake.  He'd never lied to her before, but he just had.
Things weren't all right.  She took her eyes off him.  It always
disturbed her to catch a priest in a lie.  She let herself focus on
Michael instead, and was delighted to see how well he appeared
physically.  He was still too skinny, but he no longer seemed to be on
death's door.  She let her vision slide _into_ Michael, and stopped in
her tracks.  She felt Blake standing next to her, his eyes fixed on
her face, but he remained silent, letting her absorb what she was
seeing.

Around Michael was a ... black haze, a dark flame that roiled,
unconsuming, but rather being consumed, drawn into Michael's core.  He
had seen her and had stopped his pacing.  He stood, smiling at her
gently, allowing her to make the first overtures.

She realized she was holding her breath, and she drew in a lungful of
air, gasping.

"Catherine?"  Blake's voice was quiet, but contained no gentleness.

"What ... what happened, Father?  Did you feed him?  Is this what it
looks like when they've been fed?"

"I can't answer the last question.  But no, _we_ did not feed him.
And we don't know what happened.  There's about 20 minutes missing
from last night's video tape.  As well as some other items."

"He -- he didn't get out...?"

"No, clearly not.  But it appears that something else got in."

She moved slowly up to the cage, gazing intently at the childish
vampire.  She felt relieved to see he was in essence unchanged.  (She
didn't notice the change in herself, that she felt relief that a
vampire was still his true self.)  But yesterday, where she had seen
despair, she now saw hope, though that hope was also laced with a
healthy leavening of fear.  Whatever had happened, whatever had ...
marked him with this burning darkness had been terrifying as well as
heartening.

"I am ... pleased to see you well, Michael," she said softly.  "What
happened?"

"Ah, Catherine, any answer I could give you would be a lie.  I ... I
really don't want to have to lie to you."

"You've ... fed?"

His eyes crinkled as he grinned.  "I assure you, I hunger."

That was true.  She could see what she perceived as his hunger, a
twisting dull red that coiled around his empty core.  But yesterday it
had almost consumed him.  The quick, dancing interplay of clear colors
she associated with _Michael_, who he was, had been a dying flicker.
Now they were back, strong, vibrant.  But what was that disturbing
overlay that flowed around him like a black flame?

"You didn't answer my question," she said sternly.

"Oh, please don't be angry with me, Catherine," he pleaded.  "I'm not
in a position to answer freely."

"Michael," she replied hesitantly, keenly aware of Blake beside her,
"I just don't want to see you hurt.  If you could just ... unburden
yourself of -- of your darkness, give yourself over to these men, I'm
sure they'll do what they can to help you."

Michael's eyes rested upon her with a fondness she had last seen in
her father's.  She flushed, realizing he thought her naive.  Blake
cleared his throat, and grasping her elbow led her unresisting away
from the cage to stand under the window of the observation booth.

"What did you see?" he demanded, his voice quiet, yet tense.

She carefully kept her eyes lowered.  She didn't want to see in Blake
anything that justified Michael's opinion of her naivete.

"Well, Father, I can't tell you what happened last night.  My -- my
sight doesn't work that way.  But yesterday he was ready, he wanted to
die.  Today, he has hope.  He's terrified as well.  Whatever happened
frightened him as well.  He isn't as hungry today as he was yesterday,
though that's obvious from his physical condition.  He is still
hungry, though.  And -- and, there's something...."

Blake sighed in annoyance.  She went on quickly.

"There is something about him, around him that doesn't belong to him."
She shot a sideways glance at Michael.  He studied the thumbnail on
his right hand intently, blatantly ignoring their conversation.
Probably he could hear every word.  "And it's fading.  He's ... using
it up."

Blake distractedly rumpled his short hair, making it stand on end.

"He's fed," he muttered.  "Somehow, he's been fed."  Then he took a
deep breath, and focused on her again, smiling.  "Well, nothing for
you to worry about.  Tonight, well, tonight we won't be caught
sleeping.  Why don't you go back and talk to ... Michael for awhile.
Maybe something will slip out in your conversation."

Catherine nodded, eyes downcast.  She knew some of their most useful
information, what little they had of it, had come out in her talks
with Michael.  It made her feel a bit like a spy.  She sent a quick
prayer that somehow this would all come out all right for everyone.

He patted her on the arm.  "All right, then.  I'll see you in a bit.
I have something to do.  If you need anything, just ask any of the men
here on the floor.  They'll be glad to help."

"Thank you, Father."  He left her and went out the heavy metal door of
the room.

She walked slowly over to Michael.  He greeted her with his familiar
warm, open smile.

"I hope Blake was ... courteous," he began.

"Oh.  Oh, yes," she replied.

"Good.  If he weren't ... well, I wouldn't like it if he weren't."

She gazed up into his face and said almost defiantly, "What would you
do about it if he weren't?"

"Nothing...."  His eyes narrowed and the word "now" hovered between
them unsaid.

"Michael, you know, I don't understand why you ... care about...."

"About you, Catherine?" he said softly.  "I guess I could say you
remind me of my mother and ... other women who have been kind to me."

"Your ... your mother?"

"I did have one, you know, long, long ago.  But really, it's just for
you being yourself, Catherine.  How you're willing to see me, Michael,
even though you know I am ... something that -- that horrifies you.
And don't think I say this to get your sympathy, but I have come not
to expect to find kindness.  Really, why would one such as myself
expect such a thing?  But sometimes I do find it, and in the most
amazing places.  And, well, it means a great deal to me then."

"Oh," she responded weakly.

"Hey," he said, sensing her discomfort and changing the subject, "do
you like Mozart?"

"Mozart?  Yes, of course," she replied in some confusion.

"I knew him, you know," he bragged, tapping himself on the chest with
his thumb.

"You did?" she exclaimed in amazement.

"Yep.  Almost killed him, too, but I recognized him just in time from
when I'd seen him direct a performance of Figaro."

"You saw...."

"Yeah, yeah, great performance, too.  Nothing like today's productions
with all the lights and special effects, but the singing, ah, the
singing hasn't been improved upon."

"My goodness."  Mozart was alive when, she thought.  Late 1700s?
These reminders of his age were always a little frightening.

Michael laughed at her astonished expression.  "Hey, I'm just name
dropping, you know.  But it's the only name I've got to drop.  But
it's a pretty good one, you've got to admit."

"So, you like opera?"  She couldn't help sounding a little astonished.

He laughed and shook a reproving finger at her.  "Now, now, don't be
such a snob."  He adopted an exaggerated upper-crust English accent.
"Creachahs of the night can be very culchad, doncha know."

She giggled.  "Actually, they do have that reputation, don't they?"

"I like all kinds of music, really.  Always have, even as a child.  A
real child, I mean.  Got it from my mother, I think.  She had the
loveliest voice, sweet and rich, like poured honey."

"Do you sing?"

He looked around him and his smile didn't reach his eyes.  "Not here."

"Oh.  Oh, dear.  I'm so sorry, Michael.  That was unkind."

"No, no, Catherine.  I just meant, I haven't much felt like it ...
before.  I'll sing something for you.  If you like."

"Not if you don't want to."

"For you.  For you I want to."

He cast his eyes down a moment, thinking, then looking up he said,
"This is the first song I remember hearing."

Softly, never over the volume of quiet speech, he sang to her, a
crooning, rhythmic song in a French so old and provincial that her
basic understanding could only tell her it was of the sea and of lost
love.  His voice, crystalline, clear and pure as she knew it would be,
carried such grief.   Hot tears prickled in her eyes, as she held her
breath to keep her own sorrows from escaping in a sob.

The song ended and he watched her face carefully.  Unable to speak,
she could only smile tremulously.  His returning smile seemed to hold
a strange regret.  She felt a certain tightening in her heart, as if
it prepared itself for pain.  The idea came to her that he had meant
this song as a gift for her, a parting gift.  He was getting ready to
leave her, whether through death or being freed somehow, it was
impossible for her to say.  Fear and hope swung in him.  Whatever was
coming, though, he was resolved to meet it head on.

Clearing her throat, she said, "It's -- it's strange, Michael.  But I
have to say, I'm glad to have known you."  It was hard for her to say
the things she felt gracefully.  It always had been.

He cast an uneasy glance at the video camera.  "Listen, Catherine,
it's really not a good idea for you to say things like that.  You
know?"

She smiled at him reassuringly.  "Don't worry, Michael.  I'll be all
right."

"Okay," he replied, with a worried furrow still between his brows.
"I'm glad to have met you, too.  Very glad."  He suddenly grinned.
"Though, I have to say the circumstances, for me, haven't been ideal."

"They haven't been ideal for me, either, Michael."

"Well, no, but actually, without these," he gestured to the bars
around him, "we wouldn't have had a chance to get to know one another.
If we had met, well...."  He trailed off with a rueful half smile.

She tilted her head to one side.  "Are you saying that you would have
... if we had met outside...?"

"Well, Catherine," he said softly, "on my best days, I would have
probably ignored you.  On my worst, well, you saw me at my worst.  Or
nearly my worst.  You _saw_ me.  You know what I would have done."

She had seen.  She knew what he meant, that he was telling the truth.
But something inside her, rooted in loneliness and grief, reared up
and refused to accept that.  It held to a different truth.  She fixed
her eyes onto his and walked slowly toward the cage.

"I don't believe you would hurt me, Michael," she declared softly.  "I
can't believe that."

"What are you doing, Catherine?" he demanded as he stood, eyes growing
wide.  The hunger lurched inside him as the prey walked within easy
reach.

She reached between the bars, holding her hands out to him.

"You won't hurt me."  She dug the thumb nail of her right hand into
her left wrist, and wincing, gouged a hole in her flesh.  A great drop
of blood rolled out and fell to the floor.  More quickly followed.

Michael stared open mouthed at the bliss falling to the stone and
something deep in his mind whispered, "Wasted, wasted."  The hunger
lunged then, taking him by surprise and shaking him, demanding
satiation.

"Catherine, please, get away," he whispered, hissing through his
fangs.  He forced himself back, hitting the bars behind him hard.  He
couldn't get out, away.  Staring at him, a frighteningly determined
look in her eyes, Catherine moved around the edge of the cage toward
him.  Pulling himself along the bars, he fought to keep away from her.
His growing panic, that he couldn't get out, that she was going to
_make_ him hurt her, worked against him.  The hunger slipped his grip
and clawed its way up his throat, sliding into his head to peer,
burning, through his eyes.

"BLAKE!" Michael screamed with his last bit of sense, clutching
frantically at the bars.  Swearing, men in the observation booth
yanked headsets off their injured ears, and after a shocked moment,
the men on the floor ran to pull Catherine back.

Michael, consumed by his hunger, saw his rightful prey snatched from
him and went berserk.  Raving, he flung himself against the bars,
bashing into them again and again in an attempt to break through.

Just then Blake opened the door from the outside and escorted Richard
Dupont into the room.  Both men jerked to a halt, to stare gaping at
the raging monster battering itself insanely, mindlessly on the steel
bars of its cage.

****
The day was long, too long, but it wasn't until just before sundown
that Lacroix felt himself purged, drained of all passion and able to
think clearly, rationally.  Lowering his arm from where it draped
limply across his eyes, he rolled his head to peer with bleared vision
at the woman beside him.  Deeply asleep, traces of his blood still on
her lips, she lay with one arm flung back above her head, the other
resting on her chest, the hand a loosely curled fist between her
breasts.  He couldn't remember her sleeping in his presence before.
He reached out, fingertips hovering over the healing wounds on her
throat, the blue-black blotches his grip had placed on her shoulders.
He drew his hand away, and leaned toward her, scrutinizing her face
for the slightest trace of awareness.  His lips ghosted across the
marks he had pressed with brutal fingers into the white flesh, careful
not to disturb her.  Pulling the blood-stained satin covers over her
exhausted form, he sat up, reeling, head in hands on the edge of the
bed.  He stood, staggering, still holding his head, searching her room
for the tatters of his jacket.  He found it, and in its inner pocket,
the two photographs he had stolen from the observation booth.  He
stared at them a moment, a flicker of anger dancing through him
briefly.  But he didn't have the energy to maintain it.  He had sunk
all his lusts and fears into the bottomless darkness at Rasena's core.

Naked, he made his way stiffly into the hallway.  A mortal hovered
there, alert to the demands of his mistress.  Lacroix's nostrils
flared on seeing him, and the man, well tutored in the ways of
vampires, involuntarily cringed back.  He knew his mistress, his fear
of her subsumed by an ultimate trust.  But this ancient male was
terrifying.  Death at his hand would be brutal, swift, casual.

"M--master," he stammered.

"Find me paper, an envelope, a pen.  Now."

Fervently offering up thanks to the Dark One, the mortal scurried away
to do Lacroix's bidding.

Twenty minutes later, showered, dressed in the spare clothing he
always kept in the corner of her closet, Lacroix sat on the edge of
the bed behind Rasena.  He trailed light fingers along the undulating
curves of her side.  She rolled over to him, smiling in smug
satiation.  Reaching up, she pressed her palm against his cheek, then
ran one fingertip over his swollen lips, eliciting a shudder from them
both.

"My Dark Lord," she murmured.  She brought her hands up to either side
of his face, nails biting delicately into the tender flesh under his
ears as she pulled him down to her.  Their lips touched lightly,
almost gently, then they drew away from one another.

"I must leave," he informed her quietly.  "I have a radio show to
prepare."

A strained formality rose up between them, the result of two over-
proud natures.

"How do ... are you...."  Rasena cleared her throat.  "Are you well?"

"Of course," he responded.  His cool, restrained expression told her
he lied, but even after their physical intimacy she couldn't bring
herself to probe his fears, his weaknesses verbally, rationally.  She
knew of his concerns for his son through his blood.  The blood could
never lie, but what wasn't said could be denied.  She wasn't a woman
who inspired confidences nor was he a man who offered them.

"Everything will be all right, Lucius," she attempted to reassure him
without treading too close to his pride.

"Of that I have no doubt, my dear.  I will make it so."

Brow furrowed with concern, she sat up abruptly, searching his passive
countenance.  "What do you mean, Lucius?"

"A threat to our kind cannot be allowed to stand."

Well aware of his actual concerns, she replied, "I assure you, Lucius,
Nicholas is no immediate danger."

"I believe you, Rasena."  He rose from the bed.  "I will telephone you
later."

Though uneasy, she knew it unwise to challenge him further.  His good
sense occasionally seemed to desert him where his son was concerned.
"All right, my dear."

She watched as he walked to the door, then recollected her good
manners.  "Thank you for what you did for Michel last night.  That was
very magnanimous.  I would have been upset if you had decided to kill
him.  But not with you."  A sharp-toothed smile graced her features.

He grunted, half turning back to her.  "The boy has comported himself
well.  He deserved the chance to live."

She drew up her legs, circling her knees with her arms.  Grinning, she
said, "Blood will tell, Lucius."  He gazed at her a moment, her dark
hair a wild cloud around her face, her casual nakedness and open smile
transforming her into a girl in his eyes.  He wondered how old she had
been when brought over.  Impossible to tell with her, her countenance
shifting from that of a proud matriarch to a mischievous maiden in a
breath.  Or to the maddened maenad he had just spent his day with.  He
resisted the impulse to go back and kiss her.  As tired as he was, it
still might lead to other things, and he didn't want her tasting his
blood at the moment.  He _was_ too tired to have an argument with her.

He cleared his throat.  "Thank you for the ... sport, Rasena."

"Anytime, my dear, anytime."  Her smile didn't change, but a golden
sparkle came to her dark eyes, and he quickly left the room, telling
himself he was going to be late.

****
Nick, buttoning up his shirt as he got ready for work, turned on the
radio and was a bit surprised to be met by Lacroix's voice this early
in the evening.

"Good evening, gentle listeners.  Welcome to Nightwatch.  The
Nightcrawler here, speaking to you tonight of ... betrayal.  What do
you consider betrayal, mes amis?  A weak cup of coffee?  A little
white lie?  Or a broken trust?  A question for you.  Have you ever
betrayed a trust?  Betrayed a family member?  A child?  Whether
deliberately or through carelessness, have _you_ betrayed those close
to you?

"And if you should see your own child betrayed by someone _they_
(perhaps injudiciously) trust, someone they consider a friend?
Perhaps a friend telling himself the betrayal was entirely for the
child's own good?  As a parent, how does that make you feel?  Do you
seethe with fury?  Do you feel hatred, my children, do you lust for
retribution?

"And as a loving parent, a protective parent, what can one do?  Should
we attempt to shield our children from life's hard lessons?  If so,
how can they ever gain wisdom?  Should we then let them face the
consequences of misplaced faith?  But what if these consequences go
beyond hurt feelings?  What if the consequences could be ...
dangerous, perhaps even fatal?

"I'm waiting for your opinions.  Whatever your answers, I know as
caring parents you would support your child however they choose to
deal with their betrayal.  I am the Nightcrawler and I am here for
you, gentle listener, as always.  Here for you at the hour of your
betrayal."

Head cocked to one side, Nick stared at the speaker in bafflement.
What _was_ Lacroix going on about?  Shrugging, he flicked the radio
off as some ominous and melancholy chords sounded, and went down to
get his mail.  Bills, a catalogue, and an envelope that must have been
hand delivered, as it was blank.  The paper was heavy, excellent
quality, and the contents seemed rather stiff.  He sniffed it.  Well,
someone who had handled it had eaten a curry recently, and there was a
slight chemical odor ... a photograph?  Nothing that spoke of letter
bombs.

He tore open the envelope as he stepped back out of the elevator into
his loft, and pulled out a folded, heavy sheet of paper.  He unfolded
it and pulled out the two photos tucked inside.  He froze.

One was a picture of Michael jumping through a shaft of sunlight, a
panicked expression on his face as smoke rolled off his shoulders and
hair.  The second was of him speaking, his hands flying in a
characteristically expressive gesture, to a small, dark bearded man
dressed as a priest.  The priest appeared quite irritated.  In both
pictures Michael was naked, in a cage set up on a raised dais.

He looked quickly at the paper, hoping for some explanation.  It had
some line drawings on it that were momentarily nonsense to him.  Then
they resolved themselves as the general floor plans of a large two
story building, security devices indicated in a handwriting that, with
a prickling chill up the back of his neck, he recognized.  He hurried
to the phone and dialed Lacroix's number.  The phone was answered on
the first ring.

"Yes?"

"Lacroix, what is this, this note, these pictures?  Where is Michael?"

"Ask Dupont."  Lacroix's voice fell flat, expressionless on Nick's
ear.

"Wh -- what?"

"You heard me, Nicholas."

The receiver went dead in Nick's hand.

****
Lacroix lounged back in his chair in the broadcast room, staring
blankly at the phone a moment, running his thumb lightly over his
lips.  They still felt swollen, bruised.  He took another sip from his
glass, well into his second bottle.  In his distraction, he hadn't
eaten today, slowing his healing.  With his `donation' to Michael last
night and his brutal lovemaking with Rasena that day, he was hungrier
now than he had been in a long time.  The blood, unwarmed, sat cold in
his stomach for a moment before spreading its chill to his
extremities.  As his body rejuvenated, his mind recovered its icy
clarity as well.

He had been angry before he had gone to Michael.  Seeing the boy caged
like an animal, starving, beauty spoiled, had done nothing to calm
that rage.  Quite the contrary.  But standing there, breathing the
reek of tainted blood, he'd been forced to contemplate the gut-
twisting image of his Nicholas in that place, in that cage.  Michael
might be a troublesome youngster, with the awkwardly mingled needs of
an adult and a child, but he was anything but slow.  "Slippery" best
described him.  If these ... crusaders could capture Michael, what
then of Nicholas, so often dense to peril?  And what others faced this
danger?  The picture of Nicholas lying there, sunburnt skin red and
blistering writhed into an image of Janette.  His beloved daughter
Janette, stripped naked, beaten and bloodied, curled into a tight ball
on the cold, hard floor of that cage, surrounded by leering priests,
damned servants of a God who abandoned her long ago.  And had they
seen Nicholas drop in at the Raven, discovering it to be more than the
night club it appeared to be?  Had they seen _him_ popping in on
Nicholas?  He did not tend to travel by conventional means.  Oh, he
was going to have a long, long talk with his prodigal son when this
was all over.

He took a deep breath, banishing the impossible notion of his own
danger, and unclenched his fists, unconscious of the bloody half-moons
that marred the pale flesh of his palms.  Janette was lost to him,
leaving him only Nicholas.  Young, idealistic, foolish Nicholas.  His
best beloved.  His son.  The son he would protect at all costs.  Fear
flowed through his veins.  The loathsome, creeping fear that had
seeped through him, tainting the clarity of his ire, when he'd
observed the care and planning that had gone into capturing and
examining one of his kind.  Rasena had said there had been one before.
She'd also indicated this was a minor skirmish in whatever struggle
she'd allowed herself to be caught up in.  Something was moving behind
the scenes, a creature that, if unopposed, could catch them all up and
grind them into small pieces before spitting them out again.  Fear, an
emotion he refused to allow residence in his heart, metamorphosed
itself rapidly into hatred.  It always had in him, even as a mortal
... even as a child.

Returning to Rasena, seething with a barely suppressed volcanic wrath,
he had known that to act at that time would only leave torn, brutally
drained bodies in his wake.  Even burning in blood-lust, he'd
perceived the folly of that.  Spending the rest of the night and all
the following day with Rasena, he'd purged himself of his blinding
fury in a near mindless state, in what was more battle than sex.
She'd been prepared for him, meeting his ferocity with an indomitable
strength, absorbing everything he thrust upon her, and coming back
with a passion that left him bruised, bloody, and finally sated,
drained emotionally.  Clear reason restored, he'd realized that Rasena
had been partially correct.  To move directly against Dupont would
cause a widening in the rift between Nicholas and himself.  As much as
he wanted the man's blood in his mouth, a more indirect approach would
be required.  One of Rasena's people had hand delivered the note for
him.  Let Dupont explain why Nicholas's friend, Michael, was locked in
that cage.  With any luck, his own words would damn him in his son's
eyes.  And what the priest told Nicholas (and he would tell his son
everything, Lacroix was sure), would lead to the next step.

He poured himself another glass, finishing off the bottle with a
practiced twist of his wrist and picked up the receiver again.  He
dialed Rasena's number and waited patiently, sipping, allowing the
soothing blood to wash over his tongue while the phone rang and then
while the servant brought it to her.

"Hello, Lucius," said Rasena warmly.

"Rasena."

"Have you eaten, dear?  After you left I realized I was ravenous, that
we hadn't eaten all day, and I was ashamed of myself for offering you
nothing."

"All of my appetites have been effectively sated."

"I'm glad to hear it."  The tone of her voice carried her smile with
it.

"Rasena, I have good reason to believe that Nicholas is on his way to
free Michael.  I shall be joining him shortly.  Any support you could
lend us would be greatly appreciated."

There was a silence on the other end of the phone and Lacroix smirked.
It was pleasant to be able to occasionally shock that woman into
speechlessness.

"Lucius, wait.  What have you done?"

"I've set Nicholas onto Dupont.  He can be very persuasive when he
puts his mind to it.  I expect him to show up at that ... research
center in fairly short order.  I'll join him there, and we will
release Michael."

"This is madness, Lucius.  I told you, my people are all in use.  Stop
him.  Give me some time to arrange something."

"Rasena, these ... people have meddled with me and mine.  They have no
more time."

"Lucius, you are endangering all three of your lives."

"As I said, Rasena, any support would be welcome, but believe me, it's
not necessary.  I saw nothing there beyond our capabilities.  Nicholas
is quite ... effective at the hunt."

She was silent a moment, then when she spoke it was with cold, quiet
steel.  "This game is of your own making, Lucius.  You've set up the
pieces.  Play it out alone."

He jerked the phone away from his ear as she set down her receiver
rather firmly.  He chuckled, hung up, and finished his meal.  He
gestured to his assistant, indicating she was to take over the radio
program.  Then he went to go meet his son.

****
Nick called Dupont, his fingers hitting the buttons on the phone with
unusual force.

"Father Dupont here."

"I need to talk to you.  To see you.  Now."

"Um, Nick.  Hi."

"Will you be at home for the next half hour?"

"Yes, of course, Nick.  For you, anytime.  What's it all about?  Are
you all right?"

"I'll be right over."

Nick hung up, phoned work to tell Tracy he was out with some kind of
stomach bug, then hurried through eating and dressing.  In his
apprehensive state, he almost flew to Dupont's, but caught himself and
took his car.  He drove the Caddy hard, taking the corners with
squealing tires.

Dupont opened his front door and Nick pushed his way though as soon as
it was wide enough.

"Nick, what is it?  What's wrong?"

Nick pulled the photos out of his inside coat pocket, pushing them
toward Dupont, watching his face closely as the man took them.  His
expression of revulsion and fear when he saw the subject of the
pictures told Nick that Dupont knew who and where Michael was.

"Where is he?" he growled.  Burgeoning rage tightened his voice.

"Nick, you don't want to go there.  Really, it's all for the best.
This is all ... necessary.  Really."

"Necessary?  That's a friend of mine locked in that cage."

"A friend?" Dupont repeated weakly.  "No, no, Nick.  He can't be.
He's ... he's a beast, a wild animal.  You're nothing like him.  I
told them...."

"Richard, he's part of my family.  Do you understand me?  We are blood
kin.  If he is a beast, then I am, too.  I need to know where he is.
Now."

"No, you can't be, Nick," the man persisted in his denial, fixated on
Nick's insistence that friendship and family tied him to that horror
in that cage.  "You're nothing like him.  He ... he was wild, my God,
flinging himself around and ... and screaming.  There was nothing
human in him."

Nick's voice trembled as he said, "Lock me in a cage long enough, and
there would be nothing human left of me either.  He's an innocent,
Richard.  An innocent.  If you knew what he has endured....  Tell me
where he is."

"I don't want you going there, Nicholas.  It's too dangerous."

Nick fixed his gaze on Richard, staring hard.  Richard took a step
back, the color leaving his face.  He hit the wall behind him.  Nick
stepped up to him, wrapping a fist in the front of his shirt.  The
sound of the mortal's laboring heart filled his ears.

"Tell me where he is, Richard."

"Nick...."  Dupont began, struggling to stay focused, to avert his
eyes.

"Where -- is -- he?"

"Th -- the Institute."

"The address, Richard.  Tell me the address."

Dupont told him, voice flat, eyes blank.  Nick hurt to see the life
drained from him.  But he went on.  "Richard.  Listen carefully.
You've never heard of Nicholas Knight.  You don't know me.  We've
never spoken.  You've never seen the child, the vampire in that cage."

Richard got out a strangled, "No...."

Nick leaned hard.  He could feel something stretch to the breaking
point in Richard's mind.  He went on ruthlessly.  "You don't know me,
Richard.  You never saw the vampire in the cage."

Richard's flattened voice repeated, "I don't know you.  We've never
spoken.  I never saw the vampire in the cage."

Nick let go of Dupont's shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles with a
gentle hand, grief twisting his heart.  "Go to sleep, Richard.  You
need to rest."

"Rest," replied the man.  He turned away from Nick and walked slowly
down the hall toward his bedroom.  Nick watched as he stepped into the
dark room and closed the door.  Then he left the house, carefully
locking the door behind him.

****
Lacroix found the front door of the Institute ajar.  Just inside lay
an unconscious man.  Lacroix quickly stooped to take the man's neck in
his hand, but stopped just before he snapped the mortal's spine.  His
hand tight on the man's throat, he considered his options.  He wasn't
one to leave a live enemy at his back.  On the other hand, a building
filled with broken-necked men would cause a bit of a stir, would be
sure to get some media attention.  Snarling under his breath, he
decided to go against instinct and let the man live.  He closed and
locked the front door, so no one could wander in from the outside.

He went down the hallway, following a trail of unconscious bodies.  He
chuckled to himself.  He had always enjoyed observing Nicholas at
work.  The boy possessed a certain panache.  He traced his son through
the link, finding him in the ground floor room that lay just beneath
the room with the cage.  Stepping over the prostrate guard, Lacroix
entered the room.  Nicholas was loosening the last locking mechanism
on the four steel posts that came through the ceiling and held the
cage securely to the stone slab above.

"Took you long enough," Nick muttered a bit sullenly.

"I stopped to admire your work."  At Nick's alarmed expression, he
went on,  "Never fear, I altered nothing.  Far be it for me to tamper
with a master's art."

Nick grunted.

"I believe you have accounted for everyone on this level.  I detect
four outside the door to the room upstairs and anywhere between twelve
and fifteen in the room itself.  Michael is still alive."

"Yes," Nick replied with some relief.  "I felt a vampire up there and
hoped it was him."

"Now for the fun part, Nicholas.  The four men at the door are
probably armed with those alarming little cross-bows.  One lucky shot
would be all they needed.  I'm the faster of the two of us, so I
should probably go first.  But I can't guarantee that I won't ...
break one or two of them."

Nick grimaced unhappily, but he said, "We need to get Michael out.
And fast.  Someone is going to come down and stumble across one of the
... bodies eventually."

"Yes.  Though I suspect from the ... `vibrations' I'm picking up that
Michael is proving to be rather a distraction at the moment.  Acting
now would be most timely."

****
Michael hovered on the edge of panic.  Though he had eventually
managed to master himself again, he hadn't lost control like that
since just after he had been brought across, when he'd been no more
than a brute.  It had only been his exhaustion and weakness from his
self-inflicted injuries that had permitted him to get a fingerhold on
good sense again.  And now his control remained chancy at best.  The
mortals in the room were jittery as well, and most of them carried
cross-bows, some full sized, others no larger than pistols.  Every
time one of those swung toward him, he couldn't stop himself from
jumping, which of course caused more of the men to bring their weapons
to bear on him.  All the portraits of the pincushioned St. Sebastian
he had seen over the centuries kept flashing through his mind.

Catherine, pale with strain and guilt, a bandage on her wrist, was
being kept next to the wall under the west window, a young man to
either side of her.  Michael was both furious with her for having
triggered his rampage, and horribly afraid she had lost all ... caring
for him.  He couldn't look at her, his emotions were so confused and
painful.

Then he'd detected the presence of a vampire in the building,
somewhere below him.  He thought it was Nick.  This elated him, but it
also ratcheted his terror up a notch.  What if Nick walked into this
room and met with a barrage of cross-bow bolts?  Soon after that
another vampire entered the building, one he definitely recognized as
Lacroix.  Lacroix wouldn't kill him in front of Nick, would he?  Would
he?  Of course he would.  But maybe he was here to help Nick get him
out.

Blake emerged from the observation booth with a rifle in his arms and
approached the cage.  Michael rose from his huddled crouch in the
center of the cage.  Was the man going to shoot him?  What would be
the point?  Then the priest broke the gun open and very deliberately
put a dart in the chamber.  Staring Michael in the eye, he snapped the
gun closed.

"We're going to get this drug into you one way or another.  You had
your chance to cooperate.  We were more than patient.  We should have
gone this route days ago."

Blake approached the cage, stopped, and brought the rifle up to his
shoulder.

"Please, don't, don't, Padre!" Michael cried out, dancing back.  "I'll
drink it, I swear I will!  Don't shoot me!"

"Too late, you little animal."  Blake pulled the trigger and Michael
ducked frantically, the tiny gust of air tickling his skin as the dart
flew by his shoulder.

"Damn you!" Blake growled.  He reached into his pocket for another
dart.  "Bailey, Johnson," he called out to two men with large cross-
bows.  "Come here.  Shoot him in the legs if he moves again."  The two
men, grim faced, came up to bracket Blake, peering at Michael down the
sites of their bows.  Michael heard the men behind him moving quickly
to the sides, to avoid any missiles that might miss their target.
Michael could feel Lacroix and the vampire he hoped was Nick right
under his feet.  What was taking them so long?  He wanted to scream in
his agony of impatience.  Blake brought the rifle up again, and
Michael braced himself to take the shot.  He could hear Catherine
sobbing quietly, a sound that strengthened him somehow.

The rifle fired and piercing hot agony flared at the base of his
throat.  He coughed as a cold fire blossomed into his chest.  Reaching
up, he knocked loose the dart, then lurched forward, hitting the bars.
He had no idea if the drug would work on his vampiric system the way
Blake thought it would.  Michael hoped those vampires were here to
release him, and soon, but he couldn't take any chances. Glaring at
Blake, he bit through his own tongue and spat it at the man's feet.

Catherine shrieked at the sudden gout of blood flowing over Michael's
chin, and Blake stared down, stupefied, at the little lump of muscle
on the floor in front of him.  Jaw quivering, eyes tearing red in
agony, Michael gulped and gulped again, swallowing a scream with his
own blood.

Then, behind him, the door to the room burst open, crumpled bodies
flying through it, followed by a blur of furious motion.  Lacroix
appeared suddenly on top of the cage, heaving it up.  Michael, needing
no encouragement, dove to his left, and scraped out on his belly as
soon as the gap was wide enough.  One of the men next to Blake moved
instinctively to try to aim at Lacroix, forced to keep still as he
lifted up the cage.  But the older vampire flashed away, the bolt
passing through empty air, his speed making him practically invisible.
The cage crashed down again, scant inches from Michael's toes as he
went headfirst off the stone dais.

Nick followed closely behind Lacroix.  Four men clustered to the left
side of the cage as Nick came in.  As they stood flat-footed in
surprise, he twisted their weapons out of their hands before they
realized he was there.  He only managed to knock two of them out,
though, his care for their lives making him slow, before the other two
flung themselves on him.

Lacroix flew from the west side of the room to the east, hitting the
buttons to open the window shutters, providing an escape route should
the need arise.  Then he dropped to the floor, on the far side of the
cage from Michael.  Precise taps on their heads downed the two men he
had landed behind.

Though still fairly confused, their initial shock was wearing off, and
the mortals started responding sensibly to the threat.  The two men
next to Catherine stepped toward Nick, the most obvious opponent,
raising their weapons in unison.  Catherine ducked down, darting
forward toward Michael, who was crawling in her general direction.

Nick heard the angry snap and hum of a released cross-bow string, a
nightmare sound from his mortal past.  He bit back a cry at the sudden
burn in his right forearm as a bolt passed through the muscles.  The
man to his left let out a gargling cough as an arrow bloomed from the
side of his neck.  He fell, dying.  Nick backhanded the man in front
of him, knocking him aside and lunged toward the two men who had fired
at him.  They fumbled frantically to reload their weapons.

Blake emerged from his daze, his one emotion a clear rage.  He dropped
his rifle and snatched the cross-bow from the man who had not fired at
Lacroix.  Catherine had almost reached Michael, when out of the corner
of her eye she saw Blake turning and the bow coming up.  He aimed it
at Michael, still creeping across the floor.  Unthinking, she jumped
toward Blake just as he fired the weapon, and the bolt caught her in
the chest.  The force of the blow knocked her back to fall in front of
Michael.  The little vampire stared a moment at the sudden obstacle in
his path, a wail building up in his chest even before he could make
complete sense of what he saw.

His shriek of agony caused both vampires in the room to cover their
ears to block the piercing pain.  The remaining conscious humans
tended to wince and crouch down in response to the stunning noise.
Hunkered down next to the west window, one man, gritting his teeth,
raised his cross-bow to fire at the howling Michael.  A sudden shower
of broken glass rained down on him, ruining his aim.  Then he was
driven to the floor, head bouncing hard, as Rasena landed on him, hair
and skirts swirling like a whirlwind.

Shaking the glass out of her hair, and sparing Lacroix one haughty
glare, she then flitted over to the gaping Blake.  She caught his eye
-- he stiffened, then crumpled to the ground in a graceless heap.  She
reached for the two men who had been flanking Blake, one desperately
raising his reloaded cross-bow, and cracked their skulls together.

Face schooled into a stony mask, restraining himself from laughing
aloud -- a highly impolitic act at this time -- Lacroix dodged a bolt.
The foolish man who had fired it screamed as the vampire laid his
hands upon him.  Still screaming, he sailed through the air to collide
with the only other man left standing on that side of the room.
Carefully calculated kicks to the head stopped both men's groans.

Nick lowered the last of the two men who had fired at him carefully to
the floor at his feet.  The room was suddenly silent.

As Rasena had come through the window, Michael had pulled Catherine up
to cradle her against his chest.  She had been alive then, though just
barely.  Michael registered this, and without a moment's hesitation he
had extended his teeth and was bending over her throat.

Her breath, warm on his ear, carried faintly, oh so faintly the word,
"No."

Michael, his teeth actually piercing the skin of her neck, the call of
her blood roaring in his ears, managed to stop only because his intent
wasn't to simply feed.

"No," she breathed again.

Michael brought his head up, to stare into her eyes.  His own pleaded,
but for once in his life he had no voice to make his case.  He could
only whimper.  Her own eyes filled with tears, with regret, but they
showed no sign of yielding.

"Just hold me," her lips said, her breath now gone.  So he did, until
her shattered heart ceased its labors and death emptied her warm brown
eyes.  He bowed his head over hers, his pain too terrible to make any
sense of.

"Michel," a woman called softly.  Conditioned to respond with instant
obedience to that voice, he looked up into Rasena's eyes.  No
gentleness there, he realized bitterly.  Concern, yes, but no love.
The grief tearing his heart twisted itself into rage, and his eyes
flickered wildly, searching.  There, there was Blake, crumbled
unconscious on the floor.  He growled, and only the fact that Michael
could not bring himself to callously drop Catherine to the floor gave
Nick enough time to flash over to the boy, encircling him in his arms
as Michael encircled Blake in his.

Michael's growls of frustrated rage thrummed against Nick's chest.
His arms strained to hold Michael back from Blake, his own
unwillingness to hurt the boy and the younger vampire's fury-enhanced
strength making it a real struggle.  Michael's fingers gouged into the
priest's shoulders, tearing the flesh.  The smell of the hated man's
blood fueled his rage with his real hunger.

"You mustn't, Michel," Rasena said sharply.  "There must be no
evidence of our kind remaining here."

Michael's quivering muscles slackened suddenly in Nick's grasp, and
with a sigh the man eased his grip.  The boy then lunged for Blake
again, almost evading Nick's frantic grab.  Michael began to thrash
desperately.

"Don't, don't," Nick gasped, hugging the boy tight.  "Michael, stop.
I know it hurts, I know.  But this won't fix it.  She wouldn't have
wanted this."  Nick's voice, filled with understanding and his own
recent grief, went straight to Michael's heart.  With a wordless cry,
he bucked fiercely, breaking Nick's grip again, mostly because he
lunged upwards instead of toward Blake.  He flew up and out the
shattered window, a flashing blur even to vampiric vision.  Nick
jumped up to chase him, but Lacroix caught his shoulders with both
hands.

"You're not going to catch him, Nicholas.  He's too fast.  Let him
fly.  It may ease his pain.  And we need you here.  There's much to do
before dawn."

Nick sighed, knowing Michael was out of his reach by now.  And Lacroix
was right.  This place needed to be ransacked, evidence destroyed,
these men dealt with somehow.  The information contained in this
building and in these men's minds put the whole community at risk.  He
acceded to Rasena's polite request that he go downstairs and search
the rooms there for any endangering evidence.  He went carefully from
room to room, collecting papers and photos.  Rasena and Lacroix worked
side by side, rousing the men one by one and stripping their minds of
any knowledge of Nick and Michael.  Then, while Lacroix played havoc
with the building's security system and the control booth's
recordings, Rasena layered a carefully tailored story of the past two
months into each man's mind of a respected leader's subtle, but
growing insanity.  It had culminated in the tragedy of Blake shooting
Catherine, a woman he believed to possess uncanny powers, who had
fallen under a vampire's dark influence.  A frenzy of panicked
factional fighting had followed.

Rasena worked a long time on Blake, weaving a consistent, but clearly
fantastic belief of vampires taking over the world.  Nothing she
planted there violated any of his world view.  She only exaggerated
it, taking it over the edge to delusion.  The man burgeoned into a
twitching bundle of paranoia under her subtle, incisive `suggestions'.
His insistent belief that vampires really existed would only be
further proof of his madness.

She laid him, sleeping, on the floor with a sigh, passing one hand
over her brow.

"That's the last of it, Lucius."

"I could almost pity the man, Rasena.  That was masterful."  He
reached out one hand to stroke her hair.  She stepped away from him
with a jaundiced glare.  Ah, she was still angry at him.  He concealed
a smile.  Perhaps she'd care for another apology later.  Annoying
Rasena provided quite a bit of fun.

"Have you finished with their evidence?" she asked coolly.

"Ah, yes.  An unfortunate power surge destroyed their computer files,
and a loyal follower seems to have erased all the tapes demonstrating
his leader's folly.  The security system doesn't seem to have been
turned on at all in the last 24 hours.  Really, so careless of
someone."

"So all that remains is placing these men where they belong and
searching the room carefully for any physical sign of Michel's
presence here."

"I recommend asking Nicholas's assistance in that.  He has a trained
eye."

"We only have two hours until dawn.  I am ... irritated, Lucius, at
how rushed this has been.  We could too easily miss something vital.
If you had only given me some time to arrange assistance."

"Your presence alone has been more effective than any number of others
could have been."

She snorted.  "Keep your honeyed words in your mouth, you wretched
man.  This could have been disastrous.  I would have left you to your
own game, except I couldn't be sure you would be able to effectively
cover the tracks left by your heavy Roman tread.   Then there is my
responsibility to Michel...."  She paused, glancing down at
Catherine's body.  She walked over and crouched next to her, studying
the dead woman's face.  She reached out and gently brushed a stray
strand of hair back from her forehead.

"A shame about this one, really," she murmured.  "Born to the wrong
time.  We would have made a priestess of her.  Perhaps not to the Dark
Lady, but certainly to the Mother."  She drew a light finger over
Catherine's lips.  "She has a mother's mouth, one shaped by both
laughter and sorrow."

"Come, Rasena, we still have much to do," Lacroix said softly.

Rasena stood up, briskly dusting her hands on her thighs.  "Yes,
indeed.  Why don't you go see how Nicholas is doing?  If he is
finished arranging the men downstairs, have him come up and search
this room.  Then why don't you make yourself useful and throw that
glass out the window to make it appear that something went out rather
than came in."

About to protest that it wasn't his mess, he realized that on top of
her irritation at his rushing her into a battle she hadn't been
prepared for, she was mentally exhausted.  Rather than push her into
saying something he wouldn't be able to forgive, he mutely bowed his
head and went off to fulfill her requests.  Sometimes women had to be
coddled, if you were interested in an ongoing relationship.  Wisdom
suggested a delicate, wary tread around Rasena for a time.

Rasena and Lacroix artfully arranged their defeated opponents
unconscious bodies, while Nick carefully combed the large room for
anything that would point directly at a vampire.  He found one dart,
its tip snapped off from when it hit the wall behind Michael.  He
pocketed that and the hollow wooden needle. Lacroix lifted the cage
for him again, so he could retrieve the bloody-tipped dart there.  He
also used a wet cloth to mop up the splashes of vampiric blood he
found.  He had seen the red stains on Michael's chin and chest, but in
all the confusion he hadn't had a chance to figure out what had caused
them, or even to be sure that the blood had been Michael's.  He didn't
think the dart could have done all that.

It wasn't until he was surveying the area around Blake's body, that he
found Michael's tongue.  Not knowing that he should have been
searching for it, he stared at the odd little bit of flesh in his hand
for a few moments before he figured out what it was. His first thought
was that one of the men had somehow had their tongue severed during
the fight.  But at even an arm's length away, the faint odor of
vampiric blood rose to his nose.

Lacroix went over to where Nick stood, staring dumb and frozen at
something in his hand.  He looked at what Nick held, blinked, then
said, "Ah."

"Ah?"  Nick repeated, peering up at Lacroix.

"This and the darts explain one another.  They had been trying to get
Michael to drink blood mixed with sodium penethol, hoping that it
would make him talkative.  Apparently, as he resisted drinking the
blood, they decided, basically, to inject him with it.  Rather than
risk saying something he shouldn't...."  Lacroix glanced down at
little lump and shrugged slightly.

Nick closed his eyes and declared in quiet anguish,  "We're not worth
all this."

"Really, Nicholas," Lacroix responded with an exasperated lift of his
brows.  "It was simple self-preservation on his part.  He knows
neither Rasena nor myself would tolerate any disclosures."

Nick glared at Lacroix, sick with disgust, both at himself, for the
things he'd done that night, and for Lacroix's eternal lack of
compassion.

"I'm leaving," he snapped.  "I'm tired of looking at you."  He flew
out the broken window, his abrupt departure leaving a hollow silence.
Lacroix stared through the shattered glass, then, blank-faced, went
back to work.  Rasena, wisely, made no comment.  They finished up
quickly, not speaking, the sense of the incipient dawn a growing
pressure.

"There," Rasena said at last.  "Hopefully, we missed nothing."  She
turned to Lacroix.  "Lucius, next time--"  She broke off and sighed.
"Never mind.  I might as well try to stop the tide as try to turn you
from your chosen path."

"Rasena--"

"Really, Lucius, never mind.  I'll call you in a few days, when I'm
rested."

"Rasena," he began again, taking hold of her hand and bringing it to
his lips.  "I ... appreciate that you came."  He smiled into her eyes.
"It was amusing at times, you must admit."

"I _must_ do nothing, my dear," she replied, her own lips curving in a
weary smile, "except go home.  Michel will need tending.  I hope he
hasn't gotten into any mischief."  She gave Lacroix's hand an almost
affectionate squeeze, then left.

Lacroix sighed.  Was he the only one who enjoyed any of this?  His
lips twisted into a smirk.  Actually, he was certain Rasena had found
it all entertaining.  She would hang onto her umbrage until he could
tease her out of it.  Contemplating their upcoming games, he was off.

****
Lacroix reached his apartment a scant 45 minutes before dawn.  The
phone rang as he stepped through the door.  He picked it up.

"Michel is not here," Rasena said without preamble.

"Nor here."  He closed his eyes, weary already of the prospect of
another emergency precipitated by his wayward grandson.

"Is he with Nicholas?"

Lacroix focused intently on his link to his son.  The man's mind
writhed in some sharp, black edged grief, liberally laced with guilt.
Lacroix pulled back with some distaste.

"I think not.  He's wallowing, I'm afraid, and tending to Michael
would preclude that."

"Lucius, if Michel goes too early to Her embrace, I will hold you
responsible."

"Rasena," he protested, "you can't hold me accountable for another's
decision."

"Not for his decision, of course not.  But if you had waited until I
could organize a less chaotic response to this situation, chances are
that the woman would not have been killed, or at least that someone
would have been free to pursue Michel when he fled.  But this is a
waste of darkness.  I want him found."

"By me, I take it."

"Of course.  Realistically, you've the best chance.  Though I shall
search as well."

"I fail to see why  _I_ have the best chance."

"Don't be so obtuse, Lucius.  The link, of course."

"He is _not_ my child," he reminded her with some frustration.  "There
is no bond between us."

"There is, Lucius," she insisted.  "The Blood, _your_ Blood runs
through him.  I strongly suggest you follow the flow.  I really don't
wish to be truly angry with you, my dear."  She hung up.

Curse the woman.  The plastic of the phone receiver creaked in his
grip.  Carefully, he set it down.  She made things so much more
complicated than they had to be.  Just the night before, she had told
him to kill the boy if he thought it best, and now she was going to be
annoyed with him if the foolish little creature decided to walk into
the sun.  However ... it really was an interesting notion.  How
distant did the relationship have to be, before the blood bond ceased
to be meaningful?  No harm in making the attempt.  Besides, Michael's
... discretion deserved some recompense on his part.

He carefully sealed his link to Nicholas, a relief at the moment
actually.  His son was indulging himself in a real orgy of guilt.
With that distraction gone, he let himself flow into the relaxed
awareness of a hunter, though his focus turned inward rather than
outward.  Nothing, at first.  Then he let himself dwell on some of his
memories of Michael, particularly the feeding he had given the boy the
night before, providing himself with a "scent" as it were, as a
tracker would his dogs.

There.  A mere direction, really.  The faintest trace.  No sense of
his thoughts or state of mind, just the barest notion of where he was
physically.  Time was short.  He decided to get Nicholas.  If Michael
were on the edge of suicide, Nicholas had the best chance of reaching
him.  It would also give his son something to think about outside of
himself.  He hurried out of his apartment and flung himself into the
lightning sky.  As he flew, he recalled a certain unresolved matter he
needed to take up with his son.

He found Nicholas hunkered at his kitchen table, nursing a bottle of
bovine blood.  He sighed inwardly, then came straight to the point of
his own business.  Rasena's could wait.

"Nicholas, where is Dupont?"

The younger vampire turned to face his maker.  Face stony, his
twilight blue eyes glittered as cold as winter ice.  "I've dealt with
him, Lacroix.  He is no danger to us.  He is innocent of any wrong
doing.  He had no part in what happened in ... that place."

"He knows too much about us.  About you."

"He knows nothing, Lacroix.  Nothing," Nick emphasized bitterly.

Lacroix didn't require their bond to discern his son's unwavering
resolve on this.  This line crossed would be unforgiven.  That, of
course, would not prevent him from acting as he deemed best.  He had
crossed similar lines in the past, but always with some purpose beyond
personal vengeance, though that unquestionably added zest to the deed.
However, Nicholas assured him that the man had been rendered harmless.
If true, killing Dupont would only serve to assuage his own desire to
punish the man for interfering with his son.  While satisfying this
desire assuredly deserved consideration, it could cause complications.
It would no doubt make Dupont a martyr in Nicholas's eyes, redeeming
him and perhaps even justifying the acts of the other priests.  His
son had an appalling habit of zigging when he expected him to zag.
Perhaps it wasn't worth it.

And he could feel Nicholas's scalding grief when he thought of the
priest.  It seemed he had dealt with him appropriately, and now
experienced the loss of that relationship.  Good.  If Nicholas
couldn't blame any of it on him, so much the better.  Let Nicholas
bear the full brunt of the pain his foolish behavior caused him.
Still, it rankled.  He'd _wanted_ that interfering priest.  Clenching
his teeth, he thrust his lust for the man's blood deep into his heart
to burn there with all the other passions Nicholas had denied him.

Coldly, calmly, he went on.  "I've found Michael."

"He didn't return to Rasena's?"  Nick's brow furrowed with the
beginning of his concern.

"Obviously not, Nicholas.  It's getting late.  I'd like you to go
fetch him before the dawn gets much closer."

"Why don't you go get him?"

"Goodness, Nicholas.  Such tender concern for one who considers you a
friend."

"Why do you care?"

"The seconds are ticking away, my boy.  Perhaps you want Michael
reduced to a tiny pile of ashes.  After all, if not for his little
misadventure, your foolishness with this Dupont might never have come
to light.  Until much too late."

The muscles in Nick's jaw bunched as he clenched his teeth, eyes
sliding away from Lacroix's supercilious gaze.  Barbs about misplaced
trust would no doubt provide the chief source of the man's amusement
for the next few months.  Diverting himself from his own troubles,
Nick asked, "Where is he?"

"On the water front. Humber Bay Park, I believe.  Come."

Lacroix rose into the air, Nick a second behind him.  They sped
through the sky, the stars beginning to fade in the false dawn.
Lacroix led Nick to the park.  As they neared the water, Nick's
awareness of his father's presence lessened.  The man was masking
himself, drawing into his center.  Then Lacroix came to an abrupt
halt, hovering.  He pointed down to the shoreline.

"There," he said.  Nick peered where his finger directed, and he could
see a small, pale figure sitting hunched on the shore about 100 meters
away.

"You've come all this way, Lacroix.  Why don't you go get him?"

"He may bolt if I go down to him, and it's too close to daylight to
get caught up in a game of chase.  Besides, it's likely he's feeling
maudlin.  You've much more experience with the emotion.  I wouldn't
have the patience."

Without another word, Nick flew down to land a few feet away from
Michael.  The youngster didn't move, continuing to stare at the
eastern horizon.

"Michael," Nick said gently.  "Let's go.  It's getting late."

The young vampire turned to stare at him blankly.  Dark stains smeared
his face, and Nick caught a whiff of dog's blood.  However, there was
no sign he had been weeping.

"Nick," he said with a mild astonishment.  His voice was thick and
slurred, his tongue only partially healed.

"Yeah.  Come on.  Let me take you home.  You can stay with me awhile."

"Nick, she wouldn't let me bring her over."  His tone was calm,
strangely so, after all he had just been through.  He also took no
account of his injury and Nick needed to listen carefully to
understand him.

"She loved me," Michael went on dispassionately.  "I know she did.
But she wouldn't let me make her like me."  He frowned a little.  "Am
I so awful?  Am I really a monster?"

Nick opened his mouth to speak, when he felt a sudden pressure through
his link to Lacroix.  He glanced up and found the man staring at him
intently from fifty feet away.  Lacroix's thoughts echoed clearly in
Nick's mind.

//Carefully, Nicholas.  He'll take anything you say to heart.//

Not needing Lacroix's reminder, Nick said gently, "No, Michael, you're
not a monster."

"But you think you are, right?  You think you're damned."

Nick knelt down next to Michael.  Softly, earnestly he replied,
"Michael, I don't think ... I don't think I'm beyond redemption.  If I
did, I just wouldn't try.  I _would_ be a monster."

Lacroix called, "Time, gentlemen."

Michael stood up, looking toward the brightening sky, the clouds now
lit with streaks of red and gold.  A flock of sea gulls, crying their
morning greetings to one another, skimmed along the shoreline.  Nick
rose with him, hands hovering anxiously to make a grab at the boy if
he tried to fly to the east.

"Michael, come on home with me," he urged him quietly. "This is the
kind of discussion that could go on for hours."

Michael turned to squint up into Nick's face.  "All right," he said
with a shrug.  "Sure.  Why not?  I've got time.  There's always
another sunrise."

EPILOGUE

Lacroix slipped into his apartment, his clothing smoldering furiously
from the steam rising out of his body, sizzling in the morning sun.
He stripped, tossing his reeking, ruined garments into a corner.
Perhaps he would have been better served to remain at Nicholas' loft.
But the thought of spending the day with his two distraught sprigs was
enough to spur him into racing to his own apartment for shelter.  He
could have gone to the Raven, it was closer, but he craved solitude.
Too many strays took shelter there.

He rummaged around in the dusty wine rack....  Where _was_ that bottle
he had been carrying around with him since his last encounter with the
church?  With a grunt of satisfaction he pulled it free.  Now, surely
he had something in the fridge appropriate to mix with this venerable
vintage.  He strode into the kitchen to make himself a stiff drink.

****
Michael, sitting on Nick's couch, had consumed a bottle of cows' blood
without a grimace or complaint.  In fact, he seemed almost unaware of
where he was, eyes cloudy and opaque.  When Nick took the empty bottle
back to the kitchen, he returned to find the boy curled in a tight
fetal ball, asleep.  Nick, gazing down on his grubby, naked form,
debated carrying him up to the bedroom, but decided not to risk
disturbing him.  Unconsciousness was probably the most comforting
place for him to be right now.   He carefully covered the boy with a
blanket.

Nick sat down in an armchair by the couch.  He wanted to be there if
Michael woke up.  The youngster hadn't said a word since they had left
the beach, and Nick had no idea what he was thinking.  He could easily
still decide to go out a window into the daylight.

He found himself struggling out an ambushing sleep, disturbed by an
anomalous sound, a keening whine.  Michael, caught in a nightmare,
screamed with his mouth clamped tightly shut.  Nick darted to him,
falling on his knees by the couch, and shook the boy.  Gasping, he
woke, eyes and mouth wide.  Blood trickled down his chin.  He had
bitten his tongue again, though, Nick was relieved to see, not badly.

Michael lurched back away from him, fear blazing in his eyes and
choked out, "I didn't tell, Nick, I didn't.  It wasn't me."

Nick gathered the rigid little body against himself, holding tight and
swinging around so he could sit on the couch, cradling Michael.

"Hush, Michael," he whispered, rocking him.  "I know, I know.  They've
known about me for months.  It's _my_ fault they found out about you."

"Oh, God, Nick, I tried, I tried not to say anything, but I was so
scared, I couldn't stop talking.  I must of said something useful to
them."

"It's all right.  It's all been taken care of.  You're safe."

Michael suddenly stiffened in his arms again, as though stabbed with a
sharp blade.

"Catherine," he gasped.

Nick braced himself for a sudden, violent storm of tears.  But they
didn't come.  Instead, Michael lay tense and unbreathing in his arms,
eyes closed.  Nick could see his eyes flickering rapidly behind their
lids.  He held him gently, unsure of what was going in the mind hidden
behind that taut, expressionless face.  Finally, Michael exhaled, then
inhaled, opening his eyes.

"I need a shower," he declared.

"Michael?"  Nick searched his mask-like features for some clue as to
what he was feeling.

"Yeah?"

"Are you all right?"

"I'm dirty," the boy replied flatly.

"I mean ... I mean about Catherine."

"She was a mortal, Nick.  She died.  They do that, you know."  Michael
squirmed restlessly on Nick's lap.  "I really want a shower.  Is that
okay?"

Reluctantly, he released the boy, who darted toward the bathroom as
soon as his feet touched the floor.

"You know where everything is, right?" Nick called after him.
"Nothing's changed since you were here last."

"I'll find what I need.  Thanks."  The door closed behind him and
didn't open again for an hour.

Michael's brutal words about Catherine wrenched at Nicholas's heart,
though he knew the boy didn't mean them, that he was following the
vampiric "party line" in an attempt to cut himself off from the pain.
Why wouldn't he give way to his grief, let the easing tears come?
Perhaps he would later.  He had needed to contain himself ruthlessly
the last five days.  When he realized he was truly safe, maybe then he
would be able to release the anguish pent up inside him.

Nick's mind moved reluctantly from Michael's sorrows to his own.  The
sudden pang of realization of Richard's loss pierced him so sharply he
gasped.  Closing his eyes, he assuaged the pain with the knowledge
that at least Richard still lived and that in all likelihood Lacroix
would continue to let him do so.  The payment for what his master no
doubt perceived as a monstrous foolhardiness would be stiff, he was
sure.  But it didn't appear that his friend's life would be part of
the coin.

Richard's face leapt into his mind's eye and he struggled to push away
the upsurging memories, not wanting to see the slack emptiness he had
created when he had raped away the man's memories.  But the past
overwhelmed him and he felt the pressure of Richard's large, gentle
hands on his head.  Then his voice, firm and clear, echoed in his
mind.

"I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the
Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Give thanks to the Lord, for he is
good."

Nick felt peace wash over him as his lips, both inside and out of the
memory, moved with the words, "His mercy endures forever."

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

He snapped back to the present, face buried in both hands as he sobbed
in a soul twisting mixture of sorrow and joy.  He had lost Richard.
In order to keep the man safe he could never see him again.  But he
hadn't lost what they had done together.  He didn't know where to go
from here, but at least he had gotten this far.  Richard had shown him
the way and he had taken one step closer to the Light.

Calm again by the time Michael emerged naked, but clean, from the
bathroom, he offered the boy one of his tee shirts.  The youngster
took it mechanically from his hand and pulled it on, his slight body
swallowed in the soft folds of fabric.

"You look like you could use a bit more to drink, Michael," Nick
suggested gently, studying the boy's glazed, hollow eyes.  "I only
have my usual in the house, though."

Michael stared a moment at the full bottle and the glass Nick had set
up for him on the coffee table, then lay down on the couch, curling up
again as he pulled the blanket over his head.

"That's okay, I'm not hungry," came his muffled response.

"Look, Michael, I'm sorry it's not what you prefer...."

"It's not that," the boy replied, head still covered up.  "I just
don't feel like eating."

"Michael--"

The boy jerked the blanket down and looked up at Nick, eyes luminous
with pain.  "I ... I just want to be asleep now, Nick, okay?  I need
to be asleep."

Understanding the impulse to find peace in oblivion, the man could
only reply, "All right, Michael.  I'll be right here if you need
anything."

The younger vampire's tight features relaxed somewhat, warming with
gratitude.  "Thanks, Nick."  Ducking his head down, he drew up the
covers, cocooning himself.  He became utterly still, and Nick had no
way of knowing if the boy actually slept for any of the six hours he
kept watch in the chair.

****
Father Thomas Randolf saw the police cars outside the Institute that
morning, and drove right past, lips white, blood roaring in his ears.
By sunset, he was almost 1000 miles away from Toronto.

****
Just before sunset Nick received a call from Rasena, informing him she
wanted Michael returned to her as soon as it was safely dark.

"I can keep him here," he offered, eyeing the bundle on his couch, the
thought of the wounded boy back under her cool, watchful gaze somehow
chilling.

"I think not," she replied with a polite firmness.  "His condition is
... delicate.  It would be a great imposition on your time and energy
to deal with him properly."

Nick acceded reluctantly, unwilling to subject Michael to a tug of
war.  However, when it came to it that evening, as he watched Rasena place
her hands lightly on Michael's shoulders as they stood on her front
stoop, drawing the boy inexorably back into her dark circle, his
unease resurfaced.

"Michael--" he began, then broke off, not knowing what to say.

The boy turned his head to look back at him.  Something in Nick's face
impelled him to mold his lips into a smile and say, "I'll be okay,
Nick.  See you around, all right?"

"Good night, Detective Knight," Rasena murmured, as she pulled the
passive Michael further into her house.  "And thank you."  She closed
the door.

Nick stood a moment on the step, then went to Richard's house.
Darkened windows and an absence of a mortal presence met him.  Stomach
clenched with anxiety, he knocked on a neighbor's door, showed her his
police i.d., and asked if she had seen Richard leave.

"Oh, yes," she replied, eyes bright with curiosity.  "It was just a
little while ago, maybe a half an hour.  A big gray car pulled up, and
a tall man wearing a fedora type hat and an overcoat got out and went
to the door.  Richard answered the door, they spoke a moment, then
Richard went back inside and came back out a short time later with a
suitcase.  He got in the car with the other man and they drove off."
Her face twisted with concern.  "Is Richard in trouble?  He really,
really is a good man."

"Oh, I know, ma'am.  No, he's not in trouble with the police.  Can you
tell me anything else about the car or the man in the hat?"

"I'm sorry, no.  I don't know anything about cars.  It just looked big
and expensive.  Gray, like I said, with those black glass windows.
And the man ... well, it was just twilight and these eyes of mine
don't see too well in that half-light.  Just ... tall and slender.  I
never saw his face.  Oh, and someone else was driving, because the man
was riding in the back.  But that's all.  I'm so sorry."

"That's all right, ma'am.  Thank you for the information."

He checked with the other nearby neighbors, but no one else had
noticed anything.  With a sinking heart, he went to go see Lacroix at
the Raven.

****
"No, Nicholas.  I had nothing to do with the priest's departure.
Perhaps some of his own people came to collect him.  One can't have
unsupervised priests wandering about, after all."

"That means that more than the men we dealt with last night knew ...
knew _something_ about what was going on."

"Yes, it does mean that, doesn't it?" Lacroix said, voice almost a
croon, as he began circling his son slowly where he stood flat-footed
by the bar.  "Nicholas, I realize that your discovery was more or less
a ... random occurrence.  But may I suggest -- strongly suggest --
that if in the future something similar were to occur, that you bring
it to my attention immediately?  These kinds of situations cannot be
allowed to ... fester."  The last was whispered almost directly into
the younger vampire's ear.

"What are we going to do?" Nick queried, twisting his neck to glance
back at Lacroix, whose lips curved in a falsely benign smile.

"Under normal circumstances, I would say it was time to move on.
Fortunately for you and your mortal games, Rasena has assured me she
has things more or less in hand.  You're a lucky man, Nicholas.  A
lucky, lucky man.  That you have so many good friends looking out for
you.  How is little Michael, by the way?"

****
Rasena smiled, holding out both her hands to the tall, slender vampire
approaching her.  The man's pleasure at seeing her again shone in his
sky blue eyes framed by the white lashes and brows of an albino.  A
heavy lock of bone white hair fell over his forehead as he took her
hands, bowing over them and kissing her fingers.

"My son, you are looking well," she said in 14th century hoch-Deutsch,
inspecting his sharp-chiseled Aryan features closely.

"I am well, Mother, and pleased to be with you again."  He turned,
still holding one of her hands, and gestured to the slightly confused
mortal behind him.

"Allow me to present to you Father Richard Dupont."

FIN

Credits:

• Content -- LoosCanN

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Most recent revision Sunday, August 25, 1996