Tender Prey
   by Les GS

Note: The spelling 'Nicolas' indicates the usage of the French pronunciation of that name - Ni-co-lah
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Prague - January, 1787

Lounging in his overstuffed armchair, Lacroix stretched his long legs, crossing them at the ankles, toward the dying fire in the grate. The chair's burgundy silk damask picked up one of the many interwoven colors of the thick Turkish carpet beneath his boot heels. Janette flowed between this central sitting room and her boudoir, trailing a stream of silken clothing and commentary. He chuckled occasionally at one of her more wicked observations on the audience of that evening's opera. The two carved bone dice he'd collected from his evening meal rattled pleasantly upon the small wooden table beside him as he idly played his right hand against the left. Both were cheating.

Janette seemed content enough. If it couldn't be Paris, Prague was no poor second. And any evening begun with Le Nozze di Figaro conducted by its own composer was off to an excellent start. (Lacroix made a mental note to pay young Mozart a call sometime, either here or in Vienna.) His daughter had not yet regaled him with her adventures after the three of them had gone their own separate ways following the performance. However, her air of a cat well satisfied seemed a good indication that her night had ended as pleasurably as it had begun.

Nicholas...   Lacroix sighed, flexing his ankles, savoring the sensation of warm boot leather against his soles. Dawn loomed just the other side of the horizon and Nicholas was on his way home. Very close in fact, approaching rapidly.

"Janette," he drawled, extending a languid arm in her direction. Smiling, she came to him, lithely settling in his lap as he drew her down. Her smile deepened as he caressed the spot under her ear with his lips, his deft fingers untying and slightly loosening the laces of her corset. He hadn't found her a suitable lady's maid yet and it was either himself or Nicholas serving as such tonight. And tonight Nicholas, unfortunately, would be of little use.

The shutting of the front door of their home came clearly to both their ears, then the familiar tread of Nicholas's boots on the wooden steps to the second floor. Lacroix watched Janette's contented expression fade, replaced by one of slightly puzzled concern. She, too, had become aware of her Nicolas's mood through their familial connection. Her soft sigh echoed his own earlier.

Nicholas entered the sitting room, stopping just inside the door. He glanced somewhat distractedly at the pair in the armchair, then turned his gaze to the red embers in the fireplace. He brought his hands together before him, one thumb rubbing at the other palm. His aristocrat's evening dress, of the deep blue that suited him so well, seemed rumpled only with a night's normal wear. The dark gold hair, however, had been tousled by rapid flight and he smelled of fresh blood and snow.

"Did you feed well, Nicholas?" Lacroix inquired mildly.

Nicholas looked up with a small frown. With a certain tension, he said softly, "I thought--  I thought he was a thief, creeping from the building."

"He was not, I take it," Lacroix said, cool gaze resting on his protégé, idly twining one of Janette's raven ringlets about his finger. The woman leaned more heavily upon his chest, her blue eyes, fixed on her lover, dark with disquiet. That something was disturbing Nicholas was clear. What seeped through their link, however, carried none of the bitter taint present when the man felt himself guilty of some "moral" faux pas.

"He'd just...  violated a girl." Nicholas's glance flicked quickly back and forth on the countenances of his companions. "A little girl." The man was suddenly in motion, beginning to pace, toward the fire, then pivoting to stride back toward the door. He could not, however, distance himself from what disturbed him. It crept through his veins.

Janette's nose wrinkled delicately, distaste entering the eyes that watched her lover's uneasy movements. "I do not care for such men. The thoughts, the impulses, that linger for a time make me feel...  filthy."

"Yes!" The word burst from Nicholas on a gusting exhalation. One hand came up to rub roughly, almost brutally, over his mouth and chin. "It is...  disgusting."

Lacroix did not care for those who lusted for children either, finding the profound inadequacies that reached to their very cores unpalatable. He said nothing, though, simply following the exchange between his progeny.

Janette sat up slowly, pushing her herself upright with a hand set in the center of Lacroix's chest. Studying Nicholas closely, she asked, "Nicolas, you just had him..?"

The man ceased his restless pacing as his attention again became inwardly focused. His hand dropped from his face, coming uneasily to rest on his gut. He murmured, "Yes. Just before I came home." He shot a wary glance at Lacroix. "By way of the Moldau." Even upset, he knew better than to leave a mess behind. It was convenient that so many centers of civilization sprang up straddling rivers.

Janette rose sinuously from Lacroix's lap. With one hand placed beneath her breasts to keep her corset from slipping down, she sauntered toward her room. The men watched as she paused a moment in the doorway, stooping gracefully to sweep up a discarded petticoat.

Rising again, she said lightly, "Eh bien, I'm for bed. Until sundown, mes chéris. Rêves plaisants." Then she retired to her domain, shutting the door firmly behind her. Lacroix shifted his gaze to Nicholas's face. The other man looked at the closed door with some dismay. The message was clear;  Janette was sleeping alone today, unwilling to share, even filtered through his veins, Nicholas's meal.

"Well, Nicholas," Lacroix declared lightly, rubbing his hands up and down his lean, black silk clad thighs, "my dinner host's major vice was an extreme fondness for coffee. Sleep and I shall not be soon acquainted. Bring out the chess board and we'll have a game or two."

Nicholas stood a moment longer, probably wondering if Janette might relent. Even a kill such as Nicholas had made that night left one stimulated. And that, combined with the desire to chase away the slowly fading impressions of his unpalatable meal, no doubt made the thought of Janette's body and blood even more than usually appealing. Janette's altruism did not extend in this direction, however, as she was rather particular about what she ate. With a somewhat disgruntled air, he fetched the chess set from its cupboard and set it up on the table between his chair and his maker's.

Lacroix casually thrashed Nicholas in three ruthlessly short games before the man became annoyed at his losses and began to fight back. The fourth game was far more satisfactory, lasting considerably longer. Nicholas growled softly as Lacroix coolly announced "mate," frustrated with his own tactical errors.

"Another," he demanded, beginning to reset the pieces, fingers moving with brusque efficiency over the board. Lacroix caught his hand.

"No," he replied quietly, meeting Nicholas's suddenly uplifted eyes. "I'm sure we can come up with a more...  entertaining way of chasing away the last of your...  indigestion."

"I..." Nicholas began, fingers stiff in Lacroix's. The elder vampire began to smile, a feral glint coming into his eye. A quick frisson of excitement touched with a hint of alarm skittered through to him along their connection. Then Nicholas dropped his gaze, staring blankly at the chess board between them, unease obvious in the rigid set of his shoulders. Lacroix abruptly released his hand, sitting back. His companion's eyes darted up to his, brows drawing down.

"Never mind, if it doesn't suit," Lacroix said lightly. "Set up the board again."

Mutely, Nicholas did as he was told, putting each piece carefully and deliberately in its place. Lacroix watched him, expression opaque. It had been far too long since Nicholas had initiated their bed-play. And over time, as Nicholas's rejection of his vampire's nature strengthened, it had become more common that he declined Lacroix's invitations.

Chessmen set, Nicholas reached out, placing his fingertips on a white pawn. Then, piece unmoved, he looked into Lacroix's face.

"I didn't say no," he said softly.

Lacroix's brows lifted. "True. You didn't."

"It would...  chase the last of it away. You're nothing like--" Something like a smile tugged at the young vampire's mouth, though it could also have been a tiny grimace. He might have be referring to either his prey or those that one preyed upon.

Either way, Lacroix agreed. "I should think not."

Nicholas's smile grew, genuine now, becoming roguish. "So, yes." He stood up, took a step towards his maker's room. "It would be far more distracting than chess." Lacroix found it growing more common that Nicholas required an excuse to do what he was naturally inclined to do. Having found one, however, Lacroix was not about to argue him out of it. He stood as well.

"Go on, then, Nicholas. I'll tend to the fire and be right with you."

When Lacroix entered his room, Nicholas had already lit the lamp and stripped. Lacroix stood in the doorway, relishing the sight of a masculine beauty he had captured at its peak. Nicholas came to him, one hand lifting to undo the stock at Lacroix's throat while he leaned in to run his lips along the line of the elder vampire's jaw. Lacroix closed his eyes, his own hands coming to rest on the hard bone and flexing muscles at Nicholas's hips. Once Nicholas had made his mind up about something, he was delightfully direct in accomplishing his aims.

Lacroix awoke just before sundown with Janette's silken fingers sliding up his thigh as she joined them in his bed. She'd apparently decided time enough had passed for Nicholas's dyspepsia to fade. That her men's blood ran mingled through their veins no doubt tempted her as well. Nicholas's sultry chuckle signaled he'd awakened, then he pulled her down between them. Growling deep in his throat with pleasure, Lacroix rolled, reaching for them both. What a shame;  they were going to be late for the theater, perhaps miss it altogether.

~~~

The peace did not last. For good or for ill, it never did, with Nicholas.

A few nights later, Lacroix arrived at the house and found the mental atmosphere thick. Shrugging out of his heavy cloak, he hung it on the rack by the door, his gaze following the curve of the stairs to the upper floor. It appeared his progeny had engaged in quite a quarrel. Curious, he ascended the stairs to the parlor in a fluid glide, not bothering, in his own home, to take each tedious mortal step.

Nicholas sat in his chair, glowering into the coals, the back of one hand pressed against his mouth. Janette's presence was a dark cloud on the other side of her closed door. Nicholas glanced up at him as he came in, then away, not deigning to acknowledge his homecoming otherwise. Lacroix studied his protégé, slouched in the armchair, then, stepping toward him, asked, "And what might be the nature of your offense, Nicholas?"

The other vampire shot him an irritated glare. "My offense?" he retorted. "Why must it be my offense?"

"Isn't it always?" Lacroix inquired mildly as he arrived at his own chair and sat.

"Certainly to hear her tell it," Nicholas agreed with some disgruntlement.

"So. Do tell me, Nicholas."

His companion remained silent a moment longer, then said from behind his knuckles, "I took another...  man who...  misused children."

Lacroix's brows rose. "Really. Two in less than a week. And Janette had plans for you this day, I take it."

Nicholas brought his hand down with a snort of exasperation, his forearm flopping over the chair's arm. "It's been hours, Lacroix. There's nothing...  next to nothing left of him."

"That you took one at all is enough to annoy her, Nicholas. I wonder at your carelessness."

The man sat silently for a moment, then replied, voice soft, "I knew what he was."

Lacroix turned his gaze fully upon his companion, brows lifting while a tiny wicked smile flitted across his face. "My. Your tastes have changed."

Nicholas's eyes narrowed and he flicked another irritated glance at his maker, before turning his gaze back to the dying fire. After a moment under Lacroix's coolly amused regard, he found himself explaining.

"The first...  was a procurer. There were -- are -- men who share his perversion. He would, on occasion, obtain a child for these men for a fee. Tonight, I was walking in one of the gardens on the Petrin Hill, just...  looking. With the cold and the snow..."

He trailed off and Lacroix's smile bowed his mouth further though it faded from his eyes.

"Yes, I suppose, given the inclement conditions, only those mortals no better than they ought to be would be out in the night."

"Yes," Nicholas responded flatly, not willing to enter yet another discussion of his decision to kill only those worthy of death. He pressed on. "I had not yet fed. Following tracks in the snow, I found myself in a more...  secluded part of the park. Yet, it seemed vaguely familiar to me..." His eyes widened, grew cloudy, as he recalled his evening's doings.

~~~  Nicholas lifted his head, his gaze caught by the peculiar kinking twist of a young beech tree's branch, both strange and familiar together. He turned only a portion of his awareness to the mortal twenty paces ahead of him, huddled behind a winter-bared tangle of rose hedge. The human's fate remained undecided, Nicholas hanging still in that state of suspended judgment. He continued along his path, his feet fitting with an unconscious hunter's grace in the prints already present in the snow. He heard the man's pulse rate surge as he came within a few paces, not bothering to keep his approach secret.

"Milosh..?" The mortal's voice was brittle, cracking with an unhealthy tension.

Fragments of a dream that had been a mortal's life flitted through Nicholas's mind, roused by that name. On impulse, he sauntered forward, presenting himself to the man peering into the darkness. He smiled with an easy charm. "The one you wait for is dead," he declared pleasantly.

The mortal took a half step back as a stranger appeared out of the night. Then the words sank in and his mouth dropped open. Blinking rapidly, he managed to squeeze out, "Dead..? How..?" The blurted questions rose in entrancing bursts of warm coiling draconic vapor from his mouth.

This voice, speaking the name of the violator of children he'd taken a few nights ago, echoed in his ears. Scraps of faint memory shuffled themselves together with a shifting sense of déjà vu.

"How did it happen? Or how do I know?" Nicholas's smile widened. "Two questions with one answer. Milosh died at my hands."

He moved closer, the growing agitation of the man's body exciting him even as the faded blood memory stirred. The distinctive jut of the bony nose pulled from the vampire's depths a dead man's recollection...

"Kysela," Nicholas declared, his hunter's joy surging in him as he spoke the man's name, knowing he deserved death.

"I don't know you." The scent of the mortal's panic spiced the frosty air. He stepped backwards, snow crunching under his boots.

"No. But Milosh knew you, Kysela. And I knew him." Nicholas surged forward, his hands gripping the man's upper arms, bruising through the bulky woolen coat. "And I know your depravity, like his."

Icy air bit Kysela's lungs as he sucked in a breath, then he was spinning in brutally strong hands, jerked back against a hard body. A palm covered his mouth, suffocating a scream at the same time as it yanked his head to one side. His attacker's strength was unbelievable, rendering him helpless.

Nicholas tore the heavy cloth from the straining neck beneath him as his blood-lust swept through him. Suffused with a savage joy, he yielded up all self-restraint and sank his fangs into the yielding flesh of the man's throat. Fluid-hot, savory-burst into his mouth, a gush almost too sudden to contain. But he did, swallowing convulsively, again and again, a starving wolf gulping its meat. Burning...  it burned, the living energy tearing through his flesh, filling him with an ecstatic heat. A thousand voices shouted in his ears, images flashed through his mind like lightening strikes, he smelled, touched, tasted a soul, complete and entire. A surging, frantic heart thrust the mortal's substance deep into his guts, filling him...  then faltered, staggering as it bled out. A final lurching pulse and it stilled.

Nicholas let the body sag to his feet, one hand gripping the coat collar so that the death-heavy torso slumped against his legs. He lifted his head, staring unseeing up at diamond point stars hazed by the vapor of his gusting, blood warmed breath. Tattered fragments of the sundered life rushed through his awareness, crawled through his veins. He knew the man, his hidden depths exploded and revealed. All his fears and joys and day-to-day concerns. And the perversion which ruled him; a driving hunger for helplessness and innocence wrapped in the tender bodies of young girls.

For a time between an instant and eternity, Nicholas stood enthralled, possessed himself by the life he had just possessed. He was this other. Then, slowly, the separation began. Nicholas came to the fore, though the mortal's being would permeate the vampire for a short time longer, lending him, however briefly, his vitality. A spasm of regret passed though Nicholas at this. It always did. This was followed by a wave of nausea as revulsion washed through him. That he shared, however briefly, this man's unwholesome desires sickened him. And that the taint would remain within him until the mortal burned completely from his body sent a shudder through him. Thankfully, this would be brief, hours only perhaps, and grow rapidly fainter over that span.

A well-tutored wariness rose in him, and he cast his heightened senses outward. But no one had come anywhere near while he was lost in the blood-ecstasy. Collecting himself, he gripped the shoulders of the corpse's thick wool coat and soared aloft, heading for the Moldau River.  ~~~

Lacroix's soft, long-drawn inhalation and the gentle creak of his armchair as he leaned back pulled Nicholas completely from his reverie. He flicked a quick glance at his maker. The elder vampire met his gaze with a slight smile, the pleasure he'd taken from his creation's re-living of that kill lingering in his eyes, pale and glittering beneath hooding lids. Then he rose, moving to stand beside his protégé. Nicholas nervously wet his lips, his earlier edginess sharpened by fresh memories and now Lacroix's close proximity. Reaching out, his maker set a large hand lightly upon his shoulder. As he leaned down over him, Nicholas looked up to meet his eyes.

"Don't make this a habit, Nicholas," the elder vampire murmured. "It doesn't seem quite..." He curled his mouth in a mocking smile. "...healthy." He squeezed his son's shoulder, the gentle pressure speaking of power restrained. Then, lifting his hand, Lacroix walked away, saying, "See to the fire before you go to bed."

The fire had become powered gray ash before Nicholas retired to his bed, the fine white linen sheets cold and chastely smooth.

~~~

The next night, his son was already out of the house by the time Lacroix ambled from his bedroom into the sitting room, dressed for the evening. Downstairs, he could hear the girl they had in to tidy up three times a week. Nicholas must have let her in when he went out. They didn't use the lower rooms much and the kitchen not at all, but he didn't like dust and cobwebs to collect. Mortals living in his home did not suit him, however, nor did he care to have them puttering about unsupervised. Even with the steps he'd taken to quash the maid's curiosity, he wouldn't leave for the evening until she had completed her tasks and left.

He lit the lamp on the mantel above the cold fireplace, then settled into his chair, taking up a thick history of Rome's fall from the table beside him and opening it. Only a portion of his attention was given over to Gibbon however. The swish of silky fabrics, the delicate clatter of glass and porcelain jars of scents and paints, the occasional soft-spoken profanity from Janette's boudoir told him she readied herself for the evening. She'd be seeking him out eventually, for while she was quite deft at setting her own hair, even in one of the more intricate styles this time demanded, the lacing in the back of her gowns required some assistance.

More intriguing was what he sensed from Nicholas. Only an hour into the night, and the man already coursed his prey. He usually took far more time selecting his meal, given that, for him, it was a more complicated process than finding a convenient and in some way entertaining mortal. The focus and assurance that flavored his connection to his son was unmistakable however. The final steps of his lethal dance engrossed Nicholas completely.

The girl's shoes sounded lightly on the stairs then down the hallway toward him and the bedrooms. There was hushed pause as she stopped just beyond the open door to the sitting room. Then he heard a long inhalation and she came on the rest of the way. She stopped again in the doorway, arms laden with cleaning supplies, dropping a nervous little bob of a curtsy to him. He rested his pale gaze upon her a moment, a slip of a girl, twelve at most, with dark, doe-like eyes. Silently, he bade her enter with a flick of a forefinger and then returned to his reading. She hurried in, as quiet as she could be, moving first to the fireplace, where she dropped to her knees on the hearth. She quickly cleared away the dead ashes and set and started a fire. Lacroix knew that whole house was chill, as he permitted fires only where they would be watched over. She was probably grateful for the chance to warm herself, even if it meant crouching at his feet. But she didn't linger long, moving into Nicholas's room to tidy a bit and to change the bed linen.

Janette emerged then, hair and makeup perfection, her corset precarious about her body. Lacroix rose, setting his book on the side table, and went to her. She turned her back to him as he neared so he could attend to her laces.

"Good evening, Lacroix," she murmured, looking at him over her shoulder and giving him her dimpled smile.

"Did you sleep well, ma chèrie?" he inquired, the slick fabric of her corset's ties sliding through his fingers. He never understood why she submitted to wearing such constrictive garments. She was perfect just as he'd made her. Another one of those arcane womanly mysteries. So...  alluring...   Finished with his task, he drew his fingertips down her nape for the simple pleasure the exquisite softness of her skin gave him. A light tremor passed through her.

His hand stilled as his head came up. Faint but unmistakable, a pulse of energy vibrated through his mental tie to Nicholas. He inhaled slowly, then he flicked a glance at his Janette. She gazed back at him, delicate brows arched over the deep blue eyes.

"Already?" she murmured.

Lacroix shrugged slightly. "It is...  pleasant to see him so...  engaged." He stopped then, unwilling to discuss, even with Janette, his concerns about his son. Though, of course, she knew.

The maid stepped back into the sitting room, arms full of used linen. Catching sight of Lacroix and the half-clad Janette in intimate proximity, she flushed, quickly dropping her eyes.

"I am sorry," she whispered in her Czech flavored German.

"Never mind, child," Janette replied brightly in the same language. "I required the services of mein Herr as a lady's maid." She pivoted on a slippered toe and sauntered back into her boudoir. "One couldn't ask for finer," she finished impishly as she passed through the door.

Lacroix chuckled and the girl, gaze on the floor, scurried into his room to continue her chores. He returned to his chair and picked up his book again. It sat unopened on his lap, however, as he stared into the small fire on the grate, allowing his awareness to rest on his son. He could sense that the rush of the actual kill had passed. A hurried quality dominated it now, and Lacroix wondered if his protégé had taken his meal in an overly public arena. But -- Lacroix flipped his book open -- he'd soon have the story from Nicholas's own lips as he was even now speeding home.

Some pages further into his book, Lacroix looked up as Nicholas strode into the sitting room, his demeanor still electric with the excitement of the kill. He shot a quick glance at his maker, a smile hovering about his lips, passing in front of him to get to the fire. He tugged a silk handkerchief from his sleeve and tossed the square of red-streaked fabric upon the flames. As it blazed up, he turned to his companion with a jaunty grin.

"Lacroix," he intoned.

"Nicholas," Lacroix returned.

The maid then stepped into the parlor from Lacroix's room, arms now full of his linen as well as Nicholas's. She caught sight of the younger vampire standing by the fire and pleasure lit her face. Of the three, he was kindest to her, in a perfunctory way, often giving her an extra coin or two. She bobbed an awkward curtsy and the sheet bundled on top of the mass in her arms tumbled to the floor. She tried to catch it and all the rest slithered from her grasp. Flushing, whispering hasty apologies, she stooped to gather them.

Lacroix watched this, faintly irritated, wanting the child out of the house so he could begin his evening pleasures. As she rose again, Lacroix was caught completely off-guard by the surge of lust flaring along his link to Nicholas. At the same time, the girl, glancing anxiously up at them, gasped softly, large eyes growing wider.

Lacroix turned his head sharply toward Nicholas, concerned that for some reason he'd let slip his control, revealing the vampire. But the man remained unchanged...  physically. The speculative gaze he was running up and down the girl's body spoke of lust, as did the wash of arousal still flowing from their bond. It was sexual only, however, with very little to do with actual hunger. The girl, for all her slender, undeveloped figure, apparently was acquainted with and alarmed by the lecherous look Nicholas had fixed upon her. Then the man took a step toward her.

Standing, Lacroix snapped his fingers, loudly, and both Nicholas and the mortal started, their stares breaking apart to look at him. Coolly, he told the girl in Czech, "Go attend to the lady's room. Help her with her gown if she requires it."

The mortal, two bright spots of red painting cheeks otherwise pasty white, finished scooping up the fumbled linen and fled to Janette's room.

Lacroix turned slowly to face his protégé, who looked away, trying to collect himself. Nicholas's lust had been choked off, its clarity replaced by feelings less defined and therefore harder to grasp. But chagrin and a certain uneasy alarm seemed to be part of it. The elder vampire searched his creation's mobile features at the same time as he tried to sort through what he sensed through their connection. Voice low, speaking now in French, he demanded, "And what was that about, Nicholas? She isn't to your usual tastes."

"It was nothing," the younger vampire snapped, glaring at his maker, umbrage apparently a more comfortable emotion than whatever he had been feeling. "She isn't. A momentary..." Nicholas, scowling, made quick brushing away motions with one hand.

Lacroix stared at him. Then, as understanding came to him, a short, sharp burst of laughter escaped him. His protégé's glower only deepened.

"You took another one," Lacroix declared, tone somewhere between amusement and disbelief. "You deliberately sought out and took another child-rapist. It was her youth that caught your eye."

"It doesn't matter," Nicholas stated, momentarily uncomfortable, but shrugging it off. He went on, thoughts still focused on his kill, his voice rich with a dark scorn, "It was simple. I knew where to find him, from the last one, and a nickname only one of them would know. I used it and hinted I had a girl. He followed me from the cafe like a lamb. His uncontrollable lust--" The man broke off, a slight unease clouding his expression.

Lacroix smiled, though his amusement had grown rather thin. "Became your lust;  at least for a time at any rate. Those last...  lingering impulses." His lip curled in distaste. "Nicholas, I told you not to make a habit of this."

"I wouldn't have touched her," his protégé protested hotly. "I may...  know of their desires for a short time. But they are not mine."

"I am well acquainted with your desires, my dear Nicholas," Lacroix drawled with a lazy, wicked smile. His protégé continued to glare at him, though he shifted from foot to foot a bit uneasily. Lacroix's smile faded, replaced by cool disapproval. "If you're going to persist in this folly, stay away from the house," he instructed, "on the maid's days until you are completely yourself again. Finding new help is so tedious. And be prepared to deal with Janette's annoyance."

Nicholas opened his mouth, but whatever defense he had handy was forestalled by the maid creeping back into the sitting room. The sheets now bundled securely in the pillow cases, she hugged them to her chest, face tight. She cast one nervous glance at Nicholas before turning to the other man. "Will that be all, Herr Lacroix?" she murmured, eyes lowered.

"Yes. You will come next on Monday."

She stood stiffly a moment, but his tone brooked no argument. "Ja, mein Herr," she whispered and fled the room.

Nicholas made a small huff of protest, perhaps intending to apologize or try to explain himself. But Lacroix swung about to face him directly and Nicholas found his attention taken up solely by his maker.

Lacroix showed Nicholas his teeth in something like a smile. "I must say I am surprised at this obsession of yours, Nicholas. You profess to loathe these men. And yet, you seek them out. If they disgust you so -- even more than your usual fare -- why take them into yourself? If you wish them dead, there are so many other amusing but less personal ways to kill."

Distaste soured Nicholas's fine chiseled features. "I'm not doing this for entertainment, Lacroix."

"No? Why ever for then?"

Nicholas studied him a long moment, with a peculiar flatness of expression. Then he said softly, "I don't think you can understand." He turned sharply away to move toward his bedroom, clearly wanting the conversation at an end. "I'm going to stay in tonight. Read."

"Gibbon is there," Lacroix replied a bit absently to his son's back. "Don't miss my place."

Nodding, Nicholas swerved enough to scoop up the volume from the side table before continuing into his room. He shut the door gently behind him.

Lacroix looked unseeing after him for a moment. Then irritation flared. At Nicholas, yes, but even more so at himself, for allowing their exchange to sting. It hadn't been the man's words. They'd been mild compared to some that had been uttered. It had been the way Nicholas had looked at him in that instant. As if he were studying an interesting though vaguely repellent insect.

Then Janette, with a rustle of silk, emerged from her boudoir. He turned to her, letting the enchanting sight soothe him. She smiled at his open admiration, then glanced about, her eyes coming to rest on Nicholas's closed door. Her brows arched up slightly.

"Nicolas..?"

"Is staying in. Come, ma chèrie. Let us attend our concert. Then," he purred, his mouth bent in a smile of wicked mischief, "we'll find something... exciting to do."

His Janette's eyes lit up, the facade created by fine clothing and charming manners slipping to reveal the exquisite huntress beneath.

"And you now expect me to sit sedately through unending hours of horse hair screeching over cats' entrails?"

"Yes, I do. For your rising...  anticipation will serve to pique my own."

She dimpled at him, her soft laughter blending with his, and they departed to find their pleasures, leaving Nicholas to his own.

~~~

Lacroix did not mention to Janette her lover's choice of meal or the business with the maid until they returned home again. He was disinclined to spoil his fun. Nor did he bother to wish Nicholas a good day when they returned. He imagined it would be rather like rousting a surly badger from its den. Stretched out upon Janette's bed, clad in shirt and breeches, he congratulated himself on his wisdom. His daughter's disapproval spilled over him in a pungent stream, punctuated by the brittle clatter of her paint pots. He couldn't complain of the view, however. The curves of Janette's naked back, as she sat at her vanity, even rigid with her umbrage, called to be stroked. And the shadowed glimpses he caught of her bosom in her mirror, the flash of her lissome arms and hands as she cleansed her face were quite tantalizing.

She came to an emphatic finish. "He's ruining Prague with this disgusting pastime, Lacroix! Won't you make him stop?"

He brought up one hand, tucking it behind his head on the pillow. "And why should I?"

Janette twirled about on her stool, lips parted to reiterate the list of Nicolas' offenses. But she stopped before she uttered a word, her gaze roaming over her master's visage. He'd heard her dissatisfactions with her lover and was not one to listen patiently to them more than once. She tilted her head to one side. Nor was it a rhetorical question.

"You don't...  approve, do you?" she asked slowly, her hands coming to rest on her bare thighs. "Of this grubby little...  crusade of his."

Lacroix smiled, turning his gaze from the woman sitting sphinx-like across from him. Instead he watched his free hand lift, to finger the heavy dark blue satin bed curtains.

"It does give him something to do," he replied casually.

Janette rose and paced toward him, coming to the side of her bed. She slid up next to him, sitting on one hip, her legs curled beneath her. Leaning over him, she braced herself by reaching across his torso to place her hand on the bed beside him. He let his fingers drop from the curtain to rest lightly on her thigh and met her eyes with lifted brows.

"This cannot please you," she stated softly.

"This?" he inquired, flexing his fingers gently, a smile faint on his lips. Janette smiled in return, and waited.

"No," he continued after a moment, supple voice dark. "It does not. These fancies of Nicholas's; that he must remedy some situation he sees as unjust. He remains tangled in the foolish notions of mortal morality. And in mortal lives and concerns. He is led to make decisions which put him at risk. And..."

"Yes?" Janette inquired softly, delicately maintaining an undemanding tone. Anything more and this impulse of Lacroix's to allow her close to his thoughts would be immediately choked off.

"He went for the girl. Finding another servant would be inconvenient. What is more irksome, though..." He paused, fingers making light circles on her skin, and she waited for him to complete his thought. "What is more irksome is that he let his kill's predilections rule him. If only for a moment."

Her lips pursed in a small moue of distaste at Nicholas's choice of prey. Then, tilting her head to one side, she studied her master's face, placing a hand upon his belly to lightly stroke the taut muscles. "That is what we do, n'est-ce pas? Feed upon their passions. So we may live them."

"Yes, so they serve us. But as signposts only, perhaps leading us to some source of delight we may not have tumbled to before. But never as our rulers. Never to impel us to some act which is outside our nature."

"Ah," Janette said, with a lightly teasing tone. "I did not know there were such acts."

Lacroix bent his mouth in a smile, lifting his hand to cup her cheek. He traced the line of her lower lip with his thumb. "Are there not things, you, Janette, would not do? Not because you have been told they are wrong, but because they simply don't arise from your own nature. Things which, having done, would make you feel you had betrayed your self."

She stared into his eyes, their white-blue clarity. "Yes," she whispered.

Pulling her down to him, seeing himself reflected in the deep embracing blue of her gaze, he murmured, "Enough talk." Her lips met his and he abandoned himself to their consuming sweetness.

Janette awoke shortly after sundown to find herself alone in her bed and her home. She rose with a sigh to dress and find companions for the evening less vexing than her men had become.

~~~

The elder vampire followed his creation into the early dusk of Prague's winter night. The streets were still busy and, in this part of the city, cleared of the snowy muck that made bogs of the poorer quarters' twisting alleys. He strolled unhurriedly past the fine homes, the fashionable coffee houses and shops. Mortals bustled by, intent on their hearth fires or more stimulating entertainment, their muffled forms trailing the steaming vapor of their breaths. In this wealthier neighborhood, the bursts of conversation that reached his ears were in German. Nicholas's path seemed to lead toward the less affluent areas, where Czech and Slovak would more commonly be heard.

He kept back, not needing to have his son under his eye to track his progress. If Nicholas detected him, he gave no sign, remaining intent on his task. His protégé's quest led him on a seemingly aimless course through narrow, muddy streets. As he roamed, he carried the sense that he was waiting, waiting perhaps for some familiar sight or sound or smell. Lacroix's amusement conveyed him through the wretched neighborhoods; hunting with a dead man's memories.

By this time, those would have faded as does a dream, leaving no more than a cobwebby lacing of sensations. So it came as no surprise, that of whatever or whomever he sought, Nicholas discovered no trace. Dawn threatened when he finally abandoned the hunt and returned home, frustrated and hungry. Lacroix, arriving very close behind him, found him already in his room, the door shut. Janette, never one to sit pining, didn't come home at all, having found her own entertainment.

Lacroix, the next night, chose to keep Nicholas in his sight, though, again, his protégé did not acknowledge his presence. His search led him into a more well-heeled part of Old Town. He went from tavern to café to song house, even a brothel, rubbing elbows with mortals intent on their pleasures. Sometimes he would simply enter the building and watch a short time before leaving. Other times he would chat up one of the customers or a server. To what particular end, Lacroix could not tell. It seemed Nicholas felt his way slowly along a trail cut long ago and now very faint. And while he remained affable and charming, Lacroix could tell from his controlled movements and an occasional hard glitter in his eye that his physical hunger set him on edge.

This venture was proving to have its own unique interest. The energy flowing off Nicholas, his tenacity, an alertness primed to find some subtle, elusive sign grew more and more absorbing. And as his protégé's hunger increased, his interactions with mortals developed a tantalizing sharpness. Lacroix had no doubt his protégé's self-control would hold, but he enjoyed watching him balance on that taut wire. Nicholas, finally, his night spent, reluctantly gave up his search, sullen with his failure.

Lacroix, again, returned home after Nicholas, as dawn streaked the winter night's pristine black with smears of bitterly bright gray. He had stopped long enough to appropriate the life's blood of a nearly frozen drunkard. While his age made him less vulnerable to hunger's pangs than Nicholas, he saw no reason to endure them if chance led a meal to stagger across his path. The front door locked securely behind him, he flowed up the stairs, fingers tugging at the blood stained linen stock at his throat. It might be salvageable if he dropped it immediately in a basin of cold water. Mind and body still pleasantly abuzz after breaking his fast, he moved into the sitting room. There he found his protégé sitting in his chair in the dark, staring blankly into the cold hearth.

"What a picture, Nicholas. All you need is a skull to brood over and the scene is complete," gibed Lacroix, sauntering further into the room.

Nicholas lifted his head, his nostrils flaring at the blood scent lingering about the other man. "Leave me be," he said quietly.

Declining to comment that his own room was available if he truly wanted privacy, Lacroix crossed to stand before the hearth. Upon reaching it, he folded his arms, leaning one shoulder into the mantel. "And what would be the fun in that?"

"I suppose you find all this 'fun.'" Nicholas studied his maker with narrowed eyes.

"Enormously. Don't you?"

"I'm not playing a game, Lacroix."

"I suppose not, more's the pity. You've hung it with the trappings of duty or justice or some such nonsense. And you're feeding on nothing or on what disgusts you. Have you found your own style of hair shirt?" Lacroix's lip curled as the other man turned his head away, expression taking on a stubborn cast. "Wake up, Nicholas. It's all a game. Though it might become a bit more exciting than you like if you continue your fast much longer."

Nicholas's jaws bunched, then he replied doggedly, "I want only one man."

"Who, Nicholas? Who has so caught your interest?"

"I don't know," he admitted, looking back to Lacroix. "There's only the one memory, a brief conversation on a dark street. No name. A laugh. I would know the laugh again. Scents. Violet in ambergris."

"Ambergris?" Lacroix cocked his head slightly. "Rather costly for the areas we've visited recently."

Nicholas drew in a long breath, held it a moment. Then softly he said, "And the conversation was in German. My man's accent was Austrian." A slow smile lit his features. "I let myself fall into old patterns, running only over ground familiar to the mortal."

He surged sinuously from the chair, eyes glittering. Lacroix straightened, blinking once at his son's sudden galvanization. Nicholas glanced at the door, clearly inspired to continue his hunt. A spasm of frustration crossed his features as he realized he was trapped by daylight. Then with another one of those mercurial shifts that so fascinated Lacroix, he turned back to the man before him.

"Your stock is stained," the younger vampire observed. His eyes glistened with hunger and perhaps something else.

"So it is," Lacroix conceded, amused by the non-sequitur, hand lifting to the knot. "I had intended to get it into cold water. It may be a bit late for that."

"Let me try something." Nicholas grinned with a roguishness far out of keeping with the offer of assistance, and slipped up to stand just in front of his maker. Lacroix kept still, schooling his expression to no more than quizzically raised eyebrows. Grin widening, his protégé gripped him by the upper arms, then leaned in. His breath gusted once against his maker's throat. Then he dipped his head to lap at the splotches of blood with a wet tongue, dampening the fabric. Nicholas's hunger apparently had whet other appetites as well. The pressure against his throat prompted Lacroix to raise his chin slightly, to turn his head, nothing loath to encourage this turn of events. As the man began to suck at the linen, Lacroix lifted his hands to rest them lightly on Nicholas's waist. Making a small noise in his throat as the blood taste hit his tongue, Nicholas nuzzled in closer. Then his teeth, still blunt, scraped over the thin material and Lacroix inhaled sharply. Then he chuckled.

"I think it's working Nicholas," he said, voice soft and a bit husky. "Carry on."

Nicholas did and it seemed to Lacroix he could feel the hard outlined edge of every incisor as they dragged over his skin beneath the cloth. He slid a thigh between Nicholas's and felt the other man's eager response against his hip. He pressed against his protégé, easing him backwards, realizing he'd better get him into a bedroom. If they stayed here and ruined the Turkish carpet, Janette would pin their ears back.

~~~

Nicholas stirred Lacroix from his sleep as he crept from his bed just before sunset. He watched as the man, face averted from the bed, gathered his scattered clothing before going to his own room. Lying with one hand tucked under his head, he listened to him dress. As Nicholas passed through the outer sitting room to the hallway, Lacroix rose. After washing the scents of the day before from his face and hands, he dressed as well and followed Nicholas into the night.

Lacroix caught up with him as he emerged from the second public house he'd visited. It hadn't taken long to find him, as he searched in their own neighborhood of Mala Strana. Nicholas peered at him as they stood on the raised stone sidewalk outside the tavern. Mortals bustled by them, moving quickly in the icy air.

"Don't interfere," the younger vampire said softly after a moment.

Lacroix cocked his head. "Why would I, Nicholas?"

His protégé studied him a bit warily for a moment, but apparently could come up with no reason why the man would prevent him from killing anyone. He also had no means to prevent Lacroix from doing as he pleased. Nicholas turned, starting down the street toward the next ale house. Lacroix, smiling, fell into step beside him.

An hour or so into their hunt through various establishments, they entered a drinking house that required they pass a porter at the door. There was no difficulty; the man simply took note of their bearing and clothing and held the door for them, murmuring, "Meine Herren." It indicated, however, that not just anyone would be allowed entrance. As a footman collected their cloaks, Nicholas muttered an abstracted "Danke," eyes already scanning the room.

As in the previous drinking houses, the clientele exuded a bürgerlich aroma of self-content. Heavy pipe tobacco hazed the air, mingling with the odors of sweating male and port wine. Their dress tended toward blacks and browns and fine wool rather than the peacock shades of silk the aristocracy favored. Nothing had been stinted on the quality of the tailoring, however. Lacroix wended his way to the bar, the nods greeting him more respectful than welcoming. He ordered a dissembling port, touching the edge of the glass to his lips occasionally as he watched his companion.

Nicholas, in what had become his pattern, moved slowly into the room, heading toward the fireplace across from the entrance. The men who noticed him pass offered him friendly nods and smiles. Conversation rumbled throughout this front room, punctuated by frequent bouts of good-natured laughter. While Nicholas wore a genial expression, Lacroix could sense the intent focus of his concentration as he listened. In their casting about, they'd found perfumes fixed in ambergris to be not uncommon, though violet only rarely met their noses. Nicholas had set his hopes on the laugh, which he'd described as a low, throaty chuckle.

Nicholas stood by the cheerful fire for a while, hands clasped behind his back, as if to warm himself. Nothing struck his ear from there, and having noted another room beyond this one, with customers trafficking through its doorway, he headed in that direction. Port in hand, Lacroix moved to join him there.

It proved to be a card room, tables set up with circles of men about them, playing whist and other games of chance. The conversation here was more muted, but still mixed with laughter, along with the chime of coins, crows of triumph and groans of defeat. Nicholas had sauntered to the far side of the room before Lacroix stepped through the doorway himself. Frowning slightly, his protégé had his eyes on a table of four men. Lacroix wondered him he'd caught another whiff of violet. But Nicholas moved on, making his way around the perimeter of the room. Then his attention was drawn back to the table he'd focused on a moment before as one of the players cursed loudly, tossing his cards on the table. The rotund man across from him neatly folded his cards, placing them face down and reached forward to draw the small pile of silver coins toward him. As he did so, he chuckled. A fruity chuckle, from deep in his throat.

Lacroix tensed, eyes widening slightly, as he saw, and felt, the jolt of recognition stiffen Nicholas's body. His son turned slowly back to the table he'd just passed, eyes bright, face set with a predator's concentration. As Nicholas's muscles coiled, Lacroix drew in a breath, prepared to shout across the room to bring the man to his senses. Then the younger vampire's stance eased and Lacroix exhaled slowly. Nicholas's well-honed hunter's wariness had asserted itself on its own. Lacroix's protégé flicked a quick glance at him and gave him a smile, one of mingled triumph and anticipation. Lacroix nodded in return, then left the card room to find a chair to sit and wait.

A quarter of an hour later by the clock on the mantel, Nicholas emerged from the back room as well. His excitement was carefully contained; only one who knew him well would see it, in the supple yet restrained movements, in the glitter in his eye. Lacroix watched him move back to the fireplace, where he joined three men in a discussion of Mozart's latest opera, all the rage now in Prague, charming them utterly. Nicholas waited, gaze occasionally sweeping over the door to the card room. The clock on the mantel rang out the hour of nine. A few men left their pleasures to bundle up and venture out into the cold, homeward.

In this stirring, Nicholas's man emerged from the card room. Nicholas glanced at him, then turned back to his conversation. The man, stocky, with pleasantly round features and brown hair just beginning to thin and gray, wended his way to the outer door, saying good nights to acquaintances as he passed. He received his coat and hat from the footman and was gone.

Nicholas allowed two minutes to pass and then he courteously disengaged from his companions. He tipped the footman who handed him his cloak and strode out into the night. Lacroix gave him the same two minutes and followed.

His protégé was nothing if not easy to track. His hunting instincts focused to an exquisite sharpness, Lacroix's familial link to him sang like a hard strummed lute string. He strode down the sparsely trafficked street. Some of the well made homes showed no lights at all, though golden slices of it slid through the closed shutters of many more. A few blocks from the drinking house, Lacroix stopped before a home, dark except for a dimly lit room on the upper floor. Nicholas was already within, moving with ever heightening anticipation toward his prey.

Lacroix circled to the back of the building along a graveled driveway, retracing Nicholas's path. He slipped past the footman slumped and snoring on the floor by the kitchen door. Listening intently as he passed through the dim, narrow servants' corridors, he discerned that their quarters were empty. Nicholas was upstairs, along with the only other life in the house, and he took the steps leading to the second floor. He padded down the hall on the thick carpet to the master suite, stepping through its open door. There he stopped, the blood scent rich in his nostrils, Nicholas's growls an ecstatic song. Perhaps the mortal had attempted to flee, for the killing took place on the far side of the room, by a heavily draped window. The fleshy man, wrapped only in a gaping shirt, sagged in Nicholas's arms, dying. Snarling, Nicholas worried at the throat, tearing the arteries wider as the pulsing flow became feeble.

Enraptured, Lacroix paced slowly closer, all his senses alive, drinking in the drama, the savage power burning from his creation. As he advanced past the large canopied bed, he noted in passing the child, perhaps nine or ten, brown eyes huge in her paper white face, huddled at its head.

Fangs still fixed in his prey's flesh, Nicholas lifted his eyes to meet Lacroix's. His maker drew in a sharp breath, that connection sending a shock up his spine. Nicholas's next snarl sounded more like a moan. The intensity of Lacroix's gaze touched him like caressing fingers. Then the man died under his mouth, heart lurching to a stop. He dropped the corpse, which fell to the carpet in a heap of jumbled limbs. Lacroix stared into a face set in a rictus between agony and ecstasy, into eyes that held little reason and no humanity.

A tiny squeak from the bed swung both their heads around. The girl cowered back, her arms wrapped around her own slender body, clad only in a filmy chemise. Her eyes were fixed on Nicholas, a nightmare's monster. Leering, with a low, throaty chuckle, Nicholas took a step toward her.

With a sharp, terrified cry, the child scrambled from the bed. But instead of making for the open door, she darted forward to fling herself on the man facing the beast unafraid. Her hands clutched at Lacroix's cloak and she buried her face in the heavy wool, pressing against his side, trembling violently.

Both Lacroix and Nicholas paused a moment, startled by the turn of events. Then Lacroix's fingers closed lightly on the child's shoulder. Nicholas snarled softly, taking one fluid step closer. He stopped though, when Lacroix lifted his gaze from the girl to him, his eyes frostily opaque. Still, Nicholas's lust, enflamed and warped by the mortal's depravity running fresh in his veins, twisted in him, determined not to be denied.

"She's mine," Nicholas hissed softly, taking yet another pace closer, poised to act. White-blue ice held his burning eyes a moment, then released them as Lacroix looked down at the child clutching his cloak.

He released the girl's shoulder to gently cup her chin. With the frightened pulse in her throat fluttering against his fingers and thumb, he tilted her face up to meet his pale gaze. "Be still," he said softly in Czech. "Be silent and unafraid."

She blinked once and then her features relaxed, her mouth even curving up a bit in what must have been a characteristically sweet expression. Her fingers let go their frantic grip and her arms fell down to her sides. Setting his hands lightly upon her shoulders, Lacroix turned the unresisting child and gave her a gentle push toward Nicholas. She took a single step forward and then stopped, her wide eyes fixed upon nothing and unnaturally calm.

"Take her then, Nicholas," Lacroix said quietly.

Grinning, teeth still tinted a liquid red, the younger vampire swiftly closed the distance between himself and his prey. As he reached up to stroke her smooth cheek with one fingertip, tantalizing himself with a slight delay, Lacroix continued flatly, "If that is what you wish."

His maker's tones were so nearly uninflected, that the barest emphasis on the word "you" rang loudly in Nicholas's ears. He paused, eyes flitting up to Lacroix's face, expression suddenly wary. His maker met his suspicious gaze impassively, features set in a stony mask. Nicholas looked back down at the girl, at his own fingers, their tips still resting lightly on the soft cheek. He froze for a long moment, then horror filled his eyes and he took a stiff-legged step back.

"No," he croaked. He seemed to crumble as Lacroix watched, all his easy brute arrogance bleeding away in an instant. Without another word, he circled around Lacroix and child, then fled from the room in a rush.

He only made it as far as the hallway outside, however. When Lacroix emerged a short time later, Nicholas looked up, face drawn, eyes dark and anxious.

"The girl. What did--" His voice, low and intent, broke off, reluctance to hear the answer overcoming his need to know.

"She's sound asleep, Nicholas," Lacroix stated, affecting mild surprise.

His protégé gazed at him a long moment, expression blank, and then he sighed, a small smile of relief easing his strained features. "Thank you, Lacroix," he said softly.

His maker snorted scornfully. "She needs to be alive for the scene I've set to be effective. Let's be practical, shall we?"

"Scene?" Nicholas's hands came together, one twisting the other's ring finger, as he shot an anxious glance at the bedroom door.

"Guilt driven self-murder. A classic tale. A bit of business with a razor, an artful arrangement of the principals and a splash of my own blood for a convincing effect..." Lacroix shrugged, then, taking hold of Nicholas's elbow, began leading him back toward the kitchen.

"Oh." Urged along by his maker, Nicholas tore his eyes from the doorway, his steps short and jerky.

Lacroix's voice rolled on, goading his protégé onward as much as his hand on his arm. "We'll just rouse the servant at the door-no doubt he's well acquainted with his master's tastes-and ensure the child's story is well supported by his testimony. Children are oft times accused of fabrication."

"Lacroix--"

"Nicholas, conversation can wait until we're well clear of this place. Preferably at home."

Nicholas clamped his lips together, remaining silent as Lacroix coached the footman through his newly created recollections and on their quick walk home.

In their sitting room once more, Lacroix placed himself in his chair, elbows propped upon its arms, his steepled fingers resting lightly upon his lips. Nicholas, restless, tried to distract himself from what he'd almost done by meticulously building a small fire in the hearth. He craved the warmth and light. Once the blaze crackled cheerfully, he sank into his own chair to watch it flicker.

Nicholas dropped his pressing question into the silence.

"Why did you stop me?"

Lacroix blinked, but did not turn his eyes from the fire. "I don't recall doing so."

"What you said. If it was what I wanted."

Lacroix leaned back in his seat, letting his hands fall into his lap. "So?"

"You know--  you know that I would not use a child."

"It certainly seemed your intent tonight," Lacroix replied dryly, glancing at his protégé with a quirked eyebrow.

"It-- it was his blood," Nicholas protested, yet clearly agonized that he'd almost done something so wrong. "Just for that moment, when I felt him so strongly."

"It wouldn't hurt to be a bit more discriminating," his maker responded flatly, looking back at the fire.

Nicholas remained silent for a long moment. Then he said quietly, with a deep conviction, "He deserved death. They all did. They all do. This last one, I learned there is a brothel--"

Lacroix broke in, sounding a bit weary. "Two, actually. One here in Mala Strana and one rather less well-heeled across the river in Old Town. Even if the clientele is not specifically attracted to the very young, they do have less chance of carrying the pox."

Nicholas turned despairing eyes on his maker. "There is no end to it."

"No, Nicholas. There is not."

"He had a daughter," the younger vampire whispered, his hand coming up to press a knuckle on his lower lip. "The mother had taken her away, but before--"

"Nicholas, enough!" Lacroix snarled gratingly. Nicholas flinched slightly, his maker's anger abruptly dangerously close to the surface.

After the briefest pause, the elder vampire went on, tones frigid. "No more. No more of this useless crusade. You're a fool to think you can make any difference. There is no end to mortal perversity. Accept that. They prey on, cannibalize, each other, even their own young. They always have. They always will."

"And we don't?" Nicholas demanded, voice harsh with anger and a little fear.

"Why not, Nicholas? Why should we offer them any more compassion than they give to each other? Why should we adhere to a morality that they grind into the filth whenever they desire?"

Nicholas's jaw retained its stubborn set, though his eyes grew more troubled. Lacroix ground on.

"We are free, Nicholas. Of them. Of their empty righteousness. Or...  as free as we make ourselves." He broke off, his icy clear stare raking over his protégé's face. He continued, his voice lethally soft. "If you cannot or will not sever what ties you to them...  you will get hurt."

Nicholas returned his glare for a moment, clearly contemplating further defiance. The stark ferocity in Lacroix's eyes chilled him, however, and he turned away. They sat in stiff silence for a moment, before Lacroix went on.

"When Janette returns, we will arrange our departure. Begin packing. It's time to move on."

"Where?" Nicholas queried, tone carefully neutral.

"Paris, I think," Lacroix replied evenly, anger swallowed back into his depths. "Janette has been casting disparaging remarks upon her wardrobe. Marie Antoinette rules a merry court." He smiled slightly, watching the fire burn itself into fading embers. "I'm sure we shall find Paris rather amusing in the next few years."


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This page was created Tuesday, October 31st, 2000.
Most recent revision Tuesday, October 31st, 2000.