Undeath And The City (00/13)
A Sex and the City/Forever Knight Xover
Copyright 2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

This story has adult content and is not intended for readers under 18 or anyone easily
offended.

Setting: This story takes place in early season three of each series. For 'Forever Knight,'
it is placed just before 'Black Buddha.' For 'Sex And The City,' it is set between the
episodes of 'Attack of the 5'10" Woman' and 'Boy, Girl, Boy, Girl.'

Style: Of course! Like all 'Sex And The City' episodes, this story is first person, with
Carrie relating the events as they have been told to her.

Characters:

From Manhattan:

Carrie Bradshaw...writer, prone to dating men who are not good for her
Charlotte York...gallery director, prone to dating men with medical conditions
Miranda Hobbes, Esquire...lawyer, prone to dating men who are bartenders
Samantha Jones...public relations executive, prone to dating men
Steve...bartender, prone to dating Miranda, feeds cats
Knox Fallsworth...lawyer, prone to tripping
Dean...entrepreneur, prone to flare-ups
Mr. Big...a.k.a. Mr. Idiot Stick Figure With No Soul, bad for Carrie
Natasha...a.k.a. Mrs. Big and Idiot Stick Figure With No Soul

From Toronto:

Nick Knight...a.k.a. Mr. Classic, Homicide detective, has medical condition and Cadillac
Miklos...bartender, charming, Cointreau enthusiast
Javier Vachon...a.k.a. J. D. Valdez, all-purpose bad-boy, owns screwdriver
Lucien LaCroix...has impeccable taste, needs better PR, man
Urs...smarter than she looks
The Inka...not to be confused with the progressive rap artist
Natalie Lambert...coroner, getting a bit ticked off
Max...a.k.a. Elf-Guy, a very rude man
Helen Dreisen...gallery owner, mother, stylish oracle
Austin...lumberjack, not-so-okay after an evening out, another man

Honorable Mentions:

Schanke...Nick's Homicide partner, planning a trip to Alberta
Screed...specializes in sewer delivery
The condom machine...a very disreputable appliance
The New York Times...troublemakers
The Toronto Star...they're already there
The Shoes...almost as good as sex
The Code...questionable

Disclaimer: Forever Knight characters are owned by Sony/Tristar, and were created by
James D. Parriott, et. al. 'Sex and the City' Characters were created by Candace
Bushnell, produced by Darren Star, and can be seen on HBO. No copyright infringement
is intended, and this story is not for profit. I simply wanted to throw two of my favorite
shows together since some of these characters seemed made for each other.

*******************************************************************

Undeath And The City (1/13)
A Sex and the City/Forever Knight Xover
Copyright 2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

On a tiny island called Manhattan, filled with millions of people, the city can easily seem
too small for four single women. It was the start of autumn, and though the punishing
heat of summer had faded into something far more welcome – the end-of-season sandal
sales at Dolce & Gabbana – I had the growing trepidation that it was unwise – make that
downright dangerous – to remain in New York.

The first hint that all was not safe in The Big Apple concerned Miranda. The approach of
another law firm social brought the troubling dilemma of her 'Until Someone Better
Comes Along' relationship to the forefront. Steve was still a bartender by profession, and
since the last time the appropriateness of his one, gold corduroy suit at an office party had
stalled their dating and mating, in an unprecedented fit of sidestepping the issue Miranda
decided to silence her own desires and not mention the event.

Still, Miranda Hobbes, Esq., was on the verge of making partner, and her absence at a
firm event would be noticed. She battled with her conscience for weeks, weighing the
importance of her career versus the importance of having regularly scheduled sex. It was
a testament of Miranda's affection for Steve that he didn't lose thumbs down to her
career within a minute. Go to the party, she would, but alone. Steve was informed that
Miranda was busy that night, and she was off to the ball.

In the convenient way these things happen, Someone Better did come along at the party.
Miranda met him when their hands collided over the miniature chocolate souffles. His
name was Knox Fallsworth, a partner of a competitive practice in his own right at age 38.
He was also a close golfing buddy to one of the higher-ups in Miranda's firm, hence the
invite of the otherwise enemy into the fold.

Miranda and Knox hit it off immediately. They shared the same taste in books, the same
taste in music, the same legal philosophies, the same views on religion - it was like a
match made in their own non-denominational, apathetic view of heaven.

After two hours of conversation passed by in a delightful blur, a minor accident
happened. While expressing his fondness for cats, Knox Fallsworth gesticulated into a
shrimp platter, inadvertently knocking it out of the waiter's hands with his elbow and
onto Miranda's Armani suit. Cocktail sauce and dry cleaning bill aside, Miranda didn't
think twice about agreeing to see him the next evening.

She made her excuses to Steve the bartender again. Miranda and Knox were off to an off-
Broadway play, that new one about the deconstructing of the deconstruction of
deconstructionists called 'Where Are My Keys?' The first hint that all might not be in
balance with Knox Farnsworth came when they were late back from intermission.
Miranda apologetically slipped into their row, gingerly stepping over the feet of the other
theatergoers in the hopes of quietly reaching her seat.

Not so Knox. There was nothing Ginger or Fred about him. He stepped on the first set of
feet, causing a shriek of pain in his victim that made one of the actors flub his only line in
the act. This was the source of no minor recrimination.

Forced with the task of stepping around a second person, Knox swiftly caved any sense
of grace in favor of gaucherie. He tripped over a woman's purse and dived into her lap.
When she squealed over being tackled, Knox flung his body in the opposite direction.
Since an object in motion tends to stay in motion, Knox Fallsworth ended up rolling over
two more rows. Before The Fall was over, half a dozen people were out of their seats,
practicing their own flair for drama.

Confronted with her night at the theater deconstructing in front of her very eyes, Miranda
scooped Knox off the floor with a flustered, "Please accept his apologies," and left the
building. Come the next morning, this scene would spawn the shining token of praise in
the Times review, causing the recreation of Knox's flub to become a permanent addition
to all future performances. The next year we heard that the playwright had checked into
rehab.

Meanwhile, Miranda was left to wonder if there was a reason Knox was such good golf
buddies with her boss. Could he be Mr. Clumsy?

There was one sure way to find out, and it didn't involve talk. Miranda invited Knox back
to her apartment to introduce him to her cat.

She commented later that she should have given up hope the moment Knox stepped on
her cat's tail. It was a metaphor for what would happen later in the bedroom. Still,
Miranda hadn't managed to graduate from Harvard Law School because she lacked
determination, and she was determined to discover if Knox could possibly be Someone
Better than Steve. As things got hot and heavy, she could forgive Knox for popping a few
of her buttons off if it was in the heat of passion. As they meandered toward her bed,
Miranda could take slight exception when Knox tripped over his own foot and sent them
hurtling to the hard floor. Maybe she would have been more forgiving if he'd had the
gallantry to not land on her with all his weight.

"Oof!"

As much as sex was a full-contact sport, Miranda wasn't partial to athletic injuries. Knox
had already bruised her ribs without even leaving the team huddle. She reminded herself,
though, that the first time with any sexual partner was a brand new playing field. She'd
give Knox a chance to warm up before calling the game.

Within minutes of finally getting situated on the bed, Miranda called a foul. "Ow! Watch
it!" She started to worry that Knox was going to rip off *all* her buttons.

After a couple more false starts, the time came for the pennant race, the slide for home,
the big run. It soon became very clear to Miranda that Mr. Clumsy couldn't get a grip on
his bat. Three strikes, two fouls - whatever - Miranda gave up. She called the game on
account of rain, sent the hard Knox home without an 'I'll call you,' then opened her
goody drawer for her favorite battery-operated pinch hitter.

"You'd think," Miranda confided to me and our other friends over our regular Sunday
brunch, "that a man his age could manage to stick it where it's supposed to go. He's been
gathering hands-on experience since puberty - I expect to feel something to show for it!"

"He could be inexperienced, even at forty," I pointed out. "Some guys just never get the
proper instruction. Maybe Mr. Clumsy could use a few lessons from the Miranda Hobbes
School of Humping."

"Oh, please," Samantha drawled, "life is too short! It's one thing to tutor a college boy
out of the fumble fucks, but a man old enough to be his father? If he can't hit the
bullseye, I say, move on!" She punctuated this declaration with a decisive wave of her
hand.

"Move on?" Charlotte had spent the initial part of this conversation draped in silence as
she directed her furrowed brow toward burrowing bites from her half-grapefruit. Now it
was clear her disapproval wasn't aimed at the citrus. "Haven't we forgotten about
someone here? When did Miranda move on from Steve? How could you make a move on
to Mr. Clumsy!?" Her inflection was akin to 'how could you kick that bunny rabbit?' In
Charlotte's world, there were three big 'F's: Fendi, Frankenthaler, and Fidelity.

Miranda had the grace to look guilty. "I was just checking to see if he was Someone
Better. The judgment is in - Steve wins by a hand-eye coordination decision." She
subsided into quiet contemplation of her Western omelet and home fries. I knew what she
was thinking - if Steve knew any of this, would he coordinate himself out of her life for
good?

In the silence, Charlotte nervously fingered the rim of her coffee mug and began to
hesitantly confide the details of her own injurious love life. Three weeks ago, Charlotte
had met yet another candidate in her quest to get married before the year was up. He was
handsome, well-educated, and a successful entrepreneur. Even better, he was one of those
rarest of Manhattanites - the Sensitive Manly Man.

As Samantha's Eggs Benedict arrived, Charlotte explained just how sensitive her Manly
Man was.

"The first time we kissed, Dean's face broke out in a rash." She set down her coffee
daintily, giving the mug a stern look as though it was all its fault. "I thought, 'okay, it's
my perfume' - I've heard of that happening before - so I stopped wearing any. A couple
nights later, he spent the night, but we only cuddled. The next morning, he was covered
in hives! I figured it must have been my detergent, so I changed to the stuff they use to
wash baby garments and spent the next week covering him in calamine lotion. Finally,
last night..." Charlotte took a deep breath, and we all leaned forward. "...we made love.
*He* knew exactly where to stick it," Charlotte said with a pointed look in Miranda's
direction. "It was perfect," she insisted, "and afterwards we snuggled and talked, but after
a while..."

"What happened?" I demanded as she hesitated. Charlotte had put the itch in my
curiosity, and it needed scratching.

Charlotte gulped then reluctantly confessed. "He started to swell...*everywhere!*"

"Sign me up," Samantha purred before taking a sip of her orange juice. "I love swollen
men."

"No," Charlotte frowned. "It wasn't that kind of swelling. It was medical. He bloated up
so much he started having trouble breathing. I had to take him to the hospital! They had
to shoot him up with all these anti-histamines and run panels to see what caused it..." Her
voice dropped to a horrified whisper. "The doctor said that Dean had a bad reaction to
my..." Charlotte couldn't bring herself to say the word aloud, not even in a whisper. She
ended up mouthing it to the three of us on the verge of tears. "...secretions!"

We all immediately shared words of consolation. "Oh, there, there, honey! It'll be okay!"
In the day to day indignities a single woman over 30 in Manhattan had to endure, there
were few worse than discovering men were allergic to your vagina.

"Dean is a one in a million exception," I promised Charlotte. "You've slept with plenty
of guys who didn't suffer anaphylactic shock."

To make Charlotte feel better, I dived into my own danger zone - that of the ex-
boyfriend. My troubles were perhaps petty, selfish and old news compared to Miranda
and Charlotte's with Mr. Clumsy and Mr. Swollen. I told myself that I was over Big, that
I had handled his marriage to the 20-Something Stick Figure With No Soul better than
Ivana Trump could dream of. I was wild, I was free, and it was better to be without a
relationship than to settle for something that left you feeling like half a person.

My untamed, single-fabulousness was wonderful in theory, but apparently someone
forgot to tell the rest of New York. Specifically, the New York Times.

It started with that Sunday paper, the wedding section, the article devoted to Mr. Big's
nuptial bliss to Natasha containing all the reality of a Mother Goose tale. Sure, I could
gag at the fairy-tale facade of it all, I could cackle my ass off with Miranda when Natasha
proved too stupid to discern her spatial pronouns from her possessives in written
correspondence. If that had been the end of it, I could have moved on. I could have felt
safely tucked into my superiority, that while Natasha might share Big's bed and wedding
band, I was the only one who ever shared his crossword puzzles.

But I overlooked that holiest of holies, that trendiest of trendies, the New York Times
Style Section. Every week, over my Sunday brunch, I was bombarded with a new image -
Mr. & Mrs. Big at the Ralph Lauren show, Mr. & Mrs. Big raising money for the Retired
Italian Club Singer's Fund, Mr. & Mrs. Big over the moon. He always looked smiling, a
snapshot of happy, and not mine.

I put on a brave face and opened the paper to confront this week's depression in the
hopes that Charlotte would decide my situation was more pathetic. It didn't take much
effort to locate the photo spread. I folded back the page and brandished the featured photo
of the blissful pair so that all my friends could sneer at it. Then I steeled my nerves and
proceeded to read.

"Friday night at the Rushmore Ball to benefit homeless children, the happy couple
announced -" Suddenly, I couldn't breathe. Maybe I was developing an allergic reaction
of my own to bad news. "Shit," I said accusingly at the newsprint. "Shit. Shit. Shit." I felt
betrayed, and, even more, I felt stupid for caring this late in the game.

Sure enough, Charlotte had snapped out of her self-pity as soon as I'd gone into Style
Section breakdown. "What does it say?" She took the paper from my limp grip and
continued to read aloud for the other's benefit. "...the happy couple announced that they
are expecting the birth of their first child next May." Charlotte's voice trailed off in
dismay. "Oh." That word summed up a lot of what I was feeling, but Samantha hit the
nail on the head even more.

"That bitch! It's one thing when they fuck your ex-boyfriend, it's another when they drag
him to the altar, but when they get reproductive, that's just shameless rubbing it in your
face. I hope she gets stretch marks. " This was a powerful curse from the Samantha Jones
camp.

I was still blindsided, not bolstered. I'd remembered my own close call when Big and I
had still been an item. By the time my false alarm had been revealed, I'd gone through a
lot of soul-searching and discovered a measure of joy at the prospect of having Big's
child, my own child. It hadn't happened that way, though, just like I wasn't the one who
wound up married to Big. Natasha had knocked me down again.

I let out a small sob as my elbows hit the table. I buried my face in my hands. "Oh, fuck.
I can't do this anymore. I'm sick of it."

Samantha leaned over the table and rested a hand on my shoulder. It was time to come to
the rescue. "And you don't have to, honey. I know just the thing. We'll leave town on a
working vacation. I was approached by a new client on Friday. Normally I wouldn't have
taken the job because it's in Toronto, but he's *very* rich, sounds divine, and he offered
an unlimited expense account. We'll all go! The change of scenery will do us good."

Miranda was instantly suspicious. "Why'd he call you? Surely they have PR firms in
Canada."

"But not Samantha Jones PR," she rebutted confidently. "I'm fabulous. Obviously,
Lucien LaCroix has impeccable taste."

I was sore, and I was tempted. A free trip up north meant more excuses to wear my new
Casadei boots. Maybe that would make me feel better. "I still need to write my column,"
I warned. I wrote a weekly article that appeared every Wednesday in the New York Star.
I was an anthropologist, of sorts, only my column reflected the sexual aspect of
humanity.

"You can do it on location," Samantha assured me.

I shrugged, giving in to persuasion. I couldn't take another weekend with the Style
Section. "I guess I can get material there. They have sex in Canada...don't they?"

"It's polite sex," Miranda said wryly, "but still sex."

Charlotte's interest blossomed at this information. Polite sex didn't involve rashes.
Charlotte was a polite sex kind of girl. The prospect immediately eclipsed her guilt over
hospitalizing Dean. "When are we leaving?"

After a toast to travel plans, we all retired to our respective abodes to pack for an all-
expenses paid sojourn to Toronto. I left the Sunday Times Style Section behind on the
table, the rest of the Mr. & Mrs. Big article unread. If I'd known then what I know now,
bruised ribs, breakouts and broken hearts aside, we'd have never left the city.

**************************************************************
End of Part One

Undeath And The City(2/13)
A Sex and the City/Forever Knight Xover
Copyright 2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

By Monday afternoon, we were christening our first Toronto taxicab on the way to our
amazing hotel. My own suite was so ornate and pristine that I felt self-conscious taking a
pit stop in the bathroom. Samantha, of course, was in her element. She reveled in it for a
good half hour before taking her delight to the phone lines. Pretty soon she was crooning,
"Oh, Lucien! It's just fabulous!" with the flirting force of a class four hurricane. Despite
the luxury putting her in the mood to storm beaches and blow, 'Oh, Lucien!' informed
Samantha that his day was too full for an immediate meeting. She would have to wait
until nighttime to express her appreciation in person. This left Samantha and her troops
with an afternoon to fill.

Charlotte shared her intent to visit a local friend and fellow gallery dealer. Helen Dreisen
not only managed a showcase of up-and-coming artists, she owned the business. After
they met during a buying trip Helen had made to New York two years ago, she'd swiftly
become Charlotte's role model. She was smart, beautiful, successful, had met the love of
her life, survived tragedy, and given birth to a son four months earlier. Give or take a few
split hairs, Helen Dreisen had it all, and Charlotte was eager to share her bounty with us.
We were eager, too, until the mention of the baby.

It turned out Charlotte hadn't hooked up with her idol since labor, and we were all too
aware how such an event could transform even the most stylish and together women into
their diaper-obsessive doppelgangers. For me personally, I was still so sore over Big and
Natasha's conception that I equated exposure to anyone using their ovaries for their
designated purpose with pulling out the sackcloth and ashes. Samantha, Miranda and I
told Charlotte 'Thanks, but no thanks,' and we spent our remaining daylight hours trying
on quirky dresses at Peach Berserk, longing over Pat McDonagh designs and having
impossible fantasies inspired by the CN Tower.

Charlotte informed us later that Helen Dreisen had remained just as glamorous and
together as before her pregnancy. She also bubbled with news that Helen had introduced
her to a handsome and eligible friend.

Charlotte certainly hadn't expected such good fortune within hours of arriving in Canada.
It had been a piece of luck that Helen had offered to share several works by a hot new
abstract expressionist with Charlotte's gallery. Leading her to a date on top of that had
Charlotte singing Helen's praises eternally.

It had started with a simple inquiry. After an hour of detailed study of the Dreisen
Gallery's exhibits and a glass of good Merlot, Charlotte grew curious that Helen hadn't
slipped into baby territory once. Unlike her friends, Charlotte looked upon motherhood as
the Holy Grail, a legend meant to be shared with reverence to the faithful.

"Where's Stefan Jr.?" she asked, hoping she didn't sound too desperately eager for baby
pictures and the smell of pabulum.

Helen's face immediately took on a maternal glow. "I wasn't sure you'd want to hear me
gush," she confessed. "Normally his crib's in my office, but he's spending today with
Nick."

Charlotte initially frowned at the introduction of this new male name. Another aspect that
she worshiped about Helen was the aforementioned great love and tragedy. Helen had
carried on a passionate and devoted affair with a brilliant sculptor, Stefan Sr. Rumor had
it that he'd been a wolf - able to make Helen howl in the bedroom and the art critics bay
with waxing and waning delight and dismay over his acts of rebellion. Helen had
confided to Charlotte over the phone a year earlier that Stefan Esquivel was meant to be
her mate for life. Within weeks, however, Stefan had been murdered in a hate crime,
leaving Helen alone and expecting Junior. Though not a widow in the literal sense,
Charlotte considered her one in spirit - the art world's own Jackie-O. She wasn't sure her
sense of idolatry was ready to hear Helen had shed her dark sunglasses so soon for this
Nick person, whoever he may be. Charlotte tried to discover the truth with tactfully
phrased nosiness. "Is Nick your part-time nanny?"

Helen laughed. "Oh, no! Nick is the baby's godfather. That's a story in itself. You
see...he was one of the homicide detectives who caught Stefan's murderer. Nick only met
him after death, but I feel certain that, given the opportunity, Stefan and he would have
been good friends. Between that, and the fact that he saved my life, I felt that he deserved
the honor of godfatherhood."

Charlotte was instantly swayed to like this life-saving, babysitting, Nick-stranger. "Oh,
Helen! That's so sweet!"

Her idol gave a rueful grin. "In theory, yes. Nick was a little squeamish at first, but I
brought him around to accept the title. Today's his first hands-on experience with Stefan
Jr., and now I'm the one who feels squeamish being 'parentis en absentia'! Nick's a
worldly guy," she confessed, "but I don't think he has much baby-handling experience."
Helen glanced around the near-empty gallery. She motioned to an assistant then asked
Charlotte, "How about we call it a day? Would you like to meet him?"

Charlotte wasn't sure if Helen meant the man or the baby, but in either case, she nodded.

Helen drove her toward the water, causing a small amount of worry on Charlotte's part
when they stopped in an area filled with what looked to be warehouses and industrial
buildings, not brownstones or high-rises. Weren't police detectives supposed to live in
areas that appeared less crime-infested? Helen interpreted her look and explained, "He
has a loft on the top floor. Wait and see. You'll love it."

She followed Helen to a side door, where a security camera was bolted into the brick
facing. They were buzzed into a garage, where Charlotte saw a parked antique Cadillac
convertible. It looked to be in good condition. Charlotte was smitten. "My grandfather
had a car like this! It wasn't this color, though. I remember riding in it when I was a little
girl," she breathed as she sentimentally touched one of the fins. "It's a classic! Does it
work?"

Helen was a modern car kind of gal. She'd sped them over in a Lexus sedan, child seat
fastened into the spacious, adjustable backseat. "Amazingly, yes," she answered, less
impressed.

Charlotte looked longingly over her shoulder at the car as Helen led her into a gated
elevator, like a child leaving the toy store empty-handed. The lift turned out to just be a
brief respite in exposure to things that tugged at Charlotte's heartstrings. The door slid
open to reveal an open space filled with antiques and artwork. Charlotte's only complaint
was that it was a little dark, but she'd heard that getting the lighting right was a frequent
problem when decorating trendy lofts. Her senses went into overload as her eyes darted
between the furniture honed out of the best leather, a jeweled Buddha that looked like a
real relic resting on a table, a grand piano festooned with candelabras, and a motorcycle
propped in the corner. The combination sent a rush of excitement along her spine. Then
she saw Stefan's godfather. He was smiling and greeting Helen with friendly affection.
Blond and well-built, every inch of him looked just as classic as the Cadillac downstairs,
only he didn't have the green paint job.

"From the moment he took my hand," Charlotte told us back at the hotel, "I could feel the
chemistry between us."

"Careful, honey," I cautioned. "Chemistry breeds reactions. Are you sure you aren't
working up to another Mr. Swollen?"

"Absolutely not. There was something in Nick's eyes when he looked at me. A sparkle.
He's my Mr. Classic: good-looking, great car, heroic job, and - from the looks of his loft
- great trust fund. What's more, his last name is 'Knight'! I always dreamed of a knight in
shining armor rescuing me from single status. He could be the one! His name could be a
sign!"

Charlotte's expression looked so wistful, we hated to rust her dream.

"Yeah," I said, some of my Big bitterness seeping through. "I've dated guys who wore
armor before. It's called 'fear of intimacy and commitment.'"

"I was talking about the Cadillac," Charlotte insisted. "It's metal."

"Just be thankful it's not a sports car," Samantha said, pausing to preen in one of the
decorative mirrors. "You know what they say - the bigger his trunk, the bigger his
engine."

I begged to differ. "I've always heard the bigger his trunk, the bigger his baggage."

Samantha wasn't swayed. "Don't listen to her, Charlotte. If I've ever met someone
destined to be a Mrs. Classic, you're it. I say go for it! Pop his hood!"

While Charlotte bloomed under this unexpected support from Samantha's corner,
Miranda broke in as another voice of reason. "Just because he's a classy Knight, that
doesn't make him Mr. Right. Don't forget he lives in Canada. Have a fling, but don't get
your hopes too high. I know you. You're not about to go Canuck, and there's no
guarantee he's up for a transfer."

Charlotte decided she would have to share more details about her first meeting with Nick
Knight to bring us into the fold.

As Nick slowly relinquished Charlotte's hand, he informed Helen that he'd successfully
gotten Stefan Jr. down for a nap. Helen nodded, smiling knowingly. "Did you manage
that yourself, or did Natalie have to come over and bail you out from the screaming
bundle?"

"Nat came over," Nick admitted, "but only to see how he's grown. I did all the dirty
work," he promised.

Natalie. It was yet another new name to give Charlotte pause. She did a quick recon of
Nick's hands. No wedding ring. "Who's Natalie?" she asked, trying to sound casual. "Is
she with the baby?"

"She's a friend," Nick explained, equally casual. "I work with her."

"Oh." This news made Charlotte smile.

"She's also Stefan's godmother," Helen added emphatically.

This news made Charlotte frown. Suddenly she wondered if Helen thought there was
something about her that made her un-godmother-worthy. Was it her tilted uterus? Did
Helen think her thighs were too big? Charlotte shook her head and reconsidered. Surely,
if Charlotte didn't live in New York, she'd have been Helen's first choice. That must be
it. Natalie was Toronto's runner-up.

"Natalie wanted to stay around," Nick continued, "but she got a call from the morgue and
had to go in."

"Oh, no!" Charlotte exclaimed, immediately contrite. "That's terrible! Was it someone
close to her who died?"

Helen chuckled and excused herself. She went upstairs to check on her son, leaving Nick
to correct Charlotte's misapprehension. "Natalie's a coroner. That's how I work with her,
being a homicide detective. She was called in to perform an autopsy."

Charlotte's expression filled with dismay at the thought. "Ehww!" She realized that her
reaction might be professionally insulting. "I'm sorry. It's just hard to imagine. I haven't
had much exposure to dead things."

"Well, we'll just have to work on that, won't we?" Nick's smile was so charming, his
voice so filled with promise, Charlotte found herself smiling back, even as she fervently
hoped she was only agreeing to experience palatable dead phenomena, like filet mignon
and pashmina.

She watched as Nick retrieved a remote control from the coffee table. With a press of a
button, the shuttered blinds tilted, bathing the edges of the loft with the orangey glow of
late afternoon. Charlotte did some beaming herself and promptly moved into the light to
look out of the window. The outlook was wonderful, destroying all her doubts about his
choice of locale.

"What a beautiful view!" Charlotte commented. "If I lived here, I'd leave the blinds open
all the time."

"I'd like that," Nick said as he moved closer, but not quite close enough to touch the
brightened areas. Charlotte gave a demure smile - did he like the idea of her living here,
or was he agreeing with her opinion of the cityscape? "But I have a medical condition.
An allergy."

Charlotte blanched. So soon after Dean, this was the last thing she wanted to hear. "Oh
no! You don't have a problem with body fluids, do you?" Surprise immediately flashed
over Nick's features, soon to be followed with discomfort and guilt. Charlotte was
crushed. She turned away from the window, her voice coming in a wail. "You do!" She
covered her mouth with a lady-like hand to hold back her sob of disappointment. "You're
allergic to body fluids!"

Nick's expression cleared. He reached out for Charlotte's hand and pulled her toward
him, out of the light. "No. I'm allergic to the sun. You caught me off guard. What made
you think I had a problem with blo...uh...body fluids?"

Charlotte was embarrassed. She wasn't about to confess that her vagina was responsible
for the near-death of at least one male. Men found that kind of information unpleasant.
*Charlotte* found that kind of information unpleasant. "Oh...nothing. Just a wild guess. I
think I saw something on the Discovery Channel a long, long time ago. Maybe it wasn't a
body fluid allergy at all. Maybe it was lemon juice."

Once Charlotte stopped babbling, she noticed that Nick was still holding her hand. She
stared at their entwined fingers for a moment, imagining them resting on the table in an
intimate restaurant, watching a movie, twisting in the sheets of a bed made up in fine
linens, standing in front of an altar...

Charlotte blinked away her fantasies and turned her attention to the reality of what Nick
had confided. "You're allergic to the sun? That must be so hard for you!"

Nick grinned indulgently. "That's why I work nights."

Charlotte was lost in affection. Nick was a champion of justice, but he needed just as
much protection from the big, bad, world as she did, at least until nightfall. "You don't
have to leave the blinds open just for me. Close them if it makes you uncomfortable. I
don't mind."

"No. I liked seeing the sunlight on your hair. It's like a dream."

As they continued to share smiles and hand pressure, Charlotte wondered if she'd met her
soul mate at last.

"Handy with a remote control and allergic to the sun," I said, breaking into Charlotte's
recollections. "Two things you can work with - we know he's good with buttons..."

"A plus," Miranda echoed.

"...And no pressure to get a tan. Gotta love a guy who helps to fight premature aging." At
this point, I didn't know the half of it.

"I don't like the sound of this Natalie person," Samantha interjected. "Men and women
can't be friends without fucking." Samantha looked pointedly at Miranda. Miranda
glanced sideways at me. All three of us stared at Charlotte.

"They could be friends!" Charlotte insisted. "Business associates! We all work with men.
We associate."

"But they aren't my friends," Miranda countered. "They're my competition."

"Exactly," Samantha said, adding, "And I fuck them."

Charlotte shook her head defiantly, clearly unprepared to drop her faith in the class of
Mr. Classic. "No! I refuse to believe they're sleeping together! I asked Helen if Nick was
seeing anyone, and she said he wasn't dating. He *is* just friends with Natalie. They both
work on jobs that bring them in contact with violence and death. That must be a bonding
experience."

It suddenly occurred to me that Charlotte may have disinterred a new trend in the social
scene. "Let me get this straight - last year, you picked up a widower at the cemetery. Nick
and Natalie became buddies through their mutual acquaintanceship with Toronto's
recently deceased. Helen met her son's future godparents when the father of her child
suffers premature eradication. Hey - I could use a date. Somebody hand me the
obituaries!"

"I still say he's fucking her," Samantha insisted, "and if he isn't, he's probably gay."

"I asked that, too, and he isn't," Charlotte informed us. Realizing that by thinking to ask
this question, she was revealing less certainty in Nick's perfection than she wanted to
feel, Charlotte lowered her eyes. "I had to ask! He has *a lot* of antiques! The important
thing is that Helen assured me that Nick likes women."

Samantha was like a wolf with a bunny rabbit. "Then Helen must be fucking him."

"No, no! No one is fucking anybody!" Charlotte squealed. It was a strong sign of her
annoyance that Charlotte had used the 'f' word. "Helen said that Nick wasn't her type."

That silenced all of us. What kind of woman had no use for a Mr. Classic? Our confusion
was understandable. Charlotte's was, as of yet, unspoken. Helen had also warned her that
*Charlotte* was not Nick's type, though she wouldn't be any more specific about what
she meant by that statement. Despite any signs of foreboding and the grim
pronouncement from her role model, Charlotte stubbornly forged ahead.

"Regardless of Natalie, Helen and questions of sexual orientation, when I mentioned
wanting to see the Warhol exhibit at the Metro Museum of Modern Art, Nick offered to
take me tomorrow night. So there."

And who were any of us to pass up a date with a Knight in a Shining Cadillac?

*******************************************************************
End of Part Two

Undeath And The City(3/13)
A Sex and the City/Forever Knight Xover
Copyright 2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

That night, we ostensibly went along with Samantha to her rendezvous with 'Oh,
Lucien!' In reality, we had visions of sampling comp drinks and the local nightlife.

From what our afternoon reconnaissance into the city could tell us, the Raven was a small
club on Richmond Avenue. Word had it that the place had been smoldering along since
before the dawn of grunge, maybe even the dawn of punk. In human years, that meant the
nightspot had staying power that made Methuselah look like a fresh, young lad.

Stepping across the club threshold, we caught on to another angle of the Raven. Maybe
its lasting popularity was because it was so dark; no one ever got to see enough of it to
become bored. I quickly opened my little gold bag that went with my little gold dress,
and retrieved my little gold lighter. With a flick, we managed to work our way to the bar,
but at the cost of my popularity. At least five people growled rudely at the flame in my
hand. Finally, Samantha growled back. "Oh, come on! She's not even smoking!"

Once we'd taken our seats at the bar, though, I noticed quite a few of the club's clientele
puffing merrily away. I reached back into my little gold bag for a Marlboro Light and
joined them. As I inhaled, I realized that the glares weren't directed at me, or my
cigarettes. Apparently the sort of people who hung out at the Raven had a personal
problem with my lighter. I put it away and enjoyed my cigarette. Luckily, I could smoke
blindfolded.

Charlotte had one hand propped against her brow as though she was staring out to sea.
"Can you make out which one is the bartender?"

Miranda pursed her lips to keep a sudden wave of homesickness at bay. The sound of the
words 'make out' and 'bartender' in the same sentence made her think of Steve. She
wondered if he'd remembered to feed her cat. She wondered if there really wasn't
Someone Better waiting to come along, and she was just being stubborn. She also
wondered if the elfish-looking guy with a beard and black t-shirt across the counter could
have access to the liquor supply. If he was, they sure made the bartenders cuter in New
York. She raised a hand and waved to find out.

Samantha, out of the four of us, had the least trouble adjusting to the club's darkness. She
declared that the lighting was 'intimate.'

I told her, "I've had visits to the gynecologist that were less intimate than this lighting."

"I like shadowed corners," Samantha declared. "They can be very flattering."

As Samantha surveyed the club as though she owned it via knowing the owner, Miranda
was discovering that the Elf-Guy behind the bar might be the Christmas-y sort. He was
all about giving. Specifically, he was giving her a hard time.

"What do you mean, you don't do Cosmopolitans?! You can't be serious!"

"I don't mix, lady. I pour."

This comment had all four of us standing at attention. Charlotte sent him a hurt look, then
she turned to the rest of us for guidance. "He can't refuse to make us Cosmopolitans, can
he?"

"Oh, he'll make them," Samantha insisted, tapping the bar emphatically with a lacquered
nail. "I'll have you know I'm acquainted with the owner," she informed Elf-Guy regally.

"Yeah. So am I, and he doesn't do Cosmo-fuckin'-politans, either"

"I could have you fired!"

Elf-Guy waved a towel. "Find somebody who cares."

A male voice broke in from down the bar. "Make the Cosmopolitans, Max. Just because
Janette is no longer here, that doesn't mean the sense of hospitality left with her."

Our collective Man-tennae aimed east. There he was: tall, dark and handsome. What's
more, champion of our favorite mixed cocktail. There was a welcome clink as ice entered
a martini shaker. We turned back to Max, who was obediently jigging shots of vodka and
Cointreau.

Charlotte peered back at tall, dark handsome and whispered to Samantha, "Is that your
client? The owner?"

Samantha gave him the once over once more. "I should be so lucky. But, no...I don't
think so. LaCroix has a different accent."

Miranda didn't waste time wondering. She had the advantage of sitting the closest to the
dark, drink-friendly stranger, so she went straight to the source. "Are you a regular?"

"Not exactly. I used to have a stake in the club, before the previous owner sold the
establishment. I come here less often now." Max was back, placing the first of the
Cosmopolitans in front of Miranda. "But I can still manage a round on the house." Max
grunted at this declaration, but tall, dark and handsome gave him a look that had Elf-Guy
working on free beverage number two in a jiffy.

"Well...thanks for the drink." Miranda picked up her Cosmopolitan, giving him one of
her 'I'm flattered, but still a capable lawyer' smiles. "I'm Miranda, and these are my
friends: Samantha, Charlotte and Carrie."

"Hello, Miranda...Samantha...Charlotte...Carrie..." He made eye contact with each of us
as he said our names. It was kind of hypnotic, like he focused a tiny drop of pure
testosterone into that moment, and each of us felt like the world fell away. In that instant,
he was our one, true friend. It was powerful stuff, as strong as our swiftly arriving drinks.
"I'm Miklos."

"Miklos," we repeated in unison. He was social in a subdued, super-concentrated way.
We all liked him immediately.

"So, Miklos..." Samantha cooed, "Do you know the new owner?"

"I've met him. You said you were acquainted?" Miklos gave Samantha a speculative
look, as if he wasn't quite sure if they were laughing over the same joke.

"I do PR. LaCroix invited me to Toronto to promote the club."

"Ah. So you haven't actually met him?"

"No. But I'm *dying* to."

Miklos' expression became austere. "Yes. That's understandable."

"Do you know if he's already here?" Samantha asked. "We're supposed to rendezvous
and talk strategy."

Miklos appeared to weigh his answer. "The back room. He's having it modified. I think
he's inspecting the work that's been done so far."

Samantha grabbed her Cosmopolitan and bid us farewell. "Target identified.
Ladies...don't wait up for me."

After her departure, Miranda continued to eye Miklos, summating his Someone Better
qualifications. The second time she caught him summing her back, she felt obligated to
break the ice. She tilted her Cosmopolitan in the air. "Thanks for the drink," she repeated.
Miranda was a big one for barriers. There was something to this attraction if she was
willing to appear inane on purpose.

Then it started - the getting-to-know-you, sizing-you-up chat. Charlotte and I popped in a
word or two, but mainly it was their show. We were there for moral support, and because,
with a nod, Miklos had Elf-Guy refilling our glasses. As surreptitiously as possible -
Miklos was intense enough that I wasn't sure how much he *didn't* see - I gave Miranda
a 'Go for it' thumbs up. If Miklos had any impending elements of freakdom, they weren't
obvious in low lighting.

What's more, Miklos asked Miranda to dance. She had always felt that she didn't get
asked to dance nearly enough. She'd salsa on a night out with the single girlfriends, but
the majority of her dating pool did not trip the light fantastic. The most recent specimen,
Mr. Clumsy, had simply tripped.

Miranda had a bit of a wallflower complex. She accepted Miklos' invitation, but
reluctantly. She couldn't remember the last time she'd danced as a couple. What if she
became Ms. Clumsy? Could she survive the arrhythmic humiliation?

As they stepped onto the dance floor, the winding, pulsing beat that seeped over the
sound system edged into her consciousness. Miranda's panic manifested itself. "This is
trance music!" Trance dancing required a degree of relaxation to which Miranda was not
mentally prepared to commit. She flailed glances at the swaying bodies surrounding them
and confessed, "You know, I'm not sure I should. This really isn't my type of dancing."

Miklos had her hand. He didn't let go when she would have pulled away and retreated
back to our base camp at the bar. "What type of dancing do you like?" he asked in a slow,
non-challenging voice.

He was doing it again. Miranda could feel his attention pummeling into her. He was
looking straight at her. Straight into her. He was listening. That much undiluted male
attention went straight to her bloodstream. She talked, like vodka was loosening her
tongue. "I like rules. I like knowing what's going to happen before it does. I don't like
surprises. I have expectations, and I expect to have them fulfilled, or forget about it. I
don't like..." Miranda looked at the dancers again, took a leaf from Miklos' book and
really looked at them. "...Flopping like a fish out of water. They're like castaways having
seizures. They're on a crowded dance floor, and they're alone. It's like they're dead."

"You're very perceptive," Miklos told her.

He was lifting her hand, like he intended doing something with it. Miranda blinked,
blurting a final surge of clumsy panic. "I'm a lawyer!"

Miklos didn't let go of her. He didn't even flinch. There were quite a few men who
reacted to her profession as though she had garlic on her breath.

He placed her hand on his shoulder. "So we dance by the rules."

Miranda watched him speculatively as his right hand rounded her waist. It was old-
fashioned - hip to hip, cheek to cheek, her right and his left entwined and cradled between
their chests as if they guarding something protectively there. Maybe they were - the
moment, the way couples were meant to dance.

Miranda closed her eyes and let go of her inhibitions just a little bit more. The trance beat
became inconsequential. They were moving to the cadence of something else, maybe out
of step with the people surrounding them, but undoubtedly in time with each other. Sure
enough, there were rules and tradition to this kind of slow dancing. There was something
unexpected to it, too. Miranda didn't know where she was going with Miklos, and at that
moment, it didn't seem like such a bad thing. That night, she took a vacation from her
constant second-guessing of the situation, and she relaxed.

For the first time in a really long while, Miranda didn't have a problem with letting the
man lead.

*******************************************************************

It was all well and good to see Miranda enjoying herself with a delicious guy on her arm,
but Charlotte and I both had reason to grow discontent with sitting at the bar and
watching for very long.

I was restless. My solo status was whipping my ego in never before seen ways. I felt like
I had 'Unwanted' emblazoned across my forehead. Seeing my friends pairing off pricked
a reserve of envy in my nature that I wasn't aware I had. I wasn't about to say this aloud,
so I worked on my second drink in silence.

Charlotte's excuse for discomfort was easier for her to vocalise. After about fifteen
minutes of club watching, she couldn't hold back any longer.

"Do you notice how the people in here *stare*? It's rude!"

"Charlotte, sweetie, what do you think we've been doing?"

"We've been *looking.* Politely, curiously, but respectfully. Some of these people are
watching us like they're eyeing a piece of meat! I don't like it!"

I lit another cigarette. Charlotte could afford to have standards about the attention she
was getting. She had a date with Mr. Classic in her future. "Well, if they're rude, they're
probably not Canadian. They must be tourists like us."

Charlotte glanced unhappily around for another minute. "There are *a lot* of tourists
here." She gave a small yawn. "I'm tired. Would you mind very much if I called a cab?"

I gave her a wry smile and stubbed out my Marlboro Light. "Hey, I'm with you. I'll even
help you find the phone."

Max, our reluctant Elf-Guy bartender, had apparently been looming so he could
eavesdrop on who was naughty, nice, or leaving. In an unprecedented fit of helpfulness,
he produced a phone from under the counter. Charlotte looked at it with pleasure and
intended to thank him, but Max's expression had her features sinking into a suspicious
frown. Elf-Guy looked a little too happy that we were ready to go. She leaned toward me,
whispering out of the corner of her mouth, "He works here. He must be Canadian, and
he's not polite *at all*!" Charlotte was very disappointed at this insulting blow.

Another blow hit the bar counter, and we jumped. It was Max encouraging exits again,
dropping the telephone directory in front of us. That's when I changed my mind and
resolved to hang around - just to irritate the elves. I was tired of being bothered because I
was the unwanted one. I pulled out my little gold lighter again and flicked it into use for a
good while longer than was necessary to start another smoke. I felt a measure of
empowerment at the grumbles of disapproval that came my way.

Charlotte was right. Toronto wasn't turning out to be exactly what we had bargained for,
but that didn't mean it couldn't be entertaining.

*****************************************************************
End Of Part Three

Undeath And The City(4/13)
A Sex and the City/Forever Knight Xover
Copyright 2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Samantha knew which man was Lucien LaCroix before she ever laid eyes on him. She
heard his voice as soon as she stepped through the doorway leading to the back rooms,
and awareness injected a sashay into her step.

Seeing him only confirmed the testimony of her ears. Here was a man in command. Here
was a man who took charge. Here was a man who knew what he wanted and went after it
with the precision of a General. Samantha recognized all these things in an instant,
because she was exactly that kind of woman.

To Samantha's detriment, she didn't take the time to consider the logistics of how she
would successfully manage a campaign to conquer a man just as strong-willed as herself.
All Samantha saw was a potential conquest. She touched her hair, thrust out one hip, and
made like Napoleon. Time would tell whether LaCroix was Austria or Russia.

To LaCroix's benefit, he instantly guessed the identity of the blonde entering his domain
and offered a suitably charming greeting. He kissed her hand. Samantha had experienced
the Continental treatment before, but that didn't mean she was bored with it.

"Samantha Jones..." LaCroix said in a voice that could pollinate flowers. "My apologies
for not joining you sooner. I'm having a sound booth installed, and my requirements are
particular."

"Apology accepted," Samantha purred. "It makes sense that you're particular. After all,
you chose me." She glimmered in a subtly feminine way before tugging her hand out of
his grasp. Samantha was a living manifestation of the fine line between 'easy' and
'cheap.' She was never cheap. Samantha approached the freshly mounted soundboard,
running manicured nails across the lacquered surface. "Why are you installing it back
here? Isn't it usual for the DJ to work on the floor?"

"Usual, yes," LaCroix confirmed, "but this work isn't for just any DJ. Among other
pastimes, I amuse myself by hosting a radio program on a local station. This booth will
allow me to perform satellite broadcasts."

"Mmm. A man of hidden talents." Samantha looked up from the board and moved toward
him again. "Tell me, Lucien...do you take requests?"

"If I'm in the mood."

"Well, I'll just have to work on that, won't I?"

"For a start, you can share this vision for the club you spoke of over the phone."

"All right." Samantha looked at him through slanted eyes. Take no prisoners. "How do
you feel about sex?"

"Literally, or figuratively?"

"By all means, both. I'm a firm believer in having it all."

"That is a coincidence," LaCroix replied smoothly, "So am I."

"Sex is back in style again," Samantha continued as she ran her hand up the collar of his
Armani suit. Ooh la la. "People are opening themselves up to new ideas, new
expressions."

LaCroix arched an eyebrow. "And you see The Raven as one big orgy of expression?"

"Oh, I think I'm looking right at The Next Big Thing."

"Literally or figuratively?"

"By all means, both."

There they were, LaCroix and Samantha, two peas in a pod. Make that 'P' as in
'predators.'

Smiling up at him, Samantha got her signals straight. She could tell that Lucien LaCroix
had plans for her, something more than PR for his club. Samantha's own signal was
obvious. She's come to Toronto planning to come in Toronto. The night was shaping up
to be a lovely skirmish.

*******************************************************************

Leaving me to my insubordination, Charlotte exited The Raven to wait in the doorway
until her taxi arrived. She figured there would be less staring and better lighting that way.
Sure enough, she cleanly picked out the cab as it drew even with the curb. She took two
steps forward, then stumbled to a halt. A car had pulled up just behind her transportation,
a classic car, a car with an unmistakable paint job.

Sure enough, her Knight with a shiny police badge emerged from his Cadillac. Charlotte
glowed with welcome and immediately called to greet him. "Nick! How did you know
that I was going to be here?"

There was an air of puzzlement to Nick's features, as if he wasn't quite sure how to
answer that question. He looked at the sign hanging over the club's entrance, as though to
double check where he was, then back at her. Charlotte decided he was being humble and
took his hand. "It doesn't matter how you knew. I'm just glad to see you."

Nick drifted another look to The Raven's doors before turning back to Charlotte, startled
realization painting his features. "I'm glad to see you, too."

A honk erupted from the taxi. The driver propped out of the passenger window and
inquired, "Do you need a ride, miss?"

Charlotte glanced down to where she was still holding hands with Nick. She nibbled her
lower lip apologetically. "No," she called back. "I'm sorry." Charlotte's brow furrowed
guiltily. He was a mannerly taxi driver, restoring her faith in The Canadian Way. Here
she was, the rude Manhattanite, dragging him out on a dead end fare. Imagining that he
had a dozen orphans to feed, Charlotte let go of Nick and rummaged in her purse. She
jogged up to the taxi before he could raise the window and pushed a nice tip on the
cabbie. "I'm really very, very sorry."

He saluted. "That's all right, ma'am."

Charlotte waved as the taxi drove away, then turned expectantly back to Nick. He was
grinning. "Do you always pay people for not giving you a ride?"

"No." Charlotte gave a small laugh. "But he was so polite. I felt bad."

Nick reached out and took her hand again. "You have a generous soul."

Charlotte shook her head. "I didn't give him that big of a tip."

Nick laughed and wrapped an arm around her shoulders as he ushered her toward the
Cadillac. "I have to admit, I am surprised to find you at a club like The Raven,
Charlotte."

"Oh, it's not my kind of place at all," Charlotte swiftly assured him. "I just came with
some friends. I thought it was kind of *shady.*" She instilled every possible unpleasant
nuance to the word.

Nick gave her a thoughtful look. "You're right. It can be. Who needs shady?" He opened
the passenger side door of the Caddy for her. "I hope I'm not being too presumptuous in
assuming you'd like me to give you a ride?"

Charlotte silently lectured herself for immediately having non-ladylike thoughts. "No.
You're not being presumptuous. I'd love a ride," she said sweetly. She slid onto the
leather seat, murmuring a 'thank you' before he shut the door. She leaned back and took a
deep breath. As Nick settled in the driver's seat, she commented, "I love this car. My
grandfather had one like it when I was a little girl." She glanced over to smile at him, and
caught Nick frowning. Apparently he thought she was calling him old. "It's a classic,"
she pointed out quickly. "They just don't make them like this anymore. It makes me feel
safe. Protected." Charlotte consulted her Knight's expression again. Seeing that
something she'd said had stroked his male pride, she gave a self-satisfied smile as they
merged into traffic. She was struck by a sudden thought. "Nick? Weren't you on duty
tonight?"

He nodded. "I was, but my partner and I made a big collar. I want Schanke to get most of
the credit with the Captain, so I'm laying low while he files the report. As it is, I'll
probably show up on the news." Nick grimaced. "I don't like publicity."

Charlotte felt like hugging him. Only respect for safe driving held her back. He was so
kind...so giving...to let his partner receive the benefit of their hard work like that. "Was it
a very dangerous person?" Charlotte reddened at how naive that must have sounded. "Of
course it was. You're a homicide detective. You have to deal with killers...and the
criminal element!"

Nick tossed her a teasing grin. "Most people don't separate the killers from the criminal
element, Charlotte." His smile broadened as her cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink.
Nick reached out and ran an index finger alongside her face. "You're blushing," he
observed. "Most of the people I know have forgotten how to do that. Some can't," he
added, more self-consciously. Nick shook his head slightly and answered Charlotte's
original question. "Yes, he was dangerous. He's a suspect in a series of bombings that
happened in Alberta last July. It's a high-profile case. My partner and captain will fly
Dollard to Edmonton for trial in about a week."

Charlotte watched Nick adoringly as he drove the Caddy along Queen Street. He was
brave. He was strong. He used his turn signals. He was perfect.

"So...where to?" Nick asked.

Charlotte didn't want to go back to the hotel, not just yet. She felt it was too forward to
ask him to take her back to his place, though. She brainstormed for an alternative. "It's
barely midnight. Would you like to go for some coffee? We could talk." She watched for
his reaction. Nick appeared uncertain about her suggestion. "It could be decaffeinated
coffee. Or herbal tea. Or water!" Charlotte frowned at herself. She sounded anxious.
Maybe she was the one who needed some herbal tea.

Nick came to a decision. "Coffee is good. Talking is better. I'm just not sure where the
best place to go around here is."

Charlotte was in luck. She spotted a coffee house almost immediately. "There's a
Buckstars up on the left."

Ten minutes later, Charlotte was watching Nick take his first tentative sip of a double
cappuccino with a choc shot and cinnamon sprinkles. His face twisted into a knot, and
she leaned forward with concern. "Oh - is it too hot?"

Nick swallowed gingerly. "Yeah," he said in a weak voice. "You'd better blow on yours
first." A small white smudge hovered over his upper lip.

Charlotte felt a surge of caregiving instinct. She dived into the generous stack of napkins
she'd grabbed at the order counter. "You have a little bit of foam above your mouth. Let
me get it." She leaned forward and dabbed gently with the napkin. Charlotte made eye
contact and lost her train of thought. A minute later, she realized she was still massaging
his mouth, well on her way to giving the man a labial blister.

Charlotte drew her arm back sharply, subsiding into another embarrassed round of
blushing. It had to be a good sign that Nick hadn't told her to stop fondling his lip. She
picked up her own double cap skinny and pursed her mouth, softly puffing air onto it to
cool her first swallow. Charlotte felt Nick watching her and glanced up to find his gaze
focused on her own lips. That was a very good sign. Deciding to live dangerously, she
dabbed her tongue into the mound of foam as if to test it. "Mmm," she hummed with
more enthusiasm than strictly necessary. "It's just right." She sent an innocent, yet
flirtatious, smile across the table. "How long have you lived in Toronto?"

Charlotte had to repeat the question twice before she got Nick's mind on actual
conversation again, but it was the start to banter that lasted until almost dawn. She found
out that he'd lived in the Village once upon a time, had owned a dog for a pet that hadn't
worked out, and painted as a hobby. He discovered that she'd lived in the Village once
upon a time, had also owned a dog for a pet that hadn't worked out, and rode horses as a
hobby.

It was the perfect unofficial first date over coffee.

Even if Nick had hardly touched his coffee.

Or Charlotte.

She could tell that he wanted to, though.

He was just being polite.

Charlotte liked Canada.

******************************************************************
End Of Part Four

Undeath And The City(5/13)
A Sex and the City/Forever Knight Xover
Copyright 2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

While Miranda discussed dancing with Miklos, Samantha discussed sex with LaCroix,
and Charlotte discussed everything else with Nick, I was finishing my third
Cosmopolitan and discussing how much I hated The New York Times with Max, the no-
good, Elf-Guy bartender. He responded by giving me options - namely, slapping a copy
of the day's Toronto Star in front of me.

"You're all heart, Max," I said, toasting him with the dregs of my glass.

"Don't spread it around," he grumbled and began work on my next beverage.

I squinted at the paper, and soon decided that the light was not conducive to considering
the heavy headlines. Out came my trusty lighter again, guiding my way to the Life and
Entertainment sections. I had life. I was entertaining. Obviously, this was the news for
me.

Max set a fresh drink by my elbow, and I gave him a thumbs-up sign with my flame-less
hand. After consuming a hard-hitting introspective about the pros and cons of raffia
halter-tops, I turned the page and found a spread devoted to local social events.

"Oh, give me a freaking break!"

When the Star claimed 'We're Already There,' they weren't kidding.

There they were, Big and Natasha, smiling at me fertile-couple-like from practically the
same goddamn photo that had been featured in the Times the day before. This time,
however, I forced myself to read the entire article. My ghosts had followed me all the
way to Toronto.

Well, technically, I'd followed *them* all the way to Toronto, but it was purely
accidental on my part. Mr. and Mrs. Big had apparently already been in town as of
yesterday, planning to attend some gala sponsored by the DeBrabant Foundation -
whatever the hell they supported - while I was busy sobbing into my orange juice over
the news of the Bigs' impending population explosion. That was me - a day late and one
drink short.

I fumbled for my Cosmopolitan glass, but the three previous samples had taken their toll,
and I tilted it off balance. Alcohol sloshed over the rim, inconveniently onto my little
gold lighter and the oh-so flammable paper.

I squeaked at the sudden small explosion in front of my face, before I dropped my lighter
onto the now-burning copy of the Star resting on the toastier-by-the-second bar. In a
flash, I tilted backward off my barstool. In this kind of situation, it's every pyromaniac
for herself. There was instant panic in the club, the least of which was contributed by me
as I hurtled to the floor, crash imminent. Most patrons scattered, but I found myself
spared from a bruised ass, if not pride, as someone strong with a casual interest in
preserving their own life caught me from behind.

"Thanks," I mumbled disorientedly. I'd squeezed my eyes shut as I fell, despite there
being plenty to see from that angle from that angle. My lids were slow to catch up and
open. When they did, I found concrete proof that the eyes were not the smartest of body
parts. Extremely cute guy: twelve o'clock. None of my organs should be having a
problem with that view if they knew what was good for them. As if in agreement, I felt
my lower body ripple. I had a strong suspicion that my uterus had just upped and saluted
this dark-haired stranger.

"No problem," he said. "Can you stand?"

"Aye, aye," I giggled.

He interpreted this as a less than concrete affirmation of my sobriety - good call on his
part - and helped me to my feet. I saw Miranda and Miklos rush belatedly off the dance
floor to my rescue.

"My god, Carrie - are you okay?"

"Sure, I'm great," I told Miranda. "Big is in Toronto."

Her eyes widened in shock. "What?!"

"It's in the paper. Look -" All four of us looked at the bar. The fire still burned brightly.
That was a literal relationship metaphor if I'd ever been singed by one. What had once
been an article in the Toronto Star had no doubt been charred into ashes. "Well, it *was*
there."

Max finally proved he was worth his keep. He rolled his eyes at us, then calmly lifted a
bottle of water and dumped its contents over the burning mass afflicting the bar. The
flames sputtered into a soggy, charred mess.

I was impressed. "Way to pour, Max."

"My specialty." He delved into the blackened remains and unearthed my little gold
lighter. He rinsed off the ashes with a shot of seltzer, then folded the instrument of
destruction into my waiting palm. "Don't do that again."

I glanced around and found Miranda eyeing me as though I was a lawsuit waiting to
happen. Looking at the bar counter again, I had to admit she had cause for concern. "It
was an accident, okay? I read in the paper that Big and the Idiot Stick Figure With No
Soul were in town, and it caught me off guard."

"Who's Big?" both men asked.

"Carrie's ex-boyfriend," Miranda explained, mainly for Miklos' benefit. Then, to me,
"He can't come to Toronto after you came to Toronto to get away from him. He's already
terrorizing one city you read news in - who gave him global rights?!"

"Well, to give credit where credit is due, he got here first," I confessed. "The Times
probably mentioned he was traveling to Canada yesterday, and I was just too freaked out
to notice the itinerary." I suddenly realized that the bigger the deal I made out of these
events, the more the entire evening would be going up in flames, including Miranda's
two-step with Miklos. "But enough of my neuroses. I'm okay. Really. Get back to your
dancing!" I shooed the couple away. I still had something going for me.

I still had access to the extremely cute guy.

I decided to make it official. "Hi." I laced the word with extremely cute girl signals.

He had his hands on his hips, and he surveyed me like I was an engine in need of tuning.
"Hi."

The conversation swiftly developed into strings of syllables, and pretty soon, we were
exchanging entire sentences, even paragraphs. I took the experience to heart - when
you're looking for a way to enlighten your day or night, talk to someone. Depending on
journalism for inspiration was just asking for severe depression.

His name was J. D. Valdez, and he wasn't long from coming off work on an oilrig. I
didn't sense any of the titillation or threatened status that men sometimes shared when I
revealed that I wrote a sex column. It made me wonder if oilrigs had suddenly become
more happening places than I'd previously suspected.

"So..." I asked, referring to my earlier rescue, "...do you catch people like that often?"

He thought about his answer for a moment. "More often than people catch me."

"And that works for you, does it?"

"Can't complain so far."

There were several ways to interpret his comment, and I leaned toward the version most
flattering to me. I was in that kind of mood. The foremost thought in my mind was that he
was young and uncaptured, while Big was old and shackled. I was looking for excitement
and trouble, and I had a strong suspicion J.D. Valdez could give me both.

Meanwhile, my three Cosmopolitans had run their course. Reluctantly, I excused myself
to the restroom for some grooming and relief. After washing my hands, I began work on
touching up my lip-gloss. While I was smoothing my pinkie over my lower lip for the
final go round, the vending machine mounted on the wall caught my eye. I straightened,
nibbling on the tip of my finger, torn by indecision. Should I?

Back in Manhattan, I always carried supplies in my purse, just in case of a sexual
emergency. Preferring to travel light - not that condoms could make or break a suitcase -
I'd left them behind. Outwardly, I'd come to Toronto to escape the memory of Mr. Big.
Subconsciously, though, had I really just wanted a break from men? If I dropped my
coins into the slot, would my psyche and libido be working at cross-purposes? Was my
body committing to something that my mind wasn't ready to handle? Was I so desperate
to be wanted that my common sense had been left wanting?

I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror with exasperation as I screwed the lid
back on my lip-gloss. "Oh, come on, Carrie. It's a condom, not a cock ring. Safety first."
I marched purposefully over to the vending machine, digging into my little gold purse for
the right change.

Life moved quickly and unexpectedly, even outside of Manhattan. How could I be certain
what would or wouldn't happen in the next five minutes, much less later tonight? It was
better to be prepared than closed to the possibilities.

I twisted the knob, and my coins jingled down through the tunnels of the machine. There
was a token sound of movement, then nothing. I reasoned that the sound of a condom
dropping had to be more pronounced than a pin, so I peered into the slot. Nothing. Now I
was frustrated. It wasn't so much the loss of my spare change that bothered me. I'd have
probably only felt truly, physically robbed if I'd been trying to buy a bag of Reese's
Pieces. It was the principle of the thing. A broken condom machine was closing off my
possibilities like a traffic cop locking my sexual tires.

I slammed my fist against the side of the machine. A tiny whisper of shuffling from
within was my reward, so I smacked it again. More movement. I peeked once more into
the breach and let out a cheer of triumph. I could see the foil packet; it had simply lodged
in the corner of the release fissure. I squeezed my hand inside and felt around a bit, but
there wasn't much room to work with. After two false starts, my thumb and index finger
finally clasped one slick corner. I pulled, but it didn't budge. I considered pulling harder,
but ripping the foil packet open prematurely would rob me of my victory. Instead, I
squeezed my digits together more tightly and tried to push them in farther. Maybe I'd
achieve success if I could grasp the condom further up.

After another minute of squeezing, pushing and maneuvering my hand into unlikely
positions, I suddenly froze. What was I doing? Had anyone in the history of the planet
worked this hard for a prophylactic? A symbolic prophylactic, at that. I'd had it. This car
was towed.

I stepped away from the machine, assuming my hand would be a likely shadow. I wasn't
so lucky. My mouth dropped open in horror as I realized that my fingers were stuck. I
tugged, but a twisting streak of pain shot up to my wrist. I paced for a minute over the
limited range of floor my leash/arm let me cover. What did I do now?

A woman with short, blonde ringlets entered the restroom and began to freshen up her red
lipstick. I leaned nonchalantly against the wall and tried to pretend that I wasn't attached
to a vending apparatus. I hadn't quite decided that this was an embarrassment that I was
willing to share with a complete stranger. A part of me was holding out until the Miranda
cavalry felt the call of nature.

Ultimately, the choice was taken out of my hands. To be specific, it was taken out *on*
my hand. The spring mechanism that obviously wasn't working right and had caused my
condom purchasing problem in the first place snapped back into its original position. My
already jammed fingers were suddenly twisting into an even smaller space. My dignity
surrendered as I crumpled into the wall. "Oh, Jesus!"

The blonde paused with the lipstick and looked over. "Are you okay?"

"No, I am not okay!" Discomfort and hysteria were working my vocal chords. "My hand
is stuck in the condom machine." I kicked at the wall, furious at my predicament, and
then cursed as I realized I'd scuffed my boots. This...no, I hadn't predicted *this* in my
future five minutes ago. "I hate being right, dammit!" I muttered under my breath.

The blonde came closer, the better to see my complete humiliation. "You can't get it
out?" she asked blankly.

I took a good, incredulous look at my potential savior. She wasn't five-foot-ten, but she
looked to be in her twenties. Great. Another idiot stick figure with no soul on my hands.
On my hand. Dammit! "Yeah, I can't get it out!" I snapped. "What the fuck do you think
'stuck' means?"

She smiled, then, and I felt worse. "You're American, aren't you?" she said knowingly.

I closed my eyes and capitulated to putting up with her. "Yeah, yeah. I'm a rude,
American with a shoe fetish stuck in a condom machine. Get me a cigarette out of my
purse, will ya?"

She might have been as bright as The Raven's decor, but she was also nice enough to get
me a smoke and pick a book of complimentary matches out of the trash when my lighter
proved too water-logged to work. Such kindness did not go unrewarded. I swallowed the
stinging ache in my hand and attempted apologetic civility. "Thanks," I said out of the
corner of my mouth as I puffed. "My name's Carrie. I'm sorry I snapped, but I'm in
pain."

"Hi, Carrie. I'm Urs." She leaned her head close to the machine and looked inside the
opening, most of which was blocked by my lower palm and wrist. She made a small,
sympathetic sound. "That doesn't look good. I think you're swelling."

"Gee, Charlotte missed out," I mumbled grouchily under my breath. I was getting a
headache. I rubbed at my left temple with my free hand. "God, Urs, I feel like such an
idiot! I just *had* to buy a condom! People as stupid as me don't deserve condoms."

"I would think stupid people need them more," Urs observed softly.

That brought me up short. Maybe Urs was smarter than I'd given her credit for. After all,
*she* still had the use of both of her hands. "It's just that I found out this guy I used to
date is in town," I tried to explain, "and his new wife is going to have his baby, I feel so
shortchanged, and when I met this extremely cute guy tonight, I just thought...why not?
It's not like I actually planned to sleep with him. Well, maybe I did. The point is...I was
celebrating that I had *the right* to sleep with him." Oh, god, I sounded even more like
an idiot now.

"Until you got stuck in the condom machine," Urs observed.

I nodded. "Yeah. This probably puts a clamp on things."

Suddenly we were both laughing, and I had my first hint of hope that things were going
to work out okay. Urs ran her hands along the side and along the bottom of the dispenser,
saying, "I can rip this off the wall, but your hand will still be trapped in there."

That didn't sound like a good plan to me. "Are you kidding? It's bolted into the concrete,
isn't it? How're you going to pull it down?"

Apparently, Urs hadn't considered the unlikelihood of her own strength. "Oh. I forgot. A
normal woman wouldn't be able to just tear through metal and stone like that."

"No, she wouldn't," I told Urs, patting her on the shoulder, "but thanks for wishing you
could."

"Since we're both just *normal* women," Urs said tentatively, "we need a man with
tools to break into the machine."

"No, we don't!" I protested. I'd just gotten used to Urs being in on my little condom
conundrum. The last thing I wanted to see was a person who could actually fill one.
"What about female solidarity? Couldn't we fill it with grease or olive oil and lube me
out, instead? Even better - if I stand here and starve long enough, my hand will become
thin enough that it just falls out."

It was too late. Urs was already headed for the bathroom door in a helpful frenzy. "Don't
be silly. My friend Vachon always carries tools in the saddlebags of his motorcycle. It'll
only take him a minute to screw you free."

As I helplessly watched Urs leave, I considered the irony of a woman imprisoned by a
condom machine being screwed free.

In my dismay, I dropped my half-finished cigarette onto the tile, then spent a few anxious
seconds trying to stomp it out before it rolled away and set the entire club aflame. I was
pretty sure the rule of thumb at The Raven was that you were only allowed one accidental
fire per evening.

After five minutes of waiting, I had another unexpected turn of events. Urs returned with
her friend named Vachon, who also happened to be my extremely cute guy, a.k.a. J. D.
Valdez.

Since I couldn't will myself invisible or him blind, I had to talk my way around this new
humiliating turn of events. "Your name's 'Vachon' now, huh? How does that work? You
only do one good deed per alias?"

He wasn't one to offer elaborate excuses. "Something like that."

"You've met already?" Urs asked.

He gave an extremely cute shrug. "Briefly."

I was catching on that J.D./Vachon/whoever was a man of few words. I suspected this
was a defense mechanism to keep from laughing out loud at people like me who got stuck
in life's little vending machines.

There was a teasing glint in his eyes as he produced a screwdriver and went to work on
my behalf. "Excitement seems to chase you down like a horny pit bull," he observed.

As precarious as my predicament was, it was vastly improved by the part where Vachon
had to wrap his body around me to gain access to the little screws bolting down my
prison. "Oh, is that what I feel humping my leg?"

The first screw came loose, and Vachon pressed it into my free palm. "Hold onto this.
It'll keep your other hand out of trouble."

"Be nice, Javier," Urs chided. "When you're nice, people are more likely to think you're
an extremely cute guy."

So Urs had caught on to that little slip. I supposed that officially stripped her of idiot stick
figure status. "The 'J' stands for 'Javier,' huh?" I said to Vachon. "What about the 'D'?"

He folded my palm open and presented me with another loose screw. "Don't ask."

I grinned at that. "And 'Valdez'? I get it - that's a name for a guy who works on an oilrig!
The question is, did you really work on a rig, or was that pretend, too?"

"That was true," Urs popped in. "He had to lay low a few months to get away from The -
"

"Urs." That's all it took to stop her from talking, and Vachon was putting screw number
three in my hand. "I wanted to get away from pushy relatives for a while," he said
quietly.

Yes, well, that wouldn't rescue him from my pushy attitude. "Okay. By the way," I said
sarcastically, "Carrie Bradshaw *is* my real name, and I *do* write a sex column in the
Wednesday issue of the New York Star. Just in case you were wondering."

"I'm wondering if this adventure is going to wind up in your next column."

"That depends," I said softly, "on what happens next."

Vachon worked the fourth screw out, and the lid of the vending machine popped off.
Suddenly my hand was my own again, and the metal front was clattering to the floor,
soon followed by a shower of Trojans as the dispenser gave up its wares.

Vachon glanced down at my liberated hand, still determinedly clutching the original foil
packet. "You needed a condom? Planning to get lucky, were you?"

I threw it violently on top of the pile now littering the floor. "This *is not* going into my
column."

*******************************************************************
End of Part Five

Undeath And The City(6/13)
A Sex and the City/Forever Knight Xover
Copyright 2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

I was kind of distracted as we left the bathroom. I kept looking down at my $400 boots
I'd scuffed in a stupid moment. Vachon was kind of distracted, too. Not by my boots, but
by my legs and my repeatedly bending over. All that pleasantness came to a halt when
Urs said, "Uh-oh."

Vachon and I both glanced up, a duet of blinking.

"Uh-oh what?" Vachon asked.

Urs pointed toward the front entrance of the club. "The Inka just walked in."

"Uh-oh," Vachon echoed.

I squinted toward the stairs leading down into The Raven, trying to pinpoint the arrival
they were talking about. "The Inka? I think I've heard of him. Isn't he some kind of
progressive rap artist?"

I heard a *whoosh!* sound. I glanced around to try and figure out where it came from
and quickly realized that Vachon had bolted. "Hey!"

Urs gently but firmly took hold of my arm and pulled me closer to the bar. "It's better if
we get out of the way." She was trying to look inconspicuous.

"Out of the way of what?"

My question was answered soon enough, and not by Urs. A tanned guy with slightly long
hair and a goatee brushed rudely past me. I caught on that this must be The Inka.

Suddenly, my curiosity was overwhelming. There was something strange afoot here, and
my great weakness was a need to discover the secret inner freakiness of all who
surrounded me. In this case, all who snuck away from me as a guy in a poncho chased
them down. That's just me.

Looking at Urs, I caught on that she knew Vachon's secret, but she wasn't about to spill
the details, no matter that we'd become fast friends. She looked like she planned to keep
me from following the fast-moving men, too. I feigned exasperation. "You know, I think
I'm going to take this as the final sign that tonight is a washout. I should just go back to
my hotel and be thankful I can still type."

"Want me to help you catch a cab?" Urs asked as she ushered me eagerly toward the
front door, in the opposite direction of my nosy interest.

I waved my goodbye across the dance floor at Miranda and opened my purse. "No, I'll be
fine. If you wouldn't mind, though," I held up a wad of bills, "could you stuff this in
Max's tip jar for me? I think he's earned it."

I thanked Urs again for her help in the bathroom and watched as she moved toward the
bar. I quickly padded up the stairs and out onto the street before she could complete the
tipping task and catch up with me. I took a second to orient myself once I hit the
pavement, and then I ducked into an alley that ran alongside The Raven. There had to be
a back door for sneaky people to slip in, right?

Right. I found the back door, only it was locked. Apparently, all the 'in' sneaky people
had keys.

I knocked, figuring it couldn't hurt. There just might be someone on the other side who
would open up. No such luck. I leaned my back against the door, and wondered what I
should do next to satisfy my curiosity.

I spent a moment of silent indecision, when, out of the blue, something slammed
ferociously against the other side of the door, rattling it on its hinges. It was a good thing
the barrier was made out of steel, otherwise the rhino, train, or whatever tornado they
were keeping in the bowels of The Raven would have flattened it on top of me. I whirled
and stumbled backward across the alley at an angle, my first lucky move of the night.
There came another blow, and the door was flying across the alley, crushing everything
in its path.

That wasn't all that was flying. Two bodies hit the side of the next building soon after.
They were engrossed in the process of throttling each other and didn't notice me right
away. If I hadn't been so inquisitive, I'd have run away before they ever figured out that I
was there. My sense of self-preservation has a hard time in the face of the odd and
unpredictable, though, so I took root and gaped.

There were snarls. There were glowing eyes. There were big pointy teeth.

In retrospect, I admit I did a stupid, girly thing next. I shrieked. That pretty much slayed
my claim to anonymity.

Sure enough, Contestant #1: Vachon, and Contestant #2: The Inka, paused in their death-
by-hissing session to seethe and glare in my direction.

Okay, that was action enough for Curious Carrie for one night. I waved nervously and
started to back toward the street again. "Don't mind me. I was just leaving. You can go
right back to the killing...uh..." My voice trailed off uncomfortably.

As I continued to edge toward the lighted pavement, I wondered if there were Good
Samaritan laws in Canada. Was leaving Something and Something Else to murder each
other a crime? Then again, maybe I was destined to be the body by the side of the road
that needed assistance. I decided I should keep moving along. Then again, again, not five
minutes ago I'd considered getting a little Something for myself. Didn't that matter at all?
Did Vachon need help?

The five-minute intervals were becoming real doozies.

Case in point, both Vachon and The Inka decided to put pause to the mutual choking
simultaneously. Both pushed back with all their strength at once, and instantly they were
flying again, away from each other this time, putting nice, big dents in even more of the
surrounding property. Obviously, neither guy was on the Keep Toronto Beautiful
committee.

They crawled to their feet, their eyes still glowing. Vachon stared mutinously at The Inka
and me like he couldn't decide which he was fed up with more. The Inka stared
ferociously at Vachon and me like he couldn't decide who needed permanent
rearrangement most. Since I was the only person present with two unpopular votes, I
turned tail and ran as fast as my Casadei boots would carry me.

More sounds of havoc and ruin came from behind me, but I didn't look back. Wasn't
there some really good biblical metaphor about not looking back, despite the temptation?
No salt on me.

I'd run maybe a block, frantically searching for a cab, station or a squad car, when I got
*whooshed!* from behind. It was Vachon. He seized my arm, growled, "Come on," and
was dragging me from whence I'd just fled before I could so much as yell, 'Help!
Police!'

I was part of the 'better late than never' camp. "Help! Police!" I bellowed. "Ralph Nader!
Anybody! Help!"

Vachon clapped a hand over my mouth. "We've only got five minutes if we're lucky
before The Inka is on the move again. He's going to do his best to kill whichever one of
us he finds first. I have a motorcycle. You don't. You can come along for a ride, or you
can take your chances on your own. Which is it going to be?"

He lifted his hand, but I didn't have an immediate 'yes' or 'no' answer. It was another
one of those tricky 'five-minute' questions. I was stumped. Apparently that didn't matter
to Vachon. He was already moving away, headed for his bike regardless of whichever
option I picked.

"Hey!" I called after him, but he didn't stop. I hated it when men walked away from me,
so I followed out of spite. "Hey! I have to at least *think* about it! You had fangs in that
alley, too! I'd have to be a complete idiot to get on a motorcycle with you!"

"You were a complete idiot to be in that alley," was his matter-of-fact response.

I had to jog to keep up. "Well, at least I'm not running around acting like I'm someone -
something - I'm not."

Vachon had reached his bike, a Triumph, and he already had it roaring to life. He looked
up at me, a helmet in one hand. "Anything else?"

Plenty, but I'd narrowed it down to one immediate question. "Yeah. What are you?"

He stretched his arm, dangling the helmet just a little bit closer. "If you're lucky, I'm the
last face you'll see until dawn."

What can I say? Maybe I felt lucky, maybe I didn't.

I got on the bike.

*****************************************************************
End Of Part Six

Undeath And The City(7/13)
A Sex and the City/Forever Knight Xover
Copyright 2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

I know you're wondering what happened after I got on the motorcycle, and the truth was,
I was wondering, too. Vachon said something to the effect that The Inka could track him
to all his regular hideouts in town. I couldn't remember whose idea it was, but one of us
suggested that I take him to my hotel.

That was how I wound up, four o'clock in the morning, frowning at the motorcycle in my
bedroom. "That thing isn't leaking is it?" I stomped around the room, hunting for a fresh
pack of cigarettes. Vachon was passing the time by searching through my stuff - were
there any Canadians left in Canada? "That rug probably costs more than I spend on shoes
in a year, which is more than I actually make in a year, which is why an oil slick ruining
it is bad."

Vachon glanced up from the closet, one of my purple leather Fendi mules that he'd been
studying dangling by the heel in his hand. "Then what are you doing staying here?"

I was crouching on my knees, looking under the Triumph to pick out which spot would
be best to stick a crystal ashtray to act as a drip pan. I straightened and thoughtfully used
the ashtray for its intended purpose. "Good point. I forgot that I'm here as a guest." I
shifted and settled back against the leg of one of the Queen Anne chairs. "Grease away.
Let Lucien LaCroix worry about the bill." A thunk came from the closet. Vachon had
dropped my shoe. "Watch it!" I complained. "I've already scuffed one pair tonight."

He turned around slowly, giving me an incredulous look. "You're *LaCroix's* guest?"

"Kinda-kinda. I don't know the guy. I have a friend doing some PR for The Raven. She
brought me and some of my buddies along to pad the expense account."

"Well, that's interesting," Vachon commented, keeping all the actual information to
himself. He changed the subject. "I need to make a call."

I waved at the bedside phone and shamelessly listened as he called someone named
'Screed,' saying that he needed a box of 'supplies.' When the talk turned to money, I
protested. "Hey! No trafficking anything illegal in my hotel room!"

Vachon shielded the receiver. "Technically, it's LaCroix's hotel room, remember? Relax.
I'm meeting Screed in the basement."

Fine. Dandy. Evade the issue. Don't think I didn't notice that Vachon had sidestepped the
whole 'legality' factor. I picked up a fringed pillow and hugged it to my chest as I
watched him complete the call. Inside, I wanted to scream and kick him out, but the
words died on my tongue. I couldn't figure out why I was being so cooperative. Sure, he
was extremely cute...but his eyes went radioactive, he had a retractable overbite, and
some crazy guy in a poncho wanted kill him. I'd kicked men out of my bedroom for far,
far less.

Why hadn't I demanded an explanation for what I'd seen earlier? What was this
compulsion that had me sitting back and smiling as Javier Vachon picked up a room key
as he prepared to go out? Why did I want him to come back and hide from The Inka
*here*? Why wasn't I vocalizing any of these questions? What the hell was wrong with
me?

I found the answer in his eyes. Before he left to meet Screed, Vachon took my chin in his
hand and gave me a deep, searching look. I'm not sure what I saw exactly, but it made
my throat dry. "Don't wait up for me. You should go to sleep."

I ran a hand through my hair. "Yeah. Suddenly I feel really tired."

"And don't mention to anyone that I'm here. It's safer that way."

I nodded through my yawn. Safer for whom? It was another question I didn't ask aloud. I
was practically sleepwalking already. Somehow it didn't seem the time to question my
acquiescence to all the strange things that were going on here. There was time to wonder
over the mystery tomorrow. At that moment, all I cared about was shut-eye.

My dreams were at once ominous and confusing, filled with old men whose dentures kept
falling out. I was barefoot, trying to cross a hot asphalt street, and their false teeth kept
chomping on my toes as I tried to tiptoe past.

I woke at the ringing of the phone, dazed and bedraggled. I immediately flipped back the
covers and looked for any sign of dental partials attached to my ankles. The coast was
clear. I released my pent-up breath and picked up the phone. With a half-mumbled
"Hello?" into the receiver, I glanced around the bedroom. I was alone.

It was Charlotte. She was brimming with life and energy and calling everyone so that we
would meet for tea at four. I promised to show up at Samantha's room relatively on time,
before I hung up and fumbled at the bedside table for a clock and my first cigarette of the
day. It was roughly half past one. I was pretty confident I could manage to be presentable
with time to spare, so I decided to snoop before my shower.

I slid out of bed and tread softly toward the double doors connecting to the lounge. I
cracked them open and peered into the next room. I found Vachon sacked out on the
couch. There was a wooden crate sitting on the floor next to it, two empty bottles strewn
close by.

I snuck closer and eyed Vachon's still, pale face. He was asleep, all right - either that, or
dead. I considered checking for a pulse, but I wasn't altogether sure what I'd do if I
didn't find one. I wasn't altogether sure what I'd do if he woke up, either. My head still
felt muddled over this reality detour. Who was this guy, and why was I being so
accommodating when I had a strong suspicion he could get me killed?

I turned my attention to the windows. The heavy curtains were all drawn tightly closed. I
debated over drawing them open and letting some light in. It was daytime - that's what
normal people did, right? Still, there was a nagging voice in my head that told me not to
do it. Leave the curtains alone, it ordered firmly. I rubbed my forehead and shook my
head. It wasn't like me to hear little voices in my head unless I was debating whether to
buy a pair of shoes I couldn't afford.

Needing distraction, I glanced over at the motorcycle propped close to the wall. He'd
moved it out of the bedroom while I was asleep, and I hadn't been remotely aware of it.
There was now a sturdy, slightly grungy piece of cloth underneath the bike to protect the
carpet. A couple of tools, including my old buddy Mr. Screwdriver, had been left on top
of the canvas. It looked like, after his transaction with his pal Screed, Vachon had spent
the rest of the night and part of the morning drinking and fine-tuning his Triumph.

My stomach flip-flopped. Drinking what?

I looked down at the floor. One of the bottles was tipped on its side, bone dry. The other
still stood upright, a half-inch of dregs in the bottom. I cautiously picked the bottle up,
eyeing the sleeping/comatose/dead Vachon for any sudden moves. When he didn't so
much as twitch, I read the bottle's label. There wasn't much there to clue me in. Just a
year, 1991, and a few letters: H and A-. I rolled the bottle on the floor slightly with my
foot to see if its label was any less cryptic. This one read '1992', 'H' again, with a 'B+.'
Could Mr. Mysterious, The Oilrig Worker Formerly Known As J.D. Valdez, be a wine
critic?

It seemed pretty improbable. I held the bottle of 'A-' up to my nose. It didn't smell
alcoholic. I lined my right eye up with the opening and swished the contents. There was
some kind of sediment there, but it didn't quite look right. It was more pulpy than random
bits of floating cork.

I frowned at the contents and decided there was one thing left to do. I'd try it. I stuck my
finger in the bottle as I tilted it, sending a silent prayer that I wouldn't get my hand stuck
twice within one 24-hour period. I breathed out in happy success as I freed my finger. It
was covered in something very red. I sniffed at it again, and I felt like it was familiar. My
brain was twisting again. I should be able to identify this, but my mind was playing keep-
away. I tentatively held out my tongue, not quite reaching the sample drop on my finger.

A hand suddenly clamped around my wrist and pulled it away from my mouth. I gasped
and looked down. Vachon was wide-awake, his eyes tunneling into me again. "You don't
want to mess with that," he said.

I believed him.

He tugged my stained hand closer, and I couldn't look away. I was caught in the
headlights of his eyes as he sucked my index finger inside his mouth and licked it clean.
His lids dropped closed then in pleasure, and I jerked my head to the side and took a step
back.

"I've got a...thing...to get ready for. I'm meeting my friends. They're expecting me," I
said warningly, before I scampered in retreat to my room. I could feel Vachon's grin at
my skittishness burning into my spineless back. Once I was shut off behind the double
doors again, my first stop was the windows. I yanked the drapes wide, releasing a
relieved sigh as I felt the glow of the sun envelop me. I must have stood there for an hour,
staring out at the people passing on the street below, the blue sky, the clouds, and the
green, vibrant grass. Only when I felt safe and warm did I retreat into the bathroom to
take a shower.

*******************************************************************
End Of Part Seven

Undeath And The City(8/13)
A Sex and the City/Forever Knight Xover
Copyright 2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

I don't know why I thought it was necessary, but I put on sunglasses before I ventured
into the lounge again. I may not have been planning to leave the building, but my
instincts were telling me that, if I was going to have any more face-to-face conversations
with Javier Vachon, I needed to put up some barriers to protect myself. I darted toward
the exit, only my effort was unnecessary. Vachon had slipped out somewhere. His
Triumph was still on the scene, as well as the crate that I wasn't supposed to mess with.
He'd be back, I was sure. What I wasn't sure about was whether his return was a good
thing.

When I opened the door, I found that the hotel management had propped comp copies of
the Toronto Star and the New York Times against it. I hopped over them as though they
were contaminated with ebola. Maybe I'd feel inclined to tackle the crosswords later, but
for now, no new news was good news.

I managed to reach Samantha's room my typical ten minutes late, meaning I arrived
simultaneously with the porter rolling the teacart. Charlotte opened the door, her eager
face brightening at the arrival of the seed cake and company. "We were getting worried. I
was ready to call you!"

"I was slow to get started," I mumbled.

"You're not the only one," Charlotte observed. "Miranda's dragging, and Samantha looks
absolutely *peaked*!" She shrugged their cares away and smiled enthusiastically. "I
woke up feeling incredible. I can't believe how much energy I have!"

"Whoopee for you," I said dryly as I followed her to the tea table.

Charlotte tipped the porter once the cart was in place, and she merrily whipped the silver
dome off the tray. There was a tea service, shortbread and cake, and a western omelet, as
well as several other less-refined beverages. I glanced curiously at Charlotte. "Who
ordered a Bloody Mary?"

Samantha raised her hand. "I did." She took the glass from a slightly disapproving
Charlotte. Samantha eyed the red contents for an inordinately long time before she took a
deep sip. She swallowed and appeared pensive.

"The omelet and the o.j.'s mine," Miranda announced. "I haven't had breakfast yet."

"Neither have I," I commented as I picked through the nibbles. "Don't they have any
sticky buns tucked in here?"

"Hmm. Speaking of buns," Samantha drawled, "yours are in a bit of a sticky place with
LaCroix. He wasn't entirely thrilled to see the scorch you left on The Raven's bar. I don't
think it helped your case that someone vandalized the condom machine in the ladies'
room and broke down the club's back door. Lucien likes people to respect his property."

I thought back to the oil stains on the rug in my hotel room and worriedly stuffed a piece
of shortbread in my mouth. I nodded toward the teapot and told Charlotte, "Hit me."

She was examining the contents of the tea box. "Would you like Earl Grey, China
Oolong or green?"

"Green. I think I'm gonna need the antioxidants." I glanced back at Samantha, who
looked just as washed out as Charlotte had suggested. Whatever she'd done last night, it
hadn't given her the usual day-after glow. "So...how is ol' Lucien? Did he sink his teeth
into your 'Sex is back' idea?"

Samantha choked on her Bloody Mary. "Oh, he approved. No problems there."

Problems? Who'd mentioned problems? Charlotte, Miranda and I all exchanged looks.
We might be *thinking* about our own problems or lack thereof, but Samantha was the
one who'd vocalized that there might be problems *somewhere.* The three of us leaned
toward Samantha in unison.

"Did something happen?" I demanded.

"What's wrong?" Miranda echoed.

"You can tell us," Charlotte insisted.

Samantha considered our words, but shook her head. She took another sip of her Bloody
Mary. "It's safer if I don't."

"Like, 'you'd tell us, but you'd have to kill us' kind of 'safer'?" Miranda said
sarcastically.

Samantha's eyes slanted away enigmatically. "Something like that."

"Oh, come on!" I was getting pretty sick of all the mystery recently injected into my life,
and since a nice, comfy distance had been established between me and the mystery man
in my suite, my questioning instinct was returning by leaps and bounds. Suddenly words
that I hadn't dared to voice aloud back in my hotel room were popping out of my mouth.
"It's not like LaCroix's eyes go all glowy, and he sprouts fangs," I sniffed, as if to say
'Get a real problem. Get my problem.'

Samantha's mouth dropped open. "How did you know LaCroix was a vampire?"

I blinked. There it was. The word I wasn't supposed to think about or say out loud.
Vampire. Samantha had put it out there, and it was like a dam had broken in my
consciousness. The gloves were off, the blinders, too. "Honey, I didn't. I was just talking.
You know me. Blab. Blab." A short, silent pause. "LaCroix's a vampire?" Samantha
nodded, and I grabbed another piece of shortbread. "Holy shit."

"Unholy shit," Samantha countered knowingly.

"So what happened last night?" I asked, drowning in curiosity and some sudden unholy
conclusions of my own. "You were all set to have sex with him. How did *that* work?"

"Not too well," Samantha confessed.

"Excuse me?" Miranda protested. "Am I the only one who thinks it's otherworldly that
you two are discussing sex with a vampire like it's a normal date?"

"Yeah!" Charlotte echoed, crinkling her nose. "Vampires - aren't they all icky? Don't
they sleep in coffins and dirt? I thought you had some standards. That's just...icky!"

"I wouldn't shudder too soon, sweetie," Samantha pointed out. "According to Lucien,
there's a whole Community of vampires wandering around this town. Where do you
think your Mr. Classic got that sun allergy and all those antiques?"

Charlotte's mouth dropped open. She was completely in denial, as well as appalled. "I'll
have you know that sun allergies have been well-documented by science and medicine,
and it has nothing to do with vampirism! Furthermore, if owning antiques meant
anything, half the men in Manhattan would be vampires!"

There was quiet as the four of us gave each other deep, suspicious looks.

After a minute, Charlotte shook her hand in the air and continued her protests. "I spent
over *five hours* talking with Nick over coffee last night. Why would he have a
cappuccino if he drank blood?"

"Well, it's hard to resist those sprinkles," I quipped.

"Camouflage!" Samantha declared. "They do it all the time! They suck up and fit in so
that they can literally fit in and suck up. Trust me. I had no idea LaCroix was a vampire
until I saw him in action."

"So you did see action," Miranda said doubtfully. "How did that work out again?"

I considered Samantha's hesitancy and the fact that she was wearing a turtleneck. "And
now we're back to the 'not too well' portion of the evening."

"He's an excellent kisser," Samantha confided to us. "I had no problem with the foreplay.
What I had a problem with was that he waited until I was naked with one hand on his
cock before he told me the news."

"Uh-oh," I said. It looked like no one was safe from the tyranny of the news. The
Information Age was not all it was cracked up to be.

"LaCroix whips out the fangs," Samantha continued, "and then he proceeded to explain
that vampires can't penetrate without penetration, if you know what I mean."

"He'd have to bite you?" Charlotte squawked. "Ehhw! That is so unsanitary!"

"Oh, please," Samantha said dismissively. "Don't tell me you've never had a man bite
you before."

Charlotte made a small frown. "Well, yes, but it was more like a little love nibble. He
didn't *bite me* bite me!"

"You have a point there," Samantha admitted. "There's biting, and then there's biting. I
didn't mind getting the teeth marks so much as I minded getting drained. Apparently,
when vampire men have an orgasm, they lose control and suck you dry."

"Well, to be fair," Miranda commented, "there've been times when I didn't have an
orgasm that I wanted to kill."

"So the bottom line is, to paraphrase your earlier comparison," Samantha concluded,
"LaCroix would fuck me, but then he'd have to kill me."

"There's always cuddling," Charlotte said optimistically.

Samantha laughed. "Honey, you'd have never said that if you had ever met LaCroix."

"But she makes some sense," I added. "There had to be some viable alternative, or you
wouldn't be hiding some kick-ass hickey under that turtleneck."

Samantha gently rubbed at her covered throat. "He doesn't have any problem with
control as long as actual fucking isn't involved. Apparently, drinking my blood was very
erotic for him."

"And what was erotic for you?" Miranda challenged.

Samantha thought about that for a while, and finally her shoulders sank in defeat.
"Frankly...?"

We all nodded, voraciously curious.

She grimaced. "It sucked." Samantha ran a hand over her head. "Being found desirable
can be only so much of a pick-me-up, especially when you wind up a pint low. The least
he could have done was go down on me, but, according to LaCroix, that's against 'The
Code.'" Samantha didn't appear overly impressed with these vampire standards and
practices, especially since they'd left her unfulfilled.

All this talk of eating had Miranda wolfing down her omelet. "You see? Live, dead - it
doesn't make a difference. Men will use any excuse to avoid the cunnilingus."

All this talk of sex had me wolfing down my next cigarette. "You would think that
vampires would have a handle on all things oral."

"All I have to say," Samantha declared as she lifted her Bloody Mary glass once more,
"is I came to Toronto to get fucked, and all I'm getting is screwed."

I had a brainstorm, relevant to my own know-a-guy-long-in-the-tooth status. "Tell me
something. How come Lucien LaCroix tells you he's a vampire, takes a sip, and lets you
stroll on over here and spill it to us? Isn't there a code or zoning requirement for *that*?"

"Actually, there is." Samantha looked about the table conspiratorially. "Normally,
vampires hypnotize their victims into forgetting all the important details so they can't
come back to haunt them later."

I looked down at my chest to see if 'Hello. My Name Is Victim' was pinned there in
place of my silk flower corsage. I snatched another biscuit off the tea tray and broke it
viciously in half, pretending it was an important and functional part of Vachon's
motorcycle. Better yet, Vachon. "So what made you so special?"

"LaCroix asked me to join them," Samantha said smoothly.

Charlotte abruptly set down her teacup and threw her hands into the air. "This all sounds
nefarious to me. Join them? You would never do something like that...be one of these
icky vampire people. You're much better than that. You're a leader, not a follower!"

"Well..." Samantha glanced slyly to the side. "It was flattering to be asked..."

Miranda was now staring at Samantha's near-empty Bloody Mary glass. "I take it from
your beverage choice that you're actually considering switching over to the red liquid
diet?"

"No!" Charlotte protested hotly. "She wouldn't!"

Samantha shrugged coquettishly. "I'm keeping my options open. Lucien said that I'll see
more of the way their world works over the next few nights. The policy nowadays in the
Community is to encourage informed decisions among their future brethren. 'Free
consent, freely given,'" she quoted.

"Free consent, huh?" I angrily stomped out my cigarette on one of the bone china
saucers. "Will somebody go tell that to the vampire hiding out in my room? I saw him
and this other guy all snarly and going at it last night, and ever since, my brain's been a
freaking taffy pull. It wasn't until Samantha said the 'V' word that my will snapped back
into place. Fuck! I already have one unobtainable man screwing with my mind - Big! - I
don't need another!"

Samantha's eyebrows tilted. "Sounds like he 'whammied' you." She gave a lascivious
smile. "How did it feel?"

"Numbing."

"He's in your room?" Miranda asked. "Who is this guy? Did you run into him at The
Raven?"

"Yeah. He was 'reach out and catch me' guy."

Charlotte was frowning over her tea again. "That's funny. I ran into Nick *outside* The
Raven."

"See?" Samantha pronounced. "I told you he was a vampire."

"He is not!" Charlotte declared. "He came there looking for me," she insisted. "It's my
fault for being there that he's been tainted by this ugly suspicion!"

"Oh, honey, buy a clue!" Samantha replied. "Your Mr. Classic was there to make a blood
connection. You caught him by surprise, and he retreated straight to the camouflage. Give
it time, and he'll be sucking you dry."

Charlotte's face crumpled up in dismay. "How can you say that? That a terrible thing to
say! You don't know him. Nick's not like that."

"Hello?" I waved my hand in the air, prepared to make an observation. "Is there anyone
at this table who *didn't* bag a vampire last night?"

"I didn't." We all look over at Miranda, who was tidying off her plate. "Miklos can
fuck." She impishly ate her last bite of omelet. "He can fuck well." Placing her fork on
her empty place, she added. "There's something up with him, though, but I can't quite
put my finger on it. He has a huge amount of glassware at his apartment, and he's always
offering to get me a drink. It's not that I have a problem with the politeness, it's just that
I'm afraid with all that liquid, I'll have to pee at an awkward moment."

I grinned. "I know a politician who'd like to talk to you about that issue."

As I left to go back to my room, I considered how my friends had given me plenty to
think about. It seemed that Samantha was actually considering the lifestyle change
LaCroix had to offer, and Charlotte was so desperate for her Knight in a Shining Cadillac
that she was self-whammying to believe her relationship wasn't Dead On Arrival. The
degree of my own tolerance for the mystery man in my room had me wondering the big
question...

...Are single women today so desperate to make a connection, they'd make the dead?

******************************************************************
End of Part Eight

Undeath And The City(9/13)
A Sex and the City/Forever Knight Xover
Copyright 2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

I closed the door to my hotel suite in a healthy slam. Vachon was back, sitting on the
couch, working the Times' puzzle. I clutched defensively at my sunglasses as I rushed
past him. "Don't talk to me."

He didn't. For some reason, as I stormed into my bedroom, that pissed me off even more.
I made one brief pit stop, tossing my sunglasses aside and grabbing my sleep mask off
the bedside table. By the time I reached the doorway again, I was blind as a bat, but at
least I was in control of my own mind. "I want you out of here as soon as the sun sets," I
announced.

"If that's what you want." I could hear the shrug. It infuriated me.

"What I want," I shouted as I began to prowl the floor, probably not the greatest strategy
since I couldn't see where I was going, "is my sanity back! No one sane wants this
Vampire Summer Camp arrangement we've got going. You come in here, you do that
thumpa-thumpa Cuisinart routine with my head, you're drinking blood..." I stopped
pacing and waved my hand emphatically in the air as if this was the ultimate insult.
"...Jesus! You're doing my fucking crossword!"

"Yeah, and it's not as easy as it looks." There was a rustle of paper. "Do you know a six
letter word for 'pleasingly fruity'?"

I answered out of reflex. "Peachy."

I heard the scratch of recycled pencil against newspaper. "Peachy. It's always the food-
related metaphors that give my kind trouble."

God, it was like my ranting and raving meant nothing. That the churning sickness I felt,
the sensation that something primal and elementary to me - my free will - had been
violated and tossed aside. I was so outraged that I couldn't see straight. Okay, with the
sleep mask on, even without the anger I couldn't see straight, but that wasn't the point.
His voice didn't carry a hint of remorse over what he'd done to me. That alone felt like
drawn blood.

My voice tightened into calm, deadly intensity. "Fuck the sunset. I want you out of here
now."

I heard him set aside the paper, then a stint of silence. When he spoke again, his voice
was hovering over my ear, and it sent a shiver down my spine. "Kicking me out won't
solve either of our problems."

"You're my problem. Kicking you out sounds like a fine plan."

"No, I'm not your problem."

That same reasonable, seductive note was in his voice. "Don't you dare." I put my hands
up to my face, making sure my sleep mask was still in place. "You do not have
permission to whammy me."

"Is that why you're wearing the mask? For protection?" I could hear the humor in his
voice.

I didn't think it was so damn funny. "I'm wearing it because I refuse to be a fucking
victim!" Declaring this, I promptly jerked away and walked straight into the wall. It hurt
both my pride and my elbow. I hated the little cry I gave as I hugged my arm close, but at
the same time, I didn't care anymore. I was bruised inside and out.

I felt Vachon's hands on my forehead, tugging at the edges of my sleep mask, and I
flinched. "Don't," I told him.

"You don't need it," he said quietly. His fingers were insistent, and the mask was off. I
squinted, my eyes clinging to the darkness. "I won't whammy you again. I promise."

I tentatively opened my eyes. "Why would you do that?"

His gaze held the promise of wickedness, and I belatedly remembered that men didn't
have to be vampires to play havoc with your senses. "Because there are far more
dangerous things I could do to you than block out a few memories."

He'd leaned in closer, and I could feel the lack of warmth. I shivered again, and not
entirely because I was cold. I also belatedly remembered that men didn't have to be
vampires to suck the life out of you. "So you can make a corpse out of me with very little
effort... Probably with very little thought," I added. He may not care what I had to say,
but I wasn't going to keep quiet. "That's killing my body. I'm a smoker - I don't exactly
have a life fetish. When you hypnotized me - that's the serious damage. You took my
freedom of thought. You stole my feelings and my reaction to the whole vampire thing,
and you smothered them. It may have been just a few inconvenient details you'd rather I
didn't remember, but to me, it's my fucking identity! You can't just mess with someone's
head like that and act like it's not that dangerous. It is dangerous. It's who I am!"

"Your blood is who you are," Vachon countered.

"Not from where I'm standing."

"That's why we don't let mortals remember," he said, brushing a hand alongside my
cheek. "You just can't understand how the puzzle fits when you only have a couple of
pieces. You let them remember, and they always ask questions. You let them remember,
and suddenly they're either hunting you down or they're part of your life."

I could guess the answer, but I asked the question anyway. "So what do you do when the
whammy doesn't work?"

"Usually? Kill them. Or make them a vampire," he added good-naturedly.

It effectively busted the intimate mood that had settled over our conversation. "Jesus!"
He stepped back, and I was pacing my fury over the floor again. "Is that the way you
people solve every problem? Things aren't working, so just wipe it out of existence! If
everyone on Manhattan killed every time they encountered an alternate lifestyle, there'd
be no one left!"

"There'd have to be someone left," Vachon reasoned logically.

I wanted to smack him. "But they'd be alone."

"It'd be easier."

"Well, God forbid that things aren't easy for the bloodsuckers!"

"Easier is by no means easy."

That simple statement took the heart out of my indignation. He meant it. Maybe he did
violent, despicable things to protect himself and stay alive. He didn't always enjoy it. I
decided to be satisfied with the admission. Bitching isn't easy, either, and it's hard to do
and simultaneously smoke. The mouth must multitask. I let my rage have a timeout since
I was craving some nicotine.

I waltzed back into my room and located my pack of cigarettes. Lighting up, I was struck
by curiosity. It wasn't all for my own sake. I was thinking of LaCroix's invitation to
Samantha. I looked up and found Vachon watching me from the doorway. "How hard is
it to be a vampire? Would you make the same choice if you had the chance to take it
back?"

He shrugged, not intrigued by my question. "I don't think about it. Kind of a waste of
time."

I insisted. "Come on, try. It's not futile on my side of the fence. I could use an opinion."

My pushing made him impatient, I could tell. There was a faint clenching of his jaw and
a barely perceptible glower. Vachon was so low-key, I finally felt like I was playing with
fire. I told myself to be content with whatever he said next. "Carrie, what do you want me
to say? I was dying. I chose to live. It wasn't like I was polled with a list of options."

"Huh?" I coughed in surprise. This wasn't remotely the information I had expected.
"What do you mean you were dying? What about the whole 'free consent, freely given'
code?"

Vachon looked at me as though I'd just offered him shares in Amway. "What are you
talking about?"

"The Code thingy!" I waved my cigarette, flicking ashes indiscriminately. "You know,
people are supposed to be *asked* before they join the undead club. Kinda like at
weddings with the minister. 'If anyone knows a reason why this person should not
become a vampire, speak now or forever sprout fangs.'"

Vachon laughed at me. I suddenly felt like a naive twit.

"It sounds like a good idea to me," I argued.

"It sounds like a crock," Vachon countered. "Who told you that?"

"A friend." I pulled out my trump card. "And she heard it from LaCroix!"

If vampires could suffer from heartburn, Vachon looked stricken. "Figures." His brown
eyes narrowed at me speculatively. "You and your friends all seem to have bitten off
more than you can chew. You don't have the teeth for it."

"You do?"

He sent me a big, deliberate smile and demonstrated. Instinctively, I cringed and took a
step back. "Shit! So you're telling me Samantha doesn't have a choice in the matter?
She's dead meat?" Vachon stared at me. He didn't appreciate my euphemism. "Sorry," I
offered weakly.

He gave a short nod, accepting my apology. "Samantha's your friend that LaCroix
approached?" he asked. I shook my head up and down as I hung onto his every word. It
didn't take hypnotism to get my attention this time - it took concern for a friend. "Maybe
it's a gimmick of his. I don't know. LaCroix's not exactly a buddy. I keep a respectful
distance."

"I hear that." So far LaCroix had succeeded in dominating Samantha. *Samantha.* He
didn't sound like someone simple to keep close quarters with. I was worried for her.

"He could mean what he said. It might be a personal rule of thumb. It might be he's just
toying with Samantha. But honestly..? No one I know ever got a chance to walk away
intact. She either says 'yes' or..." Vachon let his voice trail off meaningfully.

"Or...?" He pantomimed a biting motion. I caught on. It was possible that, no matter what
Samantha's decision was, she'd wind up drained dry. "Fuck!"

"That's one way of putting it," Vachon said knowingly. "Look, I don't know the guy, but
one of my friends works at the Raven. She might have a better idea of what LaCroix's
standard operating procedures are nowadays."

I was all for action. "Then let's go to the Raven!"

Vachon nixed that idea. "We call the Raven. Don't forget that The Inka's waiting for one
of us to show up somewhere predictable like that."

"Oh, yeah." I had forgotten, but that was partially Vachon's fault. He'd *made* me
forget the most frightening bits. It all came rushing back, and I shivered. "The Inka.
What's *his* problem?"

"Just an old grudge."

"How old?"

"About five centuries."

"That's some grudge. Poncho Boy should get over it already."

"Someone's at the door."

His statement confused me. "What?"

He nodded in the direction of the suite entrance. "You have a visitor. Human." On cue,
there came a soft knock.

I sent him an amazed glance as I waked toward the door. "How did you know?"

"Supernatural hearing. I'll be on the phone," he told me, before shutting himself off in
my bedroom.

I stubbed out my cigarette in an ashtray before tentatively cracking the door open. It was
Charlotte.

She was dressed to go out. I recalled her date to visit the Metro Museum of Art with
Detective Knight. She looked more fretful than excited. "What's up?"

Charlotte peered around me, looked askance at Vachon's motorcycle (apparently icky by
association with a known vampire), and tiptoed over the threshold. "Is it here?" she asked
in a hushed voice.

"Sweetie, he's dead, not neutered," I corrected.

"You're the one who let him follow you home! He's not a puppy; he's a monster!"
Charlotte squeaked in alarm. "I don't know how Samantha and you can be so casual
about these vampires. You're dealing with people who kill people!"

"And now we're at a whacked out Barbra Streisand concert." I grimaced. Charlotte
wasn't out of bounds. I just didn't like the reminder. Speaking of reminders... "Listen." I
clutched the edge of the door like I meant business. I suppose I did. "I need to talk to
Samantha before she goes back to the Raven. It's serious."

Charlotte appeared forlorn. "She's already left."

I smacked my palm against my forehead. "Shit! If I leave the hotel and go after her, I'm
dead. What about Miranda? Is she still here?"

Charlotte shook her head. "Miklos picked her up a few minutes ago. What is it? Is
Samantha in danger? And why are you dead if you leave the hotel?" Charlotte's brow
crinkled fiercely. "Vampires! They're bad!" That was pretty damning stuff for the
damned as far as Charlotte was concerned.

"Okay, you're right. Never mind about that." I grabbed Charlotte's hand and squeezed.
"You have to go for me and warn Samantha. Tell her that I've heard LaCroix might not
let her say 'no' to his offer. She should stay away from him. We should all high tail it
back to Manhattan, where the only things that get drained are our bank accounts and
Martini glasses."

"But Nick's coming to pick me up in a few minutes," Charlotte protested feebly. She was
equally concerned for Samantha, but this was standing up Mr. Classic she was
contemplating.

I leapt onto that information. "Even better. Wait for him, and make him take you. He's a
vampire, right? Let him protect you at the club. That place is a hotbed of supernatural
wackos. Stay away from guys in ponchos."

"Nick is *not* a vampire!" Charlotte insisted strongly. Then, less strongly, she added,
"Well, it hasn't been *proven* that he's a vampire." She looked at me humbly. "That's
why I'm here. You've seen vampires up close, and I thought you might be able to tell for
sure if you were there when Nick comes to pick me up."

"Honey, I don't have radar."

"Carrie!" she pleaded. "I have to know! I can't just ask him outright. What if he isn't a
vampire? He'll think I'm weird! Please!"

"If I help, will you promise to go to the Raven, no matter what?"

"I promise."

"Okay, let's move. Samantha doesn't have all night." Charlotte was already out the door,
but I found myself looking over my shoulder towards my closed off bedroom. Vachon
had to have finished his call by now. I could be sending Charlotte off on a wild goose
chase. I debated popping my head in there and getting a verdict, but decided against it.
Maybe this was the kind of zealousness Vachon had talked about, or maybe Charlotte's
fears had rubbed off on me. Whatever it was, I didn't want Samantha to say 'yes' to
LaCroix's offer, even if it was made in good faith. The job might have fallen to Charlotte,
but someone had to let our friend know that there was more to life than becoming a
vampire.

****************************************************************
End of Part Nine

Undeath And The City(10/13)
A Sex and the City/Forever Knight Xover
Copyright 2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Charlotte hadn't been kidding when she said Nick Knight was on his way. We'd no
sooner entered her suite than the Detective appeared in the open doorway. We both
shrieked.

"You're good at sneaking up on people," I commented brazenly.

"Cop skill," he explained casually, granting me a polite smile before searching out
Charlotte's gaze for an introduction.

Charlotte recovered from her embarrassment over her reaction to his sudden appearance.
"Nick, I'd like you meet my friend Carrie."

He smiled and took my hand in a firm grip. "The writer, right?"

"That's my day job." Charlotte coughed uncomfortably, obviously concerned that I was
too obvious. Rather than follow her discreet signal, I conjured up a blatant one of my of
own. Staring frankly at our handshake, I exclaimed to Nick, "Whew! Your hand is cold!"
I looked emphatically at Charlotte. "His hand is cold."

Charlotte's face crumpled. "Oh, no, Nick! Your hand is cold!"

"I have low blood circulation." I had to give him credit - he was swift with these
reasonable explanations.

Luckily, I was unreasonable. "Hear that, Charlotte?" I gave her a communicative wink.
"Nick has low circulation."

"Oh!" Charlotte circulated her own, naturally warm, hands in despair.

Nick loosened his grip, no doubt to avoid further comment, and looked between the two
of us with concern. "Is there something wrong?" He gave the impression that *we* were
the ones that had something strange about us. Samantha had been right, Nick was a
master at this camouflage business.

I moved past him until I was standing in the hotel hallway. "Sorry. I didn't mean to be a
third wheel to your date. I just stopped by to borrow Charlotte's necklace."

"Right," Charlotte agreed nervously. She was now highly suspicious that her Mr. Classic
was more old-fashioned than she'd previously suspected. She didn't know what to
conclude. Poorly circulated man? Sun allergy sufferer? Blood sucking evil? Undead
bachelor with excellent taste is art? Nick Knight could be any of these. How could
Charlotte know for sure? "The necklace. Which one did you want again?"

"The cross."

"Ohhhh! The cross!" Charlotte echoed. "Good idea!"

As she rushed off to her bedroom, Nick asked, his brow slightly furrowed, "A cross? Are
you religious?"

"Oh, hell no!" I replied. "I mean...kinda." Realizing that I'd just bombed the best excuse
for needing such a necklace, I gestured at my gold sandals and gave a weak grin.
"Matches my shoes."

Nick frowned, like he thought crosses should be taken seriously, not callously used to
accessorize. An uncomfortable silence shrouded us. It accentuated my mistrustful
thoughts, so I sidled further into the hall. We both looked relieved when Charlotte
reappeared to rescue us from our social stalemate.

Charlotte happily noted that Nick was standing between us. It meant she could involve
him without appearing blatant about it. Charlotte loved subtlety. "Could you pass this to
Carrie for me?" she asked with an innocent air as she took Nick's hand and closed it
around her filigree cross.

I don't know what we expected, but it wasn't Nick calmly turning to me and handing
over the jewelry. "My pleasure."

Charlotte and I looked at each other blankly. He hadn't screamed in agony. He hadn't
even squinted. It was if the guy practiced his ability to handle crosses without flinching
on a regular basis. I felt like an idiot.

Charlotte felt triumphant. She curled her hand through the crook of her cool, but
obviously mortal, date's arm and sent me on my way. "Well, that's sorted out. Have a
nice night, Carrie."

"You, too," I waved and began to move along the hall, but I didn't let her forget about
Samantha. I hadn't, and this was one warning that couldn't wait any longer. "Good luck
on your errand."

"Oh!" Apparently Charlotte had forgotten Samantha's peril in her joy that her Mr. Classic
wasn't quite classical.

"Errand?" Nick questioned.

"I have to give a friend a message. It's very important. A matter of life and death!" The
way Charlotte had of voicing her concern, it would be like stomping a bunny to tell her
'no.'

"Then it's good you have a Homicide cop to take you," Nick said gallantly.

Charlotte smiled shyly. "Isn't it?"

******************************************************************

I wandered back to my suite. Vachon opened the door as I arrived. The chivalry did
nothing for me. I held Charlotte's cross in front of his face and demanded, "Does this
bother you?"

His expression was akin to a Yankee fan confronted with the Mets. "Yes."

I shoved the necklace into my pocket and walked grumpily into the suite. "I just don't get
it. Everything about him screamed 'Vampire!' He can't go out in the sun. His skin's cold
to the touch. He collects antiques, and he's not gay. Charlotte even ran into him outside
the Raven last night."

"Sounds like a possible undead encounter to me," Vachon observed. "What scrapped
your theory?"

"He managed the cross like a pro. If he'd had more than one on his hands, Nick Knight
would have juggled them and started tap dancing."

The name startled Vachon. "Nick Knight?"

I froze. "You know him?"

"No. I've heard talk around town about him, though."

"And he's a vampire," I concluded all on my own. I looked to Vachon for confirmation,
but he remained stubbornly tight-lipped. For Vachon, that spoke volumes. "I knew it!" I
turned and headed out the door again.

Vachon caught me. "Where are you going?"

"To catch Charlotte. She thinks he's mortal. I don't want her to get hurt."

"Relax. I told you I've heard about Knight," Vachon explained. "Word has it that he's
looking for a cure, that he wants to become mortal again."

I was mystified. "Can he do that?"

Vachon gave me a look that said, 'What do I care?' "Not important. What matters is that
Knight sounds like a straight and narrow type. He goes out of his way to not drain the
population."

"That's good, right?"

"It's weird for someone who needs blood to survive," Vachon said stubbornly, "but for
your purposes, it's not a bad thing."

I gave a short nod and tried to put worrying about Charlotte and Samantha out of my
head. I'd go out of my way to help a friend, or to catch a pair of Manolo Blahniks on
clearance. What would *Vachon* go out of his way for? A new type of motor oil? Quiet
time apart from The Inka? It was a mystery to me what might drive my mystery man to
distraction.

Then it hit me. Whammies and evasion aside, he'd gone out of his way to keep me alive.
Through all my ranting and raving, he had never once used it as ammunition. He had no
obligation to catch up with me the night before and warn me about The Inka. What's
more, he could have killed me and save himself some trouble. I looked at him with new
eyes, not as a guy, not as the undead, but as a person. "Thanks," I said, my voice soft and
wondering.

He was oblivious to my epiphany. "For what?"

All at once I saw the gulf that Vachon had spoken of earlier, and why there were rules for
dealing with mortals. He'd been around so long that what seemed like a major life crisis
to me was just part of his nightly routine. I wasn't the first nosy blonde he'd met under
inconvenient circumstances, and I wouldn't be the last. Sure, my hair might be curlier,
and I may have better shoes, but someone else would take my place in the adventure of
avoiding Javier's obsessed blood brother and dealing with the darkest side of Toronto's
nightlife.

No one likes to think they are insignificant. I'm no exception. For just a moment, I'd seen
casual nobility in Javier Vachon, when in reality he was just a guy passing time until the
next exciting thing came along. I'd have to be careful - too many mistakes like that, and
I'd lose my head again. To cover my error in judgment, I snatched up the copy of the
Times and waved it in the air. "Thanks for doing my crossword!" I made my voice tough.

"If you're bored," Vachon said with irritating calm, "you could read that paper."

I scowled. "I am sick of the paper!" In a fit of pique, I began to tear the pages of the
Times in half. "My life has TOO MUCH INFORMATION!!!!" As the pieces fluttered to
the carpet in whirlwind of grey and black, a slightly torn picture caught my eye. Big and
Natasha. Again.

I dropped to my knees, my hands latching onto the photo. I searched my wreckage
frantically for a moment until I found the fragment that carried the matching article.
As I read intently, one soft, surprised word bubbled out. "Oh."

Vachon crouched at my side, curious. These fits of mine, if anything, were keeping him
entertained. "What did you find?"

"A false alarm."

The New York Times had printed a correction. Mr. and Mrs. Big had submitted a follow-
up announcement that they weren't expecting their first child after all. It was simply a
mistake, another in a long line of mistakes, this one slightly embarrassing to publicly
acknowledge. 'Please accept our apologies.'

Could I? One of the few things my trip to Toronto had proven was how far I still had to
go to get over Big. Exactly whose false alarm was it? Did I have some tripwire in my
head that things weren't finished with Big, even though he'd married someone else?
What did it take for me to let go of that last, stubborn sliver of hope? Birth? Death?

I shivered and looked up from the newsprint. Vachon was still staring at me, and in his
patient eyes, I saw exactly what my relationship with Big had become. We were undead.
We were caught between life as a couple and resting in peace. It was like I was waiting
the same as Vachon, just passing time until something exciting happened, something that
would force me out of this limbo in between my past and my future.

Some of my distress must have shown in my face. Vachon frowned and asked, "Are you
okay?"

Was I okay? I'd just figured out that I was a vampire, too, emotionally sucking my own
life away rather than moving on past Big. Now that I knew, could I be like Nick? Could
vampires find their way back among the living? *Was* I okay?

"No, I'm not," I whispered, "but I will be."

*****************************************************************
End of Part Ten

Undeath And The City (11/13)
A Sex and the City/Forever Knight Xover
Copyright 2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Samantha wasn't the type of woman to feel threatened by a man, even if said man was a
vampire who'd invited her to a premature death party. This wasn't the type of challenge
to faze her. As far as Sam was concerned, she'd been in public relations long enough to
know how to manage her monsters. She saw no reason to make Lucien LaCroix the
exception.

In her mind, she had the situation perfectly under control. She'd sip some champagne,
gain a glimpse into the eternal crowd's style of nightlife, and keep her options open. It
was Samantha's standard procedure. She was obviously curious - LaCroix had made it
deadly clear that vampires didn't see much orgasmic action, unless they were prepared to
hide the bodies.

Could the promise of stopping the crow's feet in their tracks be worth such a sacrifice?

Samantha had her doubts that blood drinking was an adequate substitute for a sex life,
regardless of the impression LaCroix had given the night before. In her weaker moments,
and these were few and far between, Sam let the worries of a beautiful woman who was
no longer thirty-five wreak havoc with her self-esteem. In those times, she wondered if
the night would come when fabulous men would stop beating down her door. That's
when the temptation of plastic surgery snaked into her thoughts, and Samantha became
open to letting a doctor tuck, peel and inject the fear out of her. No, she hadn't given into
the apprehension yet - Sam had too strong of a sense of self-worth to give in to her doubts
for very long. Still, those fleeting, questioning moments of wondering what her future
would bring and how fast it would hit her made LaCroix's proposition a luring one. She
wanted to know more.

"So," she trilled slowly, after taking a sip of champagne. "What did you have in mind for
tonight?

LaCroix had stepped up behind her and whispered silkily into her ear. "A view from the
other side."

Samantha instinctively wriggled her hips in encouragement. "A spectacular view?"

"In my opinion. You've already experienced how it feels to be under the sway of the
vampire..." His voice was smug. Samantha felt him trail his cool breath along the bite
wound on her neck. The action was meant to tease and tantalize, but to Sam, it stung a
warning, one that was magnified by LaCroix's words.

"...How would you like to watch?" he asked.

Samantha didn't like the thought of being under the sway of anyone, and she didn't like
LaCroix taking her enthusiasm for granted. Sam had been his victim the night before, and
as much as there was the thrill of a new experience in it for her, she hadn't been left
completely satisfied or impressed. She intended to let him know it.

Samantha consciously shrugged his hands off her bare shoulders and put some distance
between LaCroix and her as she leisurely took another sample of champagne. She turned
and flashed LaCroix a challenging look. "You seem to be under the false impression that,
just because I'm a mortal woman, I haven't drained my share of men dry." She gave him
a satisfied smile that promised this was not the case.

"You, my dear," LaCroix swiftly countered, "seem to be under the false impression that
sex and life are the same thing. You speak of a 'little death' whereas I talk of death, itself.
Sex is but a fraction, a small part of the whole experience."

That comment caught her interest. Samantha wasn't big on small parts. "Prove to me that
drinking blood is beyond anything I can do already."

LaCroix's voice came, softened, but hypnotically emphatic. "Watch." He plucked the
crystal flute out of her grip and set the glass aside. "The first step in any seduction, mortal
or immortal, is the hunt. We must target our prey. Come..." He held out his hand.
"...We'll venture into the club."

Samantha eyed LaCroix's extended arm. She hadn't missed how he'd taken control of the
situation again, issuing commands regarding their plan of attack, rather than consulting.
She considered balking or reining him in, but she decided to give his scheme the benefit
of the doubt. If drinking blood really was better than sex, she could be patient until she
could objectively observe a demonstration. From what she'd experienced already, a
vampire's method of sinking in the teeth and sucking took far less effort or coordination
than giving a blowjob. LaCroix could be onto something.

Samantha clasped LaCroix's fingers. "Lead on."

********************************************************************

Once they were on the road, Nick glanced across the Cadillac interior and asked
Charlotte, "Where to?"

"The Raven." Charlotte immediately saw how his expression became wary and
disapproving. "I know you don't like that club, Nick." She reached over and placed one
of her warm hands over his, where it tightly gripped the steering wheel. "I don't like it
either, but my friend Samantha is there."

"You said it was a matter of life and death," Nick probed.

Charlotte lowered her eyes. "I'm sorry if I was melodramatic. It's very important that I
get the message to her. Carrie thinks the man Samantha's gotten involved with could be
dangerous, and I agree on principle."

"There are a lot of dangerous things at the Raven," Nick commented moodily. He wasn't
looking at Charlotte anymore, but staring heavily ahead.

"I got that impression last night." She glanced awkwardly at Nick. Something in his
demeanor had changed. He'd been smiling, teasing and optimistic when he'd come to
pick her up, even after the silliness with her cross necklace. Now it was as if the mention
of the Raven had caused him to close down. Charlotte didn't like the thought that
something she'd said had caused that alteration. The image of a knight in shining armor
flashed in her head again. She was seeing Nick's armor right now, but it wasn't so shiny.
His mood had tarnished until it was black. She took her hand away from his, dropping it
back into her lap. "I also get the impression that you don't want to go to the Raven."
Charlotte gulped and made a choice between Samantha and her date. "That's okay. If you
let me out, I can catch a cab and go by myself."

That offer snapped Nick's attention back to her full force. "No. I'm not letting you walk
in there alone," he said sharply. Charlotte tensed at the fierceness in his voice, and Nick
worked to make his attitude appear more relaxed. "Besides," he added, "we're almost
there. It would take longer for you to get out and hail a taxi. It's better if you accept
police protection."

Charlotte nodded slowly, wistfully. "That's what I was hoping for. I apologize for
bringing you into this, but..."

"Samantha is your friend," Nick finished for her. "I understand. You'd risk everything for
that. You're a good person, Charlotte."

When he looked at her, his eyes were filled with a longing respect. It was that chemistry
again, bubbling between them. Charlotte mused how Carrie had been right - the reaction
was causing something to swell - her heart. It was elating, yet troubling for her at the
same time. She frowned as she mused, "Sometimes friends do things that you don't
approve of, and if you really care, you have to say your peace. Like Helen...she told me
not to go out with you. Do you think she's forgiven me for not listening?"

"Helen's been one of the most open-minded, accepting women I've ever met." His mouth
twisted ruefully. "If it makes any difference, she warned me to keep my...hands...off of
you, too."

"Are you glad that you didn't listen?" Charlotte asked shyly.

It took Nick a pensive moment to answer, but when he did, he flashed Charlotte a
lopsided grin. "Yeah. I think I am."

Charlotte grinned back. "Me, too."

Nick pulled the Cadillac up to the curb. With the car stopped, he leaned over and glanced
a brief kiss against her mouth. Charlotte felt the contact flare in her lips, and from her
brain to her toes. He didn't pull away immediately, but hovered. The strange idea
dropped into her mind that he was drawn by the smell of her, and Charlotte's eyes
widened slightly.

Finally, Nick settled back in the driver's seat as he opened his door. "I don't know what
kind of danger you think your friend is in, but it'll be safer if I go inside the Raven alone,
while you stay in the car."

Charlotte protested. "No! You've never met Samantha. You won't recognize her, and
she's not going to listen to just any strange man who walks up to her with advice,
especially when she's not looking for one."

"Maybe I can recognize the man you want to warn her about," Nick negotiated. "I've had
to deal with some of the club regulars in the past - what's his name?"

"LaCroix. Lucien LaCroix."

Suddenly Nick was deadly. He was out of the car, turning to give Charlotte a final, sober
instruction in a low voice. "I can find him. I'll take care of it. If you trust me, stay in the
car."

The car door slammed, and he was gone before Charlotte could gather her wits and utter
another word. Did she trust him? A moment earlier she would have said 'yes.' He was
her Knight in a Shining Cadillac, her noble Mr. Classic, wasn't he? Her doubts about
Nick had faded the moment he'd handled her cross without flinching. That made him
safe. That made him trustworthy. That freed her of the dilemma of what she would do if
Nick was keeping secrets, if he was a monster just like the men who were troubling
Carrie and Samantha.

The moment she'd said LaCroix's name, though, Charlotte had seen murder in Nick's
eyes. It flashed, flicking a match of yellow fire into his peaceful blue irises. That's when
Charlotte knew. Forget the cappuccino, forget the cross. They had been camouflage; an
act engineered to hide that Nick was a vampire.

Charlotte took in a deep breath and held it. Did Helen know?
she'd warned. Had Helen been referring to her Ivy League background or her blood type?

Charlotte let out the breath in a rush. Helen knew what Nick was, and she'd offered
advice in the hopes of protecting both of them. What's more, Helen knew that Nick was a
vampire, yet she still entrusted him with the care of her infant son. Charlotte didn't know
what to make of that.

She pressed her hands against the car window, gazing at the entrance to the Raven as if it
would provide a solution. No doubt Samantha had been on target when she had suggested
that Nick hadn't come to the Raven to find Charlotte last night after all. He'd run into her
by accident, and he'd lied to her to cover up his true purpose.

Charlotte snatched the keys from the Cadillac's ignition and hopped out of the car in one
swift motion. She didn't know Detective Nick Knight, she realized that now, and all the
excuses she'd made for what he was or was not capable of had been wishful thinking on
her part. Whether his intentions were good or bad was immaterial. Whether she trusted
him or not didn't matter, either. Charlotte was certain that she trusted herself more.

If anyone could come to Samantha's rescue, she was the woman to do it. If Nick doubted
that, well, he didn't really know Charlotte York.

**************************************************************

Miklos had taken Miranda to an eclectic restaurant that boasted the best bar in Toronto.
Literally, 'Best Bar In Toronto' was emblazoned over the wainscoted arch that led to this
boastful alcove of Elysium. They passed it by on the way to the formal dining room, but
cocktails seemed mandatory after such blatant self-promotion.

Their chit-chat was warm and flirtatious as they waited for their drinks to arrive. It was
that weird in-between stage, after a couple has a sexual history, but before true intimacy
steps in to kill the magic or drive the fascination to another level. As Miklos casually
rubbed a thumb along the back of her right hand, while he murmured promises of what
he'd like to do to the rest of her after dinner, Miranda realized that she was in an even
weirder state than usual.

Normally at this stage, Miranda questioned everything. What did he think of her job?
Was she attractive enough? Did she acquiesce too much? How would her cat like him?
Was he too good looking? Was this going to work out?

Strangely, none of those questions had flashed through her head. Ever since Miklos had
convinced her to relax on the dance floor the night before, Miranda had found herself
capable of more grace in handling the opposite sex than she'd dreamed possible. It had
always been a fantasy of hers to be one of those women who calmly accepted adoration
as her due. Miranda felt that she had always had to work to catch a man's eye. She never
took them for granted, because that was exactly when they would disappoint her horribly
and crush her ego. This apprehension had led to her share of stressful socializing.
Sometimes Miranda had arrived home from dates so wound up from analyzing every
word that was said and studying the nuances of every move that was made that she
believed she had lockjaw.

Miranda realized that, in her own way, she was Ms. Clumsy. She stumbled through so
many relationships early on, afraid to let anyone in enough that they had the power to
hurt her, she'd driven many a man to trip out of her life.

With Miklos, she'd banished the analysis. It was effortless, and she was enjoying being
herself without beating everything to death with second thoughts. He was a desirable
man, and she was a desirable woman. What could be the problem with that?

Miklos paused in his compliments to ask the waiter to replace their table water with a
superior bottled brand. "Imagine," he told Miranda as he resumed his massage of her
knuckles, "serving tap water and thinking we wouldn't notice."

"Actually, I didn't," Miranda pointed out, unafraid that he would think less of her for the
admission.

Miklos looked deeply into her eyes. "You will," he promised.

Miranda grinned doubtfully. "Come on, it's just water! It can't be that different."

He turned her palm over and traced a tickling finger up her forearm. "You are mostly
made of water. So am I, but the difference between us is significant enough to warrant a
great deal of trouble. Water is the root of life. It is the foundation of every drink taken. It
is not a subject I consider lightly."

Miranda did. "Okay, I get it. Tap water bad. Perrier good." The talk of drinks made her
think about Sam and her Bloody Mary. "That reminds me...you said you knew the
previous owner of the Raven?"

Miklos nodded. "Janette. She decided to move to another city. I have a minor percentage
in the club, but I have no desire to run it. Janette chose to pass her interests on to
LaCroix."

Miranda's lawyer instincts kicked into action. "What about your interests?"

"I still have my shares, but I believe LaCroix works better with silent partners. I don't
work there anymore. Janette was my employer, but she was also my friend. LaCroix..."
Miklos let his voice trail off meaningfully.

"...Has killer instincts?" Miranda supplied knowingly. "You never said - what kind of
work did you do at the Raven?"

Miklos' answer was interrupted by the return of the waiter, delivering their bottled water
as well as their adult beverages. Miranda took a welcome sip of her Cosmopolitan, but
glanced across the table to find Miklos frowning at his Manhattan. He handed it back to
the waiter. "This is unacceptable. The bartender forgot the bitters."

Miranda had no problem that he was particular, until Miklos picked up her own drink and
sampled it. It failed inspection as well. "The perfect Cosmopolitan uses Cointreau, not
Triple Sec," he announced.

"It's fine. *Really,*" Miranda insisted as she watched Miklos pass her martini glass onto
the waiter as well.

"Please, Miranda," Miklos insisted. "I wouldn't expect you to drink anything that I
wouldn't serve myself."

Miranda froze mid-protest. "You're a bartender? That's what you did at the Raven? You
tended bar?!"

"Of course," Miklos replied. "What did you think I was? The accountant?"

Miranda knew what she thought. She obviously had a subconscious yen for bartenders.

The reason for her relaxation around Miklos suddenly became clear. She wasn't
questioning what he might think about her, because, in her heart, she always knew that
she would be going home to Steve. Her whole search, the looking for Someone Better to
come along, had just been another clumsy attempt to not let Steve too close into her life.
The sad reality was that she'd been in Canada for two days, and she already missed him
terribly. In some ways, Miklos might be that Someone Better - he had a better apartment,
he dressed like a professional, and he made her comfortable enough to feel like a woman.
The problem was that Miranda didn't really want Someone Better. She didn't want
someone perfect. She wanted Steve.

Miranda stood awkwardly and fumbled for her purse. "I'm sorry. This isn't going to
work. I should go."

Miklos was immediately on his feet as well. "Miranda, what's wrong? What did I say?"

Miranda shook her head. "There's nothing wrong with you. It's me." She brushed a palm
regretfully down his lapel, searching for a way to explain how she felt that wasn't
clumsy. "You're Cointreau, Miklos, which is wonderful...but I like Triple Sec. It may not
be the classier liqueur, but I want Triple Sec. I need Triple Sec." She raised a hand to her
forehead. "Oh, great, now I'm babbling like a lush."

There was disappointment in Miklos' expression, but he nodded sagely. "Don't worry,
Miranda. I understand what you mean."

She gave him a doubtful stare. "You do?"

"I'm a bartender. I've met plenty of drinkers with strange tastes."

"Gee, thanks." Miranda shot him a last, apologetic look. "I *am* sorry about the way
things have turned out."

"So am I," he promised, "but we can't help who we are." He paused to throw some bills
on the table. "I'll see you back to your hotel."

Miranda couldn't believe it. "Even after I just dumped you?"

Miklos treated her to one last dose of his center-of-the-universe stares. "Like I said
before, you're worth a great deal of trouble."

Miranda had to smile at that. She took his arm and allowed Miklos to escort her back to
her suite where he offered her a final farewell kiss, and Miranda accepted the token as if
it was her due. Sighing as she closed the door on her Someone Better, she mused that, for
the first time, she'd managed an end to a relationship that was almost graceful.

*****************************************************************
End of Part Eleven

Undeath And The City (12/13)
A Sex and the City/Forever Knight Xover
Copyright 2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Samantha allowed her eyes to wander over the dance floor. Knowing that LaCroix was
garnering her reaction to the Raven's guests, she didn't attempt to hide her interest in any
of the clientele. She centered her attention on a slim man with black hair and a trendy
suit, judging his skill in other areas by the way he moved his hips.

"You'll have to look elsewhere, Samantha," LaCroix murmured. "That one has already
been taken."

Sam gave the man another once-over, her expression blatantly disappointed. "You mean
he's a vampire?" She impatiently scanned the floor. "If *I'm* supposed to pick out a
mortal from the crowd, this could take all night. It's your club; you should stamp
everyone of legal drinking status with bullseyes to make it easier to identify a target."

"To a vampire," LaCroix said as he smoothly cupped a hand over her left breast, "your
heartbeat is erotic thunder. We do not need any other signals."

Samantha arched an eyebrow. "In that case, why don't you cut to the chase, and pick a
port in the storm?"

LaCroix's features twisted with wry amusement at her ordering tone. With an air of
indulgence, he drawled, "At your command."

Samantha accepted his lip service and waited patiently until he pointed out his choice
with a decisive nod. "There's an interesting specimen."

Sam followed his gaze. She couldn't help but agree as she looked over the muscular
blond man. In her own mortal, feminine way, her mouth watered. "Here, here. My
compliments to the chef," she crooned.

"Very well." LaCroix stepped behind her, both hands clasped around her shoulders as he
gave Samantha further instructions. "Now that we have marked our prey, I will leave it
up to you to bring him in for the kill. I trust that you shall have no trouble luring him
outside?"

"Outside?" Samantha protested. "Why not the back room? That's where you took me."

LaCroix shot a predatory look in the direction of their target before glancing down at
Samantha with a cold smile. "I don't have the same end in mind for our friend as I have
for you. Surely you've heard the expression, 'Discretion is the better part of valor'?"

"Oh, I see," Sam countered, fluttering her lashes as she mocked sweetly, "Your idea of
discreet is getting horny on the street."

"Not in the street," LaCroix assured her. "Turn left out of the Raven, and lead him two
doors down, then into the alley. I'll be waiting for you."

He seemed to think that her cooperation was forgone. Samantha sternly reached out and
smoothed his lapel. "What kind of girl do you think I am? I'll have you know I haven't
fooled around in an alley in months."

LaCroix lifted her hand to his lips. He trailed his mouth along her inner wrist, then gently
nipped the soft flesh, causing Samantha to gasp. "You are a live one, aren't you,
Samantha?"

"You bet your fangs, I am," she retorted.

LaCroix didn't boast about his wagers until the contest was already decided. He offered
no comment, but simply demanded, "Are we agreed?"

"On your way," Samantha relented. "If he likes women, I'll have him in the palm of my
hand within the hour. If not, well, I have methods of working around that. I attract all
types," she said with no small confidence.

"Undoubtedly," LaCroix agreed coolly.

Samantha wasn't sure she appreciated his tone. "Just don't get impatient," she warned.
"I'm not going to hurry on your account. I'll have our man in the alley when *I'm* good
and ready."

"Then I'll be waiting with bated anticipation." LaCroix gave her a heated look, before he
briefly nodded and disappeared into the crowd. Samantha shook her head when he was
gone, wondering why she suddenly felt sordid. It wasn't as if she hadn't shared a sexual
entanglement under the cloak of shadowed streets before. The plan was simple: she
would indulge in a little foreplay with an attractive man, and then watch as Lucien drank
his blood. LaCroix would whammy his memory clean of the encounter and send their
victim on his way, leaving Samantha free to make her verdict on the vampire decision.

But if everything was so easy, why did Sam suddenly feel like a hooker recruited to herd
a john into a vulnerable spot so that her pimp could roll him?

*****************************************************************

I tried to bury my worry over Samantha and Charlotte with chain-smoking cigarettes,
draining the mini-bar, and writing my column. Vachon persisted in ruining my
concentration by reading over my shoulder, no doubt concerned that I might give him a
mention.

"Will you stop that?! I'm trying to focus, and the nosy audience isn't helping." I waved
my hands in a shooing motion. "After five hundred years, surely your anti-boredom
techniques have evolved past antagonizing the working stiffs?"

"News flash: you aren't stiff."

I amended my status with a frisky smile. "All right. The working cuddly, then. Just go do
whatever you do to amuse yourself...in the other room."

Naturally, Vachon didn't listen to me. "Can't." He leaned back on the bed, boots and all,
oblivious to my attempts to compose a witty and insightful essay on my laptop. His hands
propped behind his head on my pillow. Suddenly Vachon was the obstinate talker. "The
bike's tuned; the crossword's done. I don't have any of my other toys on me, like my
guitar." He paused for a longing moment. "I suppose I could invite my vampire friends
over," he added, grinning as he saw my back straighten, "but even if The Inka didn't trail
them, the fewer undead you know about, the safer."

"Oh, so your boredom's my fault?" I decidedly hopped off the bed, stomped into the
lounge, and returned clutching handfuls of the torn newspaper I'd left scattering the floor.
"Here," I said, tossing the confetti in the air and letting it drift down on his head. "Paper
mache yourself a guitar. Practice origami. Get stuffed. I don't care. I've got a deadline."

I crawled back onto the bed and resumed typing, musing prosaically on life and death,
and the people caught between the two. Small sounds of crumpling paper were the only
proof that Vachon still lurked behind me.

That peace lasted about ten minutes. My concentration was shredded again as Vachon
said conversationally, "My other hobby is drinking games, but that's no fun to do alone."

I smirked over my shoulder. "That's also a sign of a more serious problem."

Vachon feigned innocence. "Like what?"

I flipped around onto my knees and leaned forward. "Like I'm beginning to wonder if
you have a drinking problem," I countered, blinking like an ingenue. I punched the
comforter with a sigh and shot my computer a wishful glance. Work helped to keep my
mind off of my friends, but Vachon had proved he was equally distracting. "You're not
going to stop bugging me, are you?"

"Don't think so." Vachon punctuated this by shooting a small newspaper airplane at my
head that he'd crafted during his brief busy time.

I saved my article in progress and shut down the laptop. I clapped my hands together and
pretended excitement. "Okay, J.D., bring on the drinking games!"

Vachon rolled off the bed in a shower of paper and joined me at the mini-bar. As he
picked out a set of old-fashioned glasses, he said, "The classic vampire drinking game is
Rum-O."

I inspected my hotel room's horde of booze, dug onto the fridge shelves, and withdrew
with my hands full of tiny bottles. "Oh, look! The Bacardi Fairy came! That covers the
'Rum.' What about the 'O'?"

Vachon gave me a meaningful look. "Guess."

I let my imagination wander. Vampires...drinking game...type O...

My mouth snapped shut, then dropped open again. "Oh." I glanced at Vachon and
discovered he was greatly enjoying my double-take. "So what do the mortal kids use?
Cherry Kool-Aid?"

"Do you have Cherry Kool-Aid?"

This called for another inspection of the mini-bar supplies. "Uh, no. I've got orange juice,
ginger ale, club soda, tonic water, and a couple juice boxes of something called
'Ribena.'" I picked up one of the boxes and studied the label. "It says it's currant syrup."
I frowned. "Is that any good?"

Vachon took one of the boxes and juggled it in his right hand. "That'll do." He ducked
into the lounge while I dumped all of the pillows onto the floor. Sitting cross-legged, with
my elbows propped on a cushion in my lap, I organized the Bacardi bottles into two neat
rows. My forehead thumped once, foreshadowing a mighty hangover. When Vachon
returned, he had another bottle, one of those numbers in jeweled-toned glass with a hand-
scrawled label. No doubt it read something simple, yet cryptic, like 'H-O.' After Vachon
passed the box of Ribena back to me, I studiously unwrapped the packaging and told
myself that neither judgment nor heebie-jeebies contributed to a strong sense of fun.

"What next?" I asked.

"The drinks are half Rum, half 'O.' We take turns downing a glass."

Vachon had settled on the carpet across from me. We both busied ourselves mixing our
own drinks. I emptied a bottle of Bacardi into my glass and eyeballed an equal portion of
the syrup. I blended it together with my index finger, which stained a notorious shade of
red. I licked my finger clean and cringed. This was extremely sweet stuff. I lifted my
glass in a toast and noticed that Vachon's Rum-O concoction looked no different from
my own. Go figure. "Bottoms up!" I called, then downed my share. I felt the burn of the
alcohol zip from my throat to my fingertips, followed by a raging sugar buzz. I shuddered
and set my glass down firmly on the rug. "Mister, that is some *bad* candy."

Vachon took his turn. He effortlessly drained his glass, closed his eyes, and suppressed a
shudder similar to my own. The difference was, of course, that his buzz wasn't caused by
sugar hitting his system, but something else entirely. I remembered what Samantha had
said that afternoon about how vampires found drinking blood erotic, and I caught myself
staring.

When Vachon opened his eyes again, they carried a faint, strange light. I swallowed
emptily and licked the corner of my mouth. He glanced at my empty glass and chided,
"Don't be shy. Round two."

I wasn't so strict this time when I measured my portions. The flavor of the alcohol struck
my tongue in a wave of white fire. I fanned myself with one hand as my cheeks flushed.
I'd overlooked the fact that I had worked through two vodka martinis along with my
column earlier. The combination was catching up to me fast.

"How are you doing?" Vachon asked. He was casually sipping his second helping. Smart
man.

"Oh, I just figured out why they call it 'Demon Rum,'" I told him. "My nervous system
feels possessed."

"Sounds like you're a natural," he said as he drained his glass dry.

"At what?" The Rum-O had imparted me with equal parts clarity and intoxication. Not
only had I realized I was rapidly becoming drunk, it occurred to me that Vachon had
shared very few rules in his little game. "There's got to be more to Rum-O than rotating
shots. How does anybody win?"

"Rum-O isn't so much about winning as it is about not losing," Vachon said
philosophically.

I mixed a third round while we talked. "I'll bite. What's so bad about losing?" As I
swallowed my next drink, I strongly suspected my taste buds had gone into shock.

"The loser has to pay a forfeit, anything the winner wants."

I squinted at Vachon as he drained his third glass. "What's in it for me? What do you
think I want from you?"

He shrugged. "Enough peace and quiet to write your column?"

I made an unladylike sound. "Yeah, like I'm sober enough to type now." I leaned
forward, crossing the boundary of rum bottles on the floor and entering his airspace while
I said daringly, "Try again."

"Okay..." He raised one hand and gently brushed my hair behind one ear. "I could risk
unlife and limb to track down your friend Samantha. But, no," he corrected himself,
"you've already got Charlotte and Knight on her trail." He studied me with glittering
brown eyes, drinking in my reaction to every word. "Maybe you'd be satisfied if I
stripped you bare and licked every inch of you until you can't remember the day of the
week, the month, the year, or even your own name. I could love you until the only name
coming to your lips is -"

"Vachon..." I called to him on a sigh. My mouth was dry. Suddenly, it didn't feel like we
were playing so much of a game anymore. My thin t-shirt felt impossibly heavy, and the
room temperature had to have shot up ten degrees in half the minutes. I'd already proven
that I was a girl who lived dangerously, so that begged a question. "And what do you
want?"

Vachon could be very plainspoken when he chose, and his answer left me breathless with
its raw simplicity. "I want to taste you."

Once I gathered the meager scrap of my wits that weren't under the influence, I looked
pointedly at his empty glass and mimicked his earlier challenge. "Don't be shy. Round
four."

I thumped back to my side of the bottles and bemusedly began to pour my next Rum-O.
My hands had lost some of their coordination, and I sloshed a bonus splurge of Ribena
into the glass. "So how do we know when someone has won?" I asked with deceptive
calm.

He answered with equal nonchalance. "The loser is the first one to slip into a coma."

I'd taken a large gulp just before he'd spoken, and I struggled not to choke. The extra
shot of currant syrup worked like an insulin bomb. I felt tiny needles stabbing behind my
eyes, and my teeth chattered. "Does a diabetic coma count? That stuff is absolutely
disgusting."

"Let me see." Without breaking eye contact, he took my hand and dipped my stained
index finger back into my half-filled glass. Our hands gyrated the interior once, then he
lifted my dripping finger until the flesh was enveloped by the cool, wet interior of his
mouth. Vachon slowly pulled his head back until my fingertip was resting on his lower
lip. I trailed my hand lower, tapping his chin lightly as I asked, "What do you think?"

He grasped my hand and repeated as earnestly as possible, "That stuff is absolutely
disgusting. Cross my heart and hope to die, you should refuse to drink another drop of it."

"Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" I shuffled my knees forward, shoving the dregs
and remaining bottles out of my path with my free palm. I settled when I straddled his
lap, feeling like a kid playing chicken with a train. "You rotten cheat. Mortals never win
this drinking game, do they?"

"They haven't yet," Vachon responded with a faint grin. "It's a little thing called alcohol
poisoning, Carrie. It can't kill you when you're already dead."

I'd already come to that conclusion, but the knowledge hadn't filled with me frustration
as much as anticipation of what would happen next. Vachon had manipulated me very
soundly, but I didn't have the inspiration to be outraged. In all my defense of free will,
I'd lost track of the oldest trick of all. Desire had a whammy all its own, and I had never
been immune. It was time to bite the bullet. "I forfeit."

When I was kissing him, I didn't surrender to the speculation of whether I could find the
taste of something other than rum on his tongue, at least not any more than Vachon
concentrated on my flavor of sweetness and cigarettes. The moment was about life, and
how none of us are quite as dead as we like to think. Maybe living wasn't just a physical
state, measured in heartbeats and body temperature, but a state of mind. It was the people
closed off from the world, blinded and isolated by their own self-absorption that were
truly dead.

Vachon slipped his hands under the waistband of my shorts and pulled them down over
my hips as his mouth danced around my knee.

On second thought, maybe living *was* a physical state.

As his tongue flicked against my inner thigh it became illuminatingly clear that, while
some vampires might have rules and standards of their own, Javier Vachon lived by his
own Code, and in his own way, he played fair. True to his word, after my third orgasm, I
couldn't remember my own name.

It was only when I was limp and sated, awash in a sea of faint aftershocks rippling
through my abdomen, that I felt his mouth against the inside of my leg again. I gasped as
his teeth sank deeply into me; there was a dull throbbing pain, but at the same time I felt
more alive and ecstatic than ever before. I buried my fingers in his hair and gave a
mellow whimper. I wanted him to drink more. I wanted him to take me, the vampire
equivalent of fucking me until the headboard rattled and I saw stars. Why the hell hadn't
Samantha mentioned this?!

I moaned Vachon's name, following it with an emphatically wailed, "Oh...god!"

He pulled away from me with an abrupt growl. I sat up like a shot, reaching for him.
"Don't stop!"

We were both panting, me in a desperate haze, he in a hungry glow. Vachon shook his
head. The spell was breaking. It was like I'd been showered in ice cubes. I blinked at my
hand still extended toward him, flexed my fingers, and experienced a tingling numbness.
I shot startled eyes at Vachon - how much had he drunk? His irises had faded from
deadly red to a burning gold as he watched the stages of awareness fly across my face.
My blood rimmed his lips.

"You need a tissue," I mumbled. I pantomimed the stains. "You've got a little
something..."

"Carrie..." Vachon's voice was cautious.

Maybe he was worried that I was going into shock. Nope, that wasn't it.

"There's someone at the door," he announced.

"Huh?" I whirled my head around, sending my hair flying. Sure enough, there was an
emphatic knocking coming from the lounge. "Shit! When did that start?!"

"Round about the time you started praying."

A voice broke in on the knocking. "Carrie? I can hear you in there. Are you okay?"

"Oh, shit! It's Miranda!" I wobbled to my feet and grasped onto Vachon to keep from
tipping over. He'd already gotten up and managed to locate the tissue all on his own. "It's
Miranda!" I repeated.

He smiled faintly and, as he gently supported both my elbows, he planted a soft, but
steadfast, kiss on my mouth. "Can you stand?"

"Yeah, I think so." He let go of my arms and made me prove that I knew what I was
talking about.

Vachon gave a satisfied nod. His gaze had subsided to a quiet, warm brown. "Now...are
you calm?"

"Of course, I'm calm," I said, giving a nervous chuckle. "It's Miranda!"

"Then calmly..." Vachon said slowly in a soothing voice. "...Answer the door."

I gave a small salute. "Absolutely."

When I turned to enter the lounge, Vachon caught me by the arms again. "Carrie, one
more thing: you're still half-naked."

"Oh!" I glanced down. Naked, naked, naked, and not necessarily my better half. "That
explains the draft."

I skittered over to my closet and yanked my pink and black bathrobe free. Leaving
Vachon to cover up the most obvious signs of debauchery, I fumbled with the tie at my
waist as I scrambled for the front door. Whooshing it wide open, I greeted my visitor with
a bright, "Hi, Miranda!" The blood loss had made me punchy.

"It's about time!" Miranda complained as she briskly crossed the threshold. "I was
getting worried."

"Well, I wasn't exactly expecting you. I thought you were out with Miklos."

"I was, only when I found out he was a bartender, it just made me homesick for Steve."

"Oh, sweetie, if you want to fly back to New York, don't stay on my account!" I insisted.
"In fact, I think going back home is a good idea." It was a very good idea. If I remained
in Toronto much longer, not only would my libido get me into trouble, it would get me a
plot in the cemetery.

Miranda looked over my shoulder toward the bedroom. "Is there someone else here?"
She came to her own conclusions. "You didn't kick the vampire out?" Her eyes narrowed
as she studied me. "Carrie, you look pale. Why are you so pale?"

"Well, it's probably because I don't have any makeup on..." I thought it was a good
explanation, but Miranda wasn't listening. She was already in the bedroom, glaring at
Vachon as though he was a hairball in the middle of the rug. "Everyone kind of met the
other night, but I guess you weren't formally introduced. Miranda, this is Vachon.
Vachon, meet Miranda."

"Hi." Vachon's greeting was nonchalant.

Miranda's was less so. "Hi-iiiii." She dragged out the word like fingernails across a
chalkboard. Miranda made an efficient survey of the bedroom floor and gave me a
sideways look. "Carrie...What'cha been doing?"

I looked at the floor and fought back a curse. Vachon's idea of hiding the evidence had
been to get the blood out of sight. The rumpled lower half of my clothing as well as the
leftover alcohol still littered the floor. Then there was the shredded newspaper sprinkling
the bed... "Oh, you know...just passing time...hanging out..." I glared over at Vachon,
wondering why he wasn't being any help. His attention was focused on my leg, at the
skin exposed where the two halves of my robe met. A trickle of blood was winding its
way toward my knee under the spell of gravity. I emitted a small squeak. I hadn't felt a
thing.

Miranda caught up on the staring spree. "God, Carrie, you're bleeding!"

I clutched at my leg and hopped toward the bathroom. "It's okay. I just cut myself
shaving," I lied baldly. "I'll just apply pressure or a Band-Aid or somethin'."

Once the bathroom door slammed behind me, Miranda swiped my abandoned clothing
off the floor. She balanced it knowingly in one hand and said, "Cut herself shaving,
huh?" Miranda had his number. She shot Vachon a frosty stare. "I'm a lawyer, you
know."

He didn't so much as blink. He had Miranda's number, too. "Would you like a drink?"

*****************************************************************
End of Part Twelve

Undeath And The City (13/13)
A Sex and the City/Forever Knight Xover
Copyright 2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Charlotte pushed through the dancers and marched determinedly up to the bar. "Max!"
When the Elf-Guy didn't respond right away, Charlotte banged on the counter with her
fist. "Max! Pay attention to me!"

Those nearby at the bar silenced when Charlotte raised her voice, then scattered when she
appeared increasingly out of her mind. Since his other customers had disappeared, Max
shuffled closer. "What do you want?"

"I need to find Samantha Jones. Have you seen her?"

Max fought back a yawn. "Don't know who you're talking about." He stepped back,
intending to move down the counter and go back to ignoring her again.

Charlotte didn't intend to stand for it. She heaved over the counter and grabbed Elf-Guy's
t-shirt, twisting it into a knot that burrowed at the bottom of his throat, making it hard for
max to breathe. "Don't give me that! Sam's with LaCroix, and I *know* you know who
that is! WHERE DID HE TAKE HER?!?!" Charlotte roared.

"I saw her go outside with some guy," Max sputtered. "Check the alleys. People get up to
funny stuff out there!"

"Hmm..." Charlotte tightened her grip slightly. Elf-Guy gave a pathetic little whinny. She
decided Max was telling the truth and let go of him. Charlotte wiped her hands off on a
bar napkin, then smoothed her hair. She daintily lifted her Kate Spade purse and snapped
it open, withdrawing several bills from her billfold. As she folded Max's dazed fingers
around the tip, she said, "I'm sorry that I was forced to inflict my assertiveness training
on you, but you are a very, very rude man! You should be ashamed of yourself! This is
*Canada*!"

Charlotte walked briskly back across the dance floor. As she brushed past one of the
patrons for a second time, someone emitted a hiss. Charlotte snapped, "Oh, go hiss
yourself!" She straightened her posture and tilted her chin in the air. Her voice came, firm
and prim. "Good manners make a more lasting impression."

She turned with a flip of her hair, and when Charlotte hit the top of the stairs, one of the
Raven patrons held the door open for her.

******************************************************************

Samantha made a new friend in record time. His name was Austin, and he had the type of
leonine, tanned looks that seemed best suited to a beach on the West Coast. Sam asked if
he worked outdoors, and, sure enough, Austin was on vacation in between logging jobs.
Samantha had caught a lumberjack. She fought back the urge to shout, 'Timber!'

After a few close-contact dances, Samantha was of a mind to get even closer. When
Austin indicated he mirrored her mood, she whispered an invitation to step outside for
some fresh air. They walked with their arms wrapped around each other, Austin nibbling
at her earlobe. Sam enjoyed herself, as usual, but she kept having a nagging feeling.

It was her conscience. Samantha had indulged in a great variety of sexual practices with a
large number of partners. In every instance, from the bondage to the tantric, participation
had been unanimously consensual. The players committed to their roles out of free
choice.

Part of what made LaCroix's offer attractive to her was the 'free consent, freely given'
concept. Samantha's life philosophy boiled down to the pursuit of freedom. She'd been
intrigued; she'd wanted LaCroix to drink her blood last night. She'd chosen to cooperate
in LaCroix's plan this evening out of curiosity. Austin had chosen to come outside
because he desired Samantha.

That's what pricked Samantha's sense of fair sexual play. Austin had been set up to be a
blood donor, and he didn't have a clue. What he had agreed to was not necessarily what
he was going to get.

They were in the alley now, and Austin thrust Samantha's back against the brick wall. He
lowered his head and began to suck at her breasts through the silk chiffon of her halter.
Sam made a cooing noise, and became far less interested in ethical dilemmas. Since when
did sex come with guarantees? She'd had plenty of pleasant, unpleasant, big and small
surprises herself.

With that perspective in mind, Samantha decided to give Austin a pleasant surprise of her
own. She turned the tables on him, pushing his back against the wall as she trailed her
lips down his chest. Meanwhile, her busy hands undid his belt buckle, aggressively
opening his fly. She lightly scratched the pinstripe fabric that covered Austin's thighs as
she dropped to her knees, then passed him a lascivious smile before drawing his heavy
erection into her mouth.

Austin moaned in enthusiastic pleasure as Samantha went to work on him. As she was
fond of frequently telling us, giving a truly fabulous blowjob took a great deal of focus.
Sam was barely aware when LaCroix joined them, and it hardly registered that Austin's
renewed delirious groans came from the vampire's fangs penetrating his throat.

Samantha's dedication to the job at hand (and mouth) began to falter as she noticed her
lumberjack's lumber was losing its wooden-like properties. He hadn't come yet, and with
self-confident certainty, Sam assumed the malfunction hadn't stemmed from anything
she had done. What's more, she realized that Austin's hands were no longer seizing her
head, holding her in close quarters with his cock (Samantha often wondered why men felt
compelled to do that, as if women could forget where it was). She glanced up, and saw
that his fingers dangled limply against the wall, as flaccid and lifeless as his penis had
become. She looked higher and saw LaCroix, still drinking, the only one in the tableau
still able to consciously derive satisfaction from the situation.

Samantha did what came naturally. She threw her arms around Austin's waist and
dragged him down to her level. "Goddammit, LaCroix! You're going to kill him!"

LaCroix glared down at her, his eyes flared in full fury over his interrupted meal, his
fangs matted with a coat of blood. "That was my intention," he hissed.

"Well, it wasn't mine!" Samantha yelled.

LaCroix removed a streak of red leaking from the corner of his mouth with a refined
swipe of his thumb, then cleaned his hands with a handkerchief. "What, Samantha, did
you think we were coming to this alley for? Charades?"

Sam scowled. "Don't insult my intelligence. You gave me the impression that you were
only going to drink a small amount of his blood, just like you did to me!"

LaCroix's expression was amused. "Did I?"

Samantha reared to her feet. "You damn well did!"

"No, Samantha," LaCroix countered with exaggerated patience, gently cradling her face
in his hands as though she was a newborn, "you believed the most palatable scenario that
your mortal conscience could stand. When you become a vampire, you will have to
overcome your scruples. I will help mold them out of you."

"Wait a minute!" Samantha stepped back, and almost tripped over Austin's still form.
"Nobody, NOBODY, molds Samantha Jones!" She crouched briefly to retrieve her
evening bag from the pavement.

As she pulled out her mobile phone, LaCroix drawled warningly, "Sam...What are you
doing?" his tone implied, whatever it was, she had better quit right away if she knew
what was good for her.

"Calling an ambulance. I may not be adverse to trying new things, but murder isn't one of
them." While Samantha might have her fears of aging, and she might have been flattered
at the offer Lucien LaCroix made her, in her heart she knew she wasn't the type willing
to pay any price to keep the fine lines at bay. She had a soul, she had a conscience, and
she refused to allow anyone to treat these as worthless commodities. That was Sam's
choice.

LaCroix easily slipped the mobile from her grip. "I don't think so. That would be
inconvenient."

Samantha was incensed. "Lucien, I'm not fucking around! Give me my phone!"

Their difference of opinion was interrupted by another body: Nick's. He'd tracked down
LaCroix using his instincts, and he wasted no time in striking the other vampire across
the alley. Sam's phone, unfortunately, suffered most of the permanent damage as it flew
out of LaCroix's grip and crashed into the brick wall.

LaCroix eyed Nick in an unperturbed fashion, despite the fact that the other vampire had
taken the stance of holding him at bay with a tight grip on his suit lapels. "Ah, Nicholas,"
he said coolly, "As always, a welcome intrusion, especially when your participation is so
enthusiastic," he added knowingly, smirking at Nick's glowing eyes and sprouted fangs.

Nick snarled once, then tempered his rage. "It sounds to me," he scorned in a fierce tone,
"like Ms. Jones isn't interested." He glanced over his shoulder and glanced at Samantha
for signs of injury. "Are you okay?"

She gave him one of her preening smiles. "I'm *always* okay." Sam nodded at Austin's
prone form. "He's in bad shape, though. We need to get him to a hospital."

"Nicholas," LaCroix said in a lecturing voice, "you know what dropping a victim off at
the hospital means."

"It means complications," Nick agreed as he gave LaCroix an angry jerk. LaCroix rolled
his eyes dismissively. "But how many complications exactly," Nick continued, "depends
on you."

Samantha broke in, using her 'negotiating with a difficult client' voice. "Frankly, I don't
see the problem." She approached the two men. "Now, Lucien, while you may be
disappointed that the evening hasn't worked out as you predicted, we had a deal. Free
consent, freely given. While I'm flattered by your offer, I think you realize by now that
I'm far too independent to fit your idea of a vampire associate. My answer is 'no.' If
you're a man of your word, you have no intention stopping me from leaving safe and
sound. I'm sure, now that you've gained control of your temper, you've come to the same
conclusion."

Nick found himself grinning at Samantha's smooth speech. "She has a point, LaCroix. If
you're a man of your word," he dared, "there's no problem."

LaCroix plucked Nick's hands away from his collar and casually brushed his jacket as he
stepped away. "Indeed. I'll leave responsibility for the body in your capable hands,
Nicholas." He offered a small sneer as Nick's mouth twisted in distaste before turning his
attention toward Samantha once more. "Since you've decided to leave, my dear, should I
assume you are leaving my employ as well?"

"Bite your tongue. This was personal. That's business. You will understand, though, that
I prefer to address the remainder of the job remotely from New York."

LaCroix stepped closer, and lifted one of Samantha's hands. "An excellent strategy." He
glanced down at her palm, as though he was considering a farewell kiss, but thought
better of it. He leapt into flight without another word.

Samantha stared at the sky for a second, before turning her eyes back to Nick in a critical
stare. "So your name's Nicholas? You wouldn't happen to be a cop with a Cadillac,
would you?"

Nick was surprised. He covered it by crouching by the unconscious man. He could still
hear a faint heartbeat. "Did Charlotte mention me?"

"Of course," Samantha replied, bobbing one shoulder regally. She joined Nick by the
body, refastening Austin's trousers and belt with an air of dignity. "She's my friend.
Honey, I'm not going to keep my mouth shut while you string her along. If you don't
'fess up to Charlotte that you're a vampire, I will."

A dainty staccato of heel sounded against the pavement, followed by Charlotte voice. "I
already know." She could see right away how her arrival and her words affected Nick.
Any spark of hope died out, shuttered by a bleak darkness. Charlotte didn't know what to
say to him, so she spoke to Samantha, instead. "Are you all right?"

Samantha stood, propping a hand on one hip. "I'm fabulous."

Nick stood as well, supporting Austin's body in his arms. Charlotte paled, and her eyes
widened in shock. She turned on Samantha. "What did you do to him?!"

Samantha titled her head to the side and tried not to show she was feeling any guilt. "I
gave him the blowjob of his life."

Charlotte scowled. "How can you say something like that? Samantha, that man is dead!
That is a *dead body*! Dead!"

"He's still alive," Nick interrupted stonily. "I'll fly him to the hospital. It'll be quicker."

"Which hospital?" Samantha demanded. When he ignored the question, she raised her
voice. "What hospital, dammit?!" He muttered a name and appeared ready to take off.

Charlotte stepped toward him. "Nick?" She still didn't know what she wanted to say, but
she wanted some acknowledgment that he intended to talk to her again, not disappear
completely into the night. "Nick, look at me!"

He did, with eyes full of pain and disappointment. "Goodbye, Charlotte."

He was gone, already flying toward the hospital with Austin. She knew he was far away,
but Charlotte felt compelled to call anyway. "Nick!"

Samantha wrapped a sympathetic arm around her friend's shoulders. "Give him a rest,
sweetie. He's trying to save a man's life."

Tears sprang to Charlotte's eyes. She nodded. "I know. I know...Nick's a good person, he
is! It's just he's..." Charlotte sniffled, too distraught to continue.

"An icky, unhygienic, bloodsucking monster?" Samantha suggested, supplying a few of
Charlotte's old words.

"No!" Charlotte wailed. "It's just that he's not who I thought he was. He's not who I
wanted him be!"

Samantha enveloped her in a hug. "I know, sweetie. I know."

After a minute, Charlotte straightened and dried her eyes. "We're going to the hospital."

Samantha nodded and started for the street. "We'll catch a cab."

"Not necessary. I have the keys to Nick's car." Charlotte held up a chain with a Cadillac
logo attached.

Samantha gave her a dubious look. "Oh, honey, that's a bad idea. Neither of us drive on a
regular basis. He's not going to love you if you buckle his fender."

Charlotte insisted. "No. As long as I have his car, Nick has to find me and talk to me to
get it back."

"That, or he could have you arrested for grand theft auto," Samantha pointed out.
Charlotte looked up at her with pleading eyes, and she relented. "All right. We'll take the
car. There'd better be a map in that tank."

*******************************************************************

"Nick?"

He looked up at the familiar voice. Natalie Lambert rushed across the waiting room with
concern in her eyes. This was one of those occasions where Nick didn't welcome her
inquisitive nature. "Hi, Nat. What are you doing here?" He pushed reluctantly out of his
seat, standing out of mannerly habit.

Natalie's jaw tightened. "I heard over the police band that you'd brought in a critical
trauma with massive blood loss, and, naturally, I had questions."

Nick shook his head. "It's not what you think."

"Then what is it?"

Nick struggled for a moment, and finally shook his head again. "I can't go into the
details. There are other people involved." The truth was, he wasn't shielding LaCroix or
Samantha. He was shielding Natalie, because he didn't want her to know how suddenly
and completely he'd been charmed by Charlotte. That wasn't something Natalie wanted
to know.

"I see," she said in a brittle voice. "Then I guess I just have to take your word for it that
you haven't done anything to sabotage our work on your cure."

"I haven't let you down there," Nick replied solemnly.

"Good." Natalie noticed that Nick's attention had been arrested toward one of the smaller
exam rooms.

Nat glanced across the wait area and watched as a striking blonde and a more delicate
brunette left the room. The dark-haired woman was frowning at a bandage on her arm. As
she glanced up, the brunette caught sight of Nick, and her eyes lit with expectant
recognition. Natalie felt her chest tighten as she asked, "Someone you know?"

Nick swallowed. An apologetic note crept unbidden into his voice. "Yes. A friend..." His
voice caught, and he shook his head at the bad lie. "She's a friend of Helen's."

"A good friend?" Natalie shot back.

Nat wasn't talking about Helen at all, and he knew it. "Yes, but I don't think it's going to
work out."

Natalie's breath caught softly in her throat. "Yeah, well," she said in a harsh tone, "there
are a lot of things that don't work out." Nat watched as Nick's chin dropped, and she
knew she couldn't stay. If she did, she might get hurt even more. "I'll see you *at
work.*"

Nick thought about calling after her, but Charlotte was already moving towards him.
Samantha hovered, chatting up a surgeon in the background.

"Nick?" She looked at him with bright, questioning eyes. When he met them, she found
the courage to ask tentatively, "Are you ready to talk?"

"No," Nick said honestly.

Charlotte lowered her chin for a second and regrouped. "Are you *willing* to talk?" she
asked more sternly.

This time Nick nodded. "Yes. I suppose we owe each other that." He gestured toward
Charlotte's fresh bandage, taking hold of her arm to look at the wound. "What happened
to your arm?"

"Oh, I donated some blood for Austin. We were the same type, and Samantha was a little
low to spare more. The doctor says he's much better."

"That's good." Nick had already had to use some persuasion to explain the bite marks on
Austin's neck. It was a relief that he wouldn't have to cover up a homicide as well. He
trailed his hand along her forearm, then impulsively entwined their fingers. He regretted
it instantly. It hurt to touch her, and that pain shone from his eyes. "You didn't stay in the
Cadillac." She knew what he was. She knew, and she rejected it.

Charlotte's brow immediately puckered. He was hurt, and she felt bad for that. That
regret didn't eclipse the fact that she was hurt, too. "I didn't leave the car because I don't
trust you, Nick. You are a wonderful, kind man. I believe that." Nick glanced away
skeptically, and she clutched emphatically at his sleeve. "I mean it! You help people. You
helped Helen when she lost Stefan, and you helped me find Samantha, and Austin would
have died if you hadn't gotten him to the hospital. Don't think that I left the Cadillac
because I don't trust you, Nick. It wasn't you. I left because I'm stubborn." She gave a
rueful smile. "I left because I'm tired of waiting for the things I want to happen for me. I
had to find Samantha for myself." She looked at Nick with questioning eyes. "Can you
understand that?"

Nick nodded slowly. If anyone could understand the need to follow your own path, it was
he. The empathy didn't lift his spirits, however. "But your acceptance doesn't necessarily
mean that you can love a vampire."

Charlotte's shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry." Her breath shuddered, and she dropped her
gaze to study Nick's chest for a moment while she fidgeted with his jacket. When
Charlotte lifted her chin again, her eyes were bright. "I could fall in love with you. I
could, but I want to get married. I want to have children. I want these things, and I can't
have them with a vampire, Nick."

He grasped her upper arms and said urgently, "I'm trying, Charlotte. I want to be a mortal
man again. I want those things, too. I'm searching for a cure!"

"But will you find one?"

Nick looked away again. "I don't know. Maybe someday."

"I told you, Nick. I'm tired. I can't wait my life away for something that might never
happen."

He thought of Natalie, and felt the darker for it. "Some people have more faith to begin
with," he rebuked.

Charlotte shot him and earnest look and squeezed his hand. "Then maybe they're the
ones you should be holding onto."

He stared at her warmly, sadly, for he knew she was right. "Do you know the worst thing
about not being able to have you, Charlotte York?" She shook her head. Nick explained.
"I like who you are."

Charlotte smiled. "I like you, too." She opened the latch of her purse and produced the
keys to his Cadillac. "I also really like your car. I hope you don't mind that I drove it
over. I didn't hit anything."

Nick accepted the keys. "Then I don't mind."

"It might be forward of me to ask, but can you drive Samantha and I back to the hotel?"
She glanced shyly at him up through her lashes. "I hate to impose, what with the way the
night turned out, but I'm starting to get a complex about going out on dates with men and
winding up with them in the hospital. I want to get out of here!"

Nick looked at her curiously. "This has happened before?"

Charlotte shook her head forcefully. "Oh, no. I'm not telling you. It's too embarrassing.
I'm keeping it a secret."

Nick couldn't help it. A teasing grin spread over his face as he cajoled, "Come on, you
can tell me!"

"No."

"But you learned my embarrassing secret. Fair's fair."

"Nick!"

But she did tell him about Dean's unfortunate allergy, and as Nick laughed, and Charlotte
pouted, they both learned that, while they would never be lovers, they could be friends.
Very good friends. Charlotte continued to exchange letters with him on a regular basis,
delighted that Nick also appreciated old-fashioned, polite correspondence. The one
exception was, when she finally did get married, she withheld sending Nick an invitation.
Neither of them wanted to dwell too long over what could never be.

We flew back to New York the next evening. We'd given Vachon a lift to the Toronto
airport. I kept him company in line as he bought a ticket to Edmonton, I kissed him
goodbye at the gate, and I got on my flight home. I never saw him again, and I never
heard from him either. No, I hadn't given up on the news completely, so I heard the
reports that a bomb had crashed his flight, leaving only one infant survivor. I didn't want
to believe that was the end of Javier Vachon. I couldn't accept it, so when I imagined
him, I pictured Vachon tuning his motorcycle or thinking about his guitar, or even
avoiding questions from the next nosy blonde who entered his life. That's just me.

LaCroix wasn't the only one who honored his word. True to hers, Samantha organized
the 'Sex is Back' revamp of the Raven, all from the secure confines of her Manhattan
office. Similarly to Vachon and me, Samantha never saw Lucien LaCroix again. She did
hear from him though. Every year on her birthday, he always sent a bouquet of white
roses. Samantha knew they weren't a romantic gesture, but an efficient reminder that she
was another year older, through no fault of his own. Sam always passed LaCroix's
flowers onto one of the cross-dressing hookers who worked near her apartment in the
fashionable meat-packing district. She had enough beauty in her life, and she had no
regrets.

Miranda arrived home to find Steve watching basketball in her apartment and her cat
well-fed. She kissed him hello and began to strip off her clothes with the demand that
Steve recite all the ingredients in a Cosmopolitan. He said 'Triple Sec,' and Miranda
ravaged him like there could never be anyone better during the Knicks' halftime break.

Back at my apartment, three days' worth of the Times waited for me. I opened one of the
backdated papers and found Big and Natasha's retraction. I realized that I didn't feel
quite so bad and maybe some of my bruised ego had healed. Maybe what I felt wasn't
completely dead yet, maybe I was still one of the undead, but from then on, I resolved to
get out and live.

On a tiny island called Manhattan, we still have sunny days, and we have many parks. I
spent a lot more time enjoying both until the leaves changed color and began to fall. I'd
learned that no matter where you are you can get hurt and you can heal, but the place
where you can be yourself without hiding, without fear, and without regrets - that's
home, sweet, home.

**************************************************************
End of Part Thirteen
End of 'Undeath And The City'

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