Fairest Of Them All (04/?)
Copyright 2000
By Bonnie Rutledge
"Beauty...fragile and fleeting...the currency of envy and desire. They say that nothing
so defines a culture as the idols it admires. What does this reveal about your culture, my
children? Are your souls thin and starving? Will you ever find perfection, or will you
constantly be searching for the next best thing? You writhe in disenchantment with what
you have, constantly searching for that divine, flawless ideal. How long will it take for
you to grow weary of the latest trappings of the hunt? Another year before the crown is
knocked from her head? Another season? Month? Or as a wise man once said, are her
fifteen minutes of your attention dwindling to the final seconds? The clock is ticking. The
sands are winding to a trickle. Beauty...fragile and fleeting...mortal beauty never lasts."
Nick knew disenchantment. It was the subtle unease that came with every visit to the
Raven. While the club was under Janette's wing, he'd experienced a faint sense of
sanctuary here. A visit didn't mean his soul. With LaCroix as the proprietor, every step
across the floor became a dance with the devil.
His first reaction to LaCroix's words was that he spoke of Natalie. There had been
pressure, subtle, yet increasing since Schanke's death to move on. That specter of his
friend's death added more power to the argument than any amount of browbeating. He
hadn't considered leaving when LaCroix set him up as a murderer. Nick had grown
accustomed to his own misery. It was the prospect that continuing his search for a cure
under Natalie's care would cause her mortal harm that gave him pause. He wasn't weary
of living in Toronto, not out of frustration or boredom as LaCroix might suggest. He
thought of leaving out of fear, and fear alone. The thought that one day a mistake on his
part, a subtle twist of fate of his own choosing, could spell the end to Natalie's mortal
beauty sent a shiver of doubt down his spine and had him pulling sheets over the
furniture. How many people had suffered over the years in the course of his search for a
cure? What ideal was worth the sacrifice of a life? Who was he to demand Natalie's life
and focus, year after year?
Then came the darker question, the one he tried to ignore. Who was Natalie, to
concede her life to his dream? Did he know her like he thought he did? Were either of
them being honest as to what they wanted for the future, and could either of them
honestly afford it?
Having completed his musings in his role as the Nightcrawler, LaCroix had turned
over the Raven's sound system to music. Still trapped in the maze his thoughts had led
him through, Nick felt disoriented, ripped from a dream, as his sire emerged from the
sound booth and drawled a greeting.
"Why, Nicholas! Two visits in one month. Careful, you wouldn't want to give me the
impression your resolve toward solidarity is slipping."
"I'm not here for company," Nick pointed out briskly. "I'm here for information."
LaCroix refused to take him seriously. "Information from this particular club...what
could you need to know? Methods for writing esoteric monologues? The secrets of
intimate lighting? How to mix a Rusty Nail to go with the cross you bear?"
"How to judge a beauty pageant," Nick countered.
LaCroix raised a chiding index finger. "*Scholarship* pageant," he corrected in a
mocking voice. "It is quite simple. A judge chooses the most deserving candidate to win
based upon the evidence presented. I am charged to look deeply into the most shallow
appearances and discern the ethics, talents and worldview of the contestant that I find the
most appealing. Naturally, I'm looking for a candidate who happens to be a vampire. A
vampire who enjoys killing. Now that's a talent I can appreciate."
"So you form an alliance with Figaro to elect Cecilia. Is that fair to the other
contestants?"
"Of course not. I never promised to be fair. Don't feel sorry for them, Nicholas,
because they are destined to lose - their looks, their youth, this contest - pity them
because they have chosen to place such importance upon a fleeting prize. They want
something they can only hold onto for a brief interlude, yet they spend years of the only
precious commodity they have - their lives - to win it. Most of them never succeed,
Nicholas." LaCroix tsked. "How wasteful."
Nick's mind drifted again to Natalie, and he shook the thought away. "Three
contestants have died this week. You wouldn't happen to have had anything to do with
cutting their losses?"
LaCroix suppressed a chuckle. "I am more discreet than that. You only know about
the killings I want you to know about." Nick glanced away at his taunt. This time,
LaCroix could not resist indulging laughter at his expense. "If only you had a mirror to
see yourself as I do." His gaze narrowed. "But, then, objective reflection has never been
your strong suit, has it?" LaCroix abandoned that thought with a wave of his hand. "I am
embarrassed to inform you that I am innocent of any wrongdoing in this matter. I may
have met the three murdered women for pageant interviews, but that summarizes the
extent of my involvement. You shall have to find another killer, Nicholas - a less
convenient villain."
One facet of LaCroix's comments captured Nick's attention. "I thought there were
more contestant interviews tomorrow," he said, thinking of Tracy's appointments.
"There are. Because of our schedules..." LaCroix paused lingeringly, sending Nick a
conspiratorial glance, "...the pageant officials have been kind enough to spread the
meetings over four nights."
Nick appeared thoughtful. "And all three victims had already been interviewed."
"Yes. All that effort, for naught. How careless," LaCroix drawled. It wasn't obvious
whether he was discussing the victim's waste of time, or his own in speaking with them.
Nick focused on another detail. He'd mainly looked at the schedules for future
pageant events, not the portions that had already taken place, only Cecilia's activities in
reference to the times of death. "Tell me. Did you interview all three on the first night?
Were they at headquarters together?"
"I did not pay close attention. I cannot say any of the three were to my particular
taste." LaCroix indulged his memory for a patient moment. "I suppose that I interviewed
each on the night they met their demise."
Nick filed that fact away for later consideration. "You say they weren't to your taste.
Does that mean they weren't strong contestants?"
"It means I wasn't tempted to cultivate them for anything else. I would say there are
others much more tantalizing in the running."
Nick flashed him an unappreciative scowl. He remembered Figaro's comment that
LaCroix was part of the pageant as a means to stock his cellar. Nick could imagine that
his sire was judging his own set of semi-finalists, whittling down the contestants based on
a criteria of honey and wine and gullibility. A few well-chosen words and glances, and
they would soon donate a bottle's worth of their life for LaCroix's approval. And it
would all be, as he had implied before, 'discreet.'
Nick didn't like the taste of that thought, so he felt compelled to point out, "You
realize that with the advent of these murders, there will be more eyes on the contest? Not
just police, but the press."
LaCroix's expression quirked, amused not only because Nicholas found it necessary
to warn him off, but also because he imagined it would be effective. "Yes," he agreed in a
low voice. "It should make things...interesting."
Nick clenched his jaw. LaCroix might not be culpable in these three murders, but he
would hardly be rendered 'safe' by the inconvenience. He thought of Tracy, who knew
too much about vampires already, her resistance, and her impending interview with his
sire. "One of the contestants is an undercover officer," Nick cautioned. LaCroix would
never be controlled, but he wouldn't risk exposure just to prove it.
"I'll keep that in mind," LaCroix said noncommittally.
Nick stared at him for a moment, wondering if there was any more he could say or do
that would limit LaCroix's involvement. Then again, maybe disassociation wasn't really
what he wanted. If anyone were likely to notice something suspicious at the pageant
beyond Tracy, who would be actively looking, it would be LaCroix. He was a predator.
He could smell competition a mile away. "If you had any theories about who the killer is,
you would tell me, wouldn't you?"
"Perhaps."
Nick realized that LaCroix was staring pointedly over his shoulder. He cocked his
head to follow his sire's gaze and saw Cecilia across the dance floor. As Nick turned
completely to face her direction, his intent to speak with her obvious, LaCroix leaned
over his shoulder and murmured, "Or perhaps I like watching you stumble blindly
through this forest you call 'justice.'"
Nick tried to walk off the shadow of his sire's amusement, but the Raven was
wreathed in darkness throughout. He could feel LaCroix's stare as he dodged through the
maze of dancers. He could sense the eyes of the club patrons peering intently as he
passed by them. It was a tournament of judgment, and he was left wanting. It wasn't so
much their approval or admiration that he craved, however, but his own. Nick
straightened his shoulders as he drew even with Cecilia. The Raven was not the place to
find self-assurance. It would satisfy a few of his personal goals, though, namely to unveil
answers a few questions.
Cecilia Franka was not one to greet the darkness meekly. She had been pale with
silver-starlight hair, a child made for the night even before encountering Figaro two
centuries ago. To Vienna society, she had fashioned a perfect foil to Fig's exotic
appearance. For too brief a time, she had been all the crack. In that callous, mealy corner
that formed the soul of Cecilia, this was her reign of perfection, her halcyon nights. It
would have suited her to be the queen of 'la mode Viennese' until the day she died.
Stepping into the spell of the capricious Figaro, perhaps she had believed that was what
she was getting.
Nick had watched the fantasy molder, but he hadn't gotten involved. He had seen the
nature of his friend's fleeting obsessions before. Nick had been swept up in his drama too
recently at the time to step into this new act. He'd hardly washed that blood from his
hands, much less the bitter memory, to consider voicing a word of prudence in the ear of
either Cecilia or Figaro when their worlds collided.
Considering their respective personalities, neither would have listened, anyway.
Nick watched, his expression blank as Cecilia became aware of his presence. She was
not one to experience self-doubt, any more than she was suspect of timidity. She watched
him in return, the calculations of his presence, his attention, and how she might twist
these to her advantage, flickering in her pale eyes. That was Cecilia. From her glacier
brows to her frozen core, Cecilia was as cold-hearted as they came.
Nick recalled her frosty outrage the first time Figaro had passed her over in preference
of his own vampire sire. Until that moment, she had had no experience, no concept, of
what it meant to be a runner-up. As a mortal, Cecilia had been a diamond, although it
would never have lasted. As a vampire, she joined a society of the fantastic and eccentric.
In The Community, she had to compete with beauties from across centuries, across
millennia. She may have ruled the season of 1799, but Helen of Troy and Lucrezia
Borgia had been occupied elsewhere. There was also a mental arena - vampires could be
found who had rested at the knee of Plato, dropped a rhyme with Milton, and taught
Machiavelli a trick or two. The most vicious among the undead had visited crimes upon
humanity that made heaven shudder with regularity. Suddenly, Cecilia was a pretty girl
doused in a sea of quintessential super-paragons.
Her comeuppance came in the form of Clare. As much as Nick had reason to
experience distaste at the thought of her, he had to admit his memories of the elder
vampire carried powerful impressions, much stronger than some willowy beauty Figaro
noticed at a musicale. Nick acknowledged that Clare had been beautiful - she had been
fiery and glittery - someone who had dared men to risk death to get close to her. He'd
seen her raise hopes and crush spirits with little more than a glance. Clare had been clever
- he had the impression that LaCroix had known and admired her for some time before,
though Nick had rarely witnessed them keep company. Nick recognized that his sire
rarely gave such respect lightly, and he accepted that there was merit to the praise, even
from that quarter. Clare's cruelty overshadowed both her appearance and her mind,
however, giving him no cause to share LaCroix's sentiment. Nick had heard the rumors,
and he'd felt the burn of her rage himself. There were tales that Clare had sequestered
herself in the New World for centuries before the likes of Columbus had made note of the
continents. Stories told of Clare festering the practice of blood sacrifice, deeming herself
a god and entire cultures her fodder. Nick didn't know how much of this was true. He
wasn't certain even LaCroix had proof of reality's boundaries when it came to Clare.
Nick had seen enough. He'd caught a glimpse into Clare's madness. There was no way
Cecilia could have ever matched it.
Nick had felt pity at Cecilia's normalization, if only briefly. She'd seemed to be
robbed of all her strength when confronted with Clare. Her light - even if it was
moonlight - had been effectively snuffed for over a century. It had taken an even greater
madness, a stronger force of destruction, to grant her power again. Clare had been blazed
out of existence in 1945, when atomic assault devastated Hiroshima. Without the shadow
of Figaro's ultimate obsession, Cecilia rose in visibility. She dared more. She schemed
more.
She played more.
Nick realized suddenly that Clare had eclipsed Cecilia in his view, as well. He'd spent
so much ire in the elder vampire's direction that he'd missed the younger's slyness.
Cecilia smiled then, granting him a flash of snowy teeth. "I really should snub you,"
she said coyly. "You caused me quite a brew of trouble with Figaro last spring."
"The way I remember it," Nick countered critically, "the trouble stemmed from a
sword you cleaved through the heart of a fashion correspondent. Figaro's actions after
that were his own."
Cecilia scowled prettily and tossed her hair. "I suppose you could describe it that way,
too. It would have all brushed under the Aubusson much more nicely, though, without all
your police friends buzzing about. Ugh. I can still remember them." She gave a faint
shudder of disapproval. "That bossy crone and the buffoon Figgy made a suit for - you
don't still choose to hang around them, do you? Yawn."
Nick took on a measure of ice himself. She was referring to Captain Cohen and
Schanke. "I don't have a choice," he said stiffly. "They're both dead."
She glimmered. "A little death now and then can be fun."
"Sell it somewhere else, Cecilia."
Her pupils flared slightly. Check. Regroup. Fresh smile. "I'm the one who was
enjoying a night of dancing. You approached me," she reproached, stroking her own
pride. "You want something." Cecilia lifted a willowy hand and tapped his lower lip with
an index finger. "What could that be, I wonder?"
Nick took her by the wrist and forcibly lowered her hand. "I'm investigating the three
murders in the Miss Metro Toronto contest. It seemed an unfortunate coincidence that
you are part of the competition."
"Don't forget Figaro and LaCroix," Cecilia offered.
"I haven't," Nick promised.
Cecilia observed him through calculating eyes. "So why talk to me? I don't know
anything."
Nick declined to make issue with that open comment.
Cecilia mused further, her eyes widening with surprise and annoyance as she tripped
onto the path of the detective's logic. "Oh, please! You think I killed them because I felt
threatened?" She jerked her wrist free and poised it akimbo on her hip as her chin jutted
out. "Dispatching the reporter - that was family business. She was a threat to Figaro, not
me. It's not my fault that he wasn't more appreciative. The contest..." Cecilia waved a
hand as though she couldn't care less. "...isn't one. You may think I have an unfair
advantage because Figgy and LaCroix are judges, but that isn't even a factor. None of the
contestants, especially those dead girls, can begin to compete with me. They're lame,
boring, and more yesterday than the Hapsburgs. The idea that those trolls would make me
feel threatened is ludicrous."
No, Nick reiterated mentally, Cecilia did not lack confidence. No doubt, in true
vampire style, she'd long ago sucked away someone else's share. He felt the urge to
knock her down a peg. "You haven't always come in first. You'd do well to remember
that, Cecilia."
Her upper lip curled. "Nice. I thought you wanted to be the *good* guy." She shifted
into a small grin as Nick's hard stare faltered. "I've never taken on any plan where I
expected to be second-best. This pageant is no exception. I'm not one of those born
losers..." Her eyes slanted seditiously. "...like Domino."
"You may call Domino your runner-up," Nick countered, "but he's the one with
Figaro right now." He watched as rage flared in Cecilia's eyes and belatedly realized that
he had not done Domino any favors with his comment. He would owe him a debt, even if
the younger vampire remained unaware of the reason for Cecilia's spite or Nick's regret.
To shift the target of Cecilia's anger, he repeated, "You haven't always gotten what you
expected. Just think how different your life would be today if Clare hadn't been in
Hiroshima."
"Sometimes there may seem to be obstacles," Cecilia admitted slowly. She paused,
and then lifted her eyes as she beamed at him with glowing malevolence, "but there's
more than one way to kill a cat. What-ifs are for losers, Nicky. In the long run, I won.
Clare *did* kiss an atom bomb, and *I am* going to be Miss Metro Toronto." She
flicked her head to the side, tilting her body as though she was ready to leave. "I guess
I'll see you around the pageant playing policeman. Do try to catch my talent while you're
busy tracking naughty criminals. I have quite a Classical repertoire on the pianoforte, in
more ways than one. I might even play Beethoven, just for you." With a sniff, she
completed her grand exit.
Nick thought ruefully. It felt strange,
but Nick believed Cecilia when she said she had no reason to kill the contestants.
Likewise, he believed LaCroix and Figaro. There were negative premonitions that
remained, however. Three deaths, three predators. It seemed naive to believe they were
completely unconnected.
Nick had a new worry on his mind, though, one spawned by his talk with Cecilia. She
might not find the current contestant pool remotely threatening, but she hadn't met Tracy
Vetter. Nick had full confidence that, when Tracy promised she was going to become the
pageant contender to beat within twenty-four hours, she would grit her teeth and do
exactly that, even if it put her life on the line.
That determination is what had Nick revising his own plans for involvement. Cecilia
might not be out for blood yet, but what if Tracy challenged her?
<...There's more than one way to kill a cat.>
Nick felt a shiver of dread travel down his spine at the echo of Cecilia's voice in his
head. He'd pull a few strings tomorrow and get into the pageant as undercover security. If
he guarded Tracy's neck long enough from the other vampires, she'd have a chance to
track a mortal killer.
Somehow, he had a feeling that Tracy wasn't going to appreciate the effort.
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End of Part Four
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