This is the earliest story in the Clare Series. The setting is second season,
But the inspiration was one line Nick had in 'Black Buddha' - 'Wear the good
suit, Schank.'

Shades Of Evil (1/4)
Copyright 1997
by Bonnie Rutledge

Nick walked into the Ninety-Sixth precinct, Don Schanke by his side.

"I can-NOT believe she said that!" Schanke was exclaiming. "Ooooh!" he
changed his voice into a fluttery falsetto. "I hated him, and he was awful,
but he *fell* on the knife! He REALLY did!" He groaned, reassuming his
natural baritone. "Nick, do you ever get the impression that some people have
garbanzo beans for brains?"

They had just reached their desks. Nick was preparing to defend the woman's
distraught state of mind, and why she'd made the statement in question when
an opening office door and the appearance of a frowning Captain at his side
stopped his words short.

"I've got a job for you two," Amanda Cohen announced. "It's in the fashion
district. Half a dozen press cams were on the scene before our guys
responded to the 911 call. Needless to say, gentlemen, I am not pleased. I
want this taken care of quickly, efficiently, and I want it to look good."

Schanke preened. "You picked us 'cause we're the best?"

"I picked you because you just became available, Detective Schanke," Cohen
countered. "You did just finish the Marchand case, didn't you?"

"You said the fashion district," Nick spoke up, already seriously focused on
the new case. "Where?"

"At a design studio that just came to town - House of Figaro," Cohen
answered. Seeing a flash of change in Nick's expression, she asked, "You've
heard of him, Detective?"

His face instantly became shadowed again. "Yes, I've heard of him."

"Of course you have!" Schanke exclaimed. "He's gotten more media exposure
over the last six months than Madonna, and that's saying something!"

"Exactly," Cohen echoed sternly. "Which is why we are going to dot all the
'i's and cross the 't's on this one. My precinct is not going to be
crucified by the world press. Shall we go?" She started for the entrance,
then paused. "Though I know the fullest extent of your professional
attention will be centered on this new investigation, I still expect all the
paperwork for the Marchand case on my desk by six o'clock tomorrow evening.
Do I make myself clear, Detective Schanke?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, giving a salute the moment her back was turned.
Captain Cohen seemed to sense it and turned around again. She gave Schanke
a withering look, shaking her head in exasperation before continuing out
of the station.

"Good thing she doesn't have heat vision, partner," Schanke joked. "My moose
would be cooked."

"Goose, Schank," Nick corrected absently. "Your goose would be cooked."

"Can't cook 'em - Canadian geese are protected," Schanke laughed at his own
joke, then sobered as he saw the other man staring blankly into space. "You
aren't going weird over the paperwork, are you, Nick?"

Nick shook his head, then released a distant sigh. "I'm just wondering if I
should have mentioned something to the Captain."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"Like I haven't simply heard of the designer," Nick confessed to his curious
partner. "He's an old friend."

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

"Wake up, Nicholas! The night is singing for our presence!"

The sleeping form stirred, then pried his blue eyes open for a cautious
judgment of the light in the room. The only illumination streamed from the
open doorway and came from a lantern in the hall. Nicholas lifted his lids
fully then turned his attention to his company. He squinted.

There was another light source here, namely his friend's coat. He was
resplendent in a satin jacket and pantaloons the color of a cantaloupe's
heart. He coupled these items with a vest that was a bastard shade of gold
and green and a neckcloth knotted in so many directions that Nicholas became
dizzy while trying to visually unravel it.

The outfit was outrageous. It would have made any other man look downright
foolish. On his friend, though, it simply looked like Figaro. He watched as
the other man strolled to the window and pulled aside the heavy velvet
curtains with a dramatic sweep of the arm. "Vienna *is* music, my friend,"
Nicholas said. "It sings for no one in particular."

Figaro whirled around, his face contorted in amazed horror. "Not so!" He
pulled himself to stand on the foot of the mattress by the bed curtains,
making Nicholas laugh at his affected drama. "The violins, the flutes, the
melodic voices - they play for the vampire most intimately! They call to us.
They serenade us." He swung by the hanging to drop to the side of the bed.
"The music is in the heart of Vienna, yes, but it is in the blood of Vienna,
as well. That sings to us more dearly and sweetly than any siren's air,
Nicholas." Figaro sighed happily, spinning so the curtain wrapped about him
like a maypole. "It sings for our presence; I am certain of that."

"And so you demand mine," Nicholas concluded. "What did you have in mind? I
have barely recovered from last night's adventures." He rose from the bed,
slipped a robe over his naked shoulders, then went to inspect his closet.

Figaro plopped to a seat on the mattress with a wicked grin. "Things that
would make my grandmother blush, what else?"

"Ah. In that case, Figaro, I picture your family as being permanently red
in the face."

"No shame in a little color!" He gave a quick perusal of Nick's wardrobe
from across the room. "Don't you dare wear black! I will feel like we are on
our way to a demme funeral rather than a first-rate party! Dashed if I know
why so many of our kind wander around looking like a collection of
never-ending gloomy clouds. All that darkness - 'tis downright depressing,
to my mind."

Nicholas pulled out a coat of sapphire blue - the closest he would come to
Figaro's flamboyance. "Most of us prefer *not* to draw attention to
ourselves," Nick explained. "Whereas you delight in attracting crowds."

Figaro sat up and slapped his knee in dismay, "And that makes me the *black*
sheep! Gads! Is there no escape from this infernal color?"

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

The night sky was in stark, ebony relief to the street lights and camera
spots. The reporters hovered about the steps of the elegant brownstone,
directing questions at any figure who exited or entered. Several
squad cars had collected along the curb, and a handful of uniformed men
had started to cordon off the street with yellow tape. A white van labeled
'Coroner's Office' leapt out at the eye, a rebel in a field of dark blue
cars with flashing lights. Nick quietly noted that Natalie's sedan was
there also, blocked in by a pair of Metro Police vehicles. he thought with a wry grin.

Captain Cohen took the lead, marching up the studio steps, dismissing the
media with words of "No comment" and "I will be making a statement at a
later time." There was bustle of loud, frenzied, shouted questions, then
silence. They were inside.

Instead of a lobby, the studio had an intimate foyer. It was painted in a
strangely soothing shade of green. Nick felt a brief burst of humor at
giving such an average name to the hue on the walls. Figaro, no doubt, called it
something more dramatic, like 'pistachio' or 'chlorophyll.' Whatever its
name, the color wasn't dark. It was bright, lively and uplifting. It seemed
to mock the uniformed figures wandering across the parquet between rooms.
One of the uniforms approached the trio.

"Do we have an ID?" Cohen inquired.

"Yes, Captain," the young man replied as he consulted his written notes.
"Langtry Muller was her name. We've gotten varied age reports ranging from
thirty-two to thirty-eight. She was a former-model-turned-correspondent
for one of those fashion news programs on television - 'La Mode
Aujourd'hui'."

"Where's the body?" Schanke asked as he peered through the doorways off the
open hall.

"That way," the officer answered, pointing with his pen to the left. "She
was found in one of the dressing rooms by a member of the staff."

"What's up there?" Nick asked, indicating a marble staircase draped with an
Aubousson runner done in shades of bronze and navy.

"The offices and the designer's living quarters," the young officer
offered. "Mr. Newton is up there now, along with everyone who was on the
studio premises when the body was discovered."

"And you've interviewed?..." Nick let the question hang.

"Only the sales associate who found the body. We figured we should leave the
others until you and the Captain arrived."

"Good job, Officer Pulte," Cohen congratulated, then dismissed the young man
from her attention.

Cohen and Schanke moved toward the dressing room. Nick gave a lingering
look up at the second floor, then he followed the others. Natalie glanced
up at their approach, and a faint smile of welcome passed over her
features. "She was strangled then stabbed."

"Isn't that overkill?" Schanke quipped as he crouched down to get a closer
view of the corpse.

"Well," Natalie qualified, "I'm not positive the strangulation actually
killed her. I only see bruising marks made by one hand - it's possible the
killer simply had a very strong grip and used it to hold the victim still
while stabbing her. The amount of blood loss indicates that she was probably
alive when the killer inflicted the knife wounds."

"You're positive it was a knife?" Cohen asked.

Natalie nodded confidently. "I already found a few metal fragments, and
I'll look for more when I examine her in the morgue. Forensics should be
able to give more details, but based on the depth, angle, and cleanness of
the incisions, I don't think we're talking about a makeshift blade as a
murder weapon. I think it was long and about three centimeters wide, more
like a dirk than a dagger or your typical knife."

"Or maybe a fencing saber?" Schanke suggested.

"It's possible," Nat agreed. "What made you think of that?"

"I read in one of Myra's copies of Cosmo that fencing was one of the
designer's hobbies. He could have some decorative weapons around the place."

Natalie shook her head. "Forensics hasn't found anything, yet."

"Still, I can see the guy having a 'Three Musketeers' fetish," Schanke
commented. "He seems the type."

"The type?" Nick echoed doubtfully.

"Why don't we ask him?" Cohen interrupted. "Let's head upstairs."

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

As they climbed the stairs, the walls of the studio transformed from
pistachio to a combination of ivory, peach and peacock blue. The carpet
echoed the last color, muffling their footsteps as they walked into the
main design room.

Nick's eyes traveled predatorily over the figures assembled there, grouping
the faces into those he recognized and those he didn't. He had never seen
most of these people before, but a willowy blonde caught his eye. She leaned
against the wall by a far window and appeared bored to tears. She felt his
stare and her gaze flicked in his direction with interest. Nick turned away
and examined the others. An open-faced man with black hair and a camera
slung around his neck walked his way.

"Hello, there!" he said to Nick with an eager smile. Nick frowned, concerned
that the Captain might pick up on the man's familiarity. Seeing Nick's caution,
the man's eagerness melted abruptly away, and he glanced uncertainly at Schanke
and Cohen. "I work as a photographer here. I took a couple rolls of the crime
scene before any police got here. I thought you might want to take a look."

Schanke rolled his eyes and Cohen appeared very unhappy. The man's
expression became even more bruised, and Nick stepped in to explain. "You
might have disturbed the evidence. I'm sure the pictures you took will be
useful, but we're going to need you to go over exactly where you stepped and
what you touched."

"Oh," came the dismayed reply. "I didn't realize."

"Another blunder, Domino?" a feminine voice trilled. The blonde had left the
window to join them. "Why am I not surprised?" Her laugh was unpleasant. "I
told you not to take those photos. It's not as though you can do anything
more technical than snap a Polaroid."

Domino lowered his eyes, but seemed to burn with indignation. "That's not
what Figaro says," he mumbled in a low voice.

Nick watched both Schanke and Cohen's expressions. They had taken a dislike
to this woman with her first sentence. Nick mentally sighed. It wasn't an
uncommon response.

"Ah, Figaro!" the woman drawled, then gave Nick a conspiratorial look. "I'm
sure that you would love to see Master Figaro! *I'll* take you to see him,"
she announced as though she was bestowing a grand privilege. She snaked her
arm possessively through Nick's and began to lead him away.

"And what do you do here, Miss -?" Captain Cohen stonily asked from behind
them.

"Call me Cecilia," the blonde offered with a sneer. "What do I do here? Why,
I'm Figaro's right hand!"

"Here's hoping he's ambidextrous," Schanke muttered under his breath.

Nick overheard the comment, so naturally Cecilia did, too. She turned
regally and spoke with an insincere air of apology. "I'm afraid Master
Figaro is terribly distraught over this murder. You see, this isn't simply
his studio, it is his home. I think it would be better if only one of you
saw him for now." With a whirl of her hair, she gave the pair a view of her
back and pulled an apologetic-looking Nick after her.

"Schanke, if I didn't find that woman so unpleasant," Cohen said, "I'd give
you a lecture for that little jibe, and the inconvenience it's going to cause
us." Schanke blinked blankly, unsure if he was in the hot seat again or not.
Cohen sighed, then continued, "If she's his right hand, I say we pray Figaro
Newton favors his left."

***************************************************************************
End Of Part One

Shades Of Evil (2/4)
Copyright 1997
by Bonnie Rutledge

"You are hunting, my friend," Nicholas voiced atop the chatter of
the surrounding crush. "Who has claimed such devout attention from you?"

"Ah! While you were off finding your purveyor of evil for the evening, I was
struck by Cupid's arrow! I met a veritable goddess!" Figaro swung his head
from left to right as he scanned the crowd, the queue of his wig marking
each directional change. "She was charming, a delight, and she has slipped
away!"

"Describe her, and I will try to help," Nicholas offered.

"Her hair is the color of honey. Left natural, like yours. Poor things, you
both need immediate rescue from the poverty of style in your appearance."

Nicholas grinned and began to search the surrounding faces as well. "I
promise you, Fig, I will manage perfectly without your aid."

"Yes, but you're a big vampire! What will become of my tiny, unfashionable
angel?" Figaro fluttered a mock faint, touching the back of one mocha-
colored hand to his brow. "I must save her!"

"Tell me - Does this angel have more than hair," Nicholas jested, "or does
she resemble a walking mop?"

Figaro gasped, then rapped Nicholas with his painted fan. "You ghastly man!
She does not resemble a mop at all! Her eyes were brown, the shade of coffee.
Her skin was a pale gold, like those cookies they try to serve us at the
hotel -"

"Skin the color of cookies?" Nick was laughing. "Perhaps I should scribble
this down for you so that you can use it in poetry later."

"Bah! Here is a simile for you to adore: Her gown was yellow like the sun.
It was as though the fabric had captured the daylight so it could defy this
backdrop of night that surrounds us. There. Is that better?"

Nick had gained a measure of solemnity during Figaro's description. "Yes,
and I believe that I have found the lady." He gestured with a nod toward a
lovely young woman to their right.

"Genius!" Figaro exclaimed. "Success!"

"Good luck," Nicholas wished sincerely as his friend moved away.

"Luck? Never dabble in the stuff, m'self. Who needs luck when you can charm
the leaves off a tree?"

"Leaves?" Nicholas said in a bantering tone. "I thought you were after her
fruit!"

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

Cecilia ushered him through ivory double-doors to an ornate office. Nick's
gaze flashed to the bureau, saw it was deserted, then looked farther into
the room. Figaro was pacing near a three-way mirror at the other end of
the room.

"Didn't I tell you I wanted d�colletage with this piece?!" he lectured. One
assistant trailed along behind him like a loyal puppy dog carrying an
ashtray. Figaro pulled a cigarette out of her coat pocket and placed it
between his lips. She produced a lighter, held it up to the tobacco, and
flicked. After a few methodical puffs, Figaro tossed the cigarette into
the waiting ashtray and continued ranting. "I want her to appear buxom. Look
at this! Look at this!" He pointed to the model's chest. "She doesn't even
seem 'bux,' much less 'buxom'!" Figaro patted the model in the area of her
diaphragm, and the air left her lungs in a *whoosh!* "Don't asphyxiate
yourself, sweetie. Holding your breath doesn't help *that* much." The model
began to pout, and Figaro started to wave one hand as though he was a
deranged crossing guard. Another assistant leapt forward from where he
huddled by the mirror. One hand held a pin cushion that was filled to
capacity, the other carried a green-tinted crystal goblet filled with a
suspiciously red beverage. The assistant offered Figaro the glass, from
which he took a generous gulp, then the pins, of which he took a handful.
Figaro dug a short, white cylinder from his jacket pocket, then began
to chalk and pin the bust of the gown. "Let's break it into panels like
this, bring the neckline down to here, and I want a thicker gauge of satin.
Call Bugby in the morning. If I can't get this color, I'll have to think of
something else."

Nick smirked. Cecilia hadn't been lying entirely: Figaro was distraught,
but over a dress, not a murder.

The blonde glided forward, calling in a suddenly sweet voice, "Figaro! Look
who's come to see you!"

Figaro spun around, obviously annoyed at any interruption. His face
brightened with delight as he recognized his guest. "Nicholas! My word!
What brings you here?" He snapped his fingers, and the assistant with the
glass and pincushion jumped to attention. Figaro dumped his unused pins into
his aide's waiting hand, then crossed the room. The woman with the ashtray
and the man with the glass shuffled along behind him.

Figaro leaned forward, giving Nick a hug and brushing light kisses over
either cheek. "You look wonderful, old friend!" Figaro felt the lapel
of Nick's jacket between his thumb and a finger. "Nice cut, and I see you've
discovered the joys of purple. There's hope for you yet. I have an aqua
suit that would be perfect for you, if you're feeling frisky!"

"I'm here on business, Figaro."

The designer did a double-take, then reached for his cigarette. Puff. Puff.
The smell of cloves wafted through the air. "I don't believe it! You aren't
here for this little murder, are you?"

"No murder is little," Nick stated with a stern expression. He heard Cecilia
snort beside him.

"Oh, Nicholas! I *laughed* at Janette when she said you were working as a
homicide detective! I positively rolled! I thought she was joking!" Figaro
put the cigarette down, then he grabbed his goblet. "Hmmm. Never think that
I'm not glad you're here. It's been too long. Let's chat." He tipped his glass
forward. "Drink?"

Nick shook his head. "Not on duty."

Figaro studied him for a moment, then shrugged. "Very well." He looked over
his shoulder and called to the others. "Could everyone leave us in privacy,
please?" He repossessed his ashtray and shooed the assistants and the model
on their way. Figaro moved to take another sip from his glass, but paused
as he noticed that the blonde at Nick's side hadn't budged. "You too,
Cecilia. Out."

She gave a stunned blink, and her smile evaporated. Cecilia didn't say a
word, but turned stiffly, letting her body language voice her displeasure.
The double doors shut with an overly emphasized clamor behind her.

Nick watched as Figaro settled into the leather chair at his desk. "First
question: do you know who did it?"

"No," Figaro stated plainly. "I'm almost certain of the weapon, though."

"The sword?"

Figaro nodded mournfully. "It's missing. That's why I'm glad you are a
detective working on this case. I want it back, Nicholas."

Nick walked impatiently across the floor. "Fig, if it was the murder
weapon, it will need to be impounded as evidence."

"No. If it was the murder weapon, it's been blemished enough without a dozen
police lackeys slamming it around in evidence drawers. I'll not stand for it!"

He came back to the desk, leaning over the surface with an intent stare.
"Is the sword really so important?"

"It is the only thing from her that I have left. I didn't get the painting.
I won't lose this, Nicholas."

"It's not the only thing you have left," Nick said solemnly. He sighed and
collapsed into a matching settee across from the desk. It was an old argument,
one he was too tired to start again. Still, he tried. "You want me to
manufacture evidence, Figaro. Can't you work with me on this?"

The designer twirled the stem of his glass between his thumb and index
finger. "Some things are irreplaceable, Nicholas. Try as you may, you
cannot find them again. Everything else is a paltry, cheap imitation.
Find the sword, and I'll compromise with you. There must be some way
that it can stay in my possession while you obtain your evidence and
satisfy your moralistic urges."

Nick nodded. "We'll think of something. Who had access to it?"

"Anyone who had access to this room." Figaro gestured with his head. "I
kept it there, over the mantle. Everyone outside in the office and half of
the reporters hovering around the building entrance have had ample opportunity
to lay their hands on it today. The doors to the showroom just opened two
weeks ago, and I did a spate of interviews to promote the Toronto location.
You know the drill... a crew of those horrific stick crones shaped like the
microphones
they wave in your face, asking questions like, 'What are your influences?'
and 'What new trends do you see in fashion today?' Good God! These people
have no idea! (Well, except for that Jeanne - she's a sweet girl. I like
her - those plump cheeks! The cherub!) Imagine their pinched faces if I replied,
"Influences? Louis XIV. I met him once. He had the grandest taste in shoes!" All
the skinny women would faint - they never eat, you see. And trends, the last
time I paid
attention to a trend in fashion was that Beau Brummell fiasco. Remember? I
still have nightmares! All that black in one room! At least when I visit the
Raven the lighting is dim, and I can pretend the little Goth-ick! children are
all clad in dark blue."

"So you're saying we have, how many, thirty suspects? Would you care to give me
a list of names?"

"Nicholas! I don't even like three of them! Why would I remember their names?"

Nick gave him a knowing grin. "It's easier to insult them behind their
backs that way."

"Ah! He knows me too well!" Figaro chuckled. "All right, I'm just too lazy
to draw you up a list. I'll make one of the assistant wanna-be's do it."
Noticing Nick's frown, he exclaimed, "What, Nicholas? Do you think I treat
them like slaves? That I beat them and feed them gruel? They want to be
fashion designers, my friend! If they can't cope with my petty idiosyncrasies,
my manic despotism, by all means the vultures downstairs would peck them apart
in seconds! They need to be independent and strong, and when I treat them
like rubbish, I'm really helping them. Trust me. Do you think everyone is
kissy-kissy over at 'Dead Red Fred' or whatever they call themselves? No.
They are not."

Nick smirked. "I just had a vision of you calling in to LaCroix's talk
show. You're the only person I know who might take over the conversation."

Figaro slapped the desk as he laughed. "You are a beast! As if I would ever!
Please tell me you don't have any more questions, so I can act manly and
kick you out of my office in a fit of pique!"

"One more," Nick laughed. "I promise. Do you have any idea why someone would
stab Langtry Muller in your studio?"

"Nothing concrete, but she had a high-pitched, squeaky voice that sometimes
made me want to spill blood."

Nick rose from the settee and headed for the doors. "Just for that,
you have to meet my partner Schanke."

While Nick was in Figaro's office, Schanke had taken the opportunity to
start interviewing everyone present. Nick winced as he realized that his
partner had somehow collared Cecilia, and was now attempting to ask her
questions. Nick introduced Figaro to Captain Cohen, then left them to rescue
Schanke. As he moved away, he heard Figaro exclaim in gross contradiction, "I'm
speechless! I'm mute! I've never seen such a tailored suit on a public
servant before! Oh, I've got a vermilion ensemble in back that was *born*
for you, darling!"

Schanke, however, really was rendered speechless. Nick's partner nervously
fingered his collar while Cecilia watched him with flashing eyes. She
crooned when she saw Nick arrive and give her a steady frown. "Why,
Nicholas! Your Detective friend and I have had the most pleasant chat! I've
told him everything he needs to know, so I'll be leaving now." She fluttered
her eyelashes at Schanke and waved her hand in a dainty motion. "Later."

The two men watched her sashay away, then Schanke shook his head. "Man,
oh, man. Was she a piece of work! Now I know why I married a brunette!"

"You've made me curious," Nick said. "What did she have to say?"

"That she was Newton's personal assistant, and when she said personal, she
meant *per-son-al*. Threw me for a loop," Schanke confessed. "I thought the guy
was gay! I mean, the man's named after fruit and cake!"

Nick laughed out loud at that comment. "He's just enthusiastic. A social
butterfly."

"Which makes me wonder how the hell you know the guy, Mister-I'm-Either-
In-Bed-Or-Incommunicado. How would you meet a social butterfly?"

Nick shrugged with one shoulder. "He knows Janette, too."

"Aaaahhh. Now *that* makes sense," Schanke said. "I was starting to feel
sorry for him, thinking he had rotten taste in women."

"You're not too far off, Schank," Nick mumbled under his breath, then said
more loudly, "Come on. I'll introduce you."

Schanke rubbed his hands together in mock excitement. "Oh, goody!"

Figaro had Captain Cohen cooing over fabric swatches by the time the detectives
strolled up to them. The designer took one look at Schanke, his one-shade-
darker-than-royal-blue suit and chartreuse tie, then squealed, "That color
combo! I'm in love! I must kiss you!" True to his word, he grabbed Schanke by
the jowls and proceeded to give him a smooch on the lips.

Once free from an enthralled Fig, Schanke awkwardly straightened his jacket
and commented, "My wife picked it out." He leaned closer to Nick and
whispered, "Are you sure he's not...?"

Nick played dumb and innocent. "Well, I haven't seen him in ages..."

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

Figaro danced into the conservatory, the violet tails of his coat swaying
behind him. "Oh, Nicholas! Magnificent news! She said yes!"

He looked up from his writing at the harpsichord, his expression full
of pleasure. "Marianna? Wonderful! What was the question?"

"Why, would she marry me, of course!" Figaro paused in his private minuet.
"Funny. I could have sworn I mentioned my plans when I saw you yesterday."

"You must have confused me with your mirror. Had you spoken a word to me of
this, I would have advised you to remain silent. You have only known her for
but a week!"

Figaro brightened. "Ah! Well, that must be why I did not tell you before
the deed was done. You are a spoil-sport."

Nicholas made a quarter-turn on his bench to look directly at the other
vampire. "What do you intend for her? Will you tell her your true nature?
Will you bring her across?"

"I can hardly live happily-ever-after with her if I do not. I have never
brought anyone across before, though. I wager Clare will do it for me."

"Your sire? I thought she was not in Vienna."

Figaro dipped, bowed, and spun as he said, "True. She is lolling in
St. Petersburg. I posted her a note the moment Marianna agreed. She is
bound to come straight away. She has to give me her blessing, you see."

"To me, it sounds as though you are taking her approval for granted,"
Nicholas said darkly, slipping into the memories of his own ill-fated
wedding and LaCroix's reaction.

"Clare will approve," Figaro declared. "She is the most perfect woman
alive!" He gave a joyous laugh. "Hah! Or dead!"

"As perfect as Marianna?" Nicholas asked slowly.

Figaro pulled a lace handkerchief free from his cuff and dabbed his
brow with a flourish of his wrist. "Marianna comes close," Figaro
dismissed, then declared in frenzied excitement. "Just think, Nicholas!
You will finally get to meet Clare!"

Nicholas turned back to the keyboard and pretended absorption in his music
so he wasn't forced to feign a delight he could not share for Figaro's benefit.
For some reason, all he felt was uneasiness.

***************************************************************************
End Of Part Two

Shades Of Evil (3/4)
Copyright 1997
by Bonnie Rutledge

Nick leaned over Natalie's shoulder as she peered into the microscope and
pronounced softly into her ear, "It was a Japanese sword."

She started, then popped him on the arm while she glared. "I hate it when
you do that!" She darkened some more before she broke into a smile. She
couldn't help herself. "Did you find the murder weapon? Forensics is still
looking at the other fragments upstairs."

Nick shook his head. "We haven't found it."

"I see," Nat tapped the eraser end of her pencil thoughtfully against one
cheek. "You're saying that you have a..." Nat pretended to search for the
perfect word, "...*historical* involvement with the Muller case?"

"Mmm. You could say that," Nick said casually. "I knew Figaro Newton before
he was a designer."

"Oh?" Nat said with a curious smile.

"Actually, I knew him before he was Figaro 'Newton.'"

"Oh." Her face fell. "So he's one of...?"

Nick nodded.

Natalie slipped the slide from the scope's stage and switched it off.
She leaned against the counter and asked, "What's he like?"

"He's outgoing. Creative. Lively. He was my friend."

"*Was* your friend? What happened?"

Nick paused, then shook his head slightly. "Nothing really. It's just
that Figaro took a cavalier attitude toward people, and I did not.
We drifted apart. The only thing he treated with reverence was his sire."

"And that caused problems?" Natalie probed.

"Yes. Figaro would act like a child. He'd do something outrageous just
to get his sire's attention. Sometimes his plans were downright dangerous.
Once he had a series of stories about vampires published. The Enforcers
came for him."

Natalie's eyes widened. "What happened?"

"His sire intervened. She took care of it. Just like he wanted."

"Lucky for him."

"Not so lucky for the Enforcers," Nick said grimly. "It was so unnecessary.
He just used them."

"Do you think he killed Langtry Muller as part of some plot to get his
sire's attention?" Nat wondered with a frown.

Nick dismissed the suggestion with a shake of his head. "Impossible. She
was destroyed at the end of World War II. She was at Hiroshima."

"That wouldn't have anything to do with the Japanese sword you mentioned,
would it?"

"It would."

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

Nicholas pushed the sitting room door open, the concern evident upon his
face. "Figaro? Are you here?" He found the other vampire sitting in a
wingback chair, poised happily over an open case. "Is everything alright?
When you failed to meet me at Marianna's, we became concerned."

Figaro released a delighted shout as he leapt up from his chair and set the
box aside. "Nicholas! Did you see her? She just left!"

"Who?"

"Clare! You would have noticed her had you crossed paths. Blast! You were
mere seconds too late!"

"So your sire has finally arrived? I gather from your expression that
everything went well."

"Ah, yes!" Figaro sighed. "'Gracious' does not begin to describe her
demeanor! She was overcome to see me so happy, is that not wonderful? Clare
wants to meet my fianc�e as soon as possible!"

Nicholas appeared perplexed. "Then why did you not bring her along to
Marianna's? She was distraught at your absence."

"Well," Figaro said slowly, "after speaking with Clare, I began to have
second thoughts about marriage."

Nicholas stiffened, visions of manipulative sires dancing in his head.
"I see. What did she say to dissuade you?"

"She did not intend to alter my intentions in any way!" Figaro protested,
suddenly defensive. "She said she was pleased that I was making my own way
and fostering my independence."

Nicholas frowned. This wasn't the answer he had expected. "Then why the
change of heart?"

"She brought me a wedding present!" Figaro strolled back to the velvet-lined
box, then gingerly lifted its contents into view. "A ceremonial sword from
Japan. She had one of my siblings, Seiji, craft it especially for me. That
is why her journey took so long - Clare had to wait for its arrival. Her
intent was that I use it in fencing, but I think I will not. T'would be
a shame to break such a masterpiece while sparring."

Nicholas could not fault Figaro for his adoration of the gift. It was
exquisite. As he moved closer to inspect the sword, a flash of candlelight
reflected on the steel like silver fire. It was a tanto blade, thin,
straight, smooth and long. Carved from bone, the hilt was polished into a
milky luminescence and banded once at the top and bottom of the grip with
an inlay of mother-of-pearl. The bands shone with a kaleidoscope of swirled
color. It was a fitting decoration for a sword intended for Figaro. The
only engraving on the blade was a signature toward the base. A reign, a year, and the craftsman.

"I've never seen the like," Nicholas said with a touch of awe.

Figaro nodded reverently. "What's more, *she* gave it to me."

"It was a thoughtful gift," Nicholas reasoned, "meant with some measure
of affection." He paused for emphasis. "In honor of your *wedding.*"

"No. There will be no wedding," Figaro insisted. "There is more to this
gift. I know that it means Clare's love for me is more than simply
familial. I cannot marry Marianna knowing that."

"But did Clare say anything to indicate -"

"Clare would not," Figaro interrupted fiercely. "She is rather proud, you
know. She dislikes being beholden to anyone." He turned, giving Nicholas a
satisfied look. "My mistake. You *do not* know her, therefore you wouldn't
understand."

"Very well, then," Nicholas proposed. "Take me to meet her so that I may learn."

Figaro waved a nonchalant hand. "She is out and about in the city. I am
hardly the only person she knows in Vienna."

"Then what about Marianna?" Nicholas demanded stiltedly. "You have already
revealed what you are to her. You cannot ignore her now."

"Bah! You sound so morose! Cheer up, Nicholas! It will take but a careful
word or two, and she will have no memory that we ever met. It is not a
problem. Do not make it so." Figaro lifted the blade and twisted his wrist
left, then right, observing the movement of the steel. He stood
straight, turning to Nicholas once more. Noting his friend's stern
expression, he cried, "What is it?"

"I do not like this sudden change in you, Fig. I cannot help but think there
is more to your fluctuating feelings than an unspoken declaration and a
sword." Without waiting for his friend's reply, Nicholas stormed out of
the room.

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

"So this sword is the murder weapon?" Natalie asked.

"It fits the wounds, and it's missing."

"That *is* a suspicious combination, but, Nick, do you really think Figaro
Newton would use it to kill someone in his own studio, and leave the body
to be openly discovered? I thought that for vampires, discretion is
everything. And like you said, there's no one left for him to impress."

"Right, Nat," he agreed absently.

"So maybe, despite the fact that they seem to suddenly be falling out of
the woodwork, this death has nothing to do with vampires. It makes sense
that, if the killer wasn't stupid, he or she would take the sword and hide
it somewhere. From your description, it sounds unique. It would probably
be worth a pretty penny to someone."

"Like Figaro."

"Do you think he still has the sword, but he's lying to keep it in his
possession?"

"I don't know," Nick admitted with a sigh, "but I do know that he wants it
back, no matter what. Even if it is needed as evidence."

"You mean that, if you find the sword and it is the murder weapon, he wants
you to overlook it for old times' sake," Nat concluded. She pursed her lips
together, then let out an exasperated sigh. "What are you going to do?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"Maybe I can make it easier for you: Do you want to close this case?"

Nick nodded. "I do."

"What are the odds you can get enough evidence to make a murder trial stand
up in court without a murder weapon, Nick? Think about that before you cover
it up for him. You may regret it later."

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

He closed the sitting room door roughly and started across the hall.

Suddenly, a sweet voice called out to him. "Nicholas!"

He turned, his gaze falling on a girl in the shadows. She was huddled in a
scarlet cloak that left only her tear-streaked face uncovered. He rushed
forward, taking her by the arms and examining her with concern. "Marianna!
What are you doing here?"

"I followed you. I know that I shouldn't have," she said, her voice
breaking, "but I wanted to see Figaro." She took in a deep breath and
swallowed, her tears threatening to choke her. "I heard him. I heard
everything that he said," the tiny woman stated plainly before succumbing to
a bout of crying.

Nicholas wrapped his arms around her in comfort. "There now," he whispered.
"It will be alright. I will take you home."

She sniffled quietly during the carriage ride. Neither said a word. It
wasn't until they reached her rooms that she began to speak. "Figaro loves
me, Nicholas," she said softly, but insistently. "He said it, and I know
that he meant it."

"Marianna, you have to understand..." Nicholas began.

"I do understand!" she broke in. "She is a vampire and I am not - I cannot
begin to compare fairly because he is blinded by that."

"Marianna, he thinks that he loves *Clare*," Nicholas said gently.

"Of course he does. She is a part of his world. She is his sire. There
must be some pull because of that connection that he cannot resist. I
am not completely mistaken, am I?"

Nicholas nodded. "It is a difficult tie to break, yes."

"And you think of vampire women differently than mortal ones, do you not?"

"Yes."

Marianna clutched pleadingly at his coat sleeve. "Surely you see my
plight? Figaro is unsure about me because I am mortal. He said he
had never created another vampire before - I think he is afraid for me. He
is using his sire's visit to hide from how he loves me! Trust my reasoning,
Nicholas. If you bring me across, Figaro will have no cause for doubting
our love anymore."

"No," Nicholas protested. "I am sorry. I cannot help you!"

"But you must! Figaro and I cannot be together if I am not a vampire!
He cannot be free to love me if I am not a vampire!"

"Perhaps you were not meant to be together, Marianna."

"No! I do not believe that. You do not either; I can see it in your
face. Your uncertainty is clear, and I know that you were as surprised
by Figaro's words tonight as I." She took one of his Nicholas' hands between
her own and squeezed it urgently. "Think, my dearest friend. Would Figaro
have revealed the secret of his true nature if he did not love me?"

Nicholas turned away, his expression torn by indecision. Part of him agreed
with her, and yet..."His words contradict any love on his part. You must
accept that you were a flight of fancy for Figaro, nothing more."

Her voice came as a pleading and desperate sound. "No. If I was only
Figaro's momentary passion, I would be dead now. Drained. You know that.
Please, Nicholas! Please help me!"

A wave of optimistic belief swept over Nicholas. Suddenly, he was sure of
the rightness of bringing Marianna across. Didn't he understand more than
anyone how a sire's magnetism could warp everything one thought, said or
did? Giving the vampire reign, he turned to Marianna with bright eyes and
a snarl.

"Yes!" she said triumphantly and fumbled to pull off her cloak. "Thank you!"

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

A whistling Schanke entered the morgue. "Come along, partner. It's time
for us to make a social call."

"Where?" Nick asked.

"While I was spending the past few hours learning waaaay too much about
fashion world gossip, I had four people swear that they overheard one
of Langtry Muller's co-workers threaten her life. It was another
correspondent, named -" Schanke pulled a notebook out of his coat pocket
and squinted at his writing - "Sasha Miglioni. Where do these people get
these names?" He flipped the notebook shut. "I thought we should drop
by Ms. Miglioni's place for a chat."

Saying their goodbyes to Natalie, the men headed for the Caddy. Nick had
been the last one to drive it, so the radio dial was turned to CERK. The
moment Nick turned the ignition, the sounds of the Nightcrawler floated
out of the car's speakers.

"To own a piece of someone is the greatest gift you can share with
them. They are always with you, and they can never forget the one
who took part of them away. Is it slavery? Is it domination and
submission?......Perhaps I am speaking
of the bond of parent and child...or love. I'll let you decide."

Schanke shut the radio off and turned to Nick with a question. "Have you
ever had Figaro design any clothes for you?"

Nick shook his head. "No. Not that he hasn't offered, but I have nightmares
about pink shirts. Why do you ask?"

"He said he wanted to design a suit for me. Myra's dying to go to the studio
and meet him, but I'm not so sure."

"What's the worst that could happen, Schank? It's a suit. If you don't like
it, you can always stick it in the back of your closet."

"Yeah, you forgot the other scenario. I don't like it, but Myra does and makes
me wear it."

Three squad cars waited outside Sasha Miglioni's building when they arrived.
As the elevator opened to her floor, unease spread over Nick and Schanke's
faces as they saw Metro Police uniforms down the hall.

Schanke called to the closest officer. "What happened?"

"We got a call from the woman in 902 confessing to the murder at Figaro
Newton's studio. By the time the first unit arrived, she'd committed
suicide with the murder weapon. She left a note and everything."

Nick and Schanke walked briskly down the hall to Sasha Miglioni's
apartment. Her body was in the living room, splayed to the side with a
Japanese sword extending from her chest. A feeling of numb dread spread
over Nick.

The sword was not Figaro's.

************************************************************************
End of Part Three

Nick crossed the dance floor of the Raven, coming to a stop where
Janette swayed intimately with a tall, dark and handsome club patron.
Feeling Nick's presence, Janette spun around to greet him. "Nicola! What
brings you for a visit? Is it business or pleasure?"

"I want to talk about Figaro."

"That still doesn't answer my question."

Janette donned a flirtatious smile, but it did not phase Nick's serious
demeanor. "I'm here on business."

She moved closer to Nick, melted into his side and ran a fingertip along
his jaw line. "That is your answer *too* often, Nicola." Janette dismissed
her dance partner with a brief glance over one bare shoulder, then walked
with Nick over to the bar. She took a stool next to an unshaven man with
long, dark hair, while the detective leaned against the counter. "This is
about the murder at Figaro's studio, non?," she concluded. The bartender set
a full glass at her elbow, and, in almost the same instant, she lifted it
to her lips. "Funny. I thought that I saw on the news last night that the
police had apprehended the killer, though posthumously," she added
mischievously.

"I think that woman was a scapegoat, Janette," Nick confided softly. "I
believe her death was made to look like a suicide, and someone set her up."

Janette laughed, then took an amused sip from her glass. "Who? Figaro?"

Nick's expression remained solemn. "What do you think?"

Janette gave an insouciant shrug. "I cannot imagine Figaro going to such
trouble to eliminate two reporters. I know that in many aspects he is
flamboyant, but he has respected the Code for quite some time. Figaro would
never have done that first killing in his salon. We spent too many hours
hunting for the carpet."

"Was it your idea that he open a studio in Toronto?" Nick asked.

Janette nodded. "I encouraged him, yes. As much as I delighted in visiting
him in Paris and New York, it wasn't always convenient. Figaro arranged
everything himself, though I believe he purchased the building from
LaCroix."

"That's strange," Nick commented, a furrow crossing his brow. "When I spoke
with Figaro, he implied he didn't have anything to do with LaCroix."

"It was only a piece of property. A business transaction. Why else would
LaCroix be involved with Figaro's expansion?"

Nick summed up his theory in one word. "Clare."

Janette stiffened noticeably, her lips twisting bitterly. She brushed the
suggestion away with a brittle laugh. "Sentimentality? Oh, Nicola! Where do
you get these ideas?"

"They had a long-standing acquaintance, at the very least," Nick argued.
"You can't deny that."

"But it no longer exists," she stated emphatically.

"Could LaCroix have taken Clare's place? Perhaps Figaro sought this
publicity to attract him."

"No. I do not believe LaCroix is involved with this," Janette protested.
"You cannot blame him for every supposed evil that you uncover, and you are
too quick to brand Figaro the guilty one."

Nick stared moodily into the crowd on the dance floor. "When Clare was
alive, Figaro would have murdered those women to draw her attention."

"But thankfully, Clare is *not* alive," Janette said with brutal honesty.
"She is no longer the root of anyone's problem."

Nick eyed her speculatively for a moment. Janette had neither forgotten, nor
forgiven, the past. "You sound happy that Clare was destroyed."

Janette lifted her glass to her lips once more and drained the contents.
Her eyes flashed with assurance. "Aren't you?"

Nick did not answer, for he wasn't sure of his answer. His thoughts swarmed
over the scenario of the murders. Perhaps Figaro hadn't killed the
correspondents for attention. Maybe his sword has simply been stolen; the
theft overshadowed by the first killing. Nick's intuition told him that the
explanation wasn't so simple...or honest.

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

Figaro's eyes burned in outrage as he slammed Nicholas against the salon
wall. "You have gone too far!"

Nicholas pulled the other vampire's hands from his shoulders and flung him
across the room. Figaro crashed to the floor, his fall destroying a lacquer
table. "I brought Marianna across for *you*!" Nicholas shouted at Figaro.
"You can be together now!"

Figaro dissolved into hysterical laughter from his place on the floor.
"You are a fool, Nicholas!" Figaro stifled his guffaws, looking up into the
other vampire's indignant face. "I repeatedly told you a sen'night ago - I
do not love Marianna! How could you possibly twist my declarations to mean
the opposite?"

"Marianna convinced me that you truly loved her. It is only your sire's
presence that overshadowed your feelings for her," Nicholas argued stiffly.

"Then Marianna is a fool as well." A sudden flare of anger reappeared in
Figaro's expression and he slammed his fist against the carpet, cracking the
floorboard. "Damn, but she is crusted to me like a barnacle to the pier! This
is the first opportunity that I have had to escape and strangle you all week!"

"Then it makes no difference to you now that she is a vampire?" Nick
challenged. "You said that she was your angel. Yours must be a shallow heaven."

"Hah!" Figaro stood, straightened his wig and brushed the lint from his
coat. "You sneer at the brevity of my devotion, but you are no innocent, my
friend. You cannot convince me that you have never indulged a grand
infatuation, only to have it dissolve upon closer acquaintance with the
lady." Nicholas glanced away from Figaro's challenging stare. "Yes, you are
just as guilty as I am, Nicholas. You are guilty of more - you brought
Marianna across. If you had left her a mortal as *I* intended, her memory
would be clean by now. Her heartbreak would have been erased effortlessly.
Now she is a prostrated beggar hanging on my every movement. You made
Marianna's behavior your responsibility by making her a vampire. Get her
away from me!"

"If you have spoken to her in this manner, I cannot imagine that she has
remained in your company," Nicholas retorted stiffly.

Figaro moved closer, giving the other vampire a brutal glare. "Then you are
not very imaginative. The woman is obsessed. You are her sire, Nicholas.
Take care of it."

As Figaro walked toward the salon door, Nicholas caught him with a final
query. "With no wedding in your future, I suppose you have spent a good deal
of time with Clare. Tell me, my *friend*, what does she think of your
dealings with Marianna?"

Figaro turned to respond, his voice and expression stormy. "I have not seen
Clare since I informed her that I broke the engagement." He released a
rueful laugh. "I can lay the blame for that at your door as well."

Nicholas was clearly perplexed. He'd never even *met* Figaro's sire. "How is
that possible?"

"She has wasted every moment in your sire's company. If you were not in
Vienna, Nicholas, LaCroix would be absent as well. There is another piece of
guilt for you," Figaro bit out, then slammed from the room.

Nicholas searched his thoughts. He felt guilty, yes, but he also felt pity.
Pity for Marianna, for Figaro, and himself.

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

"What have you found?" Nick asked, watching Natalie examine Sasha Miglioni's
corpse.

"Everything looks normal," she replied. "Well, normal for someone who killed
herself by falling on a sword. I haven't found anything to suggest that the
blade she used wasn't the murder weapon in the Muller case. Forensics found
traces of Langtry Muller's blood on the sword. I only have metal filings
from the first murder for comparison. So far, there's no indication that
there are two different weapons, Nick, except for your suspicions."

Nick released a frustrated sigh as Schanke entered the morgue. "Everybody
welcome the News Fairy! I just got a call from one of our guys at the
precinct. They just found an antique dealer off West King who sold our sword
to a woman fitting Sasha Miglioni's description five days ago. That puts the
murder weapon in her possession plenty early to poke a few holes in her co-
worker."

Nick shook his head uneasily. "I'm still not sure we're seeing everything,
Schank."

"Oh, come on! What *don't* we have?" Schanke said sarcastically. He counted
items off with his fingers. "We've got motive. There's practically a hockey
team worth of people willing to go on the record that Miglioni hated Muller
and wanted her job. We've got a murder weapon that links to both cases.
We've got proof that Miglioni owned the murder weapon, *and* we have one
recorded and one written confession. That's a hell of a lot!"

Nick thought to himself. "What
about the strangulation marks from the first case? Could Miglioni have made
those bruises?" Nick asked aloud, frowning at the body's slim fingers.

"That's a good point," Natalie nodded. "I checked Miglioni's medical
records. She suffered from chronic arthritis."

Nick brightened with interest. "She wouldn't have been able to strangle the
other woman," Nick concluded.

"I wouldn't say it was impossible," Natalie qualified, "But based on what
I've read about her condition, the pain would have been excruciating. What I
do know is, her hand width and finger lengths match the bruise marks. I'd
say the killer definitely was a woman or a youth."

"Are you sure?" Nick asked disappointedly.

Nat nodded. "I'm sure. Look here." Natalie lifted the corpse's right hand
and pressed the latexed fingers of her own left hand next to them to show
their comparable size. Then Nat held up her left for Nick and Schanke. "Now
you two," she ordered. The right palms of both detectives dwarfed Natalie's
hand.

Nick nodded thoughtfully. He still
didn't believe that Sasha Miglioni was the true culprit. Nick
mulled over the possibilities. Suddenly, he knew the answer.

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

Marianna had disappeared. Nicholas roamed the dark streets of Vienna and
found no trace of his fledgling. There was only one place, the most obvious,
left to search. He headed for Figaro's lodgings.

Venturing first into the sitting room, he found it vacant. A blaze shimmered
in the fireplace, casting subtle rays of light across the furniture. The
faint light drew his attention to the open container lying on the floor. It
was the velvet-lined box that stored Figaro's new sword, and it was empty.

Nicholas climbed the stairs to the second floor, heading for Figaro's
bedroom. Just outside the door, he sensed her. "Marianna?" he questioned
softly as he entered the dark room. Nicholas quickly identified the figures:
he saw Figaro collapsed on his bed, staked. Marianna stood over him, the
Japanese sword in her grip. She furiously raised the blade in the air,
preparing to slice downward in the direction of Figaro's neck. Nicholas
shouted her name. "Marianna!"

The sound caught her by surprise, snapping Marianna out of her angry stupor,
and caused her to fumble her ready stance.

Nicholas leapt forward, backhanding the sword from her grasp. He grabbed her
by the upper arms, snarling in rage. "What have you done?"

Marianna's eyes were frenzied with emotion, her lips drawn back into a
fanged hiss. "I HATE HIM!!! Figaro deserves to die! He cannot ignore me. He
cannot just forget that I exist! I won't let him!" she screamed, then
erupted in pathetic tears. "All he had to do was speak sweetly to me. To
love me as he promised. It was all lies, though. He doesn't care. Break my
heart, cause me pain - he doesn't care what happens to me. I will show him
what a broken heart feels like!" Marianna jerked away and flung herself on
the bed. She clutched the stake protruding from Figaro's chest and began to
turn the wood as though it was a vicious screw. Figaro regained
consciousness at the attack and released a groan of agony.

Nicholas pulled Marianna off of the wounded vampire, sending her slight form
flying through the air and into a wall. He seized the stake, and Figaro
howled at the torturous burn of the wood sliding from his chest. Once
Nicholas had yanked it free of flesh and bone, he threw the stake across the
room.

"Figaro," Nick promised as he examined the wound, "I'll help you. I'll get
you some blood, and you'll recover."

There was a shriek, and a blunt object crashed into Nicholas' skull. He fell
off the mattress from the impact and shook his head dazedly to recover.
Marianna had swiped at him with a footstool, demolishing it, and she had
recovered the wooden stake. She now reared over Figaro, clearly intending a
second blow. She shrieked again, the sound the screech of a harpy.

In a blur of instinct, Nicholas gripped the hilt of the sword at his feet,
slashing it like a scythe through the air. Marianna's headless body sprawled
lifelessly, silently, over Figaro's still form.

Fighting back a wave of self-disgust, Nicholas rolled the corpse to the
floor. He hunted through the room furniture for any blood that Figaro might
have on hand and found two bottles stored in the wardrobe. At first he held
the bottle to Figaro's lips, but after a while, the wounded vampire had
healed enough to feed himself.

After starting the second bottle, Figaro spoke in a husky voice. "Thank you,
Nicholas." He took Nicholas' hand in his own, squeezed it, then let it fall.
"Marianna wanted to destroy my heart," he said faintly. "I suppose she would
have been successful had it not already been broken."

Nick slid dejectedly off the bed and to his feet. Gazing out the bedroom
window, he saw the first threads of dawn spread like a spider web at the
horizon. He sighed and pulled the window's heavy curtains closed. With
slumped shoulders, he bent down and hefted Marianna's body over one
shoulder. Feeling empty and pointless, Nicholas began to clean the room.

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

An obliging assistant ushered Nick up to Figaro's office as though his visit
was expected. He found the designer in conference with Domino over a lighted
board, examining a collection of negatives.

"I like these, Dom. Excellent presentation," Figaro was saying. "How would
you like to take on shooting a few of the Spring print ads?"

Domino appeared overwhelmed. "I don't know what to say. Do you think I
could? Cecilia says..."

"Cecilia is not in charge," Figaro interrupted decisively. "I don't give a
damn what she says to you; Cecilia never will be." The designer switched off
the lightboard, then turned casually to acknowledge Nick's arrival.
"Nicholas and I need to have a private tete-a-tete right now," he said
smoothly, clapping the younger vampire on the shoulder. "Why don't you go
brainstorm for a while, Dom? Feel free to break a few taboos and shake some
dogma while you're at it."

Both older vampires watched as Domino shut the office door behind him.

"Speaking of Cecilia," Nick commented, "I didn't see her as I came up."

"Cecilia," Figaro announced, settling into his leather chair and lighting a
cigarette, "has been sent to New York for the season."

Nick gave him a questioning look. "Grounded?"

Figaro let out a short laugh. "You could say that." He blew rings of smoke
into the air that danced like miniature cloudy halos about his head.

Nick strolled nonchalantly about the office, stopping when he saw a familiar
box placed prominently upon a cutting table. Nick looked over at the other
vampire, his expression asking, "May I?" Figaro gestured with his cigarette-
holding hand, indicating Nick should help himself.

Nick open the box and there it was: bone handle, mother-of-pearl bands, and
a inscription. Figaro's sword.

"As you can see, we are reunited," Figaro said lightly.

Nick let the case lid fall shut and walked back to the desk. "Where did
Cecilia hide it?"

"On the roof. The location was very inaccessible...to mortals." Figaro
grinned saucily, flicking his cigarette ashes away.

"What was her motive for killing Langtry Muller?" Nick asked. "I know that
Cecilia believed she was doing you a service."

"She did, the vicious shrew! Langtry was close to losing her job to Sasha-
dear, though frankly, I thought they were interchangeable," Figaro sighed.

"You would," Nick said archly.

"Now, now, don't get testy, Nicholas. It's so unattractive." Figaro lit a
new cigarette with the older one, then crushed the used stub in his ashtray.
"Cecilia caught Langtry snooping around the studio for dirt to report about
yours truly. Langtry did a very good job, too. She had a nice collection of
evidence. Peeked in my fireplaces." Fig gave Nick a knowing look. "Cecilia
decided to think for herself and kill the woman. It was a bad call on
her part."

"But why didn't she try to clear the woman's memory before murdering her?"
Nick wondered.

"That, my friend, is the reason Cecilia is languishing in New York. It was a
shabby killing. She not only got blood stains on my gorgeous carpet, she
used my sword to do it! Needless to say, Cecilia was dismayed to discover I
greatly preferred the sword's company over her own." Figaro shrugged. "It
was a folly when I brought her across, but I am resigned to living with my
mistakes."

"And cleaning up after them," Nick stated stiffly.

"You sound so reproachful!"

"You killed Sasha Miglioni and made her into an infamous murderer."

"I also got her face on the news more than she ever managed herself while alive.
She hadn't a shred of talent," Figaro hooted.

"She was no threat to you, just an expediency."

"Oh, shut up, Nicholas! I'm a public figure. The heaving masses expected a
rapid solution to this murder. Your captain wanted the corset strings cinched up
neat,
tight, and quickly. Did you forget? What else was I supposed to do? Serve up
Cecilia for a life sentence and let society scratch their heads when the
parole board's grandchildren die before she does? Perhaps we should have let
the murder go unsolved, leaving you, your partner, your captain - hell! -
all of Metro Police looking incompetent. Consider the situation sensibly:
one woman died, and all of your dear, mannerly Canadians have a brief, shining
moment
of happiness and order. It was a necessary evil."

Nick leaned forward in his chair. "You are right, Figaro. It was evil."

Figaro tsk-ed and shook his head. "I can't understand how you could exist so
long and not realize that the world is not black and white. There are
limitless colors in between. Shades of good and shades of evil. You think
I'm evil because I carelessly sacrificed a mortal for my own convenience.
Surely you don't place that on the same level as evil for its own sake? If
anything, I am guilty of apathy. I'm evil because I don't let the fate of a
single mortal haunt me like you do. I'm evil because I upheld my
responsibility to my family. I dealt with the consequences of their
behavior, just like you did with Marianna so long ago, just like Clare would
do for me." Figaro's gaze momentarily grew distant, then he blew out a
breath of cigarette smoke, extinguishing the clove as he pushed away his
memories. He pushed back his chair and stood, concluding merrily, "If I were
to pick a moral hue for this escapade between white and black, I think I'd
end up a fair shade of melon. Nothing to be ashamed of there. Hmm. I wonder
how your friend Schanke would look in a nice melon-colored suit?"

Nick rose from his chair as well, letting chastisement fill his voice. "You
just move on like that, uncaring and unconcerned?" He sshook his head. "I could
never understand that. I could never accept it, old...friend."

Figaro gave him a solemn look that seemed to say,

Nick went to the office doors and jerked them open. "Do one thing, Fig. When
Schanke comes over, make sure he *likes* what you make up for him."

"That's a lesson I *know* you've learned, Nicholas," Figaro drawled. "We
don't always get what we like."

"Tell me," Nick wondered as an afterthought. "Did you ever get Clare to love
you like you wanted?" He noted Figaro's stiff expression, then continued,
"It's just a suit, Fig. Give Schanke what he wants." Nick shut the door
behind himself, leaving Figaro alone to light another cigarette.

**************************************************************************
End of Part Four
Fin

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Look for the next story in the Clare Series - 'Unnatural Selection'

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