SPOILERS: This is a post-Last Knight fanfic. I f you haven't seen this episode 
yet, you may not wish to read further. There are also references to "Ashes to 
Ashes", "Black Buddha, Pt. I and II", "The Fix", "Blood Money", and 
"Forward into the Past".

The Vachon scene in Part 10 is dedicated to Nancy ^..^, whose enthusiasm for 
the guy and my writing deserves to be rewarded (I appreciate it!). Just pretend 
you're the nameless girl...

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

The Spirit and the Dust
Copyright 1996
By Bonnie Rutledge

     The darkness pulsed, filled with the musk scents of the night animals.  The 
hyenas and lions were circling, scuffing at one particular spot in the dirt. 
Something was there, underground, and both parties wanted claim to it. The 
pride and pack began snarling at each other, ready for a challenge, when 
suddenly, the buried object unearthed itself, eyes glowing and teeth bared.

     Yelping, the beasts scattered in every direction, leaving the now-standing 
figure behind. It was a woman, covered only in dirt, face and eyes still feral. 
After a glimpse at her deserted surroundings, her threatening expression 
subsided, until only a worried crinkle shadowed her brow.

     One of her own was in danger, she was certain. She could feel it deep in her 
marrow.

     Clare took a serious breath, counted to five, then let it out. The possibilities 
were few, and strangely enough, she felt obligated to follow her instincts. She 
had not felt obligated to protect anyone in decades.

     Resigned, Clare began searching through the nearby brush, while considering 
the implications of her decision. I spend more time alone, she thought, years at a 
time, rather than spend it with my own kind. I run off to any locale where I can 
retreat in isolation.

     Finally, Clare spotted her goal: a dusty knapsack that had apparently been 
dragged about by some wildlife the day before. Zipping it open, Clare pulled out 
a jug of water and proceeded to wash off her grime covering and continued her 
introspection. 

     Her unlife had been punctuated by searches for wild corners of the world 
where she could remain anonymous. This hiding alternated with cosmopolitan 
activity, craving connections in vampire society. The more centuries that passed, 
the harder it became for Clare to escape and regroup.

     Right now, she was in the Serengeti, which, Clare contemplated wryly, was 
not one of her brightest ideas. It seemed there were more biologists, 
anthropologists, and families on safari here than lions. As much as they irritated 
her, she let them be. But the poachers...

      Now the poachers, Clare revealed no mercy to them. Every few days, she 
would come across a group of these predators with high-powered rifles, looking 
for new trophies to sell on the black market. These vexations she ripped apart. 
After all, who cares if a poacher is shredded by the wildlife? Clare believed it 
was a fitting end, as well as a convenient way to obtain supplies when she did 
not want to fly all the way back to Nairobi.

     Satisfied that she was as clean as she was going to get under the 
circumstances, Clare burrowed again in the knapsack. She found a shirt, jeans, 
socks and boots, all sturdy, all boring, all better suited for a man's frame. She 
wrinkled her nose in distaste, but remained happy that they had survived being 
tossed about a bit while she slept. One couldn't just run around naked. At least, 
not anymore.

      Once clothed, Clare was ready to head back to Nairobi, where she had been 
keeping hotel space, ready to leave the Serengeti and soon Africa as well.

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

     It was the wee hours of the morning. Reggie was flipping through the latest 
issue of 'Rolling Stone'. At four a.m., there wasn't exactly a stampede at the 
Somora Nairobi Kenya, even for the desk clerk.

     The flipping clatter of the hotel's revolving door drew his attention away 
from the latest reviews. Reggie quickly shoved the magazine into a cubbyhole 
and sprang off his stool.

     It was her. Clare Douglas appeared at the hotel every few weeks, always 
carrying a different duffel bag and sporting overlarge clothes. She'd have that 
smoky smell, too, the scent that always seems to follow if you've been camping 
for a few days. Reggie didn't actually believe that was what she'd been doing - 
why would someone who'd been reserving the Presidential suite for two years 
straight go camping all the time? 

     Reggie gave a mental shrug. Five hundred bucks a night to stay here, and she 
comes in dressed as a reject from L.L. Bean. But later, the next time he saw her 
in fact, there would be Montana suits, little dresses by Isaac Mizrahi, and gowns 
from that new designer, Newton.

     And there were gardenias. Someone always sent her a bouquet of those a 
couple of days after she arrived. Thereafter, the scent would hover, and she 
carried just a suggestion of the perfume.

     Clare approached the counter, and Reggie had her room keycard waiting.

     "Good evening, Ms. Douglas," Reggie beamed.

     White teeth flashed. "Why, thank you, Reg," Clare answered, "I'm going to 
be making a telephone call to the usual number tonight. Can you get them on 
the line and patch it through to my suite?"

     "It'd be my pleasure."

     Clare leaned over the counter, until her eyes were inches away from 
Reggie's own. "Wonderful."

     Reggie could have sworn that her smile was almost lascivious. Clare 
continued speaking. "Could you have room service bring something up? 
Anything the kitchen has at this hour will be fine. By the way, is that new fellow 
on duty?"

     "Charles? He sure is."

     "Perfect. Then have...Charles...bring the food upstairs. Alright, Reg?"

     "Whatever you say, Ms. Douglas." Reggie dreamily picked up the desk 
phone as he watched Clare slip into the elevator. "Operator, I need an 
international line for a direct dialed call. How long will that take?"

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

     Clare was wringing her hair in the folds of an embroidered hotel towel when 
the phone rang. Deciding that the towel was too large to create a stable turban, 
she whipped it off again. Seating herself, she arranged the trailing ends of her 
silk bathrobe, tucking her feet under the hem. Clare considered a nice, comfy, 
overstuffed, club chair to be one of the pinnacle accoutrements of civilization. 
Maybe number ten, if she was making a list. After the third ring, she was lifting 
the portable receiver. 

     "It's Clare," she answered. Listening a moment, she grinned. "I know, I 
know. You didn't expect another call so soon. But I had this irresistible urge..." 
More listening and snickering ensued. "Not that kind of urge. I've decided to 
rejoin the living, or unliving, as it were." This statement resulted in questions 
from the other party, to which Clare responded. "I want to leave with the 
sunset. I'll take a plane, even though in-flight meals are such a pain. I'm aiming 
straight for your house, but I expect the trip will take several days. Can you find 
out how everyone is doing? No, no. I just feel ready to interact again, and I 
would like some hint as to the response I should expect from my family. I might 
even consider acting my age."

     Clare caressed the mouthpiece with her thumb, lost in nostalgia. "I have 
missed  you. Sometimes the sound of your voice and the flowers aren't 
enough."

     There was a knock on the door. Shaken from her reverie, Clare glanced 
towards the sound. "My breakfast just arrived. I think I'm having French 
cuisine, but nowadays it can be hard to tell before you've had a taste, fusion of 
cultures and all that."

     During this exchange, Clare arose from her chair, brushed her damp hair 
behind an ear, and made her way to the suite entrance. "I'll see you soon. Be 
safe." She then hung up.

     Swinging the door open revealed a handsome, dark-skinned bellboy, just 
waiting to wheel his cart inside. As he rolled past, Clare sniffed the air 
consideringly and exclaimed, "Why, Charles! You *are* French!"
 
***************************************************************
    
     Three nights later, Clare entered the hothouse. The moist air teased her 
nostrils, laden with florals and earthy aromas. Rows of ferns hung from the 
ceiling. Clare gingerly touched the waxy, smooth surface of the rachis belonging 
to one frond. Greenery promenaded along the slick glass walls, the surface 
reflecting as if it was composed of emerald ice. Blooms spawned in the middle, 
a riot of shades and textures for the eyes to feast upon. 

     As always, he had his hands in the soil. This time he was transplanting some 
violets that had grown too exuberantly for their pots. Clare was constantly 
amazed that he could make typically menial tasks appear so elegant. Maybe it 
was his Edwardian black velvet jacket, or how gently he touched each petal as 
he deposited the plant in fresh peat. She was intimately familiar with tea 
ceremony, and this always seemed to her a proper masculine, western 
counterpart. The movements were delicate, the atmosphere solemn and 
worshipful, the execution the culmination of years of skill.

     The fern Clare had been admiring had been nourished for over a century, 
first acquired when he had been a mortal banker overseeing her investments. 
Every few years it was pruned down to a few bare and scraggly stems, then 
encouraged to rampage all over again. He has obtained a more successful, 
livelier, and fruitful relationship with a Pterophyta, Clare wondered ruefully, 
than I have with most of my offspring.

     "Hello, Feliks."

     Clare had disturbed his contemplation. Apparently, Feliks had been so 
engrossed with his flora that he hadn't sensed, much less heard, her approach. 
An unlucky and dangerous habit, she mused worriedly.

     Feliks lifted a pair of shears to a glossy gardenia shrub, then presented Clare 
with a milky blossom. "Perhaps you missed your usual delivery?" he voiced with 
a wink.

     She savored the bloom for a moment, then clasped one of his hands as she 
kissed him tenderly. "I adore them," she replied. "But, then, I adore you." Clare 
rubbed his upper lip with a thoughtful thumb. "You shaved your moustache."

     Feliks shrugged nonchalantly. "It was always collecting pollen."

     Clare smiled affectionately then teased, "So, Feliks. How do you fare here in 
your verdant asylum?"

     Refined eyebrows rose. "I have a few windowpanes for my sanctuary, Clare. 
You utilize continents."

     She twisted her lips wryly. "Caught. You are the only companion I have 
conversed with since Seiji's demise. Lately, I have decided that was not a wise 
course of action. To paraphrase the clergyman, no vampire is an island."

     "I've been decidedly peninsular the past several days, thanks to you," Feliks 
promised. "In your name, I called in a few favors from Aristotle, and have 
tidings of most of my siblings and your acquaintances. The good news is, only 
some of them despise you."

     "And I suppose the bad news is everyone else cringes at my name?"

     "Don't be silly. Aristotle is, as always, respectful. I am your most adoring 
companion, and Figaro still thinks you are smashing. He always considered you 
to be his muse." Feliks reassured. "The bad news derives from troubling events 
I received from Nicholas."

     Her features tensed with displeasure. "Does Nicholas ever have anything but 
trouble to relate?"

     "Be nice." Feliks frowned in chastisement. "Evidently, several nights before 
you called, bedlam broke out in Toronto: LaCroix's daughter suddenly 
appeared and began attacking all of his associates."

     "Divia?" Clare gasped in surprise.

     "You know of her?"

     Clare shrugged. "I met her once. Needless to say, it was an excruciatingly 
long time ago."

     "You will be interested to know that Nicholas was among those attacked."

     "Of course. No doubt she would have seen him as a rival." Clare couldn't 
resist smirking.

     "As well as Vachon and his little friend, Urs. They were both destroyed. 
Divia had some poison to her bite such that she could inflict non-healing 
wounds upon her vampire brethren. Nicholas hypothesizes that he survived due 
to his comparative age."

     This news silenced Clare. A few seconds passed, then she shook her head 
emphatically. "No. Vachon is not gone. I would know."

     "You doubt it? Then go see for yourself."

     "I believe that I will."

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

     Clare spent the evening quizzing Feliks about the latest gossip, until she felt 
herself to be forewarned and forearmed. The night melted away as they 
conversed, laughed, and dwelt on the past. Before they headed for shelter from 
the light wisping across the dawn sky, Clare took Feliks by the hand and 
commiserated.

      "You are my best friend, Feliks Twist. You perceive the reasons behind my 
faults better than anyone. Would you ever leave your private place, your 
solitude?"

     "There is a reason that you selected each vampire you have brought across, 
Clare," he deliberated carefully. "Some facet, however subtle, that spoke to 
you. Despite your arguments to the contrary, you are not a creature of whims. 
You perceived some part of yourself, be it nobility, ferocity, or in my case, the 
need to seclude your heart. We equate sequestration with protection. Each time 
we connect, it is a lifeline. If one of us is safe, then the other feels likewise. That 
is why our relationship is the only one that you have indulged since Hiroshima. 
So if I were to change, leave this place, not only would it cause you great 
distress, but what use would you have for me?"

     Clare rolled her eyes and brushed Feliks' knuckles with her lips. "I had a 
plethora of excuses for bringing you across. I'm sure that I could assign you a 
new role if I racked my brains long enough," she teased. "You are right. You 
make me feel safe. So the next time I have the urge to run off and hide for fifty 
years, remind me to run to you."

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

     Standing outside the Raven, Clare was a bit disconcerted. According to 
Feliks, this place had become a hub of mortal and immortal nightlife, yet there 
was no line at the door, no bustle, no bouncer to capitulate. She discerned dim 
remnants of life here, as though a recent crowd had been swept away, leaving 
only their shadows.

     There was a lock on the door, and Clare easily wrenched it apart before 
entering. As she worked her way down the L-shaped staircase and across the 
dance floor to the bar, Clare noted the dark columns and chain curtains that 
slashed to the floor. She envisioned that Lucius hadn't bothered to alter 
Janette's decor much once he took over the club. The clientele had probably 
been the significant transformation. His marble bust was the only hint that 
Lucius had ever been here, other than a faint awareness that tinged her nerves. 
Trailing a hand along the dustless counter, Clare made her way towards the 
back rooms. These were vacant as well, absent of decorations save a few 
torchieres and wall hangings. 

     This chamber had not been abandoned long. Clare felt the impression from 
the recent presence of Lucius and Nicholas, maybe from the night before or 
even earlier this evening. 

     Resigned that Lucius would not be available to answer any of her concerns, 
much less dabble in a reunion, Clare decided to visit the vampire the next most 
likely to know anything regarding Vachon. Unfortunately, she did not anticipate 
this to be a pleasant or easy interview. Past experience spoke volumes.

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

     Clare arrived at Nicholas' loft around an hour before daybreak. She buzzed 
upstairs to announce her arrival, but received no answer. Of course, from her 
knowledge of Nicholas, he would balk at allowing her to come inside. He would 
prefer an argument to reasonable conversation. Thus decided, Clare took to the 
air.

     Gliding above the brick structure, she noted a plenitude of windows, all 
appearing shuttered. Her reconnaissance also revealed a skylight, perfect for 
dropping by uninvited. Landing beside it and peering inside, Clare took note of 
the loft's contents. There were polished stone floors, a carved fireplace, a black 
leather sofa with matching chairs, as well as an absolutely gorgeous Persian rug 
with two bodies slumped upon it.

     This discovery earned a frown. Clare crashed through the skylight, sending 
silicon shards raining downwards. She landed crouched next to the figures and 
studied their condition. Nicholas' form was on top, seeming to shelter the 
woman below him. 

     An image of bodies stacked like so much firewood disturbed Clare's 
inspection. She closed her eyes and shook her head to chase the memory away. 
Noting a suspicious mark on Nicholas' back, she rolled him over to find a 
heartwise wound. Nicholas had been staked.

      her thoughts screamed. Clare inspected her surroundings 
further, swiftly spotting a staff discarded a few meters away. It was rounded on 
one end, and slightly stained upon the other, apparently from its recent use as a 
weapon.

     Clare then turned her examination to the female. Above the neckline of her 
camisole and sweater, she perceived the tell-tale stains of a vampire's feeding. 
In addition to the blood, Clare's gaze zeroed in upon a few stray filaments by 
the woman's collar. Lifting one, she perused it thoughtfully. It was cat hair. By 
the ticking, she suspected that it had belonged to a gray tabby.

     Clare stood and strolled over to a leather chair that promised to be comfy. 
Sighing, she sank into it while contemplating the scene before her.

     Minutes passed. Abruptly, Clare rose and marched to the kitchen counters 
located a few steps behind and to the left of the sofa. Flipping through the 
cupboards and drawers, she latched onto a glass and knife.

     With a diagonal slash to her right wrist, Clare transferred a drizzle of red to 
the waiting carafe. She had collected just a few swallows by the time her 
incision had healed sufficiently to stem the flow of blood, so she repeated the 
process on her left arm.

     She dealt with the woman first, pulling her body into a seated position on the 
sofa. Opening the woman's mouth, Clare poured in a small amount of the 
blood, then tried to gently work it down into the esophagus. Unsatisfied, Clare 
went back to the kitchen and searched the cupboards above and under the sink.

     Something in the trash caught her eye. A capped needle. Clare tsked.

     Her expression became thoughtful. She moved briskly back to the figure on 
the couch, lifted one of her hands and sniffed. Detecting formaldehyde, 
bactericidal soap, and latex odors, she wondered if the woman had been in the 
medical profession. 

     Clare decided to search the loft, and while she did not find a purse, a tan 
woman's overcoat lay folded over one chair at the kitchen table. Searching 
through the pockets, she found a billfold and a ring of keys. Flipping the former 
open, Clare read the identification to herself aloud.

     "Dr. Natalie Lambert, M.E., Toronto Coroner's Office." Clare paused, 
dropped the billfold on the table, then began to swing the key ring around one 
digit as she headed for the elevator.

     When Clare returned, she was carrying a slightly scuffed black medical bag. 
Humming, she approached Dr. Lambert once more. She plucked two syringes 
from her new bag of tricks and filled them with the sanguine contents of her 
glass. After Clare tapped and expressed a drop of the plasma, she injected a vein 
in each of the doctor's arms.

     Deciding she had offered her best effort toward reviving the woman's spirits, 
Clare then turned to Nicholas. He did not receive any syringes. She was 
satisfied pouring a few swallows in Nicholas' mouth and dribbling the last 
trickle over his wound. He'd received enough coddling over his lifetimes as it 
stood.

     Then Clare resettled in the comfy leather chair and proceeded to wait for 
either figure to stir.

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

     Clare was dozing off when she heard Nicholas groan. She had pulled a green 
bottle out of his refrigerator, winced when she discovered what it contained, 
then kept it ready to place in his hand. Nicholas clutched the cylinder reflexively 
as his eyes flared golden-green.

     Clare observed Nicholas expectantly as he began to guzzle the bottle's 
contents. He gulped the fluid down rapidly, scarlet threads dripping from the 
corners of his mouth. When his hunger was satisfied, Nicholas wiped his face 
with a sleeve cuff as he stared at Clare warily.

     Then awareness struck him. He turned and beheld the figure on the couch, 
noting her now unblemished throat. Moving towards her, Nicholas breathed 
reverently, "Natalie." Ribboning his fingers in her hair, he cradled her close, and 
sat silent with emotion.

     "Based on my experience, you know, she probably won't wake until 
nightfall." Clare interrupted the quiet. "I can tell you are... overwhelmed by this 
turn of events. Tell me, Nicholas, are you dazed by joy or horror?"

     He glared at her stonily.  "I didn't mean to bring her across."

     That statement caught Clare by surprise. "Hmm. So you meant to kill her? 
How disappointed you must be at the end result. I suppose you fell on that 
stake purposefully as well...another miserable plan gone awry with my 
compliments."

      "No." Nicholas reproached. "We were trying a cure to regain my mortality. 
I drank too much of her blood. I couldn't bring her across and condemn her to 
life as a vampire. I cannot bear for her to live as I have these eight hundred 
years. It was better that we faced death together. You shouldn't have 
interfered."

     Clare's expression turned cold. "I shouldn't have interfered? I disagree. I can 
do whatever I want, and you are in no position to question me. Let me make it 
clear: if I ask you to do something, do it. Otherwise, I will have to destroy you. 
I have never liked you, nor how your guilt seems to always leave misery in your 
wake. I will not be sentimentally patient with you like Lucius. I helped you only 
as a service to him. As for your dear Natalie, I had my own reasons for bringing 
her over."

     "LaCroix was the one who staked me." Nicholas stated pointedly.

    Dumbfounded, Clare gawked at him. She tried to stifle them with a hand over 
her mouth, but the giggles still came. "Oh my. Oh, that's rich. Do you know 
how many times I admonished him, saying he should put you out of your 
misery? Put you out to pasture? But no, Lucius said you would come around, 
that one day you'd willingly be under his control again." Clare gave a small 
hysterical hiccup. "Finally, he follows my advice, and I come here to completely 
undo it!"

     Nicholas agreed sarcastically, "I'm sure that he will enjoy the irony."

     "Well, if I knew where Lucius was, I would certainly share. He has already 
vacated the Raven and, I suspect, left town."

     Nicholas nodded, as if he expected to hear this news. "And why are you here 
in Toronto, Clare? I don't recall inviting you. The past has taught me enough to 
know better than that."

     "And you aren't very welcoming, are you, Nicholas?" Clare responded 
tartly, before confessing, "I want to know about Vachon. What happened to 
him?"

     "You want information from me? Then maybe I do have the right to 
question you."

     Clare pursed her lips. "Touché. Here is the deal, in simple words, so that you 
will make no mistakes: I will leave you alone, and you will tell me where 
Vachon is buried."

     "Deal. Don't frown. You never liked me anyway, remember?" Nicholas then 
disclosed a waterfront location.

     Pleased with her newly garnered information, Clare was eager to leave with 
the sunset. Before departing, she wrote out an address and handed it to 
Nicholas. "This is my hotel. In the icebox, there are several pints of human 
blood. Take Natalie there and feed them to her when she awakens." At 
Nicholas' protest she stood firm. "Are you going to assist her in her first hunt? 
Let her become a carouche from that bovine swill that you are content to drink? 
I don't think so. You know she must drink human blood the first time. Do not 
let your desire to dispute everything I say cause Natalie harm. You may not be 
able to abide the concept of her as a vampire right now, but you had better deal 
with your emotions immediately. Any procrastination will only cause Natalie 
pain."

     "I wouldn't hurt her." Nick defended.

     Clare gave a last look to Natalie's sleeping form. "I expect that you have 
already."

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

     Vachon couldn't breathe. He was smothered by the weight of the dirt. It 
pressed down upon him, clogging his nostrils and mouth, making him want to 
scream, but Vachon was too weak for any outcry.

     He'd slept in the earth before, countless times, but never just after he had 
been staked. Nor just after he'd been poisoned. Not when he couldn't move, 
much less claw his way to freedom.

     He remembered thrusting himself on the wood held in Tracy's hands, and 
dimly recalled how she had clutched at him. His last thought had been of her fruit 
and flowers fragrance. Then, when he groggily regained consciousness, he was 
paralyzed from the trauma of impalement and lack of blood. Somehow his mind 
was functioning, on pins and needles and jumping from foot to foot, but 
physically he was unable to even shudder or groan. He would attempt to focus 
his efforts. At this point, moving a finger through the sheer force of will equaled 
a major accomplishment. As if he was trying to capture moonlight in a paper 
bag, all of his straining amounted to naught. What was the point? No, his motor 
skills no longer seemed intact, a vestigial memory, and his senses were 
overcompensating.
 
     He could tell when it was raining above ground. The water would leach 
down through the soil and tickle his eyes as it slipped past. He always felt like 
inhaling, had a desperate urge to respire, and though he knew that, as a 
vampire, the lack of air wouldn't kill him, this constant asphyxiation was driving 
him mad. 

     The hunger wasn't really a sensation anymore, Vachon thought. It was more 
like a state of being, for he felt condemned to an eternity of this existence.  At 
first, his gut had been like a cavern, the desperate craving for sustenance ringing 
a constant echo from within. An echo had an element of variation, however. 
Such a sound would oscillate - grow and fade. His hunger was a constant, harsh 
and scraping, complete and unending. One cramp eased into the next. One 
element of pain was no different from another.

     Suffocation and starvation had become the sum and total of his future. He 
didn't even have the strength to devour the worms and bugs that would crawl his 
way, so as to prolong this torture. There was nothing for Vachon to do but 
simply endure, endure until his spirit gave out.
  
***************************************************************

     Clare sensed him. She had known that she would, though the logical part of 
her mind had chastised her journey to Toronto. His closest acquaintances here 
accepted that Vachon was destroyed, why should she question that verdict? But 
she had brought across his Angel, the vampire sire to The Inka and Javier. Their Angel
had believed them necessary, and though Clare disagreed with what they symbolized,
she sought to prove that she was far more tolerant than their sire had ever given her 
credit for being. Because of that determination to spite a dead woman, she was interminably 
linked to Javier Vachon, even though their existences had shared only a handful of brief, 
hollow encounters. 

     None of the blame lay with Lucius or Nicholas, or anyone else associated 
with Vachon's premature burial. They wouldn't have shared his blood. Just as 
Lucius was probably realizing now that his staking of Nicholas had failed in its 
objective, Clare sensed the presence of her family clinging to this world.

     She fell to her knees and began to dig with her hands, gouging up palmfuls 
of earth and dust. She began to work faster, for the longer she hunched there, 
the stronger the stirrings were in her mind. Distress permeated the air, licking at 
her thoughts. Unspoken cries of anguish slowly bore into her brain and grew, 
until it seemed that pure, undiluted terror was ripping through her.

     It had started to thunder and rain, sheets coursing down and drenching all. 
The walls of dirt that had grown around her as she tunneled deeper became mud 
that slid downwards, blocking her fingers from further progress. The grave was 
flooding, and Clare began sift through the mahogany fluid, as though she was 
performing some kind of demonic breaststroke. 

     Then one of her hands struck something. It was icy and wet, just like all of 
her surroundings. This object, though, was solid. Clare dove into the murky 
sludge again, surging deeper. The water was up to her waist now, and it seemed 
to form a shield capable of diminishing even a vampire of her strength. 

     "Maybe because I haven't fed since donating blood to Natalie and Nicholas," 
Clare cursed herself for the lack of foresight.

     Her hand hit something hard once more. She seized it savagely and reared 
back with all her power. The earth sucked and the water splashed, but released 
their hold on Vachon, flinging his body into Clare's waiting arms. She pushed 
him out of the pit, fearful that she might let go, losing him again. Scrambling 
after him, she then dragged Vachon's body even farther away from the hole.  

     Embracing his still form, Clare realized that she was sobbing. She had no 
knife or glass this time. Broadly slicing her fingernails across her forearm, 
parallel scarlet slashes appeared. Clare held her arm to Vachon's mouth 
squeezing out every drop possible.

      It was enough. His eyes opened, frenzied and wild. He tackled Clare, 
lunging for her throat. She mutely offered no resistance. 

     Famished, Vachon fed mercilessly from her. Clare simply wept, crying 
over and over again, "I'm sorry...I'm sorry...I'm sorry."

     He tore himself away from her jugular abruptly, leaving Clare to collapse 
unconscious on the ground. He turned his face to the sky, the rain pouring over 
his cheeks, washing the dark traces of his premature tomb away.

     Javier Vachon began to scream, howling at last at his abandonment, the 
starvation and loneliness, and in victory over death.

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

     When Natalie awoke, she was in a disoriented, vicious mood. She had been 
in bad tempers before, maybe a bit snappy, but now she was seeing red. There 
was rage, fever, and desire, all palpable, yet ephemeral in the sense that Natalie 
could not discern their cause.

      Nick saw the change. One second Nat was sleeping like an angel, peaceful 
and calm. The next, she was fiery-eyed and snarling. Nick did the only thing that 
he could. He gave Natalie the plasma that he had found stored in the hotel 
room. His heart, such that it was, was aching.  Nick judged 
sinkingly. The first hunger and the need were stealing the Natalie that he knew 
away. Forever.

     Natalie relished every drop. With each taste, she began to understand better 
and better just why Nick kept falling down this spiral. She felt insatiable. A 
potent fire of impressions flowed through her, singeing her nerves and leaving 
her breathless. 

     She saw that Nick was there, and Natalie's first instinct was to reach out to 
him for comfort. She held back, though, due to some niggling submerged doubt. 
She perceived some ember of anger lit in her heart that was just waiting for a 
propellant.

     Perhaps if Nick had reached out and hugged her, had touched her, or given 
some indication of happiness that they were still together, Natalie would have 
been soothed. She wouldn't have questioned him. Instead, Nick sat away from 
her, staring solemnly ahead in desolation. From the moment she had started 
feeding, Natalie could tell that his gaze was not on her anymore. No, his 
thoughts were elsewhere.

     He was lost, full of guilt and remorse, and Natalie knew it was because of 
her. She realized that something must have gone wrong with the cure. 
Obviously she had lost too much blood and needed to be brought across. Oddly, 
Natalie had expected a greater sense of closeness between Nick and her. She 
had the impression of a permanent link between vampire sires and offspring, 
certainly if Nick and LaCroix's relationship was any indication. 

     Natalie did not feel bonded to Nick. She felt alone, adrift, and inexplicably 
angry.

     Natalie closed her eyes, wishing the hostility away, wanting just to hear a 
reassuring word.  Natalie willed. 

     Nick cleared his throat then, and Natalie clung to every syllable that wasn't 
what she wanted to hear. "I'm sorry, Nat. I didn't mean for this to happen."

    Somehow his despair felt like a confession of betrayal. "Why didn't you bring 
me across?" she accused sharply. The words seemed to leap out of their own 
accord, attacking.

     Nick was visibly stricken. "I couldn't," he whispered.

      "But you *could* leave me to die? I seem to remember that you said, 
whatever happened, we would be together forever."

     "I meant that, Natalie. Your talk of faith - you made me realize that I had 
hope, too. I believed that life was more than just the sum of our existence on 
earth. Isn't that what *you* said? I had faith that, even after death, we would be 
together. But not like this..." His eyes seemed to be pleading for her 
understanding, but all Natalie could see was the distance. The few feet between 
them could have been miles.

     "And now, instead of being mortally dead, I'm a vampire. You're still the 
same as always. What happened, Nick?"

     He turned away from her, hunching his shoulders. "I left you to die, and I 
asked LaCroix to destroy me. He staked me and left, but an old 
...acquaintance... Clare, arrived at the loft and chose to tend to both of us."

     "Where is she now?" Natalie demanded, her thoughts swimming.

     "Vachon was distant family. She wanted to visit his grave." Nick fidgeted, as 
if searching for an escape.

     "And so we're here alone," Natalie prompted.

     Nick would not look at her. Natalie knew that he had always refused to 
bring her across out of fear and concern. She had argued and pleaded until, 
finally, she believed that Nick was convinced that they were important enough - 
that her opinion, her choice, was important enough - to factor immortality into 
their future. She had been wrong. Natalie seized the importance of their 
problem: they needed to solve his concerns about her new condition *now*. 
 Natalie thought, 

     But Nick desisted, shaking his head. "I have to get to the station. I have the 
Internal Affairs investigation about Dawkins and Tracy to deal with." It was an 
excuse, and they both knew it.

     He was almost out the door Natalie intoned softly, "Stay."

     Nick turned, and for the first time in two nights, he truly met Natalie's gaze, 
warily and anguished. "I can't."

     Natalie squeezed her eyes shut briefly at that, maybe to hide the pain, maybe 
the frustration. "You suggest that you love me. And yet lately, it feels like 
everything I ask of you is too much. I need more, Nick. I need holding. I want 
guidance. I need love, Nick. Let me, let us, come first this time. Don't go."

     She saw his torn expression. Nick was scared of this change and unsure of 
her. He was building up walls and running away again. "I'm sorry." He 
whispered, before closing the door behind him.

     Natalie sat staring ahead blankly, not blinking, nor perceptibly breathing. Her 
fantasy cocoon of how this scene would play had been shattered, rendering her 
bereft and lost. She mechanically picked up another plasma bag and began to 
sip, not noting the taste, not relishing anymore, rather just going through the 
motions.

     She was alone.

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

     Clare was dreaming. She must be dreaming. 

     She was strolling in the sunlight, laughing at the odd tingle of warmth on her 
skin. Enchanted music trickled through the air, lilting about her eardrums. She 
was in a clearing, lined with ancient oaks, their surfaces knobbed and weaved 
like the trees she remembered swinging from as a child. 

     There was a sudden glare of brightness. Clare twisted away, shielding her 
eyes with a hand. As the light returned to normal, she detected a figure seated 
upon a rock outcropping before her. Her vision readjusted, Clare gasped, and 
breathlessly ran towards the man.

     She stopped when they were toe to toe, and examined him longingly. His 
dark hair floated in the wind, crinkles winked around his eyes from the sun, and 
his mouth curved as he smiled in welcome. These traits were all just as she 
remembered. As she had dreamed...

     "Conchobhar," she whispered.

     He embraced her. Clare simply held him tightly, savoring the warmth of this 
man she had missed so.... She protested softly as he set her back, stroking her 
cheek. "Cliodhna, love. You should not be here. You are not going to stay." At 
her desolate expression, he motioned for her to sit next to him. Clare curled up 
at his side gladly. Conchobhar continued his remonstrations, while curling her 
amber hair about a wandering finger. "It is wonderful to see you, to hold you 
after so long, but I know in my heart that you do not want to be here."

     "How can you say that?" Clare protested. "Nothing has been the same since 
you were destroyed. If only--" He silenced her argument with a gentle hand 
touching her lips.

     "If we were still together you would not be torn apart inside," he finished for 
her. "I do not believe that. Someone else would have spurred the same 
questions, Leila or Seiji perhaps. It simply would have been later. Cliod, you 
cannot take your momentary presence here and interpret it as a signal for the 
end of your unlife. You cannot leap blindly into my arms and claim it is where 
you want to be. You are too clever for such conclusions."

     "Then what do I do? Choose between misery and happiness, but not now, 
not here?" Clare implored.

     "You always were dramatic. No, love. You have been running away from 
how you really feel about being a vampire for over a thousand years. You are 
wallowing in the what-ifs, wishing that we had spent that time and dealt with 
any pain and loss together. That is not what happened. It is over and done, 
Cliod. You have to discover a way of accepting this fact. The time has come for 
you to really examine your life and decide whether you are prepared for another 
beginning or an ending."

     Clare frowned. "You *must* be my subconscious. I do not recall that you 
ever nagged so when we were together."

     "Ah, and another item for your attention: deal with my memory. Deal with 
all of our memories. As much as I always found greater delight in your longing 
eyes than your angry ones, the dead, especially vampires, were not meant for 
pedestals, Cliod." He stood and turned, letting go of her hands. "It is time to 
say goodbye. You have to return." He began to back away.

     Clare moved to follow, but found that her arms and legs were stiff, as if 
fused to the granite below her. "Conchobhar, no! Stay with me! I need you!"

     He bowed to her, reassuring, "Remember Cliodhna - I loved you, but you 
were strong enough to survive losing that love. You survived losing so much. 
Hold on to that strength. *That* is what you need." Then he began to walk 
away.

     Clare continued to try to pull herself away from the rocks to no avail. Clare 
viewed in horror that the farther away Conchobhar moved, the more his figure 
seemed to ignite. She watched as his body engulfed in flames and blackened, 
gray smoke lifting from him and polluting the air. She could not look away. She 
could not escape. She could only view the scene and moan in pain.

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

     The moaning awoke Vachon. A numbness had settled over him. The frenzy 
that he had experienced upon his release had quickly ebbed away, leaving 
Vachon wet, muddy, and tired. Even worse, there was a comatose vampire at 
his feet.

     Vachon was surprised - no, shocked - that Clare had been his savior. She 
had never been dependable for much of anything, to his knowledge, except 
walking away. It kind of ran in the family. He remembered rumors circulating 
about her destruction during the Second World War. He also remembered 
feeling a lack of remorse about her possible loss. Who could miss what they 
never knew?

     Initially, Vachon intended to leave Clare at the harbor, to let her taste 
abandonment for a change. Second thoughts had seeped into his head, though. 
Uneasy twinges of responsibility and debt jarred his first instincts out of focus. 

     Instead of deserting Clare, he ended up slinging her frame over his shoulder. 
He returned to his hangout in the abandoned church and dumped Clare on the 
bed while considering sleep and a snack. Clare didn't seem to respond when he 
shared some of his stock, so he finished the bottle on his own. His discontent 
and lingering annoyance at his company prevented any rest.

     Inspecting Clare a bit more closely, Vachon decided that she looked awful. 
She was a limp doll, her skin waxen and dull with none of its usual 
luminescence. Though the rain had rinsed away the majority of the mud 
blanketing them both, random grains lingered lodged under their nails, around 
their eyes giving a faux raccoon look, and next to their scalps.

     Considering his recent experience, Vachon decided that he didn't like dirt, 
and he wasn't going to stand for being covered in it. Never again. He tossed a 
blanket over Clare, as if she was going to become cold.  Vachon 
thought, rolling his eyes, 

     Vachon left Clare's still form to take a shower, his thoughts sinking away to 
their first encounter...

 ***************************************************************
Andes Mountains, ca. 1531

     Less than a month had passed for Vachon since that first fateful encounter 
with the Inka, when the battle and flowing blood had resulted in both men being 
embraced by the Angel.

     Everything was new to Javier. Escaping the Inka, and his manic desperation 
to fulfill the noble quest granted by their sire, was a fresh and vigorous 
challenge. Remaining those few precious steps ahead of his nemesis filled 
Vachon with glee.

      Instead of devoting himself to feasting on blood those first days, though 
Javier had supped on the few attacking soldiers that did cross his path, he 
indulged in his new freedom and power. He could shuffle through the Peruvian 
forests like lightning, no longer mindful of tripping. The trees could no longer 
snag on his clothes and deter him. Now he simply brushed them aside, showing 
no quarter. The weight of his breastplate wasn't a burden anymore, but he 
decided to discard it. What use was armor to an immortal?

     Javier also loved to fly, floating above the treetops so that his knees tickled 
their leaves as he soared past. He would shout out his joy at this existence, this 
freedom that was living. He was at one with the wind, part angel himself.

     Sometimes though, memories of the Angel greeting the sunrise haunted 
Vachon. He failed to understand how she could so lovingly part with such a 
gift, then walk away alone to her doom. Her lack of fear seemed almost holy in 
itself, yet frightening. Javier found delight in his own rebirth, so he tried not to 
question his sire's subsequent actions, but rather hold them in reverence. 

     He would admit silently to himself that he was lonely. There was no one with 
him - the Inka, there was no friendship there, and he could hardly fit in with the 
life of the soldiers in Pizarro's army anymore. He felt the need to share his 
fortune, to let someone know of his newfound freedom, his narrow escape from 
the burdens of a complete death. There was no one he could express these ideas 
to who would understand and not be afraid. Lost to mortal binds now, regret 
tinged Javier's heart because he could not travel with the Angel, learn from her 
experience and wisdom, or share in her company.

     To hide from the separation, Vachon took to other amusement. This 
particular evening, he delighted in his newly discovered swimming skills. Being 
a vampire equaled no drowning. He had come across a deep pool and was 
delighting in the amount of time he could spend underwater.

     Unfortunately, Vachon's distraction gave the Inka adequate time to sneak up 
on him. Suddenly, arms yanked Vachon out of the pool and tackled him. 
Slightly disoriented, he blinked and shook his eyes free of long, wet hair before 
entering the fray.

     It was deja-vu, brawling and wrestling with the Inka. Both of them were 
soaked, but this time, there was no exhaustion or frailty to subdue their spirits. 
A kick to the solar plexus, a wrench to the throat, these were only minor 
annoyances now. The Inka made a pass leap at him, which Vachon ducked and 
countered, rolling his enemy over his back. He then stood while pushing 
backwards, smashing the Inka's frame into a tree.

     Javier whirled around, ready to continue his offense, only to realize that the 
Inca was not fighting back anymore. A few inches of branch protruded below 
his collarbone. 

      "We've got to stop meeting like this," Vachon quipped, letting loose his 
hold to consider his next course of action. He had borrowed time before the 
Inca recovered and was after him once more, just as before. Should he stake 
him again and end this chase?

     Hesitation removed the choice from Vachon's hands. A snarling figure leapt 
at him from above, cuffing him by the throat. It was another vampire, more 
powerful than he, one who shoved him against the Inca's speared frame. The 
small length of wood that protruded pressed against his back. The vampire, a 
woman, held his jaw in a firm hold. Javier willed her to find whatever she was 
searching for in his features.

     Releasing him, she stalked away, obviously disturbed. The scenery faded to 
insignificance around her figure. She blazed like vibrant fire, like some kind of 
fallen angel of the Inkan sun god cursed to walk the earth. Even in the darkness, 
her hair smoldered like captured flames. She moved with barely contained 
fervor, and though her vampire stance had subsided, her eyes still glinted the 
same savage green. Clothed in a simple white sheath, similar to that of his 
Angel, her only ornament was a gold torc clasped about her neck, chiseled with 
a motif of trees with boughs and roots continuously intertwined.  
Vachon contemplated.

     Finally, she spoke to him. Her expression held some indefinable anguish and 
bitterness. "I do not know you, and, yet, I recognize the spirit that runs through 
you. My spirit. Leila's spirit. Your sire," She nodded violently towards the 
Inka, "The sire to you both. She is destroyed?"

     Vachon found his voice. "She left with the sun...the morning after. She 
surrendered to the light."

     For a moment, the woman's shoulders sank and her eyes looked bleak. But 
only for a moment. She swung away again, and began to drawl angrily. "I wager 
she smiled when she felt the sun begin to incinerate her flesh. After all, she was 
finally escaping me. I was her sire, but then you look reasonably intelligent for a 
Spanish boy. You have probably guessed that already. I am Clare, a grateful 
orphan of the darkness. And you are?"

     He attempted a gallant bow, though his appearance was dripping and 
bedraggled at the moment. He did not have much experience with such 
things. "Javier Vachon, at your service." Here was a potential companion, 
someone who obviously knew all of the tricks, all of the liberties a newly 
formed vampire could indulge. Angry females could be just as alluring as the 
flirtatious ones - Vachon did have that much experience at hand. "Let me join 
you in your travels. I need to depart before my...." He briefly regarded the 
Inka, still slumped against the hardwood. "...sibling...awakens. We don't 
exactly get along."

     Clare granted him a scornful glance. "Ah, a family problem. Thank you for 
the offer, but I have had my fill of quarrelsome offspring for this century. The 
answer is no, you may not join me. Find your own way, boy."

     Vachon was startled. He had not expected such a vituperative response, and 
had quickly warmed to the idea of journeying in tandem. Indignation at this 
rejection swept over him. "Your...daughter's...last act was to bring the two of 
us across. She guided us for just brief hours before the dawn. Our connection 
ought to mean something. I think you owe me just a little consideration out of 
respect and mourning for her memory."

     Clare laughed derisively at that. "You do not understand, Javier Vachon," 
she trilled. "It is precisely out of respect for Leila that I will have nothing to do 
with you. Your sire despised me from practically the moment I brought her 
across. She was too noble, too pure, and eventually chose death rather than 
become like me. I don't really blame her, I represent everything she hated: no 
remorse at my actions, senseless killing to satisfy my voracious hungers, 
manipulation and power mongering. I am not a very nice person. I have 
fashioned myself as a deity innumerable times - the Mayans, the Toltecs, with 
whom I found your sire, and the Aztecs - they all provided blood sacrifices to 
assuage my thirsts.  They all meant nothing more to me than cattle. The Inkas at 
Atahualpa would have been my next target had Pizarro not beat me to the 
scene. *That* is what Leila thought of me. Make of it what you will. I have no 
inclination to dabble in brotherly rivalry right now, no matter how eagerly you 
present yourself." 

     Clare turned, preparing to depart into the sky from whence she came. He 
called after her, offended by what he saw as an insult to maternal behavior. 
"You forgot a flaw - forsaking others."

     She laughed, a hollow sound. "Do not consider it abandonment, Javier 
Vachon. Consider my departure a divine blessing. I really have nothing to offer. 
You do not need me."

     A flash of movement, a few falling leaves, and she was gone, leaving him 
behind, bemused. He heard a sound. It was the Inka awakening, so Vachon 
took to the air in the opposite direction.

***************************************************************
    
      Squeaky clean, Vachon returned to his bedroom to find that Clare had 
awoken. She sat with her knees curled up on the bed, swaddled in the blanket 
he had thrown her way. She was sipping gingerly from one of his bottles. Some 
of her color had returned, but she still seemed a pale and shrunken version of 
the Clare that he remembered.

     Seeing him, Clare gave a half-smile to her surroundings. "Living in a church 
- that's interesting. And your decor is...comfortable. I'm glad you're not 
drinking cow." She stopped rattling out socialities, at a loss for something to 
halfheartedly compliment next.

     She was uncertain of how to proceed with this conversation, and Vachon 
didn't really feel like making it easier for her. "How about a 'hello,' Clare? A 
'long time, no see'?"

     Clare felt awkward, a strange occurrence for her. She was piqued to no end 
that Vachon realized it, too. She gathered her thoughts, still a bit disoriented 
after her recent dream, and parroted, "Hello, Javier. Long time no see." 

     Vachon sat at the foot of the bed, delivering a challenging smile. Apparently 
her greeting had pleased him for some reason. Clare mentally berated herself. 
She didn't know the first thing about what to expect from this man, how to 
interpret his comments. Hadn't she exerted herself to ensure just that? This 
ham-fisted reunion was her fault, for upsetting the status-quo, but what else 
could she have done? Abscond the moment she stirred from sleep? Not dig 
Javier free? Either option seemed unthinkable now. No, remembering 
Conchobhar's commandments in her dream, Clare saw it was her duty to 
confront these moments, no matter how disquieting. 

     She cleared her throat, launching back into trivialities. "I've gotten mud all 
over your bed...Sorry."

     "That's okay. I'll just get a new one." Satisfied with the sight of her new 
frown, Vachon continued. "I suppose I should be grateful that you rescued me, 
instead of letting me rot on my own for all eternity..."

     "Even I would not be so malicious," Clare inserted.

     "As I recall, you dislike eager and beholden family members, so 
to relieve us both, my guess is you'll be leaving now."

     Clare was perceptive enough to realize this exchange was leading nowhere, 
at least nowhere she liked. Out of concern, though, she gave one more try. 
"Javier, you've just been through a traumatic experience. I don't feel right 
leaving you on your own. Your friends are gone. Urs did not survive..."

     "I know that," Vachon interrupted. "We sense the fate of family, don't we? 
But you forget, Clare. I don't *need* you. Let me show you to the door."

     Clare dropped the blanket and allowed him to escort her up the stairs and 
towards the exit. She stared wistfully at Vachon, full of regret, haunted by
her own memories. "I'm sorry," she whispered, then retreated, leaving the door 
open behind her.

     Vachon closed the entrance, then grabbed the half-empty bottle Clare had 
left behind. He returned to his favorite red brocade chair and lounged. He stared 
ahead thoughtfully as he sampled the blood remnants. 

     He was alone.

***************************************************************
End of Part Six
     
     Clare spent a portion of the night walking back to her hotel. Flying would 
have been faster, but strolling through the dark streets of Toronto had its own 
advantages. A junkie with drawn desperate eyes attempted to mug her. Clare 
began to drink from the addict, but ended up taking very little. Hunger taunted 
her, however the heroin aftertaste of feeding left her senses feeling flat. Perhaps 
she already had that stale sensation, ever since leaving the church, yet the 
drugged blood did nothing to improve her spirits.

     Soon enough, strangers assaulted Clare again. This time, two males on the 
prowl attempted to drag her from the hazy sidewalk and into an unlit alleyway, 
their carnal intentions clear. This encounter satisfied her to a larger extent. She 
recognized that the violence, lust, and anger that swam through their blood 
revived her energies and stoked her momentum.

     The judgments and feeding continued until the moon began to fade from the 
sky. Clare returned to the hotel filthy but somewhat refreshed. The elevator ride 
to her floor progressed in a quiet haze. Her senses picked up outside her suite, 
though, and Clare paused to collect her thoughts before swiping her key.

     The door pivoted open, pre-empting her plans. Natalie stood across the 
threshold, stiff and watchful.  Clare reflected.

     "Hello."
 
     Clare chose to begin.

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

     Natalie couldn't describe the change exactly. Since Nick had closed the door 
behind him, she had been cut adrift, transformed into some kind of hollow 
automaton. In an instant, the sensation had faded to be replaced by a presence 
that eclipsed the loneliness. It was someone whose empathy seeped through her 
in spite of distance and blockades.

      Facing her now, the woman's simple greeting broke Natalie's stillness. 
"You're Clare."

     The woman nodded. "Yes." Another simple word. "Clare Douglas, for now. 
And you are Doctor Natalie Lambert."

     "For now." Even in pain, she still had a sense of humor.

     "May I come in?" Clare queried.

     Confusion teased Natalie's thoughts. "I thought this was your hotel."

     "It is," confirmed Clare. "But I can tell that Nicholas has left you here alone. 
I do not want to interrupt your solitude if it is by choice. If you wish for me to 
leave, consider it done."

     "No. Please don't go. I don't want to be by myself." Natalie huddled her 
arms around her own waist, attempting to console herself, afraid to reach out, 
trying her hardest to be strong.

     "Then I'll stay," Clare spoke softly, shutting the suite door and extending a 
palm towards her.

     Natalie clasped it in her own, and allowed Clare to lead her to the couch for 
a seat. "I see that you are upset," suggested Clare. "Tell me how I can help - 
what questions can I answer?"

     Natalie felt a tear slowly roll down one cheek, despite her fight to control 
it,and brushed it away angrily. "When...when will I feel normal again, instead of 
jumping out of my skin? When will I feel in control?" Just with these few 
words, Natalie felt her tears dry and the vehemence take their place. "When is 
Nick going to accept me?"

     Clare sighed deeply. "You have quite a few 'whens'. Let me first address the 
one I understand the least - Nicholas. I don't know him well, and I cannot 
honestly say that I want to. But I have never considered him to be cruel, more 
like selfishly honest." Clare squeezed Natalie's hand for reassurance. "I wish 
that I could impart the intensity of emotion Nicholas suffered when he realized 
that you were still together. How responsible he felt for your protection. Maybe 
those feelings could restore a little of your patience and faith in him." She 
sighed again. "I don't know. I hate that he left you feeling so rejected and 
distraught, but again, Nicholas *is* selfishly honest. He blames himself for 
killing you, and he feels that he has cursed you. He feels himself to be 
responsible for your damnation. I think that you know him well enough to 
understand how seriously Nicholas is tormented by that damnation."

     Natalie understood. Hadn't she seen that misery over and over during the 
past six years? She felt a small ember of her anger fade out. "I do," she 
whispered. "It haunts him."

     Clare nodded, "So he ends up at a stalemate, hurting you because he is 
miserable that he is hurting you. You will find that vampires, even when we are 
older than every corner maple, are fallible. We make mistakes. We don't always 
treat our companions like we would expect to be treated ourselves."

     "The Vampire Golden Rule?" Natalie grimaced. She received a sympathetic 
glance.

      "Furthermore, we rarely nurture, we simply order others around, and then 
we reap what we sow. It's a shame really," Clare seemed momentarily 
distracted by sadness. "As for your other 'whens', I think I can be more 
uplifting. The word 'when' denotes a matter of time, and now, Natalie, you 
have all the time that you need. Ignore the interval it takes, and you will adjust 
much more quickly. The strange sounds will become normal. The rapid influx of 
odors will become commonplace. You will relax. A week from now, the 
difference will be amazing. A month, and you will be testing your wings."

      "Wonderful. It's just like going through puberty again." Natalie groaned.

     Clare retorted, deadpan. "Nothing is *that* horrible." 

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

     Nick walked towards the Ninety-Sixth precinct with trepidation. Ghosts 
waited for him there: the panic, the yelling, his partner, a friend lying fatally 
wounded in his arms. Nick forced his feet up the step and through the doors. 
Take one step at a time, isn't that what Natalie was always saying? Thoughts of 
Natalie stilled his feet again. Drinking her sweet life away. The shame sent 
shudders through Nick's frame, and he clutched at a partition for support. How 
did he overcome that agony?

      he reminded himself, 

     "Knight!" he heard Captain Reese bellow across the busy bullpen. "Get in 
my office, now!"

     Nick grimaced, feeling an impassioned lecture from the Captain coming on. 
He made his way to the office, intercepting greetings and compassion from 
many of his coworkers with as much grace as he could manage. With a look 
from the Captain, Nick closed the door and sat across from his desk.

     "I'm going to pretend," Joe Reese opened, "that you didn't waltz in here 
intending to go back on duty."

     "I've a stack of paperwork..." Nick began.

     Reese waved an impatient hand at him. "Yeah, I'm also going to pretend you 
didn't just say that. There are only two things that I'll let you do, Knight. The 
first is to make your statement to the guys from IA. I want that investigation 
closed as soon as possible. Second, I want you out of here and on vacation until 
at least next week." Reese got up from his chair and leaned against the desk. 
"You need time to grieve, Nick - hell, we all do - but especially you. This kind 
of thing can rip you apart. Even Dr. Lambert had the sense to take some time 
off after Laura Haines' suicide. It takes time to heal."

     Nick twisted in his chair. "What about Tracy? Her funeral?"

     Sympathy shone from Reese's face. "Her mother came in this morning to 
collect her possessions. The service will be held tomorrow morning. I told Mrs. 
Vetter of your condition, and she understands why you won't be there."

     "I'll send my condolences." Nick rose from his chair.

     "Tracy's family will appreciate it." Reese nodded. "Don't fight me on this, 
Nick. Go upstairs, give your description of events, and *go home*."

     Nick spent four hours detailing the events surrounding Tracy's death for 
Internal Affairs before they seemed satisfied - at least, as satisfied as Internal 
Affairs ever could be.

     "Thank you for coming in, Detective Knight," one officer acknowledged. 
"Captain Reese has informed us that you will be on vacation until next week. I 
just wanted to assure you that, based on our findings to date, we doubt that 
there will be any need to contact you for further questioning. The final report 
should be out about the time you return."

     Nick headed back downstairs, only to spot Vachon seated and waiting at his 
desk. His steps slowed, filled with amazement. He had considered Clare's quest 
to track Vachon down to be an exercise in sorrow, not survival. An old 
criticism of hers sprang into his thoughts: "You think you see so much, but you 
miss the important details." How much had the man suffered, everyone blind to 
his fate? The realization was a bitter pill.

     "I went by Tracy's apartment, and it was cleaned out. Now her desk is 
empty. Where is she?" Vachon demanded.

     Nick felt a sudden wave of sadness, the familiar ache of finding you've been 
left behind. He steeled himself. What consolation would that be to the Spaniard? 
 Nick repeated silently.

     "I'm sorry, Vachon. There was an...incident...in the precinct. Tracy was 
shot while trying to help.  She died from her injuries two days ago."

     Vachon looked frozen, except for his eyes. He blinked rapidly and looked 
away. He spoke again, his voice choked. "And the person who shot her?"

     "He's dead."

     "Good." The other vampire's frustration bit into the air. Nick reached out to 
put a hand on his shoulder, but Vachon shrugged it off before walking away 
into the night.

     Nick contemplated what to do next. Go home, Captain Reese had ordered, 
but Nick wasn't certain where home was anymore.  Cliodhna thought wryly,  There had 
been some protest when she chose to take Morrigan to the outskirts of town 
unescorted for the whole day. Cliodhna knew, though, that the town and hall 
were already unfortified enough without sparing a single potential warrior. 

     Another party of citizens had set off across the sea to Gaul the week before, 
leaving them undermanned. Concern was growing about Roman aggression into 
Celtic lands, so local knights and warriors were journeying off to protect their 
relative's holdings, some never to return.

     Her husband, Conchobhar, had been among the first to go over a year 
before. His family's main property was in Gaul, and his elder brother had 
inherited the chiefdom there. Conchobhar had relocated to this area as a young 
man to support his cousins in the aristocracy. Soon after arriving, he had 
spotted her at performance given by her grandfather, a well-known bard. He 
immediately set about arranging their marriage.

     Cliodhna had been fourteen and pleased with the opportunity. Her family 
considered it an advantageous union, since they were either among the druids or 
bards by profession, and her intended was nobility.

     They had been married eleven years when Conchobhar had left with his 
party. Four months later they received word from his brother than the group 
had never arrived in Gaul. And now, days, months, a year had passed with no 
further illumination. Their relatives had begun to accept that her husband was 
dead, but Cliodhna found that she could not let go of her hope.

       she sighed as she 
watched Morrigan settle in a grove of trees and begin to shred wildflowers. She 
had put Mac'con off for months, knowing that he was ready to start practicing 
his skills, but she had believed his father ought to be by his side, not just the 
mother.

     Cliodhna took a seat next to her daughter, who was throwing petals into the 
air and scrutinizing them as they fell. Each day that passed reinforced her 
remorse. Somehow, over the course of her marriage, she had lolled into 
complacency, taking her comfort and her husband's friendship for granted. It 
had been after his loss that she delved into how deeply she loved him. The 
thought of no closure, never sharing her discovery with him, was too much 
torment to endure. Cliodhna chose to dabble in denial instead, to go through the 
motions of a normal life and pretend that Conchobhar would ride home the next 
day, always the next day.

      Cliodhna mused, now stroking 
Morrigan's hair, dark brown like her father's. The girl had suddenly deflated of 
energy, as children are wont to do, and rested her head in mother's lap for a 
nap. Conchobhar had always been handsome, kind, and courteous towards her. 
When they were first married, she constantly blushed from his attention. She 
had practically been a child then and prone to succumb easily to flattery. But 
Conchobhar had merely been a friend, a man to be honored, at first. 

     It was sometime after her sons were born that her heart began to slip under 
his spell. It wasn't just that he shared those tiny replicas of humanity with her, it 
was that he cherished them. And when she had miscarried the next baby, and the 
infant girl after that had succumbed within a week of her birth, Conchobhar had 
cherished her. He did not blame Cliodhna, like her parents had. He hadn't 
pushed for her to attend the festivals on the sixth day of the moon to gather 
mistletoe like her brothers had. He consoled her, and he had mourned by her 
side. That must have been when she fell in love with him. Not in an instant, not 
at first sight, but slowly and surely as the years passed.

     Then Morrigan had been born, a healthy daughter to satisfy their patience. A 
daughter that was too young when her father left to remember his face should 
he ever return. 

     Cliodhna's thoughts had drifted away under the afternoon sun glinting 
through the cracks in the forest canopy. She fell asleep by her daughter, her 
dreams teased by images of her husband's homecoming.

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

      Cliodhna awoke with the setting sun, a hungry Morrigan tugging on her arm 
for attention. 

     "I hate to think of the mischief your brothers have concocted in our 
absence," Cliodhna muttered, brushing off their skirts. "We had better be brisk 
walking back. I'll carry you, alright?"

     Morrigan leapt into her arms, and settled on a hip. Cliodhna grunted, 
thinking the time would soon come when her little girl was too big for her back 
to indulge bearing her this way.

     The distance passed quickly due to her pace, but as they climbed a hill and 
the town came into sight, her steps slowed with concern. Smoke was rising into 
the golden dusk sky, the pale tendrils of a large fire burning out. It had been a 
large, uncontrolled fire, out of place with the surroundings. The air was 
unusually still, painfully devoid of the hustle-bustle sounds that had reigned 
when they left. 

     The town had been attacked. Cliodhna fought down the bubble of panic that 
rose in her breast. There was no need to think the worst. Yet. She leaned down, 
placing Morrigan on her feet once more. 

     "Something has happened, and it may be dangerous. I want you to stay here 
at the base of the hill until I see that it is safe for you to return. Wait for me."

     Her daughter nodded gravely and clasped her tightly. Cliodhna watched as 
Morrigan retreated back down the rise, then slipped back to the gates with 
trepidation.

     She noted from outside the walls was that there were none of the usual 
lookouts around the gate. The ghostly silence persisted just outside the 
entrance. She lurked in the shadows, observing fewer and fewer lit torches as 
the darkness developed. She used the night for cover as she tripped from 
building to building, some that were scorched to the ground, searching for 
inhabitants. They were empty. 

     She ventured deeper into the town, finally reaching the blacksmith's. Her 
sons were not there. Uneasily, she gazed around in the dim shop, the only light 
coming from the forge. Her vision zeroed in on a long, dark-red stain that 
trailed out the back way. Shaking, Cliodhna followed the mark, transfixed by 
her search.

     Behind the smithy cottage, where a training field had been set up for 
convenience, she found them. They were huddled, thin arms wrapped about 
each other for comfort from the fear. Cliodhna stumbled closer, anesthetized by 
the scene. They were together, both pierced by the same pike through their 
stomachs, puddles of red trailing down their sides and legs. She wailed a soft, 
pitiful sound as she brushed her hand over their cold foreheads, closing their 
vacant staring eyes.

     They were slanted at the base of a mound, a pile higher than her head 
composed of the corpses of her townspeople. She recognized her uncle, his 
throat slit ear to ear. The merchant Morrigan had been charming earlier was 
there, sliced through his gullet. His intestines hung limply from the unnatural 
orifice, yawning like a blasphemous mouth. It was a pile of death, blood, bone, 
and tissue, grazed by expressions of horror. Cliodhna retched, gagging 
uncontrollably on her empty stomach.

     Suddenly there were hoofbeats racing her way. She temporarily froze, then 
tried to scramble back toward the blacksmith, but in the half-light she fell 
against the mass of clammy flesh. Cliodhna stifled her squeals as bodies rolled 
over her, dislodged from the force of impact.

     By then, it was too late. She was trapped beneath stiff limbs and torsos, and 
the horses were pulling to a stop mere feet away. She swallowed her sobs as 
thankfulness overcame her. The dead shielded her from view. The grunts of the 
men revealed that there were not many, maybe a dozen, probably remnants of 
the attacking force. They were Celtic, from further down the Thames. 
Apparently word had spread of their reduced defenses, and they had decided to 
take advantage. She heard them toast to their victory and curse the lack of light. 
One soldier made a joke about a supply of ready kindling, and the others 
laughed heartily.

     Cliodhna frowned. All of the buildings surrounding the training field were 
made of stone or mortar due to their proximity to the blacksmith's. She heard 
the sound of pouring liquid and smelled whisky. Perhaps they were lighting the 
thatch roofs? Soon there was a crackling sound from a thunderous ignition. As 
the noise subsided to syncopated popping, she began to detect an odor.

     Cooking meat? Cliodhna wondered. Her throat all at once became choked. 
 her brain tolled. They had transformed the mound into a 
funeral pyre, and the flames were inching down towards her. She began to 
hyperventilate, trying to see through her watery eyes, squinting as she frantically 
began pushing the bodies away from her.

     Her movements garnered attention, and she was ripped from the fiery womb 
to confront the invaders. Cliodhna saw lust and death in their eyes, and 
desperately twisted her foot behind the ankle of the soldier who held her. She 
pushed backwards with all her might, unbalancing them both onto the blazing 
bodies. The soldier took all the damage, beginning to scream as his hair and face 
blistered.

     Cliodhna took advantage of her momentary freedom to run, but froze in her 
tracks when she heard a call.

      "Mother!"

     She whirled about, spotting Morrigan between her and the soldiers. Cliodhna 
bellowed and ran towards her daughter, thrusting the small form behind her 
own. Two soldiers reached them in seconds, slicing Cliodhna with knives, one 
low through the ribs, the other in her stomach.

     As she felt the blood fill her lungs, Cliodhna heard a howl of protest, the 
voice not belonging to her or her child, yet familiar, nonetheless. Animal sounds 
reached her ears, only to be overshadowed by her wailing daughter. She weakly 
stretched out a hand to touch the terrified Morrigan, but her little girl backed 
away.

     She realized that someone else was there. He lifted her gently in his arms, 
holding her delicately but close. He brushed her hair away from her neck, 
murmuring, "Cliod."

     She coughed, and a metallic taste filled her mouth. She slumped in his hold, 
gradually suffocating from her blood-filled airways. She forced her eyes to slant 
open and saw his face, possessed, but familiar. She hung from his neck, and 
pressed her mouth forward for his kiss, welcoming him home as she had 
dreamed so many times. She felt him lick the red fluid trickling from her mouth 
before the caress, never questioning the strangeness of it.

     Cliodhna smiled in contentment. "I knew you would come back," she sighed, 
sensing her breath ebbing away. 

     Then Conchobhar embraced her.                     

***************************************************************
End of Part Eight
     
    Nick knew where LaCroix had gone, knew and planned to follow. He was 
impatient to depart, but the night had progressed enough to forestall his 
excursion. He didn't return to his loft to wait, he wasn't ready to go back there 
yet. He spent the day at the deserted Raven, then departed in the Caddy at 
sundown.

     He drove southeast, following the instincts of his internal compass. He 
paused in his journey depending on the sun, otherwise homing to his 
destination.
  
     When Nick arrived in Manhattan, he was certain that he had tracked down 
LaCroix. Suspecting that his sire had not discarded all the tenets of his Toronto 
lifestyle, Nick used his phone to scope out any New York radio stations that 
had recently introduced nighttime talent.

     He wasn't disappointed. The lobby of WNYT was deserted by the time he 
arrived, all of its branching hallways darkened by shadows. As he made his way 
through the silhouetted passages, the broadcast speakers provided the 
soundtrack of LaCroix. His voice, as always, seemed to resonate as though 
every word was designed just for Nick. Floatingly, tantalizingly, the words 
melted over the airwaves as Nick moved closer.

     "You, my friend, have witnessed the poses of death in others: those last 
seconds of grasping, the flailing for another aching breath...Those pilgrims who 
promise their soul at any cost to prolong the inevitable out of their fear of what 
follows that last, fleeting gasp.
     But you, who meekly welcomed your demise with open arms, what price did 
you pay? What has your faith delivered? 
     What is this phantom death? Emily Dickinson described dying as a dialogue 
between the spirit and the dust, such a poetic notion. If this is so, what 
argument, what prayer did your spirit offer that the dust never answered?
     What is surrender to you now but another cheat, another foul 
disappointment to scour your heart? Your faith has been met by silence. 
     This is the Nightcrawler, and I know you are there."

     LaCroix reached out to the soundboard, clicking off the microphone. He 
then turned nonchalantly, as though he always had expected this person to stroll 
through his door. "So Nicholas, another failure-by now you should be learning 
to accept those and move on. Is that why you sought me out, to partake a bite 
of the Big Apple together?" 

     Nick hesitated. He could not deny his initial urge to find LaCroix, looking 
for a port in the storm of his upswept emotions. But to declare LaCroix his 
mentor, to follow him again, gave Nick second thoughts. He was too muddled 
about what he really wanted to make such a commitment.

     "I haven't come to stay."

      LaCroix examined him thoughtfully. His scrutiny made Nick feel naked and 
exposed. How much of his thoughts could his sire sense to the fullest? Had he 
really expected a different reply?

     Finally, LaCroix spoke. "But you do have a problem. Plus ca change, 
Nicholas.  After all we've shared, you still come to me for guidance. I'm 
flattered."

     Nick presented his main worry. "How well do you really know Clare?"

     That question caught LaCroix off guard. "I expect I *knew* her longer than 
anyone. She was difficult to understand, though. What brings you to ask?"

     "She rescued Vachon, myself, and she brought Natalie across." Such a brief 
explanation, Nick thought, for actions with such momentous consequences.

     "Isn't that serendipitous Nicholas? You can have your cake and eat it, too. 
Or is it true what you intimated that Valentine's Day? - that Doctor Lambert 
meant no more to you than a means to regain your humanity. Perhaps, with the 
prospect of longer acquaintance, she loses her appeal. Too bad."

     "No," responded Nick, "I'm concerned that Clare could be a threat to 
Natalie's safety. Every time that I have encountered her before, she was bent 
upon destruction. You remember Daniel, don't you? And those two Enforcers 
in Vienna." Hi features clouded with memories.

     "The matter of Daniel was too complex to simply label an act of destruction. 
Even you must realize that. And Vienna, well, that instance was in protection of 
one of her own. One of her offspring, Figaro, I believe, had been publishing 
vampire stories as a lark. Normally, I would disapprove of such projects and 
their potential harm to the community, but his writing was so awful... an ill-
conceived plot, full of creative misinformation, he even spelled the word 
vampire wrong. It did nothing but promote the idea that nothing so 
*outlandish* as vampires would dare exist. It was much more interesting that 
the Enforcers did come for Figaro, yet Clare destroyed two of them and 
suffered no repercussions."

     Nick grimaced. "So even the Enforcers are intimidated by her?"

     "Not exactly. Clare surpasses even my age by a century. Longevity brings 
respect. She can be vicious and unpredictable. That changeability brings 
caution. If you treat Clare with respect and caution, you should have nothing to 
fear."

     "And if I don't?"

     "Then, Nicholas, I would be sorely disappointed. Old friends are so hard to 
come by." LaCroix casually steepled his fingers together. "Is that all that you 
wanted?"

      Nick turned away momentarily, as if to steel himself for his reply. "You 
have my gratitude, LaCroix. For helping me test my faith."

      "But your faith wasn't enough, was it? Faith cannot control the actions of 
others. Do you see now how pointless an exercise it was? You have gained 
nothing, except perhaps your doctor's hostility for leaving her to die." 
Momentary grief crossed Nick's features, which LaCroix observed and noted. 
"This folly has brought you nothing but more pain. Once and for all, let your 
quest for mortality go."

     It was a turning point to receive that challenge. Nick understood what was 
important at that moment, what his next goal would be. "I will do whatever is 
necessary," resolved Nick, "to learn how to feel close to Natalie again. To 
understand her thoughts, even if that learning involves forgetting my humanity. 
I'm going to return. Will I see you there?"

     "Perhaps. Toronto may have become too interesting to resist." 

     Watching Nicholas depart, LaCroix's face displayed a faint suspicion of 
smugness. There were so many possible permutations from the recent events. 
The mere presence of Clare created intrigue. Furthermore, if the card that 
tipped the balance of Nicholas' redemption was to be Doctor Lambert, it was in 
his best interests to be a first-hand spectator, witnessing the drama unfold.

***************************************************************
One Week Later...

     She picked up a tumbler and threw it at him. Pamela hadn't done such a 
thing before and the heady release, the satisfaction that she experienced at the 
sound of breaking glass surprised her. She savored her first taste of physical 
violence, the torrid push and pull of emotions. It didn't matter that she'd missed 
her target: the sentiment translated, she was sure.

     She glared at him, noting how he started and looked away.  
Pamela noted gleefully, 

     But how had she ended up at this point? Was it the traffic ticket this 
morning? The snotty customers she'd kowtowed to today at work? No. But 
maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that Max and his jerk friends had spent the 
last two weeks shacked up at her place, boozing and smoking questionable 
substances in her face. Yeah, maybe it was that seedling of a suspicion that 
when he wasn't here he was in some other girl's pants. Maybe it was getting 
that Visa bill after he'd charged over a thousand dollars worth of non-essentials 
in her name. Maybe the clincher transgression had been that he denied 
everything.

     At first, she just mentioned the bill, then she placed it somewhere prominent 
where he'd have to see it. When these attempts didn't work, she finally bluntly 
asked when he would pay the charges off. When that blanket of disbelief and 
amazement dropped over Max's face, Pamela realized that she disliked him. 

     Glimmers of distaste had teased her opinions over the past month. She 
acknowledged there had been periods of viable concern, but until this moment, 
she would have honestly said that she liked Max. Not anymore though. With 
every little-boy-lost exclamation, each self-righteous smirk, she felt a little more 
liberated and entitled to tell him exactly what she thought.

     Then he tried to use romance. He called her 'baby,' posed with enthralled 
expressions, invaded her personal space, placed desperate kisses on her stiff 
lips. Reviled by these moves, Pamela pushed him away. Max was trying to rob 
her. He was going to take her money and another helping of her self-respect 
along with it... if she let him.

     Then Max got angry. She had rejected him, and she was too stupid and 
pathetic to even think about rejecting him. He took up a threatening stance: feet 
apart, back straight, glint in the eye, and a menacing finger pointed straight at 
her. At the end of each phrase he jabbed it for emphasis. She was full of crap. 
He didn't owe her a thing. Who the hell did she think she was? 

      So she picked up a tumbler and threw it at him. That's who she was. He 
jumped, and now she had the upper hand. She glowed with pride that all his 
showboating might signify that, deep-down inside, Max was afraid of her. She 
was stupid and pathetic, but she was crazy too. Crazy and mad as hell.

      Then Pamela set Max straight. He was leaving right then and there because 
she was tired of looking at his sorry stoned face. He would pay her money back. 
If she had to hound him forever, press charges, or hire some muscle, he would 
pay.

     Finally, Max left. He stormed out calling her every name in the book, but 
never once looked back. As her face grew hot and wet in tearful denouement, 
Pamela swore that she didn't give a damn.

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

     Max kept swearing to himself as he walked down the street. He stopped at a 
package store for a pint of vodka, and he never stopped swearing. He scored a 
hit off a dealer and started slurring, but he never stopped swearing. Drunk and 
wired, he roamed the city night, swearing up and down the avenues. Well, by 
this point he was pretty incomprehensible to the passers-by, but *Max* knew 
what he was saying.

     But then Max took a wrong turn. He must have, for the words stopped, 
leaving choking gurgles in their place. Something had him by the throat, and 
Max's complexion varied from tones of red fear to white anxiety. The attacker 
was something human, skin bleached and luminescent, yet monstrous. Max was 
going to start swearing again, but the creature's hands were pressing in, harder 
and harder, collapsing his windpipe like brittle paper. Lucky for Max, he passed 
out at that point, missing the flesh of his neck splitting apart, the ruby spurt of 
his jugular as the blood pumped forth, and his silent, gruesome death that 
followed.

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

       Vachon inhaled heavily. The air tickled his nostrils, damp and cool, yet 
succulent. It was lush with the scent of her, a light, sweet smell that enticed him 
closer, singing in his eyes, ears, and throat. That same night air was breezing her 
hair, causing strands to dance about her face. He studied her features as if to 
imprint them on his mind.  Then her hands glided snakingly around his collar, 
making the leather crackle.

     Vachon took another breath, this one more shallow. He closed his eyes to 
mull it over lingeringly, his world becoming one of pulsating odor, touch and 
sounds. Again the night air whispered delicately in his ears, and life, the sounds 
of life crushed in upon him.

     Her life, the beat becoming stronger, louder and purer with every pulse, 
every caress.

     She nuzzled his neck, and he heard her speak softly, but impatiently, "Kiss 
me. Now."

     Vachon did. Gently at first, then with more urgency, and finally desperate 
hunger. Her pupils widened, making her eyes appear darker. His lightened, 
glowing brighter, and as his teeth tore into her yielding inner wrist, she sighed. 

      Vachon found the first few drops to be exquisite. They seemed to explode 
as he spread them over his tongue. The rushing, soaring, and falling sensations 
swept him along as he drank deeper. The joy, the agony, the pleasure, and pain 
all twisted within his head. Tastes and experiences all tantalized his mind 
intimately, yet throughout them echoed the same refrain.

     A groan, an inexplicable protest escaped him, and Vachon 
pushed her away, still holding that tempting wrist.

     Looking at her expression, the mixture of hurt, bewilderment and longing, 
plummeted his thoughts in a different direction to center upon another girl, 
another pair of desolate eyes. He'd seen that look before in his last tangible 
image of Tracy. Then they had both been buried, and for her, there was no 
coming back.

     Vachon took a deep final breath, closed his eyes to shutter the haunting 
image, knowing that his choice had been made. He raised her wrist to his lips 
once more, but this time his lips lightly grazed the wound, her blood teasing his 
mouth one final time. Then he let her hand drop back to her side. He spoke 
methodically as his eyes bored into her, piercing her soul.

     "Leave now, and never come here again. Your wrist...your wrist was cut on 
some glass, an accident... "

     He repeated these words, and he let her go.

     Vachon sauntered back to the Raven, which had re-opened just as suddenly 
and mysteriously as it had closed. A look at the bartender got Vachon a glass of 
what he wanted. He took a lengthy sip, feeling a pleasant wave float over him 
again. The sensation was a faint shadow to those he had sensed outside the 
club, and Javier searched wonderingly into the glass. 

     The memories hounded him. Javier Vachon, once carefree and irresponsible, 
was having his reason rocked by thoughts of Screed, Urs, Tracy, and all the dirt 
and dust wearing him down. He felt alone and broken, and his attempts at 
resurrecting his former self, his joie-de-vie, had failed so far. If only he could 
evade the nightmares, quit dwelling on the losses and run towards the future, 
this torment would pass.

     Vachon spotted LaCroix, communing with the Raven's guests as if he'd 
never closed the place for an instant. The man was smooth, always unflappable, 
and he never looked hunted, never seemed to have these demons that Vachon 
felt. 

     There was such a fine line between killing to live and living to kill. 

     LaCroix sensed his gaze, and lifted his glass for a toast in Javier's direction. 
Javier returned the gesture of salute, taking one final gulp.

     Then Vachon left for home, to sleep, and perhaps to forget.

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

     Clare was shopping when someone rang. She had just invested in a cellular 
with call forwarding, and was delighted to actually hear the phone ring. She was 
also being the patient victim of a fitting, and she valiantly tried not to squirm as 
she was poked, prodded, pinned and tucked by the designers. But she wasn't 
being attended to by the head designer. That was Figaro, who had run off earlier 
in the evening in the midst of a nervous breakdown associated with operating this 
newest arm of his design firm. He'd already conquered New York and Paris, and the 
Toronto fashion scene had been very hot for expansion.

     Clare had spent the last week ferrying about with Natalie and/or Figaro, 
spending, consuming, and sharing. She banished her recurring panic at potential 
loss, and tried to delight in the pleasure of forming friendships and bonding with 
other people. She was contemplating that irreversible step where part of your 
soul, your future, became permanently intertwined with the fate of others.

      Clare twitched as if to make a move for her phone. One of the pinmaidens 
frowned, grunted a protest, and moved to fetch the receiver. The woman held 
the phone to cradle Clare's jaw, but snatched it back with concern. "You aren't 
going to talk with your hands, are you? You need to stay still."

      Clare glared, then snatched the phone away, stomping off the platform to a 
symphony of unhappy groans from all the workers, who flocked about her for 
damage control. 

      "It's Clare," she answered. Feliks was on the other end, brimming with 
news to share. He had found Maeven, one of the family, and a very tricky 
member to track down, at that. 

     For one, Maeven never used Aristotle's skills in relocation. That wasn't to 
imply Aristotle was a blabbermouth; he usually was extremely tight-lipped about 
lives he had organized for his fellow vampire patrons. Aristotle simply *owed* 
a lot of people, and now and then, he could be convinced to part with 
information.

     Secondly, Maeven was a loner. She isolated herself even more than Clare or 
Feliks, who at least preserved a few friends in the community. Maeven hid from 
everyone. Clare reconsidered, thinking that hiding wasn't exactly the proper 
term. She had always been a quiet mouse who faded into the background. In a 
sea full of charismatic and attractive immortals, her traits were another form of 
damnation.

     Conchobhar and she had met Lucius ages before bringing Maeven across, in 
the period while Divia still traveled with him. Clare's one brief encounter with 
the girl had been most distasteful, and had cemented the idea that children were 
not suited for the undead world in her heart. Conchobhar would have invited 
them both to join their party, but Clare desisted until they encountered Lucius 
again a century later, minus one disturbing daughter. The three then journeyed 
together for a time, one night wandering across Maeven's mortally wounded 
body.

     Conchobhar had teased Clare about her soft heart, and how it had pooled 
when they discovered the young woman lying battered and defiled in a Lourdes 
field. Her husband silently understood why Clare wanted to bring her across: in 
Maeven's bruised eyes she saw herself on the eve of Conchobhar's rescue. To 
desert the girl felt like letting herself die. 

     Unfortunately, Maeven turned out to be quiet and introspective. She would 
meditate over manuscripts, then keep her opinions private, being too timid to 
share. Conchobhar, Lucius, and Clare had intellectual leanings as well, but they 
would spend hours in discourse and debate.

     Maeven was so silent that the three often ended up ignoring her presence 
because she never spoke, never drew their attention. Finally, when Conchobhar 
was destroyed, Clare was too anguished to care that she had disappeared. By 
the time her emotions numbed, Maeven had been untraceable. Until now.

     Feliks had somehow tracked her down to NeoGen Corporation, a genetic 
engineering research facility in Toronto. A voice in Clare's head momentarily 
buzzed a worry at the coincidence of location, but then pushed it away. Here lay 
a perfect opportunity to continue dealing with her past, one that Clare couldn't 
ignore. 

     She recited a phone number and address to one of the cutters, who had 
fluttered hysterically when he spotted her reaching for a pen and piece of paper, 
thereby endangering some sleeve tacking. Feliks thanked and conversation 
ended, Clare returned to her penitence before the three-way mirror.

     She had just completed being darted and chalked, cursing up and down that 
Figaro *was* getting a custom mannequin of her tomorrow, and that ready-to 
wear had to be probably the seventh best advancement of civilization - if she 
was making a list - when the object of her perturbance  returned to the studio. 
Figaro fluttered in, exasperated, zipped straight for his desk, and fumbled for 
cigarettes. He grabbed two Djarum cloves, lit them and puffed exuberantly, then 
handed one to Clare exclaiming, "Here, have a stress smoke with me. You look 
like you need one, and fast."

     Sweet clouds floated above head as they chatted. "You wouldn't believe the 
night I've had," began Figaro, "I mean, I fake dinner in a *restaurant* with a 
*female* fashion critic (who buy the way, was wearing all black, looked like an 
emaciated Audrey Hepburn, and wore a pair of those Jackie-O sunglasses, what 
is it with those? Hello?!). I spend  *three* hours there and pretend to sip god 
knows how many mineral waters, and I couldn't even whammy the hag into 
favoring a Fall collection with a color like melon! I, mean, *everyone* is doing 
melon. Melon is classic! These fashion critics are supposed to be sheep - why 
aren't they muttoning? Mensch, I need a real drink." 

     A reception assistant scurried forward to place a snifter of red in his hand, 
which he slugged in a mammoth gulp. He then drew out a handkerchief to mop 
his coffee-colored forehead. Figaro tended to be a flamboyant sort.

     "I have news, too," Clare shared. "Feliks tracked down Maeven."

     "Who's that?"

     "You know, plain little thing, disappeared when Conchobhar was destroyed -"

     "Blah. I remember you talking about her now. Wasn't she supposed to be 
boring?" Figaro waved a hand, as if to say, 'I have no time for boring things.'

     Clare frowned. "Well, yes, but family is family."

     Figaro hooted. "It tickles me when I hear you say that like you actually 
*mean* it, Clare." He rubbed his hands together in anticipation, "So tell me, 
what did you think of that little melon Newton original I whipped up for you?"

     Clare couldn't keep a straight face. "You are going to have to tell me, Fig. 
What on earth did you do to Aristotle that made him give you the identity of a 
cookie?"

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

        It was the second night after Nick's return to duty. He'd heard that Natalie 
was back at the Coroner's Office, but had yet to see her. Arriving home from 
New York, Nick had discovered that the loft had been cleaned. All the physical 
signs of that night had been washed away. Nick knew that Natalie had been 
there, though he believed forcing a personal encounter, disturbing her privacy 
right away, seemed unwise. 

     He spent his first night back at the precinct ruffling paperwork, and started 
more of the same on the second when a homicide call came in, a crime scene 
that Natalie ought to be working.

     Did he speed on his way there? Was he anxious? Nick tried not to focus on 
these things, on Natalie, but concentrate on the job ahead. This would be his 
first case in years without a partner. The situation was only temporary, 
according to Captain Reese. The past year had been harsh to Metro Police all 
around, and the force was experiencing a shortage of homicide detectives. In a 
few weeks, once the precincts had a chance to nip and tuck, they would grace 
Nick with a new partner.

     The scene normally would have been a dark alley, but portable lamps, 
flashing sirens and flares illuminated the area like a grotesque carnival. The beat 
officer who called in the crime waylaid Nick, giving him the basic rundown. 

     "It's a white male. Identification says he's one Maximillian Giroud, age 
twenty-six. No witnesses. No weapon found yet. It's pretty brutal."

     They reached the body, where Natalie's tawny head bent crouched over the 
form while tagging for samples and debris. Observing her actions more closely, 
Nick realized that Natalie was bagging a hand severed from Giroud's arm. 
 Nick wondered. 

     Lifting the plastic shield that covered the victim's torso, he saw that it lacked 
a head. That likewise had been torn away, leaving ragged zig-zagged edges 
flesh behind at the neck. 

     "I'd say that he was decapitated before death." Natalie was at his side, head 
still down in perusal, speaking in firm tones. "It looks like his windpipe was 
crushed before that, so he may or may not have been aware at the time. The 
killer doesn't seem to have used a blade based on the jagged wounds. The 
damage might have been done by hand. Whatever did this threw... the head ... 
about four meters that way." Natalie pointed out a direction, her breathing 
labored.

     Her wording gave Nick pause. "*Whatever* did this?" Natalie looked at him 
then, pale but defiant. She opened her mouth to justify her comment, but was 
overcome with a sudden shudder. "Nat, are you alright?" Nick grasped her arm 
to give her support, and for an instant, Natalie gratefully leaned against him. 
Then she straightened and moved away, businesslike again, firm tone back in 
place.

     "As soon as you look over the scene, they'll bring the...parts...to my office. 
I'll see to it first thing. Maybe then I can give you more answers."

     Nick moved towards her again, but she gave him a warning look. "I am 
handling it, Nick." 

     Nick counted every step as she walked away.

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

     Natalie had done very well over that first week. She'd gone to Nick's loft 
prepared for another encounter and what that meeting could bring, only the loft 
had been empty, save for the traces of that night. He hadn't touched them. 

     Natalie strolled through the loft, examining stains, the implements Clare and 
LaCroix had left behind from their work, and dealt with her own sensations.  
She trailed a hand along the surface of the rug, remembering their words, blood, 
fever and passion. Finally, she remembered her death. 

     She settled on the sofa, contemplating the chain of events much as Clare had 
that night. The glint of the stained glass on the table caught her eye. Natalie 
lifted it to her nose, recognizing the aroma of dried blood. Clare's blood. She 
grabbed the syringes, intending to dump them in a Sharps container later. She 
hand-washed the glass, as well as the used knife she'd found on the kitchen 
counter, restoring them to their proper places. She cautiously started a blaze in 
the fireplace, adding the staff with one rust-darkened end to the kindling, then 
let the flames burn down into ashes. She gathered her personal items and rolled 
the rug up to be cleaned. 

     When Natalie returned a couple of days later, Nick was still absent. She 
shook away her worry and unrolled the rug, laying it unblemished on the floor 
again. Natalie looked about her, noting how the images of the past had already 
faded somewhat from putting order into the tangible. Yes, Natalie thought, 
she'd done very well.

     Then she returned to the Coroner's office.

     Natalie had taken the scents of her job for granted. Anything unpleasant was 
treated with a swipe of wintergreen gel below the nostrils. Wintergreen didn't 
hold its magic anymore.

     At the crime scene that evening, the smell of spilt blood soaked into the 
ground had triggered a yearning that left her shaken. It had taken all of her will 
to fight the hunger down. She recalled those infrequent moments over the years 
when Nick had come across a body, and she had visibly seen him battle the 
vampire back into submission. Jokes that Schanke had made about fainting at 
the sight of a little blood - so many things were becoming clearer to Natalie 
now, and she felt a budding pride in the effort Nick had employed in those 
instances.

     Now it was time to inspect the corpse of Maximillian Giroud. Grace assisted, 
much to Natalie's gratitude. Grace's lack of questioning the hesitations and 
fervent pauses reinforced her friendship with the woman. It didn't matter that 
the patience arose from the belief that Natalie still grieved from Laura Haines' 
suicide. What mattered was Grace's acceptance and support.

     Preliminary images of the body had been taken at the crime scene.  Now, the 
two examiners were dabbling in close-ups of he wound areas, taking X-rays, 
searching for additional fibers and, of course, physiological evidence.

     They unwrapped the individual parts from their bagging and arranged them 
accordingly, taking measurements. The head, right hand, and torso were all 
destined for intense dissection. They minutely pored over the clothing, skin, and 
wound surfaces with magnifiers, searching for additional fibers, weapon 
fragments, or significant marks. 

     They discovered two types of hair different from Giroud's: one blond, one 
silver-gray. These strands were tagged and tubed for analysis and comparison. 
Natalie and Grace shared conspiratorial looks as they observed the root of the 
gray hair was still intact, just ripe for DNA profiling.

     Natalie then proceeded to examine the head, noting the state of Giroud's 
eyes. They were somewhat bloodshot, consistent with possible drug use, but not 
enough to suggest brain trauma or an aneurysm.  Natalie expected as much due 
to the lack of tactile skull trauma, so she made a note for toxicology to 
specifically scan for addictive substances. 

     Removal of the skull cap followed for the first of the organ tissue samples. 
Longitudinal and lateral sections of the brain were placed in separate vials, half 
in formalin and half in ethanol solution, for later histology and toxicology tests.

     They photographed the bruising between Giroud's chin and the severed 
stump of his neck. The collapsed trachea and esophagus were the next to earn 
stills, as well as the tear patterns of the flesh. Natalie caught herself staring at 
the craggy pieces of skin and subcutaneous tissue, full of horror and fascination 
at the sheer nature of the crime. And the smells...

     Natalie brushed away those thoughts and began the search for prints on 
those bruised areas. Now that the examination of the head was complete, they 
could afford to douse the skin with greasy powder. Grace and Natalie were 
astonished to find what appeared to be partial thumb and index fingerprints 
proudly blazed over the darkened surface. The disjoined hand received similar 
treatment, resulting in more photos and prints detailing the possible fourth and 
fifth fingertips of the culprit.

     "Do you want to deliver the happy news?" Natalie asked.

     "I'll be right back."

     Natalie stayed away from the body while Grace was gone. Without an 
audience to play to, Natalie didn't know if she was strong enough to tackle the 
intimate anatomy of a recent murder victim without being overwhelmed.

     When Grace returned, she made no acknowledgment of Natalie's 
procrastination, but rather resumed her post for the visceral work. First, there 
were more photographs. They recorded for infamy the shattered right radius 
and ulna, observing how the break was not perfectly clean. Enormous force had 
crushed the arm above the wrist before shearing the bone. Natalie didn't spot 
any good indentations or foci of impact that would point to a blunt object, like a 
hammer, being used to cause the initial damage. The width of the torn and 
bruised segments in the hand and neck wounds seemed to match a hand about 
two centimeters wider than her own.

     Natalie made a midline incision and felt the lure of the traces of fluid that still 
steeped in the organs. Two weeks before, the stenches to overcome had been 
the formalin and decay, but now the blood was all-consuming. 

     Natalie's hands shook as she extracted each organ. Grace silently took them 
to weigh, then swooped up the section samples Natalie provided. The work 
proceeded solemnly, the quiet broken intermittently by asides to Natalie's tape 
recorder. The spleen, intestines, pancreas, kidneys, bladder, and ureters were all 
intact, of normal size and texture. Natalie noted abnormally low blood content, 
self-consciously looking at Grace. The stomach contents smelled of alcohol, but 
they found no remnants of a meal. The liver was slightly fatty, with an orange 
color and graininess that suggested Giroud had been a heavy drinker with the 
initial signs of liver disease. The lungs were blackened; Giroud had been a 
smoker.  His heart had deterioration around the tricuspid, perhaps from a 
bacterial infection. Giroud's teeth had shown dental work, which could convey 
bacteria to the heart through the bloodstream and resulted in the valve damage. 
His arms and legs appeared clean, so Natalie disregarded the use of 
contaminated needles.

     When the samples had all been properly tagged and jarred, Natalie gave 
Grace a quiet thank you. She had avoided eye contact with her assistant during 
the procedures, and she was surprised to now see respect and admiration 
shining from Grace's eyes.

     As Grace departed with two coolers full of specimens, Nick entered the 
morgue. The two exchanged pleasantries as Natalie occupied herself with her 
written notes about the case. Grace left, and they were alone.

     Nick moved to stand by her side. "I heard about the prints and hair samples."

    "Hopefully, it will turn out that the killer left them and not some neophyte 
technician. I'm not so sure this case can be that simple, or that we can be so 
lucky."

     Nick saw that her hands were tensely clenched around the edge of the 
autopsy table. "You think there's something suspicious about the victim?" he 
asked quietly, softly sheltering one of her hands with his own. Natalie blinked at 
their intertwined fingers, then moved away.

     "I'm sure you noticed the high degree of blood loss, which isn't completely 
unusual considering the nature of his injuries. My concern mainly lies in the 
amount of blood actually present at the scene and leftover in the body. There 
were ground stains consistent with the initial unblocked puncture of a major 
artery or vein, yet the primary blood loss appears to have occurred before the 
head and hand were removed."

     "There were no pools of blood around the torso indicating that he bled to 
death," Nick echoed.

     "Exactly. I hate that I'm suggesting this, but vampire teeth marks would 
most likely appear on the neck or wrist..."

     "And if a vampire wanted to cover those marks, they could cause additional 
injuries that would surpass those of the bites," Nick confirmed.

     "And there's the lack of a murder weapon and the evidence that suggests the 
killer used his hands and an incredible grip..." Natalie released a frustrated sigh. 
"For now, let's just pretend that there is nothing unusual, and agree to follow 
the physical evidence until we don't have a choice. It's always possible that with 
the recent...events, I'm just leaping to conclusions." 

     "Whatever you want." A few seconds of silence. "You came by the loft 
while I was gone."

     "I wanted to pick up my car, keys, etcetera. I couldn't stay with Clare 
forever."

     "You've been staying with Clare?"

     Natalie shook her head. "You know, I don't think that is so unusual. She did 
bring me across, Nick."

     "And I went to see LaCroix," he announced curtly.

     "What am I supposed to say to that? He staked you, so I guess you had 
some more demons to exorcise..." Natalie looked away, releasing a harsh 
breath. "Nick, what are we doing? In the end, LaCroix and Clare, are not *us*. 
They aren't the problem..."

     Nick murmured her name, then grasped her elbows gently while looking into 
her eyes. His own held hope, hope and determination. "I want to apologize for 
how I reacted, for how I made you feel." 

     Natalie gave him a tentative look. "I understand why you left, and I don't 
blame you for that." 

     "But you still blame me."

     "I've come to realize that this is a change, not just for you, but for me as 
well. We both have to adjust. I know that you want to protect me, you want to 
reach out...That means so much." Natalie clasped Nick's hand, and she felt him 
give her own a momentary squeeze. "But I'm not ready... I'm not ready to deal 
with anything in our relationship outside this job right now.  And I don't know 
when..."

     "Shhh." Nick soothed, slowly returning Natalie's hand to her side. "We'll 
take this one step at a time, together. I'll see you tomorrow, when the lab result 
are in." He gave her a feathery kiss on the cheek and left. Natalie watched as the 
door flipped shut behind him.

     "Tomorrow," She repeated softly. 

     Natalie returned to face Giroud's body alone, its gaping incisions seeming to 
mock her.

She raised a hook and suture, took a tenacious breath, and began to repair the 
corpse for turning over to the next of kin. By the time the last, delicate, 
submerged stitch was in place, Natalie discovered that her hands had stopped 
shaking.
     
***************************************************************
End of Part Eleven A.

     Clare paced the vestibule, waiting for the sight of Maeven. Setting up this 
appointment had been easy, especially since Maeven had appeared happy to 
receive the phone call, if a little distant. For some reason, the girl was eager to 
display her work at this facility, and offered to set up clearance for a tour right 
away. 

     NeoGen Corporation was located in a modernistic building and was well-
secured, by mortal standards. The majority of security appeared to be watch 
patrols that rotated the halls frequently. Clare was surprised that, as a vampire, 
Maeven would be content with this arrangement.

     Clare felt her approach, echoed by the clicking of shoes on laminate. Her 
first impression of Maeven indicated little had changed in the girl over the 
centuries. Composed of shades of brown, her hair and eyes still had a murky 
mud color and there was a dun tint to her skin. Clare suspected that her stark, 
serviceable blouse and slacks, again in brown tones, and the tightly wound bun 
on the back of her head resulted not only from indifference, but an attempt to 
add maturity to her image.

     Granted, Maeven was old enough to have originally suggested studying pea 
plants to Mendel. As far as her colleagues were concerned, though, she 
probably appeared no more than twenty-five at most. Clare pictured the girl 
silent and ignored all over again. She hoped that Maeven had honed her abilities 
of vampiric persuasion, as well as gained the courage to use them. 

     The girl gave her a pale smile. "You don't look any different."

     "Consider your surprise had I changed. After two thousand years, I have 
become resigned to my appearance."

     A minuscule flicker of resentment passed over Maeven's face before her 
reply. "I'm sure your resignation wasn't too lengthy or painful."

     At that, Clare considered a meeker approach than humor. "This reunion is 
rather uncomfortable, isn't it?"

     Maeven's response was lackluster as she explained quietly, "I suppose that is 
why I was anxious to give you a tour. I don't really know what else to talk 
about."

     "I would love to learn about this place. You're involved in genetic 
engineering, right? How long has your work gone on?"

     "I've been pursuing one line or another of research since the early Twenties. 
Only the laboratories have changed. Do you know anything about the subject?"

      Clare fibbed. "Oh, a little. I read 'Scientific American' now and then."

     Actually, she had devoted a couple lifetimes to medical professions. 
Genetics, ecology, physics, chemistry, medicine and microbiology all holistically 
connected to the overall well-being of the Homo sapiens species. Since Clare 
wasn't inclined to allow pollution, nuclear warfare, and disease to plunder her 
food source, she tried to remain up-to-date on these topics. Vampires had to 
eat, so they might as well eat hale and hearty.

     She did not deceive Maeven because she found her work unimportant. Clare 
merely wanted her to feel free to share and explain as much as possible without 
being intimidated by opinions on her sire's part. Clare was straining to act out 
of character. She tended to be the opinionated sort, but she felt she had so little 
to offer Maeven besides attention.

     Maeven presented her with a visitor's identification tag and ushered Clare 
down the east hallway.  They passed a guard post, had their credentials 
checked, then proceeded through double metal doors. The walls had a slick, 
non-porous, aluminum sheen, and the floors had denigrated to seamless 
concrete. Double-paned glass windows that opened to vacuous laboratories 
punctuated the length of the hall, as well as more guard posts.

      "Why do you use manpowered security instead of some sort of unique 
identification, like door codes or voice ID? Isn't NeoGen concerned about 
potential industrial espionage?"

     "Not really. The most profitable products of NeoGen are pharmaceuticals 
made by techniques available through many scientific journals. Any one could 
make them if they had the right equipment and know-how. A license to sell the 
end results commercially, however, is difficult to come by.  Regulations alone 
can eliminate the majority of our competition."

     Maeven paused outside a workroom entrance. "Anyhow, the only important 
research and development here is in my laboratory, and I have my own methods 
for keeping secrets."

     "Is this your lab?"

     "No. But I thought it would be a representative start in terms of explaining 
technique. All of the labs are kept under extremely sterile conditions. We can 
suit up and go in if you would like, or just peek inside."

     "By all means, let's suit up."

     There was an intermediate alcove in which they donned jumpsuits, booties, 
gloves and hoods before proceeding inside. 

     "Ninety-nine percent of our work involves bacteria that are part of the 
normal human flora, so they represent no harm to the average person. The 
precautions are to protect our cultures from outside contamination, rather than 
the other way around." Maeven gestured to glass enclosed vents labeled 
'Bioflow Chamber' along the walls for air purification, some with varying 
lighting. "This area is dedicated to maintenance of our genetically altered stock. 
There are several mechanisms for altering genes; the process can involve 
viruses, but here we use bacteria."

     "What types?" The headgear muffled their speech, and both women had 
begun to talk louder in overcompensation.

     "Mostly E. coli, since its entire genome has been mapped and studied. It's 
easier to keep track of inserted segments that way, and segments are pretty easy 
to splice. Sometimes Haemophilus species are used, but they have particular 
growth requirements and are harder to maintain."

     Clare was amazed at the enthusiasm Maeven radiated. The girl was so 
animated and passionate as she discussed her work, she no longer seemed quite 
so dreary and unattractive.

     "The crucial thing about these organisms is that they contain genetic material 
in addition to the regular chromosome called plasmids, restrictive enzymes that 
can cut the DNA like scissors to paper, then insert this material into the 
chromosome, as well as a means to transfer the material permanently to other 
cells. For example, you have one E. coli that holds a plasmid which makes it 
resistant to penicillin, and another E. coli that is missing that plasmid. The two 
cells can connect, the new genetic material is sent over, inserted into the 
chromosome, duplicated, and sent back."

     "And all of the sudden you have two E. coli unaffected by penicillin," 
concluded Clare.

     "And the alteration is inherited by future generations," nodded Maeven. 
"The end result can be pretty devastating for a mortal if they've contracted 
something resistant to most modern antibiotics. Infections that could be treated 
by a shot of penicillin in the Fifties are now non-susceptible. They're out there, 
and it's because of the bacterial conjugation."

     "And the benefits of the process are?" Clare was happy to prolong Maeven's 
vivacity by playing dumb.

     "We can isolate DNA that codes for the production of an enzyme such as 
insulin, splice it into a bacterial genome as if it was a plasmid, collect and purify 
what the cells secrete, then retail the product to diabetics for profit. We store 
the cultures in a lab like this, keep it under conditions that encourage maximum 
growth, and we're in business."

     Maeven cranked open the door to a large vault along one wall.  Humid, 
tropical air rushed out, free at last. The cavity was a collection of shelves: row 
upon row of dated petri dishes farmed for the glories of science. "This is an 
incubator for the cultures. We keep it at 37 degrees Celsius, body temperature, 
to encourage maximum growth."

     Clare had forgotten what an unpleasant odor E. coli could produce, 
especially thousands of platefuls of it at once. "What else does NeoGen 
manufacture besides insulin?"

     "Various other enzymes, growth hormones, and a vaccine for hoof and 
mouth disease."

     "And you make...?"

     "Oh, none of those. My research involves gene therapy in humans. It may be 
possible to correct immune cell deficiencies, inhibit cancer, cure hemophilia and 
emphysema, and a multitude of other disorders. We could even change a birth 
defect in utero."

     "Well, if a vampire can't play supreme being, who can?"

     "Really. Do you think I'm so incapable of serious scientific inquiry? That I'm 
not smart enough? The concept isn't some prank to impress; I'm very serious."

     Clare reconsidered her teasing. Apparently her comment had scratched a 
tender spot with Maeven. She hadn't sought to belittle the project, but to share 
some amusement. "I didn't mean to sound unenthused. I think that helping to 
preserve the food supply in healthy condition is an admirable task."

     Maeven let out a small huff, walked back into the alcove and began the 
process of removing gear. "Do you know how often I have to deal with 
ignorance about my work? People are always using their emotions to decide the 
value of what I discover rather than the scientific merits."

     Clare began to remove her jumpsuit as well. Personally, Clare thought that 
people were bags of emotion by nature, therefore anything they associated with 
would be tainted by the big 'E'. "Does this mean that I don't get to see your lab 
close up?"

     Maeven's lips pursed into a thin, tight line. "I know you're not honestly 
interested."

     "Of course I am." Clare zipped out through the door and down the hallway, 
flicking her badge to the guards as she passed. 

     Maeven shuffled speedily to keep up without using any vampire powers. 
"You don't even know where you're going."

     Clare certainly didn't remember the little mouse being so petulant in the past, 
but then she had never especially paid attention.  She stopped in front of another 
large window, devoid of posted guards or sufficient light. "I sniffed it out."

     "See? Just more hoods and incubators. I said that you wouldn't be 
interested."

     Clare silently agreed. This lab was all glass and metal surfaces, just as before. 
Then she detected an additional room projecting to the side of the vacant lab, 
filled with containers that resembled enormous beer kegs, about three meters by 
two in dimension. 

     "What are those for?"

     Maeven followed her gaze, frowned, and explained, "Oh, those are just 
freezers. I use them to preserve old samples, that's all."

     Clare saw that Maeven had already turned to stomp back towards the lobby. 
Upon reaching reception, the girl mumbled with lowered eyes. "I guess I wasn't 
up to your usual repartee, but thank you for the effort."

     Nonplused, Clare shook Maeven's limp hand and urged her to stay in touch, 
but the girl immediately turned away to seek the shelter of the corridors. 

     
     Clare strolled thoughtfully out of the building, pondering her innate skills at 
alienating family, while trying to reconcile the enthralled geneticist discussing E. 
coli, with her captious comments and meek history. 

     Reaching her new car, Clare beeped off the alarm and slid into the slick 
leather driver's seat. Automobiles were fantastic, almost as wonderful as 
horseback rides in the moonlight, and worlds better than carriages. Spoked 
wheels tended to make Clare nervous - they had been a solar symbol in her 
mortal religion. She greatly preferred hands-on horsepower of the animal and 
mineral sort. In terms of advancements in society, cars ranked eighth, if Clare 
was making a list.

     She sighed. In terms of Maeven, there wasn't really any further action to 
take. Hopefully the girl would be willing to contact her again, but she wasn't 
planning to force the issue. Clare turned the ignition, and noticed something in 
her suit pocket. 

     It was the visitor's pass. Apparently in her rush to complete the reunion, 
Maeven had forgotten to retrieve it. Clare shoved the plastic disk into her 
barren glove compartment.

     You never knew when anything might come in handy.

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

     Nick returned from a discouraging interview to the Ninety-Sixth precinct to 
find Clare propped up at what was formerly Tracy's desk. She occupied herself 
by fiddling with an orphaned pencil, creating doodles all over the fresh blotter.

     Noticing his approach, Clare gave him a distracted greeting. "Good evening, 
Nicholas." She waved the writing instrument at him. "I have to confess - I love 
pencils. They are probably the sixth most useful invention ever, if I were making 
a list. It's amazing that such a simple creation could ease the lives of so 
many...Remember the old days? Those quills used to slap ink all over the place; 
it was escritory tyranny! Then the refillables that followed...Put them in a 
pocket and - boom! You have an enormous, permanent spot. But a pencil...a 
pencil is clean, long-lasting, doesn't leak, and best of all...you can write a 
comment down in the heat of the moment..." Clare demonstrated, scribbling 
'Nick is my hero' in big letters on the desk blotter. "Then take the words back." 
Furious erasing ensued. "See? Not a trace. The remark could have never 
existed. If only all our words were so easy to repossess."

     Nick's mien was irritated, yet indulgent. "Convenient, yes. But think of the 
trees..."
 
      "Already have." Clare presented the pencil in a proud horizontal, displaying 
its side-stamp. "It's recycled."

      "Ah. Correct me if I'm wrong, Clare. Didn't we have a conversation about 
a week ago in which you..."

     Clare gestured to herself, mouthing "Me?" innocently. 

     "Yes. You uttered the words 'deal' and 'I'll leave you alone' in the same 
sentence."

      She fluttered her eyelashes. "I did? That sure was a whopper. I might not 
make it to heaven with such horrors on my record." She preened. "Actually, I 
didn't come here to see you, so technically the visit doesn't count. That nice 
Grace at the Coroner's office explained Natalie was on her way over. I simply 
arrived early."

     "Have you been spending a lot of time with Natalie?"

     Clare leaned back in her chair, staring defyingly, probingly, at Nick. "Have 
*you*?"

     Nick broke eye contact. "I'm working on it. Correction - we're working on 
it."

     A tranquil smile lilted the corners of her mouth. "That's what I had hoped 
you would say."

     Nick, momentarily bemused by this encouragement, returned the pleased 
expression. Then concern wrinkled his brow. "Tell me. How is Vachon? Has he 
coped since hearing about Tracy?"

     Clare's smile melted, reversing direction. "Tracy? Who is that?"

     "Tracy Vetter was another homicide detective, my partner. She was killed in 
the line of duty during the time Vachon was buried. She was the one who buried 
him. Tracy knew Vachon was a vampire...They were close."

     Clare considered these words quietly. "Did he love her? Was it like you and 
Natalie?"

     Nick countenance expressed a touch of amazement. Natalie and she *had* 
become friends. Nick finally subsided in his seat, put himself at the same level. 
"I'm not certain what Vachon's feelings were. I know he cared for her. There 
was attraction on her part, but love...? Part of the connection resulted from 
Tracy being a resister, and she found him out. Vachon had some obligation to 
protect her."

     "And Javier fulfilled this obligation. When he discovered that she was 
dead...?"

    "He was angry, visibly upset. It was a week ago, and I haven't seen him 
since. That's why I asked how he was doing, but I suppose you know even less. 
Or perhaps you don't care at this point"

     For a second, Clare didn't look omnipotent or assertive. She was fragile, like 
dandelion blooms waiting for a wind to gust them away. "As you know 
personally, my past actions have not endeared me to everyone I've encountered. 
Vachon is no exception. I chose to let him roam free after he was brought 
across rather than become compatriots. The autonomy was a selfish gift on my 
part, and Vachon always interpreted it as a rejection," Clare confided. "He 
wasn't wrong. I craved no ties at our first encounter, and I was very abrasive."

     "But you chose to rescue him now."

     "Yes, and he thanked me for that, but my past misdeeds are incredibly 
damning in Javier's eyes. I do not blame him for mistrusting me. He told me to 
leave him, and for the past week, I have. I didn't invent vampire family 
problems." Clare snuck a pointed look towards Nick after this comment. 
"Despite my unease about Vachon's welfare, I have strived to not force my 
attention on him."

     "LaCroix described you as unpredictable. I should have listened."

     "Nicholas, if you ever listened to LaCroix, he would faint right on the spot, 
you wouldn't be sitting here right now, and no doubt some Fundamental Law of 
Physics would be broken," she quipped.

     "I do think my eyes are deceiving me," Natalie's voice broke in. She had 
arrived in time to witness Clare and Nick laughing. "You two getting along? I 
must be dreaming."

     Nick stood and stage-whispered in Natalie's ear. "I'll pinch you, if you'd like."

     Natalie didn't reply, but tossed Nick a happily bedeviled look while Clare 
snickered quietly.  Natalie then presented a crisp, buttery folder, waving it in the 
air. "I brought the lab results for the Giroud case-anyone interested?"

     Nick sobered. The Giroud case is what had rendered him so disappointed by 
the time he returned to the precinct. "What did you find?"

     "Giroud's blood alcohol level was over the legal limit, he was high on 
cocaine, and there were traces of marijuana in his system. There were no death-
inspiring conditions other than decapitation and extreme blood loss, and I've 
had the cloning started on the hair root DNA we found. We'll be prepared for 
the lab to do a quick PCR if you get an appropriate sample from the donor of 
the fingerprints."

     Nick grimaced. "There's a problem with the fingerprints."

     "What kind of problem? Was there crime scene contamination?"

     "No. We located their owner. They belong to one Palmer Maitland, a 
wealthy, connected executive who had his prints recorded for a corporate 
security program. He had no police record."

     "I don't understand," Clare piped up. "Why is that so problematic?"

     "That isn't, not directly. The obstacle comes from Maitland dying from skin 
cancer eight months ago."

     "So how does a dead man leave fingerprints on a murder victim?" fretted 
Natalie.

     "Wait a second," interjected Clare. "Are you positive he's deceased? Could 
it have been faked to escape some other crime?"

     Nick shook his head. "I had a lengthy talk with the widow. She had videos 
of his death." Both Natalie and Clare scrunched up their noses in distaste. 
"Evidently, Maitland started researching suspended animation when he found 
out he was terminally ill. He paid a company in Toronto to freeze him at death 
and a doctor to witness it, for the purpose of resurrecting him when a cure for 
skin cancer develops."

     "So much for *that* physical evidence," sighed Natalie. "What company in 
Toronto researches suspended animation?"

     "NeoGen Corporation, a genetic engineering firm," supplied Nick.

     "What?" Clare exclaimed. "I just came from there!" At Nick and Natalie's 
inquisitive expressions, she explained, " My offspring, Maeven. I mentioned 
her." Natalie nodded in confirmation. "She does research there and gave me a 
tour. She talked about bacteria, and researching the cures of ailments like 
cancer, but said absolutely nothing about freezing people."
  
     "Did you see anything suspicious?" Nick questioned.

     Clare bit her bottom lip. "There were freezers. Large ones, in Maeven's lab. 
When I asked about them, she waved me away, saying that they preserved 
samples for her work."

     "That's not necessarily suspicious behavior," qualified Natalie.

     "Yes. By that point in the tour I had managed to upset her; she hardly would 
have been forthcoming."

     "I'm going to try to get permission to see the body," declared Nick. "We 
*do* have his fingerprints on the victim. Meanwhile, there's been no luck 
tracking down Giroud's address. He hadn't occupied his last known for over a 
month. I've got some people working on it."

     Clare rose from Tracy old chair. "Well, I wish you luck. I don't really think 
Maeven's involved in anything unsavory. When you meet her, you'll 
understand. Overall, she's too mild-tempered. As for me, an errand has come to 
my attention." Clare smiled at Nick.

     "Let me walk you to the door," Natalie offered, then turned to Nick, saying, 
"I'll be right back."

     The two women exited the precinct, pausing outside on the stairs.

     "Did you come here to check up on me?" Natalie asked.

     "Yes. We haven't really talked since you returned to your job. I wondered if 
you were adjusting well, back into the fray and all." 

      "You knew how it would be, didn't you? My first days back at the office, 
the hunger, the blood. Yet you didn't say a word. You just let me find out for 
myself."

     "Sometimes I wonder why I decide on the choices I do. Deep inside, I think 
that I believe that this is a challenge. One that, if you survive," Clare grinned," 
will make you invulnerable to any other apex you have to overcome. You've 
been successful so far, haven't you? Just consider the control, the strength it's 
taken, and be proud of yourself."

     "You know what? I am." Natalie did look content, if not happy. "I've 
discovered things about Nick that I never understood as a mortal. I thought I 
knew everything - that just being aware of vampires explained the experience. I 
was wrong. I know Nick is not one of your favorite people. I appreciate that 
you're trying to get be friendly."

     "Astounded as I am to say it, I am glad that Nicholas and you are facing 
these changes together. I realize how much he means to you. I want you to be 
happy."

     Natalie clasped the other woman's hand. "Thank you, Clare." 

     Clare returned the pressure, then descended the steps towards the parking 
lot.


     Natalie returned to Nick's desk and settled down in the chair Clare had 
vacated, grabbed an abandoned pencil lying on the blotter, and began to fiddle 
with it. "You know, I keep saying to myself that Clare didn't get to be a two 
thousand year old vampire by being a saint, but I can't help myself - I like her. I 
think that she's wise, and that there is a lot of good in her, regardless of her 
past."

     Nick pondered Clare's words about Vachon, her ability to admit and accept 
a wrong, and Natalie's admiration. "You know what, Nat? You might be right."

***************************************************************
End of Part Twelve
     
      Vachon was sprawled in a pit, rocks gouging into his spine, dampness 
soaking through his shirt. They stood there, all grinning maniacally. She came 
forward, raised the wooden post, then struck. Vachon tried to deflect the attack 
with his arms and by curling to the side, but still felt the sharp pierce in his 
chest. Drowning laughter supervened his empty screams.

      The scene changed slightly. His body was now laid out in the hole, hands 
folded solemnly across his chest. They were above him, on a pedestal ledge of 
earth. Urs, Screed, and Tracy, each carrying a shovel. They bent to use the 
tools, sending packages of earth looping through the air to shower down on 
him. A clay blanket soon enshrouded him, but he couldn't stir to shake it off. 
The shroud grew and multiplied until he could see nothing but oppressive 
brown-black and feel the graininess on his skin.

     He wanted to bellow, to shout for them to stop. They couldn't desert him in 
this grave, alone, cold, and dark. He wanted to yell, and scream, his panic 
rising. To scream and scream and scream...

     Vachon started from his bed, gasping and clawing at the sheets, ruby mist of 
sweat sprinkling his forehead. 

     He looked around - where was he? He saw the familiar surroundings of his 
home, viewed his hands strangling the bedding, and spied Clare standing at the 
top of his stairs.

     "Vachon?" Her face mirrored his distress. The few candelabras still 
flickering backlit her figure. The illumination reflected off her hair and skin, 
lending a burning and golden glow. This was the Clare he remembered first 
meeting, when everything was new, even death.

     She glided down the steps, regal and controlled but for her face. Her face 
was a disturbed pool, directing concern at him. She sat on the edge of the bed 
and tentatively wiped the moisture from his brow. 

     "You had a nightmare." It wasn't a question, just a statement of fact.

     "Yes." A small shudder skimmed through him. He didn't want Clare here, 
did he?

     She leaned across the mattress, retrieving a container of blood for him. 
Drinking might soothe his agitation. "Was it the dream where everyone is 
leaving you, helpless and alone, or the one where you see them destroyed all 
over again, and you become a statue, unable to prevent it?"

     "I've had both. How did you know?"

     A faraway ache troubled her countenance, and her fingers toyed restlessly 
with the edge of one sheet. "I have nightmares as well. I dream of people I've 
lost, consumed in flames. They reduce to cinders before me, and I am frozen. I 
just watch them walk away from me and die."

     Vachon took a couple of pensive swigs from his bottle, reliving the incubus. 
"Flames for you, the soil for me. Old friends bury me deep within the ground, 
bequeathing me eternal loneliness."

     "Abandonment." Clare whispered. "No one ever warns you about the 
abandonment. Sires will caution that vampires who are stable quickly learn to 
contend with the flux of mortals. How most of them simply flash through our 
existences only to be forgotten. If they're lucky, our minds capture them as a 
photograph, an image of a moment in time to reminisce over and treasure. We 
cope, we adjust, but then..." Her eyes shut to squeeze, to block out the sorrow. 
"Then they never warn about that moment, that night you arise to find someone 
you spent centuries with, someone you shared your history, your soul, your 
blood with is gone forever. Or that pathos when you helplessly see one of your 
brethren destroyed in front of you."

     "Then you have nothing but memories to hound you," he echoed. "It's like 
there's some vacant space that they should be occupying, some bad advice they 
should be giving, some look in the eyes that you search for and won't see. They 
are out of our lives, this time not through choice, but chance."

     "I'm sorry."

     Vachon looked at Clare, attentive and wondering. "That's the third time 
you've apologized. I could have sworn you hated doing that. I've taken some of 
the anger and loss I've been experiencing out on you, but this situation really 
isn't your fault. You know that. Why didn't you just blow me off? It's what I would 
have expected."

     She shook her head. "I *am* sorry. When we met, I was upset over Leila's 
death, as well as a dozen other losses, and I struck out at you rather than mourn. 
I thought that I was being so strong, but I wasn't. I was just running away from 
the grief.  You earnestly reached out to me, and, carelessly, I struck you down.
 I regret my behavior. Then, when I found you buried alive, all the misery and horror of your thoughts flowed into me. How could I not be sorry about your suffering?"

     Vachon shared the bottle with her, and she took a swallow. "I thought you 
weren't supposed to be a nice woman. A cold-blooded murderer with no ties."

     Clare smiled ruefully. "I'm not. I am. I don't know what I am. Nowadays it 
seems my emotions rule, flying around, and I'm hooked onto them by the seat 
of my pants."

     "You're not wearing any pants." There was a ghost of a twist to the corners 
of Vachon's mouth.

     She stuck her tongue out at him, then grinned slightly. "I am sorry that 
you've lost your family, all in the course of a few months. I only met Urs and 
Screed that one time, and they were more like scenery in the background of our 
rudeness."

     "My family. That's what they were. Like a brother and sister in some ways." 
Clare passed the blood back to Vachon for a turn. 

     "I heard about Tracy. That was quite a responsibility."

     "And what did responsibility or nobility get me?"

     "A friend?" Clare guessed.

     "To lose."

     Clare sighed softly. "To lose. I've protracted trying to escape loss over eons. 
It still lingers everywhere. I wish that after all this time I was aware of a vaccine 
or a cure."

     "Talking about it, about them, alleviates some of the damage."

     Clare's mind drifted to Feliks and Figaro, the only people she'd yielded glimpses of these 
feelings to. "Yes. It *does* help. So, you want to talk? Tell me if you want me 
to go."

     "No, stay." Vachon gestured with the bottle. "Tell me why everyone thought 
you were a goner after World War Two," he challenged, taking a sip.

     "It was because of Seiji. I was living with him in Hiroshima up until the time 
of Pearl Harbor. I'd been there for almost two decades and Aristotle, LaCroix, 
and others knew I considered it my home." This time, Clare grabbed the bottle 
for a drink. "But I looked like the enemy. Japan was at war with the West, and 
it grew dangerous for me to remain. I pleaded to Seiji; I wanted him to come 
with me, but he wouldn't leave his homeland. I went to Australia, telling no one 
but him of my new location. When the United States dropped the bomb on 
Hiroshima, I didn't want to see anyone. I was numb."

     "You're sure he was there?"

     "He wouldn't have left, and I have not heard from him since August 5, 1945. 
So the stories of my destruction were a false assumption, and I just didn't care 
to correct the misapprehension. Okay, your turn - What finally happened to the 
Inka?"

     Vachon blinked. "The Inka?"

     Clare gazed at him frankly. "He's not chasing you anymore. Now, there 
must be a curious explanation behind that, hmm?"

     Vachon leaned back, as if relaxing for a long story. "Ah, the Inka. You 
know, the incident involves how I met Nick and Tracy. But then, that's 
probably what you *really* want to know about." 

     Clare rolled her eyes. "Do tell."

     Vachon retrieved the blood once more from her grasp, and began his own 
flow of sips and locution. "It all began with a plane ride..."
     
***************************************************************

      When Metro Police come knocking on your door, do you answer? Pamela 
almost didn't. She'd been going through the motions of after- work, coming 
home to a stale apartment, pints of Ben and Jerry's, and Thursday night TV. 
Whatever lay behind that buzzer did not seem appealing in comparison.

     Yet a closed door is an exquisite temptation, compounded when you hear 
someone on the other side. So you open that door, and when you find a pair of 
Toronto's finest waiting to usher you downtown for questions, you don't brush 
them off like a broom salesman. You go along, nervous in their squad car. 

     Now Pamela sat in an interrogation room, twisting patterns in the lip of a 
styrofoam cup that used to contain water. She was talking to a homicide 
detective, a Detective Knight, whom she would have considered distractingly 
attractive if she didn't have manslaughter on her mind.

     Max had been murdered. She'd kicked him out of her place, swearing she 
didn't want to look at him anymore, and someone had killed him. She conveyed 
this information to the detective, and further inquests followed. 

     "Did Max Giroud use drugs regularly during the month that he lived with 
you?"

     "Yes. I mean, I wasn't always sure what he was using, but there was a lot of 
pot and alcohol. He and his friends were constantly under the influence of 
something. It was one of the major reasons I threw him out."

     "And the names of these friends?"

     "One was Jack Darby, the other was Francis something...I don't recall. 
You're welcome to look through his things. He didn't have much, though."

     "Was Max Giroud employed?"

     Pamela shook his head. "He was supposed to be looking. He moved in with 
me because he lost his job. He never said where that was. I wonder if he ever 
had one." A chip broke off her mutilated mug, leaving rough edges as though 
some mutant termite had struck. She frowned, tossing the fragment on the table. 
"There were other reasons that I threw him out. I thought he was sleeping 
around, he charged a lot of stuff in my name, and took my money. I suppose 
that makes me look guilty."

     "We found a blonde hair, one resembling your own, on the victim. Would 
you mind donating one of your own for comparison?"

      Pamela thought.  "I don't have 
a problem with that."

     His face was compassionate. It was a nice face, really. His voice was 
pleasant, too. He spoke respectfully to her. Who ever spoke respectfully to her? 
He thanked her for her cooperation, like it was some honor instead of expected. 
He was escorting her out of the room now, accompanying her to the apartment 
to search Max's belongings.

     "I cooperate, Detective, out of guilt. I didn't kill him, but I banished him 
outside, and that led to his death. That's a load of blame to handle, and I'm 
trying to shove off the burden."

     His face connotated understanding and sympathy, which warmed her heart, 
and gave her a little hope the job could be done. He led her out of the room, 
leaving it empty except for a jagged, split cup with scattered pieces that lay 
forgotten on the table.


***************************************************************
  End of Part Thirteen
     
     "So you've never been to the Raven?" Vachon asked. They were riding in 
Clare's new car, and she drove *very* fast.

     "Well, I wouldn't say never. I stopped off here first thing when I arrived in 
Toronto. It's just that no one was home. That probably transformed the 
experience," remarked Clare. "Figaro said he would be there tonight, and he 
had plans to bribe me."

     "You're bribable? What would it take to get this car?"

     Clare tapped the gas pedal. "You like it? Me too. See how it goes 'vroom'? 
I love that sound."

     "Okay. So when you get your license revoked, I get dibs."

     Clare chortled, pumped the brakes (none of those lousy anti-locks for her), 
then swung the tires into a spot close to the Raven's door.

     "Parking karma," Vachon cheered, emerging intact from the passenger's 
side.

     They strolled inside the club, Clare noting how dark and clamorous it made 
the night in comparison to her previous visit. Music rippled through the crowds, 
reflecting off the walls and eardrums, dancing with a sea of heartbeats that 
serenaded the vampire patrons.

     Figaro swayed amongst the dancers, posing and turning, until he spotted 
them across the floor. He moved buoyantly in their direction, greeting Vachon 
wholeheartedly and giving Clare pseudo-cheek kisses.

     "You survived the dreaded dull Maeven, my lady. I am so proud." Figaro feinted 
a swoon. "Was she as comatose as you described?"

     "Hardly." Clare patted Fig on the jaw. "You exaggerate. Atone by keeping 
Javier company while I finally greet LaCroix."

      "You haven't seen LaCroix since you arrived in Toronto?" He gave Vachon 
an exasperated look, as if to say 'What was she thinking?' Vachon shrugged his 
shoulders. Figaro reached out and began tugging at the sleeves of Clare's forest 
green ensemble. "With what you've done, you'd better give me that jacket. LaCroix
is not nearly so unequivocally admiring of your faults as I." 

     She glowered at Fig, slipping the wrap off her arms and in his direction. 
"Stay calm. We aren't going to come to blows." Clare turned and slinked off 
towards the rear rooms of the club.

     Vachon watched her retreat and did a double take. Her coat had covered the 
fact that the dress had no back, just an expanse of lush skin to her waist, 
crisscrossed by insubstantial straps. 

     "I'll say," he agreed, and pulled Figaro to the bar for a drink.

***************************************************************
     
       "...Do you feel the power, my children? It spits in your blood, struggling 
for release. Every urge, every desire is now ripe for the taking. Why push 
temptation away, why condemn yourself to a misery of temperance, when 
satisfying the raw hunger would be so easy?
     Indulge la puissance... your authority is absolute, your endowment supreme. 
Hearken the whirlwind of power...It can bend all in its path, it can break 
monuments. It blows within you...It blows from you. Embrace it...
     This is the Nightcrawler, and I know that you are there."

     Clare stood behind LaCroix, observing him speak. Lucius always could 
deliver an unparalleled address, wrapping up the truth and gentle dollops of 
misinformation with the most attractive of lingual bows. He could transform 
self-doubt or the bending of will into such an enticing enterprise, making it so 
delicious to simply bend to the yoke...

     "But the relationship of mortality and power is a very subtle one," she 
recited, watching Lucius turn towards her. Of, course he had sensed her all 
along, how could he not? But to look each other in the eyes, danger for both lay 
there... "Because ultimately power without mortality is no longer power...It is 
divinity."

     LaCroix pondered her quote. "James Baldwin? Paraphrased, naturally."

     "Absolutely. The original had some such nonsense about morality. Silly 
man." Clare walked closer, trailing a palm across the soundboard. "Your speech 
was intriguing. The presentation was made for whom?"

     "Why, my faithful followers, of course." He dominated the room, vacuuming 
attention like some macroscopic force of energy. She cautioned herself not to 
be lured.

     Clare tilted her head. "Yes, of course." Just a slight twist to her mouth 
indicated that she didn't believe him for a minute. "I gather you've spoken with 
Nicholas recently."

     His expression was unreadable, yet unequivocally dangerous. "Which I 
found fascinating. Your blood flows through him now. Whatever will you do?" 

     Her thoughts congealed for a fraction, then her eyes blossomed with a 
knowing look. "It will disappear soon enough. I don't see why I have to do 
anything about Nicholas. Isn't he your concern, Lucius?"

     "Just as Doctor Lambert is yours."

     "Exactly." A pause on Clare's part. "But that is the problem, isn't it?"

     He stood and moved to stand behind her, and Clare felt his breath along her 
collarbone. "Surely you understand, Clare, that Nicholas currently finds himself 
rapt in the fate of the good doctor? I would hate for her influence to prevent 
him from accepting his true nature."

     "His true nature? He is a vampire; that isn't going to change, regardless of 
his attempts to the contrary." She scoffed lightly. "The only difference Natalie 
could make is in whether he dedicates his unlife to amusement or being a boor."

     "And you don't see that as a threat to your new relationship with Doctor 
Lambert?"

     Clare considered her next words carefully. "I don't foresee any worries 
about Nicholas and Natalie in my immediate future, if that's what you're 
implying." A sin of omission, Clare thought, is a very small sin in the grand 
scheme.

     "That," She now felt his breath wisp by her earlobe. "Is what I expected you 
would say."

     She turned to face him, her expression faking surprise. "Oh? And here I 
imagined the threat of my interference with Nicholas would have you tied up in 
knots..."

     Apparently an image formed in his mind. "Don't tease."

     Clare smiled slyly. "But I am a tease." She fingered his suit lapels, and 
murmured in his ear. "I am also your equal, Lucius." She slid her hands slowly 
down his chest and let them trail away, then slipped back towards the dance 
floor, tossing a gaze over one bare shoulder as she made her farewell.

     It was a wonderful exit.

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

     Vachon watched a pleased-with-herself Clare progress down the bar. Heads 
turned to watch her move, some whom she recognized and greeted. Vachon 
vacated his stool and offered it to her when she reached them.

     "How did it go?" he pried.

     The barman presented Clare with a goblet, which she tested gingerly. 
Satisfied, she replied, "I'm still in one piece." Her teeth glinted. "It went very 
well, I'd say." She motioned to Figaro. "What've you two been up to?"

    "I was telling Javier the cookie story."

     Clare pouted. "The cookie story? Fig, you haven't even told *me* that. Is 
that the bribe?"

     Vachon shook his head. "His bribe can't be as good as the cookie story."

     "Speak for yourself."  Figaro voila-ed a pair of printed rectangles from his 
suit pocket. "Three nights from now. Left orchestra balcony seats for 'Tosca'. 
One bribe, present and accounted for." He delivered an exaggerated salute.

       Clare exhaled a delighted squeal. "'Tosca'," she breathed, "*Very good*. 
Consider me bribed."

     Her offspring struck a pose, that of 'Figaro Triumphant'. Vachon broke into 
the rejoicing. "So you two have a thing for operas that finish with people 
flinging themselves off buildings?"

     Nodding, Clare clarified her admiration. "It's not just that Flavia Tosca 
jumps to her death, it is why she did it. Was it because her lover, Cavaradossi, 
has been killed, and she cannot bear to live without him? Is it because she feels 
to blame for that death? Is it because she murdered Scarpia and simply wants to 
escape retribution? Or is it because she is alone, and has nothing more to do as 
a finale?..." Her voice trailed off thoughtfully.

     "Or," announced Figaro, "the prospect of prison fashion was just too 
grotesque to bear. I know I'd hurl myself off a roof if I found myself in her dirty 
shoes."

     Clare threw a drink coaster at him. A svelte, model-type with silver hair 
came forward to entice Figaro to the dance floor, and he left willingly, waving 
and reminding Vachon, "Remember, you *must* come into the studio."

     Clare couldn't conceal her curiosity. "You *must* come?"

     Vachon sighed. "What can I say? He bribed me with the cookie story in 
exchange for letting him design something."

     She choked into her glass. "Oh, don't do it, Javier," she warned.

     "Why not?"

     "Three words: melon, polyester, flares."

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

     Angela Bride believed that you found what you looked for, and as an 
investigative journalist wanna-be, she looked a lot. Right now, she was looking 
for a break, an enormous exclusive that would banish her from the 'Lifestyles & 
Perspectives' section forever. Angela Bride had front-page fever.

     As she leapt from shadow to shadow outside the NeoGen Corporation, that 
fever grew. She could taste the success in her mouth. The last step was the 
guard. Angela couldn't believe that it had been so simple. Security guards were 
eminently corruptible, and NeoGen's security was stocked with nothing but. All 
she needed was for her contact to show up as he'd promised, pay him off, and 
her next stop would be tomorrow's headlines.

     She saw Avery, the susceptible security guard, slump through the parking 
lot. He wasn't going to earn a tip for being discreet, Angela growled mentally. 
Every few steps Avery would pause, scoping expectantly around himself, 
whispering  loud enough to *really* irritate had they been in a movie theater, 
"Hey! Ms. Bride! Where'ya!?!" 

     Angela gave up the illusion of covert behavior and stepped away from the 
shrub she was camouflaged behind. "Over here, Avery." she called.

     They stood together, crouched by one of the cars scattered through the 
parking lot.

     "You can get me in?" Angela demanded.

     "No problem," the guard boasted. "But you can't take too long. I'm 
supposed to be on a smoke break."

     Angela heard a grunt-snap. "What's that noise?" she demanded.

     Avery shrugged it off. "Just some local wildlife. There's lots of squirrels 
hereabouts."

     She started to reply, conversation was usually her forte, but instead her 
mouth gaped open as something loomed up behind the guard, grabbing his 
head, and snapping it back. She saw Avery struggle with the white hands 
encasing his throat, and witnessed those hands sling the man into the car and 
through the windshield. Avery's body slid down the car hood, leaving behind a 
dripping red blotch on the cracked glass.

     Angela had two thoughts: His skull is crushed and I had better get out of 
here. She turned to run, to get away before that *thing* noticed her, but it 
trapped one of her feet. She was yanked back, crashed to her knees and 
stomach, and felt skin scrape as she was pulled backwards. 

     She tried to flip over, so that she could kick her attacker away. That turned 
out to be a bad idea, for seeing it temporarily shocked Angela out of coherent 
thought. It resembled a man: two arms, two legs, upright, clothed, but its flesh 
was unnatural, with a texture like iced lard. Its eyes and lips were red and 
blistered, seeping blood to accumulate in clots down each cheek and hang in 
crusts off each jaw.

     She wailed, and attempted to scramble away, her fingers scraping the 
asphalt. No success. She felt talons manacle her hair, yanking her head to the 
side, and heard the creature wind a fist back. 

     She heard the sound of her spine breaking before she experienced it. 
Conceivably, she was in shock for a minute. There was a pause, then suddenly 
every inch of her seemed spiked by needles, jabbing repeatedly through her 
back, neck, and brain.

     Angela Bride had been looking for trouble, and unfortunately, she had found it.

     Then she made the front page.

***************************************************************
End of Part Fourteen

     "Nick, the bodies were found in the parking lot, not the building itself. And 
frankly, I'm not buying any hocus pocus with the fingerprints. Most likely they 
came from some kind of human error, and I'm not gonna let this precinct make 
a fool out of itself over it. If the powers that be say you can't get a warrant to 
see the classified areas of NeoGen Corporation, then you can't," explained 
Reese. On a softer, little bit more pleading note, he continued.  "What about the 
girlfriend, or the two friends? Did they pan out?"

     "Pamela Quigeley had a motive, her hair was found on the corpse, but 
Natalie says the wounds just don't match up. She's certain the injuries were 
done by hand, and the suspect's grip is simply too small, and she's not strong 
enough. If she's guilty, it would have to be as an accomplice."

     "So what about the friends?"

     "Both had rock solid alibis. They both have over a dozen witnesses to vouch 
for their whereabouts."

     Captain Reese rubbed his forehead, sighing. "Then we'd better hope 
something with the reporter or guard pans out. According to her paper, Ms. 
Bride had no business being at the scene. She wrote up school fairs and food 
drives, not science, and certainly not homicide."

     Nick left the Captain's office a disgruntled man. All of his attempts to get a 
search order for NeoGen had failed due to 'unreliable evidence'. Talking to 
Maeven personally had been just as much a disaster. The woman had no 
intention of letting anyone, especially a fellow vampire, she'd said, into her 
laboratory to disturb her studies.

     Two more bodies had shown up in the NeoGen parking lot the night before. 
A fellow security guard called in the murders, apparently before notifying the 
facility higher-ups, much to the disgruntlement of the staff. By the time Nick 
had arrived, a half-dozen researchers, including Maeven, were refusing to let 
Metro Police set foot past their lobby without a court order. A court order that 
wasn't forthcoming because the only evidence they had linking the murder to 
NeoGen was a dead man's fingerprints.

     Nick slumped down at his desk, outlining his alternatives. The ring of his 
desk phone interrupted his thoughts.

     "Knight, here."

     It was a man's voice. "Uh, yeah. This is Joe Siward... I was calling about 
Angela Bride?"

     Nick perked up. "What about her?"

     "Well, you asked around the paper earlier tonight about stories she was 
working on, and there was one that was kind of secret. Like, the bosses didn't 
know she was doing it. She called it her big expose."

     Nick pulled out a notepad. "So what exactly was she investigating?"

     "Something to do with freezing people at NeoGen Corporation. I don't 
know any details. I just thought you should know since she was murdered 
there."

     I knew it, Nick thought. "Mr. Siward, would you be willing to make a 
statement to this effect?'

     "Well, does the paper have to know?"

     Nick grinned at the phone. "No, how about we refer to you a reliable 
source?"

     Getting the man's affirmation about coming to the precinct immediately, 
Nick hung up and began to wonder about court orders anew.

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

     Natalie and Clare were sharing a late supper when alarm bells went off in 
their heads.

     Natalie cocked her head to one side. "Is that...Nick?"

     Clare grabbed their coffee mugs and her vial of human blood cocktail, 
throwing them into one of Natalie's desk drawers. The other woman began to 
protest: Nat didn't exactly remember what vitally important things may be in 
that drawer, but Clare cut her off. "You don't exactly want him knowing you're 
drinking the good stuff, right?"

    "Well, I haven't actually told him - Ni-ick! What brings you down here?"

     Nick gave a small frown. Why were the two of them just *sitting* on 
Natalie's desk?

     "Hi. I just thought I would check in." They smiled at him expectantly, and a 
bit...nervously? "It was just confirmed that the prints you found on Avery and 
Bride also came from Palmer Maitland."

     "Does that mean you can get a search order for NeoGen now?" Natalie 
wondered.

     Nick shook his head. "Not necessarily. I got a signed statement that Angela 
Bride was investigating a project inside the corporation, yet things still don't 
look good in terms of the court. I suspect that someone inside has powers of 
persuasion over the judge." He looked specifically at Clare.

     "You think Maeven's forcing them to ignore your evidence?" she responded. 
"I cannot imagine her engaging in subterfuge. There must be someone else."

     "Maeven wasn't exactly a shrinking violet when I approached her about 
these cases. 'Snarling banshee' would be a more appropriate description."

     Clare was intrigued by this portrayal of the little mouse. "Really? Hmm. 
Perhaps we *should* sneak into the lab tomorrow."

     "We?" echoed Nick. "You aren't exactly part of the police force, Clare."

     "Yes, but I'm the one with a NeoGen visitor's pass in my glove 
compartment." Clare innocuously examined her fingernails. "And you're the one 
who will sport a copy once I visit Aristotle."

     "Then perhaps we should sneak into the lab tomorrow."

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

     A dozen watchmen had greeted Nick and Clare, then examined their badges 
before they reached the interesting expanse of dark hallway that housed 
Maeven's lab.

     Peeking through the window, Clare pointed out the annex with the giant 
cylinders. "Those are the freezers."

     They moved to open the door, but Nick spotted a keypad by the lock. 
"What's the code?"

     "I don't know. It was installed after my tour."

     "Care to venture a guess?" Nick suggested. "Looks like five characters."

     "Try 'GENES'." 

     Access was denied.

     More serious thought ensued.

     "How about 'ECOLI'?

     Access was denied.

     "This could be one of those three-strikes-and-you're-out locks." Nick 
warned. "Another miss may have us flying from the alarm."

     Minutes passed. Clare suddenly decided to type another sequence. A sharp 
click and ping greeted her entry. 

      "Success." Clare grinned.

      "What did you type?"

      "My name. Knowing Maeven, and I do know Maeven," she justified. "She's 
probably been grousing about me ever since our meeting. Quietly and to herself, 
of course."

      Nick silently pressed the entrance's handle. "Of course. And there's no way 
she planned for you to steal in here for some reason?"

      "Why would Maeven do that?" Clare face expressed extreme doubt. 

     "It could be a test of your interest. To see if you are curious enough about 
what she's doing to make the effort."

     Neither of them sensed any other vampires in the laboratory. Clearly, 
Maeven was taking the night off to pursue other activities.

     "Let's see if we can find any descriptions of her work that involves Palmer 
Maitland."

     Clare was perusing some photographs and reports that she had discovered in 
a locked cabinet that - oops! - broke open when she pulled the handle, when 
Nick interrupted her.

     "Maeven is employing suspended animation in her work. I believe that I 
found a manifest list of which person should be in each freezer."

     Clare rummaged in the pockets of her overcoat, retrieving a somewhat 
rectangular black object about twenty centimeters long with a folding handle, 
like a high-tech windshield scraper. Clare thought that coats were a splendid 
invention when completed with a multitude of pockets. They were much more 
convenient than cloaks, especially when you had no lackeys to port items for 
you. Yes, coats would be fifth on her list, if she was making one.

     "Is that a scanner?" Nick was examining her prize closely.

     Clare nodded. "I borrowed it from Aristotle after he duplicated the 
identification for us. It was a strange visit. I had asked why he gave Figaro the 
name of a cookie in his new persona, and he just glared at me. Then, Aristotle 
continually mumbled something under his breath about the Battle of Hastings. 
Very odd."

     If Clare had observed Nick after this comment, she would have seen a 
secretive smile on his lips and a gleam in his eyes.  she would have thought. But she was not watching Nick, so she missed 
out on that moment. Instead, she was recording the files in front of her with 
brisk swipes of her magic wand. "I realize that this is going to be inadmissible 
evidence," she commented. "But at least, *we* will have a record."

     Nick considered the details of the papers before them. "It's going to take 
more time than we have right now to discern the object of her research. All I 
can tell is that Maeven refers to using some type of Haemophilus for gene 
therapy in the frozen subjects. Most likely there is more to this treatment than 
what Palmer Maitland agreed to on his deathbed."

      "Another strange thing," echoed Clare. "She doesn't really refer to what 
sequence she's splicing into their genomes. These notes make it sound like she's 
attempting to incorporate the bacteria DNA itself."

     "Let's look for Maitland in the freezers."

     There were fifteen of the icy encasings lined up in the next room, metal 
soldiers softly humming their duty. Nick browsed his paperwork, stopping 
curiously before one. 

     "This chamber should contain Palmer Maitland's body." There was a 
rotating lock-wheel that he began to spin open on the side of the freezer. By 
appearances, it should have taken the effort of a handful of people to normally 
unwind the closure, but only one vampire. This security measure must be 
especially convenient for Maeven, until now.

     The door opened, emitting puffs of cold air to dance white ribbons 
throughout the room before dispersing.  Clare and Nick exchanged a glance of 
trepidation.  

     "Did you expect him to be inside?" Clare inquired.

     Nick expression connotated 'Come on, did you?' "I am not sure what I 
thought that we would find. Either way, Maitland's absence makes this case 
simpler, yet more complicated at the same time."

     Clare shook her head in agreement. "We should check to see if they're all 
missing."

     Both vampires moved to open new freezers. Nick's was again empty, but 
Clare's was disturbingly occupied.

     They examined the stiff figure with wonderment and distaste. It was a man, 
skin frozen so white his flesh seemed to blend into the lining of ice crystals that 
coated his cell. The areas around his eyes and lips appeared red and waxy, 
sealed like a franked letter. Clare lifted one arm, feeling a rigor mortis-type of 
resistance.  she wondered.

     "The other missing body is a female," Nick announced, renewing his 
examination of the freezer manifest. "Cheryl Miller, age sixty-three, cause of 
death - lung cancer."

     They solemnly opened the remainder of the cases, a dozen of which 
contained bodies, one other that did not. The third absentee was another man, 
called John Doe, an apparent homeless 'volunteer.' Clare re-latched all of the 
freezers while Nick made certain the files resumed their previous locations. 

     They returned to the Cadillac, beginning the journey to the Raven.  Clare 
had complained as they exited NeoGen about not eating, and the club was 
closer than the next destination. That was the Coroner's Office, ripe for the 
sharing and printing out of information with Natalie. Neither spoke, lost in their 
own private introspection. Three corpses absconded from Maeven's laboratory 
- so where were they?
 
***************************************************************

     Vachon had dropped in on the Raven for a drink, only to find Figaro dancing 
the night away again. He considered ducking out, since Clare's fashion warning 
had left him with no intention of fulfilling his clothing bargain with Figaro.  
Figaro, of course, had yet to realize Javier's plans, and he was destined to push 
for a visit to the studio.

     Vachon reconsidered, though. He felt rather confident about his ability to 
escape his end of the deal. After all, he had been pretty talented at evading the 
designs of the Inka for many a year. How hard could it be to avoid melon, 
polyester flares?

     And it had been easy, for no sooner had Fig spotted Vachon enjoying a drink 
at the bar and begun to make a move to say hello, he was distracted. A 
somewhat homely woman had moved up behind Figaro and tapped him on the 
back for attention. Fig granted the woman his regard, appearing intrigued by 
what she was saying.

     After a couple of minutes, Figaro slipped Vachon a peep while the woman 
wasn't looking. Fig waved, pointed to her, and mouthed a name. Curious, 
Vachon examined the female more closely, from her stringy dark hair to her 
sack-like dress, until she sent a sneering frown his way. Then Vachon lost 
interest and turned away.

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

     She spoke, her voice as firm as the hand on his shoulder. "Figaro."

     Figaro turned towards the voice, momentarily feeling an urge of silent 
repulsion at the voice owner's appearance. Figaro based his life on aesthetic 
pleasures, as well as those physical ones that vampires, by nature, are inclined to 
enjoy. This drab female was the opposite of everything he found fascinating in a 
woman: no flair in her coloring, no personality in her face, no alluring smells, 
and not even a spark of wit to her eyes, just a blank, serious stare. Had it not 
been for that awareness, that tingle that whispered to Figaro that this female 
shared Clare's blood, he would have rebuffed her immediately.

     "You recognize me, don't you?" she droned, walking around him, returning 
the examination.

     Figaro took this opportunity to gesture towards Javier, catch his attention, 
and lip her name. Then he confirmed her identity. "You must be Maeven. Clare 
mentioned you in passing."

     Maeven's mouth swiveled unpleasantly. "She mentioned me, you say. I 
wager she described me in every miserable detail, if your expression is anything 
to go by. Did she tell you how dull I was? How many decades slipped past after 
she brought me across before she began to even remember my name? How I 
always fade in the brilliant light of her other oh-so-fascinating undead friends 
until I become nothing but an unremarkable shadow?"

     "Clare was a bit more generous and sentimental than you suggest." Figaro 
now had two thoughts about this bitter vampire. He still wanted to brush her 
off, for her frowning presence was eroding his enjoyment of the evening. Figaro 
was also tempted, because she was really rubbing him the wrong way, to make 
her the brunt of a joke.  He loved a good joke, he pondered, his thoughts 
drifting to Aristotle. Figaro pictured cajoling Maeven into making some 
comment or behavior that he could mock her with later, and his eyes began to 
gleam. "Really, Maeven. Clare's description didn't do you justice. She forgot to 
mention the aura that surrounds you. Very impressive." He continued sincerely, 
truthfully referring to the cloud of depression that seemed to emanate from her 
that was affecting him that very moment. 

     Maeven, feeling under appreciated, immediately assigned a flattering 
interpretation to his comment. "I surprised you would pick up on that. I 
expected so much less from you considering your shallow reputation."

      Figaro's mind shouted indignantly.  Aloud, he answered in friendly tones spiced 
with admiration. "I merely show my appreciation for that which I find beautiful. 
Any reputation I have comes from those with nothing of note to recommend 
them. I would hardly place *you* in that category. Just think of what we must 
have in common," Figaro flattered, silently correcting his words. Maeven shared 
more similarity with a mushroom than himself.

     "It was not always so. You must admit," Maeven chastised. "Once you were 
her favorite. She risked extradition from the community and the wrath of the 
Enforcers, all to protect Figaro, her little clown."

     "You think so?" Figaro encouraged innocently. She had delivered his 
description as if he were the most loathsome of figures, but he loved talk of
Clare's devotion.

     "I did. But now, we are in the same situation. What would Clare do for you? 
Really? Did you hear from her once in the past fifty years? No. Apparently, you 
weren't worth the effort. She concealed her survival from you. What a slap in the face!
No, she came to see both of us as an afterthought. An afterthought to *him*." Maeven 
motioned her head in the direction of the bar, indicating Vachon. 

     Figaro was uncomfortable. Maeven's face was a study in hate and anger, all 
directed towards the Spaniard. The thought of leaving this woman began to 
regain its appeal. "Vachon?" he echoed.

     "How does that make you feel? To be so inconsequential? *Nothing* was 
important enough to bring Clare back amongst the community until Vachon 
needed rescue. She didn't return for you. She didn't return for me. Then Clare 
scurried frantically to his aid and began to hold court. Look at them all." 
Maeven now scowled about her. "Every last one of them, LaCroix included, 
probably scrambled for her attention once she arrived. I bet they had to fight to 
get it. No doubt you had to beg and bribe her to spend time with you. Just as
you've always had to do. She takes your affection for granted."

     A glimmer of doubt swished through Figaro's thoughts. A bribe. Tickets to 
the opera. Meanwhile, Maeven's lambaste continued. "But Vachon doesn't 
have to fight for Clare's attention, does he? She came here for him. No one else. 
Don't you wish we could do something about that? We can." Her malevolent 
phrases sliced into his reverie, doused with foul intent.

     "Huh?" Figaro mumbled.

     Maeven's eyes glinted. They weren't brown anymore, but red, red with 
rancor and thoughts of revenge. "Come with me. I'll show you the solution."

     She pulled Figaro up the stairs and towards the exit. He threw one last 
lingering look back at the bar. There was the nonchalant Vachon, oblivious to 
Figaro's abduction. Then he was gone, blocked by the closing door of the Raven.

***************************************************************
End of Part Fifteen

     Maeven led Figaro to an alleyway, maybe half a block from the Raven. The 
farther they traipsed from the familiar din and faces of the club, the less inclined 
he felt towards following her. Just for a moment, Fig had swallowed some of 
the woman's ire and envy towards Vachon and Clare, but he found that he 
didn't care for the flavor. Some kind of weakness or madness on Maeven's part 
made their actions seem worthy of retribution, not his. Figaro wanted out and 
away from Clare's mouse, and he envisioned warning Javier and his sire at the 
earliest opportunity.

      Reaching the chain link fence that signaled a break in the alley, Maeven 
looked at the rooftops, promising, "I will show you the way. I will show you my 
creations." She cried an unnatural shriek, as if she was a bird in the midst of 
strangulation.

     Their landings pounded the pavement like clumps of lead. Thump-thump-
thump.   Figaro judged.  He was shocked to discover that in 
every frightened moment he had ever experienced, he had never been alone. In 
the face of Maeven and her minions, he was isolated.

     They were horrible, an appalling alloy of death and the undead. They had 
fangs that pushed in a menacing overbite past the barrier of their lips. Garnet 
trails lashed down their faces, dividing each creature's face into a puzzle-work 
of red and white. The only noises they made were the snarls and grunts of the 
possessed. They were controlled by hunger, Figaro thought. Their hands flexed, 
flicking maroon claws on instinct, displaying a perverse pantomime that 
recounted some past kill. 

     "My children can destroy Vachon. They can take our sire and make her sorry 
that she ever ignored us. I made them in the image of the vampire, but with the 
ability to annihilate them all. My *divine* retribution to every last one that 
looked through me." Maeven extended a palm towards Figaro. "I will spare you 
the death, Figaro. All you have to do is take my hand. We can have our revenge 
together."

     His answer was a fugitive tremble, then Figaro ran. Fleeing back down the 
side street, a rainbow of light and movement, he almost reached the lighted 
street, a few seconds away from the Raven's front door if he had enough speed.

     He didn't. Maeven was a dozen centuries older than him, that much faster, 
that much stronger. His flight rendered her enraged, uncontrollable at the 
rejection. She grabbed him by the neck with a howl and pitched him back 
towards her creatures. He soared with a clatter into a stack of cans and boxes, 
momentarily dazed by the force of the flinging.

      "Kill him! Kill him!" Maeven wailed as the fiends were upon him.

     Two had grasped Figaro on either side, stretching him like taffy in opposing 
directions. He moved to sweep them aside, attempting to employ force rather 
than skill. Surely these creations of Maeven's were neophytes, therefore 
susceptible to his strength?

     His struggle was unsuccessful. He made them wobble with his movements, 
almost breaking free, but they held firm despite Figaro's flailing, and dragged 
him closer to the alley's fence finale. The third figure came from behind, 
shoving him against the waffled wire, which bowed and rubberbanded Figaro 
towards its waiting jaws.

     He felt the pain, nothing but the pain. Figaro's reason eddied in protest, 
calling for a last attempt at battle, but the torture overwhelmed him. His fighting 
spirit slithered away, leaving a final sorrowful whisper: 

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

     Vachon was drinking when LaCroix lounged at the bar beside him. 

     "Do you know the identity of that woman leaving with Figaro?" LaCroix 
speculated, accepting a glass of special stock from the waiting bartender. "She 
looks familiar, yet hardly his type." 

     Javier turned to inspect the exit, observing nothing but a closed door. With a 
perplexed shrug, he answered, "He was talking with Maeven a minute ago."

     "Maeven?" LaCroix appeared appalled. "Are you certain?"

     "Well, Figaro pointed to her and mouthed the name Maeven. Since Clare 
had a visit with her a few nights ago here in Toronto, I figured it was the same 
person."

     LaCroix pensively replaced his glass on the counter. Vachon looked at the 
door again distractedly, then leaned closer to wonder intensely, "Is there 
something sinister about Maeven being in Toronto? Around Clare?"

     "Sinister? I would not describe Maeven in such an insidious term. Yet I have 
always found her reactions towards Clare somewhat...frenzied and disturbing."

     "Clare hasn't mentioned that."

     LaCroix gazed at Javier frankly. "Clare never paid heed to the obsession. 
Nevertheless, it exists."

     Vachon was prepared to probe further, but an unexpected spasm of agony 
ripped through him, forcing him to prop his weight against the bar.
 LaCroix moved to steady him, hearing Vachon's anguished moan.
 
     "Figaro...Death..."

     Vachon pushed off the barstool, which rebounded and hit the floor with a 
crash. He staggered his way up the stairs and into the street, LaCroix on his heels.

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

     Clare swore that her stomach was rumbling. She could use some fast food 
right away. That's what she considered the Raven to be: fast food. A version of 
Dairy Queen for the vampire set. A compendium of quick and easy treats to 
momentarily satisfy, without any of the work, though the crowds milling about 
the place really didn't afford the opportunity to savor a victim like a true 
stalking. Despite the drawbacks, Clare still enjoyed her style of fast food for the 
convenience, and ranked it fourth among developments she admired in modern 
society. That is, if she was making a list.

     Nick and she had almost reached the Raven when the attack happened. It 
possessed her like a flashback. Once more, Clare felt the frantic pleadings, the 
desperation that had wounded her as she unearthed Vachon from his untimely 
grave. This time, however, the victim was Figaro.

     She shuddered, groping for the handle to her door, without a pause to order 
Nick to put on the brakes. Somehow, he understood the cause of her suffering 
and slammed the Caddy to a halt as the latch gave way, swinging a wide 
entrance to the night street. Clare stood unsteadily, then the moment passed, 
dimming out as suddenly as it had flared. She began to move then, fleet with 
foreboding, Nick trailing right after her.

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

     There were four figures in the dark back street, one supine, and the other 
three crouched. Clare's vision zeroed upon the collapsed figure, and she caught 
her breath. Her fangs dropped and her eyes seemed to ignite as she stormed 
with berserker fever towards the nearest culprit. Grappling with the brute, 
momentarily surprised at its strength fighting back, Clare managed to sling its 
dripping face into the asphalt. She crashed it down repeatedly, barely 
maintaining her hold on the writhing form, as if to achieve decapitation by 
bludgeoning the head away.

     Nick was more methodical in his assault, being not quite as emotionally 
involved in the crime.  As he observed the other two creatures shuffle to pull 
Clare away from clubbing their brethren, Nick quickly broke apart an old crate 
that littered among the alley's garbage.  By the time one fiend hooked its grip 
about Clare's throat to rip her backwards, Nick had a stake ready for 
counterattack. The wood sizzled through the heart of beast, making its eyes 
boggle and its hands claw where the makeshift spit protruded from its chest.

     Becoming aware of her surroundings, Clare ceased her attempts to crush her 
culprit, rearing up to bowl the final assailant's approach over with the wriggling 
body she held. She let it go, sending both figures flying backwards in a heap. As 
they scrambled back to their feet, Clare perceived the arrival of LaCroix and 
Vachon, who proceeded to aid Nick in dispatching the two creatures.

     Clare backed away from the fray, observing the movements with dismay. 
Based on their appearance, these fiends were the three subjects missing from 
Maeven's lab. They had assaulted Figaro.

     She turned hollow eyes to her collapsed offspring, moving towards him with 
agitated, stiff steps. She knelt sedately by his side, reaching out a delicate hand 
to touch the gaping shreds of Figaro's throat. Her fingers began to flutter before 
making contact with any wound. Nerveless, Clare let her hand fall to clutch the 
flap of his jacket instead.

      She stared at his face, silently entreating Figaro's lifeless waxwork eyes to 
crinkle into a wink, or his bronze cheeks to rise into another impish expression. 
Neither event happened, just blankness answered Clare's quiet pleading. 

     Her consciousness was a twister: warring thoughts of blame, motive, and the 
resounding wail of her heart to run away. To flee this grief that scratched 
through her core, eating away at her insides. Clare no longer stared at Figaro, 
but into space, envisioning her future through vacant vision.

     She detected the end of the scramble amongst the vampires and their 
adversaries. Vachon crouched beside her, shielding her with an arm draped 
about her shoulders. Steadying her as well, Clare realized faintly.

     Vachon swallowed reflexively. "Figaro..."

      "He's gone." Clare's voice was flat.

     Nick stretched forward. "Isn't there something you can do?" The body 
seemed unnaturally ravaged for a vampire. The image of Urs' mangled corpse 
sprawled in his elevator flashed through Nick's mind. "Anything?" He sent a 
desperate look to LaCroix, who frowned at the impression of helplessness.
 Nick's expression pleaded.

     Clare stood abruptly and turned away. "He's gone," she repeated.

     "There's nothing left of him," Vachon intoned quietly. "If anything could be 
done, if she knew of something, Clare would have made the effort already. 
It's just a husk now." Vachon rose as well, to stand at her side. "He was last seen 
with Maeven. She -"

     "Don't." Clare threatened. Her look was deadly, a pulverizing glare, as she 
shoved away from him. "I'm not going to hear it. Not yet."

    She stalked back towards the street, looking ready to take flight. LaCroix 
was the only one who dared to give her pause. He stilled her escape, a firm hand 
about a wrist, then demanded. "What will you do?"  Clare did not answer, but 
moved to tug her arm away. LaCroix held firm, repeating his question. "*What* 
will you do?"

     Her eyes were hurt and broken now, but Clare glared at him anyway, hissing 
her reply in incensed tones. "I do not know." She shook her head. "I do not 
*want* to know. Let me go, Lucius." He did not respond, keeping his hold on 
her until she snarled once more.

     "LET GO OF ME!" Clare barreled from his grasp and into the night sky.

     LaCroix rotated to examine the scene of carnage that spanned the alleyway. 
Finally, his inspection reverted to Nick and Vachon, both of whom appeared 
bewildered. "Both of you," LaCroix ordered, "will explain everything you 
know about these events. *Everything*."

************************************************************
End of Part Sixteen

      Clare had printed out the files pilfered from Maeven's lab, scoured over 
them throughout the day, and now watched them shrivel and blacken in her 
hotel fireplace. The blaze was the only light she was using, making the room 
dark like her mood.

     The only two objects that lay on the coffee table before her were the 
discarded scanner and a small pouch of worn, ancient fabric. Clare gingerly 
picked up the latter, gazing at it by the firelight, as if the answers she searched 
for hid within its aged folds.

     A tingle and a whoosh had Clare breaking her introspection to find Vachon 
leaning against her bedroom doorway.

     "Don't you knock?" she drawled.

     He walked casually towards her, as if her reception wasn't unpredictable and 
potentially hazardous to his health. "I wasn't sure that you'd be home."

     "And what makes you think I won't snap your head off? I wasn't exactly 
receptive to company when you last saw me."

     Vachon relaxed on the couch, pondering her challenge. "True. But then I 
remembered that when you're upset, you tend to behave badly, then repent 
later."

     Clare considered his response. "Point taken. Sometimes I do behave quite 
badly, much to my regret." A lethal grimace followed. "Of course, I have also 
done horrible, malicious deeds and *never* felt a lick of remorse."

     "Such as?"

     "You're trying to use my own trick against me - as if prompting me to talk 
about the pain will make it go away. It won't work, Javier. I'm not haunted like 
you."

     "You dirty liar," Vachon grinned. "I remember how you described 
portraying a deity to the Aztecs, the Toltecs, etcetera. It was as though you were 
daring me to be disgusted by what you'd done. You were daring me, because 
there is some dark, nasty place inside of you responsible for these actions. 
*They* leave you dismayed and haunted. I know that in the end, you'll choose 
to do the right thing to avenge Figaro. But first, don't you think you ought to 
talk out what form that solution might take?"

     "So that's it. This visit is all about revenge. You want to make sure Maeven 
pays for murdering Figaro. That would be a perfect solution to all of your 
feelings of helplessness, wouldn't it? After all, Screed was destroyed by a virus - 
there's not much you can do to get even on that account. And Urs, your friend 
Tracy -  they died while you were otherwise occupied in the grave. Their killers were dealt 
with before you escaped the ground. Not much revenge to take there, either. 
You want to make Figaro's destruction into some grand crusade to satisfy your 
loss of all four."

     Vachon's grin had dissolved during Clare's mocking speech. Solemnly, he 
challenged, "Wouldn't you?"

     "I think you would be startled at what I would do for revenge."

************************************************************
Gaul, ca. 270 AD

     Maeven was trying to show her an essay about Epicurus that she was 
reading, but Clare was too distracted.

     "You haven't seen Conchobhar?" She turned her attention to Lucius, leaving 
Maeven to stare at the back of her head and cease the trail of her explanation.

    The trio was supposed to meet Clare's husband in this small village before 
heading towards Paris. Conchobhar had separated from the group a week 
before, intent upon perusing some old family lands. For what seemed the 
hundredth time, Clare wished she had accompanied him.

     Lucius had been, as always, entertaining. Their relationship resembled a 
constant tap dance of wills, whether they were arguing, charming, or...
Maeven, however, had become almost pestish over the past few days. Every 
second appeared consumed by some demand for attention, like the dreaded 
houseguest who begins every conversation with the words, "Remember the time 
when...?" She seemed to have nothing new to say, and Clare's patience 
exasperated with each successive demand as Lucius' amusement at her irritation 
increased threefold.

     "I saw no sign of him in the village," Lucius commented. "But then, once I 
overcame the shock of realizing you and Conchobhar were not joined at the hip, 
I did not expect to find him. He is not due to meet us until tomorrow night."

     "Joined at the hip. An amusing description, Lucius." Clare glared 
sarcastically in his direction. For the fifty years they'd been traveling together, 
Lucius never lost an opportunity to mock the devotion between Clare and her 
husband. He tended to be pessimistic about such things, even though he was 
perfectly aware her relationship with Conchobhar spanned over three centuries.

     Maeven attempted to initiate another conversation about philosophy. "Clare, 
this biography is fascinating. Despite his hedonistic tendencies, Epicurus was a 
renowned atomist, describing the world as a composition of particles that 
constantly redistribute..."

     "Let me see that." Clare grabbed the manuscript, examined it momentarily 
then returned it to the girl. "Just as I thought. It's a Christian interpretation of 
his life. They make him out to be much more exciting than he actually was. 
Epicurus didn't preach indulgence, but happiness through frugality. I think he 
died from boredom, or maybe by eating too much porridge."

     "No wonder Maeven finds the man so interesting," followed Lucius. "She is 
the ultimate expert on boredom."

     Clare was a tiny bit ashamed of herself, but she snickered at this comment. In 
disgrace, Maeven scooted out into the night.

     "That was not very kind of us," Clare reproached.

     "Who needs to be kind, when we can be right?"

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

     Clare slept restlessly throughout the day. Her thoughts were ravaged by 
dreams filled with murdered children and a lost husband, all dead and destined 
never to return. She had not seen Maeven since she left the night before, and 
had yet to venture out to feed.

     She and Lucius were preparing to do just that, when a breathless Maeven 
rushed once more into their presence, panic blemishing her bland features.

     "You had better come quickly. It's Conchobhar. They have him at the bog 
outside the village."

     Clare was halfway out the door before the girl had finished speaking. 
Maeven followed her sire, and Lucius took up the rear.

     She scrambled over the hills and through an outlying copse before she came 
upon the area Maeven had referred to, only to be forced back. Whoever had 
Conchobhar knew what he was. They had taken the precaution of protecting 
themselves with wooden crosses that intermittently pierced the ground.  Clare's mind raced, 
 
     A strong arm lassoed her waist as she rose to fly. Lucius was pulling her 
back, insisting urgently. "Hold back. Look and see that it is too late to help him. 
Leaping into that circle will only spell your own demise."

     So Clare turned her distraught and disbelieving eyes to look and accept the 
truth. They had impaled Conchobhar multiple times with crooks, the curved 
ends bowing from his body like heads held in shame. 

     He was already gone. Somehow in her dreams she had already been aware of 
the loss, waking empty, instead of alert. This ceremony was nothing but an 
afterthought, a chance to burn the corpse and offer it to whatever god that 
would accept it.

     Clare couldn't stand anymore. She deflated, sinking down into the grass, 
watching her husband's body ignite. The fire fed hungrily, making quick work 
of the ancient kindling, until soon nothing but ashes remained. Clare wept, silent 
teardrops weaving down her cheeks, flooding her eyes.

     By the time the killers left the scene, dawn was around the corner. Only 
Clare and Lucius were still present, for Maeven had already drifted off into the 
night. Clare tore a section off the hem of her robe, then uneasily picked her way 
through the religious scarecrows rising from the grass. She stopped at the 
remains and reverently let her fingers wander in the blackness. Spreading her 
remnant of fabric over the ground, Clare gently scooped ebony handfuls into the 
cloth, then wrapped the package up into a knot.

     Lucius' voice floated behind her. "He was a good friend. For what it is 
worth, I admired him greatly."

     Clare answered, "I know." 

     Her fractured soul whispered, 

************************************************************
   
     She killed them all. The next night, as they drowsed in their beds, Clare went 
to the village to make their sleep eternal. She drank from the first few, letting 
the fear in their blood tease her craving for retribution. Then she gorged on the 
next handful. She was wasteful, dripping streams about the rooms and her 
clothes until everything was drowned in red. Finally, feeding took too much 
time, so there were many throats to silently twist, to squeeze death into for her 
to complete the job before the sunrise. 

       She killed them all. Not just the men by the bog who had dragged 
Conchobhar's body out for cremation. Not just their wives and lovers, whose 
mouths flickered open with horror momentarily before she reshut them 
permanently. She was possessed and unforgiving to one and all. Children, 
infants, and the elderly all felt her wrath.

     She killed them all.

     "What have you done?" Lucius had gone searching for her soon after the job 
was done. He found her shrunk in a corner, surrounded by blood and flesh, a 
good portion of it draping from her own skin.

     She stood clumsily, unsure on her feet, a bit of madness to the twist of her 
lips. "I tried a bit of divine justice. I thought the experience would make me feel 
better." Her lips plumped in a pouty frown. "It didn't work."

     Lucius was outraged. "Revenge is sweet and revenge has its place, but to 
slaughter an entire community will bring attention to us all. I will not associate 
with anyone so selfishly careless and hysterical."

     Her eyes grew larger, fiercer. "You-will-not-associate?" she barked. "Don't 
remain out of loyalty. Do not stay out of friendship. I do not need it. By all 
means, if my hysteria concerns you so greatly...Distance yourself."

     Since Lucius was furious, he followed her suggestion. Clare was now 
insensate, and she stayed in the hut as the sun rose and baked the spilt blood 
into the earth outside. She stared vacantly at the flies that began to dance in the 
warm, foul air.

     She killed them all.

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

     "Killing Maeven isn't a concrete solution," Clare concluded.

     Vachon had to admit, he was somewhat cowed by her story. "But the deaths 
haven't ended. Nick said you found more of those creatures at the laboratory, 
and if Maeven can create those things, where will it end?"

      Clare fingered the dusty pouch in her palm, caught up in memories and 
decisions. "Maybe where she wants."

************************************************************
End of Part Seventeen 
     
     LaCroix did not wait adeptly. Waiting involved procrastination, not having 
his will done, and was, above all, unpleasant. Furthermore, tarrying involved 
another night in which Maeven continued her experiments. Neither Nick nor 
Vachon had a concrete notion of exactly what those experiments entailed, and 
that information had flown off into the darkness with Clare.

     

     She stood there, a gem polished over the centuries such that every facet now 
seemed to smooth together. She wasn't simply a sensual woman, or a violent, 
sentimental, intelligent one. She was everything.

     "Tell me, Lucius-," she whispered. "How does it feel to kill one of your 
children? To look into Divia's eyes and harm her? To feel the stake plunging 
through Nicholas' heart?" She was at his side, slowly testing the words and 
ideas for fit. "For all the years of my existence, I have never experienced the 
sensation. What is it like to destroy one of your own?"

     This was not a topic that LaCroix talked about. If the question had derived 
from another source, it would not receive a reply. "Sometimes the sacrifice is a 
necessary evil, even when the victim is your child. Circumstances can converge, 
banishing all other options, leaving no choice."

     "You know very well that there is always a choice," she countered.

     "But not necessarily an acceptable choice." LaCroix watched Clare's 
distracted countenance sternly. "The *reasonable* course in this situation, 
Clare, is to eliminate Maeven and all of her work before she causes any more 
irreparable damage."

     "I have already dealt with part of that. I examined the images that I made 
concerning her research. We cannot allow this knowledge to go into the 
Community, much less run the risk of it falling into the hands of an outsider. I 
had Aristotle destroy the original scanner I used and give me a new duplicate."

     "But still, there are the originals at her laboratory," LaCroix reminded her.

     "Yes," Clare agreed. "As well as the rest of Maeven's mutant brood. You 
realize that's what they are, don't you? She took those mortals, altered and 
added to their genetic makeup, until they became something that mocks what 
we are in every conceivable way. They all must be attended to."

     "Like Maeven." LaCroix spoke with finality.

     "Whether you or I do the deed, I believe her destiny is sealed, yes. I am 
simply unsure what *my* fate will be."

      "That is where we differ. I cannot envision you making any kind of sacrifice 
for that creature." LaCroix's manner was indignant. "You will not."

     A brief, secretive smile flickered across Clare's face at his command. 
"Perhaps. We shall see tomorrow." Her motions indicated that she was leaving. 
"Right now, I have to visit the Coroner's Office so I can lie to Nicholas and 
Natalie."

     The thought of their deception left LaCroix with an eminently satisfied 
sensation. The gratification was worth the wait.

************************************************************
 
     Clare actually drove slowly to the Coroner's Office, but not out of dread. 
Her car handling was stilted because of distraction, not hesitation. Under normal 
circumstances, Figaro and she would have been at the opera at that moment, 
hearing the mournful 'E Lucevan le stelle'. Clare's mind was there with the 
singing Cavaradossi, a man prepared to die. 

     Is anyone more despondent, more frantic for life than those who see the 
reaper at their door? Clare knew this, had seen and felt it as she supped on the 
final thoughts of thousands of mortals.  she 
wondered, 

     Clare felt as if she stood on that parapet. Was this the time for a beginning or 
an end? She thought she had supplied the answer to that question already, yet 
losing Figaro threw her reply back in her face. She sighed. With all her 
indecision, what did she really deserve?

     The halls of the Coroner's Office echoed her footsteps. Nick and Natalie 
were there, heads bent together over the formerly animated body of Palmer 
Maitland with great interest. Clare took a deep breath and announced her 
presence. 

     "I have returned."

     Natalie looked up first with a smile. Nick's attention followed. "Is it just 
me," he quipped. "Or is that your motto?"

     Clare returned the smile, looking very eager and sincere, as she pulled the 
scanner out of her still-trusty coat pocket. "I had this sixth sense that you might 
be missing this."

     Natalie took the equipment, and headed over to her office computer. "Great. 
Based on what I've picked up from a preliminary comparison of the DNA we 
prepared for comparison with Maitland's, and electron micrographs I had of 
Nick's DNA, these files should be extremely interesting and helpful." Natalie 
fiddled around behind her hard drive for a moment. "Have you taken a look at it 
yet?"

     Clare shook her head earnestly. "No. I haven't exactly been inclined."

     This comment earned her expressions of sympathy from both listeners.

     "That should do it. We can download the images now." Natalie began to 
make dainty click-clack sounds off the keyboard.

     Clare pulled over a stool to sit upon as she watched. She had a bird's eye 
view when the computer monitor began to grumble complaints. Within a few 
seconds, it crashed. Clare finally let herself frown after she heard Natalie's click-
clacking up tempo, followed by a few mumbled complaints.

     "What's wrong?" Nick asked.

     "Something in the program is compromised." Natalie scowled at the screen. 
"It looked like I brought up the first page, then - poof!  It was gone. Now it's 
totally unresponsive." Natalie made some more tap-tap-taps. "Maybe it's a 
virus."

     Nick was frowning now as well, so Clare pointed out meekly. "Perhaps we 
should call Aristotle. The scanner is his equipment, if he's had problems like this 
before, maybe he knows a way around it."

     Nick nodded abruptly. "I'll call him."

     "Good," Clare encouraged. After all, she already knew what Aristotle was 
going to say.

    Nick's side of the conversation did not sound promising. In fact, it rang 
downright disheartening in content. His report after the phone call was no more 
enthusiastic. "It is a virus. Aristotle says he's ruined a quarter of his files 
permanently in the past few days. Apparently, it's something that got past his 
normal anti-virus scans."

     "So what do we do?" Natalie asked.

     "Get the originals from NeoGen again." Nick snuck a suspicious glance at 
Clare, but her eyes appeared genuinely concerned, contrite at this occurrence.

     "What did you find out about Maeven's creatures from examining 
Maitland?" Clare prodded innocently.

     "Our evidence sample matched his own DNA, so it seems concrete that 
Palmer Maitland was responsible for the first murder." Natalie began.

     "I believe Maeven was testing her creations," Nick supplied. "Seeing what 
they were capable of."

     "But what were you saying about similarities between Nick's DNA and that 
of Maitland?"

     Natalie shuffled through paperwork on her desktop. She pulled out a 
photograph of slightly puffy chains. Clare scanned the picture. "RNA?" she 
asked.

     Natalie nodded with a smile. "Nick's RNA. I made this image over a year 
ago. And this," She presented another image, "is from Maitland's hair root 
sample. Both of them have the extra nucleotides, though aesthetically, Palmer 
Maitland's appear to be somewhat different. The crucial point is, Maeven has 
some clue as to the sequence of the additional proteins produced. Her notes, 
while not applicable to vampires exactly, could give amazing insight into their 
creation, and the possibility of reverting to mortality."

     Nick was hanging onto every word Natalie uttered, while Clare attempted to 
prevent her mouth from frowning severely. "What makes you think these 
creatures have similar origins to vampires? If we were actually related to 
Maeven's work, that would mean we have *bacterial* DNA."

     Natalie nodded. "I know. Nick mentioned that, hence a little experiment of 
mine. I took the cultured sample from Palmer Maitland and subjected it to a 
growth hormone I had tested previously on Nick."

     Now Clare did frown. "A growth hormone?"

     "Lidoveuterine-B.  It attaches and inactivates the vampire nucleotides 
temporarily, rendering the recipient mortal. Increasing doses are required to 
maintain the change. Interestingly enough, it appears just as effective against 
Maeven's creations."

     "Ah. By the way, where are the other bodies?" Clare posed.

     "In the freezer," Nick replied. "With copies of the files, Cheryl Miller and 
John Doe can be connected with NeoGen. We have access to witnesses who 
last saw Figaro alive in the company of Maeven. With this information, I can 
still wrap up the investigation."

     Clare gazed at Nick as if he were an unruly puppy. "Surely you don't intend 
to pursue this case in terms of human justice? Maeven cannot be apprehended 
and dealt with by mortal law. The idea is preposterous."

     Nick went on the offensive. "Then what do you propose to do? Kill them all 
with no deliberation?"

     "Yes. That is exactly what LaCroix, Vachon and I plan. Furthermore, arming 
ourselves with some kind of tranquilizer dart of that Lidoveuterine-B hormone 
will considerably reduce our effort."

     Natalie surreptitiously looked away, disturbed. Nick sneered at the 
suggestion. "So your intention is to temporarily incapacitate the creatures, then 
slaughter them all."
 
     "Slaughter? In case you have forgotten, they are already dead." Clare 
gestured at the exam table. "That *thing* is not a mortal to protect and serve, 
and it certainly is not one of us. It is a weapon, nothing more. Looking into its 
eyes never revealed its soul. This is not a question of a fair fight. Unless these 
creatures are eradicated, more vampires *and* humans will suffer. Is that, with 
all of your conscience and good intentions, what you want?"

     "No," Nick admitted. "But I have never known revenge to serve me well. 
Have you considered Maeven? Will you look into her eyes and *her* soul when 
you crush her?"

     "My last image of Maeven, whether I am the one to end her existence or not, 
will be what I see in her eyes. I am prepared for that millstone about my neck."

     After the woman's hedging, Natalie searched Clare's face, seeking to weed 
out the emotions there. Her conclusion yielded a frown, distant as Nick spoke 
again in a begrudging tone. "I suppose these don't have to be unsolved 
homicides. After the fact, Figaro's murder at least can be laid at Maeven's 
door." He was tolerating how this justice was unfolding, but disapproved 
nonetheless.

     "It will be for the best," Clare reassured forcefully.

     "Then I had better set up the groundwork in a report to the Captain."

     Nick reached out to grasp Natalie's hand in a brief squeeze before he 
departed. She started out of her distraction, gave him a dazed smile, and 
murmured her goodbyes.

     Once Nick had made his exit, Natalie collected her complex thoughts 
together and spoke. "I want to go to NeoGen with you."

     Clare hesitated before responding. "I don't think that you should."

     "Why?" It was a challenge, pure and simple. "I have as much right to avenge 
Figaro's death as you or Nick do."

     "Natalie, you still quake at admitting that you drink human blood. You 
certainly are unprepared to precipitate the destruction of another being, no 
matter the reason."

     Natalie's eyes narrowed as she tilted her head. "Do you *really* believe 
that? Or are you considering doing something that you don't want me to see?"

      "What do you suppose I am considering?"

      "Our relationship only spans weeks. That's hardly a deep foundation for 
familiarity. But you brought me across, and that act in itself constitutes sharing 
an enormous amount of yourself." Natalie paused. "You sacrificed your mortal 
life for your daughter. Morrigan was someone precious and dear; she meant 
more to you than life itself. I know what that feels like. It's an overwhelming 
desire to give anything, your very soul, for the happiness of another person. The 
devotion is blindness, a complete selflessness, a gift. It's also a blessing that 
can't be forced, Clare. You can't *make* yourself care."

     "And?" Clare's voice had deflated, resigned to hear the answer.

     "You intend to let Maeven kill you." With that declaration, Natalie had her 
undiluted attention. "I may not have picked up every crumb about being a 
vampire from Nick, but I learned a thing or two about guilt. You feel that you 
have failed Figaro because he is gone. Maeven was behind his murder, so you 
must be to blame for that, as well. In the end, this entire situation boils down to 
what you would do for your children. You gave everything you had to protect 
Morrigan. Don't make the mistake of believing that letting Maeven destroy you 
will prove similar devotion to her. The offering won't serve anyone. Figaro will 
still be dead, Maeven will not be satisfied, and I will lose a woman, a friend, that 
I admire." Natalie's words became firm and demanding. "You promised to stay 
as long as I asked you to. Well, here I am, asking."

     "Oh, Natalie." A ruby tear skimmed down Clare's cheek. "I believe that I 
just grasped why Nick did not want to bring you across." She wiped carelessly 
at her face. "You will never belong in my world. You won't kill. You'll fight 
not to kill. You will continue to see good and humanity in those of us who are 
well and truly lost. That's what Nick sees in you, and he thought that bringing 
you across would drown your pure, kind spirit. He was wrong."

     Now Natalie was brushing fluid from her cheeks. "I'm not a saint, you know."

     "I didn't say that you were a saint. A saint would not forget to feed her cat. 
But you do make me ashamed of my cynicism." Clare turned away momentarily. 
"You wish to continue the search for mortality, don't you? You want to use 
Maeven's notes as a guide."

     "I was considering it, yes."

     "If I was truly admirable, I would honestly say that I did not mind your 
interest, but I do. I am not as selfless as you seem to think. If I followed my 
instincts, you would *never* find a cure. But in this instance, I will do what I 
can to retrieve the originals of Maeven's work for you." Clare sighed heavily.

     Changing your mind is not always easy and without obstacles.

************************************************************
End of Part Eighteen 

     There were still tears to be dried, so Natalie grabbed a handy box of 
Kleenex, whooshed a few out of the box, then offered some to Clare. Sniffles 
ensued, then Clare commented, "Disposable tissue was an incredible innovation, 
especially for vampires." Natalie gave a little lady-like snort at that addendum. 
"No, I am serious," Clare insisted. "Consider blood stains. They are absolute 
hell to get out of a handkerchief, and you can take only so many to the dry 
cleaner before questions arise. Obfuscating them introduces a whole new set of 
challenges. But tissues cut out the middleman. Use one and you're done."

     Natalie waved a new rectangle of the transparent paper in the air as she 
laughed. "Stop. I surrender. Tissues *are* wonderful, especially for vampires."

     "Exactly. That is why they are third, in my opinion, of all the creations that 
humankind has developed over the course of civilization. That is, if I was 
making a list."

     "Have you considered Handi-Wipes for this hypothetical list?" Natalie 
teased. "Surely vampires go through regular terry towels like wildfire."

     Clare breathed an ecstatic sigh. "Now *that* is a suggestion. I recall several 
filthy moments when I would have killed to have a moist towelette. Of course, 
technically, I needed the moist towelette because I had killed. But, regardless, 
for a vampire in a hurry, particularly if you just finished sleeping in the dirt, a 
Handi-Wipe would be a coup. They'll get second place on my potential list."

     "Wouldn't towelettes and Kleenex fall into the same category, though?" 
Natalie vexed.

     "Not necessarily. After all, Handi-Wipes are supposed to be moist. A wet 
Kleenex is, well, someone you don't invite to parties."

     "Ah." More lively giggling followed.

     The sound of whistling began to reverberate through the outside hallway.

     "That would be Vachon," Clare explained. "We made a bargain - he may 
drive my car, and I will finally hear the cookie story."

     "The cookie story?"

     "Yes, or the tale of how Fig Newton acquired his name."

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

     "Hey! Are you speeding?!?"

     "Yes, Ma'am."

     "Well, put the pedal to the metal! You need to be going at least a hundred 
before the experience is sublime."

     The car surged forward with a roar, then - scree! - pivoted a sharp bend in 
the road. Clare laughed freely while Vachon beamed as he narrowly avoided 
bisecting the car with a tree.

     "Yes, indeed. This car is mighty fine," Vachon announced.

     "Glad you think so. Perhaps now you'll consider beginning that cookie story 
I was promised."

     "All right. . Once upon a time there were two vampires." Clare 
rolled her eyes at this introduction. "One was studious and organized, a real 
stickler for facts and arrangements - a regular hard-working ant."

     "Surely you aren't describing Aristotle?" Clare was being rather factitious. 

     "Got it in one," Vachon congratulated. "The other vampire was a mess. 
Artistic, devil-may-care, irreverent, and coincidentally, a devout prankster."

     "Figaro, our grasshopper."

     "One day, Figaro is struck by how Aristotle is the exact opposite of himself.  
Aristotle obviously needed a healthy dose of anarchy to rescue him from the 
burden of being upright. Figaro decided to fracture the monolith that was 
Aristotle's existence by whammying him."

     "Whammying him?"

     "You know, mesmerize him, bedevil his thoughts, all the usual." They heard 
a small bump thump outside the screaming machine. "Do you think that was a 
squirrel?" Vachon wondered.

     Clare shook her head. "You wouldn't dare hit a squirrel with my car." 
Vachon considered that point while Clare redirected the conversation. "Now 
*what* made Figaro think he could...whammy...a fellow vampire as old as 
Aristotle?"

     "It wasn't a straightforward, stare-into-his-eyes sort of situation - Figaro 
realized that much. His plan took the cooperation of several older, more 
respectable vampires, who were also exasperated with Aristotle's stuffiness."

     "What exactly did this plan involve?"

     Vachon took another turn just a teensy bit too fast. This time, both left tires 
lifted off the road for second. He was very proud. "Let me give you a 
theoretical example. Suppose some woman gets glued into a cow suit..."

     Clare looked askance at that notion, drawling, "Sounds like a reasonable 
theory."

    "...She stays in said cow suit for a relatively short period of time. Meanwhile, 
the comments start: Jersey jokes, bells, bovine rights campaigns, assorted 
moo's, and the like. When she escapes the suit, however, the comments don't 
stop. There's been just enough repetition so the images of her and cows are 
forever linked."

     "How uncannily devious. So Figaro planned to brainwash Aristotle into 
anarchy?"

     "Bulls-eye. He convinces a relatively old vampire to visit Aristotle and ask 
for a favor. Something trivial that the A-man wouldn't want to waste his time 
on, yet a complicated enough request to make it worth the vampire's 
participation in the prank."

     "Such as?" Her voice was laced with greedy curiosity. 

    Vachon gave a wide leer. "Implants."

    Clare sputtered at the thought. "Who?"

    "Fig wouldn't name names."

    "Well, bother!"

     Vachon nodded in agreement. "Aristotle refused and told her to take care of 
any...augmentation... herself." Clare gave a hearty cackle. "Here is where the 
plan kicks in: she throws a fit, exclaiming that she can't believe Aristotle forgot 
how he owed her for the BATTLE OF HASTINGS. Aristotle was indignant, of 
course. He never forgot a thing, and he *certainly* didn't remember a debt 
associated with the Battle of Hastings. He sent her huffily on her way."

     "I don't remember Aristotle being at the Battle of Hastings," Clare mused.

    Vachon clarified this point for her. "It didn't matter to the plan if he was 
there or not. The seedling of the idea was planted in his brain that he had 
*forgotten* something important about the Battle of Hastings."

     "And then?"

    "Then Figaro employed the services of another half dozen reputable members 
of our nearest and dearest. Each accomplice visited Aristotle individually, 
exclaiming over how he had totally forgotten why he owed them for the Battle 
of Hastings. They wondered if they should still depend on him for his services. 
He was nothing but ungrateful, absent-minded, or both, and so on. After a 
month or two of this ruckus, Aristotle began to panic. He was alienating most 
of his clientele and beginning to wonder if he really *had* forgotten the Battle 
of Hastings."

     "Ooh. A similar feeling to encountering someone who *acts* as though you 
grew up together, like they are your long-lost twin. Yet, it is impossible to place 
their face, much less a single memory of their acquaintance," Clare supposed. 
"They speak with such assurance about things that simply *must* be recalled 
that you end up figuring it must have just slipped your mind. So you pretend to 
play along, and that makes you extremely open to suggestion."

     "Which is what happened to Aristotle. It drove him crazy not knowing what 
his peers were referring to. He started going along with their requests, no 
matter how odd. The implants were implanted. One cohort had a sudden urge to 
travel to Kuwait on Air Force One, and Aristotle arranged the transportation. 
Another had him arrange spending the night at Graceland. A year passed, and 
the demands became even worse. Whispering went on behind his back and 
Figaro was clapping himself on the back at his plan's success. The man became 
so confused that Nick dropped the magic words once when pressing Aristotle 
for some privileged information."

     "But Nick wasn't even born at the time of the Battle of Hastings," Clare 
pointed out.

     Vachon shook his head. "Didn't matter. Aristotle was past doubting anyone 
who said 'You owe me'. He hopped right on sharing his data with Nick."

      Clare thought,  "Poor man. Obviously, he began to catch 
on to the prank."

     "Yeah, eventually Screed heard about the prank and decided to capitalize on 
the information. Apparently Figaro was sold out for a couple of fancy mice and 
a trip to Monaco on a shrimp boat." Vachon qualified, as if lack of a sea vessel 
would have nixed the entire deal. Of course, since the subject was Screed, 
perhaps it would have. "Aristotle didn't get even with Figaro right away. He 
bided his time, because he was certain that Fig would eventually pay him a visit 
in order to profit from his scheme. The time came when he decided to become a 
modern fashion designer, and the identity of Figaro Holhauser just didn't cut it 
for the label."

     "Uh-oh. Like a lamb to the slaughter," Clare moaned.

     "Fig was asking for it. He waltzed into Aristotle's office and said that he 
wanted to become a household name."

      "Ouch." Clare squinted with pseudo-pain at the thought. "He literally got 
what he wanted: Fig Newton, official victim of fashion. I really think Aristotle 
got the worst treatment in that squabble, though."

       Vachon braked the car to a stop and turned to seriously confront her. 
"There's a moral to the cookie story, you know." 

    Clare's mouth absorbed her smile like rain droplets hitting a lake. "And 
you're going to tell me, aren't you?"

    "The truth isn't defined by words or wishes, retrospection or your 
subconscious. It is an unchanging state, permanent as your immortal face, and it 
won't be persuaded any differently." Vachon flicked the car keys out of the 
ignition, then wrapped Clare's palm around the cold metal. "You keep 
rationalizing that it's time for you to leave, but that still won't make it the 
truth."

     She peered at her closed hand, as if X-ray vision would illuminate the hidden 
keys any second. "Thank you," she whispered. "Are you sure you don't want to 
drive back?"

     Vachon delivered a devilish smile. "Positive. I have this dreamy 
preoccupation with female drivers."

     Clare grinned shamelessly in return. "Female drivers and women glued into 
cow suits. You have *strange* fantasies, Javier."

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

     "I had NeoGen staked out during the day," Nick declared as the crew 
gathered. He had been frowning in some form or another ever since Natalie had 
joined the group. The thought of her joining in the storming of NeoGen was not 
a welcome one. "No large objects similar to the freezers were transported 
during the day, so I'm assuming the creatures are still there, even if Maeven 
isn't present." 

     Nick scanned the group. Natalie, Vachon. Clare, and LaCroix.  The first 
three had dart guns, primed to give intramuscular jolts of Lidoveuterine-B. 
LaCroix had scoffed at the concept. He was apparently displeased that Clare had 
seen fit to suggest employing such methods to him. Natalie fluxed between 
unsure glances at her gun and her sire. Vachon simply waited impatiently for the 
beginning of this night's adventure. 

     "Maeven will be there. She is waiting for me to come." Clare was blank. She 
neither smiled nor frowned. She showed no anticipation or wariness, as if she 
crossed this bridge since it existed, rather than because of any personal interest 
in the job's outcome. Clare resisted making eye contact with anyone, especially 
Natalie, who constantly seemed to seek some kind of reassuring glance from her 
direction. 

     "When we enter, security guards should be on hand to question us," Nick 
continued. "I want as few casualties as possible." This comment was aimed at 
LaCroix, who calmly disregarded it. "I think Natalie should concentrate on 
keeping them occupied." Natalie's look indicated that she didn't know whether 
to be thankful at the suggestion or not. He was trying to keep her out of the 
way, she knew it, and didn't altogether like his interference.

     "The most important objective is to deal with the mutants, then Maeven, and 
finally her work," dodged Natalie. "I'll do what is necessary."

     Sweeping into the lobby of NeoGen revealed nothing. The lights were on, 
homey and welcoming, warming the walls in invitation. Nick gestured towards 
the east hallway, indicating caution. Vachon and LaCroix sauntered ahead, intent 
on discovery.

     What they found was a passageway smeared with blood around the first 
guard station, as though someone's body had been dragged from the hall into 
one of the regular outlying labs. 

     They followed the trail of red, through the antechamber, ignored the 
jumpsuits and other gear, pushing further into the workroom. Therein lay the 
first bastion of security, the man's mauled figure piled in a heap on the floor. 
Natalie examined the body for vital signs. "So much for handling the guards," 
she sighed.

     "Apparently Maeven defrosted her fan club," Vachon added.

     Clare had been searching the corpse along with Natalie, then realized that 
she had never seen LaCroix enter the room. She also noticed that Nick, who 
had walked in front of her as they set foot inside the lab, was now absent. She 
started to comment about the desertion, but Nick re-entered the room while 
folding up his cellular.

     "I just called the precinct, the officers on stake out didn't see any change in 
the guards for night shift."

     "Perhaps they were told not to report tonight, and this fellow was a remnant 
of the day crew," Natalie hoped.

     Clare groaned, forgetting to mention LaCroix's absence. "You informed 
them of the murder, didn't you? You couldn't leave it alone. How many 
minutes do we have before the police squads arrive? Five? Ten? If the creatures 
aren't destroyed in time, how are those mortals going to apprehend them?" 
Foregoing Nick's response, Clare headed back towards the lobby, Vachon on 
her heels. "At least securing the lobby doors will make for a slight delay."

     The front doors were made of sliding Plexiglas, hopefully the shatterproof 
sort. Clare sat at the receptionist's desk, making sure that the entrance was 
locked. 

     "If we're lucky," Vachon supposed, "the cops will wait for a corporation rep 
to open the doors, rather than force their way inside."

     A growl scraped their ears. Vachon and Clare went on the alert, spinning to 
the origin of the reverberation. The beasts had slipped up behind them, lurking 
in the west hallway that the group had completely ignored before. Four hissing 
figures were looking straight at them, fresh blood staining their hands and jowls.

     "If we're lucky," Clare retorted, raising her hormone-laced pistol to aim at a 
rapidly looming mutant. "The police won't arrive in time to gawk while we play 
Enforcers."

************************************************************
End of Part Nineteen

     Natalie watched Clare and Vachon sweep from the room. She looked 
accusingly at Nick, "You *did* report a homicide, didn't you?"

     Nick looked away momentarily. "Dealing with murder is my job, 
remember?"

     Natalie scowled, "And how do you suppose we explain why the coroner is 
already on the scene? I certainly had no official business being here."

     Nick's expression was certain and intense. "Exactly. You should not be 
here."

     Her mouth flew open, infuriated. "Nick! You reported the murder to get me 
out of the way?" No denial was forthcoming. "I can't believe this. You've 
risked controlling this whole situation just to protect me. I don't need 
protection. I have my own reasons for wanting to be here. You're doing it 
again!"

     "Doing what?"

     "Ignoring my opinions, my feelings, in favor of your own."

     Nick stalked impatiently around the room. "Be honest, Natalie. Look me in 
the eyes," He grabbed her arms just below the shoulders, shaking her slightly for 
emphasis. "And tell me that you honestly came here for a little revenge. You've 
been flailing around like a bug on its back, a wreck, since I arrived."

       "That is *not* the reason I came. I'm here because Clare -"

      "Clare?" Nick derided the name. "She pushed you into coming along, didn't 
she? She's trying to make you become a part of this, of our world..."

     Natalie stilled his words, cupping a gentle hand about his cheek. "That is not 
it at all, Nick. Clare did not want me to come along." He started to turn his 
head away, but Natalie's pleading voice still the motion. "Believe me. My 
presence here is not the result of Clare's manipulation or threats. I came 
because I like her, and I'm afraid..."

     Nick nodded. "I'm afraid, too. I'm afraid that losing all the copies of 
Maeven's data was not caused by some *random* computer virus. I think that 
Clare read the material and decided to destroy it to protect the community, to 
prevent us from using it. That's what LaCroix would do."

     "You know what, Nick? I don't care if she did destroy the information. Ever 
since that encounter, you've acted as if Clare was some kind of horrendous 
villain, whereas she has demonstrated nothing but sympathy for your opinions." 
At Nick's scoff, Natalie flung her hands in the air in aggravation. "Do you know 
what I see in Clare? I see a woman who spent her first night out of fifty years of 
isolation rescuing three people. She saved my life. Yours. Vachon's. I can't just 
shrug that away. I see a woman who has sworn to leave my life if I asked it of 
her. From the moment I met her, Clare treated me with respect and granted me 
my freedom. She is my friend, Nick.  I see a woman who realized why you 
wouldn't bring me across. She shared that with me, I listened to her 
explanation, and I stopped blaming you." The anger in Nick's eyes melted, and 
he hugged her. They were both vampires, cold like the grave, but there was 
warmth there, expressible and potent.

     "I'm afraid Clare is going to let Maeven kill her. She feels guilty because the 
woman is so angry, and she feels obligated to help. This conundrum, 
incidentally, reminds me of you," Natalie pointed out.

     "You came tonight to make sure Clare didn't go through with it."

     Natalie nodded, then peered in the direction of the alcove. "They have been 
gone quite a while...And where's LaCroix?"

     Nick frowned. "You're right. They're taking too long to just lock a door."

     They both moved to leave. Reaching the hallway, neither spotted right away 
that a ceiling panel was missing from above. By the time Nick and Natalie 
sensed them, the leaden figures were crashing down from above to tackle them 
both.

************************************************************
  
    Clare did not hesitate shooting their attackers with Lidoveuterine-B darts. 
Two more had rushed through the entrance to the west passageway to collect 
behind the first four. 

     Swip!-Swip!-Swip! The flying sounds of a dart progression barreled out of 
her gun, soon echoed by Vachon's shots. The creatures barely paused, jerking 
slightly at the pinch, then continued their onslaught. 

     "Wasn't something supposed to happen?" queried Vachon, tossing his gun 
aside.

     "Be patient - the delay might be because we didn't shoot the hormone 
directly into the vein. We will have to keep them occupied..." Clare trailed off, 
ducking a blow from a clammy white arm.

     Vachon grabbed the one offender, and threw it headlong into the Plexiglas 
entrance. "I guess they *are* shatterproof, " he grinned.

     "How kind of you to check," Clare replied, then delivered a devastating left 
hook to one of the snarling crowd.

     Clare and Vachon were doing rather well holding the fiends at bay. 
Apparently, the monsters were not quite clever enough to consider double- or 
triple-teaming their way to success. Each would individually attempt to grab the 
vampires, clumsily waving their arms. If the beasts had succeeded in latching on 
to Clare or Vachon, there might have been a problem. No doubt the experience 
could have been likened to wrestling with an undead bear; the mutants were that 
strong. Clare and Vachon were exceedingly fast, though, and handily avoided 
these first attempts.

      Unfortunately, the concept of cooperation eventually occurred to the 
snarling mutants. A horde descended on Vachon, different arms clutching his 
arms and legs in vise-like grips. He started to struggle, shoving against the 
swarm, when suddenly, the assault ended.

      The creatures were all at once wracked by seizures. Their arms 
spasmodically lost hold of Vachon's limbs, leaving him free to wonder at their 
dismay. The mutants shuffled and writhed, moaning in parody of a rhinoceros 
giving birth, then slumped, inanimate to the floor.

     Clare and Vachon exchanged a glance as if to confirm that they both had 
witnessed the same thing.

     "Okay," Vachon wondered aloud. "I have another question. Wasn't that 
stuff supposed to make these guys mortal, not comatose?" He prodded at one 
still figure with a foot for emphasis.

     Clare listened intently to the chest of one of the supine figures. She leaned 
back with a contemplative frown. "No beat. I did not expect that. Natalie *did* 
say that Lidoveuterine-B made them temporarily mortal again."

     "Weren't they all dying of natural causes or diseases before Maeven got 
control of them?"

     "Frozen at the point of death," Clare agreed. "Maybe now they are mortal 
again, they have taken that last step."

     "Technically, though, we are all at the point of death when brought across."

     "Then perhaps we shouldn't consider them to be dead. They will have to be 
disposed of permanently. Would you drag the bodies back to the lab, and out of 
view? I think that I should investigate what mischief has engaged LaCroix."

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

     LaCroix strolled into Maeven's laboratory bearing gifts. She was waiting, 
skittish and hands twisting, but not for his arrival. She flushed at his approach, 
her face blooming with rage and discomfiture.

     "You. What are *you* doing here?" she sputtered.

     "No words of welcome, Maeven? I expected as much, tiresome creature that 
you are." LaCroix continued to move devil-may-care deeper into Maeven's 
space, and she was, out of habit, put on the defensive by an older, more 
impressive vampire. 

     "She didn't send you in her place. She wouldn't do that. This is *our* 
finale." Maeven's protest was tinged with desperation.

     LaCroix walked towards Maeven's desk. She rotated, keeping what she 
considered a safe distance between them. "I beg to differ. 
Your...experiments...have garnered mortal attention. Did you really believe 
that you could plot against our kind and not suffer retribution?" He sifted 
through the files stacked atop the bureau. Finding what he wanted, LaCroix 
continued his rebuke. "It will not continue." He lifted the bottle he had been 
carrying so that Maeven could view its label, then removed the cloudy crusted 
stopper from the flask.  

      She gurgled in fury as she observed LaCroix begin to douse her work with 
concentrated sulfuric acid. As the papers began to succumb and shrivel, Maeven 
overcame her hesitation and leapt at the older vampire with a disturbed squeal.

     LaCroix casually interrupted her charge by splashing some of his bottle's 
corrosive contents in her face. A horrified yelp followed as Maeven clawed at 
her face, her skin reddening and becoming raw, her eyes a burning haze. She 
fumbled for the emergency lab shower while LaCroix chastised, "You should 
not leave such materials lying about if you do not intend to use them 
productively."

     Maeven flushed her skin hysterically under the shower tap. Since she was 
otherwise occupied, LaCroix continued browsing through the contents of the 
laboratory, picking up an orange biohazard bag. He opened the walk-in 
incubator, finding it to be pathetically empty except for a score of dishes. 
Methodically, he lifted each petri plate, then dumped it whole into the bag. 
From the incubator he walked to another interesting object: the autoclave. It 
was on standby, so LaCroix cranked the door open to reveal another enormous 
chamber, similar to the incubator.

      There were rows of racks built into the walls, similar to the baking levels in 
an oven. They extended about a meter from the three walls, until they met the 
scorched, blackened walls. This left a walk space of about one meter wide and 
two meters deep. The autoclave seemed to pulse heat, stockpiled in the metal 
walls. LaCroix did not deign to venture inside, but rather tossed the bag of 
cultures towards the back of the chamber.

     Before he had a chance to shut the autoclave door, Maeven had finished 
rinsing the sulfuric acid from her face and was spitting for a fight. She had 
wielded a Bunsen burner, attached to a gas line by a lengthy piece of rubber 
tubing, lit it with a striker, then poised to swing it at her adversary.  LaCroix's 
jacket began to smoke, but he knocked Maeven's hand away before anything 
ignited. He spared a rankled glance to his scorched sleeve, then turned his ire 
back to the flameholder. 

     "What pathetic attempt will you endeavor to destroy me with next? Stabbing 
by tongue depressor? You are a flat-faced shadow of a real person, incapable of 
inspiring any sincere interest. Clare never really found you worthy of a 
moment's consideration, not for your own sake. She brought you across in a 
moment of sentimentality for herself. She sought you out again for the same 
reason. You were and always will be a charity case to her."

     At these words, Maeven flung herself at his torso, fangs bared. LaCroix 
stumbled back slightly - she was a vampire almost as old as himself, but his skill 
far outclassed the girl's. He dodged her flailing arms, flipped her about and 
shoved her up against her desk, forcing the wooden legs to momentarily totter 
off the floor at the impact. He then grabbed Maeven by the scruff of the neck 
and tossed her onto a rack of Pyrex glassware in the center of the room. 
Erlenmeyer flasks, beakers, and test tubes plummeted to the floor, some 
cracking, some shattering. 

     Maeven clawed her hand around a dirk-like shard of glass, then whittled at 
LaCroix below the knee. It wasn't a debilitating wound, but distracting, and he 
momentarily turned his attention to pain. This diversion gave Maeven the 
opportunity to jab her glass knife at LaCroix once more, this time goring his 
throat.

     She pushed him to the floor, back in the direction of the autoclave, laughing 
off-key at finally obtaining the upper hand in their confrontation.

     "You ought to pay me a little more respect, LaCroix. Remember, way back 
when, I gave you your first chance at Clare by getting Conchobhar out of the 
way."

     LaCroix had extracted the fragment from his jugular with a grimace, blood 
flowing over his fingers. Something caught his glowing eyes behind Maeven, 
who was oblivious to everything except the thought of triumph. "What do you 
mean?" he croaked.

     "That's right. You and Clare never realized. You could have knocked me 
over with a feather when she called me up on the phone. I though for certain 
she would have suspected me of setting Conchobhar up. I mean, he was a 
vampire traveling alone, but those villagers were hardly a threat without my 
assistance. Think about it, LaCroix. She was so wrapped up in her adoration of 
Conchobhar, she had no time for us."

     "She had no time for *you*," he corrected.

     Maeven continued her self-absorbed tattle. "So I ambushed, staked, and 
delivered him to a band of villagers hunting in the forests. They were thrilled at 
the prospect of sacrificing a real, dead, vampire. Only afterwards, I thought, 
Clare is going to suspect me for certain. After all, I ran back to inform her of 
the terrible tragedy rather than attempt his rescue. Not a very good appearance 
of loyal behavior. So I ran away. Little did I realize that Clare never envisioned 
I was responsible."

      "That is because I never spared you a thought, Maeven." Clare's brittle 
voice replied. She had traipsed down the hallway a minute before the remainder 
of the mutants waylaid Nick and Natalie, arriving in time to overhear Maeven's 
confession. Her gaze had briefly met the wounded eyes of LaCroix. In that 
instant, he knew what final action Clare would take.

     Processing toward her offspring, Clare radiated disdain and revulsion. "I had 
no thoughts of a filthy scab such as yourself. I had loss, inconceivable loss." She 
spit the words out like some foul poison, her irises beginning to flood a 
dangerous gold. "And hate. Hate palpable enough to taste and savor. Rancor I 
spilled on everyone I believed remotely responsible for Conchobhar's 
destruction." Clare came to a halt in front of the girl, delivering a glare of such 
malevolence that Maeven involuntarily trembled. "Fortunately for your part, 
your guilt in the tragedy *never* crossed my mind. I came for your tour 
because I felt sorry for myself, unhappy because I had become too isolated from 
my family, my own kind. I left here feeling sorry for you, Maeven, and mildly 
disliking you all over again. Then you killed Figaro. A blow at me, was it not?" 
Maeven nodded hesitantly. "Then I really pitied you, but I pitied myself, oh, so 
much more. I am tired of losing people that I care about, weary from the 
sorrow. I considered letting you have your way, to offer my death if that was 
what you required for happiness. But now I realize, after so many hints from my 
true friends," Clare concluded, looking briefly at LaCroix, "That I do not care 
for you, Maeven. I despise your miserable desperation for attention and the vile 
lengths you will go to in obtaining it. No more misery for you. You've pulled 
one too many threads of my patience."

     Maeven strived to dash around Clare and escape, but was seized around the 
throat, left to gurgle and stutter. She was lifted until her shoe-toes barely 
scutted across the floor as Clare raced forward. Maeven hardly had the occasion 
to kick in protest when she felt herself soar backwards out of Clare's grip. 
Maeven crashed into something hard and hot, collapsing on top of a throne of 
crunching plastic.

    Clare slammed the door of the autoclave, cranked its metal latch into lock 
position, rotated the temperature up to its maximum, and pressed the start 
button. The whistle of increasing pressure puffed from inside the chamber.

     Then the screaming started.

     Clare slumped her back against the autoclave door, shutting her eyes in an 
effort to filter the decibels. The sounds of torment were not just in her ears, but 
in her mind as well. She let herself slither down to a seat on the floor, LaCroix 
witnessing the debacle of Maeven in silence by her side.

     Clare felt his hand slide around hers, the metal of his ring pressing into her 
knuckles, making her feel as if every scrap of her was numb except for that one 
hand. She tilted her head, examining his wound, noting the remnant stains 
coating the perfect flesh of his throat. He would need to feed once they left this 
place. Finally, as the spiky images in her mind began to fade, she found her 
voice.

     "If this sensation defines killing one of your own, how did you find the 
strength to do this to Nicholas?"

     "At the time, it appeared to be a necessity."

    "To you?"

    "To Nicholas."

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

     Natalie was fighting. Strangely enough, she was doing very well for someone 
with small experience in hand-to-hand combat. She was throwing her weight 
against these solid figures, and they were actually succumbing to the force of 
the push. Then one creature succeeded in collaring her by the throat, and 
Natalie felt the crushing pressure on her trachea. Images of Max Giroud's 
corpse on her examination table bubbled through her brain. Natalie frenzied, 
sinking her teeth into the wrist of her attacker, experiencing the salty and rancid 
taste of the mutant's blood. It squealed in rage and discomfort, giving Natalie 
the opening to thrust the creature away. 

     Nick, dealing with three assailants of his own, heard the sound and looked 
over at her in alarm, allowing the beasts to tackle him to the concrete. Nick 
didn't take to the subjugation and soon had two figures flying through the 
corridor while he wrestled with the third.

     Vachon had been toting the first pair of corpses back towards the lab, but 
dumped them on the floor at his first view of commotion. He saw Natalie's dart 
gun on the floor, knocked there at the clamor of first attack. Stooping to 
retrieve it, Vachon grabbed the butt with one hand while tripping a mutant 
clambering towards Natalie with the other.

     Javier indulged in a bit of excellent shooting, observing a start of surprise 
progress through each of Nick's attackers as a dart pierced their upper legs. 
Nick, unoccupied within a few minutes, picked up on Vachon's activities. 
Spotting the last of the creatures attempting to pair their forces against Natalie, 
he seized them by the shoulders and rotated their bodies so as to offer Vachon a 
prime target.

     The furor settled, leaving a half dozen forms littering the floor in addition to 
the original pair Vachon had dropped down the hall. He returned to the lobby, 
fetching the last four, and added them to the pile.

     Natalie was rubbing her throat in distraction and Nick was frowning at the 
mound of bodies, when Vachon finished the job and announced, "That makes 
the full dozen. No one should be left except -"

     "Maeven," Nick finished as he began to move down the hall, Natalie and 
Vachon following his footsteps.

     They reached the laboratory doorway to find LaCroix and Clare on the verge 
of leaving, the room absent of Maeven's presence, and quiet save for an airy 
hum from the back of the room. LaCroix's bloodstains had been wiped away, 
since Clare had the forethought to place a healthy wad of tissues in her pocket 
earlier in the evening.

     Nick crackled over the glass littering the floor, retrieving the flaky residue 
that was once Maeven's notes. The pieces were bubbled and illegible, most 
crumbling into fragments at the motion of being lifted.

     "Maeven's files?" The stilted question was aimed at LaCroix, who bowed his 
head slightly in affirmation.

     "Wait," Clare piped up, her face falling slightly as she realized her promise to 
help Natalie acquire this material might come to naught. "What about the 
cultures she spliced bacteria from?"

     "In the autoclave," replied LaCroix.

     Clare sent a distasteful look in that direction, then responded with, "Oh."

     The group collectively moved towards the lobby, pausing at the figures 
layered across the passage. 

      "Come," LaCroix ordered. "Let us show you a clever new way of disposing 
of the undead - sterilization."

     Nick and Natalie continued to walk towards the front doors, declaring their 
intent to unlock them. Clare's eyes followed their growing distance down the 
hall.

     "I'll return in a minute," she mumbled, hurrying after them. Catching up, 
Clare asked, "What are you going to do now?"

     "I plan to wait for the police," Nick answered stiffly. "Then do my job. Case 
closed."

     "I'll say Nick called me right after he contacted the precinct," Natalie added. 
"And I was in the area. I'm not going to sneak off and pretend to arrive again 
just for appearances."

     "That wasn't the question I meant, and you know it." Clare sighed. "I know 
that this appeared to be a perfect opening in your search for a cure, but perhaps 
losing the files is for the best."

     "We will never know for sure, will we?" Nick growled.

     "No you won't." Clare's delivery was frank. "But consider the nature of 
those creatures. What kind of template are they for your future? Maeven's work 
should not be your primary concern in the first place. Finding a practical 
solution could take centuries. You know that, Nick." Clare took Natalie's hands 
in her own. "You will have to hold back the vampire, Natalie. Don't feed, don't 
let it take root, for it will become that much harder to fight back." Natalie 
squeezed her hands in acceptance, worry shadowing in the depths of her eyes as 
she remembered the earlier fight.

     Clare turned to Nick. "I know that you suspect that I tampered with the 
copies we made of Maeven's work. You're right. I did. I chose the safety of the 
Community over your wants or needs and, in essence, betrayed you. For that, I 
apologize." She looked once more at Natalie, received an encouraging smile, so 
moved back towards the laboratories to aid in the clean-up.

      Nick watched Clare retreat, recalling Natalie's earlier defense. 

     "Clare." The elder vampire paused just inside the hallway at his call, and he 
slid his arm around Natalie's waist.  "Thank you."

     Her smile said everything.

************************************************************
End of Part Twenty

       Clare, Vachon, and LaCroix had slipped from the portals of NeoGen 
seconds before the police arrived. They ventured back to the Raven by air, 
Clare and Vachon loitering by the bar, but LaCroix preferred to indulge in a 
private tete-a tete with a club patron. When Clare observed said patron wander 
in a dreamy haze from the back rooms, she rose from her seat.

    "I may take off," Vachon mentioned.

    Clare felt a momentary panic. "Take off? Where?"

     Vachon shrugged. "Tracy's grave, maybe. I'm feeling a bit restless. I think 
I'll roam around town a while."

     Relieved that the words 'take off' had not been used in the sense of catching 
a plane, quitting Toronto, etc., Clare scrounged in her pocket, pulling out a 
jingling ring. "Here. Go get my car, if you like." He happily accepted the keys, 
appearing excessively eager to go hot-rodding. "Hey!" She called after him. 
"Use that power for good, not evil, Javier!"

     Detouring from the bar counter, Clare slipped into the back sector, where 
Lacroix had recommenced his radio commentary:

     "Death can be a gift, never doubt this truth.
      A fatal bequest, ripe with promise,
      born to enshroud the empty soul. 
      A beginning and an ending - that is death.
      A promise of nothing for the malcontent,
      and a future in chains for those who mourn. 
      Death can be a gift, it can set you free -
      You determine the blessing."
    
     LaCroix followed this monologue with the Requiem by Faure. Clare clicked 
her teeth with the tip of her tongue. "Really, Lucius. I can almost hear the 
suicide rate screech higher. I know that you wouldn't have made that speech 
*presuming* to lecture me."

     LaCroix raised an eyebrow, indicating that he very well would presume to 
do such a thing. "The sermon was also about mourning, a skill you have honed 
to perfection, through practice, over the centuries. Elaborating the perils of 
suicide in your honor would be a waste my time. If you were ever in danger of 
self-destruction, felt that tired, that weary," he encapsulated the words with a 
delicate taunt. "The deed would have been done in the wake of Conchobhar's 
demise. Instead you moaned over his ashes, and craved revenge. There was 
never any danger of you succumbing to Maeven. You are too bloodthirsty, my 
dear."

     Clare stared at him mouth slightly agape for a heartbeat, then retorted, 
indignant, "Why, Lucien LaCroix! What a horrible thing to say! To insinuate 
that you know me up and down, inside-out, every move I make before *I* do. 
It's unconscionable. If you really understood me so well, you would have 
realized how indignant I would become at the slightest suggestion that I am 
predictable! I must make it my personal mission to surprise you at the earliest 
opportunity."

     And she did. 

     If that was the intention of LaCroix's challenge, he did not choose to share.

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

     Full circle, back in the loft, they stared out the window at the sapphire-black 
sky.  Not really a circle, though. Natalie was a vampire now and didn't want to 
be. That factor alone could skew an orbit out of range. 

     There were no arguments now, no debates about Natalie's fate, no 
recriminations. Their stance was of quiet contemplation, arm in arm, until 
Natalie sighed and moved towards the couch. 

     "I keep thinking about this evening, attacking that mutant, the sick, heavy 
feeling afterwards, yet the undeniable hunger. I never appreciated what you 
were fighting, Nick. All those times I acted exasperated because I thought you 
weren't working with me. Now, I think maybe I expected too much."

     Nick delivered a sheepish grin as he settled into the leather cushions and 
hooked an arm around her back, his fingers brushing through her hair. "Well, I 
didn't *always* try that hard."

     Natalie's lips twitched at the admission. "I am astounded by the effort it 
takes to hold back sometimes, to control the beast inside. You should have seen 
me those first few days - I was a raging wreck. Like a gaping wound just 
waiting for a touch so that I could jerk in response. Clare said the riot would 
disperse over these first few weeks, and it did, but still sometimes..." Natalie 
trailed off, sleepily rubbing her cheek against Nick's shoulder.

     "I should have been with you," Nick whispered fervently.

     She lifted her head, musing at the idea. "At one point, I wholeheartedly 
agreed, but I'm feeling pretty content with how our situation turned out. Like, 
at this moment, next to you, I don't have any complaints."

     "Is that a hint to quit acting guilty and start paying you a different sort of 
attention?"

     "Um, that sounds about right." Natalie turned closer as his lips began to 
nibble at her earlobe. There were no fears, no worries this time as he kissed her, 
feverish and soft. 

      Natalie thought,  Her eyes glimmered as 
she twisted her mouth to the side and began to nuzzle down his neck. Her 
canines began to press forward, extending below the line of her upper lip. She 
rubbed hungrily below his ear and -

     "Uh, Nat?" Nick warbled in a half-groan, apparently undergoing some 
tremendous strain.

     "Hmmm?"

     "We're, ah, both supposed to...hold back the vampire." 

     Natalie pulled her face back from its occupation, and unhappily processed 
this thought. Her gold vision swam into his. Their heads drifted slightly closer 
again, prepared to compromise a few principles.

     Natalie wailed a low protest, plopping backwards so her hair flowed over the 
sofa arm. She rubbed her temples with both hands, while Nick massaged his 
own.

     "This part," she announced, "is going to be *so* difficult."

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

     Much later, Clare went in search of Vachon, stopping briefly at her hotel 
room. Then she let her instincts take over, gliding through the night wind while 
trailing the sense of her offspring-once-removed. She found him and her 
sportscar parked by the waterside. A song sprouted from the CD-stereo of her 
car, one with a stocky, strong drum line. Clare landed a few feet away and 
wondered, "The Clash?"

     Vachon confirmed her guess. "'Should I Stay or Should I Go'. Screed 
always liked it."

     Clare suddenly realized that the carouche was still buried at their feet, and 
the muddy ditch that once housed Vachon lay a short distance away. "I can 
picture him in a mosh pit, doing the pogo to this tune," she offered.

     Vachon grinned at the image, then subsided back into quiet contemplation. 
"So how do you feel, Clare?" He ventured. "Especially after destroying 
Maeven."

     "Surprisingly calm. Relieved, actually." Clare wrinkled her nose. "It's 
difficult to pinpoint why. Perhaps I am simply proud that I did not become a 
hermit after Figaro's death. I was tempted, you know. Maybe I feel that I made 
the right choice in regards to Maeven." Clare followed her suppositions with a 
shrug. "I have no regrets."

     "Since you're so pleased with yourself, here's another question: What do 
comfy chairs, pencils, and moist towelettes have in common?"

     "What?"

     "A found a list in your glove compartment."

     "Oh, that. I was making a Top Ten of my favorite mortal inventions that I 
believe to be perfect and indispensable."

     "What's number one? You left a blank space."

     Clare smiled secretly. "Think about it, Javier. 'If there be nothing new, but 
that which hath been before, how our brains beguil'd'...Number one - I have 
not found it yet. If I had, I would not be standing here. The final everything is 
always out of grasp, somewhere in our tomorrow, and the future dances beyond 
our reach."

     Rummaging in her coat, Clare unearthed a familiar-looking bundle of 
ancient, tied linen. Vachon recognized the object from the night before. "What 
did you bring that for?" he wondered.

      "Letting go." Clare twisted at the knot closure of the material. "The night 
that I dug you free, after I collapsed, I had a dream. It was slightly more 
involved than my usual. My husband, Conchobhar, was there, telling me to deal 
with my past. He cautioned me to let it go, for dwelling in the past, allowing it 
to pain me, resulted in the ruin of my unlife. And I wasn't enjoying my unlife. 
For over seventeen hundred years I've held onto this totem, but what is it 
really? Ashes and dirt. Dust is not what we want from our departed."

     "We need memories," murmured Vachon.

     "Their spirits stay with us, in smells or a song." Clare gestured her head 
towards the continued flow of punk music from the car. "Their legacy 
transforms us. We are constantly reinvented by the past: the mortal we've just 
killed, the friend we've lost. Fighting the process serves only to drown the 
soul."

      Vachon put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "Then let's move on.  
The next adventure will no doubt come with the sunset." 

     Clare unraveled the last of the ties binding the pouch shut. The gusts above 
the water surface reared up, wafting the material's newly exposed contents into 
a cloud of filmy particles. She let the fabric drop to the ground, then aimed back 
to the car with Vachon, ready to head home, such that her hotel suite had 
become.

     The wind shifted in direction, splitting the cloud into tentacles of fine 
powder. Some stretched after the retreating figures, landing like lint on their 
jackets. Others flitted out to the water, sinking onto the surface to be tided atop 
the shore. 

     The rest of the grit remained intertwined with the wind, lilting with each 
breeze, away and beyond. Higher and higher, the air sighed, then out of sight.

End of Part Twenty-One

Clare's quote, "If there be nothing new..." comes from Shakespeare's Sonnet 
59.

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