Survivors (00/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Disclaimers, Spoilers, and Other Babble:

I will start posting this story on FKFIC-L on June 2nd, so this is a heads-up warning. Why
a heads up? Because I've had bottles of Tylenol with shorter shelf lives than this particular
fanfic. That means a lot of people have either forgotten the preceding stories in the Clare
Series, or they joined the lists after they were first posted.

Soooo...If you don't want to be spoiled or extraordinarily confused, this might be the time
to play catch-up with the previous material. If it's been a good while since you've read the
previous stories, you might want to refresh your memory, too. Trust me - I wrote it, and I
still need briefing all the time. It's only 700 or so pages, and I've given you a *whole*
week!

The cleanest versions of the spoiler stories (this is storyline order, not posted order):
'Shades of Evil'(short story), 'The Spirit and the Dust'(novel), 'The Unselfish
Partner'(novel) and 'Thankless Child'(doorstop for the masochistic) reside at my fanfic
page at: http://www.geocities.com/~br1035/fk/forever.html For those of you who are
ready to read now and don't want to follow along as I post, a text file of the complete
'Survivors' is available on the page, too.

All stories in the Clare series, unless otherwise noted, are rated PG-13 for violence, adult
language and adult themes.

The number of people who deserve appreciation for the safe and (somewhat) sound
delivery of this novel has grown by leaps and bounds over the two-and-a-half years that
I've been writing it. Apparently, it takes a village to raise a fanfic, and I'm happily the
village idiot who wrote it thanks to your complaints, compliments, patience, and modest
inquiries about what the hell happens next. I have to take specific note of the singularly
fabulous Cousin Jules - I wouldn't have survived writing this without her.

FK SPOILERS: There are many references in this story to characters and events from
'Bad Blood,' 'Faithful Followers,' 'Black Buddha' 'Strings,' and 'Human Factor' among
other episodes of the series.

Disclaimer: 'Forever Knight' is owned and copyrighted by Sony/TriStar. The characters
were created by James Parriott, et al., and I'm pretty pleased to be able to borrow them
and get away with it. Clare, Ivy, Figaro, and Domino, among others, belong to me. Any
fictional use requires permission.

Finally, Carmen sends her purrs to Los Vaqueros, because she can.

Bons
br1035@ix.netcom.com

Survivors (01/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

It is dark.

There is a body, slumped in a heap on the ground, its limbs twisted into a strange
sculpture of form and shadow. A figure digs nearby, methodically scooping the earth
aside, breaths unhurried. The pit deepens gradually, and the worker has to step down into
its depths to continue. Soon, the hole cuts a slash into the earth until all but the digger's
head is shrouded from view. The shovel is thrown aside, and the digger effortlessly climbs
from the grave with strong, resilient arms.

The figure bends at the waist, rocking the silent body toward its fresh grave until the
form rolls over the edge with a fatalistic thump down into its cradle of earth. The wind
smells metallic, heavy with the scent of minerals and decaying leaves from the upturned
landscape. The digger surveys the scene, hands on hips, and then grunts with satisfaction.

All that is left is to bury the handiwork.

The dark figure begins to shovel anew. One pitch…two…but a weak movement
catches the digger's attention. There is still life, spirit, left in the body; the tomb's new
resident demands additional attention.

Casting the shovel aside once more, the figure moves into the forest, catching a limb of
a maple that shows the effects of autumn's descent. With a violent jerk, the bough breaks,
scattering miscellaneous twigs over the organic canopy in the branch's wake. The wood is
club-like, tapered at one end, and the shadowed figure clutches it with dirt-encrusted
fingers, then slips feet-first into the pit.

The bough slices through the air in an arc over the digger's head, then thrusts
downward. The blow rocks the quiet night with a fleshy impact. Unsatisfied, the figure
strikes again, then a third time.

The digger progresses with the shovel then, packing the scented earth with no further
interruptions. He begins to whistle sweetly.

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

Survivors (02/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

"I know it's empty," Natalie whispered, "so why did I come?"

She was seated at the head of the plot, using the marker as a prop for her head. The
marble felt cool against her cheek, and Nat traced the grooves of the inscription with
casual fingers.

CLARE CLIODHNA DOUGLAS
4/14/62 - 10/30/96
Beloved Mother And Friend

Natalie could imagine her sire cackling at that epitaph even now. It was even more
likely that she would have been annoyed that anyone had bothered with the facade of a
burial plot in the first place. Then again, Clare would have shared a hint of sympathy for
the mortals of her acquaintance that needed the symbolism. Joe Reese and the officers of
the 96th precinct had worked with her for those brief months of duty, and they would
expect some pageantry at the death of someone whom they considered a comrade in arms.

Natalie admitted to herself, There were more hearts at stake than
just those of the officers, however, and that is why Natalie decided to purchase a funeral
plot. The loss had disturbed both Myra and Schanke greatly. This had been a woman they
had considered a friend, who died in an apparent struggle to apprehend a serial killer less
than a month after Clare had saved their daughter's life. Myra and Don weren't just
disturbed at her death; they were traumatized.

Clare had been there to help Nick and Natalie guide Schanke back to the police force.
Clare had helped to insure that Schank was reinstated as a homicide cop, she had played
sitter for their only child, and she had mentored the girl. She had loved Jennifer Schanke.
Natalie had absolutely no doubts on that score. Jen and Clare had been a mutual
admiration society, so when Schanke's daughter asked if there would be a funeral for
Clare, her eyes sparkling somewhere between childhood naivete and rebellious
adolescence, Natalie hadn't the heart to say 'no.'

If she was brutally honest, Natalie would have acknowledged that the funeral, the
grave marker - a dozen little things that she clung to from night to night - they were for
herself more than anyone. Even the date of birth listed in the epitaph was more Natalie's
than anyone else's. It was the date Clare and she had met, and the night Clare had brought
her across. It was the day her world had finally spun out of control.

Nat rolled to the side slightly, so that her back propped flush against the limestone
block. Once upon a time, the stone would have telegraphed a chill through her spine at the
contact. Now she was coldness itself, impervious to the temperature of the January night.
The smattering of snow beneath her legs caused no discomfort. It only emphasized how
she had changed, causing a small ripple of fear and wonder to glide through her.

She had been a vampire for over six months. Natalie wrapped her arms around her knees,
hugging back a wave of grief as it swamped her thoughts. She had been right. Clare had
been right about so many things, and she had answered Natalie's motherload of questions
without hesitation, unlike…

Natalie had realized sometime in the past month that Nick had been afraid of the
vampire. She had never really considered it to be an object of fear before. The enemy, yes,
that which should be cured, yes, but the thought of vampirism had never really swamped
her with caution. She could handle it. She could rationalize it into shape to fit a form. She
could fix it. Natalie thought wryly,

Dread had made Nick wary of bringing her across in the first place, and, in the second
place, it had given him serious reservations about dealing with her altered state at all when
she joined the ranks of the undead. The less said about the hunger, the better - that was
the motto Natalie had picked up from Nick's attitude. If she was allowed to examine and
discuss the vampire at length, so the theory went, there would be a greater chance she
would become thrilled by it, caught up in it, enslaved in it.

Nick's fears had been entirely justified.

The irony was (and she doubted that he appreciated this), Nick had helped to give her
that crucial push off the primrose path, into the shadowed forest of iniquity. Yes, he had
protected her with that moratorium those first few months, soothing her needs with
assurances that the vampire could be controlled and everything would be alright, but their
relationship had also been a carnal one, in the purest sense. While Nick had learned
through decades of deprivation to satisfy his blood urges with cattle and the neck of his
fellow vampires, Natalie had no such experience. She had her cake, ate it, then went for a
second slice. Letting herself go, feeding from Nick, was one tiny but crucial step toward
giving over to the hunger completely.

And Natalie had.

She had fed from the dead for a time, corpses whose blood hung clotted on her tongue,
the consistency fleshy and wet like sour grapes. She'd plundered the clientele of her office,
concealing the drained bodies in the depths of Lake Ontario, and blamed the
disappearances on thieves wanting the cadavers for fun and profit.

Then, one night, Barney caught her.

The sight of the assistant's panicked eyes, his mouth hung slack in horror: that had
pushed her over the edge. Natalie had been starving for blood, and she had a victim
standing right in front of her, a victim who could reveal her secret to the world. Of course
she killed him; by that point, she had been incapable of holding back. Goodbye, Barney;
hello, happy hour.

Clare had come to her aid then, protecting her offspring like a good mother. Her sire
had given her advice, disapproval and support, making Nat immeasurably grateful. Clare
had reviled the notion of Natalie feeding from the dead. Apparently that just wasn't done
in polite circles. She hadn't raged, however. Clare had simply stated that she would not
stand for her child doing it again. Natalie hadn't bristled at the ultimatum. After
succumbing to her first kill, she didn't feel like taking a step back. Natalie was ready to
run.

Barney's death had been convenient: he'd had an ex-girlfriend accuse him of being a
necrophile during their breakup. It was a simple thing to transform Barney's passing into a
suicide and allow pertinent, if untrue, testimony to sway the police and the Coroner's
Office authorities to the most useful conclusion.

Natalie plucked a stray blade of grass that peeked out from the snow-covered lawn,
then wrapped it around her wrist in a makeshift bracelet as she spun circles with her
thoughts. She was a killer now. She was deceitful and stretched the truth like so much
saltwater taffy when it favored her. She had isolated her heart, sequestering her inner
workings behind a mask for all but one person for a time, and that person hadn't been
Nick. It had been Clare.

Natalie had trusted Clare and turned to her when she felt her darkest. Natalie had
believed Clare would be there, waiting to guide her for eternity. Natalie had been wrong.
She was alone now. She had parted ways with Nick, and, though it still caused painful
twinges inside at the thought, she honestly believed they needed the distance. He couldn't
handle her being a vampire, and Natalie wasn't altogether certain she could deal with it
herself.

So what did that make her? Unhappy? Indifferent? Content? Natalie didn't know. She
had taken the lives of more than a handful of mortals, and it didn't bother her as much as
she had expected it ought.

Despite her transgressions, there was a part of Natalie that persevered, an undoubtedly
human part that wept silently at the choices she'd made and the state of her life, or lack
thereof. She shunned that whisper of a conscience, trying to focus on the miraculous
nature of the world that had opened up for her by coming across. Most of the time she
was successful. Most of the time she went through the motions of the night-to-night
promenade of work, the Raven, and the hotel. She had acquaintances, not friends. She
convinced herself that she didn't need more, that she wasn't lonely. A casual wave to
people like Feliks or Domino now and then would suffice any need for company. She'd
seen LaCroix twice over the past month, though he usually wasn't fit to be around. she would swear. That's what Natalie told herself.

She almost believed it.

There were times when Natalie could easily convince herself that she wasn't on her
own. Over the months since Clare's death, Nat had begun to experience the sensation that
she was being watched. Sitting in the snow by her sire's gravestone, Natalie had that
feeling now. She also had started to suspect who was spying on her…

In the blink of an eye, she flashed from her seat upon the ground to her feet, prepared
to confront her unwelcome shadow. "Don't you think that hiding in the bushes is a bit
undignified, LaCroix?"

The ancient vampire stepped into a patch of moonlight, illuminating his stony
expression. "I wasn't hiding. I was waiting for you to leave. I do not want company."

Natalie rolled her eyes. "Oh, so that's why you allowed me to feel your presence: to
help me ignore the fact that you're here. Wait...that's a question. Why are you here,
LaCroix? I would expect you, of all people, to mock any funereal pageantry for the
undead."

His figure rose starkly against the icy winter backdrop. LaCroix's hands were
concealed within the folds of his black leather overcoat, seeming to clench defensively at
his sides, though his eyes defined emptiness. He appeared disinterested in her accusation,
yet Natalie suspected there were emotions locked away somewhere. Anger, hate and,
probably an unhealthy share of grief. she reasoned.

The elder vampire's answer arrived with a good dose of derision. "The spectacle is
especially idiotic when you have no body to mourn. Furthermore, if you had any respect
for her background, you would have chosen a memorial more in keeping with her personal
history, not your own."

"Have funerals ever really been for the dead as much as they are for those left behind?"
Natalie countered smoothly. "The living want reassurances that life goes on, and that
death isn't an ending. That's the reason behind the ceremony."

"But that is a mortal fear," LaCroix said coldly. "You and I know what it means to
die."

Natalie assumed a doubtful expression. "Do we? I'm here because I am afraid. The
thought of Clare being damned, of being…well, it terrifies me." She dabbed the tip of her
tongue across her upper lip, then predatorily redoubled her attack with another question.
"I'll ask again with new inflection: why are *you* here?"

"I am following you," LaCroix confessed. "It is simple suspicion, an old and difficult
habit to break," he was quick to point out as Natalie scoffed indignantly. "The Spaniard,
the gardener, the photographer: I have trailed each of them at one time or another. This
was simply your turn."

"Why?"

"Because I don't trust you. I don't trust *her,*" LaCroix said, punctuating his
explanation with a nod toward the grave marker.

Natalie's eyes widened incredulously. "Trust her? What the hell is left to trust? Clare is
gone," she stated, a small wail to her voice. "Destroyed."

"So you've claimed. I find the pronouncement hard to accept, however, considering
your sire's track record. Surely you haven't forgotten that Clare left the entire community
believing she had been incinerated in the blast of Hiroshima for almost fifty-one years?"
the elder vampire said accusingly.

"Not the entire community," Nat argued. "Feliks knew." Her face lit with sudden
comprehension. "Oh, that's priceless. You think one or more of us is *hiding* her? How
paranoid can you get?!"

"The past speaks for itself. Clare has done it before," he said calmly.

"No." Natalie said the word with fierce determination. "This isn't a deception. We all
felt it. Even *you* sensed her pain. That didn't happen with Hiroshima. You, Vachon, and
Domino: you said as much."

"Then answer my question," LaCroix challenged. "Can you swear to me that you have
never felt Clare's presence since her supposed destruction?" Natalie stared at him in silent
bewilderment. "I thought as much," he said smugly.

Natalie shook her head, her voice coming on the verge of a shout. "Of course I've felt
her. I've thought of her almost every day. That is grief! You're simply too emotionally
paralyzed to recognize the aftereffects of caring for another person."

"Really, Natalie? I dare say that I have mourned over more lifetimes than you will
probably ever experience. Do not presume to lecture to me about grief. My heart isn't
paralyzed; it is simply cautious. I believe I understand what your sire was capable of with
far greater clarity than you can imagine. It would be foolish to ignore my suspicions
considering the past, so I followed you tonight. There is no need, however, for you to
become hysterical at the notion."

"You know, I wish you were right. I wish Clare was alive and simply lying to
everyone, but I can't reconcile that to the loss I felt that night. She was staked; I felt it as
if it was my own heart. I'm not hiding her from you, so cease and desist. I'm not just
talking about tonight, I'm talking about the *months* you've watched me. There's no
reason for it, and I'm not going to stand for it."

LaCroix honestly appeared confused. "I don't know what you are talking about.
Tonight is the only time I have been your shadow."

She didn't believe him at first. "But…but there has been someone. They've been hiding
who they were, but, considering tonight, I assumed…"

"You assumed incorrectly," Lacroix finished for her. "It is interesting to hear how
popular you are, nonetheless, Natalie."

She scowled and prepared to make a retort, but her pager sounded. She slipped the
black clip from her jacket pocket, frowning as she read the precinct's number. "Well, it's
been fun," she said sarcastically, "but duty calls. I have to go to work."

"The dead can be so demanding," LaCroix said mockingly, then observed as Natalie
walked to her sedan.

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

Survivors (03/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

"Man, oh man, oh man. I hate it when they look familiar," Schanke pronounced.

"Familiar?" Sergeant Pulte questioned from aside. "This customer looks as though he's
been in the woods for months. You're lucky to recognize it as human, much less an old
bowling buddy!"

"No, you just don't get it. This Doe reminds me of someone," Schanke insisted. "I just
can't put my finger on it."

"I think you're right," Nick announced as he joined in on the inspection. Up until his
partner's speculation, Nick had been paying more attention to Natalie, her head bent over
the decomposed body as she worked to contain the most fragile evidence. "The victim
does look familiar."

As Pulte groaned in disbelief, Natalie glanced up from the corpse and offered her own
opinion. "Well, I'm not going to argue with you. First order of business, I'm going to
check with the 34th Precinct."

Nick immediately appeared dismayed, while Schanke muttered a curse. "Damn! That's
who I was thinking of: Dell!"

Sergeant Pulte sobered as well. "Captain Dell? I heard he'd gone missing last
September. I didn't realize you or Detective Knight knew him, being in different
departments and all."

"Yeah, well, we all used to work Homicide at the 27th," Nick explained. "Dell was a
detective on the day shift there before his promotion."

"Your former co-workers have had a hard run of it lately," Pulte observed carelessly.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Schanke said in a near-bellow. Silence
loomed in the wake of his exclamation. Nat looked at him with concern while Nick
appeared discomfited.

The younger officer shifted nervously, running a finger under the collar of his uniform.
"Just that. It's a sad thing for you guys to lose your partner and an old compatriot all
within the span of two months."

"He's being sympathetic, Schank," Nick said to his partner in a soothing voice. "Pulte
didn't mean anything."

"Well, I don't want sympathy! Cops get killed every day and night on the streets. You
think I deserve anything for that? No! You want to know why? I'll tell you why: because
I'm helpless to do anything about it. I can only cover someone when I'm there. Otherwise,
it's out of my jurisdiction!" Schanke shouted, burning a trail up one side of the sergeant
and down the other before storming away.

Pulte watched the detective leave in distress then turned apologetically toward Nick
and Natalie. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset him."

"Don't worry about it, Pulte. It's just a sore subject with Schanke right now," Nick
said before moving to join his partner.

Observing the second man's departure, the sergeant groaned self-consciously. "God,
I'm batting zero tonight. I was just thinking how wrecked the precinct was last November
just after Detective Douglas died. That's all I was saying! I can't imagine how it was for
them to lose a partner. It's Knight's second in a year!"

Natalie paused in wrapping one of the victim's hands for transport. "But Clare helped
to save Jennifer Schanke's life. That's a heavy debt to leave forever unpaid. I don't blame
Schanke for feeling helpless." She stared absently into the night, not focused on the officer
now, but some private pain. "Clare came to the rescue, then - poof! - she's gone. I never
had the chance to thank her." Nat shook her head. "No. I never *took* the chance to
thank her."

The sergeant frowned in puzzlement. "I didn't realize you knew Detective Douglas that
well, Doctor."

Natalie snapped back to attention, gave Pulte a sharp stare, then resumed her
examination of the corpse. "You could almost say we were bound by blood. I miss her, so
does Schanke. Some year down the road when you have a child...when that child is shot
and loses a kidney, when the same partner who stabilized that child's life is incinerated
while trying to apprehend a serial killer, maybe you'll understand where he's coming from,
Pulte. Until that dark day, cut him some slack."

The sergeant was speechless as he watched the coroner turn away, completely ignoring
him now in favor of the half-rotted corpse stretched on the ground.
Pulte thought grimly,

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

"Schank? You okay?" Nick frowned as he studied his partner's expression. For once, it
seemed that Schanke had shuttered his emotions.

Don looked up slowly, his stare taking Nick aback. For a moment, Nick felt as though
his partner was staring into his soul. "I'm as merry as a frat boy with an unopened keg,"
he said with a hint of sarcasm. "Tell me, Nick…I really want to know…are *you* okay?"

Nick offered up a forced grin. "Sure, Schank. I'm…fine."

Schanke nodded methodically. "Yeah…fine. That's what I thought you'd say. So, I
guess, 'fine' is appropriate in Knightland when, suddenly, your," he gestured quotation
marks with his fingers, "'significant other' moves out of the loft. Now Nat hardly speaks
to you on the job anymore, and you spend overtime staring at her with goofy eyes.
Hmmm…and 'fine' must cut the cheese when you have your cop buddies dropping like
flies. Oh, wait - I forgot - you never actually liked Clare. You didn't *trust* her methods,
motives, or whatever hoo-dee-ha. I guess that makes Dell the only deceased pal you're
strangely not broken up about."

"I said I was fine," Nick responded in a stiff voice. "I never said those deaths didn't
bother me. They do. I'm just handling it."

Schanke released a disgusted snort. "And I'm not?! Great! I'll just keep having my
personal wake, party of one, while you, *pardner,* get out of my face. It looks like Nat is
leaving. If you play your cards right, you can stalk her back to the morgue. Oooh, it's
luv!"

Nick ignored the taunt, touching his partner's arm with concern. "I'm not the problem,
Schank. Striking out at me won't fix anything."

Don briefly glanced away, then he turned back to Nick with soulful eyes, his voice
hitting a lower register. "I know that. It's just that, tonight, I don't feel like anything else.
I've got more sore spots than Howard Stern sitting on a cactus."

This time, Nick's grin was in earnest. "Then maybe I should follow Nat and borrow
some tweezers."

Schanke gave a slight smile as his partner clapped him on the shoulder, then left to
make good on his promise. "Hey, Knight!" he called after Nick's retreating back. "Do the
words 'restraining order' mean anything to you?!"

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

Natalie was rinsing her coffee mug free of something that definitely was not coffee
when Nick entered the morgue.

"Hi."

"Hi." Natalie licked the remnants of her evening snack from the corner of her upper lip,
then she coolly finished covering her hair. She grabbed a new pair of gloves and
approached the examining table.

"Find anything yet?" Nick asked, his eyes watching her every business-like movement
for some signal of what was going on under her skin.

"I'm just opening up," she said, her fingers on the body bag's zipper. "You can call
here during the day if you're anxious about the lab results."

"Will you answer?" The words slipped out before Nick could hold them back.

"No."

"I can wait."

Natalie gave him an impatient look. "I'm not having this discussion with you again,
Nick."

His answer was stilted. "Then I guess that I had better go."

"Yes, and leave me in peace," Natalie muttered harshly.

Nick suddenly caught her chin between firm fingers. "That's not true, and you know
it, Natalie." He stared into her lost eyes for several heavy seconds, then let her go, walking
briskly out of the morgue without a backward glance.

Nat closed her eyes, her fingers squeezing around the trough of the examination table
with enough force to leave indentations. Grace entered the morgue, and Nat straightened.

Grace clucked over her in concern. "I just passed Nick in the hall. Are you okay?"

Nat sighed. Grace considered their breakup to be on par with the death of Santa Claus.
It was hard, very hard to talk to her friend about Nick at all in this context when there
were so many crucial factors off-limits to mortal ears. Despite her vague replies, Grace
continued to be supportive, and Natalie was immeasurably thankful for that loyalty.
"Yeah, I'll be fine. It'll just take time."

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

Janette opened the front door impatiently. "It's about time." She glanced pointedly
around the stoop, noting there was only one body. "Well, where is he?"

Ivy twisted her lips bitterly. "Apparently, Vachon would rather install bookcases in that
damn house than spend the evening here with you." She took a final puff from her
cigarette before flicking it to the ground so she could crush it under a boot heel. "Go
figure."

"Don't litter."

"Why not?" Ivy said sweetly. She brushed past Janette, entering the townhouse, and
muttered, "You can always get someone else to handle the trash for you."

Janette pulled Ivy's leather coat roughly from her shoulders and snapped, "It sets a bad
example for…"

"Ivy!" Patrick darted into the hall from the den and tackled her in a hug.

Turning her attention away from Janette, she gently squeezed the boy's hockey jersey-
clad frame. "Hey, kiddo. I didn't think you'd be awake. Isn't it obscenely late for you to
be up?"

"Dad and I are watching the Godzilla marathon."

"Ah. You know, you never hear the scariest monsters coming," Ivy said, offering one
of the few bits of wisdom she'd dare claim her own. "They tiptoe." Patrick immediately
succumbed to a fit of the giggles as he tried to picture a gazillion foot-tall lizard en pointe.
Ivy smiled, her mission accomplished, then wrapped an arm around Patrick's back as she
accompanied him to the den. After hanging up Ivy's coat, Janette followed them.

"Ivy." Robert rose from the sofa and kissed her briefly on the cheek. "I thought
Vachon was coming with you," he commented.

"Would you believe he was abducted by aliens?"

Patrick laughed some more, while Janette murmured under her breath, "We should be
so lucky."

"Now, now…don't set a bad example," Ivy whispered in her ear, then she plopped
onto the floor beside Patrick. "It's so nice to be home!" she exclaimed.

The question was…did she mean it?

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

Survivors (04/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Domino gave himself the tour. Vachon had made enormous progress on the house
since his last visit. Dom hadn't been by for a month, seeing as how the building site was a
good drive north of Toronto proper, and he was a very metropolitan-inclined sort of
fellow. He'd taken one look at Vachon's grand project when it had been little more than
foundation and framework, shivered in horror at the dust, then offered the Spaniard a
"How charming. Call me when you have walls." In the meantime, Domino had only seen
Vachon intermittently at the Raven and the studio. The two men had very little in common
save a few drops of blood and a fondness for the occasional wild party, and it had been a
good while since they'd laughed over either.

Not since Ivy.

Domino liked the young vampire because he didn't feel threatened around her. She was
comfortable, or, at the very least, more comfortable than the vamps he was used to
hanging out with. Ivy didn't act superior and domineering. On the contrary, she seemed to
need someone to take care of her.

Yes, she acted independent. Tough, she was, as though she didn't care what the
universe threw at her or what her fate might be. That was just bravado. There were
moments, times when Ivy thought no one was looking at her, when her spirit seemed to
cave, and a lost, desperate hunger glazed over her features.

That's why Dom liked Ivy so much. For the first time in more than two centuries of
life, there was someone who actually depended on him. He could play the hero and give
her advice. She'd been a mortal longer than a vampire, and Ivy still could use the dos and
don'ts now and then. He could shield her, and Domino had been around long enough to
recognize that whatever she had with Vachon could survive only so long. The Spaniard
was only using her. He never held onto any woman for very long, just in case they started
holding him back.

Domino left his car parked right at the front door since there were no other vehicles in
sight. He spared a frown for the lack of a Ferrari in the drive. After Clare had gone
missing…Dom shook his head in frustration and corrected that thought. After Clare's
destruction, Vachon had unofficially taken up ownership of her sportscar. Javier wouldn't
say much about the Maranello. Whenever someone asked him about the car, he would just
shrug. "I have the keys, might as well drive it." For Vachon nowadays, that was practically
a lecture. He didn't talk, not when his expression could do the work, and his manner had
become increasingly antisocial.

This house, though, sucked up Vachon's attention as if a black hole waited in the
basement. If you wanted to find the Spaniard, this was the obvious place to look. If you
wanted an honest-to-goodness reaction out of the man, ask him about wiring or plumbing.
The house had his interest, his soul, and everything else paled in comparison.

Vachon's relationship with Ivy cooled on the back burner. Domino had noticed that
much and enjoyed it. Maybe there had just been some faint chemistry in the beginning
between the two. Perhaps it was something that was never supposed to last. Then again,
maybe Vachon and Ivy had made a real connection, found a piece of their soul in the other
person, and the business with Ivy's sire had simply turned off the heat.

Whatever the cause, the two were together, but always apart. Ivy would fluctuate
between the studio and this place; Javier mainly remained here. When they were in the
same room, they rarely touched, but it was obvious each was aware of the other. They
shared a roof, they shared a bed, but it seemed they were reluctant to share anything else.
They spoke in trivialities: what time the paint was to be delivered, when she would be
back from the next shoot for the perfume campaign, what was nice, what was fine, and
what would do.

Domino supposed that's where their lives were at the moment: they were stalled with
what would make do, too shell-shocked to fight or reach out for what they actually
wanted. They had lost too much, suffered too much. They were afraid.

Dom thought in anticipation, He was looking forward to the
breaking point, because neutral made both people downright dull, Vachon especially. It
was an affront to the laws of nature, a perfectly good drinking buddy reduced to boring in
his prime. Meanwhile, Dom found it tedious waiting for these unlives to begin again.

The bricks of the estate driveway were made from limestone matching the exterior of
the house. Each piece, the packing in between, scratched against the leather soles of
Dom's shoes. At the moment, the structure appeared lovely, a fresh bit of growth that
didn't quite blend with its surroundings. The stones were just a shade too bright, the edges
just a touch too raw and recent. It was like a newborn colt that wobbled on its legs for the
first time: the house was built as it should be, but there was something gawky about the
place. Come fifty years, a hundred, the marble facing would soften, the bricks would
settle, moss would work into the cracks and the building would become a breathtaking
home.

That is, if anyone ever lived in it.

Somehow, Dom couldn't picture Vachon actually living here once the work was done.
It simply didn't fit him. It was too large and luxurious. It stated an obeisance of rules,
rather than bending them, crying out in ornate tradition. It wasn't his kind of house. It was
Clare's.

Therein lay the explanation. Clare had hired Vachon to design and build this place
before her death. The Spaniard was stubbornly making good on his end of the bargain,
turning the house into a mausoleum in the process. Domino thought building a home for a
dead woman was a good waste of energy, but Javier hadn't asked his opinion.

Ascending the carved steps, Dom glanced at the lawn on either side. There were dense
patches of maple and oak trees and very little cleared land, but just before the edge of the
woods to the right sat a large hothouse.

Domino didn't knock or ring the doorbell since the car wasn't out front. He simply
walked in, noting the locks weren't bolted. It seemed likely Vachon was on the premises,
after all.

His footsteps began to echo through the arched entry as soon as he stepped off the
dark green rug running from the front door up along main staircase. There was no
furniture as of yet, and the walls were bare. A mammoth, cut-crystal chandelier
represented the only decoration in the chamber. Porticoes to both sides of the foyer led to
additional sections of the house, and there were hallways behind the stairs to the left and
right. Domino, ever the optimist, decided to go up.

Here, the upper half of the walls were covered in moss-colored silk. The moldings
were complete, but that was the end of it. None of the rooms were painted or had
overhead fixtures, but there were gallon cans waiting here and there. The marble ended
with the stairs. These floors were only unfinished wood, still sifted with sawdust. There
were four enormous rooms, one of them really a luxury apartment, and two bathrooms.
One of them featured a tub at least four feet deep and an alcove featuring a drain and
spray typical of a Japanese household. The other bathroom contained a shower with more
space than the average person's bed. Dom
thought with a grin.

Finding no one, Domino practically bounced downstairs, then swerved to the right.
The first portico had closed doors opposite each other midway down the hall. The double
doors at the end were open, and Dom felt that Vachon was inside. Sure enough, he found
the Spaniard sliding a bookshelf that reached from the floor to the eighteen-foot ceiling up
against the wall. Apparently, Vachon had pegged this room for the library. Two and a half
of the walls had been installed. The rest of the shelves stood at attention in the middle of
the floor, waiting for a post.

"The question is," Dom mused, "do you have any books?" Vachon didn't turn around
right away, so Domino continued his approach. "It's going to look pretty funny if all you
have to store is Screed's Mickey Mouse clock and a few TV Guides."

"It took you long enough to check out the upstairs. What did you think?'

"You could bathe a Third World nation up there."

"Then maybe I'll invite Honduras over."

There was a stagnant silence. Domino rubbed his hands together, wishing there was a
chair for him to sit in so that he wouldn't feel like an idiot standing in the middle of the
floor. Vachon had no such worries. He just went on working without a word.

Suddenly Dom realized the bookshelves were at least twice the width of the doorway.
"How the hell did you get these things in the room?"

Vachon still didn't turn around. "I put the shelves together in here."

No descriptions of how he did it, no trials and tribulations of the job, just as brief a
statement as possible. Domino fought back a yawn. "Err…so is Ivy here?"

"No."

"Where is she?"

"Janette's."

Dom released a soft grunt. "Oh, joy. Another night spent pretending to eat popcorn,
watching bad films with Junior. I can see why you stayed here."

No comment.

Domino began to pace the floor, impatient for a modicum of actual conversation. He
recalled the greenhouse stationed outside. "Tell me, is Feliks going to move in once all the
work is done?"

"It's possible."

Dom thought irritably. He ceased his pacing and glared
at the back of Vachon's dark head.

"Are you going to stay here?" Dom said, his voice growing tempestuous.

This time, Vachon added a shrug. "It's possible."

Finally, Domino decided this anti-chat took too much effort. Vachon needed to get out
of this house, away from the scent of lumber so he could manage an amusing reply.
Vachon needed a good party. He needed one badly.

"I'm taking a long weekend in the Bahamas. Come with me. I'm picking up the Kinsey
twins in Atlanta. We could have a Rum-O tourney," Dom offered enthusiastically. "You
know those gals can't hold their liquor."

"No thanks."

Domino wouldn't leave it at that. "Who's going to care if the damn bookshelves get
installed? You could come back a century from now, and no one is going to blink an
eyelash because they don't have a resting place for their Reader's Digest collection."

"I don't feel like going out."

"Well, you ought to ignore how you feel," Dom snapped. "You can't spend the rest of
the year here, sawing flower boxes and stapling carpet."

Vachon turned around, his eyes cold and dark. they said.
He crossed his arms across his chest, not in a casual gesture, but in a
semblance of forbidding armor. "Why not?"

Domino realized he didn't want to answer that question, not as long as Vachon looked
at him with that repulsed, hard stare. He turned and left without another sound.

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

Survivors (05/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Nick remained inside the Caddy until he saw Natalie pull into the parking lot and lock
her car. By the time she'd put her keys away and shifted her briefcase from underneath her
arm, he was casually walking toward the precinct entrance, their paths on a collision
course.

"Hi."

Natalie whirled around at the sound of his voice. She'd been distracted and had
completely missed his approach. Nick could see annoyance flit across her features that
she'd been caught unaware. "Hi." She glanced briefly at her watch. "Isn't it a little late for
you to be just now showing up on the job?"

"Nope," Nick said innocently. "I stopped to check out a few leads on my way in."

"Um-hmm," Nat replied, none too convinced.

"So, did you get an ID on last night's body?" Nick asked, not giving Natalie a chance
to vocalize her suspicions concerning how his arrival coincided with hers. "Was it Dell?"

Natalie watched him carefully. "Yes, the DNA came back positive." She reached for
the station's door and came up with a handful of air. Natalie looked down to find Nick
was already holding it open for her. He grinned at her, appearing too pleased with himself
to suit Natalie's mood. She swept inside without offering a 'thank you.'

"What else did you find?" Nick asked, determined to keep her talking to him. Looking
at him would be good, too, but he'd start with baby steps.

Of course, Natalie was taking the opposite route. She didn't want to walk side by side
through the bullpen with Nick like they were old friends. The thought brought Nat a sense
of regret that she didn't want to acknowledge. "Why don't we wait to talk about this until
Schanke and the Captain join us? That way, I don't have to repeat myself."

Natalie fought back a sigh and the urge to stomp her heel. Her response had come out
too snippy. She didn't want Nick to think she hated him, she just wanted to be left alone.
Nat risked a peek at him, wondering if she'd find one of those abashed, guilty looks. Nick
was staring at her solemnly. When he caught Natalie looking his way, Nick began to grin
like a kid in a mud puddle. He was up to something and happy about it. That boyish
enthusiasm made Nat start to walk double-time, as if marching fast could give a few of her
demons the slip.

Nick kept up with her. "Good idea, Nat," he murmured, his voice hinting 'I know what
you're doing.' "You can hide behind your reinforcements."

Natalie immediately became huffy. "I am *not* hid-"

"Knight!" Schanke's voice came like a shot from across the crowded room. They both
turned to see Don, arms outstretched in a welcome as sincere as a car salesman's. "Peanut
butter to my jelly…Bert to my Ernie…" Schanke walked forward dramatically as his
descriptions grew more outrageous, "Leider to my hosen…My *partner.* Where have
you been?"

"He checked some leads on his way in," Natalie said dryly.

"What lea- ?" Schanke clipped his demand short as he caught sight of Nick's pleading
expression. His partner wanted his cover. "Oh, yeah. That…thing you were
going to look into with that case. How did that turn out?" he asked innocently.

Nick started to speak, but Natalie cut him off. "I think whatever Nick had his attention
on was just a dead end." She tilted her nose in the air and walked past them toward the
Captain's office.

Schanke winced. "Ouch. She's not thinking snuggly thoughts about you, pardner.
What are you? A masochist?"

Nick clapped him on the shoulder before following Nat inside Reese's office. "It may
be bad, but least she's thinking about me," he grinned. Schanke shook his head as he took
up the rear.

When Reese saw them enter, he closed the file he had been scanning and set it aside.
"Close the door, Detective," he ordered Schanke. Reese turned his attention toward
Natalie. "What news do you have, Doctor Lambert?"

"The victim was definitely Captain Sunjay Dell. The DNA matched," Natalie said as
she pulled the necessary report out of her briefcase. "The rate of decomposition was also
consistent with his September disappearance. I'd say he died not long after he first went
missing."

"What was the cause of death?" Reese asked.

Natalie pulled out a pile of photographs, spread them over the desk so that all three
men could see, pointing to the pictures as she spoke. "He was shot from the back. The
bullet was a filed down .38 that traveled within an inch of his heart and the vena cava, and
lodged against his ribcage preventing an exit wound." She trailed her finger along a new
glossy of the deceased's head. "That didn't kill him. I don't believe that he was shot where
he was buried, either. He would have fallen forward, but we found Dell's body on his
back. Also," Nat slipped a photo to the middle of the desk, "the killer bludgeoned him
from the front. We found bark in the area of injury. Dell's skull was crushed by a
substantial piece of wood striking at almost a ninety-degree angle. From the force of the
blow, I would have expected some additional trauma to the neck had he been standing. I
think the killer must have shot him, taken him for dead and moved him for burial. Dell
regained consciousness in or around the gravesite, and the killer found a piece of wood in
the surrounding forest to use as a makeshift weapon."

"So we know how he died," Reese said impatiently. "Do we have any evidence that
could lead us to who did this?"

"Filing the bullet suggests premeditation," Nick commented. "The killer thought it
could be traced back to him."

"He could erase any identification on the casing beforehand," Schanke pointed out,
"but not any marks that occurred in the chamber as he fired. That's a signature in itself."

Natalie appeared dubious. "That only helps us if we have a suspect firearm, which we
don't."

Schanke hung onto the idea like a bulldog. "But if the killer thought the bullet could be
traced, the gun could be just as conspicuous. We should check for matches with old
ballistic records."

"Schanke, come on!" Natalie groaned. "Do you realize the time and resources that
would take?"

"Besides," Nick said thoughtfully, "a shooter who is aware his bullet could send a red
flag probably knows about firing patterns, as well. He would go for a firearm where the
trail doesn't lead straight to his door."

"But it's still a trail, however crooked. I wouldn't normally order investing this much
time in what's probably a wild goose chase, but we're dealing with a cop-killer. When a
person like this gets away with murder, it stomps down the morale of the whole force. I
want you to have your people follow up on the ballistics, Doctor Lambert." He held up a
palm as Natalie appeared primed to protest. "I'm not asking you to ignore your normal
workload. Work on this project in your down time."

"What down time?" Natalie exclaimed. "Captain, my office is short-staffed as it is. I
can't guarantee that we'll be able to make any inroads to this line of inquiry whatsoever."

"Do I look like my hopes are up?" Captain Reese certainly did not. "If it makes you
feel any better, I'm only asking you to look at all the records for .38s."

"Infinity divided by twenty is still infinity," Natalie retorted with a weary sigh, "but I'll
see what I can do."

"Were there any other fibers present on the body or at the crime scene that would give
us a lead?" Nick asked, wishing he'd suffer a major brainstorm that would spare Natalie
the headache of the ballistics reports.

Nat shook her head. "Nothing looks inconsistent with what you'd find here. Since we
concluded back in September that Dell was attacked somewhere between the 34th precinct
and his home, fiber evidence looks like a dead end so far."

"Damn," Schanke muttered. "Nick and I will just have to go back to the basics: motive
and opportunity. We'll go knocking on some trash cans and see if any cats jump out
wailing."

"You do that," Reese ordered.

A soft knock came at the office door, and Sergeant Pulte ducked his head inside.
"Excuse me, Captain, but there's someone named James Curran here to see you. He says
he has an appointment."

Reese pushed back from his desk. "Yeah, he does." The Captain headed for the
bullpen, gesturing over his shoulder to the detectives. "This concerns you."

James Curran was waiting just outside the office, a handsome man with dark hair,
wearing a cable-knit sweater, jeans and a leather jacket. Reese shook his hand in welcome.
"Jim! Thanks for coming in tonight since it's not quite official yet."

Curran gave him a good-natured smile. "And lose a chance to score points with the
new boss? What kind of on-the-ball hot shot would I be if I let that happen?"

"One who didn't get the job," Reese countered. He turned to Nick and Schanke, who
waited curiously to be officially introduced. "Gentlemen, this is the newly promoted
Detective James Curran. I chose him to fill the position in Homicide vacated by Detective
Douglas."

Nick extended a hand. "Welcome aboard. I'm Nick Knight."

Curran nodded and shook the other man's hand firmly. "I know. I've heard of both you
and Detective Schanke."

Captain Reese motioned the new man's attention toward Natalie. "This is Doctor
Natalie Lambert with the Provincial Coroner's Office. You'll be working with her, too."

Curran's eyes lit with interest. "I look forward to it."

Natalie's smile was non-committal. "How do you do?"

Schanke didn't shake hands or smile. "What did you do before you made detective?"

"The past three years, I've worked vice. Before that, I patrolled around the harbor."

"Oh, yeah," Schanke's face cleared, growing acceptant, "I remember now." He
elbowed Nick. "This guy busted more dealers last year than the rest of the squad
combined."

"I hope to do as good a job with the non-narcotic killers," Jim vowed.

"Good luck," Nick said, then he asked, "Who will your new partner be?"

"Andy Gonzales," Curran answered. "I haven't met him yet."

Schanke frowned. "Isn't Gonzales on vacation?"

"Exactly, Detective," Reese replied. "Which is why I'm assigning Jim to you and
Knight until his regular partner comes back."

Three faces fell. "Captain Reese, I realize that my promotion isn't official until
Monday, but I don't need baby-sitting," Curran protested. "If I wasn't an experienced
officer, I wouldn't be here."

"You're experienced, but not in Homicide," Reese countered. "If you knew
everything, you'd be me. Watch Knight and Schanke for the next six days and learn."

"But, Captain!" Schanke said, his voice almost a whine. "Why us? We've got the Dell
case - it's too important for us to be taking time out walking a new guy through
procedure."

"No, it's important enough where you need an extra body doing legwork. Besides, you
worked with a third party when Clare was here. It's less of a stretch for you two than the
other detectives." Reese gave Curran a devilish smile. "See? Your first lesson, Jim. Don't
argue with me, because you won't win." He sent Natalie a nod, then headed for his office.
"Bring me something we can use, Detectives, Doctor."

The group watched the office door shut behind the Captain's back. Natalie made an
annoyed sound. "Well, you heard our marching orders." She readjusted the files in her
briefcase then gave the policemen an unenthusiastic smile. "I'm off to chain myself to the
morgue."

"Bye, Nat," Nick called.

Pulte approached the new detective and offered him a handshake. "I'm Sergeant Beau
Pulte. I couldn't help but overhear. Congratulations on the promotion! I applied for the
position," he confided, "but Captain Reese didn't think I had enough experience yet to
make detective. But, hey, good things come to those who wait, right?"

Curran shook the sergeant's hand. "And to those who take them. Thanks for the
welcome, Pulte." The new detective turned his eyes to his temporary mentors. "So what
now?"

Nick and Schanke exchanged looks. Both shrugged. Neither had a firm plan in mind of
what to do with a new partner. Their last third wheel still hung between them like a ghost.

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

Survivors (06/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Ivy felt a cold wind brush down her spine and shivered. she thought.

Suddenly Thomas was there, his arms wrapping around her chest, his voice hissing in
her ear. "Not since I made you, sweetheart."

Ivy glanced down with rising fear. Her sire had a syringe filled with a clear liquid in one
hand. With rising clarity, she recognized her surroundings.

The needle burned as it sank into her skin, and Ivy released a sob of alarm. The arms
restraining her disappeared, and Ivy sank to the floor, crying. Her past kept coming back
to haunt her, no matter what she did to escape.

"Are you living yet, sweetheart?" Thomas whispered.

The room was suddenly empty. Its silence seemed to seethe. No bottles of cleaning
supplies littered the floor, no piles of linens, no rolls of paper towels, just blank tile.

Ivy blinked in dismay at her surroundings.

She felt like repeating the idea, as if she needed to convince the bare walls that the
statement was true. "He can't hurt me anymore," Ivy said aloud.

A silky-warm voice broke out of the darkness. "Like I can't, little one?"

Ivy started, her eyes widening as Clare brushed past her. In an instant, everything
flashed before her eyes: staking her sire and this woman in one blow, Clare's pleas to free
her, Janette's urgings to leave her to die, and Ivy's own miserable, unforgivable choice.
"You're dead. This isn't real."

The older woman turned to face her with derisive eyes. "Silly girl. Don't you know
that betrayal comes back to haunt you?" Clare smiled, revealing sharp white teeth. Ivy
looked at her then, really studied the other vampire with a discerning eye, noting how her
flesh no longer appeared alive, if pale. Her skin was dry, as elastic as parchment. Ivy had a
feeling that, if her smile broadened, this woman's face would split apart. She shivered
again, and Clare leaned over to murmur without a hint of breath in Ivy's ear. "Boo."

Ivy backed away, her features twisting into a sneer. "You stink. You're nothing but a
rotting corpse."

Clare's smile widened then, proving Ivy correct. The skin around her cheeks tore
open, leaving raw wounds. Oblivious to her own decay, the elder vampire raised her
arms and made a slow pirouette. "I'm just a mirror of the state of your conscience.
After all, you lashed some pretty noble words out to Thomas during that big
confrontation, as though you were on some higher moral plane than the rest of us
hardened criminals. What was it you said to him?" Clare pondered for a second, then
snapped her fingers, the harsh motion effectively ripping her decayed thumb and
finger to the bone with a muffled click. "'What I've learned about living didn't come
from people who take, but people who give." Clare delivered the words with a cold
precision, her ragged lips encircling each syllable in a blood red lariat. She raised her
right hand to her upper left arm. Using her nails, she dragged furrows through the
fragile muscle and skin, leaving oozing scarlet claw marks in her wake. Clare gave no
sign that this self-mutilation pained her. She continued speaking, solemnly and
without emotion. "'Living comes from love, from support and loyalty, and from
respect.'" Clare watched analytically as Ivy's chest began to heave from muffled
tears. The younger vampire's weeping did not affect her. Instead, Clare dropped
skeletal hands to rest on her naked abdomen. She continued to throw Ivy's speech
back into her face, even as she sank eviscerating talons into her own belly. "'But
those words mean nothing to you. You can't understand anything that remotely puts
any other creature on the same level as you. No, that's too much input for that
twisted black hell you call a brain.'"

Ivy couldn't stand the wretched sound of the woman's voice any more. She swung
her arms madly at the other vampire as she wailed with a pained shriek, "Shut up!
Damn you, shut up!"

Ivy's fist connected with Clare's putrefied left jaw, causing a muffled thump. She
felt the tissue give way to her knuckles then lost contact. Clare's neck snapped like a
toothpick, the decayed sinews of the older vampire's throat giving no more resistance
than tissue. Ivy gasped in horror as she witnessed her opponent's head roll across the
floor. Now the screaming started, when it should be impossible for Clare to make a
sound. In the next moment, her decapitated corpse fell into Ivy's arms. It was
surprisingly heavy, and Ivy collapsed backward to the floor. She pushed the body
away, crying as it seemed to explode with writhing maggots and insects. Ivy slapped
desperately at her arms, vainly attempting to brush them away and escape the rot.

Ivy opened her eyes. The worms were gone. The corpse had vanished. She was no
longer sobbing on the floor of the bare hospital supply closet, but tucked into her own
bed. It was quiet again.

Rather than the futon mattress that she or Vachon would pull from an upstairs
closet whenever she stayed at the construction site, or the sleeper sofa Domino had
installed in the workroom of the studio for show season, it was the bed she had slept
in as a mortal in her parents' house. She recognized the painted wrought iron bed
frame and pastel yellow counterpane. She was cradled in sheltering arms. Dozens of
times, her mother had done this, soothing her back to sleep after a nightmare, during
the shakes of another 'cleanup - I'll be good this time, I swear' period. Ivy relaxed
into the safety those gentle arms promised.

She wasn't sure when she realized that it wasn't her mother who held her tight. Maybe
it was the strange perfume, a scent of gardenias on a warm summer's day. Perhaps it was
the absence of a heartbeat, or the lack of any mortal warmth radiating from the body at her
back. Perhaps it was the faint crackle of flames that could be heard from a distance. With a
harsh slap of recognition, Ivy knew that it was Clare, back to plague her again.

She twitched within the band of limbs that hugged her closely, releasing a fretful
whimper.

Clare held her still, but her manner somehow remained tranquil, not threatening.
"Shhh…Ivy, it's a dream," she said.

Ivy felt horrible. Here this woman was being so kind and comforting, even after Ivy
had...

She shook her head and stirred again. She couldn't accept kindness. Not after what she
had done. Ivy had to get away. She pushed against the arms that held her and begged for
release. "Please…"

"Please," Clare said softly, tenderly smoothing Ivy's hair away from her brow as she
whispered the word. "Would it have helped had I said 'please'? Would you have pulled
that stake from my heart then? Is it really the magic word?" Clare let out a sad sigh. "No, I
don't think such decisions are so easily changed. If you want these nightmares to stop,
Ivy, you only have two choices."

"What?"

"Face the truth," Clare said. "Confession is supposed to be good for the soul."

Ivy felt her chest tighten, her thoughts whirl at the very idea. She flipped, turning
within the circle of Clare's arms. "Vachon…"

"No, I guess Vachon wouldn't take the truth well. The centuries haven't eroded his
Spanish pride. He enjoys his share of sins, but betrayal isn't one he stomachs gladly.
Honest irresponsibility - that's his taste. If you told Vachon the truth," Clare hypothesized
casually, "you'd lose him. He would be disgusted at how you mocked his trust. He might
be furious enough to kill you. Too bad."

"What's my alternative?"

"Hmm?"

Ivy felt bewildered, but she found herself relaxing once more, resting her cheek
against Clare's chest. She had all the answers, and that was good. "You said I had two
choices to stop these nightmares."

"Oh, so I did. Your guilt over your actions and your fear of discovery are causing
your mind to manufacture these disturbing dreams. If you don't want your conscience to
trouble you, you're just going to have to get rid of it. Become pathologically consumed
with your own needs and desires, and the pain of remorse will disappear."

Ivy made a small sound of wonder as she contemplated this suggestion.

"See? Everything is all better now." Ivy felt cool lips brush her brow, and a calm
serenity overtook her. "You're going to be okay," Clare said, her voice light as air.

Ivy's eyes were closed now, and she snuggled contentedly within the arms protecting
her. She drifted away, this time to peaceful repose.

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

Vachon was working in the study when he heard Ivy scream. He allowed his hammer
to fall to the floor, not caring about the damage it would do to the boards. He was out the
door before it ever gouged into the floor. Later, Vachon would gripe privately about
having to sand and repolish the floor, but all he thought about at the moment was Ivy. Part
of him resented the panic, hated experiencing any trepidation whatsoever. For so long,
relationships were such casual things to him. Mortals came and went. Vampires moved on.
There was no apprehension, no fear that he would be left alone. Six deaths, half a dozen
friends and family carved away in one year, and everything had changed. Now Javier was
running up the stairs as though his life depended on it.

Which was crazy. He'd made an art out of ignoring Ivy since Halloween. Yet that
wasn't exactly true. He'd pushed her away, given her the silent treatment and every
excuse to leave, all the while keeping track of every move she made out of the corner of
his eye. That's why he'd left her to sleep the day away upstairs while he finished pegging
the bookcases into the walls of the study. He wasn't alone, but she wasn't too close,
either.

Freezing in the threshold of the master bedroom, Vachon let his eyes fall shut to savor
a moment of relief. Ivy was alone, curled up into a ball toward the top right corner of the
futon. She was crying in her sleep, not suffering from a physical threat, but an imagined
one.

Vachon realized he was holding his breath. He let it out in a rush, rubbing the tense
muscles at the back of his neck for a moment before approaching the mattress. He
dropped to his knees then curled up next to Ivy from behind. Her cheeks were stained with
tears, and her arms were fully extended in front of her as though she was trying to push
something or someone away. She whimpered, making a sound full of fear and desperation.
Vachon could swear he felt his heart twist at the sadness in it. He lay one hand on her
shoulder and gave her a gentle shake. "Shhh…Ivy, it's just a dream."

She didn't wake up. Ivy shook her head instead. She didn't agree with his whispers.
Vachon frowned and wrapped his arms around her torso, pulling her back firmly against
his chest. She struggled for a moment, reaching back and shoving at his arms as though
she wanted to get away. "Please…" she moaned softly, her speech slurred by sleep.

Vachon kept one arm tucked tightly around her stomach, but lifted his other hand to
brush her hair back from her forehead. Her brow was furrowed in consternation. Whatever
she was dreaming about, it had her concentrating on some serious, troubling thoughts.
Javier continued to run his fingers through her curls, the motion providing almost as much
catharsis to himself as he had intended to offer. Ivy hadn't bothered with more than a trim
in all the months that he'd known her, and now the mane stretched out in teak colored
tendrils several inches longer than his own. He loved it, but that was one of those things
he never said aloud. He just let his hands talk.

Suddenly, Ivy turned toward him, catching him by surprise. Her eyes were still closed,
but she murmured his name under her breath. Vachon stopped caressing her hair, letting
his fingers trail possessively down her spine.

Vachon cupped her jaw in one hand, rubbing her pulse lightly with his thumb. She
mumbled something else in her sleep, something he couldn't decipher. Vachon leaned
closer, allowing his lips to hover over her earlobe. "Hmm?"

Whatever crisis there was, whatever questions were going through her mind that
caused her turmoil, they evidently passed. Ivy made a contented sound and pressed her
cheek against his chest as her muscles began to relax. Her nightmare was over. Vachon
smiled faintly and decided to take all the credit. He dropped cool lips to her forehead,
glancing a feather-light kiss off her brow. "See? Everything is all better now. You're going
to be okay." His whisper barely merited the designation of sound.

Vachon decided to settle down for the day himself. The bookshelves could wait, and,
for the moment, he could allow himself to be comfortable holding this woman in his arms.
He would be gone by the time Ivy woke up, devoting himself anew to some incidental
project around the house, and she could scowl or complain about it, as usual.

When her eyes were open, he would pretend that he didn't need her again and silently
hope she lasted another day accepting the simulated insignificance. Until then, under the
guise of sleep, he would keep her close at hand. He would pretend she was his, and that
the word 'forever' wasn't just a euphemism for 'until the shit hits the fan.' He would
ignore the fear, the plaguing voice that told him not to risk caring for another person,
because that meant he had something else to lose.

***********************************************************************
End of Part Six

Survivors (07/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

"A vicious widow is memory. She waits…sterile…bleak…for a future that doesn't
arrive, that will never come, because she has lost it to the past. Memory lingers…memory
hovers…she gouges your eyes, leaving you with nothing but the scattered remnants of soft
sighs and whispered promises from another night…a night like this one, my children…but
it will never, never be the same…again."

LaCroix's hand lashed out to switch off the microphone. He swerved his chair away
with disgust, steepling his palms as his eyes burned into the recesses of the far wall. He
was furious with himself, antagonized by the persistence of her image in his brain. Clare,
bathed in blood. Clare laughing in the rain. Clare, self-confident and invulnerable. He
knew he should banish all thoughts of her. It was the way those as old as himself moved
on and survived. A vampire lost in the past soon ceased to function, soon began nursing
thoughts that the world was passing him by, when, in reality, he should look upon himself
as the world's master.

He understood this, yet she still lingered in his thoughts. LaCroix had allowed himself
the folly of believing that there was someone truly permanent in his life, immutable,
indestructible. He had imagined Clare would be in his life forever. He had been wrong.

Clare was dead, and figuratively, if not technically, buried. The dominant, logical
portion of LaCroix's mind knew this to be fact. The illogical side, his subconscious - his
fantasy, perhaps - insisted that she was alive, that it was simply a trick. It was so easy to
seize hold onto this idea, easier by far to express anger with Clare for leaving him alone,
rather than experience the agony of grief. LaCroix didn't like to lose, and as long as his
illogical side continued dreaming, he didn't have to relinquish anything.

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

Vienna, 1804

LaCroix made a minor adjustment to the lace at his cuff then waved an indolent hand in
his company's direction. "Really, one would think a vampire of your years would know
how to keep such an impudent pup under control."

"I don't terrorize my offspring like you, Lucius," Clare snapped, her expression
decidedly put out. "With *my years,* I've had the intelligence and good sense to realize
that the best manner in which to inspire a companionable equanimity with those souls I
choose to convert is to allow them their creativity."

LaCroix reached over to a nearby occasional table and lifted a thin leather-bound
volume with distaste. "When their 'creativity' produces such rubbish as this, you would do
better to see their spirits bound and gagged."

Clare sniffed ruefully as she thumbed through her own copy. "It is not so much the
lurid prose I mind as much as the fact that he published it just after I had become settled in
the London Season. It's rather hard to be part of a social whirl when you are across the
Continent."

"Surely his writing is more of an aggravation?" LaCroix insisted. "If it was not an
autobiographical work, your presence wouldn't be necessary in Vienna."

"Autobiographical?" Clare gave an unladylike snort. She opened the slim volume to a
random page and did a sample reading aloud. "'Quite completely did his swarthy physique
sway Penelope, so much that she swooned. Sir Firsty had no need for such tender
embraces as lovers are often wont to indulge, so overwhelming was his masculinity. A
man's man, a woman's man, a manly man.' *That* is supposed to portray Figaro? The
description more resembles Mad George than Fig. He's swarthy, and that is all I'll grant."

"Come now," LaCroix said. "There had to be more appeal to the fellow than his
complexion to inspire you to bring him into the fold."

"Attraction? Why, yes, Figaro has his attraction. He's witty, amusing to the point of
genius, not," Clare lowered her eyes to consult the novella once more, "'a verisimilitude of
stallion urges.' How incredibly silly. Obviously, he's been sipping from overwrought
Gothics again."

LaCroix threw his copy aside once more. "You've deliberately avoided the crux
infraction of the tale: Figaro reveals the hero to be a vampire. An inane, buffoonish
simpleton of a vampire, but one of the undead, nonetheless. He reveals *too much.* There
are those in the Community outraged by his audacity, and they want him punished."

Clare decisively flicked the painted sticks of her fan open. She began to flutter it
casually while staring at LaCroix over its rim with eyes tinged with steel. "Do you include
yourself among their number, Lucius?"

LaCroix's return gaze was equally ferocious. "If Figaro's comeuppance was my primary
concern, I hardly would have informed you just how precarious his situation is. It is
inextricably in your nature to interfere. I am, however, cautioning you to restrict those
urges. The Community would not dare move against one of your own if you are against it.
Unfortunately, I have learned that the Enforcers have elected an interest in this matter.
Figaro will no doubt come to you seeking protection. You would be best served to
publicly cut him loose, lest their wrath fall on your head as well."

"You are telling me to run away, leaving my babe to the wolves." Clare's expression
was incredulous. "Is that is what you would do in my position? Tuck your tail and
cower?"

"I would reason with them. Employ diplomacy," LaCroix said smoothly.

Clare's eyes narrowed. "You are saying that I am unreasonable."

LaCroix took on a patronizing air. "Considering your past…"

"My past?" Clare challenged. "What part of my past do you find substandard?"
LaCroix did not respond immediately, preferring to tilt his nose slightly in the air.
Suddenly, Clare began to guffaw. "Oh, I can see it, that smug patrician face of yours!
You're thinking that I'm nothing but a spear-tossing, knuckle-dragging barbarian who
hasn't enough sense to walk through a gate."

"Ah, but a spear-tossing, knuckle dragging barbarian capable of a decent turn of
phrase," LaCroix glanced pointedly at the volume of Figaro's fiction. "Unlike your so-
called 'witty' associates."

"Hmph. The Romans didn't invent civilization, dear. They stole it." Clare sniffed and
whisked her fan shut. "Well, I don't need diplomacy to evade any stakes aimed my way.
The Enforcers will have overstepped themselves if they dare to tangle with me. I will not
stand for any meddling in my own affairs from *anyone.*"

LaCroix frowned. "You are being stubborn and foolish."

"No. I am simply acting my age. Vampires of our stature, Lucius - we make the rules,
because nothing can touch us," Clare said proudly. "We have earned our power through
blood and fire and time, and, now, we are beyond restriction by any code."

"The Enforcers are a powerful foe. They will challenge the veracity of your words."

Clare grinned. "I am counting on it, Lucius. I will prove it. I am indestructible."

That cocky promise lingered in LaCroix's head,
tenacious and haunting, all the more so because he wanted to believe it was the truth.

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

Robert slipped an arm around Janette's waist from the back. "What's going on
between you and Ivy?"

Janette stiffened slightly, then pushed a hand through her hair. "Nothing is 'going on'
between us. Nothing out of the ordinary, at least."

"I don't know," Robert said shaking his head. "I got the distinct feeling last night that
all is not well. You were treating each other like the blind date from hell that you had no
excuse to ditch."

"Of course not. I care about le petit Lierre. She is a dear girl in need of guidance. She
is simply still traumatized by that business with her sire last fall." Janette gave a gallic
shrug. "It makes her moody."

"Ah. Ivy is moody," Robert chuckled and bent to nuzzle her neck.

After a moment, Janette pulled away. "I want to tuck Patrick in before it grows any
later."

Robert caught her wrist. "He's twelve years old. He doesn't need tucking in."

"I know," Janette replied, extracting her arm from his grip with a firm smile, "but I
*want* to do it."

She moved briskly out of the room, leaving Robert alone with his frown.

**********************************************************************
End of Part Seven

Survivors (08/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Nick picked up his remote and clicked the blinds into motion. They slid along the
window, humming meditatively, the faint glow of dusk light dancing about the floor
through the widening openings. Second step, he flicked on the television. Local news
blared to life on the large screen, a brunette describing the day's tragedies with a
pleasantly concerned expression.

Nick retrieved his glass and bottled meal from the coffee table. He poured a fresh
glass, then settled casually on the couch to watch the news broadcast. The identification of
Captain Sunjay Dell's remains made the top of the broadcast, including a statement that
Metro Police had placed tracking down the officer's killer in first place on its list of
priorities.

Nick sighed and reached for the remote again. He didn't want to be reminded of just
how little there was to go on in this case. His fingers fumbled blindly, and Nick realized
the remote had become lodged under the cushions. Digging his hand into the crevice of
the couch, his fingers first came into contact with a small, hard object. Nick plucked it
free, inspecting it curiously.

It was a button carved from what appeared to be bone. It was rounded on top, the
outline of a flower etched in relief. The button was one piece, the tiny, fragile shank
extending from its bottom, a wispy remnant of thread still dangling through the loop.

He recognized it. Nick frowned, flooded with memories. This button reminded him of a
time when Natalie lived at the loft. A time when Thomas still had them scrambling to find
clues in his pattern of murder. A time when Clare had…

************************************************************************
September 9, 1996

"Buttons," Clare said in dismay, frowning down at her silk blouse. "I keep losing these
buttons." She gave a small pout. "Figaro gave them to me, you know."

Nick whirled around, sneering dismissively at his uninvited guest. "Being Natalie's sire
isn't an open invitation to drop through the skylight whenever you feel like it."

"Now, now," Clare said in an overly sweet voice, "no need to become cranky. Besides,
if I'd buzzed the door, you would have told me to go away."

Nick rolled his eyes. He couldn't deny that he resented her working at the precinct,
masquerading as his partner. He also found it hard to swallow her easy camaraderie with
the Schankes, and, most importantly, he hated her interference in Natalie's life. It galled
Nick that Clare was right. He wouldn't have buzzed her up without an argument. "What
do you want?"

"I have a juicy piece of news I thought you'd want to hear."

"Did Natalie make an ID on Victim Nineteen?" Schanke had isolated four possibilities
the night before, and they were waiting for an answer so they could track down
acquaintances, enemies - *anything* - that might lead to apprehending this killer.

"No. Not yet." Clare brushed past him and made herself at home by lounging on the
sofa. "Please…don't offer me a drink."

"Fine…I won't," Nick countered. "What is this news you have? Is it something on the
Number Murders? Have you reconsidered how the killer could be a vampire?"

Clare sighed heavily. "No, I haven't become paranoid and self-flagellatory like *some*
vampires I could mention. This is another matter entirely. A new missing persons report
came in tonight that bothered Schanke. He said it was someone you two worked with
some years ago."

Nick's features tightened. "Who?"

"The new captain of the 34th precinct."

Nick slumped into one of the side chairs, his expression dazed. "Dell?"

Clare nodded. "That's him. No one's heard from him for three days now, yet his car is
parked in his precinct's lot. His people can't find him, his family can't find him, so the
consensus is drifting toward foul play."

"And so you skipped merrily over here as fast as you could to tell me about the terrible
news."

Clare appeared affronted. "I don't skip." Her face filled with horror as she glanced at
the newly opened cuff to her blouse. "Another one! If I lose any more buttons, I won't
have a shirt. Figaro gave these to me, you know."

"So you've said," Nick replied dispassionately.

"And they're not just any buttons," Clare continued as she pored over the couch.
"They're carved from the bones of -"

"Of a French Revolutionary," Nick finished for her. "You forget. I was Figaro's
friend."

"More of a 'fair-weather' variety, wouldn't you say? And, if I recall, he gave these
buttons to me on a cloudy day," Clare said, a bite to her smile. "There, there, Nick. No
need to frown. We all make mistakes."

"I think it's time for you to go."

"I think you're right," Clare agreed, rising from the couch. She waved a hand over the
furniture. "If you ever spot my missing buttons, I do want them back. You'll know where
to find me."

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

Nick stared forlornly at the piece of bone. "But I don't," he whispered.

He supposed he missed her. Clare had had her good qualities, oftentimes she was slow
to reveal them, or they were overshadowed by her violent bad habits, yet, in his gut, Nick
had a feeling that Clare's presence even now would cause more problems than it would
solve. Still, Natalie needed her right now. She'd gone adrift, uncaring what happened once
her sire died. Nick had figured out that much. Part of his hopes in winning her back hinged
upon Natalie adjusting, not giving up on her human side, and not abandoning hope.

Clare…Nick had considered her memory long and hard, and he'd come to realize a
measure of his antagonism for the woman hadn't been earned. A small measure.
Sometimes he'd acted out his own anger toward LaCroix simply because there had been
similarities, and it had rendered him blind to the differences. It had led him down a path
that ended in conflict with Clare.

Had he grieved at Clare's death? Some, yes. The events were heated and jumbled
leading up to that climactic evening filled with stricken faces. How could he witness
Natalie, Schanke, Vachon, Ivy, Domino and so many others in pain and not feel a portion
of that? Every time he heard his sire's voice over the airwaves, he imagined LaCroix's
suffering. Nick may have thought this, but there was no satisfaction
in it for him. When justice comes after the scales have long rusted, who takes the
measure?

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

Natalie spent the day shuffling through old ballistic reports. Every time she paused and
asked herself why she was there, why she was spending hours doing something so dull
and, most likely, pointless, her inner voice gave the same, mocking answer.

That's what had kept her at the Coroner's Office the night before. She had a sense of
absolute certainty that she would have gone hunting if she had stepped out-of-doors.
Trouble, trouble, trouble. Eventually, darkness eroded into the dawn, and the choice was
taken out of her hands.

Hands that kept on shuffling through ballistic reports. The day was relatively quiet, and
Natalie managed to keep to herself. She imagined that she was content.

As the hours wore on, Natalie realized with gnawing pangs in her stomach and nerves
that she was well past feeding time. Pushing the files aside, she padded back toward the
morgue, intent upon the blood supply in the refrigerator. Approaching the door, Natalie
noted a mortal heartbeat with annoyance. Someone was in there, and she'd have to send
them on an errand if she wanted dinner.

Natalie paused with her hand splayed on the metal door panel for a split-second before
pushing it open. There was something else she felt…something different.

Something different, as in the person waiting in the morgue wasn't one of her
employees.

Natalie experienced a wave of panic as she recognized the man in a tweed jacket,
surreptitiously eyeing the surface contents of her desk.

"Chief Inspector O'Neal," Natalie said aloud, her voice carrying a faint shake.

He jerked around, looking at the coroner in surprise. "Doctor Lambert." Almost
unbidden, his hand lifted to massage his throat. Catching himself, O'Neal's fingers froze
halfway on their journey. Instead, he extended them for a handshake.

Natalie stepped forward and met his palm with a cool grip. "I hoped … I never really
thought I'd see you again."

"Never say never," he burred. "I had some holiday time come up, and I was struck with
an overwhelming curiosity to visit Toronto and see how my acquaintances on the police
force fared."

"But I'm not on the police force," Natalie countered.

The Irishman shrugged. "You are a lovely lady. I was of a mind to ask you out to
dinner and catch up on changes, but I have a feeling you already made alternate plans. I
think I'll just be going."

Liam O'Neal brushed against her arm on his way to the door. Natalie felt an ache of
hunger crank through her at the smell of him, and she loosened her hold on the devil. She
turned slowly, her voice halting his steps. "Raincheck on that meal?"

He looked back at her, his expression shuttered. "We'll see, Doctor Lambert. By the
way…how is Detective Knight these days?"

Natalie stiffened visibly, and she knew it. "I really couldn't say."

O'Neal studied her for a moment, something akin to regret in his eyes. "That's a real
shame."

He left abruptly, the door to the morgue swinging in his wake.

Natalie thought with rising dread.

Her second thought was,

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

Survivors (09/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Captain Stephanie Forrest was the last person to leave on her shift. She walked
through the cubicles of the Corporate Crime Division with a pinched face, making mental
notes of which officers had left regardless of work unfinished. She maintained a mental
tally of everyone's job performance, and reassigned the driftwood whenever possible.

Sometimes the transfer of those doing substandard work wasn't feasible. Many was the
time Stephanie had taken someone into dislike and had wanted them off her watch, but
because the officer had friends in high places, she had to grin and bear it. Stephanie had
ambitions: power suit, power briefcase, power attitude, and she was determined that she
would make commissioner status before the age of forty. Considering she ran one of the
most elite divisions and had one of the highest successful prosecution percentages in all of
Metro Police, Captain Forrest was well on her way.

Commissioner Vetter remained the only black mark on her horizon. He held a grudge
that Stephanie hadn't managed to keep his daughter in line and out of Homicide, a
resentment that had intensified when Tracy Vetter died in the line of duty scant months
after her brief transfer. The memory left a bitter taste in Captain Forrest's mouth. She'd
done Commissioner Vetter a favor, making room for his spoiled child to waltz into her
department and be insubordinate. When Tracy went roaring back to the 96th, somehow it
had become Stephanie's fault, as though she hadn't made forensic accounting
*interesting* enough, as though the Commissioner's daughter was a preschooler who
needed entertaining to keep her out of harm's way. Stephanie often
repeated to herself,
Stephanie shrugged, stepping onto the elevator and stiffly punching the button for
basement parking.

No, she wasn't going to get any support from the Vetter corner in her bid to join the
Police Commission, but Captain Forrest was already working around that obstacle,
making connections with other influential members who could help her. If she played her
cards right, the seat Stephanie took on the commission just might be Vetter's own.
<*That* would be a taste of his own medicine,> she thought smugly, then eyed the
elevator display with an annoyed frown. Stephanie hated waiting.

By the time she reached the basement, Stephanie was in no mood for company. She
walked briskly toward her car, ignoring the uniformed officer as she brushed past him. He
immediately stopped and called out her name. "Captain Forrest!"

Giving an irritated sigh, Stephanie turned around and stared stonily at the man. "Yes?"
It was an unwelcoming question.

"Don't you remember me?" His face was eager and open.

"Should I?" Stephanie said bitingly, then glanced at her watch. her look said.

The man's eyes seemed to deaden, his lips curling into a mask of reproof. "Yes, you
should."

Stephanie had turned away slightly, eyeing her car with undisguised longing as she
wondered over the pros and cons of just telling a junior officer to get lost. "I meet a lot of
people, and most are forgettable, okay?" she said as she looked back at him. Stephanie
froze. He had a gun. "What do you think you're doing?"

He gritted his teeth, his raised arm shaking angrily. "I'm the one with the weapon, ready
to blow your head open, and you still put on that god-on-high act. I deserve some respect!
Some acknowledgment!" He lowered the barrel and pulled the trigger.

Stephanie gasped as her legs buckled underneath her. Fire rose up her left leg. She hit
the asphalt with a thump, landing halfway on top of her briefcase. She spared a moment of
outrage at the scuff marks that would now mar the leather surface, then the pain
rearranged her priorities.

Stephanie stared at her stockinged legs, her features swimming with incomprehension.
There was a seeping red mass of gore where her kneecap should be. Sound escaped her
throat in a gurgle as she blinked at the bloodstains climbing past the hem of her skirt.
Gasping for air, she turned her attention to her attacker, studying him with new fervor.

Did she know him from somewhere? He had appeared harmless, one of those people
who drifted interchangeably through the shuffle. His kind wasn't supposed to matter. No
one below you mattered. They weren't able to cause problems for you later…

An orphan wave of hysterical laughter hit her with that thought. She adjusted her arms,
testing the possibility of pulling herself along the concrete.

His voice loomed over her, cold and angry. "Do you remember me now, Captain?"

Stephanie tilted up her chin, mentally stripping away the hate from her vision. She
placed the gun back out of sight and focused on that first, eager greeting. Nothing came.
"Oh, yes, I remember you," she lied.

He saw the deceit in her. Maybe she lowered her lashes slightly as she spoke the
words. Perhaps she hadn't put enough assertiveness in her tone. However she had slipped,
he wasn't satisfied. Stephanie tried moving closer to her car again, using her uninjured leg
to push herself over the rough surface. For the first time she envied the beat cops, the ones
who constantly trained themselves to handle violence and vice on a daily basis. Stephanie
hadn't worried about such things for over a dozen years, relying on the safety of her
corner office and balance sheets. she thought,
groping at her sedan door.

Her attacker had stepped away for a moment. Stephanie could hear him moving, could
hear the scrape of something heavy being dragged then lifted. She could feel his presence
behind her as he came closer again. There was a heat, a malevolent cloud that seemed to
hang over him, and, as he looked down upon her wounded body, a darkness eclipsed
Stephanie's heart. She figured it out finally. He was going to kill her, and she knew why.

The first blow didn't kill her.

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

Detectives Knight and Schanke put their heads together.

"What do you want to do with him?"

"I don't know, Schank. What do *you* want to do with him?"

"Give him our paperwork?"

"I don't think he'll go for that. This isn't a complete rookie we're dealing with here."

Both detectives leaned back simultaneously in their chairs, propping their feet up on
their respective desks as they studied their new partner. James Curran had just returned
from one of the file rooms, his arms laden with casework.

"This is temporary," Nick commented. "He could use the week until Gonzales gets
back to brief himself on Andy's outstanding cases."

"Yeah," Schanke agreed. "Only Reese said he wanted Curran working with us on the
Dell case. Are you sure we can't make him do all the paperwork?"

"I'm sure."

"Damn." Schanke eyed the pile of forms stacked on his desk, then he gave Detective
Curran's approach a second glance. "He can do some paperwork. Clare did paperwork,"
he pointed out.

"She did her share," Nick admitted. "Remember how she said she used the 'Hunt and
Peck and Curse' technique?" A lopsided grin spread over his features at the memory.

"Oh, man! Was she ever slow!" Schanke laughed. "I never knew a woman who could
type like a snail before. I thought secretarial skills were something they were born with."

"I'm sure Clare would have had something to say about that sexist comment," Nick
observed.

"Hardly. She wouldn't talk. She'd go straight to the neutering." The partners chuckled
for a moment, then Schanke commented, "Yeah, that Clare was something else.
Something else…" He leaned over his desk and clapped Nick on the foot. "Like you,
partner. No wonder you two didn't get along."

Nick let his feet drop to the floor and folded his palms together, leaning on his elbows
at his desk. "Yeah," he said thoughtfully. "So what are we going to do with - ?"

"Do what with whom?" James Curran's voice broke in from above. He looked
knowingly down at both detectives. "You're plotting to give me grunt work, aren't you?"

"Not *all* of the grunt work!" Schanke qualified.

"Hey, I might be a new detective, but I got a good idea of how things worked when I
was in Vice," James argued. "How do you know I'll cramp your style until you try me?"

"We came to the same conclusion," Nick said good-naturedly, then shooting a stern
look Don's direction, added, "Didn't we, Schanke?"

"We did? Oh, yeah! We did!" A glint entered Don's eye. He'd had a sudden
brainstorm. "We could really use your help on the Dell case, and since Captain Reese
thinks looking for a match to the murder weapon in the ballistics archives is a great idea,
we thought we'd let you score points by helping Doctor Lambert search through all those
old files."

Nick frowned, Schanke's idea rubbing a raw spot on his conscience. Natalie had
enough to deal with already without being saddled with their new detective. The idea of
another candidate helping her – himself - sounded much better. "Maybe that isn't such a
good idea," Nick began to argue.

"It's a great idea! Don't mind Nick," Schanke said with a wink. "He'd love nothing
better than spending a couple days working closely with the lovely coroner."

"So why doesn't he?" Curran asked smartly.

"She doesn't like him." Schanke cupped a palm beside his mouth and exaggeratedly
mouthed the words 'old girlfriend' for James' benefit.

"Natalie likes me," Nick protested. "She just has…issues." His shoulders slumped a
little, bewildered as to what else he could say, feeling a bit defensive.

"Of course she does," Schanke countered. "All women have issues, but when they
want to be around you, they don't make such an issue of them."

Captain Reese's presence broke off Nick's next argument. "We just got a homicide call
from the Corporate Crime Division. Detective Curran will ride with me."

Schanke straightened in concern. "What is it? A cop?"

Reese's eyes were stony. "It's another Captain," he said then moved swiftly toward the
exit.

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

Ivy cajoled Janette into taking a walk with her outside after dinner. Robert and Patrick
remained at the townhouse to watch a hockey game on television.

"Is something bothering you, Lierre?" Janette asked smoothly. "Vachon, perhaps? I
could tell you weren't happy when he chose to not join us the other night."

"Vachon?" Ivy said absently. "I can manage Vachon."

Janette arched an eyebrow, delivering a broad, indulgent smile. "Can you?"

Ivy glanced away, not entirely comfortable being teased about this particular subject. "I
would prefer it if he became more involved with my family." She reached out and grasped
Janette's hand, squeezing it for reassurance. "You are my family now, aren't you?"

Janette trailed an elegant hand over the young vampire's hair, her voice mild. "Of
course I am."

"Javier is just going through a difficult period. He's lost many of his friends over the
past year, and with Clare…" Ivy winced saying the name aloud, then took a deep breath.
"Well, the loss affected him."

Janette stiffened, and she dropped her hand coldly to her side. "Don't tell me you're
feeling guilty over the past. You have no need."

Ivy looked up, a hurt, lost expression in her eyes. "Don't I?"

Janette stopped walking and grasped Ivy's chin roughly. "I told you that we were
never going to speak of that night again. Why do you insist on fighting me about this? It's
over! Forget her. I insist."

Ivy's throat felt dry, and her thoughts scattered. She shook her head slightly. There
was something important, something crucial about that night that needed discussing, but
she couldn't find the words to express it, couldn't seize the explanation that would make
Janette understand how pivotal this was for her. "No, listen…please. I've been having
these dreams. Dreams with Clare in them…and Thomas." She shook her head again, her
voice picking up a sobbing note. "I'm afraid of them…still. It seems so…"

"Real?" Janette's voice was like iron. "Don't be stupid. A dream is a dream. They only
haunt you because you let them. So you have some fear of what might happen if someone
like Vachon or Nick found out everything that happened that night. Well, they won't.
There's no way they can…unless you let them discover the truth."

"LaCroix," Ivy said softly.

Janette blinked at his name. "What about him?"

"You forgot LaCroix. What might happen if he found out…everything?" Ivy hung on
to that last word, twisting the syllables into a knotted taunt.

Janette released Ivy's chin abruptly, the force pushing the young vampire back on her
heels. "I never want to hear another word about this subject. Do you hear me? Not one
word. Betrayal doesn't belong in families. Remember that." She glared at Ivy for a
moment, then turned and began to walk back toward the townhouse.

"Going to check on Patrick?" Ivy called after her.

Janette paused and glanced over her shoulder. "Of course. He's my son," she said
calmly. "I want to look after him like a good mother." She examined Ivy's appearance
critically. "Don't come back inside until you get a grip on yourself. I don't want Robert
asking questions, understand?"

Ivy didn't meet her gaze, merely twisted her lips slightly. "I understand," she said
softly.

She listened to Janette's footsteps as they trailed farther away, sighing to herself only
when the click of the front door closing echoed distantly in her ears. "Question time, Ivy-
girl," she whispered to herself. "Which one is the bigger hypocrite? You, or her?"

Memories flashed through her: her parents and her brother, their corpses laid out in
Vachon's church for her to find, a church he hadn't returned to since the night they found
the bodies. Clare's eyes as she asked Ivy to take the stake from her heart, a wound that
had started as an accident, yet it had become something horribly worse, something she
couldn't forget. The faces of the people left behind: Vachon, Domino, Natalie, even
LaCroix.

"And I did it," Ivy whispered, clutching at her sides as she felt her world fall apart
again. "I did it."

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

Survivors (10/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

The detectives stood around Captain Forrest's body in a semi-circle, their posture
funereal. Reese, Nick, Schanke and Curran all had solemn faces, for while death was their
lives' work, they were always supposed to maintain a certain emotional distance and keep
their jobs in perspective. That objectivity became increasingly difficult when the victims
were one of their own, people who were supposed to persecute crime, not fall prey to it.

Natalie was still crouched over the body, examining the head wounds. Two forensic
technicians were directly behind her, searching the asphalt and Forrest's sedan for any
fragile evidence. Finally, she glanced up, her eyes darting first toward Nick. There was a
concern to her spirit, but his interpretation was that the nature of this case troubled her,
the blood of the crime scene pulled at her. These were worries he understood and
expected, so Nick didn't dig for any deeper meaning to her momentary eye contact.

Then her gaze moved on to Captain Reese, her expression becoming almost apologetic
as she sighed deeply. "Well, I can't say there aren't similarities between this and the Dell
case." The men shuffled uncomfortably, their thoughts scratching around the significance
of her prognosis. "I also can't say this murder is exactly like the Dell case," Natalie
quickly qualified. "There are significant differences here. I'll need more time before I can
confirm that we're looking for one cop-killer, not two." She gestured toward the gaping
wound on the leg of the corpse. "Such as a bullet match."

"Wait a second," Curran spoke up. "Both victims were shot and bludgeoned. Doesn't
that count as similarity enough?"

"It counts as similarity enough for us to start investigating this by looking for a
connection between Dell and Forrest," Captain Reese pronounced.

"On the other hand," Nick pointed out, "the information that Dell was shot and beaten
appeared in the newspapers. The fact that Forrest was shot in the leg, not the heart,
suggests this could be a copycat. Plus, there was no attempt to hide the body by burying it
in a deserted area, as in Dell's situation."

Schanke was still concentrating on Reese's suggestion. "A connection between Dell
and Forrest?" He shook his head doubtfully. "Dell was down to earth, a family man,
completely oriented to being a cop. He knew the streets. Captain Forrest was the head of
Corporate Crime. Those people are chained to their desks and their cocktail parties."

"Maybe they were in the same class at the academy. It could be something very far
back," Nick reasoned. "A link in one case - that's all we need."

"Over fifteen, twenty-year careers?" Schanke groaned. "Oh, great."

"I'll say it again, Detectives. This may be a needle in a haystack," Reese ordered, "but I
want you jumping up and down until you land on something." The Captain turned away,
briefly conferring with Sergeant Pulte, who had come up behind him.

"Fifteen years of cases, you say?" Curran murmured. "That makes working on the
ballistics with Doctor Lambert sound like heaven."

Natalie's head jerked up from studying the victim in shock. "What?" She glanced
accusingly between Nick and Schanke. "What is he talking about?"

Nick had no intention of taking credit for this one. "It was Schanke's idea."

Feeling the full brunt of Natalie's sharp gaze, Schanke raised his hands in front of his
chest, as though he wanted to ward her away. "You said you were swamped."

She grimaced. "I suppose I am." She shrugged slightly. "I could use an additional pair
of hands and eyes sorting through ballistics."

"So it's settled," Curran said, a bit too eagerly in Nick's opinion. "So when should I
come in? Morning? Afternoon? Evening?"

"Natalie gets very cranky early in the morning," Nick said knowingly as a mark of
possession. She shot him another annoyed look, and he felt like kicking himself. He felt
silly and boyish, but Nick was honestly jealous that Curran was going to have an excuse to
see Natalie for hours on end. He also felt irritated, because he hadn't thought of
volunteering for the job first.

"I usually just work the night shift nowadays," Natalie said briskly, "but feel free to
come in during the day. One of the assistants can show you around if I'm not there."

Nick hugged a small measure of satisfaction at her words. He had picked up a subtle
sense that Natalie intended to keep a safe distance between herself and this new detective,
and, more often than not, she wasn't going to be available when he came by the morgue.
Soothed, he began to concentrate on details of the murder again.

"Pulte," Nick called, attracting the young sergeant's attention. "Can you check with
building security to see if they had cameras installed down here?"

"Sure thing," the officer said.

Captain Reese moved back into the throng of their group. "You'd think being a police
building would be security enough," he grumbled.

"For most people, yes," Nick replied, "but we're dealing with a cop killer."

They were there for another hour, Sergeant Pulte bringing back news that there were
cameras installed in the building and parking area, and that the videotapes were in the
process of being collected and taken back to the precinct.

Natalie finished her work tagging Captain Forrest's body and gave the okay for it to be
transported to the morgue. Instead of leaving straight away, she interrupted a pow-wow
Nick and Schanke were having on possible connections between Stephanie Forrest and
Dell.

She simply said, "Nick? I need to talk to you."

Nick glanced over at his partner, who appeared very curious. Schanke's eyes seemed to say. Nick didn't have
an answer for those questions.

Natalie picked up on Schanke's interest in the situation and motioned Nick away.

Nick followed her to a deserted corner of the parking lot, then, confident they were
alone, asked in a concerned voice, "Are you okay?"

Natalie considered the question thoughtfully, not answering out of hand. "I don't
know." She studied Nick's features blankly for a moment then began to walk, pacing in
small circles as she rubbed her arms. "I had a visitor at the morgue this afternoon." She
stopped walking and met Nick's stare, revealing the panic that danced in her eyes. "It was
Liam O'Neal. He said he came back to Toronto for a visit." Her lips twisted wryly. "To
catch up on changes."

"Do you think that he realized you're a vampire now?" Nick asked calmly.

"Well, if he didn't guess, he certainly suspected *something.* Let's just say that he
caught me off guard. I didn't handle it well at all. I think my first instinct was to run away
and hide."

"That's not necessarily a bad instinct," Nick assured her.

"Hm. My second instinct was to act a bit threatening and chase him out of there. That
one worked." Natalie began to pace once more. "O'Neal has to be suspicious. What are
you going to do?"

"If I see him, I'll be polite. We left things peaceably," Nick said. "That doesn't have to
change."

"It doesn't?!" Natalie appeared flabbergasted. "Nick, the last time he was here, Liam
O'Neal was a threat to you! Until we convinced him that you had reformed, that you were
no longer a killer or a threat to anyone, he intended to kill you for being a vampire."

Nick flinched involuntarily, his thoughts immediately swirling around the face of Louis
Secour. Nick knew what
Natalie was getting at, but he didn't want to dodge through that moral minefield of murder
versus self-preservation. Not again. Not so soon. he thought ironically. He
remained silent, allowing Natalie to draw her own conclusions.

His silence worried her. "As much as that's still true - you're a vampire trying to do
good - O'Neal is still a vampire hunter. He comes back to Toronto and discovers that I've
become a vampire. What conclusion do you think he's going to make?" She clutched at
Nick's sleeve, her brows knit tightly together. "He's going to hold you responsible, Nick."

"But I am responsible," Nick shot back. he warned himself. He
softened his voice, relenting. "At least, partly responsible."

That admission gave Natalie a moment's pause. She recognized the difference in it, the
subtle shift from 'This is all about me and my decisions' to 'This is *our* life.' Not his
past, not hers, but their history together. Nat felt a twist of loss at the thought of that, and
silently cursed him in her mind.

Nick sensed the turmoil in her thoughts and picked up on her fear. He wanted to hold
her and tell her that everything would be okay, but, somehow, he knew that that wasn't
going to be a welcome reaction. Keeping his hands at his sides, he asked, "What do you
think will happen, Nat?"

"If O'Neal thinks you brought me across, how do we know that he's not going to
decide that you're a danger again? What if he goes looking for signs of vampires around
Toronto, maybe another foray into the Raven? What happens then, Nick?"

"Then I'll protect him as much as I'm able."

Natalie's face became drawn. "And who protects you from him? He was swift to put
you on trial last time. What if he goes straight to the execution?"

Nick wanted to reassure her. "I don't believe that he will."

"I don't agree. Look, I wanted to warn you. I want you to be careful, Nick. You may
not be able to understand a lot of what I feel about you right now, but understand…I
don't want you hurt because you're trying to be a good man. Your fate is more important
to me than O'Neal's right now."

Nick began to experience a new fear of his own. "Is that supposed to be a warning?"

"Am I supposed to want you destroyed?" Natalie countered.

He did reach out to her then, firmly grasping her shoulders. "Don't go after him
yourself." She shook her head, her features a mask of painful worry. She tried to jerk
away, but Nick pulled her back. "And don't tell LaCroix about this. Natalie, promise me
that you'll keep LaCroix out of this."

Her eyes flared angrily. "I've never gotten in the habit of running to him for anything!"
her expression seemed to add. "If O'Neal turns out to be a threat, Nick,
I'm not going to turn the other cheek. If that bothers you, if that disappoints you…then so
be it." Natalie pulled back again. "Now let me go. I've said what I wanted to say, and I've
got work to do."

Nick leaned against a concrete support, folding his arms over his chest as he watched
her get into her car and drive out of sight. He wasn't bothered or disappointed as much as
he was shocked by her honesty.

He was afraid of what she might do and afraid of what could happen to her. Most of all,
he was afraid she might never let him be a part of her life again.

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

Survivors (11/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Ivy thought as she sat on the dank doorstep. She
breathed deeply, soothed by the cool air whispering through her nostrils.

A tired sigh escaped Ivy's lips as she curled up on her side, allowing the damp concrete
to kiss her face.

Ivy never went back inside the townhouse, never got a grip on herself to a degree that
would have satisfied Janette. Robert would be just as suspicious when she didn't return,
and Ivy took a measure of smug satisfaction from that knowledge. There was a resentment
boiling inside of her, an indignation at the thought that she had lied, betrayed and bartered
her self-respect, all to win the approval of someone who treated her like spare change.

The kid was important to Janette. Having a child. Suspicions scraped through her, a
tangle of hooks in Ivy's already troubled mind.

She curled up more tightly into a ball inside the doorway, her tears staining the stoop.
Shame swaddled her like a blanket, but she was still cold, brittle inside.

Once someone begins to hate themself, it's so easy to paint the world with the
overflow. Everything becomes rotten and foul, another piece of blame, another burden to
heap atop the already too heavy load. It's doubly easy to believe that escape will only
come if one blocks the torment out, colors it black and pretends the night chases the pain
away. Otherwise, the only alternatives are to succumb to the self-loathing and let it have
its rein, or to own up to every misdeed, honestly, penitently, and move forward.

People swimming in hate tend to tread water rather than drown.

Ivy clung to the darkness, sucking in the moist unseen air, wishing for the past to
simply wash away. It started to rain, a heavy curtain of droplets rolling down to little
applause. It was an adequate cover for Ivy to hide beneath. No one looks closely at
anything in the rain. Rain is for running, a place for quick escapes with more concern
about how to get away from the flood you're in already than over where you're headed.
Desperately, Ivy prayed for the loathing to seep from her inner wounds, for the fear of
retribution to fade. She was drowning, fighting to keep her head above the surface. For a
few hours, she managed to convince herself that she was winning.

She rested her eyes, concentrating on distant echoes of tires treading over the asphalt.
The distance soothed her, numbed her thoughts. It was peaceful, dreaming herself apart
from everything. Harmonizing with the far-off traffic, tiny sounds clicked of footsteps.
Someone, somewhere, crossed the street and moved on. Ivy dozed through the patter,
trying to empty her mind of her troubles and fears. Some footsteps seemed to grow closer,
but she paid them no mind. A car rolled down the street, but, other than a lazy glance out
of one eye to verify it wasn't the police, who might bother her for loitering here, she paid
such sounds little worry.

Then an icy tremor snaked along her spine.

Ivy's eyes snapped open. She tensed to attention.

She sensed something horribly familiar, a presence that she didn't want to know. It was
someone she had believed, had hoped, to be ash and smoke.

Ivy scrambled into the doorway as another car drove past, this one with its headlights
burning brightly. The intensity burnt her eyes, blinding her momentarily. The lights danced,
pulsed in her pupils for several hanging moments. Blinking, flashing, twirling. Gradually,
her vision came back into focus.

For a blink of time, she thought she saw Thomas standing far across the street, a
mocking, evil smile twisting his features.

Ivy didn't scream. Screaming was beyond her wakeful realm. She ran, something
snapping inside of her, a desperation that she had to get away. Something had to be
capable of drowning out this panic and fear, and somewhere in her old mortal haunts of
junkies and pushers, she found it. Thomas had taunted her about that,
and he had been right. She was a creature of habit, and her old habits died hard.

The junkie fought madly, twitching and flailing in a fight for his life that he had never
championed when he had still had a chance to escape. Ivy savored the sensation of the
blood sweeping over her fangs and thought back again to her own death. She hadn't
fought like this as she took her final breaths, had she? Hadn't she lain limp? Hadn't she
just let it happen?

The heroin had a bitter taste, biting her tongue, snapping at her like an ungrateful dog.
She felt it, though, mingled with the blood, death and life turning and knotting together as
one, something that she couldn't begin to unravel.

Ivy's numbness became real. Her peace became a consumable thing: twelve red pints
with a brown gram chaser. Her self-loathing deadened, and her anger became
inconsequential.

Mmm...to be numb and unafraid. To be a peace. What would she pay for that?

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

Natalie welcomed the knock on her hotel suite door. She'd brought home a stack of
reports from the morgue that needed completion, but the task was hardly appetizing.
She'd been staring at the same page for the past ten minutes, so any intervention was
divine.

Finding Nick waiting across the threshold, Natalie was reminded of the fact that
nothing is free. She'd wanted a rescue from paperwork, but it had come in the form of
something that she wanted to deal with even less. She latched onto the safest topic that
came to mind, all while caught off-guard with Nick here, in her personal space. Natalie told herself.

"Do you have some news about Dell's murderer?" she asked, forcing her features into
an expectant mask.

Nick shook his head with disappointment. "No. None of our leads have panned out.
Not a single connection between Dell and Forrest so far." His expression was rueful.
"Unless their both being Captains counts."

"And the fact that they were shot by bullets from the same gun. I feel terrible about
that," Natalie said. "There's so little forensics to go on in these cases. If will alone could
solve a case, this would have been closed the night we found Dell's body."

"Yes," Nick agreed. He seemed thoughtful for a moment then added tentatively, "By
the way, I wanted to apologize again for Schanke palming the new detective off on you. I
know the last thing you wanted was a mortal hanging around the morgue, hanging around
you…"

"Actually, it hasn't been too bad," Natalie said.

Nick's face fell. "It hasn't?" Nick told himself.

"Curran's mostly come in days," Natalie explained, "which means I was elsewhere.
He's made quite a bit of progress, I might add. He's worked his way back through
seventeen months of bullets and shell casings. It would have taken me three weeks instead
of three days to get that far just working overtime on this job. Jim Curran spared me from
practicing mind control on Reese to get out of it," Nat said lightly, peering intently at Nick
out of the corner of her eye, ready to catch the mildest sign of disapproval at her
comment. He didn't take the bait, seeming distracted, so Natalie continued to talk. "I've
just left Curran to it. I've hardly seen him, considering the difference in our hours, so he
hasn't been a nuisance."

Nick found himself wanting to ask, "Well, there's only four more days until Curran's partner comes back from
vacation, and that'll be the end of that."

"Right," Natalie nodded. There were several moments of uncomfortable silence, in
which Nat decided this wasn't going to be a swift, painless visit, so she shut the suite
door. "Is that why you came by? Worried that I might be having difficulty working with a
mortal in the cramped quarters of ballistics archives?"

Nick immediately protested. "I never said that."

"But you were thinking it, weren't you? I know I have." Nat knew she was being
deliberately antagonistic, yet she couldn't seem to stop herself. "He's quite attractive, and
he has expressed an interest in…getting together. I must admit I was tempted at first, to
risk another bite at the office…I don't think he was thinking what I was thinking, though."
Natalie turned a sleek smile toward Nick and cocked her head pensively, her posture
sculpted by bravado. "Do you think?"

Nick did pounce on that comment. "What do you mean 'another bite at the office'?" he
said fiercely. Something from Natalie's manner told him Nat wasn't referring to the two of
them getting carried away during an intimate moment in the morgue.

His tone gave Natalie pause. She held up a
palm, saying contritely, "Erase that. I don't know what I'm saying."

"Then don't talk," Nick said plainly.

Something about the simplicity of that statement cracked her up. Her mouth opened,
her lips spread wide enough to hug the first stream of genuine laughter Natalie had
experienced since Clare had died. She waved her hands at him then collapsed on the
couch, much to the disapproval of Sidney, who was taking a nap.

Seeing her laugh, the small spark of light in her spirit, Nick found himself grinning. he thought. Nick followed her to the couch and took a seat at the other
end, to the further disapproval of Sidney, who had just settled down after Natalie's
disturbance of his nap.

Her laughter trailed off naturally as she leaned back into the corner of the sofa, her
eyes closed in contentment, a faint tilt remaining to her lips. "Why was that so funny?" she
asked good-naturedly, opening her lids to stare at Nick.

Nick grinned some more then offered a careless shrug. "Does it really matter? It's still
good to laugh."

"Yes. You're right." Natalie sat up straighter, rearranging a few of the throw pillows
that had been lodged under her left hip. "So, uhm…why did you drop by again?"

Nick held up a finger, to say 'wait one second,' then searched through his coat
pockets. "I found two things in the loft that I thought you might want. There's a tube of
catnip and one of Clare's buttons. You know, the ones…"

Natalie joined in on the familiar mantra, and they finished the phrase in unison.
"…Figaro carved from the bones of a French Revolutionary!" They shared a smile again.
Nat shook her head as she took the small white object from Nick's hand and studied it.
"How often did she repeat that?"

"Just every time she lost one those buttons."

"And, boy, did she lose them! I remember when she came to Toronto, when Figaro
was making her wardrobe that first week, she brought a slew of these buttons to the
studio in a velvet bag. There had to have been over three dozen of the things." Natalie
beamed at the memory. "Figaro was ecstatic that she still had them."

"I bet he was," Nick said knowingly.

"It's funny," Natalie commented, turning the button this way and that, watching the
glow of the light shimmering off the polished surface, "it wasn't until after Figaro was
gone that I remember Clare becoming such a klutz with these buttons. You know, that
wasn't like her, to be careless."

"She was careless all the time," Nick responded sharply. Seeing Natalie glance up at
him in reproof, he sighed. "Sorry. That wasn't a fair thing to say."

"No, it wasn't."

"Again, I'm sorry."

Natalie's face softened, and she held the small ornament up by its shank. "I know you
were friends with Figaro before the French Revolution. Tell me. Were you witness to the
historic occasion of their creation?"

"Oh, no, no." Nick lolled his head back slightly, recalling his first sight of the bone
buttons, a glimpse caught from a distance. "I remember when he gave them to her,
though. It was years after the Revolution. Figaro first tried his hand at dress-making after
an unfortunate writing career."

Natalie's curiosity prickled. "Unfortunate? How?"

"He wrote a series of lurid novellas…about vampires."

"Oh, my. I can see where that might be an unpopular subject with certain people. So
what happened?"

Nick tried to appear nonchalant. "Clare took care of it. It's not much of a story.
Really."

Natalie protested. "No, I want to hear it. It's something I don't know about either of
them. Please, tell me."

Nick took in a deep breath. It had been a long time since Natalie had asked him to talk,
wanting to listen to whatever he had to say. The temptation was overwhelming, enough to
smother the doubts he had about remembering the full affair. "Okay. But I warned you.
It's not much of a tale."

Natalie nodded encouragingly, Nick took another breath before beginning. "It was
1804, and Figaro had come back to Vienna several years before…"

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

Survivors (12/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

1804, Vienna

Nicholas paced across the salon, slapping a thin, leather-bound volume impatiently
against his open palm. Hearing footsteps approach, he glanced up at the doors, his face
drawn in expectation.

Figaro entered with a silver-capped cane and his beaver tucked underneath one arm.
He studied Nicholas' black attire up and down, punctuating his inspection with a haughty
sniff. "What's this, Nicholas? Celebrating my funeral already?"

Nicholas looked down at his own severe coat and trousers, then ruefully at Figaro's
scarlet multi-caped greatcoat. Figaro tended to be vivid, in both personality and
accoutrements. "It is the current style," Nicholas said defensively.

Figaro's expression belied how little he thought of the current style. "'Tis bad enough I
had to forsake my beloved wigs for the sake of eclat. A pox on Brummell! I'll be demmed
if I'll truss myself up like a pallbearer."

Nicholas gave the other vampire a smart grin. "You're already one of the damned."

Figaro stripped off his greatcoat to reveal a jacket of superfine patterned after the flesh
of a pomegranate with matching gold breeches, then tossed it over a lacquer-backed chair.
"There's no rule that says I have to dress like it."

Nicholas held up his hand, tapping the volume he carried pointedly. "Would you spare
any rule a moment's caution to save your own neck?"

Delight bloomed over Figaro's features. "Ah! You purchased my novel! I knew you
had to have a shred of taste, even if your wardrobe doesn't belie it. I don't associate with
the tasteless," he said primly.

"Very few vampires do," Nick retorted with a touch of sarcasm.

Figaro's eyes narrowed as he began to pick up on his friend's ill-humor. "I take it you
aren't here to praise me, then. Alas, everyone is a critic. Well, if you're going to inflict a
dull lecture upon my ears, at least let me offset the banality with some entertainment."
Figaro waved a hand for Nicholas to follow. "To the ballroom. I use it as a gymnasium, as
well. It has the best floor space."

Nicholas trailed after him, if somewhat truculently. "For what?"

"Fencing, of course. S'bout time you dropped by for some steel clashing. I've had a
devil of a time finding decent partners lately, and you're a fair hand. That's one of the
reasons I like you."

"I'm more than a fair hand, Fig, and you know it." Nick joined Figaro in stripping off
his tight-fighting coat to give his arms freedom of movement.

"It's been a while, Nicholas, and I'm a busy man with a history full of adventures. It's
your burden to refresh my memory."

"Very well."

The ballroom was no less than Figaro had promised, a gleaming expanse of pale marble
floor, walls hung in emerald velvet, dominated by enormous mirrors with gilded frames.
Figaro began to loosen his neckcloth as well, motioning toward a mounted rococo cabinet
near the doorway. "Pick a weapon."

Nicholas found a selection of sabers in various weights and nationalities. He studied
them all, lifted a few to test their feel, then made his selection. Seeing his guest was
equipped, Figaro swiftly followed suit, surprising Nicholas by choosing one of the Spanish
blades out of the same cabinet. "I assumed you had the Japanese tanto tucked away
somewhere else for your own use."

Figaro sniffed, swishing his saber in whistling strokes in front of him. "Hardly. It's a
prized possession. It's been sullied from too much careless use already, don't you think?
En garde!"

Nicholas parried Fig's first lunge easily, irritation adding force to his riposte. "Sullied?
Careless? Is that how you remember Marianna's spilt blood?" He slipped through a small
window in his opponent's defense, almost striking flesh. Figaro narrowly deflected the hit,
earning a rip in his shirtsleeve instead.

The younger vampire frowned mightily at the torn linen, tsking his displeasure. It was
one thing to parry, another to mar a man's wardrobe. "Come, now, Nicholas. It was your
choice to bring the girl across, your choice to take her head. You didn't come here to
revisit old wounds, did you?" Figaro punctuated this question with a flick of his wrist,
feigning a new attack, then circling around his opposition's arm to smack Nicholas on the
arm with the flat of his blade.

Nicholas winced, fighting his surprise at the blow to keep from dropping his weapon.
He recognized that Figaro could have cut him had it been his choice. The other vampire's
eyes were very clear on the subject.
Nicholas heard that message loud and clear, and he agreed, to a point. "Of course, Fig. It
was not my intention to insinuate blame."

"How clever of you."

The duel resumed, their feet clicking softly over the stone floor in an aggressive pas de
deux, coupled with a staccato ring of metal clashing. "But, in reading your novel," Nick
resumed, "I could not help but be reminded how irresponsibly you can act from time to
time." Both men lunged at once, running their blades vertically until they met, pommel to
pommel. Facing each other through a 'V' of steel, Nick hissed, "Did you even consider the
consequences of publishing a book about vampires for one moment, Figaro?"

The younger man dismissed him with a laugh, pushing Nicholas backward and
resuming position. "What have I to fear? A few of the stodgier members of our brethren
raising the red flag? If they want to come after me, they'll have to get through my sire
first. No one would risk that."

Nicholas resumed the repartee with a new lunge. "I suspected as much. How long did
Clare leave you alone this time before you came upon this scheme to draw her attention
home again?"

"Pah!" Figaro snorted. "How Machievellian you make me sound. I am not the plotting
sort."

"I am aware of that. You forget - I have read your writing," Nicholas jibed.
"Subconsciously, however...as long as I have known you, my friend, everything foolish
you do comes down to what your sire is not doing."

Figaro grunted as he deflected a new blow. "Hmmph."

"At the risk of irritating old wounds," Nicholas continued, "I am reminded how you
used the excuse of marriage to Marianna to bring Clare here. The moment your sire
arrived, you lost interest in the girl as if she was a soiled shoe from last season."

"Too bad you failed to believe my words of disinterest at the time," Figaro said
mulishly.

"Then there is that other girl…Cecilia, isn't it? You doted on her for months, this time
going so far as to bring her across yourself. You convinced her she was your muse and
spouted nonsense ad infinitum….that is, until Clare visited to see what the fuss was about.
Where is Cecilia now?"

"Upstairs, preparing to go out, I should think," Figaro countered smoothly, then
goaded, "Clare will like what a responsible sire I have turned out to be."

"Which is why you wrote those novellas!" Nicholas said angrily, stepping back from
their swordplay and stalking across the ballroom. Holding his arms out at either side, he
demanded, "What do you imagine will happen, Figaro? You expertly cull the wrath of the
Enforcers down on your thick head. If Clare comes to your rescue, you will convince
yourself that it is all part of her undying love for you…until she leaves again."

The flush of anger was noticeable even through Figaro's dark skin. He went after
Nicholas, renewing their combat, this time with bloodthirsty intent. "Clare called you a
self-righteous bore," Figaro snarled. "I actually argued with her about the subject. I
argued with Clare," he repeated, "though it will be difficult for you to believe. I am
beginning to see that she was right."

Nicholas grunted as he barely intercepted the thrust of Figaro's blade. "Why are you so
angry? Could it be that you are fighting to ignore the truth? Clare looks upon you as a
possession, nothing more. She is devoted to you in as much as she can control you. That is
not love."

"Enough!" Figaro roared, catching Nicholas off-guard. A truly furious Figaro was not
something he had experienced before. The younger vampire flicked his wrist again, this
time whipping Nicholas' wrist with his blade. Nicholas' saber clattered to the floor, and, in
an instant, Figaro had his back to a wall and a sword edge to his throat. "You do not
know Clare as I do," he said slowly, enunciating each word with intense deliberation.
"You cannot begin to understand what we mean to each other. Do not even try."

Nicholas watched as Figaro shook his head abruptly and bit back a curse. He lowered
the saber away from Nicholas' throat and threw it across the room. "This is not your
problem, my friend."

Nicholas clasped the other man by the shoulder. "You say I do not understand, Fig, but
I have seen your pain and your longing. Time after time, I have watched as you deluded
yourself into believing that Clare returns your love, and every time you are disappointed.
Can you comprehend how that troubles me? I am your friend, and I want to -"

"Save me from myself?" Figaro completed for him. He grasped the hand and squeezed
it. "Too late. The damage is already done."

Nick shook his head. "Not so. You can minimize some of it. Did it not occur to you
that the Enforcers will go after the mortals who printed your novellas first, then the
merchants who sold it? I know you do not hold human life in the same regard that I do,
but are you callous enough to sit back, waiting for your sire to arrive while all of those
people are slaughtered in sacrifice to your wayward heart? Help me save them before it is
too late. You know who they are and where they are. Help me, Figaro."

Figaro was silent for several thoughtful moments, finally giving a short nod. "All right.
I will help you." Then he shot Nicholas a half-grin. "To show you my heroic empathy, I
will not even insist on changing my shirt first."

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

Survivors (13/56)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge

"I didn't realize Figaro was such a swordsman," Natalie commented.

"Why do you think Clare had Seiji fashion him one as a gift? He used to challenge
anyone he thought could give him the least bit of difficulty. That was how we became
friends, really. I saw him beat LaCroix in a match, and I offered him my congratulations
and admiration. He could never resist either thing," Nick explained. "You never heard
such ranting as when pistols became the duel weapon of choice. Figaro refused to ever
touch a gun on principle."

"Hmm…fireplaces and guns…from what I've heard," Natalie said, "his aversions
recommended him."

Nick expressed a hint of doubt. "I don't know. I still don't see anything wrong with
wearing black." He gave a small, protesting shrug. "And I like fireplaces."

Natalie smiled then asked, "What happened next? Did you reach everyone associated
with Figaro's novellas before the Enforcers?"

"Not everyone. Figaro and I raced to every bookseller and lending library in Vienna,
stealing every copy we could find with his name on it, but the printer's office was already
burnt to the ground by the time we arrived."

"Then what did you do?"

"Figaro returned home."

"What? Wouldn't that be the first place the Enforcers would go, stake in hand?"

Nick nodded. "That's what I tried to tell him, but Fig insisted on being where Clare
could find him. There was no reasoning with Fig when he decided to be stubborn."

"Look who's talking," Natalie murmured in a low voice.

"I felt like we were sitting ducks," Nick said, ignoring her comment. "I didn't want to
leave him alone, but I didn't really know what we were dealing with. You have to
understand: for most vampires, the Enforcers are like an old wives' tale used by sires to
keep you in line. 'Mind the Code, or the Enforcers will get you.' I'd been a vampire nearly
six centuries without seeing one. I'd heard stories, but they contradicted each other. I had
no idea what was fact or fiction."

"So you went in search of LaCroix for some answers," Natalie said, certain that her
guess was correct.

"Yes," Nick replied, proving her right. "I convinced Figaro to wait in his servants'
quarters, so he could slip out the back, if necessary. Cecilia was pressed into waiting in the
hall for any guests, welcome or otherwise."

"What did LaCroix have to say when you found him?" Natalie asked, a trifle
reluctantly.

"Nothing."

"What do you mean, 'nothing'?"

"I didn't find him. I went to the rooms he was renting, but he wasn't there," Nick said,
frowning. "Clare was, though."

"Well, I know she had plenty to say on the subject," Natalie said. She stared at Nick,
waiting for him to tell her ever word Clare had uttered.

Nick's thoughts rushed for a panicked moment. This visit was going so well. They
were actually talking, almost relating as old friends, and he didn't want to jeopardize the
peace. The dialogue as Nick remembered it wasn't exactly flattering to Clare or himself,
especially Clare, and he wanted to avoid any recriminations that came from the retelling of
it at all costs. Surreptitiously glancing at his watch, Nick welcomed the rising sun for the
first time in his lengthy existence. "It's getting late, or early, depending on your point of
view." Nick smiled as he rose from the couch to make his goodbyes. "I have to get back
to the loft."

Natalie felt a pang as she realized he was right. The time for stories was over, unless
she invited Nick to spend the day. Nat knew full well that she had no business even
considering extending such hospitality in her current frame of mind. It would be unfair to
herself, doubly so to Nick. Still, she felt more at peace in this moment than she had for
months.

She had been avoiding Nick, and that evasion had made her wary, as if she was afraid
to be around him because she couldn't trust herself. Natalie's thoughts
chastised. Nat shoved her self-
criticism away to the back row of her mind to be studied later, when she was alone. For
the moment, Natalie resolved to put on a positive front. "Maybe you can tell me the rest of
the story some other time," she said softly, following him to the suite door. Natalie
worked very hard to keep any trace of eagerness out of her voice.

Nick paused briefly before answering. "I'd like that." "Some other time it is."

A sudden worry flashed through Natalie's head. "Has O'Neal contacted you yet?"

Nick shook his head. "No. Maybe he's left town already."

"You're the detective. Why don't you found out for sure?" Natalie countered.

"Maybe I will," Nick said, "if only to prove to you that there's no problem."

"You do that," Natalie replied, her features having stiffened over their exchange. She
seemed to realize the shift in mood, one moment peaceful, the next moment cold. Nat was
sabotaging the whole feeling of companionship from their encounter, and she suddenly
realized that she didn't want the night to end that way. "Hey," she said, forcing her
expression into a tentative smile. "Thank you."

"Thank you?"

"For bringing me the button. For…I don't know." Natalie found herself shrugging,
feeling embarrassed. "For not pushing. I know that I haven't been exactly welcoming or
agreeable, tonight or…" She grimaced, cringing her lips in distaste, "…anytime, but
you've been patient and respected my need for distance. I just wanted to say I recognize
that you're trying, Nick, and I appreciate it."

Nick didn't know how he was supposed to respond to that. He debated for several seconds, finally
deciding to respond by saying. "Well, I think our relationship is important, Nat." he thought. Nick studied Natalie intently, nervously, waiting to see whether his
answer would go over well.

She made no direct comment, leaving him in the dark. Natalie simply nodded slowly,
but it didn't look as though she was agreeing that their relationship (whatever she
currently defined *that* as) was equally important to her. It seemed more like her
thoughts had moved on, as if his words had been noted and filed away for future
reference. Natalie now appeared to be working herself up to broaching a new topic, one
that she wasn't certain would be entirely welcome. Nick felt as though he was holding his
breath, expelling it in a rush as Nat defaulted, simply saying, "Goodnight. I'll see you
later."

On impulse, Nick reached out, brushing Natalie's curls back over her right shoulder.
Briefly, he seemed to threaten more intimate contact, then he stepped away, whispering,
"Goodnight, Nat," before slipping out the suite door.

Natalie stared at the closed door for a silent minute, then walked over to the sofa,
where Sidney had swiftly resumed his post and was nuzzling the vial of catnip with
interest. Nat dropped casually to her knees, using the couch cushions to support her
elbows as she scratched the cat's head.

"What am I doing? Hmm, Sid?" Natalie wondered aloud.

"Mrrr-rrraah!" Sidney answered, more concerned with what Natalie wasn't doing. With
a firm swipe of one paw, he batted the catnip vial into her lap and began to purr. Blinking,
his gaze commanded,

Natalie complied with the cat-whammy, sprinkling a pinch of flakes over Sidney's
paws, which he began to lick enthusiastically as his rump wriggled over the cushions.

Natalie set the vial down of the coffee table and sat back, wrapping her arms around
her knees. She'd done quite enough opening up for one night, more than she had intended.
Kind words had the tendency to work on Nick like Sidney and catnip. Natalie wondered, finally letting out a sound of frustration, then forced
herself to turn her attention back to paperwork. It was dull, but safe.

************************************************************************
End of Part Thirteen

Survivors (14/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Vachon wasn't in a stellar mood. As he crossed the floor of the Raven, the clientele
stepped back, their faces carrying a mixture of wariness and perplexity at his entire
demeanor.

If you had asked any of the regular club patrons - the 'regular' ones, the ones who
took sunburns seriously, the ones who chuckled at the city's frenzy during power outages
in the harshest part of winter before they pulled out a few more candles, the ones who
frowned and pouted prettily when you asked them to describe what it was like to *chew*
their food, the ones who knew enough about what was what and who was who - they
wouldn't have described Vachon as the forbidding type. No, Vachon was the kind of guy
you hung out with over the centuries, a party here during the Colonial Problem...a week
there during the Problem Between What Used To Be the Colonials...and a few nights here
and there now that everyone had come to Toronto, leaving the former Colonials and their
pervasive problems to hang. Sure, there were people in the Raven who'd first met the
Spaniard before the defeat of the Armada; they could admit that freely. Likewise, they
would admit that they didn't really *know* Vachon. He wasn't the sort of person you got
to know. He'd share a couple drinks, yes, have a few laughs, certainly, but you wouldn't
be one inch closer to understanding what made Vachon tick when the sun came up.
Hadn't Urs complained as much a dozen times before The Unpleasantness With LaCroix's
Daughter swept her into the archives?

Despite this camouflaged aloofness, the consensus among the average vampire who
spent time socializing at the Raven (not that they would ever acknowledge that they were
average in any way whatsoever) was that Vachon was the amiable sort. Approachable, but
untouchable.

To see this same Vachon now, wrapped in a dismissive barrier of antagonism, dark
eyes telegraphing an absolute message - "If I want to talk to you, I'll speak first.
Otherwise, stay the hell away from me." - it was enough to spark intense whispering and
speculation behind gloved fingers and manicured hands. Such an attitude, such an
intimation that, if there was trouble, he was more than ready to start, nourish and finish it,
that confidence and spirit of superiority very much reminded the club's patrons of even
older and even less accessible immortals. Perhaps Vachon had picked up a few tricks from
his grandsire before That Unpleasantness With Thomas had disposed of Clare. Then again,
such superiority smacked strongly of someone else, someone sitting at the bar, someone
who not only acted like he owned the Raven, actually did.

As the Spaniard stiffly took a seat beside LaCroix at the bar, a dozen children of the
night practiced shameless eavesdropping while appearing bored out of their skulls. The
Nightcrawler was just the person to take Vachon's new attitude and grind it under his
heel. the Raven's regulars delighted to
themselves. They weren't altogether disappointed.

"Well, well. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" LaCroix drawled
before Vachon's bar stool even had time to finish creaking under his added weight.

"I wouldn't call it a pleasure," Vachon answered dryly, motioning to the bartender with
one hand.

"Ah." LaCroix smiled then, privately amused. "But so many things derive their value
from their rarity. You were once a nightly visitor to this club, yet you have hardly set foot
on the premises over the past four months, and, then, never alone. Your presence now, a
solitary man, would suggest a story waiting to be told, a drama aching to unfold." LaCroix
waved dismissively at the figures swaying too close to the edge of the dance floor, not
quite achieving a perfect facade of disinterest. "You've assembled an audience, anxiously
awaiting. Don't tease. Satisfy us all. Why are you here, Vachon?"

His drink arrived, and Javier studied it underneath dark lashes for a dangling period of
quiet debate before offering a casual explanation. "I came looking for a girl." Mission
stated, he took a swallow from his glass then pushed it away, a study in dissatisfaction. He
didn't appear remotely interested in speaking further.

"Any *particular* girl?" LaCroix said, his smile broadening, but not in a kind way. It
was malevolent and mocking, imposing and irreverent.

"If you can think of a particular girl, then you have your answer."

"Ah. The name of that poison would be 'Ivy.'" LaCroix flexed an eyebrow at Vachon's
expression. "I'm correct, am I not?"

Vachon practiced staring rudely. "I didn't like the way you phrased your answer."

"You wanted it in the form of a question?"

"I wanted it in the form of something that wouldn't make me wonder what Clare ever
saw in you."

LaCroix's upper lip immediately curled into a snarl which he then froze into a grimace
of approval. "The young Spaniard plays dirty." He paused. "I like that."

Vachon tilted his head slightly, extending his peripheral vision over his shoulder toward
the eavesdropping undead. "I'm just playing to the audience," he said, then leaned closer
to LaCroix as if to confide. "They're the bloodthirsty sort."

"Aren't we all?" LaCroix murmured, then pushed away from the bar. "Shall we
continue this conversation in private?" He gestured toward the back rooms.

"That depends. Is our conversation going to have a point," Vachon asked calmly, "or
are we just going to keep baiting each other until you decide that, yes, you would like to
rip my head off and use it as a mop?"

"That prospect doesn't seem to trouble you much," LaCroix observed.

Vachon shrugged as he also pushed away from the bar. "What the hell? Besides, you
have a history of impermanent decapitations. I should know."

"Yes, you should." LaCroix turned and began to walk toward the back, deciding that
Vachon would choose to follow him. "I've been curious to know more about your
experience with Divia's…how should I put it….madness?"

Vachon did, in fact, follow. "That's a good word. I lean toward the word 'depravity'
myself. Do you *really* want to reminisce over what she thought about you?"

"Perhaps not," LaCroix admitted. It was one thing to try and understand his daughter's
secrets. It was another to exhume his own. The Spaniard sounded like he knew too much
of both. "Some say the past is better off buried." The elder vampire lingered over the last
word, savored it, watching expectantly as Vachon tensed. The young Spaniard undeniably
lacked affection for all things interred, and LaCroix could not resist delighting in the
weakness.

"'Dead and buried,'" Vachon corrected stiffly. "Dead. That's a very important part of
the equation." He strolled over to the black leather sofa pushed up against one wall,
naturally propping his feet up on the coffee table, despite LaCroix's disapproving frown.
"I've stated my business. You mind telling me why you're so interested?"

LaCroix opened the iron grate that blocked his personal store of racks against the right
wall. These bottles contained the quality vintages, some flavors drawn and corked before
his guest had been born. "You appear to have a problem. Perhaps I have an urge to offer
you advice in Clare's stead."

Vachon's mouth twisted wryly as he rose from his seat as swiftly as he had taken it.
"The only reason I ever stuck around for Clare's lectures was because she saved my neck
*and* my ass. You don't have that luxury. Adios. "

"Funny," LaCroix said as the Spaniard moved for the door. His voice was hard,
unforgiving. "You speak as if that rescue inspired some loyalty in you, yet you concern
yourself with even greater devotion to the girl who caused Clare's destruction."

Vachon froze, then turned around to glare at LaCroix. "You blame Ivy? You would."

"Don't tell me you trust the girl," LaCroix countered. "Where is she now? How much
has she withheld from you in the past? Ivy lied about her involvement with Janette and
concealed her connection with Thomas until she had no choice in the matter. The
knowledge that she was the last person to see Clare alive fails to leave me with the
sensation that I have basked in a fountain of truth."

"Why am I not surprised?" Vachon asked himself aloud. "Sure, you'd cast doubt on
Ivy. You wouldn't want to blame her psycho sire for creating the entire situation, would
you? Weren't you old gambling buddies or something? I'm surprised you don't blame
Domino, too. After all, he got himself kidnapped, making Clare want to save him in the
process. He's got to be equally at fault with Ivy. Don't stop there. Why don't you blame
Nick? Blame me for not getting there in time to save Clare from the flames. Even better,"
he said, his eyes acquiring an angry shimmer of rage, "Clare's the one who was destroyed.
She was supposed to be immortal, like us - she always acted like nothing could touch her.
But she screwed up, so why not blame Clare?!"

In a flash, LaCroix had him by the lapels of his leather jacket, slammed up against the
paneling. "I do blame her," he hissed, his face twisted with rancor. "I blame myself for
being here, quoting drivel over the airwaves while she was having a stake drilled through
her heart. I swore to myself after Hiroshima that I would never care again. There's too
much risk, too much to lose, and too much pain involved in wrapping your destiny up in
the well-being and desires of another person. It gives them power over you, control. It
makes you weak. I hated her then, and I hate her now for that. I loathe myself for this
helplessness, this inability to change that moment, and the futility of caring. Even more so,
I abhor those moments when I convince myself that I still feel her, some phantom's touch
waking me from my sleep, some whisper playing in my head amidst the shadows of doubt,
and I despise the knowledge that I would do anything to make that illusion come true. Can
you begin to understand the ties I have to this woman? Have you ever loved anyone more
than your own future?"

Vachon was silent. He simply absorbed LaCroix's fury, witnessing the elder vampire's
body shake at the pathos of his emotions. Moments passed, the only sounds the muffled
music pounding through the walls of the club proper. Finally, Vachon tried pushing out of
the older vampire's grasp. LaCroix, feeling suddenly tired of the entire confrontation,
drained by what he had revealed, didn't hold on. As he moved toward the door once
more, Vachon said softly, "You'd rather hate her alive, than love her dead. Is that enough
understanding for you?"

LaCroix eyed him speculatively. "Is that why you bother looking for your own
poison...Ivy?"

Vachon walked out without another word, the sound of LaCroix's laughter dancing in
his wake.

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

Survivors (15/56)
Copyright 1998
By Bonnie Rutledge

Schanke pushed open the door to the interrogation room. Nick was sitting in the dark.
A combination television/videocassette recorder sat on the long desk that dominated the
room, the black and white images on its screen flashing renegade streaks of light across
Nick's features.

"Didn't your Mom ever tell you you'd go blind sitting that close to the TV?" Schanke
quipped as he flicked on the overhead light.

Nick's mouth twitched. "Can't say she did."

Schanke moved closer, squinting at the speed of the replay. "Geez, Nick! How the hell
are you catching anything when you watch those tapes on fast forward?"

He gave an unconcerned shrug. "I look fast." Nick tapped the littered notepad that his
hand had been resting on top of with the tip of his pen then pushed it toward his partner.
"You want to read what I've seen so far?"

Schanke did, so he scanned the page, then pulled down the six previous pages that had
been covered with notes, then flipped over the back of the pad. "Man, you've got every
person who stepped in the elevator from the parking garage on the day of the murder.
Were any of them waving a gun, wearing a T-shirt that read 'Hi, Mom! I'm the Cop
Killer!'?"

"I have times for Captain Forrest entering the garage and walking across two sectors of
the parking level so far," Nick replied. "No crazy killers in T-shirts, though." Reaching the
end of another tape, Nick ejected it from the machine and slid a new case in the slot.

Schanke's eyes widened as he compared the two stacks of videos: the ones Nick had
watched versus the ones he hadn't. The viewed cassettes were just starting to pull ahead.
"How many hours of tape did Pulte hand over to you?" he asked, pulling out a chair,
turning it around, then taking a seat while he used the chair back as an armrest.

"Eighteen hours up to the crime and two more of the crime scene multiplied by six
cameras. Five days' worth. I thought I'd go over them, giving the video team a list of
scenes that we could use enhanced printouts of right away. I can work on this at home,
too. I don't mind."

"Sure you don't," Schanke said, squinting anew at the television monitor. "It's not like
you have anyone waiting at home any more, demanding your attention. Or has something
changed that I don't know about?"

Nick turned his head, giving Schanke a perplexed frown. "What are you talking
about?"

"Watch the screen!" Schanke shouted, pushing him face-front again. "You're the one
who says he looks fast! Not me, partner." He settled back into his chair, then answered
Nick's question. "Hey, I noticed how Nat was all fired up to talk to you *alone* the other
night. The past two days, Lambert's practically turned from Dr. Kevorkian into Dr. Kinsey
where you're concerned. Any news you'd like to share with lil' ole me, hmm?"

"You're exaggerating, Schanke," Nick said plainly. "Nat and I used to be friends. She's
gotten past some of her animosity because of that, okay?"

"Oh, yeah. All that animosity. That 'don't look at me, don't talk to me, keep Knight
away 'cuz he's got cooties' thing Natalie's had going the past few months. Man, you must
have screwed up big time, that's all I gotta say." Schanke patted him on the back. "I'm
just happy she's lightening up where your concerned, Nick. I know it was bugging you."
He made a face, cringing at his own pun.

"Why do you assume I screwed up?" Nick wondered, his brow hunched with a frown.

Schanke gave him an incredulous look. "You're a man, aren't you? Men screw up. We
don't necessarily mean to do it. Hell, most of the time we don't know we've done it until
the little lady comes along and tells us we've screwed up. If we had the knowledge and
ability to foresee what was so wrong with us, we'd be women."

Nick was still frowning. "You're right. I probably screwed up big time. I'm just not
sure how."

"You don't have to be sure," Schanke assured him. "Apologize anyway. Bring her
flowers if she's dieting, chocolate if she's not, or flannel p.j.'s if she's watching her weight
and allergies."

"Flannel pajamas?"

"Yeah, 'cause it's your mission in life to keep her warm and cozy." Schanke became
thoughtful, shaking his head. "Nah. Maybe that one only works on Myra. Still, while
Natalie's actually talking to you again, you should go for some brownie points."

"There are problems," Nick said absently. He sensed his partner's eyes boring into him,
so risked slanting his field of vision away from the video replay for an instant. Sure
enough, Schanke was staring at him, waiting expectantly for some elaboration. "She gave
up chocolate," Nick said feebly.

Schanke was unrelenting. "So do the flowers. She can smell them. S'funny, but
Lambert hasn't gotten a cold once this winter. That's one of those things that remind me
how long I was away. It used to be every November through February, Nat's nose would
be a little red, her voice was a tiny scratchy, and she'd start looking tired. All those jars of
wintergreen gel she kept in the morgue weren't just for fighting the smells, you know.
They were to help open up her sinuses so she *could* smell. Myra uses the same stuff on
Jen when she gets sick."

"Must be Nat's new diet," Nick mumbled. "I think she's getting more iron."

"Yeah," Schanke nodded, appearing a bit forlorn. "Just another change to get used to
around here. So do the flowers."

Nick resisted. "I don't think so. I gave her flowers when we got together. I think that
whole occasion is one of the things she has a problem with."

"How about jewelry?"

Nick leaned forward and stopped the video player. He became thoughtful for a
moment. Schanke's suggestion had made him realize suddenly that Natalie still had the
bracelet he'd given her, the one laced with charms representing the flowers he'd used to
express how much she meant to him before. She'd left his other gifts at the loft when
she'd moved, the portrait, the music, even the lace shawl. She'd even handed him that
bracelet when she'd walked out. She'd come back, though, to fetch the rest of her things,
and Nick hadn't seen the jewelry since. He just hadn't thought about it before, the fact
that Natalie might have taken a memento of their time together, even though she spoke of
walking away from it all.

Schanke grew impatient as he observed Nick zone out. "What? What is it?"

Nick snapped to attention, shooting his partner an embarrassed grin. "I was just
thinking about how much Nat likes jewelry. Thanks for trying to help, Schank, but one of
the main reasons Natalie started talking to me again was to thank me for giving her the
little space I have."

Schanke winced. "Ouch. Sorry, partner."

"It's okay. Like you said, talking to me is an improvement. Listening to me is even
better, even if all she wants is to hear old stories about Clare."

Interest flared over Don's features. "Old stories about Clare? Nat's not the only body
who might be interested in hearing some of those, you know," he hinted unabashedly.

"They aren't all things I want to share, Schank," Nick said, picturing how his partner
would handle a tale set almost two hundred years before.

Schanke became the one who was grinning with embarrassment. "Oh, man! How did I
miss it?! All that bickering, the whole 'you don't know Clare like I do' thing - you two
used to have a thing going on!"

Nick looked appalled. "No, we didn't. I'm referring to 'all that bickering.' The past
experiences I had with Clare were filled with unkindnesses and bitter arguments, things
that neither you nor Nat liked hearing about when she was alive. Can you understand why
I might be reluctant to share them now? I don't feel right speaking ill of the dead." He
looked into Schanke's solemn, but sympathetic, features. "Nat says she needs to hear
everything she can about Clare to help her grieve, but I can't decide whether to tell her the
truth or what I think she wants to hear."

"Uh-oh," Schanke sighed. "There's what you think she wants to hear, then there's
what *she* thinks she wants to hear. Are you prepared to lay odds on your chances of
guessing exactly what those words are? I'd say they aren't good."

"Then what do I do? Tell her the truth?" Nick still had a hard time picturing that
working out for the best.

"How bad is the truth? Really?"

"Like I said, it doesn't seem fair to spread ill will about the dead."

"Fair now?" Schanke pointed out. "Or are you saying that you don't believe you, or
maybe Clare, were fair to each other then?" The seriousness of his face broke then, and he
laughed, pounding himself once lightly on the forehead with his fist. "Jesus! I'm starting to
sound like the lost Van Buren sister! Enough of this bonding! Back to the homicidal
maniacs!"

Nick smiled, reaching out to squeeze his partner's shoulder. "Thanks, Schank. Did you
notice that's another change from before?"

"What is?"

"We never used to bond. Not over personal things, at least, not much," Nick explained
as he pressed the 'play' button on the VCR once more.

"Go figure," Schanke said quizzically. "I guess not all changes are bad."

"I guess you're right," Nick agreed as he settled into studying the camera surveillance
tapes again.

"Hey," Schanke commented after a moment, "do you know what section of the garage
this is supposed to be?"

Nick picked up the open plastic box, then read the label. "It's Rows A and B, spaces
16 through 25."

Schanke touched the monitor with an index finger. "Right. I thought this sign looked
familiar from the crime scene. Isn't that Forrest's car?"

Nick looked at the screen with displeasure. "I think you're right, but the camera cut off
the front half." He sorted through the stack of tapes waiting review, pulling out another
case. "Let's go ahead and look at the time of the murder. Captain Forrest stepped off the
elevator and entered the garage at 6:12 pm."

The two detectives watched with mounting tension as they sped through the video, the
clock readout on the tape display gradually reaching the minutes in question before they
sat back to study the images in real-time. Six-twelve, six-thirteen, six-fourteen, and six-
fifteen crept past, no sign of any violence appearing on camera. At six-sixteen, however, a
small flutter of movement disrupted the left edge of the display.

Schanke let out his breath in a small whoop. "Look! It's her hand! It's Forrest trying to
get to her car! Come on, come on…move just a little more…it's time for your killer's
screen debut." Don hunched forward in his chair, his breathing growing more rapid as he
stared intensely at Stephanie Forrest's arms, then head, inching onto the film. The
murderer had bludgeoned her to death, and she was still alive at this point. She was
crawling, so it stood to reason the killer had already shot her in the leg, even though they
couldn't see the injury. The farther Forrest moved into the picture, the more likely they
would get a photo to enhance of the perp when he struck the fatal blow. "Come on, come
on…" Schanke whispered again.

Finally, there was another sign of movement, not a second body, but a darkening at the
lip of the screen. A shadow from the overhead lighting of the garage reflecting the killer's
approach that gave them no corporeal evidence. Next, something long and heavy
descended, crushing into Forrest's skull. She collapsed, then her body was pulled from
view.

"Damn," Schanke cursed. "At least now we know what the weapon was - one of the
concrete bumpers from the handicapped spaces in the garage. We should get forensics to
check those out again. I'll get Pulte to do it."

Nick nodded slowly, then held out a hand to grab Schanke's sleeve as he rose from his
chair to seek out the junior officer. "What if the killer knew where the surveillance
cameras were?"

Schanke grimaced. "What makes you say that? It was a big garage, with only six
cameras. One was trained on the elevator. There's no way all of the cars could be covered
by the remaining five. Sometimes, we're just unlucky, Nick."

"Maybe you're right. Still, what if the killer did know?"

"Then I'd begin to wonder how our cop-killer got access to police security," Schanke
said, placing his hands on his hips. "I don't think we're desperate enough yet to make
those kind of waves, Knight, do you?"

Nick gave a brief nod, watching as his partner left the room. Schanke was right. They
wouldn't get anywhere with that flimsy hunch without some evidence to back it up,
because to suggest that the murderer had access to police security was to suggest the
murderer was close to cops. Maybe the killer was a cop. That was a huge leap, too big for
even Nick to take. He ejected the tape from the player, deciding to take a break.

Stepping into the bullpen, he saw that Schanke had already caught Sergeant Pulte's
ear. The younger man was nodding, almost beaming at the attention. Nick decided to not
interrupt, so he walked over to the water cooler, pounding it once with his fist before he
filled a paper cone with cool liquid. He then approached Captain Reese's office, knocking
once before opening the door.

Nick was caught by surprise at what he found. Reese wasn't behind his desk, but
standing, studying his reflection with something other than pleasure in a small rectangular
mirror mounted on the wall. He was wearing a tuxedo, struggling with the knot of his
formal bow tie. The Captain looked over his shoulder as he heard Nick enter the room.

"Sorry," Nick excused. "I didn't think I'd be interrupting anything. I'll come back
later."

"No, come in, Knight," Reese said, stiffly gesturing for the detective to move closer.
He then stared at his arm, flexing it slightly with mistrust. "I'm not doing anything that
couldn't use a little interrupting." He caught sight of the paper cone in Nick's hand then
gestured with a nod of his chin. "I hope that's for me?" Nick nodded and handed over the
water. Reese drank it up in two swallows, squeezing a thick finger under his collar as he
crumpled the empty container in his fist. "Will somebody tell me why clothing
manufacturers can't make a suit that breathes? I'm burning up in this thing!"

Nick gave in to his curiosity. "What do you need a tux for?"

"Denese's youngest sister is getting married tomorrow night. I'm the only bad brother-
in-law who hasn't gotten his suit fitted yet, so I had Pulte pick it up for me from the
tailor's."

"It looks a little tight," Nick said with a knowledgeable air.

"It *feels* a little tight." Reese looked like an angry bear.

"They never feel like they fit," Nick explained with a smile. "I always believed that it
was a reminder that I was in formal attire, and I should act accordingly."

"I'd rather somebody stick a post-it on my forehead or tie a bow around my pinkie
finger. Well, enough of that," Reese said, moving behind his desk and gingerly testing how
well the tuxedo handled sitting. "Have you had any success with the surveillance from the
Corporate Crime Division's garage?"

"So far, it appears the murder occurred just out of camera range. We have a brief flash
of Captain Forrest, but only shadows of the killer."

"Damn, we could use a break on these cases," Reese complained, rising to his feet
again and easing out of his rented jacket. "Ah…that's better," he sighed happily. "Still no
luck finding a connection between the two Captains?"

"Still no luck," Nick repeated. "We can't find a single case they have in common. The
videotapes have given us one piece of information. We now know Forrest was bludgeoned
to death with a concrete bumper. Schanke's getting Pulte to double-check the garage
along with forensics."

Reese nodded. "Good. He might have to postpone until tomorrow night, though. I
think I need him to fetch me a larger jacket." The Captain sent Nick a wink. "Catching this
killer is important, but I can't afford to have Denese and her sister on my back for ruining
the wedding photos."

Nick laughed then moved for the door. "I'll send the sergeant your way, then."

"Tell him I have an important mission for him," Reese called, his voice filled with
humor.

Nick found Pulte still talking to Schanke and related the Captain's message. Watching
as the officer eagerly headed for Reese's office, Schanke questioned, "An important
mission? How come we don't get to play James Bond?"

"It's not what you think," Nick grinned. "Reese has a family wedding tomorrow, and
his tux doesn't fit."

"Ah. Errand-boy-important. Gotcha." Someone over Nick's shoulder caught Schanke's
attention and he let out a short whistle. "Hey!" he yelled, waving a hand in welcome.
"Look, Nick! It's O'Neal! Remember O'Neal?"

Schanke was off like a shot, crossing the bullpen to shake hands with the Irishman who
had just entered the precinct. Nick followed suit slowly, watching as the two men
exchanged words of greeting. Schanke was exuberant, O'Neal more subdued, but
charming. Nick noted his laughing features, his relaxed grip on Schanke's hand, and began
to believe that Natalie had, in fact, become unnecessarily concerned over the purpose of
the man's visit to Toronto.

Then O'Neal glanced his way, meeting his gaze. Deep within his eyes, behind the
twinkle of camaraderie he was offering Schanke, lay the intent of a predator.

Natalie had been correct. The vampire hunter was back in town.

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

Survivors (16/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Nick concealed his concern with a pleasant smile. "Inspector O'Neal. Welcome back to
Toronto. I hope another homicide investigation isn't responsible for your visit."

"Nothing official, Detective Knight," the Irishman said, shaking Nick's hand in a firm
grip. "That's not to say I'd turn a blind eye to a killer."

Schanke clapped both O'Neal and Nick on the shoulder. "Keeping your mind on work
even during your vacation…you're a workaholic just like Nick."

Another officer broke into the conversation to tell Schanke that Myra was waiting for
him on the phone. "Sorry, I'd better get that."

"No man can resist the siren's call, eh, Detective?" O'Neal jibed.

Schanke's concept of 'siren' was usually coupled with red and blue flashing lights. He
appeared puzzled, explained, "It's my wife," then shrugged before moving toward his
desk.

Watching his partner walk away, Nick said casually, "Natalie mentioned your visit to
the morgue."

The Irishman expressed surprise. "Really? She gave the impression that the two of you
were no longer friendly."

"We've been closer," Nick admitted, "but that doesn't mean we don't look out for
each other's well-being."

"You're mighty swift in saying you're concerned with Doctor Lambert's well-being,"
O'Neal breathed slowly. "Tell me, Detective Knight. Do you expect somebody to cross
swords with you on that notion?"

Nick offered a half-grin, attempting to keep the conversation light in tone. "Nat has
had a thing or two to say on the subject from time to time."

O'Neal's eyes narrowed. "I'll just bet she has. Doctor Lambert struck me as a brave
woman," he commented. "More level-headed than most, but one capable of imagining
rainbows when her heart's involved."

"And what do you think she imagined?" Nick said, his voice growing cooler.

"That she had any idea what she was dealing with when it came to your kind," O'Neal
said frankly. "She'll be regretting that mistake for a long time to come."

"Does she appear to have regrets to you?" Nick countered, looking at the other man
intently.

"Ah, she seems to have changed," Liam said as he dug both hands into the pockets of
his tweed coat, acting for all intents and purposes as though he was chatting about the
weather. Meanwhile, his eyes were cold and deadly. "Maybe regrets aren't applicable
anymore. Maybe the right question to be asking in this case is 'Has she changed for the
better from knowing you?' I'm thinking the answer mightn't be a happy one, so I guess
the regret would be mine. After all, I had a chance to prevent tragedy once before, and I
let it pass."

Nick glanced from side to side as he lowered his voice, his words becoming slightly
gruff and laced with anger. "You know nothing about the circumstances or what actually
happened between Natalie and me, yet you've already drawn your conclusions. Who do
you think you are?"

"The only protector the mortals have!" Liam almost shouted. The explosion of his
control was a surprise. He was too loud, and heads turned in their direction with curious
frowns. Nick motioned him away from the busy entrance, toward one of the interview
rooms. As he followed the detective, O'Neal continued to talk, though his voice was
toned down. "Are you trying to tell me you have no culpability in Doctor Lambert's
transformation?"

Nick turned on the light and closed the door, pressing his forehead against the painted
surface for several moments with his eyes closed as he considered that question. Finally,
he gazed earnestly at the Irishman and replied, "I can't claim innocence, no. You're aware
that I've been seeking some way to reverse my condition. Natalie and I learned of a
possible cure for vampirism that involved drinking the blood of a beloved mortal, a little at
a time. She was desperate enough to urge me to try it, and I was desperate enough to
believe I could succeed. I failed," Nick said simply, his hands open at his sides. "I didn't
make her into a vampire, though. I couldn't bring myself to give her this curse. Can you
imagine that horror, O'Neal? To love someone, and to kill them because of that love?"
Nick closed his eyes once more, remembered pain flashing over his features. "Another of
my kind interfered and brought Natalie across. Think what you like, but I am the same
man who saved your life, who is fighting to escape my dark existence. As for Natalie,
remember what kind of person she is. There is a goodness to her, a strength of character
that even the hunger cannot eclipse entirely."

"She *was* good," O'Neal clipped. "The change has a way of wreaking havoc with
the way things used to be. Chances are, your feelings for the doctor from the past have
muddied how you look at her now."

"Nevertheless, O'Neal, she hasn't earned your persecution," Nick said firmly.

"This jury's still out on that score. I'll be keeping an eye on you, just like you've been
keeping an eye on me."

Nick frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

"I know you called my hotel, looking for me."

Nick nodded. He had phoned a long list of accommodations after Natalie's urgings
during the visit to her hotel suite two nights before. "I wanted to know if you were still in
town. None of the hotels admitted you were a guest, though."

"That's because I tipped them to keep quiet," O'Neal chuckled. "I tend to take any
curiosity about where I rest my head as a threat to my neck, if it's all the same to you."

"Not to sound ungracious, but I was pleased at the notion that you had gone back to
Ireland."

"Is that so?"

"The longer a vampire hunter stays in town, the more likely someone who'll take
exception to your company will find out about it," Nick said matter-of-factly.

"You leave public relations to me," O'Neal instructed as he opened the room back up
to the bustle of the bullpen. "If you're telling me the truth, you and Doctor Lambert will
have nothing to worry about."

He had moved a few steps toward the precinct exit, Nick following closely behind,
when Schanke called out, "There you are! I was wondering where you two disappeared."

Liam O'Neal assumed an apologetic smile and took Schanke's hand. "I was just
wishing Detective Knight farewell."

Don's face fell. "So you're not going to be hanging around here tonight?"

The Irishman shook his head. "I'm afraid that I've already made plans for this evening.
Maybe some other time?"

As he gave the other man a solid handshake, Schanke said, "Deal."

Nick and Schanke nodded and waved as the inspector exited the building. "Did he tell
you what his big plans were?" Schanke asked his partner curiously.

Nick shrugged, trying to sound disinterested. "I think he mentioned some site-seeing."

Schanke was dubious. "At night? What's he going to look at at night?" Schanke
elbowed his partner and smiled, talking as he walked back toward the interrogation room
that held the videocassette player. "Even so, it's got to be more laughs than you and me
watching fifty more hours of those surveillance tapes."

Nick nodded distractedly, but Schanke failed to notice there was nothing in his face
that suggested his thoughts carried laughter.

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

Natalie had flown to the precinct, ostensibly telling herself that she was tired of
ducking James Curran's presence this evening. Rather than scouring through the ballistics
files during the daylight hours as he had over the week before, the new detective had
entered the Coroner's Office within minutes of Natalie. Instead of locking himself away
with the archive files like Natalie wished, James insisted on asking her questions about
what she had or had not found, being perfectly friendly and appealing.

Basically, he was driving her crazy.

Natalie didn't want to be around attractive mortals whose eyes suggested they
wouldn't mind something a bit more intimate. Nat scolded
herself.

Right now, she was pacing between the shadows of the 96th's parking lot, lecturing her
subconsciousness for even considering a visit with Nick to be an alternative to hanging
around the rookie, much less thinking it a good idea.

Her feelings were a frustrating, maddening merry-go-round.
Nat thought with a sigh,

Natalie had been dancing around, sidestepping and tripping over that question for
months. She could be forgiven for the first kill, Nat believed that. Caught in the middle of
feeding, Barney had been an immediate threat to her safety and that of the vampire
community, and she had reacted instinctively.

The others, the ten men and women she had hunted since then, they were another
matter entirely. Natalie felt strangely detached thinking about them. Considering her
conscience, she ought to be overwhelmed with remorse and self-disgust at the crimes she
had committed. Instead, there was a faint sorrow, a knowledge that the acts themselves
had been immoral, yet her memories were dominated by the actual pleasure of the
experiences.

She shook her head, trying to set herself free from these troubling thoughts as she
climbed the precinct steps. Hands on the door, she froze as she spied Nick through the
glass. He wasn't alone, but talking to Liam O'Neal, and neither man looked
overwhelmingly friendly.

Natalie remained where she was, staring through the slits of the blinds as Schanke
joined Nick and the vampire hunter, apparently lightening the atmosphere. Nat thought.

O'Neal was heading for the precinct exit alone. More interested in talking to Nick
about his own confrontation than starting one of her own, Natalie slipped down the steps
and into the shadows to watch the hunter's departure.

Observing him, tracing the faint pattern of his heartbeat as he crossed the pavement,
Natalie felt her own sense of the hunt simmer. Logic held her in check – O'Neal had done
her no injury - yet. He represented a threat, though, a moralistic nemesis of shame and
retribution for all she had done and was yet to do. Natalie was confused enough already
over who she was and who she wanted to be – she didn't need a vampire hunter here
forcing the issue. It made her resentful. It frightened her. It made her want to strike out, to
rage and solve the problem in terms of blood, not in terms of reason.

Natalie tensed as she saw O'Neal pause halfway through the parking lot.

She waited expectantly, the silence of the cold night air thrumming intensely around
her. What would he do? What would he…?

O'Neal relaxed, continuing to walk away. Natalie released a deep breath, unclenching
her fists to reveal deep grooves that her nails had pressed into her palms. She basked in
the relief for a moment, pleased to avoid conflict for the time-being.
she chided herself.

Nat moved with brisk steps up the stairs and through the precinct entrance. She hardly
spared Schanke a glance as she stepped into the dim interrogation room, directing her
attention to her main purpose. "Nick."

He'd watched her approach. Natalie suspected that Nick had recognized her presence
the moment she'd stepped into the building. He'd eyed her intently, in that manner that
always made Natalie feel as though she was the center of his universe. It was as though he
was willing, wishing, her to speak to him. She thrilled, yet despised, the feeling all at once.

The thing was, Nat knew that his focus always wavered. This facade of adoration never
lasted. Nick's heart and soul would soon entrench in some other crusade, something he
felt needed his championship more, leaving her bereft, unsure of who she was and what
she meant to him. her thoughts cursed.

What bothered her the most, what really burned her, was how tempting the illusion
could be. She wanted Nick to love her, wanted to believe that everything would work out
happily ever after. Romantic dreams were the cruelest to wake from, though – Natalie
knew this from experience. How many times had this one man bruised her heart already?
Natalie chided him silently.

Nick had been seated in front of the videocassette player. He climbed to his feet, his
body language filled with eager energy at the marriage of her voice and his name. "Nat. Is
everything all right?"

She drew him through the threshold of the room, leaving the door ajar, stopping at the
edge of the bustle of the bullpen. "You tell me. I saw you talking with O'Neal."

His expression closed slightly. "I can handle the problem."

Natalie leapt on that one word like a lifeline. "So you admit he's a problem."

"I admit that he doesn't seem eager to leave Toronto as soon as I'd wish. The longer
he stays, the more likely the Community will decide to go after him. If that happens, I'll
handle them."

"Handle *them *?" Natalie shook her head. "I can't believe I'm hearing this! What
happened to the problem of O'Neal wanting to stretch a few vampire-hunting muscles,
hmm? The issue is not you protecting him. It's protecting you *from* him!"

Nick grasped her arms just below the elbows. "Nat, whether or not O'Neal chooses to
play jury and judge is beyond our control in the end. We can give him our arguments, our
best defense, but we don't make his decisions. If he attacks, so be it. I'm not saying I'll
turn the other cheek and invite him to kill me."

"So your plan is to just wait and see?" Natalie said bitterly. "Great, Nick. By the time
you realize O'Neal is sharpening a stake with your name on it, it may be too late to act.
There are a lot of vampires in Toronto. Did you consider how many he might whittle away
while you feel you have to protect him?"

"We have the power to choose, Natalie," he answered, his voice deep and fervent.
"O'Neal is only seeking to protect the mortal world from evil. We have the option of
adding to that darkness or helping to fight it. Nothing has changed since the last time he
was here. We have nothing to fear as long as O'Neal sees that we are on his side."

Natalie tore her eyes away from his searching gaze. "Are we, Nick? Are we really on
his side?"

She moved to pull her arms out of his grip, but Nick clung on to one wrist. "Nat, I'm
not going to say that anything you choose to do is fine with me. Maybe it's not fair at this
point to hold you to my same standards, but I'm not going to be a hypocrite and say I
accept your actions unconditionally. I do love you, though. What's done, is done. More
than anyone, I know that nursing guilt, resentment and blame from the past doesn't lead to
good things. I see the reflection of that guilt in you, Nat. How could I not recognize it? I
know you've done things since Clare brought you across that you think need forgiveness,
things that you believe I'd despise. You know me, Nat, so you're probably right. I'd
probably react badly and hurt you, just like I did over the apartment and your research.
That doesn't mean I don't forgive you."

"How big of you," Natalie scoffed.

Nick persisted. "I may not approve of everything you've done, but I care about you
regardless. One thing I'm sure of, Nat, one thing that I trust more than I trust our control
around others or our honesty with each other, is my belief in your heart. You have more
to forgive than I do, but you still care. I believe that. Whatever happens, whether we are
together or apart, we will both care about each other."

"Nick," she sighed truthfully, "I hate to disillusion you."

"I know you better than that," Nick insisted.

"How can you?" Natalie demanded. "How can you, when I don't even know myself?"

His expression was stubborn. "I know."

"Well, I'll tell you what I believe, Nick. I don't think you know me at all. I think you
still only see what you want to see in me. Sure, you've made a little progress in
acknowledging my crimes, clearing them with a blank check of forgiveness, but that's not
really dealing with the root of the conflict, is it? You don't accept me anymore than you
accept yourself, and I can't live like that, Nick. I can't live like this. I shouldn't have even
tried talking it over with you." She finally pulled away from him completely and turned
toward the exit.

"Nat!" Nick called after her. "I do know you! You don't want to live with regret.
Don't do anything that will cause that just because you're angry with something I've said
or done!"

She didn't turn around, but swished a hand behind her back as a sign of dismissal.

Nick walked thoughtfully, heavily, back to the interrogation room's desk. Schanke eyed
him knowingly as he handed over the VCR controls. "From where I'm sitting, that looked
like a pretty intense pow-wow with the lady."

"I think I screwed up again," Nick confessed.

Don patted a chair. "Sit down, and tell Uncle Schanke all about it."

Nick dropped into the seat. "I don't know. It's all about honesty. I know Nat doesn't
want me to lie about how I feel." Nick shook his head determinedly. "She says I don't
really understand who she is, but I know she doesn't want me to hide the truth. Either way
it's a catastrophe. I keep secrets; I lose her. I'm honest; I lose her. Why isn't there an
option where I keep her?" he finished with frustration.

"She's the woman you love, Nick," Schanke pointed out. "Sure, it's a great fantasy to
be El Hombre, the big man in control, but the real deal isn't about keeping or losing."

"Then what's it about?"

"You love her. You hang in there and tell her that every chance you get. If it's meant
to be, one day she'll listen. If it's not meant to be, you can't make it happen. The first
dozen heartbreak beers will be on me."

Nick's expression reflected an appreciation for his partner's friendship. "Is it a good
sign that I don't drink beer? A sign that I'm not headed for heartbreak?"

"It's a sign that you're not human," Schanke declared good-naturedly. "Okay, a bottle
of that red stuff you like so much will be on me. You'll need something to sob over if
things don't work out between you and Natalie." He leaned over and clapped Nick on the
shoulder. "You're two of my favorite people. It'd be a crying shame."

Nick agreed. "Yeah, Schank. A crying shame."

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

Survivors (17/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Domino hadn't planned to return to the construction site without a direct invitation,
but he was in a snit. He'd only just recently learned the enjoyable elements to an unholy
tantrum or a royal fit (mainly because, without Figaro or Cecilia around, there were so few
opportunities for people to crush his ego nowadays and keep him under a tight rein). His
typical audience was the flock of assistants at the fashion house, who really had no choice
but to put up with it if they wanted to continue their careers. C'est la mode. Dom used to
think better of pushing the same attitude with his vampire friends - he didn't have enough
of that 'Figaro insouciance' to pull it off, or the bad temperament to back it up. Lately,
though, he'd been practicing both.

Still, he'd had enough testing of his 'bossy' wings over the past season to put a few
bad ideas in his head, plus Dom was a tad hungover from a knockout session of Rum-O in
the Bahamas. The faint remnants of alcohol poisoning perhaps affected his judgment. It
certainly had him storming into Clare's - Vachon's - whoever the hell the house belonged
to - cursing a blue streak, finishing up with the gently roared,

"Ivy! IVY!!!!"

Domino stomped upstairs then down again, punctuating each landing with a new,
scouring, "Ivy!"

Vachon wandered out from the library, where he'd been refinishing the floor. "She's
not here," he called casually as he wiped the sawdust from his hands with a raggedy towel.

Domino leapt over the balustrade, landing with an irritated thump in front of the
Spaniard. "Well, where the hell is the lovely brat?!"

"She's not here," Vachon repeated, turning to walk back into the library, his
participation in the conversation complete.

His calm, of course, had Dom seeing spots. Beyond all claim to self-preservation, he
followed the other vampire, screeching, "All I asked was for her to keep an eye on House
of Figaro while I was in the Bahamas! Like a sneeze, she said! No problem, she said! I
come back to find that Ivy's been missing in action ever since I left. The House has gone
to hell, half my buyers have split and all you can say is 'She's not here!' Where the hell is
'there'? What happened to make her drop out of sight without a word? Hmm? What's the
crisis???" He threw his hands in the air with dramatic exasperation. "I must be loony to
even ask. I'd get more of a response if your stinking handsaw went missing, wouldn't I?
Thanks for all the info, Jav. I learned one thing for sure from the visit: you don't give a
damn." He turned to leave.

"She's not at the Raven, either."

Domino's steps out of the house slowed at the unexpected sound of Vachon's voice.

"She hasn't been to Janette's for four days now," the Spaniard continued, "or Screed's
old place."

Domino stopped walking and did an about-face as Vachon went on talking.

"I checked the church," Vachon shook his head, his expression faintly disturbed, "but
she wasn't there. You already know that she hasn't been to the studio."

Dom moved closer, his mouth dropping agape as the Spaniard kept speaking. He was
marking word for word, because, frankly, he'd forgotten what Vachon's voice sounded
like over the past few months.

"No, you don't know where she is. Knight hasn't seen her, LaCroix hasn't seen her,
Natalie and Feliks are keeping a lookout, but they don't know where she is, either. And
me? Surprise. I don't know where she is, and I've run out of ideas, so unless you have a
brilliant suggestion or two, yes, please get the hell out. You're ruining my concentration."
Vachon bent down to the floor and picked up his sandpaper.

"Holy bloody rum, Jav!" Domino breathed. "I'd given up on you allocating more than
five words to a sentence ever again!"

"I just thought I'd point out that while you've spent the past week in Nassau, carefree
and stupid, sipping blood daiquiris from the Kinsey twins, everyone *except* you has been
giving a damn about where Ivy might be. Breezing in here at this point, acting the
outraged savior…well..." Vachon let the word hang as he eased a speck of grit out from
underneath one fingernail. "…you're pissing me off."

That was a sobering concept for Domino to digest. A veritable hangover cure. "Oh."
He shuffled his feet. "Sorry."

"Apology accepted. Close the door behind you." Vachon began to studiously sand the
floor. A few minutes passed, filled only with the soft swishing sound of paper against
wood, before he bothered to acknowledge that Dom had yet to leave the room.

"You're still here," Vachon stated pointedly.

Domino ran a finger under his collar. "I have a suggestion," he stammered. "It's
probably not brilliant, though," the younger vampire qualified. "Chances are you've got
this covered already…"

Vachon motioned at him impatiently. "Spit it out, Dom."

"Well, it sounds like you've checked every place you think she might go…so how
about checking a few spots you think she'd steer clear of? I mean, if she's slipped the
whole Community, she must be trolling somewhere demented."

Vachon tossed his sandpaper aside. "You have a point. I've searched the places that
make sense. How often does Ivy make sense?"

Domino spread his arms out to either side. "Bingo, badboy."

Vachon grabbed his ragged towel to clean his hands of dust again as he approached the
doorway. As he passed, he chucked the dirty linen at Domino. "I'm on it."

Dom juggled the cloth as if it was on fire. He frowned as a small cloud of infinitesimal
wood particles floated into the air, choosing his silk shirt as their final destination.
Whirling around to catch sight of the other vampire's back, he called, "You're going to
look for her?"

Javier finished shrugging on his leather jacket before opening the front door. "That's
what you wanted me to do, wasn't it?" The Spaniard tossed him the grin of a man with a
mission. "Close the door behind you."

Dom blinked, thinking how he'd been languishing over the idea of dashing to the
rescue, himself, but it was too late. Vachon was gone. Domino waved a belated,
bewildered farewell toward the still-open door with the soiled towel. "Another fulfilling
visit chez Vachon." A sigh. "I need more friends."

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

Natalie entered the Raven in a state of purposeful belligerence. It was rebellion. It was
spite. It was indignation at Nick's presumption to tell her how she felt about anything.

She pushed her way to the bar, a growl hovering about her lips. Ordering a drink as she
took a seat, Natalie scanned the other occupants, swiftly identifying LaCroix. She realized
that subconsciously, he was her whole excuse for coming here. After all, what had Nick
asked her to promise?

Natalie scornfully took a swig from her glass. "And Nick knows everything," she
muttered.

"Except what is good for him," LaCroix had approached during her reverie. His voice
slipped in as a drawl, ticking items off on one hand, "what he wants, the meaning of
loyalty, and the driving power behind a modern automobile. Otherwise, I would agree that
Nicholas is fairly enlightened."

Natalie sipped again at her cocktail before letting her own loyalties slip. "Do you
remember that vampire hunter – O'Neal?"

LaCroix's response lacked any expression of opinion on the twist in subject. "Yes. I
recall such a person."

"He's back in Toronto," Natalie said, her manner almost a dare. She eyed the ancient
vampire speculatively, curious for some flicker of response to the news. She was
disappointed to find no glimmer of interest. Nat decided to throw some pepper into the
stew. "He's threatening to go after Nick."

"That is what vampire hunters do, isn't it? They hunt vampires. Despite any of
Nicholas' efforts – and yours, might I add – he is still a vampire."

"One who is refusing to do anything about the danger. He thinks it's his duty to protect
O'Neal, even if he may be the first huntee."

"Nicholas' pattern of logic was always rather unfortunate, " LaCroix observed
noncommittally.

Natalie frowned at the ancient vampire. "Why am I getting the impression that you're
not planning to do anything to protect Nick from the hunter?"

LaCroix's expression finally acquired a sign of life. His lips twisted ironically as he
mocked, "Far be it for me to interfere in Nicholas' affairs."

"That would be a first," Nat said dismissively. She didn't appreciate his humor, and she
certainly didn't believe his mask of disinterest. She swiftly analyzed the possibilities – what
was LaCroix really thinking? Natalie's eyes lit with triumph as she hit upon a likely reason.
"I get it. You think that Nick won't hold out. He'll fight O'Neal in the end to protect
himself."

"To protect himself? Unlikely. But, yes, I do think that Nicholas might act if the
circumstances were similar to past incidents," LaCroix said enigmatically.

Natalie knew exactly what he was up to. "So you're manipulating the situation. If Nick
is put in a do-or-die position, and he does without your encouragement, he can't complain
you influenced him."

"As delightful as that theory sounds," LaCroix countered, "the reason I will not
interfere on Nicholas' behalf is that I have washed my hands of him."

Natalie laughed rudely at that statement. "Right. Let me guess: you're feeding the
homeless, rather than feeding *on* the homeless now, too. Give me credit for having a
shred of sense. After all you've done, after all the years you've hounded Nick, why on
earth would you stop now?"

"Because, as you said, Natalie, I have devoted countless energy and time to bending
Nicholas to my will. The repetition absent of reward fills me with ennui. If my relationship
with Nicholas is to continue, he must change. I have finally grown tired of him."

Natalie stared at LaCroix, her eyes saucered with amazement. Sincerity wove through
his explanation, causing her to wonder if maybe, just maybe, he was telling the truth. She
swallowed the dregs of her drink, and she pushed away from the bar. "Well, I guess
there's nothing else to say."

"Natalie." LaCroix's voice made her pause and look behind. "If you consider this
O'Neal a true threat, why don't *you* do something about him?"

Natalie eyed him quietly for a second then spun around again, leaving the club swiftly.
The permutations of his question didn't bother her so much as the harsh reality of what
her answer might be.

**********************************************************************
End of Part Seventeen

Survivors (18/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Ivy did not rest long among the junkies. In the sense that the grimy quad was where
she belonged, emaciated bodies clutching at the shadows, it was her home sick home.
What she wanted at the moment was solitude, though, a peaceful blank interlude to still
the shiver-shake in her thoughts, the hooked net her world had become. Surrounded by
victims, all lolling about, their veins tattooed with hundreds of tiny needle kisses as if to
broadcast 'come get some,' it seemed so easy to linger and grow sluggishly sated from a
double addiction.

That path, tempting in its oblivion, still held no answer. She knew there would be no
solitude, even surrounded by strangers. She was confronted by a terrible truth - that her
reality was filled with just what she wanted but couldn't seem to grasp or confront…she
was alone.

Sated by a fix of laced blood, she mulled over where to run next. Eventually, someone
would think to look for her here. The image of some knight in shining armor endeavoring
to rescue her, even from herself, left Ivy cringing with dismay. For a moment, she saw the
face of Mark, her ex-boyfriend from sixteen years past, closely followed by Vachon's
expression last Halloween, when everything had been irretrievably broken. The two men
seared through her thoughts, their features entwined, intermingled. She started in surprise,
suddenly realizing there had been a resemblance, at least in the blush of youth.

Ivy jumped to her feet, jerkily rubbing her arms as if that would erase her irritation at
her thoughts. She paced, emitting a low growl when one of the dealers moved as though
he would approach. His eyes widening at the inhuman sound, he backed away from her
line of vision, picking more malleable prey elsewhere.

she
chastised herself mockingly.

Ivy made rueful snort and dug through her coat pockets for a smoke. Okay, she knew
she could be naive about a lot of things, and this whole world of vampire interaction was
new to her, but she wasn't so stupid as to count herself among those people that Vachon
truly cared about. She was a rebound case, someone who Jav could exploit to maintain the
facade that he wasn't alone, and he wasn't out of control. She was to be used at a distance
and at his discretion.

Ivy could understand his reasoning. That fairytale racetrack - she'd fallen prey to it
herself. Isn't that why she'd become embroiled with Janette and her family in the first
place, because it was so tempting to feel as if she belonged somewhere, somewhere
beyond the bitter and taunting heritage her own family and Thomas had left her?

She was beginning to catch on, though, to just who was a crutch and what was an
illusion. It was filtering down through her brain, drop by drop. Everyone was ultimately
alone, therefore everyone should ultimately concern themselves with their own interests.
What do *you* want? What do *you* need? Trick everyone else into thinking they want
it, too. Fool or force them into giving that want to you. Wasn't that the way it worked?

Her mind suddenly snapped into focus, crisp and sharp. Ivy nodded to herself, puffing
methodically on her cigarette.

Janette had manipulated her, edging her into a culpable part of Clare's death. She'd
picked up on Ivy's craving for acceptance and dangled some fantasy of a familial bond in
front of her as bait. Thomas had beaten her, tortured her, all to transform Ivy into some
kind of plaything. He'd wanted an amusement, and he'd whipped her spirit until she was
almost ready to beg and give in to his will. Ivy thought in disgust, tossing her
cigarette butt aside and crushing it violently into the concrete with her boot,

She paused again.

Ivy scowled and shook that thought away. The dream wasn't about Clare, not really. It
wasn't a portrait of anything tangible. It couldn't be.

Clare is gone.

Ivy shot out a curse as she realized she'd slipped into some mental mantra, as if she
needed to repeat the idea to truly believe it. It was just fear, a lingering fear left behind with the ashes. Clare wasn't like her sire,
but she hadn't been a stranger to using intimidation and cruelty to snap others in line. Her
conflict with Janette rooted from that aggression – two determined minds ultimately
rendering destruction in order to mold the world into their vision. Yes, the idea frightened
Ivy. She was so attuned to acceptance, even now felt its tempting lure, that the thought of
employing that same imperialism gave her pause.

Clare had used it, and she had bitter enemies - many, many enemies. Even her friends
and loved ones spoke of her with varying degrees of resentment because of it.

And when Janette had followed that pattern, she'd made an enemy, too. Not Clare,
because Ivy now realized that the vampire elder had probably given very little thought
regarding any past conflict with Janette. Nothing was ever done that would have truly
troubled Clare until there was a stake cutting into her heart, and that had been much too
late. Ivy thought, for the first time acknowledging it clearly to
herself, <…is me.>

Ivy
shuddered.

Ivy took a deep breath and smiled, the edges of her mouth tilting with the first hint of
confidence. It was strangely invigorating, the cool winter air wafting over her tongue, so
different from the salty warmth of blood or the hot recrimination of guilt. It was as if she
tasted freedom, not the overtones of garbage and human filth that the bricks of the quad
offered into the breeze.

Ivy shrugged one shoulder to
herself, then idly reached into her jacket again for another cigarette. Her thoughts continued to roll on,
again crisp, clear and sharp.

Ivy
began to walk across the center of the quad, her boot heels echoing a knoll off the stone
faces of the weathered buildings.

Ivy continued walking, thinking carefully. She slipped into
the alley between two of the quad's far buildings, tapping the ashes from her cigarette
onto the sleeping body of a homeless man as she passed. Ivy concluded.
Ivy was out of the quad now, her steps taking her away from the junkies,
past the stairs where she had had her only brief encounter with her mortal brother before
Cecilia had murdered him. She ignored the scene, totally focused on the future, on setting
up her plans.

Vachon might come looking for her out of a sense of possessiveness. Staying at the
quad would have made it too easy for him to find her, and Ivy's purpose was no longer
about making things easy for Vachon. She wanted to see if she could make him sweat,
make him worry just a little bit over losing her. That would reel in his attention.

Ivy's old self-condemning voice couldn't resist slipping in a dig. She tensed, annoyed at the sentiment. Vachon would come looking, and if he
didn't…hadn't she already realized she only had herself to count on in the end?

she reiterated to herself.

Ivy considered the building near Jameson, the one where Thomas had held and tortured
all of his other victims. The fire had caused severe damage to the wooden frame above the
ground, but the stone walls and passages that comprised the many prison cells below the
surface had remained intact. She could return there, even holing up in the room where
Clare and Thomas had met their destruction. Let Vachon think her traumatized when he
found her coated in the soot remaining from that night, babbling about the flames, crying
in grief over Clare's death. That would tug at his heartstrings, wouldn't it?

She began to walk in that direction with purposeful steps, but a face suddenly flashed
through her mind again, haunting her resolution.

She faltered, turning awkwardly on her heels until she was suddenly facing the
direction of the harbor.

"Knights in shining armor…" she whispered. "…Rescuing me…"

Ivy knew then that she had her answer. There was a perfect symmetry to it, a full circle
logic. She would go to the O'Keefe – the friggin' Mockingbird Centre or whatever they
called it now – and wait to be found.

This situation wasn't drawn for just any spectacle of waiting. Leaning against a
lamppost reading the paper and smoking menthols when Vachon found her would be
completely out of order. Even being found simply moping and feeling sorry for herself
wouldn't completely sell her cause. This situation called for a special effort at drama.

Ivy's thoughts rushed. Ivy's eyes narrowed
bitterly.

Ivy leapt into the air, darting through the night sky, slashing through any currents of
breeze.

When she landed, Ivy was at the doorstep of the House of Figaro. It was night, and no
one would be about since Dom was out of town. She could take the supplies she needed
out of the fireplace without any witnesses then head for the theatre. A few bottles hidden
in the trash of the alley should serve her. her thoughts repeated. Slipping
through the shadowed salon halls and up the stairs to the second floor, she walked
through the main workroom and into Figaro's old office with no problem.

Upon entering, she paused as always to look at the wall. It had been repainted with half
a dozen coats to cover the traces of the blood message Thomas had left to taunt her when
he kidnapped Domino last fall. No vagary in the melon color remained to assault her eyes,
yet she could still see the words, if only in her mind. It was eternally imprinted of her
eyelids in scarlet slashes of command, the message of 'COME TO ME.'

Ivy blinked at the wall…once, twice. In the past, she'd always felt a momentary fear
entering this room, a sick sense of shame. Tonight, for the first time, the fear was gone,
and, in its place, she experienced a pulse of understanding.

She stepped closer, reaching out with one hand to hypnotically trace letters along the
monochrome surface, seeing shapes and patterns underneath the surface. Her fingertips
paused at the end of the message, her eyes focused and intense as her voice sounded in a
spellbound whisper.

"Come to me, Vachon."

Ivy whispered the words again, then her brow furrowed. It was a momentary
indecision, one that had her emitting a harsh snarl and stalking over to the fireplace,
pressing the hidden lever so it would reveal the wine racks encased within, then jerking
out two bottles with an abrupt clatter.

She told herself that her success didn't matter. No compromises in the face of failure.
Either her way or the highway, and if Vachon didn't come searching for her, she wouldn't
care. She'd move on, and she wouldn't care. She be damned if she cared.

Ivy leaned against the open fireplace, using her weight to push it shut. She clasped the
two bottles to her chest, almost hugging them. Even as her chin tilted up stubbornly, a
final unbidden whisper escaped from her lips.

"Come to me."

*****************************************************************
End of Part Eighteen

Survivors (19/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Natalie was simply furious. Frustrated. At everyone, most especially herself. What had
she been thinking, going to see LaCroix like that? When did talking with that man ever
simplify an issue? No, LaCroix always made things more complicated, or he brought up
the dirty little aspects to the problem that one didn't want to face.

She conjured up a stream of epithets in honor of the ancient vampire, topping them off
by speculating a slow motion tableau of what would happen if LaCroix was tucked into a
barrel and dropped over Niagara Falls on a sunny August morning. Natalie chuckled to
herself at that thought.

Natalie didn't completely buy his 'I have washed my hands of Nicholas' routine, either.
He put on a good act back at the Raven, but the image of LaCroix stepping away, putting
his hands behind his back while Nick's existence was at risk was a very difficult picture to
believe. Not after all the stories Nick had told her. Not after the influence she'd witnessed
LaCroix wielding with her own eyes. The possibility was truly impossible to accept.

"Does he think I was brought across yesterday?" Natalie muttered fiercely under her
breath. That was what made Natalie more irritated at the memory of her conversation with
the ancient vampire than anything. It wasn't that he was so unhelpful. She should have
known better than to expect a shred of assistance from LaCroix. No, what was so galling
was that he seemed to be laughing at her. Mocking her.

Maybe even trying to manipulate her.

That thought caused Natalie to stop short.

LaCroix had suggested. Could it be that
the vampire had some plan orchestrated that required her to kill O'Neal? Some plot meant
to affect Nick, or her relationship with Nick?

Nat drew her eyes into slits, shaking her head at the pattern of her own thoughts. The
curly tendrils of her hair danced frantically around her cheekbones as she jammed her fists
into the pockets of her tan overcoat and trudged down the sidewalk. "Cut that out,
Lambert," she briskly lectured herself. "You and Nick no longer have a relationship.
You've put a lot of pain and effort into making that happen, so the least you can do is get
it straight."

She let out a long breath, meant to be calming, but the force of air from her lungs came
swift and strong. Nick. LaCroix. She'd had it up to her hair scrunchies with both of them.
They were both bossy. They were both stubborn and became standoffish in the face of
debate. Natalie was
amazed that she put up with either of them at all. "They deserve each other," she said
aloud, her mouth puckered waspishly.

Natalie gasped, then she clapped a hand over her gaping jaw. "I can't believe I said
that." She shook her head as though to clear it, then rubbed at her temples with both
hands to lower her tension. "Oh, Lambert. You really are going crazy," she whispered
mournfully. She turned around one, two rotations, still massaging her head. That was the
rub - she didn't know if she was coming or going lately. She felt crazy. She was dizzy and
undecided, and there was nothing and no one who would make anything easier for her.
She needed to be self-reliant – Natalie told herself this over and over. It was just that she
felt like -

Suddenly her senses pricked. Her gaze had wandered as she fretted. Normally this
would be an innocent action, but as a figure caught her eye, Natalie felt anything but
innocent. Her nostrils tingled and her mind roared. A burning, knowing ache scraped from
within her body, simultaneously appalling and alluring.

He was young and handsome, jogging the sidewalk toward her with a hundred meters
to spare. His heart beat fast and strong, and his blood rushed, side-winding swiftly through
that organ, pumping a merry dance that seemed to call out to Natalie.

She pictured taking him, sinking into his flesh and drawing out the essence of his
reality. Making everything hers, his blood, his breath, his life - it would be so easy and
fast, and she could make him want it as much as her parched throat, her itchy fangs and
weak soul longed for it. It would be so easy and fast.

Her eyes were luminous and round at she watched his approach. Their intensity dug
into the runner's concentration, dragging his focus from his breathing technique until he
returned her consuming examination. As his jogging steps drew him parallel with Natalie
on the sidewalk, he subconsciously stumbled. Fighting to prevent an injury, yet
simultaneously loathing to tear his gaze away from the stare of the fascinating stranger, he
pivoted slightly so that his back hit the brick of the nearest building. Better that his back
take the brunt of his weight than a fragile ankle.

Strangely, now that he'd stopped running, his breathing became a heavy pant. The
woman stepped closer, and he felt awash with amazement. She was unbelievably beautiful,
with the eyes of an angel, and she was looking at him with a desperate need. Suddenly he
felt consumed with desire. He wanted to be closer to her, too. Whatever she needed, he
wanted to give her.

Natalie witnessed these emotions rushing through him as she approached. her inner demons whispered. She licked her lips
ravenously, then trailed her tongue along the sharp blades of her teeth. Her hands reached his chest, her palms splayed flatly against the damp
warmth of his sweatshirt, feeling the effort of his heart as well as she could hear it ringing
through her ears. He looked at her as though she was cool water, and he was on fire. The
feeling was mutual.

She had done it before over the past months: seen, wanted, taken, and relished. her conscience inserted, its voice weak, but its slap just as harsh.

The spell was broken. Natalie measured the man's glazed expression and found it
wanting. She shook her head harshly from side to side, either fighting off self-realization
or self-terror. Natalie pushed him away with a moaned snarl and ran. She ran blindly, away
from herself, then back home again.

The man, the jogger-who-would-be-victim, was blinded as well. Still enthralled by the
stranger, he released a hoarse cry when he realized she was gone. It had taken a split-
second for fantasy to evaporate, leaving him to clutch bleakly at the empty, cold night.

Another split-second passed, and he heard a whistling through the air, followed by an
impact with the brick wall where he had stood, entwined with that dream woman. The
missile cracked and splinted, then it fell to the sidewalk, a splintered, wooded mess.

The man regained his senses with lightning speed. Someone had shot a bolt at them!
His eyes scanned his surroundings swiftly, searching for the culprit or another glimpse of
his mystery woman.

He took to running again, resuming a rapid trot as he continued along his previous
route, swiftly leaving the scene.

Far across the street and in the shadows, Liam O'Neal lowered his crossbow with a
muffled curse. Doctor Lambert had marked him just in time and escaped. he thought.

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

Vachon tried to tell himself that he wasn't afraid. Fear was for people who were out of
control. Fear was for worriers, for the uptight, obsessive and guilty - four things that
Vachon had always sworn he would never be.

He also tried to tell himself that it was a good thing he couldn't find Ivy. It was a
lesson, a reminder that you can't own anyone but yourself. People should be free to come
and go. No guilt, no recriminations. No one could be expected to remain happy with the
same little town, with the same dull view of the water and nothing new to ever do for
long, much less a lifetime. Move when you want to, with no ties or responsibility to
restrain you.

But Toronto wasn't some little town on the Mediterranean, and he wasn't an eager boy
escaping Spain in the disguise of a soldier. In no way could he confuse Ivy with his
weeping mother, terrified for him and completely at a loss to understand his craving for
adventure. Vachon was never one to obnoxiously examine things in terms of the past, and
it irritated him that he was experiencing the temptation to do it now.

And so it was a good lesson. Had he sunk so far into the world of regretful old men
over this past year that he couldn't see straight? Before he knew it, he'd be trading war
stories with the likes of LaCroix and Knight on a regular basis, bitterly regretting his every
loss and lamenting his every transgression.

"The hell I will," Vachon said indignantly.

He should have gone back to the house at that point. Ivy hadn't been with the junkies
at the quad.

Vachon told himself, But even as
he told himself these things, Javier kept looking, subconsciously tracing his steps to
Jameson Street, even as he reminded himself how much of a headache other people's
problems always were. Even as he searched those scorched out ruins, he remembered that
caring about other people's problems made them your problems. Even as he racked his
memory for other locations that Ivy might associate with the hated Thomas, he recalled
how much caring about other people could hurt.

Still, his feet didn't turn home. He was at the theatre when he realized there was no
argument he could offer himself that would change the way things were. Picking up Ivy's
body in the alley, taking off his jacket and wrapping it around her slight frame as he
cradled her close, Vachon understood the truth. Regretful old men were empty and alone.
Regretful old men never learn to love anyone but themselves. Regretful old men need
nothing, which is exactly what they have...nothing.

For better or for worse, even though the ties frightened him, Javier had Ivy.

He lifted a shaking hand to brush across one of her emaciated cheeks. "Ivy! Wake up!"
Her skin was dry and sallow, dangerously papery for a vampire.

Her lids drifted open. She didn't so much as say his name as much as she mouthed it.
"Vachon." Her lips tilted slightly. "You're here." There was a note of surprise to her
statement.

"If you'd sent an invitation, I'd have shown up sooner," he teased before his concern
overtook his expression. "You're starving. When did you last feed?"

Ivy's brow crinkled as though he'd asked her to forecast the world economy. Her
voice, though small, carried the sound of surprised discovery. "Don't 'member!"

"Okay. Not a problem," Vachon said, willing confidence into his words as he jerked up
one of his shirtsleeves. "Are you strong enough to hold your head up?" He pulled back
slightly, giving her the leeway to test her answer to his question. He cursed as her head
lolled helplessly to one side.

She seemed to be looking longingly at the crates and trash heaped against one building
bounding the alley, not a meter from her face, as though it held the answer to her dilemma.
Vachon could see that she was trying to lift her left arm to no avail. She released a
strange, almost ironic, giggle then whispered, "The best laid plans..."

He moved to support her head by tucking it under his chin with one hand, while he
hunted in his jeans for his pocketknife with the other. He snapped it open sharply, then cut
deeply into the wrist he'd bared. Vachon did not wince at the sting, too focused on
rendering Ivy aid to waste a moment in bringing the wound to meet her mouth. He'd been
in similar shape when Clare had dug him from the ground, and it had taken him months,
Divia's poison and a staking to deteriorate that far. Ivy was young, though, young enough
that her condition frightened him. For a vampire, she was a fragile infant.

It took time and urging on his part before Ivy had recovered enough to drink on her
own. Gradually, Javier's fear eroded to be replaced by arousal as she suckled at his wrist.
She needed more, though, much more blood than he could give her. Finally, regretfully, he
pulled his arm away from her ravenous mouth, causing her to give a whimper at the loss.
Vachon hugged her close, supporting her weight as he rose from the grimy pavement. He
drifted soft, reassuring kisses along one cheek, then dallied for more lingering contact with
her lips. "Don't worry. I'll take care of you."

Javier picked her up, cradling Ivy to his chest again as he prepared to take flight. He
looked to the sky, unaware of Ivy's expression: her smile filled with mocking irony, her
teeth clenched as if to restrain a scream of protest, and her eyes that held a fissure of
sadness impossible to escape.

***********************************************************************
End of Part Nineteen

Survivors (20/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

It was mid-afternoon when the ringing phone pulled Nick awake. He fumbled to
answer it, but some intuition told him that it was important. "Knight here."

"Nick?" The voice on the other end was vaguely familiar. "James Curran calling."

Nick battled his sleepy-headed languor to match the name and voice with a face.
"What can I do for you, Detective?" he asked,
sounding much more alert than he felt.

"Well, I was searching through the ballistics files..." the new homicide detective began.

Nick frowned in confusion. "Weren't you off that detail?" he interrupted. "I thought
Gonzales returned a few days ago."

"Yeah, he's back," Curran admitted, "but I wasn't done with this job. I've been coming
to the Coroner's Office in my off hours the past couple of days to finish up, just in case
there was a match."

Nick nodded to himself, understanding the young officer's motivation. "Captain Reese
would be pleased if you found anything."

"I did."

His words rendered Nick stone-cold alert, and he abruptly leapt out of bed. "What did
you find?"

"I'd say it's a match for sure, though I'm waiting for one of the techs here to give me a
final verdict."

Nick stalked to the window, tentatively tilted at the blinds, then snatched his hand back
as the warm glow of afternoon sun pushed through the crack. He muffled his grunt of
annoyance and asked, "Have you talked to the Captain yet?"

"No way. Not until I have an expert confirmation. I may be the eager new guy, but I'm
not stupid. I called you since it's really your case. I figured you and Schanke would want
to get down here if it's a match."

"Yeah, yeah. You're right." Nick ran a frustrated hand through his tousled hair, glaring
at the window as if it was the root of all his troubles. "How about I call Schanke? One or
both of us will meet you at the Coroner's as soon as possible."

"Gotcha."

Nick moved to hang up, but paused at the last second. "Detective Curran? Good
work."

The other man's smile of pride at the simple compliment was evident even on the
phone. "Thanks."

Nick broke the connection and dialed the Schankes' home number. After two rings, a
solemn, young female voice came on the line. "Hello?"

"Jen? It's Nick."

Her voice brightened. "Oh, hi, Nick!"

Images from the past flooded his thoughts - a small body swaddled in a hospital bed, a
tear-streaked face sobbing over too many graves. They eclipsed the purpose of the call,
prompting Nick to ask, "How's it going?"

"Fine."

His shoulders drooped a little at the girl's bland response. He realized that it was too
much to expect a definitive answer like 'I'm unhappy' or 'Life's been great! Clare who?'
Out of all the people Jennifer Schanke had to talk to, why should he be the person she
chose for her confidant? Better that she talk to her parents, and, for all he knew, she had.
He really didn't need to worry.

Still, Nick caught himself asking, "School okay?"

"Kinda boring." Jen let out a typical pre-teen groan. "I caught up on my missed school
by Christmas, and now that I want to jump ahead a grade level, Mum and Dad have gone
all parental about it."

Nick grinned in satisfaction. Apparently, he'd hit the jackpot of Jenny's conversation.
"Why's that?"

"They keep saying I shouldn't push myself, as if starting algebra a year early will give
me kidney failure." Obviously, Jen thought they were being over-protective. "Like this
dance recital tonight - I swear Dad's invited all the hospital staff from General, just in case
I sneeze."

"The dance recital! I forgot!" Nick exclaimed. There was no way that Schanke would
miss such an event. Nick would have to wait until dusk before bundling up and meeting
Curran.

"You forgot?" Jen repeated over his spinning thoughts. "Did Dad invite you as police
protection? Is the bomb squad coming, too?" she joked at her father's expense.

"No," Nick promised absently. "He mentioned it because he's proud of you. It's just -"

"It's just that something's come up at the precinct." As much as Jen had been
complaining about her father's over-protectiveness, her disappointment that he might miss
her recital was evident.

Nick rushed to reassure her. "Don't worry. He won't -"

It was too late. The girl had already closed up, mumbling a soft, "I'll get him," before
setting down the phone and stomping off.

A minute later, a harried Schanke picked up the receiver. "What the hell did you say to
the kid?"

Nick cringed uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, Schank. I'd forgotten you had special plans
tonight, and Jen caught on that I was calling about a case breakthrough."

"Damn. You know, she tries to hide it," Schanke confessed, "but Jen's still sensitive
over everything that's happened. The day of Clare's funeral she was bawling like a baby,
but the next - wham! - all of the sudden she's too cool to cry. It's all tough bravado on her
part. The kid's scared that something else will..." Schanke trailed off in his personal
parental trials as he realized what Nick had said. "Case breakthrough? What? A magical
video moment? A confession? Sock it to me!"

"Curran thinks he found a ballistics match. He's having a tech work it over now."

Schanke let out a low whistle. "That's music to my ears, pardner. I'm not missing the
kid's recital for it, though."

"That's what I figured, Schank. Jen might need some convincing, I'm afraid."

"That's what I get for pulling duty on too many holidays and events when she was
little," Nick's partner sighed. "Tell you what - I'll check in when Jen's tucked in. Look for
me around eleven."

Nick rang off and risked another test of the blinds. Scowling in annoyance, he began to
strip off his pajamas as he went in search of sunscreen.

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

Ivy turned up the hot water and scrubbed harder. Growing disgusted, she threw the
soap against the marble wall. It hit with a squishy thunk before sliding sluggishly to the
floor. Scowling, Ivy pressed her back to the opposite wall and followed suit. The shower
was of enormous dimensions, so she stretched out fully on her back, allowing the scalding
spray to pelt her in the face. Maybe soaking her head would help her obviously damaged
brain.

Time passed, and Ivy suspected her lips were turning prune-like. Still, she didn't feel
any less irate at herself. She banged the back of her head solidly against the slick surface of
the shower floor to release a measure of her frustration. "Stupid! Stupid!" she cursed and
earned a mouthful of water for her trouble. She gurgled it out as she pushed into a seated
position, using the wall to support her upper back. Thanks to her bad posture, the hot jets
now pummeled Ivy's chest.

She'd thought she was so clever, hiding those bottles in the alley. It was the perfect
backup plan, just in case Vachon didn't show. Only, being stupid, she'd completely
ignored every experience of withdrawal she'd ever had as a mortal. If she'd thought about
that, if she'd cast back and recalled what it was like to lose control over your body when
you denied it the stuff it craved, maybe she would have had other ideas. Doubly stupid
was that, after the first day of starvation, when she'd moved from the simple burning
hunger to the skin-popping desperation, she'd fought through it. Why give in? Vachon
would be there soon enough, and Ivy was damned if she was going to waste her effort.

One more day became one day too many. It had been a horrible shock for her to finally
give up, then realize that she hadn't the energy to move any longer. It was one thing to
plot, to contrive weakness for the sake of manipulation. Rendering yourself helpless and
dependant on rescue was something completely different.

When she woke up, she'd been at a loss as to how to deal with Vachon. Part of her felt
humbled by the experience - he'd been so tender - while an equal, outraged part of her had
felt completely humiliated. Just when she actually believed she didn't need knight-in-
shining-armor types anymore, one swooped down and saved her comatose tail from
certain doom. It was disgusting. It was pathetic. She didn't know what to say to him.

It seemed simple on paper, to hand Vachon the spiel about how she thought she'd seen
her sire, how it'd made her want to crawl back into the womb, or the grave, as it were. It
continued to be a tantalizing thought, to play the scene and see what came of it. Push him
a little more, and watch the results. Her head was screaming for her to regain control of
the situation. Where was her newfound sense of power? Where was her can-do-or-kick-
your-ass-trying attitude? But now, lying about anything carried an edge of cheapness with
it.

Her heart whispered that she owed him something more. It hinted that, if anything
decent remained in her, she'd hold her deceitful tongue. But what could she tell him? The
truth? Therefore, rather than breathe a word in either direction to Vachon, she fled
to a temporary time-out in the shower and valiantly tried to drown either her heart or her
head into submission.

She ran both hands up her forehead then combed her fingers through her sopping hair.
Glancing ruefully up at the showerhead, she pondered how much longer she could hide
out under its steamy downpour. As though to answer her unspoken question, the water
was suddenly orphaned of all heat, smacking Ivy in an icy blast.

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

It was past five by the time Nick dashed from his Caddy to the entrance of the 96th
precinct. He yanked the doors shut behind him, causing the smoke trailing his path to
dance a mad tango in the air and dissipate.

Freeing his head from its makeshift hood, he allowed the collar of his dark coat to rest
once more about his shoulders. Next to leave were the black gloves. As he yanked at the
heavy leather fingers, Nick glanced about and discovered a few co-workers and station
'guests' staring. "Don't you hate the cold?" he said nonchalantly, as if there were
absolutely no vampires fleeing spontaneous combustion in the room.

Entering the bullpen, Nick shrugged off his overcoat, folding it neatly over one arm.
He found James Curran seated at his desk, on hold on the phone. The young detective
glanced up at Nick's presence, raising an eyebrow. "I wondered when you or Schanke
would show. I was getting suspicious that this was another of your secret plans to get me
to do your paperwork."

"Sorry about that. I forgot Schank had a family thing that he couldn't get out of, and
I...I had car trouble." Nick consoled himself that it wasn't a total lie. After all, his whole
problem was that he couldn't drive the Caddy at four in the afternoon without catching on
fire. 'Car trouble' seemed a fair, if not detailed, explanation.

"Don't worry. I didn't take it personally," James said with a good-natured grin. "I had
plenty to keep me busy."

Nick's interest flared. "You heard back from the ballistics tech?"

Curran nodded. "The good news is it's a match. A similar pattern was found in a
homicide from '95."

"Was there an arrest?"

"Yes, but not because they had the weapon as evidence." Curran sifted a report from
those strewn over his desk and handed it to Nick. "Anson Pesche was arrested because
two separate witnesses came forward who saw the shooting. Between the time of the deed
and the time they talked, Pesche dumped the gun. It was never found."

"So, was Pesche paroled?" Nick reasoned. "Could the killings be a vendetta against the
cops who put him away?"

Curran shook his head. "Neither Dell nor Forrest were involved with the case, and
Pesche has been sitting in a maximum security cell the whole time."

Nick persisted. "Then maybe his vendetta has a broader focus - any authority figures in
the establishment - and he has help on the outside."

"Either that, or someone he knew two years ago got the gun and went off on a
vendetta all their own. I'm waiting on the phone now for the warden to come back and
give the okay for an interview with Pesche tonight. He's giving me the runaround about it
because I'm not Reese, but the Captain..." Curran trailed off with a shrug.

"The Captain had a wedding to go to," Nick remembered.

"Yeah, and apparently he's not answering his phone, so that people like me can't get
him to ask favors of prison wardens."

Nick made a production out of checking his watch. "Don't you officially go on duty
soon? How about I take over handling the warden so you can meet up with Gonzales?"

"Gee, thanks. Just when the fun stuff starts, you take over." Curran sighed and handed
over the receiver. "But it *is* your case, and I've got my own murderers to track down.
You'll keep trying to get the Captain, right?"

"Sure." Nick grinned shrewdly. "I'll make sure to tell him how much you helped."

"Thanks," Curran said as he pushed back from his desk. "Come to think of it, I forgot
to give Doctor Lambert a call about the match. You could take care of that, too, couldn't
you, Nick?" He gave Nick a meaningful grin of his own. "Let me know what happens."

Nick watched bemusedly as the young detective walked away. As soon as Curran was
out of sight, he hung up the phone. Nick spent some time scanning the case file on Anson
Pesche for useful details. He fully intended to visit the prison tonight, certain that the
warden would let him in after he had a chance to reason with the man face to face. Closing
the file, however, he slipped a tempted look at Curran's phone. He couldn't get the young
detective's suggestion completely out of his thoughts.

Nick dialed the morgue with no further delay then fidgeted with a recycled pencil off of
Curran's desk as he waited for someone to pick up. "Hi, Grace. It's Nick Knight. Is
Natalie there yet?...She called in sick? But...Never mind. Thanks, Grace. Bye."

Nick was thoughtful as he relinquished the phone again. Last night, Natalie had been
primed on the subject of Liam O'Neal. Could something have happened in regard to the
vampire hunter?

Nick sat undecided for a few minutes more, challenged by the thought that, even if
Natalie had a problem, she wouldn't welcome him at her door offering help. Curran's
ballistics discovery gave him an excuse to contact her, but it was paltry material for a
house call.

Nick bounded away from the desk, moving swiftly out of the bullpen and into the
newborn night. The important thing was that he knew Natalie was okay. His pride, the
prison warden, and Pesche, could wait.

***********************************************************************
End of Part Twenty

Survivors (21/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Ivy continued to towel her hair as she opened the bathroom door, not so much
concerned with drying it anymore as she was with hiding her face. She didn't have the
nerve for a straight on stare just yet. Peeking through a waterfall of terry suited her fine.

Behind the closed door, she'd pictured what Vachon might be doing: asleep on the
futon or working on some minor construction detail elsewhere in the house. She'd even
wondered if he'd run away. Ivy certainly thought that was a tempting idea at the moment.
Surely it was dark enough by now for him to leave her. Surely he'd had time enough to
reflect and realize that he wanted to go.

What Ivy didn't anticipate was that Vachon would be waiting. It caught her off guard
to see him simply sitting, staring patiently in her direction. She forgot what she was doing,
letting her hands go limp, and the towel formerly swaddling her head slipped to the floor
in a damp heap.

Vachon didn't appear on edge, not like she felt, but at the same time his silent scrutiny
carried an intensity that made her thoughts suddenly scatter into a blank page. She
couldn't think of what she wanted to say. She couldn't think of what she had decided to
say after so much careful deliberation during her shower sojourn. She simply stood there.
Then, judging the silence held some kind of power, some form of pure reason and peace,
Ivy felt irrationally compelled to break it. Even then, she whispered.

"Hi."

Vachon didn't respond immediately, though his expression twitched curiously. It was
an unreadable reaction, suggesting either amusement or exasperation, but completely
noncommittal. He climbed to his bare feet and walked toward her, stopping to swipe Ivy's
fallen towel from the floor. Vachon smoothly handed it back to her. "Feeling better?"

She clutched the towel into a wad with tense fingers. Better? Sane? Clean? Honest?
Ivy met his eyes shyly from half-raised lids. "Relatively," she said, working to keep her
tone mild.

Vachon studied her a while longer, quietly performing some complex calculation of his
own before he moved. He stepped around her without saying more. Again, Ivy was caught
by surprise and felt the spell of her trepidation pass.

She spun around and grabbed a belt loop of his jeans, then caught him around the waist
with one arm. Vachon stopped - maybe he was the one surprised now - and waited for the
punchline. He'd tossed his shirt sometime between the late night and early morning, and
Ivy took a moment, her fingers resting on the cool skin of his stomach, her forehead
almost touching his back. Almost holding. Almost right.

"What are you doing?" she asked. She'd realized that she was delighted to find him still
with her come the light of day, and now he was leaving? She was confused.

"Taking a shower." He turned, raising his arm as he shifted so that Ivy wouldn't have
to. He dropped his hand to her wet hair rather than allowing it to fall back to his side.

"You're dirty," she stated dumbly. Because of her? Literally? Figuratively?

"Relatively." As Vachon echoed her earlier response, she realized that his expression
probably was amused, not exasperated. He briefly caressed her head before moving to
leave again.

"You can't," Ivy said abruptly.

Vachon gifted her with another deep stare. "Why?"

"I killed..." Air caught in her throat. "I killed the hot water. It's out. Only freezing
left."

"Thanks for sharing, but I'm almost 500 years old, Ives. I've bathed in cold water
before."

"Oh. Of course you have." Ivy suddenly felt deflated, a naive kid in her first pair of
heels. "I never have. Strictly a gas-powered, indoor heating kind of girl, I guess." She
stopped, lifting her shoulders a stiff inch as she wondered what was the matter with her.
One second, she felt she couldn't speak to scare a rabbit, the next she couldn't stop her
idiot babbling. Ivy faced the doorway with a discouraged breath. "I'll leave you to it,
then."

"Hey." This time, Vachon caught her. "You don't have to go." As he leaned over her,
murmuring in her ear, Ivy closed her eyes. "I just need a rinse off, not a marathon search
for the meaning of life under the WaterPik." Ivy felt a kiss brush across her cheekbone.
"That's your job."

Her eyes narrowed at that comment. He was teasing, but it bothered her.

No one objected this time when they pulled apart. Ivy crossed her arms over her chest,
the extra towel still pretzeled around her right forearm, but she didn't leave. She watched
as Vachon started the water and stripped off his jeans, but she couldn't tell whether he
was happy or not with her choice. She leaned against the vanity, tipped up on her toes,
then swung her legs out to stretch along the counter space. Ivy didn't look at Vachon
further. Her eyes focused distantly, while she unwrapped the spare towel from her arm and
focused the frustrated energy she was experiencing on drying her hair manually.

Ivy mulled
over what he *didn't* know. She had excuses, and she had
stories. It would be a disaster if any of them fell short. Then there were her questions, and
the effect they might have on this relatively manageable situation.

The water stopped. She heard Vachon step out of the shower, not fumbling, but
searching for something and obviously not finding it. Ivy shook the ends of her hair free
from the towel, holding a curly section up for inspection. Not dry yet, but making
progress, the strands glowed a range of shades from moist vanilla to dark brown sugar.
She lifted the cotton for a little more judicious rubbing.

"Don't we have more than two towels?" Vachon suddenly asked.

Ivy counted. She had one for her hair, one for her body, and there was... "I guess not."
Vachon's consternation brightened her spirits, and she caught herself genuinely smiling for
the first time in days. Months, even. Ivy scooted off the vanity and shot him a mildly
apologetic look. "This proves I'm extremely bad at sharing."

"You should work on that," Vachon said frankly.

Ivy thought about pointing out that there had been more towels once upon a time, long
ago requisitioned and ratted when he'd chosen to use them to clean his tools or polish
some facet on his motorcycle. She thought about it, but only Vachon could stand there,
dripping wet and naked, his hands on his hips, and still look hot and cool all at once. It
made her consider the virtue of distraction in the face of tricky conversations.

"Sharing, huh?" She juggled the towel she'd been using on her hair a bit with one hand
as she moved closer to him. Then she took the cloth in both hands and wrung it soundly.
They both watched as a stream of water dribbled to the floor.

"Too bad," Vachon said ruefully, his eyes following Ivy's movements as she tossed the
wet linen aside. Next, his gaze met hers. They both melted down to stare at the second
towel, the considerably drier one tied around Ivy's body, then traveled faceward again.

Ivy touched him first, running her hands up his chest, over his shoulders and along his
arms. She settled one foot in between his, then rubbed her other calf up and down his leg
as she lifted her chin. Coffee eyes bored into her, making her lick her lips. Here was an
expression she could recognize, one that she liked and reciprocated. Vachon tucked his
head slightly to catch her mouth, but Ivy pulled back. He relented, waiting patiently to see
what she had in mind.

Tilting her chin again, Ivy's eyes traveled his face. Water had traveled in rivulets from
his hairline down the curve of his jaw, where it clung vainly before falling to his shoulders
or the floor. She stretched, catlike, and lapped her tongue where bone stretched skin. His
stubble gently pricked her, teasing the surface her tongue as she licked a thirsty path
following the droplets. She hovered when she reached Vachon's chin, pursed her lips
fragmentally over the surface and drew in her breath sharply, causing a little sucking
sound. Ivy leaned her head back again and smiled raunchily up at Vachon, waiting for a
sign of approval.

When he spoke, his voice was a low dare that made her hair curl double. "Are you
drying me off, or trying to make me sweat?"

"Both," Ivy promised. Their eyes still locked, she stopped touching Vachon,
transferring her hands to the knot in the towel guarding her body, instead. As she pulled
the tail ends away from her skin, stretching her arms out behind her, he settled his fingers
around her waist, pulling her hips into him. They kissed, their lips dancing, darting,
tugging at each other. All the while, Ivy held onto the towel, gripping it in the center, then
wrapped her arms around to meet in the middle of Vachon's back. He nibbled and scraped
his teeth along her throat as she shook out the towel folds and splayed her hands.
Maneuvering away from his mouth again, she began to trail kisses across Vachon's chest
while she massaged down his back with the terrycloth.

They battled constantly to hold each other's eyes, even as she drifted lower and lower.
Ivy shifted so that her body leaned against his left side and traced a line with the nail of her
right pinky. Starting at his right hip, dipping a roundabout curve below his navel, then
rounding up slightly until she reached a symmetrical spot on his left hip, Ivy then pushed
up on her toes, allowing their mouths to meet again. They kissed slowly, in halting brushes
of flesh and breath.

This time, when Ivy began to pull away, Vachon wasn't so quick to relinquish her
attention. He buried both hands in her hair, intent on holding her in place while his lips and
tongue did some reconnaissance of their own - arching over one brow, across one cheek,
delving within her mouth more. Finally, Ivy moaned and shook her head, her eyes pleading
with Vachon to let her go. He reluctantly complied, releasing a moan of his own when she
slid down to her knees. A low, self-mocking chuckle followed when Ivy didn't follow his
expectations. Rather, she began to leisurely dry his feet, shooting him a smug grin all the
while.

She didn't remain occupied around his toes for long, though. Ivy began to towel
upward in long strokes over the front of his calves and thighs. Just as her fingers toured
precariously, teasingly high, she would smooth her hands lower once more. After one
more trek, Ivy sat back on her heels and blew him a kiss, then finally broke eye contact as
she slid on the floor until she kneeled behind him.

Vachon blinked to find her gaze gone, lost. To hold each other that way, vision within
vision - it made every movement and touch much more intense. To have her eyes taken
away, he felt as if he'd been knocked into a blind stupor. He reached behind him with one
unseeing hand, fingers twitching to find her again. He felt Ivy catch it, pressing a kiss into
his palm, nipping at the flesh between his index finger and thumb before she placed his
hand back at his side. Almost immediately, he felt her lips behind one knee taunting his
skin with slick swipes of her tongue before following with the soft abrasion of the shared
towel.

Ivy worked her way higher, gradually climbing to her feet and moving to a stand as she
reached his backside. She paused and grinned mischievously. Knowing she didn't have
long before Vachon began to wonder what she was up to, she swiftly let the towel hang
limp, grabbed the tail then spun her wrist in a cyclone motion before letting the end fly. As
the towel whipped him in the rear, Ivy let out a whoop and ran for it.

He caught her before she'd taken even two steps, lassoing a long arm around her waist,
spinning her into him again, chest to chest. Disarmed, she feigned terror of his wrath,
confessing, "I couldn't resist!" between bursts of giggles.

"You..." Vachon began, a warning thrum in his voice. He hefted her body up, urging
her legs around his waist. Ivy eagerly complied, also wrapping her arms about his neck as
he moved them both against the bathroom doorway. "...are going to get it." Vachon
kissed her soundly, diving into her lips, tasting her laughter.

Ivy beamed luminously as he broke the kiss. "I certainly hope so."

"So," Vachon said, his lips hovering next to her ear, "you admit," he swiped his teeth
across the hollow meeting her neck, "that was a hit below the belt."

She wiggled against him, admitting, "I deserve a fair punishment."

"Agreed." Vachon leaned back, lifting both of his hands to her shoulders, holding her
still as he lightly caressed her collarbone. "An eye for an eye..." He let his vision drift
pointedly to where the towel lay discarded on the floor. "...A cheek for a cheek."

Ivy's eyes widened. "That's not the punishment I thought we were talking about."

Vachon's grin was awful. "Fair's fair."

Ivy shrieked when he let her go, laughing as she darted into the bedroom. Vachon
effortlessly retrieved the towel and took after her, popping her backside in revenge before
they were halfway across the room.

"Truce!" she called. Ivy spun to face him, falling into Vachon's arms again. The brief
chase left them both with a passionate hunger, slaves to adrenaline. They practically
attacked each other with kisses, their mouths meeting with feral demand as they swayed
and twisted toward the futon.

They fell onto the mattress. Vachon broke her landing, then rolled her onto her back.
"Truce." The word belied his actions, as he immediately began to explore her body,
seeking an equal measure of pleasure for every touch she'd taunted him with before.

"Jav..." Ivy caught herself by surprise for even thinking of it, much less opening her
mouth. "We aren't going to talk about what happened, are we?"

"No."

Ivy swallowed heavily, her breath coming fast and hard. "You don't even want to
know why I -"

"No."

She didn't drop it, even though he was doing amazing things to her inner elbow with
his teeth that she didn't want to stop. "So I don't get to question why we came back to
this house when there were other places closer? Or ask about what I felt in your blood? I
mean, Jesus! You were thinking about Clare! Why her? Then?! And your mother..."

"Ivy." Vachon sighed and pulled himself up, crouching over her with one thumb
brushing her lower lip, the other tracing her jaw. "Shut up."

She lolled her cheek into his hand, closing her glittery golden eyes and savoring his soft
touch. Her lids slitted open, searching out his gaze again, and they connected. She raised a
hand, this time being the one to caress his face. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"No." He said it so plainly, so simply, so honestly, Ivy had to kiss him again. She fed
off his mouth, burning with frustration that they were only as close as skin on skin.

Ivy felt his head nuzzling at her neck, the scrape of his fangs along her collar, and
focused on what she felt in that moment. No burdens of the past or threats of the future to
taint her blood. Just this - Vachon at her throat. "Okay," she whispered, then let her world
explode.

************************************************************************
End of Part Twenty-One

Survivors (22/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Nick hovered in the hotel hallway for several minutes before knocking on Natalie's
door. His thoughts were filled with remorse for unwelcome guests everywhere. He had a
strong suspicion that she would not be delighted to see him, especially in light of his noble
intentions.

She was slow to respond to his knock. At first Nick wondered if she hadn't gone
elsewhere, her sick-day an excuse for some business elsewhere.

Eventually, though, he could sense her, hear faint movements on the other side of the
door. It wasn't that Natalie was not at home; it was that she was debating whether or not
to answer.

Nick wondered if she could sense him as well. How much had she honed her vampire
skills thus far? With surprise, he realized that, though Natalie had made vague references
to her newfound abilities, he had never really listened or taken an interest in her progress.
Nick thought grimly.

It made him uneasy. He was here, worried that Natalie needed help or advice, but at
the same time, it pained him to think of the possible consequences. It was because he loved
Natalie that Nick would risk losing her completely.

When she opened the door to the hotel suite, it was only a crack wide enough for her
eyes to investigate. He could see that her lips pursed as she recognized him, as though she
was disappointed to see her suspicions confirmed.

"Nick." Natalie acknowledged him, but she was obviously less than thrilled with this
development. "Checking up on me?" she asked coolly.

Nick doubted it. "Curran found a ballistics match in
the Dell and Forrest cases. I wanted to let you know you don't have to study the archives
anymore."

"That's good news, but not urgent enough to warrant a social call," Nat pointed out.

"Well, I tried calling you," Nick excused awkwardly, "but Grace said you were sick.
And since..."

Nat broke in. "Since you know I can't get sick, you rushed on over. You *are*
checking up on me."

Nick thought about mentioning The Fever, arguing that there were always exceptions,
but one look at the stubborn expression on Natalie's face proved she would discount that
reasoning.

"How many times have you called in, Nick?" she demanded. "How many days have
you called in sick to the precinct because you were in the mood to be alone with your dark
thoughts, hmm? Why can't I have just one of those?"

"How many times, Nat," he quickly countered, "did you refuse to let me get away with
it? How many times did you storm over to the loft and pull me kicking and screaming out
of my darkness? Why can't I have just one of those?"

Natalie didn't have an immediate answer. Instead, she let go of the door and stepped
back. "Are you going to come in?"

Nick nodded and stepped over the threshold. Sidney pranced forward to greet him,
rubbing up against his trouser leg and depositing a healthy amount of wispy gray fur
before wandering off, his mission accomplished. Natalie had moved to sit on the couch, as
if she was resuming her earlier activity, but Nick noticed that there was an open notebook,
a pen resting in its crack, lying on the secretary to his right. He studied her for a second,
but decided to make no mention of it. Nick joined her, taking a seat and stretching an arm
out across the back support so that his fingers came to rest a hairsbreadth away from
where her shoulder began.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Nick asked quietly. "About what it was that made you
want to be alone with your dark thoughts?"

Natalie's gaze narrowed shrewdly, her mouth tilting in an ironic twist. "The words
'talk' and 'alone' tend to be mutually exclusive, don't they?"

"Then how about I talk? How about I take a guess as to what it was?" Nick held up
one hand when it appeared she would protest. "So it's presumptuous of me to assume I
understand what you're going through." His voice grew rigid, beyond debate. "I know
that. You don't have to tell me."

"That's another presumption," Natalie pointed out.

Nick pressed his lips into a firm line, resisting the urge of impatience that threatened to
break free. "All right. What about something I know that you want to hear?"

"What's that?"

"What happened next in Figaro's story - how he escaped the wrath of the Enforcers. I
left off where I sought out LaCroix's assistance..."

"And found Clare instead." Natalie became thoughtful, licking her lower lip as curiosity
got the better of her. She nodded. "Go on."

Nick took a deep breath. This story was one he didn't particularly want to share, but at
least she would listen. Maybe the telling of it would do no good, but maybe, just maybe,
Natalie would identify with him, breaking through her armor.

"Yes. I found Clare instead. I remember that I entered brashly, all full of arrogance and
self-righteousness. I called LaCroix's name, not as though I wanted or needed his
assistance, but in a manner telling that I was ready for an argument." Surprise flickered
across Nick's features at the memory. It was like a scent forgotten from childhood,
suddenly remembered, adding texture and depth to a new moment. "I know I was furious
with Figaro, mostly because of all of the mortals he had carelessly placed in danger. And
because of my pride, just a little bit of that anger might have been because he beat me at
swords. A male thing," Nick confessed, shaking his head at his own expense. "I was angry
at LaCroix, of course. I was always angry with LaCroix. I didn't expect him to help me,
not over some pulp vampire novella, not when the Enforcers were involved, but I knew I
couldn't help Figaro without him. I didn't think..." Nick shook his head again. "I went
looking for an argument, and I found Clare." He cocked his head, meeting Natalie's gaze.

She nodded, understanding. "You found an argument."

"More." Nick's focus drifted away. "I didn't know Clare."

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

Vienna, 1804

The door to the study crashed open. "LaCroix! LaCroix, where are you!?" Nicholas
stormed within, swiftly scanning the room and finding it wanting. His sire did not reside
within as he had hoped, present to answer his questions and demands. A solitary woman
sat in LaCroix's place at the desk, a single candle glowing at her elbow, her amber head
bent over her writing.

She did not look up immediately. Her entire demeanor radiated idle preoccupation. She
continued to put pen to paper as she spoke, her voice an apathetic drawl.
"Brooding...dull...Nicholas. It sounds as though you have discovered some excitement.
Let me to be the first to offer congratulations." She replaced her quill and proceeded to
sand her letter, still not sparing him a glance.

"Clare." Nicholas offered her as brief a bow as possible to maintain good manners,
though she did not acknowledge it with so much as a tilt of her head. "I did not realize
that you were already in Vienna."

"Ah, yet more to celebrate. Had you a preoccupation with my comings and goings, I
would be most alarmed." As she folded paper and franked it closed, Clare finally allowed
her gaze to dart in his direction, impatiently noting that Nicholas paced the room. "You
appear in need of information. Do not be shy. What is your question?"

"Where is LaCroix?"

"How disappointing that you cannot answer that question for yourself." Clare pushed
her heavy wooden chair back several inches before she settled into a lounging posture.
"You are...how old? Surely you have the senses to at least guess...?"

"I can tell he is not here!" Nicholas snapped, pausing in his cagey pattern on the rug to
glower. "No doubt he is off on the hunt, luring some innocent into -" His face twisted into
an angry shell, and he cast scornful reproach in Clare's direction. "And you sit here,
dabbling in careless correspondence!"

"I would hardly say careless," Clare reproved. "My hand is much better than that. It is
practically legible."

Nicholas slammed his fist down on the bureau, causing the various writing
paraphernalia to clatter. "How can you be so *careless* as to make jests when the matter
is so obviously grave?"

Clare's features did not betray the slightest flinch at his racket. Rather, she smiled
angelically. "Because it is so amusing, Nicholas, to see you fret and pander your urges of
pathos. I must say, it becomes clearer to see why Lucius keeps your company."

"And it becomes equally difficult to see why Figaro craves yours," he snarled. It
appalled him, it tormented him - the whole idea of Figaro's enslavement, his obsession
with this woman. What Nicholas fought hardest was the feeling that he was trapped in a
fate that offered no escape, no release, and watching Figaro suffer made his own destiny
seem that much more intolerable. This agony, this fear, caused Nicholas to rashly speak
out his acrimony. "Figaro is waiting for you. He expects you to come to his rescue, even
as the Enforcers burn buildings to the ground, even as they slay the blameless, even as he
cowers in hiding from their wrath. He imagines that he is a priority to you, someone that
you would protect, someone that you *love.* He is so deluded, that even if I were to tell
him the truth - that your real 'priorities' obviously lie here - he would make excuses for
you. Figaro would still believe you were his savior, even as the Enforcers take his head as
a trophy, and you sit here, infatuated with your own consequence. Delighted most by the
sound of your own voice, aren't you, Clare? Not the pleadings of one who holds you
dearer than his very existence, nor the cries of all those whose lives are in jeopardy
because of him, because of your vanity. No, they are all just more *amusement,*" he
sneered, his words filled with distaste.

"Interesting." Clare stood, walking casually around the desk, as though she strolled in
the park. She held onto her newly complete letter, tapping the thick parchment
thoughtfully between her fingers. There was no stiffness to her posture to indicate any
anger at Nicholas' words. Some of the bored air remained, but Clare remained exquisitely
civilized in the face of his hate. "It is delightful to hear of Figaro's devotion. I dare say he
has always been the most promising of all my proteges. There again, I would have been
most saddened to hear he had no faith in my abilities or wisdom. A disappointing turn of
events, which always ends badly. Lucky for Figaro, he is a smart, smart boy," Clare
concluded good-naturedly. She finally turned her gaze to Nicholas, a prickle in her
emerald eyes forming the first hint that all might not be well. "You seem to have presumed
that my presence in Vienna has no correlation to Figaro's well-being. You assume that I
do not have a good reason or solidarity of purpose to my chosen actions." Her lips
hardened. "You assume you know everything, don't you, Nicholas? My jests are careless,
as is my correspondence." She held up the letter, breaking its seal with a swift thumbnail.
"Let me read it to you. Please...my vanity must be satisfied." Clare smoothed open the
paper, caressing it in purposeful strokes before she began to relate its contents. "'Dearest
Seiji...' Seiji is another one of my offspring. I doubt you have met him. He has little
patience with European ways, therefore does not go out of his way to make their
acquaintance. He does, however, see Figaro as a brother. With that important illumination,
I shall continue...'I know that my letter will trouble you because of what it will ask. Your
honor will force you to comply, but I understand the shackles I force you to assume when
I request you to join me in Vienna. Hiroshima is more than your home. It is your
happiness, and that is why I would not ask you to leave it unless the need was
overwhelming. Circumstances with Figaro force me to wage war on those who would
presume to interfere with our family's affairs. While I have no fear for my own well being,
it alarms me that our dear valet will find himself ostracized, rejected from the Community
for his shortsighted actions. I can kill on his behalf, but I cannot force his acceptance.
Where Figaro exists for adoration and laughter, he may find silence and empty rooms.
That is why I need you to come - to offer your kind brotherhood to Figaro. You will cross
swords with him in good humor, I know. I expect he has missed the challenge of a fair
opponent, of friendship that does not predicate upon blind agreement between souls. I will
not thank you for your attention lest you find it an insult, but remain Yr. Humble Servant,
Clare." She gave Nicholas a considering look, whereas he fumed, clearly unattuned to the
contents of her letter. "What is interesting..." Clare commented as she reached over the
desk and picked up the lone candle, "...is you have made me reconsider. This is not Seiji's
world, and to ask him to bind himself with cravats and brocade, to subjugate his own
traditions because of Figaro's mistake...that is vastly unfair." She held the parchment over
the candle, watching as it ignited and began to wither into a pile of black afterthought. "He
would have come, and he would not have complained as I clipped his wings."

"Which only proves your abuse. You intended to use him to keep Figaro occupied,
when the only attention he truly wants is your own," Nicholas rebuked.

"My, my. How full of opinions you are. Figaro concerns you so, as does my behavior. I
suppose you pride yourself on your conscience and your conscientiousness," Clare said
conversationally. Still holding the candle, she tilted it this way and that, studying how the
slanted flame eroded its crimson wax.

"I am not certain I understand your meaning," Nicholas replied coldly. "If you are
implying that I take certain responsibilities seriously -"

Clare waved away his words with an impatient hand. "I am implying that you have
presumed to interfere in the affairs of my family." She gave a sharp laugh at Nicholas'
mulish expression. "You think you see so much, but you miss the important details. You
heard the contents of my letter, yet you did not listen to all that it entailed, did you?"
Seeing that there was still no dawning of her meaning in his expression, she quoted slowly,
as though speaking to a child, "'...Circumstances with Figaro force me to wage war on
those who would presume to interfere with our family's affairs...' You are a stupid, stupid
boy, Nicholas, to insult me to my face without considering your own."

She didn't give him a chance for her words to truly sink in before she struck. Clare
whirled around, slipping one leg across the carpet so as to trip him. As Nicholas fell
against the bureau, he felt her nails at his throat, holding his head in place, then saw the
briefest flare of light from the corner of his eyes. Then he felt it, the candle flame held up
to his cheek, the corrosive elemental bite of it as the fire ate into him. He twisted, the
vampire surging into full force, but the strength of his opponent caught him by surprise. It
made Nicholas realize, even as the burning sensation traveling his face caused him to
scream, that LaCroix had to have been holding back when they battled over the years.

Satisfied with the flame's progress, Clare shoved Nicholas to the floor. She moved
with fluid, casual steps, seating herself behind LaCroix's desk once more like a queen at
her throne. With a dainty puff of breath, she blew out the candle. Then, turning her eyes to
the figure writhing on the rug, she proceeded to watch Nicholas burn.

************************************************************************
End of Part Twenty-Two

Survivors (23/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

"I'm beginning to understand why you never trusted Clare," Natalie said, a stunned
note to her voice. "Someone sets you on fire, it makes a strong impression." Her breath
caught, and she glanced away.

"Nat." Nick reached out, squeezing her shoulder. "I might have hated Clare at one
time, but not at the end. You have to believe that. It took me a long time to realize that
there was more to her...just like there's more to the story."

"Of course there is." Natalie gave a hollow laugh. "I mean, obviously she didn't kill
you." Her mouth quirked. "Everything would be very different now if that was the case."
Nat shook her head. "I don't know why I feel betrayed."

"I've only spoken the truth, Nat," Nick promised, worried that she would blame the
messenger for the news.

She shook her head again. "That's not what I meant. I was talking about Clare.
Nothing that you have said really sounds unlike her, and, yet, it's as if I didn't know her at
all." Natalie looked at him frankly. "She could be ruthless. I know you thought I didn't see
that, but I did. And Clare herself used to claim she was a little insane. I don't think that I
was ever frightened of her, though, and she told me things, some horrible things. I don't
think I was ever frightened of her, until now..." Natalie reached for his hand suddenly,
rubbing his palm with her thumb as if to test that it was intact.

"That's not why I'm telling you," Nick said softly. "Clare setting me on fire was not
actually the important part."

Natalie frowned, bewildered. "It wasn't?"

"Uh-uh."

"It *sounded* important."

Nick relented. "Okay, so it *was,* especially at the moment in question. But things
change. The important part is what you said...that she didn't kill me, even though it would
have been easy for her. Don't you want to know why?"

Natalie gave him a small smile and nodded. "Yes, I do."

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

Vienna, 1804

Clare watched as Nicholas writhed on the rug, rolling the flames into the tightly woven
pattern of the dyed wool. The motion was instinctive, and it was his salvation. Before the
burning flared completely out of control, Nicholas managed to smother the sections of his
body that were on fire. He then huddled in a dazed and blackened heap on the carpet.

Clare rose to her feet and approached him, speculatively eyeing the damage she'd
caused. Fine wisps of smoke rose up from his face, the scene of the worst damage. She
blew at it, causing the smoke to scatter and a fine dash of ashes to flutter onto the
Aubusson. That caused Clare to frown in disapproval. She noted that Nicholas' inflamed
agitation had darkened a souvenir patch on the floor covering.

"Bother," she scowled. "Now I will have to explain that scorch to Lucius."

Nicholas thought. He would have said it aloud in as rude
a tone as possible, but his voice wouldn't cooperate. The fire had scraped his throat raw,
and the only sounds he produced were more akin to coughing than syllables.

"Quiet," Clare instructed, the swish of her skirts outlining her movement toward one of
the side cabinets. "No need to strain yourself. I can guess what you are trying to say. 'I
should have thought of *that* problem before I set you on fire,'" she said, mimicking a
holier-than-thou tone.

Nicholas heard the sound of her placing something solid on the floor, then the heavy,
not quite tonal quality of glass rolling. He felt it come to a rest against his cheek - a cool,
yet painful, blessing. Nicholas pried open one blistered eyelid. Intuitively, he knew it was a
bottle of blood. For some reason, Clare was gifting him with the only thing that would
heal his wounds. He forced his fingers to move, to clasp the vessel, to push his body into
some reasonable facsimile of a seated position. He was slow, ungainly, and in terrible
agony.

Apparently Clare grew tired of watching him struggle, for she crossed the floor with
impatient steps. It was difficult to see exactly what she was about from his scarred vision.
Strange coronas dyed crimson, ink and white blurred and blocked what he could discern
of his surroundings. A terrifying thought struck Nicholas - that the fire had gutted his
eyes, and if he raised his hand to touch, he would only find sticky caverns in the place of
any organs.

Clare must have crouched beside him on the floor, but what Nicholas saw seemed
otherworldly, impossible to reconcile with his rational thought. A luminous figure hovered
over him. Its features were an indistinguishable black plane that extended to wing-like
fingers that seemed to flutter in elegant movements. He squeezed his eyes shut once more,
and, when he looked next, it was all bathed in bloodlike pigment that gradually faded into
bright light again.

The bottle was pulled from his grasp. Nicholas heard the twisting of the cork, the slide
and release of the porous wood, then how it sprang free, sending a murderous bouquet to
dance in his nostrils. He flailed, trying to reach toward the aroma, but he was still too
weak, his world out of focus. The figure above him shifted, and Nicholas felt himself being
lifted. His head felt as though it came to rest on a cloud, but his fingers spoke that it was
more likely silk and satin. Then, the blood was in his mouth, pouring down his throat,
quenching the fire in his flesh and soothing his wounds.

Clare's voice mused throughout his feeding, speaking not as though she expected her
words acknowledged or accepted, but as if they were for her own elucidation. "If I
destroy you, Lucius will no doubt feel betrayed, and I will have to endure a few tedious
centuries of reproof. It is just as well I only singed you, I suppose. He would forgive me,
of course - I have known him much longer than you can dream of - but killing a favorite,
that would call for an apology. There is nothing I loathe more than having to apologize.
No doubt that is why I dislike you, Nicholas. I understand perfectly why you dislike me.
You see me as Figaro's enslaver - a self-serving monster. In a sense you are right. What
draws me into protest is your arrogant corollary: that if the shoe switched feet, and I were
subjugate to Figaro's whims, the problem would disappear. Why is that? Because I am a
woman? Because I am his sire? Do you see all sires as great betrayers, those vicious beasts
that lead the innocent astray and amuse ourselves on their suffering? How tortured you
are. How dissatisfied and in disarray. *That* is why I dislike you, Nicholas. You accuse
me of vanity, yet you fail to see your own conceit. Do you really think that you are the
only person in existence that has ever woken up to realize that the world they lived in was
not the one they imagined? Do you see in your mind's eye that you are the only person
ever disappointed or forced to confront a failure? We all suffer through that, Nicholas. We
are born human, and, no matter what some may say, our human expectations do not suffer
a mortal death. They strike us, some more than others, I would grant you, but in no way
are you alone in feeling that blow. Unlike you, however, we do not blame others for our
lost dreams. We do not mewl and whimper like children deprived of a promised treat. We
grow up, Nicholas. We grow up, we accept what has passed, and we make do with what
we have, in some cases with spectacular results. You are not the type to walk into the sun.
If you were, you would have done it by now. So cease wasting your own time. Cease
wasting the time of those about you with petty rebuke. Grow up, Nicholas, and adapt."

The blood ran dry along with her words. Nicholas dozed for a time, perhaps seconds,
perhaps an hour. His next memory was of someone shaking him alert, Clare's voice
demanding, "Can you speak now?"

Nicholas cleared his throat, tested it, and managed to grunt a hoarse, "Yes."

"Have you seen Figaro this night?"

He tilted his head slightly, a faint gesture of assent. "Yes."

"Where did you leave him?"

"His house - servants' rooms."

He heard Clare curse. "As though that is not the first place -" She bit back the rest of
her words. "Stay away from Figaro. We will be leaving Vienna soon enough, but, until
then, you stay away from him, Nicholas, or, I swear, I will finish the job begun this night."

Almost immediately, he realized that he was alone.

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

"I did what she said - I stayed away from Figaro. I stayed away from LaCroix, too,
until I had healed, then I came back to hear that Clare had torn the Enforcers apart.
LaCroix never asked about the scorch mark on the rug. I don't think he really wanted to
know," Nick said. "Everything I knew about Figaro from that point on came in
secondhand stories. I never sought him out as a friend again until a few years ago - when
Cecilia murdered that journalist at the studio, remember? When we were talking about the
bone buttons before, and I said I remembered when Fig gave them to her, what I really
remembered was LaCroix describing the event. I kept my distance." His features were
thoughtful as he quietly contemplated the past. "At the time, all I heard in Clare's words
was a message that LaCroix had tried to tell me many times before - forget my mortal ties
and give into the vampire. It wasn't a message that I cared to hear again. Now I realize
that she was admitting that she was still human, if only in small ways. She did what she
thought was necessary to survive. She did what she thought was necessary to protect
herself."

"Considering what she'd already lost - all of her mortal children, then her husband and
sire - can we honestly blame her?" Natalie said softly. "I got the impression that there was
a time that Clare followed. She accepted her sons' deaths, she accepted the loss of her
daughter, and she accepted Conchobhar's promises that they would be together forever.
Her world was built around him. What must it have been like for her when he was
destroyed? What did she realize that she was capable of? What caused her to hold back?"

"Clare didn't kill me after all," Nick explained, "because she couldn't completely blame
me for how I felt. She sympathized, in her own ferocious way. She attacked me, because
she lost her temper. She helped me..." Nick shook his head. "I don't know why she helped
me. Maybe it was in lieu of apologizing." His mouth jerked at this thought. "Clare did get
better at that with effort, though, didn't she?"

"It only took her two centuries to learn how to say, 'I'm sorry,'" Natalie agreed
absently. "Some people never allow themselves to do that."

"I never told her that I was wrong about Figaro," Nick said in a distant voice. "Even
when I had the chance. We all expected too much. Clare expected too much simplicity,
Figaro expected too much affection, and I expected too much idealism. I'm sorry," he
added in a whisper.

He wasn't looking at her, but Natalie reacted as though the words were for her. She
closed her eyes and took a heavy breath. "I'm trying to grow up, Nick. That's the trouble
I've been having. That's why I called in sick tonight so I could drown in my dark
thoughts. I'm trying to grow up, and you can't do that for me any more than Clare or
LaCroix could do it for you."

"I know. I just wanted to tell you that I understood. You're not alone. None of us
are." He could see that Natalie's eyes were tearing, that she was feeling the pressure and
emotion of the moment. He didn't want to push her too far - that wasn't why he came or
why he talked. "I'd better go. I have a potential suspect that I was supposed to interview
hours ago."

Natalie nodded her understanding. "Okay."

Nick leaned over and graced a soft kiss on her cheek, then rose to leave. When his
hand was on the suite door, Natalie spoke up again. "Thank you...for checking up on me."

"You're welcome," Nick murmured, then let himself out.

************************************************************************
End of Part Twenty-Three

Survivors (24/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

"Come on, Joe! Smile!"

Captain Joe Reese looked over the heads of the other groomsmen to where his wife
stood next to the bride, in her place as Matron of Honor. She was very, very happy to see
her youngest sister married. 'And to a doctor, no less, Joe!'

Denese had also put an enormous amount of energy into helping her sister plan the
affair, since their mother was no longer living. She was euphoric that the ceremony had
gone well. Her next mission - secure the integrity of the wedding album photos. With the
grim fatalism of a man in a tight collar who wanted to go home with a happy wife, Joe
Reese grinned and bore another round of flashes.

Joe had been on his best behavior, since the event was so important to Denese and her
sister. He'd turned off the ringer on his phone, as promised, told the precinct not to
disturb him, as promised, then spent the entire afternoon and evening trying not to think
about police business, as promised. For the most part, he'd been successful. Other than
her urgings over the wedding pictures - and, honestly, how many men wanted to smile
when they were wearing a tux? - his wife hadn't shown any sign of suspecting that he
wasn't all there.

Joe was itching, though, itching to loosen his bowtie and call in to the Ninety-Sixth for
an update. He fought the temptation, because there'd be hell to pay with Denese if
something had come up at the precinct. Still, the lack of progress in locating a suspect for
Dell and Forrest's murders left him feeling like a caged grizzly. Posing for pictures and
pasting on happy smiles beneath a giant garland of roses and wisteria seemed wrong when
two co-workers had been shot and bludgeoned to death, despite it making Denese happy.

By the time the photographer had orchestrated every combination of portraits
imaginable, Joe was desperate for a glass of water. Maybe it was all those flash bulbs
going off or all the people huddled together that made the church seem overheated.
Whatever the cause, his mouth felt like he'd been eating sand, and he still couldn't
understand why the rental place couldn't have gotten the alterations on his suit right. As
the wedding party broke formation, Joe touched his wife on the arm. "Denese, I'm going
to hunt down a water fountain."

"But, Joe! We're leaving for the reception! If you could just wait half an hour..."
Denese let her suggestion trail off with a smile. Looking at her husband, she could tell he
really didn't want to wait, but he would if she insisted it was necessary. "I suppose you
could go with the last car. Great Aunt Maddy will take forever to get down the front
steps. Just don't get left behind, okay?" She reached up and smoothed the shoulders of his
coat, dropping him a kiss while remaining careful to not muss her hairstyle.

"Okay, baby."

As he wandered alone in the direction of the church's meeting rooms, Joe tugged his
bowtie loose and undid the top button of his shirt. He let out a deep sigh of relief as cool
air reached his neck. It took a minute to locate a water fountain, and even longer to figure
out how to drink from the thing without splashing water on his clothes. It was with a smile
of triumph that he finally took a few swallows of the cool liquid, followed by a grunt of
pure satisfaction.

It was a much more relaxed and refreshed Joe Reese that strolled back toward the
sanctuary. He was so comfortable that he started having thoughts about turning on his
phone and checking in on the precinct.

The photographers had already cleared their equipment out, and it looked like Great
Aunt Maddy had made it outside the church. He wouldn't have too long to talk before he
ran the risk of missing his ride to the reception. Joe looked around, and he didn't see any
sign of the florists, who were supposed to clear the flower arrangements by morning. He
shrugged and assumed they were still caught up with last minute preparations at the
reception hall. Still, Joe was cautious as he slipped his phone out of his coat pocket, just in
case anyone arrived to catch him in the act. He kept it low at his side, gingerly flipping it
open. A glance at the view screen informed him that, coincidentally, he had a call
incoming. Joe thought to himself, hitting the 'receive' button as he
extended the antenna. He casually turned around as he began to raise the phone to his ear,
but he never managed to say 'Hello.'

The word died in his throat as a movement in the balcony of the sanctuary caught his
eye. It was the flash of metal, the dark snaking movement of a figure in the shadows,
aiming for their mark. On reflex, Joe threw down his phone and ducked as he reached for
his holster. The problem was his hand came up empty - no guns at the wedding had been a
polite assumption. Joe had known better than to try wearing a holster under his tux, and
now - damn! - he needed it!

Joe thought quickly, thinking of the other Captains,

And Joe Reese was right - handguns are notoriously bad for sniper shots. His attacker
only wanted to debilitate him, though. He wasn't going for a kill...yet. If it wasn't for
Reese's sudden movement, his attacker's first shot might have missed completely. Instead,
Joe moved into the bullet's path.

As it cut into his upper chest, the Captain let out a shout of surprise. He was knocked
off balance from the impact, as well as the foreign feeling of metal burning through your
own flesh. Joe fought to catch himself, still thinking, still hoping that he might get to his
feet and out of the church. His hands dug into the frame for the huge flowered arbor that
had been the backdrop to the ceremony, but it wasn't made to carry his weight. They both
tumbled to the ground.

Joe could feel his blood pumping - his heart seemed to be doing crazy things like trying
to flip somersaults inside his chest. He could feel himself growing dizzy, his eyes losing
focus. Rather than the pain in his chest, though, Joe felt his hands and his face - the thorn
scratches from the roses in the arborway. Even as he lost consciousness, he thought
ruefully about the crushed flowers in his grip, the wood frame cracked under his body.

His attacker let out a curse as soon as he realized that the gunshot wound was more
severe than he had intended. He rushed forward to the edge of the balcony, grasping the
railing as he swung his legs over, dangling for a second above the aisle, then allowing
himself to drop and roll the last twenty feet. He grunted as he hit the hard floor, but the
rage he felt from his plans going wrong overwhelmed the pain of impact. He limped
slightly as he got to his feet, his body in stiff shock at its abuse. He ran over to the fallen
Captain, cursing again as he confirmed the man was unconscious. He'd wanted to look
him in the eyes, look him in the eyes and see the recognition and fear before he killed him.
In fury, he whipped the unconscious man upside the head with his gun, spitting out his
anger.

The attacker reared back to strike again, but a sound stilled his arm. It was a muffled
yelling, the static speech reminiscent of a...his eyes finally focused on the small rectangular
object Reese had thrown down earlier. His phone, and there was someone on the open
line. The attacker swiped it from the floor with a roar, snapping off the antenna, then
threw it across the church until it crashed through a decorative panel of stained glass.
"Shit!" he screamed. He kicked the fallen captain in the head one more time with a
reinforced shoe, then ran for it, ducking out the way Reese had come - in the direction of
the water fountain.

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

Nick settled back into the Caddy, unsure how he felt about his visit with Natalie. She'd
seemed to relent, thanking him for dropping by, so hopefully he wasn't pushing her too
much. As for himself, he found himself strangely relieved that he'd talked about his long
ago confrontation with Clare. He'd never discussed it with anyone before, not even
LaCroix. For a moment, Nick wondered if Clare had realized his silence. Had she
speculated about why he'd hidden the attack, or simply put it out of her mind?

Nick turned the car northward, slightly guilty that he'd ignored police business in favor
of personal matters for several hours. It would take him another hour in driving to reach
the prison. He checked his watch, wondering if it was late enough for him to try and call
the Captain.

Nick's phone rang as he reached for it, so he answered almost immediately. "Nick
Knight."

James Curran's voice came on the line, breathless. "Reese...! I tried calling him again,
he picked up, but then...I think he's been shot! I called it in, but no one at the precinct
knows where the wedding is! Do you?"

"No." Nick braked and made an illegal U-turn, pulling the Caddy up against a curb.
"What did you hear?"

"It was hard to tell. I think the Captain dropped the phone. I definitely heard a shot,
and there was a crash. I called for him to say something, but the signal cut out. There are
patrols out checking all of the churches, but we don't have time!"

Nick agreed. "Too many churches if the Captain's bleeding to death..." He didn't
follow that thought with the next step. Nick jumped out of the Caddy and walked down the nearest alley.
"Call the phone company and get an idea on where the call signal came from. I have
another idea I'll check out. Call me if there's news."

Nick didn't know which church the wedding was in, but he knew Captain Reese's
address. He broke through the front door, triggering the house alarm, but Nick decided he
would be gone before anyone arrived to investigate. He could explain later, and certainly
be justified for using force.

Nick ran to the kitchen first. There was material sitting out on the counter related to
the wedding, but nothing as simple as a copy of the invitations to tell him what he needed.
There were phone numbers for the florist, musicians and minister. They were all people
who would have to know where the wedding took place, so Nick started dialing.

No one answered at the florist's number, but Nick caught the vocalist, who had
apparently gone straight home after the ceremony rather than head to the reception. In
seconds, Nick had the church location and was calling the dispatcher before he made it out
the door.

Flying, Nick arrived at the church before he could see any squad cars or emergency
workers congregated out in front. There was one limousine parked at the curb, as though
it was waiting for someone. The lighting was poor, so Nick landed nearby. He approached
the car and knocked on a passenger window, flashing his badge as he did so. It rolled
down, revealing the perplexed face of what must have been a ninety year-old grandmother
along with either her nurse or grandchild. Very loud gospel music played over the limo's
sound system. "I'm looking for Captain Joe Reese."

"Joseph's inside," the grandmother said. "You tell that boy to hurry up! Shoot! I'm too
old to be sittin' in a car, waitin' on a man!"

"Aunt Maddy!" her companion exclaimed.

"You tell him!" the old woman repeated.

Nick was already moving swiftly up the front stairs, pulling his weapon as he walked.
The main church entrance showed no sign of violence. He quickly moved into the
sanctuary, his eyes zeroing in on the fallen flower structure near the altar. Captain Reese
was sprawled on top of it, and another figure crouched over him.

"Freeze! Metro Police! Put your hands where I can see them!"

The figure complied, but quickly glanced around to see who spoke. "It's me, Nick. Jim
Curran. I heard your A.P.B. on the radio."

Nick relaxed his gun in recognition. "How's the Captain?"

Curran looked at him hopelessly. "He's been shot near the heart. There are head
injuries, too. I can't find a pulse."

Nick dropped to one knee by the body, examined him, then abruptly shook his head.
"There's a heart beat. He's still alive." Nick shook his head again. "He's lost a lot of
blood." He glanced over his shoulder, toward the front entrance. "I hear the ambulance
coming." Nick put pressure on the chest wound while they waited and asked, "How long
have you been here? Did you see anything?"

"Not long. I drove along the back first and stopped when I saw one of the doors open.
It looks like the perp ran out that way and kicked it open from the inside. They were long
gone before I arrived here. Dammit!"

"Maybe the Captain saw something," Nick said soothingly. He looked over his
shoulder again as an emergency technician ran into the sanctuary. "In here!" he yelled.
"Hurry!"

As a team of medics swarmed Reese, working to stabilize him and transport him to the
ambulance, Nick and James began to search the sanctuary for clues.

"Look!" Curran called, pointing to a broken frame of stained glass that partitioned off
a side alcove. The young detective investigated the other side, returning with a broken
phone in his gloved hands. "It's the Captain's."

Nick noticed that Curran seemed to be favoring one leg. "Did you hurt yourself?"

Curran shrugged and waved the suggestion away. "Gonzales and I had to chase down
a collar earlier. He got in a couple good kicks before I had him cuffed. Don't tell Andy,
okay? I was playing it tough back at the precinct, before..." Both Nick and James let their
eyes follow the emergency crew as they jogged Reese's stretcher out of the church. "Do
you think we found him in time?" James wondered.

Nick's mouth tightened, and he glanced around the sanctuary with discomfort. "We
can only pray."

Curran shifted uncomfortably. "Uh...shouldn't we let Mrs. Reese know what
happened?"

Nick grimaced. "Yes, we should. We need to get her to the hospital...in case..."

"Right," Curran nodded. He was quiet for a moment, seeming to be at a loss. Finally,
he asked tentatively, "Do you know where the reception is?"

Nick sighed in frustration. "No." He slung an arm around Curran's shoulder, urging the
young detective into a limp beside him. "I know who we can ask, though."

"Who?"

"Aunt Maddy."

************************************************************************
End of Part Twenty-Four

Survivors (25/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

When Nick returned to the church, he met Natalie outside. "How is he?" she asked.

"Touch and go. He's still in surgery."

They stood in silence, the night air surrounding them in a numb cloud. Two technicians
exited the church and began shouting instructions to each other as they retrieved supplies
from separate vehicles. When a uniformed officer sneaked from the sanctuary to take a
cigarette break, Nick and Natalie exchanged an impatient glance. Quietly agreeing, they
began to walk.

After they'd walked a decent measure around the church grounds, Natalie began to
speak softly. "I know that our lives are surrounded in death. This isn't a new thing. I'm a
coroner. I've seen people I work with shot down on the job before. I've wrapped up
friends and loved ones in black plastic and summarized their last moments in clinical
terminology, weights and measures. I've carved them up, then I've sewn them back
together. Every time it happens, I feel a little less capable of handling it. It's like I'm the
one being cut apart." Her eyes seemed haunted, and she moistened her upper lip with the
tip of her tongue with deep concentration. "If Joe Reese dies, I won't be able to do it. I
won't be able to do this job anymore, Nick. I don't think I have the right to do this job
anymore." She stopped walking, and turned to him, her face full of indignation. "Who am
I to demand justice for a murder? What right do I have to persecute anyone for their
crimes?"

"What right do any of us have?" Nick countered frankly before pointing out, "You
never challenged that right before. You always agreed that I was repaying society for my
past sins by meting out legal retribution."

She looked at him strangely, as though seeing him again for the first time after a very
long separation. Natalie reached up and touched his sleeve as she said in a faraway voice,
"Right, Nick. Repaying past sins. That's how it works." Her gaze became self-
recriminating. "But what if you're still sinning?"

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

There was a face looming below her - cold, pleading, and screaming. "TAKE...IT...
OUT!!"

Ivy shook her head. She tried to explain, "I can't. I just can't," but the screaming was
too loud. The sound of Clare's torment was too loud, and Ivy scratched desperately at her
own ears to escape the endless shrieking. The ear-splitting sounds grew impossibly louder.
Ivy realized with horror that the volume increase was because Clare's presence was
looming larger, magnifying incredibly. The woman's jaws transformed into a fanged chasm
that enveloped her, smothering her in blackness. Ivy fought to breathe, but her lungs felt
frozen. She wanted to add her screams to Clare's, but she could only cough in tiny
gasping gulps. She couldn't...she couldn't...

Ivy wheezed awake as she reared her face away from the pillow. She allowed her eyes
to float shut as repeated to herself,

She opened her eyes again, definitely awake to stay. She peered over her shoulder to
see if her nightmare had disturbed Javier. He still seemed to be asleep, his left leg trapping
hers, one of his arms hugging her about the waist. A weak smile escaped her. It figured
that Vachon's idea of a teddy bear was a woman.

With a series of judicious movements, Ivy slipped her body free from his hold. With
alarm, she found she still couldn't get up from the futon. Another survey of the situation
informed Ivy of the cause: Vachon had buried his other hand in the ends of her hair,
trapping her. An image rose in her thoughts of a wiry dark-eyed boy tugging the pigtails of
an indignant little girl until someone came along: a woman with open arms and a smile
transcending her features, even as she lectured the boy to stop in a stern voice. The
tableau soothed Ivy, though she recognized that the memory was borrowed. It was a
childhood she couldn't relate to, difficult yet happy. For these few moments, while his
blood still warmed her insides, she could at least share in it, even if it wasn't hers to own.
With that sharing, she felt a tinge of the bittersweet knowledge that the woman and the
little girl with pigtails had been reduced to passing memory for hundreds of years.

Ivy bent closer, gently enveloping his hand with her fingers. With delicate prodding,
she slowly divested his puzzle-box grip of her hair. Then she softly kissed his palm before
setting it to rest on the futon mattress. Vachon stirred, empty fingers flexing. He muttered
something unintelligible and tossed from side to side, floundering now as though Ivy's
closeness had anchored him.

Ivy kneeled over him, her forehead a topographic map of creases.

She lowered her head, lilting a hand over his cheek in a sympathetic gesture before
whispering in his ear, "It's over. Just sleep, Jav. Just sleep."

It seemed to work. Ivy continued to smooth caresses along the side of his face as she
watched him settle into stillness again. Her hand ebbed to a stop as the minutes passed,
and Ivy gingerly broke contact. She waited a bit longer to see if Vachon would make any
protest, but none came.

Ivy climbed from her knees to her feet and padded over to the closet. She grabbed one
of Javier's shirts rather than something of her own, absently thinking about how he liked
to see her bundled up in his clothes. Tunneling her head and arms into the shirt, Ivy then
tugged her hair free of the collar. Ivy pushed the locks over her left shoulder and scowled
at the curly, tangled mass. It was becoming a pain in the ass. The only reason she hadn't
had it cut was...

Ivy glanced back at the futon, to the sleeping culprit.

She mused over small rebellions as she meandered toward the bathroom, torn between
betrayal and accommodation. Ivy winced at the effort. Her identity crisis had long since
stopped being fun. Fun seemed like a rare commodity. Even when she was laughing in her
lover's arms, there were truths to hide, secrets to cower from. There was no total escape.
Ivy missed peace, even if it was the false sense of security that came from her heroin
addiction. That kind of peace was a lie, but it felt to Ivy more and more that the lies were
what made the world spin around. The truth knocked the world off its axis. Lies might
make you dizzy, but the truth snapped you out of it, only to realize that you were lost, and
there was no way back.

Ivy thought as she tracked down a hairbrush.
She lifted a hank of hair and began to diligently work out the snags. If she couldn't get
control over her hair, she didn't have a chance in hell at sorting out the other stuff.

Ivy worked in the dark, sensing with her hands how she should tilt the bristles. It was a
numbing occupation, the repetitive light tugs as the strands freed from each knot bringing
a measure of the peace that she'd only attributed to drugs before. Her eyes drifted closed
as she continued to stroke the brush through her curls. Ivy relaxed into the motion, feeling
the quiet balm her sore spirit. Leisurely she extended a hand, pushing the bathroom door
shut, casually flicking on the overhead light so she could survey her handiwork in the
mirror.

It wasn't her reflection. It was Clare's.

Clare, her skin flaked like a lizard shedding an old husk. Clare, coated in smears of
blood and earth. Clare, one hand stretched toward her, two raw and unnatural nubs in the
place of fingers so that it seemed like an accusing talon. Clare, a hundred cuts lashed
across her skin, hooks piercing her flesh for the purpose of pulling her wounds open. The
screams started, initially a distant wail to Ivy's ears. They built and barreled into her head
like a runaway train, making her feel as though the walls should be shaking with the
vibration of it, shaking like she was.

"TAKE...IT...OUT!!"

Ivy threw her hairbrush across the vanity and slashed at the light switch, squeezing her
eyes shut. She wanted to scream herself, to scream and curse and cry, but the only sound
that her throat would produce was a faint whimper. Her crying came in the form of
labored breathing, each exhale transmuting into a soft sob. When words came, she spoke
with quiet determination. "Out of this house. I've gotta get out of this house."

Ivy yanked open the bathroom door and rushed through the threshold, clumsily
propping her back against the nearest wall space. With surprise, she realized that Vachon
still slept peacefully, spared this time of any specters from the past.

Ivy's thoughts corrected suddenly.

She tightened her eyelids closed again to banish that idea and to smother the need to
cry that was growing louder and stronger in her with each passing second.

Ivy ran from the room, down the staircase and out the front door, racing until she was
at the edge of the forest, shaded by a copse of oak and maple trees, crouched on the bare
ground. She let loose there in a chain of coughing howls, finally screaming, finally
allowing herself to weep fully in terror and shame. Between the wet hiccoughs and moans,
she littered confessions and suppositions, but there was no one to hear. No one to hear,
unless you counted a body buried beneath the mound of turned earth as a potential
listener. It was the one spot not grown over with grass or shrubs, a testament to someone
else's crime - the grave of Carmen.

As time passed and her crying subsided bit by bit, Ivy reflected on this. She felt at the
same time cleansed and subdued, freed and invigorated from the spell. Ivy picked up a
handful of dirt and allowed it to sift through her fingers. It was somewhat moist, lumps
clinging to her flesh, partly from her tears, partly from the dew.

Ivy wanted to wipe the tears left on her face away, wanted a Kleenex, but that would
smear dirt across her features. Instead, she let the night breeze dry her face, letting the salt
tighten her skin as the water departed for a better home. She sniffed and began to speak in
conversational tones, as if she could really have a chat with Carmen at her grave. Ivy
babbled on about haircuts and designer clothes while midnight paused for a visit.

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

Nick fought to keep his thoughts from turning bleak at Natalie's question. His guilt
over Louis Secour's death was still a new friend, and he didn't want to confess to it. He
didn't want to, but looking into Natalie's sadness compelled him to speak of it. "I've
failed. Surely you realize that I've faltered from time to time since we've met? My god,
Natalie - for all intents and purposes I murdered you."

She looked unmoved. "That's different. I asked you to. I begged you to. It's not the
same as hunting something down with the intention of taking away its life, by force if
necessary."

"I killed a man," Nick whispered, staring into the distance. "Remember Louis Secour?"

Natalie took a moment to decipher why that name sounded familiar. Hadn't Clare
spoken of this? "Wasn't he a suspect in the O'Leary case last summer?"

Nick nodded. "I was careless when I went to question him. Purposefully careless. He
saw too much, and I couldn't make him forget. Clare couldn't make him forget. He
intended to go to the newspapers about me. I tried to bribe him. It didn't work, so I killed
him to protect my secret." Nick turned his head, catching her gaze with direct intensity.
"Afterwards, I started over. An act done in a moment of weakness, Natalie, does not
define your existence. Not unless you allow it to rule you."

"What about a moment of strength?" Natalie mused. "Last night, I had a man in the
palm of my hand. I intended to kill him for the sheer pleasure of it, but, at the last moment,
I couldn't do it. I don't know what happened. I don't know why I stopped. It's not like I
haven't..." Natalie swallowed the end of that sentiment and moved on. "All of the sudden
it was too much to take, so I ran."

Nick reached down, enveloping her hand with his own. "How long has it been since it
wasn't too much?" he asked softly.

"Almost two weeks," Natalie whispered back. "How long has it been since Louis
Secour refused to be bribed?"

"Almost four months."

They stared into the night, still holding hands, both lost in a sea of unanswered
questions. Finally, Natalie tested one. "What are we going to do about Liam O'Neal?"

"I've made my choice. You know what it is. You'll have to make a choice of your
own. Nat, that's what we all have to do. You, me, LaCroix - even Clare had to. Every
night, you have to decide who you want to be, whether it's your own path or following
someone else's lead. It's your choice." He squeezed her fingers. "Don't look too far into
the future, if that's what's bothering you. Focus on right now. What do you want to do,
Natalie? Do you want to hunt O'Neal down?"

Natalie frowned. "You wouldn't try to stop me if I did?"

Nick's features quirked, and he shook his head. "You're jumping ahead. That's not up
to you. I'd have to make another choice, wouldn't I?"

She scowled at him in exchange for the lesson. "Okay...what I really want to do right
now is go to the hospital and see Reese." Nat gave him a look that dared him to have
something clever to say about that plan.

Nick's mouth tilted in the faintest of smiles. "I'd choose to go with you."

Natalie echoed his expression. "I'd choose to let you give me a lift."

Nick's features suddenly became awash in consternation. "The Caddy's not here. I left
it..." His frown deepened. "Actually, I don't remember where I left it. All I could think of
was getting to the Captain's house in time."

Natalie burst out laughing. A human confession, and it charmed her immeasurably. She
let go of his hand temporarily to crook her arm around his before entwining their fingers
again. "Let's go find Pulte and have him put an A.P.B. out on your car."

They found Officer Pulte sitting in a squad car, talking on the phone. As he saw them
approach, he opened the driver's door, obviously intending to get out and greet them, but
he caught his right foot on the doorframe. Pulte tripped, falling to his knees on the asphalt,
the phone scattering away.

Nick helped the man to his feet. "Are you all right?"

The sergeant blushed in embarrassment. "I should have been paying more attention, but
I was trying to order some flowers. You know, for the Captain." He gingerly hopped
between feet, then swiftly dragged in his breath on a painful note. "Gosh, I think I
wrecked my ankle."

"There's a lot of that going around lately," Nick joked, trying to put the man at ease.
He helped Pulte back into the squad car, then asked, "Listen, could you put out an APB
on my car? I forgot where I parked it."

Pulte started to nod, but his face suddenly twisted in perplexity. "How'd you get
here?"

Nick struggled for a second for a good answer to that question, then reached behind
him to pull Natalie forward. "I borrowed Doctor Lambert's car because I couldn't
remember where mine was parked." He glanced over at Natalie. Shooting her a swift look
that asked, 'Does that sound reasonable?' She shrugged, nodding noncommittally.

Pulte glanced around the collected cars on scene. "I don't see Doctor Lambert's car."

"He parked behind the building," Natalie improvised.

"Yeah, I parked behind the building," Nick agreed.

"Oh." Officer Pulte nodded slowly. "Okay."

The co-conspirators shared a grin as the sergeant made the call.

********************************************************************
End of Part Twenty-Five

Survivors (26/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Vachon woke because of the screaming. Once his eyes snapped open, silence regained
its foothold, leaving no evidence of anything exceptional. He stared unseeing at the
shadowed ceiling for a time, contemplating why something as simple as a bad dream had
the power to make him so uneasy.

Finally, Vachon brushed the memory away with a deep breath. There were enough
distractions in the real, live world to occupy him already. He concentrated upon how
empty the room felt. He reached out to his left, finding only bare mattress, rather than bare
leg. "Ives," he whispered, the word filled with more reflection than an actual call. He
didn't expect an answer; he just wanted to say her name.

Another deep breath started him considering whether or not he should get up and
search for her. Part of him was well aware it was the middle of the night - of course Ivy
was up and wandering around. The other part wondered just where she was wandering,
and if she would come back. He would've said that he was still undecided about looking
for her, but he was already out of bed and hunting for a fresh pair of jeans to pull on.

The problem was he was pretty short on clues as to what was going on inside her head.
He remembered when he'd first drunk her blood - there had been a guileless intensity to
Ivy. It had been a discovery to taste her; she'd been an amazing mix of the jaded and
innocent. Ivy had been completely unlocked, unable to shield a secret if her neck depended
on it.

She had changed in small ways from the time they met, closing up, backing off, the
innocence shrinking a little bit more every time her sire came to call. After Halloween, Ivy
had shut down. There was nothing to be learned from drinking her blood anymore, at least
nothing that she'd let escape. Vachon figured that the cause had something to do with
Thomas.

Ivy had learned to hide to protect herself, maybe on instinct, maybe from Janette or
Domino. It bothered him that she still clung to the defense, like she couldn't trust him
enough to risk what she might let slip. He didn't like it, but he understood. He understood
that Thomas had been beyond your average sadist, beyond anything decent or endurable.
Yet Ivy had endured, and she had survived. If she didn't want to revisit that, Vachon sure
as hell wasn't going to force her into it. There were plenty of things he didn't want to talk
about - didn't plan to talk about - so the silence leveled the playing field.

He'd left the master bedroom and subconsciously gone down to the lower level. The
front door was ajar, so Javier followed the clue, stepping out onto the carved steps. The
night painted the landscape in smoky emeralds and sapphires, a peaceful lacquer at first
glance. The yard was vacant, an expanse of grass leading to the woods, the glass of the
greenhouse to the east cast with a pewter sheen. Vachon joined the scenery, the damp
grass tickling his bare feet. He wandered around to the backside of the house, feeling a
faint pull. Maybe it was Ivy, but it seemed to be a dyslexic impression, jumbled and
backward and hard to make sense of completely.

When he finally saw her, identified where she was, Vachon stopped walking. Ivy was
sitting on Carmen's grave. At first, he couldn't will his feet forward. The past year had
given him a fair share of scars, and anything involving burial and upturned earth set him on
edge. That's why Ivy had been responsible for digging this spot months ago. That's why
there was no sign of a marker - Vachon couldn't bring himself to face it. He blinked
reflectively, realizing that this was the first time since Ivy had buried Carmen that he'd
acknowledged the spot with his own two eyes. he taunted himself.

He swallowed reflexively, then began to move toward Ivy with determined steps. By
the time she sensed his approach and looked around, he could smell her. She was a
hypnotic blend of apples, brown sugar and poison, a delicious dessert that you were
unwise to eat, with wide eyes and a welcoming mouth. Javier noticed that she was
wearing one of his shirts as her only covering. He loved it when she did that. There was
something earthy and satisfying about it. He chose to focus on that kind of earthiness
rather than the feel of wet soil as it insinuated itself between his toes.

Ivy's expression was a mixture, both weary and content. In any case, she appeared glad
that he had joined her. "Hi. I'm just talking to the cat," she explained, as if it was a
perfectly ordinary pastime, even when that cat was dead. Vachon chose not to comment.
It gave him pause, though. Maybe his own refusal to talk about their past was harming her
more than it was helping. Maybe.

He steeled himself and sat down behind Ivy so that she could lean against him and use
him as a chair. He tried to avoid focusing on how the earth seemed to give into his weight,
as if it was accommodating, welcoming him back into the fold. He tried to avoid imagining
how it felt - as though there was something in the grave calling to him, something that
would claw at him until he was sinking and trapped below the surface again. He
concentrated on Ivy, running his hands up the smooth skin of her legs, then under his shirt
to brush over her belly. She preened and sighed, and Vachon took in a deep breath of her,
centered on the long, curly hair cascading down her spine. He touched it, plaiting the mass
into two handfuls. It was the color of sand and silt. This was the kind of earth he wanted
to think about - the kind that sprang softly around your fingers and smelled sweet, not the
kind that stifled your nostrils and throat with grit and terror.

Ivy sighed again and spoke, her voice a faraway afterthought. "I remember when you
first brought me here. I imagined it was so peaceful. It was a beautiful place, and when I
slept, I wasn't afraid of anything."

As Vachon listened to her, he began to braid her hair into two pigtails. "And now?" he
whispered.

"It's never quiet. I can't sleep," she confessed. "Not here."

He paused in twisting two strands of vanilla hair. "Not *here*?" He didn't like the
sound of it, didn't necessarily want to know what she meant, but he had a feeling she
would tell him, even if he didn't ask.

"I dream about Clare. Only here. Nowhere else. It's like, because it was supposed to be
her house, she haunts it."

"She never even set foot here," Vachon pointed out. He didn't want to encourage her.
He didn't want to think how her words fit like a glove around some muddled memory
from his own sleep.

She turned her head to make eye contact, pulling the braid he was working on taut, so
he let it go. "You have nightmares, too. I know you do." Ivy's voice increased in intensity.
"Aren't they about Clare, at least one? She's screaming, and she's cut...and there's dirt..."

The memory tugged again, but it was one of those things Vachon had locked away. He
didn't want to revisit it. He worked to stare blankly at Ivy, hoping his silence would
equate a denial. Lying was just pretending, until someone got hurt.

"Maybe it's just me," Ivy concluded, her voice faraway again. "Maybe it's just my..."
Her eyes slanted away, and her mouth nudged tentatively at her next words, as though she
expected them to bite. "...guilty conscience."

Javier figured that she thought she was confessing to something that had never
occurred to him before. "Right," he said casually. "Clare's death is all your fault, because,
if you hadn't been involved, the cat would be alive, the kid wouldn't have been napped,
and Dom wouldn't have needed rescuing. Clare wouldn't have given a damn about
Thomas if you hadn't brought everything crashing into our lives. She would have never
gone to the cells alone, and instead of pushing up daisies right now, she'd be pushing my
patience with her complaints about the color of the marble porticoes, pushing Knight off a
cliff, or pushing her tongue in LaCroix's ear. Is that the kind of guilty conscience you're
talking about?" He stared at her in challenge, because, now that they were batting the
subject around like an incendiary tennis ball, he intended to grand slam it down.

Ivy's chin hardened, and her jaw worked like she was grinding her teeth. "Is that what
you really think," she bit out, "or are you mocking me with four hundred and fifty extra
years of emotional development?"

"Are you being a big baby?" Vachon summed up for her. "Yeah. Clare always did
exactly what she wanted to do, exactly when she wanted to do it, regardless of whom she
bulldozed in the process. For you to take credit for any of her choices is like trying to mop
up the Atlantic with a roll of paper towels. It just doesn't cut it. Get over yourself."

Ivy stopped leaning against him and swiveled around until she was propped on her
knees in front of him. She was annoyed at him, he could tell. Her gaze was a little
indignant, as if to complain, 'You just don't get it, do you?' Vachon didn't want to get it.

"So if you're right, and Clare always did what she wanted to do, then she must have
wanted to die." There was a contrary note to Ivy's tone. "Because if Clare didn't want to
die, she would find a way..."

"She wanted to die," Vachon broke in, his voice empty at first, then he relented over
the harshness of it and tried to explain. "Before you came, after Figaro was killed, she
considered it. She thought her soul was too tired for the old games." He shook his head,
unsure. How do you explain something that you don't understand yourself? "Death staring
her in the face, maybe she thought it was too good of an opportunity to miss."

Ivy frowned, an algebraic look containing too many variables. "Okay, I realize that you
knew her better and far longer than I did, but, Vachon, that doesn't sound like the Clare I
met at all."

Vachon stared at her as he calculated the odds of her giving up on this subject any time
soon. They weren't good. The problem with getting involved with women who had brains
was that they tended to use them. Ivy was pushing a train of thought he'd derailed of his
own choosing. His experience, all five hundred years of it, taught that resisting change and
hanging onto the past made for a bad future. Vachon doubted that Ivy would appreciate
hearing about his advanced years and wisdom again, though. With a small self-deprecating
grin at that thought, he decided to play a trump card that was bound to kill her interest. "If
there's a remote possibility that Clare isn't dead, the person who would know for sure
would be the one who knew her better than anyone."

Her eyes narrowed, and he could tell Ivy was already suspicious of the punchline.
"Who?"

Vachon grinned just a little wider, because he could see that her mind was churning out
a fervent prayer of . He
hated to disappoint her. Really. "LaCroix."

She couldn't hide her cringe when he said the name and spent a good, long time
absorbed in some obviously squeamish thoughts. Vachon reached out and grabbed one of
the pigtails draped over her shoulders and began to twirl the ends contentedly around his
index finger. he thought triumphantly.

After a while, he heard Ivy make a tiny noise of discomfort, as if she'd come to a
decision, and it had physically hurt. He glanced up to find her chewing worriedly on her
lower lip, but her eyes were focused intently on some unnamed goal. "Well..." she began
on a fatalistic sigh. "...you're probably correct."

Vachon shot her a frown. She didn't have to sound so doubtful that he was right, and
the 'probably' had come off as downright disgusted.

"I guess..." Ivy continued with another resigned sigh. "...I guess I'll just have to go to
the Raven and talk to LaCroix."

Vachon froze in playing with Ivy's hair. "You do?" He hadn't considered that
possibility, simply because he hadn't considered it a possibility. At her first meeting with
the Raven's owner, LaCroix had quickly impressed Ivy by choking her. She had no warm
and fuzzy, let's-have-a-chat-about-old-times memories of the man. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

She looked him in the eye, her mouth quirked slightly. Maybe she was thinking about
the last time she'd asked *him* that question and how that had turned out. "No." She
reached a hand over his shoulder, clasping a handful of his hair and mimicking his posture
with a mischievous grin. "But it was your idea."

She had him there. Vachon gulped. The point of the idea, though, had been to get her
to change the subject, not to get her killed.

Ivy whispered an invitation. "Come with?"

Vachon focused on her again, the wistful hope clouding her eyes. She was scared, but
she was going to go for it anyway. He smiled and gave her braid a tug. "I'm
definitely coming with."

Ivy pulled her hair away and climbed to her feet, standing over him with an almost
lecturing posture. "Now, I don't *need* you to come with me, so quit thinking it. I know
I don't have an excellent track record, but I *can* take care of myself. I want you to
come," she said, extending her hand in an offer to help him off the ground, "because I
want to be with you."

Vachon definitely thought that she *needed* him to come along and watch her back,
neck and heart, but he took her hand anyway, allowing her to pull him up. "Okay. Just
don't keep my shirt on. I like it better without spare holes."

"Your confidence is overwhelming." Ivy gave him a teasing look before she grabbed
the hem of the shirt in question. Her voice was muffled as she pulled it over her head.
"Gee, I'll have to find something of my own to wear, because I wouldn't want to make
you upset." The braids that Vachon had put so much attention into came loose as she
shook her head free of the shirt's collar. She brushed a stray curl that had hooked over her
nose out of the way with a puff of breath, then matter-of-factly handed Vachon's pilfered
shirt back to him.

He took it without looking at it. It was more entertaining to watch Ivy wink at him,
then coolly walk naked across the lawn, en route to her closet. "I wouldn't call that
upsetting," he said to himself. Seeing her disappear through the front entrance with a flash
of skin, Vachon playfully tossed his shirt in the air, caught it on the way down, then pulled
it over his own head. Ivy's scent still lingered on the fabric. he thought.

The perfume could only distract him for so long before Vachon recalled where he was.
He looked down, eyeing his bare feet pressing into the damp earth mounded onto
Carmen's grave. He felt it again, the turning gears of gravity, a force dragging him down,
wanting him to join it in an eternal prison.

Suddenly, Vachon crouched violently, seizing a handful of soil in his fist. He squeezed,
as if to crush it and whatever power it had. "It's...just...dirt," he said fiercely before
throwing it into the night breeze. It was the resting place of a cat, a cat he'd liked very
much, but only a cat. He stood, walking as casually as possible back into the house to join
Ivy and then find his boots.

***********************************************************************
End of Part Twenty-Six

Survivors (27/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

LaCroix abruptly broke off the conversation, leaving a pair of hurt and bewildered eyes
watching his back as he walked away. He arched a brow as he heard her heart skip a beat,
her breath catch and tremble. For a fraction, his interest pricked again. What would come
next - anger, begging or tears?

He felt a yawn of mental boredom as she proved to be a servant of the latter possibility.
For simple rudeness to crush her so easily...she was watery and unpalatable. He had
chosen wisely when he decided to waste no more of the evening plying charm on the
creature. Even begging would have proven more passion in the blood than the weakness
of weeping, but anger - anger was what he wanted. Anger was what he felt, a rage that
defied expression, that resisted quenching. He wanted to drink it down and drown it,
drown it as it was drowning him.

He spared a scornful glance to the club's patrons. The Raven was filled with saltwater
tonight, not blood. Clinging types, easily-led types, hero-worshipers and the submissive -
none would look him in the eye, much less challenge him. They were cowards, hands
clasped behind their backs until a forelock needed tugging. They were cautious, incapable
of risking the crown of foolishness. None of them could give him what he wanted, not
when what he wanted was the bravest woman he had ever known. Not when what he
wanted was the most idiotic female, the one who discarded criticism like a torn dress. The
one who would call him a coward just to inflame him. The one who liked to feed on rage
as much as he did. The one who could take that same rage away. The one who risked too
much. The one who lost too much. That damned woman was the one he wanted: the one
beyond his reach. LaCroix never appreciated denial; that was why he was sinking in it.

His steps moved him toward the sound booth, but words seemed an inadequate
paintbrush for his bilious thoughts. LaCroix surveyed the club again with discontent. He
needed to hurt someone as much as he hurt, but all the available targets were hollow
chattel.

A tremor shifted the crowd at the Raven's entrance. LaCroix eagled his eyes to discern
the identities of the new arrivals. It seemed that Vachon had found his poisonous
distraction, and they'd stopped by to play. The tease of promised entertainment pulled him
back to the bar. He murmured a command for the attendant to open a new bottle before
assuming a watchful cloak.

Their body language was subtle - a brush of hips here, a lingering touch there, shared
thoughts in a crowded room spoken with naught but a glance. The grace of it was painful
to witness. The image of a dog salivating through the butcher's window passed through
his head, and LaCroix gritted his teeth. He consoled himself with cynicism - their delight
would fade soon enough with the ravages of time. It would fade, or fate would intervene
with destructive force. It was evolution. It was entropy. LaCroix
thought bitterly, refusing to recognize any reaction as self-pity.

Vachon caught sight of him and leaned to whisper in his companion's ear, to direct her
attention. The girl's eyes followed orders well. LaCroix saw her nod in answer to some
unspoken question. There was mischief afoot, and it centered upon himself. LaCroix was
tempted to cut her to shreds with his gaze before the fun had even begun.

He felt the Spaniard's eyes on him again, daring to send him a warning.

LaCroix smiled then, feeling his delight fatten
off this fodder. She was going to approach, and Vachon would be placed in the position of
voyeur in his stead.

The girl's hair had been secured down her back in two plaits. LaCroix saw the
Spaniard reach out and tug one as she began to move away. She paused and looked back -
another private signal. LaCroix clenched his jaw, perhaps to bite back the scratch of regret
that arose at the thought of crushing her, of taking something precious away. He was
sincerely considering it. It was a pleasing fantasy, an idea of divine justice balancing the
scales. This girl was the impetus of his great loss, yet she still roamed the night, sharing
lovers' glances while others could not. LaCroix loathed her for that success. She hadn't
the right to it, not when she had taken his lover away.

He realized, though, as she turned once more to continue her path, centering her eyes
on him in cautious regard, that the girl knew how he felt. Ivy was aware of his acrimony,
but she approached anyway. he thought. Another voice echoed. It made him pause, pause and study her more closely.

Her stature was diminutive, her limbs slight and sleek. It gave her the illusion of frailty
and youth. LaCroix had little doubt that her appearance was what had drawn Janette to
her. Janette had always collected needy orphans like so many shoes and hats, no matter
the century or locale. The hats typically held up better.

LaCroix wondered if Ivy could prove an exception. Yes, she carried the veil of needing
protection, but her eyes were hard. Her eyes betrayed her age and aggression in a way that
her figure could not. He tightened one hand into a fist, recalling their first and only
meeting. Her neck had been slender and easy to choke. He'd squeezed harder, but she'd
still maintained her lies under the duress. He would keep that memory in mind.

She stopped in front of him, making no attempt to engage in social niceties. She looked
away, but only long enough to unfasten a recognizable bracelet from about her upper arm.
LaCroix noticed her movements were brittle. She was nervous, as well she should be, but
when she raised her eyes again, they gave no sign. Ivy held out her hand, dangling the
jewelry before him between two fingers. "You were interested in this before," she said.
"Do you want it now?"

LaCroix was caught by surprise. The scene was suddenly painted with antiquity, when
a moment of audience could be purchased with a tribute or sacrifice. Apparently Ivy did
not want to be the sacrifice, and had come with a tribute on offer instead.

It also surprised him how greatly the bracelet beckoned, the luster of the black pearls
chastising him for ever discarding them, for letting them grace any skin but the owner they
were meant for. they seemed to say. His fingers
itched to touch them, and his hand moved unbidden to repossess.

LaCroix glanced up and found that Ivy was watching him steadfastly. He risked a
moment wondering if she perceived more than she ought to see. he thought dismissively,

He rubbed the smooth nub of one stone under his thumb, and found himself murmuring
laconically, "Pearls before swine...?"

Ivy assumed he meant her to answer the question of why she was letting the jewelry
go. "I didn't want it anymore. Sometimes gifts cost more than you expect."

LaCroix looked at her small, closed face again. Was that sympathy? A confession? A
warning segue into another topic of conversation? He enveloped the bracelet within his fist
and deposited it in his jacket pocket. He would grant this audience for a minute longer
before making a decision regarding her fate. "But you did not come here to simply drop
off jewelry. You want something else," he stated.

His frankness threw her off-balance, and for the first time, her eyes divulged weakness.
She looked away and grasped her forearms tensely. LaCroix smiled again, pleased at her
discomfiture. She regrouped in time to catch sight of that smile, malevolent and torturous,
and it hit her like a slap. Ivy shook her head slightly to clear her thoughts and took a deep
breath. "Look," she said, working to echo his steely voice, "I know you'd just as soon kill
me as look at me. If you're going to do it, make up your mind. I don't want to waste the
time and effort on sustaining a conversation if I'm only going to get staked for my trouble.
What's it going to be, LaCroix? Put me out of my misery, or put me out of my misery?"

Her bravado amused him, but he seriously considered her words. If there were any
sincerity to them at all, if she honestly believed the 'put me out of my misery' mentality,
then killing her would serve no purpose. He wanted to rip away something precious, not
relieve her of a burden. his thoughts warned. He
remembered something else - she was one of Thomas' creations, and Thomas had created
her to be destroyed. It was evidence enough to sway him. "You may ask one question."

She surprised him again. "Is Clare really dead?"

LaCroix's rage exploded at the effrontery of the question. "We are all dead," he hissed.
"I would not scrape to discuss the particulars with the likes of you. I will not!" he roared.
Considering the conversation ended, he stalked away. He could feel her startled eyes
watching his back and heard her breath catch and tremble. What would come next?

The sound of footsteps came next as she followed him. A flare of daring came next as
she stood in his path.

"Why? Why won't you? Are you so pissed because I had the balls to ask the question,
or because you don't have the balls to answer it?" Ivy caught her breath again, her eyes
tipping back in her head for a moment. It might have been the right thing to say, but she
recognized that it was the wrong, wrong, way to say it. "Okay, that was a stupid move,"
she confessed ruefully, "but if I was really bright, trust me, I wouldn't be here."

"I believe you," LaCroix replied coolly. Suddenly, she struck him as a fascinating
creature, not some poisonous weed to be uprooted.

"But I came anyway, knowing that you would blame me for whatever happened to
Clare, knowing how much you frightened me. I think it's that important. So, please, just
hear me out?" She put a palm to her forehead as thought to feel for fever, for whatever
madness that was spurring on her tongue.

"Go on," he commanded and returned to his seat at the bar.

Ivy took the neighboring stool this time, clasping her hands together and stretching her
arms across the counter. She seemed to be studying the veins of her inner arms, musing
over some mystery there. "I've been having nightmares about Clare. Some might say it's
just my conscience working overtime, because she is dead, and I'm not. I've started to see
things when I'm awake, though - visions of her, and somehow I feel that they aren't all
byproducts of my guilty imagination. Vachon told me that Clare always did exactly what
she wanted to do, regardless of what was in her way. He also said that you knew her
better than anyone. So tell me - if Clare was facing death, what would she have done?
Would she have survived, or succumbed?"

"She wouldn't have succumbed," LaCroix insisted. "She would have seized any
opportunity for escape."

Ivy nodded faintly, as though he only served to reconfirm some truth. "Vachon also
said that Clare took Figaro's death badly. He suggested that she wanted to die after that."
She slanted her gaze to see how he would react to that theory.

LaCroix didn't like it, perhaps because there was a grain of truth in the idea, but only a
grain. "Perhaps I should be having this conversation with the Spaniard," he said
sarcastically. "He refers to one moment out of thirty lifetimes. It was in Clare's nature to
survive, not perish." He scowled angrily as another thought pushed forth. "It was in her
nature to be unpredictable. I have no answer to your question. I have had no mystical
dreams or visions. Yes, she haunts me, but I have felt grief like this before." His voice
grew harsher with the subject matter. "She could be dead. She could have survived. Spare
me the empty hypotheses and give me proof."

"I don't have any. What kind of proof is a dream?" Ivy's gaze drifted away with her
thoughts. "Nothing is ever a simple answer, dammit. What is red, for example? It's just a
color, right? That's simple. But, no - anger is red. Wait! Red means love - everyone
knows that. Red is passion and desire." She stared at LaCroix's glass, untouched. "Blood
red. Pride, betrayal, the red sizzle of lust - which is right? Suddenly everything is red.
People are red, because they're never just one person. They're the person they show and
the person they hide." Ivy continued talking, but she didn't appear aware of her
surroundings. She seemed lost in some private dream of memory and fear that she
couldn't escape, and her voice continued to trickle in trips and phrases. "People are
red...inside and out...red...covered in it...red bodies stacked like firewood...bodies in
pieces...corpses painted in red...red children on fire...I'm red...I'm..."

LaCroix grasped her by the shoulders and shook her. "What are you?" As her chain of
consciousness had unfolded, he had felt a faint stirring of hope. Bodies stacked like
firewood...children on fire...these were images from Clare's past that the Spaniard had no
knowledge of. She had no way of knowing these things unless he, Nicholas or Natalie had
shared the stories, and why would they have? When would they have? She had no way of
knowing...unless she learned them somehow from Clare. "What are you?" he repeated.

Ivy blinked and shook her head. "I'm tired. I must be tired. That free verse kind of crap
isn't like me. I hate poetry. It's the language of salesmen. My father was a salesman," she
said abruptly.

LaCroix pushed his glass toward her. She frowned, but took a sip as a distraction. He
could tell that she felt exposed, that at some point she'd revealed something that she
hadn't wanted him to know, and now she was regretting the carelessness. LaCroix also
finally took in the manner of her dress. She was wearing a halter that left her back bare,
and it seemed an ironic choice. "Have you considered," LaCroix said calmly, "that you
have not been haunted by Clare at all? Perhaps she has possessed you."

Ivy coughed out a laugh. "Now *that* would be justice."

LaCroix plucked his glass out of her fingers. "I will consider it." He took a languid
swallow, letting his gaze mull over her like future prey.

Her eyes narrowed. "Consider what?"

"What you have said tonight. The possibilities. I will resume my search for signs of
Clare's survival."

"Oh." She tacked on as a bewildered afterthought, "Thank you." Ivy appeared stymied
for any further comment on her quest. She glanced over her shoulder. "Vachon's waiting
for me." She pushed off of the stool, but paused, leaning against the bar as she was
arrested by another image. "He looks like he thinks he should have busted in on this
conversation ten minutes ago, but the only things holding him back are your lack of
bloodshed and a promise he made to me." LaCroix found it strange that this was the hurt
that could put tears into her voice. "It's really very sweet. He still wants to look out for
me even though he knows it might be more than he can handle." She met LaCroix's gaze
one last time before she moved to join the Spaniard, grief scouring her face. "It's really
sweet that, despite everything, he hasn't walked away."

A mask of pain closed over LaCroix's features as he watched Ivy leave. Her last words
had stung with burning rebuke, a rebuke that Clare had thrown at him too many times.
He'd walked away after Conchobhar's death, afraid that her slaughter of an entire village
would bring destruction to them all. And in Vienna...

"Lucius, pardon my disarray." She smiled charmingly, as though the carnage was a
spilt cup of tea.

"What have you done?"

"I have destroyed the Enforcers. They tried to stake Figaro. That stupid cow Cecilia
told them of his location as soon as they entered the house. I should finish her off as well.
I told Figaro as much...no doubt he is hiding her now." She frowned, suddenly noticing a
blemish of flesh clinging to the soiled lace gracing her sleeve. She picked it off with
particular fingers, seeming blind that it was but one piece out of many. "Oh, by the way - I
set Nicholas on fire." She waved her hand casually midair. "I am afraid it ruined the rug in
your study."

LaCroix leapt into action, dragging Clare to her feet by her elbows. He slammed her
back against the wall. "What have you done?!"

"He's not dead," Clare snapped. "He simply caught me in a mood. I expect Nicholas is
off having quiet reflection time while his wounds heal." She looked pointedly to where
LaCroix still squeezed her arms. "Let go of me, Lucius."

He did, stepping away in a half-turn, his boot scuffing one of the mangled corpses.
"You should have reasoned with them. You should not have fought them. You should not
have killed them. It makes you an outcast to the Community. It makes anyone who
associates with you..."

"It makes anyone who associates with me an outcast," Clare concluded, her eyes
daring him to speak further.

"They will all be afraid of you," LaCroix sneered. "No one sane would trust you."

"Are you afraid of me, Lucius?" her voice rang sweetly. "Are you afraid of what I
might do? Or are you afraid of what *they* might do? After everything that you have
survived, is popularity truly your greatest concern?"

He faced her again, lifting one of her bloody hands to his mouth. He brushed her
knuckles with his lips in a courtly manner and looked deeply into her swirling emerald
eyes. Her breath caught. "Goodbye, Clare."

He proceeded to walk away, through the narrow corridors of the servants' quarters,
around the staircase, into the main hall, and through the front entrance. Her outraged
screams whipped at his back. "Go ahead and distance yourself when things get difficult,
Lucius! Is that not what you always do? One day, we will be together again. One day, I
will be the one who walks away. We will see how you enjoy the leaving then!"

LaCroix closed the front door behind him, shutting out Clare's voice. God help him, he
should have listened.

*********************************************************************
End of Part Twenty-Seven

Survivors (28/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

By the time Ivy reached him, Vachon was rubbing his chin, trying to mask his
impatience. "So you talked to LaCroix."

"Yep."

He tried again, hoping for a little more descriptive answer. It had been a confusing
conversation to watch, one moment calm, the next on the verge of disaster. "And he
passed on the whole 'killing you' thing?"

"Yep." Ivy's forehead wrinkled. "I'm not exactly sure why. In fact, I think he still has a
grudge. Maybe it's the wrong phase of the moon for it, or something. He said he'd
consider it, though," she added.

Vachon frowned, because Ivy sounded faintly pleased about this promise. "Consider
killing you?"

"No. What I said about Clare - he said he'd consider that."

"He didn't think it was all in your imagination?" Vachon was being stubborn. LaCroix
was supposed to hiss and belittle. He didn't want to believe that LaCroix, the last person
he'd have predicted to take a murky nightmare and transform it into a clear portent, had
confirmed Ivy's theory. After all, it had been Vachon's idea to come here. His idea - the
idea that was supposed to close the subject once and for all - and LaCroix had helped?

"At first he did," Ivy agreed. "Then things got kind of..." She didn't know how to
describe it. It had been as though allowing herself to think about Clare had opened a
floodgate of memories she'd seen during her struggles with sleep. And when LaCroix
started talking about possession...Ivy shivered. "It got kind of creepy."

She wasn't telling him everything. "Shake you around and then share a drink kind of
creepy?"

"Kind of," Ivy hedged. "I definitely don't want to repeat the experience any time soon,
okay? My work here is done."

Now *that* was something Vachon wanted to hear. He slung an arm around her
shoulder, ushering her up the stairs. "Let's go home." Ivy froze, and Javier looked down
at her with a sinking feeling. "What is it?"

"I have another errand I should run. At Janette's." Ivy eyed him warily, like she could
foresee another argument on the horizon. "I'm not sure how long it'll take, and then
there's Dom...I blew off a couple buyers, and I'm sure he's freaking out, so...how about
you pick me up tomorrow at the studio...anytime after two? That should do it," she said
hopefully.

"You have to do that tonight?" It seemed too soon to let her out of his sight. Hadn't he
been scavenging alleyways just yesterday, trying to track Ivy down?

"Yes." She fiddled with his jacket a bit before looking up, her eyes pleading with him
to understand. "I can't go back there. Not today. Not to sleep." Her mouth stretched into
an optimistic smile. "Look on the bright side - you can sand and varnish to your heart's
content the whole time without having to listen to me bitch about it. Meanwhile, I'll steal
all of Janette's towels. See? Nobody loses."

"Except Janette," Vachon pointed out.

Ivy pouted, because he wasn't meant to focus on that part. Tools and towels - that was
the tease. "Whatever I take away, Janette will replace sooner or later, don't worry," she
said callously. "You don't really care about that, do you?"

Vachon shook his head. "No." He took her hand, loosely tangling their fingers, "but
maybe I don't want to sleep alone."

She tugged on his hand, luring him the rest of the way up the Raven's entrance stairs.
"Then come with me."

He pulled her to a stop, clasping either hand about her hips. "Ivy, it's my house. I built
it. It's important to me. I'm not going to just dump the place on a whim, not even for
you." He willed her to look at him, to look at him and listen.

"No, Vachon. It's Clare's house, and I can't go on living there, not even for you."

He knew he was going to have to let her go. He probably could have persuaded her,
changed her mind and gotten his way, but Ivy didn't like being manipulated. She wouldn't
forget, even while she gave in. Vachon figured the real question was if he let Ivy go, did
he trust her enough to come back? "You promise you'll be at the studio tomorrow?"

She gave a relieved sigh at the shift in the conflict. "Yeah. I
promise. I'll be there with towels on." She kissed him urgently, cupping her palms over his
stubbled cheeks. "I want this to work out," she whispered. "I'm trying."

Javier simply held her for a moment, breathing in the scent of her hair. "I know," he
whispered back. He pushed the door to the club open, the streetlights making the night
brighter outside. "Come on. I'll drop you off."

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

"I can't believe you didn't call me earlier," Schanke complained for the twenty-eighth
time while he paced the tile floor.

"What were you going to do, Schank?" Nick countered. "Miss out on Jenny's recital
so that you could sit in a hospital ward for hours, hearing nothing? I thought...I thought
that you'd had enough of it, and I didn't see the point of breaking up the opportunity to
spend time with your daughter."

Schanke relented as he sank into a plastic chair. "Yeah, yeah, you're right. I mean, the
kid's something. I wouldn't have wanted to miss the pink tutus and the parasols - though I
complained about the 'Cabaret' number, let me tell you. Hello?! We're talking teenagers
in garter belts here! There's no way I'm letting Jen take that jazz class next year. I laid
down the law in no uncertain terms." Schanke gave a satisfied nod.

"So you caused a scene, and Jenny's so embarrassed she wants to change dance
schools?" Nick guessed.

Schanke nodded again. "Exactamundo. I'm guilty of 'pater overprotectus' again."

"How many years until Jenny starts dating, Schank?" Nick asked conversationally.
"Five? Four? Three...?"

Schanke didn't appreciate the heckling. "She's not the space shuttle, Knight." He
rubbed his neck like he'd just barely escaped a car crash intact. "Man, oh, man. I don't
even want to think about it."

Natalie's appearance spared Schanke's imagination the turmoil. She had secured
permission to watch Reese's progress from the observation room of the operating theater.
Her arrival meant there was news.

"What's happened?" Schanke asked eagerly.

"The surgeon just finished talking to Denese. They should be rolling him to an ICU in a
few minutes. Eight hours - it took them eight hours to put him back together, and the
doctors still aren't sure he'll wake up." Natalie shrugged helplessly. "They feel positive
about the heart - they bypassed the worst of the harm there, but the head injuries...the
swelling has been contained, but the CT was inconclusive as to whether the damage may
be permanent."

"Meaning?" Nick prompted, his expression grave.

"Meaning it's possible that he may not wake up, that Reese might slip into a coma."
Natalie twisted her mouth ruefully, saying, "I suppose we should be grateful that the
attacker only hit him with the gun and kicked him. If he'd bludgeoned the Captain like in
one of the previous cases, he'd already be dead."

Nick turned thoughtful. "So you got a chance to look at the wounds for evidence?"

Natalie nodded. "Briefly. All I got looks to be standard shoe rubber and a couple of
thorns from the roses. The surgeon gave me this, though." She produced an evidence bag
containing a .38 bullet. "It has the same barrel markings as before. Do you want to take it,
or should I hang onto it?"

"Why don't you hang onto it?" Nick suggested. "Curran and Pulte went to the
wedding reception to interview the guests who might have seen anything and get control
samples to use in comparison with all the hair and fibers Forensics found in the church
sanctuary. You can toss it onto the pile of things to sort through later."

Natalie was less than appreciative. "Gee, thanks."

"Yeah, Nick," Schanke echoed. "Why weren't we at the reception doing interviews
instead of sitting here the past four hours? It would have been better than doing nothing,
and we would've gotten cake."

"My thoughts exactly, Detective," a familiar voice of authority broke in. Nick, Natalie
and Schanke whirled around to find a figure in a well-worn porkpie hat and tan overcoat.

"Captain Stonetree!" Don exclaimed in surprise, extending his hand. "How're you
doing?!"

Joe Stonetree shook it, then nodded in acknowledgment to Nick and Natalie. "From
what I hear, better than some in my position." Freeing his hand, he moved to remove his
hat. "At the prospect of Captain Reese, best case scenario, having a long recovery ahead
of him, I've been given the enviable job of juggling your precinct as well as the 27th.
Imagine my surprise when I found out my two best detectives on the case hardly looked at
the crime scene, then handed the follow-up over to a rookie and a uniformed officer so
they could sit in the hospital collecting dust, not suspects."

Nick protested. "Captain, you can't blame us for caring whether or not Reese makes it
out alive."

"No. That's laudable," Stonetree countered. "But it doesn't stop our guy from going
after someone else. If I was the one hooked up to those monitors and machines right now,
I'd sure as hell hope my detectives were pounding the pavement, not moping in the
hospital lobby. You can care later. Just not on my time. Not on Joe Reese's. Clear?"

"Clear," Nick said begrudgingly.

"Clear," Schanke echoed next.

Satisfied, Stonetree shifted the subject. "Jim Curran tells me you had an interview to
follow up on the ballistics lead."

"Yeah, Nick," Schanke said innocently. "How'd it go with Pesche?"

"I didn't make it to the prison. I was en route when the call came about Reese," Nick
said in a stiff voice.

"En route?!" Schanke was starting to tire from playing mental catch-up on the evening.
"But I talked to you hours before that!"

"I had to go over some evidence with Doctor Lambert first," Nick replied, giving his
partner a look that said 'play along.'

"Huh?" Schanke glanced over at Natalie, catching an identical expression on her
features. Suddenly, he realized that Nick had spent those precious hours on personal
business, just as personal as his kid's dance recital. "Oh, yeah. You'd have to do that,
yeah."

Stonetree appeared on the verge of eruption. "So you don't have any progress to show
for the whole night." He raised a warning finger. "Knight, Schanke...we go back a long
way, but if you two don't have something clean and solid for me tomorrow, I'm
reassigning the case to another team. Now get out of here and get some work done."

Nick and Schanke marched silently from the hospital, Natalie walking between them.
Once they were outdoors, Nat drew Nick's attention. "Stonetree's right, you know. You
had more important things to be doing last night than visiting me."

He looked at her honestly, shaking his head. "No, Nat, I didn't."

Schanke clapped his hands. "Hooray. It's beautiful. You guys are talking again," he
said impatiently, then jabbed a thumb in the direction of the hospital. "Have you people
forgotten how Stonetree gets when he gets serious? They don't call him 'The Scorpion'
for nothing!"

Natalie gave Nick a perplexed look. "They call him 'The Scorpion'?"

"Metro bowling league nickname," Nick explained in a whisper.

Schanke checked his watch, then insisted, "I wouldn't put it past him to give us traffic
duty if we don't bring home the grail! Knight, kiss the doc 'goodbye,' and let's scram!"

Natalie's eyes widened in warning as Nick grinned at her. "Come on, Nat! Schanke's
orders!"

She didn't turn her head or any other evasive tactic, but as soon as Nick brushed her
lips in a cool, soft caress, Nat stepped back and waved them off. "Schanke's orders!
Scram!"

Nick was still grinning, and Schanke was humming a satisfied polka as they walked to
the parking deck. "Where's your car, anyway?" Don asked.

Nick's answer was simple. "Lost it."

"Did you check the Raven? You always used to leave it there."

"I don't think so, Schank." They'd reached Don's sedan, and Nick waited impatiently
as his partner unlocked the doors. "Can you put the pedal to the metal? I want to make it
to the prison before sunrise."

"You'd better hope so," Schanke countered as he slipped behind the wheel. "None of
that goofy 'riding in the trunk' stuff in my car. Myra stores her luge back there."

**********************************************************************
End of Part Twenty-Eight

Survivors (29/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Ivy slipped into the townhouse and entered the alarm code. Neither that, nor the front
key had been changed since her last visit, and Ivy took these persistent states as good
signs. She had not been locked out from the fold - that was her passport to damage. Had
Janette suspected Ivy's growing antipathy, she would have acted. The wolf, her la petite
Lierre, would have been barred at the door, that was certain.

She treaded lightly through the hall, debating whether or not she should reveal her
presence to Janette or Robert. Neither person was her main goal in coming to the
townhouse. To be found, unannounced, hovering over the boy, however, could result in
an awkward scenario. Ivy decided to scout through the rooms first. If Janette and Robert
were unoccupied, they would notice her quickly. If they were otherwise diverted, she
could wander the house freely.

It took little effort to locate the pair. The first room Ivy checked off to the right of the
hall, the combination of study and workroom, held little sign of anyone. In months past,
the floor and desk had been littered with drawings and fabric. Ivy remembered that she
had left it in much the same way the last time she had visited, for the next House of Figaro
show was close on the horizon. Janette had apparently cleared these things away in her
absence. Ivy took that as another sign, this one less favorable. It spoke of things quickly
forgotten, erased from importance.

She moved on, hearing voices as she approached the kitchen. Robert and Janette were
there, conversing over a bottle of blood. At first, it was a very innocuous exchange, but as
Ivy raised her hand to knock on the doorjamb and interrupt with a 'hello,' their words
took a serious turn. Ivy decided to hold back and listen.

"Why don't you want to go to Montreal this weekend?" Robert asked. "Peggy can
look after Patrick."

"The situation with Lierre concerns me," Janette offered. "How can we leave and enjoy
ourselves while she is missing?"

"You're using that as an excuse," Robert countered. Ivy silently cheered in agreement.
"You're the one who said that what she chose to do was not our concern. Ivy is a grown
up, not some child to be coddled like -" He stopped, choosing to not finish the thought.

Still, he had said too much. "Like?" Janette repeated slowly.

"I think Patrick could use a weekend away from us," Robert explained matter-of-
factly. "He always enjoys spending time with Peggy."

"He enjoys spending time with me," Janette snapped.

"Yes," Robert agreed reluctantly, and he seemed to be searching for the right words to
proceed with a new topic. Finally, he said, "But Peggy brought me word from Patrick's
teacher. He's been having problems lately. He keeps falling asleep in class. I've noticed
that he doesn't have the same energy when I've taken him to his nighttime hockey games.
He's just not getting enough rest, and I think he needs a couple days of running around in
the sun like a normal kid to get back on track. Our schedule must be affecting him."

"He could be sick," Janette argued defensively. "That is all the more reason to not
leave him. What's more, Patrick's problems at school might be because of the school. I've
thought for some time that it would be better if he were taught here, at home."

"You can't be serious," Robert scoffed.

"I could teach him everything that he needs to know!" Janette insisted.

Robert sighed with frustration. "He needs to spend time with kids his own age. You
can't give him that."

"Consider the future, cher. Should he become so close with mortals? It is better that
Patrick relies upon us."

Ivy stepped away from the kitchen as Janette endeavored to cajole Robert into seeing
the merits of her idea. She doubted they would wander elsewhere any time soon.

She backtracked to the stairs and climbed up to the boy's room. Ivy entered quietly,
examining the body tucked away in the bed for signs of slumber. He had his eyes closed,
but his breath was shallow, and his heartbeat danced alertly.

"You can quit faking, kiddo," she announced as she approached. "It's just me."

Patrick sat up and squinted at her in the dark. "Ivy?" he questioned before fumbling for
his bedside lamp so that he could see.

Ivy intercepted his hand. "Got it in one. Leave the light off. Your dad and Janette are
in the kitchen, but better safe than sorry. You are supposed to be asleep, right?"

"Right," Patrick said. He adjusted his pillows so that he was more comfortable sitting
up. Ivy watched, making no move to help. Finally he settled and asked curiously,
"Where've you been?"

Ivy remained casual. "I needed some time by myself, you know? I met up with Vachon
again when I felt like it."

"Vachon came here looking for you," Patrick offered candidly.

"Oh, yeah? How do you know that?" Ivy dared. "I guarantee it was past your
bedtime."

It usually had been late the sparse occasions that Vachon had come to the townhouse
with her. Janette preferred keeping Patrick separate, and it was only through Robert that
the boy had caught more than a glimpse of 'Ivy's boyfriend.' Patrick had sharp eyes,
though, and matching ears that could pinpoint things of boyish interest in a flash. He didn't
need to see Vachon to hear that he had a motorcycle, and that was enough to decide this
was someone worth admiring.

Patrick confirmed her thoughts as he said, "Yeah, but I couldn't sleep. It wasn't that
late!" he insisted. "I heard the Triumph pull up, so I cracked my door open and listened.
Janette didn't sound like she wanted to talk to him. She said she and Dad didn't know
where you were, and it wasn't really their business what you did. Then Dad came to the
door and asked what was going on. He talked to Vachon for a while about where you
could be. Then Vachon asked if he could talk to me, just in case I'd seen you. Janette kind
of freaked out then and told him to leave. She was mad, so Dad agreed." The boy
shrugged, as though this kind of thing went on often.

"Wow. You heard a lot," Ivy said, smiling through the dark. She'd have to remember
to keep private conversations to a minimum while the kid was in residence.

"Yeah," Patrick agreed enthusiastically, "and I got to talk to Vachon anyway, because
I opened my window and told him before he left that I hadn't seen you."

"Rebel!" she teased. Patrick was young enough that the one word could make him
blush in embarrassment. She gave him a measuring look. He looked drawn and tired, his
face abnormally pallid for a child. Ivy thought back and realized this fatigue had been
fostering for a while. She'd simply been too caught up in her own guilt to notice. She
spent a moment's currency in pissed thoughts in honor of Robert, because if anyone
should have caught on quickly, it was the kid's father. She forgave him soon enough,
because Ivy knew he was blinded by Janette's act. She'd been blinded herself, so who was
she to condemn Robert? Ivy thought. She had an instinct before
she came that there was more to learn from Patrick, and it was about time that she started
diving into the depths of it. "So what else have you been doing while I was gone? School?
Hockey league?"

His answer was brief and unenthusiastic. "Sure."

"Anything fun?"

Patrick shrugged. "You know."

"No, I don't. I'm a girl, remember? I don't know all the stuff guys like you get up to."
She said this as though 'all the stuff' must be very interesting, and Patrick couldn't be the
child that everyone else treated him to be.

Ivy could tell he was struggling for something to share, to be a 'guy,' but he was
faltering. She took pity on him, sparing him the effort to impress her. "It's okay. You can
keep it secret if you don't want to tell me."

Patrick wouldn't accept the excuse. "It's just that the last fun thing I did was watching
the Godzilla marathon with you and Dad. I got to stay up until I fell asleep on the couch.
When I woke up, you were all there, and if I was scared, it was just the movies."

Ivy's jaw clenched. "Why
don't you go to sleep now?" she said, trying to keep her voice casual. She reached out,
risking touching him for the first time by feathering her fingers swiftly over his hair. "I can stay, and if you wake up scared, I can be
here."

Patrick thought about her offer, but shook his head. "I don't want to. I'll stay awake."

"Because of the nightmares?" Ivy prompted, and he nodded. "Would you like to tell
me what happens? Sometimes that helps more than just trying to ignore them."

"No," Patrick said reluctantly. "I'm not supposed to talk about it."

Ivy's gaze sharpened. "Who told you that? Janette?"

"No."

"Who then?"

Patrick gradually gave up the culprit. "Dad...Dad told me I shouldn't remember."

Ivy mulled over the wording in her thoughts.
Had Robert tried to make him forget the nightmares using hypnotism? "When did he tell
you that?"

"Halloween," Patrick whispered.

"You remember Halloween?" They had never spoken of it. They were never meant to
speak of it - that had always been Janette's survivalist point of view. Ivy felt ashamed at
her own callous self-absorption as she thought of the months that had passed without
remotely questioning the boy's burden. She'd only spared tears and worry for her own
load. was all that Janette had ever offered, and she had
accepted that statement as all-encompassing. But what had taken place before Robert had
swept Patrick home? "You remember what happened?"

Patrick shook his head. "I'm not supposed to. It's for my own good."

These words frustrated Ivy. "If you can forget. If you can't, then pretending doesn't do
any good."

"It won't disappoint Dad," the boy said stubbornly.

"Patrick, listen to me." She didn't reach out to him again. Instead, she twisted the edge
of the bed linens into a tight roll as she spoke in earnest tones. "It's not your job to protect
your father from disappointment. You're the child. It's his job to protect you. If you can't
let go of things, and that's what's making it hard to sleep, you have to speak up. You
won't be doing anything wrong. Tell me what you remember."

It was enough. "The man. I remember the man." Patrick hunkered down lower in the
covers, wanting to hide at the thought. Ivy understood his reaction, and this time she
didn't fight showing her sympathy. She held out her hand, and Patrick squeezed it tightly
as he spoke. "He would smile at me. It hurt when he smiled. He came to Aunt Peggy's,
and she just let him take me. Why did she let him take me?"

"She didn't have a choice," Ivy answered softly. her thoughts
derided.

"Did you know that some people can fly? Bad people fly, like wicked witches without
brooms," Patrick told her quietly. "The man could fly. I couldn't. I thought he was going
to drop me, and I was afraid of falling. He flew until we reached the dark place. He took
my shirt. He cut my hand. He smiled when it hurt. He smiled while I was bleeding."

Ivy remembered. She remembered because Patrick's blood had spilled onto that shirt.
Thomas had orchestrated it for her to find. She remembered tasting the stains and seeing
Patrick's fear. She remembered running to him. She remembered the sound of his
screaming from far away, and Thomas' claim that he was dead.
That, she didn't know, and she wanted to know. "What happened next?"

"The table," Patrick mumbled.

Ivy remembered running downstairs, remembered a vacant
room with a star-like table. A guillotine-like contraption lay dismantled nearby, and barbed
wire had littered the floor.

"He tied me to the table. He used wire that cut when I moved. It was around my neck
and wrists, my ankles and stomach. I was afraid to move. There were big knives over me.
The man said they would carve me into pieces and my blood would paint the floor if
anyone came to rescue me. He left me alone. It was cold and dark, and it smelled bad. I
was scared. I wanted somebody to come, but I didn't want to die." It was too much for
the child, and he started to cry, hot tears blotting the sheets.

Ivy wanted to comfort him, but she didn't know how. She'd pushed him into speaking
of this - how could she truly be compassionate? She hugged him awkwardly and patted his
back, but she didn't see how that could do much good in comparison with the past harms
that she had to her credit. Thomas would have never touched Patrick if it weren't for her.
Vachon might have scoffed when she expressed this guilt, but she was holding a sobbing
testimony of her culpability. She was to blame that he'd been afraid and in danger, and she
hadn't rescued him. "Someone rescued you, though..." she murmured.

"The lady," Patrick sniffled.

Ivy felt her throat tighten, dread sweeping up from her gut. "What was she
like?"

"She had red hair and smelled of flowers. When the knives fell, she jumped in the way.
It hurt us both, though. She pushed the wire into my stomach with her weight, and I
screamed. That's when I closed my eyes. That's when I wake up...before she gets to take
the wire away. Before she carries me outside. Before Dad and Janette get there. Before
Dad tells me to forget. Nobody ever rescues me."

Ivy closed her eyes and wished that she could forget. Then Ivy turned her rage away from
herself, transferring it back to Janette again.

"Did you say anything about the lady to Janette or your Dad?" she asked.

"I'm not supposed to remember," Patrick repeated.

He said her name in a tentative question. "Ivy?"

"What, kiddo?"

"Can they come back? The man, the lady?"

Ivy shook her head, not really as her answer,
but because her sense of the truth was muddled. Patrick wanted her to tell him that he was
safe, that no one would ever hurt him, that the vampires wouldn't slip into his home and
steal him away again. "You never have to fly again if you don't
want to," she said. It was a promise, one Ivy planned to make come true.

The words were panacea enough that the boy relaxed his body a little more, curling his
legs to the side.

"Patrick, can you promise me something?"

"What?"

"I know you think your father doesn't want you to remember, but if he asks you what
you know, will you promise me that you'll be honest with him? If he asks, it means he
wants to know the truth, okay?"

Patrick rested his head on his pillow for several seconds, then shifted it farther under
his ear. "Okay."

"Okay," Ivy repeated in satisfaction.

She let the silence slumber. Soon enough, the boy joined in with deep, restful breaths.
Ivy continued to hold his hand as the hours yawned on, reflecting how fragile it was. How
did something so small and breakable exist in such a brutal world? How did peace and
children survive?

************************************************************************
End of Part Twenty-Nine

Survivors (30/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Nick suggested that Schanke call home when they reached the prison, so that he could
let Myra know he wouldn't be there in time for the bacon and eggs. While Don was busy
reasoning with his spouse over the phone, convincing her that his absence was really the
act of a sensitive husband sparing his wife the toil of scrambling away precious moments
of a day off, Nick handled the problem of their access to the prisoner. The warden was still
prickly because the visitation request hadn't come from someone in higher authority, and
Nick suspected that asking Stonetree to do this job for him would work as another black
mark in the Captain's mind: 'You should have brought this up back at the hospital,
Detective.' Therefore, he resorted to his original plan - the one he intended before he gave
into the temptation of seeing Natalie and the attack on Reese broke up the night - tactful
persuasion of an otherworldly sort.

"Bring Anson Pesche to us...here...your office..."

Thankfully, the warden complied. Nick was relieved. He still felt somewhat battle-
weary at the recent complications he'd had where persuasion had failed, ranging from the
supernatural difficulties with Louis Secour to the more straightforward communicative
challenges in his relationship with Nat. He'd reached a point where he no longer took
success for granted.

Nick stepped outside and caught a bewildered Schanke following behind two guards
escorting the handcuffed prisoner. "Man, Nick! What did you say to the warden? I think
they made Pesche brush his teeth and comb his hair for us!" He tapped Nick's arm, his
features growing business-like. "But seriously, isn't it a little unusual that we're talking to
a maximum security felon here rather than one of the rooms they've got set up for it?"

Nick had considered that, but finding a long, sunlit hallway between the administrative
offices and the cells had changed his mind. The warden's office contained a large window
that looked out on the exercise yard, but with blinds and closed curtains, it seemed less
threatening. "I thought this might make him a little more nervous. A little more ready to
talk," Nick excused.

Schanke was less than impressed with his purported reasoning. "Yeah, right. The guy's
in for a life sentence. With so many in-house screw-ups, he's not going to be up for parole
until he's fifty. A little visit with the warden is going to be just terrifying."

"You're right, Schank. We might as well send the guards and warden out for some
danish."

"Yeah." That comment had Don laughing. "Huh?" His humor withered when he
realized that Nick was saying something to the other men that had them chaining the
prisoner to his chair and falling over each other to exit the office. "You weren't joking?"
Sometimes, Schanke wished that they could actually get the signal system for things like
this straight, but only for a few seconds before he had the presence of mind to call after
the retreating uniforms, "Hey! Make mine cherry!" Then Don settled in the warden's seat,
since he wasn't around to use it. Nick was already stalking a path in the office carpet, not
saying anything yet, but steadfastly watching if Pesche so much as wiggled. Schanke
figured he had a plan, so he sat back and listened, intermittently wondering if the guys
would be bringing back coffee, too.

True to Schanke's prediction, Anson Pesche didn't look like a man who spooked
easily. He looked hard - a hardened criminal, with the hard muscles from too much time
on his rough hands and plenty of weights to lift. He had a hard mouth, one that expressed
pleasure only so much that his frown tipped into a straight, hard line. He had hard eyes
that spoke of a life filled with giving and receiving violence. He didn't look remotely
intimidated to be sitting in the warden's office; he looked hard-hearted and hard-assed.

"Do you know why Metro Police would want to talk to you, Pesche?" Nick asked
abruptly.

His voice matched the rest of him - a hard scratchy bass that bit off each word with a
grudge. "Last time they took an interest, I'd killed somebody." He shrugged
unapologetically.

"Yes, and you got caught," Nick followed. "Only the weapon didn't get caught, did it,
Pesche?"

Another shrug. "Why would I make it easy for you?"

"You made it easy enough by shooting someone down in a public thoroughfare," Nick
countered. "We didn't have to know where the gun was...then." He hovered around the
final word, making it perfectly clear that that time had passed.

Pesche's hard chin tilted upward. "How come you need to know now? Who died this
time?"

"What do you care?" Nick parried.

This time, Pesche tilted his head slightly to the right while lifting one shoulder. It was a
combination of a shrug and a nod. "You're right. I don't." He paused, popping the joints
of his hands digit by digit since they were chained to either armrest. Another twenty years,
those joints would be stiff and hard with arthritis. "Somebody died, though, or *you*
wouldn't care." He gave both men a calculating look. "What are you going to promise me
in exchange for the location? A chance for parole in seven?"

"You know there's no way in hell that's going to happen," Nick said dismissively.
"Four assault and batteries on the inside do not make you reformed candidate material."

"So what'll you give me instead of that?"

"Nothing."

Pesche gave a hard sneer. "I'm supposed to spill old news out of the goodness of my
heart?" His expression answered flatly, 'Not gonna happen.' "Besides, I talk, and what's
to say I don't get some old pal of mine in hot water?"

Nick crouched over the prisoner, staring him fiercely in the eye. "I repeat...what do
*you* care?"

Pesche's lips hovered horizontally for several moments before angling upward slightly
at the corner. "Tell you what - you'll get the name of who I left the gun with..." He
glanced over the warden's desk with hard laughter in his eyes."...if I get the cherry danish.
I do miss cherry danish."

"Hey!" Schanke protested when Nick appeared to be considering the trade. "That's my
breakfast!" He was fully prepared to play Bad Cop if the fate of his stomach was involved.

Nick leaned over the desk, murmuring, "Come on, Schank. Give one for the Captain."

"Har-dee-har-har."

When the warden and guards returned, Schanke's cherry danish was nobly sacrificed in
exchange for Pesche naming his kid brother. "I gave it to Billy to play with. Didn't think
he'd actually hold onto it long enough to put it to good use. He's not that bright," Pesche
said, licking icing off of the hand that had been freed for his reward, while the five men
looked on, "and Canada has gun laws, eh?"

"Thanks, Schanke, " Nick offered jokingly as the guards escorted a cherry-stained
prisoner back to his cell. "I owe you a pastry."

"Which you can repay me at Timmy Horton's right now," Schanke replied smartly.

Nick's phone rang with news that his Caddy had been picked up. Holding his hand
over the receiver he told Don, "Sorry, I've got to wait for officers to drop off my car.
Why don't you go ahead and get some shuteye? I'll see what I can track down about a
current address for the brother."

Schanke agreed, since sleep sounded almost as appetizing as a meal, leaving Nick to
anticipate the trip between the prison and his trunk in the middle of the morning. Privately,
Nick hoped for rain.

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

A few rules exist for those who would dedicate their lives to destroying vampires: be
certain of your target's nature, aim quickly, and, unless a mortal's life is at stake, always
catch them alone. Less of a mess is left behind afterward, that way, with no awkward
explanations to the authorities. The point is to kill one of the devil's creatures, not to sign
up for a lifetime stay in the penitentiary because some non-believer misinterpreted your
actions as cold-blooded murder. After all, you are not the murderer.

You never talk to vampires alone, of course, not unless you have your finger on the
crossbow trigger. Always make sure there is a healthy crowd, and envision your path of
escape well in advance. Creeping into lairs without already knowing the layout is just
asking for a tragedy to happen. You end up risking your own neck or having to kill people
you felt a fondness for because they fell victim to your mistake. We present Bridget
Hellman as a case in point. A fine young officer until careless preparation made her The
Barber's last victim.

Vampires are a superstitious lot - take advantage of it whenever possible. Keep faith in
any legends you have at your disposal. Garlic, religious icons, holy water and fire might be
your only saving graces when things go wrong.

Forget your own fear of death. Vampire hunting is a dangerous business. Accept the
penalty of failure, because cowardice will spell the end of you ten times faster than
bravado.

Probably the most important rule is - and the most difficult to remember, mind you -
never confuse a vampire with something human. They are forsaken. They are lost. When
you begin to question the degree of their evil, when you attribute them with selfless acts,
when you see in them traits of kindness and justice - that is when you lose sight of your
chosen path. You become one of the lost, one of those dizzied by the tenets of right and
wrong, unable to define the lines between the two.

When you start showing mercy to vampires, it's time to hang up the hunting and go
home. Bury your regrets and your battle scars in a good five inches of whiskey on those
cold nights when you think you should be out with the nocturnal creatures, tracking down
death.

Ask Liam O'Neal. He knows these rules, all of them. He recites them in his head, over
and again, backwards and forwards. He's spent a lifetime obeying them, but nowadays the
last rule is a troubling curse. He fights with it as though it was a member of his undead
prey meant to be targeted and staked.

He saw kindness in a vampire once. Nicholas Knight saved his life, and Liam risked a
moment to believe in altruistic monsters. That moment worked like an acid, corroding his
entire way of life. Returning to Ireland, the insidious thoughts began to creep into his
conscience. If one vampire could be good and fair, couldn't there be more? If one creature
of the night sought redemption for his sins, couldn't others share this same goal? Then the
vines grew and strangled, boring into the foundation that had shaped his entire existence
since the boyhood attack that had murdered his mother and almost taken his own life - if a
vampire can be virtuous, how many of the righteous have you destroyed, Liam O'Neal?
How many have you shot down, cutting short their ascension back into grace?

The answers came cruelly. The answers flowed bitterly. At first, Liam tried those
recommended five inches of whiskey to soothe his ills, but they couldn't bring complete
satisfaction back to his life. That was when Liam began to fight the questions and began to
smother the sliver of doubt, browbeating his conscience into submission. He resolved to
return to Toronto and prove that that moment of faith in a vampire's redemption had only
been a moment of weakness. Thus far, he'd found a generous share of fuel to fire his
vengeance.

The lovely Doctor Lambert was now a vampire, and Nicholas Knight had admitted that
he had killed her, dragging another innocent mortal down into his abyss. Wasn't that sin
enough to prove his quest for mortality was nothing but empty words?

Liam's conscience
niggled. O'Neal hardened himself to these whispers.

Doctor Lambert was a killer now. He'd witnessed her hunting a mortal with his own
eyes.

O'Neal searched for proof of the inexcusable - what a court of law would call
unconscionable acts. He only found suspicions - a chain of missing corpses from the
Coroner's Office, blamed on a suicide victim whose body had yet to be found. An editor
from a local tabloid mentioned a man named Secour who had come to his office with
stories of vampires on the Metro police force a week before he and his common law wife
died in a house fire. Nothing concrete, but both series of events were connected to Doctor
Lambert and Detective Knight, respectively. It was enough salve to stifle the festering
argument in his conscience.

***********************************************************************
End of Part Thirty

Survivors (31/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

It was past sunrise when Robert opened the door to Patrick's room. He found his son
fast asleep, and Ivy seated on the floor near a box of the boy's toys. She'd unearthed a
drum, one of those colonial types, and was lightly tapping it with a fingernail.

"Ivy!" he said in surprise. "When did you get here?"

She beamed a smile, resolutely keeping it tacked in place, even when Janette appeared
to glower over Robert's shoulder. "Late last night. You two sounded busy, so I didn't
interrupt."

"So you came up here to play with Patrick's toys?" Janette sniffed. "Really, between
that and disappearing without a word, you're more of a child than he is."

Ivy appeared to consider her opinion with interest. "You think so?" She pulled another
toy out of the box, this time an Etch-A-Sketch, and began to tweak the knobs. "I don't
think you can be too old to play. At least, I hope not." Then, she attempted to make an
innocent inquiry. "Are you two going to Montreal next weekend?"

"No. We aren't," Janette replied stiffly.

"Oh. Well, I'm not missing anymore, and it looks like Patrick is sleeping his heart out.
I guess you have some other good reason for absolving fun."

"Why, Lierre!" Janette's voice came with hollow delight. "We must enjoy you before
you get lost again, non?"

Ivy paused in her etching and gave her a sheepish look. "Oh. Yeah. Why didn't I think
of that?"

Janette stepped around Robert and moved across the room to stand proprietarily over
Patrick's bed. "You should go elsewhere," she whispered in a hiss, "before you wake him
up with your playing."

"Actually, I promised him that I would be here when he woke up," Ivy drawled softly
before glancing at Robert solemnly. "I wouldn't want to disillusion him any more than
necessary." She could feel Janette's eyes boring into her, and Ivy fought to keep her
expression clear.

Janette resisted the temptation of making a scene over Patrick's bed. She still
commanded in a firm tone laced with warning, "But you will make time for a girl chat
later, non? We have so much to discuss."

"Of course," Ivy replied, trying to sound like she meant it. "Patrick can't sleep
forever."

Robert watched them both, glancing over his shoulder as Janette departed the room,
then studying Ivy with consideration as he himself wandered closer to his son's bed and
adjusted the covers. "I know that something is going on between you two," he said in a
low voice, "and neither of you seem inclined to fill me in on the reason. I know that
something is bothering you. It was one thing when you were moody and unpredictable
because Thomas was stalking you. Walking out of the house and disappearing for a week
without offering any excuse or apology is something else. I'm getting tired of secrets that
I'm not important enough to know, Ivy, so speak up. Speak up and tell me, before I get
fed up with you."

His words carried a spark of significance to her. "Would you? Would you get fed up?
Would you kick me out with the sunset?"

Robert frowned, unable to discern whether she was simply asking the question or
asking him to do it. "Your behavior is disruptive to me, Janette, and most importantly
Patrick. If you don't trust me enough to help with the problem, why should I continue
supporting you? I have limits."

Ivy smiled wonderingly at Robert, as though he was some kind of mythical creature.
"You have limits. You'd kick me out. That's good. It's probably the smart move."

His mouth toughened unsympathetically. "So you don't care to offer an explanation for
what's been going on?"

Ivy shook her head. "No." It was a straightforward, vocal refusal, but before Robert
could react to her negative response, Ivy lifted the Etch-A-Sketch she'd been toying with,
revealing a message scrawled in metal filaments.

NOT HERE
FIG'S STUDIO
MIDNIGHT
COME ALONE

As Robert read, Ivy said conversationally, "Can you hear Patrick breathing? Can you
hear his heart? Such small, delicate sounds, yet to us, they are foghorns and sirens." Her
eyes shot him another message.

Robert gave a faint nod, to telegraph that he understood, before saying aloud, "If that's
all you're going to say, I'll have to ask you to leave when the sun sets. You realize that
you won't be welcome back?"

Ivy twitched the eraser knob of the Etch-A-Sketch, clearing away all traces of her
message. "I suspected."

"Then I'll tell Janette my decision. Be sure to offer her a goodbye when you go."

"What about Patrick? What do I tell him?"

"Good morning when he wakes up," Robert said.

No goodbyes for Patrick, and Robert still trusted her enough to look after his sleeping
son. Ivy felt consoled that Robert would come through, that he would honor their meeting
at the House of Figaro. Kicking her out wasn't simply a condemnation, but a camouflage
against Janette's suspicions. It spoke volumes for Robert's receptiveness, though Ivy
assumed no guarantee of success.

He left her alone with Patrick, closing the bedroom door behind him. Ivy began to put
the toys she'd unearthed back into their box, pausing again to consider the boy's drum set.
She'd taken and ruined his drumsticks last Halloween. She really should replace them
while she still could.

With that thought swimming in her head, Ivy curled up on the floor and dozed. It was
nearly noon, the sound of rain tapping the windows, before Patrick called her to attention,
chanting her name with fervent, youthful imperative. "Eye-vee! Wake up, Eye-vee!"

She was still tired and somewhat hungry, but consented to tag along and watch the
production of Patrick's breakfast - a dubious meal of hot dogs resulting from the late
morning hour. Ivy groggily reflected, sitting at the kitchen table with Janette, Robert and
the boy, that it was a 'last meal' of sorts, her last one with this facsimile family, complete
with blood in the coffee cups.

As Ivy cleared away Patrick's plate, Janette appeared intent on pulling her aside and
having some words. The kid intervened, challenging Ivy to video game races. Janette let
them go. The Playstation was an item she'd yet to successfully abolish. She had little love
for such modern amusements and would have preferred that Patrick abandon sitting in
front of a television for hours on end in favor of a more productive hobby, such as
studying a musical instrument or accumulating items of historical interest. So far, the only
things Patrick appeared inclined to collect were comic books, and Janette failed to see
why those counted as historical or interesting.

It was several hours of gratuitous simulated crashing later before Ivy left the kid to his
own devices. She raided the linen closet as promised, filling one of Patrick's sports duffels
with towels, and left the bag by the front door. The sky was beginning to shadow, and Ivy
had several errands to run before addressing her main business of the night at the studio.
Leaving her audience with Janette to the last minute so she could walk out free and clear
seemed the best approach, so Ivy was thankful that Patrick had spared her from the
earlier, potentially awkward, alternatives.

Janette certainly met her expectations. Ivy found her dressing for dinner - not exactly a
practical habit, but one Janette enjoyed. Ivy mentally shrugged.
"I'm getting ready to go," she announced.

Janette had the style to glance at the clock and note the hour before saying, "It's about
time."

Ivy moved closer, hoping to get a clearer idea of the other vampire's thoughts from her
unspoken expressions. "I assume you've talked to Robert."

"Mais, oui. He mentioned that he asked you to not come back." Janette waved a
careless hand. "It was bound to happen, Lierre," she said smoothly. "I warned you to pull
yourself together before your behavior alarmed Robert, but you did not." Her gallic shrug
conveyed that Ivy was only getting what she deserved.

"You could have talked him out of it," Ivy pointed out, annoyed that Janette treated
this turn of events as beyond her influence.

Janette smiled coolly. "I could have, but I chose not to. I believe Robert's decision has
merit. As much as I hoped that you would fit in with the family, helas, it was not meant to
be. You are not a good influence on Patrick."

Ivy couldn't hide the incredulity that sprang to her features. "You learned on the night
that we met that I was a user, a heroin addict whose suitcase of scars was simply no
longer visible on the skin surface. Tell me, Janette - what ever made you think I was going
to be a *good* influence?" Ivy hated it, but she wished that Janette would at least pretend
that there had been a moment where she saw her as a child, someone to be loved despite
her faults. She resented being disposable.

"I didn't," Janette answered, her voice harsh in its emptiness. "I pitied you. Pauvre
Lierre, all alone in the world. You were an orphan, and I have always carried a weakness
for stray waifs." She reached out, trailing a fingernail down Ivy's cold cheek. "You did not
remain an orphan, though, and so you lost your charm." Janette patted Ivy's jaw lightly
and stepped away. "Vraiment, I am pleased that you have been so reasonable over this
situation thus far. I heard your discretion with Robert over past matters. He may be angry
that you offer no explanations, but it is for the best. The past belongs there. I feel a soucon
of respect that you finally agree with me, Lierre."

Ivy pulled a faint smile out of her gut and portrayed a facade of appreciation. "Oh, yes.
It's for the best. Domesticity has never been my strong suit. It was cramping my style."
Ivy extended her hand and waited to see if Janette would take it. "No harm, no foul."

Janette released a short laugh then. Ivy thought, begging to differ as the other woman lightly squeezed her
fingers in farewell.

She hadn't meant the words as absolution, not in any sense. It had been a
warning, one that Janette, in her removed estimation of fault and fair fate, did not
recognize.

Janette dropped her fingers and turned away, and she was dismissed. Ivy would have
said 'goodbye,' but she knew instinctively that there would be another meeting, sometime
in the future. Instead, she walked out quietly, hugging the bag of towels to her chest as the
first balm to old wounds.

************************************************************************
End of Part Thirty-One

Survivors (32/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

During the day, Nick had made a few calls from the trunk of the Caddy to find the last
known address of William Pesche. It hadn't exactly been a pleasant way to while away the
time. With a mid-morning downpour, Nick had free reign to run to his car without raising
suspicion from the guards fronting the prison. The cloud cover allowed him to drive the
Caddy long enough to find a spot convenient for day parking without getting overly
singed in the process. Once in the trunk, there was nothing for him to do except make
calls and sleep. He did some of both, waking up hungry with only a phone pulse to satisfy
him.

Sergeant Pulte had offered some assistance, checking to see if William Pesche had a
record. At first, Pulte had been stymied, until he suggested that the younger brother might,
in fact, be a much younger brother, on the order of a juvenile. Nick then searched Ontario
graduated license records, finding that a learner's permit had been issued to a sixteen year
old William Pesche a scant two months before.

Late afternoon, he talked with Schanke, sharing Pesche's last known address as he
willed dusk to arrive faster.

"Gave the gun to a fourteen year-old?" Schanke griped over the line. "That, my friend,
is why the guy's in for life. I called the hospital for an update on Reese, and there's been
no change. Still unconscious, still hanging in there."

Nick popped the trunk and judged the sky adequately dark to start the drive back to
the city. "Call me if there's any word, otherwise, can you meet me at the loft in an hour
and a half?" It would be a late start to the night's work, but Nick would still have to speed
to reach home and drink a meal before Schanke arrived.

"Oh, so I get the honors of dropping in on Stonetree at the precinct and giving him a
briefing alone? Gee, thanks."

"We have more to go on than last night," Nick replied. "Stonetree shouldn't have a
problem with that."

"He might have a problem with the 'invisible Knight' factor. If he asks, what do I say?
You're busy organizing your vest collection? Hey - what are you doing anyhow?"

Since Nick didn't want to admit he'd spent the entire day in his trunk and was just now
driving home, he said, "I'm organizing my vest collection, Schank. Lucky guess. If
Stonetree asks, just tell him I had car trouble, okay?"

"Okay, okay," Schanke sighed. "The things I do for my partner. I deserve a plaque."

"You got one, remember?"

"Yeah, well, I deserve another, this one with my name spelled right. A little recognition
never hurt anyone."

After talking to Schanke, Nick put in a brief call to Natalie to hear how she had used
her day. "I spent it in the morgue," Natalie informed him, "classifying the hair and fiber
samples that your eager junior officers tagged against those of the wedding guests. We're
talking almost two hundred people, plus two dozen police personnel. I swear, Curran and
Pulte even bagged the reception canapes."

"Find anything?"

"I don't think the shrimp were fresh. Denese should get her money back."

"That's all?"

"Nick, there's a lot here, and we've only had one day. I hate to say it, but so far
nothing has panned out."

"Maybe I should have taken more time inside the church last night," Nick admitted.

"Maybe both of us should have," Natalie agreed, "but you have to admit it was a little
dicey inside the sanctuary for a long period of time. Did you see the crosses carved into
the pews?"

"Accidentally leaned against one before you got there."

"Ouch."

"Tell me about it."

"I'm planning to work on this through the night," Natalie promised. "Maybe we'll get
lucky yet."

"Yeah, Schanke and I got a name from Pesche on the gun - his kid brother. That could
bring something."

"I'm assuming he's a big kid with a ton of adrenaline if he managed to benchpress that
concrete block that killed Captain Forrest," Natalie commented.

"I don't feel he's our final answer, either, Nat." Nick shook his head, his frustration
evident in his voice. "I don't know. Schanke and I were starting to wonder if the killer
might be..."

"Might be who, Nick?"

Nick shook his head again. "Nevermind, Nat. Maybe all we're dealing with is an angry kid
with a grudge against authority."

"Maybe you're right. I don't suppose all of them could remain content joining rock
bands."

Nick chuckled, then caught himself saying, his voice dropping low, "You sound good,
Natalie."

Silence hung on the line for a moment, loud with her indecision. Finally she admitted,
"You sound good, too, Nick."

His hopes rose. "Nat -"

"Can we just leave it there? Just accept this for now?"

Nick realized that he was pushing his luck. "Okay. Talk to you later."

"Later," Natalie said, ringing off.

Nick reached the loft with half an hour to spare and filled the time with changing
clothes and drinking. He was rinsing out his glass when Schanke buzzed.

"I'm coming down," Nick promised over the intercom.

As they settled into the Caddy, Nick asked how Schanke's visit to the precinct had
gone.

"Smooth as my bowling arm."

Nick gave him a teasing frown. "Is that good?"

"*Yes,*" Schanke replied indignantly. "Stonetree didn't even ask what you were
doing. And guess who I saw at the precinct again - O'Neal!"

Nick glanced away from the road to look inquisitively at his partner. "Really? Did he
want something?"

Schanke waved his eyes back toward traffic. "He was hanging out in Records. He had
a bunch of files pulled - I recognized a couple. There were those bodies that disappeared
from the morgue last year and the suicide of that assistant from the Coroner's Office who
turned out to be a necrophiliac who stole them. Oh, and he had a file on the deaths of
Louis Secour and Amy Martin. Nobody told me they died in a house fire! I guess someone
initially suspected it was arson or foul play, but - geez - Clare signed off on it
before...well, you know. Like I said to O'Neal - what the hell was Clare doing with an
arson case? And this was in the middle of the Number murders. She never said a word to
us, and we were partners!" Schanke stared at Nick suspiciously. "She never said a word to
you, did she?"

"Why would she tell me?" Nick said evasively. "Clare always liked you best."

Schanke grinned proudly. "You're right. She liked me best. What was I thinking? Of
course she didn't tell you." He shrugged. "Still, it's weird."

"And you told O'Neal it was weird," Nick said fatalistically.

"Hey, I was surprised, that's all." Schanke frowned. "I wonder what O'Neal was
looking for? I mean, I can see with the body snatching...that's pretty out there. It's one of
those stories you can tell your police buddies over a pint at home. But a house fire?"

Nick shifted uneasily in his seat, wondering what clues might lay in Amy Martin or
Secour's file that could suggest to O'Neal that those deaths weren't simple accidents, but
vampire related. "Maybe he was more interested in the Log & Oaks Brewery angle.
Smuggling LSD in the beer - that's one for the pub, isn't it?"

"Then how come he wasn't chomping at the bit to ask me questions?" Schanke
countered. "O'Neal didn't look particularly ready to jig that I caught up with him. Strange
people, those Irish."

They reached the address. The location was a five-story brownstone along a street of
sibling buildings that had seen better days. The structure seemed to droop, like an old man
hunched from age and the cold. They toured the first floor to learn the layout of the
apartment numbers, then went back outside and walked around the base, surveying
potential exits.

Schanke eyed the side of the building dubiously. "Do you think one of us should hang
out by the fire escape in case he tries to bolt?"

"I'll do it," Nick volunteered. The ladder looked less than trustworthy, and he hated
the thought of Schanke risking a climb in pursuit when he himself had nothing to fear. He
made a note to report the building for a safety violation and said, "Signal from that back
window if it's all clear and you want me to come up."

There was no elevator - Schanke wouldn't have trusted it if there had been - and,
naturally, Pesche lived on the top floor. Don began to wonder if he hadn't gotten the
worst end of the deal by the time he climbed to the third floor landing. He imagined
Knight leaning nonchalantly against the fire escape, daydreaming about his vest collection.
Groaning up the last two flights, Schanke swore that he'd start using Myra's stairclimber -
tomorrow.

Don spent a minute catching his breath before knocking on the door. "No chasing...no
chasing," he prayed between puffs. Finally, he straightened his suit and knocked on the
door.

A tired-looking woman answered after a moderate wait. He gave her his 'I'm One Of
The Good Guys' smile, flashed his badge, and said, "I'm Detective Schanke from Metro
Police. I'd like to speak with William Pesche."

The woman clutched warily at the door. "What do you want with Wills? He's a good
boy."

Schanke glanced over her shoulder and into the apartment for signs of movement. "I
just need to ask him a few questions related to his older brother. Is William here, ma'am?"

His answer seemed to relieve her, and she stepped back, gesturing for Schanke to
come inside. "That Anson," she sighed, shaking her head. "I had him too young, you
know? Didn't know what I was doing, and I was more interested in being a Ted Nugent
groupie than a mom. I guess it rubbed off." She shuffled toward a scuffed closed door,
and Schanke followed. "Wills hasn't seen Anson since your people arrested him two years
ago, you know. Don't know what you think he can tell you," she sniffed.

"My questions mainly have to do with the last time he saw his brother two years ago,"
Schanke assured her. He pointed toward the closed door. "Is he in there?"

William's mother nodded. "He's playing video games."

She knocked and opened the door, revealing a room plastered in Ted Nugent posters.
One item stood out - the head of a deer mounted over an unmade twin bed. Schanke thought wryly. He studied the youth seated
before a small television. William Pesche had dark hair. He looked a little short for his age
and painfully thin. The teenager was focused zombie-like on his video game - a fight
simulation featuring professional wrestlers. Schanke wondered how a kid whose life
appeared to dangle around the poverty line afforded such a toy without doing anything
illegal.

"Wills," his mother announced, "a detective from Metro Police wants to talk to you."

"Yeah, Mum," the youth answered, not taking his eyes off the game. "I've almost got
him...Yeah!"

As synthetic cheering crowds roared through the television speaker, Schanke mused
that there'd be less of a problem with the kid trying to bolt than there'd be to hold his
attention for a full five minutes. While William Pesche paused the game, he commented to
his mother, "Man, I wish I'd tried that move on Jerry last night. I could've kicked his ass!"

"Mind your language, Wills," his mother clucked.

Schanke took the opportunity while the mother and son spoke to send Nick a signal
through the bedroom window to come up. He listened to every word, though and asked
innocently, "So you were here playing video games last night?"

The youth nodded with pride. "My friends, Jerry and Mike, stayed over. We had a
tournament, and I washed Mike easy, but Jerry..." William shook his head. "...Jerry kept
using the 'Tornado Death Lock' on my guy. Now that I know the countermove, next time
he's going out with the trash!"

While Schanke noted this alibi, William's mother asked suspiciously, "I thought you
wanted to ask him about Anson. What do you care what he was doing last night?"

"Just making conversation, ma'am," Schanke replied. "My police partner is on his way
up, so if there's another knock at your door, it's him." Seeing the teenager's gaze was
drifting longingly back toward his freeze-framed videogame, Schanke decided to hurry
along and not wait for Nick to ask the big questions. "William, when was the last time you
saw your brother Anson?"

William frowned. "You need the actual date or what? I don't remember stuff like that."
He waved a hand in the air. "It was the night before he was arrested. He came here and
took all of Mum's cash."

"I didn't give it to him, mind you," his mother interjected. "He stole it from my purse
while I was watching 'Due South.'"

The youth rubbed his concave stomach. "Mum, we got anything to eat?"

"How about some cherry danish?" She glanced over at their guest and asked, "Would
you like some danish, Detective Schanke? I make it myself."

Don thought it was poetic justice. No doubt this was the very danish that Anson
Pesche missed, and it delighted Don that he could indulge in a piece while the other man
went without. "Sure. I appreciate it."

As his mother left the room, William commented, "It really is good danish," as if that
was the point of the police visit.

Schanke decided it was time to get back to the point. "William, when your brother
dropped by, did he give you anything?"

The youth hesitated, looking suspiciously over the detective's shoulder to make sure
his mother was busy elsewhere. "Not exactly."

"What does 'not exactly' mean?" Schanke pushed.

There was a knock at the door. Schanke and William could hear the door open and
William's mother greet Nick. William started to talk quickly, in a quiet voice. "Okay, I
don't want Mum to know, 'cause she'll probably freak, but he hid a gun in the deer. Told
me to say it was mine if anybody found it and asked."

Schanke gestured toward the animal mounted on the wall. "That deer?"

The youth nodded. "Yeah."

"Is it still there?"

Nick walked into the room, carrying two plates, as the boy shook his head. "No, it's
gone."

Nick awkwardly handed a plate of danish to Schanke and William. "I'm supposed to
ask if you want something to drink."

"Yes!" William said emphatically, then whispered conspiratorially to Schanke,
"Otherwise, she'll come in here."

"Then we'll have coffee and..." Schanke looked for the boy's reaction, "...a Coke?"

Seeing William nod, Nick said, "I'll tell your mother, then." He paused, clapping
Schanke on the shoulder and murmuring, "Thanks for inviting me up for the party."

Schanke sputtered indignantly. "Come on! It's *cherry* danish! Homemade! I'm only
human!"

Nick clapped his shoulder again. "Yes, you are - just find out where the gun is now,
okay, or *I'll* make your coffee."

Since Schanke had tasted Nick's coffee, he promptly demanded of William, "Where's
the gun now?"

"You have it," the youth said plainly.

It wasn't the answer Schanke had been expecting. "Huh?"

"The police," William said, elaborating between mouthfuls of pastry. "Metro did a no-
questions-asked buy-up back in August."

"You don't say..." Schanke hummed, partially out of interest at the teenager's words,
partially out of delight at the danish's tart cherry filling.

"Yeah," William replied. "They paid two hundred per gun. You just showed up,
handed it over to a uniform, and they gave you the green. No names, nothing." The youth
pointed toward his video game. "That's why I sold it. I figured 'What's Anson going to
care?' He's not getting out of jail, and he said I should act like it was mine. The only time
I touched it was to get the cash for my game."

The last bite of the danish wasn't quite as flavorful. "No names, nothing?" Schanke
repeated. He groaned inwardly, because he knew this meant more paperwork, matching
the ballistics reports to one of, no doubt, hundreds of weapons collected during the buy-up
to confirm the teenager's story. Still, how many .38s could there be?

A large number. Nick and Schanke returned to the precinct to find that the month of
August had been filled with weapon buy-ups every weekend, and since William Pesche
couldn't remember the date, or even the time of month he'd sold his brother's gun, they
spent the rest of the night searching through records.

***********************************************************************
End of Part Thirty-Two

Survivors (33/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

LaCroix sat in the back room of the Raven, by the fireplace. The black pearl bracelet
banded his fist, glowing tauntingly in the flickering light. An eighteenth century sword
with a tanto blade and mother-of-pearl inlay on the handle rested upon a small table before
him. These were the only tangible reminders of Clare's existence that remained.

The Rossetti painting - it had hung from one of the back room walls in October. The
artwork had lasted through the first week of November. The subject of Proserpine had
seemed to mock him. Giving in to a feral rage, LaCroix had ripped it down and torn it to
shreds. All of Clare's other possessions had suffered a similar fate during the months since,
as if he could punish her for her absence by decimating her possessions.

It had been an exercise in futility. He had
been schooled that folly lay in succumbing to the lure of love since he had been a child.
He knew that it could sap a man's focus, bringing about his destruction and
ultimate humiliation.

Impatient with his musings, LaCroix threw the bracelet onto the table and pushed out
of his chair. Something to drink was in order, preferably the blood of someone sweet and
innocent to cleanse his bitter palate. Clare's blood had never, in any sense of the word,
held the flavor of innocence. He wrenched open the gate guarding the racks of his most
prized bottles, selected one with precision, then moved in search of a glass.

LaCroix's memory swarmed. Though a vampire's blood was abnormally cold,
Clare had always tasted like a mortal in the grip of high fever on his tongue. So many
things had boiled through her - a little rage, lust, greed and corruption. There had been
other conflicting attributes - strange, patient indulgences, lingering sentimentalism, and,
most temptingly, tender nostalgic love for a meager few: Conchobhar, her mortal children,
and, in her own way, Figaro. LaCroix hated them all for centuries, even while he may have
carried a grudging respect or faint amusement for the fallen husband and emancipated
tailor. He had hated, because for centuries, he'd felt the draining tug of the weakness.

Aversion squatted with the thought of running with the merry pack of Clare's other
pets - Seiji, Feliks, Vachon, even Natalie. Her interest in each of them rested upon her
whims. LaCroix reviled a whimsy fate. he
thought as he twisted open the bottle of blood. He splashed a portion into his glass, a few unruly drops dotting the rug.

Clare's voice promised his thoughts.

Damnable reality seeped in with the words - walking away had never proved an escape.

LaCroix drained his stemware dry, willing the sensations to overtake him and obliterate
his memories. The sugarplum flavor of the innocent blood carried novelty, the fascination
of something long forgotten and difficult to understand. It attracted him through its
contrast, and LaCroix refilled his glass.

Many times he had wondered over his attraction to Fleur, wondering if the epitome of
her beauty had solely rested within her foreign nature. She was everything he was not.
Clare had been everything he was and more. Had the lure of Nicholas' sister been nothing
more than a rebellion? LaCroix took another absent sip, then set down his glass, recorking the bottle.

Until the next time.

Because Clare always came back.

He could only stay away so long.

Because a man's greatest foe is his own weakness.

Ivy's impertinent question rang through his head.

LaCroix fetched his overcoat, the faint easing of the leather blending with the
whispered memories lingering in the room. As he moved through the double doors, he
thought he caught the faint scents of gardenias and sunlight.

That was the stark truth that he should have offered the girl. It was
part of his weakness, though, a chink that repulsed him when revealed.

LaCroix recalled as he stepped into the night,
turning in the direction of Grenville Street.

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

O'Neal had surveyed the Four Seasons, gathering information about Natalie's suite. He
considered leasing one of the neighboring rooms, but, for what he had planned, those
people might be scrutinized later. Instead, he took a single on a lower floor, justifying his
hours loitering on the premises.

It had been dusk when he first arrived. A call up to Doctor Lambert's suite revealed no
answer, reconfirming her presence at the morgue. Liam had then circulated the hall on her
floor until the housekeeping service arrived. He had hoped for that, wagering that a
vampire would prefer their days completely undisturbed, postponing the changing of linens
and towels to their roaming hours. Doctor Lambert had not disappointed him in this
respect. It was a typical vampire adjustment.

his thoughts chided.

The housekeeper had a portfolio of keycards. She unsealed the door to the suite and
tossed the keys back on her cart. She unlatched her vacuum and slipped inside, shutting
the door behind her so that the noise wouldn't travel. O'Neal took advantage of the
abandoned cart, using the opportunity to snap the doctor's room key free of the others.
Then he took the stairs down to his own room, to gather the supplies he would need for a
stakeout.

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

Domino glanced up when Ivy dumped her satchel next to the photoboard. Then he
shrieked.

"What happened to your head?!?" he demanded.

"I had my hair done," Ivy replied succinctly.

"And you killed your stylist in outrage, I assume."

"No. Why would I? It turned out just like I wanted."

Domino snorted in a car-crash fashion.

"What?" Ivy ducked in front of him, so that Dom couldn't be evasive and concentrate
on his lighted negatives. "I like my hair. It reflects my personality."

"Your personality is 'Raggedy Ann On A Bender'?"

"Hello?" Ivy said indignantly. "Did I make fun of you when you got your lip pierced?"

"Yes."

"Well, I should have. Every time you got it caught in some vixen's jewelry, and *I*
had to detach you from the corpse," Ivy insisted.

"Yeah, and ripping it out was always necessary," Dom snorted. "I don't think I've
bagged a body wearing a choker in a month. You've weaned me! You've given me a
complex about the burning sensation of ripped flesh every time I see a necklace."

"But you still keep re-piercing," she pointed out. "So you want the sensation of metal
against fangs to heighten your foreplay - why couldn't you get a tongue bracket like a
normal vampire?"

"So you want to change your hair - why can't you bleach it like a normal vampire?"
Domino countered. "Listen to you, spouting off about what 'normal' vampires do. It
might work on some, love, but you forget I'm one of the - what - *seven* existing
vampires you actually know by name. You aren't exactly mainstream, belle of the ball,
sweetheart princess material. For one thing, princesses don't look like a heroine escapee
from a German action flick."

"Ist das so?"

"Ja. It's weird, though." Domino squinted at Ivy's head, first with one eye closed, then
the other. "Your hair is not nearly as appalling as it was five minutes ago. It must be
growing on me."

"Good."

"Not good. It makes me question my entire sense of taste." Dom smacked his lips as
though he'd been chewing garlic.

Ivy stuck her tongue out at him then pursed her lips contemplatively. "Actually, you
have a point. Maybe I should be more social, especially considering the state of the
business."

Domino's features plummeted. "What do you mean 'the state of the business'?"

Ivy didn't respond to Dom's inquiry, but mused along the lines of her unpopularity.
"Maybe I should throw a party." Piqued frown. "But most of the people I know, I
wouldn't want to come. Bad party."

Domino thought parties were all very well and good, but he was more concerned with
the studio. They were counting down to the fall season show, and Ivy seemed completely
un-panicked. "The state of the business. You're talking about those buyers you blew off
during my R&R, aren't you? Why, yes, Ivy! I *am* pissed about that."

Ivy waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, drain the buyers. We can get new ones. Ones that
aren't old enough to be my grandmother. Ones that aren't old enough to be *your*
grandmother."

"But Figaro -"

"Figaro's not here, Dom," Ivy said abruptly. "You're not Figaro, he's dead, so quit
trying to do everything his way." She paused for a few seconds while Domino stared at
her in stunned silence. "Sorry." She breathed out a sigh. "I'm just getting sick of living
with ghosts, okay?"

"What did you mean about state of the business, Ivy?" Domino asked quietly.

The atmosphere of the confessional hung about her explanation. "We depended on
Janette's sketches as the starting point for the fall showing. Circumstances have changed
sufficiently that I don't think we can count on her input in the future."

Domino was put out. "Bite me!"

Ivy held up placating hands. "Now, don't freak."

"Freak?" He was disgusted. "You might be just putting in time here, demondoll, but
this studio has sentimental value to me, dammit! I have every right to freak when your
petty squabbles sink my best chance to keep the House of Figaro on top!" He placed his
hands on Ivy's shoulders, turned her around, and made like he was marching her to the
front door with orders. "You hissed Her Highness off. You can go right back and beg,
plead, grovel, immolate, for her forgiveness!"

Ivy dug her heels into the rug and stated firmly, "No! It's not going to happen, Dom.
I'm not asking her for anything, and you aren't, either. Dammit, Domino - think about it!
How much did Janette really do? Sure, she drew the first sketches, but you're the one who
pieced together the patterns and made them work. You're the one who oversaw the
merchandising, press and fittings. I'm the one who tracked down fabrics, handled the
leatherwork and the milliners. We're already supervising or doing ninety percent of the
work as it is - what makes you think we can't make the studio succeed without Janette?"

"I tried it before, remember? It was a disaster," Domino said impatiently. "That's the
reason I dragged you into the business. Well, really it was the impure thoughts, but the
point is, I couldn't make a go of it alone, and you said Janette was our salvation."

"I say a lot of stupid things. That's the one you listen to? Look, you're not the person
who failed before. Cecilia was managing everything, and you just let her run around, being
incompetent. *You* are not incompetent, and when you take charge like you have this
past season, you can create pieces just as wonderful as anything I ever saw the House of
Figaro produce while he was alive. You have brilliant ideas, Domino. I thought you'd
gained enough attitude around here to push them."

He modestly examined his fingernails for imperfections. "Well, I did go ahead with the
'Ich Bin Figaro' perfume release with rousing success. And the entire men's line..."

"Is yours from start to finish," Ivy concluded. "I know you want the studio to be
profitable out of respect for Figaro's memory, but that doesn't mean it can't be your
success, too. It doesn't have to be about haute couture gowns meant for the Clares and
Janettes in this world."

Dom rubbed his chin. "You have something there, brat. Frankly, there aren't that many
Clares and Janettes left. For instance...we no longer have a Clare. Sales..." He motioned
with a thumb turned down. "...plummet when the divas get toasted." He released a
depressed sigh at the memory.

Ivy swallowed uncomfortably. "That's not exactly how I would have put it, but you've
got the gist. Find your own muse, Dom. Preferably one with a huge market share."

He eyed her thoughtfully. "I could make a go of that."

"Good!" Ivy clapped her hands together, then danced around him to collapse into the
chair behind Figaro's old desk. "That brings us back to the subject I thought was
interesting!" She flattened both palms on the desktop and leaned forward. "A party."

"Here?" Dom shook his head. "Not until after the fall show. I don't want any frolicking
around my frocks. I mean, I can see your jolly goal of wrapping your arms around the
Community so that they will elect you Homecoming Queen," Ivy rolled her eyes at this
statement, "but I'm not housing it."

Ivy sat back in her chair. "We need a house? I know where a house is. It could hold a
party full of people."

Domino looked dubious. "What house? You mean that thing we call 'Vachon's Other
Woman'?"

Ivy picked a cigarette out of the canister on Fig's desk and pelted it at Domino's head.
"That was Carmen, the cat. Technically, it is *Clare's* house," She pulled out another
cigarette and lit it, "and I'm going to keep repeating that until someone listens."

"Why do I get the feeling you're not referring to me?" Domino murmured as he sat on
the corner of the desk.

Ivy's mind was already working on another tangent. "It could be a housewarming
party. That's reasonable."

"Rather. Better make it a surprise housewarming to be on the safe side. Vachon hasn't
exactly been the party animal lately. You're better off presenting him with a fete
accompli."

Ivy nodded faintly. "Will you handle the invites?"

"Who?"

"I'm the one who only knows seven vampires. Use your imagination. Anyone loud and
interesting." She shrugged happily. "Anyone Vachon knows."

"So when's this mistake scheduled?"

"Optimist. How about tomorrow?"

"You don't ask much, do you?"

"Better sooner than later." Ivy considered a house full of people to be the perfect
distraction to keep the ghosts at bay. "And make sure everyone knows it's a 'Bring Your
Own Blood' rave. I don't have time to rob a bank."

"Very well. I'll dust off the Rolodex. You just go on pretending you work here, or
whatever."

Ivy traded places with him as she smoked her cigarette. Domino began making calls,
and she stubbed out the ashes, hopping off the desk to retrieve the satchel of stolen
towels. "Robert may drop by soon to see me. If he does, I want to keep it hush-hush," she
announced.

Domino held out the phone. "Consider the concept tucked into my prehensile memory.
Now you," he said, waving her out of his hair, "hush-hush yourself."

He'd called a dozen friends, instructing them to call their friends and so on, before he
glanced up and noticed Ivy's activity. She'd changed behind one of the floor screens, and
was now frowning at her reflection in the three-way mirror, clad only in a gold-colored
towel. "Clashes with your 'do," he called.

Ivy made a sound of agreement and ducked behind the screen once more. "I want it
smaller, too."

Domino made another call, this time distractedly watching as Ivy emerged in another
towel, this time black and much shorter. She twisted and turned, finally muttering, "They
just look better when they're damp."

By the time Dom ended his latest phone conversation, his curiosity was out of control.
"What are you doing, and why are you doing it?"

"I told Vachon I'd be towel-clad when he picked me up tonight. As to why..." Ivy
winked at him over her shoulder. "...you're old enough to guess." She turned back to her
reflection, studied it some more, and made a face. Instead of stepping behind the screen
again, she opened a nearby wardrobe.

"Hmm." Domino daydreamed for a while. "Can I watch?"

Ivy smiled as she took a changing robe from its hanger and slipped it on. "Ask
Vachon."

Dom ruefully picked up the phone again. "Nevermind."

She finished cinching the tie at her waist and scowled. "What time is it?"

Dom held up a finger to hold her attention as he opened one of the desk drawers. "Ah.
When I returned from my Bahaman bacchanal to find you missing, I knew all was not lost
because..." He triumphantly produced a timepiece. "...you left this behind."

Ivy brightened. "My Han Solo wristwatch! I'd wondered what I done with it." She
took the treasured item and gingerly fastened it about her wrist. "Thank you, Dom."

"I knew you'd come back for that, if nothing else," Dom observed wryly.

"I am not a slave to time," she countered. Regardless, she checked the position of the
hands. "Damn! It's one o'clock." She slumped disappointedly against the desk. "Maybe
Robert isn't coming."

Domino looked at her sympathetically. "Is it that important?"

"Yeah," Ivy nodded. "It's pretty crucial. I really thought he'd show up." She paced the
floor a bit, her mind swamped with excuses. "Maybe he just couldn't get away from
Janette. Maybe it's something with Patrick..."

"Maybe," Robert's voice broke in from the doorway, "he was busy looking for his
missing towels."

"Oh." Ivy grimaced awkwardly, peering over her shoulder to where she'd slung the
gold bath sheet over the floor screen. "That could happen."

***********************************************************************
End of Part Thirty-Three

Survivors (34/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Robert waited patiently as Ivy retrieved the satchel full of towels. "Your hair - is that a
wig?"

As he reached forward to clasp the bag handles, Ivy reluctantly opened her grip. Seeing
him catch the satchel with no trouble, she answered, "No. It's real."

"It's very different," Robert offered politely.

"In case you didn't realize, that's how people with manners say 'you look like a
drawing by a three year-old,'" Domino interjected.

Ivy glared at him. "Thank you, Dom. Robert and I will go downstairs so we don't
make you any more disturbed than you are already."

Robert preceded her, commenting, "I assume that the secrecy of this meeting had
nothing to do with towels."

"No. It concerns Patrick. His well-being."

As they reached the foyer, Robert turned to face her, his features a maze of stern
questions. "And you think you know more about that than I do."

"In this case, maybe," Ivy affirmed. "I heard you last night, saying that Patrick was
fatigued, that he wasn't doing well in school because of it. I know why. He confided in
me."

Her words arrested Robert's doubts and attention. "What did he say?"

"He remembers everything from Halloween. It gives him nightmares. He's afraid
Thomas is going to come back and take him again."

Robert protested, shaking his head. "No. Patrick would have come to me if that was
what was bothering him."

"No, he wouldn't. He remembers your hypnosis attempt - how important that it was to
forget. He can't, and he feels like he's failed you. He thinks you'll be disappointed in him
if you find out."

This idea disturbed Robert. "You're saying that he's afraid of me? I'm his father."

Ivy frowned. That wasn't exactly what she had meant, but now that the idea was in
front of her, she had to consider it. "I don't know...It's complicated. Patrick remembers
flying. He can recall details of Thomas tying him up with barbed wire..." Robert let out a
muffled curse. "I know," Ivy agreed. "I feel the same way. I wish that I could forget that I
was there, but to have him, so small and scared, still trapped by the thought of what
happened - I want to help him, Robert." Ivy wrung her hands. She began to fiddle with her
watch, twisting it about her wrist. "It makes me think of my brother. I mean, I didn't even
know who he was until after Cecilia killed him, but even when he was a complete stranger,
I didn't want him to suffer from my own mistakes." She stalked in the direction of the
showroom, and Robert followed, brushing alongside racks of ready-to-wear until they
reached the wingback chairs provided outside the changing rooms. "The truth remains that
my brother was murdered because of his connection to me, and Thomas tormented Patrick
for the same reason. I didn't have the chance to do anything to protect or rescue them
before. Now I do."

Robert leaned forward in his chair, eyeing her intently. "What do you mean, 'you didn't
have the chance to rescue Patrick'? I always assumed that you were the one that brought
him outside."

Ivy shook her head slowly. "No. From Patrick's description, it was Clare who saved
his life."

"Clare," Robert repeated, a confused cast to his expression. "But she's the one that
Janette said was a threat to Patrick."

"Janette can be wrong," Ivy responded coldly. "Clare put herself in danger to protect
Patrick, she saw to it that he was safe, then she came back to help me." She glanced away,
hesitant. "I can't explain everything that happened, but I know now that Clare's fate was a
disservice. She was never a threat to Patrick, not unless..."

"Unless what?"

"'Children do not belong in the vampire world,'" Ivy quoted. "Those words were
Clare's position on the matter. That's why Janette condemned her. I didn't understand the
reason behind Clare's sentiment before. I thought it was just cruelty - a desire to destroy
the weak." She shrugged. "Like something Thomas was capable of." Ivy began to shake
her head again, saying quietly, "I know what Clare meant now. I see it happening with
Patrick."

Robert sat back solemnly, his voice quietly imperative. "What do you see in Patrick?"

"He may not realize exactly what Thomas was, but he saw enough to consider him a
monster. He may have had only brief contact with Clare, but he suspects there was
something different about her. Patrick doesn't fully understand that he is surrounded by
vampires, but what he does understand thus far terrifies him."

"He's still young," Robert insisted. "With time, I can explain, and he'll be okay."

"Robert, the whole reason that I'm telling you this is that you're running out of time!
He told me that the people who fly are wicked. What do you think is going to happen
when he finds out you or Janette can? Jump for joy? No. It's too late for that. Thomas
ruined any chance you had for blind acceptance of the truth. Even now, he's breaking
inside, and he doesn't know the half of it. If Patrick learns that any of us are vampires, he
won't understand. All he will see is the man who tried to hurt him, and he will shut down
rather than confront the idea that his father or his friends have anything to do with the man
who hurt him."

"What makes you think he's going to find out?" Robert countered. "I know what
you're trying to say. I know it's a hard truth to accept. I didn't know what to think when
Janette confessed to me that she was a vampire. I can guarantee you that, though I may
have noticed a thing or two was off with Janette, I never suspected. Patrick doesn't have
to know, not until he's an adult and old enough to distinguish the world isn't black and
white. Then, he can decide."

"He's not you, Robert. You never had a reason to be afraid of vampires before Janette
clued you in on the club. Patrick's not stupid, either. Patrick can remember that you used
to play in the sun with him, and now you can't. He knows that you used to drop him off at
school, and now his Aunt Peggy takes him. He sees that none of us ever eat an entire meal
of food around him - we just shove it around the plate. One slip is all it will take. One
moment of weakness - the cat's out of the bag. Then what are you going to do, when
Patrick's crying and horrified, too young to understand the gray areas of blood-drinking as
a lifestyle choice?" Ivy reached for his hand, speaking urgently. "Robert, you have to talk
to him. You have to ask Patrick what happened when Thomas took him. He promised me
that, if you came to him and asked for the truth, he would be honest with you. You have
to see in his face and words what I did last night. Then you'll understand how paralyzed
he is. He can't handle the truth about vampires," she insisted before her features became
fierce. "And why should he have to? He's a child. He should be protected from things like
this, not groomed from elementary school to join the night shift."

Robert squeezed her hand. "Hey, if that's what you're worried about, I'm not letting
Janette take Patrick out of school."

"I bet she took that decision well," Ivy said sarcastically.

Robert's mouth quirked. "You know better than that."

"Mm." Ivy considered him contemplatively. "Why do you think she pushed home-
schooling, Robert? Because Janette is so patient, in no hurry for Patrick to join you two as
an eternal family?"

"Janette would never do anything to hurt Patrick."

"Janette would never do anything that she *thought* would hurt Patrick," Ivy
corrected. "She might be so blinded by her own wants and needs that she does something
that she has convinced herself is in his best interests."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about. You had to have seen the signs as much as I have.
The longer I've been around, the more I've seen Janette pull away from you in favor of
spending time with the boy. She wants a child very badly. From what I gather, she's
wanted one for some time. A child, Robert, not a grownup." Ivy quirked her head to one
side. "I'm proof of that."

Robert lifted her hand that he was holding and shaped her fingers to arch like claws.
"And you're bitter enough about it to suggest she's been using me to get to my son."

"Maybe so," Ivy admitted unashamedly. "But I see how quickly she's lost any use for
me, and I can't help but wonder who will be next on the list. Janette is clutching Patrick
tighter and tighter. What happens if he doesn't turn out to be the boy she wants? What if
he chooses some other path? What happens if you get in her way?"

"Not to rub it in your face, Ivy, but I have more of a history with Janette than you did."

"So ignore me." Ivy held her arms out at either side in a hopeless gesture. "But talk to
Patrick. Then, if you have any doubts about the security of his future...test it."

Robert's gaze tunneled into her thoughtfully. "What do you mean?"

"Suggest to Janette that you're considering sending Patrick away with Peggy. Tell her
you want him to grow up free of our dark world, and that you will approach him again
when he is an adult. Her reaction will tell you whether she is truly concerned about his
well being."

His features became drawn and somber at the temptation. "I'll consider it."

"If you do test Janette's feelings, be very careful, Robert," Ivy warned. "Make sure
that Patrick is out of her reach. You may have more of a 'history' with her, but I think I
have a clearer idea of just what she's capable of doing when she's crossed."

"If you are right," Robert said slowly before holding up an index finger, "and I'm
saying 'if,' we should leave. Relocate somehow where she can't trail us."

"You'd go with Patrick?"

"At least until he got settled. It would be hard for him to pack up and leave suddenly
again. It hasn't been that long since he was uprooted from his last home. Once he is in a
new school, and he's made friends..." Robert's expression filled with pain. "...I'd have to
let him go, wouldn't I, if I truly wanted to protect him?" He saw Ivy nod sadly and asked,
"What about you?"

He caught her by surprise. "What about me?"

"If Patrick, Peggy and I disappeared, you would be the only one left for Janette to
question."

"Then I shouldn't know any of the important answers."

Robert had another idea. "Or you should come with us."

"Rather than worrying about me, you should be thinking about how you can set up a
new life without Janette tracking you down," Ivy pointed out.

"*If* I need to," Robert said with a frown. "I haven't had to move on like that before.
I wouldn't know where to start. That's the kind of thing I'd turn to Janette for advice.
What about you?"

"Monkeys treading on wet cement leave less obvious trails than I do," Ivy confessed.
"I'd have put in more effort learning how to erase my steps had I known Thomas was
following them all those years. I don't have much of a clue about the way vampires go
about their relocations when things get shady..."

"I do."

Robert and Ivy turned toward the source of the voice and found Vachon standing in
the doorway. He moved closer, following up his earlier statement with, "I know someone
you could see if there's a need to leave town quickly without shadows."

They both got to their feet, Ivy first. "Someone that Janette wouldn't check with?"

"Someone that wouldn't leak a word if she tried," Vachon answered wryly and
addressed Robert. "Aristotle is discreet and particular, but if you're looking for a new
identity, he's the best."

"How do I contact him?"

Vachon recited a phone number, which Robert took a minute to memorize. Vachon's
attention drifted back to Ivy, searching her features for a sign of what she was thinking.
Whatever that was going on with Robert and the kid had stamped her expression with
intensity.

Robert seemed ready to go, and Ivy pushed for him to let her know how things turned
out "Listen to Patrick. That's what's important."

Vachon shifted closer to Ivy, resisting the urge to tag her somehow, to take her hand
or sling an arm possessively around her shoulders. Before he'd made his presence known,
Javier had overheard Robert asking Ivy to join his exodus from Toronto, and he'd also
noticed that she'd skated over answering the invite. Vachon wondered briefly if that
translated as a 'no' in Ivy's book, or if she really meant 'I'll get back to you on that
question.' He gave into the impulse to touch her, reaching out with the intention of
burying his fingers in her hair, cupping the nape of her neck. Her locks were
disappointingly short and felt foreign.

Even though she was focused on pleading with Robert to follow through with what she
wanted, Ivy responded to Vachon's touch, leaning back slightly into the pressure of his
hand as if to say, 'Hi, I missed you.' He recognized her reaction with satisfaction.

She grasped his hand as Robert made his farewells, tugging Vachon along as she
followed Robert to the front door. As it closed after her guest, she sighed and pulled
Vachon's arm around her, holding his palm to her stomach. "I'm glad you arrived early.
Thanks for helping."

"It was nothing," he said casually.

She turned to face him, smiling up through impish eyes. "So...are you curious to know
what that was about, or was it just more 'nothing'?"

"I'm more curious to know what you hair is about." Vachon's eyes had gotten used to
the harsh revolution in the color, so he'd finally committed to a good look at the complete
change. Not only had Ivy abused the shade, her curls had been tortured straight. The most
unsatisfactory transformation, however, was in the length. Gone was anything suitable for
braiding or tweaking. She'd had it chopped not much below her ears.

"I wanted something new," Ivy offered as her explanation. "What do you think?"

Vachon considered his answer for a few moments before deciding upon the innocuous
proclamation, "It's really red."

Ivy nodded before holding up a few lighter strands. "Yes, but you'll notice that my
highlights match the walls in Figaro's office."

"Melon," Vachon concluded, his voice trailing off into a frowning grunt.

Ivy eyed his expression knowingly. "You don't like it."

He was honest. "I hate it."

"Ah. Apparently I'm in the happy minority. Dom definitely doesn't like it, and Robert
appeared a little queasy when I asked his opinion. Good thing it's my head."

"Debatable."

"Hmm."

Vachon considered that enough conversation about something he didn't like, so he
ventured back to the other curious subject. "So why would Robert suddenly want to leave
town without Janette being able to follow?"

"My visit with Patrick last night was upsetting," Ivy said. "He's picking up signs that
Janette and his father are vampires, and, after his experience with Thomas, he can't handle
it. Then, there's the problem of Janette."

"I didn't realize things had broken down between you two," Vachon observed. In the
past, she'd seemed to cling irrationally to the woman, desperate for approval.

"I don't think that I realized it right away, myself," she confessed, "but I don't trust her
now. I think that she's starting to consider bringing the boy across."

"So you took it upon yourself to raise the alarm with Robert."

"He's too young," Ivy said defensively.

"I'm not submitting an argument," Vachon said. "Personal experience makes me want
to give all blood-sucking kids a wide berth."

Ivy returned his sentiment. "There is that."

"Hey," Vachon offered gallantly, "you probably did the right thing in speaking up, even
if it does mean Janette might be coming after you with a vengeance."

"Gee!" she said with false gaiety. "I ruined my hair and my future well-being in one
night. Well, dear, how was your evening?"

"Got out of a traffic ticket." Vachon paused while Ivy offered up applause. "Then I
went to see a guy about a headstone."

Ivy's nose crinkled. "Um...why?"

"I decided it was about time that I put something on Carmen's grave. It's not really
even a headstone, more like a square with her name on it so we don't forget where she is
when the grass grows over."

"So you can remember where the grave is..." Ivy repeated, mulling over his reasoning.
"I thought the whole burial thing bothered you."

"It does," Vachon admitted. "But cringing every time I see a bag of potting soil is
getting old fast. I don't like feeling trapped, and giving into the fear is just another prison.
I figure if I can find a good enough reason, I'll get over it."

"So when do you get to install your plaque? I'll make sure to have emergency towels
and a hose standing by."

"Tomorrow night."

Ivy's eyes widened with surprise. "That's fast."

"There are people who carve quickly when it's Community-related. That reminds
me...didn't you promise something about stealing some towels earlier?"

"Yes," Ivy hedged. "And I did. Only Robert took them back. That satchel he was
carrying when he left." She wrinkled her nose. "Full of towels."

"Crime doesn't pay when you get caught," Vachon pointed out.

"Wait a second," Ivy cautioned. "It wasn't a total failure. I managed to keep one." She
pulled the belt of her robe open, revealing the skimpy black towel. "My mother always
used to fuss at me to wear layers. Amazing - it finally took."

"Not my personal philosophy," Vachon commented as he tugged her robe the rest of
the way off, "but I can see where layers could have merits if you lost them." He bent his
head lower, kissing her skin where the curve of her breast began and the terrycloth ended.
"Love the towel."

"I thought you might," Ivy murmured.

Vachon glanced up, his features solemn. "I still hate your hair."

************************************************************************
End of Part Thirty-Four

Survivors (35/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Natalie wondered as she fastened yet another fiber
slide onto the stage of her microscope. She doubted it was fatigue she was feeling, but an
intense case of boredom. Natalie's thoughts flashed to the numerous times she'd dropped
by the loft, only to find Nick balancing tarot cards on his forehead or counting specks of
dust on his piano.

She pushed away from the counter expressing a heavy sigh, feeling justified in taking a
small break.

Grace, similarly occupied, chuckled. "That bad, huh?"

Natalie's face twisted ruefully. "Let's see if you're still smiling twelve hours from
now."

Grace feigned a grimace. "Ouch. You're the one who chose to work through the day,
though, Natalie."

"Someone needed to get it done," Nat replied absently, wandering over to the scale
and fidgeting with it. It wasn't balancing out at zero when empty again.

"That reminds me," Grace commented. "Is there any chance the boys upstairs are
going to hire someone to replace Barney, or are we going to stay understaffed
indefinitely?"

Natalie's hands froze on the scale. Grace had a point - there was too much for the staff
to do and not enough staff to go around. She had to remember that she wasn't the only
one frustrated with her job at the moment. Collecting herself, she murmured, "They're staying
pretty tight with the budget." Natalie shot her associate a wry grin. "Just fantasize over
how you'll spend the overtime."

"Oh, I've done that," Grace promised. "I've got my two weeks in sunny Fiji all planned
out. The problem is ever reaching a point where this place lightens up enough to afford
taking the time off."

Nat made a face at the scale. How many things had she never taken the
time to do when she was mortal? Now, when she had the promise of eternity in the palm
of her hand, how many things would she never be allowed to do? It had always been one
of Nick's strongest arguments, but had she ever really listened? She'd said she knew what
she was doing, that she understood the sacrifices, but she had been arrogant. She should
have known better. Consider an autopsy: Natalie could piece together, event by event, the
actions that culminated in the victim's death. Through intuition and evidence, she could
write a clinical description of their murder. Would she ever have the audacity to claim that
she understood exactly how they felt as they died? But that is exactly
what she had done in Nick's case - she had assumed that she knew exactly how he felt,
only to find that she had made a foolish, horrific mistake.

Natalie's thoughts lectured.

Grace abandoned her own slides and appeared before Nat, happily holding a rack of
tissue samples. "A break in the tedium - a visit to the histology lab!"

"Flip you for it."

"Got any change?"

Natalie wandered over to her desk. The prognosis wasn't good, since she wasn't in the
habit of using the building vending machines anymore. They ended up flipping a scalpel,
one side marked with tape to denote heads.

Grace called the winning side. "Tails!"

"Two out of three!"

"Oh, no," Grace assured her, heading for the door, "I'm quitting when the going's
good."

As a consolation prize, Natalie decided to amuse herself by throwing the scalpel at the
copy of the department budget pinned to her corkboard. She'd made several decisive
incisions within the section devoted to reducing abuse of the morgue instrumentation
when she felt the pulse of another presence along her spine. Nat pretended to aim at the
report again, but swiftly reversed the direction of her attack, throwing the scalpel over her
shoulder. She listened, her back still turned, as the scalpel abruptly came to a halt.

"I knew you'd catch it," Natalie complained, finally swiveling in her chair for a full
view of LaCroix glowering in the doorway, the surgical blade's path intercepted by his
lightning grip.

"One would wonder why you bothered trying," LaCroix sneered.

Natalie smiled angelically, deciding to quote Rodgers and Hammerstein lyrics complete
with 'Happy Talk' fingers to be infuriating. "'If you don't have a dream, how you gonna
to make a dream come true?'"

"Indeed." LaCroix did not share this optimistic sentiment, so he hurled the instrument
back at her. Seeing Natalie's hands snap up, clapping the scalpel to a halt within an inch of
her nose, he parroted, "I knew you'd catch it."

She exhaled an exasperated sigh, tossing the blade onto her desk before launching from
her chair. "If a visit from you is the most entertaining part of my twenty-four hour stint in
the morgue, I *really* need to go home." Natalie unearthed her overcoat and began the
motions of putting it on.

"And you have not the slightest curiosity as to what reason would compel me to seek
you out?" LaCroix asked smoothly.

Natalie paused in adjusting her scarf. "Well, considering your track record when it
comes to pleasant news, and the fact that I'm really not in the mood for anything else..."
She looked at him dismissively. "No. Not the slightest curiosity." Natalie ducked her head
over her desk as she began to add files to her briefcase.

LaCroix's voice broke into her task, cutting despite his conversational tone. "It
concerns Clare." He watched as Natalie's hands stilled and she glanced up at him. "And it
really is *quite* curious."

Natalie pushed her briefcase away with a sigh and sank back into her chair. "Okay,
okay. I want to know. What?"

LaCroix wandered over to the specimen counter, eyeing the materials stored there with
snobbery. He began with a question. "How much contact have you had with the vampire
named Ivy?"

Nat rubbed the back of he neck as she considered her answer. "Outside the police
investigation, very little. I went out to that house that Vachon's building - you know, the
one that Clare commissioned - a few times. Sometimes she was there, sometimes not. I
saw her once in passing at the House of Figaro. She didn't stop to talk. Apparently, there
was some kind of..." Natalie made a face. "...velvet crisis. Frankly, I didn't know the stuff
could be too shiny," she commented. "Why would my contact with Ivy be important?"

"If you spoke with her about Clare's past at any time, it could be important."

Natalie made an incredulous sound. "Let me assure you, since Halloween, I've had
absolutely no desire to discuss Clare with Ivy."

"And Nicholas - has he shown the same disinclination to talk to the girl?"

"Hmm. Isn't that a question you should ask Nick?" Natalie goaded. She snapped her
finger. "Oh, I forgot. You've 'washed your hands of him.'" Under the surface, she felt a
growing unease, a sensation that her mocking was hypocritical.

"Strange," LaCroix observed. "Through the years, you always struck me as a less
ornery personality."

"As far as I know, Nick hasn't
seen Ivy in months. Before that, the topic was Thomas, not Clare. Why does it matter,
LaCroix? What has Ivy done, and how does that involve Clare?"

"She visited me at the Raven last night and asked impertinent questions."

"Brave girl," Natalie commented. "I like her better already."

LaCroix's gaze filled with challenge. "She asked me if Clare was really dead."

Natalie coughed out a laugh. "And your reply was...?"

"Indefinite."

Nat rose from her chair and began to pace the morgue impatiently. "We had this
conversation before. Clare is gone. I felt it. *You* felt it! What, some ex-junkie with a
lying track record shows up asking questions, and that means more than the experience of
the people who had a connection to Clare? Give me a break! Ivy hardly knew her, and we
*felt* Clare's pain!"

"We felt Clare being staked," LaCroix countered fiercely. "For vampires as old as I,
that is no instant guarantee of defeat. We linger long afterward, weakened, dying, but not
dead."

"Gee, thanks for bringing that point up back in October," Natalie said coldly. "Fine.
Assuming Clare didn't burn up in the fire after she was staked - and I still think that's a
pretty huge assumption - where the hell has she been? I refuse to believe that Clare would
distance herself from us if she survived. She has no reason to do that. What did Ivy say
that proved anything different?"

"Clare has been haunting her in dreams. She knows things from Clare's past - things
that Clare told only you and I directly. Nicholas had secondhand knowledge."

"Like what?"

"Clare's mortal death...bodies stacked like so much firewood...children on fire..."

Natalie closed her eyes. She didn't like to remember the images, even if they weren't
all of her own life. Death by fire - the thought still disturbed her. "Maybe that means
something, but violent dreams aren't exactly endangered species. It could just be a
coincidence. An aftereffect of Ivy's Halloween experience. There was a fire there, she and
Nick pulled more than a dozen people out of the building. Her dream could just be guilt
over Clare burning to ashes."

"Perhaps," LaCroix allowed, "but my visit with Ivy brought to mind another of the
supposed deceased - Francesca."

Natalie wasn't impressed by the theory. "Reincarnated already? That was fast."

Undeterred by her attitude, LaCroix continued, "I was thinking more along the lines
that Clare could have some hold on her. Ivy would be the most fitting target. After all, she
was ultimately responsible for Clare's pain."

"Excuse me? Your old pal, Thomas, was the mastermind in that tragedy. Even *I* can
see that Ivy wasn't at fault, even though I might wish she'd come forward of her own
accord when we were first trying to hunt Thomas down."

"And your sympathy," LaCroix countered, "makes you the perfect candidate to
observe the girl for unusual signs. You should involve Nicholas, as well. He had the most
exposure to Francesca's possession of a mortal. Perhaps that will bring some insight to the
haunting of Ivy."

At first, Natalie's expression was mystified at the task, but her features shifted as
understanding transformed into irritation. "Oh, I see. You don't actually need *me* to
check up on Ivy, but you do need a messenger to involve Nick for you indirectly."

"I have broken my ties with Nicholas. If the cause was not important, I would not
involve him in any manner," LaCroix said bluntly.

"But the cause isn't important enough for you to talk to him, face to face? Isn't that a
little childish?" Natalie's feeling of self-recrimination came back.

"Trust me, Doctor," LaCroix hissed. "The alternatives would be significantly more
painful for all concerned." He moved to leave, pausing by the swinging door. "I'll be
waiting for news, Natalie. Do not make me impatient."

She didn't make any sign of acknowledgment. Realization had swamped Natalie,
catching her off guard. Suddenly, she'd seen a similarity between her and LaCroix. It had
been a shocking thing to recognize. In a moment of anger, in the face of how her tangled
relationship with Nick made her feel weak, she'd tried to break her own ties. For months,
she'd refused to so much as talk with Nick about the weather. She'd repeatedly tried to
push him away, because the close contact always ended up more painful to her heart and
resolution. It was better that she kept her distance, wasn't it? The walking away proved
she was strong and self-reliant. Leaving established that she could draw a line in the sand
and have the force of will to impose it. Forsaking her past with Nick, abandoning
everything that they had shared...

It made her just as closed and bitter as LaCroix.

Grace breezed back into the morgue. She noted Natalie wearing her overcoat and
asked, "Are you going home?"

Natalie shook her head absently. "I don't know." Suddenly realizing that Grace was
giving her a confused stare, she straightened and swiftly began to unfasten the buttons to
her coat. "No, I thought about it, but I really don't need to be alone with my thoughts
right now. I'll stick it out a couple more hours, staring at matching hair follicles through
the scope." Then - maybe - she would call Nick.

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

It was almost dawn before they found a match.

"Man, oh man," Schanke breathed. "He's the last one I would have picked to go
psycho."

Nick frowned at the information on the report, visibly willing it to rewrite itself. "This
doesn't have to mean anything, Schank."

"Yeah, nothing," Don retorted, "except we've finally got our first suspect." He lightly
slapped the side of the nearest evidence locker. "Let's go brief Stonetree."

Nick caught Schanke's coat sleeve. "We're throwing suspicion on one of our own.
Don't you think we should try to scrape together a little more before we risk adding IA to
this fiasco?"

Schanke's mouth dropped open. "Are you kidding?"

"Come on, Schank," Nick pleaded. "The only evidence we have to go on is that
Sergeant Pulte did the paperwork on the buyback of the weapon used in the attacks."

"And that gun is now missing from the collection," Schanke said emphatically, "being
carried by someone with a grudge against captains."

"And you really believe that that person is Pulte?" Nick sent his partner a meaningful
look, and Schanke glanced away uncomfortably. "The sun will be up in an hour. Let's
both try to sort out more of a motive during the day. The connection between Pulte and
Reese is obvious, but we should pinpoint a reason he'd want to kill Dell and Forrest."

Schanke fidgeted with his tie. "Okay, okay. You're right. Geez...Pulte no more strikes
me as a cold-blooded killer than..." His voice drifted off as he searched for a comparison.
Schanke released a short laugh, clapping Nick on the shoulder. "...Well, no more than you
do, partner." Don missed the flinch in his partner's eyes that was swiftly eclipsed by a
smile.

"So let's make sure we have the right guy," Nick repeated.

"Right. The only problem that I have with that is -"

Suddenly James Curran appeared in the doorway of the storage room and called, "Hey,
guys! How's it going? Word is, you've got a candidate for our cop-killer."

Schanke scowled faintly, while Nick asked. "Who told you that?"

"I was just talking with Stonetree." Curran shrugged good-naturedly. "I can't help but
be curious. It's your case, but the support work I did makes me feel like I'm a part of it."

"Well, if you talked to the Captain," Schanke stated in a no-nonsense tone, "then you
know we got more info on your gun ID from Pesche. We're still looking into it."

"Schanke's right," Nick echoed. "No suspects, yet, but we're getting close."

"Oh. I guess these things take time." Curran nodded, then motioned with his thumb
over his shoulder. "I'd better get back to the desk. I made another collar tonight, and
Gonzales is going to have my head if I leave him to write the entire report."

"Another collar?" Nick said. "Congratulations. No injuries this time, I hope."

The young detective jumped up and down, showing no lingering damage to his leg. "I
heal fast," Curran explained confidently before sending them a wave as he left.

"Another collar," Schanke repeated once Curran was gone, his voice filled with
disgust. "See? This is the problem I have with holding out on Stonetree. Rookie
Wonderboy is out there running circles around his caseload, while, as far as the Captain
knows, we haven't completed a single lap."

Nick sent him a laughing look. "You don't actually feel threatened by the new guy, do
you, Schank? Give it a month. The 'Wonderboy' routine is just to prove that he can do the
job. Once he feels settled and comfortable, he'll quit trying to do the work of the entire
department."

"You think so?" Schanke obviously still had his doubts.

"I know so," Nick assured him. "Tracy Vetter was the same way at first."

"Nosy, huh?"

"Diligent," Nick amended.

"All right, all right. So what I'm going to do today is sleep," Schanke said, ticking off
his fingers, "look up old interdepartmental correspondence that Pulte could have had with
Dell or Forrest, and pray that Stonetree doesn't find out we're taking this slow. You know
what'll happen if Pulte is our guy, and something goes down, right? We'll be demoted so
low we won't be able to help little old grandmas cross the street."

"Yeah, Schank. I just have this feeling it's not the right track. I'll focus on old cases
that Pulte has assisted on. There aren't that many - maybe the connection's there."

"So, if I need something, I should call here?"

Nick shook his head. "Nah, I think I'll link to the network. Try me at the morgue,
instead."

"Ohhh," Schanke drawled suggestively. "Nat shacking up at the Coroner's Office,
too?"

"Probably," Nick said, grinning unabashedly. "She's been swamped with all the
evidence tagged from Reese's crime scene. Maybe I can help. On the practical side, I'll be
the first to hear if she finds anything."

"Practical-schmactical," Schanke protested. "All you care about is staying on her good
side. Fine. I know you love her, but remember to give the woman enough room to
breathe. If she kicks you out of her kitchen, salute and go quietly."

Nick smiled, amazed at how Don could take things that twisted him in knots and
whittle them down to the important backbone. Schanke had
declared the sentiment as simply as calling the sky blue, yet Natalie still had trouble
believing it, even when he said the words.

Seeing him move to leave, Nick called for the other man's attention. "Hey, Schank."

He glanced around, looking at him earnestly. "Yeah, Knight?"

"I haven't said it in a long time," Nick began a little awkwardly, "but I'm glad that I
work with you. Even more, I'm glad that you're my friend."

Schanke smiled slowly, his voice filled with serious sincerity. "Back at'cha, partner."

************************************************************************
End of Part Thirty-Five

Survivors (36/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Nick found Natalie at her desk, one hand absently tapping her phone. When she
glanced up, smiled, and said, "I was thinking about calling you," at first all he could do
was smile back.

Then he began to wonder why she intended to call him. Was it good news? "Did you
find something?"

Natalie shook her head. "Nothing. What's truly disconcerting is that, when they rolled
in a suspicious heart attack a few hours ago, I was actually excited to break the monotony
with an autopsy."

"So why were you going to call me?" Nick asked.

Nat fidgeted, readjusting an earring. "I started wondering if vampires ever go to Fiji."

"I suppose." Nick gave an uncertain frown. "It's kind of sunny, isn't it?"

Natalie nodded. "You've never been there?"

"I never went to any islands outside the Mediterranean. Well, except for the time I was
shipwrecked on Mauritius, but that wasn't on purpose."

"Oh, yeah...the extinction of the dodo bird," Natalie said, remembering hearing the
story years earlier.

"I didn't tell you before," Nick admitted, slightly embarrassed, "but there's this peak
on the island called 'La Morne Brabant.' LaCroix grew tired of my ranting and lecturing
after he killed the last of the birds, so he put the name suggestion into the heads of a few
natives."

"I don't get it. If he was exasperated, why would he want a landmark named after
you?"

"'La Morne' actually means 'dull,'" Nick explained awkwardly.

"Oh." Natalie sat in quiet introspection for a few seconds. "Well, I can see why you
might have a bad association with the tropics."

"It wasn't so much the latitude, as the company," Nick said huskily. "Speaking of
company, I was wondering if you would mind if I hung out here today."

Natalie's mouth opened and closed with uncertainty. "Uhm...I wouldn't mind,
but...Grace just went home, and I know I should stay the day and finish up the fiber
matches for Reese's sake, but I've reached my limit. I've got to get out of the morgue for
a while. I was going to go back to the hotel."

Nick found himself compulsively holding out his hand, urging in an intense manner that
would have Schanke shaking his head, "Come to the loft with me. Spend the day." Heaven
help him, he'd almost said 'Come home.' Intuition or wishful thinking had him imagining
that she might accede, not push him away.

Natalie appeared mesmerized by his open hand. Slowly, she moved, her wide eyes
gazing luminously at him, her fingers gliding around his palm. "Okay," she said softly, her
voice filled with surprise, or maybe it was misgiving. "But..."

Nick realized he'd been holding a useless breath. He'd breathed in when it had sounded
as though Natalie was accepting his invitation, and the encroaching exception had dashed
all thoughts of success, as well as the air from his lungs, again. "But...?" he repeated,
feeling useless.

"I really should stop by the hotel and feed Sidney." Natalie glanced at the clock on the
wall, frowning at the position of its hands. "Do you think I have time?"

Nick's eyes followed hers to the clock, considering the state of the sky before he'd
entered the building. "If you put your faith in smooth traffic, I doubt it. If you fly, you
should have plenty of time." He paused a moment, watching as Natalie gathered her things
and fastened up her overcoat. "I could go with you," he offered, then felt like biting his
tongue. He sounded as though he didn't want to let her out of his sight, because he didn't
trust her to follow through.

Natalie seemed to consider his offer, but shook her head. "No, you go on ahead to the
loft."

"Okay," Nick said reluctantly. "I'll be waiting."

Suddenly, Natalie smiled again. "Thank you for asking." She reached out, brushing a
faint caress along his jaw. Nick simply stood and stared, unsure what to make of it, his
eyes willing her to explain what she was thinking. "LaCroix was wrong," she said quietly,
then twisted her mouth as though to convey 'let me say something less obvious.' "Your
conscience isn't dull, Nick. It might be a hard burden to live up to sometimes, but it is
very, very good."

Nick reached up impulsively, cradling her fingers that touched his cheek. "Thank you,
Natalie."

Another smile came to her lips, one that warmed him from the inside and hinted that
maybe, just maybe, everything between them was going to be okay. "See you soon,"
Natalie whispered, slowly backing toward the exit, then leaving.

Nick continued to stand there after she'd gone, his fingers still against his own skin,
musing over the memory of her touch. It felt like a promise, one that bore repeating.
"Soon."

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

Ivy was the first to have her helmet off as they pulled up the drive. A sideways glance
toward the house had her doing a double take. She plucked a few strands that the helmet
had pushed to the corner of her eye, and looked again.

She rubbed Vachon's shoulder for attention while he was occupied with the kickstand.
"Jav?"

"Hmm?"

"The front door is open."

He straightened, pulling off his own helmet. "Huh?"

"You left it open, right?"

Vachon stared thoughtfully ahead, one hand on his hip. "It's possible."

Ivy scuffed her boot against the pavement in annoyance then unfastened the saddlebag
to retrieve their new black towel. Of course it was possible. Sometimes Vachon would
steadfastly put all his tools away and set the minutest detail in order before he left. Other
times, he just left things strewn with abandon. It depended on whether he was interested at
that particular moment. "You know it bothers me to leave the place unlocked." He did it
all the time, as though he didn't want to be any place where there was some obstacle to
coming and going. She began walking briskly toward the front stairs, muttering, "I wish
you wouldn't do that."

Under some circumstances, Vachon might have offered an apology, but this was just a
door they were talking about, one she'd left hanging ajar just two nights before. "You know the only people who come out here are
hunters and investment bankers who want to find their inner primitive on a weekend's
camping trip. They aren't going to trespass."

Ivy stopped walking and turned, watching Vachon mulishly as he passed her by and
climbed the steps. "Okay, so I'm anal, but it makes me feel safer."

"You're perfectly safe."

Something in the closing of his voice, in his body language, gave Ivy pause. Vachon
had stilled on the landing, his back stiff. He was staring down at the marble blocks that
comprised the stoop. She shot quickly up the stairs, curling an arm around his back as she
moved to stand at his side. "What's wrong?"

"There's dirt," Vachon said softly. He crouched, staring intently at the portion of the
front door slanted inwards. "The door's marked up."

Ivy dropped to her knees and joined him in the inspection. She swiftly picked out the
marks he was referring to on the door. Several scratches had cut into the finish of the
bottom right corner. "An animal?"

"Maybe," Vachon answered, taking Ivy's hand as he stood, pulling her to her feet.
Maybe he had closed the door on his way out; he just hadn't latched it securely. He
stepped over the threshold into the dark house, tugging Ivy along with him. "Better an
animal than an investment banker."

They stood in the foyer, drinking in the sounds and smells of a supposedly empty
house. Neither bothered with the lights, it wasn't an immediate compulsion. For the
vampires, it was easy to see the light trail of dirt scattered along the floor in the direction
of the kitchen, easy to pick out the darker smears, to smell that they were...

"Blood," Vachon said aloud. Again, he bent lower, swiped a finger at one of the stains
and brought the scent up to his nostrils. "It's not human."

"Good," Ivy said feebly, distracted by another odor. "Doesn't totally clear the
investment banker, though." She turned her nose away as the olfactory memory remained.
"Do you smell that?"

Vachon took a deep whiff. "What am I smelling?"

"It's faint. Chlorine. Have you used bleach in here recently?"

"Not recently, but it could have lingered. We're going to need more to clean off the
floor."

Ivy nodded unhappily. She glanced around the marble foyer guardedly, a creeping
unease laddering up her spine. Her arms ached, as though her veins were shriveling from
within. "Are you sure that blood's not human?"

"Positive."

Their fingers were still entwined. She squeezed his hand tightly and protectively curled
her free arm around the curve of her stomach. "I still feel like someone's there," she
whispered.

Vachon nodded in the direction of the trail, where it curved out of sight past the
doorway, then met her gaze. "I can check it out," he offered.

"No, no. We'd better stick together."

"Don't split up, or the monster will pick us off one by one?" Now she really was being
anal. "That's a cheesy horror flick, Ives."

"Oh, how silly of me," Ivy said stonily. "Once upon a time, you heard a strange girl
crying in an alley and checked that out alone. That went well, didn't it?"

Vachon glared at her slightly. "Okay. Reasonable
paranoia. We stick together."

They moved slowly and cautiously, following the pattern of blood to the kitchen
doorway. Those doors were technically closed, since Vachon had blocked the room off
with the swinging variety. No doorknobs, just push and enter. The baseboards displayed
no signs of scratching similar to the front entrance, but granules of blood and dirt clung in
a pasty patchwork at the edges. The smell pulsed through the cracks.

Vachon pushed at the right door, but it only fractured open a couple of inches before it
stopped. He applied a little more force, and the door gave slightly. "There's something on
the floor," he whispered. "I don't think it's very big."

Ivy pushed at the left door. It swung unhindered, revealing the left side of the kitchen,
bare of blemishes. "I think you're right."

They both leaned forward, gradually bringing the object behind the right door into
view. Vachon swallowed roughly and took a step back. "Is that what it looks like?"

Ivy hit the light switch. The blood burst into sharp relief, some of it on the floor, some
forming jagged slashes on the small, prone mass curled there. Another unwanted memory
flashed to mind. "It's a cat. A dead cat." She kneeled and scrutinized the animal more
closely. Its fur had been short and black, with one or two white hairs sprinkled
throughout. The worst of its injuries had been around the scruff and on the belly, the dark
fur and skin ripped to the spine and abdominal cavity. "It looks like an animal tore into it
before it crawled inside the house to die."

Vachon leaned in behind her. "It's filthy."

He was right. Dirt matted its wounds and caked its fur. "Maybe it was messing around
in the backyard."

"Around Carmen?"

Ivy nodded. "It's the only place near the house with loose dirt like this."

Vachon stalked out of the kitchen, apparently intent on checking the grave. Ivy
scrambled to her feet and followed, dragging to a halt as she reached the front steps.
Sunrise had begun. They didn't have time to be hanging around outside, and he was
halfway across the lawn already. Ivy scowled at the sky and ran after him. "Vachon! It's
too light for this!"

When she caught up with him, he was standing solemnly at the foot of the grave. "It's
okay," he murmured. "I just had this feeling that it would be..."

"Disturbed?" Ivy couldn't see any sign of it. She studied Vachon's expression. He
looked torn between being protective and repulsed.

Vachon stepped back abruptly, a shiver going through him. The mound was unsettling.
He could almost imagine the ground moaning, calling for him to join it. Javier lectured himself. He grabbed Ivy's arm and
pulled her farther away from the turned earth. "Let's go clean up inside." She didn't offer
any argument.

This time, he locked the front door behind them.

Reaching the kitchen again, Ivy wrapped the small, mangled body within the stolen
black towel. She mused privately that the new linen had been fun while it lasted. Now, it
was a shroud to dispose of as quickly as possible. She glanced around the empty kitchen,
wondering what to do next. "It's times like this that I wish we actually had appliances in
here. A freezer, for instance. I can't bury it for twelve hours, and the body's already
starting to smell." She wrinkled her nose.

"Put it in the sink." Nothing was mentioned about Ivy's assumption that she would be
the one digging come nightfall. Vachon searched the cleaning supplies in the cabinet
underneath. He passed Ivy a box of baking soda, on the off chance that might cut down on
any rancid smells. She lifted one corner of the towel and covered the body with white
powder, suspicious that she was only making matters worse. Still, baking soda worked in
cat litter, so maybe it worked in the case of dead cat.

Next Vachon produced a jug of bleach for erasing the stains on the floor. He tilted the
container thoughtfully, as though he expected it to be heavier. Vachon glanced up and
caught Ivy's wary stare at the cleaner. "Why don't you sweep up the dirt? I'll tackle the
blood," he suggested softly.

They understood each other's weaknesses.

Ivy started sweeping in the foyer. The grand stairs seemed to loom over her, bringing
the frightening idea that they had never searched the entire house. She continued to carry
the lingering sensation that something else was there. Ivy didn't want to concentrate on it,
not while the sun made the house into a prison. She moved through her task as quickly as
possible, so she could wait halfway up the stairs, keeping Vachon constantly in sight as he
bleached the marble free of blood.

They went upstairs together, they entered the master bedroom together, and they
showered off the grime together. They tangled on the futon, the most blatant signs of any
unease disfigured by the comforting intimacy. Kissing formed a better world of disarray -
dizzy and lost, but never threatening. The memory of their bodies pulsing under the
other's touch was more acceptable than the haunting of lives past that had slipped from
their grasp. Buried, but not forgotten. Never quite managing to become ancient history,
even while buried in another.

On the surface, the house seemed peaceful. Heady whispers and a few rumbling,
pleasured moans broke up the silence. At face value, nothing existed that wouldn't delight
the ears. Deep in the subconscious, there were other sounds - a wounded animal
scratching at the door, seeking warmth and aid, finding only an empty house. Footsteps,
hardly registering a touch, more like a trespassing shadow than a solid intruder. Screams
demanding rescue trampled the quiet, paired with faint mocking laughter and hissing
undertones.

Wrapped around another body, sinking into the moment, it was simple to delude the
mind that these were all tricks, flashes of history loitering at the edge of thought. It wasn't
real. It wasn't happening. It couldn't touch you, not like a lover scratching at your back,
not like their breath sliding over your skin or their passion flowing into you.

It was easier to pretend when the truth was very ugly and hard to stomach. It was
easier to close your eyes and drink.

************************************************************************
End of Part Thirty-Six

Survivors (37/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Less than five minutes after Nick arrived at the loft, the lift door rolled open to reveal
Natalie. He was pleased, but he hadn't expected her so soon. "That was quick."

"I know," Natalie agreed. "I started for the hotel, but then I started thinking how easy
it would be for me to chicken out once I was at the suite, all safe and sound."

"It's not safe here?" Nick didn't say the words in a strongly challenging way. His point
was to reiterate what he was hearing.

Natalie glanced away. "You know what I meant."

Nick shook his head earnestly. "No, Nat. I don't. Explain it to me."

She grew slightly defensive, pointing at him as her eyes flashed. "That is what I meant.
You want me to explain exactly what I'm feeling, and when I *don't* know exactly what I
am feeling, well...that *feels* threatening."

"But it didn't kill you to explain," Nick teased.

"It doesn't have to kill me to be an effective deterrent." Her expression was good-
natured, but her eyes conveyed that she was serious about the message. Natalie moved
forward and dropped her briefcase on the closest leather chair. As she began to unbutton
her overcoat, Nick wrapped his arms around her from behind, taking oblique advantage of
helping her shrug it off. Nat tensed momentarily before she relaxed, closing her eyes as his
hands traveled from her shoulders to the tips of her fingers. As she murmured "Thank
you," for the assistance, her eyes opened and she regrouped. "The point is," Natalie said
as she watched Nick hang up her coat, "I was ready to explain, so I did. If I figure
anything else out, you'll be the first person I'll share it with - trust me."

"I believe you." Nick turned away from the closet and stated frankly. "But you have to
understand how frustrating the wait is. I don't know how much longer I can pretend to be
patient."

"Turnabout's fair play," Natalie said under her breath with a reminiscent tweak of her
mouth.

Nick shared the memory and gave a short nod. "I strung you along, making you wait
while I struggled with my personal demons," he stated.

"Uh-huh." Natalie dragged the agreement out slowly for emphasis. "And I managed to
fake patience for a fair sentence longer. Years, not months."

"I didn't realize you were pretending." His voice betrayed a measure of hurt, partly at
the deception, partly that his behavior had necessitated it.

"I was never a saint, Nick. I tried to be your friend, though, and sometimes that was a
heavy load to carry." She gave him a knowing look. "What else was I supposed to do?
You don't take criticism well, you know. I caught on to that much. It was always hanging
over me. There were times I could have been angrier, when I could have shown I was hurt
or been a little more honest or challenging. You were still the one who could pack up and
disappear without a trace or a word if I pushed too hard. I knew it, and I didn't want you
to go, so I played along. I only let it out when I was desperate. For almost six years I
pulled it off, with very few cracks giving way in the veneer." Natalie gazed intently at
Nick, searching for signs that he understood. His expression evidenced that her words had
hurt him, and Natalie felt a wave of remorse. She hadn't intended that. She wanted to
clear out some of this old dust that had settled over their relationship, not choke from it.
"Nick..." She breathed out his name on a sigh, reaching out to caress his jaw. "I know I
sound bitter and calculating and condemning, but that's not what it was, really. You were
a special part of my life, and I didn't want it to end without a word and sheets over the
furniture."

"And even when I thought I needed to leave," Nick said urgently. "I didn't want to let
you go."

"I know that now. I kept my own fears and insecurities to myself more often than not.
That was my choice. It may come across as complaining, but I don't mean for what I'm
saying to sound like I hold you to blame. I don't. I'm upset at myself, because so much of
my confusion now is a muddle of my own making. You know, at the end, I made such
grand arguments in the name of faith, but the whole reason I felt so frantic was that I had
allowed so much time to pass without testing my own. Every time there was an Alyce
Hunter or Marian Blackwing, every time Janette popped into the equation...Sometimes I
thought the jealousy would eat me alive. I would feel betrayed and furious and devastated,
then I would suddenly realize that I had never stood up for myself. What did I expect? I
never told you that I was in love with you - I waited for you to give me some sign, to
sweep me off my feet rather than take the offensive. I never demanded anything but
friendship from you, so what business did I have getting bent out of shape when that was
what I got? I didn't have the nerve to test the limits of my faith in what I felt for you, and I
wasn't willing to test my faith in what I believed you felt, either. I dreamed and pretended
everything was going smoothly, and I was a very good and patient girl up until the last
year."

Nick took her by the hand and led her over to the sofa. He had never focused on this
part of their past, that their companionable years together may have been a struggle for
her. It was a bleak subject to hear, but this aspect of Natalie's life obviously troubled her
greatly. How often did she share such an insight in how she thought and felt? He wanted
to understand, even though it left him with the sensation that his own choices in their
relationship had been inadequate. He wanted to comfort her, despite Natalie's past
allegations that she was inconsolable. Nick settled in one corner of the couch, curling Nat
in his lap. She didn't resist, tucking her head against his shoulder.

"I remember when you moved out," Nick said softly as he hugged Natalie to his chest,
gently brushing the ends of her hair smooth with his fingers. "You said that the mortal
Natalie that I believed in - the woman that I loved, that I wrote music for, garlanded with
flowers and painted - you said was dead. You said she symbolized honesty, innocence,
strength and hope, and all those qualities had been cauterized out of you when you
became a vampire. Is that what hurts you so much? You believe that the woman I am in
love with is the person you pretended to be?"

"Yes. That's what I believe." Her voice was muffled into his chest. "That's the only
woman I ever let you know."

"I don't agree. Nat, there have been times in my life when I believed my humanity was
entirely lost, so I acted accordingly. Why even make a false attempt when you are a
creature devoid of the emotions your victims possess? When I met you, though, when I
finally tried to live like a human and love like a human, I realized that humanity is not a
mantle you can assume from a void. There has to be some existing capacity to pretend
convincingly. You say this Natalie isn't real, but she had to come from somewhere. All of
her traits were a part of you. I still see them now, when you're torn up by Captain Reese's
injuries. I see them as you struggle with your hunting instincts. If you didn't have some
capacity of hope for another kind of life, believe me, you would give in to them
completely." Her face tilted up slightly, and he could read the doubt stretched over her
features. "As for that being the only woman you ever let me know, who have I been
chasing after for the past four months? A woman who is frightened and dismayed at the
turn her world has taken. A person wary of being hurt and disappointed again. A person
whose hope has been badly bruised, who has learned what it means to be killed and to kill
others."

Natalie shut her eyes at that statement. It was another of the lessons she had come to
understand late in the game - the reality of the guilt that had burdened Nick all of these
years, a yoke that she had taken on with Barney's death. Once she started allowing herself
to feel anything again, the remorse had set in like an infection.

He seemed to hear her question, though it remained a silent thought. "I've felt the same
things, Nat. I've experienced every one, so how could I fault you for sharing them?" He
tightened his hold on her, his lips drifting against her forehead. "I've made mistakes from
the moment we met. You would think that, after eight hundred years, I'd be little bit better
at saying the right thing when I needed to say it, but I still flounder when it means the
most. I said that I didn't want to condemn you to be a vampire, and I spoke the truth. The
reason wasn't just some idea that it would taint your pure image or that I wouldn't allow
you any weaknesses. It's this. What you feel right now. I knew that it would cause you
pain, the darkness would make your heart heavy, and the death would make you feel
disconnected and unworthy of everything that you found joy in during your life before.
Natalie, I didn't want to see you hurt, not simply from the act of losing control and hurting
you myself, but hurt from the dilemmas that come afterward, when it's not so easy to
believe there's a chance for relief. Now that it's happened, I wish I could take the pain
away from you. At the same time, I feel closer to you than I ever did before. I couldn't
have loved a saint, Nat, not forever." He sought her eyes, intensely affirming that he had
her whole attention. Nick stared into her, his gaze willing her to share his confidence. "I
need someone human, not an ideal. I need a real woman, with her own weaknesses and
perfections. I need *you,* Natalie. I love you. That's why I haven't given up on us, and I
won't. Whatever problems that are troubling you, whatever rises up to knock me down,
we can survive it together if we work at it."

Natalie experienced a warm glow at his words, a peace settling over a portion of her
stormy heart. It was strange, to be so impressed that his declaration came despite an
awareness of her faults. her thoughts
mocked. came a swift reply. He loved her. Nick
loved her even though she was a killer, even though she could be angry, selfish and afraid.
She knew she should say something, return
the sentiment in some way. She felt the same, didn't she? Isn't that why she flew over
rather than running to the hotel?

Natalie remained silent, instead, holding onto him tightly. She wasn't quite ready to
throw away her fears, but she was through pushing him away. She was relieved that Nick
seemed to accept her quiet. He didn't say any more, and Natalie felt this was the right
state of things. He'd said exactly what he needed to say, when he needed to say it.
Suddenly she was struck by his earlier words, his self-criticism that, after eight centuries,
he should have that skill honed to perfection. A need to reassure him overcame her delight
with the silence. "Nick?"

"Yeah, Nat?" he replied softly.

"I needed to hear that. Thank you. It makes a difference."

"It does?"

"Yes."

"I'm glad." His breath tickled her hair, and Nick seemed to relax, settling into the
leather cushions as if he had no intention of moving, of letting her out of his arms, for the
remainder of the day.

Natalie thought peacefully. It was her first
peaceful thought outside the battlefield of recrimination, hunger, desire and unease, and
she felt she should enjoy it while it lasted. She released the remaining tension in her body,
treating Nick's arms similarly to the cozy cocoon of her old pink bathrobe.

It was simple pleasure, spending the daylight snuggled in the arms of a loved one. A
tide of calm swept over them as the hours passed, and they both fell into a light sleep.
Natalie awoke once, recognizing the sensation of comfortable happiness at where she was.
More than talk of love and acceptance, something else had snuck into this time together
on an undercurrent. Natalie realized that they both trusted each other again. Maybe, just
maybe, neither of them had ever truly lost their faith. Natalie
fell back asleep with a soft smile gracing her lips.

The peace lasted hours longer, until the sharp interruption of the ringing phone.

************************************************************************
End of Part Thirty-Seven

Survivors (38/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

It was a harsh form of reveille, and Nick's first instinct was to release a growl in the
direction of the telephone. Likewise, Natalie started, giving an annoyed whimper at the
sudden noise.

She fidgeted as though she intended to get up when the phone repeated its summons.
Nick buried his fingers in her hair, urging her head back into a resting position against his
chest. "The machine'll pick up," he muttered groggily.

The machine did. The recording of Nick's voice rolled out a routine statement, beeped,
and Schanke's impatient greeting came over the line.

"I've already called over to the morgue, and I know you didn't spend the day there,
partner, so you'd *better* be home and ready to pick up the phone."

Nick emitted a circumspect grunt at that assumption, at this point fairly confident that
he wasn't moving.

Schanke's voice dangled a carrot. "I found a connection with Pulte..."

The name brought Nick awake like fingers snapping in front of his eyes. A short,
burdened sigh signified that he really wished that he didn't need to move, but he
acknowledged that the need was there, nonetheless. He circumspectly slipped from
underneath Natalie's resting form, taking care to not disturb her unduly. She stirred
slightly at his absence, and Nick was slow to lift his hands away from her shoulders,
breaking that final contact, but the sound of Schanke's excitement broadcasting from the
answering machine spurred him onward.

He swiped the receiver from its cradle and walked to the kitchen as he spoke,
ostensibly to take the noise out of Nat's range, so that she could go on sleeping. "Yeah,
Schank, I'm here."

"Took you long enough," Schanke retorted. "What happened to Mr. 'Oh, I'm Going
To Slave The Day Away By Lambert's Side'?" Don's voice grew accusatory. "You've
slept, haven't you!?" An envious sigh drifted over the line. "Man, I remember the last time
I got a full eight hours...slept like the dead. Hey, everyone thought I was dead - maybe
that had something to do with it. Now...now I'm lucky to even wave at my pillow in
passing. So what happened? Did Natalie kick you out of her office, and you ran home to
dream away your sorrows?"

"No," Nick said evasively. "Nat didn't kick me out of the office."

"So what...?" The penny dropped. "Ohhhh. So you *did* slave the day away by
Lambert's side!" He produced another envious sigh. "Man, I remember the last time I got
to slave away on Myra -"

"Schanke." Nick decided to interrupt, before Don shared or assumed anything else.
"You discovered something about Pulte that you needed to share?" he prompted. As
Schanke spoke, he absently opened the refrigerator and began to shuffle bottles.

"I found a goldmine on our sergeant in the interdepartmental correspondence,"
Schanke boasted. "Well, a paper trail giving him a motive, at least." He gave a smug
chuckle. "There was some dish about your old partner, Tracy, too. Did you know Forrest
labeled her 'insubordinate'?"

Nick frowned. "Tracy? Not so that I noticed."

Schanke made a knowing sound. "From the way Forrest carried on in some of her
letters and memos, I get the impression she'd have fired the rain if it fell on her without
permission. Can you imagine Pulte working under someone like that? She really did him a
favor rejecting his application, though I guess he didn't see it that way in the end."

Nick's hand stilled around a bottle of steer blood. "What, Pulte applied for a detective
position in the Corporate Crime Division?"

"Yep, apparently to fill the job Tracy left behind. Who knew the guy had a degree in
accounting? Anyway, Forrest wasn't the only one who didn't promote Pulte. Dell passed
him by over a year ago, after which the sergeant put in a transfer to the 96th."

"And we both know that Reese thought Pulte didn't have enough experience to replace
Clare. He offered James Curran the promotion, instead," Nick said thoughtfully.

"Bingo!" Schanke agreed. "So all this rejection makes something snap in our mild-
mannered sergeant, and he begins to strike out at the people in authority who turned him
down."

"Okay, it's a motive," Nick allowed, "but do you really think that is what happened?
Can you really imagine Pulte shooting the Captain, putting him into a coma?"

"Honestly, Nick?" There was a slight pause. "No," came Schanke's reluctant admission
over the line. "But I keep reminding myself I've seen a lot of pretty unimaginable things in
this job. My gut instinct may tell me that Pulte's all wrong for the crime, but we have
enough that we have to at least bring him in for questioning."

"Let's run this by Stonetree, then. Bring him up to speed before we put an APB out on
Pulte and get a warrant to search his home."

"You want me to call, or shall we visit in person?" Schanke asked.

"In person." Nick nodded to himself. He suddenly looked around at his surroundings,
realizing that he was standing with the fridge open, a bottle hanging limply from his hand.
Is that how he wanted to start the...day? Nick glanced at his wrist and found it bare.
Apparently he'd taken his watch off sometime earlier, hopefully where he would find it
again with little trouble. "Schank, what time is it?"

"Going on five," Schanke answered. "I guess that means I'll see you sooner if I show
up at the loft, rather than hang around the precinct twiddling my thumbs."

Nick frowned. He'd wanted to be around when Natalie woke up, and he had his doubts
that she'd be enchanted if Don waltzed in here smirking, even if he meant it in a good-
natured way. "Schank, I don't think that's such a -"

His partner's attention was already elsewhere. "I'll just grab a souvlaki on the way. See
you in thirty. Hasta la by bye." The line went dead.

Nick sighed and put the bottle of blood back into the refrigerator, then allowed the
door to float shut. The day had been so momentous, sharing it with Natalie, baring so
many of his feelings, he believed the night should have a meaningful beginning, too. It
shouldn't be business as usual. It shouldn't be rushed.

A sixth sense told him he should turn around and look at the sofa. Natalie had woken
up at some point during the phone call. Now she was sitting on her knees, staring at him
consideringly over the back. Nick held up the phone. "It was Schanke," Nick explained as
he strolled over to the answering machine, dropping the receiver back into its cradle. "I'm
sorry, but he's coming over in half an hour."

"Why are you putting an APB out on Pulte?" Her quizzical expression conveyed that
she hadn't woken soon enough to overhear any discussion of motive.

"We traced the gun Curran found the ballistics match on to a weapons buy-back that
Pulte worked last August," Nick summarized for her. "It turns out that Pulte had
petitioned for a promotion to Detective with all three of the Captains, and each one turned
him down."

"Pulte..." Natalie shook her head. "Nick, you know how he comes across. I can't think
of a single sign while we've worked with him that he's capable of the violence inflicted on
Reese, Forrest and Dell."

He moved to stand in front of her, his hands overlapping Natalie's where they rested
on the back roll of the couch. "But you know the degree of violence we have been capable
of - it's just another surprise that's difficult to understand or accept."

"If it's true," Natalie said, her voice faint. "Rejection could be a honest motive."

"Enough of one that I have to check it out. I've got my doubts about it, too, Nat."

She nodded before continuing in a casual tone. "So Schanke's on his way over. What
should I do? Sneak out the side stairs, or drape myself over the banister?"

Nick grinned. "You don't have to do either. He did guess that you're here, though."

"That's the problem with hanging out with detectives," Natalie observed. "Every once
in a while, they detect."

Nick thought to himself. At the moment, he would have loved to
detect exactly what was going through Natalie's mind. She hadn't made any reference to
their discussion in the early morning - was she shutting him out again? he reminded himself. "I
wish that this hadn't come up tonight. I don't want to walk out, put things on hold until
another time. Not now." He studied her features, worried at how she might react.

Natalie shook her head slowly. "But you should. Are you frightened, Nick? Do you
think I'm going to throw a fit because I believe you're abandoning me in favor of work,
because you've found some other crusade that needs you more?"

Nick eyed her warily. She didn't sound accusatory, more like she had insight to some
secret that was lost to him. "The thought crossed my mind," he answered tentatively.

"That's the way you've been since the night we met, Nick," Nat said, her features
spreading in a faint smile. "Before that, even. It's one of the reasons I..." she hesitated, her
eyes darting to the side briefly before she continued, "It's one of your most admirable
qualities. If, from time to time, I've wished that you were different or resented that I
didn't always come first...well, Nick...that's my problem. Not yours. If you put the case on
hold tonight so that we could spend the time together, we'd both know that it would be a
mistake."

Nick brought one of her hands to his mouth, emotionally kissing the back of one palm.
"Are you sure?"

Natalie nodded. "I'm sure. I wouldn't mind sharing a quick protein shake before
Schanke arrives, though."

"I think we can manage that," Nick assured her. Natalie stood where she'd been sitting
on the sofa cushions, and he lifted her by the waist, over the back and to the floor at his
side in one smooth movement.

"Thank you," Natalie said politely.

"You're welcome."

They walked up to the kitchen counter together, Natalie sorting out the blender while
Nick dug out the shake mix. "Just because I need to follow up on Pulte doesn't mean you
can't take the night off." Nick tried to sound casual. "You could stay here. I'd like it if
you did."

Nat paused momentarily as she scooped mix into the blender. "I have a few things I
should follow up on, myself. I'll duck upstairs when Schanke arrives. I'm not awake
enough for that, yet. Then I should finally stop by the hotel, check on Sid, and change."
She secured the lid and pushed the motor into high gear, making any immediate response
awkward.

Nick used the time to fetch two tumblers from the cabinet. As the noise died down, he
unhitched the glass carafe from its base and proceeded to fill both their cups. "When will I
see you again?" he asked softly. He was trying not to push, but he wanted some kind of
concrete reaffirmation that they had reached a new understanding.

Natalie picked up the tumblers while Nick washed the carafe out in the sink. "I'll come
back after work," she promised softly. "Maybe I'll bring Sidney along. He has four months
of upholstery-scratching to catch up on. He'll be a giddy kitty." Natalie held out one of the
glasses to Nick. He accepted it, and she tilted her cup forward good-naturedly. "Cheers."

He lifted his tumbler to click against hers, returning the toast. "To us."

Natalie licked her upper lip in a brief, nervous movement, before repeating, "To us."

They watched each other over the rims of their glasses as they took first sips of the
protein concoction. They simultaneously made faces of displeasure at the first swallow,
and both began to laugh at the expression on the other's features.

"This reminds me," Natalie said, speaking as a diversion from the next swallow. "I've
been thinking more about a cure the past few weeks. I thought of something else that
might help."

"Really? What?"

"Actually, it was an old idea that I never got to follow up on," Natalie admitted. "It has
to do with -"

The downstairs buzzed interrupted.

Nick looked at her apologetically. "Schanke's here."

"That's okay. We can talk about it later."

Nick felt frustrated with the promise. With all the time in the world at his disposal, it
still always seemed to pass either too quickly or too slow. "Later," he repeated, his voice
betraying his dissatisfaction.

She reached out to him with her free hand, moving closer. That choice alone went a
long way toward bolstering his certainty that the night apart was worth enduring. He
wasn't going to lose her just because he couldn't stay by her side.

Natalie kissed him. Her lips were cool and soft, a question and an answer all at once.
The aftertaste of the protein shakes clung to their tongues, the flavor of an indefinite
future, but one they would not ignore. Nick also thought he tasted acceptance, as though
Natalie was telling him with a brush of her mouth that she knew, even though he wouldn't
spend the next hours with her physically, she would be on his mind. her
kiss told him.

The buzzer sounded again. Natalie stepped back, sending him a regretful smile. She
toasted toward him with her glass one last time, saying the word again in a firm voice,
"Later," before slipping up the stairs.

Nick took a moment to savor the thought, though he could see from the security
camera that Schanke was motioning at it impatiently. Nick grinned, risking a moment of
contentment, allowing himself a few private seconds to enjoy the idea that everything was
going to be right with his world before unlocking the door for his partner.

****************************************************************
End of Part Thirty-Eight

Survivors (39/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

O'Neal was surprised to see a cat waiting anxiously on the other side of the suite door
when he trespassed. The cat was surprised too. The moment it realized the individual at
the door was a stranger, it disappeared to a room on the left in a blur of gray and white
fur. A walkthrough proved that this was a small secondary bedroom, stacked with boxes,
a full-sized bed, and a large wood construction. The latter was apparently some sort of
scratching post-cum-jungle gym for the feline, woefully abandoned in favor of hiding
under the bed.

The reflection of the cat's suspicious eyes in the dark lent an odd atmosphere. They
were a pale yellow-green, a shade O'Neal commonly associated with the unholy creatures
he hunted, expressing their rage just before he put an end to their otherworldly crimes.
These belonged to a cat, and they were wary. Instinctively, the cat seemed to be aware of
what he was about - destroying a predator with glittering eyes like its own - and had
cowered under cover.

"My battle's not with the likes of you, cat," O'Neal said aloud, touched with a sudden
need to explain himself. "You've nothing to fear."

A stranger speaking to it translated as too much attention for the feline. Its hiding place
must be insufficient. It crawled backward, further under the bed and out of sight. O'Neal
clamped his lips together firmly at the failure. What was he doing, offering foolish
sentiments to a cat? "So that's what you want," he said gruffly, moving around the bed to
slit a sideways glance through the mildest crack where the heavy curtains of the room's
window met windowsill. "Call a spade a spade. I've come here to send your owner off to
hell, cat. I don't suppose you're too partial to that plan, either. What's to become of a
scruff like you when Doctor Lambert has a stake through her heart?"

Whether the cat found this confession any more disturbing was unclear. It certainly
didn't approve of the stranger's continuing acknowledgment. Letting out a mewl of
warning to keep away, it shot out from under the bed, belly hovering just over the floor,
and ran from the room. O'Neal watched as its tail slinked through the doorway, the gray-
white blur moving to the other unexplored room this time. He paused to open the sliding
doors of the closet before following, finding it stacked with packing boxes similarly to the
rest of the room.

Giving into temptation, he lifted the lid off of one. It was lined with tissue paper, the
contents similarly swaddled. Unfolding the wrapping, O'Neal saw it was a gold evening
gown, the designer kind that cost more than most individuals made in a month. A perfume
stretched from the packing material, a floral scent that he couldn't quite place. Looking
below the gown, O'Neal found another swathed underneath, similarly luxurious, but in a
dark shade of green.

O'Neal repacked the items in a comparatively haphazard fashion. Something about
these gowns felt incongruous with Doctor Lambert, and he wondered if they belonged to
her at all. If they didn't, why did Natalie have them, and where was their owner? O'Neal
swept his gaze over the stacks of boxes partitioning the floor again. They spoke of
interruption, of change and broken plans. Tucked in one corner was a trunk - renegade,
sturdy leather cradled among the rows of makeshift cardboard. The trunk was neat and
maintained in good condition, but it obviously had years on it, if not age, certainly more
than the doctor could claim.

O'Neal moved closer, pushing the surrounding containers out of his way. The trunk
had a lock, but it wasn't indestructible. Considering his impending goal, he wasn't
concerned that someone might discover signs of his curiosity. He jacked the lock open,
leaving scratched ruts in the surrounding leatherwork that spoiled the austere face of the
antique.

There were more clothes inside the trunk, as well as some shoes. These were of no
interest to O'Neal, and he pulled them out of his way, creating a pile on the floor. This
expulsion left the trunk empty except for the built-in drawers lining the bottom. These
were filled with accessories - jewelry, scarves, and the like. The last provided a change,
however. The contents of this drawer revealed a British passport and a pad of hotel
stationery with a logo advertising the 'Somora Nairobi Kenya.' An Ontario address was
scribbled on the top page in a barely legible script. In the bottom of the drawer, O'Neal
found a duffel bag, scuffed and slightly torn, apparently packed and forgotten.

He straightened and flicked the passport open. A woman with a secretive smile looked
out on the world from the identification photo. The name listed was 'Clare Douglas.'

O'Neal recognized the name from searching through archived
police files. It had been the name of Detective Knight's Metro Police partner who had
perished in the line of duty a few months ago. O'Neal had carried suspicions about the
reports of this death already. It had been another fire, killing both a serial killer suspect
and the detective credited with catching him, leaving very little evidence to suggest how
the deaths had come about. Less than a month after the fire that killed Louis Secour and
Amy Martin, this blaze had seemed part of a nefarious pattern. Clare Douglas had
investigated the Secour and Martin cases, and O'Neal had wondered if it had been to
cover up any less-than-acceptable actions on the part of Detective Knight. Her subsequent
death had appeared to be a matter of erasing someone who knew too much. That
suspicion, however, had bloomed under the assumption that Clare Douglas was a mortal.
The passport, the trunk, boxes packed with items that did not belong to the life of a
homicide detective - all of these things revised his theories.

O'Neal
thought. There were rules that law enforcement officers had to be Canadian citizens.
Though Detective Knight's record listed his birthplace as Chicago, it also showed a
naturalization date in the 1980's. For Clare Douglas, her British passport had been used in
traveling to Canada from Kenya less than a month before her police service had begun in
Toronto. He recalled reading one news article concerning the Detective's death that had
mentioned a decade of service on the Canadian police force. To O'Neal, these fragments
did not mesh into a trustworthy picture.

O'Neal clenched his jaw as he slipped the passport into his coat pocket. Lifting the
hotel stationery once more, he also ripped off the page featuring the Canadian address. It
joined the passport within his coat. He recalled a comment Detective Knight had made
regarding Doctor Lambert becoming a vampire.

'Another of my kind interfered and brought Natalie across...'

Was Clare Douglas the one who interfered? Perhaps there was more here that needed
investigation, even after he dealt with the detective and the doctor.

his
thoughts whipped.

O'Neal steeled his mind, pushing away the second-guessing. There were no innocents.
He was a vampire hunter, there was no room for this kind of weakness in his purpose.

Leaving the secondary bedroom, he followed the trail the cat had taken through the
right-handed doorway. It was another bedroom, this one obviously the master suite. This
bedroom was uncluttered, carrying the hollow feel of the typical hotel room. It may be
lovely to look at, but it was not a home. It was a functional place to sleep, with no
personal contribution from the inhabitant to show attachment.

The dresser was bare other than a single bottle of perfume, 'Provocateur.' O'Neal
spritzed a sample in the air. It wasn't the flower scent that had clung to the packing boxes
in the other room, but a perfume he recognized that Doctor Lambert used. After a more
detailed search of the bedroom, the scent was the most dependable sign that she inhabited
this space at all.

The closet door was halfway open, and he pulled it wider. Sure enough, O'Neal found
the cat crouched in the corner, ears flattened. He reached out toward it, but the cat made
warning sound, then slowly shuffled further back into the closet. It discomfited him, this
wrinkle of an animal. Taking Doctor Lambert out of the picture would leave it to fend for
itself. He could not remember encountering such a consequence before, but honestly, he
hadn't given the issue much thought. O'Neal had never considered vampires to be
creatures with any ultimate responsibility other than bloodlust. Keeping a pet was a human
quality. It did not speak of evil, but of patience and kindness. It created an image of
someone who could genuinely feel for the plight of a lesser creature.

O'Neal sneered mentally.

"Something will have to be done about you, as well, cat," he announced, leaving the
confines of the closet. Perhaps he would drop it off at the humane society rather than
leave it here alone.

That would have to wait until after Doctor Lambert arrived. He had chosen to not wait
in the living area. The doctor would see him as soon as the door opened if she didn't sense
him first. Any attack would be fully visible to anyone in the hall, causing complications.
O'Neal decided to shut himself off within the master bedroom. This gave the doctor more
leeway to sense him when she arrived home from the morgue come morning, but his hope
was that she would be too distracted to understand the import of what lay behind that
closed door to go on the defensive.

He turned off the bedroom lights, then sat on the foot of the bed, lifting the satchel that
hung over his shoulder and dropping it to the floor. Zipping it open, O'Neal pulled out his
crossbow, armed it, and spent a minute perfecting his aim at the door. Then, he proceeded
to wait through the night.

As the hours passed, he worked to keep his thoughts empty, focusing only on sounds
external to the room. Around two in the morning, the cat unearthed from the closet and
sent O'Neal a remonstrative look before approaching the shut bedroom door. The cat sat
in front of it, starting up at the door handle for a good half hour, willing it to unlatch itself.
Next, the cat decided that force was necessary. It released a short meow, then began to
scratch at the door. Over and over, the swishing sound of claw tips against woodwork
encroached on O'Neal's concentration. When the cat displayed no inclination to give up
on the prospect of leaving, he sighed and stood, gingerly cracking open the door wide
enough for the cat to escape. It sent him a reproachful glare, just before bouncing through
the fissure. The cat sprang over the couch, then behind the wet bar, where a food
dispenser and other accessories had been set up. He took a moment to check his watch -
sunrise was fast approaching - before closing the bedroom door once more and resuming
his post.

Dawn came and went, with no arrival from Doctor Lambert. The hotel room became
rife with tension for O'Neal. Every second carried the promise of a door being opened.
Every moment held the need to be ready and act decisively.

The morning crept by, and nothing happened.

Gone was the time for vampires to be out, moving in the open.

Doctor Lambert wasn't coming here today.

The sound of the cat scratching the bedroom door broke into O'Neal's contemplation
of the situation, causing him to defensively cock the bolt in his crossbow. The noise
continued incessantly, and the Irishman scowled at the distraction. He jerked the door
open, frowning down at the feline. The cat stared up at him for a moment, seeming to sniff
'You're still here?' Then it pranced over to the entrance of the hotel suite and set up a
watchful position at the crack of the door, as if it intended to make a run into the hotel at
large as soon as the next person tried to enter.

"We'll have none of that, cat," O'Neal announced gruffly. Abandoning his defense, he
crossed the living area, to pick up the waiting feline.

The cat let out a wail of fury as soon as O'Neal began to lift him off the floor. It
screeched a chain of vowel sounds and twisted in his grip, swiping at his forearms with
both front paws. Most of the damage snagged in his coat, but one gash cut from the base
of his thumb to cross his wrist.

O'Neal let out a curse and dropped the animal. The cat ran for cover, darting away
from the stranger and back into the secondary bedroom, no doubt making a return visit
underneath the bed. Clutching his stinging wrist, he was less inclined to worry about the
feline's fate once his work was done. He took it as a sign: no matter how docile the animal
may appear, a predator was still a predator.

He slumped on the couch, contemplating the wrinkle in his plans. If Doctor Lambert
wasn't returning to the hotel today, should he linger another night on the off chance she
stopped by to change before the evening's work? If he chose to remain within the suite,
that brought the additional complication of the nightly visit from the hotel staff to
straighten the premises. Loitering would add the risk of a mortal inadvertently getting in
the way, possibly putting the housekeeper at risk.

O'Neal glowered in the direction of the secondary bedroom. Leaving would also mean
forfeiting the element of surprise. The vandalized trunk clearly evidenced his visit. If the
doctor returned to the hotel before he did, she would know to be on her guard - another
snag in his plans.

His decision-making was protracted for several more hours. Though he could move
outside under a greater amount of light than his vampire prey, he was hampered as much
as they from traveling during the very height of the day. As sunset grew nigh, he would
have to make a judgment whether he would remain on the watch for Doctor Lambert or
switch his target. Until then, he had time to deliberate.

The hours of inactivity nurtured his impatience at the prospect of lingering. He was
ready to act, to bring the curtain down on the months of disorder Detective Knight had
brought to his life. O'Neal fingered the slip of paper in his pocket, wondering if the
address therein held something to be investigated right away. He shook his head at that
thought - he'd been a hunter too long to go on such an errand blind without looking into
the history of the location first.

O'Neal tentatively made a decision, approaching the hotel suite's phone. A simple call
could confirm his next move. He dialed the number to Detective Knight's loft, discovered
through his research on the vampire's history with Metro Police. No one answered, but he
didn't hear a machine message, either. He heard a busy signal.

That meant someone was there.

It was a more promising scenario than a truculent cat in an empty hotel room.

His exodus was efficient, stopping briefly by his own hotel room to see to his own
needs and adjust his own supplies, followed by a swift journey south to Gateway Lane.
The sky had dimmed to a murky tone of red-orange, the last rays of light bent at a low
angle. They seemed to be bowing, offering an apology for the tardy departure.

The sunset reflected off the windows of the building, casting them with a burning,
bloody glow. It was like a call to O'Neal -

Both the garage and stair entrances had alarmed lock systems. Discovering the code
for both had proved elusive in the time he had for research. Blueprints on file downtown
for the warehouse that housed Detective Knight's loft displayed a skylight, another direct
entrance to the premises, though less convenient. O'Neal had ruled the effort of reaching
the roof and breaking in through the skylight as an activity more suited to the vampire's
absence. The noise of such machinations would bring attention, even if the resident slept
heavily. Awake - well, he would soon as well ring the front door and ask to come up for
some killing.

The prognosis called for more waiting - until the detective left.

Only a few minutes had passed when a sedan pulled up to the curb, strategically not
blocking the garage door. Detective Schanke jumped out of the car, apparently in a good
mood from the dance-like shuffle in his step as he approached the downstairs buzzer.
O'Neal wasn't humored by the sight. The partner's arrival meant that the hunter might not
be able to catch Detective Knight on his own when he departed the loft.

There seemed to be some kind of a hold-up at the door. The spring in Schanke's step
turned to toe-tapping impatience as he continued to wait for the alarm to click off for his
entry. After a while, he leaned against the buzzer until the door reacted to his satisfaction.

O'Neal observed solemnly as Schanke disappeared inside. Ten minutes later, the
garage door opened and a familiar Cadillac backed out into the street, Detective Knight
and his partner both ensconced inside. O'Neal's lips thinned as he shadowed the way back
to his own car. He would have to tail the pair until the opportunity presented itself to
catch the vampire alone.

He commenced following the green-metallic convertible at a healthy distance, never
suspecting that Knight's loft might not be empty. There was no one left to witness when
Natalie left an hour later.

**********************************************************************
End of Part Thirty-Nine

Survivors (40/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Vachon awoke to the sound of bells. "Hmm?" He stretched slightly, nuzzling his head
into the hollow of Ivy's shoulder, then lifted his head a little to stare at her. Could she
explain the bells? It was sleepy logic.

The ringing sounded again. Vachon was still a little groggy, but he wasn't completely
without the powers of deductive reasoning. Someone was at the...

Ivy stirred in her sleep, rolling over onto her back. "Jav - the door. Answer it," she
slurred before hugging a pillow to her chest as his replacement.

Vachon wasted some more time staring at her, watching as Ivy dozed off again. It was
interesting how a naked woman could get away with things like that. He made a breathy
sound as he got up, sort of a first acknowledgment for the evening of women and all that
comes with them. By the time he'd grabbed a pair of jeans and slipped them on, the
doorbell had rung again.

He padded out to the landing. Because he could, Vachon jumped over the banister,
landing thirty feet below on the first floor. Preemptively, he had the front door floating
open before anyone could announce his or her presence again.

Vachon eyed the trio posed on his doorstep as he leaned against the frame: Domino
and the Kinsey twins. He considered that it was too bad that he hadn't installed a door
with one of those spy holes, and much worse that he wasn't the type to bother using one.
He had a premonition that he might have been better served not answering the door in this
case, screening his guests and going back to bed. Vachon prepared to offer a
noncommittal greeting, but Dom beat him to the punch.

"You're here!" he exclaimed, as if the Spaniard's presence was completely unexpected.

Despite a fresh bout of curiosity over Dom's surprise, Vachon went with the simple
approach. He was here, so he said, "Yes."

The word seemed to speak volumes as far as Domino was concerned. "Well, I'm glad
Ivy told you beforehand. It might have been awkward otherwise."

Vachon rubbed the stubble on his chin with the palm of his hand. He didn't recall Ivy
telling him anything that involved a visit from Dom and a skimpy twosome. He decided to
play along to find out what he supposedly knew. "Awkward, huh? As in Ives and the
Kinsey twins having a conversation about life in the islands?" He offered the pair of
brunettes a faint welcome. "Hi."

They smiled broadly as they pushed around Domino and stepped past Vachon to enter
the house. Their heels clicked against the marble floor, snappy sounds that seemed to
punctuate the twins' exclamations of delight as they gazed up at the molded ceiling.

"It's wonderful!" one twin cooed.

"You did it all yourself, Vachon?" the other asked with a sense of wonder.

Vachon shrugged. "Most of it." There was a certain mood you had to be in to
appreciate the Kinsey twins' constant state of orgasmic amazement. Unfortunately, he
wasn't in that mood. "Why don't you show yourselves around?" he suggested. He pointed
toward the first doorway to the left. "You can start with the library." At their sultry
frowns of confusion, Vachon elaborated, "Where the books sleep."

"Oh!" one of the twins exhaled excitedly.

"What?" Dom chuckled as the Kinseys clicked eagerly out of sight. "Javier Vachon
nervous about the demondoll meeting a couple of old girlfriends?"

Vachon pushed away from the doorjamb. "I wouldn't say they were 'girlfriends.' It's
not a tawdry enough word."

"How tawdry a vocabulary do you need?"

"You should remember. Gauguin thought we were exhibitionists."

"Oh, right. Funny how that slipped my memory," Domino said with false innocence. "I
hope Ivy's not the jealous type."

Vachon's gaze narrowed. "Sure you don't." He'd bet his guitar that Domino would
love nothing more. He didn't really know. Tracy...now Tracy
would have had a fit that he even knew two women like the Kinsey twins. She would have
pouted, or compulsively started rearranging the furniture. That, or she would have
spouted something about relationships that he didn't particularly care to understand,
because he never had anything to contribute that she'd wanted to hear. Ivy...well, Ivy
wasn't Tracy, to put it mildly.

Domino ignored Vachon's last comment, waving the Spaniard further outside. "Come
on. Help me unload the blood from the car."

Against his better judgment, Vachon complied. "You brought blood?" He had a
suspicion this bountiful event was connected to that thing that Ivy had supposedly told
him.

"Yes, and not just enough for me. Enough to share." Dom popped the trunk open,
exposing a horde of casings. "There's hard liquor, too, for any mortals."

Vachon thought while Domino shoved a wood frame filled with bottles into
his arms. Serving hard liquor to mortals - that sounded like a...

"While we're still remotely on the topic of exhibitionists," Domino sniffed as he hefted
a box from his trunk, "is that what you're wearing?"

Vachon glanced around the crate he was holding. He had jeans. He was wearing them.
"Yes," he replied slowly, not certain what Domino's point was, but a nasty guess was
forming in his head.

That was apparently the wrong answer. "Do you really think that's suitable for hosting
a party?" Domino was of a mind that his own pinstriped suit was the appropriate thing.

Yes, it was probably too late to deny knowledge in the hopes that Dom and the twins
would go away, but Vachon made an attempt anyway. "I'm hosting a what?"

Domino's expression pinched. "Ivy didn't tell you? And you just let me go on and
spill..."

"Your guts. That'd be fun. Call the party off."

"I can't," Domino protested. "Your friends will be on the way already."

Vachon's expression closed. "All of my friends are dead." He watched as hurt flashed
across Domino's features. Mission accomplished. "Anyone you invited is either best
forgotten or a pain in the ass. If I wanted to hang out with them, *I* would have issued
the invitation."

"You may be uninterested in making new friends," Dom said warningly, "but
apparently Ivy is of another mind. Are you going to hold her back?" His lip piercing
clicked against his teeth as he tsked. "Not a good idea, badboy."

Vachon frowned. Dom made it sound like Ives was a prisoner on the verge of riot. He
didn't believe that, but the suggestion made him think twice. Thinking twice reminded him
of the invitation to leave town Robert had issued to her last night. Vachon didn't like
thinking about that at all. He started walking up the front stairs,
bringing the crate of blood bottles along for the ride. He tossed a question for Domino
over his shoulder. "Was this party her idea?"

"Of course. I'm smart enough to not think of it, myself," Dom answered to his back. "I
would have steered clear, but she asked nicely for help with the invites. I couldn't resist."

His reply was amiable, but there was something in it that rubbed Vachon the wrong
way. Maybe it was the insinuation that Domino was Ivy's confidant - that she was willing
to share things with the other vampire that she wouldn't even bother mentioning to
Vachon until the time for discussion had passed. It grated that Ivy might trust Domino
more when push came to shove. It ricocheted as well, making him wonder how much she
was holding back from him that he should really know about. How much did he trust her?

As Vachon and Domino entered the house, the Kinsey twins meandered from the
direction of the kitchen. One of them was holding her nose. "There's a *dead thing* in
there!" she said accusingly.

"Honey," Domino said as he passed her by and made his own way toward the kitchen
to deposit the case of rum he was carrying, "I'd watch what you call a 'dead thing'
tonight. Someone might take exception."

The Kinsey twin oohed with dismay and stomped one heel. "I mean it! There's
something smelly in your sink!"

"I know what you mean," Vachon assured her.

Domino wandered back into the room, looking somewhat queasy. "What kind of kinky
stuff have you and Ivy been doing with the local wildlife? Bury it already!"

"It's on the agenda," Vachon commented.

"We haven't seen the second floor, yet," the other Kinsey twin announced. "Is there
anything dead up there?"

An image of Ivy as he left her sleeping flashed through Vachon's mind. "Not quite."
He gestured for Domino to come along. "Time to wake up Ivy."

"What? She's still lolling about?" Domino jogged up the staircase behind him, and the
Kinsey twins, always insatiable and curious, brought up the rear.

Ivy was still stretched out on her side, not awake, but not quite lolling either. Bonded
with her pillow and tangled in the sheets, she was strategically covered. Dom still studied
her with interest, despite the most interesting bits being barred from view. "Does the
'Let's not bother getting dressed' dress code around here mean it's going to be one of
*those* parties?"

"I'm game," one of the Kinsey twins said. The Kinsey twins usually were.

Vachon ignored them, crouching on the mattress next to Ivy. She really deserved a
rude awakening for inviting a crowd over for blood shots and slam dancing. Considering
Dom had everything to do with it, there would be a hundred of the people he least wanted
to see crawling the woodwork. Not fun. Vachon
tempered his annoyance, not bothering to finish that thought. Seeing Ivy rest peacefully,
though, her features and body relaxed after months of tossing and turning, he couldn't
bring himself to vent his aggravation by jerking her awake. He bent over her instead,
nibbling her earlobe before he whispered her name. She made a small sound of
acknowledgment, but didn't open her eyes. Vachon repeated himself, this time a little
louder. "Ives."

Both of the Kinsey twins had kneeled onto the futon by this point. The fact that they
couldn't keep off any available bed space was one their most popular qualities. One twin
spooned Ivy from behind as she took a closer look at the other woman's improbable hair
color, lifting one red-melon lock for emphasis. "Is she in a rock band? She looks like a
punk vixen." The twin smiled broadly, clearly approving of things fast and loose, be they
music or morals.

The other Kinsey was more inclined to a maternal cuddle. She leaned over her twin
with concern, propped her hands on Ivy's midriff, and asked Vachon loudly, "She doesn't
seem to hear you. Is she deaf? It's not a problem if she is. I know sign language. I'm very
good with my hands."

Vachon was spared mentioning that he remembered the twin's talent, because at that
moment Ivy decided to wake up.

It wasn't so much the lover whispering in the ear or the noise that snapped her alert. It
was the abrupt realization that there were a lot more people on the bed than were officially
sanctioned. Ivy's lids flicked open, and she recognized Vachon's lap. She didn't have a
problem with that view, but it didn't explain who was spooning her. She twisted her head
slightly to the right and found a voluptuous brunette dangling over her. Doubly strange,
she caught sight of an identical voluptuous brunette on the edge of her peripheral vision. It
felt like this one was playing with her hair. "Hello!" Ivy spouted, sitting up straight, and
suddenly very, very awake.

Because Ivy seemed too distracted to bother herself, Vachon caught her pillow and
held it in place over her chest. Chances are, Ivy wouldn't have fretted over going topless
even if she hadn't been distracted. Dom was looking, though - too eagerly - so Vachon
enforced some prerogative. He had a brief list of things Ivy wasn't going to get away with
sharing.

Vachon settled his chest against Ivy's bare back as his arms slid around her, and he
spoke in her ear again. "Surprise. There was a party at the door."

Ivy sat quietly as she soaked in the surrounding atmosphere. Pissed or not pissed?
Happy or unhappy? She spared the twins some double vision. Real or fake? She tried on a
hopeful grin. "A party? That's a great idea!"

"You think so?" Vachon's tone spelled clear disagreement.

Ivy glanced over her shoulder and nodded. Her hopes sunk as she found that Javier had
that concrete wall expression he used in the place of furious dementia. she mused. She looked for a scapegoat - the messenger.

Ivy turned rebellious eyes on Domino. "Aren't you early?" she demanded.

Domino casually inspected the sheen of his fingernails. "It's later than you think,
demondoll. In fact, the party might be over."

"Already?" One of the Kinsey twins stretched, severely testing the resilience of her
bandeau.

The other had reverted to playing with her own hair after Ivy had straightened. "That
was quick." It wasn't a comment a Kinsey twin made often where their fun was
concerned.

Ivy swiveled with alarm to face Vachon. "You're not serious. It's a party. I can't
believe you'd veto a party. It's...it's..." she sputtered.

"Nice to be asked, not given the plan after the fact," Vachon supplied for her.

"I was going to say 'it's not you,'" Ivy retorted.

The Kinsey twins chimed in their opinions as the doorbell sounded from below.

"I'll say. Who ever heard of Javier Vachon turning down a party?"

"That's like me, well, turning *anyone* down!" The twins shared throaty, dubious
laughter at that impossibility.

Ivy watched the brunettes jiggle knowingly. "You're the Kinsey twins, aren't you?"

"Yes!"

Ivy's eyes sparkled with interest. "I've heard so much about you."

"You have?" This frowning question came from Vachon. He glared at Domino, who
shrugged unapologetically.

The doorbell rang again. "Shall I answer that?" Dom wondered aloud. "What should I
tell them? Trick or treat?"

That earned him another glare from both Vachon and Ivy, united in their annoyance at
the Halloween imagery.

Ivy turned back to Vachon, meeting his gaze. "You heard him. It's your choice."

"Is it?" he countered. He didn't say the other things that went through his head, things
like she was lying if she claimed he had a choice, how saying 'no' to her at the moment
was more hell than he wanted to pay. He let the silence hang in place of the truth. He
didn't want to say it mattered, and he wouldn't, not while Dom was smugly soaking up
every word he offered. "Dom," he said slowly. "Will you and the twins greet our guests
while we finish getting ready? Keep them downstairs and out of the kitchen."

Domino did, for the first time appearing disappointed that a Kinsey was leading him
anywhere, especially out of that room. One twin, as sharp as her high heels, thought to
close the door behind the trio.

Vachon tossed Ivy's pillow aside and hauled her into his lap. "You know, I'd already
resigned myself to this party thing before we came upstairs. Domino was just making
trouble."

"You don't want a party. That makes trouble possible." She threw her hands up in the
air even as she settled close and tight. "All right, I admit Dom warned me that you
wouldn't want to throw a rave here, and I didn't listen. My bad."

"When it comes to being helpful," Vachon murmured, "Domino certainly helps
himself." He ran a hand over her hair. The color was still an eyesore, and going to sleep
with it damp that morning had left her with an awful case of bed head. "I can handle a
party, even if I've had reason to avoid most of the people Dom's sure to have invited.
They'll probably trash the place, you know."

"Well, it's supposed to be a housewarming," Ivy pointed out. "New house and all that.
It's tradition."

Vachon called her on the 't' word. "Since when are you named 'Cleaver'?"

"It's not that lame of an excuse," she protested. "Besides, most people have precious
belongings to shove out of the way. What's to trash? We're sitting on our only furniture.
This place screams for a bash." On cue, boisterous shrieking came from downstairs,
followed by the crank of music.

"You could have just as easily presented this to me before you drafted Domino,"
Vachon told her. "I don't like how I keep turning around to find you've run off to the
circus without me, and I'm just supposed to accept whatever clown you come back with."
Her bright hair earned a new frown.

"You think you make it easy?" Ivy tucked her head against his shoulder, her voice
vibrating against his throat. "You don't."

Vachon didn't deny the suggestion. Just then, he didn't feel particularly easy-minded.
Neither of them spoke, but it wasn't a silent interlude. Heavy bass notes continued to
pound from downstairs, paired with laughter and voices. The doorbell had long since
stopped ringing, no doubt because the entrance had been propped open for mass arrivals.

A new question slipped from Ivy's lips. "Jav? Why'd you tell Dom to keep people out
of the kitchen?"

"The stray's still in the sink, and the majority opinion is...it smells dead."

"Oh, crap." Ivy scrambled off the futon and made for the closet. "I'd managed to blank
that out. Help me get dressed."

Vachon offered a warning. "My hands on you will not save time."

She turned away from the closet and leisurely extended a palm to assist him to a stand.
"I know, so the sooner you start being handy, the better." Ivy winked.

Vachon let her pull him up then dropped his hands to her waist. "Now who's being
difficult?"

"I thought I was being easy," Ivy replied primly, while her own hands helped
themselves to the fastenings of his jeans.

He grinned. "Shouldn't you be more eager to get to your housewarming?"

She slanted her mouth against his and answered with her breath brushing his lips,
"Forget the party."

Vachon maneuvered her back against the wall, vocally agreeing with her suggestion as
his mouth dropped to her stomach. "Forget the party," he said, but he spared one
possessive wish that Domino had guessed exactly why they were going to be so
fashionably late.

************************************************************************
End of Part Forty

Survivors (41/56)
Copyright 1998-2000
By Bonnie Rutledge

Schanke frowned at the travel mug Nick had handed to him when they got into the
Caddy. He risked another quick sniff at the opening then asked, "This isn't coffee, is it?"

Nick glanced across the cabin space and found Schanke unscrewing the lid for a peek.
"Don't open it, okay?"

It was too late. Schanke had the top off and was poking an index finger into the pale,
frothy, mildly green concoction. "This is disgusting! I don't care if this bio-diet stuff keeps
you from an early grave. Give me red meat and pastry - at least I'll die happy."

"With a powdered-sugar smile," Nick joked. "Anyway, I eat steak," he countered,
glossing mentally over the fact that what he did with red meat came closer to chewing,
gagging and spitting out.

"Yeah, sure you do," Schanke said in a humoring tone. "Just because I haven't seen
you eat *anything* in over two years doesn't mean I don't believe you." He shook his
head. "Sometimes, partner, you don't seem quite human." Schanke watched as his partner
sunk into a troubled silence. "I'm kidding you, Knight. This is the point where you're
supposed to kid me back, not visit the land of the chronically depressed."

Nick half-heartedly complied. "With what you eat, Schank, your stomach can't be
quite human."

"Har-dee-har-har. I know what it is," Schanke told him confidently.

Nick sent him a doubtful expression. "Do you?" he challenged.

"Yeah. It's this thing with Pulte. It's weird to think about this guy you've worked with
as a cold-blooded killer. Someone you've trusted day in, day out, on the job just might be
a murderer. That's heavy-duty stuff. It's throwing me off, too. I just can't believe..."
Schanke shook his head. "This is *Pulte* we're readying to put an APB out on, Nick.
We're going to Stonetree, and five'll get you ten he'll call in IA to start the crucifixion. I
mean, the guy's made me *coffee.* It's a hell of a lot easier to picture him wielding
automatic drip than a concrete block."

"What if he is guilty, Schank? What'll you think of him then?"

"I don't know." Don reached up and began fidgeting with the push-pull knob of the
door lock. "I feel like I did when IA was after you, partner. Your watch at a crime scene,
blood in your fridge, and suddenly everyone thinks you're a psycho, Knight. Well, I never
bought it. I kept waiting for the truth to come calling, and, sure enough, you were
innocent. I've got that same feeling about Pulte."

"I survived a little IA investigation no worse for wear," Nick said. "Maybe Pulte will
luck out, too. You have to admit, though, suspecting me was the reasonable thing for the
department to do at the time, no matter how much trouble we got into or what we proved
later. It was their job." He parked the Caddy as they reached the precinct. Nick didn't
repeat his own musings from the time in question - if he'd been guilty, why would he have
left such an obvious trail? Nick knew Schanke well enough to realize this thought would
have already crossed his partner's mind and been applied to Sergeant Pulte. "Time will tell
if we can discard the suspicion. While solid trails might seem too good to be true, we
would never make any arrests if the criminals never made stupid mistakes."

"Yeah." Schanke juggled Nick's drink and the papers in his lap as he unfastened his
seat belt. "Sometimes I just wish our job gave people more of the benefit of the doubt."

Nick took his traveler's mug from Schanke's grip to make things easier for him. "No,
you don't. That's just friendship talking. You know perfectly well that giving the benefit
of the doubt can get more people killed."

Schanke clenched his jaw as he slammed the car door. "Yeah. I know that. I just hate
it, that's all."

"Yeah." Nick clapped his partner on the back as they headed for the precinct stairs.
"So do I."

"The only benefit I can see to giving Pulte up to the Captain," Schanke commented, "is
beating Wonderboy to it. I've got this feeling that the new guy would love to jump in and
snatch all the credit on this one."

As they entered the bullpen, Nick tugged on his partner's arm, urging him to pause.
Then Knight gazed meaningfully at Don's face before saying, "I never realized what green,
green eyes you have, Schank."

"Funny, funny. Maybe I just remember what it was like to be young and ambitious.
Now all I want to be is old and well-rested, and I don't like having hot shots around
pressuring me to change my mind."

"Well, that's an easy enough problem to solve. There's Gonzales. We can ask him
what his partner's up to." Nick called out a greeting to the other homicide detective.
"Hey, Andy! Where's Curran?"

Gonzales glanced up from his computer screen. "He took the night off. Left me to
catch up on our paperwork. Is it just me, or are these young guys learning faster
nowadays?"

Nick turned to his own partner. "See, Schank? Even Wonderboys need a night off."

"Yeah, right," Schanke muttered dubiously. "If you ask me, the guy's out following up
*our* leads. Let's go see Stonetree before he dashes in and steals our thunder."

Nick knocked on the frame of the door to the Captain's office. "Captain? Do you have
some time free?"

Schanke had followed him into the office, closing the door behind them. Stonetree
noticed and replied, "You two look like you have something serious on your minds, so I
guess I do."

Schanke presented Stonetree with the evidence and paper trail they'd gathered, while
Nick explained Sergeant Pulte's possible motive.

"We're not completely sold on the idea of Pulte as our killer," Nick cautioned, "But to
be on the safe side, we want to take him into custody and get a search warrant for his
apartment."

"You realize that it'll be morning before we can get a judge to push a search warrant
through?" Stonetree asked.

Nick and Schanke nodded.

"Meanwhile, we have another problem," Stonetree continued.

"And that is?" Nick prompted.

"Pulte called in sick about half an hour ago. Said his ankle injury was acting up."

"You think he knows we're on to him, and he's making a run for it?" Schanke
wondered.

"You'll just have to go by his apartment and check it out," Stonetree ordered.

"Aye-aye, Captain," Schanke responded.

"First, though, the three of us are going to have a meeting with IA so you can tell them
what you just told me."

Nick nodded. "We expected as much."

Stonetree pushed back from the desk. "I know how hard it was for you two to come
forward. It's never easy when the suspect is a fellow cop. I know that well."

Nick and Schanke regarded the Captain with sympathy. They remembered Stonetree's
turmoil when they worked the 27th, and the Captain's friend, Inspector Fiore, had been
unveiled as a murderer.

"Thanks, Captain," Nick said.

"Just be careful. Whatever you feel or don't feel is the truth in this case, don't drop
your guard around Pulte. You find him at home, his leg propped up on a cushion, you cuff
him anyway, understand? It would be a terrible shame to lose another fine cop at this point
in the game, because somebody let their emotions get the better of them."

Nick and Schanke exchanged a look, then both gave a mumbled, "Yes, sir."

"All right, then." Stonetree moved across the office and opened the door. He ushered
the detectives forward with a wave of one hand. "After you."

Nick and Schanke tread forward, back into the bullpen. Schanke had a dazed look on
his features as they marched in front of the Captain, while Nick simply appeared solemn.
Finally, Schanke's expression focused, and he jabbed his partner with an elbow. "Is it just
me," he asked, "or are you having a flashback, too?"

Nick gave him a discomfited look, mainly because he'd just taken another sip from his
travel mug. His solemnity was connected to the present rather than the past for a change.
"What did you say?"

"Talking to Internal Affairs - it always reminds me of eighth grade, getting caught
smoking in the boy's room, and being marched up to the principal's office for some
disapproving looks and a call to my mom. You?"

"Not me," Nick said with a grin. "I've always tried to stay away from smoking."

***********************************************************************
End of Part Forty-One

Natalie took tentative swallows of her protein shake as she listened to Nick and
Schanke talk on the lower level of the loft. She had as difficult a time as they did blindly
accepting Officer Pulte's guilt. She realized uncomfortably that she'd never looked at the
ballistics match Detective Curran had identified from the old records. Sure, someone from
the office had already double-checked, but, for her to believe, Nat wanted to see it for
herself. She'd check the file first thing when she reached the morgue.

She heard the lift door glide open, then shut, followed by the sound of the gears in
action. Alone now, Natalie crawled onto the bed, sitting Indian-style until she finished her
drink. She set the tumbler on the bedside table, releasing her breath in a rush as she
sprawled backward. Her hair fanned about her head in curly rays as she took in a deep
breath. She could smell Nick on the pillows. Nat allowed her defenses to ebb a little more
and accepted that it left her with a pleased feeling.

she thought for the second time.

She rolled off the bed and decided to take a shower there instead of waiting to return
to the hotel. It was an excuse to linger, but she didn't feel comfortable yet accepting
Nick's invitation to spend the entire day here on her own.

After months of living in Clare's suite, she could admit that it continued to feel hollow
to her. The loft - such a significant portion of her life had unfolded in this place, years
worth of memories that made her feel that, if not always happy, it had still managed to
become a home. Most importantly, it was a place where she didn't have to be alone.

Natalie wiped away the steam that had collected in the bathroom mirror with a towel.
She felt at cross-purposes, struggling to maintain her own identity, finding a sense of what
kind of person she wanted to be now from within, yet at the same time, she was gradually
reaching out to Nick, using him to bolster her strength. She had a premonition that the
road that would keep her from getting hurt, from being disappointed again, lay in relying
on herself. She'd worked on self-sufficiency for months, though, closing doors and
guarding her heart. Maybe there was less to fear from that kind of life - no risks that you
might give away too much, that you might be left weak and bruised on the inside. There
was pride in that route, the right to declare that she was in control, her own person and
she didn't need anyone.

It was also very empty.

Perhaps it would be a hard life, one crisis after another, if she allowed herself to love
Nick. Maybe it would be a dance in futility, struggling decade after decade to find some
kind of solution to their vampirism, only to be left frustrated and disappointed. It was odd.
She could feel wary about that shared future, but it lacked the bleakness that going it alone
promised.

"Finding fulfillment in a man, Lambert?" she berated the woman reflected in the mirror.
"What century were you born in again?"

Natalie chuckled softly as she pulled out Nick's hair dryer. She'd
had her share of romantic ideas from time to time, but she was still fundamentally a
woman who cut up dead people as an occupation. She had a practical core. What did she
see in Nick? He was an attractive, intelligent man. Of course, she'd known plenty of
attractive, intelligent men, so the reason why she hung on had to be something else.

He knew her. He understood her. Arguments and miscommunications aside, he had
more insight into what made her tick than anyone since her brother's death. Even if she
erased Nick as a lover or confidant, he was still a friend. That was a hard thing to find with
a man, and a harder thing to throw away. She realized that if she'd turned her back on
that, she wouldn't have been half as smart as she believed she was. Smart was knowing
when you were lucky and saying 'thank you.' Dumb was sleeping silently with your pride.

her thoughts reminded her again.

Natalie nodded as she clicked off the hairdryer.

"Later," she promised the mirror, then left the bathroom to don yesterday's clothes. A
short stop by the hotel to check on Sid and change, and she would be headed for the
morgue for another dull night of fiber samples.

It took a few minutes to tidy up after herself, rinsing out her glass and straightening out
any signs that she'd been there. She flew to the hotel and was surprised to find Sidney
wasn't waiting at the door. He would usually rush up for an anxious greeting, especially
after a two-day absence.

"Sid?" she called in concern. Natalie glanced behind the bar, checking the cat's food
and water. Everything was in order there, so the housekeeping staff had apparently been
maintaining things like she had asked.

Natalie thought as she walked into her bedroom.
Sidney hated the racket and would hide under her bed until the cleaning monsters were
silent. She lowered herself to her knees and peeked under the box spring, but no familiar
green eyes blinked back at her. Natalie made a perplexed sound and climbed to her feet.

She changed her outfit and brushed her teeth, then touched up her makeup. Sidney
hadn't been napping in a closet corner, either. Natalie was due to head to work, but she
wanted to lay eyes on her cat before she left. She wandered into the lounge, looked under
the sofa, and then called Sidney's name as she moved toward the second bedroom. Maybe
he was giving her the cold whiskers for leaving him alone for a few days. She really should
apologize before she abandoned him for another evening.

Stepping over the bedroom threshold, she immediately knew what was wrong. She
didn't see a sign of it right away, but she sensed it, the hair on her arms prickling.

"Sidney?"

Natalie's eyes focused on the problem: Clare's traveling trunk, broken open, its
contents piled on the floor. Sidney was curled up peacefully in a now-empty drawer. He
yawned and stretched one paw before blinking sleepily. 'Are you catching on now?' his
slanted eyes seemed to say.

She moved forward and began to scratch the cat's forehead. "Who was it, Sid?"
Natalie considered that someone on the hotel staff in need of some extra money could
have found plenty to sell or pawn among Clare's things. She'd packed the clothes and
jewelry, herself, and had been tempted to requisition a few pieces, but it hadn't felt right.
A stranger might not have shared such inhibitions.

That logic aside, Natalie found it hard to believe someone would come in here with the
purpose of robbery in mind, and left such obvious signs. Breaking open the trunk was
unnecessary - pieces could have been lifted from the cardboard boxes, and Natalie would
probably have remained none the wiser.

Natalie closed her eyes with a sinking feeling.

She looked at the pile of clothes and objects that had been pulled from the trunk. It had
been the only item she hadn't packed. Natalie had simply left it as Clare had, never looking
inside. She wondered what O'Neal might have found, and what that meant for her and
Nick's future.

Natalie picked up a protesting Sidney and walked out of the bedroom. No doubt she
had contributed to this problem by the way she'd acted when O'Neal had first come to
town. The shame of it was, Natalie had regrouped to Nick's way of thinking - the vampire
hunter could be more use to them as an ally than as a target.

Over the past few days, Natalie had recalled her idea of studying the Irishman from
several years ago. A look at how his blood carried the vampire element, causing his sun
sensitivity yet still allowing him to age, could bring a breakthrough for a cure. Nick and
she would have to be very careful if they decided to approach O'Neal with this idea.
Natalie had considered extending an olive branch to the man on her own, but now, now
that it appeared he'd broken into her hotel suite, she would wait until she had a chance to
talk it over with Nick. She wasn't certain how severe the vampire hunter's motive had
been, but that title alone was daunting - vampire hunter.

Natalie dug out Sidney's carrier and pushed the affronted cat inside. "Sorry, Sid, but
you'll have to spend the day cramped with me at work. I don't want to have to come back
here to pick you up only to find a stake-wielding Irishman holding you hostage, hmm? I
don't particularly fancy getting staked, for that matter."

She rushed back to her bedroom and packed a suitcase with a couple days worth of
clothes, toiletries and her handful of irreplaceable items. She considered running back to
Nick's loft and spending the night in hiding, but she suspected that safety lay in remaining
as close as possible to mortals, not waiting alone. She considered calling Feliks and
starting the ball rolling on packing up the entire suite and closing Clare's account at the
Four Seasons for good. Leaving behind most of her things, however, Sidney's food and
litter box, might give O'Neal the impression that she still lived here if he came back. She
could replace everything that remained if she had to, and it might buy her enough safe time
to devise a plan with Nick for handling the situation in a way that didn't end badly.

************************************************************************
End of Part Forty-Two

Natalie dropped her suitcase, briefcase, and Sidney's carrier on the autopsy table. She
blew a curl out of her face and gave a curious Grace a harried look. "Don't ask."

Sidney made a series of pitiful sounds, and Grace looked askance, "I wouldn't dream
of it."

Grace's attempt at sainthood sent Natalie in excuse mode. Instead of offering the truth,
she gave the annoyed explanation, "The hotel's being fumigated." That excuse worked
with apartments, didn't it? "They offered to move me to another floor, but that seemed
like so much hassle."

Grace gave pointed looks to the suitcase and the imprisoned cat before murmuring a
mysterious, "Mmm-hmm."

Nat's eyes narrowed for a second, wondering just what assumptions Grace was making
and just how many of them were right on the money. The she shrugged her shoulders
before grabbing a lab coat. What did it matter if Grace suspected she was staying with
Nick and was nosey about it? In the grand scheme of the state of her unlife, this was a
paltry irritation.

"Sid'll be hanging out here all night," Natalie announced. "He'll make piteous noises
and give you a guilt trip, but whatever you do, don't let him out. He'll eat almost
anything. I shudder to think of the things he might find to chew on down here given the
chance."

"Cruel to be kind," Grace nodded. "Got it."

Natalie sat at her desk and sorted through the files to pull out all the materials
concerning the three Captains' cases. Flipping through the reports, she didn't find any
mention of ballistics - her first notes or Curran's match. She next searched through the
evidence drawers for their open cases. "Grace?" she called. "Do you know where the
ballistics material is for the Dell, Forrest and Reese cases? I can't find the pictures or the
bullets."

Grace looked apologetic. "They're not here?"

"Not that I see."

"Well, I know James Curran has had his hands on those reports plenty of times. Maybe
since he found the ballistics, he took them with him to the precinct, and I just didn't
notice."

Natalie scowled. "He has no business taking the originals out of this building without
saying anything. He should have taken copies of the reports."

"Don't worry. I'm sure they're at the precinct. You said that Nick and Schanke were
following up the match, so they have to have seen them."

Natalie nibbled her lower lip distractedly. "I hate to strand you here with Sidney, but I
really wanted to look at those ballistics reports again."

Grace waved her on. "Go to the precinct. Sidney and I will be fine."

Natalie drove to the 96th, mentally scripting a scathing lecture for Detective Curran.
Her department had had enough black clouds over the past year - many of them her own
fault, she admitted reluctantly. The Coroner's Office certainly couldn't afford evidence in
a series of cop-killings to float around unsupervised and wind up lost because of some
rookie homicide detective. She did not want to have to explain that kind of fiasco.

Walking through the bullpen, she didn't see her target at his desk. Natalie made a
detour to Nick and Schanke's desks, feeling perfectly free to rifle their contents at will.
Both seats were empty, and she wondered if they were out arresting Pulte at that very
moment.

Sorting through the orderly contents of Nick's desk didn't uncover the wanted papers,
so Natalie changed chairs and tackled the free-for-all mound of paperwork that Schanke
had left behind. Luckily, she found what she wanted - a copy of the ballistics reports -
practically on top. Natalie held it to her chest and settled back in the seat, murmured an
appreciative, "Thank you," heavenward.

She studied a photograph that had been taken of the .38 retrieved from William
Pesche, the weapon buyback records, the ballistics close-ups that had been taken from
Anton Pesche's crime several years before as well as those for all three Captains. The
scars on the bullet casings matched, all clearly fired from the same gun.

But there was a problem.

The striations on the bullets were consistent with a barrel with a right-handed twist,
very similar to what she remembered seeing when she studied the first bullets from Dell
and Forrest, but she picked out tiny imperfections in the microscopic photographs around
the base of the bullet that she hadn't identified before. Likewise, the grooves were slightly
shallower than she recalled seeing previously.

A stunned Natalie set the reports back on Schanke's desk. "What the hell...?"

These bullets were not the ones she'd taken from the first two victims. They certainly
weren't the samples she'd given James Curran to look for weeks ago.

Natalie closed her eyes, cursing over how she'd let her own problems distract her from
how this investigation had been unfolding. She'd been happy to avoid Curran and let him
take responsibility for the ballistics match, and she'd been terribly lax in following up
behind him. She'd been so knocked back by the attack on Reese that she hadn't kept track
of what happened to the bullet the surgeons pried out of Joe once she'd handed it over. It
sure as hell wasn't the bullet pictured in the report.

Natalie swiftly pushed away from the desk, swiping up the ballistics reports and rushed
to Stonetree's temporary office. "Captain, have Nick and Schanke arrested Sergeant Pulte
yet?"

"They finished up with IA about fifteen minutes ago. They should almost be at his
place by now. You just missed them. Take a seat. You look like you found a problem, or a
problem found you."

"Both," Natalie sighed. "It's been that kind of night." She sent a suspicious glance over
her shoulder, into the bullpen. "Captain, is Detective Curran on duty tonight?"

"No. Why?"

Natalie closed the office door. "Because you're right. I found a problem. I don't think
Pulte's the police officer we should question. I don't have anything more concrete than my
word, but I promise you - the bullet matches in these files that Curran made are *not* the
same as the bullets I first handled."

"Why are you telling me this now?" Stonetree complained. "It's been days since Curran
first made the discovery."

"I know, Captain, and I'm sorry, but that was the night Reese was shot. I delegated the
work to other people in my office, and tonight was the first time I looked at it myself. I
should have followed up on what Curran was doing with ballistics sooner."

Stonetree sat for a pensive moment. "Let me get this straight - you say the bullets
pictured here do not match what you *remember* seeing weeks ago?"

"Exactly," Natalie said with as much confidence as she could muster.

"But you don't have any of these original bullets?"

"Not on me," Natalie allowed. "I think Curran must have switched -"

"You *think* he did, Doctor. As bad as it sounds, I'd like something a little more
concrete before I come down on another cop as a killer."

Natalie sighed, wondering if this was a moment to test her mind control skills. "I
understand how it may seem -"

There was a sharp knock at the door, and Officer Miller popped her head inside the
office. "Sorry to interrupt, sir, but there's a woman here who wants to see you. She says
it's urgent. It has to do with Captain Reese's shooting."

"Bring her in," Stonetree ordered.

"I'd like to stay," Natalie said. She was by no means through arguing with the Captain.

Officer Miller reappeared, a dark-haired, forty-ish woman ushered in front of her. "This
is Lila Nelson." The officer ducked out of the office as soon as the woman had taken a
seat.

"Thank you for seeing me," the woman said. "I would have come forward sooner, but
it took a couple of days for the mobile company to complete the paperwork. Then, to find
out it was the Captain I'd read about in the papers!" She shook her head, still dazed.

She wasn't the only one. Stonetree frowned and said, "I don't follow you, Ms. Nelson.
Maybe you could start at the beginning?"

Lila Nelson embarrassingly covered her mouth with one palm. "I'm sorry! You don't
have any idea what I'm talking about, do you? I called a wrong number on my mobile
phone Saturday night, and it turns out I heard Captain Joe Reese being attacked." She
opened her large purse and pulled out a small case. "It took some doing, I guess because
I'm a civilian, but I traced the identity of the person I called and got a copy of the call
through the phone company. I asked them if I could deliver it myself because, I guess, this
makes me a witness, of sorts."

Natalie and Captain Stonetree exchanged a look. James Curran had claimed he was on
the line with Reese when he was attacked. Now, suddenly, he hadn't been.

Stonetree accepted the recording that Lila Nelson offered. "Thank you. Would you
describe to us what happened that night?"

"Oh, of course! I was calling home, you see, while I was driving. It's a new phone, and
I hadn't figured out the programming yet. I must have misdialed, but I didn't know it at
the time. I didn't even hear a 'Hello?', just the sound of the line being picked up. Next
thing I know, I hear this crashing, like someone's thrown the phone down! There was a
popping noise - that must have been the gunshot. Then there were violent sounds, like
bodies falling, knocking things over. I heard cursing - it sounded like a man - then there
were more violent sounds. It was like someone was being beaten. Well, by that time, I was
hysterical. Keep in mind, I thought I'd called home, and this was my husband! I was
stopped in traffic, screaming by the time the line went dead."

"What did you do?"

"I called the police! My house isn't in your precinct, I'm afraid. Imagine my shock
when I got home and found my husband safe and sound, surrounded by cops who wanted
to give me a breathalyzer test! I was so relieved, it wasn't until the next morning that I
started thinking about how I must have misdialed and heard a stranger being attacked.
That's when I went to my phone company."

"We're glad you did," Stonetree assured her. He rose from his chair and opened the
office door. "Miller, can you come in here?" He turned back to Lila Nelson. "We're going
to need you to give an official statement for the record."

"I'd be happy to."

Miller reappeared, and Stonetree gave her instructions to do the interview. He handed
her the recording as well, saying, "Take this down to the lab. See if they can isolate any
samples of the shooter's voice." Once they left the office, Stonetree glanced ruefully down
at Natalie. "You can say 'I told you so' now."

"I can, but I won't. Lila Nelson is lucky that Curran didn't look into all the emergency
calls related to shootings that night. You know, I can understand how he might have
believed he could get the ballistics reports past me. I admit I've been distracted and hands-
off, plus the office is understaffed. Surely he must have reasoned that the real person who
called Reese might come forward and counter his story."

"If he wanted the attention badly enough, it might have been worth the risk," Stonetree
reasoned.

"You think his motive was about recognition?"

"Rookie cop, first on the scene at Reese's side - it got my notice. Identifying the
ballistics match - not only did he cover his tracks and shift suspicion on another cop, he
was the guy who gave Knight and Schanke their big break."

"But, Captain, if this is about getting credit and accolades," Natalie concluded, "Curran
isn't going to be satisfied letting Nick and Schanke get the credit for collaring the perp he
set up. He's going to want to be the one responsible for bringing down the cop killer."

Stonetree nodded. "He'll be after Pulte. Dead scapegoats tell no tales. I'll put out an
APB for Curran. It's best to keep the one for Pulte in place. He'll be safer in custody."

"I'll call Nick and Schanke," Natalie offered, rising from her seat. "If they locate Pulte,
they just might find Curran not far behind. They need to know to be on their guard."

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

"Whose turn is it to watch the back?" Nick mused as he parked the Caddy down the
street from Sergeant Pulte's apartment building.

"Not that I'm counting, or anything, but...mine," Schanke said emphatically. "You
climb the stairs, pardner. I'll lounge by the fire escape."

"Come on, Schank. It's only six floors up!" Nick teased.

"Too bad, Knight. Start climbing."

When he exited the Caddy, Nick forgot to take his phone out of its car rest. Both he
and Schanke were tense, trying to battle their aversion to the job ahead with forced levity.
As a distraction, it was working fairly well.

They walked around the base of the building, following their usual procedure. They
paused on the side of the building facing Pulte's apartment, and picked out their signal
window.

"Seriously, Nick," Schanke said in an urgent voice. "Are you okay going up on your
own? I'll climb those stairs with you if you need me more inside."

Nick smiled. "Thanks, Schank, but I think I can handle it. You cover the escape routes.
I'll be fine."

Schanke nodded and watched his partner walk away. He stared up at Pulte's window,
and, after a moment, began to softly hum a polka tune.

Nick paused at the entrance of the apartment building, looked up at the rising floors
from the outside, and clenched his jaw. It was good of Schanke to offer to come along, to
recognize that this collar involved more than mortal danger. Guilty or not, it would be
hard to handcuff Pulte without their emotions coming into play. He'd always been a
background fixture in the precinct, one they'd rarely thought of seriously, but they'd
*trusted* him. Nick took a deep breath and steeled himself, then entered the building.

A minute after the detective disappeared inside, another man approached the building,
a crossbow held at his side.

It was O'Neal, hunting for his chance to catch the vampire alone.

********************************************************************
End Of Part Forty-Three

Eventually, Vachon and Ivy made it downstairs to the party. A few people noticed
Vachon right away and pushed forward to say "Hi" and catch up on old times. Javier sent
Ivy a look that said 'This is exactly what I was afraid would happen.' To get even, he
aimed her toward the most boring ones and made introductions.

Ivy caught up to his tactics when she was forced to listen to a half-hour monologue
about actuarial tables for the second time. She came up with her own conversation killer.
"That reminds me...I have to go bury something."

As she pulled him away from their guest, Vachon sent him a smile. "What's really
weird is she's telling the truth."

As they wove through the crowd, Ivy said, "Can you explain to me how so many life
insurance salesmen became vampires?"

"I think that's a 'chicken or the egg?' thing."

Ivy rubbed her temples, as though she could have a headache. "I just looked into
undead Hell, and it's worked for Mutual of Omaha."

"Strange," Vachon commented, looking around the crowded foyer to the open
entrance and the people gathered on the front lawn. "I don't actually know all these
people. I'm surprised Domino does."

"I'm not sure. I think it was a word of mouth thing."

"And Dom has a big mouth," Vachon concluded.

"There is that." Ivy grinned. "You know what surprises me?"

"What?"

"The Kinsey twins still have their clothes on." She made a production of checking her
Han Solo wristwatch. "They've been here two whole hours. Isn't that a record?"

"Probably. You lasted two hours without bringing them into the conversation. That's
probably a record, too."

"For what?"

Vachon was thinking 'the time it took to start a jealous fit over women I've done
things with that would make porn stars blush,' but he decided to edit that description.
"For a person who..." His voice trailed off as he noticed that her expression wasn't
jealous, only curious. He frowned.

"A person who...?" Ivy repeated, waiting for the punchline.

Vachon realized that he wanted her to be just a little jealous. What would normally
seem like a dragging imposition became a marked absence. Maybe he had some lingering
annoyance over Dom and this surprise party that caused it, but he wanted to shake her up
a little. He went with his first thought. "A person who just met women I've done things
with that would make porn stars blush." He watched her expression for any sign of
territorial mania. Nothing. "What did Domino tell you about them?"

Ivy smiled with an offensive amount of good humor. "Just a bunch of dirty stories that
took place before I ever met you. Very titillating. Why? What's the problem?"

Vachon decided he wanted a drink. "Nothing." He began to move through the crowd
toward the makeshift bar Domino had installed in the library. The custom bookshelves had
proved to be useful storing all manner of bottles.

Ivy dogged his steps, sudden comprehension streaking across her features. "Did you
think I'd be jealous?" Vachon didn't acknowledge her question, so she grabbed his arm
when they reached the library doorway, tugging until he turned. "Look, I admit the Kinsey
twins are very...healthy-looking girls," she said diplomatically, "but it's not as if they're
humping you in front of my face. Besides, my irrational paranoia quota has been booked
solid for months."

Vachon stared at her, his expression focused into something that suggested that he
really didn't care one way or the other. It made Ivy squint suspiciously. She'd figured out
that things went blank when he really didn't want to share what he was really thinking.

"For the record," she specified, "if they humped you in front of my face, I would be
unhappy."

"Would you?"

"I'd string them up by their sarongs," she promised. Ivy's eyes made a calculating tilt.
"Is *that* what I was supposed to say?" she teased. Vachon looked away, hinting that he
thought she was full of it. Ivy laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to
cajole him into looking at her again. "Oh, come on! I'm the one who just did things with
you upstairs that would make porn stars blush! Excuse me if I have a cocky afterglow."
She trailed a couple kisses along his jaw before catching his lips. At his lack of response,
Ivy suddenly realized that he wasn't annoyed anymore - he simply wasn't paying attention.
She looked over her shoulder, trying to identify the person Vachon was staring at. It was a
man, with tanned skin, long black hair and a short beard. He was staring right back at
them. "Is that one of those people you absolutely didn't want to see?"

"Yeah."

She turned around, crossing her arms critically in front of her chest. "Who is he?"

He delivered a fatalistic sigh. "The Inka."

"Ohhh." The sound was fraught with meaning.

Vachon glanced down at her. "Domino needs a muzzle."

"Careful. He might like that. So, what's his real name?"

"Domino?"

"The Inka."

Vachon shrugged. "I always just called him 'The Inka.'"

"He has to have another name. Only kings were called 'The Inka.' He doesn't have
those earplug things the nobility wore - I bet he wasn't even Inka by blood, but Inka by
privilege."

Vachon gave her a conspicuous look, as though her mouth had just spawned a plague
of locusts. She attempted an explanation. "I took some classes in college."

"Why?" It seemed a good question. There were a lot of things she could have studied
in college - ethics, badminton, nuclear physics - Inkan culture would have been low on his
list.

"There were requirements...non-Western culture, language...blah-blah. That was about
the time I started using. Becoming a heroin smoker made a society that chewed coca
leaves without judgment sound very appealing." Her lips twisted as she remembered more
information. "Except for the guinea pigs. They ate and sacrificed them, you know. That
was disturbing. I had a pet guinea pig when I was a kid. His name was 'Herman.' I had a
hard time with the idea of 'Herman stew.' Shudder."

"It's a good thing you didn't have any pet humans as a kid. That would have put a
cramp in your current lifestyle."

"True." Ivy glanced at The Inka, then back at Vachon again. "So are you going to go
talk to him?"

"Wasn't planning on it."

"Not even to introduce me?"

Vachon shook his head.

"Why not?"

<*Now* she gets indignant...over meeting The Inka.> Vachon sighed, propping his
hands on his hips. "Because he won't like you. Trust me - avoiding The Inka is a better
prospect."

Ivy's curiosity was out of control. Telling someone it was a bad idea to talk to a person
was a sure-fire way to turn that conversation into irresistible candy. She looked at Vachon
as though he'd just told her to not throw him in the briar patch. "Why wouldn't he like
me? You like me."

"Exactly. Our relationship has always been adversarial in nature. Didn't Dom share that
one? We don't have anything in common except not being able to stand each other."

"Yeah, but The Inka came to your party anyway. I'm going to go say hello."

Vachon was momentarily distracted by how it had suddenly become 'his' party. By the
time he turned his attention toward Ivy again, she had already maneuvered halfway across
the foyer, the Inka in her sights. Vachon's first inclination was to hang back. Let her
introduce herself to The Inka. That didn't mean he had to be involved. Avoidance had
been the name of the game for over four hundred years. Just because The Inka wasn't
riding his ass anymore, there was no need to become chummy. The thorn in the side of this
argument was his curiosity. Apparently, it was contagious. Vachon found himself wanting
to know exactly what Ivy planned to say to The Inka, and what The Inka said back.
Against his better judgment, Vachon approached the pair, though he maintained an
obvious lack of enthusiasm.

The Inka glared at him proudly, while Ivy sported a satisfied smile. "Hey, Vachon!" she
called, as if she hadn't just been hanging from his neck a minute earlier. "I just asked The
Inka what his name was, and he's getting ready to tell me."

Vachon held his hands up at his sides. "Let the sharing begin."

On the subject of his name, The Inka was surprisingly verbose. "As our Good Mother
embraced us under Mama-Quilla, goddess of the Moon, wife of Father Sun, she made us
into eternal soldiers. We became brothers to the gods, blood spirits to The Inka, the
warrior kings, equals to the mighty Atahualpa, himself. I joined 'The Inka' in death. It is
right that you call me this name."

While Ivy's mouth was hanging open at this answer, Vachon leaned over smugly to
murmur in her ear, "Told you his name was 'The Inka.'" He straightened and added
sardonically, "Since we're gods now, everybody had better start calling me 'The
Spaniard.'"

"Fine," Ivy joined in. "We'll issue a memo. Can I be 'The Canadian'?"

The Inka, annoyed that neither seemed to respect the wisdom of his reasoning, began
to mutter under his breath in his native language. "Qaritukoq...champ'a uma..."

Ivy caught on that they were being insulted - he'd said something suspect about
Vachon's manliness and how she looked like she had weeds growing out of her head. "I'm
getting tired of the cracks about my hair," she complained.

The Inka's eyes widened in shock that she'd understood Quechua. It was still spoken,
of course, but only in a limited region. He would have never expected cleverness from a
female associated with his brother.

Vachon read his expression and, strangely, came to the rescue. "No, the world isn't
coming to an end. Apparently you can learn that stuff in college now."

Ivy scoured her memory for an appropriate example. She latched onto an old proverb:
"Ama anchata rimaychu, mana upa kayta munspaqa." She loosely translated for Vachon's
benefit. "'Better to be thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.'"

It was one of the Spaniard's favorites. "What she said."

The Inka reassessed his first impression of the woman. Her body language was too
wanton and not humble enough, but, in studying his people, on some level she must
recognize Inkan authority. He offered his new evaluation in Quechua as another test.
"Sip'u siki, nosqhon-yoq."

"Yusulpayki," Ivy thanked him wryly.
"Another guy capable of offering insolent compliments," she observed, glancing at
Vachon. "And you said you two only had a mutual dislike in common."

Feeling The Inka's eyes burning into him, Vachon shrugged with devil-may-care
acceptance. Unfortunately, Ivy interpreted this as a sign that the lines of communication
were open. "I'm thirsty," she announced. Before anyone had a chance to respond, she
addressed The Inka. "Qan soq'oita muna-nki?" He tilted his head in acquiescence, and she
turned her attention to Vachon. "What about you? Do you want something to drink?"

Javier suspected this was another one of those trick questions that he should have seen
coming. "Yes," he answered slowly.

"Then I'll visit the bar and pick up a round," she offered grandly, "while you two
chat."

Both men watched with the faces of the condemned as she strolled away. They eyed
each other warily, trying to decide whether the contest would constitute the winner or
loser speaking first. Vachon decided he that he'd be damned if The Inka started the polite
conversation. That would show a lot of nerve, considering their past - hell if The Inka had
more nerve than he did. "So..." Vachon asked casually. "Thrown away any bombs lately?"

The Inka shook his head.

Vachon swallowed his annoyance and wondered if he'd picked the wrong contest. He
glanced longingly in the direction of the library, dreaming of escape and wishing Ivy would
reappear quickly. Scratching for another topic to fill time, he recollected how Ivy had
insinuated that The Inka had insulted her hairstyle. "Another thing we have in common..."
he began, "...I don't like Ivy's hair, either. I don't know why she suddenly decided to chop
it all off."

"Traditionally," The Inka observed, "Inkan women only cut their hair when a family
member died or if they committed a great transgression."

"Ah." They'd certainly had enough death in their vicinity to explain the change. "Got
any Inkan traditions about women getting dye-jobs to match a fruit salad?"

The Inka shook his head. "That color is on purpose? I thought she was cursed."

Vachon caught himself grinning. It lasted a good second, until Domino appeared at his
side. "Sorry to interrupt the bonding. Love the poncho. Have you seen Ivy?" the younger
vampire asked as he glanced between the two.

"She'll be back in a second. Why?"

"She has a phone call."

Vachon frowned. "Dom, we don't have a phone."

"You don't have to tell me! Otherwise, I wouldn't have to come here and harass you in
person every time I needed something, now, would I?"

Vachon nodded. "We'll get a phone."

Domino held up his portable, one hand covering the mouthpiece. "I'm having the office
calls forwarded to my mobile account. I repeat, Ivy has a call."

"I repeat," Vachon countered, "she'll be back in a second."

"Okay, okay. Here's something else for you to be uncooperative about: we're running
out of ice. Where's your freezer?"

"Don't have one."

Domino was appalled. "Why don't you have one?"

"My people did not have freezers," The Inka said reasonably.

Ivy reappeared, laden with glasses of blood. She joined into the conversation as she
passed them out. "What do vampires need a freezer for?"

"Ice," Domino retorted.

"Dead things in the kitchen," Vachon reminded her pleasantly.

She squirmed. "Oh, right. I still need to do that."

"But, first," Domino said, holding out his mobile, "you have a phone call."

Ivy made an aggravated face at him. "Hello, Dom! I'm a little bit busy at the moment.
Why couldn't you take a message?"

"It's Robert."

Her resistance faded. "Oh. I'd better answer it, then."

Vachon watched as she distractedly excused herself and lifted the receiver to her ear.
He tensed involuntarily as she began to walk away, moving out of earshot. He wanted to
know what she was saying, wanted to hear her tell the man flat out that she was staying in
Toronto. He wondered if this housewarming was really a bon voyage in disguise, and he
resented that he cared. He despised that he might have asked for this, bringing it on over
the months he'd ignored her in favor of walls and stone. He hated the possessive sensation
that told him to snatch that phone from her and crush it into bits, then make love to her
until she couldn't walk straight, much less walk out on him. He weighed the twin needs -
to fight or make his own escape. Out of habit, he swayed toward the latter.

The Inka recognized the proprietary gleam in the Spaniard's eyes and let his attention
join Vachon in following the girl's movements. There was much more going on here than
the surface betrayed.

*********************************************************************
End of Part Forty-Four

"So the test went badly," Ivy concluded. She waited for the sense of vindication to
sweep over her, but felt hollow, instead. Manipulation wasn't proving to be a very filling
meal.

"You were right. She wants Patrick more than she wants me. I think Janette would
bring him across if she got her hands on him again," Robert said bitterly.

"But he's somewhere safe now, right?"

"We're at Aristotle's. I wanted to let you know. I think you should come, too," Robert
urged. "When Janette starts looking for us, she's going to be angry, and you're the first
person she's going to question."

"I know, but having me along isn't going to make the situation with Patrick any easier.
I'm a bad influence. Besides," Ivy added, "I do have a life here. It may be in jeopardy, but
I don't want to go unless there's no other option."

"I guess that means this is goodbye...at least for the next twenty or so years," Robert
finished.

"Yeah, goodbye."

"Patrick's going to miss you, you know." There was an implied inclusion of the
speaker.

Ivy bit her lip at this confession, feeling ashamed at the part she'd played in bringing
this exodus to a head, yet experiencing relief that it was almost done. "I hope not," she
said coldly, then cut the line.

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

Vachon finished off his glass with a large gulp and shoved it at Domino. "I've got an
errand to run. I'll be your savior and get you some ice while I'm at it."

Domino's eyes boggled. "I don't believe it! You're leaving the party?!?"

Ivy heard this exclamation over the house noise and swiftly pushed her way through
the crowd. "What?"

"I told you yesterday," Vachon said calmly before heading for the front door.

Ivy stayed right behind him. "You're going to pick up Carmen's marker *now*?
Now?! It's been almost four months - why can't that wait another night?"

"Look," Vachon stated, "you planned this party thing. I played along and put in an
appearance. Now I'm going to do what I want to do. Got it?"

She looked at him like she was in the mood to chew glass. "Got it."

Vachon looked pointedly at the phone clutched in Ivy's grip and was proud of how
casually he asked, "Is everything under control with Robert?"

"He's at Aristotle's."

Vachon tilted his head cryptically to the side. "That's the way it goes. Maybe I'll see
you when I get back."

Ivy ground her teeth, feeling as if someone had just flushed the past week down the
toilet. Suddenly, she had transformed back into someone best ignored, only used when
convenient. She couldn't believe he was going to just walk out like this, and she sure as
hell wasn't going to beg for his swift return, though her throat was clawing to ask.
Unexpectedly, he reached toward her, like he was magnetically drawn into brushing a
thumb over the mutinous set of her lips. "If you're going, just go," she bit out.

"Right," he agreed quietly, and he left.

Ivy stood dazed, fighting down a sense of panic. His abrupt departure felt like a slap in
the face. Vachon wasn't the one who was supposed to walk away anymore. She'd just
reached a point where she'd begun to believe that, relaxed her defenses, and he'd swiped
the rug out from under her. her thoughts snapped back.

She whirled around indignantly and found Domino and The Inka watching her reaction.
That made the entire scene that much more hurtful and humiliating. Ivy roughly tossed the
phone. "Thanks a lot, Dom," she said insincerely. She looked accusingly at both of them.
"What happened while I was on the phone? Everything was fine when I left. What did you
do?"

"*We* did nothing," The Inka said emphatically.

"Right, demondoll. So Vachon went moody. It's become the rule rather than the
exception. Forget it," Dom cajoled. "Come and dance."

The last thing Ivy wanted to do just then was dance. "I'll take a rain check," she said
roughly. "I have to go bury something." She brushed past them, aiming for the kitchen.

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

Natalie waited until she was behind the wheel of her car before she made the call. She
wanted the privacy, but she didn't want to sit still and alone, the specter of O'Neal
hanging over her.

She dialed Nick's number and waited impatiently through the unanswered rings. Nat
issued a frustrated sound when the service message broke in, informing her that the
customer was currently unavailable. She tossed her phone into the passenger seat, edgily
thrumming the steering wheel as she drove back to the morgue.

Hitting a long stoplight, Natalie looked down, considering the phone again. She picked
it up, deciding to try Schanke's number. It took another three tedious rings, but he
answered.

Schanke had been waiting outside Pulte's apartment building for several minutes,
watching the sixth floor windows. He broke off in mid-hum as it rang, then scrambled with
his overcoat pocket to pull it out. "Don Schanke."

Natalie made a noise of relief at the sound of his voice. "Oh, Schanke, I'm glad you
answered. Is Nick with you?"

"Not exactly. He's checking out Pulte's apartment. I'm covering the back, so I really
shouldn't be talking on the phone right now." He frowned, adding one plus one to get
two. A worried Natalie trying to get in touch with Nick meant - "Is everything okay,
Nat?"

"Oh...um..." She let her voice hover as she made a left-hand turn, using her shoulder to
hold the phone against her ear. "There've been a few developments. Pulte's not the prime
suspect anymore."

"What?!" Schanke turned his head away from the mouthpiece and cursed. Then, he
started pacing. "This has something to do with Wonderboy Curran, doesn't it?" he shot
over the line.

"Yes," Natalie said ruefully, "but not in the way you're thinking. I let things slide, and I
didn't look at the ballistics evidence he'd dug up until tonight. Curran doctored the
matches, Schanke."

"You mean the gun Pesche sold to the buyback isn't our gun?"

"Similar marking pattern, but not a match. There's something else - a witness came
forward who claims she dialed Reese's phone number by mistake and heard his attack -
another black mark against Curran. She brought a copy of the call. The audio guys are
trying to isolate voice samples from the recording now."

Schanke stopped pacing. "Does Stonetree know this? When did this happen?"

"The Captain knows. We just finished talking to the witness a few minutes ago."

Schanke looked up at the sixth floor windows again. "So what's the status with Pulte?
Does the Captain want us to abort? And where's Curran?"

"I was getting to that. Stonetree has APBs out on both Pulte and Curran. The idea is
that Curran did the murders to get attention. He wants the notoriety of bringing down a
cop-killer. He thinks he's set up Pulte as the killer, so now..."

"...Now he's going to bring him down. Got it. We find Pulte, we bring him in for
protection."

"Wait a second..." Natalie slammed on her brakes as she had a sudden thought. The
traffic behind her honked as cars had to swerve to avoid a collision. "There's no way
Curran is going to bring Pulte in alive. He's going to want to set up a situation where he's
justified in killing him."

Schanke quickly caught on to her train of thought. "Man, oh, man...Reese could've
gotten a look during the attack. Curran will want to get him out of the way, too."

Natalie nodded privately, then proceeded to make an illegal U-turn. "I'm heading for
the hospital. Meet me there as soon as you sort out Sergeant Pulte."

Schanke frowned, glancing suspiciously up at the empty apartment windows. No
signal. No sign of a partner. Nada. "Nick's taking too long. I'm going in." Schanke turned
around and began walking toward the building entrance as he unsnapped his holster with
his free hand. "You call in to the precinct about Reese, alright, Nat? Get some backup."

Natalie wasn't listening to his advice. She was too distracted by Schanke's first
comment. "Is there a problem with Nick?"

Schanke started up the stairs - god, he hated stairs. "Don't worry. He's probably
already sorted everything out, and I just missed his signal because I'm talking on the
phone."

"Okay, I get the hint. I'll let you go then. Schanke, just tell Nick..."

He paused on the second landing to catch his breath. "Yeah?"

"Tell him that Inspector O'Neal came by my hotel when I was out, and he might be
looking for him."

"Gotcha." Schanke said goodbye, choosing to turn the ringer off before he slipped the
phone back into his pocket. He jogged up another two flights as he cursed management
companies too cheap to install elevators. As he started up toward the fifth floor, his steps
slowed and his grip on his weapon became more predatory. He could hear shouting
coming from one of the above floors, angry and indignant. What's more, he knew the
voice sounded familiar, though he couldn't quite place it. As he edged up the sixth flight,
his thumb traveled up his gun to flick off the safety.

*********************************************************************
End of Part Forty-Five

Nick rang Sergeant Pulte's doorbell, and there was no answer. He knocked and
identified himself in a friendly voice. He focused on the apartment, searching for any
sound, any sign of a person inside trying to conceal their presence. The apartment was
silent, emptily silent. His hearing did not end up being the factor that made him pass a
second look over the closed door. That factor was his sense of smell.

The faint aroma of blood, still fairly fresh, wafted up to his nostrils. It came from the
other side of the door.

Nick was faced with a dilemma. He didn't have a proper search warrant, and though
the blood allowed him to claim suspicion of harm inside the premises, it wasn't evidence
that would be apparent to a mortal. He couldn't use the truth as an excuse. He would have
to either back away or make up a lie to justify entering Pulte's apartment.

Nick thought to
himself. Nick reminded himself that, though he detected blood, it was the smallest
amount. His mouth twisted pessimistically.

Nick grasped the door handle as he braced one arm against the frame, then twisted. It
gave easily, betraying that only the knob itself had been locked. No deadbolts, no chains
latched on the inside to restrict entry.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, Nick began to wonder what he would tell
Schanke. Maybe he could simply say that he did hear noises from inside - that he thought
Pulte was making a break for it. Schank trusted him enough to accept that as the truth and
take the explanation at face value. As Nick crouched on the other side of the open door,
he felt a twinge of conscience at abusing that trust.

He found the blood on the floorboards, the barest trace of it. It was the remnant of
something smeared against the floor, then wiped away. If he hadn't such an affinity for the
scent, Nick wouldn't have recognized the lingering stains with a naked eye. His gaze shifted to the left a few
centimeters, where the fringe of an area rug began. A fatal wound, serious blood loss,
would have stained it. Nick reformulated his mental image, incorporating a nearby table,
his eyes focusing on one corner. An accident - someone knocked off-balance, falling hard
into a sharp edge, before they tumbled to the floor to leave a mark of the occasion.

Nick straightened, wondering if he was allowing his imagination to run away without
cause. If Pulte's off-work excuse of a sprained ankle had any truth to it, he could have
stumbled, causing the injury.

He moved deeper into the apartment, toward the bedroom. The bed was unmade with
extra pillows piled at the foot suitable for propping up one leg. The only other piece of
furniture was a chest of drawers, decorated with a lamp and photos of Sergeant Pulte on a
fishing trip, holding up a Winnipeg goldeye. One drawer was askew, closed either sloppily
or in a hurry on an unused pair of flannel pajamas.

Nick moved over to the closet and found a few hangers askew. It seemed that Pulte
had dressed in a hurry. He noticed a small object littering the
floor. It was a black button, the functional type found on Metro uniforms. A man dressing
in a hurry pulls too hard on a loose thread. He doesn't have time to sew it back in place,
so he leaves it to litter the floor. Nick challenged himself,

There was something wrong here. At the precinct, the sergeant had always been the
orderly type. Once, he'd actually thought it necessary to straighten *Tracy's* desk. Even
fleeing a crime, would he abandon such habits? His doubt over Beau Pulte being their
guilty party scratched again.

Cradling the piece of black plastic in his hand, Nick abruptly thought of Clare. When
she littered those damn bone buttons of hers, it wasn't simple carelessness. It was a
reminder. Suddenly Nick pictured hands
under duress, desperately searching for a small sign, a small clue to leave behind that
might speak for him while he couldn't cry for help. His fingers closed tightly around the
small button.

Nick stepped from the closet, intent upon giving Schanke the all-clear from the
bedroom window. He stilled, his attention skewed by the change in his surroundings. He
was no longer alone.

His shoulders tensed, his first imaginings flashing a picture of an innocent Officer Pulte,
stumbling home from the doctor's office to find his privacy violated. his thoughts chastised.

Nick reached toward his holster as he turned, preparing to order Pulte to raise his
hands where he could see them. He froze, and the command died on his tongue. It wasn't
the sergeant in the doorway, but Liam O'Neal. The Irishman already had his hands where
Nick could see them - wrapped around a crossbow aimed at his heart.

Nick let his hands drop to his sides, experiencing an ironic moment at the instant shift
in roles, from hunter to hunted, from potential captor to potential prisoner in less than a
breath. Then, soaking in the intent telegraphed from O'Neal's eyes, Nick recognized
danger, serious danger. He did not think of himself, though. He thought of Natalie and her
fears from the moment the Irishman returned to town. she'd asked. Another shift - all he could
wrap his mind around was her well-being. That was more of a concrete threat than the
wooden bolt poised to spring into action.

"What have you done, O'Neal?" he whispered.

The vampire hunter raised his brows in derision of that demand. "What have *I* done?
You've got the question turned around, Detective Knight. It's what you've done that
brings me here. To Louis Secour...Amy Martin...Doctor Lambert..."

Nick hung back until the last name. "Leave Natalie out of this. Stay away from her," he
instructed, the tone of his voice intense.

O'Neal shook his head. "I can't. She's a killer as much as you are. She'll have to be
stopped, just like you have to be stopped."

Nick closed his eyes momentarily with relief. At the moment, Natalie was safe. He had
to reason with O'Neal, convince him to keep her that way. His first tactic would be denial.
"Have you seen either of us kill anyone, O'Neal? I thought you were better than making
sacrifices on the basis of empty suspicion."

"You cut a cancer out before it consumes the entire body. I've read enough disease
between the lines of the case files to see the truth of what happened."

"It's easy to make someone look guilty," Nick reasoned, "when you need an excuse."

"I don't need excuses!" O'Neal's voice rose sharply. "I'm not the beggar scrounging
for moral currency. Am I, Knight? Look me in the eye and tell me you aren't a killer.
Look at me, and swear to me you aren't responsible."

Nick considered the hunter's challenge. "If I did, you'd say I was lying, wouldn't you?
I wonder..." He took a small step closer, but raised his hands in the air to defuse any threat
in the movement. Nick drank in the rage, the fanaticism, burning from O'Neal's
expression. He was wound so tightly within the bindings of righteousness, they were
choking him. "If you heard the whole truth, if you knew every detail of the story, would it
make any difference to you at this point? Have we already been judged?" Nick's features
transmitted a measure of woe. "You see, I've wondered that before, O'Neal. Not about
your verdict, but that of heaven. Can I have any hope for redemption? Is there any
possibility that I can go back, or am I just fooling myself into believing I can be anything
other than dead and damned? I've battled over these questions for longer than you can
imagine. Natalie has just begun the same torturous debate. I see you, standing there with
retribution in you eyes, and I have to ask them again. Yes, I am guilty, but I refuse to give
up. I *can* redeem myself. You believed I could once, O'Neal. Why can't you believe it
again?"

"Because that was a lie! You convinced me that we had the same goal, that your desire
to protect mortals from the forces of darkness was as strong as my own."

"It is. I swear that it is."

"No! You infected Natalie with your evil. How many murders weigh on my conscience
because I spared you?" O'Neal demanded harshly.

"Killing me, killing Natalie, would only add to the number."

"It would save lives!" O'Neal shouted. "Your kind is lost, Detective. There is no going
back. There is no hope. You tear apart families, and you sacrifice those that surround you
to your own selfish hunger. I've seen it with my own eyes since I was a lad, and I will not
weaken again in my duty to fight your wickedness."

"I don't want to fight you, O'Neal, but I will as long as Natalie is in danger," Nick said
truthfully.

"Then you don't have a choice," the Irishman spat.

"There is always a choice. You can still leave," Nick stated, working to keep his voice
as calm as possible. "You can put down the bow and walk away. You can listen instead of
shutting yourself off from reason. If I meant you any ill will, if Natalie truly did, you would
have been dead the second you reappeared in Toronto again. We want peace, O'Neal.
Leave us in peace."

"You can rest in peace, Detective Knight," O'Neal countered.

Nick had entered Sergeant Pulte's apartment with a dilemma. To leave of his own
accord, he now had another. He'd meant his earlier words. He did not want to kill O'Neal.
He could not understand the sudden intensity of the Irishman's antagonism. He could
understand a hate for vampires, but he had truly believed the hunter had come to
understand, even sympathize with Nick's struggle to regain his humanity when they fought
the Barber. Now, it felt as though O'Neal could not bear to admit there could be
exceptions. The man had rededicated himself to blind justice.

Nick did not want to kill O'Neal. In an instant, his thoughts streamlined his options,
trying to delve across a solution where he survived. He wanted a resolution where Natalie
and he both survived, yet the hunter did not come to harm. He prayed to logic for some
insight or loophole that could spare his soul from another blemish.

In another instant, reason left him.

He felt Schanke just before his partner eased silently into the doorway. At that
moment, Nick felt damned. He felt damned because he looked, because he met his
partner's eyes when he knew he should look away. O'Neal was watching his every move,
and he would see the shift in Nick's attention. In his next instant, he would realize
someone was behind him, and he would turn the crossbow in Schanke's direction.

Reason left him, cutting short the path of O'Neal's discovery. Nick rushed forward to
grab the Irishman's weapon. He moved as a mortal, because he felt damned, because
Schanke was there. It was because reason left him, because he would rather burn in hell
for eternity than risk leaving Jennifer Schanke without a father for one day less than she
was due. He moved as a mortal, an imperfect man with stumbling steps.

He moved as a mortal, and O'Neal had the time to defend himself.

O'Neal fired.

Nick heard the bow hurtle into action, and the unforgiving clap of sound surprised him
almost as much as the first tear of the wood bolt into his heart. He was thrown back in
time, and he thought of LaCroix, heard his sire's voice. Nick
closed his eyes. He remembered that he hadn't screamed
as the stake ripped through his flesh then, either. This occasion, though, he wasn't on his
knees. The pain knocked him back a step, then he dropped forward until he rested on all
fours. When LaCroix had staked him, the experience had been silent, like stepping into an
unholy space that swallowed any light or sound. This again was different, for he could
hear shouting. The noise was strangely displaced. Near, yet echoing as if far away. The
sounds came and faded, similarly to his grip on consciousness. He heard something like
the unforgiving clap of the crossbow sound again, like a rough explosion, roaring like
agony in his chest.

Nick fought to keep from crumpling to the floor. His body wanted to give out, to rest
insensate, to escape the pain. The sounds, though, the sounds kept him from giving in to
the black peace. They compelled him to raise his head and find his voice.

"Schanke..."

O'Neal stood over him, but the fire of justice no longer burned from his eyes. He
looked surprised as well, as though he shared in Nick's sensations as the stake did its
work. Then Nick caught the smell, the familiar smell of blood and the rhythmic confusion
of a dying heart. O'Neal moved in slow motion. He moved like a mortal, with those same
stumbling steps, and he crumpled to his knees, momentarily mimicking Nick's posture. He
did not fight to remain upright like Nick, however, and he continued to fall, surrendering
until he lay bleakly facedown on the floor. Nick saw the red stain as it blossomed from the
Irishman's back, soaking through the tweed of his jacket. His heart seemed to clench
around its wood impalement, and Nick's control weakened with the prodding. There was
blood - fresh and flowing - a feast lay before him. It would not flow much longer, and if he
wanted to survive......he would have to have blood. His eyes
glazed over with hungry light, and his fangs ached with their desire to drink.

But Nick heard another heartbeat, this one fast and strong, and he remembered his
damned feeling anew. Nick looked up from the lure of O'Neal's wound, and he saw
Schanke still standing in the doorway. He saw the traces of smoke that still billowed from
his partner's gun, and he recognized the horror in his friend's expression that the vision of
his state inspired.

Nick struggled to use his voice again, a thread pulled thinly between each syllable. It
was an honest confession in a room filled with death and unveiled lies.

"I never wanted this to happen."

**********************************************************************
End of Part Forty-Six

LaCroix was considering the party. He had not been directly invited by Domino, but
told of the event secondhand. Usually, he would not even consider such an affair because
he considered the people involved to be his inferiors. Why would he dance attendance on
them? They were young, like rebellious pups wrestling their littermates, fated to whimper
when they nipped the tail of a much bigger hound and earned their comeuppance.

In LaCroix's opinion, there were too many vampires in Toronto that had never been
properly housebroken. From time to time, he would amuse himself by indulging in some
foster breaking, but tonight, he felt little of the necessary viciousness. He was in the mood
for inquiry and speculation, and he felt drawn to the idea of the pup's romp.

Ivy's visit to the Raven, the prospect of the house the Spaniard had built for Clare
being haunted, fuelled his temptation. He had a compulsion to experience whatever
possessed the girl for himself. He had never set foot on the property before, but he had
decided it was long overdue for a visit. It could be no more haunted than his own bed, his
own dreams of Clare's memory. If he found nothing, well, perhaps then he would be in the
mood for a spate of housebreaking impudent pups.

The night had a frenzied air to it. The breeze even seemed to carry tension, like a
guillotine blade waiting to drop. The image froze in his mind as his soles scraped against
the pavement. Another feeling lingered behind, and LaCroix found no reason to explain it.
He felt anticipation, a desire to visit this house meant for Clare. Rather than bitterness
over the sentimentality, he felt a tide growing from within. If he went, there was a promise
of relief. He could escape the pressing memories; break free of their stranglehold.

In a shattering moment, the night twisted itself inside out, casting his plans into
oblivion. LaCroix finally realized that some nightmares can never be vanquished. Some
bonds could be ignored, but never broken.

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

The gun felt heavy and cold in Schanke's hand. He didn't move, his shoes seemed
glued to the floorboard, and he wondered what had happened to the quick-thinking cop
who had shot to kill only seconds earlier.

Sure, it was Nick's fault - how often does it happen that, one second, a guy's afraid for
his partner's life, the next he sees that same partner sprout a killer overbite? That's the
way the bus of life ran you over. One moment you're frightened you're going to see your
best buddy cut down right in front of you, the next, you have the urge to do him in
yourself.

It caught up with him all at once, not the shaky aftermath that usually arrived when he
had to pull his weapon on the job, but the anger. He threw on the safety and shoved his
gun back into its holster. "You son of a bitch." Schanke repeated himself, savoring the
words this time. "You lying son of a bitch."

He watched as the light in Nick's eyes dimmed. On his knees, stake in his heart, blood
obviously on his mind, he still looked like he was begging for forgiveness.

Schanke thought. It should have happened, whether he wanted it or not.
He had the right to know the truth, and, like a man who'd been walking around indoors
with sunglasses on, Schanke had been gifted with the sudden clarity that comes with
taking those shades off. He'd been on the trail before. He'd wondered if Nick was a
vampire, and Nick's family - or whatever the hell they were - had strung him up with mind
games.

Schanke couldn't remember feeling this mad with anyone, this disappointed, since that
trial separation from Myra almost three years before. And the last time his life had been
this wrecked so quickly, his daughter had been on an operating table with a bullet in her
kidney.

Schanke searched his coat roughly, almost tearing the pocket lining as he jerked his
phone free. Not wasting any more seconds on his personal grudge, he did the thing his job
demanded. He dialed for emergency assistance.

He saw Nick shake his head as Schanke asked for an ambulance, he heard the rattled,
"No," but Don ignored it. A slim chance existed that he hadn't killed Liam O'Neal. It was
his duty to get the man medical attention as long as that possibility remained, no matter
what Nick wanted.

"No," Nick whispered again, just as Schanke ended his call.

"Quit complaining," Schanke snapped. "Did you hear me say 'officer down'? No, you
didn't. See? That makes us two lying sons of bitches, eh, partner?"

That was when Nick lost the fight to remain conscious. Schanke saw him slump limply
on the floor and ran forward out of instinct. Lying son of a bitch vampire he may be, but
Nick was still his partner. "Knight!" Schanke rolled him to the side and slapped his face to
bring him back to alertness. Don had to admit he enjoyed that part. "Come on, Knight!
You're going to wimp out over a little stake in the heart?!"

Nick's eyes flickered open, his irises gilded unnaturally, but there was no sign of the
fangs as he murmured, "Try it. See if you like it."

"A joke. Man, oh, man..." Schanke shook his head and fought the urge to shake Nick.
"Do I look in the mood for a joke?"

The expression on Nick's face told him that he guessed what Schanke's mood was -
ready to kill. "I may have already caused one death tonight," Schanke told him. "Sorry,
but I'm not that bloodthirsty." Nick's features flinched, like he had physically hit him
again. "Now tell me what I have to do to come to the rescue," Schanke ordered in a
brusque voice. "I pull the stake out?"

"Yeah," Nick breathed.

Schanke braced one foot against Nick's stomach as he grasped the stub end of the bolt
with his thumbs and index fingers. "This is gonna hurt, right?" he asked. Nick answered
with a nod. "Good," Schanke said, then wrenched the stake as hard as he could. Feeling
his heart give way, the wood easing from his flesh, Nick finally gave into the urge to
scream.

When it was freed, Schanke glanced down at the stained bolt in his hand. "Right in the
heart, partner. That's how I feel. Right in the heart."

"I never wanted..." Nick coughed out in repetition.

"Well, tough. That's not what you're getting." Schanke rubbed at his eyes, then the
bridge of his nose. "Look, the paramedics and more cops'll be here in a minute. I've
caught on that shipping you to the hospital is a bad idea." Nick grunted in agreement as he
pushed himself into a sitting position, then slid a few feet farther away from O'Neal's
body, until he could support his back against the wall. Schanke saw that Nick's stare was
focused again on the stain surrounding the Irishman's wound. He swallowed a brief surge
of trepidation and said, "The problem is, I shot O'Neal when I thought my partner was in
mortal danger. Who knew my partner wasn't mortal?" Schanke shot Nick a newly
perturbed look. "Well, I can see now, apparently several people knew, starting with Nat."

"Schanke..."

Don held up one hand. "No. I don't want to hear it. I don't want to talk about it. Not
right now. When those cops and paramedics get here, I'm going to have to offer them a
story - one that doesn't make it look like I shot O'Neal down in cold blood. That means
you've got to be here. Since you don't want the docs getting too close of a look at that
hole in your chest, that means you've got to be standing."

"I heal fast," Nick said quietly, "but I need blood to do it."

"Somehow, I knew you were going to say that." Simultaneously, their gazes fell back
to O'Neal. "Is he dead?" Schanke asked. "Can you tell?"

"He's close."

"Then you don't touch him."

Nick nodded and closed his eyes, leaning his head against the wall. He heard Schanke
moving, slinging off his overcoat and setting it aside. Schanke didn't stop there, and Nick
heard him remove his suit jacket next. Then there was the sound of him rolling up the cuff
of one shirtsleeve. Nick's eyes snapped open. "Not that."

Schanke slashed an annoyed hand through the empty air, cutting it in half. "Do you see
anyone else in the room with a pint to spare?"

Nick clenched his jaw before admitting in a tired voice, "I'm afraid I won't stop with a
pint."

Schanke stepped forward, determination etched in his features as he shoved his wrist in
front of the vampire. "You will stop, or I promise I'll haunt you until the end of your
nights...with polka music."

"A joke?" Nick echoed feebly. "Do I look in the mood for a joke?"

"Yeah," Schanke nodded seriously. "You do. Isn't that what pals do? Laughs and
drinks. Now start drinking."

Schanke reasoned as he watched Nick give in, as he saw the fangs drop and waited one
stretched second before they sank into his skin, that he must be the greatest idiot that ever
roamed the planet. Here he was, trusting a - guy? - with his life, when only minutes before
Nick had proven that he was not the man Schanke believed him to be.

Schanke tensed as he felt the bite, but more thinking had him relaxing. It didn't hurt
like he expected. He felt a little dizzy and disoriented.
It was a strange feeling, having his blood drunk. It reminded him of the time Myra had
nagged him into taking her to a Japanese restaurant the first time. She'd egged him into
trying the sashimi. Raw fish to a man who loved his souvlaki - it was a nosedive into
another world. After a couple bites, Schanke had admitted to the wife that the sashimi
didn't taste terrible; the texture was just weird. The flavor wasn't so fishy, but it just
wasn't lamb with garlic. That's what Schanke thought as Nick drank from his wrist - a
little detour into a Japanese restaurant, not so bad, but not for him.

Nick pushed his arm away with a growl, knocking Schanke slightly off balance in more
ways than one. He realized that he'd fallen into a spacey funk, not really caring if Knight
bit his entire arm off. Don figured that was how they succeeded. It'd be trickier if the
victims always fought. He glanced down at the blood still oozing from his wrist and
cursed. He couldn't afford any spills on the rug. Schanke
gingerly began to hunt for his wallet, where he kept a couple tucked away, ostensibly for
blisters on his feet.

Nick wiped his mouth as he felt his strength surge back, watching as Schanke fumbled
with the bandages' small pieces of paper wrapping. "Do you ever stop thinking about
garlic and Myra?" he asked, both amazement and distaste combined in his voice. "They're
in your blood."

Schanke frowned at the tiny little red string he was supposed to pull to open the
packaging neatly. It wouldn't tear straight. "I could have told you that myself, Detective
Snob."

Nick knew from Schanke's blood just how angry and betrayed he felt, and Nick felt
that toward himself through assimilation. He should be thankful that Schanke's feelings
hadn't immediately transformed into hate and revulsion. He should be thankful that he was
being helped, and that he hadn't taken too much.

Nick realized that he had pushed the boundaries of optimism too far. Schanke was still
occupied taping his wound, his back to the door, and hadn't noticed their company yet. It
wasn't the police or paramedics - their emergency racket would have broadcast up the
stairs as soon as they entered the building. It was someone accustomed to moving in
stealth.

LaCroix.

Nick breathed in on a hiss, and the sound caused Schanke to look up. "What?
Problem?"

Nick shook his head. "Just healing pains." Schanke seemed to accept the excuse and
looked down again. Nick told himself it wasn't a lie. His heart felt like it was bending and
stretching, expanding its muscles in directions they were never meant to move in order to
fill the gap in his chest. It wasn't pleasant.

He stared at LaCroix hovering in the doorway and wondered how the ancient vampire
was interpreting the scene laid out before him. Nick didn't want any mistaken impressions.
"You saved my life, Schanke," he said emphatically. "Thank you."

"Don't you forget it, partner," Schanke said before releasing a small noise of triumph
when he finally released the Band-aid from its protective shell.

"How long until backup gets here, again?" Nick tinged his voice with warning.

"Anytime now, the scene will start."

LaCroix looked at him knowingly, knew what his fears were, and he smiled his deadly
smile. Nick felt the panic rush in. If his sire decided to kill Schanke now for uncovering his
secret, Nick wouldn't have the strength to defend him. It was like a nightmare was closing
in, smothering him. Desperately, he called upon the bond, focusing his thoughts with a will
he hadn't used in years.

He sire didn't move.

"Schanke," Nick called as he pulled himself into a stand. "Do you still have the wooden
bolt?"

Schanke finished slapping the adhesive onto his wrist and moved to where his overcoat
and jacket were slung over a chair. He pulled the stake free of the pile of fabric. "Right
here."

Nick pulled off his own overcoat and jacket, both featuring large tears over his heart.
"Can I take your jacket?" he asked. "I need to hide the hole in my shirt."

Schanke looked doubtful, but he nodded his assent. "It's going to be too big."

"It'll do," Nick said as he buttoned the jacket. He stared meaningfully at LaCroix as he
spoke again. "Now get the crossbow from O'Neal."

Schanke frowned, but he asked Nick to hand him a pair of the latex gloves he kept in
his jacket pocket. Nick did, glad that Schanke had thought of it, and watched his sire while
his partner slipped the gloves on. LaCroix did move then, blending back into the shadows
of the doorway, but remaining a watching presence.

Schanke eased the crossbow from underneath O'Neal's body and held it up. "Now
what?"

"Shoot me."

"Are you out of your freaking mind?"

"In the arm, Schank. By the time the medics see it, it'll be a scratch, hardly a flesh
wound. Nothing that requires emergency care, but enough to prove that you acted to
defend me."

"Great plan," Schanke said sarcastically even as he armed the crossbow. "And my
jacket gets ruined, too." He took a moment to aim, but paused. "What if I miss?"

Nick stared at LaCroix, feeling the fatalism of a mortal in front of a shooting squad.

"You won't miss," he told Schanke.

Schanke didn't. Nick grunted and fell back as he experienced the wood a second time,
burning a tunnel through the outside of his arm. Nick straightened with a gasp and looked
behind him, the bolt was now buried several inches in the wall. He turned back around,
and searched for his sire's reaction.

LaCroix had gone.

Nick closed his eyes in relief. The firing squad had been called off at the last moment,
and, for now, he was a prisoner spared a gruesome sentence.

"Are you okay?" Schanke asked.

Nick nodded and opened his eyes. "Yeah."

Schanke moved back to O'Neal's body replacing the crossbow where he'd found it.
While he was fiddling underneath, he bothered to delicately check the Irishman's pockets.

"Schanke," Nick said in a soft voice, "he's dead now."

Don straightened, two paper objects dangling in his hands. "Damn." He shook his
head, feeling his anger surge anew. Schanke's eyes seared into Nick. they accused. "Damn."

"I know," Nick whispered. "That's why..."

Schanke cut him off as he crossed the room, studying the items he had lifted from the
body. "Do you know why O'Neal would have Clare's passport?" He shoved the papers
into Nick's hands and began to pull off his evidence gloves.

Nick looked at the photograph with stunned eyes. Where had O'Neal gotten it? He
flipped the other piece of paper over, revealing a piece of stationery from a hotel in Africa.
Feliks Twist's address was scribbled on it in Clare's handwriting.

Schanke had moved to the wall, and with his bare hands, he proceeded to remove the
bolt from the wall in the same manner he'd pulled it from Nick's chest, justifying his
earlier fingerprints. "I came up here because Natalie called. Pulte's cleared, but in danger.
She found that Curran had doctored evidence." He moved to stand in front of Nick, the
stake dangling from his fingers as he wrinkled his forehead. his expression said. "She wanted us to meet her at the hospital, because
there's a strong possibility Curran will try and finish Reese."

There were sirens, growing closer. Nick shoved the passport and paper into his
borrowed pockets as he considered Schanke's words. "He has Pulte with him," Nick
concluded. "That's why I entered the apartment," he explained. "There were small signs
that pointed to a struggle. I wasn't sure if it was because Pulte was in a hurry to leave, or
because he was forced to leave in a hurry."

They both heard the building doors open, feet crashing up the stairs. Both men moved
to hover with concern over O'Neal's body, Schanke rebuttoning his sleeve cuff as he
walked. He met Nick's eyes for one last moment before the explanations would have to
begin. "Natalie finished the call with a message for you. She said O'Neal had dropped by
her hotel when she wasn't there. She warned that he might be looking for you. Makes him
sound like a stalker," Schanke reasoned, practicing his story. "Makes him sound like a
crazy guy who got the idea in his head that my partner was a vampire. What sane person
would believe in vampires?" Schanke challenged, his eyes telling another tale - that he
knew better, much, much better.

"I wouldn't," Nick whispered, just before the EMT ran into the room.

**********************************************************************
End of Part Forty-Seven

LaCroix had not left completely. He exited the building and waited in one of the darker
vestiges of the brick facing, watching as the ambulance arrived and a pair of workers
carried a stretcher into the building. Minutes later, a squad car with flashing blue and red
lights had pulled up behind.

Detective Schanke had been correct - it was turning into quite a scene. It had been easy
for him to choose to walk away from the wings of that stage, though he suspected
Nicholas would paint a different picture. Nicholas had assumed he would want the
mortal's blood for knowing too much, and surely Donald Schanke knew much too much.
Identifying Nicholas as a vampire threw the past under suspicion, and, if he did not
tactilely acknowledge the discoveries already, the detective would soon realize a host of
undead from his memories - Janette, himself, and the guests of the Raven. Clare might not
be considered for the sake of her reported demise. Natalie could be held innocent as well,
years of seeing her live as a mortal clouding the picture.

To know Nicholas' secret was enough. To know his own was a death knell. Nicholas
had the right to his conclusions. It was unusual that LaCroix's decision had been so simple
and different from this expected course. His foremost excuse was that, in walking away,
Nicholas was in his debt. If only for a night, his mortal friend had been spared. Nicholas
would understand the cost of that in terms of loyalty.

The stranger reason, the one more foreign to his nature, was that he felt his own debt
toward Detective Schanke. He had shielded Nicholas from the vampire hunter, sparing
LaCroix the slashing indignity of a heart renewed in its loss. Another one lost to the stake
- the time it had taken for him to reach this place had been vicious moments to bear. He
had been afraid of what he would find, and there was nothing LaCroix loathed more than
his own fear. Detective Schanke had killed O'Neal, unconsciously saving his own life.

Donald Schanke could be spared this night, but what of tomorrow? LaCroix was
undecided. Nicholas had illustrated a point in arming his mortal friend and asking him to
stake him again. Schanke had the opportunity to destroy, and he had chosen to protect his
partner's secret instead.

LaCroix thought.

Meanwhile, he would act a page from the detective's repertoire. LaCroix had had the
opportunity to destroy, and he turned it down. Now he would maneuver to protect
tonight's secrets.

LaCroix stepped forward as the pair of uniformed officers ran toward the building's
entrance. "Excuse me," he said, drawing their attention with a commanding tone. He then
began to speak in a hypnotic voice that caused the pair of police to freeze in place. "Listen
to me...Listen to Detective Knight and Detective Schanke...Everything they say will sound
perfectly reasonable and justified...They had to do what was necessary to
survive...Everything happened exactly as they say it did..."

"Exactly..." one of the officers repeated dazedly.

"Now go," LaCroix instructed, "and listen."

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

Maneuvering through the party guests, Ivy felt conspicuously alone. She felt eyes
following her, staring at her, and she could almost hear them think, 'Who's that? Who is
she to anybody?' Ivy met the gazes of a few, and she smiled when they felt compelled to
glance away. As she pushed through
the swinging doors of the kitchen, the stench of decay assaulted her.

Her face twisted in displeasure as she approached the sink. The mound wrapped in the
black towel appeared forlorn, and she felt a wave of pity, despite her distaste over the
rising odor. It had been a small thing, breakable, and some bigger animal had come along
and torn it apart. She cradled the wrapping in her arms, bearing the weight against her
chest as she moved toward the alcove of the back door. It was vampire friendly - no
windows, but Vachon had piled supplies of plaster, an aluminum tub, paint cans and a
sawhorse in front of it. Ivy muttered as she shoved these things out of her way with one
hand so that she could open the door.

Stepping out onto the back lawn, Ivy experienced a wet spot growing on her chest.
The cat's wrapping was seeping into her t-shirt. She held it at a slight distance, and looked
down to find a motley red-brown stain marring the logo. Luckily, it wasn't her shirt. She
remembered Vachon frowning when she'd slipped it on earlier, as though it was in bad
taste. Ivy felt a petty justification that it was ruined now. Maybe that was why she had
unearthed the Metro Police t-shirt Clare had lent her in the first place - she knew it would
get trashed.

She walked across the grass, her boots flattening the blades and sinking slightly into the
moist ground. Her destination was the copse of trees that sheltered Carmen's resting
place, though she intended to dig a hole for this stranger farther back, past the edge of the
forest. Reaching Carmen's mound, Ivy sighed, because she hadn't brought a shovel. Those
were all kept in the greenhouse, out of sight since Vachon didn't want to touch them,
practically on the other side of the grounds.

Ivy relinquished her towel-wrapped package, setting it on the grass at the edge of
Carmen's grave. Her head snapped up sharply as she thought she heard the sound of
something clawing against rock, but she didn't see anything. Ivy straightened and began
the walk around the house to the front lawn. She pulled her t-shirt free of the waistband of
her jeans as she moved, then stretched the damp material away from her chest, grimacing
as the smell of death wafted from it.

With the front lawn and driveway, Ivy espied more of the party crowd, and at least
thirty cars. Even if she hadn't spotted the Maranello first in the drive, she would have
guessed that Vachon had torn out of the place on his motorcycle. She refused to give in to the urge to smile at
that thought.

Ivy noticed that one of the party guests was propped against the Ferrari as if he owned
it. She suddenly felt a crusading outrage, though the car was as much hers as the newly-
rotten t-shirt stretched over her torso. Borrowed clothes, borrowed car, borrowed house,
with no one left hanging around to enforce their ownership, Ivy decided to borrow the
right to tell the leaner to get drained.

He was French. Ivy could tell just from his attitude. It was a kind of casual snobbery,
not the uptight lord-of-the-manor type that some vampires displayed. It was more of a
'I'm too bored to explain why I'm better than you' thing. Lord-of-the-manor types lived
to offer just that kind of explanation.

He was chatting up a blonde. Ivy could smell her mortality and decided this was a
perfect example of why people shouldn't cruise to just any old rave they heard about. It
was a dangerous way to spend your youth. Ivy, naturally, spent her youth dangerously on
purpose and ended up fairly dead for her trouble. This girl looked like she hadn't any idea
that she was in the middle of something that could chew her into little pieces and spit her
out. Ivy thought of the dead cat waiting for attention in the backyard, and her nerves
itched.

The guy, this French vampire with attitude, was also blonde. His hair was not the pale
heavenly gold of his prey, but a dark, dirty shade. Ivy supposed it was fitting. She firmly
believed you could tell a lot about a person by their hair. She could tell in a glance that she
did not like this man, and she would not grow to like him in a century of Sundays. It was
strange that, at such an instant repugnance, she simply didn't avoid this person. Instead,
her feet seemed compelled to march up to him and share the aversion. She stepped
between him and the mortal and announced. "It's a car, not a chair."

His eyes drifted downward slightly to acknowledge the Ferrari. "I see that."

Ivy propped her hands on the back of her hips, her elbows at a streamlined angle, and
asked succinctly, "Then why is your ass sitting on it?"

Bingo! Ivy watched as his expression filled with an exchanged degree of distaste at her
existence. He straightened, though, so as to better sneer down at her, and she cheered
smugly that he'd subconscious done what she'd wanted - stopped touching the car.

"Do you have any idea who I am?" he hissed, his nose wrinkled in such a way as to
illustrate he'd gotten a good sample of the smell given off by her shirt.

"Hmm. Let me guess. Another man who thinks he's a god, and therefore the world
revolves around him?" Outwardly, she thought her response was pretty cocky, just right
for the nifty, can-do, no-longer-a-victim Ivy she'd been working to cultivate. Inwardly,
she cringed.

"I am an old friend of the host of this party." He waved an imperious hand, as though
ordering her to survey his kingdom. "The owner of this house."

At that moment, this information struck Ivy as very funny. "Really?" she said,
pretending to be contrite. "Wow. I didn't realize. Is there any way you could introduce
me?" A groupie would beg to learn her technique.

He sniffed dismissively. "I doubt he would have any interest in meeting someone so
obviously in need of a bath."

"Hmm...And what if I got cleaned up?"

He was candid in his dismissal. "You would still not be to Vachon's taste."

Domino, ever on the prowl to see what Ivy was up to, had spotted her from afar and
slipped up from behind to make himself a nuisance or useful, whichever tactic proved the
most beneficial. "One delightful thing about this coiffure, demondoll - we can see it from a
distance. It's like a distress beacon for the Community - 'Approach with caution. This girl
needs help.'" Ivy scowled, and he chuckled. "What are you getting up to?" he asked,
glancing nosily between her and the Frenchman.

Ivy assumed an angelic expression. "This, uh, gentleman...was declining to introduce
me to the people throwing the party. I'm too..." She glanced at the man for assistance.
"What am I again?"

"Tasteless," the vampire supplied.

Domino squinted in concentration. "But, dear, you're throwing the party. I'm
confused." He addressed the Frenchman. "Bourbon, are you confused?"

It appeared Bourbon was more aghast than confused. "Domino, you said that Vachon
was throwing this affair with your design partner. Look at the creature. Look at what she
is wearing. Smell her. She is not remotely fashionable."

"Revolutionary, I call it," Ivy countered. "Isn't it about time fashion stopped being
unbelievably fashionable? Style is so outmoded."

"There, there, honey," Domino broke in, clapping a hand over her mouth. "She's a
little distraught. Vachon just dumped her, you know."

Ivy squawked through his fingers. "He did not dump me!" She bit his hand for
emphasis, and Dom jerked it out of dental range. "He left abruptly and inappropriately.
That's different," she muttered, lips free to purse bitterly.

"Excuse us," Domino offered a polite nod to Bourbon, who watched their interchange
intently, then yanked Ivy aside. "Are you completely incompetent?" he demanded.

"Actually, I thought it was a pretty good insult. And what was that crack about
Vachon dumping me? Take it back, or I'll bite you again."

"You are adorable, and normally I would jump at the chance to be nibbled by that
naughty mouth of yours," Domino replied, cupped both her cheeks in his palms, then
proceeded to shake her, "but I am sterilized at how you keep sabotaging our business with
it!"

"What are you babbling about?"

"This party was partially to raise support for the House of Figaro, was it not?" At Ivy's
reluctant nod, Domino continued. "And if your lovely idea of expanding the lines to
feature more of my own designs is going to take place, we need an influx of capital."

"Okay. So what does that have to do with Monsieur Jacques Daniels over there?"

"Bourbon may be an obnoxious slug, but he is also a filthy rich day trader."

"A vampire day trader?"

"One I was cozening out of a healthy backing share until you made it your personal
mission to appear the bungling bag lady of haute couture."

"People give bums money," Ivy argued weakly.

"Not people like Bourbon." Domino shook his head remorsefully. "'Unfashionable
fashion'? What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking I don't like him. I don't want him to have anything to do with the
business."

"And may I ask why?"

"I don't know. It's instinctual. I just know that he's evil, soulless and vile."

"Ivy, you're a vampire. Everyone you know is a vampire. Name two people out of the
lot who isn't evil, soulless, and vile on occasion."

"Patrick," she retorted, then sank her shoulders in defeat. "Half an hour ago I would
have said Vachon." She covered her face with her hands, then rubbed at her temples.
"Okay, okay, I'm being stupid." What's more, she was being childish.

"Of course you are. Now stop digging these metaphorical holes, and go work on a real
one." He merrily pushed her on her way with a pat on the rump. "I'll take care of this."

"Okay, okay," Ivy complied, but couldn't resist a parting shot. "Just make sure
Bourbon keeps his ass off the Ferrari."

************************************************************************
End of Part Forty-Eight

Natalie rushed through the emergency doors and ran for the elevator. She just missed
it, because the unsympathetic couple inside had refused to hold the doors for her. Nat hit
the 'up' button violently, cracking the plastic shield. she observed,

She waited half a minute for the elevator to return, before realizing she was caught in
an old mortal habit. The stairs - she could practically fly up the stairs.

The rest of her drive to the hospital, from the moment she'd gotten off the phone with
Schanke, had been filled with unease. Something was bad. Something was going wrong.
There was a small ache in the place of her heart, and she thought back to Halloween - to
Clare and premonitions of despair. Natalie wondered if worry over the Captain's safety
combined with the past could turn her into a nervous wreck. Could vampires be prone to
panic attacks?

Natalie ran down the hallway, dodging the scrub-clad staff until she found the stairwell.
Captain Reese had been in ICU, but after he slipped into the coma, he had been shifted to
a private room at the request of his family. It was on the fourth floor. Natalie debated
whether or not Denese's presence would be a good thing. Reese's wife had been spending
each night on a cot - a dangerous activity when a cop killer was planning to make a visit.
Natalie decided she would have to 'convince' the woman to go home for tonight, just to
be on the safe side.

The stairs passed in seconds. Natalie burst onto the fourth floor to the shout of an
attendant pushing a gurney transporting an elderly patient. She moved back against the
closing door, giving the pair room to roll past. When the hall was clear, she began to walk
briskly to the closest patient's room to get her bearings.

Four thirty-two.

She needed four fourteen. Natalie shuffled down the hall, past rooms filled with
methodically beeping equipment. Each seemed to provide a chirp in response to the
others, as though the hospital was the nesting place for a flock of mechanical songbirds.

Four twenty-six.

Four twenty-four.

Since it was now the worst possible time for her to remember it, Natalie's thoughts
suddenly focused on the hurried order Schanke had given her over the phone. She'd shrugged the instruction away. It wasn't as if she'd be in mortal danger if
Curran did show up. She could handle him.

Four twenty.

Natalie suddenly grasped the error in her logic - she could handle Curran, but how did
she justify the coroner coming to the rescue? She had the ability, but not the authority.
Even if it was Nick flashing through the hospital to Reese's defense, once upon a time she
would have given him grief later for relying too much on the vampire.

Four eighteen.

Natalie pulled out her phone and dialed.

Four sixteen.

It rang once.

Four fourteen.

Her feet stilled in front of the closed room. She could hear a voice, a recognizable male
voice. Natalie opened the door abruptly onto a tableau of Curran holding a gun
to Sergeant Pulte's head, standing to the side of the unconscious Captain's bed. Curran
immediately shifted the gun in her direction.

"Get in here. Close the door."

Natalie complied. She didn't particularly want anyone seeing what would happen next,
either.

As the door clicked shut, Curran nodded the gun toward Natalie's still-ringing phone.
"Shut that off."

She did, flipping it closed, then glanced at Pulte. His hands were cuffed behind his
back, and she could smell blood. He tilted his head slightly, and she saw a small cut along
one temple, the kind that bled profusely proportional to the size of the injury. There was a
dark red trail smudging the corner of his forehead. "Are you okay, Beau?"

Curran didn't give the sergeant the chance to reply. "That's a stupid question to ask
the guy who's going to get the credit for your murder. Are *you* okay, Doctor
Lambert?"

"I know what you're here to do," Natalie told him. "I know you lied about calling
Reese just as he was attacked. I know about the switch you did with ballistics to make
Pulte look guilty."

Curran smiled and shook his head. "Now that surprises me. I wondered about you. I
didn't think you would follow up. You didn't act like you cared about anything in the
Coroner's Office the whole time I was there. You were too busy mooning over Nick. I
guess Knight wasn't as distracting as he promised to be."

"It was more a case of Pulte being a better cop than you gave him credit for," Natalie
contradicted. "No one wanted to believe he was guilty. He's one of us."

"And I'm not?" Curran scoffed. "What makes him any different from me? Turned
down for three promotions in favor of Commissioners' daughters, affirmative action, and
hotshots imported from Ottawa - why shouldn't he want to get even?"

"Are you saying you applied for the same jobs Pulte did? That's why you killed Dell
and Forrest? And Reese? Reese promoted you!" Natalie said accusingly.

"Not the first time," Curran said slowly. "Hotshots imported from Ottawa, remember?
I thought I'd go for Tracy Vetter's job when she bowed out permanently. She couldn't cut
it in Corporate Crime, and she didn't exactly make it at the 96th. Reese could have pegged
me for the job then, but no, he brought in Detective Douglas, instead."

"Trust me. Clare arrived," Natalie said succinctly. "Reese wasn't allowed any other
option."

"But she couldn't handle the job, either. First big case, and she's dead. You don't
know what it's like to see these losers get your shot, time after time, because they're
women, or they're a minority, or they or their daddy knows someone. I was *sick* of
working the Vice beat. What kind of career can a guy make there? I was never going to
make Captain that way. The hotshots get noticed, so I became a hotshot." He shifted his
free hand to a back holster as he stepped backward, swiveling his aim between Natalie and
Sergeant Pulte. Pulling another gun free, this one a .38, he deposited his department-
issued sidearm in its holster. Constantly looking between his two hostages, he leaned
forward, unlocking Pulte's handcuffs and hooking them over his belt. "Dell was revenge. I
can admit that now. That's why I buried him. When they found the body right after I got
word that my promotion finally had come in - damn, I couldn't resist going all the way. To
think - the same people who held me back are going to make my career." Pulte's hands
freed, Curran pulled out his issued gun again and handed the sergeant the .38. Pulte
looked at it disconcertingly, tilting the metal in his hands, reasoning what he should do
with it. "Uh-uh," Curran chided, pointing his weapon in Natalie's direction. "Be careful
where you aim that, or I'll shoot the doctor." He gestured at Natalie. "Move next to the
bed. Act like you're watching over the Captain like a guardian angel."

"They're looking for you now, Curran," Natalie said as she followed his instructions.
"You won't get credit for solving anything. Stonetree, Schanke, Knight - they all know
you're responsible for the murders." Reese's bedside was surrounded by intravenous
stands and monitoring equipment. Natalie rested her hands on the Captain's forearm,
acting as though she was on a bedside vigil, like Curran wanted. With a flick of a finger,
she loosened one line, plucking its needle from Reese's arm.

"I don't believe you. If you're telling the truth, why are you here alone? Pulte," Curran
commanded, "you're going to catch Doctor Lambert by surprise - a shot to the back of
the head during her visit to Captain Reese. Take one of the pillows to muffle the noise."
When Pulte didn't move immediately, Curran turned his gun on him again. "Do it!"

"One way or another - Reese, Doctor Lambert and I - we all end up dead," Pulte
argued as he moved. The difference was that he didn't move toward Natalie, but farther
away from both her and the detective.

Natalie's eyes narrowed at the risk the sergeant was taking. She could see that he
wanted to throw Curran's sense of power over the situation off-balance, giving him a
foothold to talk the man down. The problem was that Curran could rebound, shooting out
of desperation. Pulte was drawing the man's attention on purpose. Apparently, he'd
decided that, if someone was shot, he should take it rather than his Captain or the more-
civilian medical examiner. It was a perfectly noble piece of Cop Philosophy 101, and
Natalie decided to be impressed rather than dismiss his actions as a waste of time. After
all, he had no idea she was already dead. Natalie was also pleased Pulte wasn't complying
with the 'shoot her in the head' order. Nick had demonstrated the complications of that
kind of injury for a vampire, and she had no intention of testing her resilience to that
degree. The threat of a shot in the head, well, it would force her into some defensive
action, not all of it mortal. She silently urged Pulte on with his speaking, while wishing for
him to choose his words carefully.

Pulte continued his spoken rebellion against Curran. "Why should I go along with your
plans? If I don't cooperate, how are you going to supposedly shoot me down to stop my
murderous spree? You can't fix the evidence that fast, not in the time it will take for the
staff to run down the hall at the first sound of shots. It's not going to work. Give up.
You're going to have to take credit, take responsibility, for what you've already done.
Don't make it worse. Put your weapon down, and turn yourself in."

"Pulte's right," Natalie echoed, choosing this as a prime moment to test her persuasive
skills. Curran was starting to sweat. His posture wasn't as confident as a few minutes
before. "Put the gun down...One murder, two...just because you've already committed
them, that doesn't mean there has to be more. Believe me, I understand."

Curran's gaze had drifted back to Natalie, and her hypnotic blue eyes held him there.
"You understand." It was a statement, a repetition, but there was still a question there. He
was slipping, but Natalie hadn't quite caught his mind entirely yet.

"Yes..." Natalie said in mellow tones. "I understand what it's like to be angry...to feel
like no one acknowledges your true worth...that the people who should recognize how
important you are fail you time and time again...to choose to hate them rather than admit
how weak they make you feel..."

Curran swayed slightly toward her, then battled to straighten. "That's right - they failed
*me.* I had no choice but to kill them."

Natalie's eyes flickered to Pulte, he was a little dazed himself, struggling to see where
this exchange was headed. She could see him calculating, judging his odds of taking
Curran by surprise.

"But there's always a choice, James," Natalie replied softly, curling her voice intimately
around his name, willing him to surrender to trusting her and everything she said. "When
you choose to lie, you have to live with a lie...Lying becomes a prison, James. Telling the
truth, James, sets you free...you should surrender to the truth...Surrender..."

"Surrender..." Curran blinked rapidly several times, and his wrist momentarily went
limp, dipping the muzzle of he weapon a fraction. Pulte appeared poised to jump, but
Curran wouldn't give in without a fight. His chin snapped up, and he growled, "No - I
don't have a choice!"

"You do!" Natalie shot back, mentally cursing because she'd lost her grip on the
strings. It would take longer to pull them taut again, maybe too long. She could hear
footsteps treading the hallway outside. But she couldn't feel Nick
clearly, and the steps weren't hurrying. They weren't rushing to an emergency.
They were slowing. "Listen!" Natalie said urgently. "Okay, you don't have a choice." She
would work with what his mind was already clinging to, and twist it to her own advantage
- hopefully quickly. "There is no choice...you must put the gun down...put the gun down,
James." Natalie heard fingers twisting the doorknob before the mortals did and
emphatically pushed again. "Put the gun down now."

Curran's weapon drooped more significantly, until the door to the hospital room swept
open. He started, totally distracted from both Pulte and Natalie.

Denese Reese stood in the doorway, her shocked eyes taking in the scene of two men
wielding guns in her husband's room. "Joe!"

Natalie had already decided to move, in case this interruption caused Curran to start
shooting. She lifted the i.v. stand she'd loosened from the Captain's arm and threw it at
his weapon. It was a mortal-enough action, even if she managed a little supernatural
distance and force.

Curran released a shout as the metal stand hit him. His grip on the gun faltered so that
his index finger was now at an awkward angle on the trigger, and he stumbled backward
into the wall, one knee buckling.

Pulte sprang into action, striking at the detective's wrist until he lost his grip on the
gun entirely. It dropped to the floor and misfired, the bullet landing harmlessly in a
baseboard below the sink. Pulte kicked the weapon away, then simultaneously lifted the
handcuffs from Curran's belt as he yanked the man's arms behind his back. In the blink of
an eye, the sergeant had him cuffed and on his knees. "James Curran, you are under arrest
for the murders of Captains Sunjay Dell and Stephanie Forrest, and the attempted murder
of Captain Joe Reese." Keeping the .38 trained on his new prisoner, Pulte set the i.v. stand
upright again and rolled it toward Natalie. Normally neat and polite, it had been a very
atypical evening for the sergeant. "Shouldn't you put that back in the Captain or
something?"

"Yes, I should." Natalie grinned while Denese Reese hurried forward to assure herself
of her husband's safety. Nat nodded to the efficient job Pulte had done of subduing
Curran. "You're pretty good at that."

Pulte looked embarrassed. "Well, they're my handcuffs. I had plenty of time to think
about it when he caught me by surprise at my apartment and used them on me."

Shouts had sprouted on the hospital floor at the sound of the gunshot, and doctors and
nurses poured into the room. Pulte, being the one in a police uniform, offered a business-
like explanation and began to usher Curran from the room. Natalie followed since the
room was becoming crowded, and she finally lifted her phone again to call in to the
precinct.

There were exclamations from Denese and a nurse. Both Natalie and the sergeant
turned in the doorway to see what had happened.

Captain Reese had his eyes open. "Officer down..." he mumbled in thin, scratchy voice.

Natalie smiled, joining the rest of the room's occupants in happy relief. "Was it the
sound of the gunshot that woke him up?" she wondered aloud.

Denese heard her reasoning and squeezed her husband's hand with mock severity.
"Work! Joe, baby, I've been begging day and night for you to wake up and be okay
because your family loves you, and what brings you back to us? Work! Joe, I love you,
but you are a man with a one-track mind!"

Captain Reese cringed uncomfortably at the pain in his body and the tightness in his
throat. "Water...want some water..."

Natalie and Sergeant Pulte exchanged a conspiratorial look. Now things really were
getting back to normal.

**********************************************************************
End of Part Forty-Nine

The hothouse had a strange atmosphere. Ivy had wondered if its inclusion had anything
to do with Feliks, since Vachon had shown no inclination to step into the place after it had
been constructed. Still, he had been noncommittal, always shrugging when asked. No,
Vachon always acted like this house and everything surrounding it was his property.

Ivy could admit that much. He'd designed the entire place, from
drawing the plans to execution. Very little work had been subcontracted, Vachon
preferring to do most of the manual labor himself since he knew how. Ivy could
understand having pride in the house - he'd created it. It would have been odd had he felt
no attachment whatsoever. Ivy could remember the early days, when the foundation was
still being poured and the house was little more than a skeleton. They'd spent their days in
a mobile trailer where the greenhouse now stood. Back then, Ivy had done odd jobs to
help, and she'd felt some of that same possession and pride. She'd thought the area was
beautiful, a welcome change from the city, a home...

Ivy cursed aloud.

She cursed again. No wonder Vachon was fed up with her. She was imagining the
house had a destructive personality, when she really was only afraid of herself. "The
ghosts are all in your head, Ivy-girl," she muttered.

She left the entrance propped open, since she did not expect to be there long. The
greenhouse was vampire-friendly. The glass panes finishing the outside had been
decorated in a folk art style, with paintings layered in reverse conjuring false grails of
flowers and greenery. The interior was insulated and climate controlled, finished with
opaque walls and a high ceiling. There was latticework overhead, providing a sprinkler
system and sun lamps. Walking between the vacant tables, Ivy thought it would be a
shame if Feliks didn't take the place over. The setup would go to waste otherwise,
considering Vachon's feelings about working with dirt. She wondered how he had felt
when he first cleared the foundation for the house, confronted with an expanse of bare, flat
earth. She didn't recall any discomfort with the early construction. Maybe Vachon hadn't
seen what lay underneath, only what he was building. Maybe she just hadn't known him
well enough to see more.

Ivy began to grow impatient, because she didn't see the shovels. They'd used the one
made for snow fairly recently, and she knew she'd left it closer to the door. The same
thing went for the digging shovel. She remembered it being stacked against the wall,
banished from the other tools inside the house. Now, she had practically walked the length
of the building, and there was no sign of either.

Her boots stepped on something that crackled. Ivy glanced down and saw there were
leaves scattering the floor. She crouched and held one up for closer study. Dead ivy.
Suddenly, the greenhouse did not feel empty. Suddenly, it felt very crowded for a place
that had yet to groom any plants.

From her position close to the floor, she could now see underneath the tables. Tucked
directly to her right were the shovels, laid supine on the tile. Ivy grabbed both, then quickly retraced her steps to the entrance.

Some feet away, her steps faltered. The door was now closed. Ivy shook her head. She
had been distracted thinking about the house and Vachon, but she was positive she had
left it open. She looked around, searching the shadows, but saw no one. She sensed
...well, with over a hundred vampires roaming the property, she sensed a lot of vampires.
Nothing clear came to her, nothing except the certainty that there was something wrong.
This was wrong, and it wasn't all in her head.

There was an abrupt rushing sound overhead, followed by gurgling noises - plumbing
doing its job. The overhead sprinklers sprang to life, churning an illusion of rain down on
her head.

Only it wasn't rain. She glanced up in surprise when she heard the droplets start to fall.
The first spray doused her face. Her eyes began to sting unbearably and the membranes of
her nose burned from inhaling the mist. She shouted in horror as the heat washed over her
skin. She twisted the doorknob to leave the building but found it locked. Ivy slammed
against the door, hearing the wood crack, then slammed again. It caved, and she rolled out
onto the stone path that trailed from the greenhouse to the drive.

Ivy shook her head, like a dog trying to clean its fur, crawled to her knees, then her
feet. The sprinkler controls were located both inside the building and just outside - here,
by the entrance. She slapped at them blindly, stopping when she heard the rushing sounds
transform into a trickle.

Ivy blinked her eyes in panic. She couldn't see clearly. Everything was unfocused,
surrounded by a red glare. It wasn't surprising. Someone had added one part holy water to
the sprinkler system tanks.

She twisted her head wildly from side to side, trying to catch sight of who it was. All
that filled her gaze was bleary shapes, slashes of light and dark void of detail. Her mind
was racing, her thoughts becoming as unfocused as her vision.

Who could have done it?

Who hated her that much?

A prank?

She froze. Instead of jerkily searching for any sign of who had attacked her, she tried
to calm her breath. She pushed herself to listen, to feel for any presence, any movement, in
her vicinity.

A cold puff of breath danced across her cheek.

She wobbled on her feet, making a half-turn.

She felt it again, this time the other cheek.

Ivy ran.

She knew the only reason she ran freely was because they let her. Whoever it was
wanted to watch, enjoyed her terror.

Ivy's head screamed.

Her boots swished over the grass. She was surprised to realize her hand still clutched
one of the shovels. Her grip tightened on the wood handle, and she resolved that she
would hit the next thing that crossed her path with it.

She squeezed her useless eyes shut and drove her feet forward. Her skin prickled as
though she was coated in thousands of tiny nettles that repeatedly stung her flesh. It was
the cotton of her shirt, of the jeans - the sanctified water had soaked through, and it was
burning her still.

Ivy knew when she reached the woods. She ran smack flat into a tree. She grunted at
the impact, wiped the bark away from her cheek and shoulder, and weaved backward.
Using the shovel like a cane, she extended it around her, testing to see exactly how far the
woods extended. She gingerly stepped back until she couldn't strike trunks, until her boots
were crushing the soft grass again. Then she followed her nose, tracking the rot of the
dead cat. She bent down, feeling with her free hand until she struck moist terrycloth. Her
fingers traveled further, searching for the mound that was Carmen's grave. Ivy scurried on
top of it, clutching her shovel in a poor imitation of King of the Mountain. Her skin
continued to burn, everything except her bare arms and leather-clad feet.

She relinquished the shovel momentarily, keeping track of it by tucking it
uncomfortably below one knee. She pulled off her t-shirt and tossed it aside. Free of the
fabric dampened with holy water, the night air was a soothing balm to her scalded skin. It
became a stark contrast to her legs, which continued to seethe beneath a layer of wet
denim. Ivy worked on the buttons of her fly, then began to push them down, but she
remembered her boots. It would be impossible to get the jeans off over them. She shifted,
shovel beneath her rear now, and yanked her boots off, throwing them carelessly away.
Leaning back, she wriggled free of her jeans and wished them a fond farewell.

She curled her knees in front of her, wrapping her arms about her legs. She imagined
she presented a picture: burned and crying, sitting on a grave in her underwear, clutching a
garden tool in self-defense. The crying she tried to stifle, because it made it difficult to
hear what was happening in her surroundings. "Shut up," she whispered to herself. She
swallowed her tears, and she muffled her breaths, the ones that heaved her chest as
violently as a scream. Everything became eerily quiet - the music of the house party was
loud, yet removed by distance, and she smothered her own sounds through force of will
and terror that she might miss a tell-tale noise.

When it came, a small sob escaped her throat. She wasn't alone, but she still couldn't
see who it was or just where they were standing. Ivy held her breath, wishing for another
aural clue, tightening her blistered fingers around the shovel handle until her knuckles
were ready to crack.

The movement was aimed toward her. Soft, inquisitive steps. Curious. Unhurried.

Ivy bellowed a guttural cry, swinging the shovel violently in an arc in front of her. It
made contact with flesh and bone, a solid sound that was echoed by a pained grunt. She
was on her feet now but hunkered low for a stable center of gravity. She tried to listen for
a next move, but her breathing had increased to panting again. Ivy was grabbed from
behind, hands enveloping her grip on the shovel handle. Desperate, she let go with her
right hand and jerked enough leverage to jab backward with her elbow, hitting ribcage.

Her opponent was getting angry now. Instead of trying to keep her from swinging the
shovel again for another blow, Ivy was shoved from behind, facedown into the dirt. She
coughed and shrieked as she rolled over. She'd lost a firm hold on the wood handle, and it
was torn from her grasp before she could balance another strike. Ivy punched wildly with
a right hook, barely brushing her target. The left fared better when she aimed higher. It felt
as though she connected with an eye socket. Before she could pull back, however, both of
her wrists were seized, and her opponent sat across her upper legs to keep her from
kicking. It didn't stop her from trying. She bucked as she shouted, "Get off me! Let me
go! Dammit! Let go of me!" Panic set in. She couldn't see. She couldn't move. She was
waiting to hear his voice. Any second the cold voice of a smile that never reached the eyes
would mock at her, It would be him, because she
wished him dead. She wanted him defeated and thought him destroyed, and that was why
he would come back. She knew it was Thomas, because she was terrified, and nothing, no
one, terrified her as much as he did.

He shook her. "Imataq manchakunki?" He shook her again until her teeth rattled then
repeated, "Imataq manchakunki?!"

It took time for it to filter through, then a
transformer in Ivy's brain seemed to click into action and translate.

It was The Inka.

"I'm afraid of something I can't fight." She stopped struggling and whispered meekly,
"I apologize. I didn't realize it was you. Will you let go of me? I promise I won't hit you
again."

There was a long silence, as though The Inka was struggling to understand how she
couldn't recognize whom she'd attacked with a shovel. Finally, he let go of her wrists and
crouched, watching Ivy as she resumed her posture of knees cradled into her chest, arms
hugging her legs. She heard him shift an arm and sensed some movement in front of her
face. Ivy frowned at the mystery, but said nothing.

The Inka spoke. "You are wounded. You cannot see. What happened?"

There was no way she could explain what she thought had happened. "I don't want to
talk about it," she said firmly and clamped her mouth shut.

"Then I will leave you to your thoughts."

Ivy heard The Inka move. He was standing, planning to walk back to the house. "No,
wait!" She scrambled to tag him, waving her arm blindly until she grabbed spun cloth. Her
thoughts were of safety in numbers. "I don't want to be alone." She imagined that she was
tugging on the hem of his garment like a proper beggar. Maybe that would appeal to his
'Call me The Inka' complex. "Will you stay until my sight comes back? Please?"

He moved again, and suddenly she held nothing. She swiveled, struggling to pinpoint
his location, what he was doing. Was he walking away? Was she alone again?

"Here." She felt soft cloth float over her head and settle on her shoulders. He'd taken
off his poncho and given it to her. Either the sight of her encouraged sympathy, or he
didn't want to look at a blistered, weed-haired, hysterical woman in her underwear.

"Thank you."

He didn't respond, but moved again. Ivy tilted her head to keep up with him. He made
an impatient sound, derisive of her twitching. "You act like a child who believes that,
because she cannot see something, it ceases to exist. You should use your eyes less."

"I'm trying," Ivy said petulantly. She thought it was unkind of him to criticize. She was
the one blinded. He had a choice about using his eyes. Every time she caught up with the
sounds and smells around her, detailing her surroundings, the temptation would return to
look, to try and pick the same things out visually and see if her sight was improving. Then
she would become lost again and have to start over.

"You are not very old," The Inka declared with an air of superiority. "You have very
little skill with the night. You are a child," he repeated.

"I'm not that young or helpless," Ivy snapped. She aimed a jab at his head, hopefully
stopping a hair's breadth from impact. Otherwise, she really would look young and
helpless, and very much an idiot.

She grinned smugly when The Inka accused, "You promised you would not hit." She
had to have come close, or he would be insulting her intelligence again.

"I promised I wouldn't hit *you.* I didn't hit you, did I?" she countered.

The Inka sniffed dismissively. He refused to be impressed.

Ivy blinked repeatedly then tested her eyes again. Things were improving. She could
pick out a fuzzy shape in the distance that must be the house. She looked to the woods,
where dozens of thick trunks stretched to the sky to blend into the color of the night. She
could see the moon, one bright, slightly golden blob. She could see The Inka, or at least a
non-distinct form in white seated to her right. She couldn't distinguish his expression, but
she knew he was staring at her, probably displeased about it.

Ivy decided she felt much better, much less threatened. Her skin had cooled
tremendously. Now, only her head seemed to smart and burn. It was her hair, her wet hair.

The Inka apparently noticed. He reached out to touch a damp strand and snatched his
hand back as though it was on fire. "I knew it! Your hair is cursed!"

Ivy scowled. "It's holy water. Not my hair." She reached up to test it herself, breathing
out a hiss as her fingertips sizzled. Her hair felt choppy, even considering the style. Ivy
suddenly realized that, where the water had soaked into her scalp, the hair had fallen away,
leaving her skull a patchy mass of blisters. She grimaced picturing how it must look and
relented. "Okay, maybe my hair is cursed."

"Who did it?" The Inka demanded.

Ivy remembered how the Inka were big ones for casting out evil spirits. She no doubt
had a few of those that could use curing, but she imagined practices like cleansing out the
house with corn powder, burning toads, or worse - cutting open her skull to release the
spirits that tormented her mind - and found she couldn't embrace a traditional ritualistic
approach. She couldn't handle the other favored method of exorcism, either - telling the
truth about the demons that plague you. Instead, she offered a fragment to appease The
Inka's curiosity. "I needed to bury the cat. I went to the greenhouse for a shovel, and
someone turned on the overhead sprinklers. There was holy water in the tank. It was a
prank," she offered feebly. A prank...torture...the two were interchangeable, at least to the
victim.

"One of the guests did this prank?"

"I don't know." Ivy considered how that answer might be truthful. She'd panicked.
She'd immediately conjured up thoughts of Thomas taunting her from beyond the grave
and ended up bludgeoning The Inka by mistake. Weren't there other people, undoubtedly
walking the earth, who had reason to want her to suffer?

Ivy shivered, but pushed away the idea of Janette skulking around the greenhouse. She
might have the will to douse her in holy water, but it wasn't her style. When Janette came
after her, it would be face to face.

"There are plenty of obnoxious nihilists roaming about," Ivy reasoned aloud. "Domino
wasn't exactly selective. I think he was going for quantity, not quality. No wonder Vachon
didn't want the party."

Her thoughts flashed to another group - a sector of the Wild Ones were here. They
were all vampires made over the course of a few frenzied days within the Community a
couple of years ago, during the asteroid scare. All had been abandoned, disavowed by the
higher echelon. Whenever cracks in the Code showed lately, the Wild Ones were blamed.

Ivy had had a brief run-in with one of the gang's leaders - as close as it came to having
leaders - when she first arrived in Toronto. She remembered seeing Vincent at the party
tonight, practicing his headbanging technique, literally, on a weaker member of the group.
Maybe he was the culprit.

The Inka stood, bored by her lack of information. She could follow him with her eyes
now. Her vision had filled in with more precise shapes, even some light and color, though
it was still like gazing through a cloudy lens. He picked up the abandoned shovel. "Where
were you going to dig?" he asked.

She pointed behind her. "There. Right next to the trees."

He began to work, and she debated whether she should offer new thanks that he was
sparing her the job. "There is something else buried here," he announced. "Where you sit."

"You can tell? Yes, it's another cat."

"Do you make many sacrifices? It is better to burn them for the gods," he advised
between shovelfuls of dirt.

"I didn't kill the cats," Ivy said defensively. "Carmen was a pet, and that one," she
nodded toward the black lump of towel, "it was a wounded stray that crawled into the
house to die." Her memory flashed back to the feeling of being watched, the renegade
smell of bleach and scattered soil. "At least, we think that's what
happened."

He shot her a sharp question. "The Spaniard knows everything?"

"He knows enough."

The Inka scoffed and threw down the shovel. He carefully picked up the towel-
wrapped body - no stains would dare touch him - and placed it within the fresh womb of
earth. Ivy climbed to her feet, and searched for her discarded clothes. She dangled her
jeans and mottled t-shirt between her fingertips. She dropped them on top of the makeshift
shroud, eager to be rid of them. "My sight is much better now," she told The Inka. "I can
finish up." The Inka scoffed once more and resumed his digging, sifting the dirt back into
the pit.

Ivy paced in a circle. Apparently The Inka no longer thought she had the sense to dig a
hole. She fidgeted with the
poncho's fringe, tying small knots in the fine threads with nervous fingers.

"Is The Spaniard coming back?"

Ivy stopped walking. "Yes."

"When?"

"Soon." Ivy lapsed into a shrug, not buying her own declaration. "When he wants to, I
suppose." Her pacing started again. How could she stand still at that thought?

The Inka finished his task, stomping the earth's surface a few times with his sandals to
pack it. He leaned the shovel against a nearby tree and approached Ivy. He saw how she
was tying the fringe of the poncho into little beaded threads, and he slapped at her hands.
"Stop that. That is not for quipu," he lectured, referring to the Inkan accounting system
patterned by knots in rope that her fidgeting resembled. "What do you count? Your sins?
Your lies?"

"My regrets," Ivy countered, then wished she'd held her tongue.

The Inka's eyes burned into her as much as the holy water still clinging to her hair.
"There is more buried here. I can feel it. Something vengeful. It is as if Pacha-Mama,
Mother Earth, is screaming to be fed. She wants to swallow up the dead and the living.
That is what curses this place. That is what curses you, and you share this curse with
Vachon." He squeezed one hand around her throat, his enmity causing him to slip into his
old language. "Munani mashimiyki..."

Ivy thought with a gulp.

"...Wauqey chucrichinankiqa, wanuchinani-man tacarpu shungupi."

"Not if he beats you to it," Ivy whispered.

The Inka released her throat. "Do not hide from it. Clean out this house. Clean this
earth. Fight it as you fought me."

"Blindly? Yeah, that'll work."

"Do you want it to bury you next? The Spaniard?"

Ivy didn't want to think about that. "You don't know anything about us. You can't just
waltz in here and act like you do." She chopped her hands harshly through the air. "You
know nothing about what happened!" She felt the tears and the hysteria both yearning to
return. She rubbed roughly at her face with her knuckles, damning herself for acting like a
girl. "I want to go back to the house. I'll wait there until Vachon returns."

The Inka studied her quietly before seeming to reach a decision. He extended a hand,
offering friendship. Ivy stared at his palm dumbly for a moment. Again, she considered safety in numbers. She considered a man
who was Vachon's mortal enemy, who'd spent centuries fighting him, yet was loyal
enough through their blood tie to rip her apart if she harmed him herself. Ivy didn't quite
understand fidelity like that. She had failed or betrayed everyone who had ever touched
her life in one way or another. The ties of loyalty were confusing and mysterious, another
foreign language, one that she couldn't pick up from a college lecture. She couldn't
understand it, but she could respect it. Ivy took The Inka's hand and allowed him to lead
her back to the house.

************************************************************************
End of Part Fifty

Natalie hung around the hospital while the first officers hit the scene. Both she and
Pulte gave preliminary statements, each crediting the other with Curran's capture. The
sergeant handed over custody of his prisoner and the .38, which was tagged for immediate
inspection and ballistics tests.

Every time the elevator pinged to announce a new arrival, Natalie glanced that way,
her shoulders slumping as Nick and Schanke failed to arrive. She was growing impatient,
wondering what had happened to hold them up at Pulte's apartment. Nat tried both of
their mobile phone numbers, this time receiving no answer across the board.

After an hour of waiting and talking to the officers on the scene, none of whom had
heard any news about Detectives Knight or Schanke, Natalie offered Sergeant Pulte a ride
to the precinct so that they could give their formal statements about apprehending Curran.

Once they were in her car, Pulte nervously cleared his throat and said, "I want to offer
an apology."

That statement caught Natalie off-guard. "What on earth for?"

"You know, for when we found Captain Dell's body a few weeks ago. You and
Schanke were right to be annoyed with me. It's hard when you work with the victims and
the guy who ends up being the killer. I should have kept my mouth shut."

"We've all opened our mouths when we shouldn't have at least once," Natalie said in a
self-derisive tone. "Some of us more than once. You just caught us on a bad day."

"It's weird," Pulte reflected. "I liked Curran. I thought, 'Hey, a couple years from now,
I could be that guy. I could be the new detective. I could be the one making a difference.'
It wasn't until he came by my place and drew a gun on me that I had a clue that he was
anyone other than someone to look up to."

"You made a difference tonight," Natalie pointed out. "You did what you had to in
order to stay alive, you protected the Captain and me, and you're the one who cuffed him
in the end."

Pulte snorted dubiously at the credit she was giving him. "I don't feel like I did much
of anything."

Natalie gave him a friendly smile. "And that's why you're a better cop than James
Curran could have ever been."

"He was wrong about Tracy...I mean, Detective Vetter. She was better than him, too.
She was just unlucky. Tonight, I was lucky."

Pulte glanced up and caught Natalie grinning at him. "I'd forgotten. You kind of had a
crush on Tracy, didn't you?"

His cheeks flushed. "See? My mouth is better off shut." Natalie chuckled, and Pulte
admitted, "I liked her."

"Liked?" Natalie teased. "Or like-liked?"

Pulte made a zipping motion across his mouth and changed the subject. "Detective
Douglas was a good cop, too. We like to think people are all heroes when the situation
calls for it, but how many folks would really take a bullet for someone else's kid? That's
the kind of partner you want to have."

"Hmm." It was a tentative agreement on Natalie's part. She was a mother and friend,
but she had set Nick on fire. Clare was a two-sided coin, and right now Natalie's feelings
balanced on the edge.

Pulte's expression became speculative. "On the other hand - and no offense - she kind
of scared me."

Natalie gave him a solemn look. "You have a better intuition than me, Pulte. Hold onto
it."

When they reached the precinct, Nick and Schanke's desks were empty. Stonetree's
office was also vacant, and Natalie reluctantly followed an officer to one of the
interrogation rooms to describe James Curran's capture. By the time she had finished,
almost two hours had passed. Natalie saw that Stonetree had returned, and he was
stepping into the next room, where Pulte was finishing up his statement. Natalie paused by
the doorway to listen in on the Captain's news.

"Your apartment's a little worse for wear. There was a shooting there tonight -
completely unrelated to the Curran case - and some of your things were damaged and
taken as evidence. I've got a list."

Natalie abruptly moved away from the doorway and rushed out of the precinct, digging
her phone out as she descended the steps.

She jerkily opened the phone and began to dial, but her peripheral vision zeroed in on a
familiar face in the distance. Schanke was here at the precinct, leaning against her car as
though he was waiting specifically for her.

"Schanke!" she shouted with relief, shoving the phone back into her coat. She jogged
up to him, resting her hands on his upper arms. "I just heard! Are you okay?" Natalie
glanced around the lot, looking for a sign of the Caddy. "Where's Nick?"

"I'm a little overdue for my ice cream and cookies, but I'm fine," Schanke answered,
his voice slightly sedate. "I dropped Nick off at the loft and switched cars. He needed a bit
of a rest, and since we're both confined to desks for the rest of the week, we're both
going to take off the next few days."

Natalie frowned. "Confined to your desks? What for?"

Schanke waved one hand casually. "You know, it's standard procedure when you kill
someone in the line of duty."

"Oh," Nat said quietly. "Did you...or...?"

"I was the one who fired."

"Don, I'm so sorry," Natalie said truthfully. "If there's anything I can do to help..."

Schanke motioned for her to stop. "I'm fine. It looks like there'll be no problem with it
being ruled defensive."

"Well, that's good." Natalie watched him uncomfortably. She had a sense of
foreboding that something was out of the ordinary with Schanke, and the dam was about
to break. "Did you hear about Curran and the hospital?"

Schanke nodded. "Yeah. Stonetree got the call while he was with us."

"You know, Pulte actually made the collar. You'd have been really impressed. I mean,
I was there, and I might have helped a little, but he really shows -"

"Oh, come on, Nat," Schanke broke in, his voice heavy with disappointment. "Are you
really going to just stand there and go through the same old friendly, supportive act? 'Tell
it to Schanke!'" he mimicked. "'He'll believe anything!'"

Natalie's smile faded. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"I found out. That's what happened," he stated. "Nick's a vampire. One of the life-
challenged. His bark isn't worse than his bite." Natalie opened her mouth to protest, but
Schanke brushed her off, "No, before you start covering for him again...It's too late. I
know. I'm not going to stop knowing. I saw Nick get a stake in the heart, for Christ's
sake!"

Her world dropped out from under her as she remembered her pains and panic en route
to the hospital. "No! Not that! Not Nick!"

Suddenly, guilt washed over Schanke's features and he put his hands on her shoulders.
"Oh, God, Nat - I didn't mean it like that. He's okay. He's going to be okay. He's just
really weak. Very hungry. You probably shouldn't go over there tonight to be on the safe
side," he said, being protective. Slowly, his expression shifted as he noticed how cold she
was to the touch. "On second thought, you might be the best judge of how safe things
are." He stepped away from the car, his face incredulous. "Geez, Nick said he screwed
things up with you - I'm just starting to catch on how much."

"Schanke," Natalie said as she reached out toward him, "You have to believe that Nick
or I would never hurt you."

"That's funny," he replied, "because I'm sure feeling something a whole lotta like hurt
right now."

"Please, Schank. Nick is your friend. He didn't want you to know because of how you
might..." Natalie's voice died. She didn't know what she could say to end the accusing
look in his eyes, and all she could focus on was that Nick had been staked in the heart. She
could have lost him. She should be at the loft.

"What, Natalie? Was he afraid I might change? He damn well better hope I change.
Adaptation is the key to survival. I'd hate to not be able to adapt with you people
around."

"People?" she echoed. "Schanke, we're your *friends.*"

"Yeah. I just can't look at you right now. I want to go home and make sure that my
wife still tans, and the kid eats Cheerios. Tell Nick..." He worked his jaw a moment, filled
with things to say, knowing that this wasn't the moment or audience for the words. "Tell
him I'll talk to him later."

Natalie watched Schanke walk away alone, feeling like she could have, should have,
fixed it somehow. She didn't realize that she was shaking until she tried to open the car
door and she couldn't get her fingers to close around the handle. Nick had been staked in
the heart. How could she have lived through that? After tonight, when everything had
seemed to be a promise that their world could be okay, how had so much been broken so
quickly? If he had been gone, would she have survived?

Natalie's practical side reasoned there was no doubt. She would go on existing without
Nick, and the nights would pass in steady succession. Her sense of purpose subsisted
beyond him, sometimes in spite of him. To have him taken away too soon would be like a
part of her gored away, but only a part. It was a part she would miss, a part she was
thankful she still had. It was a part she felt pain and woe for, caused by the anger in
Schanke's eyes.

Don had looked like a dog who'd been beaten by the man who fed him. Would he
forgive, or decide to snap back?

"Oh, Nick..."

Natalie wanted to drive. She needed to move, to fly, to get to the loft and to see him.
She had started to cry, though, heavy tears of grief for secrets that were better kept and
words left unsaid. They were the plague of her existence. It would be a while before she
moved, before the tears ran dry.

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

Vachon tried to waste time and not think about where he wanted to be. Picking up
Carmen's marker had passed quickly, and he found himself not wanting to retreat back to
the house for the first time. He told himself that he wanted the place to be empty - that
was what kept him at bay. The truth was, he didn't care who was there, as long as one
person didn't leave.

His past was filled with many people, the majority of whom he simply accepted when
they were around. Very few had ever become important enough to establish a preference
of like or dislike. Even fewer people had mattered when one of them decided it was time
to say goodbye.

Aristotle's address flashed in his thoughts.

She could be there now. He wondered if she would take everything, packing up all of
her clothes to meet Robert and the kid. No. Ivy was more the type to travel light, to leave
with the clothes on her back. A cigarette-run exit.

It was hard to picture the house without her in it. Even when he'd relegated her to the
background, when he'd ignored her and not spoken for days, Ivy had been part of it since
the night they put in the floor joists. The thought of hanging around the house long
enough to forget what it was like to share it wasn't appealing. Maybe he would get rid of
the place after all. If Feliks wasn't interested, he could always swindle Domino into taking
it off his hands by challenging him to a Rum-O match.

Vachon went to the Raven, figuring the place could distract him a while longer. The
club was practically empty, filled with names he didn't remember, with one glaring
exception. LaCroix.

The ancient sat alone, nursing a bottle. LaCroix appeared diverted by his arrival,
commenting, "I heard you had plans elsewhere tonight."

Vachon shrugged and took a seat at the bar. "We ran out of ice, and naturally, I
thought of you."

LaCroix gestured eloquently at the vacant bar. "Be my guest. The Raven has little use
for the freezer tonight."

"Thanks."

LaCroix walked behind the bar, untended since Domino had hijacked the staff for the
party. He plucked a stem of glassware from the collection and placed it in front of the
Spaniard, then gestured toward the open bottle for Vachon to help himself. "You traveled
quite a distance to simply fetch ice," he observed.

Vachon considered his remark, but didn't particularly want to respond to it. "You're
not at the party, either. To what do we owe the honor?"

"Something unexpected occurred which robbed me of my festive mood."

Vachon nodded thoughtfully as he attempted to conceptualize a festive LaCroix. He
took a drink and scanned the club. Images easier to grasp flooded his mind. He
remembered meeting Ivy here. She hadn't been watching where she was going, and she'd
walked straight into him. Where was she going now? Vachon frowned again and drained
his glass. He shouldn't have come here. The point had been to distract him from thoughts
of her, not bring old ones back.

"I admit I was tempted to visit the affair," LaCroix continued after a moment. "Your
poisonous friend's visit here made your house sound quite interesting. I take it you do not
share her haunted sentiments."

"I'd say we're both haunted by the past. It's hard to shake. That's what I
shared with Ivy. Any theory she has of Clare surviving and shaking her chains...well, I
think if Clare was alive enough to give anyone hell, she'd be a little more direct."

"'Shared?'" LaCroix repeated with interest. "I notice you used the fatalistic past
tense."

Javier stared at him guardedly. Complain to LaCroix about trouble with a woman?
That would be as productive as hitching himself to a solar panel. Launching an offensive,
he commented, "I noticed you joined in with Ivy's theory pretty quickly. I did not expect
that. Crazy, but I had you pegged for more of a pessimist. One scowl, and Clare would be
history. Hanging onto hope - it's not really your style, is it?"

"Are you saying you prefer Clare dead?" LaCroix asked coldly.

Vachon thought at the look in the other man's eyes.
"No. That's not what I'm saying." "I'm saying that sometimes, when
someone is gone, it's better to let them go."

"And I say," LaCroix countered intensely, "that some are impossible to let go. When
you find them, you may try and fight the obsession - the need - but still they haunt you.
Together, or apart, they are your addiction. They become part of your existence, a piece
of the past too powerful to stamp out. Letting them go erases a part of you that you may
not want to lose. How much would you sacrifice to have them back for one more
moment? How far would you go to bring them back, no matter the consequences of their
return?"

"Everything," Vachon answered. He understood what LaCroix felt. The hunger in the
man's voice shook him from out of the blue. Javier didn't know when it had happened, but
Ivy had become a part of him that he didn't want to lose. He couldn't risk her slipping out
of town without telling her to stay.

"Everything," LaCroix repeated knowingly. He watched with faint amusement as the
Spaniard pushed away from the bar and made to leave.

"Thanks for the drink," Vachon said distractedly.

"Didn't you need ice?" LaCroix called after him.

Vachon paused and shook his head. "Something unexpected came up. I have to go
catch her."

LaCroix turned back to the bar once the Spaniard left, smiling bitterly. He'd begun the
night thinking of young pups in need of training. As midnight fled, he acknowledged the
veracity that even old dogs could learn new tricks.

*********************************************************************
End of Part Fifty-One

"Nick?!" Natalie barreled into the loft, her eyes flashing when she didn't have the
instant gratification of seeing him right away.

"I'm up here," he called.

Natalie breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of his voice and lifted her chin. He was
seated on the ledge, gazing into the night through the propped windows. Half a dozen
bottles littered the concrete surface around his body. Nat noted he'd had the opportunity
to get comfortable in his bingeing brood.

She floated up to join him, rearranging the forest of glass to make room close by. Nick
shifted his legs toward the open window to help. She sat, her own dangling off the ledge,
facing the inside. Natalie leaned in and kissed him hello. "I love you." Nick wrapped his
arms around her, his lips pressing against her temple as he held her tightly. After a few
moments, she pushed free and determinedly began to unbutton his shirt. Pulling the edges
aside, Natalie rested her palm against the still-healing scars over his heart. "I should have
said it earlier," she whispered.

He buried a hand in her hair and pulled her head to rest against his chest. "You didn't
have to say the words. I knew."

She smiled against his skin, even as she felt the grief swell again. "I saw Schanke at the
precinct. It was awful. I'm so sorry, Nick."

He didn't say anything. It was another place where words weren't necessary.

"He loves you, Nick," Natalie said quietly. "He's your friend. He *will* get past this."

"All I can think about is what I've done to him. The look on his face..." Nick's eyes
glittered painfully.

"I know. I saw. But, Nick, Schanke said he'd talk to you in a few days. That's got to
be a good sign. He's just got to get over the shock. Right now, there's a big shift in the
way he sees you, but he'll work through it," Natalie said optimistically. "You'll see."

"Maybe," Nick said, his voice heavy, "but I'm terrified that what I am will continue to
hurt him. I made him lie, Nat. I made him cover up for me. I never gave him the
opportunity to walk away from what he saw - not like you had. He thought he was
defending me when he shot O'Neal, and the next second, he's confronting with the
knowledge that he's saved a monster!"

"Stop it, Nick! You're not a monster!" Natalie insisted.

"He thinks he murdered O'Neal. Schanke gave me some of his blood after he removed
the stake, and I felt it. For the first time, I made him ashamed of doing his job."

Natalie lifted her head and raised her hand to brush a comforting hand across his cheek.
"Oh, Nick..."

He grasped her hand, squeezing it urgently. "I didn't harm him physically, but, Nat, I
feel like I killed him. Being a cop is one of the most important, honored things in
Schanke's life, and I took that away from him." Nick glanced away abruptly, his jaw
clenching. "And that's not all...LaCroix was there."

Natalie felt dread tighten along her spine. "Oh my god. He knows? He knows about
Schanke?"

"Yes. I guess the bond brought him there when he felt me staked through the heart."

"I felt something, too," Natalie told him. "I thought it was a panic attack," she said
ruefully. "I just didn't want to think about anything happening to you." She let go of a
shaky breath, the panic returning. "Schanke...what is LaCroix going to do about
Schanke?"

"I don't know. He walked away tonight, but that's no guarantee of what he'll decide to
do tomorrow." Nick shook his head in frustration. "Schanke is past the point where he's
likely to forget. If we even tried, if we failed, we'd lose his trust for good."

"Maybe LaCroix will let it go," Natalie reasoned hesitantly. "He knows how close you
and Schanke are. Maybe he decided to leave it up to you."

"I want to believe that, but I can't feel so secure - not when Schanke's life is on the
line. What would separate Schank from Louis Secour in LaCroix's mind? To him, they're
an overdue extinction."

"You have to tell Schanke. You have to tell both of them exactly how you feel about
this, Nick. I think you have to be honest, even with LaCroix. You can't lose out on this
opportunity to make things right with both of them."

Nick caught a curl of her hair and kissed her again. "I think you're right."

Natalie dropped her head and rested it against his chest again. "What do you think
would have happened if Schanke hadn't been there?" she asked curiously.

"I don't know. O'Neal...he'd changed from the last time we saw him. You were right
to be worried. He seemed almost fanatical about our evil. It was almost as if he was afraid
to believe anything else. If he hadn't staked me, I would have ended up having to kill him.
That would have been a different problem itself."

Natalie made a noise of agreement. "You know, I'd just started hoping that I'd been
overreacting about O'Neal. Remember how I mentioned I had an idea for cure research?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, with the rats last year, I was trying to understand how the vampire element
interacted within a mortal host. I suddenly remembered that O'Neal was a perfect existing
example of a human being who maintained the vampire element for a long-term period. It
affected his exposure to the sun, and he had some heightened senses, but he didn't seem to
have the need for blood, and he could clearly still age..."

"And die," Nick added. "But maybe he wasn't a perfect example of how to live with it.
He was a little unstable at the end. More violent - like Joey, or Berniece and Norma Dean
coming off injected blood. Maybe the vampire element had an affect on him, too."

"Well, now that's he's dead, we've lost the chance to find out. I wish I'd have at least
considered the possibility when he first showed up again..." Natalie suddenly stiffened.
"Oh my god."

Nick grew concerned. "What is it?"

"Schanke shot O'Neal. He effectively died from blood loss, right?"

"Right."

Natalie summed up her problem in a name. "Robert MacDonaugh."

Nick straightened as well. "He was carrying Janette's vampire blood when he was shot
to death. He transformed."

"Exactly." Natalie gave him another short kiss before taking the long leap back to the
loft floor. "I'm going to the morgue to check. If O'Neal does come across, he'll wake up
and find Grace and Sidney waiting for his first hunger."

"I'll come with you," Nick called.

Nat held up her hands. "No. I think it might be less constructive if he sees you just after
waking up. Rest. Heal. Doctor's orders."

Nick grinned down at her, love shining from his eyes. "You're cute when you're
bossy."

"You're staying here," she said matter-of-factly. "I can handle this, Nick."

"Okay, go handle. I'll rest and heal."

"I'll call you," Natalie promised as the lift door rolled shut.

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

"You shouldn't be here." Aristotle was incensed. "What is it with vampires and my
rules? If one of you isn't mocking them, another is chopping them into bits." He
barricaded the doorway with his slight form. "You are *not* coming inside."

Vachon tried to be reasonable. "Look - I'm the one who gave Robert your number."

"Ah, well. I'll have to have that changed as soon as possible," Aristotle snipped. "I
suppose you knew he was carting mortals along? I made a new rule after Nicholas - no
more mortals! They always cause trouble! Robert brings two along, and, sure enough, he
convinces me to bend my rules. Trouble! Trouble! Sure enough, you come along
snooping! No interruptions are allowed during relocations. If you aren't a client, you're
out of luck. No exceptions! This isn't the airport, you know. People come here for clean
getaways, not messy farewells. Now...off my stoop!"

Vachon was very good at resisting authority. "No."

Aristotle's glasses quivered on the bridge of his nose. He was accustomed to long,
elaborate arguments, sometimes logical, sometimes beyond comprehension. He rarely
heard anyone simply say 'no,' much less so eloquently replete with opposition. He almost
reconsidered. Almost. "Now, now...do you want to get your entire family blacklisted from
my service?"

It was as threatening as telling Vachon he could never own a food dehydrator. Besides,
Vachon knew the history of antagonism that family members, namely Figaro, had created
with Aristotle. "They aren't already?"

Aristotle ran a frustrated hand through his thin hair. "I don't have time for this. My
clients have to leave before dawn, you know."

"And I'm not leaving until I see them. You can either let me in peacefully, or you can
keep me out through brute force," Vachon explained in an irritatingly pleasant voice. He
saw Aristotle's eyes flicker as he considered some brute force, so Vachon continued with,
"And I promise I'll smash anything electronic I can reach, starting with that Palm Pilot in
your pocket."

Aristotle gasped and protectively shielded his chest. "Very well," he relented. "I'll ask
them if they're willing to see you. If not," he warned, "I won't let you in."

Vachon accepted the ultimatum. "Fair enough."

Aristotle ducked back inside and bolted the door shut. No doubt he was hiding his
Palm Pilot before he consulted with the clientele. When the door opened again, Aristotle
was absent. He saw the kid, Robert standing behind him.

"Vachon!" Patrick exclaimed. His voice carried the enthusiasm that boys reserve for
words like 'Pizza!' 'Dirt Bikes!' and 'Hockey!' The boy glanced around the Spaniard to
see if he was alone. "Did Ivy come with you?"

Vachon had been in a staring contest with Robert. Patrick's question made him blink.
He looked questioningly at the other vampire. "She's not here?"

Robert shook his head. "No. We weren't expecting her, either."

"But you asked her to come with you," Vachon pointed out.

"Yes," Robert countered, "but she said that her life was here."

Vachon rubbed his lower lip as he digested this information. "She said that tonight?"

Robert nodded. "On the phone."

Ivy's expression just before he walked out of the party flashed through Javier's brain.
"I did something very stupid," he stated.

If he was doing stupid things, Patrick wanted to take advantage. "Hey, Vachon, can I
ride your motorcycle?"

Robert hushed his son. "Patrick, now isn't the time." He glanced back at Vachon.
"How stupid?"

"I overreacted. I assumed she was leaving, and I tried to walk out first."

"But you had second thoughts," Robert guessed, "so you came here thinking you'd
drag her back to the cave."

"Something like that."

"You should go home and tell her," Robert advised. "People like to know where they
stand."

Vachon nodded and extended his hand. "Good luck." As the men shook hands, Vachon
cocked his head in the direction of the boy. "I have a helmet. I could give him a quick spin
around the block." When Robert gave him a doubtful frown, Vachon amended, "A quick,
*slow* spin around the block."

Robert nodded his permission, and the boy shouted with glee as he ran toward the
bike. "He's been crazy about motorcycles since he first saw yours."

"Then it's a good way to say goodbye," Vachon commented before he joined Patrick
at the Triumph.

***********************************************************************
End of Part Fifty-Two

Natalie was relieved to find Grace and Sidney safe and sound when she reached the
morgue. Grace looked up at her expectantly, curious because of Natalie's brisk rush into
the room.

"What's up?"

"Um," Natalie nibbled on the tip of her tongue as she scrambled for an excuse. "I just
missed Sidney. Has he driven you crazy?"

A meow came, soulful and long.

Grace smiled. "He's really been feeling sorry for himself. I heard about the shakeup at
the hospital. How did you end up there?"

"It was just one of those things," Natalie breezed as she glanced toward cold storage.
"Have you examined O'Neal's body yet?"

Grace sent her a sympathetic look. "I heard about that, too. How are Nick and
Schanke holding up?"

"You know how it is when they have to shoot someone in the line of duty." Natalie
waved one hand feebly. "They're sorting things out. So...did you? Do anything with the
body?"

Grace shook her head apologetically. "Oh, I'm sorry! No, they brought him in when I
was working on a questionable suicide that turned out to be highly questionable. You
might want to look at it. It was at the Elcrest Park Retirement Home. I think they might
have had some assistance."

"As in 'Dr. Kevorkian' kind of assistance?" Natalie asked.

Grace see-sawed. "Maybe. It's also possible the assistance was a little less elective."

Natalie nodded. "Okay. I'll look at it later. Listen, Grace...do you want to take off
early? Nick is using a couple days of vacation because of the shooting, and I was thinking
I'd take a few, too. I'd feel less guilty about leaving you short-handed if you got in an
extra-long soak tonight."

"Soften me up before the fall, huh? You don't have to offer twice. I'll be out of here in
five minutes."

"I'll do the work up on O'Neal while I'm here," Natalie said casually.

Grace glanced up from straightening her desk. "You don't have to let me go home
early because of that, Natalie. I'm not going to cry 'conflict of interest.' I know you'll be
objective."

"Honestly, Grace. I'd feel better if I knew you were at home in your comfy slippers.
That's all."

Grace slipped on her coat and adjusted her scarf. "Okay." She drifted over to their
personal fridge and plucked out a half-filled Tupperware container. "I'll see you some
other night. Talk to you later."

"Goodnight," Natalie called after her.

Once she had the morgue to herself, Natalie changed into scrubs and tied her hair back.
Sidney offered another yowled complaint filled with mourning. "Just a little while longer,
Sid, I promise."

She set out a kit and equipment before pulling a fresh pair of gloves onto her hands.
Natalie walked to the freezer, steeled herself, and unlocked the door. Inside, two bodies
rested on gurneys, both appearing appropriately dead.

Dead.

Natalie approached, easily picking out which corpse belonged to O'Neal by the body
mass hidden by the sheet. She pulled down the fabric to reveal his face, frozen into a
permanently resentful grimace by the bullet. Natalie felt anger of her own. This man had
put a stake through Nick's heart. Her only regrets over his death were selfish in nature.

She rolled O'Neal's gurney out of the freezer, a determined tilt to her chin.
Transferring him to the examination table (A side-benefit to vampirism was how easy it
became to lift a corpse without assistance. Naturally, since it was a needed skill.), Natalie
searched for any faint vital signs and examined the entry wound. She would have to open
him up to tell for sure, but it appeared that the bullet had hit in the vicinity of O'Neal's
heart. There was no sign that he had turned, so she mused over a theory that too much
damage to a mortal heart might make the change impossible.

Still, Natalie wasn't sure how the process worked or how long it might take to know
for sure. She was a bit fuzzy about the details of her own post-mortal recovery. She
definitely hadn't been inclined to check a watch. Nat had been left with the impression that
several hours had passed between the time of Nick's feeding and when she awoke in
Clare's hotel suite starving for blood. Was that typical?

Natalie's eyes drifted to her autopsy tools. Her power saw lay there, waiting. She
usually employed it to remove the skullcap and examine the state of the victim's brain
tissue, but the saw could be used just as efficiently for other cutting needs. her angry thoughts tempted,

Natalie flexed her fingers once toward the saw, but ultimately let her hand drop. Nick
had taught her that there was always a choice, and she was not Liam O'Neal. She would
not interfere with what came next out of revenge because the vampire hunter had harmed
someone she loved. Natalie reasoned that if he reached the light and the door, if he
interpreted what they actually meant in the confused disarray after death, O'Neal would
not turn back.

She resolved that she would wait a couple more hours before beginning a proper
autopsy. First, though, she wanted samples of the blood that remained. There might still be
evidence there that would aid her future research. She would make slides to record any
unique features of O'Neal's blood while she could. A possibility existed that, if O'Neal
came across, she could landmark the first signs through the microscope. That knowledge
could also be potentially helpful.

Natalie grabbed some swabs and slides and prepped two samples. As she set them on
the counter by the microscope, Sidney began his emphatic mewling anew. Discouraged to
be ignored, he began to scratch and claw at the door to his carrier, rattling it on its hinges.

"Come on, Sid! Knock it off!" Natalie complained. It was impossible to concentrate
with that racket in the background.

Sidney moaned again.

Focusing her thoughts on the cat, Natalie had a sudden brainstorm as to what his
problem might be. She pushed back from the counter and rushed over to the carrier. "Oh,
boy...I'm sorry. Hold on just a minute more, and I'll fix it."

Sidney rattled his door in reply.

Natalie felt remarkably guilty for being so callous. It had been seven hours since she'd
dumped Sidney in his carrier. She'd abandoned him here in the morgue, promptly
forgetting that he might have needs over the course of the night. Food. Water. A litter
box. Natalie guessed that the last need was what aggravated Sidney the most at the
moment, but being trapped in such a small space had him holding on by a thread. Natalie
appreciated his fortitude. She almost wished the morgue had some drapes she could
sacrifice to him in apology.

The morgue had a large collection of cast aluminum bowls, however. Fairly shallow
and wide, they were used to temporarily hold organs in formaldehyde, or waste tissue and
used instruments in a sterilizing bath. She plunked one on the floor near Sidney's carrier,
then quickly shredded the daily newspaper for filler.

"Sidney, you are a saint," Natalie said as she opened the carrier door. Sidney zipped
out, his paws sliding on the slick floor. She caught him and deposited his wriggling body
on top of the newspaper. Seeing the cat's whiskers twitch and how he began to scratch
inquisitively at the shredded paper, Natalie went in search of emergency cat rations.

Once upon a time, it had seemed the staff fridge always carried a spare tuna fish
sandwich. Leftovers, like the dark meat from a rotisserie chicken, would do very nicely
until she could get Sidney's proper supplies. Natalie frowned at a stale half of a banana-
nut muffin and reflected that there had been a lot more food in the fridge, period, when
she'd been eating. She checked the date on a carton of strawberry yogurt. Sid would love
that. Cats had no respect for their own lactose intolerance.

A thumping noise sounded by the door to the morgue. Natalie immediately slammed
the fridge shut and looked around. O'Neal was still where he was supposed to be, but Sid
had disappeared. The door to the morgue pushed open both ways to allow for gurneys
being pushed in and out. Natalie had a sinking feeling that Sidney had pushed out.

She ran to the door, propped it open with one arm, and glanced both ways down the
hall. A fuzzy, gray tail disappeared around the corner. "Sid!" Natalie gave a groan of
disgust and smacked the door. "Get back here!"

She jogged after him, but, when she turned the corner, there was no cat. Natalie
slowed to a walk, glancing suspiciously down the quiet hall. "That's it," she muttered.
"You're getting a bell."

She began to listen for a rapid heartbeat, something that would discern her cat from the
mortals working on this floor. A nice shriek when a lab tech suddenly found a feline
peeping over their petrie dishes wouldn't go unnoticed, either.

She found the wanted heartbeat behind the second door on the left. It was a viewing
room, used when someone came to identify a body. Natalie pushed it open and caught
Sidney hanging by his claws from the privacy curtain used to block the room off into
sections for simultaneous identifications. Sidney had hunted down his own drapes on
which to take his revenge.

Natalie shook her head as she moved to scoop up her cat. She had to pry his claws out
of the fabric individually, then yank to get him to stop chewing on a less than spot-free
hem. "You are perverse, you know that?" She cradled Sidney against her chest, and the
cat stared up at her with fierce certainty that It Needed To Be Done.

Natalie jiggled him slightly, lecturing as she walked back to the morgue proper. "Do
you realize what kind of gross, nasty things you can get into down here?"

"Yow!" Sidney replied.

"No," Natalie countered. "That was not an offer. You are going back into your carrier,
where you will stay out of trouble, and I will sneak you some contraband yogurt through
the bars."

'Carrier' was one of the words in Sidney's vocabulary, like 'vet' or 'treat.' He began to
struggle at the mention of it.

"Cut it out, Sid!" Natalie complained as she tried to maintain her hold on the cat
without using too much force. She opened the door with her back since her hands were
occupied. "It's for your own..." Natalie's voice faltered as she turned around and got a
good look at the morgue. O'Neal's body was gone.

"...Bad," she improvised.

"Rowr," Sidney agreed.

Natalie quit toying with Sidney and shoved him matter-of-factly into his carrier amid
sounds of catly protest. "So much for your sainthood," she complained as she secured the
latch. "Your little road trip could get someone killed." Natalie rushed to the supply
refrigerator, where she typically hid some plasma for herself, and grabbed two bags.

Sidney quieted as soon as she ran out of the room and began to casually groom a paw.

This time, Natalie's search was a little more difficult. For one, she didn't know which
direction O'Neal had gone out of the morgue. Since she hadn't sensed him as she carried
Sidney back, she chose to turn the opposite way. Again, she tried to pinpoint an abnormal
heartbeat, but she didn't wish for any shrieks from the staff.

She still got one. Within a minute, a shout of surprise arose from one of the chemistry
labs. Natalie burst in to find that O'Neal had seized a man in a janitorial jumpsuit and had
his fangs reared back to strike. She tackled the Irishman, knocking him off balance by
pushing at his head. The janitor, suddenly finding himself free, cowered into the corner.
O'Neal straightened and hissed at her, and Natalie fought to hold onto her patience. She
ached to fang out right back at him, but she kept the mortal in mind. Any chance of
persuasion would work better the less he saw.

Natalie bent down and swiped the two pint bags off of the floor from where she'd
dropped them. She threw them at O'Neal, commanding in no uncertain terms, "Drink
that." He offered her another snarl, but complied, greedily sinking his teeth into the plastic
and assuaging his first hunger.

Natalie kneeled over the shivering janitor, grasped his chin and doubled-checked to
make sure he hadn't been bitten. "Are you all right?"

The man was almost hyperventilating. "Did you see...? He...! He was going to...! My
God, what...?!"

"Shh....calm down. It's not something you see every day, is it?" she asked in a
companionable tone.

"Wha?" The man was breathing better, but he was still shaking in disbelief.

"I'm sorry he disturbed you. I didn't realize how far gone he was."

"Is he...?" The man's eyes widened in wonderment. "Does he really...?"

"Have rabies?" Natalie replied solemnly. "Yes, I'm afraid he does."

"Rabies?" The man sobered, frowning, and tried to glance around Natalie to get a
second look. She shifted to block his view. "I didn't realize people with rabies looked like
that."

"Now you do," Natalie said in a forceful tone, staring the janitor deep in his eyes. "It's
hard to describe someone with rabies...it's better that you don't try. People just won't
understand."

The janitor nodded bemusedly. "Yeah...who would understand?"

"You know what?" Natalie asked, the persuasive lilt continuing to dance in her voice.
"You might want to start looking for a job somewhere else. You don't want to see
anything like that again. If I were you, I'd want to forget about it completely."

"Yeah," the man said, agreement creeping over his features. "I can get a better job than
this. I quit!"

Natalie pretended to look disappointed. "Well, I guess you'd better go turn in your ID
and go home, then."

The man pushed to his feet, completely ignoring O'Neal's presence now, and stalked
toward the door. "Forget this place!" he shouted. "I'm out of here!"

Natalie released a pent-up breath as the door swung shut after the janitor. She turned
to O'Neal, finally allowing her annoyance to reflect in her eyes. The Irishman stared back
at her, the empty pint bags twisted in his hands, his features still twisted in the angry
grimace he'd carried on the slab.

She extended one hand toward him as a peace offering. "Against my better judgment,
I'm going to help you through this, O'Neal," she said, her voice filled with steel. "Come
with me, and I'll try to explain what's happened."

O'Neal stared at her fingers for a moment, then seized them in a bone-crushing grip.
Natalie squeezed back, causing the Irishman's eyes to widen at her strength. "So help me,
you will do everything I say," she warned. "I will *not* have another scene. I am not in
the mood, O'Neal. Not where you're concerned. Just try me."

**********************************************************************
End of Part Fifty-Three

Ivy was sitting on the bathroom vanity, touching her reflection in the mirror. The
rawness of her skin had almost disappeared, leaving her smooth-cheeked and youthful.
There were only two clear signs that anything had happened to her at all. One was the
inevitable fear in her eyes, the certainty of someone who knows they are going to be hurt,
but cannot grasp how to get out of the way. The second was her hair.

She had taken a shower - another marathon search for the meaning of life under the
WaterPik, as Vachon would have called it - and noted with misery the abnormally large
amount of hair that had washed away with her grime. Once she'd scrounged up the
courage to take a closer look, she found that the holy water had left its mark. The blisters
on her scalp had healed, leaving patchy bald spots in several places. Half of one eyebrow
and her lashes were gone as well. She imagined how long they would take to grow back
and whimpered.

Ivy took a generous while to polish her armor. She started with her eyes, staring until
they shone back at her opaquely. She was a good liar - she could lie to herself a little while
longer that there was no reason to be afraid. She could leave this room and walk down
those stairs, rejoining the crowd with her chin held up high. She would not cave, hiding in
the bathroom until the party was over.

She eased off the counter and considered what kind of lie she could create with her hair
to hide that damage. The brow and lashes were write-offs, but her hair...

There was one indignity that might suffice. She pulled strands strategically, fastening
the ends at the back of her head into something approximating a woefully conservative
twist. It successfully covered the bald spots for the unknowing observer, but Ivy knew the
disturbing truth.

She was a vampire with a comb-over.

Ivy bit back a hiss at the mirror and walked dejectedly into the bedroom. En route to
the closet, there was a knock on the door. "Just a minute, I'm still getting dressed!" she
called. Ivy grabbed the first House of Figaro thing she found - a little melon-colored
slipdress - and wriggled into it. She considered going barefoot, but imagined Domino
hurting himself over the fashion statement. As a token of effort, she grabbed an
appropriate pair of heels, but procrastinated in strapping them on. Instead, they dangled
limply at her side as she opened the bedroom door.

The Inka looked surprised at her appearance. Ivy initially assumed it was because she'd
done a thorough job making herself presentable and inscrutable, especially considering
what she had to work with. After a brief reconsideration, she decided it was another form
of masculine amazement. She'd said she was getting dressed for so long, he'd expected
her to be bundled in enough layers to make Buddha appear anorexic. Ivy arched her
mutilated eyebrow at him, which caused it to look less like a defiant stare and more like a
nervous twitch.

"Nothing strange has happened at the party," The Inka told her, assuming she needed
some kind of reassurance. Ivy frowned. She did, but she didn't want it to be obvious to an
onlooker.

She tightened her mantle of stoic austerity and approached the banister. She rested one
hand on the carved wood, using it for support as she pried on her heels, and looked down
on the milling crowd. "What have they been doing?"

The Inka joined her in staring down at the party guests. "Dancing. Fighting. Singing.
Drinking themselves into a stupor."

"All signs of a good time had by all. I guess I should be pleased." Ivy noticed that there
were other people straying upstairs, wandering along the landing. It seemed only the
master bedroom had remained verboten, and that probably wouldn't last long. "More
people have arrived," she observed.

"More mortals," The Inka commented, with a hint of disapproval.

This time, Ivy arched the intact eyebrow. She knew better than to believe The Inka was
above a sacrifice or two. He simply didn't think honoring the gods of this particular party
was a sufficient propellant. "I'm willing to bet every one of those mortals came here
looking for trouble - something out of the ordinary, some new escape from the imagined
tedium of their everyday lives. It's their own fault if they find it." Ivy's mouth twisted at
his answering stare. "I should know. I was one of them. With some people, no matter who
interferes, you can't separate them from their folly." It was a confession of sorts - 'I have
done foolish things. Every penalty I suffered I have earned in some way, so don't waste
any pity on me.' She expected some follow-up push from The Inka to learn more, but he
acted as though he had tuned out the sound of her voice.

His nostrils flexed, and he asked, "Do you smell smoke?"

Of course she smelled smoke. Plenty of vampires puffed on a cigarette now and then,
herself included. She didn't dive into suspicion like The Inka until she picked up on the
chanting: "The roof...the roof...the roof is on fire!"

"Nonono..." Ivy groaned. "You've got to be kidding me!"

The Inka was already stalking down the hall to the guest bedroom hosting the mantra.
A few people skulked out of the room as he approached, looking in a hurry to distance
themselves from the scene. A cloud of smoke billowed from the doorway in their wake. At
that sight, Ivy did a one-eighty. She jogged down the staircase, pushing bodies out of her
way, and stumbled into the kitchen, silently cursing the entire time that the trip would have
taken a much shorter time if she'd remained barefoot.

The kitchen may have been short on appliances, but it contained a stockpile of the most
important one - fire extinguishers. It was a vampire residence, after all. Ivy ducked into the
pantry, where regular people kept their Fruit Loops and tomato soup, and grabbed two
canisters from the shelf. She darted upstairs again, where she found The Inka searching for
her.

"The roof is on fire," he announced.

Ivy rolled her eyes and shoved one of the extinguishers in his direction. "I guessed."

More guests were fleeing the scene of the crime as Ivy and The Inka stormed the room.
Through the smoke, she picked out four of the Wild Ones, still shouting, "The roof...the
roof...the roof is on fire!" as they pushed each other. Vincent and one of his hangers-on
held up lighters and were swinging near-empty bottles of rum to and fro, probable culprits
in the act of arson.

Ivy glanced over at The Inka and saw that he was prepared to douse the entire room
with foam to stop the flames from spreading their way. She elbowed him and called,
"Vachon put in firewalls. It'll burn itself out except for the roof. There's no danger except
how Vachon's going to react to the ceiling going bye-bye. Just aim upward, and try to
contain it."

There were complaints and curses from the Wild Ones as a fluffy white coating
smothered the crackle of their fire. Vincent floated off the floor, brushed a corner of the
intact ceiling clean with his forearm and lifted his lighter for another try. Fed up, Ivy
turned her extinguisher on him in anti-Bic-flicking overkill. He growled at her for the
intervention. Ivy chucked her canister at his head in response. After the massive thunk of
impact, pleasure lit her face when he fell to the floor.

Still aggravated, she grabbed Vincent by the collar and rammed his head into the wall.
The abuse left a small dent in the plaster and a smudge on the fresh paintjob, but a bigger
one in Vincent. Ivy experienced a sudden wave of comprehension of The Inka's definition
of loyalty. She'd had her share of rivalry with this house, and had wished it to rubble more
than once. To have an outsider wreck it out of stupidity or malice, though, that was
another matter entirely. Nobody was torching her house.

The other Wild Ones caught on that the closest thing they had to a gang leader was
being throttled. They crowded to grab Ivy from behind and get even, but The Inka had
other ideas. Soon, they were flying across the room, colliding with the walls.

Ivy dragged Vincent off the floor, then yelled in his ear, "You literal asshole!" before
kneeing him in the stomach. When he made a half-hearted grunt in response to something
that should have been remarkably painful had he still been alert, she decided he was down
for the count and let him go. Vincent crumpled into a sore heap. Ivy rifled through his
pockets and found a pack of cigarettes. She shook one free, then swiped Vincent's lighter
off the floor. She used his jacket to wipe it clean of foam. It took a couple tries before it
would spark to life enough to light the cigarette. Ivy glanced over her shoulder and saw
that The Inka was just about finished thrashing the others. Two of the Wild Ones, startled
at finding themselves the target of someone accustomed to fighting for his life, not just for
fun, fled the room as soon as they could crawl. Ivy took a deep drag of the cigarette and
turned her attention back to Vincent, who was just beginning to struggle to sit up. She
made his future very clear. "Get out of my house. Get out of my party. If I see you or your
gang around here again..." She tapped the bummed cigarette until a fine, gray film dusted
over his head. "...you're ashes."

Vincent climbed to his feet, hate burning from his eyes, but Ivy decided that she wasn't
threatened. He stumbled from the room without further argument, and Ivy took another
thoughtful drag of smoke. "That's one potential suspect out of the way," she said jovially.

"You thought they rigged the holy water?" The Inka asked before tossing the last of
the Wild Ones through the doorway. There was a shout, several crashes, followed by a
wave of exclamations rising from the party guests. It sounded like a wild ride.

Ivy waved her cigarette dismissively. "It crossed my mind, but I'm catching on that that
bunch doesn't have a brain between them." She glanced up at the dripping, uninvited
skylight in the ceiling. She did not look forward to explaining how it came to exist. "A
vampire would have to be fatally stupid to try and set a house on fire containing the
majority of the local Community. Even *I* know better."

The Inka dusted off his hands. Apparently that episode of fighting had been more
satisfying to his warrior streak than deflecting shovels in the backyard. Ivy had to agree.
"You know," she said as she took another puff from her cigarette, "other than my date
blowing out, the mutilation and the pyromania, this hasn't been such a bad party."

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

"You've talked a lot, Doctor Lambert," O'Neal interrupted stonily. "Why don't you
give it a rest? I won't be needing it."

Natalie glared across her desk. She'd been relating how he was experiencing the first
hunger, and, to her mind, she'd been doing a pretty good job of it for a first-timer. The
least O'Neal could do after the trauma he'd caused tonight was to listen. "Don't give me
that. If you're going to survive as a vampire -"

The Irishman held up an index finger. "Ah. That's the rub. I'm not going to survive as
a vampire."

"Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but you don't have much of a choice anymore,"
Natalie said derisively. "It's either that or..." Natalie's voice altered as she realized that
O'Neal had come to the same conclusion. "...a walk into the sun. Listen," she said softly,
"you don't have to make that decision. I understand how you may be confused or horrified
by what you're experiencing right now. I've been through it, and not so long ago. I know.
That doesn't mean you should do something rash. Nick and I want to find a way to turn
back, and we're not going to stop until we do. If you just hold on, you could -"

O'Neal interrupted her again. "Doctor Lambert...Natalie. I have already lived a fairly
long mortal life. I didn't become a vampire because I wanted to live just a little longer."

"Then why did you, O'Neal?" Natalie challenged. "I did not expect you, of all people,
to get off of that table. You obviously can't see the good in any of our kind if you could
try to kill Nick."

O'Neal studied the reproach in her eyes and nodded methodically. "Yes..." he said to
himself. "The first time I killed a vampire," he explained in a storybook fashion, "I had the
fire of revenge in my heart. A vampire killed my mother. I wanted all of them to pay for
that. I didn't care who they were, or who they had been. I wanted them to pay. I grew
older, and my grief for my mother faded, but I kept killing. I never thought for a moment
of one of you as human, as something to be reasoned with, as something with a remnant of
a soul. Nick is the one who ruined my tunnel vision. He gave me second thoughts. When I
spared him, it brought every killing I had ever done into question. Starting with Bridget
Hellman - I dropped her like an animal, knowing the goodness that had been in her as a
mortal. I couldn't live with that knowledge, so I came back here to scour it out. I had to
prove to myself that you were monsters so that I could continue living."

"And you found your proof?" Natalie asked quietly.

"I found more questions," O'Neal answered hollowly. "I reached a point where I
convinced myself that it didn't matter what your truth or Nick's reasons were. I decided
that if I scratched you out of existence, all my doubts would be erased. I would have
peace again."

"Then why didn't you die? Did you believe you wouldn't find peace that way, either?"

"No. Don't you see?" Liam's face cracked into the first hint of a charm he'd discarded
long ago. "In the end, I had to know the truth. The only way I could really understand was
to become a vampire."

"And what do you think about vampires now?" Natalie questioned, curiosity shining
from her expression.

O'Neal's features hardened again. "I felt the hunger, that hunger that drives us. I finally
understand the voracious need to kill for blood, how it can consume you and banish all
will for restraint."

"So you've concluded that vampires are monsters, and you want to do away with
yourself. Is that it?" Natalie's voice rose with her disagreement.

O'Neal shook his head, a deep sadness flowing over him. "No. Because, even as I
attacked that man and gave in to the desire to take his life, I felt my humanity weeping. It
doesn't disappear in the blink of an eye or a drop of blood, does it, Natalie? The vampire
is left to choose whether they will nurture it and keep it alive, or whether they will crush it
into dust."

Natalie's eyes blurred, and the face of every life she'd taken flashed before her. The
regret swamped her until she saw the first man she'd spared, a fragile vision of hope and
strength. "Yes," she agreed softly.

"So you can understand my choice. If becoming a vampire automatically made men
monsters, I wouldn't still be having second thoughts, now, would I? I'd be merrily
contemplating my next meal. I see the reality. By devoting my life to slaughtering
vampires, I may have saved the world from some great evil, but I also may have deprived
several bruised souls of their chance to find the way back. I've earned my damnation,
Natalie," O'Neal said in a firm voice. "With the sunrise, I plan to take it."

"Why can't you try?" Natalie pleaded gently. "Why can't you try to find your own way
back?"

Liam leaned forward, placing his hands on Natalie's shoulders as he plaintively met her
eyes. "Because, in my own way, I became a monster as a vampire hunter. I strangled my
soul when I was a mortal. I don't have enough will to fight for it now. Don't fight for me,
Doctor. Let's tell stories like a couple of old friends for the next few hours, and when the
sun rises, I will wish you my blessings, and you will let me go. Is it a deal?"

"It's your choice," Natalie said slowly, not eager at his suggestion. "I wouldn't make
it, but it's still your choice." She extended her hand to shake on it. "Deal."

************************************************************************
End of Part Fifty-Four

Ivy grinned mischievously as she watched the Kinsey twins double team The Inka from
across the room. They'd heard he was at the party and subsequently tracked him down
like a pair of bloodhounds, ever eager to broaden their cultural horizons in the broadest
sense.

The Inka glanced in her direction, vaguely repentant that he'd been distracted from his
assumed duty of watching her back. Ivy gave a cheerful wave and made a beeline for the
bar. The Inka was a big boy, perfectly capable of rescuing himself from the twins'
lascivious clutches if he wanted to. It wasn't as if they had him tied down. Yet.

While she was getting a drink refill, Ivy found Domino holding a wad of bar napkins to
his lower lip. She made a noise of sympathy and grasped his chin with one hand, taking the
paper from him with the other. She dabbed at the bloody wound in a motherly fashion.
"Dom....your lip piercing? Again? I thought you'd sworn off women with necklaces."

"I have. This is a wound of honor."

Ivy squinted at him. "How so?"

Domino reached up and gingerly touched his split lip. He would live. "I lost a Rum-O
match. Ripping out the lip ring was my forfeit."

"Rum-O?" Ivy forwent any more of the maternal stint, shoving the bloody napkins
back into Domino's hand. "That's that stupid drinking game, isn't it? You always lose -
why do you keep playing?"

"Optimism, demondoll. Pure optimism."

"Hmph." Ivy took a sip from her drink, rather than making a more precise comment.

Domino gave her non-jeans ensemble a thorough inspection. "For instance, I was
optimistic that your fashion taste would improve, and eventually it did." He gave her
coiffure a perplexed look. "Is there something different about your hair?"

"I brushed it," Ivy offered unhelpfully before changing the subject back. "Who did you
lose Rum-O to, Dom?"

"Bourbon. Hmm. I suppose the name should have told me he was a ringer, eh?"

Bourbon. Ivy glanced around the converted library and spotted the Frenchman leaning
against the wall. He had his arms crossed over his chest, and he was staring straight at her,
his mouth tilted to suggest he was in on some private joke. A shiver went through Ivy, as
if she subconsciously knew the punchline. She absently patted Domino's arm, whispering,
"Nurse your wounds," then found her feet moving toward Bourbon.

He was smug. His expression said that he knew she would approach. The suggestion of
her predictability, as always, caused Ivy to clench her teeth. "You hurt Dom. Is that why
you're so pleased with yourself?" she asked coolly.

"No." He stretched the word out, making it a goad. Then, his manner shifted to
something more companionable. He casually raised one hand, running it around the rim of
her glass as he commented, "I admit some embarrassment that I did not recognize you for
who you are on my own. I should have known better. He never embraces anyone typical."

"You should save your opinions for when Vachon's around to hear them," Ivy clipped.

Bourbon's joking smile returned, and he bent closer to conspiratorially whisper in her
ear, "I was not speaking of Vachon." He resumed his lean against the wall, crossing his
arms again while he observed her reaction.

Ivy didn't see any reason for his amusement. "Yes, well, Domino and I are just friends,
so I can't imagine who else you're referring to."

"Yes, you can," Bourbon countered. "If you try, you can feel him." He angled his chin
arrogantly. "But I have been told you have your reasons for shying away from that. You
would rather believe that he does not exist. Very well. Perhaps you would be more
amiable to sensing someone else...?"

Ivy sensed danger. She sensed that she had been equally arrogant in thinking of safety
in numbers; that she could prance about the party until Vachon returned without fear of
another attack. Sometimes you couldn't escape your folly. Her voice came, soft but firm.
"Who do you suggest?"

"Me." Bourbon pushed away from the wall again, trailing one hand up her arm as he
moved to stand behind her. "Didn't it occur to you that you were compelled to approach
me? That there was more at work than the state of a sports car or your friend's lip?" he
murmured in a low voice.

Ivy swallowed her dismay and offered up on a reserve of bravado, "It occurred to me
that you were an asshole."

He did not relent, but his voice raised slightly with impatience. "Of course you would
not recognize our connection. It was only recently that you learned that you were not
alone, devoid of family."

"That's where you're wrong," Ivy said. "I don't have any family. Thomas had them
killed."

Bourbon's voice filled with approval. "So you do remember him!"

Her expression displayed her incredulity. "Are you claiming to know him?"

Bourbon's hands were now resting on her shoulders, and he squeezed them as he
whispered, "I am part of him. Just like you are part of him."

Ivy shook her head minutely. She felt like her throat was swelling, cutting off her
ability to speak in more than a hoarse croak. "No."

"I thought I was the last one," Bourbon confided to her. "Thomas seemed disinclined
to ever transform another mortal after me." The Frenchman shrugged. "I suppose he
simply changed his methods to something less permanent...until you. What did he smell in
you? What did he taste in your blood? Surely it was more than the heroin?"

Though shaky, Ivy found her voice. "I seem to remember he mentioned something
about giving a self-destructive girl the will to survive, then taking it away again. There's
no need to be jealous - Thomas never planned for me to live past last October."

"Plans change," Bourbon commented, moving to face her, "and I am not jealous."

"I find it hard to believe that you would claim a relationship with him. It's certainly not
going to make you welcome around here."

"Welcome is not my concern. I merely came here as a favor - to assist in picking up a -
friend, shall we say? - yes, a friend of the family."

"Friend?" Ivy repeated. "Who?"

"Now I know you are playing stupid. She screams in your dreams. She cries for you to
help her, but you always turn away. Tell me..." Bourbon hissed for her ears alone,
"...when you close your eyes, do you see the stake piercing her heart? Do you feel the dirt
choking any real sound from her throat? Do you hear the maggots burrowing deeper into
her cuts? Can you smell her flesh rotting away?"

As he whispered, Ivy made the mistake of closing her eyes to shut his mocking voice
out of her head. Instead, it gave the images purchase, and months of nightmares flooded
into the forefront of her mind. "Shut up!"

Bourbon did not relent. "The digging is finished now. He had not intended to transport
her so soon, but she has proved a stubborn pupil. She almost clawed to freedom last night.
He caught her with her jaws in the belly of a stray. But, do not worry. The change is to
your favor. Now that she has been moved somewhere else, where he can break her into
something more docile, she won't be close enough to haunt you anymore. You are free."

Bourbon's voice derided her with its hypnotic timbre, and Ivy felt chained to each
word, yet there was some other draw on her to look away from him.

the voice whispered in her head.

Ivy shook her head stubbornly. "No."

"Turn around," Bourbon ordered.

"No!"

"He will not leave until you do," Bourbon promised.

Ivy's hands shook as she moved, sloshing the untouched blood in her glass onto the
floor. She wheezed as she saw him blocking the portico to the foyer. Thomas was smiling
that same sick smile, the one that pretended affection, while his eyes painted torture.
There was distance between them, but the words, when they came, felt as though he
whispered them directly in her ear, as though his hands were on her in Bourbon's stead.

She dropped the wineglass, jerking back as though she had been shocked. She cringed
as she felt a piece of the shattered glass ricochet into her shoe, cutting into her foot as she
stepped. Bourbon caught her from behind and held her still when she appeared ready to
buck away.

"How can you not hate him?" she coughed out on a ragged breath.

"Who says I do not?" Bourbon replied low in her ear. "But he made me. That has its
price, and I am willing to pay it to save myself."

Ivy chewed on her lip to stop herself from panting. She shot daggers with her eyes
toward her sire, but Thomas continued to smile, untouched, immoveable. She twisted her
head aside, refusing to look at him anymore. Her chin became mulish as she sorted
through everything that had been said, trying to puzzle it together. "Clare is alive?" The
question sounded on the verge of hysteria, and with good reason.

"Yes," Bourbon whispered.

"Where is she?" She was afraid that he might tell her.

"If you want to know that, you will have to find Thomas again." Bourbon turned her to
face him, lifting her chin. "But I would not recommend it. He will not bother you while he
has Clare for amusement. That is the price you must pay. You have to protect him from
anyone who would look for her. As long as his project is undisturbed, you have your
freedom. A conscience is your worst enemy in our family, Ivy." He pressed kisses against
each of her cheeks. "Listen to your brother...Thomas has put you in your place. Stay
there."

Ivy pulled away from him, cursing as she felt the glass cut into her foot again. She
stumbled as she turned back toward the doorway. Thomas was gone. Ivy lifted each foot
in turn, yanking off her shoes before she jammed her bare feet against the floor so that the
broken shards cut deeper.

Domino saw what she was doing and crossed the room with a shout. "What the hell
are you doing? Have you gone mad?!"

When he acted like he was going to try and stop her from hurting herself, Ivy snarled.
"Yes!" She threw her shoes at Domino's chest to keep his hands off of her.

Domino watched as Ivy staggered determinedly from the room, leaving bloody
footprints in her wake. He whirled to glare at Bourbon, who also watched her progression
with a tight expression. "What did you say to her?"

Bourbon met his demand with an arrogant stare, offering in an irrefutable tone, "She is
an unstable girl."

Ivy wasn't the picture of stability as she made her way to the front door with faltering
steps. She ground her teeth, focusing on the pain in her soles. She wanted the reminder,
since Clare could no longer scream to tell her what real pain was while she slept. The
guests at the party began to notice her injuries, exclaiming questions over the bloodletting.
The Inka extricated himself from the Kinsey twins and caught up with her at the doorway.

"What happened?" he demanded.

"I woke up," she answered.

She tripped over the threshold, releasing a whimper at the pain, and The Inka bit out
another disparaging comment about her intelligence. "Stop. You cannot walk." He moved
to pick her up.

"Don't!" she shrieked. "Stay away from me!"

The Inka lifted his arms, giving her reign to do as she chose. Her outbursts had grown
tiresome. He observed as Ivy backed down the front steps and tottered her way toward
the grass. He noted she was headed for the backyard. The sound of a motorcycle roaring
up the drive turned his head, causing The Inka to descend the steps, swerving between the
parked cars to intercept it.

Ivy began to cry wholeheartedly as she crossed the back lawn. She could see it from far
away. The spot that had been meant for Carmen's grave had been cleared out in the past
few hours, a gaping hole left in its place. "No!" she shouted as she drew closer. It was
gutted like an open wound. It felt empty. Raped. Desolate.

Ivy wobbled too close to the edge, and her weight made the earth cave. She let out a
shrill breath as she fell, the dirt scraping against the glass in her soles, causing the cuts to
deepen further. "Dammit!" She fumbled once she hit the grave's bottom, shifting
awkwardly into a sit. Ivy covered her face with her hands, sobered by the position she
found herself occupying. Stifling a sob, she turned her attention to her massacred feet,
cringing as she examined how the dirt clung to the bloody mess her soles had become.
They weren't healing, and they wouldn't until the glass fragments were removed. Ivy
tentatively plucked at a large, jagged shard, grunting her discomfort as she eased it out of
the skin.

"Ivy."

She gasped as she lifted her head. Vachon was standing graveside. There were few
things that could shake him more, and he looked down at it as though he was staring into
the jaws of hell itself. The Inka was there, too, but he held back, not participating, but
watching. Ivy wondered what he had told Vachon. Not everything. He didn't know
everything. He couldn't.

Vachon willed her to talk to him with his eyes. "What happened?"

A strange calm swept over her. She would have expected her brain to be screaming for
even thinking to say the words, but they popped out in an explosion of honesty.

"Thomas was here."

That was all he needed to know. Without another word or a second thought, he
jumped into the grave with her and cradled Ivy in his arms.

"He got what he came for." Ivy swallowed as she wrapped her arms around his waist.
"He won't be coming back."

"I don't believe you. He showered you with holy water. That doesn't scream
disinterest in torturing you more to me."

Her chin jerked up in protest, but she was devoid of any excuses that might convince
him other than the rest of the truth. Ivy remained silent, her eyes speaking of her torment.

Vachon trailed a thumb over her motley eyebrow. "It's okay." His fingers dropped to
her parted lips. "I shouldn't have left you here alone."

"Well, you had a reason," Ivy said, a little petulantly. "I dumped this party on you,
which, in hindsight, was clearly a bad idea."

Vachon glanced over his shoulder and called for The Inka's attention. "Can you kick
everybody out? If Domino complains, feel free to stake him." The Inka nodded and moved
back toward the house. "I didn't leave because of the party," Vachon told her.

"You didn't?"

"No. I overheard Robert asking you to leave town with him. I got the crazy idea you
might want to get away from here, and I didn't want to be around when you walked out."

"But I told Robert 'no.'"

"I know that *now.* I went to Aristotle's looking for you. I pissed him off. I can never
use the old guy for a relocation, or I'll end up having the same name as a food product like
Fig did."

A small grin edged onto Ivy's face. "I hate to break it to you, snack cake, but you
already do." Vachon frowned, so she quit teasing. "So you, uhm, went to Aristotle's to
bring me back?"

"I didn't want to lose you."

Ivy closed her eyes at his words, and he kissed her. She felt peace eke into her with his
lips, and she wanted to cling to it. The truth would crush that. She had known it all along.
Tonight had simply been a reminder.

"I don't want to lose you, either," she whispered against his mouth, and she felt him
smile. Ivy pulled back slightly and pointed out, "You know, we don't have to stay in this
hole."

"Good." He swept her up in his arms and leapt out.

Ivy protested as he began to carry her back to the house. "What are you doing?"

"Carrying you. Your feet are cut to shreds. What did you do? Tap dance on broken
glass?"

"Yeah," she confirmed reluctantly. "I *can* still walk, though."

"I'm guessing badly."

"Okay, okay. You can carry me, but on one condition."

"Anything."

"No more cracks about my hair. The holy water ruined it."

Vachon looked like he wanted to make a comment, but after some deliberation he said,
"Okay."

"Okay." Ivy settled her head against his chest and resigned herself to being carried. She
raised her chin when Vachon's steps slowed. "What is it?"

He was looking up, his mouth open with incomprehension. "During what part of the
evening was the roof on fire?"

"Oh. Some of the Wild Ones decided it would be a hot idea to put a realistic spin on
the whole 'housewarming party' concept." She watched him worriedly as he continued to
stare at the black-edged gap that offered a yawning look into the lighted house. "Are you
going to drop me?"

"I'm considering it."

"The Inka and I kicked them out very soundly," she said in her defense.

"Did you?"

"It's my house, too," she argued primly.

Vachon grinned and started walking again. "Then I guess I won't drop you."

********************************************************************
End of Part Fifty-Five

Nick punched the pillows and settled back on the bed. He cradled the phone to his ear
like welcome company. "So he did it?" O'Neal walked into the sun?"

"I watched from the building as long as I could, but as soon as he started to smoke, I
had to run for cover," Natalie replied. The line dangled silently, and, after a few moments
too long, she confessed, "I don't think he should have done it either, Nick, but what was I
supposed to do? Tie him down for the next week, year, decade, until he found the will to
live? It's what he wanted, and we just can't understand it because we still believe in the
possibility of something better. I know one thing, though."

Nick propped his head up on one elbow and asked curiously. "What's that?"

"Just before the end, he stopped being angry. He forgave us, Nick."

Nick made a small sound of acknowledgment. "I guess I can't argue with him now, can
I?" he whispered before brightening his voice on another subject. "So how is Sidney
holding up?"

Natalie looked down, where her cat was determinedly shredding the courtesy curtain
again. "He's ecstatic. I called markets until I found one that would deliver his supplies,
and I took over the viewing room. You know, the Coroner's Office could really use a
decent staff lounge. I'm afraid if I fall asleep in here, one of the new guys will tag my toe
and stick me in a drawer."

Nick laughed. "Just because your heartbeat is next to non-existent and you're sleeping
on a gurney?"

Natalie plopped back on her own makeshift bed. "Mmm. In any case, it doesn't
encourage the drowsies. Nor does this gurney. These things are *uncomfortable*!"

"I know, but look on the bright side - you'll probably never have to sleep in a dungeon
or under an iceberg for the rest of your life."

"What's this 'probably' word?" Natalie demanded facetiously.

"Okay, okay. You'll never have to. I promise."

"Better." She wiggled under the institutional sheet and flipped her hair. "So what are
you doing right now?"

"Me?" he replied innocently. "I'm snuggled between my silk sheets on top of a twelve-
inch mattress."

"Tease," Natalie growled into the phone.

Nick's voice dropped lower. "I can smell your perfume on the pillow."

Natalie made a longing sound. This is what she got for bouncing on his bed when she
thought no one could catch her. "You know, I'm taking the rest of the week off. We can
spend it together."

"I'd like that," Nick replied softly. "That reminds me. There was a message on the
machine from Helen. She invited us to an opening at the gallery Friday. You want to go
on a date?"

"Helen?" Natalie twisted a curl around her finger. They'd met the owner of the Driesen
Gallery several years before during a homicide case. Natalie glanced around the viewing
room ironically. Strangely enough, this was the very room she'd first encountered Helen,
on the other side of the glass. "I haven't seen her since...well, since I became a vampire.
Certainly - let's go to the opening."

"Great." She could actually hear him grinning on the other end of the line. "There was
a message from Domino, too," Nick informed her. "Apparently, if our evening hadn't been
occupied with getting staked and apprehending criminals, we could have gone to a
housewarming party at Vachon's."

Natalie collapsed into giggles. "I know I'm way off base, but I just pictured a whole lot
of Tupperware."

"It's not too late," Nick joined in. "We could send a gift -" He broke off as he heard
the buzzer sound downstairs. "Hold that thought. Someone's at the door. I'm going to
check it out."

Sidney grew bored with the curtain and jumped up on the gurney to nuzzle Natalie's
hand. "Okay. I'm holding."

Nick padded down the stairs and glanced at the security monitor. He lifted the phone
back to his ear, his voice less jovial, more troubled. "Nat, it's Schanke."

"So answer it. You can call me back. I love you," she whispered and hung up.

Nick fidgeted nervously as he waited for the lift to arrive. He walked over to the
fridge, opened it and fondled a bottle, but thought better of it. As he let the door swing
closed, the elevator cranked to a halt. Nick briskly walked over and rolled the lift door
open. Schanke was hunched against the wall, his face tired. He had his hands bundled in
the pockets of his overcoat. It appeared he had tossed the coat over his moose pajamas in
a hurry.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

Nick made an ushering gesture with his hand, working to remain casual. "Sure."

Schanke evaluated Nick's own pajamas. "Is Natalie here?"

Nick shook his head. "I just got off the phone with her. Have a seat."

Schanke shuffled to one of the leather chairs. "I went home, and I tried to sleep on
things, but I couldn't."

Nick followed him, but leaned against the back of the sofa rather than taking a seat. If
he sat, it would mean what Schanke had to say couldn't be taken standing up. "That's
understandable," he said, feeling his words were inadequate.

Schanke glanced up at him, his eyes dark. "You think so?"

Nick nodded, not really knowing what else to say.

"I keep thinking about what I saw tonight. Man - everything I've seen before, that I
never quite put together. That's some terrifying stuff to live with, partner."

Nick nodded again, his voice catching. "I know." He could tell that Schanke was
working up to something, and he painfully wondered if it would be to break things. Would
Schank tell him to stay away from him and his family? Request a transfer?

"I see the fangs, the glowing eyes, and the blood," Don continued, "and I think of the
things that you must have done, and I tell myself I shouldn't trust you." Schanke began to
shake his head as he spoke. "That if I had an ounce of survival instinct, I would get myself
and my family the hell away from you."

Nick tensed, waiting for the final judgment.

"But I know you, buddy," Schanke said softly. "And even after last night, I can't
believe that everything in the past seven years was just a big lie. You're not just this..." He
waved his hands erratically in the air. "...monster off the creature feature, and you're
*not* just like one of those guys we throw in jail. I don't know what that makes you,
Nick, but I do know you're my best friend. So you kept a big secret. So did I, not too
long ago. It's kind of ironic - my big surprise was that I was alive. Yours was that you
were the living dead." Schanke shook his head again, this time ruefully. "The bottom line
is, I let you believe the lie for a year, and you didn't turn your back on me when you
learned the truth. Sure, you were furious..."

"Very," Nick interjected.

"But within half an hour you'd forgiven me. All it took was my story. So I realized,
partner..." Schanke gave him a half-smile, his eyes shining. "...I owe you the same second
chance."

"Schanke." Nick felt overwhelmed with an incredible relief. He hugged him fiercely for
a moment while Don clapped him on the back. Nick took a seat on the sofa, confessing in
an emotional voice, "I'd tell you everything, Schank, but it's a long story."

"How long?" he asked stubbornly.

Nick gave him a knowing look, wondering how long it would be before Schanke
demanded coffee or provisions. Maybe he could order in some food.

"I was brought across in 1228..."

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

Ivy was the first to wake out of a sound sleep. She shifted onto her side and checked
her Han Solo wristwatch. The sun would already be down.

She studied Vachon, running a finger down his cheek to see if he was just dozing, or
down for the count. He didn't react. She dropped a kiss on his forehead with a sad smile,
then sat up.

The Inka had done them a service and cleared everyone out of the house before taking
his own leave. Ivy considered ruefully that he had probably been glad to wish her
tinkunanchiskama...adios...goodnight. She pondered regretfully that no doubt Vachon had
been right again - The Inka didn't like her. Well, that was a small fish in her sea of
troubles.

She hadn't seen Domino, Bourbon, or even the Kinsey twins again last night, not that
she'd particularly cared. Vachon had carried her directly upstairs to soak her feet, then
went to work on her soles with a pair of tweezers. By sunrise, the house had been quiet,
and her heels were whole again.

She watched Vachon sleep, her own peace twisting into something accusatory. The
better she slept, the more her wishes came true. The better she slept, the more Clare
suffered elsewhere.

Ivy's forehead knotted in agony, and she whispered, "One day you're going to find
out, and I *will* lose you. One day you'll learn everything." She laid a regretful hand on
Javier's cheek. "We're already over, and you don't even know it." Her mouth twisted in
private grief. "We're dying."

She sighed and rose from the futon. Ivy was living on borrowed time, and she would
make the best of it. She dressed quietly and left the house, walking sedately into the
backyard, approaching the site of Clare's disinterment. Ivy stared at dirt heaped to the
side; her eyes picked out the discarded shovel, and she picked it up.

Vachon hadn't questioned why Thomas had delved into this grave yet. Maybe he
assumed it had been to attack Carmen again. The thought was sour, but she hoped this
was his answer.

It was dark. She began to dig, methodically scooping the earth back into place, breaths
unhurried. The pit shallowed gradually, burying something more ephemeral than a body.
With strong, resilient arms, she buried the specter of her handiwork under six feet of dirt
and denial.

With time, maybe she would come up with a solution, some way out of this grave,
some way that she could survive the collision course. Until then...

She tossed down the shovel and packed the ground with her boots.

Borrowed time.

Ivy thought about how the wind smelled metallic, heavy with the scent of minerals and
decaying leaves from the upturned landscape. It mocked her with its cycle of life and
death, as though she was expected to accept her fate as something natural, something that
couldn't be reasoned with if she begged enough.

Ivy stepped away from the shoveled earth, wiping her hands on her jeans, and began to
walk back toward the house. She had borrowed time. She was paying the price. She had
buried her guilt for the time being in the backyard.

Ivy strolled through the foyer and jogged up the stairs, intending to slip back into bed
and wake Vachon up slowly. As she pried off her boots, she began to whistle a soft tune.

***********************************************************************
End of Part Fifty-Six
End of Survivors

Source: geocities.com/~br1035/fk

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