Thankless Child  (00/29)
by Bonnie Rutledge
Copyright 1997

SPOILERS: This is a post-Last Knight fanfic. It contains references 
to many episodes, the most important being "Human Factor", "Father 
Figure" and "Faithful Followers". This story also continues a series 
begun in "The Spirit and the Dust" and furthered in the "The 
Unselfish Partner" and "Shades Of Evil.' This story should be 
enjoyable by itself, but it does include references to these three 
stories, because continuity is our friend. They are all available 
through Mel's wonderful fanfic page at www.fkfanfic.com  and  the 
first two are also archived at the ftp site at 
ftp.cac.psu.edu/pub/people/lms5/fkfiction  I will also happily forward 
stories if you send me a request at :  br1035@ix.netcom.com 

   Adoration and lauds to the beta readers: the splendid and vivacious 
Cousin Jules and Joni.

      I owe unending gratitude to Lee Belsky for sharing a motherlode 
of information about Toronto with me. Without her input, this story 
would not have been the same. 

     Standard Disclaimers Apply: The characters of `Forever Knight" 
were created by Parriott et al., and are owned by Sony/Tristar.

     This story includes quotations from the following works:

`Carmina Burana' by Carl Orff, 1935.
John Donne, 'A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning'
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 'Kubla Khan'
T.S. Eliot, 'Murder in the Cathedral.' Harcourt, Brace and World, 
Inc. 4th ed. 1935, 1968. pp. 12,23,44.
William Shakespeare, 'King Lear.' Act I, Scene IV.

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

Thankless Child (01/29)
Copyright 1997
by Bonnie Rutledge

1976

     Murder is not necessarily due to fate. Chance weaves around a 
person becoming the victim in a killer's ode to death. Five minutes of 
staying too late at work, opening the wrong door, sharing the wrong 
smile - murder is a matter of the little things: passing the wrong place 
at the wrong time and striking the homicidal mind's imagination. 

     

     The killer stood in the lamplight, unafraid of being seen, for fear 
held no place in his world. He savored the joy, the glory, at 
recognizing his prey.
     
     He was a proud man. He stood tall and strong, walking with 
confidence and power. With dignity. Breaking him would be a 
sublime distraction. The killer shuddered passionately at the beauty 
of the image.

     So murder was a matter of the wrong place, wrong time, and the 
wrong expression. The killer understood this. Oh, yes, he had 
witnessed the crimes of passion, the premeditations, the accidents - 
what could be more amateur? But randomness, to take your time and 
luxuriate in the event, to be cold and methodical, yet tender and 
devoted to your victim - that precision transformed murder into art. 
A necromantic religion.

     The killer breathed a gasp of pleasure, moving out of the 
lamplight to trail the haughty sacrifice. His chosen one wiped the 
back of his neck, but not because he noticed the killer's breath lick 
down his butterfly collar. He was too arrogant to ever suspect a cause 
for wariness. No, the victim's brushing palm came from the warmth 
of the August night that caused sweat to trickle down his spine. 

     

     The victim did not realize the importance of the date, of course. 
Soon enough, so tantalizingly soon, the killer would explain all in 
tawdry detail. 

     He licked his lips, then struck.

*******************************************************************
August 18, 1996

     "Ooo! That tickles!" Natalie gave a little jump in concert with the 
squeal.

     "It was supposed to."

     Natalie turned and grinned mischievously. "Now what kind of 
liberated woman would I be if I didn't retaliate?" She wiggled her 
fingers at him threateningly.

     Nick pretended to be abashed at the prospect and laughingly hid 
his head with his arms while pleading, "Mercy!" His entire 
performance conveniently rendered his stomach and sides 
unprotected against Natalie's counterattack.

     She took full advantage. Soon, the two figures were waving arms 
and digits in a mock battle of squeamish torture. The final coup had 
Nick and Natalie rolling off the bed in a quivering heap.

     Nick indulged in another type of assault, caressing Natalie with 
his lips.

     "Happy Two Month Anniversary, Nat," he whispered in her ear.

     "Mmm. Happy Anniversary to you. You continue to excel at 
giving gifts." 

     Natalie extended her arm, watching the molten gleam of gold 
illuminated by the glow of candles. Nick had presented her with a 
charm bracelet bearing miniature likenesses of the fourteen flower 
species he had offered to her in tribute of his love exactly two months 
before. The clasp was modeled after flower fifteen: the star-shaped 
chickweed blossoms that Nick had used to lure her to the loft. 

     "So what do I get?" It was a strong hint on Nick's part.

     "An answer to your question - Yes, I'll move in with you." He 
had mentioned the idea weeks earlier, eager to spend more time 
together. Natalie had insisted on proceeding slowly on that score. She 
was used to living alone, save for Sidney, and co-habitation was a big 
step.  The suggestion filled her with excitement, but she chose to 
spend more time grooming and tooth-brushing at Nick's with the cat 
in tow until she gradually felt ready.

     Nick gave her another kiss. "When? We could move some items 
tonight."

     "I don't have anything packed! I want to store some paraphernalia 
and donate some other things to charity. And I don't want to spend 
tonight relocating when I could have you," Natalie playfully poked 
Nick's chest, "wooing me."

    "Like this?" He caught her hand and nibbled on the inside of her 
palm, then turned her hand over to begin working his way up 
Natalie's arm. 

     Her eyes glowed as she said in a contented murmur. "Mmm-
Hmm. I think you've read my mind."

********************************************************************
1977

     The killer sat in High Park, watching those who passed. They 
paraded before him, most dressed in shorts and  brief tops, for the 
early September night was even warmer than usual. Each form held 
a potential of sorts, but none would become his choice this night. No, 
they were not special enough.
 
     Not like his first of the cycle, his beautiful proud man. That one 
progressed splendidly. Not so arrogant now, the first bowed his head 
when the killer entered his cell. Fear cowered in his eyes, delighting 
his captor. Eventually he would harvest more - hopelessness, respect, 
then gratitude.

     The killer abandoned these pleasing anticipations. He recognized 
his second quarry, bathing his vision with her image, causing the 
thrill of ecstasy and satisfaction to wind through him.

     She was exquisite, tall and finely sculpted, with heavenly gold 
hair. His was not the only gaze drawn to her features in admiration.

     She was aloof. That was the temptation, the project. He would 
unravel the second's indifference and shatter the protective shield that 
radiated about her. It would be a delight to see those uncaring eyes 
flare in rage, to watch her desperation grow to fulfill any demand he 
made, and best of all, the pleading.

      As she strolled past, the killer set a pace that would maintain his 
position just behind  her. She did not care who was near. No one was 
worthy of concern. Still, she should have foreseen danger in walking 
through the shadows.

***************************************************************
August 18, 1996

     Minutes after sunset, Clare walked purposefully down the 
sidewalk littered with home-town explorers. She was on a time-table, 
and though the rush would normally seem an irritant, tonight she was 
eager to feed well and hurry home. 
  
     She suddenly swerved to narrowly avoid stepping on a spider. 
Clare paused and picked the arachnid up, then gingerly placed him 
out of harm's way in a grassy patch off the pavement. She continued 
walking, examining the mortals before her intently.

     Clare had hunted regularly for the past several weeks, setting 
aside time each night from her work at the precinct. It was a form of 
control, the heady possession and destruction of a living thing. She 
was a god, electing who lived or died, swallowing their whimpers of 
fear and transforming them into moans of pleasure. 

     Clare needed the control, the balance, that hunting provided. She 
felt she was drifting, becoming weaker in the time she'd spent in 
Toronto. The welfare of too many others consumed her thoughts. 
Something must be done, so she encouraged the darkness and let it 
shelter her like an old friend.

     Then the prospect of concealing her handiwork followed. One 
delightful thing about living in Africa had been the luxury of leaving 
mauled bodies in the grasslands. With all the other predators roaming 
about, the authorities apparently accepted that savaged bodies went 
with the territory.

     In this day and age, most of her victims tended to be gang 
members. From her recent work as a homicide detective, Clare had 
discovered that the police were not extremely diligent in investigating 
these murders since the victims were already fated to die young from 
their lifestyles.

      
     
      A gang member, a criminal, or an addict would not satisfy her 
tonight. She needed someone perfect and flavorful to quench her 
hunger, for she would be hindered from blood-drinking, bound to her 
best behavior, until the next afternoon. Clare was determined not to 
go hungry during her nobility.

     Then she saw him. Young, attractive -- bound to be missed --  at 
the very least by a lover. Clare could taste him already.  Clare smiled avariciously. 

     She did not devote her usual time to stalking her choice, feeding 
the anticipation. Instead, Clare approached him quickly and 
pretended to be unaware of her surroundings. Colliding with her 
prey, she feigned a stumble.
 
     As he reached out to steady her, Clare twisted her lips in 
satisfaction. Making an elegant show of regaining her balance, she 
clutched at his arms in a hapless embrace. She breathlessly gushed a 
wondrous `Thank you', treating him to an eager smile and warm 
eyes. Caught by her expression, the man smiled in return.

     Dinner was served.

********************************************************************
1986

     His name was William Hyatt. He recalled that much. He had 
never shared his identity with his tormentor, but The Man seemed to 
care little for his victim's background. He would always refer to him 
as 'the first' or 'one'. For His tormentor only needed William to say 
the words that he fed him and stay alive: nothing more, nothing less.

     He had learned these requirements slowly. The hard way. Once 
upon a time, when the prison seemed new and affronting, he had been 
indignant. Prideful. Caustic.  
 

     Could he really have spoken such things to his tormentor? 
William was horrified at his impudence. Soon enough, the arrogance 
had been carved away, making him smaller, calmer, better, he was 
told. Sharp little cuts flicked out slivers of his pride, whittling his 
body and soul into the form required of him.

     His tormentor announced this night was an anniversary: Ten years 
had passed since the time they met. William could only nod in 
agreement. How could he judge time with no light, no hope, and no 
will?

     "Ten more years for you, and then you will be free," said his 
tormentor. "Won't that make you happy, dear one?"

     "Hap-py." William forced the word from his throat in a voice 
that scratched at his belly. He already sounded dead. He had become 
a wraith, haunting this one berth, moaning and scraping, not really 
living.  his thoughts whimpered. What was freedom to a 
shadow?

     His tormentor frowned. "What is this? You do not appear properly 
enthusiastic! Smile!" He slapped his victim brutally, sending the 
body careening into the stone wall, just a meter away. 

     William heard his bones crackle against the hard surface and 
crumpled to the floor as though he was a paper doll. Pain gnawed its 
way through his arm and face. The limb was broken, he could tell by 
the way it flopped obscenely at his side. Something had cracked in his 
mouth as well --  a tooth or his jaw. It didn't really matter.

     What was important for William was that he scrambled into a 
kneeling position at his tormentor's feet and clutched at The Man's 
hand with his good arm. As his face split into a bloody slice of a 
smile, William kissed his tormentor's knuckles in reverence.

*******************************************************************
August 18, 1996

     Arriving at the Raven, Vachon collared Cecilia and Domino from 
the dance floor. Both vampires had worked as design assistants for 
their sire, Figaro, before his untimely destruction many weeks before. 
Vachon had spent little time with the fashion designer before his 
death, but those scant hours had been enjoyable, so he felt some 
sympathy for Figaro's offspring.

      From his own experience, he could understand why the two 
vampires felt at loose ends after the loss of their parent. He also had 
little problem with participating in their recent quest for wild nights 
of partying. Since Feliks never left his greenhouse, and Natalie -- 
well she was more occupied with another certain vampire recently -- 
they were the closest thing he had to family besides... 

     Vachon pulled the two over to the bar.  "Have either of you seen 
Clare tonight?"

     Cecilia wrinkled her upturned nose. "Certainly not."
      
     "And *I* hope it stays that way." Domino tended to agree with 
whatever Cecilia said.

     Vachon was impatient with the attitude of the younger vampires - 
he was beginning to wonder if he liked them, and animosity would 
play hell with his social life. "If you weren't family, she'd destroy 
you if she heard you speak like that."

     "And since we're Clare's family," Cecilia dismissively flicked her 
silvery-blonde hair over a shoulder, "we'll probably end up dead, 
anyway."

     At Vachon's scoff, Cecilia continued. "I'm serious, Javier. She 
comes to town after a long sabbatical, and within a couple of weeks, 
two of her offspring are dead."

     "You weren't there. You don't know what you're talking about." 
Vachon angrily gulped from a glass the barman set at his elbow.

     Domino jumped to his sibling's support. "It looks suspicious to 
me, too. I mean, this Maeven person was Clare's oldest offspring -- 
hadn't been around her for over a thousand years, so I hear, and just 
after they reconnect, Maeven's history. It seems like Clare didn't like 
the poor girl questioning her authority."

     Vachon gave the fellow a stern look. "Poor Maeven is the one 
who killed your Figaro. Surely your little gossip network spread that 
one."

      Cecilia persisted. "But Maeven would have never done it had 
Clare not returned. Can you deny that?" 

     Vachon wanted to disagree, but deep inside he'd harbored the 
same thought. Clare had battled the same second-guessing herself.

     Seeing his dilemma, Cecilia smiled smugly. "All we're saying, 
Javier, is that you would do well to be more cautious. Seeking Clare 
out will only jeopardize your existence. You are the oldest among her 
relatives now. Be smart and distance yourself, as we do. We offspring 
must stick together." With that warning, the pair returned to the 
dance floor, leaving Vachon at the bar, glad to watch them go.

     Regardless of whatever problems he may have had with Clare 
from time to time, she had rescued him from being buried, paralyzed 
in the earth. A small shiver passed through Vachon at the memory of 
his helplessness, his hopelessness after waking from Divia's poison 
and the staking. Clare and he were even, at the very least, and he 
probably owed her more than loyalty. 

     Furthermore, he liked his grand-sire. The woman had style. 
Elegant with a sense of humor, and somehow almost angelic - Clare 
was like Feliks, Figaro, and his sire all rolled into one. And when she 
was furious, she became ruthless, similar to...

      LaCroix.

      There was something going on between Clare and LaCroix. When 
Vachon was around the two elders, a palpable cloud of feral energy 
would envelop them, making a statement like  'Pass me that coaster,' 
develop into an erotic threat.

      LaCroix might know where she was. 

      Javier left the bar to scope out the Raven's head honcho. Easily 
enough, he caught LaCroix exiting the radio booth.

     "Do you know where I might find Clare?" Vachon was the picture 
of innocence.
  
     LaCroix's expression became extremely unpleasant. "I am *not* 
Clare's social secretary."

     Vachon wrinkled his eyebrows. This response was a doppelganger 
to what he'd envisioned. "Of course you aren't," he said. "Only, she 
hasn't been to her hotel for the past four days, and since Clare and 
you are friends, I thought you would know -"

     LaCroix cut him off. "You were mistaken. I don't know." 
     
     If anything, the elder vampire's gaze felt more deadly. Vachon 
reconsidered the wisdom of pushing the issue. Rather than give a hint 
as to why he had become so opposed to discussing Clare, most likely 
LaCroix would eagerly do Javier injury if he pressed further. That 
would not be good. "All right, then. I'll leave you to...whatever." 
Vachon shrugged and walked away, while he still could.

     He missed the instant of stark torment that streaked over LaCroix's 
features, immediately replaced by a stony composure.
   
     Cecilia, however, had taken a position where she could observe 
the exchange. At its end, she smiled in self-satisfaction.

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

      William rejoiced internally as the words of his 
tormentor danced upon his eardrums. 

     His eagerness was so overwhelming, William spread his cracked 
lips wide, forming a choppy and brownish grin. His tormentor noticed 
the joy during a brief glance up from his work.
 
     The killer leaned next to his first's ear and caressed the scabby 
surface of his forehead. "Does freedom please you so greatly, my 
dear one?"
 
     William nodded jerkily. He wished he could embrace his 
tormentor for allowing his imprisonment to end, but his arms would 
not move nor would his legs. He remembered his body being placed 
on a wooden structure shaped somewhat like a star. His mind had 
drifted away with happiness at that point.
 
     
     
     The killer completed his preparations. Barbed wire cinched tautly 
about the first's wrists and ankles. The spiky metal projections bored 
through the skin underneath, causing small pockets of red in their 
wake. Additional wire encircled the first's throat in a macabre 
necklace. It wouldn't do to have his pet wriggle during his liberation.

     The killer began to stroll around his fettered guest, relishing the 
view from every angle. Delighted with the spectacle, he began to 
speak in loving tones. "Ah, my sweet one. You have surpassed my 
every expectation. The change has been exceptional. No more 
pride...no more lust for life...I have shown you a world of darkness 
beyond your blackest imaginings. You have experienced such 
fascinating pain. I almost envy you." The killer's eyes became 
cloudy in delight at the moment. "You should thank me for sharing 
my work with you."

     William wanted to cry out his appreciation. The moment was 
coming, he knew. He tried to speak, but found his tongue plastered to 
the sticky, parched roof of his mouth. As if he was ripping tape from 
a package, he pulled with all of his might to separate the pieces of 
flesh. 

     While William licked his flaky lips to prepare for his ode of 
gratitude, the killer yanked a rope which descended from a structure 
of wood and metal hanging from the ceiling. William heard a rattling 
whistle scrape through the air,  and felt the sharp, burning shock of 
his release slice through his chest.

     Nothing came from William's mouth, for at the first pulse of 
agony, his remaining teeth snapped through his tongue.

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

    As Clare rushed down the hallway towards her hotel suite, she 
spotted Schanke and his daughter knocking industriously on her 
door. A call of welcome sprung to her lips. "I hope you two haven't 
been waiting long."

     Schanke fingered his suit collar. "No! No Way." Then he 
murmured for Clare's hearing alone, "Only long enough for that no-
babysitter-panic to resurface."

     Clare eyed Schanke's snazzy ensemble. "So *where* has Myra 
decided you will escort her this evening?"

     Schanke shrugged, appearing a mite concerned. "Apparently 
that's privileged information, and I'm one of the under-privileged."

     "Are you going to open the door, or what?" Jen impatiently 
nudged her waiting knapsack with a toe.

     Clare swished out her keycard. "All right. There you go." When 
the light turned green, Jen was across the threshold and bouncing on 
the couch before the adults had taken a step.

     Schanke observed as his daughter made herself right at home. 
"You don't think the kid's excited, do you?"

     Clare smiled, watching with amusement as Jen propped her 
sneakered feet up on the antique coffee table. As she moved to join 
the girl, Schanke touched her on the arm, so she paused. 

     "Hey, Clare." His forehead wrinkled in uneasiness. "Are you sure 
you're okay with this?" He waved a hand towards his daughter who 
had begun to snoop through the room. "Jen spending the night and 
everything? This *is* the Four Seasons, and Jen can be 
rambunctious. I mean, Myra and I could postpone our plans if you 
have any problem -"

     "I'm not uncomfortable with the situation. Are you?" Clare's 
expression was neutral. Not a single sign of her whirlwind emotions 
shone through - none of her excitement at Miss Schanke's company, 
or the fear and doubt that she was doing the wrong thing. 

     A familiar mantra sprung to mind.  

     Clare smothered the thought. Who cared if it made her a 
hypocrite? She would do what she wanted. Friendship with Jennifer 
Schanke was just another form of control.

     Schanke quickly protested Clare's notion. "No, no, no...Myra and 
I trust you, and the kid thinks the sun shines around you."

     "Ooo - I hope not. That would be uncomfortable." 
 
     Their attention was diverted as Jen squealed with joy. "Carmen!" 

    The girl bent down behind an upholstered chair, proudly producing 
a fluffy tortoiseshell cat whose legs indignantly stuck out like the 
limbs of a divining rod. Jen scratched behind the feline's ears, then 
approached her father. "Remember the cat, Dad?"

    This particular feline had played a part in the discovery that 
Schanke was alive and well, not the victim of a plane bombing, and 
his subsequent return to work as a homicide detective two months 
ago. Nick had been the main catapult behind Schanke's resurrection, 
however, while Natalie, Clare, Myra and Jen had assisted.

      Schanke started to sniff as if a mohair sweater had been placed 
directly under his nostrils. He exploded with a reluctant sneeze. 
"Okay, that's my cue. I'm outta here." He encouraged the release of 
the animal, then hugged Jen as he warned, "You know the drill. 
Brush your teeth, get some sleep, and -"

     "No open flames. Yeah, yeah. I know the drill." Jen escorted her 
dad out the door too quickly for parental self-esteem.

     "Myra'll pick her up at noon - hasta la bye-bye, ladies!" Schanke 
called as he exited down the hall.

     Jen shut the door determinedly, then shook her head with a sigh. 
"I thought he'd never leave." She planted herself firmly in front of 
Clare. "So what do you want to do to get this party started?" 

     Clare settled on the couch, and Carmen immediately curled into a 
horseshoe of fur on her owner's lap, tucking her head in the crook of 
Clare's arm. "Well, our activities depend on you."

     Jen plopped down next to her with a frown. "Me? I thought you'd 
have some great, original idea."

     "Hmm. I *did* scribble down a few possibilities on that paper 
over there...I wasn't sure what would be best, though."

     The girl eagerly snatched up Clare's list from the table and read 
aloud. "Number One: Going to the symphony." Jen turned the paper 
over to look for a different set of activities on the back. "Are you sure 
this stuff is for us to do? Ugh." Her nose scrunched with dismay.

     Clare grinned teasingly. "Read on. It gets better."

     Jen gave her a suspicious glance. "O-kay. Number Two: Make 
perfume. How are we supposed to do that?"

     "I've made arrangements to use a chemistry lab at the University. 
We'd be taking a substance like rose petals or lemon grass, and use 
heat and vapor pressure to separate out the oils that cause their 
scents. The process is called distillation. The end product is 
wonderful, but it would be time consuming, as well as involve quite a 
bit of waiting."

     Jen considered the idea, her sternly creased forehead indicating the 
girl intently weighed the pros and cons of chemistry and the ten year-
old. "That one might be a winner - especially since heat is involved. I 
want to see what else you've got here before I commit, though."

     "That sounds reasonable."

     "Number Three: Frog catching." The child's eyes lit up with 
delight. "Cool! I want to do that!"

     "Now why am I not surprised?"

     "But we can't catch frogs all night," Jen pointed out practically.

     "No we can't. Read on some more."

     "Number Four: Watch a meteor shower - we can do that?"

     "Yes - the Perseids should still be visible. There are other meteors 
we might catch, and a comet as well. We would have to go to the 
Planetarium to use a decent scope. You might have to stay up rather 
late, if you don't mind."

     Jen jokingly wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. "I 
guess I will force myself to stay awake."

     Clare rolled her eyes. "Back to the list. There is one more entry." 

     Jen scanned the words quietly, then let out a squeal. "Ghost 
hunting - now you're talking! When can we go? Where?!?"
     
     "For enhanced finding of paranormal people, we should wait until 
at least midnight. I vote that we track down the woman who haunts 
the Hockey Hall of Fame."

     Jen let out a whoop. "Let's go for it! First up, frogs!" She gave 
Clare's clothing a brief glance.  "Uh, you aren't going to wear that, 
are you?"

     Clare inspected her slacks, blouse, and jacket. She perceived no 
rebel blood stains overlooked from her earlier activities. "What is 
wrong with what I have on?"

     "Well, for one, you've got those creases in your pants, like 
they've been ironed." Jen gingerly tested the fabric of Clare's sleeve. 
"I knew it! That's silk, isn't it?" Clare nodded. "You know, there's 
going to be mud and dirt and stuff when we go frog hunting - don't 
you have some jeans?"

     Clare frowned. "I'm not sure - let's look."

     Jen followed her into the main bedroom while grumbling, "You 
don't know if you have jeans? How can you not know?"
     
     Meanwhile, Clare opened the double doors to her walk-in closet. 
Jen's mouth dropped open. "Okay, I get it - if somebody owned 
everything, I guess they could lose track of a little denim."

     Clare was busily shuffling through the racks. "I do not own 
*everything*." She paused at a dark red silk number, dropping a 
mellow smile before she continued sorting outfits. "No sequins, no 
polyester, and absolutely no hats. One has to draw the line 
somewhere."

     Jen began her own search through the garments. "Where did you 
get so much stuff anyhow? Do you realize half of these dresses don't 
have backs? You got cheated big time."

     Clare turned to the girl and murmured secretively, "Sometimes 
clothes are for more than covering your assets. In wearing this," 
Clare fingered the clingy white jersey sheath Jen was holding, "I am 
the cheater. You'll understand perfectly when you are older." 

      Jen wailed as the vampire returned to her search.  "Arrgh! Those 
are the most horrible words you can say to a ten-year old! 'When 
you're older,'" she mimicked. "Yuck!"

     Clare laughed. "Sad, but true. All of the 'stuff', to answer your 
question, came from a designer friend named Figaro. He became 
somewhat...overenthusiastic...with the project."

     Jen gave a squawk of delight, "Hey! I found some!" She looked at 
the label and wiggled her eyebrows. "They're Newton Originals. 
Whoa! - you even have classy jeans." She handed the pair to Clare, 
then crouched to peer through the shoe racks. "You wouldn't have 
any sneakers down here, would you?"

     "Not unless they had leather soles."

     "But then they wouldn't be sneakers."

     "Exactly."

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

     The phone rang belligerently, and Nick groaned. "I thought that 
we shut that off."

     "Then don't answer it," Natalie murmured quietly, but he rolled 
over anyway. 

     "Nick! No! Don't pick up!"

     Nick smiled apologetically as he lifted the receiver to his ear. "It 
might be an emergency."

     Natalie sighed. "*I'm* the emergency," she muttered, then began 
to practice her eavesdropping skills.

     "Knight, here."

     "Nick? Captain Reese." Natalie let out a low growl. "We've got a 
real doozy in High Park, and it's going to be very messy. The guys 
who took over for you tonight are rookies. They've barely cut their 
teeth and I think this case might be too rough. I'd rather have 
someone experienced on the job.  Now I know I promised no 
disturbances to you and your partners tonight since you three haven't 
had a night off in weeks, so I'm asking, not telling you. Will you 
come to the scene?"

     Natalie sat up, fire in her eyes. "Don't you do it, Nick. Uh-uh. No. 
You have an unbreakable prior commitment." She pointed to herself.

     "Sorry, Cap." Nick winked in Natalie's direction as she raised her 
hands in a silent cheer. "I've got an unbreakable prior commitment. 
What about Schank or Clare?"

     "They aren't answering their phones - something you should have 
tried," Reese sighed. "Just put it out of your mind. I guess these two 
have to walk the hard road sometime. It might as well be now."

      Natalie looked concerned as Nick hung up the phone. "Do you 
think he was mad?"

     He shrugged. "Nah. The Captain's had anniversaries himself. If 
anything, he commiserates. Now - did I hear something about an 
unbreakable prior commitment?" Nick gave Natalie a wicked grin.

     She wound her arms around his shoulders. "That would be me - 
and rumor has it - vampires can be pretty unbreakable."

     Before they had a chance to snuggle under the covers, the phone 
rang again. "That'll be the morgue." Natalie stretched out an arm for 
Nick to pass her the phone while smirking. She threw her pillow at 
him while she answered. "Natalie, here, and I'm not free to go to any 
crime scenes."

     "Oh, darn!" Grace said. "Someone's already called Nick, haven't 
they?"

     "Got it in one. He's not moving and neither am I, no matter how 
particularly gruesome and unusual this case is. I refuse to be 
intrigued."

     "But, Nat, honey...you know I can't go with my leg in this cast."

      Natalie's assistant had crashed her car recently, breaking her left 
leg and badly spraining her right ankle. She was confined to the 
morgue, rolling from table to table in an office chair. Natalie heard 
the squeak of ball bearings as Grace lowered her voice.

      "I'd have to send Barney to the scene. You know you've been 
unhappy with his work lately. Can we trust him not to mess up?"

     Natalie was groaning inside, but her voice rang resolute. "We'll 
just have to have faith in him."

     Grace sighed. "All right - you and your faith. Oh - there's one 
more thing, and it's just as rotten."

     "Let me guess - the scale's off again. You just have to hit it until 
it resets to zero."

    "Nope - this problem is much worse. A corpse has gone missing. I 
haven't been able to track it down. Believe me, I tried all the usuals."

     Natalie sat up in alarm at this information. "Are you saying a 
body was *stolen*?" She grabbed the pillow that she had thrown 
earlier at Nick and hugged it to her chest.

     "It looks that way."

     Natalie spoke with her friend a minute more, then hung up, her 
eyes turned golden with anger at the implications.

     Nick hadn't eavesdropped, but Natalie's side of the conversation 
had been very clear. "Someone stole a corpse from the morgue." His 
hand found hers, enveloping it in a gentle, comforting grip.

      She slipped her fingers through Nick's in return, then turned to 
her side to face him. "Yep...I'm really hoping it's a massive 
paperwork error and I don't have to come up with a solution where 
someone has to take the blame."

     "But there's something else - you almost look afraid."

     Natalie brushed his worry aside. "Gee, Nick. I *do* still have my 
old lab notebooks locked away in my desk. We don't exactly want 
those to go missing, do we?"

     "So bring them here. I mean, it all concerns old experiments - you 
aren't working on any new cure ideas, right?"

     "Um...right."

      "Why risk losing your background? I'll keep your journals and 
save you the hassle of worrying. Besides," Nick hugged her close, 
"pretty soon this will be your home, too."

     "And I *need* less hassle. Tell me, Detective Knight - how come 
everything goes to hell in a handbasket the moment we take off from 
work?"

     Nick tried an old trick - when you haven't a practical answer, 
attempt earnest flattery as a distraction. "I don't know about myself, 
but in your case it's probably because you're perfect in every way."

     Her eyes were no longer gold with upset, but another emotion. 
"Ooh, good answer, Detective."

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

     "This feels totally weird." 

     Jen Schanke had just captured her first frog. It was about ten 
centimeters long, brownish-green, and sported a darker X mark on its 
back.

     "I think that's called a chirper. It's a common species across the 
United States and central Canada." Clare had diligently spouted 
educational amphibian facts while they had squished around the 
muddy banks of Grenadier Pond in High Park.

    Jen had continued to trail her index finger lightly over the frog's 
back while cradling its body securely with her other hand.  "It's skin 
is wet, but not slimy like it looks. It feels like that bright blue 
relaxation mask my mom has." 

     Clare dug through her duffel bag, a hand-crafted masterpiece of 
black leather. She unearthed a makeshift plastic aqua-terrarium for 
animal confinement. "That's because amphibians have a great deal of 
skin ducts. They help keep the skin moist by producing mucous."

     Jen jerked her hands away from the frog, leaving it to land with a 
splat in a nearby puddle. "Eeehhww!! You've been letting me play 
with frog snot?!?"

     Clare, not phased by this notion (After all, she believed she had 
dirtied her hands with much worse over the centuries.), retrieved the 
animal with a flash of her hand. "He's probably wary of your 
secretions, too, dear heart."

     Jen peered closely at the frog. "'He'? How do you know it's a 'he'?"

     "He's chirping. Male frogs do that to attract females."

     Jen tentatively placed her hands around the amphibian once more. 
"A love call, huh? I think my dad has one of those."

     "Jen?"

     "What, Clare?"

     "You're sharing *way* too much."

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

     Ivy walked along Yonge Street, just a couple blocks from the 
O'Keefe Centre. She sucked violently on a cigarette, then chucked it 
into her path, pausing momentarily to smear the last of the tobacco 
into the sidewalk with her boot heel. There was a fine art to proper 
littering.

     She unzipped her battered leather jacket, knowing it looked 
strange to the people she passed to be wearing a coat on such a sultry 
night, but for Ivy, it was a choice of wearing, carrying, or trashing the 
thing. She was one of the homeless.
     
     Ivy mentally edited that thought. 

     She'd just returned to her old stomping grounds - dark, delicious 
T.O. Ivy had been roaming around Alberta in recent years. Roaming, 
scraping by, slumming - whatever you wanted to call it. On the spur 
of the moment, easily accomplished because she didn't really have a 
life or responsibilities to drop, she had caught a flight to Toronto. 

     Her thoughts were interrupted as she sashayed past two loiterers 
who grunted appreciative comments on how Ivy filled her blue jeans. 
She granted the fellows a leer in reply, but as they decided to join her, 
Ivy became serious.

     "Follow me - and you're sopranos, boys."
   
      Her voice was a harsh challenge that caused the men to have 
second thoughts about their welcome. Their walking slowed, and 
after a few steps, the men resumed leaning against the building while 
murmuring that Ivy didn't know what she'd missed.

    Ivy smiled. 

     The memory of sweets directed her thoughts to her arrival. 
Landing at the Island Airport, she'd shown the pilot a few personal 
lessons about flying while visiting the cockpit. Mr. Airman had been 
too drained to thank her before she caught the ferry across the 
Western Channel. Ivy really had no regrets.

     Reaching Bathurst Quay, she had headed away from the yacht 
clubs, refusing to think about any patrons she might know. Instead, 
Ivy had hiked east through Queen's Quay. Offering a mock salute, 
she drew parallel with the CN Tower. She'd passed the Conference 
Centre, then turned onto Yonge, where she walked now, the Gardiner 
Expressway crossing overhead.

     The O'Keefe  was her destination. She could see the structure in 
the distance. The O'Keefe, where her life had ended and begun again. 
It seemed only right that she should check the place out for old times' 
sake.

     Ivy heard a commotion up ahead. There was a black Mercedes 
parked against the curb, and a pair of thugs studiously breaking into 
it. She was ready to shrug it off  - it wasn't her problem - but a 
movement inside the car caught her eye. It wasn't empty.

     The thieves soon had the front passenger door jacked open, and a 
high voice of protest reached Ivy's ears. It was a boy. He was calling 
for help - calling for his parents from where he cringed in the back 
seat.

     Thief Number One didn't want the noise. He had a gun - a handy 
accessory for someone in his line of work. He moved to club the kid 
with his pistol butt. The weapon never contacted flesh, because Ivy 
arrived first.

     She grabbed his forearm and snapped his hand back, then heard 
the satisfying pop of his wrist. He dropped the gun, and sheltered his 
hand while cursing a blue streak. Smarter than he looked, Thief 
Number One started a fast retreat.

     Thief Number Two wasn't as bright. He tried to slug her with an 
unchivilrous right hook. Ivy feinted, weaved, and returned his assault 
with a wicked punch below the belt. She liked playing dirty, and he 
deserved it. 

     

     The second thief gasped for breath and clutched his injured 
regions as he stumbled toward the shadows. Ivy smirked, enlivened 
by the overwhelming victory. She turned her attention to the 
Mercedes, and the boy still huddled inside. 
   
     Ducking her head inside the open door, Ivy reassured the 
trembling boy in a calm voice. "It's okay - they're gone. Between the 
two of us, we scared those losers off."

     The boy appeared ready to respond, and Ivy smiled 
encouragingly, but felt powerful arms yank her out of the car, 
throwing her across the sidewalk and into the brick facing of the 
nearest building. Ivy was speechless and full of wonderment as a 
beautiful raven-haired female lifted her off the ground by her leather 
collar. The woman's eyes burned with golden rage.

      Ivy's mind reeled at the discovery. 

     The woman bared her fangs, giving Ivy a violent shake. She didn't 
care. In fact, Ivy was downright thrilled to be slammed into a brick 
wall by one of the undead.
  
     

     Her happiness at finding another creature of the night rapidly 
faded as Ivy realized this one wanted nothing more than to rip her 
head off. She tested the woman's hold and found that the other 
vampire obviously knew what she was doing with her powers. The 
woman understood much more about using them than an orphaned 
tyke like Ivy, who'd picked up her every trick through instinct and 
happenstance.

     Ivy let her thoughts whirl, searching for the proper words to rescue 
her neck, when the call of the boy rang out.

     "Mom! Don't hurt her! She rescued me!"

     In a matter of seconds, the woman perfectly hid all signs of the 
beast. Her now-blue eyes looked to the boy with concern and 
adoration.

    Ivy felt her heels touch ground again, then straightened the 
rumpled leather across her shoulders as she watched the pair 
incredulously. "Mom?!?"

     The woman kneeled down to look levelly at her 'son'. She 
brushed his hair back from his brow and seemed to reach some 
private assurance that he was unharmed. "You are safe, mon enfant. 
I'm here now. Tell me what happened, Patrick." 

      Ivy noticed a lilting accent in the woman's speech. 

     "I waited in the car like you and dad asked, but these two guys 
started breaking in!" Patrick said. "One of them was going to hit me 
with a gun - then she came along," the boy pointed towards Ivy, "and 
chased them away! She's real tough."

     The woman turned, keeping Patrick close by her side with an arm 
wrapped around his shoulders. "You acted nobly in protecting my 
son - merci," she said to Ivy. "But...I wonder at your motive."

     Ivy's grin didn't reach her eyes. She gave Patrick a pointed glance 
before meeting the woman's gaze. "Funny - I was just thinking the 
same thing."

     Sudden movement came from the shadows. A well-built man 
appeared a few steps away, giving the impression that he'd rushed to 
the scene. Patrick exclaimed a greeting at the man's arrival.

     "Dad!" The boy rushed to embrace his father. 

     Ivy saw the man and woman exchange a look that seemed to 
signify more than just a locking of eyes. The man gave a brief nod, as 
if agreeing with some unspoken proposal, then extended a hand to 
Ivy.

     "How do you do? - my name's Robert McDonaugh. I see you've 
met my wife and son already."

     His handshake was cold and firm. A yellow glow flared in his eyes 
for the briefest of moments during the contact. Robert let Ivy's hand 
fall back to her side.

     She got the message. 

     "My name is Ivy," she said. "Just Ivy."

     "And we haven't been properly introduced." The woman slipped 
her arm through Ivy's. "I sense that you have a need to talk. What 
say we have a little chat, non? Patrick, you can tell your father all 
about your adventure while we are gone."

     Ivy let herself be lead away from the strange father/son pair. She 
had questions - so many questions - and they weren't all concerning 
this paranormal nuclear family.

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

     Nick awoke with a start. He'd experienced a disturbing dream - 
one filled with loss, loneliness and despair. He fumbled across the bed 
and felt for Natalie's hand for reassurance. She pulled it as well as 
the majority of the sheets away as she turned her back on Nick in her 
sleep.
   
     He then reached out to pet Sidney, who habitually rested against 
Natalie's knees. The cat yawned, then deserted Nick's hand in favor 
of rearranging his body against his favorite vampire.

     Nick leaned against the headboard, frowning at the lingering 
sadness from his dream. This hadn't been the first feeling of its kind 
in recent weeks. Faint sensations of desolation would overtake him 
suddenly for no apparent reason. This gloom in his sleep had been the 
most striking to date.

     

     Nick checked the bedside clock - only one a.m. - it was no wonder 
that he felt so restless. It was strange that Natalie slept so soundly in 
the middle of the night. Perhaps they'd been too rambunctious. He 
leaned over to check her quiet form, noted her contented smile, then 
decided to go downstairs. 

     He pulled a bottle from the refrigerator distractedly, actually 
uncorking it with his fingers rather than his teeth. The steer blood 
burst bitterly on his tongue, making Nick frown in distaste. Feeding 
from Natalie made everything else pale in comparison.

     She was moving into the loft. Nick unconsciously grinned at the 
prospect while taking a seat on the sofa. The past two months had 
been so happy, so fulfilling, despite the pressures of work eroding 
away at the time he managed to spend with Nat. Cohabitation was 
the perfect solution.

     It amazed Nick that it had taken so long for her to agree to live 
with him. He'd thought she'd jump at the chance, especially after 
those first blissful days they had spent together, sharing themselves 
utterly and purely. Natalie was part of him now, more than just a 
loved mortal - she flowed through his blood.

     He hadn't revealed the hurt her deliberation had caused. Natalie 
was logical, practical - she was a scientist. He couldn't fault her for 
these traits - they made up a portion of the reasons that he loved her. 
Nick simply wished that Nat had experienced the same urgency to 
spend every day together, throwing her caution to the wind. 

     Her affection for Clare troubled him as well, perhaps because it 
wasn't idealistic faith on Natalie's part. She had formed that 
irrevocable bond with her sire in rapid time, despite treachery and lies 
on Clare's part. Natalie was an intelligent woman, but continued to 
defend the woman when faced with a cause for doubt.

     Nick frowned. He granted that it was unfair to condemn all of 
Clare's behavior. She had taken care of Natalie after bringing her 
across, and for that he was grateful. Without Clare's interference, 
Natalie wouldn't be alive right now, much less lying in his bed. It 
was a rueful admission on Nick's part.

     It was possible that his attitude towards Natalie's sire derived 
from jealousy. Those first few weeks after she brought Nat across, 
Nick had been tormented by self-loathing. He also had been forced to 
come to terms with Natalie becoming one of the damned. Accepting 
the change had left an acrid taste in his mouth, but he loved her too 
much to commit to anything less.

     Then there was the period of distance between them. Natalie had 
second-guessed the nature of their future together, torn between the 
quest for mortality and living as a vampire. Every one of these 
challenges had Natalie running to Clare for support and advice. 
Miraculously, some of that advice had helped to bring Nat and him 
together.

     Yet, Nick still couldn't bring himself to trust Clare, despite his 
gratitude. Even working with her in homicide the past two months, 
coming to respect her talents as a detective, hadn't helped. 

     LaCroix's words haunted him.  So how could 
Nick ever completely trust her motives?
      
     Believing LaCroix's statement was much easier. 

     Nick continued to be intrigued by his sire's relationship with 
Clare. He'd witnessed their interaction a few times over recent 
centuries, and their familiarity seemed to represent a long-standing 
battle for one-upmanship. Since her recent reappearance, however, 
Clare and LaCroix's association had appeared more complex, and 
apparently, more unstable.
     
     LaCroix wouldn't satisfy his curiosity with a personal status report 
on Clare, but he would answer Nick's other questions. Nick found 
himself spending the most time with his elder since his move to 
Toronto. Sometimes LaCroix would continue filling the gaps in 
Nick's memory from his amnesia the year before with stories of the 
past. Surprisingly, his sire did not paint a flattering portrait of himself 
in every recollection. 
   
     Nick's actions, of course, did not fare any better. LaCroix and he 
would fall into the same repetitive arguments about guilt and 
mortality, but for the first time, there was a lack of bitterness on 
Nick's part. Perhaps that difference accounted for LaCroix's 
increased tolerance of his independence. 

     Nick felt somewhat strange at the thought of allowing himself to 
enjoy LaCroix's company again. He told himself that the visits stilled 
his loneliness on the days Natalie was away.

     He grimaced. There was that word again - loneliness. He couldn't 
really be a victim of it,  not with Natalie's love and Schank's 
friendship. He didn't require one or the other by his side at every 
moment to be fulfilled, did he?

     Of course not. He was stronger than that. He had to be. Nick 
resolved to push the feelings away. He would ignore them - surely 
the emotions would soon fade?
     
     

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

      Ivy thought in shock.   It was her first unsettling taste of the 
world moving on without her. Ivy doubted it would be her last. How 
did such changes affect vampires who had lived for centuries? At the 
moment, the idea boggled her mind.

     Ivy let her eyes drift to observe the woman walking silently at her 
side. She had to have been around for a while - she appeared so 
confident, so comfortable in her immortal skin. 

      Ivy quietly requested that they enter the O'Keefe (her mind had 
yet to accept the name change), and her companion wordlessly 
complied. To Ivy's surprise, the Centre was deserted, despite it being 
a Friday. The last time she'd visited the facility it had teemed with 
noise and commotion. 
   
      Ivy had automatically headed for the balcony and momentarily 
gazed down into the rows of the orchestra and mezzanine before 
removing her jacket and taking a seat beside the other vampire.

     Janette watched the young woman with interest. Ivy was lovely, 
with rich brown curls the shade of maple syrup and the hazel eyes of 
a cat. She was below average height, maybe 160 centimeters tall, and 
she was a young one - that was obvious from her reactions. 

     Mademoiselle Ivy appeared brash and independent by her 
behavior, but the scattered thoughts Janette could sense conveyed a 
poignant neediness that struck her instincts. The elder vampire 
privately cursed her response.  She had no time to shelter the orphans of Toronto 
anymore, vampire or not. She had a family to care for.

     "For someone whose mind is full of questions, you are strangely 
silent," she said. "My name is Janette...Janette McDonaugh. Ask me 
what you need to know, and perhaps I will give you an answer."

     Ivy's smile was self-deprecating. "It's funny. I've had almost 
sixteen years to think about...*this*," she waved her hands, drawing 
an invisible ellipse that linked her and Janette. "our existence, if you 
will, and I haven't a clue where to start."

     "You were brought across sixteen years ago?"

     "Yes," Ivy nodded, "right here at the O'Keefe." She momentarily 
wrinkled her nose. "Well, technically, it happened outside the 
building, but I always think of the Centre, at least, when I remember 
that night. Truthfully, I don't think on it much."

     "Tell me the story." Janette whispered the request.

     Ivy's response was a wary frown. Janette, curious to hear more, 
said, "It might expose what you need to know without you 
continuing the struggle to form the questions, non?" Ivy considered 
this proposal, then nodded. "Then tell me the story."

     Ivy licked her bottom lip. "You know, it isn't easy. I wasn't 
exactly in a condition to remember the events of that night clearly. 
Some parts stand out though -  I felt like crap and it was a *wild* 
party."

*******************************************************************
1980

     "SEX, DRUGS, AND ROCK & ROLL!!!"

     Audience participation overwhelmed the songs, eclipsing the true 
lyrics of 'Whatever Happened To Saturday Night.' The crowd 
thronged around the runway that stretched into the orchestra. Most of 
the participants were clothed in black garb or outlandish costumes - 
some identical to those of the players on stage.

     It was Halloween - what better night for "The Rocky Horror 
Show" at the O'Keefe?

     Ivy huddled in her seat as another wave of the shakes hit. She sat 
on her hands so that the involuntary jerking of her arms wouldn't be 
obvious. She hadn't dressed special for the occasion - she'd been 
wearing the same jeans and long-sleeved shirt for the past two days. 
If Ivy had trusted her nose, she'd have sworn her body carried the 
odor of vinegar and sickness. 

     She hadn't eaten, and Ivy had spent the day before huddled in bed, 
passing the hours until the next check came. Mummy and Daddy's 
care package. A thousand bucks every two weeks because they 
worried about her. A fortune for nothing - sent because she was their 
daughter. She would never go wanting as long as the ol' folks were 
around to house and clothe her. 

     Oh, yeah, and feed her veins - a thousand went pretty far towards 
keeping her habit well-nourished.

     At least, it used to support her. Somehow the well had run dry two 
days ago. Ivy couldn't say how she'd used her entire supply so 
quickly. In the beginning - those good old days - twenty bucks of 
narcotic had lasted a week and beyond.

     Ivy wiped her perpetually runny nose with her shirt sleeve. She 
then clutched her arms around her middle, trying to pretend the 
cramps in her legs and abdomen weren't really there. Euphoria didn't 
exist anymore. She'd shoot and shoot again, and the only bonus was 
how it made the pain fade. There were no highs, only lows.

     Right now she was rock bottom.

     The show had progressed to `Toucha, Toucha, Toucha, Touch 
Me.' Someone leaned over Ivy's shoulder to whisper in her ear. 

     "I wanna be dirty," they said.

     Ivy felt a warm mouth on her skin and clumsy hands roaming over 
her body. She didn't care. Everything was cloudy. All she knew was 
the burning, the aching, the need. Oh, God, she needed a fix - and 
Ivy was stoned broke.

      She released a cackle at the mental pun, and the stranger's 
embrace fell away. Now she was alone and cold. The shakes were 
back again. Her eyes were watery - Ivy couldn't tell if she was 
crying or not. Her eyes always seemed wet nowadays.

     The crowd was screaming again - words like 'night', 'day', 
'rose', and 'thorn' crept into her consciousness. Ivy cursed to herself. 
She should have scalped her ticket instead of coming inside. That 
would have gotten enough cash for a hit. 

     Where had her ticket come from? Ivy tried to remember. Maybe a 
friend, if she had any left. Damn, she needed money. She needed 
heroin. She needed it more than dignity and more than hope. 

     More than life.

     It had been so simple when she'd started chasing the dragon. 
She'd burn the stuff on a piece of aluminum foil at a party, inhale, 
and enjoy the glow after a while. But the need to feel good, to lose the 
world, grew too strong. 
 
      She'd let her parents find out, of course. They were the reason 
she'd taken the first whiff. Ivy wanted their dismay. She wanted 
Mum and Dad to be disgusted by her behavior. It never happened. 
The word `no' never slipped from her parents' lips.

      Ivy wiped at her wet eyes once more.  All her parents 
had offered her from the day she was born was everything. Nothing 
had been too good or too bad for Ivy if she wanted it. 

     Ivy was smothering - dying - from their tender-loving care.  

     She'd started taking brown in the vein over a year ago. The first 
time, she'd been so full of herself, her invincibility. She'd smuggle a 
gram bag into the chemistry lab after hours, using hydrochloric acid, 
ammonia, ethyl ether, and sodium bicarbonate to filter out any 
impurities and the cut. With pure stuff, sterile water, and sterile 
needles, she'd gone to town. If a little made her glow, Ivy would take 
two or three times more.
 
     Before she knew it, no amount of injections would bring her 
pleasure, and it took hypo after hypo to make normalcy return to her 
wasted frame. She was wasted, that was for certain - her body was 
only a scrawny afterthought.  Any muscle or fat tissue had 
deteriorated due to malnutrition, and her eyelids were circles of gray. 
Ivy's arms and legs, on those rare occasions she brought them into 
the light, rippled with strings of white scars that snaked about her 
veins.

     Ivy didn't recognize her face in a mirror anymore.

     New words screamed in her head from the crowd and speakers.

     

     Ivy scrambled to her feet, feeling her breaths shorten to pants. 
Some members of the audience were running, making a circle around 
the theater as they echoed the action on stage. Ivy couldn't keep track 
of the bodies flying towards her and repeatedly felt the slap of passing 
arms and feet. Several times she was knocked off balance as she 
struggled to escape the Centre.

     The night air did nothing to soothe her gasping lungs. Nausea 
swept over her and she crouched, grasping her stomach while she 
retched on the pavement. Halloween revelers swarmed Front Street, 
too lost in their own celebrations to risk a glance at Ivy's misery. It 
was better to turn a blind eye to her unsightly form than risk 
contamination of their party fun.

     She needed a hit. 

     "Ivy?" A familiar baritone caressed her ears. She slowly raised her 
eyes, torn with the hope at whom she might find and the agony if 
she'd guessed his identity correctly.

     It was Mark. Unruly brown hair curled around his ears. She 
remembered when they were students at the University of Toronto - 
how she would reach out in the middle of a study session to curl that 
hair around a finger, just to see him smile. Her heart twisted while 
she memorized his every feature as he looked at her now.

      The slight stubble on his jaws that she used to find so sexy - she 
had always shown strawberry burns on her face from rubbing against 
that shadow. She remembered the seductive jut of his lower lip and chin, how she 
would stare at him for endless hours, feeling warm and safe.

     That mouth was stretched into a tentative smile as he repeated her 
name. Mark managed to smile even when his eyes were sad and 
concerned. Her lips tilted reflexively in response, and he rushed 
forward, catching Ivy in a hug.

     It was a surprise to feel him hold her again. They'd last spoken - 
no, shouted - on Valentine's Day. He had wanted to help her with 
her addiction, and she had kept pushing him away. She finally 
pushed hard enough that he hadn't come back. Or maybe that was 
when she started living in the dark, breaking all ties with her old 
friends. It didn't matter which - he'd still been gone.

     His arms supported her weight easily so that she didn't have to 
work to stand. Ivy wound her arms around his neck, imagining how 
they'd danced, how she had massaged his shoulders after an endless 
day in his first year of medical school.

     He was still practical - his costume was a set of aqua scrubs.

     "Hi," she said softly, feeling her skin soak in his body heat. She 
savored the contact for a second more, then stepped back under her 
own strength. Ivy began to nibble on her lip, and it felt numb. "You 
look great."

     "And you look like hell. What have you been doing to yourself?"

     Ivy shrugged and wiped her nose again. "Same old, same old."

     Mark grabbed one of her arms suddenly and yanked her right 
sleeve up. Ivy flinched as the scars appeared. He just stared at the 
ridges in silence.

     "Mark? Are you coming?" Ivy looked over his shoulder to see a 
blonde woman in matching scrubs frowning impatiently.

     He didn't look up. "Go ahead - join the others!" he snapped 
angrily.

     The blonde grudgingly did as he ordered. No one spoke right 
away.

     Finally, Mark spoke. He trailed a gentle hand along the skin of her 
inner arm, his voice soft and poignant. "Once I thought your skin was 
the softest thing imaginable. I used to sit beside you and do this, 
remember?" He brushed his fingers lightly over the rippled flesh from 
her wrist to inner elbow.

    Ivy was having difficulty breathing once more. "I remember. 
So...What do you imagine is the softest thing now?" She tried to 
make it sound like a joke, to act as if the answer would amuse her.

     "Your skin." 

     His eyes were blurred. Mark was in pain for her and that hurt Ivy 
as much as the cramps twisting through her body.  

     "I love you," Mark said. "I've always loved you."

     Those words snapped Ivy out of the haze. "Don't. Don't start this, 
Mark."

     "Start what? You're killing yourself, dammit! You're in pain and 
it hurts me because you won't let me help. How am I supposed to 
stand by and watch you hunch over in the street like a bum when -"

     "When what? When you could rescue me? Take *care* of me?!?" 
Ivy's voice was bitter with distaste.

     "Yes!!" Mark shouted. "Okay, so you wanted to screw your 
parents - Fine! - Screw them! But you're fading fast, sweetheart - 
you're running out of time, and it doesn't have to end this way."

     "Yes, it does. My parents want to take care of me. You want to 
take care of me. I keep thinking -" she broke off with a cough, "I 
keep thinking, 'If I'm so great, if you love me so much - why can't I 
take care of myself?!?' Huh?"

     "Ivy." Mark moved to pull her closer.

     She suddenly felt hysterical. Pushing at him, she yelled, "Let go of 
me! Just go! Find your little blonde friend and love her! I don't want 
it! I'm just a screwed-up wreck that you don't need. Go! Become a 
doctor and move on! Forget me! Please - just forget me and let me die!"

     Ivy knew she was crying in earnest now. It wasn't just a case of 
the runny eyes and nose. Mark had released her arms and pulled out 
his wallet. He collected several bills and a card, then folded her 
shaking fingers around them.

     "This is my new address and phone. There's money for a taxi. I 
won't forget. Please, Ivy - come home to me. It's your choice." Mark 
grazed her mouth with a brief touch on the lips, then left. 

     Ivy looked at the imprinting on the paper. The letters blurred and 
the nausea returned. Her veins screamed at her for sustenance.

     There really wasn't a choice. She crumpled all the paper into a 
mighty wad in her hand and started to look for a connection. She 
didn't have to look long. She spotted a guy with the familiar signs: 
the drawn eyes, the sniffles, and wonder of wonders - he was offering 
heroin for sale as people passed closely. 

     Ivy bought a gram and practically flew for the shadows. She 
carried all the other tools she needed in her shirt pocket. She sat on 
the damp, muddy concrete and set the items before her. Grabbing her 
spoon (a euphemistic name for the cut-off bottom of a Tab can), she 
dumped all the brown inside. Her needle (she'd only used it twice 
before - there was still some sharpness to the tip) was filled with 
orange juice - she needed its citric acid. 

     She added the juice to her spoon, grabbed her lighter and held the 
flame underneath until she had a syrup. Now all she needed was 
water. Looking around, Ivy saw a puddle nearby. She drew up half a 
hypo full of the murky water, the added it to her spoon. A little more 
cooking and relief was in sight. 

     Ivy managed to fill the syringe with the final product, but her 
hands shook violently as she tried to inject. She unbuttoned her shirt 
and used a sleeve as a makeshift tourniquet. Ivy played a desperate 
game of tag with her vein for several minutes before she managed to 
pull back some blood. She pressed the plunger with relief, dropped 
the hypo, and leaned back to wait for the effect.

     Within minutes, Ivy felt sluggish. No euphoria, but she hadn't 
expected any. Her body was still, unshaken.

     Ivy sighed. The withdrawal had passed, leaving a hollow 
emptiness. 

      "Time is flying, and you are grounded, *sweetheart*."

      Ivy sat up in surprise at the masculine whisper. It seemed 
malevolent, yet seductive. More words slithered against her 
eardrums, drawing her attention.

     "It is an amazing spectacle - to watch someone destroy 
themselves so completely, so willingly. Friends, lovers, family - they 
mean nothing to you now. They pale in comparison to shooting up 
that dark sludge of death in an alleyway."

     Ivy felt a cold breath wisp against her face. She couldn't see - for 
some reason her vision had become dim and blurry.

     "You want to die, don't you, my child?"

     She felt the shaking come back - there was a burning in her blood, 
in her brain, and in her heart. Ivy felt her nails break as she clawed 
convulsively at the pavement. She was choking. Her lungs seemed to 
be filled with cotton wadding. She wanted to cough. She wanted to 
speak. She wanted to die.

     "Yes." The word escaped in a wheeze. 

    A measure of tranquility set in. Ivy had collapsed in a heap on the 
ground, and the convulsions had subsided to a jerking of her head 
and limbs. Her eyes were open, yet they stared blankly at the night 
sky. Her mouth was open, but her lips and jaws were slack.

     Only her ears worked, or perhaps the voice somehow sang in her 
thoughts. The words floated and hummed through her head. Each 
syllable called to her like a siren in the murky fog of her brain.

     "Good. You are almost there. You weren't too careful, my child - 
anything could have been used to cut that narcotic - crushed glass, 
dirt, or some other candy - you were too blind to even care, weren't 
you? Too self-destructive. Die...die, my sweet, and I'll make you 
ache to live."


     "The next thing I remember was waking up a vampire. The voice 
was gone. He was gone," Ivy said.

     "You didn't see a light or a door?" Janette asked quietly. "You 
felt nothing?"

     Ivy shook her head. "I don't remember. I sat in the alley for a 
while, feeling the hunger, then someone made the mistake of passing 
my way." She shrugged. "I fed. I followed every piece of vampire 
lore I'd seen in movies or read in books - stayed out of the sun and 
away from Italian eateries - then I hied out of town. I carried a 
sleeping bag full of Toronto dirt around for half a year to sleep in 
before I figured out it was unnecessary."

     "You got your wish, cherie. You found your way. You took care 
of yourself."

     Ivy met Janette's gaze and confessed with dignity, "I learned that 
total independence and freedom makes you solitary. I have gained a 
strength of will, some control - oh - and let's not forget my health," 
Ivy gestured to her smooth forearms. "but I am lonely."

     The young vampire's last words held a yearning plea that made 
Janette's forced indifference falter. She took Ivy's hand in hers. 
"There are others, mon petit lierre, others that will shelter your heart. 
I will tell you where to find them. I wish that I could show you 
myself."

     Ivy appeared confused. "But you -" Sudden understanding came 
over her features. "You already have a family to share your 
attentions. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interfere."

     Janette placed a finger over Ivy's lips to hush her apology. 
"Prudence is a fine quality, and in this circumstance, well-placed. All 
I ask is that you keep silent about Robert, Patrick, and myself."

     Ivy clutched at the woman's hand in sudden panic. "I will see you 
again, won't I?"

     Janette slipped an embossed card out of her coat, placing it in 
Ivy's grasp. "In good time."

     Ivy examined the card. It held the graphic of a black bird, an 
address, and the words, "The Raven?" 

     Ivy looked up as she spoke the words aloud.

     Once again, she was alone.

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

 August 18, 1996

     Too much time had passed since Clare last rolled in the grass for 
the pure enjoyment of the experience. She exhaled in a rush of 
happiness, tasting the odors of earth and chlorophyll. If ever a scent 
symbolized green, this was it.  

     Clare laughed softly at this thought. She turned on her side to 
observe Jen's sleeping form. The girl had deflated soon after 
midnight, let her eyes drift shut, and curled up into a ball atop a 
blanket in the middle of Queen's Park.

     They had reached the Planetarium hours before, giggling at the 
trial of staying quiet in the dark rooms where the serious-minded 
were collecting data for hobbies and otherwise. The mood was 
urgent, for the cloud cover had dispersed temporarily, allowing 
excellent views.
     
     Clare let Jen sit in front of her at a scope, gradually explaining 
how to direct their view based on the constellations. "We can't see 
Orion this time of year - it's below our horizon view. Let's start from 
the Big Dipper."

     "Ursa Major - the big bear." Jen appeared proud to be able share 
this tidbit of information.

     "Almost. The Big Dipper is what astronomers call an asterism. 
It's smaller than an entire constellation."

     Jen grinned saucily. "But bigger than a breadbox?"

     "Quite. Now we'll move our view in this direction...and there is 
Andromeda and Pegasus. If we look up and to the left a little, we'll 
see Cassiopeia, Andromeda's mother - she was a very sorry parent." 

     Jen squinted through the scope at the collection of stars. The lights 
didn't include the stick figures or overlying pictures they included in 
the planetarium presentations her school dragged her to see. 
Unimpressed, Jen wanted more substance. "Bad mom - how so?"

     "She constantly boasted about how beautiful her daughter was - 
nothing else. Finally, she went too far, saying Andromeda outshone 
any of the sea nymphs. Poseidon, the sea god, was furious at 
Cassiopeia's pretense. He demanded that Andromeda's parents chain 
her to a cliff and sacrifice her to a sea monster - or else."

     "Or else what?"

     "Or else he'd destroy their kingdom."

     "So what did they do?"

     "They chained her to the cliff."

     Jen's nose wrinkled up like a raisin. "That sucks - but 
Andromeda's folks *did* have to save their kingdom."

     "Ah - but what had the poor girl done to deserve such a fate? She 
was a sacrifice to her parents' vanity. They were selfish - their 
kingdom mattered more than their child's welfare."

     "So you think Cassiopeia should have been chained to the cliff?" 

     "It was her fault," Clare said.

     Jen nodded, mimicking Clare's reproof of the queen. "So what 
happened next?"

     Clare did not appear to find this portion of the story important and 
abbreviated her narrative. "Perseus - whose constellation is here," she 
adjusted the scope once more, "came along, rescued her, and they 
lived happily ever after."

     "Now *that's* what sucks," Jen was indignant at this finale. 
"How come the beautiful chick in distress always has to be rescued 
by some buff hero guy?  Why doesn't the girl ever get to waste the 
monster? Women in these stories never get to take care of themselves. 
I mean, if my parents wanted to feed me to some sea creature, I 
would raise the roof. I wouldn't marry any old hero that came along, 
either. I'd have to love him, and he'd have to respect my abilities and 
needs as a person."

     Clare smiled at the girl in admiration. "That's an excellent point."

     "Mom gets 'Cosmopolitan'," Jen explained. "Cosmo girls don't 
need Perseus."

     "I'm afraid that *we* do. The meteors will appear in his 
constellation as they enter the Earth's atmosphere. Watch carefully."

     A few minutes passed, then Jen released a sigh of awe. "I saw 
something! It was as though the sky lit a match - there was a bright 
flare, then the light trailed in a line until it burnt out!"

     Over the next fifteen minutes, Jen witnessed six more meteors. 
When three shimmered through the sky at once, she beamed 
enthusiastically at Clare. "That was so cool! It was as if I could reach 
out and touch them!" 

     Peering through the eyepiece once more, Jen gave a wail of 
protest. "Hey! The picture's messed up!"

     Clare inspected the sky through the glass dome overhead. "There 
are clouds blocking that part of the sky. We will have to wait until 
they clear to see more. Do you want to head outside? We can watch 
from the lawn now that you know what to look for."

     Once outdoors, Clare suggested that they track down some food 
to offer Jen's frog companion. They walked across Queen's Park 
Court, then devoted the next hour to crawling after crickets and 
digging up earthworms with their hands. Feeling confident after 
sharing the joys of amphibian mucous, Jen didn't have a problem 
with the worms until she accidentally snapped one in half. 

     "Ugh! Gross!" Jen blanched at a smear of brown and yellow 
liquid that the worm part deposited on her skin, then threw the end of 
the creepy-crawly and her handful of dirt away.

     It smacked Clare bull's-eye on the jaw. Wiping grime and the 
clingy invertebrate off of her cheek, Clare retaliated by dropping a 
scoopful of dirt over Jen's head. Genuine mud-slinging commenced, 
leaving both females with stains on their clothes and laughing brown 
faces.

     The clouds shielding Perseus dissipated. Before they settled down 
in an open stretch of grass, Clare delved into her duffel bag. She first 
pulled out some Handi-wipes so that they could wipe the muck from 
their skin. Clare then unearthed a small, black cotton blanket, letting 
Jen use it for ground cover.

     They lay flat on their backs, their gazes navigating by the stars. 
Jen managed to locate Perseus once more with only minimal cues from Clare. 

     Jen successfully observed a pair of meteors ribbon a bright trail 
through the night. "I wonder what people used to think those lights 
came from before scientists figured out they were rocks entering the 
atmosphere," she said.

     "Usually they were considered signs from whatever deities their 
witnesses believed in. I used to tell my children that the lights were 
missed opportunities fading out of reach."

     Jen sighed sleepily. "Tell me about them."
 
     "Them?"

     "Your kids. How old were they? What were their names? Stuff 
like that."

      Clare reasoned. 
Jen was ten - she was curious about this mysterious dead 
family - nothing more.

     "I had two sons and a daughter. The boys were oldest. Mac'con 
was your age, and Olcan was nine."

     "Those are weird names, and if Mac was ten when he died, you 
must be way older than you look."

     Clare grinned. "I married young. As for the names, my husband 
and I both had Celtic ancestors. We were being traditional. Mac'con 
meant `son of wolf' and Olcan just meant 'wolf', and since my 
husband's name, Conchobhar, meant 'lover of wolves', everything 
fit."

     "Cona - what?"

     "Conchobhar. The modern form is Connor."

     "That's much better, if you ask me. What about your daughter? 
Was she called `wolf-girl'?"

     "Nooo - her name was Morrigan. It stood for 'great bright one'. 
She was four when I saw her last. You remind me of her."

     "A four year-old?" From the sound of Jen's voice, Clare could tell 
that she hadn't taken the comparison as a compliment.

     "She had gorgeous brown hair and eyes like yours, endless 
curiosity, charm, and she was very smart."

     Jen apparently approved of these attributes. "Smart, eh?"

     Clare sat up and decided to tease Miss Schanke. "Well...smart for 
a *four year-old*." Her expression became serious as she tenderly 
picked a wayward clump of dirt out of Jen's hair. "I look at you and I 
see the fading trail of a meteor - a missed opportunity."

     "I didn't mean to make you sad," Jen murmured. "I bet you were 
a great mom."

     Clare's smile was self-reproachful. "You didn't make me sad. I 
did it to myself." She sighed as she rested her head in the grass once 
more. "I suppose I was as good a parent as any. Raising children is 
a matter of adapting and thinking fast. Look, Jen - another trio!"

     The girl missed the lights for she had drifted off to sleep, curling 
her legs spoon-fashion to the side. Clare felt a warm bubble of caring 
expand in her heart at the sight and squelched her instantaneous 
defenses that demanded she prick her interest in Jen into nothingness.

     Clare preened as she inhaled, tasting the scent of the lawn and 
night air combined. 

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

     Domino trailed behind Cecilia like a lost puppy. His dependence 
had its advantages, but now, when she was trying to do something 
*interesting*, he wouldn't go away. She couldn't snarl at him or 
force him to leave with bitter words - their united front was a part of 
their strength in the community. Age certainly wasn't.

     Cecilia had become a vampire barely two centuries before. She 
had the honor of being Figaro's first attempt at bringing another 
across. Cecilia had been joyfully bewildered by her new position as 
the man's consort. The vampire had showered her with adulation, 
placing her on a pedestal. 
     
     Fig had been an exotic patron: obviously foreign from his dark 
complexion, yet undeniably desirable due to his rich lifestyle, his 
gifts, and his willingness to feed her ego more than any personal lust 
for her body.

     Yes, Cecilia had always been a social climber, trading on her 
appearance and wit. She hid the calculations behind a multitude of 
poses, letting the world see her as nothing but lovely form that lacked 
substance. Her shock at the heights her association with Figaro 
brought had been short-lived but victorious.
 
     If there ever had been an exclusive, privileged club to access, 
vampire society won the trophy hands down.

     Imagine Cecilia's surprise at discovering she was a substitute, a 
second class model to what Figaro really wanted - Clare. The 
moment his sire waltzed back to Vienna, Cecilia had become an 
afterthought compared to Figaro's original muse. 

     The demotion had been a violently bitter pill to swallow. The 
whole nature of Cecilia's success was to persuade men to see her as 
number one. Clare overwhelmed her on every score. She had the age, 
she had the respect, and she had Figaro scrambling to impress her, as 
if she were a queen holding court. 
     
     Cecilia loathed the woman. She loathed her power, her prestige. 
Cecilia suppressed a shudder at the memory of the first night Clare 
had entered the Raven. Everyone had stared in awe. The crowd had 
literally parted, the mortals following the example of the vampires in 
their midst. Those Clare had seen fit to acknowledge had reigned 
pompously over the rest for the remainder of the night. 

     Especially Figaro. Cecilia remembered the frenzied days he had 
spent consumed with designing the woman's wardrobe. Clare had 
ignored them, rudely brushing aside their attentions unless Figaro 
was present. Domino and she had become nothing more than hand 
servants - tucking, holding, and sewing at Clare's beck and call. The 
image made Cecilia want to spit.

     Of course, a good deal of Clare's mystique came from the rumors 
that surrounded her - no one actually knew which ones were true. 
Had she ripped Enforcers apart with her bare hands? Had thousands 
of mortals offered their throats to her, worshipping her a deity? Had 
she murdered dozens of their kind, anyone who crossed her or stood 
in her way? 

      Then there was the ultimate mystery - how had Clare survived 
the fires of an atomic weapon? Everyone was willing to talk about 
how she had been in Hiroshima - it had been a topic of either 
mourning or relief since 1945. Her reappearance had the community 
rehashing the same emotions, yet no one actually offered an 
explanation.

      Cecilia had hoped to win that information from Vachon. He was 
just the sort to have asked Clare straight out what had happened. He 
was also just the sort to whom Clare would grant an answer. 

     Cecilia had tried to win Vachon over, to distract him, and to 
embitter him towards their grand-sire, but Vachon hadn't bought into 
her scheme. He remained steadfastly closemouthed about anything he 
considered filed under Clare's privacy. It had galled Cecilia to no 
end, and, unfortunately, she had overplayed her hand tonight. 

     She had alienated a vampire she wanted to entrap. Vachon 
appeared to have connections that outclassed Figaro's, with none of 
the powerful enemies like Aristotle. He was also several centuries 
older than her sire had been, therefore more powerful. That was an 
added attraction. Finally, there was Cecilia's overwhelming 
obsession to have a hold over any man under Clare's spell.

     She turned her gaze to LaCroix and observed the elder hungrily. 
More than anything, she wanted *him*. He would be the ultimate 
protector, lover, and victory to shove in Clare's face.

     Cecilia pulled Domino closer to hiss in his ear. "Leave me alone. 
Don't make me punish you, Dom. Just walk away with a smile on 
your face."

     He complied with just enough hurt pleading in his eyes to make 
Cecilia want to really make Domino suffer. She filed that job away 
for her future amusement as she smoothed her silver hair.

     Then she joined LaCroix at the bar.

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

       Vachon thought. 

     Vachon stared at the windows overhead, pinpointing hers easily 
even though it was over a dozen floors high. He'd come to know that 
window well. It seemed that every night he came here, drawn to 
check on how she was doing.

      
Javier turned away from the window and distractedly rubbed his 
palm along the large, wooden object that sat nearby.

     

     He couldn't blame his grand-sire. If the victim had been anyone 
else, Vachon would have joined Clare in the joke. But in this case, he 
was the casualty. Though it might be stupid of him to admit, he 
adored the lady in question with all of his heart.

     

     He took to the air, hefting the tree-like sculpture along for the 
flight. He let his feet rest on the ledge outside the pristine French 
windows that separated him from her suite. Heavy blinds blocked his 
view inside, but he felt only the faintest sign of life.

     Vachon grinned in satisfaction.  

     He pushed the windows open stealthily and lugged his gift inside 
her bedroom. She lifted her head at the sound of his approach, 
making a small sound of welcome. She was stretched invitingly on 
the bed, one arm extended forward to beckon him closer.

     Vachon knelt at the foot of the mattress, murmuring to his 
enchantress silkily, "Carmen, querida...Como estas, mi gata linda?"

     The cat leapt to her feet and pranced over to Vachon while purring 
sultrily. She licked his nose once, then rubbed her whiskers against 
his own. She posed expectantly in front of him, and Javier did not 
disappoint. He curled Carmen's fluffy, warm body against his chest, 
burying his long fingers in her fur.

     "Come see what I brought you, sweetheart."

     The tortoiseshell sniffed inquisitively at her present, initially 
preferring caution. After a few minutes, noting that the Spaniard's 
largesse made no sudden, unseemly movements or sounds, Carmen 
proceeded to methodically scratch her claws along the surface.

     Once assured of the cat's enjoyment, Vachon left the bedroom to 
inspect Carmen's other supplies. Her food and water rations appeared 
recently replenished - so where was her companion? If Clare knew 
she was going to consistently leave her pet in solitude, she should 
have let Carmen stay at his church. She hadn't had a problem 
handing the cat over to Javier the night it had come into her 
possession. Clare had even instructed him to think of a new name for 
the animal.

     He'd been somewhat relieved when Clare had considered his 
suggestion thoughtfully.

     "Carmen? What made you think of that?"

     "It was my mother's name."

     Clare's expression had been unreadable, but she quickly declared 
that Carmen would be the tortoiseshell's new name. Javier suspected 
that she'd been laughing to herself, especially when he repeatedly 
caught Clare grinning as she watched him visit with her cat.

     Carmen reclaimed his attention as she rubbed against his ankles. 
Vachon lifted the soft form once more, scratching the cat under the 
chin.

     "So what do you think, Carmencita? Purr if you want to be 
abducted."

     Carmen willingly complied, blinking lovingly in time with her 
vibrations.

     "Well, that settles it - far be it for me to deny the request of a lady. 
Let's get your things." 

     Vachon searched the vicinity for something appropriate for 
packing full of the cat's accessories. Spotting a bright purple 
knapsack on the floor, he gently set Carmen on her feet and examined 
the bag. It was jammed full of clothes, and they weren't Clare's.

      The small athletic socks were the first item to disprove that 
notion. Then there was the pink cotton nightgown, obviously sized 
for someone much smaller than his grand-sire.

     They belonged to a child.

     Before Javier had a chance to consider the permutations of this 
discovery, he felt a presence. In the next second, the suite entrance 
swung open to reveal Clare, her arms filled with a sleeping girl.

     His elder froze, then spared a self-conscious glance at the child she 
carried. Vachon simultaneously dropped the purple satchel as if it 
carried garlic toast. He placed his hands nonchalantly on his hips, 
trying to act casual.

     "So, Clare - what's new?"

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

     "Let me guess." Vachon said. "She sat in your chair, slept in 
your bed - I hope that she didn't eat your porridge - I hate to break 
the news, Clare," He gestured at the child's dark hair, "but that kid is 
not Goldilocks."
 
     Clare fought her impulse to slam the front door with her foot, 
choosing instead to close it smoothly and quietly out of deference to 
Jen's ears.

     "And what are you doing here, Vachon? Absconding with my 
cat?"

     "Maybe she needs absconding."

     Clare sniffed reproachfully at him as she passed, aiming for 
Carmen's bedroom. "Bring me that knapsack, Vachon," she 
whispered over a shoulder.

     He complied, though he mentally kicked himself for doing so. He 
wasn't here to fetch for the woman, unless she asked nicely. Or 
ordered nicely. Clare was kind of fun when she was feisty.

     Vachon found her standing just inside the bedroom doorway, 
staring at his gift for Carmen. Feeling him behind her, she moved to 
the bedside to pull back the covers before setting Jen down. Clare 
took the purple bag from Vachon, murmured a soft word of 
appreciation. Then she gently began to untie the girl's muddy 
sneakers.

     Javier realized that Clare must have had some experience in this 
field. She slipped the girl's sleep-laden arms and legs from her dirty 
garments with a minimum of fuss, then replaced them with the 
nightgown Vachon had found earlier. The child didn't budge or 
protest - she merely sighed contentedly as Clare arranged the sheets 
over her form.

     Clare didn't turn around right away, but paused, knowing that 
Vachon watched her movements. Finally, she dropped a quick kiss on 
the girl's forehead, then walked over to Carmen, who had enthroned 
herself atop the present.

     The gift could have been labeled `cat-furniture', but that moniker 
would have oversimplified the grandeur of the object. It was a jungle 
gym of maple branches and forest green cushions - pillows that rose 
from heights from just off the floor to two meters. Some were square, 
some were rounded - there was a padded tunnel that wound around 
two trunks, ending in a plush grotto. There was a house, complete 
with a porch and an open skylight for the cat to exit through. 
Between the bark and the leafy fabric, Carmen appeared to be the 
proud owner of a deluxe feline tree house.

     "That is incredible, Javier. Where did you get it?"

     "Behind the church."

     Clare raised a doubtful eyebrow, escorting the Spaniard from the 
room and closing the door.

     Vachon decided to be more specific. "I built it, all right?"

     Her teeth flashed in happy surprise. "I didn't know you had 
carpentry skills!"

     Vachon shrugged. "It's just a trade I picked up over the years. It's 
easy to come and go from a construction job - just like working on 
oil rigs. A contractor usually doesn't mind a guy pounding nails at 
night if he can pay him less and end up ahead of schedule."

     "I think Carmen's playland took more ability than hammering a 
few nails. What else would you do for these contractors?"

     "Nothing much. A little plumbing, masonry, some wiring - 
though I hate wiring - and flooring."

     "And?" There was more - Clare just *knew* there was more.

     Vachon gave her a mischievous grin. "Well, there was that time I 
did some freelance architecture. I gave Wright some competition."

      "And here I thought you avoided anything that involved drafts," 
Clare said. 

     "It's good to know you're thinking about me." His voice was as 
indescribably charming as his smile. Clare sent him A Look which 
had Vachon watching her every move as she carried the pile of dirty 
children's clothes and sneakers to the phone and rang the desk.

     "A laundry emergency, Clare?" His grand-sire had just requested 
that the hotel pick up the items and have them spotlessly clean by 
mid-morning.

     "I am baby-sitting, Vachon."  She placed the jeans, shirt and shoes 
outside her suite door. "One of the rules involves returning the child 
and their things in the condition you found them."

     "And you're such a stickler for rules," he teased. "If you don't 
mind my saying so, you appear more involved with that girl than a 
simple favor to her parents would warrant."

     "I do mind your saying so, Javier," Clare said as she entered her 
bedroom. 

     Vachon followed. "Then I'll change the subject. Did you realize 
that Cecilia and Domino have passed beyond the point of simply 
avoiding you and have moved into the resentful phase?"

     Clare was in her walk-in closet, out of his line of sight. "I expected 
that. Cecilia always struck me as somewhat petty, and Domino 
follows her example. Don't worry, I'm keeping an eye on those two." 
As she answered, the 'Metro Police' T-shirt that Clare had been 
wearing flew out the doorway and landed at Vachon's feet, followed 
by a pair of jeans and some other interesting items.

     He resisted the lacy bits, concentrating instead on the shirt. It had 
to be Clare's only T-shirt - she wasn't exactly the type to have a 
collection. No doubt this one came standard with her job as homicide 
detective. Vachon recalled Tracy wearing a twin to the shirt in his 
hand the week before Divia came. He experienced a faint pang of 
regret, then let the item fall back to the floor.

     "Hmm. Onto my last subject of interest then - what's going on 
between you and LaCroix?"

     Clare exited the closet wearing a long, bronze silk robe. "Nothing 
out of the ordinary - why do you ask?"

     Vachon noted that her demeanor was suspiciously innocent as she 
posed that question. "I just had an uncomfortable feeling that 
LaCroix experienced a sudden urge to tear my arms off when I asked 
if he knew where you were."

     Clare couldn't hide her pleasure at that reply. "Really? How 
interesting. Maybe you should avoid asking him such questions in the 
future, Javier. For your own welfare." She walked towards the 
bathroom, leaving the silk bathrobe in her wake. "I'm off to shower 
- you can let yourself out, can't you?"

     Vachon was momentarily silenced by the brief view and simply 
nodded at Clare's bare back. 

     "Oh, and Javier?" She leaned her head out the bathroom entrance 
and winked. "If Carmen goes missing - you're the first person I will 
torment. Find a nice vampire girl to seduce instead."

     The suggestion hit Vachon like a splash of holy water. Clare had 
intended her little performance to intimate that he needed more 
distraction in his unlife than a cat could provide. The irritating thing 
was, Vachon was now sorely inclined to agree with her.

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

     LaCroix sat at the bar, chatting with another man who had dark 
hair and a cultured appearance. The two vampires shared a similar 
aura of power and authority, yet Cecilia did not recognize LaCroix's 
companion.
  
     The stranger made his farewells as Cecilia approached, pausing as 
she brushed past to return her intrigued examination. He was not 
moved to stay and discover more about her, however, and Cecilia 
claimed the stool at LaCroix's side in triumph.

     She posed in a sultry manner, then politely requested a drink from 
the bartender. Taking the glass, she sipped slowly, then employed a 
gesture she'd seen Clare use - trailing the tip of her tongue around the 
rim. Cecilia was convinced that her interpretation of the movement 
was much more alluring. She then allowed a drop of the blood wine 
to cling precariously to her lower lip. 

     Cecilia savored an inner shiver of excitement and success as 
LaCroix brushed the droplet away. He proffered a reddened thumb 
pad for her to lick clean while cupping her chin with his other fingers.

     "A word to the wise, my dear - learn to discern between a man 
who desires second-rate artifice and one who prefers honest ingenuity 
in a woman." LaCroix let his hand rest beside his own glass once 
more, fixing Cecilia with an amused stare.

     She gulped reflexively, suddenly feeling  like prey instead of the 
predator. The words 'second-rate' planted a cold seed of hatred for 
LaCroix in her soul. She was not to prepared to abandon her quarry, 
though. Cecilia swallowed more blood, this time in a simple motion. 
She regrouped and attempted another tack. 

     "I wasn't aware that any vampire traded on honesty," she said. 
"Doesn't it imply obligation, therefore weakness?"

     LaCroix's gaze acknowledged the intelligence of her response. 
Cecilia recognized the small victory and sensed a slight return of her 
confidence. She returned his look with a clear, open stare - aiming to 
appear calm as he responded.

    "Hence honesty's attraction - weakness signifies a conquest. 
There's nothing more seductive than a conquest."

     Cecilia changed topics, hoping to keep her momentum. "Who was 
that gentleman you just finished talking with?"

     She breathed an inner sigh of relief when LaCroix's tone conveyed 
that this was a welcome subject. "Yes, I noticed your mutual 
interest." Cecilia bowed her eyes, neither confirming or denying those 
words. "His name is Thomas," LaCroix continued. "He is an old 
acquaintance of mine who came bearing gifts. Perhaps you would be 
interested in sharing them."

     Cecilia let her lids widen with surprise. "What sort of gifts did 
Thomas bring you?"

     LaCroix stood and leaned closely to murmur in her ear. "Tickets to 
a chorale - would you enjoy attending?"

     Cecilia smiled winsomely. "In the right company, yes."

     LaCroix moved to her other side, placing a further distance 
between them. "Excellent. The performance is three nights from now. 
Thomas is included in the party - you can keep him entertained."

     Her mouth dropped open in confusion. "What about you?" Cecilia 
questioned.

     "I intend to take pleasure from the music. Thomas has an 
annoying tendency to demand my attention during the best 
compositions. You will be perfect for distracting him with tedious 
conversation." LaCroix lifted her palm, dropping a kiss on Cecilia's 
fingers, then departed for his sound booth.

     She held her caressed hand against her cheek while distractedly 
watching LaCroix walk away. She released a whisper of a sigh as he 
disappeared from her line of vision, only then realizing his parting 
comment was nine-tenths an insult.

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

     Ivy didn't know what to think about the Raven. The shadowy 
lighting of the nightspot did not invite illusions of safety, and neither 
did the first vampires she encountered. They seemed like blunt, 
freakish people, incapable of a meaningful discussion. Ivy wondered 
what Janette had been thinking to recommend these people as 
potential friends.

     The patrons closest to the entrance all looked hungry, vampires 
and mortals alike. Their desperate expressions reminded Ivy of her 
own during those last weeks as a self-destructive mortal. Each person 
was obviously discontent with their life or immortality and ready to 
take it out on the next available victim.

     Reaching the foot of the stairs, one vampire who had the tattoo of 
a scorpion wound about his neck, hitched an arm around Ivy's waist. 
He bent his jaw to her throat, snarling in her ear along the way.

     She slammed her head to the side, butting the would-be feeder 
with her skull, and successfully interrupted the advance. Scorpion 
Neck appeared ready to argue the issue and Ivy was winding up her 
fists when the sound of someone clearing his throat drew the 
combatants' attention.

     Another vampire, a trendy-looking man of average height, shiny 
black hair and gray eyes, frowned disapprovingly at Scorpion Neck. 
"You know public displays of assault are not allowed, Vincent. Stop 
them before someone stops you." Vincent appeared unwilling to 
argue with this statement and slipped back into a dark corner.

     The vampire extended his hand to Ivy with a welcoming smile. 
"The name's Domino. You've never been here before, have you?"

     Ivy shook his hand firmly, saying, "No. How can you tell?"

     "You didn't enter with enough attitude. Attitude is important. 
You looked like a scared little rabbit and you ended up hounded like 
one as a result. It's good that you fought back. That saves some face 
with the Wild Ones."

     Ivy felt the need to defend her abilities. "You know, I could have 
taken care of fang-boy myself. I didn't need you to come to the rescue."

     "Of course you didn't," Domino said guilelessly. "I can smell the 
strength in your veins. A sneer simply goes much farther than a 
barroom brawl, if you want to meet the folks who count. I just 
thought I'd help you make a nice first impression."

     "Oh. In that case, thank you. My name's Ivy. Tell me Domino - if 
vamps like Vincent are the ones who don't 'count' around this club, 
how come they're here, wrecking the atmosphere?"

     Domino waved a nonchalant hand at that criticism. "Owner's 
prerogative, and let me tell you, this owner's got a hell of a lot of 
prerogative. Basically, he's been in a rotten mood and hasn't cared 
who drops into the Raven. Usually, he's more selective."

     "Let's hope he cheers up - and soon."

     Domino beamed. "A charming thought. Care to join me for a 
drink, Ivy? I'd love to hear more."

     Ivy agreed. What could be the harm? He appeared harmless and 
eager to spout all sorts of gossip, some of which might actually be 
useful to her. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship. 

     At least, that was Ivy's opinion before she met Cecilia.

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

August 20, 1996

     Natalie had called the precinct again, swamped with work, and 
planned to spend the lighttime at the morgue catching up on the 
overflow. Nick left the precinct early and didn't feel like returning to 
the loft, so he drove the Caddie in the direction of the Raven.
      
     The club was especially crowded for a Sunday night, ready to 
burst at the seams with the wicked atmosphere. Nick noticed a pack 
of rough fledglings gathered around the entrance and had to deliver a 
few steely glares before they parted to make way for him. 

     Nick moved along the edge of the dance floor that was filled hip-
to-hip with swaying bodies. One dancer stepped back to avoid 
crashing into her partner and collided with Nick instead. He helped 
her keep her balance, returning the smile of her laughing eyes.

     "Oops. Pardon me," she said.

     "No problem." He watched her brush back her brown hair as she 
slipped once more into the throng  with enthusiasm. Nick recognized 
her dance partner - it was Domino, a distant relative of Clare's.

     Nick continued towards the bar, detoured for a drink, then headed 
for the sound booth. He found LaCroix speaking into the microphone, 
wrapping up the night's broadcast.

          "I am Chance - your master of mayhem - and fortune, my 
children, is a fickle lover. So off to your beds and your safe tiny dreams of 
delight and darkness - pause for a word of thanks that you've survived my 
grasp for another night. Don't be too cocky about your escape, gentle 
listeners - it is better that you bare your backs to my whim...for Fate 
crushes the brave."

     LaCroix snapped the soundboard off, looking pleased. He returned 
Nick's frowning expression with a raised eyebrow, as if to say, 'What 
did you expect, Nicholas?'

     Nick modified his grimace into a resigned grin. "'Fate crushes the 
brave?' - I gather that you're getting in the mood for 'Carmina 
Burana' tomorrow night."

     "I expect it will be a stunning performance, yes."

     "And the fact that the score is a pagan parody of Catholic rituals 
has nothing to do with that?" He turned and looked out the window 
of the sound booth to watch the crowd.

     "Really, Nicholas, I am merely considering the artistry of the 
work - though it is delightful to hear a secular composition in Latin 
now and then." LaCroix stood and joined his offspring at the window 
in observing the Raven's guests. "Quite a crush, isn't it?"

     Nick nodded. "A few of your clientele leave something to be 
desired, though." He considered the safety of the club's mortal 
patrons. "There's a gathering of youngsters near the entrance that are 
apt to attack someone outright. You should get rid of them."

     "You mean the Wild Ones?" LaCroix said.

      The Wild Ones were a collection of vampires brought across 
during the meteor scare two years before. No one would claim them, 
so technically they were orphans, untrained and very unmannered.

      "A curious suggestion, Nicholas - no doubt staking the rabble 
would prevent future problems for the community. I'm delightfully 
surprised that you would propose such an efficient solution."

    Nick glared hotly at his sire. "You know that wasn't what I meant 
by 'get rid of them'."

     LaCroix smiled indulgently and eliminated the view by drawing 
the window's curtain shut. Teasing Nicholas really was too easy. 
"Pity. Usually I do not allow them inside the Raven, but recently, I 
have not given the club much attention."

     They left the privacy of the booth, taking seats at the bar. "What is 
causing the distraction, LaCroix? Or should I ask who?" Nick 
glanced about the immediate area, noted the lovely form of Cecilia 
draped nearby, but dismissed her as responsible for his sire's 
preoccupation "It's Clare, isn't it?" 

     LaCroix simply stared coldly at him in response, daring Nick to 
elaborate on whatever theory he had in mind.

     "Come to think on it, I haven't seen Clare here for months - since 
Schanke's return," Nick said. "Did you have a falling-out over her 
work?" Sudden realization dawned on Nick. "You probably made 
one of those observations you enjoy throwing at me - something 
about how indulging in relationships with mortals is an exercise in 
self-torture - and Clare lost her temper. She's pretty impressive when 
she loses her temper," Nick said knowingly. "We had three perps 
confess last week just because she looked as if she *might* get 
angry." 

      LaCroix appeared bored. "She is a boon to your detective team, 
no doubt."

     Nick considered that comment thoughtfully. "Actually, yes. She 
has a talent for the job. It's a pity she intends to leave in a month."

      "Are you certain?" 

     Nick shrugged his shoulders. Clare made no secret of her intention 
to leave Metro Police when Schanke's probation was complete. He 
thought it was odd that LaCroix had doubts. "That is what she said - 
believe it as much as her word can be trusted."

     His sire nodded abruptly and excused himself to sternly approach 
the front stairs. A disturbance had broken out at the entrance, causing 
off-pitch yells and shoving. Apparently LaCroix had decided the Wild 
Ones were ready for a lesson or two in manners, but Nick had a faint 
suspicion that the fury in his sire's expression did not result solely 
from the actions of the young.

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

     "Let's stop, Domino. I want a drink." Ivy pulled on the other 
vampire's arm, urging him to comply. "Please?"

     "She says 'please' - how can I resist? One drink, coming up." 
Domino gave her a wink and proceeded to fulfill his promise.

     Ivy smiled in return, then walked off the dance floor to lean 
quietly against a shadowed wall. It was amazing how empty the 
Raven had become after the owner had dealt with the crazies hanging 
around the front door. Ivy's lips twisted. 'Crazies' became a relative 
term around a club full of vampires.

     Dom had been right - the owner *did* have a hell of a lot of 
prerogative. He'd scared the unliving bejeezus out of Ivy, and she'd 
been standing halfway across the club and out of sight.  She hadn't 
heard a word that he said, his voice hadn't raised, but there had been 
a palpable aura of anger about the boss vampire. Ivy knew what the 
look had meant - it had been a 'get out of my backyard' moment. 
Very territorial. Very effective.
     
     Ivy suspected another motive to the quiet confrontation. The 
owner had appeared ready and willing for someone to challenge him 
and more than capable of rearranging that person into an example of 
Dada sculpture. The rowdies had quickly exited, followed by several 
club patrons who had felt especially faint of heart this evening.

     Ivy fought the impulse to duck out herself. She hung on at the 
club and enjoyed Domino's company, uncertain if she had anywhere 
else to go without a fight. That was mainly the fault of the blonde at 
the bar. Dom's sister Cecilia had tried to not get along with Ivy since 
the moment they were introduced. Ivy had finally decided to let her 
succeed.

     The first night she had been cautious. Cecilia was older than her, 
and though apparently only a few years Dom's senior, she 
molded the fellow to her whims as though he were made of play-
dough. Dom was in a tricky situation - he liked Ivy, but Cecilia was 
in charge. Ivy had decided acting nice couldn't hurt.

     But it did hurt. It made her lips ache to smile when a snarl would 
feel much sweeter. It made her hands hurt to be helpful when they 
would love nothing more than to shake someone senseless.

      She accompanied the siblings to Figaro Newton's studio - they 
kept the name though he had departed - and within an hour of 
sunrise, she was ready to explode. Cecilia was petty, nasty, and Ivy 
did not like her one bit. 

     She'd appeared pleasant enough within the confines of the Raven 
while surrounded by a crowd of her peers and elders, but once they'd 
departed Cecilia became a creature transformed. She pushed Domino 
around physically, and he would allow it, slipping embarrassed looks 
towards Ivy and adoring ones to his abuser. 'Attitude is important,' 
he'd said earlier. It was too bad Domino didn't follow his own advice.
    
      Ivy thought Cecilia's words were even worse. Not a syllable 
escaped the woman's mouth that wasn't intended to insult, as if every 
shred of kind spirit she lay claim to had been scattered among the 
Raven's patrons and left behind like litter cluttering the floors. 
Domino wasn't good enough to run with the likes of Cecilia, and 
apparently, neither was their new acquaintance.

     Ivy held her tongue at first, but humility had never been one of her 
strongest character traits. When Cecilia didn't stop biting, Ivy snapped back.

     "If I'm such a waste of space, why the hell did you invite me here?"

     Domino (and Ivy got the impression this was a bad, free-thinking 
sort of thing) answered for his sibling. "We need you to design for the 
business. If it fails, Cecilia will look bad."

     Ivy soon heard an expanded version of this excuse, that the failure 
of Newton Originals would make Cecilia look bad in front of Clare. 
Whoever this Clare person was, her name seemed a forbidden yet 
frequently mentioned subject among the siblings.

     Cecilia and Domino had to understand very little about their 
departed sire's occupation if they believed Ivy would rescue them 
from failure. She racked her memory, trying to discern what she had 
said about fashion in the course of that first conversation with 
Domino. It couldn't have been much - she knew a bit about sewing 
and slightly more about shopping. Ivy's secondhand clothing shouldn't 
have even inspired confidence in her ability to design a pot holder. The 
two vampires were either beyond desperation, or Domino was 
spreading a thick layer of fibs his sibling's way in order to gain a new ally. 

     The next night, seeing Cecilia behave again for the audience at the 
Raven and treat the folks at home miserably, Ivy took the gloves off. 
If Cecilia was truly needy for help, Ivy welcomed her to have a 
problem with anything she did. If Cecilia frowned, she'd frown back. 
If the woman pouted, Ivy would stick her lower lip out and do her worst.

     Ivy 'borrowed' a new wardrobe from the samples that the studio 
had on hand. Between Dom and her, they successfully managed to 
size the pieces down to fit Ivy's sub-average height. Cecilia was 
otherwise occupied with self-grooming, granting a few peaceful hours 
in which Ivy devoted her nosiness and common sense towards 
understanding just what work the pair had done to prepare a new 
collection.

    She found very little. The best find among the variety of papers 
that hid desktops and counters was Figaro's sketchbook. It included 
shape, color and fabric descriptions that had yet to appear on any 
runways. Cecilia had not paid any attention to these notes, preferring 
to scribble her own unattractive drawings and pose for photographs. 
Ivy decided that Cecilia was obviously fond of posing, a conclusion 
evidenced by the stacks of proofs that collected dust around the desks,
as well as her general demeanor.

     Cecilia and Domino needed someone with style and flair to save 
their reputations, and Ivy had serious doubts that she was that 
talented individual. 
 
     Ivy grimaced as she considered this problem once more. She felt 
Cecilia's eyes glaring at her yet again this evening, and Ivy had no 
compunction about glaring in return.

     A few hours before, Ivy had caught Cecilia eavesdropping on two 
other vampires: the intimidating owner and the fellow she'd collided 
into off the dance floor.

     The memory of the man's friendly smile had prompted Ivy's 
behavior. Cecilia did not appear quite disinterested enough in what 
the men discussed, even though she relaxed several feet away. 
Sudden small changes in the blonde's expression caused Ivy to 
conclude that Cecilia was listening in on every word. 
 
     Ivy resolved to intervene and distract by approaching the woman 
for an overdue discussion of Domino.

     "Hey, Cecilia! What'cha doing?"

     The vampire sneered. "Drinking *alone*."

     "Uh-huh." Ivy nodded sympathetically. "You realize that is 
supposed to signal a problem, right?" Ivy settled onto a bar stool 
between Cecilia and the nice stranger's back, then requested a 
beverage with a spiffy and decorative umbrella. "You might be 
depressed. I'll just stay right here, and we'll have a nice little chat." 
Ivy's drink arrived. She removed the umbrella, twirling its toothpick 
stem between two fingers until the bright pattern on the shade's paper 
became a blur. Ivy followed this play with a happy sip.

     "You don't have to do that." Cecilia's voice was brittle. 

     "Ah, but what are new *friends* for?" Ivy flashed an innocent 
grin. "Besides - I think we should discuss Domino."

     Cecilia's face momentarily twisted in fury, and she agilely yanked 
Ivy into the side shadows. "Listen, little girl. You don't have the 
luxury of 'discussing' anything with me. You do what I say, or I'll get 
even. The next time I suggest that you leave me alone, do it - or else."

     Ivy was still holding onto her drink umbrella. She spun it slowly 
and listened patiently as Cecilia hissed out her speech, then spread 
her lips in a calm smile. "Or else - what?"

     Suddenly, Ivy took the offensive. Pulling Cecilia by the arms, she 
rotated their positions so that the other vampire's back was to the 
wall, then slammed a hand into Cecilia's chest.

     The woman's eyes bulged slightly with surprise, and a choked 
gurgle escaped her throat. Ivy gradually lifted her palm to reveal a 
circle of colorful paper emblazoned above Cecilia's breast like a 
target.

     "It's funny the things that turn out to be weapons, isn't it?" Ivy 
said. "A toothpick pricking the heart must be pretty painful - I hope 
you can still hear me?"

     Cecilia nodded jerkily in reply.

     "Good. I hope I have made one thing clear: I will not let you hand-sling 
dirt at me, then smile and hand you a shovel. Domino might put up 
with it, but I won't. Remember Cecilia - I may be little, but I still bite 
- and I have just enough self-respect to dislike you violently." Ivy 
took hold of the sliver of wood protruding from the blonde's chest 
and withdrew it swiftly. The woman stumbled forward, snarling at 
Ivy in pain and hate.

     Ivy spared a glance back at the bar, and saw that the friendly 
stranger now sat alone as he watched his friend move through the 
crowd towards a larger scuffle at the entrance. Ivy leaned against the 
wall and observed as her own 'friend' began to walk away. 

     "Make me like you, Cecilia," she said, then began to twirl the 
umbrella once more.

     Hours later, Ivy had returned to stand in the same spot. She saw 
Cecilia focus her attention on Domino as he requested drinks further 
down the bar. The blonde leaned over and whispered in his ear, 
causing him to turn and abruptly protest. Cecilia whispered some 
more. Domino's shoulders sank, and he sent Ivy an apologetic look 
as his sibling commandeered his bloodwine order for herself.

     Ivy hadn't really expected a different outcome. The threat of 
responsibility had been narrowly averted, and she was once again 
homeless, unemployed, and owned only the clothes on her back. As a 
bonus, she'd made her first genuine enemy. Ivy supposed it was a 
Kodak moment, but - Damn! - she had no camera.

     Ivy decided to leave, so she turned hastily towards the exit. For the 
second time that night, her movements were pre-empted by a collision 
with another vampire. Hands settled around her waist to steady her, 
and Ivy reflexively clutched a pair of leather clad shoulders.

     It was another smiling stranger, but this time, instead of shining 
blue, the stranger's eyes smoldered in a bottomless depth of dark 
brown. Ivy felt a tingle of sensation shoot down her spine as she 
returned his stare.

      Ivy wondered. 


     He spoke first, softly and distinctly. "Are you all right?"

     "Yes." Ivy repeated the words with more assurance. "Oh, yes."

     Moments passed before Ivy realized she still practically hung from 
the guy's neck, grinning at him like a twit. She took a step back, 
lowering her arms. 

     "I'm sorry. I wasn't watching where I was going." Ivy's forehead 
wrinkled slightly in concern. "I think it's becoming a habit."

     The stranger's mouth continued to lift in a smile, but there was an 
added devilment behind it. "Congratulations."

     Ivy raised an eyebrow. "Becoming clumsy isn't exactly winning 
the lottery."

     "Ah," His velvety exclamation teased Ivy's ear, "but we ran into 
each other. Jackpot."

     "Then the prize is...?"

     "Yet to be decided." He gestured at the bar, then extended a hand 
for her to grasp. "Care to discuss our windfall?"

     Ivy grinned openly. "I'd have to be a fool to ignore fortune when 
it stands right in front of me." She slid her fingers through his own, 
allowing him to lead her to the drink counter. "My name is Ivy."

     "Hello, Ivy. I'm Vachon - Javier Vachon."

     The approach of Cecilia and Domino stymied any further 
revelations. Ivy noted that Domino appeared somewhat smug, and 
wondered what had caused his sudden pleasure.

     "Well, well, Vachon," Cecilia was behaving again. "I see you've 
met Newton Original's newest designer."

     Vachon observed Ivy's surprised reaction and asked, "You're a 
designer?"

     She smiled uncomfortably. "I guess so."

     "Of course she is," Cecilia said. "Domino insists she's fantastic."

     "I do!" Dom echoed wholeheartedly.

     Ivy had a sinking feeling inside. For some reason, Cecilia's desire 
to impress Vachon outweighed any rancor she felt towards Ivy. The 
blonde may have decided to kiss and make up simply because she 
was talking to Vachon. 

      Ivy thought nervously.

     Cecilia and Domino excused themselves, leaving her with Vachon 
once more. She felt awkward now, like a blemish had spontaneously 
sprouted on her forehead.

     "So." Ivy cleared her throat. "Do you know those two well?"

     Vachon shook his head while watching her closely. "Nah. They're 
just family." He smiled when Ivy's mouth dropped open. "Relax. It's 
a distant relationship."

     "You have me beat - I've known Cecilia and Domino for two 
whole days."

     "And already you're wary? Smart girl."

     "I like Domino. He can be kind and entertaining, only..." Ivy let 
the qualification trail off.

     "Only *not* around Cecilia." 

     Ivy thought it was fascinating the way Vachon's tongue produced 
the 'l' sound of the woman's name. Ivy had a sudden envy to be 
called something that rolled and flowed more like 'Cecilia'.
 
     "Exactly," she said.

     Ivy felt someone brush up against her back. A shock of 
recognition jolted her mind, and she responded with a startled gasp. 
Ivy looked at the surrounding faces, but saw no one that she could 
identify.

     Vachon took her hand. "Are you all right?"

     Ivy rubbed her right temple with shaking fingers. "I'm not sure. I 
think that I felt someone familiar." The sensation began to fade away. 
"Can you excuse me for a minute?"

     Not waiting for Vachon's response, Ivy followed the presence, 
using her instincts to lead in the right direction. She climbed up the 
club stairs and stumbled out into the night, searching frantically for 
more than the shadows she found.

     Then she heard the voice. His voice. It cut tauntingly through her 
thoughts, making her tremble like the last time she'd heard it - when 
she was dying in a muddy alley.

     "Are you flying yet, my sweet?"

     "Show yourself." Ivy ran right then left, yearning to link those 
sounds to something solid.

     "Do you ache to live?"

     "Why? Why won't you show me who you are?!?" She clutched at 
her head, willing his voice to silence. She saw her body as it was the 
night she came across - drained, lonely and scarred - a speck of 
nothing to the thousands who celebrated only a wall away. She 
witnessed herself, filthy and wracked with pain, moaning outside the 
O'Keefe, the crowds avoiding her as though she carried a contagion. 
She saw Mark - saw his anger, his frustration, his pity.

     "How much is your life worth now?"

     Ivy screamed. She couldn't stand remembering - not vividly, not 
like this vision filled with ugliness. It made no difference that it was 
the truth. She could talk about it dispassionately, as though that part 
of her past was a bad dream, but she couldn't feel it again.

     "Why does it matter!?!" She fell to her knees and began to cry 
uncontrollably. The voice gradually began to fade from her mind in 
echoes of hateful laughter.

     "Ivy? Lierre - what is wrong?" Suddenly Janette was by her side, 
protecting her, soothing her. 

     Ivy flailed halfheartedly, then subsided with a whimper. "It was 
him - the man who brought me across - he's in my head." She 
gripped Janette's shoulders frantically. "He hates me. He loves me. I 
don't understand!"  

     She sobbed heavily, and Janette hugged her close. "Shhh. I'm 
here. I will take care of you. We will leave this place." 

     There was a streak of movement as their bodies became part of the 
ebony sky, leaving Vachon to step from the Raven and discover an 
empty sidewalk. 

     The man watching them all from the shadows still laughed alone.

******************************************************************
August 20, 1996

     Natalie had lied to Nick.

     She didn't spend the day at the morgue catching up on work for 
the Coroner's Office. She scurried home instead, racing the dawn 
with arms full of laboratory supplies.

     Sidney now lived at the loft, and for more necessary reasons than 
because she had promised to move in with Nick - Natalie had rats in 
her living room. There were two dozen cages stacked against one 
wall, their wire tops airing the faint odors of ammonia and musk.

     Natalie was beginning a new experiment, and she had a very 
strong feeling that Nick would not approve of her methods. She 
preferred to keep any progress from him until she had a breakthrough 
to report.

     So Natalie had lied to Nick, and she fully intended to keep lying, 
hiding and obfuscating her work for as long as it remained feasible. 
Clare had become an invaluable help in this endeavor. A hidden 
thought here, a clouded memory there - she owed endless thanks to 
her sire for sharing these secrets in blood-sharing, no questions asked. 

     She was fortunate that Clare could be spontaneously generous, for 
Natalie knew that her friend offered no enthusiastic praise for her 
research. Her sire had become stiffly disapproving once she detected 
the nature of the thoughts Natalie wished to obscure. Luckily though, 
Clare had chosen to not probe deeper for details. Natalie was certain 
that Clare would loathe the details.

     Natalie wanted to understand vampire blood. Her earlier tests had 
depended on samples acquired from Nick, and he had possessively 
pursued the fate of each ruby drop in every experiment. After the 
incident where she had given Joey injections, Nick no longer offered 
his plasma for study, as though he wasn't sure of Natalie's judgment. 
Then Natalie had become a vampire, making new research lack 
priority for months.

     Now she had an ample supply of blood for tests - her own. Natalie 
had acquired too many questions over the past six years and 
dishearteningly few answers. She wanted facts, she wanted to 
understand, and decidedly, she wanted a cure. 

     What better gift could she offer Nick?  He had presented her with 
his heart and soul, wrapped in petals, paint and music. She wanted to 
give him mortality again in return - a new heart, a new life, an 
answered dream.

     Natalie no longer had to race against the clock for this prize. Nick 
wasn't going anywhere without her, he'd sworn as much. She had the 
freedom and ability to learn, grow, and gain knowledge for as long as 
it took.

    From  Nick, she knew Maeven's laboratory notes had referred to a 
mutant strain of Haemophilus bacteria that, when spliced into the 
human genome, created a vampire-like creature. This was a 
fascinating concept, but seeing that LaCroix had destroyed the entire 
culture stock of Maeven's work, pursuing the connection was next to 
impossible.

     Natalie did not ignore the bacteria angle - the method of transfer 
in diseases associated with Haemophilus influenzae and H. ducreyi 
was through the bloodstream after all. A cut, wound, sexual contact, 
or permeation of epithelial tissue in the nose and mouth could all 
result in a Haemophilus infection. 

     Natalie compared becoming a vampire to contracting a disease. 
She recalled the effects of an injection of vampire plasma on Joey, as 
well as the women aided by the Baroness, Dr. Sophia Jurgen. They 
had not become vampires, yet the added blood had shown definite 
effects which faded. Perhaps this dissipation signaled an immune 
system response against the vampire factor, a reaction against a non-
self molecule - an antigen.

      It struck Natalie that Joey and Bernice's experiences had resulted 
from a temporary case of bacteremia, bacteria in the blood, the 
infecting agent in question being the vampire DNA.  Instead of the 
fever and malaise normally associated with such a condition, 
symptoms appeared as artificial youth in Norma Jean, Agnes, and 
Bernice; suppression of a cognitive disorder in Joey; and in all, 
increased aggression and violence as the blood benefits dissipated. 

     It was possible that the vampire condition was comparable to a 
case of chronic septicemia - a pervasion of infecting material in the 
blood and tissues too severe for the immune system to handle.

      Natalie intended to test these theories, and she had two dozen lab 
rats to initiate her queries. She had `borrowed' four pregnant does 
from the vivarium at the university, spending weeks waiting for the 
broods to grow old enough for her work to begin. Today she would 
tag their ears, and tomorrow - tomorrow would be for blood.

******************************************************************
August 21, 1996
 
     LaCroix saw Clare as the conductor swept onto the podium amidst 
gracious toasts of applause. She swiftly entered a box level and at 
almost a right angle to his own. Her placement afforded an excellent 
view of her movements above the balcony if he chose to watch.

     She was alone.

    The house had already dimmed the chandeliers that crowned the 
audience. The faint glow of the sconces in the balcony compartments 
now provided the only light. It was a devilish, seductive manner of 
lighting, no better than the luxury of candles. They telegraphed 
shadows and brilliance to highlight and darken her features, shouting 
how her shoulders curved, hinting at the hollow of her neck. It 
worshipped her - that damnable light! LaCroix moved in 
uncomfortable irritation within the confines of his wingback chair.

     Clare wore an antique gold satin gown that seemed to feed off the 
luminescence of each ray that shone from the walls. The folds 
glimmered greedily, attracting his eyes like the sensuous dance of a 
flame. He imagined the rustle of the fabric as she took her seat - little 
lively whispers that told of her every movement, her every breath. 

     This vision of Clare distracted LaCroix from dissecting the quality 
of the opening chorus of 'O Fortuna'. He recognized the music's 
perfection, however, as he watched Clare's lips spread in delighted  
joy at the harmony of voices.

     He turned his head to stare stonily at the performers. The lick of 
their Latin lyrics stung him. "Sors salutis et virtutis mihi nunc 
contraria, est affectus et defectus semper in angaria." 

      

     LaCroix scoffed. He simply would not look at Clare again. He 
would fall into the rapture of the singing voices. He would frown at 
the chatter of Thomas and Cecilia, whose heads now bent together in 
laughing conspiracy. He would enjoy the evening as originally 
planned - a plan that did not involve Clare.

    LaCroix's resolution lasted several songs, until the strains of the 
first baritone solo rang throughout the hall. "Sum presentialiter 
absens in remota: quisquis amat taliter, volvitur in rota."

      His gaze drifted to her face once more. 

     Clare was leaning forward in her chair, one palm holding the 
balcony railing as though she needed the support. She listened to 
every word, intently devouring each syllable, letting emotions mold 
her features as they struck. The first dance began, and Clare's body 
language echoed the celebration. She sat at attention, then appeared 
to relax in her seat as the text transformed from Latin into Middle 
German vernacular. LaCroix pictured her tapping a foot, matching 
the rhythm, if the mood possessed her. Poised austerity was not 
Clare's style toward music. If she appreciated a performance, she was 
openly thrilled. If she disliked what she heard, Clare didn't hesitate to 
display displeasure.

     The tavern songs began, and the earthy woes described in the 
drunken librettos obviously enchanted her. As the opening oboe solo 
of  "Olim latus colueram" mimicked the sounds of a swan's capture 
by the hands of the hungry hunter, LaCroix could swear that he saw 
Clare giggle. The selection proceeded to describe the cooking and 
consumption of the bird from the swan's point of view, and Clare 
visibly sobered. She had understandable phobias concerning fires and 
roasted, blackened flesh that had been instilled millennia ago. From 
her expression, the text had obviously become unpleasant.

     LaCroix resisted the urge to approach her until the songs of 'The 
Court of Love' began. He sprang from his chair, excused himself 
from the other vampires, then strode to Clare's box. 

     With one hand, he drew back the velvet curtain that shielded Clare 
from his view and leaned against the woodwork molding with his 
other. She didn't move to acknowledge his presence, even though she 
must have sensed him as he neared.

     Clare was ignoring him, just as she'd done the past two months. 
Damn her! He was convinced that desiring or thinking about Clare in 
her absence defined torture. The idea that she had not spared him a 
passing thought made any previous frustration pale in comparison. 

     LaCroix considered the nature of his anger over the past several 
weeks. He'd vented his rage a good deal and in varying degrees of 
severity. Some of the fury he directed towards himself. He wanted no 
emotional slavery, no ties of the heart, with any woman. Never again. 
Not after Fleur. He would not allow it.

     LaCroix had stockpiled even more of his wrath for Clare, the 
culprit of his disturbance. He was angry because she had returned to 
the Community and had dared to intrigue him. He was angry that she 
had ever gone away in the first place to enjoy her solitude, leaving 
him to spare her a moment's pause while the fires cleared in 
Hiroshima. Clare hadn't returned the courtesy, never letting him 
know she survived and flourished elsewhere, and that made him 
furious. The mention that she might leave once more for shores 
unknown without a word seemed the final straw.

     His ire and reason entangled in a fight over how he had become 
entranced with this woman against his better judgment. He had 
known Clare too long - too long, but not well enough. She was an 
enchanting mystery waiting for a solution. She was a challenge. She 
was agony. Just as Clare had threatened, she was his equal.

     LaCroix was not in love with her - love wasn't an option. He 
wanted her, though. LaCroix wanted to control Clare; he wanted to 
urge her surrender. He would seduce Clare, and seduction was 
another manifestation of the art of war. Who better to wage a battle 
of bewitchment than himself, Roman General and conqueror?

     LaCroix took a step forward, letting the curtain swing once more 
into place. A plaintive solo rose from the soprano and floated through 
the hall. She sang of a radiant girl in a rustling tunic. Clare turned as 
the description ended, and sure enough, the satin of her skirts swished 
at their disruption.

    At first her expression was inquisitive, as if she'd awoken from a 
trance in that split-second. Then her lips stretched into a smile that 
contained just enough serenity and satisfaction to make him loathe 
and crave her all over again.

     Clare extended a hand. "Lucius. I ought to have expected that you 
would attend this performance."

     Instead of slipping his fingers under her own, LaCroix enclosed her 
proffered wrist in his grip. He turned her hand over, exposing the 
fragile skin where inner arm met palm, and raised it to his lips. 
LaCroix risked a brief touch of his tongue as he kissed her. As he 
savored the taste of Clare's skin, LaCroix lifted his eyes to meet her 
gaze, his own flashing a dare that she chose to ignore.

     She offered commonplace words, but could not resist a rebuttal. 
"Please, take a seat, or is it your intention that I must look up to 
you?"

     LaCroix felt his own smile threaten to appear. My, but she could 
be delicious. "Perhaps I prefer to look down upon you, my dear. You 
have been poor company these two months past - or should I say 
*absent* company?"

     "Two months? Hah! What is two months to those whose 
acquaintance spans the rise and fall of civilizations?"

     "I notice that you did not use the word 'friendship'."

     "Why should I? You're scowling at me," Clare said. "Now if you 
were friendlier, I might change my tune."

     LaCroix observed her eyes flicker with the barest hint of alarm. 
She wanted to take those words, the challenge, back. Charmed by his 
advantage, he let loose the reins on his smile. "Forgive me for 
interrupting with conversation. I know you were enjoying the music."

     Clare shrugged. "I don't mind talk during this song. The baritone 
sounds as though he has the hiccups."

     "You forget what comes next."
  
     She gave a small frown. "No I don't. 'In trutina' - it's usually 
quite a lovely song."

     LaCroix disagreed. "It's more than lovely." He changed subjects 
abruptly with an order. "Turn around."

     She responded with a disbelieving drawl. "Excuse me?"

     He pulled a chair so that he could sit behind her, then rotated her 
own so the back faced the left side. She had twisted to the left earlier 
to speak with him, and finding herself facing forward again made her 
move so that she could glare at LaCroix indignantly.

     This time he gently slid his hands over her bare shoulders, urging 
her to look towards the chorus with light pressure while repeating, 
"Turn around, Clare."

     She complied, but her posture was straight and stiff. LaCroix bent 
forward so that the breath from his next words danced about her right 
earlobe. "'In trutina' speaks of purity, passion, and their war over the 
senses." He ran his hands from her shoulders, down her arms, and 
back as he spoke. "It is a song describing the seduction of the body 
coupled with the submission of the spirit. Listen."

     The soprano began the Latin solo, and LaCroix repeated the words 
for Clare as if they were meant for her alone. 

     "Opposite courses hang in the balance," he whispered, entwining 
his left hand within the amber curls of her upswept hair. 

     He began to slowly tease the side of her neck with his right. "Of 
my wavering mind. Wanton love." After these words, LaCroix 
replaced his fingers along her throat with his lips. He kissed the 
sensitive flesh slowly, continuing to speak only after he heard the 
shallow gasp his attentions wrung from Clare. "And chastity." He 
removed his hands from her skin and hair. She responded 
instinctively to the loss of his touch, leaning backwards to sink 
against his chest.

     LaCroix moved to whisper in her left ear, letting his palms slide 
around her waist. "But I choose what I see, and bend my neck to the 
yoke - to the sweet yoke I submit."

     Clare turned her head slightly to meet his gaze with fevered eyes, 
still not quite under his spell. "*You* don't submit to anything, 
Lucius, and I -"

     "Shh." LaCroix silenced her comment with a finger. "I'm not 
finished - there is the next song's chorus - 'I bloom all over, I am on 
fire all over'. Listen to the lust, how hungry they are, how desperate."

     The words repeated after every verse, a total of five times. LaCroix 
continued his physical assault, caressing her satin-covered figure and 
delighting in the fervent echoes the material made at his every touch. 
He teased and nipped the bare skin of her shoulders and throat, 
making Clare close her eyes and lick her lips in pleasure. 
 
     As the song increased to a climax of intensity, LaCroix nurtured 
the beginnings of triumph. Clare was lost! She was his! He crouched 
behind her suddenly, shielded from outside view, and brought Clare's 
inner wrist to his mouth again. Overwhelmed with desire, he allowed 
himself the luxury of feeling his fangs sink into the delicate flesh. 

     The ecstatic voice of the soprano reached broke into his thoughts. 
"Dulcissime, totam tibi subdo me." 

     LaCroix felt Clare shudder deeply at the words. Her blood felt like 
fiery ambrosia on his tongue - a thousand victories, a thousand 
starbursts rushing through his body at once. Never mind the 
memories, never mind the secrets, he seized the explosive feelings: 
the rapture, the passion, the fury, and the sanctity. Every aspect that 
added to the flavor of Clare was his for the feeding.

     He stopped drinking before he threw caution to the wind, still 
mindful of their public surroundings. He retook his seat behind Clare. 
She subsided against his frame, wrapping one of his hands within her 
own and resting them on her abdomen.

     The lyric now sung by the chorus was perfectly worshipful. "Hail, 
most beautiful one, precious jewel." LaCroix imagined that they sang 
to Clare. She was an incomparable gem - free of the bonds of time, 
never to wither, her countless reflections of age-old, captured light 
destined to glow from within for all eternity. 

     Clare was his.

     "Carmina Burana" cycled to a close, the choir and symphony 
revisiting the `O Fortuna' chorus. The ode to the vagaries of fate 
seemed more ominous than mocking now. LaCroix was struck at how 
these words belonging to a victim rang with such a strong, rejoicing 
warning.

     "At this hour, therefore, let us pluck the strings without delay. Let 
us mourn together, for fate crushes the brave."

     The audience roared to its feet with crashing applause. LaCroix 
and Clare were not exceptions. Clare turned to exit before the 
musicians completed their bows. She paused to face him. 
"Goodnight, Lucius."

     He was taken aback. LaCroix had expected - he didn't know what 
he had expected - but it was certainly more than this empty, polite 
farewell. "You are leaving?"

     "Of course. The music is over." She cupped his jaw in her 
hands, pulling him forward to meet her mouth for a full kiss. She then 
moved back a fraction, her face emotionless and untouched, and the 
following touches of her breath leaving his lips cold. "The 
entertainment is over."

     Then she was gone with a brush of the curtain, leaving LaCroix to 
curse in her wake. He wouldn't chase after her like a like a love-sick 
vassal - Clare was a fool to think otherwise. And if she didn't spare 
him a thought.

     Damn her!

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

     Cecilia turned her attention away from enchanting her newest 
vampire acquaintance. She had quickly picked up on the change in 
LaCroix's demeanor. As he shifted in his seat a second time, Cecilia's 
eyes landed on the cause with unhappy dismay.

     Thomas, who was intrigued when his company trailed off in mid-
sentence to stare at a stranger in hatred, whispered for Cecilia's ears 
alone, "I gather that you know the lady?"

     Cecilia turned, her porcelain face still shrouded in a sneer. "That 
*woman* is my grand-sire, Clare."

     "Ah. I sense no affection towards the relationship."

     "I swear that she haunts me. Everywhere I go, Clare's shadow 
looms."

     These words appeared to thrill the elder vampire. "And you hate 
being in her shadow, don't you?"

     LaCroix stood suddenly and made his excuses, departing before 
they could form a reply. Cecilia watched his exit with unfiltered 
rancor. "I hate her. I can taste my bitterness at the thought of her. I 
wish..."

     "You wish that you could hurt her?" His voice was smooth and 
charming, a persuasively liquid sound that serenaded her vision away 
from LaCroix's entrance in the other box, and onto Thomas' 
mischievous features. "You would love to do her harm?"

     "Yes. More than anything. But I am not in the position to succeed. 
She distrusts me too much. I could never survive plotting against 
Clare." A single ruby tear glided down Cecilia's cheek. Her distress 
was earnest enough that it might have actually been genuine.

     "But I can."

     Cecilia judged him cautiously. Thomas did not appear boastful, 
merely confident. She placed her gloved palm on his forearm. "Tell 
me more."

     Thomas' smile was indulgent. "Don't you know there are more 
ways to achieve your heart's desire than direct attack? You needn't 
raise a hand against Clare to harm her."

      Cecilia racked her memory at this suggestion. Hadn't she 
overheard Nicholas say Clare was indulging in friendships with 
mortals? That might be her key to success. "I have an idea that 
demands pursuit. But if I am to be successful," Cecilia's fervent gaze 
implored Thomas to cooperate, "I will need your help so that I may 
have an alibi." She clutched his fist between her breasts, willing no 
dissension. "Do this for me, Thomas, and I shall repay you 
threefold."

     Thomas looked amusedly over her shoulder at the sight of LaCroix 
and Clare embracing. He moved his imprisoned hand to caress 
Cecilia's lips, spurring her into an eager smile. 

     "I delight in a challenge. Consider us partners in destruction, 
Cecilia - I promise you, my child - you will be amazed at what I have 
in store for you."

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

September 7, 1996

     Nick had to display his police badge twice to enter the morgue: 
once to please the guards before he headed downstairs, and a second 
to placate the security just outside Natalie's lair. Nick grimaced at 
the new additions and the thought of their prying eyes.

     Natalie wasn't blissfully happy with the situation either. He 
watched her slam about the morgue, relieving her frustration through 
noise. She looked feisty, she looked furious - she looked sexy. That 
thought drew a pleased smile.

     Nick wrapped his arms around her, stilled her hands as they 
prepared to dent her desk with an enormous manual, and coaxed her 
to set the book down gently while he dropped kisses around her ear. 
"Want to wrestle? You might feel better after some hands-on action." 
For emphasis, he squeezed her figure tightly to his.

     Natalie paused for a moment to enjoy having him near, touched 
his cheek, then released a defeated sigh. "It's a tempting idea, but I 
feel like we have an audience."

     Nick tried to help her relax with a teasing grin. "So you hate the 
added company. Look on the bright side - there haven't been any 
thefts in over a week."

     Natalie nodded. "And I should thank my lucky stars. I know, 
Nick. Somehow it's humiliating - I can't help but feel the turnaround 
suggests that I can't run my office - at least that's the impression I get 
from upstairs. I don't know what to do." She sent a half-hearted 
teasing look back at Nick. "In the past, I've always had problems 
with extra bodies on my hands due to `unusual' circumstances, never 
too few."

     Natalie appeared ready for a hug, so Nick happily assisted, 
molding her against his frame and brushing her hair. Two more 
corpses had vanished from the morgue, bringing the total to three.

     "But now the thefts have stopped. Things will calm down soon, 
and you'll see, there won't be any bad reflection on you," he said.

     "I wish I could be so optimistic." Natalie released a frustrated 
sigh. "It just makes me furious - no - sick, that some 'entrepreneur' 
from 'Cadavers R Us' is profiting at the expense of my department's 
reputation. If I ever catch the culprit." She left the threat to hang 
ominously in the air.

     "You'll see them prosecuted to the full extent of the law." Nick 
dropped a kiss on her cheek for punctuation. 

     Natalie pretended to be deep in thought while sticking the tip of 
her tongue out between her teeth. "Hmm. Come to think of it - I have 
friends on the police force," she said playfully. "Close friends."

     Nick slid his hands down her back. "This close?"

     Natalie nodded. "Uh-huh. Close and personal friends."

     Nick's lips hovered over hers. Their breath mingled as he spoke. 
"This personal?"

     The kiss had barely begun when the sound of someone clearing 
their throat broke in on their privacy. 

     "Sorry. Excuse me." It was a thin, dark-haired man wearing a lab 
coat labeled `Coroner's Office'. He self-consciously carried a tray 
over to the microscope after looking away from the embracing 
couple.

     Natalie smoothed her hair and straightened her clothes as a stream 
of words flew from her mouth. "Barney! You remember Detective 
Knight, don't you?" To Nick, she said, "He's started substituting 
some for Grace since last week. She fell out of her office chair and 
ended up stranded on the floor by herself for half an hour. I told her 
no more solo shifts until the casts came off."

     Nick portable rang simultaneously with the office phone.

     "That's not a good omen," Natalie said while lifting her receiver.

     Nick agreed silently. It wasn't a good omen at all.

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

    Nick offered Natalie a lift to the crime scene in High Park. "What 
about Schanke and Clare? Why on earth aren't they with you?" she 
said as they headed for the Cadillac.

     He didn't meet her curious glance as he slipped into the driver's 
seat and turned the ignition. "I was a little late in arriving at the 
precinct this evening." He left out that the reason was because he had 
spent yet another day with LaCroix since Natalie elected to stay at 
work.  "Schanke had some leads to check up on, and he decided 
Clare's backup would do just as well as mine. I'm lucky they freed 
me up to visit you."

     The compliment sounded like a half-hearted excuse to Natalie's 
ears. "It really bothers you, doesn't it?"

     Nick shot her an innocent look, but his tone was defensive. "What 
are you talking about?"

     "Clare and Schanke. The fact that they get along so well."

     "No," Nick shook his head. "They don't get along that well. 
Clare's just living up to her side of our bet - I solved the case first for 
our wager, and now she has to get Schanke back as my partner as 
forfeit. She can't exactly report in private that he's still an excellent 
homicide detective after a year's absence from the force when she's 
tearing him up in public, now can she?"

     "No, she can't," Natalie said teasingly. "That must be why Clare 
baby-sat Jen again last night - she didn't want your 'public' to get the 
wrong impression. Oh, and I guess you gave Schanke some excuse 
like we had plans already when he asked you first."

     Nick's hands clenched the steering wheel. "He didn't ask me."

     Natalie's smile became slightly smug. "Now that's a shock - I 
thought Schanke trusted you with his family more than anyone else 
in the world."

     Nick rose to her baiting and turned his eyes away from the road. 
"Come on, Nat! You're acting like Clare's his new best friend!"

     "And you're not *remotely* jealous?"

    "Why are you pushing this?" Nick gave her a self-conscious grin, 
then returned his attention to the road.

     "Because you're trying to pretend that it doesn't make a 
difference when they work without you. It's one thing if Schanke 
checks a lead out on his own. Same thing goes for Clare alone, but 
the thought of those two working as partners successfully drives you 
crazy."

     "That doesn't make sense, Nat. I like working on my own too 
much to fit your theory."

     "Yes, you like going your own way. When you want help or 
company, though, you're into instant gratification."

     Nick laughed. "Are you calling me passive possessive?"

     Natalie scowled. "I'm not joking."

     Nick looked away from the road again. "You're not?"

     "It's the way you treat me."

     They had reached the flashing lights of the crime scene. Natalie 
bailed from the Caddy before it reached a complete stop, leaving 
Nick bewildered by her sudden change of mood. She moved with 
stiff, brisk steps towards the circus of law enforcement ringed by 
yellow tape and squad cars. Nick leapt out of the car and rushed after her.

     "I can't believe you'd just say something like that and walk 
away," Nick accused when he caught up.

     Natalie stopped and held up a palm. "Don't get defensive. It 
wasn't a condemnation."

     "It sure sounded like it."

      Natalie sighed and continued walking towards the taped circle 
again. Nick followed. "I don't get it, Nat - what brought on this 
sudden change in your mood?"

      She turned abruptly and gave Nick a furious look. In a second, 
her features melted into alarmed confusion. "I don't know. I 
really...don't...know...what's gotten into me." Suddenly Natalie 
smiled again. "Call it temporary insanity? Maybe I'm just tense over 
the thought of what goodies await us over there." She motioned with 
her head. "It's very hard for me you know...the blood...the smells."

     Nick nodded in understanding as he wrapped his arm about her 
waist. He dropped a kiss on her temple. "I know," he murmured. "I 
understand."

     Nick held onto her hand even after they reached the body. At 
Natalie's first sight, first whiff, of the victim, he could swear he heard 
his fingers crack under the force of her grip. Nick saw a few of the 
officers on scene give her curious glances because of her reaction. He 
sent a forbidding frown in their direction that made them eager to 
look elsewhere. Nick started to map out an excuse that would free 
Natalie from working this scene, when she suddenly let go of his palm.

     Natalie fell to her knees, enthralled and repulsed by the tableau 
that lay before her. It was macabre, much worse than the floaters or 
the corpses left to rot in the outdoors for months before they reached 
her office. Even the charred remains of crash or burn victims 
couldn't compare.
    
      "She was alive when this happened," she whispered. Then an 
awareness tickled along her spine.

     Natalie heard one young officer mumble, "That's a woman?" 
before he dissolved into sounds of retching in the nearby bushes.

     Schanke's voice called out, "Hey! Make sure he doesn't lose it on 
any evidence!"

    The relief that rushed through Nick at Clare's arrival surprised 
him. He'd sensed her before Schanke spoke, and could tell by the 
way Nat suddenly sat straighter over the body that she'd also felt the 
presence. Nick might be able to support Natalie and protect her from 
the prying eyes of forensics and the police as she dealt with the 
gruesome scene, but it dawned on him with amazing clarity that 
Clare was the one Natalie would look to for help in the end. That was 
the nature of the bond.

      A vampire was linked to their sire until the destruction of one of 
the two -  even then, blood ties lingered within the family. The tie 
between Clare and Vachon evidenced that. More than anyone, Nick 
understood this connection. He could not escape LaCroix's influence 
when he tried; Natalie would be no different, especially with a 
woman she considered to be a friend.

     Clare would have gone directly to her offspring's side, but Nick 
pulled her aside. "She's upset," he whispered.

     The elder had yet to take her eyes off her vampire child, until 
Nick's statement snapped her head in his direction. Clare examined 
him critically. "As upset as you are?"

     Nick's eyes flashed. "She was disturbed before we ever got here." 
He noticed that Clare stared pointedly where his hand wrapped too 
possessively about her forearm. Nick let go immediately, sending her 
an apologetic glance. "Just help her. Please."

     Clare's answer was solemn. "You should say `please' more often, 
Nicholas. Keep Schanke occupied, all right?"

     Clare took Schanke's place next to the body, then bent her head 
next to Natalie's. Nick could see the movement of their lips, and 
began to isolate the sounds of their voices amidst the half-dozen other 
speakers nearby when Schanke's exclamation overwhelmed his 
hearing.

     "Man, I can't believe it! Last night was my one night off in a 
week, and where does Myra insist I take her - to see 'Sweeney Todd'! 
As if I don't get enough human debasement and depravity as it is."

     Nick motioned for Schanke to come along as he walked over to 
the joggers who had discovered the victim. 

     "Yeah," Schanke's complaints continued. "Cannibalism and 
music - That's an enjoyable evening."

     "Well, maybe you'll get lucky next time, Schank," Nick patted 
him on the shoulder. "You could go to the opera."

     Schanke nodded. "I'm counting on it. Humperdink's 'Hansel and 
Gretel' is coming to the Hummingbird next month. It's one of my 
favorites."
     
     Nick grinned at Schanke's excitement, then assumed a subdued 
expression as they greeted the finders of the body.

     "This is exactly why I never run alone," one of the women 
declared. The other female had wrapped her arms tightly about 
herself and would not make eye contact.

     "How did you find the victim, Ms.?" Nick asked.

     "Melanie Wagner." The talkative woman was defensive, as if she 
expected the detectives to doubt her identity. She did not answer the 
question.

     Nick asked again. "And you found the body when...?"

     "She didn't find it, I did," the other female broke her silence. "I 
had a cramp and stopped, then I just happened to look up in that 
tree." She squeezed her eyes shut. "Oh God, why did I look up? I 
could be home, asleep." The woman opened her lids again, staring 
honestly and frankly into Nick's own. "I don't want to remember 
what it looked like, hanging there open and raw." Her breath was 
caught by a coarse sob. "I shouldn't have seen it! Do you hear me? I 
shouldn't have seen it!" 

     The nameless jogger cried hysterically as Melanie Wagner patted 
her stiffly on the back for comfort. Nick and Schanke exchanged a 
look that debated whether they should bother these two further 
tonight.

      Nick's eyes asked.

     answered Schanke's. He pulled out his pocket 
notebook to get the remaining name and address information from the 
two before sending them off with an officer for an escort home. 

     Schanke glanced at the women again, then murmured to Nick, 
"She shouldn't have seen it, yeah. But I ask you, partner - who 
should?"

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

     Clare took Natalie's latex-gloved hand in her own. "I'm here," 
she whispered. "We can handle this."

     <'We.'> Natalie thought. 

     She bobbed her head in a small nod. "I know." A minute of 
silence. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?"

     Clare's brow wrinkled. She gave the corpse a visual examination, 
taking her time before she responded. That care endeared her to 
Natalie. No instant assurances or denials on Clare's part. No, she 
seriously considered her answer because she realized that the truth 
was important.

     "I haven't." Clare cocked her head to the side, frowning. "I've 
never seen someone so carefully mutilated, not even from torture or 
holocaust. But then, I missed the worst of the Inquisition. I was too 
busy causing terror of my own in the New World."

     "Look at the face, Clare, the layers of scarring - this took years, 
maybe decades to accomplish.  Repeated, methodical destruction. 
The eyebrows gouged away, the lips severed, and the nose and jaw 
had to have been broken repeatedly to accomplish this blunt, warped 
shape."

     Clare had donned gloves of her own. She lifted a wrist, twisting 
the joint to better examine the bloody bracelet of cuts that circled it. 
"I think it is stating the obvious that these wounds were not self-
inflicted, at least the majority. From the pattern of these marks, I'd 
say she was restrained by something like barbed wire near the end."

     Natalie shuddered.

     "We don't have to do this here." Clare said. "You've done a 
preliminary exam?"

     "I need a core temperature." Natalie's voice trailed off.

     "What core?" Clare countered. "Have forensics wrap her up and 
we'll work through this back at the morgue in privacy."

     "You forget the Big Brother security guards posted everywhere."

     "One peek at your newest guest, Natalie, and they'll never look 
at their mothers again, much less us."

     Natalie stood. "You're right." She gave the forensics team the 
order to pack the body for moving.

    Zipping the bodybag closed, a pale-faced tech covered the gashes 
that marked the victim's chest and abdomen. The cuts had sliced the 
body from front to back, branding it with a number.

     "What do you suppose the '19' means?" Clare said.

     "I don't know." Natalie shook her head. "I don't want to know."

     Clare made her offspring turn her back on the scene with a steady 
arm. "But we will."

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

     "You're going out now?" Ivy sat on the bed, rummaging through 
the treasures of Janette's jewelry box.

     "Mmm-hmm. Robert and I need a few...shall I say 'supplies'?" 
Janette finished fastening the collar of her velvet wrap with a brooch, 
then checked her appearance one last time in the mirror.

     "From the Raven?"

     "No." Janette's voice was emphatic.

     Ivy's face mirrored her confusion. "I don't get it. You 
recommended the place to me, but you won't place a foot inside. Why?"

     Janette sighed. "There are a few patrons that I would rather not 
encounter...yet." She sat beside her newest confidante. "You see, 
Lierre," Janette had taken to calling her by the French version of her 
name. "Until recently, I was the owner of the Raven. It came time for 
me to move on, and I relocated to Montreal, where I met Robert and 
Patrick."

     "You *know* the guy who runs the Raven now?"

     "LaCroix was my sire. I turned the deed over to his care."

     Ivy nodded. "Oh." She then considered Janette's wording in that 
explanation. "Wait a second - *was* your sire? I know I'm not up on 
all the vampire rules, but isn't that a permanent sort of thing? If not - 
I want in."

      "Well, my situation is...complicated. It would render most tres 
confusee. That is why I am less than eager to confront anyone who 
would wish to indulge in explanations or speculation. Tu comprends?"

     Ivy grinned. "I understand. That was a polite way of saying 'Drop 
it, already'. Hint taken." She picked up a lovely black pearl and 
silver bracelet, rubbing her fingers along the smooth stones as she 
commented. "Thank you, Janette."

     "For what?"

     "For looking out for me. For helping me. For trusting me to watch 
over Patrick while you are out." Ivy looked up from the jewelry. "I 
would give my life if it meant keeping him from harm in order to 
repay you."

     Janette's smile was almost angelic as she caressed the other 
vampire's cheek. "I know. That is why I trust you." She nodded 
toward the bracelet in the girl's hand. "The silver is carved into a 
vine of ivy. Consider it a gift. It seems a suitable ornament for you." 
Janette stood and smoothed her skirt. "Robert and I should return in 
plenty of time for you to rejoin your other vampire acquaintances 
before sunrise." 

      Both women looked up to see Robert standing in the bedroom 
doorway, clad in a dark suit. Janette gave him a warm stare. 
"Doesn't he look dashing?" she whispered conspiratorially to Ivy 
before moving across the room and wrapping her arms about 
Robert's waist. 

     Ivy grinned as she watched them kiss, then go to the den to wish 
Patrick goodnight. She fingered the bracelet once more, then slipped 
it into a pocket. She turned off the light, wanting to join the others.

        

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

     "Drink it."

     "But."

     "Just drink it, Natalie. The blood will overshadow your disgust." 

     Clare's tone brooked no argument, and Natalie wasn't in the 
mood to be stubborn. Her sire had been right: the security vanished 
once the victim's remains openly occupied an examination table.  
Clare filled her a coffee mug from the morgue's on hand supply soon 
after the guards disappeared.

     "Part of the problem is that you've been abstaining." Clare 
observed Natalie gulping the liquid critically. "When did you last 
feed?"

     "The day before last. I haven't had much privacy here recently, 
and found out today that I forgot to replace the plasma supply in my 
apartment's fridge. I had to make do with a protein shake."

     "But you're beginning to feel better now?"

     Natalie nodded and held out the mug. "Another four fingers worth 
wouldn't hurt, either."

     Clare fulfilled the request, then changed into some extra scrubs. 
She began looking over the corpse while Natalie prepped herself. 
They photographed the body in silence - ventral, dorsal, anterior and 
posterior shots. Natalie and Clare collected external evidence in 
quiet. They exchanged neither words nor glances, but feelings and 
sensations as they detailed every millimeter of the victim's body. The 
result was a large pile of samples obtained from the wrists, neck, 
ankles, and waist of the corpse, plus several fibers from the brutal 
incisions of the chest.

     They took a break, sat side by side on the platform of the large 
scale used for weighing bodies, and took turns sipping blood from the 
coffee mug as they talked. 

     "I think there are enough teeth left to help with identification, 
providing you find someone to compare them to," Natalie said.

     "But where? Missing Persons? How far back would we have to 
go?"

     "I'll use the photographs to reference the probable ages and causes 
of the different scars, but my best guess would be that some of the 
older marks are over fifteen years old. Some were inflicted by blades 
and others by burns."

     "Like the scalp?" Clare asked.

     "Like the scalp."

      The Jane Doe had little hair, simply a few tufts where forehead 
met scalp and at the apex of the neck. The rest had been seared away 
by fire some time before, leaving bare, rippled flesh behind. Natalie 
sighed.

     "We should go ahead and take the dental casts. I think this 
investigation is going to be seriously stymied until we identify the 
victim. We have no fingerprints. The fiber and fragment samples may 
give us a picture of how she died, but not why. Until there's a life to 
attach this to, how can you possibly conjecture a motive for the 
murder?" Natalie squeezed her eyes shut. "I mean, how twisted do 
you have to be to scar every inch of someone's body? To rip out their 
fingernails, clip their ears, maim every limb?." 

     "How twisted do any of us have to be to commit murder? To 
willfully destroy another living thing for our own amusement? Our 
survival?" Clare gave her a telling look. "Our pursuit of 
knowledge?" The elder vampire made an exasperated noise. "Flimsy 
rhetoric will not help our situation. You've seen disfigurement before 
in a homicide? Perhaps one or two elements in this bounty that's 
landed in our lap?"

     Natalie nodded. "Yes. Just not everything together."

     Clare deliberated silently for a moment. "But the ones you've 
seen, that I've seen, maybe we can connect some significance. Taking 
the hair, the disfigurement of the breasts and face - that could be part 
of a hate crime against women, couldn't it?"

     "Yes," Natalie said. "Or envy of one woman in particular. But 
crimes of jealousy are typically a matter of passion. The destruction 
takes place quickly because of the anger against the victim, not over 
years and years. Maybe the scarring has a ritualistic significance, 
instead."

     "But if the marks were part of a ritual, wouldn't there be a 
recognizable pattern? Script, symbols, or a specific arrangement of 
lines rather than layers of scars in random directions? And 
numbers." Clare grabbed Natalie's hand. "You said some of the 
wounds were likely to be over fifteen years old - how about nineteen 
years?"

     "The number in the chest? Yes, that's possible - but, Clare -"

     Natalie was cut off by her sire, who began planning aloud. "It 
won't hurt to look at the missing persons from nineteen years ago 
first. Maybe just the Toronto area - High Park even - the killer could 
be returning to the scene of the crime."

     "Clare?"

     "What, Natalie?"

     "In every case I've seen with numbers carved into the victim, 
there has been a meaning: a verse of scripture, a meaningful page in a 
literary work, a tally of those killed, or."

     "Or?"

     "Or a countdown."

     "Oh god! There's been another one!" Both women turned to stare 
at the man responsible for the exclamation.

     Natalie approached him with menace. "What do you mean 
'another one', Barney? Nothing like this has passed across my desk 
from anyone in this office."

     Barney rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. "Well, it was 
during that time you took off in mid-August. You had Grace send me 
out on the case - it was closed before you returned to work."

     Natalie was furious. "I was out for two days - how the hell could 
you close and report a case like this in two days?"

     Clare was immediately at her side, and placed a hand to calm her 
on one shoulder. "Natalie, I think you are overlooking an interesting 
issue here. How did Barney know with one look that this corpse and 
'the other one' were related?"

     "Why, the number, of course. The other was marked with a '20'."

     "Where's the body?" Natalie demanded.

     "Buried as a John Doe," Barney stammered.

     Clare and Natalie exchanged a perplexed look. "*John* Doe?"

     Barney nodded. "Yes."

     Clare approached the coroner's assistant with menace. "I have the 
distinct feeling your supervisor would like nothing better than to bite 
your head off right now, Barney. You don't want that, now do you?" 
Clare shook her head as a cue, a movement that Barney nervously 
echoed. "Good for you. You will get us your report, you will locate 
the body, and right now, you will sit and tell Dr. Lambert and I every 
single detail about the John Doe marked with a '20'."

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

     Nick saw Clare usher Natalie to her car and leave. He fought the 
urge to interrupt, to insist that *he* be the one to take Nat to the 
morgue. 

      Natalie could be stubborn - exquisitely so. When he noticed any 
hint of her faltering while she adjusted to being a vampire, Nat 
always became doubly determined to prove she could handle 
anything and everything. After tonight's events, Nat would become a 
one woman army in his presence - as warm and cuddly as Clare.
  
     Nick frowned. He admitted silently that he wasn't being objective 
where Clare was concerned. It had been easy damning and 
disbelieving her before she worked as his homicide partner. Clare had 
practically been a stranger then, hardly an acquaintance. LaCroix had 
introduced them in Vienna, and from the beginning, she'd seemed 
mockingly dismissive. 

     Her first words to him had been, "How do you do?" Her second 
words were, "You are brooding, Nicholas Chevalier. Stop it, or go away." 

     Nick caught himself grinning at the memory. It hadn't been funny 
at the time, but it seemed like a typical Clare moment. She had been 
teasing him, baiting him - he saw that now. She had wanted him to 
laugh or act insulted, not to acquiesce quietly and leave. 

     Nick felt a strange regret that leaving had been his choice. If he 
had stayed, he might know now whether she was a friend or foe, angel or devil, 
not some amorphous form spanning both states. If Nick understood Clare 
better, this worry about Natalie might not exist. 

     Or it might cripple him.

     Nick felt Schanke clap him on the shoulder and say he'd obtained 
all the names and addresses of the witnesses.

     "Have you looked at the tree where the body was found?" Nick asked.

     "Nope. I'm ready to mosey that way."

     It was a large oak tree, still decked with the broad, fleshy leaves of 
summer. A technician from forensics squatted on a branch roughly 
four meters from the ground, examining its bark with a magnifier.

     "Hey there," Schanke called. "Is that the branch where she was tied?"

     The tech was a fresh-faced young woman. Frighteningly young. 
She looked down from the branch with an eager smile. "Sure was. 
I've gotten some fiber samples," she added. "It looks like more 
standard hemp, though."

     Nick slowly walked in a circle around the base of the tree. He felt 
something familiar. A memory, a sensation, tugged at him, but 
refused to focus.

     "How was the body arranged?" he asked.

     "Like a cross - the arms were stretched straight along the branch 
and lashed to the surface. The rest of the body hung downwards."

     Schanke crouched and ran a gloved hand along the ground 
underneath the branch. "Was there any blood down here?"

     The tech shook her head. "Very little, and her incisions were 
hanging wide open."

     "So it stands to reason she was killed somewhere else."

      "Yeah," Schanke said. "Unless one of the soldier ghoulies that 
supposedly haunt this place laid her open with a bayonet and sucked 
her blood." Schanke glanced up and saw Nick giving him a strange 
look. "I'm kidding, Nick. Of course she was killed somewhere else."

     "Right, Schank." Nick turned away, realizing that he recognized a 
presence around this tree. It was someone he knew, and the feeling 
came too faintly to place, but that someone was a vampire.  

     Nick felt the alarm drift over him.  His thoughts broke off as the technician called down 
her opinion.

     "Yep. She was killed somewhere else - just like the other one."

     Nick and Schanke's heads jerked upwards simultaneously as they 
made their exclamation.

    "What *other* one?!?" 

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

 September 8, 1996

     Clare entered her hotel's elevator and sighed as she leaned against 
the paneling. She felt strangely...tired. Her nose wrinkled, and a 
small frown appeared at this idea. 

      she thought.  

     It was startling that a job of any sort could consume almost every 
one of her waking moments. That the murder of a couple mortals 
could actually trouble her was astounding. The latest series of 
homicides promised to be an emotional roller coaster, even for her.

     Tormenting Barney, the incompetent coroner, last night had been 
downright fun, especially since Natalie displayed some excellent 
intimidation skills. Clare almost believed that, with some 
encouragement on her part, Natalie felt furious enough to seize the 
man by the throat and enjoy her first kill. But 'almost' wasn't good 
enough.

     Clare would never admit to employing kindness, mercy, courage, 
or temperance in any of her affairs. This didn't mean she hadn't 
called on these traits at least once in her two-thousand-plus years, she 
simply refused to broadcast the event. Vices and virtues varied with 
the moment, so why claim any of them as a habit? 
     
     Clare did believe that any behavior, no matter how silly or 
mundane, eventually had an appropriate time to show itself. She 
currently played at being patient. She was waiting for Natalie to take 
that final leap into her vampire state. Clare wouldn't pressure her 
into killing, though it was important for Natalie to be capable of 
hunting to the death in case the need arose. Unless the issue became 
urgent, Clare wouldn't force it. From Natalie's reactions the night 
before, she doubted that patience would be needed for much longer.

     Of course, Natalie wasn't the only vampire who required patience. 
Nick had intercepted her in the parking lot as she arrived at the 
precinct this evening, looking extremely purposeful.

     "Did you feel anything at the crime scene last night?" he asked.

     "Feel what? Feel pretty? Feel the pain of the common man? Could 
you be more specific?"

      "Did you feel a presence of a vampire?" Nick's manner was 
urgent, so Clare began listen more closely.

     "You mean besides Natalie and yourself?" Clare asked. Nick 
nodded. "Of course. What of it?"

     "So it's possible the killer is a vampire."

     "It's also possible the killer isn't a vampire. What makes you 
think otherwise?"

     "I sensed a presence around the tree where the second victim's 
body appeared," Nick said. "I had a forensics technician show me 
where the first was discovered, near Grenadier, and I felt the same 
vampire."

     Clare brushed him aside and continued heading for the precinct 
steps. "Really, Nicholas. You're saying that any person who has 
wandered through High Park and around the pond in the past month 
is a suspect - which is hardly a brainstorm, I might add." She paused 
and turned back around to face him. "I mean, I fit that criteria." Nick 
gave Clare a pointed look, and she glared in return. "*Jennifer 
Schanke* fits that criteria. Is she a suspect, too?"

     "Come on, Clare. Be serious."

     "I am being serious. You know perfectly well that High Park is a 
hunting ground. A little illicit feeding hidden behind an oak tree, 
some sipping camouflaged by the brush around the pond - these are 
common occurrences. I dare say that almost every vampire in the 
Toronto community, except yourself, has indulged there at least 
once." At Nick's hard stare, she continued. "I'm not saying you 
didn't perceive a vampire at the crime scenes, Nick. I'm just being 
practical. There's no concrete proof that a vampire has anything to do 
with this."

     "Yet." She released an aggravated sigh at his insistence and 
started up the precinct steps. Nick called after her. "What if we do get 
proof that one of us is the culprit? What then, Clare?"

     That was emotionally unsettling. She turned around slowly, her 
pupils cold and deadly. Descending the steps, until Nick and she were 
face to face, Clare spoke emphatically. "Let me make one thing 
completely clear: vampire or mortal, this person is *not* 'one of us'."

     Then they both headed for the station entrance. Nick reached the 
door first and held it open for her. She was annoyed by the polite 
gesture, and he knew it. Neither vampire said a word.

     Schanke was brimming with news when they arrived. "If you hear 
any loud popping sounds, it's one of the Captain's blood vessels. 
He's ringing a peal over Carter and Delany right now."

     Captain Reese had been understandably upset to hear the rookies 
had done such a poor job handling the initial case  Most importantly 
though, the Captain was furious that any detective's shoddy work 
had made it past his desk and into a closed file. The fact that the case 
in question appeared to be part of serial killings on his watch only 
compounded his temper.

     "Remember how Carter and Delany said they closed the book on 
Number Twenty because no one in the Missing Persons files remotely 
matched the stats on the threadbare coroner's report?" Schanke said.

     "Careful, Schanke." Clare leaned against their desks. "I wouldn't 
use the phrase 'threadbare coroner's report' once Natalie arrives if I 
were you."

     Nick was curious. "So what did *you* find, Schank?"

     "That Blunder and Blunderer only checked the *open* Missing 
Persons files. Once I picked my jaw off the floor at this little tidbit, I 
searched through the closed files using the guidelines Natalie faxed 
over."

     When Clare left the morgue just before dawn, Natalie was still 
reconstructing details from the fragmented case report that Barney 
had performed on the first victim. There were only a handful of 
photos, few tissue samples had been taken, and Barney's notes were 
less than sketchy. 

     Natalie did feel strongly positive that the scarring on Number 
Twenty, though not as severe as Number Nineteen, easily spanned 
the same period of time. Until she had a chance to get her hands on 
the original body, Natalie wanted the search for the first victim's 
identity to focus on cases from 1976, then work through more recent 
years. She gave Schanke similar instructions concerning the second 
victim, but starting with the year 1977.

     "Most of the cases from 1976 were closed because police found 
and identified a body. Only eight were declared legally dead without 
a corpse. Three of these would be well over sixty by now so I set 
them aside. Only two of those remaining are male." Schanke held a 
folder aloft in each hand and waved them about. "Guess which one of 
our lucky contestants gets tested against Number Twenty by Natalie 
first?"

     "I'll bite," Nick answered. "Both victims were kept alive for years 
before they were slaughtered. Maybe the time is significant. The day  
the killer finishes with them could be an anniversary of when the 
victim was taken. For the first case, that date would be August 18th."

     "Bingo!" Schanke opened one file, displaying a photo of an 
arrogant-looking  man in his early thirties to Clare and Nick. "He 
went missing on August 18, 1976. William Hyatt, you've just won 
an all-expenses-paid trip to the Coroner's Office!"

     Clare did not jump up and celebrate. "What about the second 
victim?"

     Schanke turned to Nick with beleaguered eyes, making him break 
out in a grin. "Some people are never satisfied."

     "Some people are curious," she insisted. "Since you still have that 
goofy, smug expression, I'd say you found something."

     Schanke set a pile of folders in front of her. "Four possibilities, 
two that disappeared on September 7, 1977."

     Clare opened the files to look at their portraits. One was an 
attractive brunette named Sandra Morgan. The other woman's name 
was Evelyn Prescott. It was on her photo that the detectives centered 
their attention.

     "She's beautiful," Nick commented.

     "Was beautiful. Whether she's our victim or not," Schanke said 
while he walked over to the water cooler, slammed the top of the jug 
with one hand, and poured a drink. "odds are the lady is very dead."

     "Some of us hold up rather well," Clare murmured under her 
voice. Aloud, she said, "Still, it's progress."

     "Not necessarily." Natalie approached, looking haggard and 
unhappy. "I arranged for John Doe's body to be exhumed and 
brought to the morgue this afternoon. The body I received was an 
elderly woman with no evident scarring - in other words, not our 
victim's."

     "That's not your fault though, Nat," Nick said, moving to stand 
next to her.

     "No, technically it's not. Apparently, there was a mix-up on the 
other end." Natalie rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Now we can't 
exhume without completing the proper paperwork, and we can't 
complete the proper paperwork without attaching the matching 
coroner's report. My staff is sorting through all of the August files for 
the woman's report as I speak while I struggle to come up with some 
excuses for my supervisor that make me appear less incompetent."

     Schanke gave a perplexed frown. "I don't get it. The gravedigger 
tips our guy in the wrong hole, and it's your fault? What's wrong 
with this picture?"

     "Natalie's just saying that being associated with this new mistake 
makes her office look even worse after her other recent problems," 
Clare explained.

     "Oh," Schanke said. "You mean with the body snatching."

     "And having an incomplete, closed report from her office re-
opened to investigate this serial killer," Nick added.

     "Then having to return, hat in hand, and say 'Oops - I didn't get 
the right body, and I'm not sure where it is.' That must be rather 
embarrassing," Clare said.

     "Well, gee. Thanks." Natalie glared at the three of them. "With 
you guys around to give such a positive outlook on my career, how 
could I possibly feel bad?"

     Nick put an arm around her shoulder and gave Natalie a quick 
kiss on the cheek. "Sorry, Nat. Still, did you hear? Schanke's found 
possibles for both victims. You can still do a dental match on the 
second."

     Clare grinned and laced her next words with sarcasm. "See, 
Natalie? You have something fun to look forward to."

     Natalie groaned playfully. "Speaking of the second victim - I've 
gotten the lab results back."

     "Let `er rip," Schanke said.

     "Basically, I found mild to severe signs of every nutritional 
deficiency possible: anemia, low bone density, scurvy, dry corneas 
and partial blindness - you name it. From the degree of atrophied 
muscle, I'd say she was lucky if she could stand near the end. I would 
say that the killer knew how to barely keep her alive and kept her just 
over the edge."

     "A practically comatose victim would have been easier to control. 
This could be strategic on the killer's part." Clare looked Nick 
steadily in the eyes as she spoke her next words. "After all, the 
murderer is also growing older. He or she would be less able to 
handle a struggling victim."

     Nick's voice was stubborn as he responded, "It might have just 
been part of the torture. If the killer abuses the victims for pleasure, 
leaving them constantly famished just might add to the sadistic 
enjoyment."

     "You've irresponsibly assumed that the killer is doing this for 
fun." Clare stopped leaning against Schanke's desk, but wrapped 
both of her hands tightly around its edge. "It is eminently probable 
that there is a serious psychological reason behind these murders."

     "Yes. Like a God complex," Nick retorted, moving his arm from 
around Natalie's shoulder. "Someone who has thrown away all 
respect for human life and revels in its destruction."

     Schanke ran his index finger under his collar. "Is it just me, or is 
there waaay too much tension in the room?"

     "O-kay. That's enough glaring at each other for one evening." 
Natalie put one hand on Clare's arm and one hand on Nick's. "You 
go to your corner, and you go to yours. And no more fighting."

     Clare stuck her tongue out at them all, which only served to prove 
that any behavior, no matter how silly or mundane, eventually had its 
moment.

      The elevator reached her floor while she still mulled over these 
memories. Clare casually walked to her suite, gradually feeling the 
presence of her invited guest grow stronger. Opening her front door 
revealed Vachon, propped up on the sofa and singing something in a 
low voice to the purring feline curled on his chest.

     "Don't let me stop you," Clare said when Vachon broke off the 
song at the sound of her entrance.

     He frowned self-consciously. "I wasn't paying attention. I didn't 
feel your approach."

     Clare knelt by the sofa and scratched Carmen under the chin. 
"Then it's a good thing I wasn't the Inka, after your head."

     Vachon looked befuddled. "But that's over. I told you so - 
remember?"

     Clare contemplated him solemnly, letting Nicholas' theory of a 
vampire killer continue to bedevil her thoughts. "How well do you 
sense the others, Vachon?"

     "What do you mean?" He sat up, causing Carmen to wail 
indignantly at the slight disturbance. The cat bounded off of Javier's 
lap and chose to rub against Clare's legs instead.

     "When Screed became ill with the fever, did you feel his pain 
when you were apart?"

     Vachon shook his head, shadows of the past falling over his 
features. "No, only when I was with him," He thought for a moment, 
then said, "I remember when Figaro died - I felt his screams."

     "Really?" Clare appeared perplexed. "I thought that I was the 
only one. Maybe it was the violence, the suddenness, that called out 
to you."

     "And I remember when The Inka carried that bomb into the sky. I 
could feel him fly and let it go. I sensed the explosion as it scorched 
his skin, then I felt him soar away, growing more and more distant, 
until there was nothing." Vachon's eyes glazed slightly as he became 
lost in the memory.

     "What about non-family? Have you ever entered a roomful of 
people and sensed another vampire was present?" Carmen had 
entertained herself while the vampires talked by sniffing the day's 
smells that had accumulated on Clare's shoes. After a few minutes, 
the odors were catalogued, and the feline leapt once more atop the 
couch to demand Vachon's attention.

     "Yes." He lifted the fuzzy form into his lap and buried his fingers 
into the fur behind the cat's ears. Carmen blinked appreciatively. 
"All the time at the Raven." Clare didn't appear impressed. "And 
other, less obvious places where I wasn't expecting it."

     She nodded and took her questions a step further. "Have you ever 
entered an empty room and known a vampire had been there before you?"

     He shook his head, beginning to feel uncomfortably like these 
questions were a test, all essay, and he was failing. "Only if they just 
left. Like when I arrived here tonight, I couldn't tell if you'd been 
here the day before or not. Why do you want to know? What are you 
getting at, Clare?"

     She let out an exasperated sigh as she leaned her head against the 
base of one of  the sofa's arms. "I don't know. I'm too old. I take 
these skills for granted and forget just how long it took for them to 
develop. When you get to be my age, a vampire's presence can 
almost be a signature. For example, when I first arrived in Toronto, I 
went to the Raven. It was deserted, but I knew Nicholas and LaCroix 
well enough to recognize that they'd met there recently."

     "You mean like a scent, a perfume, that sensation thing becomes 
clearer the more familiar you are with the owner?"

    Clare nodded. "Exactly. With family the sense can become very 
strong. That's how I could tell you were in danger here, even though 
I was thousands of miles away in Kenya. As for non-relatives, the 
talent grows stronger with age and practice until it can be almost as 
powerful as a blood bond."

    A naughty light appeared in Vachon's eyes.  "Oh, yeah? So 
where's LaCroix right now? He's old and familiar."

     "Oh, Javier, you should know better than to tease the elderly. We 
might get cranky and break something - like you. Besides, I said 
'almost.'" Clare fidgeted and changed the subject. "I'm trying to 
decide whether or not I should listen to Nicholas - that's what got me 
on this topic. I must be insane to even consider humoring him."

      "About what?"

      "About two murders that appeared in High Park. Nicholas thinks 
a vampire is behind them." Clare rose from her seat to get a bottle of 
blood from behind the suite's bar.

     "Any fang marks?" Carmen sneezed. Vachon tsked and began 
murmuring Spanish sweet nothings in the feline's ears. Carmen 
appeared to appreciate them greatly.

     "Nope. He just says 'he felt someone.'" Clare found two glasses 
and sprung the bottle's cork.

     Vachon grinned. "He felt a vampire in High Park, and he's 
worried? That guy's gotta get out more. But you didn't invite me 
here to talk about police work, did you, Clare? What's up?"

     Clare gestured about the suite, a glass filled with ruby liquid in 
each hand. "This place. I don't want to stay here any longer than 
necessary, and I need your help to escape." She handed one of the 
glasses to Vachon, then took a seat next to him on the sofa. "Let me 
elaborate."

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

September 9, 1996

     Ivy debated the pros and cons of staying at the Raven. Cecilia had 
wandered off somewhere - that was a pro. Domino had disappeared 
as well - that was a con. Ivy was pretty lonely, bored, and put out that 
the siblings hadn't lingered long enough to hear her brilliant plan to 
rescue the House of Figaro.

     The design firm needed someone overflowing with talent, style 
and direction to save them from bankruptcy as well as looking 
incompetent. Ivy was overwhelmed with joy at her idea for their 
fashion savior - Janette. The woman had exquisite taste. Janette 
would be perfect, if she was at all interested.

     Ivy wanted to pat herself on the back, but she couldn't reach. It 
was rather bogus to be a supernatural creature, yet not have 
supernatural flexibility. Ivy grinned to herself, and decided to 
approach the bar.

     Her feet stilled after a few steps. Ivy felt a tingle of anticipation 
rustle through her as she saw Javier Vachon seated there. Over 
two weeks had passed since their introductory encounter. Missing out 
on getting to know this dark stranger better had been her only regret 
after she fled the club with Janette. Given a chance to relive the 
choice between the woman's friendship and a new flirtation, however, Ivy was 
positive she'd go with Janette all over again.

     That didn't mean she hadn't thought about him. She'd wondered 
where Vachon might be and what he might be doing on those nights 
when she'd returned to the Raven. She felt excited, almost triumphant 
at the sight of him after so many nights of disappointment.

     But he wasn't alone. There was a woman seated by Javier Vachon 
at the bar, and they laughed as though they were friends. Ivy slipped 
backwards into the shadows near the alcove where the club owner 
had a sound booth and observed the pair.

     She was beautiful - Ivy was sure of this even though she could 
only see the woman from the back. She was fairly tall when 
compared to Vachon, at least a dozen centimeters taller than Ivy 
herself. She wore a long crepe dress the shade of caffe latte that left 
her lithe back bare. Her hair was neither red, brunette, or blonde, but 
some impossible blending of all three, wound in a knot at the nape of 
her neck.  There existed something in the way she held herself, a 
confidence, a regality, that spoke to Ivy. Vachon's expression as he 
talked with the woman spoke volumes - whoever the lady was, she 
was rich in body and soul.

     Ivy took another step back in reflex and brushed up against a solid 
form. Distracted from the couple at the bar, she groaned inwardly, 
 

     She turned to apologize, but at her first movement Ivy felt a steely 
grip seize her arm and jerk her around. She looked up, and up some 
more, only to meet the angry stare of the club's owner. 

      she thought, her eyes widening in sudden panic like a 
cornered rabbit's. 

     Now he was studying the jewelry wound about her upper right 
arm. His fingers squeezed into the flesh above her elbow. Ivy was 
startled to feel pain.

     "This bracelet - where did you get it?"  When Ivy didn't respond 
right away, LaCroix shook her fiercely and raised his voice. "Tell me!"

      Her first instinct was to say anything, to tell everything she knew 
on the off-chance that he might let her go. But to spill everything 
meant talking about Janette, and her friend had asked nothing more 
of Ivy but silence. A fragile sense of loyalty wrapped around her 
clammy heart as she tried to lift her chin with pride. "I found it. What 
do you care?"

      Ivy saw the rage flare in LaCroix's eyes, and her thoughts fell into 
anarchy again. 

      He closed his other hand about her throat, reasoning aloud with a 
cold intensity. "You see, I once gave that bracelet as a gift. It is one 
of a kind, and since the original owner is no longer among the living, 
you will tell me how it came into your possession. Speak up - or I 
might become unpleasant."

     Ivy's mind clarified at those words. <*Become* unpleasant? Oh 
god.>

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

     Something over Clare's shoulder caught Vachon's attention. "Uh-
oh." He set his wineglass down on the bar. "I've just found a way 
you can repay me for your favor, Clare."

     She raised an eyebrow, scoffing, "Repay you? You haven't done a 
speck of work yet, Javier."

     "No, this isn't a jest. Remember how you told me to find a nice 
vampire girl to play with?"

     "Well, I think the actual verb I used was 'seduce', but, yes, I 
remember."

     "Good," Vachon motioned with a nod that Clare should look at 
the scene playing out behind her back. "Because it looks like LaCroix 
is preparing to decapitate my prime candidate - rescue her, okay?"

     Clare observed LaCroix clutching the girl by the arm. "She's a 
little thing - pretty, though. I wonder what she's done to irritate him?"

     Vachon's arguing became more urgent, "Well, if you go over 
there and break it up - I'll wager one of them will tell you."

     Clare grinned wickedly as she watched the girl visibly shrink 
under the force of LaCroix's temper. "You'll wager what?"

     "You know," Vachon's voice contained a suspicion of censure. 
"You're the cause of LaCroix's foul mood of late. If the thought of 
giving a damn about him didn't turn you into such a coward, I 
wouldn't have a problem for you to fix right now."

     She snapped her head around and glared at the Spaniard, all sign 
of humor gone. "I could make your little playmate's peril become the 
least of your problems." Clare eyed Vachon stonily for a few more 
seconds. "But you're right." She released a tiny, petulant sigh as she 
rose from her seat. "I hate it when that happens - don't do it again." 
She now squinted studiously at her new quarry. "What's the girl's 
name? Who's her sire?"

     "Her name's Ivy, just Ivy. I don't know who her sire is, but she's 
working as Cecilia and Domino's new designer."

     Clare let out a groan and smacked Vachon on the chest. "Why 
didn't you mention that in the first place? Honestly, Javier - the girl's 
already connected with our family, not just an object of lust on your 
part - of course I'll take care of it. Wait right here," she ordered, then 
moved purposefully across the room where LaCroix had Ivy by the 
throat.

     Vachon's lips spread in a small, but satisfied grin. He wasn't 
going anywhere. Clare didn't need him.

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

     Ivy wasn't ashamed that she was scared or intimidated. She was 
pretty certain she was supposed to be scared and intimidated. In fact, 
Ivy believed she was responding with an uncanny depth of sincere panic appropriate to the situation. What ashamed Ivy were the thoughts of giving in, of blurting out that she'd received the bracelet from Janette herself, that grew stronger with each passing second.

      Bitter words sang in her head.  Ivy  
squeezed her eyes shut, as if that action would provide escape, though 
it never had before.

     "Really, Lucius, the girl is one of us - it's too late to scare her to 
death."

     LaCroix relaxed his hold on her arm and throat at the first sound of 
the woman's teasing voice. Ivy let her eyes flutter open. From the 
dress, the hair, and the confidence, Ivy knew this was the woman who 
sat with Vachon at the bar. The woman looked her up and down, then 
met her gaze for just a moment before focusing it on LaCroix. 

     "Tell me - what has little Ivy done to bother you so? I could 
always use a few fresh ideas."

     Ivy knew she looked befuddled. Not only did this woman know 
her name, she sounded as though she actually took pleasure in 
tormenting LaCroix. The stranger was beautiful and very nervy, but 
also a little insane.

     LaCroix let go of Ivy completely, sounding frighteningly 
reasonable as he replied, "She has a bracelet that I gave to Janette. I 
would like to know where it came from." He frowned in Ivy's 
direction once more, causing her a frisson of worry.  "I wasn't aware 
you two were...acquaintances?"  Both Ivy and LaCroix looked at the 
woman then, curious to hear her response.

     "Ivy is a designer at Figaro's studio. She found the bracelet there 
rummaging through some old samples. I didn't think there would be 
any harm in Ivy keeping it, but then I didn't know it was Janette's. I 
suppose she left or lost it there before leaving Toronto."

     Ivy was impressed. This woman was a highly skilled liar, so much 
so that Ivy felt drawn into the make-believe.

     "I seem to recall Janette being instrumental in encouraging Figaro 
to expand his business here," LaCroix admitted. "She, no doubt, spent 
quite a bit of time there."

     "No doubt." The woman flashed a winning smile. "I'm sure that, 
if the jewelry has some *significance* to you, Ivy wouldn't mind 
relinquishing it." 

     But she *would* mind, so Ivy experienced a second's panic which 
faded as LaCroix replied, "That won't be necessary. My only question 
is, with such an innocuous explanation, why were you so reluctant to 
tell it, Ivy?" Once more, LaCroix was staring at her, his piercing blue 
eyes surely capable of looking straight into Ivy's soul. She blurted 
the first bad thing she could think of.

     "Cecilia." Ivy said the name loud and with feeling. "I thought it 
might be Cecilia's, and I didn't want her to find out. I should have 
known better."

     "Yes, you should have," the stranger murmured. "Cecilia doesn't 
have that much taste." Ivy couldn't help but grin at that comment. 
This woman *definitely* knew Cecilia. The stranger continued 
speaking. "Is there anything else, Lucius? Vachon's waiting for Ivy 
at the bar."

     "No," LaCroix said. "I'm through...with her."

     At that cue, Ivy stepped away from the two vampires. "Then I 
guess I'm off to the bar...to meet Vachon." The woman grinned and 
gave her a little wave, then Ivy turned and hot-footed it away from there.

     Vachon was leaning against the counter rail, looking just a tad too 
smug. Ivy wanted to fume at the thought of him waiting here without 
a care in the world, whereas she'd just been through the wringer, but 
her sense of relief was too great.

     She deflated onto a stool, announcing, "I have learned something 
from this escapade."

     Vachon motioned for the bartender to bring her a drink. "What's 
that?"

     Ivy accepted a glass of blood-wine with a soft `thanks', then said, 
"In the world of vampires, I am just a guppy, and those two." Ivy, 
as she sneaked a peek back in the direction of the sound booth,  
spotted LaCroix and the woman moving away. "are barracudas."

     Vachon laughed. "So what does that make me?"

     "I don't know - a bass?" With that flippant remark, she grinned 
and took a sip.

     Vachon's forehead wrinkled. "Are you saying I have a big mouth?"

     "If you don't like that one, which fish would you like to be, Javier 
Vachon?"

     "That may require some thought - I'll get back to you."

     Ivy gave him a `you can't be serious' look. "Who was that woman?"

     He appeared somewhat surprised. "I thought you might've 
guessed. That was Clare."

      Ivy's eyes widened with comprehension. "Ah."

     "Ah," Vachon echoed. "So...just to satisfy my idle curiosity - why 
was LaCroix choking you?"

     Ivy gestured to the silver that entwined her arm. "He recognized 
this bracelet and wanted to know where I got it."

     "And?" Ivy felt a gentle tug on her will at his soft-spoken prompt.

     "And I promised someone not to talk about it." Her frustration 
shone through her voice as she fiddled with her drink, then she turned 
her uncertain gaze to  Vachon. "I've made very few promises in the 
past. I just would *really* love to not screw this one up."

     His brown eyes were unreadable. That made Ivy unsure of his 
reaction, until he lifted his glass for a toast. "In that case, here's to 
promises kept."

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

     Waving goodbye to Ivy, Clare turned her attention back to 
LaCroix with an innocent smile. He wasn't fooled.

     "You've never seen that girl before, have you?" he drawled.

      Clare tried to appear insulted. "You're calling me a liar, Lucius? 
- and to my face no less. Even if it were true, though you would never 
catch me admitting guilt for such a notion, it's downright impolite of 
you to make the suggestion." As she spoke, Clare stood next to him 
with her right arm brushed against his left. "I ought to punish you," 
she whispered.

     LaCroix lifted her hand to his chest and held it there with his own. 
"I look forward to it with the greatest anticipation."

     Clare's face lit with laughter. "You would." She nodded toward 
her snared fingers. "Apparently I'm a captive audience - whatever 
will you do with me?"

     LaCroix didn't answer her, choosing to pull Clare after him as he 
headed for the private rooms. He released her hand once they were 
alone. When he finally spoke, it was a simple question. "Why are 
you here, Clare?"

     Her face became marred by mild wariness. "Do I have to have an 
ulterior motive?"

     "If you do, your strategy eludes me. It's curious how you arrive so 
suddenly on the scene ready to captivate and seduce your audience," 
LaCroix strolled to the divan, sat, and looked at Clare expectantly.  
"Then you just as abruptly decide to leave, retreat...run away." 
These words were delivered in a mocking drawl. "I don't know 
whether to find your behavior endlessly diverting or affronting."

     Clare moved to stand before him with her hands loosely planted 
on her hips. "I wager Switzerland that you lean toward being 
affronted. That way you get to gnash your teeth, give furious scowls, 
and intimidate the populace in general."

     "I don't need an excuse to do that," LaCroix countered.

     "I don't suppose you do," she muttered softly. Looking at him 
speculatively, Clare continued speaking. "Why would you find my 
behavior insulting, Lucius? Do you care because you see it as some 
form of rejection?"

     He reached up and pulled her into his lap by the waist. Clare 
didn't resist, letting her forearm rest on one of his shoulders while she 
used the other to toy with his jacket lapels. She was more interested 
in his reply than where she sat or stood. "When have I ever asked 
anything personal of you, my dear? In all these centuries, I've made 
no requests, never sought the slightest favor...What have I ever 
offered you to reject?"

     "Your silence." She felt a surge of fierce pride stiffen her features. 
Clare was thankful that she had enough composure to conceal how 
his words stung. LaCroix had truly never asked her to stay, go, or any 
variation in between, and it was galling to have him remind her of 
this fact. Yes, she rejected his silence, just as she rejected her own 
honest emotions. "That's why I left London. That's why I've stayed 
away these past months. You never have anything to offer. I can 
refuse to accept that." His eyes had perceptibly narrowed when she 
mentioned London. She'd hit a nerve and experienced a sadistic 
satisfaction at the thought.

     "Yet you continue to come back, Clare. You are here now, in my 
arms." LaCroix ran his fingers slowly up the exposed skin of her 
back, then unwound her hair when he reached the top. He let one 
hand  roam down her spine again, while the other became entangled 
at the nape of her neck. A wicked light dawned in his blue eyes as he 
pressed Clare's body closer against his own. "You lack sufficient 
resolve to resist the temptation of this."

     His lips found hers in a mingling of cool breaths and soft touches. 
Clare kissed him back, urging deeper contact as she wondered about 
what she wanted to do. She saw two options that would cater to her 
self-esteem. She could get up right now and walk out of the room, out 
of the Raven, even out of Toronto, but LaCroix was right - sooner or 
later, be it one year or a hundred - she would find herself in this 
position once more. It was where she wanted to be.

     Her desire pointed to the other option: make love to him, but make 
sure she got the upper hand.

     Clare trailed her mouth along his left jaw until her lips hovered 
over his ear. Her voice was low, husky, as she demanded, "What 
made this compulsion, Lucius? This need between us? Tell me." She 
paused to tug on his earlobe with her teeth, then traced the tip of her 
tongue down the vein of his throat.

     LaCroix let out a ragged breath of pleasure as he felt her suck at 
the flesh over his jugular without breaking the skin. Feeling his 
prized control slipping away, he pushed her away by the shoulders, 
then cradled Clare's face in his hands. Their glowing eyes met, 
shining like signal flares. "You made the need. This indelible torture, 
this passionate havoc,  is a reflection of the sight of you. Your skin -  
a maze of light and shadow, your eyes -  a vault of secrets, and your 
lips, your lovely equivocating lips would make a siren mute in 
comparison. More than that, you are aware of these treasures,  
marshaling them with an intricate dominion that leaves a man too 
dizzy to resist."

     Clare eased LaCroix's palms from her face and leaned forward 
again. "Then neither one of us can fight this temptation." Turning her 
attention once more to his throat, she began to urgently tug on the 
buttons at his collar.

     LaCroix brought one of her wrists to his mouth as Clare's fangs 
broke through his skin. They mutually fed, sharing in the rapture as 
they experienced a simultaneous idea.

     

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

September 11, 1996

     Ivy gradually came awake, paused, then suddenly bolted up in 
bed. "What time is it?"

     Her exclamation dragged Vachon abruptly into consciousness, 
and he rubbed his eyes groggily. "Mmm...no clue. There's a clock 
around here somewhere."

      Ivy did a quick survey of the room. There was a fair amount of 
clutter: boxes, books, papers, cat toys, clothes (some of them her 
own), but no clock. "What does it look like?"

      He lifted his head from the mattress just long enough to shrug. 
"Like a clock. Minnie Mouse is on the front. Listen for the tick."

     Ivy took a few moments to catch the sound before rolling out of  
bed for her clock search. "Minnie Mouse, huh?"  Moving across the 
floor, she caught her foot on one of Vachon's shirts, picked it up and 
slipped it on. "Do you have a cap with those cute little ears and 
'Javier' stitched on the front, too?"

     Vachon let out a snort, causing Ivy to turn her head and give him 
a wink. "It used to belong to a carouche friend of mine," he said.

     "Carouche? Remind me to never play Scrabble against you." Ivy 
stopped before a large walnut cabinet, opened its doors and revealed 
a number of drawers. "Is that word foreign? Let me guess - it's a 
Russian adjective meaning 'lover of cartoons'."  She pulled out the 
third drawer from the bottom and buried her hands in its contents. 
Noticing that Vachon hadn't answered, she turned around again, 
catching him observing her curiously. "What? My definition wasn't 
close, was it?"

     "You really haven't been around many vampires, have you?"

     Ivy's hands continued to dig through the drawer while she 
answered. "A month ago, I hadn't been around any. No, wait - I 
guess my sire counts, but I wasn't sober at the time. Otherwise, it was 
almost sixteen years of nothing but mortals. A-ha!" Ivy triumphantly 
produced a red, enamel alarm clock, then strolled back to the bed. 
"It's going on five. I have plenty of time before my appointment at 
eight."  She sat indian-style on the mattress, facing Vachon. 
"So...what's the vampire-y  meaning of 'carouche' ?"

     His voice was matter-of-fact as he explained. "It's a vampire 
whose first kill isn't human. They end up craving the blood of 
another type of animal. My friend preferred rodents."

     Ivy laughed in delight. "Hence Minnie on the clock. That's 
choice! Which reminds me, I had a Han Solo wristwatch a few years 
after I came across. I wonder what I did with it?"

     "I think I should mention that carouche aren't always held in the 
highest regard." Vachon continued to watch Ivy steadily to judge her 
reaction. "They've been described as a lower form of vampire."

     "I'm not surprised," she said. Ivy's eyes widened into a glare as 
she saw Vachon begin to frown. "What? I may not have been around 
many vampires, but even *I* have noticed the in-fighting and 
snobbery. I don't have a problem with Screed eating..." Ivy appeared 
momentarily startled. "Where did that thought come from?" She 
wondered for a few seconds, then announced with excitement. "You 
brought him across. Screed is your carouche friend!"

      Vachon grinned at her obvious delight with that knowledge. 
"Yes, he was."

     Ivy's brow furrowed as she pored over her new memories. "A 
disease broke out here that could infect vampires. You were both 
sick, and Screed died. You buried him by the water. Dirt was 
everywhere. It pushed into your chest and filled your mouth, but you 
couldn't move. You could feel it though - dirt everywhere, water 
leaching from above, the abandonment, the hunger - you're starving!"

     Vachon saw how deeply Ivy was falling into the memories, sat up 
quickly, and shook her lightly for attention. "Ivy? Ivy - let it go." He 
watched her disturbed gaze meet his and gave an encouraging smile. 
"It's just the blood knowledge, nothing to freak about."

     She nodded, commenting with a self-deprecating grin. "I know, I 
know, but I've never experienced the memories of another vampire 
before. It's kind of...different...it feels more...complicated. Do 
these sensations fade as quickly as those from mortals?"

     Vachon stacked some pillows to lean against, wrapped an arm 
around her, and Ivy snuggled up to his side. "Almost. You know, I 
didn't think I would pass on my burial. There are some things you 
don't want to dump on other people, and I thought I could hold that 
one back."

     "Really?" Ivy drawled. "How much do you need to keep secret, 
Jav? Maybe you have a secret addiction to Danielle Steel novels that 
I should know about?"

     "No."

     Ivy giggled at the sincerity in his voice. "Okay...but there must be 
something that absolutely no one else is supposed to find out about -" 
Her mouth dropped open in sudden horror. "Wait a second...if I 
learned about Screed and the burial from your blood, then you..."

     He kissed her frowning lips. "I was wondering how long it would 
take for you to catch on to that. Yes, I picked up a few things," 
Vachon grinned mischievously. "like who gave you the bracelet, and 
where you're meeting her later."

     Ivy let out a long groan. "No! I wasn't supposed to breathe a 
word to anyone!" She covered her face with her hands. "What am I 
going to say to her? She'll hate me."

    "Hey - it's not as if you *knew* you were telling me," Vachon 
reasoned calmly. "Relax. Besides, what do I care if Janette's back in 
town?"

     "Do you know her?"

     "I talked with her a couple of times before she handed the Raven 
over to LaCroix. I wouldn't say I really know her. Do you?"

     "Yes, I do. She's really helped me since I arrived here. We're 
friends. That's why I'm meeting her tonight - Janette's doing me a 
favor."

     "So if you're really friends, she'll get over the slip. And if not..." 
Vachon's expression seemed to say 'then who needs her?'

     Inwardly, Ivy answered,   Outwardly, she forced herself to 
cheer up. "If you know everything about me from my blood," she 
joked. "how come you haven't run screaming from the room?"   

     "Because that's an exaggeration. There's still plenty that I have to 
learn."

     "There is?" Ivy felt slightly giddy from the predatory look he was 
sending her way.

     "Uh-huh. I haven't seen you on the back of my motorcycle yet." 
Ivy feigned a gasp of surprise at Vachon's words. "That's right. It is 
terrible. You can fix it by letting me give you a ride to Janette's." 

      "Alright, but if I'm sitting behind you on the bike, how will you 
see me riding it? Wouldn't you love to know if I can operate one, 
too?"

    "You mean, would I mind wrapping my arms around your waist," 
Vachon proceeded to demonstrate his description for Ivy's benefit 
and pulled her to sit between his legs, "holding you tightly against 
me, so close it seems as though we've become one body, then just 
letting you roar?" Vachon's smile was devastating as he murmured 
in her ear. "I don't have a problem with that."

      She gave a throaty chuckle and kept talking with him over one 
shoulder. "I'm sure I'll find some reward for your noble sacrifice."

     He ran a hand just under the hem of his shirt that she wore. "In 
that case, maybe I should mention that I also don't know what you 
look like in the rest of my clothes." He blinked innocently. "Just a 
suggestion."

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

     Janette slammed the door shut after Ivy, her eyes filled with rage. 
"What were you thinking? How could you let another of our kind 
bring you here?"

     "I'm sorry," Ivy said, her voice soft and earnest. "I've gotten to 
know him over the past couple of days. For the first time since I 
became a vampire, I've been flirting with someone where I knew I 
wouldn't kill them at the end of the date. It's been so exciting, so 
liberating,  and then last night things kind of..." She noticed Janette's 
ferocious glare and decided to skip to the punchline. "My point is, I 
wasn't aware that we could learn from vampire blood, too. Had I 
realized he could find out anything, I never would have let Vachon 
feed from me."

      "And what did he find out?" Janette's question came in an 
undeniably threatening tone.

     "That you're in town, and that I had a meeting here tonight."

     "And Patrick? Does he know about him or Robert?" Janette 
demanded, beginning to pace about the hall.

     "I don't know." Hearing Janette's furious exclamation, Ivy tried 
to reassure her. "Javier understands how important it was to me to 
guard your privacy. He won't say anything to anyone, and since I'm 
not going to the Raven anymore, there's nothing to worry about."

     That statement caught the other woman off-guard. "Why aren't 
you visiting the Raven?"

      "Because I had a problem there a few nights ago." Ivy felt a 
touch of panic return from simply recalling the incident. "I was 
wearing the bracelet you gave me, and LaCroix took exception."

     Janette's anger seemed to melt, and sympathy took its place. "Oh, 
ma petite, how did it happen?"

     "I was in the club contemplating whether I should leave for the 
night when I spotted Vachon. I wasn't paying attention to where I 
stepped, and I collided with LaCroix. He saw the bracelet, and 
immediately he was furious. He demanded to know where I got it, 
and one of the first brilliant answers I came up with was 'what do 
you care?' "

     Janette appeared a trifle ill. "That was not a good answer at all. 
Vraiment, it was a horrible choice."

     "I know that *now*," Ivy confided ruefully, and Janette took her 
hand. "He became doubly enraged and started choking me. I didn't 
think that there was any way I would get away."

     "But something happened that gave you the opportunity, non?"

     Ivy nodded. "Yes. Vachon got an older vampire friend to 
intervene on my behalf. We managed to make up this story about 
how I found the jewelry at Figaro Newton's studio, and it turned out 
to be plausible enough that LaCroix let me go."

     Janette wrapped an arm around the younger woman, and they 
walked to the study. "I can see why you are not so eager to press your 
luck by returning to the club, though frankly, I do not comprehend 
why LaCroix placed so much importance on the bracelet in the first 
place." There was a large mahogany desk covered with drawings and 
a sketchbook toward one side of the room. She turned to face Ivy and 
leaned against it. "I remember that I was upset when he gave it to me. 
He intended the pearls to distract me from my mood, but they were 
not successful." Janette toyed with one of the illustrations while she 
puzzled over LaCroix's reaction. "There was never any sentimentality 
associated with the gift. I do not understand why he was angry."

     Ivy nodded, perplexed as well. "Another strange thing...LaCroix 
talked about you as though you were dead."

     "That would be because LaCroix believes that I am dead."

     Ivy overflowed with questions at Janette's revelation. "That's why 
you're hiding, isn't it? Did he try to destroy you? Does LaCroix want 
you dead? He didn't act like he wanted you to be dead."

     Janette shook her head, smiling ruefully. "No. No. As I said 
before, it is complicated. I have avoided revealing myself to my 
former family for two reasons. Remember how I told you about 
losing my bond with LaCroix?"

     "How could I forget?"

     Janette sighed. "LaCroix will want an explanation, and others will 
want an explanation, but I do not have one. It would make an 
awkward reunion. Then there is the matter of Patrick. He could be in 
danger from the Community if it became widely know Robert and I 
are raising him."

     Ivy voiced her confusion. "But why? He doesn't know what you 
are. He's just a boy - how could he be any threat to vampires?"

     "Oh, Ivy, it makes no difference if Patrick sees anything. Many 
immortals believe that children do not belong in the vampire world as 
either mortal offspring or undead. His life could be in danger."

     Ivy considered this information gravely. "But whether you contact 
your old family or not, it's always possible that your relationship 
with Patrick could be discovered. Wouldn't it be better to have allies 
for protection if that happened?"

     "I have begun to wonder that myself," Janette confessed. "I intend 
to discuss it with Robert when he and Patrick come home. For some 
reason, they were eager to attend a *baseball* game." Janette 
obviously found no pleasure in pop-flies and shortstops, but she 
radiated excitement as she gestured to the sketches on the desktop. 
"But come see what I have for you and Figaro's former business. He 
never would have admitted it," she confided as Ivy began to flip 
through her sketchbook, "but Figaro constantly asked my advice for 
his collections. I rather liked him because he always did what I said, 
plus he was an excellent tailor. He came here just before I left 
Toronto, but his visits to the Raven almost made me willing to stay. " 
Janette paused a moment, then decided to deride that notion. "Helas, 
then I would not have Robert or Patrick - what consolation could 
there be for that? No matter how different my path might have been 
had I stayed in Toronto, it couldn't possibly have compensated." 
Janette fell into a thoughtful silence as she watched Ivy turn pages. 
"Lierre, do you know the circumstances behind Figaro's death?"

     She looked up dreamily from a sketch of a deep purple velvet 
gown cut on the bias, then formed a frown. "I haven't heard any 
details from Cecilia or Domino about it, but..." Ivy felt something 
tug at her memory, though she couldn't picture it. "Somehow I'm 
positive that Vachon was there. Not during, but just after. I'll find out 
for you, okay?"

     Janette smiled happily. "I would like that. So what do you think of 
the new collection, hmm?"

     Ivy grinned ecstatically. "The changes you've made to the last of 
Figaro's designs are perfect, and the new sketches are incredible! 
Thank you so much for doing this, Janette. I don't know how to 
repay you!"

    "Your thanks is payment enough, Lierre. As for Cecilia and 
Domino," Janette's expression became downright predatory. "How 
large a percentage of the profits shall we force them to relinquish?"

     "Anything less than half would be an insult to your contribution," 
Ivy answered. The vampires laughed in agreement, camouflaging the 
seriousness of their intent.

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

September 14, 1996
      
     The investigations into the Number murders, as Schanke had 
taken to calling the two mutilated, long-term victims, were coming 
along as well as could be expected.  When twenty years had passed 
since the crime began, there were bound to be difficulties in tracking 
down acquaintances, family, and suspects. No lucky breaks had come 
Metro Homicide's way, and it was beginning to seem as though none 
would.

     Nick shared his theory of a vampire killer with Natalie, and she 
didn't have a problem with that idea. If he had a suspect, by all 
means, he ought to do something about it. Only Nick didn't have a 
suspect or any real concrete evidence at all. He only had a vague 
feeling, the faint impression of a presence he'd experienced before, 
but that wasn't something that could be brought to justice. Natalie 
sympathized with his growing frustration, but couldn't think of any 
way to help more than she had already.

       She'd identified the second victim from her dental records the 
day after Schanke isolated two possible identities. Natalie confirmed 
that the dead woman was definitely Evelyn Prescott. 

     Several more days passed before Natalie located, requested, and 
received the first victim's remains. As she searched over the man's 
decaying scarred flesh, she wondered why she had been so eager to 
get her hands on such a thing. Sure, her office's reputation was 
sagging, and she needed fast, efficient results to restore some of her 
shine, but sometimes the price seemed too depressing. Identifying the 
first victim as William Hyatt had been downright vile.

     It had been a simple enough process - he also had enough teeth 
remaining to match dental records. Making the cast, simply redoing 
the medical exam meant working in his mouth. The first horrible 
sight of the bitten-off stub that remained from his tongue had Natalie 
running instinctively for the fridge and a unit of sweet blood to chase 
her revulsion away.

     She'd consumed half of the bag before she realized what she was 
doing and where she was doing it. There had been a thrill of relief to 
find that she was alone, that no technicians or security had witnessed 
her politically incorrect snack. Natalie cursed her lack of caution and 
wondered if she should call Clare for advice. In the end, Natalie put 
the episode down to a combination of stress and a particularly 
gruesome case and tried to forget about it. She just considered it a 
bad day.

     Today felt just as bad. Natalie used pressure at work again as an 
excuse and warned Nick that she wouldn't be spending the day at the 
loft. She left the Coroner's Office just before dawn, heading for her 
own apartment to take notes on her experiments. 

     Opening her door, she sensed there was something wrong. 
Looking around, she immediately spotted that several of the rat cages 
had been knocked over on their sides, and their occupants sprung 
free. Doing a quick tail count, she found four rodents missing, two of 
them pregnant does.

     Natalie picked up a vacant cage off the floor and flung it against 
the wall, cedar shavings flying through the air. "Damn!" The cage 
clattered to the floor, revealing a dent in the plaster where it had 
struck. Natalie continued muttering her frustration under her breath 
as she began hunting down her missing subjects. 

     She hadn't walked very far when an unearthly squeal shocked her 
into silence. Natalie froze, trying to pinpoint the origin of the noise, 
and heard another sharp sound coupled with a frantic scratching.  It 
came from underneath her sofa.

     Natalie fell to her knees, bent over, and slowly lifted the skirt to 
her couch. Her vision processed the scene and she leapt back with a 
wail, tumbling into a seated position on the floor.

     "What have I done?"  Natalie closed her eyes to shut out the 
scene, but it didn't work. The memory of glowing eyes and carnage 
remained.

     Natalie had a vampire rat on the loose.

      she cursed 
herself. 

     There was a *whoosh!* sound - the rat was on the move. Natalie 
gritted her teeth and shoved her couch aside. Splayed on the floor 
were the mauled, drained remains of one of the does. Natalie went to 
the kitchen and grabbed a plastic bag and some slides, along with a 
wooden stool.

     Scooping up the doe's corpse, Natalie filmed samples of blood 
from the rat's many wounds and the floor onto microscope slides for 
further study. She then slipped the doe into the plastic bag. Natalie 
broke the stool apart and threw the pieces into her fireplace to use as 
kindling. Since she was almost living at Nick's loft now, she hadn't 
bothered to stock any wood for future fires. Natalie still intended to 
have all of her vampire-killing options open, even if it meant 
destroying furniture. An undead rat didn't strike her as a manageable 
permutation of her experiment at the moment.

     Natalie took the time to encourage the blaze, then took the plastic 
bag and slides back to her kitchen. She had a red biohazard container 
stored here, and moved to toss the dead rat, but the container gave her 
pause. There was a hole gnawed into the lid. Suddenly Natalie knew 
where the vampire rat had come from. 
     
     Originally, she had assumed one of the escaped subjects was the 
culprit.  Natalie recalled, however, that one animal in the group of 
rodents receiving the largest injections of vampire blood had 
developed tumors, finally dying the morning before. She had taken a 
blood sample, which she hadn't looked at yet, and threw the body 
into this container. Now it was missing.

     Natalie secured the biohazard lid into place once more, then 
carried the rodent victim back into her living room. She threw the 
small corpse into the fire, not willing to run the risk of a repeat 
performance until she knew of a way to control any  vampire 
creatures her experiment might produce.

     As a slightly unpleasant roasting smell filled the air, Natalie began 
her search for the others. She tried to isolate the sounds of a 
heartbeat, but noises from the caged rats prevented her from focusing 
on the three, potentially live, rats still roaming her apartment. Natalie 
attempted to pick out any indication of free movement instead. 
Listening intently, she narrowed down the origin of some shuffling 
noises.

     Rushing across the room, Natalie heaved a secretary aside, 
revealing two huddled rodent forms. Snatching them up quickly in a 
firm grip, she gave each rat a close inspection. Having regular 
heartbeats and no open wounds, the other pregnant doe and one of the 
males appeared unharmed. Natalie returned these two to their cages 
and made a note of the period the rats had roamed free. Still 
scribbling, another sudden shriek tore through the apartment. This 
time it originated from the bedroom.

     Natalie ran to the kitchen, grabbed a cleaver, then raced for her 
room. A search beneath the bed revealed nothing. Natalie felt a thrill 
of excitement rush through her as she hunted below tables, chairs and 
furniture. She paused, her eyes aglow, and heard a tell-tale scramble 
in the closet. 
 
     Pulling the cracked door fully open, Natalie immediately caught 
sight of two white figures, one clawing frantically as the other held it 
down from the back. Natalie flashed out a hand grab the attacker.

     *Whoosh!* She felt something rush by her cheek and found her 
hand clasped around the rat victim. It wasn't dead yet, but its 
heartbeat was a faint suggestion. The male rat made a soft twittering 
sound, as if he knew death was imminent and welcomed the end.  
Staying alert for any movement from the vampire rodent, Natalie 
returned to the kitchen and briskly took additional samples from the 
rat's wounds. Then she heaved the cleaver, decapitating the victim, 
just in case. Sliding the parts into another plastic bag, these were also 
added to the fire.

     Natalie stalked slowly back into her bedroom, trying to sense 
another vampire presence as Clare had trained her to do, even though 
the vampire in question was a rodent. Her instincts led her to the 
bathroom, then to the linen closet. She calmly slid the door ajar and 
attempted to appear unthreatening, though her insides swam with 
anger at the little creature.

     The vampire rat sat atop a pile of her white towels, grooming the 
blood from its face by licking its front feet. Natalie began stretching a 
hand closer, wanting to be close enough to the rat to prevent any 
escape when she struck this time. The rat became aware of her, 
paused in its cleanup, and focused on Natalie with cautious yellow 
eyes. She cursed under her breath and prepared to make her move 
when it suddenly snarled.

     The vampire rat leapt at Natalie's face, sinking its prominent teeth 
into the flesh of her cheek. She roared in outrage at the sharp pain, 
dropped the cleaver, and tried to fling it away, against the bathroom 
wall. The rat dug its claws into her hair, making it impossible to 
dislodge without ripping out a large patch of her hair. 

     Natalie stumbled against her vanity, then noticed a plastic box that 
held all of her nail-care supplies. Digging frantically through the 
contents, her fingers closed with relief about an orange stick. She 
stepped jerkily into her bedroom and across the floor to the living 
room once more, aiming for the fireplace. The vampire rat, still 
tangled securely within the hair over Natalie's ear, continued to sink 
its fangs repeatedly into the skin around her right jaw and cheekbone.

     Coming to a halt before the fire, Natalie found the long, thin 
starter resting on her mantle, held the tip next to the snout of the 
vampire rat's head, then clicked it alight. The rat squealed in agony 
as its face scorched. Natalie had a hand over the rodent now, holding 
it in place as it continued to burn. She let out a wail as she felt the 
flame maul her face as well, but Natalie refused to stop until she was 
certain the rat would be no more trouble.

     When she finally doused the starter and pulled the creature away, 
there was little struggle. Natalie fell to her knees and taking the 
orange stick, a piece of wood heretofore used only to push back her 
cuticles, she used it to stake the vampire rat in the heart. Still not 
satisfied, she tossed the body into the fire.

     Natalie climbed to her feet and gingerly touched the raw flesh of 
her cheek, wincing at the pain. She shuffled to the kitchen to raid the 
fridge. There were half a dozen bottles of human blood, and Natalie 
would consume two of them before she felt in control again. She sat 
on the linoleum, her hand still holding her wounded face. 

     By the time she took her second swallow, the wounds had 
disappeared. By the end of the first bottle, the fireplace had 
eliminated the major evidence of any carnage.  Still, Natalie couldn't 
erase the fact that this had been a really bad day.

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

September 18, 1996

     It was Nick's night off, but he still felt compelled to go to the 
precinct. He told himself that it was a need to make certain Schanke's 
final probation report came back with flying colors, leaving him free 
and clear to be Nick's sole partner once more. Going in had nothing 
to do with making sure that Clare also handed in her resignation.

     When he arrived, Schank had been happy and celebrating with the 
other officers. As soon as he greeted Nick, however, Schanke 
motioned him aside, looking concerned.

     "I just saw Clare walk up to the Captain and hand him a letter, 
and whatever it said had Reese ordering her into his office for a door-
shut conference. Now I'm not saying I snooped, but from what I saw 
on the paper, it looked like Clare gave him a letter of resignation. 
You wouldn't know anything about this, would you, partner?"

     Nick shrugged casually. "Not exactly."

     "Not exactly? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Schanke 
exclaimed.

     Nick was surprised at this vehement reaction. "I'm not sure I 
follow you, Schank."

     "Come on, Nick - it's obvious, to me at least, that you don't like 
her."

     "That's not true. I think Clare is..." Nick struggled to find an 
accurate word, "alright. But this has always been just a temporary 
arrangement, remember, Schank? She wouldn't be working with us, 
regardless of how I may or may not feel."

     "Oh, yeah, I know that - but somehow I pictured Clare here at the 
precinct, assigned a new partner - not leaving police work entirely," 
Schanke said. "Call me crazy, but I get the feeling you wouldn't be 
sad to see her go, so maybe, just maybe, you gave Clare some 
encouragement to resign."

     Nick crossed his arms and looked askance at Schanke. "If you 
think Clare gives a damn what I think about her, you don't know her 
as well as you think you do. She's a talented detective, yes, but she 
does what she wants, and because of that, I don't think I trust her. If 
Clare can't be trusted, maybe it's for the best that she's leaving."

     "Yeah, Nick? Well, I trust her. I trust her with my life and my 
family's, and I'm gonna go in there," Schanke pointed to Captain 
Reese's office, "and beg that she stays until our current cases are 
closed. If you haven't noticed, we need all the help we can get 
solving the Number murders, trustworthy or not." With that, Schanke 
stalked away, proceeding to knock on the Captain's door and enter 
while Nick watched with a frown. 

     Nick then felt Natalie standing close by, and turned to greet her. "I 
didn't expect to see you here. What a great surprise."

     "Clare called to tell me Schanke's final probation report came in, 
and I thought I'd come by and congratulate him." She moved to 
stand next to him and placed a hand on Nick's arm. "Too bad he was 
having a serious conversation when I arrived." She paused. "I trust 
her, too, Nick." Seeing his expression remain stubborn, Natalie 
sighed. "Why can't you? You know, I bet I know more reasons to 
hate and be wary of Clare than you do. She doesn't tell me the 
*flattering* version of her past." 
 
     "And I do?"

     Natalie glared at him. "That's not what I meant. My point is, 
despite every reason she's given me not to, I trust her."

     "Well, maybe I just can't trust so easily," Nick said.

     "I don't believe you can't, so much as you won't. Think about 
it." Then Natalie left him alone.

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

     The night didn't improve. Clare, Schanke, and Reese eventually 
emerged from the Captain's office with the news that Clare would 
stay on until their open caseload  was complete. Everyone appeared 
uptight and unwilling to say anything further about the subject, so 
Nick chose to return to the loft.

     He was distracted as he entered from the elevator and didn't notice 
the presence right away. He swung around to find Janette seated, 
waiting patiently, in one of his leather chairs.

     "Hello, Nicola."

     Stunned, he walked across the loft, stopping to stand before her. 
He examined her searchingly for several moments, then whispered 
wonderingly, "Janette."

     She gave a slight nod.

     "You're alive." 

     She nodded again.
     
     Nick's expression became confused. "You're a vampire."

     "Oui."

     "But I left you behind. I let you go, just as you asked."

     She pressed her eyes shut, trying to control her emotions at the 
memory. "Yes, you did. Thank you for leaving me to die. It is what I 
wanted, Nicola. I know that it was difficult for you to turn away, to 
leave me to die, but it has worked out for the best, non?"

     Nick neither agreed nor dismissed the suggestion. "What 
happened?" he asked.

     Janette stood, then walked to the cabinet where Nick kept her 
portrait. It was already open, for Janette had sought it out soon after 
she arrived and found his home deserted. "I remember when I left this 
here that last day. I had it in the trunk of my car, did you know that? 
A terrible way to preserve a work of art - I wouldn't recommend it as 
a habit. I stopped outside the Civic Center in Robert's car, intending 
to finish  my justice for his murder, then Larouche's associates shot at 
me. I knew that I would need help, so I came to you. A bag of 
luggage and the painting - everything I had - I left them on the stairs 
during our reunion.. I brought my portrait here because  I sensed 
there would be a goodbye that night. It no longer belonged in my 
world. While you rested for the day, I put it in the corner with your 
other paintings - I knew you wouldn't notice until after I was gone. 
You can be so blind to the obvious when you choose not to look for 
it.  Remember how it took a gunshot wound for you to realize I was 
mortal?" Janette paused in her chatter, finally letting her gaze meet 
Nick's. It steadied and sobered her. "Robert is a vampire," she 
whispered. "He brought me back across."

     It was obvious he didn't understand. "But you said Robert was 
shot - killed. That's when you became mortal again."

     "Yes, he was shot, and he died - at least I thought he had died. 
Looking back I realize how I could have overlooked something. The 
grief blinded me to everything. I wanted to bring him across, to save 
him, and suddenly I couldn't. Suddenly I was a mortal, and the man I 
loved was gone. Because I was a mortal, I couldn't tell that he was 
becoming immortal without any assistance from me. I gathered a few 
things and Patrick, then left Montreal." She looked at Nick with 
pained eyes. "I didn't know he would awake alone with the hunger. I 
would have never come here had I known."

     "Janette," Nick said incredulously. "Are you saying no one 
brought Robert across - that he just `became' a vampire?"

     She scoffed. "No one just `becomes' a vampire, Nicola. My 
feedings, taking just a little at a time, must have been involved. Just 
as I became a mortal on the cusp of his death, he became a vampire."

     "So you believe that you switched places," Nick said tentatively.

     Janette shrugged. "I do not know for certain, but it is the only 
explanation I have to offer. Robert awoke and went to our home. I 
had blood there, so he fed. He realized our things were missing, and 
guessed that I might have taken Patrick to his sister's place in 
Toronto. He knew about my...connections here. He finally caught up 
with us at the fire, storming in again and rescuing me from the 
flames. Then he brought me across."

     "I didn't stay at the scene very long. I made sure Patrick was 
okay, safe with his aunt, then I came back here. I called the precinct - 
I'd  taken off from work once I knew you were involved with the 
murder - I told them to ring me if anything came up. I thought the 
work might distract me from my having allowed you to die. I drank a 
lot, fell asleep," Nick ran a hand through his hair and a grin sprung to 
his lips, "had some crazy dreams, and the phone rang to summon me 
to a scene. Only the scene wasn't so new, and neither were the 
victims.  They had been killed by a vampire. I remember Natalie 
showing me the fang marks, and feeling shocked. I could have sworn 
I felt you then, but I reminded myself you were dead, that I let you 
die just hours before. Whatever I sensed, I thought, `It couldn't have 
been Janette', but it was you, wasn't it?"

     "Yes," Janette admitted. "I watched you from above with Robert. 
He killed them. He avenged his murder, rightfully I would say, if a 
bit too openly for safety's sake." She smiled as she reminisced. "I 
remember when you sensed us - you looked up, bewildered, and I 
thought you could see us watching. That's when we left."

     A few moments of thoughtful silence fell between them, then Nick 
announced suddenly, "I grieved for you - I spent many days with 
LaCroix remembering you. It was hard for him to let you go, too."

     Janette gave him a knowing smile, "Having your willing company 
again undoubtedly helped with losing a daughter."

     "But it couldn't make it easy," Nick insisted. "Like Robert - 
surely it was hard for him to let Patrick go?" When she didn't appear 
eager to answer, Nick prodded her warily. "Janette?"

     She met his eyes with a defiant stare. "Patrick is still with us. We 
picked him up from Peggy's before we left."

     Nick turned away. "And is he still mortal?"

     "Yes."

     "How long," he said bitterly, "do you think it will last?" Nick 
faced her again, his mouth twisted fiercely. "How long do you think 
you can hide the truth of what you are from him?"

     "What we are?" Janette argued back. "We are his *parents*. We 
love him. That will never change, and Patrick knows this. No one can 
care for him as we do, and no one else will have the opportunity!"

     "And what about the vampire?" 

     Janette began to pace, twisting her hands together. "The fact that 
Robert and I are vampires doesn't have to make a difference. Not if 
we don't let it." She eyed him plaintively. "Not if you don't let it, Nicola."

     He shook his head in frustration. "I can't. I can't help but think 
about Andre, about Daniel."  he thought privately. 
"Children do not belong in the vampire world, Janette!" he pleaded.

     She looked frozen, shocked. She closed her eyes briefly and 
swallowed once, then spoke quietly, painfully, "I thought you might 
understand. You used to, once upon a time, Nicola. I also thought 
you might protest lightly out of caution, out of concern for Patrick, 
but I never, *never*, expected you to throw Clare's words in my face."

     He reached out an apologetic hand to console her, but she jerked 
away. "Janette."

     "How could you? How could you say that? I have never forgotten 
what she did to Daniel - why do you think I came here? I thought you 
felt the same way. I thought you would help me protect Patrick from 
those who would take him away from me like Clare took Daniel."

     "But you know that Daniel was - "

     "Was what? He was a son to me. I loved him, and she destroyed 
him. I didn't think anything would bring me such joy again until the 
day I heard about the bomb at Hiroshima. Clare's destruction was my 
justice." Janette placed her hands on his arms, and met his eyes with 
a coaxing expression. "Tell me that you don't agree with her, Nicola. 
Tell me that you'll protect my son."

     "I will. I will, I swear, but I don't know how to tell you this," 
Nick buried one hand in her hair, his eyes blurred by overwhelming emotion.

     Janette frowned and placed her hand over his. "What is it?"

     He released a staggered breath. "Clare isn't dead." Janette's eyes 
widened, and she appeared numb. Nick pushed onward, no longer 
willing to meet her demanding stare. "She's here in Toronto. She 
arrived almost four months ago. She even set herself up as my 
homicide partner, but she's finally quit that." Janette watched him as 
though she couldn't comprehend what he was saying. She turned 
around again and slowly walked away. Nick continued talking in a 
rush of words. "Janette, you won't leave because of her, will you? I 
need you to stay. I've missed your friendship," he admitted.

     Janette approached him once more, her face shining with a small, 
dangerous smile. "That depends on you, Nicola. Are you still willing 
to protect Patrick from the likes of Clare?"

     Nick nodded. "She won't harm him, I promise. I'll even ask 
LaCroix to talk to her."

     Janette held up a hand to his lips momentarily. "That won't be 
necessary. I would rather you help me keep Patrick a secret for as 
long as possible. It is the simplest way for you to keep your promise, non?"

    Nick frowned at Janette's tone of voice - it almost sounded 
threatening. "What about Clare?"

     Janette shrugged. "I will keep my eyes open. You never know 
when justice might catch up with Clare again. I would like to see that."

     Nick started to question her intentions further, but the sound of the 
lift opening distracted both of them.

     It was Natalie. She was smiling as she stepped into the loft, but the 
sight of Janette made her face fall into startled confusion. "Hello," 
she said feebly.

     Janette likewise examined Natalie with curiosity, while Nick 
moved to greet her. "It surprised me, too, Nat. Janette was here when 
I came home from the precinct." Nick wrapped his arm around 
Natalie's shoulders, not noticing that she had become a bit stiff.

     "So you're alive and a vampire again," Natalie commented. She 
frowned, then turned to look at Nick questioningly. "Did you...?"

     Janette pre-empted his explanation. "Another friend brought me across."

     "Oh." Natalie nodded, not quite sure what else she should say.

     "I see you have changed as well, Natalie." Janette mimicked the 
other woman's earlier questioning look to Nick. "Did you...?"

     He didn't have the chance to answer that inquiry either. Natalie 
responded too quickly. "No, Nick didn't bring me across. My sire is 
an older vampire - you may have met her - Clare."

     Janette's smile was not wholly pleasant. "Ah, Clare. Yes, I know 
who she is. No doubt, Natalie, you find her as fascinating as our 
Nicola." Seeing that both the other vampires' faces hardened at her 
comment, Janette's smile became genuine, and she made her 
farewells. "I'm afraid I must be going." She shook Natalie's hand 
and kissed Nick lovingly on the lips. "It was good to see you. I have 
another new family with obligations to occupy me, of course," she 
stepped back into the lift, one hand on the door, "but I will keep in 
touch." Janette drew the door closed and was gone.

     Natalie stared anxiously at the entrance for several moments, then 
spoke. "Nick? What did she want?"

     He thought earnestly about his answer, and when he gave it, it was 
the truth. "I don't know, Nat," he rubbed his chin against the top of 
her head as he spoke and ended his words with a kiss in her hair. "I 
really don't know."

     Natalie wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed him 
tightly. She vowed silently to spend the next several days with Nick, 
vampire rats be damned. Another worry popped into her head, and 
she voiced this one aloud. "Janette doesn't like Clare, does she?"

     Nick kissed Natalie's hair again, then her ear, feeling the 
undeniable tug of the past on his thoughts when all he wanted was to 
hold and caress Natalie in the present, letting everything else melt 
away. His response was honest and succinct. "She hates Clare."

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

London, November 1941

     "Come, Daniel," Janette urged. "You *must* feed."

     The boy looked away from the victim's neck she held out to him. 
"I'm no' `ungry," he insisted.

     Janette's eyes sent LaCroix a plea for assistance, but he shrugged, 
as if to say `*you're* the one who wanted him around', and walked 
away. She next turned to Nick, who had not come for the hunt, but 
out of worry for Daniel. The boy had seemed less than content for 
the past month, a fact Nick couldn't get Janette to acknowledge. 

     "Why insist?" Nick said. "He can always drink something later at 
home."

     Janette, however, was determined. "He needs to learn how to hunt 
for himself, for his own protection! He might not always have the 
luxury of a bottle waiting at home. It is a matter of survival, and 
Daniel will not survive if he shies away from every live victim!"

     Noticing the boy's flinch, Nick turned away. It was a 
disconcerting project, but Janette had a valid point. It was wartime, 
and wars could bring uncertainty.

     Janette gently coaxed the boy into looking at her again. She 
brushed his cheek softly and smiled as she urged him on. "Drink up, 
Daniel. It's for your own good. There's no need to be afraid, mon 
coeur, this is the way it should be. Drink." She held the victim's 
partly drained body out to the boy. "Drink."

     She continued to whisper encouraging words. Daniel resisted at 
first, but Janette's smile, the kind sound of her voice, and the odor of 
fresh blood dangling below his nose forced him to succumb. He bared 
his fangs and, with a snarl, sank them into the waiting flesh.

     Janette dropped the body once Daniel finished, the sound causing 
Nick to turn his attention their way again. She cooed, clapped her 
gloved hands together with pride, and enveloped Daniel's body in a 
hug. She let him go, and he stumbled back a step. "Why don't you 
visit with Uncle Nicola while LaCroix and I deal with the body?" 
Janette murmured, then stood and called for her sire's attention.

     Daniel did not walk his way, so Nick moved closer. The boy's 
back was facing LaCroix and Janette's current activities, as if he 
wanted to ignore them.  Nick peered at Daniel's face unobtrusively, 
experiencing a horrified dismay as he realized the boy struggled to 
hold back scarlet tears. He tenderly touched Daniel's shoulder, but 
the boy flinched as though his fingers held fire. Nick crouched in 
front of him, grasping the boy's upper arms in a mild grip. He gazed 
searchingly into the boy's eyes, willing him to speak the truth.

     "Daniel, are you alright?"

     His eyes seemed to scream momentarily at Nick, but then Daniel's 
expression cleared, turning into his familiar cheeky grin. 
"Everything's right-n'-tight, Nicky! `Twas for me own good, like the 
Princess said! Shouldn't `ave been so difficult, at that."

     Nick lost any chance to question him further that night, for Janette 
and LaCroix had disposed of the body and were set to return home.

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

     "What are you thinking about?" Natalie whispered in his ear.

     Nick opened his eyes to find her staring wonderingly at him. 
"Sorry," he said.

     "It's all right."  Natalie's eyes still asked for an explanation.

     Nick smiled and ran is fingers through her curls. "The past. I was 
thinking about the past."

     Natalie gave him a silly grin. "Oh, boy - that narrows the topic a 
whole bunch!"

     He laughed with her, teasing, "That wasn't specific enough for 
you?" Natalie shook her head emphatically so her hair swung about. 
"Okay, then. Remember when I told you about a boy named Daniel 
that LaCroix brought across during World War II?" Natalie nodded. 
"I know I didn't, but did Clare tell you what happened to him?"

     "Clare was there? I don't recall you mentioning someone like her 
in the earlier story."

     "That's because she arrived later. I take it Clare hasn't told you 
this part." Nick finally noticed that Natalie was wearing scrubs. 
"Aren't you supposed to still be at work?"

     Natalie grimaced. "Ugh. I am, but I'm not going to let you tempt 
me with a bedtime story then send me off to the office. I am now 
officially ducking out," she glanced at her watch, "two hours early."

     "Bedtime story, eh? Then maybe we should continue this in bed," 
Nick suggested.

     Natalie wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a long, 
deep kiss. "Did I ever tell you, Detective Knight, how I love the way 
you think?" 

     Nick didn't answer, for his mouth was otherwise occupied.

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

London, November 1941, continued

     Janette was praising Daniel yet again for his first kill, and both 
LaCroix and Nick endeavored to show ennui with the subject, when 
they arrived back at the townhouse. As they crossed the threshold, 
LaCroix became alert and gestured Janette into silence. Nick sensed 
the presence of more than one vampire in the direction of the drawing 
room.

     They stepped forward cautiously, Janette urging Daniel to stay 
behind. All at once, LaCroix visibly relaxed, then strode forward to 
slide the heavy oak doors of the drawing room aside. An Asian man 
stood by the fireplace, a blood-filled glass in his hand. He wore 
European-styled clothing - a black dinner suit with a gold brocade 
vest, the jacket of which now draped over one chair - but his black 
hair was long, unbound and flowed far past his shoulders. LaCroix 
exchanged a curt nod with the man, then Nick sensed his sire focus 
attention immediately elsewhere. 

     The other vampire was seated in a chair before the fireplace. It 
was the chair without a dinner jacket shrouding it, and it was turned 
at such an angle that only the legs of their other visitor were visible. It 
was an interesting pair of legs to look at, if that was all you were 
going to get to see. They were obviously feminine, covered in sheer 
silk stockings with an honest-to-goodness seam down the back. They 
stretched longer than long in length, curved seductively in shape, and 
held just the right hint of muscle to suggest they would confidently 
walk over anything, or anyone, in their path. Her shoes were black 
and delicately strappy, hanging on her slender feet as though by pure 
force of will. 

     A hand moved then, an elegant bare arm attached to it, and four 
slim fingers and a thumb came to rest upon the chair's arm, a black 
pearl set in a ring of silver its only decoration. The fingers tightened 
on the armrest and began to pull the vampire into almost full view. 
Nick thought he heard LaCroix draw in a sharp breath, but he chose 
to attribute the sound to his imagination, rather than his sire.

     After what seemed endless moments of anonymity, she was 
suddenly in plain sight, her hair a combination of amber and firelight 
that rippled about her shoulders, her dancing eyes the color of a holly 
leaf, her cheekbones not quite high, and her skin looking as delicate 
as rice paper. Then her lips, somehow appearing small, yet full, 
simultaneously, arched into a smile of welcome.

      It was Clare. Nick felt his interest sink with recognition. He never 
found her company even mildly relaxing and looked upon future 
days spent in her presence with dread. Janette saw he knew the 
female's identity and sent him curious looks as well as thoughts. He 
gave a small shrug and willed her to be patient.

     LaCroix was another story entirely. He approached Clare while 
she was still standing, and he had one of her hands pressed to his lips 
before her long slitted skirt had a chance to fall straight to the floor. 

     "Hello, Lucius." Her voice was soft, yet it inspired decadence. 
"Feliks didn't mention anyone was using the townhouse. Imagine my 
surprise to feel you here."

     His lips had broken contact with her skin, but he still held her 
hand prisoner, caressing her fingers with his thumb. "An agreeable 
surprise, I trust."

     "Oh, yes."

     "And what brings you," LaCroix said as he acknowledged the man 
who silently observed them from the fireplace with the briefest of 
glances, "and Seiji, back to this continent?"

     "I've been away for several decades now. I simply missed my homeland."

     "And it was difficult for me to resist her request for company," 
Seiji said, his voice surprisingly rich, his accent perfect, "even though 
I had not left the shores of my own home for centuries."

     Janette couldn't stand to remain silent any longer. "Where would 
your homeland be?"

     Seiji turned his full gaze upon her, coupled with a devastating 
grin, and announced with pride, "Japan. Most recently, Hiroshima."

     "Allow me to introduce my...family to you," LaCroix said. "This 
is Janette DuCharme." Seiji bowed properly over her hand, gracing 
her fingers with a brief kiss. "And Nicholas Girard." Seiji offered his 
hand, and Nick accepted a firm shake. "Nicholas, Janette - please 
welcome Seiji into our midst. And this, of course, is Clare."

     Clare eyed LaCroix's offspring knowingly. "I recall meeting 
Nicholas in Vienna - still brooding, I see." She turned to LaCroix. "I 
gather it's become a habit." 

     LaCroix nodded. "Apparently," he murmured.

     Clare left his side, moving forward. "It is delightful to finally meet 
you, Janette." Clare took one of her hands and pressed it warmly 
between both of her own. "I know about you, of course, but it amazes 
me how almost a thousand years could pass without us coming face to face."

     "It would help if you remained on the same hemisphere as the rest of 
civilization for a change," LaCroix suggested dryly.

     Nick and Janette broke into smiles as they witnessed Clare roll her 
eyes and make a face at their sire's words. A younger, boyish giggle 
rose up from behind Janette's skirts, soon followed by Daniel 
stepping out in front.

     Clare's demeanor changed immediately. Any hint of play was 
replaced by a fierce sobriety. "Who are you?"

     Janette eagerly offered, "His name is -"

    Clare broke her off with I sharp frown. "I asked him." She directed 
her stare back at the boy.

     His eyes were wide with uncertainty. "The name's D-Daniel, Miss."

     "Ah." Clare bent down so that her face was inches from the boy's. 
Both Nick and Janette sent worried looks to LaCroix, but he shook 
his head, ordering them not to interfere. "Like Daniel in the lion's 
den, perhaps?"  She leaned her head closer, sniffing next to his cheek. 
"Hmm. I smell blood on you, though. I suppose you're one of the 
lions, too." The boy raised a hand to his cheek at her words, and 
began frantically rubbing at the area. Clare shook her head 
sympathetically. "I'm afraid that doesn't work, Daniel. Look at me." 
She stilled his rubbing hand and repeated, "Look at me." He did, his 
eyes and mouth open in his panic, and as he let Clare's gaze pour into 
him, Daniel calmed noticeably. She stared at him thoroughly, 
seeming terribly sad by what she saw. "Do you have nightmares, 
Daniel?" she whispered. "Do they bleed in your sleep?"

     He let out a shout and faltered backward, then ran up the stairs. 
Janette sent Clare a half-snarl full of rancor before following the boy. 
Nick remained long enough to sneer with disapproval and say, "Did 
you enjoy frightening him?"

     "But I'm not what frightened him. He frightened himself."

     Nick turned and headed for the stairs. As he slowly climbed, he 
still heard voices from the drawing room.

     "Seiji, would you mind leaving us alone?" Clare said, followed by 
a murmured agreement. 

     Footsteps echoed in the hall, then he heard LaCroix. "You have a 
question, my dear?"

     She was pulling the drawing room doors shut again, plus Nick had 
almost moved  too far to hear.  The last words he heard from Clare 
were, "Why? I wouldn't have expected it, Lucius. You, more than 
anyone, should understand that children do not belong in the vampire 
world."

     It was the first of several times Nick heard her make that 
statement.

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

     Natalie had her head resting on Nick's chest as she listened to him 
speak. "Did you really think she frightened Daniel on purpose?" she mumbled.

     "No. I never really believed that. I just wasn't willing to admit the 
truth, yet."

     "Which was?"

     "I'll get to it."

     Natalie lifted her head and blew him a kiss. "I still trust Clare, you 
know."

     Nick let his head roll back and groaned. "You're not going to let 
me forget it, are you?" He sat up slightly and stared at her intently. 
"Do you still trust me?"

     Natalie grabbed his hand and held it to her cheek as she sat up and 
leaned over him. "Well - yeah, silly! Where did that come from?"

     "I don't know  - you seemed pretty...disappointed in me earlier. It 
kind of stung."

     "Oh, Nick." She kissed him once, softly and sweetly. "I still love 
you." She kissed him once in the briefest mingling of breaths. "I find 
you eminently trustworthy." She kissed him once passionately and 
thoroughly. "And kissable." She kissed him once, necking and 
nibbling. "And edible." 

     Then she went on to prove it.

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

   September 23, 1996

     "Mrs. Fontaine, are you certain there is nothing else you can share 
with me?" Clare's tone was polite, yet forceful.

     "Nope, I never knew much about the man, and I never cared to 
know more. It always mystified me that my sister ever married the 
jerk."  The woman Clare interviewed was in her mid-fifties and tried 
to camouflage the fact as much as possible. Every inch of her had 
been pinched, stretched and contoured by the best plastic surgeon 
money could buy. Her hair was colored, streaked and tipped to give 
the impression that she was a natural blonde, not gray underneath. 

       In fact, there were only two hints Clare had to Margaret 
Fontaine's true age. One was the old Missing Persons report, which 
mentioned that William Hyatt's wife, Cheryl, was staying with her 
older sister, Margaret, after the case had been open for a few months 
with no leads. 

     The other was her smell. The scent of a mortal always changed as 
they grew older, perhaps from the life experience, perhaps from the 
gradual deterioration of their bodies. With time, the sweet, flowery, 
fruity perfume of their blood became stale and musty. Clare knew 
this woman, no matter what the mirror said, was no spring daisy.

     "So, you didn't like Mr. Hyatt?" Clare asked.

     The woman managed to arch an extremely tight eyebrow, making 
Clare wonder if it might pop off her face and fly across the room like 
a rubberband. "Honey, *nobody* liked Will Hyatt - except my sis 
and Will Hyatt himself, that is." Margaret Fontaine paused 
momentarily to check her hairstyle with one hand, then gave an artful 
sniff. "He was the most arrogant, selfish and proud blowhard of an 
SOB I've ever had the misfortune to meet. Everyone was below his 
notice but my sister, Cheryl, and I think he only gave her a passing 
glance because she thought he hung the moon. He agreed with her, by 
the way."

     Clare acknowledged that announcement with a small smile. 
"Basically, you're telling me there's a large contingent of people who 
would be happy with the notion of Mr. Hyatt being brought down a 
notch or two."

     Margaret sipped from a glass of ice water she kept at her elbow. 
"There *was* a bunch of us glad to see the last of him, yes."

     Clare tilted her chin up, saying, "Ah. Mrs. Fontaine, perhaps I 
didn't make clear the reason I'm here. When I told you that Metro 
Police had found your brother-in-law's remains, I didn't mean to 
imply that his murder was a long-ago event. The evidence indicates 
that  Mr. Hyatt was kept alive and tortured for twenty years after his 
disappearance. He wasn't killed until this past August 18th." 

     Horror bloomed on the other woman's face. "I'm sorry. You're 
right - I didn't realize Will's death was so recent. Twenty years. I 
can't imagine."

     "Very few people can, Mrs. Fontaine. You must understand that 
the period of time involved severely stymies our investigation. It took 
almost two weeks to track down your current address given your 
various changes in marital status over the last couple of decades. 
Any information you may have on the current whereabouts of any 
person who remotely disliked William Hyatt would be extremely 
helpful."

     Margaret Fontaine continued to appear distressed. "He 
disappeared on their anniversary, you know. Cheryl was absolutely 
crushed when he didn't come home. I figured it was some egotistical 
trip on his part at first, like he was shacked up with some sweet 
young thing. I mean, men are always such jerks - faithless bunch - the 
lot of them. Three of my divorces came from adultery - I don't wear 
blinders anymore. Cheryl, though, she never gave up. She still 
thought he was alive until the day she died. Sis wouldn't hear any 
talk about declaring him dead, either. She could've used the estate 
money when she started chemotherapy, too. I'm the one who had the 
case closed after she died eight years ago. She still thought he was 
alive. I never dreamed she was right." The woman drank another 
swallow of water, then spoke resolutely. "I have information on a few 
people who might be of interest to you. Take it - take it all."

     Watching the woman begin to sort through files in her bureau, 
Clare risked a small smile of satisfaction. "Thank you, Mrs. 
Fontaine. You've been most helpful."

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

     "I'm sorry I kept you waiting, detectives, but I was in the middle 
of dinner."  He sat down in a cushy armchair opposite where Nick 
and Schanke occupied the living room sofa. His name was Barry 
Weisner, age forty-six, and had the dubious distinction of being 
Evelyn Prescott's live-in love at the time of her disappearance.

     "That's alright," Schanke assured him. "I'm a family man myself. 
I can understand needing more time with the wife and kid."

     "Hell, I've got five kids - three of them teenagers - there'll never 
be enough time for that. I'm just trying to get enough hours in to 
remember what they look like," he grinned good-naturedly at the 
detectives, and they found themselves grinning back. "Now, you said 
you wanted to talk about Evie Prescott? I thought Missing Persons 
closed her case - how can I help?"

     "We're not from Missing Persons, Mr. Weisner," Nick explained. 
"We're Homicide detectives. Evelyn Prescott's case was re-opened 
when we identified her as the victim in a recent murder."

     "A recent murder?" Weisner's eyes widened. "Good God! You 
mean she was  alive all that time?" Nick nodded. "Don't tell me - she 
was that body found in High Park on the seventh." Weisner rubbed 
his eyes in disbelief.

     "What makes you think that, Mr. Weisner?" Schanke questioned.

     "Are you kidding? The seventh of September - that's when she 
disappeared. We used to go jogging together in High Park most 
evenings, but that night there was some show on television that I just 
*had* to watch. I can't even remember what the program was called 
now." He shifted in his seat, his shadowed eyes reflecting how 
unpleasant he found the job of dwelling in the past. "She was pretty 
pissed that I wouldn't go and refused to stay home, even though I 
said it would be too dangerous for her to jog alone. She just had to go 
to the park...like I just had to watch TV, I guess." Weisner grimaced. 
"Anyway, when I read in the paper that some joggers found a body 
hanging in a tree last seventh, I felt this shiver go down my spine. 
Like a ghost, you know? Like her spirit just floated through me." He 
studied the detectives' expressions for a moment. "I'm right, aren't I?  
- Evie's the one you found in the park."   

     "Yes," Nick admitted. "She's the one."

     Barry Weisner looked shaken and obviously upset. "I didn't think 
that I could still feel guilty for letting her go out alone that night, but 
those twinges just leap right into your conscience again, if you let them."

     Nick nodded. He felt twinges of his own from the past. Words 
he'd held back, intervening steps he'd never taken, until tragedy 
descended to take the matter out of his hands. Nick was then left with 
the memories and the disturbing pang that said he could have made a 
difference.

     Weisner shook his head as though that would clear his thoughts. 
"All those years - what happened to her?"

     "Someone kidnapped Ms. Prescott and held her captive for 
nineteen years before killing her, Mr. Weisner," Schanke said matter-
of-factly. "It's possible someone you knew then, someone you still 
know, is responsible. Any information that you can recall from that 
time could be helpful."

     Weisner nodded and began to relate bits and pieces remembered 
from living with Evelyn Prescott. An hour and a half passed before 
his memories ran dry. Schanke had a solid chunk of notes containing 
names, places and descriptions.

     "Two more questions, Mr. Weisner," Nick promised as he stood 
and pulled a photograph from his coat pocket. "Do you recognize this man?"

     Barry Weisner studied the picture intently before answering. "No. 
He doesn't look familiar."

     "And does the name William Hyatt mean anything to you?"

     More serious thought ensued, then "I'm drawing a blank. Should it?"

     Schanke sighed. "Only if our job was simple and money grew on trees."

*****************************************************************
September 26, 1996

     "Shhhh."

     Her eyes widened, and she pressed her lips together tightly. She 
hadn't realized that she was making noise, and she didn't want to risk 
upsetting him. Not now. Not when she was so close to freedom.

     Her excitement was to blame. She was so happy, her senses had 
begun to play tricks. The smell of the air, for example. She couldn't 
think of a time when her prison walls held any scent but that of sweat 
and urine. Just now, though, a teasing, delicious odor had lured her 
lungs into deep breaths so that her nose could savor the fragrance. 
Old luxuries hoarded in the furthest recesses of her mind sprang to 
the forefront once more. 

     She still had a few memories of a life where perfume was 
commonplace. Labels like sandalwood and freesia rose to associate 
with the smell, making her giddy with joy that such thoughts hadn't 
deserted her completely. It only made sense that her brain had 
centered upon the beautiful scent as she began to feel the wires 
tighten about her throat, then wrists. Focus on anything but the pain. 
She'd learned that much in the past eighteen years.

     She stared intensely at him, her eyes telegraphing apology. He 
saw, and it pleased him. He brushed her greasy hair from her 
forehead, then blessed the spot with a light kiss as if he were a parent 
sending his child off to bed. Then he smiled.

     She hated his smiles. He only smiled when he was happy, and he 
was only happy, it seemed, when she suffered the greatest. His grin 
broadcasted malevolence as he presented another long strip of barbed 
wire to her view, then he proceeded to tie her to the wooded platform 
with it at her waist. The sharp spikes pinched into her skin, and she 
squeezed her eyes shut. She then heard him move away and risked 
peering about as much as her secured neck would allow.

     Again her senses played tricks - out of the corner of her eye she 
espied a silvery angel watching the scene. She let her lids slip shut 
again. She wasn't in heaven. This place was anything but heaven. 
She concentrated upon the smell of flowers instead. 

     Her ears picked up a sudden clattering noise from above, and she 
chose to open her eyes, relying on sight once more. She saw no angel 
this time, but enormous blades falling to greet her waiting flesh. In 
that final second, she realized she still smelled perfume and cursed 
her senses. All that was left were her screams and the budding 
laughter, then she was senseless.

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

     The third victim was found near the corner of Queen and 
Jameson, her chest sliced open in the form of the number eighteen.

     "I guess our perp isn't as stuck on his crime site as we assumed." 
Schanke looked concerned. "That's one less predictable thing for us 
to cling to. Are there any left besides the number?"

     "Chances are the victim originally went missing eighteen years 
ago today," Clare said. Schanke's desk phone rang and he picked up. 
It soon became apparent that Myra was on the other end. Clare left 
him to the conversation, heading for the Missing Persons files. Nick 
soon followed after her.

     "I felt it again." Nick's voice came softly but firmly from behind her.

     Clare didn't acknowledge that he'd spoken and continued to sift 
through the cabinet's folders. Nick stubbornly moved to stand across 
from her. "I know you sensed one of us there."

     She looked up at him casually. "I've never denied that. I have 
picked up traces of our kind at all three murder sites. Unlike you, 
however, I haven't centered in on simply one individual. I felt those 
in the Community that I know, and those that I don't - all the 
vampires who have strolled down that street for days, weeks even, 
before the body appeared tonight." Clare had turned her attention 
back to the files during this statement and now pulled one out and 
passed it to Nick. "It intrigues me how you repeatedly focus in on 
this one person, and yet you claim you don't know who it is. That is 
somewhat unusual."

     "Are you doubting my abilities?" 

     "Why, Nicholas - you say that as if you had some great pride in 
your vampire senses rather than disregard." Clare gave a mocking 
laugh. Nick looked away angrily as her amusement grew. "I meant 
no slur against your vampirehood. To me, this repeated recognition 
of one person out of a dozen signifies that you've met them." Clare 
handed him another missing persons report. "It's someone you spent 
time with in the past, yet you wouldn't classify them as a friend, or 
even an acquaintance, since you are unable to place a name with their 
presence."

     "That still doesn't tell me who it is."

     "But it gives you a starting point. You want to think one of our 
kind is responsible for these killings - fine. We need a name, a 
suspect. Search your mind and figure out who this person could be. 
Until then, quit bothering me about sensations and such." She lifted a 
final folder from the cabinet and slammed the drawer shut. Taking 
the other two from Nick's grip, Clare said, "Call Natalie and tell her 
I'm faxing three possibilities for Number 18 her way, alright?"

     "Clare?" His voice suddenly sounded urgent.

     "Yes?"

     "You haven't heard about anyone new in town that I should know 
about, have you?" Seeing her scowl, he added. "I'm not looking for 
anyone related to this case - just, you know, gossip."

     "Don't you think LaCroix would have a better idea of who you 
would want to know about?"

     "Are you saying he knows more than you do?" Nick flashed her a 
boyish grin.

     "I'm not even going to answer that, but since you're being so 
clever...Yes, Nicholas - I do know of one new vampire in town - a 
youngster named Ivy. Vachon's taken a liking to her and she's 
working with Cecilia and Domino at the studio."

     "No one else?"

     Clare's gaze narrowed. "I'm getting the feeling you are looking 
for someone in particular." She studied him carefully. "Is there 
someone in town that you don't want me to know about, Nicholas?"

     "I didn't say that."

     Clare smiled knowingly. "Of course. Why don't you make that 
phone call?" 

     Nick fumed quietly as he watched her stroll away. He'd wanted to 
ask Natalie to not breathe a word about Janette's return to Clare, but 
he knew she would never agree to keep silent. His antics just now had 
been an attempt to discern what Nat might have told her sire. 
Apparently Clare knew nothing of Janette's presence at the moment, 
but he'd succeeded in sparking her curiosity enough with his 
questions (and Nick was mentally kicking himself for it) that it was 
only a matter of time before she knew everything.

     He returned to his desk and made a short call to Natalie. Schanke 
was still on the phone, waving his hands in the air as he discussed the 
value of one of Myra's cousins. Nick scanned the bullpen for Clare 
and caught her talking to a nervous looking man near the precinct's 
entrance. Nick's eyes narrowed as he recognized the man's face. It 
was Louis Secour - a suspect from the O'Leary case several months ago. 

     Secour shifted from foot to foot as Clare spoke to him. She 
appeared calm and polite, and her manner appeared to be gradually 
relaxing him. Then he glanced over her shoulder and caught Nick's 
stare. Secour's eyes bulged in panic. When Nick moved as if to 
approach, he jerked and fled. 

     Clare watched his retreating form, then turned and walked toward Nick. 

     "What did he want?" Nick felt dread stir deeply within him. He 
had already guessed the answer.

     "Nothing much," Clare said lackadaisically. "He was simply 
curious to know if my homicide partner was a vampire. I denied it, of 
course, but I don't think he believed me." She sent him an accusing 
look. "Your glowering at him from across the room certainly didn't help."

     "Didn't you try to persuade him? Control his thoughts?"

     "No. We've tried that twice before. I think the time has come for 
you to admit you made a tremendous mistake revealing your vampire 
nature in front of that man and accept that you must rectify it. He will 
draw attention to you. You will bring attention to us all."

     "There must be another way to convince him to forget, Clare."

     "Why don't I put this another way? Silence Louis Secour for 
good, Nicholas, or I will. He must die. Don't you want to ensure it's 
done as humanely as possible?" Her face became cold before she 
turned away. "*I* don't."

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

     Nick left the precinct half an hour before Schanke and Clare did.  
As they descended the front steps, Schanke smacked his forehead and 
let out a short groan. "Oh man, I can't believe I almost forgot. The 
main reason Myra called earlier was Jen wanted to invite you to the 
Open House at her school."

     Clare gave a perplexed frown. "Open House?"

     "You know, one of those things where the kids do projects, plays 
and stuff, and everyone thinks their varmint's is the absolute best. 
The teachers smile a lot, and the parents smile a lot, while you 
secretly pray none of the faculty pop up and call your kid a 
pyromaniac."

     "You aren't really worried about that, are you?" Clare laughed. 
"If anything, they must tell you how smart she is."

     "Well, yeah - a smart pyromaniac. So anyway, it's at her school 
this Tuesday night, October 1st." Schanke saw that she was debating 
her answer. "You're under absolutely no obligation to come, but if 
you don't, Jen's going to be asking me 'Where's Clare?' every three minutes."

     "I understand. There's no pressure whatsoever. Despite that, I 
believe I'd like to attend this Open House event."

      "Are you sure?"

      Clare nodded. "I'm sure. Do you know what Jen's project is?"

      Schanke shrugged, pulled an old receipt out of his coat pocket, 
and began to scribble on it. "Something about Ancient Greeks and 
supermodels. Here," Schanke said as he handed her the paper. 
"That's the school's address - it starts at seven."

     "Alright. I'll be there."

     "Great!" He put a hand on her arm, then said earnestly, "Thanks, 
Clare. It really means a lot to the kid."

      "I know, Schanke, I know." Clare smiled and briefly covered his 
hand with her own. "Now, go home! Do whatever morning things 
you do with your family unit!"

     He chuckled and continued down the stairs. "Breakfast, Clare. It's 
called breakfast. I swear, you're as bad as Nick!"

     She hadn't moved from the steps and Schanke had just reached his 
car when she called after him. "No, I'm worse - much worse!" 

     Clare was partway through a wave when her hand stilled. Her face 
turned stern, and she crossed her arms in front of herself as she 
looked leftward.

     "Hello, Cecilia."

     The woman brushed back her pale hair as she walked out of the 
shadows. "Hello, Clare."

    "What are you doing here?"

    "Looking for you, of course. The Spring show for the House of 
Figaro is fast approaching, and since I'm sure you're interested in 
how we're doing, I thought I would invite you to view the new 
collection as soon as it's complete."

     "You could have tracked me down at the Raven," Clare rebuked.

     Cecilia's expression became mockingly innocent. "I could? That 
seems to fluctuate so." A glance at the elder vampire's face told her 
she going too far, so she returned to the earlier subject. "Let me see, 
we're due to finish late Monday - why don't you come to see the 
clothes Tuesday evening?"

     Clare shook her head. "I have a prior engagement. Make it 
Thursday. I'll get there when I can."

     Cecilia's bowed her head slightly as she gave a stiff smile. 
"Thursday it is, th-."

     "Goodbye, Cecilia." Clare dismissed abruptly, then walked to her 
Ferrari and sped off.

     Cecilia watched her leave, and a sickening, fierce sneer festered 
around her mouth.

     "Bitch."

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

September 27, 1997


     "Please, make yourself at home," LaCroix said as he gestured to a 
chair. "After all, this was your home first."

     "I don't belong here anymore. That time has passed," Janette replied. 

     There was a momentary flicker of tension in LaCroix's demeanor 
which soon disappeared. "Then why are you here?" LaCroix paused 
before taking a drink from the goblet in his hand. "Other than to 
share you deliverance from destruction, of course."

     "To tell you that the young one, Ivy, is in my care." Janette began 
to wander aimlessly about the room as she spoke. "I was upset to 
hear that her promise to protect my privacy caused her such trouble."

     "Such loyalty in someone so young is a rare find," he commented. 
"She was even willing to suffer *my* wrath. You should be pleased."

     "But I am." She paused by his seat. "That is why I've come - to 
repay her devotion. I want her to have the freedom to come and go 
from the Raven as she chooses. You can ensure that."

     "Consider it done."

     Janette nodded. "Merci, LaCroix."

     "Tell me," he asked. "Does Nicholas know of your great rebirth?"

     "We have talked. He was surprised, as I was to find Natalie was 
now a creature of the night."

      "Yes, that has been an interesting development," LaCroix agreed.

     "And, of course, I was startled to hear Clare was responsible." 
Janette's voice almost cracked as she said the name. Her indignant 
eyes met LaCroix's non-committal ones for several moments. "You 
know how I feel about her."

     "And this should concern me because...?"

     "Because you are not careful around her. I have heard the story of 
Figaro - he would have never been destroyed if Clare had not come 
here." The color of Janette's irises seemed to pulse and boil. "Must I 
remind you that last time you played host to Clare, she betrayed you 
by destroying Daniel? He was one of yours - she didn't have the right!"

     LaCroix voice came like molten steel. "Au contraire...Daniel was 
a gift for you. One that did not hold up well on delivery, I might add. 
Clare had my consent to take him."

     Those words brought Janette up short. "Then I have nothing more 
to say." She turned stiffly toward the door, pausing at the threshold as 
LaCroix spoke once more.

     "You say you do not belong here anymore, Janette. No doubt you 
imagine yourself part of a new family that you can trust above all 
others. Tell me - when your loyal Ivy spoke to you of her encounter 
with me, did she mention that Clare was the one who came to her 
rescue?" There was a lengthy silence. "I see she did not. Another 
blow against the openness of trust." LaCroix stood and moved to 
stand behind her. "You would do well to think on how easily 
loyalties can change. Like yours, for instance."

     Then Janette bolted.

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

     Thomas watched as Janette moved swiftly up the Raven's stairs 
and out the door. She had brushed past Cecilia at the entrance, 
ignoring the blonde as she offered a greeting. He felt a thrill of delight 
soar through him as he witnessed Cecilia's expression sour.  he 
thought. 

     She stopped at his side, spilling out her demands without an ounce 
of finesse. "I've found an opportunity for you to help me." She 
smiled maliciously. "It's simple, but it will be perfect."

     "When? You know I have plans."

     She put her hand over his and shared a bloodthirsty gaze. "Soon, 
and within your schedule."

      "Then by all means, tell me more."

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

     LaCroix tore open the seal on a new vintage, filled his glass and 
walked across the room to stand near the Rossetti hanging on the 
wall. At one point, the work had hung by the bar. Most had simply 
assumed it was a copy of the one hanging in the Tate Gallery in 
London. Someone familiar with the artist's work might notice the 
subtle differences, though. 

     'Proserpine' was its title - a woman split between the land of the 
living and the dead after dining in Hell. The museum version had but 
a single bite taken from the damning pomegranate. In LaCroix's she 
had consumed almost the entire fruit. The painting reminded him of 
Clare, perhaps because she was instrumental in his obtaining it.

      Janette had said. He begged to 
differ. LaCroix had always treated Clare with exquisite caution, and 
she slipped past his defenses anyhow. 

     He went to the broadcast booth and started the recorder.

      "Consider the man who sees the inevitability of his future - is 
he any more a slave to Fate than the man who refuses to acknowledge 
what lies ahead? What, then, is the use of the past, if every action 
leads to the same conclusion? Shall we rail that Fate has no sway in 
our court? Salmon spawn upriver to their fate. Lemmings will dance 
to an inescapable end. What is Fate but an excuse for an 
uncontrollable urge or a torrid pull that you cannot resist? And yet.

          I have looked into the eyes of destiny,
          averted my gaze and waited. 
          I glanced again and kismet hovered
          before me like blinders and chains,
          and I drew back, hesitant of their fit.
          I have looked into the eyes of destiny,
          and she smiled, laughing at my folly -
          I will never escape, and I do not want to."


     LaCroix stared ahead, blanketed by silence, thinking, dreaming of 
the eyes of fate... 

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

London, November 1941 contd.

    "Why? I wouldn't have expected it, Lucius. You, more than 
anyone, should understand that children do not belong in the vampire world." 

    Clare pulled the drawing room doors closed, then turned to him 
with eyes so indignant, so furious, it almost took his breath away.  
Almost. "That is exactly the reason I brought Daniel across. Children 
do not fit into this world - what better way to demonstrate this lesson 
to Nicholas and Janette than by practical example?"

     "And what about the boy?" She circled him, her movements 
predatorial, and he felt the hunger quicken in his blood. "I suppose 
he's just an unfortunate sacrifice in the name of greater education."

     LaCroix scoffed, a taunting snarl to his voice. "You romanticize 
the boy's origins. He was an orphan and a thief, living on the streets, 
before he came here. If anything, I've spared him the fate of having 
his throat slit in some dark alley or being thrown into the gaol."

     "A slit throat would have been quicker and no doubt kinder than 
your humanitarian gesture," she said ruefully, "but I see your 
reasoning. One way or another, Daniel dies - why not put it to your 
advantage? You're right - Janette and Nicholas are old enough to 
know better, and if they don't, then they will have to see for 
themselves what becomes of little vampire boys and girls." Clare 
watched him now with a fine aura of concern. "You realize, of 
course, they will blame you when his time comes. From the look in 
the boy's eyes, it will be soon. This bit of generous schooling is 
bound to go unlauded."  

     "There's such a sad lack of teacher appreciation in modern 
society, don't you think?" LaCroix observed. "Alas, it cannot be 
helped."

     Clare smiled enigmatically, her arms crossed in front of her. "On 
the other hand, I could destroy Daniel when it becomes necessary.  
You would be innocent of any fault, or as innocent as you can be."

     LaCroix considered her carefully, pondering her motive. "And why 
would you want to do that?"

     "Well, it does make more sense - Nicholas already doesn't like 
me. No doubt I intimidate him," she confided, "and it's very possible 
that I made a bad first impression with Janette as well." Clare 
brushed an imaginary speck of dust from her gown as she shrugged 
insouciantly. "Besides, I never care who hates me, as long as I get 
what I want."

      "What do you want, Clare?" he challenged.

      Her mouth curved upward in triumph. "For you to be in my debt. 
I find it a delicious prospect." She extended a hand. "Do we have an 
agreement?"

     LaCroix slipped his fingers about her own and brought them to his 
lips. Her eyes brightened as he tasted each finger, then whispered, 
"Undoubtedly."

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

     He hit the stop button, ending the silent recording. LaCroix 
rewound the tape and listened to his monologue, then stopped it 
again, this time pulling the recording free. He tapped his long fingers 
thoughtfully against the casing. He had never repaid Clare that debt, 
and she had seen several opportunities where she could have called 
the marker, yet let them pass. He felt irritated that he had reminded 
himself of it.

     LaCroix slipped his thumb around the tape and yanked the metallic thread
into ruin. Self-knowledge was bad enough without broadcasting it.

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

October 1, 1996

     Schanke had the night off, and Clare had just left, claiming an 
important appointment. She promised she'd return by ten o'clock. 
That left Nick alone, and the night had been a quiet one.

     Since there had been no summons to crime scenes yet, and his 
partners and he had been productive in terms of the rest of their case 
load, Nick decided to devote himself to the elusive Number murders. 
The third victim had been identified as Marjolie Parker, a woman 
from a family of old, old money. Her relatives had been less than 
helpful, believing that giving out information about their friends to 
aid police in search of a killer would be socially unseemly. They 
hadn't spared a qualm about hindering the investigation through 
Captain Reese's superiors, and Nick, Schanke and Clare hit a 
bureaucratic brick wall that prevented progress on this case.

     Tonight, Nick chose to focus away from the three murders that he 
was aware had taken place. He was alone, at his computer monitor, 
and had decided to take up Clare's challenge to find proof that the 
killer must be one of their kind. He methodically pored over the 
crime databases at Metro Police's disposal. He cross-referenced a list 
of details that might identify previous cases that fit their current 
pattern. 

     In a little over three hours, Nick had hit the jackpot. He was ready 
to jump up and celebrate, to call Nat, to practice how he'd share the 
news with Clare, but the ringing of his desk phone broke through his 
excitement. The voice on the other end had news that almost twisted 
his heart in two.

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

     "Ah. Here we are. Project by Jennifer Schanke. `Supermodels 
And Helen Of Troy: Popular Icons And Beauty Throughout 
History'," Clare's eyes widened as the Schanke family looked on 
with pride. "Oh, my, Schanke, Myra, your child's a genius!" She 
studied Jen with mock severity. "You are only ten, right?"

     Jen laughed then tossed her blue ribbon into the air and caught it. 
"It says `First Prize - Fifth Grade' here. What do you think?" The 
girl shrugged. "It's not so big of a deal. I mean, look at the other 
projects - three of those crappy volcanoes, one CN Tower made out 
of toothpicks, and the joy of making cheese - mine's just different, 
that's all."

     "It's more than that!" Myra insisted.

    Schanke stood behind his daughter and pretended to peer into her 
ear. "You've got brains, sweetie, pure and simple."

     "Plus, your project is obviously more thought-out than the 
others," Clare complimented. "You put a great deal of work into 
your theory and it shows."

     "And the pictures of Cindy Crawford in a bikini didn't hurt, 
either," Schanke added, earning a frown from Myra. "What?" he shrugged.

    Jen rolled her eyes. "It's not like I had anything else to do," she 
said, then confided to Clare. "Mum and Dad confiscated my  
Nintendo two weeks ago."

     "Ahem," her father corrected, "you're not exactly telling the 
whole story, daughter o' mine." He looked from Jen to Clare. "She 
wasn't playing `Donkey Kong' with it. Two words: electrical fire."

     "Mum, I've gotta go get ready for the program. Do you have my 
costume?" Myra lifted a garment bag from where it lay under Jen's 
display table, and they got ready to leave for the stage area. "See ya 
later, Clare!" Jen waved.

     "'Fess up, Miss Clare, you didn't help the kid with her project did 
you?" Schanke had his hands on his hips and talked like a feisty 
schoolmarm.

     "No! At least, I didn't *do* any of it. After we went to the 
planetarium in August, she did ask about books she might read about 
Greek Mythology and History," she grinned widely. "Face it, she's 
very smart."

     "And precocious. She gets that from me."

     "Uh-huh," Clare said doubtfully.

     "I wanted to thank you again for coming tonight," Schanke said 
tentatively. "I think the kid was a little nervous about me showing 
my face here after being supposedly dead all last school year and 
what the other kids and teachers might think. Having you around has 
kept her from thinking about it."

     "Then I'm glad that I came," Clare said. "The evening has been 
 interesting so far. I've never been to anything like this before."

     "I thought Jen said one of your kids was her age, before...you 
know." Schanke suddenly looked uncomfortable.

     "Before they died," she finished, then offered an explanation. 
"Yes, but the area we lived in was too primitive, you could say, to 
have school functions."

     Myra was smiling when she returned. "Jen looks adorable in her 
costume, though she'd die if she heard me say that!" Then she asked 
Clare, "Donnie told me about your resignation from the police force. 
I hope it wasn't anything I said that night we met."

     "Myra," Schanke groaned.

     "No, no," Clare smiled earnestly to reassure them both. "My 
decision isn't your fault at all."

     "You aren't leaving Toronto, though, are you?" Myra continued.

     "No, I'm not. I have...other interests...here at the present," 
Clare said as she shrugged whimsically, "but who knows what the 
future holds?"

      Myra wrapped an arm around Schanke's waist. "*That* I 
believe." Schanke laughed and gave her a kiss in reply.

     The principal walked on stage and called all of the school's guests 
to take their seats for the upcoming class performances. Apparently 
students from each grade had been chosen to perform a musical 
number or short play. Jen's turned out to be a ballet and song devoted 
to horticulture.

     "We are sunny sunflowers, sunny, sunny sunflowers," they 
sang, and Clare honestly tried to refrain from grinning sappily. It 
didn't work, especially after she caught Myra and Schanke doing so.

     Too soon the entertainment was over, and the faculty invited the 
parents, children, and other guests to share in refreshments. Clare 
pretended to sip a glass of cherry red liquid that carried an artificial 
fruit scent while waiting for Jenny to join the crowd. Schanke had 
tracked down one of his bowling buddies, and Myra had likewise 
delved into a discussion with a co-worker. As a result, Clare was the 
only unoccupied adult to greet the girl as she shuffled belligerently 
from the backstage area. 

     Jen unsnapped and determinedly pulled the headdress to her 
sunflower costume off in a few swift movements. "I can't believe 
Mum took my normal clothes when I changed into this. Where is 
she? I look like a dork."

     Clare gestured with a nod. "She's talking Skin Pretty secrets with 
a friend."

     Jen made a face. "Aaah! Mrs. Wheeler - she'll never stop blabbing 
with her!" She observed as Jen self-consciously peeped at the other children 
joining their families in street clothes. "Oh, great! I'm going to be the 
only one still dressed like a baby!"

     Clare slipped off her belted, ivory blazer and handed it to the 
mortified girl. "Here. Put my jacket on over your leotard, and I'll 
hold your petals." She took the bright yellow mass of felt and wire 
from Jen's hands.

     "Thank you, thankyouthankyou...thank you!"

     "I take it you're thankful," Clare said as she cinched the blazer's 
belt narrowly about the girl's waist. "Now watch how I stand here 
with a giant sunflower bloom in my hand and appear perfectly dignified."

     Several minutes passed, and as Jen overheard a third classmate 
demand that their parents pull their costume back out so they could 
show it off, Jen expressed her amazement. "How do you *do* that?!"

     "It's all in your attitude. People are gullible. If you act like you 
belong or pretend that you're unafraid, nine times out of ten everyone 
will believe it because you do."

     "Let me try." Jen took the headdress back and imitated Clare's 
posture. She grinned proudly when another child passed, then asked 
their mother if they could carry their petals around. "Wow, it works!"

     By the time her parents rejoined them, Jen was acting dignified 
like a pro. 

     "Look at the time!" Myra exclaimed. "I had no idea I'd been 
talking so long!"

     Schanke apologized. "Sorry about that. What've you gals been 
doing?"

     Jen and Clare exchanged a secretive smile. "Oh, just controlling 
the minds of the masses. Not much, really." Jen suppressed a giggle 
at that. 

     "Well, it's late," Myra said. "I know one mass that still has school 
tomorrow and needs to hie home for bed."

     Her daughter frowned, then her mouth fell open in alarm. "Oh, 
Mum! I forgot! Mrs. Rhodes wanted to talk to both you and Dad 
about an urgent school thing - have you seen her yet?"

     "Really?" Schanke looked concerned. "You haven't done 
anything we should know about, have you?"

     "No," Jen said indignantly. "It's something academic. Quit 
worrying. Is it alright if I wait for you outside if Clare stays with me? 
Mrs. Rhodes might gush if you bring me along."

     "If she doesn't mind, it's fine," Myra said. 

     "Cool!"

     Watching Jen's parents head for her teacher, Clare eyed the girl 
skeptically. "Did you just make some of that up?"

     "I *believe* that I didn't."

     "I see," Clare retorted. "I *believe* that I've created a monster."

      As they strolled outside and down the auditorium steps, Clare told 
the girl stories of her cat's latest adventures, including Carmen's new 
annoying habit of opening drawers. Almost every morning that she 
came home, there would be a trail of lingerie leading from her 
bedroom as well as pieces strewn over every chair, table and the 
feline's jungle gym-fortress. Jen found this image pretty funny.

     They leaned against the brick wall that separated the banks of the 
school's lawn from the sidewalk. Jenny's laughter had trailed off into 
a gradual solemnity. "Dad said you weren't going to be on the police 
force much longer, that you quit. Is it because he came back?"

     "The precinct could still use me as a homicide detective, if that's 
what you mean. It was always a temporary job working with your 
father. Didn't you know that?"

     "Yeah," the girl said quietly, "but I liked the way things were. 
Dad thinks you're leaving because you and Nick don't get along."

     Clare sighed. "Your dad is right. Nick and I will never be friends, 
not like Nick is friends with your father."

     "But why?" Jen protested. "You're Dad's. You're mine. Even 
Doctor Lambert's. Why can't Nick be your friend, too?"

     "Because Nick doesn't want to. Sweetheart, believe me, Nick 
knows a great deal more about my bad qualities than you or your 
father do," Clare said as she tenderly brushed a strand of hair behind 
the girl's ear. "And, even if he didn't, he has every right to be friends 
with whomever he pleases. Understand?"

     Jen sniffed loudly a she nodded. "I understand," she mumbled. "I 
just don't want you to go."

     "Who says I'm going anywhere?" Clare denounced. "Hmm? You 
make it sound like I'm planning to run off in a pumpkin coach at 
midnight, when I'll be working with your dad until we close our 
current cases."

     Jen's wet eyes flashed defiantly. "I hope you never close them."

     "No, you don't," Clare corrected softly. "You know that it is 
important to your father to catch the bad guys and to help people. I 
know that you want him to keep more people from being hurt, and if 
he doesn't close these cases, that won't happen." She gave the girl a 
cajoling look. "What if I told you that I made a promise to Doctor 
Lambert that I wouldn't leave Toronto unless she kicked me out?" 
Clare grinned. "Would that make you feel better?"

     Jen looked doubtful. "Is that true?" 

     "Of course, it is. Ask Natalie! And since she's my friend, what are 
the odds of her booting me out of town in the near future?"

     "Small?"

     Clare nodded. "Microscopic. I guarantee it," she said, then her 
emerald eyes lit up with a sudden idea. "In fact, I will make *you* a 
promise. You may not be aware of it, but this is a very big deal. I 
never vow to do anything that I do not intend to honor." With these 
words, a glimmer of expectancy had taken over Jen's expression. "I 
promise to you, Jennifer Schanke, that I, Clare, will-"

     "Clare Douglas!" Jen interjected excitedly.

     She made a face at the girl's pickiness. "I, Clare *Cliodhna* 
Douglas, will not leave Toronto for, say, more than three days, 
without warning you first."

     Jen added a qualification. "In person."

     "In person."

     Jen's grin spread ear to ear. "Great! Should we shake?"

     Clare raised an eyebrow and said in a mocking gasp. "You doubt 
my word?"

     "No-o. I thought that's what people did when they made promises. 
Shake hands, spit."

     "Ugh," Clare said. "How about I tickle you until you squeal, instead?"

      That took less than a second, for Jen was squealing with laughter 
before Clare ever laid a hand on her. Clare gave her a hug instead, 
breathing in the girl's newness and promise, hearing the child's 
giggles as though it were thousands of years before and she was 
teasing another brown-eyed girl, one who'd eaten too many walnuts.

     She froze. She felt someone disturbing. The vampire slowly stood 
straight as her features sobered. Someone was calling to her, someone 
she didn't know.

      the stranger shouted in her head.

     She looked abruptly into the night sky, feeling him there, sensing 
a movement from above. Distracted for a split-second, it was now too 
late. Two shots had fired before Clare pinpointed the direction they 
came from and turned Jen into the  haven of her arms. The third 
bullet caught Clare in the thigh and ripped through the outer flesh of 
her leg. 

     Then there was silence.

     The child didn't speak, but Clare felt Jennifer Schanke's pain 
streak through her as though it were fire. She pushed back from the 
girl's body, her thoughts catching for a moment as she registered the blood.

     But she knew there would be blood. She could smell it 
everywhere, feel it soaking the girl's clothes and her own. It ebbed 
through her fingers making them slippery. How bad was it?

     Clare brought one of her bloody hands to her mouth, paused 
infinitesimally, then licked a finger clean. Wiping her hand on her 
ivory slacks left a vicious scarlet tattoo. She rummaged through the 
pockets on the jacket she'd lent Jen, practically ripping one off when 
she found it contained her cellular phone.

     She dialed, listened to a short tone, then immediately rattled out 
orders  as a voice came on line. "This is Officer Douglas with Metro 
Homicide. There's been a shooting," she said, rattling off a demand 
for an emergency crew and giving an address. "Tell the ambulance 
team that the victim's a ten year-old girl, shot twice in the back. One 
bullet passed through her left side, the other's lodged in her right 
kidney. She'll need a transfusion in transit. Type O negative." Words 
flew sharply from her mouth, stinging over the airwaves. "If the 
nearest ambulance is low, I want you to call me at this number so I 
can find a donor. Do-you-understand?"

     Clare hung up, raising a fierce glance to a small group of shocked 
families that had gathered as they caught sight of the bloodied child 
and woman shouting into a phone. "You." Clare caught the stare of a 
boy who looked to be Jen's age. "Do you know what her parents look 
like?" The boy nodded stiffly. "I want you to go inside and get them. 
Tell them their daughter has been hurt - tell them calmly. Can you do 
that?" The boy nodded emphatically. "Go!" He turned and ran into 
the building without pausing to look to his concerned parents for 
permission.

     Clare had tried to cut off the flow of blood from the renal wound 
with her hand, but between a nick in the artery and a rise in Jenny's 
heart rate to compensate for the lowered blood pressure, she was 
having poor success. "Stop it." The words came out in a hiss. "You 
will stop bleeding, do you hear me?"

     She heard the ambulance's approach long before the crowd did, 
and they were affronted at her pleased expression. She had the crew 
securing the girl on a stretcher and hooking up an i.v. by the time the 
Schankes ran outside.

     "Jen!" Don shouted her name when he saw the stretcher being 
loaded, but stayed calm. Myra remained quiet, as if she knew the 
second she tried to speak she'd be overcome with tears that wouldn't 
stop. Schanke had an arm around her, and ushered her quickly to the 
ambulance. He caught Clare's gaze, and once the stretcher was lifted 
beyond her control, the vampire moved to his side. "What happened?"

     "Someone shot at us from across the street. They hit Jen twice 
before I could cover her."

     "Oh, my God! Your leg!" Myra gasped, then covered her mouth 
with a hand as she saw the torn flesh of Clare's thigh. It had already 
begun to heal, but Myra wasn't to know that.

     "I'm fine, just go." They'd reached the back of the ambulance, 
and Schanke helped his wife up inside then followed. 

     While their pale, worried faces hovered over their unconscious 
daughter, Clare heard an EMT say, "We need a b.p."

     "Eighty-four over sixty," she said absently. Both the worker and 
Schanke looked up abruptly at that, and Clare tried to offer 
reassurance. "I'll take care of everything here - you can count on 
that. I'll join you at the hospital as soon as possible." He nodded 
jerkily, then the doors were closing and the ambulance was gone.

     Clare turned and caught a view of the flashing lights of a squad 
car. She wrenched her head to the side, but the flashing red still didn't 
disappear. That was when Clare realized she was blinking back tears.

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


     Clare gave instructions to the first squad cars on the scene, what 
area she wanted blocked off, who she wanted to look for evidence, 
and how she wanted traffic diverted. Captain Reese arrived almost 
immediately.

     "I was in my car and heard the news over the wire. Are you okay, 
Douglas?"

     He caught her off-guard. "Don't I look okay?" This wasn't 
supposed to bother her. The death, no, the pain of a mortal wasn't 
supposed to touch her at all.

     "No, you look like you should be on your way to the hospital," 
Reese said as he scanned the patches of semi-dried blood scattered on 
Clare's clothing, then focused on the tear in her pants leg. "Dammit, 
Detective! Were you hit?"

     "It's just a scratch, Captain. Really," she assured him truthfully. 
By now, the wound had healed from two centimeter's worth of 
gouged-out flesh to a barely open cut.

     "Still, this is no place for you to be right now. You've already got 
everyone doing their jobs where they ought to be doing them - I'll 
take over from here. I want you to go to the hospital, if not for your 
own sake, then to see how Schanke and his family are doing."

     Clare nodded distractedly.

     "Has anyone contacted Nick about this yet?" Reese asked.

     She snapped her head up abruptly, meeting his observing eyes 
with a tormented expression. "Could you call him? I am the last 
person he wants to hear this news from." Reese nodded 
sympathetically, then watched as she turned her view towards the 
alley across the street where a forensics team busily bustled. "That 
direction is the source of the shots. I want to give it a brief once-over 
before I leave, alright?"

     "Yeah," he agreed, then touched her gently on the shoulder. "This 
will all work out for the best. You'll be fine, Clare."

     Her face showed her skepticism. "It never fails to amaze me how 
some people ineffably have that faith, and nine times out of ten 
everyone believes you when you say it, Captain, but I know better. 
Life and death do *not* work out for the best."

     Reese felt heavy-hearted as he watched her walk away.

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

     Clare weaved in and out of the forensic technicians who hurried 
throughout the alley. She paused, gave the brick walls surrounding 
her a considering look, slipped on a pair of latex gloves, then cracked 
an order for the techs to stand back and give her a moment alone in 
the area.

     As they huddled off elsewhere, Clare let her senses scour the 
alleyway and upshifted to hunter mode. She could feel the traces of 
the mortal who shot Jennifer Schanke in this dark passage. She could 
smell the sweat of adrenaline on his skin, and she could feel the tang 
of his blood on her tongue.

     She took two broad steps to her left, pushed away a scuffed 
wooden box, then fell to her knees. The shooter's blood *was* here. 
Most was soaked into the dried mud on the pavement, but there was a 
noticeable trickle-smudge of it on a few of the bricks. Forensics 
hadn't found it yet because the blood blended with the color of the 
wall, but they would upon closer examination of the alley. Trailing a 
gloved finger along the liquid, Clare surreptitiously brushed her 
tongue over the sample.

     She twisted her lips. It carried a bitter opium aftertaste that she'd 
never liked. The shooter was mortal, all right, and his blood screamed 
for a fix and where he would get it now his job was done. His blood 
also held indignation toward the man who'd hired him, a man who 
cut him on purpose with a razor before leaving him to his work.

     Clare strained to see the hirer's face, certain that this was the 
vampire stranger who'd called to her, distracted her, so that Jen could 
be harmed. She sighed furiously. She couldn't picture him. It was as 
though the man had kept himself shadowed, hooded from his shooter 
accomplice for that very purpose. She cursed. The vampire had cut 
his hired gun on purpose, like drizzling blood on the surface of the 
ocean to serve as shark bait. Clare assumed she was the shark. 

     She guessed instinctively that the vampire baiting her would love 
nothing better than for her to chase this mortal patsy down. He 
expected her to gorge on the shooter, then wallow in frustration 
because she lacked clues about the identity of the truly responsible 
party. This stranger had false expectations.

     Clare left the scene, drove her Ferrari a couple of blocks down the 
road, parked it, then took to the air. The need to go straight to the 
hospital and learn about Jen's condition was an urgent craving, but 
she forced herself to be practical. She wasn't going to greet Schanke 
and Myra dressed in clothing soaked with their daughter's blood.

     She breezed by her hotel to change out of her grotesquely stained 
garments, then made a phone call. "Natalie? There's been a shooting."

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

     Natalie was studying her new electron micrographs with delight. 
Over the past two weeks, she'd learned a thing or two about the care 
and disposal of vampire rats. Actually, she hadn't experienced any 
more close encounters with flying, fanged rodents, but she was 
beginning to feel as though she had a clue about what caused the 
transformation.

     Through Clare, she'd gotten Aristotle to arrange more time with a 
TEM than she could have ever borrowed off of a mortal pal in a 
decade of favors. She'd taken blood samples drawn from the 
experimental brood of rats injected with her own vampire blood, then 
the control group and scanned them to her heart's content. 

     In addition to the control groups' reaction against blood from 
another species, she'd found definite signs of an immune response 
against the vampire antigen in the mortal rats. She had several 
micrographs detailing rat-produced antibodies binding selectively to 
the extra nucleotides she'd injected along with her blood - the same 
region where Lidoveuterine-B inactivated the vampire element. 

     She'd also examined the sample she took from the vampire rat and 
its two victims. The victims' blood showed the same immune system 
attack against the foreign material. The blood of the vampire rodent, 
however, displayed no immune cells, period. This discovery caused 
Natalie to dig out the pictures of Nick's cells for another study. She 
hadn't noticed it before, perhaps because the triumph of finding the 
extra nucleotides in Nick's RNA had blinded her, but there were no 
identifiable macrophage, lymphocytes, neutrophils, or other immune 
cells in the images. 

     Natalie then examined some of her own blood samples under the 
TEM and found that, as far as her circulatory system went, she had 
no recognizable immune system. She made plans to study that further 
in the future. For now, she had mortal rats with immune cells, 
vampires without. She wagered the significance was different.

     At the moment, she was using her light microscope in the morgue 
to watch mitosis in the experimental rats. She had divided the test rats 
along two study factors: how often a rat received an injection and the 
amount of that injection. She'd given one series of rats initial doses over five weeks ago, and nothing since. A week before, only the rats inoculated with the largest amount showed any sign of the vampire element in their blood. The 
rest appeared no different from the control group. From the images 
she'd taken yesterday, all of these one-shot rats appeared normal. 
The vampire material had gradually been cleared from their systems, 
leaving Natalie to observe normal cell division  in tissue samples 
from these animals.

     The rats receiving shots every two weeks and weekly 
demonstrated greater differentiation. Those injected the most 
frequently with the largest quantities showed normal cell growth and 
death, but unlike the control animals, there was no difference in the 
efficiency and speed of the process between the younger and older 
animals. Any signs attributable to aging had faded. As the frequency 
and size of the shot reduced from rat to rat, these signs began to 
reappear.

     Natalie thought this model fit with the example she'd seen in Dr. 
Sophia Jurgen's work with the clients of The Spa Experience. The 
mortal gets a shot of vampire blood, their cells become youthful and 
healthy, their immune system gradually eliminates  the vampire 
antigen, and their cells revert. Dozens of new questions sprang into 
her mind with this new evidence. Her biggest mystery, though, was 
the vampire rat.

     She'd thought the rat had passed away from cancer originally. 
She'd thought the marks on its skin were lesions from tumors near 
the skin surface, but now she wasn't certain. The rat was one of those 
receiving a high dose every week. Based on the cell growth of the 
mortal rats under an identical regime, there should not have been 
cancerous cells in that rodent. 

     Natalie cursed her lack of foresight in getting other tissue samples 
from the vampire rat before she burnt it down to ashes. Now she had 
no way to prove any hypothesis about what killed the animal in the 
first place, unless she started prematurely retiring members of her 
remaining experimental rodents.

     The phone rang, and Natalie flipped off the microscope's light and 
gathered her pile of micrographs before answering. From the manner 
in which Clare said her name in greeting, Natalie realized this would 
not be pleasant news.

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

      Natalie arrived at the hospital flurried with emotions. Nick felt 
her as soon as she entered the waiting area and moved away from 
Schanke and Myra to pull Natalie into his arms.
  
     He clutched her tightly, and she whispered, "How's Jen?"

     "Stable for now. She entered an operating room a little more than 
an hour ago. The blood loss has slowed measurably, and right now, 
it's a question of removing the bullet from her kidney, repairing the 
arterial damage, and keeping her out of shock."

     Natalie nodded. "Failure of the other kidney would be very bad at 
this point." She reflected worriedly for a few moments then nodded to 
the solemn, anxious parents. "How are Don and Myra holding up?"

     "Better and with more force of will than most people would be in 
this situation. Whatever happens, even if it's hard, they can handle 
it," Nick said determinedly.

     "Handle it?" Agitation made Natalie's voice shake slightly. "This 
isn't a broken arm, Nick. She's their only child, and she could die." 
Nat pulled away, leaving him to his own worries, and rushed to 
embrace Schanke and Myra.

     Schanke spoke distractedly, "Oh, hey, Nat."

     Myra accepted her hug as though it offered some great relief. "Is 
there anything I can do to help?" Natalie asked.

     "No, no," Myra cried. "I just thank you for being here." She drew 
back and swiped her eyes with a wad of tissues in her hand. Don 
wrapped his hands around her shoulders from where he stood behind 
her and gave them a comforting squeeze. Myra looked over her right 
side and suggested, "You know, Donnie, I think I'm going to go to 
the chapel for a while."

     "Sure, honey. I'll come along if you want."

     She shook her head. "No, I think that I want to do it alone, okay?"

     "Okay," Schanke said and gave her a brief kiss, then he watched 
her ask a desk nurse for directions and leave. He let out a heavy sigh 
and rubbed his forehead with his palms. "Man, oh, man."

     There didn't seem to be a good response to that, so Nick and 
Natalie simply let the words fade into the bustle of the hospital. They 
stood as silent sentries, watching for an appropriate moment to jump 
into action and help. Schanke turned, looking toward the operating 
room with a sense of frustrated desolation, then gazed at his friends 
once more.

     "Thanks for coming, Nat," he said, "and thanks for calling her, Nick."

     Nick opened his mouth to respond, but Natalie had already 
started. "He didn't. Clare called me." She felt an indignation flow 
through Nick that was so strong, it almost seemed as though it was 
her own. She ignored him, asking, "She didn't give many details over 
the phone about what happened."

    Schanke released a short, harsh bark of laughter. "Well, don't ask 
me. Myra and I stayed behind after the school program. They went to 
wait outside."

     Nick fumed silently to hear Clare's important appointment had 
been Jen's school function.  Certainly 
nothing good for Schank, Myra, or their daughter.

     His partner continued talking, shaking his head in ironic disbelief. 
"We stayed because her teacher wanted to talk to us about the kid," 
he said, then paused to swallow convulsively, "She wanted Jennifer 
to move up a grade while it was still at the beginning of the school 
year. Damn! What is that? One second, somebody's telling you your 
kid's a brainiac, and, the next, they're saying an ambulance is on the 
way to get her. I don't know." Schanke rubbed his fingers together 
out of nervous habit, as if he was rolling the smooth surface of a 
cigarette between his fingers. "Clare and Jen were alone outside when 
it happened. She's the only one who has a clue about what exactly 
took place."

     "I bet she is," Nick muttered sarcastically under his breath. The 
others heard him though, and both jerked their heads to glare 
resentfully Nick's way.

     "What the hell do you mean by that, partner?"

     "I mean," Nick answered defiantly, "Clare is dangerous. If she's 
the only witness, then no doubt she has some responsibility in 
whatever took place."

     Natalie gave an offended gasp. "Nick!" She would have said 
more, but Schanke beat her to the punch. Literally.

     Don grabbed Nick by the collar with his left hand and landed a 
right uppercut with the other square on Nick's jaw. Nick stumbled 
back, holding his face in amazement, not because he was hurt from 
the blow, but because he was surprised - no, shocked - that Schanke 
had done it.

     Their argument was interrupted by the appearance of an 
exhausted surgeon through the operating theater doors. "Mr. Schanke?"

      He whirled around expectantly. "My wife went to the chapel - 
should I have someone go get her?"

     The doctor smiled. "No, I think you'll want to share the good 
news with her yourself. The surgery proceeded without trouble and, 
barring any complications developing over the next twenty-four 
hours, I believe your daughter will be out of the woods."

     "Whoa," Schanke sighed in relief. "That's great to hear!" He 
leapt forward to shake the man's hand enthusiastically. "Thank 
you!" His enthusiasm dimmed a little and he said, "By 
complications, do you mean the kidney thing?"

     The doctor nodded. "Like I mentioned before I went in, the bullet 
did enough damage to the kidney that the most effective course was 
to remove it entirely. I tied the renal artery off below where it was 
damaged. One kidney can do the jobs the body needs it for, but 
coupled with your daughter's blood loss, any sudden drops in blood 
pressure or signs of shock could be a problem. We can't risk any 
damage to the kidney she has left. I wouldn't panic too much about 
that happening, though," he said. "The other cases I've had like this 
didn't receive medical care until the emergency teams arrived. She's 
already responding well enough after surgery that I'd say, in this 
instance, whoever was on the scene must have stabilized her before 
the ambulance came. I'd like to thank them - they made my job 
easier. Why don't you share the news with your wife, and I'll make 
sure you two have an opportunity to see Jennifer once we have her in 
a room." The surgeon gave a positive smile and excused himself.

     Once the doctor was gone, Schanke turned belligerent eyes onto 
Nick. "So it looks like Clare is responsible, partner...for keeping Jen alive."

     Nick ached to find a way to share why he felt the way he did. 
"Schank, I -"

     Schanke held up a hand. "I don't want to hear it. You've never 
had a kid of your own. You've never been in a situation where one 
minute you're teasing them, proud of them, then - Bam!" he said, 
smacking his fist into his palm, "suddenly they're gone. Someone has 
taken your flesh and blood away. Someone's killed them. You've 
never come this close." Schanke motioned to the operating room 
door. He stopped talking momentarily as he forced back tears. "Clare 
has. Three kids, dead. I remember thinking when Myra told me that, 
how I couldn't imagine what that must be like. Now, tonight, I'm 
wondering how she managed to get over the loss and become the 
person that she is." 

     "But you don't know the kind of person she is," Nick whispered plaintively.

     Schanke shook his head. "No, Nick. I don't think *you* know 
who she is," he said, then glanced at Natalie. "I'm going to go find 
Myra and give her the update. I'll be back soon."

     Natalie watched him go, while Nick stared distractedly away lost 
in his thoughts. "You know," she began, struggling to keep her anger 
down to a bare minimum, "I realize that the emotions of everyone 
concerned are running rampant right now, so I'm going to forget 
what you've said, and I'm going to forget Schanke punching you," 
she paused, twisting her lips wryly, "but I've got to say I didn't like 
it." Her eyes yearned for him to look at her, and their blue gazes 
locked. "I love you, Nick, but when you try to blame Clare without 
even knowing a fraction of the story, I don't think I like you. I've 
tried to understand and break through this stubborn blindness you 
have toward her, but every time I think you've relented, just a 
fraction, you accuse her of something else. I don't get it, Nick. When 
you told me the rest of Daniel's story you made me think you 
understood why Clare did what she did - was I wrong? Is there something else?"

     Nick shook his head in frustration.  "I don't know, Nat. It's like I 
feel disloyal when I act differently."

      "Disloyal to whom? Daniel's memory? Don't you see how it was 
painful for her, no matter how she tries to lie and hide it? You know 
it's true what Schanke said. Clare did have three children. Two of 
them were slaughtered in an attack on the settlement where they 
lived, then Clare was mortally wounded while protecting the third. 
They were rescued, though. Her husband was a vampire, and he 
arrived in time to bring her across."

     "And the third child?" he asked stiffly.

     "Unharmed. Mortal. Clare lost her, too," Natalie said as she 
observed Nick closely, "and I'm going to tell you how. If that doesn't 
make a shred of difference in your loyalty, I don't know what will."

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

     Clare meandered through the hospital corridors, hesitant, yet 
anxious, to know Jennifer's medical status. She paused at a doorway, 
leaning against the frame, and closed her eyes.  she thought and released a shuddering breath. 


     She became aware of her surroundings, realizing with a start that 
the doorway she hovered in belonged to the hospital's chapel. 
 her mind sneered. 

     There was only one woman in the room. Her back was turned 
toward the doorway, and, with her thoughts clouding her attention, it 
took a moment for Clare to realize that it was Myra Schanke. 

     Clare straightened, and moved as if to take a step inside, then 
recalled where she was.  She understood 
the mother's pain. She'd felt that same panic and desperation that 
came with the possibility of a daughter slipping away before her eyes.

     When she was a young vampire, the first century or so, she had 
wondered how the grief for each of her children could feel so 
different. Compared to Morrigan, the images of Mac'con and Olcan's 
deaths only haunted her mildly. The loss of her daughter, though, was 
like a gaping, festering wound. How could there be a distinction? She 
loved all three, each held a part of her soul that their deaths should 
have ripped away equally.

     Perhaps the way they died truly made a difference. Her last 
memories of the boys alive and well were filled with joy and 
excitement. Then the images snapped to their lifeless forms, huddled 
limp, small and defeated in each other's arms. It was a split-second 
change in her mind. She hadn't seen their deaths, but she knew they 
had been quick.

     Morrigan, on the other hand, took so much longer to lose.

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

1st Century BC, London area

     The sound of flames crackling filled her ears as she regained 
consciousness. She felt bloated, as though her head had swelled to 
double-size from the magnitude of the events that had occurred this 
day. The death, all the death, seeping into every pore of her skin, into 
the very air she breathed. Mac'con's...Olcan's...her own. The 
thought made her start and her eyes snapped open. She heard 
flames...shouldn't there be music in the Otherworld? 

     Conchobhar filled her vision, his face filled with love and concern. 
She reached out a hand, brushing the ends of his long hair with her 
fingertips. The dark color and light texture surprising her. He had 
always bleached it before with a lime-wash like many of their people, 
making it lighter and coarser. His face was more constant, identical 
to what she remembered, though his complexion seemed pale.

     She laughed joyously, sat up, then flung her arms about his neck. 
Her lips sought his for a kiss that held all the pent-up passion of more 
than a year. He didn't hold back, entwining her limbs, hair and 
mouth with his own.

     "I love you. I love you," she whispered, "I love you. You'll never 
know how I've cursed myself since you left for not saying the words,  
and, with the thought that you might be gone forever, that I might 
never have the chance to tell you."

     "Shhh," Conchobhar said soothingly, then tasted her lips once 
more. "I do know, and you needn't worry. Now we will be together forever."

     "Forever," she echoed. Their surroundings drew her attention - the 
mauled bodies of her attackers, the burning pyres of bodies blackened 
beyond recognition, every soul that she knew and loved except 
Conchobhar and. "Morrigan!" she gasped and moved to scramble 
to her feet. "Where is she? Is she safe?"

     Her husband caught her in his arms. "She ran away after you were 
wounded. She's fine."

     She looked from side to side, still overcome with the need to seek 
her daughter out. "I should look for her. She'll be frightened."

     "No." She tried to leave anyhow, but her held her still. "No, 
Cliodhna. Listen to me. It is better that you don't see her right away. 
You need time."

     "Time?" she protested. "What if there are more men out there? 
She could be hurt. I have to go to her. I want...I need." She felt 
strange, as if the torrent of thoughts and emotions held in her head 
when she awoke had buzzed throughout the rest of her body. She felt 
on fire. She felt luxurious. She felt...

      Hungry. She clutched at Conchobhar again instead of pushing 
him away. Her senses seemed to transform. The noise of the 
surrounding fires no longer blazed in her ears. It was replaced by 
something else, a steady beating sound. She released a slow, pleasant sigh.

     Conchobhar smiled and gestured with a hand. "She won't run into 
any stragglers. I tracked down the last of them before you awoke. 
They are waiting for you."

     She stepped curiously in the direction of his hand and felt a rush of 
frenzied anticipation rumble through her as she caught her first view 
of the bound, struggling bodies. Their fear, the panic in their eyes, 
fascinated her. She trailed her teeth languorously with her tongue, 
noting their new relief in wonder. Letting her hands roam down her 
stomach, her fingers paused to trace around the rim of each knife cut 
in her clothing. The holes were surrounded with dried blood, her 
blood, but her flesh was cool and unblemished. Conchobhar 
appeared before her, watching her reactions expectantly. "I was 
dying, and you..." she reached out a hand to his mouth, catching her 
breath as her fingers encountered fangs. "What did you do?"

     "I made you what I am, Cliod. A vampire. We are among the 
immortals - we have eternal youth, beauty and power," he said 
victoriously. "We will have each other forever." He moved behind 
her, running his hands along the tops of her shoulders and down her 
arms. "But for now, you have them. They are our sustenance. They 
are what you want, what you need. You feel it, don't you? The pull, 
the desire, to sink into them and take away every last breath, every 
drop of them." 
 
     She swallowed convulsively at his words and the throats stretched 
tantalizingly before her. She stepped even closer to the men, cradling 
one's head in her hands so she could push it back further. He shouted 
in fear, but then her gaze caught his. Suddenly, the man was 
drowning in fascination with her eyes. He made not so much as a whimper.

     "Yes," Conchobhar said passionately, "yes! Take him!" He 
trailed kisses along the nape of her neck, then worked his way by 
licking and sampling the taste of her skin to the side of her throat. 
"Kill him. He murdered our sons. Given the chance, he would have 
killed you and Morrigan. Make him pay for that. Make both of them 
pay."

     "Yes," she agreed in a fervent whisper. "They should die."

     "Then take their blood. Feed. Strip away their life. Drink what 
they are and make it your own."

     The snarl came unbidden, instinctive, and she reared her head 
back, baring her fangs fully. The victim still awaiting his fate began 
to scream in terror, while the one whose head she held still moaned in 
fevered expectation. The pulse of the blood had an undeniable call. 
She tore into his throat, answering its summons. As her teeth pierced 
the skin, a wave of pleasure and power overcame her that was so 
strong, she almost let go of him in surprise. Then the first rush of the 
blood hit her, and she could do nothing but dive into the rapture.

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

     Hours passed. Conchobhar bundled her within his arms after she'd 
consumed the blood of the two men and added their empty husks to 
the pyres. He spoke quietly of the all that had happened to him, 
everything he'd learned, over the time of the two festivals of Samhain 
that he'd been gone. He spoke of vampires, their abilities and their 
weaknesses. He spoke of how he was brought across, and where his 
sire was presently. Gradually, she slipped into a calm state of 
contentment and Conchobhar announced that it was time he track 
down their wandering daughter.

     "Let me come with you!"

     Her husband shook his head emphatically. "No. It is too soon for 
you to see her. Be patient, Cliod. Start growing accustomed to the 
bounty of time that lies before you," he said as he delivered a 
charming grin. He laced her mouth with a swift kiss, then 
disappeared in a flash. She sighed and sat down to wait.

     She could detect the first traces of dawn soaking into the sky when 
Conchobhar returned. He carried their daughter in his arms. She was 
asleep, wrapped within the patterned folds of his cloak.

     "We need to take shelter indoors immediately, Cliodhna," he said.

     Rushing to meet them, she let her hands roam over her daughter's 
still frame, then granted him a beaming smile. "She's fine. Let me 
hold her," she said pleadingly.

     "No."

     She followed behind him as he ducked within one of the stone 
buildings that still stood, exclaiming righteously, "Why not!?"

     He settled the child in a corner, then, while blocking her path to 
the girl, made certain all openings in the walls were shuttered to clog 
out the coming daylight. He finally came to stand before her and 
explained, "Understand, Cliodhna, that you are drawn to Morrigan 
right now, not only because she is your daughter, but because she is a 
source of blood."

     Her eyes widened incredulously. "I would never harm her-"

     "No," he broke in, "you would never willingly hurt our daughter, 
but your hunger is too new. You do not have complete restraint yet. 
Until then, the surest way to ensure Morrigan's safety is to refrain 
from close contact." He moved to the opposite end of the room from 
their daughter and sat down. He raised a beckoning hand to her. 
"Come here, Cliodhna, love." She let him pull her within a shelter of 
his arms and legs and snuggled close. "Morrigan saw me attacking 
those men in your defense. She saw me bringing you across before 
she ran away. She was terrified.  I had to cloud her memories so she 
would forget all of these events." As she looked up at him 
questioningly, he explained. "We can learn to control the thoughts of 
most mortals. It is one of our powers that develops with time and 
practice. When Morrigan awakes, we will tell her of the attack and 
her brothers' deaths anew. We will lie and say we must travel by 
night for safety's sake. Most importantly, we will take care to hide 
any sign of our nature from her. She is too young to know that we are 
vampires. She wouldn't understand, and it would frighten her."

     She nodded. "That makes sense."

     "I want to return to Gaul at once. We will head south with the 
sunset," he said.

     "You seem to have everything planned out," she commented 
sarcastically. "I wonder when I will have the opportunity to contribute."

     "Bah," Conchobhar scoffed with humor. "I'm the one who knows 
what they are doing - what else would you have me do but order you about?"

     She laughed softly. "I would expect nothing less." She fondled one 
of his large hands, running her smaller fingertips over his broader 
digits. She brought them to her lips for a caress, then held his palm to 
her cheek. "Thank you," she whispered, "thank you for returning."

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

     Weeks passed. They traveled slowly because of the child, heading 
east through Gaul. Morrigan appeared a trifle subdued, her normal 
exuberance and energy muffled by the loss of her siblings and the 
sudden changes in scenery. Otherwise, the girl seemed unscathed by 
the recent events.

     She missed being close to her daughter severely. Carrying her, 
playing with her, hugging her - Conchobhar still insisted that 
Cliodhna hold back from all of these things. He, on the other hand, 
had no such restrictions, and their daughter clung to him with 
affection and adoration. She quickly became envious of his freedom 
around the child.

     She also divined their destination and commented to Conchobhar 
about it. "We're heading back to your clan lands here, aren't we?"

     His reply was concise. "Yes."

     "Why? Are we meeting someone there?"

     Her husband gave a mysterious smile. "Who do you think we 
would meet there?"

     "Your sire," she suggested.

     "No, that will not happen any time soon."

     "One of your relatives there, then."

     He raised his chin, giving some indication that her assumption 
bothered him, but continued walking at a casual pace. "I have no 
relatives there anymore. You and Morrigan are my family - I feel 
none of my old connections to those people. From the weakest 
farmers through the ovates to the archdruid, however, I am still held 
in high regard, and I have a use for that opinion. I plan to take 
advantage of it." Before she had a chance to ask him how, 
Conchobhar had changed the subject.

     Now they were three more nights' journey from the outskirts of 
the tribal settlement. They had taken to traveling from sunset to 
around midnight, then securing a shelter for the coming day in which 
Morrigan was rocked to sleep. Once she was lost in dreamland, 
Cliodhna  and Conchobhar would venture out and hunt until the 
threat of dawn.

     At first, they never separated. Her husband stayed by her side, 
leading her to prey initially, then guiding her as she stalked a mortal 
off the beaten path. Eventually, though, she grew more independent 
as the nights passed, and now they frequently hunted apart. This was 
one of those nights.

     Her target was a hunter himself. She'd first sensed him a good 
distance away from her family's camp, and he seemed to notice a 
foreign presence watching him right away. He moved quickly 
through the trees, and she toyed with him, letting the man believe 
he'd lost the figure in the shadows by hanging above, looking down 
on him from the forest canopy. From her height, she could see the 
stones of the shelter Morrigan slept in. Deciding to not allow her 
supper any closer to home, Cliodhna struck.

     She struck the man against a tree, then latched a hand about his 
throat. He wrestled and shouted in panic, but she cajoled him into 
quietude with her eyes, whispering soft, soothing words under her 
breath. His eyes glazed, and she trailed her tongue along his right 
jugular before sinking her teeth into his flesh.

     It seemed as though she drank forever, and, still, it finished too 
quickly. She drew her head back, then lowered her head again to lick 
the last traces of blood from her victim's throat. Then she heard a 
small cry.

     Cliodhna spun around, fangs bared, eyes glowing, and caught 
sight of her daughter cowering behind a tree.

     "Morrigan?" she said uncertainly. She stumbled forward, her arms 
open, urging the girl to come closer.

     "Stay away from me!" her daughter cried, then tried to run away. 
She couldn't see in the darkness like her mother and quickly tripped. 
Morrigan continued to sob as she crawled to her feet once more. 
"Stay away!"

     Cliodhna was at her side in an instant and attempted enveloping 
the child in a hug. "Don't be afraid. It's me, your mother. Please let 
me hold you."

     "NO! You're not my mother! You're a monster!" Morrigan 
flailed and scratched as defiantly as a four-year old could manage. It 
was a pathetic defense, but it wounded Cliodhna deeply. She let her 
arms fall from the girl, and Morrigan ran.

     She ran straight for her father.

     Conchobhar clutched the small body to his chest and stared at 
Cliodhna in fury. He let the girl continue to weep against his 
shoulder, while smoothing her hair and whispering, "You're safe 
now. It was just a bad dream. Nothing real. Shhhh. Go back to 
sleep." 

     Cliodhna moved as though to approach, and he froze her with a 
glare. Conchobhar then turned, leaving her to collapse in tears of her 
own on the forest floor.

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

      She remained outside until the burn of the sun forced her to join 
them again. Their daughter was asleep once more, one of her tiny 
hands tucked through the crook of his arm. She noticed that 
Conchobhar had packed all of his and Morrigan's belongings 
already, but none of hers.

     "What are you doing?" she said, her voice showing her panic.

     "I'm heading on to the clan with the sunset. Alone," he replied, 
staring at her solemnly. "You'll wait for me here."

      She gasped in outrage. "Wait for *you* here? What about...?" 
Her voice trailed off as the realization dawned. "You're going to 
leave her there - have some strangers raise our daughter?!"

     "They are my relatives," he argued calmly.

     "You said that they meant nothing to you!" she sneered. 
"Nothing, and you'd still give them our only surviving child?"

     "It is because I want her to survive that I will give her up. She 
isn't safe here."

     "No," her protest came out like a whimper. "She woke up. She 
must have gone wandering in the woods when she found us missing. I 
didn't harm her. I wouldn't harm her. It's not my fault she saw me 
feed." Ribbons of scarlet tears trickled down her cheeks. His face 
became empathetic and mirrored her sadness as her stepped closer to 
brush her face dry.

      "I know, Cliod, but she did see, and I'm not certain I've made her 
forget this time." Morrigan made a sound of protest in her sleep, and 
both vampires turned concerned eyes her way. "She's been having 
nightmares, as though she still carries the memories inside her just 
below the surface. She can't stay with us, love. She's too young and 
she's witnessed too much."

     "Was that your intention all along?" Cliodhna whispered softly. 
"When you came home, did you mean to just bring me across and 
abandon the children?"

     "No," he said, shaking his head stridently, "not to abandon them. 
To wait until they were older, until they were grown enough to make 
a decision for themselves. That's what I want for Morrigan. I will see 
that she is cared for, and in a decade or so, we can return to her and 
share what we are then." His expression urged her to respond. "You 
know that this is the best thing for her, Cliod." She didn't answer. 
"Also," he continued hesitantly, "it would be for the best if she didn't 
see you before we go. A goodbye might cause her memories to spring 
to the surface."

     She nodded numbly. "You're right, of course. Children do not 
belong in our world," she said as she knelt at her sleeping daughter's 
side.

     "The time will pass quickly. You'll see," Conchobhar reassured 
her. "It's not as though you're losing her for good."

     Cliodhna stared at Morrigan's face, realizing that something had 
caused her daughter to cry in her sleep. "Then why do I feel like I 
already have?"

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

     The sound of a familiar whistle from down the hall snapped 
Clare's attention to the present.  She ducked inside the 
chapel and behind a religiously bereft curtain at the back of the room 
in time for him to pass without noticing her presence.

     "Myra, love of my life, great news! Jen came through surgery 
with flying colors!" He swept his wife into his arms as she exclaimed 
her relief.

     "Oh, Donnie, I don't know what to say. Do we get to see her?"

     Schanke nodded. "Doc said he'd fix us up as soon as she got 
moved into a room."

     "Then what are we standing here for?" Myra said happily. "Let's 
go visit our daughter!"

     They deserted the chapel in eager anticipation, each with their arm 
about the other's waist, and Clare was left behind in the shadows.

*****************************************************************
End of Part Fourteen     
 
     When Clare reached the waiting area, Schanke, Myra, and Nick 
were nowhere to be seen. Natalie, however, stood before a broad 
window, staring out at the night sky. She cocked her head to watch 
her sire's approach as a smile came to her eyes.

     "Hi," Natalie said. "I was beginning to wonder where you were."

     "I took a scenic route through the wards on my way here."

     "Myra and Schanke are looking in on her right now," Natalie 
immediately said reassuringly. "Jen's doing -"

     "Doing fine," Clare finished while nodding, "I know. Nick's not 
with them, is he?"

     "No, he just wandered off for a bit. I think it was time for his daily 
dose of introspection," Natalie teased.

     "Ah. I should have guessed. I think introspection is a nosocomial 
infection, harbored  by and festering in hospitals everywhere," Clare 
said just before Natalie's beeper went off.

     "Big surprise - it's the morgue," Natalie said as she noted the 
number. "I suppose I'm off to find a courtesy phone."

     Clare reached for her cellular, but realized that she wasn't 
carrying it. "I could've sworn..."

     "What?" Natalie asked.

     "I was going to offer you my cell phone, but it's not here. Let me 
see, I called you from my hotel phone, and before that..." She sighed. 
"I must have left it at crime scene."

     "That's all right," Natalie grinned. "I'm a big girl. I can hunt my 
own phone down. I'll be right back."

     Clare assumed Natalie's place at the window and proceeded to 
pick out stars despite the glare of fluorescent light on the pane. There 
was the sound of shuffling feet, and she overheard another couple 
tentatively greet a doctor and await news of their child's survival.

     "Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, your son had intensive damage done to 
all of his major organ systems from the fall. There were simply too 
many injuries. I'm sorry, but his heart failed just after surgery began, 
and our attempts to revive him failed."

     The mother began to cry earnestly, and Clare overheard her wail, 
"Why did he do it? Why did he jump?"

     Clare sucked in her breath, then resolved to shut the noise of this 
couple's drama off from her mind.  She let her thoughts wander, but they found nothing pleasantly 
distracting to remember.

********************************************************************
1st Century BC, Gaul

     "What do you think you are doing?"

     "I'm going to fetch Morrigan. You heard the centurion's 
announcement. The Romans are headed that way, bent on 
domination. I want to make certain she's safe."
 
     "It's too soon. She's still a girl," Conchobhar desisted.

     "It's been almost nine years. She's nearing the age when I met and 
married you."

     "Yes, and we were both young and headstrong. Common sense 
came years later."

     "But patience did not," she snapped. Cliodhna framed his face in 
her palms as she continued earnestly. "Conchobhar, I cannot wait any 
longer. I will not risk Morrigan becoming a trophy of war."

   "She's your daughter, love. I wager she's done her fair share of 
thrashing and conquering," he pronounced. "I say it's too soon. I'll 
not journey with you, but I expect you'll do what you want despite 
my misgivings."

     "You're right. I will." She kissed him roughly, then left.

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

     There were few bodies that wandered alone at night in those parts. 
This unofficial practice began because of the local wildlife centuries 
before. It was easy enough to get your throat ripped out in light and 
pure sight. Stumbling through the hungry darkness was not a wise 
individual's first choice.

      Lenaig said to herself,  She huffed into the warm, night air. 

     No, she would have gladly fallen asleep soon after sundown, but 
her husband hadn't come back with the sheep. Two hours passed 
without sight of him or the herd in tow, so she'd grabbed her cloak 
and sword and gone searching. She was ready to give him a piece of 
her mind and metal. Repeatedly, the man had gone into the fields at 
sunrise and spent the day lolling about, eating borane plants and 
rushing with adrenaline instead of watching the flock. The blue 
blooms would perform their magic, exhilarating his head until he 
didn't care that their sheep had wandered astray. Lenaig was then 
stuck tracking them down as he slept the drug off.

     "If you've done it again, Huil," she muttered, "I'll have your hide!"

     Lenaig cursed again that she'd ever had to return to working the 
land. For a good number of years she and Huil had enjoyed the 
luxury of living in the chieftain's hall. Her work there had been filled 
with its own share of problems, but it hadn't involved callused hands 
or backbreaking labor all hours of the day. Huil had been a good 
farmer before, but living at the hall had turned him into a good-for-
nothing slob. His days had been filled with drinking and practicing 
his warrior skills. His hands turned out to be more adept at lifting a 
cup than a weapon. Her lips pursed sourly, as she remembered the 
reasons for leaving the hall's comfort. Huil's poor soldiering was 
only the secondary cause. None of it was *her* fault, though.

     She stomped into a clearing of pasture, then hefted her sword as 
she heard a sudden noise. She showed more skill with a blade when 
she was bone-tired than her husband did when he was fully sober. 

     Swinging the iron about her with a *whoosh!*, Lenaig cried, 
"Who's there? Show yourself!"

     A woman stepped quietly into view. She wore a cloak in the tribal 
pattern and carried no weapon. "I didn't mean to startle you," the 
stranger murmured. "I was trying to move quietly. There is a 
predator roaming about. I came across a victim in a thicket a ways 
back. It was a man."

     A wave of dread flowed over Lenaig. "Show me!" 

     The woman turned slowly and walked without making a sound. 
Lenaig followed cautiously, cursing as she recognized her husband's 
body lying face up in the grass with his throat torn out, not a sheep in 
sight. "Damn you, Huil, you lazy sod."

     "You knew him," the stranger said, not as a question, but as 
though she were privy to a private jest.

     "My husband, unfortunately."

     "Then that would make you Lenaig? I was looking for a tribe 
member by that name, married to a man named Huil, though I 
expected to find them at the hall. Is their another such pair, or was I 
mistaken?"

     "Lenaig is my name, but what business could you have with me?" 
she answered gruffly.

     "A child was left in the chieftain's care. You were named the 
nurse. I've been sent to collect her."

     "Well, you can't."

     "And why is that?" the woman asked coldly.

     Lenaig suppressed a shiver as she thought she saw sparks where 
the woman's eyes should be. "Let me lead you back indoors, first. It 
will take a bit of talking to explain this properly, and I'm of no mind 
to finish up like my man over there."

     "Fair enough," the woman replied smoothly from behind, "but 
you must know that life holds no such guarantees."

    Lenaig stalked through the underbrush, laughing harshly at this 
statement. "Damned right, I do! It's not safe anywhere. There's death 
at my back every step of the way. I keep a sharp eye out, though."

     "Indeed," the woman drawled, again with that underlying laugh. 
"It's good that you recognize danger when you see it."

     "Good for you - I noticed that you carry no sword," Lenaig said 
after she gave a snort. "Stupid thing to do around here."

     "I have other methods of protecting myself." The stranger truly 
sounded unconcerned.

     Once indoors, Lenaig considered offering the stranger some brew, 
but thought better of the hospitality. From the looks of the woman, 
any of Lenaig's charity would be unneeded and go unlauded. If there 
wasn't any benefit involved for her, Lenaig wasn't going to bother 
being polite. The only reason she didn't chase this woman off with a 
flea in her ear was that, if word traveled to the chieftain, she just 
might get kicked off the land. Beggary suited her no more than 
manners. Lenaig resolved to get her side of the story out. The 
chieftain had quelled all gossip at the time of the original events with 
threats, otherwise she might not have had a visitor this evening. 
Lenaig could have been occupied rounding up her wandering sheep, 
rather than entertaining some emissary.

     Lenaig studied the stranger, catching glimpses of fine garments 
and gold beneath her cloak, and wondered what title or role she held. 
She was beautiful, with amber hair and smooth complexion that 
hinted this woman was not one forced to herd livestock. 

     "So you've traveled here in stead for Conchobhar?" Lenaig asked 
gruffly.

     The woman seemed to glow within the dim light of the hut. The 
intensity of her gaze gave Lenaig a momentary shiver as she 
answered matter-of-factly, "I've traveled here for the child. Your 
only concern should be getting her to me. I've gained the impression 
that you intend to disappoint me. I demand an explanation. Now."

     Lenaig's hand involuntarily clutched for her sword hilt before she 
thought better of it. The best choice would be to tell this woman the 
full story. After all, it wasn't Lenaig's fault, more like the chieftain's 
for accepting responsibility for the girl in the first place. What could 
her visitor do? What did she care whether the child lived or.

      "She's dead," Lenaig said.

      Before her words had come to a stop, the stranger had Lenaig 
slammed against the wall by her throat. Her sword clattered uselessly 
to the floor. Lenaig scratched at the hand that suffocated her - the 
woman only used one and her fingers were slim, yet they clutched 
around her throat as though they were fashioned from iron. 
"Mercy!" Lenaig stammered. "It wasn't my fault!"

     "I know more than you think," the woman snapped. "Your job 
was to care for her. You failed. Explain. Beg. Give me a reason to 
keep from ripping your throat out like your husband's. I can do it, 
too, and no one will care about the fate of some foul-faced 
shepherdess."

     Lenaig gurgled as she choked on a breath. "It was the girl - she 
was mad!" She felt her body be thrown to the floor. Looking 
hesitantly upward, she saw the woman pace ferociously in the dirt. 
The stranger paused then, turning a furious gaze her way, making 
Lenaig gasp for breath once more.

     "Talk. In the end, I will know if you lied."

     "The child was odd. I noticed it soon after she came into my care," 
Lenaig stammered. "She'd stare in to space as though she was in a 
trance. She would look at people as though they were all unnatural 
creatures. Morrigan had nightmares with every sleep. She'd awaken 
screaming about the people bleeding in her dreams."

     "Bleeding?" the woman echoed in a whisper.

     "Yes," Lenaig confirmed, her desire to gossip overwhelming any 
sense of caution she'd carried. "She would see people standing 
numbly before her, then, suddenly, their throats would be cut. Blood 
was everywhere and it was coming after her. Then the girl began to 
see things in her waking hours. Morrigan would be in the hall, at a 
ritual, just walking into a room, and she would start screaming and 
flailing like all manner of demons were after her. She was 
uncontrollable. I got the blame for it, but what was I supposed to do? 
Whatever bothered the girl happened long before she ever came 
under my care. I told the chieftain as much when I dared, but he 
ignored me." She delivered this last phrase with self-righteous indignation.

     "If this is true, why was word never sent to Conchobhar?"

     "The chieftain was too proud, for one. Fear had something to do 
with it as well. Your man, Conchobhar, he has a reputation, but I 
reckon you know that. Some of the stories we heard after she came, it 
made the grand ones wary to bring anything to your lord's attention."

     The woman narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "What kind of stories?"

     "There've been rumors that Conchobhar has had dealings with the 
other side." Lenaig let her voice fall to a low murmur, as if it were a 
mistake to speak of such things aloud. "That he's journeyed to the 
Otherworld, even."

     The stranger crouched down beside her on the floor and gazed 
critically into Lenaig's eyes. "And why do you suppose that is 
significant?"

     "It's his wife, you see."

     "What about her?"

     "Her name is Cliodhna, just like the goddess from the Otherworld. 
She's beautiful - drinks, sings, dances, and she never grows old."

     The stranger twisted her lips harshly. "The goddess or the wife?"

     "Both!" Lenaig shouted. "Some say the woman he married was 
the goddess herself come from the Otherworld. She enchanted him 
and cursed anything that interfered with his devotion to her," she said 
as she leaned forward with a malicious sneer, "including their children."

     "That's nonsense," the woman countered. "Just superstition, and 
not very accurate superstition, at that."

     "Ah," Lenaig drawled as her calculating expression folded her 
roughened face into a maze of skin and shadow. "Then why did the 
child call her mother a monster?"

     The stranger was still. The room was silent except for the slight 
crackle of the fire pit in the center of the room. Then the woman 
spoke softly. "I don't believe you."

     "It's true!" Seeing how her guest appeared unsure, Lenaig slowly 
crawled to her knees, then her feet. "Many times I heard her say it. 
She would take to screaming rubbish about seeing the blood 
everywhere, then, plain as day, Morrigan would cry out, 'You're not 
my mother, you're a monster!' She'd collapse, sometimes trying to 
injure herself. She broke her arm twice by flinging herself against the 
walls of the hall, she did." Lenaig gave an arrogant sneer as she 
poured a drink for herself and sat at the makeshift wooden table. "I 
guess you don't know as much as you thought you did, eh?" When 
her guest didn't answer, Lenaig snorted, then continued her 
description. "By the time she turned ten, all the girl wanted to do was 
kill herself, 'because the monster would come for her,' she said. 
'Fine,' I thought. Let the girl go into battle and meet her end a 
natural way. The chief would have none of it. He swore to keep the 
child alive until Conchobhar came for her. There would be no 
fighting, no dignity, for that girl."

     "But the chieftain obviously failed in his promise," came the 
stranger's faraway voice.

     "Ha!" Lenaig cackled. "Not for lack of trying, but Morrigan was 
a sly one. She wanted to die, and she was going to have her way. She 
was haunted, driven to do it. I remember when it happened - I should 
have suspected her plans because the girl grew so quiet just before. 
You see, there'd been a family caught stealing livestock, and they'd 
killed one of the ovates before they were captured. They were put to 
death, of course - made into wicker men, set aflame and burnt alive. 
They'd already lit the fires before word came that one of the younger 
thieves had been found tied up in the hall. Morrigan had taken his 
place, disguising herself as one of the lot to be executed. She'd stood 
there, not a care in the world, as they wrapped her in the wood. 
Where the others screamed as they were set on fire, Morrigan only 
sang of escape and that she was going to join her brothers."

     "And the chieftain never sent word of her death."

     "'Cause he doesn't want your Conchobhar coming and taking it 
out on him in kind. If you'd gone to the hall first, my fair, he'd have 
filled you with lies, and none of it would have been his fault."

     The woman turned sharp eyes on Lenaig, making her grin falter. 
"Or you could be lying. Your husband's thoughts were clouded, full 
of nothing but alcohol, laziness, and your harsh voice. Maybe you are 
to blame for Morrigan's death, maybe that's why you're not living in 
the hall any longer."

     "It's not my fault! The chief wanted to distance himself from the 
truth and banished my man and I here! He's to blame! He is and that 
demon mother who drove the girl mad, I tell you!"

     All at once, the woman's eyes flared feverishly. Lenaig saw the 
flash of fangs as she felt a vise wrap around her throat once more. 
She kicked her feet frantically against the dirt floor as she heard the 
woman hiss, "I suppose there's only one way to find out if you're 
telling the truth."

     Lenaig realized then whom she had been talking to and began to 
scream. Then there was silence.

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

     Clare felt his approach despite her distraction. She loosened her 
grip on the windowpane and tried to appear casual and unaffected. 
"Hello, Nicholas."

     "Clare." He moved to stand beside her, and both vampires 
pretended to be fascinated with the contents of the night sky. "It 
appears that Jenny is going to be fine. Schanke and Myra are looking 
in on her now."

     "So I heard. Thank you," she replied.

     "It actually matters to you, doesn't it?" Nick continued speaking 
quietly. "You care about what happens to Jen. Natalie told me about 
your daughter. She told me everything," he explained at her 
questioning look.

     "Everything that *she* knows, you mean," Clare corrected wryly. 
"How honest do you think I am?"

     He ignored that comment. "My sister had a son. His name was 
Andre, and I tried to raise him after her death." She looked away and 
began to stare out the window again as Nick continued his speech. 
"He saw me. He discovered what I was and ran away from it, not so 
differently from your daughter." Glancing at her profile, Nick saw 
Clare's eyes briefly squeeze shut. "When I found him, though, I 
made him forget. I arranged for his care and left, hearing with relief 
in later years that he'd grown to have family and children of his own. 
I suppose I was lucky in comparison."

     "Ah," Clare said assuredly, a note of sarcasm. "So that's it. 
You've found a reason to be sympathetic toward me. What do you 
expect me to say about your revelation? Did you want to 
commiserate over the sacrifices that immortality brings? Do you 
want me to rant and cry over how unfair it can be? Taking advantage 
of a weakness, Nicholas, how very predatory of you."

     "That wasn't my intention," Nick bit out.

     "Oh, wasn't it?"

     "Natalie told me the story so I wouldn't blame you for what 
happened to Jen."

    "Natalie's the one who wants and needs your approval of me. I 
don't," Clare countered. "She's the one you should be talking to, not 
me. If you want to reassure someone, talk to her."

     Nick studied her calmly, then stated. "You wouldn't be in such a 
hurry to get rid of me if Jen's injuries didn't bother you. You're like 
LaCroix - your pride is everything."

     "And you're like LaCroix - you're stubborn to the point of 
irritation." Clare let out a frustrated sigh. "You see, it doesn't matter 
if I care what happens to the Schankes or not. Either conclusion 
speaks poorly of me - poor intentions or a poor state of mind. I intend 
to deal with this situation, then forget it. I suggest you do the same, 
Nicholas. Go right on distrusting me, because any kind feelings you 
may harbor in this moment will not last. Give it a day, give it a week, a month, a year - you'll be cursing me all over again. Spare yourself the emotional 
upheaval and keep sending black thoughts in my direction."

     Nick continued to watch her calmly, without a hint of emotion. "Agreed."

     "Good," Clare said brusquely as she moved away from the 
window. "I'll be here until Jen safely passes through the first twenty-
four hours. Do me a favor, and stay out of my way."

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

     Nick was leaning against the window frame when a flustered 
Natalie returned. She leaned her back against his chest. Nick let his 
arms wrap around her waist, his fingers intertwining with her own. 
Briefly kissing the curls of her hair, he gave a passing grin at their 
vanilla scent.

    Natalie sighed contentedly. "Where did Clare go?"

    "I think she wants to be left alone," he answered. Natalie looked 
inquisitively over her shoulder at him. "She's upset," Nick shrugged. 
"What happened while I was gone?"

     "A call from the morgue. There's been another body theft. 
Apparently the security guards aren't *that* good, and Barney had 
stepped out for a while. Someone just came in and lifted a Jane Doe," 
Natalie said in an angry voice as she turned to face him. "This is so 
frustrating!" She furiously slammed a fist against the window sill, 
which resulted in a significant splitting sound. Nat stared blankly at 
the noticeable crack she'd made in the sill, while Nick alternated 
between looking amused and concerned. "Oops." She looked over 
her shoulder, checking for prying eyes. "I hate it when I do that."

     Nick really started to grin. "I haven't seen you break that many 
things since you've been brought across. A little pencil lead, and 
there's a lamp missing at the loft."

     Nat rolled her eyes at him. "I didn't break it! I put that lamp in a 
closet last week - Sidney was trying to eat the shade. I'm not talking 
about breaking things, anyway."

    Nick looked confused. "Then what are you talking about?"

   "I keep...*forgetting*," Natalie said as she waved her hands 
frustratedly in the air. "Sometimes...sometimes the vampire is all I 
can think about, but then there are those moments when everything 
doesn't seem so different and new. That's when I catch myself doing 
something obvious. I'll move too quickly, or I'll get emotional and 
the vampire just flares up. Then I'm scared out of my wits - what if 
someone saw me? I think to myself, 'What if I'm not so lucky to 
escape exposure the next time?' "

     A sudden image of Louis Secour flashed through Nick's thoughts, 
but he pushed it away. He chose to worry about Nat instead and 
pulled her close for another hug. "There are ways to deal with that. 
No one has to get hurt."

     Nat leaned back to look him in the eyes and frowned "Of course 
not. There's no reason to harm *anyone*, not when you can persuade 
them vampire-style. The thing that makes me wonder is: how can you 
be sure that no one sees something that they shouldn't? They could 
tell other people, and then, the next thing you know, it's snowballed 
uncontrollably!" 

      Nick wondered briefly.  He grimaced. Ignoring the situation was no longer an 
option...Clare would make certain of that. 

     Nat drew his attention back once more as she shook her head 
worriedly. "I've got to gain control of this, Nick. I've got to learn 
how to become careful."

     "You mean, you need to accept the vampire." Nick stared emptily 
at her for a few moments, then appeared haunted as he glanced away.

     Natalie suddenly clutched at him tightly as she almost forcibly 
pressed her head against his chest. Her next words were wary, but 
fatalistic. "Is that what I mean?"

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

     Clare was waiting outside Jen's room when the night nurse 
ushered the Schankes outside. A faint smile passed over her features 
at the sight of them. Myra rushed forward to embrace her as she 
talked in happy relief about her daughter's condition so far. Clare 
stiffened, her face displaying panic and dismay before she relaxed 
and gave an earnest reply. Schanke saw the change and made a note 
of it. After a few minutes of chatting, Myra decided to go on a coffee 
run, leaving Clare and Schanke alone.

     As the hallway became silent except for the sound of the gum 
soles of a passing orderly, Schanke became uncharacteristically 
contemplative. "I'm sorry about this, Clare."

     Her eyes widened  in amazement. "That goes without saying, 
Schanke. Of course you're sorry about Jen's injury. No one would 
ever dream that you weren't."

      "No, no, that's not what I meant," Schanke said. He cleared his 
throat before continuing. "I mean, I'm sorry that you had to be 
involved with this, you know? Because." He gestured with his hand 
as though Clare would know exactly what he was talking about, then 
looked uncomfortably away.

     She refused to leave it at that and prodded Schanke to complete 
the thought. "Because?"

     "Because of what happened to your own family - your own kids. 
This must bring back some tough memories for you."

     Clare felt an immediate wave of indignation well up at the hint of 
someone pitying her. She barely restrained herself from delivering a 
withering retort, then realized she was guilty of the same crime. She 
hadn't spared Nicholas when he'd acted remotely sympathetic to her 
past, and yet, because of the situation with his daughter, she was 
prepared to make an exception in Schanke's case. 

     She did not want pity, though. The emotion only seemed to 
accentuate her loss. More than anything, she wanted to escape the 
past and the emotions it brought.   Clare gave a frustrated sigh. 
Hadn't she sworn with the deaths of Figaro and Maeven that she 
would not mourn any longer? It was time to start being honest and 
stop running away from every thing that troubled her.

     "Yes. You're right, Schanke. It's brought back events from my 
past that I would rather not dwell on any longer," she admitted. "I've 
brought it on myself, though."

     "Come on, Clare. There's no way you're taking the blame for 
what happened. The Doc said you as good as saved her life by 
slowing Jen's bleeding before the ambulance arrived. I owe you one."

     "Let's hope you don't have to pay me back. Don't worry," Clare 
insisted as she crossed her arms across her chest in a piece of defiant 
body-language. "I am well-adjusted enough to realize that this wasn't 
my fault. I didn't pull the trigger, and I didn't directly hurt your 
daughter. What could I have really done differently to prevent the 
shooting? My head swims just considering the possibilities."

     Schanke nodded solemnly. "What's done is done. You can't 
change the past - you've just gotta deal with it. You and Nick taught 
me that, you know, by getting me to come back on the police force 
and everything. You can't let guilt, fear, or regrets about what's 
already happened make you hide from living."

     Clare's grin was blinding. "We taught you that? Aren't we clever? 
And you, Donald Schanke, are pretty wise for a mo-" She caught 
herself beginning to say 'mortal.'

     "A what?"

     "A man." Clare felt delightfully sexist at saying that.

    His reaction was, of course, a cry of protest. "Gimme a break! You 
and Myra *and* her aunts!"

      "I couldn't resist," Clare said with a teasing note to her voice. 
"Besides, I wasn't talking of blame when I said I brought these 
troubled thoughts on myself in the first place, Schanke. I was 
referring to my friendship with Jen. You see, she reminds me of my 
daughter, or, at least, what I wish Morrigan had had a chance to grow 
up to be. I never got to see that, and from the moment I met your 
daughter I knew that it would mean trouble for my heart." The 
haunted look began to creep back into Clare's eyes. "That was why I 
was willing to spend time with her. It was as though I had my 
daughter back with me again. With every night that passes I think 
that I remember her more clearly - the good, the bad, the horrible - I 
just didn't plan on it hurting so much," she confessed reluctantly, 
then delivered a rueful smile. "If I was as smart and as much of a 
survivor as I tell myself I am, I would let it go. I wouldn't visit with 
Jen anymore, and I would do my best to forget again. If I was smart, I 
wouldn't be here right now."

      "But you are," Schanke said frankly.

      "That's because I made the mistake of letting myself care."

      Nick's voice suddenly broke into the conversation. "I suppose 
that answers my earlier question to you, Clare" His eyes telegraphed 
the message, 

     Schanke ran a hand through his receding hair and groaned. "Oh 
man, Nick! Tell me you didn't read her the riot act the second she 
showed up at the hospital! I don't know if I'll believe it, but please 
tell me you didn't do that!"

     Nick grinned deliberately. "No, I didn't. Both Natalie and you 
knocked some sense into me."

     Don's forehead wrinkled. "Natalie punched you, too?"

     There was a laugh. "No - worse - she lectured me. I'm sorry about 
earlier, Schank. I shouldn't have said what I did."

     "Hey! Call it temporary insanity under bad circumstances. I'm 
just as sorry I bruised my hand on your jaw."

     "Wait a minute," Clare demanded as she grabbed Nick's sleeve. 
"You said something irritating, and Schanke *hit* you?" She looked 
incredulously from face to face as both men nodded, then glanced 
wonderingly at Nick. "Then what did you do?"

     Nick raised his shoulders nonchalantly. "I got hit."

     Clare was growing even more excited at this event. Not that many 
mortals just went around smacking vampires and lived to talk about 
it. "Ooo! Did anyone get pictures? I could use them on some new 
stationery."

     Natalie was thrilled to see all three chuckling as they re-entered 
the waiting area. A weight she hadn't even realized she was carrying 
lifted from her shoulders at the sight. It was a relief to see three of the 
people she cared the most about in this lifetime getting along. She 
didn't bother asking about the joke.

     As Myra returned with two cups of coffee, she commented, 
"Maybe in the morning the three of you could step in and visit with 
Jenny briefly, if only to see your smiling faces."

     "I'd like that," Nick said.

     "We'll have to tell the staff you're family," Schanke threatened.

     "Can I be from Myra's side?" Nick begged earnestly, making all 
the women break out in gales of laughter.

     His favorite partner looked affronted. "What? What's wrong with 
being a hunk of Grade-A-Schanke?" 

     "Oh, Donnie," Myra teased as she tried to catch her breath, "I 
don't think the world, much less Canada, can handle another 
Schanke hunk."

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

     It was after sunset, and the vampires had already gotten two short 
visits with Jen by the time the flowers came - a large bouquet of 
plump gardenias that left a trail of lingering fragrance throughout the 
lobby. The delivery boy announced Jennifer Schanke's room number 
as he discussed them with the staff at the nurses' station, but went on 
to say loudly, "Yeah, I'm supposed to give them personally to Clare Douglas."

     "That's not who's in the room," the head nurse protested.

     The vampires overheard this conversation and exchanged perplexed frowns.

     "I'm Clare Douglas." Clare approached the delivery boy and held 
out her hands, staring pointedly at the flowers. 

     Schanke had apparently overheard as well and asked, "Who 
would send those to you rather than Jennifer at this room number?"

     The young man shrugged as  he gave an unworried reply. "I don't 
take the orders. I just carry them. There's a note with the flowers, okay?"

     Clare picked out a small white envelope and briskly withdrew the 
plain white card held inside. She quickly scanned the contents, then 
visibly stiffened. She crumpled the note violently and whispered in a 
harsh voice, "I've got to go now." She held the flowers out to Myra 
and said, "Do what you want with them," then stormed out of the 
waiting area, jetting the wadded paper into the trash on her way.

     Schanke watched Clare's departure in bewilderment. "Man, I 
guess she didn't like what it said."

     "Mr. and Mrs. Schanke?" a nurse called. "Your daughter has 
woken up again and is asking for you."

     As Natalie waved them off to visit with Jennifer, Nick 
surreptitiously grabbed the bouquet's card from the rubbish. The note 
contained one sentence scratched in simple black ink:

     

     Nick closed his eyes as the revulsion and panic swept over him, 
then he ripped the paper into tiny unintelligible fragments.

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

     When Clare stepped through the entrance of the Raven, the crowd 
parted at the top of the stairs. It appeared obvious from her expression 
that getting in her way would *not* be a good idea. Her emerald eyes 
scanned the crowd predatorily, then narrowed upon a particular dark-
haired dancer swaying upon the floor. She approached him from 
behind and spun him around with one hand.

     Domino looked merely surprised at first, then he picked up on the 
venom radiating from his grand-sire. His eyes widened, and any 
remnants of having a good time in his face flattened. She let out a soft 
snarl, clasped him by the throat, then jerked Domino in the direction 
of the private rooms. 

     Once they were through the door and blocked from the prying 
eyes of the club's mortal guests, Clare unleashed the full brunt of her 
fury. She slammed him face-first into the wall, smashing it through 
plaster until his jaw cracked into the concrete underneath. She gave a 
satisfied grunt at the sound of breaking bone, then let him crumple to 
the floor in pain. 

     Clare crouched at his side and glared at Domino with undisguised 
rancor until he met her glittering eyes. "Where is Cecilia?" she hissed.

     Domino squinted at her, clutched his jaw and mumbled, "I don't know."

     "Don't give me that!" Clare forced his back into the damaged 
wall with both hands, then punched him repeatedly in the chest and 
stomach. Ribs snapped, and, no doubt, what passed for a spleen 
ruptured. She continued to speak passionately as the other vampire 
whimpered on the floor. He was less than two centuries old and 
seemed to know instinctively that fighting back would only make her 
do worse. "You do everything together - you're a witness to every 
little plan she makes. I should rip your head off right now for helping 
her. Tell me where she is hiding, and maybe I will spare you."

      "Clare, I swear it!" Domino pleaded. "I don't know where she is! 
I haven't seen Cecilia for almost three weeks now - she's disappeared! I swear I'm not lying! Ask Ivy! She'll confirm it!"

     Clare stared at him in furious silence for several moments, then 
fell to a seated position beside him with a snarl. She rubbed her 
forehead with her fingers as if that would clear her head. "Damn it! 
What am I doing?" She studied Domino critically. "You don't know 
where she is," she relented, "and I just broke several of your bones."

     "Well, you're upset," he excused. "I'll heal soon enough."

     "You are strange, Domino. You should be enraged with me. I 
would be." Clare stood with a sigh. "I attacked you without concrete 
proof. I apologize. Let me get you a drink," she offered as she 
extended a palm. "You can stand, right?" 

     Domino's grin was downright grateful, and Clare felt a tinge of 
dismay. It was disconcerting to encounter one of their predatory kind 
who had so little fight to them and so much supplication. She adored 
ordering others around, but what was the point if they had no will of 
their own from the beginning? Where was the satisfaction? The personality?

     Domino clutched at her fist and hauled to a stand. "I'm almost as 
good as new," he announced cheerfully. As he moved for the door to 
head back out to the dance floor and bar, Clare stopped him.

     "No," she said, motioning with her eyes, "this way. I'd still like to 
talk to you."

     "What about a drink?" Domino wasn't protesting, he was confused.

     Clare gestured for him to take a seat on the sofa while she walked 
to the right, opened a cabinet, and drew out a bottle and two crystal 
goblets. She set them down upon a nearby table, popped the cork and 
poured. Holding one glass out to the other vampire, she replied, "A 
drink. The really good stuff."

     Domino hesitated in accepting. "But that's LaCroix's private -!"

     "Stock," Clare nodded as she finished his worried exclamation. "I 
know, but I haven't done a single intelligent thing today, so why start 
now? Go ahead, take it."

     He reluctantly wrapped his fingers around the stem. Clare 
watched as he took a small sip. It appeared he did it not so much as 
because he hungered, but because he thought she expected it. It made 
her wonder just what kind of person Domino was. She sensed his 
enjoyment of the small taste, then joined him in taking a larger 
swallow from her own glass.

     After a while, he asked softly, "Isn't LaCroix going to dislike that 
you're treating his things as though...you know?"

    "As though they are my own? Maybe, maybe not. I'm not sure. It's 
not really my biggest worry at the moment."

     "What is?"

     "Your sister," Clare said then drew in a deep breath. "How is the 
spring collection coming along for the House of Figaro?"

     "We aren't doing one."

      She gave a sharp frown. "What do you mean?"

     "There wasn't enough time to prepare a full collection for the 
show season. It's almost over, you know," Domino said as he took 
another sip. "We're working on the fall/winter collection to be 
presented next February. Ivy's gotten some fantastic designs."

     "No, I didn't know. I suppose I never paid attention to the dates 
of that kind of thing, just the actual clothes," Clare mused. She 
thoughtfully tinkered with the crystal rim of her glass. "Apparently, 
Cecilia doesn't either. I saw her less than a week ago. She invited me 
to come to the studio so I could see the finished *spring* items 
tomorrow night."

       Domino scoffed. "We're doing some accessories, some cabana-
wear Figaro had planned out, but you saw the samples for all of those 
when you first came to town. Cecilia didn't know what she was 
talking about!"

      "Or did she?" Clare argued as she reasoned aloud to herself. "It 
confirmed for her that I had plans last night. She could have 
eavesdropped on my conversation with Schanke. She wasn't at the 
scene of the shooting, but that doesn't mean she didn't plan it."

     "You mean Cecilia attacked you?" Domino appeared astounded. 
"She wouldn't dare! She always said there was no way she could get 
away with it!"

     Clare laughed sarcastically. "Though she's talked about it at 
length, I gather. A few happy daydreams while she brushed her hair? 
You see, Domino, she didn't attack me directly, and she didn't do the 
dirty work herself. She had someone helping her - someone she 
believes can protect her from my wrath. Someone who's hiding her 
from me now. It must be an older vampire, but whom?"

     "I don't know of anyone who would be willing to help her work 
against you."

     "That doesn't mean they don't exist. That doesn't mean they 
aren't a danger to me personally, either. This person is taunting me, 
Domino. They are helping Cecilia for their own amusement."

     Domino stood and moved to stand at Clare's side. "This person 
sounds like they have a lot in common with my sister."

     Clare observed him carefully as she refilled his goblet. "You are 
afraid of her, aren't you? That's why you spend so much time at her 
side - you're terrified not to. What has Cecilia done to you?" Domino 
looked away, either unable or choosing  not to respond. "But Ivy thinks 
about as much of her as I do, doesn't she? Ivy stood up to her, I suspect."

     "Ivy's not used to dealing with other vampires. She can act hastily," Domino excused.

     "But she's protected you from Cecilia."

     He seemed unsure as to what he should say in response. "What 
makes you think I need protecting from Cecilia?" 

     "The way you act toward me. I know that I have a somewhat 
unflattering reputation, but I think that you cower as though you 
have a great deal of practice. I really haven't destroyed that many 
other vampires."

     Domino wouldn't meet her eyes. "I'd rather not talk about this 
anymore. Can I go?"

     Clare forced him to look at her to see her acquiescent nod. He 
rushed to the door and froze as it opened when he reached for the 
handle. It was LaCroix. He glanced at the goblet still clutched in 
Domino's hand, then raised an eyebrow. Flustered, the younger 
vampire rushed past him and back amongst the dancers.

     LaCroix clicked the door shut, then stared pointedly at the dent in 
the hallway's plaster. "Your method of redecorating leaves 
something to be desired, my dear," was his mocking comment. 

     Clare moved into view. She made no response, but looked at him 
with unabashed delight. LaCroix considered her for a moment, then 
approached. "I gather that you decided not to tear Domino apart.  
Several of the club's patrons departed out of concern that you 
might notice them next. You're bad for business as well." She 
still didn't answer, though her lips twitched faintly. LaCroix sighed. 
"What happened?"

     Then Clare's lips spread in a brilliant smile. She ran one hand up 
under his jacket collar while the other unbuttoned it. It was his turn to 
give an amused stare. She gave a low laugh once she had his coat 
open, then wound her arm around his waist. Clare parted her lips, ran 
the tip of her tongue along her upper teeth, then pulled his head closer.

     She kissed him, pulling first on his lower lip with both of her 
own, then tasted his whole mouth as though she was starving. She 
leaned back and looked intently up at him. "Cecilia arranged to have 
someone shoot Detective Schanke's daughter."

     LaCroix raised a palm to cup her cheek as he ran a thumb over her 
mouth. "Why would Cecilia do that?"

     Clare lowered her eyes for a split-second before she gave her 
answer. "She thought I would care." LaCroix's thumb stilled. "She 
was right."

     He abruptly stepped away and picked up the goblet of blood from 
where Clare had left it. After taking an angry draught from the glass, 
he remonstrated in an irritated voice. "This upset you've caused, 
thrashing one of your own kind, putting a hole in *my* wall, the stale 
smell of a hospital that lingers about you - all of that is due to 
sentimentality for a mortal?" LaCroix took another fierce swallow. 
"A mortal child, no less. This is just the sort of pointless idiocy I 
would expect Nicholas to confess. You, Clare, ought to know better."

     She smiled again, evidently pleased by his response. "Not a shred 
of sympathy from you, Lucius? No soft whispers of, 'Oh dear, too 
bad'?" She laughed in delight and pressed up against him once more, 
while LaCroix frowned as though he wasn't quite certain what to 
make of her words. "That is one of the things I adore about you, 
LaCroix. You have no regrets about what you are. No bothersome 
conscience." She began to toy with the breast pocket of his jacket as 
she eyed him coyly from beneath shuttered lids. "And you have no 
heart." She glanced away, lifting the piece of crystal from his fingers, 
and missed his instantaneous flinch at her words. "You are absolutely 
right. I've been an idiot," she said, then brought the glass to her 
mouth to take a deliberately languorous sip while never letting her 
eyes leave his own. "I had no business sparing the girl a moment's 
thought. Ugh. Working as a detective was another piece of insanity. 
What was I thinking, chasing murderers all over the city, when I'm 
perfectly capable and willing to commit my own homicides? Well, no 
more."  Clare set the goblet down with a thunk. "I am finished with 
Metro Police, law, and order."

     LaCroix gave a short, stiff nod. "You intend to leave Cecilia to 
them? I sincerely doubt that."

     "I never said I was giving up revenge. What fun would that be? I 
will make Cecilia pay, as well as anyone who helped her," she 
answered confidently.

     "Talk of retribution definitely suits you more than dwelling on 
any attachment to a mortal," LaCroix announced.

     Clare beamed up at him as she ran her hands up to clasp at the 
back of his neck. "Exactly. I need to stop thinking about them and 
think about myself, instead. I don't need them," she whispered as she 
raised to her tiptoes until her mouth was mere millimeters from his 
own. "I need you." Their lips brushed for the briefest of touches. "I 
want to be a part of you." A golden shade came over her eyes, and 
she kissed him fully as she ran her hands down his back.

     LaCroix's features transformed with his own passion. He felt Clare 
run her tongue over his fangs and drew in a sharp breath. Trailing his 
lips along her cheekbone, he nipped at her left earlobe, then hissed, 
"Do you really think you can erase any feelings you have for 
Schanke and his family as easily as that?"

     Clare pulled back slightly, and her eyes flashed insistently. "I may 
not erase them, but I can ignore what I feel very well, I assure you."

     LaCroix tugged her down onto the sofa so that she lay on top of 
him as he took her mouth in another caress. Her hair came down, and 
her jacket was tossed to the floor before he let go of Clare's lips. 
"Can you?"

     A fevered growl and the ecstatic work of teeth on his throat was 
her reply.

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

     He cradled her naked body into his chest and breathed in the 
fragrance of her flesh. The scent of the hospital was still there. It was 
an odor of false cleanliness - chemicals and plastic masking the 
natural smell of the diseased and the dying. Contrary to the 
uneducated opinion, there was rarely anything palatable about a 
hospital to a vampire...except perhaps the emergency room...there 
was plenty of ripe bloodshed to be found there, some of it even of 
pure quality. Along with the layer of disinfectant, he caught a 
persistent trace of gardenias. He focused on that perfume with 
satisfaction. Even as far back as the first time they met, she'd radiated 
the scent of gardenias, as if they were indigenous to her essence.

     There was something else there at the core of her fragrance - a 
smell he would have forgotten completely if he hadn't known her 
almost his entire unlife. She carried the scent of the sun on the grass. 
It was an ironic totem for one of their kind to be so reminiscent of 
something so full of light and life, yet, somehow it suited Clare. 

     LaCroix frowned, cursing silently as he propped himself up on one 
elbow. She made no sound as he shifted his weight. She slept too 
deeply for that.  he recalled describing to Nicholas. 
It was a wonder that her habit of untroubled slumber had never 
caused her any harm over the centuries. LaCroix absently wound a 
strand of her hair about his index finger. Perhaps it had. He knew as 
little about her past as she did of his, save the time they had spent 
together.  his thoughts ameliorated.

     They had both seen too much, they knew too much, to ever be 
understood by the other entirely. There were too many secrets 
shuttered away on either side for that. Yet tonight, Clare shared a 
great deal through her blood, as though she was desperate to shed that 
part of her past. He'd known bits and pieces before, but now he could 
picture her first years as a vampire with utmost clarity.

     He rose, dressed, and left his private rooms. The club had cleared 
rather well on its own, leaving only a dozen mortal stragglers to be 
ordered out before the sunrise. There was also one vampire.

     Javier Vachon lingered at the bar. It appeared he was amusing 
himself by building some sort of tenement out of swizzle sticks. He 
examined it critically, then strategically slipped another stick into the 
complex.

     "I assume that you are looking for Clare," LaCroix said.

     The younger vampire gave a brief nod. "Among others. I take it 
she's..." he paused and glanced toward the private door, "...busy."

     "Yes." LaCroix didn't choose to elaborate.

     Vachon stood and shrugged one shoulder. "I don't suppose I have 
to see her in person. Could you tell her that I took Carmen to the 
church? If she wants her back, she'll have to come get her."

     "And this Carmen is?"

     "Clare's cat."

     LaCroix grimaced. "Really. Why am I not surprised? She seems to 
have any number of pets wandering about Toronto already."

     Vachon decided pretending that jibe wasn't directed at him would 
be the healthy way to go. "And that project I was working on for her - 
she'll want to know I left it at the hotel." He swigged back the last 
swallow of his glass on the bar, then set it down roughly next to his 
swizzle stick building. The vibrations didn't make it budge one iota. 
Vachon grinned proudly, commenting to LaCroix, "The foundation's 
everything." Then walked toward the Raven's entrance. Halfway 
across the floor, Javier paused. "You haven't seen Ivy around here 
lately, by any chance, have you?" When LaCroix did not respond 
immediately, Vachon continued, "You know - she's short, brunette, 
you were choking her in here a couple of weeks ago."

     "I know who Ivy is," LaCroix replied stonily. "No. I haven't seen her."

     "Ah." There was a flash of movement, then he was gone.

     LaCroix secured the door behind the Spaniard, then headed back to 
the private rooms. Clare hadn't stirred. He took a nearby seat and 
simply watched her. The first time they'd met he'd just watched her, 
hardly exchanging a word. She'd said a few things that he recalled:

     "Did you bring her across?" Conchobhar's demeanor had altered 
when LaCroix brought Divia's approach to their attention, but it was 
Clare who stiffened and demanded information about the vampire 
child. She was obviously disturbed at the idea. He fought his first 
instinct to glower in return, because they were the first others of their 
kind he'd encountered. He had questions about his immortal 
existence - questions that Divia either avoided or refused to answer. 
He needed to placate this couple if he wanted to acquire any information.

     "No. She is my mortal daughter only, Cliodhna. She is my 
vampire sire," he admitted.

     "My name is Clare," she corrected.

     "My apologies," he replied smoothly. "I believe your husband 
referred to you as -"

     "He is the only one who does. My name is Clare," she repeated.

     
     After that, she'd turned her attention to the girl. She was obviously 
passing some sort of judgment over Divia and himself, and LaCroix 
had wondered over her conclusions. He'd observed the two females 
converse while exchanging a few words with Conchobhar. The other 
man appeared intent on Clare's response as well, which he'd found 
interesting. It was as though the man worried over his wife's reaction. 

     Then they'd taken their leave, and Divia had been obviously 
pleased to see the back of them. He had been irritated to lose the 
opportunity to query the couple more, until Clare had murmured one 
final comment.

     "I expect you will be alone when we meet you again, Lucius," 
she'd said as she eyed Divia pointedly. "One way or another, she will 
not last." Seeing his questioning and very affronted expression, she'd 
smiled smugly. "Consider it a warning, or a prophecy, but, believe 
me, I know of what I speak."

     At the time, he'd wanted to demand an explanation of what she'd 
meant, but Divia had drawn his attention away. Clare had been 
correct, of course, for not long after he had entombed Divia in the 
Valley of Kings. When they met again a century and a half later, he 
no longer had any desire to discuss his daughter/sire at all, so he had 
never understood her comment.

      his thoughts repeated.

     Clare made a sound in her sleep, then turned restlessly. LaCroix 
became alert and moved closer as she jerked once more. Her dreams 
were troubled, and he knew instinctively what they contained.  he mused with a frown. LaCroix swore 
silently that he didn't feel a sense of petty satisfaction as he thought 
of  another element to her nightmares. 

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


     The night was vacant of sound except for the wind. She stood 
before a mound that grew from the hillside. A portion of a chariot 
wheel jutted from the dirt-encased opening. They'd buried Morrigan 
as a warrior, as a leader, probably hoping to appease the monsters in 
the deceased girl's family when and if they did return.

     It didn't work. 

     Lenaig's blood had confirmed every word she'd spoken about 
Morrigan's death. Her description had been honest, though perhaps a 
bit mild. She felt ill after feeding, the screams and torment of her 
daughter filling her mind and what remained of her soul. It had 
poisoned her. She ran to the hall, craving some form of escape from 
the haunting images of her child's torture. She seized other victims 
there, splitting their throats open and drinking in new memories, but 
they held the same screaming girl. They all carried a shocked portrait 
of a familiar,  charred figure, rustling declarations of madness, and 
talk of a demon-mother responsible for it all. 

      the voices whispered, 

     She tore through the rooms, seeking anyone who would cleanse 
the visions and blame from her thoughts. Some fought her, some 
injured her, but she was wild and unstoppable. Like a demon. She 
ripped into the freemen and clan members who stood in her path, 
unearthing more foulness that swam among distant images of her 
husband as a young man and in battle. 

     The chieftain became paralyzed the moment she crashed into his 
chamber. As the other men and women swarmed about, wielding 
swords and alternate weapons to fend her off, he looked on like a 
complacent, dumb animal. A woman, who she later found to be the 
chieftain's wife, pierced her with an arrow an inch below her heart. 
The wooden shaft seared inside her, and she staggered. The 
chieftain's wife began to draw back and aim another while the 
vampire ripped the offending object from her chest, hunching over in 
pain. There was a flash of movement, and suddenly she stood behind 
the archer, who had the opportunity for one final, startled gasp before 
breathing her last.  When they had all fallen, there was one man left.

     The grunts and cries of combat melted away, leaving her standing 
in front of the chieftain, leaning on the hilt of a sword lifted from one 
of the dead. She was covered in blood. It soaked her garments, matted 
her hair, and painted her skin in a shroud of dark red. She was a 
blanket of crimson except for her eyes. 

     Her eyes glittered like gems of fire, spewing hate, violence, and , 
above all, anguish in his face. The chieftain, his clothing unsoiled and 
his brow untracked by the sweat of exertion in combat, silently fell to 
his knees. He bent his neck forward in supplication, presenting her a 
crown of bleached hair, as though to ease her final killing.

      Her lips sneered in revulsion. "You would not fight? You would 
wait patiently for your death, not raising a hand in your defense? 
What kind of leader are you?"

     "I am an old man, and I am no match for you. My death is 
inevitable. If you do not kill me, he will," the chieftain replied in a 
low voice.

     "Look at me," she commanded. He didn't move. "Look at me!" 
she shrieked. His head lifted, and she was confronted by eyes the 
same as her lost daughter. "Do you know who I am?"

     "You are my brother's wife," he answered softly. "Cliodhna." He 
lifted his chin irreverently. "You are Morrigan's mother, the demon."

     "Shut up!" she screamed.

     He slowly raised his hands and made a graceful gesture toward the 
bodies that littered the room. "Isn't it the truth?" For the first time, an 
edge of ferocity fell over his features. "Now finish this. I don't want 
Conchobhar forced to kill his own family."

     She began to laugh hysterically, then crouched forward to hiss 
bitingly into his ear, "Too late."  She dropped the sword she held 
before him, stating, "I'm not going to kill you. It allows you too 
much honor to die by my hand, even if you do cower before me. You 
should have sent word to us about Morrigan long ago," she accused, 
"*before* her death. For that, you no longer have a tribe to lead. All 
you have is an empty hall, which, in a month or so, will be overrun 
by the Romans. I suppose, if you beg for mercy, they may take you as 
a slave or some form of personal servant, especially if you bow 
prettily before them as you do for me now. You don't deserve to die 
by another hand. You should live and remember that all of your 
people would have been spared had you only sent us word." 

     She moved to stand, but his arms snapped up like a vise. She 
glared and said bitingly, "You cannot *make* me kill you."

     He did not let go, but leaned closer and pressed a kiss against her 
blood-encrusted cheek. "Forgive me," he breathed.

      She jerked to her feet and turned her back to leave. As she 
reached the doorway she paused at the tell-tale sound of metal 
scratching against stone flooring. She did not move to watch or stop 
him. She heard him fall, grunt, and only then completed the way out, 
abandoning the chieftain to finish bleeding to death from gutting 
himself with the sword.

     Now the night was vacant except for the sound of the wind. When 
Conchobhar arrived, the only noise was an added flicker of breeze. 
She stared stonily ahead, her hands tucked around her own waist. He 
watched her with an intensity that somehow seemed calm, noting the 
blood on her face, hands, clothes and hair. He studied the burial 
mound, then turned his gaze upon the clan hall in the distance.

     "You have no relatives here anymore," she said faintly.

     "Tell me what happened."

     "No."

     He arrested her face with his hands, forcing her meet his eyes. 
"You will not keep this from me."

     Strain filled her face as she protested. "I am only trying to spare 
you this pain that I feel."

     "Out of everyone, you believe that *I* should be spared?"

     Her features turned blank as she considered his words. Her lips 
pressed into a stiff line as she presented him the inner side of a wrist. 
Conchobhar's eyes flared, and he took hold of her arm with a snarl. 
She felt her eyes swim once more as his fangs pushed through her 
skin. For a moment, she changed her mind and tried to pull back, but 
it was too late. He let go of her and stepped toward the grave, 
moaning, "Morrigan!" as he moved.

    She held him back as he reached to pull the buried chariot free. 
"Don't! I tried before, and the wheels burn." Not only had the 
inclusion of the chariot in the burial been of religious significance, its 
spokes were symbolic of the sun.

     He continued despite the warning, only to leap backward as the 
first contact made his flesh smoke and sizzle.

     "It is only a corpse. We lost her years ago," she said softly.

     Conchobhar swung around and wrapped his arms about her, and 
she clung to him as they both began to sob in grief. "Cliodhna..." he 
said, then his voice choked.

     "I don't want to be called that any more. Only by you. You say it, 
and I can tell that you love me. No one else is left who does." She wiped away a 
scarlet streak running down her cheek with the back of a hand. 
"From now on, I will take Morrigan's name."

     "Bright One," Conchobhar echoed.

    "The Romans are coming this way, their empire spreading over 
the land for their share of time. I'll be known as `Clarus' - Clare. 
That is the closest Morrigan's legacy will ever come to immortality...in this 
world."

     He hugged her tightly to him, capping her head with a hand as he 
threaded his fingers through her damp hair. "We can go somewhere 
far away, somewhere new and different, for a time. Maybe there will 
be a chance for you to meet my sire."

 She pulled off her stained clothing and let him wrap her in the folds 
of his plaid cloak. As he secured the neckline with a pin, she stilled 
his broad fingers under her own. "Conchobhar, I never want to feel 
this way again."

     "You won't have to," he replied earnestly. "You have no one left 
that you can lose."


     "LIAR!" she screamed. The scene had changed, and Clare now 
stood alone, wearing a thin, off-white, silk brocade shift. She was 
outdoors, and the sky was bright as though the sun beamed overhead, 
but she felt no warmth.

     Conchobhar's voice drifted to her within the cool air that stirred 
the hem of her garment. "I meant it, you know, Cliod." She spun 
around to find him leaning against a rock surrounded by a copse of 
oak trees. "I was a newborn vampire - I actually believed we would 
all last forever," he said, following the words with a harsh laugh. 
"What the hell did I know?"

     Clare strolled closer, eyeing him curiously. "You always thought 
you knew everything."

     He jumped to his feet and turned around, gesturing to the trees and 
rocks. "And look where it got me."

     "Reduced to pointless cameo appearances in your disturbed wife's 
dreams," she replied pettily. 

     His eyes lightened with amusement. "Ah. You've finally docked 
my memory off that mental pedestal of yours, I see. You're still 
having these dreams, though. That's not a good sign. I thought that 
you swore to let go of the past."

     "That was less than six months ago," she scoffed. "I can't turn my 
memories off like a light switch."

     "But you can ignore what you feel very well - isn't that what you 
said? Now who's the liar?" He laughed as she glared huffily at him, 
then took a seat upon the rock once more. "I really envy you, Cliod. 
Did I ever tell you that?"

     "No, you didn't."

     "Well, I'm telling you now. You've lived over two thousand 
years. I lasted less than four hundred. The things you have seen 
astound me - not everything has been dark and depressing, you know. 
The beauty that has touched your eyes, the music of a magnificence 
that I could never imagine that has serenaded you. I, I would have 
loved to share that with you. Oh, I shouldn't leave out physical 
pleasures, either. You were never the celibate sort. How much 
passion have I missed over the centuries, Cliod?"

     She crawled onto the rock to sit next to him. "Why am I having 
this dream? It is a dream, of course," she asserted.

     Conchobhar bent forward and murmured silkily in her ear, 
"Whatever you say, love."
 
     Clare pushed him back slightly with one hand, then let her fingers 
remain clutching his shirt collar. "You always lecture me about 
something in these dreams. Tell me what it is this time."

     Conchobhar sighed. "I don't want you to seek revenge against Cecilia."

     Her temper immediately flared in outrage. "What?"

     "It does you no good. How many did you slaughter for 
Morrigan's death? Yet she still haunts you. How many did you kill 
in retribution for my death? Here I am; *I* still haunt you. 
Destroying Cecilia will not benefit you."

     "I cannot let her arrange an attack against me and let it go! The 
girl is a pest - she needs to be erased!"

     "Yes, she does," Conchobhar agreed, "and she will be, but it will 
not be at your hand."

     "This is nonsense!" Clare shouted. She slipped off the rock and 
began to stomp into the lighted clearing. "You're just assuming the 
role of some pathetic morality no doubt derived from spending quite 
a bit too much time in Nicholas' company! That man's like a disease!"

     "No." Conchobhar flashed in front her, solemnly blocking the 
path. "I tried to phrase this as advice, but now I am making it a 
warning: have mortal justice take care of the shooter, then let it go. If 
you hunt Cecilia down and her accomplice, you *will* suffer."

     "Hunting them down will *end* my suffering!" she insisted.

     "You don't know everything."

     "But I know more than you," she drawled. "Isn't that what you 
just finished telling me?"

     "You know more about living," he said coldly as he clasped her 
upper arms, "but I know a great deal more about being dead." 

     She tried to shake him off, but he wouldn't budge. "Let go of me, 
Conchobhar."

     "You don't know everything," he repeated.

     "I've heard enough, let go of me!" Clare began to flail in an 
attempt to break from his grip. He seemed to transform, his arms 
lengthened and his body widened. His limbs wound around her 
multiple times as if they had become vines, and he appeared to spread 
over her until he enveloped Clare like a smothering cloud. His form 
covered her in darkness - her eyes couldn't pick out the slightest 
flicker, any hint of breeze had disappeared in an instant, and 
everything felt, smelled, black and cold. She didn't think she could 
scream or talk, much less move, but she made the attempt, anyway. 
She gasped, parting her lips to wail, "NO!"

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

     Her eyes snapped open. The light had returned, and she was back 
at the Raven. She was free. Clare felt a lingering weight and looked 
down to see LaCroix's hand resting on her bare shoulder. Trailing her 
eyes along his arm, she saw that he watched her with a combination 
of concern and curiosity in his expression. She also noticed that he'd 
gotten dressed again and released a soft sigh of disappointment.

     "You had a nightmare," he said softly. "That is a rare occurrence, 
is it not?"

     She bobbed her head slightly. "Usually." She laced her fingers 
through the ones touching her and pulled him to her side. 

     He moved her body into his lap and wound his arms loosely about 
Clare's waist. "You dreamed of your daughter?"

     She relaxed her head against his shoulder as she answered, "At 
first, but then things changed. That part was worse, I think. I was 
trapped, a prisoner where I did not want to be."

     LaCroix's posture hardened, and the arms encircling her waist fell 
away. "You see yourself as a prisoner?"

     Clare felt his arms move away and frowned, then she caught both 
of his hands and put them back into place. "I think my dream was all 
wrong - *that* is why it was a nightmare," she said determinedly. "I 
am not a prisoner, and I'm not going to become one, no matter what I 
choose to do."  She lapsed into silence, then brought one of his hands 
to her lips so she could drop kisses along his fingers. "Lucius, do you 
remember when Conchobhar was destroyed?"

     "How could I forget such an event?" LaCroix murmured in a tone 
that gave no indication of what his opinion of the 'event' actually 
was.

     "If I recall correctly, you were angry with the way I took 
revenge," Clare said. "You called me 'selfishly careless and hysterical.' "

     "Because you were," he replied smoothly, "just like your attack 
against Domino last night. You brought unnecessary attention to 
yourself, and, as a consequence, our kind. That is what made me 
angry, that and the new hole in my wall."

     She gave an undignified giggle, then turned in his lap as she slid 
her hands around his neck. "So you would agree that, as long as I 
remain calm and impeccable to the public eye, revenge is a splendid thing."

      "Revenge is a beautiful thing, Cliodhna," he whispered, then 
brushed his lips against her own. "It should be savored like the blood 
of innocents...or the kiss of a lover."

     Clare took in an automatic breath, intending to ask him to not use 
that name. Her mouth hovered next to his as she looked into his blue 
eyes. She sighed dazedly, then returned his kiss in a passionate rush.

     She decided it didn't matter what he called her, anyway. 

********************************************************************
   
     Vachon climbed the brick steps of the townhouse and rang the 
doorbell. He glanced at the sky warily, noting that the first hint of 
dawn touched the horizon. He whistled a verse of "Fool In The Rain" 
while he waited. When there was no answer, he rang again. After a 
minute, he heard noisy footsteps clamber in his direction, the beep of 
the security system being disarmed, and the front door swung wide open. 

     Javier opened his mouth to say hello, but stopped short. No 
vampire stood on the threshold, but a tousled-haired kid. He wore a 
hockey jersey and ate from a bowl of cereal. Looking innocently at 
Vachon, the boy chewed, swallowed, then said, "Hi."

     "Hi," Vachon replied. He stared thoughtfully at the child, then 
asked, "Do you live here?"

     The boy finished off another bite of cereal. "Yeah!" He swirled his 
spoon through the milk, dug out a pair of raisins, then chewed 
thoughtfully on them as he peered at the dark-haired stranger.

     Vachon nodded methodically.   "Weird," he muttered 
under his breath. In a loud, pleasant voice, he asked, "Is Ivy here?"

     The boy's face lit up. "Yeah! Wait a sec - I'll get her." He left the 
door open completely, so Vachon stepped inside while the kid 
walked down the hall and yelled, "Eye-vee! Someone's at the door! 
Eye-veeee!"

     A wooden partition off the hall slid open and Vachon heard her 
voice. "I heard you the first time, Patrick. You don't have to yodel. I 
was just in the middle of something. Is Peggy here to cart you off to 
school?"

     The kid, apparently named Patrick, slurped up a spoonful of milk 
and said, "Nope."

     "What?! Who else would it be?" Ivy stepped forward. She wore 
jeans and a T-shirt covered by a chalk-stained apron. She had a fabric 
tape measurer tied loosely around her waist like a belt and material 
slung over both shoulders. He tacked on his 'nice, lovable Spaniard' 
look as she peered expectantly at the front entrance. She seemed to 
realize who it was before her eyes landed on him, and her face fell, 
then became panicked. "What are *you* doing here? Ohmigod, 
ohmigod...you are not supposed be here!"

     "I wouldn't have to drop by if you made it possible to track you 
down anywhere else," Vachon stated calmly.

      Ivy bustled forward to push him back out the door. "Fine. You 
want to meet me somewhere - I'll come to the Raven tonight," she 
promised. "Now go, before anyone else sees you!"

     Vachon prepared to give her a very good reason why he couldn't 
comply with that request, when another voice broke into their 
conversation. "Good morning, Ivy! Is Patrick ready to go? Oh, who's 
this? I don't think we've met!" 

     Ivy gaped in horror at the woman standing on the stoop, then 
made a small sound that sounded suspiciously to Vachon like 'ack.'

     "Hi, Aunt Peggy!" the kid said.

     "Patrick," Ivy said when she found her voice, "go brush your teeth 
and get your school stuff. You don't want to keep your aunt waiting, right?"

     "Okay." Patrick moved to the foot of the stairs. Before he headed 
up them, Ivy cleared her throat, nodding toward the cereal bowl, and 
he handed it over to her waiting hand.

     "Why don't you introduce me to your friend while we wait, Ivy?" 
Peggy hinted as she stepped indoors.

     "She can't do that," Vachon answered. "I'm not here."

     Aunt Peggy frowned. "Excuse me?"

     "Ivy's not allowed to have friends over so...I'm... ...not......here."

     Aunt Peggy blinked blankly, then nodded. "You're not here."

     Patrick stomped back down the stairs, now carrying a backpack 
and wearing a Toronto Blue Jays cap. Ivy smiled as both mortals 
scooted out the door. "Have a good day! See you this afternoon!" As 
Peggy closed the entrance behind them, Ivy let out a relieved breath. 
"Whew!" She met Vachon's gaze again. "Why am I so happy? You're still 
here! You've got to go - now!"

     "Can't."

     "Of course, you can," Ivy retorted as she used her hand not 
holding a cereal bowl to pull the door open for his exodus. A shaft of 
daylight gleamed indoors, and she jumped, slamming it shut again. 
"Oh." Catching sight of Vachon's smirk, she began to fume. "You 
did this on purpose."

     "I can't take credit for the sun rising," he said innocently.

     She glowered at him, then armed the door alarm as she spoke. 
"Yeah, but you can take credit for showing up here right before it 
did." She rubbed her forehead with her free hand, then ventured down 
the hallway. When it looked like Vachon would follow, she spun 
around and shook her finger at him. "You stay right there. You can't 
just wander about freely in every room of their house - they'll know 
you were here. No, wait. Go in there," she ordered as she motioned 
toward the study. "There's stuff from the studio in there - it 
practically smells like a crowd."

    Ivy tried to ignore how he rolled his eyes at her attitude. She 
shuffled off to the kitchen to hurriedly clean up after Patrick, feeling 
silly and having an intense urge to grin. If she did that, however, it 
would all be over. This was serious. 

     Just as Janette had requested, Ivy had asked Vachon about the 
details surrounding Figaro Newton's destruction a couple of weeks 
before. The next time she saw Janette, though, the older vampire had 
been furious...


     "You will have nothing to do with Clare! Do you hear me? She is 
the sort of vampire who would take Patrick from me!" she snarled, 
her murderous expression quelling all of Ivy's protests at that point. 
"I don't want you to be around her, and I don't want you talking to 
her again! *Or* her family."

     Ivy's heart sank at that pronouncement. "But what about Figaro's 
business? You want to just abandon our work?"

     Janette relented on that score. "You can bring your work here, 
then drop it off at the studio. Clare hasn't visited there since you 
began work, non? Cecilia and Domino do not seek her out. You said 
that they dislike her. I suppose it will be safe to continue designing 
for the firm for the present.  Javier Vachon is another matter 
entirely." She took Ivy's hand, her expression becoming frank and 
foreboding. "He does associate with Clare, and that is a danger to us. 
If you want to keep my company, stay away from him."

     "But Vachon isn't like that. He won't care about Patrick, not like 
she would."

     "But Clare will want to know about the new vampire who has 
caught his interest. Her attention will be drawn to you, then to me, 
and then to Patrick.  This cannot happen - it will not happen!" Janette 
threatened as she squeezed the younger vampire's hand painfully. "I 
promise you, Lierre. Betray me on this, and I will never welcome you 
in my home again."


     Ivy leaned her forehead against the cool tiles of the kitchen wall. 


     "Or just throw me out without a word," she muttered under her breath.

     She really had no one to blame but herself.

     Vachon had shown either remarkable restraint or disinterest by 
staying away until now. Ivy had handled the situation by ignoring it. 
She'd last seen him two weeks before, and they'd been more than 
amicable. Then she'd returned home - correction - to Janette's home 
to receive that furious ultimatum. Ivy had basically hidden out within 
these walls ever since. Janette assumed that she'd given him the 
brush-off, effectively nipping any future contact with the Spaniard in 
the bud. Ivy had meant to do just that, she'd even gone to the church 
primed with excuses and reasons why she wasn't about to see him 
again, but hadn't been able to go through with it. She couldn't bring 
herself to open that door, go up those stairs, look him straight in those 
absorbing brown eyes and lie.

    A memory came, unbidden, of that last scene with Mark in front of 
the Hummingbird. She was shaking, in desperate need of a fix, and 
he begged her to come home with him. Ivy had sworn that she didn't 
want or need him, pushing Mark away one last time. He'd wanted to 
be her knight in shining armor; she'd wanted heroin or death. Ivy had 
ended up with a taste of both. She'd lied to him - had it gotten her 
anything fabulous or wonderful? Was she any more secure or 
satisfied because she sent him away?  she thought with a sigh.

    "Deep thoughts," she muttered. "Blech." She headed for the study, 
acknowledging privately that it could be worse: Janette and Robert 
could be on the premises, instead of having a three-night lark in 
Montreal. There was still a chance that Janette might never find out 
Vachon had come here.

      He had obviously peeked at all of the designs and work papers 
strewn about the room while she'd been away before sprawling on 
the leather sofa. "I see you scrapped Fig's melon polyester flares," he 
commented after she entered. "Good choice." 

     Ivy began pulling off the fabric swatches she had slung over each 
shoulder and rearranged the pile on the mahogany desk. "We thought 
the ribbons on the cuffs were a bit much," she joked uneasily.

     Vachon watched as she fidgeted with the material for a couple 
minutes, moving pieces around in no discernible order. "So," he 
finally ventured, "are you going to tell me why you're freaking out 
completely?"

     "I am not freaking out completely," Ivy protested. Vachon looked 
at her as though she'd begun quoting stock options. "Okay, okay. I 
am freaking out completely. I do have a reason."

     Instead of giving a reply, he waited expectantly for Ivy's 
explanation. She paced the room twice, then plopped onto the sofa 
beside him. "I guess you've figured out that it has something to do 
with Patrick?"

     "The mortal kid?" Vachon nodded. "I saw the possibility. You 
know, for someone worried about throwing all her secrets to the wind 
through blood knowledge, you managed to hold onto a biggie."

      Ivy's forehead puckered with concern. "So you think it was a biggie?"

     "Vampires and children. They aren't exactly peanut butter and jelly."

     "So you don't approve of Patrick being here," she concluded.

     Vachon shrugged. "What's for me to approve or disapprove? I'm 
just saying it's something you don't see every year. I'm not really 
tempted to learn about the mortal version, and my past experience 
with a vampire kid was nothing to write home about."

     A slight grin of satisfaction passed over Ivy's features. "I was 
right - you don't care that Janette and Robert are raising his son."

    Rather than agree, Vachon frowned. "What does this have to do 
with you and me and *anything*?"

     Ivy had begun to fiddle with the tape measure tied at her waist and 
succeeded in unknotting it. Still twirling one of the riveted ends, she 
solemnly met Vachon's gaze. "The truth?" He nodded. "You know 
that Janette was big on keeping it a secret that she was in Toronto; 
actually, that she was alive, period," Ivy began, and he gave yet 
another nod. She counted to five and took the plunge. "Janette hates 
Clare. I mean, she loathes her with a fury that you just have to see to 
believe. Sparks literally come shooting from her eyes the moment 
Clare's name is mentioned." That description had them sharing a 
grin, then Ivy sobered and her face fell once more. "Janette absolutely 
refuses anyone in this household to have contact with Clare, no matter how brief or inconsequential you or I may think it is. The same thing goes for Clare's offspring."

     "That would be me," Vachon said casually. "I suppose Cecilia 
and Domino don't count."

     She nodded. "Because she practically ignores them. I'm doing 
most of my work here anyway, to be on the safe side."

     "I can't believe you're taking her seriously," he protested in a 
mild tone. "Janette has you cloistered off in this sewing room, plus 
she's moved you in to play baby-sitter to the Beaver -"

     Ivy broke in at that. "It was my idea to live here." 

     "Whatever. My point is, you've known her for - what? -  five or 
six weeks, and now she's dictating your entire life. Why are you letting
 her? Do what you want to do."

     "Maybe I want to do what she says," Ivy argued. "It's not as if 
you say `no' to anything Clare asks you to do. Every night while I 
was around, she had you feeding her cat. What's more, she's got you 
drawing that - thingy -  for her, like you're her employee."

     "It's a blueprint, and I'm doing it as a favor. Alright?" It was 
apparent that he was becoming irritated by the direction the 
discussion had taken.

      "Oh, and you expect her to feel indebted to you?" Ivy scoffed. 
"What do you really think she's going to do to pay you back, Vachon?"

     "Maybe rescue *you* from having your pretty little neck twisted 
by the Big, Bad LaCroix?" he challenged, his voice just a little louder 
than necessary.

     "Oh." That answer momentarily caught her off guard, but then 
she regrouped and responded with another gibe. "You're saying that 
she wouldn't just help because you asked her to, or because I needed 
it. You had to call in `the favor.' That sounds like a wonderful relationship."

     Vachon stood and stalked across the floor as though he was aching 
to storm out of the room and the house. The daylight prevented that 
action, though, and he spun around with angry eyes. "Clare saved me. Do you remember the feelings from my blood? I was buried alive - helpless and starving. Clare got me out. She didn't have to help me. At the time, if our places had been reversed, I probably would have let her rot. That doesn't say much for me, does it?" he commented in a depreciating voice. "In the end, I was a member of 
her family in trouble, and she took care of it. I'm not going to apologize or make any more excuses to you for that."

     "Family," Ivy echoed with a far-off look in her eyes. She turned 
her attention back to him with a frank stare. "I wouldn't know about 
that." She nibbled on her lower lip, then continued. "I know what 
you're saying - it's not as if I have any blood connection with Janette, 
so why should anything she wants be so important?" She seemed to 
drift away again, some unnamed sorrow etched around her eyes. 
"Javier, did you ever have regrets about the way you left things as a mortal?"

     "Such as?"

     "Not getting to say goodbye or make amends...never being able 
tell the people who mattered that you loved them, and that you were 
sorry for everything you did that hurt them."

     Vachon glanced away momentarily, then released a heavy sigh. 
"There are people I wish I could have seen again, yes," he said as he 
moved to stand in front of her. "Really, just my mother. When I told 
her I was joining up, that I would be crossing the ocean, she cried."

     "Mothers cry," she commiserated. "Mine absolutely bawled when 
I went away to college, and I wasn't even leaving town, just the house."

     "My mother was positive that she'd never see me again. She was 
right to worry, you know. If scurvy, starvation or shipwreck didn't 
kill you, there were always the natives, as I learned intimately for 
myself." Ivy's face broke out in a big grin at that, and he continued. 
"I would have liked to have gone back to Spain, telling her that I 
survived the New World. I think that would have been better than 
leaving her to grieve - but think about it, Ivy...Who ever gets to tie up 
loose ends before they die? Who gets to say `goodbye' and `I love 
you?' Not that many, whether they are mortal or not."

     She reached out, winding her fingers around one of his hands. "I 
know that. I realized long ago that I should never seek out anyone 
from my mortal life. It would be too dangerous and too difficult to 
explain where I'd been and where I was going. I accepted that, but I 
still don't want to let some things go. Before I became a vampire, I 
threw away my family and a man who loved me, and at the time, I 
didn't care. All that mattered was heroin - running out of it and 
getting more," she said, then grinned ruefully. "In a lot of ways, I was 
already a vampire at that point. When I was brought across, it just 
became easier to feed the cravings I had. But once I had the power to 
take care of myself, I suddenly found that I was alone. I didn't know 
what my sire looked like, and, until I met Janette, I didn't know for 
sure that there were others." 

     He settled on the sofa again. "You latched onto the first vampire you met."

      Ivy shook her head. "There's more to it than that. I can't count on 
my mortal family anymore, and my sire, frankly, isn't an option. I've tried 
not to think about it, but I've felt him since I came back to Toronto. I haven't seen him - I'm not even sure that I'd recognize him if I did - but he's spoken to me. He whispers and he taunts, like all he wants is to scare me. He 
does. I don't want anything to do with *that* family. I made friends 
with Janette, instead. She and Robert are my vampire family. I 
*want* them to be. I don't want to bail out on this and start again," 
she voiced with fervor, squeezing his hand, then following with an 
earnest smile. "I don't want to give you the brush off, either. That's 
why I ignored you and didn't explain anything these past two weeks. 
Jav, I don't want to lose anyone."

     "What are you going to do?"

      her thoughts said. 

      "I don't know," Ivy said aloud. "You wouldn't happen to know 
the details of Janette's problem with Clare, would you?"

      "No. I don't keep close track. In the Community, Clare has a 
tendency to alienate people rather than make them her friends. It's an 
attitude thing."

    She laughed. "That reminds of when I met Dom. One of the first 
things he said was, `Attitude is important,' probably because he lets 
anyone with attitude walk all over him."

     "I like women with attitude," Vachon offered.

     Ivy grunted knowingly. "Which is why you like -"

     "You," he interrupted. "That's why I like you."

     "Uh-huh," she drawled as she snuggled up closer to his side and 
lay her head on his shoulder. "So while you're stuck here for the day, 
don't you want to help me make plans to spend time with you, avoid 
Clare, and make Janette happy all at once?"

      "I can do that. As soon as the sun sets, though, I've got to go."

     "What's the rush? Robert and Janette aren't due back until 
tomorrow night."

      "I've got to feed Clare's cat," Vachon confessed.

      Ivy groaned and hit him with a pillow.

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

October 3, 1996

     Clare was hunting. She roamed High Park, tasting the air, feeling 
it in her veins, and searched. There was some connection between the 
Number Murders and Jennifer Schanke's shooting, she was certain of 
it. The reason for her hunch was unclear. Perhaps some odor had 
triggered her memory, or maybe it was simply intuition. Whatever it 
was, it caused Clare to revisit the crime scenes. She hit Grenadier 
Pond first, then the tree from which the second victim had hung. 
Third, she walked in the direction of Queen and Jameson. 

 The first two crime scenes were too old, and too many people had 
passed that way since they were fresh. Because the third crime scene 
was under a week old, it struck her more clearly, but the smells of the 
place were still a jumble. They were too varied to pick a particular being 
out of the collection, even for a vampire as experienced as 
herself. Clare still had the suspicion that one particular, older 
vampire was involved with the crimes in question.

     Then there was her other suspicion: Cecilia had somehow 
connected with this vampire, becoming involved as well.  It didn't make sense for the killer to shoot Jen Schanke 
just because it satisfied Cecilia's vendetta. Of course, the attack 
worked as a blow against all of the homicide detectives involved. 
Perhaps that alone had been reward enough for the killer to assist 
Cecilia. Instinctively, Clare doubted it.

     She flew, resigned to her conclusion, to the precinct. Nick was on 
duty alone. Clare grinned in satisfaction when she saw he was 
frowning at a stack of paperwork.

     She recalled Schanke up-to-his-sideburns in forms and demanding 
to know one night, "How come I have to do all this? Look at you, 
Nick! You never have a pile of paperwork waiting!"

     Nick appeared perfectly innocent as he replied, "I delegate, Schank."

     Nick's delegation turned out to be a half-dozen female members of 
the precinct staff - all junior officers and dispatchers who had starry-
eyed crushes on the detective. They would all generously offer to help, and Nick, usually too absorbed in an actual case to detect any underlying motives, let them.

     When word gradually spread that Doctor Lambert from the 
Coroner's Office had moved into his loft, the bump of forms on Nick's 
desk had changed into a hill, then a mountain. He stared at the papers 
now, the dismayed expression on his face seeming to say, "Where did 
all this come from?" He noticed Clare's arrival and glanced up, his 
face featuring one of his 'little-boy-lost' looks.

     She acceded with a sigh, then extended a palm. "Hand them over. 
I'll do half."

     Nick eagerly split the stack in two, then offered Clare the papers 
with a bemused, "Thanks."

     She slipped a page into the Selectric on Schanke's desk. She didn't 
have an official place to work anymore, having  removed her 
Kleenex, wet naps and recycled pencils from the drawers soon after 
Schanke's return. She never intended for the job to last very long, 
whereas for Schanke, it was a career. Returning his desk seemed like 
the appropriate thing to do. Clare now hovered when she worked at 
the station, taking what she needed from everyone else's work space when 
she needed it. Clare smiled to herself. 

     Clare didn't type very fast, but she worked steadily. After several 
minutes, she broached the subject she wanted to discuss. "I agree with 
you about the killer in the Number Murders now," she said, looking 
up to make sure she had Nick's attention before resuming her typing. 
"You're right."

     Nick's eyes widened in surprise, then he leaned forward and 
lowered his voice. "When did you decide this?"

     Clare cursed softly as she made another typo, then pressed the 
correction key repeatedly before answering, "After Jen Schanke was 
shot. I think that I felt the killer just before it happened."

     He frowned to show his irritation. "Therefore, you wait two days 
to mention it."

     "I wanted to double-check myself first," she said, then gave him a 
sarcastic grin. "You must know, Nicholas, how much effort it takes 
for me to agree with you. I finally decided to admit that the killer was 
one of us.  I thought it would only be fair if I shared the news since 
you've made such an issue of it."

     "I already knew I was right without your vote. I found all the 
confirmation I needed just before Reese notified me about Jen."

     Clare quit working once more, her eyes lighting up in interest. 
"Really? What sort of confirmation?"

     Nick found himself warming to her obvious curiosity. "I found 
news articles referring to another series of bodies discovered in 
Dayton, Ohio from 1957 to 1958. The first one appeared on August 
eighteenth."

     "The first one?"

     Nick nodded grimly. "There were nineteen bodies in all, each 
branded with a number. I dug up the telephone number of one of the 
retired detectives who worked the case. Forensic science wasn't as 
exact at the time, so he couldn't give exact years, but he verified that 
each victim had apparently been imprisoned for lengthy periods 
before their deaths. He's digging out the old files and plans to send us copies. 
We might find some leads from his old notes."

     "1957...that means if these murders followed the same pattern as 
ours, victim number nineteen would have been abducted nineteen 
years before...in 1938."

     "If the killer was the same for both sets of deaths, and he was 
mortal," Nick announced, "even if the first abduction was at the 
tender age of, say, ten - he'd be almost seventy today."

     "If I wanted to be difficult," Clare said matter-of-factly, "I would 
point out that seventy isn't an impossible age for a mortal to be a 
serial killer. Another explanation could be that the murderer is a copycat."

     "I thought of those same arguments, knowing that you would want 
to be difficult, and kept searching," Nick informed her. "Then I found 
this." He produced a folder, passing it decisively in Clare's direction. 
"They're copies of an archive of old news wires from Egypt."

     Clare thoughtfully thumbed through the pages. "The things they 
put up on the Internet..."

     "In this case, a useful thing."

     "Yes," Clare said with a grin, "if you happen to read Arabic. I 
suppose the police in Ohio never heard of this."

     "You suppose right. Arabic wasn't very popular in Ohio in the 
Fifties. The printouts you're looking at report another series of 
murders: Eighteen bodies, all numbered, and the first discovered on 
August 18th, 1919."

     "And that would make for one mortal killer over a century old or 
two copycats. I don't think I want to try playing devil's advocate with 
either one of those scenarios," Clare mused.

     "But you do it so well," Nick teased, unable to resist the jibe, 
despite the seriousness of their conversation.

     "Why, thank you." Clare chose to take the comment as a 
compliment. "Where exactly in Egypt did this occur?"

     "Around the Valley Of Kings," Nick said. A shadowed expression 
fell over his features. "The victims all worked on digs in some 
fashion: laborers, researchers, and archaeologists. People tended to disappear 
without a trace all the time. Very few questions were ever asked. I remember - 
I was there."

     "When? Surely not at the same time that one of the corpses 
appeared? I *know* you would have gallantly shared that tidbit with 
me by now had you witnessed such a thing."

     "No," Nick shook his head as though he wanted to shake the 
memory out of his mind. "I was in the area earlier. He would have 
taken the first victim eighteen years before, in 1901. When I was in 
the Valley, he would have still been torturing them."

     "So that could explain why you recognized a presence at each 
murder scene. The killer could be someone you encountered while 
you were in Egypt."

     Nick nodded stiffly "It's very possible. I can't help but think back - 
I remember workers on my site disappearing, but I knew that LaCroix 
was in the area at the time. I simply assumed..."

     "That he was to blame," Clare finished. "If it's any consolation, 
which I doubt, you probably assumed correctly. That is, unless you 
believe that LaCroix has anything to do with this."

     "LaCroix has *nothing* to do with this," Nick said with absolute certainly.

     "But he's hidden himself from you before, hasn't he? You didn't 
know that he was near, or even alive, until he let you feel it. How can 
you be so sure?"

     "You're playing devil's advocate again, Clare. It's not him. I know 
LaCroix. Don't you?"

     Clare smiled wickedly. "Yes, I do. This isn't LaCroix's work. I find 
it...interesting... that considering your often acrimonious opinion of 
LaCroix, you never suspected him."

     "No, but I suspected you."

     She let out a cackle that had heads turning in their direction. "I 
walked right into that one, didn't I? I don't blame you for being 
suspicious. I can be downright awful."

     "But you aren't, not really," Nick protested.

     "I am, in my own way. There are shades of evil. I simply don't 
apologize for it." Clare considered apologies a nasty habit.

     Nick had a sudden recollection. "Figaro told me that once."

     Clare grinned broadly. "Did he?" Her smiled turned down to half-
mast. "I miss his friendship. He was outrageous and silly, but there 
was a depth to him that he always covered up in brocade and tassels, 
so it was rarely seen. He seemed flighty, but really he was a strong 
person. A leader, in his own way."

     Nick nodded as he studied Clare's expression. It held memories of 
companionship and admiration, but nothing more. Once upon a time, 
Nick would have cursed Clare for taking advantage of, ignoring, or 
simply not noticing how Figaro had felt about her. He didn't have the 
anger or resentment anymore. Perhaps old scars and regrets *could*
fade with time. He didn't believe that he shared nothing in common 
with Clare anymore; that was a difference. They had both considered 
Figaro a friend. Nick decided to act like it. "Brocade and tassels. 
Anything but black."

     She laughed. "Anything but black. What did Figaro tell you about 
shades of evil?"

     "That there were different kinds: evil from apathy, evil for its own 
sake, necessary evil..."

     "Necessary evil," Clare broke in, "like the fate of Louis Secour." 
Nick looked away abruptly. "You haven't forgotten about him. I take 
it, from your reaction, that you haven't dealt with him yet."

    "Not yet," was Nick's stilted response.

    "What would it take for you to deal with him? Does Secour have 
to make a public declaration that he was mauled by a vampire 
homicide detective before you act to protect yourself? Maybe even 
that isn't enough. Maybe you need attention drawn to us all. Maybe 
you want them burrowing through your past and finding how Natalie 
has covered for you over the years. Have you thought about how 
exposure could affect her?"

     "Yes," he replied, his eyes shining defiantly. "I accept that it's my 
responsibility to make sure that Secour doesn't expose the 
Community. I'm still coming to a decision about how I want to take 
care of it."

     "Time is a luxury that you don't have," Clare warned, then 
mentioned another item of mutual interest. "I also know how to find 
the mortal who pulled the trigger on Jennifer. I intend to deal with 
him first, then I will turn my attention Secour."

     "Deal with him? You mean kill him, don't you?"

     "What would you do, Nicholas?" She let the words hang, neither 
confirming or denying the fate of the shooter. "I know you don't want 
to kill Secour. You're trying to think of a loophole, a way out of it. 
But you know, mortals have to do things they don't want to all the 
time. They pay taxes. They have jury duty. They eat their Great-Aunt 
Betty's awful cookies. It is part of survival. It's a necessary evil," she 
stated, then began typing once more. 

     Nick watched her fingers play over the keyboard for a minute, 
then turned his attention back to his own pile. It wouldn't just go 
away, only get worse. Just like Louis Secour. Just like the Number 
Murders. His thoughts drifted to his research. Dayton, Ohio. The 
place meant nothing to him, but Egypt...

     Egypt held memories of another failed cure and another betrayal. 
He remembered LaCroix and -

     "Clare," Nick said urgently.

     She glanced his way absently. "Hmmm? What is it?"

     "Do you know of a vampire named Thomas?" he said softly. "He 
would be almost seventeen centuries old."

     Clare scoured her memory, then replied with a shake of her head. 
"No. I don't believe I've met a Thomas that old or even heard of him. Why?"

     "He was in the area at the same time as I was."

     "You think that he's capable of these murders?"

     "I don't know him very well." Nick paused, then nodded. "It's possible."

     Clare studied him for a moment, then stood. "Let's go to the 
hospital. I feel like visiting despite my better judgment."

     "I'd love to join you, but what about the paperwork?" Nick argued.

     "I'll just whammy someone into doing it for you."

     "Whammy?" Nick didn't think this word fit Clare's natural vocabulary.

     She sighed. "Obviously I've spent too much time around Vachon." 
She waylaid a young officer by the name of Pulte and spoke to him 
quietly for a minute. He turned, collected all the forms off of Nick 
and Schanke's desks, then headed for his own. Clare brushed her 
hands together, looking proudly at their now-bare 'In' boxes. "Shall 
we go? I want you to tell me everything you know about this Thomas 
person on the way."

*******************************************************************
End of Part Seventeen

     "Where's Janette?" Ivy leaned against the doorway of the den, 
where Robert had taken to writing at the computer in the afternoons. 
He must have hit upon a streak of inspiration, for it was well past 
dark and he was still typing.

     Robert looked up absently from the monitor, paused for a moment 
to focus onto his surroundings, then answered, "Hmm. I think she 
went to tuck Patrick into bed about half an hour ago. He probably got 
her caught up in telling stories about the past again."

     Ivy's forehead puckered. "Oh, okay. Could you tell her I went to 
the studio? I think I'll spend the day there, but if she needs me to 
come back I can -"

     "Wait a minute!" Robert exclaimed with a smile. He gestured for 
Ivy to stop her worried speech. "You're a free agent, Ivy. Stick to 
your plans. Whatever comes up, I'm sure Janette and I will manage 
twenty-four hours without you."

      "Sure, you will," Ivy said, a faint echo of uncertainty in her 
voice.  she thought.

     Robert noticed her worry. "Is there something wrong?" He rotated 
his chair away from the monitor so he faced her. "I admit that having 
you living here has been useful. Patrick thinks you're wonderful, and 
you've been a convenient sitter for Janette and me.  I've noticed how 
the longer you've been here, the less you've gone out, though, like 
we're sucking up your social life."

     Ivy shook her head, curling up on the room's sofa. "That isn't a 
problem. Trust me. Before I met you guys, I had absolutely no 
meaningful social life, unless you count jumping dealers and raiding 
blood banks.  Suddenly, I have so many people...hell, vampires!...
running around me, I'm seriously considering a Rolodex. It's like 
one of those toys. They're shaped like pellets about the same size of a 
vitamin," Ivy  said as she demonstrated the size with her thumb and 
index finger. "Then you stick them in water and the pellet explodes 
into a sponge triceratops. My life has exploded since I came back to 
Toronto. Janette, Patrick and you were my water." Ivy groaned. "Oh 
god, I just made a metaphor with toy dinosaurs. I really *do* 
need to get out more!"

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

        Nick looked over at the 
passenger's seat, trying to measure whether Clare really understood 
the description of his encounter with Thomas Monroe.  
He waited for Clare to shrug and dismiss the event as just another 
drained mortal. What did one dead woman matter? He expected her 
to laugh, amused at his gullibility, just as LaCroix had. 

     "That's interesting," Clare said. "For someone who didn't know 
you, Thomas did an excellent job of manipulation." She tapped the 
window absently with her fingernails. "I wonder how much LaCroix 
told him, and just how much he picked up on his own."

     "Why?" Nick asked blankly. He'd brought the encounter up and 
told the story, but he didn't want to revel in it. It was disheartening 
enough to think about it.

     "Because it was devious. He knew what to say and how to play 
the situation. You said that you mistrusted his intentions at first, correct?"

     Nick pulled the Caddy into the hospital's parking garage and 
stopped at the first available space. "I am the exception, not the rule, 
as far as vampires are concerned. I am aware of that," Nick 
explained. "I know that the majority of our kind do not regret what 
they are, especially when they are my age or older. I think I was 
reasonably doubtful and surprised by Thomas' words when he 
invited me south to visit his dig in Khartoum, yes."

     "But he worked around that. He acted sympathetic to your feeding 
habits. He complimented your education. He pretended to share your 
quest. He gained your confidence and raised your hopes until you 
were blindly willing to do anything for his supposed cure."

     "Simply by telling me what I so desperately wanted to hear," Nick 
echoed, recalling LaCroix's description of the wager.

     "Then, once he'd won your trust by playing on your weakness," 
Clare reasoned, "he attacked you at that Achilles' heel: your quest 
for mortality," she explained. "Thomas lured you because of it, and 
that's what he sought to destroy."

     "You're paralleling my situation with the other victims," Nick 
realized, then nodded. "I suppose that you could argue all three 
people had personality traits that would make them attractive to 
break down and destroy. William Hyatt was proud. Evelyn Prescott was vain."

     Clare's eyes gleamed her agreement. "And Marjolie Parker was 
privileged, wealthy, and accustomed to luxury. All three were 
broken, maimed and ground into filth. Their tortures were more 
complete than your own, I'd say, but the modus operandi appear the 
same. It's all manipulation and destruction. He entered that wager 
with LaCroix, not for a bag of gold, but to toy with you."

      Nick laughed derisively as he opened his car door. "Whereas 
LaCroix entered the wager to teach me a lesson." His door shut with a slam.

     "LaCroix is a strategist. He manipulates people for an ulterior 
purpose, not as an end."

     Nick grimaced momentarily. There were times where he would 
have argued with Clare's  assertion. "And Thomas Monroe 
manipulates to...?"

     "Amuse himself. Why else would he take so long to complete the 
job? Most vampires, when we kill, we do it quickly. No doubt it's 
because of the pleasure rush," she mused. They entered the hospital 
elevator off the garage, and it hummed softly as it lifted to their floor.  
"But your Thomas person - he's drawn these murders out, reshaping 
them into an elaborate, detailed production. I think that the wait is 
significant. Perhaps prolonging the death enhances the thrill for him. 
This theory is, of course, based on the assumption that he is the killer, 
and not simply another one of the less-than-popular individuals from 
your past." Clare allowed herself a small grin before adding, "Like me."

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

     Robert was seated on the sofa beside Ivy now, and they both had 
their feet propped up on the coffee table. They were hanging out. 
"When did you realize that you'd become a vampire?" he asked.

     "Oh, I'd say it was just after my first kill. I mean, when you 
suddenly catch yourself feasting on the blood of a total stranger in an 
alley, suspicion is bound to creep in. I remember thinking I was either 
a vampire, or I was taking the Halloween thing way too seriously. 
What about you?"

     "I knew as soon as I woke up. I remember the gunfire, the feeling 
of the bullets ripping into me, and when I came to, the hunger. Janette 
and I had talked about her vampirism a great deal before that, so I 
just put two and two together about what had happened. It was only 
later, when Janette told me she *hadn't* brought me across, that I 
became confused."

     Ivy shook her head. Robert didn't have a monopoly on confusion. 
"I still don't get that. When you met Janette, she was a vampire, and 
you were mortal."

     "Right so far."

     "Then you were fatally wounded, and Janette tried to bring you 
across, but she couldn't. That didn't really matter though, because 
you became a vampire anyhow." Ivy looked at Robert with poorly-
masked incredulity. 

     "Don't stop there. You're doing so well," Robert teased.

     "Maybe, but it makes absolutely no sense. Suddenly, Janette is a 
mortal again, The next time that you saw her, *she* was fatally 
wounded, and you had to bring her across."

     "That's about it."

     "But doesn't it drive you crazy? You and Janette are so 
accepting, like whatever happened just *happened,* and you 
shouldn't ask the reason why."

      "Because it does make you crazy. Because it did happen, and 
knowing the reason why won't change the events of the past," Robert 
said frankly.

      Ivy moaned in frustration, clutching a pillow to her head. "I can't 
stand it! I'd want to know."

     "Uh-huh," Robert said knowingly. "Here's another mystery of the 
universe: who is the vampire that brought you across? You've said 
over and again that you don't want to know the answer. That's pretty 
cavalier for such a serious question."

     "I don't think the answer would do me a speck of good. If 
anything, I'd be worse off."

     "So you see," Robert delivered with a grin, "ignorance *is* bliss."

     "Okay, okay. I agree with you, especially where my sire is 
concerned. I wish that I couldn't feel him." Ivy's expression became 
distant and troubled. "When I go out, I think he's watching me and 
laughing. I don't like it. It's starting to scare me."

     "But you're a vampire, Ivy," Robert pointed out. "What could he 
do to you that wouldn't heal?"

    Ivy shrugged warily. "I don't know."

     "You're not alone. He can't touch you. There's no reason to be 
scared," Robert said assuredly.

     "Right."

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

      Nick and Clare reached the proper floor and weaved through 
hallways of orderlies and gurneys to reach Jen Schanke's room. 
"You know, our poor history is probably the reason I considered you 
a suspect at all, Clare. Both Thomas and you were integral in the 
teaching of one of LaCroix's `lessons,'" Nick said as he briskly 
avoided a collision with a linens cart.

     "You've been thinking about Daniel again, I gather. Strange," 
Clare said curiously. "You don't sound quite as bitter."

      "I haven't had a complete turnaround," Nick stated plainly, 
coming to a halt by the nurses' station. "I'm still bitter about what 
LaCroix did, and how you played it out. I simply understand more 
about why you destroyed Daniel than I did before."

     "Oh. We still shoulder the blame, only LaCroix and I are no longer 
evil incarnate." Clare gave a short laugh of amusement. "Tell me, 
Nicholas, who first invited Daniel into our world? Who begged to 
bring him home for a hot meal and a chance to play at parenting? 
Was it *LaCroix*?"

     "No," Nick said stonily, an image of Janette's hopeful and eager 
face springing to mind.

     "I didn't think so. In any tragedy, there is more than enough 
blame to paint everyone guilty and responsible, and it's not necessary 
to 'understand' their motives. The smart people let go of the anger 
and resentment, then don't look back. That is the true lesson from the 
Daniel affair. You and I know that mulling over past grievances 
causes nothing but regret and torment." Someone behind Nick caught 
Clare's eye. "I see Jen's doctor. I have a question for him." 

      "Clare." She turned to move away, but looked over her shoulder 
as Nick touched her arm. "We have something in common."

     "I know, Nicholas," she replied, letting her eyes flash. "Are you scared?"

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

     Ivy locked the townhouse door behind her and began to walk 
resolutely down the street. After two blocks, she heard a screech of 
tires, and a gleaming black Ferrari halted at the curb beside her. Ivy 
ignored it, staring pointedly in the opposite direction of the car. She 
was on her way to the church, and dealing with motorists on the 
make was not on her schedule.

     The Ferrari's driver didn't give up at the subtle brush off, though. 
The car rolled alongside Ivy as she moved smoothly down the street. 
After half a minute, the driver had the nerve to honk at her, as if 
she'd overlooked the sportscar by accident. 

     Ivy paused, tapped her foot impatiently a few times, then checked 
her watch (she'd found a Han Solo number at a swap meet the week 
before - *vintage* - while looking for interesting buttons that could 
be duplicated for the studio). Ivy figured she had time for a bite before 
she was due to meet Javier. She smoothed her hands over her skirt, then 
turned to the automobile with a predatory look.

     The tinted window began to slide down, revealing Vachon's face. 
"Before you get hooked on the idea of vehicular manslaughter," he 
advised as he opened the driver's door, "check to see if your date is 
behind the wheel."

     Ivy grinned like a bad girl. "That's even better." She leaned 
against the car door, commenting, "I didn't know you had a Ferrari," 
as the Spaniard got out.

     "I don't. The car is Clare's. We need to run an errand - you 
drive."  He stepped aside, gesturing to the driver's seat.

     She moved close to him, running a hand up to caress Vachon's 
jaw. "You really do have a fetish for women operating heavy machinery, don't you?"

     "I'm not big on chainsaws."

     "But," Ivy suggested, giving him a wicked look, "how do you 
know I can handle a stick shift?"

     "A hunch...and you don't strike me as the type of girl who's ever been near a Buick," Vachon replied.

     "Not true," Ivy said in earnest protest. "My grandmother had a 
Buick. I rode in it once when I was seven, then she traded it in for a 
Mustang convertible. I loved that Mustang. I used to help Gammie 
wax it after her license got revoked. She had a lead foot."

     "So you come from a family of fast women." Vachon closed the 
car door after Ivy slipped inside.

     "According to Ontario," Ivy retorted. She looked at the seat next 
to her, then leaned back out the window. "Where are you going to sit, Jav?"

     "The passenger's seat," he replied, as though it was obvious.

     "Carmen's there already. She doesn't appear intent on sharing."

     Vachon walked around to the other side of the car and opened the 
passenger door. The cat sat regally on the leather seat, giving a 
frowning look in Ivy's direction. Ivy had not earned the full approval 
of the feline yet. "She'll cooperate with me," Vachon promised. 
"Won't you, Carmencita, mi amor?

     The feline's motor kicked in full throttle, and the purring Carmen 
rolled over onto her back to show the Spaniard her bounteous tummy 
fur as she gave an alluring blink. Vachon scooped the liquid cat up 
into his arms then took her place in the car. Carmen settled down in a 
contented sprawl across his legs while Vachon's fingers rubbed 
beneath her chin.

     "How about I sit in your lap," Ivy suggested, "and the cat can drive?"

     "Tempting, but it won't work. Her paws can't reach the clutch."

     Ivy laughed, and Carmen huffed. "Where's this errand?"

     "The hospital."

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

     Clare wandered off in search of a phone after making a quick 
inquiry of Jennifer Schanke's doctor, leaving Nick alone with the 
physician. Doctor Brevard was a pleasant man around forty years of 
age, with wavy brown hair and a smile that reached his eyes. "How 
soon will Jennifer Schanke be able to go home, Doctor?" 

     "Barring any complications, I'd say the day after tomorrow. I 
think she's already impatient to get out of here," Doctor Brevard 
answered. "She'll recuperate faster at home, if only because she'll be 
able to get more sleep. It can't help her recovery to have vampires 
dropping in at all hours of the night."

     Dread crept into Nick's voice. "Did you say 'vampires'?"

    "Yes," the doctor asserted. Seeing Nick's frown, he continued 
speaking. "That's what Schanke calls the nurses when they drop by 
Jennifer's room after dark to draw a blood sample. It always wakes her up."

     "Oh." Nick felt a wave of relief. The specter of Louis Secour was 
making him paranoid.

     "Hey, Marky!" Schanke's voice called. A hand landed on the 
physician's shoulder, then Don appeared at Doctor Brevard's side. 
"You're still here? Man, Nick," Schanke pointed to the doctor with a 
thumb, as though he was hitchhiking for a prescription, "I tell you, 
this guy never leaves. He *lives* at this hospital."

     "No, Schanke," the doctor laughed. "I don't live here. I just 
breathe here."

     The three men chuckled at the exaggeration, Nick following with 
a curious, "Marky?" The appellation did not fit the doctor.

     "That's just the Schankification of my name. It's really Mark."

     Nick shook the doctor's hand, saying, "Mine's Nick - Nick Knight."

     "Schankification." Nick heard his partner repeat thoughtfully. "I 
like it! Hey, Myra! Jen!" Schanke yelled. "Did you hear that?"

     "I've noticed that as Jen feels better, her father gets louder," Mark 
confided to Nick with a grin.

     "What's Schanke shouting about?" Clare complained as she returned.

     "The miracle of language derivation,"  Nick quipped.

     A summons came over the intercom for Dr. Brevard that required 
his immediate attention. "I'll check back with you later, Schanke. I 
want to go ahead and set up an appointment to run some tests on 
Jennifer a few weeks after she's sprung," he said as he backed away. 
"Nice meeting you," Mark called to Nick, then turned and walked 
briskly out of sight.

     "Tests?" Clare's voice was polite, but carried a good measure of demand.

     "Yeah. It's just to make sure Jen's remaining kidney is still 
working at one-hundred percent after she's home for a while," 
Schanke said, punctuating his sentence with an enormous yawn. 
"The kid's gonna be thrilled with *more* tests," he said sarcastically. 

     "Donnie?" Myra joined them, sleepily winding an arm around her 
husband's waist. She paused to say `hello' to both Nick and Clare, 
then asked, "Did I hear Mark's voice out here?"

    "You heard correctly, purty thang," Schanke drawled, "but he was 
called elsewhere, stat. He'll be back in a while."

     Myra self-consciously touched her hair. "`Purty thang?' Oh, 
Donnie, you need sleep. You're seeing things. I'm the "Before" 
picture in a Skin Pretty ad."

     "If you two want to head home for a few hours, I can stay with Jen 
for as long as you need," Clare offered.

     "I don't know," Myra said. Her voice conveyed that she was still 
unsure about leaving her daughter's immediate vicinity for any 
length of time, but Myra's expression showed that she was sorely tempted. 

    "You haven't left the hospital for days," Nick argued.

    "And as an added incentive to get Schanke out of here," Clare 
continued, "I took the liberty of inviting my cat for a visit after Dr. 
Mark cleared feline visitors. Your husband has roughly an hour 
before allergy central arrives."

     "In that case, Jen will be too distracted to even notice that we've 
gone," Myra laughed. "Boredom kicked in this afternoon and she's 
already fretting for something to do."

     "She's probably sick of our faces," Schanke agreed as he rubbed 
his palms together. "Nappy-time, here I come!"

     "Thank you," Myra said, and Clare smiled encouragingly in 
return. "I'll go give Jennifer an update."

     "I know the kid's got a list of stuff she wants brought from home, 
Myra. We'd better write it down," Schanke called. "I'll be right 
back," he promised Nick and Clare, then ran excitedly after his wife.

     Still smiling, Clare released a labored sigh. "I can't believe I did that."

     "What?" Nick asked, a confused frown passing over his features. 
"You've baby-sat for Jen before, and you've proven that you can 
take care of her. What's more, you proved to me that you care about her."

     "That is exactly why I shouldn't have offered, Nicholas. She's a 
child, a mortal child, and I have become too involved already in her 
safety," Clare answered, self-reproach evident in her tone. "I 
shouldn't even be here. Only a day ago, I told myself I would stop 
worrying about the Schanke clan and forget them entirely. Distancing 
myself would be the intelligent thing to do in this situation."

     "But you can't let go," Nick said distantly.  "I've felt that way before."

     An image from the past flashed in his mind. Daniel slept in his 
bed, while Janette and he watched from the darkened doorway. 
Janette leaned back, against his chest and whispered proudly, "He is 
so perfect, Nicola. You understand now why I needed him to stay 
with our family forever, non? He makes us complete."

     "And what do we do for him, Janette?" Nick wondered, his eyes 
shadowed.

     Janette laughed softly and carefree. "We make him happy, of 
course. He is a very lucky boy."

     Daniel began to stir and whimper in his sleep, so Janette moved to 
his side, brushing the boy's hair with a gentle hand to soothe his 
dreams. Nick turned away entered the hall. 

*******************************************************************
London,  Early December 1941

     Nick saw Clare and LaCroix discussing a portrait hanging by the 
stair landing. "I was thrilled to have Dante make me a copy of the 
painting," Clare was saying.

     "I do not doubt that," LaCroix replied. "The Rossettis appear to 
have been a remarkably talented family."

     "They were. I seriously considered bringing both Dante and 
Christina across because of their artistic gifts, but they both proved to 
be totally unsuitable. Christina could capture such beauty with a pen, 
but she failed so utterly at living. She waited for the afterlife and built 
up all of her dreams of happiness and fulfillment around the happy day when 
she would die and flit off to The Great Beyond."

     "You fault her for her faith?" Nick said in a rebuking tone.

     "Certainly not," Clare retorted. "I have no problem with faith. 
Even I have faith that that the sun will set each day so that I may 
dine. That wasn't really your question, was it?" She paused 
thoughtfully. "You were asking about religion." 

     LaCroix rolled his eyes. "Thereby ruining a perfectly fascinating 
discussion in favor of a pointless debate," he complained.

     She laughed with delight. "Then I will not debate, only clarify my 
words," she assured LaCroix, then addressed Nicholas' question once 
more. "Where I come from, people believed strongly in an afterlife: 
an Otherworld, a Valhalla, a Heaven, whatever term suits your fancy. 
Damnation was not a constant fear of theirs, and that made death 
something to anticipate. I always thought that Christina had the same 
attitude, and regardless of my personal beliefs, I did not condemn her 
for that.  What I found fault with was her boredom with her 
existence. My ancestors looked forward to death, but that didn't stop 
them from living. They fought, loved, and worked with a passion for 
everything new that this world had to offer. Christina locked herself 
away from life. She became a recluse, doing nothing but waiting out 
the last decades of her life, moaning that there was nothing new to see 
or experience on this plane. Not only did it become a recurring theme 
in her poetry, she had the audacity to say it to me! I laughed at her, 
then left her to her misery."

     Nicholas protested. "Why didn't you try to explain?" 

     "What would I have said?" Clare dismissed. "I could hardly argue 
that I'd existed for thousands of years with nary a dull moment in the 
lot, so she could certainly find something interesting to fill her little 
fragment of a century. It was really too exasperating."

     "Besides," LaCroix added casually. "I always liked her brother's 
poetry more. He was better with metaphor."

     "In a way, Dante's poetry was his downfall," Clare mused. "He 
became so depressed and brooding after he disinterred his wife to 
repossess some verses he'd buried with her."

     Nicholas appeared suitably horrified at the image, while LaCroix 
chastised, "That was Rossetti's own foolishness. Had he not thrown 
the poems in her coffin in the first place out of sentimentality, he 
wouldn't have needed to unearth them."

     "He was overcome with grief, Lucius," Clare argued. "His 
practicality was not at the forefront. Still, Dante was a fool. He 
needed the poetry for the money it would bring. Had Rossetti said a 
word to me before the deed was done, I would have become his 
patron. But no, Dante had to do the dramatic thing: dig up the wife 
and have a mental breakdown."

     "At least you got the painting out of the debacle," LaCroix commented.

     "There is that," Clare agreed. "Though I must confess, 
`Proserpine' lost some of its charm once the siblings proved so 
disappointing. That's why I left her here at the townhouse. Figaro is 
the only other person who really likes the painting - he says it 
reminds him of me. I'm afraid he thinks I have the same big nose."

     "I agree with Figaro," LaCroix said casually. "Not in a physical 
resemblance, but in theme. Proserpine was a figure who existed in the 
land of the living and the dead. I'd say the symbolism is quite 
appropriate."

     "For *any* vampire, not simply myself," Clare replied. "You 
have such an appreciation for the work, Lucius, would you like to 
take it off my hands? Or walls, as the case may be," she added with a smile.

     Nicholas broke in, remembering Clare's previous comment. 
"Perhaps Figaro would like to have it."

     "But Clare offered it to me," LaCroix snapped impatiently, then 
his voice softened. "And I graciously accept her generosity." He 
followed his thanks with a lingering kiss on Clare's hand.

     She was obviously delighted at the gesture, and Clare watched 
LaCroix's bent head with hungry eyes. "As I said, I cannot resist your 
appreciation, Lucius," she murmured. "Besides, Nicholas, Figaro has 
become a devotee at the altar of Art Deco. What use would he have 
for a classically-styled painting now?"

      Nick wanted to say,  Any further protest on his part was intercepted by 
a sudden wail from Daniel's room. Nicholas was momentarily 
surprised to see Clare spring to action before he did himself. Pulling 
away from the two men, she led the way to the bedroom where 
Daniel struggled with nightmares, and Janette tried to comfort him.

     "Daniel! Dors doucement! There is nothing that can hurt you!" 
Janette pleaded in a low voice. "Don't be afraid! Il n'y a pas des 
cauchemars pour toi!"

     Clare moved to stand at the opposite side of the bed from Janette. 
"But he does have nightmares," she countered. "I wonder why." Her 
fingers toyed innocently with the fringe of a blanket. "I don't suppose 
you took him hunting this evening."

     "If you don't want to help him," Janette whispered fiercely, "get out!"

     Clare gave a knowing smile. "Nevermind. Nicholas' expression is 
confirmation enough. The word `guilty' might as well be tattooed on 
his forehead."

     "What difference does it make? Bien sur, he fed. I take care of 
him!" Janette insisted.

     "Of course you do," Clare replied smoothly. "Perhaps the meal 
disagreed with Daniel. Stop coddling him. He needs to wake up."

     "How dare you order me?" Janette hissed. Clare's smile 
broadened. She was obviously amused by this declaration. The 
Frenchwoman was prepared to rail at Clare further, but a movement 
from Daniel cut her off.

     The boy jerked himself from Janette's arms, crouching forward on 
his knees. His eyes were lit with the vampire as he released a 
tormented shout. "Let go of me!" Clare took a step back as she 
studied Daniel intently.

     Janette reached her hands out to him. "Daniel! What is it?"

     He reacted as though her fingers were made of fire. "Don't touch 
me! I won't do it, no matter what you say!" With those shouted 
words, he leapt from the bed and through the window. The heavy 
velvet curtain barely wavered in his wake, but shards of glass now 
littered the floor.

     "Children," LaCroix observed, "are so untidy."

     Janette moved to fly after Daniel, but LaCroix caught her arm. "I 
do not believe the boy requires your company right now, Janette. Leave him."

     "But it is only a few hours until sunrise," Janette protested.

     "Then Nicholas may search for him, if he so wishes, but *you* 
will remain here," LaCroix instructed in a tone that allowed no further 
argument. He ushered Janette from the room, pausing only to direct a 
meaningful look over his shoulder at Clare. 

     The meaning puzzled Nicholas until Clare volunteered smoothly, 
"I will help you hunt for Daniel."

     They headed to the first floor. Halfway down the staircase, Nick 
and Clare witnessed Seiji slam the front door shut. He raised his eyes, 
watching them come closer, then held up an evening newspaper, 
brandishing the headline.

     "Just hours ago," he announced, "my people attacked an 
American naval base in Hawaii. Already, I cannot walk down the 
best streets in London without being accosted. I want to return to Japan." 

     Nicholas took the paper from Seiji for a quick perusal of the news 
report. "How many were killed?"

     "What does it matter? It is a part of war," Seiji shrugged. "Clare! 
I need to go home!"

     Clare sighed impatiently. "This `Japan' isn't the same country as 
in your youth. I wager it's changed from the `home' we left a few 
months ago. As for war, Seiji," she said harshly, "these people don't 
fight our kind of war. We look our enemies in the eye. If only for a 
moment, we acknowledge our prey."

     "And then you kill them," Nicholas said with a sneer.

     "Yes, *we* kill them," Clare replied. "But we carry their faces, 
their essences, with us for a time. It shows respect. Too often this 
modern warfare holds no such recognition of the people it destroys. 
It's louder, brasher, messier, and more wasteful - uniforms stuffed 
into remote cockpits. They drop a myriad of explosives over a distant 
landscape, never seeing the homes they demolish or the bodies they 
maim. That kind of warfare renders people equivalent to a building 
or bridge. There's no respect for what sets them apart. A bomb 
doesn't recognize the humanity it is taking away. I have no problem 
with the killing in a war, it's the methods used to do it that bother me. 
When I take someone's life, I want them to know that I'm doing it. 
Me, not a piece of shrapnel."

     "Must you prolong and enjoy their suffering?" Nick protested.

     "Oh, Nicholas. You've missed my point entirely, and I was so 
certain the argument would be to your liking. You see, if there is 
such a thing as blame, if there is an afterlife, I want everyone I've 
'sinned' against to know me. I want them to point a finger in my 
direction and say, 'There she is. She murdered me. Hold her 
accountable.' My crimes, my responsibility. Fair, don't your think?"

     "If your words didn't sound so mocking as you delivered them," 
Nick answered, "perhaps I would agree. You don't really believe a 
word you've said, Clare. If you did, you would choose not to kill, 
like me."

     A mysterious smile graced her features. "Do you *choose* to not 
kill, Nicholas? I think that you're afraid, afraid of yourself and 
devoid of self-worth. But that's your problem, not mine."

     "Enough of this!" Seiji exclaimed. "What about our return journey?"

     Clare gave him a cold look. "Our journey? We shall see." She 
took the newspaper from Nicholas' hands, then displayed it as though 
it was a piece of evidence. "You knew this was coming, didn't you, 
Seiji? You've become involved with the war. That's why you didn't 
want to leave Japan." Seiji did not respond, but returned her angry 
countenance with a proud and defiant stare. Clare thrust the paper at 
Seiji, then turned abruptly for the front door. "We'll discuss any 
travel plans later. Nicholas and I already have another responsibility 
to deal with."

     Once out on the street, Clare and he split up so they would cover 
more ground before dawn. Nick searched diligently for over an hour, 
but found no sign of the boy. Then the distant sounds of sirens rang 
out. They weren't air raid alarms, but the sounds of an emergency 
crew. Taking to the sky, Nick could view a building on fire a dozen 
blocks away. He followed his first instinct to see if he could help in 
any way.

     As he moved closer, Nicholas watched as the second-story 
supports of the building gave way. The outer structure of brick stood 
solid, but bursts of flame, debris and smoke blew the remaining 
windows out as the upper flooring collapsed. The gathering crowd 
swarmed back at the sudden wave of heat, their curiosity overcome 
by self-preservation.

     A newly-arrived fire brigade began to work steadily at dousing the 
flames, while police and medical workers collected around two 
groups of people. One group consisted of half a dozen rough-looking, 
middle-aged men, all intoxicated and shouting epithets. Most of the 
police and medical crew crowded around these men, bandaging their 
scrapes and telling them to keep their lips buttoned.

     The other group was ignored by the officials by comparison. One 
individual dressed in white appeared to be tending the wounds of 
about two dozen people, all Chinese, several of which were too 
injured to stand or sit up. The police nearby did not talk to these 
people, but were busy keeping the crowd from confronting them.

     Nicholas maneuvered past the bobbies and began to help dress the 
numerous burns of the second group. After talking with them for a 
few minutes in halted English and Cantonese, Nick discovered that 
these people were not immigrants, but they had been born in London, 
and the gutted building had been their home. Their eyes translated 
into fear and grief in any language, however, and Nicholas privately 
cursed the officials for not treating them equally because they did not 
`look' like British citizens.

     "It's rather a shame, isn't it?" Clare's clear voice came to him 
over the collective voices. She walked around the fringes of the 
wounded, her clothes blackened, her face smudged with soot. Nick 
eyed these fire marks suspiciously.

     "Did you have something to do with this?" he demanded.

     "With starting the fire?" Clare questioned. "No. Those 
transplanted American gentlemen," she said, gesturing to the other 
smaller group, "are responsible for that activity. Apparently after a 
bit too much gin, they decided it was their patriotic duty to launch a 
sneak attack in the wee hours of the morning on a Japanese 
domicile." Clare released a bored sigh. "It's unfortunate that they 
were either too drunk or too stupid to pick out victims of the correct 
nationality."

     "It's fortunate that no one was killed!" Nicholas snapped.

     "Well," she said casually, "there was *one* victim." Clare's 
steady gaze met his. "Daniel."

     Nick turned devastated eyes to the smoking building, then began 
to stagger toward it. Clare stepped into his path. "He is dead, 
Nicholas. I made sure of it."

     At first he appeared bewildered, but gradually the meaning of her 
words crystallized. "You destroyed him," Nicholas said accusingly.

    "I helped him," Clare corrected. "He couldn't take the killing. You 
saw the signs yourself. Why act so shocked? Be thankful that his 
suffering is over."

    Nicholas shook his head strongly as his dismay grew. "There had 
to have been another way to help him. It didn't have to end this way."  

     "Yes, it did. Poor Nicholas, the truth frightens you, doesn't it?" 
she replied stonily, then turned away.

     Nick followed, jerking Clare around by an arm. "Where are you going?"

     "Why, to inform the others of Daniel's demise, of course," she 
drawled. "Janette will want to know, don't you think?"  Nicholas 
seemed prepared to go as well, but he paused to look over his 
shoulder at the remaining shivering victims of the fire. Clare 
observed his indecision, then cried with mock-concern, "Oh, dear! 
Which party shall you console? The mortals or the vampires?" She 
laughed harshly, then was gone.

     Nick tarried for several minutes, finished wrapping the bandages 
he'd started, then pulled all the money he had from his coat pocket, 
shoving it into one of the victims' hands before speeding away into 
the not-so silent night.

     He returned to the townhouse to find Janette and Clare locked in a 
physical struggle, with LaCroix and Seiji standing aside as casual 
observers. "Aren't you going to stop them?" Nicholas demanded of 
his sire.

     LaCroix gave an amused shrug. "Why should I? Clare can take 
care of herself. When she grows tired of breaking her own furniture, 
she'll end the fight."

     "I believe that Clare is being rather patient," Seiji added. "She's 
allowing Janette to vent her emotions instead of batting her away like 
a fly."

     The battle continued until Janette smashed Clare's back into the 
corner of the study's fireplace. There was a crash followed by a 
resounding crack. Clare seized Janette's hands and twisted them 
behind her back, then turned to survey the damage while holding the 
other woman captive before her.

     Clare released a wail of disappointment. "I had that fireplace 
imported from Italy! How am I supposed to ship a new one past 
Mussolini?" she groaned. LaCroix exchanged a knowing look with 
Seiji, while Nicholas moved toward Janette. He started to pull her 
from Clare's grasp, and the elder vampire absently noted his 
presence, then released Janette into his care.

     Nick felt the hatred radiating from Janette toward the other 
woman as she stood stiffly at his side. "She killed Daniel, Nicola. She 
took him away from me."

     "I know," Nicholas said softly, wrapping his arms around her for 
comfort. 

     Clare turned her attention to the pair again. "Children do not 
belong in our world," she said coldly. "They make terrible pets and 
even worse vampires. Invite them into your life, and you are asking 
for them to wind up dead."

     Janette snarled and seemed ready to start the fight anew, but 
Nicholas held her back. She tore free of his grip, then stormed from 
the study. There was a slam of the front door. Nick glared angrily at 
Clare for a moment, then looked expectantly at LaCroix for what 
would happen next.

     "Follow her, Nicholas," his sire ordered. "Make certain Janette 
comes to no harm."

     Nick gave one last lingering growl in Clare's direction, then left.

     He caught up with Janette almost immediately, but almost a week 
passed before Nicholas convinced her to return to the townhouse. 
They found Clare and Seiji absent, and LaCroix in an indecipherable 
mood. Their sire gifted Janette with a black pearl bracelet, perhaps 
with the intent to lift her spirits, but it made no difference to her grief. 
Janette lingered with them for another week, then left London with 
only a brief note of farewell. The new year had hardly arrived when 
Nicholas told LaCroix he intended to go to France alone. He was 
haunted by the thought that, if he had sent Daniel away sooner, 
Janette and LaCroix would have let the boy go, and this bitter guilt 
would not be his. For once, his sire didn't appear to care. 

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

     Jennifer Schanke dozed off soon after her parents slipped away. 
Clare watched the soft rise and fall of her breathing for several 
minutes, then silently moved to shut off the television. She sat in one 
of the chairs across the small private room, close to where Nick 
leaned against the wall, lost in his thoughts.

     "You haven't said a word," Clare whispered. "Not even a `hello' 
before Jen fell asleep."

     "I've been thinking even more about Daniel," Nick confessed in a 
low voice.

     "Let it go," Clare sighed.

     "I can't. It still bothers me, confuses me. Even now that I know 
the reason why you did it, seeing you with Jen and learning about 
your daughter, I don't understand how you could bring yourself to 
destroy Daniel." Clare did not offer an explanation, and steadfastly 
refused to meet his gaze. "You didn't do it. You didn't kill him, did you?"

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

     Clare rolled her eyes, glowering at him impatiently. "Does it 
really matter?"

     "I want to hear the truth," Nick said softly, but firmly. 

     She raised one eyebrow with an interested sweep. "Not afraid 
anymore?" She gave another heavy sigh. "Very well. When I caught 
up with Daniel, he was helping the residents trapped in the building 
escape the fire. He wanted to die, but while rescuing lives, not taking 
them. The ceiling collapsed as Daniel carried the last man out. I went 
in after him. The man was unharmed, but weakened from the smoke. 
Daniel was not so lucky. One of the wooden roof beams had impaled 
him cleanly through the chest. He was already reducing to ashes, so I 
picked up the mortal and escaped."

     "Why did you take the blame?" Nick asked. "I thought you only 
took responsibility for your own crimes - aren't they enough?"

     "But it was my crime. I fully intended to destroy Daniel, if not 
that night, soon after. It felt hypocritical to claim innocence because 
of a convenient happenstance. When I said children do not belong in 
our world, I meant it. The killing either haunts them too much, and 
they self-destruct, or it doesn't bother them enough."

     "Like Divia," Nick murmured. "Someone destroys them because 
they are out of control."

     "And then there are the mortal children," Clare said, her gaze 
resting on Jen's sleeping form once more. "They can be completely 
ignorant of a vampire in their midst, but the death that surrounds us 
can still harm them." She stood, then paced across the tiny floor 
space. "Rummaging over the past doesn't help our immediate 
situation," she argued quietly, then changed the subject. "Something 
occurred to me about the previous murders you researched."

     "What?" Nick questioned.

     "One of the things that made you connect the past murders to our 
present ones was the date the first victim appeared in Egypt and 
Ohio: August 18th. Did the dates of the following victims match?"

     Nick shook his head, clearly frustrated to give the answer. "They 
weren't the same." 

     Clare appeared just as frustrated with Nick's reply.  "That could 
have helped us identify our next victims, perhaps before Thomas kills them."

     "Assuming he's the killer," Nick said, mimicking Clare's earlier 
qualification.

     "Yes, assuming that," she echoed. "Is there anything else that 
makes him look guilty? Something in the present."

      "Thomas was definitely in town when the bodies began 
appearing," Nick said after a minute of solemn thought. "He went to 
see LaCroix at the Raven the same night the first victim was found."

     "Really?" 

     "Really," Nick affirmed. "LaCroix went with Thomas, as well as 
Cecilia, to hear `Carmina Burana.' "

     "Hmm. I was there as well." Clare was interested, but irritated, at 
the degree of information she did *not* have. "I didn't notice her, but 
I *did* have my share of distractions handy." A wicked smile passed 
over her features at the memory. "The fact that Cecilia and Thomas 
have been introduced makes me very suspicious. Did I mention that I 
believe it was Cecilia's idea to...?" Clare gestured to Jen, still asleep 
in the hospital bed.

     Nick frowned. "And Thomas helped her? Why?"

     "I'm not sure about that part yet. No one else has seen Cecilia for 
weeks, though she did take time out of her low-profile agenda to visit 
me at the station."

     "What did she want?"

     "She asked me to come to Figaro's studio, tonight actually, and 
see the new collection."

     "And you're not there tonight because...?" Nick wondered.

     "Because Domino informed me yesterday that there is no 
collection ready for viewing, and, even if there had been, Cecilia's 
absence from the studio would have prevented her from knowing 
about it. I think she visited for the purpose of learning about my 
schedule. Cecilia had the opportunity to overhear my plans to attend 
Jen's Open House."

     "So you're looking for her," Nick concluded.

     Clare nodded. "When and where I find Cecilia, Thomas just might 
be there, as well."

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

     "You still haven't told me why we are here, Vachon," Ivy 
complained as they walked down the hospital corridor. "It's making me nervous."

     "I haven't?" he replied absently, inspecting the room numbers as 
they passed.  The tortoiseshell was bundled up over one of his 
shoulders like a fuzzy scarf. "Consider it sort of a...cat emergency."

     "Then take Carmen to a vet like a normal vampire."

     "It's not that kind of cat emergency," Vachon said.

     "There's something you aren't telling me. Who would want 
Clare's cat at a hospital after visiting hours? Hmm?" Ivy's eyes 
widened in horror. "Ohmigod! She's here, isn't she? Clare is here!"

     "If you mean, did Clare ask me to bring Carmen here, then the 
answer would be 'yes.' "

      "I can't believe this!" Ivy wailed. "Didn't I tell you Janette 
wants me to have absolutely no contact with Clare?"

      "Yeah," Vachon agreed, "but you also told me Janette ordered 
you to steer clear of *me.* See how that little rule turned out?"
     
     Ivy scowled. "That is a totally unfair comparison. I don't want to -"

     "Vachon! There you are!" The sound of Clare's voice made Ivy's 
argument melt in her throat.

     "I'll hide! That's what I'll do! I'll hide!" Ivy announced as she 
turned to head in the opposite direction.

     "And Ivy!" Clare called. "How...nice...of Vachon to bring you along."

     "So much for hiding," Vachon murmured as he tried (and failed) not to smirk.

     Carmen's ears twitched at the sound of Clare speaking, and she 
wrestled her way forcefully out of Vachon's arms to the floor. 
Padding over to her official (but not as much fun to play with) 
person, Carmen looked up at Clare and gave an imperious, "Owmp," 
then stiffened her tail until it vibrated.

     "Hello, sweetheart." Clare picked the cat up and let the feline 
nestle its head in the crook of her arm as she walked the rest of the 
way to meet Vachon and Ivy. "I see you still have your neck, Ivy. You must 
be relieved to have run out of people wanting to choke you."

      "I'd be crazy not to," Ivy said as she sneaked a glare in Vachon's 
direction, "though recently, I've become interested in taking up 
choking people myself. Or maybe buying a chainsaw."

     Clare decided that she didn't want to know what that comment or 
the look it caused on Vachon's face meant. "How...interesting." Her 
polite greetings out of the way, Clare turned to Vachon and 
demanded, "Where's Carmen's carrier?"

     Vachon shrugged. "She hates the carrier. There was a distinct 
protest involving cat curse words and claws when I brought the subject up."

     "She never had a problem with the carrier before. She has her 
favorite blanket inside."

     Vachon shook his head. "Not anymore. Carmen's developed a 
fondness for leather. She loves your car seats and my jacket."

     Ivy looked from one vampire to another, then at the purring cat in 
Clare's arms. This was not a conversation she had expected to hear 
Clare, the-piranha-who-will-destroy-Patrick, participate in. "I think 
I'm going to sit down," she announced, pointing to the waiting area 
down the hall. "Way over there."

     After watching Ivy walk off in a slight daze, Clare growled, "I 
can't believe you brought her here, Vachon." Carmen stopped 
purring. Her fun person was obviously in trouble with her official person.

     "We had a date. I'm not going to ditch my personal life just 
because you need me to carpool the cat," Vachon argued.

     "Which, under normal circumstances, makes for a fine show of 
independence, but here and now, it's irritating," Clare said crossly. 
"Did it ever occur to you, Vachon, that the only reason I asked you to 
bring Carmen here was because I trusted you? I know that you won't 
talk out of turn about anyone you see here."

     "And you don't trust Ivy," Vachon concluded.

     "I don't know Ivy. *You* don't know Ivy." Clare cut off 
Vachon's protest with a wave of her hand. "I realize that you like her. 
She seems likable. The fact remains that the girl is an unknown 
element, and I do not need another loose end to worry about right now." 

     She began to walk back down the hall, and Vachon followed. 
"Another loose end? What exactly is going on with you, Clare?" he 
asked. Before she gave a reply, they had reached Jennifer Schanke's 
room. Recognizing the girl in the bed, Vachon sighed. "Let me guess. 
The kid's a secret that no one in the Community is supposed to know 
about. Someone finds out that you know her, and the girl gets hurt." 
His voice dropped to a mutter. "Same story, different faces."

     Nick stepped into sight. "Look around you, Vachon. She's in a 
hospital. At least one person too many already knows that we care 
about her," he bit out.

    Vachon swallowed. "What do you want me to do?"

     "Say nothing about this to anyone. Keep Ivy quiet. And Javier," 
Clare added, "if you hear of anything that might concern me, you 
will let me know, won't you?"

     Jen stirred in her bed, and opened her eyes with a sleepy grin. 
"You guys sure talk a lot. You're almost as noisy as Dad."

     Clare gave her a bright smile. "Look who's here," she said, setting 
the feline down on the mattress, then moving to set the bed upright.

     "Carmen!" the child exclaimed with delight as she clasped the 
mound of fluff to her chest in a hug. Jen winced, and Clare quickly 
repositioned the cat to her left side.

     "Careful of your sutures," she cautioned Jen.

     Vachon prepared to duck out and leave the child and vampires to 
the cat, but the girl had different ideas. Her eyes zeroed in on the 
stranger in the doorway with suspicion and curiosity. "Who are 
you?" Jen asked him directly.

     "That's Javier Vachon," Clare answered. "He's been taking care 
of Carmen while I've been busy. He's a distant relative," she said 
reassuringly.

     "Like a cousin?" 

     "No, Vachon isn't a cousin," Clare replied.

      Jen wasn't satisfied with this answer. "Then what is he?...Ooo! 
Vampire!"

     Clare immediately glared at Vachon, and he protested under his 
breath, "I didn't do anything!" Nick motioned to the nurse who had 
entered the room while exclaiming over how *cute* the patient was.

     "Calm down. 'Vampire' is a nickname Schanke has for the staff," Nick whispered.

     "I think I'll leave the room," Vachon suggested. "Safer that way, 
don't you think?"

   Clare nodded.  "I'll find you when Carmen's ready to go."

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

     Ivy was sitting on a fairly uncomfortable bench, her legs turned to 
the side so that she occupied the whole seat. She absently thumbed 
through a worn magazine that lay open in her lap. Somehow, when 
she'd envisioned a date with Vachon, she hadn't exactly pictured 
cooling her heels, alone, in a hospital all night. Ivy had already 
recovered from her irritation about running into Clare. Vachon was 
right - she was already deceiving and lying to Janette about him. 
What was an innocuous run-in with Clare in the grand scheme of betrayal?

     What really bothered her now was being by herself, steadfastly 
ignored by the passers-by and the staff at the nurses' station as though 
she didn't exist. Alone. The word itself sounded like a pitiful moan. 
Ivy hated it. She wanted to be surrounded by family and friends, 
absolutely anything but alone and an outcast. She began to consider finding 
Vachon and demanding they cut out to the Raven. Ivy also thought about bailing, 
then going home to Janette, Robert and Patrick. She could even head over to the 
studio and visit with Domino. She didn't have to hang out in solitude.

     

     Ivy sat up straight as she heard the voice. The magazine glided off 
of her lap, then into a heap on the floor.

     the voice taunted.

    Ivy closed her eyes briefly. If she pretended that she didn't hear his 
voice, maybe it didn't exist.

    

     "Go away," Ivy whispered.

     

     Ivy stood shakily, glancing jerkily at the faces within sight. No 
one was looking at her. She backed into a wall. They were strangers, 
every one of them. 

     "What do you want from me? Why can't you just go away, like 
before?" she wailed softly.

     

     Her lower lip trembled slightly, and she let her teeth clamp down 
to keep it still. He was watching her. Her sire was here somewhere, 
spying on her, mocking her, but she couldn't see his face. Somehow 
Ivy knew that if she saw her sire, there would be an instant sense of 
recognition. But she didn't want to see him. If he was watching her, 
she needed to get away.

     She turned blindly around the corner, pushed past an orderly, and 
stumbled down the hall. There was nothing in front of her, just an 
empty and free corridor. She let her fingernails press into her forearm, 
cutting the skin, hoping that the pain would distract her from the soft-
spoken words echoing through her thoughts.

     

     Ivy leaned against the wall and hunched her shoulders forward as 
she clutched the hand railing.  she 
thought frantically.

     She felt a cool breath at her ear. "But you did."

     His sudden presence startled her. He was everywhere, all around, 
and right behind her. In the instant it took for her to gasp 
involuntarily, he had her hands twisted behind her back. Wrenching 
to the side, she momentarily felt one of his hands lose its grip. Before 
she could even consider an attempt to run away, his free hand struck, 
slapping her so hard she heard the vertebrae in her neck snap before 
the pain became stunning. She heard their feet shuffle, her own 
sliding along the tiles rather than stepping. There was the sound of a 
doorknob turning, then their surroundings plunged into darkness.

*****************************************************************
End Of Part Eighteen C
Continued in Part Eighteen D
Continued in Book 2


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