Lost

by Molly Schneider

Copyright 1998

He'd been sweating blood on this case--figuratively, not literally. Two bodies so far, with all the signs of vampire killings. Two bodies for which Natalie had to falsify autopsy reports. Two bodies . . . so far.

"I can't keep covering things like this up," she'd told him. "I'm still trying to think of myself as an ethical person, but it's getting harder and harder. Find out who's doing it, Nick, and stop them."

Find them, alone; because no one in the Community knew anything, or was admitting to it if they did. Schanke, luckily, was on vacation. Tracy had been reluctant to close the files as unsolved, but with no leads to go on she accepted his decision that they had no choice.

So he was out here hunting alone. Both bodies had been found within a few miles of each other, in this older, slightly seedy neighborhood. He moved slowly along the darkened streets, looking for something, anything.

Even as he searched, though, he knew that something was wrong, all wrong. One body had been found in a nearby park, stuffed deep in the shrubbery; the other in the rubbish at a construction site. Why would anyone careless enough not to properly dispose of their kills compound that carelessness by leaving the bodies so close together? The only explanation that came to mind was that the vampire responsible was ill or wounded, too weak to cover his tracks any better.

If that were true, then the vampire's home would be somewhere close by--and this is where his reasoning came to a dead end. This was a neighborhood of single-family homes, just the type of neighborhood vampires avoided. There was too much opportunity for someone to notice the neighbor who kept odd hours and kept too much to himself. No, safety was in anonymity: townhouses and condos, suburban mansions--or the odd converted warehouse.

He found himself back at the park, frustrated. There was one other option left. He couldn't find the killer as a homicide detective, so he'd find him as a vampire. It was repugnant to him, because tracking someone this way called upon the most animal-like of his skills. Sighing, he found the clump of bushes where one of the bodies had been found, and dropped to his hands and knees.

He found the scent easily enough; the distinctly mortal scent of sweat, of the feces and urine voided at death, of the lingering traces of blood. He'd followed it halfway to the street--wondering all the while why the vampire

hadn't flown--when his gaze met a pair of shoes. More specifically, a pair of badly scuffed motorcycle boots. "Hey, Knight. Whatcha doing?"

Nick refused to look up from his embarrassing position. That was apparently all right with Vachon, though, as he dropped to a crouch beside Nick and blinked at him curiously. "What," grated Nick, "does it look like I'm

doing?"

"Tracking," Vachon nodded. "I've never seen it done, though. At least, not so intently."

Sighing, Nick sat back on his heels. "There's one of us who's killing, and disposing of the bodies, too carelessly. No one I've asked seems to know anything about it, and I certainly can't conduct a proper homicide investigation, now can I? So--" he spread his hands, "--I'm doing it the old-fashioned way."

"Can't LaCroix help you?"

"I haven't asked."

"I don't understand. I thought you guys were friends again."

"Don't even try to understand, Vachon. However, if you'd like to stick around and help out, be my guest." He meant it sarcastically, but to his surprise the Spaniard seemed interested. "Sure. What do I do?"

"You know what a dead body smells like, don't you?"

Vachon wrinkled his nose. "Yeah."

"Then start sniffing."

The trail wasn't much more than a couple of miles long. The two vampires found themselves at a small commercial building, obviously untenanted to judge from the dusty windows with the prominent realtor's sign out front.

"Now what?"

"Around back. Too many windows up front. If he nests here he'll probably be in the basement, or some cubby-hole he's made in one of the utility rooms."

They moved around to the rear of the building, two silent shadows slipping through the empty parking lot. There was no basement entrance on the outside; cautiously Nick tried the rear door. The knob slid easily in his hand. "Are you sure we should go in there?" Vachon whispered.

"Should we wait for the cavalry to show up? Come on." Nick slipped into the dark hallway, listening for something, anything. There was a heavy steel door with a wire-glass insert to their right; a peek through the glass revealed the top of a flight of stairs. He pushed the door open slowly. No enraged vampire came charging at them and he took a deep breath, then wished he hadn't. The smell of old blood was there, faint, but definite. Vachon made a courtly bow, sweeping his hand towards the stairs: after you.

They'd made the landing when it came for them, bursting up the staircase in a fury of golden eyes and bared fangs and nails outstretched like claws. Vampires don't startle easily, but even so it seemed like a long moment before Nick got a purchase on it, grasping the creature by its long hair while Vachon grabbed its arms and twisted them behind its back.

It fought like a mad thing, but they held it fast, Vachon shouting to Nick, "What the hell have we got here?"

It was a good question. As the futility of its efforts began to sink in it stopped thrashing long enough for them to get a clearer look. The vampire was male, and filthy, from its grimy hair to its crusted rags--a pair of tattered jeans and a shirt of indeterminate color.

"Who are you?" Nick demanded. The creature made a halfhearted lunge at him, enough to trigger Nick's Change. "Who are you? Who's your master?" he asked again, in the throaty rasp of the vampire. Neither he nor Vachon was prepared for the reaction--the creature whimpered frantically and tried to break free, not to attack, but to run.

"What the hell " muttered Vachon, tightening his grip. Nick grasped the filthy face in one hand and locked on to the creature's eyes, trying to find the answers it would not, or could not give.

Nothing. Nothing but chaos.

"So, Knight, you got a plan here or what?"

"We'll take him to the Raven. Janette can lock him up while we figure out what to do with him."

"It stinks," Janette hissed at him. "You *cannot* keep it here, Nicolas, I absolutely refuse--"

"Uh, am I interrupting something?" Natalie asked as she emerged into the cellar passageway. The femme fatale of Toronto responded with a very French 'hmmph!' and tossed her head. Nat had a feeling the gesture wasn't directed at her, but it didn't make her feel any less uneasy. She'd woken to a message on her answering machine from Nick asking her to meet him here before her shift, with no explanation as to why. Upon here arrival at the Raven she'd been escorted to the cellar door with an alacrity that bordered on obsequity.

Nick seized upon her entrance as a heaven-sent distraction from Janette's tirade. "I'm glad you came," he said, smiling his most boyishly charming smile.

"Of course I came, Nick." Suspiciously, she asked, "What's up?"

"Tell him to get rid of it!" Janette burst out. "Oh, but no, you wouldn't--you're two of a kind." And with that she swept grandly up the stairs.

"It?" Nat's eyes moved to the heavy steel door Nick was ever-so-carelessly lounging against. There was a tiny window--more of a slot--filled with wireglass in the door, and she moved toward it. He made no move to stop her, and she peered in.

"What the hell?!"

"It," Nick affirmed. 'It' was a bundle of bone-thin limbs wrapped in ragged clothes, long matted hair falling over a sharp face with golden eyes that moved restlessly over the confines of the tiny room. 'It' had its hands wrapped around its knees, showing nails several inches long and filthy.

"It," Nat echoed.

"It's male, it's a vampire, and it's been very careless lately. Oh, and it stinks. There, now you know just as much as I do."

"The bodies."

"Yes. Not one of them dumped more than a couple of miles from its nest. It had just finished the third. After he helped me get it here Vachon went back to dispose of the victim."

"But who is he? What are you going to do with him?"

"I don't know who it is or who made it." Nick shook his head wearily. "I tried, Vachon tried--neither one of us could get through to its mind."

"So now what? Do you want me to take a look at him?"

"No. Definitely, 'no.' This isn't a killer with a human veneer like the rest of us, Natalie. It's just a killer." He shifted his weight a little, but didn't move away from the door. "I'm waiting for LaCroix. By the time we got it locked up down here it was too late for him to come, but he'll be here soon after sunset." He saw her look and misinterpreted it. "LaCroix's the Elder here in Toronto, Nat--this is his call."

What she'd really been thinking was, you spent the day here? With Janette? She wasn't going to voice that thought, though. She peered through the window again. "You keep calling him 'it,' Nick, like an animal."

"It is an animal." With that he took her arm and firmly guided her up the stairs. "Come on, let's wait for LaCroix."

Impeccably groomed and poised, as always, LaCroix arrived moments after the last of the sun's rays had been shut away by the shadows of the city. He raised an eyebrow at the presence of Dr.. Lambert, but refrained from commenting. He calmly accepted a glass of his special reserve, and sipped it while Nick filled in the background for him.

While they were at the bar Vachon came in, his scruffiness a marked contrast to the LaCroix's elegance. "Have you seen it yet?" he asked the elder.

"I was just about to, young Javier." They trouped down to the cellar, even Janette, and waited in an uneasy grouping while LaCroix inspected the captive through the window. Without taking his eyes away, he asked Nick, "You got nothing from him?"

"No. I tried, so did Vachon, but there's nothing there."

"Hardly a useful description. Try again, Nicholas." His son furrowed his brow, remembering. Nat was struck by the resemblance to a student striving to put into practice the lessons of his teacher.

"It was red. Red, and there were flames and noise; yelling, jeers, screams of laughter. A whisper, somewhere. Fear. Pain, too, but mainly fear." Nick shivered.

"Faces? Any feel for a time, a place?"

"No. Nothing I could get. I'm sorry, LaCroix."

His father nodded. "Vachon?"

"About the same. Not as clear as that, even. Noise and pain and fear, that's all." After a moment, he asked, "What are you going to do?"

The answer was blunt. "Destroy it."

"Just like that?" She intended to stay in the background, but LaCroix'd shocked the exclamation out of her. For the first time, he turned away from the window.

"Objections, doctor, from you? It's killed three times in a week, without remorse. While the deaths of mortals matter little to me, I'm surprised to find you leaping to this creature's defense."

"'It,'" she said. "You all keep calling him 'it,' as if he's just some--thing. He's a person, he has a name, someone somewhere knew him! You can't order him destroyed and wash your hands of him, just like that!"

"She doesn't understand," Nick said quietly.

There was the faintest trace of bleakness in LaCroix's voice as he answered. "No, she doesn't." He looked back at the window. "Still one admits to some curiosity. Perhaps I can find out something about our guest. Doctor, if you'll wait upstairs?"

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to open the door, my dear. And while you may be a familiar face to us, to the creature in there, you're just dinner."

"I'm staying." At the dubious looks she got, she responded, "There are four of you--are you telling me you can't protect me?"

LaCroix shrugged. "As you wish, doctor." The key was produced, the lock turned, and the younger vampires formed a tight arc behind LaCroix as he eased the door open.

At the sound of the key in the lock, the creature's head snapped toward the door, eyes wild. As LaCroix stepped into the small room, though, the vampire whimpered and cowered away from him. The ancient planted himself in the center of the room and stood perfectly still until the vampire calmed a little. For long moments afterward, he said nothing, merely letting his eyes rest on the prisoner.

Finally, his voice perfectly neutral, he announced, "I am LaCroix. Who are you?"

While the other regarded him with wide golden eyes, it did not speak. LaCroix considered. Had the creature been aggressive, stubborn, or cocky, threats would have been in order. But to deal with fear one chose another tactic. Carefully he advanced towards the other, then squatted so as to be at its eye level. "Do you not answer us because you will not? Or because you cannot?" He repeated himself in French, German and Italian.

With an air of fascination, the creature reached a timid paw out to touch LaCroix's sleeve.

Natalie heard the Roman's voice take on the timbre she thought of as 'the whammy.' "Can you tell us your name?"

"I...have...no...name..."

"Madre de Dios," breathed Vachon.

"Everyone, everything, has a name. How is it that you have not?"

"I...no--no---" The creature became more agitated, but his hand did not leave LaCroix's sleeve, and the ancient seized the opening. "Has your name been taken from you?"

"Don't-please-don't hurt-"

"Who took your name? Where is your master?"

It screamed, then, and scrambled back against the wall.

"I am LaCroix. This is Nicholas, my son, and Janette, my daughter. Who are you?"

The scream continued. Nicholas moved from Natalie's side to squat next to LaCroix; he reached out to touch the creature. "It's all right, we will not harm you."

"Nicholas," warned LaCroix.

His son's jaw set. "I, Nicholas de Brabant, give my word that we will not harm you."

Well, thought Nat, at least that quieted him down a little. She could tell by the back of LaCroix's neck that Nick was in for a tongue-lashing later, though.

Nick continued gently. "Was it your master that hurt you?"

"...yes..."

"What was your name before you became vampire?"

"...don't ...remember..."

"Remember," said LaCroix.

Though it was Nick's gentleness that had calmed him, the creature fixed on LaCroix. "Kit," he said finally.

"Kit? Christopher?"

"...yes...I was an actor, once."

"He certainly has the lungs for it," muttered Janette.

The creature's eyes flicked toward her, then back to LaCroix, puzzled. "Your daughter?" He looked at Nick. "Your son?"

"My children of the blood."

"Your slaves."

Nat wondered what Nick's reaction to that would be, but it was LaCroix who spoke: "As I am their slave. I, who brought them across, bear the responsibility for their well-being."

He rose, Nick after him, and turned to leave the room. The creature made no attempt to prolong the visit, but the eyes that followed father and son from the room were a little less vacant.

LaCroix shut and locked the door behind him. Without a word they all trouped up to the bar. "An actor, named Christopher," mused Vachon.

"And nicknamed 'Kit', which hasn't been widely used for several hundred years," added Nick. "It isn't much to go on, though."

"At least you can stop calling him, 'it', though."

"And then what, Doctor Lambert? We take him into the bosom of our family, mend his errant ways, and debut him at the ball?"

Natalie put down her Scotch-and-soda. "You're not still going to kill him?"

"Well, I can't now, can I? Thanks to my soft-skulled son," he said acidly.

"I gave my word."

"And by extension, mine. And what exactly possessed you to do that, Nicholas? Perhaps you and the good doctor are considering founding an asylum for deranged vampires?"

Nick stared into his glass and said nothing while Janette leaned over the bar toward him. "You speak before you think, Nicolas."

A good time to disappear, decided Vachon. "It was-interesting, Knight. See ya."

LaCroix watched him go with a huff of disapproval. He regarded the others. Janette just wanted the thing out of her cellar, Nicholas of course wanted to save it, somehow. . . he turned towards the coroner. "Do you quite understand the situation yet, Doctor Lambert?"

She shook her head. "If you can stop him from killing-"

"Ah, but it's too late for that. As the eldest vampire in Toronto, it is my responsibility to ensure the safety of the community. Should I fail in this responsibility, the Enforcers will desire an explanation. So I find myself caught between the Enforcers, who will no doubt wish the culprit disposed of, and Nicholas' hasty promise that we will not do the deed."

"You and Nick said, before, that I didn't understand. What did you mean?"

"A vampire who is insane," Nick said slowly, "must be destroyed."

LaCroix rose to his feet and paced closer to the coroner. Leaning very close to her, he hissed, "Do you know who many fledglings survive, doctor? Or, rather, how many don't?"

"They cannot bear what they have become," Janette explained, "and they kill themselves. Or they become drunk on their own power and cannot be controlled. Or-they go insane and their masters destroy them before their insanity endangers the Community by exposing us to the mortal world."

Nat watched a dark shadow settle on Nick's face. Had he had to destroy a fledgling of his making? More than that, did his quest for mortality render him insane in the eyes of other vampires? A chill ran down her back.

"So. If I cannot destroy him as the Enforcers will no doubt wish, what exactly is it that I am to do with him?"

"But he spoke!" Nat protested. "He told you his name."

Nick shook his head. "It doesn't make him sane, Nat. If you could have seen his mind . . ."

They sat in glum silence, three vampires and a mortal who knew far more than she wished she did.

He was cold. He knew it wasn't really his body that was cold. He was frightened and hungry and alone, that made him cold. He'd been alone for a long time, he'd wanted it that way. The others would hurt him. It was best to be alone. But earlier. That one. That one.

Kit. His name was Kit.

He heard the key scrape in the lock, and looked up, wedging himself further into the corner. The door opened. The woman stood there. The one he'd called 'daughter.' He was afraid of her.

There were two others with her, male, strong. He felt at them with his mind, cautiously. No hate, no mockery. Contempt, yes, but mixed with something else. The important thing was that they would obey her. He must remember that.

She was speaking to him; it took a while before he found find a way in his mind to make sense of the sounds. She wanted him to go with her. He didn't want to. He wanted that one to come. But she had the others with her. He stood and followed her.

They went up the stairs to a hallway, then into a large open room. He could smell blood, faintly, and he growled softly. "Yes," she said. "I know. Sit." He sat where she indicated, and she placed a bottle and tankard in front of him. Tankard? Was that the word? He didn't know what she wanted. She made a sound of disgust, and opened the bottle, pouring blood into the tankard. He looked at it and at her, amazed. "We drink it bottled, now," she said. "It's safer."

He didn't understand that, but he drank, and it was good. Not fresh, not warm, not throbbing with life, but still good. He finished the bottle and felt a little less cold. He looked at her again.

"Daughter. That one. His daughter."

"Yes, I am his daughter. Come, now."

They went up another flight of stairs, then down a hallway to a tiled room. There was a sink and a tub. The tub was full; it smelled warm and nice. "You do remember how to bathe?" He hesitated. It smelled nice. The two males moved forward a little. "In the tub," one said. He stripped, watching them carefully, and got in. "You can't get out of this room," she warned him, and they left.

There was a pile of washcloths, and soap with that same smell. He knew that smell; it bothered him until he found the name. Rosemary, yes, and . . . sage. Clary sage. He washed himself.

She approved, when she came back. She smiled, a little. She touched his hair, that he'd tried to wash, and sighed. "Cut it off?" she asked. "Or do you want me to try and comb it?" When he couldn't think of how to answer, she picked up a comb and started working through the mats. It hurt a little. He didn't make a sound, until he realized suddenly that he was naked in front of her, and he looked around for his clothes. "Sit still! They were rags, I've got you some new ones." When she was finished with his hair she handed them to him. He put them on--De Nimes trousers and a cotton shirt that pulled over the head.

She nodded. "Very good. Now, I am sorry, but you must go back downstairs for a while."

He didn't like that. He'd done what she'd asked. For a while? Hope flared. "Is he coming?"

"LaCroix?"

That was the name, the one he couldn't remember. "LaCroix."

She seemed-surprised. "Yes. He is coming. You want to see him?"

"Please."

She laughed then, and he flinched, but it was not cruel laughter, and she smiled at him. "That is very amusing."

When they put him in the room again, there was a cot there, and another bottle. Even after they'd turned the key in the lock, he wasn't so cold anymore.

His favorite coroner shook her head, the shaking of her auburn mane adding to the firmness of the gesture. He hated when she did that. "Sorry, buster, I'm coming along."

Nick sighed. "You shouldn't be involved in this. I shouldn't have let you see him in the first place."

"No, I guess it would be a lot more convenient for LaCroix to just kill him out of hand, no questions asked."

"Christ, Nat! Why can't you understand?"

"It's not that I don't understand. But that's still a person, Nick."

Wearily, he ran a hand through his hair. This nightmare was getting worse and worse. "Let's go."

They rode in silence for a while, then Natalie asked, "Nick? What drives a vampire insane?"

"A lot of things. Some just can't deal with what they are, what they have to do to survive. I don't think that's our friend's problem, though."

"What do you think?"

He turned the encounter of last night over in his mind. "Vachon and I both got an impression of pain and fear. I picked up on noise, and something that could have been fire. The really telling thing is, though, that he was afraid of us. Afraid of his own kind."

"So. . . his own kind tried to hurt him, you think?"

"Not tried, Nat. Did." He shook his head. "It doesn't matter, anyway."

"You promised him you wouldn't hurt him."

"I know. It was a mistake, Nat, but now we're bound by it--LaCroix is bound by it. I don't know what we're going to do with him."

Janette was waiting for them and led them to one of the back rooms. "Oh, Nicolas! You won't believe this: he wants to see LaCroix!"

"Why?"

"Not a very flattering question, Nicholas, but certainly a pertinent one."

Nat jumped, the tiniest squeal escaping her. She glared at Nick. "I can see where you get it from."

LaCroix ignored her. "What does he want?" he asked Janette. She shrugged. "I don't know. But it seems you made quite an impression on him. I'll go get him now."

"Is that wise?"

"I had him out earlier, and he was very well behaved." She dimpled at him and disappeared.

The elder turned to face his son. "Any brilliant ideas yet, my son?"

"Well, we can't kill him, and we can't let him go, so . . ." Nick let the thought trail off for the other's completion.

LaCroix nodded brusquely. "Imprisonment. What an annoyance. I'll make the phone calls, but you're footing the bill, Nicholas."

The door opened again. Janette led the stranger into a stunned silence.

The feral creature of the night before now shone with all the glamour of the vampire. The wild mane was now a neatly ordered mass of ruddy-gold curls. Cleanly shaven, the narrow face revealed fine-cut features. His gaze flickered over Nick and Nat uncertainly before coming to rest on LaCroix, but he neither moved nor spoke.

LaCroix regarded Kit impassively for some time. Uneasily, Janette prompted, "Doesn't he look nice?"

(That one. He's here. She said he would come. Is he angry? Why is he angry? I want to stay. I don't want to be cold and alone anymore. I want to stay I want to stay I want to stay I want to stay)

With the merest softening of his tone, LaCroix told her, "I've decided upon imprisonment."

(no no no no he didn't say that no no no the torches no no no can't move no no don't hurt don't hurt don't hurt no no NO)

He screamed, and broke for the door.

He had the advantage of surprise; when they emerged into the alley he was nowhere in sight. Three pairs of blue eyes--two dark, one ice-pale--scanned the sky, but it too was empty.

"Break up?" asked Nick, "Or look for him together?"

"Break up until we spot him," decided LaCroix. "But don't move on him without the other. Janette, stay here in case he comes back." She nodded, and the men rose into the air.

It was surprisingly easy: though he'd run fast and far, he'd stayed to the ground and avoided the main streets. Nick found him crouched in an alleyway, the scent of panic pouring off him like a wounded beast. His eyes widened as Nick landed softly in front of him; he made to run, but Nick seized him and a moment later LaCroix was there, and took hold of him from the other side.

They could get nothing coherent out of him; he only struggled madly in their grasp. Impatient, LaCroix snarled, "I've had enough of this," and grabbing the long hair, pulled their captive's head back--

His son knew what was coming, promise or not. He struck first, plunging his fangs into the exposed throat. The wave of irritation and surprise that came from his master was soon lost by the knowledge he gained from the blood filling his veins.

...A vast space of brick walls and flickering torches; mad vampiric laughter taunting him... the ecstatic taste of blood turning to painful hunger as he was held down and raped, mouth after mouth tearing into him, draining the precious fluid from him... his shrieks of protest bringing more laughter... finally let alone, summoning the strength to go after his master--

And the punishment: the stifling space of the coffin, his useless hammering on the lid inches above his face... the hours trickling by, each one an eternity as the hunger tore at his mind...

Blessed relief when the lid opened on space, desperate bliss when he was allowed to feed... then the dual rapes again, plunging him into torment. Only this time they were too sated with their orgy to lock him up again; weak as he was he escaped. London, thought Nick distantly, as he followed Kit on a nightmarish route through cellars and forgotten passageways and narrow byways dark even in daylight; London of a long time ago...

He pulled loose, unconsciously wiping Kit's blood from his mouth. "Let's take him back to the Raven."

LaCroix looked deep into him with assessing eyes, then nodded. Together they hoisted the other, too weak to protest, into the air.

"Did you hurt him? What have you done to him?" Janette demanded--though Nick noticed that her eyes had gone first to LaCroix, then to him, full of concern; it was only when she'd satisfied herself that they were unharmed that she turned to fussing over Kit.

"Take him back to his room," LaCroix told her. She looked up, eyes flaring. He met her gaze with his own calm blue one, and she nodded and led Kit away.

They sat in silence at the bar, brothers more than father and son, united in the face of this problem. Nick didn't tell what he'd found out, LaCroix didn't ask, until Janette rejoined them, Natalie just a few steps behind her.

"I thought you'd gone home," Nick said to her.

She ignored the comment. "He's weak from blood loss, but otherwise fine--as far as I could tell. Janette left blood with him."

"You did lock the door?" LaCroix inquired drily.

"Yes, of course," his daughter told him. "What happened?"

"I drank from him." Nick hesitated, filtering the impressions he'd received into some sort of coherent narrative. "He was in London, sometime during the Renaissance. Apparently he and his master lived in a rookery--"

"Rookery?" Nat interrupted.

"An old term for a safe place where a group of vampires lodge. His master taught him nothing; he used him for a plaything, and allowed the others to use him. When he tried to fight for himself they shut him in a coffin, hungry. He managed to escape, but I believe that that's what damaged his mind."

Nat looked from one grave vampire face to another, each nearly expressionless, but bearing traces of remote horror. "I'm missing something. If he escaped--?"

"Starvation, Nat. Rape. Blood being taken forcefully. All this done to a fledgling, unaware of the powers and strengths that are now his." Nick took a deep gulp from his glass.

"It is a delicate time, Natalie," Janette explained. "So much can go wrong, as you see."

"For a master, a father, to treat his creation in such a manner, is abhorrent to most of us. Unfortunately, it is not abhorrent to all," LaCroix added. His voice remained even as he went on. "Now the question that faces us is, how do we contain the danger Kit presents, without punishing the victim that he is?"

The question hung in the air like words writ in cold fire. A victim Kit was, of a master either too careless or venal to give him the simplest instructions. He could not fly, he could not control his thoughts or his hunger. He was not mad, not truly; he was lost. Eyes shifted around the little circle from face to face.

Janette drew a deep breath. She'd lived with and loved LaCroix for a thousand years; she knew how he would react at her proposal. Stepping forward, she said, "Let me keep him."

He didn't even look at her. "Out of the question, my love."

She wound her arms around his shoulders, leaning close to his cheek. "Please, mon pere. I will teach him what he can and can not do."

"And if you fail?"

"Do I not keep the younger ones who shelter here in line? Do I not maintain order here in this club?"

"And if you fail?" He said again, each word enunciated deliberately.

"Then... then you may destroy him. Please, mon cher."

He turned on the barstool, taking her waist in his strong hands, and looked deep into her eyes. He didn't want this new vampire here, with her; didn't want to watch her fussing over him, her attention divided between her master-lover and her new pet. With Nicholas living apart from them, their bond had strengthened in its passion... But her eyes pleaded like a child begging for a special gift, and he could not deny her, his Janette, his dark beauty.

He sighed. "Very well. It will be a good experience for you, who has never had a fledgling. But one incident, and I will do what I must."

Fighting down a vague sense of jealousy at the closeness between LaCroix and Janette, Nick protested. "You can't be serious! She'll never be able to manage him. It's not a job for--" He bit off the word as Janette and Natalie regarded him with distaste.

An eyebrow raised, LaCroix asked, "A woman, Nicholas? Do you really doubt your sister's capabilities that much?"

Nearly identical expressions of satisfaction on the women's faces; a deep sense of having put his foot right in, and Nick swallowed. "Er, no."

"Then it's settled. But," LaCroix looked at Janette again, "he is not living with us."

"Non, mon pere. In one of the cellar rooms, of course." She ran a caressing hand over the back of her master's neck as she bent to kiss his cheek. "Thank you."

As they drove away from the Raven Nat turned to him. "Just what did you almost say back there, buddy?"

"What?"

"Not a job for a woman?"

"I didn't mean it that way."

"Oh, yes you did! Well, let me tell you--"

He held up a weary hand. "Nat, raising a fledgling is a difficult enough task when one is starting from scratch. Raising one who has no blood-ties to you, who owes you nothing, who has been mistreated and then been on his own without guidance for 400 years... I wonder if Janette realizes just what she's taken on."

"LaCroix will be there."

Nick snorted. "LaCroix will merely watch in amusement. Which raises another question--why does Kit seem so drawn to him?"

"Beats me. I don't know why anyone would be drawn to that cold, stiff-necked monster."

He laughed. "He's not all that bad when you get to know him. Kit doesn't know him, though. I don't know--maybe it's a father figure thing?"

She bit her lip and looked out the window at the passing lights. She was edging close to dangerous ground here; Nick still refused to talk about Divia. At last she said, "I don't think I'd like him for a father."

Shrugging, he answered, "It's his way, Nat. Yes, he's controlling and demanding and cold. But when he was mortal, that's how fathers were expected to be. He feels his duty is to protect his children, and in turn he expects them to answer to his authority."

The rest of the drive home she kept the conversation to small talk. At her door Nick hugged her goodnight, nuzzling her hair. As she went in and Sidney came to greet her, though, one thought rang through her mind: He's getting closer to LaCroix.

"I--I can't."

"Yes, you can. Come, it's quite easy."

The light breeze fluttered Kit's red-gold curls as he stood on the roof of the Raven with Janette. He was uneasy at their position, so close to the edge, and although he wanted to believe his teacher--he had, after all, seen her father and brother fly, had himself been lifted into the air by them--he could not persuade his mind that it was indeed possible. "But how?"

Janette's perfect brow furrowed; trying to think back a thousand years to when LaCroix had taught her. She remembered perfectly the wonder she had felt at rising into the blue velvet sky with its spangles of stars; the joy at the air rushing past her face; the sound of her laughter echoed by the deeper voice of her master, her lover... but how? LaCroix had said she could fly and she believed him.

"You just think it," she told her protégé. "You imagine yourself rising into the air, and," she added firmly, "you look up into the sky, not down at your feet."

With that she rose above him. He thought, he imagined, and he remained firmly on the rooftop.

"Janette?" He drew their attention just by being there. Kit regarded him uneasily. The elder barely spoke to him; his indifference was not hostile, but neither was it welcoming. Every morning before dawn the two would climb the backstairs together, leaving Kit to wander down to his room, alone. The tall, still figure advanced leisurely. "Are you having difficulties?"

"I can't remember how you taught me to fly," she confessed.

Kit bowed his head before the cold blue regard. "I've tried," he said in a small voice.

LaCroix snorted. "You don't try, you just do it. Come," and he was hovering a few feet over Kit's head, holding out his hand.

So hard, to reach out for that hand! And yet he longed to do it...

And then he was. His eyes widened in shock as he found himself floating on the breeze, face to face with the other, loosely holding his hand. LaCroix smiled at him, and his heart felt warm. He laughed, then laughed again as he experimented, clumsily at first, then with greater ease as his confidence grew.

"Go," LaCroix said, "and explore. Be back well before the sun, though--oh, and don't kill anyone."

Even this parting shot could not dim his joy; he spread his arms on the wind and left them behind. Below his wondering eyes the city was a magical maze of lights; he circled tall buildings at first, then found he could soar over them. He could only compare what he saw to a map, but a living map--here a park, dense with trees, there a quiet neighborhood with its safe little houses. He followed the expressways, and hovered in fascination over the lake.

Janette turned to LaCroix. "Thank you, mon pere." At the expression on his face she laughed and went to him, winding her arms around his neck. "Thank you," she said, and kissed him deeply.

Kit made it back just before dawn; the Raven was empty of lingerers, everyone had gone to bed. Exhilarated, he rushed up the back stairs to share his adventure.

And stopped at the door to the private apartments. Noises. Noises that brought back painful memories, of a fledgling's required submission to his...or her...master...

His hand tightened on the doorknob. That one had drawn him from the start; he'd sensed the power and the wisdom, beyond any he'd encountered, and he hungered after it. But she had saved him; she had bathed him, fed and clothed him. That one was the master here, but she was his teacher, his friend.

He shoved the door open so hard the frame shattered.

...fangs, seemingly huge in a white mask of a face that was far from human...red eyes blazing with anger...a naked muscular body launching itself from the bed at him--

LaCroix's hand tangled in his hair, dragging his head back to expose his throat and all was lost in the primal terror that swept through him. Dimly he was aware of a voice, shouting, but it was nothing to the cold breath on his throat.

"LaCroix! No, wait!" Janette pleaded desperately, pounding on his back with her fists. "Stop!"

With a roar he turned toward her. She fought to keep his attention: "There's some mistake, you can see that. Please, give him a chance to explain. Please, mon coeur!"

After a long moment the grip in his hair loosened. The eyes that turned toward him were still vampire eyes, though now they were the color of marsh gas. "How dare you intrude? How dare you?"

"I...I thought that you were...hurting her."

LaCroix' smile was cold. "Did you? And you were Sir Galahad, rushing to her rescue? You impertinent little puppy. She is old to hold her own, and I am old enough to crush you like an ant under my shoe."

"Kit, LaCroix and I are lovers. We have been for centuries."

"He--he doesn't make you?"

"I have fed on the miserable and the powerful alike. Men have been crucified under my order, still more have been tortured. I have even ripped a man's heart from his chest and lapped the blood from it while he watched me, dying. But I have never been a brute in bed, I hope."

Some part of Kit's brain long dormant whispered "well-spoke!" but he looked to Janette, still unsure. She smiled, touched his arm, and said, "I'm fine. Go to bed, mon petit."

For a long time he lay on his cot staring at the darkness. These vampires, the first of his kind he'd been near since his escape from his master, were so different from the ones he'd known. They drank blood from bottles, and if their fangs ever pierced a mortal's throat, they kept it well hidden. They made love. They flew. Turning on his side, he drew the blanket up. He wanted to stay here, in the world of these remarkable beings, but he wondered if he would ever be able to grasp all its shadowy nuances.

Upstairs, Janette curled against the shieldlike chest of her lover, her master. "Thank you," she whispered.

"For sparing your protégé?"

"For loving us; Nicolas and I."

Sauntering into the Raven Nick surveyed the crowd and spotted Vachon at the end of the bar. He moved gracefully through the crowd, exchanging smiles and nods with some of the regulars, and slid onto a barstool next to the Spaniard.

"Night off, Knight?"

"Yeah. I thought I'd check in on my sister and see how things are going with her student."

As if an invisible bell had rung to announce Nick's arrival, LaCroix materialized at his left shoulder, leaning elegantly against the bar. A subtle snort escaped him and his son shot him a quizzical glance. "Not well?"

"As well as can be expected," the elder replied. "Maurice! A bottle of the best, please." The Irishman brought down a bottle from a high shelf on the backbar and filled all three glasses. Hmmn, Nick thought. His best vintage means either that he's pleased with something, or that his feathers are ruffled and the old eagle needs coddling. Relieved that it seemed nothing more serious than that he smiled at his sire and thanked him graciously, Vachon echoing him a moment later, adding, "How's he doing?"

"He has at last learned to fly; in fact, he's taken to it quite well. He accepts the need for discretion in satisfying his hunger--indeed, he doesn't so much as cast a glance at the mortals here."

"But--?" Nick prompted.

LaCroix took a drink from his glass, savoring it on his tongue. "He had the audacity to burst in on Janette and myself, thinking that I was raping her..."

Nick winced.

"...and in many respects it's as if he's been buried alive for the last 400 years."

"In a way, he had," Vachon commented quietly.

LaCroix raised an eyebrow, his face softening barely perceptibly. "Yes, I suppose so," he said. "So yet another question presents itself: what place can he find for himself in the world?"

At that moment Janette made her appearance. Nick caught a familiar thrum from her; she was a woman of strong and unashamed appetites, appetites which LaCroix seemed to be satisfying very well indeed. He felt a pang of jealousy, mingled with humor. LaCroix was disgruntled not over concern for Kit's future; he simply didn't like the younger vampire intruding upon his relationship with Janette.

"Your protégé is not at your side, Janette?" their sire inquired.

"Non. I left him with some of the others; he has to learn to socialize with someone other than I. Else how will he fare when he leaves us?" She leaned closer to LaCroix and shot him a smoldering glance from under her lashes, then smiled brilliantly at first Nick, than Vachon. Mollified for the moment, LaCroix placed a strong hand on the small of her back.

Nick exchanged a look with Vachon and picking up his glass, stood. "Shall we look in on him, Vachon?"

"Sure."

They found him in one of the private rooms, watching a card game and listening intently to the banter and stories flowing back and forth. Here in private, vampires could speak of past times and faraway places, of feats and adventures that could never have been voiced in the presence of mortals. Nick waited for the tense bunching of his own muscles and was surprised instead to find himself relaxing. His own kind, he thought, then crushed the thought as traitorous to his quest. Still...

He took a place beside Kit. The other smiled tentatively. "You've learned to fly, I hear," Nick said as an opener.

Kit's smile broadened to one of sheer delight. "It is a marvel! Houses and roads and parks spread out below one like a map of Faerie! The breeze on one's face like a caress, the moon's smile reserved just for you..." his voice trailed off, as if unable to fully express his wonder; then a shadow crossed his face.

Nick's voice was gentle. "What is it?"

His long hair tumbling over his face as he stared into his glass, Kit answered in a low voice. "He taught me how to fly. Janette tried, but I couldn't until he showed me. He doesn't like me, though."

Laughing, Nick reassured him. "Don't worry about it; LaCroix doesn't like many people. He also doesn't like his routine disturbed."

"He...loves his children."

There was a hint of wistfulness in his voice. Nick sympathized, but there was nothing he could do. Kit was not one of LaCroix's children, and nothing could make him so. He was trying to think of something to say when Vachon spoke up. "The one who made me killed herself the night she brought me across," he said. "Her other fledgling and I were enemies for centuries. You find your own family; those friends so dear to you that you think of them as your own blood. And perhaps sometime or another, you make your own."

Kit pondered that for a long time. "Yes," he said at last. "Such was true when I was mortal; I can see that it still must be so."

Nick clapped him on the back. "As for dealing with LaCroix, I'll give you a few pointers. Flatter him, admire him, learn from him. He loves to teach, and he has much to teach."

As the elevator door slid open two huge eyes in a heart-shaped face peered expectantly at him over the back of the couch. Nick smiled--she always made him smile. "Sorry I'm late," he said. "Just stopped by the Raven for a moment to check on Kit."

"How is he?"

He dropped down beside her on the couch. "I think we can safely say that he's no longer insane. Actually, he's doing quite well."

"At least you're not calling him 'it' any longer," Natalie said pointedly.

"All right, I admit it! I was wrong," he said. Then, more seriously, "and yet I wasn't. If he had turned out to be irredeemable, beyond help..."

"Well, he didn't." For the first time she noticed the piece of paper he held. "What's that?"

He smoothed it out over his knee. "Something Kit was writing; he left it on the bar. I saw it as I went out and picked it up to give to him later... I didn't want someone else to find it and jump to conclusions."

Leaning over him she read the spiky handwriting. "The Foundling, a Play in Four Actes. Dramatis Personae: Tom, an orphan. The Count, a Frenchman of Some Stature in the Worlde. The Countess, his wife. Guillaume, the Count's Son, a Valourous Youth. Rodrigo, Guillaume's friend, a Spaniard..." She looked up at Nick. "A play? He's writing a play?"

"It would seem so. If one of us sees this, and thinks he's writing about the Community..." He looked at the paper again and laid it aside. "I'll give it back to him tomorrow."

"Nick! Don't you realize what this means?"

"Nat..."

"No, think about it: an Elizabethan Londoner who says he was an actor, named Kit--and he's writing a play!"

Nick sighed. The same thought had occurred to him, but he had a different perspective on it than Nat. As close as he felt to Natalie, from time to time these yawning gaps between his world and his made him acutely aware of how different they really were. "Christopher Marlowe was stabbed to death in a tavern."

"C'mon, Nick; that's been questioned since it happened. Supposedly happened," she added, with a trace of relish.

"Since when did you become an expert on English theatrical history?"

"I'm not. I just love mysteries and puzzles, remember?" She punched him in the shoulder. "Wanna hear my Lizzie Borden theory?"

"Maybe later. Nat, it doesn't matter who, or what, he was once. I was a knight, LaCroix was a Roman general, Janette was a prostitute. What does any of that matter now? What matters is how he's going to live now; in the larger world, and the world of darkness. He can't stay with LaCroix and Janette forever."

"Why not?"

Nick chuckled. "Well, for one thing, I don't think LaCroix welcomes the intrusion into his domestic routine. For another--he needs to spread his wings, to explore the world. To become his own person."

"I thought that was what you wanted: to be your own person."

He knew where this was leading. Stalling for time, he said, "What do you mean?"

"You've been getting closer to them, Nick. To LaCroix, to Janette, Vachon--the Community. They're drawing you in again."

Abruptly he stood and went into the kitchen for a bottle. Finally he said, "They're my family, Nat." He stalked back into the main room, taking a restless turn around the area. "Had I been able to adjust to my vampirism, things would have been different between LaCroix and myself. In many ways, he was a good master; a good father."

"A father gives his children wings, Nick."

"Not to LaCroix's way of thinking. To him, a father's duty is to teach, to guide, to protect." He laughed ruefully. "Face it, Nat, I'm the black sheep of the family."

"You're a good man, Nick."

The smile returned to his face. "My point exactly." He returned to the couch and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "So tell me about Lizzie Borden."

LaCroix didn't like the look of him. The newcomer had cut through the crowd with an arrogant disregard and now leaned on the bar gulping his drink and sneering contemptuously at the other patrons, mortal and vampire alike. LaCroix wasn't fond of rudeness: not only did it lack grace, it caused trouble, especially in a bar full of vampires. His bar, more or less.

He was keeping a wary eye on the stranger from the other end of the bar, just waiting for an excuse to have the bouncers throw him out, when a golden head in the crowd caught his eye. He smiled briefly, but had his expression back to its normally impassive state by the time his son reached his side. "Gracing us with your presence again, Nicholas?" he asked drily. "So soon?"

Not so long ago the jibe would have raised his hackles and called forth some bitter or sarcastic comeback of his own. Now, though, he recognized it for what it was: his father's reluctance to reveal his true feelings. Nick smiled genially and laid a paper on the bar as he accepted a glass from the bartender. "This is Kit's; I stopped by to return it to him."

LaCroix read the page with no comment but the quirk of an eyebrow. Calling over a waitress, he sent her for Kit, then his gaze returned to the stranger.

"Who's that?" Nick asked.

"I don't know. Amazing how popular Toronto has become among our kind, isn't it? Two newcomers in less than a month."

"And you don't like either of them," joked Nick.

His sire didn't smile. "I don't like this one, that much I know. Something about him..."

Nick followed his gaze. "I see what you mean." The newcomer was small and wiry, but his arrogant stance and dark features gave him a peculiar--and peculiarly distasteful--presence.

Just then Kit appeared from the back, distracting Nick from his contemplations. "Nick, good evening. It's good to see you again. Claris said you had something for me?"

"You left this on the bar last night," Nick told him, handing him the unfinished play, "I thought you wouldn't want it left around for anyone to see--"

The younger didn't take the paper. His face had frozen in a curiously blank mask as his gaze fixed on a point on the other end of the bar. Nick didn't need to turn around, but he did. The newcomer was returning Kit's stare. With a gloating smile he sauntered toward them.

"Go in the back," LaCroix said.

"It's...it's him..." Kit whispered.

"I know. Go in the back."

As the stranger reached the father and son, LaCroix rose, towering over the smaller man, who barely spared him a glance. "Get out of my way."

"Leave the boy alone."

Sneering, Kit's sire responded, "He's mine. You have nothing to say about it."

"You abused him; tormented him to the extent that he ran from you, and has been living like a maddened animal for centuries."

"Watch yourself. Do you know how old I am?"

LaCroix's sharklike smile appeared. "Your age is not something with which I feel I need concern myself. My name is LaCroix, and the boy is under my protection."

A brief flicker passed over the other's face; whether he'd heard of LaCroix, or was simply not used to being challenged, Nick couldn't tell.

"He's my fledgling; it's my right to do as I please with him."

The shark-smile turned fiendish. "There are no 'rights' among our kind, save those we take for ourselves."

Nick felt his hackles rise; what was LaCroix doing? Challenging this one to a fight over a foundling he regarded as more of an annoyance then anything else?

"You wish to fight for him, then?" the stranger inquired, amused. "Very well. My name is Piers, not that that will mean anything to you when you're a pile of ashes."

LaCroix laughed. "The roof, then, Piers. Fifteen minutes."

Piers nodded, and went to order another drink. Nick turned on his father. "Are you mad?"

"Oh, Nicholas," his father scoffed. "He's an arrogant fool younger than you are."

"Why defend Kit? You don't even like him."

"A little thing you may have heard of, Nicholas. Honour."

"I can't let him do this!" Kit clutched at Nick's sleeve as they watched their respective sires climb the stairs to the roof.

Nick drew the other back into the private room. "Don't interfere," he warned. "It's between them now."

"But why is he doing this?"

"He took you in; you're under his protection." And how many times had LaCroix protected him, he thought guiltily. For how long had he shielded his child and his child's quest for mortality from the Enforcers, from the rest of the Community? Had Nick ever thought to ask why, he knew how his father would have responded: you are mine, Nicholas. The same claim of possession that Piers laid on Kit... but there was more than that in Nick's relationship with LaCroix. His father loved him.

As much as Nick burned to go to his father's aid, he knew better. It was a duel between two vampires; not only that, but it would offend LaCroix's much cherished pride. So he waited.

Under the moon, in the unearthly glow of the streetlights, on the grimy rooftop, the vampires faced off. No spectator would ever have taken them for human now. LaCroix's face was a mask from an archaic nightmare, lips curled in the vampire rictus to display long and wicked fangs, eyes glowing nearly white. His adversary crouched in readiness, whippet-lean body tense, red-eyed and snarling.

Casually LaCroix began a slow circle of his prey. Years of mortal and immortal combat had taught him patience; Piers was less experienced. He sprang, hands curled like claws.

The Roman batted him aside contemptuously, then closed on him, seizing his throat and lifting him off the ground. The younger doubled swiftly, delivering a vicious kick to LaCroix's stomach that threw him off balance and caused him to lose his grip. Piers landed on his feet and used the force to recoil in the same motion. As his fangs scrabbled for a grip on LaCroix's cheek, his fingernails dug into the elder's throat. Roaring in anger, LaCroix dragged the other vampire's head back by his hair and clawed his face open.

Belowstairs, Nick closed his eyes, nerves whipped by the sensations pouring through the link with his father. Anger, contempt, and sheer raw power... but not fear. Never fear. He heard a familiar roar from the rooftop, then a shriek from another throat--a shriek abruptly cut off.

Silence. Silence, with a vicious sense of satisfaction.

At last Nick rose, gesturing to Kit to follow. Emerging onto the roof, they stopped to take in the tableau before them. Tall and poised, the pale form of LaCroix stood over the staked body of Kit's master. As if in a trance, Kit moved forward until he was looking down on Piers. The dark vampire's throat gaped, savagely torn open. There was little blood: LaCroix had drained him. His eyes were open, though; he glared at Kit and his fingers twitched feebly.

"He's not dead!"

"Not yet," LaCroix replied dispassionately, then nodded his head towards the east. "He will be soon, though."

"I'm free."

"Yes."

Nick reached out, carefully turning LaCroix's face towards him. There were deep, blood-clotted scratches on his face and throat. "Come downstairs," Nick said softly. "We'll get those cleaned up."

Without a backward glance the three left the roof and the dying and doomed vampire to the rays of the rising sun. Nick's arm never left his father's waist.

Janette fussed over LaCroix's wounds until he gently pushed her hand away. "That's quite enough, ma cher; they're only scratches."

"I cannot thank you enough," Kit said quietly. He'd seemed oddly dazed since they'd left Piers on the roof.

"You should have had your opportunity for revenge," LaCroix told him. "For having cheated you of that, I apologize. However, I did not think you were strong enough to handle him, at least not without being severely injured."

A wry smile crooked the boy's lips. "I think I will happily trade my revenge for what you--what you all--have given me. To no longer live in fear, to no longer live like an animal conscious only of his appetites, to know that there are possibilities in this existence that I had never guessed at." He stared into his glass. "And now I'm free."

"Yes. And what, may I ask, do you intend to do with your freedom?"

He shrugged helplessly.

"Write your plays. Change your name every so often, to conceal your identity; but write," Nick said. "And if you ever grow tired of that, who knows what adventures eternity can hold?"

As Kit pondered that in silence, Nick rose, addressing his family, "I'll have to stay until nightfall. I suppose a bed can be found for me?"

"Always, mon fils," LaCroix told him. They exchanged a long look, full of what words could not express.

"Nick!" Nat exclaimed as he stepped out of the elevator. "Where have you been? I've been calling all day."

"I had to spend the day at the Raven," he told her. Ignoring the shadow that passed over her face, he briefly outlined the past evening's events to her. "We went up on the roof after sundown tonight and disposed of the remains."

"Why did LaCroix fight this man for Kit? It doesn't seem like him."

"It's very like him." Nick sat down beside her on the couch. "His honour, his pride--they're very important to him, Nat." Staring into the fireplace he went on, as though he was explaining LaCroix to himself as much as to her. "It made me think of how he's protected me, cared for me through it all. He may not have been the perfect father according to some lights, but he's been the best father he knows how to be." He smiled, a little ruefully, a little tenderly. "I suppose that counts for something."

Too much, was Natalie's first thought, as she snuggled closer to him. But her conscience countered her: it's his family. The only family he has. How can I begrudge him that?

They sat together in silence for a long time.

FIN