It's that time of year again---August, full of late summer days at the beach, shopping for school clothes, harvesting zucchinis (and foisting them off on your neighbors and coworkers), going to the State Fair, and, of course, celebrating the unbirth of a certain cranky Roman general who managed to survive a devastating volcanic eruption. Yes, it's time to celebrate Lacroix's Conversion Day! In keeping with my custom of the last several years, I started mulling over a story. How could I have our beloved FK characters fete Lacroix on his Very Special Day? What wonderfully appropriate gift could Nick give his master? I was sitting on a plane awaiting takeoff to travel to San Diego for the FK in SD gathering when it came to me. (I seem to get lots of story ideas while sitting on airplanes. I don't know why. Perhaps the prospect of sudden death brings out the creative urges, or it just helps to distract me from the squalling baby in the seat behind me.) This story is rather self-referential---it's based on several of my previous Conversion Day stories, among others. You may want to skim over those to fully understand what's going on here. (Or not. Whatever. You can find the stories on my website. Just look for anything that concerns Conversion Day, vegetables, or accordions.) I started this story sitting on a Northwest 737 in a seat that didn't have a functioning overhead light trying to type on my PDA, whose keyboard measures a whopping 3 by 9 inches so my touch-typing was wildly inaccurate. I finished it in my office on my lunch hour in a much more comfortable situation. It wasn't a very auspicious beginning, and it had a late ending, but what the heck. It's finished! Oh---not beta read, so all the blame falls on my shoulders. Thank you to McLisa for having invented Lacroix's mortal Roman name, all those years ago. I love it so I always use it in my stories. Thanks to the actors who gave physical presence and life to these wonderful characters. Thanks to the technical writers on TECHWR-L who, on a silly Friday, helped me come up with a possibly accurate Latin phrase for the end of the story (although one of them grumbled and asked if this was work-related, and referred me to TECHWOOHOO, where frivolities are not only tolerated, they are actively encouraged). In keeping with the lateness of this story, I will also tardily dedicate it to Kathy Whelton, whose birthday is almost a Conversion Day event, but not quite. Kathy, this goes with the Seabisquit tee-shirt. I grant permission to post this story on the FTP site. Anyone else, please ask permission. ================================================= Non Potes Semper Capere Quod Aves* By Nancy Kaminski (c) Conversion Day 2003 ================================================= Nick sat in the dark in his lonely loft, staring into space. Only two weeks to go...what could he do? What could he buy? He was completely out of ideas. After almost eight hundred years, he mused, fresh ideas were becoming harder and harder to come by. What do you get the vampire who has everything--- especially if the vampire in question is a finicky, critical, and possessive one? He was at a loss. Despondent, Nick turned on a light in the vain hope that a similar light would also dawn in his brain. It didn't happen. Ten minutes later, after staring at the left-hand gargoyle on the mantelpiece, he came to the conclusion that the only thing the light had done was show him he needed to dust the loft. Since he avoided housework with the same fervor he avoided Natalie's protein shakes, Nick allowed his eyes to drift away from the cobwebs and wander around the loft. They finally settled on a messy stack of magazines on the coffee table. The top one was a well-thumbed copy of Archaeological Review. Nick's eyes lingered on the cover. This was the issue that contained the full-color spread on some of the more interesting frescos found in Pompeii---frescos that just happened to have been owned all those years ago by none other than Nick's sire, Lucien Lacroix, the soon-to-be Conversion Day boy. Nick's eyes grew thoughtful. The fresco . . . He picked up the magazine and opened it to the foldout page that displayed the main fresco, in which Lacroix, nee Lucius Divius, in all his mortal glory, frolicking in a most personal way with other Romans of both sexes. It never failed to both startle and intrigue him, even after (or despite of) the accordion incident. He gazed at the photo thoughtfully, and an idea insinuated itself into his weary brain. The idea took hold, blossomed, and revealed itself in full color and detail. Yes! It would be the perfect gift! Suddenly energized, Nick sprang from his chair and started ransacking his art supply closet. He found the perfect blank canvas, just the right size and shape. He rummaged through the table that held his paints. There wasn't much time before the big day, so it would have to be painted in acrylics, not oils. Nick smiled in satisfaction. He had everything he needed. Humming, Nick set up his easel and placed the blank canvas on it. Propping the magazine up on the nearby table for easy reference, he set to work. He was happily applying a base wash to his canvas when Natalie breezed in on one of her periodic visits/supply runs to the loft. Clutching a large thermos of her latest formula, she called, "Hey, Nick, how're you doing?" Nick waved a brush in her direction. "Just fine, thanks. You?" and continued with his work. "Not bad. I'm glad to see you're in a better mood tonight. You were pretty grumpy yesterday." "Yeah, I'm sorry about that." He shrugged. "You know the drill---I had a bout of galactic angst. It's better now." "I sort of guessed that. Same old, same old, huh? Glad you're feeling better." Natalie surveyed the canvas. "New project? What's it going to be?" "Oh, just a painting," Nick said vaguely, realizing that the subject of his painting to be might be something that Natalie would not appreciate. "The usual." He casually threw a paint rag on top of the open magazine and went to stand in front of it. "Lets go over and sit down. What's the new formula?" he guided her over to the leather sofa and changed the subject. Natalie happily launched into a description of yet another disgusting mixture while Nick made encouraging and appreciative noises. Close call, he thought guiltily, and turned his full attention to his guest. The next few days passed quickly. Nick worked diligently at the painting in his free time, and found that his original intention of simply reproducing the ancient fresco had mutated into creating a work that was only loosely based on it. His version did feature Lacroix as the centerpiece, but everyone and everything else in the painting were a reflection of both vampires' current situations, done in the style of the original artist. It was turning out to be, in Nick's estimation, a gift that was, to say the least, unique. Lacroix, he thought (perhaps optimistically), couldn't fail to appreciate it. ********************* Natalie looked up at the windows of Nick's loft. The blinds were down since it was still daylight, but she could clearly hear music---if she weren't mistaken, it sounded like the overture of a Broadway musical. The volume inside the loft must be horrendous, she thought. And he says he's got such great hearing---it's so loud an army could march in there without him noticing! A thought occurred to her. "If an army could march in, why not one very stealthy coroner?" she mused out loud. "How many times has he sneaked up on me in the last year alone? It's about time I had a turn!" Natalie opened the heavy steel outer door, entered the small vestibule, and carefully closed the door behind her. Then, bypassing the elevator, she stealthily tiptoed up the stairs. Revenge would be so sweet, she thought, once again thinking of all the times Nick had snuck up on her in the morgue. She cracked open the upper door and peeked into the loft. Nick was standing in front of his easel, painting, pausing every so often to wave his brush in time to the music and sing along. "Something familiar, something peculiar, something for everyone, a comedy tonight!" he warbled, slightly off key. "Something appealing, something appalling, something for everyone, a comedy tonight!" Natalie tiptoed up behind him. "Nothing with kings, nothing with crowns! Bring on the lovers, liars, and clowns! Old situations, new complications..." Natalie poked Nick in the ribs and stood back. "Eep!" Nick whirled, befanged and all glowy-eyed, brush held up like a weapon. "Nothing portentous or polite! Tragedy tomorrow, comedy tonight!" Natalie sang, and then broke into laughter. "Gotcha!" Nick glared at her, then lowered the brush and grinned. "So you did. Congratulations." He turned off the stereo. "What's up?" "Just dropped in for a visit..." Nat's voice trailed off as she got a clear view of the painting. "Oh, my God, Nick, is that---Lacroix?" Nick made an attempt to block her view, then gave up when he realized the canvas was too big to hide behind him. "Uh, yeah." Natalie surveyed the unfinished painting. Lacroix was almost complete, but the other figures in the painting were still just blocked in. After a minute of silent contemplation, she turned to Nick. "Let me guess---Conversion Day present?" "Yeah. How'd you know?" "It's August, and you're painting a picture of the person you detest the other 364 days of the year. It wasn't hard." She turned back to the painting. "What is it with you guys, anyway? I mean, the Pompeian good-luck wind chimes, the herm---I'm beginning to think you're just a tad obsessed with, um, how can I put this? Sex?" Nick threw a cloth over the painting and faced Natalie. "Nat, it's not that way. Really. I can explain..." "Don't even try, Nick." Nat held up her hand. "I know, I know, you two have a deep, complicated relationship that spans centuries. It's beyond mortal understanding, and you've got that psychic connection thingie going on, yadda-yadda-yadda. You'll excuse me for saying it's still a teensy bit weird the way you two carry on." She moved closer to the painting and starting giving it a detailed inspection. "Something tells me that you've deviated from the standard Roman fresco here." Nick nodded, relieved that she was taking it all so well. "I was going to just paint a reproduction of the original," he picked up the magazine and showed her the photograph, "but I guess I got carried away. Call it inspiration. I thought that something that reflected recent events would be more meaningful." "Well, I can understand the Toronto skyline in the background. But the dachshunds?" She pointed to a corner of the canvas, where two brown dachshunds were tussling over a well-chewed leather sandal. "That's Bettina and Ivan the Terrible," Nick said. "They belonged to a family we met in the early Sixties in Berlin. It's a long story. Anyway, Bettina attacked Lacroix, bit him on the ankle, and held on until she was physically removed. Lacroix admired her tenacity and became quite fond of her." "Okaaaaay." Natalie tried to picture Lacroix with a dachshund, attached to his ankle or otherwise, and failed miserably. "I'm afraid to ask who the other people in the picture are supposed to be. Maybe I'd better just leave you alone and let you paint in peace. You've got how many days to finish this?" "Five." Nat slapped Nick on the rump and said, "Get going, Picasso! Time's a wasting!" She headed towards the door, then stopped and asked wistfully. "I don't suppose I can be in on the big presentation, can I? Last year was so---educational." Nick shook his head. "I don't think that would be a good idea, Nat. You haven't seen him when he doesn't like his present. There could be a scene." Nat shuddered. "Well, let's just hope he likes it, wiener dogs and all." She gave the painting one last inspection, shook her head, and left. "Whew!" Nick breathed. "Could have been bad, Nick, old boy." He had been fretting a bit that he wasn't closer to completing the painting, but now he was glad. If Natalie had seen those other figures in their finished state . . . Nick made a mental note to lock up the painting when he wasn't working on it, and to turn down the stereo so there could be no more sneak attacks from nosy coroners. He clicked on the stereo, adjusted the volume to a more reasonable level, and picked up his brush. The opening strains of the next song from "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum" swelled through the loft. Nick hummed along and applied himself to his task. He had a lot to accomplish in five days. ********************************* Shortly before midnight on August 24, Lacroix paused briefly and smiled before inserting his key in his private elevator. He could sense that Nicholas was inside the penthouse, no doubt to give him his Conversion Day present. As usual, Nicholas had waited until the very last minute to make his appearance and do his filial duty. It was all part of his pattern of subtle defiance. Lacroix had come to expect it, and it no longer annoyed him (although he never allowed that to show-- -a display of anger now and again was never wasted). He knew that, in the end, Nicholas would come through. Feeling a pleasant sense of anticipation as the elevator whooshed silently upward, Lacroix wondered what it would be this year. Nicholas' ability to please him with just the perfect gift in recent years was somewhat surprising. There had been a long period during which Nicholas had ignored his Conversion Day entirely, or had gifted him with the moral equivalent of the Father's Day tie---something banal, meaningless, and hideously pedestrian. Lacroix suspected that he had done it on purpose. Those days, though, seemed to be gone. The elevator door slid open with a barely-audible hiss, and Lacroix stepped into his penthouse. He had left a few lamps on, just enough to throw warm pools of light here and there amid the spare, expensive Danish modern furnishings. He had prepared for Nicholas' visit by displaying the last several years' presents on his spacious terrace. The good-luck wind chimes clonked melodiously in the warm evening breeze, and a small floodlight illuminated the ancient herm, its enormous phallus throwing a huge shadow on the wall. Sure enough, Nicholas was ensconced comfortably on the low, beige leather sofa, a large brown paper-wrapped rectangular object propped near him. Aha! His Conversion Day present was a painting! Lacroix could smell the fresh, barely-dry paint. So---it was not an old painting. Obviously, Nicholas had been busy and had created this year's present himself. "Good evening, Lacroix," Nick greeted him. "Happy Conversion Day." He gestured at the package. "I brought you a present. I hope you like it." "Thank you, Nicholas." Lacroix walked over to his liquor cabinet. "Would you care for a drink before I open my present? I have some rather fine cabernet." He glanced over his shoulder. "Don't worry, it's just wine. Alas." Nick lifted a wine glass. "Already raided the larder, Lacroix. You're right, it's good stuff." "In that case, I will join you." Lacroix poured himself a glass of the deep, ruby wine and sat in the chair opposite the sofa. "So, what might this be?" He nodded at the package. "Open it and see," Nick replied, taking a sip from his glass. "I hope you---appreciate it." "Hmm, interesting choice of words." Lacroix put down his glass and, with one motion, ripped the brown paper from the painting. "Oh." The single word was uttered with a complete lack of emotion. Lacroix silently studied the revealed painting. Nick remained outwardly relaxed on the sofa, but his nervously fiddling fingers betrayed him. He waited for the proverbial shoe to drop----there was a distinct possibility that it would drop directly on his head. With Lacroix, Nick knew, it could go either way. The silence stretched into minutes as Lacroix continued to study the painting with narrowed eyes. Finally, Nick could stand the tension no longer. "Well?" he asked. "What do you wish me to say, Nicholas?" Lacroix inquired frostily. "That you like it?" Nick suggested. "Not that it matters, of course," he added hastily, "You can take it or leave it as far as I'm concerned." "I am unsure what to think of this, this. . ." Lacroix searched for the word, "pastiche. This perversion of the magnificent fresco that graced the wall of my Pompeian villa." He pointed with one long finger. "I grant you, you have captured my portrait quite well. But what am I to think of these others?" The finger moved over the figures, one by one. "Janette. She does indeed look quite Roman. I will accept Janette." The icy blue eyes looked up briefly, then returned to the painting. "Your coroner. I doubt that the esteemed Doctor Lambert would relish the thought of you depicting her in the act of feeding you grapes while wearing little more than a diaphanous drape. I venture to say that she has not seen this." "Only in a rather incomplete state," Nick confessed. "I see." Lacroix stared dispassionately at Nick. "On the other hand, perhaps she has dreamt of feeding you grapes while you wear an equally diaphanous drape, as you are depicted here. You might wish to let her view it." "Um---no. I don't think that's a very good idea." "Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Nicholas. But as you wish." The finger moved on. "Detective Schanke. Somehow I do not believe that 'Donut Don' is quite this impressive in an unclothed state. I do not know the woman he is with----his wife? Surely not a coworker. He strikes me as being tediously conventional." "Yes, he is, although he would rather die than admit it. That's his wife, Myra." "An attractive woman. He does not deserve her." "That's what she says, frequently." The eyebrow lifted minutely. "Aristotle and Feliks Twist?" Lacroix appeared to be considering that pairing. "Never, Nicholas. Feliks is simply too Victorian, and Aristotle too much the sensualist. He would become bored." "And you know this how?" Nick asked. Lacroix said frostily, "Suffice it to say that I know." He returned to examining the painting. "I see you have included other denizens of The Raven." The eyebrow managed to convey disapproval at the sight of his employees disporting themselves. The roving finger stopped on a large bowl on a side table. It contained garlic bulbs, zucchini, eggplants, and kumquats. "Nicholas, you forgot. . . never mind." Nick looked at his sire suspiciously. "What? Is there another bit of vegetable hell you forgot to tell me about?" Lacroix looked at Nick with a bland expression. "Of course not." He sat back on the sofa and sipped his glass of wine, the critical examination of his Conversion Day present apparently over. "No comment on the dogs?" "No." "Your verdict?" Lacroix sighed somewhat dramatically. "I had unwisely entertained feelings of anticipation about my gift, based on your previous years' performance. I am disappointed. How you could imagine this would please me is beyond my understanding." Nick stood up and moved to take the painting. "Okay, so maybe I got a little carried away. I suppose the concept of 'it's the thought that counts' is too much to expect from you. I'll take it and go home." Lacroix's long arm shot out and he grasped the painting's frame. "No, just leave it. You gave it to me, I will deal with it as I see fit." He paused. "Perhaps I can use the frame." Nick threw up his hands. "Whatever," he said crossly. He finished his glass of cabernet with a gulp and stomped out. "Ungrateful SOB," he muttered under his breath as the elevator door slid shut. "I heard that, Nicholas." =================== TWO MONTHS LATER Nick made a disgusted noise and looked at his hands. "Damn!" He looked over at Lacroix. "Why can't you repot your own dieffenbachia? And more to the point, why do you over-water the damned thing? This pot is full of mud!" Lacroix looked up from his papers. "You are the one who offered to help, Nicholas. As for over-watering, I am merely following Feliks' instructions." "You must have misunderstood him, then. This thing is drowning." Nick scraped the mud off his hands and gingerly positioned the plant in the new, larger pot. He tamped potting soil around it, straightened the sad-looking plant, and put it back in its place near the window. "Why you have a live plant in the first place is beyond me," he grumbled, and headed to the bathroom to wash up. "Your ownership of a cactus is, on the other hand, completely rational?" Nick ignored the jibe and shut the bathroom door rather more firmly than absolutely necessary. He hadn't visited his sire since the ill-fated Conversion Day Present incident. The two vampires had ignored each other for a month, until Lacroix had actually made the first move towards rapprochement by calling Nick to inquire if he wanted a shipment of Argentinean steer blood in place of his usual domestic stuff. Nick had agreed and then gone to the Raven to pick it up personally, timing his visit so that he was sure to run into his sire "accidentally." That had happened without any major bloodshed, and gradually the relationship had fallen back into its usual pattern of mild combativeness, although only on the neutral ground of the Raven. That lasted several weeks, until Nick was ready to take the next step. As a result, here he was, visiting Lacroix in his penthouse for a purely social and unannounced visit. Lacroix had been wrapped up in managing some financial affairs, but waved Nick to a chair. "I shall be finished shortly, Nicholas. Sit down, have a glass of wine." It was as if the Conversion Day Present incident had never happened. Nick sat for a few minutes, the only sound being the faint scratching of Lacroix's fountain pen in a ledger (modernized in almost every other respect, Lacroix still preferred the old-fashioned way to keep track of his investments, although he had given up the use of Roman numerals a few centuries earlier in deference to his accountants' sensibilities). Finally Nick's basic restlessness overcame him and he started prowling around the room examining new objets d'art and leafing through magazines. He finally halted in front of a wilting dieffenbachia in a soggy, too-small pot. "You need to repot this, Lacroix." Lacroix said without looking up, "Feel free to bring comfort to my plant, Nicholas, if its situation distresses you." So Nick found an ugly but good-sized Victorian pot in a back room, went downstairs to the lobby and shamelessly dug a supply of potting soil out of the public planters, and repotted the hapless dieffenbachia with the satisfied feeling of having saved yet another life. Even houseplants deserved a chance at happiness. Nick nudged the bathroom light on with his elbow to avoid getting the wall dirty and turned on the hot water. As he lathered up with the lavender-scented soap, he saw something familiar reflected in the mirrored wall behind the sink. Hastily he rinsed and dried his hands, then turned to examine the small painting. It was no more than six by eight inches, and carefully framed in a tasteful gold frame. Nick wondered briefly where the rest of it had gone, if other bits and pieces of it were scattered throughout the penthouse, or if this was the only remnant left. There was even a small brass plate on the frame with the painting's title. Squinting, Nick read the tiny, spidery engraving. " 'Cave Catellem Botuli Germani,' " he muttered, mentally translating the phrase, and then laughed softly. Bettina, the dachshund that had so fervently attacked Lacroix thirty- five years previously, seemed to grin at him from behind the Roman sandal she was wrestling away from her long-time companion and littermate, Ivan the Terrible. " 'Beware the little wiener dog' indeed," Nick laughed, and went out to join Lacroix in the living room. Maybe he could chalk this year's Conversion Day a success after all. FINIS