========================================== "Some Souvenirs are More Useful Than Others" A one-part sequel to "The Tale of the Shillelagh o' Doom" by Nancy Kaminski (c) November 1999 ========================================== After I posted "The Tale of the Shillelagh o' Doom," which was written as a sort-of explanation of why Nick would keep a stake in his living room, Lisa McDavid requested a sequel. Like a good little list member, I obeyed. McLisa, this is your fault. Dedicated to Cindy Ingram, in the hopes that this bit o' fluff will cheer her up a bit after the passing of her beloved doggie, Nellie. I'm thinking of you, Cindy. Permission is given to archive this on the FK Fanfic site. Everyone else, please ask permission. Consider the usual disclaimers duly made. If you haven't read "The Tale of the Shillelagh o' Doom," this might not make a lot of sense. Drop me a note and I'll send it to you. And now, on with the nonsense... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ London, 1770 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Hello, Nicholas." Nick froze for a second, then swung down from his horse and handed the reins to the waiting stableboy without looking in the direction of the speaker. "Have the farrier look at that near fore," he instructed the boy, "he's off on it." "Aye, Mr. Scanlon, sir," the boy answered. Tugging on the reins, he led the animal, a rawboned gelding of a truly hideous orange-chestnut color, into the depths of the lamp-lit stable. Nick's visitor could hear the boy murmuring endearments to the gelding as they disappeared into the dim interior. Without acknowledging his visitor, Nick walked out of the stableyard and to the inn's front entrance. "What an ungainly brute, Nicholas. Surely you could have done better," the visitor commented as he followed Nick into the inn and up the stairs to the rooms above. Nick stopped on the staircase, turned, and said irritably, "You didn't track me down just to insult my horse, did you, Lacroix?" "Not at all," Lacroix answered. "Surely you can't object to my stopping in to inquire as to your welfare? After all, I haven't seen you for, what," he made an elaborate show of calculating the passage of time, "six months? Has it been that long?" He shook his head sorrowfully. "Long enough, alas, for you to have acquired that unfortunate animal. What did the boy call him? 'Caddy?'" " 'Cadwallader,' " Nick answered shortly, resuming his way upstairs. "And no, I didn't name him, the dragoon officer I bought him from did. I suppose you must come in." "Such a gracious invitation. Thank you, Nicholas---it's Scanlon this time? I believe I shall." Fuming, Nick unlocked the door to his suite of rooms. He had managed to win free from his master for almost half a year by decamping to a country he knew Lacroix would avoid, but in the end even Nick had had enough of Ireland's provincial charms. Therefore he had purchased the unfortunately-named gelding and headed back to London and the pleasures of the big city. Once there, it had taken only a week for Lacroix to sense his presence and appear. *And he hates London,* Nick thought in irritation. *Why couldn't he have gone off to Paris or Rome while I was gone?* Nick entered the sitting room and, removing his cloak, flung it at a convenient chair. Lacroix removed his own cloak more leisurely, surveying his errant son's accommodations as his folded it neatly and laid it across the chair. "At least your rooms are suitable." He settled into the best chair by the fire and stretched out his legs, obviously intended to stay the evening. "So where have you been these last six months?" "Ireland." Nick reluctantly sat in the other, more uncomfortable chair, and stared at the fire, resigned to his master's presence. A look of distaste passed over the elder vampire's austere features. "Even London looks civilized in comparison to Ireland. Whatever did you find to occupy yourself in that wasteland of culture?" Nick wasn't about to confess to his most recent stint as a sheepherder and carouche mentor, not even to irritate his sire---it was too embarrassing. He glanced over at Lacroix and said, "Travelling, that is all. It's a beautiful country." "I daresay, if you like unwashed peasants and peat bogs. Really, Nicholas..." Lacroix's voice trailed off as his eyes caught sight of something propped against the side of the mantel. "What is that?" Nick followed the direction of his sire's gaze. "Oh, just a souvenir I acquired in my travels," he said carelessly. He stood and retrieved the object in question. "Nicholas..." Lacroix's voice was flat and held an edge of menace---or was that unease? "Why do you have a stake in your rooms?" Nick felt his irritation suddenly melt away and his sometimes unfortunate sense of humor start to overtake his good sense. Recklessly, he let it have its way. *This could be fun,* he thought. "Nonsense, Lacroix," he said cheerfully, "This isn't a stake, it's a shillelagh." He twirled it rather theatrically and held it out for his sire's inspection---point first. "Nicely carved, isn't it? A farmer named O'Malley gave it to me." To his credit, Lacroix didn't flinch an iota at the lethally sharp wooden walking stick aimed, seemingly by accident, at his heart. Instead he stared icily up at Nick. "You seem to be making a habit of acquiring unfortunate mementos of your travels---that hideous animal, and now this pathetic example of barbaric Celtic folk art. Perhaps you should seek my counsel before spending your money so ill-advisedly." Nick shrugged and let the shillelagh's pointed end drop to the floor. " 'De gustibus non est disputandum,' " he quoted. "There is no accounting for taste, Lacroix. You don't see me questioning your small but rather self-involved collection of Pompeiian busts, do you? Besides, this was a gift. It would have been ungracious to refuse it." He sat back down in his chair, but didn't return the shillelagh to its former place. Instead he toyed idly with it while looking at his sire with a blandly innocent expression. Lacroix winced internally, not only at the sight of his mercurial son playing with a deadly weapon so casually, but at his Gaullish-accented Latin. Nick had never lost the accent despite Lacroix's tutoring, much to the former Roman general's disgust. Belatedly he wondered if it was deliberate ineptitude and not simply a tin ear as he had supposed. "Do put that damned thing down, Nicholas," he said testily. "Surely you realize how idiotic it is to keep dangerous toys like that out in plain view." "Oh, is it making you nervous? I do apologize." Nick smiled insincerely and propped his lethal souvenir against the side of his chair, within easy reach. "So few of the people I entertain understand its more---esoteric---uses. Most just assume it's a shillelagh, and a rather handsome one at that." Lacroix snorted and pointedly changed the subject. For the next hour he expertly interrogated Nick about his actions during his half year of freedom, and for a change the younger man answered without annoyance. In fact, he regaled his sire with amusing stories, punctuating them with gestures with the shillelagh. Occasionally he would almost hit his sire with the walking stick and then apologize profusely. Nick noted that while he narrated his travels, Lacroix's eyes occasionally drifted towards the shillelagh and a frown would crease the patrician features. Each time that happened Nick made sure to emphasize a point with his souvenir. Lacroix, on his part, pretended not to notice, although his expression became more and more strained and his thoughts were plainly not on the conversation. After a particularly extravagant gesture from Nick almost struck him on the arm, Lacroix had had enough. He suddenly stood and announced, "I must be off." Nick halted in mid-sentence and raised an eyebrow. "So soon, Lacroix? Why, you've just arrived, and we haven't seen each other for *so* long. And you haven't told me what you've been doing---I fear my enthusiastic tales have not allowed you to get a word in edgewise." He contrived to look regretful and was only partially successful. "I've just remembered an errand I must take care of immediately," the elder vampire said with dignity. He glared at his irritating son for a moment, but his eyes inevitably drifted down to the shillelagh, which Nick was absently tossing gently back and forth between his hands. "I shall call again when it is more convenient." And with a small whoosh of displaced air, he was gone. Nick listened to the fast-retreating footsteps, then lay back in his chair and laughed helplessly. Gasping, he kissed the shillelagh and proclaimed, "Thank you, Farmer O'Malley! I never dreamed your gift would come in so useful!" From now on, he vowed, the shillelagh would be a permanent fixture of his rooms, wherever they may be. As a walking stick, the shillelagh had a certain rustic charm. But as Lacroix repellant, it was utterly priceless. Perhaps, he mused, grinning to himself, he would be able to enjoy his stay in London after all. FINIS ==================================================== Comments, criticisms, and impulsive Belgians may be directed to nancykam@mediaone.net ====================================================