by L. Zephaniah  (zephania@pantek.com)
 
 

Adult:  Graphic sex (N/L/V), violence, rape.
Sincere thanks to Portia and Barb Vainio for their tact, their honesty, and their suggestions.
Permission to archive to JADFE and NightHaven, should they so desire.
 

". . . When you have a friend in the Nightcrawler . . . who needs enemies?"

Chapter 1

     Nick Knight effortlessly piloted his vintage Cadillac through the streets of Toronto.  He enjoyed the feeling of the night air caressing his curly hair as he wheeled the huge car around the corner, leaving the lake shore area and heading for the Raven nightclub.
     He was restless tonight, he didn't know why...  <Well, yes,> he admitted to himself, <he did know why. He needed sex.  Vampires needed more than just blood, and he had been alone too long. A shame, really, that Natalie was out of town at that forensics conference -- well, not a shame, since he couldn't have what he needed with her, anyway.>
     He broke off his turbulent thoughts abruptly, getting himself back under his usual rigid control.  No sense arriving at the Raven with lust burning him up inside. He didn't want to deal with LaCroix's mocking smirk. He shook his head.  <LaCroix.  What was the old vampire up to?  They had not had this good a relationship for centuries -- what did he want?  Was he really mellowing, accepting Nick as an individual, not just as his own shadow?>  Nick shook his head.  He had learned his lessons long ago:   never trust LaCroix.

     In his broadcast booth at the Raven, Lucien LaCroix prepared for his nightly radio address.  He couldn't seem to focus on his subject; he was distracted, irritable.  <He'd had that damn dream again,> he remembered angrily.  First, he'd relived the crisis of his daughter/master Divia, as she tried to slay all around him, to leave him as solitary as he'd unwittingly left her.  In the dream, she'd nearly succeeded -- LaCroix reminded himself yet again that Urs and Vachon had survived the attacks.  He steepled his fingers, regaining his composure with difficulty.
  The second part was always worse.  Nicholas's partner on the police force -- <the merest baby, surely not old enough, let alone skilled enough, to protect his son's back> -- had made a stupid, rookie mistake and gotten herself killed.  Nicholas, of course, blamed himself, and fell into one of those bouts of melancholia he was prone to.  Then, that <woman,> the coroner, made demands on his Nicholas which could not be fulfilled.  In trying, Nicholas had killed her.  Nicholas, turning at last to his master, had then -- LaCroix broke the thought off.  It was only a dream, nightmarish as it seemed.  <A typical parent's dream,> he supposed;  <his child's partner was a liability to him;  his lover got him into trouble; he died; and LaCroix was left alone, again.>
     He wondered briefly if the nightmares were some part of the aftereffect of Divia's attack.  She'd threatened to leave him alone, solitary, and in the dreams he was...  <No.  He would not allow her that vengeance.  Still, he thought as he touched an empty place in his mind, this time she is gone.  Nineteen hundred years, more or less, and only now was she not with him.  Even when he'd thought her dead and buried, still there'd been that silent presence... a presence he recognized only by its absence.  Now, she was truly gone, and he was truly alone.>
     <No.  He was not alone.>  He reached out to Nicholas,  reassuring himself.  <Still alive.  Unhappy, frustrated, but alive.>  LaCroix shook his head ruefully.  Nicholas was burning up inside, a conflagration waiting to draw his master into it. < That,> LaCroix realized, <was probably the source of his own inability to focus.>  LaCroix tried again to tune his son's lust and frustration out; tried once again to focus on his monologue.  He squashed his own mounting desires firmly.  Nicholas's needs were triggering his own, but he would, as always, control them.

     Nick pulled the car into a parking space and walked the short distance to the club, pulling his thoughts away from dangerous subjects as he went.  Fortunately it was a Wednesday night.  He and Tracy were both off, but she was tied up volunteering at a homeless shelter.  Only on Wednesdays could he be reasonably relaxed at the Raven, safe from discovery, secure in knowing the young blonde detective would not suddenly "pop in" to see Vachon and find him, instead.
     A line waited at the front door.  As usual, the place was crowded with the denizens of the dark and the wanna-bes.  He casually bypassed the queue, raising an eyebrow at the burly doorman and receiving an answering nod.  The crowd watched, resigned, as yet another regular entered before them.  He crossed the room to the bar, casually sidestepping some aggressive revelers.  Somehow, the person in his usual seat was just leaving, and Miklos was already pouring his usual drink.  He sat down, smiling genuinely at Miklos, and wrapped his fingers around the stem of the goblet.  Miklos smiled back.  No matter what anyone else said or thought, Miklos liked Nick.  The bartender set the bottle on the bar beside him, and moved away to serve someone else.
     Nick reached out with his mind and let LaCroix know he was here.  <Never let the old demon think you had any secrets; it was always safer to let him know.>  Nick swirled the ruby liquid in his glass idly, watching the lights reflected off the surface.  LaCroix was busy with his broadcast.  Nick smiled.  He had timed his visit to coincide with the broadcast -- he really didn't want to encounter LaCroix tonight.
     "Drinking alone?" a sweet young voice interrupted his thoughts.  He turned to find Urs leaning on the bar beside him.
     "Care to join me?"
     "No, I'm waiting for Bourbon.  We're going to the Jays game tonight."  She broke off to wave at another friend, and Nick smiled a lukewarm welcome as Javier Vachon joined them and took a place at Nick's other side.  Vachon caught the bartender's eye, and Miklos brought him a drink.  He swigged it eagerly.
     Nick had just turned his attention back to Urs when an aggressive young vampire came and put an arm around the pretty blonde.  Urs removed the arm with an expression of disdain.  Nick raised an eyebrow, while Vachon motioned for another drink.
     The fledgling, seeing the company Urs was keeping, decided to have a little fun at Nick's expense.  After all, everyone knew Nick was strange; he wouldn't kill, wouldn't drink human blood.  He was a cop.  It was a mystery to everyone why LaCroix, of all people, tolerated him around.  Mardale didn't see why he should have to tolerate this pariah, why he shouldn't make a play for Urs himself.  Maybe if he ran off the freak he could get Urs to himself.
     "C'mon, baby," he began confidently, "let a real man show you what's what.  You don't need this pretty blonde bimbo," he said, nodding at Nick, "when I'm around."  He stroked Urs's shoulder suggestively with the back of his hand.
     Urs jerked free from his grasp.  "Get lost, Mardale."
     Mardale turned spiteful eyes to Urs's two companions.  "Hey, Vachon, adding another blonde to your harem?" he asked suggestively, leering at Nick.  "He's almost as pretty as this one.  Lots prettier than that skinny blonde mortal you've been seeing.  I'll take this one off your hands," he said with hearty insincerity, "while you work on that one."  He gestured dismissively toward Nick.
     Vachon was taken aback at Mardale's effrontery.  He opened his mouth to stop him, but somehow Nick silenced him with a glance.  Vachon shrugged; the insult was to Nick, not him, and Nick just never allowed himself to be goaded by such insignificant punks.
     Mardale again grabbed Urs's arm, and Vachon instinctively moved to take the man outside for a lesson in manners.  He stood up, his chair crashing violently to the floor behind him.  The two men faced off, Mardale still holding Urs by the arm.
     Nick quelled Vachon's hotheaded response with a raised eyebrow and a significant glance at LaCroix's broadcast booth, then reached out and gently but irresistibly removed Mardale's hand from Urs's arm.
      Mardale looked at him in surprise; he hadn't expected that kind of strength. "What's it to you, pretty boy?"
     Nick didn't visibly react to the insult, just stared Mardale in the eye and lowered his mental barriers a bit. Just enough to allow his vampiric aura, which he normally suppressed to almost nothing, to emerge and wrap itself, like an octopus, around the young punk.  Mardale, shocked at the feeling of age, of power, of <darkness> and menacing anticipation suddenly emanating from the sissy in front of him, closed his mouth and backed off.
     Nick clamped the barriers back into place as Mardale moved away, and smiled casually at Urs as if nothing had happened.  She and Vachon both looked at him a moment, then continued as if no one had ever interrupted.  They had both experienced this side of Nick before.
     Urs and Nick resumed their interrupted conversation quietly, discussing the Jays and their chances against the Red Sox tonight.  Clemens would be pitching against his old team tonight, and it should be an interesting matchup.  Vachon, not really a baseball fan, leaned back against the bar and watched the two converse amicably.  The noise level in the bar was high, and Nick and Urs leaned close together to be heard.
     <They were a lot alike,> mused Vachon; <both unhappy with what they were, both wanting something they couldn't have.  Physically they were alike, too; two curly blond heads, two sets of wide, innocent blue eyes, two flawless ivory complexions.  Male and female, yes, but a lot alike.>  He continued studying them until Bourbon appeared to escort Urs to the game, and Nick returned to quietly contemplating his own drink.  Vachon felt a stirring within him, and eyed Nick speculatively.  He was beginning to wonder where his own thoughts were taking him.  He was pulled from his reverie by the approach of a stranger.
     "Nicholas."  The stranger stated his recognition calmly, self-confidence in every line of his body.  He radiated age and strength.  His eyes assessed Nicholas boldly, almost proprietarily.  Vachon picked up his drink, ready to move away.
     "Andovar."  Nick looked absolutely indifferent, just acknowledging the other's presence.
     "I'm surprised to find you here," the stranger continued.  "I didn't feel you until just a moment ago."  He raised his eyebrows in question.  Nicholas responded only with a noncommittal grunt; the other must have felt him when he intimidated Mardale.  "You are here with LaCroix?"
     Nicholas lowered his glass from his lips.  He didn't wish to be rude to LaCroix's old friend, but neither did he wish to renew the "friendship" for himself.  He'd never liked the man.  "LaCroix's in the back, finishing his show."  He stated the obvious, then turned back to his drink and his companion.
     Andovar took his dismissal calmly;  he really hadn't expected a warm welcome from LaCroix's enchanting son.  Perhaps LaCroix would be more accommodating to his desires . . .   "I'll catch him later, then," he responded casually.  "<Au revoir,> Nicholas.  Nice to . . . see . . . you again."  He nodded regally to Nicholas and Vachon, then strolled off into the crowd.
     Nick poured himself another drink from the bottle and met Vachon's gaze directly.  Vachon watched the stranger move away, then looked curiously back at Knight.  "What did he want?"  The whole conversation had seemed mysteriously pointless to him, but he didn't doubt it was loaded with undertones.
     Knight swirled his drink around the glass, watching as if mesmerized by the fluid.  He seemed lost in thought, but suddenly raised his eyes to Vachon.  "The same thing you want," he replied in a low, throaty voice.  Vachon raised his eyebrows in question.  "Me." Nick's quirky smile slanted across his face as Vachon looked at him in surprise.  "The only difference," he continued, "is that <he's> not going to get me."
     Vachon felt a curl of need tighten within him.  <How had Knight known of his desire?  He'd barely begun to recognize it, himself.>  He looked into the other vampire's eyes, seeing the flecks of gold, the sensuality shimmering under the surface.  His own desire answered, and he felt his own eyes melting into gold as his erection stiffened in spite of himself.  He smiled uncertainly.  "He's not?"
     Knight just grinned at him.
     Vachon abandoned caution and grinned back.  "So.  Are you joining my harem of blondes, or am I joining your harem of brunettes?"  Uneasy at the thought of coupling with someone so much stronger than he, but more than willing, he covered his insecurity with a joke.
     Nick laughed out loud.  People often commented on Vachon's penchant for blondes, but few ever mentioned Nick's liking for brunettes.  Natalie and Janette -- both dark ladies.  Tracy and Urs -- both blondes.  And now, a blonde for Vachon, a brunette for Nick-- what could be better?  "No strings."
     "What about LaCroix?" asked Vachon nervously.
     "What about him?"
     Vachon looked at Nick closely.  "I've heard things, Knight, over the years.  Even before I came to Toronto, I heard things.  Whispers about what happens to people who get between you and him."
     "Don't worry about it," replied Nick seriously.  "He doesn't care about, er, casual sexual encounters."  <In fact,> Nick reflected to himself, <he'd probably be relieved.>  That disjointed broadcast he'd listened to on the way here showed Nick was oozing sexual frustration through their bond, and the older vampire was nearly as tense and distracted as Nick.
     Vachon stared at Nick a moment, then decided to trust him.  Nick didn't like to kill things; he also didn't like to get things killed.  Including, Vachon hoped, himself.  "My place," he waggled an eyebrow suggestively, "or yours?"
     "What's wrong with right here?" asked Nick, his voice low and seductive.
     Vachon felt his own eyes start to go gold with lust, but held back.  "Right under his nose?"
     "Safer here, actually.  He's always suspicious of secrets."  Nick paused.  "If he thinks I'm keeping a relationship with you secret, he'll think it's something to worry about."
     "He won't mind?"  Vachon asked for one final reassurance.
     Nick looked at him steadily.  "No."  He considered briefly.  "The worst that might happen is he might decide to join us."  That thought almost stopped him, but the lust had him in its grasp.
     Vachon considered the idea only briefly; the thought of LaCroix actually joining them was too remote, he decided, to worry about. "If you can stand it," he said lightly, "I guess I can."
     The two vampires retired to a back room without further words.  By the time they had threaded their way through the crowd, each had worked himself into a fine state of readiness.  Without speaking, Nick shut and locked the door, then began stripping.  His eyes were aflame and his fangs had dropped.  Vachon was in a similar state, and ripped his pants down over a hard erection. The two men met in a fangs bared embrace that might almost have been a battle.

     Back in the broadcast booth, LaCroix was fighting the bond with Nicholas. <He wished his son would get some relief, would just go fuck somebody.  Anybody.  He'd been suggesting it, obliquely, for weeks.  Nicholas's continuing tension was driving his master absolutely crazy.  If Nicholas didn't do something soon, the younger vampire would probably kill that little mortal, the medical examiner, before he even knew he was kissing her.  Either that, or LaCroix would kill Nicholas.>
   LaCroix tried once again to concentrate on his broadcast. He instead found himself concentrating on the link with Nicholas.  Something had changed, something was --  <aaaahhh.>  Nicholas was taking care of the problem, at last.  LaCroix leaned back in his chair, relaxing in relief.  He allowed the link to open a little; voyeurism could be such a pleasure.  And Nicholas wasn't exactly doing this quietly.
     <Well, well,> thought LaCroix, <he's doing it here at the Raven.  And it must be with one of our kind; a mortal would be dead by now.>  Another wave of passion washed over LaCroix.  Nicholas's need had been so great, his lust now was so heady, that LaCroix stopped resisting the answering lust within him.  He flipped the broadcast to music, and rose and left the broadcast booth.
       He followed the waves of lust to one of the back rooms.   The two inside were radiating so much energy he was surprised the mortals didn't feel it.  He stopped at the locked door, then turned the handle with enough strength to force it, breaking the lock.  <Owner's privilege,> he thought to himself with a smirk.  He stepped inside, where Nick and another writhed on the floor.
     Nicholas was on his knees and elbows, crouched over the body of a male vampire, performing fellatio on him with almost devout passion.  The other lay on his back, facing the opposite way, with Nicholas's shaft buried in his mouth up to the hilt.  The two vampires at first ignored LaCroix, but Nick raised his head just enough to snarl "Go away!" around the shaft in his mouth.
     LaCroix cocked an eyebrow.  <So impolite.  He'd just watch a while.>  The other two vampires got on with it;  far too much passion was flowing between them for something so trivial as an audience to interrupt it.  <Far too much need was flowing,> thought LaCroix, <for anything, short of a freight train, to interrupt it.>  He could feel the lust, the rapacious need, flowing around him like a river in spate.
     Vachon continued his explorations of Nick, oblivious.  He reached his hands up around Nick's back, pulling him closer, than ran his hands over the round cheeks of Nick's buttocks.  Nick groaned in response,  arching his back and holding himself off Vachon with one hand while he ran the other up the sensitive inner thigh.  Both forgot LaCroix's presence in the ecstasy of the moment. The vampires within were firmly in control.
     Vachon, vigorously massaging Nick's rear cheeks, pulled them apart and pushed them back together rhythmically.  Nick, groaning with delight, responded by pumping in time into Vachon's ready throat.  Vachon returned the favor.
     LaCroix, inundated by the power of the lust flooding him through the link with Nicholas, overwhelmed by the sight of Vachon's olive hands on Nicholas's beautiful ivory cheeks, by the glimpses of the secret entrance hidden within, suddenly threw caution to the winds.  Touching Nicholas's mind, he found only the vampire -- and the vampire wanted intercourse.  He stripped his pants off with vampiric speed and dropped to his knees behind Nicholas.  Looking down at his own rampant shaft, oozing pre-cum, he decided that would do for lubrication.  He grabbed Nicholas by the hips, holding him still while he plunged his length within. The force of his thrust lifted the smaller man off his knees, only LaCroix's hands keeping him from falling.
     Nicholas cried out at the sudden pain and shock of the unexpected entry, but LaCroix was not about to release him.  Vachon continued his ardent devotions to Nick's cock, and soon had him responding to the passion again.  LaCroix pounded himself in and out, almost viciously.
      Vachon, from his vantage point between Nick's legs, watched in awe.  Nick's thighs tensed and released with the effort of withstanding LaCroix's assault, the corded muscles knotting with every thrust, but he never paused in his attentions to his other lover.  Vachon accepted the sudden addition to their tryst as Nick had, and let the passion sweep him on.
     Nick's attentions, though frequently interrupted by the unavoidable movements of his body in response to LaCroix's forceful stroking, kept Vachon exhilarated.  The inevitable breaks were compensated for by the enjoyment of watching the action above him.  LaCroix plunged in deeply, withdrew smoothly, to plunge in again.  Nick's  muscles stood out, impressive, sensual.  The lurching of his body in response to the master vampire's forcefulness was intensely exciting.
     LaCroix, satisfied that he was in, released Nick's hips and let his weight fall onto Nick's back.  Suddenly, Vachon feared that Nick was about to be overwhelmed;  every slam into his rear was slamming him closer to the floor, closer to Vachon.  The view of LaCroix's cock sliding in and out of Nick, enticing as it was, was just getting too close.  Vachon was trapped underneath.  He eyed the femoral artery on Nick's thigh, bulging with the stress Nick's muscles were sustaining.  His fangs ached for it; but his heart quailed.  He pulled back from Nick involuntarily, moving to escape.
     "Stop, LaCroix," gasped Nicholas.  "Please, stop," he begged, but LaCroix, face hardening, ignored him.  "Wait, LaCroix."
     LaCroix, his expression martyred, paused a moment.  He might wait; he wouldn't stop altogether.  He'd been refused too long to accept rejection now.
     "You can stay there, LaCroix," Nicholas panted, looking back over his shoulder at LaCroix, "just wait a moment."  LaCroix stayed still, stony eyed, guarding against the possibility that Nicholas might think he could escape at this late point.  Nick got his breath back and continued, "We're going to crush Vachon.  Let him turn around."
     LaCroix raised his weight off Nick's back, and Nick managed to raise himself enough for Vachon to whisk himself out from under.  Vachon, himself hot and ready with the thrill of Nick's ministrations and LaCroix's stroking of Nick, decided he wanted what Nick was getting, and reversed himself underneath.  Nick, quickly grasping his desire,  spread his own pre-cum, with a little extra saliva, over his shaft, then entered gently.  LaCroix, who had, he felt, waited quite patiently for quite long enough, thrust violently into Nicholas once more, churning his hips in a 'get on with it, already' reminder.
     Nick, already thrusting his hips forward, couldn't counteract the sudden onslaught and found himself completely buried in Vachon.  Vachon and Nicholas grunted in unison, both absorbing the force of LaCroix's powerful motion.  LaCroix let his weight fall forward again, while Nicholas, using both arms and still crouching on his knees, tried to keep their combined weight off Vachon -- at least enough so the smaller man could breathe occasionally.
     LaCroix set up a powerful rhythm, in and out.  Nick tried to use that rhythm, pushing out from Vachon and meeting LaCroix, then into Vachon as LaCroix withdrew, but the strokes were too powerful.  He found himself pushing into Vachon as LaCroix slammed into him, withdrawing on the backstroke.  LaCroix, with the strength of almost two millennia behind him, was essentially fucking both younger vampires at once.  Nick surrendered himself to the thrust.
     The three vampires rode the waves of passion.  Nick had denied himself for too long, LaCroix had been denied Nicholas for too long, and Vachon was swept away with the power of the encounter.  The waves crested and began to break into the churning maelstrom of orgasm.  LaCroix bit savagely into Nicholas's neck.  Nicholas plunged aching fangs into Vachon.  LaCroix extended his wrist to Vachon, who seized it with both hands, pulling it toward him and twisting his own body to better reach.  He bit avidly and sucked down the splash of blood with a savage joy.
     Orgasm washed over them, sweeping away thought and control, leaving only mindless exhilaration.   The three sucked the blood down avidly.  All three had well and truly released the beast within themselves, and the vampire in each was content just to feed, lost in the passion.  LaCroix, tasting once again the particular blood he most lusted after, worked his fangs in deeper, releasing more of the blood, reveling in the flavor, the instant sunshine.  Nicholas's beast, in such need and for so long denied any blood except cow, grabbed fierce control of him and just fed, relishing the moment, the flavor, the power of the blood.
     Vachon was overwhelmed by the dark power of LaCroix's blood.  He felt himself drowning in the deep currents of that immense power -- the oldest vampire he had ever shared blood with.  Just as he began to fear he would be lost entirely, the blood changed.  Lightening, somehow; filled with effervescent bubbles of joy and light that he, in awe, soon diagnosed as Nicholas.  The blood of the two older vampires had not, as he had always experienced before, blended into a single flavor; the two, like oil and water, had mixed without losing their own distinctive individualities.  LaCroix's blood, with Nicholas's mixed in, was like a fine dark champagne.  <After this>, thought Vachon, <everything else will taste flat.  Like a beer without the fizz.  No wonder LaCroix won't give him up.>  His last coherent thought was to wonder what Nick tasted like straight, without the dark flood of LaCroix.
     The three vampires continued the blood exchange for a measureless time.  Vachon, surfacing again,  wondered at his insatiable appetite.  He had not felt such a hunger since the First Hunger, that beautiful mortal hunter, snagged as he returned home with the day's catch.  LaCroix, his own memories triggered by Vachon's, relived his own first kill -- a nubile servant girl, her terror of the ravening vampire overlaying her terror of the erupting Vesuvius.  The two shared their memories of the avid, unrelenting hunger that had driven them.  Nicholas, responding, shared the memory of his own first kill -- a beautiful woman provided by his master, mesmerized and delectable, with Janette and LaCroix in the background urging him on...  Overcoming his reluctance, and coaxing him to feed... the candles lit everywhere... the remembrance of her delicate flavor...
     Vachon, accepting, bathed in the beauty of the setting, the sensuality of the atmosphere of Nick's memory.  Only gradually did he see the strangeness of it...  Nicholas being coaxed...
     LaCroix suddenly overwhelmed Nick's sharing with a return to his own memories at Pompeii, with stirring images of the harrowing atmosphere of his own conversion, the hot ash falling all around him as the hot urges raced through his blood.  The memories swept the other two vampires along with him as they fed and fed.

     At last sated, the three vampires lay together, a tangle of arms and legs.  LaCroix lay on  his right side facing Nicholas, his right arm cradling the heads of both younger vampires.  Nicholas  lay half on his left side, half on his stomach; facing and half supported by LaCroix.  Vachon curled spoon fashion against Nick's back.  LaCroix, recovering first, took the opportunity to watch his favorite creation sleep.  Nicholas, for all his 800 years, still slept like a baby, his face soft and innocent, his sleep deep and still.  Vachon, with his scruffy beard and hair, looked like a fallen angel next to him.  LaCroix, regarding his Nicholas closely, reached over and brushed a damp curl off his forehead, surprised to see tension still in Nicholas's face.  He touched their link lightly, then pulled himself gently out from under the other two.
     Nick, hardly stirring in his sleep, relaxed onto his stomach.  Vachon never moved.  LaCroix reached over, gently running a large hand down the curve of his son's back, over the rise of his buttock.  He paused, then gently separated the round cheeks.  Nick woke, and moved restlessly.  "No, LaCroix," he moaned, "not again.  Not now."  LaCroix bit into his own wrist.  "Please, LaCroix," Nick begged, "not yet.  I can't -- "
     Vachon opened his eyes, drowsily.  Something in Nick's voice disturbed him; something that said Nick didn't expect to be listened to, expected LaCroix to have him again, ready or not.  He lifted his head, hardly knowing what he could do to protect his friend, and watched, suddenly alert.
     LaCroix let his blood drip down his hands and off his fingers, holding them still above Nick's rear end.  He had taken Nicholas hard, without adequate preparation, and had torn him.  After the centuries it had taken to get back into Nicholas, he couldn't let his playmate remember it with pain -- especially since he hadn't exactly been invited to the party.  He let the blood pool over the injury, filling it and healing as only one's master's blood could heal.  Nick let out a moan of relief as a pain he had hardly been aware of in the afterglow was suddenly relieved.  He relaxed into sleep once again.
     LaCroix allowed the blood to flow a moment longer before again checking the injury.  It was strange,  he reflected, that injuries inflicted in this way did not heal as quickly as others.  Perhaps it was the effect of the ejaculate, or the fact that the wound was kept forcibly open by the physical requirements of their passion.  It would have healed, certainly, but this blood would hasten it.
     He met Vachon's gaze, one eyebrow raised.  Vachon moved closer to Nick, holding the other man close in his arms, and closed his eyes.  LaCroix wasn't going to hurt Nick, and probably not him, either.  Might as well relax.
     LaCroix smiled to himself as he looked at the two younger vampires, already asleep again.  So, young Vachon had more character than one might think.  Not every casual sex partner would try to defend his lover against unbeatable odds.  If LaCroix had wanted  Nicholas, nothing Vachon could have done would have stopped him, but he had been ready to try.  LaCroix looked again at his Nicholas, sleeping soundly, and again brushed the hair from his forehead.  No more tension, this time; all stresses released in the cathartic round of sex and lust, all pains healed.
     LaCroix rose and dressed himself.  He had a club to run.  And, he suspected, Nicholas would be happier if he didn't have to face his master, face the fact that he had had lustful, uninhibited sex with his master, tonight.  He left.

Chapter 2

     The next night, Captain Reese called Nick and Tracy in on a homicide victim, discovered in the park.  Tracy responded immediately,  joining Natalie at the scene.  Tracy ducked under the police tape already in place, quickly orienting herself and getting an overview of the site.  She crossed over to where Natalie and the forensics team were gathered.  A blanket covered the victim.  As she reached out to flip the top back,  Natalie said "Tracy, wait --"
     "Bad one?"
     "No, it's just --"
     Tracy pulled back the blanket and gasped.  The victim was a blonde man, with blood soaking the hair at his temple.
     Natalie continued sympathetically.  "It's not Nick."  She had tried to spare the young detective what she knew would be a moment of  <déjà vue> -- she'd had one herself, and it had not been pleasant.
     Tracy swallowed, very glad of the instant reassurance, but unhappy Natalie'd known she'd need it.  "Thanks, Natalie.  I just saw him at the station, but still --" she shook her head, "does give you a turn, doesn't it?"
     "What does?"  Both women turned to see Nick standing over them, looking down at the body.  They didn't respond.  He raised his eyebrows, then just said, "Fill me in."
     "White male, mid thirties, just under six feet tall.  Beaten, sodomized; apparent cause of death a blow to the head."
     Nick turned his attention to the victim.  "Any ID?"
     Natalie silently shook her head no.  Nick didn't appear to see; he was lost in thought.  Natalie wondered if he'd even noticed the resemblance to himself, when she saw his eyes lose their focus...

======

     Nicholas sat by a fire in the cold of a winter night. He and LaCroix had just had another fight -- Nicholas wanted to be left alone; LaCroix insisted he still needed protection.  A third vampire, Andovar, had joined them the night before.  He was, indirectly, the cause of the argument.  Nicholas did not like him, and mistrusted the way the older vampire's eyes seemed to follow him around.  He'd experienced those looks before, as a mortal.  As a young, blonde, mortal boy, traveling with an army of men too long without women.
 
======

     Nick firmly pushed the flashback away.  It was only because he'd seen Andovar again, he thought; no relation to this case.  He came back to the present to find Tracy waving a hand in front of his face.
     "Nick? Nick? You in there?"
     Nick  buckled down to start the investigation.  He and Tracy spent several hours questioning the witnesses and assisting forensics in examining the scene.  It was immediately obvious that the murder had occurred elsewhere; the victim's clothes were missing and there were no signs of the blood that should have been spilled during the vicious beating he had been given.  No one had seen anything but the body; no one had heard anything unusual.  It was late; the day shift could better question the residents of  the nearby apartment buildings.
     The case continued during the daylight hours.   Missing Persons provided the ID --  a prosperous, respected lawyer, he seemed an unlikely candidate for this kind of crime.  He'd been working late at his office on a big case, but had phoned his wife just before leaving at 8 pm.  He'd never gotten home.  His car was found in the parking lot of his office building.  Tracy went to interview the wife early in the evening, before Nick could be out and about.   As soon as he clocked in, Nick went over to the coroner's office to see Natalie and check on the autopsy report.
     "No signs of any drug use.  No alcohol in his system," Natalie summarized.  "The body was clean; he was in one helluva fight, but it doesn't look like he did much damage to the other guy."
     Nick looked surprised.  "Nothing under the nails?"
     "Nope. This guy was reasonably fit, but he wasn't a fighter."
     "We sure the perp was a male?"
     "Well, he was definitely raped.  We're testing now.  There was definitely a male involved, though."

======

     Nick again found himself sitting defiantly by the campfire.  Andovar was talking persuasively to LaCroix.  "He says he doesn't need your protection, Lucien.  Perhaps a little object lesson is in order."
     LaCroix was definitely irritated, not least because Nicholas was defying him openly, in the presence of another vampire.  "Perhaps."
     "Remove your protection from him for one night.  A single night.  Perhaps he'll learn his lesson."  Andovar looked at Nicholas appraisingly.  "Perhaps I can make it worth your while in another way."  He removed a large ring from his thumb.  "Legend says this is the ring of Merlin, of the Misty Isles.  Possibly magical, though I don't dabble in those ideas."  Nicholas started to regret provoking LaCroix.
     LaCroix, intrigued,  took the ring.  He turned it over and over in his hands, attempting to read the runes scripted on it, then turned to look again at Nicholas.
     Nicholas, scared now, lashed out in anger.  "I'm not for sale."  He knew it was a mistake the moment he said it.

======

     "Nick.  Nick."  Natalie called him back.  He refocused his eyes on her report.  "Where were you?  Something to do with the case?"
     Nick sighed, and rubbed a hand across his face and through his hair.  "Hope not."
     Natalie took a good look at her only living -- or at least, not dead -- patient.  He composed his face, putting away the negative emotions of his flashback to smile at her.  "Welcome back.  How was the symposium?"
     Natalie looked at him searchingly.  "About as much fun as a coroner's conference ever is.  Still, I got a lead on a possibility for you."
     "Yea?"  Nick  looked up at that.
     "Yea."  She paused.  "Hey, Nick, something's changed in you.  You were so tense  when I left, frazzled."
     "I know.  The fever, the amnesia, the possession, Divia -- it was all just too much."
     "So what'd you do?"  Nick looked away.  "C'mon, Nick, you did something, I can tell."
     Nick didn't answer.
     "You didn't," Natalie continued in sudden fear.
     "Didn't what?"
     "Go back to human blood.  You didn't."
     Nick looked rattled, now.  "Of course not."
     "Thank God.  Anything but that.  C'mon Nick, I'm your doctor.  I need to know what you did to relieve all that stress."  She waited for an answer, but none was forthcoming.  Nick looked stubborn, remote.  "If you were human," Nat continued, "I'd just think you went out and had sex."
     Nick threw the clipboard down with a clatter and turned to leave, but Nat put a hand on his arm to restrain him.  "Nat, I can't --"  He broke off, and turned to face her.  "I'm sorry, Nat, I had to do something.  I couldn't think, couldn't work.  I was dangerous to be around.  So I, uh. . ."
     Natalie could tell he was embarrassed, that this was something very difficult for him to  discuss.  "It's okay, Nick, what did you do?"
     Nick paced around the room, looking everywhere but at her.  "I had sex," he muttered.
     Nat was hurt; <who was she?>  She bit the thought back.  "I thought vampires  couldn't have sex."  <Good; that sounded calm, clinical.>
     Nick still wouldn't look at her.  "Not with humans," he said, so quietly she almost couldn't hear.  "It's too dangerous.  For the human."  Natalie gave him a look of complete non-comprehension, and Nick forced himself to continue.  "And not satisfying.  For the vampire."  Natalie raised an eyebrow.  "For vampires, sex is the blood exchange."  He kept his eyes firmly on the floor.  "Everything else is just foreplay.  We have to --" he broke off.
     "Have to. . . ?" Natalie prompted, leadingly.
     "Bite."
     "Bite. That's why it's too dangerous to do with humans?"  Nick just nodded.  "So you went out and found a lady vampire, and bit, so to speak."
     "Not exactly."
     Nat could hardly hear him.  <Lord, this was like pulling teeth.>  "What, exactly."
     Nick ran his hands through his hair.  Nat could almost perceive a blush starting around his ears, but she knew he couldn't blush.  Nick turned and faced her, almost angrily.  "The vampire's gender doesn't matter; only the blood matters.  It's not like I have a whole lot of options."
     "Aren't there any -- "  Natalie started to ask, but Nick was out the door.  <Damn,> thought Natalie.  <Guess I pushed him a little too far.<  Still, that was more than she'd learned about vampire sexuality in the last six years.  <Wonder if all vampires are this skittish about discussing sex, or is it just Nick?>

     Nick walked around the block once to cool himself down before he walked back to his car.  He didn't want to hurt Natalie; he'd chosen Vachon partly because he thought it might make her less jealous, less hurt than if he found a female vampire.  By the time he'd gotten to his car, he had resolved to find a way to explain it to her.  If he could find the words.  And the courage.
     He started up the caddy and pulled out. LaCroix's dulcet tones caressed the airwaves, and Nick gave him his attention.
     "When we fight our natures, fight what we <are>, surely then we cause ourselves the most pain?  Give in to what you are; give in to who you are."  Nick looked at the radio in disgust.  "Pleasure lies in seeking others who share your desires.  Share your desires with me, because I <am> the Nightcra--"  Nick snapped the dial on the radio to off, and drove in silence to the precinct.  He wasn't ready to even think about LaCroix, about what he had shared with LaCroix, let alone have it broadcast to all of Toronto.
     Tracy had returned from her interview with the deceased's widow and looked up from her reports as he entered.  Nick gave her a tense smile, then passed her Natalie's autopsy report. She grinned easily at him, handing over her own stack of reports.  Nick sat down and began leafing through them irritably.
     Tracy looked at him.  "Jeez, Nick, calm down.  What's the problem?"
     "No problem,"  Nick said curtly.
     Tracy shook her head with a more in sorrow than in anger expression that would have done credit to LaCroix.  "Nick, I thought you were through with this."  Nick looked  up in question.  "You're so tense, so moody.  You need to go get laid again."
     "Huh?"
     "Well, isn't that what you did last Wednesday?  I mean, you were driving us all crazy, and all of a sudden you're Mr. Mellow.  Now you're all tense again --"
     "Why," began Nick in a low, threatening voice, "can't anyone think about anything but my sex life?"  He closed his mouth tightly and stared at Tracy menacingly.
     <Oops,> thought Tracy to herself.  She'd spoken as she would have to one of her college buddies.  She'd forgotten Nick wouldn't take it quite the same way.   "Sorry."   <Wow>, she thought.  <That look's as threatening as Vachon's best vampire stare -- and Nick doesn't even do the gold eye fang face bit.  I forgot how private a person he is.>  She watched in awe as Nick slammed down the reports and rose from his chair.  <Talk about tense.>
     Nick stalked from the room, desperately quelling the vampire within him.  <Had he really been so obvious?>  Ever since the demon had possessed him, he'd been struggling with the renewed strength of his vampiric urges.  The hunger, the lust, the anger; all rising in overpowering waves to drown his nascent humanity.  He clamped his jaws shut, forcing his fangs back up out of sight, keeping the gold from his eyes.  He would control it.  He could control it.  This, too, would pass.
     Once Nick had himself in hand again, he walked up to Missing Persons for the rest of their information.  He brought the file back down to his desk and sat down across from Tracy.  "Finished with that autopsy report, yet?" he asked, as if nothing had ever happened.
     Tracy looked at him.  "Sure," she responded, following his lead.  "Here it is."
     Somehow, Nick made it through the end of the shift.  He didn't snap at anybody, he made a determined and fairly subtle effort to be pleasant to everybody.  By the time he could leave, he was exhausted.  He left with relief.

     By the end of her shift Natalie had done some thinking of her own.  She wanted to talk to Nick; she might have gotten more out of him than ever before, but she needed to know more.  The morgue was definitely not the place for this conversation -- someone might overhear, but even more important, it was too easy for Nick to escape.  She would have to beard the lion in his den.  She'd have to visit Nick at his loft.
     Natalie left work almost an hour late, as the sun was rising.  She wanted to give Nick a chance to feed, to relax after what she was sure had been a trying shift, but she wanted to catch him before he went to sleep.  She drove over with some trepidation, having second thoughts, third thoughts, all the way.  <Maybe this wasn't such a great idea.   Maybe she shouldn't try to talk to him when he was, well, trapped by the daylight.>
     By the time she arrived, Nat had realized that trapping him, forcing him, was not what she wanted.  She still wanted the chance to talk to him, but if he didn't want to see her, talk to her, that would be his choice.  She left her car, walked to the door, and rang the buzzer. Nick could choose to let her in, or pretend to be asleep.
     Inside, Nick was contemplating a glass of cow's blood with resignation.  He heard the buzzer, rose, and saw Natalie through the camera.  He froze a moment.  He didn't want to talk to her, didn't want to continue their conversation.  He just wanted to be left alone, alone to --  <To what?> he asked himself sardonically.  <To be lonely?>  He owed her an explanation, and the fact that it would be hard, next to impossible, for him to talk was beside the point.  She was his friend, his doctor, and maybe something more.  He wanted to be truthful with her.  He opened the door.
     Natalie took the elevator up, opened the heavy door, and walked in.  Nick stood beside the window at the far side of the room with his back against the wall, the first rays of the rising sun coming in past him.  He looked at her expressionlessly for a moment, then crossed the room to welcome her.  "Soda?" he asked, unsmilingly.
     "Please," Nat responded, and watched as he went to the refrigerator and removed one of the cans he kept for her.  He put ice in a glass, poured in the drink, and brought it out to her.  Taking it, she sat on the sofa.  He picked up his own glass and retreated to the armchair rather than sit beside her.
     "Nick," Natalie began, uncertain how to proceed.  "I know you don't want to talk about this, and I want you to know you don't have to."  She paused.  "I don't want you to feel trapped here --"
     "I am trapped."
     "Yes, but only by the sun, not by me."  He raised a questioning eyebrow.  "You tell me to leave, I'll leave.  I'm not trying to force you."
     Nick picked up the remote, and the blinds on the window began to close, shutting out the reminder of his entrapment.  The room darkened, and Nick reached out and turned on the lamp beside him.  He didn't need it; the light was for Natalie.  "What do you want to know?"
     Natalie took a deep breath.  "I want to know about vampire sex."  She got it out quickly, before she could reconsider.  "All of it."
     Nick picked up his drink, considering, playing for time.  He took a long swallow, and Natalie thought he wasn't going to answer her. She was almost surprised when he began to talk, in a low voice she could hardly hear.
     "I've told you, over and over, that I'm not human, that we -- vampires -- are not human," he began.  "Sex is one of the least human parts about us."  He took another long drink, giving himself another long moment.  Natalie waited.  "It's not really about sex; it's about blood.  What you think of as sex is just foreplay.  Just an enjoyable path to get to the feeding embrace."  He still hadn't looked at her, watching the blood in his glass as if mesmerized.  "We bite each other, drink from each other.  It's the ultimate sharing.  We can know each other's thoughts, lives, feelings, selves.  We drink until we feel the other in our veins, more strongly than our selves; until we taste ourselves coming back through the blood of the other."  His voice had roughened in the telling; she suspected even thinking about it was exciting to him.  "We experience each other's orgasms, along with our own, through the blood."
     "That's why gender doesn't matter."
     "Right.  Sexually, I've always liked women, but for the feeding embrace, blood is blood.  A male is as exciting, as fulfilling, as a female."
     "So you picked a male."
     "Yes."  He rose, and began pacing.  "It seemed less disloyal to you."  He paused, facing the closed windows, and ran his hand through his hair.  "You have to understand, Natalie.  Since that demon took me -- " he paused.  "I know you don't really believe, but it reawakened all my vampiric urges.  The hunger -- it's all I can do to stay away from human blood.  I've been guzzling cow."  He continued speaking to the window, that symbol of his entrapment..  "The anger.  Everyone at work has commented on how irritable, distractible I've been lately."  Natalie almost smiled, but stopped herself when she realized how hard that was on Nick.  How much he must hate people talking about him, to him, about what he saw as a basic inhumanity, a damning sign of the vampire within him.  "And the lust,"  he ground out in a throaty whisper.  He didn't explain further, but after a long moment he turned and looked at Natalie.  "All our appetites are inhuman.   Inhumanly strong, irresistible.  I couldn't stop all of them."  He turned away again.  "It was either drink blood, kill someone, or have sex.  It was tearing me apart."
     Natalie sat where she was, thinking, She wanted to go to him, comfort him, but something held her back.  She had always felt he was wrong when he said he wasn't human anymore; but this, this was inhuman.  She remembered when she had injected his blood into a brain damaged boy.  It had temporarily helped the brain, but it had also released a level of anger and aggression that had not been there before.  She had not considered, then, how that side effect must affect Nick.  If the smallest drop of vampire blood made a human violently aggressive, what did a whole body of that same blood do?  When Nick said he couldn't control it, that it was tearing him apart, she'd have to accept that it was.   He wasn't a weakling who just couldn't control normal appetites; he was a strong man driven almost to the point of insanity by the vampirism in his blood.
     "Nick," she began, rising at last and standing beside him.  "You know I don't really understand, can't really understand the appetites that drive you.  But I believe you."  She reached out and turned him to face her, meeting his questioning gaze squarely.  "If you say it was tearing you apart, that you had to do something, I accept that it was."  She took a deep breath.  "You do what you have to, to control it.  If that means sex with a vampire -- even a female vampire -- then you do that.  I mean it."

Chapter 3

     The next Wednesday night, Vachon sat at the bar in the Raven, drinking his usual and idly surveying the crowd.  He knew Nick was usually in on Wednesdays, because Tracy wouldn't be, and hoped he would be in tonight.  <That had been something, last week.  Hell, he had never imagined -- all right, he had imagined -- he had never expected to get someone as old and powerful as Nick into bed.  And he had never even dared to imagine getting LaCroix!>  His insides clenched at the memory.  He was scared  that it would happen again, and terrified that it wouldn't.  He checked his watch again.  <Nick never came in until late,> he reminded himself.  <Relax.  Calm yourself.  You can't really make the advances anyway.  Nick has to do that.>
     Vachon forced his mind off his sex life and concentrated desperately on the scene around him.  As noisy and crowded as ever, it seemed somehow empty without either Nick or LaCroix present.  Vachon moaned.  <Think of something else.>  He focused his attention behind the bar, where Miklos was breaking in a new barman.
     "These are the special wines, William,"  the older vampire was saying..  "You have to always remember who gets which."  Vachon looked at the younger vampire, William.  He was still in his first century, Vachon recalled; he'd been a bartender as a mortal.  Miklos had probably taken him on when his bar tab got too high.  Vachon sipped his drink, wishing his own finances would stretch to the better vintages.  "LaCroix's private stock is here; that only goes to his 'special guests'.  You will learn who they are."  Vachon listened idly to the continuing flow of indoctrination:  the various prices, who was to be given which brands, the special vintages.  His ears perked up when he heard Nick's name.  "LaCroix's 'special guests' are never asked to pay.  You know Janette, of course, and Nicholas, but Nicholas gets this bottle over here."  William made a disparaging comment, but Miklos continued unperturbed.  "And only Nicholas.  The Raven does not generally serve carouches."  William looked rebellious, and Vachon recalled that he ran with Mardale's crowd, one of those who liked to harass Nick.  "He is not a carouche.  He is LaCroix's son, LaCroix's 'special guest,' and that is all you need to know."
     Vachon tuned out again.  No one understood what was between Knight and LaCroix, probably not even the two involved.  The best thing to do was to stay as far away from "between" Nick and the old master as possible.  He sighed.  If only it weren't such a fantastically, deliciously erotic place to be.
     He let his thoughts flow aimlessly.  <LaCroix -- now there was a surprise.>  He'd accepted Vachon's presence in Nick's life without even a raised eyebrow.  Vachon's visits to the Raven had continued as before; the powerful ancient had not changed in his demeanor towards the younger at all.  Vachon wondered what it was he found so attractive in the elder.  Certainly the man was not his usual type, even if he was blonde. . .  His power and personal charisma seemed to be what pulled one to him, not so much his physical appearance.  Still, Vachon didn't delude himself that the feeling was mutual. LaCroix wanted Vachon only as an adjunct to his fulfillment with Nick.
     <Nick, now...  Nick,> Vachon mused, <was as much an enigma as ever.  A beautiful, desirable enigma, but an unfathomed mystery none the less.>  Vachon sipped his drink, slowly.  <William had one thing right, though.  Nick was different.>  Whatever it was that made the man what he was, it was more than a passing affectation.  Nick didn't just play at having a conscience, and evidently his quiet but well-known refusal to drink human blood was more deeply seated than a shallow desire to irritate his master, or please his mortal love.
      Vachon tried to recapture that fleeting memory of Nick's first kill, before LaCroix had overwhelmed it.  Try as he would, he could find no resemblance between what Nick had seemed to feel and the burning first hunger every other vampire he'd ever known had felt.  He sighed.  The burning hunger <this> particular vampire still felt for <that> particular vampire.  He lifted his glass and drained the remainder.
     Nick slid quietly into the empty seat beside Vachon, smiling a silent greeting.  Vachon smiled back, almost in spite of himself.  Miklos came up, unhurried but immediately, and poured a glass for Nick.  Nick pointed to Vachon's glass and Miklos refilled it from a second bottle, leaving both bottles on the bar.  Nick tasted his, his face impassive.  The excellent wine in the mixture diminished the unsatisfactory flavor of the bovine blood, but it was still noxious;  his own compromise between his nature and his conscience.  Vachon raised his glass to his lips and savored it slowly.  He hadn't expected it to be cow, but he also hadn't expected it to be LaCroix's best stock.  The private stock, unless Vachon missed his guess.  Clearly, there were advantages to being a guest of a 'special guest.'  He whistled softly.
     "Good stuff?"  Nick asked quietly.
     Vachon sipped again, reverently.  "Almost alive."
     Nick nodded, resigned to his own choice.  The human blood would taste wonderful, but would he respect himself in the morning?  Self respect was much more important than a fleeting taste that would fade and die in a few hours.
     Vachon intercepted an envious glare from William, the new barkeeper.  He could almost read his thoughts on his face.  <'That wuss, Nick, spurns the best stock for that cow swill, when I'll never even get to taste it . . .' > The idiot had better learn his place in the Raven, or he wouldn't last long.  William turned away, and Vachon pushed him out of his mind.
     "So, Nick, why do you come here, anyway?" Vachon asked tentatively.  "I mean, you don't even drink the stuff.  You don't like the company, you just sit here, usually alone, and drink one glass, then leave."
     Nick raised an eyebrow.  He had been unaware that anyone was interested in his movements.  He shrugged in resignation.  "LaCroix."
     "Huh?"
     "LaCroix likes to see me.  If I don't visit here, he visits me, at my place."  Nick leaned closer to Vachon, to add in a conspiratorial tone of voice, "It's a lot easier to leave here than it is to kick him out before he's ready, believe me."  He sat up straight  again, regarding his beverage morosely.  "Plus, I can time it when I know he's busy, so I don't actually have to talk to him."
     Vachon was taken aback.  Everyone wondered why LaCroix tolerated Nick's presence; the actual truth was that he <desired> Nick's presence.  <Nick> was the one who was tolerating <LaCroix's> presence.
 

     He felt Nick tense beside him, and looked up to follow the direction of his gaze across the bar.  Andovar, the powerful old vampire he had seen last week, raised his glass in a mocking salute to Nick.  Vachon looked back at Nick.  Only the tension in that lounging body revealed his reaction to that salute; he looked icy, remote, indifferent.  After a long second, Nick inclined his head in regal acknowledgment.  It was a response worthy of and similar to LaCroix's own haughtiness.  Only one seated as close to Nick, as attuned to Nick as Vachon now was, would sense the stress.
     Nick returned his attention to his companion, dismissing Andovar from his presence as obviously as a king dismisses an unwanted servant.  Vachon, watching Andovar curiously, saw him wave to someone else across the room, and saw LaCroix approaching.
     LaCroix, entering the bar to greet his son, was irritated to be diverted by even so old a friend as Andovar, but did not reveal it by so much as a hair twitch.  He strolled over and sat down, welcoming him.  Vachon noticed that while Nick might seem oblivious to the by-play, he was still tense, waiting.  He turned his attention back to the other two men.  LaCroix appeared to listen politely to a proposition from Andovar.  The old Roman glanced their way, briefly, before returning a firm head shake to Andovar.  Andovar began speaking again, gesturing with his hands, animated.
     Vachon wished he could hear them.  He had a feeling that Nick knew what the conversation was about, and that he didn't like it.  Only when LaCroix left Andovar, with a final, firm shake of the head, did Nick relax.  Vachon remembered asking Nick, last week, what Andovar wanted; he remembered, uneasily, the answer.  He didn't like what he was thinking.
     LaCroix made his way over to his son and Vachon, and slid fluidly into a seat beside Nick.  Nicholas looked at him in greeting, but did not smile.  LaCroix shook his  head in resignation.  "I said no, Nicholas.  I didn't, and I won't."  Vachon wondered what the hell they were talking about, but Nicholas just smiled faintly, and LaCroix continued.  "What difference --"  He broke off as Nick glanced quickly at Vachon, then seemed to acquiesce to Nick's desire to keep Vachon out of it.
     The three men sat together quietly for a bit, sipping their drinks, seemingly relaxed.  Nick could feel the delicious tension rising within him, prompted by the ever-present knowledge of  their encounter last week, spurred on by the possibility of an encounter this week.  Tonight.  He had thought about it, off and on, all week; not even Natalie had distracted him from it.  He could sense the growing tension in the other two men, by their postures, by their scents, and knew they could sense his arousal as well.  Still, he gathered, he was going to have to be the one to get things started.  Vachon would never dare suggest such an encounter to LaCroix; he was brash, but not stupid.  <LaCroix . . .  Well, you never knew with LaCroix.>  But this time, it seemed, he wanted a willing partner; this time, he would leave it up to Nicholas.
     For some reason, it amused Nick that the two of them were going to go on sitting there, not acting on their impulses, for as long as Nick stayed and didn't invite them.  He glanced at LaCroix, and knew from his expression and the link between them that LaCroix knew more or less what he was thinking, and was choosing to also be amused.
     "So," Nick began, and chuckled to himself when his companions gave him their attention with flattering alacrity.  He decided to change his tactics in mid sentence.  They both deserved to be teased a bit.  "Has the news gotten out yet?"
     Disappointed, Vachon raised his glass and began to drink again.  LaCroix raised that mobile eyebrow and quirked a smile.  "What news?"
     Nicholas shamelessly assumed his most innocent expression.  "The news that Vachon has  added not one, but two new blondes to his harem?"
     Vachon had just taken a large mouthful of bloodwine. Nick's words and expression so shocked him that he sprayed it out through his mouth and nose all over himself.  <He'd added two?  Nick and, and, and LaCroix?  to his harem? He'd never even realized LaCroix was another blonde, not that way.  He meant, he knew he was blonde, but he was so, so LaCroix, no one would ever --> Vachon sputtered, gasping for  breath.  <If anyone did know about their encounter, they'd know who had added whom to whose harem, and no one would think it was Vachon's harem.>
     LaCroix laughed outright, and Vachon was more than relieved; he felt like he could breathe again, like he might possibly live to see another night.  The old vampire signaled Miklos to bring a towel over.  Nick watched, eyes twinkling with humor, as Vachon cleaned off the front of his shirt, then mopped the bar with some embarrassment.
     Vachon had to smile.  He should have guessed, he supposed, that Nick had a  sense of humor.  He was frequently morose and detached, but there had been hints before.  But LaCroix?  His "humor" consisted of viciously cutting quips and mordant sarcasm.  Playful banter -- with Nick, of all people -- was just too unexpected.
     "What's the matter, Vachon,"  Nick asked, still with that innocent expression, "don't you <want> us in your harem?"
     Vachon looked at him, speechless, mouth hanging open.
     "LaCroix,"  Nick continued, "he doesn't want us."
     "Apparently not,"  LaCroix bantered back.  "I feel so hurt."  Actually, he was quite thrilled.  Nicholas seemed to accept that there was an 'us', a sexual 'us' that included his master and long time adversary.
     Vachon couldn't believe it, the two most powerful, feared vampires in Toronto were <playing>. Two pairs of blue eyes, one ice, one slate, twinkled at him.  Vachon closed his mouth, grasping for a response, any response, but then the whole conversation  just hit him.  "That <would> be putting the wolves in with the lambs, wouldn't it?" he began.  "I don't know how it was done in <your> century, but in <my> century, you never put the wolves in the barn with the lambs.  At least, not if you wanted to keep the lambs."
     "These modern ways," sighed LaCroix.  "I wouldn't hurt the lambs."
     Nick looked stricken.  "I might," he admitted.  "Good thinking, Vachon."
     Vachon laughed, and even LaCroix smiled.  Not even a reference to Nick's atrocious choice of nourishment was going to upset him.  He was enjoying this.
     Nicholas looked at the two smiling, relaxed faces and decided it was time.  "LaCroix," he said with a sparkling, mischievous look, "do you have any lambs in <your> barn?"
     LaCroix came to attention with amused interest.  "Not yet," he mused.  "I prefer wolves.  Why do you ask?"
     Nick turned back to Vachon.  "If we put the wolves in <his> barn, they can all play and no lambs'll get hurt.  Wanna play?"
     Vachon nodded, dumb with continuing surprise.  "Maybe I could clean up, first," he said, indicating his blood stained shirt.
     Nick nodded, and suggested that Vachon use the bathroom in LaCroix's barn --er, apartment -- and that the two other wolves would join him shortly.  LaCroix nodded, and the two older wolves watched him walk out before continuing.
     "Smoothly done, Nicholas.  I see you still know how to be discreet."  Nicholas  just nodded; it would be far too obvious if they all went to LaCroix's private quarters <en masse.>  "I'm pleased to see you in such good spirits, <mon petit.>  I had rather feared you might have regrets about last week."
     "Some, I won't deny, LaCroix," returned Nicholas.  "It was good, but intense.  I want to have <fun> tonight," he said wistfully.  LaCroix nodded.  He had not forgotten how much fun Nicholas could be.  Nicholas looked across the room and noted Andovar had returned.  An expression of distaste crossed his face.  "Well, the first lamb is in the barn; shall I be the second?"
     LaCroix turned to see what had disturbed his son, and saw Andovar crossing the room towards them.  "By all means, Nicholas," he began.  "I'll join you as soon as I dismiss this little problem."  He looked his protégé in the eyes.  "No one is going to spoil this evening for us, for me.  I'll get rid of him."
     Nicholas looked at him a moment, gauging his mood, then decided to trust him  and just have fun.  "Baaaa," he bleated, and followed Vachon's path out of the room.
 

     Vachon had taken advantage of LaCroix's bathroom and showered.  He emerged,  wearing only his pants and toweling his hair dry, just as Nick entered.  Nick, worried about what LaCroix and Andovar were doing, welcomed the distraction and refocused his attention onto the physical.  He let his eyes trace the smooth curve of Vachon's chest, lingering on the dark curly hairs, before following their pattern down where it disappeared into his pants.  He felt the desire return.
     Vachon, peering out from under the towel and his own damp hair, welcomed him.  "Bit overdressed, aren't you, Knight?" he asked.
     Nick laughed.  "Don't rush me," he returned, as he crossed to the fireplace and lit the gas flame.  Instant atmosphere, he thought, then handed a lighter from the mantelpiece to Vachon, telling him to light the candles.  He was overdressed, he mused, and began unbuttoning his jacket.  He had come straight from work tonight, a short shift to put some paperwork to bed for the crown.  He unfastened his shoulder  holster and folded it neatly around the gun, laying it down on his neatly folded jacket.  He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled the shirttails out of his pants, then removed his shoes and socks.  He stretched sensuously, wearing only pants and the loose shirt.
     Vachon finished lighting the candles and turned to face him.  He let his eyes have their turn tracing the path from Nick's chest to pants.  The open shirt obscured the fine golden hair on his chest, but revealed the shadowed hollow of his stomach.  Vachon moved over to the older man, and reached out a hand to caress his stomach and flanks, hidden under the shirt.
     LaCroix entered at that moment, somewhat irritated by Andovar's persistence, but instantly distracted by the sight before him.  "You started without me?" he asked, put upon.
     "Just clearing the decks a bit, LaCroix," answered Vachon, when it became obvious Nick wasn't going to.  "I've never known anyone as, uh. . . , buttoned up as our Detective Knight, here, in his cop clothes."
     "Unbuttoning Nicholas, my dear Vachon," LaCroix grinned salaciously, "is not a matter to be taken lightly."  He moved over to the two other men, and placed one hand on each of them.  "I've always enjoyed opening presents.  Opening Nicholas is even more fun."  He looked directly into Nicholas's eyes.  "One of my favorite pastimes, in fact."
     Vachon grinned, and stepped into LaCroix's caress.  He began unfastening LaCroix's shirt.  Nick stood tense, accepting the touch but nothing more.  LaCroix looked at him; clearly the encounter with Andovar had given Nicholas time to remember his misgivings.  Last week, he had been in the throes of passion, unable to stop and think about the ramifications of having sex with his master. This week, LaCroix could tell, he was having doubts.  LaCroix stopped himself from uttering a nasty remark about cold feet and faint hearts, and instead set about assuaging those doubts.
     As Vachon finished unfastening LaCroix's shirt, LaCroix suggested he go into the bedroom and grab some pillows.  "Oh yes, and in the bathroom there is some oil.  Get that as well."  Vachon looked from Nick to LaCroix and back, realizing the two had some unfinished business.  He nodded, and left the room, in no hurry.  LaCroix continued gently, "What is it that bothers you, <mon fils?>"
     Nick, reassured by LaCroix's reaction, finally reached out and touched the older man.  "I don't know, maybe Andovar, maybe --" He broke off, and turned away.  "I just want sex, LaCroix, nothing more.  I picked Vachon because he wouldn't want more, because it would just be casual, with no strings attached."  He turned back to LaCroix.  "I'm not trying to come back to you."
     LaCroix nodded, and raised his hand to trace the line of Nick's jaw from ear to throat.  Andovar had reminded Nicholas of a time when LaCroix had considered him a possession, to be used as LaCroix wanted.  His timing had indeed been unfortunate.  "Even so, my dear."  He sighed.  "I understand, Nicholas, and I accept that."
     Nick reached out and placed his hand on LaCroix's waist.  He smiled.  "So what did he offer you this time?"
     "Truly, a magnificent price, but I told him you were not for sale."
     "Not yours to sell."  Nick stated it firmly, as if he believed it.
     LaCroix snorted.  "No," he concurred, reluctantly.  "But why would you mind so much, Nicholas?  You could easily fight him off, now.  You never did consider yourself 'bought,' anyway, you always fought."
     Vachon reentered the room as Nick replied.  "Yes," murmured Nick, putting both hands on LaCroix's waist.  "I never felt bought," he said, "but I always felt sold."
     Vachon got that sick feeling again; he was sure he didn't want to know.  LaCroix raised his hands and cupped Nick's face, tenderly, raising his chin until their eyes met.  Vachon  couldn't tell what communication was exchanged between them, but evidently some was.  Nick turned to Vachon and smiled, then opened the embrace and pulled him into the circle.
      Just as the three were about to move to the fur rug before the blazing fireplace, LaCroix's phone rang.  "Damn!" LaCroix swore.  Any more interruptions to quell Nicholas's ardor, and there might be nothing to interrupt.  He answered abruptly, fuming, then gestured to the other two to continue while he quickly handled the call.
     Vachon pulled Nick over to the fireplace, and down onto the rug.  Unable to wait any longer, he began running his fingers under Nick's shirt.  Nick, distracted once again by the phone call, soon responded in kind, running his fingers over Vachon's sensitive sides.  An impish thought overtook him, and he began to tickle the younger man.  Vachon, in the throes of delight, clapped his hands over his mouth so as not to disturb LaCroix, then, once he had his laughter under control, attacked Nicholas as well.  The two wrestled, tickling and laughing as quietly as possible.
     LaCroix hung the phone up with a crash, then removed the receiver from the base so no more calls could come in.  With his legendary foresight, he crossed to the neat pile  of Nicholas's clothing and removed his son's cell phone, turning it off before dropping it again on the pile.  At last he turned to the other two men, who had stopped tickling to watch his actions.
     They made quite a picture, thought LaCroix, enjoying the golden glow of the firelight reflecting off Nicholas's ivory skin and golden curls.  Vachon was an interesting contrast; the light caressing his olive complexion and finding highlights in his brown hair.  His eyes, as Nick's, had a light all their own.  LaCroix walked across the room and stood, towering over the other two.
     Nick reached a hand up and hauled LaCroix unceremoniously to the floor.  LaCroix offered no resistance; he wanted to be there.  He reached out and surprised Vachon with a tickle in an especially vulnerable spot, then turned and began tickling Nicholas.  Vachon, still in awe of the old master, joined him in tickling Nick rather than attacking LaCroix.  LaCroix, remembering times in the past when he had tickled his sensitive son until it was torture, kept his touches light and sensual so that Nick was laughing, but not overwhelmed.
     "No, Vachon," laughed Nick.  "Not me.  Get him!"  Suiting actions to words, he went after LaCroix.  Vachon valiantly attacked LaCroix's flanks, but the old vampire had himself well in hand and didn't laugh.  "Hold him, Vachon," continued Nick, as he draped himself over LaCroix's lower legs and began pulling his shoes and socks off.  LaCroix struggled to escape, but Vachon held him tightly by the wrists.   Somehow, Vachon couldn't quite figure out how, LaCroix managed to get the younger vampire's pants off without ever escaping from his grasp.
     "Keep trying, Vachon," gasped Nick.  "He is ticklish.  He's just controlling it."  Vachon twitched in surprise as LaCroix again began tickling him, his own face still as stern as a marble statue.  Suddenly, Nick was tickling the bottoms of the old vampire's bare feet, and LaCroix could hold back no longer, letting a faint giggle escape.  It was like the first water over a dam, cracking the concrete and allowing the flood to escape.  Suddenly, Vachon found the old vampire responding with laughter to his every teasing touch, and trying desperately to heave Nick off his legs, away from his sensitive feet. The three kept tickling each other, all laughing happily.
     .  LaCroix escaped from Vachon's grasp by wriggling out of his own shirt.  He was free long enough to grab Nicholas, still draped over his legs, and remove his pants deftly.  Nick struggled out of his grasp, and quickly pulled LaCroix's pants down, leaving them snarled around his ankles while Nick again attacked LaCroix's feet.  Vachon, seeing Nick was the only one with clothing beyond undershorts still on, turned and traitorously grabbed him, holding him still while LaCroix removed the shirt.
     LaCroix, finding Nick trapped, deftly removed his shorts as well, then buried the rampant shaft thus exposed in his own mouth.  Nick, finding himself being rapturously sucked, turned on the traitor, Vachon, and whipped his shorts off as well.  He began running his tongue up the sensitive underside of the younger man's cock. Vachon let himself relax to the floor, where he quickly found and removed LaCroix's shorts and began playing, quite skillfully, with the old master.
     The three vampires relaxed into an uneven circle on the fur rug, suckling and licking in turn.  Only the soft sounds of tongues and lips sliding over silken flesh disturbed the new silence; broken, occasionally, by a soft moan or whimper of delight.  The three continued for some time, none in a hurry, until Nick began to think of wanting more.  Without breaking the circle, he reached out and grabbed the oil Vachon had brought back.  He poured it over his fingers carefully, reveling in the slick feel of it, the warmth it had drawn from the fireplace.  He carefully began inserting a finger into Vachon's rear, then passed the small bottle to LaCroix.
     LaCroix, nudged by the bottle in Nick's hand, looked up, surprised.  He couldn't believe what Nicholas was apparently suggesting, but Nick, figuring he was going to be taken no matter what, had decided he wanted to be prepared this time.  Last week had been intensely pleasurable, but also painful.
     Vachon opened his legs wider to allow Nicholas easier access, and Nick, never interrupting the actions of his mouth and tongue, ran his fingers in and out of the slick, oiled opening.  He skillfully stretched the muscle, applying just enough pressure to stimulate and relax, never enough to hurt.  Every now and again he pushed deeper, stimulating the sensitive gland inside.
     LaCroix, mirroring Nick's actions, spread the oil between Nick's cheeks, stretching and stimulating him.  He released Nicholas from his mouth, and brought his hand, well oiled, around to his son's cock, oiling that as well.  The feel of skin sliding against skin, slick with the warm oil, overwhelmed Nick, and he suddenly broke the circle.
     He grabbed the pillow Vachon had brought earlier,  and turned the younger man onto his back, his hips on the pillow.  Vachon raised his legs eagerly, and Nick entered smoothly, his well-oiled cock sliding home without a pause.  Vachon moaned with pleasure, and put his arms around Nick, pulling him down for a passionate kiss.
     LaCroix, having released Vachon to Nick's ministrations, took up the bottle of oil and applied it to his own cock, then positioned himself behind Nick.  He paused a moment, admiring the play of the muscles in Nick's buttocks and thighs as Nick stroked in and out of Vachon, then gently seized the round cheeks.  Nick paused and allowed LaCroix to separate him, then plunge deeply, slickly, inside.  LaCroix, with almost incredulous delight, watched as his penis plunged deep within Nick's cheeks, deeply into his body.  He released his hold on Nick's rear, and fell forward, supporting himself with his arms on Nick's back.
     Nicholas drove himself into Vachon's willing body, while LaCroix slammed into him on the backstroke.  Vachon clung to Nick's body, his arms encircling his back, feverishly trying to get closer, to get him in deeper, to prevent him from withdrawing totally.  Nick had no intention of withdrawing; he held himself up with one hand and pushed his other hand between the two vampires to caress Vachon's straining erection.  He  began another backstroke so he could again push forward into Vachon.  LaCroix used Nick's own motion to push himself further in, holding his weight off Vachon by leaning his hands against Nick's shoulders.  Nick was lost in the passion of the moment, his own shaft sublimely stimulated by Vachon's tight muscles while his rear was strenuously worked by LaCroix.  <Soon, soon, it had better be soon . . .>
     Vachon came first, sinking his fangs savagely into  Nick's shoulder and flooding their heaving bodies with his bloody semen.  He couldn't reach his favorite spot; Nick was taller than he and LaCroix kept pushing him forward, further out of reach, but he still could feel Nick's blood hitting the back of his throat, gushing into his mouth as the steady pounding tore the wound deeper around his fangs.  The taste, the sensation of the blood was everything he had imagined.  Drinking Nick was like drinking the sunshine.  There was age; there was power; but most of all, there was the incredible light, like nothing Vachon had ever tasted before.  He could feel Nick's blood entering his own bloodstream, blending in, but not merging the way blood usually did.  Just as with LaCroix the previous week, the lightest parts of Nick's blood seemed to keep separate, to provide little bubbles of pure joy, the bubbles in the incredible champagne of their blended blood.
     Nick kept stroking, more than ready for release but holding off, waiting for LaCroix, staying on the thin edge of control as long as he could.  LaCroix stroked faster, deeper, pushing Nicholas further forward with every thrust, until he could hold back no longer.  He struck the artery on the left side of Nick's neck, his entire body pulsating with the force of his orgasm, his entire being reveling in the taste of the blood.
     Nick, feeling both his partners succumbing, moved to reach his own release, bending his head down to bite Vachon.  Unfortunately, LaCroix's final thrust had shoved him too far up, and Vachon was too far underneath him.  He couldn't reach him for the blood he needed to reach orgasm.  Frantically, he reached further, but LaCroix's fangs held him firmly in place.  He pushed harder, tearing his own flesh against both the other men's fangs, but still he couldn't reach.
     Vachon and LaCroix, both sucking furiously, both deep in the throes of orgasm, barely registered his mounting desperation as Nick tried again to reach Vachon, or to turn and reach LaCroix.  Suddenly, the desperation began to taste like fear -- fear that once again he would be denied, would be drained, would be . . .  LaCroix suddenly realized his favorite's desperation and freed a hand.  He quickly swung it up and around to offer his wrist to Nicholas, to allow him to drink.
     Too late.  Nick, now in the throes of terror, panicked.  He was nearly drained, he was trapped, and a hand was coming at him.  With the very last of his strength, he ripped himself from the dual embrace, shredding his flesh against fangs that could not withdraw fast enough, flinging LaCroix off his back violently and tearing himself out of Vachon.  The force of his plunge careened him into the wall, where he sat a moment, stunned, before regaining his senses enough to look for escape.
     Vachon, shocked, stunned, turned on his side towards Nick and curled himself in an almost fetal position.  He shook a little; interrupting both coitus and the feeding embrace so suddenly was painful, almost dangerous.  He closed his eyes a moment, trying to feel why Nick had panicked.  He opened them slowly and turned to look at LaCroix, hoping to forestall the murder he expected to see in the elder's eyes.  LaCroix's reaction to such a sudden rejection was bound to be violent -- extremely violent.
     LaCroix calmed himself with a supreme effort.  He found the sudden cessation as disturbing as any other vampire would, but he had the advantage of knowing the reason; of knowing who had caused it.
     He had.  Two hundred years ago.
     He sighed, and looked at Nick calmly.  "I'm sorry, Nicholas."  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  "It was not my intention. . ."  He paused again, then continued with difficulty.  "I didn't realize you couldn't reach Vachon.  I was offering you my wrist."  Nick hardly appeared to be listening, and Vachon had to strain to hear LaCroix's rough whisper.  "It was not my intention to strike you, to hurt you."
     Vachon's mouth dropped open of its own accord.  He had expected anger from LaCroix, violent anger, and had only hoped to get out of its range with his own skin still intact.  Breaking a feeding embrace, breaking a feeding embrace with your own <master> no less, was a punishing experience for all involved, and usually most of all for the culprit.  He turned disbelieving eyes back to Nick.
     Nicholas seemed almost unaware of LaCroix's words, staring into space, seeing something that only existed inside his head.  In the continuing quiet, Vachon drew himself up to a sitting position, staring curiously at Nick.
     Nick looked bad, Vachon acknowledged to himself.  He was sitting where he had fallen after a final abortive effort to stand and escape.  His skin, normally a golden ivory, was pale, paler even than LaCroix's alabaster white.  Two lines of blood ran down the front of his chest to drip on the floor, one from where Vachon had bitten him, low on the collarbone, and one from where LaCroix had fed, at the juncture of his neck and shoulder.  Both wounds, large and ragged from his efforts to escape, still bled sluggishly -- Nick didn't have enough blood left to either bleed quickly or heal. His chest and the lean hollow of his stomach were smeared with the bloody smudge of Vachon's come.  A single drop of blood escaped from one blue eye, tracing a path down his cheek, past his still extended fangs.  The sight was all the more poignant because of the otherwise complete lack of expression, even awareness, visible on Nick's face.
     LaCroix suddenly rose and stalked into the kitchen, Nick's eyes swiveling to follow him.  LaCroix opened the refrigerator door and grabbed  two bottles, then snagged two mugs from the shelf and returned.  He handed one of each to Vachon, who still sat stunned, then approached Nicholas.  He stopped a good three feet away, squatting down in a less threatening position, and opened the bottle.  He poured the mug full, and reached out to hand it to Nicholas.  "Come, Nicholas.  It's cow.  Drink."  Nicholas regarded him with a dead expression, making no move to take the mug.  "Nicholas.  You must drink.  It's only cow."
     Vachon couldn't believe LaCroix even had any cow on hand, it seemed so out of character, but Nicholas reached out, his arm trembling with weakness or fear.  He took hold of the mug, but when LaCroix would have released it he hadn't the strength to hold it up.  LaCroix moved closer to Nicholas, bringing the mug to his mouth.   Nicholas flinched back, apparently in fear, but LaCroix reached one arm behind his back, holding him in place, while he gently held the mug to his mouth.  Nicholas drank deeply, and when LaCroix poured a second mugful, he was able to hold it and drink it on his own.
     Vachon concentrated suddenly on his own drink -- a much better vintage, he was glad to find.  He couldn't believe what he was seeing before him.  He had always, somehow, known there was strong feeling between Nicholas and LaCroix, some kind of unbreakable tie, but he had never expected to see LaCroix act with kindness.  Most of the habitués of the Raven thought LaCroix despised Nick, found him and his quibblings about human blood contemptible, his involvement with mortals laughable.  And they all <knew> Nick hated LaCroix.  No one had ever understood why Nick came to the Raven, why LaCroix had pursued Nicholas around the world when he seemed to barely tolerate his actual presence.  Vachon idly swirled the ruby liquid around in his mug.  Obviously more was going on here.  Vachon didn't think he needed to be caught in the middle of it, whatever <it> was.  He rose to dress and make a quiet exit.
     LaCroix stepped between him and the door.  He placed his hand gently on Vachon's arm, detaining him. "Wait, please."  He nodded towards Nicholas.  "Take care of him for me, will you?"
     Vachon looked at him in disbelief.  No one was ever tolerated between LaCroix and Nicholas.  Hate him or love him, LaCroix had to have him.
        Lacroix sensed his shock.  "Really.  He won't -- can't -- tolerate me right now.  And he still needs --"  LaCroix broke off before he begged, and drew himself up.  "I would account it a favor if you would see to Nicholas now."
    Vachon nodded his head slowly.  <You didn't refuse LaCroix favors, not if you could help it.  And he always repayed.  Always.>
    LaCroix hurriedly gathered his clothing and dressed.  Casting a last glance at Nicholas, who had not moved, he left, his face set like granite.  He paused at the door, and turned to address his son.  "Good bye, Nicholas.  I won't come in again."
     Vachon closed the door behind him.  <With that aura,> he thought, <the Raven will soon empty out tonight!  Even the mortals would sense it.>
    He turned thoughtfully toward Nick.  He knew Nick was not the weakling so many of the younger vampires thought;  he was strong, both physically and mentally.  <Whatever was bothering him had to be something big,> Vachon thought disjointedly, <and if LaCroix was tolerating his breakdown it had to be unspeakably big.  What the hell could he, Vachon, do?>
    He looked at Nick, who had lowered his face to his hands, his fingers clenched in the curly golden ends of his hair, and was suddenly reminded of Urs.  When Urs hurt, she cried, she just wanted to be held.  As if compelled, he went and sat beside Nick, reaching out and touching him tentatively on the leg.
     Nick flinched, raising his head quickly to see who was there, relaxing infinitesimally when he saw Vachon.  "I'm sorry, Vachon," he began unsteadily.  "I didn't mean to --"  He broke off, taking a deep breath.
    Vachon reacted to the pain in his eyes without thought, putting his arm around Nick's shoulders and pulling him into an embrace.  Nick held himself stiffly upright, resisting the comfort.  "Hush, Nick, it's all right."  Vachon pushed a damp curl off Nick's forehead with his free hand.  "It's all right."
    Nick allowed himself to relax, and Vachon just sat and held him in silence.  After a long while, Nick began to cry.  Vachon held him tighter, as he would Urs, until finally he stopped.  The two sat in silence a while longer, until Nick pushed himself back against the wall again.  "Feeling better?"
    Nick looked at Vachon, then down at himself, and gave a kind of strangled half- laugh.  Vachon followed his gaze.  "What a mess, huh?"
    Vachon half-smiled in rueful acknowledgment, then rose and grabbed a towel from the bathroom, dampening it thoroughly and cleaning himself up.  He  gently wiped the semen stains off his own belly, then scrubbed his chest vigorously to get the sticky stuff out of his hair.  He wiped the blood -- Nick's blood -- off his face.  He rinsed the towel, wringing it out, then brought it out to Nick.  When Nick would have taken it, he forestalled him, steadying the older man with one hand while he gently cleaned him up with the other, starting at his face and working down.
    Nick tolerated it passively.  The wounds on his shoulders had not healed much, but he didn't even flinch when Vachon cleaned them off.  His only reaction was to suck in his belly when Vachon hit a ticklish spot, then quietly take the towel and finish the job himself.
    Vachon poured them each another mug, placing Nick's within easy reach, then leaned back casually against the wall and watched while Nick finished toweling off his rather lavish endowments.  Nick dropped the towel and reached for his mug, leaning back against the wall and cradling it in both hands, drinking deeply.  He poured the rest of the bottle in and sat back again with a resigned sigh, before again looking at Vachon.  He found Vachon looking at him rather intently.  "I'm OK, really, Vachon.  You can stop looking at me that way."  Nick ran his hand through his hair.  "And . . . thanks, Vachon.  Thanks for being there.  For not . . ."  He broke off.  "For not despising me."
    Vachon nodded his head; no words were necessary.  They continued sipping in relaxed silence.  Nick finished his mug and placed it carefully on the floor by the empty bottle.  Vachon had long since finished, and now reached out and laid a gentle hand on Nick's arm.
     Nick looked up questioningly, and Vachon lowered his leg to reveal his renewed erection.  Nick gazed at it speechlessly for a moment, then reached out and gently touched the bobbing tip with his finger.  "<Merçi du compliment,> Vachon, but I really don't think you want me right now."
    "Why not?  It wasn't me you pulled away from, was it?"
    "Of course not."  Nick sighed.  "But . . . LaCroix triggered a major flashback for me there, and I won't be able to stop replaying it . . . and you don't want to experience it in the blood exchange."
    Vachon trailed a finger across the wound he'd made on Nick's neck.  "I figured he did.  Want to tell me about it?"
    "Not particularly."
    "Let me guess, then.  LaCroix knows what it is, right?"  Nick nodded.  "And he didn't kill you for pulling out at the critical moment.  He wasn't even angry at you."  Nick looked unhappy, but Vachon continued tracing his fingers down Nick's chest, distracting him.  "So I have a pretty good idea what it was, already."  He reviewed the emotions he had received through the blood link, emotions he had failed to read during the ecstasy of sharing Nick's blood.  The beginnings of a flashback of incredible power, the associated feelings of panic, of despair, of --   "And since LaCroix tolerated it --"  Vachon broke off to trace his fingers seductively up Nick's inner thigh.  "Since LaCroix tolerated it, I have a pretty good idea how bad it must have been, and who did it."  Nick shuddered, whether in response to the caress or his own thoughts Vachon couldn't tell.  "But Nick, you needed this when we started, and I'm guessing you need it even more now.  LaCroix said he wouldn't come back in.  It'll just be the two of us."  He ran the flat palm of his hand around Nick's ribcage, pulling him forward.  "We both know you'll rerun the whole thing in your head whether we do this or not.  Wouldn't it be easier to rerun it with a friend?"
    Nick looked at him in disbelief.  "Easier for me, sure.  But Vachon, you <really> don't want to share this."
    "I want to share <you,> Nick.  Anything worth having is worth a little pain, don't you think?  And whatever I share in your blood will fade, quick enough.  For me, anyway."  Nick still looked unbelieving, so Vachon continued with a leer.  "And you know, Nick, you taste good."  Nick bit back a laugh.  "Really good."
    Nick allowed himself to relax into Vachon's arms, and they again began to make love.  Slowly, this time; Vachon had reached satiation the first time, after all, and Nick was too depleted, physically and emotionally, for the physical exuberance they had started off with so much earlier in the evening.  They kissed, they fondled, they lay side by side gently suckling each other's organs.  Their arousal grew and grew, until suddenly Nick reoriented himself and pulled Vachon's face to his for a tonsil swallowing kiss, all fangs and bloody tongues.  They ground their stiff erections against each other, and simultaneously plunged their aching fangs into each others' necks.  Orgasm swept over them sweetly, thunderously, and they continued sucking the blood from each other.
    And inevitably, Nick found himself remembering.  He tried desperately to keep it from his mind, to forget it, but Vachon urged him to let go, gave him his acceptance through the medium of their shared blood.  And Nick remembered.
    Vachon drank it in.  Glimpses of Nicholas and LaCroix from two centuries before.  Lovers; lovers in love.  Sex; soft loving sex, aggressive violent sex, completely consensual, loving sex.  The feeling of total acceptance, total love.  Even in the most violent sex.  Vachon could feel Nicholas try to stop, but urged him on.  <Get it out, cleanse the wound.  Go on.>  Nicholas sobbed around the wound he had made in Vachon's neck, but did not withdraw his fangs from the comforting contact.
    Rape.  He still reeled from the shock of it; his lover, his love, was raping him.  <Why?>  he screamed silently, <why are you doing this?  You can have whatever you want, however you want it, why are you making it rape? >
     Vachon nearly withdrew in shock.  With a lover as passionate, as willing as Nicholas, it was nearly impossible to make it rape.  But LaCroix had managed, culminating by throwing Nick's broken body contemptuously out the window to await the dawn.  LaCroix had broken his legs, broken his arm, smashed in part of his ribcage, and finally snapped his spine as if it were kindling.  Drained, unable to heal, unable to move, he had lain where LaCroix had thrown him until the light hit him.
    A wonderful motivator, that light, it had motivated him to use the last of his strength to half levitate, half drag himself into the shadow of  the back steps of the building.  He couldn't get under them; they were solid stone, as was the cobbled paving he lay on.  He couldn't get out of the sun, and he began screaming, mentally and vocally, first screaming for LaCroix to help him, help him please, then just screaming in mindless agony as he burned.
    A passerby stopped to help, and he grabbed him and drained him dry.  He tried desperately to scrabble under the body, out of the burning light.  Another approached, and he had two bodies, stiffening over him.  He curled under the corpses, trying to avoid their blank, reproachful eyes, trying to avoid the knowledge that he had killed two humans who had only wanted to help him.
    When LaCroix didn't respond, didn't come, he finally began to accept that it was all real.  That LaCroix, for some reason, no longer loved him, no longer wanted him; despised him.  He hurt.  He ached.  He could feel LaCroix inside their rooms; could feel when he fell asleep, ignoring Nicholas's agony as he would ignore a half-crushed ant under his feet.
    Through the long bright afternoon, Nicholas just endured.  When evening came, when the first shadows fell, Nicholas left.  He was dazed, he was in terrible condition physically, he was in agony mentally; but he left.  Not because he was afraid, although he was, but because that was what LaCroix wanted.
    Vachon felt Nick's devastation; Vachon lived Nick's flashback.  He hauled himself back a little.  It would fade.  He was whole in body and mind, and it would fade.  He sent a wave of acceptance and reassurance to Nick.  <It was done, it was over, it was a long, long time ago.>  Nick felt his support and gradually relaxed.  They continued the blood exchange a while longer, until Nick felt peace return to him.  They withdrew their fangs and lay twined with their arms around each other, and slept.
    Some time later, Vachon woke, stretching languorously, then turned back to gaze at his lover.  He gently traced the curve of Nick's cheekbone with one finger, as he thought back on what had transpired this evening.  He sighed.  He wanted to do it again, without the background story, without the pain, but Nick had been nearly drained the first time, fed only on cow, then emotionally exhausted himself with that horrendous flashback.  Vachon knew Nick was going to sleep quite a while longer.
    Vachon, on the other hand, felt quite wonderful physically, if a little stretched emotionally.  He had fed heavily from Nick the first time, enjoyed a quite wonderful bottle of LaCroix's best, then shared a blood exchange.  He had a lot more energy than even when the evening started.  No way he could lay still when he felt this good.
    He gently untangled his body from Nick's, who never stirred even as Vachon rolled him onto his back into a position that at least <looked> comfortable.  The Spaniard showered quickly, then redressed himself, finally finding his shirt on the far side of the room, behind the sofa.  He gathered up Nick's clothes, placing them in a neat pile on the coffee table, then finally gathered up Nick, placing him in a neat pile on the sofa.  Nick woke briefly as he laid him down, still naked, on the cold leather, but Vachon just smiled at him and kissed him reassuringly.  Nick smiled back.  "I have to leave now, Nick."  He stroked Nick's arm comfortingly.  "I want to do it again, but I don't think you're up for it right now."
    Nick was surprised into a soft laugh by the atrocious pun, and Vachon slapped him lightly on the chest in approval.  He ducked into the bedroom, grabbing a folded quilt off the bed, and returned to spread it over Nick's pale nakedness.  Nick sleepily pulled it up.  "You'll be OK here?"  Vachon asked gently.
    "Yeah," Nick replied.  "He won't hurt me.  He's not in that kind of mood."
    Vachon raised an eyebrow.  How Nick could possibly know that, could feel safe in LaCroix's rooms alone, was beyond him -- not with that rape still ringing through the corridors of his mind.  But if Nick felt safe, no doubt he was.  "OK.  See ya?"
    "See ya."  Nick was already drifting off to sleep when Vachon closed the door behind him.

    Vachon stalked angrily into the bar of the Raven.  Miklos quickly poured him a glass of good bloodwine, then indicated the private booth in the back corner.  Vachon nodded his head curtly, and carried his glass with him to where LaCroix waited.  He seated himself briskly, then sat forward and sipped at his cup.  LaCroix waited. <Let him.  Let the old bastard wait.>  He wasn't going to speak first.  He could play these stupid power games too.
    LaCroix kept his face impassive, internally amused at the bravado of the young vampire before him.  He checked his link with Nicholas; his son was asleep, peacefully asleep.  <Very well, he owed this young rascal for that, at least.>  He had expected Vachon to stay until Nicholas had recovered himself enough to dress and leave; that Vachon had stayed and been able to somehow get Nicholas past the flashback was an added debt.  "You look quite, er, replete, young Vachon," he said, so easily it denied any power play was made or perceived.  "Is Nicholas?"
    Vachon knew perfectly well what LaCroix was doing, and suddenly decided not to play anymore.  He cut right to the heart of the matter.  "Why?"  LaCroix raised an eyebrow in question.  "Why did you do that to him?"
    LaCroix snorted.  "If Nicholas didn't tell you, why should I?"
    Vachon erupted from his seat, reaching across the table as if to grab the old devil by the front of his shirt.  He stopped himself just in time.  He sat back, but his temper still burned hotly.  "You owe me, you old devil," he ground out. "I just lived through that rape, and I feel like you raped me.  I want to know why."
    "Nicholas knows why.  Surely you read that in the blood, if you wanted to know."  LaCroix seemed glib, unmoved.
    Vachon looked at him in disbelief.  "Nick hasn't got the faintest clue why.  It's probably the one thing that bothers him the most."
    LaCroix raised his head angrily, and reached out for his drink with a hand that wanted to tremble slightly.  Nicholas <had> to know why.  How could he have kept that from Vachon?  He skewered Vachon with a haughty glare.  "Really, Vachon, it's not as if it were the first time someone raped him; it wasn't even the first time <I> raped him."
    Vachon looked faintly nauseous at LaCroix's words, at the unthinking revelation of what life as 'LaCroix's favorite' entailed.  He swallowed, but anger kept him from backing down.  "You <owe> me an explanation.  And even more, you owe <Nick> one."
    LaCroix looked at him stonily.  He did owe the scruffy Spaniard; Vachon had stayed with Nicholas, seen him through yet another crisis, because LaCroix had asked him to.  He sighed.  "Very well.  You won't like it."
    "I <already> don't like it.  Tell me."
    LaCroix looked away from him.  Baring the soul was never easy for him;  admitting to mistakes even harder.  But he owed the importunate bastard.  "We were in love," he began.  Vachon nodded, he knew that.  LaCroix remembered his feelings silently.  <I loved him more than anyone, anything.  I began to think I loved him more than me.  I found myself doing things I normally wouldn't, doing things because I knew Nicholas would be pleased>.  He paused for a long moment.  "I felt I was losing control, that Nicholas was controlling me.  That could not be."  <I had to stop him.  I had to stop him before I lost myself in him.>  LaCroix turned back to Vachon.  That was the hard part of the conversation; admitting to love.  <I had to prove to him, and to myself, that I was in control.  That even if I was powerlessly in love with him, he was still mine.>  Loss of control in a relationship was what he feared most; what had hurt most with Divia.  Loss of control was the beginning of the end. <I loved him, and I resented him for it; hated him for the power that gave him.>   He continued aloud, "I decided to show him that I could do anything I wanted with him, to him, and he would still come crawling back to me.  So I raped him. I beat him, I drained him, I threw him out, and I waited for him to crawl back.  But he never did."
    Vachon looked at him, stunned.  "That was all one of your little mind games?  Just to prove who was in charge?"  LaCroix nodded sullenly, a dangerous expression in his eyes, but  Vachon's anger pushed him on.  "And you think <Nick> understood that?"  He  laughed humorlessly.  "I haven't known Nick as long as you have, but even I know Nick doesn't play those games.  He doesn't even understand those games."  He shook his head at LaCroix in disbelief.  "You'd have to be thick as a brick to think he had the slightest idea what you were up to."
    "Then why didn't he come back?  I waited, until the sun came up.  He chose to burn to death rather than come back to me.  So I tuned him out."  <I couldn't stand listening to him burn.>
    Vachon looked at him in disbelief.  "Why didn't he come crawling back?"  He shook his head in utter amazement.  "Probably because he couldn't crawl, you sadistic son-of-a-" Vachon  bit back the epithet.  "You broke his legs," LaCroix nodded, "his arm, you stove in half his ribs," Lacroix nodded twice more, acknowledging impassively.  "You drained him dry, and you broke his back.  Then you threw him out the window.  When he hit the ground, it severed his spinal cord.  He couldn't move."
    LaCroix sat stunned.  "I . . . I broke his back?"
    Vachon rolled his eyes in disbelief.  "You broke his back."  He continued in words of one syllable.  "He could not crawl back to you.  He could not move.  And you left him there to burn in the sun."
    LaCroix replayed the events of that day in his perfect memory.  Rape, beating, draining, flinging Nicholas across the room, then out the window.  He replayed it again.  Nicholas hurtling across the room, hitting the window ledge with a crunch.  It was possible. He'd been too angry, too intent on forcing Nicholas to make an obvious submission, to bother to gauge the individual effects of each injury he'd inflicted...  He'd blocked out his lover's pain, concentrating only on his own fury. He dropped his head into his hands.  "Shit."
    "All for your <pride.>  He begged you to help him, to save him, and you were too proud to even listen.  Too intent on proving you were the master of the situation."  LaCroix looked stricken.  <Good.  Maybe he was getting the message.>  "He almost died the true death.  He suffered through agonies.  He's still suffering.  All because you were too proud.  Too proud to save the love of your life."   Vachon forced himself to stop.  LaCroix was listening, letting him talk to him this way, but he couldn't go too far.  LaCroix might, upon reflection, decide to chastise him for it.
    He was relieved when LaCroix turned his attention to the far side of the room, and turned to see what had captured his attention.  Nick had entered the room, and was making his way unsteadily over to where Miklos was automatically pouring a glass of cow.  He had dressed, but wasn't his usual immaculate self.  His hair curled every which way, and his clothing was wrinkled, but damn he looks good, thought Vachon, with a faint stirring in his loins. They must have been talking longer than he'd thought.  He had expected Nick to sleep longer.
    Nick's two erstwhile lovers watched him in silence as he collapsed onto the bar stool and began drinking.  A young vampire, arrogant as only a new fledgling could be, made some comment, loudly, to another who sat beside Nick.  Vachon didn't hear it across the noise of the crowded room, but he could guess what it was.  He'd heard the same things said to and about Nick often enough.  Nick just ignored him, and Miklos poured him another glass.
    "It always amazes me," Vachon began, quietly angry.
    LaCroix turned back to him, one eyebrow raised.
    "It always amazes me that the young ones all think he's so weak, so contemptible.  He's stronger than any of them.  Even on that diet of swill he could destroy them all so easily, and they don't get it."
    LaCroix snorted.  It was a source of infinite amusement to him, as well.  "It is an interesting little test I set them."
     "I can't believe they think he's weak.  That they don't notice that the old ones all respect him.  Avoid him, but respect him."
    LaCroix snorted.  "The old ones either know him, or know me.  Either suffices.  No weaklings survive 800 years; and no one else has ever survived as my favorite for so long.  Not by a long shot."  It was a tacit acknowledgment of the difficulties of being LaCroix's 'favorite.'
    "Janette?"  He had heard of the elegant vampire who was Nick's sister.
    "No, she was only two centuries when I found Nicholas.  The rest -- "  he shrugged negligently.  "Either I tired of them and cast them out, or they killed themselves when they couldn't take it anymore."  He grinned evilly, and Vachon suppressed a shudder.
    He turned to again watch Nick.  The obnoxious fledgling, one of Mardale's crowd, stood so close to him that Nick was forced to tilt his head back to meet his eyes.  The fledge growled menacingly and showed his fangs; a foolish act even in the darkness of the bar.  Nick stood his ground, meeting his stare expressionlessly.  Nick never moved, just let his vampiric aura deepen and swirl around him until the fledge suddenly, uncertainly, closed his mouth over his fangs and stepped back.  Nick shut down the aura and returned to his drink, wrapped in complete indifference.
    LaCroix laughed softly.  "The fool will convince himself that never happened."  Vachon nodded, he'd seen it before.  "And Nicholas never seems to care."
    "He's learned the hard way that the only one whose good opinion he can't live without is his own.  Two hundred years ago, it was yours; but he thought he lost it and learned to live without it."  He laughed humorlessly, swirling his drink in his glass and watching the ruby glints.  "They think his indifference is weakness; it's really strength."  He raised the glass briefly to his lips, then set it down without drinking.  "Why do you do that?"
    "Do what?"
    "Set him up.  The young ones think he's contemptible, because they think you despise him.  The old ones avoid him, because they think you love him."
    "Just limiting his options a bit.  Amusing myself, as well."
    Vachon snorted.  "Limiting his options.  Trying to keep him all to yourself?"  He went on, answering his own question.  "He won't fall in love with anyone who's capable of physically overpowering him; he's had all of that he can stand with you.  He's not interested in the young ones.  And you scare off everyone in between."
    LaCroix nodded.  "Physically he's incredibly strong, even for his age, even on his diet.  He has defeated me, physically, three times in the past couple of years."
    Vachon raised an incredulous eyebrow.
    "The first time he could have killed me, but the idiot didn't realize the stake had to be wooden."  He shook his head in disbelief.  "The second time he didn't make that mistake; I died."  He laughed at the expression on Vachon's face.  "I'm much too old to die, you know."
    "That wasn't what -- " Vachon shook his head.  "You really are a brick, you know.  Even the stupidest fledge knows the stake has to be wooden. Nick is far from stupid.  If he had you staked, incapacitated, and didn't finish you off, it wasn't because he didn't know how.  It was because he didn't want to."
    LaCroix paused, arrested, then shook his head.  "I'd've killed me."
    "Nick's not you."  Vachon started to say more, than stopped himself.  "I'm going home," he said abruptly.
    LaCroix was deep in thought, hardly noticing as he waved Vachon away.  Vachon stopped one more time, then turned and looked intensely at LaCroix. "I'd've killed you, too," he bit out, then flung himself away before he could say more and dig his grave any deeper.

    LaCroix rose from his seat and tentatively approached Nick at the bar.  He gave a single hard look at the obnoxious fledge, causing the youngster to suddenly recollect business elsewhere, then took the vacated seat casually.  He kept well back from Nick, granting him space, not hovering behind him with an arm leaning on the bar as he was wont to.  Nicholas looked over at the motion, his face expressionless, his eyes wary.  When he realized LaCroix sat beside him, he flinched involuntarily, then turned back to his drink, running one hand through his disheveled hair.
    "Nicholas."  Haunted blue eyes met his.  "I know you're not up to talking about this tonight,"  Lacroix said, "but perhaps tomorrow?  Either here, or I could come to you, whichever you prefer?"
    Amazed at the gentle request, neither a command nor a demand, just a request with a willingness to accept refusal implicit in it, Nicholas nodded slowly.  "Here,"  he acquiesced.  He had feared LaCroix would be rather more forceful in dealing with this latest rejection by his son;  he wanted to know what was behind this strange gentleness.
    LaCroix nodded, watching as Nicholas raised his glass again to his lips, his hand trembling.  He touched their link lightly; it was just fatigue, not fear.  "Stay the day?  You're tired; you can be alone if you wish."
    Nicholas just shook his head in denial; he wanted nothing so much as to be home, to be where he felt most safe.
    "OK," agreed LaCroix.  "Just stay and drink until you're strong enough.  No one will disturb you."  He waved Miklos over, gave him quiet instructions, then disappeared into the back rooms.  Nicholas looked after him with a puzzled stare.

    Across the room, other eyes also stared after LaCroix.  Andovar, surrounded by Mardale and a group of his young cronies, also watched.  Andovar looked thoughtful.
    They turned their attention to Nick. "Boy, he looks whipped," gloated Mardale, still smarting from the altercation with Nick over Urs earlier in the week.  "I don't think
LaCroix's too pleased with him tonight."
    "No," answered Andovar, "doesn't look like Nicholas pleased him at all."  He had felt the delicious emanations from the back room earlier in the evening.  Nicholas's condition, combined with LaCroix's mood, certainly indicated that something had changed.  Just the thought of what LaCroix could do, probably had done, to Nicholas excited him. Perhaps a displeased LaCroix would be more receptive to his own desires?
    "Hey, William," called Mardale, "did you see Nick?  Looks like LaCroix really laid into him tonight."
    "Yea, it does.  Boy, I'd like to get that wuss.  He's no better'n a carouche, but we have to treat him like he owns the place.  Really frosts me."
    "Well, it sure looks like now would be the time.  If LaCroix's unhappy with him, maybe he'll even appreciate it."  The young vampires all laughed raucously.   Andovar considered approaching LaCroix, but decided to wait.  Nicholas was no good to him in a weakened condition; he'd wait until he'd regained some of his strength.
Chapter 4

    The next evening when Nick returned to the Raven, things were in full swing.  The music was loud and raucous, the crowd large and gyrating.  He took his usual seat at the bar, back turned to most of those present, and sensed LaCroix waiting for him.  He announced his presence through their link, and knew LaCroix would be out soon.  Miklos was busy at the far end of the bar, but the second barman came over, polishing a glass and quickly pouring him his drink.  He left the bottle and turned to serve some other customers.
    Nick regarded the ruby liquid before him somberly before raising it to his mouth.  The sweet aroma drifted to his sensitive nose before he drank, teasing, tantalizing.  He slammed the glass back down on the bar.  Human.  Nick couldn't believe it.  He had thought LaCroix had started to accept him as he was; to accept that Nicholas was a separate being with his own mind; to allow him the independence he needed.  He had seemed so solicitous last night.  Nick felt as if he had been slapped in the face, slapped back into his place as LaCroix's slave.  Angry, hurt, he threw some money on the bar, knowing LaCroix would be insulted, would know it was a declaration of independence.  As quickly as it had come, the anger left him, leaving behind resignation and pain.  He rose, and left quietly, without protesting.
    LaCroix, making his way across the crowded room, felt Nick's silent pain as he quickly exited the bar.  Perplexed and a little alarmed, he walked over to see the barman gathering up Nick's money.  "He seems to have left a substantial tip, William.  Especially considering the drink did not appear to be to his liking."
    LaCroix would not acknowledge Nick's payment, would not accept his silent statement.  His hard eyes held William's as he picked up the spurned goblet, swirling it under his nose briefly.  He replaced the glass on the bar with a controlled movement that was a threat in itself.  "Were you not informed, when you started here, as to the identities of my private guests?"  William looked like a rat, frozen in the predatory stare of a snake.  "You were, perhaps, unaware of Nicholas's tastes?  MMhhmm?"  No answer.  "I would hate to think that my son left here because of you and some little jest with your friends."  He allowed his gaze to wander over a group of fledglings watching avidly.  They dispersed quickly and began to leave the club.  He placed both hands on the bar and leaned over it, pinning William with his glare.  "I would hate to think that someone I had expressly invited here tonight,"  he spaced his words out slowly, menacingly, "would feel so unwelcomed by my staff that he actually paid for his drink.  That someone I wished to speak with was unable to accommodate me because my establishment could not accommodate him in the usual fashion."  He gestured to Miklos.  "Remove this trash.  Instruct it in the <proper> manner of serving <my> guests.  If it is unable to learn  --" he paused to regain control of his voice.  "It. Will. Regret. It."
    He reached under the bar for the bottle which should have been opened for Nicholas, then swept from the room, leaving William free to collapse against the bar in relief.  Miklos eyed the young barman contemptuously, then hustled him off for a lesson in manners which would be remembered -- by all the young fledges, not just the barman.
    William attempted to bluster his way out of it.  "But Miklos, LaCroix was upset with him, last night.  I thought LaCroix would like it if I --"
    "If you administered a little more punishment, on top of LaCroix's?"  Miklos just
shook his head.  "Did you ever stop to think why LaCroix follows Nicholas all around the
world?"  The puzzled expression on William's face was answer enough.  "William, if you
have even a scrap of brain in your head, you will stay away from Nicholas.  Never, ever,
ever presume to get between him and LaCroix."
    "But everybody knows --"
    "NObody knows.  I don't think <they> even know.  All you need to know is that getting between those two is the most dangerous place in the world."  Miklos held William's gaze, still seeing the underlying resentment.  "Do you know," he asked, "why you're still alive?"
    "LaCroix wouldn't--"
    "LaCroix has.  Many times.  For far less reason."
    "No one would kill me just for that."
    "LaCroix would.  Without thinking twice."  Miklos held his gaze for a long moment.  "He held back because Nick doesn't like it.  Nick feels responsible and gets all bent out of shape when LaCroix kills because of him."  Miklos turned and looked out over the bar, monitoring the crowd.   "That's why Nick never reacts to your crowd's obnoxiousness.  If he looks bothered, LaCroix starts killing.  So, whether it bothers him or not, I don't know; and you never will either."
    William was looking pale and scared.  Clearly he had misunderstood the relationship.
    Miklos continued.  "You owe Nick your life, you know; several times over unless I miss my guess."
    William thought of some of the things he had said; the obnoxious remarks.  He nodded.

    LaCroix took his time getting to Nicholas's loft -- he needed the time to get his anger again under control.  The coming conversation would be rather trying for both of them. He did not want to lose his temper with Nicholas this time.  It would not do to transfer his anger to someone who did not, on this occasion at least, deserve it.
    When he reached Nicholas's loft, he did not descend through the skylight as usual, but went to the front door.  He waited there a moment.  He could tell Nicholas was within but could not discern his mood.  His enhanced hearing picked up the sound of the piano playing.
    The piece was quiet, dark; not the pounding violence of emotion he had half expected but an almost resigned melancholy.  Nicholas had always worked through his emotions on the piano; LaCroix didn't know whether to be glad or sorry that so little emotion seemed to be left.  He pushed the buzzer to request entrance.
    Nick looked up in surprise at the sound of the buzzer.  Once distracted from the music, he sensed immediately that it was LaCroix, but was baffled as to why his master had rung the buzzer.  LaCroix always just entered, never seeking invitation.  Nick crossed the room and activated the security camera.  <LaCroix, alone.> He held down the intercom button.  "LaCroix?"
    "Nicholas.  I wondered if I might come in."
    <LaCroix, asking?>  Nicholas shook his head, bemused, but pushed the button to allow access.  He returned to his piano bench, but did not play, choosing instead to warily watch the elevator rise and LaCroix open the heavy door.
    LaCroix stepped into the room and allowed the door to shut behind him.  A bit at a loss, he began to speak.  "Don't stop.  I have missed your playing; I always enjoyed it."   Nicholas quirked an eyebrow in question, but then turned back to the keyboard and let the music flow from his fingers without thought.  LaCroix walked to the kitchen area, finding a glass and  filling it from the bottle he had brought.  He took it over to Nicholas, setting it carefully beside him on the piano, then stood back and watched his son.
    Nicholas allowed his fingers to play on, but turned his eyes to watch LaCroix.  The loft was lit only by the candles on the piano,  the light reflecting gently off his skin and hair.   LaCroix wanted to step forward and touch him, but was stopped by the remote expression on his face.  LaCroix felt more uncertain than he had in centuries.  <Could he reach him?>  He had known for a long time that he had only himself to blame for their separation; he just hadn't known how to repair it.  Now, it seemed, he had even more to blame himself for than he had realized, and he couldn't fix it unilaterally.  Nicholas had to want to fix it too.  LaCroix lowered himself into a chair and waited, listening to the music.
    Nick allowed the piece to come to a natural end, and withdrew his fingers from the keyboard. He reached out for the glass, inhaling its fragrance before raising his eyes to LaCroix in question.
    LaCroix cleared his throat uneasily.  He wasn't used to apologizing, and he especially didn't like apologizing for something he hadn't personally instigated.  "Errrm."  He cleared his  throat uneasily.  "That's what you should have been served tonight.  I issued no instructions to the contrary."  He paused, then continued with as much sincerity as he could.  "It was not my intention to change our current rapprochement.  I'm sorry you were hurt."
    Nicholas gazed at him, unspeaking, then took a quiet sip of the smooth beverage.  "Thank-you.  It is quite good."  He replaced the glass and returned his eyes to his sire's face.  His tone of voice matched the remoteness of his gaze as he continued.  "Two hundred years ago you cared so little you actually fell asleep while I was burning alive.  Today, you come to apologize because a junior bartender might have hurt my feelings?"
    LaCroix cursed inwardly.  It was certainly a valid question, but it showed the vast distance Nicholas was placing between them.  When Nick had entered the Raven, LaCroix had felt that their current closeness was still in effect, despite the flashback; now, it seemed Nicholas had withdrawn to a safer distance.  A much greater distance.
    "Two hundred years ago, Nicholas, I made the worst mistake of my life.  I've known that for almost that long, too.  I just never knew how to get past it."  He turned and paced toward the kitchen, running a hand through his pale hair.  "What I did was unforgivable, I know, but -- "  He broke off, acutely uncomfortable under that still remote stare.  "Nicholas," he began again, "why didn't you kill me that first night, in the abattoir?  When you flung me across the room, and I was pierced by that metal stake?"
    Nicholas looked down at the glass in his hand and did not answer.  When he finally looked up again, the misery in his eyes was answer enough. No anger, no regret; just an abject misery that spoke of intolerable choices and spurned love.
    "Nicholas, will you share blood with me?"
    Nicholas made a strange, involuntary sound in the back of his throat, then shook his head.  "As soon as you bite me, that flashback will start again."
    "I know."
    Nicholas rose suddenly from his seat, sending the bench grating backward and himself lurching towards the living area.  He stood a moment, trying to regain the icy protection of remoteness, then sat down on the sofa, curling his legs under him and staring moodily into his glass.  He looked up.  "If you care about me, that's the cruelest thing I could do to you, and I don't want to be cruel.  If you don't care, if you want to gloat, that's the cruelest thing you could do to me, and I don't want to be hurt."
    "No, Nicholas, the cruelest thing you can do to me is to continue to hold yourself away from me."  LaCroix leaned, still, against the piano, but centered his gaze on the tiny flame of the candle before him.  He couldn't quite meet Nicholas's eyes.  "I never learned how to be part of a loving relationship.  Before you, the only one I ever truly loved," he continued painfully, "was Divia.  My sweet daughter who became my master, who wanted to force me --" He broke off.  Nicholas knew all of that.  "When I made you, I loved you first as a son, and then as a lover.  It's different for vampires, it's not incest, I know, and the sex didn't matter.  It was the <love.>"  He moved his eyes, fleetingly meeting Nick's gaze.  "Somehow it disconnected and it was as if <you> were <Divia,> controlling me, forcing me.  I couldn't stand it.  I couldn't stop myself from loving you; I couldn't leave you.  I had to prove to myself that <I> was in control."  He turned to face his son.  "Then my pride . . .  once I start something, I have difficulty stopping it."
    Nicholas rose slowly from his seat and walked over to face LaCroix.  He tilted his head back to closely study the other's face, his eyes searching LaCroix's eyes.  LaCroix  met his gaze directly, letting his feelings show.  Nicholas let his mouth fall open slightly, and LaCroix could read the uncertainty in his tense silence. Nicholas held LaCroix's gaze for a long moment, then slowly leaned his head to one side, arching his neck to tacitly permit -- invite -- LaCroix to bite.
    LaCroix gazed at the exposed column of white flesh revealed by the open collar of the blue silk shirt, the blood so invitingly close to the surface, and returned his eyes to his son's.  They were as remote and controlled as when he had walked in.  LaCroix didn't know whether he was being offered retribution or reconciliation; he suspected it was rather up to him.
      His hand crept to Nicholas's neck of its own volition, easing open another button, then two.  Pulling the shirt open farther, his fingers trailed fire down Nicholas's chest.  Suddenly, before the offer could be withdrawn,  he reached upward and tore his own shirt open, exposing his own neck for his son.  He let his fangs descend.  Suppressing the urge to growl, to tear at the vulnerable throat before him, he leaned down and took Nicholas with a slow easing in of his fangs.  He felt the sweet blood gush into his mouth, hitting the back of his throat with an ecstasy of light, and involuntarily wrapped his arms around the smaller man, avidly biting deeper.
    Nicholas tried to maintain his icy remoteness, but LaCroix's fierce embrace forced his face directly over the large artery in his master's throat.  He let his fangs descend and sliced quickly into LaCroix's neck.  With the first taste of the blood in his mouth, he felt the protective ice leave him, the hot force of his master blasting it into nothingness.  He wanted -- he wanted --
    And once again the memories erupted.  First in Nicholas's mind -- the love they had shared, the devotion he had given to his master, his lover.  Then in LaCroix's -- the recognition of the treasure he had found, enjoyment of the physical bond, the growing dependence on and delight in the emotional bond.  Happiness.  LaCroix experienced happiness in love for the first time.
    Divia's father/son looked for the hidden bite within what Nicholas offered so freely.  Nothing was ever free; no relationship was ever as it appeared.  He searched for the hidden agenda, for the secret motivations.  No one loved LaCroix just for himself; everyone wanted something: power, or riches, freedom for a loved one, children, status, thrills. . .  Knowing the inner motive for a lover's passion had always given LaCroix the edge in the relationship; enabled him to control the depth of emotion felt, to determine the outcome and course of the relationship.
    But Nicholas seemed to want only his love.  Was it possible?  Or did Nicholas possess a subtlety, a skill for manipulation beyond LaCroix's own?  Was Nicholas in control or was LaCroix?  The uncertainty was tearing him apart.
    Through the impact of the flashback, LaCroix could sense Nicholas's disbelief.  LaCroix had been what Nicholas wanted; LaCroix had been all Nicholas wanted.  LaCroix felt cherished by the acknowledgment of what had been; anguished by the knowledge of what he had done.  He held his former lover more tightly, his fingers digging involuntarily into the muscles of the younger man's back.
    The memories burned on.  Finally, torn between desire for a love that seemed far too pure to be real and a need for control that was all too base to be resisted, LaCroix had acted.  He had taken control of the relationship in the only way he felt was left to him:  he had ended it.  Brutally.  Whatever Nicholas was really after would be revealed; then LaCroix could give it, or not,  and Nicholas could be kept, or not.  The decisions would be entirely his, made in the cold light of complete knowledge.  He quite coldly planned his course of action and put it into play.

    Nicholas moved to escape his embrace as LaCroix remembered putting his plan into action so long ago.  The memories were too painful; the cold indifference too hurtful to continue.  He tried to pull his fangs from his master's neck, to turn away, but LaCroix refused to let him withdraw.  These wounds needed to be cleansed; to be exposed to the healing touch of truth.  Whether Nicholas ever looked at him with love again or not, LaCroix wanted to ease these festering sores.

    The inferno of memory continued. LaCroix remembered his own actions with the added counterpoints of Nicholas's horrified responses.  The beating:  LaCroix's careful, passionless application of pain and injury; Nicholas's intense suffering.  The rape:  Nicholas trying desperately to accommodate whatever LaCroix wanted; LaCroix deliberately moving too quickly, too forcefully for the weaker man to accept.  Forcing his body into painful, vulnerable positions, then taking advantage of his vulnerability.  Nicholas, knowing some desperate need moved his lover to act this way, accepting the abuse of his body and spirit in a desperate attempt to provide whatever it was LaCroix needed.  LaCroix, growing angrier and angrier as Nicholas failed to break, failed to reveal his baser self;  drinking  his lover's blood down greedily, looking deeper and deeper for the hidden agenda until there was no more blood to read.  Finally losing control and throwing the smaller man across the room, where he slammed against the window ledge with a telling crack.
    For the first time, LaCroix <knew> that crack had not been the window frame, as he had thought, but Nicholas's spine, breaking high up in his back. He could feel, now, the pain Nicholas had felt, as if it were his own -- the dizzying weakness of a severe injury combined with complete blood loss.  LaCroix, still enraged, had picked his lover's sagging body up and flung him out the second story window, letting him land as he would on the cobblestones below.  Nicholas, too weak to levitate, almost fainting with the pain, had awoken at the harsh impact.
    LaCroix leaned out the window a moment, relishing the sight of Nicholas trying to move on the ground below.  He turned back to the ruined room, dusting his hands in satisfaction.  He had won, hadn't he?  <He> had been the one to end it, <he> was the one in control.  He turned back and slammed the window shut.  It would be dawn soon;  he well deserved his rest for this night's work.  Nicholas would crawl back to him, chastened and humbled, and would plot no more subtle, devious plots against him.
    Nicholas lay on the cobbles, stunned and in agony.  <But at least in was over, wasn't it?  Whatever had moved LaCroix to do this, whatever internal torments had forced him to torture his protégé, surely he had exorcised them?  They had had violent, painful sex before; never of this order, of course, but LaCroix had always been gentle afterwards; always soothed away the pain and given him enjoyment too, in the end.>
    Nicholas tried to turn over on the pavement, to ease his broken body into a less tortured position, but his legs refused to move.  He heaved with his arms, but one was broken clear through, high up between elbow and shoulder.  His left arm, reasonably intact, was trapped beneath his immobile lower body, but he finally worked it free and managed to turn himself over.
    To face the dawn.  Nicholas began to panic.  The sun was rising.  He was paralyzed.  Drained, he could not even begin to heal.  No shelter was within reach.  He called out to LaCroix for help.
    LaCroix heard his call, but ignored it.  The whole point of this little lesson was to teach Nicholas who was the master, to prove that Nicholas would crawl back to LaCroix, that Nicholas needed LaCroix more than LaCroix needed him.  To go to Nicholas now would prove just the opposite.  LaCroix would be damned before <he> would go crawling to Nicholas for forgiveness.  All the boy had to do was crawl around the side of the house and into the doorway.  Once he had done that, made that gesture of submission, LaCroix would help him.
    Out in the alleyway, Nicholas began to burn.  Finding strength he didn't know he had, he somehow dragged himself the few feet to the steps of an adjacent house, trying to curl his limp body into the shelter of their shade.  He could go no further, and collapsed, using his one good arm to pull his legs in to his body.  Even at dawn, the elongated shadow was too small; the light, too bright.  He began to smoke, and called desperately to LaCroix for help.  The shadow would soon be gone, and he would ignite, and be burned alive.  He screamed for help.
     LaCroix heard him, but made no move.  If the fool would rather burn than submit, so be it.  He washed his hands of him.  Somewhere inside, a forlorn voice told LaCroix he would regret this, he was missing something, that no price was too great to pay for what he was about to lose, but he put the small voice down sternly.  He was LaCroix.  He needed no one.  Nicholas would submit, or fry.
    Nicholas fried.
    LaCroix found himself hovering at the door, waiting for Nicholas to come, to submit, needing him to submit, but all he could feel was the pain of Nicholas burning.  LaCroix turned away.  So be it.  Let him suffer.  He hardened his heart.  If he was going to fry rather than submit, LaCroix was done with him.  He closed off the link.  <No need to listen to the fool whine.>  He hugged his own pain, the pain that Nicholas wouldn't come, to his heart, and shut out Nicholas's agony.  He could still hear him with his ears, though, screaming, sizzling.  He strode angrily to the back of the house, and flung himself on his bed.  Using an old mind trick he had learned as a common soldier, long, long ago, he forced himself to sleep.  It was done.

    Nicholas again tried to separate himself from his master, again tried to seize control of his own flashback.  There was no need to continue; each now knew why the other had acted as they had.  He would spare himself, and LaCroix, the further pain of reliving the rest of the nightmare.  LaCroix again prevented him, knowing if he didn't follow through on this now he never would be allowed to, knowing he <had> to know the rest of it.  Nicholas's struggles told him that the worst was not over.  The two wrestled briefly, Nicholas tearing his face away from LaCroix's neck and trying to tear himself away from LaCroix's arms.  LaCroix held him firmly against his long body, teeth still deep in his neck, and mentally beseeched him to be still, to finish this now.  Nicholas sobbed once, then turned his head back to LaCroix's neck and resumed the embrace.  As the flashback resumed, he felt a wave of inner panic that made his knees unsteady and he clutched at LaCroix in desperation.  LaCroix, rather amazed that Nicholas would still reach out to him for security, held him up for a moment, then carefully lowered both of them till they sat, still embraced, on the floor.  He settled Nicholas on his lap, his arms resuming their supporting position.

    Nicholas was already lost in the burning.  His skin blistered, popped, and scorched.  He tried desperately to squeeze further against the unyielding stone of the steps and to protect his eyes from the searing light.  He began to smoke heavily, skin charring through several layers, boiling.  He moaned in agony.  A passerby, seeing the smoke, came to pull him from the fire, pulling him further into the sunlight.  In desperation, Nicholas grabbed the man and drained him dry.  He pulled the warm corpse over him, trying to shelter from the sun.
    Another man, seeing activity in the dirty alleyway, came to look.  Nicholas grabbed and drained him as well.  Between the two corpses, stiffening over him, and the stone steps, Nicholas managed to shield himself from the worst of the sunlight.  With the blood of two victims now inside him, his wounds began to heal.  Bones knitted and nerves regenerated.  His skin, still subject to too much of the hellish sunlight, did not heal, but neither did it smoke and char any further.  He was able to stop screaming, stop attracting mortal attention, and just endure.  He hoped fervently that another mortal would enter the little used alleyway -- would come and provide the blood he needed to heal.  Still, two pairs of reproachful dead eyes, staring into his soul through the endless day, were two too many.  He endured.  He suffered.  He healed.  Most of all, he suffered the pain of loss -- the loss of his lover who didn't want him anymore, the loss of his own innocent pleasure in love, the loss of his own trust in others.  He could feel LaCroix inside the house, sleeping peacefully, uncaring, and was shattered.
    LaCroix had needed to beat him, so he had let him.  LaCroix had needed to rape him, so he had allowed it.  LaCroix had needed to deny him, and had done so.  Now LaCroix needed him gone, so he would go.
    As the sun vanished behind the shadow of the building west of him, Nicholas pushed the two bodies aside.  He stripped one of them, taking shirt and pants to cover the scorched, blistered nakedness of his own body.  He dressed with difficulty, then stood to leave.  His legs, he discovered, did not work well, but if he half levitated, half walked, he could escape.  He tried, once again, to touch LaCroix's mind, but encountered only the uncaring shield of the still sleeping vampire.  <Please,> he shouted in his mind, <I need you, I love you . . . please, master . . .> LaCroix did not answer, and Nicholas finally accepted the obvious.  LaCroix just did not want him anymore, did not care about him anymore.  LaCroix wanted him out of his life.  So, crying internally, Nicholas struggled to give LaCroix what he wanted.  He left.
    Inside the house, LaCroix did not awaken until some time past sunset.  His sleep had been troubled by strange dreams; he almost believed the whole thing had been a nightmare.  <Bloody hell, that had been some nightmare,> he thought fuzzily.  He reached over to touch Nicholas, only to find him absent, his place in the bed unused.  He jumped out of bed at the stark realization that it had been no dream, he had really done that.  <Nicholas. . .> He ran to the window and leaned out, seeing two bodies on the pavement, one scorched and burned, one naked.  He jumped lightly down. Turning the bodies over, he was relieved to discover that neither was Nicholas.  The scorched body had obviously been used to shelter a burning vampire, and both bodies had been drained. Nicholas was alive.  He searched the link.  Nicholas was not dead; he could tell that much, but the link was weak.  He started to follow, then caught himself.  Nicholas had chosen to leave him rather than submit to him.  Nicholas had chosen to burn.  He would not humble himself to chase after a lover who did not want him.  He was glad -- more than glad! -- that he had been the one to end the affair first.  Clearly he had kept his pride, his dignity that way.  Nicholas would have won if he had not driven him off.  He did not follow him.

    Nicholas tore his fangs from LaCroix's neck in pain, and buried his face in LaCroix's broad shoulder.  Bloody tears traced a path down his cheeks, and he sobbed.  Three reruns of that same terrible flashback, a flashback he had not been forced to relive for decades, were just too much.  This last time, with LaCroix, had answered the crucial question -- why -- but had been even more intense than the previous two, when he had kept some control; when LaCroix had not been there, pushing for every detail.
    LaCroix allowed his withdrawal this time,  and withdrew his fangs from Nicholas as well.  He cradled the younger man in his arms as he sat stunned.  Nicholas, he realized, had only ever wanted to love and be loved.  What he, himself, had only recently learned he wanted, he had had two centuries ago:  Nicholas's love, freely given.  And he had destroyed it, and almost destroyed Nicholas in the process.  He rocked his son gently in his arms, crooning soothing sounds while he too leaked blood tears down his face.
    Nicholas's grief was old, well-worn.  He had learned to deal with it.  He sat up and looked at LaCroix,  surprised at the tear-tracks.  LaCroix never showed his emotions, except anger and hunger.  But LaCroix's grief, while also old, had had to be reevaluated in the face of new information. He was inundated by the truth of what he had so callously broken and thrown away.
    Nicholas watched for a while, reaching out to wipe the tears off, but suddenly recollected himself.  He abruptly removed himself from LaCroix's lap and went to the kitchen to collect himself, fumbling in his cupboards and refrigerator for blood wine for the two of them.  He cleaned the traces of blood off his face and chest and refastened the front of his shirt..  Restored, rearmed, he returned to his living area to face his personal demon.
    LaCroix still sat on the floor, his face in his hands, overwhelmed.  Nicholas placed the glass beside him on the coffee table and retired to sit on the sofa, his own vintage in hand.  He waited while LaCroix recovered himself, lifting his glass and joining his host on the sofa.  LaCroix took a long swallow, noting the courtesy of his chosen vintage, then set the glass down.  He wiped his face with the back of his hand, removing the tear stains and the remains of Nicholas's blood, then did up his own shirt as well as he was able.  He turned to face Nicholas, but found his face inscrutable.
    Apparently Nicholas read LaCroix's face quite easily.  "I'm not the person I was two hundred years ago, LaCroix," he said quietly, killing the older man's dim hopes for an immediate reconciliation.  "I've learned not to trust.  I've learned not to expect happiness.  And most of all, I've learned to be alone."
    LaCroix nodded unhappily.  He had taught Nicholas all those things.  Killed the trust, killed the happiness, forced him to be alone.  "All these years, Nicholas, all the things I've done to you . . .  I couldn't stand the thought of someone else having you,  having what we had . . . every time you reached out to love someone, I destroyed it.  I was so jealous I even destroyed your dog.  Worse, I made you destroy it.  And when you gave up on being allowed happiness, and decided to pursue mortality, I couldn't let you go.  Mortality, death, would have meant you had escaped me, you had left me."
    "I know."  LaCroix raised an eyebrow in question.  "I've always known that.  I've just never known why.  I thought you hated me, wanted to punish me for something I was or had done . . . You never let me know you still loved me."
    "I barely let myself know I still loved you."  He paused.  "Nicholas, I asked you before; you didn't answer.  Why didn't you kill me when you had the chance at the abattoir?"
    Nicholas ran his fingers nervously through his sweaty hair.  "Because I still love you, LaCroix."  He held up a hand.   "Wait.  I still love you, deep down, but I am not <in love>  with you anymore." Nick turned away.  "I didn't think you wanted me to be."
    LaCroix regarded Nick's back sadly.  "I did.  But I can see why you wouldn't think that."
    "I'd run, and you'd chase me," began Nick, "and when you'd find me, catch me,"  he faltered.  "You'd make me wish you hadn't."
    LaCroix thought back over the centuries he'd spent pursuing Nicholas.  Nicholas would run, and LaCroix would sit around pretending to himself for as long as he could that he no longer needed the ungrateful whelp.  When the pain got too great, he'd track him down again.  And again.  And every time, either Nicholas would react in fear and anger, and LaCroix would trounce him for it, or LaCroix, angry at his own need, would punish him for that.  If Nicholas didn't run, and LaCroix didn't immediately punish him and make him run, they might maintain an armed neutrality for a while.  But sooner or later LaCroix would feel ignored and be driven to get Nick's attention in a way that couldn't be ignored -- usually in the way that caused Nicholas the greatest possible emotional and physical pain, to repay him for the pain he was causing LaCroix.
    "I couldn't stay away from you.  I loved you; you rejected me.  You made me hurt, so I made you hurt."  LaCroix paused.  "Or so I thought.  All those wasted years."

Chapter 5

   Another homicide; the modus operandi pegged it as probably the same perpetrator.  Beating, sodomy, murder.  The body was found first thing in the morning, so the day shift started the case.  Tracy came in early to check out the obvious similarities to the case she and Nick were handling, and Natalie did the autopsy.  By the time Nick came in after sunset, everything was done except finding the killer.
    <Just as well,> he thought.  <I'm so exhausted I can't see straight.  Physically and emotionally I'm wiped out.>  He visited Natalie in the morgue, pulling the cover back from the autopsied corpse.  He looked at the body carefully, then rubbed his eyes and looked again.  He drew the cover back over the body, slowly, thoughtfully.

    And found himself, again, remembering Andovar.  Sitting at a campfire, centuries before, facing Andovar and LaCroix in disbelief.  Knowing that LaCroix had just sold him, for one night; withdrawn his protection when he would need it most.

    He was grateful when Natalie's voice pierced his flashback before the memories could take hold.  "Nick!"  she said, exasperated.  She reached out and grabbed his shoulder.  "Where were you?"
    Nick just shook his head.  He couldn't talk about it; could hardly bear to think about it.
    "Something about this is triggering flashbacks for you, isn't it?" asked Natalie.  "Isn't it, Nick?"  Nick gazed at her silently.  "Nick?"  She waited in vain for Nick to respond, then sighed.  "Does it have anything to do with the fact that they both look a lot like you?"
    "Huh?"  Nick turned back to the corpse, again uncovering the face.  It did look like him; blonde, same size, same build.  He couldn't tell much more; the body had taken too much damage during the attack.  He thought back to the first body.
    "They both looked a lot like you, Nick.  Does that mean something?"
    Nick thought of Andovar as he had last seen him, talking earnestly with LaCroix.  Of LaCroix, refusing him.  He knew Andovar had been at the Raven last night; he had probably felt the emanations from his encounter with Vachon and LaCroix.  Knowing what Andovar wanted from Nick, knowing what he had done in the past, Nick now had a pretty good idea who was doing these murders.  "Yea," he answered slowly, "maybe it does."  He ran his hand through his hair in agitation.  <He couldn't have me,> Nick thought in despair, <so he's taking these innocents.  These innocents who haven't got a chance of withstanding him.>
    "Nick!" Natalie was getting impatient with his long silences.  He turned to face her.  "What does it have to do with you?"
    "There's a vampire in town.  At the Raven."  Nick paused so long Natalie thought she'd have to jump start him.  "I knew him, a long time ago," he finally continued.  "He -- "  Nick broke off, unable to continue.
    "He. . . ?"  Natalie prompted.  "He what?"
    "He wants me."
    "Wants you."
    "Yea.  But he can't have me, so he's taking these men, instead."
    "You mean he's substituting these guys for you?"  Nick just nodded.  "He wants to do this to you?"
    "Not exactly."  Nick looked tense, controlled; secretive.
    "You know, Nick, getting this out of you is like pulling teeth,"  said Natalie, extremely alarmed.  "If you're in danger, if this relates to the case, just tell me."
    Nick sighed and ran his hand through his hair.  "Vampire sex is often very, uh, very <violent.>"
    "You didn't mention that before."
    "No."  At Natalie's impatient look, Nick forced himself to continue.  "We're predators, Nat; fighting is part of us.  Violence is part of us.  It's all tied in together:  lust, violence, feeding.  They don't always separate well."
    "Go on, Nick."
    Nick stood silently for a long moment, tensely rubbing the fingers of one hand against the other.  He looked away.  "Some vampires prefer a good fight, topped off by rape, to consensual sex."  He looked down at the floor.
    "Prefer to be raped?"  Natalie was aghast.
    "No, no," Nick whispered.  "Prefer to rape someone else." He met her gaze, unwillingly.  "The <victim> can't enjoy it; it's rape."
    Natalie throttled her instinctive revulsion, asking only, "You know him?"
    "Yeah. From a long time ago.  Anyway, he keeps killing, cause they're not strong enough to give him a good, cathartic fight.  He needs someone to fight back."
    "And he wants you."  Nick nodded.  "You speak from experience?" Nick's expression was bleak, remote as he nodded again.  "So, if it's you he wants, why isn't he attacking you?"
    "He's afraid of LaCroix."  Nick was talking to the wall now, so quietly she had to strain to hear him.  "Last time he paid LaCroix to look the other way, so he'd only have to fight me, and not LaCroix as well.  He couldn't beat LaCroix."
      Nat felt like her heart was breaking.  Nick sounded almost defeated, he was so quiet, so detached.  "But he could beat you?"  Nick nodded.  "Did he?"  Nick nodded again.  "Oh, my God.  Did he -- "  She couldn't ask him that.  It was obvious anyway; he had raped Nick before.  She asked instead, "could he do it again?"
    "No, probably not.  I'm much older now, stronger than he realizes.  But LaCroix's why he isn't trying."
    Natalie wiped a tear from her face.  <No wonder he didn't want to talk about it.>  "Oh, Nick, I'm sorry."  She put her arms around him, carefully, and he looked at her over his shoulder.  Sympathy shone in her eyes, not the contempt he had feared.  "How do you stand it?"
    "Barely," he said in a hoarse whisper.  "Barely."   He turned and faced her.
    "Is that what you want, when you say sex?"
    Nick looked at her, hurt.  "No.  That's why I said I didn't have many options.  I have to find someone near my own strength.  Too weak, too young, and I might hurt them without ever realizing I was doing it.  Too old and strong, and, well, you get the picture."
    Natalie wasn't liking the picture much.  "But Janette was much older than you, wasn't she?"
    Nick turned away, and Natalie thought he wasn't going to answer at all, when he began, almost whispering.  "Yes.  When we were first together she was much stronger than me.  Sometimes she'd hurt me; force me.  But if I hurt too much, I couldn't satisfy her, so she didn't go too far often.  Not like LaCroix."
    "LaCroix?" Nat asked in a strangled voice.
 
    "LaCroix!"  exclaimed Nick, in an entirely different tone of voice.  "He'll know where I can find Ando-- er, the other vampire."
    Nat shook her head.  She had enough to assimilate for one night; Nick had revealed a world to her which was, as he had always said, sheer hell.  The part of his world she had seen before had looked pretty normal, pretty comfortable;  his restrictions a small price to pay for immortality.  He had lifted the veil, briefly, and let her see more of it; see that perhaps he did speak the truth when he told her she didn't want to know.  He quickly kissed her on the forehead, smiled boyishly, and was gone before she could move.  Not that she knew what she would have done.  She stood where he had left her, dazed with a wealth of new found knowledge that she would just as soon forget.

    Nick made his way to the Raven, going straight to LaCroix's broadcast booth, where he sensed his master.  He looked briefly around the main bar area, but Andovar was not there.
    "Nicholas?" asked LaCroix, flipping his console to music.  He was surprised to see Nicholas, even more surprised to sense a new zest in him, a thrill in a hunt.
    "LaCroix.  Do you know where Andovar is?"
    LaCroix was not about to answer questions, even from Nicholas, without knowing why they were being asked.  Nicholas stopped his eager questioning long enough to tell the story of the raped, murdered look-alikes and his own theory.  LaCroix steepled his fingers and gazed at Nicholas intently.
    In past days, he would have ridiculed the younger man for his pathetic interest in mortals, his maudlin morality that caused him to chase other vampires.  Now, seeing past the hurt he had felt for so long, seeing clearly at last, he saw also the joy of the hunt; saw his son vibrant, filled with purpose.  Instead of squashing him, refusing to help him, he would encourage this joy that Nicholas had found somewhere, somehow, in spite of all LaCroix's best efforts.
    "Believe me, Nicholas, I would tell you if I could.  Unfortunately, I do not know."
    "LaCroix, everyone knows you know everything."
    "I have been, er, distracted lately.  Something more important," he paused, looking meaningfully at his son, "has occupied my thoughts of late."
    Nicholas looked taken aback.  "Indeed."
    "Indeed.  When you have time, I would like to discuss my thoughts with you."
     "With me."  This was unprecedented.  "I can make time.  Now, if you'd like."
    LaCroix began gathering his papers.  "Perhaps somewhere more private? A back room?"
    Nicholas noticed the crowd in the Raven watching them as they stood in the glass walled booth.  A back room would definitely be a better idea.  He nodded, then followed LaCroix to his private office.  The eyes at the bar watched, quietly amazed;  Nick and LaCroix had, it seemed, entirely changed their relationship in the last couple of days.  Only two nights ago, Nick had looked, well, punished was the only word possible.  Now he looked happy, almost joyous, in the same company.  It made no sense.
    LaCroix took the chair behind the desk, indicating to Nicholas he should take the one before it.  Nicholas, wondering at the lack of power plays, sat, prepared to listen.  LaCroix steepled his fingers again, gazing benignly at his son.  "<Mon fils,>" he began, "since we last shared blood, I have had occasion for a great deal of thought.  About you.  About <us.>  About how I have treated you, and why."  He placed his palms flat on the table, and leaned forward intently.  "I would like us to make a new start, Nicholas; forget the acrimony of the past and begin anew."
    Nicholas moved uncomfortably in his chair; he didn't think he could forget the past.
     "Wait, Nicholas; I know that is impossible.  What I am asking is a chance to show you, to prove to you, that I am in earnest.  I know it is impossible for you to just trust me again, after what I've done in the past.  I know it is impossible to expect you to just welcome me back with open arms.  So I have decided," he paused, gazing consideringly at Nicholas,  "I have decided to change our relationship unilaterally.  You may react however you will; I will no longer chase you and punish you.  I will no longer seek to control you, seek to remake you in my own image."
    "What do you mean?" asked Nicholas, suspicious, not comprehending.
    LaCroix sighed.  "I mean, you may live your own life, your own way; I will not interfere."  He sighed again.  "Let me rephrase that.  I will do my best not to interfere.  You may pursue your mortal lover freely; I will seek no revenge. I waited 97 years, once;  I can wait again."  He paused as Nicholas assimilated his meaning;  LaCroix had waited patiently through all the years of Nicholas's marriage to Janette, never hinting at his own desires.  "You may seek happiness in whatever way pleases you; I will not deter you.  You may seek mortality, if that is your wish, and I will not stand in your way.  I will hope, on this last, that you do not find it; but I will not stop you."
    "You're giving me my freedom?"
    "Exactly, Nicholas."
    "Why?"  Hard lessons had taught Nick skepticism.
    "Because I wish it, Nicholas."  He looked at Nick squarely.  "Because I have had to reassess my actions of the last centuries.  Because I owe you."
    Nick looked at him measuringly.  LaCroix gazed back benignly.  Nick clearly reserved judgment; LaCroix would have to prove he meant what he said.  Nick had been deceived before.
    "Prove it," Nick challenged.  "Teach me how to block you out of my mind."  There could be no freedom without this basic privacy.
    LaCroix stood and faced the bookcase behind him, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.  He had known it might come to this; he didn't know what Nicholas's response would be.  "I cannot," he said at last.
    "Huh."  Nick's single word response perfectly captured his disbelief.
    "Nicholas, I cannot,"  LaCroix turned back to him and explained.  "It is something in our line, Qu'Ra's line.  I could never block Divia out, and you can't block me out.  Qu'Ra might have known how, but he didn't teach Divia and she didn't teach me."  He paused.  "Actually, Nicholas, you know more about blocking than any other vampire I've met.  Most of us can't even tell you're there, if you don't want us to."
    "I thought you said that was because I was weak, was becoming mortal."
    "I lied."  <Again,> thought Nick.  "Again," acknowledged LaCroix.  "I would teach you if I could; please believe that.  But every time you've learned or thought up a new blocking technique, it's worked for a while.  I can't read you for a day, or a week, or even a month, but whether I try or not,  soon enough our mental bond reforms.  You're just back."  He shrugged.  "Something in the bloodline."
    Nicholas tilted his head, regarding LaCroix intently, then shook his head.
    LaCroix sighed again.  "Nicholas, I'll do what I can.  I'll do my best to stay out of your head."
    Only time would tell, thought Nick.  Fortunately, they had a lot of that.  In the meanwhile, Nick decided to ask, "Will you help me when I ask you to?"
    LaCroix raised an eyebrow in surprise.  "Certainly."  He had not thought Nicholas would take his concessions quite so calmly, but upon reflection, he realized Nicholas did not entirely believe him.  He merely suspected some further subterfuge.  Still, to whatever extent Nicholas wished him in his life, he would oblige him.
    Nick let his eagerness resurface.  "Help me find Andovar."  He had a plan; it required LaCroix's help.  He laid it out for him.
    "You're kidding."  LaCroix was nonplused.  "After all this time, I give you the freedom you want, and instead you ask me for this?"
    "In addition."
    "To sell you to Andovar?  No.  No!  I just told you, you are your own.  Not mine.  Not mine to use, not mine to sell."
    "To pretend to sell." Nick spoke persuasively.  "I need to meet him alone, without anyone interfering.  He won't meet me if he thinks I'm after him, and you're in the background, protecting me."  LaCroix snorted.  "We both know, one on one I can defeat him.  But he's the type to bring along reinforcements, just in case."  LaCroix stood and began pacing uncomfortably.  "Please, LaCroix.  I have to stop him, you know I do.  I can't bear him killing mortals because they look like me."
    LaCroix stopped and faced his son, looking into his eyes.  "I know, <mon fils,> I know."  As much as he might denigrate Nicholas for his feelings, he had no doubt they were real.  And inescapable.  <Well,> he mused,  <Andovar is the kind who would attack with a crowd if he thought I'd let him get away with it; this way, I can set some terms, provide Nicholas with some protection, anyway.>  "All right,"  he conceded, reluctantly.  "But if this goes wrong, remember whose plan it was."
    Nick nodded in grateful assent.
    "I suggest we have a fight."  Nick looked taken aback.  "Really, Nicholas, the trap must be baited with some care.  I can't just go up to him and tell him you're his, can I?"
    Nick nodded slowly, understanding dawning.  "You're always scheming, always looking for some devious new way to torment me," he began, tentatively at first, then gaining steam.  He raked up still-fresh memories of earlier conflicts with his master to trigger the easy anger, the reflexive resentment.
    "Really, Nicholas, if you would stay away from mortals you wouldn't get hurt."
    Nick snorted, reaching for the door.  "If you would stay away from me, I wouldn't get hurt."
    "You are my son, you owe me respect!"  LaCroix was working up a good head of righteous anger.  The vampires in the crowd outside would sense their angry emanations; a shouting match alone would be insufficient.  <Amazing,> he reflected, <how we can just push each other's buttons and generate anger, without even listening or meaning to.>
    "You owe me freedom!"  Nicholas returned, and resolutely stormed from the room.  He stalked across the bar, unhappiness written in every line of his body, sullen defeat and angry defiance emanating in waves.
    LaCroix watched him admiringly.  <Really, the boy could do the unhappiness bit well.  Course,> he reflected more soberly, <he's had plenty of practice.>  He waited a few moments, then stalked into the bar room as well, where he let anger wash out from him in waves.  The anger was really directed at Andovar, for putting him in this situation, for interrupting his current détente with his son, but  it was real anger nonetheless, and very effectively suffused the entire room.  He stopped at the bar long enough to curtly order and receive the house special, then stalked to his broadcast booth and began a menacing monologue about filial responsibilities.
    Andovar had come into the Raven while Nick and LaCroix spoke in the back.   Drinking with his new found friends on the far side of the bar,  he looked on speculatively.  LaCroix and Nicholas had always had a volatile relationship; perhaps the time was ripe to again approach LaCroix.
    "What is it with those two?" speculated Mardale.  "Three days ago, it was like, best friend city.   Then, punishment central.  Today, we're back to normal."
    "Yes," Andovar said quietly, "dear Nicholas did look unhappy."  <And LaCroix looked very angry.>
    Mardale turned and looked at him suddenly, discerning a new tone in his voice.   "Are you planning something?  Something for 'dear Nicholas'?"
    The other fledges all turned their attention to Andovar.  "Yes," he replied.  "Perhaps the time is right."  His friends snickered quietly.  Andovar rose and walked over to LaCroix's booth.
    He paused outside a moment, listening to the monologue on the monitor.  LaCroix was in prime form tonight, holding forth on a number of topics that must be making Nicholas squirm.  From the diabolical pleasure on LaCroix's face, Andovar surmised that Nicholas was, in fact, listening in.  He waited quietly, until LaCroix suddenly threw the  headphones down in disgust, flipping over to music.  <Nicholas must have turned him off,> thought Andovar. <Better and better.>
    LaCroix watched sardonically as Andovar entered the booth.  The fish was well and truly hooked; the bait swallowed.  LaCroix sat back in his chair, and let Andovar talk him into withdrawing his protection from Nicholas. On LaCroix's terms.

Chapter 6

    Natalie anxiously rang the buzzer on Nick's door, hoping he was home.  Their earlier conversation had left her on tenterhooks;  torn between the need to know more and the fear of that knowledge.  <Was Nick coping?  Did he have a plan to stop this rogue?>  She was relieved when the lock buzzed open, and went up the elevator tensely.
    "Nick?" she asked, as she entered.  He emerged from the shadows at the far side of the staircase, a goblet in hand.  "I was worried about you, Nick.  Tracy said you booked off."
    "Yea," he replied, before taking a large swallow from his drink.  His face was still shadowed, his expression unreadable.  Natalie felt she was facing a stranger.
    "What is it, Nick?  Is LaCroix -- "  she broke off.
    Nick looked confused a moment.  "No, he's fine; we're fine.  It's the other -- "  he broke off in turn.  "You shouldn't be here, Natalie."
    Natalie made a sudden intuitive leap, linking Nick's remote distraction with her own fears.  "He's coming for you?"
    Nick just nodded.
    "LaCroix <sold> you?  That, that unmitigated bas--"
    "I asked him to, Nat.  Andovar'll come here, and I'll fight him, stop him from killing."
    "But what if he beats you?"
    "He won't."
    "What if he brings reinforcements, cheats?"
    Nick smiled thinly.  "LaCroix set the terms.  If he defies LaCroix, he'll regret it. And he knows it."  Nick poured himself another glass.  "Nat, you need to leave."
    "But Nick -- " Natalie swallowed hard, fighting hysteria.  "There must be a less dangerous way.  You could be killed."
    "No, Nat."  Natalie blinked back a tear at his calm acceptance.  "<I'll> survive.  Whatever happens, I will survive."  Nick sounded almost bitter.
    Nat swallowed again, hard.  Even if he was defeated, his wounds would heal.  The physical ones, at least. . .  The emotional wounds. . .  she broke the thought off.  "Who'll stop him if something happens to you?"
    Nick looked straight at her, somber and silent.
    "Oh," she faltered, understanding.  If Nick lost the battle, Andovar would satisfy himself. . . on Nick.  Either way, the killing would be over.
    Nick saw the revolted understanding in her eyes.  "Please go home, Nat."
    "No.  No.  I need to be here.  You may need me.  You might be hurt--"
    "No, Natalie, I need you safe.  I need to know you won't be swept up in it. Please, just go home."  Nick took another swallow, then suddenly swung around to stare at the skylight.  "Too late," he whispered.  He turned and grabbed Natalie by the forearms.  "Stay here," he said forcefully.  "Whatever happens, stay here."
    "No, Nick, I--"
    "Stay here.  Promise me!"  She looked at him searchingly, but did not answer, and Nick demanded again, "Promise me!"
    The enormity of his sacrifice demanded her compliance.  She nodded, unable to speak.  He kissed her fiercely, then sailed up to the skylight and out onto the roof.

    The rooftop was dark, lit only by the reflected glow of the night sky, but not too dark for vampiric vision.  Nick knew the contours well, and quickly located the visitor.  "Andovar."
    "Nicholas," acknowledged the other.  "We meet again."  He stalked towards Nick.  "LaCroix has once again withdrawn his protection from you."  He smiled toothily, fangs showing.  "He feels you are once again in need of a lesson, and that I am, once again, the one to provide it."
    Nick smiled slightly, letting his fang tips show.  "Those who presume to speak for LaCroix often find their presumptions... er... squelched."
    "You know what I'm here for, Nicholas."  He began circling to the right.
    "But you don't know what <I'm> here for."  Nicholas pivoted, facing Andovar.  "You must stop these killings."
    Andovar feinted forward briefly.  "Must I?"
    Nicholas held his ground.  "You must.  They can not give you what you seek; they have not the strength to challenge you."
    "Do you?" Andovar snarled rhetorically, before launching his whole body at Nick.  He dived straight for Nick's neck, fangs bared, a snarl in his throat.  Nick stepped aside at the last moment, his speed so surprising that the other vampire hurtled past.   Andovar drew himself back up and turned.  "I will get what I seek from <you>," he snarled.
    Nick gazed at him, unmoved.  "No, you won't."
    "Ah, Nicholas, you never quit.  That's what I most like about you." Andovar circled again, looking for his best opening.  "You'll fight until you're a bloody lump, you'll never submit as long as an ounce of strength remains.  And then, when I've defeated you, I'll relish your body, your blood, your defeat, all the more."
    Nick felt his stomach turn.  The vampire was sick, as sick as ever.  He remained outwardly stoic.  "You can try."
    Andovar rushed him again, and this time Nick did not avoid the clinch.  The two vampires each grabbed the other by the throat, throttling and twisting for position.  Andovar reared back and broke away first.  "You've gotten stronger, Nicholas," he panted.  "But not strong enough."  He again launched himself at Nick.

    Back at the Raven, Miklos led a reluctant William into the back room to talk to LaCroix.  "Miklos, couldn't you just tell him?  Why do I have to?"  the younger man whined.
    LaCroix turned his swivel chair to face them, looking up in mild inquiry.  He had closeted himself here, to brood, to wait, to worry while Nicholas fought Andovar.  If Miklos was interrupting, it must be important.
    "LaCroix," began Miklos, tentatively, "William overheard something at the bar we think you should know about."  LaCroix turned his attention to William, and Miklos poked him in the back to encourage him to start.
    "Er, ahh," he began, strangled with fear.  Miklos poked him again.  "My friends were, uh, talking about Nick?  And Andovar?"  LaCroix's interest sharpened, and he motioned for William to continue.  "They said Andovar is planning to, uh, beat Nick up tonight."
    LaCroix sighed.  "Yes, I know.  But plans and execution are two different things."
    "Yes, but that's not why I --"  William paused, and Miklos poked him again.  "My   friends--"  William suddenly thought twice about aligning himself with that particular group.  "Uhh... some guys at the bar decided they wanted to get in on it, too."  LaCroix glanced at Miklos, who nodded.  "They want to watch, maybe even help Andovar.  I, well, I kinda had a feeling you might like to know."  William looked scared, and turned to Miklos for support.  "I told Miklos, but he said I should tell you."
    "Did Andovar know?"
    "Yeah.  He kinda told them to stay away, but not like he meant it.  I know they're going, anyway."
    "Thank you, William; you did well to tell me."  LaCroix excused his two employees smoothly, exchanging a significant look with Miklos.  He sat back in his chair as they left, thinking.  Andovar had, it appeared, significantly violated the terms of the agreement.  Even if he was getting more of a fight than he had expected, that was cheating. LaCroix would not be cheated.  Not to mention, this might cause Nicholas more than a bit of difficulty; he was strong, but not that strong.
    Still, would Nicholas welcome his interference?  Probably not.  Nevertheless, LaCroix decided, Andovar's actions were an affront to him, LaCroix; a personal assault on his sovereignty over his offspring.  He could enter this situation on his own behalf, not just Nicholas's.  At the very least, he could monitor the situation from closer at hand.  He rose and walked serenely into the bar area.
    Vachon was sitting on a barstool, rapturously sipping a glass of the house best.  LaCroix gathered him up with a glance, and they left together.  <You never knew,> mused LaCroix, <when an ally might be useful.  Nicholas did have a real gift for getting more than he bargained for.>

    On the roof, Nicholas and Andovar fought on.  Once again, the two predators circled, each watching the other closely for any opening; each ready to fend off any attack by the other.  Nicholas, it was clear, had so far gotten the best of it; he was still fully clothed and intact.  Andovar, on the other hand, had had his shirt half ripped off.  Bloodstains from several already healed wounds were clearly visible, and a still open wound on his neck dripped slowly.  The two were well-matched; Nicholas had, perhaps, a slight edge, but it was Andovar's overconfidence which had made the difference so far.
    Nicholas was content to wait for an opening;  killing was not his real goal.  If he could just get Andovar to stop his sick torturing of mortals, he would be content.  Andovar, on the other hand, had lost all sense of tactics, of strategy, and just let the beast loose.  He wanted to hurt, to humiliate, to utterly defeat and then possess the vampire before him.  He was more interested in removing Nick's clothing, so he could enjoy the sight of his soon to be marred beauty, than in defending himself.  He lunged, and Nick deftly sidestepped, planting a fist firmly in the other's midsection as he passed.  Andovar gasped for breath as he turned back, preparing to lunge again.
    Nick suddenly turned to the side as four young vampires landed on the roof top.  Andovar, totally immersed in his attack, didn't even notice them, but Nick was distracted for a crucial instant.  Andovar lunged and caught him around the midsection.  His fangs slashed for the vulnerable jugular, but Nick was able to twist aside, landing heavily on his back half across the skylight.  Andovar smashed down onto him, grappling and clutching, trying to bang his head through the glass.  Nick squirmed and heaved, and finally managed to free himself, but not before tearing open his shirt and sustaining several bite wounds near his neck.
    The young vampires, watching, began catcalling, egging Andovar on to new heights of violence.  Nick kept a wary eye on them as he and Andovar again began circling.  "C'mon, Andovar, take the wuss," shouted Mardale.
    "Hey, Andovar," hooted another, "you look like hell!  Who's winning, anyway?"  Andovar, his attention called to the audience, paused in his attack.  He drew himself up, thrusting his chest out and looking strong, in control.  "I but toy with him a bit," he boasted.  "Anticipation heightens the enjoyment."
    Nick did not respond, just eyed the unwelcome visitors warily as he continued to circle.  <These had not been in the bargain; had LaCroix betrayed him?  How far would they go?>  He had long ignored their animosity;  it was part and parcel of LaCroix's long campaign to isolate him so he would, in the end, have to turn to LaCroix.  The visitors and Andovar continued to exchange 'witty' repartee at his expense; it was, Nick knew, restoking Andovar's commitment and anger.  And the respite, while allowing Nick to heal a bit, was doing the same for Andovar.  He snarled, drawing Andovar's attention back, and taunted him.
    "Need reinforcements, Andovar?  Not man enough to take me yourself?"  He released the tight shield he always kept around his mind, and allowed those on the rooftop  to feel who -- what -- they were really confronting:  an old, powerful vampire, not an almost-mortal.  He ran his crimson gaze around the circle of watchers, his aura quelling them instantly, his malevolence and strength shocking them.  He turned his attention back to Andovar, hoping he had stifled any thoughts of interference the others might have had.

    Downstairs, Natalie gazed fearfully up at the skylight and worried.  She could tell, by the sounds and the various shadows that fell across the glass, that more than two individuals were present on the roof.  She knew that was not part of Nick's plan.  She knew he had been fairly confident of his chances against Andovar, but that prevailing even against him had not been a certainty.
    <What if the others were helping Andovar?  What was happening to Nick?>  She couldn't make out much of the actual battle, only the disjointed bumps and thuds she could hear but not interpret.  The only thing she had actually <seen> was Nick, sprawled on his back over the skylight, the other vampire banging Nick's head on the tempered glass repeatedly.  She knew it was Nick on the bottom;  just enough light had reflected off his fair hair for her to be sure.
    <Was Nick losing?  Why were the others there?  Had LaCroix betrayed him again?>  Natalie couldn't tell what was going on.  She paced the floor.  She bit her nails.  <Should she go to him?  No; he'd said wait; she'd promised.>
    She hadn't heard much for a while.  <Was it over?  Were the others still there?  Should she -- ?  No.  If he were dead, there'd be nothing she could do.  If he were hurt, he'd come down as soon as he could -- all he'd have to do was open the skylight.  But what if he was too hurt to move?>  Natalie dithered.  <She'd wait until just before dawn.  The others would have had to leave by then; she'd be safe and she could help him then.  As long as he wasn't killed outright, he'd last until dawn.>  Decision made, she steeled herself to wait.
    A long, rattling thud signaled that the battle was still in progress.  She saw Nick, eyes blazing, struggling with another man as both hurtled, half flying, across the skylight.  Nick again landed on the bottom but again pulled free.  More shadows fell across the skylight as the audience moved to follow the action.  Nick was fighting a crowd, an ugly, rapacious crowd, and he was alone. Natalie could stand it no longer.  She abandoned the struggle to remain sensible, and opened the door to the fire escape.

    Half a block away, LaCroix and Vachon watched from atop another building.  LaCroix had ascertained that Nicholas was in no serious difficulty;  the audience was loud but not actively involved.  He started forward, at one point, as Mardale reached out and tripped Nicholas, allowing Andovar to regain the offensive, but Nicholas recovered and slammed Andovar to the ground.  Even so far away, LaCroix heard Nicholas's roar of warning, and felt him again focus his aura on his tormentors.  They backed off.
    "He's holding his own,"  LaCroix remarked with satisfaction.  "We'll let him handle it."  Vachon looked at him questioningly.  LaCroix shook his head.  "He never welcomes rescuers."
    Vachon nodded, wondering if Nick would consider it rescue, or interference.  He answered cryptically. "Yeah.  Wow, I can feel his anger from here.  He's never that loud."  He looked toward Nick's audience.  "I'm surprised they haven't taken off for distant places; they must know you're here."
    "I'm blocking."
    Vachon raised an eyebrow in question.  "Neat trick.  Where'd you learn that?"  Vachon was just making nervous conversation, trying to ease the tension he felt watching his friend and sometime lover being attacked, but LaCroix answered him absently.
    "Actually,"  he responded, "it's something I learned from Nicholas."  Before Vachon could respond with more than a surprised look, he continued.  "Blast!  Why is she -- ?"  He took off flying toward the distant rooftop, and Vachon looked over to see Natalie climbing the fire escape.  <Damn,> he thought, and followed LaCroix.

    On the rooftop, Nick again evaded Andovar's attempt to get him in a clinch.  He again stared down Mardale, and let his red glare warn off the others.  Just as Andovar again gathered himself to strike, Natalie appeared on the fire escape.
    Nick froze.  "Natalie!"  Her name was torn from him as he took a step toward her. Natalie looked at him just in time to see Andovar launch himself and knock Nick sprawling to the ground.  She gulped.  Her presence had distracted him at a critical moment.  She turned to escape back down the fire escape, but Mardale, moving too fast for a mere mortal to evade him, grabbed her and held her.
    Nick threw Andovar off his back, and turned to help Natalie.  Mardale, tauntingly, began to tease him.  "Well, well, well, if it's not dear Nicky's little pet.  What shall I do with it?"
    The others moved to support him, offering various ribald suggestions.  Nick, having lost all interest in anything but Natalie, went down, hard, as Andovar again tackled him from the rear, this time flattening him and straddling him.  Natalie closed her eyes in anguished dismay, knowing that she should not have come.  Nick freed himself with some difficulty, losing his shirt and a lot of skin in the process.  He lurched toward her.
    "Unh, unh, unh," taunted Mardale, stopping Nick momentarily.  "Don't come any closer if you want her safe!"  Andovar again tackled Nick, but Nick sidestepped just in time.  His motion took him closer to Natalie, and Mardale continued.  "I warned you, pretty boy," he gloated as he took Natalie to the edge and threw her over.
    Nick instantly took off to rescue her, ignoring everything else, but Andovar took advantage of the distraction and again tackled him.  Nick just kept crawling toward the edge, too desperate to save Natalie to spare any effort on Andovar.  Andovar, fingers crooked like talons, slashed Nick's face, relishing the blood that began flowing.  He moved down, slowing Nick's single-minded pursuit, taking the opportunity to sink his fangs into Nick's neck.
    The uninvited audience crowded closer, keeping Nick from the edge and egging Andovar on, when Vachon alit behind them with a whoosh.  "Idiots!"  he began, attracting their attention.  "LaCroix's here, and he's angry."
    The four began looking around nervously.  They backed off from Nick, feeling for LaCroix -- finding him.  They looked at each other, at Vachon, in panic.
    "Shoo," urged Vachon.  The young fledges stampeded into flight, each trying to out race the others as they fled the overwhelming threat of LaCroix's indubitable wrath.
    Vachon had just turned his attention back to Nick and Andovar when LaCroix reappeared,  landing heavily on the roof with a screaming, struggling Natalie held securely in his arms.  He placed the terrified mortal on her feet, holding her just tightly enough to prevent her from hurting herself in a panic.
    Natalie, calming a little, turned horrified eyes toward Nick.  She could see he was much worse off now than he had been; her presence had hurt, not helped. She was overwhelmed with remorse, but could no more help him now than she could before.  She turned to LaCroix.  "Help him, oh God please help him."  She wrung her hands.  "It's all my fault," she moaned.  "Oh, God."
    Andovar, distracted by all the activity and secure in his mastery of his opponent, withdrew his fangs from Nick and looked up at LaCroix, snarling.  "Get out!  We had a deal!"  Nick, weakened by blood loss but inexplicably strengthened by LaCroix's presence, heartened by LaCroix's unstinting rescue of Natalie, managed to throw Andovar off.  Andovar ignored him, addressing himself instead to LaCroix.  "He's mine!  We had a deal!"
    LaCroix just eyed him stonily, holding back his own instinctive protective response.  <What would be would be.  Nicholas had chosen this course, and he would support him.  Nicholas,> he forced himself to remember, <must have his chance, but if he failed. . .   LaCroix would not.>
    LaCroix held Andovar's attention wordlessly, keeping him distracted while Nicholas tried to recover himself.  Andovar raised himself from his knees, looking quickly about him.  His gaze settled on Natalie.  <She was the one . . . LaCroix wouldn't have come if it weren't for her.>  He started toward her, the coward in him seeking to punish the weakest target available for his discomfiture.  Nicholas could wait; he was half drained already and Natalie's death would take the heart out of him.
    Natalie shrank back against LaCroix.  Nick, seeing Andovar start for her, found strength somewhere to attack.  He flung himself at the other vampire, heedless of his own injuries, roaring with rage.  The beast inside him took over completely, rage and bloodlust combining to substitute for lost strength.  He grabbed his enemy around the throat, throttling him, dragging his neck within reach of his aching fangs.  He roared again, then struck the jugular like a rattlesnake.
    Andovar, reacting too slowly to the threat behind him, tried to throw him off, but the vampire in Nick had waited to be unleashed for far too long.  He guzzled down the hot blood, sucking it out in an orgy of hatred and rage.  Nick grew stronger and stronger as his opponent grew weaker and weaker, until at last Andovar stopped struggling.  Nick, still in the grip of the vampire, slammed Andovar down against the edge of the skylight.  The abused frame split, and Nick ripped off a jagged piece of wood.  The cracked glass pulled free, falling to the loft floor below in a shattering cascade.  Nick held the stake over his head, waiting until Andovar saw, until he realized that death was upon him.  Seeing the horrified awareness in Andovar's eyes, Nick savagely thrust the stake through his enemy's heart.
    Andovar shrieked in agony, every muscle spasming, then collapsed and was still.  Nick held the stake in place, crouching over his prey.  He was a wild animal, protecting his kill from other predators who would try to steal it.  He looked wildly at Vachon, who backed off uneasily, then up at Natalie and LaCroix.  LaCroix looked at him proudly, enjoying Nicholas's triumph.  Nicholas snarled again, and Natalie shrank back further into LaCroix's arms, turning away from the primal force of nature that was Nicholas.
    The sight of Nat cowering from him brought Nick back to his senses.  He stood, abandoning Andovar's corpse, and took a step forward.  Natalie cringed.  Suddenly, the feral light faded from Nick's eyes, returning them to their usual blue.  He swallowed hard, grinding his teeth together until his fangs receded.  "Natalie . . . " he whispered.
    Natalie turned back to him, shaking.  He stood before her, half naked, bruised and battered, his own blood smeared with Andovar's on his chest, but all Natalie saw was the bright red still staining his face, Andovar's life's blood still dripping from his jaws. "NO!" she gasped, cringing again.
    Nick stopped as if he had been hit by a truck.  His eyes showed his pain.  He had revealed his vampire self to his mortal love and she had been repulsed.  As he had always feared, the reality of the vampire had overwhelmed the image of the human he tried so hard to maintain.  He looked down at Andovar, then over at Vachon, sensing the other's shock at what he had seen.  Vachon recognized the necessity of his actions, and knew what the beast was like, but he was still shocked by the power, the whirling dark maelstrom of bestiality that was Nick. The implacable force of Nick's vampire aroused the vampire within him, and he growled through his fangs in recognition and desire.
    Nick turned his gaze to LaCroix, who nodded serenely in acknowledgment and pride.  <This, this was his son; this was what he had been made to be.>
    Nick looked at Natalie, and saw only stunned shock and revulsion.  <Damn, he was tired.>  He took a step toward her, but stopped when she shrank back.  His head whirled.  The world began whirling, and he staggered.
    Natalie watched wordlessly as Nick crumpled into a heap.  Only after he had fainted dead away was she able to react, to run forward calling his name.  She sank onto her knees beside him, pulling his head back, trying to awaken him.
    "A bit late, don't you think, Doctor?"  LaCroix asked smoothly.  "He can't hear you now."  Natalie looked up at him, tears starting to run down her face.  "You already made your opinion of him quite clear to him, I think."
    "No, I -- no, no."  Natalie shook Nick gently.  "Wake up, Nick, come back to me."  She turned to LaCroix.  "It's almost dawn, we have to get him inside.  Help me."
    "I will take care of him."
    "But he needs help, he's injured.  I'm a doctor, it's what I do --"
    "Not this time, Doctor; not this patient."  LaCroix kept his voice gentle, though he was seething inside.  <This mortal had dared to hurt his son!> He restrained himself with great effort.  Nicholas would be unhappy if LaCroix punished her for it.
    Vachon stepped into the breach.  "Natalie, let me take you home.  You can't help him;  he'll be ravenous when he wakes up."
    Natalie shook her head.  She would stay with him; he wouldn't hurt her.  The risk was hers to take.  "It's my life.  I'll risk it if I want."
     "No, Natalie.  If he killed you before he really came back to himself, he'd never forgive himself.  Never.  It would kill him."  He willed her to understand.  "You'd risk his life, as well."
    Natalie gazed into the solemn brown eyes of the young vampire.  She knew him; she'd seen his gentleness, his compassion when his friend Screed lay dying.  Nick trusted him with Tracy.  She'd trust him.  She nodded silently, holding back the sobs. Vachon nodded.  "LaCroix will take care of him.  Come, I'll take you home."  He led her away, down the fire escape to the street where her car was parked.
    LaCroix gathered Nicholas's unconscious body up gently, holding him in his arms a moment, gazing at him with pride and compassion.  Nicholas might have feelings and beliefs he didn't hold with; might pursue a lifestyle that was repugnant to LaCroix, but still he was a son to be proud of; a being to be loved and cherished.  LaCroix stepped through the broken skylight, alighting with his burden gently in the room below.

Chapter 7

    LaCroix laid his son down gently on the leather sofa, gazing at him consideringly for a moment.  He sighed, then made his way to the refrigerator, skirting the shattered glass from the skylight.  He carefully selected a bottle, then returned to Nicholas. Easing his arm under the unconscious man's shoulders and lifting him slightly, he placed the bottle to his slack lips and poured in a little.  He waited until the liquid flowed down his throat, then gently, carefully, poured in more.
    He continued, until at last, gasping, Nicholas awoke.  A moment passed while Nicholas recollected where he was, and assimilated what had happened.  LaCroix waited patiently until Nicholas looked up at him with full awareness in his eyes.  "More of this?" asked LaCroix.  "Or if you would rather --" he suggested, offering his bare wrist in mute suggestion.
    "It was cow?"  Nicholas knew it was; he was actually questioning LaCroix's motive.
    "Yes, Nicholas, cow.  I told you I'm not making decisions for you; it's your choice."
    Nicholas stared at him, his tired mind struggling to understand.  LaCroix could have poured human blood down his throat, or even his own blood, but had decided to leave that decision to Nicholas.  By giving him enough of the cow blood to return to consciousness, he was giving him control over his own recovery.  Nicholas was stunned, unsure. "Then I want," he began, then faltered before continuing, "you."
    LaCroix bit into his own wrist, tearing open the veins, letting the blood flow invitingly before holding it down for Nicholas to bite.  He waited expressionlessly for Nicholas to follow through; knowing his blood was what his son needed, hoping he would accept it.
    Nicholas watched him, smelled the powerful blood flowing tantalizingly before him, but held back a moment, suspicious still.  He would harm no one by taking it, he reasoned; the loss would hardly weaken LaCroix.  It was <not> human blood.  He surrendered, and allowed his fangs to drop as he attacked the offered wrist.  He drank avidly.
    LaCroix waited patiently, expressionlessly, until Nicholas at last released his wrist, falling back with a gasp.  "Thanks," he said quietly, closing his eyes and drifting into unconsciousness, fang tips still showing.  LaCroix lowered him back onto the cushions, watching passively as he relaxed into slumber, then shaking his head.  Nicholas hadn't been able to take enough blood; he would need more to heal properly.
    LaCroix made his way to the bathroom, and, as Vachon had done the night before, dampened a towel and brought it out.  He began to clean the blood and grime from his son's unconscious body, looking carefully at each wound.  All were healing, now; the power from his own blood was working.  He shook his head.  The emotional wounds, though, would have to heal in their own time.  Dr. Lambert's unfortunate reaction, on top of the trauma of her near-death, had profoundly affected Nicholas.  That, along with Nicholas's near-rape and defeat, had intensified the  emotional wounds of the still unresolved trauma of Nicholas's horrendous flashback. LaCroix continued his efforts, cleaning gently, until he worked his way up to Nicholas's face.  The cool damp towel awakened the half-conscious vampire.  Nicholas looked up at him groggily, passively.
    "Turn over, Nicholas," suggested LaCroix.  Nicholas muzzily tried to obey, but  LaCroix did most of the work.  He continued cleaning the battered body, washing out a long slice across the lower back, picking out glass and gravel from the roof top.  Healing would be easier with clean wounds, and it was something he could do for his son.  He continued, working his way up to the golden hair, matted now with blood and grime.  He stroked the towel over it carefully.  He couldn't really clean it this way, but he could get the worst off.  Nicholas fell back to sleep beneath his gentle ministrations.
    Nicholas didn't awaken until LaCroix had carried him upstairs and was gently undressing him, preparing him for bed.  Nicholas held grimly onto his pants, resisting their removal, until he realized it was LaCroix, and not Andovar; that Andovar was dead and would never have him again.  He sighed.  "Sorry."  LaCroix just nodded; Nicholas's initial panic and wild thoughts as clear to him as if he had spoken.  He continued helping the barely conscious man into his black silk pajamas and tucked him in.
    "LaCroix," Nicholas whispered, just as the ancient was about to leave.  He turned back.  "Why did you ever make me?"
    "You know why, Nicholas."
    "No."  Nicholas shook his head slightly.  "Why?"
    LaCroix came back into the room, and sat carefully on the edge of the bed.  He allowed his consternation to show, briefly, then shook his head.  "To be a companion."  The answer was so simple, so obvious to him.  "Someone I could love."
    Nicholas shook his head, slowly.  It didn't make sense to him.  LaCroix waited.  "No," Nicholas continued at last.  "You never <let> me be that to you."  He  faltered, pausing for  a long moment.  "Even if we were mortals," he continued more  strongly, "you'd be stronger than me.  Bigger, heavier.  Even if we were mortals, I could only be what you let me be.  You could force me to be what you wanted."   Another long pause, then Nicholas continued, pain showing.  "But we're vampires.  And you're over 1,200 years older than me.  A millennium stronger.  I'll never catch up; never be an equal.  We're tied together, I'll never escape; you'll never escape."  Pain showed in his voice, his face.  "In almost eight centuries, you've never let me be your friend."
    LaCroix was taken aback; it was true.  He had always dictated the role Nicholas was to play, be it son, pupil, slave, lover, enemy, rival, target, whatever.  He opened his mouth to answer, but Nicholas was continuing.
    "You have a picture in your head, LaCroix, a picture of what you want me to be.  The vampire you want me to be."  LaCroix nodded in reluctant acknowledgment.  Nicholas continued drowsily.  "And Natalie has a picture of me in her head, the mortal she wants me to be."  Any disgust LaCroix felt at being lumped in with a mere mortal died unexpressed, as Nicholas opened his eyes and continued.  "No one," he said, exquisite pain showing in his darkened eyes, "no one wants the me that <is.>"
    LaCroix looked at him, speechless.  He had never realized.  Nicholas was caught between his two loves -- LaCroix pulling him to be more vampire, Natalie pulling him to be more human.  Neither wanted to accept less than the full potential they thought they saw.  Nicholas, caught between, was being torn apart trying to be what either, what both, wanted. He was losing himself, and all three would be the poorer for it.  LaCroix reached his hand out and cupped Nicholas's cheek tenderly.  "<Non, mon fils.>  We both want the you that is."
     Nicholas shook his head slowly from side to side.  "I gave you me, two centuries ago; all that there was.  And it wasn't enough."
    "Oh, Nicholas," LaCroix moaned, "it was enough. <You> were enough.  It was me that . . ."
    Nicholas wasn't listening, lost in pain.  "And tonight, Natalie saw me, the <real> me, and she was terrified.  She was . . . repulsed."  He ended in resigned despair.
    "No, Nicholas."  LaCroix's tone demanded his attention.  "She had just fallen --  been pushed -- off the top of a building.  She was terrified.  She was saved by her worst enemy -- me -- just in time to see what her interference had cost you.  She was overwrought.  I'm not sure she even recognized you; the whole situation was more than she could handle."
     Nicholas shook his head.  He'd seen the recognition, the look in her eyes.
    "Really, Nicholas, it's true.  As soon as you fainted, she came to her senses.  She ran to you, wanted to take care of you."  Nicholas looked at him, taken aback, then again shook his head.  "She loves you, Nicholas, and so do I.  The real you, that's so much more than the pictures we have in our heads."  He paused.  "Really, Nicholas," he said lightly, hiding the effort it took, "after her near-death experience, you have to forgive her if she isn't quite thinking straight."  He gritted his teeth.  "Give her a day or two to get over it."
    Nicholas closed his eyes, fatigue wearing him down.  It was too much to take in.  His head whirled.  He'd think about it, later.  When he wasn't so tired . . .

    Some hours later, sometime before sunset, the loft and Nicholas both presented a better face.  The glass had been cleared away; the skylight replaced.  Nicholas had showered and shaved, and sat quietly in pajamas and robe on the sofa.  His feet were tucked beneath him.  LaCroix was going through his CD collection, looking for something to listen to, when the security panel buzzed.  Both vampires looked at the monitor, to see Natalie standing uncertainly at the front door.  LaCroix, without comment, stood to buzz her in.
    Natalie came up in the elevator and slowly pulled open the door.  She knew LaCroix would be there; he would have stayed to care for Nick and been trapped by the dawn.  She was afraid of him, even after he had saved her life; he was an inscrutable old bastard who couldn't be trusted for a moment.  Even worse, though, she found she was afraid of Nick.  Afraid of, and afraid for.  She knew what she had done with her ill-judged appearance last night.  She knew he'd been hurt worse because of her.  She knew she'd placed him under a major obligation to LaCroix.  And worst of all, she knew she'd hurt him when she had cowered away from him.  Her own fall from the building, and LaCroix's swooping rescue, seemed like a dream to her, but Nick's face, hurt and bloody as he fainted, had followed her through her own troubled dreams.  She had to know that he was all right, to tell him what was in her heart.
    Natalie stepped tentatively out of the elevator, her eyes immediately finding Nick on the sofa.  LaCroix stepped forward from the security monitor, greeting her imperturbably.  "Hello, Dr. Lambert."  Natalie nodded in response.  At least the boogie man wasn't hiding somewhere, ready to leap out at her.
    "Thank you, LaCroix," she began tremulously.  He raised an eyebrow.  "For saving my life.  For catching me before I hit the ground."
    "You are quite welcome, Doctor, although I assure you it was incidental."  He looked down at his hands before continuing.  "I was merely saving Nicholas some pain."
    Natalie nodded.  "Nonetheless, thank you."  She turned to face Nick.  He stood now, not making a movement toward her, careful of frightening her.  He looked at her hopefully, but as she turned to LaCroix his face lost all expression, and he just stood there.  Suddenly, Natalie realized the problem.  He thought she was afraid of him; he remembered her abject cowering.  <He would.  Birthdays he could forget, but not a little misplaced fear!>  She calmed herself;  anger might help <her> cope with her fear, but it wouldn't help Nick cope with her fear.  She took her heart in her hands and crossed the room to stand before him.  "Nick!  Are you all right?"  She raised hands to open his robe, to see for herself.  "That other vampire hurt you, I know he did.  Are you healing?"
    Nick put his hands out and fended her off, gently but irresistibly.  "I'm fine, Nat; everything's healing fine."
    "Oh, Nick, I'm so sorry.  I never should've gone up there."
    "No, Nat, you shouldn't have.  But you did," returned Nick, resuming his seat, "and you saw what I really am."
    LaCroix tactfully retreated to the kitchen.  He'd have left them alone, if he could, but the sun was still up.  Natalie watched his retreating back, and forged on.
    "No, Nick, that's not what I meant."  Nick just stared at her, eyes dead, and she wondered at the extent of his injuries.  "Are you sure you're all right?"
    "Yes, physically.  I'm, well, I'm a little stretched, emotionally. And I'm tired."  Nick looked at her, eyes still dead.  "I'm not hungry."
    Natalie felt as if he had slapped her, then stopped her rising anger in its tracks.  He had reason to think she might fear his hunger, after all.  "I trust you, Nick.  I trusted you before, and I trust you now.  You're not going to hurt me, not if you can possibly help it."  Nat was rewarded by a slight warming in the glacial eyes before her, and sat down in the arm chair beside him.  "I was hysterical; completely overset by everything that happened.  I was afraid to even look at you, because I broke my promise, I betrayed <your> trust.  And I nearly got you killed, didn't I?"
    Nick gazed at her, unwilling to speak.
    "Vachon told me you'd have killed yourself if LaCroix hadn't caught me."  Nick nodded.  He wouldn't have been able to live with Natalie's death on his conscience.  "It would have been my own fault, Nick, not yours.  I promised to stay out of it, and I didn't."  Nick just looked away unhappily, so Nat continued.  "Sometimes, Nick, bad things just happen.  I don't always believe everything you tell me, I think I know better.  Last night,"  she swallowed hard, "last night proved to me that I don't.  That you've had 800 years to learn a few things I know nothing about, and that maybe I need to listen to you more."  She held out a hand.  "When it comes to vampires, you do know more."
    Nick accepted her hand solemnly, and she felt warmly rewarded.  "Someday I will hurt you, Natalie.  It is inevitable."  He gave her hand back, and Natalie looked at him, hurt.  He wasn't going to accept her apology.  Nick continued.  "Natalie, I want you too much, I need you too much.  Someday, I'll lose control.  Something will happen, and I'll hurt you.  I know it, and after last night, you know it too."
    Natalie looked at him, stricken.  Was he saying good-bye?  "No, Nick, there has to be a way, a way for us to be together.  The way we both want to be."
    LaCroix stepped quietly out of the kitchen, holding two full glasses in his hand.  He crossed the room, and set one beside Nicholas, another beside Natalie.  Nick picked his up with a smile of gratitude, while Natalie suspiciously regarded her own.  <It looked like a soda,> she mused, <but . . .>
    "Stop being so noble, Nicholas," LaCroix began.  Nick just looked at his drink silently.  LaCroix turned to Natalie.  "There is a way, Dr. Lambert."
    Natalie looked at Nick, who stared at his drink as if it contained the secrets of the ages.  Clearly he had no intention of telling her.  "Go on," she invited LaCroix.
    LaCroix also turned his attention to Nick.  He showed no signs of encouragement, but neither did he tell him to stop, so LaCroix continued.  "Nicholas can be with you, Doctor, without danger to you, if you," he paused, checking Nicholas carefully for stop signs, then continued, "if you include another vampire in your, er, plans."
    "Another vampire."
    "Yes.  As you know, Nicholas <must> bite, if he is to be satisfied.  So you must provide him with someone to bite, someone who won't be hurt.  It is really quite simple."
    "So, what, this other vampire just stands there, watching, until Nick needs to bite?"
    "No, Doctor; the other vampire must be actively involved.  If Nicholas is not aroused by the other vampire, if he's concentrating solely on you, only your blood will excite him, only biting <you> will satisfy him."
    Natalie turned and looked at Nick questioningly, not quite believing her ears.  Nick buried his face in his hands and refused to look at her.
    "So, what are you saying, LaCroix?" she asked, face reddening.  "That you and Nick would take turns with me?"  She couldn't believe Nick was letting LaCroix talk this way. <Was this the price LaCroix was exacting from Nick for rescuing her?>
    "Certainly not, Doctor," LaCroix seemed as affronted as she was.  "I am not attracted to <mortals,>" he said, as if it were a dirty word.  "Nicholas, of course, would have you; and I would, quite happily, I assure you, have Nicholas."
    Natalie felt her mouth drop open in stunned disbelief.
    "It need not be me, of course,"  LaCroix continued, unperturbed.  "I am sure that Vachon would happily oblige Nicholas.  Or Urs, for that matter, should you not wish to share him with a male."  LaCroix raised an eyebrow in question, but Natalie could not answer, still stunned.  "Of course, the division of Nicholas's attention would be a bit different, should you choose to share him with a female."
    Natalie felt herself gasping for air, feeling for all the world like a goldfish out of water.  She was aware of LaCroix's supercilious little smile as he enjoyed her discomfiture.
    "The decision," he continued, "is entirely up to you, Doctor.  And Nicholas, of course."  He looked from Dr. Lambert to Nicholas, and back, then casually walked back towards the kitchen.  "I'd leave you to discuss this in private if I could, Dr. Lambert, but I really don't want to get singed.  Leaves such a nasty aroma in the clothing."
    Natalie watched, speechless, as LaCroix retired, then turned back to Nick.  "Well."  She took a deep breath, as if to say something, then just let it out.  "Well."  Nick never moved, just stayed as he was, huddled on the sofa with his face in his hands.  "Are you all right, Nick?"  She walked toward him, mystified.  "Did he embarrass you?  What?"  She took a deep breath.  "You don't ever need to be embarrassed with me, Nick.  Nick!  What's the matter, Nick?"
    "Nothing.  Stay there, Natalie," Nick at last responded in a hoarse whisper.
    Natalie of course did nothing of the sort, almost running over to him.  She sat down on the couch beside him, and tried to pull his hands away from his face.  "Nick, look at me.  What's the problem, Nick?"  He fended her off, but she was insistent, and at last he let her pull his hands away.
    He looked up at her, eyes golden and fangs extended, a reproachful look on his face.  "Satisfied, Nat?"  Nat looked at him in silence, uncomprehending.  After a pause, he continued.  "Once again, you see the real me."  He looked away, unwilling to witness her revulsion.  "I'm not embarrassed.  I'm <excited.>"
    After a long pause, Nat responded.  "You mean you'd be <willing> to have sex with LaCroix to have sex with me?"
    "Willing?  I'd be thrilled.  I'd be overjoyed."  He turned his back on her abruptly.  "I'm a vampire, Nat.  This is what I am.  I have appetites -- appetites beyond what mortals can feel.  I can't help it," he said, almost angrily.  "So look at me, Nat," he said, turning back to her.  "Ogle the beast one last time.  You saw the real me last night; now you see some more."  He showed his fangs in a fierce grimace.  "I want to bite.  I want to be bitten."  He closed his mouth.  "Detestable, isn't it?  Revolting."
    "Oh, Nick," Natalie responded gently, seeing, now, the self-hatred behind his angry words.  "You're so much more than that."
    "Oh, yeah, that's right.  There's also the Hunger.  Every minute of every day, there's the Hunger, the craving for blood.  The urge to kill someone, just to suck their blood."
    "But you don't!  You don't do it, Nick."
    "But I have done it.  I want to do it."
    Natalie looked at him in despair.  He seemed to be denying every good thing he had ever done, his attempts at atonement, his desperate struggle for humanity.
    Nick looked at her in despair.  She just wouldn't see, wouldn't acknowledge the vampire.  It was part of him, inextricably part of him, and she thought denying it would just make it go away.  "Nat, I -- " he began gently, then stopped and restarted.  "You think you're in love with me, but you refuse to see me.  You refuse to acknowledge what I am."
    "You don't let me see the real you!  You close me out, you won't tell me what's going on with you.  How can I know the real you when you shut me out?"
    "The real me."  Nick said quietly.  "Is there a real me?"  Natalie closed her eyes briefly at the resignation in his voice.  Nick looked at her calmly, not understanding her pain.  "I've been fighting myself, fighting the vampire, so long that I don't even know anymore."  He closed his eyes.  He just couldn't take anymore.
    Natalie looked at him, surprised.  "Nick, what's the matter with you?"
    "I'm sorry, Nat," he rubbed at his eyes before continuing.  "I'm just tired. So tired of fighting, tired of trying, tired of <being.>"
    "But, Nick, you weren't hurt that badly, were you?  I thought you'd have healed by now -- let me see."  She reached for Nick's shirt to see what was causing his fatigue, what wound could have caused this weakness, but he again prevented her, speechlessly.
    LaCroix reappeared just in time to prevent an unseemly tussle, with Natalie trying to undress Nick and Nick trying to stop her.  Natalie backed off, looking determined but uncomfortable.  Nick just closed his eyes and slumped back in his seat.  "Nicholas, you're exhausted.  You should be in bed."
    Nick answered without opening his eyes, fatigue deadening his voice.  "I can't."
    "Really, Nicholas, do you think I saved her last night, just to harm her today?"  LaCroix was offended by the thoughts he overheard from Nicholas.  Nick just shook his head.  "Come, I'll take you upstairs.  Doctor, if you would care to wait, perhaps we could have a discussion."
     Natalie looked uncertain, but Nick just let LaCroix help him to the stairs.  He was so tired.  "I just can't handle anything more right now, Nat.  I'm sorry."  Natalie followed in their wake, watching from the foot of the stairs as LaCroix half carried him into the bedroom. They paused as Nick looked back at her, his eyes still golden, fangs still extended.  He just gazed at her, as if memorizing her features, then went on.
     LaCroix reappeared shortly, descending grandly, nonchalantly buttoning a shirt cuff.
He motioned for Natalie to seat herself.  She took Nick's armchair, while LaCroix placed himself in Nick's vacated spot on the sofa.  LaCroix looked her over without comment, and Nat at last plunged into questions.  "What's wrong with him?  Was he badly hurt?  Why isn't he healed?"
    LaCroix cut into her litany easily.  "He is not badly injured; he has healed.  Physically."
    "Why wouldn't he let me see?  I'm his doctor, surely --"
    LaCroix interrupted her brutally.  "Doctor, really.  He was just sexually assaulted, almost raped.  In front of a cheering audience.  Of course he doesn't want you -- or anyone else -- seeing him naked."
    Natalie stared, stunned.  <Of course not,> she thought; <I should have figured that out  for myself.>  "But he's okay, physically?"
    LaCroix nodded.
    "Why's he so exhausted?"
    LaCroix looked at her strangely, but she just quirked an eyebrow in inquiry.  "Because of his execrable diet."  He looked at her accusingly.  "He would heal faster if he would -- " he broke off.
    "Drink human blood,"  Natalie completed the unspoken truth. LaCroix nodded.  "Or yours."  LaCroix raised his eyebrow, and Natalie indicated the shirt cuff he had buttoned.  LaCroix glanced down, noticed the tiny bloodstain, and turned his cuff away with a mild 'tsk'.  He nodded again, and Natalie decided to think about that one later.  Much later.  "But he's really okay?"
    "Physically."  He paused, taking a sip of Nicholas's abandoned drink.  He grimaced.  "Emotionally, he's a mess."
    Natalie looked at him questioningly.  As far as she could tell, Nick was always an emotional mess.  For such a capable person, he was unbelievably messed up.
    LaCroix sighed.  "I am sure it has not escaped your notice that Nicholas has had a very disturbing year.  Losing his partner, the fever, getting shot in the head, losing his memory, that demon, and then, of course, my daughter/mother."  Natalie nodded.  "This last week was a bit trying, as well."  LaCroix smiled his secretive little smile, and Natalie wondered what he was neglecting to mention.  LaCroix sighed in mock resignation.  "Then, this little problem with Andovar killing the mortals that looked like him.  I don't begin to understand <why> such things bother him so much, but they do."  Natalie snorted.  "And then, of course, there's you."  His unrelenting gaze stilled her.  "He thought he was responsible for your death."  His eyes locked with hers.  "You reappeared, alive and unharmed, but immediately showed your revulsion at his true nature."  Natalie couldn't look away.  "That hurt him deeply."
    Natalie whispered, "I know." She'd turned from her friend to her enemy, hiding herself from Nick's reality by burying her face in LaCroix's thin facade of humanity.
    "Vampires heal quite well, Doctor...  physically," he continued. "Emotionally, however, we can suffer quite as much as humans."
    Natalie looked at him steadily.  She'd known that, she supposed; she'd just never put all the pieces together.  Nick was such a bundle of emotions, sometimes . . . She had long ago concluded that Nick had been damaged by the constant emotional abuse LaCroix heaped on him.  And from what she now knew, the abuse had probably been sexual and physical, as well.  "Yes, " she responded at last, "I did hurt Nick.  Unintentionally.  And when he's ready to hear it, I'll apologize."  She gathered her courage together.  "But what about you?  What about all the times you've hurt him?  Intentionally hurt him?"
    "That, Doctor, is between he and I."  LaCroix was obviously affronted by her attack, but she continued anyway.
    "You talk as if you care about him -- really care about him -- but you've hurt him far worse than I ever could.  Why can't you leave him alone, to live his own life his own way?"
    "I have agreed to do so."
    "Huh?"  Natalie sat down abruptly as the wind had left her sails.  She.  "Then why are you here?"
    "He asked me to be."
    "But he's told me, so many times, so many ways, that he hates you.  That he wants to escape you, but he can't."
    "Perhaps he's changed his mind."  LaCroix looked down his nose at her, arrogantly supercilious.  She just stared at him in frustrated disbelief, until LaCroix considered whether Nicholas would consider this digression helpful.  Probably not, he concluded.  He relented.  "Never doubt that Nicholas was telling you the truth; I have no doubt that he was.  But things change."  He paused.  "Perhaps you've heard that saying, 'if you love something, let it go'," he said.  "I let him go."
    <Uh-oh,> thought Natalie.  <He let him go, and Nick's not leaving. . .>
    LaCroix allowed her a moment to assimilate her thoughts, then continued abruptly.  "What are your plans for tonight?"
    "P-p-plans?"
    "Plans," he continued impatiently.  "The sun is down.  I can now leave.  I have a club to run.  But I will not leave Nicholas alone, not in his current state."  He waited for her response; when she merely stared at him speechlessly, he continued.  "Do you wish to stay, to be here for Nicholas, or shall I?"
    "I'll stay."
    "You won't hurt him, again?"
    <Lord,> thought Nat, <the old bastard actually seems genuinely worried about Nick.  Unbelievable.>  "No more than you have."
    "I'd better stay, then."
    "I won't hurt him."
    LaCroix stared at her long and hard, before accepting her presence.  It was hard, very hard for him to admit, but Nicholas would probably prefer her presence to his.  And he did, indeed, have a club to run.  "Very well.  I will send over some more blood for him."  Natalie eyed him sideways, and he snorted.  "Cow's blood, Doctor.  Don't try to give him one of those atrocious 'shakes' right now; it might kill him." He rose to his feet, then looked at her consideringly.  "He may have nightmares."
    "Nightmares?  Nick?"  <I didn't even know for sure vampires dreamed,> she thought.
    "If he does, Doctor, be careful.  Be very careful."
    "Nick won't hurt me."
    LaCroix just raised an eyebrow, expressing his opinion silently.   "I shall return before dawn."  With that, he levitated spectacularly out of the newly replaced skylight, momentarily filling the night sky with his presence, and was gone.
    Natalie heaved a sigh of relief, then wondered why.  She was here, alone, with Nick.  She didn't know what to do for him; she didn't know what to do with herself.  She sat, finally, on the sofa, thinking over the events of the past few days.  She found herself dwelling on LaCroix's bizarre proposal, and Nick's reaction to it.  Nick hadn't contradicted any part of what LaCroix had said, and it all made a sort of macabre sense, even to her.  <What if he were correct?  What if she could only have Nick if she shared him with another lover, a vampire lover?  Could she ever do that?>
    Their efforts at restoring his mortality had certainly not been fruitful, and Nick had told her he was further from mortality than he had been in decades.  The demon had released all the urges and appetites he had so strenuously suppressed.
    She thought over all the new information she had gathered about vampires in the last week.  She would have to reinterpret a lot of what she had thought she already knew.  Nick was a lot more dangerous than she had realized; he had constantly warned her but somehow she had found him easy to disbelieve.  She hadn't wanted to believe him.  She sighed heavily.  She should have believed him, he really wasn't an alarmist.  He didn't panic over nothing, and he did panic over this.  She knew she often pushed him past his self-set limits, certain he had more control than he believed.
    But now she had seen a little more of what, exactly, he was controlling; a little more of the true nature of vampires, and of one vampire in particular.  His struggle was harder than he had revealed, not easier as she had always secretly believed.  He had protected her from a lot of knowledge she wished she still didn't have; protected her because he had feared her reaction if she knew.  <And,> Natalie mused glumly, <he might have been right.>
    Her mind kept coming back to LaCroix's outrageous suggestion.  She thought of the three other vampires she knew; she considered the possibilities of sharing with each.  Janette would be competition.  Nat knew she was already terribly jealous of Nick's attentions to Janette; should the beautiful vampire return, she knew she couldn't accept a relationship between the three of them.  Vachon -- how could she have a relationship with Vachon when one of her few friends, Tracy, was in love with him?  That seemed to leave LaCroix.  Damn.  He had admitted he had treated Nick every bit as badly as Nick had ever said.  How could Nick even consider -- let alone welcome! -- the thought of continuing a relationship with LaCroix, especially if LaCroix was finally willing to let Nick go?  It was impossible.
    Natalie stood and abruptly began pacing.  She just couldn't get the picture of LaCroix "having" Nick out of her mind.  And Nick hadn't exactly seemed repulsed, either!  She just couldn't picture Nick as the, well, the subordinate one in a sexual relationship, but it sure as hell wasn't LaCroix who'd be there.  Her whole image of Nick was suffering, the easy picture of her imagination wilting before the reality of who and what he was.  She didn't like it at all.
    She remembered LaCroix rebuttoning his cuff as he returned from helping Nick to bed, and the drop of blood staining his wrist.  She knew LaCroix must have fed Nick, that Nick must have taken his wrist and sucked the blood from it.  In light of  her new knowledge, it seemed such an intimate, sexual thing -- she broke that thought off.  Nick had needed more than he could get from cow's blood.  LaCroix had provided it.  Period.

Chapter 8

    Two hours later, Natalie had worked herself up and calmed herself down several times.  She had reached no conclusions; made no decisions. Her thoughts were so muddled she finally decided her recent near-catastrophe had addled her brains.  She didn't know what to think. She decided not to think at all.
    She was sitting on the sofa, gazing into space, when Nick appeared on the landing.  "Nat?" he asked, softly.
    She looked up to see him standing there, hair tousled, still in pajamas, smiling hopefully at her.  "You look a lot better," she greeted him.
    Nick started down the stairs, moving more easily.  "Getting there," he agreed, heading for the refrigerator.  As he poured himself a glass of blood, Natalie firmly forced her mind from the picture of LaCroix feeding Nick.  He returned to the living area and sat down in the chair across from her, his smile tentative but his movements sure.  "I know you have questions, Nat."  She always had questions.
    Nat looked at him eagerly; he so seldom answered questions, let alone invited them.  "Nick, when you --"  she almost stopped, aghast that she was asking the one question she had promised herself she would not, but in the end she had to ask.  "When you had sex last week, did you pick LaCroix?"  It was out.  It lay there between them like a rock, immovable, irretrievable.
    Nick slowly put his half finished glass on the table top beside him.  His expression stilled, the life seeming to drain from his face until he again looked dead.  Time seemed, to Natalie, to pause, as Nick considered her question, the implications of her asking it, and asking it first; considered if he should answer it.  The pause lengthened, and Natalie could hardly breathe, waiting for his reaction, for the answer.
    "No," Nick answered at last.  "I picked Vachon."  His face was like stone.  Natalie breathed a sigh of relief, beginning to relax, when Nick continued.  "But I had sex with LaCroix too."
    "Willingly?"
    Nick stared at her a moment.  Whatever he said, he would mislead her, but he had to answer somehow.  "Not exactly."  He paused.  "Not the first time."  He turned away and took a long swallow from the glass.
    Natalie reeled.  <What was he telling her?>  She knew he was forcing himself to tell her as much as he could, that putting things into words was hard, that talking about sex even harder.  <Well, Nat,> she told herself, <take the clues and think.  He hadn't been willing, but it had happened anyway.  Was that rape?  But he'd done it again, willingly.>  "You made some kind of a . . . a bargain?  Is that why he's being nice?"
    Nick looked taken aback, then decidedly hurt.  "I did not sell myself."  He stood suddenly, picked up his glass and stalked to the kitchen.
    <Well, Nat,> thought Natalie, <you really put your foot in it that time.  You couldn't ask the easy questions; oh no, go right for the jugular.>  She stifled an hysterical giggle at the atrocious pun.  Nick wouldn't appreciate it.  "I'm sorry, Nick.  That didn't come out the way I meant."  Nick looked up at her, nodded his head, then returned to his scrutiny of the bottle he had selected.  He was clearly upset.  She waited while he poured a fresh glass, walked silently back to the living area and settled into his seat.  <He looks tired already,> she thought distractedly, <and he hasn't even been up half an hour.>
    They sat in  silence a few moments, each wrapped in their own thoughts.  "Nick," Natalie began, hesitantly, "I've thought about what LaCroix said.  A lot."  Nick went still again; Natalie couldn't begin to read what he was thinking.  "I don't know if I could go through with that, Nick," she began.  "Much as I want to be with you, the whole thought of another person --" she broke off, unable to continue, finally able to sympathize with Nick's reticence in discussing his sex life.  She looked down at her hands, twisting together in her lap.  "I'd be too jealous of a female, and another male is just too, well, too. . ."  She couldn't finish.
    Nick reached out and covered her hands with his own, stilling them. She turned and looked into his eyes, surprised to find relief there.  He smiled tentatively.  "It's all right, Nat; I don't want to either."  He saw the surprise in her face, and looked away.  "I don't want to have sex with you."  He felt her stir, starting to feel hurt.  "Wait, Nat.  I want to make love with you, not just have sex.  And when the climax comes, I want to be concentrating on you, looking in your eyes, having <you> have me."  He broke off, then continued in a more forced way.  "Don't you understand?  LaCroix's way, I'd be having sex with you, then burying my face in him, drinking him, becoming him . . . I'd lose you in the flood from him."  He released her hands, and stared unhappily into his drink.  "I want you to be the main event, not just a, a --"
    "An appetizer?" broke in Natalie, smiling.
    "Don't even think it," he returned, then grinned ruefully. "A... an opening act. "
    "But last night you said --"
    "Last night."  He paused to set the glass down again.  "Last night, the vampire was very close to the surface.  The vampire would be thrilled."  He looked at her carefully.  "I'm not just the vampire, today."
    "You never are, Nick."  Natalie smiled in encouragement.  He smiled back at her, relieved that they were again in agreement.  The two relaxed back into their seats, and Natalie was just about to ask another, easier, question, when Nick suddenly surprised them both with an immense, bone-cracking yawn.
    "Still tired, Nick?" Natalie asked with concern.
    "Yea.  But I'll be OK."  Nick could see she didn't believe him, but turned away  and walked over to where he kept his VCR tapes.  "How about a movie?"  Nat agreed, even though she half suspected he just didn't want to answer any more questions, and the two settled in to watch his random choice.  Nick was asleep before the opening credits were done.
    Nat let the movie run on, ignoring it while she let her mind run amuck, thinking over the events of the past days.  Nick slept peacefully at first, but after an hour or so he began mumbling in his sleep.  Nat was a bit alarmed.  Nick always slept like the  proverbial dead, unmoving, silent, almost unbreathing.  The first time she'd watched him sleep, she'd taken his pulse (a ten minute wait, of course) twice just to make sure he was still alive.  This time, she didn't have to worry.  He broke out into a light blood sweat, then suddenly sat up, looked around wildly, breathing hard, then lurched straight for the kitchen.  Nat watched in consternation as he downed an entire bottle without even stopping for a glass.
    Nick at last took a deep breath, wiping the red off his lips with the back of his hand.  He looked sheepishly at Natalie, having recollected where he was, but turned and reached for a mug and another bottle before returning to the couch.
    Natalie muted the TV without bothering to halt the tape.  "Nightmare?"  Nick just nodded, his eyes not quite meeting hers as he poured the cup full.  "I didn't even know vampires dreamed."
    Nick took a long swallow, then stared at the flickering of the silent TV.  "Not usually," he said at last, quietly.  He reached for the remote control, and just as Natalie thought he would turn it off, so they could continue their conversation, he restored the sound.  He looked at her apologetically, but just said "I'm so tired, Nat.  Do you mind?"
    "No," she answered, with less than perfect truth.  "Go to sleep."  Nick again lay down on the couch, and, to Natalie's amazement, again went right to sleep.  The night continued that way, with Nick falling asleep, exhausted, again and again, only to wake up panicked, sweating.  Sometimes he bolted for the blood in the refrigerator; sometimes he just held Natalie as if she were his lifeline, his sole tie to the real world.  Natalie grew more and more concerned, but when she asked Nick what was the matter, he would only say he didn't know; couldn't remember.  Sometimes he looked so bewildered Nat knew that was the truth, but at least once he woke up and looked directly at her, and Nat knew, somehow, that someone -- something -- other than Nick was looking out at her.  He'd bolted for the fridge, again, and when he came back he was her Nick again.
    "Nick," she began, uncertainly.  "What's happening to you?"
    He looked exhausted, wiped out.  He turned his back on her, running one hand through his hair, damp now with blood sweat, dark and disheveled.  "I took too much blood," he said at last, in an almost inaudible voice.
    "Too much blood?" Nat asked, leadingly, when it appeared he would explain no further.
    He sat beside her abruptly.  Looking into her eyes, he found no contempt there, for what he was, for what he had done, only sympathy.  He nodded.  "I was weak, half drained, when I killed him.  He was full of strength.  His own, and what he gained by taking my blood and making it his."  He paused again, infuriatingly.
    "And that means?"
    "That's how," he began slowly, "that's how a master vampire creates a new child."  He turned to face her again.  "He drains the child-to-be until he's weak, almost dead, then he feeds him his own blood.  It creates a link, a bond, that the new one can't break."
    "That's what LaCroix did with you."
    "Yes, but this is different.  I already have a -- have LaCroix.  And I killed Andovar, so it's not a bond, but still, there's so much of his blood in me, and so little of mine, that . . ." He looked at her, willing her to understand, eyes full of misery.
    Natalie tried to work out what he was saying.  He already had a master, he was saying, acknowledging a stronger bond than she had ever expected.  She had thought the term "master" was just an anachronistic holdover, not that it had real meaning.  He could never break free.  She pulled her thoughts from her despair at <that> situation to the current situation.  Andovar was dead, so he wasn't asserting mastery . . . or was he?  "You mean Andovar's still able to control you?"
    "No, not that; it's more, he's in here, with me, fighting me."  Nick looked away for a moment.  "As long as I stay awake, I'm fine, but when I go to sleep --"  He broke off.
    "When you go to sleep, his blood takes over."
    "He wakes up.  His memories, his attitudes, his <desires> fill me.  I can't --"  He looked back at her, directly into her eyes. "I'm afraid, Nat; afraid what I might do while I'm asleep, or half-asleep."  Nat looked at him, unafraid.  He sighed.  "Please go home, Natalie; I'm afraid I'll hurt you."
    "But Nick," she began, immediately forgetting her resolve to take his warnings more seriously.  "What'll happen to you?  How can we fix this?"
    Nick looked at her for a long moment.  "It should fix itself.  I'll grow stronger, his influence will grow weaker."
    "How long will that take?"  Nick just shrugged.  "Can't anything else be done?"  Nick shrugged again, and Natalie had a moment of blinding insight.  "LaCroix.  He can fix this, can't he?"  Nick just gazed at her, impassive.   "Nick?  Can't he?"
    At last Nick responded, as if she were dragging the truth from him.  "Yes.  But there's a price."  Natalie turned, contempt for LaCroix's price flashing in her eyes.  "No, Natalie, it's not that he'd make me pay."  <Though he might,> he thought.  "It's just that it would strengthen the bond between us, strengthen his control over me, whether we want that, or not."
    "Doesn't sharing blood do that already?"
    "Yes, but not the same way.  When equals share blood equally, there's no control involved.  If I share blood with him when I'm so weak, and he's strong, it strengthens the control, not just the bond."  He sighed.  "It has to be a really big difference in strength, but right now, it would be."
    Natalie sat in silence, pondering, then sighed.  Nothing to be done, then, but wait it out.  She started as Nick yawned suddenly, loudly.  Glancing over at him, she saw he was slumped in his seat, fighting off sleep.  "Nick, you've got to sleep."
    He jerked himself back upright.  "I can't.  Not while you're still here.  Please  understand, Natalie, I just can't --"  He broke off, running a hand through his hair.  He turned to face her fully.  "I might hurt you.  Please, go home, be safe.  I'll be fine."
    "I promised LaCroix I'd stay."  Nick looked startled, then resigned.  "He said he'd be back before dawn; I'll leave then."  Nick held his face in his hands a moment, then looked off into space, blankly.  Nat passed a hand in front of his eyes, but he did not respond.  "Nick?  NICK!"  Nick came to himself.  "What were you doing?"
    "Asking LaCroix to come now."  Nick hid the ache in his heart carefully; if Nat had any idea how much he wanted her to stay, nothing would induce her to leave, not even the possibility of her own imminent demise.

    LaCroix entered shortly thereafter; the summons was not unexpected.  He sensed Nicholas asleep upstairs, but joined Natalie in the living area, his entry as dramatic as his exit had been.  She jumped up, startled, as he gently alit beneath the skylight.  "Well, Doctor.  How is Nicholas?"
    Nat calmed herself, taking several deep breaths.  "He's dreaming.  Nightmares."  She clasped her hands around her upper arms, shivering.  "He's . . . he's scared, LaCroix."
    LaCroix nodded.  "And you, doctor?"
    Natalie nodded.  "Yes.  But I promised you I'd stay."
    LaCroix paused in his stroll around the room.  "Above and beyond the call of duty, my dear.  I'm sure he asked you to go."  Nat nodded.  "I am here.  You may go."
    Natalie bridled at the condescension.  "No.  No.  I'll stay.  You can take care of him, but I'll -- "  LaCroix turned to stare at her, eyes golden in disbelief.  Natalie quickly reassessed her position.  "I'll be back to check on him, later," she said in defeat.
    "Good." LaCroix's menacing drawled hurried her to the lift and exit.  He quickly went upstairs to Nick's bedroom.  Nick, deeply exhausted, had slept through LaCroix's arrival and Nat's departure.  <Such inattention,> thought LaCroix, <was not a good sign in a vampire.>  He watched as Nick began to toss and turn, groaning.  He sat on the edge of the bed, and reached out a hand to shake his son awake.  "Nicholas.  Nicholas, wake up."
    Nick flinched in his sleep, a full-body cringe that LaCroix, in all their violent years together, had never before witnessed.  He drew back in surprise as Nick frantically struck his hand away and jumped from the bed, to crouch, snarling and fully fanged, against the far wall, an animal at bay.  He could only watch in stunned amazement as Nick's eyes slowly resumed their normal blue, and the angry, terrified expression left his face, the features untwisting themselves into Nick's face, anguished, but without that terrible otherness haunting them.
     "LaCroix," sighed Nicholas, resigned and relieved. He stood upright, then walked slowly back to the bed, collapsing onto it beside his nemesis as if his feet would hold him no longer.  "I'm afraid I'll hurt somebody," he whispered, unwillingly.  He looked up; his eyes said it all.  He was afraid he'd kill, again; he was afraid LaCroix wouldn't help him; he was afraid to ask; he was afraid of the price.  He was afraid of the help, of LaCroix's methods.  "Took too much.  Too much blood."
    LaCroix nodded, acknowledging not just the words but the fears, the justified fears.  In the past he would have acted immediately, choosing a solution that best furthered his own aims, not considering Nicholas's desires and goals.  He would have leaped at an opportunity to further bind Nicholas to him.  <But even an ancient could learn,> he supposed; <it wasn't Nicholas, chained to him with titanium bonds, but Nicholas, freely choosing to stay, that he wanted.>  A new thought formed slowly in his mind, stunning him with its simplicity.  <It wasn't Nicholas, the mirror image of himself, that he wanted.  It was Nicholas, as he was, in all his complex, contradictory, provoking layers, that he wanted.>  He called his mind sternly to order.  <He was here to help Nicholas, not to further enslave him.>  He forced himself to concentrate on his son's uneven voice.
    "How long . . . till it passes?" His heart was in his eyes, his desperation apparent.
    LaCroix took his time before answering, considering.  He shied away from tapping into Nick's tumultuous emotions; it would, he knew, be a violation -- of trust, of self.  "How bad is it?" he asked, finally.
    Nick stared at him, wordless, at a loss.  How bad?  Beyond words, he suddenly pulled up his sleeve and thrust his wrist out, veins up, before LaCroix.  "Read it," he whispered, "all of it."  He opened his mind.
    LaCroix gently accepted his hand, gazing into the anguished eyes, finally accepting the desperate invitation.  He sliced quickly into the pale wrist, forcing his mind past the exquisite taste of the gushing blood into the life spirit within.  He reached gently, tentatively, into Nick's wide-open mind, ready to retreat should Nicholas wish it.  He captured the elusive spirit . . .
    And was overwhelmed.  Nicholas was Andovar, chasing his elusive prey through a shifting dreamscape, glorying in the chase, anticipating the annihilation, physical, mental, and emotional,  he planned to visit upon the golden demon running desperately from him; the demon who had fought him, and tantalized him, and escaped, for the moment.  At the same time, Nicholas was the prey, terrified, hurt, exhausted; running for his life.  He was Andovar, desiring, enjoying his own surrender, violation, and destruction.  He was Nicholas, knowing the inevitable end, despairing but never surrendering, not while he had any choice at all.
    Automatically, without thought, LaCroix interposed himself between Andovar/Nick -- the usurper trying to conquer his Nicholas, his property -- and Nick the prey, his son who must be protected and guided.  He snarled menacingly, satisfied when Andovar/Nick backed off, then turned to face his son, to reassure him.  He stopped himself, as another awareness came to his attention; the real Nicholas, torn but strong, the battleground itself come to life.  The victimized Nick was no more the real Nicholas then Andovar/Nick was; he was Nick as Andovar <and LaCroix> saw him!  Both incarnations were torturing him; neither was real.  Both were forcing him to be something he was not.
    LaCroix retreated hurriedly, leaving Nicholas's mind and releasing his wrist.  Nicholas stared up at him with tortured eyes, his abandoned wrist dripping blood in his lap.  He cradled it as LaCroix suddenly rose and paced the room.  He was overwhelmed at the sudden insight.  His firmly held view of his son, forced upon Nicholas for almost eight centuries, was wrong.  Further, it was damaging him, weakening him; the centuries of being forced to rely on LaCroix, to give up his own ideals and responses, were rendering him less and less capable of relying on himself.  LaCroix's efforts to make him strong, to purge him of his human weaknesses, were robbing him of his self-confidence, his volition, his <strength.>
    His insistence that Nicholas soar with the gods, while denying him wings, was crippling.
    LaCroix shook off the unwelcome revelation, focusing instead on what to do now, to help his son -- to help his son be what he was meant to be, not what anyone else wanted him to be. He gathered his wits and his composure, then returned to his place beside Nicholas.
    He reached out and took Nick's hand, abandoned moments before.  Nick let him.  "You do have some choices, Nicholas," he began in a strained voice.  "You're strong enough to overcome this on your own, but it will take time."  Nick raised his eyes from their joined hands to study his master's face intently.  "I don't know how long it will take.  Perhaps weeks. I can stay with you, to keep you from hurting anyone, if that's what you want."  He paused to let Nick assimilate his meaning.  "You can feed from me.  My blood will overcome Andovar's, very quickly.  But you know the price."  Nick stirred, pulling his hand away, looking away.  "No, Nicholas; I only meant the inadvertent, unavoidable strengthening of our link."  LaCroix held onto his hand, until Nick again looked up at him.
    The hopeless inevitability in Nick's eyes spurred LaCroix on.  "Or . . ." he began
 hesitantly, "we could try something else."  A gleam of hope pushed him on.  "Will Vachon come, if you ask him?"  Nick nodded, uncertain why LaCroix would ask, but certain Vachon would come.  LaCroix hesitated briefly, then continued.  "If I drain you, partially, and you take Vachon's blood, you will weaken Andovar's influence.  Vachon's strong enough to replenish you, but not strong enough to be a danger to you."
    Nick nodded, uncertain but willing to try.  "What of Vachon?  And . . . you?"
    LaCroix gave a small snort.  That was Nicholas, always thinking of others.  He was even touched, he supposed, that Nick was worried about him, of all people.  "Nicholas, really.  Andovar, at his most powerful, was never a match for me.  You've already weakened what's left of him.  And Vachon -- well, Vachon can feed from me.  No problem."  Nick looked hesitant, grappling with the issue, searching for problems.  LaCroix grinned, satyr-like.  "I dare say we'll both enjoy it, even."
    Nick managed a half smile at that.  They would.  He rose to his feet, and struggled halfway across the room before accepting LaCroix's willing arm around his back, helping him down the stairs to the phone, to invite Vachon to the orgy.

Chapter 9

    By the time Vachon arrived, Nick had again fallen asleep on the couch, exhausted.  LaCroix let the Spaniard in, and quietly explained the problem and the proposed solution.
    Vachon looked consideringly at LaCroix.  "You're going to drain him?"  LaCroix nodded.  Vachon looked over at Nick, who was dead to the world on the couch.  "Does he know that?  Is he willing?"  It mattered.  Vachon wasn't going to participate in any rape; he had to know.  They'd come too close the last time.
    LaCroix just walked over to Nick, and shook him awake.  Nick gazed up at him blearily, struggling to fight off exhaustion, and LaCroix stated calmly, "Vachon wants to know if you are willing to participate in this little experiment."  Nick struggled to a sitting position, leaning against LaCroix's supporting arms, and faced Vachon.  He nodded. LaCroix raised an inquiring eyebrow at Vachon, who nodded his own consent in response.
    Before Nick could raise any superfluous objections, or the fragment of Andovar in Nick decide to resist, LaCroix put his arms around him, grabbing his wrists in a rock-like hold, and bit the back of his neck.  Nick tensed in his hold, fighting the instinctive defensive reflex, then relaxed in the knowledge that it was LaCroix, his master, helping him.  He arched his back to allow easier access, glorying in the sensation of LaCroix taking his blood, taking him.
    LaCroix savored the flavor of the blood, ecstatic, then stiffened as he was again assailed by the images of Nicholas's dreams.  Nicholas began to struggle in his arms as the vampire realized that he was being drained; that this encounter was not reciprocal.  LaCroix tightened his hold, inexorably.  The blood images changed.  Nick the prey struggled in the arms of Andovar/Nick, captured, raped, devastated.  His pain assaulted LaCroix, who hung on grimly.
    Vachon took his place on the sofa behind LaCroix, as agreed.  When LaCroix bent Nick forward to expose his own neck, Vachon wrapped his arms around both and bit LaCroix. He fed, hungrily, ecstatically; building his own strength for when Nick would take him.  LaCroix was blocking his thoughts and emotions; Vachon could taste his power, his strength, but nothing of his feelings; nothing of Nick's pain.
    Nicholas was nearly drained, and violent images assailed LaCroix.  Andovar/Nick gloried in Nick the prey's defeat; Nicholas tasted of despair and degradation and lust and exultation all at the same time.  LaCroix signaled Vachon, and Vachon quickly exposed his wrist and held it to Nick's mouth.  Nicholas thrashed weakly, trying vainly to free a hand, to hold the wrist to his fangs, to control it, but LaCroix held him firmly.  The best he could do was get it turned, so he could hold on to it with his jaws, not just his fangs.  He sucked furiously, hungrily, ecstatically.  The vampire took over, and the images from Nick's conscious mind stopped their assault on LaCroix.  Only his hunger, his drive to feed, his erotic desire filled him, filled his blood.
    Vachon was lost in the dark glory of LaCroix's blood, the exquisite sensation of Nick's biting hunger.  Nicholas relaxed his struggle against LaCroix's confining arms as the vampire was allowed free access to the blood before him.  Only LaCroix remained alert, carefully gauging the moment when Nick would have had enough, enough to restore himself but not enough of LaCroix's transferred blood to affect him adversely.  When the moment came, he commanded Vachon, through his blood, to withdraw.  The unexpected communication shocked the younger vampire into removing his fangs immediately, and wrenching his wrist from Nick.  Nick held on doggedly; he wasn't ready to let go.  LaCroix, holding him with his teeth and one arm, reached out and added his strength to Vachon's, tearing the wrist from Nick's bite by sheer strength.
    Nick snarled in frustrated rage, fighting LaCroix, trying to turn in his arms and attack his captor.  LaCroix held him.  "Nicholas!  Nicholas, stop fighting me."  Nick paused, eyes glowing red and hungry.  "Nicholas, you must stop.  Remember.  You don't want more."
    Vachon looked up from his torn wrist, the unquenched blood lust overwhelming any pain from the laceration Nick had left.  His eyebrow climbed his forehead involuntarily.  Why wouldn't Nick want more? Vachon certainly did.  He sensed LaCroix's determination, but couldn't fathom the cause.
    Suddenly, Nick stopped fighting; his eyes returned to blue.  He licked his dripping fangs, almost sorrowfully, and closed his mouth, fangs retracting.  LaCroix slowly released him, ready to resume his hold if this acceptance was a trick, but Nick just turned in his embrace and met his eyes for a moment.
    Vachon, full of both men's blood, could dimly sense their pain at the separation.  Nonetheless, LaCroix withdrew his arms and Nick moved away from him.  LaCroix stood, moving away from the sofa, pulling Vachon with him gently.  Nick watched with dead eyes, not protesting, then collapsed onto the cushions.  He turned away from them, curling into a tight ball of rejection, and passed out, sound asleep.
    Vachon's mouth fell open, his fangs still showing.  He looked at LaCroix in question, and found the old one looking back knowingly.  LaCroix grinned invitingly, his own fangs gleaming, and Vachon suddenly found himself in the other's arms, neck to face, face to neck.  They bit simultaneously, each reading in the other desire for the vampire asleep on the couch, and turning that desire to the one available.  They slaked their passions in an intense exchange, culminating in a massive joint orgasm that left them wishing they had stripped before they woke Nicholas the first time.
    Nicholas slept on, exhausted, oblivious; drained.

    Afterwards, the two vampires sat, sated, on the floor before the couch where Nick still slept.  Vachon stretched luxuriously, and LaCroix smiled at him, amused.  "Nicholas was afraid we wouldn't want to do this.  I told him we'd enjoy it."
    Vachon snorted.  "Yeah."  He paused a moment, thinking of the experience.  "Why'd he have to stop the exchange?  You didn't tell me everything." The little blood Nick had received in return for the massive amount LaCroix had taken made their actions perilously close to vampiric rape.
    LaCroix shook his head.  "No, I didn't,  and I won't.  But Nicholas knew; he was more than willing."  He looked straight into Vachon's eyes.  "It wasn't a violation."
    Vachon nodded, accepting.  The two sat on, watching Nick sleep, quietly companionable.  Vachon reviewed the experience in his mind, dwelling on the lack of emotion passed on by LaCroix during the act.  He must have been blocking.  Only at the end, when Nick had turned away, had Vachon felt much of anything from him, and that had been pain, the pain of rejection.  "Why is he like that?" he asked LaCroix.  LaCroix looked at him in question.  "Why does he reject us, reject his own kind?"
    LaCroix's eyes looked shuttered, secretive.  He didn't answer for so long, Vachon gave up expecting a response.  "He has no 'kind,'" he said at last, regretfully.  He read the stunned disbelief in Vachon's eyes, and sighed.  "Is a carouche one of 'our kind'?"
    "Nick's not a carouche," Vachon said flatly.
    "Of course not.  Only a fool would think that."  Vachon raised an eyebrow, thinking of all those who ragged Nick, calling him carouche for drinking cow's blood.  Yes, LaCroix would think them all fools.  LaCroix continued.  "But is a carouche 'our kind'?"
    "Yes."  LaCroix raised an eyebrow.  "No.  Yes.  Well, not really."  Vachon struggled with the question.  <Carouches were different, yes,  but ... on the other hand...>  "No."
    LaCroix gazed at him silently, almost as if disappointed at the answer.  He looked away before continuing.  "A carouche is just a vampire whose first blood was animal, not human.  You and I, we're vampires whose first blood was human.  Nick . . ."  he paused again.  Vachon waited.  "Nick's first blood was vampire.  He is something so rare, we don't even have a name for it."
    Vachon was stunned.  "That's just a legend."
    "No," LaCroix shook his head.  "Usually, they die as fledglings, because they're too weak to attack older vampires and get themselves killed.  Or they starve, because there aren't enough vampires to sustain them.  Or the enforcers kill them, for killing vampires."
    Vachon sat and thought.  If Nick's first blood had been vampire, then LaCroix had wished it so; he'd have had no choice.  If he'd survived, it was because LaCroix wished it so.  Vachon shook his head.  No wonder no one understood Nick, or understood what was between Nick and LaCroix.  They truly were unique. "That explains it, then," he said softly.
    LaCroix raised an eyebrow in question.
    "His first kill."
    LaCroix nodded.
    "He showed me, the first time we shared blood...  There was no Hunger when he made his first kill."  He looked at LaCroix searchingly.  "You had to coax him."
    "He's not supposed to share that," LaCroix said firmly.  Vachon looked at him in question, and LaCroix continued.  "He'll be in danger, if too many of us know what he is.  They'll fear him; fear he'll attack vampires."
    "He doesn't, though." Vachon paused, thinking.  "At least, not to feed."
    "No.  That's why his first kill was human, so he could avoid vampires."  The calculation of it all chilled Vachon.  "But he shouldn't be sharing that."
    Vachon thought it over briefly.  "Is that why he tastes so good?" he asked suddenly.  LaCroix was surprised into a soft laugh.  Vachon continued.  "No, really.  Carouches don't taste like other vampires, and neither does Nick.  Is that why?"
    LaCroix nodded.  "Partly.  The sunshine, that's just Nicholas; the way he tasted as a mortal."  Vachon nodded; that by itself was pretty intoxicating.  "The rest, the bubbles, that's because of what he is. He's too different to mix fully."
    Vachon briefly considered the desirability of creating a child like Nick.  LaCroix glanced at him sidewise.  "I don't recommend it," he said, quietly. It was as close to an admission of error as Vachon had ever heard LaCroix come.  He shook his head, thinking of how unhappy Nick was, thinking of how Urs's unhappiness affected himself.  No, it wasn't worth the pain.
    "Why did you tell me about it?" he asked finally.  LaCroix could keep a secret better than anyone; he wasn't given to thoughtless disclosures.  He kept secrets for the sake of keeping secrets.
    LaCroix gazed sightlessly into space.  He hadn't wanted to tell; he never told.  "Because Nicholas wanted me to," he said at last.  He paused again.   "Because if you find out later, and reject him because of it later, it'll hurt more."
    He turned and skewered Vachon with a steely gaze.  "Whatever happens, don't tell."
    Vachon backed away, mouth agape.  "Huh?"
    "Wherever this relationship you have with my son ends up, you are not to speak of this."  He paused until he saw acquiescence in the other's brown eyes.  "The enforcers watch him, already; if they knew for sure what he is..."
    <They would destroy him,> Vachon thought. .

    Nick walked down the hall to the coroner's office slowly.  He wasn't sure he was quite up to facing Natalie, but he would, anyway.  He turned the corner and opened the door, stopping abruptly at the sight of her long chestnut hair, as always a mass of riotous curls.  He wanted her; he loved her; but, he forced himself to remember, he couldn't have her.
    Natalie looked up, surprised, then smiled in greeting.  "Nick!  How ya doing?"
    Nick smiled back, tentatively.  "Better, I think."  He walked over to her, where she sat at her desk.  "No more nightmares."
    "Did LaCroix--" Natalie stopped.  <Mind your own business, Nat,> she thought to herself.
    "No."  Nick answered her half spoken question.  "He found another way to help me."
    Natalie gazed at his closed, shuttered expression, but she couldn't drop it there.  "Nick, I always thought 'master' was just an expression, like a title of respect.  It's more, though, isn't it?"
    Nick closed his eyes, but decided to answer.  He wanted her to understand what he was going through.  He passed a hand through his hair nervously, before answering.  "Much more," he began.  "Particularly the way LaCroix made me.  He didn't just drain me, then feed me enough blood to become a vampire."  He turned away, thinking, wondering how to make her understand.  "You know that whatever a vampire's first blood meal is determines what blood he will crave."
    "Like Screed and the rats?  His first meal was a shipboard rat, so he feeds only on rats?"
    "Exactly.  My first meal -- "  he broke off again.  Natalie raised her eyebrows in gentle inquiry, and he went on.  "My first meal was LaCroix."
    Natalie remembered her brother Richard, how unable to control himself he had been.  The newly reborn Nicholas would have had no choice; whatever blood was available was the blood he would have taken.
    Nick continued.  "He drained me, and fed me enough blood to make me a vampire.  I went to the light, and made my choice."
    Natalie nodded; he'd told her of the strange place between life and death.
    "When I came back, the hunger... the First Hunger was on me, and LaCroix fed me."  He turned away.  "He had a mortal ready, but he chose not to use her.  I drank my fill from him."
    "Does that mean you want vampire blood?"
    "No," Nick said, uncertain whether to continue. He ran his hand through his hair, then forced himself to go on.  "The higher up the food chain that first meal is, the more specific the craving.  A carouche may have a favorite meal, but he'll take any similar creature that comes along.  A normal vampire will only willingly take human blood."  He stopped again.
    Natalie, irritated, asked again, "So you want other vampires?"
    Nick shook his head.  At Natalie's irritated expression, he forced himself.  "It's worse than that.  I crave LaCroix's blood.  LaCroix's blood, with my blood mixed in it."
    Nat stared at him, dumbfounded.  There was only one way he could get what he craved, and that was to have sex with his master.  Only the blood exchange would satisfy his hunger.  No wonder he couldn't break free.  No wonder he tolerated LaCroix's abuse.  LaCroix had set this up so carefully, so Nick could never free himself.  She broke off that train of thought; it was fruitless.  Accept it.  And then press on.  "Did he do that on purpose?"
    "Yes." Nick was silent a long moment.  "He wanted me; he sent Janette to seduce me.  He knew I wouldn't want him, not that way, because of what I was, how I had been brought up.  Sex with a man just wasn't something I'd ever desire on my own."  He paused.  "When I turned to Janette, it was almost enough.  Her blood, mixed with mine, was so close to his, so close to what I wanted.  He left us alone for centuries, so I'd be strong enough to survive, when he finally took what he had created."  He was lost in thought, remembering.  Almost a century had passed before he understood what had been done to him; understood that his crossover had not been done in the usual way.  "That's why I've never been happy as a vampire.  I can never fully sate my desires, unless LaCroix . . ." he trailed off.
    "I take it this isn't done often."
    "No.  Only an ancient can take the risk -- a new one is almost hysterically strong, and would feed and feed until the maker is drained.  Then, if the new one saw, and panicked, and fed his blood back to the maker, the maker would be bound.  It's risky, so only an ancient is strong enough to allow a full meal, and still have the strength to stop the new one.  An ancient that strong usually doesn't want to wait the centuries it takes for the new one to grow strong enough to be a partner.  He usually kills the new one -- inadvertently -- long  before he has the strength to withstand a, er, well, <full> relationship."
    Natalie thought for a long moment before she trusted herself to continue.  "Well."  She paused again.  "That explains why <you> can't escape.  Why does <he> follow you around?  Why is he so obsessed with you?"
    <Good question,> thought Nick, <one I've asked myself for centuries.>   He shrugged.  "I always thought I was just a possession, something that was his and no one else's.  That he wouldn't let anyone else have me, just because I was <his.>  But it's more than that."  He paused, thinking.  "I think he really does love me, at least as much as he's capable."
    Natalie plainly reserved judgment on that.  She couldn't reject the idea outright, not after LaCroix's recent actions, but it seemed farfetched to her.  She considered how that affected her, affected their quest.  "Is this why you've been able to give up human blood, when none of the others even try?"
    Nick was impressed by her quick understanding.  "Yes.  My second meal was  human, so in the absence of LaCroix, that's what I want, but it's definitely second choice.  It satisfies me more than animal blood, but not completely."  He paused before continuing.  "If it fully filled the emptiness, I'd probably never have been able to resist it."
    Nick was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone, and he quickly reached to answer it.  Natalie took the interval as he handled the call to think over what she had learned, to ponder all the ramifications.  As Nick hung up his phone, she was ready.  "Nick, can you ever be happy, without LaCroix?"
    Nick took his time before answering.  "Yes," he said at last.  "I can be happy.  It's--" he broke off, thinking it over, then continued, "it's contentment that eludes me."  Natalie looked at him in dismay.  "It's okay, really, Nat.  I've gone centuries at a time, without him.  Even when I'm with him, I'm usually, well," he stopped.  "Empty," he said at last, anguished.
    Reading between the lines, Natalie got a glimpse of a torturous life.  No doubt LaCroix tried to keep him a little hungry, to make him easier to control.  As long as Nick wanted -- no, needed -- LaCroix more than LaCroix seemed to want him, LaCroix could use him however he wanted.  "Can't you escape?"
    "No," he said at last, "not while I'm a vampire."
    "Is that why you want to become mortal again?"
    "No."  Nick was emphatic.  "I don't want to be a, a, a killing machine.  A predatory beast.  I want to be <human.>"  He stepped toward her.  "I want to have a family, love, a wife.  I want to have <you.>"  He paused.  "I can't have any of that as a vampire."
    Natalie was relieved.  "Then we'll just have to keep working at it.  If you need LaCroix to feel whole now, go ahead; I understand.  I love you, more than I can tell you, and I want you to be happy.  Just reassure me, occasionally, OK?  Tell me you love me, that LaCroix's not enough, that it's me, damn it!  And we'll keep working on making you mortal until I die."
    Nick took her hands in his.  "I love you.  I need LaCroix, but just as much, I need you."  He paused, uncertain. "But Natalie, I'm further from mortality than I've been in decades.  And we don't have your entire lifetime."  Natalie looked at him in question.  "I'll have to move on soon, in just a few years."
    "But Janette stayed for 20 years!"
    "Janette never had close relationships with mortals.  Her clientele was discouraged from being long-term; employees moved on to other jobs.  No one noticed she never aged."
    "Oh," Nat said, discouraged.  Nick worked closely with any number of mortals, most of them trained observers who already thought he was, well, a little freaky, anyway.  Schanke, before he died, had commented that Nick never seemed to be any older.  Others would notice, and soon.  "Streak your hair."
    "Makeup will help for a while, Nat, but there's another problem."  He paused.  "You.  I don't want you to waste your life on me.  The next ten years -- you should be meeting a man, having children if you want them, making your own happiness, your own immortality.  I can't offer you any of that."
    "I can move on with you."
    Nick nodded.  "You could.  But there're no guarantees; I may never be able to give you more than we have now.  Can you live out your life without ever fulfilling the relationship?"
    Natalie paused in thought.  "I don't know, Nick, I just don't know."
    Nick nodded again.  "Think about it, Nat.  It's your decision.  If you want me, knowing the limitations, knowing about LaCroix, then you can have me -- what there is, anyway.  If you don't, then whatever limits you set, I'll abide by."
    "This is not a decision I can make overnight," she began.  He nodded.  "I'll think it over.  It may take a long time."  She looked sad, depressed; the enormity of Nick's problems seemed overwhelming.  She shook herself.  "In the meanwhile, Nick,  try to be happy.  I want you to be happy, even if that's not with me."
    Nick nodded, overwhelmed.  She knew what she was telling him to do; she was willing, as no one had been for centuries, to put his happiness before hers.  He hoped he could be as unselfish, when she decided to give up on him; but it was her decision to make.  He could not choose her path through life; could not arbitrarily decide what she should want to make her happy.  She had to do it herself.

Chapter 10

    LaCroix answered the phone on the second ring, saying "yes" in a resigned voice.
    "Hello, LaCroix."
    "Nicholas?"
    "Yeah.  I wanted to invite you to my place, today, LaCroix."
    A pause.  "Your place?"
    "Yes.  I want to thank you for helping me.  I know Andovar was a friend, once, and I appreciate what you did."  Nicholas paused, tongue-tied.  "I, er, have a gift for you."
    LaCroix, intrigued, murmured "Really?"
    Nicholas was losing his composure.  "Really.  Will you come?  I'll be done working around four, if you could meet me there.  Spend the day."
    "Certainly, Nicholas."  No way LaCroix would pass on this invitation.
    "Use the front door, LaCroix.  The security code is, er,"  Nick paused, embarrassed.  "1228."
    LaCroix pulled the phone away from his ear in shock, gazing at it with consternation.  It had been many, many years since Nicholas had wished to remember that particular date.  He put it back to his ear.  "1228.  I will be there."
    "Good."  Nicholas hung up, and LaCroix, wonderingly, slowly replaced the phone.

    The hours before Nick's shift was over passed excruciatingly slowly for both men.  Nick remained at his desk, trying to finish the boring paperwork for his last case, worrying whether LaCroix would like his gift or not.  Worrying how LaCroix would treat his gift.  LaCroix spent the time working on his own paperwork for the Raven, wondering what Nicholas had gotten for him.  Thinking of what he wished Nicholas would give him.
     LaCroix left early for Nick's loft, taking with him a case of bloodwine.  <No way he was going to subsist on cow when he didn't have to.>  He let himself in, still pondering Nick's choice of security code, searching for meanings beyond the obvious, unbelievable one.  He carefully put the blood wine away, discovering that Nicholas had, after all, provided a human vintage for him, carefully stowed in the refrigerator.  He was flattered; Nicholas had been known to discourage his visits by stocking only cow.  He carefully hung up his coat, then picked up Nick's remote and started the fire.  He lit the candles set out on the piano and the mantel, then seated himself calmly on the black leather sofa, wine glass in hand.  He waited patiently.
    Nicholas entered about fifteen minutes later, his black duster swirling behind him as he turned to shut the heavy elevator door.  He walked across the loft to LaCroix, who rose to meet him.  Nick smiled a greeting, looking, LaCroix thought, almost happy to see his guest.  "LaCroix.  You came."
    "Of course, Nicholas."  Nick seemed a bit at a loss for words, LaCroix thought.  "Did you really get me a present?"
    Nick smiled.
    "Where is it, Nicholas?"  LaCroix prompted his maddeningly silent son.
    Nick held out his arms and slowly turned in a circle.  "Right here."  LaCroix looked at him sharply, unbelievingly. Nick continued.  "Would you like to unwrap it now,  or wait until later?"
    LaCroix couldn't believe Nicholas meant what he seemed to mean.  "What is it, Nicholas?"
    Nicholas looked at him and grinned.  "Me."  He paused.  "Just for today."
    LaCroix looked surprised, then all at once very pleased indeed.  "I get to unwrap it?"
    "Uh-huh."
    "Now?"
    "Uh-huh."
    "You're sure?"
    "Yes, LaCroix, very sure."
    LaCroix, at last accepting his great fortune, put his drink down and pulled his son toward him.  "I get to unbutton you?"
    "Uh-huh."
    Without another word, LaCroix began his task, gently teasing open the buttons of the long duster, one after the other, kissing Nick gently between each.  Nick just stood, allowing the exposure, smiling at LaCroix and returning his kisses.  When LaCroix had the last button undone, he reached back and removed the coat, laying it gently to one side.  He maneuvered Nicholas back onto the sofa, sitting him down and pushing him back against the pillows.  Nick sat willingly.
    LaCroix looked him over carefully.  Blazer, vest, shirt; all buttoned to the top.  Black, close fitting jeans; could they be button fly, too?  LaCroix felt his cock swell uncomfortably within his own pants and lowered a hand to undo his fly.  Nicholas reached out and stopped him, gently.  "Unh-unh.  Wouldn't be fair, LaCroix."  If Nicholas was going to stay trapped in his own pants while LaCroix unbuttoned the rest of him, then LaCroix would just have to stay trapped in his.
    LaCroix began unbuttoning.  Nicholas, he mused to himself, had always had this strange degree of personal modesty.  He had always dressed properly, on occasion even primly, and the old Roman somehow found the uncovering of the hidden, the slow revealing of the secret, more titillating than all the abundant display of flesh he had known in his own mortal life.  He teased open another jet button on Nick's charcoal colored blazer. Somehow, unbuttoning Nick, especially when he was willing, had become as exciting to LaCroix as the first time he had ever undressed and bedded a woman.  The experience was only heightened by the knowledge that Nick really preferred to unbutton himself; preferred to keep the act of exposing himself under his
own control.  This gift, for Nick, was an act of trust and love, not primarily of lust.
     LaCroix paused, sneaking one hand into the unbuttoned area and feeling the silk of Nick's vest.  Nick sucked in his stomach, sensitive despite the two layers of clothing still remaining.  Somehow LaCroix had the ability to make him feel naked, exposed, even when he was fully dressed.  Nick reached out to begin unbuttoning LaCroix's shirt, but the old vampire caught his hand in an iron grip.  "Not yet, <mon fils,> not yet.  Be patient."  He leaned over and kissed Nicholas gently, teasing open the last button of the blazer as he did so.  He pulled Nick forward, then lowered the coat from his shoulders, briefly trapping his arms.  He ran light kisses down Nick's jaw line to the collar of his shirt, scraping gently with his fangs.  Nick again tried to reach for him, but his arms were still trapped in his coat. Nick tried to free himself, snarling through his dropped fangs, but LaCroix held him firmly, continuing only when Nick abandoned the struggle and submitted.  He removed the blazer, finally, and began work on the next layer.
    "How long were you planning to take, LaCroix?" Nick asked with a guttural whisper.
    LaCroix looked up at his lover with amusement.  "There are two kinds of people in this world, Nicholas; those who, when given a present, tear the wrappings to shreds in their over eagerness to get to the gift.  And those who relish the moment, the care given in the packaging, the beauty of suspense."  He applied his fingers to the second button on Nick's vest.  "I, of course, am of the... er...  patient... sort."
    Nicholas growled in frustration, then leaned his head back against the cushions, trying to calm himself.  So many, many years had passed since he had allowed LaCroix to undress him, but still, how could he have forgotten how the man drew out the suspense, savoring every moment, every opening, the exposure of every layer?  How could he have forgotten the sheer excitement, the tension, of the unlayering?
    LaCroix, with two buttons undone, ran his hands between the heavy black silk of Nicholas's vest and the thin, almost sheer silk of his shirt.  He could feel Nicholas's muscles ripple through the delicate fabric; feel the heat of his body and the responsiveness of his sensitized skin.  He moved his hand upward, encountering the sudden unexpected hardness of Nick's shoulder holster and gun.  He drew back in delight; how kind of Nick to provide the unusual;  something more to explore and remove.  He looked up at his son, seeing his own amusement reflected in the eyes looking back at him.  He reached up and traced the outline of his son's lips, feeling the fangs distorting the upper one.  Nick opened his mouth, inviting the finger in.  He tongued it briefly, then sucked it into his mouth until LaCroix, with a shudder, recovered himself and returned to the unveiling.
    He found himself opening the last three buttons of the vest all at once, pushing the fabric back to expose the soft silk of the blue shirt molding itself to Nick's torso, and the hard black leather of  the holster.  LaCroix climbed onto the sofa for a closer look, straddling Nick's body with his knees and sitting in his lap.  Nick looked somewhat alarmed, then put his arms around his master for a swift embrace.  LaCroix gave into the embrace briefly, reassuringly.  He pulled Nick forward to remove the vest,  then let him fall back, exposing the holster to his examination.
     The hard shiny leather made a striking counterpoint to the soft silk; its hard lines crossing the gentle swell of Nick's chest.  The gun itself, securely held in the dark pocket,  gleamed in the firelight.  Whether because of what it was, or what it represented, the gun reminded LaCroix of the danger in the man beneath him, the danger in himself.  He reached out and removed the cold metal, holding it firmly in his grip.
    Nick looked up at him, startled.  The weapon would kill neither of them, and he didn't think LaCroix planned to use it on him, but somehow, seeing it in LaCroix's grip, he felt more vulnerable and exposed then he was.  LaCroix watched him idly, tilting the gun back and forth to let the firelight play off the gleaming metal.  He understood and enjoyed Nicholas's reaction to his handling of the gun; Nicholas had been trained to consider the weapon a part of himself.  His years on the police force, both here and in Chicago,  had honed his awareness of the gun to a fine pitch.  LaCroix laid the cold metal against Nick's throat, not threateningly, just carefully, letting him feel the strength, the danger of it  He leaned forward and caressed the other side of Nick's throat with his tongue, his lips.  Nicholas groaned, and LaCroix could feel his reaction as Nick's cock jumped beneath him -- as much as it could, trapped within the tight pants.  His own cock
twitched in response.
    LaCroix smiled slowly, then returned the weapon to the holster.  He pushed it in firmly, his eyes meeting Nick's as it snapped into place.  Nick swallowed.
    He couldn't believe how erotic he found LaCroix's handling of the weapon; truthfully, he had left it on just to give the old master one more  thing to take off.  He had never expected him to revel in it, or himself to enjoy it.  LaCroix watched his face avidly, appreciating his son's unexpected responses.
      He returned his attention to the holster, quickly figuring out how to remove it.  He waited, though, running his fingers under the stiff leather, over the sensitized skin of Nick's chest until Nick writhed with desire.  He quickly removed the holster, wrapping the straps neatly around the holstered gun.  He reached behind Nicholas, opening the drawer of the table behind the sofa, and showed Nicholas that he was carefully stowing the gun away.  He didn't want his son distracted, thinking about the gun being left out, unprotected.
    LaCroix licked his lips in anticipation.  He was getting to the final layers, to finally uncovering that tantalizing body.  He held Nicholas's gaze with his own as his fingers moved to gently tease open the top button.  Nicholas swallowed, the muscles of his throat moving under LaCroix's fingers as he pulled the shirt open.  LaCroix trailed his lips over the exposed flesh, gently nuzzling and licking, savouring this first taste of his son's skin.  He opened the next button, his tongue tracing fire down Nick's throat and over his collarbones.  He let a fang tip graze the skin lightly, then avidly licked the blood off, savoring the flavor.  Nick, groaning, reached out to try to unbutton LaCroix's shirt, but LaCroix held him back, silently telling him to be patient.  Nick subsided only when LaCroix captured his straying hands and put them under his knees, trapping them.
    LaCroix opened the next two buttons quickly, unable to restrain himself.  He pulled the shirt open further, straining against the last button just above Nick's belt, and exposed Nick's chest.  The fine sprinkling of golden down tickled his lips as he gently stroked his tongue down into the opening, moving first right, then left, to tease the already tight buds of Nick's nipples further.  He slipped his hand between the silk shirt and the silken skin of Nick's flanks, feeling the younger man suck in his belly in response.  He leaned further down, nipping the vulnerable hollow of his stomach, lapping off the blood, and finally gave in, opening the last button and pulling the shirt tails out.
    The master vampire freed Nick's right hand, easing the cuff button open and trailing his lips up the wrist.  He pulled the arm from the sleeve, nibbling his way up the forearm, gently nipping the exposed vein inside the elbow, before again tucking it under his knee.  Nick resisted, trying to touch LaCroix, but the older vampire just pressed more weight on the hand and moved on to Nick's left.  This time, he pulled the shirt down over Nick's wrist without unbuttoning it, holding the hand trapped in the shirt while he nibbled inside Nick's elbow.  Nick groaned in response, every inch alive with sensation.  LaCroix undid the cuff and removed the shirt, slowly, trailing it across Nick's exposed abdomen.  Still holding firmly onto Nick's left hand, he again caressed Nick's chest and tightened the buds of his nipples with his lips.  Suddenly, he surprised Nick by bringing the wrist to his mouth and biting down firmly, taking a mouthful or two of blood before releasing it.  He savored what he had taken, looking directly into Nick's eyes, tasting his soul in his blood and in his eyes.  Still holding Nick's gaze, he brought the torn wrist back to his mouth, lapping up the spilling blood until the bleeding stopped.
    He abandoned Nick's shirt, now,  easing himself back onto the floor and attacking Nick's belt buckle with his teeth.  His hands continued to stroke Nick's belly, while Nick's hands, freed from their captivity,  strayed to LaCroix's head, to lightly run through the stiff bristle of his short hair.  LaCroix opened the belt, exposing the fly of the pants.  Buttons.  LaCroix could feel the moistness of pre-cum inside his own pants, which suddenly felt about two sizes too small.  He straightened a leg out, trying to ease the tightness in his crotch.
    Nicholas closed his eyes and forced himself to lay back against the pillows.  His hands supported and caressed his master's head as the old vampire ran his lips down the front of Nick's pants, pausing a moment to savor the bliss of the wet spot Nick had made there.  LaCroix continued to use his teeth, opening the buttons slowly, carefully; his task made difficult by the stretching of the fabric caused by Nick's trapped erection.  As he opened each button, he kissed the silky fabric of Nick's undershorts, the last layer of wrapping between him and what he sought.
    His hands, available now as he used his mouth on Nick's fly, strayed to his own pants and released his own erection, to press, rampant, against Nick's leg.  He unbuttoned his own shirt, flinging it off, and Nick's hands dived down, caressing as much of his master as he could reach.  LaCroix, opening the final button, pushed his hands under Nick's thighs and lifted him, freeing the pants and pulling them down his legs before lowering him again.
    Nicholas watched him with golden eyes.  The front of Nick's silk shorts pressed upwards, tenting over his erection, but did not fall open.  LaCroix examined the garment more closely, then looked up at Nick's face with a gasp.  "Nicholas!  Button fly undershorts?"
    Nick smiled lazily, revealing his gleaming fangs.  "Just for you, old man."
    LaCroix grinned back, almost quivering in delight.  He used his fingers to undo the final, delicate buttons, enjoying the sight of his own large, pale hands on the tiny black buttons.  Nicholas's turgid shaft rose with a pale gleam from the folds of the black silk.  LaCroix, relishing the anticipation, carefully pulled the bit of silk down his son's bare legs, following his hands with a stroking tongue and the occasionally pricking fang, but tidily licking up any blood before it could spill and stain.
    LaCroix pulled back, pushing Nick's hands away so he could savor the sight of his naked lover.  Nicholas reclined on the black leather cushions, unconsciously graceful in posture; unashamedly ready for more.  His skin glowed, a warm honey tone, reflecting the light of the fire.  He felt that every inch of him was sensitized, alive with feeling.  LaCroix reached out, almost hesitantly, to finger a golden curl, then cup Nicholas's cheek in his hand.  He seemed almost afraid, as if he feared Nicholas would suddenly vanish or change his mind.  Nick turned his head, pressing his lips into LaCroix's hand for a quick, reassuring kiss.
    Still LaCroix did not move, and Nicholas, impatient, reached out to draw him closer.  LaCroix stayed him with a raised hand.  "Let me enjoy looking at my unwrapped gift a moment," he chided.  Nick heaved an impatient sigh, but relented, looking at his unwrapped master in return.  The alabaster skin, the huge muscles of his chest and arms;  LaCroix was not just taller than he, but wider, more heavily built; a mastiff to his terrier.
    Nicholas found himself getting, unbelievably, still harder as his eyes roamed his creator's body.  Still LaCroix did not move, and Nicholas at last took action.  He launched himself from the sofa, tackling the larger man at the waist.  LaCroix, absorbing the impact, wrapped his arms around the impetuous one and allowed gravity to pull them down, still embraced. Nicholas, landing on top, quickly moved up to pin him with the naked length of his body and a passionate kiss.   "Enough looking, old man," he growled.  "Time for action."
    Still holding LaCroix down, Nicholas began to trail kisses down the old vampire's neck, leaving a trail of fire.  He put his hands on LaCroix's shoulders, holding him in place, while he descended to the alabaster chest, teasing first one, then the other nipple.  LaCroix reached out to caress his face and Nick turned and kissed his hand again before pressing himself still lower, savoring the quiver of LaCroix's sensitive flanks as he trailed a fang tip down his belly, then ran his tongue back up to taste the blood.  He moved down again, pressing a firm tongue tip into LaCroix's navel, laughing around it as LaCroix's erection tapped him under the chin in response.  This time, it was LaCroix's turn to be impatient, as Nick traveled around the main target area, trailing kisses and nibbles everywhere but on LaCroix's rampant shaft.
    Nicholas had to release his grasp on LaCroix's shoulders, shifting his weight further down, to address himself to his new target.  He had just latched onto it when LaCroix decided to act, suddenly sitting upright and taking charge.  LaCroix reached down and grabbed Nicholas around the waist with both hands, suddenly lifting the smaller man up and pivoting him.  Nick, never releasing LaCroix's penis, suddenly found himself, still on top, but now in a more mutually satisfying position.  He gasped audibly in shock as LaCroix latched onto his penis with the rapidity of a striking snake, taking the enlarged organ deeply into his mouth.
    LaCroix, tonguing skillfully, quickly distracted the younger vampire from his shock, and the two avidly proceeded with their explorations.  LaCroix lowered his arms until Nicholas rested on his knees above him, freeing his hands to stroke and caress.  Nicholas moaned in response, every inch of him burning with passion.  He used one hand to hold himself up, while he returned LaCroix's caresses with the other.  Nick, focusing on the sensations flooding his body from LaCroix's ministrations, and on returning those sensations in full measure, lost track of time and position, relaxing into LaCroix's embrace.  LaCroix took advantage of his momentary lack of attention to flip the younger man, still firmly embraced, onto his back, with LaCroix on top.  Nicholas caught on just in time to prevent a complete reversal, and the two fell onto their sides, each holding the other in a mirror image.  Each content, for now, to simply enjoy the passion.
    Nicholas, impatient, finally broke the embrace.  Moving as quickly as he was able, he surprised LaCroix, escaping him just long enough to reverse himself beside the older vampire.  LaCroix, startled by the sudden removal of Nick's cock, still had his mouth open when Nicholas covered it with his own, dueling with tongue and fangs to plunder the depths.  He bucked his hips smoothly, grinding his hard shaft into the softness of LaCroix's belly, sliding it against the incredible hardness of LaCroix's erection.  Mouth to mouth, body to body, phallus to phallus, the two men pressed, rubbing, sliding, in ecstasy.  As one, they withdrew from the kiss and plunged aching fangs into sensitive throats, shuddering in ecstasy and relief as they reached orgasm together.
    They melted into each other's arms as the spasms passed, pulling together in the feeding embrace of vampire sex.  LaCroix came again at the taste of Nick's sunny blood, reveling in the flavor he had missed for so long.  Nicholas, as responsive as ever, came again as well, reveling in the dark power and glory of LaCroix's blood. The orgasm rang back and forth between them, reverberating in their very souls.
    At last, replete, the two released their fangs from each other.  Nicholas let his body roll over onto his back, his head on LaCroix's arm.  LaCroix rolled towards him, laying half across him, his arm across Nick's chest, his leg across Nick's belly, holding him down possessively.  Nick pushed LaCroix's leg down a bit, so the heavy weight was supported by his hip bones rather than his vulnerable belly, but accepted the domination with equanimity.  His head supported by LaCroix's shoulder, his body held in place by LaCroix's arms; he felt loved.
     After a bit, LaCroix, realizing how he held Nick prisoner, rolled onto his back, releasing him.  Nick, missing the closeness, rolled onto his side and held LaCroix for a change.
    Nicholas, still glowing from ecstasy, reflected on this most recent encounter.  LaCroix, it seemed, had taken the change in their relationship seriously.  He had taken nothing Nicholas had not offered; he had returned pleasure for pleasure, without pain.  He had used surprise and quickness to change positions, but when Nicholas had retaliated, he had not used strength to prevent him.  Nicholas was well aware that LaCroix could have assumed a dominant position easily, and controlled every least element of their encounter.  He had, instead, allowed Nicholas to share in setting the course of their coupling; an unprecedented concession.
    LaCroix likewise pondered the changes in the relationship.  He had always feared lack of control, and feared giving Nicholas any control in their relationship.  Feared it because, in the end, his love for Nicholas might come to control him.  Trusting Nicholas not to want to control him was the hardest thing he had ever learned, a lesson centuries in the teaching.  LaCroix rolled back onto his side, and Nicholas reflexively opened to welcome him, so the two held each other in their arms.  LaCroix bent his head down and buried his face in the soft curls on top of Nicholas's head, inhaling deeply to breathe in his scent, his essence.
    LaCroix, content as he had never been before, smiled  to himself, reaching automatically for the mental link with Nicholas.  He stopped himself at the last moment, remembering his promise to keep out of Nicholas's mind.  He sighed.  Drowsily, he found himself wondering what was going on in the other man's mind.  <Was he as content as LaCroix?>  His thoughts drifted, but continued to return, to niggle at his self control.  <Did Nicholas return his feelings?>  He wanted badly to check.  Uncertainty nagged at him.  <Did Nicholas even know, at this moment, whose arms held him?  Was he dreaming of someone else?  That mortal, perhaps?>
    "Nicholas."  He needed to know his son knew it was him; was not going to wake up and recoil in horror.  "Nicholas."  He reached out and shook him gently.
    Nicholas opened his eyes drowsily, shifting to look directly into LaCroix's eyes.  He looked at him questioningly.
    LaCroix gazed back, waiting for recognition, waiting for reaction.
    Nicholas, uncomprehending, asked "LaCroix?"  LaCroix didn't answer, waiting for Nicholas to react first.  Waiting to see the reaction he wouldn't reach for with his mind.  "What is it, LaCroix," Nicholas asked, wariness seeping into his voice, pain into his eyes.
     LaCroix did not answer, still not sure whether Nicholas was reacting to his presence or to something else.  Nick sat up abruptly, bringing his feet beneath him.  LaCroix raised himself onto one elbow, watching Nick as he rubbed his face with one hand.
    "What is it, LaCroix?" Nick asked again.  "Is this where you rub my face in it again?  Now that my guard is down, is this where you destroy me again?  Show me, again, what a fool I am to love you?  Tell me, again, how you've destroyed something I care about, just to get back at me?"
    "Nicholas -- " LaCroix began, finally understanding Nick's reaction.  He broke off.  "Where are you going?"
    Nicholas had found his pants by the sofa, and was trying to put them on.  "Give me a moment, LaCroix; if you're going to humiliate me with my own weakness for you, <again>, I'd rather face it with some clothes on."  He bit the words out bitterly.
    LaCroix sat up.  "Nicholas, I'm not --"
    Nick interrupted him.  "Just give me a moment," he snarled, and glared at LaCroix with pain in his eyes.  LaCroix subsided, watching him, as Nick momentarily cradled his face in his hands, then looked up, his expression now one of stoic indifference. LaCroix knew if he did renege on his promise and touch Nicholas's mind now, he would find only emptiness.  Nicholas had hidden his thoughts that way many times before, but he could do it only briefly.  Basically, he was suppressing any thoughts; inadequate, but the only effective tool he had.
    LaCroix regarded him with concern.  He had seen this stoic indifference before, and always thought it hid contempt and hatred.  He had never realized it was hiding pain.  Deep abiding pain, pain which he himself had caused.  "Sit down, Nicholas," he commanded, sitting up himself.  Nick found himself sitting down, staring at his pants in his hands.  He looked at LaCroix.  "No, Nicholas, that wasn't what I wanted."  He allowed some of his own pain to show.  "I wanted to know you knew it was me; that you weren't going to wake up and reject me; that this time it was real."  He swallowed.  "That this time, it was different."
    "Different than what, LaCroix?" asked Nick.  "Different than the time you got that bounty hunter to drug me with curare, so I couldn't resist, then laughed at my struggles as you took me anyway?"  LaCroix had the grace to look ashamed.  "Different than the time you tricked me into your bed, and had me, only to then bring me the corpse of  the little nun I thought I was protecting?  Different than the time -- " he broke off, breathing heavily, his pain now blasting the link with LaCroix, his emotions too strong for him to suppress.
    "Yes, Nicholas, different than those times, and different than all the others.  That <this> time, you were with me because you wanted to be; that this time, you wanted <me> as much as I wanted you."  He reached out and grabbed Nick's arms.  "Don't you see, Nicholas?  You're making the same mistake I did.  You're too tied up in your own pain to feel mine."
    "You always felt my pain, LaCroix; you reveled in it!"
    "And I never understood it."  LaCroix looked at Nicholas with a solemn certitude that gave Nick pause.  "Ironic, isn't it?  Until this last week, when I've tried so hard to stay out of your head, I never understood it."  Nick looked at him, incomprehension writ large on his face.  LaCroix continued, more gently, as he saw that Nick was listening to him.  "I always thought you understood, that you knew I loved you.  That you knew how much it hurt me that you ran from me.  I never understood that you didn't know -- couldn't know -- when it was always so plain to me."
    "Nothing's ever been plain to me about you, about us."
    "Yes, I know.  Now.  I never realized how much I relied on our link to know what you were really feeling; I never realized how easy it was to misunderstand without it.  I never realized how uncertain it made you, how hard it was for you to believe I loved you when I sent such mixed signals."
    "<Mixed?>"  Nicholas, incredulous, had stopped trying to leave, but still couldn't understand.
    "Yes, mixed.  I could never let you think I cared more than you; if you hated me I wanted you to think I hated you, first.  Pride, fear of rejection, whatever;  if you could have read my mind the way I could read yours, you would have seen.  And I always, somehow, felt you should have seen anyway."  LaCroix released one of Nick's arms, and raised his hand to gently trace Nick's cheekbone with one long finger.  "It's only now, when everything you do is showing me things are improving, but I still find myself reaching out to your mind for reassurance, that I understand your doubts, your insecurity.  It's only now that I see how easy it is to miss a subtle signal, how easy it is to doubt even the strongest of signals."
    Nicholas accepted his touch, calming, but LaCroix could still see the doubt in his eyes.  "<Mon cher>," he began again, "when you came back to the Raven that second night," he paused, until Nick nodded, "you said you weren't 'trying to come back' to me.  Why did you say it that way?  Why didn't you just say you weren't coming back?"
    All the tension returned to Nick's body.  LaCroix withdrew his hand, but raised an eyebrow in gently inquiry.  Nick looked away, looked at the ceiling, glanced once, sidelong, at LaCroix, then fixed his gaze on his own hands, still clutching his pants.  "Because I thought," he began hoarsely, "I thought you didn't want me; wouldn't have me."  He raised his eyes to LaCroix's.  "I've tried to come back, before."  The strain of forcing the words out was obvious.  "And every time, you --" his voice faltered, and he swallowed hard before continuing.  "Every time, every time I was ready  --" he broke off, turning away, hiding his face from his master.
    LaCroix understood, at last, what he was trying to say.  He reached out and gathered Nick's tense body in his arms.  "Every time you were ready, I was too hurt, too angry to see it. "  Nick turned to look up at LaCroix.  "Too intent on punishing you for leaving to appreciate that you were returning.  Too jealous to believe it, even <with> your mind open to me."  Blue eyes met blue eyes. "Here.  Read me," invited LaCroix, removing his barriers and letting Nick in.  "I should have trusted you centuries ago; I trust you in this.  Come in."

    Nick reached out warily, prepared to have the doors slammed in his face yet again, as they had always slammed before.  LaCroix kept them open, summoning the courage to show Nicholas what he had never before shown anyone.
    His doubts.  His fears.  His desperate love.
    Nick moved closer, his hands reaching out to cup LaCroix's shoulders as he stared into his eyes, reaching into his open mind.  LaCroix reached back, to loosely encircle Nicholas's torso with his own arms, tilting his body and inviting Nicholas to bite for the fullest possible sharing.  Nick, still doubtful, took his time before finally deciding to accept the invitation.  He dropped LaCroix's gaze and gently took the offered throat in his mouth, letting the fangs enter hesitantly.  He sucked a moment before allowing LaCroix to return the gesture.
    The link was complete.  LaCroix enjoyed its fullness for a brief moment of self-indulgence, then turned his thoughts to his first meeting with Nicholas.

    The knight had stood out from his rough companions, not just because of his golden beauty, obscured by the filth of travel and army living, but because of the look of eagles in his eyes, the noble carriage of his body, and the feeling of an indomitable will beneath the disillusionment apparent in his demeanor.  LaCroix watched him for days, desiring him, lusting for him, yearning...
    Nicholas escaped becoming a quick meal that first night by the sudden appearance of a contingent of guardsmen. LaCroix looked for him again, finding him easily while wondering why he was looking.  A meal was a meal, after all.  Nicholas escaped the second and third nights as well; first because a rowdy crowd exited a low tavern as LaCroix was about to make his move, and then because he, unheeding of the danger stalking him, ducked quickly into a church.  LaCroix, seething outside, took another mortal that night while he waited.
    The golden knight was becoming an obsession with him; he had to have him.  Gradually, the idea dawned within him that perhaps he could have him more than once; could have him... forever.  He spent one long, uncomfortable day, caught in inadequate shelter because he had followed his prize too long.  His thoughts, all that day, focused on Nicholas, and he made his decision and formed his plans.
    The knight was well armed and healthy; easy enough to kill, but much harder to subdue without a noisy struggle should he prove to be a resistor.  Would he come back to LaCroix, or would he go to the light?  LaCroix made inquiries; the man was the sole support of his aging mother and his young sister.  If he died, they would be destitute, made homeless when the next heir, a very distant relative, took over the family castle.  He might come back, rather than desert his loved ones...
    He was a crusader, though, and still visited the holy church.  It might not be enough.  LaCroix had not revealed himself to Nicholas, but had watched closely enough to see that the young man, while lusty and open with the women, was more reserved around his male companions; that sometimes he watched them with guarded, suspicious eyes.  Thinking how this young man must have looked when he first joined an army as a page in his early teens, LaCroix was able to make a pretty good guess at the likelihood of his coupling willingly with another male...
    The skilled tactician sent Janette to lure him to the darkness.  The plan worked beautifully; Nicholas came, and was tempted, and was taken.  But LaCroix, tasting his blood, was uncertain  He saw the scars of past encounters.  He saw himself through Nicholas's eyes:  a powerful, confident figure, an older, wiser man to be respected and followed.  He saw not one trace of desire for anyone but Janette; no evidence that his quarry had ever been tempted to take a man to his bed, but plenty of evidence that he himself had been taken to other men's beds, and not enjoyed the experience.
    LaCroix drained the young knight, then bit his wrist and let the blood flow down his arm, across his palm, to drip from his fingers into the other's half-open mouth, staining his lips, trickling down his unresponsive throat.
    LaCroix waited as Nicholas went to the light, his thoughts turning to his own mortal days.  He had been a man of power and stature, but the day had passed that most, upon viewing him, felt any instant desire for his body.  He felt a sudden, unwelcome return of his mortal mid-life doubts.  He reviewed his own physical attributes -- the receding hairline, the lines of experience on his face, the inevitable changing of his body.  <Could a specimen as perfect as Nicholas find desire for LaCroix's imperfect body?  LaCroix had not been beautiful, in the conventional sense, even in his younger days.  Now...> his doubts grew.  <He wanted this man, in his life and in his bed, wanton and willing.>
    Nicholas was going to the light.  LaCroix's doubts, reaching their peak, had to be put aside to call him back from the light.  A long fought moment passed as he pulled with the strength of his mind, using the images plucked from the young knight's own mind, pictures of his sister and mother.  Janette joined him, pulling with her own image, her own promise of endless nights of passion.  LaCroix wished he could do as Janette, but this knight would not be tempted by him...
    Then, Nicholas was back, needing immediate feeding, the First Hunger upon him, and LaCroix took desperate action without thought.  He would not take his new treasure to feed on the beautiful female mortal he had provided for this moment; he would feed him himself.  He bared his wrist, and the new vampire took it in a steely grip and attacked it with his new fangs.
    When he felt Nicholas had had enough, he removed his wrist, and Nicholas and Janette fell into each other's arms as if no one else in the world existed.  LaCroix cradled his wrist, watching, enjoying their emanations, secure knowing that Nicholas would turn to him, as well, now; that Janette would never be enough.  That his new son would be unable to reject his hopeful lover, unable to escape desiring him.  He smiled a triumphant, secretive smile.
    He and Janette took Nicholas to the mesmerized mortal, for his <second> meal.

    Nicholas, learning how LaCroix's self doubts had spurred his choice for the first time, was taken aback.  He'd thought he'd been Janette's choice; not LaCroix's.  He'd thought LaCroix had made him as a toy for his older child, then come to want him as well.
    LaCroix confirmed it though; Nicholas had been LaCroix's choice. LaCroix had fed him his first meal from his own wrist, because he feared Nicholas would never return his desire.

    Nicholas tried to believe, but 200 years ago... 200 years ago, LaCroix hadn't been in any doubt about Nicholas's feelings, and he had... done what he'd done.  Nicholas's mind still slid around the edges of that terrible experience, still avoiding the resolution.
    LaCroix opened another of the terrible secret compartments of his soul, laid bare another weakness.  This weakness brought on by his actions in 1228; this weakness the result of the terrible, bitter, corrosive action of his own doubts.  Did Nicholas love him for himself?  Or was Nicholas only in love because he was forced to be, forced by his need for LaCroix's blood?  LaCroix still doubted Nicholas; still knew that such a man could never desire the aging, unappealing LaCroix of his own free will.  Nicholas had had to be forced, and LaCroix hated him for it.  He hid the corrosive resentment away with the doubt, never letting them show, never letting Nicholas know of his pain, his weakness.  The younger man would surely take advantage of them; use them to gain the upper hand against his master.
    Nicholas protested; he wouldn't have, and he didn't see LaCroix that way.
    LaCroix acknowledged it; he knew that.  He'd known it then, but his own self-doubt and fears of powerlessness had eaten away at that knowledge till he'd been overwhelmed.  Nicholas accepted the knowledge silently, without reaction, and LaCroix wondered, and doubted again.  <Was Nicholas contemptuous of him for this weakness, this foolishness he was revealing?  Would he use it somehow to gain the upper hand?> He was tempted to once again slam his mental doors shut, to once again retreat behind his unyielding facade, but stopped himself at the last minute, and instead revealed his new doubts, as well.
    Nicholas lay still, accepting, not commenting.  In time, perhaps, but now...

    They lay entwined, bodies and souls, for a timeless moment, an instant or an eternity.  Nicholas was assimilating his new knowledge, LaCroix was accepting that Nicholas now knew his disgraceful, shameful secret.
    A new thought whispered in Nicholas's head, worming its way through his background thoughts, and whispered to LaCroix:  <What of Fleur?>
    LaCroix held back.
    <What of Fleur?>  Nicholas whispered. Three days with Fleur had meant more to LaCroix than almost eight centuries with Nicholas; had meant so much more that LaCroix had threatened to stake him rather than be denied his revenge.  How could Nicholas accept that he meant anything to LaCroix, when LaCroix could kill <him> for the mere memory of <her>?
    LaCroix, unwilling, cracked open the door to yet another secret.  Nicholas held back, not wanting to take what LaCroix was unwilling to give, not willing to violate his secrets, to desecrate this sacred memory, and LaCroix, at last, flung the door wide.
    Revealing a picture of his true love.  Not Fleur, but Nicholas.
    LaCroix was almost amused at Nicholas's shock. The young knight's own ideals of romantic love had been touched by LaCroix's unfulfilled passion for the young girl, his chivalric renunciation, sparing her life and innocence.  LaCroix had desperately wanted to keep that shining image of himself as the self-sacrificing martyr intact, not just as a scheme to control his son, but because it was a moment when he was sure Nicholas had respected him.
    His amusement died a quick and silent death.  His shining moment was gone.
    He remembered the time so clearly.  He'd just brought Nicholas across, desiring him deeply but schooling himself to wait until the time was ripe.  He'd watched Nicholas and Janette love, deeply envious, but nonetheless patient.
     Then he encountered Fleur.  This  unattached and susceptible -- smitten -- version of Nicholas entranced him. With her, he could have everything he wanted from Nicholas, and he could have it <now>.
    His infatuation was brief.  As Nicholas stood between them, protecting his sister, his eyes flashing as he stood up to his overwhelmingly powerful master, LaCroix could not help but contrast the two.  Fleur was young, and beautiful, and profoundly innocent, but she lacked the fire and strength of her brother.  The young maiden was like so many others he had had, mostly for breakfast; she had not the strength to stand up to him.  When he'd looked at her, he'd seen Nicholas in her, but Nicholas was not there, only Fleur.  He turned to Nicholas, at that moment hating him, hating him for not returning his desire, for denying him Fleur, for revealing to him that Fleur would never be the fulfillment of his dreams.
    In a raging fit of loss, he made the bargain he still held over Nick's head, the bargain he had used so unscrupulously to separate him from Natalie.
    Nicholas's stunned shock spurred him on.  <Really, Nicholas,> he thought.  <She was young and innocent, but girls were routinely kept that way then.  If I were that susceptible, she surely wouldn't have been the only one!>
    LaCroix buried his momentary humor, and went on.  He remembered standing in the street outside Natalie's apartment, not even trying to fool himself that he was agonizing over his lost love Fleur, acknowledging only the agony that the sight and feel of Nicholas loving Natalie gave him.  The pain was unbearable; this particular mortal threatened to take his son away entirely, to make him mortal, to break their centuries-old link and leave LaCroix alone forever.
    It must be stopped.
    A thread of disbelief still came from Nicholas, affording LaCroix a moment of bitter amusement.  LaCroix opened another inner door, revealing his later visit to Fleur.  He'd forgotten her for a decade, then on a whim -- well, after once again succumbing to a fit of jealousy over Janette's capturing of Nicholas's heart -- revisited her.  The husband had died, leaving her a beautiful widow.  She was older, and stronger, an experienced, mature woman who should have thrummed his heartstrings with the fulfillment of the promise she had shown so long ago.
    His heartstrings had remained frustratingly silent, untouched.
    Even Nicholas would not have held him back, now.  This mature Fleur could have been allowed the choice the youthful innocent had been denied, but LaCroix felt no desire to extend that option to her. Even the slight hope he had cherished that Fleur could give him what Nicholas denied him had died.

    LaCroix held the image a long moment, as Nicholas tried to assimilate it.  <Too much, perhaps, for the younger man to take in all at once, thought LaCroix; too much to expect him to understand.>  He hardened his heart once again.  <Nicholas had better not offer him sympathy; he could not tolerate that; and if the other offered him pity he swore to himself he'd kill the ungrateful sot.>  He sighed.  <Well, no, he wouldn't, but no pity, please, Nicholas; don't do that to me.>  He didn't let the thought escape the confines of his own head.
    He didn't try to invade Nicholas's head, either.  He would grant him the privacy to think it through on his own, not watch every flickering shadow of thought as the other tried to understand.  LaCroix held himself apart, and waited for Nicholas's verdict.

    Nicholas didn't know what he thought, seeing after all this time the truth behind LaCroix's veneer. He'd need time, lots of it, to understand, to rethink the past in the light of his new knowledge. He began to ease his fangs from LaCroix's neck, but stopped, suddenly, at a whisper of regret from his sire.  LaCroix needed him to say something, to acknowledge somehow... but he wouldn't ask; he didn't expect a response.  Nicholas thought quietly, not sharing.

    LaCroix almost instantly regretted his inadvertent lapse when Nicholas had begun to withdraw.  He wanted so badly for Nicholas to reassure him, and yet, how could the younger man?  He wanted Nicholas to help <him>, when he had revealed these shameful weaknesses only so he could help Nicholas, not the other way around.  His thoughts spun aimlessly.
    Only gradually did he realize that Nicholas was easing images into the dark whirl.  An image of a pair of eyes, as cold and beautiful as the winter sky in morning, warming with the golden lights of arousal, melting into sheer lust...  The feel of silken skin sliding over sleek muscle, rippling with strength and power... The weight of a larger lover,  the sensuous delight of being pressed to the bed... Nicholas's images, he realized, and not one of them about receding hairlines, or wrinkles, or any of the signs of age that nagged at him.  He accepted them, briefly, acknowledging that Nicholas saw and desired things in his body that he himself did not.  It was comforting, in a way, but LaCroix pushed him away.  One so beautiful as Nicholas couldn't possibly disregard LaCroix's imperfections.
    Nicholas accepted his rebuff calmly; only LaCroix's distraction and turmoil had kept him receptive as long as he was.  He reached out again, opening one of his own secret doors and inviting his lover in.
    LaCroix wondered how Nicholas had hidden this from him, then realized it was just something he'd never been interested enough to explore:  his son's feelings about his own beauty.  He still wasn't interested; the beautiful knew they were beautiful, and spurned those who were not.  Nicholas insisted, and LaCroix looked in, expecting the worst.
    Nicholas hated his beauty.  So many, many people, male and female, were attracted to the exterior but ultimately rejected him for the interior they later discovered.  Being desired for his looks, LaCroix saw, then rejected for his self, was excruciating.  Janette had done it, and so many others over the centuries.  LaCroix had appeared to do it, over and over again.  Nicholas knew LaCroix desired him and thought him beautiful, but over and over he had rejected Nicholas's inner self, trying to remold him into an image of himself, trying to change him, trying to destroy the very things that made him who he was.  This painful secret held a fresh pain as well; the knowledge that Natalie had been attracted to him for his appearance but upon seeing his reality, had been repulsed at the "real" Nicholas.
    LaCroix was stunned.  He'd always thought beautiful people were so secure in their beauty they were not hurt by rejection, as he was; this deep insecurity was a revelation to him.   Nicholas closed the door before LaCroix could look further, unwilling to further bare his inner pain.  LaCroix allowed it, not without regret, but knowing that he had to respect Nicholas's privacy, that he could not take and expect to be freely given in the future.
    Nick withdrew his fangs, gently licking LaCroix's wound until it closed.  LaCroix did the same for him. LaCroix tried to pull back, to look into Nicholas's eyes, but Nick just tucked his head down, curling himself into a ball in LaCroix's arms.  LaCroix accepted the withdrawal, just bending his neck so his chin pressed into the unruly curls on the top of Nick's head.  He tentatively pulled Nicholas closer to him, to hold him safe, and Nicholas pressed up against his chest willingly.  LaCroix pushed no further; the next move was up to Nicholas.
    Nick, eyes open, stared unseeingly.  <LaCroix,> he thought wonderingly, <was actually human underneath.  Actually had doubts, and fears, and impossible dreams like mortals, like Nick.>  He closed his eyes briefly.  <Impossible dreams.>  While Nick was relieved to finally learn why LaCroix had cast him out, the scars were too big, the pain was too deep.  He could heal, now that he knew LaCroix didn't despise him, that he had not disappointed his lover in some unfathomable way.
    The whole affair was too painful; too intensely reminiscent, now, of his feelings when Janette had left, saying the depth of his feelings was smothering her.  LaCroix had been unable to accept the reality of his feelings as well.  He still loved both of them, but he was "in love" with neither.  He didn't know if he ever again would be.  He wondered if he would smother Natalie, if he ever allowed himself to truly love her...  He wondered if Vachon would be smothered... <No, no question, Vachon would flit away before he got smothered.>  Nick laughed silently.
    Relaxed and relieved, the vampire sated by the large influx of his master's blood, the human feeling supported and sheltered by his lover's arms, his mind temporarily at peace, Nicholas slept.  The deeper issues, the questions, the explorations, would wait.
    LaCroix held Nicholas gently, glad to be back in his life.  He was mortified to have had to reveal his own weakness for Nicholas, but understood, now, more how Nicholas felt when LaCroix had toyed with him, teasing him with his weakness for the blood, doubting the trueness of his love because of his need for the blood.
    The playing field was level now, as level as it could be, and LaCroix vowed to keep it that way.  Nicholas didn't need a master, he needed a friend.  LaCroix stiffened suddenly.  <He'd have to teach Nicholas how to block his thoughts during the blood exchange so LaCroix's weakness wouldn't be apparent to Vachon,> he thought.  <No,> he remembered, <Nicholas had learned that on his own.  It was only his master who could read his thoughts against his will... and his master wasn't going to do that anymore.>
    <His master,> LaCroix told himself sternly, <wasn't going to be his master anymore.  It was time to let Nicholas be his friend.> He reached out and ran his fingers through Nicholas's hair, smiling ruefully into the golden tips.  <And to let Nicholas be anything else Nicholas wished, and hope Nicholas wished to be lovers, even if he wasn't ready to be in love.>
    LaCroix sighed gustily, golden curls shifting in the resulting small breeze.  He wasn't ready, but someday, he might be, again.  LaCroix could wait.
    Nicholas stirred at the touch.  "LaCroix?" he asked, half asleep.
    "<Tais-toi, mon frere,>" he answered.  "<Ça ne fait rien.>"
    "<Bien,>" sighed Nicholas, and slept again.
 
    ["Hush, my brother," he answered.  "Never mind."
     "Good," sighed Nicholas, and slept again.]

.
The End.
 

[zeph     (zephania@pantek.com)]