Candle in the Shadows of Time
Mary Chamberlain


	To a vampire, the dark is all-important. Blood and darkness are the
two requisites for existence: one for sustenance, the other for a
hunting ground, for camouflage from one's prey, as a setting for the
experiencing of all delightful sensations -  from the remorseless
thrill of a carefully planned hunt to the pleasure of listening to a
symphonic masterpiece -  and for something glorious in and of itself.
And also, sometimes the most essential thing, for a shelter and
refuge.
	Nevertheless, some darknesses are less of a refuge than others.

	Nick Knight had known that fact well for almost the entirety of his
nearly eight hundred years of existence. He turned restlessly on the
bed in his cavernous loft apartment, mired in a nightmare of confusing
images. A woman with glossy dark hair, dead in his arms with blood
trickling down her pale perfect throat. Another's doing, not his, but
he had been unable to keep her safe from danger. A man with ancient
eyes and a sardonic smile, holding a cup of green stone from which
poured a foul crimson stream; then the same man again, but with the
eyes glowing and the smile become a bestial snarl. And yet again, but
the face this time was black from burns, and the eyes, no longer those
of a demon, were filled with shocked disbelief. Fire licked at the
edges of all the images, swallowing the man/fiend, the dead woman,
even the red effluent from the cup, and beyond that was a final
blackness. No safe haven in which to escape from the flames, but
something massive and final - death even to an immortal.
	With a roar of denial in his throat and a sheen of bloody sweat
breaking out on his forehead, Nick came awake.
	For a moment he stared around the room in bewilderment, still half in
that world of portentous images. Then, with an impatient snarl, he
pushed aside the tangled black satin sheet and headed downstairs.
	Crossing the living room, he grabbed up the remote control from the
coffee table and raised the heavy shutters that had sealed out the
daylight. Outside, the sky was a deep indigo, with a line of pink
still visible over the skyscrapers of downtown Toronto. As Nick
watched, even that ebbed, deepening into midnight blue, while the
lights in the office towers glittered like jewels in the comforting
dark.
	A surly smile crossed his face. His nightmare had been just that, a
nightmare. Lacroix, with his demon's eyes and constant mockery of what
Nick was struggling to become, was gone - dispatched to hell by Nick's
own hand. He didn't feel triumphant about it as he had expected that
he would, but there was a sense of relief, of knowing that nobody was
looking over his shoulder, ready with an acid comment at the very
least or waiting to snatch up and destroy something or someone that
Nick held precious, all for the avowed purpose of guiding him back to
his true nature.
	A shower and a glass of cow's blood, bland though it was, completely
banished the fading nightmare visions. By the time he was in the car
driving to work, he had succeeded in forgetting them completely. He
carefully tuned the radio in the ancient blue-green Cadillac to a spot
on the opposite end of the dial from CERK, finding a station that was
playing 'Summertime', from Gershwin's Porgy and Bess. Minor-key and
mournful though it was, Nick was nevertheless in a mood to enjoy the
haunting melody without having it fuel a bout of depression or self-
recrimination - emotions towards which he was sometimes disastrously
prone. At the moment, driving with the Caddy's top down, he felt
almost as if he were absorbing energy from the vibrant summer night
itself. And yet he had to maintain a certain caution; it would be all
too easy to allow the vampire to rise within him, especially on a
night like this which was made for hunting - when, in times past, he
would have hunted without much thought for anything other than his
prey. The girl in the sporty BMW convertible that pulled up beside him
as he waited at a red light, for instance. Her honey-coloured hair
brushed her bare shoulders; her full lips -  so full that they had to
be a collagen job if Nick had ever seen one, but inviting all the same
-  were set in a sensual little pout. Music with a thumping bass beat
and no discernible melody poured from the  car's speakers, drowning
out Summertime, and she tapped her hand on the steering wheel in time
to the rhythm. She appeared to be completely unaware of him, but Nick
had seen her give him a careful once-over as the BMW drew up to the
light. In times past, again, this would have been his prey, as soon as
a smile and a semi-plausible reason could have drawn her into the
shadows.
	To his horror, Nick suddenly felt his fangs aching to drop into
place. He gripped the Caddy's wheel tightly, willing himself to retain
his human visage.
	The light changed, the BMW roared ahead, the moment was gone.
	Nick drew in a deep breath and blew it out again in a heavy sigh. The
vampire in him always seemed to be so damned close to the surface; and
yet he had managed to overcome the temptation, let the moment pass, as
he had so many others. As the Caddy glided down the street, he allowed
himself to feel a small sense of triumph. If willpower counted for
anything in his battle to become human again, he might yet be able to
win.
	'Summertime' had come to an end; the radio station - obviously on a
Gershwin kick - had moved into the sprightly opening movement of the
Concerto in F. Nick arrived at the 27th Precinct without further
incident.
	Obviously, music was in the air. He had just sat down at his desk in
the squad room when his partner entered jauntily, singing only
partially under his breath. "Hot August night, and the leaves hangin'
down and the grass on the ground smellin' sweet . . ."
	Nick ran a hand over his mouth, not sure whether to be annoyed or
amused at Schanke's ebullience, not to mention his off-key rendition
of Neil Diamond.
	He still wasn't completely past his resentment at having a partner
foisted off on him, let alone an obnoxious souvlaki-eating cigarette
smoker who never missed an opportunity to rib Nick about his wardrobe,
his car, or his hotshot reputation in the department. Yet despite
their initial animosity, Nick was beginning to suspect that Don
Schanke just might be a diamond in the rough. But he certainly wasn't
about to let him know that.
	" . . . Move up the road to the outside of town and the sound of that
good gospel beat . . . " Schanke landed in the chair opposite Nick's.
"Classic rock. Can't beat it, huh?" he said to the room at large. The
room at large looked at him bemusedly and shook its collective head.
	"Evening, Nicky-boy," said Schanke expansively. "I gotta tell you,
this night shift thing isn't bad. Not bad at all. Stay inside in the
air conditioning all day, come out at night like a jungle animal
emerging from its lair, hitting the streets with all the other
predators . . ."
	Someone snorted. Schanke swivelled around to glare at the offender,
but met with only lowered eyes and turned backs.
	"I take it Myra's stepmother has arrived, then," said Nick without
looking up from the pile of papers in which he'd abruptly become
engrossed.
	Schanke deflated. "Well . . . yeah. Talk about predators . . ."
	"If you're done serenading the bullpen, Schanke, I've got a new case
for the two of you," said Captain Stonetree, appearing by Nick's desk
and slapping a manila file folder down on top of the rest of the
paperwork. Schanke made a grab for it, but Nick easily beat him to it
and began to peruse the contents. "A teenage girl?" he frowned,
suddenly thinking of the girl in the BMW and feeling slightly
unsettled.
	Stonetree nodded. "Man walking his dog found her in a ravine near
Yonge and St. Clair and called it in about half an hour ago. If you
two - shake your booties - you might get there ahead of the coroner."
	"'Booties'?" Schanke mouthed at Nick, and got no response other than
a slightly lifted eyebrow. "Disco is not classic rock, Captain," he
called to Stonetree's by now retreating back.
	The captain shrugged.
	"Philistine," muttered Schanke.

	"'It's Love, Brother Love's, hey, Brother Love's travelling salvation
show . . ."
	For the first time Nick found himself almost missing Lacroix. A
Nightcrawler monologue would have been almost guaranteed to have shut
Schanke up, or at least put an end to his bad Neil Diamond imitation.
	"Have you ever noticed," said his partner, suddenly breaking off the
impromptu and unappreciated concert, "how many minivans there are on
the road these days?"
	They were stopped at a red light. Looking around the cluster of
vehicles waiting with them, Nick counted two vans. "What about it?"
	"Myra thinks we should get one." Suddenly Schanke was sounding almost
gloomy. "Of course, her stepmother put her up to it. But she told me
tonight that we could all go places together so much more comfortably
in one of those things. Especially family trips."
	"She's probably right," said Nick, only half listening, his mind more
on the crime scene awaiting them.
	"That's not the point! We've already got two cars. Myra's little
econobox, and mine. Myra sure isn't going to give up hers. She'll say
she needs it for running errands, because of course the van will use
too much gas."
	"So get rid of yours."
	That earned him an acid glare. "I can't believe you of all people,
you with the pet Caddy, would say that! That car isn't just a way to
carry home the groceries. It's a symbol of - of male independence.
It's the last bastion of me, Don Schanke, homicide cop, a guy who's as
tough as any of that scum on the streets, who can shoot straight and
smoke two packs of cigarettes a day and party with the best of 'em.
Not Don Schanke, breadwinner, mortgage holder, and owner of a house
with a leak in the basement and brand new frilly lavender curtains in
the bathroom." 
	"Frilly lavender curtains?" repeated Nick in disbelief.
	"Yeah, Myra wanted to do some redecorating before her stepmother got
here." Schanke stared at the traffic. "There's three more of those
damned vans. I swear they travel in packs."
	Nick was still contemplating the image of his partner in a setting
that included frilly lavender curtains as he made a right turn onto
St. Clair and then onto the side street just before the bridge
crossing the ravine. The west side of the street was lined with
expensive condominium buildings. On the opposite side a paved pathway
led down into the ravine. Both sides of the street were parked up with
police cars and assorted other official vehicles. Nick neatly
manoeuvred the Caddy into one of the few remaining spots, noting
Natalie's car already parked across the street. Without thinking about
it, his heart lifted slightly.
	He and Schanke followed the tarmac pathway into the trees, then found
a set of wooden steps descending to a dirt path. At the bottom of the
ravine ran a narrow, sluggish trickle of dark water, a small tributary
of the Don. The path stayed several yards away from the water, leading
north towards the concrete and iron span that carried St. Clair
Avenue.
	"Looks like the party's thataway," said Schanke unnecessarily,
setting off towards the lights and activity underneath the bridge.
This was followed almost immediately by a muffled yelp of pain and a
curse as he stumbled in the darkness. "Why don't they set up a few of
those lights over here, so people can see where they're going? What do
they think we are, bats?"
	Nick ignored him, looking around curiously, easily avoiding the tree
root that his partner had tripped over. It amazed him that places like
this could exist in the centre of the city. Except for a sprinkling of
lights along the top of the ravine and the muted traffic noise, they
could be in the depths of the countryside. With his vampire-acute
hearing and night vision, he could sense a number of small animals all
around them, no doubt disturbed by all the unaccustomed noise and
bustle. A predator - human or otherwise - could hunt freely down here.
	He shook off the thoughts and drifted after Schanke, passing him
without difficulty where they had to leave the path and descend the
side of the ravine again to the edge of the water. Pausing to find his
footing, Schanke glared at his partner's receding leather-clad back.
Then he wondered why Knight was even bothering to wear a leather
jacket on a night when everyone else was in shirtsleeves.
	"Need some help, Schanke?" offered a voice from below him.
	Schanke gritted his teeth. Not only could his partner skip around the
place like a mountain goat without breaking a sweat while continuing
to look like something off the pages of GQ, he had to rub it in, too.
Then again, if he didn't, that might be evidence of possible
saintliness, which would be even worse to deal with. "Just taking a
moment to admire the view," he said as caustically as possible.
	Below him, Nick paused at the edge of the ring of brilliant light to
try to make some sense of the scene. With all the purposeful activity
going on, it would have been hard to spot the actual corpse if his
eyes hadn't gone straight to the figure of the coroner, kneeling on
the ground several yards away. She had her back to him, but even so he
felt again that odd lift to his heart.
	As he came closer, he heard her say briskly, "Looks like just a
single shot," and then she looked up and saw Nick standing by her
shoulder.
	"Hello, stranger," she said with a friendly smile, then added, sotto
voce, "I've been meaning to call you. I'll have a new concoction ready
for you by the end of the week."
	He made a face. "Don't rush on my account. I haven't managed to
finish the last one yet."
	He wasn't looking at her, but he just knew she was rolling her eyes.
She got to her feet, giving him room to get a good look at the corpse.
	Schanke had finally arrived. "All right, what've we got?" he asked
loudly.
	Nick glanced up at him. "Well, Schank, it ain't Brother Love's
travelling salvation show." He returned to his examination of the
body, leaving his partner to his own devices.
	The girl lying in the undergrowth by the edge of the water was curled
up as if she'd simply lain down there for a quick nap. She had black
hair with vivid red streaks in it, and wide-open, staring blue-gray
eyes. Both the black and the red hair colouring had partly grown out,
with mousy brown roots showing clearly. She looked as if she was maybe
seventeen. She was wearing a bright fuchsia-coloured cotton tank top,
jeans and a jean jacket, and a pair of expensive but well-worn running
shoes. There were rings on several fingers, one of which was set with
a small stone that appeared to be a genuine opal. 
	So theft probably hadn't been a motive. Nor could he see, from a
cursory look, any signs of rape or other assault. There was just the
one, small, fatal hole in the back of the denim jacket. From
experience far, far greater than Natalie's, he knew she had been dead
for probably about a day.
	He heard Schanke say, "So who found the body?" and the officer in
charge of the scene start to answer him with something about a passing
jogger and his dog, and then in a sudden extra gleam of light -
probably the reflection of someone's flashlight on the water - he saw
something sparkle around the girl's neck. Curious for some reason, he
took out a pen and ran it around the inside of the collar of the jean
jacket until he had hooked the fine necklace. It snagged on the girl's
top, then came free. He pulled it forward to examine it more closely.
	The chain itself was discoloured gold-tone, intrinsically worthless.
But what caught and held Nick's attention - indeed, made his almost
motionless heart take an extra beat - was the pendant attached to the
chain. He gently tugged it further into the light.
	"No," he breathed. Not this. Not again.
	The conversations around him, the sound of the investigative team
going about their work, all faded into a background buzz as he stared
at the tiny object. Surely it wasn't possible for this accursed thing
to have surfaced again, after so much time. But here it was - and with
it came another death.
	He glanced quickly around, feeling as if he had been staring at the
necklace for hours, but knowing that it had in reality only been the
span of a few mortal heartbeats. Schanke, now flailing at mosquitoes,
was still talking to the officer in charge. Everyone else was carrying
on with their own jobs, oblivious to the fact that the entire world of
someone right in their midst had just experienced a shattering jolt.
Even Natalie, standing a few feet away with her assistants discussing
the logistics of getting the girl's body up the hillside, seemed to
have noticed nothing amiss.
	He looked down again. He was tightly clutching the pendant in one
hand. Had anyone seen the necklace? Had Nat?
	It didn't matter. He had to take that chance.
	One quick yank and the cheap necklace snapped. He hastily stuffed
both chain and pendant in the inside pocket of his leather jacket.
	"Hey, partner," said Schanke loudly. "These damned bugs seem to think
I'm a five-course banquet all laid out for them. What say we go talk
to the guy who found the body? I'm being sucked dry here."
	Oh, Schanke, if only you knew, he thought, even as he exchanged
amused glances with Nat. Getting to his feet, he said offhandedly,
"You go ahead, Schanke. I'll tough it out down here awhile longer."
	His partner glared at him but didn't linger for any snappy retorts.
Nick watched as he trailed away into the darkness, cursing the
presence of bugs and the absence of light.
	"Well, I'm done here," announced Natalie, moving aside so that a team
with a stretcher could move the body. "I'll see you later, Nick."
	"Right," he said, meeting her eyes guilelessly, glad that he'd had so
many centuries' practice at dissembling. Even so, he thought Natalie
gave him a rather questioning look. Maybe she was aware after all that
something odd had happened. But he maintained his bland expression and
she left without saying anything more, following the stretcher
carrying the girl's body.
	Nick prowled around the site for a while longer, but he was unable to
focus on the job. Eventually he returned to the Caddy to find Schanke
waiting for him, morosely scratching at mosquito bites.
	"So what did the jogger have to say?" he asked, starting the engine.
	"Not much. He's coming into the station to give his official
statement, but basically he was out for his daily run with his dog,
lets dog off leash a ways back, dog finds body, jogger nearly tosses
his cookies."
	"He goes jogging in the dark?"
	"Well, he says it wasn't dark when he started out, and he comes this
way every day so he knows the path. So, any theories? Was the girl
killed down there, or was she dumped?" There was a pause. "Nick!"
	"Dumped," Nick answered succinctly.
	Schanke waited, but Nick didn't elaborate. He was apparently
concentrating on driving, but Schanke had the feeling that his partner
wasn't paying any more attention to the road than he was to him. "Yo!
Golden boy!"
	That got him a look of annoyance, at least.
	"Care to share your great deductive reasoning with me, or do I have
to wait till I see our report?"
	"There wasn't enough mud in the treads of her shoes. And she was too
well hidden in that undergrowth. It doesn't look as if she was
molested, sexually or otherwise. Just one clean shot. Maybe she saw
something she wasn't meant to see, or knew something she shouldn't
have." The words came out tersely. He hadn't meant to sound that way,
but the girl's chain and pendant felt as if they were burning a hole
in his pocket. He needed the shift to be over, he needed to get away
by himself to think about what this might mean.
	Schanke rolled his eyes. A man-eating mother-in-law at home and a
weird, uncommunicative partner at work. Life was just grand. He was
trying, really trying, to make this partnership thing work. He knew he
had a high-maintenance personality, and he had to admit that crashing
Nick's precious Caddy hadn't exactly been the ideal way to start a
working relationship. But he figured that he'd proven himself since as
someone who had more than just wool between the ears when it came to
detective work. It was just so damned frustrating, wondering if and
when his so-called partner would open up and let him in, just a
little.
	Glancing at the still, shuttered profile in the streetlights, it
looked to Schanke as if that wasn't going to happen for a long, long
time.

	There was more than a hint of dawn in the sky when the Caddy nosed
into its garage. Several moments later the door of the old freight
elevator opened at the level of the loft apartment. Nick stepped out,
still sober and preoccupied.
	Daylight was beginning to show at the tall windows. The gentle cooing
of the building's resident pigeon colony filled the loft, mixed with
the sound of early traffic. Moving with slow deliberation, Nick
crossed to the coffee table, picked up the remote, and closed the
steel shutters, sealing the loft into its accustomed darkness. The
pigeons flew away with a clatter of wings.
	Finding his way in the dark with no difficulty, he lit several
candles, then went to the refrigerator and removed a half-empty bottle
of cow's blood. He took the time to find a glass and drank it slowly,
almost as if the liquid was worth savouring. He replaced the bottle in
the fridge and rinsed the glass clean.
	Then and only then did he remove his jacket. He hung it on the coat
rack by the door and felt in the pocket for the necklace. He sat down
at the dining table and placed the necklace in front of him, where the
light from one of the candles shone directly on it.
	The chain didn't interest him. He separated it from the pendant and
pushed it to one side.
	Outwardly, there was nothing unusual about the pendant either. It was
in the shape of a tiny candle, about two inches long, with a crudely
faceted sliver of ruby for a flame. The candle itself was fashioned of
solid gold. There was a fine golden wire around the ruby, so that the
thing could be hung from a chain, the way the dead girl had worn it.
It was heavy for its size. And it was old. Very old.
	He turned it over. On the back was a tiny inscription, worn to the
point of being illegible. Nick's eyesight could have deciphered it,
but he knew what it said without needing to read it. 'Por illuminer
les ténèbrus'. Even the French was old, the language of his mortal
life. To light the darkness.
	How appropriate it seemed now - how needy he was, after all these
centuries spent in a darkness of the soul as well as the physical
state of being unable to walk in the sunlight, for something that so
much as hinted at a way of returning to a state of grace. And yet,
when he'd first laid eyes on the thing, he was embracing
wholeheartedly his new existence as a vampire, trying to quash the
last pangs of a mortal conscience. He would have scoffed at the idea
of going back to the life he had shed almost without a thought,
thoroughly bedazzled by Janette's seduction and Lacroix's velvet-clad
promises of glorious, never-ending life.
	They had still been in Paris then, himself, Janette, and Lacroix. It
was only a few months after the two vampires had brought Nicholas de
Brabant into their darkness, and he was still discovering and glorying
in new-found strengths and abilities. For instance, it was now midway
through January of 1229, still several weeks shy of Candlemas when
plowing ought to begin in the fields, and a most bitter, unforgiving
winter it was. It seemed that everyone, even those who could afford
fur-lined cloaks and sturdy boots and plenty of firewood, was
perpetually shivering. Probably even King Louis in his new palace was
never warm. Beggars in their rags died by the dozen; indeed, Nicholas
could feel no remorse at taking their blood, since chances were slim
that many of the wretches who lived in the streets and alleyways would
survive to the spring. And yet he himself was never cold, no matter
how bitterly the wind blew or how much snow or rain fell. Indeed,
Lacroix often had to caution him about wearing his woollen cloak,
since a man walking in this weather in only tunic and hose was bound
to draw attention.
	Nicholas had begun to weary somewhat of Lacroix's constant
supervision. He had been a grown man in mortal life, independent and
self-reliant. He had needed Lacroix's tutelage when he was first
brought across, to learn how to survive in this new existence. But now
he considered that he had learned everything that Lacroix had to teach
him, and the fact that his master still refused to let him stray far
from his side was becoming increasingly irksome.
	Now, though, he had a chance to be free of the jesses he seemed to
constantly wear, if only for a few nights. Lacroix had gone away. The
elder vampire had not seen fit to impart either his destination or his
purpose to Nicholas, although he suspected that Janette knew. He also
suspected that Janette had been instructed to keep a close watch on
him, to make sure he didn't stray from the bounds that Lacroix had
set. However, when they had hunted together the previous night, their
meal had turned out to be a pair of drunken sots who had barely been
able to stagger out of the tavern. In consequence, the vampires had
imbibed a copious amount of cheap wine along with the blood. When
Nicholas awoke that evening, Janette was still soundly sleeping.
	He had briefly considered waiting for her, then decided that he
couldn't miss the opportunity for a little freedom, no matter how
brief. He dressed and hurried from their lodgings before Janette had
begun to stir.
	Being alone in the night was an intriguing feeling. He flew a short
ways for the sheer joy of it, dropping silently into an alleyway to
investigate a possible source of a meal. But the prostitute that he
stalked for several moments lost her appeal when she pushed back her
ragged hood and gave him what was undoubtedly meant as a seductive
smile. Formed by an almost toothless mouth in a skeletal, pockmarked
face, it was more of a rictus. Nicholas shook his head and walked on.
	He had come to the Grand Pont, largest of the bridges across the
Seine, the haunt of moneychangers and goldsmiths. Nicholas was amazed
that any of the shops would be open on such a cold winter's night, but
perhaps the smiths thought that the glow of their stoves and forges
would provide sufficient attraction to potential customers. A small
but lively crowd had indeed gathered around any of the stalls that
were still open for business. Nicholas paused by the first such stall
that he came to, hunger momentarily overcome by a sudden impulse to
buy a gift for Janette. Even if Lacroix never found out about his
night of solitary hunting, Janette's anxiety over what their master
might do if he discovered that the fledgling had slipped away from her
watchful gaze for a few hours was bound to be far worse than any
punishment Lacroix was likely to mete out. Nicholas, while not
prepared to give up this one night of unexpected freedom in order to
allay that anxiety, still was quite willing to mollify her if at all
possible. One of his chief delights now was giving her things. And
anyway, her fears would all be on her own behalf; Janette, Nicholas
blithely believed, knew perfectly well that he could take care of
himself.
	He made his way through the small knot of people in front of the
stall to examine the wares, spread out on a cloth-draped trestle table
under the watchful eye of the goldsmith's brawny assistant. The smith
himself, sensing a likely customer, bustled forward. "Good evening,
Messire. What may I help you with?" Although he already a shrewd
notion, given which items Nicholas was surveying. "Is it a gift for a
lady you're wanting?"
	Nicholas smiled. "Perhaps."
	There were brooch-pins and buckles, necklaces and rings and amulets,
and one little gold and enamel reliquary with an ornate cross on it,
which he moved away from as unobtrusively as possible. He picked up a
delicate filigree necklet set with blood-red garnets.
	"You have an eye for quality, Messire," said the smith. "That is some
of my finest work. Your lady would certainly appreciate it."
	"How much?"
	"One golden livre, Messire. An excellent bargain, I assure you."
	A livre! Nicholas growled in frustration, knowing that his purse
contained only a paltry assortment of coppers and a few silver
pennies. While Lacroix ensured that his fledglings did not lack for
shelter or decent clothing, Nicholas' only source of ready money was
what his victims carried on them. Since his hunting recently had been
mainly restricted to freezing drunkards and beggars, his purse was
miserably thin.
	"Perhaps this instead, Messire?" The smith held up a gilt cross on a
long chain. "Twenty silver deniers, your lady will - "
	Nicholas shied away with an angry oath, nearly knocking over the
woman behind him and barely managing not to fling up a hand to shield
himself from the sight of the thing. Recovering himself, and ignoring
the curious looks being cast in his direction-  not least from the
goldsmith - he returned to the table, determined now to find
something. His eye fell on a golden amulet in the shape of a small
candle, with a blood-coloured ruby for a flame encircled by a slender
gold loop. It was plainer than most of the smith's other wares, and
yet well-crafted. He noticed the inscription on it with amusement,
even though it was so tiny that unaided mortal eyes would have been
unable to read it at all. 'To light the darkness' - hardly appropriate
for Janette, who treasured the darkness both within and around her.
And yet, she might like it.
	"How much for this?"
	"Forty deniers," answered the smith, beginning to wonder if he'd been
wrong about this customer after all. "The stone is a genuine ruby."
	Nicholas pulled forth a few coins, put them in the palm of the
astonished goldsmith, folded the man's fingers around them, and stared
into his eyes. "I have paid you a fair price."
	"A fair price," repeated the smith numbly.
	"Thank you." Nicholas smiled, took the piece of jewellery and pushed
his way out of the crowd of spectators. He strolled along the bridge,
highly pleased with himself, watching the crowds with a predator's
eye. There was a fine choice tonight of potential victims, unlike the
past several weeks when it had been too cold for almost anyone to be
abroad but those who had no place to go.
	There was a troop of jongleurs performing by torchlight. Their
strength and suppleness and youthful energy were tantalizing. Or the
occupant of the closed litter that went past, heavily guarded by
several men at arms. A taste of wealth and privilege would be a
welcome change. Or perhaps the innocence of one in a group of gawking
country people, plainly but warmly dressed, likely pilgrims bound for
St. Genevieve. Two knights wearing chain mail beneath their mantles
rode by astride magnificent destriers, with an aura of arrogance like
second cloaks about them. Nicholas' lip turned up in a slight sneer as
he watched them. They both had a cross embroidered on their mantles,
signifying that they were members of the militia Christi - Christ's
soldiery - that they had gone to the Holy Land on crusade. Well,
Nicholas had done just as they had, and had found no reason to be so
proud of it. His fangs began to ache, and he fell in behind them.
Arrogant fools, who no doubt thought they were invincible, vested with
the authority of temporal rank and wealth and blessed by the Church
into the bargain. He was definitely of a mind to show them that a
power existed that could make a mockery of theirs.
	He had followed them almost back into the Cité when he was hailed by
a voice behind him. "Nicholas! Hunting on your own finally, are you?"
	He turned in irritation and saw a young man lounging nearby,
regarding him with an insolent stare. His clothes - cloak, capuchon,
tunic and all - were as patched and threadbare as a beggar's, and yet
he appeared not to notice the cold. He had lank dark hair and a pox-
scarred face that ought to have been sallow, but it was as pale as
Nicholas' own,
	Nicholas knew him only as Jehan, a fellow fledgling. He had met him a
handful of times before, only once in company with his master, a tall,
forbidding figure who had not deigned to speak to anyone present but
Lacroix, and who had been addressed by him as Etienne de Bruyère.
Jehan obviously enjoyed a far greater freedom than did Nicholas, and
it was plainly only Lacroix's presence at each of their encounters
that had prevented him from trying to rub Nicholas' nose in that fact.
Lacroix had never said anything directly about the relationship
between de Bruyère and his fledgling, but it was obvious that he
disapproved of the leniency granted to the younger vampire.
	Nicholas' considered opinion of the other fledgling was that he was
an ignorant lout, and he was quite ready to shove the other's taunts
back down his grimy throat at the least provocation.
	However, it appeared that tonight Jehan was actually happy to see
him. He draped a companionable arm across Nicholas' shoulders.
"Finally slipped the leash, did you? Good for you. I knew you'd
succeed sooner or later."
	Nicholas stiffened, at both the unwanted embrace and the patronizing
words, and shrugged off Jehan's arm. "What is it you want?"
	"Why, only to share an evening's hunting with you, and maybe some
entertainment, as well. I know where to find some much more tender
fare than a pair of Crusader knights. They're chancy quarry for young
ones such as us, Nicholas. I'm surprised Lacroix didn't tell you that,
with all his prating."
	Nicholas looked at him contemptuously. "I can take the pair of them.
Go back to your easy game, and leave me to mine."
	"Now, now, don't be so prickly. I'm offering you a chance to fatten
your purse, as well as a surety of something tasty before the night's
through. Indulge yourself, Messire de Brabant. You can always track
down your Crusaders later."
	At the mention of fattening his purse, Nicholas wondered if Jehan had
seen him at the goldsmith's stall. It was impossible to tell anything
from the other vampire's mud-coloured eyes. Still, the idea of
enriching himself, especially if it involved no great effort on his
part, was tempting. "What are you planning?" he asked grudgingly.
	"A simple game of passe-dix, nothing more." Jehan's hand emerged from
the folds of his cloak and rattled some dice invitingly.
	Nicholas unbent somewhat. He had always had more than his fair share
of luck at dice. Maybe it could be profitable to spend a few hours in
Jehan's company, even if he was obnoxious.
	"Come along," said Jehan briskly. "I know just the place for us."

	Before two more hours had passed, Nicholas was bitterly regretting
changing his mind about hunting the two knights.
	Jehan had led them to a squalid tavern behind the street of butchers,
near to the gaunt prison of the Grand Chatelet. The stench of offal
overlaying that of heavy smoke, cheap wine, and unwashed bodies made
it even more unpleasant than most others of its kind. Nicholas would
have avoided it even in his darkest days as a mortal, when he had
returned to Paris following his time spent in the Holy Land on
crusade, filled with bitterness and disillusionment, and none too
fastidious about his companions and surroundings.
	Nevertheless, it seemed to be a good place for a game of dice, and
one of the serving girls wasn't entirely displeasing to look at. The
weather had changed for the worse outside, and men came crowding in
for warmth. Jehan had soon gathered a group of four or five like-
minded mortal gamblers, and now they sat close to the tavern's smoking
fire with a jug of wine on the table, playing reasonably amicably.
	Nicholas had had his usual luck at the beginning, quickly amassing a
small horde of deniers, oboles and half-oboles. Eventually he was also
the richer by one threadbare cloak. Its former owner, deciding that he
didn't want to chance losing any more garments on such a cold night,
quit the table.
	"Here," called Nicholas, tossing the cloak after him. He didn't need
even the one he had, much less two, and the other man's was probably
vermin-infested to boot. "Keep it to lose another night."
	The man caught it with a sour look and disappeared through the door.
	"Ever the gallant," murmured Jehan.
	Nicholas shot him a hard look. "Your roll."
	After that, his luck seemed to desert him. Whenever the pot was in
Jehan's keeping, it seemed the dice always came up with lowest
numbers. Nicholas' pile of coins dwindled swiftly. One by one the
mortals dropped out of the game. Nicholas was getting restless, and
hungry; he became unable to think of little else but appeasing that
hunger.
	"Enough of this," he said abruptly, when he had less money remaining
than what he'd started with. "Jehan, it's past time to eat." He half
rose from the table.
	"Really, Messire de Brabant, I had thought you would be a more
gracious loser," replied the other vampire with a bland smile.
	Just for an instant Nicholas felt his eyes beginning to grow golden
with anger. Then he shrugged and stood the rest of the way. "I'm not
responsible for what you think of me."
	"Oh, come, Nicholas. One more toss, eh? I can't believe you're that
hungry. You must learn some restraint - I'm surprised Lacroix hasn't
taught you that. Oh, now, don't take offense - I meant no harm. Come,
one more roll of the dice, and winner take all. It's well known that
Lacroix is wealthy, I'm sure you must have something yet to wager."
	"Why are you so anxious to win a handful of pennies? Does your own
father not welcome you into his home, and you must pay for lodgings or
live in an alley?"
	"Oh, my father welcomes me, never fear, although he doesn't force me
to share his company, unlike some others I know. No, I simply enjoy a
game of chance, just like you. Come, Nicholas, relax. One more throw."
	Nicholas barely managed to suppress the snarl that rose to his lips.
He was weary of Jehan and weary of the foul tavern. He wanted to be
out and hunting in the cold dark air, and if he had missed his chance
at the two Crusader knights, then at least he could seek out a more
appetizing quarry than anything likely to go stumbling out of this
place.
	Still - the notion of winning back all his money, plus Jehan's, was
tempting. But he had only a scant few copper oboles left to put up,
unless he followed the example of the first man to leave the game and
tossed in his cloak. But he had no desire to return to Janette with
any of his clothes missing, should he lose the game.
	He sat down again. "What have you got," he said carelessly, pulling
out the little golden candle, "that can match this?"
	Jehan reached out a hand wonderingly to touch the shining object.
Nicholas pulled it away sharply. "Come now, let's see what you have,
or I'm off."
	For the first time that evening Jehan appeared to be considering
something seriously. At length he fumbled within the depths of his
soiled tunic and pulled over his head a fine gold chain from which
hung a ring. He unfastened the chain, slipped the ring off and laid it
down on the table next to the amulet.
	Nicholas eyed the piece of jewellery in swiftly-guarded astonishment.
It was a signet ring, and his keen eyesight could distinguish the de
Bruyère crest. So Jehan's master must value his indolent fledgling a
good deal.
	Jehan caught his look of surprise, and met it with a raised eyebrow
and a coolly amused smile.
	The word must have spread that a more than usually interesting game
was in progress. The mortals who had been playing earlier still
surrounded the table, along with a fair number of other spectators.
Nicholas suddenly felt somewhat self-conscious. "Your roll," he said
curtly.
	"Ah no, Messire de Brabant. After you, I insist.'
	Nicholas grabbed the dice, shook them briefly, and spilled them on
the table. Ten. Not hopeless, but certainly beatable.
	"A peasant and two emperors," said Jehan, sweeping the dice towards
him and scooping them up with a flourish. Nicholas watched the
movements with narrowed eyes. "Let's see if I can do better than
that."
	He rattled the dice in his hand and tossed them on the table. "Three
handsome viceroys - fifteen. Better luck next time, Nicholas. Perhaps
I might even give you a chance to win back this little trinket."
	He reached out a hand to pick up the gold candle. Nicholas' own hand
shot out and seized his wrist in a crushing grip.
	"I'm sure I would win everything back," he said in a harsh, clear
voice, "if I used your dice."
	A hush fell over the spectators, followed by murmuring which swiftly
increased in volume as men perceived that a new entertainment might be
at hand. Nicholas ignored them all.
	"Are you saying that I cheated, de Brabant?" demanded Jehan,
affronted.
	"I know that you did. You there, hand me over that cup of wine."
	The owner of the cup hastened to give it to him without a murmur,
even though it was still full. No one in the crowd would have dared to
argue with him at that point. Only the other vampire appeared ready
for a confrontation.
	Keeping his grip on Jehan, Nicholas dropped the dice into the wine.
One floated on the surface; the other two slowly rotated and sank to
the bottom of the cup. There was a collective gasp at the sight.
	Nicholas and Jehan remained glaring at each other. "Come, let's try
it with the dice that I threw," said Nicholas. "Of course, I'll have
to shake them out of your louse-infested clothing first."
	Jehan hissed in fury. With a sudden violent jerk, combined with a
vicious kick at Nicholas' shins under the table that would have broken
a mortal man's legs, he managed to pull free. In an instant the two
vampires were both on their feet with the table between them. Jehan's
eyes were glowing green-gold and a rumbling growl erupted from his
chest. The spectators fell back with cries of fear at the sight of the
fiend, several of the more quick-witted amongst the group crossing
themselves fervently.
	"Do you still think you're better than me, Crusader?" taunted Jehan.
"Purer? Holier? You're none of those things. You never were. And I
will knock you into a pulp and drink your coddled, knightly blood."
	Despite Lacroix's frequent admonishments never to reveal his nature
to mortals, Nicholas knew that he now looked much as Jehan did.
Growling, he picked up the heavy table and tossed it aside as if it
weighed nothing at all.
	"Come ahead, Jehan, and try!"
	The tavern emptied as the patrons fled into the street, crying out to
the passersby about the two demons. A few remained, more stalwart or
else too drunk to move, plus one unfortunate who had been in the way
of the table. Neither vampire took any notice. Snarling, Jehan
launched himself at Nicholas, in a movement far too fast for any of
the mortals to follow. Just as quickly Nicholas parried the attack,
caught the other vampire and flung him against the wall, so hard that
the entire tavern swayed with the impact. Undaunted, Jehan came on
again, but slightly more warily now. The two vampires circled one
another, feinting and counterfeinting, every move that Jehan made
competently matched by Nicholas, until Jehan lost his footing in a
pool of spilled wine and crashed inelegantly to the floor. Nicholas
paused, and Jehan shot from the floor like an arrow in flight and
hurtled into his legs. Nicholas tumbled over top of him and, when he
lunged to his feet again, found himself confronted by a grinning Jehan
wielding a torch he had managed to snatch from its sconce just outside
the door.
	"Come along now, Messire de Brabant, let's see how eager you are to
play with fire!"
	Nicholas responded by hefting the long bench on which he had sat
while playing dice - a solid piece of furniture which no mortal man
could easily have lifted unaided, let alone raise over his head as
Nicholas did then - and heaved it at Jehan. The other vampire flew out
of its path but dropped the torch, which landed harmlessly on the dirt
floor. Nicholas shot towards the ceiling in pursuit, caught a corner
of Jehan's filthy cloak, and grappled with him in midair. Jehan
snarled and hissed in fury, and Nicholas, lost in the vampire's rage,
did likewise. They were both oblivious to anything but their own lust
to kill - until a single word penetrated even that.
	"Enough!"
	The word blazed into Nicholas' mind with the strength and clarity of
a trumpet  blast and seemed to reverberate like thunder in the
mountains. Instinctively he disengaged from his opponent and settled
to the ground, drawing in deep heaving breaths while the red haze of
vampire vision dissipated from his eyes, searching for the source of
the voice. He would not have been surprised if the entire miserable
tavern came crashing to the ground from the force of it.
	A woman! Nicholas stared in total disbelief. How could a woman
possess a voice with such power and command? And yet there was no
doubt, now that his mind was clear again, that it had been a woman who
had spoken. And a woman stood before him now, almost as tall as he
was, with the hood of a sable-lined cloak thrown back to reveal a
pale, pristine face framed by unbound black hair. The bones of that
face were delicate, the skin over them almost translucent, and yet
there was no suggestion of daintiness or weakness about it; Nicholas
knew, even before her bloodless lips parted in a snarl that revealed
the largest, sharpest fangs he had ever yet beheld in a vampire, that
it would be more than his life was worth to defy her. He took a step
back and bumped into Jehan, who was also staring at the woman, as
dumbstruck as Nicholas.
	The vampiress had not come alone. Two male vampires, tall bulky
figures wrapped in voluminous cloaks, were occupied in slaughtering
all the mortals in the tavern. Obviously curiosity had gotten the
better of many of those who had originally fled or those who had
disbelieved the tale about demons, and, unnoticed by Nicholas, a small
crowd had gathered to marvel at the sight of his struggle with Jehan.
Now they were paying horribly for that indulgence. Moving with
incredible speed, the two vampires tore into the group of mortals like
wolves in a sheepfold, killing indiscriminately, one with a knife, the
other simply snapping the neck of anyone he encountered. Those who
tried to run for the door were dragged back into the slaughterhouse.
Appalled, Nicholas moved to interfere, ignoring the woman's snarl and
her one small hand raised in an imperious gesture. Instantly he was
flung six feet through the air, to land with a crash across the table
he himself had flung aside earlier. Dazed, and still not comprehending
who these strange vampires were, he remained where he was until there
were only the dead and the undead left in the tavern.
	With a growl directed at her two companions, the woman seized Jehan's
arm. One of the men caught the collar of Nicholas' mantle, and the two
fledglings were hauled into the street as the third member of the
hellish trio picked up the torch Jehan had dropped, rekindled it in
the hearth, and tossed it in the spilled wine. Two cresset lamps
followed it, and the vampires were barely outside before the tavern
was completely alight.
	Nicholas struggled and swore, infuriated at his treatment as well as
by the mass murder that he had just witnessed, until his captor
offhandedly dealt him a massive blow over one ear that nearly rendered
him senseless. People were rushing toward the blaze with buckets of
water, and in the panic the group of vampires slipped away unnoticed.
	Once they were well away from the commotion, they halted in a dark,
narrow alleyway, where the ground underfoot was slick with half-frozen
mud and unnameable filth. The wind had risen since Nicholas had first
ventured out that evening, and now a nasty mixture of snow and ice
fell from the lowering sky. An emaciated dog was their only witness,
and it crept away, whining, at their arrival.
	The two young vampires were dropped unceremoniously in the muck
underfoot. Jehan remained where he was, staring up fearfully at their
captors, but Nicholas immediately scrambled to his feet. He knew now
he was in danger, but he intended to find out why. And he saw nothing
to be gained from staying on his backside in the filth of the alley.
	"Who are you?" he demanded, his eyes flaring green-gold. "Why did you
kill all those people?"
	The elder vampires exchanged glances. It was the woman who finally
spoke. "Did Lucien Lacroix not tell you about the Code? If not, his
teaching is grievously at fault." She glanced down at Jehan. "See,
even this child of de Bruyère knows about us."
	Nicholas was startled by their mention of his master. Obviously,
then, they knew who he was, which gave them an even greater advantage.
Nevertheless, he looked the woman directly in the eye, refusing to be
intimidated. Let Jehan stay where he was, Nicholas was damned if he
would grovel in the dirt too.
	However, he thought it prudent to moderate his tone slightly.
"Lacroix needs to teach me nothing. But I would like an explanation
from you, madame, for your actions."
	Incredibly, the woman began to smile. But it was a slow, cruel smile,
as chilling as the sleet now falling on them. "Well, well, a young
fighting cock. Nicholas de Brabant, you are either very brave or very
foolish, I don't know which." Her smile vanished. "And I have no
interest in finding out. If you will not obey the Code, you are a
menace to us all. That is all the explanation you will get from me."
	She glanced down at Jehan. "If you seek more answers, then let this
one be sufficient."
	Jehan crawled backwards with a whimper of fear, trying to press
himself into the solid wall of the alley. While Nicholas stared in
utter disbelief, the woman reached down and picked him up with no more
effort than if he had been a puppy. Jehan flailed helplessly, his
entreaties muffled against the woman's white, delicate, merciless
hand. Her grip shifted and tightened, and Jehan's last scream broke
off in a hideous gurgling noise as she tore his head from his
shoulders.
	Nicholas leaped back to avoid being splashed by the obscene red
fountain gushing from Jehan's summarily truncated body. His legs
barely supported him. The woman let what remained of Jehan drop back
to the ground, then, to Nicholas' profound horror, tossed the head to
land at his feet.
	"End of lesson, my young fighting cock," she said, and suddenly she
was standing directly behind him, one bloody hand on his shoulder.
	Nicholas only had time to feel the first inkling of fear on his own
behalf, when the driving sleet was whipped into a brief whirlwind by
the precipitant arrival of yet another vampire. "Stop!" cried the
newcomer.
	The woman hissed warningly. "You come too late, Lacroix. Your
fledgling has flouted the Code and allowed mortals to see him as he
truly is. You, at least, know the penalty."
	"Stop - please," repeated Lacroix. There was an unfamiliar tone in
his voice. It sounded to Nicholas almost as if his master, who had
always seemed all-powerful, was pleading. "My son did not know the
full consequences of his folly. My teaching has been remiss."
	The grip on Nicholas' shoulder eased slightly. "Are you saying, then,
that the fault is yours?"
	Lacroix, his head bowed, nodded.
	"Well, well," said the woman thoughtfully. "Altruism is certainly an
unusual trait amongst our kind."
	"I am simply asking that the blame be placed where it is due,"
Lacroix replied with dignity. Even distracted as he was, Nicholas
could sense his master's irritation at being accused of that
particular virtue. "I won't deny that Nicholas de Brabant has acted
foolishly tonight, but he would not have done so had he known that he
was inviting the wrath of the Enforcers. Please, release him. I give
you my word that there will be no more of these - indiscretions."
	The two male vampires shared an uneasy glance, as if they had never
before heard such a request, and doubted that any good could come of
granting it. The woman, however, appeared to be considering Lacroix's
appeal. Nicholas, although he had a dozen questions bursting for
utterance, held his tongue after a single scorching glare from
Lacroix, which promised further horrors if he tried to interfere.
	The woman was drawing breath to reply when the air in the alley was
disturbed yet again. Jehan's master had arrived.
	The vampiress said briskly, "Lucien Lacroix arrived in time to plead
for his ignorant fledgling. I fear that it's too late for yours, de
Bruyère. In any case, he well knew the penalty for what he had done."
	Etienne de Bruyère, as grim and forbidding as ever, spared them no
more than a glance before kneeling by his son's headless body. He
remained there, somehow fierce in his very quiet and stillness, even
when long tendrils of smoke started to curl upwards from Jehan's
remains as they began their transmutation into ashes.
	"Come," said the woman to Lacroix. "We may as well discuss this
protégé of yours in more congenial surroundings."
	Lacroix bowed, then seized Nicholas by the shoulder as the woman
finally relinquished him.  If his tone towards the vampiress had been
conciliatory, with Nicholas it was as harsh and unforgiving as
granite. "Go back to Janette. Stay with her and don't stir outside
until I return."
	"But Lacroix - "	
	"Go!" said his maker, emphasizing the command with a growl that
reverberated in the narrow alley. His eyes were a hellfire crimson. He
gave Nicholas a hard shove past the trio of vampires.
	Nicholas recovered his balance and flexed his legs to take flight. He
glanced back just as he did so, and saw Lacroix reach a compassionate
hand towards de Bruyère's shoulder. The face of the other vampire was
streaked with bloody tears.
	Of Jehan there was nothing left but a mound of ash which was quickly
being blown apart by the winter wind.

	Lacroix had taken lodgings for the three of them in a townhouse owned
by a minor nobleman, who preferred to oversee his manor near
Marseilles during the winter rather than stay in his draughty Paris
home. Nicholas alighted in the frozen remains of the kitchen garden
and opened the heavy oaken door into the rear of the house. He could
sense Janette somewhere inside, but she made no effort to acknowledge
his presence. That was unusual. She could hardly be asleep; dawn was
still several hours away - even though the night already seemed to
have gone on forever - and after all, she had slept late into evening
before. He sighed. That could only mean that she was angry with him.
So, as well as making his peace with Lacroix when their maker
returned, he would have to do the same with Janette.
	Somehow, he didn't think that that would be too difficult.
	He passed the storeroom and the unused kitchen, emerging into the
hall. Still the house was silent except for the creak of timber and
the occasional bang of a loose shutter upstairs. The fireplace was
bare. Next to it, in the corner, something was huddled in the rushes
on the floor.
	"Janette!"
	Nicholas flew across the room, suddenly realizing with cold dread
that he had been wrong in supposing that she was simply ignoring him.
He knelt beside her, trying to gather her into his arms, but she cried
out when he touched her. "Janette! Janette, what's wrong? What did he
do to you?"
	"Go away, Nicolas," she croaked, in a tone totally unlike her normal
voice.
	Ignoring her order, he pulled off his mantle and wrapped her in it,
then tenderly lifted her and carried her upstairs to their bedchamber,
where he laid her on the bed and spread a blanket over her. He closed
the shutters and latched them firmly, then found tinder and lit the
candles. Then he returned to the bedside and knelt beside it, taking
one of her hands in his and touching his lips to it. She watched him
with darkened eyes in a face that bore all too clearly the marks of
Lacroix's anger.
	"Janette, why? Why did he do this?"
	"Why do you think?" she replied bitterly. "I was supposed to watch
over you, and then he came back, and I couldn't even tell him where
you'd gone - "
	After what had already happened that night, he could hardly protest
that he didn't need anyone to watch over him. There was only one thing
he could do that would be of any help to Janette right now, and at the
same time show her how truly grieved he was by what Lacroix had done
to her. As gently as he could, he cradled her in his arms, despite her
cry of pain that tore at his heart. Bowing his head, he sank his teeth
into his own flesh, so that it bled freely. Then he pressed his open
wrist to her mouth.
	After a moment's resistance, she lapped at his offering, then her
fangs descended and she greedily tore her way into the vein. Nicholas
hissed in rapture. This was a different sensation from anything he had
yet experienced in his brief life as a vampire. Janette had drunk from
him many times, but now he felt an unaccustomed tenderness in the
giving, in addition to the sensuality of it that could never be
entirely absent. There was no craving to bite in return, he simply
wanted to hold and soothe her until she was healed.
	He felt that he was willing to stay there until she had drained every
drop of blood in his body, but Janette came to her senses and released
his arm before she had taken a dangerous amount. She lay languorously
in his arms for a while longer while he stroked and kissed her hair
and shoulders, then with a sigh pulled away and sat up to face him.
	"Oh, Nicolas . . . the Enforcers. No wonder Lacroix was so upset."
	"Who are they?" he demanded. "What right did that woman have to kill
Jehan like that?"
	"Best let Lacroix explain it to you, mon cher. He ought to have done
it before this." Privately she wondered if the reason Lacroix,
normally a very thorough teacher, had not done so was because he
didn't want to admit to Nicolas that there were any beings more
powerful than he. Would Lacroix be so petty? Or was this simply
another of those lessons which he seemed to be withholding from his
newest creation? Whatever the reason, Janette's lover, her gallant
golden knight, had been put in danger. Was still in danger, no matter
what the outcome of Lacroix's meeting with the Enforcers proved to be.
Even if Lacroix managed to deflect their wrath from Nicolas, he would
want to exact his own pound of flesh in turn. Janette was devoted to
her master, but she had no illusions about him.
	"Janette, she ripped his head off with no more thought than wringing
the neck of a chicken! What kind of person can do something like
that?"
	"The Enforcers can. They are much more powerful than most vampires,
and they make it their business to enforce the Code and protect our
kind from human discovery."
	"But we are so much stronger than humans. They are our prey, after
all."
	"Even we have our weaknesses. If you ever see a mob of determined
hunters, you will know just how important it is for us to remain in
the shadows. But wait for Lacroix to explain it all to you; he owes
you that much." Assuming that Lacroix ever returned from the meeting
with the Enforcers; there was a good chance that he might not. "In the
meantime, mon amour, you must rest. Come to bed."
	"Janette, I can't just - "
	"You can, and you will," she cut him off, with surprising vehemence.
Then she smiled and reached up to lay a finger across his lips. "Don't
argue. Lacroix told you to stay with me. I think that this time you
had best do as he says."
	He still looked as if he wanted to demand answers to his questions,
but in the end he shrugged, smiled, and shed his filthy clothing to
climb in under the blanket beside her. He wrapped his arms around her
and guided her head to rest in the hollow of his shoulder. Janette
knew, with an inward sigh, that despite everything that had happened
tonight, at least part of his endearing innocence was still intact. He
felt no dread at the prospect of Lacroix's return.
	Janette, wise in their master's ways, knew better. But she forced
herself to remain soft and pliant in his arms, so that they could each
take comfort from one another. When a surly dawn finally arrived, they
were both completely sunk in oblivion. 

	Evening came, and there was still no sign of Lacroix. After exacting
a firm promise from Nicholas that he would stay in the house no matter
what, Janette went on a swift hunt, returning within an hour with a
hopelessly mesmerized victim for them to share. A young saddlemaker's
apprentice, cast out from his employment for stealing, and therefore
with no prospects before him but a life of petty crime - really, said
Janette coaxingly (since Nicholas was indulging in another of his
bouts of mortal conscience, no doubt an after-effect of last night's
events) it was a mercy to kill him now, and probably a benefit to
mankind in general. In the end she won out - a rare occurrence when he
was in one of those moods - and they made quick work of the boy.
	Just as they were finishing their meal, the crash of the front door
opening and a rush of bitterly cold air heralded the return of
Lacroix.
	Janette immediately backed several paces away, leaving Nicholas
holding the drained body of their prey. He lowered it to the floor,
straightened up and said calmly, "Lacroix, I'm glad to see you."
	"Are you, indeed." Lacroix surveyed him without expression, then
snapped, "Janette, get rid of that body. Make yourself scarce.'
	"Lacroix, please . . . Father, he didn't know - "
	"Go!" he said, his voice like a whip cracking.
	She gave Nicholas a despairing look, then obediently picked up the
body of the erstwhile apprentice and vanished through the door into
the garden. Nicholas and Lacroix were left to stand staring at each
other.
	It was obvious that Lacroix's meeting with the Enforcers had not been
an amicable one. Nicholas waited for him to speak, hoping that this
deference might help to allay his anger.
	Small hope. When his master finally broke the silence, there was
absolutely no sign of a thaw in his icy demeanour. "It seems that I
have been negligent in some aspects of your instruction. I did tell
you, did I not, never to reveal your true nature to mortals?"
	In spite of his knowledge that he was treading on very thin ice,
Nicholas didn't care for the suggestion of condescension in the
phrasing of Lacroix's question. He stood straight and answered
shortly, "Yes."
	"Did it not occur to you that there are very good reasons for that?
Would you care to have a mob of frightened, vengeance-seeking mortals
invade your home by day, when you are vulnerable? Would you like to
see that happen to Janette? To me?"
	"Of course not!"
	"Then never do such a thing again! That is the sole reason for the
Code. That is the sole reason for the existence of the Enforcers - to
protect us from the foolish ones of our own kind. Their methods are
harsh, but necessary."
	The lecture seemed to be over, but Lacroix still fixed Nicholas with
that icy glare.
	"It was suggested by the Enforcers that possibly my teaching has not
been at fault, simply that you were either very foolish, or very
headstrong. I know all your faults, Nicholas, and they are many, but
sheer stupidity isn't one of them." Obstinacy, wilfulness, misplaced
gallantry, occasionally an unlooked-for naïveté, but Lacroix knew that
his son was hardly a fool. No fool could have survived what this man
had survived in the so-called Holy Land, although Lacroix had always
reserved judgement on his reasons for going there in the first place;
but that was ground best left unharrowed for the time being. "However,
I see now a troubling tendency towards disobedience," he continued,
moving closer. Instinctively, Nicholas retreated a step.
	"I should not like any of the Enforcers to think that I was being too
lenient with you, Nicholas. This is the last lesson I intend to teach
you. I hope you learn it well."
	As swiftly as a panther striking, he seized Nicholas by the arm and
pulled him from the hall and into the kitchen. There was a trap door
in the floor leading to the cellar. Lacroix heaved it open and
propelled Nicholas through.
	He landed hard on the earthen floor but immediately jumped to his
feet, waiting warily for Lacroix. His master followed in a moment,
carrying a candle holder with a lit tallow candle and a length of
stout rope.
	Slowly and deliberately, he set the candle on the floor, then strode
towards Nicholas with the rope. Nicholas had no intention of tamely
submitting to whatever it was that Lacroix was planning and fought as
hard as he could when Lacroix seized his arms, but it was no use. With
little difficulty Lacroix bound his wrists in front of him. There were
several large hooks fixed to the ceiling, intended for hanging animal
carcasses. Lacroix tossed the free end of the rope over one of them
and fastened Nicholas securely to it. His feet brushed the floor, but
only just.
	Nicholas glared at Lacroix, incensed both by the unexpected assault
and the indignity of his uncomfortable position, but not yet truly
afraid. The rope was strong, but he knew he could break it. If his
master thought he could leave him to dangle here like a side of beef,
then he would find that he had severely underestimated his creation.
	Lacroix stood back and resumed his lecture.
	"Nicholas, I have told you that you are immortal now, and nearly
omnipotent. You do, however, still have several limitations; there are
a few things that are lethal to you, even now. Sunlight you already
know about." Indeed, it was one of the first things he had warned his
new fledgling of, but Nicholas, ever one to learn things the hard way,
had naturally insisted on finding it out for himself. A sorry sight he
had been then, but glad of Lacroix's comfort, which was something.
	 "You've just had a graphic demonstration of decapitation. And now
I'm going to teach you a third."
	From somewhere within the folds of his heavy mantle, he produced  a
long thin object which at Nicholas' first glance was so innocuous as
to be laughable. A kitchen broom? Was Lacroix going to tickle him to
death with it?
	Lacroix laid the broom across his knee and neatly snapped off the
end, leaving him with a jagged length of wood.
	"Most likely the Enforcers didn't have one of these at hand last
night," he said conversationally, surveying his impromptu weapon. "But
I do assure you, Nicholas, that a wooden stake is just as effective
for killing vampires as tearing our heads from our shoulders, even if
it is somewhat less - spectacular."
	Comprehension finally dawned on Nicholas as Lacroix advanced on him,
eyes glowing malevolently. "Lacroix, no! You wouldn't - "
	"Goodbye, Nicholas." His master raised the stake and in one sinewy
thrust plunged it straight through his body.
	Nicholas' shriek rattled the timbers in the house above.
	Lacroix stood back and coolly watched his son's agonized thrashing.
Satisfied that both the rope and hook would hold, he picked up the
candle and left the cellar, ignoring Nicholas' almost mindless
entreaties to remove the stake and stop the pain.
	Even with the trap door back in place, the noise level was
considerable. Lacroix smiled slightly. No doubt the sounds from the
cellar would become tiresome eventually, but right at the moment he
could almost say they were music to his ears, the sound of Nicholas
learning two very salutary lessons: never to do anything that might
bring the Enforcers down on him, and never to disobey Lacroix.

	Nicholas had no idea how long he spent struggling in a mad frenzy to
free himself from the hook, the rope, the stake, before his strength
gave out. Neither did he know how long he screamed for, before his
throat tore and his own blood began to flow from his mouth, mingling
with the blood tears of pain and fury that were streaming down his
face. The screams gave way to whispered curses, then stopped
altogether. Finally he hung mute and still in the darkness and simply
waited to die.
	It was the first taste he'd had of his master's unmitigated rage. He
had known Lacroix could be cruel, but he had always felt himself to be
his master's favoured, cherished creation, safe from the worst of that
cruelty. He knew Lacroix was a predator by nature and by desire, but
he had not thought of him as a being who took pleasure in torture -
especially that of his own son. Yet here he was, abandoned to as
miserable a fate as any he had seen in the Crusades.
	It wasn't just the dying that was hideously painful, it was also
being left to twist and dangle like a fish on a line. He clenched his
teeth on the few small sounds of pain he was still making, drawing his
pride around himself like a sorry cloak, taking an infinitesimal
comfort from the fact that he could deprive Lacroix of the
satisfaction of hearing that much - if Lacroix was still listening.
	The effort cost him the last of his strength. Gratefully, he slipped
into oblivion.

	He began to wonder if he might, after all, have gone to heaven.
Suspended in a soft warm cocoon, faint candlelight against closed
eyelids, Janette's voice speaking. And most important of all, a
cessation of the pain.
	Janette, in heaven? Not in any Christian heaven, certainly. Heaven
was not for Janette, nor for him.
	Then where was he?
	With a monumental effort, he opened his eyes and looked,
uncomprehendingly, at his own bedchamber.
	In pure reflexive startlement he sat bolt upright, and was rewarded
with a horrible tearing sensation in his midsection. He hissed in
surprise and pain, and in an instant a sturdy earthenware goblet was
pressed to his lips, full of a sweet, heady, familiar liquid. He
gulped the entire contents and, with a bloody trickle running down his
chin, reached greedily for the source, which was leaning over him.
	"Gently, gently, my chevalier," chided Janette, pushing him back into
the pillows. It didn't require much effort on her part, Nicholas felt
as if he had all the strength of a newborn kitten.
	"Janette?" he whispered, then, finding that he had a voice again -
somewhat raspy, but his own - he said, more strongly, "What happened?
I thought he'd killed me." He reached up to trace the outline of her
face and lips, still not quite believing.
	"Oh, Nicolas, why must you keep provoking him?" said Janette with a
sigh. "He didn't want to be so harsh, but disobedience is something he
will never, ever tolerate. And I hope you heeded that lesson, because
I never want to go through that again," she added quickly, trying to
douse the flicker of anger she could see already in his expression.
	She succeeded, at least momentarily. He gave her a self-conscious
smile, picked up her one hand that still lay pressed on his chest and
kissed it apologetically. Then a stronger urge took over and he turned
the hand over, his lips questing up to her wrist.
	"Oh, Nicolas, you are a greedy one, aren't you," said Janette, but
with no sign of disapproval. "Here, wait. Wait, I said!" Sitting on
the edge of the bed, she gathered him in her arms, supporting his head
against her shoulder and allowing him free access to her slender neck.
"There, my golden knight, drink," she murmured.
	Without hesitation he bit into the vein, suckling thirstily, seeking
and finding a comfort he hadn't known he had even wanted. It was a
blissful, honeyed sensation that both eased him and gave him strength,
even more exquisite than when he had healed Janette.
	He lost himself in the ecstasy, and eventually Janette had to gently
but firmly disengage herself. "No more, Nicolas. Not now."
	He sat up and embraced her in turn, kissing her lips. She tasted her
own blood there and felt his rising ardour, but reluctantly pushed his
away. Holding his face lightly between her hands, she said quietly,
"Lacroix is waiting."
	Those three words acted like a bucket of cold water on Nicholas. He
nodded slowly and rose from the bed, gingerly examining his chest.
There was a livid mark where the stake had penetrated, but otherwise
he was completely healed.
	Janette had already bathed the grime of the cellar from him and laid
out fresh clothing. Moving cautiously - there were still a few twinges
if he bent down or stretched - he pulled on braies and hose, tunic and
boots. Janette settled his good surcoat on his shoulders, combed his
hair, clucked disapprovingly over the stubble on his chin before
deciding it was best not to waste time shaving, and accompanied him to
the stairs. Obviously their master's edict that she should make
herself scarce during Lacroix's dealings with his son was still in
force. She gave him a feather-light kiss on the cheek but remained
where she was.
	It seemed a long, lonely journey down the stairs and across the hall.
A fire leaped and crackled in the fireplace, in front of which were
normally set several high-backed chairs. Now all but one had been
moved away, and Lacroix sat in that one as if it were a throne, his
back to the stairs, elbows on the arms of the chair and fingers
steepled before him.
	"Come here, Nicholas," he said without turning, as Nicholas hesitated
several paces away from him.
	Trying to summon up the angry pride that had helped sustain him
during his ordeal in the cellar, Nicholas did as he was bidden, coming
to stand in front of the chair. Lacroix's eyes flicked over him once,
briefly and disinterestedly, before returning to the contemplation of
his hands.
	It was a game, a contest, to see who could outwait the other, and
Nicholas knew it was one he could never win. No point, at the moment,
to even try. Trying to keep his tone deferential, he said, "Here I am,
Lacroix. What is it you want of me?"
	Even then, Lacroix kept him waiting for a considerable length of time
before finally surveying him with expressionless, hooded eyes. "Simply
to see if you have learned the lesson I set for you."
	"Lesson?" repeated Nicholas angrily, deference forgotten. "You tried
to kill me!"
	"I did not 'try' to kill you," said Lacroix, unperturbed. "If I had
wanted you dead, then you would be nothing more than a small pile of
ash right at the moment. One thing I must confess I failed to mention
to you: a wooden stake will indeed kill one of our kind, but it must
go straight through the heart. Anywhere else, and it will simply cause
exquisite agony until it is removed."
	Nicholas stared at him, unable to speak. His mind was trying to
encompass the enormity of what Lacroix had done to him. He had
thought, dangling from that damned hook in the cellar, that he had
known the worst of it, but even then he hadn't. Lacroix, his teacher
and mentor, whom he had trusted and respected, had left him there in
agony, not to kill him, but simply to teach him a lesson. To let him
think he was about to die, when all the while he was simply awaiting
the moment when it pleased his master to release him. And at the end
of it all, Lacroix mocked him for his gullibility and took away from
him the one thing he'd thought to take comfort in: the knowledge that
he'd survived the worst Lacroix could do to him.
	If he had had a stake in his hand right then, he would have gladly
run the elder vampire through with it.
	"Nicholas," Lacroix was saying reasonably, "I did not do what I did
on a whim. As a mortal, you were a grown man. As a vampire, you are
but an inexperienced fledgling, and you have to learn the ways of our
kind, what are the transgressions and why, and what are the penalties.
I simply tried to make you realize the importance of obeying the Code,
and of doing nothing to attract the attention of the Enforcers. If it
has also taught you the folly of attempting to disobey me, then that's
all to the good. I will admit that it was a harsh lesson, but it was
for your own benefit in the end." He paused, then said, in a tone that
indicated he was expecting a prompt answer, "Well, Nicholas? Do you
agree?"
	"Yes," Nicholas replied dully, hardly aware of what he was saying.
	"You have an excellent memory. Twenty years from now, or two hundred,
or even two thousand, you will remember exactly what I've just said to
you. I don't want to find that tomorrow you appear to have forgotten
it."
	"No," said Nicholas.
	"Then go now," said Lacroix, suddenly the kindly father. "Find
Janette and go hunting. This matter is over - unless you make it
necessary to bring it up again."


	Life - or unlife, as Nicholas, with a spurt of dark humour, supposed
that he should consider his current state - went on as it had done
before his fateful meeting with Jehan. Nicholas was more than content
with his vampire existence. He hunted, he fed, constantly exploring
and marvelling at his increased strength and heightened senses, the
ability to hear a whisper from across a crowded street or to see in
the dark with vision superior to a cat's. The sound of a heart beating
fascinated him, and he sometimes needlessly prolonged a hunt, much to
Janette's annoyance, for the sheer pleasure of hearing - of being able
to hear - that entrancing sound, especially as it grew faster and
louder in fear. He adored flying; at times he felt it was Lacroix's
supreme gift to him. Immortality, to one who was still young even by
human reckoning, seemed a poor second compared to the incomparable
sensations of skimming over the Paris rooftops or racing the clouds
tearing across the face of the moon on a stormy night. And he and
Janette indulged in wild sexual games that he would hardly even have
dared contemplate as a mortal, still less been physically capable of.
He knew Lacroix watched them sometimes, and that knowledge drove both
him and Janette, utterly shameless, to new extremes. Everything was a
thrill, an addictive, sensual sport, and he embraced it all
wholeheartedly. Only occasionally, in moments when he felt as if he
were emerging from a drugged haze, did he feel disgust at what he had
become, and remorse for what was already a long string of victims,
struck down to feed his unquenchable lust for blood. He remembered the
remnants of his family and the few close friends he had made amongst
his fellow crusaders, and shrank from the revulsion they would surely
feel for the unnatural creature he was now.
	He knew these moods galled Lacroix, and he did his best to stifle
them in case his master decided to make them the subject of another
lesson. After the last one he had made it a policy to be as dutiful to
Lacroix as possible, not wanting him to guess that, as an object
lesson in obedience, it had failed utterly. It had, however, taught
Nicholas to be very wary of his master.
	But the one thing that rankled most was the fact that Lacroix still
was not prepared to give him anywhere near the degree of freedom and
independence he allowed Janette, who sometimes disappeared for nights
on end, to return without arousing comment. Janette shared her body
and blood with Lacroix as well as with Nicholas; if she had done
anything to warrant his disapproval, there would have been no way to
hide it. And if he had punished her for it, then Nicholas would have
known. But Janette remained utterly carefree, on her own account at
least. She sympathized with Nicholas, but counselled patience.
	"After all, you have eternity to outwait him," she pointed out.
	He didn't think he could wait quite that long.
	Candlemas came and went, and winter grudgingly gave way to a gloomy
wet spring. A month or more after the encounter with the Enforcers,
Nicholas awoke one night to find the house empty. Lacroix and Janette
had gone hunting together. Perversely, his first feeling was one of
resentment, that they had not wanted to include him; then he realized
his good fortune. Almost immediately he was soaring through the Paris
sky, joyfully intent on a night's solitary hunting.
	He was in no hurry to make a kill. It was a clear night, the moon
nearly full, and it was exhilarating simply to fly against it while
sensing all the heartbeats in the city below. All those weakling
mortals, blissfully unaware that above them was a silent, skilled
predator, who wore the face of a human being but was truly a creature
from the uttermost depths of their nightmares, and who was merely
biding his time before closing in for the kill.
	The church bells had already rung for Matins, at midnight, when he
finally came to earth again in an alleyway behind the stables of some
nobleman, close to the Seine. Inside the building he could hear, in
addition to the snorting and rustling of some of the beasts, a louder
rustling and occasional giggle that indicated more activity in the
straw then a few restless horses. Nicholas' lips curved in a fanged
smile, anticipating the challenge of taking two hapless victims at
once.
	The only entrance to the stable from the alley was a single door,
barred firmly from inside. In the span of a few mortal heartbeats he
was over the roof and slipping through the open doorway to the loft.
The two lovers had felt no need for candle or lamp, and didn't see him
until he had swooped down on them, plucking them from the straw and
gripping one tightly in each arm. He drank from the man first, easily
restraining the woman one-handed and muffling her screams against his
shoulder. By the time the man's lifeless body dropped back to the
straw, her blood was exquisite with her terror. He held her in a
mockery of a lover's embrace and savoured every drop.
	It wasn't until her corpse landed on the floor next to her erstwhile
lover's that he realized another vampire had joined him.
	The newcomer was watching him from the deep shadows by the door,
visible only as a vague shape and a pair of glowing amber eyes.
Nicholas hissed angrily. Who was this one and why was he standing
there watching, when quite obviously all the prey here had already
been disposed of?
	The horse in the stall closest to the door kicked shatteringly at the
partition and whinnied. The stranger came closer to Nicholas, and he
finally recognized Etienne de Bruyère, the vampire master who had
arrived too late to save his son from the Enforcers. Nicholas' elation
at accomplishing the double kill vanished, to be replaced by
trepidation.
	What did de Bruyère want with him? Was he seeking retribution because
Nicholas had provoked the quarrel which resulted in Jehan's death, and
had survived while Jehan had not? Nicholas knew he would stand little
more chance against de Bruyère than he had against the Enforcers. If
he had to suffer this vampire's wrath as well as Lacroix's, he would
almost prefer to look for a stake and impale himself right now. 
	He dropped his aggressive stance and backed away a step, watching the
other vampire warily.
	When de Bruyère finally spoke his voice was deep and gravelly, as if
not often used. "Get rid of those two and come with me. I have
something of yours."
	When Nicholas merely stared at him in astonishment, he raised a
scornful eyebrow, in a gesture as eloquent as any of Lacroix's. "Well?
Lucien did teach you to hide your kills, did he not?"
	Nicholas roughly gathered up the two bloodless corpses and flew from
the stable, with de Bruyère behind him. The horses stamped and neighed
in alarm, but by the time a groom arrived to find what was upsetting
them the two vampires were long gone.
	He dropped the bodies in the Seine several miles downstream from the
city, then flew after de Bruyère to a house above a butcher's shop in
the Rue du Grand Chatelet, close by the tavern where he and Jehan had
met with the Enforcers. De Bruyère hadn't spoken since leaving the
stable; he hadn't even looked to see if the younger vampire had
followed him after disposing of the mortals. Nicholas' sense of
trepidation hadn't decreased at all by the time the two vampires flew
through the attic window of the house and alighted in a dark, low-
ceilinged room.
	Lusty snoring coming from the floor below indicated that the other
occupants of the house were sound sleepers. De Bruyère lit a candle
and Nicholas glanced around, trying to disguise his astonishment at
the appearance of the small chamber. It was empty save for a pile of
moth-eaten blankets in one corner and a plain, age-darkened wooden
chest, with the solitary candle in a pricket holder balanced on the
lid. Every surface was covered in a thick layer of dust; the corners
were festooned with cobwebs. It made Lacroix's home seen palatial by
comparison. Nicholas was puzzled. De Bruyère had the look of someone
who was accustomed to better than this.
	"Our kind has little need of mortal possessions," said the other
vampire. Nicholas jumped. Had de Bruyère read his mind, the way
Lacroix seemed uncannily able to do?
	"Messire de Bruyère," he said, awkwardly and in a rush, "I greatly
regret what happened to Jehan."
	The older vampire turned away, placing the candle on the floor and
raising the lid of the chest. With his back to Nicholas, he replied
coolly, "No doubt you do, since you narrowly avoided the same fate."
	It wasn't the response Nicholas had been expecting. His first impulse
was to make an angry retort, protesting his sincerity, but there were
odd vibrations in the tiny room, notes of an emotion unspoken but so
strong that they resonated like the strings of a harp. Etienne de
Bruyère, for all his impassive demeanour, was still grieving for his
fledgling. Nicholas bit back what he had been about to say, and bowed
his head.
	De Bruyère turned back to him with something in his hand. "I believe
this belonged to you. You'd better have it back." He opened his hand
and revealed the little golden candle charm with its ruby flame.
Nicholas extended his own hand, almost unwillingly, and de Bruyère
dropped the piece of jewellery into his palm.
	Nicholas began to stutter something by way of thanks, feeling even
more uncomfortable. If this had been left when Jehan's body turned to
ash, it must have been the only thing. If de Bruyère wanted to keep it
as a memento, he certainly had no objection.
	"Foolish fledgling," the older vampire hissed, his eyes suddenly
glowing golden. "I do not give you this trinket as a gift. It is to
remind you for the rest of your existence of my son and the part you
played in his destruction. I need nothing to remind me. Now go!"
	Nicholas knew it was useless to protest that Jehan had been just as
much to blame for his death as he himself had been. Considering
Jehan's fate and de Bruyère's grief, it seemed far too petty to
attempt to defend himself in any case. His hand closed on the candle
and he flew from the room.

	Several hours later, when the night began to give way to a clear
dawn, Etienne de Bruyère went to the roof of the dilapidated house.
The rising sun found him there shortly afterwards. In a few minutes
the only thing remaining on the roof was a small pile of ashes, which
were soon dispersed by a gentle spring breeze.

	"Nicholas, you can come out now," said a low voice six inches from
his ear.
	As quietly as he could, Nicholas began to shift aside the mound of
household possessions that covered him. Blankets, rugs, wall hangings,
pots and jars, a chest of clothes, even a large bundle containing
precious window glass that someone had wrapped with infinite care - he
began to think there was no end to the sheer amount of goods belonging
to the Coulombe family. And he was concealed in only one of six
similarly laden carts which had left Paris two days ago, bound for the
family manor near Dijon in Burgundy. It was an admirable arrangement
for a vampire who wanted to travel while staying hidden from all eyes.
	All, that was, except those belonging to Madeleine Coulombe, who
stood staring at him as he finally emerged from the back of the
covered cart, clearly ready to burst into laughter at his tousled
appearance. He forestalled her by sweeping her into his arms and
pressing a kiss on her dark hair. She turned her face up to him, eyes
sparkling mischievously, obviously expecting something a little less
chaste. Nicholas was happy to oblige her, but took care to release her
before the call of her blood became overpowering.
	She straightened his tunic and reached up to smooth down his hair.
"Are you all right in that cart? I was afraid you might not be able to
breathe."
	"I slept as if it were the finest feather bed in the whole of
France," he assured her truthfully.
	She looked as if she didn't quite believe him, but picked up
something from the ground nearby and pressed it into his hands. It was
a wooden bowl filled with spicy stew, with chunks of bread sitting on
top. "I know it's not much, but it's all I could get, I had to hide it
under my cloak. I wanted to bring you some of the wine, but I didn't
think I could hide that as well. But there's a stream over that way,
where the willows are."
	"You've brought me more than enough. Did anyone notice?"
	"Only Margrete, and she won't tell. But I can't stay long. Father
doesn't want me wandering in the dark alone." She made an exasperated
face, then smiled and stroked his hair again, her hand brushing down
his cheek. "If he knew about you, he would have a fit and fall down
dead - or else bundle me off to the first convent he could find. A
wanted man, hiding in one of his own wagons, and romancing his
daughter - "
	"Then we had better make sure he doesn't find out, for everyone's
sake," said Nicholas firmly. He gave her another kiss, then pushed her
away. "Now go, before anyone comes looking for you! And thank you for
the food."
	She went, unwilling but obedient, and Nicholas dumped out the
contents of the bowl on the ground a discreet distance from the carts.
Some wild animal would enjoy a good meal tonight. He found the stream,
stripped off and plunged in, washing away the dust of the cart,
heedless of the fact that the nearby mortals were all well wrapped in
cloaks and blankets to ward off the chill of the early spring evening.
Then he sat by the water's edge, watching the flickering campfires of
the Coulombe family and their retinue, and wondered if this could
really be the start of a new life of freedom.
	He had returned home from Etienne de Bruyère's dusty attic with the
candle charm still clutched tightly in his hand. He wasn't quite sure
what to do with it. After all, he had originally bought it as a gift
for Janette, but even without de Bruyère's parting words he felt that
it was hardly an appropriate choice now. Although he resented de
Bruyère's insinuation that he was to blame for Jehan's death, somehow
he couldn't bring himself to simply toss it in the Seine or drop it in
a beggar's bowl. In the end, he had simply put it away in the wooden
chest that held his few possessions and closed the lid on it.
	Lacroix, of course, had known that something was bothering him, even
though he had denied it. It seemed that his master did not consider
him entitled to the privacy of his own thoughts, if Lacroix wanted to
know them. He simply seized the young vampire, flung him down to
sprawl ignominiously across the oak table in the hall, and sank his
fangs into his throat. Nicholas at first struggled instinctively, then
forced himself to keep still and passive. After all, he had done
nothing shameful or dangerous, nothing that Lacroix could conceivably
want to punish him for. Better to have the intrusion over with as
quickly as possible.
	Communication between them, when Lacroix took him like that, was
always strictly one-way. When his master finally released him and
dismissed him to Janette's care, his face was a blank mask. Nicholas
had no idea what the elder vampire had gleaned from his blood.
	Over the next several nights the idea began to take root in his mind
that now might be the time to sever his ties with his vampire family.
	Oh, not with Janette. He wouldn't tell her where he was going, or
even that he was leaving - the memory of what Lacroix had done to her
the last time Nicholas had gone astray was still searingly fresh in
his mind - but he was confident that if he reached a safe place and
sent her word, she would follow him. But Lacroix - his master had
shown him and taught him so many new delights that would have repelled
him less than a year ago. Nicholas was grateful. But even a sense of
filial obligation wasn't sufficient for him to accept Lacroix's right
to administer any more lessons such as the one he had given that night
in the cellar. Nor did he care for Lacroix's propensity for casually
extracting Nicholas' blood, and with it, his most secret thoughts and
desires.
	He knew there was some form of link between the three of them, and
that Lacroix was far more adept at using and manipulating it than he
was. But surely, if he concentrated hard enough, he could at least
prevent his master from knowing his precise whereabouts. And
hopefully, if he could put sufficient distance between them, the power
of that link would dwindle.
	But he still had no concrete plans for escape the night that he met
Madeleine Coulombe.
	Originally, she was to have been his night's meal. He had seen her
leaving St. Genevieve after Compline, attended by an older woman and a
manservant. Impatient with them, she had walked slightly ahead, and
nothing would have been simpler than drawing her into a dark alley and
taking to the air, consuming his prey at leisure while her servants
searched frantically. And yet he found he couldn't do it.
	Perhaps it was because, in the instant that his eyes actually met
hers, he saw something in them that reminded him of his mortal sister.
There was no physical resemblance; Madeleine was taller, and dark
where Fleur was fair. But, preoccupied as she was with her own
thoughts, there was a familiar energy and resolve about her. Her eyes
were wide and innocent. And she hadn't been afraid of him.
	By the time the two servants came up to them, Madeleine had been
persuaded that she had slipped in the mud of the street, and the blond
stranger had prevented her from falling. He gallantly offered to
escort her home - after all, there were so many ruffians in the
streets of Paris. By the time they reached her family's house - an
imposing timber dwelling, larger than the one where Nicholas was
living - he had learned her name and the fact that her father owned a
manor several days' journey to the southeast of Paris, to which the
family would shortly be returning, now that the plowing season had
begun.
	Two nights later he contrived to meet her near the church again. She
appeared quite happy to see him; the older female servant, whom
Nicholas guessed to be her former nurse, was less so. In fact, she
quite obviously disapproved completely of Nicholas' presence. It was
easy to deduce the reason. Madeleine Coulombe, pretty and good-
tempered and belonging to a wealthy family, was eminently
marriageable, to someone of her own rank. Unknown men who appeared
mysteriously out of the night, no matter how handsome or gallant, were
an impediment to the family plans, and were to be actively
discouraged, if not driven away like stray dogs. But Nicholas liked
Madeleine and refused to be discouraged, even when her guard had been
increased to three men at arms by their third meeting. He even felt a
bit sorry for her, when he found out that she was to be married that
summer to the elderly lord of a nearby manor. That was the way things
were done and he had never thought much of it before. But it did seem
a pity that Madeleine with her bright youthful spirits should be
handed over like a pawn in a game of petty politics to a man three
times her age, whom she had barely even seen.
	It was no surprise to Nicholas, who was complacently aware of the
favourable effect he usually had on women, and was not above
occasionally using it to his own advantage, that Madeleine fancied
that she was falling in love with him. Even when he dropped dark hints
about having been unjustly accused of beating and robbing a man in a
tavern, and therefore needing to get away from Paris as soon as
possible . . .
	He couldn't tell if she really believed him, but he did know that it
suited both their purposes when he was hidden in one of the heavily-
laden carts when it left Paris for the Coulombe manor several days
later. He had taken nothing with him except the clothes on his back, a
purse containing exactly six oboles, and, for reasons even he himself
didn't understand, the little golden candle.
	Now, two days' journey lay between himself and Paris. It wasn't
enough, but it was a start. He tilted his head, listening to the
subdued voices as the mortals settled down for the night. It was
probably wisest to stay with the Coulombe family all the way to Dijon,
but he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to do about Madeleine.
It had become obvious that she expected him to save her from the fate
of marrying her intended husband. She had done so much for him that
she deserved an explanation for why he would have to abandon her - but
a plausible explanation was beyond him. He could hardly tell her the
truth. Probably the best thing, when the time came, was simply to slip
away into the night. No tears, no protestations, no recriminations. It
was hardly honourable, but it seemed better than telling her an
outright lie. Yet one more facet of his new existence that he found
unpalatable - it seemed impossible to have aught to do with mortals
but use them, one way or another.
	But he still was fond of Madeleine; she still reminded him of Fleur.
If he had been the mortal man he was passing himself off as, he would
have been tempted to carry her off and rescue her from her unwanted
marriage.
	He cocked his head again, listening to the night sounds around him.
The Coulombe camp was mostly asleep by now, except for the men at arms
left on guard. Last night they had stopped at a busy inn; tonight,
according to Madeleine, they had intended to as well, but obviously
something had happened to delay them - a broken wheel, a lame horse -
while Nicholas slept. Whatever the cause, the Coulombes' misfortune
was his gain. The family and their servants were the only mortals
within miles. It was an ideal opportunity to test his resolve not to
drink blood on the journey.
	He had made the decision as the wagon jounced its way out of Paris on
the muddy road. It was just possible that the less blood he consumed,
the less emotion he would radiate through the mental link with his
family, making it more difficult - he hoped - for Lacroix to track
him. Another reason was that he simply needed to test his own limits.
There had never been a reason to deny himself feeding before - Lacroix
had always encouraged him to hunt, even commanded it. He had told
Nicholas that he would never be able to survive without the blood;
that his vampire nature demanded that he feed, and on that one
precious substance only. He had also told him that wooden stakes were
deadly, and only later revealed that that had been but a half-truth.
Were there other half-truths amongst Lacroix's teachings? Could the
bloodlust be controlled, with sufficient willpower? Nicholas possessed
a growing determination to find out if he could really keep the
vampire in check. He had no desire to return to mortality, but this
was something he needed to know about himself.
	He considered that he had already made a fair start. The inn where
they had spent the first night of the journey had been full to the
point that a number of travellers were forced to sleep in the stable
if they wanted a roof over their heads, so half a dozen of the
Coulombe servants stayed with the family's possessions to guard
against thievery. Rather than risk being seen, Nicholas had stayed in
the cart. It had been an uncomfortable night. More than once he had
started to rise in response to the siren call of those six hearts so
close by, but each time he had forced himself to remain where he was.
When the sun rose, his hunger abated and he fell asleep once again.
	He had accomplished that much, surely he could get through this night
as well, with so many fewer temptations. He sat by the water's edge
and breathed deeply, as if he could derive sustenance from the night
air itself. He concentrated on the sound of his own breathing, trying
to block out those other sounds from the camp.
	What would Madeleine's blood taste like?
	Don't even think it!
	Would it be fresh and fiery? Or sweet like spring flowers? What would
she be like, as he took her?
	He looked around wildly. Where was this demon voice coming from?
	If it was the last thing he did, he wasn't going to give in to it. He
tugged his clothing on and took to the air, flying as fast and as far
away from the camp as he could. Better to leave right now, without a
word, than to risk hurting her because he couldn't control himself.
	He came back just before sunrise, so weak he could barely crawl into
the cart. Terror of the impending dawn lent him sufficient strength to
burrow back into his nest, where he lay curled into a tight fetal
position. The pain of hunger was almost as bad as having the stake run
through him. It was far worse than mortal starvation. It was hunger
and thirst combined, and it set every nerve in his body on fire.
Nevertheless, as he heard the sounds of the camp stirring and making
ready for the day's journey, he tried to think rationally.
	He had seen men in the East addicted to opium. If they could no
longer get the drug they craved, they suffered incredibly, just as he
was doing now. But in the end, some of them had recovered. So would
he. He could do this. Perhaps one more day's sleep was all he needed
to break free of the cravings.
	The sun rose higher and the cart resumed its slow, uncomfortable
journey. Somewhere in the midst of the entourage was Madeleine, riding
the roan palfrey she was so proud of. In his mind's eye Nicholas
painted a picture of the two of them in the sun together, riding side
by side. The pain abated somewhat, and he slept.
	But by nightfall it was even worse. He lurched from the cart, not
even caring who might see him. Only the fact that he could barely
stand made him turn and lean against the wooden side of the cart,
hiding his fangs and glowing eyes. This was impossible. Lacroix had
been right. He would never be able to overcome his vampire nature. He
didn't have the strength.
	No, damn it! He would do this! He would not admit defeat and go
crawling back to Lacroix. One more night. Surely, if he could get
through this, he could get through anything. He took a deep sobbing
breath and held it. The wooden frame of the cart began to splinter
under the grip of his hands. He straightened with a startled hiss of
pain.
	"Sir, are you all right? Do you need any help?"
	The voice behind him almost made him jump. He had been so focussed on
controlling himself that he hadn't even noticed the mortal's approach.
He spun around, to be confronted by a stout woman with a lined face,
dressed in a gown of coarse brown stuff.
	At the sight of his face, she began to stumble backwards, eyes huge,
mouth open and ready to scream. He sprang forward and caught her
before she could do more than draw breath, spun her around and pulled
her against him, one arm holding her tightly in place, the other
covering her mouth and tilting her head back. The frantic, uneven
hammering of her heart was so loud in his ears that it drowned out all
other sound. He reared his head back to strike.
	"Nicholas! Nicholas, what are you doing?"
	With a growl of frustration, he turned again, to see Madeleine
standing there, her face going white at the appalling sight of her
would-be lover. In the torchlight she could clearly see his fangs and
his eyes like glowing embers. He could only see her in shades of
pulsating red.
	She stood still, frozen in place by fear and incomprehension. In the
span of a mortal heartbeat Nicholas lunged for her, dropping the body
of the old woman, and sank his fangs into her neck.
	Such terror, engendering such absolute bliss . . . how could he have
thought to survive without it? Her blood was nectar. He drank,
savouring the sweetness of the fear, wanting more and more and more .
. . until, finally, there was no more.
	As her heartbeat faltered and faded, sanity returned in a cold rush.
He sank to the ground with a groan, rocking her body gently. Now it
was the silence, the absence of heartbeats, that was deafening him.
	Her hair was dressed with a circlet of fresh meadow flowers. It had
been pushed askew. He straightened it, kissed her hair, and continued
to hold her and rock her. 
	He had broken faith with her and with himself. He had thought he had
sufficient resolve and strength of will not to harm her - but in the
final trial he had been found wanting. Now he felt utterly lost - a
knight without sword or armour or horse, wandering in a wilderness.
	"Well, Nicholas. I see I need not have worried that you would somehow
starve to death on this fruitless quest of yours."
	He lifted his head and there, inevitably it seemed, was Lacroix,
leaning casually against one of the carts as if he hadn't a care in
the world.
	He lowered his eyes again, still holding Madeleine protectively.
	Lacroix sighed impatiently at his continued silence. "Why are you
grieving? She's a beauty, I'll admit that, but there are others out
there even finer. Certainly she was an excellent choice, far better
than this one - " He stirred the body of the old woman with his foot.
"She appears to have expired from sheer terror. Wasteful, my dear
Nicholas - very wasteful."
	There was still no reply from his anguished fledgling. With a sigh,
Lacroix knelt and took Nicholas' chin in his hand, forcing him to look
directly at Lacroix. "Or can it be," he said softly, "that you're
mourning something more than this fair maiden's death? Something
within yourself, perhaps? Some fallacious notion of being able to
control your own nature? Nicholas, you hold yourself to such high
standards. That is the legacy of having been a true chevalier, I
suppose."
	Nicholas stared at him, his attention caught against his will.
Lacroix did not sound angry, or derisive, or even patronizing.
Instead, he seemed to be truly sympathetic.
	"You can't fight the bloodlust, my child. As mortals must breathe to
live, so must we consume blood. They kill a deer or slaughter a pig
without a qualm, in order to eat; with us it is just the same."
	"How can it be," said Nicholas dully, "when a human is so much more
than a deer or a pig?"
	"It is," said Lacroix firmly, "because it must be. It is an immutable
fact of nature. The sun rises, the sun sets; trees and flowers bloom
in the spring and die back in the fall; the wolf will always hunt the
deer, and we will always crave the blood of mortals. Now come." He
rose, put a hand under Nicholas' elbow and gently tugged him to his
feet, still holding Madeleine, but for the first time becoming aware
of his surroundings.
	They were in a dark corner of the courtyard of what seemed to be a
prosperous manor house, with a thatch-roofed stable behind them along
with a smaller outbuilding, a dairy from the smell of it, from which
the old woman must have come. The Coulombe wagons were pushed close to
the walls. Through a gap between two of them they could see the front
of the house itself, a substantial stone building with a wooden solar
above. Surely they could not have reached the Coulombes' manor
already; this must be just another stop on the journey. There were
torches flaring in the courtyard and what seemed to be an unusual
amount of activity - groups of household servants and peasants from
the fields, laughing and talking boisterously, while children ran
about underfoot. From within the house came more laughter and the
sound of singing. It appeared as if the lord of the manor was holding
a feast for all and sundry. That would explain the flowers in
Madeleine's hair and her gown of spring-green silk, whose bodice was
now marred with drops of blood.
	"A local saint's day, I believe," said Lacroix. "St. Bonne, if I'm
not mistaken. I'm certainly no expert on hagiography, but as I recall
she was a young and innocent virgin who was martyred for her faith by
marauding barbarians. Really, Nicholas, I must congratulate you on
your sense of occasion. The irony is almost delicious enough to eat."
	Nicholas said nothing. Lacroix sighed and rolled his eyes. "Put her
down. This once I'll spare your delicate sensibilities and deal with
these two myself. There is a small wood about two miles from here.
I'll meet you there."
	Nicholas gently laid Madeleine's body on the ground but remained
staring down at her.
	"Go, Nicholas," said Lacroix, not impatiently, but with a warning
tone to his voice which implied that the state of grace wouldn't last
long.
	Nicholas looked around helplessly. There was nothing he could do but
obey Lacroix's command. He could hardly bring Madeleine back to life.
	He had wanted to know his strength and his own limits; and now he had
a bitter answer.

	Lacroix took him to Avignon.
	He was unsure about the wisdom of this course of action, since the
mistral was still blowing, and who knew what effect the maddening wind
might have on the despondent Nicholas. But it was well on into spring
now, the mistral was softening, and perhaps the taste of more fiery
southern blood would do the younger vampire good. Besides, Lacroix had
always felt an attachment to the coastal area, the old Roman Gallia
Narbonnensis.
	He told Nicholas that Janette had chosen to remain in Paris,
distressed and angry over his defection. There was a good possibility
that the thought of reclaiming Janette's affection would act as an
additional spur to Nicholas' recovery. But for the time being, he
wanted to keep a very close and undistracted eye on his newest
creation, in order to nip any signs of further aberrant behaviour very
firmly in the bud.
	He played the role of stern but loving paterfamilias to perfection,
yet he noted with secret satisfaction the way that Nicholas
unconsciously braced himself every time Lacroix came close, as if
still expecting him to mete out some form of punishment for his
escapade. Fear or respect, Lacroix had never cared which of the two
anyone felt for him, so long as it resulted in total obedience. And
yet fear did not make a good garnish for Nicholas' blood when he took
it, as even Nicholas himself now acknowledged that he had the right to
do. He hadn't chosen the crusader knight as a son simply to make a
spineless minion of him - although he would crush Nicholas' heart and
spirit without mercy before he allowed him to be sucked down, like a
man in quicksand, by the pangs of a wretched mortal conscience. 
	Until such time as he could be certain which way Nicholas' emotional
pendulum was about to swing - whether he would gladly return to his
family, or whether some degree of correction would eventually be
required to make him realize the advantages of his existence - Lacroix
was content, this once, to bide his time.
	Nicholas, for his part, had no illusions that Lacroix's apparent
benevolence stemmed from any sympathy over Madeleine's death. But he
wondered if his master might feel just the slightest degree of
compassion for someone who had just crashed so hard and so painfully
into the limits of his own self control. It was difficult to tell,
even from Lacroix's blood, which he had allowed Nicholas to take
freely since the night of the feast of St. Bonne. Even his master's
largesse was quite often not what it seemed.
	Lacroix never let him hunt alone now. Nicholas assumed it was because
his master wanted to ensure that he didn't bolt again; he had no idea
that Lacroix was carefully watching for signs of discontent and
instability much more subtle than that. Their usual haunt was the Ile
de la Barthelasse, a wooded hunting reserve below the Pont St-Bénézet,
home to prostitutes and minor criminals of all sorts. Lacroix was
pleased to see that Nicholas had lost none of his skills at hunting
following his misadventure; he killed efficiently and disposed of his
prey discreetly. The swift, almost business-like manner in which he
took his victims, however, gave Lacroix pause; Nicholas was killing
strictly for survival now, not for the thrill of the hunt, both of
which were equally important in Lacroix's opinion. But so long as he
killed without hesitation, nothing could be too far wrong with him.
His former delight in the chase, savouring his victims' terror, was
sure to return in time. Lacroix knew he was seeing yet another facet
of Nicholas' nature; he was coming to realize that the erstwhile
Crusader was a far more intriguing bundle of contradictions than he
had first suspected. Nicholas had the soul of a wandering troubadour,
staunch and idealistic, spouting moony-eyed poetry about romantic love
- ha!  What a ridiculous notion that was! - and yet Lacroix could just
as easily imagine him as a character in one of the fabliaux recited by
a wandering jongleur, a lusty young lad who cuckolded some doddering
old man with a smile that invited the entire world to smile with him.
	There was precious little laughter about Nicholas during their stay
in Avignon, however.
	One night they finished their hunting just as the bells of Notre Dame
des Doms rang for Lauds. On a sudden impulse Lacroix brought them to
the square by the cathedral. All vampires felt a revulsion for these
buildings, but especially those who had shared Nicholas' particular
moral bent during their mortal lives. Perhaps experiencing the
sensation of being repelled by a holy place, almost as if church and
vampire were two magnets of opposite poles, would help to make
Nicholas understand and accept that he was truly a damned creature,
and having accepted it, realize that he might as well enjoy it.
	Lacroix was by no means comfortable this close to a house of God
either, but he chose to assume the role of pedagogue, strolling about
with his hands clasped behind his back, as if lecturing Nicholas about
classical architecture was his sole aim in coming here.
	"How prepotent the Roman ideas were, that this church was built in
this style hundreds of years after the Empire fell! Do you see the
similarities to a classical temple, Nicholas? Those columns could have
come from the Pantheon . . . the design of acanthus leaves there, a
bit crude perhaps, but reasonably close to the original . . . that
pediment is strictly classical - no, that's a pediment, above the
door. I do wish you'd pay attention, Nicholas. Is something ailing
you?"
	Nicholas was staring at the cathedral with huge anguished eyes. "Why
did you bring me here, Lacroix?"
	"Why, we were practically on the doorstep, and it seemed an excellent
opportunity to familiarize you with some of the principles of - "
	"To show me how far I've fallen, you mean," Nicholas interrupted
bitterly. "To prove how utterly damned I am, that I can't even stand
in front of a place like this without feeling God's revulsion for
creatures like us."
	After a pause, Lacroix said in a voice like silk, " Well, yes, that
too."
	Nicholas was beginning to tremble. Lacroix took a forceful grip on
his shoulders. "Nicholas, have you no comprehension of the corruption
of the church, of the men and their ideals who built this place? If
'creatures like us' are damned, we're in good company. What about the
Cathars, to take but one example among many? That was within living
memory of most of men and women in this city. Surely you recall the
crusade against them, instigated by the Pope himself? They were
attempting to return to the pure, simple faith of the early Church. A
commendable view, you might think, but heretical to the modern Church
of Rome, which coincidentally may not have approved of their stand
against such things as church tithes and the taking of feudal oaths.
And so they were massacred, hundreds of men, women, and children, in a
church of all places. Burned to a crisp - such a waste. The place
isn't far from here, if you'd care to see it. Why, you can probably
still smell the smoke."
	Nicholas said nothing. He looked wretched. Lacroix continued
scathingly, "Is that not enough to convince you of the falsity of this
precious Church of yours, where such acts are not only committed, but
condoned? I could quote you more examples if you like, many more. What
point is there in keeping faith with a deity that allows the innocent
to be persecuted in his name?" He released Nicholas and said more
gently, "This religion is not for you any longer. Leave it behind,
like a child's bauble. You have no need of it."
	Still gazing at the church, Nicholas said softly, "The ones who
killed the Cathars, and the ones who sanctioned the killing, were no
more than human. But if the true power of God is simply that of
fallible, corrupt mankind, why does the cross still burn us?"
	He knew then that he'd gone too far. Lacroix's eyes flared red. He
seized Nicholas again, by the throat this time, and hurled him across
the square to land with bone-shattering force against the stones of
the cathedral itself. While the younger vampire was still making
feeble attempts to rise, Lacroix alighted in front of him and seized
him again, hauling him up and holding him against the cathedral wall.
Nicholas' head spun and his stomach churned with combined fear of
Lacroix and the building whose rough stonework was now digging into
his back.
	"Enough of this," hissed Lacroix. "I have no intention of debating
theology with you all night. If there is indeed a God, and a Christ
whose cross burns us, he is nothing to us! And neither are Jupiter,
Mithras, Amen-Ra, or any of the rest! Beings who live forever have no
need to fear perdition." He tightened his grip. "And if you persist in
pining after this God of yours, remember what I told you the night you
killed Madeleine Coulombe. We are immutable; we are what we are. It is
pointless to wish for God's grace, because you will only be miserable
for eternity. I know you still wonder why I didn't punish you for
running away. It was because I knew you'd finally realized something -
that you can't escape your own nature. The price you paid for that
knowledge was a deeper pain than any I could have inflicted on you.
Your nature and your God are mutually exclusive. It's too late for you
now, Nicholas. You've already turned your back to that light, and you
were quick enough to do so.
	"You will never escape what you are. And you will never escape me.
And I say that I will hear no more of this matter, or I may yet send
you to take your chances with St. Peter." His glowing eyes were now
scant inches from Nicholas' blue ones. "I didn't kill you before,
Nicholas, but never think that I won't, if you disobey me in this."
	He opened his hand and Nicholas fell with a thud to the pavement. He
remained at Lacroix's feet, afraid to move, until Lacroix turned with
an impatient swirl of his rich woollen mantle and strode away. Halfway
across the square he stopped, obviously waiting.
	Unwilling to risk another red-eyed glare, and desperate to get away
from the holy building, Nicholas scrambled to his feet and hurried
after him.

	All that day Nicholas was unable to sleep. He lay next to Lacroix,
who kept one arm stretched across the younger vampire's chest as if to
reinforce his declaration that Nicholas would never escape him.
Lacroix appeared to sleep soundly, and yet Nicholas stared at the
ceiling above him and listened as the church bells rang for Prime,
then Tierce, and on and on until Vespers, when Lacroix began to stir.
	Eyes cast appropriately down, Nicholas asked permission to leave for
an hour or so. Lacroix eyed him as if searching for signs of latent
insurgency, then magnanimously consented.
	He went to the Pont St-Bénézet. Standing in the centre of the stone
span, with the stars glittering like miniature fires above and the
spring-swollen Rhône rushing below, he reached into the purse at his
belt and pulled out the little candle charm.
	He had bought it as a gift, but it had never reached its intended
recipient. It had been taken from him by a cheater, who had shortly
thereafter died a horrible death. It had been taken and kept by a
dour, grieving man, and returned to him in a spirit of bitterness. He
had had it with him when he killed an innocent girl and shattered his
belief in his own strength of will. And now this latest dissension
with Lacroix, which was so bitter, and concerned something so
fundamental, that he could see no end to it.
	To light the darkness, the inscription read; far from doing that, so
many things that had seemed plain to him before were now obscured.
	Nicholas had never placed too much credence in the power of relics,
charms, or amulets; he had scarcely more faith even than Lacroix in
the provenance, authenticity and miraculous powers claimed for
fragments of the True Cross or Christ's crown of thorns. He knew the
little candle precisely for what it was: a piece of metal and a chip
of stone. Not something that was imbued with a supernatural ability to
dog the owner's steps with ill luck.
	And yet, and yet . . .
	Etienne de Bruyère had charged him with keeping the candle in order
to remember Jehan and that vampire's death. Had he also meant it to
remind Nicholas of other deaths he had caused? That was hardly likely;
he doubted that de Bruyère concerned himself with the deaths of
mortals any more than Lacroix did. Perhaps, this was a charge that
someone else was seeking to lay on him?
	He told himself that that was arrant nonsense.
	Nevertheless, he knew he could never be comfortable so long as the
thing remained in his possession. He opened his hand and let the
little candle drop into the river.

	In the loft, one of the wax tapers on the piano began to gutter, then
flared up. The sudden brightness woke Nick from his reverie.
	He looked around, momentarily disoriented by the twentieth-century
surroundings, then rose from the table, extinguished the candles, and
went upstairs to bed.

	He arrived at the station that night to find that Missing Persons had
identified the girl found in the ravine.
	"Lesley Jane Middleton," said Schanke from the desk opposite Nick's,
leafing through the information they had on the victim. "Just turned
sixteen when she ran away from home a year ago."
	"Where's home?" asked Nick.
	"Uh . . . Bayfield, Ontario. It's a little resort type place on Lake
Huron. Says here her father owns an antique shop there. No record, all
the kids she hung around with checked out. She cleaned out her savings
account one morning, bought a bus ticket for Toronto, and nobody's
seen her since."
	"Have her parents been notified?"
	"They're at the morgue right now." Schanke shook his head. "Man, I
can't even imagine how tough that must be."
	Nick nodded in silent agreement. He knew Schanke had a little
daughter, far younger than Lesley Middleton, but even so this must be
hitting close to home. It was a pain Nick could only guess at, but the
guess was searing enough.
	But when the girl's parents arrived at the station he found it
surprisingly difficult to feel much sympathy for them, at least for
the father. Byron Middleton was in his fifties, small and spare in
build but slackening in middle age. With his faintly British accent,
tweed jacket, and neatly trimmed salt and pepper goatee, he looked as
if he would have been far more at home in an office in some ivy-
covered Oxbridge college than in a police station having to discuss
his dead daughter. He had an abrasive manner that conveyed clear
distaste for the situation and for the people who he apparently
considered to be nothing more than overpaid public servants, namely
everyone involved in the investigation. If his attitude was meant to
hide grief over his daughter, it was very effective camouflage.
	Sharon Middleton was fourteen years his junior, yet appeared to be
almost older than her husband as she sat next to him in an
interrogation room. She looked drained of strength, energy, even
colour, and didn't seem to notice the tears that still occasionally
overflowed from her reddened eyes, drying them with an automatic
gesture. Yet even sitting still with Byron's arm resting awkwardly
around her shoulders, she drew everyone's attention more than her
husband. It was quite obvious that her grief was genuine and profound.
	The age difference between husband and wife caused Nick to wonder if
this was a second marriage for one or both of them. Maybe Lesley
wasn't Byron Middleton's flesh and blood daughter? On the surface, the
man didn't look like a good candidate for an understanding parent for
a teenage girl. He wondered if there might have been a fair amount of
friction in their relationship - enough to cause Lesley to run away
from home, maybe?
	"I'm Detective Schanke, and this is Detective Knight," Schanke was
saying. "We're the ones in charge of your daughter's case. We're both
very sorry about what's happened." Nick murmured a sympathetic echo.
	"Are there any leads?" demanded Middleton. "Do you have any
suspects?"
	Nick could tell Schanke was taken aback by the man's brusqueness, but
he remained calm and professionally polite. Nick's own hackles had
begun to rise, but he firmly quelled his irritation. He reminded
himself that there were plenty of different ways of dealing with
grief.
	"Not as yet," said Schanke. "We have teams canvassing the homes in
the area for anyone who might have seen something."
	"I understand that where Lesley was found was a pretty isolated
area," said Middleton. "How likely is it that anyone actually saw what
happened?"
	"Not very," admitted Schanke. "But someone coming home late may very
well have noticed a car parked there, or a person climbing in or out
of the ravine, and give us a place to start. The ravine is heavily
wooded, but it's still in the middle of the city. You'd be surprised
how much people actually notice.'
	Middleton snorted. "If that's all you have to go on, it doesn't sound
very hopeful. People in this city never notice anything beyond the
ends of their own noses. If you're going to earn your salaries by
sitting back and waiting for witnesses to come forward, our daughter's
death is going to wind up as just another unsolved case."
	Still staring blindly at the floor, Sharon Middleton put a hand on
her husband's arm and murmured an automatic, "Byron, please."
	"We have to keep after these people, Sharon. Remember what happened
the last time."
	"Last time?" said Schanke, puzzled.
	"I'm surprised you don't have that in your file, Detective - then
again, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by a total lack of
communication in the police department. Ten years ago I had a shop in
Toronto. On Bayview near Manor Road. There was a break-in and several
extremely valuable pieces were stolen. In all this time you've never
managed to find the thieves. You'll have to excuse me," he said
truculently, "if I don't have too much faith in the Toronto police
force. You couldn't stop someone from robbing my store and you
couldn't stop some lunatic from running around on the street with a
gun and killing my daughter. Hell, you couldn't even find her for an
entire year!"
	"Byron, this isn't helping anything," whispered his wife.
	He subsided with ill grace and one last barb. "They have to know
we're keeping an eye on them."
	Mrs. Middleton finally spoke up on her own behalf. Looking up at
Schanke, she said in a low, uneven voice, "Lesley wears a - " She
paused to clear her throat. "She wore a necklace with a pendant. It
looked like a little candle ,made of gold, with a ruby in it. There
was something in French written on the back. She's had it for years.
She always called it her lucky charm. She must have taken it with her
when she left home, but it wasn't with her things at the morgue. Have
you seen it?"
	Her voice was nearly inaudible by the time she finished, and the last
words came out almost like a plea. Nick had been immobile before,
sitting silently next to Schanke, but now he felt as if he had been
turned to stone. Schanke glanced at him with one eyebrow raised
quizzically, but when he got no response, said, "I don't remember it
being listed with her effects, but I'll have someone double check."
	"It was a priceless antique," said Middleton, staring sullenly at the
wall. "It was probably the first thing she sold when she ran out of
money."
	"She wouldn't have sold it," his wife replied, apparently goaded into
anger at last by his surliness. "It was the single most precious thing
in the world to her. My first husband - Lesley's father - gave it to
her shortly before he died," she explained, staring directly at the
detectives with her chin in the air, even as her voice cracked and the
tears started flowing again. "Byron's always resented the fact that
Lesley has remained so attached to the memory of her real father.
Although I don't see why he should, because he never really cared much
about her."
	"Sharon!" said Middleton, looking appalled.
	She rounded on him. "It's true! You never wanted a child around to
disturb you and your dusty antiques and your nice well-ordered life.
You put up a good front all these years, but you never really cared,
did you? You thought she ran away from home because she was a bad kid
who was running wild. Maybe she finally decided that you just wouldn't
give a damn!"
	"Sharon!" said Middleton again. All the colour had washed out of his
face. He tried to grasp her hands, and there was a brief struggle
before the strength that had allowed her to flare up was gone as
suddenly as it had come. She subsided, weeping, on her husband's
shoulder.
	"I tried to do the right thing," said Middleton over her head, in a
voice that had lost all its aggrieved attitude. It was impossible to
tell whether he was talking to Nick and Schanke, to his wife, or to
himself. "I always tried. I just couldn't seem to get it right, no
matter what I did."
	For a moment the room was silent except for Sharon Middleton's
sobbing. Schanke, embarrassed, cast a glance in Nick's direction
hoping for some support, but his partner was still doing a stoneface
imitation. He looked as if he wasn't even aware that there was an
hysterically sobbing woman in the room at all. Schanke was strongly
tempted to give his ankle a sharp kick just to break him out of his
trance.
	Middleton managed to fish out a handkerchief from his pocket and made
an attempt to dry his wife's eyes. Schanke said quietly, "Why don't
you take your wife home, sir, and the both of you try to get some
rest. Where are you staying?"
	Still appearing to be in somewhat of a daze himself, Middleton gave
him the name of their hotel, then tried to get his wife to her feet.
The storm seemed to be abating but with it went all her strength.
Schanke helped him support her in the slow passage through the station
and out to the parking lot, where he held open the door of the
Middletons' cream-coloured Jaguar Sovereign. Nick trailed behind them.
	As soon as the car had pulled out of the lot, Schanke turned on him
angrily. "Thanks a lot for your help in there, partner!"
	Nick started, completely returning at last from whatever alternate
plane of reality he had apparently been visiting. "You seemed to be
doing okay without me."
	"I could have used some support when he was trying to make us feel
like a bunch of bungling, inept flatfeet, and instead I got the
feeling that you'd just left the room! Dammit, Nick, I'm trying to
make this partner thing work, but stuff like that doesn't make it any
easier!"
	"Sorry," muttered Nick, abashed, knowing that everything Schanke had
said was perfectly true. "I was thinking about something else."
	"Yeah, well, I hope it was some brilliant lead in this case." Schanke
stormed back into the station, not bothering to wait for Nick.
	Things remained somewhat strained for the rest of the night, during
which they sifted through what little information they had so far.
Lesley had been killed by a single shot in the back from a .22 calibre
handgun, fired at very close range. There were no fingerprints on the
body, and no evidence of assault, sexual or otherwise. Although there
had been no sign of the necklace her mother had described, she had
been wearing a 14 carat gold and opal ring, along with two others that
were sterling silver. All of it added up to a professional hit. But
who would want to assassinate a street kid?
	There was no news from the teams canvassing the area around the
ravine. Other officers had been checking out various youth hostels and
shelters, trying to find anyone who might have seen Lesley in the past
few days. So far they had nothing to report either.
	It crossed Nick's mind that if some of this effort had been expended
earlier, when the girl had first been reported missing, then they
wouldn't have to be hunting for her killer now.
	He looked up the old report of the break-in at Middleton's antique
shop. He had apparently moved to Bayfield not long afterwards,
probably looking for a less crime-ridden place to run his business.
Several items had been taken - small, easily portable things,
jewellery and silverware. A professional gang who had performed
several similar jobs in the northeastern U.S. was suspected, but no
arrests had ever been made and the stolen articles had never been
recovered.
	But what was really on his mind, as he appeared to busy himself with
the paperwork surrounding the murder, was the worry that someone else
at the crime scene had noticed the chain around the girl's neck, and
would wonder where it had gone. It could well have shown up in the
photographs. He was fairly certain that the collar of Lesley's jean
jacket had covered most of it, but still . . . He hadn't really
thought that through at the time, being overcome with a frenzy to get
the thing into his possession and out of sight. But his impulsive
action could have some serious ramifications.
	And yet, he was still convinced that he had followed the only course
he could. The amulet had dogged him like a recurring nightmare through
his entire existence. Always, it had brought death. Maybe this time he
could destroy it once and for all - if only he could be sure that that
was the wisest thing to do.
	His unusual diligence to their paperwork caused the chill in
Schanke's attitude toward him to thaw somewhat. At the end of their
shift they walked out to the parking lot together. Their two cars were
parked in adjacent spots, Nick's gleaming vintage Caddy and Schanke's
battered Chevy, which was merely old as opposed to vintage, and
scarred from what Schanke had described as a close encounter with his
daughter's bicycle.
	They murmured their goodnights, Schanke's accompanied by a jaw-
cracking yawn, and climbed into their respective vehicles. The
Cadillac for once started without protest, but over the muted rumble
of its engine Nick could clearly hear the rasping cough of the other
car not quite catching. Eventually it stuttered into life, then, just
as Nick imagined his partner starting to heave a sigh of relief, it
died again.
	Schanke thumped the steering wheel with both hands in frustration,
got out and came around to Nick's window. Nick rolled it down and
inquired, "Is the last bastion of Schankiness starting to crumble?"
	"Very funny. Any chance you could give me a boost?"
	Nick glanced around. Not for season's tickets to the Leafs was he
about to allow anyone, especially Schanke, to get their fingers on any
essential part of his car - he'd only just finished dealing with the
repairs from the time his partner had crashed it. But the city was
still asleep, they were an hour away from the dawn. "Why don't I just
give you a lift home?"
	"Would you? That's great, Nick. I'd appreciate that."
	Nick leaned over and unlocked the passenger door. Schanke scrambled
in. "Man, Myra's going to have a field day with this. She's never
going to stop yapping about getting a minivan now. Minivan,
shminivan."
	"Which way?" asked Nick patiently.
	"Head for the Parkway. Did you see that car of Middleton's?"
	"What about it?"
	"That's what I want. A nice, classy, understated car. Leather
upholstery."
	Nick snorted. Schanke glared at him indignantly. "I know, they cost a
bit more than what I could get for a trade-in, but hey, you never know
when you might win the lottery. And when I do, that's what I'm gonna
get. A brand-new Jag. Black. That's classy."
	"Well, that's fine, Schank," said Nick without taking his eyes from
the road. "It's always good to have firm plans for money you'll
probably never have. And I've got to say that if anyone asked me for
the name of someone I knew who personified subtle, understated class -
it wouldn't be you."
	"Well, thank you very much, partner. Just for that, if I ever do get
this car, I know who I'm not going to let drive it. As a matter of
fact - " Schanke's eyes took on a faraway gleam " - maybe I'll even
have a chauffeur."
	"Yeah, right. Donald G. Schanke, employer of servants. That'll be the
day.'
	"Why not? What's the difference between that and having a cleaning
lady? I've seen your loft, Knight, and it's pretty dust-free. You
don't strike me as the type to go running around with a vacuum cleaner
and waving a duster. Besides, you can't tell me you've never thought
about what you'd do if you won the lottery."
	To Nick, a couple of million dollars was fairly inconsequential, but
he could hardly tell Schanke that. After a moment's consideration he
said, "I'd buy a new set of tires for the Caddy, and give the rest
away. I've got enough money to get by on. Who wants all the
publicity?"
	"You - a philanthropist?" hooted Schanke in disbelief. But then he
remembered the way Nick had interacted with those street kids while
they had been working on that bizarre murder and theft at the museum,
and paused to wonder if maybe it wasn't such a farfetched idea after
all.
	They carried on in the same light-hearted, trivial vein until Schanke
had directed them to his home. Nick had been taken aback by the solid
unpretentious older house in a quiet midtown neighbourhood, almost
within walking distance of his own loft. For some reason he had pegged
Schanke as a suburbanite, with a house set in a row of identical boxes
on what had been a farmer's field a year or so ago. There was a light
on in the broad porch and a dark-haired figure wrapped in a dressing
gown waiting behind the screen door.
	"Well, here's Chateau Schanke," said his partner, opening the Caddy's
door. "Looks like Myra's up already. She hasn't gotten used to this
night shift yet. Come on in and have a cup of coffee. I can guarantee
her mother won't be awake."
	Nick glanced in the direction of the eastern horizon, which was
starting to lighten. "Thanks, but maybe some other time."
	"Oh yeah, the sun allergy thing. I gotta tell you, Nick, I still
think that's the weirdest thing I've ever heard of. Well, thanks for
the lift. See you tonight." He got out and slammed the door behind
him, causing Nick to wonder if Schanke's neighbours were any more used
to him working nights than his wife. Pulling out his sunglasses and
sliding them on, he saw Schanke give his wife a quick greeting kiss,
then the front door closed.
	Ten minutes later he was standing in his own loft, looking out the
windows toward the steadily brightening eastern sky. It was nearly
time for what had become almost a daily ritual: waiting for the
sunrise, waiting to see how long he could last until he had to admit
defeat and close the steel shutters before the sunlight - dazzling his
eyes, even on an overcast day - could sear him. He knew that it was a
pointless thing to do; an exercise in frustration at best, or the
trigger for another bout of self-loathing and melancholy. Sometimes
the act of sealing himself into the darkness again set off an anger so
great that all he wanted to do was break or kill something, and more
than one bottle of cow's blood had gone sailing across the room to
smash against the brick walls when it had been unable to soothe his
ungovernable emotions.
	That, fortunately, didn't happen often. He knew perfectly well how
much such an action resembled nothing more than a childish tantrum.
But then, no child had ever had to contend with the violent, inhuman
urges which sometimes threatened to consume him.
	He had been tired, weary to the bone, of fighting these urges, of
trying not to succumb to the bloodlust and hunger that were the
hallmarks of the vampire. He had sworn not to kill again to satisfy
it. But the effort of keeping that vow continually whittled away at
his precious store of self-control, so that by the time he had walked
into the middle of that robbery almost a year ago now, the sensation
of being blasted into oblivion by the pipe bomb was almost a welcome
one.
	Then came Natalie Lambert, with her offer to help him regain his
humanity and her belief in him as something other than a murdering
monster. And his job with the Toronto police, working to stop other
murderers. And now the hint of friendship with his new partner. There
certainly hadn't been anything profound in what they had talked about
on the drive home that morning; it was nothing more than trivial,
inane banter, the dregs of a long night. But it was the kind of thing
two ordinary mortals would have done.
	The combination of those three things heartened him, gave him a
feeling that there might indeed be light - however faint and
flickering - at the end of the tunnel. When he finally had to close
the shutters he did so with little more than a twinge of regret and a
weary anticipation of a good sleep.
	Until he turned and saw the little gold amulet, still lying on the
table where he had left it the morning before, and the weight of grief
and guilt it represented came crashing down on him to destroy the
shining bubble of his fragile new-found contentment.

	Nicholas was late.
	In the tall house built of dark ancient stone, facing down a narrow,
steeply sloping cobbled lane, the shutters were tightly closed over
all but one window. Not to seal out the night like its neighbours, but
to guard against the light of day. And that light was not far off,
now. Already some of the more conscientious cocks in the town had
begun to crow, and sensitive ears could catch the sound of a few
shutters being opened.
	Lucien Lacroix pulled aside a long curtain of heavy crimson silk
which covered the single open window in the house, and regarded the
faintly lightening sky above and the empty street below with equal
irritation. Where was Nicholas? Was the fool intending to fry in the
sunrise this morning? Of course not, he answered himself almost
immediately. Even Nicholas would hardly be so insouciant about his own
safety. But if he didn't return in the next few minutes, he would have
to seek shelter elsewhere for the day.
	Just as church bells had begun to ring for Prime, Lacroix saw
movement in the street. A furtive figure, bundled in a hooded cloak,
was hastening up the cobbles toward the house, keeping well into the
pools of darkness which remained in front of the buildings on the
south side of the lane. A moment later Lacroix could hear the door
opening below. His features still creased in irritation, he went to
confront his son.
	"I am indeed grateful that you decided to honour me with your
presence this morning," he said glacially.
	Nicholas, in the act of shedding his cloak and heavy boots, looked
unwontedly cheerful, and as if he cared not a wit for Lacroix's
crossness. "Sorry," he said, not sounding in the least penitent. "I
had pressing matters to attend to." He raked his fingers through hair
which looked decidedly windblown, flung himself into one of the deep
leather chairs in the hall, and smiled brilliantly up at Lacroix.
	Lacroix was intrigued by this sea change in his son's mood. This was
the first time Nicholas had seemed happy since before he and Janette
had had some sort of ridiculous lovers' spat, which had culminated in
Janette raking his face with her nails. In fact, Nicholas had come
within a hair's breadth of losing an eye. Although Lacroix had chosen
not to interfere in their quarrel - indeed, for a while it had lent
further piquancy to domestic life - he didn't care to be surrounded by
sulking offspring, which, he knew, would be the inevitable consequence
if those two were left to their own devices.         Accordingly he
had left an aggrieved Janette in Paris, still her happiest hunting
ground, and taken himself off to Italy with a brooding Nicholas in
tow. They had travelled in a leisurely fashion until reaching Umbria,
not far to the north of Rome, where they heard tales of the curious
town of Perugia. Ensconced at the top of a steep winding road, looking
out over the Umbrian plain and the Tiber River on its journey to Rome,
its inhabitants were noted both for their religious zeal and their
propensity towards violence and murder. Indeed, Lacroix was assured
that it was in that very town, within living memory of the oldest
citizens, that Pope Benedict XI had died after eating a dish of
poisoned figs; apparently it was a known fact that many Perugians
dabbled in the making of aquetta, a deadly poison, the way other men
would make a barrel or two of wine or raise a few chickens. Making
allowances for his source - a loquacious, well-wined mortal in a
tavern in Orvieto, who had no idea of the true nature of the man
seated across the table from him - Lacroix decided that Perugia might
be worth a visit. Shortly thereafter they had moved into the gaunt old
house, although Lacroix had been rather disappointed that they hadn't
yet witnessed scores of poisoning victims writhing in the streets, or
citizens casually stabbing or bludgeoning one another at the drop of a
hat.
	Nicholas, however, appeared to have found something that piqued his
interest here. Lacroix was still fascinated, after a hundred and
seventy-five years, by all the facets of his protégé; even his
melancholia was appealing in a way, being like a layer of ash, beneath
which astute prodding could reveal fiery embers. But the effort of
that prodding had been growing wearisome lately, and Lacroix had begun
to feel a touch of something, which in a mortal might be termed
indigestion, at the moroseness in Nicholas' blood. Surely the six
months they had been gone from Paris ought to have been sufficient to
effect some change in this most mercurial of vampires, but there had
been little evidence of that so far. Therefore, Lacroix applauded
whatever had caused his son's new buoyancy of spirits.
	Unless - he shivered at the thought - it was yet another woman,
which, Nicholas being Nicholas, it was very likely to be . . .
	"Am I to know what these matters were, that were apparently so
weighty that you risked getting burned to a cinder to deal with them?"
	"Of course," answered Nicholas, arms spread wide across the back of
the chair in an attitude of careless abandon, but he was interrupted
by a wide weary yawn. Lacroix frowned at the unconcealed view of teeth
and tongue, practically right down Nicholas' gullet, that was thus
presented; he sometimes wondered if the mortal Nicholas had been
taught any manners at all.
	"It was a horse," said Nicholas at last, the glint in his eye
betraying the fact that he knew perfectly well how his gaucheness
irritated Lacroix, and that he was in a mood to tease. This day
definitely held promise.
	"And how did you come by this beast?" asked Lacroix, still attempting
to appear stern, although he suspected that Nicholas wasn't deceived
in the least.
	"I was hunting. There were two mercenary knights crossing the plain.
I decided to take one."
	"Did the other see?" demanded Lacroix.
	Nicholas waved a deprecatory hand. "The other saw his friend deciding
not to continue on to Rome, but rather to turn back for Ravenna."
	"Ravenna," said Lacroix ominously, "is a very long way from here. Is
it likely the man would have decided to do such a thing, after coming
so far?"
	"All the better if it's far away. No one will come looking in Perugia
for his possessions."
	"Which you took."
	"Well, I could hardly leave everything lying in the middle of the
road, could I? I was stabling the horse, that's why I came late. You
must see him tonight . . . " The sentence trailed off into another
immense yawn, which Lacroix was quite certain was merely an annoying
habit from mortal life - and one, moreover, that Nicholas sometimes
indulged in purely for effect - and then the younger vampire was
suddenly and irrevocably asleep.

	He was awake well before nightfall, and as soon as the sun had
descended sufficiently to be tolerable he and Lacroix were on their
way to see this paragon of equines. Lacroix personally thought this
newfound obsession ridiculous, but preferable by far to Nicholas being
smitten with a mortal woman. There were still plenty of townspeople
about, and so they made their way on foot through the stony, narrow,
circuitous lanes and alleys that comprised the town's street system.
Nicholas kept a subtle half-step behind Lacroix's shoulder, and
whenever they came to a passageway that was too narrow for them to
walk abreast stepped back and allowed the older vampire to precede
him. That was as it ought to be, but normally Nicholas needed frequent
reminders as to his rightful place in the scheme of things. Lacroix
immediately considered the likelihood that Nicholas was simply
attempting to butter him up before asking to retain possession of the
horse, and knew that he should nip any such notions firmly in the bud.
Creatures of their kind, who often had to travel swiftly and by
stealth, could not afford to have expensive chattels which might draw
attention and be awkward to dispose of. His son knew that perfectly
well.
	And yet, it might be worth it in this case, if it put a stop to
Nicholas' brooding.
	The stable Nicholas had picked for his precious steed was, naturally
enough, close by the massive gate that was the sole entrance to the
town. The younger vampire disappeared inside, while Lacroix waited in
a pool of shadows at the gateway. So still was he, wrapped in his
black cloak, that he might have been one of the stones he stood
beside; few passersby noticed him at all, and those that did found
themselves inexplicably giving him a wide berth. Lacroix smiled
inwardly. That too was as it ought to be.
	His fingertips brushed along the surface of the stones next to him.
They had been laid here over fourteen centuries ago, in the time of
Caesar Augustus. The huge black foundation blocks were even older than
that. Lacroix was unimpressed. Stones would crumble to dust, untold
generations of mortals would pass away, and he would still he here, as
eternal as the moon.
	The ringing of horse's hooves on stone heralded Nicholas' eventual
reappearance. Lacroix turned around to see his son emerging from the
dark doorway of the stable leading a saddled horse. Lacroix looked,
and had to own that the horse was magnificent. It was a stallion,
sixteen hands high or more, in colour a bright blood bay - most
appropriate. The glossy coat rippled over prominent muscles and sturdy
bone, the neck was massive and cresty, and the head was heavy but
refined, with large eyes half-obscured by the luxuriant black
forelock. Pure Iberian, Lacroix guessed, watching the high movement as
the horse pawed the cobbles and snorted loudly. 
	Nicholas, wearing a wide grin of delight, patted the sleek neck and
then sprang into the saddle without bothering with the stirrup. "We're
going down for a run on the plain. Come watch."
	Lacroix followed as the stallion edged through the crowd around the
great gates, which were half-closed now in the dusk and would soon be
shut and barred for the night. Nicholas would have to do some fast
talking, or fast hypnotizing, in order to get the stallion back in its
stable before daybreak; but that was what he had undoubtedly done the
night before. By whatever method, he excelled at persuasion.
	The stallion moved cautiously down the steep road, with an occasional
toss of the head or prancing step as a manifestation of  its high
spirits. Nicholas restrained the animal with a sure hand. Like a black
shadow, Lacroix drifted down the hill in their wake.
	They reached the level plain, Nicholas loosed the reins and leaned
forward, and the stallion was off in a thundering gallop. Lacroix
watched them go. He could easily have flown at a pace that matched the
animal's, but he had to admit that there was a certain pleasure to be
had from watching as horse and rider streaked across the ground in the
light of the rising full moon. The horse was a splendid beast, and
Nicholas rode him magnificently. Lacroix knew perfectly well that he
himself, in his mortal days, had been a competent horseman, well able
to stay on and coerce his mounts into carrying him where he needed to
go, but he had never bothered to cultivate any great elegance in the
saddle, or attain any sympathy with the creatures he rode. He strongly
doubted that Nicholas had ever bothered either; in his case it all
just came naturally. He rode like a centaur, glorying in the
stallion's speed and strength as if it were his own.
	At length they returned to where Lacroix stood. The horse pawed the
ground and shifted restlessly, and Nicholas still wore an idiot grin
of delight. "Well, what do you think of him?" he said proudly,
slapping the stallion's damp neck.
	"Very nice," allowed Lacroix, refusing in principle to wax
enthusiastic over anything that had a mortal lifespan. "I suppose it
will do no harm to keep the beast so long as we stay here, but you
know you will have to give him up when we move on. Fortunately, easy
come, easy go, as they say."
	Nicholas frowned. "I wasn't seeking your permission, Lacroix."
	"What a good thing I wasn't giving it, then," Lacroix replied acidly.
At Nicholas' deepening scowl - why must he turn everything into a
confrontation? - he added, "You know perfectly well that it is folly
for creatures such as we to indulge in ostentatious displays of
wealth. It's all very well to keep an animal like that here in
Perugia, where everyone will assume that you stole it and probably
treat such larceny as a matter of course, but what about when we move
on? What if someone remembers the horse, and wonders what befell that
itinerant knight of yours? What if someone becomes curious about what
manner of man only rides his horse in the night?"
	Unexpectedly, Nicholas grinned. "Why, then they become supper."
	Did Lacroix not possess such rigid self-control, his mouth would have
fallen open. Was this really Nicholas, the vampire who was too often
afflicted with a conscience, and often at the most inopportune
moments, speaking? He began to think that never in all eternity would
he be able to predict what his maddeningly volatile, changeable son
would think, do, or say next.
	"Why are you always so cautious?" Nicholas was asking. "What's the
point of being a vampire if one has to be constantly watching over
one's shoulder? They're weaker than us."
	"Because if one doesn't keep a constant watch," said Lacroix drily,
"one may very soon see a point - a very sharp wooden point, bound
straight for one's heart. Although I have sometimes felt that a good
staking would improve you out of all recognition, Nicholas, I confess
I should be loathe to lose you in such a manner. You're no longer a
fledgling, I hope I need not instruct you in this point all over
again. Now, it would be a shame to waste this glorious moonlight
without a good hunt. Will you come with me?"
	Nicholas shook his head. "I'll ride a while longer. I'll see you at
dawn."
	"Very well." Lacroix vanished amidst a rush of displaced air. The
stallion shied violently and bolted for several strides before
Nicholas was able to regain control and calm him down.
	Still smiling, he turned the horse and rode southward, past Perugia
on its hilltop, towards a nearby farming hamlet which boasted a small
inn. The knight that had been the stallion's previous owner would
never have reached there on his journey to Rome, so no one would
remember seeing the blood bay horse. Travellers were generally better
prey than men and women settled in their own homes amongst their
families; there were fewer people left behind to ask questions.
Lacroix had taught him that years and years ago; although he sometimes
chose to disregard his master's words, he never forgot them.
	But sometimes, he just couldn't resist teasing.
	Hours later, replete, he turned the stallion back towards Perugia.
The gates were firmly shut, but the guards were quite accustomed to
individuals who needed to slip in and out of the town at unusual
hours, and accepted Nicholas' discreet payment of a silver coin
matter-of-factly. The grooms had long since gone to bed, so Nicholas
unsaddled and watered the stallion himself and left him munching hay
in his stall.
	As he put away the saddle he saw the saddlebags that had also
belonged to his last night's victim, lying on the floor nearby. He
hadn't yet had a chance to inspect them. There might be money in
there, or something he could sell that would pay for the stallion's
keep. He despised himself on the occasions that he helped himself to
his victims' purses. The dregs of his conscience, shaped by the
standards of his upbringing as the scion of nobility - albeit minor -
found it easier to accommodate being a blood-drinking killer than a
common thief, and he salved that conscience by frequently giving alms
to beggars. Even so, he chafed at the occasional feeling of being a
pauper, dependent on Lacroix for his  material wants. His master, in
keeping with his creed of remaining inconspicuous, had always
discouraged both Nicholas and Janette from accumulating much in the
way of funds by whatever means, although Nicholas suspected it was
more likely due to Lacroix's desire to control his offspring than for
reasons of circumspection. Certainly Lacroix himself never seemed to
lack for ready money. In fact, he heavily subsidized Janette's
wardrobe, indulging her in the purchase of luxurious silks and velvets
- a display of ostentatious wealth if Nicholas had ever seen one. And
yet Janette was rarely admonished for her extravagance. 
	Nicholas sighed at the thought of her. Her brilliant blue eyes, her
seductive walk and voice, her cool yet moist lips and skilful hands -
even though one of those same hands had laid his face open. He missed
her dreadfully. It had never occurred to him to resent the comparative
freedom she had been granted. She was different from him, that was
all.
	He leaned against the doorway of the harness room and saw her face in
his mind's eye, as it reflected all her many moods. Janette could
carry a grudge eternally, but she had never stayed angry with him for
long. They would return to Paris soon, and he would no doubt have to
get down on his knees and beg her forgiveness both for his prolonged
absence and his part in their original quarrel, and she would pretend
to mull it over for a time, but they both knew it was a foregone
conclusion that she would take him back - all the more quickly if he
could find some trinket with which to appease her. And after that
would come night after night of purest pleasure. Nicholas adored
Janette; she stirred him as no woman ever had when he had been mortal.
But he also felt that he had a shrewd idea of his own worth to her.
	And speaking of worth . . . Nicholas bent again to the saddlebags.
	He sensed the slightly rapid heartbeat before he even heard the
rustle in the straw of approaching footsteps or the soft voice that
called from the dimly lit stable, "Signore Nicholas?"
	He reared up, eyes golden, and moved soundlessly back to the doorway
of the harness room. The person groping their way through the stable
stopped with a gasp at his sudden appearance. "Signore Nicholas? Is
that you?"
	He stepped forward into the light cast by the single lantern, eyes
returned to mortal blue. "Beatrice. What are you doing here at this
hour?"
	Beatrice Scolazzi was the daughter of a Perugia tavern keeper. She
was plump and swarthy, with pocked skin but surprisingly good teeth.
She was also a born flirt, with all the inhibitions of a kitten, and
her one tenet in life seemed to be that one ought to enjoy it to the
fullest. Nicholas had encountered the same type of woman in his mortal
life, and it was one which met with his wholehearted approval. He had
patronized her father's tavern several times, as much for the sight of
her as for the wine she served, and knew perfectly well that she would
gladly jump into his bed at the slightest hint of an invitation.
	Her fine teeth flashed in a pretty smile. "Why, I came to see if it
was true."
	"If what was true?"
	"That you've just bought a fine new horse. Giulio at the gate said
you were out riding on the plain."
	"So," said Nicholas with mock severity, "it was just the horse you
wanted to see, and not me?"
	"Oh no, you mistake me, signore! I did hope I might find you here, so
I could ask you, since you didn't come to the tavern tonight . . ."
She was much closer by now, laughing up at him while pretending to
glance demurely through her lashes.
	"And I suppose you never thought it likely I would be here alone?" he
asked, still pretending harshness.
	"The idea never occurred to me, signore."
	He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around. "Well, there
you are. The bay horse in the last stall."
	"Oh, signore, he's lovely!" She spared a glance for the horse, then
turned back to him, pressing up against his chest. "Such a magnificent
beast."
	"I'm glad you think so."
	"Oh, I do," she assured him fervently. "I love nothing better than a
strong, handsome creature." She laced her hands behind his head,
drawing him down to kiss her.
	Her heartbeat thudded enticingly in his ears. But he had fed well
that night, and was able to shut out its siren call. He let her draw
him deeper into the kiss, although he could only think how pallid it
seemed, compared to what he really wanted from her.
	When she started to work busily at the lacings at the front of his
doublet, he pulled away from her and captured her hands firmly with
his own. "I thank you, Beatrice, but it's very, very late. Shouldn't
you be at home in your own bed?"
	"I would much rather be in yours, signore," she giggled.
	Not for long, you wouldn't, thought Nicholas. Aloud he said,
"Beatrice, you may not be tired, but I most certainly am, and I would
make indifferent company. Come. I'll see you to your home." He slung
the saddlebags over his shoulder - he would sort through them later,
but probably best not to leave them lying here - blew out the horn
lantern, and escorted her from the stable. He hurried her somewhat,
because dawn wasn't far off now, and he had no intention of being
chased indoors by the sun two mornings in a row.
	"Perhaps I will see you tonight, signore, when you have rested?" she
asked when they had arrived at the shuttered tavern.
	"Perhaps," he agreed.
	After she had gone inside, he took a quick glance around, then took
to the air.
	He found Lacroix waiting in the hall of their home, staring
meditatively into the fire which flickered in the massive stone
fireplace. The older vampire had shed his doublet, hose and cote-
hardie in favour of a long robe of plain but sumptuous black velvet
and a pair of soft leather slippers. Taking his ease in one of the
deep armchairs by the fire, he looked much like a typical mortal
householder of the wealthier variety about to retire for the night,
but for the fact that few mortals had such pale skin and eyes of such
a cold crystalline blue.
	Those eyes regarded him fairly amiably as he dumped the saddlebags
and pulled off his cloak and boots. "Good hunting tonight, my son?"
	"Good enough." Nicholas sank into the twin to Lacroix's chair with a
contented sigh, feeling his eyelids begin to grow very, very heavy.
Having lived as a vampire for less than two hundred years, he still
found it difficult to stay awake much past sunrise.
	"Time to be abed." It might have been an invitation, it might have
been a command. Nicholas chose to take it as a simple statement of
fact, and shook his head. "Not quite yet." He stirred the saddlebags
with one foot.
	Lacroix nodded and rose. "I shall see you at sunset, then."
	Nicholas nodded, eyes half closed. The contents of the saddlebags
scarcely seemed important now, compared with the prospect of fourteen
hours of oblivion. After all, when he had been a mortal knight, he
certainly hadn't carried much in the way of material possessions.
	Eventually, however, he leaned down, hefted the leather bags,
unfastened the buckles securing them and dumped the contents in a
quick slovenly heap on the floor. It was as he had expected. A knife,
a coarse linen shirt, a piece of cloth wrapped around some bread and
dried meat - he hastily pushed that aside - some scraps of leather,
and, more to the point, a slim pouch that clinked promisingly. He
upended it. A paltry few copper coins fell into his needy hand, along
with something small that flashed with gold in the firelight. Curious,
he picked the thing up to examine it more closely - and felt his
quiescent heart heave in his chest in shock.
	Glittering in his palm lay the gold and ruby candle that he had
dropped into the Rhône from the Pont St-Bénézet, nearly two hundred
years ago.
	He sat staring at the little gold trinket while his mind spun
frantically. Jehan, Etienne de Bruyère, and now this nameless knight
whose blood he had drunk and whose possessions he had taken for
himself - the list of lives ended unnaturally, of those who had come
into contact with the amulet, was still lengthening. Had there been
other deaths while it had been out of his possession? Or had whatever
evil influence the thing wielded waned without him? Was it possible it
had somehow sought him out, or been sent to him?
	The hand holding the amulet shook slightly as the thought came to him
that it might be following him, and he hastily set it down on top of
the other contents of the saddlebag.
	No, he told himself, with a sternness worthy of Lacroix. That was a
ridiculous and morbid notion. The amulet was what it was, a scrap of
metal and stone. A hint of a grim smile flickered on his lips as he
recalled telling himself the same thing just before he dropped the
amulet in the river.
	True, it was difficult to believe that it was simply due to
coincidence that he had just held in his hand something that had been
swallowed by the Rhône hundreds of miles away and nearly two centuries
ago; but it wasn't impossible. The river had been in spring flood; the
thing could have been washed ashore and left there as the floods
receded, then picked up and passed from traveller to traveller until
it reached the man he had killed one night ago.  It was farfetched,
but better to believe in random chance than that it had somehow been
guided in its course.
	He felt rather than heard a disturbance in the air in the room as
Lacroix suddenly reappeared beside him.
	"What is wrong, my son?" he asked quietly.
	"I thought you were asleep," said Nicholas, affecting surprise.
	"So I was. But your transports, Nicholas, whether of joy or anguish,
are sufficient to wake the dead. What has upset you so?"
	"Nothing," answered Nicholas automatically, then, when Lacroix's
unwavering gaze pinned him ruthlessly, added, "nothing that need
concern you."
	"Indeed," said Lacroix drily. "Well, my rest was disturbed, and that
is sufficient reason for me to be concerned." He looked down at the
little candle, glittering amongst the drab leather and linen, and
picked it up, frowning. "So small a thing to cause such distress.
Where did it come from?"
	Nicholas shrugged. "It was in the man's purse."
	He knew that answer came perilously close to insolence, a
transgression for which Lacroix was wont to chastise him severely. But
perhaps the elder vampire was still too charmed by his earlier good
spirits. He let the amulet fall back to the floor, saying merely,
"Then perhaps it should be returned to the purse and tossed into the
Tiber, or given to a beggar. You have no need of it."
	Nicholas nodded.
	"Now come to bed. I've no intention of leaving you to sit here
brooding for the rest of the day. But throw out that food first; it
stinks." Lacroix cast a baleful eye towards the offending morsels of
bread and meat.
	Thankful to have escaped with such a mild lecture, Nicholas rose to
obey.

	That night he and Lacroix again went their separate ways to hunt.
Nicholas turned his steps towards the tavern kept by Beatrice's
father. He had no intention of seeking out his prey there - one had to
be extremely discreet in an isolated town like this one - but he
enjoyed starting his night with the sight of a pretty face.
	Beatrice came bustling over as soon as she saw him entering the
smoky, low-ceilinged room. "Signore Nicholas, you honour us again with
your presence here. Red wine?"
	"Yes, thank you, Beatrice." Swiftly she brought him a cup of wine. It
was still young and rough-edged and almost unpalatable, but he could
hardly stay and drink nothing. He withdrew to a place in the corner
and sipped at the wine, watching Beatrice as she hurried to and fro
serving other patrons. Once or twice, as the room grew more crowded,
other men tried to sit down at his table, but a single harsh look was
sufficient to discourage them. Better for him to be solitary until
after he had fed, and he should be about that quickly, before anyone
in here began to seem too appetizing.
	Beatrice came over as he was making for the door. "Was everything to
your satisfaction, signore?" she asked with a provocative smile.
	"Very much so," he replied gallantly.
	"Are you off to ride your beautiful stallion again, then?" At his
nod, she said saucily, "So, I'm to lose you to a horse, am I?" Then
she added, sotto voce, "I'd hoped that you were feeling well rested
tonight, signore."
	He laughed at that, dropped a fleeting kiss on her thick dark hair,
and left the tavern.
	His smile swiftly faded as he made his way through the warren of
streets and alleys towards the stable. While it was gratifying to know
that Beatrice could be his for no more than the crook of a finger -
like many another girl in his mortal days - any dalliance with her
would be brief, and likely to have only one ending. And in any case
she was no Janette. And he had less pleasant matters on his mind. He
had the gold candle to think about. He had left it carefully wrapped
and concealed amongst his paltry possessions, but still it weighed on
his mind.
	He emerged onto the Corso, the widest street in Perugia. Instead of
turning toward the town gates, he went the other way, to where the
Corso ended at a wall with a sheer drop beyond that of a thousand
feet. He stood for a while thoughtfully regarding the rocks at the
bottom.
	It would be easy enough to toss the thing over. But would simply
throwing it away be enough to ensure that it would never find him
again? It would be better to melt it down and destroy it completely.
Perhaps he could find a goldsmith who would do that for him.
	Until then, if he guarded it carefully and tried to keep his own
appetites under a tight rein, perhaps there would be no more tragedies
associated with it, aside from the fate of his necessary prey. No, not
even that, he vowed suddenly. He had fed well for the last two nights,
he could do without until tomorrow night, when he would return to the
Scolazzi tavern and ask Beatrice about jewellers in the town. Even a
blacksmith would do; if any of the grooms were still at the stable, he
could find a name from them.
	Feeling better for his resolve, he turned back down the Corso to the
stable. It was deserted. He frowned in annoyance, then set about
grooming and saddling the blood bay stallion for their nightly ride.
	The horse was fresh from being in his stall all day, and it took all
Nicholas' patient and skilful handling to get them down the steep road
without mishap. Once at the bottom he let the horse run to its heart's
content, galloping flat out for a mile or more before slowing to a
more decorous pace. Perhaps, thought Nicholas wistfully, just this
once Lacroix would allow him to keep something when they moved on, or
at least when they left Perugia and returned to Paris. After all, at
least the horse was something practical, unlike the chests full of
costly gowns which Janette was wont to accumulate. Maybe, if he could
keep on Lacroix's good side . . . it would be difficult, though. He
and Lacroix so often disagreed, and the old Roman had a keen nose for
any attempts at currying favour.
	Two hours before dawn he was rubbing the horse down in its stall when
Lacroix arrived, with a complacent air which suggested a satisfying
hunt. Fortunately he didn't question Nicholas about his night's
activities, or lack thereof. Nicholas finished with the stallion and
they walked together to their home.
	Lacroix opened the massive door, took one step inside and stopped so
abruptly that only the reflexes of a vampire prevented Nicholas from
bumping into him. Lacroix tilted his head as if listening, his eyes
flaring gold. "Someone has been here," he hissed. "A mortal has been
in this house while we were gone. Can you not smell it?"
	Nicholas pushed past him into the centre of the hall, turning about
and scenting the air, his own eyes amber with rage at the thought of
their domain being invaded. At first he could smell nothing, but then,
turning in the direction of the stairs which led to the upper floors,
he caught the faintest trace of blood.
	He mounted the stairs slowly, still questing, and followed the scent
into a disused chamber at the back of the house. One of the heavy
shutters at the window was unbarred and slightly ajar. He crossed the
room in a rush and pushed open the shutter. Due to the rising ground
on which the house sat it wasn't much of a drop for an agile man.
There was blood on the rough stone of the window sill: not much,
probably the result of a scrape as the intruder departed.
	He touched a finger to one of the dark blotches on the stone. It had
thickened, but not crusted completely - they must not have missed the
man by more than a few minutes. He sniffed at the blood now on his
fingertip. His fangs had dropped without him even being aware.
	It smelled familiar, yet not known at all, like a stranger's face
seen several times in a crowd. He knew he had never tasted this
person's blood, and yet there was something about it that he
recognized. He closed his eyes, concentrating.
	"Well?" said Lacroix impatiently from the doorway. "Do you know who
it is?"
	Nicholas' eyes snapped open. "Beatrice."
	"Who?"
	"Her father keeps a tavern a few streets away. But this isn't
Beatrice's blood, it's someone close to her. A man."
	"Does this strumpet have a brother?"
	"I don't know," said Nicholas harshly. "But I'll find out tonight.'
	They searched the house carefully. Every occupied room had been
plundered; at least two, if not three, robbers had been there in the
night. Most of their gold was gone, although Lacroix had sequestered a
purse with a few coins in a crevice behind a loose stone, and the
thieves had overlooked that. Lacroix's black velvet robe had been
taken as well - although not ostentatious, it had been costly - along
with some silver candlestick holders and plate, which had been in the
house when they took it over. And the amulet was gone.
	Finally they stood in the centre of the great hall again, both their
eyes glowing a malevolent red as they contemplated the trespass.
	"There is nothing to be done until nightfall," said Lacroix
chillingly. "But then we will find them, no matter where they have
gone to ground. Do you know, Nicholas, I find myself hoping that there
are more of these miserable robbers than just one apiece. One can
never get enough of the taste of exquisite terror."

	As soon as it was dark, Nicholas went directly to the Scolazzi
tavern. Beatrice served him again, but not, he thought, with quite so
much alacrity as she had shown the night before. Too, her heart rate
increased even more than it usually did when she came close to him.
But she still smiled brightly at him and gave him the usual generous
view down the straining, low-necked bodice of her gown as she leaned
down to place the wine cup on his table.
	He caught her hand as she let go of the cup and pulled her down again
to whisper seductively in her ear, "Beatrice, I find that my horse is
lame and can't leave his stall. Yet I'm still of a mind to go riding
tonight."
	"Indeed, signore?"
	"I thought you might be able to suggest some other pleasant
activity."
	She giggled. "Well, signore, I can certainly think of one thing."
	"I'd hoped you'd say that. Meet me at the stable as soon as you can."
He nuzzled her hair, then released her. She scuttled off to serve her
other customers, but turned to give him a beaming smile. He raised his
wine cup in a sort of half-salute, then drained it and left the
tavern.
	That was all it would take, he knew. She would follow him to the
stable.
	And she did, slipping through the stable door a few minutes after
midnight. "Signore Nicholas?" she called warily into the darkness.
	Nicholas silently appeared at her back, wrapping both arms around her
from behind. She jumped and shrieked, but he muffled the sound by
clamping one hand full across her mouth. Her heart was racing. Lacroix
had been right, he thought; even the smell of terror was intoxicating,
let alone the taste.
	He kissed her shoulder and felt her relax slightly. "Don't worry," he
said caressingly. "I'll be gentle with you." The hand dropped from her
mouth to wrench her gown from her shoulders. The fabric tore with a
shockingly loud sound in the quiet stable.
	"Signore!" she protested, trying to pull free. "Please-  I'll take it
off, just let me - "
	"No." He brushed his lips down the exposed flesh with exquisite
slowness. She gasped and shuddered in both pleasure and fear. Then he
nipped her sharply, just to get a taste.
	Oh, the terror was there, all right. So was the guilt. So Beatrice
had known about the robbery. 
	He was briefly sorry for that; but he was still angrier for having
been deceived.
	"So it was your brother," he said in a voice that was deeper and
rougher than usual, "that broke into my home last night."
	"Signore!" She began to struggle in earnest. "I didn't know it was
your home they were planning to rob. Mother of God, I swear I didn't
know!"
	"But you told them," he said, continuing to savour the scent and the
feel of her flesh beneath his hands and lips, even though she was now
stiff with resistance. It was only a travesty of tenderness, and she
knew it.  "They knew which house to go to. They knew both myself and
my companion would be gone."
	"Everyone knows! Everyone knows the two of you only go out at night
and are home before the sun rises!"
	"Perhaps they only know," he suggested in the same deep voice,
"because you told them." He gathered her back into his arms in a
merciless embrace, feeling the fear build deliciously. "I hope that at
least they gave you something for your help," he remarked.
	"No, nothing! I wanted nothing for what I did! They promised to pay
me, but when they offered me some of the gold, I couldn't take it. Let
me go, I'll talk to them, make them give it all back . . . "
	"I think not," he hissed in her ear. "What I'm about to take from you
is worth much more than any gold."
	She gave a wail of terror, even as she continued to struggle with all
her strength. He put his hand over her mouth again, hauling her head
back hard, scraping her throat with his fangs, letting the
anticipation build just a little bit more; there was an art to it,
knowing just how far to go before the thundering heart was terrorized
into abrupt stillness. "Oh, Beatrice, I am going to enjoy you," he
breathed.
	At the last minute she managed to turn just enough to glimpse his
face, and he distinctly heard against his hand: "Holy Mary, what - "
	He struck.
	By the dark gods, it was glorious. His being was flooded with the
strength of her emotion even as his mouth was filled with her blood,
and he consumed it all greedily: the precious fluid, the essence of
her being, the beauty of her fear. He drank without pausing until
there was nothing left.
	He dropped her body to the straw and staggered momentarily, like a
drunken man. He could feel a thin trickle of blood on his chin and
swept it up with one finger, intent on not letting a single drop
escape.
	And then he staggered again, as something crashed into him from
behind and nearly knocked him flat. It was a man, a very young man,
who yelled at him, "Murdering fiend! You killed my sister!" He
brandished, with no very great skill, a wickedly long dagger. Skilled
or no, he would have succeeded in hacking a good chunk out of
Nicholas' face, had the vampire not easily dodged.
	So this was the robber himself. Obviously he had come late to defend
his sister, and had no idea what he was facing, or he would have
brought a crucifix instead of a knife. In another mood, Nicholas might
have been amused or even touched by such gallantry, like one tiny dog
snapping at an angry bull; but right now he was nothing but a beast
that only desired to gorge itself yet again. He growled, the sound
pervading the stable with chilling menace, so that all the horses
stirred and snorted fearfully. His attacker crossed himself, backing
away a step as anger began to give way to fear.
	"Stop that," hissed Nicholas, and lunged for him. The would-be
avenger had time for nothing more than a squeak of terror before the
vampire's teeth were sunk in his throat.
	The young man - boy - was not nearly as satisfying as his sister, his
fear not having had time to reach its peak.  Nevertheless, Nicholas
drained him completely before allowing his body to fall near
Beatrice's cooling corpse.
	He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Now he definitely felt
intoxicated - but on a surfeit of emotion, not alcohol. It was a
delightful sensation, and he savoured it.
	There was a rush of air at the door - it now stood wide, presumably
flung open by his latest victim - and then Lacroix stood beside him.
Nicholas regarded him with a drunken, crimson grin. "I was right,
Lacroix," he said, waving a hand at the two bodies on the floor. "I
would have saved one for you, but I just couldn't wait."
	He felt a sudden tingle of apprehension, wondering if his master was
about to chastise him for his greed. After all, Lacroix had wanted to
drink the blood of the thieves as much if not more than Nicholas had
done. But it seemed the elder vampire had something else in mind. He
surveyed Nicholas, bloody-faced, blood on his clothing, still red-eyed
and caught up in his lust, and smiled.
	"I know, my son. That is as it should be."
	He turned and thrust forward yet another mortal. This one was still
alive and unharmed, but the blankly staring eyes indicated that he was
completely under Lacroix's hypnotic influence. He was older and taller
than the youth on the floor, dressed in ragged clothing but with an
incongruously fine pair of boots on his feet. Nicholas growled low in
his throat. The boots were his own, stolen from his bedchamber.
	"It really was very indiscreet of him," commented Lacroix, following
Nicholas' gaze. "Would you care to extract the price of his crime for
both of us?"
	Nicholas didn't understand why Lacroix was offering him this
opportunity instead of seizing it for himself, but he didn't pause to
question. He pulled the man forward and, under his master's avid gaze,
turned him with deliberate slowness, pulled the man's collar aside and
let his fangs graze down the side of his neck.
	But the blood no longer called to him. He was too sated.
	He looked up at Lacroix, wary of his displeasure if he rejected the
gift, but Lacroix was still gazing at him benevolently.  "I'm sorry. I
can't, not now. It's too much." Then he grinned. "Why not take him
home and put him in the larder for tomorrow?"

	After disposing of Beatrice and her brother, they took the third
partner in crime back to the house, locking him securely in a dank
windowless chamber in the cellar, which might have been provided for
that very purpose. Before they left him in the dark, Lacroix took the
bulging purse from his belt. Upstairs in the hall, he spilled out the
contents on a table, revealing a dozen or more gold coins and the
candle charm.
	"As I said, very indiscreet," remarked Lacroix. "Did he think he
could start slinging all this money about without attracting
attention?" He caused the coins to disappear within his own purse.
"This is yours, I believe." He handed the little candle to Nicholas.
	Nicholas stared at it, not sure whether to be relieved or dismayed.
Even when he thought it had become someone else's burden, it still
dogged him. And now he had forsworn his oath and killed again, with
far more brutality than his norm.
	With Lacroix's curious eye on him, he schooled himself to appear
unmoved. He tucked the amulet away inside his shirt and went to clean
the blood from himself before climbing wearily into bed. 


	He knew there was something dreadfully wrong when Lacroix shook him
awake and he saw the thin line of daylight still showing around the
heavy shutters.
	"We have more unwelcome visitors," Lacroix told him.
	Nicholas propped himself up on one elbow and listened. Senses numbed
by sleep and daylight, he could only hear what seemed to be the
everyday sounds of the town going about its daily business. He groaned
and subsided back to the bed, attempting to bury his face in the
pillow.
	Lacroix shook him so hard that his head snapped on his shoulders like
a whip, and bade him listen again. Nicholas did so, more awake this
time. He became aware of an odd, malevolent quality to the noise
outside. It sounded like a crowd of people in the street, almost like
a mob.
	"What are they doing?" he asked.
	Lacroix shrugged. "I can only surmise that friends of our guests from
the previous night have decided to entertain us. Perhaps the chit from
the tavern told someone that she was going to meet you at the stable,
and they assume that you've had a hand in her disappearance. It hardly
matters. I think we've overstayed our welcome here."
	Nicholas couldn't believe that his master was about to flee from what
might be no more than a group of adolescent ruffians. But something
about the noise from the street fretted at his nerves. No one, even a
vampire, cares for the sound of the hunt at their heels. And it seemed
to be growing in volume, as if more people were joining in. He got out
of bed and dressed hastily.
	"At least the house is stone," he said, tugging on his boots. "They
won't be able to fire it."
	The words were barely out of his mouth when there was a loud crash
from below, as if something heavy had just been thrown against one of
the shutters.
	"Come," said Lacroix. "It should take nothing less than a battering
ram to break through, but we had better make sure that everything is
secure."
	Nicholas took one side of the house and Lacroix the other. Every
shutter was barred, and the massive doors were bolted in addition.
Lacroix had tied the bars in place on every window through which any
more potential thieves might have thought to gain entrance. They were
as well prepared for a siege as most castles.
	Standing in the great hall, the two vampires eyed the front door
warily. "It should hold," said Lacroix. "We may yet get through this
day without being invaded by that pack, but as soon as night comes we
must be away from here."
	Nicholas nodded, listening to the howling outside. The epithets being
shouted denounced them for a variety of sins ranging from horse
stealing to practising the black arts and made his fangs itch with a
desire to drain them all, but he quelled the rising anger. As long as
the crowd was hurling nothing more than words, they were safe. And
there would never be any proof of his part in the demise of Beatrice
and her brother.
	"It seems they take us for devil worshippers," said Lacroix
ironically. "They might just as well accuse us of being Christians. At
least they - "
	He broke off as a new noise drew their attention. It was a rhythmic
crashing against the front wall of the house, well away from the main
door, as if a ram was being used against the wall itself.
	"What - " began Nicholas, but Lacroix suddenly darted to the front
corner of the hall, tearing down the tapestry hanging there. "The
porta del mortuccio! Come, help me bar it!"
	Nicholas stared in blank incomprehension for an instant, then rushed
to Lacroix's aid. The rough plaster on the wall was already shivering
as whatever the crowd was using for a ram struck the door concealed
behind it. Nicholas had completely forgotten about the old porta del
mortuccio, the door of the dead, so-called because its sole use was to
permit passage of the coffins of any deceased occupants of the house.
According to Lacroix, there was an old superstition in the town,
predating even the Romans, that if death in the form of a coffin was
allowed to enter through the main door, it would enter there again;
hence the existence of these secondary doors in some of the larger
houses in the town, whose occupants could afford to indulge themselves
in such a belief. Evidently the current owner of this house didn't
hold with it, because the old door had been sealed over.
	They smashed through the plaster and the flimsy mud-brick wall behind
it and into a short passageway thick with dust and cobwebs. The old
door at the end was quivering in its frame at each blow from the
battering ram. Despite the two sturdy bars across it the wood had
already begun to splinter.
	"The table!" said Lacroix, and they hurriedly lifted the massive
table in the hall and shoved it into place against the door. They
brought the chairs as well, and the chest and large cupboard, which
were all the moveable furnishings that the room boasted. As a
temporary barricade it was well enough, but Nicholas knew it wouldn't
hold off the mob for more than a few minutes.
	They were about to ransack the upper rooms for more heavy items when
the door gave a rending crack and the tip of the makeshift battering
ram, a heavy wagon tongue padded with leather, protruded into the
small passageway. The shouting from outside, now triumphant, suddenly
doubled in volume. Axes appeared in the opening as men began to hack
at what was left of the door.
	Nicholas, appalled by the sight of the bright noon sunlight pouring
through the gaping hole, drew back into the hall. Lacroix, snarling,
braved the light to pick up the first man to make it through the gap
and fling him violently back into his fellows. There was a scream and
the smell of spilled blood as the man's body interrupted the downward
stroke of someone's axe, followed by a momentary pause in the
hostilities.
	But the mob was not about to tamely subside. Several more, swords and
knives drawn, rushed the barricade. Lacroix shattered two of the
weapons across his knee, but as he moved the sunlight, reflecting off
the metal, caught him full in the eyes. He dropped the blades with a
roar of pain.
	Two of the invaders, one still armed, got past him into the hall,
only to be confronted by a red-eyed, snarling Nicholas, who picked
them both up and dashed their heads together with a loud crunch. A
third was still wielding a wickedly long dagger, which he plunged
directly into Lacroix's stomach. Lacroix was driven a step further
into the sunlight.
	He managed to twist and look directly into the jeering face of his
attacker. The man's triumphant expression turned to one of pasty fear
as he suddenly stared at a demon's visage, a demon which should be
dying in agony, but which only straightened with a low growling sound
that reverberated in the passageway and reached for his would-be
assassin with lightning speed. The man's scream was cut off as
Lacroix, now safely out of the light, sank his fangs into his throat.
	There seemed to be a new reluctance amongst the mob to be in the
vanguard now. Lacroix swiftly drained his victim and dropped him to
the floor, but the look on his face indicated that the meal hadn't
appeased him in the least.
	"Come, mon fils," he said shortly. "They'll be back soon, and I would
guess the next thing they'll try is fire. The walls won't burn, but
enough other things will to make it extremely uncomfortable. It's time
we were off."
	Nicholas looked at him as if he thought him suddenly deranged. "Off
to where?"
	"Did you never check for escape routes? Really, Nicholas, I had
thought you a better tactician than that. Let this be a lesson to you,
then." Lacroix led the way down the narrow stairs and into the dark
chill of the cellar. "I'd hoped not to have to use this, but it seems
we have little choice."
	Nicholas stopped. "What about our second thief?" The door to the cell
in which they had locked the man was a few feet away.
	Lacroix nodded. "Good thinking." He unbolted the door, finding the
man with ease even in the blackness. The wretch had awoken from
Lacroix's spell at some point and was cowering in the corner of his
tiny prison, whimpering in fear. Lacroix seized him, twisted his head
aside and unceremoniously drained him.
	"What are you doing?" shouted Nicholas.
	Lacroix swallowed the last few mouthfuls before letting the empty
corpse fall to the dirt floor. "Oh, I do apologize, Nicholas," he said
silkily. "That one was meant to be yours, wasn't it?"
	"I didn't intend for you to kill him," Nicholas replied angrily. "I
only meant that we couldn't leave him trapped here if they fire the
house."
	"My, such a change of sentiments," mocked Lacroix. "Quite the
weathervane you are. As I recall, it was your idea to put the man here
in the first place, for your later enjoyment. And may I also remind
you that he did break into our home."
	"Where is this escape route of yours?" snapped Nicholas. "If we're
going, we'd better go now." There was never any point in arguing such
things with his master. It was too late now, anyway.
	Lacroix's nostrils flared as he caught the first taint of smoke and
heard renewed shouting from upstairs. "I do believe you're right. Come
along."
	He led the way through a cavernous wine cellar, whose empty racks
were festooned with cobwebs. Against the far wall sat a massive wooden
chest, thick with dust and equally festooned. Lacroix heaved the chest
aside and pulled up a trap door which lay beneath it, vanishing into
the lightless space below. Nicholas followed, pulling the trap closed
behind him.
	They were in what turned out to be a tunnel. It had apparently been
hewn from solid rock, and its makers had obviously not built it any
wider or higher than was absolutely necessary to allow the passage of
a single man. Nicholas felt absurdly like an earthworm as he made his
way as quickly as possible after Lacroix, his shoulders scraping the
walls, his head striking the ceiling if he raised himself more than a
few inches from his stomach. And all the time he was uneasily aware of
the tons of living rock pressing down on top of them. He desperately
wished there was enough room to take flight, but knew that he would
only smash into the walls of the tunnel if he tried. He suddenly
wondered if Lacroix, with twelve hundred years' more experience at
flying than he, might be able to navigate the passage and was only
holding back on his account.
	The thought made him crawl even faster until he actually bumped into
the soles of Lacroix's boots. "Really, Nicholas, do be more careful,"
chided the elder vampire.
	"Sorry," muttered Nicholas.
	But it seemed that they had at long last reached the end of the
tunnel. Lacroix was pressing upward on the ceiling, and another trap
door creaked open, letting in what seemed like blinding light and a
draught of fresh air. Nicholas reflexively gasped for breath.
	Something was wrong. He knew it even before he had followed Lacroix
into the room above, where the feeling of dread suddenly grew so
intense that he nearly bolted back into the tunnel. He spun around,
taking in the small stone-flagged room with its vaulted ceiling, the
tablets on the walls inscribed with names and dates, the whole dimly
lit by a cresset lamp at one end, suspended above -  
	- an altar, with a wooden cross mounted on the wall behind.
	They were in the crypt of a church.
	He clamped down on his panic, trying to turn it into anger instead.
"Lacroix, why did you bring us here?" he demanded. "A church, of all
places! Wouldn't you say this is rather like jumping from the frying
pan into the fire?"
	"I would say it's a vast improvement over being burned to a cinder by
the mob invading our house, which is certainly what would have
happened had we stayed," Lacroix replied coolly. "Calm down, Nicholas,
it will only be for a few hours."
	"But I - " He broke off at the sound of a voice in the church above,
coming clearly down through the stairway in one corner. "In nomine
Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen," it intoned.
	Nicholas stared at Lacroix in horror. "They're celebrating Mass!"
	"So it would seem. I must say, it's highly inconsiderate of these
Christians to hold their performances at an hour when creatures of
other persuasions simply want to go to sleep. And such an execrable
accent - the man must have learned his Latin among the Huns."
	Nicholas reeled towards the trap door. "I can't stay here. I'm going
back."
	Lacroix grabbed him. "Nicholas, you can't! It will be an inferno back
there. Everything but the walls will burn. You must stay here." But
Nicholas was struggling mindlessly, no longer capable of listening.
Lacroix backhanded him hard, twice, across the face, and finally got
his attention.
	"Calm yourself," he said, as soothingly as he could. "You are strong
enough to withstand this. It will pass in a short time. As soon as
darkness comes, we'll be free of this place."
	Nicholas nodded. Lacroix released him and he walked, almost
tottering, to one of the squat pillars from which the roof vaulting
sprang, and slumped to the ground with the rough stone between himself
and the altar. Lacroix came and sat beside him. Nicholas' brow was
covered in bloody sweat and he was trembling slightly, although he was
making a creditable effort to keep his fear under control. Lacroix put
a comforting hand on his shoulder and Nicholas seized it like a
lifeline thrown to a drowning man. In spite of his confident words,
the elder vampire knew that it was still a long time until sunset. By
then, Nicholas' strength might be sapped entirely by the aura of the
crucifix - Lacroix could feel the power of its inimical stare even
through the sturdy pillar - and the holy things in the church above.
It was worse for Nicholas than for himself, he knew; not only was his
son a comparative fledgling, but all these nonsensical trappings of
religion had been meaningful and comforting for him once, so that now
he was struggling with the double burden of guilt and debilitation.
Not that Lacroix was immune from the effect himself. It was only by
reflecting crossly on the barbaric Latin of the priest as the man
droned his way through the interminable ritual that he was able to
maintain some form of detachment.
	Nicholas stayed quivering but silent through the prayers and chants,
through invocations to a long list of angels, saints and apostles,
through an apparently infinite variety of pleas for mercy; then
suddenly he sat straight. Under Lacroix's horrified gaze, he lunged to
his feet and began to mumble, along with the priest in the church
above: "Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentum . . ."
	"Nicholas!"
	"Et in unum Dominum Jesum Christum, Filium Dei unigenitum . . ."
	"Nicholas!"
	Nicholas' eyes were tightly closed, but bloody tears leaked from
between the lids as he continued in his mindless incantation which
must surely only be making his suffering worse. Lacroix shook him and
slapped him in an effort to get his attention, to no avail. Finally he
put both arms around him and drew him back down to rest on the floor,
holding him protectively. Nicholas clung to him with a surprising
fierceness. But it was not until the credo came to a final "Amen" that
he stopped mouthing the well-remembered phrases.
	They remained that way through the rest of the liturgy. Only once
more did Nicholas speak, whispering part of the Pater Noster. But "Sed
libera nos a malo" - deliver us from evil - caused him to fall silent
again with a sound that might have been a choke or might have been a
whimper. Lacroix embraced him even more tightly and brushed his lips
against Nicholas' hair. "Soon, mon petit, it will be over soon."
	And then, with a Requiescant in pace -- rest in peace, a Mass for the
dead, then? How appropriate -  and a last Deo gratias, it finally was.
There was nothing but the sounds of the unseen worshippers filing out
of the church.
	They waited several hours more, and then Lacroix knew that at last it
was safe to leave.
	He couldn't rouse Nicholas. The younger vampire was completely
insensible, and nothing Lacroix could do restored him to any form of
consciousness. Lacroix tried to lift him in his arms, but found that
the church had leached away too much of his own strength. The best he
could do was put his arms around Nicholas' chest and half-support,
half-drag him to the narrow stairs in the corner of the crypt. They
led, naturally, to the church itself. In order to gain their freedom,
there would be a final gauntlet to run.
	Lacroix had so little strength left after hauling Nicholas up the
stairs that he dropped to the floor at the top. But he couldn't rest
here. If he did, under the malignant gaze of Christ on a gilded
crucifix behind the high altar and the statue of a Madonna whose
expression was simpering and yet somehow baleful, he might never get
up again, and he and Nicholas would be left to the mercies of the
priest.
	He got to his knees and reached out for the collar of Nicholas's
shirt. Now he could do no more than crawl. Well, if he had to leave
this place on his knees, then so be it. But the power of the holy
things still wouldn't win. He would not surrender, and he would not
give up Nicholas to them. He crawled down the aisle, tugging Nicholas
after him. His hands and knees were raw by the time he reached the
door at the far end, but there was a victorious snarl on his face as
he pushed it open and made his way out into the darkness.

	"You will have to sell it," said Lacroix in an iron voice.
	"I can't," whispered Nicholas.
	"You must. It's the only thing of value we possess. You may live like
a savage if you choose, but I will not." Lacroix gestured around at
the rough cave that had been their shelter since escaping from
Perugia. "It's time to return to Paris. I insist on a modicum of
comfort during the journey. And Janette may not be inclined to receive
you with open arms if you arrive looking as if you had slept in a
haystack every day for the last month. Now I am going to find some
supper, and I suggest you find a way to convert that trinket into
something more useful." Then he was gone.
	He was right, of course. Nicholas looked ruefully at the amulet in
his hand. He had never taken it out of his pocket after finding it in
the thief's purse, and it had been the only thing of value, aside from
the clothes on their backs, that they had managed to bring with them
when they escaped from the house. While it would be perfectly possible
to make their way back to Paris with no money whatsoever, having some
gold definitely made travelling easier. And Lacroix, like Nicholas,
preferred not to stoop to the level of a common thief.
	The damned amulet. Now three more deaths had occurred because of it -
Beatrice, her brother, and his accomplice. Not to mention the ones
that had died - he wasn't sure how many - in the attack on the house,
which had most likely been brought about by someone discovering the
deaths of the two Scolazzis, and linking them to Nicholas and Lacroix.
And all this after he had sworn to refrain from killing while the
candle was in his possession.
	He had planned on melting the thing down and destroying it, but it
appeared that he would not be allowed that luxury now. But in truth,
what did it matter? He just wanted to be rid of it. If he could gain
something in the process, so much the better. And besides, he was
tired, both in  body and mind, and wanted nothing more than to return
to Paris and Janette as quickly as possible.
	There was a town not far off. It wasn't as large as Perugia, but it
boasted several taverns, in one of which Nicholas found a goldsmith
who examined the amulet, agreed that the workmanship was superior, and
offered him a reasonable price for it. Nicholas watched the golden
candle disappear into the other man's purse with a sense of
unmitigated relief.
	Clutching the goldsmith's coins in his hand, he fled into the night
air.

	It had all happened six hundred years ago, but the emotions - his
panic in the church and shame at being unable to control it, joy in
the thundering gallop of the stallion across the moonlit Umbrian
plain, the fierce, orgasmic pleasure in the taking and draining of the
traitorous Beatrice - burned as brightly as if it had been yesterday,
causing him to sleep restlessly and to awake with a sheen of
bloodsweat on his forehead.
	He felt dull-witted and generally out of sorts, and spent longer than
usual in the shower, making sure that all physical signs left by the
vivid memories were washed away. By the time he was dressed and had
downed two glasses of steer's blood, he was feeling almost normal
again.
	As he was settling his shoulder holster in place, he suddenly
experienced a faint, brief tingling sensation in his mind. He froze in
place, a slight snarl on his lips, questing with all his senses.
Another vampire was somewhere nearby.
	There was nobody else in the loft. In the blink of a mortal eye he
was on the rooftop, but that too was deserted. The other, whoever it
was - and it was no one he recognized - was gone.
	After a moment he returned to the loft, frowning. He didn't care for
the idea of being watched by another vampire. It might be related
somehow to the amulet - although no other member of the community had
ever shown any interest in it - or it might have something to do with
Lacroix's death. Ever since he had run his creator through with that
improvised stake, he had been half-expecting a visit from the
Enforcers. Then again, that tribe had never been known for their
subtlety; if they wanted to see him, they would simply walk in -
probably breaking down the door in the process - rather than hanging
around in the shadows.
	Whatever was going on, he didn't like it. When he left for work, he
tucked the amulet into his pocket, just in case.
	The drive to the station with the Caddy's top down, immersed in all
the sounds and smells of a summer night in the city, invigorated him.
He walked into the precinct with his usual confident step, finally
feeling ready for whatever the night might bring him. 
	He was a few minutes early for change of shift, and the hallway in
from the parking lot was deserted. One of the fluorescent tubes
overhead was burned out, leaving it half in darkness. Halfway along,
he stopped dead. There it was again - the other vampire.
	"Who's there?" he called softly.
	A shadow moved on the wall, so briefly that if he hadn't known better
he might have thought it was only his imagination, and there was a
soft rush of air as the stranger took flight. Snarling, Nick prepared
to follow, when two of the detectives from the evening shift came
around the corner from the locker room.
	"Hey, Nick! Something wrong?" asked one of them.
	"I just wish they'd fix the lights around here, that's all," he
prevaricated.
	"Yeah, well, don't hold your breath. There's probably only enough
money in the budget to replace one light bulb a year in this place."
The two men passed him, heading for the outside door. "Have a good
night."
	"Thanks. You too," replied Nick, continuing on in the direction of
the bullpen. There was no point in trying to pursue the other vampire
now. But as soon as he could he would pay a visit to the Raven and see
if Janette knew if anyone was looking for him.
	There was a fax waiting on his desk from Natalie with the results of
the Middleton autopsy. There wasn't much to add to what she had
already deduced from her initial examination. Lesley Middleton had
died from a single shot in the back, fired at close range from a .22
calibre gun, and she had been killed approximately twenty hours before
her body had been found, which made TOD about two AM of the same day.
There were no signs of sexual assault, and the dirt on her shoes
didn't match the soil samples taken from the area. Which meant, as
Nick had already surmised, that she had most likely been killed
elsewhere, then dumped in the ravine by someone who mistakenly figured
that no one else ever came that way.
	So what could a seventeen-year-old runaway have known, or seen, that
had gotten her killed?
	By the time Schanke checked in, complaining loudly about the dearth
of cabs in the city while attempting to cram half of a Polish sausage
on a bun into his mouth, he was beginning to think he might have part
of the answer.
	He hung up the phone, pushed off from the edge of the desk, and
grabbed his partner's arm, spinning Schanke back in the direction of
the door. "Nice of you to drop in, Schank. Come on, we've got places
to go and people to see."
	"What?" demanded Schanke around a mouthful of sausage. Nick plucked
the rest of the foul-smelling thing from his fingers and tossed it in
a nearby garbage can, ignoring Schanke's yelp of protest. "Hey! That
was my supper!"
	"Eat on your break," Nick told him unsympathetically. "You're not
indulging your taste in fine dining in the Caddy. I'd say we could
take your car instead, but we probably wouldn't get out of the parking
lot.'
	"You're a cruel man, Nick," muttered Schanke, but he was talking to
his partner's back. He had to hurry to catch up.
	"So where are we going in such a big rush?" he asked as the Caddy
pulled out of the parking lot.
	"To see the girlfriend of one of Toronto's fine upstanding drug
dealers."
	"And this has to do with . . .?"
	Nick looked at him in surprise. "The Middleton case, of course."
	"Oh. Of course," echoed Schanke. "That explains everything."
	"You know, Schank, you're going to have to get used to sleeping
during the day if you want to work night shift. You sound pretty out
of it."
	"Sleep? Are you kidding? With the mother in law from hell staying in
my house? She wanted to go out looking at minivans this afternoon. I
swear, if I hear another word about minivans from either her or Myra I
just may have to start divorce proceedings. But this sleeping during
the day, I gotta admit it's hard. It's just not natural. How do you
cope, anyhow? Earplugs? Blackout curtains?"
	"It's never been a problem," said Nick, keeping his eyes on the road.
	"Huh. You're lucky. So tell me about this lead in the Middleton
case. God knows we need one."
	"Some girl came into the station this afternoon claiming that her ex-
boyfriend is trying to kill her. She was afraid to give his name
because she says he's a big-time drug dealer, a really nasty piece of
work, but apparently she thinks he may have hired someone to kill her.
But because she refused to tell anyone who he is, we couldn't do much
for her."
	"How does she think we're going to protect her when she won't tell us
what to look out for? We're not hired bodyguards," said Schanke,
looking longingly at a hot dog stand almost within arm's reach from
where the Caddy was stopped at a red light. Nick tromped on the gas
pedal as soon as the light changed, and Schanke sat back with a
martyred expression on his face. "So what does this have to do with
our case?"
	"According to the people who talked to her this afternoon, she's
almost a dead ringer for Lesley Middleton."
	"You're thinking a case of mistaken identity?"
	"Could be. I know it seems farfetched, but it's worth checking out.
It doesn't look like the canvass teams around the ravine have turned
up anything yet. I just called the girl now, and she's willing to talk
to us."
	He parked the Caddy on Gerrard half a block east of Yonge and they
walked around the corner to a nearby pizza place. Schanke promptly
headed for the order counter, while Nick headed further into the
seating area.
	One look at the girl sitting alone at a table in the back corner,
fingers steadily tearing an empty styrofoam coffee cup into pieces,
and the idea of their murder victim being killed by someone who had
mistaken her for someone else suddenly seemed much more plausible. The
girl waiting for them was almost a dead ringer for Lesley Middleton,
down to the red streaks in her too-black hair.

	"And you have no idea who your boyfriend was talking to?" asked
Schanke.
	"Ex-boyfriend," she corrected him. She was still almost as jumpy as a
wild deer, either because she thought she was making a fool of
herself, or through fear of retribution from someone for talking to
the cops. About the only concrete fact they'd managed to get out of
her so far was her name, Joanna Kasperczak. "The only thing I heard
for sure was 'She's still alive'. Then he swore at whoever it was and
hung up. I don't know for sure that he was talking about me, but I
could tell he was surprised to see me. He looked at me like he'd just
seen a ghost." Nick had bought her a second cup of coffee and, having
drained it like a hard-core caffeine junkie, she was now shredding
that one as well, staring at it as if it was her one link to reality.
	"And you're sure someone's been following you for a few days?" he
asked.
	"Uh huh. I never got a good look at him - I mean, I probably couldn't
pick the guy out of a lineup or anything." She finally looked up from
the mutilated coffee cup. "This sounds really stupid."
	"Actually, it's making a lot of sense," said Nick. He pulled a 4x6 of
Lesley Middleton, a copy of the picture that had been on her missing
persons report, from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and
showed it to Joanna. "Have you ever seen this girl before?"
	She looked at the photo. "Oh yeah, that's my twin. I mean, we're not
related or anything, but I've seen her around here a few times. All my
friends called her that. I think she just lives on the street."
	"Not any more, she doesn't," said Nick quietly. "Her body was found
two nights ago in a ravine. She'd been shot in the back."
	"Shot?" echoed Joanna in puzzlement. Then, as Nick's meaning sank in,
the colour rushed out of her face. The half-demolished cup was knocked
to the floor. "Oh, my God," she said, horrified. "Do you think she was
killed because of me? Because someone thought she was me?"
	"It's a possibility," Nick told her. "She wasn't raped, she wasn't
robbed. It was done at close range, so it was deliberate, not some
random drive-by shooting."
	"Oh, my God," repeated Joanna. She wrapped her arms around herself.
"Oh God, I can't believe it. It's so stupid! I wouldn't have told
anyone! I don't care what he did - I mean, I did care, but it's not
such a big deal, it's not worth murdering anyone for. I'd never have
gone to you guys except that I was scared, and he was the one who made
me scared! I'd never have gone just to tell."
	"Tell what, Joanna?" asked Schanke. "What did he do?"
	"He sold drugs. Crack, XTC, just about anything. To anyone. But he's
not really bad. I mean, he doesn't get into fights with people. He
doesn't rob banks or anything."
	That was a leap of illogic that neither Nick nor Schanke could
fathom. Nick said, "Maybe he was just angry that you left him."
	Joanna ducked her head. "I don't think he ever cared that much," she
muttered.
	Schanke cleared his throat. "Are you staying on your own, Joanna?"
	"I moved in with a girlfriend three days ago."
	"I think maybe you'd better come with us," suggested Nick. "We'll
find you someplace safer, at least until after we've had a talk with
your boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Can you tell us where we could find him?
And it would be useful if we had a name."
	"I can tell you where to look," she said. "I mean, he lives in
Scarborough, in one of those high rises near Markham and Eglinton. But
he can be pretty hard to find sometimes."

	It took them the rest of the night, but at the third packed, smoky
after hours club they tried, they finally succeeded in tracking down
Martin Tobin. Their quarry wasn't too co-operative, and during the
ride back downtown in the Caddy volubly expressed his opinions on the
subject of cops in general and Nick and Schanke in particular, as well
as their parents and wives. His vocabulary seemed to include few words
longer than four letters. Nick tuned him out, while at the same time
wondering just how tough Tobin really was behind that belligerent
facade. The pounding of the man's heart, along with his rapid
breathing, indicated that he was fairly frightened. For some reason he
struck Nick as nothing more than a drug lord wannabe, and possibly one
who was a few bricks short of a load as well. He doubted Tobin was
involved in anything serious enough to warrant killing someone to
cover his tracks, but maybe he might think of the ability to casually
say that he had offed his old girlfriend as perverted proof of his
being bad to the bone, a kind of status symbol in the shady world in
which he wanted to be a major player.
	And that would make a vampire's killing to survive seem almost
socially acceptable in comparison.
	In any case, when they reached the station it was just in time to
hand Tobin over to the incoming day shift to interview.
	He hadn't had a chance to contact Janette, and now it was far too
late to drop in at the Raven without being forced to spend the rest of
the day there. The case of the mysterious vampire stalker would just
have to be put on hold until the evening.
	There was a message from Natalie asking him to call her at work. The
sun would be up in another fifteen minutes or so. He made the call
from his cell phone as he pushed the Caddy well over the city speed
limit on the way home.
	"Hi," she said cheerfully. "I assume my fax on the Middleton autopsy
arrived safely."
	"It did, thanks."
	"Are you on your way home? You sound like you're on your cell phone."
	"Yes, and yes," answered Nick, running his second red light in six
blocks.
	"Would you mind if I came over to your place tonight to draw some
more blood samples? I've used up all of the last one and I want to try
some hormone assays."
	Nick grinned to himself. "I think my hormones are pretty scrambled by
human standards, but you're welcome to the blood. When will I see
you?"
	"Well, I don't want to show up on your doorstep before you've had
time for your morning coffee. Say around ten o'clock?"
	"That's fine. See you then." He put the cell phone away and ran his
third red light.

	The door to the Caddy's garage creaked open just as the first
daylight reached the water tank on the roof of the building. Nick took
the elevator up, half expecting to find that he had a visitor, but the
loft was empty. There was no sign that anyone had gotten in, or tried
to get in, during the night.
	He closed the shutters, put the amulet away in the small box where he
kept his keys and watch - feeling a sense of relief as the lid closed
and he didn't have to look at it any longer - and drank down a glass
of cow's blood. Then, knowing Natalie was bound to ask how he was
faring with her latest concoction, he reluctantly pulled the plastic
container from the back of the fridge and poured a scant thimbleful
into a fresh glass. Holding it up to the overhead kitchen light, he
scrutinized it carefully, as if it were evidence at a crime scene. It
was a glistening, oleaginous fluid, faintly pink in colour, and it
looked completely revolting. Closing his eyes and taking a deep
breath, he tossed it down his throat.
	As soon as the stuff hit his stomach, it nearly came right back up
again. He clung to the edge of the sink until the need to vomit had
passed, then poured what was left in  the container down the sink,
chasing it away thoroughly with plenty of water. At least he could now
say in all honesty that he'd tried it.
	He lit the candles atop the piano and sat down to play. It was good
to have the instrument out of storage again. As the pensive notes of a
Chopin nocturne rippled out and the candlelight flickered on the brick
walls, an image began to form in his mind of candlelight on walls that
were smooth and painted white instead, a different piano, a different
player.

	The note sounded horribly flat; the player stumbled, continued gamely
on, then with a final, mortal conflict between left and right hands,
trailed off in confusion.
	"The F should have been sharp, Miss Crawford," corrected Nicholas as
patiently as he could, although the young woman's repeated mangling of
what was a fairly simple piece ground at his nerves. "Remember the key
change. And don't rush; the piece is meant to be played lento, slowly.
It's not a cavalry charge. Try it again, from the beginning."
	"Yes, Mr. Braithwaite," said the girl with a strident giggle that was
as grating as her perpetual forgetting of the existence of the
instrument's black keys. Nicholas sometimes wondered if he should
simply transpose every piece of music she owned into the key of C
major, and strike out anything smaller than a quarter note while he
was at it. It would be a great deal of work, and the girl would never
learn to play properly; but then, she was obviously never going to
learn anyway, and it might be worth it for any increase in harmony.
	Blithely disregarding his admonishments once again, Miss Crawford
attacked the delicate nocturne with an air reminiscent of a man
beating his way through a jungle with a machete. Nicholas schooled
himself not to wince; these piano lessons had been going on for nearly
three months now, and he was actually becoming rather proficient at
maintaining an impassive face as his pupil butchered piece after piece
of music.
	Miss Crawford finally brought the piece to a crashing close and
announced, "Miss Forrester is learning to play the harp. We thought we
would practise a duet together for her mother's next party."
	Nicholas repressed a shudder at the idea of this girl playing in
public, and said, hoping he could nip this fiasco in the bud, "Harp
and piano are a rather difficult combination. Unless both players are
extremely proficient, it's been my experience that the piano will
drown out the more delicate instrument. I know of very little music
for the two of them together."
	"Then perhaps," said Miss Crawford, undismayed, "you could compose
something for us - something entirely new." She wriggled in a most
peculiar manner on the piano stool in what Nicholas supposed was an
attempt to appear coquettish, and batted her eyelashes at him.
	"I . . . will give it some thought," he temporized. "In the meantime,
you must work some more on this nocturne, and on the sonatina as well.
Just remember - lento, lento. Try to feel the spirit of the music."
	"I'll practise every day," she promised.
	The housekeeper, who had been performing the office of chaperone,
rose from her seat in the corner and fetched him his coat and hat,
then ushered him out the door and into the damp March evening.
	Strolling down the Paragon, across Lansdowne Road and into George
Street - his usual route back to his own lodgings, avoiding as much as
possible the sight of the Abbey - Nicholas smiled wryly as he thought
of Miss Crawford, her piano lessons, and the strange circumstances
which kept him here in Bath.
	It had been over thirty years since he and Lacroix had gone to visit
Francesca du Montaigne at her home in Avignon. Nicholas had been the
cause of her death there, and had fled from the chateau the night she
died, knowing that Lacroix was likely to be highly displeased with his
actions, and that there would be small use in trying to convince his
master of the wickedness of Francesca's crimes. In the years that
followed he had managed, for the most part, to stay out of Lacroix's
reach. Keeping his own company for a change, answerable to no one, had
been blessedly peaceful; but to his surprise, the interlude had also
been somewhat lonely. And, of course, he missed Janette.
	He had travelled constantly, trying to keep ahead of Lacroix. That
meant that it was difficult to get at his money, which was being
faithfully looked after by Feliks Twist, and entailed a fair amount of
rough living. He had come to London a year ago, but an uneasy feeling
one night that Lacroix wasn't far off caused him to abandon his
Whitechapel lodgings and move to Bath, for no more reason than that it
was a large enough town for a cautious, discreet vampire to conceal
himself, but hopefully too small to be of interest to Lacroix.
	He rather liked Bath, with its streets and crescents lined with
dignified buildings made of soft golden stone, and its air of self-
important bustle. It wasn't a vast, teeming, exciting city like London
or Paris; nor did it want to be. The inhabitants had little interest
in such hurly-burly, except at a safe distance; they were absorbed by
their own concerns, their own concerts, balls, and parties, and many
of them by their regimen of bathing in the famous hot pools, or at
least drinking the prescribed number of glasses of water per day. He
had seen some genuine invalids, but by and large people seemed to come
here in search of fashionable society and genteel amusement.
	At a concert at the Assembly Rooms one evening, following the
performance of a well-known pianist, he heard a strident female voice
at his elbow say, in adoring tones, "Oh, how I wish I could play like
that!"
	He half-turned towards the speaker, although her remark had obviously
been directed not at him but at her male companion, seated on her
other side, and who looked to be three quarters asleep. He beheld a
young woman of perhaps eighteen or nineteen, with a freckled
complexion, thin reddish hair which she had obviously attempted to
curl, and unfortunately large, protuberant teeth.
	Her only piece of jewellery, suspended from a thin chain around her
throat, was a little golden candle with a ruby flame.
	He must have made some sound, because the girl turned to find him
staring at her in shock. "Are you quite well, sir?" she asked, rather
uneasily.
	Nicholas recovered himself sufficiently to apologize, but after that
the girl seemed to feel that witnessing his momentary indisposition
was as good as being introduced, and chattered to him until the music
began again.
	By the end of the evening he had learned - or had had poured into his
ear - that her name was Florence Crawford and her somnolent companion
was her brother James. He was a student at Oxford, a fact which
Florence seemed to be extremely proud of, although if the young man's
insipid manner and round dough-like face were anything to go by
Nicholas judged that higher scholarship was completely wasted on him.
Their widowed father was serving in His Majesty's Navy, currently
aboard a ship 'somewhere in the East', and had accumulated sufficient
money in his profession to allow his two vapid offspring to spend the
winter in Bath in modest comfort. He had found her necklace, she said,
patting it, in his travels; she thought it was quite old.
	Although further association with Miss Crawford was the last thing
Nicholas wanted - it was quite obvious that she was sure, from the way
he had stared at her, that he was attracted to her, and she found the
idea enchanting  - he wanted to get a closer look at the amulet. He
tried to tell himself that this surely wasn't the same one, coming
back to haunt him yet again, and after so many centuries. It was
merely something similar. After all, the chances of two identical
pieces of jewellery being made were probably far higher than that the
accursed thing should keep coming back to him. He knew it; but he
couldn't believe it.
	He could have easily stolen the thing from her home, or even simply
hypnotized her into handing it over, but he didn't want to do it that
way. And, given his present straitened circumstances, he couldn't even
offer to buy it. Accordingly, by the time they parted company in the
street outside the Assembly Rooms, he had let it be known that he was
a music teacher who would be willing to take on a new pupil, and Miss
Crawford had eagerly taken the not-so-subtle hint.
	Now, three months later, Nicholas was gloomily regretting his
decision. Miss Crawford's lessons were a weekly torment, and he had
never caught sight of the golden candle again. He wondered how long it
would be before the deaths began again. Civilized, aristocratic Bath
seemed an unlikely setting for the events that had played out in Paris
and Perugia, but he was fatalistically sure that it would all happen
the way it had before.
	Crossing Gay Street, he was suddenly drawn from his introspection as
a closed carriage with the arms of some titled owner on the door,
drawn by two beautifully matched chestnut horses, clattered past mere
inches from him. He jumped out of the way, but still his stockings and
breeches were spattered with filthy water as the equipage splashed
through a large puddle.
	Nicholas' curses died on his lips as he became aware of a familiar
tingling sensation. He stared after the carriage, and as it turned a
corner he caught a glimpse of one of the passengers - a dark-haired
woman with flawless skin the colour of alabaster.
	Janette!
	Without thought he hurried after the carriage. The streets were
crowded with people on their way to various entertainments, and it was
easy to keep the vehicle in sight. It halted a few minutes later in
front of a row of handsome houses at the top of Milsom Street.
Nicholas watched as Janette descended from the carriage with all her
usual grace and turned to wait for the other passenger, an elderly man
who took her arm as they went slowly up the short walk to the front
door of one of the houses. It looked more as though Janette was
supporting him than as if he were escorting her. Nicholas watched in
puzzlement as the door was opened to admit them by a waiting servant,
and Janette and the old man disappeared inside.
	After a few moments Janette came back out, alone, and made her way
towards the waiting carriage. She had a faintly amused smile on her
lips which hardly flickered as Nicholas appeared in front of her,
indicating that she had been well aware of his presence.
	"Bon soir, Nicolas," she said calmly.
	"Janette, what's going on? Who was that?"
	"And it's very pleasant to see you again as well, mon cher, after so
long. Thirty-six  years, I believe, although one might think from your
casual manner that it was only last night."
	"Janette, you must know how I've - "
	"Thank you for saying how well I'm looking," she said, sailing on
over his awkward attempt at amending his gaffe. "I wish I could say
the same for you. Nicolas, your breeches, your stockings - have you
been walking through a farmyard?" She clucked her tongue in mock
dismay. "And that coat is really quite passé."
	He ducked his head and then looked up at her with an abashed smile.
The smile was his trump card; although there was never anything in the
least calculated about it, he knew that for some reason it would
almost always get him whatever he wanted - from a woman, anyway. And
what he wanted right now was to know why Janette was riding about in a
carriage with a mortal, who had not quite appeared to be a friend, or
even a social acquaintance. If anything, the brief glimpse he had
gotten of the two of them seemed to indicate something more business-
like.
	"Thank you for the fashion critique. And I would welcome the first
opportunity to show you how very much I've missed you. But in the
meantime, may I ask who that man was?"
	"Certainly you may ask."
	"Very well then. Who is he?"
	"I can't tell you, I'm afraid."
	"Janette!"
	"I simply said you might ask, not that I would answer. Now if you'll
excuse me, I have several matters to attend to tonight." She took
another step toward the carriage, where a carefully unseeing servant
was holding the door for her.
	"Is Lacroix here?" Nicholas asked abruptly.
	"But of course. We have been in Bath for some time now. Longer than
you, mon cher."
	"Then why - "
	"Why haven't we sought you out? We've been busy, Nicolas. The world
doesn't entirely revolve around you, you know. And in any case,
Lacroix had no great desire to lay eyes on you after that little
contretemps in Avignon."
	Eyes, no, but Nicholas was quite sure that Lacroix did have a great
desire to lay both fists and boots on him after Francesca's death.
	"Not that I could really see what all the fuss was about, myself,"
Janette was continuing briskly. "I never really cared for the Comtesse
du Montaigne. Such red hair."
	Nicholas suppressed a smile. No, he could well imagine that Janette
and Francesca would have borne little affection for one another.
Certainly two such possessive, strong-willed seductresses could never
have existed comfortably together in one household.
	"Well, it has been so nice to see you again, Nicolas - or, should I
say, Mr. Braithwaite," said Janette. They had reached the carriage,
and she put one foot on the step, gathering up her skirts with a
delicate silk-gloved hand, an unconscious gesture that made his heart
ache with its familiarity - she was so close and yet so determinedly
far away. "Perhaps we will meet again soon."
	"Wait! Janette - " He stopped, took a deep unnecessary breath, and
said, "I want to see Lacroix."
	"See Lacroix!" she echoed, apparently in astonishment. "Nicolas, I
told you, he's quite busy. You must make an appointment."
	He stared at her, dumfounded. She produced a card from her small bag
and handed it to him. "Call there tomorrow - oh dear, not tomorrow.
Perhaps Thursday. Yes, come Thursday, at nine o'clock. I believe he
can fit you in then. Goodnight, Mr. Braithwaite."
	She was in the carriage with a flurry of skirts and the discreet
flash of sheer silk stockings, the servant slammed the door, and the
horses set off at a smart trot. Nicholas was left on the sidewalk
staring after her.
	His first impulse was to follow her, get her in private, and insist
that she stop playing games with him - didn't she realize how hard it
had been to be separated from her for so long? And since when did he,
the favoured if prodigal son, require an appointment to see Lacroix?
	Then common sense prevailed. Not for the first time, Janette hadn't
fallen for his winning smile, and he knew enough to leave it at that
for now. To follow her would only be to risk provoking her formidable
anger. He glanced down at the card in his hand, which he had
unconsciously already crumpled, and smoothed it out, to read, 'M.
Lucien Lacroix, 14 Laura Place, Bath'.
	In spite of himself, he began to smile. Two things he was certain of
- that Janette intended to make him pay for his protracted absence,
and that both she and Lacroix knew that curiosity might well
accomplish what pursuit had failed to do, and bring him willingly back
into their company.
	At first he'd had no intention of waiting until Thursday, three
nights after his encounter with Janette, to call at Laura Place. But,
on reflection, he realized that just because Lacroix had apparently
decided on a different tactic to return his protégé to him, it didn't
necessarily mean that the elder vampire intended to welcome him with
open arms. It might behoove him to act like a dutiful son and arrive
at the appointed time. Besides, although he felt he had already
humbled himself by asking for this meeting, he preferred to salvage
such dignity as he could by not appearing overeager, and possibly
risking being turned away like an unwelcome peddler.
	Accordingly on Thursday evening he washed, shaved, and dressed with
especial care in his squalid lodging. He had taken a small room on the
top floor of a house in Westgate Buildings, hardly one of Bath's more
aristocratic addresses. In a grander establishment his room would have
been the servants' quarters. Due to his more than usually peripatetic
life since Avignon he had retained very little in the way of personal
possessions, so he needed nothing larger, and it had the great
advantage that the windows were tiny. In any case it was an
improvement on the noisome place in London which he had shared with
rats and roaches, which in its turn had been marginally better than a
pile of mouldy straw or a burrow in the dirt, both of which had
sometimes formed his accommodations in the past.
	He had explained to the landlady that he was excessively sensitive to
sunlight and therefore never went out until after dark. It was obvious
that she thought he simply spent his nights drinking and gambling and
was in no condition to rise at a normal hour. But since she was glad
to take money for a room that no one else wanted, and it suited
Nicholas for her to believe her own private opinion about his habits,
the arrangement worked quite well.
	Laura Place, in contrast, was one of the most elegant streets in all
of Bath. He paused on the sidewalk and studied the impressive facade
of number fourteen, but it looked no different from any of its
neighbours; there was nothing to indicate the unusual nature of its
occupants. He went up and knocked at the black-painted door.
	It was opened by a footman - a mortal - in faultless livery. "Yes,
sir?"
	"Nicholas Braithwaite, to see Lucien Lacroix."
	The footman stood aside with a bow. "Please come inside, sir, and I
will see if Monsieur Lacroix is disengaged."
	Nicholas was ushered into a large drawing room, well lit and
expensively furnished, with heavy burgundy-coloured draperies
concealing the large windows. Light from the fire in the white marble
fireplace reflected off brilliantly polished furniture, silver
candelabra, and more marble in the form of statuary. Nicholas snorted
to himself. Obviously Lacroix was no longer reluctant to display his
wealth, something for which he had frequently censured his protégé in
the past.
	Janette came through a door on the far side of the room. Nicholas
caught just a glimpse of a smaller shadowy room beyond, before she
closed the door again and came towards him. She looked delectable in a
gown of rich plum-coloured muslin, with a neckline which was a scant
half-inch higher than risqué. Her hair was done in a convoluted
arrangement of curls and ringlets. The mere sight of her in the soft
candlelight, after so many years, was enough to send a powerful jolt
of desire through him.
	"Nicolas! How very glad I am to see you here. I was worried that you
might decide not to come after all."
	He leaned forward to kiss her lips, but she quickly extended her hand
for him to kiss instead, which he did with his best Parisian manner
and little more than a wry smile. Oh, she was still intending to have
her revenge, all right.
	"I was under the impression that this was to be more of an
appointment than a social visit."
	"Well, yes, but even so I thought that some matter might have
suddenly arisen which made it unfortunately necessary for you to leave
Bath as soon as possible."
	"When I've only just found you here?" he said gallantly.
	"My presence was never sufficient to keep you before, if you really
wanted to be gone," she replied acidly.
	It was a wounding remark, and it was obvious from the look on his
face that he felt the sting. He looked down at his hands. His right
thumb had unconsciously begun to rub a pattern in his left palm. He
forced himself to separate his hands. "I haven't stayed away from you
for so long of my own choice, Janette," he said quietly. "I just
didn't think there would be enough left of me for you, or for anyone,
if I came back to Lacroix after Avignon."
	"I know, Nicolas, I know," sighed Janette. "And you may have been
right. But still - you were gone a long, long time."
	"And I missed you every day of it." He smiled hesitantly at her. She
took a step towards him, beginning to smile as well, when a voice from
behind her said drily, "This is all very entertaining, but my time is
limited. Did you wish to see me or not, Nicholas?"
	Standing in the doorway through which Janette had emerged was his
master. Dressed in an impeccable black frock coat, silk waistcoat,
white breeches and silk stockings, the familiar silver sword pin in
his snowy cravat,  and shoes with indubitably silver buckles -  as
opposed to the pinchbeck of Nicholas' own - he was the epitome of
restrained good taste, a worthy lord of his elegant house. His blue
eyes, fixed on Nicholas, were as icy as ever, but at least they showed
no more than a mortal impatience.
	Nicholas hesitated.
	"Oh, do come in," he said testily. "I've no intention of running you
through with a stake. At least, not here." He held the door wide, and
Nicholas, with a backward glance at Janette, warily preceded him into
the next room.
	This too was furnished in obviously expensive but refined taste. It
was a gentleman's study, painted and panelled in dark colours, with
several bookcases which reached to the ceiling, all full of books.
Either Lacroix had suddenly discovered a taste for reading and had
bought up the entire stock of some bookseller, or he had simply taken
the house complete with all its contents.
	There was an imposing mahogany desk, two deep leather armchairs and a
small table in front of another marble fireplace, and a chaise longue.
By way of artwork there were several sketches of a classical-looking
Rome. As in the drawing room, the windows were covered by heavy dark
drapes.
	"Well?" said Lacroix, after a minute of increasingly tense silence
had gone by. "What did you wish to see me about?"
	Nicholas actually had no idea at all why he had told Janette that he
wanted to see the elder vampire. He didn't really want to see him at
all; he just wanted some reassurance, which he could never - would
never - ask for, that after three and a half decades he hadn't been
forgotten. Of course, being forgotten by Lacroix was probably the
safest thing for him; but it wasn't exactly what he wanted.
	"Well?" repeated Lacroix.
	"What are you doing here in Bath?" he finally blurted out.
	Lacroix raised one eyebrow. "Really, Nicholas, if you think Janette
and I came here in pursuit of you, you flatter yourself. I am here for
the purpose of performing scientific experimentation, and for
relieving some of humanity's ills."
	Nicholas could only stare at this totally unexpected and completely
preposterous statement. One corner of Lacroix's mouth quirked upward.
	"As far as Bath is concerned, Janette and I are minor French
aristocrats who have found the current political climate in that
country not to our liking, and have come here to escape from all that
ridiculous revolutionary nonsense. Liberté, egalité, fraternité, and
so forth. I do hope I haven't offended you, Nicholas; I suppose you
might harbour sympathy for such notions, in spite of being part of the
ancien regime yourself."
	"I thought you said your time was limited," said Nicholas coldly. He
was not going to be goaded into a discussion of politics.
	Lacroix gave him an amused glance. "Very well. In order to help
maintain myself and my lovely cousin, Mademoiselle du Charme, in our
former style of living, I have decided to help a few members - a
select few - of Bath's most exclusive society in their quest to
improve their physical health, by a scientifically formulated method
of removing excess blood."
	"You? A barber surgeon?"
	Lacroix appeared affronted. "No mere barber surgeon, I assure you. I
spent many years in France perfecting my techniques, so I can say with
authority exactly how much blood needs to be let in order to help any
given malady - taking into account the age and physique of the
individual concerned, of course. At least, that's what I tell my
patients. Fortunately, no one has ever inquired just how many years
I've spent investigating this, or asked for references - they're all
pathetically grateful for any help I can offer them."
	"And how do you explain all the 'patients' that expire under your
care?"
	"No one has expired, Nicholas. I only take a little at a time, from a
large number. You see, I've decided to take a leaf out of your book,
so to speak, and try to fit in with the mortal world to a greater
extent - until I grow bored, that is. This is a rather amusing
pastime, seeing just how much nonsense I can make these fools happily
swallow. And for all I know, I may actually have done a few of them
some good. That man you saw Janette escorting home on Monday, for
instance. I've treated him three times now, and he says his gout is
much improved."
	Nicholas shook his head. Of all the reasons that Lacroix might have
had for coming to Bath, this was surely the most unbelievable.
	"Come see my credentials," said the other vampire. He took a small
key from his watch fob and unlocked a large mahogany case on a side
table, raising the lid so that Nicholas could see the contents.
Nicholas stared in amazement at the fearsome assortment of gleaming
lancets displayed on a velvet-lined tray, and almost began to laugh.
	"Purely for effect, of course," said Lacroix, closing the case. "I
would never stoop to using mechanical aids. But you see, to a certain
type of mind, it must take considerable time and interest to amass a
collection like that. And that speaks of the dedicated, moneyed
enthusiast, not some leech of dubious methods and morals."
	"To a certain type of mind," Nicholas echoed.
	"Naturally Mademoiselle du Charme and myself select our clients very
carefully. Not everyone is likely to benefit from the treatment."
	"Of course not."
	There was a brief silence, then Lacroix said in a slightly chilling
voice, "Speaking of fitting in with the mortal world, I've heard that
you're currently passing yourself off as a piano teacher to a young
lady. Still enamoured of that particular muse, are we? I had thought
you might have lost your interest in music after the death of that
violinist, Faussaire, Fouchet . . ."
	"Faubert," corrected Nicholas, even though he knew that Lacroix must
remember every detail of their stay at the Chateau du Montaigne. He
braced himself for Lacroix's long-delayed retribution.
	But Lacroix, it seemed, had other concerns. "I do hope," he said
warningly, "that this isn't going to turn out to be another Amalia, or
whatever her name was. Sipping over and over from one sweet, beautiful
mortal until you have taken every drop she can give you is in itself a
charming thing, but not for you, Nicholas. Your ridiculous conscience
will inevitably make such a liaison more pain than pleasure."
	Nicholas was in too much of a hurry to deny any such intention, to
wonder that Lacroix still cared about what might cause him pain.
	Janette opened the door a crack and announced, "Lady Deverell is here
for her appointment, Lacroix. She's waiting in the yellow drawing
room." Janette's smile had a familiar sharp glitter to it.
	"I'll be there shortly," promised Lacroix, and Janette withdrew. "One
must never be waiting for one's patients; it implies that one actually
needs them. Would you care to come and observe, Nicholas? Perhaps you
could pick up some pointers, so to speak."
	Nicholas had already seen and heard quite enough to think about
without watching Lacroix's medical technique. He declined the
invitation.
	"In that case, I'll have one of the footmen show you out. Such a
pleasure to see you again, Nicholas; I do hope out paths will cross
again in Bath."
	And on that polite, puzzling note, Nicholas was ushered back out to
Laura Place. The door clicked firmly shut behind him.

	It was too much.
	The meeting with Janette and Lacroix, odd and inconclusive though it
had been, had re-ignited all the desires of the vampire. It had been
nearly forty years since he had had any but the most fleeting contact
with his own kind. Surrounded as he was now by the formal elegance of
Bath, by people who at least wished to appear rational and cultured,
even if most of them were no more so than people of any other time and
place, he had tried to suppress it, feeling more unhappy with his
state than he had ever done before. He had been even more
discriminating than usual in his choice of prey: a pickpocket whom he
had seen stealing the purse of an elderly invalid; a tavern owner in a
market town several miles from Bath who had attempted to force himself
on a young barmaid; and others of that ilk. He tried to see it as a
sort of dispensation of justice as much as a satisfaction of his base
cravings. But now he walked mindlessly through the streets of Bath,
keeping his head bent so that no one could see his shameful struggle -
the struggle to control the overwhelming desire to seize the nearest
mortal and drain every living drop of blood from his or her body. He
bit his lip, tasted his own blood, and knew only desperation and
hunger there. He stopped and closed his eyes, certain that they must
be glowing.
	"Are you well, sir?" asked a solicitous voice from close by. He
opened his eyes and saw a pleasant-looking elderly couple standing in
front of him. It was the woman who had spoken.
	"Shall we call a chair for you?" added the man, putting a hand under
his elbow as if to support him.
	With a snarl Nicholas tore free, leaving them standing staring after
him as he fled up the street.
	A narrow unlit passageway opened up on his right and he turned into
it, preparing to take flight somewhere, anywhere, that he could get
away from all these mortals and regain control of himself. A sound
from further down the passage caused him to freeze into predatory
stillness.
	It was the rustling of cloth that had caught his attention, followed
by a loud hiccup, a drunken oath, and then unsteady footsteps wavering
towards him.
	The mortal's heartbeat was loud in his ears, drowning out everything
else. Nicholas launched himself at his prey, tearing away the man's
linen cravat and sinking his fangs into the soft flesh underneath
before the sot had anything more than the faintest conception of what
was happening.
	He drank in a frenzy, like a parched man in a desert, and didn't
realize until it was  far too late that the soft, fair-haired husk he
was now embracing was James Crawford, Florence's brother.

	The last thing in the world Nicholas wanted to do was return to the
Crawford home for Florence's weekly piano lesson. But he received no
message from her requesting him not to come, and so he set out
dismally for the Paragon the following Monday evening, fully prepared
to find the house in a general uproar. He was certain that no one
could know that James had been murdered; he had taken good care to
hide the body well. But it had been the better part of a week now
since his disappearance. Surely that would be causing his sister
considerable alarm.
	But Miss Crawford welcomed him as if nothing whatsoever was wrong,
and seemed to be no more distracted than usual. She rattled through
last week's nocturne and blushed with pleasure when he said that it
was obvious she had been practising. And indeed, the speed of her
playing had increased greatly, although her accuracy very little, and
her sensitivity to the music not at all. But in any case she could
hardly have been spending all her time worrying over her brother.
	Her concern this week was mercifully no longer the proposed harp duet
but a ball on Friday at the Upper Rooms, to which she and James had
been invited. "Such a pity James had to go back to Oxford. He dearly
loves to dance."
	"Oxford?" repeated Nicholas.
	"Oh yes, he left last week. I told you, did I not, that he is a
student there? I fear he had been sadly neglecting his studies staying
away so long. I know Papa will be disappointed if he doesn't do well
this year. But you know, Mr. Braithwaite - " here she leaned
confidentially towards him " - I shouldn't say this, but I think the
real reason he went back was because he owed money here. Poor James is
unlucky, yet he still likes to gamble as much as any young man. I
feared he might soon be in real trouble, and that would break Papa's
heart if he found out. So, I was just as glad when he told me Thursday
he was going back to school, and go he did. And I must go alone to
this ball. Well, not alone alone of course; goodness, can you imagine
the scandal if I did? I wish I were that daring, although of course it
would be terribly improper. I shall be going with the Forresters; and
anyway James always teases me about my dancing. I am having a new gown
made. Only muslin, of course; but very pretty. How I wish I could have
silk . . . oh, forgive me, Mr. Braithwaite; I suppose gentlemen are
not much interested in new gowns. Shall I see you at the ball?"
	Nicholas had barely heard a word of the torrent after realizing that
she had no idea what had really happened to her brother. On being
asked a direct question, he managed to collect himself sufficiently to
reply that yes, he was planning to attend; and out of guilt, shame,
and distraction, he asked her for two dances.
	After that he listened to her play the sonatina, which, flustered by
the unexpectedly easy acquisition of a dance partner, she botched even
more than usual, but he didn't bother to attempt much correction.
Then, mercifully, the hour's session was over and he could make his
escape.
	His first reaction, relief that Florence was spared knowing about her
brother's fate, was short-lived. He didn't imagine that James had been
much of a correspondent, and Florence likely wouldn't have expected to
hear from him any time soon; and possibly his friends at Oxford would
think he was still in Bath. His disappearance might go undetected for
some time yet. But sooner or later it would come to light, and then
all her grief would simply have been delayed. Why had he given in to
the vampire that night? Why couldn't he have been stronger? Had
Lacroix managed to affect him somehow during their brief meeting? His
master had both influenced and coerced him many times over the
centuries into acts which he had later greatly regretted, but Lacroix
had not killed James Crawford. It was Nicholas de Brabant alone who
had given way to his base instincts. True, he might not have done so
had he not just been in the company of other vampires; but he should
have been stronger. To have missed others of his kind, to have felt
incomplete without them, to the extent that the brief encounter at
Lacroix's home - seeing, hearing, scenting them, yet not tasting them,
even though he hadn't realized at the time that that was what he
desperately wanted - had driven him to destroy some poor wretch who
had had the misfortune to blunder into his path, was despicable.
Fortitude had been seared into him during his time in the Holy Land as
a mortal soldier; he should have been able to withstand this.
	Had it been anyone else, someone else's brother, husband, lover, or
wife or daughter, it would still have tormented him. But it shouldn't
have been Crawford. Had Nicholas not seen Florence wearing the amulet
at the concert, he would probably have left Bath long before this. But
he had seen it, and had stayed, and James Crawford had become his one
victim amongst all the hundreds of people in the streets of Bath that
night.
	In as black and anguished a mood as he had been following Crawford's
death, he stalked up the rise of the Paragon, not even noticing where
he was going until he had arrived at the top of Beacon Hill and could
climb no further. He stopped and looked back over the town.
	He was shivering, but it was hardly due to the effect of the thin
March wind that was rustling the branches just beginning to bud. He
wanted . . . he wanted . . . he could hardly give a name to it, it was
a thing so great, so complex. Horrifying, and yet magnificent.
Completion, fulfilment, an end to the loneliness he had been feeling,
and yet repellent in that killing was an inextricable part of it.
	He shuddered again, and choked back the groan that was rising from
his throat. He felt sickened by himself for having reached this state
of need, and yet he only knew one way out of it.
	A brief stronger wind whipped through the nearby branches, and a soft
silky voice inquired, "Is something ailing you tonight, Nicolas?"
	She stepped forward out of the darkness like an answer to an unvoiced
prayer. "Janette?" he asked in disbelief, as if it could have been
anyone else.
	"Mais certainement, mon cher. Were you expecting another? Because if
so, I'll just go away and leave you alone."
	"No! Don't go. I wasn't expecting anyone at all. I'm glad you're
here. I was-  " he found he couldn't quite meet her eyes  " - a bit
lonely, that's all."
	"Ah. And nothing more than that?"
	He looked at her defiantly. "No."
	"And because you are lonely, I am missing a charming concert with a
positively delectable Italian tenor."
	"I didn't ask you to come," he replied stiffly.
	"Ask, no, but someone had to do something about you. To those with
ears to hear, the streets of Bath fairly ring with your despair. Your
. . . need."
	He turned away. To find himself so out of control was shameful
enough, without finding that others were aware of it. But then, he
should have expected it. And he ought to be glad that Lacroix had not
come himself, to humiliate him further by making him beg for what he
so desperately wanted.
	Janette came up behind him, trailing one hand down his shoulder, her
breath cool in his ear. "Mon pauvre Nicolas. Is it really so bad,
then?"
	"Janette, I killed a man four nights ago."
	"So did I. And quite tasty he was, too. What has that to do with
anything?"
	"I couldn't control myself! I couldn't say, 'this one doesn't deserve
to die', or, 'this one will be missed; best not to take him'. I was
hungry, and I killed. I couldn't stop."
	Janette's fingers began to gently twine in his hair. He took a deep
breath and went on, "It was because of you, Janette. You and Lacroix
both. I hadn't seen you for so long, and it was as if I'd forgotten
how intense and powerful the lust can be. And suddenly after leaving
your home, it all came back, all at once."
	"I am so sorry if I made you unhappy." And she was, but she also
exulted in the knowledge that she could drive him to such desperation.
Her fingers continued to comb very softly through his hair.
	"It wasn't your fault. How could it be? I was too weak, that's all,
and someone died who shouldn't have."
	"Nicolas, we are predators, not arbiters of who deserves to die and
who does not! We take what we wish, when we wish it, and for no other
reason. We kill for survival and for sport, and the morality of it has
no more to do with us than it does with the wolf as it chooses a deer
from the herd." She had told him that countless times before, and yet
he always managed to bring fresh conviction to his side of the
argument. It was one of his more infuriating traits.
	Now she said softly, "My poor Nicolas. It seems to be your fate that
you feel  suffering, as well as joy, twice as intensely as anyone
else. You have felt the one for too long; shall I help you to feel the
other now?"
	He spun around to face her, eyes flaring red. "No games, Janette," he
rasped. "I can't play any more games right now."
	Her eyes had changed to mirror his own. "Then stop talking," she
hissed at him, "and come here."
	Just as he was sinking his fangs into her throat, she felt an
instant's hesitation. Should she have tormented him a bit longer
before granting him forgiveness? Insisted that he go down on his knees
and beg before she released him from his terrible need?
	No, she decided, he had suffered enough. And she was not Lacroix, to
insist on repentance and abasement; to try would be to risk that he
would find the strength to walk away.
	And in any case, she thought, tearing his cravat away and driving her
own fangs home in his neck, Nicolas was simply far too delicious to
wait any longer for.


	Nicholas generally enjoyed balls and dancing, even the cool, formal
figures that were currently in vogue, but he had arrived at the Upper
Rooms on Friday evening with very little expectation of having a good
time. So far, that expectation had been met completely.
	Miss Crawford had arrived before him, and he was barely in the door
before she had claimed him for the promised two dances. The music
seemed to drag on interminably while he attempted to look as if he
were listening politely to her endless chatter, which seemed to be
mainly concerned with gowns, shoes, and hair arrangements. Then the
sight of an obese, superannuated colonel and his elegant young wife
caused her to branch off into speculation about the other people in
the room, few of whom he knew, and even fewer of whom he had any
interest in. His only reward for nearly an hour of tedium was the
sight of the little gold candle, now affixed to a bracelet on her
wrist. So she still had it; and after all this time, he still couldn't
see an honourable way to part her from it.
	When the second dance ended he fetched her a dish of sorbet and
escaped thankfully to the upper gallery, where he stood leaning on the
railing, moodily watching the dancers below.
	"Good evening, Nicholas," said Lacroix's voice in his ear.
	He turned and saw the elder vampire, accompanied by Janette. Janette
smiled at him seraphically; Lacroix appeared to be examining him as if
he were some form of scientific specimen. Nicholas stared back, hoping
Lacroix hadn't noticed the remains of bloodstains on the collar of his
one and only coat, knowing that he appeared in shabby contrast to the
other two in their finery. Well, what of it? They had all been in much
worse states in the past, and no doubt would be again.
	"Your condescension in appearing in a place like this astounds me,"
he said, and regretted the words as soon as he'd spoken them. Just
because Lacroix hadn't yet pounded him to a pulp didn't mean that he
still wasn't contemplating it; Nicholas still had no idea of his
intentions. Best not to antagonize him unnecessarily.
	Lacroix, however, had apparently taken no offense. "Janette wished to
show off her new gown-  " and indeed Janette was resplendent in a
confection of lace and dark blue silk " - and I came out of a desire
to see my pre - my patients, that is, in their natural habitat. I can
see three of them from here, as a matter of fact. They all seem to be
quite healthy. I do believe Janette's and my treatment is doing them
good. You really ought to consider joining us, Nicholas. It might keep
you sufficiently in check to prevent any more of these unseemly lapses
in self control."
	Nicholas glowered at him, but thought again of the thin ice he was
still treading on and refrained from making a sharp retort. Janette
broke the tension by exclaiming brightly, "Look, there she is!"
	"Who, my dear?" inquired Lacroix avuncularly.
	"The little girl down there in the pale yellow dress. Nicolas's new
paramour."
	Nicholas' jaw dropped slightly and he stared at Janette in horror.
Florence had come into sight below them, her strident voice easily
discernable to vampire ears above the babble in the room as she and
Miss Forrester discussed and dissected various gowns. Nicholas even
caught an arch remark from the other girl about Mr. Braithwaite
finding Florence's charms set off to perfection in her 'lovely new
muslin'.
	He stared at the polished floor, wishing it would open and swallow
him. There was a tickle of amusement through his link with Janette. He
looked up and glared at her; she gave him a look brimming with
innocence. Or course, after they had shared blood four nights ago, she
knew all about Florence, and what she meant - or didn't mean - to
Nicholas. 
	Lacroix, however, was obviously not privy to Janette's little joke.
He was not amused, especially when Florence happened to glance up,
catch sight of Nicholas, and flutter her fingers at him in a coy
little wave, accompanied by a simpering smile. Nicholas bowed slightly
in acknowledgment, keeping his face averted from Lacroix. He hoped his
master wouldn't notice his inner mirth at the expression of bewildered
distaste on the elder's face. Lacroix looked as someone might who had
expected to be given a pearl and instead was presented with a dead
oyster.
	Lacroix reached out, took Nicholas' chin in his hand, and turned his
face so that Lacroix could pin him with his gaze. He released him
then, but not before giving a swift, painful squeeze with his fingers.
"Nicholas," he said in a deceptively pleasant tone, "I always thought
that no matter what your other shortcomings might be, you had
excellent taste in female pulchritude, even if you placed no value on
native wit. What has possessed you to take up with a girl like that?"
	Perversely, at Lacroix's words Nicholas felt indignation rising up in
him on Florence's behalf. True, she was loud-voiced and feather-
headed, and could make no claim to prettiness, but she didn't deserve
such disparagement.
	He kept his voice low but his tone scathing. "I admit she's no
beauty, and no great intellectual - although I hadn't realized that
was a prerequisite of yours - but she has a kind heart."
	"Kind to small fluffy things and handsome young music teachers,"
Lacroix replied acerbically. "To half-wit vampires, I doubt." This
last was said in no more than a whisper, too soft for even their
closest neighbours in the crowded gallery to overhear. But it reached
Nicholas' ears plainly.
	"But even the half-wit which you sometimes appear to be," continued
Lacroix in the same whisper, "would need more reason than simple
kindness to befriend that woman. What does she have that you want?"
	"Money," said Nicholas flatly. "I'm rather short of funds at the
moment, as I'm sure you've guessed. She pays me to give her piano
lessons."
	Lacroix eyed him contemptuously. "I'm sure you can do better than
that. However, since you don't wish to tell me the truth, I shall
simply find it out another way." He turned and began making his way
down the crowded staircase toward the main floor. "Come along,
Nicholas, I would appreciate an introduction to your charming pupil."
	Nicholas hurried after him in dismay. "No, wait! Lacroix . . ."
	But Lacroix continued as if he hadn't heard. Nicholas turned and shot
a venomous look at Janette. "See what you've started," he hissed.
	Janette was unrepentant. "This ball was so boring. I had to do
something to relieve the tedium."
	Lacroix reached the ground floor and made a beeline for Florence. She
was standing by one of the tall windows, temporarily deserted by her
companion, gazing longingly at some of the more extravagant gowns and
jewels on display while absently devouring  another sorbet. She nearly
dropped both dish and spoon when Lacroix came up to her and bowed
deeply.
	"Forgive me, dear lady, for being so forward," he said in a honeyed
voice. "Please permit me the liberty of introducing myself. I am
Lucien Lacroix, your most humble servant. I believe we have a mutual
acquaintance."
	Florence was too overcome by this sudden onslaught of gallantry to do
more than squeak out a faint "Oh!". Nicholas arrived and rescued her.
"Miss Crawford, this is Monsieur Lacroix, a -  er - practitioner of
the medical arts. Monsieur Lacroix, Miss Florence Crawford."
	Lacroix caught Florence's right hand. She did drop her sorbet spoon
this time but was totally oblivious to the clatter of it hitting the
floor as Lacroix brought her hand up and brushed it with his lips, in
the finest Continental manner. Her eyes were fixed on Lacroix's face,
but Nicholas saw his master's gaze alight on the amulet dangling from
her bracelet. At first he felt a brief puzzlement through their link,
then recognition, and finally a sense of wariness.
	He forestalled any further action on Lacroix's part by putting a hand
on Florence's shoulder and saying clearly, "The next dance is about to
begin, Miss Crawford. May I have the pleasure?"
	"Oh - oh, of course - so very nice to meet you, Monsieur Lacroix,"
said Florence, all blushes and confusion. "Perhaps we shall see each
other again."
	"I rather doubt it, actually," Lacroix replied urbanely. "I fear I am
something of a recluse. But all the same, I am so very glad to have
made your acquaintance."
	Nicholas fairly dragged her away. As the movements of the dance
allowed, he cast several surreptitious glances back at Lacroix. The
elder vampire stood regarding him with a very thoughtful look for
quite some time; then he was gone. Nicholas saw nothing of the other
two vampires for the rest of the evening.

	The summons came the following evening, in the form of a note
delivered to the landlady requesting Nicholas' presence at the house
in Laura Place that night. He was only surprised that Lacroix had
bothered with the formality of a note.
	He was admitted to number fourteen by the same footman he had seen on
his previous visit. The servant led him through to Lacroix's study and
tapped on the closed door, announcing Mr. Braithwaite. Lacroix's voice
bade him enter. Nicholas went in, and the footman silently closed the
door behind him.
	Lacroix was seated at the mahogany desk with several large sheets of
paper spread out in front of him which, to Nicholas' puzzlement,
appeared to be large-scale maps of Bath. He made no acknowledgment of
Nicholas' presence, continuing his perusal of the papers as if he were
still alone in the room. The fire crackled in the marble fireplace, a
clock ticked on the mantel; aside from those small noises the house
was almost silent. Nicholas recognized Lacroix's favoured pastime of
testing the limits of his patience. This time, he vowed, he would win,
if he had to stand there for the rest of the night. After all, Lacroix
was the one who had sent for him, and here he was: the next move was
up to the other man. Accordingly he stayed where he was by the door,
as still and silent as the furniture, nothing more than another shadow
in the room.
	Finally Lacroix pushed his chair back, looked up and said abruptly,
as though Nicholas hadn't been standing there for some considerable
time, "I'm glad of one thing at least, that you're not falling in love
again." The sardonicism in his voice put quotation marks around the
word 'love'. "Your affairs of the heart have sometimes been
entertaining, but a liaison with Miss Crawford would have been
unutterably tedious."
	Still Nicholas waited, as if to say, "And was this all you called me
here to say?"
	"Tell me one thing, Nicholas. Why do you want that little golden gaud
back so badly, considering what happened in Perugia?"
	Nicholas' eyes shifted briefly away. It was only a minuscule
movement, but it was sufficient to break the illusion of remoteness.
He had known Lacroix would ask this, and he still hadn't been able to
prepare a satisfactory answer.
	Finally he settled for saying, "It was mine once. I paid for it, and
I want it back." The notion of reclaiming one's own property would
hopefully strike a chord with the elder vampire, even if he suspected
the simplicity of the statement. Which, to judge by the immediate
narrowing of his icy gaze, he certainly did. But Nicholas was not
inclined to tell him the true reason, which in any case was still
little more than a muddle of random ideas and unfounded convictions -
that the thing was following him. That it was accursed. That sudden
and unnatural death had overtaken so many because of it, directly or
indirectly, death that he himself had been the agent of. That he was
afraid of it. That he wanted to destroy it - and yet felt that he
should retain possession of it, for safekeeping. That a vampire who
had walked into the sun centuries ago had charged him with keeping it
in order to remember the death of another vampire, and the part that
Nicholas had played in it. That possibly the inscription on it, in
now-archaic French - 'to light the darkness' - held some significance
that he had not yet discovered.
	Coincidence, Lacroix would say. Superstitious nonsense. And perhaps
he was right, but still Nicholas refrained from any further
explanation.
	"There's more to it than that, I'm sure," said Lacroix. "However, be
that as it may, why not just take the thing and be done with it,
instead of wasting your time attempting to teach music to that
dunderhead?" He examined Nicholas' face, then snorted in derision and
answered his own question. "Nicholas. Ever the gallant. You would
consider that to be theft, wouldn't you? And that's not how you play
this game of blending into the mortal world any longer, is it? My, how
your standards seem to have changed."
	Nicholas knew he was referring to that unfortunate incident when
Nicholas and a mortal accomplice had killed the son of the French king
and stolen the ransom the king had paid for the Dauphin's return. It
was a totally irresponsible act which he would have dearly loved to be
able to forget, which given the vampire's perfect memory was of course
impossible. He shifted uncomfortably.
	"What you do about this trinket is no concern of mine," said Lacroix.
"Janette and I are leaving Bath. After a winter spent sipping from
gouty, self-indulgent old men and women, I feel a need to move on and
cleanse my palate. And my search for remnants of the old Roman Aquae
Sulis has unfortunately proved fruitless." Briefly he laid a hand on
the maps spread out on the desk. "You will accompany us, Nicholas.
Isolation has made you far too needy a creature."
	It was said not so much as a command but as a statement of simple
fact. After James Crawford's death Nicholas could hardly refute it.
	"You have a week to conclude whatever matters you're involved in
here. If you feel that your future happiness absolutely depends on
regaining possession of that trinket - " sarcasm fairly dripped from
his words " - then I suggest you either steal it or drain the
enchanting Miss Crawford and take it, whichever suits. In any case, we
will all be leaving Bath in seven nights' time. Is that understood?"
	Nicholas nodded.
	"I'm afraid I didn't quite hear that," said Lacroix politely.
	"Yes," said Nicholas grudgingly.
	"Good. I'm so glad that we're agreed. And now that everything has
been resolved so amicably, I suggest that you be on your way and begin
winding up your affairs." Lacroix pulled himself close to the desk
again and resumed his examination of the maps, obviously having said
all that he intended to say, and taking it for granted that Nicholas
would now remove himself.
	Nicholas seethed at the dismissal, but didn't protest. What good had
it ever done? With cool dignity he left the room. The footman held the
street door open for him.
	He stood amidst the bustle of carriages, sedan chairs, and
pedestrians, all seemingly making their way to and from parties and
suppers and various other entertainments, if one could judge by the
elegant costumes and gay chatter. He slowly crossed Pulteney Bridge
without any conscious destination in mind. Reaching the corner of the
High Street, at the bottom of which the two towers flanking the west
front of the Abbey were clearly visible, he stopped. After a moment's
hesitation, he made his way toward the massive building, walking
resolutely despite his increasing uneasiness, until he had reached the
deserted square in front of the church.
	By now his uneasiness was threatening to flare into panic. He clamped
down on it firmly, trying to ignore the attendant sensations of an
oppressive weight on his chest, ice-cold chills, a ringing in his ears
that had nothing to do with church bells, and blackness around the
edge of his vision. He propped himself up against the comfortingly
sturdy stone wall of a nearby building, and studied the Abbey. The
larger-than-life size statues of saints, one on either side of the
age-blackened carved oak doors, the angels frozen into stone in the
act of climbing to and from a symbolic Heaven, and the stone Apostles,
all appeared to study him in return. He took a step toward them all,
then another, as if swimming against a strong current, until finally,
twenty paces from the door, he could go no further. He nearly fell to
his knees through sheer weakness, but managed to stay on his feet,
eyes still fixed on the magnificent, forbidden building before him.
	Unlike the stone angels, he could fly. He could bend a human's will
to his own, and he could, if he so desired, snap that same human like
a twig. And yet the weakest, most dissolute sinner on Earth could do
what Nicholas de Brabant, former defender of the Christian faith,
could not: walk through the doors of that building.
	Once, in times past, the thought had made him so angry that he had
picked up a rock and hurled it at a church, completely shattering a
beautiful stained glass window. He could not find it within himself to
do such a thing now. The fault lay in him, not the church, but he
could see no way to regain that state of grace which would permit him
to enter a house of God.
	Leaving with Lacroix, he knew, would do nothing to bring him any
closer to that end, but he had no option. Lacroix had decreed it, and
he would go. He might try to escape, but his master would find him in
the end and drag him back, with that fanatic possessiveness which
Nicholas had accepted in the past as the natural rights of a father
and liege lord, and sometimes even as love. And who was to say that
the bond which ultimately kept him at Lacroix's side, no matter how
far he might occasionally stray, and how much he might despise it,
wasn't in truth formed equally by elements of all three?
	It was an unusually charitable view of their relationship. Perhaps,
he thought with the briefest flicker of amusement, that was due to the
influence of all those stone saints and angels. But, in any case,
Lacroix's ways did not have to be his. Not all of them, at least. 
	He found that he was starting to sway where he stood, but
nevertheless he remained with his face upturned to the great church
and the stone crosses surmounting the facade until the bells began to
strike the hour. The sound of their portentous tolling finally
overcame him, and he stumbled back out of the square and up the High
Street.

	His affairs, as Lacroix called them, were few, and required little
more than giving notice to his landlady and composing a note to be
delivered to Florence Crawford, saying that unfortunately an urgent
matter required him to leave Bath immediately. It was unlikely that he
would be able to return any time soon, and he wished her well with her
music studies.
	But he didn't post the letter until he had decided what to do about
the amulet. He simply couldn't go off with Lacroix leaving the thing
in Florence's possession. True, there was only one death so far that
he could attribute to its influence, and that only indirectly. But he
wanted it back. What he would do with it, he had no idea. He was
afraid to leave without it, and afraid to have it with him.
	He would have liked to have offered to buy it from her, but his
current impecunious state barely permitted him to pay the rent for his
miserable room. He certainly couldn't squander the few shillings he
had left on gold jewellery. He could swallow his pride completely and
approach Lacroix for a loan, but he knew snow would be falling in hell
before Lacroix would lend him a penny once he knew why Nicholas wanted
the money; he had already pointed out much simpler methods by which a
vampire could acquire such a thing. Janette was almost as unlikely.
Which meant that the only remaining course of action, given the few
days he had left, was to use one of Lacroix' suggestions and steal it.
	It was hardly an honourable thing to do, but it was no worse than
hypnotizing her into handing the amulet to him, and less risky in case
by some freak chance she should turn out to be one of those few over
whom he could exert no power. And in any case it might be safer for
her in the long run than keeping the thing. 
	Having made the decision, he dropped the note off at her door just
before dawn one morning - hopefully she would think he had delivered
it on his way out of town - and returned late that night, landing
silently in the tiny cluttered space behind the house. A solitary cat
hissed in fright and vanished over the back wall; otherwise his
arrival was unobserved.
	With his hand on the knob of the door, he reflected on how ironic it
was that the last time the amulet had come into his possession, it was
because he had casually killed a man and robbed his corpse; now, he
hesitated over a comparatively minor piece of larceny.
	A bit more pressure on the door and the latch gave with a quiet snap.
He opened the door just wide enough to slip inside and stood in the
dark passageway leading to the kitchen, listening intently. The house
was silent. But it was the silence of emptiness, rather than sleep. No
one was there.
	That was strange. It was well after two o'clock in the morning; even
if Florence had been at a late supper at a friend's and had decided to
stay the night, the elderly housekeeper should have been home. He
prowled through the house, silent as a cat, and found to his dismay
all the familiar signs of a hasty departure. The furnishings and
fixtures remained, including the piano with the sheet music for last
week's sonatina still on the rack. But all the personal belongings of
the household were gone. His note from the previous morning, along
with several others, lay unopened on the floor at the front door.
	He searched the entire house, but there was no sign of the little
gold and ruby candle.


	Early in the evening of the night when he was to leave Bath, Nicholas
was awakened by a thunderous knocking on the door of his room. He
rolled out of bed and stumbled the three paces to the door, pulling it
open just as his unwelcome visitor raised a hand to knock again.
	His scowl lightened at the sight of one of the housemaids, a big
buxom girl with a West Country burr to her voice, with whom he was on
much friendlier terms than with his landlady. "Goodness, you sleep
sound, sir," she said cheerfully. "I'm sure I've been calling your
name and knocking on this door for five minutes. Ever so sorry to
disturb you, but there's a gentleman to see you downstairs."
	A gentleman? He could think of no one fitting that description other
than Lacroix who would call on him here, and if Lacroix did so he
certainly wouldn't come to the front door. "Who is it?"
	"A little, tired-looking man, is all I can say, sir. Shall I tell him
you'll come down?" asked the maid, who was clandestinely enjoying the
sight of Mr. Braithwaite in his nightshirt. "Or shall I ask him to
come back tomorrow?"
	Curiosity prompted him to answer, "No, tell him I'll be there in a
minute." He closed the door gently but firmly on the maid's grin,
splashed some water on his face, and dressed hastily.
	Waiting for him in what the landlady was pleased to call her drawing
room, but which was in truth little more than a frowzy, over-furnished
closet, was a small, middle-aged man with thinning hair and a rather
shabby coat. As the maid had said, he did seem weary, chronically so.
	Nevertheless, he rose politely as Nicholas came in, with apologies
for calling at such an inconvenient hour. "But as I was passing the
door, sir, and have many pressing appointments tomorrow, I thought I
had best stop in now, so that you would hear the unfortunate news
sooner rather than later."
	"Unfortunate news?" echoed Nicholas, more puzzled than ever.
	"I am Lieutenant William Crawford's agent, Mr. Braithwaite, and it is
my unhappy duty to inform you of the death of his daughter Florence."
	Nicholas stared, utterly dumbfounded. "Miss Crawford is dead?" It was
the last thing he had expected to hear, but then again, perhaps not so
surprising. The candle, he had failed to get the candle away from her
. . . "What happened?"
	"There were some - ah - financial difficulties, which made it
advisable for Miss Crawford to leave Bath and return to the family
home in Northamptonshire. She was somewhat given to overspending her
allowance, particularly to support her brother, and there has been
some inexplicable delay at the Admiralty in sending on her father's
pay the last two months, so she decided to give up the house here. She
and the housekeeper were travelling by coach, and it seems the machine
was going excessively fast - there was some question of whether the
driver may have been drinking . . . in any case, the coach overturned,
Miss Crawford was flung out, and, I greatly regret to say, was gravely
injured and died shortly thereafter."
	Nicholas could think of nothing to say. He also could not understand
why this man should be coming to him to tell him about Florence
Crawford's death, but that mystery was solved when the other man
produced an envelope and handed it over. It was addressed to 'Mr.
Nicholas Braithwaite, Esq., 27 Westgate Buildings, Bath' in Florence's
untidy handwriting. It was unsealed.
	"This was among Miss Crawford's personal effects at the time of the
accident," said the other man. "Mr. Braithwaite, if the two of you had
an - er - an understanding, then you have my deepest sympathies. Miss
Crawford was a very sweet-natured young lady. If there is anything
further I can do for you, please feel free to call on me." He handed
Nicholas his card and excused himself.
	Obviously Lieutenant Crawford's agent had misinterpreted his shocked
silence for a griefstricken one. Well, it hardly mattered now. He
pulled the letter out of the envelope, reading it without difficulty
in the near darkness of the drawing room. When he had finished it, he
was unsure whether to laugh or to cry.

	"Mr. Braithwaite,

	"It is with great unhappiness that I must tell you that I have
decided to leave Bath. I write this from the Angel at Newbury where we
are waiting for the Northampton coach. This turn of events is truly
unfortunate, but it seems I must resign myself to returning to a
dreary village, when I should have far preferred to remain in Bath. I
shall console myself by remembering the many pleasant times we shared,
and the ball a week ago where we danced together.
	"I am so very sorry that in all the hurry of leaving, I did not have
a chance to say a proper goodbye to anyone, or to pay you for the
music lessons this month. I find myself with little ready money just
at the moment, but I hope you can be persuaded to accept this small
piece of jewellery instead. Father told me the stone is a real ruby,
so it has some value, and I remember that you admired it. I will be so
bold as to hope that when you look at it, you will think of me."

	The letter ended there. It had never been sealed, and was obviously
unfinished. Perhaps the coach had arrived before she had time to write
more. He could imagine her bent over the paper at a table at some
wayside inn, striving to make her note seem coquettish, probably
writing with a pen in one hand and a tear-dampened handkerchief in the
other.
	The envelope held nothing aside from the single sheet of paper.
Whether she had intended to put her jewellery inside after she had
finished the letter, or whether it had fallen from the envelope in the
accident and was now lying in a Northampton field, or had gone astray
at some point since then, hardly mattered now.
	For the third time, the amulet was gone.

	Nick finally dozed off on the couch, the sound of Florence Crawford's
sonatina haunting him even in his sleep, and didn't awake until past
nine thirty, after the sun had set. He found himself sprawled half on
and half off the couch; obviously, his sleep had been
uncharacteristically restless. It was a good thing it was Friday night
and he didn't have to get ready for work, he thought groggily, heading
straight for the fridge and a bottle of blood. Right at the moment,
mingling with mortals was the last thing he wanted to do. He drank
straight from the bottle, not bothering with a glass.
	The blood helped to clear his mind. Remembering that Natalie would be
arriving soon, he hastily showered and shaved. The face that looked
back at him from the mirror definitely looked like that of someone who
hadn't slept for several days. He sighed, knowing that Nat was bound
to notice and comment on his appearance.
	Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, he padded barefoot back downstairs to
open the shutters, light more candles, and down another glass of cow's
blood. When the elevator door slid open to admit Natalie, he was back
at the piano again, this time exploring the lyrical adagio from
Beethoven's 'Pathetique' sonata.
	He looked up with a welcoming smile, the notes trailing off under his
fingers. "Keep playing," she said. "It's beautiful."
	He obliged her by finishing the movement, then pushed away from the
piano. She applauded and he offered her a mock bow.
	"No encore?" she asked, and she seemed to be genuinely disappointed
that the performance was over.
	"Not tonight. Will you settle for a blood sample instead?"
	"Well, it's not nearly so aesthetically pleasing, but yes, it would
be greatly appreciated." She was already setting out her venipuncture
equipment on the kitchen table. He sat down in one of the chairs and
rolled up his sleeve, remaining dutifully still as she wrapped a
rubber tourniquet around his upper arm, wiped a patch of skin with an
alcohol swab, and then slid a needle into his vein. He never let her
know just how difficult this was for him. For a vampire, having blood
taken from the body, even in such a clinical setting as this, was
either an erotic act or a violation. In either case, the response he
instinctively felt was completely inappropriate here. He hoped she
attributed the tension that manifested itself each time to a simple
fear of needles.
	She took three tubes with brisk efficiency, removed the tourniquet,
withdrew the needle, and pulled out her black journal. "So, how did
you fare with the last protein drink?"
	"Well, I got some of it down," he answered diffidently.
	"How much is some, precisely?" she asked. As he hesitated, she
prodded, "Come on, Nick, I need to know this."
	She continued to question him about his blood intake and general
health, jotting down the answers with one hand while gently inverting
one of the tubes of blood with the other. The sight made him smile.
The beauty of her beauty, he thought, was that she was totally
unconscious of it. She had no idea how lovely she truly was.
	"What is it?" she demanded, seeing his smile.
	He shook his head, embarrassed at being caught staring. "Nothing.
Sorry."
	She replaced the book and equipment in her black bag and carefully
set the blood samples in a small insulated bag. "Well, you'll be
pleased to know that having to deal with the Middleton autopsy meant I
didn't get a chance to finish the new formula I was working on. I'll
have it ready next week. So what's happening with that case? I heard
you and Schanke have a lead."
	"I hope so," he said cautiously. "It looks like her death may have
been a mistake. As strange as it seems, there's a possibility the
killer may have thought she was someone else." He didn't want to talk
about Lesley Middleton, and cast around for a way to change the
conversation. "You look like you've got a bit of sunburn."
	She snorted. "Don't remind me. I was out on my bike most of the day
and I forgot to put sunscreen on. Do I look like a lobster?"
	"Of course not!" he reassured her, somewhat mendaciously. "Where did
you go?"
	"Down by the lake, along the Martin Goodman Trail. You know where I
mean. You've seen the waterfront a thousand times."
	"Only at night," he said . "Tell me what it's like in the sun."
	"Seriously?"
	He nodded. "Yeah."
	Touched by the sudden longing in his voice and eyes, like an exile
craving news of his homeland, she described her afternoon. The kids
playing on the sand and in the water along the eastern beaches. The
enormous freighters moored in the port and the ferries chugging back
and forth from the island. The ragged homeless man who had brought the
thundering traffic on the Lakeshore to a halt by casually wandering
across against the light at Parliament. All the tourists around
Queen's Quay. The aging elegance of Sunnyside Pavilion. The
omnipresent seagulls. She told him how clean and white the sailboats
had looked in the sun, and how even the murky harbour had sparkled
when the breeze picked at the water's surface and the sunlight caught
it, and about the clever or peculiar names she'd read on some of the
yachts in the close-packed marinas at Harbourfront. She told him about
sitting on a bench in Coronation Park, eating lunch and watching the
small planes landing and taking off from the island airport, all the
while surrounded by a gaggle of Canada geese apparently convinced that
they were about to receive a handout. She had begun to worry that she
was about to be swarmed when a woman with two little kids arrived at a
nearby bench and the geese abruptly switched targets.
	That got a smile from him, at least.
	"Hey, maybe I've got a new career path opening up here," she said
light-heartedly. "Natalie Lambert, tour guide to the sun."
	"Sounds like a good - " He broke off and cocked his head toward the
black square of the skylight. He was suddenly as tense as a watchdog
scenting danger. Natalie was more than a little alarmed to see that
his eyes had turned the green-gold of the vampire, something she had
only seen once before, when a supposedly shattered bomb victim had
risen from the dead on her autopsy table. Despite her scientific
curiosity about the physiological processes which brought about the
change in his eyes, she really had no desire to see it now, first hand
and at close range.
	"What - " she began.
	"Hush, Nat," he said, his voice deeper and raspier than his usual
timbre. Then he called up to the skylight, "Whoever you are, come down
here."
	Who in the world was he talking to? An over-zealous Jehovah's
Witness? A would-be housebreaker? Another - 
	"Oh, my God," she whispered, unconsciously backing away as the glass
of the skylight shattered and something plummeted through the opening
in a blur. She backed into the edge of the table and clung to it.
	The creature standing facing Nick, in profile to Natalie, appeared to
be a young human male. Dressed in the height of Goth fashion complete
with multiple body piercings, he was an inch or so taller than Nick,
and looked several years younger than the age Nick appeared to be. His
skin was startlingly white, the pallor enhanced by the black of his
outfit, and his face was badly pocked by what must have been a severe
case of acne in his mortal days - surely this seeming adolescent
couldn't be old enough to be a victim of smallpox?  His eyes, like
Nick's, were glowing eerily.
	"You've been following me," hissed Nick. "What do you want?"
	"I want the amulet," the other vampire hissed in return. "Give it to
me."
	"Why do you want it?"
	"Not your concern. Give me the amulet."
	"It's mine. Did you think I would just hand it over for the asking?"
	The other vampire laughed. The sound made Natalie grip the edge of
the table even more tightly. "Everyone knows about you, de Brabant,"
he said tauntingly. "You don't kill. You don't drink human blood.
You're a fool and a weakling. I'll break you in two if you don't give
me the amulet." He started for Nick with a smirk on his pallid face,
clearly intending to carry out his threat. His bared fangs caught the
light like white knives.
	And yet, two strides away from Nick, he stopped.
	Nick hadn't moved a muscle. His own fangs were prominently in view.
Under Natalie's horrified gaze, the glowing light in his eyes changed
from amber to fiery red. A low, rumbling growl issued from his chest
and reverberated around the room.
	The other vampire snarled back. Natalie felt a sudden hysterical urge
to laugh. They looked like two nightmare creatures playing a game of
'my fangs are bigger than your fangs'.
	If it was a contest, then Nick was winning. For the first time, the
intruder seemed to be hesitating. Nick growled again, and the Goth
vampire backed off a step.
	"Do you still think me a weakling, young one?" he hissed. "You'd do
well to learn more about your victim and not just listen to what
everyone tells you. Now run away home before you get hurt."
	The other vampire retreated another step. Nick made a feint towards
him, and he snarled and vanished back through the skylight.
	Natalie was glad she had the table to support her, because her own
knees weren't doing a very good job of it. The intruder was gone, but
she was suddenly very conscious of being alone with a creature who was
no longer her familiar friend but something - else.
	He had his back turned to her, gazing up at the skylight. Natalie
remained where she was, not daring to move, hardly daring to breathe,
until he turned again and came towards her, eyes blue and expression
remorseful. He stopped several paces away, hands extended as though he
wanted to wrap her in his arms but had suddenly realized that even
such a gesture of reassurance might be completely unwelcome now.
	"Nat, I'm sorry - I'm so sorry that you saw that," he told her. She
didn't know whether he was sorry simply because she had been forced to
watch an unpleasant potentially violent confrontation, or because she
had seen yet more evidence of the existence of vampires, or if it was
because she had witnessed another manifestation of his inhuman nature.
	Watching as his arms dropped to his sides as if he were trying to
pretend he didn't know that they'd been held out, she suspected his
regret was mainly due to the latter reason. She had assured herself,
and him, several times that her professional curiosity would outweigh
any fear she might feel under such circumstances. Well, that assertion
had just proven to be utter hogwash, as her pounding heart no doubt
clearly revealed to Nick; but she hadn't let the fear overcome her.
And now she had to convince him that as far as she was concerned he
was still the same person he'd been before the other vampire arrived.
	It was absolutely imperative that he realize that, or all the time
she'd spent gaining his trust would have gone for nothing.
	"Nick?" she questioned softly. "Are you all right?"
	"I'm fine," he answered brusquely. "Why shouldn't I be?"
	"I don't know, you just look as if you wanted me to leave you alone,
or something."
	"No! Don't ever think that. I just - it's - Nat, how can you stand to
be in the same room with me, after that little demonstration of what I
really am?"
	Natalie walked up to him and poked him lightly in the chest. "Don't
get me started. I thought I'd made my opinion on that subject
perfectly clear. Yes, your eyes changed and you grew fangs. I've seen
that before, remember? And I didn't flee screaming from the room then,
did I? And as far as getting violent goes, I've seen my own brother
have a worse tantrum than you just did, and he's just an ordinary
mortal. Good grief, I've probably behaved worse myself. You hardly did
more than stare him down."
	"You don't know what I'm capable of."
	"No, I don't suppose I do. But you're not going to convince me that,
fangs and glowing eyes notwithstanding, you could be as depraved as
some mortals."
	His body stance seemed to be a fraction less tense, but he was still
looking everywhere but into her eyes. She decided to shoot her final
bolt. She closed the last few inches of the gap between them and put
her arms around him.
	After a moment he hugged her in return, letting his chin rest on her
hair. She sensed that there wasn't as much conviction as there might
have been in that embrace, but still it showed that he had overcome a
major hurdle.
	Something crunched under her foot, and she suddenly realized that the
shattered glass from the skylight was everywhere around them and that
Nick was standing there in bare feet. "Nick, the glass! You'll cut
yourself."
	"Nat, it doesn't matter - "
	"Yes it does. Don't move till I get it cleaned up. I don't suppose
you own anything as mundane as a broom and dustpan, do you?" She was
already heading for the kitchen.
	"Under the sink."
	"Ah, the domestic vampire."
	After what had just happened, it was a relief to be doing something
so ordinary and everyday. She began sweeping the floor energetically.
Nick remained patiently where he was until she gave him permission to
move.
	"So what was that guy talking about?" she asked, dumping a panful of
glass in the kitchen garbage. "What was this amulet he wanted you to
hand over?"
	Nick didn't reply. She looked at him with suddenly narrowing eyes.
"Wait a minute. Someone called the morgue yesterday asking us to
double check the Middleton girl's effects for some kind of gold
pendant. We're not talking about the same thing here, are we?" At his
continued silence, she prodded, "Nick?"
	She would have taken bets that he wasn't going to say anything, and
she was wondering how she could shake some kind of answer out of him
when he answered quietly, "Yes. Lesley Middleton was wearing a pendant
on a chain. An amulet shaped like a candle, made of gold with a small
ruby for a flame. I removed it from her body, down in the ravine."
	"You did what?" gasped Natalie. He didn't answer, his look saying
plainly that he knew she'd heard him the first time. "Why?"
	"Because it was mine."
	"Y - yours?" she asked, stuttering a bit in astonishment. "How? Did
you know her?"
	"No. I bought it from a goldsmith on the Grand Pont in Paris, six
weeks before Candlemas in the third year of the reign of King Louis
IX." At her baffled look, he added, "January 1229."
	This time her mouth opened slightly but no sound came out. He crossed
to the table behind the couch and took the amulet from the wooden box.
He dropped it in her hands, as if holding it could make her better
understand why he had done what he had.
	"I lost it that same night in a game of dice, but the person who won
it from me was killed, and it was returned to me by someone who wanted
me to have a tangible reminder of that death. Three months after that,
I tossed it in the Rhône river at Avignon. Almost two centuries later,
I found it amongst the possessions of a man I killed near the town of
Perugia, in Italy.
	"I only had it for a very short time then, before I had to sell it. I
didn't see it again for four hundred years. That time it was in
England - Bath, to be precise -  and I was never actually able to get
my hands on it. Then it was lost. And now, two hundred years later -
here it is again."
	Amazement and awe were battling with disbelief on Natalie's face as
her gaze flickered between him and the gold candle. He plunged on, "I
don't know why it keeps coming back to me. All I know is that there
have been so many deaths while it's been in my possession, or even
just at my fingertips. Deaths that shouldn't have happened. Lesley
Middleton's is just the latest of many."
	"Why did you take it from her, then? Why not just leave it where it
was?"
	"Maybe it's something I'm meant to have," he answered slowly. "A
cross I'm meant to bear, so to speak. The person who gave it back to
me after I'd lost it at dice intended it to be. His son had just died,
and I was responsible for his death. I wasn't the one who killed him,
but he died because of me - we'd been fighting over the amulet, and we
attracted attention from the wrong people. Afterwards the father
killed himself. He was a vampire, and he went out on a rooftop and
waited for the sun to rise.
	"It's not an easy thing to kill one of my kind, even for another
vampire. I seem to have a talent for it." Involuntarily his eyes
strayed to the scorch mark on the door of the elevator.
	Natalie decided not to debate the metaphysical and theological
implications of his theory, nor was she about to indulge him with any
sympathy for his guilt about Lacroix's demise. From the little she
knew of the two thousand year old vampire, Nick - and the world - were
far better off without him.
	"You said there were so many deaths associated with it. Why don't you
just destroy it? Melt it down or something?"
	"I was planning to, once. It's just that - I don't really know what
it is. Aside from a piece of metal with a bit of rock stuck in it.
Sometimes I think that's all it is, and other times it seems as if it
must have some kind of evil power. I know that sounds really
melodramatic, but it's too much of a coincidence that so many people
have died while I've had it with me. If I destroyed it, who know what
might happen?"
	"Do you think it's cursed?" she asked suspiciously.
	"I don't know," he answered. "I know something like that doesn't fit
your scientific notions about the world." He smiled deprecatingly, so
she would know he didn't intend any offense. "But I've seen too many
things over the centuries to discount the possibility too quickly."
	She said practically, "Well, you can't have it both ways. If you
think it's been wished on you by a higher power - i.e. God - to remind
you that you were responsible for the death of those two vampires,
then it's hardly likely to make you go around killing more people, is
it? On the other hand, if you really think it's following you around
to make you kill again, I say get rid of it."
	He looked amused. "The consummate scientist. If a thing isn't black,
then it must be white. Every question has an answer, every puzzle has
a solution. Have you never come across something you couldn't
categorize?"
	"Are you saying you don't believe in the scientific approach any
longer?" she asked, nettled.
	He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked straight into her
eyes. "On the contrary. All my faith is placed in science at the
moment."
	"Not a very wise policy, Nicholas de Brabant. Do you really think
that science has anything to offer us, other than misery and false
hope?"
	Nick spun around with a vicious hiss, his eyes instantly flaring
gold. This new intruder stood in the centre of the room beneath the
broken skylight, as motionless as a column of marble which might have
been set there eons ago. Unlike the spectacular arrival of the young
Goth fledgling, this one's advent had been as silent as a shadow. Nick
had  neither heard nor sensed anything until this other vampire had
chosen that he should do so.
	Slender white hands lifted the shadowing hood away from the face.
Nick found himself staring directly into the eyes of the woman he had
last seen nearly eight hundred years ago in a stinking Paris alley,
when those same delicate hands had torn the head of another vampire
from his shoulders. The Enforcer.
	And this time, he knew exactly why she was here. Whether it was
because of Lacroix's death or the fact that he had not only allowed a
mortal to know about his existence but to attempt to alter that
existence, there was no lack of reasons why the Enforcers should deem
it essential to put an end to him. And, of course, they would leave no
witnesses, which meant that Natalie too would die. If there was really
a curse laid on the amulet, it was about to claim its final victims.
	He snarled in defiance.
	The vampiress smiled the icy smile he remembered from their first
encounter. "Still a fighting cock, I see. Don't bother ruffling your
feathers at me, de Brabant. My emissary failed in his task, so I've
come in person to reclaim my property."
	This wasn't at all what Nick had expected to hear. "Property?"
	"The amulet. It belongs to me."
	"It's mine. I bought it from a goldsmith on the Grand Pont, the same
night you killed Jehan."
	"It was mine before then. It was made for me two hundred years before
you were even born. But if you don't wish to hand it over, no matter.
Now that I'm here, I see I should have given credence much earlier to
the rumours that you were consorting with a mortal. The first time we
met, you were nothing but an ignorant fledgling. You hardly have that
excuse now. You know the penalty to be paid. Afterwards I will simply
take the amulet from your ashes." She directed her chilling smile at
Natalie. "So convenient that your mortal is here. I'm saved the
trouble of tracking her down."
	Her eyes changed from bullet hole black to crimson and she snarled,
revealing immense, glittering fangs.
	"Run, Nat!" shouted Nick, and launched himself at the Enforcer.
	Natalie could no more have run than she could have flown through the
skylight. Sheer terror, both for herself and for Nick, combined with a
desperate need to know what was going to happen, prevented her from
escaping. She could only stand and watch as Nick and the female
vampire grappled, hissing and snarling.
	It quickly became obvious that the combatants were far from evenly
matched. Nick managed to land a few blows, but they had little effect.
Had Natalie's legs been capable of carrying her to the door, she
wouldn't have gotten as far as the ground floor before the female
vampire picked Nick up bodily and tore his throat apart with her
fangs. Face smeared with his blood, she began to drink from him
avidly. Nick gave a howl of pure fury that trailed off into a ghastly
bubbling noise and struggled helplessly. Natalie was as unable to look
away as she had been to run. She felt as if she were watching a rape.
	Nick's movements dwindled to nothing more than a rag doll flopping as
the other vampire shifted him in her arms to tear even more fiercely
at his throat. Natalie thought his eyes were closed, but there was so
much blood everywhere it was hard to tell. The tableau was like an
obscene travesty of Michelangelo's Pieta, with the dead Christ limp in
Mary's arms. Tears began to flow down Natalie's cheeks.
	Finally the woman had drunk her fill, or else Nick had nothing left
for her to take. She straightened and released him. His body tumbled
to the floor, landing on the rug with a muffled thud. The sound was
echoed by Natalie's anguished whimper.
	The vampire regarded her with a stare that was as piercing as a
stiletto. The red had ebbed from her eyes and her fangs were concealed
again, but there was still something other than human in her
motionless gaze. The totally inappropriate thought occurred to Natalie
that the woman bore more than a passing resemblance to  Morticia from
the Addams Family, but the comparison failed to mitigate her fear. She
found that she had backed all the way into the kitchen and was still
trying to get further away, even though the unyielding edge of the
countertop was now pressing into her lower back.
	In the blink of an eye the vampire had closed the distance and now
stood directly in front of her, holding out one bloody hand. Natalie
realized she was still clutching Nick's little gold candle; in fact,
she had been holding it so tightly that the thin gold loop shielding
the ruby flame had left an imprint on her palm. Her hands were shaking
so much she could barely control them, but she dropped the amulet into
the vampire's waiting grasp.
	The woman stood turning it over and over, examining it carefully. She
made no further move towards Natalie, who finally cleared her throat
and managed tremulously, "Is he dead?"
	The woman looked back at Nick's crumpled body. "No. Although by
rights I should kill him. Defying me was simply the latest of his many
transgressions." Holding the amulet, she went back to kneel beside
Nick, turning his head up with one hand to look at his blood-streaked
face.
	"Nicholas de Brabant has been in frequent contempt of the Code," she
continued. "But his master has been overly indulgent. And now his
master has paid the price for that."
	From what little Nick had told her about Lacroix, Natalie couldn't
believe that. 'Indulgence' had hardly seemed to be the watchword of
their relationship. But she wasn't about to argue.
	Still regarding Nick, the female vampire said musingly, as if to
herself, "There is something in him that others of our kind would find
contemptible, but I would not wish to see destroyed.  A depth of soul,
perhaps. Even though most vampires don't believe they possess a soul
at all. In many cases we don't. It would appear that Nicholas, in this
as in so many other things, is an exception."
	She fell silent. Natalie almost began to breathe normally again.
	With her eyes still fixed on Nick's face, the vampire said softly,
"For the sake of the one who made my amulet for me, I will let you
both live."
	Then she looked up, black eyes pinning Natalie brutally. "Go now. Get
out of here."
	Perversely, Natalie suddenly wanted desperately to stay. Nick
couldn't simply be all right, not with every drop of blood drained
from his body, and she was frightened of what this other vampire might
do to him while he was still vulnerable. "What about Nick? I have to
know he's all right. I can't just - "
	Her protests were met with an angry, open-mouthed hiss. Natalie took
the hint and fled.

	She spent the weekend alternately worrying about Nick and jumping at
shadows in case the woman had changed her mind and decided to come
after Natalie after all.
	By Sunday evening she still hadn't heard from him. She had barely
slept in two days and felt worn to a shadow herself. She debated about
whether or not to call in sick, but decided she would be better off
with other people around than spending another night alone in her
apartment with all the lights on.
	She decided to drive to the loft before going in to work. Glancing up
at his windows as she drove in to the yard of the warehouse, she saw
with dismay that they were all still shuttered, even though the sun
had set more than an hour ago.
	She buzzed for entry at the security keypad, but there was no
response. She let herself in and travelled upwards in the creaking
freight elevator, heart beginning to pound with trepidation. The door
opened on a room in complete blackness. She groped along the wall for
a light switch and a few of the lights came on.
	The loft looked exactly as it had when she had left. The only sound
was the slow circling of the ventilation fan above the door. Her eyes
went first to the rug in the centre of the room, half-expecting to see
Nick still lying there, but there was no sign of him or of the other
vampire.
	"Nick?" she called hesitantly, out of a dry mouth.
	Something stirred in the shadows at the top of the stairs and Nick
slowly descended, holding the handrail.
	"Are you all right?" she asked anxiously, hurrying to the foot of the
stairs.
	She thought he looked paler than normal, but it was hard to tell in
the dim light. There was no sign of the obscenely gaping gash in his
throat. He was dressed neatly in jeans and a black denim shirt, but he
hadn't shaved.
	"I'm fine," he answered. He sounded tired, but he looked a thousand
per cent better than he had done when she'd last seen him. "Are you
all right?" He took her hands in both of his and stared hard at her.
	"Oh, fine. Well, a little stressed, actually, but basically okay."
	He nodded, gave her hands a brief tight squeeze and released them. He
crossed to the fridge and pulled out a wine bottle. He poured out a
glass of blood, looked an apology, and drained the glass in three
strong swallows. She knew better than to scold him. Recovering from a
near-fatal assault was hardly the time for experimentation with a new
diet.
	"Well, what happened? Is she gone?" Natalie demanded.
	Nick poured a second glass and sipped at it. Eventually he answered,
"Yes, she's gone. As for what happened - I'm not really sure."
	"Who was she?"
	"She was an Enforcer." At Natalie's blank look, he elaborated, "A
group of vampires whose task is to protect us by punishing those who
break the Code. Any vampire who draws human attention to our existence
can pretty well be guaranteed a sudden end to his or her immortality.
Then they kill the humans involved, as well. To stop the rot before it
can spread, so to speak."
	Natalie remembered several occasions when he had alluded to some
shadowy force from which they would both be in danger if her knowledge
of Nick's secret was discovered. But she was surprised to be told that
vampires, who seemed like the embodiment of individualism, subject to
no law except their need for blood and the necessity of staying away
from sunlight, would be sufficiently regimented to have a form of
internal police.
	But she filed that knowledge away for future contemplation. Right now
she had no interest in learning anything more about Enforcers.
	"But she didn't kill us," she said wonderingly.
	"No. Believe it or not, I think it was the amulet that saved us."
	"She said something about 'the one who made it for her'."
	"She told me part of the story, afterwards. When she was still a
mortal, she married a man who was a goldsmith, who she loved deeply,
even after she'd been brought across. He was the one who made the
candle for her. Did you notice the inscription on it?"
	She shook her head.
	"'Por illuminer les ténèbrus'. It's very old French. It means to
light the darkness, or the shadows. He made it after she'd become a
vampire, you see. Then, without intending to, she killed him one
night. She was hungry, and he was there. End of story. It wasn't until
it was too late that she realized what she'd just done. The amulet was
all she had left of him.
	"It's hard to hang on to things, even something that small, when you
live so long and have to move around so often. She lost the amulet, or
it was stolen, I'm not sure which. Anyhow, she's searched for it for
centuries. Ironic, isn't it? She never found it until now, while I,
who didn't even want it, had it dropped in my lap four times over."
	"Did she have any idea how that could have happened?" Natalie was
curious to know if the Enforcer had subscribed to any of Nick's
theories about the amulet being cursed, or sent to him by a higher
power. Had she thought that it caused the owner to kill? Would she
have cared if it did? Or did she think that the whole idea was
nonsensical? Natalie found the entire situation so bizarre that she
would have welcomed another opinion, even from a creature that was
apparently some sort of supernatural assassin. 
	Nick dashed her hopes. "If she knew, she wasn't about to tell me. We
didn't exactly have a heart to heart chat."
	"Maybe," began  Natalie slowly, and then stopped. She was hesitant to
put into words an extremely half-baked theory she had begun to
formulate over the nerve-wracking weekend, because it presupposed the
existence of some kind of supernatural guiding force that would
concern itself with anything as trivial as a piece of jewellery, and
that was a realm into which she was reluctant to stray. Then again,
God moved in mysterious ways, as they said. Who knew? Maybe this was
one of them. Maybe she just wasn't wise enough to say.
	Nick was looking at her curiously. She gathered up her courage,
hoping he wouldn't think her idea was totally ridiculous. Then again,
why should it be any more ridiculous than his? "Maybe," she repeated,
"something - or someone - sent it to you for just the reason it said.
To shed light in the darkness. To remind you of your search, your
quest, for the light inside of you. Now, I wasn't there, obviously,
and I don't know what happened when you had the candle before, but
maybe you need to look differently at the deaths you think it caused.
Maybe those people would have died anyway." She couldn't quite bring
herself to say "Maybe you would have killed them anyway, with or
without the amulet". "Maybe more people would have died. What if the
candle was just there as a reminder to keep searching for the light,
no matter how dark things seemed?"
	"Then why not leave it with its rightful owner?" challenged Nick.
"She needs a reminder just as much as I do."
	Natalie shook her head. "Maybe she's just not searching as hard as
you are. From what you said, killing people is a career choice for
her. She's not doing it just to survive." 
	There was a thoughtful silence. Nick picked up his glass and gently
rotated it, staring at the ruby swirl as if there might be an answer
there. If what Natalie was suggesting were true, then perhaps he would
never see the gold candle again. Now that he had her in his life, what
did he need with charms and amulets? Her faith and trust in him
supplied all the reminder he would ever need to keep searching for a
way out of his darkness, and was a treasure far more valuable than a
thousand gold and ruby candles. 
	Finally he said, "Well, anyhow, she must have taken it with her when
she left. I'm still amazed she was so lenient with the both of us. You
know, I think the only reason she sent that kid in first to try to get
the amulet was because she knew if she came herself, she'd have to
face the fact that I was doing something I shouldn't - i.e.
'consorting' with you - and then she would be compelled to destroy me.
And yet, in the end, she still couldn't do it."
	"She said that you had a 'depth of soul'," Natalie told him gently.
"Maybe you've got a kindred spirit there."
	Nick shuddered briefly, remembering the casualness with which the
woman had torn Jehan's head off. He himself might be capable of that
act, but not, he hoped, of the attitude. "If she ever comes after me
again, Nat, I'll be dead for sure."
	There was another silence while Nick finished the contents of his
glass. Natalie was still trying to come to terms with what had
happened, and why.
	After a moment she said, "But don't you think that it's the most
romantic story you've ever heard? I mean, after all these centuries,
this supposedly soulless monster was still trying to find that amulet,
because it was given to her by her long-dead husband."
	Nick briefly touched his forefinger to her lips. "What I think is
that we'd better not mention it again. Any of it. The fact that we're
still alive and can remember what happened is her gift to us. I don't
know why she allowed us to keep our memories - but I do know that
she's trusting us not to tell anyone what she did. Enforcers aren't
generally known for being merciful. Any who start showing leniency are
liable to run into the pointed end of a very sharp stake."
	Reluctantly Natalie nodded her assent, unwilling to relinquish such a
fascinating topic. But she certainly didn't relish the idea of a
return visit from the Enforcers. Forcing  her mind back to more
mundane matters, she said, "Are you going in to work tonight?"
	"Oh sure, I'll be fine. What about you?"
	"I'm on my way in right now."
	"Can't let a little thing like a vampire invasion interfere with your
work schedule, huh?"
	"Of course not."
	When she was almost to the door, he called softly, "Nat?"
	She turned around. "What?"
	"Do you have any more bike trips planned for next weekend?"
	"I don't know. It depends on the weather and how much energy I have
left. Why?"
	"Um - if you go, would you mind being my tour guide to the sun
again?"
	She looked at him standing in the half-dark of the sparsely lit room,
with a hopeful smile on his face, and couldn't help but smile in
return.
	"Any time."
	
	
	
	
Fin

August 2000 - April 2001