After having not posted any new fiction since last year's "Release," I 
find myself struggling with a storyline that simply will not go away.  
For that reason, I've decided to follow Mark Twain's excellent advice 
and pass the monkey.

This story, "For Whom the Bell Tolls," is a bit of a departure for me 
(it's somewhat darker than my usual fair), but again, I haven't been 
able to get the idea out of my head.  It's mainly a LaCroix story, and 
pits the normally implacable ancient against circumstances and elements 
that were somewhat inspired by comments that he made in second season's 
"A More Permanent Hell," and also by Nick's experiences in "Near Death."

So, for better or for worse, here it is.  And if you find this story a 
bit strange, maybe the above will help serve to explain how it came 
about.

Regards,

Stephen Lansing
Phoenix348@clicksouth.net


Disclaimer: This story is based on the characters and situations of 
Forever Knight, and falls into the third season timeline sometime 
following "Night in Question."  Forever Knight is the creation of James 
Parriott and is owned by Sony. No infringement is intended.

Permission to archive at Mel's site and FKFANFIC2. All others, please 
ask first.  And one correction from Part 00:  this story will be posted 
in eight parts, not seven.

For Whom The Bell Tolls (Part 01/08)

By:  Stephen Lansing

"And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for 
thee."

-John Donne (Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions-1624)

***

With most of the Raven's boisterous clientele safely in the hands of the 
ever-watchful Miguel, Lucien LaCroix decided that he could finally allow 
himself the luxury of a brief repose in his private quarters before the 
time came for Nightwatch to begin. Even one of LaCroix's great age and 
stamina could not fail to appreciate the recuperative powers granted by 
the welcoming embrace of a soft couch and the satisfying company of a 
fine vintage. Besides, a few minutes away from the smoke-laden haze and 
distraction of the Raven's main level would allow him to complete his 
ruminations upon a topic for the night's broadcast.

LaCroix smiled slightly at the thought of a topic as he emerged from the 
sea of patrons and made his way to the Raven's back rooms. His 
Nightcrawler persona was a source of immense personal satisfaction to 
LaCroix, a favoring smile of the age of technology upon a very ancient 
predilection for playing at the role of skeptical manipulator on the 
world stage. In a century in which the world was ripe with unrest from 
the tallest towers of government to the nuclear family itself, topics 
for philosophical discourse were in no short supply, and if society 
proved too boring, LaCroix always had the option of probing the mind of 
Nicholas, his wayward progeny. For the moment, however, it seemed to 
LaCroix that he had exhausted all of the recent and more pressing social 
issues and, for once, Nicholas seemed to be at a relative state of ease 
with himself.

LaCroix's smile grew mischievous as he entertained several thoughts 
concerning how he might unravel the latter state of affairs.

It was on this note that LaCroix arrived at his private quarters and 
came to a sudden stop. His thoughts momentarily distracted with 
Nightwatch topics, he had failed to notice something that would 
certainly not have escaped his notice at any other time: the swift, 
rhythmical sound of a human heartbeat emanating from his apartment.

It would seem that he had an uninvited guest.

The insult of such an intrusion was intolerable, and had LaCroix heeded 
his first instincts on the matter, he would have burst into the room and 
torn the intruder's throat out. For now, however, LaCroix would content 
himself with applying the appropriate pressure to discover why this 
individual had chosen to violate his privacy.

And *then* he would tear their throat out.

He did burst into the room, though. Moving faster than the mortal eye 
could perceive, LaCroix crossed the threshold and slammed the door 
behind him with a terrific bang.

The intruder turned out to be a young male who looked to be in his early 
twenties. He was of a relatively slight build, had thick, sandy-blonde 
hair that was parted in the middle and wore green and white mottled 
high-top sneakers, black jeans, a tan-colored button-down shirt and a 
black leather jacket. He had evidently made himself quite at home in 
LaCroix's apartment as he was stretched out on the couch, hands locked 
together behind his head in a very restful pose. And he showed 
absolutely no alarm at LaCroix's sudden entrance, a fact that annoyed 
the ancient vampire nearly as much as the intrusion itself.

LaCroix's already rigid posture stiffened further. "This is *not* a 
public area," he informed the intruder coldly.

This statement elicited a large grin from the one on the couch. "Of 
course not," the intruder responded amiably. He then swung his legs over 
the side of the couch and stood to his feet in one fluid motion. "I 
mean, it's not the best idea to kill somebody in public, you know."

This sort of reply was so unexpected that LaCroix nearly smiled in spite 
of himself. He *would* have an interesting topic for tonight's broadcast 
after all:  hubris.  And he would have a satisfying meal as well. "Am I 
to understand then," LaCroix said, taking a few steps forward and 
regarding the intruder with a disdainful look, "that you have come here 
with the intention of murdering *me?*"

"That's the basic idea."

"I see. And may I ask what particular motivation lurks behind this 
impromptu assassination attempt?" Amused, LaCroix would play along for a 
few moments longer before dispatching the arrogant, irritating mortal. 
Interestingly enough, the boy seemed genuinely unafraid of him. He 
clearly had no idea who or what he was dealing with.

The intruder left his position by the couch and wandered into the middle 
of the room, waving one hand idly around in response to LaCroix's 
question. "I don't ask a lot of questions, you know. I just take their 
money and do what they ask."

LaCroix raised both eyebrows very slightly. So he had been hired had he? 
LaCroix could not deny that there were those who had a vested interest 
in seeing him dead, but none of them were mortal, and even if they had 
been so foolish as to actually attempt to destroy him, none of them 
would have been so foolhardy as to send this young, mortal hooligan to 
do the deed.

"And of course, I don't suppose that I would be permitted to know just 
whom this mysterious employer of yours might be?"

The intruder grinned and shrugged his narrow shoulders. "Sorry, but I'm 
afraid I really can't say. I guess we should get on with it though, eh?" 
Still smiling, he moved toward LaCroix until the two were separated by 
no more than six inches of empty air, and flicked his right wrist 
sharply, revealing a large hunting knife that had been concealed in the 
arm of his jacket. He held the knife casually at his side.

LaCroix shook his head mournfully as he looked at the wide, steel blade. 
No, the boy clearly had no idea who or what he was dealing with, a fact 
that made LaCroix idly wonder if the entire situation might be a set-up 
of some sort. Someone could have paid the boy to try and kill him, all 
the while knowing that LaCroix would kill the child instead. Perhaps an 
anonymous call had already been placed to a Metro police precinct in 
anticipation of this, and squad cars might be on their way even now. It 
was entirely possible that one of his immortal enemies would arrange 
such an inconvenience simply to annoy him.

But there was something in the boy's manner that caused LaCroix to 
rapidly dismiss this suspicion. A killer could recognize another killer. 
And this boy had killed before, of that LaCroix was certain. His manner 
was simply too relaxed, too detached, for him to be a novice. He might 
hope to kill the owner of a business establishment in the hope of coming 
by some quick cash, but then the boy said that he had been hired to do 
this. And something in the boy's matter-of-fact revelation made LaCroix 
believe him. He had indeed been sent to do this. But again, by whom, and 
why so inadequately armed, remained to be seen.

There was only one way he could think of to truly know everything that 
the boy himself knew. The life of the flesh, to quote an ancient source, 
was in the blood, and as those of LaCroix's kind knew very well, so was 
a shadow of its knowledge.

"Well, may I at least ask whether the condemned man is to be given a 
last request, or would that not be consistent with your employer's 
instructions?" LaCroix was tiring of this game, whoever it was that had 
invited him to play aside. But he would end it on his own terms, to his 
own satisfaction, and then he would know who it was anyway.

The intruder chuckled in his annoyingly self-confident, almost 
indifferent way. "They didn't exactly say anything about that, now that 
you mention it. But what could it hurt? What would you like? A smoke?"

LaCroix's demeanor then rapidly shifted from cold indifference to 
towering menace as he loomed over the intruder, relishing the stirring 
of his vampiric energies and determined to unleash them to maximum 
effect. "Why, I think I'd like to see the look on your face just before 
you die," he hissed at the boy.

The intruder shrank back as LaCroix, with fangs now bared and golden 
eyes flashing, seized him by the shoulders. For his part, LaCroix paused 
long enough to enjoy the arrogant mortal's sudden turn of fate. He 
nearly laughed as the helpless intruder struck out at him with the 
knife. Mortal fear upon the emergence of the vampire had always been 
immensely pleasing to LaCroix, but even more enjoyable was that sudden 
moment when a mortal had struck his best blow and realized that it was 
struck in vain. LaCroix seized the intruder's wrist and prepared to tear 
the knife loose so that he might strike the death blow unencumbered by 
the inconvenient mortal weapon.

It was then that he realized that all was not well.

***

Send all comments to:

Stephen Lansing

Phoenix348@clicksouth.net




For Whom The Bell Tolls (Part 02/08)

By: Stephen Lansing

***

LaCroix's hand moved from the intruder's wrist to the knife that was now 
buried in his chest up to the hilt...where a fire unlike the sting of 
any weapon of steel was now raging. Inexplicably, LaCroix could not feel 
the sliding of the blade as he pulled the knife from his chest, nor was 
there any blood on the blade. The metal was still as bright and shining 
as though it had never been used at all.

LaCroix had only an instant to wonder at this marvel before an explosion 
of pain rocked his body, its epicenter in his chest, at his heart. 
Normally, the most damage a mortal knife could cause would be a slit in 
the flesh, perhaps an uncomfortable tear in the heart tissue if the 
blade entered at the appropriate angle. Both of these wounds could 
briefly incapacitate a vampire, but they would heal in a matter of 
moments for one of LaCroix's age and power. Now though...

The mortal was laughing at him. It took a moment for LaCroix to notice 
this sudden change through the haze of intense pain that had flooded his 
senses. LaCroix could feel his great strength ebbing from his body; his 
knees began to buckle. Enraged, LaCroix dropped the knife, his golden 
eyes turning crimson as he launched himself at the mortal's throat with 
a growl, only to be rewarded by a second explosion of pain in his left 
hand, as though he placed it into an open flame. Drawing back with a 
gasp, LaCroix saw that the intruder now held a cross, which he had 
pressed into the flesh on the back of LaCroix's left hand with instant, 
excruciating results.

The intruder laughed again as LaCroix cradled the seared flesh of his 
hand against the greater pain now throbbing relentlessly in his chest. 
"Gotta hate that," the mortal sighed in his maddeningly detached 
fashion.

LaCroix was barely aware of the comment. Another wave of white-hot pain, 
far worse than the last, seared through his chest and struck outward 
into his every extremity. His knees gave way at last, and LaCroix 
twisted as he fell to the floor, desperately trying to roll with the 
blow that he knew was coming. The attempt was useless. He struck the 
floor with an impact that jarred every bone in his body and further 
angered the monster gnawing hungrily at the inside of his chest.

LaCroix was so engrossed with the spasms of torturing pain that he did 
not notice the intruder recover his knife and come to kneel on the floor 
beside him.

"Man, you *are* pretty tough," the intruder said with sudden apparent 
interest. "Most of them go down just like that," he added with a snap of 
his fingers.

The ancient vampire made as if to hiss at the intruder but another wave 
of pain prevented him from doing anything more than clawing the floor. 
The intruder shook his head sadly.

"Sorry about that, old man, but it looks like you underestimated me, and 
my knife." The intruder held his knife in front of LaCroix and regarded 
it with admiration. "Don't worry about it though, everyone else falls 
for it too. You see it's like this. You have to hold the knife sideways 
like so..." The intruder held the knife out for the purpose of 
illustration, sideways as he had indicated, the same manner in which he 
had first brandished it. "If you do it like that, no one can tell that 
it's anything more than just a big knife. But..." At this point, the 
intruder turned the knife over theatrically. "If you turn it this way, 
then you can see that there's this big hole on the other side of the 
blade. And can you guess what that's for?"

LaCroix mustered enough strength to growl at his adversary, but his 
limbs were too heavy to do more than writhe with the spasms of pain that 
tore at him continuously now. He cursed himself for not killing the 
mortal outright when he had had the chance.  Hubris indeed.

The intruder continued with his explanation of the knife's function. 
"That hole is where a very nasty piece of ash wood used to be. Once I 
stab you with it, all I have to do is press a little button on the side 
of the knife and a spring-loader shoots it right in beneath the skin, so 
you can't just pull it out. Very quick, very clean. Not like those big 
messy stakes at all, but it'll kill you just as dead. And last but not 
least...the blade." The intruder placed one finger atop the point of the 
knife blade and pressed downward. The blade slid easily down into the 
hilt. "It's retractable. Cool, eh? Works like a charm."

Enraged but helpless, LaCroix was forced to listen as the intruder 
prattled on sarcastically in his apparent triumph. He had been deceived, 
perhaps fatally so. Someone had sent the boy to do this, someone who 
knew that LaCroix was a vampire, and the boy had undertaken the risk, 
obviously knowing that LaCroix was a vampire. But why would any mortal 
take such a risk for money? According to his last sardonic remarks, and 
LaCroix had no reason to believe that he would lie at this point, he had 
killed vampires before. Most people that hunted vampires did so for 
revenge though. Paid vampire hunters were supposedly a thing of distant 
past now, and why one so very young?

If it had been for the purpose of putting LaCroix off his guard, it had 
worked admirably.

Fighting off the pain by sheer force of will, LaCroix managed a single 
word:

"W-who?"

"He speaks," the intruder said with a hint of genuine astonishment. "He 
said you were probably old and strong but I didn't know *how* strong."

<*He*> LaCroix's eyes flashed crimson with rage.

"Well, you'll be glad to know that I lied when I said I couldn't tell 
you who it was. The truth is, he wants you to know; I want you to know.  
Nobody had to pay me to do this." The intruder placed the unusual knife 
that he carried into his left jacket pocket and smiled at the struggling 
vampire.

Then he leaned down and whispered into LaCroix's right ear, his voice 
hushed but turning hateful in its tone. The reaction was instantaneous. 
LaCroix jerked and clawed at the floor again in a maddening attempt to 
rise. His body rewarded the exertion with a fresh stab of pain, which 
gradually gave way into a cold, numbness weighing down every limb. It 
was a foreboding sign that his ordeal was nearing an end.

The intruder moved away and watched LaCroix's renewed struggle with 
interest. Now that he had imparted his secret, the boy's manner had 
transformed from its initial indifference to cold, callous hate. "I'd 
like to sit around and watch you die, but I guess it won't be long 
before another one of them comes looking for you, so I'd better take off 
now."

LaCroix tensed suddenly as the intruder lifted one foot and brought it 
slowly down on his chest, pressing forcefully against the flesh. The 
wooden dart imbedded in the vampire's heart shifted and LaCroix would 
have screamed aloud if he had possessed the strength.

The boy glared down at him and lifted his foot. "You burn in hell," he 
said coldly.

Every instinct in LaCroix's mind and body cried out for pursuit as the 
mortal turned and walked away. Yet there was nothing to do but to fight 
the darkness that now crept in on him from every side, slowly 
dissipating the life from his tortured body and permitting only his eyes 
to follow the intruder.

Just before exiting the room, the intruder turned once more and regarded 
LaCroix with that same hateful stare, so contrasted with his earlier 
detached appearance. The boy had made an excellent con man.

That was, after all, part of the reason why he had been sent.

Part of the reason...

And it was with this last vision that the darkness finally won.

***

Send all comments to:

Stephen Lansing

Phoenix348@clicksouth.net




For Whom The Bell Tolls (Part 03/08)

By: Stephen Lansing

***

LaCroix's eyes snapped open.

The mortal intruder who had so viciously deceived and then tried to kill 
him had opened the door and was preparing to step into the hallway.

Pain, humiliation and rage all fused into one solid boiling mass as 
LaCroix bared his fangs and flew at his would-be murderer with all of 
the strength he could summon from his weakened body.

The mortal stepped through the door.

LaCroix was on him instantly, but it appeared that the pain of his 
injury had dulled his otherwise keen senses. Instead of colliding 
directly with the mortal, LaCroix merely brushed him before slamming 
into the wall with a force that drove the wind from him. He felt no real 
pain from the mishap, only the same numbness that he had experienced 
prior to temporarily losing consciousness. The boy had obviously 
miscalculated. LaCroix's mobility seemed to have suddenly returned.

Curiously, the intruder appeared not to notice the sound of LaCroix's 
growl, the brush of his touch or the crash of his impact.

Undaunted, the enraged LaCroix whirled and threw himself at the mortal 
once again just as the apartment door was beginning to close.

This time his aim was true, but the results were far from what was 
expected.

Upon impact, LaCroix should have had immediate control of the situation, 
should have dragged the mortal down and finished him. Instead, the 
moment he touched the mortal, LaCroix felt as though his body were 
surrounded by a thick, frigid fluid, the intensity of which startled and 
weakened him. As a vampire, he not been affected by the cold in nearly 
two millennia. It was then that he felt the equally baffling sensation 
of being pushed away by a powerful, unseen hand. LaCroix was spun off to 
the side as a child might roll down a hill, and again impacted with a 
wall. This time, however, his strength did not return so promptly. He 
was forced to lie still, watching helplessly as the mortal turned to 
walk down the hallway, making good his escape.

Indignant, LaCroix took a swipe at the intruder's legs.

And watched in amazement as his hand passed through those legs as surely 
as if he had sought to capture a mirage. Again, LaCroix experienced the 
sensation of extreme cold, this time confined in the hand that had 
touched the intruder. LaCroix looked at his hands, dumbfounded by what 
he had just experienced. It was then that he noticed yet another 
mystery.

The cross burn on his left hand had vanished. And now that he realized 
it, there was no wound at his chest, not even any pain.

It was possible that the burn, although quite severe, had healed 
quickly, but that offered little consolation as to why he had failed in 
a second attempt to tackle the intruder, nor could it possibly explain 
the absence of pain in his chest, pain so intense that it had caused him 
to lose consciousness only a moment before. LaCroix knew that he had 
made contact with the mortal, and yet, somehow, he could not remember 
feeling the boy's body, only the sensation of extreme cold. Nor did it 
make any sense to think that the mortal could have somehow pushed him 
away and caused him to fall again. And, as if that were not enough, 
there was one last mystery: why the mortal had seemingly been oblivious 
to all of LaCroix's efforts to restrain him.

Snarling, LaCroix rose to his feet, although with great difficulty, and 
set off in pursuit of the intruder who was now nearing the Raven's main 
level. He had gone no more than ten feet at a vigorous pace when a wash 
of vertigo suddenly dropped him to his knees. From there, LaCroix was 
further reduced to lying face down on the club floor as though he were 
anchored by some fantastic weight, his strength fled. Lifting his head 
slightly, LaCroix could see the intruder now mingling with the club 
patrons as he made his way toward the main exit.

Another attempt to rise was greeted by the same wash of vertigo and the 
same prostrate position. LaCroix gritted his teeth and fought once more 
against the pull of gravity before reluctantly resting his body in the 
hope that he might be on his feet again after a brief rest. But as 
accustomed as LaCroix was to the supernatural strength and stamina that 
his vampire nature afforded him, it was no simple task for him to lie 
still, even though he knew that he had been badly wounded. Again, he was 
confronted by the odd fact that what had once been a devastating pain 
was no longer even slightly present. Aside from weakness, he felt 
nothing.

LaCroix resolved that the injury he had sustained must now be affecting 
his mind somehow, but although he might explain his own sensations in 
this manner, what about the intruder he had pursued? The mortal had paid 
no attention to LaCroix's movements, almost as though the vampire had 
not been there at all.

Dismissing such concerns for the moment, LaCroix once more attempted to 
get to his feet, although much more slowly this time. As he noted 
before, he felt no pain, only a numbness that pervaded his entire body 
and left him feeling extraordinarily weak. Fortunately, no one had come 
into the hallway while he had been lying there. The proud immortal would 
not have lived such a humiliation down easily, and whoever discovered 
him might not have lived at all.

After the grueling exercise of trying to rise while pausing for short 
periods of rest, LaCroix was finally able to get to his feet. By now the 
intruder, more aptly the assassin, would have been well on his way to 
his next destination. For that reason, LaCroix would see to his own 
recuperation before setting off in pursuit of the mortal boy and the one 
other who was involved in this deed. The mortal undoubtedly believed him 
dead, thus his revenge would have the added advantage of surprise. For 
that reason, LaCroix determined that it would not be wise to show 
himself in the Raven's main area, but rather to confine himself to his 
own apartment for the time being. He would call Miguel at the Raven's 
bar to bring him whatever he needed until he had recovered and decided 
what he would do. Miguel could be trusted.

Turning, LaCroix stumbled back to the door of his apartment. He had 
enough of his own private stock there already to aid greatly in the 
first stages of his recovery.

Arriving at the door, LaCroix attempted to twist the knob but found it 
unyielding. Startled, he tried once again with the same result. "Enough 
of this," LaCroix growled as he placed his shoulder against the door and 
shoved with all of his might.

To absolutely no avail.

LaCroix stared at the door. It was not all that heavy, nor was it even 
locked. There was no reason for it not to open. And why could he not 
even twist the knob? Furious at his now weakened condition and the 
stubborn door, LaCroix hurled himself at the door only to be repulsed as 
surely as if the door were made of caste iron.

Once more, the effort of attempting to force his will against his body's 
wishes had exhausted him. LaCroix could not turn the doorknob but 
instead clung to it in an attempt to keep from sinking to the floor once 
again, his anger and humiliation mounting further.  As unpleasant as the 
prospect was, it appeared to LaCroix that he would have no choice but to 
go to Miguel for help. He might lose the element of surprise in his 
quest for vengeance as a result, but it was infinitely preferable to 
dying in the hallway.

Still moving uneasily, LaCroix made his way to the Raven's main area 
where the bar, lounge and dance floor were located. Despite his profound 
weakness, LaCroix attempted to straighten his shoulders and stand erect 
as he entered the area where he knew others could now see him. 
Fortunately, the patrons went about their business, paying no attention 
to the ancient.

LaCroix made it halfway to the bar when he once again encountered 
inexplicable difficulties. A tall brunette and her escort walked into 
LaCroix as though they had not seen him. LaCroix shot the couple a 
brutal look, one that did not even seem to register with the mortals as 
they approached. When it became clear that they did not intend to alter 
their course, LaCroix withstood the mortals to their faces out of sheer 
anger.

They collided.

LaCroix's experience with the intruder/assassin was repeated. The 
instant that the mortal bodies came into contact with LaCroix, the 
latter was subjected once more to the sensation of being surrounded by 
an icy fluid, and then propelled off to one side where he fell heavily 
to the floor. The mortals walked on, apparently oblivious to what had 
just occurred.

Getting to his feet now seemed more difficult than ever. Finally 
managing it, LaCroix made his way to the bar even more cautiously than 
before, carefully avoiding contact with the persons around him until he 
could determine what it was that was happening to him. Uncertainty was 
also something that LaCroix was unaccustomed to, and the annoyance of it 
merely added to his already growing hostility.

By the time that LaCroix arrived at the bar, he was exhausted and nearly 
collapsed against the structure. Miguel was at the far end of the bar, 
serving two couples who had just entered the club. LaCroix rested where 
he was for a moment, waiting for Miguel to come to the cash register 
that was closest to where he stood. He had only a moment to wait.

"Miguel," LaCroix called out as the Raven's bartender began ringing up 
the sale.

The other vampire ignored him.

"Miguel," LaCroix called out more vehemently than before.

Still, he was ignored.

Stunned, LaCroix watched as Miguel completed the transaction and moved 
away to give the customers their change. How dare one of his employees, 
one of his most trusted at that, ignore him! In ancient times, if a 
servant had treated him so...

"Answer me, Miguel!" LaCroix's shout was in vain. No other heads at the 
bar even turned to see what he was shouting about.

"He can't answer you if he can't hear you," a voice said. It had the 
tone of amusement to it.  Snarling, LaCroix turned toward the sound of 
the voice.

Seated on a stool next to where LaCroix stood was a tall, powerfully 
built man with coal black hair and eyes of a color LaCroix had never 
seen before, eyes that he found, to his own consternation, frightening. 
They were silver.

The man was looking directly at him and smiling, although his smile 
entirely lacked warmth. In fact, it appeared rather contemptuous. His 
odd eyes struck LaCroix as being similar to a two-way mirror, a glass 
that reflected one's own image back, but still allowed others to observe 
them from the other side.

And he sensed a powerful presence on the other side of those two silver 
pools, watching him through his own reflected image.

Unnerved, and patently unused to being so, LaCroix turned fully on the 
man, his anger so intense that he did not care that his fangs were 
visible. He reached out to seize the man, having had enough of arrogant 
mortals for one night, but was almost immediately subjected to the same 
unsettling sensation of cold that he had experienced before. As he fell 
to the floor, LaCroix saw that another mortal had come to stand at the 
bar as though the space where LaCroix stood had been empty. The same 
invisible force had thrown the ancient down once again.

This elicited a laugh from the black-haired man who shook his head sadly 
as LaCroix struggled to regain his footing. The vampire's rage had 
turned his eyes a blazing crimson as he regarded the laughing man, and 
he prepared to lunge until the man's next words stopped him.

"Well, you're certainly not the man you used to be, Lucius."

LaCroix hesitated at the use of his Roman name. The vampire's unfailing 
memory assured him that he had never seen this individual before, but 
somehow this man knew him by a name no mortal any longer knew. And he 
was the only being in the Raven since the attack who seemed to have paid 
LaCroix any notice at all. All others, humans and vampires alike, had 
ignored him as though he was not there.

At that moment, had LaCroix not been concentrating so fully on the 
stranger before him, he might have noticed that Nicholas had entered the 
Raven, and was even now racing through the crowd toward the back rooms 
where his master's apartment was located.

Send all comments to:

Stephen Lansing

Phoenix348@clicksouth.net




For Whom The Bell Tolls (Part 04/08)

By: Stephen Lansing

***

"Lambert."

"Nat, it's Nick. I need your help."

"Okaay, and a happy Tuesday to you too. What's wrong?"

"I need you to come to the Raven as soon as you can."

"The Raven?"

"Yes, I need you to come now!"

"I suppose I could get away for a few minutes, now why do you sound so 
upset?"

"It's LaCroix, Nat. He's dying."

***

"Who are you? I'll not ask again!"

The man with the strange silver eyes was still smiling in spite of 
LaCroix's hostility. "Come now, Lucius. How can you not recognize me? 
We've been very close for many years now, you and I."

LaCroix rose from the floor on unsteady legs. The assumption that the 
man before him was mortal had been immediate and based upon the fact 
that there were none of the signs of vampirism in him, save the pallor 
of his skin. But aside from his pale skin, the stranger was completely 
normal in appearance, wearing a long, black winter coat that nicely 
complemented his dark gray, expensively-looking suit. And LaCroix had 
never seen a vampire with silver eyes.

"I do *not* know you," LaCroix growled as he rose to his feet. "How is 
it that you know me?"

"Well, we've never been formally introduced, if that's what you mean," 
the man responded calmly. "We had...an appointment of sorts once, long 
ago, and I was looking forward to it even then." He sighed. "I've come 
very close to meeting you several times since then as well, but, 
regrettably, something has always intervened."

LaCroix grimaced, his fangs still visible although the color of his eyes 
had faded to gold once more. "I told you once already. I *don't* know 
you, and I have certainly never had any sort of appointment to meet 
you."

"But that's where you're wrong," the man replied with another smile. 
Then, as LaCroix looked on in astonishment, the man's wide face and body 
contorted and narrowed, his short dark hair turned blonde and pulled 
straight back from his forehead. His silver eyes became golden and fangs 
dropped in a mouth that uttered a girlish voice where masculine tones 
had previously sounded. "Life can cheat death! It will always find a 
way!"

It was Divia's face, Divia's voice. LaCroix shrank back from the vision 
of the daughter he had lost so long ago, the one who had given him his 
eternal existence in the fiery destruction of Pompeii.  He turned away, 
unwilling to believe to believe in the transformation that had taken 
place before his eyes.

"I don't like being cheated, Lucius. I really don't."

When LaCroix turned back, he was staring into silver eyes once again. 
Again, those around them, both humans and vampires, had taken no notice 
of what had just occurred, and LaCroix now believed that all that he was 
experiencing amounted to nothing more than the delusions of a 
pain-stricken mind. The sudden revelation was even quite liberating in 
light of the possible alternatives.

"And I suppose that you expect me to believe that *you* are Death," he 
spat at the man. "Or is it the Angel of Death? Or is there another name 
that you would prefer?"

If LaCroix's sarcasm had struck a nerve, the man concealed it well. "The 
name is of little consequence really."

LaCroix advanced on the being. Whatever he truly was, LaCroix could no 
longer think of him as being a "man." No man he had ever encountered was 
like this. "I *don't* believe in angels," he said, coldly.

"The choice to believe, or not to believe, does not change what is," 
came the reply.

Now it was LaCroix's turn to smile. "Well, then. If I'm seeing the Angel 
of Death, it follows that I must be dead, is that not so?"

This time when the man responded, his smile had vanished. "You died ages 
ago, Lucius. Your heart died within you while you were still a child. 
You may walk the earth still but you have been dead for a very long 
time."

LaCroix's momentary amusement with this being's masquerade quickly 
evaporated. "I do what I must to survive," he said, defiantly. "I have 
outlasted empires, trampled on the graves of my enemies and disposed of 
the weak. If the heart must fail so that the body and mind are made 
stronger than so be it, but I *will* endure!"

"On the contrary, my friend." A shadow fell across LaCroix as the man 
rose from his seat at the bar, a scowl on his pale features. "Your time 
is at an end."

Send all comments to:

Stephen Lansing

Phoenix348@clicksouth.net




For Whom The Bell Tolls (Part 05/08)

By: Stephen Lansing

***

LaCroix's retort fell empty as he realized that the scene had changed.

He was no longer standing by the Raven's bar. He was back in his 
apartment.

But one thing had not changed. The strange man with the silver eyes was 
still with him, standing on the far side of the room and staring at him 
intently, amusedly.

And between them, lying prone on the expensive carpet was a body: his.

Someone else was also with them in the room: Nicholas. He was stooped 
down beside the body of his fallen master, apparently searching for 
wounds. There was blood on LaCroix's chest, but the wooden dart had been 
shot completely beneath the skin, and subsequent surface healing had 
evidently covered the signs of its entry. It was still there though, 
fatally lodged in LaCroix's silent heart.

LaCroix stared down at his own inert form, silently wondering if he 
could believe what he was seeing. The attack had certainly taken place, 
but what of everything that he had seen and experienced since that time? 
Was it all a product of his own fevered imagination, brought about by 
pain and trauma? Confusion was not something that LaCroix had often 
encountered in his long life. Nor was weakness. But right now, he felt 
both of these things, and keenly at that.

He finally looked up when he heard soft chuckling from across the room. 
The man, whoever or whatever he might be, was mocking him.

"Puts it all into perspective nicely, doesn't it?" he asked, smiling. "I 
thought a closer look might help drive the reality of the situation home 
a little more for you."

"And what exactly is this supposed to prove?" LaCroix's words emerged 
with a great deal more defiance than he truly felt. In reality, he was 
shaken. He was not given to imagining things, and never had been. Not 
even under the worst of circumstances.

"Still can't accept it, can you?"

"Accept what, exactly?"

The stranger walked toward him. Instead of sidestepping Nicholas and the 
body on the floor, he continued straight ahead, not bothering to step 
over or around them but stepping *through* them.

For an instant, LaCroix could see the stranger's body shift as he passed 
through them, shift in the same way that light refraction could make a 
boat oar seem disjointed when plunged beneath the water's surface. But 
then he was whole again, standing directly in front of LaCroix as if he 
had not even noticed what he had just done. It made LaCroix suddenly 
think of what had happened when he reached for the intruder who had 
attacked him, and what had happened later when he had encountered 
patrons on the Raven's dance floor. He had passed through them as well. 
But unlike himself, the stranger seemed to have suffered no adverse 
effects from the passage.

It was then that LaCroix noticed that he could not feel the stranger, 
could not sense him at all. There was no heartbeat, no apparent 
breathing. Nothing. It was as though he were a mirage, or a reflection 
of some sort, not solid, living flesh at all.

LaCroix then chided himself for considering, even if only for a moment, 
that the man could actually be real, that he was anything other than a 
product of his own fevered mind. This was foolishness. There was no 
afterlife, at least in any conventional sense that he could accept as 
rational. It was all a trick of the mind, a last gasp of dying 
consciousness trying desperately to hold on to reality.

And that was when the other man struck him.

***

"Nick?"

Nick looked up from where he knelt beside LaCroix to see Natalie Lambert 
at the apartment door, her gaze connecting briefly with his before 
falling to where LaCroix lay. Her expression was one of anxious 
uncertainty.

"He's been staked, Nat."

Natalie's first instinct was to balk at that diagnosis as she could see 
no obvious wound of any kind. "Are you sure?" she asked, kneeling down 
beside Nick to examine LaCroix more closely.

Nick nodded firmly. "It's lodged beneath the skin, but I can see the 
heat from it, like an infection." He placed his fingers at the center of 
LaCroix's chest. "You can feel it here."

Hesitant though she was, Natalie reached out and touched the spot on 
LaCroix's chest that Nick had indicated. He was right. There was a 
discernable bulge there that could be readily felt although it was not 
plainly visible. Something was definitely lodged beneath the skin.

Shrugging off her winter coat, Natalie opened the clasps on her medical 
bag and withdrew a unit of blood plasma with a length of clear, plastic 
tubing attached. "I'm not much of an expert on vampire first-aid," she 
said, "but it worked for you, so it's worth a try."

Nick watched as Natalie stretched the plastic tubing to its full length 
and secured a long, thin needle to one end. She reached out and 
unbuttoned the lower half of LaCroix's shirt, Nick already having 
unbuttoned the upper half, and carefully inserted the needle into the 
vampire's pale flesh. Once this was done, she gave the bag a quick 
squeeze and started blood flowing through the tubing.

"How long has he been down?" she asked then, reaching back into her 
medical bag.

"About twenty minutes, I think."

"Do you know how it happened?"

Nick shook his head gravely. "No, I can't think of anyone who could've 
gotten close enough to actually do it."

"Another vampire?"

"Possibly, probably."

Natalie removed two latex gloves from her medical bag and slipped them 
on while they talked. Now she fished through the bag again and pulled 
out an instrument pack from which she removed a scalpel. She hesitated 
then, looking first toward LaCroix and then back at Nick. Her eyes asked 
a question that Nick understood as plainly as if she had spoken the 
words aloud.

<Do you really want me to do this?>

Nick nodded. "Quid pro quo, Nat. I owe him that at least."

***

Send all comments to:

Stephen Lansing

Phoenix348@clicksouth.net




For Whom The Bell Tolls (Part 06/08)

By: Stephen Lansing

***

LaCroix struggled to rise as the stranger's shadow fell over him.

"Perhaps that will convince you that I'm not just some figment of your 
imagination."

LaCroix snarled and threw himself at the man who sidestepped him easily 
and then struck him across the back with a laugh.

Reeling, LaCroix pitched forward onto the floor again following his 
abortive attack, this time lying still and feeling as though his 
strength had completely deserted him. Whatever his situation truly was, 
further efforts were clearly useless.

The man knelt down beside him, flashing an amused smile.

"Like it or not, you are now a disembodied spirit, Lucien LaCroix, and 
disembodied spirits loose energy progressively as their host body 
functions deteriorate.  They lose energy to function on *this* plain of 
existence, that is. You might have realized that by now were you not so 
stubborn and arrogant. But then again, that's your trademark style, 
isn't it?"

LaCroix turned his head to the side, an otherwise simple movement that 
now took all of the strength he could muster. He could still see his own 
body lying there on the floor a few feet away. Nicholas was still there, 
and now someone else was as well. It was Natalie Lambert. Apparently, 
she and Nicholas were trying to help him in some way.

Or already thought him beyond helping. And as much as his mind sought to 
reject such notions, LaCroix now began to wonder if what the stranger 
said was indeed true. He began to wonder if he was truly dying, and if 
what he was seeing was real, not just some pain-induced psychosis.

"In case you're wondering," he heard the man say from somewhere above 
him, "the effort of trying to return to your body would only weaken it 
faster, thereby killing you faster. You're welcome to try, of course, 
but I rather doubt that you're in any shape to do much of anything right 
now.  Of course, in another few minutes it won't make any difference."

LaCroix turned back to the man, blue eyes blazing. "I'm glad to know 
that you're enjoying this so very much," he said. But even the minimal 
effort needed to speak left him feeling drained and he fell silent.

"Well, you can hardly blame me," the man answered with his constant 
smile. "After all, I've waited a long time for this.  You've never been 
quite weak enough for me to take advantage of the situation.  You came 
close during that little flaming stake episode a few years back though." 
His smile faded then and he regarded LaCroix with an expression similar 
to the one his young attacker had worn, a hard, cold look that burned 
with long restrained hatred.

"So, tell me," he asked. "How does it feel?"

"How does what feel?" LaCroix spat with as much effort as he could 
muster.

"Why, being powerless of course," the man replied. "How does it feel for 
someone who has spent his entire life dominating and exploiting others 
from a position of strength to be so suddenly and completely powerless?"

LaCroix's brow furrowed heavily as he scowled back at the man. "Life 
feeds on death. The strong survive by preying on the weak, that is the 
way things are."

"What you do isn't surviving," the man said with a scowl of his own. 
"You exploit others for your own pleasure. You kill and maim because you 
enjoy it."

The man seized him roughly by the left wrist, making him wince.

And when he opened his eyes again, the scene had changed.

Just as he had somehow been transported from the Raven's main level to 
his own private quarters, LaCroix now found himself in the midst of an 
ancient battlefield following what must have been a great slaughter. 
Bloodied bodies of the dead lay in heaps as far as the eye could see 
while soldiers of the victorious army were gathered in a great cheering 
throng.

They were Roman legionnaires. LaCroix suddenly knew where he was, what 
he was seeing.

The stranger was with him still and now gripped him painfully by the 
arm, hauling up into a standing position. "On your feet, and show some 
respect. The commanding general is about to speak!"

LaCroix scowled at his antagonizer, made no effort to resist as he knew 
by now that such would prove futile, and then looked to where the man 
was pointing with one outstretched finger.

He saw himself, as he had been nearly two thousand years ago, a mortal 
who stood unafraid in the light of day. LaCroix found himself staring, 
wondering at the vision before him.

Brandishing the triumphant smile of a conquering hero, the victorious 
mortal Lucius rode into the midst of his gathering men, brought his 
mount to a halt, and raised his hand for silence. It took a few moments, 
but the cheering gradually subsided to where Lucius evidently thought a 
majority of the soldiers gathered around him could hear what he had to 
say.

"Brave men of Rome," he shouted into the crowd. "After a long and 
arduous struggle, you have, this day, won a great victory such as shall 
be remembered as long as the name of Rome itself resounds in the ears of 
men!"

Renewed and spirited cheers erupted once again, some of the legionnaires 
chanting the name of their victorious leader. General Lucius permitted 
this to go on for a moment and then once again motioned for quiet.

"News of your victory shall fly to every corner of the empire, and our 
enemies, far and wide, will know that the indomitable might of Rome has 
been proven once again in the blood of those who presumed to question 
our power and supremacy. Women and children will cheer you, Senators 
will laud you, the Emperor himself will congratulate you, and the gods 
themselves would be hard pressed to reward you sufficiently for the 
service you have rendered this day."  Raising his hand once again to 
stave off a renewed bout of cheering, Lucius continued.

"And while I do not presume to speak for what reward the gods might have 
in mind, I may yet do what little my mortal means permit in order to 
reward you, my faithful legionnaires, for the glory you have brought 
upon my house. See beyond you the city of your fallen enemy." Lucius 
deftly drew his sword from its sheath and leveled at it ominously at the 
city.

"In those dwellings, you will find the wives and daughters of those you 
have slain. They are now, body and soul, the property of Rome by right 
of conquest. Their souls I leave to priests, but as for their bodies, I 
hereby order you to take full possession of them in the name of the 
Emperor!"

Lucius's last words were drowned in a torrential sea of cheers and war 
cries as his men took from the field toward the city by hundreds, and, 
as the word spread, by thousands.

"Tell me, Lucius of Pompeii," the man said as the scene unfolded. "What 
threat did the defenseless women and girls of that Gaulic city pose to 
your victorious army? To your cherished need to survive?"

LaCroix stiffened. "Had a barbarian army taken a Roman city, they would 
have done the same! But then, if you truly are who you say you are, you 
know that already. The command was far from unique."

"Neither was mercy unique! You had it within your power to be merciful 
and you chose to be cruel. No custom or tradition bound you to do this; 
you did it because you enjoyed it!"

LaCroix opened his mouth to reply but then stopped as a sickly, warm 
sensation formed in the pit of his stomach and gradually worked its way 
outward like ripples created by a stone dropped into still waters.

A wave of nausea washed over him and he fell to his knees once again.

***

Natalie gasped and instinctively pulled back as LaCroix's body jerked a 
second time.

"The blood must be helping him," Nick said, hopeful. Perhaps it was not 
too late.

"Maybe," Natalie said, leaning back over LaCroix's chest, but leery of 
further spasms. "Maybe. But it could've just been a reflex reaction too. 
Anyway, I almost had it."

Natalie carefully separated LaCroix's pale flesh with her gloved fingers 
once again and felt for a solid object that didn't belong there.

"There it is," she said. "I just have to get hold of it now and then I 
can try pulling it out."

LaCroix's reaction had given Nick cause to hope, and he knew that 
Natalie was doing her best, but he was still fearful.

The blood supply in the bag Natalie had brought was almost exhausted. 
LaCroix's injured body was simply consuming it too quickly.

<Hold on,> Nick thought, placing his hand on LaCroix's.

<Hold on just a minute more.>

***

Send all comments to:

Stephen Lansing

Phoenix348@clicksouth.net





For Whom The Bell Tolls (Part 07/08)

By: Stephen Lansing

***

The sensation of nausea passed enough that LaCroix could open his eyes 
again.

They were no longer in ancient Gaul.

Now they were in a desert place.

In the distance stood a large wooden door. As LaCroix watched, it swung 
slowly open, revealing a corridor of blinding white light.

LaCroix immediately knew where he was. He was in that place where those 
who hovered between life and death were faced with a choice. He had been 
here once before, staring into the beckoning light as Divia called his 
name from some far off place, called him to turn away from the light, 
called him back to an eternity of darkness and bloodlust.  He had called 
others, including his Nicholas and Janette, back from the very same 
place.

"Remember this place, Lucien LaCroix?"

The man was there again. He stepped between LaCroix and the Gate, 
partially eclipsing its brilliance. His silver eyes stood out even more 
hauntingly when framed against the glow that surrounded him.

"This is where you made your choice. Where you chose the power to make 
your evil even stronger."

"I remember," LaCroix said as he stood to his feet. With the nausea 
passed, he suddenly found himself stronger again. "I remember that this 
is where I chose to live! To survive!"

"And now the time for choices has passed. Now the time for reckoning has 
come."

"I answer to no one!"

"Really?" The man smiled again, and from somewhere around them LaCroix 
could hear a whispering sound, starting slowly like a building wind in 
the distance, and then growing louder, more insistent.

It was the sound of voices. Angry, clamoring voices.

"Do you hear them?" the man asked, fixing LaCroix with his empty, silver 
eyes. "Do you hear the voices?"

The sound was growing even louder now, like the roar of expectant crowds 
in a Roman arena.

"Those are the voices of your countless victims, the voices of the weak 
upon whom you preyed to make yourself strong. They are assembled to 
accuse you, to judge you, to see you humbled at last."

The open Gate transformed, it's brilliant white light replaced by a 
thick, throbbing red glow like a bloody fog.

LaCroix felt himself being drawn to the Gate. He tried to resist and 
stand his ground, but the pull was relentless.

The Gate drew steadily closer, a yawning crimson inferno.

***

"Got it," Natalie said, turning to Nick. "Here goes."

She took a breath, tightened her grip on the wooden shaft embedded in 
LaCroix's chest, and pulled.

***

LaCroix cried out and fell to the ground clutching at his chest in 
sudden agony.

"The hour has come round at last, Lucien LaCroix. Those whom you have 
judged shall now judge you."

He could still hear the voice of the mysterious man who had taunted him 
through this perplexing series of events, although the man himself was 
suddenly nowhere to be seen.

"No man judges me!" LaCroix shouted at his invisible antagonist as he 
struggled against the pull of the Gate. The pain in his chest had faded 
as suddenly as it had come, but he felt himself steadily weakening. "You 
have no power over me!  If you had you would not have played such games 
after waiting so long; you would have taken me and been done with it!"

"Cast yourself on the mercy of those to whom you showed no mercy," the 
voice answered from somewhere in the void, ignoring his taunts. "Explain 
to them that their destruction was a necessary sacrifice for your 
survival, for your pleasure through the long centuries!"

His struggle against the Gate was nearly lost. Another few feet and it 
would have him.

The voices around him were louder now, calling him, damning him.

LaCroix dug his feet into the ground as best he could against the pull, 
and groped for something to take hold of but his fingers clutched vainly 
at the sandy earth.  He was still being dragged relentlessly forward.

And then through the din he heard a voice, a different voice than those 
clamoring for his destruction.

It was Nicholas. It was Nicholas calling to him.

***

The wooden shaft came free as Natalie jerked backward.

LaCroix's body thrashed violently and he gasped as if struggling for 
air.

Nick crossed over him and cradled LaCroix's head in his right hand while 
raising his left wrist and baring his teeth.  He looked quickly at 
Natalie who winced but could not bring herself to look away.

Nick bit down on his wrist and then pressed it to LaCroix's lips.

He called out again to the ancient.

***

The world around LaCroix had vanished into dark oblivion. Nothing 
remained now except for the Gate and the pulsing inferno beyond.

And the jeering voices that beckoned him to damnation.

Then he heard it again, the sound of Nicholas calling to him above the 
fray.  He struggled to answer while clawing in vain at the ground, 
finally losing his battle and falling forward into the Gate.

For an instant he could feel a hellish heat embracing him.

And then nothing. He was in free fall. The voices that had mounted to a 
booming crescendo around him now fell silent.  He could hear Nicholas 
plainly now, still calling, and a renewed strength surged through him.

But then he heard another voice calling to him from the darkness. It was 
faint, but clear enough that LaCroix could all but actually see the 
hollow silver eyes and smiling lips of the one who had come for him, the 
one who had come so very close to claiming him this night.

"You have won nothing but time, Lucien LaCroix, nothing but a longer 
time to ponder damnation.  I will be waiting.  *They* will be waiting.  
No man cheats death forever!"

***

Send all comments to:

Stephen Lansing

Phoenix348@clicksouth.net




For Whom The Bell Tolls (Part 08/08)

By: Stephen Lansing

When LaCroix opened his eyes again he was sitting upright on the floor 
of his apartment grasping Nicholas's wrist, his mind racing.

His mysterious tormenter was nowhere to be seen.

Nick pulled his wrist away and steadied LaCroix, slowly lowering the 
ancient back down to the floor.  Natalie had retrieved a bottle of 
LaCroix's reserve from the apartment's refrigerator, and now handed it 
to Nick who uncorked it and offered it to his master.

LaCroix sat up again, took a long draught from the bottle and set it 
aside. He looked from Nick to Natalie and back again.

"Nicholas. Doctor. It seems that I am in your debt."

"Well it wouldn't be the first time, would it?" Nick asked with a 
half-smile. But his eyes betrayed his thoughts. LaCroix nodded in 
understanding.

"Feeling better are we?" Natalie asked while placing her laxtex gloves 
and the now empty plasma unit into one of the red bags she usually 
carried on the job.

"Indeed." LaCroix rose to his feet, trying not to appear annoyed at 
Nicholas's assistance. He was only too well aware that without 
Nicholas's assistance, this night might have ended quite differently. "I 
believe I owe you my thanks, Doctor, for relieving me of a 
certain...inconvenience."

Natalie had wrapped the wooden dart in a towel that was lying on the 
kitchen counter, and she held it out to LaCroix.

The ancient took the dart and inspected it closely. "Somewhat more 
effective than appearances would first suggest," he said finally. "Ash 
wood, particularly potent to our Kind, more than making up for its 
relatively small size."

"Well now that we know the 'what,'" Nick said. "I'd be curious to know 
the 'how' and the 'who.'"

"Uh, I think that's my cue to go back to work." Natalie picked up her 
medical bag and slung her coat over one arm.

LaCroix handed the dart to Nicholas and stepped toward Natalie. "Allow 
me," he said.

Natalie hesitated for a moment and then realized what he meant by the 
gesture. She placed her bag on the floor and handed LaCroix her coat. 
Turning around somewhat warily, she slid her arms through the coat 
sleeves as LaCroix held it out for her.

Nick handed her bag to her. "Thanks for coming, Nat."

She had seen how deeply worried Nick had been, and thought again that 
she might never understand the relationship between Nicholas and his 
vampire father. There was some quixotic bond between them that defied 
true enmity but never seemed to allow true friendship either.

"Thank me after you see the bill," she said, and then made her way out, 
leaving the two vampires alone.

"So," Nick said, turning to LaCroix. "Are you going to tell me who did 
this?"

LaCroix considered the question for a moment, reaching out to take the 
dart back from Nicholas.

"For the moment, suffice it to say that the past came calling."

"Anyone I know?"

"Indirectly, yes. But not a danger to you."

"You're not going to tell me who it was then?"

LaCroix took the bottle that Nick had given him earlier and poured a 
glass for himself, rubbing lightly at his chest where the wound had 
almost completely healed. "The assassin believes that he has 
accomplished his mission, and I would rather like for him to continue to 
think that way for awhile longer until a suitable reply can be made. 
Until that time, I believe it is better that you not know."

Nick nodded, frustrated by his master's evasiveness but knowing from 
experience that it was useless to probe further.

"Which is not to say that I am not grateful for your assistance, 
Nicholas," LaCroix offered with somewhat less rigidity than usual. "It 
is most fortunate that you came when you did."

"I felt that something was wrong, but I wasn't sure what."

"Then I am fortunate that your senses have not entirely degraded."

Nick smiled. "No, not entirely. I had a pretty good teacher, you know."

"Indeed."

LaCroix stared down at the dart in his hand. To think that he had come 
so close to whatever apparently awaited him on the other side of that 
Gate, all because of something so small, because of a vendetta so old.  
He could hear the voice of his young assassing once again, whispering 
into his ear with a voice weighed down with the hatred of years.

<Compliments of Liam O'Neil, bloodsucker...for killing his mother, my 
grandmother, and leaving him, my father, a freak of nature. You've had 
this coming for a long, long time...>

"LaCroix?" Nick could see that his master was seemingly lost in thought, 
but more than this, he seemed genuinely shaken. LaCroix had come close 
to destruction more than once in the past during their time together, 
but this time there was something different in his eyes, something 
haunted, something most atypical of the usually confident ancient.  The 
look vanished though when LaCroix finally turned toward Nicholas, his 
old self-confident persona taking charge once again. And yet his steely 
blue eyes betrayed a greater than usual behind-the-scenes effort to 
maintain that appearance.

"There is no cause for concern, Nicholas. I am merely experiencing 
after-effects of the unique qualities of the ash wood. It will pass in a 
few hours time."

"And you'll let me know if there's anything that I can do to...to help."

"Again, you are not a target of this particular vendetta, Nicholas, and 
I would rather it stay that way. For that reason, this is something that 
I should handle alone.  The assassin had one target, which he struck 
successfully so far as he knows.  But as the familiar saying goes: 'Ask 
not for whom the bell tolls..."

"It tolls for thee," Nick finished.

"Quite.  And my young friend will soon discover why that particular 
saying has endured so very long."

Nick nodded again and turned to leave. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Thank you, Nicholas."

"You're welcome. Good night, LaCroix."

"Nicholas."

Finally alone, LaCroix turned his attention back to the dart that he 
held in his hand, his thoughts on what he had seen, heard, and felt this 
night.

<You have won nothing but time, Lucien LaCroix...nothing but time.>

His fingers closed around the dart, exerting pressure. He could feel it 
cracking, hear it snapping.

<I will be waiting.  *They* will be waiting.>

"We shall see," he said.

And he crushed the dart to splinters.

"We shall see."

END

***

Send all comments to:

Stephen Lansing

Phoenix348@clicksouth.net