This story, such as it is, was supposed to have been finished in
time for last Christmas. Good thing I don't have to earn a living
from writing (probably a good thing in any case).

Standard disclaimers apply: I don't own the characters; if I did I
might be a bit more careful with them.

Permission to archive on fkfanfic, fkfanfic2 and the ftp site.

The Spirit of Giving 1/3
Mary Chamberlain
December 2002


When Nick Knight walked into the 96th Precinct at ten minutes to
eleven in the evening of February 1st, it looked like the beginning
of just another ordinary night shift – except for the fact that there
was a plush white life-sized groundhog sitting on top of the front
desk.

Nick stopped dead and curiously eyed the stuffed example of Marmota
monax.

"Happy Groundhog Eve, Nick!" said the harassed-looking staff
sergeant behind the desk.

"Huh?" replied Nick in a somewhat less than perspicacious manner,
still looking wonderingly at the ersatz groundhog.

"In another hour and ten minutes, it'll be Groundhog Day," explained
the staff sergeant. "I guess someone decided we should commemorate
it. There was a fire alarm a few minutes ago and we all had to
evacuate, and when we came back in – well, here they all were."

"They?" echoed Nick. Looking past the desk and into the squad room,
he realized the place was full of stuffed white groundhogs. There
seemed to be one on every desk. There were easily a dozen of the
creatures, in various poses, all surveying their new habitat with a
glassy-eyed stare. Through the half-open door to Captain Cohen's
office, he glimpsed one apparently lounging on the captainical desk,
with what appeared to be a daisy held negligently in one paw.

"Any idea who put them here?"

"Nobody saw anything. One minute the place looked like normal, the
next it's Groundhog Central. My money's on your partner, though."

"Schanke? The only thing that gets him out of first gear is the
sight of a souvlaki stand offering a midnight special. I don't think
he could pull something like this off."  Nick had a sudden mental
image of his brown-polyester-suited partner spinning around the
police station like a sort of mini tornado, stuffed groundhogs
spewing from the vortex. He closed his eyes against a resultant brief
sensation of vertigo.

"I don't know how he did it, but who else would have thought of
something like this?" The sergeant eyeballed the plush toy. "I gotta
admit, though, they are kinda cute."

Nick made his way into the squad room. There was a buzz of
conversation and laughter as other members of the night shift arrived
and saw the plush toys. Detective Miller's groundhog was draped in
his shoulder holster. Berman's had its paws wrapped around a coffee
mug. A female officer was cuddling one in her arms unashamedly cooing
to it. Shaking his head, Nick arrived at his desk to discover his
chair occupied by a groundhog of his very own. He picked it up and
held it at arm's length. The thing regarded him with a glazed stare.
Several people noted that Nick's expression as he stared back was
remarkably similar.

At that point Schanke breezed in, saw all the stuffed animals and
stopped dead. "Man oh man, what happened here?"

There was a chorus of "Yeah, right, Schanke!" "As if you didn't know!"

"Didn't know what?" Schanke protested.

"Like you weren't the one that put them here," said the sergeant at
the front desk. "Nice idea, though."

"I just got here," said Schanke indignantly. "I've never seen these
things before."

The general opinion of his fellow officers, loudly expressed, was
that he was lying through his teeth, and that he was the only one
wacky enough to do something like this. Schanke, equally loudly,
denied all knowledge. Captain Cohen popped out of her office,
groundhog tucked under one arm. "Detective Schanke, do you have any
idea how these toys got here?"

"Not the slightest, Captain," said Schanke with his best injured
innocence expression. "Hey, I've got a family to support. Do you
think I could afford to go out and buy all these stuffed animals on
what I make?"

"Huh." Cohen turned and returned to her office. Nick was strangely
reminded of a groundhog vanishing back into its burrow.

Schanke sank down in his chair across from Nick, fortunately
noticing the furry white occupant just in time. He picked it up and
plunked it down on top of his desk. "I don't believe this. A room
full of detectives and everybody jumps on the wrong guy. What are you
smirking about?"

"Nothing," said Nick. Leaning across his desk, he said quietly,
"Just what is the deal with Groundhog Day, anyway? What's supposed to
be the significance?"

"You mean you don't know?" said his partner, apparently astonished.
"How could anyone living in this frozen wasteland not know about
Groundhog Day?"

"I see I'm discussing this with a real fan – like, say, someone who
would know where to find a dozen or so stuffed groundhogs," said Nick
pointedly.

"It wasn't me, I swear! Although I gotta say, I wish I'd thought of
it. The little critters are awfully cute."

"So, about Groundhog Day?" prodded Nick.

"Well, the groundhog comes out of his hole and looks around, and if
he sees his shadow it means there's gonna be six more weeks of
winter. If he doesn't see his shadow it means it's gonna be an early
spring."

Nick frowned. "But chances are, there's going to be six more weeks
of winter anyway. I don't see how that's any great feat of
prognostication."

"Yeah, I know, but that's the story, anyway. I'm not gonna argue
with Wiarton Willie."

"Wiarton Willie?" repeated Nick, in a surely-you-jest tone of voice.

"Oh man, don't tell me you've never heard of Wiarton Willie! Wiarton
Willie, Nick, is a cultural icon!"

"Whose culture?"

Schanke raised his eyes heavenwards as if hoping that divine
providence would take a hand and despatch a lightning bolt to bestow
instant cultural awareness on his partner. "Wiarton Willie is an
albino groundhog who hangs out near Georgian Bay. He went into the
weather business in 1956 and his predictions have a 90% accuracy
rate." Perhaps sensing that his partner was less than totally
convinced of the meteorological merits of the renowned groundhog, he
added defensively, "That's better than the blonde chickie on the six
o'clock news."

"Uh-huh," said Nick, in a voice that managed to convey not only
total disbelief, but also the slight sense of superiority of one who
has more intellectual things in life to concern himself with than
trick groundhogs. It was actually a pretty good imitation of the tone
Lacroix often used with him, and he was rather proud of himself.
"Well, Schank, all I can say is, you seem to be a pretty well-
informed fan of Wiarton Willie. Just where were you tonight when the
fire alarm went off?"

"I – did – not – put – all these freakin' groundhogs in here!"
bellowed Schanke, and for added emphasis he picked up the stuffed
animal on his desk and lobbed it directly at Nick, who caught it and
placed it gently next to his own. "Hey, hey, no toy abuse in here."

"How about partner abuse? I'd expect just a little bit more
solidarity from you, Knight," glowered Schanke, before switching his
computer on and pretending to be engrossed in the screen.

Nick smiled to himself. Rightly or wrongly, obviously most of their
fellow officers believed that Schanke was the perp. His partner was
going to have a hard time living this down.


Lucien Lacroix was, if not exactly thunderstruck, at the very least
taken highly aback. He was also extremely perplexed, and not amused
in the slightest.

He sat in one of the back rooms at the Raven, surveying the contents
of a package which had been delivered by courier at some point during
the daylight hours of Valentine's Day. It was addressed to "M. Lucien
Lacroix" but there was nothing on either the outside or the inside of
the package to indicate the identity of the sender.

Inside the package was a long narrow white box, of the sort that one
might expect to contain roses. But what was sitting inside the box
had never come from any florist.

Nestled in white tissue paper was a stake. But not just any stake.
This was, as weapons of vampire destruction went, an objet d'art. It
was, in a sinister sort of way, a thing of beauty, the epitome of
stakes. The body was of perfectly finished, polished wood, with a tag
hanging from it proclaiming that it was fashioned from genuine
hawthorn, and it was honed to a wickedly sharp, precise point. It was
set into a haft which appeared to be sterling silver. Just looking at
it sent involuntary shivers up his spine.

Who could have sent the thing? There were only two people on the
face of the planet who knew what had transpired at the Azure
restaurant exactly a year ago tonight, Nicholas and that annoying
coroner. Dr. Lambert had been whammied to within an inch of her brief
mortal life and was unlikely to remember the incident even if she
fell into the clutches of a dozen regressive hypnotherapy experts,
and it was extremely unlikely that Nicholas would ever have sent him
something like this. His son, although often as thick as the
proverbial brick, wasn't this idiotic by a long shot. He must have
realized that the only reason he had survived to this point, given
the number of times he had driven Lacroix to almost total insanity in
the past eight hundred years, was that so often it seemed there was
never a decent stake around when you needed one. Nicholas was hardly
likely to intentionally rectify that situation.

Which left the two thousand year old master vampire completely at a
loss (much to his own chagrin) as to who could have sent  - he
distastefully flicked the accompanying tag into the wastepaper basket
so as not to see the words on it  - the "Azure Commemorative Stake".


The Raven was a seriously dark place, both in terms of atmosphere
and electrical output, and that was just the way the habitues of the
club liked it. Mysterious deeds were sometimes done at the dimly-lit
tables behind the dangling chains, questionable if not downright
illegal business deals were occasionally transacted, and there was
much groping if not outright vertical sex on the dance floor. It was
a place that attracted certain fringe elements of society - sometimes
mortal, sometimes not - and their attendant hangers-on and wannabes.
Although today was St. Patrick's Day, the Raven was definitely not
the sort of establishment that served green beer; nor was it the kind
of place that normally attracted the sort of clientele that had
arrived en masse the night before.

Seated at her favourite table in the darkest of the shadows, Janette
duCharme shuddered at the memory of the previous evening. The club's
regular bouncer had the night off, and his replacement had seen fit
to allow a group of refugees from a Star Trek convention through the
door. (The man's employment had been abruptly terminated soon
afterwards, and Janette had been so irate that that very nearly
hadn't been the only thing to have been terminated.) For a short time
the club had been overrun by a bunch of bizarrely clad mortals, some
of whom apparently wished to be taken for space aliens, as evinced by
their crude pointed ears, wigs, and odd makeup; many of the group
were in tight-fitting scarlet and black  jumpsuits, not necessarily a
flattering sartorial choice; a few of the females had opted for
extraordinarily short skirts, which almost without exception, should
never have been worn beyond their owners' front doors. Some of the
group brandished what were presumably alien weapons of mass
destruction; and, as the bizarre horde paused at the top of the steps
leading down to the dance floor, there was much crying of "Beam me
up, Scottie!".

Appalled at the sight of the invasion, Janette had felt her eyes
momentarily go vampire golden before she had managed to regain
control of herself. Just then had come an inopportune pause in the
dance music, and the patrons already in the club suddenly became
aware of the newcomers. For a moment Janette had waited in breathless
anticipation for the Battle of the Raven to break out, but it seemed
that the two camps, rather than being mutually hostile, were merely
perplexed. Maybe the Goth crowd was simply too far removed from the
mainstream to recognize the trekkers, while the red jumpsuits/space
aliens clearly had no idea what to make of the club's regulars. A
fledgling vampire standing near Janette did bare his fangs and growl
slightly, but without glancing in his direction Janette landed a well-
aimed warning kick on his ankle, causing him to hobble swiftly out of
range while his threatening growl turned to a hiss of pain.

Fortunately, some subtle undercurrent in the atmosphere - or perhaps
the look on Miklos' face when some smartass in the group put in a
shouted request for "a glass of your finest Saurian brandy" -
convinced the Star Trek afficionadoes that it would not be a good
idea to linger. They finished their drinks in relative silence and
departed soon afterwards.

Lost in the memory - "doing a Nicolas" was perhaps an appropriate
term -she almost didn't notice Miklos approaching until he was
standing by her table, carrying a bottle of wine and a glass. She
raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

He set bottle and glass down on the table. "This was just hand-
delivered by one of last night's space aliens. Apparently some of
them felt that they had intruded and wished to make amends."

Both of Janette's eyebrows now elevated themselves toward her
hairline. "Indeed."

Miklos produced a corkscrew and gave her a questioning look.
Overcome with curiosity about what kind of wine a Trekkie might
consider an appropriate gift, she nodded affirmatively, and he made
short work of opening the bottle and pouring a glassful of its
contents.

"Is this a joke?!" Janette exploded, eyes glowing. Miklos backed
away hurriedly, eyeing the bottle with a look that suggested he might
have been considering waving a crucifix in its direction, if that had
been a prudent course of action to take in the Raven. "Miklos! You
know the rule about green beverages on St. Patrick's Day!"

"Sorry, sorry, so sorry," chanted Miklos, deciding abasement might
be the better part of valour here before his irate employer decided
to convert some of the nearby furniture into a stake for bartenders
fallen from grace. "Someone in one of those red outfits just handed
it in the kitchen entrance - I certainly wouldn't have allowed it on
the premises if I'd known."

Janette picked up the bottle and started to hand it back to him.
"Here, take it and dispose - " Suddenly noticing the tag that was
attached to the bottle's neck, she pulled it back and peered at the
neat writing on the tag, which would have been completely illegible
in the dark of the club to anyone but a vampire.

"In exchange for your hospitality last night, we thought you might
appreciate a taste of Vulcan blood. May you live long and prosper.
Respectfully, S'Korch and T'Wihg."

Janette took a cautious sniff of her glass and snorted. "Just as I
always suspected. Antifreeze."

"I didn't know you were a fa - "

"Miklos," said Janette with frightening sweetness, "Get this stuff
out of my sight, before you require some serious sunscreen."






The Spirit of Giving 2/3
Mary Chamberlain
December 2002


The first of April fell on a Sunday that year, for which most people
at the 96th Precinct were profoundly grateful. Don Schanke was
infamous for inflicting April foolery on his co-workers. He derived a
great deal of simple enjoyment from such time-honoured pranks as
pails of water atop the washroom doors and whoopee cushions. Some of
the staff maintained that if he tried anything like that this year,
Captain Cohen would have him laughing all the way to his new job in
the traffic division, but all the same everyone was extremely
relieved not to see him that day.

On the evening of April 1st, however, it was a very pale and haggard-
looking Donald G. Schanke who dragged himself into work.

As usual, Nick was there before him. "What's wrong?" he asked in
concern as his partner sank into his chair and buried his face in his
hands.

"Terrible day - no sleep - ready to divorce me - damned busts of
Elvis," was the mumbled response.

Nick leaned over and pried Schanke's hands away from his face.
"Could I have that again, in complete sentences?"

"Oh God, Nick - it was the day from hell - I think all my worst
enemies got together and paid me back for all the April Fool's jokes
I ever played on them."

"What happened?"

"Well," said Schanke, staring straight ahead with a glazed look in
his eye, "it started out like any normal Sunday morning, letting the
dog out and the cat in, feeding the guppies and scooping the dead
ones out of the tank, forgetting that it's my turn to take the love
of my life breakfast in bed -"

"Schank, this is all very heart-wrenching, but I wasn't asking for
the entire schedule. What happened?"

"It was when I went out to get the paper, or rather to start hunting
for the paper, because that visually challenged idiot delivery kid
tosses it everywhere except the front step, and usually I have to go
digging in my neighbour's rose bushes or climbing the maple tree
around the side to find it - "

"What - Happened?"

"Then - I saw Them," said Schanke, in hushed tones.

Nick decided on a different approach to wring a coherent account of
the events from his partner. "Well, if you don't want to tell me,
we've got a lot of paperwork here - "

"It was unbelievable," continued Schanke, hardly missing a beat.
"There was a plain white one, and a terra cotta one, and a black one,
and a gold one, and one with bright pink cheeks and crimson lips - it
was like being in the winner of the World's Most Absolutely Tacky
Junk Store Contest. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven."

Nick was now too intrigued to pretend not to be listening. "And
these things were . . . "

"Busts of Elvis," breathed Schanke. "Everywhere. All over the lawn,
the porch, the sidewalk. There was even one with a motion sensor in
it that played "Jailhouse Rock" when I walked past."

"And then what happened?"

"Myra happened," said Schanke gloomily. "She woke up and wondered
what had happened to the Belgian waffles with maple syrup and butter
and the organic, preservative-free sausages and fresh-squeezed O.J.
and fresh roasted Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee all served on a tray
along with a single rose in a crystal bud vase, which she swears I'd
promised her Saturday night. So she comes down and finds all these
refugees from the Graceland souvenir shop, and flips out. She thought
I'd done it. I had to pick them all up, every single one. She
wouldn't even let me keep the plain white one. I had to load them all
into the car - and let me tell you, that terra cotta one must have
weighed about as much as your Caddy - and take them to the dump. Of
course, the dump is closed Sunday mornings, so I left them all on
somebody else's lawn - but still, it was a heartbreaker. And when I
got home Myra still wouldn't believe me when I said I hadn't put them
there. She claimed I was trying to make us look like a laughingstock
in front of all the neighbours, plus she was still ticked off that
she hadn't gotten her fancy breakfast - like regular supermarked
nitrite-stuffed sausages and Tim Horton's coffee aren't good enough
to keep body and soul together - so she made my life a living hell
for the rest of the day. I tell you, Nick, I feared for my
Collector's Edition of Elvis's Greatest Hits on 3 LP's. Not to
mention the life-sized Elvis portrait on black velvet, or my Elvis
keychain collection . . . " He shuddered.

Nick attempted to look sympathetic.

Schanke's head sank back into his hands. "Believe me, partner, I've
learned my lesson. I swear I'll never play another April Fool's joke
on anyone ever again, so long as I live."


On the night after Easter Sunday, Grace Balthazar walked into the
morgue and beheld a sight so bizarre that she was stopped in her
tracks in the doorway.

Inside the room, Natalie Lambert was rushing madly between her desk,
her computer, and the autopsy table, on which lay the body of an
elderly man who had dropped dead after a large supper at his club,
and whose face bore almost the same expression of shock as Grace's. 
Paper, pens, file folders, scalpels were being sent flying around the
room in Natalie's insane haste, like debris being spewed out of the
vortex of a one-woman whirlwind.

"Natalie, what in the world is going on?" Grace finally got out.

"Oh, hi, Grace," replied Natalie. Even her voice sounded too fast,
like a tape being played on fast forward. "I'm just catching up on
some work. Mr. Evans here is done - just waiting on the lab results
now. Here, give me a hand."

Too astonished to demur, Grace helped Natalie heave the earthly
remains of the late Mr. Evans onto a waiting stretcher. Natalie
whipped a sheet over the corpse and shot him into the refrigerated
storage room. The stretcher hit the far wall and rebounded into
several others, creating a sort of mini-pinball effect. Dusting her
hands, Natalie slammed the door behind him and quick-marched to her
desk, where she scribbled on some papers without bothering to sit
down, then buzzed over to her computer. The papers blew to the floor
in the resulting breeze. Natalie did some quick typing, then it was
back to the storage room, returning with another stretcher bearing a
different corpse. She seemed unable to stay still longer than about
ten seconds.

"What's going on?" repeated Grace, still slightly stunned.

"Chocolate," replied Natalie succinctly.

"What do you mean, chocolate?"

Natalie pointed to her desk, where Grace saw for the first time a
large, brightly-coloured cardboard box with a clear cellophane front,
holding the remains of a chocolate Easter bunny. If the bunny had
come from that box, it had to be one of the biggest pieces of
chocolate Grace had ever seen.

"You ate all that?" she asked in astonishment.

"Well, there's still some of it left," said Natalie defensively.
"That's the third one, actually."

"The third?" gasped Grace, feeling slightly nauseated. "Where did
they come from?"

"They were all sitting on my desk when I came in tonight.  I was
going to give one to you, but they were so good, I just couldn't
stop."

Grace opened her mouth to say something else, but was interrupted by
the arrival of Nick and Schanke. They too stared around looking as
shocked as Grace. "Man oh man, Nat, what's going on?" demanded
Schanke. "Did you plug yourself into a transformer station, or have
you overdosed on some superdrug?"

"Glad to see you guys," Natalie greeted them cheerfully. "I've got
some reports for you." She zipped over to the filing cabinet and
began to wing manila file folders across the table to them. "Here's
George Papadopoulos -Mary Ann Duncan - "

"Thanks, Nat. I've been waiting for George Papadopoulos for nearly a
week," said Nick, neatly fielding the flying paperwork.

"Samrit Singh - Michael Jones - Toby somebody or other, can't read
the name, I wrote it in too much of a hurry - "

"And I've been waiting for Samrit Singh for over two weeks," said
Schanke. Nick nearly dropped the folders he was carrying in amazement
at the sight of his partner's dexterity as he snagged one file while
ducking another.

"Yeah, well, I got through a huge backlog of stuff tonight. Can you
help me with this guy here? I can't be bothered to wait for the
attendants." She was now standing beside the stretcher bearing her
next customer, scalpel in hand, bouncing up and down on her toes.

Nick and Schanke looked distastefully at the body but obediently
transferred it to the table, then retreated. Natalie looked more like
a mad slasher than a calm, analytical professional as she began to
carve into the man's chest.

"Yes, well, we'll just leave you to it," said Schanke weakly. "Come
on, Nick, I don't think it's safe in here."

"Thanks for the reports," said Nick, as Natalie began to whack the
contents of the abdominal cavity onto the weigh scale. Something
slithered off the pile and onto the floor. Natalie glanced at it,
then shrugged. "Well, at least his gall bladder looks healthy."

"Come on, Nick," hissed Schanke again, tugging his arm.

"Leaving so soon?" said Natalie, once more up to her elbows in
viscera.

"Duty calls," said Nick with a sickly smile, and Grace and the two
detectives beat a hasty retreat.


"Lacroix, you - you cross-dresser, you!"

Lucien Lacroix removed the receiver from his ear, regarded it at
arm's length to ensure that this sputtering accusation had actually
emanated from the instrument, and replaced it by his ear. "Nicholas,
perhaps you would care to humour a very old and powerful vampire by
enlightening me as to just what it is you're talking about."

"I'm talking about the statue of Queen Victoria at Queen's Park, as
if you didn't know. The one that suddenly bears a striking to
resemblance to you."

"How extraordinary," said Lacroix coolly.

"That wasn't the word that occurred to me when I saw it. All I can
say is, your bad taste has finally exceeded your vanity. I suppose
this is a particularly egotistical way of marking the 24th of May."

"I do assure you, Nicholas, I know nothing whatsoever about any
statue of Victoria, altered or otherwise. Although from what I recall
of that particular monarch, almost any change to her visage could
only be an improvement."

Nicholas gave a particulary derisive snort. "Well, your handiwork is
going to pretty short-lived. The maintenance people will clean up the
statue first thing in the morning. I just hope nobody recognizes the
Nightcrawler." And he slammed the phone down.

Lacroix thoughtfully replaced his own receiver. Although he was well
acquainted with Nicholas' penchant for blaming him for every untoward
incident in his entire unlife, he could honestly claim that he was
completely innocent in this instance. His face suddenly appearing on
a statue of Queen Victoria? This certainly bore "checking out", as
the current vernacular would have it.

Lacroix took to the air and landed several minutes later in a
secluded area of the lawn in front of the provincial legislative
buildings. He was somewhat taken aback to find that the ground was
fairly littered with statues of various worthies striking heroic
poses in frock coats. Now, where was Vicky amongst this lot?

After a moment's searching he found his objective. Close to the
building was a larger-than-life sized likeness of Victoria in full
regalia as Queen of the British Empire and Empress of India, leader
of a dominion so vast that it had been claimed the sun never set on
it - which could have made life as a British citizen very
uncomfortable for a vampire, if one believed all the hyperbole.

And Nicholas had been right. Someone - a very talented someone,
actually -had managed to use paint to convert the monarch's dour
features into a reasonably accurate facsimile of Lacroix's own. In
the statue's left hand was an orb, which had become the base of a
crude wine glass, half full of some noxious fruity-smelling liquid
which would presumably indicate red wine to most of the populace. The
sceptre in the right hand was unchanged, as was the crown atop the
lacy veil.

Lacroix was glad that he'd qualified his statement to Nicholas about
almost any change to the queen's features being an improvement. This
was a true horror, the sight of it being sufficient to chill even his
blood. And it couldn't be left for the morning, when the mortals
would come to gawk and snigger and speculate about why someone would
superimpose the Nightcrawler's face on Queen Victoria's - although
that was something Lacroix would dearly love to know himself. Not to
mention knowing the identity of the culprit. Nicholas, so quick to
inform him about this, was an obvious suspect. But a quick probe of
their link revealed nothing more than still-smouldering indignation,
frustration over his latest case, and a concern that that ridiculous
vehicle of his might need new tires.

Lacroix pulled out his cell phone and dialed the Raven. "Janette, I
need someone to bring a pail of water and a stiff scrubbing brush,
and leave them on the lawn in front of the parliament building - no,
you may not ask why. Yes, water and a brush - surely you've heard of
such things. Right now would be an excellent time." He turned the
phone off and began to roll up his sleeves.


Feliks Twist was a very unusual vampire in several respects. His
gentle passion for horticulture was well known in the Community,
along with his anachronistic Victorian mannerisms. His financial
acumen was legendary. It was not unusual for him to spend half the
night on the phone chatting with some vampire in Toronto or New York
or Paris - or Brisbane or Vladivostok -who was concerned about his
fortune (or lack thereof). Of course he had his old and valued
clients, but really, these modern fledglings all seemed to think that
a chomp on the neck automatically conferred the wealth of ages along
with the ability to party forever.

It was also not unusual for him to find a vampire on the doorstep
with some neglected, moribund houseplant, which Feliks was expected
to - and usually succeeded in - transforming into a fine strapping
example of its species. Sadly, eternal life also did not bring with
it - at least to some of the more klewless of his kind - the sense to
realize that not all creatures could survive in the dark.

Another unusual aspect of Feliks Twist was that his Conversion Day
fell on the summer solstice. The shortest night of the year often
induced a strange mental state in vampires, ranging from a vague
uneasiness in the more self-controlled to an outright hysteria
amongst the flibbertigibets. It was not generally considered an
auspicious time to create new offspring. However, the mortal Feliks
had been strolling in a moonlit garden with a beautiful creature of
the fangy persuasion, quoting to her from the latest work of Lord
Byron; she had been overcome by the moonlight, or the poetry, or
Feliks' ruffled poet's shirt with the open collar, and had offered
him the gift of eternal life. Which was all well and good, but
afterwards Feliks sometimes felt akin to those unfortunate people
whose birthdays fall close to Christmas - that his Conversion Day was
forgotten by his nearest and dearest amongst the general frenzy of
the season.

Therefore, when he strolled into his conservatory on Midsummer
Night's Eve, he was surprised and pleased to see a gift-wrapped
package sitting atop a potting bench.

The package was large and squishy and accompanied by a card with a
tasteful depiction of a white rosebush (cultivar Rosa 'Blanc Double
de Coubert'). Inside was inscribed in an unfamiliar hand, "On the
longest day of the year, for the vampire who has (nearly) everything
that money can buy. Happy Conversion Day." There was no signature.

Fortunately Feliks was blessed with a sense of humour, so he thought
it quite amusing when he removed the wrapping and discovered that
he'd been gifted with a long nightshirt in cosy flannel, printed all
over with a pinkish-white floribunda (cultivar Rosa 'Victorian
Spice'); a matching nightcap, with tapes attached to tie under the
chin; and to complete the ensemble, a small glittery moustache net.





The Spirit of Giving 3/3
Mary Chamberlain
December 2002


"And so, gentle listeners, the final Nightcrawler broadcast from the
Canadian National Exhibition draws to a close. The
rooster crows, the sleepy farmer stirs in his bed, and it is time
for us to return to ours. I leave you with one final
thought - cows make excellent hamburger, so I'm told. They're useful
if you care for milkshakes, and they convert nicely
into leather jackets. They even have more esoteric uses, such as
paint thickener. But just remember - if we are indeed what
we eat, then what does that make you, who consume them? "

Lacroix turned off his microphone with a sigh of relief.  Let his
devoted mortal listeners figure that one out - they'd
think the Nightcrawler had turned vegetarian.

It had originally seemed like such a good idea, doing his nightly
broadcast from the CNE like many other Toronto
broadcasters, only in Lacroix's case he had decided to set up in a
back corner of the cavernous building which was home to
several hundred bovines. He had joyfully embraced the scheme of
baiting Nicholas by making cows the main theme of his
monologues for several nights. However, by Labour Day, the last day
of the fair, he was heartily tired of the sight, sound,
and above all the smell of cow. He thought that if he saw Nicholas
imbibing from one more bottle of steer's blood right
now, he would break it over his son's head.

He made his way out of the building, delicately avoiding the many
and odoriferous signs of its bovine occupants - hadn't
anyone ever heard of shovels around here? - and into the pre-dawn
darkness. On the last day of the Exhibition there were
already quite a few mortals up and about, and he walked close to the
wall of the building looking for a spot where he could
take off from without risk of being seen.

He spent just a few seconds too long searching for a place.

From a large open door on the second floor above him came a a heavy
rumble, banging, and creaking, and the next instant -
even though, mortals or no mortals, he took panicked flight in a not-
quite-quick-enough attempt to avoid catastrophe - a
dumpsterload of cattle manure descended on his head, as though all
the cows at the Ex had simultaneously decided to take
revenge for his derogatory remarks.

Fortunately for him, he managed to get out from under before much of
the load arrived, and at least the cascading cow
patties provided an adequate cover for his departure. Not that he
cared right at the moment. He flew away, cursing with the
slow, deep malignancy of a cauldron of boiling tar. He shook off
straw and excrement as he went, so that several astonished
early workers were treated to the peculiar sight of raining dung,
and a hissing voice from the air repeating over and over
again, in case they were in any doubt, exactly what it was.


The day after Halloween found Lucien Lacroix in what was for him a
highly unusual, and highly disagreeable, state.

The night before, he had taken advantage of the reckless willingness
to be frightened and the general feeling of mayhem
that Halloween seemed to induce in mortals to indulge in a genuine
old-fashioned hunt. The opportunity presented itself all
too rarely in these days of video surveillance cameras, cell phones,
and spy satellites, and so perhaps his instincts were
not honed quite so sharply as they ought to have been. Also, galling
though it was to admit it, beggars (Lacroix preferred
the term live-prey-disadvantaged) couldn't be choosers. In any
event, his choice of victims had been unfortunate, to say
the least. In the course of one night he had swooped down upon and
drained two young men and a rather delectable female who
had themselves overindulged in industrial-strength alcohol.

Now he lay in a back room at the Raven, experiencing sensations
which he hadn't felt since his mortal days. There were a
few - a very few - human abilities which he missed as a vampire. The
ability to feel a truly colossal hangover was not one
of them. He lay in the dark and wondered if he might actually throw
up.

The door opened a crack. Even the faint sliver of light that was
admitted made him clench his eyelids even more. "Are you
feeling any better?" asked Janette in concern.

Her master's only response was a slight noise midway between a snort
and a groan.

"I think you should try this," said Janette. "It was sitting on the
bar with your name on it; perhaps Miklos made it up for
you. It smells delicious. Odd, but delicious. It might help settle
your stomach."

"What makes you think that my stomach requires settling?" Lacroix
managed to croak out.

"Oh nothing, nothing at all. But I must tell you that that sickly
green tinge to your face does not become you."

"Go away."

"Not until you have tried this," said Janette firmly. "I won't get
any sleep at all today until you stop sending such pain
and nausea across our link." She set down what seemed to be a
Tupperware container and peeled off the lid, revealing a dark
red liquid. Lacroix closed his eyes again and turned his head away
with another groan.

"Now, now," chided Janette. "You must drink this. Even if I have to
spoon it down your throat."

Willing to do almost anything - even move - if it made her go away
and leave him in peace, he managed to hoist himself up
on one elbow and take a sip from the plastic bowl. The blood must be
quite fresh, he realized: he got an immediate
impression of - eggs? Eggs and feathers?

Then he choked on something hidden below the surface of the liquid,
spewing the blood in almost equal quantities over
himself, Janette's custom designed silk peignoir, and the far wall.
"What the . . . " he snarled. "What is in here?"

He and Janette peered at what was left of the contents of the
Tupperware. Besides blood, there were also soft pale things
which resembled anemic worms.

"I congratulate you on your far-reaching knowledge, my daughter,"
said Lacroix sarcastically, almost sounding like his
normal self. "I had never realized that eating maggots was a cure
for a hangover."

"Surely not," said Janette, horrified. "Here, there's a note taped
to the lid. Maybe  it says what Miklos put in this."

Lacroix tore the piece of paper from her, but not before Janette
realized that the handwriting didn't belong to the Raven's
bartender. Hopefully Lacroix wouldn't realize that.

"Chicken Farmer Noodle Soup," read out Lacroix. "Good for whatever
ails you."

It was beneath his dignity to crumple the note and hurl it across
the room. Besides, there was no satisfaction in throwing
something so lightweight; tossing a grand piano, say,  or a
Volkswagen Beetle had a much better effect. Lacroix rolled over
with a groan and pulled the covers over his head.


Between All Saints' Day and Christmas, Lucien Lacroix devoted
considerable thought to the identity and fate of the
practical joker. By  Christmas Eve he decided that he was not going
to sit at home waiting for someone else to make the
first move; it was time for a pre-emptive strike. There had been no
more attempts on his person or his dignity since
Halloween, but he wasn't about to take the chance that the guilty
party wouldn't strike again at the mortals' most
important holiday season.

He arrived at Nicholas' loft shortly after dark, prompting the usual
ungracious response from his son. "What do you want?"

"Really, Nicholas. On this one night of the whole year, I would
think you could at least be civil."

"Civil to you, Lucien Scrooge? I'm afraid that would put me in a
good cheer deficit."

"Am I to take that to mean," said Lacroix with mock sadness, "that I
shouldn't expect a Christmas gift from you?"

"What would make you think you could expect one at all?" said Nick
warily, doing a hasty mental review of his gift list.
Nat, expensive chocolates -Janette, a little something in black lace
from the Classy Intimates catalogue  - Lacroix, lump
of coal - oops, he'd forgotten that last item. Well, it was highly
unlikely that his master would be upset if he didn't
receive that particular gift.

"Well, after all the others," Lacroix was saying casually, but with
shark-circling-for-the-kill undertones, "I was
expecting something truly spectacular on this occasion."

"What others? The two of us have never done the Christmas gift thing."

"True, we never have, have we? I never even put a blood orange in
the toe of your stocking when you were a little vampire.
But I'd gotten the impression that you were about to rectify that
situation this year. Considering everything else you've
given me over the past few months," he added meaningfully.

Oops. This was not good. Obviously he must have been too busy having
a flashback, or something, to have formulated a proper
contingency plan for when Lacroix eventually figured out what was
going on. Perhaps now would be a good time just to slip
off into another . . .

Recognizing the signs, Lacroix gave a warning hiss. Nick snapped out
of incipient-flashback mode and started to calculate
the distance between himself and Joan's cross versus the length of
time it would take for Lacroix to grab him by the throat
and tear his head off.

"Mind you," his sire was adding as if nothing had just happened and
he hadn't just been about to out-Bela Lugosi Bela
Lugosi, "I realize I wasn't the only recipient of your - generosity.
I know who it was who left that bottle of ersatz
Vulcan blood at the Raven on St. Patrick's Day. It caused our dear
Janette a great deal of distress. Not to mention the
fact that the Community came within a hair's breadth of losing one
of its most skilled bartenders."

"I don't know what - "

"Of course you do." Lacroix circled closer. "You know I have an
effective spy network even in the mortal world." He had
considered trying to pretend that he had known via their link what
Nicholas was up to all along and had just been humouring
him, but decided that even Nicholas wouldn't be gullible enough to
believe that. If he had thought at the time that anyone
would have dared to deliberately dump that load of end products of
cow digestion on top of him back in September, he would
have been on Nicholas' doorstep with a stake before his son could
have said shish kebab. "Once I knew what to look for, I
found out all about that little incident at your workplace back in
February, in which you filled the place with those
ridiculous toys. Not to mention all that effort you put in on April
1st lugging around all those images of Saint Elvis. I
understand there were some highly entertaining scenes of marital
discord as a result, which unfortunately all ended
happily."

Well, unless he had a mole in the morgue, there was no way Lacroix
could have found out about his Easter present to Nat.

"Although I must admit that sending all that candy to the good Dr.
Lambert was a rather inspired idea. Much more cardiac
stimulation and 'Death by Chocolate' might have been more than a
nauseating dessert. Too bad it didn't work. Then there was
the matter of the conversion day present for Feliks Twist. It's very
fortunate that Feliks has a sense of humour. Most
other members of our community would not have been so amused. In
fact, they would have strung you up by that moustache net
and left you dangling in the sun. Which is nothing, my dear
Nicholas, absolutely nothing at all compared to what I was
contemplating after I realized that you were responsible for dumping
that load of cow manure on me."

Nick made a dash for the box containing Joan's cross. Lacroix cut
him off and effortlessly slid him up the wall with a fist
clutching his collar. Nick was now too rattled to appreciate the
novel sensation of looking down on his master.

"Cow manure, Nicholas." Lacroix gave him a good hard shake, causing
his head to bounce off the wall with an musical crack.
"Hawthorn stakes, Nicholas." Crack. "Transvestite statues,
Nicholas." Crack. "Chicken Farmer Noodle Soup, Nicholas!" Crack!

"COW MANURE, NICHOLAS! COW MANURE!!!"

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Lacroix waited for Nick to regain consciousness, then said
conversationally, "You realize, of course, that I have every
right to demand retribution for all of this. In fact, if I were to
hang, draw, and quarter you, and then leave your body
parts out to greet the dawn, that might be seen as suitable
punishment. Somewhat behind the current trends in torture and
execution, but effective. Don't you agree, Nicholas?" He paused to
address his son, still prone on the floor and now being
nudged occasionally by Lacroix's boot. "I said, don't you agree?"

"Erm," said Nick.

"But really, that fate seemed too mundane for the crime. After all,
it's been done many times before. I thought your
trespasses deserved a more -original punishment. And so I've devoted
considerable thought to this in the past month or
so." Nudge.

"You didn't have to go to all that trouble on my account," croaked
Nick.

"Oh, but I did. And quite a good time I had, too, planning my
revenge. The thought did cross my mind, for about - oh, one
quarter of a nanosecond -that perhaps I may have been, in some small
measure, partially to blame for your misdeeds, that
perhaps I may have indulged your foibles too frequently and
therefore fostered a certain lack of respect. But then I
thought, I defy anyone to say that my parenting skills are in any
way lacking. I have done my best for the immature,
ungrateful whelp, and this is how I am repaid. But, never let it be
said that Lucien Lacroix is incapable of being
magnanimous."

There was a slight choking noise from the floor, caused by the
pressure of Lacroix's foot which had shifted to bear
directly on Nick's windpipe.

"Did you say something, Nicholas? No, I didn't think so. Well, as I
was saying, I've spent a great deal of time and energy
devising the most fitting. . . painful . . . humiliating . . .
punishment I could think of. And that is . . . "

He smiled his best patented shark-like smile, the one that made
strong men do jellyfish imitations. Nick managed to slide
backwards several inches.

Lacroix bent close over him and breathed, " . . . absolutely nothing."

The crash of the other shoe dropping was deafening.

After a moment, Nick, whose ears had been set to receive a catalogue
of imaginative torments, each one more horrific than
the last, managed to croak, "Nothing?"

"Indeed, Nicholas. Nothing at all."

"And what do I have to do to get this free pardon?" he asked
sceptically.

"Merely accept my Christmas gift to you." Lacroix produced a plain
unmarked envelope and handed it to Nick with a slight
flourish. "I suggest you use it wisely and, more importantly,
quickly, before I regret my magnanimity. If you choose not to
– " He bent low over Nick again and exhaled in his ear. " – I know
where Dr. Lambert lives." He straightened up. "Goodbye,
Nicholas. Do have yourself a merry little Christmas, now." Then he
vanished through the skylight.

Nick collapsed back on the floor and opened the envelope with a
slightly trembling hand.

Inside were three slips of heavy, gold-embossed paper. They bore the
words, "Gift certificate for identity change and
relocation." Each one was signed "Aristotle" and each one was for a
sum that made Nick's eyes widen. It seemed that Lacroix
was sparing no expense to be rid of him.

No! He couldn't do this! Banishment was a fate worse than death.
Leave Toronto now? Leave behind his friends (such as they
were), his job, his hope of mortality, Natalie, the Caddy? Lacroix
had chosen the perfect punishment, in the guise of
clemency. And if Nick defied him and didn't use the certificates,
Natalie would pay the ultimate price.

For a while Nick roamed through the loft in a haze of angst. How
could he just drop everything without a word to anyone and
do a moonlight flit? True, he'd done it hundreds of times before,
but he'd never had to walk away from a life that meant so
much to him. Natalie would probably come searching for him with a
stake in her hand because she'd be so angry with him
leaving without so much as a goodbye, and he couldn't blame her.

Then, slowly, an idea began to take shape, and he started to smile.
After all, Lacroix hadn't told him to move on
permanently. Maybe, just maybe, he could make things work out. Talk
Cohen into giving him a leave of absence from work for,
say, two years – talk Nat into coming with him – arrange for a loft-
sitter – yes, it could be done.

But he'd have to work fast. He definitely didn't want to be around
when Lacroix received his New Year's present . . .


*********************************************************************

The End
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