* Kusine Kaninchen <cerk@ROCKETMAIL.COM> wrote:

Disclaimer: The Forever Knight characters and universe don't belong to me. They 
belong to: Sony, Columbia/Tristar, Parriot, & Cohen. I'll give 'em back, I promise.
Spoilers: Up to and including "Ashes to Ashes."
Please send all comments, caffienated beverages, and requests for missing posts to 
cerk@rocketmail.com. Please send flames elsewhere.
You must see "End Part 1" or something bad happened.


Darkened Beings 01/09
"Altogether, man is a darkened being; he knows not whence he comes nor whither he 
goes..."
* Goethe

 

Prologue:
"I just want to know that he's OK," the young woman said. "I don't want to take 
him or talk to him, I just want to be able to look at him from afar occasionally. I want to 
know that he's still around-to know I did the right thing."

"You made your choice when you signed the papers," the older woman behind 
the desk said coldly. She toyed idly with a file folder while the young woman seated 
across from her tried to see inside it. 

"But we'd agreed," she continued, "you give me the reports, and I'll tell you how to find 
him."

The young woman looked at the thick manila envelope resting on her lap. If she 
gave this up, she gave up all of her power and had to trust this little sharp-featured 
woman. It had taken her over a year to amass the evidence of their crimes. She had 
copies of everything at home, but only she knew where they were. She had told no one 
of her discoveries, though she planned to...It didn't matter: she'd never promised to give 
up the evidence. She was going to turn them in, once she had the information she 
needed from this woman.

"No," the young woman said firmly, "you have to tell me first." She nervously 
covered the precious envelope with her small hands. "And I never agreed to give the 
papers to you. I said I'd let you look at them."

"I'm afraid you'll have to give them up to find out where he is. You need my 
help," the other woman pointed out. "You'll have to play by my rules."

"No!" The young woman stood up, her figure in shadow as she rose above the 
small circle of light from the desk lamp. "I won't give them to you! I was coerced by 
you once before; I won't be again. Tell me where he is!"

"Give up the papers first," the woman behind the desk repeated. 

The young woman leaned down to get her purse and never heard the opening of 
the drawer. When she again stood straight to make one last biting comment, she saw a 
bright flash and nothing more as the force of the bullet propelled her backwards. The 
other woman stood and wrinkled her nose, shoving the still warm gun into her jacket 
pocket. She switched off the desk lamp and carefully walked around the body. She 
snatched up the fallen envelope and walked quickly out the door.
End Part 1


You must see "End Part 2" or your mailer ate the end.


Darkened Beings 02/09
From across the street in the shadows, LaCroix could see...something...in the 
doorway of the Raven. It was small and moving-not like an animal, too small for a 
person. It was alive; he could hear its heart beat quickly: pitter-pat, pitter-pat. From 
what he could detect through the rain, the scent of it was not unpleasant: like fresh, 
warm laundry, one of his few secret pleasures.

The rain dripped off the brim of his hat and slid down the front of his leather 
greatcoat. What ever it was would have to move; he would have nothing sheltering in 
his doorway, no matter how cold the rain on this dreary autumnal evening. However, his 
recent experience with his daughter had renewed his caution. He would approach with 
care.

LaCroix moved across the street in the space between two fast moving cars. 
Nothing human could have seen him, and few vampires either. His two millennia of 
experience gave him advantages. He never would have imagined that a skill meant to 
capture prey would be so useful in traffic. He stood in the doorway before the spray 
from the cars he had slipped between had splashed to the ground.

It was a human child. It sat on a dry patch of concrete, looking up at him with 
wide brown eyes. He looked up and down the street, but no one was in evidence on such 
an unpleasant evening. Had the child been abandoned? Had some confused mortal 
mistaken his nightclub for an orphanage?

He returned his attention to the child. It was very young, he could tell that, but 
he was unable to determine the age any more precisely. What use had he for the 
appearance of age? It still looked like an infant, though it could probably walk: its small 
white tennis shoes had scu fed soles. It had no coat. Hesitantly bending down and 
touching the child, he felt that its skin was nearly as cold as his own.
The child grabbed the hand that had brushed its cheek and pulled itself up. It 
held its arms up, and after a moment, LaCroix realized that it wished to be lifted, to be 
held.

As he automatically reached down for it, he stopped. Why should he take in this 
child? What would he do with a baby? He could drain it, surely, but babies were usually 
missed quickly. As delicious as it was to drink in their purity and honeyed innocence, it 
was simply not worth the risk. Would he take it in and raise it? No, that was a mortal 
folly that he would expect of Nicholas, not himself. But he could take it inside and 
call the police, like any good Canadian citizen.

He would have Nicholas retrieve the infant and the police would look upon him 
with less displeasure than of late. Undercover officers had recently been in the Raven, 
attempting to find some illegalities with which to close the club. The memory of Divia's 
unpleasantness was keeping away the immortal patrons, and the police were keeping 
away the mortals. He needed something to return at least some of his customers...not 
that he needed the club's income. Janette would not like to see the club disgraced or 
abandoned, however.

He pushed open the heavy metal door, and the child quickly grabbed onto his 
long coat. Its face wrinkled up, and it looked up at him with piteous eyes, pushing 
against his legs. It would not move, and LaCroix was forced to reach down and lift the 
child by its clothing and carry it into his rooms behind the club.

He retrieved a large towel from the bath and covered the couch to protect it from 
any childish depredations. He set the child down and crossed the room to the phone. He 
had crushed his cordless one in a fit of pique last night and was being forced to use an 
old office phone until a new cordless could be delivered. It was the one from Janette's 
former office and had a long, black, snarled cord that snaked itself around the phone's 
user at any excuse. He tapped the speed-dial code he had programmed for Nicholas' 
cellular number, and waited for an answer.

"Knight here."

"Ah, Nicholas," LaCroix said smoothly, "I have a gift for you."

"What do you want?" his child asked curtly.

Nicholas was at his police precinct. LaCroix could hear the sounds of computer 
keyboards and radios, telephones and fax machines, all suddenly muted. Nicholas was 
trying to cover the mouthpiece with his hand. His blonde partner was probably there 
with him, listening to one half of the conversation.

"That's no way to act when I've offered you something," LaCroix reprimanded. 
"I have something that you might wish to know about. I've found something that seems 
to have gone astray."

"What are you talking about? Quit speaking in riddles!" the muffled voice 
hissed at him.

"Nicholas, if you think that's a riddle, your mind could use some exercise-" here 
was a loud thump and LaCroix whirled around to see the child sitting on the floor, 
partially entangled in the towel. "But I have no time for this," LaCroix said quickly, 
turning around again to avoid being trapped in the phone cord. "I have found a child and 
I wish for you to retrieve it."

"A child?" Nicholas asked incredulously. "Is it...?"

"Alive? Yes." There was another thump, and LaCroix turned to discover that his 
eighteenth century handcarved marble chess pieces bounced on carpeting. Luckily. 
"But not for very long, if you don't hurry up," he added as the child began to pound an 
exquisitely detailed queen on his glass coffeetable.

"Can you give me a description? I can have Missing Persons start searching the 
reports." His voice became less muffled as he picked up a writing implement and began 
to make notes.

"It's young, but it can walk," he observed as the child toddled over to the 
endtable. "It has brown eyes and short, brown, curly hair."

"Boy or girl?" his son inquired.

LaCroix paused as he considered the question. It was too young yet to have any 
differentiating characteristics. Wasn't it pink for girls and blue for boys? He checked. 
The child was wearing green overalls with yellow frogs that appeared to be...dancing.
"It's wearing green," he replied. "Aren't they supposed to be color-coded?"

There was a strangled sound that sounded suspiciously like repressed laughter 
before Nicholas spoke again.  "Can you...check?"

"I will do no such thing!" LaCroix hissed. "If you do not immediately come to 
fetch this creature, I shall soon be having a snack!"

There was a crash as a large bust of Caesar fell from the endtable and failed 
miserably to bounce on the carpet. The child stood stunned amongst the wreckage of the 
priceless work of art for a few moments, then began to bawl.

"What happened?" Nicholas shouted in his ear.

"My bust of Caesar has broken," LaCroix said softly, unbelievingly.

"The child?!"

"It's crying, though it appears to be uninjured...How do I make it stop?" he asked 
as the sound began to hurt his sensitive ears.

"I don't know! Why are you asking me?" Nicholas asked axsperatedly.

"You spend time with mortals. Surely you know how they care for their young."

"This isn't 'Wild Kingdom.' Try picking it up," he suggested.

LaCroix stretched the phone cord over to the couch and managed to catch the 
back of the child's overalls. With one strong arm, he lifted the child and held it at arm's 
length. It stopped crying as it assessed its new position and altitude. Deciding that it 
was better than being on the floor, the child kicked its feet and giggled.

"Sounds like it likes you," Nicholas said cheerfully.

LaCroix growled in response and threw the telephone at the wall. His captive 
stopped giggling and stared wide-eyed at the shattered telephone. He put the child down 
on the floor and began to pick up his chess pieces. As soon as he placed a piece on the 
coffeetable, however, the child knocked it gleefully onto the floor.

LaCroix sighed. It was going to be a long wait.


Nick tried not to exceed the speed limit on the way to the Raven. It was difficult, 
though. Tracy had wanted to come with him-it turned out she really liked children. 
Nick knew, however, that LaCroix would not welcome the intrusion of a mortal into his 
private domain. The Raven had recently become the center of a major effort to cut 
crime in Toronto, and the last thing he wanted was to bring his perky partner to 
LaCroix's attention when he was already annoyed with the police. Despite Nick's 
complaints that the money could be better spent funding more homicide detectives or 
better equipment for forensics, the Police Commission had focused on the nightclub. In 
their opinion, a place that found an unexplained body in their beer cooler was a likely 
place for less obvious crimes, as well. So far, no one had been arrested there, but it was 
only a matter of time before a vampire was careless or a mortal was stupid. The place 
was watched twenty-four hours a day, so it was a good thing that his master had called 
him about the child. That would make things somewhat easier to explain to the officers 
staking out the club.

He pulled up to the club and parked his car directly in front. It was illegal, as 
Schanke had found out for him, but he didn't think he'd be inside for very long. LaCroix 
would want to give the child to him and get him out of there before the club opened for 
the evening.

The door was unlocked, and Nick slipped inside. He could hear noise from the 
back , and he followed the sounds to LaCroix's sumptuous apartment.
He opened the door to find LaCroix slumped in an armchair with a pile of 
objects in his lap. In a quick glance, Nick could pick out a small Italian hand-blown 
glass bottle, a Japanese tea set, a selection of ancient Roman coins, a trilobite fossil, 
several of LaCroix's prized chess pieces, and, oddly enough, a fresh peach. A brown-
haired toddler plucked a statuette of Venus from a low shelf and gave it to LaCroix. His 
master took the item from the tiny hand and added it to his collection as the child 
wandered off for more booty.

"LaCroix," Nick said, gaining his master's instant attention. "I've got the car 
outside."

"Splendid," the older vampire said, in obvious relief. "I shall unearth myself and 
be with you in a moment."

Nick turned his back to hide his smile. It would do no good to have LaCroix kill 
the child now out of spite if he thought that he was being mocked. Nick took a deep 
breath-he didn't need to breathe, but it sometimes helped to steady his thoughts-and 
turned back around.

LaCroix was carefully placing his pile of objects on the endtable next to him. 
The child was staring raptly at something that it held in its chubby little hands, but from 
this angle, Nick couldn't see what it was. It talked softly to itself, but it was all 
nonsense, at least to him. It probably made perfect sense to the child.
LaCroix bent over and reached for whatever the child was holding. It pulled the 
object away and backed as far away as the glass coffeetable would allow.
"No!" it said firmly. "Mine."

"I'm afraid not," LaCroix said, stepping forward again. "Give it to me."

"Mine," the child repeated.

"No. Give it to me."

Nick could hear the familiar tone of voice that indicated that his master was 
attempting to hypnotize the child.

"No!" it yelled, not fazed for an instant.

"What does it have?" Nick asked, trying to deflect the anger LaCroix was sure 
to be feeling.

"My Faberge egg. Given to me by a Russian Countess," he said distractedly, not 
even turning. He returned his full attention to the toddler in front of him. "It's mine."

"Mine."

"Mine."

"Mine!" the child said petulantly and clutched the precious egg closer.

LaCroix sighed dramatically and stood up. He reached for the child, but Nick 
grabbed his arm.

"Don't," Nick said. "Let it go. I'll try."

LaCroix raised an eyebrow at him in a practiced movement. His master lowered 
his eyes and stared at the hand on his arm until Nick removed it and shoved it into the 
pocket of his coat with an apologetic, sheepish smile.

"It may have the thing," LaCroix said grandly. "What use have I for it?"

LaCroix reached down again, but grabbed the back of the child's overalls and 
held it at an arm's length to his son. Nick backed away quickly, out the door, and into 
the club.

"I'll get the doors," he said.

He liked babies, but they never seemed to like him. They screamed and cried; 
just more proof of his innate evil, in his opinion. Of course, they didn't usually like 
LaCroix, either, but this one seemed to be thrilled by the attention it received from the 
ancient vampire. It kicked its feet and smiled up at the impassive pale face above.
"I think you're supposed to hold them closer," Nick ventured, as he saw the 
denim of the child's clothing stretch under the strain of its full weight. "You wouldn't 
want her to fall and the egg to break."

LaCroix again only raised an eyebrow, but moved the child awkwardly to his 
hip, in the fashion of parents throughout the centuries. This was probably the first time 
his master had ever held a child in that way. Roman fathers weren't very close to their 
children, especially very young ones. Even the General he had been had only doted on 
his daughter, Divia, when he had been on one of his infrequent visits to Pompeii. He 
had probably not even seen her at this same age.

Nick held the door to the outside while LaCroix passed through and stood in the 
scant shelter of the doorway. Nick ducked his head from the rain and darted the three 
feet to the green Caddy and held open the door. LaCroix only looked at him.
"Come on!" Nick exclaimed. "I'm getting soaked!"

"Do they not have some sort of restraining device?" his master asked.

"What?" Nick asked incredulously. "I don't have a carseat. It's a short drive; 
we'll be fine."

"I did not save this child to be killed by your driving." His master glanced at the 
sky, then shook his head dismissively. "It's too wet to be taken by...other means-at least 
for one so young." LaCroix paused, apparently to consider his few options. "I will 
accompany you."

Nick only stared as LaCroix tucked the child under his long leather coat and 
slowly walked to the car. He got into the front seat and positioned the child carefully on 
his lap, wrapping one arm around the child, who was happily patting its new red and 
gold toy, oblivious to the change in surroundings. Nick shut the car door and stood in 
the rain for one further long moment.

What was LaCroix's interest in this child? If he had planned to kill it, the deed 
would have already been done. If he wanted to keep it, for whatever reason, why would 
he have called? What was his master up to?

LaCroix tapped on the rapidly fogging window and Nick was wrenched out of his 
thoughts. He jogged around the car, waving at the building where the surveillance teams 
were stationed. He'd get in trouble for that-possibly giving them away-but he couldn't 
resist. Besides, he had no doubt that LaCroix already knew exactly where they were.
He slid into his seat and started the Caddy. He glanced over to see LaCroix 
staring intently at the curly-haired child on his lap. In-between closing the passenger 
door and starting the engine, the child had fallen asleep, its cheek resting in the crook of 
LaCroix's arm. Its hands still firmly held its treasure, and it snuggled into a more 
comfortable position, never relinquishing its grip on the irreplaceable object.
In silence, Nick pulled away from the curb. Something was going on, but he 
didn't know what. He would find out.

End Part 2


Darkened Beings 03/09
LaCroix disliked the police station. It was like police stations all throughout 
history: noisy, untidy, and smelling of mortal sweat. His last visit here had not been a 
pleasant one: he had actually been put in a cell, though not for very long. He had 
enjoyed terrifying the other prisoners with a brief monologue on ancient Roman torture 
techniques. After his lecture, they were much less inclined to ask for cigarettes.

Now, however, he was at least here under better circumstances. The child that 
he carried by his side was no doubt lost from some inattentive mortal parent. He 
understood the pain that losing a child caused. He had lost Janette. She was now of 
Nicholas' blood, not his own. He still felt her, but only weakly, and not at great 
distances-enough to know that she had not chosen to face the rising sun when Nicholas 
had robbed her of her mortal death. She was not in Toronto, and would no doubt never 
return in this century.

He shook his head slightly to halt his reverie and looked around him. Nicholas 
had stopped where his partner sat at a desk and the lovely Dr. Lambert was perched on 
another.

"Oh, adorable!" his son's partner, Tracy, exclaimed and took the child from his 
arms.

He had visited Tracy last night to make some arrangements to her mind as 
Nicholas had requested. He had not done precisely as he had been asked, but there were 
times when he knew what was best. Her actions now demonstrated that she recalled 
nothing of their meeting. It was almost a pity, really: she was intelligent, attractive, and 
arousing, if a bit too cheerful for his tastes.

The young detective laid the child on the desk and quickly unsnapped the child's 
overalls with expert ease. After a brief glance, she announced, "Congratulations, it's a 
girl."

Nicholas suddenly began to cough furiously, but LaCroix could feel the 
amusement through their bond. He frowned at the younger vampire, but was not 
rewarded with sudden, obedient silence. Nicholas apparently found this entirely too 
humorous.

"What shall we call her until we find out who she is?" Dr. Lambert asked, 
apparently attempting to deflect his attention from Nicholas.

"Mara," LaCroix said firmly.

"That's beautiful," the doctor said in amazement. "Why that?"

"It means 'destruction'," he answered.


Nick was relieved. LaCroix had actually made a statement to help with finding 
Mara's-as they had agreed to call her-parents. Then he had patted the child on the head 
awkwardly, and leaving the Faberge egg with her, had gone away. The little girl had 
cried as the older vampire left, but she was soon distracted by the numerous people 
vying for her attention.

Leaning on the water cooler, Nick watched as several dignified Internal Affairs 
officers embarrassed themselves making strange faces at the child. She watched them 
large-eyed for a moment, then began to giggle and make comical faces back.

"Funny, isn't it, how silly people can be around children?" Natalie asked as she 
sidled up next to him.

"Yeah," he agreed, making room for her to lean on the notoriously obstinate 
cooler. "When I was a boy, children weren't treated the same way. They were loved, 
but most weren't expected to live; you tried not to get too attached. Fleur-" His voice 
caught as he though of his centuries-dead younger sister, feverish in a crib. "We nearly 
lost Fleur when she was about this age."

"Well, medicine has advanced quite a ways since medieval times," 
Natalie whispered. She smiled and then schooled her features into her sharp-eyed 
"doctor" expression. "I had a look at her while you were filling out the paperwork. 
She's about two to two and a half years old. She seems healthy, but, then again, the 
'patients' that I'm using for comparison are distinctly unhealthy," she said, referring to 
her job as the city's coroner. "No identifying marks of any kind, and no signs of abuse. 
A healthy, happy little girl."

"So what was she doing outside of the Raven?" Nick mused.
"I have no idea. You're the detective," Natalie said. "Social Services just called 
back. They're really busy tonight, and can't send anyone over for a while. Captain Reese 
said that-"

Natalie's beeper went off and she jumped. She pulled it out of her pocket and 
looked at the small digital readout.

"A case," she observed. "Reese'll be out right about...now!" she said as the door 
from the captain's office opened.

"Knight! Vetter!" he yelled. "Time for work."


The press was already at the scene when Natalie got out of Nick's Caddilac. 
Their flashbulbs blinded her as she tried to duck under the crime scene tape. Didn't they 
already have enough pictures of her getting out of cars? They took her picture almost 
every time she arrived on a scene, and she rarely looked much different.

She waved at Nick and Tracy as she ran through the rain to the front door of the 
Happy Families Adoption Agency. A homicide had been reported by the cleaning staff 
just fifteen minutes ago, but the brownstone building was already teeming with police 
and her staff. One of her assistants-she couldn't remember his name, he was new-
corralled her just inside the door and handed her bag of instruments and a pair of sterile 
gloves.

"It's a young woman, shot in the forehead," he said quietly, leading her into an 
office as she snapped on the gloves.

She took the clipboard that someone handed to her and noted the time, place, 
and her name before she even looked at the body. When she did look, she saw exactly 
what had been described: a young woman, probably twenty-two to twenty-seven years 
old, with a centimeter bullet wound smack in the middle of her forehead. She was lying 
on her back and blood had coagulated in a pool around her head, making her light 
blonde hair look auburn.

Natalie pulled a thermometer out of her bag and stabbed it into the body though 
a gap in the shirt. She began to make her field notes as she waited for the core 
temperature of the body to determine the approximate time of death.


Nick pulled his partner through the clamoring reporters and into the building. 
They were both good copy and he knew it: the city's hero cop and a police 
commissioner's daughter together on a homicide. He shouted one last "No comment!" 
and slammed the door on the rain and reporters.

"I hate that," Tracy said, pulling her fingers through her wet hair. "They're just 
vultures, feeding off the unhappiness of others."

The statement made him give a wry smile, reminding him of how he had once 
made a similar comment regarding LaCroix.

"They're just trying to do their jobs," he said. "Just like us."

"Yeah, but we're trying to solve problems, not cause them," she countered, 
taking a pair of latex gloves a uniformed officer handed her. "They create a climate of 
fear and despair. They convince everyone that the world is a frightening place, when 
they don't even know the truth of what they say. They want to believe that they know 
right from wrong, good from evil, but there really are no absolutes. Good is relative. 
Evil is relative. Sometimes, what you think is evil...isn't."

Nick stared in amazement at his partner. She never spouted off like this.
"Trace, is something wrong?" he asked.

"No...well, yes...not really..." she equivocated. "I'm fine. Let's just get this over 
with, OK?"

Nick watched as his partner turned to question the cop next to her. Her facial 
expression was strong, but her slump-shouldered posture belied her words. She needed 
to talk, but she was holding it in.

She was trying to deal with something by herself, and it wasn't good for her. Her 
work wasn't suffering; if anything, it had gotten better recently. She went after cases like 
there was nothing else in her life...like he did.


Natalie stood and turned to the two detectives beside her. The body was still 
warm. The cause of death was also obvious. This was going to be a fairly cut and dried 
case, at least on her end. 

"So what have we got?" Tracy asked, carefully peering at the corpse.

"Bullet to the head, probably a .9 mm, but I'm guessing till you find a bullet. 
The exit wound looks to be pretty high in the back, but I won't be able to confirm that 
until I get her back to the lab. She's only been dead for a couple hours; I'd say the time 
of death was around seven or eight tonight," she supplied, checking her details against 
what she had written down. "Even back at the lab, I don't think that I'm going to be able 
to tell you much more. There's no sign of assault or any sort of struggle. I don't know 
how much I'm going to be able to help."

"So she was in here a couple hours after the place had closed for the day," Nick 
mused. "An employee or meeting someone?"

Tracy took a plastic bag handed to her by a uniformed officer. Inside were all 
manner of cards, obviously the contents of the woman's wallet.

"Karen Martinez, age 27, 168 cm tall," she said, reading a card. "Needs to wear 
glasses to drive." She pushed around the cards through the plastic until she found a 
business card. "Employee of the First National Bank of Canada-a financial advisor. 
Probably meeting someone then."

"OK," Nick said. "So who was she meeting and why did they kill her?"
"Hmmm..." Tracy looked at the body on the floor and across the desk. "The 
killer was sitting behind the desk?" Tracy theorized. "She's pretty tall and that would 
explain the high exit wound: if she was standing and it was coming from below."
"Can I tag and bag her now?" Natalie asked, tired of standing and waiting. "I'd 
like to get back and get started."

"Sure," Nick said distractedly, walking around to the other side of the desk.
Natalie motioned to her assistants, then watched as Nick crouched down to the 
level of the chair and looked across the desk. He held his hand up, as if he were holding 
a gun, and look aim at an invisible victim across the desk. Tracy followed his imaginary 
line of fire and saw a small hole high up on the opposite wall.

"Bingo!" the younger detective exclaimed and snagged a passing forensics 
technician.

Nick stood and pulled Natalie to the side as Tracy began to explain exactly how 
she wanted the bullet extracted. Nick was worried about something that had nothing to 
do with the case; Natalie knew him well enough by now to be able to tell that.
"Have you noticed Tracy acting strangely lately?" he asked her in a whisper.
"No...She seems a little down, though," she added after a moment's thought. 
"Why? What's up?"

"I'm worried about her," he said, raking his fingers through his sandy blonde 
hair. "She hasn't been the same since Vachon..."

"Did LaCroix...do what he was supposed to?" Natalie asked quietly.

She hadn't approved of what Nick had asked of the older vampire. He wanted 
LaCroix to insert a false memory into Tracy's mind, one in which Vachon, her vampire 
friend, had moved on, not died at her hands. She didn't approve of messing with Tracy's 
mind, mostly, if she was honest with herself, because it meant that being a resistor was 
no barrier to LaCroix. The possibilities inherent in that terrified her. She was a resistor, 
but if that was no defense against a creature such as LaCroix, then her life would never 
be safe.

"I'm not sure," Nick whispered, pulling Natalie out of her thoughts. "I haven't 
asked him. He's kept to himself for the past couple of weeks, ever since...Divia. He 
always pays his debts, though."

"In either case, she's dealing with a loss. One that she can't talk to anyone 
about," Natalie said as she watched Tracy make one last point to the technician. "Just 
try to be there when she needs you."

"I will...That's what partners are for," he responded quietly.

End Part 3


Darkened Beings 04/09

Tracy pulled out her chair and sat down, absently leafing through the papers in 
her hands. It was all the information that they could find concerning Karen Martinez, 
the victim in their case. She hated cases when the victim was this young: it always made 
her picture herself in their place. Ever since she had first realized what her father did 
for a living, she had been terrified of being one of the victims he investigated. To be the 
one strangled or knifed or-

Tracy was abruptly yanked out of her self-examination by a tug on her pant leg. 
From under the desk. She rolled her chair back, and a toddler, still attached, slid out.

"Mara!" She exclaimed, reaching down and picking up the child. "What are you 
doing here?"

The little girl beamed at her and handed her a set of keys and a pair of 
handcuffs. She reached into Tracy's nearest jacket pocket and began to investigate the 
contents.

"Anything interesting?" she asked the little girl.

"Mine!" the child declared triumphantly and closed her chubby fist around 
something.

"Let me see," Tracy said dubiously.

The child looked suspiciously at the young woman, but held out her find. It was 
a guitar pick. Tracy had found it in the pocket of her jeans yesterday afternoon, but had 
no idea how it got there. For some reason, though, she had been unable to throw it away. 
She knew that it meant something to her, but she had no idea what.

"No, that's too small," Tracy told Mara. "You could choke on that." The child 
clutched the tiny object close to her chest and looked fiercely at the detective. Tracy 
sighed. "I'll trade you something for it."

She opened her desk drawer to look for something more child-friendly. Pencils 
with sharp points, tiny paperclips, a cherry-flavored condom, chewing gum, a fountain 
pen...nothing she could give to a toddler. She rolled her chair around to her partner's 
side and began to rummage though his top drawer. Pens, rubberbands, an autographed 
photo of the Nightcrawler, an origami bat, a pillbox...a coaster from the Raven! She 
snagged the piece of cardboard and offered it to Mara.

"Here. This is more interesting anyway."

Mara opened her hand at looked comparatively at the small, brown, plastic 
triangle and the red, white, and black picture. She dropped the pick and yanked the 
coaster out of Tracy's hands.

"Hey!" her partner's voice exclaimed. "That's mine!"

Tracy looked up to see Nick pointing at the coaster in great consternation.
"Not anymore," Tracy said, rolling her chair backwards to her own side of the 
desk and re-pocketing the pick. "You might be able to trade her for it, though."
Nick made a disgruntled face, but offered nothing in exchange.

"What's she doing here, anyway?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," Tracy said, watching the child tap herself on the nose with the 
coaster. "She was hiding under my desk with these."

As she tossed the keyring and handcuffs across the desk, there was a pounding 
on the glass of the captain's office behind them.

"Knight! Vetter!" Reese's muffled voice yelled. "Unlock this door!"


Nick listened in amusement as the captain gave strict instructions to the rookie 
cop.

"...Don't let her out of your sight for even a second. And for god's sake, don't let 
her have your keys!"

The young officer looked at the child as if she might explode at any moment, but 
obediently took Mara back to one of the questioning rooms. Reese turned around to face 
the homicide detectives, his face promising fury if they even thought about asking 
how the toddler had outwitted him.

"What have you come up  with?" Reese asked, nodding at the papers on Tracy's 
desk.

"Not much," Tracy said. "Karen Martinez was a good driver and had no criminal 
record. Single. Her parents are her next of kin; we're heading out to see them next."

"What did the cleaning woman who found the body have to say?" the Captain 
asked Nick. 

"Nothing helpful," he said, recalling his frustrating interview with the frightened 
woman. "Liz Burton didn't usually go in that early, but her daughter needed to borrow 
the car, so she had her drop her off. She always does that office first, so she found the
body immediately." 

"There were no signs of forced entry into the office or the building, so we're 
guessing the killer had a key-probably an employee," Tracy added, looking over her 
notes. "I sent an officer to the house of the agency's owner, Margeretha Woods. He just
called in: she should be here soon with a list of employees."

"Which means we should get going if we want to see Ms. Martinez' parents and 
get back soon," Nick said and grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair.


Karen Martinez' parent's lived within ten minutes of the station, but to Tracy, the 
ride seemed to be taking forever. She didn't feel like talking, and Nick seemed to be 
trying to get up the nerve to say something to her. She leaned over and switched on the 
radio.

"...loss of a child, a lover, a friend. Forget the tang, the salt, the life of them. 
What use is there for love, for future, for past in immortal eternity? To have and to hold, 
to cherish and to honor. To care for and defend. To abandon and destroy, to crush and 
defile. Duty and obedience. What mockeries they become-"

Tracy jumped as Nick turned off the radio. She turned to glare at him.
"Hey!" she exclaimed. "I was listening to that."

"I thought you thought the Nightcrawler was creepy?" Nick asked, glancing at 
her out of the corner of his eye.

"I do, but right now...he strikes a chord," Tracy said musingly. "Besides, I like 
his voice."

Last night, she had dreamt about the Nightcrawler. In the dream, he had stood 
behind her, his arms around her, his lips almost brushing her ear, his breath hot and cold 
at the same time. She had leaned against him, listening to the sound of his voice, the 
languid comfort there, the delicious danger. She paid no attention to what he said, just 
the velvet tone snaking its way into her mind, and his lips on her exposed throat. She 
had woken up, sprawled across her bed, fully dressed. She didn't even remember falling 
asleep. She had felt so...empty...when she awoke, like the world had shifted slightly 
while she slept, like something just wasn't quite right...But she still couldn't figure out 
what it was.

Nick stopped the Caddy in front of a large brick house, and Tracy took a deep 
breath before she got out of the car. This, except for looking at bodies during an 
autopsy, was her least favorite part of the job. She hated notifying the family of murder 
victim. She never knew how they were going to react, so she had no way to prepare 
herself.

Nick's phone rang as he stepped out of the car, and he paused in the rain to 
answer it. Tracy listened to his half of the conversation as she opened her umbrella and 
walked around the car to shelter Nick with it.

"Knight here...Hey, Nat...Oh, really?...Yeah, that is interesting...Thanks...We'll 
let you know."

"What did Natalie find?" Tracy asked her partner as they started up the front 
walk to the house.

"Seems that Karen Martinez was a mother. She had a Cesarean elivery
about two to three years ago, looking at the scar," he said. 

"So we have a reason for her to be at the agency," Tracy said thoughtfully. "I 
guess we can ask her parents."

Tracy knocked on the door. She really hated this.


Nick collapsed into his chair and dropped his head onto his folded arms. 

Talking with the Martinez family had been one of the most difficult ones in all his years 
of police work. Karen's parents hadn't cried, hadn't been angry-those, he was used to, 
had dealt with before. Mr. and Mrs. Martinez had simply clung to each other and 
spoken softly through voices thick with repressed emotion.

Karen had given up a child for adoption, but they didn't remember which agency 
she had used. She had been young and single, unable to care for a child on her own. 
She had given the child up to make sure that it had a better life. As far as they knew, she 
had been comfortable with her choice and had moved on with her life.

Tracy sat down heavily in the chair across from him. Nick looked up; she 
looked as drained as he felt. Her face was pale and dark circles were beginning to form 
under her eyes. The hair around her face was slightly damp. She had been in the 
restroom, probably dashing cold water on her face. He wished that he could do that to 
the same effect as mortals, but that no longer worked to refresh him. What he wanted 
was a drink, but he couldn't exactly pull out a bottle of cow blood and start drinking.
The captain came up behind Tracy and looked at them with some amount of 
sympathy.

"Margeretha Woods is in one of the interrogation rooms," he informed them. 
"I've had an officer take her statement and copy the list of employees. They're being 
called in now to get fingerprints."

"Thanks, Cap," Tracy said, and stood slowly. "Well, let's do this, then maybe we 
can go home."

The captain followed them to the back of the precinct. He moved into the 
observation area while Nick followed Tracy into the room.

Margeretha Woods looked to be approximately 45 years old. She was a tall, 
Nordic woman with her gold hair in a slightly disheveled bun. Her brown silk suit was 
rumpled and creased, but that was understandable, since it was almost two in the 
morning and she'd probably been at the station since midnight.

"Ms. Woods, I'm Detective Knight, and this is Detective Vetter," he began, 
sitting down across the table from her. Tracy leaned against the wall to better watch Ms. 
Woods' face and judge her reactions. "You know by now that there was a murder tonight 
at your agency?"

"Yes," she replied in a gravely, tired voice. "In my office, if it's been 
described correctly. I would be very happy to help as much as I can, but I'm afraid I 
didn't know the victim."

"You brought the list of employees who would have had access to the building 
after hours?" Ms. Woods handed over a sheet of paper with a short list of names. 
"Thank you, that will be very helpful." Nick paused for dramatic effect. "Where were 
you tonight, Ms. Woods?"

"I was at an awards dinner for most of the evening. I returned home near eleven 
to find a police officer camped on my doorstep." She sniffed. "I can't imagine the 
stories my neighbors have concocted already."

"When did this dinner begin?" Tracy asked.

"It began at 7:00; I got there at 7:30. I called a cab from my house at 6:30, but it 
didn't get there until nearly 7:15. I was furious," she said, with a trace of annoyance in 
her voice. "I berated the driver the entire way there."

"Can anyone else cooberate your whereabouts between the time you called for 
the cab and when it arrived?" Nick asked.

"Do you think I called a taxi, rushed over to the agency, murdered someone in 
my own office, left the body for Liz to find, and went home in time to meet my cab, all 
before receiving an award for Volunteer of the Year?" Ms. Woods laughed heartily. 

"No, I don't have an alibi." She smiled at the two detectives as if they were very young, 
very stupid children. "But I also don't have a car, and I would have had to call a cab to 
get to get across town at that time of night. Well, I could have taken public 

transportation, as I do every business day, but it takes thirty minutes to get there." She 
stood up and took her purse from the table. "I'm sorry, detectives, but I'm tired and I 
want to go home and go to sleep. If there's nothing else...?"

"No, thank you," Nick said quickly, standing up to open the door. "You've been 
very helpful. We'll let you know if we need anything."

Ms. Woods made her way down the hall while Nick watched. He turned to 
Tracy, who was still leaning against the wall. She was smiling.

"So, do you think that was all just a clever ruse to throw us off her track?" she 
asked.

"It could be, but I think it's more likely she just didn't do it." Nick walked out the 
door and he could hear Tracy follow. "Of course," he said over his shoulder, "That 
doesn't mean she doesn't know who did it."

"Well, we've got one more thing to do tonight," Tracy said. "Karen's apartment. 
Why don't I meet you there? I want to head straight home afterwards."

"Fine with me," Nick agreed.

End Part 4a


Darkened Beings 04b/09
Tracy grabbed her jacket and purse from her locker and slammed the door. She 
smiled at the other night shift officers as she headed out, but she really wasn't paying any 
attention to them. She had been so wrapped up in her own head lately that she barely 
noticed anyone. She pushed open the heavy back door of the station and trudged 
through the rain towards her Ford Taurus.

"Why did I get this car?" she mumbled to herself as she quickly deactivated the 
security system and unlocked it.

She slipped inside and slammed the door as she pondered her choice of 
automobile. It wasn't that she didn't like her car. It was a good car, got great gas 
mileage, handled well, was very safe, but it had no..._style_. Her father had 
recommended it, and without much consideration to other advice, she had bought it. Her 
mother had suggested that she get something fun and fast; after all, she would have 
plenty of time for practical cars when she was old. She had laughed at her mom, but, as 
it turned out, she was right. This car wasn't any fun. It didn't even have a good stereo; 
she had spent the extra money on the safety package to get the insurance eduction.
She ejected the tape from the player and tossed it on the passenger seat. She 
really ought to put it in the case, but, what the hell, her car was spotless otherwise. She 
started the car and headed out for Karen Martinez' apartment, tuning in CERK on the 
radio. 

"We all lose things: car keys, phone numbers, jewelry, mementos, 
people...ourselves," the sleek voice of the Nightcrawler intoned. "What do you do when 
you lose your self? When you no longer know who you are or why you do what you do? 
Life becomes a rote lesson, a play with no meaning, a meal with no substance. What 
you once enjoyed becomes stale and dull. Your life measured out in coffeespoons. 
Will the mermaids sing to you? They sing to me."

Tracy turned off the radio. Nope, still creepy. Of course, her opinion could be 
being influenced his choice of topics, but...that was really something she'd rather not 
think about. She never had been one for self-examination. She was usually happy and 
never had to worry about it. She sighed. Her life used to be so simple. Now it was 
complicated, and she didn't even know why. 

She slammed her hand against the steering wheel, causing the car to jerk. She 
quickly straightened out and paid closer attention to her driving. She was almost there, 
just a few more blocks. Keep it together, Vetter, she told herself. *Just look over the 
apartment and then you can go home.*


Nick stood on the porch outside the apartment building. Strange. It looked just 
like Natalie's: several stories high, a couple different colors of brickwork, big bay 
windows. There were quite a few of these in Toronto, it seemed.

A horn honked, and he turned around to see Tracy wave at him and make a 
circular motion with her hand. She probably meant that she was going to look for a 
parking spot. He had had to look for several minutes to find a spot big enough for the 
Caddy, then walk three blocks in the rain back to this building. If it weren't for the 
trunk space, he might consider putting the behemoth in storage. It really wasn't practical 
for city driving, and he was always afraid it was going to get keyed or stolen when he 
parked it on the street. Last month, the convertible top had gotten slashed and that had 
been expensive to repair. Maybe he should think about getting a second car...maybe a 
minivan or SUV, something that could hold supplies for long, boring days stuck in the 
back under blankets.

He heard Tracy's heartbeat as she rounded the corner. Huddled under her black 
umbrella, she still looked distracted and upset. How could he get her to open up to him? 
Tell her that a friend of his had recently moved away, see if she reciprocated with a story 
of Vachon? That would be too obvious, like he was fishing for that response. He would 
just have to let her know that he was there if she needed to talk. They weren't always the 
most communicative of partners, but Tracy was turning out to be a good cop, and he 
wanted to continue as her partner. They needed to communicate to work together, as 
Capt. Reese kept telling them.

"Hey, Trace," he said as she stamped up the stairs to the porch. "You found a 
spot faster than I did. Think I should get rid of the Caddy?"

Tracy gave him a strange look and shook off her umbrella. She opened her 
mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. With no comment, she pulled open 
the door and went inside.

"OK," Nick said after a pause. "Is that a no?" he asked as he followed her into 
the building.

"I like your car, Nick," she said, closing her umbrella and leaning it against the 
wall. "It's fun, it's sexy, it has fins. Don't get rid of it."

She stalked down the hall, and after a moment of stunned silence, Nick 
followed. As LaCroix would say: she was in a mood tonight. It would be best, then, to 
get this over as quickly as possible and go home. Tracy could probably use some 
sleep...or a smack upside the head.

"Here it is, Number 107," she said, and pulled the key out of her pocket.
She unlocked it, and Nick stepped into the apartment. There was a heartbeat, 
very fast and very faint...an animal...a small dog or a big cat. He sniffed the air: eau de 
litterbox was evident to his sensitive nostrils.

"She's got a cat," he told Tracy, and flipped on the overhead light. "There."
He pointed to the top of the curtains. A large orange shorthaired cat perched on 
the curtain rod, watching them warily.

"It's huge!" Tracy exclaimed. "Look at it! It's got to be as big as a cocker 
spaniel."

"Cats don't like me, "Nick informed her. "Why don't you see if you can get it to 
come down. We should call her parents or Animal Control."

"We can call her parents later. This poor kitty doesn't need to be locked up," she 
said. "I can take it till then."

Tracy advanced slowly, giving the cat plenty of time to get used to her presence. 
It watched her intently, but was seemingly unconcerned. Nick didn't trust cats. You 
always knew where you stood with dogs, but cats were secretive. Cats reminded him of 
LaCroix: silent, sneaky, and predatory. He never knew why people kept them as pets. 
He hated going to Natalie's apartment because of her cat. Sidney always watched him 
carefully, ready to defend his mistress if Nick should ever attempt to hurt her. She 
claimed that Sidney was just a big softy, but he didn't believe it.

While Tracy was charming down the feline, Nick looked for anything that would 
help them in their investigation. He turned to the desk beside the door. On it was a neat 
pile of bills, another neat pile of correspondence, and a third neat pile of junk mail. He 
pulled open a file drawer, finding everything alphabetized and labeled. Flipping 
through, he saw one labeled "Medical-GYN" and pulled it out. He flipped through the 
contents, but couldn't identify most of the notations. He'd let Nat take a look at it.
He pulled out the "Veterinary" folder as well. Opening it, he read the cat's name.
"She's named Peaches," he called over his shoulder to Tracy.

"This big thing?" Tracy laughed, and continued to sweet-talk the cat, but now 
using its name.

There were no folders labeled "Adoption" or "Evidence" or "Look in here, 
Cops," much to his dismay. He sighed. That would have made it too easy. It was 
strange, though. She was so organized, otherwise, like his partner. Why wouldn't she 
have all the papers she would have had to sign for the adoption?

Pulling open the center drawer of the desk, he found an expensive, leather-
bound desk planner. He took it out and opened it to yesterday's date. There were three 
notations: "Lunch-JP--12:30," "Call Joyce," and "HF-7:00." Today's notes were: "Call" 
an unreadable scribble and "Nails-2:30."

Looking through the rest of the drawers, he found nothing of interest. Tracy's 
voice suddenly lowered to a croon, and he turned to see her cradling the big feline in her 
arms. 

"Find anything?" she asked, bringing over the purring Peaches.

The cat eyed him suspiciously as Tracy flipped through the "Medical-GYN" 
folder. He considered hissing at the feline, but Tracy would probably yell at him.
"This is mostly just routine stuff," she said, closing the folder, "Pap smears and 
that sort of thing." Seeing the baffled look on his face, she began to explain. "The 
doctor scrapes...forget it. Have Natalie tell you." She looked at the date book. 
"'HF'...Happy Families. Well, we know now that she had an appointment with 
someone."

"Too bad she didn't put down with whom," Nick said. "Let's take these and call 
it a night."

"Fine by me," she agreed. "Can you help me find food and a cat carrier for 
Peaches?"

Nick watched Tracy nuzzle the cat. She looked more relaxed than she had been 
for days. Maybe it would do her good to have someone, even a cat, to worry about for a 
while. He definitely knew what it was like to get wrapped up in self-pity.

"Food's probably in the kitchen," Tracy called, as she headed down the hall 
towards the cat-box smell. "Look for clean litter, too!"

Nick wandered into the kitchen and began opening cupboards at random. On his 
fifth try, he was lucky: this was apparently the cat's private stash. He pulled out a half-
empty bag of clay granules, an unopened bag of dry food, and a few tins of something 
called "Liver Delight." He seriously doubted that there was anything delightful about it.
"Nick!" Tracy yelled. "I've found something!"

Nick jogged down the hall and peered in the door. Tracy slid her fingers under 
the edge of a sweater on the floor of the closet while Peaches watched, entranced. The 
cat slowly flattened herself out until she was a long orange cylinder on the floor. She 
reached out a paw and held it above the motion, waiting for the perfect moment.
"What?" Nick asked from the doorway.

Tracy looked up, and the cat struck.

"Ouch!" she yelled, snatching her hand back. "Hey! That hurt!"

"You found a viscous beast?" Nick asked, grinning. "Or did you find something 
pertaining to the case?"

"The case," Tracy said, disgruntled, and tossed him a folder with her uninjured 
hand. "I found it in the cat carrier."

"You OK?" Nick asked, staring at the thin scratches on her hand.

In spite of himself, he felt himself drawn to the blood. He could smell it, the 
sweet, floral fragrance calling to him. He could feel her heart beat and hear the blood 
rush in her veins. He knelt on the floor beside her and took her hand. There were lilies 
there and a soft hint of apricot...and something more delicate, more elusive...All he 
would have to do is put her hand to his lips...

"I'm fine," she said, trying to pull her hand away. "Really."

Nick didn't want to release her. The more she tugged her hand away, the tighter 
he held on. He wanted her to struggle, to make him take it from her. His heightened 
senses sought out the delirious scent of her, demanding that he feed, now.

"Nick, let go!" she exclaimed, pulling harder.

The cat growled at him low in her throat, and Nick caught himself as he was 
about to growl back. He shook his head and kept his eyes lowered, hiding his golden 
eyes and extended fangs until he could control himself. He released her hand.
"Sorry," he said. "I worry about you sometimes," he added lamely.

"It's just a scratch. I'll wash it, I promise," she said, kneading her hand where he 
had gripped it.

He opened the folder and flipped through the papers. They were financial 
documents relating to the Happy Families Adoption Agency. Their bank accounts were 
much larger than one would expect of a small agency that was not supposed to concern 
itself more with people than with money.

"I think we have some evidence," Nick said, finally looking up, his eyes again 
blue. "Good work."

End Part 4


Darkened Beings 05/09

Nick collapsed into his leather chair and aimed his universal remote control at 
the answering machine. He had tried to program it last night, now to see if it worked. 
He pressed a button.

"Hey, Nick, it's Nat," the answering machine played back. "Just calling to let 
you know that Mara was picked up from the station about twenty minutes ago...it's 2:15 
AM now and I'm heading home. I thought you might like to know about Mara...in case 
you needed to tell a certain someone."

The machine beeped, and Nick took a long swallow from the glass beside him. 
Would LaCroix be interested in Mara's life now that it was uninvolved with his? He 
hoped not.

"Knight, it's Reese," the machine continued. "Man, I really hate these damned 
machines...anyway, we can't do anything about opening the Martinez adoption records 
until tomorrow. Maybe we'll have them by the time you and Vetter get in, but don't 
count on it."

Nick shook his head. They needed those records to find out at least what agency 
Karen had used for the adoption. They could assume the Happy Families agency, but 
they couldn't prove it. They needed a court order to open the records, and it didn't look 
good. The machine beeped again.

"I find it disturbing that I am reduced to such means to track you down," the 
annoyed voice of LaCroix issued from the machine. Nick slumped in his chair, as if to 
hide from the voice. "I wish for you to come to me this evening; I have some 
information for you."

There was a final beep and the machine turned itself off. At least he had finally 
gotten the remote to work. He had been trying to get it to work with the answering 
machine for three years now. He had finally gotten it right.

What kind of information could LaCroix have for him? Was it about the case? 
Or Mara? ...Or both? Was Mara Karen Martinez' child? The child looked nothing like 
the young woman, but Karen had looked little like her parents. Could LaCroix have 
somehow found a connection for him? What was his interest? What did LaCroix 
want from him?

He looked at the time display on his VCR-it was only 3:00 AM. There was still 
plenty of time before dawn for him to get to the Raven and back...but LaCroix had said 
"this evening." If he had specified the time, then there was probably a reason. If there 
was one thing that he truly knew about his master, it was that he did nothing without a 
reason. However, discovering that reason could be impossible, if LaCroix did not want 
it known. Even if he did find out the reason, there was no guarantee it would make 
sense to him.

Nick picked up the folder from Karen's apartment. This he could understand.


"Here it is," Tracy said, opening up the cat carrier. "Home sweet home."
The orange cat cautiously stuck her head out of the door. After a moment of 
judicious sniffing, she stepped regally from the carrier, as if the trip had been all her 
idea. She moved to the nearest piece of furniture and rubbed against it: "I claim this 
couch for Peaches."

"Come on," Tracy told the cat and moved over to an open door. "This is where 
you find your litterbox. Please use it."

Peaches followed her new human to the bathroom door and looked 
disinterestedly at the catbox.

"Please," Tracy repeated.

Pointedly ignoring her, the feline turned around and began a circuit of the living 
area, rubbing against each object and investigating each corner.

Tracy sighed. At least Peaches knew where the box was. It would almost serve 
Tracy right if she failed to use it: her lease specifically forbade pets. That was one of the 
reasons she had rented in this building. It would be less dusty and dirty if no pet fur was 
wending its way through the air vents...at least that was her father's theory. She hadn't 
really thought about it, just agreed with him.

She didn't really know why she had taken Peaches. The cat would have been 
fine at the apartment until later today when they could call Karen Martinez' parents or 
Animal Control. But she didn't want to leave her there, alone and abandoned. If Karen's 
parents didn't want Peaches, she would keep her, regardless of her lease.
Tracy moved to her answering machine: no calls. She was unloved. Well, not 
really, that was just what she always thought when she came home to an unblinking light 
on her machine. Her parents, as screwed up as they were, loved her. The few friends 
she had managed to keep loved her.

Not that she had many friends. When she had gone into police work, the nature 
of her friendships had changed. Her friends got nervous around her, as if she might 
arrest them for the slightest infraction. Most had drifted away, but a few really good ones 
had stayed... Besides, it was quality, not quantity that counted, right? And she was at 
fault for her lousy social life more than they were. She didn't return phone calls and 
broke dinner dates. Working the night shift didn't help much either. She had one friend 
who kept after her and who had a similar schedule; maybe she would call him and 
arrange to get together with him sometime this week. He could always pull her out of a 
funk.

A long, low growl broke into her thoughts. Tracy turned to find Peaches on the 
window sill, batting against the glass.

"What's the matter?" Tracy asked, and moved across the room to look out the 
window.

The feline suddenly quieted and jumped down from the sill. Tracy looked 
quizzically after her, then cupped her hands around her face and looked out into the 
dark. There wasn't anything there: nothing in the tree, nothing in the street, nothing in 
the window of the next building. The rain had finally stopped, though. She pulled back 
and closed the curtains behind her.

"You just wanted to make me look, didn't you?" Tracy accused the now 
unconcerned cat.


LaCroix moved from behind the tree as the curtains closed and the pool of light 
on the ground disappeared. He had not remembered a cat. He had, perhaps, been as 
surprised as it was, when it has sensed his presence in the tree. The feline had acted in 
instinctual defense, and LaCroix found that admirable.

He respected cats as much as he did any lower life form. They were intelligent 
and crafty, fierce and cunning, all qualities that he admired. Dogs were stupid and 
obedient, but cats thought for themselves. They were not loyal, however. That was the 
only point where dogs bettered them. Felines were not to be trusted.

But his feelings about cats did nothing to explain why it was there. It had not 
been there when he had last visited Tracy Vetter's apartment, of that he was sure. 
Perhaps she had attempted to fill the void that he had created. His lips curled in a smirk: 
perhaps it was a witness to a murder.

LaCroix tracked the heartbeats in the rooms several flights above him. He could 
easily recognize Tracy's rhythm in the slow, slumberous beating around her. Her blood 
whispered to him, and had he not given his word to Nicholas to never interfere with his 
mortal friends, he would have drained her. The mere scent of her blood was 
intoxicating, he could hardly imagine the exquisite taste of it. It had been many years 
since he had found someone whose blood taunted him so. Nicholas had more strength 
than he had given him credit for, if he constantly worked with her exhilarating scent in 
his nostrils.

In her apartment, the living room light turned off to be replaced by a much 
dimmer light in the bedroom. He instantly moved from the street to the roof of the 
building next to hers. She was being careless: he watched her disrobe, the soft light of a 
low-watt bulb highlighting her porcelain skin. She reached for a t-shirt to pull over her 
near nakedness, then stopped. She slid her hands down her sides, snagging her fingers in 
her white cotton panties. Pulling them off, she stepped out of them and moved to the 
bed, out of his range of vision.

The light disappeared, and LaCroix prepared to leave. As he was about to take to 
the sky, however, he felt Tracy's heartbeat quicken instead of slow. Intrigued, he 
lingered and focused on the rhythm. The throbbing grew faster, racing feverishly, 
consuming his mind with its chant. He heard her breath catch and heave. After that, the 
pounding slowed just as rapidly as it had grown. After a moment of thought, LaCroix 
smiled to himself; young Tracy Vetter had unimagined possibilities.

End Part 5


Darkened Beings 06/09
"Trace, you're late," Nick said quietly as his partner slipped behind her desk. "I 
told Reese you were taking care of a family problem."

"Thanks," she responded, and began to read over some paperwork on her desk.

"Uh...where were you?" he asked.

She paused in her reading, and after a moment, looked up. Her eyes were bright 
with unshed tears. Nick looked around quickly to make sure no one else had noticed, 
but the precinct was quiet and mostly empty. He rolled his chair around to her side of 
the back-to-back desks and took one of her hands in his.

"Come on, what's wrong?" he asked softly.

"I took the cat to the Martinez'," Tracy said, sniffling.

"You're crying over a cat?" he asked disbelievingly.

"I'm not crying!" she exclaimed, then quickly lowered her voice. "It's not that...I 
don't know what it is. Something's just not right lately. It's like there's something 
missing, but I don't even know what it is. I'm beginning to think that I was abducted by 
aliens! I can't explain it, I'm sorry."

"It's OK," he said. "Are you going to be all right?" 

"I'll be fine. Thanks."

She pulled her hand away and Nick could see light purple marks on her wrist. 
He hadn't been holding her hand that tightly...but he had last night. He rolled his chair 
back to his desk, not taking his eyes off Tracy's injury.

He had hurt Tracy: his partner, the one he was supposed to back up and protect. 
A moment of lust for her blood and all of his care and concern meant nothing. Her 
blood was a symphony of scent and taste, waiting to be devoured or it would be lost to 
decay and rot. It begged him to take her. The current of it drew him in as he watched 
the blood blaze under the translucent skin of her wrist.

"So, did you find anything?" Tracy asked.

"Hmm? What?" Nick yanked himself out of his contemplation.

"In the financial papers we found at Karen's. Did you find anything?" she 
repeated.

Nick opened the folder on his desk and handed over the relevant papers as he 
spoke.

"Well, Happy Families has some interesting accounting. They have a couple 
small bank accounts at the First National Bank of Canada, where Karen worked. 
However, they also have another account with a Jamaican bank. There are large 
deposits made at least once a month."

"Selling babies?!" Tracy asked in shock. "How could they do that?"

"And Karen was blackmailing them?" Nick theorized. "That's a lot of money. 
Each deposit is at least $70,000."

"Maybe she didn't want money," Tracy said slowly. "She gave up a baby, right? 
What if she changed her mind? She could have been blackmailing them for 
information."

"That's a possibility," Nick agreed. "We can't even get the records opened for a 
criminal investigation." Nick stood and pulled on his jacket. "Which reminds me: I 
have to meet with someone who might have some information on the case."

"I'll come with you," Tracy offered.

"No, he'll only talk to me. Why don't you call Social Services and see if they 
have anything on Happy Families?" he suggested. "Maybe Karen spoke to someone 
there about her suspicions."

Nick left before Tracy could complain. He would have liked to stay with her, 
but he needed to talk to LaCroix, and not just about the case.


Nicholas' anger was palpable as soon as he entered the Raven. LaCroix watched 
him through the glass of his soundbooth, shoving through the early evening crowd. 
Cooperating with the police had eased the surveillance on his club. He could only spot 
one undercover officer, and she was beginning to enjoy the club's atmosphere of 
carefully controlled danger, and was, therefore, less attentive to her job. Things were 
working out splendidly. Now only to discover why Nicholas was cross.

LaCroix motioned for Nicholas to enter the booth. He did, as well as a burst of 
noise from the club. His child shut the door, and again there was silence.
"What's wrong this time?" LaCroix asked in a bored tone.

Suddenly, Nicholas had him by the lapels, pressed against the back wall of the 
booth. The vampire was in full force, and his son growled in fury.
"Upset?" LaCroix inquired.

His wayward child released him and regained control of himself. LaCroix seated 
himself in the only chair in the room and watched as Nicholas paced with frantic energy.
"What did you do to Tracy?" the younger vampire demanded, stopping in front 
of him.

"I did as you asked...approximately," LaCroix said casually.

"Approximately?"

"She is a resistor," LaCroix pointed out. "Even for one of my...considerable... 
skills, it is not easy to determine which memories to suppress. If the wrong one is left, 
the whole house of cards comes tumbling down and all is remembered. It's not a perfect
science. I did what I had to do."

"You've taken everything? Her knowledge of vampires?" Nicholas gasped.

"It was better for her. She was distraught; I eased her pain," LaCroix explained.
LaCroix smiled at the memory of the beautiful Tracy in his arms, embracing 
him, wanting him. An angel goddess sacrificed to liquid desire. It was a pity that she 
was his son's partner, it truly was.

"You've destroyed her," his son bellowed. "She's different-miserable; her world 
is falling apart. You have to give the memories of Vachon back!"

"It isn't that easy, fool," the ancient vampire hissed back. "She would have to 
know the truth...Do you want me to take her to Vachon's grave? The one that she put 
him in? If you think that your pretty partner is miserable now, how would you like to 
see her when she remembers that she stabbed a stake through the heart of someone she 
loved? Is that what you want, Nicholas? To replace her champagne blood with rusty 
dread?" LaCroix raged. "Do you not think I have felt her desire for oblivion and 
yearned to give it to her?"

His son bowed his head in defeat. The rage within him dissipated almost 
visibly, a mist in the air around him.

"I don't know what's better," the younger vampire said. "She's so...depressed. 
She's no longer happy with her life."

"Perhaps, for her, it is time to move on," LaCroix said gently. "Mortals feel the 
urge as well as we. Your partner is a strong woman with unexpected depths; she will 
survive."

Raising his head, Nicholas looked at him curiously. His son studied his face, but 
apparently found no answers there.

"You said you had information," Nicholas said, changing the subject.

"Ah! Yes, I do. I overheard a conversation, but made no connections until much 
later in the night," LaCroix said. "I was at the bar and heard two men talking with a 
woman. They spoke of a young woman and adoption records. I thought that they might 
have something to do with the child I discovered yesterday."

LaCroix was still unsure of his motives concerning this child. It was simply not 
like him to be so interested in an infant. However, he had discovered that he wanted this 
child to be returned to her parents. Family had always been important to him; it was 
more so now, with Divia dead and Janette gone. Nicholas was all he had left. He had 
created other vampires, but Janette and Nicholas had always been his favorites, the ones 
he considered to be his eternal family.

"What did they look like?" Nicholas asked, pulling out a notepad.

"The men appeared to be in their mid-twenties, and the woman in her thirties, 
but I'm not very good with ages." LaCroix smirked, then continued. "None of them were 
the type to frequent this club. The woman was small and wore business attire. She was 
not very attractive, so I paid little attention to her. The young men were in blue jeans 
and t-shirts. The slogan on one shirt said "Skavoovie!" if I read it correctly, and I did. 
That one had short brown hair, and the other had striped hair-he looked like a zebra."

"Why do you think that they might have something to do with Mara?" his child 
asked when he finished scribbling.

"The woman said that she had just come from the 'agency'; I intuited from 
context that she meant 'adoption agency'. It wasn't until I was out later that night that I 
passed a crime scene at an adoption agency within easy walking distance from here," he 
explained, "even for a child."


"Hey, Nick," Tracy called as he entered the precinct.

She was determined to be more cheerful, more like her old self. She was tired 
of everyone asking if she was OK, if she needed anything. She was a grown woman; she 
could take care of herself.

"Find out anything?" she asked as her partner sat on his desk.

"I have some possible suspects," he said, handing over his notebook. "It's not 
much, but it's better than nothing."

"'Skavoovie,'" Tracy read. "That's a word used in ska."

Nick raised his eyebrows in confusion. There were times when Nick acted a lot 
older than he really was; it was frustrating.

"It's a type of music: a blend of reggae, big band, blues, and today, punk," she 
explained.

"Do you know where someone with that kind of musical taste would hang out in 
Toronto?"

"As a matter of fact," she said, smiling, "I do." She stood and grabbed her jacket 
from the back of her chair. "What's tonight?"

"Thursday," her partner answered. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason. Come on, I've got some stuff to tell you, but I can tell you on the 
way."

"Trace, where are we going?" Nick asked as he hurried to catch up to her.

"A club called the Crash; it's ska night." Tracy pushed open the front door to the 
precinct and headed for Nick's car, which she could see parked down the street. "Can I 
drive the Caddy?"

Nick finally caught up to her. "No!" he exclaimed.

"Why not?" Tracy asked as she reached the green car. "I've never driven it. Nat 
told me once that you used to let Schanke drive it all the time."

"Yeah, and he used to crash it, too." He opened up the passenger door for her. 

"Get in and give me directions."


Tracy hadn't found out much, but what was more important was what she 
hadn't been able to find out. No one in Social Services had been willing to talk about 
the financial position of the Happy Families agency. They were all interested in what 
information she had, but were unwilling to give her any. They seemed to know that 
something was suspicious, but they weren't willing to make any accusations.

She also had the forensics report on the room. The only people in the office had 
been employees, or the killer had been wearing gloves. There was nothing missing from 
the office, and no signs of picked locks. So, most likely, they were looking for someone 
in the agency.

"Who would sell babies, and be willing to kill for it?" Tracy asked. "Turn left on 
Yonge."

"That's a lot of money, Trace," Nick said, following her instructions. "Some 
people care more about money than they do anything else."

"But Ms. Woods got a Volunteer of the Year award! Doesn't that make you 
sick?" she asked.

They stopped at a traffic light, and Nick looked at his partner. She was happier 
now, but earlier she'd been about to cry. Her moods were swinging all over the 
place...maybe it was PMS. That wasn't exactly something he could ask without sounding 
like an ass. If it were, Nick was truly glad he wasn't a woman. Natalie had explained 
a pap smear to him, and he'd been appalled.

"Nick, the light's green," Tracy said.

"Oops!" he exclaimed and hit the gas. "It doesn't mean she's involved. Though 
it would be very hard to set up something that complicated without the owner's 
knowledge."

"Yeah, I know." Tracy sighed. "It just makes me lose faith in human beings. Oh-
turn right onto Alexander St."


Nick yanked the steering wheel to make the turn they had almost passed. Tracy 
appeared to be deep in thought and didn't seem to notice that they had almost crushed a 
fire hydrant and a Lexus.

"Left on Mutual and another left on Maitland, then find a place to park," Tracy 
instructed. "Do you know how many people have to be involved? This goes way beyond 
one simple homicide."

Nick glanced at her out of the corner of his eye as he hunted for a parking spot. 
She wasn't paying any attention to his serious parking situation. The Caddy wouldn't fit 
in just any spot; it had to be a big spot, a safe spot. He rolled down his window as he 
slowly moved up on a woman about to pull into a spot perfect for his car. He caught her 
eyes and captured her heartbeat with his mind. 

"You don't want to park there, do you?" he asked softly.

The woman shook her head and pulled away. Nick parallel parked with decades 
of practice and was in the spot on the first try.

"I mean, there's got to be lawyers, government people, mothers!" Tracy said, 
getting out of the car. "It's incredible!" She looked up and down the street as Nick joined 
her on the street. "Come on, it's down here."

Tracy led the way down a dark set of stairs. As she opened a nondescript door, a 
burst of horns played a flourish, then there was loud cheering and applause. A young 
man with short, bleach-blonde hair yelled into a microphone.

"Thanks! We're gonna' take a break, then come on back for more!"
The man bounded off stage and the rest of the band-seven of them in all-
followed him off. The bleach-blonde sat at the bar, and Tracy made her way toward him, 
pulling Nick after her.

"Tracy!" the young man exclaimed when he caught sight of Nick's partner. 
"How ya' doin'? Come to play with us tonight? Ya' haven't been in for weeks. You 
know we always keep a spot open for ya'."

Nick was stunned: Tracy in a band? A ska band? What secrets did she keep 
hidden under that perky cover of normalcy?

"No, not tonight, Matt, but I might take you up on that offer sometime really 
soon. I was planning on giving you a call, anyway," she said, and perched on a barstool 
next to him. "Besides, I don't have my horn."

"That's no excuse! You know Skazzy always has an extra trumpet around, 
Trace," the young man-Matt-admonished.

"Yeah, like I'm going to play one of his instruments without thoroughly 
disinfecting it first!" Tracy laughed. "No, I'm here on business." She tugged Nick 
forward. "This is Detective Nick Knight, my partner. Nick, this is Matt, one of my best 
friends from university."

"Nice to meet ya', Knight. So what's it like workin' with the hottest horn player 
in all of Toronto?" Matt asked, slapping Tracy on the leg.

"Hey," Tracy said, "I'm not that good."

"I wasn't talkin' about your playin'. Ya' know you're a babe, Trace." Matt put his 
arm around her shoulders, and Nick could see the tail of a Chinese dragon tattoo 
wrapping around his upper arm. "Skazzy's livin' your room now, but we can always kick 
him out...or ya' can stay in my room..."

Tracy rolled her eyes and grinned at Nick. He had never known that she played 
the trumpet, let alone in a band. And she had lived with this guy?! He was going to get a 
lot of mileage out of this!

"Enough with the clever quips, you," Tracy said, playfully shoving him away. 
"We do need your help. Nick, do you have those descriptions?"

"Yeah." He pulled out his notebook and read the descriptions to the young man.
"Naw," he said, "I don't know anyone who looks like that; I think I'd remember 
that hair. Lemme get Skazzy, though. He knows everybody."

Matt hopped off his stool and threaded his way through the bar's crowd. Nick sat 
in his place, and swiveled to look at his partner. He didn't even know where to start 
teasing her.

"Don't even say anything," Tracy said, eyeing him sternly.

"About what?" Nick asked innocently. "About your hot trumpet playin', babe?"
Tracy glared at him, but didn't have time to respond before Matt returned with 
another young man in tow. While Matt was dressed in baggy jeans and a faded t-shirt, 
this young man wore a neat brown suit. He looked more like a young executive than a 
musician.

"Hey, baby," the young man said, kissing Tracy on the cheek. "Where's Vachon? I 
know he always complained there weren't enough guitars, but he did like the music. 
Trade him in for this one?"

Nick froze at the mention of the dead vampire's name, but Tracy just looked 
confused. This was something he hadn't counted on: that people would ask Tracy about 
Vachon. Would this be enough to bring the memories back?

"Who?" Tracy asked, looking at the dapper young man as if he'd gone insane. 
"Skazzy, I don't know who you're talking about."

"Oh! Of course!" Skazzy said knowingly, looking quickly at Nick. "You've got 
some people you're looking for?"

Nick re-read the descriptions.

"Yeah, I remember the cat with the striped head. I thought he looked like a 
skunk," the young man said. "He and his friend were from out of town, but they didn't 
say where. I gave them a ride home, though, to a hotel near the airport. Casa Raton, I 
think."

"Oh, thank you, Skazz!" Tracy exclaimed. "I owe you one."

"Go see my kid; he misses his Aunt Tracy. He's taught that big mutt you got him 
some tricks that he'd love for you to see," he said seriously, then grinned. "And, hey, if 
you ever decide to drop this one, just keep me in mind."

End Part 6


Darkened Beings 07/09
As they drove to the motel near the airport, Tracy thought about the bar. She'd 
forgotten how much she missed those guys. A few weeks ago, she had stopped going to 
see them, had stopped playing a few numbers with them, but she couldn't remember 
why. She had just ...stopped. She searched her mind for a reason, but couldn't come up 
with any. How strange! She loved playing with the band; why would she just stop?
And what was up with Skazzy? Herbert Eugene Scasington III was a strange guy 
with an unfortunate name, he always had been, but what had he been talking about? She 
didn't know anyone named Vachon. She would surely remember that...wouldn't she?
Maybe she had been abducted by aliens. She had gone online today and 
looked up the indications of abduction, and memory loss was one of them. So was the 
sense of lost time. She had checked her body for any strange marks or implants, but she 
hadn't found any. She had slight bruises on her wrist where Nick had held it, but that 
was all.

Nick had been giving her odd looks ever since they left the bar. She knew that he 
was surprised by her friends and the fact that she played in a band, but that didn't seem to 
be what the looks were about. He was probably worried about her again. It was nice to 
be cared about, but he was her partner, not her personal savior! Her life had somehow 
suddenly been turned on its end, but she would manage to pick up the pieces, no matter 
where they fell.

"Think we should call for back-up?" Nick asked, breaking into her reverie.

"We probably should," Tracy responded, "but we don't even know if they're 
still there. Why don't we wait and see."

"Sounds good," he agreed. "Trace, I...Nothing, forget it."
Tracy raised her eyebrows at him, but he didn't continue. Probably for the best: 
she was going to throttle the next person who offered to help.

They pulled into the Casa Raton Motel, a seedy place right under the flight path 
to the airport. The paint was peeling and the entire two-story building shook when a 
plane roared overhead. The parking lot glittered with broken glass. Nick pulled the car 
into a spot in front of the office, the tires crunching and they rolled over broken bottles 
and crack vials.

"Lovely. This looks like a place bad guys would be," Tracy observed, getting 
out of the car and slamming the door. "I locked it," she assured her partner as he got out 
and looked dubiously around the parking lot.

They entered the motel office, and a bored man looked up from behind the 
counter.

"Twenty bucks an hour," he told them, "or seventy for the whole night."
Nick pulled out his badge and showed it to the man. He looked carefully at it, 
and made no further comment.

"Metro Homicide," Nick said. "We're looking for some suspects. You'd 
remember them: two young men, one with black and white striped hair."
The man gazed defiantly at them, but didn't say anything.

"We know they were here," Tracy said. "We can take you downtown and do this 
there, if that's what you want."

"All right," the man said. "I don't get paid enough to deal with this. The two 
guys are in room 203. They've been here since yesterday afternoon. They paid in cash, 
but they signed for the room."

He shoved the register across the desk at them, and Tracy read the signature next 
to the room number.

"I'm not going to put an APB out for Ben Dover. Are you, Nick?" she asked.
"Why not-oh. No," he agreed. "You wouldn't happen to know if they're in right 
now, would you?" he asked the desk clerk.

"Hey, I'm not a baby-sitter. If you want to know, go knock on the door like 
anyone else," he said, and looking down at his magazine, pointedly ignored them.
Tracy pushed open the door and headed up the open stairwell to the second 
level. Nick followed behind her, and she heard him take out his gun and cock it.
"Think we'll need those?" she asked, looking over her shoulder.

"Better safe than sorry," he said. "Besides, I don't really like the look of this 
place."

Tracy nodded and got out her semi-automatic. It was times like this when she 
was glad that she didn't carry a revolver. She hated the idea of only having six shots 
before she had to reload. Most of the guns on the street were semi-automatic, if not full-
auto. She liked to be at least as well armed as the criminals. She clicked off the safety, 
chambered a round, and pointed her gun at the ground.

They reached the door and Nick knocked, but there was no response. Nick 
cocked his head to the side and listened. She couldn't hear anything, but he apparently 
could. He knocked again,louder this time.

"Metro Homicide! Open up!" he yelled.

There was a flurry of movement even Tracy could hear, then loud shot. Nick 
was knocked backward into the walkway railing then crumpled to the ground. She had 
no time to check on him before another shot came through the large ragged hole in the 
thin door. She ducked to the side. She heard the distinctive sound of a round being 
jacked into a shotgun and reached out to drag Nick to the side. She got him into cover as 
another shot whistled by her head. There was the sound of breaking glass, then silence.
"Damn," she said.

She turned to Nick. His eyes were open, amazingly enough. He smiled thinly at 
her and waved her away.

"I'm fine," he said weakly. "It was just buckshot. It stings, but I'm fine. I think 
they got out a back window. You're going to have to check. I'll stagger down to the car 
and call it in... I guess we should have waited to get back-up."

Tracy helped her partner up, then turned to the room. She kicked open the 
ruined door, then peered into the room. She didn't see anyone, and there was glass on 
the floor under a window in the back. She edged cautiously into the room, straining to 
hear any sounds. She heard nothing, but they could be being very quiet. She checked 
behind the bed, then in the bathroom, but there was no one there. She crunched on the 
broken glass to look out the window, but whoever had jumped out of it was long-gone by 
now.

"Clear!" she called out the front door, clicking the safety back on her pistol and 
putting it back in the holster.

Nick was outside the room and Tracy could hear sirens in the distance. Her 
partner was hunched over slightly, but appeared to be mostly unhurt. Thank god it had 
been buckshot and not a bullet. Had it been, she might not have her partner anymore.


Nick flinched as Natalie pulled his shirt away from his chest. The dried blood 
made the task difficult, but she was being as careful as she could. It wouldn't actually 
hurt him if she just yanked the shirt away, but she'd been too well conditioned at medical 
school to do something like that. He was probably just flinching out of embarrassment. 
After all, it was somewhat inglorious to have badly misjudged a situation and to have a 
friend digging the reminders of that out of you. 

"You know, you're lucky you were wearing black," she commented. "Otherwise, 
Tracy would have been able to tell how bad this was."

"I know," he said. "I'm just glad it was me in front of the door and not her. This 
might not have killed her, but it would have hurt a lot."

"Well, be happy that Reese took your word that you were going to the ER. 
Otherwise, it would have been mighty hard to explain to the paramedics why having a 
chest full of double-ought buck wasn't bothering you." Natalie shook her head at the 
centimeter-sized holes dotting Nick's torso. "Lay down and don't complain."

Nick obediently reclined on his kitchen table while Natalie went to work, digging 
through his chest for the buckshot. After a few moments of staring at the high ceiling, 
he began to wriggle. Nat smacked his abdomen lightly with her gloved hand and he 
stopped, but as soon as she began to poke around again, he moved.

"What?" she asked, exasperated, putting her instruments down.

"I'm hungry," he said in a very small voice.

Natalie sighed. She preferred her usual patients to Nick. They didn't complain, 
and never fidgeted while she was working on them.

Natalie handed him a tumbler full of red liquid and pulled a bendy straw out of 
her purse.

"It's been used, but I don't think a few germs are going to hurt you," she said. 
"You can drink that lying down, so don't move."

Nick took a large sip through the straw and sighed with contentment. She had 
given him human blood against her own better judgment. It had been donated, so she 
could rationalize it. It would also let him heal faster. It was already working: as soon as 
she pulled out a piece of shot, the hole closed up. She had a nice pile of metal growing 
on the table. She was almost done.

"What did you find at the scene?" she asked, digging out the last clump of metal.

"Other than a furious Capt. Reese? The phone number of the Happy Families 
Adoption Agency, plus a bunch of child care stuff-toddler age-and from the 
descriptions, they don't seem to be the parental types," he said, sitting up as she finished.

"Why would they have that?" Natalie asked, stripping off her gloves.

"Tracy thinks, and I agree with her, that not only are they involved in selling 
babies, but they may be stealing them, too." Nick pulled a clean white t-shirt over his 
head and continued to speak through the fabric. "LaCroix pointed out to me that Happy 
Families is within walking distance of the Raven. That's how Mara could have gotten 
there."

"That reminds me!" Natalie pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket and 
handed it to Nick who had finally struggled into his shirt. "You got a fax from a 
secretary at Social Services. I couldn't help but notice that it has her phone number and 
a big heart on it. Admirer of yours?"

Natalie tried to make the question sound casual, but she knew that it wasn't. 
Seeing that telephone number had made her seethe with jealousy, about which she wasn't 
proud. She kept telling herself that she and Nick were just friends, but that didn't seem 
to be helping. She did love him, and in much more than a platonic way. She thought 
that Nick felt the same way, but she wasn't positive. Soon, however, something was 
going to happen to bring their relationship to a turning-or breaking-point.
Nick grabbed Natalie's hand and pulled her over to him. He put his arms around 
her and buried his face in her hair.

"Thank you for your help...and just for being there," he whispered. "I know that I 
can depend on you." He held her out at arm's length. "Jane from Social Services is 62 
and wants me to meet her grand-daughter. I've turned her down for three years, but she's 
very persistent. I think she does it now as a joke...OK?"

"Hey, I have nothing to say about it," Natalie said and smiled. "Read your fax."
"Mara is really Maria Miller of Meridian, Mississippi... Kidnapped in the 
Emergency Room when her mother was taking her to the hospital for a high fever," he 
read aloud. "Missing for three weeks. LaCroix was only one vowel off on the name."

"At least she has a happy ending," Natalie said. "I'd begun to wonder if she was 
Karen Martinez' child."

"Me, too," Nick said, finishing off his glass of blood.

Natalie watched Nick drink through the straw. She could almost convince 
herself that it was Kool-Aid (tm) that he was drinking, but not quite. He looked kind of 
cute using the straw, though, with his cheeks sucked in and a studious look on his face. 
She hid a smile; Nick wasn't so grown-up after all.


Tracy pulled her car into the spot next to the side door of the abandoned church. 
She had been driving aimlessly when she found the church, and something about it was 
familiar, though she didn't know what. She sat and looked at it for a few minutes, then 
decided to get out of the car and go inside. Capt. Reese had sent her and Nick home for 
the night, promising to call them with any new information gleaned from the room at the 
motel. For once, she hadn't complained. It wasn't as if she had anyone waiting for her, 
so what the hell: she'd check out the church.

She got out and opened her trunk. Grabbing her flashlight, she noticed a large 
black duffel bag. She didn't remember putting it in there, but she must have. Turning on 
her flashlight, she pulled the bag closer. She unzipped it, and stared in shock at the 
contents. Why on earth would she have a vampire-killing kit in the trunk of her car? 
The duffel had sharpened stakes, a crucifix, garlic, and a bottle of water she could only 
assume was holy.

Tracy slammed the trunk. This was getting ridiculous. She was going to have a 
quick look around the church, go home, take a long hot bath, and go to bed early. She 
just needed some sleep. That had to be it. Either that, or she was going insane.
The door opened easily, as if it had been in use recently. She flicked the 
lightswitch by the door, but it didn't work, so Tracy aimed the flashlight at the floor. 
Stairs led steeply up, and with no other choices, she went up.

Dust swirled in the light as she moved, and Tracy saw no footsteps but hers. 
Big surprise, she thought. It is abandoned. She reached the top, pushing through 
dark curtains and a few more short flights of stairs, both up and down. She stopped in a 
big room and a feeling of vertigo overtook her. She had been here before. She didn't 
remember it, but she knew she had been.

But this wasn't what she was looking for. She didn't know how she knew, but 
she did. Moving her light across the walls, she spotted a narrow doorway leading down 
into the dark. She walked down two flights of steps; she had to be underground now. 
The stairs suddenly opened into a hallway faced with old, cool stone. Ahead of her was 
an archway. That was the place she was looking for.

Hesitantly, she moved forward, and down two more short flights of steps. She 
shone the flashlight over the room, and picked out several candelabra. Feeling in her 
jacket pocket, she pulled out a book of matches and the guitar pick. *I got this pick 
from here,* she realized suddenly.

The room almost breathed a feeling of despair and fear. Tracy could sense the 
tragedy that had happened in this place, whatever that was. Raw hopelessness pushed 
against her, as if it permeated the stones and would crush her in an instant, given the 
chance. 

She walked around the room, lighting the candles, and soon, she was able to turn 
off her flashlight. Someone had obviously lived here, though not in the past several 
weeks. There was a mattress in one corner, separated from the rest of the room by 
heavy curtains. A pair of electric blue, patterned boxer shorts were visible in a tangle of 
blankets. Looking closer, but not touching, she saw that the underwear had little suns 
wearing sunglasses cavorting across them. There was other evidence of male habitation: 
a lone, dirty sock on the floor, an unwashed wineglass, a magazine about motorcycles.

A cordless telephone lay on the floor. Tracy picked up and tried it, but there was 
no dialtone. There were several large, sheeted objects, which turned out to be statues of 
saints, on closer examination. One was St. Christopher, the other Ursula. A long 
extension cord snaked around one statue and led to a chair with a guitar leaning against 
it. Tracy brushed her fingers across the unamplified strings, setting free a metallic chord.

Stepping back from the chair, she stumbled over a wooden crate. It made a 
clinking noise, and she pulled the top off to find green bottles full of a dark liquid, 
though they had no labels. Homemade wine, maybe? She glanced around the room: no 
wine-making equipment. The cork was half-way out in one; she pulled the bottle out 
and opened it up, lifting it to her nose for a sniff.

"Ugh!"

She yanked her head away and quickly put the cork back in the bottle. It had 
smelled of copper and salt, a ocean smell...like blood. She held the bottle up to the light 
of the nearest candle. It looked like red wine in the bottle, but when she swirled it, it 
was thicker and moved slower than wine should have. Holding her breath, she uncorked 
the bottle and poured a small amount on the ground. She re-corked the bottle quickly 
and let out her breath.

Setting the flashlight on the floor next to the small puddle, she turned it on. The 
liquid was dark red, no doubt about it. Hesitantly, she stuck her finger in it and brought it 
to her mouth. Please, she thought, let it be spoiled Ribena (tm). One quick taste 
confirmed her suspicions: it was blood. She'd sucked on enough papercuts to recognize 
the taste.

"OK, Vetter," she said aloud. "Why is there bottled blood in here and an anti-
vampire kit in your trunk?"

She moved the guitar and sat in the chair. She was obviously nuts. She had, 
apparently, at some time in the past, believed in vampires. However, she had no 
memory of believing in vampires. Maybe vampires, not aliens, had abducted her. 

They brought her to this abandoned church and played mind games with her. Maybe this 
mysterious Vachon was a vampire and had lived here and she and he had been secret 
lovers before he erased her memory when she refused to have his vampire love-child. 
Yeah, that was it. Maybe she should call a tabloid.

She was getting no where this way. She would do this like a math proof: assume 
certain things to reach a conclusion. Since she was obviously insane, she would also 
speak aloud, to make things clearer to herself.

"Assumption One: I have forgotten something important.
"Assumption Two: I have forgotten someone named Vachon.
"Assumption Three: I have a vampire-killing kit in my trunk.
"Assumption Four: I have been in this church before...ooh, a rhyme...
"Assumption Five: A man lived in this church.
"Assumption Six: There is bottled blood in this abandoned church.
"Conclusion: I believe that vampires exist, and whoever lived here was one," she 
declaimed to the empty room.

She was no more convinced. What she needed was hard evidence, something 
that her cop mind would accept. Pictures, fingerprints, evidence... She had an 
undeveloped roll of film in her purse; maybe that had some pictures on it! If she had 
taken this Vachon to the Crash, then she must have been good friends with him: not 
many people knew about her university friends. She always took pictures when she 
played with the band-they used them for publicity. There was a good chance that she 
had a picture of Vachon on that film. But would she recognize him when she saw him?
Are there any one-hour photo places open at 2:00 AM?" she mused aloud.


Darkened Beings 08/09

"Late again?" Nick asked as Tracy slid into her desk chair. "Visiting the cat?"

"Ha ha," she answered, and pulled out a pile of photographs. "No, I was picking 
up some film I had developed. It was only supposed to take an hour, but it took two."
"And you couldn't get them later?" he inquired.

"Nope. This is important," she said, beginning to flip through hem.

"You couldn't call?"

"Jeez, you sound like my dad," his partner said, not looking up from the photos. 

"What's new with the case?"

"Well, we found a name in the perps' room that matches a name on the employee 
list from Ms. Woods," Nick said, but got no reaction. "The two men have been 
identified as U.S. citizens." Still no reaction. "One is Elvis and the other is J.F.K." Tracy 
flipped through her pictures. "I've decided to change my name to Barbie, get a sex 
change, and strip on Saturday nights." Tracy didn't even blink. "Tracy? Nick to Tracy. 
Come in, TRACY!"

Tracy sighed and put down the pile of pictures.

"I'm sorry, Nick. What did you say? I wasn't listening," she said apologetically.

"Obviously. The two men from last night were U.S. citizens and had an agency 
employee's name in their belongings." Nick tossed over faxed mug shots. "The name 
was Brenda Terr. She was not at home or the office."

"Think they all high-tailed it for the border?" Tracy asked, examining the fuzzy 
images. "They had plenty of time, especially if they caught a plane."

"I checked passenger lists, but no luck," he said, leaning back in his chair.
"Wow. You've been busy," Tracy observed.

"Came in early to make up for having to miss most of last night." He saw Tracy 
about to ask how he was and held up his hand. "I feel fine, thank you-"
The phone on Tracy's desk rang and she answered it. Out of politeness, Nick 
listened only to her half of the conversation, though with minimal effort, he could have 
heard the other person as well.

"Detective Vetter...Oh, hi, Jane. Did you want to talk to Nick?...OK...We warned 
you!...No, we haven't seen her...We'll give you a call if we do." Tracy hung up the 
phone. "You'll never guess who's gone missing: Maria Miller, that little escape-artist-in-
training."

"What happened?" Nick asked.

Should he call LaCroix? Had his master changed his mind about returning the 
child to her parents? When Nick had phoned him last night to inform him of the 
toddler's identity, his master had been carefully unconcerned about Maria's fate. Had he 
had another in store for her? Or did he just not want his son to realize that he cared?

"Seems she just wandered out of the children's home she was in. She was gone 
when someone went to tuck her into bed. Do you think maybe she was re-kidnapped?" 
Tracy speculated.

"That's an awful lot of effort to go through," Nick pointed out. "Especially if she's 
only just recently disappeared. It's more likely she's hiding somewhere in the building."

"Yeah, you're probably right," his partner agreed. "So...since you've been so 
busy, have you gotten us a warrant for Brenda Terr's office and house?"

Nick smiled and waved two folded pieces of paper.

"I was just waiting for you to ask."


A thorough examination of Brenda Terr's residence and office showed no 
evidence of any wrong-doing. However, her home did show signs of a hasty departure: 
drawers were emptied, files were burned. Her office also had a large chunk of files 
missing.

Margeretha Woods was furious when Tracy requested that she come down to the 
station for questioning.

"How dare you?!" she exclaimed. "Don't you know who I am? I help people! I 
won't go anywhere with you. And Brenda would never do any of these things that you 
say she did. She is my most trusted employee! I couldn't run this agency without her."

Ms. Woods stormed out of the room, and Tracy let her go. They had only 
circumstantial evidence at the moment. They needed something more concrete to tie the 
murder to the financial records. They needed a murder weapon or one of the three 
missing suspects, preferably all of the above.

Tracy took one last look around the office, and backed out of the room, feeling 
that she was missing something. Of course, she had been feeling that a lot lately. It was 
nothing new.

"Find anything else?" Nick asked, catching her in the hallway. "I took another 
look around the crime scene, but didn't see anything that we haven't looked at already."

"No," Tracy said. "It's just so frustrating! We know that she had something to 
do with it, but we have no proof!"

"Well, sometimes that's the way it is, Trace," Nick began. "Unfortunately-"

Tracy's cell phone rang, and she snatched it out of her pocket.

"Vetter...Matt... Yeah. Look, can I call you back? I'm working...They 
are?...We'll be right there." Tracy flipped phone closed and started out the door. "The 
two perps from the motel are at the Crash!"


Nick and Tracy made their way along the bar through the crowd at the Crash, 
searching for a black and white striped hair-do. Even with his enhanced vision, Nick 
couldn't find it in the bouncing, seething crowd. He looked down at the pictures in his 
hand, but photocopying an already fuzzy fax had made the faces nearly unrecognizable.

A hand latched onto his arm and attempted to pull him aside. Nick quickly 
reversed the grip and twisted the arm behind the body it was attached to.

"Hey, man!" the body exclaimed. "It's me, Matt, Trace's bud!" Nick released the 
young man and Tracy caught up to them. "Tracy, hey." Matt pointed down the bar. "I've 
been keepin' an eye on 'em for ya.' They're the two down there with the black hair, bad 
attitudes, and leather jackets."

Nick looked. That easily described half of the young people in the club. He 
looked at his fuzzy photocopy again, then saw them.

"The ones with the bad dye jobs and cocky looks?" Nick asked, nodding at the 
two pleased-with-themselves men leaning against the wall about twenty feet away, at the 
end of the bar.

"That's them," he agreed. "I wouldn't have recognized 'em, but the one on the 
left was bitchin' about havin' to cover up his zebra dye. I read about the shootin' down by 
the airport in the paper last night, remembered ya' lookin' for these guys, and gave the 
babe cop here a call."

Nick tried to hide his surprised expression, but apparently didn't succeed.

"Don't let the language fool you, Nick," Tracy told him, smiling. "By day, Matt's 
one of the best computer programmers in Toronto. He can make connections where 
none seem to be. I tried to get him to go into police work, but he just wouldn't do it."

"Too bad," he agreed. "How do you want to go about this? We know they're 
dangerous."

"Backup should be here soon, but this place is too crowded. If they have guns..." 
Tracy said.

"I've been thinkin' 'bout that," Matt said. "They're right by the fire door. If they 
get jostled a bit more towards it, then ya' can push 'em right out." He smiled grandly. 

"Ya' get 'em outside with a minimum of fuss, and no one gets hurt, least, not in here."

"How're we going to get them closer to the door?" Nick asked, assessing the 
plan.

It sounded good, but there were so many people in here. He didn't want this to 
turn into a bloodbath. The last time innocent bystanders had gotten hurt, he had felt like 
we would be buried under the guilt. He didn't want that to happen again.

"Oh, that should be no problem," Tracy said and pointed to the writhing mass of 
bodies that filled to room almost to the edges. "Just get the pit to shove them over. Matt, 
you can do that, can't you?"

"No," Nick said. "We can't put anyone else in danger."

"This is the best way," Tracy asserted. "You go outside and tell backup to go 
around back, and you'd better be there when I come out that door with them!"

"You?! No. I'll do it. You go around back," Nick argued.

"You stand out like a sore thumb in here, Nick. You may as well be wearing a 
neon sign that says 'Cop.' People know me here and I fit in," she pointed out rightly. "I'll 
just stumble against them and push them out. I can pull my gun as we go out, but you 
need to be waiting in back."

Nick didn't like the plan at all. Unfortunately, Tracy was right. He was the 
oldest-looking person in here by almost ten years. Tracy, though a bit more 
conservatively dressed in a thigh-length leather jacket, black jeans, and a tucked-in white 
t-shirt, was at least the right age. Nick sighed. The plan had holes big enough to drive a 
truck through, but it was the best they had.

"OK," he agreed reluctantly. "But you have your gun out and ready under your 
jacket."


Tracy could feel the heat of the dancing bodies pressing up against her as she 
pushed through the crowd of people. She was beginning to sweat, and her hair was 
already damp around her face. Good, she thought. I'll fit right in. Matt kept a 
hand on her hip as he followed after her. He would join the crowd right near Tracy to 
help her push them out if needed. Skazzy had been enlisted, as well as a few other 
friends, to make a kind of mosh pit pseudopod to jostle the bad guys. Luckily, the Crash 
was small, so any pit on a Friday night tended to expand to fill the entire place.

Matt's hand disappeared as she reached the fire door. She casually leaned next 
to it, watching Matt bounce around on the edge of the crowd. She would have to push 
the safety handle down at the same time the two men were pushed against it. Resting 
her left hand on the handle, she reached under her coat and surreptitiously removed her 
gun from its holster. The safety was off and she was ready to go. A quick glance across 
the fire door told her that the two men weren't paying any attention to her. They were 
entranced by a young woman whose ample busom was soon going to bounce out of her 
tight tank top.

Matt caught her eye and winked. The world seemed to move in slow motion as 
the crowd suddenly surged to the left of the perps and pushed them towards her and 
against the door. She heard them curse, then she pushed the door handle. The two men 
fell backwards out the door. Tracy yanked out her gun and had it trained on them before 
they even hit the ground. The fire door slammed behind her, and time resumed its 
normal speed.

They began to scramble up, but Nick's voice called out.

"You're under arrest, don't move!"

The perps sat still and Tracy looked up to see Nick standing at the top of the 
stairs, pointing his gun down. Uniformed officers ringed the stairwell, their guns all 
trained at the two on the ground.

"Chalk another one up for the forces of good," Tracy said, satisfied.


"Well," Capt. Reese said, leaning against Nick's desk, "When they realized the 
number of charges, they were more than willing to cooperate with us. They've named 
several people in the Happy Families agency that they had contact with."

"But the main one was Brenda Terr, and she fled the country," Tracy said, 
shaking her head. "At least they told us it was her who shot Karen Martinez."

"If we can believe them," Nick said.

"Why shouldn't we?" Tracy asked. "She was second in charge at the agency, and 
we've got her fingerprints at the scene. Karen probably knew that she was responsible 
for the Jamaican bank account and set up a meeting."

"Well, I believe them," the captain said, and stood up. "You did good work with 
little information. Social Services has closed down the agency for now, but with Terr 
gone, it'll probably open back up. It doesn't look like Ms. Woods knew anything about it 
at all."

The captain walked off to his own office, and Nick looked across the desk to his 
partner. She was staring expressionlessly at a photograph. Before they had left the 
scene, she had corralled Matt and Skazzy into a corner and made them look through her 
pile of pictures. He had caught Vachon's name several times, and even Screed's once. 
When her friends left, she had put all the pictures in her jacket pocket, save one-the 
same one she was looking at now.

He had gotten only one quick glance at it, but that had been enough for his 
superior vision and memory. It had been taken inside of the Crash, and the point of view 
was from onstage. Vachon and Screed were leaning against a speaker, grinning at the 
camera at the edge of the mass of dancers.

Nick didn't know if that image would be enough to jog Tracy's memory. He had 
had little experience with this sort of thing-this was more LaCroix's territory.

"Nick! Your phone's ringing!" Tracy exclaimed, smacking one of his hands that 
lay on the desk. "I wonder about you sometimes..."

Nick smiled sheepishly and pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket.
"Knight here."

"Was I mistaken in my assumption that the child would be returned to her 
parents?" his master's voice asked coldly.

"What are you talking about?" Nick asked, trying to figure out what he'd done 
wrong. 

"A rather familiar face appeared at the front door of the Raven as I was locking 
up. Is there something you wish to tell me?"

Nick could almost see LaCroix's crossed arms and annoyed expression. The 
annoyance vibrated along their mental link, making Nick fidget in his chair.
"Maria got away from Social Services," he explained apologetically. "I'll come 
get her."

"No," LaCroix said. "Bring someone from that worthless government agency 
with you. I will have a...discussion with them. Either that, or the child remains missing 
and I have a bedtime snack."

"You wouldn't..." Nick thought. He would. "I'll be right there."

Nick flipped shut his phone, and Tracy looked up.

"Found her at the Raven?" she asked. "What, does she have a homing device?"

"I don't know, but I'd better go get her." He stood to leave, then paused to watch 
his partner stare again at the photo. "Why don't you go on home, Trace. It's about 
quitting time anyway."

"Yeah, I will," she said, not looking up. "I'm still waiting for some info to come 
back on the Pollard case, though. It should be here soon, then I'll go."

He wanted to say something to explain, to tell her why she couldn't remember 
Vachon, but he knew that he couldn't. Maybe LaCroix would be able to help. That's all 
he could hope.


LaCroix shut the door to the living room and looked at the little girl on his bed. 
She was dressed in red and white sleeper pajamas with filthy soles. The child had 
walked here from wherever she had been being held, that was obvious. Looking closer, 
he could see holes in the feet of the garment. She kicked her feet, and long, black stains 
appeared on his cream brocade duvet.

"Stop that," he commanded, and moved over to the bed.

Maria looked at him with large eyes, then slowly and deliberately dragged a dirty 
foot across the cover. Moving faster than she could see, LaCroix scooped her off the bed 
and held her above his head.

"Stop that," he repeated.

Kicking her feet, the child giggled. She squirmed in his arms, trying to get 
down. Still holding her with one hand, LaCroix unzipped her sleeper and pulled it off in 
one swift motion. He dropped her on the bed from a height of three feet, and she 
shrieked in delight. She sat up against the pillows and held her arms out.
"Again!" she demanded.

"No." LaCroix attempted to hypnotize the child. "Sleep."

"No!" she exclaimed. "Story."

"You want a story?" LaCroix asked.

He could tell stories. He was good at that. However, he doubted that he knew 
any suitable for one so young and untutored in the ways of the world. Most of his stories 
involved blood and death. Fairy tales were silly and full of helpless maidens being saved 
by idiot knights. No pun intended, he thought, grinning wickedly. Ah, he knew the 
perfect one.

"An epic," he told the toddler, sitting on the bed with her. "How is it they all 
begin? Yes...

"Once upon a time, a lonely king had a daughter. They were happy for a time, 
but soon, the king became lonely again. He loved his beautiful, intelligent daughter, but 
he wanted a son with whom to share his wisdom. The king's daughter found the perfect 
man and brought him before the king. 'Ah,' said the king, 'I like that one.' So the king 
made this man his son. He shared everything with his son, and for a long time, they all 
lived together happily."

Maria clambered into his lap and rested her head against his chest. After a 
moment's pause, the ancient vampire reclined against the pillows and continued his 
story.

"But the good times couldn't last forever. Like all sons, the king's son believed 
that he knew better than his father, and left the family to live on his own. The king 
could see that his son's way would only bring pain to them all, so he tried to stop him. 
They fought, and the king, rather than alienate him forever, let his son go to make his 
own mistakes.

"The king hated to see his son hurt himself over and over, but he knew that he 
must not interfere. He watched over his son and hoped that one day, his child would 
come back."

"Nice story," Nicholas' voice said from the door.

"Good, you have come to collect her," LaCroix said, attempting to hide his 
discomfiture.

He had not intended for Nicholas to hear his story. So intent had he been on this 
mortal child that he had not sensed Nicholas' arrival. He had not even felt the pounding 
heart of the mortal woman with him. The story was a bit more personal that he preferred 
to be with Nicholas.

"Shhh!" the woman admonished. "She's asleep!"

LaCroix had been about to move, but instead sat perfectly still. He did not enjoy 
being shushed by a mortal. He raised an eyebrow at the woman and she flinched back 
behind his son.

"You will come here," he told the woman, allowing the sound of her beating 
heart to fill his ears and mind. The woman did as she was bid. "You will not allow this 
child to come to any harm while she is in your care. You will not allow her to be 
unsupervised. You will ensure that she is returned to her family."

The woman nodded dumbly, her eyes unfocused. She nodded her head and
held out her arms for the child.

"I'll take her. I'll make sure nothing happens to her." LaCroix carefully passed 
Maria into the woman's arms. "I'll definitely make sure she's not unsupervised again! 
Thank you, Mr. LaCroix, for finding her for us."

The woman left, taking the sleeping child with her. LaCroix tried not to watch 
the child's exit, but found himself doing so anyway. This is ridiculous! he scolded 
himself. It's a mortal child! But he had enjoyed her strong will. Pliancy was his 
preference in mortals, but for a child so young to be unfazed by his presence, to enjoy 
it, was refreshing. Perhaps he would find this girl again when she was a woman.
Smiling at that thought, he turned to Nicholas. His child smirked at him.

"What?" LaCroix asked him.

"Nothing," he answered, smiling even wider. "Sorry to see her go?"

"She was entertaining," LaCroix said indifferently. "I was almost sorry to see 
you arrive; I would have liked a taste."

Nicholas scowled at him, and LaCroix knew that he had succeeded in making 
the younger vampire want to change the subject.

"Tracy has a photo of Vachon and Screed," his son announced.

"And...?" LaCroix inquired, standing up and retrieving his glass.

"She'll remember!" Nicholas exclaimed.

"You wanted her to forget, not me," LaCroix pointed out. "I made her forget. 
We are even."


Tracy pushed the blue boxers off the bed and curled up in the soft white sheets. 
She pulled the red blanket up and just laid there, feeling warm and cozy. And hungry. 
She hadn't eaten all night, and it was almost dawn now. She sat up and reached down 
for her anti-vampire duffel which she had filled with overnight stuff and snacks. She 
pulled out the makings for a very fine picnic and pondered as she ate by candlelight.

Matt and Skazzy had found Vachon and a guy called Screed in one of her 
photographs. The guys had said that both had been to the Crash with her, and had 
looked very worried when she said she didn't remember either of them. Matt had offered 
to fill in some blanks, but Tracy had refused his offer. She wanted to figure this out for 
herself.

She was going to spend the day here, in the hope that it would jog her memory. 
It had already helped a little. When she had stood at the top of the stairs leading down 
into this room, she had had a quick mental image of Vachon across the room, begging 
her on his knees. For what, though, Tracy didn't know. But she figured that this had 
been Vachon's home.

She had had research look into the church for her, telling them it was for the 
Pollard case. That wasn't strictly legal, but...she needed to find out. The utilities had 
been paid by a J.D. Valdez, but she, Tracy Vetter, herself, had turned them off three 
weeks ago. The mailing address for the bills was a PO Box, but Tracy knew that she 
wouldn't be able to get access to it unless she found the key.

Balling up her trash, Tracy threw it across the room and lay back on the bed. 
Have I been in this bed before? she wondered. Maybe this wasn't the first time she 
had spent the day here. She wasn't afraid to do so, she didn't feel uncomfortable here. It 
felt quiet and empty and sad, but not frightening.

Tracy began to drift between waking and sleep. The room seemed to constrict 
around her, the shadows growing longer and enveloping her in warmth and comfort. 
Images began to flash through her mind, whether they were memories or fantasies, she 
didn't care.

She saw Vachon: stringing his guitar, teasing her, taking her hair out of her 
barrette, driving her car, talking to a reporter, standing on a streetcorner. She heard his 
voice: "Because I can," "Anything," "the most erotic thing I ever experienced," "you have 
to kill me."

At that, Tracy sat up and her world that had shifted suddenly shifted back. She 
remembered everything: vampires, Vachon, Screed, the graves... Tears coursed down 
her face, remembering him dying in her arms, how he'd managed to almost smile at the 
end.

How she had lost those memories, she didn't know. Vachon had told her that she 
couldn't be hypnotized, but maybe another vampire had managed it. She still couldn't 
remember that.

End Part 8


Darkened Beings 09/09
Epilogue:

Tracy sat on the mounded earth of the graves, looking over the dark water at the 
glittering city. She had buried Vachon here, next to his friend Screed. Digging the hole 
had been one of the most difficult things she'd ever had to, both emotionally and 
physically. The hole had kept filling with water, and she had stood knee-deep in mud, 
trying to dig as far down as she could, to bury him far from the sun. Even in death, she 
couldn't stand the thought of the sun burning him, turning him to dust.

She had pushed his body in, watching it float through a haze of tears. Then she 
had pushed the dirt on top of him, until she had completely obliterated any sign of the 
hole. A few judicious rocks and sticks, and it had looked almost like it had before she 
had been there. In a few short hours, Javier Vachon, who had lived for nearly five 
hundred years, had disappeared from the world.

But that had been almost a month ago now. After she had regained her 
memories, it had taken Tracy another week to make the trip to his grave. The emotion 
was still as raw as it had been then, made fresh again by the resurgence of the memories.
Tracy up-ended the bottle she had brought and poured the blood over his grave.

"Thought you might like this better than flowers," she said, trying to sound 
cheerful. "I know you can't really appreciate it anymore, but, what the hell, it was just 
sitting around over at the church." Tracy smiled. "I traded in my car for a Mazda Miata. 
You'd like it; it can really move." She laughed. "It's still got ABS and dual airbags, 
though." Tracy tossed the bottle aside and pressed her hand against the blood-soaked 
dirt. She could feel the dirt shift beneath her palm as the ground absorbed the liquid. 

"Oh, Vachon, I miss you."

The End
<g>
Kusine.