Yea! My first post! I'm so proud of me!! Thanks to my beta reader, Heather Poinsett, who is very gracious in looking at anything I send, be it on time or not . Thanks also to the writers of Roar, 'cause that's where I got the idea for this. Disclaimers: LaCroix, Nick, Nat, Janette, Robert and Divia do not belong to me, no matter how much I wish they did. I was just playing with them, honest! The "woman" does belong to me, however, and I would like to be asked if you want to see her somewhere else. Permission to archive is granted to the Fanfic site. This is a Last Knight story, and as such, it is depressing. I personally do not agree with the circumstances as I've written them, but in order for the story to work, I had to write 'em that way. (Did that make sense? Oh well.) ************************************************************************** The Screams of Immortals by Jayne Leitch The wind howled outside the Raven, its mournful gusts whispering through the alleys and wailing across the roof. It was early, but already dark as pitch; great black clouds roiled across the sky, blotting out the feeble lights of the moon and stars, forced without direction by the wind. LaCroix sat in the empty club, listening to the gathering storm. His packed trunk sat by the door, filled, as always, with only the essentials. He picked up his goblet once more, raised it to his lips, and emptied it. Of course, there was always more, but he would leave it for the vampires that were remaining in the city. After all, Nicholas and himself would have no need of Toronto's supply once they had moved on. The wind picked up again outside, and LaCroix smiled. The roaring, lonely sound fitted his mood precisely. The smile froze as LaCroix picked up a new sound, almost the same as the moaning wind, but slightly different. This keening rose and fell in pitch, almost like singing. he thought darkly. Abruptly, the shrieking stopped. "Not the wind," said a voice. Startled, LaCroix turned to face the visitor--and when he saw her, relaxed. Little wonder he'd felt no presence. "I thought banshees weren't to show themselves." The deceptively young-looking woman glided out of the shadows and turned her shining green eyes on him. "Most aren't," she told him lightly, "But for you, I'll make an exception." Her dark red lips curved into a smile as she sauntered over to the bar and sat down beside him. LaCroix gestured at the emptiness around them. "I'd offer you something to drink, but we're closed." "That's all right. I couldn't accept, anyway." The woman leaned closer, again fixing him with those remarkable green eyes. "Don't you want to know why I'm here?" The vampire chuckled. "I'd say it's rather obvious. The banshee screams before a death. Unless I'm very much mistaken, you were screaming bloody murder a few seconds ago. My only question is to whom your vocalizations were addressed." The banshee smiled again and stretched out, showing off a nicely-formed body--a sultry invitation to anyone with a death wish. "Actually, the real screaming happens later. That was just a warm up." She flicked her curly red hair over her shoulder. "The tourists expect that kind of thing, and we aim to please." LaCroix smiled. "Of course. Great expectations, and all that." Now he leaned forward. "Why are you here?" The banshee shrugged. "There's to be a death. I'm to scream. Of course," she looked sideways at him, "Things will go slightly differently than what happens in the stories." "Differently." LaCroix nodded. "I suppose it's only to be expected." "Absolutely. Especially in situations like this one." LaCroix gave her a sharp look. "What do you mean?" The banshee sighed, as if she'd explained many, many times before. "Cause and effect. Chain reaction." When this produced no reply, she sighed again. "A line." Now LaCroix understood. "My line." The banshee nodded. "Starting with...Janette?" The first of his to die, if he understood the banshee's meaning correctly. "No. Starting with Robert." The banshee received a puzzled glance, and she explained, "Your Janette's mortal lover. I'm sure the son told you her story?" LaCroix nodded, and she continued, "When he was taken from her, the chain began. I screamed through her at the moment of his death." "Screamed...through her?" "Yes. This is the way it happens in a line. The banshee--" here she paused for a self-deprecating smile, "--Screams through the one grieving most intensely at the moment of death. It's a--release." She sighed with pleasure. "The moment when all the emotions cannot be denied, the banshee takes control." She met his gaze again, then continued, "I have screamed through two of the four in your line, and it is time for the third." She made to stand, but LaCroix stopped her. "Two?" The banshee settled back onto the stool and answered, "Yes, two. It is a chain, remember. I screamed through your Janette at her Robert's death. Then I screamed through your Nicholas at his Janette's death." She shook her head slightly. "So much emotion in him. It was the loudest I've screamed so far." LaCroix stood, shaking. "A chain," he said quietly, then louder, "A chain. Robert dies; Janette screams. Janette dies; Nicholas screams. Nicholas..." he trailed off, then nailed the banshee with his cold, blue gaze. "Am I meant to scream for him, then?" At the banshee's unflinching gaze, he slammed his fist down on the bar. "Is there no way to stop it?" Her body stayed perfectly still; only her lips moved as she said, "The events have already played out. The first death; the first scream. It is incredibly difficult to break the chain." "Difficult." LaCroix pounced on the word, turning it over in his mind. "Difficult. But not impossible." The banshee remained silent. "Damn you, tell me! Has the chain been broken before?" LaCroix hated not having control, but he gave it up willingly now so that he would have it later, when he needed it. The banshee appeared frozen in time; she was perfectly still, perfectly damned silent on her stool. With a curse, LaCroix left her there, fleeing the emptiness and hoping it wasn't too late. After he had gone, the banshee blinked. "So damned determined." She sighed, and vanished. By the time LaCroix reached the loft, he felt much more in control. He faced Nicholas unflinchingly, trying to cheat fate and confuse time by spinning pretty words into the chasm he saw--felt--looming up ahead of him. The good doctor was dead, and for a few brief moments, LaCroix deluded himself into believing that the banshee had come to scream for her. He knew it was wishful thinking, and tried not to think of it that way. Nicholas was in tatters, that was plain. He didn't know that fate was closing in on him, in fact he seemed to be helping it along as he pressed the wood into LaCroix's hand, flattering him, speaking of faith and hope and friendship. Still, even as his son knelt before him, clasping the dead doctor's hands, LaCroix denied that it was too late. It was never too late, he told himself. He caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. A green dress, cascades of red curls, shimmering green eyes that watched him from the shadows... LaCroix realized that he had always known that he hadn't had a choice. "Damn you, Nicholas..." When it was over, LaCroix stood in the shadows of the stairs, watching the banshee watching him. She was the one that broke the silence. "Amazing reaction, that." LaCroix nodded. "Indeed," he whispered. More silence. The banshee would be leaving soon. A question occurred to him. "Banshee..." "Yes?" She was beginning to fade away. "You said--" A pause, then, "You said there were four in my line." "Yes?" Fainter still, she was barely a shadow herself. "Who is the fourth?" Numb as he was, he wanted to know. The banshee smiled, a Cheshire cat grin as she faded from sight. "I haven't screamed through Divia...yet." *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Send all flames, feedback, blond Irish orphans and anatomically correct chocolate Nunkies to Jayne Leitch