Trio by Imajiru imajiru@mindspring.com imajiru@unicorn-x.net Trio: The Beginning --I-- "Can I offer you a drink?" The offer caught him off guard. "Certainly," he acceded. She took a bottle from the refrigerator, poured them each a glass. "You should find this to your liking," she commented. "Although I'm sure it's not as... fresh... as what you're used to." He sipped from the goblet she handed him. "On the contrary," he demurred. "This is quite good; superior, in fact, to the stock most commonly available." Her eyebrows raised. "I would have thought that your connoisseur's palate would demand no less than blood straight from the source." "In this day and age?" He laughed. "There are so many restrictions placed on the kill, it's hardly worth hunting at all. I seldom bother anymore." "Yet the idea doesn't bother you at all, does it?" she probed. "Killing indiscriminately, without a care as to whose lives you destroy..." His eyes sharpened, narrowed. "My dietary habits," he stated, slowly and clearly, "are none of your business." She made a sound of frustration. "Look, I'm only trying to understand you!" she burst out. "Why?" he shot back swiftly. The gaze that met his was level, concealing nothing. "Because you and I are family, now," she said. "And because... because I think it's time someone made the effort -- Father." For that, he had no answer whatsoever. ------- The man was a drug dealer, and a wife abuser, and a sometime- rapist; LaCroix had taken her to the fire escape outside the man's squalid apartment and forced her to watch the bastard at his worst, just so that she would know for herself the truth of her quarry's evil. Now she was stalking him, hunting him... she had no choice. She was hungry, starved for blood; and LaCroix had refused to find her safer, more sterile forms of sustenance. She was hungry, and she had to feed -- and if she didn't take this man, this brutal beast, some innocent might die to feed her vampiric needs, for her control was slipping fast. It was a simple thing. She was strong and swift, as LaCroix had fashioned her to be. It was a moment's work to overpower him, to force him to the ground, to tear away his winter coat and expose his tender throat, pulsing with blood... And then she heard LaCroix's voice in her ear. "Very good," it said approvingly. "Now let him go." Let him go? Disbelief rushed through her, followed by denial -- he couldn't possibly be saying that, not that, not *him* -- and she bent closer to her prey. The voice again, louder, and carrying a hint of menace. "I said," it repeated, "*let him go*." The bloodhunger throbbed inside her, hot and urgent, raging through her... a howl wrenched itself from her throat as she tore herself away. Huddled on the ground, shuddering, all of her mind and soul was focused on her need for blood, her desperation -- and then LaCroix was holding her, supporting her, drawing her close into an embrace that managed to be wholly platonic and yet thoroughly intimate at once. "You have power," he murmured into her ear, "but more importantly, dear daughter, you possess self-control," and she felt his hand at the nape of her neck, guiding her lips toward his neck. "You are everything I had hoped you would be," and he stiffened slightly, emitting a small involuntary gasp as her fangs dug into his skin. His blood was lush and luscious, sating her hunger in long draughts of liquid light, bringing with it the occasional tendril of insight into his formidable psyche; and in a single blazing moment of clarity, she knew why he had arranged this test -- why he had not allowed her to see Nicholas before now. Power wasn't enough; a vampire, especially a fledgling, needed restraint. Without it, she would have been Richard all over again... and Nick would have had to kill her. LaCroix was not going to reunite Nick with a woman he'd thought dead, only to force him to witness her death for a second time -- or to bring it about himself. //Foolish child,// came his thought to chide her: but he didn't deny it, nor did he recoil from her answering gratitude. She drew the blood from his neck eagerly, savoring the contact with the creature she'd once thought of as a monster, sending him wave after wave of heartfelt thanks for his gift, the gift of eternal life... ------- "How is he?" LaCroix asked. "He's fine. Sleeping." A smug grin spread across her face. "I, uhm, kind of wore him out." His answering smile contained veiled affection as well as tolerant amusement. "Then I may safely assume that your reunion proceeded smoothly?" "You may," she responded. "Thank you, by the way, for not sticking around to watch." "Oh, I can occasionally take a hint. The shredding of the garments provided an adequate clue. And just how long did it take you to make your way to the bedroom?" "Umm, four, maybe five hours?" Her eyes strayed sheepishly to the dried blood staining the floor, the couch, the rug... LaCroix noticed as well. "Sloppy," he scolded lightly. "I shall have to teach you both proper table manners..." Natalie laughed, and poured herself another drink. ------- She stayed in the shadows, as he had bidden her, and watched as LaCroix advanced toward the creature huddled on the couch. Even from here, she could feel his misery, surrounding him like a dark shroud... LaCroix's words came back to her with sickening force. //Nicholas is pining for you,// he had said. //He will not survive his grief.// And it was abruptly clear to her that LaCroix had not been speaking figuratively, nor exaggerating: that vampires were indeed capable of dying of loneliness. That Nick was in the process of doing so, right before her eyes. It touched her deeply, for while she'd known Nick loved her, she'd never quite realized how much. "I should have done it," came a low, ragged voice that held the legacy of many nights' tears. "I shouldn't have listened to her. I should have brought her over." "And taken away her precious humanity?" LaCroix inquired politely, his tone tinged with disdain. "Yes!" In one word, a betrayal of his dreams of mortality; one anguished syllable, signifying so much. "She's *gone*, LaCroix. And I just can't bear it." One hand came to rest atop Nick's head, smoothing the dull golden waves in a caress that conveyed an enormity of things LaCroix would never say. "It's good to see that you've come to understand my point of view," were his words instead, spoken in an odd neutral tone. "The loss of a loved one is a terrible thing." Nick said nothing, but his shoulders trembled as if he were holding back sobs. "Allow me to present you with a gift," LaCroix said, still in that strange flat tone. "I cannot give you what you want -- but I can give you what you need." She saw Nick glance upward, puzzled; saw LaCroix indicate her position in the shadows with a flicker of his eyes, and began to move forward, toward him. At the first sign of movement, he was on his feet, and for the first time she caught sight of his face -- the pain etched into his expression tore her heart to shreds. He didn't move as she approached him, seemed rooted to the spot, staring at her as if he didn't dare believe, couldn't bear to hope... trembling as she neared, more and more fiercely with every step she took, until finally she was close enough to touch him... Her fingertips brushed against his face, and the brief contact was enough to initiate the telepathic bond: borne of the blood they shared through their sire, nurtured by years of close friendship, feeling as natural as if it had existed forever -- the family connection that would forever bind them together. His agony exploded into her mind with the force of a bomb, followed closely by his astonishment; dawning belief chasing away everything but a sudden, wild, irrational joy... He moaned softly, and all at once his arms were crushing her close; she waited for the feel of his fangs at her neck -- but instead, he buried his face against her shoulder and burst into tears. And for some time, she simply held him as he cried, sobbed along with him; tears of relief, tears of love, blood-tears that stained her blouse and his shirt. ------- Nick emerged from the bedroom, looking as if he had been twisted into knots, hacked into confetti and reassembled from scratch without benefit of anesthetic; he stumbled down the stairs and into Natalie's arms without a word, and his lips scattered soft, sleepy kisses across her face. She held on tight, feeling their connection renew itself with the contact, feeling his relief and joy in her presence. And then he wrenched himself away from her to face LaCroix, and his mind was filled with very different feelings. "All right," he said, his voice low and quiet. "What is this going to cost me?" A flash of genuine startlement crossed the elder vampire's face, before composure reasserted itself. "I beg your pardon?" Nick's face darkened at the apparent evasion. "What's the price of your gift?" he elaborated. "Why did you do this for me? Just what is it you want?" Watching her new 'master's' face closely, Nat caught the briefest flare of dawning comprehension, followed by a millisecond of genuine hurt... and knew at once that it had never even crossed his mind to exact payment for this particular favor. He reached out, and his palm settled against the side of Nick's face; his eyes locked with his son's, in a direct gaze that communicated more efficiently than words. "Your happiness, Nicholas," LaCroix said. "That is my only reason." With vampiric speed, he turned to go -- but Nick was even swifter; he grabbed at the hand that caressed his face, gripped it firmly, and LaCroix stared at him with obvious surprise. "I would have paid any price," said Nick, in an unsteady whisper. "*Thank you,*" and there were tears in his eyes and his voice. It seemed that LaCroix didn't quite know what to do with his child's gratitude, any more than he had been able to assimilate Natalie's concern -- as if the only reaction he was accustomed to was hostility. "You're my son," he said gravely, as if that statement explained everything. Perhaps it did. Trio: Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes --II-- "We've had sex," Nick said, into the darkness. He was staring up at the ceiling, avoiding her eyes -- which suited Natalie fine; she understood that some confessions were more difficult than others, and was simply glad he'd chosen to share this part of his past with her. She snuggled closer, hugged him a little tighter, to remind him that she was there for him and that she loved him, no matter what. "Was it forced?" she asked softly. "It... wasn't always consensual," he answered slowly. "There was coercion -- sometimes. Not often. But it was never rape. Most of the time it was..." and he fell silent, unable or unwilling to define his thoughts precisely. After a few moments, Nat spoke up. "Lovemaking?" she supplied. "I don't know if I'd phrase it that strongly. But those were the only times I ever felt any affection, as if he cared about *me*, and not merely the fact that I was his possession." Natalie thought about it. "I think," she said cautiously, "that he cares about you a great deal more than he ever let you know." "Do you? I wish I could be as sure." There was a forlorn note in Nick's voice that she'd never heard before; at least, not in conjunction with the subject of their conversation. "If I could only believe that... not that it matters, of course." "I think it does matter," said Nat. "I think it matters a lot, to you." He shook his head once, as if to clear it of disturbing imagery. "It shouldn't," he said fiercely. "After the things he's done to me over the centuries, nothing about *him* should matter to me." "But it does, doesn't it?" Her voice was ever so soft, yet he flinched as if she'd stabbed him with a sharp wooden spear. And after a brief interval, the words slipped past his lips, seemingly of their own volition. "It does," he admitted, his voice barely audible, even to vampire senses. "It matters." She straddled him, gazed down into her beloved's troubled face. "He's not a monster," she remarked, as matter-of- factly as if she were commenting on the weather. "Just when did you come to this conclusion?" he asked with a trace of annoyance, that she should presume to know more about their creator after a few short months of vampiric life. "When he brought me over," Natalie answered confidently. "I *saw* him, Nick. I learned things about him that I'd never imagined..." Her hand traced a lazy path down his bare chest, exploring the sensitive places in the ways that invariably caused him to tremble with desire. "He and I have one very important thing in common." A quick shiver passed through him, but he forced himself to retain awareness of their conversation with an obvious effort. "And that is?" She leaned over, until her lips were nearly touching his. "We both love you," she said softly. "More than life itself." And she kissed him firmly, silencing all discussion. He might have argued the point with her, but she was wriggling her hips in a way that was extraordinarily distracting, suggestive as it was of other activities they might indulge in other than *social* intercourse... It wasn't until far later, after their mutual passion had been fully aroused and sated, that he had the time to reflect upon her words. Natalie's mortal death had been very public, and very definite; no way to resurrect her previous existence in Toronto, and so Nick had left his behind as well. No one who'd known them both had been surprised by his grief- stricken decision to depart the city -- a decision made well before LaCroix's revelation of Nat's continued existence: he had not had to playact at despair. Now they lived in the middle of nowhere in Maine, in a home that was plain on the outside and luxuriously appointed on the inside; Aristotle had located the residence for them, as a temporary domicile while they decided where they might go next, what sort of lives they might wish to lead. Ever since their departure from Toronto, Nick had awaited the arrival of his master with mingled anticipation and dread, for it was inconceivable that LaCroix would choose not to follow him... But he had not. Seven weeks and two days, and LaCroix had not made an appearance. Nick should have been overjoyed. Instead -- he found himself beset by growing concern. For nearly eight hundred years, LaCroix had always been there; despite his struggles to evade the constant scrutiny, LaCroix had always found him, had always hovered nearby, inescapable. He had never been free... ....and now, it seemed, he was; and Nick hadn't the faintest idea how to react. Instead of feeling exultant, he felt... empty. He swirled the liquid in his glass, staring into its crimson depths -- human blood: the only suitable form of sustenance for a newly-created vampire, and the only stock available in the house's extensive cellar. According to Aristotle, there simply wasn't a market for cow's blood... Every night since they'd arrived, Nick had promised himself that he would seek out a suitable supply, a butcher or ethnic store to provide him with animal blood -- but somehow, he'd never done it. The whole thing seemed too much of an effort. For the time being, at least, his desire to regain his humanity had subsided -- had been wholly consumed by the rapturous joy of having his beloved Natalie at his side, in his bed. She had been the only one in many years to truly believe that there was still humanity in him, and now she was a creature of the night as he was... in her arms, he felt more alive than he had in centuries, and nothing mattered to him more than that. But there was still that feeling of emptiness inside him: a curious feeling, almost an ache of loss... His conversation with Natalie had unearthed memories he would have preferred left safely buried. Memories of times that had not been so unpleasant -- the early years, when he had been content to remain at LaCroix's side. No, not merely content -- he'd been happy, deeply happy. Memories of their bodies twining around him, LaCroix and Janette, days and nights of passion so intense he could barely move afterwards; times spent with LaCroix alone, and a wholly different sort of intensity. How he had treasured those interludes, the unspoken intimacy. And though LaCroix had abused him in a hundred other ways, he had never done so in that area; their coupling had always been wonderful... Nick acknowledged to himself that it *had* been lovemaking; for in those days, for those times, he had loved LaCroix. Had believed, with a child's naivete, that LaCroix loved him as well. Had buried his qualms about their existence in the false security of knowing that if LaCroix said so, it couldn't possibly be wrong... more painful than his master's 'lessons' had been the slow, inexorable shattering of his fragile, shiny soap-bubble of faith. He had always blamed LaCroix for that, hated him for it -- but now, faced with LaCroix's absence... Nick missed him. The realization startled him, shamed him. He had vowed so strenuously to gain his independence regardless of the cost -- and now, his emotions were betraying him once again. He had always assumed that ridding himself of LaCroix would end his inner turmoil -- but it hadn't. But if LaCroix wasn't the problem... what was? A rustle of noise from the stairwell and a faint subliminal telepathic presence alerted him to his lover's approach; he turned, and smiled, and held out his arms to her. Even immortality was too short not to savor every instant of her presence, of her love. He was realistic enough to know that Natalie would not always be at his side, that no relationship could possibly sustain the level of bliss they'd achieved, not indefinitely. Sooner or later, they would begin to grow in different directions; at some point, they would part, for a little or a long while. But right now, right now was wonderful. And what a relief it was, to finally be able to express the feelings and desires he'd so long repressed. Not merely the tenderness of his love, but the savagery of his needs... needs that she now understood, and shared. The singular fact that had always separated them, when Natalie had been human. He'd allowed her to discover the truth of it for herself, by trial and experimentation, one night not long after their move to Maine. Had caressed her with all the skill and tenderness he possessed, until her arousal had reached a fever pitch, until she was so close to fulfillment that she was sobbing with frustration, pleading with him to allow her that final release... It wasn't impossible for a vampire to be intimate with a human, within limits, as long as the necessary control could be maintained. But vampiric physiology simply did not allow for the achievement of orgasm without a corresponding intake of blood. He'd made sure that hers was as exquisite as possible; and afterwards, she'd whispered a soft apology into his ear, finally comprehending why he had always kept her at a certain distance, and why moments of tenderness between them had always inevitably been followed by his visits to Janette. He'd always sensed Natalie's silent resentment, but had never quite been able to bring himself to explain... "It would have been a very embarrassing conversation," she said aloud, following his thoughts effortlessly. The connection between them was strong, now, enhanced by their physical intimacy, by their continual sharing of blood. "And I still might not have understood. I probably would have said that it was a learned response." Her face darkened slightly, nearly imperceptibly, in a vampire blush. "I always wanted to believe that there was no obstacle we couldn't overcome..." "We might still," Nick said, "in time, we might find a cure." But the words felt hollow even as he said them. Natalie was in his arms, alive and aware: it was a dream come true, one he'd never even realized he was dreaming. A dream he'd never been able to admit. And now that she was immortal along with him, was he really in any hurry to cut short the time they might have to share? Dreams of sunlight and children seemed very distant, very remote. And Natalie knew it. She didn't say a word, merely hugged him a little tighter, and he knew suddenly that she felt the same way. Realized that she was crying, and gently tipped her face upward so that he could kiss away the tears, taste the salty blood- tinged sadness that he shared. A defeat, in the midst of their triumph. A defeat he could live with, as long as she was with him. And she felt the same way. Which made everything all right... At least, for now. He held her and kissed her until the first faint traces of dawn tinted the living room pale with instant death; took her back to the bedroom, and kissed her until sadness was replaced by passion once more. ------- The feeling of emptiness didn't go away -- and now Nick knew why. Until Natalie's death and rebirth, he'd had a goal, a dream, a vision. His grand quest for humanity, to spur him forward. His career as a human 'enforcer', attempting to make the world a safer place for the mortal flock. Until that point, he'd had a reason for existing... Now, he had Natalie -- but no purpose, no *meaning* to his life. Her love filled him with light and warmth, but somehow that wasn't enough -- he could only liken the feeling to that of being a helium balloon, floating happily in midair yet adrift, tossed by the breeze without direction. The feeling had shamed him, once he'd realized what it was... how could he tell Natalie that even with her love, he felt incomplete? Yet even as he'd pondered that question, she'd exposed her own concerns to him. "All my life, I've worked toward something," she'd mused, over crystal glasses of 'breakfast'. "College, medical school, furthering my career, and then your cure... but there's nothing, now, and I don't know what to do with myself." She'd flipped through some of the brochures they'd been studying. "We could travel, see the world -- that would be nice; I'm certainly overdue for a vacation -- but what are we going to do with the rest of our lives, Nick? What are we going to do that matters?" He'd been so relieved that he wasn't alone in asking the question that it hadn't even troubled him that there was no answer. They'd done some planning since then. A tour of the world, first, to visit places that Nat had never seen and that he hadn't been to in lifetimes. She was adamant that their trip had to include the famed Caribbean coastlines; never mind that they would be beaches by night -- she had always wanted to go there, and would not be balked. "You're going to look so good, naked on the sand in the moonlight," was her refrain, spoken in a tone so suggestive it almost made him enjoy the idea. Of course he would have to take her to Paris, and to the land where he'd lived most of his mortal life (no longer part of France, now) -- to areas of the frozen north, of the deepest jungles, that no human had ever seen -- all the things he had ever wanted to show her, back when it had seemed impossible he'd ever have the freedom to. And when it was done, they'd be moving, relocating to a home of their own, with new names and lives... what those would be, neither yet knew; but at least he wasn't alone in his uncertainty. But more alone than ever, in other ways... Twelve weeks and counting, and still LaCroix hadn't shown up. The feeling of emptiness lingered. Natalie was outside, exploring the wilderness by moonlight. It had become her favorite pastime, wandering through the darkness alone -- always on foot; she had never flown without LaCroix or himself at her side. It frightened her, she'd confided, one morning during the afterglow. But on foot, she was the most powerful predator in the forest.Sometimes she took a camera, and returned with amazing pictures of wildlife -- sometimes, she took a notebook, the contents of which she had never chosen to show him. And sometimes she would return with the taste of animal blood on her lips, the sharp tang of it flavoring her own blood when he kissed her deeply -- 'deeply' meaning both tongue *and* fangs penetrating; for a vampire, anything less than blood-contact was a frustrating tease. They had never discussed the matter... and Nick had done his best not to think about it, not to contemplate what it might mean that Natalie was hunting, choosing to hunt, not humans but prey nonetheless; that the predator within her was baring its fangs, so that the cottage's endless supply of *human* blood -- and his own blood, and passion, and love -- wasn't enough to satisfy her. Tried not to wonder what would happen when they left this place, with its sparse, distant population, for the seething crowds of humanity... tried not to consider Natalie's capacity for self-control... Or to think about how hopelessly out of his depth he felt - - none of his fledglings had ever turned out right; and Natalie wasn't even *his* child... Why had LaCroix left him to handle this alone?Why, oh, why, did he miss him so much? Just at that moment, he felt an electric shiver, the fine hairs at the back of his neck rising... and knew that he was no longer alone. He turned slowly, to regard the figure who was suddenly standing in the middle of the living room. "LaCroix," he said softly. And could not keep from grinning. One eyebrow raised. "Nicholas," said LaCroix, very politely, as if he were a stranger. "Where is Natalie?" "She's gone out." His smile widened. "Took you long enough to get here. I was beginning to worry." The other eyebrow joined the first. "And of course, you've been eagerly awaiting my arrival with breathless anticipation," LaCroix said, with sharp sarcasm. "I..." Nick inhaled sharply, as it suddenly struck him: the magnitude of what he had been about to say, and to whom. And then he expelled the breath in a long sigh, and said it anyway. "I missed you." LaCroix's eyes bored into him, examining his soul for any sign of treachery, suspiciously searching for the joke, the trick, the irony that would render the words null and void... and for a moment, just an instant, Nick imagined he saw vulnerability there, a part of his master's soul that longed to hear those words, to gain that tiny bit of acceptance from his beloved child. He found himself reaching out, needing to reassure himself that LaCroix was really there -- grasped his arm; it wasn't enough. His hand slid down to LaCroix's hand, flesh against flesh, enough to renew the old connection, the bond that Nick had always struggled to diminish to a minimum... Before he quite knew what he was doing, he was kissing LaCroix. Just as his mind caught up with the rest of him and began to register what what was happening, he felt arms enfolding him with crushing strength, drawing him into a kiss the likes of which he had not felt in over six hundred years. LaCroix's passion, ferocious hunger -- and a barely veiled desperation that he'd never sensed before... Reality slammed into him forcefully then, and he broke away, gasping for breath, unable to believe what he had done. His knees felt weak; he clutched the back of the sofa for support. "And... what was that?" came the quiet inquiry; and if the voice was calm and slightly amused, Nick took comfort in the fact that it was as breathless as his own. "I've no idea," he confessed honestly. He didn't dare turn to confront LaCroix -- didn't think he could bear to see the expression on the other's face, for one thing. For another... the kiss had aroused him, very visibly so, a fact he didn't feel like sharing. Although of course, LaCroix would know anyway. "Perhaps you truly did miss me, after all," LaCroix said, in the velvety tone that had always affected him more than any other -- it reverberated straight through his groin, increasing his desire to the point of pain. A hand settled on his shoulder, sliding slowly inward -- and Nick knew that if it should reach his neck, that most sensitive of erogenous zones for his kind, he would be utterly lost... And a part of him wanted it, yearned for it, ached for LaCroix to take him... The front door slammed, and the hand halted, then vanished -- and the voice that drifted through the house was like a splash of ice-cold water at his crotch. "Nick?" Then, as she sensed their visitor, a sharp cry, and the sound of feet running... Nick turned in time to see LaCroix meet her at the threshold, catch her in a snug embrace. "Father," she said affectionately, and kissed his cheek -- and Nick realized abruptly that he'd never really seen LaCroix and Natalie together, that he had no idea what it had been like when he'd brought her over. Certainly, there seemed no awkwardness or distance between them now... and he felt a sudden spasm of resentment, that it should be so. His arousal faded, but the memory of it had not left him -- the knowledge that LaCroix's touch still affected him as powerfully as always. And he found himself wondering how LaCroix affected Natalie, and what they had done together... The elder vampire held Natalie at arm's length, studying her with a critical eye. "You look well," he said appraisingly. "Quite well, in fact. It seems that you've been taking my advice." Her eyes darted quickly, uncomfortably, toward Nick. "We don't have to discuss that now, do we?" she murmured. She might as well have shouted, for the alarm bells it set off within him. "I see," Nick said, steady-voiced. "So your hunting expeditions were his idea." Natalie flushed visibly red, straight up to the roots of her hair. "Nick, it isn't like that..." "No wonder you didn't see fit to discuss it with me." Somehow, his voice remained at least nominally calm. He wondered how that could possibly be, with the upheaval going on inside him. "Nick..." She came toward him, arms outstretched, and he flinched away -- how often had Janette used that tactic to distract him from a dispute? And forced himself to ignore the hurt expression that spread across her face. LaCroix placed a hand on her shoulder, and Natalie glanced back at him; Nick could feel the swift current of their silent communication, excluding him. It had been centuries since he'd shared that sort of rapport with LaCroix -- and at that moment, his anger and pain formed a barrier that distanced him from Natalie as if they were strangers. Finally, she left the room, under obvious silent protest; and Nick was alone with LaCroix. He did his best to ignore the other, but that was impossible: LaCroix had a *presence* that could not be disregarded. A small chuckle rose from the elder vampire. "Interesting," he remarked. "Only a few minutes ago, you seemed... shall we say, *pleased* that I was here." "That was before," Nick muttered. "I should have known you'd intrude on my life, that you'd never allow me the slightest measure of happiness..." "Your interpretation of events leaves a great deal to be desired," LaCroix commented. "And with absolutely no data to back it up. I would have expected better reasoning from a police detective." "I think it's fairly obvious what you've done," Nick spat back. "You know how I feel, yet you encourage Natalie to hunt..." "Natalie needs no encouragement," returned LaCroix, silken- voiced, "and remarkably little tutoring. Like you, she is a splendid predator." Fury surged through him, and Nick felt the tips of his fangs begin to protrude in response. "In time," continued the elder, "she'll surely become a suitable companion..." Without thinking, propelled purely by rage, Nick whirled around and sprang at LaCroix. Expecting resistance, he met none; they went down, LaCroix under him, and Nick snarled and prepared to strike... then it hit him: *no resistance whatsoever*... And he realized that he was fully erect again, rock-hard and aching, as close to orgasm as he could be without the blood -- and inches away from taking it. LaCroix's hands grasped his hips and pulled him down sharply, eliciting an involuntary groan. "You really don't know what you want anymore, do you?" he asked, very quietly. Nick could feel the length of his master's arousal pressed against him, and the memory of what LaCroix could do with it was nearly more than he could bear. If only he could afford to give in to his desire... "Why must you always go out of your way to *hurt* me?" he said bitterly. LaCroix's eyes narrowed, darkening with sudden anger. "You really don't have a clue, do you?" A single motion of his arm, and Nick was flying across the room -- he landed on the floor some distance away, more surprised and confused than anything else. LaCroix stood, brushed himself off, as composed and collected as ever. "You've no idea what's going on," he said coldly, "and I've no interest in teaching you." And with that, he departed the room. For long moments, Nick didn't move; lingering remnants of arousal throbbed in his veins, mocking him, as the depth of the betrayal began to sink in. Somehow, LaCroix had twisted Natalie, turned her against him... Now even his own body was betraying him, luring him ever closer to the one he'd sworn to escape. ------- Some time later but still well before dawn, he heard two sets of footsteps in the hall, then the slam of the door -- and he rose and followed them. Deep into the woods, two silent stealthy figures in black, moving with a synchronicity that made his heart ache, for it reminded him vividly of the way it had been centuries before, when he and his master had been that close. It baffled and angered him that even as he loathed LaCroix, he should still find himself pining for those ancient times of amity... He watched, hating it, as they pursued and captured the quarry; Natalie's wild abandon as she closed in for the kill, as her fingers scrabbled to part the creature's fur to find a vein. Saw Natalie's quick, silent invitation to LaCroix to join her; watched as he declined the offer with a small motion of his hand, sank to his knees to take his sustenance from Natalie instead -- a spasm of blind rage seized him as she stretched her neck to allow him easy access. And then a wholly different sort of spasm shuddered through him as the passion of the scene registered within him, evoking unwilling lust... He watched from the shadows, sullen voyeur, despising the sights before him yet unable to turn away -- as trapped as the deer whose legs jerked in its final death-throes as Natalie drained its life away. Afterwards, he listened to her ragged breathing, as unsteady as after their lovemaking, as tinged with sated passion. "The thrill of the hunt," she whispered, and the words lashed at his soul. But then she looked down at the still corpse of the animal beside her, and blood-tears formed in her eyes. She rested her palm against its side. "Why?" she queried softly, asking the wind, the dark-blue sky. LaCroix embraced her, with the same gentleness he'd sometimes shown Janette. "It is our nature," he said, just as quietly. "Your nature. A part of yourself that you cannot afford to ignore, or deny." Natalie said nothing, merely leaned against him, into his arms. "You are far too young to practice the same sort of denial Nicholas advocates." No condemnation, just a simple statement of fact. "You need to indulge yourself somehow. Would you prefer that mortals died to feed your hunger?" She shivered. "You almost sound as if you care..." "About mortal life? No." The same calm, factual tone, startlingly devoid of condescension. "But I do care about my children." Nick shook his head; it didn't make sense. If he didn't know better, he would have thought that LaCroix understood -- that he was trying to *help*... There was a rustle in the branches nearby, the sudden sharp tang of human blood; and Nick glimpsed the hunter, staring wide-eyed at the vampiric tableaux. Repeated frustrated arousal had rendered his senses hyper- acute; everything within him was centered on the human, reverberating with the pulse of his heartbeat. Dimly, in the back of his mind, lurked the awareness that no random human could be allowed to know their secret, encouraging him to act upon instinct -- his conscience was sending up alarm signals, but he never heard them. All he felt was the hunger, the ravenous need that was consuming him whole, denied once too often to be restrained... The next thing he knew, he was beside the man, wrenching the rifle from his hands and tossing it aside, effortlessly holding him captive as he moved to find the vein. Distant voices called his name, but he ignored them, so intent was he upon the feast laid out before him... ....immense strength tore him away, and he struggled futilely against the grip that held him immobile. Beyond words, he snarled, raging..."Nicholas. No." Quiet and firm, steady and steadying, the voice penetrated his desperation. It didn't help. The unconscious man lay crumpled in a heap on the forest floor, and his thundering human heartbeat was a torturous siren song. Nick fought to free himself... And was whirled around by those strong arms, held in a close embrace, as LaCroix moved to speak directly into Nick's ear. "You'll hate yourself in the morning," said the soft voice, lips brushing against his earlobe. "Come to me, take what you need," and a hand settled at the nape of his neck, guiding his head down. Nick was too far gone to resist; the beast inside him was howling for relief -- unable to withstand its cries, he let the hand pull him closer, until his fangs grazed the oddly fragile vampiric skin, pierced through the membrane to draw blood. The first taste of it on his tongue was his undoing. The blood of his own kind: liquid light, without the lush fullness of mortal blood, but possessed with a febrile electric energy all its own... and saturated with LaCroix's power, a force almost too intense to bear. Nick moaned, and drank -- felt the sensation of it wash over him like a tsunami, overpowering him, rendering him helpless. He clung to LaCroix, needing to be closer, ever closer; his arousal had returned, fiercer than ever, and the passionate rapture of the blood was more than he could endure. His hips surged forward, grinding his aching erection against an answering hardness, desperate for release... "Nicholas," whispered *that voice* in his ear, and it was enough to bring him over the edge; his knees buckled as his climax hit, and he could barely keep from collapsing. And LaCroix held him, supported him, as the spasms shuddered through him; held him tightly in those strong arms, the ones that had never let him go. As soon as he was able, Nick pulled away, stumbled a few paces from his master. His legs felt like rubber, and other parts... he didn't even want to think about the stain that had to be marring the front of his jeans, proof positive of an incident he couldn't bear to acknowledge. The unconscious hunter still sprawled at his feet, but the man no longer held any allure; with his needs sated (somewhat), Nick felt a wave of self-disgust, that he'd been unable to prevent himself from the lapse of control. But LaCroix had saved him. Had prevented him from making a mistake he'd have deeply regretted. Had stopped him from killing -- the very thing LaCroix had been *urging* him to do for years. He glanced at the elder vampire, and noticed two things simultaneously: the evidence of his orgasm dampening the other's trousers, and the fact that LaCroix had attained no such release. Which was logical enough; despite Nick's feeding, LaCroix had taken no blood in return. An astonishing act of generosity, for him. And now Natalie was moving toward him, an expression of concern on her face, and that was absolutely the last thing Nick could tolerate at that moment. "Nick, are you..." "I'm fine," he cut her off brusquely, turning away, acutely aware of the drying stickiness at his crotch -- wishing that she hadn't been there, to witness his... what *had* it been? Damned embarrassing, to say the least... with LaCroix. His gaze flickered back to the elder, who had knelt beside the hunter. "I'll take care of this one," he said to Natalie, without looking up. "Take Nicholas back to the house." "I can find my own way," Nick muttered, and took off before either of his companions could say a word. He flew straight up, into the coldest part of the night air, fast enough that the rushing air swept the tears from his eyes. Nothing made sense anymore, his own feelings least of all -- the evidence of desires he'd denied for so long had risen to haunt him in the cruelest way possible, provoking him to succumb to urges he'd sworn to never again indulge... LaCroix. Of all people, LaCroix. He would have preferred it to have been anyone else... ....yet even the barest recollection of the shuddering ecstasy of that orgasm was enough to rouse him all over again. And Natalie, dear lord, Natalie watching the whole thing... He landed in front of the house, went inside, relieved to find that he was the first one back; glanced at his reflection in the hall mirror -- the stain was as bad as he had feared, and embarrassment drew blood to sting his cheeks. At least no one had seen him in that state... except for the two that had witnessed its cause. The jeans went straight into the garbage, and he headed for the shower, longing to scrub away the blood and semen that marked his body's traitorous behavior. Stood under hot water just long enough to wash -- then jerked the handle to "cold" and forced himself to endure the icy spray until his latest erection subsided. He had betrayed himself enough for one night, he determined. Warm flannel pajamas, more suited to the Maine weather than the satin he preferred, and a bulky robe to cover all manner of sins, in case of further unwanted swelling... fetched himself a bottle, and settled himself into a chair by the fireplace, to await their return. There was bound to be a confrontation in any case; better to get it over with, he decided, with a heavy sigh. It wasn't long before they returned: the heavier set of footfalls proceeded directly upstairs, while a lighter step came toward him hesitantly."Nick?" Her voice was as gentle, as soothing as it had been in her days of humanity; the sound of it made him want to rest his head against her chest, give in to the unshed tears that scalded his eyes. He couldn't look at her; it humiliated him, that the woman he loved had seen him submit to LaCroix -- no, to his own needs -- with such abandon. "Have *you* had sex with him?" he demanded harshly, not quite understanding why it was suddenly so important to him to know. "No." Natalie didn't sound angry, or upset, by the question. "He never indicated to me that he'd be interested." "But you've *thought* about it," Nick said swiftly, pouncing on her unspoken statement. "Yes, I have." The complete honesty of her reply brought him up short. "He's... intriguing. Compelling." Presented with the facts in that fashion, he couldn't deny them. "I know," he murmured miserably, curling up in the chair as if he could somehow cocoon himself against his pain and confusion. She settled her hip on the edge of the chair and wrapped her arms around him -- he tried to wriggle free, but she held on to him securely. "It's all right," she said softly. "It's *not* all right!" The thought of resisting her embrace more strenuously crossed his mind... but in truth, he didn't want to; the lure of her closeness was too strong, and in the end, he rested his head against her shoulder wearily and embraced her in return. "I've fought so long, and for what?" "Maybe there are some struggles better off lost," she mused. Her fingers smoothed his unruly curls, soothing him despite himself. "Why didn't you tell me?" he whispered unhappily. "About... hunting?" Guilt colored her voice. "Because I knew you wouldn't like it. And I didn't want to argue with you about it -- because I don't much like it myself. But LaCroix's right... I can't help how I feel. What I need." He felt her studying him intently. "Self-deprivation isn't the same thing as virtue, Nick. And misery is not the same as redemption." "What about perversion?" he muttered, in a sullen voice. "Why is it perversion?" she countered. "Because I *hate* him..." "Do you?" She stroked his hair aside, kissed his forehead. "Or do you just wish you did?" He sagged against her. "I wish I knew," he said mournfully. She sighed. "I think you really need to figure out who you're fighting," she said, "him, or yourself..." And for a long time, she held him, and he soaked up her love and her concern and tried not to think at all... ------- It was well past dawn, and Natalie had long since gone to bed -- LaCroix, he had not seen since their liaison in the forest; but his master was no doubt in bed as well, resting comfortably in the spare room. Nick finished his second bottle of blood, and for the thousandth time, contemplated joining him there. He had rationalized it thusly: there was no way for him to know from whence his ill-advised desire had come without exploring the phenomenon further; no way to gauge the reason behind his longings without indulging them. Yet despite all his efforts to the contrary, he recognized his own willingness to justify his own actions, knew it for the deception it was. The simple truth was... he wanted LaCroix, wanted him desperately; wanted more than the brief taste of ecstasy he'd experienced in the woods. Craved the sensation of those strong arms crushing him close, the dual penetration that he'd never allowed from anyone else, the feel of LaCroix beside him, inside him... He'd suppressed that longing for centuries, lest it undermine his resolve, and now he could deny it no longer... nor was there much left in the way of resolve, to be undermined. His intensive quest for humanity was all but over; he simply didn't feel the imperative to continue. All that was left to sustain him was Natalie's sweet love -- and the eternal presence of LaCroix. LaCroix, who was always, always there. LaCroix, who could make him feel things that no one else could. LaCroix, who occasionally, on a good day, seemed to genuinely care for him... LaCroix. Upstairs. Close enough to touch. And for the first time in centuries, there seemed no reason not to. With abrupt decisiveness, he rose to his feet and padded upstairs, pausing only to snatch an unopened bottle along the way. The room he shared with Natalie was the first door to the left; he bypassed it, turning right instead, moving soundlessly down the hall until he faced the closed door of the guest room. He watched his hand settle on the doorknob, trembling, stared at it as if it belonged to someone else -- then turned the knob before he could change his mind, and pushed the door open. LaCroix lay still, perfectly composed, looking more like a corpse than a sleeping man, the very image of the archetypal vampire -- Nick felt an involuntary smile tug at the corners of his lips, remembering times when strenuous exertion had created a very different picture: that of his master, satiated and exhausted, sprawled across their shared bed... But that had been a very different time; and the stern visage of the sleeper confronting him now nearly dissuaded him from his chosen goal. Nude beneath the thin blanket, outlining his body just vividly enough to tantalize... Cautiously, Nick moved to the bedside, seated himself on the edge of the mattress -- and a hand shot out and grasped his throat, squeezed hard, as a low ominous growl filled his ears. Nick swallowed, or tried to; LaCroix's hair-trigger reflexes had saved their lives many a time before, and struggling would only exacerbate the instinctive response. "It's me," he gasped hoarsely. The grip loosened infinitesimally. "What do you want?" LaCroix grated at him. He almost laughed. If he knew the answer to *that*... "I don't know," Nick managed. LaCroix studied him for a long, long moment... Nick struggled to breathe, and the other released him almost as an afterthought. "I assume you've decided you want to have sex," LaCroix said finally, matter-of-factly, attaching no significance or emotion to the statement. For some reason it pained Nick to hear it phrased that way; his breath caught in his throat, as it had while LaCroix had been asphyxiating him. "I'd like it if we could talk," he murmured, willing the hurt from his voice. "We talk and talk, and it gets us nowhere. I hardly think it's worth the effort." LaCroix leaned back against the pillows, giving off an aura of supreme unconcern. The statement felt like a punch in the face, and Nick lashed out verbally in return. "Or perhaps you've simply run out of arguments," he shot back, in a voice that could have sliced steel with its edge. "I am tired, Nicholas." His eyes narrowed, glaring. "I am tired of defending common sense against irrationality. I am tired of rescuing you from the results of your own errors. I am tired of being misinterpreted and condemned." The pretense of disdain had left him: there was anger coloring LaCroix's voice, now, flavored with the slightest hint of pain. "If you're here to have sex, get into bed. If you're not, get out. One or the other, Nicholas; I am *tired*." Nick hesitated; this wasn't the way he'd wanted it, not at all. Even a trace of affection would have made all the difference, but this bruising coldness... He stood up, watching LaCroix for any sign of a reaction, and was rewarded by the barest flicker of emotion. What emotion that might be, he couldn't tell. He thought of leaving, of simply walking away -- and couldn't do it. Instead, he fumbled open his robe with fingers that suddenly felt five sizes too big, clumsy and awkward, let it fall to the floor... struggled with his pajama top, shivered as that came free, leaving him feeling very exposed and vulnerable before his master's scrutiny. His hands lingered at the waistband of the trousers, as a sudden wave of shyness hit him -- and LaCroix raised himself up on one elbow, reached out and tugged the pants down to Nick's knees in a single swift move. Surveyed the first tentative signs of desire with cool amusement. "Surely you can do better than *that*," he commented. "You don't make it easy," Nick snapped, kicked off the pajamas as fast as he could and got into bed. And lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell to do next. He felt LaCroix shift position beside him, and risked a fast glance; the other was gazing down at him. "Why *are* you here, Nicholas?" Nick shook his head miserably. "I don't know," he repeated. "Don't you?" LaCroix laughed, though there was little humor in it; and without further ado leaned over to kiss him. Expecting it, now, Nick had to brace himself, to keep from flinching... until LaCroix was actually kissing him, and the passion crashed back in on him, submerging him completely. He was aware of very little detail, only pure sensation: those hands, gliding over his skin, knowing exactly where and when and how to touch him, as even Natalie did not... it was the link, the eternal bond between them, no longer relegated to the depths of his subconscious mind but flaring white-hot as the rest of him was. And LaCroix was his master, guiding him in this as he had directed every other aspect of his protege's life -- only now, that guiding hand caressed him instead of clenching into a fist to hurt him, or clutching at him with ferocious possessiveness. ------- So exquisite, that pleasure: the very reason he'd fought his own desires, brought out every ounce of hatred and loathing he possessed to form a barrier against the memory of that ecstasy. But there was no resistance left in him, as he felt the strong hands positioning him for entry; only the compelling urge to give in, to submit to the one who owned his soul... LaCroix took him from behind, slow and sweet, and it was as if there had been no separation, no vengeful silences and desperate battles -- they moved to the same rhythm, as they always had; and at the peak of his arousal, Nick bit down hard on the wrist that snaked around to offer itself, drawing the blood he needed to attain the final release. When it was done, he snuggled against LaCroix, giving in to the old impulse, the old habit of closeness. Everything was so much the same as his distant vampiric 'childhood' that it was easy to fall into the daydream that he'd somehow stepped back in time... until LaCroix's lips brushed against his ear and whispered two words he never thought he'd hear. In disbelief, he blinked at his master, and was met by a steady gaze. "I want to have you," said LaCroix, "that way," and fell silent, apparently unwilling to continue. The implications... it wasn't a possibility Nick had ever considered, knowing the other's penchant for retaining control of a given situation... yet as the concept unfolded itself in his mind, spurring new vistas of imagination, he felt a jolt of lust zing down his spine to lodge in his groin, renewing the desires he'd thought sated. He began to speak, took another look at LaCroix and refrained -- LaCroix's face was averted, denying contact, refusing to acknowledge (it seemed) his own invitation. He was utterly still as Nick knelt between his spread legs, only the slightest increase in the rapidity of his respiration betraying any trace of unease.First things first... Nick bent his head and applied himself to the task at hand: bringing LaCroix to full arousal -- and that was perhaps the most evident sign of hidden discomfort; LaCroix, who was always ready, wasn't. Nick wondered at that, but discarded the thought in favor of a more tantalizing puzzle, with a far more satisfying solution. Lips and tongue and the right amount of suction, skills learned in the days when his greatest joy had been to pleasure his beloved master... the sudden, sharp gasp as he performed a particularly delicate maneuver with the tip of one fang left him no doubt that LaCroix had not forgotten those times either, and the light, caressing pressure of the trembling hand stroking his hair sent him spiraling back into memory. Always, this act had affected LaCroix more than any other, evoking a startling responsiveness that almost mimicked vulnerability -- to the point where the slightest touch could provoke a shiver and a soft moan of passion. Nick brought him to that point, and far beyond, reasoning (with the small portion of his brain cells capable of rational thought; most of him was quite thoroughly occupied elsewhere) that such intense need would make it easier for LaCroix to accept him... poised on the brink of entry, he gazed down into the other's eyes, checking one last time for any hint of refusal. And found only longing and -- was it fear? -- lurking in those hidden depths. Lips moved in the barest whisper of an affirmative, giving permission, acceptance. He moved... and knew at once that it wasn't merely the first time LaCroix had allowed him this, it was the *first* time; and Nick froze in place. "Are you certain..." "Nicholas...!" It was a growl, and a plea, and a plaintive cry all in one; and it provoked a wave of tenderness that he had not felt for LaCroix in centuries. It occurred to him that this was his perfect chance to exact his revenge for years of maltreatment, that perhaps LaCroix was expecting exactly that -- Nick remembered his own first time, and how gentle LaCroix had been. No, this was not an arena for vengeance, no matter how tumultuous the intervening years had been. And in that moment, he could feel nothing for LaCroix except love. He was careful, so careful, easing himself inside, feeling his master's body taut and trembling beneath him... buried himself to the hilt and felt LaCroix's arms and legs wrap around him, holding him there. The lips brushing against his ear again. "Only you, my Nicholas," breathed the voice. "Only you." Tears sprang to Nick's eyes unbidden, and he kissed LaCroix's cheek and tasted the blood-sweat there. This time, he was the master, the guide, taking charge of LaCroix's pleasure, giving the very best he could give -- savoring the cries that emerged from LaCroix's throat, the shuddering tension that preceded culmination, heightening with his every thrust, until their shared climax was imminent... And in the moment before his fangs pierced LaCroix's neck, Nick whispered, "I love you"... because at that moment, it was absolutely, perfectly true. The universe exploded in a shattering burst of sweet blood and ecstatic rapture, carrying them both away. ------- When he awoke, he knew instantly that LaCroix was gone. No sign of him, no trace... not even the faintest subliminal sense of his presence, which meant that LaCroix had fled far and fast, and was quite definitely nowhere in the vicinity. He dragged himself out of bed and into his robe and downstairs, searching for an explanation if nothing else. Natalie was waiting for him, with 'breakfast' heated to human- body-temperature, and eyes filled with silent sympathy. "He left at sunset," she informed him. "He thought it would be better that way." "For which one of us?" Nick said bitterly. He turned away from Nat, toward the window, where the starry sky gleamed full-moon bright. "He left me," Nick heard himself say, as if from a distance. "How could he leave me?" Sensed, rather than saw, Natalie come to stand just behind his shoulder. "Maybe he was tired of having you leave him," she said, very quietly. "But... this time..." His voice caught in his throat. "This time, I wouldn't have left..." Natalie's arms slid tentatively around his waist, and he turned to her and let himself fall into her embrace -- her closeness was as wondrous a gift as ever, yet it was no longer enough. "I love him," Nick whispered, and felt the first blood-tear roll down his cheek. She raised her head to look at him, and there was acceptance, not condemnation, in her lovely face. "I know," she said softly, and kissed his tears away. Trio: Renewal --III-- He awoke to darkness, as always. Rose from his bed and moved with catlike sureness through the still black rooms of his home, found his way to the kitchen, took a bottle from the refrigerator and drank. The blood was stale, dead-tasting, edible but far past its prime. He didn't care. Such trivial concerns no longer mattered. He was sensible enough to recognize his feelings as symptoms of depression, but he didn't care about that, either. No letters in the mailbox. No messages on the answering machine. And that was normal, for none of their kind were completely comfortable leaving such tangible traces of their presence. The only one who would possibly have initiated such an action... wouldn't. Not ever. That was simply beyond the realm of probability. He was alone, as he had always been alone. He shouldn't have minded, he'd always prided himself on his self- sufficiency... ....but then, that had only ever been a cruel illusion. His dependency, his weakness, was clear enough to even the casual observer. Now, after centuries, it was finally clear to him as well. Memory took him back to the moment, a mere few months ago, when he'd rested beside the sleepy, sated body of his dearest companion, and had known with irrevocable clarity that there was no way he could continue to live without Nicholas... and so he had fled into the harsh rays of the simmering sunset, knowing that if he did not, he never would... ....knowing that upon awakening, Nicholas would shatter his sweet reminiscences of the passion they'd shared with scalding invective; that his son would take away the warmth of the memory with his incessant icy coldness. Amazingly, Natalie had understood. Dear Doctor Lambert, who existed as a mere afterthought, a trifle -- a toy he'd fashioned from his own vampiric blood, to keep his wayward child from destroying himself with guilt. Natalie, who he'd once disdained as an inferior, had gazed into his eyes and seen all the anguish, all the pain, that he would never have dared reveal. He had found her embrace, her tender kisses, to be remarkably comforting; he believed them to be the only thing that had enabled him to leave. Natalie. He would never have the chance to know his youngest child, would never explore her fascinating complexity... that would be for Nicholas to do, if he ever in fact realized the potential in his beloved companion. Beloved companion. The words stuck in his throat, choking him. //I used to have those, once,// he mused. He took another drink from the bottle, and glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost time. ------- The clock chimed, seven times. A thin sliver of brilliance seeped through the crack in the blinds of the east-facing window in his living room. The blinds had never quite closed properly... but he had checked the mechanism; they would open, exactly on cue. On the table beside the door was a smallish metal box: normally, he kept it securely locked, but tonight he had deliberately left it open. Someone would come, eventually, and there were things in that box that he wanted others to find. He set down his bottle (empty, now) and stood, moved forward to stand in the exact center of the living room. The ticking of the clock sounded in his ears, acutely loudly. Only a few more seconds, and it would be over: the pain, the aloneness, all of it... A slow, creaking sound, and the blinds began to open. Sun-dazzle blinded him, and the last vision that reached him was of Nicholas' golden hair, gleaming in candlelight, and the sweet sight of his son's smile... The heat was searing him; the pain was growing, becoming overwhelming. He braced himself against it, determined to stand fast against the agony, willing himself not to evade the hellish death screaming through him, knowing that if he stood still for another moment, another moment, not even his immense age and strength would save him. //Goodbye, Nicholas,// was his last thought, as he felt his skin begin to dissolve into ash. And then a great force struck him and knocked him sideways, out of the sunlight, into the blessed cool relief of darkness. Dazed, he lay on the floor uncomprehending for a moment as the light diminished -- the blinds were closing; someone was closing them. Someone else was holding him: enraged, he lashed out blindly. He struggled, but could not escape; his burns were weakening him. "Leave me be!" "LaCroix..." And the sound of the voice was more than he could bear. Now his blows grew more purposeful, knowing who they were directed against. How *dare* he? With all his talk of freedom, how *dare* he interfere in the one decision LaCroix was capable of making to preserve his own? But his sun-burned skin, while healing with all the usual rapidity, still hurt terribly; and Nicholas had been drinking human blood ever since Natalie's rebirth to darkness -- for once, his son was stronger than he was. Yet Nicholas did not move to exercise that power, simply grasped his wrists and held him immobile. Natalie's skilled, gentle hands, gliding over his skin and assessing the damage, but he hardly noticed; how could he be aware of anything else, while Nicholas was holding him? Even the impersonal contact of restraint was incredibly sweet, after centuries of separation. It was all he could do not to react to that touch. "What are you *doing*?" His son's voice was shocked, incredulous, as well it might be. He gathered all his strength and broke the grip, recoiling from the other as quickly as he could. "Leave me alone," he shot back venomously. But the brief effort had drained the last of his strength, and awareness spiraled away suddenly into a suffocating blank void... ------- He awoke in his bed, in comforting darkness. Winced involuntarily at the stray sleepy thought that Nicholas might have carried him there. Then found himself suddenly alert, at the realization that he was not alone. Warmth... no human would have found it so; but their bodies were the same temperature as his, and thus it felt that way. Warmth, a type of warmth he hadn't felt for over half a millennium. Nicholas on one side, Natalie on the other, arms and legs entwined with his and each other, enfolding him in a cocoon of living warmth. Such a luxury, this; one he'd once taken for granted, in the early days of their family. The original trio: his Janette... He thought of Janette with distant longing, enjoyed Natalie's touch, but most of him was focused upon Nicholas. As had been the case from the first moment he'd set eyes on the young knight. Such a luxury. Paradise. And it could not last. He knew that now, as he had not understood it a millennia before. Whatever small fragment of -- comfort -- he might find in this instant would have to last him for centuries, until such a moment might occur again... No. He could not bear that any longer. No. Abruptly, he sat upright, tearing himself free of the tender embrace, though it nearly rent his heart to shreds to do it. He pulled the sheet aside and stood, not allowing himself to look at the nude bodies that had been curled up alongside his own... Before he could get more than two steps from the bed, they were beside him again. Two pairs of hands -- both of them, so strong: Nicholas was finally beginning to live up to his potential, and Natalie was far more powerful than any fledgling had the right to be. "Where do you think you're going?" Nicholas, in that so- polite voice that indicated steel. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Natalie, forthright indignation laced liberally with concern. "It is none of your concern," he replied, with as much dignity as he could manage considering that he was naked, and beginning (despite his best resolve) to be affected by his children's nearness. "Damn it, LaCroix!" Oh, Nicholas was simply adorable when he was angry, always had been. "Why are you doing this?" The only retort that came to mind was pure honesty. "Why do you care?" LaCroix asked him. Nicholas was brought up short by that, couldn't seem to find a reply. "I care," he said finally. "Do you. That would represent a considerable change in attitude," LaCroix mused. "It was, I believe, five years ago last month that you tried to kill me..." "Other things have happened since then," Nicholas said quietly, almost plaintively, in a voice that tugged at his soul. No, that could not be allowed. "Oh, yes, that's right; we had sex, didn't we?" He said it in his most cutting tone, refusing to acknowledge how special that day had been for him, how wondrous a gift... ....how deeply he ached for more of the same, and how heartbreaking was the knowledge that Nicholas would never again be his. Centuries of struggle, but he'd finally accepted it. 'His Nicholas' had disappeared -- if indeed that person had ever truly existed. The man who stood before him now would never return to him, as he'd once believed. With that realization, immortality had ceased to hold any attraction for him. Without Nicholas... why continue? Yet Nicholas was here now -- reaching out, tentatively embracing him, flesh against flesh, a sensation so sweet that LaCroix knew he could never endure it. If he were to succumb to that embrace, he would never have the strength to do what he must... He recoiled from his son as if confronted by a crucifix. "Get away from me!" he rasped, and turned away. Now it was Natalie who stood before him -- but that was all right: Natalie was a delightful creature, but she could not captivate him the way Nicholas could. No one could captivate him the way Nicholas could. And so he allowed her to wrap her arms around him, and did not resist the surge of reflexive lust that seized him at the contact. His desire for Natalie was safe, and as such, was far more easily indulged than his consuming passion for Nicholas. He was peripherally aware that his son was watching, as Natalie kissed him and spoke to him in soft, soothing tones, telling him that he must rest, and that they must talk, before any drastic decisions were made -- he would do as he chose, of course; but her voice was gentle to his ears, pleasant to listen to, and her kisses as sweet as Janette's had been, though with a uniquely Natalie flavor... more assertive than Janette had been at that youthful age, but that was understandable, in these modern times; it amused him to let her lead him to bed. Yes, definitely assertive -- and as skillful in love as in medicine; she had been a good choice to accompany his son through the centuries. Odd, that he should rely on the fledgling to look after her elder sibling... but Nicholas had always needed looking-after, even (especially) when he fought it the most. But Natalie was looking after *him* now. And she was exquisitely good at it. By the time he noticed that Nicholas had left the room, he was too involved with Natalie to care. ------- He delayed his decision for three days, during which Natalie was his constant companion: caring for him, loving him, and continually trying to probe his psyche and dissuade him from his self-appointed mission. She knew why he was doing it -- Nicholas was clueless, that much he knew from shamelessly eavesdropping on a rather loud conversation that had come perilously close to being an argument -- but Natalie knew. She knew. "You have to learn to live your life without depending on Nick," was her eternal opinion. "Why?" was his oft-repeated question, and for all her trying, Natalie had been so far unable to come up with an answer that suited him. Nicholas wanted to see him -- made plain by the 'conversation' he'd witnessed -- and did not understand why his master was "rejecting" him. His usage of the word had actually caused LaCroix to laugh; as usual, Nicholas hadn't the foggiest notion of what was going on. Natalie, who did know, was keeping his secret as he had bidden her -- he had tried to enforce his will by hypnosis, had abandoned the attempt when her knowing glance had made it obvious that it was a waste of time, and unnecessary. "He'll never forgive you for what you're doing," she'd averred. "It will be no concern of mine, when I'm dead," he'd answered. "So you don't believe in any sort of afterlife?" "I believe in nothing," he'd told her grimly. What a companion she'd been, during those three days and nights. How long had it been since he'd had someone to talk to? Let alone one who was as skilled at physical communication as verbal... but the pleasure he felt at her presence only served to exacerbate the solitude that had come before, and would haunt him again if he allowed it to. And so, on that last night, he took a bit more blood from Natalie than usual, leaving her uncommonly tired and drained, so that when he kissed her forehead and rose from the bed, she never even stirred. He moved through the house, knowing that sunrise was coming, knowing that if he could escape his children's scrutiny he could make good on his escape... but his evasion was unsuccessful. Nicholas was in the living room, curled up on the sofa, reading. He was so engrossed in his book that he didn't notice the other's presence, and LaCroix moved to depart before he could -- and then caught sight of the book Nicholas was reading. Fury inflamed him, made him set aside his resolutions and provoke the confrontation he'd been avoiding. "How *dare* you!" he snarled, his eyes hot gold with rage, fingers twitching with the abrupt desire to throw Nicholas across the room and into the nearest wall. But Nicholas merely looked up at him, without flinching... and there were blood-tears running down his face. "I never knew," he said, unsteadily. The book in his hands -- a leather-bound volume, one of several dozen like it, contents painstakingly copied from the original documents and preserved with care over the years. An account of his long life, detailing the events and emotions of two millennia... From the tomes stacked nearby, LaCroix deduced that Nicholas had begun his reading in the middle, and had worked his way through the first few centuries of their time together. His son blinked up at him, fresh tears flowing. "Why didn't you ever *tell* me?" he said plaintively. The anger drained away from LaCroix, and he seated himself on the sofa and looked at his child curiously. "Why?" he said. "So that you could despise me for my *feelings*, instead of for my actions?" Nicholas shifted position, rested his head against LaCroix's shoulder, and LaCroix's arm settled around him automatically, holding him there. "It would have made all the difference," Nick said softly. "Would it? The outcome would have been the same." LaCroix resisted the temptation to wrap the other arm around his son as well, to cling to him and refuse to let go. "But I would have known why..." Nicholas swallowed hard. "I would have known that you... cared for me." "How could you fail to know that?" Disbelief tinged his tone. His son shook his head. "I never knew," he said, very quietly, still shaking with the force of his silent tears. LaCroix sighed, slipped his other arm around Nicholas and held him securely. "I tried to make you strong," he said. "To harden you against the cruelties and agonies of immortality. I tried to destroy the treacherous morality in you, that has caused you so much pain... and for what? It has done no good, and you have come to despise me for my actions. Are you seriously suggesting that any of this..." he indicated the book Nicholas still held in his hands, "would have made the slightest bit of difference?" His son held out the book to him, and LaCroix glanced at the open page. It was the end of a lengthy account of an evening they'd spent together -- he and Nicholas had argued incessantly about a book they'd both read recently, disputing the author's intentions, a thoroughly entertaining argument that differed significantly from the venomous battles they'd fought -- then fallen into bed together and enjoyed each other throughout the long day. In his journal, LaCroix had noted his perceptions of Nicholas, often in quite sentimental terms... and the idea that Nicholas had actually viewed that most private part of his soul made LaCroix wince. "I never knew you felt this way," Nicholas whispered. "I repeat: it would have made no difference." LaCroix reached out, closed the book firmly, took it and set it aside with the other volumes. "You would have come to despise me in any case. Far better that you should do so for what you perceive as my hatred, than... for any other reason." He could not say the word: it would shatter him, if he did. "Why were you so harsh with me? Why didn't you... you could have just..." Nicholas scrubbed at his eyes with one fist, dashing away the tears. "It doesn't matter. The past is gone; we cannot change it." He dared to raise one hand to let his fingers trail through the silken gold curls -- such a small thing, yet how he'd missed the ability to touch, to extend that small gesture. "For what it's worth," LaCroix said, hearing his own voice as if it came from a stranger, "I have come to realize that many of my tactics were poorly chosen. I... regret the pain that you've suffered." A contemptuous sound emerged from his lips, a sardonic acknowledgement of the insufficiency of his words. "Although I hardly expect that something so trivial as an apology should actually matter to you, at this point." His son's arms slid around his waist, hugged him close. "It matters," said Nicholas. "It matters to me." The tears had begun to flow once more, and LaCroix tipped up his chin and pressed his lips against his son's face, tasting the blood and salt of his sadness. ------- He awoke on the sofa, Nicholas nestled in his arms; the sun had risen and set as they'd talked and slept, and now it was night again. For a moment, he lingered there, not allowing himself to think, simply reveling in the long-lost sensation of closeness with his wayward son. It was a fitting farewell, he thought; a nice touch, that they should find some measure of mutual understanding in these last few hours of his life. But even the sweetness of that intimacy could not dissuade him from his goal -- not even his son's heartfelt pleas could sway him, though they had filled his heart with uncommon warmth. Eventually, they would quarrel again, these moments of communion forgotten in the face of new disputes, and the battles would be even more agonizing for it. No, that was something he could not face. More endless centuries, alone and aching from the loss... he simply didn't have the strength for it. At least they had found some sort of closure. He extricated himself carefully from Nicholas' arms, kissed his cheek as tenderly as if he were a mortal child -- somehow, LaCroix had always held that mental image of his son; for all the power of the man, the boy within was very much evident. He considered the idea of procuring a proper 'last meal', but the effort of hunting was more than he felt he could tolerate. Instead, he dug a finer vintage from the back of the refrigerator, sipped it straight from the bottle, hardly even tasting it. He padded through the master bedroom, where Natalie slept sprawled atop the bedspread, her mind filled with troubled dreams, and into the master bath; he filled the jacuzzi-tub with steaming water beyond that which human skin could tolerate, added mineral salts and slipped into the water. The heat soothed him, relaxed him, and he leaned back and let all thought and emotion drift away. At some point, Nicholas came in to check on him; his face was scrubbed clean of the tracks of his tears, but still his eyes wore a haunted look. LaCroix had no words for him, and so he was silent -- and after awhile, his son left him to his bath. Natalie came to him next, kneeling beside the tub to whisper in his ear, begging him not to do it, coaxing, persuading -- but although her tone was pleasant to his ears, her words were meaningless to him; and after awhile, she left him, too. When the bathwater cooled, he emerged and toweled himself dry, dressed in his usual style, selecting his clothes with care for no reason other than that it was habit for him to do so. His eyes fell on the framed photos on the wall: one of himself and Nicholas and Janette, one of Nicholas and Natalie taken shortly after her rebirth. His family -- and a spasm of pain seized him, nearly ripped him in two, sundering his false calm in a single instant. He leaned heavily against the wall, arms wrapped around his chest, eyes squeezed closed, fighting the pain that threatened to overwhelm him -- jaws clenched shut on the howl of fury and agony that swelled inside his chest. His own personal demon... as Nicholas had struggled against the thirst of the vampire, so LaCroix had warred with his own perceived beast. The demands of his heart, the weakness of his soul's desires, the sentimental longings that had always brought him nothing but trouble. After two millennia of ruthless control, of stringent deprivation, the beast was winning; and LaCroix could not endure it. The pain began to subside, and he fought it until he was once more in control, though that restraint was more tenuous than it had ever been; he finished the bottle of blood and went to fetch another. Nicholas and Natalie were talking in the corner of the living room, their voices kept low and their thoughts shielded against casual intrusion; they fell silent at his approach, watching him with twin pairs of wide, frightened eyes. The eyes. It was always the eyes that ensnared him. All of his children had the most beautiful eyes... He didn't dare let his glance linger on them, did his best to ignore them as he passed through the room. After selecting his repast, he took the bottles back to his bedroom, to drink in seclusion; this time, he did not allow himself to look at the photographs on the wall. He drank, and tried to preserve the lovely state of null thought he'd attained for so brief a period in the bath -- contemplated bathing again, to see if he could recreate that mindless void, decided it was too much effort. But for all his denial, the images passed through his mind nonetheless. Nicholas, as he had been in the very beginning, impetuous and mischievous and wild, without regret or restraint. That same face, no longer glowing with joy and love, but drawn tight into lines of anger and hatred, eyes narrowed in loathing. And most recently, the tentative beginnings of acceptance: the tears Nicholas had shed, as he pleaded with him. It touched him, somehow, to think that after all that had transpired between them, Nicholas would still mourn his death. Janette, Natalie -- the daughters who should have been able to claim so much more of his heart, who could not because Nicholas occupied so much of the territory. Janette, who had sublimated her resentment at being 'second-best' in her own love for Nicholas. Natalie, who understood exactly how LaCroix felt, who felt exactly the same way. Such wondrous beings he had created; and yet it was as if he barely knew either of them. With Natalie, there was some justification for the distance, but Janette... for the eight hundred years of Nicholas' immortal life, Janette had been (it shamed him to admit it) no more than an afterthought, beside the overpowering grip of his feelings for his son. She deserved so much more than he had given her, and that, like his countless mistakes with Nicholas, could not be fixed with so trivial a thing as an apology. Natalie was probably the most fortunate of the lot, he thought. She would never have the opportunity to suffer the trauma of his obviously flawed parenting skills. Never mind that such had never been his intention... the fact remained that he had damaged Janette, damaged Nicholas; he had steadfastly denied it for a thousand years, but now there was no point in fighting the facts. Yet still, with all the perception of twenty-twenty hindsight at his command, he didn't see what he could have done differently. It no longer mattered. As far as he was concerned, the twisted tale of their family had ended. All that remained was for him to close the chapter, to scribble out the final few lines of the epilogue. He drank, and waited for the sun to rise. ------- They came to him just before dawn, as he stood by the window contemplating the end; they waited patiently for his acknowledgement, making it clear that they had no intention of leaving. He looked from one to the other, thinking about how alike they looked, with their identical expressions of concern and determination. "Yes?" he said wearily. "We've talked it over," Natalie began, in the stern tone he imagined she must have used to induce Nicholas to devour her potions, "and we have decided that we are not going to allow you to do this." Her statement almost made him laugh. He'd fed well, enough so that they would not be able to restrain him this time. "And how do you think you're going to stop me?" he asked idly, turning back toward the window. This time, it was Nicholas who spoke. "By any means necessary," said the soft voice. All at once there were hands gliding over him, caressing him, undoing the buttons of his shirt -- astonished, he struggled to free himself, but found that his movements only aided their efforts. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded, in his best imperious tone. "There are better ways to spend the day than in ashes on the floor," Natalie told him gravely, easing his shirt off his shoulders. "We're being persuasive," Nicholas added, reaching to undo LaCroix's trousers. Insidious tactics; they'd chosen well, knowing his weakness, the dictates of his traitorous heart... He managed to brush their hands away with a rough gesture. "I will not submit!" he raged. They glanced at each other briefly, and Nicholas answered. "You needn't submit," he murmured. "Merely... yield." LaCroix tried to respond, but his son's hand slid around the back of his neck, pulled him closer, into a kiss... He fought, battled against them, and himself -- desperation surged to the fore, knowing that he could not long resist their proximity, their willingness, their devotion: knowing that if he were to give in to their coaxing, there would be no turning back. And what would happen to him then? Seduced by sentiment, unable to harden himself against the barbs and spears his children hurled at him, unable to tolerate the harsh tearing pain when they inevitably left him... a few hours of pleasure that would irrevocably cripple him, leave him a wounded thing at the mercies of his family... he had been LaCroix for far too long to allow that. He fought, and lost ground steadily, until he was clinging to his equilibrium by the most perilous of threads. For years, Nicholas had kept the psychic connection between master and son narrowed to a miminum contact; of late, LaCroix had begun deliberately shutting out his fledgling the same way. And Natalie -- by the time she was 'born', he had become so accustomed to that lack of closeness, and to his children's hostility, that he'd automatically kept their bond tenuous and insubstantial in self-defense. For centuries, the only time LaCroix had felt the touch of another mind was when he exercised his powers to control another: only during lovemaking had he experienced that connection, and even then he'd minimized his perceptions to keep himself from responding to the bond as he'd known he would. But now Nicholas and Natalie were projecting their feelings toward him through that constricted connection, stretching it wide open with the power and intensity of their emotions. Panic-stricken, he lashed out at them through the bonds that held them together -- but his blows didn't seem to have any effect. It was as if they were weaving a cocoon of concern and caring around him, suffusing him in it, suffocating him, trapping him... ...and the worst part of it was that his aching soul cried out for that touch, for the warmth he had so long been denied. In the end, anger and pride and haughty self-sufficiency fell, swept aside by the power of his children's emotions. The only thing that held him separate, that kept him from succumbing utterly, was his fear -- his blinding terror of his weakness, of the Beast that ravaged his heart, poisoning him with tenderness... And then, in his mind, in his ear, he heard the voice: his son's voice, murmuring the three words he had so rarely heard, and never bestowed -- and the fourth, which was his undoing. "I love you," Nicholas whispered. "Father..." Deep within him, something diamond-hard and cold cracked and splintered and shattered into dust. He knew, then, that he had lost. Amazing, how sometimes a loss could feel like victory... He did not sleep, but there was a certain span of time in which consciousness became a dubious and nebulous thing; when awareness returned, there was a cup of blood in his hand, and a warmth around him that far surpassed any provided by the satin quilt. The blood wasn't human, but it was fresh-killed; and the scent hovering around Natalie made it clear who had procured the meal for him. Was it dark again already? The day had passed so quickly -- on the other hand, his attention had been *elsewhere*. "Drink it, will you, before it gets cold," scolded an affectionate voice, and he drank obediently, quite content to allow his offspring to order him about. At least, at this particular moment... //afterglow,// he surmised, and had to laugh, for his current state of well-being approximated standard run-of-the-mill afterglow in the same way that the hellish flames of sunfire resembled the soft flickering light of a candle. "How do you feel?" inquired another voice, equally affectionate: no grudging, no hesitancy about his concern, not anymore. Instead, there was a deep caring suffusing that tone, love saturating every syllable. The sound of the love in Nicholas' voice was even more overwhelming than the physical demonstration had been. "Your strategy was remarkably effective," he said, when he could once again manage to speak. "I seem to have regained my will to live." Natalie chuckled at the wry irony in his tone, and Nicholas smiled at him, and he basked in the glow of their warmth. The house he lived in had never been much of a home; merely a place in which to shelter himself from the sun. But the living room had been dusted, the fireplace cleaned, and suddenly it was a haven... or perhaps it was simply the presence of his children that made it so. He was startled to note the addition of some new furnishings: personal items belonging to Natalie, to Nicholas. At what point had they decided to move in? When had they had the *time* to implement their decision? To listen to them talk, conversing eagerly about their plans to 'fix up the place', it was evident that it had all been settled; and while he had not been a party to the planning meeting, he was perfectly satisfied with this most recent turn of events. But as he reclined on the sofa and listened to Nicholas play the piano, he wondered how long this cozy little domestic scene would last... It didn't matter. For the moment, he was happier than any being with his history and karma had any right to expect; there was no sense in worrying about the future. Eventually, reality would intrude upon the dream -- it was inevitable: no avoiding that fact. For now, though, they were a trio again, and all was well in his world. For now. ...end