From:         Sarah Welsh <welshkin@DFW.NET>
Subject:      DTD: By the Skin of His Teeth

It was as he turned to open the second bag that he heard the hum of the
elevator.  He stared at the empty glass in one hand and the full bag in the
other and let out a muttered oath.  Too late!  Why was he always too late!
There hadn't been enough time, not then . . . and certainly not now.  It
would be so much easier to face this with a couple of quarts under his belt,
if not a gallon.

As the elevator door opened, he turned and smashed the stained glass against
the wall.  It was an empty, defiant action, but it was <something>.  Empty,
defiant actions were all he had left.

That, and stone-cold sobriety.

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

Natalie walked into the loft and headed straight for him.  The look on
her face told him that he had no hope of reprieve.  He had never seen her
so grim, so determined.  There would be no escape for him tonight.  To his
heightened senses, every step she took seemed to thunder through the room
like the sounds of cannon from a distant battlefield, a sound that he had
heard many times over the centuries.  And then, just before she reached
the place where he stood, shivering, still clutching the bag of blood in
one hand, he realized that he had a third weapon in his arsenal.  Empty
defiant actions would get him no place with Natalie, he knew, and
stone-cold sobriety was even less beneficial.  But his last refuge would
provide him at least a few moments of escape.

A flashback.

*Somewhere moody, nighttime, and European, in a time period that allows
Janette to wear a really nice dress*

It had been the pain that had first attracted his attention.  Vampires
weren't supposed to feel pain, not like this.  But it was there, a deep,
steady throb that seemed to penetrate to the very core of his being.  At
first, he had dismissed it, tried to ignore it, sure it would go away.
But as the nights wore on, the pain only grew more intense.  It gnawed
away at him from the time his eyes opened at sunset until they shut
again at dawn and intruded into dark and troubled dreams in between.

He hadn't said anything to his companions.  He was afraid to: afraid to
find out what it meant, afraid to tell them that anything was wrong
because if he admitted it to them, he'd have to admit it to himself.  So
he had gone out with Janette and LaCroix every night, pretended to enjoy
himself as they frequented the fancy occasions Janette loved to attend
and the seedy backalley taverns that were LaCroix' venue of choice.  And
each night it became more difficult to smile and laugh at the bawdy jokes
and drink the warm wine and blood.

Tonight, the trio was ensconced in a candle-lit tavern that was a
particular favorite with LaCroix.  They always had to dress up when they
came here.  LaCroix enjoyed standing out, putting himself above the rough
rabble that surrounded him in a place like this.  There was something
that excited him about slumming, about feeding from a filthy labourer or
a sleazy barmaid while he himself was dressed in the height of fashion.
He prided himself on draining a body without spilling a drop of blood on
his pristine finery.

Nicolas usually enjoyed the barmaids himself, but as he sat at the
primitive wooden table, a goblet of spiced wine before him, his secret
pain seemed to enclose him in a world of his own, separate from the warm
and rowdy crowd of drunkards that inhabited the room around him.  Although
there were several blond barmaids, low-cut dresses spilling generous
cleavages, traversing the room, he couldn't concentrate on them.  And the
fact frightened him.  Frightened him so much that he suddenly stood,
sweeping his full goblet off the table with a gesture of his arm.
LaCroix looked up at him, mildly surprised, as the most well-endowed of
the barmaids leaned over directly in front of him to clean up the mess,
corset laces straining to hold back her bosom.  Nothing.  He felt nothing
but the pain.  With a terrified sob, he ran out of the tavern into the
night and took to the sky.

Not being much on imagination, he flew back to the house that the three
of them had been staying in while they were in town.  It was there that
LaCroix found him, huddled in a corner, facing the wall.  He stood in the
doorway for a long moment before he said softly, reproachfully, "Did you
really think you could keep something like this from me, Nicolas?"  He
didn't get an answer, didn't really expect one.  Walking a few steps into
the room, he continued, "You know what has to be done, Nicolas.  You
can't hide from this.  There is no other option."

"No."  The word came out as a gut-wrenching sob.

"Nicolas."  The cold hand came down to rest on his shoulder.  "Come with
me.  We must take care of this now before the problem gets any larger.  You
know it is for your own good."

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

"You know it's for your own good, Nick."

Hearing Natalie echo LaCroix gave Nick a chill, but just as he had done
so long ago, he stood frozen in his place, paralyzed, unable to free, as
she reached out and took the half-forgotten bag of blood away from him.
At least his voice was still operative, although it was weak and shaky.
"Nat, please.  Please don't do this."

The look she gave him, although unrelenting, was not without sympathy.
"Nick, I understand; I really do.  This is not pleasant for anyone.  But
it has to be done.  And if we don't go now, we're going to be too late."
She took his hand and led him toward the elevator, toward his doom, away
from the blood that he knew wouldn't help him, just as nothing could help
him.  As the door slid open, he heard her voice continuing: "I didn't
even know that vampires could get cavities, but you've got a beauty.  And
I'm sure dental practices have improved greatly over the years...."

THE END