Although this isn't my first post, it's actually the first Forever Knight story 
I wrote, and the one in which I discovered the terrible proclivity of some 
characters to insist on having bigger and better scenes written for them (for 
example, Lacroix was never meant to appear in this story at all, but it would 
take a braver writer than I am to tell Lacroix to go away!). My thanks to Mary 
Williams for putting up with my whining when the characters started getting out 
of control,  to Kathy Whelton for medical advice and general all-around 
improvements, and to Nancy Kaminski and her Green Pen for making more sense of 
all this, grammatically speaking.  All lapses in authenticity and syntax are the 
sole fault of the author.
This story is set - oh, sometime later in second season, probably  between 
"Crazy Love" and  "Be My Valentine", and contains brief references to "Queen of 
Harps" and "Baby, Baby".
The Forever Knight characters belong (probably much against their will) to TPTB.
Permission granted to archive at the fan fiction site and the ftp site.


"Black Ice"
Mary Chamberlain
November 2000
 	
The snow had been expected all day. It finally began falling late in the 
evening, a soft, chill curtain of white drifting in from the lake, melting 
almost immediately on the pavement but gradually accumulating in quieter, 
untravelled areas.
To Natalie Lambert, emerging from the Christmas Eve performance of the 
Nutcracker at the Hummingbird Centre, it was an enchanting sight, almost magical 
both in appearance and timing. "Look, Nick, isn't it beautiful? Now it really 
feels like Christmas Eve."
Nick Knight had never been able to understand the importance of a specific set 
of meteorological conditions to the proper enjoyment of Christmas, but he 
accepted the fact that a large number of people seemed to set great store by the 
presence of snow at this particular time of the year. Apparently Natalie was one 
of them.
"Spoken like a true apartment dweller," he said teasingly. "You won't be the one 
having to shovel a way out to the street in the morning."
"I've done my share of snow shovelling in my time, I'll have you know. And I 
always thought it was beautiful, even then."
They strolled slowly along Front Street, pausing occasionally to examine a shop 
window. The sidewalks were crowded, not only with  people leaving the ballet but 
with customers from the multitude of pubs and restaurants in the area. Many of 
those  out tonight seemed to be in the festive spirit; it might have been the 
snow; Nick decided that a more probable, if more prosaic, reason was liquid 
Christmas cheer. Whatever the cause, when a large, jolly woman in a peacock-blue 
coat emerged suddenly from a restaurant doorway and nearly collided with him, he 
found the "Merry Christmas" that accompanied her apology oddly pleasing.
His Cadillac was parked on a side street by the St. Lawrence market. Nick had 
always liked the look of the old, red brick market, constructed in an age when 
even practical, utilitarian buildings were designed with a modicum of elegance. 
It was just unfortunate that it was permeated after all this time by the smell 
of - well, market.

On this chilly December night, however, the scent of food was negligible. It was 
no hardship to stand outside the car and brush off the layer of snow that had 
already piled up on the windshield. When a couple arrived at the car parked in 
front of the Caddy, on an impulse he wished them a merry Christmas, wondering if 
they would think he was a mental case for talking to total strangers - after 
all, no normal person did that in a big city. But they smiled and returned the 
greeting, and he got into the car wondering if there still might be something 
real about all this seasonal goodwill after all.
"Where to?" he asked Natalie, pulling out into traffic. "Shall I take you home?"
"No, why don't we go back to your place for a little while. That's why I lugged 
your Christmas present with me."
Nick knew that her apartment was looking far more festive at the moment than his 
own, but who was he to argue? He turned onto Front Street and drove eastward, 
leaving the crowds behind, through a dark grimy section of the city where there 
were few signs of Christmas. There was a brief gleam from the river as they 
crossed it, then a minute later two quick left turns brought them into the 
parking lot of the dilapidated old warehouse which contained his loft apartment. 
The Caddy slewed slightly in the snow despite his careful driving, and Nick 
foresaw a goodly amount of shovelling to get the car out again the next night if 
this kept up.
"Let's go for a walk," suggested Natalie as soon as he'd turned off the engine.
"A walk?" he repeated, rather bemused by the idea. In all the time he'd lived at 
the loft, he'd never once even considered going for a walk simply for the sake 
of it. As a vampire he certainly didn't need the exercise. If he wanted to relax 
or mull over a case or sort out a problem in his personal life, he got in the 
Caddy and drove. If he couldn't drive, he flew. And in any case, the 
neighbourhood wasn't exactly conducive to casual strolling. He knew perfectly 
well how carefully Natalie always locked her car doors when she came here, and 
how she tended to scurry from car to warehouse when she arrived at night. But if 
she wanted to go for a walk now, he certainly wasn't about to say no.
She waited for him in the parking lot as he locked the Caddy and lowered the 
garage door. Catching a movement out of the corner of his eye, he turned just in 
time to see a fluffy white missile come sailing towards him. It passed through 
the space where he had been standing an instant before and struck the doorframe 
of the garage with a soft thump.
Natalie spun around, searching for him. There was a brief swirling in the 
falling snow several yards away and a snowball hit her squarely on one shoulder.
"Hey! No fair!" she yelped.
Nick solicitously brushed the snow from her coat. "Neither was that attempt at a 
Bailey's- flavoured protein shake last week. You could have at least warned me."
"I always drink Bailey's at Christmas," she objected. "I was just trying to 
share some of my holiday traditions with you."
He gave a theatrical groan and steered her towards the sidewalk. "I suppose it 
could have been worse - it could have been eggnog."
"Now that's a thought. Eggnog's very high in protein, you know."
"Maybe next year." The wistfulness in Nick's voice made Natalie decide against 
making a comment about big bad vampires who were afraid of a little glass of 
eggnog. Besides, even though Nick had mellowed somewhat since she'd first met 
him - at the beginning of their relationship, even something as innocuous as 
lobbing a snowball at him would have been perceived as a mortal insult - he 
still didn't deal well with being teased, no matter how gently. Not that that 
was a trait unique to vampires.

So instead she took his arm and turned the conversation to the ballet they had 
just seen. The tickets had been Nick's Christmas present to her, after she had 
made an offhand remark one day about having gone to see it every year when she 
was little. And she had enjoyed it, even though this one wasn't the traditional 
production of the Hoffman tale that had been a fixture of childhood Christmases, 
with little Clara and the Nutcracker Prince dancing off into a lifetime of 
happily-ever-after. But the music hadn't changed. No one had tried to make 
Tchaikovsky's grand score more contemporary. No matter how many times she heard 
"Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy" in shopping mall Muzak, or was told of the fact 
that Tchaikovsky had actually hated his own score, it would remain one of her 
favourites.
And, at least as much as the performance itself, she had enjoyed the sight of 
Nick sitting beside her and staying relaxed even when surrounded in close 
proximity by  hundreds and hundreds of warm bodies and beating mortal hearts. 
True, she hadn't really expected him to go into full-fledged vampire mode in the 
middle of the theatre, but she had thought he might start to get a little antsy. 
However, he appeared to have weathered the experience nicely.
They turned up a residential street, leaving behind the industrial wasteland 
that lay between Nick's loft and the lake. The night and the falling snow 
softened the rough edges of the neighbourhood. An occasional string of Christmas 
lights or a lit window gave definition to some of the tall, gaunt houses. The 
street was hushed; even on the main roads at either end of the long block only a 
few cars passed by. 
The silence was deep enough that even Natalie's mortal ears could hear the music 
from the church before the reached it.
It was only a small, battered-looking church, with plain windows and grimy brick 
walls and a front step of badly cracked concrete. Nick hadn't realized that it 
was even still in use.
The music had stopped by the time they reached it, yet Nick stood on the 
sidewalk and stared at the tired little building as if transfixed. Natalie stood 
beside him, glancing worriedly from him to the church, wondering whether a full-
fledged angst attack was imminent.
Out of the silence the communion bell rang once, then three times more. Still 
Nick stared at the church, and Natalie stared anxiously at Nick.
Then he shook his head, smiled at her, and held out his arm again. She took it 
and they continued walking. "Sorry. I was just thinking - have you ever been to 
Paris, Nat?"
"Once. Back in my wild and misspent youth."
He reached across with his right hand and squeezed her fingers lying across his 
left arm. "Which was considerably more recent and probably less wild than mine, 
so stop fishing for compliments. Did you go to Notre Dame?"
"Um - for about fifteen minutes," she admitted shamefacedly.
He shook his head in mock reproach. "Natalie Lambert, I would never have 
suspected you of being such a cultural barbarian."
"Alright then, give me the history lecture. What was it like in your wild and 
misspent youth?"
"Actually, not terribly impressive. It was still under construction. The 
Delabarres had just built a townhouse in Paris, the last year I was a page with 
the family, and the entire household went off to Mass at the cathedral on 
Christmas Eve. Even only half-built, there was something about it - maybe it was 
because of the candlelight, and the incense, and the chanting - but there was 
something utterly magnificent about the place. It gave me the shivers." He was 
silent for a moment, then added, deadpan, "Or it could have been the draughts."
Natalie swatted his shoulder. "Sometimes, Nick, I think you just make up this 
history stuff as you go along."
"It's true," he protested. "Draughts were the one great constant in medieval 
life. Ask anyone who was there."

"Right at the moment, I'd rather just go back to your draught-free twentieth 
century loft. I'm starting to get cold."
"What, is the beauty of all this snow starting to pall on you?"
"Beauty warms the soul, not necessarily the body."
"Is that Natalie Lambert's profound quote of the day?"
"Come on, Mr. I'm-Just-Wearing-This-Heavy-Coat-To-Fit-In. Some day you too will 
be freezing your backside off in a blizzard, and I'd like to hear you come up 
with a profound remark through your chattering teeth."
"Do you want to borrow my coat?"
"No, I want to go inside where it's warm - well, warmer than out here, anyway - 
and have some mulled wine."
"Now that sounds a whole lot more appealing than a protein drink with a shot of 
Bailey's tossed in."
Natalie grinned. "In that case, Mr. Knight, come with me and I'll indulge you 
with a taste of great-grandmother Lambert's traditional holiday hooch. Unless 
you'd care to share Grandmere de Brabant's recipe?"
"Sorry, I only drank the stuff. Preparing it was never in the job description of 
a knight- in- arms."
"We'll have none of that attitude, mister, or I'll be force-feeding you protein 
shakes from now till Twelfth Night."
When they returned to the darkened warehouse, Nick unlocked the Caddy for 
Natalie to retrieve the parcel she had brought. "Wait here for a minute, will 
you Nat? I'll send the elevator back down for you." And he was gone before she 
could say a word.
The elevator returned, empty, a moment later. When the door opened to let her 
out at the level of Nick's apartment, she froze, eyes going wide with wonder.
The loft was filled with candlelight. Tall elegant tapers, broad pillar candles, 
multi-branched candelabra, tiny votive lights. They were everywhere, on almost 
every surface, more candles than she had ever seen in one place before. They, 
and the fireplace, were the only light.
She had never seen the loft like this.
The effect was glorious.
She was so entranced by the sight that for a minute she completely forgot about 
Nick, until he emerged from one of the few shadows and began to help her out of 
her coat. "Well, do you like it?"
"It's - it's lovely," she said, then, realizing how inadequate that sounded, she 
added, "It's the most beautiful festival of lights I've ever seen."
He smiled, obviously pleased. She couldn't resist adding, "Just out of 
curiosity, where in the world did you get all these candles?"
Nick looked around vaguely, apparently never having considered that he had a 
peculiar plenitude of candles. "Oh, I just picked them up here and there." He 
suddenly grinned. "That one came from a Boxing Day sale a few years ago." He 
pointed to a jolly wax Santa Claus with a wick stuck out of its red cap, perched 
on the kitchen counter next to an antique chased silver candelabra.
Natalie could only shake her head in disbelief.

Half an hour later the mulled wine was ready and they were in the living room 
watching the fire, with Christmas music playing softly in the background. 
Natalie had felt a flicker of trepidation when Nick had gone over to the stereo, 
worried that he was about to turn on the Nightcrawler, but instead he had 
slipped in a Windham Hill Winter Solstice CD.
Natalie, sunk back on the couch, poked with one foot at the brightly wrapped 
parcel on the coffee table. "Aren't you going to open your present?"
Nick, smiling, picked up the box and inspected it curiously. It was fairly 
large, rather heavy, and made no noise when he gave it a cautious shake.
"Open it, already!" said Natalie, a grin spreading across her face.
He pulled the paper apart to reveal a brown cardboard box. He lifted the lid and 
found a pair of - 
"Skates?" he asked blankly.
Natalie had been prepared for him to be somewhat underwhelmed. "Yep. You're 
always so concerned about fitting in, Nick, and I've gotta tell you that a 
Canadian male who's never been on ice skates is as rare as the proverbial hen's 
teeth." She paused. "Not that I'm an expert on the dentition of poultry, but I'm 
willing to bet there isn't another cop in the entire 96th Precinct who hasn't at 
least played a game of shinny."
"Come on, Nat - a vampire on skates?"
"Come on, Nick - a vampire homicide detective?" she countered.
He was examining the skates as if he'd never seen a pair before, then said 
firmly, "All right. But you're going to have to teach me - and I want to see you 
out there on the ice, not shouting from behind the boards."
"Of course."
"And I'm not going to wear a toque."
"I wouldn't dream of telling you what to wear," she answered, managing to keep a 
straight face, although the image of Nick in a woolly toque made her desperately 
want to snicker.
He reached over from his chair, caught her hand and gave it a brief kiss. 
"Thanks, Nat."
"You're most welcome. Merry Christmas, Nick - if it ain't out of keeping with 
the situation."
"Mrs. Dilber, 'A Christmas Carol'," he said immediately.
"My all-time favourite Christmas movie," she answered, pleased that he'd 
recognized the quote. Up until this evening, she'd hardly expected Christmas to 
be a significant event for vampires. She had thought they would be more likely 
to ignore the occasion altogether. Perhaps Nick, in this as in so many other 
ways, was different.
He smiled at her as if reading her thoughts. "Don't worry. It's perfectly in 
keeping with the situation."

Two days later the season of peace and goodwill appeared to be officially over. 
The consumer world was enmeshed in Boxing Week frenzy. Nick was fervently hoping 
that Natalie would have forgotten all about the Christmas present she had given 
him.
However, when he awoke on the day of his first shift back at work, she had left 
an almost repulsively cheerful message on his answering machine telling him to 
meet her at work at eight o'clock that night with his skates. Listening to her 
voice, some part of Nick's mind wondered if there was something about the 
daylight that caused people to be more cheerful than they tended to be at night, 
or if the reason he often found that messages left during the day sounded 
excessively happy was because he just  wasn't an evening person. In any case, 
Natalie sounded as if she was looking forward to this far too much.

Downing his glass of breakfast blood, he vowed that if she thought she was going 
to see him flat on his backside on the ice, she was going to be disappointed. He 
tried to bolster his self-confidence by recalling just how quickly vampires 
could levitate.

The weather had grown milder - it had rained downtown on Boxing Day - and now 
the only remnants of the snow that had fallen Christmas Eve were ugly grit-
encrusted piles lining the streets.
Natalie was waiting for him at the Coroner's Building with her own skates slung 
over her shoulder. He took a surreptitious look at them; they had obviously seen 
a good deal of use. Still sounding far more cheerful than he thought the 
occasion warranted, she led him briskly over to Yonge and turned right.
"Isn't it a bit warm for skating?" he asked hopefully.
"Don't worry, the ice will be fine. And in case you're worried, there probably 
won't be a soul in sight. No little kiddies zipping around like mini Gretzkys."
Nick gave a mental sigh of relief. The fewer people who saw him on skates, the 
better.
Natalie took him to the small outdoor rink behind College Park. It was screened 
off from the street by buildings and trees and, as she had predicted, they had 
it to themselves. They sat down on the cement steps that circled the rink and 
laced on their skates.
Using Natalie for support, Nick teetered to the edge of the ice, looked across 
the gleaming surface, and could suddenly think of at least twenty-five ways in 
which he could better spend his evening than by sacrificing himself to some 
cultural icon, fitting in be damned.
"Nat, do people from Jamaica know how to skate?"
"I've no idea," she answered blankly. "Why?"
"Because if nobody expects Jamaicans to be able to skate, I'm thinking of 
getting all my birth records changed."
"Don't be such a stick in the mud, you big chicken. Put your right foot on the 
ice." A pause, and nothing happened. Nick remained immobile.  "Do it, or I'll 
push you."
Eventually, with a combination of coaxing and dire threats, she got him out on 
the ice, where he discovered that he wouldn't instantly fall as soon as he 
stopped clutching her. Eventually, he was able to make a wobbly circuit of the 
rink under his own power. He fell several times, but found that it didn't hurt 
as much as he'd expected.
Eventually, he began to enjoy it.
Natalie had to haul him off the ice in the end, while he was still trying to 
decide whether he wanted to be the next Wayne Gretzky or Elvis Stojko. "Come on, 
Nick - we both have to go in to work, remember? Even partaking in the Great 
Canadian Pastime isn't going to save you from your captain's wrath if you're 
late the first day back."
They walked back to the Coroner's Building. Natalie was amused to note that Nick 
casually slung his skates over his shoulder this time instead of tucking them 
under his arm as if trying to hide them. Not much to her surprise, he was 
suddenly as enthusiastic about the whole thing as he had been lukewarm before.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asked eagerly as they said goodbye at his car.
"Let's wait and see how you feel. You're probably going to be stiff, vampire or 
no vampire. You don't want to overdo it." Natalie wasn't going to admit it, but 
she suspected she was going to be the stiff one. She was a proficient skater, 
but it had been a while.
"I'll call you." Nick gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, carefully set his 
skates on the Caddy's passenger side floor mat, and drove off.


Nick didn't call the following night, which was just as well, because by then 
Natalie wasn't feeling nearly as jolly as she had been.
The morning after the skating lesson she had decided to make a quick raid on a 
shopping mall to check out the Boxing Day sales. The place was relatively 
uncrowded at the start of the day, and she bought a cup of coffee in the food 
court to fortify herself for a good bargain-hunting session. Wending her way 
through the tables to an unoccupied one, she caught sight of a familiar face and 
stopped for a chat.
She had first met Sandy Wilkes at med school. They had become good friends, but 
after Sandy had chosen a residency in OB/gyne and Natalie had gone into 
pathology, their paths had diverged and they had seen little of each other. The 
last time they had talked was two years ago. By that time Sandy was on staff at 
a large downtown hospital, had a husband and a little daughter who was almost 
three, and had just been diagnosed with breast cancer.
It was unusual in someone of Sandy's age. She had had youth, health, and 
determination on her side. Some time later, Natalie had heard through the 
grapevine that she had, in fact, beaten it. But now it was back again.
"You look fine, Sandy," said Natalie, feeling that the remark was utterly inane, 
but it was true for all that. The woman sitting across the table from her didn't 
look like someone who'd just been given a potential death sentence.
"I start chemo tomorrow," Sandy replied matter-of-factly. "That's why we came 
out here today." She waved cheerily to her daughter, who was standing in line 
with her father to get a muffin while Sandy and Natalie talked. "By the end of 
the week I'll feel like I've been hit by a freight train."
"What about a bone marrow transplant? Wouldn't that be a better way to go?"
"We looked into that before. An allogeneic transplant is out, we couldn't find a 
good enough match. I might be able to go the autologous transplant route, 
though. We're keeping our fingers crossed that that will work out. Whatever 
happens, it'll be interesting." She shrugged. "But I'm getting bored talking 
about myself all the time. What about you? What are you up to these days?" And 
with that Sandy dismissed the entire topic as if she truly found Natalie's 
doings far more engrossing.
"Oh, same old routine," said Natalie, hoping that she didn't sound evasive, or 
as if she didn't care about her own work, but feeling that a discussion about 
dissecting corpses was hardly appropriate here.
"Must be fun working so much with the police," Sandy commented innocently. "You 
must meet a lot of interesting people."
Natalie looked sharply at her, then sighed. "All right, what's the grapevine 
been saying about me?"
Sandy grinned. "Only that there's one particular cop who seems to hang around 
the morgue a lot more than any normal person would - any normal person who 
didn't work there, that is," she amended. "I also hear he's pretty easy on the 
eyes."
"We're - friends. There are a lot of issues to be worked out before it's going 
to be anything more than that." Natalie didn't really want to get into her 
relationship with Nick, but felt that giving Sandy a morsel of personal 
information was the least - maybe the only - thing she could do for her right 
now. "His family's pretty possessive about him, for one thing. And he's got a 
lot of emotional baggage that he carries around with him. He's a sweet guy, 
though. He's got a lot more going for him than he realizes."

"Well, that sounds intriguing. Good luck to both of you." They gossipped for a 
few more minutes before Sandy's husband returned with their daughter, obviously 
having decided that it was time for Sandy to be going.
Natalie sat staring at her half-finished cup of coffee after they had left. She 
was awestruck by the other woman's calmness and grace in discussing her illness. 
No hysterics or histrionics, no self-pity or wailing of "why me". Just a quiet 
determination to get over all the hurdles and on with her life, while disrupting 
other lives as little as possible.
She had a sudden disloyal thought - that Sandy's attitude and courage could 
stand to be emulated by one particular individual that she knew, whose reserves 
of strength were surely far greater than those of any frail mortal.
She squelched the thought as soon as it occurred to her. His reserves had been 
drained by several hundred years of dealing with guilt and grief. The comparison 
wasn't fair.
But she knew it was going to haunt her now. And it wasn't just the thought 
itself, but the ease and speed with which it had come to her, that was troubling 
- as if the suspicion had been there already. Had it been? Had it simply been 
overlaid by the happiness he gave her so often, and the pleasantly anticipatory  
"what if's" she sometimes indulged in?
Or maybe, she thought more prosaically as she took a sip of now-cold coffee and 
grimaced, the problem was as simple as the fact that she really wasn't up for a 
shopping session after a gruelling heart to heart chat, a long night of work, 
and an evening of fairly strenuous physical activity. Better to forget about the 
bargains, go home, and let sleep settle the issue - for now.

She was in  no shape to go skating that evening, having found an absolutely 
obese blister on one heel caused by her skate boot, another sign that it had 
been a while since she'd been on blades. All the same, she thought as she pulled 
her car into the underground parking lot at work, it would have been nice if 
Nick had called as he had promised, as if having a normal conversation with him 
could erase the morning's traitorous little denigration. She reminded herself 
with a sigh that reliability had never exactly been Nick's strong suit.
 In her current agitated frame of mind, she was hoping she wouldn't have to deal 
with anything more traumatic tonight than some elderly person who'd slipped 
easily into death while sleeping. Instead, the lineup of customers consisted of 
two probable suicides: one a fifty-seven-year-old man found hanging   in the 
tiny room he rented in a Parkdale boarding house, the other a teenage subway 
jumper. There was some question over whether the latter might have actually been 
pushed, but there was no debating the cause of death in either case. Natalie's 
work consisted of little more than an alcohol and tox screen. As she rolled the 
stretcher carrying the teenager back into the fridge, she thought about the time 
of year and wondered if both deaths had occurred as a result of holiday 
depression.
When Nick walked into the morgue just as her shift was ending, she was too 
depressed herself to be very welcoming. "What is it?"
He stopped and looked at her carefully. "I think I should be asking you the same 
thing. Is something wrong?"
Natalie flapped a hand in halfhearted denial. "Just kind of a bad night, that's 
all. And one or two other things. Nothing major. So what brings you here?"
"Well - this." He pulled off one of his gloves and hesitantly extended his hand 
towards her. She took it, led him over to where the light was better and peered 
at the smooth pale flesh, frowning.
"I don't see anything wrong."

He poked at the tip of his right index finger with the nail of his left. "There. 
See? It's a splinter - I got it from digging around in a desk drawer at work. I 
couldn't get it out by myself."
She looked at him in flat disbelief, then wordlessly fetched a magnifying glass 
and a pair of tweezers. She couldn't stop herself from thinking about cancer 
patients, and pain, and courage, as she pulled out the particle of wood that was 
so minute she could barely see it without the aid of the glass. He gave a slight 
hiss as the splinter was removed - obviously it had caused a degree of 
discomfort far out of proportion to its size.
Still without comment, she wiped his finger with an alcohol swab, and left him 
leaning against the dissecting table cradling his right hand while she went to 
the sink and started scrubbing her hands preparatory to leaving.
She jumped when he materialized soundlessly at her elbow as she was drying off. 
"Nat, I'm sorry if I came at a bad time. Is there anything I can do?"
She wished he would stop looking as if he'd just had his finger completely 
amputated. Then she chided herself for over-reacting. What he was feeling from 
that tiny little bit of wood was probably comparable to her having received a 
third-degree burn. And after all, he wasn't a mind reader.
But still, she had the feeling that, in spite of the concern for her evident on 
his face, he was wishing she could kiss his finger and magically make the pain 
go away.
Now you're being totally ridiculous, Lambert, she told herself. And unfair.
She glanced at the clock on the wall, thinking of suggesting that he could take 
her down the street for a coffee, but it was later than she'd thought. Nick 
would be cutting it close as it was, to get home before daylight.
"I'm sorry for being snarly, Nick. It was just a bad night, like I said. Two 
suicides. One was just a kid. God, I hate dealing with subway jumpers."
He put his arms around her briefly, then released her. "Maybe we should try 
skating again tonight to cheer you up."
She smiled ruefully. "No skates for me for a few days. I've got the mother of 
all blisters on my foot. That's probably one reason I'm cranky."
He looked disappointed. "Well then, go home, put your feet up, and have some 
chocolate ice cream."
She didn't have the heart to point out that people didn't usually eat chocolate 
ice cream at eight o'clock in the morning. Then again, there was no rule that 
said she couldn't. Maybe she could justify it as an alternative to yoghurt.
He walked her to her car, and as she drove home she pondered on the fact - 
insignificant, really, but for some reason notable to her tired brain - that 
when he was wearing his heavy winter coat, you couldn't tell how cold his body 
really was. When he'd put his arms around her quickly in the morgue, it felt no 
different from being embraced by any normal human being.

Nick passed the day in his usual death-like sleep. He was awake again by five in 
the afternoon - there was no sleeping late, when the nights were so long with 
the winter solstice only just past - and started his daily routine at a 
leisurely pace. He came downstairs fully dressed but with his hair still 
slightly damp from the shower, and stopped on the last step, suddenly aware that 
he had a visitor.
She emerged from the darkness under the stairs, wearing one of her trademark 
low-cut, filmy dark gowns that would have probably looked ridiculous on anyone 
but her. "Hello, Nicolas. It's been a long time."
"It's been two weeks. What brings you here, Janette?"

She pouted. " 'What brings you here?' That's it? No 'hello, darling, it's nice 
to see you'? Not even a 'how are you feeling'? I realized 'I've missed you' was 
far too much to hope for, but I had expected something at least civil."
He grinned, unrepentant. "I know how you're feeling. And you know that it's nice 
to see you."
"Hmm. Well, that's something, I suppose. Actually, I came to give you a preview 
of my new colours. I thought for the new year that I would try something 
different from black. What do you think of hunter green? Very appropriate, no?"
"Very nice," he said, looking rather blank. She groaned.
"Vraiment, mon cher, I think I came just in time to give <you> some advice on 
colour. Wherever did you get those shades in that new picture of yours? They're 
positively garish. It must make your eyes hurt just to look at them in the 
light." She waved her hand towards his most recent canvas, which she had 
evidently been studying before he came downstairs.
"Oh, so now you're an art critic," he teased.
"Not at all. I know what I like, and what I like is more subtlety, more shadows, 
more - "
"Dark?" he supplied, raising an eyebrow.
"Of course. That goes without saying."
"I like bright colours," he said obstinately, moving past her towards the 
refrigerator. "Perhaps they're an acquired taste."
"Hmm. They go along with cow blood, no doubt."
He refused to rise to her baiting. "I take it that means I can't tempt you to 
join me in a glass." He pulled a bottle from the fridge and waggled it in her 
direction. Janette shuddered in response, watching with a sort of revolted 
fascination as he poured a glass and downed it.
"I don't like to see you drinking that swill, Nicolas. It's not healthy."
"I hope you didn't come here to give me advice about my diet, as well as my 
painting."
She came up behind him as he turned to rinse the glass out in the sink, put her 
arms around him and whispered in his ear, "Of course not. I came to ask if you 
would come to my little New Year's Eve celebration at the Raven."
That surprised him. He turned to face her, and she smiled innocently up at him. 
"New Year's Eve? Janette, you've never gone in for champagne and singing Auld 
Lang Syne - "
"Not that sort of party, Nicolas. I meant yourself, and a few - select - 
friends... possibly your charming partner and his wife. That would make it more 
- entertaining, non?" She smiled again, and just for an instant the tips of her 
fangs showed.
Then she grew serious. "In any case, friends, and a rare vintage or two, and 
some good music. We have not danced together for so long, Nicolas..." One arm 
began to twine itself sensuously around his waist, pulling him towards her. "And 
no, I have not invited Lacroix. I knew you would never come if he were 
there...and besides, he thinks of such celebrations as silly mortal foibles. I, 
on the other hand, think it's a wonderful excuse for a party."
It did sound...appealing...a way of amusing himself that he hadn't indulged in 
for a long time. But he knew what Janette meant by 'rare vintage'. That was a 
temptation he didn't care to expose himself to. And besides, he'd assumed that 
he and Natalie would be spending New Year's Eve together.
Janette understood only half his hesitation. "Come along, Nicolas, don't be a 
stick in the mud - or should I say, a stick in the blood? I can always find you 
something other than human to drink. Everyone there will know your taste, no one 
will comment."

He didn't hear the last part, thinking bemusedly that  Nat had called him the 
same thing - a stick in the mud - when he'd been reluctant to step onto the 
skating rink. As if he'd spoken her name out loud, Janette realized his other 
reason for hesitating.
She turned away from him without speaking and went into the living area, finding 
the remote and sliding open the steel shutters. A dim, diffuse glow filled the 
loft, the lights of the city reflecting off the overcast sky. It was more than 
enough light for them to see by, but Nick went slowly around the loft lighting 
candles, feeling a sudden need to appear busy while he tried to think of 
something to say.
At last Janette spoke again, with more calmness than he had expected. "This 
arrangement you have is very convenient, is it not?"
He knew better than to make any attempt at answering that, and concentrated on 
lighting the tapers in an ornate silver gilt candelabra, all the while cursing 
himself for a coward. There were things he'd known that he would have to say to 
Janette one day, and yet now that that day had apparently come, he found that he 
couldn't get the words out of his mouth.
"Whenever you want moral support, or intelligent conversation, or to be 
comforted when the big bad mortal world gets a bit too overwhelming, you turn to 
your little Natalie. When you want information about some petty criminal, or 
when you want sex with no strings attached, you come to me. Does your coroner 
friend have any idea that you are as unfaithful to her in the flesh as you are 
to me in your mind?"
"Wait a minute, Janette," he protested. "You know I can't have a physical 
relationship with Nat without hurting her, probably even killing her. I don't 
see how wanting to protect her life makes me unfaithful. As for the rest of it, 
you've never complained about my company before, or been upset if I - satisfied 
myself elsewhere."
She looked at him as if speculating  how any one being could be so utterly 
dense. "I will admit that  fidelity is not a concept that has ever been - 
embraced, as it were, by vampires in general. And I have certainly satisfied 
myself, as you put it, without you many times. But I knew I would always 
eventually come back to you - and you would come back to me.
"But now - don't you see the difference? You want a place in the mortal world so 
badly that you only come to me when you can't stand it any more. And then you 
feel guilty afterwards, because you gave in, because I'm everything you're so 
busily trying to reject - but you had to do something, since you are after all a 
reasonably red-blooded male, so you come running to Janette. As I said, very 
convenient. I satisfy your lust, and provide you with more fuel for your damned 
unending guilt.
"Well, I'm getting tired of being convenient, Nicolas! Especially when you 
regret everything afterwards that I do for you! I wouldn't care if you laid out 
every woman in this city and took them all, one after the other, just to satisfy 
a casual desire - as a matter of fact, I should like to see it - but I will not 
be a mere convenience, a substitute for someone else you feel you can't have!"
He realized he was staring at her with his mouth slightly open. Janette had 
never been averse to throwing a well-timed tantrum, but there was something more 
to it this time. "Janette," he tried, "you're not a substitute for anyone. 
You're - " He spread his hands, knowing how lame he must sound. "You're - you."
"What a comfort that is to know," she replied caustically.
"You're the main reason that my existence has been bearable all these centuries. 
You've always known how important you are to me. If I've hurt you in the past 
little while - with Natalie - then I'm sorry, I never meant - "

"Enough, Nicolas," she said, more quietly. "Your apologies have become rather 
repetitive lately." She thought for a moment, staring down absently at her 
strappy Italian shoes, while he cursed inwardly again for still not saying what 
he should have - or at least not saying it the way he should have done.  At last 
she looked up again and said, " I didn't mean to frighten you away from my 
party. You'll still be welcome. But just keep in mind - some day soon, you will 
have to choose. I don't like sharing my bed with a guilty conscience."
Then she was gone, up through the skylight, leaving Nick staring after her with 
his mouth still slightly agape.
He went back to the refrigerator, feeling in need of another drink, slowly 
digesting Janette's words. He couldn't understand why she had suddenly blown up 
like that, when he was totally unprepared. Although it was sometimes hard with 
Janette to separate the dramatics from genuine feeling, he had no doubt that 
this time she was truly upset, and he'd been unable to give her the response she 
deserved.
Janette. Sister, lover, sometime wife - they had had the same pattern for 
centuries. Coming together, drifting apart, finding others, then reuniting 
again, sometimes after a few months, sometimes after several decades. He had 
even made an ill-fated marriage with a mortal, and still she had welcomed him 
back afterwards, had helped assuage his grief and guilt.
Then it struck him. He had intended to bring Alyssa across from the beginning. 
She would have become a member of an extended family, which included Janette. As 
Janette herself had said, faithfulness was an alien concept to most vampires, 
even - he had to admit - if jealousy and possessiveness weren't. Their 
relationship would have worked itself out in the end. (Although admittedly, at 
the time, he'd been so infatuated with his delicate, golden-haired new 
sweetheart that he'd failed to give Janette's feelings much more than fleeting 
consideration.) But now - Natalie was trying to bring him across, to a different 
world where Janette would have no place. He had been so sure for so long which 
he would choose - the light, or his lover in the darkness. But if Natalie 
succeeded, what would be left for Janette?
He wandered aimlessly around the loft, flipping through a stack of canvases 
leaning against the wall, running his hand up and down the piano keyboard, 
staring sightlessly out into the night. He had always thought that Janette 
enjoyed tempting him back to the darkness. Was she afraid now, not just simply 
jealous?
If so, he would have to tread very, very carefully. A frightened vampire could 
be just as dangerous as an angry one. He didn't want to think about a vampire 
who was both.
The only upside to all this was that Janette's ultimatum had only a vague time 
frame. To a vampire, 'someday soon' had an entirely different connotation than 
to most mortals. Janette might not demand his decision for several decades yet. 
There was plenty of time to reassure her that he didn't ever intend to abandon 
her.
And then she would probably ask just how he intended to keep this peculiar cake 
of Natalie and mortality, and Janette and undying passion, and eat it too. And 
what was the likelihood of his ever having an answer for her?
What a fool I was, he thought morosely as he finally flung himself into a chair 
and switched on the TV news, to hope that a new year would bring me the 
slightest bit of peace.


Natalie's unsettled mood was simply refusing to go away. No matter how much she 
told herself she was being irrational and unfair to the point of pettiness, her 
subconscious insisted on dredging up a litany of Nick's inconsistencies, 
foibles, the signs she had seen of weakness - no, never so far as that - 
instability, then, and occasional plain lack of common sense. That episode of 
him stealing that ancient harp, for instance - how self-indulgent that had been. 
And what he had told her about his creation of the vampire Serena - how could 
anyone mistake a plea to be given immortality through having a child for a 
desire to become a vampire?
The list ran on and on, until she succeeded in upsetting herself so much that 
now she looked squarely at the face opposite her and said, "You know, Nick, I'm 
getting sick and tired of cossetting you and your guilt like you're some kind of 
fragile piece of china. All the times I've made excuses for you, covered for 
you, and now you just take me for granted - well, maybe not me, but my help 
whenever anything goes wrong, my collusion in things I'd just as soon not know 
anything about. I've spent so much time trying to find a cure for you, and when 
I ask you to do something as simple as drinking a glassful of a liquid that's 
taken me weeks or months to prepare, you act as if I've asked you to swallow 
strychnine. Everyone gets so concerned about you if you turn a whiter shade of 
pale for any reason, yet there are mortals with so much more to lose than you 
who can face pain and death with more fortitude than you've shown over a stupid 
splinter." She knew she was getting out of control now, but still she couldn't 
stop. "You don't need a lover, Nick, you need a mother, a nursemaid, a punching 
bag, a guardian angel - someone a whole lot stronger than I am." Her voice was 
beginning to shake. Staring at the reflection of two tears sliding down her 
face, she added more quietly, "And damn you for making me cry. I hate crying."
Her mirror made no answer, but at least it had allowed her to say things that 
she knew, no matter how savage she ever came to feel, she would never be able to 
say directly to Nick - not if she ever wanted to see him again. The outburst 
left her feeling worn out, but it hadn't provided much in the way of catharsis. 
If anything, now that she had given form to her feelings by voicing them, she 
felt even more resentful and miserable. At him, for causing all this. At 
herself, for being a traitor.
Oh God, she thought, now I'm getting as angsty as he is.
She wiped her eyes and walked restlessly around the living room of her 
apartment. Sydney watched her curiously from his position curled up on the 
couch.
"What am I going to do, Syd?" she asked rhetorically. Wouldn't it be nice if 
once, just once, he could actually answer? Even advice from a talking cat would 
be welcome at this point. "I can't face him feeling like this. He'll know what 
I'm thinking as soon as he lays eyes on me. I've probably got a big 'J' for 
Judas branded on my forehead. Oh God, why does everything I do always seem to 
come back to him?"
Somewhere, in some deep place inside herself, the answer was quite obvious. But 
right at the moment she didn't want to acknowledge the existence of that place, 
and certainly not that answer.
She pushed some papers aside and sat down on the couch, lifting Sydney into her 
lap. A purr rumbled in his throat as she scratched him under the chin. She began 
to feel marginally better; there was always something comforting in that sound.
With her free hand she picked up an envelope sitting on top of the pile she had 
moved aside. Inside was her Christmas present from Grace and the rest of the 
staff at the morgue - a gift certificate for a day at a spa in the Caledon 
Hills, northwest of the city. Maybe this was the antidote to her poisonous mood. 
She hadn't intended to use the certificate right away, thinking instead that she 
might need a day of relaxation later in the winter when seasonal affective 
disorder, or flu, or whatever, was hitting everybody. But in her current state 
of mind, a day or two away from dead bodies - and vampires - might be just what 
she needed.
She scanned the brochure enclosed with the certificate. It was only a small 
place, providing bed and breakfast as well as spa facilities. Naturally there 
was an award-winning chef. And, what a coincidence, they offered special package 
deals over the holiday season.

She briefly considered what her chances were of getting time off at New Year's 
on such short notice, and decided that she should be able to work something out. 
With Sydney purring loudly as if in encouragement, she picked up the phone and 
dialled the number in the brochure.

She called Nick at work that night to tell him she would be away for several 
days. Predictably, he was rather taken aback.
"You're leaving when?" he said, as if, with his perfect vampire hearing, he 
hadn't understood what she'd just told him.
"This morning, Nick. After work," she repeated patiently.
"So you'll be gone for New Year's."
"Yes. I'm coming back on the second."
"Oh. Well - um - I'll miss you."
"Nick, I'm only going to be gone for five days."
"I know, but - you never said anything about wanting a break." Lowering his 
voice, glad that Schanke had left his desk for a few minutes, he added 
hesitantly, "This doesn't have anything to do with me coming over to the morgue 
last night, does it? I mean, I could tell you were upset about something - "
"No, it doesn't, Nick," she replied tartly. "Why do you think that everything 
revolves around you?" She was immediately appalled that she'd actually said 
that. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. Maybe it's post-holiday 
depression or something. I tell you, getting ready for Christmas seems to get 
more and more stressful every year. I should have taken more time off to relax."
"Oh. Sure," he replied. She could tell he didn't buy that flimsy explanation for 
a minute, but mercifully he wasn't going to press further. "Well - have a good 
time. Enjoy the mud baths," he added teasingly.
"I think I'll skip the mud baths. But they do have a hot tub, massage therapy, 
aromatherapy - I promise you I'll come back a new and improved person."
"I like the old one just fine."
"I'm not so sure I do," she muttered, almost to herself. Then she added in a 
threatening voice, "And by the way, in case you were wondering, this has nothing 
to do with a bad case of PMS."
"The thought never crossed my mind," he reassured her. He would have liked to 
know just what exactly this dreaded PMS was, but it seemed to be a question that 
one didn't ask.
"Of course," Natalie was saying, "this is all assuming that I can get to the 
place at all. My car died on me last night - I had to take a cab into work. I'll 
have to find a rental place on the way home."
Nick opened his mouth and answered without thinking. Not an unusual occurrence, 
but he didn't often say anything so completely earth-shattering. "Take mine, 
then."
There was an incredulous silence on the other end of the phone, then Natalie 
said faintly, "What did you say?"
"Take my car. You know, the Caddy. It's only a few days, I can get along without 
it just fine. And it'll save you the trouble of finding a rental."
"But Nick - I can't take your car. I mean - "
"Sure you can. No arguments. I'll pick you up after work."
"Nick - "

"See you in a few hours." He hung up, almost cheerfully. He still didn't 
understand what was causing Natalie's troubled mood and sudden decision to get 
away from the city, but if he really was at the root of the problem, then 
loaning her the Caddy would do something towards making amends.
Besides, he thought guiltily, this would give him the chance to talk to Janette 
and try to make her see reason - whatever that might be.


Natalie sat at her desk in the morgue, still staring at the receiver in her 
hand. Finally she hung up with a vicious clunk.
Great. Now she was going to have to see him before she left. She was going to 
have to be in debt to him for the use of his car, because if she didn't take it 
he'd be terribly offended. But taking something that was so intrinsically his 
would defeat the greater part of the purpose of the whole thing, which was to 
give herself some breathing room away from him. And on top of it all she'd be 
stuck with that aircraft carrier of a vehicle. The cost of filling the tank 
would probably equal a five-day rental. And if it actually got a scratch on 
it...
How the hell could it be, she thought in exasperation, that by giving her the 
physical means to leave, he was making it even harder for her to get away from 
him?

Nick had fervently hoped that he could make it to the end of the year without 
having to deal with another homicide, but that hope was dashed when he arrived 
at work that night. (He had come by cab and was ten minutes late, but felt 
virtuous for having used a mortal mode of transportation rather than simply 
flying.)
"Don't take your coat off," Schanke greeted him. Then, unable to resist, he 
added, "Gee, Nick, didn't your alarm go off? Or did you zone out while you were 
trying to decide which leather jacket to wear?" It was a curious fact that Nick, 
in spite of all the times when he didn't seem to be quite on the same plane of 
existence as the rest of the world, was punctual much more often than his 
partner. Schanke was always inordinately gleeful whenever the tables were 
turned.
He ignored the ribbing and said, "What have we got?"
"Dead body at Union Station. I'll fill you in on the way over."
Schanke drove. Nick was feeling pangs of regret already for having let Natalie 
have the Caddy. He hated sitting in the passenger seat.
The corpse was in the parking lot behind the train station. It was a very dank, 
dimly lit, echoing space underneath the tracks, covering an entire city block. 
It reminded Nick of catacombs.
Schanke shivered and pulled up the collar of his overcoat, although the night 
was more damp than cold. "This place gives me the creeps. You could hide a whole 
raft of bodies down here and people might not notice for weeks."
"Well, at least somebody noticed this one," commented  Nick, as they approached 
the little knot of people huddled in one corner. The stark concrete was lit by 
spotlights and an occasional camera flash from one of the crime scene 
photographers.
At first glance there was nothing about the corpse to concern the homicide 
division. The victim was female, probably somewhere in her forties, clad in a 
tattered assortment of garments, including a pair of worn-out Nikes, mismatched 
wool gloves, and a filthy toque jammed on her head. She was curled up on the 
concrete floor in what would normally have been a particularly poorly-lit 
corner, facing the wall. From the back she looked like little more than a pile 
of rags.
Schanke shivered again. "Poor woman. She probably came in here looking for a 
warm spot and forgot to leave a trail of breadcrumbs to find her way out again."

Natalie's replacement, a middle-aged man with glasses and thinning hair, rose 
stiffly to his feet and murmured something to his assistants, who began to bag 
the woman's body. He peeled off his latex gloves and came over to them. 
"Detectives Knight and Schanke, I assume? I'm Dr. Burghardt."
They shook hands, then Nick said, "What can you tell us about her?"
"Not very much, I'm afraid. A security guard found her two hours ago. I would 
estimate she's been here for a couple of days. My preliminary diagnosis is death 
from hypothermia."
Burghardt's assistants were efficiently tagging and bagging the body. Nick went 
to take a closer look before they loaded it into the van. As inconspicuously as 
possible, he sniffed the air. Just as the woman was lifted onto the stretcher, 
he caught the faintest scent of blood. There was no obvious injury, no sign of 
it on her clothes; surreptitiously he checked her neck, but could see no 
indication of a vampire attack. Maybe the blood trace had come from another 
source.
The stretcher was loaded into the coroner's van. In another minute Burghardt and 
his team were gone, leaving Schanke and Nick, a handful of other investigators, 
and a worried-looking young man from the CN Rail police.
"Where's the guy who found the body?" Schanke wanted to know.
"He's inside," volunteered the CN cop, who looked glad to be able to offer some 
useful information. "Do you want to talk to him now?"
"Yeah, let's go do that. You coming, Nick?"
"You take his statement, Schank. I'll look around here for a while."
Schanke and the other man headed off into the gloom and Nick began to examine 
the area more closely - not that he had any great hopes of finding anything. The 
woman had no doubt died a pathetic, lonely death, huddled in the silent cold, 
and there was probably no one to mourn her.
By the time Schanke returned, though, he was beginning to wonder, just a little 
bit.
"Well, that was pretty straightforward," announced his partner, who was now 
clutching a large styrofoam cup of coffee. "Security guard noticed her on a 
regular patrol, called us, end of story."
"It can't have been too much of a regular patrol, if she was here for a couple 
of days before anyone noticed her."
"Yeah, well, I don't suppose he was looking all that hard. You couldn't pay me 
enough to come down here on a regular basis."
Nick was still prowling around the area. "Schank, take a look at the ground 
around where the body was. Does anything strike you about it, compared to the 
rest of the place?"
Schanke stared at the concrete. "Well, maybe it looks a bit cleaner."
"Exactly. Look." Nick moved several yards away and scuffed his foot against the 
floor, leaving a clearly visible pattern in the dust. "This obviously isn't a 
high traffic area. The ground is filthy - everywhere except where the body was 
found. There's enough dust to leave footprints. But there are no marks left in 
that one area. Come over here, where I'm standing." When Schanke had joined him, 
Nick squatted on his heels and pointed to the ground. "Look here. Doesn't that 
look like the trail the bristles of a broom would leave?"
Schanke looked dubiously at the area Nick was indicating. "It's pretty hard to 
tell. I'm not an expert on domestic appliances."
Nick rolled his eyes briefly. "Well then, consider this. Our Jane Doe was found 
lying facing the wall. If you were desperately trying to find someplace warm, 
wouldn't you sit with your back to the wall? It probably wouldn't make much 
difference down here, but it's what I would do."
"So you're saying somebody put her body here, then swept the area to wipe out 
their tracks?"
"I think it's a good possibility."

"Then that means she probably didn't die of exposure."
"Probably not."
"Then she's probably not just an old bag lady."

"I don't know who she is, but she's not an old bag lady," said Dr. Burghardt's 
voice over the speaker phone. "Her hands have been far too well cared for. As a 
matter of fact, she seems to have had a manicure done quite recently. Her teeth 
are in excellent condition. This is a woman who's taken scrupulous care of 
herself. And then, of course, there's the cause of death."
"Well?" demanded Schanke. "Don't keep us in suspense here."
"I'm afraid it was quite obvious as soon as I got her clothing off. Her heart 
has been removed. Someone did a very neat job of it, as well as stitching her up 
and cleaning her off afterward."
Schanke's eyebrows raised themselves towards his hairline, and he made a face of 
disgust. Nick wasn't quite so taken aback. So he had been right about the smell 
of blood. If the body had been fresher, or the ambient temperature warmer, he 
would have known right away and beyond a doubt.
"I'm running a tox screen to see if she was drugged," Burghardt was continuing. 
"And we're looking for prints on the body. I'll let you know as soon as I have 
anything else."
"Thanks, Dr. Burghardt." Nick broke the connection.
"Man oh man," groaned Schanke. "What kind of psycho are we looking for now?"

By the start of their next shift, their Jane Doe had a name.
"Brenda Ann Joliette," Nick announced to his partner as Schanke came rushing 
into the squad room, shedding his overcoat as he went (Nick had managed to 
arrive fifteen minutes early this time, and was savouring his revenge).
"Huh?" said Schanke, sliding into his chair and casting an apprehensive glance 
in the direction of Captain Cohen's door.
"Our Jane Doe from the train station," said Nick patiently. "She's forty-two 
years old, lived in Oakville, and worked as a director of product development at 
the Royal Bank."
"Definitely not a bag lady," Schanke mused. "And how do we know all this so 
fast?" he added as Nick handed him a manila file folder.
"Her boss at the bank reported her missing this afternoon. She was supposed to 
have been back at work after Christmas on the twenty-seventh, but no one's seen 
her since she left the office on Christmas Eve. The description matches our Jane 
Doe."
"Says here she's married," said Schanke, perusing the file. "Why hasn't her 
husband reported her missing?"
"He's in the hospital with terminal cancer."
"Man oh man," said Schanke, shaking his head. "It seems everybody's dying of 
something these days."
"Schank, please!" protested Nick. "Don't go all gloomy on me. You're the last 
person I'd expect to be suffering from post-Christmas depression."
"Depression? You call that depression? Wait till I get my next Mastercard 
statement, then you'll see what I look like when I'm suffering from real 
depression." Schanke scowled over the file. "So - no kids, no immediate family, 
closest relative is a second cousin in Australia. Who's gonna ID the body?"

"We'll have to check with Mr. Joliette and see if he's well enough to do it. 
Otherwise, I guess it'll have to be her boss, the one who reported her missing."
"Says here her address is Deveron Crescent in Oakville. I remember driving Myra 
out there last year to drop off a Skin Pretty order for somebody on that street. 
Right down by the lake. Very upscale area."
"Well, she drove a nice upscale BMW, too. According to her boss she took the GO 
train in to work every day. I haven't checked with GO security yet, but I'll bet 
that her car has been sitting at the stationin Oakville for several days."
"Man. I hope nobody did her in just to get her seat on the train. Those rush 
hour commuters can be vicious."
Nick rolled his eyes heavenward. "Put your coat back on, Schanke. We have to go 
talk to Mr. Joliette."

It was obvious from the sight of Edgar Joliette that he wouldn't be going to the 
morgue to ID his wife. In fact, he looked as if he would never get up from his 
hospital bed again.
When Nick and Schanke, accompanied by a staff oncologist, went into his room in 
the intensive care unit at Toronto General, the man was unconscious, his skin 
pale and waxy, his face so drawn by pain that he looked almost like a death's 
head. Looking at him, Nick decided he must have been a fairly tall, big-framed 
man, probably in good physical condition before the disease hit him. He was 
fifteen years older than this wife, which certainly didn't make him elderly even 
by human standards.
"He's been like this for about a week now," said the doctor quietly. "Although 
yesterday he rallied pretty amazingly and was actually up and walking, but that 
only lasted for less than a day. He was asking where his wife was. She usually 
comes - came - every day after work, but since he got bad enough to be moved to 
the ICU he hardly even seemed to know she was there."
"What type of cancer is it?" asked Nick, also speaking softly.
The doctor edged back into the hallway, and the two detectives followed. "He was 
diagnosed six months ago with pancreatic cancer. It metastasized quite rapidly. 
I'd be surprised if he lasts another week."
Nick nodded, his face grim. Violent death was horrible, of course, but in some 
ways this slow and painful leaching away of life was even worse. He handed the 
doctor a business card. "If he does wake up again and is lucid, will you call 
us, please? We'll have to ask if he has any idea who might have wanted to harm 
his wife."
The doctor took the card, but said, "I think it's pretty unlikely - both him 
waking up and being able to give you any information. He's been in hospital for 
nearly two months now. But I'll write it in his chart."
They thanked him and left the unit.
As they waited for the elevator, Schanke said quietly, "Well, I guess there are 
worse things in life than having the mother of all credit card bills coming 
through your mail slot."

At the same time that Nick and Schanke were leaving the hospital, Natalie, 
pleasantly worn out by a day of cross-country skiing (among the few virtues of 
Nick's car, as far as she was concerned, was that her skis could fit inside with 
no problem whatsoever) was settling into bed in the Riverbend Inn and Spa.
And settling, she thought as she stretched luxuriously under the down duvet, was 
the right word for it. One didn't simply hop into bed here, one took one's time 
and enjoyed the experience.

The Riverbend had been a hotel for most of its hundred-plus years, and there was 
an ambience of the nineteenth century that went deeper than the Laura Ashley 
decor in the bedrooms. There was no television, and only one radio in the 
guests' lounge.  Cell phones and pagers were not permitted in any of the common 
areas. There was a bookcase full of holiday reading in the lounge, though, and 
Natalie, with no one there who knew her, was three-quarters of the way through 
the latest Danielle Steele, which she would never have dared be seen reading at 
work.
She had had a massage and a soak in the hot tub every day, and an aromatherapy 
consultation the first afternoon. She still thought that was a bit too New Age 
for her taste, but if someone wanted to scent her bedroom with lavender, 
mandarin, and cedarwood to promote relaxation, she certainly wasn't going to 
complain. And she couldn't say it wasn't effective.
There was a sort of unofficial curfew of around eleven o'clock, simply because 
most of the guests, tired out by skiing or hiking, were too sleepy to stay up 
any later. After that, the inn was completely, blissfully quiet.
Perhaps worried that people staying at the hotel on their own, especially those 
accustomed to the background noise of the city, might have difficulty sleeping 
in the strange silence, the management provided (on request) company at night - 
in the form of one of the two hotel cats. At the moment they were both in 
Natalie's bed, a svelte little tortoiseshell which had curled up next to her 
pillow, and a big gray and white Sydney lookalike who was trying to sprawl in 
the exact centre of the bed. Their mismatched purring, and the occasional creak 
from the old building, were the only sounds.
She just wished Nick could be there to experience the peace and quiet. And at 
the thought of Nick, her eyes shot wide open, accompanied by an almost physical 
jolt of disquiet. Here I go again, she thought miserably. I could stay at this 
place for a week, or a month, or probably even a year, and still not be able to 
get my feelings sorted out about him.
Then she thought, damn you, Nicholas Knight, you are not going to mess up yet 
another night's sleep. I'm paying enough for this, I'm going to sleep if I have 
to drink that oil of lavender.
In the end she did fall asleep, and at some point began to have a dream in which 
she was chasing after a heedless Nick through distorted Toronto streets, calling 
to him that she had finally found the cure. But when she eventually did get 
close to him he turned and snarled at her, his fangs showing and his eyes blood 
red. He seized the bottle containing the cure from her hand and dashed it to the 
street, where it shattered. Then he leaned towards her, hissing, and she knew he 
was going to bite her and drain her blood.
She awoke with a gasp, reaching out for the bedside lamp almost in a reflex 
movement. Suddenly the darkness and quiet were no longer peaceful, but ominous. 
A vampire could be lurking right outside her window. Not that a table lamp would 
be much defence in that case, but it did help to dispel the nightmare.
She checked her clock - not quite four-thirty, far too early to be getting up. 
Both the cats were looking at her askance. She patted them both until they began 
purring again, then pulled Danielle Steele from the bedside table.

Breakfast was served in a small glass-enclosed conservatory, from which the 
diners could look down the hillside and catch a glimpse of the Credit River 
through the winter-bare trees. After polishing off a plate of perfectly-cooked 
bacon and decadently rich French toast - she thought wryly that misery rarely 
had much effect on her appetite - she went outside for a long walk along the 
trail that ran next to the river, hoping that an invigorating hike in the 
morning sunlight would dispel the last clinging tendrils of the nightmare.

Returning late for lunch, feeling virtuous for almost certainly having worked 
off the French toast, she found only two other people in the dining room. One of 
them she recognized, and would have backed out of the room if the waitress 
hadn't been behind her in the doorway with a tray of soup.
The woman saw her almost at the same time. "Natalie Lambert? Good grief, is that 
really you?" she exclaimed, in a throaty coo that had always affected Natalie 
only slightly less than a hacksaw scraping on metal.
This must be Old Home Week, she thought. First Sandy, and now this one.
She had actually known Elana in high school. Even in grade nine, Elana had been 
far more sophisticated than anyone else in her class. She had been quite a vamp 
- quite a tramp, actually, Natalie had always thought in less cordial moments. 
They had never been friendly, and yet for some peculiar reason their paths had 
often crossed since Elana departed school with the avowed intention of becoming 
the next supermodel. The next time Natalie bumped into her she was married to 
another model. Then she had become an interior designer. Then she was divorced, 
claiming that her husband was stifling her artistic freedom. The interior design 
had fallen through - apparently her avant-garde ideas had not been properly 
appreciated by the bourgeois public. Then she was married again, to an older man 
with a comfortably large bank account. And now here she was again, with the same 
ersatz husky voice, simpering manner, and icy eyes, which had always combined to 
set Natalie's teeth on edge.
"Natalie, it's such a surprise to see you here. Are you actually taking a break 
from all those dead bodies? You certainly look like you need it."
Yep, just the same Ms. Witchy-Bitchy, thought Natalie, teeth gritted. "Well, you 
know, every so often some people do need a break from serious work. You're 
looking amazingly well, Elana." She put extra emphasis on 'amazingly'.
"I've always believed that women have an obligation to look after 
themselves,"purred Elana. "After all, we don't all have someone else to do it 
for us. Oh, let me introduce Matthew. He's a business associate of my 
husband's." She squeezed the hand of the perfectly-groomed, dark-haired man 
sitting opposite her, who looked as if he'd just stepped out of a catalogue ad 
for men's suits. "Johnny and I had tonight all booked and at the last minute his 
old mother down in Florida went and had a stroke, so he had to go down there and 
look after things. Matthew very kindly agreed to be my escort. Matthew, this is 
Natalie Lambert - it is still Lambert, isn't it?"
"Of course," Natalie answered coolly, knowing that Elana would have already 
checked out her left hand for the presence of a ring. "Nice to meet you, 
Matthew. Enjoy your lunch."
"Aren't you staying?" exclaimed Elana.
"No, I only came in to look at tonight's menu," Natalie prevaricated, valiantly 
ignoring her hunger pangs. She made a hasty exit, fetched the keys to the Caddy, 
and decided to see if the village of Belfountain down the road could provide 
afternoon tea.
Several hours later she returned to the inn, determined that the presence of the 
Wicked Witch and her toy boy wasn't going to ruin her New Year's Eve. After all, 
all the other guests at the inn were pleasant enough to make up for those two. 
Changing into her bathing suit and robe, she decided to hit the hot tub for a 
nice soak. Finding Elana and Matthew already ensconced there was a stern test of 
her resolve, but she managed to smile at them and slipped into the water as far 
away from them as she could get.
"Natalie, did I really just see you drive up in that ancient car?" inquired 
Elana. "It's hardly your style, I would have thought. I always pegged you as a 
practical econobox type of person."

"It belongs to a friend of mine," Natalie told her coolly, suddenly experiencing 
an overwhelming need to defend Nick's car.  "Mine's in the shop, so he loaned me 
his. It's actually a collector's item."
"Oh! Most men I know wouldn't loan their precious car to anyone - especially if 
it's a collector's item."
"Yes, well, I doubt you know anyone quite like Nick."
"Nick, is it? Tell me about him." Natalie suspected the other woman wanted to 
hear that Nick was some kind of car fanatic of the hands-on, grease-spattered, 
beer-guzzling variety, who could be unfavourably compared to the sleek, well-
groomed Matthew. She shrugged mentally and decided to let her have it with both 
barrels.
"He's a homicide detective."
"Oh, I see. A cop." She managed to make the word sound somehow unsavoury - 
definitely downmarket. "It's all work-related, then, is it?"
Natalie rolled on as if she hadn't heard. "He's also an art collector, an artist 
himself, and an amateur historian. He plays the piano. He's quite a 
philanthropist as well."
She thought Elana looked rather stunned, but she rallied gamely and said, "Well, 
that's certainly far beyond the scope of most cops I've ever met. But it sounds 
kind of - sedentary."
Natalie shrugged and said casually, "No, not at all. Nick's actually a pretty  
physical guy. He keeps himself in great shape."
"And is he coming up here to ring in the New Year with you?"
She was tempted to say yes. After all, she knew that Nick was off tonight. She 
also knew that if she asked him to come up to the inn, then he would if he 
possibly could. Talking about him was one thing, but to actually produce a real, 
live, gorgeous boyfriend, one who would completely overshadow Matthew just by 
walking into the same room - that would wipe the obnoxious simper off Elana's 
face.
Then she realized she couldn't possibly do it. It would be nothing more than an 
ego boost for her. It would put him on the same level as a performing dog. A 
snap of the fingers - "Nick! Come! Sit! Stay!" And he would come, no matter if 
he realized what her ulterior motive was or not, simply because he was kind and 
considerate, and because he would go to the ends of the earth if she asked him 
to. He'd never really come out and said that - he didn't have to. She had 
thought that he took her for granted - this would have wiped the slate clean in 
a big hurry. 
So what if he had a few idiosyncrasies. So what if he didn't have Sandy Wilkes' 
rock-bottom courage. Not many people did, mortal or otherwise. Maybe Sandy was 
one of a kind. Nick had the determination and willpower to continue his search 
for humanity for centuries, to fight against the immutable fabric of his very 
nature, in the face of every form of opposition from apathy to ridicule to 
outright physical abuse. He was entitled to a little discouragement every so 
often. Maybe he wasn't a completely reliable individual - but how many humans 
did she know that were? Perhaps there were a few paragons out there, but if so, 
she'd never met any. She'd been so busy in the past few days comparing Nick to 
some unattainable ideal that perhaps she had subconsciously decided that, since 
he was physically perfect in so many ways, his character ought to be faultless 
as well.
She began to smile without realizing it. Maybe she ought to get a bumper sticker 
for the Caddy that said, "Vampires are only human". Or maybe something totally 
preposterous, like "Have you hugged a vampire today?".
"Earth to Natalie, is anyone home?"
Oh my God, she thought as Elana's voice penetrated her reverie. I've done a 
Nick.

"No, he won't be coming up tonight," she said happily."But I think I'll call him 
and wish him a happy New Year." She climbed out of the tub, hastily dried off, 
and went in search of a phone.
It wasn't completely dark yet, so she wasn't surprised to only get his answering 
machine. She left a cheerful message saying that she hoped he wasn't planning to 
spend New Year's Eve brooding alone in his loft. "I'll call you when I get 
back," she finished. Then she added impulsively, "I've missed you, Nick."
As she was changing for supper, a sudden mental image struck her. If Nick had 
come, she knew that Elana would have immediately tried to sink her hooks into 
him. Matthew or no Matthew, she would have come on to him like a forest fire. A 
picture of Elana's face if she pushed too far and Nick suddenly went into full 
vampire mode, hissing like an impatient teakettle with lust, formed with crystal 
clarity in her mind's eye.
Alone in her room, she began to laugh out loud.

Nick got her message as he was still trying to decide whether or not to go to 
Janette's party. He had to smile as he listened to her voice. That sounded more 
like the old Natalie. Whatever they did at that spa, it had obviously done her a 
world of good.
In the end, he knew he would go to the Raven. Janette had given him a personal 
invitation; turning that down would be inconsiderate and boorish, and possibly 
hazardous to his health. He had no wish to burn any bridges with Janette unless 
it became absolutely necessary. And besides, he wanted to go. He wanted a night 
to enjoy himself, completely and without inhibitions. And now he practically had 
Natalie's benediction.
He shaved and dressed with special care. Janette always set so much store by 
clothes, she would be sure to notice and appreciate his extra trouble - even if 
she didn't approve of his choice. He quickly checked his appearance - black raw 
silk shirt and trousers, vest made from skin-supple charcoal gray leather, 
jacket of softest black wool, onyx and gold cufflinks and an old, gold signet 
ring by way of ornament - and took to the air from the skylight. Tonight was 
definitely not a night for taking a cab.
Janette was standing by the bar at the Raven, clad in something low-cut and 
velvet. It was black - either she'd tired already of hunter green, or had 
decided that this was more appropriate for a formal occasion. A diamond-studded 
comb held her hair in place. How many people, he wondered, knew that that comb 
had once been worn by an eighteenth-century queen of France, and belonged in a 
museum?
She glided over to him as he stood just inside the door, surveying the guests. 
Vampires only, he noted, most of whom were at least nodding acquaintances of 
his, about two dozen in all. "Nicolas! I'm so glad you came. You look positively 
- delicious." She smiled, the tip of her tongue showing between her teeth.
He took her hand and kissed the fingertips, then laid it briefly against his 
cheek. "And you, Janette, look absolutely ravishing, as if you needed me to tell 
you that."
"Why, thank you, mon chevalier. Let me look at you - it's so nice to see you in 
something other than work clothes." She made a leisurely circle of inspection, 
touching a finger to her lips, and finally nodded in approval. "You are indeed a 
thing of beauty tonight - and hopefully a joy forever."
He shrugged noncommittally.

"Oh, don't worry. Tonight is not a night for raking over old disagreements. Come 
have a drink." She led him to the bar and nodded to Miklos, who swiftly produced 
a filled glass. Nick sniffed at it cautiously, ignoring Janette's moue of 
irritation at his suspicion, then drank deeply. It was bovine - she wouldn't 
dare feed him human - but the proportion of wine was much higher than what he 
normally drank. And there was something about it - a depth that was absent from 
the blandness of his usual diet. Still not the emotion and intelligence 
contained in human blood, but a sense of a creature that was physically powerful 
and unquestionably male. A rutting bull? He grinned, wondering how anyone - 
vampire or mortal - had managed to collect that.
"Do say that you like it," Janette purred, watching him closely. "It's my own 
special recipe. I had it formulated just for you."
"It's quite - palatable."
"Of course, if there is something else you would like, you have only to ask." 
She ran a hand through his hair, twining a blond curl around one slender finger.
"Janette, you're neglecting your other guests," he pointed out.
"What of it? They're all adults. They can entertain themselves."
Gently he extricated himself from her hands. "Go on. Be a good hostess. Mingle." 
He leaned forward again and whispered in her ear, "I'll wait for you."
"Ooh, Nicolas. Dare I ask if you are feeling the slightest bit - amorous?"
"The sooner you go and circulate, the sooner you can come back and find out."
She leaned towards him, eyes tinged with amber, but with vampire swiftness he 
picked up his glass of blood and interposed it between their lips. She pouted, 
picked up her own glass and moved away to mingle with the other vampires. Not 
that she wasn't happy to see them; they were all friends, and besides, there 
were one or two rather luscious young ones who she could use to pay Nicolas back 
tit for tat if he decided to be a tease. Although the mood came upon him so 
rarely these days - at least in Janette's opinion- that she wanted to savour him 
to the utmost while it lasted.
So she laughed and chatted and flirted mildly with the other vampires, all the 
while keeping an eye on Nicolas leaning on the bar, and when she finally 
returned to him they danced together, a long, languorous, slow dance such as 
they used to enjoy often together, and hadn't done for a long time. When it was 
over, Nick went back for another glass, which Janette took as a sign that he was 
having a good time, and intended to keep doing so.
At midnight there was blood cut with champagne instead of wine, served in tall 
elegant flutes that had seen in over a hundred New Years. Nick and Janette had 
withdrawn to a small dim alcove partly screened from the dance floor and were 
sitting in contented silence. Nick had wrapped his arms around Janette's waist 
and was resting his cheek on her shoulder, eyes closed, while she nestled back 
against him. Together they still swayed ever so slightly to the rhythm of the 
music.
"Come, Nicolas, let us toast to the New Year." Janette picked up her champagne. 
"May it be happy and prosperous and exciting for both of us."
 And may it be the year in which I walk in the light again, thought Nick.
Their glasses clinked together and they drank.
When the champagne was gone, Janette settled back contentedly in Nick's arms 
again. "You know, Nicolas, I haven't seen you this relaxed in a long, long time. 
You should come and see me more often."
"I do come and see you often."
"Then you should stay longer when you do. I mean it, Nick. This constant trying 
to be something you're not - it will tear you apart before you ever achieve your 
goal."
He kissed the top of her head and said, "I thought you didn't want to talk about 
that tonight."
"I don't, but I feel I must strike while the iron is hot, so to speak. Can't you 
see that this is where you belong? With me? With the others here? Not with 
mortals. You can never fit in with them, no matter how hard you try. I don't 
like to see you putting yourself through so much pain."

Good thing she doesn't know about Nat's latest protein shake, he thought with 
amusement. Aloud he said, "Janette, you know there's nothing you can say that 
will make me change my mind. Give it up. Beating your head against a brick wall 
isn't a good idea for mortals or vampires."
"I'm just a masochist, I suppose. So you will be as determined to become human 
this year as you were last?"
"Yes."
She heaved a troubled sigh. "I'm not going to give you up gracefully, you know."
"I'd be disappointed if you did."
"Then I suppose I ought to enjoy you while I can."
"Well then, come and dance."
They danced again, another slow sensual dance, and then they danced with 
different partners, and then with each other again. It grew late into the night. 
Nick was well down in his second bottle of wine and bull's blood. Every pair of 
eyes in the club was golden. The tempo of the music became more urgent. All 
around the room the vampires' movements grew more frenzied, veering towards out 
of control.
Nick whispered hoarsely in Janette's ear, "Let's go somewhere more private."
"Shy, Nicolas?"
"I'm thinking of the decibel level."
"Whatever you like, mon amour." She wasn't about to deny him anything at this 
point. Quickly she led him from the room and down the corridor to her own 
apartment. Blindly Nick kicked the door shut behind them and began pulling off 
the black velvet gown, his hands roaming freely down her body. He snarled around 
fully descended fangs. Janette crushed her lips against his, kissing him as if 
she could devour him whole, while her hands unfastened his shirt - his jacket 
and vest had been shed hours ago, somewhere on the dance floor - and pushed it 
down his arms to come at that madly enticing pale throat.
"Oh, Nicolas, mon ange dore," she gasped, and struck fiercely.
The intensity of the sensation of Janette drinking from him was overwhelming, 
and he nearly went to his knees. He managed to steady himself and picked her up 
and carried her through to her bedroom, laying her on the queen-sized bed. He 
pulled off the rest of his clothing, snarling in his haste, and lunged at her 
throat as she relinquished his. There was nothing in the world but gold and red 
and Janette's blood, rich with wine and passion, filling him utterly.
When the initial frenzy had died down they made love slowly, gently, pleasuring 
each other with a skill born of intimate knowledge of one another's bodies - 
knowledge gained of old, of exactly where and when and how to touch, caress, 
kiss. The passion ignited again, building to its inevitable conclusion, and the 
need for the blood became paramount once more. All tenderness gone, they 
grappled with each other, snarling, striking for the vein.
Neither of them noticed the sensation of displaced air in the doorway, or the 
figure in black who leaned there, indulgently watching the two vampires who were 
by now silent and almost immobile as they gorged on one another's blood. "Oh, 
Nicholas, I knew Janette would bring you back to the fold sooner or later. I see 
you haven't forgotten any of your technique." Speculatively he fingered his 
collar, debating about whether to join them, and reluctantly decided against it. 
Janette would probably not object to a trio, but Nicholas, even crazed with lust 
as he was, would treat the addition as an intrusion and most likely end up 
behaving like a complete boor, totally destroying the mood. And Lacroix hadn't 
come here tonight to see anything destroyed.

So he remained in the doorway and watched as the pair drank their fill, then 
gradually released one another. He was amused to see that Janette, guzzling as 
usual, had torn open a fairly substantial gash in Nicholas' throat, and the 
blood was still slowly spreading down over his breast. Eyes shut, she was 
lapping at him as contentedly as a cat with a bowl of cream. It always amazed 
him that Nicholas should have turned out to be such a fastidious feeder in 
comparison.
Still neither of them had noticed his presence. He watched for a few minutes 
longer as they settled down to rest, still tangled heedlessly together, totally 
sated. Nicholas would be spending the day here, he knew. By the time the pair of 
them recovered, it would be full daylight. All the better. The more time 
Nicholas spent with his own kind the more Lacroix was pleased. Dawn wasn't far 
off even now, which meant that he had no more time to spend gazing at his 
delectable offspring.
He took a look around the main room of the club before leaving. Most of the 
vampires there were in a similar exhausted state. Janette certainly knew how to 
throw a good party, he thought as he slipped out the back entrance into the 
first morning of the new year.
After his departure, the interior of the Raven was as silent as a tomb.

Nick returned to the loft as soon as it was fully dark again, refusing Janette's 
invitation to stay and pick up where they had left off. He was feeling more 
cheerful and relaxed than he had done in a long while. There was no doubt that 
the interlude with Janette had completely revitalized him - if that term could 
be applied to someone who wasn't really alive at all. At the same time, he 
couldn't wait to see Natalie again. He knew he had to get his ebullience under 
control before he did, though. If she asked him why he was in such a good mood, 
he could hardly give her the real reason.
First priority was a shower and a change of clothes. He examined his shirt when 
he had peeled it off, and shook his head. Somewhere along the way Janette had 
actually torn it. Well, hopefully the cleaners could repair the damage.
Half an hour later he came hurrying down the stairs, clean, shaved, and dressed 
for work. Natalie and the Caddy wouldn't be back until tomorrow, which meant 
another cab ride to work tonight. Better leave extra time for that, since a taxi 
might not be that easy to come by on a holiday. He poured himself a glass of cow 
blood and sipped it while checking the answering machine.
There was only one message.
"Mr. Knight, this is Staff Sergeant Tompkins of the Peel Region Police. I'm 
afraid I have some bad news for you, sir. Your Cadillac was involved in a 
single-car accident earlier today and the driver, a Dr. Natalie Lambert, has 
been taken to hospital. If you'd like to give me a call, you can reach me at the 
following number. . ."
There was a crash in the loft as the wine glass fell from Nick's suddenly 
nerveless hand and shattered on the floor. He didn't notice. Frantically he 
punched in the number the sergeant had given him, hitting the buttons with such 
force that he nearly broke the telephone in the process.
Sergeant Tompkins had gone off duty, and it took several minutes to find someone 
who knew the details of the accident. By that time Nick was nearly in an 
outright panic. What he heard from the woman who eventually came on the line did 
nothing to calm him down.
"Dr. Lambert was driving east along Forks of the Credit Road at about eleven 
this morning. I don't know if you're familiar with the area, Mr. Knight, but the 
roads are quite hilly and winding. That particular road has a pretty bad 
switchback. It looks like she may have hit some black ice at the top of the hill 
and lost control. In any case, the car hit the guardrail, bounced off, slid 
partway down the road, broke through the rail further down and rolled over. 
Fortunately she hit a tree on the hillside, or else the car would have ended up 
in the river. Someone who lives down below heard the crash and called us. I'm 
afraid your car is a complete write-off, sir."

"To hell with the car," snarled Nick in a fear-roughened voice. "What happened 
to Natalie?"
"She was unconscious when we got to her. There appeared to be a severe head 
injury. She was airlifted down to Toronto."
"Which hospital?" he demanded.
He could hear a page turning at the other end of the phone. Eventually the woman 
gave him the name of one of the large downtown hospitals.
He slammed the phone down. A second later the loft was empty again.

Lying in bed in intensive care, Natalie was almost as white as the sheets around 
her. Most of her head was covered in bandages, and there were damp gauze pads 
taped over her eyes. What was visible of her face was shockingly bruised. He 
almost couldn't recognize her. And she was still unconscious.
Carefully, he picked up her hand, the one that didn't have an IV attached. She 
looked so fragile that he was afraid to touch her, but he desperately wanted to 
establish a physical contact, as if by doing so he could reach out to whatever 
still place she was in. He kissed her palm, touched it to the side of his face, 
then held the hand between both of his own. So strong and capable, that hand. 
Now it was limp and pale, except for the massive purple bruise across the back 
of it, and it seemed colder than normal. Slowly, with infinite gentleness, he 
began to rub a circle on the palm with his thumb.
"Mr. Knight?" 
He looked up to see a young bespectacled Asian man in a white lab coat standing 
beside the nurse in the doorway. "I'm Dr. Leung, Dr. Lambert's attending 
physician. Would you like to come with me?"
Nick gently laid Natalie's hand back down on the blanket, patted it once, and 
followed the doctor down the hall to a small windowless room, furnished with 
several standard hospital-issue chairs. Dr. Leung showed him in and then shut 
the door behind them.
"Is Natalie. . ."  he began, then found he couldn't say anything more.
"Please sit down, Mr. Knight," said the doctor gently.
Nick perched on the edge of one of the chairs, too tense to sit back. The doctor 
began, "Normally I wouldn't discuss this with anyone but a family member. But 
under the circumstances, especially since it was your car Dr. Lambert was 
driving, I think I can safely ignore the policy. As you've probably already been 
told, she has a fractured skull and is in a fairly deep coma. There are other 
injuries as well. Several cracked ribs, a fractured clavicle - collarbone - and 
multiple lacerations and extensive bruising, but the head injury is, of course, 
the thing that concerns us the most."
"When will she wake up?" Nick asked in a voice stretched taut with anxiety, even 
as he recognized the tone from other voices asking the same question of him, in 
another time and place. And he already knew what the doctor would tell him, 
because he'd had to give that answer himself. But it was just possible that 
something had changed in the many years that had passed since he had last worked 
as a physician.
"That's something I just can't tell you, I'm afraid. In these cases, all we can 
say is 'wait and see'. It could be a few days, or weeks. It might even be 
months. We have absolutely no way of knowing. Since we're discussing this, I may 
as well tell you that we also have no way of knowing, when she does wake up, 
what sort of changes might have taken place."
"Changes?"

"Most people awakening from a coma will exhibit varying degrees of speech 
difficulties, abnormal or irrational behaviour, memory loss...I'm not saying 
that all or any of these things will manifest themselves in Dr. Lambert's case, 
but you should be aware of the possibility."
Nick buried his face in his hands, as if by doing so he could find some sort of 
oblivion where none of this was real. Of course that wasn't going to happen, and 
wishing for it did no good at all. This nightmare couldn't be banished so 
easily.
Dr. Leung waited until Nick was looking at him again, the said, "There's 
something else we have no way of knowing, and that is just how much a person in 
a coma can hear or understand what's going on around them. Even though they may 
seem completely unaware, sometimes it turns out that they actually heard every 
word in a particular conversation. That's why I brought you in here to discuss 
Dr. Lambert's condition. Please keep that in mind when you're with her."
That was really rather funny, Nick thought, because Natalie would definitely 
want to know everything there was to know about what was wrong with her.
"Now, is there anyone else who should be notified? It's always hard to get that 
sort of information when the patient can't tell us."
"Natalie doesn't have any immediate family," Nick answered dully. "There's her 
sister-in-law in Vancouver, and the people at work. I'll call them tomorrow." 
Grace would want to know. Maybe he should call her at home. And Natalie had a 
neighbour who usually looked after Sydney while she was away. He'd have to do 
something about that, before the neighbour called the police and reported 
Natalie missing.
But tomorrow. He'd do all that tomorrow. Right now he had to go back to Natalie.
He thanked Dr. Leung and headed back to Natalie's room. Passing the nurse's 
desk, he realized that there was a call he did have to make tonight. He had to 
talk to Captain Cohen, tell her he wouldn't be in. He didn't care if she docked 
his pay. There was no way he could leave Natalie and go into work.
Cohen was understanding. Even if she hadn't been sympathetic, she could tell 
over the phone that Nick was virtually shell-shocked. He would be worse than 
useless at the precinct.
He returned to Natalie, picking up her hand again and resuming his caresses. 
Maybe she could feel it; maybe she knew he was there, although, looking at her, 
he didn't see how that could be possible. But there was nothing else for him to 
do.
He was vaguely aware of the nurses' shift change, but he didn't bother to look 
at the clock. His vampire instinct told him that now was the deepest part of the 
night, a time when in centuries past he would have been hunting, not only for 
sustenance, but for the intense thrill of pursuing and catching and draining a 
mortal to death. And now he sat at a mortal's bedside, wanting only to see life 
- true life - return. How ironic it all was. No doubt, if he found a radio right 
now and turned on the Nightcrawler, Lacroix would be delivering a monologue on 
the subject of irony, or perhaps the intertwining of life and death, how it was 
impossible to have one without the other in the mortal world. The thought was in 
no way comforting right now.
Sometime later he heard a familiar voice at the door and looked up to see 
Schanke peering in anxiously. "Come on in, Schank," he called softly.
His partner sidled a few steps into the room, looking apprehensively at the bed. 
"Oh jeez, Nick, I'm sorry. I'm terribly sorry."
Nick was puzzled as to why Schanke seemed to be apologizing to him. It wasn't as 
if Schanke had had anything to do with Natalie's accident. Remembering what Dr. 
Leung had told him about talking in front of Natalie, he took his partner to the 
deserted corridor outside the ICU to repeat what he had been told about 
Natalie's injuries.
"I'm sorry, Nick," said Schanke again, shaking his head.

"Why?" asked Nick, genuinely curious. "It wasn't your car that nearly killed 
her."
"Oh come on, Nick, that's not what I - "
"She didn't even want to take it in the first place. I forced her to take it," 
continued Nick relentlessly, his need to excoriate himself almost bubbling out 
of him. "I should have let her get a rental car. A new, safe rental car that 
would have had proper shoulder belts and an airbag, that wouldn't have been a 
convertible without a roll bar." He knew that once the heavy car started to 
slide, it would have become a massive juggernaut. Sitting by Natalie's bed he 
had imagined over and over again what it must have felt like to have gone 
spinning out of control down the steep road, unable to stop no matter what she 
did, before smashing through the guardrail and out into space, landing upside 
down...his fists were clenched so tightly that his nails tore into his palms. 
Had she been screaming? Had she been cursing him?
"Stop it, Nick! Any car will spin out on black ice, no matter how safe it is or 
how good the driver is. The Caddy's so big, she probably was better protected 
than in some little compact."
"'Some little compact' would have protected her a whole lot more when it rolled 
over."
"You can't know that. Nick, please don't beat yourself up over this. It's enough 
that Nat's been hurt without you going completely cuckoo."
"Yeah, right," said Nick bitterly. "Nothing I do matters now anyway. It's my 
fault she's hurt, and nothing can change that."
"Nick! Stop it! You're losing it, partner! Look, there's a twenty-four hour drug 
store around the corner. Why don't you go get something to help you sleep and go 
home."
Nick shook his head. Schanke rolled his eyes and raised both hands in a gesture 
of helplessness. "Okay, then will you try to stop blaming yourself for all the 
wrongs in the universe, at least while you're with Nat? Positive thinking and 
all that, ya know. It's amazing what it can accomplish."
"All right," said Nick quietly.
"And go home in the morning, don't take up residence here. They don't want you 
underfoot twenty-four hours a day."
Nick nodded, and Schanke gave him a light clap on the shoulder and headed for 
the elevators. Nick returned to Natalie's room.
He tried to take Schanke's advice and stop blaming himself, mainly because he 
was worried now that he might inadvertently crush her hand while imagining the 
car's descent down the hillside. But the best he could do was to push the guilt 
back to a corner of his mind for the time being. Once he was alone, it would 
immediately surface again. And he wanted it to. He almost felt as if he needed 
it to. After all, it was only right that he should suffer for the pain he had 
caused Natalie, as if maybe this self-imposed penance would help to balance the 
scales in that place where the rights and wrongs of human actions were judged.
Yes, it was fitting that he should be the one to suffer now. Because while 
Natalie had been lying in the wreckage of his car on that frozen hillside, he 
had been warm and snug in Janette's bed, both of them wrapped contentedly in one 
another's embrace. Logic told him that even had he known about the accident, he 
could have done nothing while it was still daylight. But to have been where he 
was, that day...it was one more burden to carry, one more charge to be laid at 
his door. Another injustice that he could see no way of rectifying, except by 
mute anguish.

Eventually his innate sense of day and night told him that morning was not far 
off. With it came an odd, brief feeling that someone was watching him. He 
glanced over at the doorway. Of course someone was: there was a nurse on a chair 
there, just as there was outside almost every patient's room in the unit. She 
met his eyes and gave him a brief smile as she saw him looking at her, then 
looked down again at the chart spread out in front of her.
If he was starting to imagine things that weren't there, it was time to be on 
his way. He heaved himself out of the chair and dropped a feather-light kiss on 
the bandages over Natalie's forehead. God, he hated to leave her. But he had no 
choice. There was a window in the room, and it faced east.
He and the nurse murmured goodbyes as he passed. He took the elevator downstairs 
and walked outside into the waning night. 
The eastern sky was showing just a faint streak of steely gray. Heedless of the 
fact that he was standing in the icy January predawn without a coat, Nick 
inhaled a deep breath of the freezing air to dispel the odour of the hospital 
from his nostrils. In spite of feeling drained by the long stressful night, he 
was restless, unsettled, not ready to return to the prison of the loft. Instead 
he crossed the street and walked eastward, towards College Park.
The skating rink was deserted. He wandered aimlessly around it, hands in his 
pockets. The whole area was silent, with just an occasional whisper of traffic 
on the surrounding streets. Only a few lights showed from the apartments 
overlooking the rink and the hotel away to the south. For a moment he stood on 
the ice surface, moving one foot back and forth, remembering how it had felt to 
glide effortlessly. To slide. To spin, out of control...
The sky was lightening further. He pulled himself back to the here and now, and 
as he did so, in the split second of the transition, he felt again the sensation 
of eyes on his back. He withdrew into the deep shadows of a line of pine trees 
and glanced around. Still no one in sight.
He shrugged, suddenly too tired to care. He moved another step into the shadows 
and took flight.

He went home, polished off half a bottle of blood without bothering with a 
glass, and stared sightlessly at the shutters over the windows until office 
hours had begun and he could call the coroner's office. He asked particularly 
that Grace Balthazar be notified. Then he called directory assistance for 
Vancouver and got Sarah Lambert's number. It was only just after six o'clock 
there; he didn't want to phone now and wake her up. He'd leave that till 
tonight. He reminded himself to stop in and see Natalie's cat-sitting neighbour 
tonight as well.
There was one more thing he knew he needed to take care of, and that was to do 
something about the Caddy. Presumably the Peel police hadn't just left it 
sitting on the hillside. At least he had to make some arrangement with the 
insurance company. But he couldn't bring himself to do that right now.
In fact, he realized, he never even wanted to see the car again.

He was back at the hospital again less than twelve hours later. Walking into 
Natalie's room, he was appalled to see that she was now attached to a 
respirator. And the bruising on what he could see of her skin looked even worse 
than it had yesterday. He knew that that was probably to be expected - a vampire 
would have healed long before the full extent of the same injury to a mortal 
could even be seen. But the machine?
He spun around, found Natalie's nurse, and demanded, "What happened?"
"Dr. Lambert started experiencing breathing difficulties due to an increase in 
intracranial pressure. Basically, her brain is still swelling from the injury, 
the same as any other part of the body would. We're trying to keep the pressure 
down with medication."
"How long will she need to be on this thing?"
"I wish I could tell you, Mr. Knight. It's all a game of wait and see."

Game. Some game. With a muted sound of anguish he lowered himself into the same 
bedside chair and picked up Natalie's hand. "Hi, Nat. I'm back again," he said 
softly.
Not long afterward, Schanke arrived on his way in to work. Nick gave him an 
update of Natalie's condition, as much as he understood it himself.
"Listen, Nick," said Schanke, pulling another chair over from the corner to sit 
beside him. "Nobody's expecting you to be too into this right at the moment, but 
how about if I bring you up to speed on the Joliette case? Maybe it'll give you 
something to think about." He almost added, "Instead of driving yourself insane 
with a load of misplaced guilt that even a Mack truck couldn't carry", but 
decided not to go there. "And I might as well bounce ideas off you, rather than 
the wall. I mean, hey, I'm marginally more likely to get a response from you, 
right?"
Nick didn't take his eyes from Natalie's face. Schanke realized that maybe he 
shouldn't count on it.
He ploughed on regardless. "First off, Brenda's boss ID'd the body today. And 
Burghardt says that whoever cut the heart out - "
Nick looked up with a glare. Schanke dropped his voice to a furtive whisper. 
"Sorry. Burghardt says it looks like a proper surgical job. And also that - um - 
she was probably still alive when it was done."
"Schanke, I really don't want to hear this right now."
"Don't worry, that's it for the gory parts. We talked to some of the people 
around Union Station this morning - do you have any idea how many nooks and 
crannies there are in that place, by the way? I think it was designed by some 
crazed mole or something - anyhow, nobody remembers seeing her getting off the 
train from Oakville, ever. No surprise, half the population of the GTA goes 
through there every morning. But one of the day shift guys got lucky when he 
talked to some of the train crews from the lakeshore line. One of the conductors 
remembered seeing her getting on the train in Oakville the morning of the 
twenty-seventh. You were right about her car, by the way. It's apparently still 
sitting in the lot at the station in Oakville."
Schanke waited for a response from his partner. When nothing was forthcoming, he 
said gently, "Nick? Did you hear a word I've said?"
"Yes."
"We'll do another canvass of the station in the morning. Maybe we can get lucky 
with somebody who was still on vacation yesterday. We'll get the house searched, 
talk to the neighbours, check out her work, have a look at her car. Unless we 
get a break, there's going to be an awful lot of plain legwork here."
Nick made a vaguely assenting noise.
Schanke hesitated. "You know, Nick, Edgar Joliette's just three doors down the 
hall. I looked in when I came past and there was a whole bunch of people in 
there. Maybe later on you could go see if you could talk to him?"
Nick said nothing. Schanke sighed. "Never mind. The doctor was probably right - 
he's never gonna wake up again anyway. And if he does, he doesn't need to know 
that his wife's been killed. I gotta get going." He stood up. "Nat, if you can 
hear me, get well soon." He looked at Nick. "And you, partner, take care of 
yourself. Don't spend all your time sitting here brooding."
"Goodnight, Schanke."
"'Night, partner."
For the next several hours he sat motionless except for his continual soft 
caressing of Natalie's hand and when he had to move aside for the medical team 
to attend to her. His very stillness was drawing some attention from the nurses, 
but he was oblivious to that.

Sometime around midnight he heard a fragment of conversation from somewhere out 
of sight in the hallway. "...amazed he hasn't worn a hole in her hand by now..." 
He looked at Nat's hand in mild surprise, then put it down and stood up. Maybe 
it was time to stretch his legs. He went outside, past some rather startled-
looking nurses, and walked down the hallway to Edgar Joliette's room.
"How is he?" he asked the nurse in the doorway - fortunately the same woman who 
had been on duty when he and Schanke had first come to talk to Joliette.
"He hasn't been lucid since you and your partner were here the other day. He 
seems to be in more pain, too." Dropping her voice, she murmured, "It looks 
pretty hopeless, Detective."
"Thanks." He was turning to leave when he realized Joliette had actually had a 
visitor. There was a little girl curled up in a chair at the bedside, her back 
turned to the door. All he could see was fine shoulder-length blonde hair, a red 
sweatshirt and blue pants, and running shoes. From her position in the chair, he 
guessed she was asleep.
"Who's that?" he asked the nurse in a low voice.
"She's a relative, I think. I don't know her name. She comes and goes at all 
hours, never says anything to anybody, just sits with him. She's a funny little 
kid. Well, at least there's someone coming to see him."
He went back thoughtfully to Natalie's room. Something struck him as soon as he 
entered, which he would have noticed when he first arrived if he hadn't been 
distracted by the sight of the respirator - a huge, brightly-coloured flower 
arrangement on a small table in the corner. He examined the tag on it and half-
smiled.
Sitting down beside her again, he said, "Looks like Grace was in to see you 
today. She must have gotten the message. I called Sarah in Vancouver and told 
her about the accident. She wants to come and see you but she wasn't sure if she 
could get any time off from work. I think the plane fare might be a problem, 
too. If she decides to come, I'll see if I can find some way of subsidizing it. 
And I talked to your next-door neighbour. She's going to keep on looking after 
Sydney, so you don't have to worry about him. In fact, if you want, I'll stop by 
and check on him sometimes - just to make sure he doesn't put on too much weight 
without you to play with him."
There was no response from the bed, but after a while he continued anyway. "I 
went over to the rink at College Park after I left here yesterday, Nat. You 
know, next time I'll bring my skates with me. There won't be anyone there to see 
if I fall and make a total fool of myself. I'll practise, I swear. How about 
that? The next time you see me on skates, you'll be amazed. We can be like 
Torville and Dean."
He stopped. Again he had the strange certainty that he was being watched. This 
time it couldn't have been the nurse - she must have left momentarily. But 
beyond her vacant chair, he caught a glimpse of someone wearing a red shirt 
leaving the intensive care unit. Curious, he got up and followed, only to hear 
the elevator doors closing just as he rounded the corner. Whoever it was had 
gone. The corridor was empty.
He went back and looked in Joliette's room. The bedside chair was empty as well.
"That little girl who was here earlier - did she leave just now?" he asked the 
nurse. The woman he had spoken to before must have left for a break; he had 
never seen this nurse before.
She looked at him in surprise. "What little girl?"
He looked back at the empty chair next to the dying man. "Never mind."

He went back and sat at Natalie's bedside again. This time he picked up her 
hand, kissed it briefly so she would know it was him, and then simply held it 
without speaking. He desperately wanted to tell her he was sorry, but he was 
afraid that if he actually spoke the words in front of her then he would break 
down completely. And so he sat, silent and utterly still, until he knew it was 
time to leave again.

When he awoke the following evening and went downstairs, he found Lacroix 
sitting on the leather couch, watching the fire, chin resting on steepled 
fingers.
"Good evening, Nicholas," said the elder vampire without turning around.
Nick made an expansive gesture around the loft with the full bottle of blood he 
pulled from the fridge. "Make yourself at home, Lacroix." In spite of his day's 
rest, he felt too worn to attempt any great heights of sarcasm. He wondered 
dully what the other wanted with him. In all of his nearly eight hundred years 
of vampire existence, he had rarely fallen into a depression which his master 
had been unable to make worse simply by his very presence.
"Thank you. I've already availed myself of your hospitality, Nicholas - such as 
it is."
"Don't complain. I don't recall asking you to come." Nick pulled the cork out 
and drank straight from the bottle, knowing how much that little mannerism of 
his irritated Lacroix.
His master made a faint noise of disgust. "Really, Nicholas, such table 
manners." He still hadn't turned around.
Nick slammed the bottle down on the dining table. "Tell me what you came here 
for and get out."
Lacroix tsk'd in mock annoyance. Turning to look at Nick for the first time, he 
said, "I sensed that the Nightcrawler has lost one of his regular listeners the 
past few nights, and I was curious as to the reason. You missed a particularly 
good show the night before last. I took as a topic the irony of how closely life 
and death are intertwined in the mortal world, like the double helix of a strand 
of DNA, and the futility of attempting to separate the two."
Nick slumped at the table, head in his hands. Lacroix had known. How the hell 
did he always know?
"And now that I am here," Lacroix continued imperturbably, "I find myself nearly 
overwhelmed by outpourings of guilt and depression far exceeding your usual 
anguished norm. I had truly hoped that with your new year getting off to such a 
fine start as it did with Janette, that you might have decided to cast aside 
your penchant for mental suffering. But alas, that would appear to have been a 
false hope. Tell me, Nicholas, do you actually derive enjoyment from all this 
despair? Or are you attempting to gain a place in the Guinness Book of World 
Records for being the individual with the greatest capacity for angst?"
Without lifting his head from his hands, Nick replied, "Natalie was in an 
accident on New Year's Day. In my car."
"Ah. So that explains all the depression. But surely the car can be repaired?"
Nick lifted his head, eyes golden, and without warning lunged at Lacroix with a 
roar of fury. Lacroix batted him aside, and he landed in a sprawl across the 
leather armchair. "I take it from that reaction that I have attributed your 
concern to the wrong source," he said, feigning mild astonishment. "Can it be 
Dr. Lambert you're upset about, not the Cadillac?"
"Lacroix, you bastard, she was nearly killed!"
"Mortals do die, Nicholas. You ought to have listened to my show two nights ago. 
It's all part of what is called the human condition. They come, they go, we 
remain. Surely after all these centuries you've managed to grasp this concept. 
Perhaps you ought to listen to the tape of that show."
"She's in a coma. She's lying in a hospital bed in a coma because of me."

"A most unfortunate form of undeath," said Lacroix, and he did, indeed, almost 
sound regretful. "Why not bring her across, in that case?"
Nick gave his master a venomous look. "Get out of here."
"It's a logical solution. You feel responsible for what has happened to her. 
This is how you can make reparation and set things right again. If you feel you 
might run into difficulties, I'd be only too willing to assist you."
"I said get out."
Lacroix sighed. "Very well. But just remember, you have it in your power to heal 
her. If you choose not to do so, then you can hardly complain about her 
remaining in a hospital bed."
Then he was gone, the only trace of his visit an eddy of cold air from the 
skylight.
Nick dragged himself back to the table for another long pull from the bottle.

Walking into Natalie's room, he was relieved to see that the respirator had been 
disconnected. "Is she doing better?" he asked the nurse eagerly.
"Well, the intracranial pressure seems to be under control, so that's definitely 
a good thing. As for any other signs of recovery..." She tailed off with a 
resigned smile.
"Well, that's something." Nick was determined to at least try to be optimistic. 
Think positive. Think positive.
Schanke came in a few minutes later. He was rumpled-looking and unshaven, and 
Nick thought he was wearing the same clothes as yesterday. His partner pulled a 
chair to the bedside and sank into it with an enormous yawn.
"Man oh man," he groaned. "These double shifts are gonna kill me." At Nick's 
questioning look, he elaborated, "Flu season's hit with a vengeance. Half the 
precinct called in sick this morning. I wound up having to cover for two other 
guys right when all I wanted to do was kiss the joint goodbye. I tell you 
though, there must be something to all these echinacea pills that Myra's been 
making me take practically since Labour Day. Not so much as a sniffle. Of 
course, what do I get out of it? The work of three guys, that's what - oh, I 
almost forgot." He opened the paper bag he'd been carrying and pulled out a 
small package wrapped in tissue paper, which he unwrapped to reveal a plush gray 
and white stuffed kitten. He placed the toy on Natalie's bed. "Myra picked it 
out and dropped it off this afternoon. Does it look anything like Sydney?"
Nick laid Natalie's hand down on top of the kitten. "Pretty close. That was good 
of Myra."
"Yeah, well, I'll tell her that you like it, anyway, even if you can't speak for 
Nat. Do you want to hear what's new with the Joliette case?"
"Sure," said Nick automatically. 

Schanke gave him a doubtful look, but proceeded anyway. "We've searched the 
house in Oakville and interviewed the neighbours. Nothing there. Nice area, 
everyone keeps pretty much behind their own hedges. But the Joliettes, as much 
as anyone knew them, were a nice, well-liked couple, the type who would always 
wave as they drove past in their his 'n hers matched BMWs. One guy said Joliette 
actually loaned him his snow blower once last winter - man, that's more than I'd 
do for any of my neighbours. Nobody ever noticed anyone suspicious hanging 
around. We've also talked to Brenda's boss and retrieved her diary from work, 
but I haven't had a chance to go through it yet. The one place we did luck out 
at was down at Union. I talked to a woman at a coffee stand in the GO concourse 
and she recognized Brenda's picture. Said she stopped there most mornings to 
grab a coffee. This woman remembered seeing her on the morning of the twenty-
seventh talking to a little blonde kid. She says she didn't overhear any of the 
conversation, but that it looked pretty intense - she thought Brenda looked kind 
of upset. I asked her if she could remember the kid well enough to help us with 
a sketch, but she said she really only saw her from the back. The best I could 
get for a description was straight shoulder-length blonde hair and about four 
foot ten - she only came up to about Brenda Joliette's shoulder. She thought the 
age was maybe around twelve or so."
For the first time in the entire conversation Nick looked straight at Schanke, 
as if something his partner had said had rung a bell. "What?" said Schanke 
instantly.
Nick stood up. Schanke followed him out and down the hall to Edgar Joliette's 
room. The only person there was Joliette himself, still oblivious, looking even 
more like a death's head than he had the day before.
Nick said to the nurse on duty,"That little blonde girl who was here last night 
- has she been back?"
"She was here for a while earlier. I think she left before you came in, though."
"Look, is there anyone who might know anything about her? I need to know who she 
is."
The nurse frowned. "Well, I know the nurses on the day shift hardly ever see 
her. She seems to come mostly in the evening and at night. But she's never 
actually said anything to me - in fact, she usually just dashes past with her 
head down. She seems terribly shy."
"Has anyone ever come in with her? Parents or anyone?"
"No, she's always on her own. I've always thought that was pretty strange - she 
only looks like she's about nine or ten. Look, if it's important, I can page Mr. 
Joliette's attending physician. Maybe Mr. Joliette said something to him."
"I'd appreciate that, if you wouldn't mind."
"No problem." The nurse went off to the desk to place the page. Schanke stared 
at Nick. "You think the kid from the train station is the same one who drops in 
here on the victim's husband?"
"I don't know. I never really got a good look at this kid last night. But it's a 
pretty strange coincidence."
Nick took the call when the doctor answered his page. Coming back to Schanke, he 
almost looked disappointed, as if his interest in the case had revived to the 
point that he was unhappy with a negative result. "He says that the one day this 
week that Joliette was conscious, he introduced the girl as his niece, so on 
that basis she's been allowed in to see him. But Joliette didn't actually give 
her name, or say anything else about her."
"So this pre-pubescent kid just pops in here in the middle of the night and 
nobody thinks that's a little bit weird? Like, shouldn't she be at home in bed?"
Nick pulled Schanke back down the hall to Natalie's room, out of earshot of 
Joliette's nurse. "Schank, the patient said she was a relative. That gives her 
visiting rights. This is an intensive care unit, not the Children's Aid 
Society."
"But - "
"Schank, you've been working for nearly twenty-four hours. Go home and get some 
sleep. I'll see if I can find out anything about this mystery kid."
Schanke stifled another huge yawn. "Thanks, Nick. I'm gonna take you up on that. 
I just hope I can make it home without falling asleep at the wheel and wrapping 
myself around a light standard." He looked in again briefly at Natalie and 
trudged off.
Nick dug into his wallet for a business card, then went back and handed it to 
the nurse. "Look, if that little girl comes back again, can you let me know? 
Give me a call at this number if I'm not here. It's very important that I speak 
to her."
"Why?" asked the nurse, looking at the card curiously.

"She may have been one of the last people to have seen Mr. Joliette's wife 
alive," Nick told her, and went back to Natalie.
"Nat," he said softly, picking up the hand that was still resting atop the 
stuffed kitten (surely it required a conscious effort to hold that hand in place 
and not just slide off?), "I really wish I could have your help with this. But 
it looks like Schanke and I will have to do without for a while. And Schank 
looks totally beat. It's really not fair for him to be doing all the work for 
both of us plus a few others as well, while I just keep a chair warm here. So, 
if you don't mind, I think it's time I went and did something to earn my 
living."
He kissed the palm of the hand he was holding, then touched his lips to her 
forehead. Laying her hand back down on the cat, he turned and quietly left.

Settling in at his desk in the squad room, it seemed to Nick that the onslaught 
of the flu virus at the precinct had had one beneficial effect. The thinned 
ranks meant that everyone was busier than usual, and nobody had time for much 
more than a curious glance when he walked in, or a hasty inquiry about Nat. For 
her sake he was gratified to see their concern, but he felt awkward 
acknowledging it. The looks of idle curiosity he ignored.
Pulling out the file folder on Brenda Joliette, he started to read through 
everything Schanke had put together so far, as well as the notes from the 
interviews with the staff at Union Station and the Joliettes' neighbours in 
Oakville. He needed to reconstruct the murdered woman's life in order to come to 
some kind of understanding of her death - there had to be a clue, somewhere in 
the papers on his desk. What had happened to her - having her heart cut from her 
living body, and then being dressed in rags - had been far too well- planned and 
carefully executed to have been anything but premeditated. Therefore, quite 
possibly the killer was someone who she knew, or a stalker who had had a chance 
to watch her frequently.
He dug through the papers and found the coroner's report from Dr. Burghardt. 
Brenda Joliette's chest had been opened and her heart removed by someone using 
admirable surgical techniques. The clamps tying off the major blood vessels had 
been left in place, preventing complete - and messy - exsanguination, and the 
epidermis almost casually stitched back together, probably simply to hold 
everything in place while the body was dumped at the train station. The surgical 
techniques had extended to the use of gloves - there were no fingerprints 
anywhere on the body or on the clamps in her thorax. Her blood showed traces of 
midazolam, a fast-acting intramuscular sedative, and the anaesthetic pentothal. 
There was no bruising or any other sign that force had been used on her at any 
time.
So she had at least been unconscious when her heart was cut out, and she would 
never have awoken.
Why the heart? Nick stared unseeing at his desk, pondering the question. If 
someone had simply wanted to kill her, they wouldn't have used such an 
elaborate, time-consuming, and bizarre  method. There had to be a good reason 
for it. Not many people possessed the skill and finesse, not to mention the 
access to drugs and medical equipment, that the killer had.. Were they looking 
for a surgeon? Or a surgical nurse? And just where had the drugs in question 
come from? He made a mental note to check if any hospitals had reported a theft 
from their pharmacies.

But he kept coming back to his original question. Why take the heart? Had the 
killer wanted an organ for some particular reason, and Brenda Joliette was 
simply a victim chosen for reasons of expediency?  Had she just been in the 
wrong place at the wrong time? The thought of someone stalking commuters on the 
GO train and killing them in order to harvest their organs was so ludicrous it 
was laughable. Through dealing with dead bodies so frequently, Nick was more 
familiar than most people with the Multiple Organ Retrieval and Exchange, the 
agency that provided organs for transplant in Ontario. He knew there was nobody 
out there lurking around morgues and hospitals trying to supply some kind of 
black market in body parts. So, if transplantation was out, then what else?
He knew that specific body parts of some animals were in demand as ingredients 
in certain Asian medicines -the gall bladders of black bears for use as 
aphrodisiacs, for example. He'd never heard of humans being used for such 
things, but perhaps some extremely exotic potion used to treat a very rare 
disease required a human heart in the recipe. It was something else to check 
out. As bizarre as it seemed, he felt it was more likely than someone taking the 
heart for transplant.
Or could the heart have been removed to satisfy some Gothic kind of vow or 
curse? Had Brenda been told that if she did, or failed to do, some specific 
deed, then her heart would be forfeit? Matters of the heart, affairs of the 
heart - maybe she'd been having an affair, and this was her husband's method of 
exacting retribution. But Edgar Joliette had been unconscious for several days 
already by the time Brenda was killed, and in the hospital for two months before 
that. If she had been killed on his orders, then the killer must have been 
following her for some time.
And if she had been having an affair, then the evidence might well be somewhere 
in the file folder in front of him. He started to sift through all the papers 
again, hoping there would be a key that would let him into Brenda Joliette's 
private life.
He'd been given only the barest bones. She was forty-two, and had worked at the 
Royal Bank for twelve years, the last three as a director of product development 
- whatever that was, Nick thought bemusedly. Her employment record was 
exemplary. There had been no time yet for anyone to talk to her co-workers, 
aside from her boss. He'd have to make sure someone got on that today. But 
Schanke said he'd gotten her daytimer from work. Nick filled out a requisition 
to have the diary brought from the evidence locker, and continued to peruse the 
file while he was waiting.
Brenda and Edgar had celebrated their tenth wedding anniversary last August. 
This was her first marriage; she was his second wife. There were no children, no 
immediate family on either side. The second cousin in Australia was her closest 
relative. They had given each other power of attorney, and each was named as the 
major beneficiary in the other's will, with a few minor bequests to friends and 
charities. What had happened to Joliette's first wife? Here it was - divorced 
nearly fourteen years ago - unlikely that the scorned wife would be coming after 
her replacement at this late date. Besides, it appeared that, according to the 
will, she would still be getting some money from her ex-husband, so the divorce 
must have been fairly amicable. The wills were last updated five years ago. 
Edgar Joliette must have known for some time that he was dying; if he suspected 
that his wife was having an affair, and was sufficiently bent on retribution to 
arrange her death because of it, then surely he would have rewritten his will to 
include her out. And if this mysterious little girl with the blonde hair was 
really his niece, then why was there no mention of her? Was she, perhaps, an 
illegitimate daughter? If so, he could hardly hold his wife's hypothetical 
affair against her.
Nick looked up at the empty desk across from him, wishing that Schanke was there 
to bounce all these ideas off. He wasn't quite sure how coherent his thought 
processes were at this point. He realized belatedly why his partner had been so 
eager to talk to him about the case back at the hospital. When venturing into 
the realms of pure conjecture, it was nice to have a lifeline back to solid 
fact.
He pulled himself away from the brink of dangerous territory, telling himself 
coldly that he had to be coherent about this - he was being paid to do a job, 
and in any case he owed it to Brenda Joliette, and even to Schanke, to be on his 
game.

The diary arrived on his desk. It was bound in expensive dark red leather, with 
the initials 'B A J' stamped discreetly in the corner of the front cover. 
Flipping it open, he discovered th