Subject: Candle in the Shadows of Time (1/23)
Date: Fri, 24 Aug 2001 15:34:53 -0400
From: m chamberlain <mcham_thorne@HOTMAIL.COM>
To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU

This story was a long time in the writing, and thanks are due to many
people, including Mary Williams, for playing Hunt the Typo and for listening
stoically as I gleefully described yet another drained corpse hitting the
ground; Nancy Kaminski for her Virtual Green Pen; Kathy Whelton for
encouragement and research sources; Stephen Lansing for information on
handguns and Valerie Kessler for Nick’s pockets; and Mary Combs, for more
research sources and for suggesting Lacroix’s new career choice in Part 12.

The FK characters belong to TPTB; lyrics to “Brother Love’s Travelling
Salvation Show” are copyright Neil Diamond.

Archiving permission to FK Fanfic (if and when), FK Fanfic2, and the ftp
site.

“Candle in the Shadows of Time”
Part 1/23
Mary Chamberlain
August 2001

        To a vampire, the dark is all-important. Blood and darkness are the
two
requisites for existence: one for sustenance, the other for a hunting
ground, for camouflage from one’s prey, as a setting for the experiencing of
all delightful sensations –  from the remorseless thrill of a carefully
planned hunt to the pleasure of listening to a symphonic masterpiece –  and
for something glorious in and of itself. And also, sometimes the most
essential thing, for a shelter and refuge.
        Nevertheless, some darknesses are less of a refuge than others.

        Nick Knight had known that fact well for almost the entirety of his
nearly
eight hundred years of existence. He turned restlessly on the bed in his
cavernous loft apartment, mired in a nightmare of confusing images. A woman
with glossy dark hair, dead in his arms with blood trickling down her pale
perfect throat. Another’s doing, not his, but he had been unable to keep her
safe from danger. A man with ancient eyes and a sardonic smile, holding a
cup of green stone from which poured a foul crimson stream; then the same
man again, but with the eyes glowing and the smile become a bestial snarl.
And yet again, but the face this time was black from burns, and the eyes, no
longer those of a demon, were filled with shocked disbelief. Fire licked at
the edges of all the images, swallowing the man/fiend, the dead woman, even
the red effluent from the cup, and beyond that was a final blackness. No
safe haven in which to escape from the flames, but something massive and
final – death even to an immortal.
        With a roar of denial in his throat and a sheen of bloody sweat
breaking
out on his forehead, Nick came awake.
        For a moment he stared around the room in bewilderment, still half
in that
world of portentous images. Then, with an impatient snarl, he pushed aside
the tangled black satin sheet and headed downstairs.
        Crossing the living room, he grabbed up the remote control from the
coffee
table and raised the heavy shutters that had sealed out the daylight.
Outside, the sky was a deep indigo, with a line of pink still visible over
the skyscrapers of downtown Toronto. As Nick watched, even that ebbed,
deepening into midnight blue, while the lights in the office towers
glittered like jewels in the comforting dark.
        A surly smile crossed his face. His nightmare had been just that, a
nightmare. Lacroix, with his demon’s eyes and constant mockery of what Nick
was struggling to become, was gone – dispatched to hell by Nick’s own hand.
He didn’t feel triumphant about it as he had expected that he would, but
there was a sense of relief, of knowing that nobody was looking over his
shoulder, ready with an acid comment at the very least or waiting to snatch
up and destroy something or someone that Nick held precious, all for the
avowed purpose of guiding him back to his true nature.
        A shower and a glass of cow’s blood, bland though it was, completely
banished the fading nightmare visions. By the time he was in the car driving
to work, he had succeeded in forgetting them completely. He carefully tuned
the radio in the ancient blue-green Cadillac to a spot on the opposite end
of the dial from CERK, finding a station that was playing ‘Summertime’, from
Gershwin’s “Porgy and Bess”. Minor-key and mournful though it was, Nick was
nevertheless in a mood to enjoy the haunting melody without having it fuel a
bout of depression or self-recrimination – emotions towards which he was
sometimes disastrously prone. At the moment, driving with the Caddy’s top
down, he felt almost as if he were absorbing energy from the vibrant summer
night itself. And yet he had to maintain a certain caution; it would be all
too easy to allow the vampire to rise within him, especially on a night like
this which was made for hunting – when, in times past, he would have hunted
without much thought for anything other than his prey. The girl in the
sporty BMW convertible that pulled up beside him as he waited at a red
light, for instance. Her honey-coloured hair brushed her bare shoulders; her
full lips –  so full that they had to be a collagen job if Nick had ever
seen one, but inviting all the same –  were set in a sensual little pout.
Music with a thumping bass beat and no discernible melody poured from the
car’s speakers, drowning out ‘Summertime’, and she tapped her hand on the
steering wheel in time to the rhythm. She appeared to be completely unaware
of him, but Nick had seen her give him a careful once-over as the BMW drew
up to the light. In times past, again, this would have been his prey, as
soon as a smile and a semi-plausible reason could have drawn her into the
shadows.
        To his horror, Nick suddenly felt his fangs aching to drop into
place. He
gripped the Caddy’s wheel tightly, willing himself to retain his human
visage.
        The light changed, the BMW roared ahead, the moment was gone.
        Nick drew in a deep breath and blew it out again in a heavy sigh.
The
vampire in him always seemed to be so damned close to the surface; and yet
he had managed to overcome the temptation, let the moment pass, as he had so
many others. As the Caddy glided down the street, he allowed himself to feel
a small sense of triumph. If willpower counted for anything in his battle to
become human again, he might yet be able to win.
        ‘Summertime’ had come to an end; the radio station – obviously on a
Gershwin kick – had moved into the sprightly opening movement of the
Concerto in F. Nick arrived at the 27th Precinct without further incident.
        Obviously, music was in the air. He had just sat down at his desk in
the
squad room when his partner entered jauntily, singing only partially under
his breath. “Hot August night, and the leaves hangin’ down and the grass on
the ground smellin’ sweet . . .”
        Nick ran a hand over his mouth, not sure whether to be annoyed or
amused at
Schanke’s ebullience, not to mention his off-key rendition of Neil Diamond.
        He still wasn’t completely past his resentment at having a partner
foisted
off on him, let alone an obnoxious souvlaki-eating cigarette smoker who
never missed an opportunity to rib Nick about his wardrobe, his car, or his
hotshot reputation in the department. Yet despite their initial animosity,
Nick was beginning to suspect that Don Schanke just might be a diamond in
the rough. But he certainly wasn’t about to let him know that.
        “ . . . Move up the road to the outside of town and the sound of
that good
gospel beat . . .” Schanke landed in the chair opposite Nick’s. “Classic
rock. Can’t beat it, huh?” he said to the room at large. The room at large
looked at him bemusedly and shook its collective head.
        “Evening, Nicky-boy,” said Schanke expansively. “I gotta tell you,
this
night shift thing isn’t bad. Not bad at all. Stay inside in the air
conditioning all day, come out at night like a jungle animal emerging from
its lair, hitting the streets with all the other predators . . .”
        Someone snorted. Schanke swivelled around to glare at the offender,
but met
with only lowered eyes and turned backs.
        “I take it Myra’s stepmother has arrived, then,” said Nick without
looking
up from the pile of papers in which he’d abruptly become engrossed.
        Schanke deflated. “Well . . . yeah. Talk about predators . . .”
        “If you’re done serenading the bullpen, Schanke, I’ve got a new case
for
the two of you,” said Captain Stonetree, appearing by Nick’s desk and
slapping a manila file folder down on top of the rest of the paperwork.
Schanke made a grab for it, but Nick easily beat him to it and began to
peruse the contents. “A teenage girl?” he frowned, suddenly thinking of the
girl in the BMW and feeling slightly unsettled.
        Stonetree nodded. “Man walking his dog found her in a ravine near
Yonge and
St. Clair and called it in about half an hour ago. If you two – shake your
booties – you might get there ahead of the coroner.”
        “‘Booties’?” Schanke mouthed at Nick, and got no response other than
a
slightly lifted eyebrow. “Disco is <not> classic rock, Captain,” he called
to Stonetree’s by now retreating back.
        The captain shrugged.
        “Philistine,” muttered Schanke.

        “‘It’s Love, Brother Love’s, hey, Brother Love’s travelling
salvation show
. . .”
        For the first time Nick found himself almost missing Lacroix. A
Nightcrawler monologue would have been almost guaranteed to have shut
Schanke up, or at least put an end to his bad Neil Diamond imitation.
        “Have you ever noticed,” said his partner, suddenly breaking off the
impromptu and unappreciated concert, “how many minivans there are on the
road these days?”
        They were stopped at a red light. Looking around the cluster of
vehicles
waiting with them, Nick counted two vans. “What about it?”
        “Myra thinks we should get one.” Suddenly Schanke was sounding
almost
gloomy. “Of course, her stepmother put her up to it. But she told me tonight
that we could all go places together so much more comfortably in one of
those things. Especially family trips.”
        “She’s probably right,” said Nick, only half listening, his mind
more on
the crime scene awaiting them.
        “That’s not the point! We’ve already got two cars. Myra’s little
econobox,
and mine. Myra sure isn’t going to give up hers. She’ll say she needs it for
running errands, because of course the van will use too much gas.”
        “So get rid of yours.”
        That earned him an acid glare. “I can’t believe you of all people,
you with
the pet Caddy, would say that! That car isn’t just a way to carry home the
groceries. It’s a symbol of – of male independence. It’s the last bastion of
me, Don Schanke, homicide cop, a guy who’s as tough as any of that scum on
the streets, who can shoot straight and smoke two packs of cigarettes a day
and party with the best of ‘em. Not Don Schanke, breadwinner, mortgage
holder, and owner of a house with a leak in the basement and brand new
frilly lavender curtains in the bathroom.”
        “Frilly lavender curtains?” repeated Nick in disbelief.
        “Yeah, Myra wanted to do some redecorating before her stepmother got
here.”
Schanke stared at the traffic. “There’s three more of those damned vans. I
swear they travel in packs.”
        Nick was still contemplating the image of his partner in a setting
that
included frilly lavender curtains as he made a right turn onto St. Clair and
then onto the side street just before the bridge crossing the ravine. The
west side of the street was lined with expensive condominium buildings. On
the opposite side a paved pathway led down into the ravine. Both sides of
the street were parked up with police cars and assorted other official
vehicles. Nick neatly manoeuvred the Caddy into one of the few remaining
spots, noting Natalie’s car already parked across the street. Without
thinking about it, his heart lifted slightly.
        He and Schanke followed the tarmac pathway into the trees, then
found a set
of wooden steps descending to a dirt path. At the bottom of the ravine ran a
narrow, sluggish trickle of dark water, a small tributary of the Don. The
path stayed several yards away from the water, leading north towards the
concrete and iron span that carried St. Clair Avenue.
        “Looks like the party’s thataway,” said Schanke unnecessarily,
setting off
towards the lights and activity underneath the bridge. This was followed
almost immediately by a muffled yelp of pain and a curse as he stumbled in
the darkness. “Why don’t they set up a few of those lights over here, so
people can see where they’re going? What do they think we are, bats?”
        Nick ignored him, looking around curiously, easily avoiding the tree
root
that his partner had tripped over. It amazed him that places like this could
exist in the centre of the city. Except for a sprinkling of lights along the
top of the ravine and the muted traffic noise, they could be in the depths
of the countryside. With his vampire-acute hearing and night vision, he
could sense a number of small animals all around them, no doubt disturbed by
all the unaccustomed noise and bustle. A predator – human or otherwise –
could hunt freely down here.
        He shook off the thoughts and drifted after Schanke, passing him
without
difficulty where they had to leave the path and descend the side of the
ravine again to the edge of the water. Pausing to find his footing, Schanke
glared at his partner’s receding leather-clad back. Then he wondered why
Knight was even bothering to wear a leather jacket on a night when everyone
else was in shirtsleeves.
        “Need some help, Schanke?” offered a voice from below him.
        Schanke gritted his teeth. Not only could his partner skip around
the place
like a mountain goat without breaking a sweat while continuing to look like
something off the pages of GQ, he had to rub it in, too. Then again, if he
didn’t, that might be evidence of possible saintliness, which would be even
worse to deal with. “Just taking a moment to admire the view,” he said as
caustically as possible.
        Below him, Nick paused at the edge of the ring of brilliant light to
try to
make some sense of the scene. With all the purposeful activity going on, it
would have been hard to spot the actual corpse if his eyes hadn’t gone
straight to the figure of the coroner, kneeling on the ground several yards
away. She had her back to him, but even so he felt again that odd lift to
his heart.
        As he came closer, he heard her say briskly, “Looks like just a
single
shot,” and then she looked up and saw Nick standing by her shoulder.
        “Hello, stranger,” she said with a friendly smile, then added, sotto
voce,
“I’ve been meaning to call you. I’ll have a new concoction ready for you by
the end of the week.”
        He made a face. “Don’t rush on my account. I haven’t managed to
finish the
last one yet.”
        He wasn’t looking at her, but he just knew she was rolling her eyes.
She
got to her feet, giving him room to get a good look at the corpse.
        Schanke had finally arrived. “All right, what’ve we got?” he asked
loudly.
        Nick glanced up at him. “Well, Schank, it ain’t Brother Love’s
travelling
salvation show.” He returned to his examination of the body, leaving his
partner to his own devices.
        The girl lying in the undergrowth by the edge of the water was
curled up as
if she’d simply lain down there for a quick nap. She had black hair with
vivid red streaks in it, and wide-open, staring blue-gray eyes. Both the
black and the red hair colouring had partly grown out, with mousy brown
roots showing clearly. She looked as if she was maybe seventeen. She was
wearing a bright fuchsia-coloured cotton tank top, jeans and a jean jacket,
and a pair of expensive but well-worn running shoes. There were rings on
several fingers, one of which was set with a small stone that appeared to be
a genuine opal.
        So theft probably hadn’t been a motive. Nor could he see, from a
cursory
look, any signs of rape or other assault. There was just the one, small,
fatal hole in the back of the denim jacket. From experience far, far greater
than Natalie’s, he knew she had been dead for probably about a day.
        He heard Schanke say, “So who found the body?” and the officer in
charge of
the scene start to answer him with something about a passing jogger and his
dog, and then in a sudden extra gleam of light – probably the reflection of
someone’s flashlight on the water – he saw something sparkle around the
girl’s neck. Curious for some reason, he took out a pen and ran it around
the inside of the collar of the jean jacket until he had hooked the fine
necklace. It snagged on the girl’s top, then came free. He pulled it forward
to examine it more closely.
        The chain itself was discoloured gold-tone, intrinsically worthless.
But
what caught and held Nick’s attention – indeed, made his almost motionless
heart take an extra beat – was the pendant attached to the chain. He gently
tugged it further into the light.
        “No,” he breathed. Not this. Not again.
        The conversations around him, the sound of the investigative team
going
about their work, all faded into a background buzz as he stared at the tiny
object. Surely it wasn’t possible for this accursed thing to have surfaced
again, after so much time. But here it was – and with it came another death.

End Part 1

Words of praise accepted with pleasure, constructive criticism grudgingly
considered (g), flames promptly discarded, at mcham_thorne@hotmail.com

_________________________________________________________________
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Subject: Candle in the Shadows of Time (2/23)
Date: Fri, 24 Aug 2001 18:37:54 -0400
From: m chamberlain <mcham_thorne@HOTMAIL.COM>
To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU

For disclaimers and archiving permission see Part 1.

“Candle in the Shadows of Time”
Part 2/23
Mary Chamberlain
August 2001

        He glanced quickly around, feeling as if he had been staring at the
necklace for hours, but knowing that it had in reality only been the span of
a few mortal heartbeats. Schanke, now flailing at mosquitoes, was still
talking to the officer in charge. Everyone else was carrying on with their
own jobs, oblivious to the fact that the entire world of someone right in
their midst had just experienced a shattering jolt. Even Natalie, standing a
few feet away with her assistants discussing the logistics of getting the
girl’s body up the hillside, seemed to have noticed nothing amiss.
        He looked down again. He was tightly clutching the pendant in one
hand. Had
anyone seen the necklace? Had Nat?
        It didn’t matter. He had to take that chance.
        One quick yank and the cheap necklace snapped. He hastily stuffed
both
chain and pendant in the inside pocket of his leather jacket.
        “Hey, partner,” said Schanke loudly. “These damned bugs seem to
think I’m a
five-course banquet all laid out for them. What say we go talk to the guy
who found the body? I’m being sucked dry here.”
        Oh, Schanke, if only you knew, he thought, even as he exchanged
amused
glances with Nat. Getting to his feet, he said offhandedly, “You go ahead,
Schanke. I’ll tough it out down here awhile longer.”
        His partner glared at him but didn’t linger for any snappy retorts.
Nick
watched as he trailed away into the darkness, cursing the presence of bugs
and the absence of light.
        “Well, I’m done here,” announced Natalie, moving aside so that a
team with
a stretcher could move the body. “I’ll see you later, Nick.”
        “Right,” he said, meeting her eyes guilelessly, glad that he’d had
so many
centuries’ practice at dissembling. Even so, he thought Natalie gave him a
rather questioning look. Maybe she was aware after all that something odd
had happened. But he maintained his bland expression and she left without
saying anything more, following the stretcher carrying the girl’s body.
        Nick prowled around the site for a while longer, but he was unable
to focus
on the job. Eventually he returned to the Caddy to find Schanke waiting for
him, morosely scratching at mosquito bites.
        “So what did the jogger have to say?” he asked, starting the engine.
        “Not much. He’s coming into the station to give his official
statement, but
basically he was out for his daily run with his dog, lets dog off leash a
ways back, dog finds body, jogger nearly tosses his cookies.”
        “He goes jogging in the dark?”
        “Well, he says it wasn’t dark when he started out, and he comes this
way
every day so he knows the path. So, any theories? Was the girl killed down
there, or was she dumped?” There was a pause. “Nick!”
        “Dumped,” Nick answered succinctly.
        Schanke waited, but Nick didn’t elaborate. He was apparently
concentrating
on driving, but Schanke had the feeling that his partner wasn’t paying any
more attention to the road than he was to him. “Yo! Golden boy!”
        That got him a look of annoyance, at least.
        “Care to share your great deductive reasoning with me, or do I have
to wait
till I see our report?”
        “There wasn’t enough mud in the treads of her shoes. And she was too
well
hidden in that undergrowth. It doesn’t look as if she was molested, sexually
or otherwise. Just one clean shot. Maybe she saw something she wasn’t meant
to see, or knew something she shouldn’t have.” The words came out tersely.
He hadn’t meant to sound that way, but the girl’s chain and pendant felt as
if they were burning a hole in his pocket. He needed the shift to be over,
he needed to get away by himself to think about what this might mean.
        Schanke rolled his eyes. A man-eating mother-in-law at home and a
weird,
uncommunicative partner at work. Life was just grand. He was trying, really
trying, to make this partnership thing work. He knew he had a
high-maintenance personality, and he had to admit that crashing Nick’s
precious Caddy hadn’t exactly been the ideal way to start a working
relationship. But he figured that he’d proven himself since as someone who
had more than just wool between the ears when it came to detective work. It
was just so damned frustrating, wondering if and when his so-called partner
would open up and let him in, just a little.
        Glancing at the still, shuttered profile in the streetlights, it
looked to
Schanke as if that wasn’t going to happen for a long, long time.

        There was more than a hint of dawn in the sky when the Caddy nosed
into its
garage. Several moments later the door of the old freight elevator opened at
the level of the loft apartment. Nick stepped out, still sober and
preoccupied.
        Daylight was beginning to show at the tall windows. The gentle
cooing of
the building’s resident pigeon colony filled the loft, mixed with the sound
of early traffic. Moving with slow deliberation, Nick crossed to the coffee
table, picked up the remote, and closed the steel shutters, sealing the loft
into its accustomed darkness. The pigeons flew away with a clatter of wings.
        Finding his way in the dark with no difficulty, he lit several
candles,
then went to the refrigerator and removed a half-empty bottle of cow’s
blood. He took the time to find a glass and drank it slowly, almost as if
the liquid was worth savouring. He replaced the bottle in the fridge and
rinsed the glass clean.
        Then and only then did he remove his jacket. He hung it on the coat
rack by
the door and felt in the pocket for the necklace. He sat down at the dining
table and placed the necklace in front of him, where the light from one of
the candles shone directly on it.
        The chain didn’t interest him. He separated it from the pendant and
pushed
it to one side.
        Outwardly, there was nothing unusual about the pendant either. It
was in
the shape of a tiny candle, about two inches long, with a crudely faceted
sliver of ruby for a flame. The candle itself was fashioned of solid gold.
There was a fine golden wire around the ruby, so that the thing could be
hung from a chain, the way the dead girl had worn it. It was heavy for its
size. And it was old. Very old.
        He turned it over. On the back was a tiny inscription, worn to the
point of
being illegible. Nick’s eyesight could have deciphered it, but he knew what
it said without needing to read it. ‘Por illuminer les ténèbrus’. Even the
French was old, the language of his mortal life. To light the darkness.
        How appropriate it seemed now – how needy he was, after all these
centuries
spent in a darkness of the soul as well as the physical state of being
unable to walk in the sunlight, for something that so much as hinted at a
way of returning to a state of grace. And yet, when he’d first laid eyes on
the thing, he was embracing wholeheartedly his new existence as a vampire,
trying to quash the last pangs of a mortal conscience. He would have scoffed
at the idea of going back to the life he had shed almost without a thought,
thoroughly bedazzled by Janette’s seduction and Lacroix’s velvet-clad
promises of glorious, never-ending life.
        They had still been in Paris then, himself, Janette, and Lacroix. It
was
only a few months after the two vampires had brought Nicholas de Brabant
into their darkness, and he was still discovering and glorying in new-found
strengths and abilities. For instance, it was now midway through January of
1229, still several weeks shy of Candlemas when plowing ought to begin in
the fields, and a most bitter, unforgiving winter it was. It seemed that
everyone, even those who could afford fur-lined cloaks and sturdy boots and
plenty of firewood, was perpetually shivering. Probably even King Louis in
his new palace was never warm. Beggars in their rags died by the dozen;
indeed, Nicholas could feel no remorse at taking their blood, since chances
were slim that many of the wretches who lived in the streets and alleyways
would survive to the spring. And yet he himself was never cold, no matter
how bitterly the wind blew or how much snow or rain fell. Indeed, Lacroix
often had to caution him about wearing his woollen cloak, since a man
walking in this weather in only tunic and hose was bound to draw attention.
        Nicholas had begun to weary somewhat of Lacroix’s constant
supervision. He
had been a grown man in mortal life, independent and self-reliant. He had
needed Lacroix’s tutelage when he was first brought across, to learn how to
survive in this new existence. But now he considered that he had learned
everything that Lacroix had to teach him, and the fact that his master still
refused to let him stray far from his side was becoming increasingly
irksome.
        Now, though, he had a chance to be free of the jesses he seemed to
constantly wear, if only for a few nights. Lacroix had gone away. The elder
vampire had not seen fit to impart either his destination or his purpose to
Nicholas, although he suspected that Janette knew. He also suspected that
Janette had been instructed to keep a close watch on him, to make sure he
didn’t stray from the bounds that Lacroix had set. However, when they had
hunted together the previous night, their meal had turned out to be a pair
of drunken sots who had barely been able to stagger out of the tavern. In
consequence, the vampires had imbibed a copious amount of cheap wine along
with the blood. When Nicholas awoke that evening, Janette was still soundly
sleeping.
        He had briefly considered waiting for her, then decided that he
couldn’t
miss the opportunity for a little freedom, no matter how brief. He dressed
and hurried from their lodgings before Janette had begun to stir.
        Being alone in the night was an intriguing feeling. He flew a short
ways
for the sheer joy of it, dropping silently into an alleyway to investigate a
possible source of a meal. But the prostitute that he stalked for several
moments lost her appeal when she pushed back her ragged hood and gave him
what was undoubtedly meant as a seductive smile. Formed by an almost
toothless mouth in a skeletal, pockmarked face, it was more of a rictus.
Nicholas shook his head and walked on.
        He had come to the Grand Pont, largest of the bridges across the
Seine, the
haunt of moneychangers and goldsmiths. Nicholas was amazed that any of the
shops would be open on such a cold winter’s night, but perhaps the smiths
thought that the glow of their stoves and forges would provide sufficient
attraction to potential customers. A small but lively crowd had indeed
gathered around any of the stalls that were still open for business.
Nicholas paused by the first such stall that he came to, hunger momentarily
overcome by a sudden impulse to buy a gift for Janette. Even if Lacroix
never found out about his night of solitary hunting, Janette’s anxiety over
what their master might do if he discovered that the fledgling had slipped
away from her watchful gaze for a few hours was bound to be far worse than
any punishment Lacroix was likely to mete out. Nicholas, while not prepared
to give up this one night of unexpected freedom in order to allay that
anxiety, still was quite willing to mollify her if at all possible. One of
his chief delights now was giving her things. And anyway, her fears would
all be on her own behalf; Janette, Nicholas blithely believed, knew
perfectly well that he could take care of himself.
        He made his way through the small knot of people in front of the
stall to
examine the wares, spread out on a cloth-draped trestle table under the
watchful eye of the goldsmith’s brawny assistant. The smith himself, sensing
a likely customer, bustled forward. “Good evening, Messire. What may I help
you with?” Although he already a shrewd notion, given which items Nicholas
was surveying. “Is it a gift for a lady you’re wanting?”
        Nicholas smiled. “Perhaps.”
        There were brooch-pins and buckles, necklaces and rings and amulets,
and
one little gold and enamel reliquary with an ornate cross on it, which he
moved away from as unobtrusively as possible. He picked up a delicate
filigree necklet set with blood-red garnets.
        “You have an eye for quality, Messire,” said the smith. “That is
some of my
finest work. Your lady would certainly appreciate it.”
        “How much?”
        “One golden livre, Messire. An excellent bargain, I assure you.”
        A livre! Nicholas growled in frustration, knowing that his purse
contained
only a paltry assortment of coppers and a few silver pennies. While Lacroix
ensured that his fledglings did not lack for shelter or decent clothing,
Nicholas’ only source of ready money was what his victims carried on them.
Since his hunting recently had been mainly restricted to freezing drunkards
and beggars, his purse was miserably thin.
        “Perhaps this instead, Messire?” The smith held up a gilt cross on a
long
chain. “Twenty silver deniers, your lady will – “
        Nicholas shied away with an angry oath, nearly knocking over the
woman
behind him and barely managing not to fling up a hand to shield himself from
the sight of the thing. Recovering himself, and ignoring the curious looks
being cast in his direction–  not least from the goldsmith – he returned to
the table, determined now to find something. His eye fell on a golden amulet
in the shape of a small candle, with a blood-coloured ruby for a flame
encircled by a slender gold loop. It was plainer than most of the smith’s
other wares, and yet well-crafted. He noticed the inscription on it with
amusement, even though it was so tiny that unaided mortal eyes would have
been unable to read it at all. ‘To light the darkness’ – hardly appropriate
for Janette, who treasured the darkness both within and around her. And yet,
she might like it.
        “How much for this?”
        “Forty deniers,” answered the smith, beginning to wonder if he’d
been wrong
about this customer after all. “The stone is a genuine ruby.”
        Nicholas pulled forth a few coins, put them in the palm of the
astonished
goldsmith, folded the man’s fingers around them, and stared into his eyes.
“I have paid you a fair price.”
        “A fair price,” repeated the smith numbly.
        “Thank you.” Nicholas smiled, took the piece of jewellery and pushed
his
way out of the crowd of spectators. He strolled along the bridge, highly
pleased with himself, watching the crowds with a predator’s eye. There was a
fine choice tonight of potential victims, unlike the past several weeks when
it had been too cold for almost anyone to be abroad but those who had no
place to go.
        There was a troop of jongleurs performing by torchlight. Their
strength and
suppleness and youthful energy were tantalizing. Or the occupant of the
closed litter that went past, heavily guarded by several men at arms. A
taste of wealth and privilege would be a welcome change. Or perhaps the
innocence of one in a group of gawking country people, plainly but warmly
dressed, likely pilgrims bound for St. Genevieve. Two knights wearing chain
mail beneath their mantles rode by astride magnificent destriers, with an
aura of arrogance like second cloaks about them. Nicholas’ lip turned up in
a slight sneer as he watched them. They both had a cross embroidered on
their mantles, signifying that they were members of the militia Christi –
Christ’s soldiery – that they had gone to the Holy Land on crusade. Well,
Nicholas had done just as they had, and had found no reason to be so proud
of it. His fangs began to ache, and he fell in behind them. Arrogant fools,
who no doubt thought they were invincible, vested with the authority of
temporal rank and wealth and blessed by the Church into the bargain. He was
definitely of a mind to show them that a power existed that could make a
mockery of theirs.
        He had followed them almost back into the Cité when he was hailed by
a
voice behind him. “Nicholas! Hunting on your own finally, are you?”

End Part 2

Words of praise accepted with pleasure, constructive criticism grudgingly
considered (g), flames promptly discarded, at mcham_thorne@hotmail.com

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Subject: Candle in the Shadows of Time (3/23)
Date: Sat, 25 Aug 2001 10:02:23 -0400
From: m chamberlain <mcham_thorne@HOTMAIL.COM>
To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU

For disclaimers and archiving permission see Part 1.

“Candle in the Shadows of Time”
Part 3/23
Mary Chamberlain
August 2001

        He turned in irritation and saw a young man lounging nearby,
regarding him
with an insolent stare. His clothes – cloak, capuchon, tunic and all – were
as patched and threadbare as a beggar’s, and yet he appeared not to notice
the cold. He had lank dark hair and a pox-scarred face that ought to have
been sallow, but it was as pale as Nicholas’ own,
        Nicholas knew him only as Jehan, a fellow fledgling. He had met him
a
handful of times before, only once in company with his master, a tall,
forbidding figure who had not deigned to speak to anyone present but
Lacroix, and who had been addressed by him as Etienne de Bruyere. Jehan
obviously enjoyed a far greater freedom than did Nicholas, and it was
plainly only Lacroix’s presence at each of their encounters that had
prevented him from trying to rub Nicholas’ nose in that fact. Lacroix had
never said anything directly about the relationship between de Bruyere and
his fledgling, but it was obvious that he disapproved of the leniency
granted to the younger vampire.
        Nicholas’ considered opinion of the other fledgling was that he was
an
ignorant lout, and he was quite ready to shove the other’s taunts back down
his grimy throat at the least provocation.
        However, it appeared that tonight Jehan was actually happy to see
him. He
draped a companionable arm across Nicholas’ shoulders. “Finally slipped the
leash, did you? Good for you. I knew you’d succeed sooner or later.”
        Nicholas stiffened, at both the unwanted embrace and the patronizing
words,
and shrugged off Jehan’s arm. “What is it you want?”
        “Why, only to share an evening’s hunting with you, and maybe some
entertainment, as well. I know where to find some much more tender fare than
a pair of Crusader knights. They’re chancy quarry for young ones such as us,
Nicholas. I’m surprised Lacroix didn’t tell you that, with all his prating.”
        Nicholas looked at him contemptuously. “I can take the pair of them.
Go
back to your easy game, and leave me to mine.”
        “Now, now, don’t be so prickly. I’m offering you a chance to fatten
your
purse, as well as a surety of something tasty before the night’s through.
Indulge yourself, Messire de Brabant. You can always track down your
Crusaders later.”
        At the mention of fattening his purse, Nicholas wondered if Jehan
had seen
him at the goldsmith’s stall. It was impossible to tell anything from the
other vampire’s mud-coloured eyes. Still, the idea of enriching himself,
especially if it involved no great effort on his part, was tempting. “What
are you planning?” he asked grudgingly.
        “A simple game of passe-dix, nothing more.” Jehan’s hand emerged
from the
folds of his cloak and rattled some dice invitingly.
        Nicholas unbent somewhat. He had always had more than his fair share
of
luck at dice. Maybe it could be profitable to spend a few hours in Jehan’s
company, even if he was obnoxious.
        “Come along,” said Jehan briskly. “I know just the place for us.”

        Before two more hours had passed, Nicholas as bitterly regretting
changing
his mind about hunting the two knights.
        Jehan had led them to a squalid tavern behind the street of
butchers, near
to the gaunt prison of the Grand Chatelet. The stench of offal overlaying
that of heavy smoke, cheap wine, and unwashed bodies made it even more
unpleasant than most others of its kind. Nicholas would have avoided it even
in his darkest days as a mortal, when he had returned to Paris following his
time spent in the Holy Land on crusade, filled with bitterness and
disillusionment, and none too fastidious about his companions and
surroundings.
        Nevertheless, it seemed to be a good place for a game of dice, and
one of
the serving girls wasn’t entirely displeasing to look at. The weather had
changed for the worse outside, and men came crowding in for warmth. Jehan
had soon gathered a group of four or five like-minded mortal gamblers, and
now they sat close to the tavern’s smoking fire with a jug of wine on the
table, playing reasonably amicably.
        Nicholas had had his usual luck at the beginning, quickly amassing a
small
horde of deniers, oboles and half-oboles. Eventually he was also the richer
by one threadbare cloak. Its former owner, deciding that he didn’t want to
chance losing any more garments on such a cold night, quit the table.
        “Here,” called Nicholas, tossing the cloak after him. He didn’t need
even
the one he had, much less two, and the other man’s was probably
vermin-infested to boot. “Keep it to lose another night.”
        The man caught it with a sour look and disappeared through the door.
        “Ever the gallant,” murmured Jehan.
        Nicholas shot him a hard look. “Your roll.”
        After that, his luck seemed to desert him. Whenever the pot was in
Jehan’s
keeping, it seemed the dice always came up with lowest numbers. Nicholas’
pile of coins dwindled swiftly. One by one the mortals dropped out of the
game. Nicholas was getting restless, and hungry; he became unable to think
of little else but appeasing that hunger.
        “Enough of this,” he said abruptly, when he had less money remaining
than
what he’d started with. “Jehan, it’s past time to eat.” He half rose from
the table.
        “Really, Messire de Brabant, I had thought you would be a more
gracious
loser,” replied the other vampire with a bland smile.
        Just for an instant Nicholas felt his eyes beginning to grow golden
with
anger. Then he shrugged and stood the rest of the way. “I’m not responsible
for what you think of me.”
        “Oh, come, Nicholas. One more toss, eh? I can’t believe you’re that
hungry.
You must learn some restraint – I’m surprised Lacroix hasn’t taught you
that. Oh, now, don’t take offense – I meant no harm. Come, one more roll of
the dice, and winner take all. It’s well known that Lacroix is wealthy, I’m
sure you must have something yet to wager.”
        “Why are you so anxious to win a handful of pennies? Does your own
father
not welcome you into his home, and you must pay for lodgings or live in an
alley?”
        “Oh, my father welcomes me, never fear, although he doesn’t force me
to
share his company, unlike some others I know. No, I simply enjoy a game of
chance, just like you. Come, Nicholas, relax. One more throw.”
        Nicholas barely managed to suppress the snarl that rose to his lips.
He was
weary of Jehan and weary of the foul tavern. He wanted to be out and hunting
in the cold dark air, and if he had missed his chance at the two Crusader
knights, then at least he could seek out a more appetizing quarry than
anything likely to go stumbling out of this place.
        Still – the notion of winning back all his money, plus Jehan’s, was
tempting. But he had only a scant few copper oboles left to put up, unless
he followed the example of the first man to leave the game and tossed in his
cloak. But he had no desire to return to Janette with any of his clothes
missing, should he lose the game.
        He sat down again. “What have you got,” he said carelessly, pulling
out the
little golden candle, “that can match this?”
        Jehan reached out a hand wonderingly to touch the shining object.
Nicholas
pulled it away sharply. “Come now, let’s see what you have, or I’m off.”
        For the first time that evening Jehan appeared to be considering
something
seriously. At length he fumbled within the depths of his soiled tunic and
pulled over his head a fine gold chain from which hung a ring. He unfastened
the chain, slipped the ring off and laid it down on the table next to the
amulet.
        Nicholas eyed the piece of jewellery in swiftly-guarded
astonishment. It
was a signet ring, and his keen eyesight could distinguish the de Bruyere
crest. So Jehan’s master must value his indolent fledgling a good deal.
        Jehan caught his look of surprise, and met it with a raised eyebrow
and a
coolly amused smile.
        The word must have spread that a more than usually interesting game
was in
progress. The mortals who had been playing earlier still surrounded the
table, along with a fair number of other spectators. Nicholas suddenly felt
somewhat self-conscious. “Your roll,” he said curtly.
        “Ah no, Messire de Brabant. After you, I insist.’
        Nicholas grabbed the dice, shook them briefly, and spilled them on
the
table. Ten. Not hopeless, but certainly beatable.
        “A peasant and two emperors,” said Jehan, sweeping the dice towards
him and
scooping them up with a flourish. Nicholas watched the movements with
narrowed eyes. “Let’s see if I can do better than that.”
        He rattled the dice in his hand and tossed them on the table. “Three
handsome viceroys - fifteen. Better luck next time, Nicholas. Perhaps I
might even give you a chance to win back this little trinket.”
        He reached out a hand to pick up the gold candle. Nicholas’ own hand
shot
out and seized his wrist in a crushing grip.
        “I’m sure I would win everything back,” he said in a harsh, clear
voice,
“if I used your dice.”
        A hush fell over the spectators, followed by murmuring which swiftly
increased in volume as men perceived that a new entertainment might be at
hand. Nicholas ignored them all.
        “Are you saying that I cheated, de Brabant?” demanded Jehan,
affronted.
        “I know that you did. You there, hand me over that cup of wine.”
        The owner of the cup hastened to give it to him without a murmur,
even
though it was still full. No one in the crowd would have dared to argue with
him at that point. Only the other vampire appeared ready for a
confrontation.
        Keeping his grip on Jehan, Nicholas dropped the dice into the wine.
One
floated on the surface; the other two slowly rotated and sank to the bottom
of the cup. There was a collective gasp at the sight.
        Nicholas and Jehan remained glaring at each other. “Come, let’s try
it with
the dice that I threw,” said Nicholas. “Of course, I’ll have to shake them
out of your louse-infested clothing first.”
        Jehan hissed in fury. With a sudden violent jerk, combined with a
vicious
kick at Nicholas’ shins under the table that would have broken a mortal
man’s legs, he managed to pull free. In an instant the two vampires were
both on their feet with the table between them. Jehan’s eyes were glowing
green-gold and a rumbling growl erupted from his chest. The spectators fell
back with cries of fear at the sight of the fiend, several of the more
quick-witted amongst the group crossing themselves fervently.
        “Do you still think you’re better than me, Crusader?” taunted Jehan.
“Purer? Holier? You’re none of those things. You never were. And I will
knock you into a pulp and drink your coddled, knightly blood.”
        Despite Lacroix’s frequent admonishments never to reveal his nature
to
mortals, Nicholas knew that he now looked much as Jehan did. Growling, he
picked up the heavy table and tossed it aside as if it weighed nothing at
all.
        “Come ahead, Jehan, and try!”
        The tavern emptied as the patrons fled into the street, crying out
to the
passersby about the two demons. A few remained, more stalwart or else too
drunk to move, plus one unfortunate who had been in the way of the table.
Neither vampire took any notice. Snarling, Jehan launched himself at
Nicholas, in a movement far too fast for any of the mortals to follow. Just
as quickly Nicholas parried the attack, caught the other vampire and flung
him against the wall, so hard that the entire tavern swayed with the impact.
Undaunted, Jehan came on again, but slightly more warily now. The two
vampires circled one another, feinting and counterfeinting, every move that
Jehan made competently matched by Nicholas, until Jehan lost his footing in
a pool of spilled wine and crashed inelegantly to the floor. Nicholas
paused, and Jehan shot from the floor like an arrow in flight and hurtled
into his legs. Nicholas tumbled over top of him and, when he lunged to his
feet again, found himself confronted by a grinning Jehan wielding a torch he
had managed to snatch from its sconce just outside the door.
        “Come along now, Messire de Brabant, let’s see how eager you are to
play
with fire!”
        Nicholas responded by hefting the long bench on which he had sat
while
playing dice – a solid piece of furniture which no mortal man could easily
have lifted unaided, let alone raise over his head as Nicholas did then –
and heaved it at Jehan. The other vampire flew out of its path but dropped
the torch, which landed harmlessly on the dirt floor. Nicholas shot towards
the ceiling in pursuit, caught a corner of Jehan’s filthy cloak, and
grappled with him in midair. Jehan snarled and hissed in fury, and Nicholas,
lost in the vampire’s rage, did likewise. They were both oblivious to
anything but their own lust to kill – until a single word penetrated even
that.
        “Enough!”
        The word blazed into Nicholas’ mind with the strength and clarity of
a
trumpet  blast and seemed to reverberate like thunder in the mountains.
Instinctively he disengaged from his opponent and settled to the ground,
drawing in deep heaving breaths while the red haze of vampire vision
dissipated from his eyes, searching for the source of the voice. He would
not have been surprised if the entire miserable tavern came crashing to the
ground from the force of it.
        A woman! Nicholas stared in total disbelief. How could a woman
possess a
voice with such power and command? And yet there was no doubt, now that his
mind was clear again, that it had been a woman who had spoken. And a woman
stood before him now, almost as tall as he was, with the hood of a
sable-lined cloak thrown back to reveal a pale, pristine face framed by
unbound black hair. The bones of that face were delicate, the skin over them
almost translucent, and yet there was no suggestion of daintiness or
weakness about it; Nicholas knew, even before her bloodless lips parted in a
snarl that revealed the largest, sharpest fangs he had ever yet beheld in a
vampire, that it would be more than his life was worth to defy her. He took
a step back and bumped into Jehan, who was also staring at the woman, as
dumbstruck as Nicholas.

End Part 3

N.B. Passe-dix is an ancient form of dice game in which each player throws 3
dice. If he throws less than 10, he and all other players lose their stakes
to the banker; if he rolls 10 or more, the banker doubles the stakes to all
players. A 2 was called a peasant; a 4, an emperor; and a 5, a viceroy.

Words of praise accepted with pleasure, constructive criticism grudgingly
considered (g), flames promptly discarded, at mcham_thorne@hotmail.com

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Subject: Candle in the Shadows of Time (4/23)
Date: Sun, 26 Aug 2001 12:29:42 -0400
From: m chamberlain <mcham_thorne@HOTMAIL.COM>
To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU

For disclaimers and archiving permission see Part 1.

“Candle in the Shadows of Time”
Part 4/23
Mary Chamberlain
August 2001

        The vampiress had not come alone. Two male vampires, tall bulky
figures
wrapped in voluminous cloaks, were occupied in slaughtering all the mortals
in the tavern. Obviously curiosity had gotten the better of many of those
who had originally fled or those who had disbelieved the tale about demons,
and, unnoticed by Nicholas, a small crowd had gathered to marvel at the
sight of his struggle with Jehan. Now they were paying horribly for that
indulgence. Moving with incredible speed, the two vampires tore into the
group of mortals like wolves in a sheepfold, killing indiscriminately, one
with a knife, the other simply snapping the neck of anyone he encountered.
Those who tried to run for the door were dragged back into the
slaughterhouse. Appalled, Nicholas moved to interfere, ignoring the woman’s
snarl and her one small hand raised in an imperious gesture. Instantly he
was flung six feet through the air, to land with a crash across the table he
himself had flung aside earlier. Dazed, and still not comprehending who
these strange vampires were, he remained where he was until there were only
the dead and the undead left in the tavern.
        With a growl directed at her two companions, the woman seized
Jehan’s arm.
One of the men caught the collar of Nicholas’ mantle, and the two fledglings
were hauled into the street as the third member of the hellish trio picked
up the torch Jehan had dropped, rekindled it in the hearth, and tossed it in
the spilled wine. Two cresset lamps followed it, and the vampires were
barely outside before the tavern was completely alight.
        Nicholas struggled and swore, infuriated at his treatment as well as
by the
mass murder that he had just witnessed, until his captor offhandedly dealt
him a massive blow over one ear that nearly rendered him senseless. People
were rushing toward the blaze with buckets of water, and in the panic the
group of vampires slipped away unnoticed.
        Once they were well away from the commotion, they halted in a dark,
narrow
alleyway, where the ground underfoot was slick with half-frozen mud and
unnameable filth. The wind had risen since Nicholas had first ventured out
that evening, and now a nasty mixture of snow and ice fell from the lowering
sky. An emaciated dog was their only witness, and it crept away, whining, at
their arrival.
        The two young vampires were dropped unceremoniously in the muck
underfoot.
Jehan remained where he was, staring up fearfully at their captors, but
Nicholas immediately scrambled to his feet. He knew now he was in danger,
but he intended to find out why. And he saw nothing to be gained from
staying on his backside in the filth of the alley.
        “Who are you?” he demanded, his eyes flaring green-gold. “Why did
you kill
all those people?”
        The elder vampires exchanged glances. It was the woman who finally
spoke.
“Did Lucien Lacroix not tell you about the Code? If not, his teaching is
grievously at fault.” She glanced down at Jehan. “See, even this child of de
Bruyere knows about us.”
        Nicholas was startled by their mention of his master. Obviously,
then, they
knew who he was, which gave them an even greater advantage. Nevertheless, he
looked the woman directly in the eye, refusing to be intimidated. Let Jehan
stay where he was, Nicholas was damned if he would grovel in the dirt too.
        However, he thought it prudent to moderate his tone slightly.
“Lacroix
needs to teach me nothing. But I would like an explanation from you, madame,
for your actions.”
        Incredibly, the woman began to smile. But it was a slow, cruel
smile, as
chilling as the sleet now falling on them. “Well, well, a young fighting
cock. Nicholas de Brabant, you are either very brave or very foolish, I
don’t know which.” Her smile vanished. “And I have no interest in finding
out. If you will not obey the Code, you are a menace to us all. That is all
the explanation you will get from me.”
        She glanced down at Jehan. “If you seek more answers, then let this
one be
sufficient.”
        Jehan crawled backwards with a whimper of fear, trying to press
himself
into the solid wall of the alley. While Nicholas stared in utter disbelief,
the woman reached down and picked him up with no more effort than if he had
been a puppy. Jehan flailed helplessly, his entreaties muffled against the
woman’s white, delicate, merciless hand. Her grip shifted and tightened, and
Jehan’s last scream broke off in a hideous gurgling noise as she tore his
head from his shoulders.
        Nicholas leaped back to avoid being splashed by the obscene red
fountain
gushing from Jehan’s summarily truncated body. His legs barely supported
him. The woman let what remained of Jehan drop back to the ground, then, to
Nicholas’ profound horror, tossed the head to land at his feet.
        “End of lesson, my young fighting cock,” she said, and suddenly she
was
standing directly behind him, one bloody hand on his shoulder.
        Nicholas only had time to feel the first inkling of fear on his own
behalf,
when the driving sleet was whipped into a brief whirlwind by the precipitant
arrival of yet another vampire. “Stop!” cried the newcomer.
        The woman hissed warningly. “You come too late, Lacroix. Your
fledgling has
flouted the Code and allowed mortals to see him as he truly is. You, at
least, know the penalty.”
        “Stop – please,” repeated Lacroix. There was an unfamiliar tone in
his
voice. It sounded to Nicholas almost as if his master, who had always seemed
all-powerful, was pleading. “My son did not know the full consequences of
his folly. My teaching has been remiss.”
        The grip on Nicholas’ shoulder eased slightly. “Are you saying,
then, that
the fault is yours?”
        Lacroix, his head bowed, nodded.
        “Well, well,” said the woman thoughtfully. “Altruism is certainly an
unusual trait amongst our kind.”
        “I am simply asking that the blame be placed where it is due,”
Lacroix
replied with dignity. Even distracted as he was, Nicholas could sense his
master’s irritation at being accused of that particular virtue. “I won’t
deny that Nicholas de Brabant has acted foolishly tonight, but he would not
have done so had he known that he was inviting the wrath of the Enforcers.
Please, release him. I give you my word that there will be no more of these
– indiscretions.”
        The two male vampires shared an uneasy glance, as if they had never
before
heard such a request, and doubted that any good could come of granting it.
The woman, however, appeared to be considering Lacroix’s appeal. Nicholas,
although he had a dozen questions bursting for utterance, held his tongue
after a single scorching glare from Lacroix, which promised further horrors
if he tried to interfere.
        The woman was drawing breath to reply when the air in the alley was
disturbed yet again. Jehan’s master had arrived.
        The vampiress said briskly, “Lucien Lacroix arrived in time to plead
for
his ignorant fledgling. I fear that it’s too late for yours, de Bruyere. In
any case, he well knew the penalty for what he had done.”
        Etienne de Bruyere, as grim and forbidding as ever, spared them no
more
than a glance before kneeling by his son’s headless body. He remained there,
somehow fierce in his very quiet and stillness, even when long tendrils of
smoke started to curl upwards from Jehan’s remains as they began their
transmutation into ashes.
        “Come,” said the woman to Lacroix. “We may as well discuss this
protégé of
yours in more congenial surroundings.”
        Lacroix bowed, then seized Nicholas by the shoulder as the woman
finally
relinquished him.  If his tone towards the vampiress had been conciliatory,
with Nicholas it was as harsh and unforgiving as granite. “Go back to
Janette. Stay with her and don’t stir outside until I return.”
        “But Lacroix – “
        ”Go!” said his maker, emphasizing the command with a growl that
reverberated in the narrow alley. His eyes were a hellfire crimson. He gave
Nicholas a hard shove past the trio of vampires.
        Nicholas recovered his balance and flexed his legs to take flight.
He
glanced back just as he did so, and saw Lacroix reach a compassionate hand
towards de Bruyere’s shoulder. The face of the other vampire was streaked
with bloody tears.
        Of Jehan there was nothing left but a mound of ash which was quickly
being
blown apart by the winter wind.

        Lacroix had taken lodgings for the three of them in a townhouse
owned by a
minor nobleman, who preferred to oversee his manor near Marseilles during
the winter rather than stay in his draughty Paris home. Nicholas alighted in
the frozen remains of the kitchen garden and opened the heavy oaken door
into the rear of the house. He could sense Janette somewhere inside, but she
made no effort to acknowledge his presence. That was unusual. She could
hardly be asleep; dawn was still several hours away – even though the night
already seemed to have gone on forever – and after all, she had slept late
into evening before. He sighed. That could only mean that she was angry with
him. So, as well as making his peace with Lacroix when their maker returned,
he would have to do the same with Janette.
        Somehow, he didn’t think that that would be too difficult.
        He passed the storeroom and the unused kitchen, emerging into the
hall.
Still the house was silent except for the creak of timber and the occasional
bang of a loose shutter upstairs. The fireplace was bare. Next to it, in the
corner, something was huddled in the rushes on the floor.
        “Janette!”
        Nicholas flew across the room, suddenly realizing with cold dread
that he
had been wrong in supposing that she was simply ignoring him. He knelt
beside her, trying to gather her into his arms, but she cried out when he
touched her. “Janette! Janette, what’s wrong? What did he do to you?”
        “Go away, Nicolas,” she croaked, in a tone totally unlike her normal
voice.
        Ignoring her order, he pulled off his mantle and wrapped her in it,
then
tenderly lifted her and carried her upstairs to their bedchamber, where he
laid her on the bed and spread a blanket over her. He closed the shutters
and latched them firmly, then found tinder and lit the candles. Then he
returned to the bedside and knelt beside it, taking one of her hands in his
and touching his lips to it. She watched him with darkened eyes in a face
that bore all too clearly the marks of Lacroix’s anger.
        “Janette, why? Why did he do this?”
        “Why do you think?” she replied bitterly. “I was supposed to watch
over
you, and then he came back, and I couldn’t even tell him where you’d gone –
“
        After what had already happened that night, he could hardly protest
that he
didn’t need anyone to watch over him. There was only one thing he could do
that would be of any help to Janette right now, and at the same time show
her how truly grieved he was by what Lacroix had done to her. As gently as
he could, he cradled her in his arms, despite her cry of pain that tore at
his heart. Bowing his head, he sank his teeth into his own flesh, so that it
bled freely. Then he pressed his open wrist to her mouth.
        After a moment’s resistance, she lapped at his offering, then her
fangs
descended and she greedily tore her way into the vein. Nicholas hissed in
rapture. This was a different sensation from anything he had yet experienced
in his brief life as a vampire. Janette had drunk from him many times, but
now he felt an unaccustomed tenderness in the giving, in addition to the
sensuality of it that could never be entirely absent. There was no craving
to bite in return, he simply wanted to hold and soothe her until she was
healed.
        He felt that he was willing to stay there until she had drained
every drop
of blood in his body, but Janette came to her senses and released his arm
before she had taken a dangerous amount. She lay languorously in his arms
for a while longer while he stroked and kissed her hair and shoulders, then
with a sigh pulled away and sat up to face him.
        “Oh, Nicolas . . . the Enforcers. No wonder Lacroix was so upset.”
        “Who are they?” he demanded. “What right did that woman have to kill
Jehan
like that?”
        “Best let Lacroix explain it to you, mon cher. He ought to have done
it
before this.” Privately she wondered if the reason Lacroix, normally a very
thorough teacher, had not done so was because he didn’t want to admit to
Nicolas that there were any beings more powerful than he. Would Lacroix be
so petty? Or was this simply another of those lessons which he seemed to be
withholding from his newest creation? Whatever the reason, Janette’s lover,
her gallant golden knight, had been put in danger. Was still in danger, no
matter what the outcome of Lacroix’s meeting with the Enforcers proved to
be. Even if Lacroix managed to deflect their wrath from Nicolas, he would
want to exact his own pound of flesh in turn. Janette was devoted to her
master, but she had no illusions about him.
        “Janette, she ripped his head off with no more thought than wringing
the
neck of a chicken! What kind of person can do something like that?”
        “The Enforcers can. They are much more powerful than most vampires,
and
they make it their business to enforce the Code and protect our kind from
human discovery.”
        “But we are so much stronger than humans. They are our prey, after
all.”
        “Even we have our weaknesses. If you ever see a mob of determined
hunters,
you will know just how important it is for us to remain in the shadows. But
wait for Lacroix to explain it all to you; he owes you that much.” Assuming
that Lacroix ever returned from the meeting with the Enforcers; there was a
good chance that he might not. “In the meantime, mon amour, you must rest.
Come to bed.”
        “Janette, I can’t just – “
        ”You can, and you will,” she cut him off, with surprising vehemence.
Then
she smiled and reached up to lay a finger across his lips. “Don’t argue.
Lacroix told you to stay with me. I think that this time you had best do as
he says.”
        He still looked as if he wanted to demand answers to his questions,
but in
the end he shrugged, smiled, and shed his filthy clothing to climb in under
the blanket beside her. He wrapped his arms around her and guided her head
to rest in the hollow of his shoulder. Janette knew, with an inward sigh,
that despite everything that had happened tonight, at least part of his
endearing innocence was still intact. He felt no dread at the prospect of
Lacroix’s return.
        Janette, wise in their master’s ways, knew better. But she forced
herself
to remain soft and pliant in his arms, so that they could each take comfort
from one another. When a surly dawn finally arrived, they were both
completely sunk in oblivion.

End Part 4

Words of praise accepted with pleasure, constructive criticism grudgingly
considered (g), flames promptly discarded, at mcham_thorne@hotmail.com

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Subject: Candle in the Shadows of Time (5/23)
Date: Mon, 27 Aug 2001 01:43:35 -0400
From: m chamberlain <mcham_thorne@HOTMAIL.COM>
To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU

For disclaimers and archiving permission see Part 1.

“Candle in the Shadows of Time”
Part 5/23
Mary Chamberlain
August 2001

        Evening came, and there was still no sign of Lacroix. After exacting
a firm
promise from Nicholas that he would stay in the house no matter what,
Janette went on a swift hunt, returning within an hour with a hopelessly
mesmerized victim for them to share. A young saddlemaker’s apprentice, cast
out from his employment for stealing, and therefore with no prospects before
him but a life of petty crime – really, said Janette coaxingly (since
Nicholas was indulging in another of his bouts of mortal conscience, no
doubt an after-effect of last night’s events) it was a mercy to kill him
now, and probably a benefit to mankind in general. In the end she won out –
a rare occurrence when he was in one of those moods - and they made quick
work of the boy.
        Just as they were finishing their meal, the crash of the front door
opening
and a rush of bitterly cold air heralded the return of Lacroix.
        Janette immediately backed several paces away, leaving Nicholas
holding the
drained body of their prey. He lowered it to the floor, straightened up and
said calmly, “Lacroix, I’m glad to see you.”
        “Are you, indeed.” Lacroix surveyed him without expression, then
snapped,
“Janette, get rid of that body. Make yourself scarce.’
        “Lacroix, please . . . Father, he didn’t know – “
        ”Go!” he said, his voice like a whip cracking.
        She gave Nicholas a despairing look, then obediently picked up the
body of
the erstwhile apprentice and vanished through the door into the garden.
Nicholas and Lacroix were left to stand staring at each other.
        It was obvious that Lacroix’s meeting with the Enforcers had not
been an
amicable one. Nicholas waited for him to speak, hoping that this deference
might help to allay his anger.
        Small hope. When his master finally broke the silence, there was
absolutely
no sign of a thaw in his icy demeanour. “It seems that I have been negligent
in some aspects of your instruction. I did tell you, did I not, never to
reveal your true nature to mortals?”
        In spite of his knowledge that he was treading on very thin ice,
Nicholas
didn’t care for the suggestion of condescension in the phrasing of Lacroix’s
question. He stood straight and answered shortly, “Yes.”
        “Did it not occur to you that there are very good reasons for that?
Would
you care to have a mob of frightened, vengeance-seeking mortals invade your
home by day, when you are vulnerable? Would you like to see that happen to
Janette? To me?”
        “Of course not!”
        “Then never do such a thing again! That is the sole reason for the
Code.
That is the sole reason for the existence of the Enforcers – to protect us
from the foolish ones of our own kind. Their methods are harsh, but
necessary.”
        The lecture seemed to be over, but Lacroix still fixed Nicholas with
that
icy glare.
        “It was suggested by the Enforcers that possibly my teaching has not
been
at fault, simply that you were either very foolish, or very headstrong. I
know all your faults, Nicholas, and they are many, but sheer stupidity isn’t
one of them.” Obstinacy, wilfulness, misplaced gallantry, occasionally an
unlooked-for naivete, but Lacroix knew that his son was hardly a fool. No
fool could have survived what this man had survived in the so-called Holy
Land, although Lacroix had always reserved judgement on his reasons for
going there in the first place; but that was ground best left unharrowed for
the time being. “However, I see now a troubling tendency towards
disobedience,” he continued, moving closer. Instinctively, Nicholas
retreated a step.
        “I should not like any of the Enforcers to think that I was being
too
lenient with you, Nicholas. This is the last lesson I intend to teach you. I
hope you learn it well.”
        As swiftly as a panther striking, he seized Nicholas by the arm and
pulled
him from the hall and into the kitchen. There was a trap door in the floor
leading to the cellar. Lacroix heaved it open and propelled Nicholas
through.
        He landed hard on the earthen floor but immediately jumped to his
feet,
waiting warily for Lacroix. His master followed in a moment, carrying a
candle holder with a lit tallow candle and a length of stout rope.
        Slowly and deliberately, he set the candle on the floor, then strode
towards Nicholas with the rope. Nicholas had no intention of tamely
submitting to whatever it was that Lacroix was planning and fought as hard
as he could when Lacroix seized his arms, but it was no use. With little
difficulty Lacroix bound his wrists in front of him. There were several
large hooks fixed to the ceiling, intended for hanging animal carcasses.
Lacroix tossed the free end of the rope over one of them and fastened
Nicholas securely to it. His feet brushed the floor, but only just.
        Nicholas glared at Lacroix, incensed both by the unexpected assault
and the
indignity of his uncomfortable position, but not yet truly afraid. The rope
was strong, but he knew he could break it. If his master thought he could
leave him to dangle here like a side of beef, then he would find that he had
severely underestimated his creation.
        Lacroix stood back and resumed his lecture.
        “Nicholas, I have told you that you are immortal now, and nearly
omnipotent. You do, however, still have several limitations; there are a few
things that are lethal to you, even now. Sunlight you already know about.”
Indeed, it was one of the first things he had warned his new fledgling of,
but Nicholas, ever one to learn things the hard way, had naturally insisted
on finding it out for himself. A sorry sight he had been then, but glad of
Lacroix’s comfort, which was something.
         “You’ve just had a graphic demonstration of decapitation. And now
I’m
going to teach you a third.”
        From somewhere within the folds of his heavy mantle, he produced  a
long
thin object which at Nicholas’ first glance was so innocuous as to be
laughable. A kitchen broom? Was Lacroix going to tickle him to death with
it?
        Lacroix laid the broom across his knee and neatly snapped off the
end,
leaving him with a jagged length of wood.
        “Most likely the Enforcers didn’t have one of these at hand last
night,” he
said conversationally, surveying his impromptu weapon. “But I do assure you,
Nicholas, that a wooden stake is just as effective for killing vampires as
tearing our heads from our shoulders, even if it is somewhat less –
spectacular.”
        Comprehension finally dawned on Nicholas as Lacroix advanced on him,
eyes
glowing malevolently. “Lacroix, no! You wouldn’t – “
        ”Goodbye, Nicholas.” His master raised the stake and in one sinewy
thrust
plunged it straight through his body.
        Nicholas’ shriek rattled the timbers in the house above.
        Lacroix stood back and coolly watched his son’s agonized thrashing.
Satisfied that both the rope and hook would hold, he picked up the candle
and left the cellar, ignoring Nicholas’ almost mindless entreaties to remove
the stake and stop the pain.
        Even with the trap door back in place, the noise level was
considerable.
Lacroix smiled slightly. No doubt the sounds from the cellar would become
tiresome eventually, but right at the moment he could almost say they were
music to his ears, the sound of Nicholas learning two very salutary lessons:
never to do anything that might bring the Enforcers down on him, and never
to disobey Lacroix.

        Nicholas had no idea how long he spent struggling in a mad frenzy to
free
himself from the hook, the rope, the stake, before his strength gave out.
Neither did he know how long he screamed for, before his throat tore and his
own blood began to flow from his mouth, mingling with the blood tears of
pain and fury that were streaming down his face. The screams gave way to
whispered curses, then stopped altogether. Finally he hung mute and still in
the darkness and simply waited to die.
        It was the first taste he’d had of his master’s unmitigated rage. He
had
known Lacroix could be cruel, but he had always felt himself to be his
master’s favoured, cherished creation, safe from the worst of that cruelty.
He knew Lacroix was a predator by nature and by desire, but he had not
thought of him as a being who took pleasure in torture - especially that of
his own son. Yet here he was, abandoned to as miserable a fate as any he had
seen in the Crusades.
        It wasn’t just the dying that was hideously painful, it was also
being left
to twist and dangle like a fish on a line. He clenched his teeth on the few
small sounds of pain he was still making, drawing his pride around himself
like a sorry cloak, taking an infinitesimal comfort from the fact that he
could deprive Lacroix of the satisfaction of hearing that much – if Lacroix
was still listening.
        The effort cost him the last of his strength. Gratefully, he slipped
into
oblivion.

        He began to wonder if he might, after all, have gone to heaven.
Suspended
in a soft warm cocoon, faint candlelight against closed eyelids, Janette’s
voice speaking. And most important of all, a cessation of the pain.
        Janette, in heaven? Not in any Christian heaven, certainly. Heaven
was not
for Janette, nor for him.
        Then where was he?
        With a monumental effort, he opened his eyes and looked,
uncomprehendingly,
at his own bedchamber.
        In pure reflexive startlement he sat bolt upright, and was rewarded
with a
horrible tearing sensation in his midsection. He hissed in surprise and
pain, and in an instant a sturdy earthenware goblet was pressed to his lips,
full of a sweet, heady, familiar liquid. He gulped the entire contents and,
with a bloody trickle running down his chin, reached greedily for the
source, which was leaning over him.
        “Gently, gently, my chevalier,” chided Janette, pushing him back
into the
pillows. It didn’t require much effort on her part, Nicholas felt as if he
had all the strength of a newborn kitten.
        “Janette?” he whispered, then, finding that he had a voice again –
somewhat
raspy, but his own – he said, more strongly, “What happened? I thought he’d
killed me.” He reached up to trace the outline of her face and lips, still
not quite believing.
        “Oh, Nicolas, why must you keep provoking him?” said Janette with a
sigh.
“He didn’t want to be so harsh, but disobedience is something he will never,
ever tolerate. And I hope you heeded that lesson, because I never want to go
through that again,” she added quickly, trying to douse the flicker of anger
she could see already in his expression.
        She succeeded, at least momentarily. He gave her a self-conscious
smile,
picked up her one hand that still lay pressed on his chest and kissed it
apologetically. Then a stronger urge took over and he turned the hand over,
his lips questing up to her wrist.
        “Oh, Nicolas, you are a greedy one, aren’t you,” said Janette, but
with no
sign of disapproval. “Here, wait. Wait, I said!” Sitting on the edge of the
bed, she gathered him in her arms, supporting his head against her shoulder
and allowing him free access to her slender neck. “There, my golden knight,
drink,” she murmured.
        Without hesitation he bit into the vein, suckling thirstily, seeking
and
finding a comfort he hadn’t known he had even wanted. It was a blissful,
honeyed sensation that both eased him and gave him strength, even more
exquisite than when he had healed Janette.
        He lost himself in the ecstasy, and eventually Janette had to gently
but
firmly disengage herself. “No more, Nicolas. Not now.”
        He sat up and embraced her in turn, kissing her lips. She tasted her
own
blood there and felt his rising ardour, but reluctantly pushed his away.
Holding his face lightly between her hands, she said quietly, “Lacroix is
waiting.”
        Those three words acted like a bucket of cold water on Nicholas. He
nodded
slowly and rose from the bed, gingerly examining his chest. There was a
livid mark where the stake had penetrated, but otherwise he was completely
healed.
        Janette had already bathed the grime of the cellar from him and laid
out
fresh clothing. Moving cautiously – there were still a few twinges if he
bent down or stretched – he pulled on braies and hose, tunic and boots.
Janette settled his good surcoat on his shoulders, combed his hair, clucked
disapprovingly over the stubble on his chin before deciding it was best not
to waste time shaving, and accompanied him to the stairs. Obviously their
master’s edict that she should make herself scarce during Lacroix’s dealings
with his son was still in force. She gave him a feather-light kiss on the
cheek but remained where she was.
        It seemed a long, lonely journey down the stairs and across the
hall. A
fire leaped and crackled in the fireplace, in front of which were normally
set several high-backed chairs. Now all but one had been moved away, and
Lacroix sat in that one as if it were a throne, his back to the stairs,
elbows on the arms of the chair and fingers steepled before him.
        “Come here, Nicholas,” he said without turning, as Nicholas
hesitated
several paces away from him.
        Trying to summon up the angry pride that had helped sustain him
during his
ordeal in the cellar, Nicholas did as he was bidden, coming to stand in
front of the chair. Lacroix’s eyes flicked over him once, briefly and
disinterestedly, before returning to the contemplation of his hands.
        It was a game, a contest, to see who could outwait the other, and
Nicholas
knew it was one he could never win. No point, at the moment, to even try.
Trying to keep his tone deferential, he said, “Here I am, Lacroix. What is
it you want of me?”

End Part 5

Words of praise accepted with pleasure, constructive criticism grudgingly
considered (g), flames promptly discarded, at mcham_thorne@hotmail.com

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Subject: Candle in the Shadows of Time (6/23)
Date: Tue, 28 Aug 2001 01:52:37 -0400
From: m chamberlain <mcham_thorne@HOTMAIL.COM>
To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU

For disclaimers and archiving permission see Part 1.

“Candle in the Shadows of Time”
Part 6/23
Mary Chamberlain
August 2001

        Even then, Lacroix kept him waiting for a considerable length of
time
before finally surveying him with expressionless, hooded eyes. “Simply to
see if you have learned the lesson I set for you.”
        “Lesson?” repeated Nicholas angrily, deference forgotten. “You tried
to
kill me!”
        “I did not ‘try’ to kill you,” said Lacroix, unperturbed. “If I had
wanted
you dead, then you would be nothing more than a small pile of ash right at
the moment. One thing I must confess I failed to mention to you: a wooden
stake will indeed kill one of our kind, but it must go straight through the
heart. Anywhere else, and it will simply cause exquisite agony until it is
removed.”
        Nicholas stared at him, unable to speak. His mind was trying to
encompass
the enormity of what Lacroix had done to him. He had thought, dangling from
that damned hook in the cellar, that he had known the worst of it, but even
then he hadn’t. Lacroix, his teacher and mentor, whom he had trusted and
respected, had left him there in agony, not to kill him, but simply to teach
him a lesson. To let him think he was about to die, when all the while he
was simply awaiting the moment when it pleased his master to release him.
And at the end of it all, Lacroix mocked him for his gullibility and took
away from him the one thing he’d thought to take comfort in: the knowledge
that he’d survived the worst Lacroix could do to him.
        If he had had a stake in his hand right then, he would have gladly
run the
elder vampire through with it.
        “Nicholas,” Lacroix was saying reasonably, “I did not do what I did
on a
whim. As a mortal, you were a grown man. As a vampire, you are but an
inexperienced fledgling, and you have to learn the ways of our kind, what
are the transgressions and why, and what are the penalties. I simply tried
to make you realize the importance of obeying the Code, and of doing nothing
to attract the attention of the Enforcers. If it has also taught you the
folly of attempting to disobey me, then that’s all to the good. I will admit
that it was a harsh lesson, but it was for your own benefit in the end.” He
paused, then said, in a tone that indicated he was expecting a prompt
answer, “Well, Nicholas? Do you agree?”
        “Yes,” Nicholas replied dully, hardly aware of what he was saying.
        “You have an excellent memory. Twenty years from now, or two
hundred, or
even two thousand, you will remember exactly what I’ve just said to you. I
don’t want to find that tomorrow you appear to have forgotten it.”
        “No,” said Nicholas.
        “Then go now,” said Lacroix, suddenly the kindly father. “Find
Janette and
go hunting. This matter is over – unless you make it necessary to bring it
up again.”

        Life – or unlife, as Nicholas, with a spurt of dark humour, supposed
that
he should consider his current state – went on as it had done before his
fateful meeting with Jehan. Nicholas was more than content with his vampire
existence. He hunted, he fed, constantly exploring and marvelling at his
increased strength and heightened senses, the ability to hear a whisper from
across a crowded street or to see in the dark with vision superior to a
cat’s. The sound of a heart beating fascinated him, and he sometimes
needlessly prolonged a hunt, much to Janette’s annoyance, for the sheer
pleasure of hearing - of being <able> to hear - that entrancing sound,
especially as it grew faster and louder in fear. He adored flying; at times
he felt it was Lacroix’s supreme gift to him. Immortality, to one who was
still young even by human reckoning, seemed a poor second compared to the
incomparable  sensations of skimming over the Paris rooftops or racing the
clouds tearing across the face of the moon on a stormy night. And he and
Janette indulged in wild sexual games that he would hardly even have dared
contemplate as a mortal, still less been physically capable of. He knew
Lacroix watched them sometimes, and that knowledge drove both him and
Janette, utterly shameless, to new extremes. Everything was a thrill, an
addictive, sensual sport, and he embraced it all wholeheartedly. Only
occasionally, in moments when he felt as if he were emerging from a drugged
haze, did he feel disgust at what he had become, and remorse for what was
already a long string of victims, struck down to feed his unquenchable lust
for blood. He remembered the remnants of his family and the few close
friends he had made amongst his fellow crusaders, and shrank from the
revulsion they would surely feel for the unnatural creature he was now.
        He knew these moods galled Lacroix, and he did his best to stifle
them in
case his master decided to make them the subject of another lesson. After
the last one he had made it a policy to be as dutiful to Lacroix as
possible, not wanting him to guess that, as an object lesson in obedience,
it had failed utterly. It had, however, taught Nicholas to be very wary of
his master.
        But the one thing that rankled most was the fact that Lacroix still
was not
prepared to give him anywhere near the degree of freedom and independence he
allowed Janette, who sometimes disappeared for nights on end, to return
without arousing comment. Janette shared her body and blood with Lacroix as
well as with Nicholas; if she had done anything to warrant his disapproval,
there would have been no way to hide it. And if he had punished her for it,
then Nicholas would have known. But Janette remained utterly carefree, on
her own account at least. She sympathized with Nicholas, but counselled
patience.
        “After all, you have eternity to outwait him,” she pointed out.
        He didn’t think he could wait quite that long.
        Candlemas came and went, and winter grudgingly gave way to a gloomy
wet
spring. A month or more after the encounter with the Enforcers, Nicholas
awoke one night to find the house empty. Lacroix and Janette had gone
hunting together. Perversely, his first feeling was one of resentment, that
they had not wanted to include him; then he realized his good fortune.
Almost immediately he was soaring through the Paris sky, joyfully intent on
a night’s solitary hunting.
        He was in no hurry to make a kill. It was a clear night, the moon
nearly
full, and it was exhilarating simply to fly against it while sensing all the
heartbeats in the city below. All those weakling mortals, blissfully unaware
that above them was a silent, skilled predator, who wore the face of a human
being but was truly a creature from the uttermost depths of their
nightmares, and who was merely biding his time before closing in for the
kill.
        The church bells had already rung for Matins, at midnight, when he
finally
came to earth again in an alleyway behind the stables of some nobleman,
close to the Seine. Inside the building he could hear, in addition to the
snorting and rustling of some of the beasts, a louder rustling and
occasional giggle that indicated more activity in the straw then a few
restless horses. Nicholas’ lips curved in a fanged smile, anticipating the
challenge of taking two hapless victims at once.
        The only entrance to the stable from the alley was a single door,
barred
firmly from inside. In the span of a few mortal heartbeats he was over the
roof and slipping through the open doorway to the loft. The two lovers had
felt no need for candle or lamp, and didn’t see him until he had swooped
down on them, plucking them from the straw and gripping one tightly in each
arm. He drank from the man first, easily restraining the woman one-handed
and muffling her screams against his shoulder. By the time the man’s
lifeless body dropped back to the straw, her blood was exquisite with her
terror. He held her in a mockery of a lover’s embrace and savoured every
drop.
        It wasn’t until her corpse landed on the floor next to her erstwhile
lover’s that he realized another vampire had joined him.
        The newcomer was watching him from the deep shadows by the door,
visible
only as a vague shape and a pair of glowing amber eyes. Nicholas hissed
angrily. Who was this one and why was he standing there watching, when quite
obviously all the prey here had already been disposed of?
        The horse in the stall closest to the door kicked shatteringly at
the
partition and whinnied. The stranger came closer to Nicholas, and he finally
recognized Etienne de Bruyere, the vampire master who had arrived too late
to save his son from the Enforcers. Nicholas’ elation at accomplishing the
double kill vanished, to be replaced by trepidation.
        What did de Bruyere want with him? Was he seeking retribution
because
Nicholas had provoked the quarrel which resulted in Jehan’s death, and had
survived while Jehan had not? Nicholas knew he would stand little more
chance against de Bruyere than he had against the Enforcers. If he had to
suffer this vampire’s wrath as well as Lacroix’s, he would almost prefer to
look for a stake and impale himself right now.
        He dropped his aggressive stance and backed away a step, watching
the other
vampire warily.
        When de Bruyere finally spoke his voice was deep and gravelly, as if
not
often used. “Get rid of those two and come with me. I have something of
yours.”
        When Nicholas merely stared at him in astonishment, he raised a
scornful
eyebrow, in a gesture as eloquent as any of Lacroix’s. “Well? Lucien did
teach you to hide your kills, did he not?”
        Nicholas roughly gathered up the two bloodless corpses and flew from
the
stable, with de Bruyere behind him. The horses stamped and neighed in alarm,
but by the time a groom arrived to find what was upsetting them the two
vampires were long gone.
        He dropped the bodies in the Seine several miles downstream from the
city,
then flew after de Bruyere to a house above a butcher’s shop in the Rue du
Grand Chatelet, close by the tavern where he and Jehan had met with the
Enforcers. De Bruyere hadn’t spoken since leaving the stable; he hadn’t even
looked to see if the younger vampire had followed him after disposing of the
mortals. Nicholas’ sense of trepidation hadn’t decreased at all by the time
the two vampires flew through the attic window of the house and alighted in
a dark, low-ceilinged room.
        Lusty snoring coming from the floor below indicated that the other
occupants of the house were sound sleepers. De Bruyere lit a candle and
Nicholas glanced around, trying to disguise his astonishment at the
appearance of the small chamber. It was empty save for a pile of moth-eaten
blankets in one corner and a plain, age-darkened wooden chest, with the
solitary candle in a pricket holder balanced on the lid. Every surface was
covered in a thick layer of dust; the corners were festooned with cobwebs.
It made Lacroix’s home seen palatial by comparison. Nicholas was puzzled. De
Bruyere had the look of someone who was accustomed to better than this.
        “Our kind has little need of mortal possessions,” said the other
vampire.
Nicholas jumped. Had de Bruyere read his mind, the way Lacroix seemed
uncannily able to do?
        “Messire de Bruyere,” he said, awkwardly and in a rush, “I greatly
regret
what happened to Jehan.”
        The older vampire turned away, placing the candle on the floor and
raising
the lid of the chest. With his back to Nicholas, he replied coolly, “No
doubt you do, since you narrowly avoided the same fate.”
        It wasn’t the response Nicholas had been expecting. His first
impulse was
to make an angry retort, protesting his sincerity, but there were odd
vibrations in the tiny room, notes of an emotion unspoken but so strong that
they resonated like the strings of a harp. Etienne de Bruyere, for all his
impassive demeanour, was still grieving for his fledgling. Nicholas bit back
what he had been about to say, and bowed his head.
        De Bruyere turned back to him with something in his hand. “I believe
this
belonged to you. You’d better have it back.” He opened his hand and revealed
the little golden candle charm with its ruby flame. Nicholas extended his
own hand, almost unwillingly, and de Bruyere dropped the piece of jewellery
into his palm.
        Nicholas began to stutter something by way of thanks, feeling even
more
uncomfortable. If this had been left when Jehan’s body turned to ash, it
must have been the only thing. If de Bruyere wanted to keep it as a memento,
he certainly had no objection.
        “Foolish fledgling,” the older vampire hissed, his eyes suddenly
glowing
golden. “I do not give you this trinket as a gift. It is to remind you for
the rest of your existence of my son and the part you played in his
destruction. I need nothing to remind me. Now go!”
        Nicholas knew it was useless to protest that Jehan had been just as
much to
blame for his death as he himself had been. Considering Jehan’s fate and de
Bruyere’s grief, it seemed far too petty to attempt to defend himself in any
case. His hand closed on the candle and he flew from the room.

        Several hours later, when the night began to give way to a clear
dawn,
Etienne de Bruyere went to the roof of the dilapidated house. The rising sun
found him there shortly afterwards. In a few minutes the only thing
remaining on the roof was a small pile of ashes, which were soon dispersed
by a gentle spring breeze.

        “Nicholas, you can come out now,” said a low voice six inches from
his ear.
        As quietly as he could, Nicholas began to shift aside the mound of
household possessions that covered him. Blankets, rugs, wall hangings, pots
and jars, a chest of clothes, even a large bundle containing precious window
glass that someone had wrapped with infinite care – he began to think there
was no end to the sheer amount of goods belonging to the Coulombe family.
And he was concealed in only one of six similarly laden carts which had left
Paris two days ago, bound for the family manor near Dijon in Burgundy. It
was an admirable arrangement for a vampire who wanted to travel while
staying hidden from all eyes.
        All, that was, except those belonging to Madeleine Coulombe, who
stood
staring at him as he finally emerged from the back of the covered cart,
clearly ready to burst into laughter at his tousled appearance. He
forestalled her by sweeping her into his arms and pressing a kiss on her
dark hair. She turned her face up to him, eyes sparkling mischievously,
obviously expecting something a little less chaste. Nicholas was happy to
oblige her, but took care to release her before the call of her blood became
overpowering.
        She straightened his tunic and reached up to smooth down his hair.
“Are you
all right in that cart? I was afraid you might not be able to breathe.”
        “I slept as if it were the finest feather bed in the whole of
France,” he
assured her truthfully.
        She looked as if she didn’t quite believe him, but picked up
something from
the ground nearby and pressed it into his hands. It was a wooden bowl filled
with spicy stew, with chunks of bread sitting on top. “I know it’s not much,
but it’s all I could get, I had to hide it under my cloak. I wanted to bring
you some of the wine, but I didn’t think I could hide that as well. But
there’s a stream over that way, where the willows are.”
        “You’ve brought me more than enough. Did anyone notice?”
        “Only Margrete, and she won’t tell. But I can’t stay long. Father
doesn’t
want me wandering in the dark alone.” She made an exasperated face, then
smiled and stroked his hair again, her hand brushing down his cheek. “If he
knew about you, he would have a fit and fall down dead – or else bundle me
off to the first convent he could find. A wanted man, hiding in one of his
own wagons, and romancing his daughter – “
        ”Then we had better make sure he doesn’t find out, for everyone’s
sake,”
said Nicholas firmly. He gave her another kiss, then pushed her away. “Now
go, before anyone comes looking for you! And thank you for the food.”
        She went, unwilling but obedient, and Nicholas dumped out the
contents of
the bowl on the ground a discreet distance from the carts. Some wild animal
would enjoy a good meal tonight. He found the stream, stripped off and
plunged in, washing away the dust of the cart, heedless of the fact that the
nearby mortals were all well wrapped in cloaks and blankets to ward off the
chill of the early spring evening. Then he sat by the water’s edge, watching
the flickering campfires of the Coulombe family and their retinue, and
wondered if this could really be the start of a new life of freedom.

End Part 6

Words of praise accepted with pleasure, constructive criticism grudgingly
considered (g), flames promptly discarded, at mcham_thorne@hotmail.com

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Subject: Candle in the Shadows of Time (7/23)
Date: Wed, 29 Aug 2001 01:11:17 -0400
From: m chamberlain <mcham_thorne@HOTMAIL.COM>
To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU

For disclaimers and archiving permission see Part 1.

“Candle in the Shadows of Time”
Part 7/23
Mary Chamberlain
August 2001

        He had returned home from Etienne de Bruyere’s dusty attic with the
candle
charm still clutched tightly in his hand. He wasn’t quite sure what to do
with it. After all, he had originally bought it as a gift for Janette, but
even without de Bruyere’s parting words he felt that it was hardly an
appropriate choice now. Although he resented de Bruyere’s insinuation that
he was to blame for Jehan’s death, somehow he couldn’t bring himself to
simply toss it in the Seine or drop it in a beggar’s bowl. In the end, he
had simply put it away in the wooden chest that held his few possessions and
closed the lid on it.
        Lacroix, of course, had known that something was bothering him, even
though
he had denied it. It seemed that his master did not consider him entitled to
the privacy of his own thoughts, if Lacroix wanted to know them. He simply
seized the young vampire, flung him down to sprawl ignominiously across the
oak table in the hall, and sank his fangs into his throat. Nicholas at first
struggled instinctively, then forced himself to keep still and passive.
After all, he had done nothing shameful or dangerous, nothing that Lacroix
could conceivably want to punish him for. Better to have the intrusion over
with as quickly as possible.
        Communication between them, when Lacroix took him like that, was
always
strictly one-way. When his master finally released him and dismissed him to
Janette’s care, his face was a blank mask. Nicholas had no idea what the
elder vampire had gleaned from his blood.
        Over the next several nights the idea began to take root in his mind
that
now might be the time to sever his ties with his vampire family.
        Oh, not with Janette. He wouldn’t tell her where he was going, or
even that
he was leaving – the memory of what Lacroix had done to her the last time
Nicholas had gone astray was still searingly fresh in his mind – but he was
confident that if he reached a safe place and sent her word, she would
follow him. But Lacroix – his master had shown him and taught him so many
new delights that would have repelled him less than a year ago. Nicholas was
grateful. But even a sense of filial obligation wasn’t sufficient for him to
accept Lacroix’s right to administer any more lessons such as the one he had
given that night in the cellar. Nor did he care for Lacroix’s propensity for
casually extracting Nicholas’ blood, and with it, his most secret thoughts
and desires.
        He knew there was some form of link between the three of them, and
that
Lacroix was far more adept at using and manipulating it than he was. But
surely, if he concentrated hard enough, he could at least prevent his master
from knowing his precise whereabouts. And hopefully, if he could put
sufficient distance between them, the power of that link would dwindle.
        But he still had no concrete plans for escape the night that he met
Madeleine Coulombe.
        Originally, she was to have been his night’s meal. He had seen her
leaving
St. Genevieve after Compline, attended by an older woman and a manservant.
Impatient with them, she had walked slightly ahead, and nothing would have
been simpler than drawing her into a dark alley and taking to the air,
consuming his prey at leisure while her servants searched frantically. And
yet he found he couldn’t do it.
        Perhaps it was because, in the instant that his eyes actually met
hers, he
saw something in them that reminded him of his mortal sister. There was no
physical resemblance; Madeleine was taller, and dark where Fleur was fair.
But, preoccupied as she was with her own thoughts, there was a familiar
energy and resolve about her. Her eyes were wide and innocent. And she
hadn’t been afraid of him.
        By the time the two servants came up to them, Madeleine had been
persuaded
that she had slipped in the mud of the street, and the blond stranger had
prevented her from falling. He gallantly offered to escort her home – after
all, there were so many ruffians in the streets of Paris. By the time they
reached her family’s house – an imposing timber dwelling, larger than the
one where Nicholas was living – he had learned her name and the fact that
her father owned a manor several days’ journey to the southeast of Paris, to
which the family would shortly be returning, now that the plowing season had
begun.
        Two nights later he contrived to meet her near the church again. She
appeared quite happy to see him; the older female servant, whom Nicholas
guessed to be her former nurse, was less so. In fact, she quite obviously
disapproved completely of Nicholas’ presence. It was easy to deduce the
reason. Madeleine Coulombe, pretty and good-tempered and belonging to a
wealthy family, was eminently marriageable, to someone of her own rank.
Unknown men who appeared mysteriously out of the night, no matter how
handsome or gallant, were an impediment to the family plans, and were to be
actively discouraged, if not driven away like stray dogs. But Nicholas liked
Madeleine and refused to be discouraged, even when her guard had been
increased to three men at arms by their third meeting. He even felt a bit
sorry for her, when he found out that she was to be married that summer to
the elderly lord of a nearby manor. That was the way things were done and he
had never thought much of it before. But it did seem a pity that Madeleine
with her bright youthful spirits should be handed over like a pawn in a game
of petty politics to a man three times her age, whom she had barely even
seen.
        It was no surprise to Nicholas, who was complacently aware of the
favourable effect he usually had on women, and was not above occasionally
using it to his own advantage, that Madeleine fancied that she was falling
in love with him. Even when he dropped dark hints about having been unjustly
accused of beating and robbing a man in a tavern, and therefore needing to
get away from Paris as soon as possible . . .
        He couldn’t tell if she really believed him, but he did know that it
suited
both their purposes when he was hidden in one of the heavily-laden carts
when it left Paris for the Coulombe manor several days later. He had taken
nothing with him except the clothes on his back, a purse containing exactly
six oboles, and, for reasons even he himself didn’t understand, the little
golden candle.
        Now, two days’ journey lay between himself and Paris. It wasn’t
enough, but
it was a start. He tilted his head, listening to the subdued voices as the
mortals settled down for the night. It was probably wisest to stay with the
Coulombe family all the way to Dijon, but he wasn’t entirely sure what he
was going to do about Madeleine. It had become obvious that she expected him
to save her from the fate of marrying her intended husband. She had done so
much for him that she deserved an explanation for why he would have to
abandon her – but a plausible explanation was beyond him. He could hardly
tell her the truth. Probably the best thing, when the time came, was simply
to slip away into the night. No tears, no protestations, no recriminations.
It was hardly honourable, but it seemed better than telling her an outright
lie. Yet one more facet of his new existence that he found unpalatable – it
seemed impossible to have aught to do with mortals but use them, one way or
another.
        But he still was fond of Madeleine; she still reminded him of Fleur.
If he
had been the mortal man he was passing himself off as, he would have been
tempted to carry her off and rescue her from her unwanted marriage.
        He cocked his head again, listening to the night sounds around him.
The
Coulombe camp was mostly asleep by now, except for the men at arms left on
guard. Last night they had stopped at a busy inn; tonight, according to
Madeleine, they had intended to as well, but obviously something had
happened to delay them – a broken wheel, a lame horse – while Nicholas
slept. Whatever the cause, the Coulombes’ misfortune was his gain. The
family and their servants were the only mortals within miles. It was an
ideal opportunity to test his resolve not to drink blood on the journey.
        He had made the decision as the wagon jounced its way out of Paris
on the
muddy road. It was just possible that the less blood he consumed, the less
emotion he would radiate through the mental link with his family, making it
more difficult – he hoped – for Lacroix to track him. Another reason was
that he simply needed to test his own limits. There had never been a reason
to deny himself feeding before – Lacroix had always encouraged him to hunt,
even commanded it. He had told Nicholas that he would never be able to
survive without the blood; that his vampire nature demanded that he feed,
and on that one precious substance only. He had also told him that wooden
stakes were deadly, and only later revealed that that had been but a
half-truth. Were there other half-truths amongst Lacroix’s teachings? Could
the bloodlust be controlled, with sufficient willpower? Nicholas possessed a
growing determination to find out if he could really keep the vampire in
check. He had no desire to return to mortality, but this was something he
needed to know about himself.
        He considered that he had already made a fair start. The inn where
they had
spent the first night of the journey had been full to the point that a
number of travellers were forced to sleep in the stable if they wanted a
roof over their heads, so half a dozen of the Coulombe servants stayed with
the family’s possessions to guard against thievery. Rather than risk being
seen, Nicholas had stayed in the cart. It had been an uncomfortable night.
More than once he had started to rise in response to the siren call of those
six hearts so close by, but each time he had forced himself to remain where
he was. When the sun rose, his hunger abated and he fell asleep once again.
        He had accomplished that much, surely he could get through this
night as
well, with so many fewer temptations. He sat by the water’s edge and
breathed deeply, as if he could derive sustenance from the night air itself.
He concentrated on the sound of his own breathing, trying to block out those
other sounds from the camp.
        What would Madeleine’s blood taste like?
        Don’t even think it!
        Would it be fresh and fiery? Or sweet like spring flowers? What
would she
be like, as he took her?
        He looked around wildly. Where was this demon voice coming from?
        If it was the last thing he did, he wasn’t going to give in to it.
He
tugged his clothing on and took to the air, flying as fast and as far away
from the camp as he could. Better to leave right now, without a word, than
to risk hurting her because he couldn’t control himself.
        He came back just before sunrise, so weak he could barely crawl into
the
cart. Terror of the impending dawn lent him sufficient strength to burrow
back into his nest, where he lay curled into a tight fetal position. The
pain of hunger was almost as bad as having the stake run through him. It was
far worse than mortal starvation. It was hunger and thirst combined, and it
set every nerve in his body on fire. Nevertheless, as he heard the sounds of
the camp stirring and making ready for the day’s journey, he tried to think
rationally.
        He had seen men in the East addicted to opium. If they could no
longer get
the drug they craved, they suffered incredibly, just as he was doing now.
But in the end, some of them had recovered. So would he. He could do this.
Perhaps one more day’s sleep was all he needed to break free of the
cravings.
        The sun rose higher and the cart resumed its slow, uncomfortable
journey.
Somewhere in the midst of the entourage was Madeleine, riding the roan
palfrey she was so proud of. In his mind’s eye Nicholas painted a picture of
the two of them in the sun together, riding side by side. The pain abated
somewhat, and he slept.

        But by nightfall it was even worse. He lurched from the cart, not
even
caring who might see him. Only the fact that he could barely stand made him
turn and lean against the wooden side of the cart, hiding his fangs and
glowing eyes. This was impossible. Lacroix had been right. He would never be
able to overcome his vampire nature. He didn’t have the strength.
        No, damn it! He would do this! He would not admit defeat and go
crawling
back to Lacroix. One more night. Surely, if he could get through this, he
could get through anything. He took a deep sobbing breath and held it. The
wooden frame of the cart began to splinter under the grip of his hands. He
straightened with a startled hiss of pain.
        “Sir, are you all right? Do you need any help?”
        The voice behind him almost made him jump. He had been so focussed
on
controlling himself that he hadn’t even noticed the mortal’s approach. He
spun around, to be confronted by a stout woman with a lined face, dressed in
a gown of coarse brown stuff.
        At the sight of his face, she began to stumble backwards, eyes huge,
mouth
open and ready to scream. He sprang forward and caught her before she could
do more than draw breath, spun her around and pulled her against him, one
arm holding her tightly in place, the other covering her mouth and tilting
her head back. The frantic, uneven hammering of her heart was so loud in his
ears that it drowned out all other sound. He reared his head back to strike.
        “Nicholas! Nicholas, what are you doing?”
        With a growl of frustration, he turned again, to see Madeleine
standing
there, her face going white at the appalling sight of her would-be lover. In
the torchlight she could clearly see his fangs and his eyes like glowing
embers. He could only see her in shades of pulsating red.
        She stood still, frozen in place by fear and incomprehension. In the
span
of a mortal heartbeat Nicholas lunged for her, dropping the body of the old
woman, and sank his fangs into her neck.
        Such terror, engendering such absolute bliss . . . how could he have
thought to survive without it? Her blood was nectar. He drank, savouring the
sweetness of the fear, wanting more and more and more . . . until, finally,
there was no more.
        As her heartbeat faltered and faded, sanity returned in a cold rush.
He
sank to the ground with a groan, rocking her body gently. Now it was the
silence, the absence of heartbeats, that was deafening him.
        Her hair was dressed with a circlet of fresh meadow flowers. It had
been
pushed askew. He straightened it, kissed her hair, and continued to hold her
and rock her.
        He had broken faith with her and with himself. He had thought he had
sufficient resolve and strength of will not to harm her – but in the final
trial he had been found wanting. Now he felt utterly lost – a knight without
sword or armour or horse, wandering in a wilderness.
        “Well, Nicholas. I see I need not have worried that you would
somehow
starve to death on this fruitless quest of yours.”
        He lifted his head and there, inevitably it seemed, was Lacroix,
leaning
casually against one of the carts as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

End Part 7

Words of praise accepted with pleasure, constructive criticism grudgingly
considered (g), flames promptly discarded, at mcham_thorne@hotmail.com

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Subject: Candle in the Shadows of Time (8/23)
Date: Thu, 30 Aug 2001 01:32:21 -0400
From: m chamberlain <mcham_thorne@HOTMAIL.COM>
To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU

For disclaimers and archiving permission see Part 1.

“Candle in the Shadows of Time”
Part 8/23
Mary Chamberlain
August 2001

        He lowered his eyes again, still holding Madeleine protectively.
        Lacroix sighed impatiently at his continued silence. “Why are you
grieving?
She’s a beauty, I’ll admit that, but there are others out there even finer.
Certainly she was an excellent choice, far better than this one – “ He
stirred the body of the old woman with his foot. “She appears to have
expired from sheer terror. Wasteful, my dear Nicholas – very wasteful.”
        There was still no reply from his anguished fledgling. With a sigh,
Lacroix
knelt and took Nicholas’ chin in his hand, forcing him to look directly at
Lacroix. “Or can it be,” he said softly, “that you’re mourning something
more than this fair maiden’s death? Something within yourself, perhaps? Some
fallacious notion of being able to control your own nature? Nicholas, you
hold yourself to such high standards. That is the legacy of having been a
true chevalier, I suppose.”
        Nicholas stared at him, his attention caught against his will.
Lacroix did
not sound angry, or derisive, or even patronizing. Instead, he seemed to be
truly sympathetic.
        “You can’t fight the bloodlust, my child. As mortals must breathe to
live,
so must we consume blood. They kill a deer or slaughter a pig without a
qualm, in order to eat; with us it is just the same.”
        “How can it be,” said Nicholas dully, “when a human is so much more
than a
deer or a pig?”
        “It is,” said Lacroix firmly, “because it must be. It is an
immutable fact
of nature. The sun rises, the sun sets; trees and flowers bloom in the
spring and die back in the fall; the wolf will always hunt the deer, and we
will always crave the blood of mortals. Now come.” He rose, put a hand under
Nicholas’ elbow and gently tugged him to his feet, still holding Madeleine,
but for the first time becoming aware of his surroundings.
        They were in a dark corner of the courtyard of what seemed to be a
prosperous manor house, with a thatch-roofed stable behind them along with a
smaller outbuilding, a dairy from the smell of it, from which the old woman
must have come. The Coulombe wagons were pushed close to the walls. Through
a gap between two of them they could see the front of the house itself, a
substantial stone building with a wooden solar above. Surely they could not
have reached the Coulombes’ manor already; this must be just another stop on
the journey. There were torches flaring in the courtyard and what seemed to
be an unusual amount of activity – groups of household servants and peasants
from the fields, laughing and chattering boisterously, while children ran
about underfoot. From within the house came more laughter and the sound of
singing. It appeared as if the lord of the manor was holding a feast for all
and sundry. That would explain the flowers in Madeleine’s hair and her gown
of spring-green silk, whose bodice was now marred with drops of blood.
        “A local saint’s day, I believe,” said Lacroix. “St. Bonne, if I’m
not
mistaken. I’m certainly no expert on hagiography, but as I recall she was a
young and innocent virgin who was martyred for her faith by marauding
barbarians. Really, Nicholas, I must congratulate you on your sense of
occasion. The irony is almost delicious enough to eat.”
        Nicholas said nothing. Lacroix sighed and rolled his eyes. “Put her
down.
This once I’ll spare your delicate sensibilities and deal with these two
myself. There is a small wood about two miles west of here. I’ll meet you
there.”
        Nicholas gently laid Madeleine’s body on the ground but remained
staring
down at her.
        “Go, Nicholas,” said Lacroix, not impatiently, but with a warning
tone to
his voice which implied that the state of grace wouldn’t last long.
        Nicholas looked around helplessly. There was nothing he could do but
obey
Lacroix’s command. He could hardly bring Madeleine back to life.
        He had wanted to know his strength and his own limits; and now he
had a
bitter answer.

        Lacroix took him to Avignon.
        He was unsure about the wisdom of this course of action, since the
mistral
was still blowing, and who knew what effect the maddening wind might have on
the despondent Nicholas. But it was well on into spring now, the mistral was
softening, and perhaps the taste of more fiery southern blood would do the
younger vampire good. Besides, Lacroix had always felt an attachment to the
coastal area, the old Roman Gallia Narbonnensis.
        He told Nicholas that Janette had chosen to remain in Paris,
distressed and
angry over his defection. There was a good possibility that the thought of
reclaiming Janette’s affection would act as an additional spur to Nicholas’
recovery. But for the time being, he wanted to keep a very close and
undistracted eye on his newest creation, in order to nip any signs of
further aberrant behaviour very firmly in the bud.
        He played the role of stern but loving paterfamilias to perfection,
yet he
noted with secret satisfaction the way that Nicholas unconsciously braced
himself every time Lacroix came close, as if still expecting him to mete out
some form of punishment for his escapade. Fear or respect, Lacroix had never
cared which of the two anyone felt for him, so long as it resulted in total
obedience. And yet fear did not make a good garnish for Nicholas’ blood when
he took it, as even Nicholas himself now acknowledged that he had the right
to do. He hadn’t chosen the crusader knight as a son simply to make a
spineless minion of him - although he would crush Nicholas’ heart and spirit
without mercy before he allowed him to be sucked down, like a man in
quicksand, by the pangs of a wretched mortal conscience.
        Until such time as he could be certain which way Nicholas’ emotional
pendulum was about to swing – whether he would gladly return to his family,
or whether some degree of correction would eventually be required to make
him realize the advantages of his existence – Lacroix was content, this
once, to bide his time.
        Nicholas, for his part, had no illusions that Lacroix’s apparent
benevolence stemmed from any sympathy over Madeleine’s death. But he
wondered if his master might feel just the slightest degree of compassion
for someone who had just crashed so hard and so painfully into the limits of
his own self control. It was difficult to tell, even from Lacroix’s blood,
which he had allowed Nicholas to take freely since the night of the feast of
St. Bonne. Even his master’s largesse was quite often not what it seemed.
        Lacroix never let him hunt alone now. Nicholas assumed it was
because his
master wanted to ensure that he didn’t bolt again; he had no idea that
Lacroix was carefully watching for signs of discontent and instability much
more subtle than that. Their usual haunt was the Ile de la Barthelasse, a
wooded hunting reserve below the Pont St-Benezet, home to prostitutes and
minor criminals of all sorts. Lacroix was pleased to see that Nicholas had
lost none of his skills at hunting following his misadventure; he killed
efficiently and disposed of his prey discreetly. The swift, almost
business-like manner in which he took his victims, however, gave Lacroix
pause; Nicholas was killing strictly for survival now, not for the thrill of
the hunt, both of which were equally important in Lacroix’s opinion. But so
long as he killed without hesitation, nothing could be too far wrong with
him. His former delight in the chase, savouring his victims’ terror, was
sure to return in time. Lacroix knew he was seeing yet another facet of
Nicholas’ nature; he was coming to realize that the erstwhile Crusader was a
far more intriguing bundle of contradictions than he had first suspected.
Nicholas had the soul of a wandering troubadour, staunch and idealistic,
spouting moony-eyed poetry about romantic love – ha!  What a ridiculous
notion that was! – and yet Lacroix could just as easily imagine him as a
character in one of the fabliaux recited by a wandering jongleur, a lusty
young lad who cuckolded some doddering old man with a smile that invited the
entire world to smile with him.
        There was precious little laughter about Nicholas during their stay
in
Avignon, however.
        One night they finished their hunting just as the bells of Notre
Dame des
Doms rang for Lauds. On a sudden impulse Lacroix brought them to the square
by the cathedral. All vampires felt a revulsion for these buildings, but
especially those who had shared Nicholas’ particular moral bent during their
mortal lives. Perhaps experiencing the sensation of being repelled by a holy
place, almost as if church and vampire were two magnets of opposite poles,
would help to make Nicholas understand and accept that he was truly a damned
creature, and having accepted it, realize that he might as well enjoy it.
        Lacroix was by no means comfortable this close to a house of God
either,
but he chose to assume the role of pedagogue, strolling about with his hands
clasped behind his back, as if lecturing Nicholas about classical
architecture was his sole aim in coming here.
        “How prepotent the Roman ideas were, that this church was built in
this
style hundreds of years after the Empire fell! Do you see the similarities
to a classical temple, Nicholas? Those columns could have come from the
Pantheon . . . the design of acanthus leaves there, a bit crude perhaps, but
reasonably close to the original . . . that pediment is strictly classical –
no, that’s a pediment, above the door. I do wish you’d pay attention,
Nicholas. Is something ailing you?”
        Nicholas was staring at the cathedral with huge anguished eyes. “Why
did
you bring me here, Lacroix?”
        “Why, we were practically on the doorstep, and it seemed an
excellent
opportunity to familiarize you with some of the principles of – “
        ”To show me how far I’ve fallen, you mean,” Nicholas interrupted
bitterly.
“To prove how utterly damned I am, that I can’t even stand in front of a
place like this without feeling God’s revulsion for creatures like us.”
        After a pause, Lacroix said in a voice like silk, “ Well, yes, that
too.”
        Nicholas was beginning to tremble. Lacroix took a forceful grip on
his
shoulders. “Nicholas, have you no comprehension of the corruption of the
church, of the men and their ideals who built this place? If ‘creatures like
us’ are damned, we’re in good company. What about the Cathars, to take but
one example among many? That was within living memory of most of men and
women in this city. Surely you recall the crusade against them, instigated
by the Pope himself? They were attempting to return to the pure, simple
faith of the early Church. A commendable view, you might think, but
heretical to the modern Church of Rome, which coincidentally may not have
approved of their stand against such things as church tithes and the taking
of feudal oaths. And so they were massacred, hundreds of men, women, and
children, in a church of all places. Burned to a crisp – such a waste. The
place isn’t far from here, if you’d care to see it. Why, you can probably
still smell the smoke.”
        Nicholas said nothing. He looked wretched. Lacroix continued
scathingly,
“Is that not enough to convince you of the falsity of this precious Church
of yours, where such acts are not only committed, but condoned? I could
quote you more examples if you like, many more. What point is there in
keeping faith with a deity that allows the innocent to be persecuted in his
name?” He released Nicholas and said more gently, “This religion is not for
you any longer. Leave it behind, like a child’s bauble. You have no need of
it.”
        Still gazing at the church, Nicholas said softly, “The ones who
killed the
Cathars, and the ones who sanctioned the killing, were no more than human.
But if the true power of God is simply that of fallible, corrupt mankind,
why does the cross still burn us?”
        He knew then that he’d gone too far. Lacroix’s eyes flared red. He
seized
Nicholas again, by the throat this time, and hurled him across the square to
land with bone-shattering force against the stones of the cathedral itself.
While the younger vampire was still making feeble attempts to rise, Lacroix
alighted in front of him and seized him again, hauling him up and holding
him against the cathedral wall. Nicholas’ head spun and his stomach churned
with combined fear of Lacroix and the building whose rough stonework was now
digging into his back.
        “Enough of this,” hissed Lacroix. “I have no intention of debating
theology
with you all night. If there is indeed a God, and a Christ whose cross burns
us, he is nothing to us! And neither are Jupiter, Mithras, Amen-Ra, or any
of the rest! Beings who live forever have no need to fear perdition.” He
tightened his grip. “And if you persist in pining after this God of yours,
remember what I told you the night you killed Madeleine Coulombe. We are
immutable; we are what we are. It is pointless to wish for God’s grace,
because you will only be miserable for eternity. I know you still wonder why
I didn’t punish you for running away. It was because I knew you’d finally
realized something - that you can’t escape your own nature. The price you
paid for that knowledge was a deeper pain than any I could have inflicted on
you. Your nature and your God are mutually exclusive. It’s too late for you
now, Nicholas. You’ve already turned your back to that light, and you were
quick enough to do so.
        “You will never escape what you are. And you will never escape me.
And I
say that I will hear no more of this matter, or I may yet send you to take
your chances with St. Peter.” His glowing eyes were now scant inches from
Nicholas’ blue ones. “I didn’t kill you before, Nicholas, but never think
that I won’t, if you disobey me in this.”
        He opened his hand and Nicholas fell with a thud to the pavement. He
remained at Lacroix’s feet, afraid to move, until Lacroix turned with an
impatient swirl of his rich woollen mantle and strode away. Halfway across
the square he stopped, obviously waiting.
        Unwilling to risk another red-eyed glare, and desperate to get away
from
the holy building, Nicholas scrambled to his feet and hurried after him.

End Part 8

Words of praise accepted with pleasure, constructive criticism grudgingly
considered (g), flames promptly discarded, at mcham_thorne@hotmail.com

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Subject: Candle in the Shadows of Time (9/23)
Date: Fri, 31 Aug 2001 01:25:03 -0400
From: m chamberlain <mcham_thorne@HOTMAIL.COM>
To: FKFIC-L@LISTS.PSU.EDU

For disclaimers and archiving permission see Part 1.

“Candle in the Shadows of Time”
Part 9/23
Mary Chamberlain
August 2001

        All that day Nicholas was unable to sleep. He lay next to Lacroix,
who kept
one arm stretched across the younger vampire’s chest as if to reinforce his
declaration that Nicholas would never escape him. Lacroix appeared to sleep
soundly, and yet Nicholas stared at the ceiling above him and listened as
the church bells rang for Prime, then Tierce, and on and on until Vespers,
when Lacroix began to stir.
        Eyes cast appropriately down, Nicholas asked permission to leave for
an
hour or so. Lacroix eyed him as if searching for signs of latent insurgency,
then magnanimously consented.
        He went to the Pont St-Benezet. Standing in the centre of the stone
span,
with the stars glittering like miniature fires above and the spring-swollen
Rhone rushing below, he reached into the purse at his belt and pulled out
the little candle charm.
        He had bought it as a gift, but it had never reached its intended
recipient. It had been taken from him by a cheater, who had shortly
thereafter died a horrible death. It had been taken and kept by a dour,
grieving man, and returned to him in a spirit of bitterness. He had had it
with him when he killed an innocent girl and shattered his belief in his own
strength of will. And now this latest dissension with Lacroix, which was so
bitter, and concerned something so fundamental, that he could see no end to
it.
        To light the darkness, the inscription read; far from doing that, so
many
things that had seemed plain to him before were now obscured.
        Nicholas had never placed too much credence in the power of relics,
charms,
or amulets; he had scarcely more faith even than Lacroix in the provenance,
authenticity and miraculous powers claimed for fragments of the True Cross
or Christ’s crown of thorns. He knew the little candle precisely for what it
was: a piece of metal and a chip of stone. Not something that was imbued
with a supernatural ability to dog the owner’s steps with ill luck.
        And yet, and yet . . .
        Etienne de Bruyere had charged him with keeping the candle in order
to
remember Jehan and that vampire’s death. Had he also meant it to remind
Nicholas of other deaths he had caused? That was hardly likely; he doubted
that de Bruyere concerned himself with the deaths of mortals any more than
Lacroix did. Perhaps, this was a charge that someone else was seeking to lay
on him?
        He told himself that that was arrant nonsense.
        Nevertheless, he knew he could never be comfortable so long as the
thing
remained in his possession. He opened his hand and let the little candle
drop into the river.

        In the loft, one of the wax tapers on the piano began to gutter,
then
flared up. The sudden brightness woke Nick from his reverie.
        He looked around, momentarily disoriented by the twentieth-century
surroundings, then rose from the table, extinguished the candles, and went
upstairs to bed.

        He arrived at the station that night to find that Missing Persons
had
identified the girl found in the ravine.
        “Lesley Jane Middleton,” said Schanke from the desk opposite Nick’s,
leafing through the information they had on the victim. “Just turned sixteen
when she ran away f