Casting the First Stone  Section 1 of 4
Copyright 1998 W. R. DeAngelo 
Rights to post granted to FTP site and FK fanfic site only.
Names of persons associated with Fk fandon purposely used with their permission 
and are meant in fun / tribute.  Everyone else, it's just a coincidence, folks.
     This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott
     and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar.  No infringement is intended.
     
     
     1. Chapter
     
     Paris, France   June 1572
     The man, for such he seemed, looked deeply into the darkness, then entered 
in.
     He picked his way through the reeking, dank, Parisian alley to the 
apartment door, shuddering in revulsion as he moved.  He placed a trembling hand 
on the latch, a cheap wood affair, old and dangerous, while the comfortless 
alley closed around him as tightly as a noose.  He had made his decision.  She 
would be disappointed, but not surprised.  His master would be abusive and 
superior.
     He removed his hand from the door, hesitating before the splintered door.  
He could leave without telling them, but he knew they would hunt him down.  They 
would have sensed his presence long before he had turned the corner.  They 
waited within, fully aware of his anxiety and duplicity.
     Was he afraid?  Would they let him go?  He already wore his traveling 
clothes, for he intended to leave tonight.  The still air was suffocating and 
humid.  He felt his hair matted and curling in the wet air of the alley.  He 
could not wait for dry weather.  He could not bear another moment hopeless and 
lost in Paris.  Relentless, unchanging, forever, each of his nights began and 
ended with the same compulsions, the same empty obsessions, the same sins, and 
the same dissatisfactions.  They had done this to him.  He had done this.  He 
loved them for all they had given him, and he hated them.
     Nicholas pushed open the wood door to their latest sanctuary.  Hunters had 
picked up their scent two weeks ago and, lest they be murdered in their sleep, 
he and his companions had withdrawn to this dingy apartment until it was safe to 
return to Parisian society.  It was during these intermittent, enforced recluses 
that he felt most heavily the burden of his existence.  Mold and mildew, the 
ambience of the tomb, hung about the apartment along with the rotted bed 
curtains.  He stepped through and shoved the warped door back into its frame.
     "Nicholas returns," said LaCroix, who stood tall and pale next to Janette.  
She was seated next to him, neutral as glass.  LaCroix sipped from the chalice 
in his left hand, the irises of his eyes colorless in the firelight.  Janette 
said nothing, but Nicholas could see her ever-present cynicism in her eyes.  Her 
raven hair, undone, fell about her shoulders, depthless as black water.  Her 
rich costume, so incongruous with the room, reminded Nicholas of the recurring 
indignities in their lives.
     "You were right, my dear," continued LaCroix.  Firelight reflected from his 
pale face.  "He did not abandon us.  He does condescend to rejoin our little 
company."
     "I would quit you at once, but there is only this one, appalling, room," 
Nicholas replied.
     "I do not require your thanks, only your obedience."
     "You shall have neither.  Must I thank you for bringing me to this," and 
Nicholas swept his hand about the room, "enviable situation, your honor, your 
lordship, you venerable, you General, by whatever tired designation you lately 
appropriate, Lord Lucien LaCroix."  Nicholas bowed extravagantly to his master.
     "It is this again, is it?  I remind you, your life is the result of your 
choice, not mine.  Now you regret everything, even your Janette?"  LaCroix's 
eyes moved smoothly to the silent woman beside him.
     Nicholas felt the injury, as he remembered his mercurial Janette.  "No, 
never."  She smiled.
     "Then you resent me."  LaCroix set his cup down and stepped toward 
Nicholas, who backed away from his master until his back was against the wall.  
"You blame me.  I gave you a gift unimaginable, one that cannot be purchased for 
love or gold, one for which men sell their souls."
     "I want my soul back!"
     "You gave it away with your mortality," said LaCroix.  "It is gone, dead 
ash along with all the pathetic mortals you knew three hundred years ago.  That 
was your choice, live or die.  You chose to live."
     "Did I?"
     "This is not death," pronounced LaCroix acidly.  "You reward my pains with 
insult and derision."  LaCroix grasped Nicholas by the shoulders and hurled him 
against the opposite wall, shaking the thin panels.  Splinters fell from the 
ceiling.
     Nicholas felt something split inside his head with the impact.  He reached 
up to his left ear.  His hand was wet with blood.
     "Be reasonable," said Janette, pulling LaCroix back.  "He is bored.  He has 
too much empty time and little to distract him."
     Nicholas steadied himself for another assault.  His lightheadedness passed 
as his wounds healed.  Would this be the night he pushed LaCroix too far?
     LaCroix said, "In the beginning, you showed such promise, such ingenuity 
and audacity.  Now you come to me in this sorry condition, apologizing for your 
existence.  I weary of your incomprehensible caprices.  It is I who am mistaken.  
It is I who am sorry I brought you across and made you our friend."
     "I thought," said Nicholas, wiping the blood from his hair before it 
reached his collar, "I was your slave."
     "The slave sleeps in the barn."
     Nicholas smashed the wall with his fist.  "And what is this?  I can not 
tell whether this squalor be barn or not."
     "You are my son, not my slave.  Blood ties never can be broken."
     "It is you that will not release me."
     "You would not go."
     "I go now."
     "Nicholas?" Janette said.  "What do you mean?"
     Nicholas prepared to fight his way back to the alley.  "I will not return."
     "You will," said LaCroix.  "You always do."
     "I go to England."
     "Why?"  Janette turned hastily to LaCroix.  "Stop him!  This is your doing, 
and yours.  You quarrel endlessly, like two boys!  I am sick to death of it."
     "If only I could be sick to death of anything instead of everything," said 
Nicholas.
     Nicholas felt LaCroix's mind probing him for signs of weakness.  He tried 
to fight it but did not know how.  His master said, "England, is it?  What do 
you expect to find in England?"
     "I expect to find," but here Nicholas stopped, suddenly embarrassed, 
foolish.  "I expect to find what I always find, nothing."
     "As I suspected.  You have unearthed yet another savior who promises to 
redeem your pocked soul."  Nicholas refused to answer.  "In which province of 
Galilee does this one reside?"
     "Yes, at least tell us where you are going."  Janette took Nicholas by the 
hand.  She dabbed at the blood on his neck with her handkerchief.  "Where in 
England?"
     "Saffron Walden, north of London."
     "No, no."  LaCroix shook his head in amusement.  "You are not to make a 
pilgrimage to see that madman with whom you have been corresponding.  He knows 
nothing.  What does a mortal know of immortality?"
     LaCroix went to the cluttered table by the window and threw the papers 
there to the floor.  "He is a self indulgent farmer with just enough money to 
see his delusions printed in pamphlets.  He is a false seer who has seen nothing 
of the world."
     "I am going, I do not need your permission."
     "I think you do."
     Nicholas waited, his eyes fixed on the wasted letters from his 
correspondent.  He knew if it were LaCroix's wish, he could prevent Nicholas 
from departing.  Nicholas might be required to die where he stood.  He 
considered whether that would or would not make a suitable end to their 
relationship.
     "Your life," said LaCroix, "would be less difficult if you would wait on my 
opinion."
     "I always know your opinion."
     LaCroix lowered his voice.  "What is it that this farmer offers you that 
justifies your enthusiasm.  What is it that you need that we do not give you?"
     LaCroix circled Nicholas.  "Is it love?  Salvation?  Forgiveness?  Hope?  I 
have given you all that and more.  I have given you life."
     "This is not life.  Nor are we dead.  We are worse than dead.  We would 
fare better dead."  Nicholas tried to leave, but LaCroix pulled him back from 
the door and slammed him against the wall again.  Nicholas felt his ribcage swim 
in his chest.
     "We accept you for what you are, my son, we know you for what you are.  It 
is useless to keep apologizing for what can not be changed.  You have 
perfection.  It is a fool who fights nature, and that is what you are," LaCroix 
pressed Nicholas' falling collar into a crisp, fastidious fold as he concluded, 
"a fool."
     Nicholas had never before felt such complete contempt for his master.  "You 
created me.  Apparently, you were insufficient to the task."
     LaCroix's smile came slowly like a cobra uncoiling.  He fell back a step.  
Abruptly, he pulled open the door.  Janette crossed her arms and turned her 
back.
     "Where are you going?" asked Nicholas, though he already knew his master's 
intentions.
     LaCroix's eyes glowed with amber malevolence.  "It is an hour before 
sunrise.  I still thirst."  A moment later, he was gone.
     
     Saffron Walden, England, August 1572
     Nicholas knew his belongings arrived during the day, but he hesitated to 
deliver himself to the door.  He lingered with his mount, on a small knoll 
rising up within the common woods.  Beyond the tree line lay the property of 
Edmund Waltham, a local yeoman whose increasing prosperity might soon convert 
him into gentry.  The Waltham farm grew coriander and teazel, but its primary 
crop was saffron.  The fragile purple crocus required considerable care to 
maintain and diligence to harvest its valuable orange red stamens.
     Nicholas had purposely planned his visit to fall after the spring harvest, 
which occurred between Lady Day and Midsummer, and before Michaelmas when the 
roots were divided.  Imagining the picture the crocus in its season must 
present, Nicholas ached for the sunshine and to witness the glorious vernal 
transformation when the purple blossoms painted the entire countryside with 
lavender.
     At the end of the path below him slept Waltham Hall, its skeleton of dark 
timber and white plaster walls winked at him through the swaying trees.  
Nicholas wondered what awaited him there.  Unwelcome voices whispered in his 
mind, persuading, prophesying, and admonishing.
     He considered the difficulty of his position and his stratagem for handling 
it.  By surrounding himself with glamours and deceits, he intended to fool the 
innocents into believing he was the man he professed to be in his letters.
     Straightening his seat, Nicholas jerked the reins slightly to inform his 
mount that its rider was still awake.  The horse snorted and danced a moment 
before quieting again.  Was LaCroix right?  He often was, though Nicholas was 
loath to admit it.  Was this a fool's errand, or worse?
     Whenever he tried to live with mortals as an equal, it ended badly.  
Nicholas twitched his face aside, unwilling to look at his own memories.  No, 
this time it would be different, he vowed, his hands tightening on the reins.  
LaCroix would never understand his quest, his desperate need to cleanse his 
polluted soul.  Instead, his master derided his efforts and destroyed those 
mortals for whom he expressed affection.
     "Yes," Nicholas affirmed to himself.  It was his master, LaCroix, who was 
the author of all the misery in his life.  The fiend had offered him immortality 
as a gift, as freedom, as unending adventure.  He had failed to impress upon 
Nicholas that, as mortality is natural to mortals, unnatural desire curses the 
immortal.  Instead of freedom, he suffered bondage.  Instead of adventure, he 
was the monster wanting destruction by the hero's hand.
     Left on his own, all would be well; he was certain of it.  Nicholas would 
find his answers and, if not release from his cursed existence, then peace of 
mind in a new philosophy.  LaCroix, his old friend and mentor, LaCroix be 
damned. Yes, all would fare well as long as his master kept his distance.  Only 
one vampire remained to pose a threat to the welfare of his hosts.
     Nicholas de Brabant, himself.
     
     
     ------  >>>
     
     2. Chapter
     
     Toronto
     Nick stood outside of the sound booth, watching through the glass and 
listening to his master speak.
     "Good evening, friends.  Welcome to Night Watch.  I am your host, The Night 
Crawler.  As I do every night, I am here to accompany you on your journey from 
darkness to dawn.  The way is fraught with peril and uncertainty.  Walk with me, 
stay with me; never leave my side.  You may be spared."
     The red On Air light dimmed, and LaCroix spoke into the intercom to his 
technician.  "I have a visitor.  I require an hour."  He snapped several 
switches, leaned back in his chair.
     Nick entered the booth without knocking.  LaCroix had broadcast his Night 
Watch programs from the CERK building originally.  But several months ago, he 
had purchased The Raven from his daughter, Janette DuCharme when she had 
dissolved all of her local assets.  She had left without telling Nick, and he 
still felt hurt by her sudden disappearance.
     LaCroix used his personal fortune to install the soundproof booth from 
which he could simultaneously broadcast and observe the club patrons.  His 
office and private rooms lay footsteps away further back in the club and 
downstairs in the basement.  He lived comfortably in Janette's vacated 
apartments.
     Two steps inside, Nick placed one hand up against the smooth surface of the 
soundproof glass to support himself.  Soon he found the effort was too much of a 
strain.  He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.
     "You return.  Dare I hope this is a social call?"
     "LaCroix," said Nick softly, "I need your help.  I do not want to argue."  
Nick propelled himself forward only to drop into the leather-lined chair that 
sat before LaCroix's console.  He rested his head deep in the leather.  He was 
starving.
     "When was the last time you fed?" asked LaCroix.
     "I don't' know."
     LaCroix made no effort to hide his disgust.  He was hardly changed from the 
night Nick first had the misfortune to meet him.  His hair was still as white 
and bristle short as it had been when he was a Roman general.  His browlines 
were still dark and high, as though applied by the expert hand of a 
transvestite.  LaCroix looked down at everyone, for he was tall, and because he 
felt entitled.
     He looked down now as he uncorked a green bottle and handed it to Nick.  
The extravagant label boasted pedigree and vintage in gilt letters, but made no 
mention of wine.  Nick stared at it a moment, knowing he should resist, ask for 
something different, then upending it, swallowed its contents.  He had flirted 
with starvation before, but had never managed to swear off drinking entirely.
     "I ran out of stock."  Nick heard his own voice as if it were coming to him 
from very far away.  "I can't remember.  Three days, or was it four?  Five?  I 
lost track.  I forgot to lay up more stock from my butcher."
     "It is beneath you to fill your own bottles at this stage of your life," 
said LaCroix.  "I am surprised you can tolerate the scent of a mortal in such a 
state."  He handed Nick a second bottle.
     "No," said Nick, "I couldn't."
     He was here because he had no place else to go.  As Nick sat across from 
his partner, Tracy Vetter, earlier that night, he suddenly became acutely aware 
of her.  When she reached over to borrow a pen from him, the pulse twitching at 
her wrist transfixed him.
     An odd thought passed through his mind.  What would Internal Affairs do if 
one of their Toronto Homicide Detectives, in the middle of his shift, slashed 
open the carotid of his partner?  His attention flowed from her forearm to the 
pulse at her throat.  Soon he could hear its subtle rhythm, sensing its sweet 
cargo as it was enriched by each even breath.  He heard the blood rushing 
through her veins, passing into her heart, through each chamber one by one, then 
racing back through her arteries.
     The entire precinct room became thick with heat and beating hearts and he 
fled without explanation.  Nick quickly emptied the second bottle.
     "Satisfy my curiosity, not that I care particularly why you insist upon 
denying yourself, but what were your intentions this time?"
     Nick looked at the empty bottle, his vision marred by pink tears.  LaCroix 
delicately removed the empty container and placed a third bottle into Nick's 
shaking hands.  "I told you.  I was working.  I just forgot."
     "Ridiculous.  We deliver.  We do stock that pathetic cow swill you insist 
upon drinking.  Why will you not set up an account with us?"
     "I would rather not."  Nicholas poured the contents of the third bottle 
down his throat, at last feeling a measure of self-control return.  It was human 
blood though, and he felt delirious.  He tried not to show the effect it was 
having on him to his master, but his mind was reeling from a new hunger.  He was 
so hungry.  One mortal satisfied so quickly.  He would need more before he dared 
leave.  His head spun.  He leaned forward. He felt sick.
     "I see you operate on the flimsy hope that you will be cured any moment.  
You wait on your miracle."  LaCroix removed the third bottle from Nicholas' hand 
and replaced it with a fourth.  "See, the kingdom you seek is at hand."
     "I don't want this."  Nick felt stronger.  "Get me something else."
     "You know where the cellar is."
     Nicholas stood, but had to sit down again.  Was it the hunger or the human 
blood?  LaCroix was taking advantage of the situation, but Nick felt too sick 
and too hungry to argue.  "Cursed," he said and emptied the fourth bottle.
     "Vampires have lived on human blood for millennia as our right by nature, 
but you have to be different."
     "Choose a different topic."
     "Certainly.  Let us discuss your car."
     Nicholas wiped his mouth with his hand.  "Try another subject."
     "Do you have it with you?"
     "Yes."  Nick had been concerned that he was too weak to drive but he drove 
anyway.  In the air, he was afraid he might be too weak to forego hunting before 
he reached his destination.
     "I will have a cooler loaded into your vehicle and we will set up an 
account for you for one case a month, just enough to keep you from embarrassing 
our Community."
     "I said, no."
     "Think of the satisfaction when you come to me and cancel your account."
     Nick sighed, then held out a hand for another bottle.
     Later as he drove away from The Raven, Nick checked his watch.  He didn't 
know how he was going to explain this one.  At the precinct, there was a message 
for him.  His partner was already waiting for him at a crime scene.  He got back 
in his car and headed west to The Annex.
     Nick parked his vintage 62' metallic blue Caddy on Bernard Street and 
leaned against its side.  He still felt lightheaded.  His large car nearly 
blocked the narrow street.
     The home was an asymmetrical corner-towered Romanesque style that Nick 
recognized from the early 1900's.  Arches delineated the deep reveals of the 
windows and front door.  A round turret with an imbrication of brown fish scale 
shingles capped the corner tower.
     An ambitious cottage style garden graced the small plot in front.  Roses 
bloomed in abundance and morning glories wound up the wrought iron fencing near 
the curb.  Myrtle and hostas obviated the need for grass.  There was not a hint 
of disrepair, although the structure was nearly one hundred years old.  The 
owner had put in the time and money to recover this home from the injuries dealt 
it by time.  Nick remembered how magnificent these Victorians were new.
     "Nick?"  He heard Tracy before he saw her.  She charged down the front 
walkway to him.  She had been Nick's partner for several months, ever since his 
first partner, Don Schanke, had died in a plane crash.  She was new to working 
homicide and to detective work, having been recently promoted.  He missed 
Schanke.
     Nick checked himself.  He tended to treat Tracy as a rookie because she 
seemed so young.  Then again, everyone was so much younger than he was.  It was 
just that she was such a fresh faced, slender, blue-eyed blonde with a page boy 
haircut trying to step into Schanke's sizable shoes.
     Unexpectedly, she had created new problems for him that threatened his 
continuing position on the force and his ability to remain in Toronto.  He could 
not afford to let his guard down when she was around.
     Facing him down, hands on her hips, Tracy was making the best of a bad 
situation.  Nick recognized the clipped tone of her voice.  "It's about time you 
got here.  I had to beg a ride from Captain Reese.  It's embarrassing.  We need 
to get coordinated."
     "The Captain is here?"  Nick was surprised.  "I smell coffee.  Again."  He 
tried a weak smile.
     "Are you hearing me?  Never off without me again.  We are supposed to be 
partners."
     "What are you eating?  Are those coffee beans?"
     Tracy waved a small plastic bag.  "Chocolate-covered espresso beans.  My 
coffee maker is on the blink.  You know me, I can't function without caffeine."
     "Sorry to hear about your loss."
     "Thanks.  The subject is you ditching me at the precinct.  Can't you leave 
a note?  I have a phone.  And voicemail."
     "Shall I tell you the number of times you left me without an explanation?  
Do you have something against backup?"
     "I didn't take your transportation."  Tracy popped a bean into her mouth.  
Crunch.  "You can't expect me to take the subway to crime scenes."
     "Where were you last night over lunch?" countered Nick.  He hoped that he 
didn't already know.
     Tracy stopped mid-crunch and swallowed.  "None of your beeswax."
     "Someone on the force I know?"
     "I was seeing a friend."  Tracy jangled her beans.  Nick knew he had 
touched a nerve.  "The subject is you ditching me."
     "In the future, I won't take the car again without you."
     "Promise?"  Crunch, crunch.  "I'd like that in writing."
     "Cross my heart and hope to die."
     "Not necessary.  Want a bean?"
     Nick shook his head, no, then pointed to the house.  The detectives mounted 
the steps, stepped over the yellow police tape, and passed under the wide 
marquee to the recessed front door.  It was painted a startling red to welcome 
visitors.
     "So," said Nick, "why is the Captain here?"
     "Correction.  The Captain was here.  The Captain already left and he'll 
have a few choice words for you when you get back to the precinct; words like 
reliability, punctuality, and reassignment to traffic."
     "And?"
     "We doubt this is an isolated case."
     "That bad?"
     Tracy shrugged.  "See for yourself."
     Nick pushed open the door with his elbow.  They both entered the foyer.  
Inside, monoliths of glass and mirrors ruined the late Victorian ambience as 
harsh shards of reflected light flew from every polished surface.  The second 
floor to the front room had been removed so the bay area could extend 
uninterrupted up through the turrets.  Light, both natural and artificial fell 
from above to drown the white carpeting.  All the outside light, albeit 
moonlight, caused Nick to grieve in surprise.  It was though a large knife had 
hacked openings into the ceiling.
     Ceiling high windows had been installed along the rear of the home beyond 
the kitchen. Beautiful landscaping seemed to grow uninterrupted through the 
glass, spilling into dinning area.  In short, the interior had been converted 
from an 1890's drawing room into a 1980's great room.  The regrettable showcase 
was early noveau riche, expansive, white, and undoubtedly expensive.  Nick was 
appalled.
     "Nice, isn't it?" said Tracy.
     "Sure," answered Nick without conviction.
     "This is gorgeous, but the cost!  I can't imagine!  When the sun shines 
through all these windows, I'll bet it's like springtime in winter."
     Nick gazed up into the ill-considered high ceilings blasted from the first 
through the second floor.  They were surrounded by fichus, orchids, azaleas, 
norfolk firs, and the variegated leaves of tropical plants.  A monstrous pothos 
rose up a trellis affixed to the stone wall along the fireplace and a large palm 
arched over the far right window in the kitchen.  An aquarium had been 
installed, covered by glass within the low table serving the living room.  It 
glowed like a forest pond.
     "I'll never live in a place like this.  At least not while I'm an honest 
cop."
     "Pity that," said Nick generously.
     The Mobile Crime Unit was well into cataloguing the scene, lifting prints, 
photographing, and indexing.  A silver black film of magnetic dactylogical dust 
covered the brass door handles, etched windows, and ostentatious ominium 
gatherum of the residence.  It seemed to Nick somehow insulting, after a murder, 
to desecrate the home with black dust and strangers.
     "Over here," said Tracy, motioning Nick to the kitchen.  The body lay 
behind the oversized kitchen island.  Nick sensed no blood, but was acutely 
aware of the foul scent of death.
     Tracy sighed.  "Here it is."  Her face twisted as Nick came around the edge 
of the island and took his first look at the deceased.
     The body of a brown-haired, middle aged woman in twill pants and denim 
shirt lay on the white ceramic tiles.  The back arched up painfully.  Complete 
rigor mortis had set in, petrifying the body in the last spasm of death.  The 
stilled face communicated the victim's final agony with a horrible grimace and 
wide green eyes.  Nick had seen a great deal of death in his life, but he had 
never before appreciated a body so nightmarishly preserved, except on the frozen 
fields of war.
     Dr. Natalie Lambert, the Medical Examiner, stood with her back to the 
refrigerator, reviewing the notations on her clipboard.  Despite the business 
suit, her Raphaelite curls and sleepy eyes reminded Nick of the cover of a 
romance novel.  That was only fair, for she was the most unrequited of all 
unrequited loves.  She looked up from her notes as the detectives regarded the 
body.
     "Finally," she said pointedly to Nick.  Natalie never minced words, rarely 
tripped, had true grit, sensible heels and all those other qualities that might 
induce Sam Spade to say, "She's a swell, gutsy gal."  Like Tracy, she could also 
say, "My boyfriend is a vampire."  Nick's life had become way too complicated.
     Nick first became acquainted with her six years ago.   The EMT's delivered 
him to her in a body bag from which he proceeded to leak vital fluids all over 
her autopsy slab.  While she was on the phone, his mushy puddle of human remains 
recoalesced into a walking, talking creature with an inappropriate interest in 
the blood bags from her cold storage.
     To his surprise, and to the credit of swell, gutsy gals everywhere, she did 
not faint, or scream.  Nick had hopped off her table and told her he was dead.  
She disagreed.  Vehemently.  She took him on as her personal science project.  
She would cure him, she said.  In a bizarre reversal of Frankenstein's 
experiment, she would turn a monster into a man.  He couldn't believe his luck.  
He was hopeful for the first time in many decades.
     But now he realized that she had less interest in Frankenstein and more 
interest in starring in her own version of Building Mr. Right.  They began a 
strange pas de deux, moving around their private ballroom in shortening circles, 
alternately stepping forward and away from each other, afraid to dance too 
closely.  He felt guilty for her along with everything else in his life.  For 
her sake, he should move on.  But he didn't.
     Nick said, "What have you got, Nat."
     "Female, Caucasian, named Ima Embrey.  According to her driver's license 
she was 45 years old.  Probably poison.  T.O.D. recent.  And you're late."
     "Poison?" said Nick.  "Are you sure?  Not trauma?"  He leaned over and 
inspected the corpse.  The face leered hideously back at him, teeth and gums 
fully exposed, as if it knew his secrets and was laughing at him.  "Why isn't 
the face flaccid?"
     "Strychnine grin is what it's called.  The signs," she gestured toward the 
odd, exaggerated arc of the body, "are, well, unmistakable.  I'm as sure as I 
can be without a post mort.  The extreme opistotonos, caused the body to arch 
back like that."
     "Let's pretend I don't know what the word 'opistiotomy' means," Tracy said.  
She had retreated to the opposite side of the kitchen island.
     "Strychnine causes horrific spasms.  The stiffness starts in the face and 
neck, similar to lockjaw.  Then the entire body spasms unrelentingly until the 
victim dies.  Rigor mortis sets in unusually fast, leaving us with this.  That's 
why the styrchnine grin.  Usually facial expression is lost immediately upon 
death, but here it is preserved.  I'm sure the labs will confirm strychnine or a 
derivative."
     Tracy pulled out her casebook.  "Our victim left one wine glass on the 
island for the lab."
     "Are you thinking suicide?  That's not what you said outside," Nick said to 
Tracy.
     "We're 99.99% sure it wasn't a suicide," answered Tracy.
     "I'd think a suicide victim would choose something less awful," said Nat.  
"I can't think of anything worse than strychnine."
     "Arsenic," responded Nick.  "Madame Bovary used arsenic."
     Tracy made a face and said, "That took days, Nick.  And it was fiction."
     "I sincerely doubt suicide," continued Nat, "unless it was someone ignorant 
of the effects strychnine.  If this is murder, and he knew the effects, he is a 
very angry killer."
     "Here is our problem."  Tracy drew her partner carefully around and over to 
the head of the body and pointed to the floor.  "We're not sure what these are.  
We're certain the victim didn't put them here and then arrange to die in just 
this spot."
     "The contortions," said Nat.  "She couldn't possibly do this herself.  
Someone waited, and watched, then arranged the pieces.  Really nice."
     Tracy pointed to the floor above the head.  "I hope these aren't satanic.  
The Captain is afraid this is some sort of ritual killing."
     Nick knelt down near the head and looked at the floor.  There were three, 
small, glossy black stones, of a size comfortable to fit into the heart of his 
hand, arranged linearly over the top of the head.  They stood in stark relief 
against the white ceramic.
     "Hematite," observed Nick.
     Tracy knelt next to him.  "What does that mean?"
     "I don't know.  They're cheap though, common as dirt.  You've taken the 
pictures and sketches?"
     "Oh yeah," said Tracy, with a hint of sarcasm, "we've had plenty of time."  
She handed Nick a cloth.
     Using the cloth, Nick picked up one of the stones carefully and inspected 
it.  On it was a symbol hand painted in gold acrylic.  It was an x with an 
inverted v on top.  It resembled a fish.  He set it down and picked up the 
second stone.  It was a simple arrow pointing up.  The third stone depicted two 
x's, one set on top of the other forming a diamond in the middle.
     "Do you recognize them, Nick?  You always know the obscure information."
     "I don't know what they mean, but I know what they are, and it is a 
message."  He set the last stone down gently where he had picked it up.  
"They're Runes."
     "Runes!" exclaimed Tracy.  "That's right!  The Cap was so worked up about 
this being some kind of satanic killing, I completely forgot.  I knew they 
looked familiar.  Can you read them?"
     Nick stood and ran one hand through his hair.  "No, I can't.  They're used 
to cast fortunes, but I don't know how it is done.  I agree, I don't like this 
elaborate Rune business."
     Nat said, "I don't have anything else for you.  Unlike some people who have 
all sorts of time to waste, the EMTs and I are past ready to leave.  Do we have 
your go ahead?"  Nick nodded.  "I'll schedule the post mort for late tomorrow 
for you, but I'll run the labs right away to verify the poison."
     "Sure.  Thanks.  Sorry I was so late."  Nick tried smiling at her, though 
smiling did not seem to be doing him any good tonight.  "Better late than 
never?"
     "Ah, not clever enough," returned Nat.  She nodded to Tracy 
conspiratorially, "Later."
     The gurney was brought and, with difficulty, the body was lifted and 
secured.  Then the EMTs pushed it out of the room, followed closely by the M.E..
     Nick watched her go, shoving his hands in his pockets.  He still had his 
scene inspection left, even though Trace was going to spoon feed the details to 
him.  "What else did I miss?"
     "Our victim is a Chartered Accountant," said Tracy.  "Independent."
     "You found that where?"
     Tracy, helped herself to another expresso bean before she answered.  She 
must have skipped breakfast again.  "Hours of sleuthing while you were out 
goofing off.  She has her office set up in the other room.  I'm a really good 
cop, so I cleverly read the information on her business card."
     "Uh huh.  Then there is a list of clients for us to look through."
     "For you to look through, you mean.  You owe me big time.  Yes, a Rolodex 
and files.  Computer Ops already carried away her entire database.  You missed 
all the excitement."  Another shot.
     "We think the victim knew the killer," she continued.  "There was no forced 
entry.  We didn't find any sign of a second party except for the stones.  
Whoever did it, cleaned up afterwards or avoided mussing up the room."
     Nick walked about as Tracy spoke.  He studied the objects on a large brass 
and glass etagere.  The victim had a penchant for brass and Austrian crystal 
animals.  A 5 x 7 photo rested on the highest shelf.  He stood on his toes to 
get a better look.  It was a photo of the victim with two young girls, about 
twelve years old.  Who was this woman to these girls?  Mother?  Aunt?  "Do we 
have anything on the family, yet?"
     Tracy said, "We found an address book, but it is a little late in the day 
to start making random calls.  No one in it shared her last name.  Embrey seems 
to have lived alone.  Those girls might be cousins or nieces.  Or maybe she has 
an ex and the girls are living with him.  We don't know."
     "Who found the body then?"
     "We did.  It was an anonymous call from our 'killer'," said Tracy using her 
fingers to wave quotation marks about the last word.  "Male.  He said, 'there is 
a homicide at', and gave the address.  The recording was short; I don't think 
we'll get much from it.  He might have called from here so we're checking the 
phone records.  Other than that, I just stayed here all night drawing sketches 
of the room and waiting for you to answer your phone."
     "Truce, already.  You have to forgive me sometime," said Nick.
     "No, I don't.  There I was, sitting at my desk, working, and the Captain 
comes over with the call here on Bernard.  He was pretty excited and he asks, 
'Where's Knight?'  I look up and you've disappeared.  No note, nothing.  You 
didn't even tell me you'd left the building so we had...."
     "I know, the usual conversation."
     Tracy eyed him coolly, a note of concern in her voice.  "Is there something 
you're not telling me?  Is it a drinking problem, perhaps?"  Tracy's mother was 
an alcoholic so she imagined everyone was on the verge of developing a drinking 
problem.
     "No, I just had to pick something up.  I thought I'd be back in less than 
half an hour."
     "Two hours, Nick?" said Tracy. "At least.  That's as far as I could tell, 
anyway.  I thought you booked off without telling me."
     Nick sighed.  "Am I working penance Saturday?"
     "Unless the Captain kills you first.  And even if he does, he'll probably 
make you come in and work the extra shift after you're dead."
     Nick found this acutely funny and laughed.  "If that is what it takes."
     "You are incorrigible."
     "So I'm told.  Did you find anything else while you were here doing both 
our jobs?"
     "Since you asked," Tracy said escorting him back to the front room.  "I 
struck paydirt, in fact.  I kept this here so you could see it before it was 
packed up."  She pulled on a pair of latex gloves and opened a large, blue 
scrapbook waiting atop the aquarium table.  Inside was a thick collection of 
photos and papers.  Apparently, Ms. Embrey frequented all the theater districts.  
On each page she enshrined ads, programs, and tickets.  All the large 
productions are here, Ragtime, Phantom, Les Miz, Showboat, some of them more 
than twice, as well as at least one hundred smaller productions and cabarets.  A 
photo is glued to the bottom of each page.
     "Look," said Tracy pointing. "Our victim in each picture.  They took a 
group photo on each occasion, usually at a restaurant.  There are several 
pictures with the two girls you saw over on the shelf.  Some of these must be 
dates, family or friends.  There is a good chance that our perp is in one of 
these pictures."
     Nick nodded.  "Who are these people?" 
     Tracy obligingly flipped the pages for him.  "I noticed that too.  There 
are a lot of pictures of her with this crew.  I think a quarter or more of the 
photos are of these same six or seven people."  She stopped and turned the album 
so Nick could see well.
     In the photo, the victim, Ima Embrey, and her companions, raised their 
glasses in salute over the remains of a meal.  Everyone smiled at the camera 
with big open mouths as if it were a New Year's celebration.  It was a strange 
assortment of people that crowded about the table.  In the back stood a tall and 
strikingly handsome Native man wearing an expensive suit and haircut.  On his 
right, her head just reaching his shoulder, lounged a round, seductively dressed 
Caucasian woman with mounds of wavy brown hair, very white teeth and very bright 
pink lipstick.
     Seated to her right, with his arm about her waist, sat a white male with 
thick honey colored hair.  Beneath his nose dripped a voluptuous moustache.  The 
most casually dressed of the group, he looked as suspiciously friendly as an 
insurance salesman.
     To the left of the tall man stood, or rather posed a slender woman of 
bloodless white complexion and shoe polish black hair slicked wetly against her 
head.  This same head was thrown back for dramatic effect.  She held in her 
right hand, of all things, a long, silver cigarette holder such as Nick had not 
seen in years.  Seated immediately in front of her was the victim, Ima Embrey.  
Finally, to Ima's left, sat an older, short, severely obese white man in a 
rumpled suit, grinning as if he were sitting on a pinecone.  Either he was not 
photogenic or he was concerned about the long, line of ash hanging precariously 
from the end of the cigarette holder over his head.
     Nick straightened and looked about the room.  He still had a lot of 
observations and notes to take.  It was a big house.  "It's a good start.  I 
suppose it's about time I went to work."
     "About time is right," Tracy said as she popped another bean in her mouth.  
She held out the bag to her partner.  "Sure you won't have a cup?"
     
     3. Chapter
     
     It was a long night.  Nick drove home, unloaded the cooler from The Raven 
at his warehouse loft and left the Caddy there.  He lifted up through the 
skylight and into the night air.  He didn't have much time until sunrise and 
this might take awhile.
     Minutes later, Nick saw him.  Perched atop the abandoned church that served 
as his home, sat Javier Vachon, bastard son of Spanish nobility, fallen 
Conquistador, defender of lost causes, and most recently, restless resident of 
downtown Toronto, Ontario, Canada.  His unkempt black hair hung to his shoulders 
and he observed Nick's approach with large disinterested brown eyes.
     Vachon was not particularly ambitious, or thoughtful, but was occasionally 
stirred to action by force or circumstance.  He favored leather and his low-
tension existence.  He looked like a guy who owned a motorcycle and he did.  He 
looked like a guy who wasted a lot of time strumming a guitar and he did.  Nick 
had a low opinion of him, but Vachon was a member of the Community and to 
dispose of Vachon without cause might lead to repercussions.
     Nick stepped onto the church roof.  He didn't like coming to see Vachon.  
The whole situation brought back bad memories.  Nick blamed himself for his 
partner Schanke's death, though he realized this was irrational.  But if Nick 
had been on the plane that night, he would have survived, as had Vachon.
     When the bomb had exploded midair, there were no survivors, except for 
Vachon and his hand which, having become detached, had arrived in the airfield's 
makeshift morgue without him.  It had been Nick's first night with Tracy, who 
was taking Schanke's place that week.  Nick learned later that Tracy had 
discovered Vachon while he was searching the body bags for his missing hand.  
Needing transportation and time to heal, Vachon had appropriated Tracy's car, 
and Tracy.
     She was solicitous and oddly naïve and Vachon decided against killing her, 
though he was desperately hungry from his injuries.  When Vachon told this to 
Nick later, Nick felt his guts tighten.  He had very nearly killed Vachon right 
there.  Vachon's appetites were not inhibited by conscience, but by 
practicality.  Vachon didn't mind trouble, nor did he go out of his way to 
invite it.  Nick knew it had been sentiment on Vachon's part that had kept Tracy 
alive that night.
     The great difficulty was that Tracy turned out to be a Resistor.  Vachon 
had been unable to get her to forget about him.  Instead, she hovered around 
Vachon, made a friend of him and was fascinated by his odd supernatural life.  
If Nick and Vachon weren't careful, her relentless curiosity was going to get 
them all killed.
     Now Nick had to watch out for Tracy and for himself.  She knew too much.  
And Vachon had to watch out for her too, but Nick preferred that he do it from a 
distance.  But he didn't.  Vachon liked Tracy.  He did nothing to discourage 
her, an attitude Nick intended to see change.
     Vachon didn't stand to greet Nick.  "Detective."
     "She's been here, hasn't she?"
     "I can't stop her."
     "I don't think you're trying hard enough.  I told you, she is your 
responsibility now."
     Vachon shook the green bottle in his hand, watching its contents swirl.  "I 
am not fond of words like 'responsibility'."
     "You are not very careful about the company you keep, either.  If anyone 
sees her or if anything happens to her, I won't hesitate."
     "You worry more about mortals than your own kind."
     Nick allowed the violence of his intentions to communicate to Vachon 
directly through the psychic link all vampires shared.  A moment later, Vachon 
stood and faced Nick.  He regarded Nick silently, taking a deep drink from his 
bottle.
     "You would kill me, wouldn't you?"
     "I'm surprised I haven't done it already," said Nick.
     "Hypocrite."
     Nick's concentration broke.  "My situation is completely different."
     "Is it?" said Vachon.  He jumped up on the stone parapet.  "I made a bet 
with Screed.  I'm giving your doctor friend five years; Screed says less than 
two.  You have any thoughts on who will win that bet?"
     Nick felt the edge of his fangs touching his lip.
     "You're not as civilized as you like to think," said Vachon.  "I know.  I 
can feel it."
     "You know nothing."
     "I know you are trying to be my master," said Vachon.  Nick watched as him 
stroll along the parapet.  "You're not.  I don't have one.  I don't need your 
Old World Old School arrogance.  If you want to kill me, do it."
     "I have been trying to avoid that," said Nick.  "You are not making it 
easy."
     "Should I stake you?" mused Vachon.  "But that would buy me only a few days 
until LaCroix found out."
     "You wouldn't succeed."
     Vachon crouched so that he was eye level with Nick.  "You're much older 
than I am, and stronger, but I've been a soldier for three centuries while you 
played tourist.  You live on swill.  It is possible we are evenly matched."
     Nick reached forward with one hand and grabbed Vachon's neck, pulling him 
closer.  "Interesting."
     Vachon pushed Nick away, but with difficulty and only because Nick let him.  
"I'm sick of you shoving me up against walls.  Tracy is above the age of 
consent."
     "Next time she visits you, try not to be so charming.  It's just a 
suggestion."
     "Right."  Vachon scraped his boot along the edge of the roof.  Stones 
clattered and danced to the street below.  I like it here.  I like this old 
building."
     "Then," said Nick joining Vachon on the edge, "don't do anything to make 
yourself unwelcome."
     "I could bring her across.  End of problem."
     "For you, maybe," said Nick, "because I would kill you."
     "I don't understand you," said Vachon.  "I was a soldier for centuries.  
I've seen thousands die.  I killed quite a few of them myself, usually for a 
good cause.  People die.  It happens."
     "It is not going to happen to Tracy," said Nick.  "Not while I'm watching 
her."
     "We're predators.  Predators kill."  Vachon took a long draught from the 
green bottle in his hand.  "I admit I miss it."
     "I have other plans," said Nick.
     "Don't we all know it.  The Community will kill you if you succeed.  You do 
know that, don't you?"
     "It's possible," said Nick, but he knew this was probably true.  He might 
not live very long if he became mortal.  His search for a cure had been too 
public for too long.  Once mortal, the Community would assume he had changed 
allegiances and expose them all.  The Enforcers overlooked him for the moment.  
After all, anyone can go crazy for a hundred or so years.  For the other seven 
centuries of his life as a vampire, Nick had left a track record vicious enough 
to prop up the Community's flagging respect for many years to come.
     "You delude yourself," said Vachon.  "For us, the most logical solution to 
any problem is to kill something or someone.  Vampires have a very low threshold 
for murder.  You must have noticed."
     "I have."
     "There can't be much mortal left in you after so long."
     "I think there is," said Nick.  "What are you drinking?"
     "You don't want it."
     "It's late.  Will you try to discourage Tracy?"
     "I don't see how," said Vachon.  "I could still leave town."
     "No," said Nick, "you've got to watch her with me.  I can't do it alone."
     "It's your funeral," said Vachon.  "So what will you do about us if you're 
cured?"
     "You and Tracy, or the entire Community?"
     Vachon laughed.  "I mean Tracy and me."
     Nick lowered his head.  "I suppose, I won't be able to do anything.  Of 
course, I would have daylight as an advantage."
     "I'll move fast.  You really think you'll find a way to become mortal that 
soon?"
     "Nat seems to be making progress.  Yes, I think it can happen.  This time, 
I think I'm very close," said Nick.
     "Then what do you do, die?"
     "That's the rumor."
     "I think," said Vachon after taking a last pull from his bottle, "Heaven is 
probably just more of this world only grander and eternal.  The lions still hunt 
and the rabbits still die.  You might still be a vampire."
     Nick looked down into the dark street.  Only the moon and stars tendered 
light, but for him it was bright as early twilight.  He could perceive farther 
down the alleys and streets than any mortal.  He focused his senses.  He could 
hear the nearest living resident, potential prey, a half-mile away searching 
through the refuse for a night's meal and lodging.  He kicked the wall with his 
boot and thought nostalgically of hunting.  Even now, he thought of hunting.
     "I hope not," said Nick.
     "If I am to live to see tomorrow night after all, would you mind giving me 
some help?"
     "What sort of help?"
     "I have license plate numbers.  I need the owner's address."
     "Forget it."
     "It's important."
     "I don't want to know what you do in your spare time," said Nick.
     "It's not like that," said Vachon.
     "I don't care.  End of conversation."  Nick studied the falling moon.  "I 
have to go.  Don't contact Tracy unless it is to break her heart."
     Nick didn't wait for Vachon to respond.  He stepped into the air.  The 
summer sun would be up soon and he had to hurry to miss it.
     
     4. Chapter
     
     "Get off the desk.  You're getting fur in everything."
     Leo Brulé pushed on the large gray Persian, but it refused to take the 
hint.  With a small grunt, Leo shoved the cat all the way across his desktop 
until the animal had no room left for its front feet.
     "Gandalf!  I said, get off the desk."
     One more push and the cat plopped heavily to the floor.  "I've got work to 
do.  You stay down there until I'm done."  Gandalf proceeded to slide back and 
forth between Leo's legs.
     Leo pulled  his office chair back up to his desk and surveyed the items 
before him.  He picked up a set of matches and lit a small red votive.  As the 
wax liquefied, he smelled the faint odor of bayberry.
     A box of cherry cordial candy sat on his desk.  Leo patted his hands on the 
green desk blotter, then opened up the box of chocolate cherry cordials.  He 
popped one in his mouth, cut gently into it with his teeth.  He sucked out the 
sticky liquid, then let the chocolate coating melt in his mouth, carefully 
preserving the cherry until the last moment.  He rolled the intact, smooth round 
cherry on his tongue.  He bit down, savoring its maraschino sweetness.  As soon 
as he swallowed, he felt guilty.
     He shouldn't be eating candy.  He was too fat already, despite all the 
weight he'd lost in the past three years.  His wife was always telling him to 
cut back on the sweets before he became completely spherical, but he loved his 
candy.  Sitting alone in his office with his guilty secrets, Leo could hear her 
in his head even now.
     "Leo, if you don't quit eating so much chocolate, I'm going to kill you."
     Leo knew she never meant it.  "You don't mean it," he'd say.  "You'd miss 
me too much."
     "As if I would miss you and your big hairy feet."
     "Don't forget, my feet smell, too."
     "How could I ever forget," she'd say and pat him on his head where he used 
to have hair.  "What would I do without your smelly feet?"
     He still couldn't figure out why that woman had ever married him.  Leo 
adjusted his glasses, but it didn't help.  Everything in front of him was watery 
and blurred.  He took the glasses off and wiped them.  He pinched the bridge of 
his nose between his thumb and forefinger and blinked a few times.  That was 
better.  He was ready now.  His heart raced in his chest.  Calm down.  No one 
can see you.  Everyone else has left for the day.
     Next to the open box of cherry cordials sat a tray with a 3 CC 21 gauge 
syringe and a small, sealed baby food jar half-full of clear liquid.  He had the 
jar left over from when his daughter was young.  For years, he used it to store 
nails.  On the opposite side of his desk was a large cage.  Inside, both eyes 
looking at a rock, hunkered a knobby, brown and gray iguana.
     "Gollum," he said, poking his finger into the cage, "You don't like 
chocolate do you?  Just as well."
     It had been a long day and Leo felt tired.  Such late hours he was keeping.  
It must be three in the morning.  He worked a lot lately because it kept his 
mind busy.  He spent so much time at work that he had moved several of his pets 
and games there.  It was a great advantage to own your own business.  Leo did 
whatever he liked in his office.
     His assistant, Libby, took care of most of the daily operations of his 
extermination business, General Pest, leaving him with too much free time.  She 
did such a great job running his business during the years while he was gone, 
that there was little left for him to do now that he was home.  The client base 
was rock solid.  Despite Leo's poor judgement and protracted absence, the 
business survived and flourished.
     Leo shook the baby food jar vigorously.  He used the syringe to extract a 
small quantity of the liquid.  Plucking a cherry cordial from the box, he 
injected the liquid through the flat bottom side of the candy and into the sweet 
liquid filling.  He held the syringe over the candle for thirty seconds and 
using the heated metal, moved it gently across the injection site.  The 
chocolate melted smoothly, sealing the hole and removing all evidence of his 
tampering.
     Gandalf purred as he slid between Leo's legs, leaving a grey furry haze on 
the fabric of his dark pants.  He could not resist the cat's requests for 
attention any longer.  Struggling past the bulk of his stomach, Leo leaned 
sideways and caught up the cat with one hand.  Leo cuddled it as if it were a 
baby, although he knew the animal abhorred this.  Gandalf began to squirm, but 
Leo hugged tighter.  Holding the cat reminded him of his daughter when she was 
small and still ate food from baby jars.  He thought of the baby food that she 
used to throw against the walls for whatever reason babies find to throw baby 
food.
     "Preshiousss, preshiousss," he cooed into the cat's ear.  Leo was very fond 
of his cat, of all animals.  It surprised people when he told them he was an 
exterminator.  General Pest.  Call anytime you have a problem.  You got em, 
we'll kill 'em.  Here's my card.
     His daughter, Amanda, was such a clever girl with eyes the same soft color 
as Gandalf's fur.  She danced and cartwheeled and chattered and teased.  She 
rode on his shoulders, smacking him on his bald head to make him bounce and jump 
for her.  Leo was her great bear and she was his little cub.  He thought that 
there was nothing more glorious in the world than being a father.
     Children grew so quickly.  Seventeen years went by in a flash and overnight 
she became a young woman.  Beautiful.  Truly, he had no idea if she was pretty 
or not.  He was her father and he only knew she was beautiful and endlessly 
fascinating.  Leo enjoyed reminiscing as he stroked the cat's soft fur.  The 
bland office walls faded away beyond the mist in his eyes.
     As a teenager, she spent less time at home.  Busy with her friends, she 
said.  He realized that was typical of teens.  That last year, she had begun 
preparing for her tests and planning her life.  He sighed deeply.  He had let 
his little girl down in so many ways.  There would be no college for her now.  
Somebody was going to be sorry.
     "Go away now, Gandalf.  I have to get back to work."  He stroked the cat as 
it poured in a silky stream from his lap to the floor.  "Can't delay.  People 
aren't as clever as you, but they catch on eventually."
     The object of Leo's inspiration sat matted in a small black enameled frame 
on his desk.  It was a picture of him and several people celebrating at The Hard 
Rock Cafe before going next door to the Pantages theatre to see Phantom.  He had 
felt exhilarated that night.  Earlier in the day, he had closed the deal of a 
lifetime.  Pauly and Don had offered to take him, the lawyer, the realtor, and 
their accountant out to dinner and a show.  On them.  It was a celebration.  
Afterwards, more drinks and just one more after that.  By the end of the 
evening, his misgivings had dissolved, one by one, in the bottoms of several 
glasses of champagne and whiskey.
     Leo picked up the frame and stared hard at the people in the picture until 
his eyes hurt.  Pauly, parading in her bizarre clothes and her ridiculous 
cigarette thingey, acted as if she knew every so-called club kid in Toronto and 
could attract the entire herd to the new place.  There was that shyster lawyer, 
Two Bits, smiling like a best friend.  Dandy Don, that smarmy impresario, 
yammered about every angle and tease used by the hottest and most decadent 
nightclubs.
     Remembering the betrayal, the cold, heartless, drama, Leo rocked in his 
chair.  He could not bring himself to tell his family what he had done.  He was 
too ashamed and embarrassed.  Belinda would never forgive him.  She would leave 
him.  He thought there was nothing more glorious in the world than being a 
husband and she would leave him and he would not be a husband any longer.
     He was humiliated beyond reason.  The money was gone; everything they had 
worked for, everything they had saved for, and his little girl's future, too.  
How could he have been so stupid?  There was no excuse for it.
     Anger welled up with the tears, and his breathing became more rapid.  He 
pushed the photograph back across the desk.  Calm down.  He could not allow 
sentiment to interfere with his work or he would never get it all done.  Leo 
opened the lower right hand drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of Wild 
Turkey and a tall water glass.  He grimaced slightly as the familiar amber 
liquid stung his mouth and throat.  He poured a second glass, this more generous 
than the first, and emptied it into his mouth.
     Presently, he felt the alcohol dampen his anger to an acceptable level.  He 
decided not to drink anymore tonight.  He poured two fingers more in case he 
felt himself sobering.  He couldn't afford to get sloppy now.  Sweat wet his 
brow and dripped into his eyes.  Time to work.  He pulled another chocolate 
cordial from the box.
     
     5. Chapter
     
     "This is the single most depraved concept to come down the pike since 
designer underwear!  This is bigger than Whiskey Saigon, darker than The 
Sanctuary, more sinister than Syn, and more evocative than The Raven.  Stan, my 
man, you have a chance to walk right into the ground floor of the most 
extravagantly depraved Gothic venue ever, The Grotto, audaciously situated in 
this church."
     Screed had ignored the man's loud insistent patter as it fell through the 
street grate and onto his bald head until he heard him mention The Raven, then 
his ears itched with curiosity.
     Feeling inordinately sociable this fine evening, Screed had left his dark 
subterranean home well before sundown, leisurely sniffing his way through the 
extensive Toronto sewer system.  A different, hardier, more robust sort of 
ratsie was on Screed's mind, the sort that dared to dart about during inclement 
daylight.  He enjoyed variety.  Also, he often found loose change, even wallets, 
lost by city workers or fallen through the grates.  A bit of the old bright and 
shiny good fortune never hurt anybody.
     He arrived at Vachon's abode long before his old mate was likely to be 
awake.  Screed had not been sure whether to wait where he was or come back.  He 
couldn't cross out into the street at this hour.  Screed was used to spending 
most his time if not underground then at least close to it so he made himself 
comfortable, snacking on the resident vermin.  He listened to the conversation 
through the sewer grate as he waited for the sun to pass below the yardarm.  He 
could see their legs and feet.
     "The idea does sound sufficiently devoid of good taste to attract the 
proper clientele."  A second man's voice, probably Stan-my-man's, and the forced 
laughter in response to his quip filtered down to Screed.  "I'm certainly 
convinced of its potential.  It is the perfect late night rendezvous."
     "Isn't it?"  This came from a woman standing directly over Screed's head.  
He could see her walking back and forth, the shadow of her arm gesturing 
elaborately toward Vachon's church.  "So what do you say?  Are you with us, or 
are you just going to stand outside and watch?"  Cigarette ash fell through the 
grating onto Screed's noggin.  He rubbed it off with his hand.
     "Wait a minute.  You haven't told me the price.  You say the seller is 
motivated?"
     A second female voice wearing loud pink pumps entered the conversation.  
"Absolutely, Stan.  The thing is this, McGregor found out what Mr. Westlake and 
Ms. James are up to, and he has jacked up the price way beyond their means.  
Their business loan will cover renovations, but not this inflated price hike 
above the church's assessed value.  McGregor is a religious conservative, let's 
say, zealot...."
     "Yes," agreed the loud man loudly, "let's say 500% crazy."
     The pink pumps continued.  "He won't consider their offers, but since the 
property is not officially up for sale, he has no obligation to do so.  I have a 
reliable source, however, that says he needs to unload it.  I think he will, and 
at market price, if he can sell with a clear conscious.  Do you think you can 
pass yourself off as upstanding citizen?"
     More laughter.  Screed peered up carefully, particular that he didn't 
expose himself to direct light.  The shadows from the surrounding buildings gave 
him the necessary room to maneuver.
     "How can I lose with a guaranteed tenant and renovation money already in 
pocket?"  Stan, my man, seemed to be moving around a lot.  His movements 
reminded Screed of a ratsie.  "When can we get inside?"
     The cigarette woman said, "Right now.  Let's grab the bull by the horns and 
run it up the steps."  Dock shoes, pumps, wingtips and cigarette ash crossed 
Screed's field of vision as the small noisy group scrambled over to the church.
     Screed sat back on his haunches and studied the situation.  What was his 
old mate Vachon up to now?  Was he using his home like a big rattrap to catch 
himself some great big rats?
     He took one more peek, watched the retreating figures open the heavy oak 
doors and enter the abandoned church that his friend Vachon called home.  Should 
he follow?  Should he crash Vachon's party?  Maybe he should come back tomorrow 
night and see what his mate was about before he knocked without so much as a by 
your leave.  Was Vachon planning to share?
     Old Screed was not without a pinch of class.  He could wait for a proper 
invite, he could.  But he would only wait one more night.  He thought a bit more 
about Vachon and a bit more about getting between him and his first fresh catch 
in a year.  Screed let these two bits roll about his head like dice.  When the 
numbers came up, they came up craps.  Vachon was stronger than Screed, so he had 
better wait for an invite.  His old mate would come through.  He was sure of it.
     Screed threw the rat he was holding back to the floor.
     "Oi better save room for later."
     
     6. Chapter
     
     Stan Lemming stood in the lawyer's office, clutching his hands right in 
left then left in right.
     "It has been a pleasure, sirs and ma'am," said Jonathan Two Bears as he 
sorted the last of the paperwork into the plain white briefcase sized 
complimentary plastic envelopes he provided for all his clients at closing.  He 
stood up from behind the conference table, instantly dwarfing the three people 
seated across from him.
     Leaning over hospitably, he shook Stan's hand vigorously and also the hands 
of realtor Sarah Limon and of Bruce McGregor, the man who had just sold Stan his 
church property for $350,000.  McGregor fondled the newly acquired cashier's 
cheque in his hands with obvious affection.
     "As always Jonathan, honey, you have been a first rate professional."  
Sarah shook her fawn, coiled hair elaborately as she freshened her fluorescent 
pink lipstick with a small makeup brush.  "Thank goodness Stan was able to draw 
cash so quickly.  You were right, sugar, we might never have gotten a loan on 
such a distressed property in time."
     "Yes, thank you very much," said Stan.  He was a slight, graying, excitable 
man.  His upper lip twitched.  His eyes were bright, shiny black.  They darted 
right to left, then left to right, from Two Bears to Sarah to McGregor and back 
again.
     "Awww, it has been a rrrreal pleasure, that's for sure," gushed McGregor in 
a thick, Scottish accent reminiscent of the recurrent character in the popular 
series of commercials for Oatmeal Crisp(tm).  His dark hair flopped into his 
eyes each time he moved.  His abdomen vibrated each time he spoke, compelling 
him to hold the mass still with one or both hands throughout the conversation.  
"Man, I know I can trrrust ye to take eggzellant carrre of the prrroperty as 
befitting its sacrrred herrritage."
     Two Bears handled the three envelopes, peeking into each, announcing its 
proper owner, sealing them shut and dealing each to the appropriate recipient.  
"If you ever are in need of my services again, please don't hesitate to contact 
me.  My business card and number are inside your packets."
     "Of course, thank you, thank you very much," said Stan, accepting his 
envelope.  "I was so pleased by how quickly you were able to finish the title 
search, and get the paperwork and insurance put together.  I've been anxious to 
get started.  I already have tenants lined up."
     McGregor, drummed his fingers on his expansive midsection.  "Tenants, ye 
say?  Who arrre these tenants, eggzactly, sirrr, if ye donna mind my asking?"  
He drawled and gargled his r's as if he were speaking of Holy Grrrails and 
nasty, ferrrocious rrrabbits.
     "I do mind, and it isn't any of your business any longer," said Stan 
shaking the envelope in McGregor's face.  "We beat you at your own game.  You've 
accepted my cheque and signed the paperwork.  The property is mine.  I do as I 
like."
     Jumping from his chair, sputtering and blustering enough to earn him three 
Gemini's, McGregor yelled, "Defiler!  You filthy rrrectal orrrifice.  Come 
outside with me.  I got yourrr tenants rrright herrre you worrrthless, lying, 
piece of crrrap!"  He waved his arms like Godzilla and stomped stiffly about the 
table towards Stan as if parts of him might detach if he moved too quickly.
     "Come on, Stan," urged Sarah, tripping expertly on her pink pumps and 
pulling Stan out the door, "We'd better get going, hon, before he blows."  She 
shoved him all the way out the door and into the reception area then out the 
front door.
     McGregor sat back down into his chair and continued to toss insults after 
Stan.
     "Yeah, take yourrr wee pitiful weasel self and scurrry off while you can 
before I blisterrr your carrrcass with the harrrd side of my hand!  I'll knock 
the daylight rrright out of ye backside.  Get back herrre ye worrrthless 
cowarrrd.
     "Aye, the little rrrrodent ought to be out of earrrshot by now."  McGregor 
went out to the reception area, shut the front door securely and locked it.  He 
returned to the office, plucked a contact lens case from his pocket and tossed 
it on the table.  Leaning over, he deftly popped each brown colored lens from 
his eyes and deposited them into the case.
     "Don, you never cease to amaze me," said Two Bears.  "You have no shame 
whatsoever."
     "And proud of it," said Don, yanking up his shirt and unstrapping a padded 
contraption from around his waist.  "You don't think I played it too close to 
the nose?"
     Two Bears shook his head and pointed to Don's inflated stomacher.  "What is 
that thing?"
     "It's a gizmo to make an actress look pregnant.  This is the seven-month 
pregnant model.   I bought it on sale."  Don pulled a pair of painful inserts 
from the inside of his shoes and his moustache from his pocket.
     "Why don't you wear the fake moustache when you play the part?  Then you 
wouldn't have to wear the fake one all the time."
     "What fun is that?" said Don.  He pulled a small mirror and a bottle of 
spirit gum out of his pocket.  He brushed a small amount of gum over his lip and 
pressed the moustache into it.  He ran his right hand through his hair.  "I wish 
I could go bald so I could wear hairpieces.  Then all the world would be my 
stage."
     "You are just as nuts as Sarah and Pauly."
     "We warned you when you signed on," said Don.  He twitched his newly 
applied moustache for Two Bears' benefit.  "The difference is that I know I'm 
crazy, but they don't know they're crazy.  That makes me the sane one."
     "Interesting rationale."
     "I mustn't grow a real moustache," said Don, "then I would look too much 
like you-know-who."
     Two Bears shrugged.  "I don't see that it makes a difference.  You look 
like...."
     "Don't!" Don cried.  "You dare not speak his name."
     "Sorry.  You still look like The Other Guy whether you wear the moustache 
or not."
     "More with," insisted Don.  "People would think I was trying to look like 
him.  What if I finally got my big break?  The agents would all call him to 
offer him parts instead of me."
     "They already do."
     Don said nothing.
     Two Bears collected the papers on his desk.  "What is the plan for 
tonight?"
     "Can you call Pauly for me?  She will have to contact Stan and invite him 
to the Final Act.  I've got to get home and wash this brown gunk out of my hair.  
She has our tickets to The Factory.  Tell her I made reservations at The Regent 
for the Afterglow"
     "I won't be at the party tonight, as much as I enjoy liquoring the mark 
into a coma," said Two Bears.  "Sorry, but I found an exquisite bird in 
Kensington this afternoon.  I couldn't resist.  It has to be killed and grilled 
tonight."
     Don threw his arms out in disgust.  "First of all, you're breaking 
tradition and that is bad luck.  If you're not there, the man will not be 
totally humiliated, just partially humiliated.  Second, when are you going to 
invite me over to dinner?  Last time you cooked anything for me was a year ago."
     "First of all, you and Pauly were over four weeks ago.  Second, I don't 
want you over for a romantic gourmet dinner.  Keep dreaming."  Two Bears busied 
himself with his attaché.  "I'll call Pauly for you and have her invite Stan to 
the big kiss off, then I'll strike the set here.  Everything will be out by 
morning.  Stan has his envelope full of worthless papers and you have the 
cheque."
     Don pulled the cashier's cheque out of his pocket, folded it neatly and 
inserted it into his wallet.  He would have to make tracks if he expected to 
make the deposit to their international account and make it to the theatre on 
time.  "Yes I do.  Hell of a way to make a living, isn't it?"
     Two Bears said, "Do you refer to the dressing up in silly clothes each week 
aspect?"
     "No," said Don testily.  "I was thinking more of the screwing over your 
friends part."
     "You better get to the bank before it closes.  Get going, it's nearly rush 
hour."
     
     <<<  -----
     
     7. Chapter
     
     Saffron Walden  August 1572
     "Welcome, Sir, welcome, Sir."  The old man held the horse's bridle while 
calling, "Ho there!" to the horse and, "Boy, look alive!  Our guest has 
arrived."
     Nicholas dismounted and greeted the old man.  His hair was gray and he had 
the large open face of an honest man.
     "I am John, Sir," he said "and the tardy lad is our boy Skipwith we call 
him.  He'll be taking you inside.  I'll be taking your beast to the stable.  
What is his name?"
     "Arthur," said Nicholas, smiling indulgently at the old man.  Obviously, 
though strong, he was past fifty and getting on so the boy, rather the young 
man, Skipwith, had been hired to help him in the stables.
     "It is a beautiful beast, Sir," observed John running his experienced hand 
across the back of the great, black creature.  "Have you had him long, Sir?"
     "No.  I purchased him when I arrived in England."  Nicholas stroked the 
flank of the horse.  It was a strong, large, beautiful animal, the pelt pitch 
black and lustrous.  The English took such pride in their husbandry.  "But he 
has been ridden hard this week, so be good to him."
     "As you will, Sir.  Skipwith will take you into the master.  He received 
your letter early today.  You are expected."
     Nicholas followed Skipwith to the main household, suppressing his smile.  
Skipwith bowed and scrapped elaborately as they approached the front of Waltham 
Hall.  The structure was in the midst of renovation for there would soon be a 
wedding.  When the time came for the younger Waltham to bring home his new 
bride, he would have separate chambers for his own family.  They would be 
connected, but distinguished from the rest of the main hall according to 
Edmund's letters.
     Nicholas could see where the ancient ivy had been cut back as the hall was 
being extended.  When Elizabeth I had ascended to the throne, eliminating 
disorder and ambitious religious sanctions, the entire country regained its 
vigor.  The direct result was evidenced everywhere through which Nick traveled.  
Windows, chimneys, jetties, and new construction distinguished the residences of 
those benefiting from the improved state of commerce.  Edmund Waltham too, was 
modernizing his home along with the rest of his newly prosperous countrymen.
     Opening the front doors, Skipwith bowed deeply, indicating with his 
outstretched arm that Nicholas should precede him.  Then he stepped back 
awkwardly, bobbing like a willow shoot in the wind.  He seemed well past the age 
of marriage, perhaps near thirty, but he was inordinately shy and boyish.  
Nicholas readied to catch the young man, expecting him to trip over his own feet 
at any moment.
     The doors opened directly into what appeared to be the original communal 
hall.  He followed Skipwith in, traversing the room.  A few candles lit the 
interior, their dark shadows across the floor and up the walls.  Nicholas was 
familiar with the longhouse construction and judged the hall to be at least one 
hundred years old.
     In Nicholas' opinion, the layout suffered from his friend Edmund's 
improvements.  The central hall was colder than it should have been because the 
open hearth had been removed.  Discrete chambers with individual hearths and a 
disconnected pantry replaced it, but were not as pleasant.
     The high table still remained for meals, for Edmund believed it pretentious 
for a family to eat separately from their household and guests as the nobility 
did.  Edmund had written a great deal to Nicholas of his plans.  The attached 
two-story addition on the high end was still incomplete, though habitable for 
the warm summer months.  It was still a patchwork of conflicting eras, caught 
between the old ways and new, uncommitted and open to every possibility.  His 
host had the funds necessary to update the family home, but kept changing his 
mind and his plans.
     During the past year, Nicholas had learned much of his correspondent's 
curious history.  The youngest son of a comfortable yeoman, he had been destined 
for apprenticeship in London to a proper trade.  The young Edmund had other 
ideas, and abandoned his home to travel, eventually supporting himself by 
becoming a mercenary.  He fought the Turks in Austria, where he developed a 
taste for bloodshed.  Several years later he decided to offer his services to 
the Spanish or Portuguese in the Americas.  There, he believed, was opportunity 
for adventure, plunder and prosperity.
     But he let his attention wan on the treacherous roads outside Lisbon.  
Severely wounded by thieves, he was left for dead.  Without horse or money, he 
wandered for two weeks before he was taken in and cared for by a local family.  
A year later he returned, embarrassed, to England and his family to complete his 
recovery.
     There Edmund found his family in severe difficulty.  His mother, father and 
elder brother were dead and both sisters were desperately ill from a foul 
pestilence, which had settled in Saffron Walden.  It fell upon Edmund to run the 
farm and he had done so with great success, restoring their security by 
cultivating crops destined for use in the lucrative cloth and wool trades.  
Though his sisters had survived, they never fully recovered and died a few years 
later.  Edmund had married his Agnes and had lived here ever since.
     Reaching the far right of the hall, the earnest Skipwith opened a heavy 
wooden door and ushered Nicholas into a chamber.  There a man in his early 
sixties stood warming himself before the fire.  Skipwith hurried about and 
standing at attention announced, "Monsieur Nicholas de Brabant!"
     Nicholas felt himself overwhelmed by sudden anxiety.  At last, he was 
meeting his correspondent face to face.  He fought the urge to laugh, as well as 
the urge to run.
     The man before the fireplace turned to greet his benighted guest.  He 
dismissed Skipwith with a smile.  His light brown hair, short to the ears, was 
gray and coarse at the temples.  He was sinewy and strong, as if he spent the 
days tending his land himself, or walking it regularly with strong exertion.  
Nicholas thought him like a boy, with round cheeks, who had yet to discover he 
had the height and color of an old man.
     "Monsieur de Brabant, Sir, you have come at last.  Welcome to my home.  I 
apologize for its disarray" 
     "Mr. Edmund Waltham, I am honored to be your guest.  You are so gracious to 
entertain me at such late notice."
     "I could hardly deny you, you flatter me so in your letters."
     "Deserved praise not flattery, I assure you."
     "That remains to be seen."  Edmund pulled the poker from the wall and 
encouraged the embers.  "You said you would arrive late and you were true to 
your word.  The rest of the household sleeps.  I cannot induce you to alter your 
habit for our sakes?"
     "No, as I explained."
     "You explained that you indulge in stargazing."
     "Yes, but it is so difficult to accustom oneself to the schedule.  Any 
exposure to the daylight and I am two weeks robbed of my rest." 
     "Your chamber is right through this door," said Edmund, pointing to a door 
opposite the one through which Nicholas had entered.  It lay to the right of the 
hearth.  Nicholas could see that it must share its chimney with the hearth that 
would warm his room.  "As requested, it is as dark as a tomb.  The window is 
sealed and you shall not be disturbed until the sun rests securely below the 
horizon."
     "Thank you, Sir."
     Edmund shook his head at Nicholas as if scolding a child.  "You are a fool 
to stay out of the sun, if you care for the opinion of a very old man.  You are, 
however, free to do as you wish.  You need not benefit from my years of 
experience, as you choose."
     "Thank you Sir.  You are kind to excuse my idiosyncrasies.  I am grateful." 
     "You will not escape the pleasure of my family's company," insisted Edmund 
good-humoredly.  "We have a small household, as most of the work on the farm is 
done by local families.  They come and go as the seasons dictate.  You must fend 
for yourself at night.  I cannot spare Jenny or Skipwith from their daytime 
duties."
     "I will not be inconvenienced."
     "In your honor, my wife Agnes and soon my son Jeffrey, will join you for a 
late meal each night, unless we are tired."  Again Edmund smiled.  His eyes 
twinkled with firelight.  "You understand."
     "I apologize again for my peculiar habits.  Perhaps I should have waited 
until winter to visit.  It would have entailed less imposition."
     "It is a little late for regrets now, isn't it."  Edmund laughed.  "It is 
the height of summer.  We expect you to hurry to table at twilight so we will 
suffer no additional imposition.  Afterwards, we can retire here for our 
discourse as often as suits our moods and my frail constitution.   If I like you 
well, I may also have tobacco."
     Nicholas bowed slightly in mock reverence.  He liked Edmund immensely.  
Their correspondence had created an easy intimacy between them and Edmund's 
humor was more pronounced in person.  His easy manner was a relief to him after 
the tensions in Paris.  Nicholas considered staying in England for several more 
years.  Edmund was an old man and not likely to live much longer.  If Nicholas 
were to benefit from their friendship, he would have to stay close.  "It is 
possible I have brought with me a few extravagances as well."
     "You are an intriguing gentleman.  I look forward to our evenings together.  
Are you certain you must maintain such unholy hours?"
     "I imagine myself to be a man of science," said Nicholas.  "I read whenever 
I can; science, philosophy and religious opinion.  I found your pamphlets in 
this manner."
     "Science is fashionable, I'm told."  Edmund replaced the poker.  "You are a 
student of the heavens; you've read the Copernicus treatise and its like?  You 
understand it?"
     Nicolas stepped into the middle of the room and removed his cloak, laying 
it across the bench closest to him and sat down.  The battle was engaged.  He 
hoped to be vanquished utterly.
     "Yes, of course.  It is an old book, but it is the reason I have taken up 
astronomy.  Did it disturb you?"
     "Not at all," replied Waltham, "but then I am an unusually enlightened and 
pragmatic man.  Also, I am completely ignorant of the subject and did not read 
it.  I was a much younger man when it was published.  I had not the leisure or 
means for idle reading."
     Edmunds's congenial face let Nicholas know this was intended as a jest.  
Edmund probably considered Nicholas a rich man with too much idle time, which 
was true.  Edmund said, "The argument has been proved so there is nothing left 
to discuss."
     "I offer a different subject for discussion," said Nick.  Edmund had not 
taken the bait.  He would try again.
     "If you are not too tired from your journey," said Edmund, "sit you down 
and let us become acquainted.  Would you care for some drink?"
     Nicholas did not need anything to drink from his host.  He did not want 
anything from Edmund Waltham except his life back.  He wanted to lead the life 
of Waltham, one with a wife and children, a normal life in which people were 
born and died in the normal course of time.  He wanted weddings and sunlight and 
garden flowers.  Nicholas wanted freedom from his bone-crushing guilt.  He 
wanted Edmund's confidence and his certainty of his place in the living green 
world.  Nicholas had given away his mortality and he wanted it back.  He wanted 
his humanity.  Nothing less could satisfy him.  He had made a mistake.  There 
must be a way to undo his mistake.
     He declined Edmund's offer of a drink with his hand, anxious to proceed.  
"No thank you, Sir."
     "As you wish."  Edmund sat down in his chair.  He invited Nicholas to pull 
his bench up before the hearth and make himself comfortable.  A low fire burned 
at their feet, more for light than warmth.  "It is not a large collection, only 
twenty, but you are welcome to come and read whatever interests you while you 
are here.  I dare say you will not stargaze all night."
     Nicholas said nothing.
     "You wrote that you are most interested in my opinion of religion.  My 
journals are kept here.  You may read whatever you wish."
     Nicolas had traveled this far to find a way to recover his lost soul.  He 
could not bear to wait another night when he believed his answers lay so close 
at hand.  He immediately took advantage now that Edmund had introduced the 
subject.  "So much of our understanding of nature has changed or is in question.  
There is the New World, the new cosmology, and many abandon the authority of 
Rome.  You fare well here in England, despite the disruption."
     Nicholas waited as Edmund constructed his reply.  It was dangerous to 
discuss religion unless you held the officially designated beliefs.  The 
approved theology of England had changed often in Edmund's lifetime.  Tomorrow 
the official opinion might change again.  Nicholas was well aware of the trust 
that Edmund's willingness to meet with him demonstrated.  Publishing his 
opinions in pamphlets had constituted considerable hazard to Edmund's safety.
     "Others?" said Edmund.  "You do not?"
     "I apologize, I spoke ambiguously." Nicholas spoke open heresy, taking the 
risk upon himself.  "I am not in awe of Rome.  I question the authority of every 
church.  I am no more inclined to believe the Huguenots or Luther or your new 
Church of England."
     Would Edmund still talk to him, now that Nicholas had made clear the extent 
of his doubts?  It had taken Nicholas months to find Edmund, and months more to 
convince Edmund to speak with him personally.
     Though Nicholas stood outside of every church and therefore risked nothing, 
he believed he risked everything.  He spoke boldly.  "The Church I have known 
all my life," Nicholas paused, "has collapsed, been overthrown here with little 
complaint.  What has been lost?  What of value has supplanted the Church?  How 
can you keep faith when the practice of faith changes with the seasons, when 
every man is free to construct his own definition of truth?"
     "You have been unimpressed with their evangelism.  Tell me, is it the 
multiplicity of factions that disturbs you, or is it that they do not tell you 
what you want to hear?"
     "The latter."  Nicholas paused.  "I pray they are all wrong."
     Edmund was silent for a full minute.  Nicholas waited.
     "Do you question human authority or God's authority?" said Edmund, quietly.
     "Both.  I wonder wherefore these matters apply to me."
     "Do you question the existence of God?"
     Nicholas looked at his hands.  He folded one upon the other, thinking of 
all he had done with these hands.  His position would be clearer if he did not 
believe at all, if he did not need to believe, and if he did not need to hope.  
"Yes.  No.  I am not sure."
     "That is reasonable.  It is honest.  You should not be afraid to question."
     Nicholas looked steadily at his host, his view abruptly clear.  "I am 
afraid of the answer.  Yea or nay, offers me no peace."
     "Your letters," said Edmund, "told me much more about you than you might 
imagine."  The old man drank from his cup.  "They revealed a gentleman 
knowledgeable, intelligent, well traveled, and well read.  In body, you appear 
healthy, young, and strong, especially compared with these old bones of mine.  
If I may speak of personal matters, you seem quite wealthy, but you travel 
alone.  You brought no servant with you."
     Nicholas nodded.  "I am accustomed to traveling without a servant."
     "For a young man of advantages, " said Waltham, "your letters were 
melancholy.  You told me nothing of your goals, except that you wanted to meet 
me.  I wonder that you are so bitter."
     "Is that truly your appraisal of me?"
     Edmund said, "I know the world is a hard place, even for one such as you.  
I am curious as to how you came to such a state.  Your many letters were not 
forthright, but you are excused.  I am aware of the suspicions doubts such as 
yours are likely to arouse.  You need not fear me.  I believe a sincere heresy 
is more noble than thoughtless compliance."
     "I counted upon your discretion."
     "I presume upon yours, Sir.  We will not betray each other."
     Nicholas nodded and meant it.
     "You are looking for salvation and find none from the scholars you have 
lately consulted.  Do you expect me to give you absolution?  Why are you here, 
man?"
     Nicholas sat back on his bench before answering, words a spinning whirlwind 
in his head until they burst from him like a storm.  "The world abounds with 
common sages canting what has been written and said before and in the very same 
words.   Their reputations lie primarily in the weight of their vocabulary, not 
on the wit of their message.  They offer neither intelligence nor elucidation.  
They are old jests, so old and witless, I no longer laugh; I hear them not at 
all.  Your words, Sir, were not copied from some decaying text, or tired bible, 
or worn epic.  Your pamphlets were from your heart, Sir, from true conviction.  
I want to know why you believe as you do."
     "Why I believe in God?"
     "Yes.   To begin."
     "Your life teaches you of God."
     "My life has taught me nothing," Nicholas responded shortly.
     "You are young."
     "I am not."
     Edmund did not hide his astonishment, nor did he argue with Nicholas' 
perception of his experience.  "We were speaking of my beliefs, I think."
     "Yes."  Nicholas waited respectfully, but with growing apprehension.  He 
had placed all his hopes in this man who had written so confidently and so 
simply of a gentle, loving God waiting eternally for his lost children to find 
their way back to Him.  In it, Nicholas had believed, for a moment, in the 
assurance that those despicable in heart and mind might be recovered and 
returned to grace.  No mention was made of Hell or Purgatory, only of the 
constancy of love and the unfailing certainty of redemption.
     Where had his voice come from, so free it was of the tedious stench of 
sulfur or bloody scenarios of torment so common to religious professors.  
Nicholas would not be able to bear it should he find himself denied by even this 
soft dogma.  Their correspondence had fired his spirit and his restlessness.  
His ambition had become so enlarged in his imagination that he saw himself free, 
clear, and triumphant.  From this exalted place, raised so high through the 
energy of his desire, it would be a very long fall indeed.
     How much less painful to aspire to failure.  Had he placed too much faith 
in this encounter?  LaCroix must, it seems, infect him even at this distance 
with his poisonous cynicism.  Thus far, Edmund sounded no more encouraging or 
coherent than his uncounted ilk.  Nicholas could not have traveled all this way 
to find nothing, for he had no place to return.  In hope that the old man would 
conjure some metaphysic for him yet, he soothed his mounting dread, silent in 
his chair.  Did Edmund realize he was debating the value of creation with the 
Devil himself?
     "I perceive that you are a thoughtful man and I have insulted you by giving 
what appears a trite response to your question, but it is the way."  Edmund 
leaned forward.  "Tell me, why are you so angry?  What has so hardened your 
heart?"
     "Life," said Nicholas.
     "I thought your life had taught you nothing," responded Edmund dryly.
     Nicholas laughed, the tension abated, and said, "I must pay attention or I 
will be humiliated."
     Edmund poured two cups of red wine from his jug, one of which Nicholas 
accepted despite his earlier refusal and which he sipped in minute portions.  
His host settled back in his chair and they both regarded the fire at their feet 
silently, listening to the moist wood crack and pop, the house silent around 
them.
     "This is good, is it not?"
     "Yes, very good," responded Nicholas.
     "What does this teach you?"
     Annoyed again, Nicholas responded, "You are obscure."
     "What does it teach you?"
     "I do not know."
     "Peace.  That is what you said you lacked."
     "Is that your answer?  I am disappointed," said Nicholas angrily.  He felt 
the space around his head become thick with blackness.  He felt dizzy and wanted 
to flee.
     "No.  It is a beginning."
     Nicholas closed his eyes and said, "It is gone.  It does not last."
     "True, but pay attention to your heart.  When you feel peace, you follow 
the path of God, and when you feel otherwise, then you do not follow His Way.  
That is how you should come to every decision in your life."
     "You are being simple."
     "It is simple.  It is very difficult."
     "So," said Nicholas sardonically, "you recommend quietus, the monastery.  
Or an early death."
     "I did not say that."
     "This does not profit me in the least.  You are ridiculous."
     "I may well be, but you are not honest with me.  Perhaps if we addressed 
the nature of your complaint, we could proceed straight to your education."
     Both men were silent for several minutes before Nicholas attempted to 
phrase the question of his existence.  He asked delicately.
     "Can a man be reconciled when he has not followed this path?"
     "Most men do not follow God soberly or consistently.  And yet, we remain 
His."
     "Do we?"
     "I am certain of it."
     "Why?"
     "How could it be otherwise?  He is our Creator.  He could not abandon us.  
Does the parent abandon his child?"
     "Often.  Sometimes would be better if he did," Nicholas countered easily.
     Edmund smiled again.  Nicholas found it infuriating.  "True.  Yet God is 
perfect, we are not.  We should not model God upon human inadequacies."
     It was clear to him that Edmund did not understand.  Nicholas had not 
followed the path inconsistently; he was not on the path at all.
     "Surely, there are those whose crimes are so great that they must be 
dispatched to Hell?  There is no release for those who so deserve.  All preach 
that such criminals have set themselves beyond Gods' mercy.  Is there hope in 
such cases or do you say not?"
     "Yes, though many hasten to dispense hard judgement to said deserving, as 
if God required their interference.  I notice they do not exert themselves to 
forgive in God's stead.  Jesus promised forgiveness to all that request it.  I 
must be satisfied with that statement."
     "It is unacceptable that forgiveness be granted until the criminal has paid 
for his crimes," insisted Nicholas.
     "What sort of forgiveness is that which forgives, then exacts retribution?  
If you are forgiven, then you are forgiven."
     "Justice demands punishment," said Nicholas.
     "Does it?"
     "It must."
     "Punishment serves no purpose except to delight the petty and embitter the 
punished.  Torture and punishment do not serve justice."
     "I can not accept that."
     "That is obvious," said Edmund.  "What is it exactly that you have done for 
which you refuse to be forgiven?"
     Nicholas started.  "I, no, it is not that I refuse to be forgiven.  It is 
that," he took a small sip of wine to muster his response.  It tasted thin.  "I 
know that there must be a point, beyond which one's evil is so great that there 
is no way back."
     "You believe in an evil so great that it is beyond God's ability to 
redeem?"
     "Is not that reasonable?"
     "You are arrogant."
     Nicholas felt the amber flames rise and flicker in his eyes.  He did not 
bother to turn his head.  Edmund would think it was the reflected firelight.  
"You insult me."
     "You insult yourself," corrected Edmund.  "What is this great evil with 
which you are on such intimate terms?"
     "You do not know what it is to be beyond hope!"
     "All men believe the depths of their hearts are black and foul to the core.  
All men doubt, but not one is so lost that he cannot be found.  Not one is so 
depraved that he cannot be cleansed of his evil by the Almighty."
     Nicholas stood and spread his arms, indicating Edmund's hearth and 
household.  "I find your optimism in the face of all this tragedy and depravity 
truly inspiring.  Tell me, where is this terrible stain on your character that I 
might see it and know you as a salvaged monster?"
     Edmund rotated his cup between his two hands.  He was quiet for such a long 
space of time, Nicholas wondered if the man would ever speak.
     At last, Edmund lowered it and answered, "I have been a soldier.  You know 
this."
     Nicholas did not press his host.   He well knew the conflict in killing 
those against whom you bore no personal grievance.  And he well knew the nature 
of men who went beyond necessity and killed those who were merely inconvenient, 
having been contaminated by the miasma of war and violence.  The honorable man 
soldiers at a terrible personal cost.  The close association to so much blood, 
and death, and loss of life is a living nightmare from which some can never 
waken.  It is a sacrifice beyond the understanding of those who have not 
experienced its waking hell.
     "I was also a soldier," said Nicholas evenly, "but it is not enough."
     "I was not an honorable soldier," said Edmund, his voice quieter.  "You 
know this as well."
     "I understand.  Still, it is not enough."
     "Sir, you say you have been witness to my kind, you have seen such as I 
slaughter and torment for money and for entertainment, using war as my excuse, 
and still it is not enough for you."
     "No."
     Edmund placed his cup on the small table.  "Is it of interest to you that I 
have changed, that I have come so far from what I was as to be unrecognizable to 
any who knew me then?"
     "Yes, that does interest me, but what if I cannot change?"
     "You change when you accept forgiveness and refuse your errors.  Do not 
exaggerate the drama of your guilt or blame others for your wrongdoing.  You 
must face what you have done, accept it as your creation and yours alone, then 
forgiveness belongs wholly to you.  You must allow yourself to be forgiven or 
your guilt will drive you back into error."
     Nicholas bowed his head.  "I can not."
     "You can not what? Change or accept forgiveness?"
     "I can not change, so there is no hope of forgiveness.  I continue as I am, 
forever."
     "No, forgiveness changes you, you become a new person.  You no longer want 
to destroy yourself through sin.  The evil intent is removed.  You are no longer 
motivated by it to destroy yourself or others.  I do not know what this burden 
is that weighs so heavy upon your soul, but you must cast it off, or it will 
destroy your life.  You do not have to live so miserable.  If you are a man, you 
can have man's physick from God."
     Nicholas sat and hid his face in his hands.  He dare not cry for Edmund 
would see, as the bloody tears fell down his face, irrefutable evidence of his 
damnation.  He was not a man.  All the remedies offered were unavailable to him.  
A void opened before him, a great blank abyss into which he felt compelled to 
step, to bury himself in the darkness and lose himself completely.
     "I cannot change," he whispered. "I have tried.  No one can help me."
     "What is it that cannot change?" pressed Edmund.  Nicholas felt Edmund's 
words searching, reaching down into the dark swirling void after him.  No one is 
so ardent to save the drowning man than the one who once nearly drowned himself.  
The black waters slipped over Nicholas' head.  His hands seemed to clutch for 
salvation, and his lungs hurt as with a last captured breath.  Nicholas felt 
Edmund's words attempting to reach beneath the dark water and catch hold of his 
hand.  For a moment, Nicholas thought he might yet be led to shore.
     "All you need change is your heart," said Edmund, pressing Nicholas' hand 
tightly.  "You want this so much, you must change.  Your desire changes you.  It 
must happen.  There is no doubt!"
     The pitch emptiness found Nicholas and sucked him body and soul into its 
bleak recess.  He pulled his hand from Edmund.  He stood and turned his back on 
the old man.  The light from the fire seemed to have washed away in the same 
flood that carried him away.  Edmund could not help him.  Edmund was a good man 
who did not know with what he was dealing.
     Nicholas leaned against the side of the hearth where the stone was warm and 
raised his hand to the fire, flirting with the flames to discover whether any 
part of him still cared to live.
     "Thank you, Edmund.  I will give your words due consideration.  If you 
would leave me to my thoughts."  Only one hour after his arrival, Nicholas had 
lost faith that he could ever be more than he was at this moment.
     The older man looked doubtful at his sudden acquiescence.  Nicholas felt 
keenly the gulf separating him from Edmund.
     "It is very late," Edmund said, as if in apology.  "I should retire and 
leave you to your contemplation, if that is what you require."  Edmund paused 
and waited for a response.
     Nicholas realized he must say something.  He blinked back his emotions.  He 
felt truly dead now.  "Go to your rest.  I have work to do tonight."  It was the 
same work he carried on every night and he looked forward to it.  "I noticed the 
sky is cloudless and empty tonight.  When the time comes, I shall have a good 
view."
     "Jenny will fetch you at sundown for a late dinner, if that pleases you."
     "Thank you, Sir."
     Edmund frowned.  "You will think on what I said, will you not?  We will 
discuss this again."
     Nicholas concentrated on the fire.   He had no heart left with which to 
argue.
     Edmund continued alone.  "Tomorrow will be better.  I will include you in 
my prayers."  Edmund bowed slightly and left.
     Edmund was gone, as Nicholas knew, to be with his wife, to dream perhaps of 
his son and his comfortable household.  They were such ordinary acts, to sleep 
with one's spouse, to wake in the morning.  It was all that was required to 
distinguish him from humankind.
     Nicholas was not a man, not anymore, that was clear.  Unknowingly, he had 
signed his name to a book, from which it was impossible to expunge his 
signature.  There was no going back, for once committed he had been transformed 
body and soul.  It occurred to him, as LaCroix often asserted, that he might not 
have a soul.  He had relinquished it thoughtlessly for he did not recognize its 
value until it was gone.
     He had not realized the price he would pay when LaCroix killed him and sent 
him to stand at the portal between life to death.  He could have passed through 
as was natural, but he heard LaCroix calling him back, telling him he did not 
have to die and that he could live forever as a vampire.  He was unable to 
resist.  He was too curious to submit without knowing his alternatives.  He 
chose instead to engage the world on its own cruel terms and rise forever as 
victor.  He had questioned the natural order and now he was condemned.
     The memories brought the tears back to his eyes.  He was but a deluded 
demon, one clothed in human form, suffering the desire for human intimacy only 
so he might prove a more effective predator.
     The hearth fire burnt itself into ash before his eyes.  If soulless, he 
committed no sin.  He suffered not from a want of conscience, but from a 
biological imperative no more disgraceful than that of the wolf.  He was a 
creature, like the snake, who could sleep in the dirt but might seek the dry 
refuge of a house.  Live in the house as he liked, he remained a snake.  It was 
his mistake not to accept his proper place in the world.  It was his denial that 
caused his suffering.  Salvation lay in submitting wholly to his fate for that 
was the natural order of his life now.
     He would never have a wife, or a son, or an apple or any of the other 
ordinary pleasures of life.  It was his vocation, his charge, to prey on those 
who did.  Nicholas's thoughts frosted cold in his misery as he thought on the 
numberless, nocent years stretching before him.
     He yearned to embrace death, but the vampire wicked away his grief, turned 
it to anger and used it for its own purposes.  Nicholas looked to exhaust 
himself, to wreck destruction and recruit others into his personal hell.  He 
tossed the contents of his cup into the fire.  He must hunt.  He thought 
carefully as to where he should begin.
     
           -----  >>>