Date:         Sun, 12 Dec 1993 15:32:49 EST
 
 
Angel Crossing
 
A Forever Knight Story
 
by Susan M. Garrett
 
(all comments to SusanG2522@aol.com)
 
 
 
        There was snow on the streets and in the sky.  LaCroix turned up the
collar of the overcoat, bothered less by the cold than by the inconvenience
of the few cold, wet flakes with enough audacity to melt on his neck and drip
down his back.  Turning his head, he caught a glimpse of himself in a store
window, then stopped and met his own gaze in the glass, oblivious to the
crowds that hurried along the sidewalks.
        He had not seen a mirror in some months--had banished them, in fact,
from his hiding place--and was neither completely pleased nor repulsed by
what he saw.  The worst of the scars had healed some time ago, aided by a
constant infusion of fresh, warm blood from any source he could find.  The
corner of his lip rose slightly at the thought that money could, indeed, buy
happiness . . . at least for a vampire.
        His smirk hadn't changed.  His bright eyes, if anything, we brighter,
fueled by hunger and forced inaction.  It took all of his will not to rise
into the air and send the shoppers screaming in panic.
        But his senses had not been lost enough to make the Enforcer's aware
of his return.  He had regained his mind not long after fleeing Nicholas'
loft in agony, rent equally by betrayal, and the stake driven into his chest,
and the flame.  Only later he'd realized how close his former student had
come to piercing his heart that night--in <so> many ways.  It was a will to
survive that had driven him from that place and to a safe haven.  The cold,
hard cash of the mortal world had kept him invisible while he healed,
pursuing quieter interests during his convalescence.
        Dimly, LaCroix was aware that the mortals gave him a wide berth,
veering around him as he stepped closer to the lit store window.  He didn't
care.  A cold finger traced the line down his cheek, beside his left
eye--that would be gone in a few more days of fresh feeding.  He was the same
in most respects.  In all respects.  But one.
        His amusement at Nicholas' constant defiance, the flaunting of his
authority, had passed into the darkness with the flames that had been meant
to destroy him.  There were no more chances.  He would end their
relationship.  Soon.
        Looking beyond his image, into the store window display, he came to
himself again.  LaCroix ignored his reflected frown and took stock of the
items.  It would seem that he had taken more time to heal than he'd
thought--the holidays were upon the mortal world.  Which explained the
furious crowds and blinking lights, the unnatural abundance of red and green,
the screaming infants and angry traffic horns.  And--he winced--that abysmal
music, played with the deft precision of a rogue elephant in heat.
        The horn trio stood by a red metal pot--he could see them reflected
in the glass without turning.  They were collecting for some charity.  If
there <were> any power in heaven, their proceeds would go for music lessons.
But the other mortals smiled and pressed bills or tossed change into the
collection utensil.  He wondered what denomination he could give that would
persuade them to stop their infernal racket and move to another location . .
. but knew any amount he offered would be met by wonder, thankfulness, and an
intense need to guard their profitable spot against all comers.
        Sighing, he looked back into the window again . . . and noticed a
mortal standing some yards behind him.  There was nothing unusual about
him--or was it her?  A long winter coat, like his own hid a multitude of sins
or virtues.  And if virtue wore a face, that was it--clear features framed by
long, blond hair that curled, lips that were red and full like roses fresh
from spring vines, and eyes of a singular blue that reminded him of the
stillness of the moonlit water he'd seen once, off Crete.
        LaCroix turned, but the stranger was gone.  His vision was suddenly
obscured by the scurrying crowds, the frantic mortals moving to and fro,
trying to outrace the ends of their pathetically short lives. They took their
joy where they could, even in the hurly-burly excitement of an annual
celebration that was composed of equal parts tension, turmoil, and elation.
It was just as well pleasure was so ephemeral.
        And one of the reasons eternity seemed so dreadfully long . . . .
        The stranger was no longer there.  Quirking an eyebrow, LaCroix
waited, hands clasped behind his back, strolling up and down the sidewalk.
He was old enough to take some pleasure in surprises of this type--they broke
the monotony of forever into small bits of here and now.  But his surprise
was turning to concern.  Was the stranger one of his own kind?
        That would never do.  He was trying to keep hidden, until he felt
strong enough, confident enough of his own powers to return to face his
former friends and take back what was his own.  To have another stumble on
him was an unfortunate occurrence.  Perhaps his haste in returning to the
world may have condemned this poor unfortunate to a premature meeting with
his ultimate destiny.
        "Cold night," said a voice, from beside him.
        LaCroix prepared a scathing rejoinder, something salacious enough,
delivered in the proper tone, that would ward off unwelcome mortal
familiarity.  He turned--
        And the words stuck in his throat.  For there was his blond stranger,
looking no less wondrous in close proximity than he had at a distance . . .
if it was a 'he.'  He still wasn't certain and the voice was even enough to
have betrayed nothing of gender.  There was something in the perfection of
both male and female, despite the worn denim jeans and generic leather boots
that could be seen beneath the long, brown woolen coat.
        "Cold, for mortals," he answered, so quietly that only one of their
own would hear.  His words produced no frost in the air--for there was not
enough heat in his body to warm it--and he watched out of the corner of his
eye to see what might come from the stranger's lips.
        The stranger never looked at him, wearing a pretense of disinterest
as finely honed as his own.  "Cold, yes.  But a warm time for them, as well.
Do you find you envy them?"  The blue eyes fixed on his as that perfect
sculpted face turned toward him.  "So many of you do.  You remember too well
what it was like.  It is your curse . . . and your blessing."
        There was no mist on the air as the stranger spoke, but neither did
he see the hint of undeath in those mesmerizing eyes.  For a moment, he was
held by that gaze . . . but once that moment had passed his heart filled with
anger and he strode swiftly away, parting the crowd with rough shoves,
refusing to look over his shoulder.
        LaCroix continued to walk for a city block, perhaps further, then
stopped at the mouth of an alley formed by two buildings.  Darting quickly to
the left, he lost himself in the shadows and waited.  Had he been sick two
years, ten years, two hundred years, he would never have lost those inbred
predatory instincts that had served him throughout his life, and afterward.
        There was a flash of gold against pale skin, just as the stranger
reached the mouth of the alley.  A look down at the lit sidewalk outside
confirmed that he had left no footprints in the snow--his tread firm, but
lighter even than air.
        Curiously enough, the stranger also left no mark in the white.
Perhaps he would leave no mark in the world, after departing it so abruptly.
        Instinctively knowing when the stranger's back was turned, LaCroix
sprang, his fangs aching for the taste of blood, his eyes wide and wild and
filled with lust and hunger.  He should have caught the stranger unaware.
        But the stranger turned.  And in the second he crossed the space
between them, the stranger had raised his hands, catching both of LaCroix's
wrists before his talons could sink into the flesh beneath that long coat.
They stood for an instant, nose to nose.
        "Who are you?" hissed LaCroix.  "<What> are you?"
        "Who I am would mean nothing to you.  <What> I am--you should know."
        There was a brilliant light in the stranger's eyes, so intense that
LaCroix looked away quickly, some inner voice warning him that to look too
long into that white at the bottom of the blue depths would drive him mad or
blind.  Still snarling, he twisted away, but the stranger released his grip,
so that he was free.
        There had been no pressure, but LaCroix massaged his wrists, still
feeling the tingle of the stranger's touch on his skin.  He took a step or
two away, turned his back to show that he was not afraid.  "You've chosen in
error.  Go to Nicholas.  He bent his knee to your God while he was still warm
and his heart cringes from Him now that he's cold.  <He> will heed your
voice, Angel, not I."
        And the Angel, for that is what the stranger was--he was a fool not
to have seen it before and blamed that on his recent illness--laughed.  The
sound was like the chiming of the bells at Matins.  "You should know us from
before then.  We have always been here, Master LaCroix.  The name and the
appearance changes, but nothing eternal does.  That is why we <are> eternal.
Whereas you have nothing more than extended existences, we change less than
do the stars in the sky."
        "Then why come to me?"  Hands outstretched, he smiled and faced the
Angel.  "Have I offended Him only now?"
        The corners of the Angel's lips twisted, mimicking his own.  "Hardly.
 The list of your evils outstrips all of your kind and most--save a few--of
mortal kind.  As does the list of your good deeds.  But then, you have walked
in the world for quite some time.  I make myself known to you <now> because
it has been requested."
        LaCroix touched his long-fingered hand dramatically to his chest, the
gesture accompanying a shallow bow.  "Not by me, Sir Angel.  So, off on your
way, if you would be so kind."
        The smile disappeared from those rose-red lips and something in
LaCroix was disappointed--the loss marred the perfection of that face.  Or,
perhaps, the mock-sneer made it <less> perfect . . . and so more attractive
to him.
        The Angel shook his head.  "Because you do not see me, does not mean
that I should go from you.  I am always with you, in some form."
        This, indeed, was news.  LaCroix searched his ancient memory for some
trace of those utterly unforgettable eyes, and found none.  Except . . .
perhaps a flash of a glimpse out of the corner of his eye when in a crowd.
Speaking with Janette, a feeling that there was someone at his shoulder, a
lock of golden hair shining in the candlelight, proving to be a phantasm of
imagination when he turned.  Had he always been accompanied by this being?
        The thought both intrigued and enraged him.  His finger to his lips,
the other hand on his hip, he regarded the Angel thoughtfully, holding back
the anger that burned in his chest.  "Sir Angel, are you telling me that you
are . . . my guardian?"
        His voice left no question as to the absurdity of the notion.  A
lesser being's cheeks would flame with embarrassment when addressed in such a
tone.  But the Angel merely shook his head again, his face a study of
perfect, unmoving marble.
        "Guardians are the spirits that watch over mortal souls.  When one
has gone across, the guardians are left behind, and given new mortals to
guard."  There was a subtle flicker of the cheek, perhaps the beginning of a
smile that was kept in check.  "<Your> guardian was in such a state after you
left the mortal world that it was centuries before the angel could be
reassigned.  Such a thing is not done, Master LaCroix.  It simply is <not
done.>"
        Again, LaCroix gave a slight bow, and met solemn gaze with solemn
gaze, but his voice still fenced with that note of mockery.  "Your pardon,
then.  And that of your fellow Angel.  I shall try to be less taxing to my
Guardian in my next mortal existence."  He paused, an eyebrow arching as he
asked, "But if you do not care for me, as any good guardian should--and I can
assure you, mine was <most> negligent in his duties--why must you haunt <my>
centuries?  Or, if I am not protected, may I suppose that you are to protect
others <from> me?"  He shook his head and made a sound by flicking his tongue
against his teeth.  "Tsk.  Tsk.  Then I should think you negligent in your
duties, as well.  Is there no competence in heaven?  Or is efficiency yet
another sin that sends a soul to perdition?"
        Again there was no movement on the Angel's part, save a slight flick
of his wrist, a dismissal of the caustic remarks.  "Think, Master LaCroix--as
you are so proud of your intellect--if a Guardian is an angel of life, then
what must those who watch over your kind be?"
        The words came unbidden to his lips, escaping before he could taint
them with sarcasm.  "The . . . Angel of Death."
        The light in those bright eyes gleamed again.  "<An> angel, only.  We
care for those souls you toss to the darkness in your bloodthirst, or whose
lives, and hearts, and bodies are broken on the racks of your whims."
        "You must find this difficult duty," said LaCroix.  He smiled again,
as a thought began to germinate in his brain.  "Even . . . distasteful."
        The Angel looked away, not meeting his eyes.  "Our duty is what we
are given--no more and no less.  We do not act, we only watch, until souls
are given into our care."
        "And what if I would be free of your . . . services?"
        He got a reaction--which, in and of itself, was a small triumph.  The
Angel's head swung quickly, their eyes meeting.  "You have no choice.  Those
souls would be cared for by others, it is true.  They would not be harmed by
the loss.  But you--"  Again, there was a reaction--he was elated to elicit
so much with a single question--as the Angel's brows furrowed and those blue
eyes looked elsewhere for enlightenment.
        "You cannot say what would happen?" asked LaCroix, taking a step
closer to the Angel.  He turned his head, as he moved past the Angel's
shoulder, asking, "Or . . . don't you know?"
        He continued until he was a few steps away, smiling secretly to
himself.  The tumult in the Angel's heart was mirrored on its face and he
exulted in that moment.  Was there, perhaps, more that he could accomplish?
Strike a blow against the hand that held everything . . . save himself?
        At last the Angel answered, a tremor in its voice that had not been
there before.  He felt those eyes upon his back but would not turn to face
them.  "I cannot say what would happen," the Angel admitted.  "And . . . I do
<not> know.  It has never happened before.  But I beseech you, Master
LaCroix, do not travel this road.  No good can come of it."
        "Ah, but I know little of good," said LaCroix, filling his voice with
the slick, oily tone he'd found so persuasive in the past.  "Shall we say--"
he turned quickly and startled the Angel, "that this idea ought to be
investigated?  Knowledge is supposed to be good, is it not?"
        "When tempered with wisdom--"
        "A minor point."  He waved his hand, dismissing the idea, then stood
beside the Angel.  He hesitated only a moment before placing his arm over the
Angel's shoulder, then ignored the tingle that ran along his flesh at the
point of contact, even beneath the cloth of his coat.  "If what you say is
true, then we have been together a <long> time.  Which, by definition, means
we are friends, of a sort.  And friends should assist each other in matters
of this type."
        He walked with the Angel as he talked, to the alley mouth and back.
The Angel in turn, seemed bewildered at this unaccustomed familiarity, the
very discussion causing it distress.  "No.  It cannot be done.  You cannot
simply <request> the removal of an angel."
        "Perhaps," said LaCroix, "we might make a wager of sorts.  I--"
LaCroix tapped his chest, "will try to do something.  And you," he pointed
to, but did not touch the Angel, "will try to stop me."
        The Angel halted, but did not shake off his arm or turn away from
this sudden, odd companionship.  "I told you--I cannot act.  I can only
observe.  And . . . it's Christmas Eve."
        LaCroix met the Angel's eyes and let the question appear in his
expression.  "Yes?"
        The Angel stared at him.  "You will not be able to commit an evil act
against mortal or your own kind until the bells toll mid-night."
        "Midnight?"  LaCroix left the Angel and turned his back to him,
letting the smile of triumph lazily cross his lips.  "There are many hours
until midnight.  And, I promise you, I do ten evil things before breaking my
fast each twilight."
        "But not <this> night," said the Angel, firmly.
        He started to protest, then stopped and stroked the side of his nose
with his finger, thinking.  The Angel was right.  He had done nothing overtly
anti-social with regards to the laws of God, man, nature, or the city of
Toronto.  Then again, he hadn't yet broken his fast.  And what a wonderful
way to start the evening--have a healthy meal of fresh blood and rid himself
of this troubling interloper once and for all!
        "But what if I <could>?"
 
 
        When he looked back, the Angel had turned away.  Hands folded
together, the face was serene, as if in prayer.  Something about that
perfection needled him, yet he was enthralled at the sight, so that when the
Angel opened its eyes and turned to him, he was caught unaware.
        But the Angel seemed not to notice his surprise, or his scowl.  The
golden head bowed, slightly.  "Master LaCroix, you may have three chances, of
your own choosing, to perform an evil deed by the first stroke of mid-night.
If you succeed, I will cease to accompany you, if that should be your wish.
But if you should fail, then there will be no more said of this matter and
you will forswear the taking of mortal life . . . for eternity."
        It had seemed promising, at first.  LaCroix licked his lips and
turned away from the Angel, considering the challenge.  To be rid of any
divine supervision would finally free him.  But if he should fail--there
would be no breaking that particular oath.  Retribution would be swift and
terrible, even beyond his imagining.
        And yet, could it be <that> difficult to sin again?  He'd had so much
practice over the centuries.  Good or evil, it mattered not to him as long as
he was amused or his hungers satisfied.  To perform an evil act should prove
a simple matter.
        He hesitated only a moment before nodding and looking over his
shoulder at the Angel.  "<If> I should agree, you will not be able to
interfere?"
        "I observe, only," repeated the Angel, its marble face betraying no
sign of emotion, approval or censure.  "I will not act.  I may, perhaps,
question you, but I cannot stop you.  I will trust Nature and circumstance to
prevent harm."
        This time, he took no pains to hide the smile that slithered across
his lips.  "Agreed, Sir Angel."  He extended his hand, to seal the pact.
        There was a moment's pause before that marble hand, almost as white
as his own, reached for his.  Where their skin touched, there was an
electricity and warmth almost too much for him to bear, a tingling that drive
downward, through his skin, to his very bones, and what might have been left
of his soul, if he yet had one.
        But LaCroix maintained the hold and, indeed, took his other hand to
hold the Angel's, his eyes poring over the shape and surface as he studied
it.  For it <was> perfect.  When compared with his own, scarred from a life
of warfare, work, violence, and mortal cares, the Angel's hand seemed as
untouched and pure as that of a day-old infant, though adult in make and
nature.  The fingernails were pearl, some inner light shining with
opalescence through the milky sheen.  The fingers were well-made and
well-spaced, long and slender, the joints crisp, the ligaments pliable.
These were the hands of an artist.
        Without releasing the Angel, LaCroix looked up to meet its eyes.
They were perplexed at his interest, but calmly patient.  "Tell me," he
asked, whispering his awe and admiration.  "Do you play?"
        And the Angel smiled, with such beauty and warmth that LaCroix felt
his heart might stop its slow, almost imperceptible beat.  "Yes," came the
answer, the voice holding equal measures of joy and pride.  "The lyre and the
harp."
        LaCroix looked again at the hand he held and nodded, envying heaven's
gifts and hating himself for entertaining even the notion that the divine
might hold some attraction for him, other than the satisfaction of his simple
lusts.  Such music these hands could make!
        "If I should fail this challenge, would you--<could> you consider
playing for me, at some time?"
        The question was presumptive, insolent, and again annoyed him--to
admit defeat before the challenge had yet <begun>?  But for the possibility
of experiencing such music . . . he could forgive himself the error.
        The Angel did not speak at first and he looked up, to see what it had
not answered.  And in those blue eyes, with the brilliant white shining at
the depths, he knew that the Angel <had> played for him before.  The memory
of the distant echo brought a smile to his lips, for it was the music of
perfection that had spurred him on to his own efforts, after coming across.
Before he had realized that even the undead had limits not known by mortals.
And when he began to seek out those mortals whose talents could faintly
compare with the melodies and harmonies that sang through him, at passing
moments, or caught on the voice of the wind.
        Even during his convalescence, when anger was not enough to sustain
him and darker thoughts crowded his mind, the symphony of sound had occurred,
lifting the melancholy from him.  It reminded him that his continued
existence would be better than any alternative.  And that the end of forever
would mean the end of the melody.
        He saw all that in those ocean-pure eyes and wondered if he had
bargained in haste, only to repent at leisure.  To lose would mean he would
be forced to drink distilled or bottled blood only and take care with his
temper around mortals, bowing to the current rules of <polite> vampire
society.  To win would mean the end to any pestering presence of divinity . .
. and the loss of that music that served him as his missing soul no longer
could.
        But he'd agreed.  His pride could brook no opposition on that point.
He <must> win.  It was his nature, to win at all costs.  That was why he'd
survived these centuries.
        So many, empty centuries . . . .
        LaCroix released the Angel's hand and turned away, letting the sense
of self fill him.  There could be no doubts if he were to succeed, not
against the hand of heaven.  "Let us begin," he said, rising into the air.
        Time enough had passed during their conversation that the crowds had
thinned to nothing.  It was, after all Christmas Eve, and the mortals were
hurrying back to their hearths and loved ones, in an attempt to fill their
little lives with some joy and meaning.  He flew high and looked to see the
Angel.  But there was no sign of the spirit, save a warmth that touched his
heart now and again.  It was near.  It was following, on its own wind and
wings.
        And it would be present at his moment of triumph.
        He knew his destination would yield him some opportunity and rejoiced
inwardly when he spotted a lone shopper standing beneath the few lights still
lit outside the mall.  The woman was loaded with packages, pacing to and fro
to ward off the cold, and halting expectantly at the slightest glimpse of car
lights in the distance.  She was expecting salvation, delivery from this
last-minute shopping spree.
        Landing, he decided that this one, at least, would never see the home
and hearth again.
        There was brown hair beneath the woolen cap, bright eyes that flashed
between worry and anger and fear--for herself or for others he cared not.  He
approached quietly and saw the perfect opportunity to flaunt his power before
his angelic observer.
        A package lay in the snow, fallen from one of the many bags she held
in her arms, gifts precious enough not to rest in the snow or icy plowed
parking lot beneath her feet.  He picked up the package and made a noise,
clearing his throat to get her attention.  "Miss?  Is this yours?"
        She started, jumping away and losing more packages.  He could smell
the sudden fear from her, heard the rapid beating of her heart, and forced
himself not to lunge and take what he wanted from her without the
preliminaries.  He wanted to impress the Angel, show the proper seduction of
the innocent.
        Like most mortals, she was so easily distracted.  Laughing, he
started gathering up her packages in his arms and, after a second's pause,
she followed suit, matching his pretense of amusement without realizing how
good of an actor he might be.  When the packages were gathered, she wiped
back a lock of hair that had escaped from her hat with her mitten snowy.  It
was almost touching, her smile of gratitude.
        "Thank you."
        "My pleasure."  He looked at their surrounding and frowned, with what
he hoped was an appropriate look of concern.  "You shouldn't be out here.
It's desolate.  And it's Christmas Eve."
        He didn't care whether she took him for a security guard or friendly
bystander.  In other cities, this potential victim would have abandoned her
packages and run, knowing that flight in the face of the unknown, however
friendly it might seem, was safer than possible harm.  But in this city they
had not yet learned to innately fear the presence of a stranger.  Nicholas
had chosen his new home well.  In time, these people would learn, when their
newspapers warned them of innocent women molested and killed in public places
on holy nights.
        It almost annoyed him there would be no paper printed in the morning.
        For her part, she smiled in response, perhaps at the concern he
pretended, or the simple appreciation of having someone else to share her
cold and lonely vigil.  "My husband was supposed to be here an hour ago.  But
we've been having problems with the car.  And the baby hasn't been well--"
        Although his smile was sympathetic, none of her words registered
beyond the most superficial part of his consciousness.  Her heart had slowed.
 The blood that flowed through her was content to move at average speed.  He
had lost that rush of adrenaline, given by fear, that would have made her a
tasty meal.
        Then again, a flash of eyes and fang at the proper time--
        LaCroix stared into her eyes, using little of the power at his
command.  "Why don't you come with me?" he suggested.  "There's a warm spot
here.  We could share a cup of coffee while you wait."
        Her bright eyes went dull, glazed, as her will began to surrender to
him.  It would not be her last surrender that night.  "That would be . . .
nice," she answered, her voice low as if entranced.
        And, in a way, she was.  He placed his arm on the small of her back
and led her away from the open lot and the sidewalk, to the shrubbery that
grew close to the wall of the building.  There was enough to conceal him from
prying eyes.  He wanted no interruptions this time.
        Once there, she turned toward him, as he placed the barest pressure
on her shoulder.  Her eyes were lost.  As was her life.
        "You have snow on your collar," he said, reaching up his hand, as if
to brush it away.  Another second and the cloth would be torn from her
throat.  He would feed and the Angel would know that this night was no
different from any other.
        A car horn and lights startled him.  The woman's trance was so light
she turned away, losing contact with his eyes.  Her packages spilled again,
out onto the sidewalk, and she followed their fall almost mechanically.
        He, too, followed the packages and her trail.
        The headlights belonged to an old station wagon.  The man getting out
of the car appeared worried--whether at his wife's possible anger for having
abandoned her or in concern for her safety, LaCroix didn't know and cared
less.  There was another heartbeat--a child in a car seat, which he could see
beneath the frosted window.  A babe of no more than a handful of moths,
asleep.
        But the husband had moved forward, quickly hugging his wife and then
picking up her packages.  "I'm sorry, honey, it was the car again.  They just
can't seem to fix the damn--"
        LaCroix, also, had begun to pick up the packages.  It was only when
he and the husband reached for the same package at the same time that the
other man even registered his presence.
        The man straightened, backing up a step, as he looked over LaCroix
quickly.  Apologies and worry had been replaced by the protective nature of
the beast.  LaCroix smiled and handed the man the package, wondering if he
knew how close he'd come to having his throat ripped out.
        After a hesitation, the man accepted the package.  Then nodded.  His
wife turned, having come to herself and again seeming to notice LaCroix.
"Thanks for waiting with me," she said, her appreciation evident in her tone.
        He heard the relief in her voice as well, but she did not consciously
know how close she had come to escaping the oblivion of death.  He gave her a
slight bow and passed over the last of the packages.  "It was my pleasure."
Again placing his hand on the small of her back, he led her to the passenger
door of the car, which he opened, gallantly.  "Allow me."
        The husband was still unsure.  LaCroix nodded to him over the top of
the car.  "You should take more care with the safety of your wife, sir.
These are dangerous times."
        "But it's Christmas," protested the woman.  She smiled up at LaCroix
from inside the car.  Her look was so filled with innocence and belief in the
goodness of those that surrounded her that it made his heart stop for the
second time that night and caused an ache in his chest that he could not
place.
        "Yes, it is."  He bent low, to tuck the edge of her coat into the
car.  If he took her now, her could destroy the husband easily enough.  Two
lives would cement his victory.  How <easy> it would be.
         But as he straightened slightly, to get a better purchase when he
lunged, his eyes met those of the child in the back seat--which he'd
forgotten.  Now awake, the child stared at him, the innocent blue stirring
another empty ache in his chest.  Those eyes were so like that of the Angel.
And why not, as the child was only recently removed from a world other than
this?
        He froze, and the moment was lost.  As a parting gesture, he slipped
a wad of bills into the woman's coat pocket--enough to ensure that she never
be abandoned again by a defective automobile . . . and a good beginning
toward the child's future.  In seconds, he had backed away, the door was
closed and, with a cheery wave and a cry of "Merry Christmas," the family car
roared away, chugging smoke that smelled of burning oil, accompanied by a
mechanical sound all too much like the bones of a hanged man rattling against
a gallows tree in an autumn wind.
 
 
        LaCroix remained frozen in place, long after the smoke had cleared
and the sound of the car was no more than a memory.  He had failed.  It was
only his first attempt, but he had <still> failed.  And failure was never
acceptable.
        The Angel stood behind him--he knew that from the warmth near his
heart and the sudden singing in his ears.  But he ignored those things and
whirled, fangs ready, eyes flashing, and anger boiling in his brain.  "You!"
he accused, pointing a long white finger at the Angel.  "<You> did this!  It
was perfect, but you broke the pact.  You interfered."
        The Angel's face remained unmoved.  "Nothing was done--"
        But LaCroix was in no mood to listen.  His anger fueled his hunger.
He sprang at the Angel, his nails sharp, his vision clouded by red.  The
warmth of the Angel's skin was beneath his fingers.  He pulled aside the
collar of the coat and sunk his fangs deep into that perfect, marble neck,
ignoring the splay of electricity that traveled the length of his body, his
hands, his face, his fangs--wherever he touched the Angel.
        The liquid, when it touched his lips and throat, was fire--red and
burning.  Choking, he half-stumbled and was half-pushed backward by the
Angel.  He caught a glimpse of the Angel's face and had never seen such a
look of shock and violation.  One hand rested on its neck, the other was held
outward from it, frozen in the act of pushing him away.
        LaCroix fell to his knees in the snow, bent double as the taste of
angel continued to burn like fire inside of him.  The pain was worse than
fire, worse any of the wounds Nicholas had caused.  And then he felt a warmth
upon him, an uncomfortable warmth, like the first rays of the sun.  He forced
himself to look up--
        The Angel floated above him, dressed in a robe so white, its
brilliance danced and sparkled across his vision until he thought he might
have been blind, but that he still saw this vision.  And what a vision it
was!  If he had thought the Angel perfection before, it was but a pale
imitation of what he saw now.  The face and skin glowed from within with a
pure and vibrant light, the eyes held only the barest vestige of blue, as
white as the robe and whiter still.  The lips held firm in a thin,
disapproving ruby line of righteous indignation.  The hands seemed long and
large enough to hold the world and toss it among the stars.  Wings rose
behind it in clouds of feathers, glorious to behold, with the strength of the
four winds at their command.
        The light began to burn him.  Not fiercely, but enough, so that he
felt the heat from inside.  His coat, his skin, began to smoke.
        And he didn't care.  He made no movement, no motion, knowing that he
was being unmade and not able to bring himself to do anything about it.  It
was ecstasy he felt, for the length and breath of his body, in every fiber of
which he was constructed and every memory or feeling or thought that made him
what he was.  Music such as he had never heard filled his ears and his heart
and his mind.  He stretched out his arms, reaching for it--
        And then the lips trembled, parted.  The eyes turned blue and the
light faded.  The Angel stood on the ground, clothed as before, and now its
face was filled with emotion.  The sadness was so profound that LaCroix felt
his own eyes filling with tears as the Angel looked at him.  Then it thrust
its hands toward heaven, threw back its head, and screamed, falling to its
knees in the snow.
        That scream echoed in his ears, remaining, as did the tears on his
cheeks, for the long minutes after the Angel disappeared.  LaCroix could not
move and did not wish to, the horror of that sound burrowing into his brain,
drowning out the music that had filled him, so briefly, with intense joy.  It
was to have been shown heaven and then cast from it again, into the deepest
of darknesses.
        But then, that had been the beginning of his journey.
        It was cold enough so that the very tears froze to his face.  He
brushed them away, settling his demeanor, bringing equilibrium to himself
again.  He rose from the snow and took stock of himself, realizing that he
had not burned or, if so, had been healed again.  Even the scar on his face
was gone now.  The coming months of restoring strength had been by-passed in
a second.  He felt more powerful than he had ever felt before.
        Which meant . . . that he was strong enough to repay those debts that
had been thrust upon him.  It was time that Nicholas learned the true fate of
those who defied him.
        Of course, he had yet to perform an evil deed.  No matter what might
come of the Angel, their bargain still stood.  And he was determined to win.
But what more evil deed could one pursue than revenge, the killing of one's
own blood?
        Smiling, LaCroix rose in the air, taking to the sky and wind,
cloaking himself in the dark mystery of night.  He cast his senses outward,
seeking the bonds that tied him to Nicholas.  At one point his attention
passed over Janette--he laughed, imagining her gasp.  He would leave her to
wonder for a while longer if the episode was merely a memory, or presaged his
return.  It would be good to leave her uncertain, for a change.
        But Nicholas--he frowned, realizing that Nicholas had unlearned so
many of his lessons.  His mind was open, like a beacon, concerned with mortal
matters.  So absorbed was he in his business, that LaCroix had no fear of
being sensed by his former pupil.  He let that mind guide him to a rooftop.
Landing, he walked to the edge, and looked over the concrete abutment.
        Nicholas stood four stories beneath him, on the street.  He paced
back and forth beneath a street light.  He was waiting for some mortal,
information about some crime that would help him to save a life.  That and
only that filled his mind this Christmas Eve--the preservation of a mortal he
did not know.
        Yes, Nicholas had much to answer for--not only turning his hand
against his master, but his mind and heart as well.
        Standing there, with the cold breeze whipping around him, LaCroix
studied the distance and the speed of the wind.  With a single javelin throw,
he could easily pierce his student's heart with the wooden shaft, then take
his head and scatter his ashes before Nicholas could do more than blink.  It
would be a clean ending--far better than his treachery deserved--but it would
be final.  There would be no way back.
        "If that is what you believe," said a soft voice from behind him.
        LaCroix spun on his heels, defensive, surprised at the Angel's sudden
appearance.  But the Angel made no move to attack him.  Instead, it stood
there, the face a study of marble composure, the hands clasped together in
serene confidence.  But . . . were the fingers intertwined more tightly than
before?  And were those flecks of angel blood--or whatever it was that ran
through angel hearts--on the collar of the brown coat?
        He frowned and turned away.  "Are you here to interfere again?"
        "I did not interfere," said the Angel's voice, which was, if
anything, more studiously toneless than before.  "It was your own heart that
prompted you to a good deed, not any pressure of my own."
        LaCroix glanced below, to the street.  "And you won't stop me from
this?  If I should destroy him--?"
        "Your friend?"
        The word struck his heart like no other could.  His fingers gripped
the edge of the concrete wall, gouging the solid stone.  "A friend does not
betray another."
        "A friend may defend himself, if he is pushed too far."  The Angel
stood beside him and followed his gaze.  "You have made him.  And you believe
you have the power to unmake him."
        "I do," said LaCroix, firmly.  He glared at the Angel, daring it to
speak.
        "That is not for me to say."  The Angel continued to stare below.
"He has a noble heart, one of the best of your kind.  It is his nature.  And
had you not pushed him so, he would not have harmed you."
        "He chose a mortal over <me>.  <Me>!  His master!"
        "For jealousy, you would destroy him?  I would have thought you above
such petty motives, Master LaCroix."
        The smallest of smiles flitted across the Angel's lips.  Inwardly,
LaCroix burned.  "For disobedience.  For murder.  For insubordination."
        "Mortal sins, all.  But neither of you are mortal."  The Angel bowed
its head and closed its eyes briefly.  When they opened, it fixed its gaze on
LaCroix.  "And do you know how his heart burns, for what he has done?  He
equates himself with Brutus.  Or Judas.  Though he knows he acted in defense
of another, there is still torment within him."
        "Brutus was an intellectual idiot--he had no concept of the necessity
of action," sneered LaCroix.  "And Judas was a greedy coward.  One of
Nicholas could match ten of each of them, easily."
        "Pride is also a sin," warned the Angel, softly.
        "Only if it is without basis.  And you, who can see into mortal and
immortal hearts, cannot tell me that I should not be proud in counting that
one among my own."
        The Angel's head dipped slightly--the point had been acknowledged.
Then it walked away from the edge of the roof, turning its back toward him.
"The chimes of mid-night shall strike soon, Master LaCroix.  If you are to
destroy him, it must be now."
        Looking over the edge of the rooftop, at Nicholas standing lonely
vigil below, something in LaCroix went very still.  This was not a duel
between men, or equals, or even master and pupil.  This was an assassination.
 Nicholas deserved better than that.  He turned to tell the Angel so.
        "Will you not destroy him?  Or are you lacking a weapon?"  The Angel
walked over to a pile of long wooden poles on the roof and lifted one.  It
broke easily in the Angel's hand, suddenly becoming a spear.  The Angel
walked toward LaCroix and held the spear across its outstretched hands.
"Here is the means of your revenge.  You cannot claim now that I have done
anything against you.  I have given you a weapon.  You must do the rest."
        LaCroix looked to the street again.  Nicholas was unaware of the
danger he was in, although his senses should have been screaming like war
sirens.  It would serve the fool right to be speared.
        He tried to imagine Nicholas' face, as the wooden shaft pierced his
heart and found that the thought unsettled him.  Shaking his head, LaCroix
spat blood to the floor of the roof, in disgust.  "No.  Not like this.  I
want to see his face, when he finds out that he failed to destroy me.  I want
to see those he loves burn before his eyes.  I want him to know the pain that
I have endured these past months, these past centuries, at his hands--"
        Again, the Angel stood beside him.  "There is no time.  If you are to
win, you must strike now."  The Angel hefted the spear with a practiced hand
and LaCroix's eyes widened in appreciation, as he realized the hands of the
artist had skill in the arts of war, as well as music.  "Shall I do it for
you?  If you are afraid that you might wound him only, cause him undue
suffering, I can assure you a clean kill if you place my hand over yours.
There would only be the head to remove, the ashes to scatter, and you would
be done."
        That white hand raised the shaft on high.
        "No!" cried LaCroix.  He reached for the weapon, catching the wood
before it could fly.  The Angel released its grip and stepped back.  LaCroix
took the shaft and broke it over his knee, then stood very still.
        Nicholas has noticed them.  His mind quested, searched--and LaCroix
dropped every shield in place, hiding from his pupil.  Not now.  He could not
face Nicholas <now.>
        And then the questing stopped and Nicholas was consumed with mortal
thoughts again.
        "You cannot destroy him," said the Angel.  "You cannot unmake this,
which you have made."
        Tossing the pieces of the spear at the Angel's feet, LaCroix spat, "I
<will> not.  There <is> a difference."
        "Of semantics."
        "I have done it before."
        "When the making was hurried or a lark."  The Angel's eyes grew
hooded.  "You have done so with many in the past, Master LaCroix.  But this
one was made with a purpose."
        "A purpose," sneered LaCroix.  His wrapped himself in his contempt
and took a step toward the edge of the roof, then stopped himself.  "I was
bored."
        "You were lonely."
        His heart froze at the sound of the truth, for even he could not
escape such things, when spoken by angels.  "I had Janette."
        "You wanted a friend."
        The second arrow sang home as well.  He stared into the darkness,
groping for some plausible denial.  "I wanted a toy.  Something to mold, then
discard when I grew tired of it."
        "You wanted a son."
        To that third, he could not reply.  He could only stand and stare at
the stars, knowing that heaven had beaten him.  "I beg you," he whispered,
"go no further--"
        But the Angel continued.  And his heart pounded with the cadence of
the words.  "You had known the darkness for too long even then.  You are
clever, Master LaCroix, but even you had not grasped the length of forever.
You began to realize the sameness of the nights, the years, the decades, the
centuries.  And that the end, for the end would have to come eventually,
would be long in coming.  A man who lives with death grows used to its
presence and accepts the end with grace, or fights valiantly to the last for
one more breath.  That is fitting--their lives are so short."
        He felt a warmth spread through him, as the Angel's hand fell on his
shoulder.  "Your candles burn long.  And it is the waiting that is the
hardest.  Many of your kind snuff the flame long before the wick has ended,
because they cannot endure the waiting.  It is a lonely vigil . . . without
others.  They are a distraction, give a purpose to existence.  And when the
end comes, they will stand beside you.  You will not face it alone."
        A second hand fell on his other shoulder.  "You were not wrong in the
choice of him, but in your methods.  You bully and try to break him to your
hand.  If you discard the mantle of master, you will find a friend.  And you
will have someone to stand with you when the darkness comes to claim you
both."
        In the distance, a church bell began to ring.  LaCroix closed his
eyes, letting the beauty of the sound overwhelm him.  That, and the warmth of
the angel's hands on his shoulders, surrounded him in a cloud of peace and
perfect tranquility that he had never known before.
        "You have lost your challenge," said the Angel.  "It is over."
        "No."  Slipping from beneath the Angel's hands, he whirled.  His mind
was cloudy, but he fought his way out of the Angel's web of words, discarding
them without a second thought.  "I have won."
        The Angel smiled, with grace.  "Master LaCroix, the woman lived.  And
your friend still stands in the street below.  The church bells have struck
the hour--"
        He stalked toward the Angel, fists clenched.  "I have made an angel
scream.  I have driven one of the heavenly host to anger . . . and spiteful
revenge.  When I attacked you, you struck back at me . . . and you <wanted>
to destroy me.  I was in your charge and you let me <burn.>"
        Not a muscle moved on the face of the Angel, but the blue eyes were
dull, the sparkle was gone.  "I stopped.  And you were healed."
        "Purity in thought <and> deed," said LaCroix archly.  He crossed his
arms and planted his feet.  "Tell me, Sir Angel, that I did <not> win."
        The Angel turned away.  For the second time that night, LaCroix felt
a wave of sorrow rush outward, but this time he was prepared for it.
Steeling his heart, he stood against it.  And when the Angel spoke, it was
the sound of heaven weeping.
        "You have won," it said.  "And you may have what you ask.  But--oh!"
When it turned, there were tears in its eyes.  It dropped to its knees before
him, hands together as if in prayer.  Those blue eyes met and held his.
"Master LaCroix, I beseech you, do not ask this of me. Do not take from
yourself what comfort you may have.  Forever is longer than even you might
know.  Do not do this thing."
        LaCroix leaned down and met the Angel's eyes.  Triumph swelled his
heart and he rejoiced to see heaven on its knees before him.  "I have won.
And I demand satisfaction.  Leave me, Angel.  Forever."
        Tears sparkled on the marble cheeks as the Angel rose to its feet.
Its eyes were filled with unending sorrow as it met his gaze one last time.
"As you wish, Master LaCroix.  As you wish.  And I pray you may never need
the comfort of heaven."
        There was no smoke or magic--the Angel simply disappeared.  LaCroix
stumbled, falling to one knee on the snow covered rooftop, hands clutching at
his heart.  For where there had been what he thought was a tiny bit of
warmth, there was now a chasm so wide and so deep that it could never be
filled.  A cold and empty wind whistled through the silence.
        And silent it was.  Because the music--even that--had left him, with
the Angel's passing.
        It was so still he could hear the impact of the snow as it began to
fall, joining and melding with the whiteness that seemed to cover everything.
 His vision cleared after a moment--those were not tears, but melting
snow--and he brushed the wetness away.  Rising to his feet, he stalked to the
edge of the rooftop and peered down.
        Nicholas was no longer there.  LaCroix could sense him in the
distance, could track him if needed--
        But . . . no.  Now was not the time.  He would settle with Nicholas
later.  As he had in the past.  As they would in the future.  This time, he
would not let it get out of hand.  He would take his time--for time enough he
had--and do the thing right.  Nicholas would be his.  He would win.  He
always won.
        When he rose into the night sky, he blamed the emptiness inside on
the fact that he had not fed.  This night, there would be no living prey.  He
would turn to the storage chest for nourishment.  He would play his violin
until dawn.  And he would wait in dread for his dreams, which would be dark
and uneven--
        And without music.
        Forever.
 
****
 
The End