Date: Mon, 11 Apr 1994 14:16:22 EDT This is my answer as to the current thread about affiliation, Cousin John's comments about there being so many newbies, and why the applications for Cousinhood seem to be dwindling. I told you--don't say ANYTHING in my hearing, or seeing. Fiction will NOT be stopped. Be afraid, be very afraid. Be ascared, be very ascared. _______________________________________ APPLICATION FORTHCOMING by Susan Garrett Janette looked up from the mess on her desk, hearing the knock on the door. "Enter." It was Nicola. He opened the door only part of the way, then peered into the room, one hand beneath his jacket. She smiled when she realized that he was prepared to reach for his gun--as if his teeth and strength wouldn't be enough to handle any possible danger? He was spending much time with these mortals. His worried expression, though, placated her. At least he was still concerned for her welfare . . . . "You said you had a problem?" "For . Not the ." Janette seated herself behind the mound of paper on her desk. His hand dropped from his holster and he stalked directly toward her. "Janette, we've talked about the definitions of an 'emergency' before--" "And you don't call an emergency?" she answered, meeting his angry glare with one of her own, rising from her seat, and indicating the pile of paper on her desk with a wave of her hand. She didn't know whether it was her tone or the sheer volume of paper that managed to distract him, but his eyes widened at the sight of the mess. "I told you, if you paid your bills on time--" "My accountant handles that. No, this is fault." "My fault?" He looked up at her with innocent eyes. And she almost forgave him. "You're the one who convinced me to take in all of these applications from those . . . those . . ." "Fans?" he offered. "" Huffily, she sat down in her chair and folded her arms. "I have a business to run, Nicola. And . . . other interests. I am a secretary." "Administrative assistant," he corrected absently, picking up a handful of envelopes and glancing over them. "" This time she was certain the tone of her voice got through, he looked up at her sharply. "I don't see the problem." "There's too many of them! And the condition of some of these things. Like that!" She pointed to an envelope he held in his hand, which may have been virgin white at some time in the past, but was covered with a number of nameless spots and blotches. Nicola placed the rest back on the pile and examined the envelope more carefully, sniffing at the paper. "Coffee," he announced. "Ketchup and--" he winced, nearly dropping the envelope, "garlic!" "Now look inside." Carefully, Nicola opened it and withdrew a slip of paper. "FOD?" "One of your partner's . And they're all like that. All of anyway." Sighing, she leaned back in the chair. "And they're starting to infect my other mail! I had to have Evan handle an invoice because it so smelled of garlic that it made me want to wretch." Using two fingers, Nicola carefully replaced the letter in the envelope and let it fall to the desk. "I can see your point. But it's not entirely their fault. And Schanke's getting better about that stuff--" "You've started to let him eat in your car, haven't you?" Frowning, she added, "But with me you're soooo worried about blood on the upholstery?" He ignored the accusation. "He's got his fans. We've all got out fans." Curious, he picked up another envelope--clean, the writing crisp and very legible. "That must be for your coroner friend. I expect that it smells of formaldehyde." Nicola lifted the envelope to his nostrils, sniffed, and smiled. "Wrong. Ivory soap. And . . . buttered popcorn." "Just as bad." The grin infuriated her, but she shrugged it off. "At least hers are legible. They fill in everything completely and neatly. Unlike your own--" reaching forward, she picked up a tattered envelope and handed it to him. Nicola opened it and looked at the paper inside. "What's wrong with this?" "Of course--you wouldn't notice, would you?" Rising from her chair, Janette walked around the desk and pointed over his shoulder. "Half the information's missing, and the half that's there is on the wrong line, or makes no sense whatsoever. Although some of them have promise--the males, anyway. The females . . . I'm assuming they're captivated by your boyish charm." Nicola was still looking down at the application. "Or my moral turpitude." "Oh, good. You're started using that 'Word-A- Day' calendar I bought you." He looked up sharply. "I happen to know you got it on sale." "Fresh." Janette raised her hand to his face, close to raking her nails across his cheek, but that sparkle in his eyes stopped her. He was a tease sometimes. "You I don't bother with such tawdry things." "I know. Although I don't think tawdry's shown up on the calendar, yet." He dropped the letter to the pile and leaned back against the desk, as if studying her. "But I'm pretty certain it means cheap, showy, flashy, trashy--" "Oh, Nicola, you say the things," she purred, moving to place her arms around his neck. Suddenly, there was an envelope between his lips and hers. As she drew back, he sniffed it, then offered it to her. "One of yours, I suspect. There's a hint of Chanel. And . . . chablis?" "Spoilsport." Snatching the letter from his hand, Janette stalked back to the other side of her desk. "At least my devotees have nice penmanship--or, if not, the sense to use some mechanical device. They have style, class, ilan-- " "And a tendency to fall off bar stools." "You're not being nice." "I'm on duty." "Ah, yes. " She let enough emphasis linger on the word, so that he looked up from the pile of mail, sharply. "But we survive, Nicola. We survive, one way or another." "You're as constant as the wind." Stretching, Janette leaned back in her seat and purred. "That's one of the nicest things you've ever said to me." "It's true." He picked up yet another envelope. It was relatively unmarked, of an indiscernible color, but definitely virgin white. He moved to open it-- And Janette quickly rose from her chair and snatched it from him, so quickly that he cut his finger on the edge of the paper. Nicola put his finger in his mouth and arched an eyebrow in her direction. "It's . . . for LaCroix," she said quietly. With the edge of her fingernail, she wiped the small speck of his blood from the lip of the envelope. "They're few and far between, all shapes and sizes and colors, no two alike . . . except for what's inside." When she looked up, Nicola was frowning. Running his hand through the pile of mail on her desk, he said, "There are many?" "Some." She raised the envelope to her lips, then looked down at the faint mark of her lipstick against the paper. "You mustn't forget, Nicola, we among the first." Nicola shook his head. "No. Not for long." "For long enough." He'd turned his head, was looking away--at that far distant past, perhaps? "You played the game, for a time. You enjoyed it." When he looked back at her, eyes dark, a denial on his lips, she smiled. "Ah, but you . For a time." Then she looked down at the envelope again. "You mustn't condemn them--they're as weak and as foolish as any mortals. As we once were. They've made they're choice. As we did." "But they're ," Nicola said sharply. He reached for the envelope in her hands, then thought better of it and turned away. "They could be saved--" "Then save them." Janette tossed the envelope onto the pile and met his angry gaze. "They're , after all. They're not mine. They're my concern . . . unless they interrupt my interests." Leaning back in her chair, she steepled her fingers and stared at the pile. "In fact, these things are starting to annoy me. I've considered shipping the lot to LaCroix--" Nicola was at her side instantly, a hand on her shoulder. When she looked up at him, her expression carefully blank, he whispered, "Don't." "It's a promise, a threat," she warned, gesturing toward the mess. "Oh, I'll remove my own, first. But what would LaCroix do with all of those applications from your fans, or those of your partner, or your Natalie . . . ." His hand left her shoulder and he massaged the back of his neck, glancing at the envelopes. "Janette, I don't have the time." "Then find someone who ." She reached down to pick up an envelope that had slipped from the desk--a pattern of pink hearts intertwined with a chain ran along one edge. Realizing it had caught Nicola's attention, she said, "Alma." His eyes widened, then he nodded. "Okay." He walked away from the desk, then back again. "I guess maybe I could ask Nat--" "Perfect!" Janette rose to her feet and picked up a white mail sack which sat beside her chair. She pushed it into his hands, then gestured toward the envelopes. "Mortals like that sort of detail work. It helps fill their dreary little existences, so I'm told." Nicola shot her a glance, then started pushing the mail from her desk and into the sack. Janette bent down and picked up a few envelopes that escaped his attention, then handed them to him when she was done. "She'll know where to forward your mail, and mine, and your partner's--I believe LaCroix has a mail drop somewhere in the locality. I'll give her the address." " handle LaCroix's mail," said Nick, shoving the last envelopes into the sack, then pulling the drawstring tight. Janette's eyes widened. She took in a sharp breath and touched her finger to her lips as she returned to her chair, behind her clean desk. "Are you certain that's wise?" "Everyone deserves a second chance." He met her eyes, his smile grim. "Even us." "Brave ." Shrugging, she answered his smile. "My hands are clean of it, whatever you do. Give your coroner my best, won't you?" The sack must have weighed close to a hundred pounds, but Nick lifted it without effort, holding it over his shoulder and looking very much like a sailor prepared to embark on a journey. He headed toward the door, but turned, when he was almost across the room. "About those emergency calls--?" Janette pouted, then smiled. "I'll behave in future. " Then, she pointed toward the open door. "Don't forget the rest." "The . . . rest?" Dropping the sack, Nicola walked to the door and closed it. There were four more mail bags of the same size resting back there. His eyes were filled with accusation as he turned to her. "That's this week's worth. And my desk is only big," she said, in defense, with as much innocence as she could manage. "Shall I have them sent to her office? Or . . . your loft?" "The loft. the loft," answered Nicola. Throwing up his hands, he walked back to the bag he'd abandoned, then shot her a glance over his shoulder. "Janette--have you ever wondered why they bother? I mean . . . all ." "They're only mortals, Nicola. They need to amuse themselves . . . just like us." He thought about it for a moment, then nodded, seeming to accept the answer. Janette waited until he'd left, then stretched luxuriously in her chair. She was quit of it--free! Not only had she saddled Nicola with sorting and forwarding all of that horrid correspondence, he'd no doubt actually ask his coroner friend for her assistance! Men could be fools, sometimes. Laughing, she rose to her feet, then looked down. The envelope addressed to Alma had escaped the bag. She opened her mouth--to call Nicola back--then decided against it. Flipping the envelope against the palm of her hand, she walked to the door of her office. She was curious to see what sort of mortal would write to Alma. And . . . if truth be told, foisting off her load on Nicola had been thirsty work. She needed a drink. After all, she had a reputation to protect. One that her followers would be proud to live up to. THE END