KIND SOUL

A Forever Knight novel

By Susan M. Garrett

"In human relations kindness and lies are worth a thousand truths."
The Heart of the Matter -- Graham Greene


CHAPTER 1


	It was nothing more than a whisper, the words, "In the back," cutting through the noisy crowd, the thundering bass, and the clink of glassware behind the bar.
	Janette looked up and across the Raven, meeting the eyes of the bouncer.  It was a source of pride to her that the club--<her> club--seemed to run itself.  But every now and again something arose that only she could handle.  It could very well have been a minor emergency caused by a momentary lapse in judgment on the part of one of her patrons or even the heart-rending discovery that the last box of cocktail napkins mistakenly held swizzle sticks topped with small green leprechauns.  Whatever the case, both mortal and vampire alike turned to her for an answer.  And she didn't mind admitting that every now and again her annoyance at dealing with cumbersome details masked her pleasure at being needed, being indispensable.
	Leprechauns, for pity's sake.  And in July?
	But that had been another time.  Now she hesitated, remembering some of the tokens that had been left at the rear door of the Raven in the past few weeks.  At first, it had seemed harmless.  She'd guessed that one of the more adventurous--and foolhardy--pranksters among her crew had left the box of chocolates with garlic centers, the silk scarf emblazoned with crosses, or the suntan lotion and beach towel at the back door of the Raven.
	None of them had admitted anything . . . not that she'd confronted any of them.  That wasn't her style.  But neither had any of them so much as smirked out of turn or smiled guiltily.  Even Nicola, who'd been known to indulge in such senseless adolescent pastimes as practical jokes, didn't once blink when she'd wandered around the question in one of his recent 'professional' visits to the Raven.  Again, there'd been no confrontation.  If he didn't do it, she really didn't want him to know the details.  Because if it <wasn't> one of their own . . . .
	Janette didn't want to think about the consequences.  Nicola would only interfere, after all.  Try to 'protect' her.  As if she couldn't take care of herself?
	But the bouncer shook his head lightly, as if knowing her thoughts.  Of course, that would be impossible--he wasn't of her bloodline.  But he was astute and very good at reading the expressions and actions of others.  Which was why he was so very good at his job.  And . . . certain other things.
	With a sigh, Janette pushed those thoughts from her mind, tapped out her cigarette in an ashtray, and made her way through the throng of dancers.  Not a bad crowd this night, with more than enough mortals in the place to make the air almost oppressive with their heat and vitality.  A glance at the bar as she passed boded well--the receipts would be impressive.  A taut smile graced her lips as she mentally dared Nicola to match his 'cop' salary against her take on even a bad night at the club.
	The stench of garlic in the hallway caused her to turn her head, as she made her way through the rear storerooms of the club, to the service entrance.  As she moved closer the scent grew in intensity, until she was forced to take the perfumed handkerchief from her cleavage and raise it to cover her mouth and nose.  She sniffed lightly at the sweet scent, glad that the habit she'd picked up crossing corpse-strewn battlefields and taverns filled with dirty oafs in past centuries had remained with her.
	The bouncer was no more than a step or two behind her.  But as she reached the back door he slipped around her.  His opening of the door was a courteous gesture, but there was a protective air in it as well.
	Almost immediately, she saw why.  The body outside the door reeked of garlic, the clothing dirty and streaked with blood, fresh and dried.  Torn flesh was revealed between the gashes in his clothing--knife wounds--and the skin, where it was visible, held the bruised marks of fists or other blunt instruments.  There was no heat from the body, which would have meant a dead mortal.
	Or a vampire who'd been beaten to within an inch of his immortality.
	Janette leaned forward, trying to discern any features beneath the dark hair, which glistened with fresh blood.  Seeing her purpose, the bouncer touched the body lightly in the ribs with the toe of his sneaker--such a charming affectation--and the body elicited a groan, the head turning slightly.
	It was enough.  With a hiss, Janette drew back into the Raven.  Her fangs descended involuntarily behind the handkerchief she held at her mouth and she turned her back to the doorway as ancient angers were stoked to fire within her.
	It was Dorian.


	She'd remained close to LaCroix, grabbing onto his tunic sleeve for support, although he continually shrugged off her attentions, hissing at her to stay calm.  Janette knew she should have taken comfort in the fact that LaCroix didn't seem at all unnerved by the group of Enforcers that surrounded them.  In fact, he seemed composed, almost amused, his mouth twisting slightly at the corner as when he'd discovered some new challenge at which to try his hand.
	Maybe that scared her, for even in her brief time with LaCroix--since he'd brought her into the darkness--there was little he'd encountered that had seemed anything like a challenge.  He was always so secure, so certain of himself and his--their--abilities, that she'd seldom felt the fear she'd known often enough in her mortal life.
	Until these horrid creatures--of the blood, like themselves--had begun to hunt them.
	One of the Enforcers caught her looking at him, at his chalk-white skin and long, strong fangs.  He laughed and his smile was enough of a leer that she hurriedly wrapped her woolen veil around her head and tried to tuck her hands into her long tunic sleeves, which were still knotted from their attempted flight.  From the span of the new moon to the waning of the full, they'd been chased from city to city, across the Iberian peninsula, to the Holy City, and then further south even than that.  Here, in Sicily, they'd awakened at sunset to find themselves surrounded.
	Janette dared a glance at LaCroix, still half-expecting to see that look of annoyance, as if he was disappointed that the chase had so quickly come to an end.  But his features were unchanged, quite calm . . . except for that twist of the lip.  Unaccountably, she shivered as they made their way through the silent streets, the occasional torch glaring down upon the white skin and light armor of their captors.  The softness of their tread did little to ease her fear, but she took comfort in the shadows that covered the narrow streets, the moon casting little light between the two and even three-story brick and plaster merchants' shops.  There was comfort in the darkness, as there was in LaCroix's presence.  He'd protect her.
	Or else why would he have saved her in the first place, given her the gift of eternal darkness?  With a feeling of pride, she cast him what she hoped was a supportive and obedient smile.  He was her master, her maker, her protector.
	And yet he never seemed to notice her presence, his eyes focused only on the streets ahead, then on the doorway through which they were hustled.  Lights flared around them, candles taking flame and oil lamps lit as they entered.  The sudden fire made her gasp in surprise . . . and fear.  She well knew what fire could mean to them; LaCroix had been an excellent tutor on that subject, as well as many others.
	He cuffed her lightly on the cheek and glared, warning her to be silent.  She was too pleased for a moment to have finally gotten his attention and so didn't notice how silently and successfully the Enforcers blended into the few shadows that were left in the room, the mastery of darkness having been banished by that sudden light.
	What she <did> notice was a man who stood in the doorway--vampire, rather, for there was a red-gold cast to his eye that was anything but mortal.  His cloak was green and rich, in the fashion of the wealthy northerners, and his tunic was black and heavily embroidered with gold and silver threads.  The light from the lamps and candles made his clothing shine and she wondered, if briefly, what clothier and tailor he might have found to have done such magnificent work.  It seemed a shame to waste such finery on men . . . .
	But then, as he stepped forward, she caught LaCroix's sleeve again.  This time, he didn't brush her off, as the stranger advanced toward them.  Instead, he placed his hand over her own, his manner more proprietary than protective.
	It didn't much matter to her.  His hand, his presence, gave her strength, made her bolder than she should have been.  So she met the stranger's eyes evenly, without the demure modesty required of model ladies of noble birth.  It was her own form of challenge.
	Which the stranger met, his too-red lips quirking into a smile that almost mirrored LaCroix's.  He acknowledged her look with a bow and a nod, dismissing her that quickly as he turned to face LaCroix, standing so that no more than the span of a man's hand stood between them.  "We should have met before this, Master LaCroix," said the stranger in a friendly manner.  "I'm Dorian, the Archivist."
	LaCroix didn't blink or frown, his lips never moving from that look of anticipation.  There was a pause as his eyes met the stranger's and she saw them take the measure of one another in less than a mortal's heartbeat.  The look sent a chill through her, worse than any raw wind or icy rain.  It was their first meeting and yet she saw a line drawn between them, something intangible and yet strong as steel.
	For a moment, she didn't think LaCroix was going to answer.  And then, his lips parted--
	"I know," he said, in a voice filled with such certitude and strength that she wondered how deeply his gaze had gone into the soul of the other.
	And Janette shivered, both at the implied understanding in the statement and the cold smile that crossed the Archivist's lips.


	"What do you want me to do with him?" asked the bouncer, moving to her shoulder.
	"What, indeed!" she hissed.  She glanced back at the doorway, but the stench of garlic rose again, causing her eyes to tear.  Quickly, she raised her handkerchief to her lips.
	"Should I--?"
	"Let me <think>, damn you!"  The bouncer backed up at her unaccustomed shortness, then gave a slight nod, as if awaiting her pleasure.
	It <was> her pleasure.  Janette moved to a space beyond the doorway, where she could see out but the prevailing breeze wouldn't assault her with that hideous garlic smell.  And she thought.
	She thought about what Dorian had done to her, so many centuries ago.  She thought about his arrogance, his cold precision, his dedication to some empty, out-dated ideal.  She thought about the days she'd spent in helplessness, as he'd tried his will against LaCroix's and failed.  Then the days after that, tending to LaCroix, seeing him weak and knowing the hatred in his eyes wasn't only for Dorian, but for her, because she'd seen his weakness.  She thought of how Dorian had been most recently--still arrogant--as he'd arrived to interview Nicola.  And how, not too many nights beyond that, she'd seen Nicola more dead than undead on the couch in his loft, badly in need of blood . . . with Dorian standing over him.
	Her blood boiled, fueled by these memories, pristine from latest to oldest, each clear and crisp as the tones of a bell ringing on a winter's evening.  If her anger could have set him alight, he would have burst into flames and been consumed into less than ash instantly.
	But it couldn't.  And Dorian remained huddled outside her doorway, bloody, dirty, and reeking of garlic.
	Gesturing toward the bouncer, she commanded, "Get rid of that stench, hose him down or something.  Then drag him in here."  She stalked over to the main corridor and picked up the phone she'd installed in the storeroom.  It rang once at the bar and the snapping of chewing gum told her exactly who'd been unlucky enough to pick up the receiver.  "Alma, I want a case--pure. Two blankets.  And two towels."  When the gum snapped again, she barked, "Now!"
	Janette hung up the phone with a satisfied smile, hearing Alma's startled shriek from the other room even without the benefit of the modern communication's device.  A splash of water against concrete, accompanied by a low moan, caught her attention and she returned to the service entrance.
	The bouncer had followed her commands exactly, if not prettily.  She kicked an empty bucket to the wall as it dared to roll across her chosen path, then stood to one side and watched as the bouncer grabbed Dorian by what was left of his jacket collar and hauled him bodily across the threshold.  He was dumped unceremoniously on the cement floor, soaking wet.
	She pursed her lips in the wan light and looked pointedly at the slick trail of blood and dirt the bouncer's actions had created.  He blanched at the look, hurriedly closed the rear door, then hesitated, as if waiting for the explosion of her wrath.  After a moment of what would appear indecision, she waved him away in disgust.  He bolted for the doorway and she heard the clatter of bottles and several unladylike comments from Alma as a minor collision was averted in the hall.
	Janette kept her back to Dorian, and to Alma.  Staring at the window, she listened, hearing Alma's intake of breath--Alma didn't know who Dorian was, but coming across a battered and soaking vampire was always a bit of a shock. Alma would be worried, of course.  There was no way of knowing exactly who had left the vampire in this condition.  And with Janette standing there--
	There was no need to hide her smile, Alma couldn't see it with her back turned.  Janette let her ponder the question for the moment, then decided that Alma's limited mental capacity had probably been stretched too far beyond its normal limits--any more lessons would probably be a lost cause.
	"Put down the box and leave," instructed Janette, her tone cold and sharp.  "You've seen nothing here tonight.  And tell everyone to stay out front--I don't want my . . . private party . . . interrupted."
	Alma nodded--Janette had long since learned to distinguish the sound of a lone thought being battered around by the movement of the pretty blonde's empty head--and her steps were fast and furious, echoing brief seconds after the full case of bottles was placed on the floor.
	Now, they were alone.  And would remain alone--Janette was more than a little certain Alma's dramatic tales of what little she'd seen would be enough to keep the denizens of the club at bay, in fear of their fangs.  She didn't need <much> time after all.
	Janette stalked over to the pile of old furniture and refuse.  Her steps echoed on the concrete, seconded by the crack of wood as she snapped a leg from a broken chair, leaving the end jagged and brimming with splinters.  An appraisal told her that it was sharp enough and long enough for her purpose.  Neatness didn't count for much in this situation.  In fact, the more untidy it was, the more fun she might have.
	She eyed Dorian carefully as she turned, but he was still huddled in one cold, wet, miserable lump on the floor, seemingly oblivious to her.  "Dorian?" she called, her voice sweet and soft.  "Oh, Dorian?"
	An eyelid flickered, then she saw the bit of bright darkness that signified his eyes were opening into some state of consciousness.  Heedless of her dress, Janette pounced, landing beside him on her knees, the point of the chair leg pressed against his chest by one hand and the other on his throat, holding him down.  He still smelled of garlic; her skin itched where it touched his, but she ignored the sensation, concentrating on his eyes, his heartbeat, his terror.
	"You're mine!" she whispered in glee, her lips brushing his ear, tasting a speck of blood from a scalp wound.  To prove her power, she pushed the point of the chair leg against the skin over his heart, drawing fresh blood from an area that was not torn and tattered like the rest.  "I can take your life, Dorian.  But if you beg me prettily, I might let you go."  Lifting her hand from his throat, she pinned his shoulder as he tried to shift, then stared down into his eyes.  "Beg me," she whispered.  "Ask me to spare you.  Or I'll end your life <now>!"
	She'd hoped to see fear in his dark eyes--the terror of being at the complete mercy of another, the rancid taste of defeat and utter humiliation, the torment in knowing that his former captive was now his captor and held his life in her hand.
	But . . . he smiled.
	It was a wan smile, to be certain, but a smile just the same.  Just to prove to herself that his senses weren't entirely gone, she pressed the sharp and splintery point further into his skin--if anything the pain of it should bring him around.
	Dorian winced and the smile was a bit more strained, but it was still there.  His eyes were half-closed, but in weariness rather than agonized dismay.  She realized then that he'd passed beyond the point of feeling pain and saw in him some of the despair she'd seen in the aftermaths of Nicola's defeats, when LaCroix had found him, conquered him, reclaimed him as one of the blood.
	Still, Janette stared down at him, almost dumbfounded.  "I could kill you, now.  Don't you care?"  Her heart leapt as his lips moved, as he tried to form words.  Her ears ached to hear his pleas for mercy, for salvation.
	"It would be . . . a kindness."
	His eyes closed, after he spoke.  For a long moment she stared down at him, the timbre of his voice ringing too many somber chimes within her memory, too many echoes of Nicola at his most forlorn.  Dorian's body would heal with time and blood, and not too much of either at that, but there was something in his spirit that was wounded and festering. Thwarted of her vengeance, she placed both hands on the make-shift stake and held it over his heart, knowing that--as he'd said--it <would> be a kindness to free him from this place, this existence.
	This wasn't fun.  Frowning, she looked down at her hands and mentally reviewed the steps she'd taken, had learned so diligently from LaCroix.  Everything had been <perfect>.  Except, of course, for the fact that for a victim to plead for his life, he must want to live.
	Dorian didn't really seem to care one way or the other.  Which meant that if she was ever going to get her revenge, she'd have to <make> him care.
	Growling, Janette lifted the stake from his chest and tossed it angrily across the room--her throw so hard that it splintered against the wall and broke further, into smaller, sharper shards.  "I'm not <that> kind."
	Her dress, of course, was ruined.  She rose to her feet and wiped at it ineffectually as she walked over to the case of blood.  Grabbing two bottles, the blankets, and the towels, she returned to Dorian's side.  The first blanket she tossed on the floor beyond him, then rolled him onto it with the toe of her very expensive and very blood stained shoe.  The second blanket was folded deftly and neatly into a pillow, which she placed beneath his head.
	There was enough water on him for her to clean some of the grime and garlic-crusted blood from his face with the edge of a towel.  Janette then pulled the cork from a bottle.  Placing a hand beneath his head and raising him easily enough, she put the bottle to his lips.  At first she only moistened them, letting him taste the blood.  His tongue flicked out over the water-wet skin, catching a drop or two.  It was all that was needed for the blood-hunger would set in.  His body knew what it required to survive, it only had to be reminded.
	He wasn't so far gone that he could deny instinct, but his hand raised weakly for the bottle, then fell away, unable to complete the task.  Janette cradled his head against her and tilted the bottle, giving him just enough, a swallow at a time.  As he drank, she tried to concentrate on the task at hand, tried to make certain he didn't drink too greedily or too slowly, didn't cough up a mouthful of blood.  Not that it mattered to her--her dress was destined for the furnace, spots of blood being damned annoying and nearly impossible to get out.
	Dorian's eyes opened again only as she took the bottle away.  Janette touched her finger to his lips and said softly, "Just rest a moment.  You'll have your fill in time."  On impulse, she traced the line of his jaw, noting the deep bruising that was already beginning to heal.
	He was now able to raise his hand enough to catch hers, his eyes holding a gratitude that made her uneasy.  "Thank you," he whispered, his voice hoarse.
	"For what?  I would've done the same for any of the blood."
	Her tone was meant to be cold, dismissive, but Dorian merely smiled again.  "More kind than kin."
	Ignoring him, she picked up the towel and dabbed at some of the cuts along his arm, which caused him to wince.  "Garlic," he explained weakly, as she raised an eyebrow.  "In the . . . wound."
	Janette hissed beneath her teeth, pulling back her hand as if burned.  No wonder he'd smelled like a garlic field in flower . . . and his wounds were not only causing him pain, but healing so slowly!  This was nasty business.  In fact, the only members of the blood who'd even consider such a punishment might be LaCroix or--
	Her eyes widened and she glared down at him.  "Did the Enforcers follow you here?"
	"No," he said quickly, looking away.  "No, they--they didn't follow me here."
	She slapped his cheek lightly, then rested red-lacquered nails on the soft skin of his throat in warning.  "Dorian--?"
	"No," he repeated sharply.  It was only then that he turned his head again, to meet her eyes.  "Why . . . the Enforcers?"
	"There's been talk that you've been naughty and are out of favor."
	"Has there?"  He closed his eyes and sighed wearily.  "More than talk."
	"As I suspected."  Janette bit her lip and studied his face--handsome in its own way, but she'd seen it in too many unpleasant contexts.  A shiver ran through her as older memories resurfaced.
	Dorian's eyes opened quickly.  "What?"
	There was some life in them, some spark in his gaze now that had been missing before.  Of course, she'd shattered the stake.  And she was too worn out from playing nurse-maid to <really> enjoy tormenting him . . . .  
	"You can't stay here," she said, after a moment's pause--no use lying to him, since he'd know immediately whether she was telling the truth-- avoiding an answer to his question.  "I don't want <them> around the club."
	"Then do me two favors."  When she hesitated, he added quickly, "It won't endanger you.  Or . . . the club."
	He coughed midway through the latter sentence.  As Janette reached for the second bottle, Dorian pushed it away, asking, "Two favors?"
	"Let me hear them before I decide," she demanded, putting a note of steel into her voice just to let him know she was neither to be bullied nor trifled with.
	Dorian nodded solemnly.  "Call Dr. Lambert."
	"Call . . . Dr. Lambert."  Janette blinked.  "And the second?"
	"Don't tell Nick Knight."
	"Don't--?"  She watched his face, but his solemn expression never shifted, there wasn't a twitch of a muscle.  "And what, precisely, am I <not> to tell Nicola?  That I called Dr. Lambert?  Or that you've been here?"
	"Neither.  Both."  His eyes closed again and he leaned back against her, suddenly seeming weary beyond words, as if the strength was draining from him.
	"That's all?"
	"Yes."
	Janette hesitated, considering his request.  What Nicola's coroner friend had to do with all this was beyond her, but letting Natalie deal with Dorian--and the Enforcers who might be pursuing him--suited her far better than having those fiends roaming through her club.  She had her own to protect now and mortal patrons might just be a bit put out if they were treated like the happy hour drink special.
	As far as not telling Nicola . . . what could it hurt?  If anything, the consequences would be on Natalie's head.  Any mortal foolish enough to be involved with the affairs of vampires deserved exactly what she got.
	"All right," she said softly.  "I'll call Dr. Lambert.  And Nicola won't hear a thing from me about any of this, but--" she warned, as a smile stole across his lips, "if he asks--"
	"Tell him," said Dorian sleepily.  "You mustn't . . . lie for me."
	"My thoughts exactly."  Janette lowered his head to the pillow with more care than she was wont to take with anything, then, as an afterthought, threw the edges of the rough blanket around him.  Rising again, she looked down at him and touched a finger to her lips in thought.
	To agree with Dorian's two requests was easy.  Too easy.  She might have her revenge after all, if Dorian planned to play with Natalie Lambert behind Nicola's back.  Certainly, Nicola would be hurt, but then he'd need comforting.  And she knew very well where he'd come for that . . . .
	Janette smiled and all but ran to the hall phone, just at the doorway of the rear storeroom.  She dialed the Coroner's Office number from memory, then stood, tapping her painted nails against the cement wall as the phone rang.  Glancing back over her shoulder, she considered how well timed this had been--she could have her revenge and it had cost her nothing more than a case of blood, two blankets, two towels, a dress, and a pair of shoes!  Cheap, at twice the price.
	Dorian was quiet, his labored breathing punctuated by an occasional moan.  The sound gave her a moment's hesitation.
	But the pause was only that long, when her anger rose again at the sight of him, at the memories his presence stirred to life.  Her smile grew sharper and colder as she watched him, only half-aware that she'd muttered, "Dr. Lambert, please," when the receptionist had answered, the connection ringing in her ear.
	Foolish, foolish Dorian, to have called her 'kind.'  Had he never heard of the unkindness of ravens?

CHAPTER 2

	"You don't look good."
	Natalie removed the palms of her hands from her eyes--even though the pressure seemed to increase in the area of her frontal lobes at the movement--and glared up at Nick.  He leaned down over her desk with a sympathetic smile.
	It took all of her willpower not to smack it from his face.  "<I>," she announced sharply, "have a headache."  When his lips parted, she pointed a finger at him, warning, "And if you tell me you don't get them, I'm sure as hell going to give you one!"
	Nick held his hands up in mock surrender, but when she didn't smile, his eyes narrowed in concern.  "Have you taken something for it?"
	"Everything within legal and medical boundaries.  It was there when I woke up this morning."  Natalie closed her eyes for a second, then opened them again and blinked, having found that seemed to ease the throbbing somewhat.  "Nothing's working at the moment.  At least it's only an annoyance, not a migraine."
	"So, go home."
	"I'm waiting for the blood sample results from the Impala."  She met his eyes.  "I saw the scene photos taken by the Burlington police department--I can't believe they got <anything> off that car."
	"It <was> stripped clean," admitted Nick.  Seating himself on the edge of her desk, he shrugged.  "But the VIN matches--it's Jeff Bartnichak's car.  If it's his blood, this goes from missing persons to homicide."
	"That's why I'm waiting--I know how much is riding on this one."  Natalie managed the faintest of hopeful smiles for his benefit.  "Anyone could have stolen that car.  The blood could be from one of the kids who stripped it, there's a lot of chance for injury.  Have you--uh--seen Ed?"
	Nick shook his head slightly, as if dismayed.  "Hard <not> to.  He's been haunting the station."
	"You can't blame him.  Any word on his brother is better than this . . . not knowing."
	Nick intertwined his fingers and stared down at them a second, then looked back at her.  "Even being told that Jeff's dead?  That the blood on the car was his?"
	"Blood doesn't mean there's a body to be found--"
	"No, it doesn't."  Nick still held her gaze.  "You tell me--<is> it better to know for certain?  Or to not know?"
	Natalie met his eyes and thought about the question, not at all sure that he was asking about Jeff and Ed Bartnichak.  "I think . . . it depends on the circumstances.  And the people involved.  I'd only worked with Ed a few times before he resigned and I met Jeff maybe twice at the division picnics.  How close were they?"
	"Ed raised his brother after their father was killed."
	"Their dad was a sergeant wasn't he?  Shot in the line of duty?"
	"Long before my time," noted Nick.  "Or yours."
	That brought a smile to her lips--the thought that even though she'd been at her job longer than Nick, there were people in both the Coroner's Office and the divisions it aided that had spent a lifetime serving and protecting the citizens of Toronto.  The Bartnichaks were police blue, down to the bone.  Jeff's disappearance had been given top priority in all divisions and departments for the first few weeks.  Even now, two months later, when other cases would have slowed to a crawl or been buried by more recent problems, this one was still on the top of everyone's list.
	"I don't know," she answered, pausing again.  "If I raised someone, cared for them for all that time, I think I'd want to know.  I think I'd <have> to know, before being able to get on with my life."
	"But," countered Nick, "there's always hope that they're still alive, that they'll come walking through that door at any moment.  Isn't that worth something?"
	Natalie looked away, not certain what thoughts were behind that blue gaze.  Every now and again, Nick got into a funk about something.  Jeff Bartnichak's disappearance seemed to have struck a chord.  She knew Nick had made some rather abrupt departures from other places, in other times.  And for some reason he'd begun to realize that there were people he'd left behind, people who wore the same anguished face, spoke in the same weary but hopeful tones as did Ed, Jeff's brother.
	But what worried her was the possibility that he was feeling out her thoughts on the matter for a reason.  Maybe Nick had accepted the inevitability of his having to leave her behind some day.  And he was trying to decide on the best way to do it.
	She closed her eyes and massaged the throbbing spot between them, not knowing what to say.  The more he dwelt on the impossible nature of the task he'd set himself--to cross back into mortality--the more unlikely it was to happen and the more difficult her job became.  How could she find a cure if he didn't believe one existed?  She knew how attitude affected a patient's ability to heal, as did any physician.  Just as she knew that a doctor's ability to effect a cure could be as strongly affected by the patient's attitude as the patient himself.
	"Nick, I've already <got> a headache," she said sharply, opening her eyes into slits and fixing him with her gaze.  "You're making it worse."
	"Where does it hurt?"
	She pointed to her forehead, between her eyes.  "Here."
	To her surprise, Nick leaned forward and kissed the spot, then moved back and asked, "Better?"
	She couldn't help but smile.  "It's no miracle cure, but I'll survive."  Natalie sat back in her chair and picked up a pencil from her desk.  "Why's Ed bothering <you>?  He should know it's not your jurisdiction.  And he resigned--what--two years ago?  Just after you came on the force, right?"
	Again, Nick shrugged.  "Once a cop, always a cop."  He rubbed his chin with the top of his fist and looked away, his expression thoughtful.  "We'll have to see how long that lasts.  Maybe a couple of centuries."
	"Once a knight, always a knight?" mocked Natalie lightly, trying to keep him from falling into brooding again.
	It worked--he grinned at her.  "We'll see.  As for jurisdiction--they found the car in Burlington, Vermont, which means the FBI is involved.  The RCMP's are involved.  And half of the local jurisdictions between here and there.  If we found a body and could prove that he'd been killed here, in Toronto . . . ?"  Nick shook his head.  "Can't do much more than keep tabs on it, keep looking--"
	"And keep Ed from doing something stupid."  When Nick raised an eyebrow, she added, "Well, he's a private investigator, isn't he?"
	"Does a lot of work for security firms, employee theft and such.  Pretty successful, from what I hear.  He's trying to talk Schanke into going to work for him."  He slid from the desk and smiled again.  "No leads, there.  We <have> been doing our homework, <Detective> Lambert."
	 "That's not what I mean."  Natalie rose from her chair, her headache abating slightly, and walked over to the filing cabinet.  "I just think you should be careful."
	Nick followed.  "In what way?"
	"With Ed.  I remember what he was like.  He doesn't let go of something when he thinks he's on the right track--even when someone proves him wrong."  She picked up the clipboard from the filing cabinet and glanced over the test the lab was supposed to return this evening.
	"That made him a good cop.  And a good P.I."
	"And dangerous."  Natalie turned and bit her lip, then added, "He's fingered the wrong suspect before, Nick."
	"We all make mistakes."
	"But <we> don't destroy evidence to back them up."
	There, she'd said it.  Nick's eyes widened and he took a step toward her.  "Ed Bartnichak destroyed evidence on one of his cases?"
	Natalie met his gaze and hesitated again.  "It's . . . rumor.  None were my cases.  But I know that evidence from a scene was tampered with between the scene and here.  Some items disappeared entirely.  And . . . it wasn't a one shot deal."
	"Then, his resignation might have been forced?  Why didn't you tell me this?"
	"I thought you <knew>.  And then, when I realized you didn't--"  Sighing, Natalie took the clipboard back to her desk and fell into her chair, suddenly weary again.  "Look, it's just rumor, okay?  That's why it took so long for the alarm to sound when Jeff disappeared from the police academy.  Everyone knew Ed had put a lot of pressure on him to graduate with honors.  A lot of people assumed that Jeff just took off."
	Nick nodded, his expression thoughtful.  "And that's why Ed <has> to prove it was foul play--to save face."
	"He won't look kindly on anyone who suggests otherwise," she warned.  "I know he's got to be investigating this on his own time.  I may be overprotective--hell, it may be this damned headache--but . . . . be careful around Ed.  Nick, you take enough chances as it is.  And if Ed thinks there's anything off about you--"
	"Yes, mother."
	His grin could get so damned irritating.  Natalie picked up the clipboard and swatted him.  "Go back to work and leave me alone.  I'll send over a copy of the test results when they get here."
	"And then you'll go home?" he pressed.  When she hesitated, Nick leaned toward her, over her desk.  "Because I'll call Grace.  And <she'll> tell me."
	"You fink."  With a sigh, Natalie relented and leaned back in her chair.  "Yes, I'll go home."  He'd turned to leave when she snapped her fingers and reached behind her, for the styrofoam coffee cup.  "Nick, one more thing--?"
	By the time he turned, she was holding aloft a plastic speciman baggie filled with water . . . and containing a small goldfish.
	Nick eyed the bag suspiciously as he took a step toward her.  "You want me to drop off Sidney's dinner?"
	"No.  It's the next step in your treatment."
	"Nat--I don't eat fish."
	With another sigh, she rose to her feet and walked over to him.  Lifting his hand, she transferred the bag to him, closing his fingers over the plastic tie at the top.  "It's a <pet>."
	"A . . . pet."
	"It's time we got something else living in that wasteland you call a loft, other than dust mites."  Returning to her chair, she rested her elbow on the desk and watched him, watching the fish.  "I thought about plants, but you'd have your cleaning people water them for you.  I wanted something you'd have to care for by yourself, something that <moved>."
	"A . . . goldfish."
	She grinned, seeing the idea slowly sinking in past his thick 'don't you dare move that chair' skin.  "We'll start you off slow.  Maybe move you up to a hamster by next year if you cooperate."
	Finally, Nick looked at her, grimacing.  "But fish . . . smell."
	"Only when they're dead.  And--" she pointed to the bag, which he held with such dread that it might have contained unprotected plutonium, "this one isn't.  I expect you to keep it alive."
	"I don't think I'm ready for this."  His eyes narrowed and he looked at her suspiciously.  "This doesn't have anything to do with the fact that you've got a headache, does it?"
	"I've been planning this for a while," she admitted.  "If you want to cross over, you have to change your way of thinking.  Having to care for something alive and--more or less--breathing might just help with the transition."
	"Are you . . . that close?"
	There was such hope in those few words and it was so much of a contrast to his mood of only a few moments earlier that Natalie felt a lump rise in her throat.  She wanted to tell him 'yes,' to throw her arms around him and promise him that she'd have him walking under the sun in a day, or a month, or a year.
	But she wasn't about to give him false hope.  She wasn't going to lie to him.  Not now, now that they <knew> it was possible.  "No," she admitted, trying to keep her tone light.  "But you need to start your conditioning soon.  We have to ease you back into the mundane, humdrum, mortal world."
	Nick looked at the bag in his hand, which hadn't moved from the instant she'd closed his fingers over it.  "And you think a goldfish will do this?"
	"Well, I can't think of anything <more> mundane."  Natalie picked up a slip of paper from her desk and held it out to him.  "It's still early--I suggest you stop off at a pet shop on the way to the station.  I wrote down some things you'll need."
	Barely moving the bag containing the fish, he reached over with his free hand and took the paper from her, then peered at it.  "Fish food, a bowl--"
	"No fifty gallon tank," she warned.  "Keep it simple.  Some colored sand in the bottom, maybe one of those little castles for him to swim through . . . ."
	His eyes widened and Nick glanced at the bag again.  "How do you know it's a him?"
	"I don't."  When he met her eyes, she smiled and shrugged.  "It's one of the mysteries of goldfish.  The pet store clerk can probably tell you."
	"I'm not sure that's something I <want> to know."  Nick continued to stare at the fish, getting up enough nerve to turn the bag slightly as it swam back and forth inside the confined area.  "What's its name?"
	"That's up to you."
	"You mean, I actually get some say in this?"
	Blowing a raspberry, Natalie rose to her feet and stalked toward him, her hand reaching out to take the goldfish bag from him.  "If you don't want it--"
	But Nick moved it above her reach and backed up a step, saying, "No, no . . . it's okay.  Just give me a chance to get used to the idea."  He lowered the bag to eye level and watched the fish for a moment.  "A name.  I'll have to give it some thought."
	The phone on Natalie's desk buzzed.  She lifted the receiver and seated herself on the edge of the desk as Grace said, "Nat, there's a call for you on line two.  It's on hold."
	She glanced down at the phone pad, saw the second button lit, and answered, "Thanks, Grace."  Then Natalie dropped the phone in the receiver and smiled at Nick, who was now entranced by the goldfish.  "Just don't wait too long.  It'll be all right in the bag for a while, but it'll need a bowl soon."
	"Yeah.  Okay."  Her smile grew wider as he barely moved his eyes from the bag.  "I have to get back to the station.  Hope you feel better."
	"So do I," she answered fervently.
	Nick looked up at that, then covered the few steps between them in a heartbeat and kissed her on the forehead again.  "Just in case," he said, before turning and heading for the door.
	"No fair asking Schanke for help," Natalie called after him.  "And if you name it 'Goldie,' I'm taking it back to the store!"
	She didn't know if he'd heard her, but she managed to keep the smile on her face until after she was certain that he was gone.  Only then did she wince and press her palm against her forehead--God, did her head hurt!  She was more than ready to call it a night and if this was the lab on line two--
	Not up to par, she answered in as civil a tone as she could muster, "Dr. Lambert--"
	"Dr. Lambert?  Yes.  This is Janette."
	Instantly, Natalie's gaze went to the door.  "Nick's just left.  Were you looking for him?"
	"No!" said Janette quickly, but then her voice softened and she added, "No, thank you.  I wanted to speak with <you>.  You're certain he's gone?"
	"Yes."
	"Good.  I don't think you want him to overhear what I have to tell you."
	Natalie pressed her palm harder against her forehead and wished desperately that Janette would cut to the chase.  "Which is?"
	"Dorian's here.  He's asked me to phone you."
	They weren't so many words, but the reactions they elicited ran the gamut of fear, to anger, to loathing, to . . . something that she wasn't quite ready to give a name to.  "And?"
	"He's in rather a bad way.  Will you come?"
	Natalie's breath caught in her throat, she was still trying to get over the initial shock of Janette's calm announcement--why not just say the building was on fire and all the exits were blocked?  "Bad way?  What do you mean?"
	"I can't discuss it over the phone."  Janette gave an annoyed and exasperated sigh.  "Will you take him off my hands or shall I throw him into the street to fend for himself?"
	"Yes.  No.  I'll--I'll be there in a few minutes."
	"Good," purred Janette.  "Use the service entrance and pull your car into the alley--I don't think you'll want to take the chance of being observed.  May I suggest covering your upholstery with plastic?  He's something of a mess."
	Natalie had only <thought> her head hurt before.  Because now--  "All right.  But--?"
	"I assume you know enough not to mention anything to Nicola?  It would only upset him.  And I do so dislike seeing him upset.  <Au revoir.>"
	"Janette?"
	The phone clicked and then a dialtone rang in her ear.
	Natalie was stunned, but only for a moment.  Instinct kicked in and she picked up her medical bag, shoving supplies into it as she crossed the room.  Blood wasn't necessary--she'd be at the Raven and Janette would supply what she'd need, if she'd need any.  Body bags could be opened to cover the rear seats; Dorian could lie there easily enough.  What could have happened to him?
	And why, after what he'd put her through, was she even <thinking> about helping him?
	The thought made Natalie pause, half in the process of shoving a folded body bag into her carry-all.  She was doing this because of the oath she'd taken to heal the sick, no matter who or what they might be.  Because he'd helped her save Nick's life, when she couldn't have done it by herself.  Because . . . .
	Because he'd asked for her.
	Shaking her head, Natalie shoved the rest of the bag into her case and closed it.  Better not to think, for now.  She grabbed her purse from behind her desk, then headed for the door at a run.
	But stopped, slowing, as she moved through the doorwat and into the outer office.  
	Grace looked up from her desk with a sympathetic smile.  "Girl, have you <finally> come to your senses and decided to go home?"
	It was a good explanation.  A <great> explanation.  The fact that it was a lie didn't matter.
	Not really.
	"Yes, yes I am," she said weakly, managing yet another wan smile.  "This . . . headache . . . ."
	"Take my advice," said Grace.  "Feed the cat, turn off the lights, and get some shut-eye."
	"Exactly what I'm going to do," agreed Natalie.  She glanced back at the lab door over her shoulder.  "Uh, I promised Nick, the lab sample from the Impala--"
	"I'll send copies to the station.  You take a sick day," chided Grace.  "It's not worth driving yourself into the ground.  Take care of <yourself> for a change."
	"I'm trying.  Really.  Thanks."  Natalie wandered out to the hallway until she knew she was out of sight, then raced for the door to the parking lot.  There was no way of knowing how long Janette's feelings of hospitality would last.
	Her thoughts were confused as she fumbled with her keys.  Natalie opened the front passenger door, tossed her purse and medical bag onto the seat, then leaned inside and unlocked the rear passenger door.  Pulling two of the body bags from the carry-all, she shook them open, unzipped them, then placed them across the back seat, until the upholstery was covered.  At this rate, she'd have to order more body bags.  But at least her seats were protected.  How bad could it be?  What could have happened to Dorian?
	Why should she care?
	She slammed the passenger doors at the last thought, regretting the action instantly as the throbbing increased in her head.  Grumbling beneath her breath, Natalie fished the keys out of her pocket again, opened the driver's door and slid behind the wheel.
	The drive to the Raven wasn't very long.  She had to pass the ninety-sixth division station to get there.  And she conveniently forgot to make the correct turn, which meant going out of her way for a few blocks, around the station . . . .
	Who was she kidding?  She knew Nick would be at the station right now; all she needed was him spotting her on her way to the Raven, after she'd promised to go right home.  She didn't want to keep secrets from Nick.  She didn't want hurt feelings getting in the way of communication again--the last time he'd nearly gotten himself killed, for God's sake!  And she'd actually <let> Dorian--
	Shivering, Natalie decided not to think about it.  She'd tell Nick that Dorian was back . . . but only after she took stock of the situation and knew what was going on.  He had Ed Bartnichak to deal with, along with several other open cases.  The last thing he needed was to worry about Dorian.  And what did he have to worry about, after all?  Supposedly, Dorian had given Nick an ace card, a secret that Nick could use to destroy him . . . as if Nick ever would.  In the end Dorian had done them a favor, he'd told them in no uncertain terms that a vampire had crossed back to mortality, that Nick's dream was more than possible, that it had <happened>.
	The two weeks after Dorian left had been glorious.  Nick had been astoundingly cheerful; he'd ribbed Schanke unmercifully about his choice of tie or music, conned her into an afternoon of mystery videos and then told her exactly who the murderer was just before the end--and that after swearing that he'd never seen any of the movies before.  He'd even taken her to dinner on the wharf--their dinner breaks just happened to coincide one evening.  Even though it was only take-away fish and chips she considered it a major event because he'd actually bought his own and <tried> it.  The seagulls had gotten ninety percent of what he didn't eat or spit out, but still . . . it was a step in the right direction.  He had hope again.   
	But that was only the first few weeks.  When no breakthrough seemed imminent, he began to brood.  And with all that had happened since then--their inability to find out exactly what had happened to Jeff Bartnichak was only the latest in a long line of terrible events--his faith began to falter.  Nick grew more and more pessimistic about finding a cure, and even she'd begun to doubt her line of research, her attempted treatments, and even the validity of her results.  The goldfish was the first time in a long time she'd really seen him at all interested in her treatments.  She'd have declared it a success at the start if it wasn't for this damned headache.
	And receiving the call from Janette about Dorian . . . .
	She steered the car into the alley behind the Raven, parking it just in front of the service entrance.  Slinging her purse over one shoulder, Natalie picked up the handle of her medical bag, leaving the car unlocked.  She walked to the heavy metal door, noticing that the ground outside it was wet.  It hadn't rained in days . . . and was that blood mixed in with the water?
	Tilting her head, she sniffed and looked around, certain that she smelled Italian food, then passed it off as some refuse in one of the dumpsters.  Not even Janette would be so desperate for camouflage that she'd locate her club near any restaurant that specialized in garlic foods.  Knowing her, she'd pass quite a wad of money around to prevent such an occurrence in her chosen neighborhood, in an attempt to keep the area vampire-friendly.
	Natalie banged on the door with her knuckles and stepped to one side, the hollow metallic clang setting her head throbbing again.  She pressed her fingers against her forehead and caught sight of a puddle on the ground.  Even in the darkness, she could make out the thin red that drifted along with the oil from the tar.  It <was> blood . . . .
	She was on the verge of kneeling down and taking a closer look when the door opened, just a crack.  Janette looked out, almost fearfully, but straightened as soon as she spotted Natalie.  Immediately assuming the air of the propietress of the Raven, she leaned against the edge of the door, an eyebrow raised in challenge.  "You took your time."
	"You've got enough of it to spare, why complain?"  Noting the bloodstains that spotted Janette's very chic and expensive black dress, Natalie hesitated before adding any further comment.
	Following her gaze, Janette smiled.  Then she stepped forward and placed her hand against Natalie's taupe work blouse and pushed her back a step.  "I'm not in the habit of giving advice--"
	Natalie shrugged off Janette's hand angrily.  "That's all right--I'm not in the habit of listening to it."
	"--But before you do this--think carefully."  Janette's blue eyes, lined with dark mascara, weren't as threatening as she'd anticipated.  Even her tone was . . . concerned.  "It's the last warning I'll give you.  For Nicola's sake."
	"I'm not very good about warnings, either."
	 Janette's lips curled into a sharp smile and she gave Natalie a measuring stare.  "You can't say I didn't warn you.  Remember that, when it all comes crashing down on your pretty mortal head."  Stepping back into the entrance, Janette opened the door wider.
	For a moment, Natalie hesitated.  She watched Janette, but could see little or nothing as the vampiress blended into the darkness.  Janette, of course, could see her <perfectly>.
	A shiver started through her, but Natalie steeled herself and clasped the handle of her medical bag tightly.  She almost scurried into the darkness, suddenly feeling very vulnerable and unprotected in the alley.
	Unfortunately, just after she entered the storeroom, Janette closed the door behind her, leaving her feeling even more vulnerable--she couldn't see a damned or undead thing in the pitch blackness.
	"Where <are> my manners?" asked Janette, in a dry tone of voice, from behind Natalie's shoulder.  "One often forgets the limitations of mortals."
	There was a click of a light switch and a small overhead bulb gleamed.  Natalie glared at Janette, then took a quick look around the storeroom.  It was filled with boxes, odd pieces of bric-a-brac--nothing like the back room she'd seen the last time she'd been at the Raven.  That time, too, she'd been brought by a phone call from Janette.  And Nick had been--
	She closed her eyes, trying to compose herself, to keep herself from being shaken by the memory of Nick out of control.  When she opened them, Janette was watching her, a taut smile on her lips.  "You should visit more often."
	"It's not my kind of place," said Natalie lightly.  "No offense."
	"None taken. Although, you really <should> give it a try.  You never know what you might like, until you've tried it."  Janette gestured with her hand, then took a step forward.
	Natalie fell in behind her, suddenly realizing the garlic scent had grown in intensity.  And there was a trail of blood and water across the cement that led from the doorway to--
	She fell to her knees beside Dorian the moment she reached him, tossing aside her purse and letting her medical bag drop to the floor with a thump.  He'd been wrapped in a coarse, thick woolen blanket and was curled into a ball, shivering.  The stench of garlic and blood was so thick, she felt her stomach flip.
	"Not a pretty sight, is he?" commented Janette, from behind her.
	She didn't like the fact that he was shivering--vampires didn't feel temperature extremes as much as mortals.  Touching the blanket, she realized it was wet--<he> was wet.  But that still wouldn't account for the shivering.
	With her hand on his shoulder, she tried to force him to lie on his back.  His face had been cleaned off, faint scars indicating cuts that had already begun to heal.  Natalie touched the back of her hand to his forehead--his skin was cold and clammy.  As he turned his head, she realized that his hair was wet, plastered to his skull by water and blood.
	"What'd you do, have a near miss with a Cessna and take a header into Lake Ontario?" she asked beneath her breath, as she started to pull aside the blanket.
	Janette coughed lightly.  When Natalie turned to look at her, she cleared her throat.  "He reeked of garlic.  We couldn't touch him.  I thought it best he be brought inside, so--"
	She stared at Janette a moment, then bit back her immediate response and returned her attention to her patient.  She didn't really have time to take a pulse--not with one beat every ten or eleven minutes.  And even though she was probably the foremost mortal expert on treating assorted vampire injuries, she still didn't have a clue as to what she was doing.
	Dorian's eyelashes flickered.  Taking that as a good sign, she touched his cheek gently, tapping it with her fingers, trying to rouse him to some sort of consciousness.  "Dorian?  Can you hear me?"
	His eyelids opened almost lazily, as if he were drowsy.  He half-smiled, seeing her.  "You're . . . here."
	The words was hoarse and low--there was a rattling quality to his voice that she didn't much like.  Even though his eyes seemed focused, she didn't see any gold or red, and they appeared glazed.  "Let me take a look at you," she said softly.  "Just relax for a moment.  Then we'll get you cleaned up and comfortable.  All right?"
	Dorian didn't answer, merely moved his head slightly against her hand in assent, his eyes closing almost immediately.  He might be asleep or unconscious--there didn't seem to be that much difference between the two in vampire physiology.  And there were times when Nick was wide awake, but said such stupid things that she would have <sworn> there was no one home . . . .
	"Classic symptoms of shock from blood loss," she muttered to herself, as she eased back the blanket that covered him.  She'd seen the blood in the alley and the trail of it across the cement floor--Dorian was leaking like a sieve.  So why wasn't his body making any attempt to heal itself . . . ?
	The garlic smell was amplified a hundred times as the wet and bloodied blanket fell away and she heard Janette let out a muttered oath in French.  Natalie ignored the vampire behind her, professional curiosity getting the better of her as she automatically began to identify the size and type of wounds.
	The knife wounds were first--the cut clothing a good giveaway that the blade had been fairly clean and sharp for at least the first half-dozen strikes.  She lost count somewhere about forty.  Bruises consistent with the use of brass knuckles were also apparent when she pulled back shards of his shirt that hadn't been shredded by the knife.
	The wounds hadn't even begun to heal, the cuts still welling with fresh, wet, barely congealed blood.  If not for that, she would have guessed the attack had occurred several hours ago.  But with the fresh blood--
	Natalie sat back on her heels and took a deep breath, amazed at the sinister brutality of his attackers--she guessed more than one because of the spacing of the wounds and the various depths and degree of the bruising.  This hadn't been the result of a casual brawl.  No thug or mugger in his right mind would bother coating a knife blade or brass knuckles with garlic . . . unless he was going after a vampire.  And, to add injury to insult, she was pretty certain the gray-white residue clumped in his wet clothing was garlic salt or powder that been sprinkled into the wounds after the attack.
	Of <course> Dorian was shivering--he was suffering from garlic poisoning.  The shock, his inability to heal, the fresh blood . . . .
	She struggled to her feet angrily and turned to face Janette--only to find another vampire in the doorway.  He was quite large, a scowl on his face as she stalked toward Janette.
	"Who did this to him?" she demanded, pointing at Dorian.  "You?"
	Janette leaned against the doorjamb and took a drag from the cigarette Natalie hadn't even noticed her light.  "I <could> have done this--and believe me, I have good reason--but then why would I have called you here?"  She lifted the cigarette to her lips and shrugged.  "My guess is the Enforcers."
	The large vampire in the doorway hissed at the word.  Janette shot him an annoyed glance, but her face was composed as she looked back to Natalie and asked politely, "You <do> know about them, don't you?"
	"Yes."  Natalie cleared her throat, her gaze going back to Dorian.  "I know."
	"Nicola has more common sense than I gave him credit for."  She stepped past Natalie and flicked the ash of her cigarette to the floor, not far from Dorian.  "As hunters know their prey, so prey should know the hunters."
	She swallowed another answer, knowing that ignoring Janette's barbed comments would antagonize her more than any sharp response.  "Do you know why they tried to kill him?"
	An eyebrow raised in surprise, Janette gave a short laugh.  "If they'd wanted to destroy him, he wouldn't be here.  This is their form of a warning."  She continued to walk around Dorian, as if studying him.  "From what I've heard, they'd be happy to see him gone.  But before they could dispose of him without any . . . difficulties, they'd need a good reason.  A <very> good reason."
	"If he broke the Code?"
	Janette looked up quickly, then walked away as if unimpressed--Natalie gave herself points for having surprised her.  "Nicola <has> been chatty, hasn't he?  What do you know about the Code?  No!"  She held up her hand quickly, before Natalie could speak.  "Don't tell me.  It's better I not know.  Just . . . just get him out of here."
	Natalie narrowed her eyes and frowned.  "I've got to clean that garlic out of the cuts first.  <If> he starts healing, I've got to start pouring blood in him--I don't know what garlic does in a vampire's system, but he's probably in shock from blood poisoning.  He shouldn't be moved until I've gotten him stabilized."
	In an instant, Janette stood in front of her, arms folded.  "You <have> to move him.  If the Enforcers come by--and they <will>--I can say he's been here and left.  They'd never think to ask if a mortal offered him shelter--it would be too absurd of a question.  And they'll believe that no vampire took him in.  "  Her eyes flashed an angry blue and she shot a glance of disgust over her shoulder, in Dorian's direction.  "None would <dare.>  This one has too many enemies.  And . . . no friends to speak of."
	Janette's stance and words left her no choice.  Natalie looked down at Dorian and sighed.  "Where can I hide him?" she asked, half to herself.
	"That's not <my> problem."  Janette snapped her fingers and the vampire in the doorway stepped forward quickly.  She pointed toward Dorian and said, "Get rid of him--put him in her car." 
	The vampire followed her instructions.  Before Natalie could move, he leaned down and lifted Dorian into his arms, then carried him toward the service entrance.  Janette turned her head toward Natalie asking, almost politely, "Did you cover your upholstery as I said?"
	"Yes," answered Natalie without thinking, still trying to come up with some place she could hide a wounded vampire.
	"Good.  I had a feeling you were the practical sort.  Perhaps <too> practical."  Janette tossed her cigarette to the floor and ground it beneath the heel of one of her shoes.  She gestured toward a wooden case that contained less than a dozen bottles--filled.  "He's had two of those.  You can take the rest.  I'll send more along as necessary."
	Natalie reached down and lifted one of the bottles from the case.  She looked into the green depths of the glass, than back at Janette.  "Blood?  No alcohol?  Aren't you taking a risk, supplying him with this?"
	"It's mine to take," countered Janette.  She touched her finger to the choker around her neck, running her skin across the velvet.  "Do you think you'll have luck finding him another source?  You, perhaps?"  She held up a hand before Natalie could express her anger in words.  "Spare me, please!  Don't bother being noble or assume that's what I'm doing--I have my own reasons for making certain Dorian escapes the Enforcers."
	Again, Natalie bit back her first response, not wanting to give Janette the satisfaction of knowing she'd scored any points.  "Reasons?  And what might those be?" 
	"Those might be my concern.  <Not> yours."
	Natalie met Janette's gaze for as long as she dared, then she looked down at the case of blood.  "All right," she said, after a moment's pause, "but I'll pay for it, later.  Thanks."  She leaned down and tried to lift the wooden box, then realized just how heavy that many bottles of blood must be.
	"Oh, let me," said Janette in annoyance.  Muttering something about 'mortal weakness' beneath her breath, she picked up the box easily, and, resting it lightly on her hip and balancing it with one hand, headed toward the door.
	Natalie followed.  By the time she arrived outside, the trunk was already open. The large vampire had placed Dorian across the back seat of her car.  Janette leaned down to put the case of bottles in Natalie's car trunk, then straightened and wiped her hands against one another.  "From one girl to another, you shouldn't leave your car unlocked here.  It can be a . . . dangerous area.  Unsavory individuals might get into your things."
	"So I see," answered Natalie.
	Janette slammed the lid of the car trunk closed, then snapped her fingers again.  The male vampire moved quickly into the rear of the Raven, disappearing almost instantly into the darkness.  Natalie half expected Janette to follow and she started to, then stopped, eyeing Natalie.
	"I'll tell you what I told him--" she gestured toward the back seat of the car, indicating Dorian.  "Nicola will hear nothing of this from me . . . unless he asks."
	"I plan on telling him myself."
	"How . . . charming."  Janette didn't bat an eyelash.  "I don't know why Dorian asked for your help.  All I know is that Nicola seems to value you.  And I value Nicola.  So I warn you--Dorian's nothing but trouble.  Get rid of him quickly."
	Janette paused and looked at her expectantly.  After a moment, Natalie smiled, suddenly realizing just what she was waiting for.  "Thank you."
	"My pleasure.  If you'll excuse me, I have a club to run."  Turning on her heel, Janette stalked through the rear service entrance.  The heavy metal door slammed shut behind her and the deadlock clicked into place.
	Natalie reached for her throbbing forehead out of habit, then realized that her headache had eased somewhat.  Smiling at that small victory, she walked to the rear passenger door and opened it.
	Dorian was stretched across the back seat of her car, still wrapped in the blanket.  She leaned over him, sorry that she hadn't thought to bring something dry and a bit more comfortable for the trip to--where?
	"Is there a safe place I can take you?" she asked quietly, not certain that he was even capable of answering her.
	His head moved slightly, the best he could manage, along with a hoarse, "No.  Nothing . . . left."
	"Then we'll work something out.  Don't worry."  Natalie found a bit of dry blanket and wiped away some of the water that trickled down from his wet hair, across his face.  "Two bottles?" she asked aloud, in wonder.  "What the hell did you look like when Janette found you?"
	Dorian's eyelashes flickered slightly.  "She was . . . kind to me."
	"That harpy?  You're lucky she didn't put a stake through you."  Natalie looked up at the door to the club, remembering that Janette had her 'reasons,' whatever they might be.  And as for her own reasons . . . .
	"Why did you ask her not to tell Nick?"
	Again, the question was more for herself than for him.  But he struggled to answer, this time managing to open his eyes, staring up at her as she leaned over him and secured him with the seatbelts.  "Not . . . cause you . . . trouble."
	His answer seemed so earnest and heartfelt--God, he was a mess!  Natalie straightened, grasping his hand for an instant.  "Rest," she instructed.  "I'll take you somewhere safe.  Once you're all cleaned up, you'll feel better."
	There was no response this time--she was certain that he'd drifted off to sleep.  Or had fallen unconscious again.  It was so hard to tell with vampires.
	Shaking her head, she walked to the driver's side of the car, then turned, knowing she'd left her medical bag and purse in the Raven.  But . . . no, Janette had somehow managed to put them on her front seat.  Slipping behind the wheel, she glanced over at her things, more than a little annoyed that she'd forgotten about them, then backed the car out of the alley and into the street.
	 It took her a minute before she realized she'd headed the car for home.  But, as she glanced over her shoulder, she knew in her heart of hearts that she didn't really have any other choice.  With Dorian looking the way he did, she couldn't drive around Toronto trying to find a place to treat him.  The sun would be up soon and he'd need shelter in a bad way.  And Nick . . . well, she didn't want to bother Nick until she knew what the story was.  She wouldn't know that until she got Dorian fixed up, which meant finding  a safe place for him--
	Her forehead was beginning to throb again.  Sighing, Natalie decided that her apartment was the best option, the <only> option.  She'd take Grace's advice and call in sick tomorrow evening, if she had to.  For now, if anyone wanted to check on her, at least she'd be home.
	Tending to a wounded vampire on her couch.
	For the first time in her life, Natalie hoped against hope that Nick wouldn't choose this particular evening to drop by unannounced.



CHAPTER 3

	He kept looking at the fish.  Nick just couldn't help himself.
	Not that the fish ever looked back.  The water-filled evidence bag was resting beside him, on the front seat of the Caddy.  He'd propped it up against the passenger seat belt to keep the bag from flopping over and to give the fish more room in which to swim.
	Which is what the fish did.  It swam.  To the left.  To the right.  Sometimes it even seemed to move backwards.
	When he'd paused at a red stoplight, Nick had lifted the bag, taking a closer look at his new loft-mate.  Its mouth opened and closed and the gills to either side of its head feathered in and out as it breathed.
	It <breathed.>
	The blare of a horn behind him nearly made him drop the fish.  Noting that the light was green, Nick stepped on the gas, carefully placing the fish back on the seat.  The driver of the car behind him was a little too impatient and passed on his right--but Nick ignored the illegal move.  Traffic wasn't his detail and the driver wasn't a danger to himself or others.  Besides, he had to check in at the station before Schanke went off shift.  And, unless a new call had come in, he'd retrace Jeff Bartnichak's steps one more time . . . stopping by a nearby pet store en route.
	Nick glanced down at the fish again and shook his head, grinning.  He was an idiot.  It was only a fish, after all.  
	When he'd been a child, animals had their place in the household--dogs were for hunting, horses for riding and farm work, and so on.  After he'd been brought across, he'd found his presence agitated most animals.  Even the one time he'd actually attempted to keep a bird, he'd frightened it to death when he'd reached into its cage to catch it.  He winced at the memory of holding the still, feathered body in his hand, feeling the heat leave it, LaCroix standing to one side and laughing at him.
	But . . . a fish?  
	The thought made him grin again--Natalie had been right on the money.  The fish didn't seem to care that he was a vampire.  It didn't appear nervous or threatened or the slightest bit agitated.  In fact, the fish didn't seem to know he was <there.>  But it <breathed.>  It ate.  It swam.
	It lived.  She trusted him to take care of another living thing, on a permanent basis.  And he wasn't about to let her, or the fish, down.
	Of course, they'd have to have a talk about this 'bowl' business.  Even a little goldfish deserved a decent amount of room, especially since its <raison de etre> was swimming.  Not a fifty gallon tank--obviously an exaggeration--but a five gallon tank shouldn't be too much to take care of.  Money was no object.  Only the best for his fish.
	<His> fish.
	It was as he pulled into a packing space at the division station that he realized he didn't know what he was going to do with <his> fish while he was inside.  The night wasn't too warm or too cold and he wasn't going to be in there long, just see Schanke, get caught up, and get back on the road.  The fish should be perfectly safe in the car . . . .
	But those big fishy eyes stared up at him, from where he'd cradled the bag with the passenger seatbelt.  And he knew he just might as well take the damned thing with him.
	A quick look around his front seat didn't turn up anything, but in the back he found an empty styrofoam cup Schanke has tossed a few days before, when they'd taken off in hot pursuit of a suspect.  He grimaced as he leaned over the seat and retrieved it, making a mental note to rag on Schanke about messing up his car.  
	As it turned out, it was the perfect fish carrier.  The evidence bag, with fish, fit gently into the cup.  In fact, with the water compressed in one place, the fish seemed to have even more room to swim around.
	Pleased with himself, Nick left the car and locked the doors, carrying the cup in one hand.  He ran up the steps and into the division station, realizing that he still hadn't given a thought to what he was going to name his fish.
	He all but ran into Schanke, who was heading for the front doors at top speed and grabbed Nick's shoulder, spinning him sideways, so as not to collide with him.  "Partner, are <you> just in time," he huffed.  Spotting the coffee cup, he snatched it from Nick's hand and lifted it.  "I could use one of these about now."
	"Schanke, don't--!"
	Schanke had the cup up to his mouth, then looked down inside it.  He pulled back, eyes wide, then reached into the cup and withdrew the evidence bag with the fish.  "Aren't you a little old to be pledging a fraternity?  Or is this a material witness to the Carver homicide?"
	Nick grabbed back the cup and deposited the fish into the relative safety of its temporary home.  "Neither.  It's a pet."
	"A . . . pet."
	"Yeah," said Nick defensively.  He shrugged his shoulders lightly, hiding the cup from the officers at the reception desk, who were starting to take an interest in their conversation.  "I have to get him a bowl or something.  Do you know anything about goldfish?"
	Schanke raised an eyebrow.  "Other than they have an incredible mortality rate, tend to eat one another, and are one of the most inexpensive pets to replace after you've been gone for a week and left them on their own?"
	Nick's eyes widened and he glanced down at the harmless little fish in the cup.  "They <eat> each other?"
	"Yeah.  And they get big, too.  The bigger the bowl, the bigger the fish."
	He was still staring down at the cup.  Was the fish smiling at him?  Maybe the five gallon tank <was> a bit much . . . .
	Schanke put an arm on his shoulder and drew him aside, saying, "C'mon, Nick, a goldfish?  What kind of a pet is that for a grown man?  Next thing, you'll be getting a hamster or a rabbit or something--"
	Nick looked up at the hamster comment, remembering Natalie having said something to that effect.
	"Although girls really go in for that 'cute and fuzzy' stuff.  It's supposed to mean you're sensitive.  And they eat that with a spoon.  But a goldfish?"  Schanke shook his head, smiling knowingly.  "Get yourself something worth having.  Like a snake.  Or an iguana.  Or how about a golden retriever?  There's a neighbor of mine, the dog had puppies two weeks ago and--"
	Swallowing, Nick looked back at the coffee cup, still trying to deal with the 'eat each other' aspect of his new pet.  So much for buying his little roommate other little roommates.  "I think I'll start slow.  Work my way up to something with legs."
	"Yeah, with your schedule, you'd never have the time to get a dog paper trained.  Cause when they gotta go, they go."  Suddenly, Schanke looked back toward the squad room nervously,  "Speaking of which, I'm gone--"
	Nick's hand shot out, catching Schanke's shoulder before he could move.  "Whatta ya mean you're gone?  I thought you were gonna catch me up on the Bartnichak--"  When Schanke rolled his eyes, Nick leaned back against the wall and sighed.  "He's here, isn't he?"
	"<He> is in the captain's office.  And <he> is under the impression that we're holding out on him."  Schanke hesitated and looked at Nick suspiciously when Nick glanced away.  "We aren't, are we?  Holding out on him?"
	"No," said Nick quickly.  "No results from the lab yet, Nat said she'll drop them by as soon as they're in.  But--"  It was his turn to push Schanke back, out of earshot as he added, his voice low, "What do you know about Ed Bartnichak's resignation?  Did you ever work with him?"
	Schanke straightened, then looked around, as if trying to see whose attention they may have drawn.  He leaned forward and asked softly, "Why?  What have you heard?"
	Nick met his partner's eyes, then looked away, realizing that he was on shaky ground.  What he'd gotten from Nat was hearsay and really had no bearing on the case.  Police forces were notorious breeding grounds for unfounded gossip.  Normally, he didn't pay any attention to that sort of thing, it simply didn't interest him as to who was sleeping or not sleeping with whom, who may or may not have fudged their scores on the mandatory target tests, and so forth.  Ed Bartnichak had the reputation of having been a good cop--a hard-line, no nonsense, rough-edged cop, but a good man to have at your back.
	And his brother was still missing, presumed dead . . . .
	"Evidence tampering?" asked Schanke, voice still quiet.
	Nick looked up quickly.  "Something like that."
	"I've heard that, too," said Schanke.  He moved to stand beside Nick, leaning against the wall himself.  "Okay, I worked with Ed on maybe four or five cases over time.  Sometimes I'd bag stuff at the scene, sometimes he'd bag stuff at the scene.  One case, we lost something.  It happens."  He straightened, glaring at Nick.  "If you're saying he was out to make a buck, it was nothing--a fingerprint on a door frame."
	"Which might have cleared a suspect?"
	Schanke looked down, his lips tightening into a grim line.  "You know how much we rely on instinct.  That's what makes a good detective--not the badge, or bench pressing three times your weight, or nailing the highest score on the entrance exam.  It's instinct, pure and simple.  Who's innocent.  Who's guilty."  He raised his eyes, meeting Nick's gaze.  "Stonetree always said you had it.  Which is why he let you work solo for a year, let you keep working after the first few screw-ups, and cut you a hell of a lot more slack than he'd ever cut anybody before or since.  Instinct doesn't usually just walk in off the street on a transfer.  When you find it, you hang onto it.  Ed Bartnichak had instinct."
	"But instinct can be wrong."
	"Yeah."  Schanke looked across the reception area, eyes narrowing.  "You gonna tell me that we haven't cut a few corners in our time--in your time--to get a case and make it stick?"
	Nick hesitated, unable to answer, unable to look at Schanke.  His partner didn't have a clue as to how many times he'd had to mesmerize suspects or informants to get information or confessions.  Not to mention the times he'd had to cover for himself when the vampire had kicked in and a suspect found himself faced with fangs and golden eyes.  Or when Natalie had been forced to deal with murders she knew were committed by a vampire . . . and neither of them could admit the truth to the world.
	"We don't try to convict the innocent to prove a point," said Nick, after a pause.  
	"Who says we're always right?"
	Again, he remained quiet.  There were times when he'd had doubts, but then he'd dug deeper into the cases, to prove to himself that he'd done the job right or find the real perp if he could.  He couldn't lie under oath to convict a known pornographer and racketeer for a murder that man didn't commit.  And yet, he was only there to apprehend a suspect, to do the groundwork for a case that someone else would try, with a conviction that would lie upon the conscience of a judge or a jury.  That was the way it was supposed to work.
	Schanke took his silence for assent.  "I'm not saying Ed Bartnichak's hands are clean, or even cleaner or dirtier than ours.  That's not what we're here for.  We're here to find out who murdered Jeff Bartnichak."
	"<If> he's dead."  Nick managed a slight smile at Schanke's hesitation.  "All we know is Jeff left the Academy at six, on his way to a date.  We don't know with whom and we don't know where.  His brother tags him as missing two days later.  And we find his car in Vermont, stripped to the lining, almost two <months> later."
	"With blood stains."
	"That may or may not be his.  And we both know that a little blood doesn't mean there's a body waiting to be found."
	Schanke nodded slightly.  "You think Jeff might have run?"
	"Too much pressure from Ed to stay on the fast track?  We've seen it happen before.  You'd know--what was their relationship like?"
	"Back then, pretty good, but starting to strain.  Ed was getting overprotective.  Jeff was in high school, just starting high school?"  Schanke put a hand to his forehead.  "Geez, who remembers that far back?  Memory's the first thing to go, right?"
	"That's not what I've heard--"
	Schanke scowled at him and punched him lightly in the chest with his finger.  "Yeah, well it gets us <all> in the end, partner, so laugh now.  But in a couple of years you're gonna be making those same noises after you sit behind a desk for five hours.  Like I said, there was some strain. Made the kid turn down a sports scholarship--track, I think--so he could get his degree here. Bartnichak had this thing about making Jeff a cop, like he was."
	"Control," said Nick distantly.  He looked toward the doorway as a shiver washed through him, what Janette had called the 'threads' that connected them to one another . . . and to LaCroix.  "He wanted to make Jeff into what he wanted to be; Ed wanted to control him."
	"Yeah, I guess."  Schanke tilted his head slightly, eyeing him speculatively.  "Sounds like you know something about that."
	"Yeah, some."  Nick forced a slight smile, pushing away the thought.  "Let's just say I have a whole lot more sympathy for Jeff Bartnichak.  So, it's possible Jeff got tired of it, wanted to live his own life, and just took off."
	"I wouldn't have bought that a few minutes ago," said Schanke, after a brief pause and another studying look that made Nick turn away.  "Now, yeah . . . it makes sense.  But it would be tough for a kid like that to cut the only ties he had left and run for it."
	"Not if he wanted to be his own man, wanted to be what he was and not something someone else wanted him to be, forced him to be."  Nick moved to wipe the back of his hand against his chin, then realized he was still holding the cup with the goldfish--his fingers had made indentations on the styrofoam.  That's all he needed.  He could just imagine telling Natalie that he'd crushed his goldfish in a styrofoam cup at the station.  "Anyway," he forced his voice into a more neutral tone, looking away from Schanke, "that's what I'd guess it would be like.  For Jeff."
	"Must be tough having family like that.  Having to put up with that kind of pressure from a brother.  Or a father."
	Once again, Schanke was proving to be just a bit too intuitive--Nick could tell a fishing expedition when he heard one.  "This might not be our case after all."
	"I sure as hell hope so.  Jeff was a good kid.  Real track star--it <was> track," said Schanke triumphantly.  "And from what Ed used to say, the kid had girls wearing down a path to the door.  Tried to put a stop to it, if I remember.  Said the kid had no sense when it came to women.  Hey, he was on his way to pick up a date that night, wasn't--?"    
	Nick looked over his shoulder when Schanke stopped in mid-sentence, recognizing the booming sound of Ed Bartnichak's voice in the squad room behind them.  Bartnichak was an impressive six feet tall, with the board shoulders and daunting build of a linebacker.  He swaggered when he walked, his voice carried when he talked . . . Nick had seldom seen a man more suited to the role of neighborhood bully.
	But Ed Bartnichak had also been a cop.  Bullies with authority could be dangerous.    Since his brother had gone missing, much of his swagger and egotistic preening had developed a very hard and sharp edge. Nick was only beginning to notice what Natalie had tried to tell him--that Bartnichak had <always> been dangerous, a stick of dynamite capped and prepped for a fuse.  Now with his sole focus in life--his brother--gone, the fuse had been lit.
	"It's your shift," said Schanke, slapping his hand against Nick's shoulder.  "<You> deal with him.  I'm gone.  Good luck with the fish."
	Nick had barely turned before Schanke had left him, heading for the door.  For an instant he considered following him to the safety of the parking lot and the Caddy, then steeled himself for another encounter with Bartnichak.
	That was when Bartnichak caught sight of him, raising a hand in greeting as he walked over.  "Nick!  Just the man I wanted to see."
	"Ed."  Nick slapped the man's hand in greeting, then took a step back.  "Just catching up with Schanke.  What can I do for you?"
	"What you can do for me is tell me what the hell you're doing about Jeff's murder."  Bartnichak's voice was low, rumbling like thunder through the room.
	Nick felt the tension level rise a couple of dozen degrees, as officers and staff suddenly found very important things with which to occupy their attention and time.  But he wasn't about to be brow-beaten by a bully like Bartnichak--he'd seen many men like this one in his eight hundred years and they'd all proven to be too mortal for their own good.  "We're doing all we can.  You know that VIN matched--the car in Vermont was Jeff's.  Forensics is doing a work up on the blood to see if they can get a match.  The results should be here tonight."
	"If those idiots in Forensics and the coroner's office would stop sitting on their hands, get off their asses and--"
	The memory of Natalie, eyes closed and suffering with a headache while she waited for that report to come in, was rubbed raw by Bartnichak 's words and the sarcastic tone with which they were delivered.  Before Nick knew what he was doing, he'd grabbed a fistful of Bartnichak's shirt and very quietly, but firmly, pinned the man up against the wall with his free hand.  "Those <people> are doing the best they can," he said, trying to hold his temper back.  "Just like we are.  We've got other cases.  Cases with <bodies>.  Dead bodies."  Taking a breath, Nick released Bartnichak's shirt and took a step back.  "We have to find the people who killed them and put them away, before they hurt someone else."
	For a moment, Bartnichak had seemed thrown by his sudden fury . . . but it <was> only for a moment.  "Are you telling me you've got evidence that Jeff <isn't> dead, Detective?  Because if you do, I think I deserve to hear it.  He's my brother, for Christ's sake!  My only flesh and blood."  Bartnichak's eyes narrowed.  "Or, maybe you think he just went for a joy ride?"
	"It's . . . a possibility.  Maybe he needed to get away for a while."
	His brown eyes very still, Bartnichak glared at Nick.  "All my brother <needed> was to finish his courses at the Academy.  He had everything.  I <gave> him everything.  And I'm not giving up until I know what happened to him.  Maybe I'm not the most popular person here, but there's a lot of people who still owe me . . . and our father.  I'm going to get my answers, Knight, if I have to can your ass and that sorry excuse for a partner of yours to do it."
	Closing his eyes, Nick looked away.  He raised his hand to his forehead and shielded his gaze, fighting back the gold he felt there, fighting back the instinct to tear into the man with fangs and the full fury of the beast.  He tried to remind himself that Ed Bartnichak could very well be the relative of a murder victim.
	It wasn't working.
	"Nick?"  He nodded toward the reception desk, eyes still closed, recognizing the voice of the policewoman on duty.  "The Captain's on line one--she said she'd like to see you about the Bartnichak case."
	Natalie didn't know it, but she was getting her revenge in spades--if he hadn't had a headache when he'd walked into the station, he had one now.  Only when he was certain that the gold was gone from his gaze did Nick look back at the reception desk.  "Tell her--"  He glared at Bartnichak, then turned back to the desk, "Tell her I'm on my way out--I'm doing another run-through of Jeff Bartnichak's last known whereabouts.  And that I'll see her before the end of shift."
	The policewoman at the desk gave him a terse nod, then turned and began to repeat the message into the headset, not looking at all pleased.  And Nick very well knew why--the captain would be furious that he'd left without seeing her.  But he wasn't in the mood to play nice with the brass and the only thing that could result was suspension or walking a daytime beat . . . neither of which he considered a viable option.
	Turning, he pointed a finger a Bartnichak.  "I don't care if the whole damned force owes you favors," he said quietly.  "I <don't>.  But I'm doing everything I can, because Jeff deserves the consideration.  You're damned lucky to have Schanke working this case because he's the best cop on the entire metro force.  And if you <ever> say anything like that about him again, I'll shove your teeth so far down your throat it'll take a search and rescue crew to find them.  You hear me?"
	Bartnichak stood his ground.  "I hear you, Knight.  Now, you hear <me>--you find Jeff's body.  Or you find the person who killed him.  What about the woman he was supposed to meet, Knight?  What about her--?"
	From the squad room, he picked up the captain's voice, saying, "Is Knight still here?  Because--"
	It wasn't safe to stay, not with Bartnichak and the captain both on the warpath.  Nick did something he hated--he turned tail and ran, heading out the division doors and down the steps.  Styrofoam cup clasped tightly in his hand, he made a bee-line for the Caddy, planning on making his escape while he could.
	But there was to be no escape for him this night.
	His steps slowed as he crossed the parking lot, again feeling that something was amiss, and quite close.  On instinct, he covered the top of the styrofoam cup with his hand.
	LaCroix was standing beside the Caddy, leaning against the passenger side of the car, running his long fingers over the metal in a caress.  He didn't look up as Nick approached, but smiled, still leaning against the car.  "You took your time."
	"I'm on duty."  Nick stood, glaring, willing LaCroix away from his car, out of his life, off the planet.
	Only then did LaCroix look up.  The corner of his mouth crinkled slightly and he indicated the styrofoam cup with a dismissive wave.  "Coffee?  Will donuts be far behind?"
	"If you want something, tell me.  If not, leave me alone."  He made his way around the car to the driver's side, put the styrofoam cup on the convertible's top, then fished in his pocket for his keys.  "I'm busy."
	"So I see."  Again, LaCroix leaned against the car, his arms folded.  When Nick glared at him and unlocked the door, LaCroix dropped his hands and held them chest high, moving away from the car as if in surrender.  "Pax, Nicholas.  I only want a word with you.  It's a matter that concerns us both."
	"And what would that be?" asked Nick sharply, one hand resting on the car roof, poised to swing his body behind the wheel and drive off--even if he had to go through or over LaCroix.
	"Janette."
	It was the only thing LaCroix could have said that would have made him pause.  Nick hesitated.  "What about her?"
	"I believe she's being hunted.  Or, in your vernacular, 'stalked.'"
	LaCroix's eyes were open, straightforward.  But Nick had long since learned not to trust his master to betray truth or lie with his words or his expression.  "How do you know?"
	"I have . . . friends . . . at the Raven."  He smiled softly as Nick's eyes widened.  "Don't look so surprised, you know I'd have to be a fool <not> to keep an eye on her.  And you know I may be many things, but <never> a fool."  Then he sobered and took a step forward, resting his hands on the top of the window of the driver's side door.  "Someone's been leaving presents for Janette.  Very <disturbing> presents."
	"Like?"
	"Garlic candies.  Suntan lotion.  A silk scarf covered with crosses."
	Again, Nick hesitated, not wanting to believe anything LaCroix said.  But--  "It could be a joke.  Someone at the club--?"
	"No, I've checked."  Shaking his head, LaCroix frowned.  "She's being hunted.  Someone knows what she is.  And they're playing with her."
	"She's said nothing to me--"
	"Nor would she."  When Nick opened his mouth to reply, LaCroix dismissed him with a wave.  "She's become so independent lately--well, she's always been that way, but more so now.  She doesn't <want> our protection."  Sighing, he rolled his eyes.  "This feminist movement has a lot to answer for."
	"We never should have given them the right to vote."
	LaCroix smiled again at the comment.  "<We> had no say in the matter.  But <you> may be able to do something about this."
	Nick's first reaction was to ask what he could do about suffrage at this late date, then decided that he really didn't feel like bantering with LaCroix.  "You handle it."  He slipped behind the wheel and began to close the door, but LaCroix held it open, in place.
	"You're the policeman," he reminded, an edge to his voice.  "I believe she's a taxpayer.  You're supposed to 'serve and protect.'  Should Janette be denied your protection because she's a vampire?  Because of what she is?  Or . . . who she is?"
	The words struck more than a little close to home.  He stared out the windshield, hands on the steering wheel.  "Are you telling me to take care of this?"
	"I'm asking you to look into it . . . as a favor."  He met LaCroix's gaze and found a worried frown--something that he didn't remember seeing before.  "If you've bothered to get the training, the least you can do is put it to use.  It may be nothing, after all--a harmless prank, like you said.  But I don't think either of us want to take that chance.  And, in this case you're better qualified to make that judgment."
	Nick looked back over his steering wheel and stared out the windshield again.  If LaCroix was telling the truth, Janette might very well be in danger.  And, as a Metro Police detective, he could actually investigate the situation as a stalking without raising too many suspicions.  First, he'd have to check it out for himself, get the truth from Janette, along with her cooperation.  And if something <was> happening, he'd have a better chance of being able to protect her when she was most vulnerable, during the day.
	"All right," he said, after a moment's consideration.  Glancing back at LaCroix, he nodded.  "I'm heading in that direction anyway.  She wouldn't think twice if I stopped by and asked a few questions."
	"Good."  LaCroix took his hands from the window and stepped back, away from the car.  "Thank you."
	Nick simply stared, surprised at the comment, then nodded, accepting it.  "You're welcome."  When he leaned out to catch the open door, LaCroix pushed it toward him, closing it.  Then LaCroix turned and walked away, across the parking lot.
	It was too much to handle--LaCroix asking him for a favor, Janette possibly in danger?  Nick shook his head and started the car.  He looked over his shoulder and put the car in reverse, seeing something white fall from the roof out of the corner of his eye.
	And just as he realized what it was, he heard the sickening crunch, as his tire smashed the coffee cup to bits.
	With his fish inside.
	He froze, half out of the parking space, then leaned his forehead against the steering wheel.  This was definitely <not> his night.  He'd been planning on stopping by the coroner's office, maybe even calling Nat to check on her, make certain she'd gone home and threaten to drive her home himself if she didn't leave work.  But now . . . ?
	He couldn't call.  Because she'd know.  Somehow, she always did.
	Muttering a few words in Latin from the distant past, a prayer for the dead, Nick consigned his former fish to whatever sweeper was scheduled to run through the parking lot in the next few days.  Then he pulled the car out of the lot and scanned his memory, hoping against hope that there was a pet shop somewhere along the route he planned to take to the Raven.  There was still the list of supplies to purchase, with one addition.  Thankfully, as far as he was concerned, all goldfish looked alike.  
	And he doubted that Natalie would ever notice the difference.


CHAPTER 4

	With a few shakes of the bottle, Janette spattered <eau des violettes> over the hairbrush, then ran it quickly through her hair.  She stroked it through the upper side of the dark strands, then those underneath, her hair hanging back against her shoulders.  Her movements were tight, tense, her mouth grim and determined.
	Only when it was done did she drop the brush to the credenza in her office and take an experimental sniff.
	Garlic. And stale blood.
	No amount of violet water was going to hide the scents--they were clinging to her skin like whining infants, a part of her that refused to let go.
	Angrily, Janette flounced across the room wearing only her black silk, strapless sheath slip and curled up on the davenport, pushing aside her new dress for the evening.  What she needed was a shower and a soak, not a quick change and makeover.  But she didn't dare leave the club.  Since Dorian had been taken away, she'd awaited the arrival of the Enforcers with fearful resignation.  They'd come.  They had to come.
	And she wasn't about to endanger the future of the Raven by leaving Alma or one of those other idiots in charge.  They had no idea how to deal with the Enforcers.
	Then again, neither did she.  For centuries, she'd left those responsibilities to LaCroix.  Now that he was back in town again, Janette had half a mind to call him and tell him to handle it.  It was his function--to protect her.
	But she didn't <want> to be protected.
	Janette released an angry hiss and leaned against the arm of the davenport, resting her chin on her hands.  The Devil take Dorian!  And LaCroix, for that matter!  It was their fault she was waiting for the Enforcers, smelling like an overly aromatic, day-old kill.  Foolishly, she'd thought it was done between them, that the two had come to some understanding centuries ago.
	With a sigh, she closed her eyes and gave her head a light shake.  In assuming that, she was as foolish as Dorian, for she knew LaCroix too well. LaCroix never allowed a slight to go unrewarded.  And what Dorian had done to him could hardly be spoken of as a 'slight,' no matter what the language of the time or place . . . .


	LaCroix and Dorian had stood less than a hand's width apart, eyes locked.  "You <know>," echoed Dorian, that chilling smile still in place.  "And you ran?"
	"That's why I ran.  It's my right."
	"It's your <privilege>.  You never would have escaped me in Carthage.  Or anywhere else."  Dorian's correction of LaCroix's statement was smooth, without emotion.  He gestured toward a table and chairs, poor in contrast to his finery.  "Shall we talk first?  I have some refreshment for you.  And I like to have the measure of a man, before his interview."
	LaCroix never moved an inch, only his eyes following Dorian.  "There will be <no> interview."
	Janette held her breath, watching the red fire rise in Dorian's eyes.  If his smile had been chilling before, it positively reeked of malice now.  His hands drifted across the rough back of one of the wooden and hemp chairs, as if he were searching for splinters, unconcerned.  "You'll refuse the interview?"
	"I'll refuse to acknowledge the call."  LaCroix's eyes were steel gray, with flecks of gold dancing in that disturbing stillness.  "I'm aware of the distinction between the two."
	"You'll match your will against mine, rather than your brawn?"
	With a flick of the wrist, LaCroix gestured toward the shadows.  "A wise man knows when the numbers are against him."
	"A wise man doesn't challenge the lightning to strike him," countered Dorian sharply.  He strode back to LaCroix, his smile gone, his face pale and eyes angry.  "Are your secrets worth that much to you?  Are you willing to risk your immortal existence for a few falsehoods, a few indiscretions?"
	It was LaCroix's turn to smile, matching Dorian, malice for malice.  "I bow to no man.  Or vampire.  My secrets are my own."
	"For ten sunrises?"  Dorian licked his lips and glanced at Janette.  "You know the Code well.  I hope you've taught your fledgling all that she needs to survive--because you won't win against me.  If you like, I'll take care of her.  She'll have my protection as long as she wishes it.  She seems pretty.  And you owe me forfeit for running."
	He reached out a hand to push away her veil.  Janette drew back from him, her fingers tightening on LaCroix's arm, and hissed.
	"It's her decision," answered LaCroix.
	Dorian looked at him, the red in his eyes smoldering, then drifting back into pitch black, like dying embers fading to darkness.  Nodding slightly, he bowed toward Janette.  "Then let me explain the situation, 'Lady'--your Master will pit his will against mine.  I have ten sunrises in which to break him.  If he remains silent, he's free of me.  If he speaks, then his secrets are mine.  And I'll destroy him, as is my right as Archivist."
	Janette looked quickly at LaCroix, but his face was impassive.  Only his eyes seemed to hold any life and those she could not read.  It seemed this <was> to be her decision.
	Catching her hand before she could move, Dorian raised her fingers to his lips, kissing them lightly.  But when she tried to withdraw her hand, he held it.  "Your Master has no chance of winning--he may as well have walked into the sunrise.  Out of respect, I'm offering to protect you after he's gone.  You can refuse my protection, of course."  He released her fingers and she drew her hand back quickly, clasping it with her other hand as she glared at him.
	Dorian only smiled.  "But then, all of our kind would know that your Master had challenged the Archivist, challenged the Enforcers . . . and failed.  You'd be shunned from vampire society.  The blood line would be tainted.  You, and any that you brought across, would be treated as pariahs.  You <do> know what that means, don't you?"
	Again, Janette looked to LaCroix, but he gave no sign.  What did he want her to do?  With no answer forthcoming, she decided to do what <she> wanted.
	She spat at Dorian, hissing angrily.
	"I think you've had your answer," said LaCroix, the faintest of smiles lighting his features as Dorian wiped her spittle from his richly embroidered tunic.
	"She may change her mind, many do."  Pulling a cloth from his sleeve, Dorian wiped away the stain.  Then he looked to the shadows.  "Take them," he ordered.  "We begin at sunrise."
	The Enforcers separated themselves from the darkness, surrounding them again.  But this time, she didn't care.  Janette kept looking to LaCroix for any indication that she'd done as he wished.  The answer came as he turned to her, his hand covering her deathgrip on his arm, his fingers prying her own lose, but holding them gently.  The look in his eyes was one of pride.  And she lowered her eyes, smiling shyly, unaccustomed to such a response from him.
	"She'll remain here," said LaCroix.
	"No," corrected Dorian.  "She'll come with us."
	Janette looked up as LaCroix dropped her hand.  "No one can witness an interview."
	"I was right--you know the Code well."  Dorian smiled, tucking the cloth back in his sleeve.  "You also know that I can bend it to my will, in certain circumstances.  You still owe me forfeit, LaCroix.  I want your fledgling on hand.  I want her to hear the consequences of your choice, I want her to hear you beg for mercy.  And before I tear your head from your body and your first limb from your last, I want you to warn her never to defy me again."  He looked to Janette and those dark eyes chilled her.  "If she swears to tell the story to all that she meets, I'll lift the taint on the bloodline.  She and those who follow her will prosper . . . by telling the tale of your humiliation and defeat at my hands.  That's your forfeit, LaCroix--to be destroyed again and again, in word and thought and memory, throughout eternity."
	A nod from him brought the Enforcers tighter around them.  Janette clutched LaCroix's arm, and shivered, still cold from Dorian's attention.  But LaCroix stool firm, undaunted.
	"<If> you break me," he warned.
	"I'll break you," said Dorian confidently, almost cheerfully.
	LaCroix moved quickly, far more quickly than the Enforcers expected--he broke through their ranks and grabbed Dorian by the front of his tunic, drawing him close.  Janette yelped as an Enforcer threw his arms around her, pinning her neck and her waist against his leather and link armor.  Dorian raised a hand immediately as other Enforcers moved forward to take LaCroix, his movement stopping them in place.
	It seemed that LaCroix expected as much.  "<If> you break me," he repeated, his tone strong and colder than a dagger of ice.  "You'll have one chance.  And if you fail . . . I'll break <you.>  I'll make you betray all that matters to you, let you stumble to the very gates of hell, and then, when you long for the final peace of utter destruction, I'll take even that from you.  So break me, Dorian, if you can.  And if you can't, you'll spent eternity looking over your shoulder, wondering when I might strike, knowing that you'll be powerless to raise a hand against me, or defend yourself."
	Dorian's eyes blazed in dark fury, but he said nothing for a moment.  Then he lowered his hand, hissing, "<Take> him."
	Four Enforcers rushed forward, but LaCroix released Dorian's tunic and kept his hands aloft, pointedly showing no resistance.  The Enforcers looked at one another as they surrounded him, but none touched him as he adjusted his own tunic.  "Sunrise?" he asked, arching an eyebrow as he met Dorian's gaze again.
	In response, Dorian snarled, then hurled himself past them and toward the door, the edges of his green cloak flapping behind him and echoing his fury.  LaCroix turned toward the Enforcer who held her and Janette was suddenly freed.  She jabbed her elbow ineffectually into the Enforcer's stomach as a form of protest and hurried to LaCroix's side, adjusting her veil, which had twisted about her hair and neck in her struggles.
	"<Can> you break him?" she asked anxiously, as the Enforcers fell into place around them, escorting them through the doorway and into the street.
	LaCroix smiled as he looked up at the early morning sky, which was already turning lavender and fainter shades of violet in the east.  "Oh, yes," he answered.  "In time.  The question being, is Dorian strong enough to break <me>?"
	Again, his eyes were unreadable and his tone was that of a philosopher pondering some distant, purposeless question.  Janette shuddered, knowing that this question, at least, would be answered by the tenth rising of the sun.


	Resting her cheek against the soft covering of the davenport, Janette opened her eyes, as much to drive away the memories that came after as to return to the problem at hand.  She could deal with the Enforcers--for all their force and fury, they were <only> men after all.  She'd heard, of course, that there were female Enforcers as well, but that seemed a contradiction to feminine nature.  Women, whether mortal or vampire, had always seemed to have better things to do than engage in that sort of nonsense.  If the rumor were true, it was a sad comment on the state of her gender, that to find their equality with men they'd lowered themselves to that level.
	And she <still> smelled of garlic.
	Wrinkling her nose, she'd barely risen to her feet when there was a light knock at her office door.  She'd only begun to answer when the door opened slightly--
	It was Nicola.
	As always, her heart lifted at his presence, at that hesitant smile he wore when he realized she was only half-dressed.  "I just stopped by--I didn't realize--"
	"Oh, forget that nonsense.  You've seen me in less."  She walked to the door, grabbed the arm of his blazer and tugged him into the room.  "You can help me dress.  I don't like the catch on this one--remind me to have it changed."
	Nicola managed to shut the door before she pulled him after her.  For an instant, she tested the cloth of his jacket sleeve beneath her fingers and frowned.
	"Not up to your standards?" he asked.
	"If you paid what I imagine, you were cheated.  But then, you always are.  Or is this part of the camouflage for your job?  Aren't detectives allowed to dress well?"
	He smiled as she confronted him, her hands on her hips.  "On the salary we're paid?  Not <that> well."
	"A pity.  Next time you really <should> choose a profession that allows you to wear decent clothing, if you're going to work in the mortal world."  Janette shuddered at the thought, then stalked to the davenport and picked up the dress.  She threw it into Nicola's hands, then held her arms over her head and said, "If you don't mind, I'm in a bit of a hurry.  Alma's been a little too free with the complimentary drinks--she's developing an alarming attraction for balding men.  And at <her> age!"
	She watched as he carefully unzipped the back of the dress and a tender smile came to her lips.  Those large hands and that tiny zipper--but he was careful not to let it snag, if only because he knew that she'd make him pay for the error.  Tapping her stocking-clad toe lightly against the carpet, she let him know that she was waiting.
	As she remembered, those warrior's hands could be exceptionally gentle.  He slid the dress over her head, his fingers running down the length of her bare arms and shoulders as it fell into place.  For a moment she basked in the closeness of him, the scent of his after shave--he'd changed it recently--the familiarity of him.  Over the centuries she'd grown to know parts of Nicola better even than she knew herself.
	When his fingers lingered a little <too> long on the nape of her neck, she reached up to slap his hand, then lifted her hair.  "The zipper?"
	"Your wish--"  She imagined his fingers clasped around the zipper and stood very still as she heard the sound of the metal teeth catching in sequence, fighting the urge to giggle as he brushed his fingers along the sensitive skin over her spine, just before the zipper's advance.  It was easy to forget that Nicola, too, knew parts of her quite well.
	Then he sniffed her hair.  "Do I smell . . . garlic?"
	She stiffened, allowing him to bring the zipper quite near the top before she pulled away.  "An accident.  It's been taken care of."  Janette reached over her shoulder and finished the job, then walked to the credenza as if nothing were wrong.  Thank heavens Dorian was gone!
	And why was Nicola here?  Did he know about Dorian?
	"What <kind> of accident?" he asked, following her across the room.
	Janette put on a charming smile, placed the choker at her neck, then turned toward him.  "Again, if you wouldn't mind?"
	With a light frown at his question having been ignored, Nicola moved behind her and fastened the choker, this time his fingers fumbling in his haste.  "How do you manage to dress by yourself?"
	"As I've always done.  Although some evenings I <do> have help."  She gave him a saucy smile in thanks, then walked over to the davenport and seated herself.  With a regal wave, she indicated the shoes that sat on a chair by the door.  "Those, please.  And why <did> you drop by, if not to help me dress?  I don't feel like answering any of your boring police questions."
	"I hadn't been by in a while, thought I'd see how you were doing."  He picked up the shoes and looked at them in that fascinated way men often had--they'd never understood the engineering behind a pair of high heels, even when the fashion had been in style for men.  When he walked over to her, she held up a stocking-clad foot and wiggled her toes.  
	With a resigned sigh, Nicola knelt down; she rested one foot on his left knee and the other in the palm of his hand as he slipped the shoe in place.  "What <kind> of accident?" he asked again, as she placed the other foot in his hand and his fingers curled around her instep.
	Janette suddenly realized that she'd made a tactical error--she wasn't going to get her foot back, or her shoe, unless she answered him.  "Oh, the kind of things that happen when you run a business," she said, dismissing the event with a wave.  "A mis-delivery, for a restaurant on another street.  Garlic, of all things!  Alma wasn't getting anywhere with the delivery man and so I stepped in . . . just as the box broke open.  We'll have that stench in the storage room for <months.>  I can only be thankful it didn't reach the cellars."
	She <was> thankful . . . when Nicola slipped the shoe on her foot.  But he didn't seem convinced.  "And that's all?"
	"Ummm."  Janette rose to her feet and walked back to the credenza, where she picked up her earrings.  She held them in her hands for a moment, pretending to choose among the several pairs she'd set out.  "As you can see, everything's fine."
	"And you haven't had any trouble lately?"
	She froze for the barest mortal heartbeat, then dropped the earrings as if in disgust at the lack of choice and picked up her hairbrush.  Tapping it against her palm, she turned and eyed him thoughtfully.  "Trouble?  Nicola, you aren't trying to tell me that my club's going to be raided?"
	"No, nothing like that."  There was still that suspicion in his eyes as he added, "No trouble with the customers?"
	"Of course not.  Bruno can handle them well enough."  She walked past him, slapped the handle of the brush into his palm, and seated herself on the davenport, turning slightly so that he could sit beside her, her back toward him.  "You may brush my hair, now."
	Nicola <did> sit beside her.  "I'm on duty."
	"So, these <are> cop questions?  So much for being concerned about my welfare--"  Pretending anger, she tried to grab the brush from him, but he held it out of her reach.  With one hand on her bare shoulder, he turned her back to him again and began to stroke the brush through her hair.
	Janette breathed a sigh and smiled, as his fingers and the brush plied their magic.  He <did> remember.  Her eyes closed as she let the sheer luxury of it, the familiarity of it wash over her--without that horrid scent of garlic still assaulting her nostrils, they could be anytime, anywhere, having shared this moment in the past more often than she could count.
	For just as LaCroix had tutored Nicola in many things, she'd taken his education on the ways of women into hand.  At the start she'd realized that he'd never learn to understand them--so few men had that rare ability--so she settled on teaching him how to please them.  It was hardly a waste of time, for in caring so much about his education, she did herself a good turn.  Nicola could be an apt and enthusiastic pupil when he wanted to be.
	And there were times when he <so> wanted . . . .
	"Have you been receiving any threats?" he asked.
	"Threats?"  She opened her eyes, her memories of pleasant times interrupted by the non sequitur.  "Nothing out of the ordinary.  Occasionally Bruno tosses a rowdy customer into the street with a little too much diligence, but that's easily settled.  And I've had no incident of that sort in weeks."
	"I've heard--"  The brush stroked upward, against the hairs on her neck and she shivered at the touch, her back arching involuntarily as she leaned against Nicola's shoulder.  "I've heard that you've been receiving some unwelcome attention.  Some gifts?"
	"I often receive gifts from admirers.  You used to be among them.  Can there <be> unwelcome gifts?"  She forced herself to be calm, her heart skipping its solitary beat.  "Who told you that?"
	"Is it true?"
	There were two options--lie or tell the truth.  Since he seemed to know the truth, what would lying gain her?  "Yes."
	"Janette," he put the brush down on the davenport and placed his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him, "why didn't you tell me?  You know you could be in danger."
	She forced a smile, touched to see the concern in his blue eyes.  "The next thing you'll say is that I'm being hunted."
	Nicola's eyes narrowed, trying to pin her in place.  "Are you?"
	"No, of course not.  Not for decades, at least a half century."  She rose to her feet, taking the hairbrush with her back to the credenza.  Once there, she picked up the bobby pins and twisted her hair around her hand, in preparation for pinning it up on one side.  "Haven't you heard?  We're passe'.  No one believes in vampires any more.  There aren't any professional hunters, as there used to be."
	Nicola remained on the sofa, she could feel his eyes on her back, watching her for any reaction.  "You haven't . . . killed anyone recently?"
	Janette stuck a pin into her hair to keep her hands from shaking.  This was a sore point between them and would remain so until he got over this business about wanting to recross the line between vampire and mortal--he hadn't killed for blood in over a century.  While she, being true to their nature, saw nothing wrong with feeding on mortals.  "Nicola, you know we don't hunt anymore.  Not here.  It's just too dangerous."
	"I didn't ask about <we>," he corrected, voice sharp.  "I asked about <you.>"
	Another pin was set in place.  She turned her head, touching the back of her hair lightly, as content as she was going to be with the result.  "If I answer you, will you believe me?"
	He hesitated only a moment, before saying, "Yes."
	Grabbing a set of earrings from the credenza at random, she turned toward him, eyes meeting his as she blindly fastened the dangling pearls into place.  "I haven't hunted in at least . . . I'd say five years.  Does <that> satisfy you?"
	Nicola rose to his feet, wearing that studious expression--that <cop> look.  It irritated her.  "Yes," he answered, again after a measured--or measuring--pause.  "But that means we've got no easy answer, no clue as to what mortal wants you dead.  Or how they found out you were a vampire in the first place.  I know you're careful--"
	"Why, thank <you> for noticing."
	"--More careful than most."  He moved to stand behind her as she adjusted her choker, checked her earrings with the tips of her fingers.  "There's nothing to say that this couldn't be one of us."
	"It's not a prank.  I've checked."
	"Is there anyone you know who's got a grudge outstanding?"
	Janette tilted her head thoughtfully as she picked up the perfume atomizer from the top of the credenza.  It was made of scarlet crystal--the light from the lamps made her hands appear to be covered in blood.  She rather liked the effect, it helped her concentrate as her memory ranged back, far back . . . then she shook her head slowly.  "No.  No one that would be here, now."  She felt Nicola's hands settle softly against the skin of her neck, but raised the atomizer in her hand and warned, "If you don't move, Nicola, you'll be marked by my scent.  Although I would <love> to hear your explanation when you returned to duty . . . ?"
	She smiled as he backed away, then turned her head and gave the bulb a squeeze.  A fine spray of perfume enveloped her, complementing the violet she'd already brushed through her hair.  Flinging her pinned hair this way and that, Janette gave an experimental sniff.
	No garlic.
	Pleased with herself, Janette returned the atomizer to the credenza.  She placed her fingers along the wooden edge, arched her palm, and posed prettily, asking, "Better?"
	Nicola merely shook his head, a stern smile on his face.  "Janette, this is <serious.>"
	"And so am <I.>  I have an image to maintain.  There are some who would like to see me fail at this venture.  Others who think I have no right to be so public because I'm a woman, or a vampire, or a child of LaCroix.  Showing fear--<any> fear--would put my club in a very untenable position."  Stalking up to him, she touched his lower lip lightly with a red-lacquered fingernail.  "It's nothing.  Don't worry.  I can take care of myself."  She trailed the finger down his chin to his neck, then pressed her lips lightly to his, whispering, "Or don't you remember?  Has it been <so> long?"
	Just as he placed one hand on her neck, the other sliding down to her waist, she hissed, "Lipstick!  Nicola, you should have reminded me!" and escaped him, running back to the credenza and ignoring his exasperated sigh.
	"I don't think you realize the--"
	Janette barely heard him, her attention centered on finding just the right lipstick from amongst the many colors and pastes and applications she'd scattered across the top of the credenza.  A knock sounded in mid-sentence and she said, "<Entrez,>" without thinking.
	The click of Alma's stiletto heels, even muffled by the thick Persian carpet that covered her floor, was unmistakable.  Janette barely gave her a glance.  "What is it, Alma?"
	"Bruno found this taped to the front door."
	Turning her head, Janette saw Alma's eyes rake across Nicola with an unabashed, primal interest, as she waved a white envelope.  Nicola, in turn, seemed not entirely disinterested--there was a saucy edge to that official and polite policeman's smile.
	Walking between them, Janette snatched the envelope from Alma's fingers, saying, "That <will> be all, Alma.  I'll need an early count on the midnight receipts.  If you'd be so kind?"
	Alma's glance was deathly cold as she batted her eyelids at Janette.  Flashing Nicola an inviting smile over her shoulder, she headed for the door.  But she was no more than a step or two away when she stopped.  Her lips twisted and she turned blank eyes to them, as if puzzled.
	She sniffed, delicately.  Taking a step closer to Janette, she sniffed again.
	Then she smiled.  And swinging her shoulders back, Alma left the room, closing the door behind her.
	"That's <it>!" snarled Janette.  Stalking directly to the desk, she picked up her car keys.  "I'm going to take a shower.  Nicola, tell Bruno he's in charge.  And tell that--that <vamp>--!"
	As she swung by him, Nicola deftly lifted the crumpled envelope from her grasp.  He opened it and unfolded the paper inside, reading it.  Her fury was extinguished by his suddenly blank expression, like a match in a hurricane wind.  "What?" she asked, as he stared at her.
	In answer, Nicola held the paper out to her.  Janette took it, her eyes taking in the two, scrawled words--
	I KNOW.
	A shudder ran through her.  She clasped her fingers around the edges of the paper, suddenly recalling LaCroix's first words to Dorian, from so many centuries ago.  Was this some message from the Enforcers?  From Dorian?  From LaCroix--could he have found out that Dorian was here, that she hadn't destroyed him when she'd had the chance--?
	There were too many possibilities, too many options.  Her knees felt weak and started to give way . . . but Nicola's arms were around her, supporting her.  He took the paper from her hand, saying, "<This> is serious."
	"No, no," she muttered weakly.  "This has nothing to do with those other--you don't understand--this is--"  Janette looked up into his face, his eyes, which were anxious and just a bit angry at her obstinate nature.  She tried to find words to explain her confusion, that the note could mean any one of a hundred different things.  There were names she could speak, explanations she could give, stories she could weave--
	And she remembered her earlier promise, both to Dorian and Natalie Lambert, that she wouldn't mention Dorian's presence unless she was asked.
	It wasn't as if she'd never broken a promise--she could pave a road to Calais with the promises she'd made and then conveniently forgotten.  She hadn't sworn an oath on any saint or stone, any blood or tie, any tune or trail.  They were words.  Only that.
	But for some reason, it was important that she honor that very pointless and--so she had thought at the time--ill-considered request.  It could only lead to disaster later.  Such secrets always did.  It might bring to ruin this blind trust Nicola had so placed in his mortal friend.  It might be enough to shake him from this foolish preoccupation with the mortal world, mortal things, mortal lives. It might break Nicola's heart.
	It might even send him back to her, to what he truly was and where he truly belonged.
	At that moment, Nicola pressed his lips to her forehead and drew her close, whispering, "There's no reason to be afraid.  At least I've got something physical to work with.  I'll take care of it--I'll tell them you've received threats before, but this is the first in writing.  We'll treat it like a stalking.  It'll be investigated.  We won't let anyone get near you, Janette.  <I> won't let anyone get near you."
	She shuddered again, at the familiarity of his arms and his embrace, but her eyes were open as she tucked her head down, against his shoulder.  Nicola took her confusion and hesitation for fear.  Fine.  Let him think that.  She would keep her promise to Dorian, let his little tableau work its way to a tragic end.  And then <she> would protect Nicola, pick up the pieces and put him back together again.
	But if he got the police involved . . . .
	"No."  Her voice was quiet, muffled against his blazer.  Janette pushed herself back, away from him, straightening her spine.  Meeting his eyes, she adjusted her choker with the touch of her finger, then smoothed the length of her dress.  "No, Nicola, I don't want the police involved.  This is my concern, not yours."
	"If you're being threatened--?"
	She slapped the message against his arm.  "Fool!  Your friends ask questions.  And what's the first question they'll ask?  What does this person know that could be so damaging, so threatening?"  She raised an eyebrow, seeing her logic mirrored in his expression.  "Yes, I pay my taxes.  I'm a model citizen, according to the records.  But someone might suspect blackmail and begin to dig.  Dig too deeply and they may find holes in those records.  Larry Merlin is a genius, but even he's limited in what he can do and the speed with which he can do it."
	He opened his mouth to answer, but she held up a warning finger.  "And what about your partner?  You've brought him here too often, he knows we're . . . friends.  If my past has holes, you might be guilty by association.  Are you in such a hurry to leave this life, to endanger all you've built and accomplished because your chivalric instincts drive you to act?  Because you have some <need> to protect me?  Or is it that you feel guilty, having neglected me for all these months?"
	She saw the hurt in his eyes and, for a moment, regretted her words.  But Janette steeled herself, hardened her heart.  She glared at him, feeling her eyes slip from blue to gold, as the beast fed on her anger, transformed her.  "I don't need your protection!  Or LaCroix's protection.  I <can> take care of my club.  And myself."
	Nicola was trying to be reasonable--she could see the muscles in his jaw tighten as he exerted control he'd not displayed for . . . he <had> learned something, these past few years.  "I never said you couldn't protect yourself.  But this is beyond you.  If nothing else, think of the club--if you don't let me take care of this, the club could be endangered.  At least . . . at least let me have that note.  Nat can have forensics take a look at it for me, on the sly.  There could be fingerprints, paper fibers, <something> we could use to identify--"
	She forced herself to ignore his common sense.  Shoving the note back into the envelope, Janette folded it in half, then in half again, and tucked it down the front of her dress.
	Nicola moved forward, as if to take it from her, but as the note disappeared from sight, he stopped himself.  Taking a breath, he turned away from her angrily--she saw a glint of gold in his eye as he ran his hand through his hair, but his control still held.  He met her gaze and pointed at her chest.  "<That> is evidence."
	"Of what crime?  <This>," Janette touched her hand to the front of her dress, "is personal correspondence.  If you want it, get a search warrant.  You know where to find it.  And even then, I'm not giving it up without a fight."
	There'd been a time when he would have taken it from her--but he was no longer that man.  His fists clenched and he took a step toward her . . . but then he unclenched his fists and held up his palms, as if in surrender.  "All right.  If that's the way you want this handled."
	"It <is>."  Janette whirled on her heels and headed for the door, calling over her shoulder, "Remember, Bruno's in charge.  Alma--I'll deal with her later."
	But Nicola caught her at the door, moving quickly.  He circled her wrist with his hand.  When she went perfectly still and looked down at the fingers that held her, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her palm gently.  "Don't wait to call if you need help," he said, the words whispering against her skin.  "Be careful, Janette.  Be very, very careful."
	When he released her hand, she stroked his cheek with her fingertips, lightly, something in her heart melting at his concerned, earnest warning.  Not enough of course to sway her decision, to make her give in, but it was a gallant move.  "As you said, <cher>, I'm <always> careful."
	And with that, she slipped down the hallway and toward the rear storage area of the club before he could catch up with her.
	A thorough cleaning had removed most of the garlic smell . . . but only bleach would remove the bloodstains.  Janette made a mental note to have that attended to as quickly as possible--she might have diverted Nicola's attention this night, but he'd be back.  She'd never quite determined how he could be so blind to the ways of women and yet have such an eye for the smallest, inconspicuous detail.
	It was that thought that occupied her as she unlocked the rear entrance and exited the Raven.  Janette smiled a little, fitting the key in the lock and rebolting the door, as she considered some of the details Nicola had remembered over the years . . . as well as those he'd pretended to forget.  Her car was not that far away--she hummed a few stanzas of a song to herself, it having been part of a happier, simpler time.  Fresh blood had been so plentiful then.  One could take what and whom one wanted, without fear of discovery or later regret if one was careful.  And she had always been careful.
	Well . . . almost always.
	When she reached her car, she was surprised to find that the electronic lock beeper on her keychain locked the door instead of unlocking it.  Janette opened the door and moved to slide into the seat--
	Then pulled back in horror, hissing.  A large crucifix had been propped up on the seat and threaded through the steering wheel of the car.
	Placing her arm across her eyes, she hissed again and turned, outrage managing to drive away at least some of her immediate fear--how <dare> someone touch her car!  If this <was> a prank, she'd have the fool's head for it.
	That's when she heard the heartbeats.
	Janette turned slowly and found herself facing four men.  They appeared strong, of good build . . . one was even handsome.  They were scraggly and poorly dressed, their jeans torn and tattered, their shirts and T-shirts smelling of sweat and dirt.  Even their hair was unkempt, although the handsome one had tied his back in a very becoming tail.
	Folding her arms across her chest, she regarded that one with an appraising eye.  "Can I help you, <gentlemen>?" she asked, fighting back the urge to let her fangs fall into place.  As she'd told Nicola, she hadn't hunted in years.  Open displays of menace could be costly in these modern times.
	One of them held up another crucifix, thrusting it in her face.
	It had all been too much for her that day--too many surprises.  She hissed at him, fangs bared, before she thought about what she was doing.  Too late, she heard the noise behind her, heard the other heartbeats.  There was a swoosh in the air, a light breeze accompanied by an overwhelming stench of garlic.
	Entangled in a net made of thick rope, Janette foundered.  The smell of garlic over-powered her--the rope must have been soaked in it--and her eyes watered blood red tears as she closed them, shrieking at the attack, weakened by nausea.  The weight of the net and the gut-wrenching effects of the garlic had dropped